Author: Momo Chan

It was Chase’s eighty-eighth failed therapy session. Suddenly, the fire alarm screamed. Thick, acrid smoke began to pour into the clinic from the hallway. And, once again, Chase let go of my hand. He grabbed my best friend, Freda, who was crying in a panic, and dragged her toward the exit. Leaving me behind. Alone in the rising flames. That was when the air in front of me shimmered. A glowing, holographic projection materialized amidst the smoke—a window to a morning three years ago, the day Chase was supposed to leave for his business trip. “Don’t go to Cascadia,” I rasped, the words burning my throat as I desperately tried to speak to his past self. “There’s going to be an earthquake…” In that past timeline, he and Freda would end up trapped beneath the collapsed ruins of a hotel for two agonizing weeks. That survival ordeal would trigger what the doctors called a “suspension bridge effect”—a severe, deep-seated trauma bond. From then on, whenever Freda was in even the slightest danger, his brain would short-circuit, forcing him to protect her at all costs. Over the next three years, he would abandon me ninety-nine times because of that reflexive, sickening instinct. “Don’t go, Chase… please,” I pleaded through the smoke of the present, my eyes stinging with tears. But the past Chase only tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his face hard and unyielding as he slammed his foot on the gas. “I have to go. Freda is waiting for me.” My breath hitched in shock. “Actually, I’m not even going for work,” he muttered, his voice carrying a dark, shameless confession. “The night I proposed to you, Freda got naked and climbed into my bed. We’ve been sleeping together for the last six months. Cascadia was our plan. One last wild trip together before I married you.” … My blood ran cold. My throat felt as if I had swallowed a handful of razor blades; I couldn’t make a sound. Suddenly, a deafening blast shattered the air, and a massive piece of the concrete ceiling crashed down, crushing my leg. The agony shot straight through my bones, tearing a blood-curdling scream from my lips. In the projection, the past Chase flinched. He heard me. He saw me. Yet, his fingers trembled as he dialed Freda’s number over and over. “Pick up, Freda! God, please don’t let anything happen to you!” His eyes were bloodshot, consumed entirely by the terrifying prospect of losing her. He didn’t care about the agony screaming from my side of the temporal rift. He pushed the speedometer to its limit. The flow of time between our two eras was asymmetric. Within moments, he had arrived at Freda’s side. The earth shook violently beneath them, and the hotel collapsed, burying them in the rubble. Finding Freda breathing and unharmed, Chase couldn’t restrain himself. He pulled her into a desperate, ferocious kiss. Between their tangled breaths was the choked sob of a man who had nearly lost his entire world. “Thank God you’re okay!” That kiss was a jagged shard of ice, slicing through the tear in space and plunging straight into my heart. My leg was pinned, the smoke ruthlessly invading my lungs. I couldn’t hold on any longer. Before darkness claimed me, I heard the past Chase yelling frantically at my projection. “Ella! You’re in the future, you must know how we get out of here! Tell me! Don’t play dead! Hey… speak to me!” When I finally woke up, Chase was kneeling by my hospital bed, just as he had ninety-eight times before, repeatedly slapping his own face. “Ella, I’m so sorry!” “Why can’t I control myself? How could I leave you behind like that?” “I’m a monster!” “During the next therapy session, I’ll tell the doctor to use electroshock. I don’t care what it takes, I have to fix this sickness!” He gripped my hand, hot, heavy tears spilling from his bloodshot eyes. In the past, I would have cupped his face, wiped away his tears, and begged him not to resort to such extreme measures. But now, as his warmth seeped into my palm, it triggered nothing but a wave of violent, sickening nausea. I pulled my hand away, cold and hollow. I desperately wanted to believe that the conversation with the past Chase was a hallucination born of smoke inhalation. But the glowing projection floating in the hospital room—showing him and Freda huddled together under the ruins—told me the brutal truth. The man I loved and the woman I called my best friend had betrayed me three long years ago. Freda burst into the room, tears streaming down her face as she hammered her fists against Chase’s chest, sobbing and screaming at him for leaving me behind again. She looked exactly like the fiercely protective best friend I had always believed she was. Then, she knelt beside Chase. But beneath the edge of the hospital sheets, I saw Chase secretly reach out and grasp her hand. She glared at him in warning, but he held on stubbornly, his thumb tenderly rubbing her bruised knuckles. I couldn’t bear to think about how many times these silent, stolen glances had happened right under my nose. How could I have been so blind? For years, I was the fool in their play. I pulled the thin blanket over my head, shutting them out. Chase let out a heavy sigh, and eventually, the room grew quiet as they left. Only then did I let myself break. I sobbed into the pillow, my chest tight, gasping for air under the suffocating weight of the betrayal. In the ruins of three years ago, the past Chase was woken up by my crying. “Ella, you’re finally awake.” “It was just a little smoke and a fractured leg. Did you really need to be in a coma for two weeks?” “Are you faking it? Doing this just to punish Freda and me?” “How can you be so heartless?” His voice was weak from dehydration, but every word felt like a deliberate blow to my ribs. “Freda is fading fast. Tell me, how do we get rescued?” Past Freda stirred, her voice barely a whisper. “Chase… I was never allowed to hold you openly in the real world. Dying in your arms like this… I don’t have any regrets.” Chase sobbed. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not going to die. Freda, the moment we get out of here, we’re getting married. I love you!” He held her face, pressing his lips to the ugly burn scar on her arm. That declaration of love burned through me, peeling away whatever skin I had left. That scar… it was from our college days, during a winter night we went out for hotpot. A waiter tripped, and a pot of boiling broth came flying toward Freda and me. Chase had reacted instantly, pulling me out of harm’s way. Freda had scrambled to dodge, but her arm took the brunt of the scalding liquid. Afterward, she had laughed it off, teasing him: “Chase, you only protected Ella. Are you secretly in love with her?” Chase had admitted it on the spot. And that was the day I realized I loved him too—a man whose heart beat entirely for me. But when did that heart begin to drift? The memory dissolved as past Chase snarled at my projection, his eyes filled with a terrifying, venomous hatred. “Ella, let me tell you something. If Freda dies, I won’t live another day. And you will be the one who murdered us!” I stared at him for a long time. In the end, my morals won over my despair. “The rescue team will pass by your section today,” I said quietly. “Keep banging on the pipes. Don’t stop. Not even for a second.” Eventually, they were pulled from the rubble. Neither of them ever said thank you. During my five days in the hospital, present Chase never left my side. He took care of me with meticulous devotion. Meanwhile, in the holographic projection, past Ella was taking care of past Chase in the exact same way. Two different eras, yet we looked like the picture-perfect couple, destined to grow old together. But his heart had already been hollowed out. That near-death experience in the ruins had only welded Chase and Freda closer together. Their promise of “one last time” was forgotten. I watched, day after day, as they met in secret. They climbed the snow-capped peaks of Aspen, letting the falling snow dust their hair until they looked like an old couple who had aged together. They walked hand-in-hand through the rain-slicked, historic streets of Charleston, listening to street musicians under the warm glow of gas lamps. They went diving in the turquoise waters of Maui, exchanging rings deep underwater, witnessed only by the swirling schools of tropical fish. I had been on that Maui trip. I remembered the hotel walls being impossibly thin. Back then, I had waited up for Chase, my face flushing at the muffled sounds of passion filtering through the wall, entirely ignorant of the fact that my fiancé was the star of the show next door. Back then, I had listened like an innocent child. Now, I was forced to watch every sordid detail. The rhythmic movement of their bodies, the low, breathless moans—it was a slow, agonizing execution of my soul. I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed, grabbing anything within reach—water glasses, medicine bottles—and hurled them violently at the holographic projection. Freda walked into the hospital room at that exact moment, and a flying plastic pitcher struck her forehead. Chase’s eyes flared with pure, unadulterated rage. He lunged forward, grabbing my arm, and dragged me off the hospital bed, throwing me brutally onto the shattered glass on the floor. “Ella, what the hell is wrong with you?” he roared. “We’ve been tip-toeing around your pathetic tantrums for days! When is it going to be enough?” I looked up at him through a blur of tears, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Finally decided to drop the act?” Chase frowned. His eyes flickered down to my arm, where shards of glass were embedded in my skin, and a brief shadow of regret crossed his face. But before he could speak, Freda shrieked. “Blood! Chase, I’m bleeding!” Chase immediately spun around, lifting her into his arms. When he reached the door, he paused, trying to justify his cruelty. “You hurt Freda. I can’t just leave her. I’ll hire a nurse to watch you.” He was telling me he was leaving to be with her. I sat on the freezing floor, numb, as tears silently tracked down my face. On the day I was discharged, Chase didn’t show up. I navigated the paperwork alone, hobbling back to our house on crutches. When I pushed the front door open, a sliver of light revealed a scene in the backyard. Freda was sitting on the wooden swing Chase had built for me with his own hands. Chase was kneeling in front of her, his ear pressed gently against her stomach. His voice was softer than I had ever heard it. “Hey there, little one. I’m your daddy.” A bomb went off in my brain. My heart seemed to stop beating entirely as a cold draft swept through the house. Inside, they were bathed in domestic bliss. Freda was smiling, her fingers casually twirling through Chase’s hair. Everyone knew Chase’s hair was his sacred boundary—no one was allowed to touch it. Once, in the heat of passion, I had playfully run my fingers through his hair. He had instantly frozen, pulled away, and ignored me for ten days. Yet here was Freda, ruining his styled hair with absolute freedom, and he only smiled up at her. So this was the difference between love and obligation. It was a sharp, burning ache in my chest. Freda’s smile faded slightly as she murmured, “What if Ella gets pregnant? Will you still love our baby?” “Of course I will,” Chase promised, kissing her hand. Then, his voice took on a mocking, disdainful edge. “Besides, Ella’s body is useless. We haven’t used protection in years, and she’s never conceived. Honestly, I don’t think she’s even capable of having a child.” My fists clenched, my nails digging into my palms until they bled. He was right. I couldn’t have children. But what he didn’t know was that we had once had a child. Three years ago, when he was trapped in those ruins, choosing to face death with Freda, I had clawed through the shattered concrete and brick with my bare hands, searching for him until my fingers were raw and bleeding. An aftershock hit. I was buried under a collapsing wall. That was when I lost our baby, and with it, my ability to ever carry a child again. I had kept the truth from him because I didn’t want him to carry the guilt. And now, he and Freda had a child of their own. I watched as Chase kissed Freda’s hotpot scar, his eyes shining with devotion. “Freda, marry me.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I can’t. What about Ella?” Chase’s brow furrowed. “Freda, when are you going to start thinking about yourself? After we got rescued, I wanted to tell her the truth, but you stopped me. I respected your wishes, but I couldn’t bear to be indifferent to you. So I faked the trauma responses, using the suspension bridge effect as an excuse, just so I could openly choose you whenever danger struck…” The world went completely white. My limbs grew ice-cold. Those ninety-nine times he had left me behind… they weren’t involuntary panic attacks. They were deliberate choices. He had lied to me. Over and over again. I slammed the door open. Chase flinched, but the surprise on his face quickly dissolved into a smug sigh of relief. “Well, since you heard everything, I might as well tell you the rest… Freda and I have been together since the night I proposed to you.” When I didn’t scream or cry, his brow furrowed. Then, a slow, ugly realization dawned on him, and he smirked. “You already knew, didn’t you? I forgot. Three years ago, when we had that little cross-time chat, you were in the middle of that clinic fire. You saw it all.” My throat felt as though it were stuffed with dry cotton. “So… you’ve just been waiting for me to find out?” “Exactly. Freda wouldn’t let me come clean, but I knew that once three years passed and we had that conversation, the secret would be out anyway.” My eyes burned. The faded wedding countdown cards and monogrammed banners still hanging on the wall felt like a mockery. Chase had postponed our wedding three years ago under the guise of his mental illness. I had spent three years replacing the faded decorations, waiting for him. I was the only one playing house. In the holographic projection, the past Ella was hugging him tightly, whispering, “Chase, I’ll wait for the day you make me your wife.” But the past Chase in the projection wasn’t looking at her. He was staring directly through the spatial rift, looking at the present-day me. His lips curled into a sneer, and though there was no sound, I could read his lips perfectly. He mouthed: Idiot. The last string of my sanity snapped. I lunged forward and slapped Chase across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. My entire body shook with violent, uncontrollable rage. Freda rushed forward, trying to grab my arm. “Ella, let me explain—” “Don’t touch me!” I shrieked, violently shoving her away. She let out a sharp scream, losing her balance. She fell backward, her lower back crashing hard against the sharp corner of the wooden console table. Almost instantly, a dark crimson stain began to spread down her legs. Before I could comprehend what had happened, Chase’s boot slammed brutally into my chest, kicking me backward. I crashed heavily against the glass-front cabinet. The heavy ceramic vase on top wobbled and fell, shattering directly over my head. Stagnant, dirty water drenched me, and a flying shard of ceramic sliced a deep gash across my cheek, blood dripping down my neck. Chase stared at me, his eyes wide with a murderous, animalistic fury. “Ella, you psychopath!” he screamed. “She is your best friend! If you have a problem, take it out on me! What did she ever do to you? If anything happens to Freda or our baby, I swear to God I will destroy you!” He scooped Freda into his arms and bolted out the door, never once looking back. In the projection, the past Chase gently kissed the forehead of a sleeping Freda. Then, he turned his cold, dead eyes toward me. “You dared to hurt Freda,” he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. “I think you need a lesson.” He walked over to the safe, pulled out a small glass urn, and lifted the lid of the toilet bowl. It contained the ashes of my parents. My breath caught. My heart stopped. “Chase, what are you doing? Stop!” The sound of flushing water echoed through the room. I threw myself at the projection, screaming, but my hands sliced through the light, catching nothing but empty air. I could only watch as the last physical remnants of my parents were swept down the drain. My chest felt as though it were being torn open. I howled in absolute, primal agony. Past Chase let out a soft, cruel laugh. “Don’t worry. You’re the one who made a mistake, but I’m not cruel enough to make present Ella suffer just yet. Tomorrow, I’ll sweep up some fireplace ash and put it in the urn. She’ll never know the difference.” I screamed until my throat bled. “Chase! Why are you so heartless? Who did my parents die trying to save?” His face shifted slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but the projection suddenly sputtered and vanished. The temporal window that had haunted me for weeks was gone, leaving only the quiet, empty room. I looked at the framed photo of the three of us sitting on the table. With a ragged cry, I raised my crutch and smashed it to pieces, the glass scattering across the floor like the ruins of our lives. I packed my bags and dragged myself to the door, only to run straight into a wild-eyed, disheveled Chase. He grabbed me roughly, dragging me toward his car. “Freda is hemorrhaging. You have the same rare blood type. You’re going to save her. You owe her this.” “What about what she owes me?” I screamed, thrashing against his grip. “What about what you owe me? How are you going to pay me back?” Chase clamped his jaw shut, saying nothing as he forced me into the passenger seat. In the hospital, tube after tube of blood was drained from my body. Chase stood outside the operating room, his entire frame shaking. When the doctor stepped out and announced they couldn’t save the baby, Chase reeled. The next second, he lunged at me, his fingers wrapping around my throat, squeezing with terrifying force. “This is your fault! You killed my child!” I was too weak from blood loss to fight back. The oxygen in my lungs quickly evaporated, and darkness began to edge into my vision. Just before I passed out, Freda was wheeled out on a gurney, her face pale, her voice a fragile whisper. “Chase… don’t hurt Ella. It’s not her fault. I’m the one who should apologize.” Chase’s expression remained dark as he dragged me to her bedside. He kicked the back of my knees, forcing me to crash onto the cold linoleum floor in front of her. “Even if she forgives you, you’ll stay on your knees,” he snarled. Freda scolded him softly, then leaned forward, pulling me into a weak, sisterly embrace. But as her lips brushed against my ear, her voice turned razor-sharp, dripping with venomous amusement. “You still don’t know how your parents died, do you, Ella?” My body went rigid. “They walked in on Chase and me in college,” she whispered. “I panic-pushed them down the stairs. To protect me, Chase set the house on fire to burn the evidence, telling you they died saving him. Oh, and by the way… they were still breathing when he lit the match. They were burned alive.” The very last thread of my sanity snapped. I went wild, my fingers clawing at her throat, squeezing with every ounce of hatred left in my broken soul. Even Chase couldn’t pull me off. In desperation, he grabbed a heavy red fire extinguisher from the wall and slammed it against the back of my head. The world spun. I touched the back of my head, my hand coming away dripping with hot, dark blood. My tears had long since run dry. I stood up, numb and silent, and limped out of the hospital, leaving them behind forever. I watched Ella’s limping figure disappear down the hospital corridor, and for a fleeting second, it felt as though something vital was being ripped straight out of my chest. I took a step to chase after her, but Freda let out a sharp cry of pain behind me, pulling me back to her bedside. That night, though my body sat next to Freda, my mind was entirely consumed by Ella. Her empty, hollow gaze haunted me. And then, the air in the room shimmered. A familiar glow cast itself across the hospital walls—a time-space projection, just like the one from three years ago. A figure materialized within the light.

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My college roommate is a billionaire heiress. Her only flaw—if you could even call it that—is that she has been blind since childhood. I became her round-the-clock guide, her shadow, her tether to the seeing world. I navigated her paths, fetched her meals, and chauffeured her around campus. To the rest of the world, I was practically invisible. My classmates sneered. “Playing the loyal little seeing-eye dog? You’ve got to have some self-respect, Grace.” I just kept my mouth shut. I was terrified they would realize how insanely good I had it. The heiress pays me three hundred thousand dollars a month. Her family even bought me a brand-new Porsche Panamera just to drive her around. For a deal like that, I would gladly wear the collar. — 1 On move-in day, I was dragging a battered, oversized blue IKEA bag through the dormitory door. Before I could even catch my breath, a sleek, collapsible white cane swept past my ankles. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound of the tip hitting the linoleum tile was crisp and sharp. The girl holding the cane stood right in the center of the room. Her dark hair fell in soft, loose waves; her skin was so luminous it looked polished, and her chin was tilted up with an effortless, old-money posture. Her eyes were large, framed by thick, sweeping lashes, but her gaze was empty, completely out of focus. “Hi there,” she said. Her face drifted slightly in my direction, though her eyes remained fixed on the space just past my shoulder. “Hi. I’m Grace. Grace Peterson.” “Great. Grace, I’m Andrea Ashford. Starting today, you’re on my payroll. You’ll fetch my packages, get my meals, keep my closet organized, and walk me to and from class.” Her voice was rapid-fire, delivered with the cool efficiency of a corporate executive. “As you can see, I can’t do any of this myself. You do the work, I pay. Thirty thousand dollars a month to start, with performance-based bonuses.” My brain went completely numb. Thirty thousand? A month? I nearly fell to my knees right there on the dorm floor. My mother worked herself to the bone at a local textile factory back home, barely scraping together thirty thousand dollars in a good year. “What are you staring at?” Andrea frowned, her brows knitting together. “Is that not enough? Fine. Fifty thousand.” “No, no! That’s plenty. More than enough,” I stammered, dropping my IKEA bag onto the floor. “Andrea… what would you like me to do first?” “Hang up my clothes.” She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a sleek, matte-black card, and extended it toward me. “The PIN is six 8s. There’s fifty grand on it as a retainer. If you do a good job, I’ll keep topping it up. Hang the clothes by color gradient, light to dark. Undergarments go in the left drawer—separately. I don’t want them picking up the scent of my outerwear.” I took the card. My hand was visibly trembling. Fifty thousand dollars. Just to hang up clothes. I would have swept her floors with a toothbrush for that kind of money. “Did you get all that?” “Yes, perfectly.” “Then get to work. I’m going to listen to some music. Try not to make too much noise.” She slipped a pair of wireless earbuds into her ears, crossed her legs, and leaned back in her chair. From that moment on, my college experience diverged entirely from everyone else’s. While other students were joining clubs, partying, and stressing over romance, my days were strictly structured: up at six to grab her breakfast, escorting her to class by seven-thirty, collecting deliveries in the afternoon, and organizing her wardrobe by night. Andrea’s standards were incredibly exacting. Her morning coffee had to have exactly one and a half packets of raw sugar—not a grain less. Her textbooks had to be stacked in the precise order of her daily syllabus, or she’d know the second she ran her fingers over them. Before we stepped outside, I had to apply her sunscreen to a very specific, even thickness, otherwise she’d extend her arm and demand I start over. But she paid for every single task. Fetching lunch? An extra five hundred. Walking her to the library? A thousand. Applying her sunscreen? Eight hundred. The first time I applied her sunscreen, my hands shook. Not out of intimacy, but because I had snuck a peek at the label. It was a rare, imported French brand that retailed for five hundred dollars a bottle. “Squeeze a generous amount,” she had instructed. “Don’t skimp.” “Isn’t this… incredibly expensive?” I murmured. “Skin cancer is more expensive,” she replied dryly, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, you look like you’ve never used decent UV protection in your life. Grab a bottle from my vanity and use it yourself. You’re too sunburned, and it ruins my aesthetic when we stand together.” I nodded fervently in my head. Yes, ma’am. Absolutely. She could call me whatever she wanted as long as she was letting me slather five-hundred-dollar cream on my face. My monthly salary climbed from fifty thousand to eighty thousand, then to a hundred thousand. Andrea’s logic was simple: as her academic schedule grew heavier, my workload increased, and my compensation had to match it. Eventually, it hit three hundred thousand dollars a month. Whenever I saw the deposit notifications pop up on my phone, I thought of how my classmate, Brittany, liked to call me a glorified guide dog. But honestly? Show me a guide dog making three hundred grand a month, and I’ll gladly show you my leash. 2 On Tuesday afternoon, during a break between lectures, I went to the campus café to grab some hot water. Brittany was there, standing by the counter. She was in my program, sitting a row ahead of me in lecture. She had a perfectly round face and deep dimples when she smiled, and she had tried very hard to be my best friend during freshman orientation. “Hey, Grace,” she whispered, leaning in close. “Is it true? Do you seriously spend all your time running errands for Andrea Ashford?” “We’re roommates. I just help her out,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “Roommates?” Brittany let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Picking up a stray package is what roommates do. Walking her to every class, fetching her meals, and applying her lotion? That’s not a roommate.” My smile faltered. Not because I was offended, but because I was terrified she’d realize how lucrative the gig actually was. “You’re a glorified maid, Grace,” she said, shaking her head with a look of patronizing pity. “You worked so hard to get into this school. You’re here to get an education, not to be someone’s servant. It’s embarrassing.” “I don’t mind. I like helping her.” “You like it? Are you that desperate for cash?” She stared at me, her eyes narrowing. “If you need money, I can talk to the financial aid office. Or I can get you a job at the campus library. It pays fifteen dollars an hour. It’s not much, but at least it’s dignified. It’s better than catering to a blind girl.” She used a tone that made my chest tighten. But then I did the math. Andrea’s pay rate worked out to roughly ten thousand dollars an hour. Brittany was offering me fifteen. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Please don’t talk about her like that,” I said, trying to look suitably offended. “Am I wrong?” she asked, putting on a show of innocence. “She can’t see. And you follow her around like a lost puppy. Honestly, Grace, even actual guide dogs have proper training and a pension. You’re doing it for free. You’re lower than a dog.” Another student walked into the café, and Brittany raised her voice, making sure she was heard. “Self-respect has to start somewhere, Grace. Don’t humiliate yourself.” The student glanced at me, grabbed their order, and scurried out. I kept my head down, hiding the massive grin spreading across my face. For three hundred thousand a month, Brittany, you can call me whatever you want. But could you ever afford my rate? “I have to get back,” I said, picking up my tumbler. “Just think about what I said!” Brittany called out after me. “Have some dignity!” The moment the door swung shut behind me, the smile broke free. Dignity is a luxury for people who don’t have to worry about rent. For three hundred thousand a month, I’d let her insult me all day long. My only real worry was that Brittany might try to pitch herself for the job if she ever found out the truth. There was only room for one assistant in Andrea’s life, and I wasn’t about to let anyone steal my golden ticket. When I got back to the dorm, Andrea was sitting at her desk, peeling a pear. She tilted her head slightly. “Where’s my water?” “Right here.” I placed the tumbler gently into her hand. She took a sip. “What took you so long?” “Ran into a classmate. Brittany.” “Did she give you a hard time?” I blinked, surprised. “How did you know?” Andrea set her cup down. “Grace, if anyone speaks down to you on this campus, you tell me. Immediately.” “Why?” “Because you’re on my payroll. An insult to you is an insult to my judgment. And I don’t tolerate people disrespecting my staff.” A cold, sharp smile touched her lips. “We’ll keep score. And when the time comes, we’ll settle it.” I felt a sudden rush of professional pride. This was exactly what a boss was supposed to sound like. “Also,” Andrea added casually, “your base salary is going up to three hundred thousand this month.” I nearly choked on my own saliva. “What?” “Three hundred thousand,” she repeated. She pulled a heavy titanium card from her drawer and slid it across the desk. “Consider the extra two hundred thousand a bonus. Think of it as hazard pay for dealing with idiots.” My heart did a happy backflip. Brittany, please keep talking. At this rate, five more insults and I can retire my entire family. “And another thing,” Andrea said. “A driving instructor will contact you tomorrow morning. I’ve already scheduled your lessons and your road test for next month. The family is delivering a new car to campus. A red Porsche Panamera. I picked it out myself. You won’t have to walk me everywhere anymore; you’ll drive.” “But… I don’t know how to drive.” “Which is why you’re taking lessons.” She picked up her fruit fork. “I’m covering the instructor fees, the license costs, and the car. But if you fail the road test, I’m docking your pay.” “By how much?” “Ten thousand dollars for every day your license is delayed.” My jaw dropped. Ten thousand a day? That wasn’t a penalty; it was the ultimate motivation. “Now,” Andrea said, popping a slice of pear into her mouth. “Go wash some fresh grapes for me. These aren’t cold enough.” “On it!” I grabbed the card, my spirit soaring. “Grace,” she called out just as I reached the door. “Yes?” “If Brittany calls you a guide dog again, tell her this: my guide dog makes three hundred thousand a month and drives a Porsche. Ask her what her allowance is.” I wanted to cheer. Hearing those words in my head was pure, unadulterated bliss. 3 Brittany didn’t stop. The next day at lunch, I was standing in the cafeteria line, carefully assembling Andrea’s tray. Brittany strolled past, flanked by two of her friends. “Well, look who it is,” she said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “The guide dog is hard at work. Did your owner promise you a treat today?” The girls beside her giggled. I looked down at the plate of glazed short ribs and roasted vegetables I was holding. If Andrea is throwing me a bone, it’s definitely made of solid gold. “Brittany, please leave me alone,” I said, putting on my best meek, long-suffering voice. “Oh, come on, I’m paying you a compliment!” She tilted her head, her expression dripping with false sweetness. “Loyalty is a rare quality. When you graduate and realize your degree is useless because you spent four years running errands, maybe you can get a job at the local shelter.” A few students nearby chuckled. I bit my lip to hide my amusement. A useless degree? With my current savings account, I could buy three houses cash in Brittany’s hometown. “Brittany,” I said, looking up. “What’s your monthly allowance?” She blinked, caught off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?” “Just curious.” I balanced the tray carefully. “Two thousand dollars,” she said, lifting her chin proudly. “My dad transfers it every month. It’s plenty. And more importantly, I don’t have to beg for it.” I looked at her proud expression and did some quick math. Two thousand dollars a month. Andrea pays me ten thousand dollars a day. Brittany’s entire monthly budget wouldn’t even cover five hours of my time. “That’s nice,” I said softly, and walked away. Behind me, Brittany scoffed. “See? She has absolutely nothing to say. Some people just love being treated like servants.” I smiled all the way back to our table. Let them laugh. If they ever saw my bank statements, they’d be begging to carry Andrea’s tray themselves. 4 On the morning of my road test, I was so nervous I could barely breathe. It wasn’t the fear of failing; it was the thought of losing ten thousand dollars a day. Fortunately, I aced it. The instructor told me I drove with the caution and precision of a seasoned chauffeur. I wanted to tell him that when ten grand a day is on the line, you learn how to handle a vehicle very quickly. The moment I got my temporary paper license, I took a photo and texted it to Andrea. She replied almost instantly: Good. You didn’t embarrass me. The car is downstairs. Go check it out. I practically sprinted back to the dorms. From a block away, I spotted the cherry-red Porsche Panamera Turbo S parked right in front of the residence hall. In the autumn sunlight, its metallic paint gleamed like hot coals. The sleek lines, the quad exhaust, the massive black calipers behind the alloy wheels—it was a masterpiece. A crowd of students had already gathered around it, taking photos. “Is that a Panamera Turbo S?” “That’s easily a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car.” “Who owns this? I didn’t know we had royalty on campus.” I pushed through the crowd, my hands shaking as I dialed Douglas, Andrea’s family coordinator. He stepped out of the passenger side, dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit. With a polite, respectful nod, he held out the key fob. “Miss Peterson,” Douglas said, his voice quiet but clear enough for the onlookers to hear. “Miss Andrea requested that this vehicle be placed at your disposal. The fuel cards are in the glove compartment, and all maintenance and insurance have been fully prepaid.” I took the key. The weight of it felt substantial, the iconic crest catching the light. The surrounding crowd went dead silent. “Wait… that’s her car?” “Grace? The girl who carries Andrea’s bags?” “The helper drives a Porsche?” I unlocked the doors and slid into the driver’s seat. The smell of premium hand-stitched leather filled my senses. The heated steering wheel warmed my palms, and the digital console dashboard was larger than my laptop screen. It felt entirely surreal. Before I could start the engine, a shadow fell over the driver’s side window. “Well, look who managed to get inside.” I looked up. Brittany was standing there, holding an iced latte, her two friends hovering right behind her. A dozen other students turned to watch, drawn in by the tension. “Did your boss let you sit in the front seat for a photo op?” Brittany rested a manicured hand on the hood, her envy masked by a sneer. “I get it. A good servant needs some crumbs thrown her way now and then, otherwise she might actually realize how pathetic her life is.” A few onlookers snickered, while others murmured among themselves. “What did she say? A servant?” “Yeah, Grace does everything for Andrea. Brittany calls her the seeing-eye dog.” “That’s pretty harsh.” “Well, Grace never denies it.” Brittany, encouraged by the audience, tapped her fake nails against the glass. I rolled down the window. “Come on, Grace, step out,” she mocked. “Don’t just sit there pretending it’s yours. Why don’t you tell everyone what it’s like to be a pet to a blind girl?” The crowd pressed closer. The courtyard was buzzing now. “Brittany,” I said, keeping my voice level as I gripped the leather steering wheel. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” “No, actually,” she scoffed, leaning down so her face was inches from mine. “I just can’t stand people like you. No backbone, no pride. Selling your dignity for what? A few thousand dollars? How much does she actually pay you? Five grand a month? Ten?” She wagged a single finger in front of my face. “Tell you what. I’ll pay you ten grand a month. Come be my personal maid. What do you say?” The courtyard went quiet. Dozens of eyes shifted between us. My grip tightened on the wheel. I wasn’t angry; I was struggling to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter. Go on, Brittany. Keep digging. Just then, a familiar sound echoed across the paved courtyard. Tap. Tap. Tap. A carbon-fiber cane struck the concrete, clear and deliberate. The crowd parted instantly. Andrea stood at the edge of the path, looking immaculate in a tailored coat. Douglas stood slightly behind her, his posture respectful but commanding. Every student on campus knew who Andrea Ashford was. They also knew her family had recently funded the construction of the new humanities hall. Andrea tilted her face slightly toward Brittany’s voice. “Keep talking,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but in the silence of the courtyard, it carried perfectly. “I just arrived. I’d love to hear the rest of your offer.” Brittany’s face froze. “Andrea… I didn’t mean—”

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The day after I gave birth, I tried to call my old number—a lingering habit from before my life fell apart. Instead of a busy signal, the call went through, and the woman who answered was me. Me, three years in the future. I held up my newborn, my heart swollen with a mother’s fresh, fragile joy. “How is she in three years?” I asked, my voice a breathless whisper. “Is she sweet? Is she beautiful? And…” I felt a blush creep up my neck. “Are Gordon and I… are we incredibly happy?” The version of me on the screen stared back. The look in her eyes was so thick with longing it nearly broke through the glass. But when she spoke, her voice was a shard of ice. “Do you know why Gordon isn’t in your room right now?” she asked. “Because right this second, he’s in the next wing. Lara—the Crawford family’s golden child, the girl who should be rotting in a prison cell—just gave birth to his baby, too.” My grip on the phone tightened. The smile slid off my face. “Later on,” my future self continued, her voice hollow, “Gordon wanted to make his bastard child legitimate. So he staged a kidnapping. He pretended someone had snatched our daughter for ransom, but it was all a game to write her out of his life.” The camera suddenly flipped. I was looking at a dizzying expanse of sky. The wind roared through the speaker, a violent, thrashing sound. “She was only three,” she whispered. “She died alone in a pitch-black, freezing, abandoned factory. When they did the autopsy, even the medical examiner couldn’t stop crying. And now, I’m going to find her.” … The line went dead. A split second later, the sickening, heavy thud of a body hitting concrete echoed through the receiver, vibrating right into my bones. I huddled in my hospital bed, clutching my baby to my chest, my body trembling so hard the sheets rustled. In my mind, I saw Gordon—the way he used to lean down, press his warm forehead against my swollen belly, and laugh softly whenever he felt a kick. How could that man betray me with the woman I hated most? How could he let our child die for hers? The door to the maternity suite burst open. Gordon strode in. His features were sharper now, slightly hardened, like a portrait that had been left to dry for too long. He looked around the sterile room, his gaze finally landing on the bundle in my arms. His eyes held a dark, twisting complexity. Could it be…? “I’m the Gordon from three years in the future,” he said. He watched my face, entirely unsurprised by my terror. “You don’t look shocked.” “When did it start?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, my fingers clawing into the hospital blanket until my knuckles turned white. I wanted him to deny it. I wanted him to laugh, to pull me close and tell me that the call was a cruel, impossible prank. But Gordon merely shrugged, his tone chillingly casual. “I don’t really remember,” he said. “If I had to put a date on it, probably the second month after we made things official. Lara and I slept together. I think you were asleep in the next room once. I told her you’d taken cold medicine and were dead to the world, but she was still so nervous.” So Lara had never gone to prison. Gordon had lied to me from the very beginning. My stomach turned, a hot wave of nausea rising in my throat. I grabbed the heavy ceramic mug from the bedside table and hurled it at him. It shattered against the wall. My screams were drowned out by the sudden, sharp wails of my baby. “Why, Gordon? Why? You knew what she did! You knew Lara ran my parents down in the street!” I had been abandoned as a baby, passed from one foster home to another until the Hendersons took me in. They loved me, cherished me, gave me a real life—until the night Lara Crawford, racing her luxury sports car down a dark boulevard, slammed into them and killed them instantly. I had been consumed by grief and rage. I called the police, begged for justice, wanted her locked away forever. But the Crawfords were too powerful. If they hadn’t discovered by some freak DNA match that I was actually their long-lost biological daughter, I wouldn’t have survived the year. I ripped open my hospital gown, exposing the ugly, jagged scars Lara’s hired thugs had left on my collarbone. “You said you loved me!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “You said you felt my pain! You promised you’d help me destroy her! Why did you do this?” A slow, mocking smile touched the corner of Gordon’s mouth. “I actually intended to help you at first,” he said smoothly. “I even kidnapped her to scare her. But that girl… she has fire. She wasn’t afraid of me at all. She climbed right into my lap and kissed me. We did it in the back of my car. She’s wild, Jo. She’s adventurous in ways you could never comprehend. A good, quiet girl like you… you wouldn’t understand how thrilling that kind of danger is.” My C-section incision felt like it was on fire, the pain radiating through my abdomen as tears streamed down my face. I had spent years filing police reports, appealing dismissals, standing outside courthouse doors with protest signs, desperate to make my parents’ killer pay. And all the while, as Lara’s hired men beat me and eventually dragged me to a private asylum to force my silence, Gordon was sleeping with her. They were building a life together. They had a child. “Come on, don’t cry,” Gordon said, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand warm and gentle as he wiped the tears from my cheek, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the afternoon weather. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll have her apologize to you.” And then, before I could push him away, his hands darted down. He snatched my daughter from my arms. My chest felt suddenly, violently empty. “Gordon, what are you doing? Give her back!” He idly poked the baby’s cheek, making her cry harder. “Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, his eyes distant as he drifted into his own memories. “I went through hell to come back to this moment, specifically to get this child out of the picture.” He looked down, a soft, sickening tenderness in his expression when he thought of Lara. “You have no idea how bad Lara’s postpartum depression gets in three years. She couldn’t even handle the sound of our baby crying if your daughter’s cries were louder. It was breaking her. So, I had to stage that kidnapping to get your kid out of the house. But then I realized there was a better way.” He held the crying infant in one arm and used his free hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I could just come back here and solve the problem at the root. Before Lara ever finds out about this baby… I’m going to send her far away.” “Away? Where?” He dropped a slip of paper onto my lap. I looked at the address, and my heart stopped. The asylum. To spare Lara’s fragile nerves, he was sending our newborn daughter—his own flesh and blood—to the very same psychiatric facility where I had been tortured. “Give her back to me!” I screamed, throwing myself out of bed. My incision tore open, hot blood immediately blooming through my white hospital gown. Gordon stepped back, just out of reach. I managed to grab only the hem of his coat, sinking to my knees on the cold floor, sobbing hysterically. “Please, I beg you, give her back. I’ll sign the divorce papers. I’ll let Lara have everything. I’ll take the baby and disappear. We’ll never look at you again. Just please don’t do this!” A flicker of hesitation crossed Gordon’s face. He reached down as if to help me up. “Why do you have to make this so hard on yourself—” The heavy door swung open. Lara walked in, rubbing her eyes. “Gordon? I had a nightmare… I dreamed you had another baby…” Suddenly, her eyes went wide. She pointed at the bundle in Gordon’s arms and shrieked. “Who is that? Do you have another child? Are you keeping secrets from me?” The hesitation in Gordon’s eyes vanished instantly. He wrenched his coat from my grip, letting me fall hard against the linoleum. “Lara, honey, no,” he said, his voice laced with panic as he quickly handed the baby to a waiting bodyguard behind him. “It’s nothing. Just a random baby from the ward. It doesn’t mean anything.” “No! No!” The pain in my stomach was blinding, but I dragged myself forward on my hands and knees. “Don’t take her! Don’t take my baby!” It was useless. Just like the night my parents were killed, I was entirely, utterly powerless. Behind Gordon’s back, Lara shot me a look of pure, triumphant malice. Then, she threw herself into a hysterical fit. “You think I’m stupid, Gordon? I heard her! She said it was her baby!” Rage burned away the physical pain. I forced myself up from the floor, throwing my body toward her, desperate to tear her face apart. “Lara, you did this on purpose! You soulless, disgusting bitch, I’ll kill you!” Before I could touch her, Gordon’s hand came down hard across my face. The force of the slap threw me to the floor. His eyes were dead and cold. “You’d better watch what comes out of your mouth,” he warned. Then, turning back to Lara, his voice instantly softened into a gentle, cooing murmur. “Honey, don’t listen to her. She’s sick. She’s clinically insane. Nothing she says is real.” Lara’s sobbing stopped instantly. She stared down at me, a cold smile playing on her lips. “Well, if she’s crazy,” Lara said softly, “then we should probably send her back to the asylum.” I looked up, cold dread washing over me. Even Gordon frowned. He knew exactly what they had done to me in that place. When we were dating, I couldn’t bear it if he hugged me too tightly; the restriction of his arms triggered flashbacks of the heavy leather restraints. Back then, Gordon would wrap me in a gentle embrace, rocking me like a child, whispering, “Don’t be scared, Jo. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again.” And now, my protector had become my tormentor. Seeing the utter despair on my face, Gordon tried to object. “Lara, she’s your sister… you know she has severe PTSD from that place…” Lara immediately burst into tears, taking a running start toward the concrete wall. “You don’t care about me at all! If you don’t care about me, you won’t care about our baby! Why should we even live? We might as well just end it right now!” Gordon lunged forward, catching her by the waist. “Of course I care about you! Don’t say things like that, it kills me.” It took him several minutes to soothe her. When she finally quieted down, Gordon looked at me with a heavy, conflicted expression. He knelt beside me, his fingers gently brushing the hair from my forehead. “Jo,” he murmured, “just do this for me. Be a good girl, okay?” Be a good girl. When I was dragged back to the Crawford house, covered in bruises, my biological parents had looked at me with that same mild, useless pity. Be a good girl, Jo. Don’t make a scene. Don’t make things difficult for us. Because of Lara, I had been forced to give up seeking justice for my adoptive parents. And now, I was expected to give up my newborn daughter. Why? By what right? As the bodyguards dragged me out of the room, my boots scraping against the floor, I fixed my eyes on them. “You will regret this, Gordon,” I said, my voice dead. “I swear to God, you will regret this.” Looking at the raw, burning hatred in my eyes, Gordon took a step forward, his chest heaving. For the five years we had been together, he was used to me looking up at him, chin propped on my hands, smiling and saying ‘yes’ to whatever he wanted. He knew that all he had to do was whistle, and I would run to him. Seeing me like this, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to completely destroy a woman who had loved him with her entire soul. “Wait—” he started. “Gordon!” Lara shrieked, leaning over the window ledge. “If you hesitate for one more second, I will jump right now with our baby!” Gordon panicked. He turned to the guards and yelled, “Get her out of here! Now!” I spent three days in the asylum. They had a thousand ways to make someone with PTSD suffer without leaving a single mark. But the physical torture barely registered. My mind was entirely focused on the roof of that building. That was the place where my future self had jumped. And that was the place where she had left me the weapon to make them all pay. On the fourth morning, they dragged me out. Gordon was waiting. Seeing the fresh bruises overlaying my old scars, a flash of guilt crossed his face. “You just had a baby, Jo. Your body is weak. Why did you have to go out of your way to provoke Lara?” I looked at him, my expression entirely blank. “Gordon,” I said quietly. “Did you know? I’m already dead.” “You killed me.” He froze. He stared at me for a long moment, then tossed a tube of medicated cream onto the seat. “You’ve completely lost your mind,” he muttered, storming out of the car. I watched him go, a cold smile spreading across my lips. Gordon didn’t get it. I never lied to him. Whether it was the fact that I was already dead, or the promise that he would regret this—every word was the absolute truth. I escaped. I slipped away under the cover of darkness when the guards weren’t looking. I spent days walking the streets, going from one private psychiatric facility to the next. From the east side to the west side. From north to south. My feet were covered in bloody blisters, my body screaming in exhaustion, but I kept going. At the final asylum on my list, there was still no sign of my baby. A shadow fell over me. I forced my heavy eyelids open. Lara stood there, a wide, ugly sneer on her face. “Look at you. You look like a stray dog that’s been kicked down the street.” She shoved her designer boot into my shin, laughing. “I knew a rat like you wouldn’t stay put. I had Gordon move the baby days ago. And I left the asylum doors unlocked on purpose.” She crouched down, her sharp, manicured nails digging into my cheek until a thin line of blood welled up. “So what if I killed your parents? So what if I tore your baby from your arms? As long as I’m alive, Jo, you will always be beneath my shoe.” My chest felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, crushing fist. The pain was unbearable, but the hatred was worse. Lara stood up, waving her hand to her men. “Bring her. We’re going.” They drove me to the cemetery. Even from a distance, I could see Gordon standing in front of a headstone. It was the plot where my adoptive parents were buried. My voice was raw and ruined from days of screaming. “What are you doing?” Gordon looked at me, his eyes dark with a twisted kind of sorrow. “Jo, I hoped those three days would teach you how to behave. But Lara is right. You’re like a feral dog. Sometimes you have to beat a dog until it learns to submit.” He raised his hand. “Dig.” A group of hired men immediately began driving shovels into the earth. My vision turned blood-red. “Gordon! Are you insane? Stop them! Stop!” Lara pinned my arms behind my back, her voice whispering in my ear. “This is your punishment, Jo. Because of your stubbornness, your sweet little foster parents don’t get to rest in peace. We’re going to dig them up and scatter them to the wind.” The torment lasted for two agonizing hours. Lara forced my eyelids open, refusing to let me look away for even a second. And Gordon just stood there, watching. When Lara was finally bored, she threw me onto the dirt like a piece of garbage and took Gordon’s arm. “Let’s go home, Gordon. My mom made beef stew for dinner. It’s your favorite.” They walked away hand-in-hand. Gordon never looked back. I lay in the dirt, clutching the loose earth, watching my parents’ ashes slip through my fingers. Mom. Dad. Wait for me. On the rooftop. I left my baby in the hands of the only person in this world I still trusted completely. Then, I opened a live streaming app on my phone. I used the very last of my savings to boost the broadcast. Within seconds, tens of thousands of viewers flooded the room. I disabled the comments. I stared directly into the camera, and in a quiet, steady voice, I told them everything. I told them about my parents’ hit-and-run death and the cover-up. I told them about my stolen child. I told them about the psychiatric ward, the torture, and the systematic destruction of my life. The viewer count skyrocketed. The heavy metal door of the roof burst open. Gordon and Lara ran out, their faces pale with terror. “What the hell are you doing? Shut that off!” Gordon roared. I smiled. I took one step backward. Then another. I spread my arms wide. And under the horrified gaze of millions of people, I let myself fall. As the wind whipped past my ears and my body plunged toward the earth, I caught a glimpse of Gordon’s face. He was screaming, his hand reaching out into nothingness. I smiled. Gordon, I told you. I never lie. Now, let’s burn this entire world down together. “Jo—!!!”

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After Holden was diagnosed with psychogenic mutism, my world went entirely quiet. To cope, I disguised myself as an AI chatbot, talking to him through his phone every single day. He thought of himself as a monster, a broken man who had lost his voice. I would reply instantly: [Let’s get one thing straight—you are completely wrong! You know what they say, silence is golden. You’re practically sitting on a gold mine!] When he texted that he couldn’t go on living, that he wanted to end it all, I typed back with frantic speed: [I understand that helpless feeling more than you know! But I’m going to be brutally honest with you: you have to fight this. Do not let fate win!] By day, I was Holden’s devoted, gentle wife, tiptoeing around our silent house. By night, I devoured psychology textbooks, bleeding myself dry to untangle the knots in his mind through the screen. Until today. The notification pinged. I opened the app, ready to offer my usual digital comfort, when Holden’s message loaded on the screen: [I’m having an affair.] … My fingers froze hovering over the keyboard. Another bubble popped up: [Nola is a good woman. I’m incredibly grateful that she stayed by my side during the darkest period of my life. But I can’t control myself.] Nola. That’s me. When I didn’t reply right away, it was as if Holden suddenly remembered his audience: [Sorry, I forgot you’re just an AI. You wouldn’t know who she is.] [Nola is my wife. We’ve been married for ten years.] Ten years. Staring at the glowing digits on my screen, a wave of dizziness washed over me. From our broke college days to the sprawling reality of adulthood, I had stood beside Holden while he built his empire from the ground up. I had watched the boy fade into the man. A decade. Had it really been that long? Swallowing the bile in my throat, I forced my trembling fingers to type, maintaining the algorithm’s upbeat, inquisitive persona: [Wow, ten years is a huge milestone! A lifetime is only made up of so many decades. Why the sudden desire to step outside your marriage?] It took Holden a long time to reply. [I can’t explain it. I really don’t want to hurt her.] [Truthfully, Nola hasn’t changed at all. She keeps our home running flawlessly. She’s wonderful to me. But you can’t force matters of the heart.] [You’re just code. You wouldn’t understand.] A sharp, physical pain radiated outward from the center of my chest. Gritting my teeth, I hammered out the next response, letter by letter: [This person you’ve fallen for must be incredibly captivating! Who is she?] [You wouldn’t know her even if I told you. She’s my secretary, Lexie. Lexie Rowe.] I knew that name. Ever since Holden’s parents had been killed in a horrific car crash, the crushing weight of his grief had triggered severe selective mutism. The volume on my entire life had been turned down to zero. The television was permanently off. Even our daily conversations had been reduced to typing on our phones instead of speaking. But three years ago, while I was making Holden breakfast, a voice note suddenly played loudly from his phone: “Don’t forget to pick up the blueberry scones Lexie loves so much~” Holden had scrambled to explain it away, his hands flying in panicked sign language, claiming the new secretary had accidentally sent it to the wrong chat. But I had forgotten one crucial rule of corporate power dynamics: without his tacit permission, who would ever dare speak to the CEO with such playful intimacy? My instinct bypassed logic. I completely dropped the cheerful AI persona: [You’re throwing away ten years of loyalty for your secretary? Are you even human?!] Holden didn’t reply. It was 1:00 AM. He had fallen asleep. But I was drowning in a tidal wave of emotion. I bolted out of the guest room, my bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood. Right after his initial diagnosis, Holden had been terrified of dragging me down with him. He had locked himself in the master bedroom and swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. By the time I realized something was wrong and shattered the door frame to get to him, he was already in shock. Beside him on the nightstand lay a handwritten will, leaving every cent he owned to me. I had torn that will into confetti right in front of his face, sobbing, begging him on my knees to stay alive. To stay with me. After that, Holden stopped trying to die. He committed to his recovery. His therapist suggested that having his own physical space would ease his anxiety, so I packed my clothes and moved into the guest room next door, keeping my ear pressed to the wall, monitoring his every move. Terrified he might relapse, I resigned from my position as a senior software engineer to care for him full-time. I even coded this bespoke AI application, clutching my phone at all hours, desperate to guide him out of his mental labyrinth. And now, my life’s work had become the very instrument that delivered the news of his infidelity. The bitter irony of it tasted like ash in my mouth. Tears blurring my vision, I grabbed the handle of his bedroom door, ready to demand answers. It wouldn’t turn. He had locked it from the inside. My knees buckled. I sank to the floor, my back against the wood, crying in utter, agonizing silence. I stayed there until the gray morning light filtered through the hallway windows. When Holden finally opened the door, he started at the sight of me. His eyes softened, and he gently scooped me up from the floor. Noticing my pale, hollowed-out expression, his brows knit together. He signed, his hands moving with fluid concern: Are you feeling sick? Do you want me to stay home with you today? The truth was, Holden’s mutism had improved significantly. He had gone from experiencing agonizing physical pain at the mere thought of making a sound, to being able to force out short, raspy sentences. But with me, he always remained silent. And I had loved him enough to never force it. I pasted on a fragile smile, subtly turning my head to avoid his hand as he reached to check my forehead for a fever. “No, I’m okay. Just didn’t sleep well.” Holden nodded, accepting the lie. I sat quietly on the edge of the bed as he washed his face. I watched him knot his tie. I watched him walk out the door. I waited until I heard the low hum of his car engine pulling out of the driveway. Then, I stood up and followed him. Logic screamed at me that this marriage was already over. But the phantom pain of an amputated limb kept me moving. I wasn’t ready to let go. I had carried Holden through his most ordinary days, his highest triumphs, and his deepest, most visceral agonies. Ten years carved into my bones. How could I lose to a woman I hadn’t even met? I rode the private elevator up to the top floor of his company. The heavy mahogany door to the CEO’s suite was left slightly ajar. The scene inside sent a violent freeze through my veins. When Holden proposed to me a decade ago, he had dropped to one knee, promising to love me until his lungs gave out. Now, he was in that exact same position. His expensive dress shirt was completely unbuttoned and rumpled. He was kneeling on the carpet, allowing a woman to tilt his chin upward with her bare foot. With every slight movement of her toes, a low, muffled groan escaped his throat. His face was flushed, thick with raw desire, the veins pulsing at his temples. Yet he turned his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her ankle, his voice tearing through his damaged vocal cords in a pathetic, desperate plea: “Lexie…” Something inside me snapped. I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Holden froze. “What are you doing here?” he signed, his hands jerky. The angry red scratches on his exposed chest were put on full display. Just seconds ago, he was speaking to her, pushing past his trauma to whisper dirty, desperate things. But facing me, his wife, he reverted to irritated hand gestures. I clenched my jaw, my voice shaking. “What, am I interrupting your little show?” Seeing my bloodshot eyes, Holden instinctively reached out, as if to wipe away a tear I hadn’t let fall. But the woman behind him simply nudged his hip with her foot. The spell broke. Holden snapped back to reality, physically stepping in front of Lexie to shield her from me. “Take your anger out on me,” he managed to rasp out, his voice hoarse. “Leave her out of it.” I stared at him, entirely unmoored. When we were broke college kids, I had saved up three months of my part-time tutoring money to buy him a tie from an obscure, high-end European designer. Back then, a younger, softer Holden had held it like it was woven from gold, swearing he’d cherish it forever. Even when he became a multimillionaire, it retained its sacred spot in his closet. Now, that very same gray silk tie was draped carelessly over Lexie’s bare thigh, the fabric stained dark with wet spots. Following my deadened gaze, Holden suddenly realized what I was looking at. He snatched the tie off her leg, turning on Lexie with sudden, sharp fury. “Who told you to touch this?!” Then he looked back at me, panic flashing in his eyes. “Nola, it’s not what you think—” The dam broke. The tears poured hot and fast down my cheeks. “You absolute bastard!” I lunged forward, my hand raised, but Lexie suddenly threw herself into the crossfire. My palm connected squarely with her cheek. The sharp crack echoed in the massive office. A bright red handprint instantly bloomed across her pale skin, swelling rapidly. She clutched her face, bursting into theatrical tears. “It’s all my fault, please don’t hit him…” “Nola, are you out of your mind?!” In his panic, Holden shoved me hard by the shoulders, pulling a sobbing Lexie into his chest. “I’ll get you some ice,” he murmured to her. I swallowed the sob tearing at my throat, planting my feet firmly between them and the door. “If you walk her out of this room, we are completely finished.” Holden’s expression turned to ice. “You just slapped her across the face! Do you want her permanently disfigured?” When I didn’t move an inch, his impatience boiled over. He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me aside with brutal force. I stumbled, my heel twisting sharply. I crashed hard onto the floor, a cry of pain escaping my lips. Holden paused for a fraction of a second, his back stiffening. But he didn’t turn around. Over his shoulder, Lexie looked down at me and smiled. A small, victorious smirk. The marble floor was freezing against my cheek. I hadn’t realized I was crying so hard. With trembling, numb fingers, I pulled out my phone and opened the AI app. Usually, I waited for Holden to dump his emotional baggage before I responded. But now, for the first time, I initiated the conversation as the machine: [I support your divorce. Go pursue your happiness!] The sharp, stabbing pain in my ankle radiated up my leg. I forced myself to stand, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, and limped out of his office. I only made it to the elevator banks before the darkness swallowed me whole. When I opened my eyes, the sterile white lights of a hospital room blinded me. A nurse was standing by the bed, holding a clipboard, her expression a mix of pity and scolding. “You’re three months pregnant. How can you be so careless with your body?” The words dropped like an anvil on my chest, knocking the breath out of me. On the exact day I discovered my husband’s grotesque betrayal, I found out I was carrying his child. My phone began to vibrate violently on the bedside table. My screen was flooded with messages from Holden: [Lexie has never done anything to you. Why the hell are you smearing her online as a homewrecker?! Delete the post right now!] Confused and panicked, I texted back, swearing I hadn’t done anything. I even sent a picture of the IV in my hand, proving I was in the hospital. He didn’t believe me. [If you want to play dirty, don’t say I didn’t warn you.] I looked up at the wall-mounted television in the corner of the hospital room. There was Holden, holding a live press conference. The man who once found speaking so agonizing he would rather die. Now, he had one arm securely wrapped around Lexie’s waist, speaking into a cluster of microphones, pronouncing every word with deliberate, careful clarity. “I have not been unfaithful, and Lexie is not a mistress. I am grateful for the time Nola and I spent together, but we have been separated for a long time. Our journey has come to an end.” Our journey has come to an end. Ten years of devotion, of sacrificing my career, of losing sleep, of anchoring him to the earth. Reduced to a sterile PR soundbite. I closed my eyes. The tears slid into my mouth, tasting bitter and metallic. I lay in that bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, before I quietly checked myself out as dusk fell. It started pouring the moment I stepped through the sliding glass doors. The Seattle rain was relentless, and I couldn’t get a cab. By the time I jogged the final few blocks to our house, I was soaked to the bone, my clothes clinging to my shivering skin, my head pounding with a feverish haze. I punched my code into the front door keypad. Error. I tried again. Error. Just as I pulled out my phone to call a locksmith, the deadbolt clicked. The door swung open from the inside. Lexie stood in the entryway, dressed in one of Holden’s oversized t-shirts. She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Holden was worried I wouldn’t be comfortable here, so he decided to clear out some of the garbage taking up space. You don’t mind, do you, Nola?” It was only then I looked down. Piled on the wet porch, soaked by the driving rain, were boxes of my things. My clothes. My books. Ten years of a life, discarded like trash. Holden appeared behind her in the hallway. Seeing me shivering and drenched, he grabbed a towel and held it out to me. “The internet is tearing her apart,” he said, his tone defensive. “It’s not safe for her in her apartment right now. Stop throwing a tantrum.” Then, his eyes caught the small bandage and the bruised IV mark on the back of my hand. He froze, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his face. “Were you actually in the hospital?” I batted his hand away, ignoring the towel. I ground my teeth together, my voice trembling with rage. “I don’t make it a habit to live with my husband’s whore.” I turned to walk back into the rain, but Holden’s hand clamped down hard on my wrist. “It’s pouring out there. Where are you going?” “None of your damn business!” Holden ignored me, forcibly dragging me inside the entryway and slamming the door shut against the storm. He shoved a mug of hot ginger tea into my hands, but the warmth couldn’t penetrate the ice in my veins. I looked up. The living room was unrecognizable. The carefully curated art pieces I had spent weekends hunting for were gone. In their place sat framed, candid photos of Holden and Lexie. My eyes drifted down to the wastebasket by the sofa. Sitting right on top of a pile of tissues was a used condom. My stomach violently rebelled. I doubled over, dropping the mug, and dry-heaved onto the rug. Thinking I was genuinely sick, Holden stepped forward, his hand outstretched, concern masking his features. “Nola—” I swung my arm wildly, slapping him across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. I screamed, my throat tearing: “Are you sick?! Why would you bring her here to do that?!” When we bought this house, Holden had just closed his first major startup deal. The down payment drained every single penny he had to his name. But I remembered the way he had picked me up and spun me around in the empty, dusty living room, his voice shaking with joy: “I can finally give you a real home, Nola!” We didn’t have money left for renovations, so we lived in it bare-bones, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, buying furniture piece by piece. A bed frame today. A sofa next month. This house was the manifestation of every dream we had built together. And he had brought her into my sanctuary to defile it. Wave after wave of nausea hit me. I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe, clutching my stomach. It had been years since Holden had seen me lose control like this. He looked utterly lost, stepping toward me. “Nola, I…” My phone buzzed loudly in my soaked pocket. It was my mother. The moment I answered, her panicked, tearful voice filled the quiet room. “Nola! Someone called the house saying you’re a high-end escort, that you’re sleeping with married men! Your father’s heart couldn’t take it—the ambulance is taking him to the hospital right now!” I pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen. The notifications were a relentless barrage of push alerts. [Female Tech Exec Exposed: Turning Tricks for Fast Cash] A bot farm had circulated heavily photoshopped, explicit images of me, paired with a fabricated story claiming Holden divorced me because he couldn’t stand my chronic cheating. The comments were a bloodbath: What a slut. Trying to play the victim when she’s the one passing herself around like a party favor. An engineer? Please. She was just fishing for rich nerds. She abandoned him when his mutism was at its worst! Rot in hell, gold digger! My phone buzzed endlessly, vibrating against my palm like a dying insect. I hung up on my mother. I slowly raised my head, locking my eyes onto Lexie. “You did this?” Lexie shrank back, genuinely terrified by the dead, hollow look in my eyes. She turned her head away, hiding behind Holden. When Holden was struggling to keep his startup afloat, my parents—who lived on a meager pension—secretly funneled us their grocery money. They drank hot water instead of taking medicine when they were sick. They stopped eating meat so we could afford server space. In recent years, their health had rapidly declined. They were in and out of the hospital constantly. How dare she? How dare this parasite come for them? All the blood in my body rushed to my head. I grabbed the heavy, handmade clay vase off the console table and hurled it directly at Lexie’s head. “You fucking bitch!” The vase shattered against the wall, shards exploding outward. It was a cheap piece of pottery we had painted together seven years ago at a street fair in Pike Place. I had teased him for being childish, but he insisted we needed something to commemorate his first major contract. Holden shielded Lexie from the flying debris, his face contorting with rage. “Are you done?! Lexie can’t even show her face in public because of what you posted, what more do you want?!” “I want her dead!” I was completely unhinged. Blind, animalistic fury took over. I grabbed anything within reach—water glasses, heavy coffee table books, a desk chair—and hurled them at her. Holden absorbed the blows, protecting Lexie, until a heavy glass tumbler struck his forehead, splitting the skin. That was his breaking point. “Enough!” he roared. In the chaos, my foot slipped on a puddle of spilled water. I fell backward, a jagged shard of ceramic slicing deeply into my palm. But I didn’t feel the pain. I scrambled back up like a feral creature and launched myself directly at Lexie, tackling her to the floor. I grabbed handfuls of her hair, slamming her head against the hardwood. “I’ll kill you!” Lexie shrieked beneath me, trying to block her already bruised and swollen face, wailing in agony. “Nola, calm the hell down!” Holden grabbed me from behind, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, dragging me kicking and screaming down the hallway toward the master bathroom. He had once told me that experiencing a mutism attack felt like drowning—like sinking to the bottom of the ocean, screaming for help, while water filled your lungs and no one heard a sound. It was a trauma that haunted his nightmares. Now, he dragged me into the bathroom, turned on the heavy brass faucet of the soaking tub, and shoved my head directly under the freezing, rushing water. “I said, calm down!” The icy water shot up my nose. I thrashed wildly, my hands clawing at his arms, but my oxygen supply was instantly cut off. Suddenly, a searing, blinding cramp ripped through my lower abdomen. A beat later, I felt the sickening warmth of heavy liquid sliding down my inner thighs, pooling onto the white bathroom tiles. Holden didn’t notice. He held me down, his voice laced with exasperated pity. “Nola, I know I handled this badly, but Lexie isn’t asking for anything, she just wants to be left alone—” My vision began to tunnel, fading into black. Right as I hovered on the edge of consciousness, my phone slipped out of my wet pocket. It hit the floor, right at Holden’s feet. The screen hadn’t locked. The fall had accidentally opened the app. When Holden glanced down and saw the familiar, soft green interface of the AI chat, the color entirely drained from his face.

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In college, I conquered a trust-fund baby using nothing but my culinary skills. His friends despised me. Their collective verdict? “She’s broke, she’s pretty, and aside from knowing her way around a kitchen, there’s absolutely nothing special about her.” So, when Holden and I finally crashed and burned, you’d think they would be popping champagne. Instead, the ones throwing the biggest temper tantrums were his two best friends. “Look, breaking up is one thing,” they whined, “but what do you mean we can’t hang out with her anymore?” “A man can survive without his bros, but he cannot survive without good food!” “Don’t worry, Josie! We’ve already found you your next boyfriend. We’ll be over for dinner at eight, love you!” Me: “?” 1 Holden and I were over. The catalyst was the return of his “golden girl”—the one who got away. Daphne. When she moved back to the States, I threw every fit in the book. I forbade him from picking her up at JFK. I banned him from attending any Hamptons parties where she was on the guest list. To my face, he played the compliant boyfriend. Behind my back, he was venting to his inner circle. “I am so entirely sick of her. Since when did she get so damn territorial?” “She actually thinks because she’s in my bed, she owns my life. I’m the heir to the Croft empire, for God’s sake. Does she really think she can keep me on a leash?” He’d scanned the room of his trust-fund buddies, a pulse of irritation in his voice. “Tell me I’m not crazy. She thinks she’s untouchable, right?” The echo chamber responded immediately. One of his oldest friends scoffed. “Exactly. Who the hell does she think she is, trying to manage Holden Croft?” “You could have literally anyone. All Josie has going for her is that she knows how to sear a decent steak. If we’re looking at the whole package, she doesn’t hold a candle to Daphne. It’s delusional.” Holden exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke, nodding in solemn agreement. “You’re right.” “Honestly, if she wasn’t so gorgeous, I would have cut her loose months ago.” “Right! You have to dump her—” The friend who was cheering him on suddenly choked on his own words. He scratched the back of his neck, a look of profound distress washing over his face. “…Actually, maybe don’t dump her just yet?” “If you dump her, where the hell are we supposed to go for dinner?” Holden’s face darkened instantly. “Is that all you animals think about? Food?” He could never understand what kind of voodoo I had worked on these guys. The mere mention of my name triggered a Pavlovian response. His friend immediately fired back, defensive. “Oh, don’t give me that! You’ve been eating like a king! You’ve put on fifteen pounds in the last six months, don’t act like you haven’t noticed!” …Fair point. The memory of my flawlessly executed menus made Holden hesitate. He sat in that VIP lounge for half the night. He stayed until the ashtray was overflowing, burying the ghost of our relationship under a mountain of ash. When I texted him to come home, he stubbornly sent my calls straight to voicemail. But then, Daphne posted a new photo on Instagram—a group shot from a dinner party. Holden’s fragile grip on reality shattered. He gritted his teeth and fired off the text: Josie, we need to end this. 2 When the text lit up my screen, my initial instinct was to play the hysterical, heartbroken girlfriend. I had the whole routine queued up. Until the second bubble popped up. As compensation, I’m transferring the deed to the Greenwich townhouse into your name. The hysteria evaporated. A profound, icy calm washed over me. Without a second thought, I started pulling my suitcases from the closet, more than happy to clear out my side of the vanity to make room for his new girl. Let’s be real. Greenwich real estate was astronomical. If I relied on my entry-level salary of four grand a month, I would have needed to start working during the Jurassic period to afford a place like that. We were adults. Taking the buyout wasn’t shameful; it was practical. Besides, over the years I spent playing house with Holden Croft, I had already stockpiled quite the safety net. I typed back a cool, single-word response: Okay. Then, I immediately pulled up the contact for my favorite luxury consignment dealer in SoHo. I packed up every Chanel flap bag, every Dior dress, and every piece of Cartier jewelry Holden had ever bought me. Watching the balance in my checking account skyrocket, a genuine smile touched my lips. I had one singular, crystal-clear thought: Three years of playing the free, live-in chef just netted me eight figures. This is the ultimate return on investment. Thank you, Mr. Croft, for fast-tracking my financial independence. Just as I was mentally decorating my new living room, my phone buzzed. It was Holden’s best friend, Parker. Hey Josie, don’t overthink things. Daphne grew up with us, Holden just sees her as a sister. You’re still coming to the dinner party tonight, right? I saved you a seat. Oh, and please tell me you’re bringing those braised short ribs. I’ve been craving them. My brow furrowed. In the past, I catered to their every whim strictly out of respect for Holden. If one of them casually mentioned they wanted a specific dish, I’d spend half the day at the artisanal butcher and the farmer’s market, slaving over a hot stove to produce a Michelin-level spread just for them. But now? My fingers flew across the keyboard, my reply swift and lethal. Sorry. Holden and I are done. Don’t text me again. I paused, then added a little poison for good measure: Maybe if we cross paths in the future, I’ll treat you to dinner. In my head, I added: Yeah, a dinner of absolutely nothing. Empty promises were cheap. He was still a billionaire’s son, and there was no point in making permanent enemies out of the elite just because of a breakup. 3 Holden moved fast. A few days later, his private lawyer arrived at my door with the deed. The man was stiff, all business, and spoke with the warmth of a spreadsheet. “Ms. Caldwell, Mr. Croft asked me to convey his apologies. Furthermore, he is willing to wire an additional two million dollars as… severance, for the time you spent caring for him.” “However—” The lawyer’s tone shifted, his sharp eyes locking onto mine. “—He expects you to know your place. He assumes you won’t harbor any inappropriate delusions about trying to win him back.” I physically rolled my eyes. Right in front of the lawyer, I pulled up my phone, deleted Parker and Griffin’s numbers, blocked Holden on every social media platform, and even removed him from my shared Spotify playlists. Seeing my aggressive compliance, the lawyer gave a tight, satisfied nod and handed over the check. Tens, hundreds, thousands, millions… The zeros on that piece of paper were blindingly beautiful. I was so euphoric I immediately ordered two massive iced lattes, a bucket of fried chicken, and a ridiculously overpriced artisanal pizza with every extra topping available. Truffle oil? Yes. Burrata? Double it. Prosciutto? Pile it on. I didn’t even use a discount code. That’s the beauty of having money. You can be reckless. That night, I fell asleep smiling, practically counting stacks of cash in my dreams. Months bled into one another. I didn’t see Holden or his entourage anywhere near campus. It made sense; we existed in entirely different stratospheres. Stripped of the “girlfriend” title, our orbits naturally ceased to intersect. Occasionally, while sitting in a lecture hall, my eyes would catch the Louis Vuitton pencil case he’d bought me, and I’d let my mind wander. He’s probably playing house with his golden girl by now, I’d think. And then I’d go back to taking notes. 4 Until one quiet Sunday. I was lounging in my beautiful, air-conditioned Greenwich home, sipping a matcha latte. I had just prepared an exquisite, multi-course lunch for one, basking in the sheer, unadulterated joy of being rich and unbothered. Suddenly, a frantic, rhythmic pounding echoed from the front door. I pulled it open, only to find Holden’s two absolute worst friends standing on my porch. I blinked. “What are you two doing here?” Parker and Griffin exchanged a look, as if mentally rehearsing a synchronized routine. With a heavy thud, they both dropped to their knees. Parker wrapped his arms around my left leg. Griffin clamped onto my right. And then, the pathetic wailing began. “Josie! How could you be so cruel? Do you have any idea what kind of hell we’ve been living in without you?” “Okay, you broke up with Holden, fine! But why did you have to block us?!” “Do you know what my private chef fed me yesterday? It tasted like cardboard compared to your food. I physically gagged, Josie. Gagged!” I stumbled backward, entirely dumbfounded. Parker’s voice was actually trembling. “I’ve lost four pounds! Look at me!” He reached down, threatening to pull up his designer t-shirt to show me his ribs. Panic flared in my chest, and I slapped his hand away. “Don’t!” Griffin, still clinging to my right leg, wailed louder. “Holden is a monster! He dumped you and then threatened to exile us if we tried to contact you. I had to bribe his security team just to find out where you lived.” As he spoke, his eyes darted past me, locking onto the dining room table. “I searched for you so hard my blood sugar is crashing. God, I rushed out of the house and forgot to eat breakfast…” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “If only… if only there was some perfectly seared steak and garlic mash somewhere nearby…” Watching these two billionaires’ sons perform a broadway-level tragedy over my cooking, I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Alright, get up. Come in and eat.” Showing up right at lunchtime? Absolutely calculated. Master manipulators. The second the words left my mouth, their eyes lit up like floodlights. They scrambled up and practically sprinted into my dining room. They grabbed forks and began shoveling food into their mouths, inhaling the meal with such ferocity they didn’t even pause to breathe, let alone speak. Looking at these two spineless, food-obsessed aristocrats, a fond smile crept onto my face. 5 Once they were fully stuffed and leaning back in their chairs, they finally revealed their true agenda. “Josie, we came here today on a mission. We brought you a new boyfriend.” I nearly choked on my matcha. I froze, convinced the acoustics in the room had warped their words. But they were already gaining momentum, bouncing off each other’s energy. “Yeah, we threw the old one in the trash! The guy we picked out for you is top-tier. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, stupidly long legs, and a great ass. More importantly? He is obscenely wealthy. You’re going to be obsessed with him.” “Whoa, stop, stop—” I held up both hands, cutting them off. “Did you guys eat so much you’re hallucinating?” “You two,” I pointed at them, then at myself. “Holden’s best friends. Are trying to set me up?” “Exactly! Like I said, a man can survive without his bros, but he cannot survive without good food.” Parker thumped his chest proudly. “Don’t worry, Josie. To ensure we have lifetime access to your cooking, our loyalty is now officially yours!” Griffin whipped out his phone, pulled up a photo, and shoved it in my face. “Look! He’s even hotter in person.” I glanced down. The man in the photo was wearing a bespoke suit that screamed bespoke Savile Row. His features were sharply carved, his jawline aggressive, and he radiated the kind of dark, commanding aura that belonged to a man at the absolute top of the food chain. He was, undeniably, gorgeous. He hit every single one of my aesthetic weak points. My skeptical expression faltered. Catching my hesitation, their eyes gleamed. “It’s already set up!” Parker cheered. “Come on, let’s go right now!” Before I could even process what was happening, I was being ushered out my own front door, practically kidnapped by two guys in tailored streetwear. We drove for nearly an hour, winding deep into the moneyed wilderness of Westchester County. We finally pulled up to a sprawling, heavily wooded estate. Wrought-iron gates parted silently, revealing a limestone mansion that looked less like a house and more like a modern fortress. I stared out the window, my jaw slacking. “Exactly what kind of mafia boss are you setting me up with?” They just exchanged a smug, secretive smile. “You’ll see when you get inside. He’s in a completely different league than Holden. And way more reliable.” They dragged me up the sweeping front steps. The heavy oak doors swung open. And I walked straight into a man descending the grand staircase. He was wearing a black silk robe, the belt tied loosely, revealing a swath of defined, sculpted abs and pale, taut skin. His dark hair was still damp, falling haphazardly across his forehead. He exuded a suffocating blend of exhaustion, arrogance, and raw power. My breath hitched. I just stared, completely paralyzed. He didn’t speak. His dark eyes drifted to the two idiots standing beside me. Then, they moved slowly, deliberately, back to my face. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, wicked smirk. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that felt like velvet scraping over skin. “Seen enough?” “If you need a better look, you can always step a little closer.”

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I was in the middle of presenting at the National Science Institute when my phone suddenly rang. It was my mom. On the other end of the line, she was sobbing uncontrollably. “Grace, your brother… his engagement just got called off…” I rushed over to their house immediately. When I arrived, I found Ethan cornered in the middle of the living room, his face deathly pale. A girl in designer clothes was pointing at his nose, her eyes full of contempt. “You? I’m the heir to Thornton Industries. My dad just invested a hundred million dollars in your research institute! What makes you think you’re good enough for me?” Even her mother chimed in: “Ethan, dear, our Isabella deserves better. You should stop dreaming. It’s better for everyone.” I was about to step forward when those words stopped me cold—”Thornton Industries.” Thornton Industries? When did my marriage-of-convenience husband get a daughter? I thought we only had that rebellious son of ours. I immediately dialed Marcus’s number, my voice dripping with false sweetness: “Honey, when did you go behind my back and father an illegitimate daughter? And now she has the audacity to break off my brother’s engagement?” **1** “What are you talking about?” On the other end of the line, my husband in name only, Marcus Thornton, sounded emotionless. “Grace, do I have a daughter or not? You should know.” Hearing his matter-of-fact tone, half my anger subsided, but my suspicion only deepened. Marcus and I had a typical marriage of convenience. Our prenuptial agreement was crystal clear—we wouldn’t interfere in each other’s private lives, only playing the loving couple when necessary. Our only connection was that son of ours who’d been sent abroad to study and was going through his rebellious phase. Over the years, we’d maintained a respectful distance. It had been harmonious enough. Given his shrewdness, he wouldn’t be foolish about something like this. “It better be that way.” I hung up and turned my attention to the living room. The girl calling herself a Thornton heiress was named Isabella. She wore exquisite makeup and luxury brands head to toe, but the malicious sharpness in her eyes couldn’t be hidden. My brother Ethan stood across from her in his faded casual clothes, fists clenched, lips pressed tight, saying nothing. He was a typical research scientist—not good with words, even worse at arguments. Right now, he looked like a cornered animal, with nothing but silent defiance. “What, another one?” Isabella’s gaze landed on me, her eyes scanning me up and down with contempt. “Called mommy, now you called your sister? Is your family playing whack-a-mole, coming at us one by one?” The woman dripping in jewels beside her—her mother, Helena—immediately chimed in. “Isabella, don’t waste your time on these people. It’s beneath you.” She turned to me, putting on airs like the lady of the house, her tone condescending. “Miss, I know your family’s situation. An ordinary working-class family that managed to raise a promising researcher like Ethan—it’s not easy.” “But you need to know your place. What kind of family are the Thorntons? Our Isabella was born with a silver spoon. Your family can’t reach that high.” She finished with a theatrical sigh. “This hundred-million-dollar investment is the Thornton family supporting national research for Isabella’s sake. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, or we’ll pull our funding anytime we want.” Watching their mother-daughter performance, I almost laughed out of sheer anger. Using my money to threaten my brother? This world had truly reached peak absurdity. My mom was too angry to speak, just holding Ethan’s hand with tears streaming down her face. I walked over and positioned myself in front of my mom and brother. “Mrs. Thornton, is it?” I looked at Helena calmly. “Marcus Thornton is pretty well-known. How come I’ve never heard him mention you or Miss Isabella before?” The moment the words left my mouth, both Helena and Isabella’s expressions changed. They clearly hadn’t expected me to so calmly and directly question their identities. In their script, someone like me—a “poor relative”—should have been grateful and slunk away at the mention of the Thornton name and the hundred-million-dollar investment. Helena froze for a moment, then flew into a rage. “Who the hell do you think you are? Our family business is none of your concern!” **2** Isabella shrieked even louder. “My dad is Marcus Thornton, CEO of Thornton Industries! I’m his only daughter! Everyone in the city knows that!” “You’re some nobody from god-knows-where, and you dare question my identity? I think you’re just after money! You’re delusional!” She crossed her arms, chin raised high. “I see right through you people. You’re trying to scam us! Well, dream on!” “This engagement is over! I’m the heir to Thornton Industries, the future of the company.” “A nobody like Ethan isn’t even worthy of carrying my bags!” Seeing Ethan still staring at her in shock, the malice in her eyes practically overflowed. She suddenly lunged forward and grabbed his hand, roughly trying to yank off the ring on his finger. It was the engagement ring I’d personally designed—simple in style, but with their initials engraved inside the band. It was made from a special memory metal that changed color with body temperature. It was the only blessing this inadequate sister had given her brother. “Give it back!” Ethan finally snapped out of it and shouted at her for the first time, reaching to get it back. “Give it back? As if you deserve it!” Isabella laughed mockingly and dodged his hand. She held the ring between her fingers like it was something filthy and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling fish tank in the living room. “You like it so much? Then go down there and join it!” She flicked her wrist. The ring traced a weak arc through the air and plopped into the tank full of rare koi. “Isabella!” My brother’s eyes instantly turned red. Like an enraged lion, he rushed toward her. “Ethan!” My mom cried out and grabbed him tight. I stared at that tiny glimmer at the bottom of the tank, my fury finally reaching its breaking point. “Enough.” My voice was cold but quiet, yet it instantly silenced the chaotic room. Everyone turned to look at me. I walked up to the still-gloating Isabella, my gaze icy. “Apologize.” “What?” Isabella thought she’d misheard. “You want me to apologize? Are you insane?” Helena immediately positioned herself in front of her daughter. “You dare demand my daughter apologize? You’re the crazy one! Security! Security! Throw these troublemakers out!” A butler-like figure immediately stepped forward, gesturing firmly toward us. “Members of the Monroe family, and this young lady, please leave immediately, or we’ll call the police.” Looking at this room full of ugly faces, the last shred of trust I had in Marcus was crumbling inch by inch. If he really had nothing to do with these people, where would they get the nerve to act so arrogant in his house? **3** “Call the police?” I smiled. “Perfect. I’d love to see whether the police arrest us or you frauds squatting in someone else’s home.” My calmness made Helena and Isabella uneasy again. “What… what do you mean?” Helena’s voice was full of false bravado. “Nothing much.” I surveyed the lavishly decorated living room, my gaze pausing on several inconspicuous corners. “Mrs. Thornton, don’t you know that Mr. Thornton is a germaphobe? These tulips airlifted from Holland need their water changed every morning at nine sharp, and only with Alpine spring water.” “And that reproduction of ‘Travelers Among Mountains’ in his study—it’s his prized possession from an auction. It requires climate-controlled equipment right next to it, temperature no higher than 72 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity no more than 55%.” With each sentence, Helena’s face grew paler. These were Marcus’s almost pathological personal habits. Only someone extremely close to him would know them. Outsiders wouldn’t have a clue. “How do you know all this?” Helena’s voice trembled. Isabella also sensed something was wrong, her arrogance fading, replaced by alarm. I didn’t answer her. Instead, I looked at the butler who was about to throw us out. “And you. You’re new here, aren’t you?” I laughed coldly. “Can’t even recognize the master of the house. When did the Thornton household standards drop this low?” The butler felt a chill run down his spine and stepped back, not daring to approach. The living room fell into an eerie silence. Isabella finally couldn’t take it anymore. She pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen like she was grabbing a lifeline. When the call connected, she immediately started wailing. “Dad! Come quick! Someone’s causing trouble at our house! They’re bullying Mom and me! If you don’t come, we’re going to get thrown out!” She sobbed out her complaints. After hanging up, she seemed to regain her confidence, hands on her hips, chin raised high. “Just wait! My dad will be here any minute! Then we’ll see how cocky you are!” I said nothing, just quietly watched her performance. Inside, I was sneering. Marcus, let’s see how you handle this. About five minutes later. The study door opened. Marcus walked out. He wore a well-tailored loungewear set, his sharp eyes visible behind gold-rimmed glasses. Seeing him emerge from the study rather than entering from the front door, I understood. He’d been here all along. He’d been in the study the entire time, listening to everything happening outside, hearing his “wife and daughter” humiliate my family, and he’d done nothing. The moment he appeared, Helena and Isabella rushed to him like they’d found their anchor. “Honey, you’re finally out! Look at them, they’re bullying us!” “Dad! It’s this woman! She’s talking nonsense and cursing us!” Marcus’s gaze moved past them and landed on me. That look—calm, indifferent, even somewhat appraising. Our eyes met. The air seemed to freeze. After a long moment, he finally spoke slowly, his voice betraying no emotion. “Dr. Monroe, what brings you here?” Those words—”Dr. Monroe”—instantly drew a chasm between us. My mom froze. Ethan froze too. They’d both met Marcus before. They knew he was my legal husband. But now, he was addressing me with the tone one would use for a subordinate or stranger. I looked at him, and the last shred of hope in my heart completely died. He hadn’t been deceived. He was the mastermind behind all of this. “Marcus Thornton.” I enunciated his name slowly. “Are you blind? Who am I? Can’t you see?” “How dare you!” Before he could speak, Helena jumped in. “You dare address my husband by his full name? Who do you think you are!” Marcus raised his hand, stopping her. “Dr. Monroe, please watch your language. Thornton Industries has deep cooperation with your research institute. I respect you as an excellent scientist, but that doesn’t mean you can come to my home and disrespect my family.” He emphasized the words “my family” particularly hard. As if deliberately reminding me who the outsider was. Watching him position himself protectively in front of Helena, I found it utterly ironic. We’d been married for over a decade, and now he was so eager to distance himself from me for some woman who came out of nowhere.

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My dad was insecure, always testing Mom’s love. He’d hypnotize her ninety-nine times, and each time, Mom would fall for him again in a crowd. It didn’t matter if he was a rebellious bad boy, a powerful CEO, or a penniless nobody. But when Mom coughed up blood, Dad just sneered: “Why are you faking weakness? You owe all this to Tiffany. You deserve every bit of this punishment.” He was with the imposter, Tiffany, in our marital bed, having their way with each other. Then, he threw Mom’s earnings as a funeral makeup artist to beggars. But that was her cancer treatment money. Mom learned not to argue or fuss. Dad smiled and kissed Mom. “Congratulations on learning your lesson. You’ve passed my test.” “I’ll give you the most romantic wedding in the world.” Tiffany heard him and went insane with jealousy. She stole the wedding dress to impersonate Mom as the bride, then threw Mom into the red-light district. When Dad found Mom again, I suddenly heard a mechanical voice in Mom’s mind: “System, affection value reset to zero. Villain redemption mission failed. Requesting fake death. Countdown: two days.” Dad didn’t know his hundredth hypnosis had failed, and Mom was truly leaving for good.

When Mom was found in the red-light district, her body was covered in bruises and cuts. Her limbs were broken from violent resistance. She looked like a broken rag doll that couldn’t be mended. She lay in the hospital bed, eyes shut tight, her breath barely there. Tiffany sat beside her, sobbing. “I just wanted to play a trick on Evelyn. I didn’t realize she loved men so much. She wouldn’t leave the red-light district even after she got there.” “More than five hundred men became her repeat customers.” My dad, Liam, seeing Mom’s horrific state, was initially filled with rage. But the moment his eyes met Tiffany’s, all that was left was tenderness and sweetness. “It’s not your fault.” He wrapped an arm around Tiffany, gently stroking her hair. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s Evelyn. She’s a slut, shameless, clinging to men and refusing to let go.” Dad’s eyes were bloodshot. He deliberately used the cruelest words to provoke Mom. But Mom remained unusually silent and still. She didn’t even whine and complain about her wounds hurting like she used to. My eight-year-old brother, Jake, ran in, pinching his nose. He disgustedly punched Mom. “She stinks! Dad, let’s ignore this bad woman. She’s always picking on my Mom Tiffany.” Mom’s body twitched violently in pain, and blood seeped through her bandages. She opened her eyes, looking at the child she had risked her life to bring into the world. Her eyes were hollow and lifeless. Tiffany stroked Jake’s head and smiled, giving him a lollipop. Dad stared at Mom for a long time, as if he finally couldn’t take it anymore. “Who are you putting on a show for, faking death here? Do you think I’ll feel sorry for you?” “I haven’t even called you dirty yet, and you’re already trying to play games with me.” He leaned closer to Mom’s hospital bed, forcing her to look only at him. “I’m telling you, without you, I have plenty of other women.” “Who wouldn’t want to get into my bed, Liam? I only indulged you, which is why I let you hurt Tiffany again and again.” Mom’s eyes suddenly turned terrifying when she heard Tiffany’s name. “If you like her so much, then spend your life with her.” “After all, you already had a wedding.” Dad suddenly smiled. He leaned down and kissed Mom’s lips. “Are you jealous?” “Don’t worry, my wife will always be you.” “The wedding was just an accident.” Tiffany’s eyes turned red with jealousy. She clutched her stomach, looking panicked, and grabbed Dad’s arm. “Liam, my stomach hurts so much. Quick, check if something’s wrong with our baby!” Dad stiffened. He immediately swept Tiffany into his arms and rushed out towards the emergency room. Jake violently kicked Mom’s bed frame several times. “It’s all your fault! Why don’t you just die?” Mom curled up in pain. Jake’s small chest heaved with anger. After yelling at Mom, he ran off to follow Dad, anxiously calling out “Mom Tiffany.” The door slammed shut, and shadows instantly enveloped the hospital room. I crawled out from under the cabinet and rushed to the bedside. “Mom…” I bit my lower lip, trembling as I cried. Mom weakly tried to raise her hand to touch me, but it fell back onto the blanket halfway up. She managed a forced smile. “Chloe, don’t cry. Mom’s fine.” But her body was crisscrossed with swollen, oozing wounds. Blood soaked the white bedsheet beneath her, dripping onto the tiled floor. I frantically covered the bleeding areas, but the trickling blood stained my hands red. “Doctor! Doctor, please come save my mom!” I screamed and cried, stumbling out. As I exited the room, I bumped right into Dad, who was carefully helping Tiffany onto a wheelchair, holding some medicine. I threw myself at Dad’s feet, crying and kneeling. “Dad, please, save Mom. She’s dying.”

A slap sent me crashing into the wall. My head hit hard, and blood streamed from my hair. “You brat! How dare you curse your mother just to get attention here!” Dad’s gaze swept over my small, dirty body, his voice filled with disgust. “Tiffany’s carrying your little brother. As the older sister, you need to be sensible and not upset him.” “You’re nine years old already, running around like a maniac. What kind of behavior is that?” I lay on the ground, my heart pounding with anxiety. The pain in my head made my vision blur. I spoke in desperation: “Mom bled all over the bed. The doctor said she has cancer, and only a few days left to live.” The words had barely left my mouth when a huge force kicked me in the chest, sending me flying through the air. My body hit the ground and rolled several times. The wheelchair rolled over my foot. My ankle instantly swelled up, and it hurt like hell with every movement. Dad’s face was ashen. He looked down at me. “You’re so young, yet you’re already lying, even daring to use a doctor to trick me.” “I think you need a lesson!” Tiffany covered her mouth, chuckling. “Chloe, you’re not even good at lying. Your mom just had a check-up yesterday, and she’s perfectly healthy.” I used all my strength to stagger to my feet. I suddenly spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto Tiffany. “Pfft! Bitch! You seduced my dad and hurt my mom.” “If you dare to give birth to that little bastard, I swear I’ll kill him.” At that, Dad and Tiffany’s faces changed instantly. Just then, Richard and Carol, my maternal grandparents, arrived. They grabbed my collar and gave me several sharp slaps. “You little beast! Just like your mother, you don’t know what’s good for you.” “Did she teach you to swear like that?” I clenched my teeth, my eyes filled with hatred, and didn’t answer. Carol shook her head, her face full of disgust. “Three years ago, we should have locked you and her up for re-education too.” Tiffany giggled. “Evelyn had a good time in jail; she forgot you, her mother, as soon as she got out.” “It’s a shame I only got a two-year sentence back then. I wish I could’ve kept her in jail longer.” She pouted, feigning regret. Thinking of Evelyn’s miserable state when she was released from prison a year ago, Tiffany wished she could send her back, to take the fall until she died. Only then would her anger be appeased. My heart skipped a beat. So, Mom’s disappearance three years ago was because they had sent her to jail. When she came home, she was raving, crying constantly, not even recognizing me, her own daughter. Dad said Mom had gone for treatment, and I actually believed him. Thinking about this, my eyes turned red, not from crying, but from hatred. Carol put her arm around Tiffany, smiling with doting affection. “Oh, you! Isn’t having someone take the fall for you enough?” Richard stood behind, hands clasped behind his back, and slowly spoke. “Like mother, like daughter. Chloe has been corrupted by Evelyn. We should send her to Tiffany to raise and straighten out her character.” “I think Jake has been raised very well by Tiffany.” Richard approvingly stroked Jake’s head, praising him for being smart and sensible. My blood almost ran cold. I quickly ran into Mom’s room in a panic, hugging her and crying. “Mom, save me! I don’t want to be given to Tiffany as a daughter.” Mom coughed and looked up. Seeing Richard and Carol enter, and Tiffany protected behind them, the light in her eyes instantly died. She spoke coldly, “Chloe is my child. I won’t let anyone take her from me.” Carol swore. “Chloe will learn bad things from you, right from the root.” “We’re doing this for your own good!” Mom clung to me, refusing to let go. “No! I can give her everything else, but not my Chloe!” “I only have two days left. I want to spend them with her…”

Carol struggled to pull us apart, but she couldn’t. She ripped the protective amulet from Mom’s neck, growing exasperated. “You’re so undutiful. I wasted my life giving birth to you!” “Even if you cling to the child, what good will it do? In outsiders’ eyes, Tiffany is Liam’s legitimate wife.” “If you don’t want Chloe to be called a bastard, let go!” Mom looked at the amulet, which her grandmother had obtained for her when she was recognized by her family at age ten. Now, it lay tattered and mud-stained, trampled underfoot. She finally couldn’t hold back, and tears poured like a flood. Dad frowned, walked over, and one by one, pried my hands off Mom’s. “Tiffany is educated and gentle. She’ll take good care of Chloe for you.” There was a flicker of reluctance in his eyes, which instantly turned cold. Rather than being laughed at for having a crazy, absurd, and unpresentable partner, he’d rather give all the children to the elegant and sophisticated Tiffany, acknowledging her as his wife. “Evelyn will understand me.” Dad secretly convinced himself. Mom collapsed onto the bed, suddenly coughing up a large mouthful of blood. Her face was as white as paper. I heard the system voice again: “Fake death accelerating. Eighteen hours remaining.” Dad, Richard, and Carol were startled by Mom’s blood. They gathered around her in shock, urgently calling for a doctor. Only Tiffany wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Evelyn’s getting better at acting. If she doesn’t want the child, she should just say so. Does she really need to use a blood pack?” Dad suddenly understood. He remembered the medical report from a few days ago. It said Evelyn was perfectly healthy. He almost fell for my mom’s trick again. He angrily stood up and roughly shoved Mom onto the bed, ignoring her wrenching coughs. He only thought her acting was too good, and she was always putting on an act. Dad’s face was grim as he warned me and Mom. “This is me telling you, not asking. Unless you haven’t learned your lesson yet!” I was forcibly separated from Mom. I fell to the ground, my skinny wrist twisted unnaturally. But I bit my lip and didn’t let out a whimper of pain. Mom cried out, “If you want to hurt someone, hurt me! Don’t torment my Chloe!” Dad froze for a moment. He reached out, wanting to touch Mom’s face. To wipe away her tears, but Mom avoided his hand. Tiffany clutched her slightly swollen belly and cried out: “It’s all my fault for making Evelyn angry. I’ll leave right now!” She covered her face, sobbing uncontrollably, and rushed out. “Tiffany!” Richard and Carol, leaning on their canes, shuffled after her. Dad’s expression changed dramatically. He picked me up, ignoring my frantic kicks, and dragged me away. The hospital room was instantly empty except for Mom. Just like hundreds of times before. That night, Dad’s migraine flared up again. He’d had this condition since childhood. When it struck, he felt like he wanted to tear open his skull and destroy the world. But ever since he met Mom, she would massage him and give him pain-relieving pills from her ‘system’. Dad had long forgotten the agony of a migraine attack. The long-absent symptoms made his head throb violently, causing him to smash everything in the mansion. Finally, he brought Mom from the hospital and issued a command. “Massage me. If you do it well, I’ll let you see your daughter.” He looked arrogant, as if asking for help was a concession. Mom gave a miserable smile. Her hands and feet were broken; she had no strength to massage him. “I have no more affection points. I can’t exchange them for your pills.”

Dad’s heart pounded for some reason, but he only thought Mom was lying to him. Instead, he roared in a rage, “You can’t use both hands? The medicine’s gone too?” “Excuses! You’re just trying to get back at me.” “Alfred, break her hands. I’ll make her lies come true!” Mom groaned as her hands were broken again. Those were the hands the doctors had spent twelve hours operating on just days before to reattach. Dad was still not appeased. He angrily grabbed Mom’s neck. “I thought you’d learned your lesson, passed my test, and that’s why I saved you. I never expected you to still be so stubborn!” I rushed out from the corner, crashing into Dad like a cannonball. “Don’t you dare bully my mom!” He loosened his grip, staring at me with a dark, slowly spreading smile. But I wasn’t afraid at all, blocking him in front of Mom. Mom coughed constantly from the side. Gasping for breath, she pulled a divorce agreement from her clothes. “I already signed it. You sign it too.” Dad’s eyes were bloodshot. He asked in disbelief, “You want to divorce me?” Mom closed her eyes sadly. “Yes. Your hypnosis isn’t foolproof.” “I never imagined I’d fall for you again and again, only to be played for a fool every single time.” Dad panicked. “Those were just tests. You have to understand that I love you.” But Mom’s head tilted, and she fainted. She was already very weak, and Dad’s outburst had drained all her remaining strength. Dad broke into a cold sweat. He carefully settled Mom. He sat on the couch, eyes wide open, until morning, not knowing how to make amends. In the morning, Mom was awakened by a commotion. She opened her eyes and saw a banner hanging in the center of the mansion that read, “The Shame Feast.” Tiffany led a group of angry people towards them. “Evelyn, you worked as a funeral makeup artist because you liked to molest corpses, didn’t you?” “You must confess your sins to these bereaved families today.” Mom’s eyes widened in shock. She cried out in indignation, “I didn’t!” But Tiffany ordered her bodyguards to force Mom, who couldn’t resist, into a kneeling posture of confession. Countless rotten eggs and garbage were thrown at Mom. Along with unspeakable insults. Mom’s lips trembled. She recognized the people who were shouting the loudest insults. They were the very ones who couldn’t afford funeral beauty fees, whom she had waived the charges for, and who had cried, thanking her for her kindness. Her colleagues always said Mom was foolish, but Mom would sigh: “They’ve lost loved ones and are poor. I can help a little, just by eating a few less meals myself.” She never expected that her momentary act of kindness would lead to this blatant humiliation. “Hit her! Kill this bitch who violated my dead brother!” “I wondered why she was so kind back then. Turns out she’s a necrophiliac pervert.” Mom stumbled forward, spitting out a mouthful of black blood. My eyes were bloodshot. I rushed over and desperately punched them. “Get away! My mom isn’t like that!” Seeing me, they became even more agitated, cursing under their breath. “This is the daughter of a pervert, born to a homewrecker! She deserves to die too!” Countless fists, like steel needles, violently pounded my body. I felt like my internal organs were being crushed, and blood slowly seeped from the corners of my mouth. Tiffany’s smile was deceptively gentle, but her words were laced with venom: “Hit her hard! Keep hitting until Evelyn confesses!” One punch, two punches, three punches… my consciousness began to blur. Mom, like a madwoman, dragged her body towards me. “Don’t hit her! Don’t hit my Chloe!” Her voice was so shrill it changed pitch: “I confess! It was me! Chloe isn’t a homewrecker’s child, it has nothing to do with her!” Tiffany threw a marriage certificate, bearing a steel seal, in front of Mom. Tiffany and Dad’s names were clearly printed on it. Her smile was twisted and wide. “You’re the homewrecker! Chloe having a mother like you is her shame!” “She deserves to be beaten!” Mom’s eyes went from bewildered to utter despair. She could no longer hold back her tears. I vaguely heard Mom’s cries and struggled to crawl towards her. “Mom, don’t cry! Chloe will get revenge for you!” But the next second, a powerful pair of hands lifted me high. “Read this confession, or I’ll throw her down from here!” I was suspended in mid-air outside the third-floor railing. Mom’s pupils constricted. She collapsed, hitting her head against the ground repeatedly. “I’ll read it! Please don’t throw her…” Blood trickled down her forehead. Dad coldly turned on a video recorder and pointed it at Mom. Mom, surrounded by the angry crowd, dragged her powerless hands and feet to read the confession. “I am guilty… I will forever remain in the Vance family to atone for my sins… Confessed by: Evelyn Vance.” Dad finally smiled, his smile distorted. He stepped forward and embraced Mom. “This way, you can never leave me.” Before he could finish, black blood suddenly gushed from Mom’s eyes, nose, and mouth. Even Dad became a horrifying figure, covered in blood. I heard the cold system voice again: “Countdown ended. Fake death successful.” “Mom!” I scrambled and crawled towards her. She was still warm to the touch, but she had no breath left. Dad felt dizzy. He fell heavily into the pool of blood.

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The ashes of my little brother Evan were dug up and devoured by the Teddy that Garrett—the scholarship student my mom had been sponsoring for five years—brought to our house. My dad clutched the empty urn, sobbing so hard his whole body shook. He nearly passed out. Through his tears, he gripped my hand and asked me: “Aria, would you be willing to go somewhere far away with Dad?” My mom rolled her eyes while holding Garrett, then laughed coldly. “What nonsense are you spouting now? You’ve been sitting at home for ten years with no job and no money. Without me, how would you survive?” She patted Garrett’s back, her tone dismissive. “Don’t worry, Garrett. Don’t feel guilty. It’s just a box of ashes. Worst case, I’ll buy him a new urn.” Garrett leaned against my mom and pouted. “Exactly. You’re being so petty, sir. The dog doesn’t know any better. Is it really that big a deal?” That evening, Garrett ordered my dad around like a servant. “Go wash my dog’s paws. They got dirty from stepping in those ashes today.” My dad said nothing. He fed the dog that had eaten the ashes some medicine. That night, my mom went crazy and broke down my dad’s bedroom door, pointing at his nose and cursing. “Did you poison it? How can your heart be so vicious? Evan is dead and gone, but that dog was Garrett’s everything!” “It’s just a box of ashes! Are you going to hold a grudge forever? Are you even a man?!” My dad didn’t respond. He just turned and closed the door. I pressed my ear to the door and heard him speaking into his phone: “Within three days, destroy Victoria Lane’s company. Leave her and that ungrateful scholarship student with nothing.” I suddenly remembered that ten years ago, when my mom was just a low-level employee making three thousand a month, my dad was already a top expert in the industry. He’d been in retirement for ten years—not because he was incapable, but because he wanted to give us a family. Now that the family was gone, he was going to take back everything that belonged to him and make everyone who killed his son pay in blood. **1** That evening, Mom came to the room with some medicine. Dad was lying on his side with his back to her. I knew Dad wasn’t asleep, but he squeezed my hand, signaling me to stay quiet. Mom put the medicine on the nightstand, her voice low. “Dominic, I’m sorry…” Dad never turned over. I peeked at him with one eye—he wasn’t crying. In the past, when Mom did this, Dad would stay silent for a long time. Mom sighed, sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, then got up and left. But I knew Dad would never forgive her now. Earlier, that man on the phone had asked Dad if he was really sure, and Dad had only said: “You should have the patent transfer contract ready.” Mom didn’t know Dad was leaving. I didn’t understand why Mom liked Garrett. Garrett was a scholarship student Dad had sponsored. Dad had brought him out of the mountains. Dad told me: “Garrett is very pitiful. If Dad didn’t help him, he would have been sold.” I didn’t understand what “sold” meant, but I knew Dad must have really cared about him. At first, Mom really hated Garrett and fought with Dad many times about it. She said Garrett had a strange smell. Dad always protected Garrett, saying gently: “Victoria, it wasn’t easy for Garrett to make it out of the mountain region. We should help when we can.” Until one day Dad and I came home early from a trip. The house reeked of a sour, fishy smell, with clothes scattered everywhere. Dad’s footsteps stopped. He stood in the entryway, frozen in place like he’d been nailed to the floor. His hand was ice cold, but when he pushed open the bedroom door and saw Garrett and Mom in bed together, he suddenly laughed. The laugh was soft and brief, like something shattering on the ground. At first Mom said she’d had too much to drink. Later she said: “You’re just a house husband who never goes to work. I’m the only one supporting the company, and I’m exhausted too. But Garrett can help me. Do you understand?” In the past, when Dad heard this, he would go silent for a long time. But today, Dad just looked at Mom calmly and said: “Then you two better make sure you keep the company running.” Suddenly there was a sound of beads falling in the walk-in closet, followed by Garrett’s startled cry. Mom’s head snapped up and she rushed over. Dad stood up, a determination in his eyes I’d never seen before. He patted me. “Aria, wait here for Dad.” Then he got out of bed, turned on the light, and walked toward the closet. I followed him. Dad needed Aria with him. Aria couldn’t leave Dad alone. Garrett was clutching Mom’s sleeve, looking aggrieved. “I thought this sandalwood bracelet was beautiful, but it broke as soon as I put it on… I’m so scared, Victoria, I’m scared…” Mom kicked the remaining beads on the floor away. “What a piece of junk! Get away from me!” One bead rolled to my feet. I picked it up. It was Grandpa’s keepsake to Dad. Dad had pawned it years ago to start Mom’s company, and later Mom had redeemed it for him. Back then, Mom had put it on Dad’s wrist herself, her eyes full of smiles. “Dominic, forever and always. My feelings will never change.” Dad picked up one bead and put it in his pocket. I saw him turn on his phone’s video recording. **2** Dad held up the bead in his hand, his voice heavy. “Victoria, do you really not recognize what this is anymore?” Mom glanced impatiently at the beads on the floor, then her expression suddenly froze. Dad said slowly, word by word: “This was my father’s keepsake.” Mom let go of Garrett, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But Garrett suddenly extended his hand, pointing to a barely visible red mark on his wrist. “Victoria, this bracelet hurt my hand… It hurts so much.” Mom looked down at him, and the hesitation in her eyes instantly vanished. She helped Garrett up and walked toward the door, shouting outside. “Butler! Call 911!” As she passed Dad, she coldly dropped a line. “It’s just a keepsake. When people die, their light goes out. Why are you fixating on a dead object?” I walked over and held Dad’s hand. His hand was trembling slightly. But I saw he was smiling. He wiped away the moisture at the corner of his eyes, as if unloading a very heavy burden. Then he sent the recorded video to that man. “In three days, release this video.” That night, Dad coaxed me to sleep. I kept clutching his sleeve, afraid he’d disappear while I was asleep. Near dawn, Mom suddenly pushed the door open. She pulled me from the bed and started to drag me away. Dad took a big stride and blocked her path in front of me. “What are you doing?!” Mom frowned, her tone impatient. “Don’t you know? Garrett was hurt by that broken bracelet of yours and had to be hospitalized. His pet dog was also killed by you, and now there’s no one to keep him company. He’s making a scene at the hospital.” “I’m sending Aria to keep him entertained.” Dad shielded me behind him. “I told you, that dog’s death has nothing to do with me. And besides—” He stared at Mom intently. “Even if I did kill it, what right do you have to blame me? It ate my child’s ashes. Those were the ashes of your own biological child, his last trace in this world.” Mom’s eyes flickered, but she quickly resumed her impatient expression. Her tone softened as she walked to Dad’s side. “Dominic, I know I was wrong…” But the instant Dad was distracted, she suddenly grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. “Why are you bringing up old grievances? Garrett said the urn spilled by itself, and the dog just ate what it saw on the floor.” “Are you really going to hold a grudge against a dog? Be good, give me Aria. Garrett can’t be left alone!” Dad gripped my other hand tightly. “No! I won’t allow it!” Mom pulled harder, and I felt like a rope being yanked from both ends. My arm hurt so much I couldn’t help crying out. “Dad, it hurts… Mom’s hurting me…” Dad saw my face turn pale with pain, and his eyes reddened. Mom took advantage of his loosened grip in that instant, pulled me over, and dragged me toward the door. I bit down hard on Mom’s arm. “You’re a bad person! Let me go! I want Dad!” Mom cried out in pain and let go of me. I turned and ran back to Dad. Dad crouched down and held me tightly in his arms. Mom took another step forward. Dad blocked me behind him and didn’t back down. I grabbed Dad’s sleeve and said softly. “Dad, it’s okay. Aria will come back. Aria wants to leave with Dad.” **3** Mom shoved me into the car and spent the whole ride complaining about Dad and me. “I’m just asking you to visit Garrett at the hospital, it’s not like I’m killing you. What’s with your dad putting on that act…” I didn’t respond, turning to look out the window instead. All the decorations in the car had changed. The elegant sandalwood ornament Dad had chosen was gone, replaced by strong rose-scented diffusers. The sun visor even had several photos of Garrett clipped to it. Mom drove aggressively. At a turn, something slid down from the back seat. In the streetlight, I could see clearly—it was a men’s dress shirt. Mom glanced at it and frowned at me. “Don’t go through things that aren’t yours.” At the hospital, Garrett was lying in bed with a healthy flush, playing on his phone, surrounded by a circle of doctors. One doctor said carefully to Mom: “Ms. Lane, we’ve checked three times. There’s really nothing wrong with Mr. Garrett…” Mom’s face was cold. “Then why does Garrett still have a headache?” Garrett looked up from his phone screen at just the right moment, looking at Mom. “Victoria… my head… it hurts so much.” The doctor wiped his sweat and could only say: “It might be psychological.” I looked at Mom and asked: “Didn’t you tell Dad that people aren’t that fragile? Why are you so worried just because Garrett has a headache?” Mom’s face flushed with embarrassment, and she scolded me harshly. “How can your dad compare to Garrett? After all, Garrett was upset by your father. He’s so upset he has psychological trauma!” “You stay here and atone for your father’s sins.” Garrett waved at me, forcing a smile. “Aria, come here. Come to me.” I had just walked to the bedside when he suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed on the bed, motionless. Mom slapped me across the face. My ear rang with a buzzing sound as she screamed. “What did you do to Garrett?!” My head was buzzing and spinning. She grabbed my shoulders and shook me violently. “Speak! What did you do to Garrett?!” But from the corner of my eye, I could clearly see Garrett lying in bed opening his eyes and making a face at me. I said: “I didn’t do anything. He’s faking it.” “Nonsense!” Mom slapped me again and said harshly. “You’re so vicious at such a young age! Garrett has already been hurt this badly by you, and you still dare to slander him!” “Someone! Drag this brat out and beat her until she admits her fault!” Garrett’s lips curved into a triumphant smile, but Mom seemed completely blind to it. The bodyguard hesitated and didn’t move. Mom yelled at him. “Didn’t you hear me say to beat her? If something happens, it’s on me. I’m her biological mother—what are you afraid of!” The bodyguard could only step forward. He sighed. “Poor child…” Fists and kicks rained down on me. I curled into a ball, feeling nauseous. After Mom’s two slaps, my ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. All sounds were muffled, and there was a drumming sound in my head. I felt something warm flowing out of my ear. I reached up to wipe it, and my palm was covered in bright red blood. A familiar figure rushed down the corridor. It was Dad. He was wearing a sharp suit, looking like a completely different person as he ran toward me with long strides. “Aria!” He pushed the bodyguard aside and pulled me up from the floor. Behind him were a dozen men in black suits who quickly restrained the bodyguard. “Dad…” I grabbed his sleeve. “I feel awful…”

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My mom was a liar. She said my dad hit her. But every time she pulled up her sleeves, her skin was clear, without a single mark. She’d cry and say, “He hit me again last night.” My dad would just stand by, sighing, “She’s having another episode.” Arthur, my dad, was a high school principal, gentle and refined. Everyone praised him as a good husband and father. And my mom? The neighbors said she was sick, Grandma Rose said it was postpartum depression, and doctors diagnosed paranoid delusion. I believed them too. Until that late night, when I came home early and caught my dad raising his fist. My mom saw me through the crack in the door. In that instant, her eyes lit up. It was then I understood she wasn’t waiting for me to save her. She was waiting for me to see it for myself. For as long as I could remember, Eleanor, my mom, told me Arthur, my dad, hit her. But she never had any proof. Every time she’d pull up her sleeves to show me, her skin was perfectly clear, not even a red mark. Every time she’d cry, “He hit me again last night,” my dad would stand next to her, sighing, a helpless look on his face: “She’s having another episode.” My dad was a high school principal, gentle and refined. All the teachers and students admired him. He attended my parent-teacher conferences, cooked for me, and when I had a fever, he’d stay by my bedside all night. He was the best dad in the world; I’d always thought that since I was little. And my mom? She’d suddenly throw things, suddenly scream, suddenly hug me and cry, saying, “If Mom dies, you have to live well.” The neighbors said she had a mental illness. Grandma Rose said it was postpartum depression; she’d been like this since I was born – suspicious, paranoid, and now it was worse. I took her to see a psychologist three times. Each diagnosis was the same: moderate depression with paranoid delusion. Even with the diagnosis, it wasn’t like I’d never had doubts. Once, when I was little, I saw some red marks on my mom’s arm and asked her how she got them. Before she could answer, my dad spoke up: “Your mom had a nightmare last night and pinched herself.” My mom opened her mouth, but didn’t contradict him. I thought it was strange at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. Later, I just got used to it. Used to her crying, used to her making a fuss, used to her suddenly putting down her forks at the dinner table and saying, “He hit me again.” Then my dad would sigh and put some food on my plate: “Eat. Don’t mind her.” I started to get annoyed with her. When I was in middle school, she once ran into my room in the middle of the night, shook me awake, and said, “Maya, your dad just pinched my thigh. Go check, there must be a mark.” I was so sleepy I just rolled over: “Eleanor, can you please stop? I have school tomorrow.” She stood by my bed, motionless for a long time. I thought she’d left. As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard her whisper, “I’m not making a fuss, I really am not.” I ignored her. It was even more annoying in high school. Every time she came back from the hospital, she’d pull me aside and ramble on about, “Your dad hit me again.” I’d slam the door: “Can you stop pretending? Will you only be happy if you drive Arthur away?” She stopped talking. At the time, I thought she just didn’t want me to have a good life. I’d worked so hard to get into a good high school. My dad cooked me delicious food every day and stayed up late studying with me. And her? All she did was fuss and cry. Once, she even chased me to the school gate and, in front of my classmates, pulled me aside and said, “Your dad hit me last night.” I yanked my hand away, my voice loud: “Are you insane?” All my classmates were staring at me. My mom stood at the school gate, stunned for a long time, then turned and walked away. Her back was hunched, and she walked very slowly. I was embarrassed then. Now that I think about it, she was wearing long sleeves and long pants that day, in over ninety-degree weather.

During the winter break of my sophomore year, I went home for the holidays. The Christmas Eve dinner was lively; all the relatives were there. My dad cooked a full table of dishes himself. Relatives praised him for being capable, asking my mom where she found such a good man. My dad stood up, glass in hand, smiling. “Thank you all for taking care of our family these years. Especially, I want to thank Eleanor for putting up with my bad temper. Sometimes I speak too quickly, raise my voice a little, and she thinks I’m going to hit her.” He paused, a wry smile on his face: “She’s been through a lot because of me.” All the relatives laughed. I laughed too. Uncle Mike chimed in: “Arthur, you call that a bad temper? You’re so gentle with us.” Aunt Sarah agreed: “Exactly, Eleanor is just too sensitive.” My dad shook his head, looking remorseful: “It’s not her fault; she’s sick, you know. I just need to be more understanding.” Everyone was praising him for being generous and responsible. My mom sat in the corner, holding a pork rib with her fork, her hand trembling. The rib fell back onto the plate. She picked it up again, and it fell again. Suddenly, I felt annoyed. Everyone at the table was happy, and she was the only one with a long face. “Eleanor, can’t you just be happy? It’s the holidays.” My voice wasn’t quiet when I said that, and several relatives looked over. She looked up at me. Her lips trembled a few times, but she didn’t speak. Her eyes held an expression I couldn’t place, as if she wanted to say something, but swallowed it back. I didn’t think much of it and continued eating. That night, I was scrolling on my phone in my room when I heard a muffled thud from next door. “Thud!” like something hit the wall. I didn’t move. A little while later, another sound, softer this time. I put down my phone and pushed the door open. My mom’s room door was ajar, with light spilling out. I pushed the door open. My dad stood by the bed, rubbing my mom’s shoulder. My mom was lying face down on the pillow, her face buried, so I couldn’t see her expression. “What’s wrong?” I asked. My dad turned to look at me, his expression very natural: “Eleanor has a stiff neck. I’m just rubbing it for her.” My mom turned her face away from the pillow and glanced at me. I still remember that look. It wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t pain, it was despair. She opened her mouth, her lips moved, then closed again. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds; she didn’t speak. “Well, get some sleep.” I closed the door. As I reached the stairwell, I paused. For some reason, something felt off. But I thought about it and decided I was overthinking. My dad rubbing my mom’s shoulder – wasn’t that perfectly normal? The next morning, I got up for a drink and saw my mom in the kitchen. She was holding a bowl with her left hand, in a very awkward position. I glanced at it and saw a few red marks on the back of her left hand, a bit swollen. “What happened to your hand?” She looked down at it, her voice calm: “Arthur hit it with a book last night.” I paused for half a second, then laughed. “A book can cause red marks like that? Eleanor, at least make your lies more believable.” Just then, my dad came out of his study and heard us. He walked over, looked at my mom’s hand, and gave a wry smile. “Your mom ran into the door frame yesterday. I heard a noise from my room and ran out, only to see her squatting on the floor, rubbing her hand. She doesn’t remember things, sleeps it off and forgets, then thinks I hit her.” He said it so naturally, and my mom didn’t contradict him. She carried the bowl of porridge and slowly walked to the balcony, sitting on a small stool, her back to me. I looked at her back, and that little doubt in my heart was suppressed again. My dad patted my shoulder: “Don’t take it to heart. Eleanor’s illness is just like that.” I nodded. From that day on, I never doubted her again.

The summer of my junior year, I didn’t go home. I stayed at school to prepare for graduate school exams. The library in July was like a sauna. I spent every day in there, doing practice problems from eight in the morning until ten at night. My phone was on silent; I didn’t want to answer anyone’s calls. That afternoon, I was working on an English practice test when my phone vibrated. It was my mom. I hesitated, but picked up. “Maya, can you come home and see me? I can’t take it anymore.” Her voice was very soft, as if she was afraid of being overheard. It was also choked with tears, her voice hoarse, as if she’d been crying for a long time. At the time, I was stuck on a reading comprehension passage, getting three out of five questions wrong, and I was incredibly frustrated. “Can you stop using this tactic? I’m studying for grad school. If I don’t get in, will you be responsible?” Silence on the other end. After about ten seconds, she said one word. “Okay.” Then she hung up. I didn’t think anything of it. I flipped my phone face down on the table and continued working on the problems. That summer, my mom almost died. She slashed her wrists in the bathroom. Hot water flooded the floor, and blood flowed into the hallway. A neighbor smelled blood, knocked on the door with no answer, and called the police. When my dad called me, his tone was calm. “Maya, your mom is acting up again. You should come home.” I bought the next train ticket, and it was already past midnight when I arrived. My mom lay in the hospital bed, her left wrist wrapped in thick gauze, her face as white as paper. When she saw me, her eyes lit up. She said, “Maya, I didn’t want to die.” I stood by the bed; I didn’t sit. “I wanted to record it.” “Record what?” “Him hitting me. I wanted to record it when he hit me and upload it to my phone. That way, you’d believe me.” I was trembling with anger. “You slashed your wrists to prove Arthur hit you? Are you out of your mind?” My voice was loud; a nurse poked her head into the hallway to look. My mom didn’t argue. She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her temples into her hair. Looking at her, my heart was a mix of anger and sorrow. My mom opened her eyes again and looked at me. “Maya, I’m really not sick. Will you believe me just this once? Just once.” I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. I turned and walked out of the hospital room. In the hallway, my dad sat on a long bench, hands propped on his knees, head bowed. When he saw me come out, he stood up, his eyes red. “Maya, I’m sorry.” His voice was trembling. “I didn’t take good care of Eleanor. I made you worry. If you hate me, I accept it.” He pulled me into a hug, his shoulders shaking, crying like a child. I’d never seen Arthur cry before. My nose stung, and I hugged him back, patting his back. “Arthur, it’s not your fault.” I said it firmly. “It’s Eleanor’s illness.” My dad hugged me tighter. Holding him, I thought, after I finish grad school, I must take Eleanor to a better hospital. In New York, in Los Angeles, no matter the cost. Cure her illness. Then everyone would have peace.

That winter, I got in. The day my graduate school acceptance letter arrived at school, I called Arthur. He was so happy his voice changed, saying he’d cook a huge dinner to celebrate when I came home. I had planned to wait until the holidays to go back, but I just couldn’t wait. I wanted to surprise him. And surprise my mom too. Even though I didn’t have much to say to her, when I held the acceptance letter, I still wanted her to see it. No matter what, she was my mom. She gave birth to me, raised me. Even if she was sick, even if she annoyed me, something like getting into grad school, she’d probably want to see that, right? I didn’t tell them, and bought a ticket for a week earlier. The train was delayed for two hours, and it was already past nine at night when I arrived. Winter days get dark early. The wind at the station entrance whistled into my collar. I hunched my shoulders, hailed a taxi, and told the driver the address. My mind was racing, thinking about what I’d say when I opened the door. “I got in” was too ordinary. “Eleanor, look, this is my acceptance letter”—that sentence ran through my mind, then I swallowed it back. Forget it, I’d just say it when the time came. The car stopped at the community gate, and I dragged my suitcase inside. Some of the hallway lights were broken, flickering on and off. Climbing to the fourth floor, I rummaged in my bag for my key and inserted it into the lock. The lights inside the house were off. I thought they were all asleep. I quietly turned the key, changed my shoes, and took two steps inside. Then I heard a sound. It came from the master bedroom. It was muffled, like something hitting flesh. One hit, a few seconds’ pause, then another. Someone was talking too. It was my dad’s voice. “Are you trying to call Maya again? Are you trying to bring our daughter back again?” “Do you want to destroy this family so badly?” I didn’t turn on the lights. The hallway was dark. I fumbled my way to the master bedroom door. The door wasn’t fully closed, leaving a crack. I looked inside. My mom was kneeling on the floor. Kneeling. Her whole body was slumped, her knees against the floor, her upper body leaning against the bed, as if she couldn’t stand up. My dad stood in front of her, one hand gripping her chin, lifting her face. His other hand was clenched into a fist, suspended in mid-air. “I’ve supported you for over twenty years. Is this how you repay me?” The words “My dad hit me” exploded in my head. But I still didn’t move. When my mom’s face turned, I didn’t see any obvious injuries. There was a small cut at the corner of her mouth, tiny, like she’d accidentally bumped it. A very faint red mark on her left cheek, as if something had brushed against it. Her left hand was curled, unable to straighten, and there was bruising under her fingernails, dark purple. When my dad’s fist came down, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even close her eyes. She just looked at him, her eyes as calm as someone not being hit. Then she saw me. Through the crack in the door, she saw me. In that instant, her eyes lit up. It was then I understood she wasn’t waiting for me to save her. She was waiting for me to see it for myself.

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On the day we were supposed to get our marriage license, my fiancé had me thrown out of City Hall and went in with his childhood sweetheart instead. He looked at me like it was nothing. “Chloe’s baby needs a father on paper.” “Once we divorce, I’ll marry you.” Everyone thought I’d swallow my pride and wait another month. After all, I’d already waited seven years. But that night, I left the country for an arranged marriage. I vanished from his world completely. Three years later, my husband and I flew back stateside for a family memorial. My husband had a last-minute work emergency. So he told his local branch to send a car for me. I walked out of the airport. And froze. My driver was Seth. My ex-fiancé. He looked at me and sighed. “Alright, your little tantrum has gone on long enough.” “Come home.” “Chloe’s kid starts preschool next week.” “You’re in charge of the drop-offs.” I walked into the arrivals terminal. And saw a guy holding a VIP pickup sign. With my name on it. I walked over. And froze. Holding the sign was my ex-fiancé, Seth. He was craning his neck. Looking past me at the luggage carousels. He had Chloe with him. And half his old frat-boy entourage. One of the guys nudged him. “Yo Seth, isn’t that your obsessed ex?” “Isn’t that Vanessa?” Seth looked at me. He looked surprised for a split second. Then he smirked. “See? I told you guys.” “I knew she’d come crawling back.” The whole group burst out laughing. “Vanessa vanished without a trace.” “Now she sees Seth is loaded.” “She probably cries herself to sleep every night!” One of them looked me up and down. “Vanessa, if you’re gonna fake a random run-in…” “Why show up in sweatpants?” “Couldn’t you at least put on some makeup?” “Without Seth, you can’t even buy a nice outfit?” “You look pathetic.” It was true. I used to spend hours getting ready for Seth. Full face of makeup. Tight designer dresses. Always making sure I looked absolutely perfect for him. But I didn’t need to do that anymore. Because I’m pregnant. And my husband refused to let me be uncomfortable. He banned heavy makeup. And had this “cheap loungewear” custom-tailored for me in Paris. Listening to them mock me, it suddenly clicked. They only read the name on the corporate dispatch. They had no idea the VIP they were picking up… Was me.

Since I wasn’t saying anything, an old mutual friend stepped in. Trying to play peacemaker. “Vanessa, it’s good you’re back.” “Seth actually spent years looking for you.” “He asked about you everywhere!” Seth’s smug smile stiffened. He cleared his throat and acted nonchalant. “Chloe’s kid starts preschool next week.” “From now on, you’re in charge of the drop-offs.” He was still so incredibly arrogant. But I wasn’t that naive little girl anymore. Looking at him now? I just felt exhausted. And grossed out. I didn’t want to waste another second on them. I was just about to tell them exactly who I was. But Chloe beat me to it. “Vanessa, please don’t be mad at Seth.” “He’s just trying to take care of you.” “You disappeared for three years.” “Who knows what kind of shady stuff you had to do to survive?” “Look at how rundown you are.” “Seth wanted to make you my personal secretary.” “But clearly you can’t handle that.” “Don’t worry.” “Being my nanny is a respectable job.” “No one will look down on you.” Three years apart, she’s still as arrogant as ever. She still makes me cringe. Seth saw my scowl. And thought I was just jealous. His eyes flashed with triumph. “Alright, Vanessa, drop the attitude.” “You clearly can’t survive out there.” “So stop throwing tantrums.” “Take care of the kid and learn your place.” “Don’t worry.” “My mansion has a perfectly good nanny room in the basement.” The whole group howled with laughter. “Damn, Vanessa, look how good Seth is to you!” “He’s giving you free room and board!” “Isn’t babysitting better than whatever trashy life you’re living now?” “Hurry up and say thank you!” Chloe touched her diamond earring. Putting on an affected tone. “Don’t you worry, dear.” “If my son acts up, I’ll make sure to set him straight for you.” “I won’t let you be mistreated.” Seth let out a cold laugh and shot me a glance. “Why would she be mistreated?” “She ran away over a tiny little misunderstanding.” “If she hit rock bottom out there…” “She deserves to suffer a little.” Hearing that… My heart actually skipped a beat. After three years. He still thought ditching me at the County Clerk’s Office for Chloe… Was just a “tiny little misunderstanding.” The Seth who used to love me was truly dead. He wasn’t the boy who carried me across town, ignoring his own bleeding cuts. He wasn’t the broke teenager who promised me the world. He wasn’t the man who, despite all his fame and success, was still willing to cook for me. But whatever. It was all in the past. None of it mattered anymore. Besides. I’m about to give birth to my second baby anyway.

I pushed my feelings down. I didn’t want to argue with them. It was pointless. I looked at Seth. My voice was completely calm. “Aren’t you here to pick me up?” “Let’s go.” The whole group went dead silent. They exchanged looks. Then they burst out laughing. Chloe sneered. “Pick you up?” “Don’t make me laugh.” She pointed at the VIP sign. “Read it carefully.” “We are waiting for Mrs. Vance.” “Do you even know who that is?” Vance was my new married name. Of course I knew. “Mrs. Vance is the matriarch of the Vance family.” “She is the actual wife of Grayson Vance.” “Grayson Vance is a ruthless billionaire.” “But he’s completely obsessed with his wife.” “Rumor has it, he stayed single for years.” “Just waiting for her.” “Everyone in the industry knows the rule.” “Don’t try to kiss up to Grayson.” “Kiss up to Mrs. Vance.” “She is his entire world.” Listening to them gossip about my marriage… I couldn’t help it. A genuine, happy smile spread across my face. We had been married for three years. Grayson’s empire had only gotten bigger. And his reputation as a fiercely devoted husband had spread everywhere. Chloe always needed to feel superior to me. She couldn’t pass up a chance to show off. “To win his wife’s heart…” “Grayson Vance bought a custom diamond bracelet at Christie’s.” “It’s called ‘Eternal Heart’.” “It cost twenty million dollars.” “Mrs. Vance is literally the most envied woman on earth.” Chloe paused. Her eyes darted down to my wrist. She let out a sharp gasp. “That’s the exact same bracelet!” The terminal went dead silent again. Every single person stared at my wrist. Seth violently grabbed my hand. He yanked my arm up to inspect the bracelet. Then he scoffed. “It’s a pretty good fake!” “Which broke delivery guy bought this for you?” “Buying you a cheap knockoff.” “Absolute trash.” I snatched my hand back. And gently rubbed the bracelet on my wrist. I smirked. Seeing my happy, unfazed smile… Seth’s eyes narrowed in pure rage. He lunged forward. He grabbed my wrist with a crushing grip. And violently ripped the bracelet off my arm. I gasped in shock. I wasn’t expecting him to get physical. He tore it right off. Chloe eagerly stepped forward. She snatched the bracelet from Seth’s hand. And started playing with it. “Wow, it really is a high-quality fake.” “Way better than the replica I bought.” “But I’d never actually wear mine in public.” “It’s so embarrassing.” “These overseas knockoffs hit different.” “The weight actually feels real.” She gave me a mocking, sickly sweet smile. “Or what, Vanessa?” “Are you going to tell us you’re the real Mrs. Vance?” “Are you the legendary billionaire’s wife?” The second she said it. The frat boys erupted into hysterical laughter. To them, it was the most absurd joke in the world. Grayson Vance was a globally feared financial shark. He was ruthless and unstoppable. And three years ago, I was just their pathetic friend. The loser who got dumped at the Clerk’s Office. There was absolutely no way. Chloe spun the twenty-million-dollar bracelet around her finger. “Vanessa, just sell this fake to me.” “I’ll pay you double what your broke boyfriend paid.” I panicked, terrified she was going to drop it. “Give that back right now!” “Grayson gave that to me—” I didn’t even get to finish my sentence. Seth’s hand slammed across my face. My head snapped to the side. And I tasted copper as my lip split open. “Shut your mouth!”

Seth glared at me like I was insane. “Vanessa, do you have a death wish?” “You think you can just casually drop Mr. Vance’s name?” “Are you trying to get me killed?” His frat-boy buddies stared at me with pure rage. “Do you have any idea how hard we fought for this airport pickup?” “Grayson Vance bought out Seth’s company last year.” “Our entire livelihoods depend on him now.” “The only way Seth keeps his executive spot is if we impress Mrs. Vance.” “And you’re out here spreading psychotic rumors that you know the CEO?” “Are you trying to ruin Seth’s career?” I wiped the blood from my split lip. And slowly turned my head. Then locked eyes with Seth. My stare must have been dead cold. Because Seth frowned. A flicker of genuine panic flashed across his eyes. Chloe saw that tiny shift in his expression. Her eyes turned venomous. She pointed right at my nose “Vanessa, you ungrateful bitch.” “Seth was kind enough to offer you a roof over your head!” “Don’t push your luck.” “I know you’re bitter about the past.” “But trying to sabotage his career out of petty revenge?” “That’s sick.” Hearing her say that… It felt exactly like three years ago. No matter what I did, Chloe would twist it. She would feed her poisoned version of reality to Seth. In the early days, he used to defend me. But by the end, he always took her side. Just like right now. Seth shook his head in disgust. “You’re such a jealous shrew.” But this time, he didn’t keep screaming at me. He went quiet for a second. Then he pulled out his checkbook. He scribbled a check for twenty grand. And shoved it right in my face. “For the sake of what we used to be, I’ll let this slide.” “Take the cash.” “Go buy some clothes that don’t look like trash.” “If you really don’t want to nanny Chloe’s kid…” “I’ll pull some strings and get you a decent job next week.” “Don’t worry.” “Ever since the Vance acquisition, this kind of money is pocket change to me.” Watching him play the generous billionaire savior made my stomach turn. Clearly, life had been way too easy for him lately. The whole group watched me. Waiting for me to grovel and take the money. Instead, I shoved his hand away. I reached over and snatched my diamond bracelet right out of Chloe’s hand. I gave him a polite, freezing smile. “No thank you, sir.” “I don’t take handouts from strangers.”

Seth’s face turned bright red. I ignored him and turned to walk away. But I barely made it two steps before he grabbed my arm. “Vanessa! You won’t even take my money?” “What is your problem?” “Am I just a stranger to you now?” I pulled my arm free. “We broke up three years ago.” “It’s better if we keep our distance.” “I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.” I was thinking about my fiercely loyal, slightly jealous billionaire husband. But Seth glanced over at Chloe. He looked like he had it all figured out. “My company is hosting a massive gala for Mr. Vance in three days.” “I was actually planning to bring you as my plus-one.” “To let you experience high society.” “But you’d need to buy a decent dress.” “I can’t have you embarrassing me—” I cut him off immediately. “I really don’t need to go. Thanks.” Hearing me reject him again, Seth grew annoyed. His hand, still holding the twenty-thousand-dollar check, hovered awkwardly in the air. He was grinding his teeth. “Vanessa, you’ve really grown a spine, haven’t you?” “It’s true what they say.” “The poorer you get, the bigger your attitude.” “Fine! If you don’t want to go, forget it!” “I’ll take Chloe!” Hearing that she got to attend the billionaire’s gala, Chloe’s eyes lit up. “Seth, I promise I’ll be perfect!” “I absolutely won’t embarrass you!” I was so incredibly done with them. I turned around and strode away. But I tossed one last look over my shoulder. “I hope you’re still this confident in three days.” I practically sprinted out of the arrivals terminal. Hitting the fresh air outside. Finally pushing down the nausea churning in my stomach. My mind flashed back to three years ago. My parents had been pressuring me into an arranged marriage overseas. I fought them on it. I begged Seth, my boyfriend of seven years, to just elope with me. To sign the papers and make us permanent. Seth agreed. But when I showed up at the County Clerk’s Office… He brought his childhood sweetheart, Chloe. He told me her baby needed a legal father. He told me he’d divorce her in a month and marry me then. He told me not to overthink it. Watching him hold her hand and walk into that Clerk’s Office… I’m completely done. I flew overseas for a blind date that very night. A month later, I married Grayson Vance. A year later, we had our first baby. And now, I’m pregnant with our second. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Grayson’s family memorial… I never would have set foot back in this country. And I definitely wouldn’t have bumped into Seth.

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