Author: Momo Chan

On the day of our graduation road trip, my boyfriend and his childhood best friend left me behind at a highway rest stop. It took them half an hour of driving before they even realized my seat was empty. When Theo finally called, there was no panic in his voice—only irritation. “June, why aren’t you in the car?” “Come on, stop messing around. We’re chasing the sunset and we can’t turn back now.” “Just call an Uber and catch up with us.” Through the receiver, Summer’s voice drifted in, crisp and clear. “She’s not a kid, Theo. You can’t baby her forever.” In the past, I would have apologized with stinging eyes. Then I would have dragged my suitcase behind me, doing whatever it took to catch up. But this time, looking up at the bruised, gray-blue sky hanging over the asphalt, the urge to run after them simply vanished. I went into my phone and cancelled all our lodging reservations for the rest of the trip. Then, I booked a ticket to a quiet coastal town—a place I had always wanted to visit, but one they had dismissed as “boring.” From now on. The mountains, the oceans, the vastness of the world. I was done following in anyone else’s shadow. … This graduation trip was supposed to be just for Theo and me. During our four years in college, I had followed him everywhere. To snowy peaks, deep canyons, barren deserts, and endless highways. Always his choices. Always his obsessions. Right before graduation, I had made a small request. “Theo, let’s go to the coast. Just a quiet little seaside town. We can sleep in, eat fresh seafood, feel the salt air, and actually take our time.” He had agreed so easily then. “Sure, babe. We’ll do your trip for graduation.” I had floated on that promise for weeks. I mapped out three different itineraries. I picked a cozy B&B right off the historic waterfront with a small balcony where we could watch the harbor lights spark to life at night. I even bought a white sundress in secret, picturing us taking our graduation photos against the backdrop of the sea. But a week before we were set to leave, Summer dropped a route map of the Montana backcountry into our group chat. “Graduation is about living out loud,” she wrote. “Who wants to sit on a beach? Summer in the Rockies is a once-in-a-lifetime vibe.” Theo’s reply came almost instantly: “This looks incredible.” I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over the glass. Finally, I typed: “But didn’t we agree on the coast?” Summer was quick to shoot back: “June, are you seriously trying to retire at twenty-two? Don’t live your life like a grandma already.” A chorus of laughing emojis from the rest of the group chat followed. Someone mentioned how cinematic the mountains would look. Someone else chimed in that the beach was too cliché. And then came the comment that stung the most: “With Theo’s camera eye and Summer’s style, it’d be a tragedy not to shoot a road-trip vlog there.” Theo didn’t defend me. Instead, he sent me a private message: “Don’t be a buzzkill. Summer has a point. I’ll take you to the beach another time.” “Another time.” He always had an endless supply of “another times.” But every “another time” promised to me eventually became someone else’s “right now.” I stared at his text, a familiar ache blooming in my chest. But I swallowed it and typed back a single word: “Okay.” So, I cancelled the coastal reservations. I spent the next week mapping routes through Montana, booking a rental SUV, securing cabin rentals, checking altitudes, tracking weather reports, budgeting expenses, and buying travel insurance. Summer dropped a text in the group chat: “June’s planning skills are honestly lifesavers.” Followed by a clapping emoji. Looking at those words, I didn’t know whether to feel proud or pathetic. On the morning of the trip, Theo pulled up to my apartment. Summer was already sitting in the passenger seat. She wore oversized sunglasses, her long legs casually propped near the dashboard, a cup of iced coffee cradled in her hand. When she saw me rolling my heavy suitcase out, she offered a dismissive nod. “Hey, June. Mind taking the back? My motion sickness is acting up, and I really need the front seat.” I got motion sickness too. Theo knew this. He knew how bad it got for me. But before I could speak, he had already walked around and opened the back door for me. “Just hang in there, okay? Summer was editing until three last night. She’s exhausted. Besides, the back has plenty of room. You can take a nap.” Watching his effortless, practiced consideration for her, a memory from freshman year flashed through my mind. The first time we had taken a road trip together, my stomach had been in knots from the winding roads. He had insisted I take the front, squeezing himself into the back to hand me water bottles and tissues. Back then, he had smiled and said, “So what if my girl is a little delicate? It’s my job to spoil her.” Now, he shoved my suitcase into the trunk, climbed back in, and turned to Summer. “Seatbelt on. Let’s hit the road.” I stood by the car door for a brief second, letting out a quiet, empty laugh. I guess being the favored one comes with an expiration date. The entire drive was filled with their animated chatter. They talked about camera angles, drone flight paths, and which stretches of the highway would capture the perfect sunset golden hour. They debated titles for the vlog they were co-creating, throwing out ideas like “Before the Real World: Escaping into the Wild”. I sat in the back, my iPad resting heavy on my lap. On the screen was the master spreadsheet I had built. Departure times, arrival estimates, gas stops, dining options, dead zones without cell service, and which cabins needed a courtesy call to ensure the hot water heaters were turned on. A few times, I tried to chime in. “Hey, the owner of tonight’s cabin messaged. He said the mountain road is incredibly narrow. We should really get there before dark.” No one heard me over the music and their laughter. During our lunch stop at a highway plaza, I texted Theo a restaurant recommendation I had researched beforehand. “Let’s avoid this diner,” I said, pointing to the greasy-spoon joint they were heading toward. “The reviews say the sanitation is awful. There’s a decent cafe just next door.” Summer glanced at the diner’s neon sign. “But I want this one,” she said. “Bad reviews just mean it’s authentic. Those polished, touristy spots are always overpriced garbage.” Theo laughed, his eyes crinkling. “Alright. Your call.” I frowned. “But Theo, your stomach. You know grease triggers your acid reflux.” “June,” he said, his tone sharp with irritation. “Can you not be so uptight? We’re on vacation. It’s just a quick lunch. It’s not a big deal.” They ended up ordering a spread of heavy, greasy, spicy food. Theo ate with gusto. But thirty minutes back on the road, his face drained of color, and he was clutching his stomach in pain. I reached into my bag, pulled out his prescription medication, and handed it to him along with a bottle of water. Summer leaned back, resting her chin in her hand, watching us with an amused smirk. “Honestly, June. You act exactly like his mother.” Theo froze mid-swallow. Then, he let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. She’s always had a habit of micromanaging me.” My hand remained suspended in the air, holding the water bottle. It was genuine care. But in their mouths, it was twisted into a pathetic joke. We kept driving as afternoon bled into evening. The weather soured, and a thick, heavy fog began rolling down the mountain slopes. “Don’t go too fast,” I warned Theo from the backseat. “There are sharp switchbacks coming up.” Summer didn’t even look up from adjusting her camera settings. “June, if you’re that terrified, just close your eyes and sleep. Don’t backseat drive. You’ll mess with his focus.” Theo offered a light, dismissive chuckle. “Hear that? Eyes closed, babe.” I gripped the seatbelt tight and didn’t say another word. As the fog thickened, my motion sickness flared up with a vengeance. My stomach churned violently, and cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I rummaged through my backpack for my Dramamine, only to realize that when I was organizing our things that morning, I had put the medicine box in the glove compartment up front. “Theo, can we pull over at the next exit?” I called out. “I really need to grab some medicine and get some fresh air.” He gave a distracted murmur of agreement. The indie-rock music blasted through the car speakers. Summer was eagerly leaning over, showing him a shot on her camera screen. “Look at this one, Theo. The lighting is so cinematic. If we cut the vlog around this aesthetic, it’s going to go viral.” Theo glanced sideways, his eyes leaving the road for a second. “Incredible shot, Director Summer.” They shared an intimate laugh. I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, eyes squeezed shut as my stomach flipped. In the dark of my closed eyelids, a flood of memories rushed in, unbidden and sharp. I thought of our sophomore year art exhibition. I had spent three sleepless days running back and forth to print shops to help Theo set up his gallery space, losing my voice entirely from the exhaustion and cold air. At the opening, Summer stood proudly in front of the main showcase wall, talking effortlessly with the professors about “their” creative vision. A professor had praised how beautifully in sync they were. Theo had beamed, looking at her. “Yeah. We just click.” I stood in the corner, my arms wrapped around a stack of empty cardboard boxes. He didn’t look back at me once. I thought of junior year summer, when Theo wanted to shoot a landscape series in the remote, high-altitude badlands. Terrified of him getting altitude sickness, I spent weeks researching safety tips, buying specialty gear, and coordinating equipment rentals. But on the morning of departure, he casually told me the car was too packed and asked me to stay behind. I had stood on the curb outside my dorm, bags in hand, staring at the empty street for an hour. Later that night, I saw Summer’s Instagram post: “The best partnerships are always forged on the road.” In the photo, she was lounging in the passenger seat. Theo had one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, the golden-hour sun painting his profile. He looked breathtakingly handsome. And completely out of reach. And then there was the photography club dinner. Someone had asked Theo, “Where’s your girlfriend tonight?” Theo had shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. “She’s not really into this scene. She’d probably just feel out of place.” He said it so casually, as if it were a simple fact. I had been standing right outside the door of the private room, holding a container of warm soup I’d bought to help settle his stomach after drinking. I didn’t go in that night. I texted him saying something had come up at the library. He never asked what it was. None of these incidents, on their own, felt like a killing blow. But compiled together, they sat in my chest like layers of heavy, waterlogged cotton. It didn’t bleed. It just made it impossible to breathe. The SUV finally rolled into a bustling highway rest stop. I pushed the door open and stepped out, my legs trembling slightly as they hit the concrete. Theo rolled down his window. “Make it quick, June. We still need to beat the sunset.” I nodded, swallowing the bile in my throat. “Just grabbing some medicine. I’ll be right back.” The plaza was packed with travelers. The convenience store and pharmacy counter were tucked deep inside the main building. I waited in a slow-moving line, paid for my pills, and filled a paper cup with hot water from the dispenser. By the time I walked back out, the sky had bruised into a darker shade of twilight. Cradling the pills and the steaming cup, I navigated through the rows of parked cars. The spot where our white SUV had been parked was empty. I froze, thinking I must have gotten the section wrong. I walked up and down the aisles, row after row. Nothing. The white SUV was gone. I stood frozen in the middle of the asphalt, my fingers turning numb around the paper cup. That was when my phone vibrated in my pocket. Theo’s voice filled my ear: “June? Where are you?” My throat felt tight, as if clamped by a vise. “I’m at the rest stop. I told you I was getting medicine.” He let out an irritated sigh. “Why aren’t you in the car?” “I didn’t get back in,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Did neither of you notice?” Summer’s voice floated over, loud enough to hear. “I totally thought she was crashed out in the back seat. Theo, we’re already twenty miles down the interstate. If we turn back now, we’ll miss the golden hour entirely.” Theo lowered his voice, speaking directly into the receiver. “June, don’t do this. We’re on the highway, and U-turns out here are a nightmare. See if you can call an Uber or hitch a ride with someone heading east. Just catch up with us at the next exit.” I stood there, surrounded by headlights and families rushing past me, entirely alone in a place I didn’t know. An eighteen-wheeler roared past nearby, kick-starting a gust of wind that stung my eyes. “Theo,” I said. “Are you really not coming back to get me?” There was a pause on the other end. When he spoke again, his annoyance was palpable. “Why do you always have to make things so dramatic? It was an honest mistake. We didn’t do it on purpose. You’re an adult, June. Can’t you just figure out a way to get here?” Summer let out another soft laugh in the background. “She’s just spoiled, Theo. It’s always like this. The universe has to stop spinning for her over the tiniest inconvenience.” A small, quiet laugh slipped past my lips. So being abandoned on the side of the highway was just a “tiny inconvenience.” So their perfect mountain sunset was worth more than my safety, more than me standing alone in the dark. I looked down at the cup in my hand. The hot water was seeping through the thin paper, burning my palms red. But inside, I was absolutely frozen. “Okay,” I said. Theo let out a breath, sounding relieved. “Good. Send me your location pin once you’re in the cab. Don’t wander off. And hey—don’t start crying. It’s supposed to be a fun trip. Don’t ruin the mood.” I didn’t answer. I just hung up. The mountain wind swept over me, and my tears fell without warning. I wasn’t sobbing; they just spilled silently, one by one, sinking into the hot water in my cup, disappearing without a sound. I remembered my mom asking me before we left: “Are you sure you want to go all that way with them, sweetie? Every time you go on trips with Theo and his friends, you come back looking utterly exhausted.” I had defended him, of course. “It’s our graduation trip, Mom. It’s the last time we’ll get to do this.” I didn’t realize how literal “the last time” would be. I pulled up my phone, opened an airline app, and booked a one-way ticket to Port Haven—the sleepy coastal town in North Carolina. The place with the historic waterfront. The ocean I had wanted to see. The warm seafood chowder I had been craving. And the boutique travel and lifestyle studio where I had secretly submitted my resume weeks ago. They had invited me for a second-round interview last week, but I had left them on read. Because Theo had told me, “I don’t like the idea of you being so far away by yourself. Move to Boston with me. I can get a friend to set you up with some marketing or operations gig.” I hadn’t refused back then. Not because I wanted that job, but because I had spent four years tailoring my life to fit the margins of his. But standing under the harsh fluorescent lights of the rest stop, I realized I was done shrinking. I opened all the reservation apps on my phone. The mountain cabins, the glamping sites, the rental car, the professional photographer packages for their “aesthetic road trip”—I cancelled every single one of them. I had made the bookings. My credit card had paid the deposits. I owed them nothing, least of all a perfect vacation that didn’t include me. I unpinned Theo’s name from my contacts and blocked Summer. Finally, I texted my mom: “Mom, I’m not going to Montana. I’m heading to the coast.” Her reply came almost instantly: “Go. And this time, stop taking care of everyone else. Just take care of yourself.” Reading her words, the tears flowed freely again. Night had fully claimed the sky. I dragged my suitcase toward the shuttle bus bound for the nearest airport. Behind me, the headlights on the interstate stretched out like a glowing, infinite ribbon of light. It looked exactly like the path I had spent years trying so desperately to catch up to. But tonight, I stopped running.

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On the day of our wedding, my fiancé and my younger sister were killed in a horrific car accident. The shock of it left my mother paralyzed and bedridden. In the aftermath, everyone in our social circle whispered that I was a curse. A black widow. A harbinger of ruin who brought death to anyone foolish enough to love her. I didn’t have the luxury of grieving. During the day, I hauled drywall and loaded debris at dusty commercial construction sites. At night, I drove for DoorDash until my eyes burned, desperately trying to pay for my mother’s around-the-clock medical bills. Until the afternoon I took a temp gig at the grand opening of a high-end medical spa downtown. My job was to wear a suffocating, heavy plush bear costume and wave at pedestrians. During a break, two spa employees gossiped near my resting spot. “Our new boss is seriously an angel,” one whispered, adjusting her lanyard. “And her husband is completely obsessed with her. They’re the sweetest couple—they even spend their weekends volunteering at the local animal shelter.” I kept my head down inside the oversized mascot mask, silent. My only real worry was whether I’d finish my shift in time to catch the cheap daily special at the diner down the street from the construction site. I pulled the heavy head back over my shoulders, adjusting the mesh eyeholes. Just as I stood up, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the air conditioner. “Sophie, sweetie, you’re pregnant. Don’t overexert yourself. Let Connor handle the store opening.” I froze. My breath caught in my throat. I forced my eyes toward the mesh screen of the costume, and my world violently fractured. Standing right in front of me were my sister, Sophie, and my fiancé, Connor. The two people who had supposedly died five years ago. My mother stood right beside them, laughing. She was dressed in an elegant silk blouse, showing no signs of the debilitating illness that had drained my bank account for half a decade. And Emma, my absolute best friend, was right there with them, playfully draping her arm over Sophie’s shoulder. “Once the baby is born, I’m officially claiming godmother status!” Emma laughed. Inside the sweltering plush suit, I began to shake. My heart didn’t just break; it shattered into tiny, jagged pieces. They weren’t dead. They had married each other. Everyone knew. And everyone had lied to me. … The air inside the mascot suit was thick and suffocating, but my blood ran ice-cold. I stared at the people who had defined my life, entirely paralyzed. After the accident, I had spiraled into a depression so severe that I tried to end my life twice. It was Emma who had sat by my hospital bed, holding my hand, telling me over and over that I still had her. Now, she was holding Sophie’s hand with the exact same tenderness. “Don’t worry about the shop, Sophie,” Emma said, her voice dripping with affection. “Connor’s got you covered. He’d buy you the moon if you asked.” My mother, whom I had painstakingly lifted out of bed and cleaned just this morning, stood tall and radiant. Her cheeks were flushed with a healthy color I hadn’t seen in years. “If Connor ever steps out of line, you tell me,” my mother teased, patting Sophie’s hand. “I’ll straighten him out.” Connor wrapped his arm around Sophie’s waist, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry, Mom. Sophie is my wife. Caring for her is my favorite thing to do.” The grand opening had drawn a large crowd. Looking closely through the mesh, I recognized almost every face. They were my friends, Connor’s old college buddies, people we had known for years. Over the last five years, some of these very people had come to my cramped apartment for the holidays. They had brought cheap takeout and offered me sympathy, telling me how brave I was for working myself to the bone. Not one of them had ever uttered a word of the truth. Tears mixed with sweat, stinging my eyes. When the police had told me they were gone, my mother had collapsed. I inherited a mountain of medical debt and took every grueling, backbreaking job I could find to keep her alive. Whenever the weight became too heavy to bear, I would drive to the cemetery, sit by their headstones, and cry until my chest ached. I had dreamed of this reunion a thousand times. I had cried myself to sleep wishing they would walk through my door. But the dream was a nightmare. Connor guided Sophie toward the entrance with an agonizing level of care, his eyes filled with a soft devotion that felt like a knife twisting in my chest. When Connor and I were planning our wedding, I had been six months pregnant. The grief of his “death” had triggered a premature labor. I lost the baby, suffered severe hemorrhaging, and underwent an emergency hysterectomy. I was left entirely hollow, incapable of ever carrying a child again. In my darkest moments, I clung to the last words Connor had written in a card to me: “No matter what happens, Hannah, you have to keep going. Do it for me.” That sentence had been my lifeline. It was the only thing that kept me from jumping off a bridge on the bad nights. Now I realized it wasn’t a lifeline at all. It was a punchline. Emma noticed me standing rigid in the corner and gave my plush shoulder a rough shove. “Hey, mascot. What’s the deal? Stop slacking.” I stumbled, nearly losing my balance in the heavy suit. Sophie looked over, her expression softening with that familiar, delicate pity. “It’s boiling outside, Emma. Let her come inside and rest in the back office. It’s the least we can do.” Emma sighed, shaking her head. “You are way too nice, Sophie. That’s exactly how Hannah used to walk all over you.” Hearing my name spoken aloud in that tone felt like a physical blow. A sudden, tense silence fell over the group. The smiles vanished, replaced by tight, uncomfortable expressions. Connor was the one who broke the quiet. “Sophie, you must be tired. Let’s head back to the apartment.” Emma grabbed my arm, guiding me along behind them under the guise of showing me to the back room, but we ended up walking toward the residential elevator. Connor’s car was parked in the garage—a brand-new Porsche. I recognized the emblem instantly. During my first month driving for DoorDash, I had accidentally scraped a car just like it. The owner had shoved my face against the window, screaming that my pathetic, miserable life wasn’t worth the cost of the bumper. Their home was a sprawling penthouse at the top of the building. Perfect leather sofas, custom crystal chandeliers, and abstract paintings I couldn’t begin to understand lined the walls. Sophie gestured for me to sit on the bench near the entryway while the housekeeper brought out a tray of iced water. “Please, take the headpiece off. You must be roasting.” Emma opened the massive stainless-steel refrigerator, grabbing a sparkling water with practiced ease. “She’s getting paid to sweat, Sophie. Trust me, if you let her sit here all day, she won’t complain.” My mother sank into a state-of-the-art massage chair in the living room, sighing as it hummed to life. “Ah, my back has been killing me. Living in that cramped apartment was starting to ruin my joints.” Slowly, I reached up and pulled the heavy mascot head off. I looked at the shocked faces in the room, my voice quiet, flat, and entirely hollow. “Long time no see.” The silence that followed was deafening. Sophie’s glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the hardwood floor. Connor instantly dropped to his knees, checking her ankles for any stray shards of glass. My mother stood up from the massage chair, her face transitioning from horror to a fleeting, awkward guilt. “Hannah… sweetie, let me explain. It’s not what you think…” I looked at her. I thought of the last five years. I thought of the countless nights I had stayed awake to turn her over in bed so she wouldn’t get sores. I thought of the patience I had maintained through her calculated, bitter tantrums. I had never once complained. I had worked in a hundred-degree heat on concrete slabs just to buy her heart medication. A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Mom, you really missed your calling. You should have gone to Hollywood.” My mother froze, her mouth slightly open. Sophie’s face drained of color. She reached a trembling hand toward me. “Hannah…” I slapped her hand away. Connor’s expression softened into something resembling pity. He let out a long, heavy sigh. “Hannah, I’m sorry. I really am. But I fell in love with Sophie five years ago.” “I wanted to build a life with her,” he continued, his voice low. “But she was terrified of hurting you. She kept pushing me away. I couldn’t stand seeing her suffer, and I didn’t want to force her into a corner, so I came up with the accident. It was the only way to let her go.” He paused, his voice dropping an octave. “I didn’t think you’d take it so hard.” “Take it so hard?” I had lost my child. I had lost my ability to ever be a mother. I had spent five years in a living purgatory, buried under their debts, while they lived in luxury. And he thought I had just “taken it hard.” Emma stepped forward, her voice sharp and defensive. “Hannah, Sophie is your sister. She’s always been the fragile one. You’ve always been healthy, strong, taking whatever you wanted. Connor’s allowed to love whoever he wants. You can’t force someone to love you.” Emma’s words felt like a physical hand ripping open my chest. Sophie and I were twins. But because she had been born with a weak heart, I had spent my entire life trying to make up for my own health. I had spent my childhood giving her my favorite toys, my clothes, my time. When she had been hospitalized for a month five years ago, I was working sixty hours a week. I had asked Connor to check on her for me. I had trusted him completely. I remembered the day Sophie had a sudden nosebleed, and how Connor had panicked. I had thought he was just being a supportive future brother-in-law. I had even told him, “Sophie is so delicate. We’ll probably have to take care of her for the rest of our lives.” They had been silent when I said that. Now I knew why. My hands shook as I raised them. But before I could do anything, Sophie threw herself in front of Connor, taking the slap meant for him. “Sophie!” Connor yelled, catching her in his arms. Sophie cradled her reddened cheek, tears streaming down her face. “Hannah, please. I’ve loved Connor since the moment I met him. These last five years… I felt like a thief. He only married me because he felt sorry for me…” She held her pregnant belly, sobbing beautifully. She looked like the victim. I looked like the monster. Connor held her tight, his voice cracking with emotion. “Don’t say that, Sophie. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t have married you.” He looked up at me, his eyes cold and distant. “Hannah, she’s your sister. Don’t do this. I know I ruined your life, and I’ll pay you back. I’ll give you whatever you want. But I am not leaving her.” My mother stepped between us, shoving me toward the door. “Why are you acting like a psycho? They’re alive, Hannah! Shouldn’t you be happy your family is alive?” Emma chimed in from the kitchen. “Exactly, Hannah. Let it go. Sophie apologized, and Connor is going to compensate you. Stop making a scene.” My back hit the heavy wooden entryway table, a sharp pain radiating up my spine. They had lied to me, stolen my youth, and broken my body. Yet somehow, I was the villain in their story. I didn’t say another word. I turned and walked out. As I reached the stairwell, a hand gripped my forearm. Connor stared at my hand, his eyes lingering on the thick, rough calluses from the construction site. He looked shaken. He thrust a heavy paper bag into my hands. “Sophie didn’t finish these prenatal vitamins and organic supplements,” he said, his voice quiet. “Take them. You look… sick.” The luxury branding on the bag was a cruel joke. I pushed him away with every ounce of strength I had left. But my foot missed the edge of the concrete step. I tumbled backward, slipping into the empty space of the stairwell. Connor gasped, lunging forward to grab my jacket. Before his fingers could meet fabric, my mother’s frantic voice echoed from the apartment door. “Connor! Come quick! Sophie’s having cramps!” Connor hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, he let go. He turned and ran back inside. I fell down the half-flight of concrete stairs, my body crashing against the metal railing before I settled onto the landing, bruised and bleeding. I didn’t go to the hospital. I couldn’t afford it. I dragged my battered body back to my dingy, drafty apartment. I sat on the edge of the mattress and swallowed my daily dose of Lexapro, staring at the walls. The apartment was still decorated exactly the way Connor and I had planned five years ago. The yellowed “Save the Date” card was still pinned to the fridge. The small terracotta pots we had painted together sat on the windowsill, holding dead, dry soil. I opened my phone. Emma’s latest Instagram post stared back at me: “No more secrets! These past five years have been a wild ride, but true love always wins. So incredibly happy for my favorites!” The photo showed Connor and Sophie, their fingers intertwined, smiling under the bright lights of their new spa. The dam broke. I pulled the blanket over my head and sobbed until my throat was raw, my chest collapsing under the weight of five years of stolen life. The next morning, Connor knocked on my door. He looked around the apartment, his eyes softening with a flicker of genuine regret. “You kept everything the same.” “I know these past few years have been hell for you,” he said, stepping closer. “I want to make it up to you. I’ll buy you a house. I’ll set up a trust fund. But you have to let this go. You have to treat Sophie like your sister again.” I stared at him, my voice barely a whisper. “You played me like a fool. Do you have any idea what my life was like?” I had worked through heatstrokes, dizzy spells, and panic attacks. I had been cornered by a landlord who told me I could pay my rent “another way” if I was short on cash. That night, I had run to Connor’s empty grave, crying until I hyperventilated, believing his spirit was the only thing keeping me safe. Connor took a step forward, trying to take my hand. “I can’t divorce Sophie. But Hannah… if you ever need anything, if you’re ever lonely… you can always call me. Just don’t be greedy.” I looked at him, realizing the man I had loved was entirely gone—or perhaps he had never existed at all. I remembered the month Sophie had been hospitalized. A young resident doctor had asked for Sophie’s number, and I had happily agreed to set them up. But Connor had lost his temper, shouting at me for meddling. “You can’t just decide her life for her, Hannah!” he had snapped. Then he had avoided me for a month, claiming he was buried in work. “Sleeping with my sister behind my back must have been incredibly thrilling,” I said, my voice dripping with venom. “Did you feel even a flicker of shame?” Sophie burst through the door then, throwing herself at my feet, her face wet with tears. “Hannah, please! It was my fault!” she sobbed. “Five years ago… the night of your accident… Connor was at the hospital. The doctors said your baby… they could have saved him. But Connor… he told them to let him go. He didn’t want you to have a permanent tie to him. He was afraid it would make me sad. I know it was wrong… I know we’re monsters. But please, when my baby is born, you can have him. I’ll give him to you to make up for it!” The room began to spin. The baby I had mourned for five years—the child I thought had died of natural complications—had been systematically abandoned by his own father to protect my sister’s feelings. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. The pain in my chest was so sharp I couldn’t breathe. I raised my hand and struck Sophie across the face with every ounce of physical agony built up inside me. “Sophie!” Connor roared. He shoved me back. My body crashed into the dining table, sending a ceramic teapot shattering to the floor. The scalding water soaked through my clothes, burning my skin, but I didn’t feel it. Connor scooped Sophie into his arms, glaring at me with absolute hatred. “Are you insane?” He noticed the red, blistered skin on my arm from the water, and his expression flickered with a brief moment of hesitation. But he hardened his gaze, turning away. “You don’t touch her. I’m the one who made the choices. If you want to hate someone, hate me.” He carried her out, leaving me alone on the kitchen floor. My mother came by the next day, her expression tired and pleading. “You and Sophie used to be inseparable,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “I know I wasn’t always there for you girls. But do you remember the earthquake when you were eight? When the building collapsed, and you were both trapped under that heavy beam?” She leaned in, her voice shaking. “The rescue team said they could only pull one of you out first. Sophie was the one who screamed through the dust, “Save my sister first.” Hannah, she is your flesh and blood.” I stared at the ceiling, silent. We had been sisters once. We had shared secrets and clothes and dreams. How did we end up here? Two days later, my mother sent me a text inviting me to a family dinner. I didn’t reply. But Emma showed up at my apartment, physically dragging me out of bed and forcing me into her car. “You’re going,” she said flatly. “We’re fixing this family today.” When we arrived at the private room of the restaurant, I realized it wasn’t a family dinner. It was a joint birthday party for Sophie and me. As soon as I walked in, Sophie tried to wrap her arms around me, but I remained stiff, my eyes dead. A mutual acquaintance who didn’t know the history looked at us, confused. “Wait, I thought Connor was dating Hannah back in the day. How did he end up married to Sophie?” The room went dead silent. Another guest laughed nervously. “Oh, you have it wrong. Connor’s only ever had eyes for Sophie. Hannah was just… obsessed. She’s lucky she’s even allowed in the room without trying to ruin their marriage.” I looked at Sophie. Her face was a mask of gentle, fragile innocence. “My sister isn’t a homewrecker,” Sophie said softly, though her eyes held a cruel, quiet triumph. The humiliation boiled over. I grabbed her arm, my grip tightening. “Why didn’t you just tell me? If you wanted him, why did you have to destroy my entire life to get him?” I didn’t pull her hard, but Sophie screamed, her body tilting backward as she fell dramatically into the dessert table. My mother slammed her hands into my shoulders, shoving me backward. “Get away from her!” My head struck the sharp corner of the drywall column behind me. A sickening crack echoed through the room. Warm, thick blood began to trickle down the back of my neck, soaking into my collar. Connor rushed to Sophie’s side, holding her close. When he looked up at me, his eyes were devoid of any humanity. “Let’s make one thing clear to everyone here,” Connor announced, his voice carrying across the silent room. “Sophie and I are legally married. Hannah has been unstable for years, stalking us and trying to claw her way back into my life.” The words felt like a physical execution. Emma glared at me, her expression disgusted. “Sophie is my best friend, Hannah. I won’t let you hurt her or her baby.” I didn’t try to explain. I didn’t have the strength to fight the tide. I turned toward the exit, my vision blurring. Sophie, suddenly filled with sisterly concern, ran after me, reaching for my bloody shoulder. “Hannah, wait! You’re bleeding—” A sharp, metallic snap echoed from the ceiling. Above us, the massive, poorly secured iron chandelier groaned. “Sophie, watch out!” Connor screamed, launching his body forward to cover her. My mother and Emma shrieked, ducking for cover. In my dazed state, I only had time to raise my arms over my face. A deafening crash shattered the room. Connor scrambled up, frantically checking Sophie’s face and hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Then, a sudden realization seemed to strike him. His body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head back toward the debris. The color drained from his face entirely, leaving him a sickly, hollow white. “No—!!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “547498”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Four years of long-distance. I finally bought a ring and booked a flight to Chicago to propose to Matthew. Before the plane touched down, he sent me a text. “Emergency surgery tonight. Might be off the grid for a bit.” I didn’t tell him I had landed. I wanted to surprise him at Chicago Memorial, to show up at his locker with the ring. But a sudden, crippling bout of acute gastroenteritis hit me the moment I stepped into the terminal, and my best friend, Rachel, had to rush me straight into the emergency room instead. While hooked up to an IV, separated from the rest of the ward only by a thin, sterile curtain, I heard Matthew’s voice. “Don’t worry, Darcy. Slight fluctuations in prenatal stats are completely normal.” My heart faltered. I tentatively parted the curtain just a fraction, my knuckles white against the plastic rings. There was Matthew. He was holding a girl with a small, visible baby bump close to his side, studying her ultrasound results with absolute devotion. The nurse smiled warmly. “Dr. Ross is such a wonderful husband. He always comes down to check the charts himself every time his wife has an OB-GYN checkup.” Matthew smiled back, gently adjusting a knit cardigan around the girl’s shoulders. “She’s been having terrible morning sickness. I worry.” I sank back onto my cot, trembling uncontrollably. The velvet box containing the ring I had saved for months to buy him was sitting right there in my purse. As tears began to slip silently down my cheeks, a sudden memory hit me. Over the last four years, whenever Matthew FaceTime’d me, he would always complain about the new intern who had gotten into the residency program through family connections. “Darcy messed up another patient history today.” “She actually cried during a night shift.” “I cannot stand needy girls like her.” The girl he was currently cradling in his arms… Her name was Darcy. … I sat on the hospital bed, the tape over the IV on the back of my hand peeling and wrinkled from my sweat. Rachel came back carrying a paper cup of warm water. Seeing my bloodshot eyes, she instantly grew tense. “How are you feeling? Is the stomach still cramping?” I shook my head, another wave of nausea rolling through me. Behind the thin curtain, Matthew’s voice drifted over again. “We’ll do a follow-up ultrasound. Don’t scare yourself, okay?” Darcy asked him softly, “Matt, don’t you have a surgery tonight?” Matthew let out a soft, reassuring chuckle. “I handed it off to Evans. You’re more important.” My fingers tightened on the rough hospital sheets, my knuckles turning white. My phone buzzed on the pillow. A text from Matthew. It was a photo of the operating room doors. “Just heading into surgery. Talk to you when I’m out.” In the photo, the fluorescent lights were harsh and white, the “Surgery in Progress” sign glowing red. He had probably forgotten that once, when I flew to Chicago to surprise him, I had stood outside those exact double doors for an entire night. I had a fever of 103 that day. I was so weak I couldn’t even get my hotel key card to scan, and the receptionist had to help me to a lobby sofa. I had called Matthew, hoping he could come get me. He said the ER was slammed, his voice dripping with exhaustion. “Emma, I literally cannot leave right now.” “Be a good girl, okay? Just go back to the room and get some rest.” Not wanting him to worry, I had forced myself to sound strong. “It’s fine. I can take care of myself.” It rained in Chicago that night. I spent the hours until dawn hunched over the toilet in the hotel bathroom, vomiting. When he finally came to see me the next morning, he brought nothing but a lukewarm cup of convenience-store coffee. “Yesterday was insane.” I took the coffee, my heart aching with sympathy for the dark circles under his eyes. Looking back now, it was blindingly obvious who he had been busy with. Outside the curtain, a nurse hurried over with a clipboard. “Family of Darcy Ross? We need a signature on the consent form for the repeat scan.” Matthew answered immediately. “I’ll sign it.” The scratch of the pen on paper was sharp and clear. “Family of Darcy Ross.” Those words cut deeper than the physical pain of my stomach spasms. Rachel followed my gaze toward the edge of the curtain, her expression shifting from confusion to cold realization. “That… that doctor. Is that Matthew?” I couldn’t speak. Matthew was already guiding Darcy away. She walked slowly, so he kept his hand flat against her lower back, supporting her weight. When they reached the sliding doors of the ER exit, he stepped forward to catch the door with his shoulder so she wouldn’t have to rush. Watching their retreating figures, a profound sense of absurdity washed over me. The velvet box in my purse felt like a hot coal against my palm. I had planned to wait for his shift to end, then take him to the waterfront where we had our very first date. I had even rehearsed my opening line. “Matthew, four years of long-distance is enough. Let’s get married.” But now, I wouldn’t even get the chance to say it. The ER doctor prescribed some medication and told me to stay for observation for two hours. Rachel sat with me at the quiet end of the corridor. Several times she opened her mouth to speak, but forced herself to look away. I stared down at my phone. The photo of the operating doors was still sitting in our chat. I scrolled up. All the way back to last December. There had been a massive blizzard at the research base in Cape Cod. I had been pulling double shifts for a simulation trial, running on zero sleep and a burning fever. I had texted Matthew: “Can we talk for just a little bit? I really need to hear your voice.” He replied two hours later: “Just got off a brutal shift. Too tired to even move.” “Emma, please don’t distract me right now.” Those words had etched themselves into my mind. Since then, every time I missed him, I would check the clock first. I’d calculate his shift changes, his rounds, the ER schedule at Chicago Memorial. I bottled up my longing, terrified of being a burden or pulling his focus from his exhausting work. Down the hall, two nurses wheeled a mobile IV stand past. One of them was smiling. “Dr. Ross is so incredibly attentive to Darcy. The nurses in OB-GYN practically think of him as a regular.” The other lowered her voice. “Right? I heard she had awful morning sickness last month, and Dr. Ross spent his entire lunch break sitting with her up there.” “But doesn’t he always complain about how needy she is?” “Oh, please. He talks a big game, but his actions speak louder. He treats her like she’s made of glass.” My thumb hovered over the screen. Last December, when Matthew FaceTime’d me, his camera would only show half his face, with the sterile hospital corridor as a backdrop. He had told me Darcy was a nightmare—always crying, messing up charts, and that nobody in the department wanted to supervise her. “Her dad is tight with the Chief of Surgery,” he had sighed. “I can’t exactly ignore her.” And I, naive as I was, had comforted him. “It’s normal to make mistakes starting out. She’s probably just overwhelmed. Don’t be too hard on her.” He had smiled, a soft, weary look on his face. “What would I do without you? You’re always so understanding.” I had cherished that compliment for months. I thought it meant he valued my maturity, that he saw how hard I was trying to support his career from afar. Now I realized that being “understanding” simply made it easier for him to lie. After my observation time was up, Rachel helped me walk over to the billing counter. As we passed the self-service printing kiosk in the maternity ward, a sheet of paper was stuck in the dispenser, the machine emitting a repetitive, high-pitched beep. Rachel reached out to call a nurse, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I caught the name on the screen. “Darcy Ross.” “Gestational Age: 21 weeks.” “Accompanying Family: Matthew Ross.” Below that were several dates of past prenatal visits. “November 3rd.” “December 20th.” “January 16th.” Every single one of those dates was burned into my memory. November 3rd was my birthday. Matthew had texted me that an emergency surgery had come up, sending me a Venmo transfer with a generic “Happy Birthday” message. December 20th was the night of my high fever in the Cape Cod blizzard. January 16th was when I had finally accrued enough leave to visit him, but he told me his residency director had called an unscheduled seminar, urging me not to make the trip. The paper was thin, yet it felt heavy enough to crush me. Rachel saw the color drain from my face and reached out to pull the paper away. “Emma, don’t look at it.” I let go, and the sheet fluttered back against the machine. A nurse came rushing over. “Is this Darcy’s report? She just left it behind.” I took a step back. “I think so.” The nurse didn’t notice my expression, muttering under her breath as she took it, “Honestly, Dr. Ross is usually so meticulous. How did he let her forget this?” She hurried away. I stood there, the dull ache in my stomach slowly fading, replaced by a suffocating tightness in my chest. Four years of long-distance, and I had never once demanded that Matthew spend a single birthday with me. I always told myself that lives were on the line, that being a doctor meant sacrifices. Yet he had all the time in the world to accompany someone else to her prenatal exams. He had all the time in the world to sign her forms on my birthday. By the time we left the hospital, night had fallen. Rachel asked if I wanted to go straight back to the hotel to rest. I told her I wanted to go to the alley behind Chicago Memorial. She didn’t ask why. She just walked with me to that quiet, narrow street. This was where Matthew and I had our very first date in Chicago. Four years ago, when he first started his residency, I had caught a grueling overnight flight from Boston to see him. He had taken me to a small, hole-in-the-wall noodle bar in the alley. I remembered him sitting on a squeaky metal stool, carefully picking the scallions out of my bowl. “Once my residency stabilizes, I’m going to bring you out here to Chicago with me.” I had nodded, believing him. And then I waited. For four years. The noodle bar was still there. The elderly owner saw me and asked how many in our party. Before I could answer, a familiar voice drifted from behind me. “One order of wonton soup, no scallions, please.” I turned around. Darcy was standing a few feet away, a grey knit scarf draped around her neck. I recognized that scarf. Last winter, during the freezing coastal winds at the Cape Cod research base, I had sat under my desk lamp every single night, knitting it stitch by stitch. My fingers had been rubbed raw by the coarse wool, making it painful to slip on my heavy research gloves the next morning. When Matthew received it, he had sent a single text: “The color is a bit too plain, isn’t it?” I thought he hated it. He had never worn it once on our video calls. Now, that very scarf was wrapped around Darcy’s neck, its fringed edges brushing against her swollen stomach. Staring at it, the dam of bitterness and sorrow I had kept bottled up for years finally broke. Tears began to stream silently down my face. Darcy took her takeout container, turning around to find me standing there. She froze, her eyes scanning my hospital wristband before rising to meet my face. “You’re…” I didn’t say a word. But she put the pieces together quickly. “You’re Matt’s girlfriend from Boston, aren’t you?” “The girlfriend from Boston.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. To her, I was just a distant footnote in Matthew’s real life. Darcy bit her lip, a flicker of panic crossing her eyes, though she tried to maintain a polite smile. “Please don’t get the wrong idea. Matt is just taking care of me.” I looked at the scarf around her neck. “Does he usually take care of you using things other people made for him?” Darcy’s smile faltered. Rachel stepped forward, interposing herself. “You stepped into someone else’s relationship and got pregnant. Don’t play the innocent victim now.” Darcy clutched the takeout bag tighter, her voice dropping. “What’s going on between Matt and me is complicated. It’s not as cheap as you think.” Hearing that, I actually wanted to laugh. Matthew had used almost the exact same words. It was during my junior year when Darcy first showed up on our FaceTime screen. She had called out to him from off-camera, complaining that her patient intake notes had been rejected again. Matthew had frowned, turning his phone face-down on the desk. When he picked it back up, he explained, “Just an intern with connections. She’s a nightmare.” “If I don’t help her, she’ll sit in the breakroom crying all night.” Watching his exhausted face through the screen, my heart had ached for him. After that, I stopped calling him in the evenings. I didn’t want him to have to deal with me after being drained by Darcy all day. But every inch of space I conceded only became the room they used to grow closer. As I turned to walk away, Darcy called out to my back. “If you really love him, don’t back him into a corner right now.” My steps faltered. She gently touched her stomach, her voice trembling. “A child needs a father.” I didn’t look back. For the past four years, I had constantly told myself the same things. “A surgeon can’t be distracted.” “I can’t let my needs drag Matthew down.” “We can’t let a little distance ruin us.” But if her child couldn’t live without a father… Did that mean my four years of devotion deserved to end without an answer? Back in the hotel room, I placed the velvet box on the desk. I opened it, the ring catching the sterile light of the hotel room. I had spent weeks searching for it in Boston. The jeweler had asked me who it was for. “My boyfriend,” I had said. She smiled and wished me luck with the proposal. At the time, I truly believed that if I took the initiative to take this final step, our four years of waiting would finally mean something. Matthew always said a doctor’s career was complicated, that we couldn’t rush into marriage. “Let’s wait until I’m an attending,” he’d say. “Let’s wait until your research project wraps up.” “We haven’t even figured out a place in Chicago yet. We can take our time.” And I believed him, time after time. Because I thought he was waiting for the perfect moment, just like I was. A notification popped up on my phone. It was from Matthew. “Just got off. Exhausted.” “Why are you so quiet tonight?” I stared at the two lines of text for a long time, unable to type a reply. In the past, I would have immediately asked if he’d eaten, reminded him to cut back on the espresso, and carefully filtered out any of my own struggles in the lab, leaving only lighthearted, easy updates. I never wanted him to feel like loving me across three thousand miles was a chore. But today, when I woke up in agony on an ER cot, he was only yards away. He hadn’t seen me. He hadn’t looked. He was holding another pregnant woman, worrying about her morning sickness. Rachel sat by the window, pouring me a glass of warm water. “Emma, you still haven’t replied to that confirmation email for the deep-sea project, have you?” I looked up. She was watching me closely. “You told me you didn’t want to sign up for another three years of long-distance.” Yes. After passing the rigorous closed-selection process for the deep-sea manned submersible project, I had hesitated to click “accept.” The project board had given me a final deadline. Once I joined, the first three years would require intensive, isolated training with highly restricted contact with the outside world. I had wanted to see Matthew one last time before making my choice. If he was ready to commit, I was prepared to step away from the program. If he wasn’t, I wanted to hear his honest thoughts on our future. But now, the choice was simple. I opened my laptop and pulled up the email. The confirmation link sat at the top of my inbox. “Please confirm your acceptance of the deep-sea training program within 24 hours.” Below it was the standard disclaimer: “During active training phases, personal communication with the outside world will be suspended, barring extreme emergencies.” I looked at the screen, remembering the hours I spent on the flight to Chicago. I had pulled the ring box out of my bag over and over, drafts of my proposal saved in my notes app. The first draft was too formal. The second was too casual. The third draft was only one sentence: “Matthew, let’s stop loving each other across oceans.” Now I saw that I was the only one navigating the distance. His life in Chicago was never lonely. Darcy kept him company on night shifts, waited for him to get off work, and carried his child. Meanwhile, I had been reduced to a voice on a screen, a digital pet he could check in on when he was bored, or ignore when he was too busy. My phone began to ring. It was Matthew. I let it ring out. A moment later, a text arrived. “Emma, don’t start. I really did just get out of surgery.” I closed the velvet box and slid it into the deepest corner of my bag. Then, I clicked the confirmation link in the email. A prompt popped up: “Confirming will finalize your enrollment in the deep-sea training roster. Do you wish to proceed?” While the phone buzzed against the desk, I clicked “Yes.” A new message flashed on the screen: “Enrollment successful. Please report to the San Diego transit hub within three days.” The next morning, Rachel accompanied me back to Chicago Memorial to retrieve my ER discharge summary and billing records. The lobby was packed, automated queue announcements echoing off the high ceilings. I stood at the self-service kiosk, my stomach still tender. Rachel went to stand in the billing line, leaving me alone for a moment. “Emma?” I turned around. Matthew was standing by the information desk, still wearing his scrubs under a white lab coat. He looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes. His gaze fell first on the small bandage on the back of my hand where the IV had been, then shifted to the discharge papers in my hand. “You were in the ER?” He had sent so many messages the night before, demanding to know why I wasn’t answering, asking why I was throwing a tantrum. Yet when I was actually lying on that ER gurney, he had been standing right outside my curtain. I looked at him, my voice flat. “Did you just finish your surgery?” Matthew hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yeah. It was a complicated case. Took longer than expected.” He paused, a trace of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in Chicago? You were sick and you didn’t even call me. Do you have any idea how worried I was?” “Worried.” The word felt entirely hollow coming from him. Rachel walked up with the receipt, catching his last sentence. She let out a sharp, cold laugh. Matthew frowned at her. “What’s funny?” “Nothing,” Rachel said, her voice freezing. “Just thinking about how incredibly busy you must be, Dr. Ross.” Matthew’s expression darkened. I stopped Rachel before she could say more. “Rachel, could you wait for me by the entrance?” She gave me a worried look, but I shook my head gently. Once she walked away, Matthew reached out to touch my forehead. I stepped back, avoiding his hand. His hand hung in the air, his brow furrowing. “Emma, what is going on with you?” I looked down at the folder in my hands, which contained my prescription slips and the printed copy of the ultrasound report I had kept. “Matthew, let’s end this. We’re done.” He froze. A few seconds later, a forced, defensive laugh escaped him. “You flew all the way to Chicago, landed yourself in the ER, just to play this game?” I didn’t answer. “Are you seriously mad because I couldn’t pick you up? I told you, I had a surgery.” “You used to be so understanding about my hours. Why are you being so unreasonable today?” I looked him in the eyes. “How did the surgery go?” His tone faltered slightly. “It went fine.” “How is the patient?” “Stable. Under observation.” He must have realized how cold and precise my questions were, because the color slowly began to drain from his face. “Emma, what are you trying to say?” I pulled out my phone and pulled up the photo of the operating room doors he had texted me. “Did you take this photo tonight?” He stared at the screen, silent. I smiled faintly. “I’ve seen this exact photo before, Matthew. You sent it to me last New Year’s Eve.” “You told me there was a massive trauma case and you couldn’t make it to my place. I was so worried about you working on an empty stomach that I ordered delivery to the hospital for you.” “The delivery driver called me because they wouldn’t let him into the surgical wing, and he said the front desk took it because you weren’t even on shift.” “Back then, I just assumed you were too busy saving lives to pick up your food. But now I see you probably weren’t even in the building.” Matthew snatched the phone from my hand, his voice rising in sudden anger. “Are you tracking me now? Are you investigating me?” I met his gaze calmly. “I was in the ER yesterday. I was sitting right behind the curtain.” “While you were signing the consent form for Darcy’s follow-up scan.” “The nurse called you ‘Darcy’s family’.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “547497”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Shortly after my online relationship transitioned into the real world, I stumbled upon a thread on Reddit. “If you could go back in time with all your current memories, what is the one thing you would change?” People in the comments talked about wanting to change their marriages or their careers. Some wished they could have saved a loved one they had lost. But one comment stood out, completely out of place. “I would have personally asked for his number myself.” “That way, my friend wouldn’t have handed me the wrong guy’s contact info, and I wouldn’t have spent six months falling in love with a stranger over text.” “Now we’ve met in real life, and I’m stuck trying to make things work out of sheer obligation.” I was about to leave a sarcastic reply and swipe away, but then I caught sight of the user’s profile picture and handle. Even the short, poetic quote in her bio was identical to my new girlfriend’s. Natalie. Suddenly, the pieces clicked. I finally understood why she had always avoided FaceTime, and why, when we finally met today, her smile felt so forced, like a mask slipping at the edges. The love she had been giving me… It was never meant for me in the first place. … I looked up. Across the crowded bistro, I saw Natalie sitting at our table, talking furiously on her phone. She was likely ripping her friend a new one for giving her the wrong contact info six months ago. “You’re back?” Natalie hung up just as I approached, sliding the menu toward me with a gentle smile. “I ordered a few of your favorites. Take a look and see if you want anything else.” She had always been incredibly attentive. Even before we met in person, she never missed a holiday or a birthday, sending thoughtful gifts right to my door. She knew how easily I lost track of time when work got chaotic, so she would order dinner for me every week, ensuring it arrived at my office right on time. My quirks, my food allergies, the precise schedule of my chronic stomach flare-ups—she memorized them better than I did. My friends and coworkers used to tease me, saying I had won the lottery. Who finds a gorgeous, deeply devoted partner online? But none of it belonged to me. I was living in a stolen house. She waved a hand in front of my face, letting out a soft, teasing laugh. “What? Staring at your girlfriend already?” she joked. “You have all the time in the world for that. Let’s eat first. If you skip meals, you’ll be complaining about your stomach hurting later.” My hands tightened into fists under the table, the fabric of my jeans rough against my palms. I forced myself to look at her. “You know, you don’t have to force yourself to settle,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. “If you realized you made a mistake, you could have just told me.” The playful curve of her lips vanished. “How did you find out?” My gaze drifted, unable to hold her eyes. “The day your friend asked for my contact info, my coworker was standing right next to me. I think she got us confused.” I pulled out my phone, pulled up his contact card, and slid it across the table. “This is Connor. He’s the guy you were actually looking for.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “If you want, I can introduce you. But as for us… let’s just call it off.” Natalie’s fingers tightened around the edge of the menu, her expression a mix of guilt and confusion. “Jack, you really don’t have to do this. I wasn’t planning on—” “But I do,” I interrupted gently. I didn’t want to be anyone’s “good enough” option. I didn’t want to be the consolation prize, and I certainly didn’t want the truth to blow up later, making me look like the guy who stole someone else’s life. “I won’t say anything to anyone,” I added. “You don’t have to worry about him finding out we were together.” Natalie remained silent for a long moment, staring at the screen. Finally, she looked up, her expression incredibly solemn. “To make it up to you, I’ll grant you one favor. Absolutely anything, whenever you need it.” Her eyes were so earnest, almost desperate, as if she feared that if I didn’t agree, I would use this leverage to cling to her. I didn’t want anything from her. But to put her mind at ease, I simply nodded. Only then did she seem to breathe a sigh of relief. “Let’s eat first, then. My treat.” I grabbed my bag and stood up. “No, it’s fine. I need to get back to the office.” When I walked back into my cubicle, Brad, my usual lunch partner, stared at me in absolute shock. “I thought you took the whole day off to meet your mystery girl? Why are you back in the trenches?” I had spent hours getting dressed up for this lunch. I had used a full day of my hard-earned PTO just to see her. But now that it had turned out to be a massive misunderstanding, there was no point in wasting the rest of my afternoon. “Just had some things to take care of,” I muttered. Seeing my exhaustion, Brad patted my shoulder sympathetically. “Ah. The classic online-dating bait-and-switch. Reality rarely matches the profile picture, huh?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. If only it were that simple. A few days later, Brad leaned over the partition, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Hey, have you heard? Connor’s dating some filthy rich heiress. She’s been showing up in a different luxury car every evening to pick him up from work.” My fingers froze over the keyboard. After that lunch with Natalie, I had gone to see Connor. He had been skeptical at first, but he accepted her request on Instagram, saying he didn’t believe in online dating but was open to meeting up. Clearly, their meeting had gone exceptionally well. “Earth to Jack,” Brad said, nudging my arm. I looked up to find Connor standing right beside my desk, a sleek gift bag in his hand. “Hey, Jack. I really appreciate you setting me up with Natalie. We’re doing great, and we wanted to give you this as a thank you.” He also handed Brad a thermal bag. “My girlfriend ordered too much food for lunch. Here, you can have the extra.” Brad’s eyes lit up as he grabbed the bag. “Oh, man, Connor! You are a lifesaver!” But as Brad peeked inside, he paused, looking confused. “Wait, isn’t this from that French place downtown? I thought they didn’t do delivery. Did they finally get on DoorDash?” Connor’s smile faltered slightly. “Oh, really?” Connor asked, his tone shifting, becoming suddenly sharp and inquisitive. “Actually, Jack, I’ve been meaning to ask… how do you even know Natalie?” The scrutiny in his eyes made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. “I don’t really,” I lied smoothly. “I just know her friend, Roxy. When Roxy found out Connor and I worked at the same place, she asked for your contact info. You’re a good-looking guy, Connor. It’s not hard to see why she wanted to get in touch.” It was technically the truth, just heavily sugarcoated. “Oh, come on,” Connor said, blushing slightly, his suspicion melting away. Once Connor walked off, Brad practically exploded with excitement. “Man, your luck is unreal! First you find yourself a sweet girl online, and then you somehow play matchmaker for Connor and a literal heiress? When are you going to set me up?” I forced a smile. “Connor’s a catch on his own. If I actually had that kind of matchmaking magic, my own date wouldn’t have gone down in flames.” “Anyway,” I added, trying to redirect his energy, “you might want to focus on how we’re going to handle that nightmare client tomorrow morning.” Brad groaned, his excitement instantly evaporating. That evening, the clear skies suddenly ruptured into a massive downpour. As I stood under the awning of our office building, waiting for the rain to let up, Connor walked out and patted my shoulder. “Hey, it’s pouring. Don’t bother waiting for the bus. We can give you a ride.” I was about to decline when Natalie’s car pulled up. She rolled down the window and spoke with quiet authority. “Get in. This rain isn’t stopping anytime soon.” With both of them insisting, turning them down would have made me look suspicious. But as I went to open the back door, Natalie reached over and popped open the front passenger door. “Don’t you get carsick? Sit up front.” My hand froze on the rear door handle. I could feel Connor’s intense, burning gaze from behind me, practically drilling holes into my skull. I didn’t actually get carsick. A few months ago, when our office was going through a chaotic merger, I had worked several sleepless nights in a row before heading out on a business trip. Having not eaten breakfast, I spent the entire drive to the airport throwing up my guts, unable to reply to her texts. When she asked about it later, I briefly mentioned that the ride had made me feel sick. I never expected her to remember it. Much less misinterpret it as chronic carsickness. I forced a smile. “You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t get carsick.” Natalie’s face remained entirely expressionless. “No, you misunderstand. I was talking to Connor.” The sting of humiliation was immediately swallowed by a cold wave of fear. For the entire drive, Connor watched me through the rearview mirror. He repeatedly tried to steer the conversation toward the “devoted online girlfriend” I used to talk about. “Yeah, online dating is just a phase,” I muttered, sweating under my collar as I tried to deflect his questions. “Just a way to pass the time.” I couldn’t wait to get out of that car. By the time the car finally pulled up to my apartment complex, I didn’t even wait for them to say goodbye. “I need to get upstairs—I left my dog locked up all day and need to take him out. Thanks for the ride!” I practically bolted before they could even reply. Later that night, after a hot shower, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from Natalie. “Keep your distance from Connor at work. He’s smart. He’ll put the pieces together.” A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. Just a week ago, she was the girl sending me sweet morning texts and caring for me. Now, she was warning me to act like a stranger to protect her new relationship. “I know,” I replied. “Actually, to keep things simple, we should probably delete each other’s contacts.” Without waiting for her reply, I blocked her number. It was a petty, impulsive move, but it felt like the only way to claw back some dignity. The next morning, I walked into the office with swollen, heavy eyes. Brad slid an ice pack across my desk. “Don’t tell me you were crying over your ex last night?” “Of course not,” I lied, pressing the cold pack to my eyes. “Just drank too much water before bed.” I didn’t notice Connor walking past my cubicle. On our way to meet the client, Brad was visibly shaking. “You look like you’re going to a firing squad,” I teased. “You don’t understand,” Brad whispered. “This client is brutal. Last month, she made Lucy from accounting cry in the middle of a meeting.” His warning had me on edge, but when we stepped into the conference room, my jaw dropped. Roxy was sitting at the head of the table. She gave me a bright, mischievous grin and held out her hand. “Jack. Fancy meeting you here.” A few months ago, Roxy had tagged along with her mother to negotiate a contract with our firm. Connor and I, as the new interns, were brought along to observe. That was the day Roxy had asked for my contact information—and accidentally set off this entire chain of events. Brad’s eyes darted between us, and he nudged me with his elbow. “You two know each other? Oh, we’ve got this in the bag.” I kept my voice low. “We’re not close. We met briefly during a project review a while back.” Roxy, sensing my awkwardness, didn’t push it further during the meeting. Once we wrapped up, Brad slipped out to use the restroom, leaving the two of us alone. Roxy immediately stepped closer, an apologetic look on her face. “Look, I’m really sorry about the mix-up,” she said. “Natalie just told me to get the number of ‘the cute intern,’ so I naturally assumed she meant you. How was I supposed to know she wanted Connor?” It was hard to stay mad at her when she put it like that. “It’s fine,” I said quietly. “I should have insisted on a video call sooner. It’s on me, too.” Roxy crossed her arms, looking indignant. “Honestly, Natalie handled this so poorly. As her best friend, I feel like I owe you some kind of compensation.” “No one needs to compensate him.” I turned around. Natalie was standing a few feet away, her face dark with anger. “Mind your own business, Roxy,” Natalie snapped. I felt a sudden chill run down my spine. “Thanks for the offer, Roxy, but I’m really okay,” I said quickly. Just then, Connor stepped out of a private dining room nearby. He glanced at Roxy, then turned to me with a smug smile. “Oh, is this your online girlfriend? She’s beautiful, Jack.” “She’s a client,” I corrected immediately. Roxy smiled, her teeth flashing. “For now.” Natalie shot her an icy glare. “If she’s a client, she’s a client. Why say ‘for now’?” Connor looked slightly embarrassed, his grip tightening on Natalie’s arm. “Right. Well, we should get going. Let’s not disturb them.” Natalie let out a cold hum and let Connor lead her away. Watching them walk off, I couldn’t help but ask Roxy, “Aren’t you and Natalie supposed to be best friends? You two seem… tense.” Roxy smirked. “Let’s just say we have history.” Fortunately, Brad returned from the restroom, saving me from further awkwardness. When our cab pulled up back at the office, a sleek black sedan parked in the corner honked its horn. It was Natalie’s car. The one she had driven on the day we met. I ignored it and kept walking toward the entrance, but the horn honked louder, sharper. “Go ahead up, Brad. I need to take care of something,” I said. I waited until Brad was out of sight before walking over to the car. The window rolled down, revealing Natalie’s freezing expression. “Stay away from Roxy,” she said. “She’s not the kind of girl you want to get mixed up with.” A surge of anger, boiling over from days of suppressed humiliation, finally broke through. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” I snapped. “We’re done, Natalie. Stop checking in on me. I don’t want Connor seeing us and getting the wrong idea.” I turned to leave, but she threw the door open and grabbed my wrist. “I’m not joking, Jack,” she said, her voice tight. “And unblock my number.” I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady. “You said it yourself—Connor is smart. My number in your phone is a ticking bomb. It’s better this way.” She stared at me, then nodded slowly. “Fine. If you won’t unblock me, I’ll just wait for you outside your office every day. It’s easier that way anyway.” “Are you insane?” I ripped my hand away. “You agreed to put this behind us. You went out and got with Connor. What is the point of this?” She paused, her grip loosening. “Roxy is a serial heartbreaker. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s all. Besides, I promised I’d do you a favor. I don’t want that favor to be cleaning up your mess after she ruins your life.” “My life is none of your concern,” I said coldly. “The best thing you can do for me is to leave me alone.” The drama had drained me completely. I ended up taking the rest of Friday afternoon off. But when I returned to work on Monday, the atmosphere in the office was suffocating. People were whispering, throwing disdainful looks in my direction. Even Brad, who usually couldn’t wait to dump the weekend gossip on me, was staring silently at his screen. I rolled my chair over to him. “What’s going on? Did the boss rip everyone a new one over the weekend?” He looked at me with a complicated expression. “Jack, I honestly admire your nerve. I had no idea you were capable of this. And you’re still acting like nothing happened.” I blinked, confused. Before I could ask what he meant, Connor walked up to my desk and slapped me hard across the face.

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On the night of my boyfriend’s birthday, he closed his eyes and made three wishes over the cake I’d spent all afternoon baking. “First, I hope Cora is happy every single day.” “Second, I hope Cora’s project wins the design award.” “Third, I hope Mochi, the kitten we’re raising together, grows up healthy and strong.” Cora is my best friend. I froze. But the room, packed with our friends, dissolved into laughter and cheers. Cora’s cheeks flushed pink, and she gave Troy a playful, mock-annoyed shove. “Why didn’t you make a wish for Summer?” she teased, her voice dripping with sweet innocence. “She’s your actual girlfriend, you know.” Troy looked at me, his smile lazy and utterly confident. “Do I even need to say hers out loud? We all know what she wants.” “To marry me.” Then, he dropped to one knee and pulled out a small velvet box. If this had been a few months ago, I probably would have burst into tears and nodded until my neck hurt. But now, as he slid the diamond band onto my ring finger, the metal felt cold and loose. It immediately slipped off my knuckle, dangling precariously. It was a size too big. Exactly Cora’s size. A quiet, humorless laugh slipped past my lips. I had loved Troy for seven years. But letting him go took only a single second. … Someone who loved drama laughed, shouting, “Hey, isn’t that ring a little big? Looks like it might fit Cora better!” Cora’s face burned a deeper crimson, and she quickly hid her hands behind her back. “Stop it, guys. Don’t say things like that.” The more she tried to play it down, the thicker the tension in the room became. Another friend chimed in, laughing. “What are you hiding your hands for, Cora? Is it actually your size?” I stood in the center of the laughter, my fingertips turning numb. Cora rushed to my side, wrapping her arm around mine. “Summer, please don’t be mad. Troy definitely didn’t do this on purpose.” Her voice was soft, laced with an anxious, protective warmth that felt entirely performative. “He’s always helping me carry my rings and bracelets when I’m working. He probably just got the sizes mixed up.” Her eyes were glassy, like she was on the verge of tears, but there was a flicker of quiet triumph swimming in her pupils. So they had gotten that close. Close enough for Troy to hold her jewelry, to slide bracelets onto her wrists. Close enough that he remembered her finger measurements better than mine. Cora squeezed my fingers, offering a small, pitying smile. “Honestly, Summer, you’re just too tiny. Everything slips right off you.” She let her eyes drift down to my chest, her tone light, almost teasing. “It’s like when we go lingerie shopping. Even in a 32A, you still have room to spare.” A wave of snickers rippled through the room. I stood frozen, heat rushing to my face. But Troy only looked at Cora with a helpless, fond shake of his head. “Stop teasing her, Cora,” he said. His voice held a nominal warning, but his eyes were completely indulgent. Someone called out to cut the cake. “Alright, proposal’s done! Birthday boy, cut the cake!” I picked up the silver cake server to hand it to him when Cora’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and lit up. “Oh my gosh! The pet-sitter just sent a video of Mochi!” Troy froze, immediately leaning over her shoulder. “Let me see.” Cora held the phone up between them. On the screen, a tiny, round kitten was batting at a yarn ball. Their shoulders brushed, their heads tilted together so closely that there was no physical space left for anyone else. Not even me. Standing before the birthday cake I’d poured my heart into, I felt like an uninvited guest at my own life. When Troy finally remembered to cut the cake, he took the server from my hand, sliced the first piece, and naturally handed the plate to Cora. “You barely ate anything at dinner,” he murmured. “Get some sugar in you.” Cora hesitated, lowering her voice. “Troy, is this really okay? Summer made this from scratch. She should have the first slice.” Troy didn’t even look up. “She won’t mind.” Hearing those three words, I felt a profound, exhausting wave of tiredness wash over me. Over the last few years, “She won’t mind” had become Troy’s favorite shield. When Cora worked late and he drove across town to pick her up: ““Cora is your best friend, Summer. You won’t mind, right?”” When Cora’s presentation failed and he stayed up all night helping her redesign it: ““I’m only doing this because she’s your friend, Summer. You won’t mind.”” When Cora called saying Mochi was sick, and he spent the night at her apartment: ““It’s just a kitten, Summer. You won’t mind.”” But Troy had never once asked me. He never asked if I actually minded. Cora took the plate, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she looked at me. “Summer, please don’t be upset. I’m just having a bit of low blood sugar today.” As if to prove her point, she swayed slightly. Troy instantly caught her by the waist. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” His voice cracked with genuine worry. “Sit down.” He guided her gently to the sofa, placing the cake in her hands with a practiced ease that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before. He didn’t ask if I was tired after standing all night. He didn’t notice that I had been running around since dawn to organize this party, or that I hadn’t eaten a single bite. I looked down at the empty, oversized ring on my finger. It was comically large. The moment I bent my hand, it slid down my palm. Just like this relationship. I had tried so hard to hold onto it, but some things are simply impossible to grasp. Without saying another word, I grabbed my coat and left. By the time I got back to our apartment, a text from Cora popped up. ‘Summer, please don’t be mad. Troy feels terrible about getting the size wrong. I’m with him right now helping him pick out a replacement.’ Below it was a photo. Under the bright, sterile lights of a luxury jewelry boutique, Cora sat next to Troy, a sparkling diamond ring resting on her finger. Troy was leaning in, studying her hand closely, checking the fit. I stared at the image, memories flooding back. I remembered the first time I introduced Cora to Troy. She was loud, vibrant, and they immediately started bickering. She called him a brooding snob; he called her a chatterbox. I had sat between them, laughing, genuinely happy that the two most important people in my life were getting along. Later, when we went out for ramen, Cora would always fish the soft-boiled egg out of my bowl, and Troy would slide his over with a cold, protective look. ““Don’t steal hers. Order your own if you want one.”” Back then, I believed I would always be his priority. But somewhere along the way, their bickering morphed into a private language only they understood. Their shared jokes turned me into an awkward spectator, forcing a smile from the sidelines. In a three-person dynamic, the one being pushed out is always the last to realize it. Now, Troy was buying me a new ring, but he was still using Cora’s finger to measure it. To them, there was probably nothing wrong with that. At 11:00 PM, a screenshot from a mutual group chat was forwarded to me by a friend. Someone had messaged Troy: ‘Dude, you need to go apologize to Summer. That ring thing tonight was really messed up.’ It took Troy ten minutes to reply. ‘Summer’s just being dramatic. I’m already getting her a new one. She’ll cool off once she’s had some time.’ Cora chimed in: ‘It’s all my fault. Maybe I should go over tomorrow and apologize to her myself.’ Troy replied immediately: ‘How is any of this your fault? You were put in an incredibly awkward position tonight. She shouldn’t have taken her mood out on you.’ I stared at the screen. Surprisingly, my chest didn’t ache. Perhaps I had simply run out of pain. When the final blow lands on a heart that is already numb, it barely registers. A little while later, the front door clicked open. Troy walked in, holding a sleek black jewelry box, which he offered to me with a sheepish, careful smile. “Summer, I messed up. The ring was totally on me. I got you a new one.” He took my hand and slid it onto my ring finger. This time, it fit perfectly. But as I looked down, I noticed a tiny engraving on the inside of the band. “T & C.” Troy & Cora. A sharp, sarcastic laugh escaped my throat. Troy followed my gaze, his face freezing for a fraction of a second. “The jeweler must have messed up the engraving. Don’t overthink it.” But then, a small piece of paper slipped out of the shopping bag and fluttered to the floor. It was the receipt. Same day. Same store. Troy had bought two rings. The one in my hand was cheap. The other one—the one meant for Cora—cost three times as much. The realization hit me like a splash of ice water. This ring, engraved with his and Cora’s initials, was never meant for me in the first place. He had simply given me Cora’s leftover. Troy cleared his throat, gently patting my head. “When we actually get married, I’ll buy you an even better one.” Another “next time.” Another “later.” Troy always assumed my hurt could be patched up with future promises. My mind flashed back to our first trip together. I had spent two weeks meticulously planning every detail—the best beach for sunsets, the quietest coves, the local seafood spots. But at the airport, as we checked in, I discovered my name wasn’t on the tickets. Troy had stared at the screen in confusion before muttering, “I think I put Cora’s passport number in by mistake. The tickets are non-refundable, and the hotel is already booked… Summer, I’ll take you next time.” That island vacation ended up being just the two of them. Cora posted dozens of photos—sunsets, palm trees, and a shot of Troy carrying her sandals as she waded through the surf. I had cried myself to sleep back then. But when Troy returned, he only handed me a box of duty-free chocolates. ““Don’t be sad, babe. I’ll definitely take you next time.”” Then there was the concert. An indie artist I’d loved for a decade was coming to town. Troy managed to get two front-row tickets. I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. But at the gate, the ticket scanner shook her head. “I’m sorry, these tickets are registered under Troy Collins and Cora Ross.” Troy rubbed the back of his neck, looking mildly embarrassed. “I messed up again.” So he and Cora sat in the front row. That night, Cora posted a photo of her leaning her head on Troy’s shoulder, holding up a glowing wristband. ‘The best songs, shared with the person who knows me best.’ When I confronted him, he only sighed. “Summer, you’re overthinking. Cora is your best friend, not some stranger. I couldn’t just leave her to go to a concert alone, could I?” He always had an excuse. And I was always expected to be understanding. I pulled the ring off my finger and dropped it back into the box. Turning around, I walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase from the closet. As I began packing, I realized how little of myself was actually in this apartment. The cashmere throw on the sofa was bought because Cora complained about being cold when she visited. The next day, Troy had ordered it. I opened my vanity drawer and found a silver chain bracelet. It was my birthday gift from him last year—a cheap, thin thing in a crumpled box. ““It’s the thought that counts,”” he’d said. Yet, for Cora’s birthday this year, he had bought her a custom-designed necklace. I had found the receipt tucked inside a book she left on our sofa. $2,800. More than ten times the price of my gift. Even our fridge was stocked with the cold-brew oat milk lattes Cora loved, while my favorite jasmine tea had been empty for months. I had reminded Troy several times to restock it. “I’ll get it next time,” he’d say. But there was never a next time. Troy stood at the bedroom doorway, watching me pack my clothes. His patience finally wore thin. “How long are you going to keep up this tantrum?” he snapped. “I got you the ring. I apologized. What more do you want?” I zipped the suitcase shut, my voice barely a whisper. “Troy.” “There won’t be a next time.” He scoffed, turning on his heel and slamming the front door as he left the apartment. I didn’t run after him. On my phone, the confirmation email for my overseas transfer sat quietly in my inbox. My flight was booked for tomorrow morning. Troy and I. We were done. The next morning, I drove to Cora’s apartment. I needed to retrieve the glass photo frame I’d made for her when we were eighteen. It held our very first photo together. On the back, I had written in careful, looping cursive: “Summer & Cora, best friends forever.” I remembered how Cora had cried when I gave it to her, clutching me tight. ““Summer, I’ll never lose you. Ever.”” Using the spare key, I unlocked the door, only to freeze. Cora was standing in the hallway, wearing an oversized designer button-down shirt that hung loosely off her shoulders. A faint, pink mark was visible just below her collarbone. I recognized that shirt. It was the limited-edition Tom Ford piece I’d searched three different cities to find for Troy’s birthday last year. Cora gasped when she saw me, but she quickly recovered, her lips curving into a soft, sleepy smile. “Summer! What are you doing here?” She rubbed her eyes, her voice thick with sleep. “Mochi was throwing up all night, and Troy was so worried he drove over. We were up until three in the morning. We’re both absolutely exhausted.” I stared at her bare legs peeking out from under the shirt, my fists clenching so hard my nails bit into my palms. She blinked innocently, her eyes sparkling with a subtle, intimate amusement. “By the way, your boy is in serious shape. But his abs are like granite—my neck is literally sore from resting on them all night.” An icy chill swept through my veins. I looked past her toward the cracked bedroom door. “You slept together?” Cora laughed, waving it off. “Oh, please. It’s not the first time. When Mochi was a sick kitten, we used to fall asleep on the floor together all the time.” She stepped closer, playfully tapping the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry, babe. I tested him for you. Even with a pretty girl in his arms, he was a total gentleman. Though he could probably work on his form—tell him to hit the gym more.” Just then, Troy leaned against the bedroom doorframe, a low chuckle escaping him. “Who was the one clinging to me all night then? Saying I’m softer than the cat?” Cora flushed, turning around to swat at his chest. “Troy! Shut up!” They dissolved into giggles, flirting and play-fighting. Cora tripped slightly, falling flush against his chest, her soft curves pressing right against him. Troy’s laughter faltered. His ears flushed a deep, violent red. He made a half-hearted attempt to pull away, but his hands naturally settled on her waist. Cora didn’t move either. They remained locked in that quiet, loaded embrace, completely forgetting I was even standing in the room. I looked down at the glass photo frame in my hands and let out a dry laugh. “Cora.” “Do you know what people call girls like you?” “A home-wrecker. A cheap, pathetic home-wrecker.” The laughter died instantly. Cora’s face went pale, tears immediately welling in her eyes. “Summer, how could you say that to me? Troy is just my friend.” I smirked, cold disgust radiating from my chest. “Friends don’t sleep on his chest all night.” Troy’s face darkened. “Summer, that’s enough.” I turned my gaze to him, my voice trembling but sharp. “Enough? You two are sleeping in the same bed, and I’m supposed to just pretend nothing happened?” Troy frowned. “Summer, is there really any need to be this vicious? Cora is clearly better than you in every way, but do you have to be this jealous? Stop making up disgusting lies about us.” The words felt like a physical blow. My hand shook, and the glass photo frame slipped from my fingers. It shattered on the hardwood floor, pieces of glass flying everywhere. The old photo fell right into the center of the shards. I instinctively knelt to grab it. Cora reached down at the same time. The sharp edges of the glass sliced into both of our hands simultaneously. I gasped as a sharp pain bloomed in my palm. But Troy didn’t even look at me. He lunged forward, grabbing Cora’s hand. “Are you okay? How deep is it?” Cora wept, shaking her head. “I’m fine… Summer’s bleeding too…” Only then did Troy glance at me. His eyes lingered on the blood pooling in my palm for a split second before he looked away. “She can handle herself. If you scar your hand, what then?” I knelt there among the shattered glass, the physical pain suddenly feeling dull, distant. Troy scooped Cora up in his arms and walked toward the door. As he passed me, his voice was ice. “Get some help, Summer. When you learn how to speak to people properly, you can apologize to her.” The front door slammed shut behind them. I went back to our apartment, threw the old photo into the trash, and packed my passport, bank cards, and a few clothes into my suitcase. My phone buzzed with a text from Troy. ‘I’m taking you to that Italian place you like tonight. You’re going to apologize to Cora, and we’re going to put this behind us.’ I stared at the words, then quietly turned the phone off. The click of my suitcase locking was barely audible. But in that quiet room, I knew I was never looking back.

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In our social circle, my husband, Adrian, was the textbook definition of a devoted partner. He was the man other husbands were compared to, always pulling out my chair, anticipating my needs before I even realized them myself. But no one knew the silent boundary lines he drew around that devotion. I wanted to go swimming, but Adrian wouldn’t allow it. “You’re too fragile, Iris,” he’d say, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. “And you’ve always been afraid of the water.” But the thing was, everyone who actually knew me before our marriage knew I was an excellent swimmer. I had never been afraid of the water. I wanted to eat at the greasy, late-night food trucks downtown, but Adrian shook his head. “The bacteria, the low-grade oil—your stomach simply can’t handle that kind of food.” Yet, having grown up in a family that struggled to put food on the table, my childhood had been defined by eating whatever cheap leftovers we could find. My stomach was far more resilient than he cared to admit. I wanted to get a perm, to give my hair some volume and life, but Adrian refused. “Straight hair is classic,” he’d soft-spokenly insist. “It suits your quiet nature.” My friends, however, had always teased me that my pin-straight hair made me look like a washed-out ghost, arguing that it wasted my sharp, expressive features. One afternoon, while organizing some old digital files, I logged into a college email account I hadn’t used in years. An unread message from the city symphony’s recruitment board sat in the archive: “Voluntary Withdrawal from Symphony Violinist Audition.” I stared at the screen, my hands turning cold. Adrian had told me my audition tape had been rejected. He had held me while I cried, telling me the board just didn’t think I was a good fit. Clutching my phone, I drove straight to his office, my mind spinning. But as I reached his door, the sound of muffled weeping from inside stopped me. “If my sister were still here,” a young woman sobbed, her voice raw with grief, “you wouldn’t have to stare at a replacement’s chest just to feel close to her!” The blood rushed to my ears, a violent, throbbing pressure hammering against my ribs. Five years ago, I had received a heart transplant. … I stood outside that door for what felt like an eternity, my legs turning entirely numb, waiting for Adrian to say something. To deny it. To defend us. But before he could speak, I turned and fled. At one in the morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Adrian. It was unusually brief. Just two words. “Working late.” No explanation, no sweet sign-off. It was entirely unlike him. He knew I hated being alone in the house at night and usually went out of his way to keep me updated. Tonight was the exception. I sat in the dark living room, clutching an old Polaroid photo. The paper was worn, depicting a brilliant orange-gold sunset melting over a vast ocean, the warmth of the light stretching beyond the horizon. When I had woken up from my transplant surgery five years ago, someone had left that photo on my bedside table. The nurse told me it belonged to the donor’s fiancé—they were supposed to have been married that very month. I still remembered the profound pity in the nurse’s eyes. “The poor boy loved her to pieces,” she had murmured. “It’s a tragedy, really.” A tragedy. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth, the weight on my chest making it difficult to draw a full breath. With trembling fingers, I opened Adrian’s social media profile and looked at his banner image. It was a brilliant orange-gold sunset over the ocean. An exact match to the Polaroid in my hand. My own profile banner was our wedding photo. On the day we took it, the photographer had told us to look directly into the camera. But right before the shutter clicked, Adrian had suddenly leaned down, pressing his ear flat against my left breast. I had laughed, trying to push him away, but he remained still, his voice thick and raspy when he spoke: “Don’t move. Just for a second.” Even the photographer had been touched. “Oh, that’s beautiful! You can truly tell how desperately Mr. Morton loves his wife.” What I had cherished as a moment of pure romance now felt like a dull blade twisting in my ribs. After sitting awake all night, I finally called Belinda, my closest friend. “Iris? What’s wrong? Is your heart acting up again?” Her voice was tight with immediate concern. “We can’t delay the evaluation for a secondary transplant. What did Adrian say about the hospital’s latest report?” With transplant patients, the reality of chronic rejection is always lingering. For five years, Adrian had been meticulous about my immunosuppressants, watching me swallow them every morning. I used to think it was devotion. I would wrap my arms around his neck, teasingly asking, “Are you really that afraid of losing me?” But the word “losing” had always made his face go pale. He would peel my hands off his neck, his expression turning cold and distant. “I won’t let anything happen to it,” he would say. “To it.” Not “to you”. Two weeks ago, my body had started showing signs of severe rejection. I hadn’t told him yet, terrified of worrying him. I squeezed my eyes shut, my voice barely a whisper. “Belinda… who was the donor? What was her connection to Adrian?” Silence stretched over the line. “You found out?” Belinda asked cautiously. “Did Adrian finally talk to you about it? Has he still not let go of Delilah?” My hand went to my chest. Every beat of my heart felt heavy, a dull ache radiating outward. So her name was Delilah. Hearing my silence, Belinda tried to comfort me. “I know it’s hard, Iris. But no one actually spends their life clinging to a ghost. We’ve all watched him these past five years. He’s taken care of you with more devotion than anyone could have expected.” Maybe she was right. Even if his initial intentions were tied to a ghost, five years of shared life had to mean something. Surely he had let go by now. I hung up, changed my clothes, and left the house. I wanted to prove Belinda right. I wanted to fight for my own life, for my own identity. I went to a local boutique salon. I dyed my hair a rich, warm chestnut and got soft, modern curls. Then I went home, cooked a beautiful dinner, and waited for Adrian. When the front door clicked open, I forced a bright smile. “Adrian, you’re—” The words died in my throat. He wasn’t alone. He leaned down, gently helping a young woman step out of her sneakers before he even looked up at me. When his eyes finally met mine, his pupils contracted, his face tightening instantly. “What did you do to your hair?!” He didn’t even take off his shoes. He strode across the hardwood floor, his hand reaching out to roughly grab a handful of my new curls. “I told you never to touch your hair. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” The sharp tug on my scalp brought hot tears to my eyes. A wave of sheer absurdity washed over me. “I wanted to change it,” I said, my voice shaking. “It’s my hair. Let go, you’re hurting me.” Adrian’s expression grew incredibly dark. “Have you forgotten about your heart—” “Adrian, I’m really thirsty,” a sweet, youthful voice interrupted us. I looked past him toward the entryway. It was the girl from his office. She stood there, poised and entirely comfortable, showing no sign of awkwardness at having walked into a domestic dispute. Adrian’s grip slackened. He turned away from me, his voice softening instantly. “I’ll get you some water. Your hand is still healing, go sit on the couch.” Then he turned back to me, his tone flat and dictatorial. “This is Daisy. She’s the sister of an old friend. She’s going to stay in our guest room until she finds her own apartment.” My nails dug so deep into my palms that they broke the skin. “What friend?” I asked, staring directly into his eyes. “Have I ever met her?” Before Adrian could answer, a soft, mocking laugh came from the living room. “She passed away, Iris. You won’t be meeting her,” Daisy said, her eyes scanning me with blatant condescension. “Though, if she were still here, Adrian would probably be the happiest man in the world.” Despite the obvious malice in her voice, Adrian said nothing to defend me. He simply handed her the glass of water. “Get your hair straightened tomorrow,” he told me, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This look doesn’t suit you.” I bit my lip and said nothing. He took my silence as compliance, just as he always did. “Oh, the camellias are still here!” Daisy squealed, stepping toward the console table. “Don’t touch those!” I blurted out. Adrian was fiercely protective of that plant. Once, I had clipped a single white bloom to use as a centerpiece, and he had reacted with a cold, terrifying fury. It was the first time he had ever raised his voice at me, followed by a month of absolute silence. Even when I bought two expensive, perfectly manicured replacement bushes to apologize, he had refused to look at them. Daisy ignored my warning, plucking a white flower and tucking it behind her ear. “How do I look, Adrian?” Adrian only sighed, a look of mild indulgence on his face as he moved the pot to a safer shelf. My heart sank into a cold, dark void. What was the point of that month of freezing silence he had subjected me to? Why was the boundary so rigid for me, but entirely non-existent for her? Stepping backward, my heel caught the sharp corner of the wooden coffee table. I stumbled, a sharp pain radiating up my ankle as a thin line of blood began to seep onto the floor. Seeing the blood, Adrian’s entire posture went rigid. “How can you be so careless!” He hurried to the closet and grabbed the medical kit. But before he could even kneel beside me, Daisy let out a sharp cry. “Adrian! My hand… I think the cut opened up again!” He dropped the bandages instantly, turning his back on me to rush to her side. “Does it hurt? Let me see. Do we need to go to the hospital?” The blood trickling down my ankle felt ice-cold against my skin. I looked past Adrian’s frantic shoulders and caught Daisy’s triumphant smirk. “Iris,” Adrian said, his brow furrowing slightly as he noticed my gaze. “Daisy’s hands are her livelihood. She’s a classical violinist. She can’t afford any permanent damage. Don’t make a big deal out of this. She’s like a sister to me.” A sister. Of course. If Delilah were alive, he would be her brother-in-law. “Exactly,” Daisy whined, her eyes shining with mock tears. “Adrian promised he’d always take care of me.” I caught my reflection in the glass cabinet—my beautiful, soft curls had been pulled into a messy, tangled bird’s nest. The physical ache in my ankle was nothing compared to the hollow emptiness in my chest. “I don’t want her staying in our house,” I said. Adrian’s jaw tightened. “Iris, stop acting like a child.” Like a child? For wanting boundaries in my own home? Daisy stood up abruptly, her face flushing red. She pushed Adrian away, grabbed the pot of camellias, and marched toward the door. “Fine! I’ll leave! I knew your wife would hate having me here anyway. I’ll just take everything my sister left behind with me, so I don’t offend her precious eyes!” Without hesitation, Adrian lunged forward to stop her. As he rushed past, his shoulder shoved me hard, sending me crashing onto the hardwood floor. My injured ankle twisted beneath me, a sharp burst of agony making me gasp. But his words were far more damaging. “She’s lost her mind over a haircut, Daisy. This is your home. You can stay as long as you want.” Daisy was instantly mollified. Adrian carefully took the camellias from her hands, holding the pot as if it were made of spun glass. My gaze drifted out the window to the garden, where two empty clay pots sat abandoned in the dirt, their contents long since rotted into the soil. So the camellias had belonged to Delilah. The replacements I had bought were discarded like trash, but the plant Adrian held in his arms was treated like a sacred relic. “Adrian,” I whispered from the floor, my voice entirely flat. “Was her sister the only woman you ever truly loved?” The room fell into a suffocating silence. I didn’t expect an answer, but the silence itself was a confirmation that carved out whatever was left of my spirit. When I finally managed to limp up to our bedroom, everything looked different. During our marriage, I had tried so hard to make this house feel like ours. But every piece of decor I brought home would quietly disappear within a few days. “I’m just sentimental,” Adrian had explained at the time. “I like keeping things the way they’ve always been.” He wasn’t sentimental about the furniture. He was keeping the space frozen for her. I was nothing more than a living container, a warm vessel keeping Delilah’s heart beating in a world she had been forced to leave. In the quiet hours of the night, I heard Adrian in the hallway—gently running a bath for Daisy, helping her unpack, making sure she had everything she needed. The tender, protective care that I thought belonged only to me was easily given to someone else. Five years of shared warmth, of late-night conversations and whispered promises, had simply been a side effect of the heart inside me. When Adrian finally came to bed, he pulled me against him, his large, warm palm resting directly over my chest. He held me tightly, ignoring the stiffness of my body, and sighed softly against my neck. “Iris, I didn’t want to lie to you. I only kept it from you because I didn’t want you to worry. When Delilah died in that accident, her biggest fear was leaving Daisy alone. You have such a good heart, Iris. I knew you’d understand.” He spoke with such gentle reasonable certainty that any objection on my part would make me look cruel. I didn’t try to pull away, nor did I argue. But the tears slipped silently from my eyes, soaking into the pillow. The next morning, I found Daisy sitting at the kitchen island, sipping coffee. When I opened the cabinet to grab a mug, my favorite ceramic cup was gone. In its place stood two customized photo mugs. One showed Daisy laughing with a girl who looked remarkably like her. The other showed Adrian and that same girl, their cheeks pressed together, smiling radiantly under a bright summer sun. I closed the cabinet door, the morning light suddenly feeling entirely too bright. Daisy stepped up behind me, reaching past my shoulder to grab one of the mugs. “Do you like this roast, Iris? My sister always insisted on this specific brand.” It was a bitter, dark roast. I had always hated it. Adrian was the one who drank it every morning. “Oh, and those oil paintings in the entryway,” Daisy continued, gesturing toward the hall. “My sister loved that artist. I was so surprised to see them here.” She took one of the framed paintings off the wall and held it up to me, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t it fascinating? Once you fall in love with something, you can never really let it go.” I stared at the heavy, dark canvas. “I don’t like it.” Daisy blinked, caught off guard by my directness. The dark, brooding landscape had always clashed with the minimalist aesthetic I wanted for our home. When I had suggested replacing it, Adrian had looked at me with deep disappointment. “Iris, as my wife, I hoped you would learn to appreciate fine art.” The sound of the front door unlocking broke the silence. Daisy’s expression shifted instantly. With a sudden, violent movement, she slammed the heavy frame against the edge of the console. The glass shattered, raining shards onto the floor. She let out a piercing, terrified shriek. “Iris! Why would you break my sister’s favorite painting?!” Adrian stormed into the hallway, his face instantly contorting with anger. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. “Iris! What is wrong with you? Apologize to Daisy right now!” I looked into his eyes, seeing only raw, defensive hostility. I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Are you demanding this apology for her, Adrian? Or for her sister?” Daisy didn’t wait for a response. She sobbed dramatically and ran out the front door. Adrian released my wrist, his voice cold and disgusted. “Stop this childish jealousy. And go fix your hair.” He shoved a business card for his personal hair stylist into my palm. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned and ran after Daisy. I stood in the quiet hallway, looking down at the card. Without a word, I walked to the kitchen and dropped it into the trash can. I called Belinda. “I’m divorcing Adrian. And please, don’t tell him about my transplant status yet.” Belinda was furious on my behalf, her voice shaking with protective anger. “Do you need me to come over? Do you want me to find someone to deal with him?” I couldn’t help but smile slightly. “No. He probably won’t sign the papers initially. I’m going to contact a lawyer and pack my things tomorrow.” “Why wouldn’t he sign? What right does he have?” I smiled bitterly. She didn’t understand. That heart was his holy grail. He would never let it walk out of his life. I spent the afternoon drafting the divorce agreement, printing it, and signing my name at the bottom. Just as I finished, my phone vibrated. It was a colleague from the symphony association. “Iris, I’m so sorry, but the board rejected your petition to rejoin the first chair. They’ve already filled the position… apparently, your husband wrote a glowing, two-thousand-word recommendation for the new violinist.” The world seemed to tilt. “Who is she?” “A girl named Daisy. She’s taking over the lead chair starting next week.” I couldn’t hear anything else. My eyes drifted to the glass display case in the corner of the room. Inside sat the handcrafted violin Adrian had gifted me when I was “rejected” the first time. “I’ll be your only audience,” he had promised me back then. Tears finally spilled over my cheeks. I walked over, opened the case, grabbed the violin by its neck, and smashed it violently against the edge of the dining table. In the deep quiet of the night, a metallic “snip-snip” sound woke me. I reached up to my head, my fingers meeting short, jagged edges. A cold dread washed down my spine. They were cutting my hair. The soft chestnut curls I had chosen for myself lay scattered across the floor like dead leaves. Adrian stood over me, holding the shears, his expression entirely neutral. Before he could speak, Daisy giggled from the doorway. “I told him the only way I’d forgive him was if we got rid of those ridiculous curls. I didn’t think he’d actually do it!” I sat up, my body shaking with a rage so intense it felt physical. Adrian looked down at me, his voice calm and patronizing. “The chemical perm is bad for your recovery anyway, Iris. I’m doing this for your health.” I stared at him, a ragged laugh escaping my throat. “Come on, Adrian,” Daisy complained, pulling at his sleeve. “I’m starving, and my debut performance is tomorrow. Let’s go get dinner.” Adrian let her pull him toward the door, but he paused at the threshold. “Iris, I bought that lobster bisque you like from the market. And I know you love the violin—I left a ticket for my performance on the counter.” I stared at the hair on the floor. I have a severe shellfish allergy. I am not the one who loves lobster bisque. When I finally finished packing my bags, the photo mug of Adrian and Delilah was sitting on the coffee table. I slid my wedding ring off my finger and dropped it into the cup. I called Belinda one last time. “Let’s schedule the surgery for tomorrow.” I was going to give him back his lover’s heart. From now on, I would only belong to myself. At that exact moment, miles away, Adrian’s phone screen lit up with an automated notification from St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital: “Pre-op verification required for patient Iris Morton.”

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It was exactly eight o’clock in the evening. I was about to click the checkout button on my Nordstrom app for a high-end La Mer skincare set when the screen flashed a bright, clinical red: “Transaction Declined.” Before I could even process the notification, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime audio call from Cassandra Drake, the new Chief Financial Officer my husband, Richard, had hired only two weeks ago. “Hey, Victoria,” Cassandra’s voice came through, dripping with a sweet, calculated condescension. “Just letting you know I’ve suspended your corporate secondary card. Richard asked me to keep a very tight grip on the company’s operating expenses.” “You’re just at home doing light housework, right? It’s not like you have board meetings or charity galas to attend. Frankly, luxury skincare is wasted on you.” “But don’t worry, I just ordered you a fifteen-dollar bottle of Jergens lotion from CVS. It’s on its way. Much more suited to your lifestyle!” She cut the line before I could draw a breath. A second later, a text message arrived on my screen. It was a screenshot of a delivery confirmation, captioned: “Moisturizer for Victoria.” I stared at the screen, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my throat. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it made my head spin. Then, another text popped up: “[Make sure you clear any future purchases with me first!]” I was being told to ask permission from a complete stranger to spend money from my own household’s accounts. The sheer audacity of this woman—using my family’s wealth to lecture me on how to pinch pennies. I forwarded the screenshot directly to Richard. “Fire Cassandra before the end of the day,” I wrote. “Or tomorrow morning, you can pack your bags and go back to driving for Uber in Ohio.” … “Oh, look at that. Running to complain already, Victoria?” Cassandra’s voice was a low, mocking purr when she answered my callback. “Why do you have Richard’s phone?” I demanded, my fingers tightening around the cold metal of my device as I fought to keep my voice level. “Put him on. Now.” “Mr. Moore is in a closed-door meeting, trying to secure a ten-million-dollar deal that actually keeps this company afloat,” Cassandra said, her tone heavy with a smug, self-righteous superiority. “Victoria, while your husband is out here bleeding himself dry to build an empire, you’re sitting comfortably at home. Don’t you think you’re being a little ungrateful?” “I am going to say this exactly once. Unfreeze my cards.” She let out a soft, pitying chuckle. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Richard has fully authorized me to oversee all accounts—both personal and corporate. Oh, and by the way, I went ahead and canceled your memberships at the country club and your private spa. Those refunds have already been routed back into our cash flow ledger. As for that housekeeper of yours? Five thousand dollars a month is an absolute luxury we cannot afford. I let her go this afternoon.” A cold dread crept down my spine. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, suffocating. Who did this woman think she was? “Cassandra, who gave you the authority to dismantle my personal life?” “Richard did,” she said, entirely unfazed. “The company is in a scaling phase. Every dollar needs to be deployed with precision. Your lavish habits are a liability, and I’ve been tasked to curb them. From now on, you will submit your weekly grocery receipts to the finance department. Anything over fifty dollars will require my written approval.” She didn’t even give me a chance to reply, her voice rising in triumph. “Victoria, Richard is a young, brilliant executive with a company valued at over nine figures. Do you have any idea how many young, beautiful, highly educated women are waiting in the wings for a man like him? You only keep the title of Mrs. Moore because he’s sentimental about the past.” The line went dead. When I tried to call back, the call went straight to a automated message. I was blocked. My hands were shaking with a rage so visceral it made my stomach turn. I was reaching for my keys to drive to the office when the front door clicked open. Mary, our live-in housekeeper of four years, stood in the entryway. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she was clutching a worn suitcase. “Mrs. Moore,” Mary whispered, her voice trembling. “That new executive, Miss Drake, called me. She said if I didn’t pack my bags and vacate the premises immediately, she would have me arrested for criminal trespassing. Please… did I do something wrong?” Looking at Mary’s tear-stained face, something inside me snapped. The fragile structure of my patience shattered completely. “You did absolutely nothing wrong, Mary. Put your bags down. No one is throwing you out of this house.” I dialed Richard’s private personal number. “The mobile customer you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.” Beautiful. Truly beautiful. Richard had gotten so drunk on his self-made billionaire persona that he had willingly handed over the keys to his kingdom to an outsider. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my palm. It was the billing department from New York Presbyterian Hospital. “Mrs. Moore, we’re calling regarding your mother’s VIP oncology suite. The automated monthly payment failed this evening due to insufficient funds.” My heart stopped. “What?” “If the balance isn’t cleared by tomorrow morning, we’ll have to pause her immunotherapy and targeted drug treatments. Please come down to the billing office to resolve this as soon as possible.” The room seemed to tilt. My mother had been diagnosed with early-stage lung cancer two weeks ago and was preparing for surgery. Her medical expenses were tied to a dedicated corporate trust account. How could there be insufficient funds? “I’m on my way,” I managed to say. I drove through the city like a woman possessed, the tires screeching as I pulled into the hospital’s parking garage. I practically ran to the oncology wing. But as I neared my mother’s room, I saw two orderlies wheeling her gurney out into the hallway. Standing in the center of the corridor, arms crossed and looking thoroughly pleased with herself, was Cassandra Drake. She was barking orders at the staff. “Move it. A thousand dollars a day for a private room is a ridiculous waste of capital. Get her moved to the shared ward on the fourth floor. A six-bed room won’t kill her.” Rage, hot and blinding, surged through my veins. I lunged forward, grabbing Cassandra by the shoulder and shoving her hard against the wall. “What do you think you’re doing? Who gave you the right to touch my mother?” Cassandra stumbled, her designer heels clicking against the linoleum as she regained her footing. She looked at me with deep disgust. “Victoria, I just finished auditing the corporate accounts,” she sneered, smoothing down her blazer. “A massive amount of company capital is being funneled into this hospital every single month. Your mother is living in luxury on experimental, imported drugs. You’re practically draining Richard dry.” My fists clenched so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. “That is a dedicated medical trust set up by the board, you idiot!” “And you don’t contribute a single dime of your own. It’s all Richard’s hard work,” she countered, rolling her eyes. “I froze that account. Richard agreed that during this expansion, all non-essential liabilities must be cut.” The head nurse stepped forward, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Mrs. Moore, if the payment isn’t cleared, hospital policy dictates…” “If she can’t pay, she goes to the general ward!” Cassandra interrupted, her voice echoing loudly down the hallway, drawing the eyes of patients and visitors alike. “Are you really using your husband’s blood money to give your mother VIP treatment? Most elderly patients do just fine with standard Medicaid. Demanding five-thousand-dollar injections is purely selfish. I’ve already authorized the transfer. The shared ward is only fifty dollars a day.” My mother was trembling on the gurney, her frail hand reaching out to clutch mine. “Victoria…” “Mom, don’t say a word. I’ve got you,” I whispered, squeezing her cold fingers. I turned back to Cassandra, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You are playing with my mother’s life.” “Oh, please, Victoria. Stop trying to guilt-trip Richard. If your family can’t afford healthcare, that’s your problem.” Cassandra reached into her leather tote, pulled out a crumpled stack of twenty-dollar bills, and tossed them at my feet. “Here’s a few hundred bucks of my own money. Go buy her some supplements. Stop being a parasite.” Whispers broke out among the onlookers in the hallway. “She’s spending her husband’s money like water…” “That executive is actually doing her job, protecting the company.” Cassandra smiled, enjoying the audience. She raised her phone, aiming the camera directly at my face. “I’m sending this video to Richard so he can see exactly how hysterical and entitled you are. Once he sees your true colors, he’ll throw you out on the street where you belong.” I looked at her, my expression turning utterly calm. The storm inside me had passed, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. “Keep recording, Cassandra. Make sure you get every frame.” I turned to the head nurse. “Wheel my mother back into her room. The entire balance will be paid in full tomorrow morning.” Cassandra scoffed, but I ignored her, walking past her into my mother’s room and closing the door on her shrieks of protest. The next morning, I took a taxi to the Moore Enterprises headquarters. When the executive elevator doors slid open on the penthouse floor, two burly security guards immediately stepped forward, blocking my path. “The executive level is restricted today, ma’am. No visitors without an appointment.” I looked at them. They were new faces, hired during the recent expansion. “I’m Victoria Moore. Step aside.” “CFO Drake gave strict instructions. There is a high-stakes board meeting today. No unauthorized persons allowed.” Before I could reply, the sound of clicking heels echoed down the marble hallway. Cassandra appeared, surrounded by a entourage of department heads and junior executives. The moment she saw me, her face contorted into a mockingly sweet grin. “Well, look who it is. Our spendthrift first lady.” A few of the department managers let out low, sycophantic snickers. “Who is she, Cassandra?” a young receptionist at the front desk asked, leaning forward. “Oh, just Richard’s useless housewife,” Cassandra announced loudly. “The one who tried to blow thousands of dollars on luxury face creams while the company is trying to manage its debt.” She walked up to me, looking down her nose. “Victoria, if you’re here to beg Richard to reinstate your allowance, save your breath. I manage the treasury now. In this building, my word is law.” “Your word is law?” I let out a soft laugh, my gaze sweeping over the crowd of employees watching the spectacle. “And the rest of you agree with her?” “Of course we do,” the receptionist chimed in, rolling her eyes. “Miss Drake is saving this company millions. Who do you think you are, coming in here and causing a scene?” Cassandra patted her perfectly styled hair, turning to the guards. “Why are you two still standing there? Richard is arriving with our primary investors any minute. Drag this hysterical woman out of here before she ruins our corporate image.” The two guards immediately stepped forward, grabbing my shoulders and forcing my arms behind my back. “Get your hands off me!” I struggled, but my physical strength was no match for two trained security officers. “Accept reality, Victoria,” Cassandra whispered, stepping closer, her voice laced with venom. “Richard is sick of you. You’re a relic of his past. You think you’re still the queen of this castle? Here, Richard is king, and I am the one who controls his wealth.” None of the employees stepped in. They watched me being dragged toward the elevator, whispering and snickering among themselves. “She’s so pathetic.” “Richard deserves someone actually on his level.” “Cassandra and Richard look like a real power couple anyway.” Just then, the chime of the private executive elevator rang out. The doors slid open, and a group of men in bespoke suits stepped out. Leading them was Richard Moore, looking polished, arrogant, and entirely detached. “What is the meaning of this commotion?” Richard barked, his brow furrowing as he took in the scene. Cassandra’s sharp, malicious face transformed instantly. Her eyes welled with tears, and she ran toward him, throwing herself slightly into his space. “Richard! Thank goodness you’re here!” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “Victoria… she barged in here and started screaming. I tried to explain that we had to freeze her cards to protect the company’s capital, but she attacked me. I had to have security step in before she ruined your meeting with the investors.” Richard’s face darkened instantly. He walked over to me, looking at my disheveled hair and the guards holding my arms. There wasn’t a shred of concern in his eyes. Only cold, deep-seated embarrassment. “Victoria, haven’t you embarrassed me enough?” he hissed. “It’s bad enough you act like a spoiled child at home, but bringing your tantrums to my office? Cassandra is a highly paid professional. She froze those accounts under my direct authorization!” I stared at the man I had shared a bed with for five years. A sudden wave of nausea washed over me. “Is this really where you stand, Richard? She cut off my mother’s cancer treatments and fired our housekeeper. Did you authorize that too?” “The company is in a liquidity crunch!” Richard yelled, entirely defensive. “Cassandra is doing her job, trimming the fat! Instead of supporting me, you come here to harass my executives? Apologize to Cassandra. Now.” Cassandra stood behind him, her lips curving into a silent, triumphant smirk. “Victoria,” Richard warned, leaning in. “Apologize to Cassandra and go home. Otherwise, I will cut off your living expenses entirely.” I looked at him, and for the first time in years, I felt absolutely nothing. No anger, no sorrow. Just a clean, empty space. I wrenched my arms free from the guards and stood up straight, smoothing down my coat. “Richard, have you sat in that leather chair so long that you actually forgot whose name is on the deed of this company?” Richard blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What are you talking about? Have you completely lost your mind?” “You’re about to find out.” I pulled out my phone and pressed a speed dial contact. “Walter. Bring the legal team and the forensic auditors up to the penthouse.” Before Richard could speak, the doors of the freight elevator opened. Walter Hughes, the legendary corporate attorney and the second-largest shareholder of Moore Enterprises, stepped out, followed by a dozen men and women in dark suits carrying heavy leather briefcases. Richard’s face drained of color. “Walter? What is this? I didn’t call a board meeting today.” Walter didn’t even look at Richard. He walked straight past him, stopped in front of me, and bowed his head respectfully. “The entire legal and forensic teams are present, Mrs. Moore. We await your instructions.” The lobby fell into a suffocating, dead silence.

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After graduation, I stayed in the South to start my own business. We started with three people in a cramped room; today, we employ over eight hundred. This year, we landed a massive contract. My team spent three exhausting months grinding day and night to pull it off, so I made the executive decision to give every single employee a hundred-dollar monthly raise. But the morning after the HR notice went out, my landlord called. “Hey, Caroline,” Richard said, his voice dripping with easy familiarity. “Next month’s rent is going up by fifteen thousand. Just letting you know so you can prepare.” I froze. Five years ago, this commercial park was practically a wasteland—barren, cheap, and isolated. That was why I planted my company here. Over the past five years, as we grew brick by brick, he raised the rent more than ten times. Every single time, I swallowed my pride and paid. I did it out of respect for family ties—he’s my mother’s cousin—and because I wanted to spare my team the chaos of a relocation. But this time… I forced myself to swallow the rising heat in my chest and speak reasonably. “Richard, commercial rents in this district are dropping. You know the market as well as I do. An extra fifteen thousand a month is completely unreasonable.” “Oh, is the market bad?” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “You just gave eight hundred people a raise, Caroline. That’s eighty grand a month out of your pocket, but suddenly you’re pinching pennies with me?” He scoffed. “If you think it’s too expensive, move. This property is hot now. The whole neighborhood has built up around it. I don’t need to beg you for rent.” I looked at the receiver, visualizing his smug face, completely assured that I would roll over yet again. A strange, cold wave of calm washed over me. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll move.” I hung up and looked out the window at the bustling commercial hub below. I felt a grim smile pull at my lips. Ninety percent of the foot traffic down there existed solely because of my employees. Soon, Richard was going to learn exactly who needed whom. … My assistant, Phoebe, was incredibly efficient. Within three minutes of sending out the relocation memo, our internal Slack channels exploded. Hundreds of messages flooded the screen in a blur of scrolling text. “Wait, what? We’re moving? Just like that?” “Caroline, did something happen? Are we having cash flow issues?” One of my veteran employees, Samantha, wrote: “Caroline, this office is where we built everything. I’m sentimental about this place…” The main channel went quiet for a beat, and then a wave of agreement washed over it. “Exactly. My kid’s daycare is literally next door. What am I supposed to do if we relocate?” I stared at the screen for a long time before typing my response: “Everything is fine. No financial issues. Details on the new location will follow shortly.” The rumors traveled faster than I anticipated. By lunchtime, the panic had spilled over into the retail strip downstairs. First, the owner of the local diner came running up to our office, hovering anxiously by the reception desk. He refused to leave, cornering Phoebe with desperate questions. “Are you guys really leaving? I heard a rumor. Tell me it’s not true.” Phoebe did her best to soothe him and gently ushered him back to the elevator. Right after that, Mia, who owned the corner bodega, sent me a text: “Hey Caroline, I heard a rumor you’re moving. What am I supposed to do? I literally just signed off on a massive inventory order…” Then came the owner of the local café, and even the proprietor of the Italian bistro I had personally helped keep afloat during the construction delays. Everyone was trying to get a straight answer out of me. By mid-afternoon, the chatter reached the local business association group chat—a massive, crowded channel of several hundred merchants where I rarely, if ever, spoke. At three, someone tagged me directly: “Caroline, are you guys actually relocating? What’s going on? Give us some clarity here.” I stared at the blinking cursor, thought about it, and typed: “The landlord is raising our rent. We can’t afford to stay.” The chat erupted. “How much of a raise?” “Fifteen thousand. Monthly.” “Fifteen grand?! Is Richard Crawford out of his mind?” “No office space in this zip code is worth that. Half the buildings down the street are sitting empty…” The merchants immediately turned their anger toward the landlord. I watched the screen, feeling a brief, fleeting sense of relief. Then, Richard joined the chat. “What are you all getting so worked up about?” “Caroline just handed her eight hundred employees a hundred-dollar raise. That’s eighty thousand dollars a month in extra overhead, but she’s crying poor over fifteen grand for the space that houses them. Who’s being unreasonable here?” The chat went silent. Then he added: “Besides, inflation is hitting everyone. It’s about time you all raised your prices anyway.” In the heavy silence that followed, the tide began to turn. A few merchants started singing a different tune. “Honestly, Caroline, your company is massive. Fifteen grand is a drop in the bucket for you. Why drag your employees through a move over a drop in the bucket?” “We run small businesses here. If your team leaves, we’re ruined…” “Maybe you should take a deep breath, Caroline. Go back to the table and work it out with Richard.” I scrolled through the messages, one by one, feeling a profound chill seep into my bones. I remembered every single one of those names. The bistro owner—six months ago, his business was on the verge of bankruptcy. I had our administrative team set up a feedback group, encouraging our staff to dine there and leave suggestions to help him revamp his menu. That was the only reason his kitchen was still open. The bodega owner—she had zero foot traffic when she first opened. I authorized an exclusive corporate supply agreement with her, routing all our office snack and pantry purchases through her store just to keep her afloat. The café—I had personally invested my own capital to help them franchise. And now, they were tagging me, telling me to “look at the bigger picture.” “Don’t ruin good relations over a little bit of money, Caroline.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. People are truly frustrating. Suddenly, my private messages pinged. It was the owner of the little flower shop I frequented. She sent a quiet, tentative emoji: “Are you doing okay, Caroline?” Looking at her message, the tight knot in my chest loosened slightly. I closed the app and dialed a number. “What do we have on the market?” I asked my commercial broker. “The faster we can move, the better.” When my broker, Joe, sent over the listings for the fifth potential property, I took one look at the photos and set my phone face down on the desk. “Caroline, I’ve literally scoured this entire sector for you,” Joe sighed over the line. “Either the square footage is a joke, or the lease terms are even more ridiculous than what you have now.” “I’ll be honest with you,” Joe lowered his voice, his tone shifting to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yesterday, I went to inspect that building on the east side. Everything was lined up perfectly, but this morning, the owner suddenly called and jacked up the rate by twenty percent.” “I asked him what changed, and he got incredibly vague. Said the market here is tight right now.” I was quiet. “That building’s vacancy rate literally crossed forty percent last month. Tight?” Joe didn’t answer, but the silence spoke volumes. Richard might be an aging, small-time landlord, but he still had his old boys’ network. And his phone calls were working. Over the next two days, I expanded my search, looking further out toward the southern suburbs, but the results were the same. The moment a commercial agent heard the name of my company, the price miraculously spiked. It was as if the entire city knew I was desperate to escape. My HR director, Helen, knocked on my office door. Her expression was strained. “Caroline, I have some updates. And they aren’t great.” She stepped inside and shut the door. “Kyle from Tech, Tyler from Supply Chain, and Samantha, our senior sales lead…” “They all submitted their resignations this morning.” I flinched. Kyle was one of the original three who had helped me build this company from a garage. Tyler was a high-priced executive I had spent months headhunting last year. Samantha had been with me for six years. “They cited personal reasons on paper,” Helen paused, chewing her lip. “But off the record? They’re terrified of the relocation. They think the company is unstable.” “There are rumors going around that you’re uprooting eight hundred lives just to win a petty feud with a landlord. People are worried this is how you’ll handle crisis management in the future.” I nodded slowly, keeping my face blank. “I understand.” The calls from our key accounts began shortly after. It was Tom Davis, a client of three years. We had ironed out a major contract renewal at the beginning of the year, and we were just waiting on final signatures. “Hey, Caroline. I’ve been hearing some rumblings down your way. Your staff is talking about a massive move?” “Yes, we have relocation plans.” “Right… Well, regarding the renewal contract, I think we might want to hold off on signing for now. Just to see how things settle down? No rush, of course.” I hung up the phone and leaned back against my chair, a dull ache throbbing behind my temples. “Caroline, I ran the numbers.” Charles, our CFO, walked in next, sliding a spreadsheet across my desk. “If we move by the end of the month, factoring in the lost security deposit, tenant improvements for a new space, and the actual moving logistics… the upfront capital requirement looks like this. I want you to be prepared.” I glanced down at the bottom line. “It’s nearly double what the rent increase would cost us for an entire year,” Charles noted quietly. The office fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. He hesitated, choosing his words with extreme care. “So… I was wondering if we should put the employee raise on hold for now? Just until the dust settles. We can explain the situation to the team. I’m sure they’ll understand.” Before I could reply, my phone lit up. It was a text from Richard. “Hey kiddo, heard you’ve been house-hunting for a few days. Find anything nice?” “If you want my advice, stop running around. If you keep dragging this out, it’s not going to be fifteen grand anymore.” He appended a smug, yellow smiley face. I didn’t reply. I looked up at Helen and Charles. “The raises go through as planned. Not a penny less, and it hits everyone’s accounts this month.” Charles opened his mouth to object, but I raised a hand, cutting him off. “Additionally, Helen, I want HR to issue an announcement today.” “Tell everyone that the new headquarters will be in a far more convenient location. The commute will be easier, the amenities will be better, and their quality of life will improve. Give them peace of mind.” “As for those who want to leave… let them go. Don’t fight them. Give them a generous severance package. We part on good terms.” Helen blinked, momentarily stunned, before nodding. “Understood.” The two of them exchanged a look, realized my mind was made up, and quietly exited. Once the door clicked shut, I pulled up my messages and sent a text to Phoebe: “Stop looking at the listings. Set up a walkthrough for the building we discussed last week. We’re going tomorrow morning.” The next morning, I walked into my office to find three people already waiting on my sofa. Richard was occupying the center cushion, legs crossed, wearing a look of absolute triumph. My parents were flanking him. The moment my mother saw me, she stood up, rushing over to grasp my hands. “Caroline, Richard says you’re trying to move the company! Why on earth would you do that? You’ve been so happy here for years.” My father remained on the couch, his face dark and disapproving as he stared me down. “Mom, Dad, what are you doing here?” “Uncle Richard called us,” my mother whispered, squeezing my fingers. “He said you were throwing a tantrum over a rent negotiation. I had to come see what was going on.” “Caroline, Richard is family. He practically gave you this space for free when you were just starting out. Have you forgotten that?” I looked over her shoulder at Richard. He gave me a lazy, mocking smirk but remained silent. “Mom,” I said, keeping my voice as flat and even as possible. “He gave me a discount years ago, yes. I acknowledge that. But in the five years since, he has raised my rent more than ten times, and I paid every single increase without complaint.” “Now, commercial rates are dropping everywhere, and he wants an extra fifteen thousand a month. I’m not being difficult; he’s being extortive.” “What is fifteen thousand dollars to you?” my father interjected, his voice booming. “You run a company of eight hundred people. You’re telling me you can’t afford that?” “It’s not about what I can afford, Dad. It’s about business.” “Business?” My father slammed his hand down on the coffee table. “The man helped us when we had nothing, and now you’re talking about ‘business’? Your wings have grown too big, Caroline. You have zero respect for family.” Richard chimed in, his tone dripping with false benevolence. “Come on, Frank, don’t get worked up. She’s young. She’s built a little business, she thinks she’s a big shot now. It’s natural.” His words were polite, but the condescension in his eyes was sickening. My mother pulled at my sleeve. “Caroline, please. Just listen to us. It’s just fifteen thousand dollars. You’ve always been such a good, obedient girl. Why are you acting like this now?” “Mom, this isn’t about being obedient.” “Then you’re doing this out of pure spite!” my father roared, standing up. “When your brother wanted a job at your company, you shut him out, and we let it go. You’ve been making all this money for years, and what has this family ever seen of it?” “And now you’re showing this level of disrespect to your elders over a rent check? Do you even care about this family?” I took a slow, deep breath, feeling the coldness settle deep in my chest. “Brad wanted an executive role. He has no qualifications, Dad. What exactly was he going to do here?” I looked directly into my father’s eyes. “And as for family… who paid for Brad’s wedding? I did. Who put down the fifty-thousand-dollar down payment on his house? I did.” “Who covered your entire heart surgery out of pocket? I paid every single medical bill. And the monthly allowance I send to your account—where do you think that money comes from?” My father’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. His jaw worked, but no words came out. Richard let out a sharp, mocking scoff. “Jesus, Frank. Your daughter really thinks she owns you because of her bank account. If she were my kid, I’d have slapped that smug look off her face years ago.” The air in the room turned to ice. In the next fraction of a second, my father’s hand swung. I didn’t even have time to turn my head before his palm cracked against my cheek. My mother shrieked, throwing herself between us to hold him back. “Are you insane?!” My father stood there, his hand trembling in mid-air, his chest heaving. The anger in his eyes suddenly flickered, replaced by a desperate, pleading gaze. “Caroline… just… just do what your Uncle Richard wants…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. I didn’t say a word. My cheek burned, a sharp, searing heat radiating across my skin. Richard stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his trousers, acting as if he were the bigger man. “Alright, alright. Tell you what, I’ll shave a bit off your utility fees. I know you’ve been looking at that plot in Southside. You know what a dump that neighborhood is.” “Just wire the rent over, and we’ll pretend none of this happened. You’re a woman, Caroline. Being this aggressive isn’t a good look.” I stared at him, and slowly, a smile touched my lips. “You think Southside is a wasteland, Uncle Richard?” “Five years ago, when I moved my company here, this place was a wasteland too.” “What makes you think that once I move, Southside won’t become the new center of the map?” Richard’s smirk froze. He let out a harsh, irritated grunt, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the office. My mother looked at me, then at my father, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and shame. Without a word, she grabbed his arm and dragged him out behind Richard. The silence of the empty office rushed back in. I walked over to the window, lightly touching the side of my face. It felt like fire. I pulled out my phone and dialed Joe’s number. “The building in Southside,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “I want it. We sign the lease this week.” The final days at the old building were chaotic. Seven more employees resigned. When Helen handed me the list, I felt entirely numb. During their exit interviews, they couldn’t even look me in the eye, mumbling whispered apologies. “I’m sorry, Caroline.” On the client side, things were noisier. A few more partners called, and I returned every single message, reassuring them that the transition would not disrupt operations and that our deliverables would be met on time. They gave polite, non-committal murmurs, but none of them brought up signing the pending contracts. Then, the internet started talking. A local business blog published an editorial. The headline read: “Ego Over Economy: Why One Local CEO Is Uprooting Eight Hundred Employees Over a Rent Dispute.” The comments section was a swamp of judgment: “Petty,” “Short-sighted,” “She won’t last another year.” We scheduled the move for Friday evening. I had Phoebe arrange a fleet of moving trucks and shuttle buses. The staff was instructed to board the shuttles directly after hours, while the moving company handled the heavy packing overnight. On Thursday night, around eleven, I drove past the office building one last time. When we first leased it five years ago, the concrete still smelled fresh. The framed photos of our very first team members, hanging in the lobby, had long since faded under the fluorescent lights. Downstairs, the shopfronts were still brightly lit, looking exactly as they always did. By six on Friday evening, employees were carrying their packed boxes down to the curb. I stood by the entrance, watching the line of shuttle buses idle by the curb. Richard appeared out of nowhere, a lit cigarette dangling from his lip, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at me like I was a petulant child who would eventually learn her lesson. He made sure to raise his voice so the staff could hear. “Moving to Southside? Your boss sure knows how to pick ’em. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the space open for when she comes begging to move back.” A few employees carrying boxes glanced at him, but no one spoke. One of our junior designers, a kid named Marcus, murmured as he passed me: “Don’t listen to him, Caroline.” Richard stood there, watching the building grow emptier by the minute. For a split second, a shadow of panic crossed his face. But then he remembered the phone calls he’d made, the assurances he’d locked in with his network. The smug, self-satisfied grin returned to his face. By the time the last box was loaded, night had fallen. The final shuttle bus rumbled to life. I cast one final look at the five-story office building. Almost every window was dark. Richard was still standing on the pavement, his face bathed in the harsh, mocking glow of the streetlamp. I turned and stepped onto the bus. The drive was short, the shuttle navigating the highways quickly. When the doors hissed open at our destination, a collective gasp rippled through the front rows of the bus. Then, the chatter erupted. Phoebe stood beside me, her phone already snapping a photo to upload to our company Slack. She looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the bright, modern lights of our new home. “Caroline… this is incredible. It’s lightyears ahead of the old place.” I didn’t say anything immediately. I just stood there, taking in the towering structure. Behind me, employees poured off the buses, phones raised to capture the view. Someone snapped a photo and posted it directly into the local merchants’ group chat. Within three seconds, the chat went wild. The next morning, at six on the dot, Richard’s phone rang. “I’m breaking my lease,” the caller said, without preamble. And then came another. “Richard, we’ve talked it over. The moment our lease is up, we’re out. There’s going to be zero foot traffic in this park without Prescott’s employees.” Richard stared at his phone. On the screen was a photo someone had forwarded to him—a shot of our new building. The device slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the tiled floor. The blood drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, pale color. He collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly ahead. “No… that’s impossible… it’s impossible…”

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My girlfriend, Lauren, once told me she could see a number floating above people’s heads. A “need index” from some cosmic system, she called it. A real-time gauge of how much they depended on her. In the beginning, she looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, her voice trembling. “Your number is only thirty, Ian. Do you even love me?” I told her, “Not needing someone to survive doesn’t mean you don’t love them.” But then the shifts started. She began holding her umbrella over her assistant, Connor, in the middle of a downpour, driving miles out of her way to drop him off at his apartment. When I asked her about it, she brushed it off. “Don’t overthink it. His number was in the high seventies. He just really needed the help.” It went on like that until the day I lay in bed, burning with a fever, while she chose to go shopping with him. “Your number is low,” she said, her hand already on the doorknob. “He’s in a crisis right now. I’ll help him finish buying his things, and then I’ll come right back to take care of you.” She pulled the door shut. I closed my eyes, letting the quiet settle into my bones, and reached for my phone. “Dad,” I murmured into the receiver. “For the holidays this year… I’m coming home alone.” … I didn’t know how long I slept, but a parched throat eventually woke me. The soft beep of the front door’s smart lock echoed through the apartment. I didn’t turn around. Lauren stepped in, her slippers making quiet, heavy thuds against the floor before she stopped just behind me. “How are you feeling? You didn’t reply to my texts.” I stayed silent. She stepped closer, reaching out to touch my forehead. As she leaned in, a faint scent drifted from her clothes—the distinct, woodsy cologne that Connor always wore. I pulled my face away. Her hand froze in midair, stiffening for a second before slowly dropping to her side. “Right,” she said, her voice dropping to a cool, detached register. “Looking at your number, I shouldn’t have worried.” Her eyes drifted upward, lingering on the empty space just above my head. Always there. “Can’t you just turn it off?” My voice was raspy, like coarse sandpaper. “Can’t you just look at “me”?” I remembered her telling me once that the system could be disabled. Lauren fell silent for a few seconds, offering no answer. Instead, she set a plastic bag down on the coffee table. “Fever meds. Take them.” I waited a moment, then dragged myself over to the table and crouched down. My hands were shaking so badly I struggled to untie the tight knot in the plastic. “Connor got them for you,” she added. “He knew you were sick and grabbed them on his way back.” My fingers kept fumbling with the plastic. If this had happened a few months ago, I probably would have pushed the bag back across the table and told her I could buy my own medicine. But today, the exhaustion was crushing. Even a plastic knot felt like an opponent I didn’t have the strength to fight. She stood over me, watching my clumsy attempts, before speaking again. “Try to be a little nicer to him. He’s just a sweet kid, fresh out of college. He doesn’t have your experience.” The bag finally gave way, revealing a box of Advil, DayQuil, and some cooling gel sheets. And two slips of paper. One was a receipt from the local pharmacy; the other was a purchase slip from a luxury jewelry boutique. The timestamp read 4:24 PM. The total was a number with too many digits. I stared at the jewelry receipt for two seconds, said nothing, and tucked it back beneath the medicine boxes. I peeled open a cooling sheet and pressed it to my forehead. The icy chill sank into my skin, offering a brief, numbing counterpoint to the throbbing in my temples. I stood up and walked toward the bedroom. “I’m tired. Sleep in the guest room tonight.” Without waiting for her reply, I shut the door and lay back down on the bed. The apartment fell into a heavy quiet. Sometime later, the phone rang in the living room. Lauren answered it, her voice dropping to a low murmur, punctuated by soft, easy laughter that gradually drifted further away. Then, the front door clicked shut. I turned onto my side, facing the blank wall, and pulled the duvet over my head. The phone vibrated beneath my pillow. I left it there. By the next morning, the fever had broken, though my throat still felt raw. I leaned against the headboard and pulled out my phone. The vibration from the night before had been a voice note from my dad. I tapped play. “Lauren’s not coming with you? Is she busy? That’s fine, work is important. We can always see each other next time. Don’t worry about me, son.” His voice was full of heavy pauses, though he tried to end on a cheerful note. I stared at the screen for a long time, scrolling upward through our chat. He had sent several photos of himself trying on clothes in front of a dusty mirror. A man who never bought anything for himself had tried on four different outfits, asking which one looked best for meeting his future daughter-in-law. There were also photos of food. He had practiced making pot roast because Lauren had mentioned liking it during a phone call months ago. “I’m getting better at it,” he had written. “She’ll love it.” I could hear the eager, hopeful smile in his voice. I swallowed hard, listening to the voice note one more time, before typing back a brief reply: “She’s just really busy lately.” When I finally stepped out of the bedroom, Lauren was already gone. The plastic bag on the coffee table had been cleared away, the medicine boxes neatly arranged in its place. Next to them sat a bag of bagels and a cold latte. As I walked past the trash can, I caught a glimpse of the crumpled luxury receipt sitting right on top of the garbage. On the counter, a sticky note read: “Don’t forget to eat breakfast.” She hadn’t bought me breakfast in months. Ever since she bound that system, she seemed to view tending to my needs as a waste of energy. Yet here she was, doing it again. I touched the bagel. It was ice-cold. I warmed it in the microwave, but every bite felt like swallowing glass. I stood there and forced myself to finish it. When I drove into the office parking lot, I spotted Connor stepping out of Lauren’s passenger seat. He was holding a bag of hot takeout, blowing on his fingers to cool them down. Lauren locked the car and walked beside him. Neither of them looked in my direction as they headed into the elevator lobby. Around noon, I ran into Connor in the hallway. He looked as if he had been waiting for me. He hurried over, grabbing my arm. “Ian! Lauren asked me to pick out a holiday gift for her family. I’m terrible at this. Can you take a look?” He thrust his phone toward me. The screen showed his text thread with Lauren. Her contact name was saved as “Boss” followed by a blowing-kiss emoji. I didn’t say anything. He scrolled up, showing me page after page of shopping screenshots. Under each one, he had typed questions: “Would your dad like this?” “Does your stepmom prefer red or navy?” Lauren’s replies were short and indifferent: “Sure,” “Fine,” or “You decide.” I glanced at the prices. Combined, the gifts didn’t cost a fraction of the amount on the receipt I’d seen in the trash. At the very top of the screen, there was a message from Lauren: “Just something simple is fine. Old people don’t need expensive things.” Connor’s thumb froze on the screen, as if he had only just realized I could see that part of the conversation. His expression turned awkward, a forced smile plastering onto his face. “Lauren is just… trying to save money,” he mumbled. “She works so hard, you know.” I looked at him, his synthetic smile unwavering. “She does,” I said flatly. “So don’t bother buying anything.” His smile faltered. I stepped past him and walked away. When I got home that evening, Lauren was sitting on the living room sofa, her phone screen going dark just as I entered. She didn’t waste any time. “Did you pick on Connor today?” I paused, my hand on my shoes, looking at her from across the room. “He told you?” “He said you told him not to buy the gifts. He spent all day researching them. Why would you throw his kindness back in his face like that?” She let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult.” I straightened up and placed my shoes on the rack. Sitting on top of the cabinet were two paper bags from a cheap department store—the exact items Connor had shown me on his phone. They had already been bought. “Kindness?” I asked, walking into the living room. “He did that research on company time, didn’t he? You pay him for that.” Lauren frowned. “And besides,” I continued, “why is my secretary picking out holiday gifts for “my” parents?” She stayed silent for a moment before replying, “I just thought a younger guy might have a better sense of what people actually want.” She paused, her voice dropping an octave. “And I asked you last month what we should get them, and you just said ‘anything.’ Your need index was only thirty-four when you said that, Ian. Connor just wanted me to buy him a coffee, and his number was seventy. You clearly didn’t even care about the gifts. Why are you picking a fight over this now?” I stared at her. The warm, low light of the living room cast a sharp shadow across her jawline. Her eyes weren’t looking at me—they were fixed on the empty air just above my head. Always measuring. Always calculating. “Thirty-four.” She used to know exactly why I was like this. My biological mother was a violent alcoholic. After she split my dad’s lip so badly he couldn’t speak normally for two weeks, I learned to make myself invisible. My stepmother was a kind, gentle woman, but the instinct to never impose, to never ask for anything, was already baked into my bones. I remembered high school, sitting on the cold bleachers, overhearing a group of classmates nearby. “He acts like he’s too good for everyone. I offered to help him carry his books and he practically ran away.” “Just a stuck-up prick. Good intentions are wasted on him.” “Don’t you know? His mom was a drunk who beat him, and his dad remarried.” “No wonder he’s so weird. Who would actually want to be friends with him?” They hadn’t named me, but they didn’t have to. Then Lauren’s voice had cut through the whispers, sharp and clear. “But he gets top marks in every single class. He does it all on his own. Don’t you think that’s incredibly brave? I admire him. Could any of you do what he does?” Later, when we fell in love and I finally gathered the courage to tell her about my past, she had held me tightly, as if trying to shield a child. I was a head taller than her, and I had to look down to see her face. She had looked into my eyes and whispered, “You’re independent because you had to survive, Ian. But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore. I love who you are. Do whatever you want, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Then, she added five words I never forgot: “I’ll hold you up. I’ve got you.” I had lived by those words for years. I wasn’t that scared kid anymore, but letting myself depend on someone was still the hardest thing in the world. Lauren was the only person who had ever made me want to try. But she had forgotten all of it. A system, some numbers, and six months were all it took to erase it. I didn’t bother explaining. I turned to walk back to the bedroom. As I passed the sofa, she grabbed my wrist. Her grip was tight, but her fingers were trembling. “Ian… why did your number drop so much?” She stared at me, panic flickering in her eyes. I paused. “How much?” Her mouth opened, but the words seemed to catch in her throat before escaping. “…Fifteen.” “So there’s still fifteen left,” I said quietly, looking down at her hand on my wrist. “Does fifteen or thirty actually make a difference to you?” Silence fell over the room, stretching like a wire pulled to its absolute limit. Then, she let out a cold, bitter laugh. “Right. No difference. You wanted me to turn your numbers off? Fine. Consider them off. They only stress me out anyway. Don’t expect me to care about your needs anymore.” She stared at me, searching my face for some kind of crack. “Okay,” I said. Her grip tightened further, her knuckles turning white. It hurt. “Are you done? Can you let me go now?” “…” “Let go.” She slowly released her grip. I turned away. “Do you even want me to go home with you for Christmas?” her voice rose suddenly, sharp and loud. I stopped, keeping my back to her. “I literally put a major project on hold for this trip. If this is going to be your attitude, I’m not going.” She paused, waiting for me to turn around, to beg, to explain. I didn’t. She kept going, her pace quickening. “That project is too much for Connor to handle alone. He’ll be working through the holidays. I already feel terrible about it. I can only imagine how high his need index will be—” “—probably over eighty by then,” I finished for her. The room went dead silent. I stared at the blank wall at the end of the hallway. Smooth, sterile, unyielding. I had already bought my ticket home. Alone. But hearing her say she wasn’t coming still left a cold, hollow ache in my chest. I remembered last Christmas. She had rested her head on my shoulder, her ears flushed red, asking when we could make it official. “Give me a title, Ian,” she had teased. Now… I turned around. “Lauren.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “If his number gets high enough… high enough that he wants to sleep with you. Will you do it?” She didn’t speak. A moment later, she let out a short, scoffing laugh, as if she had just heard something utterly absurd. “Ian,” she said, her tone icy. “Do you hear yourself?” I didn’t answer. “Connor and I are boss and employee. He works hard, he helps out, and you turn it into some cheap affair? Me showing some basic care to my staff is cheating to you?” Was it just “basic care”? The umbrella, the rides, the lattes, the luxury necklace. Those were just the things I had happened to see. “I’m asking about the system. If that day comes, what do you choose?” “You’re putting me on trial for a hypothetical?” She laughed, frustrated. “Then let me ask you: if you weren’t so paranoid, would we even be fighting like this?” She stepped closer. “Have some empathy. Imagine being a kid fresh out of school, and your boss treats you like dirt. How would he feel?” I looked at her. “You’ve never asked how I feel.” “I can see how you feel! It’s right there in that pathetic little number above your head! What do you want me to do? Beg for the attention of someone who doesn’t even want it?” Her chest heaved. “Just give me a straight answer. Is it that hard?” She glared at me, her breathing ragged. “No! I wouldn’t! Happy now?” She stormed over to the entryway, grabbed her boots, and snatched the two cheap gift bags from the rack, slamming them onto the floor. “I’m leaving on a two-week business trip. I won’t be back until after Christmas.” She opened the door. “You better think long and hard about this if you still want me to show up at your dad’s place.” The door slammed shut so hard the walls vibrated. Then, silence. I stared at the door for a long time before turning back. It was better this way. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at my hands. I had been clenching them so hard that the color hadn’t returned to my fingers. They felt numb, but I knew the feeling would come back eventually. I began to pack. I had lived in this apartment for two years, but everything I owned fit into a few storage bags. The next morning, I handed in my resignation. The HR manager joked, “Going to be a house husband now?” I smiled, not correcting him. “Just don’t tell Lauren yet.” During my final days, I went to work as usual. Nobody noticed anything different. On my last day, I took my accumulated leave. I spent the afternoon buying Christmas gifts for my parents. When I returned to the apartment, only my single suitcase remained. I walked over to the front door’s keypad and pressed the reset sequence. “Fingerprint deleted,” the system chimed softly. I looked back one last time. The decorative pillows were perfectly aligned on the sofa. The box of Advil sat on the coffee table. I left everything she had ever bought me behind. The wheels of my suitcase rolled over the threshold. I pulled the door shut, quietly, letting the latch click into place without a sound.

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For our third attempt at a wedding, Garrett once again pulled the vintage Rolls-Royce up to the curb of my best friend’s brownstone. When I questioned him, his brow furrowed with familiar impatience. “Does it really have to be a federal case every single time? Are you the bride, Hannah, or is Serena the maid of honor? What difference does it make who I pick up first?” “You’re sitting in the back anyway. It’s the exact same ride. Just be good and stop making a mountain out of a molehill.” I froze, my gaze landing on the slender silhouette sitting comfortably in the passenger seat. Serena. My best friend, and Garrett’s ex-girlfriend. On her ring finger, the diamond caught the morning light. It was the same ring Garrett had “mistakenly” given her during our first wedding attempt. “I must have mixed up your sizes. Let Serena wear it for today to spread the good energy, okay? Be good, Hannah, I’ll buy you a new one later.” Even the designer silk gown she wore was the one Garrett had “mistakenly” delivered to her house for our second wedding attempt. “Since it’s already tailored to her, let Serena just wear it as her maid-of-honor dress. Be good, Hannah, I’ll take you back to the bridal shop next week to pick out an even better one.” I had spent six months preparing that dress, taking dozens of half-days off work to perfect every seam and lace detail. Remembering my tears and the quiet breakdowns from those first two failed weddings, Garrett rubbed the bridge of his nose, braced for another one of my quiet storms. But this time, I only felt a strange, hollow sense of relief. Because two days ago, I had “mistakenly” sent the confirmation details for our City Hall marriage license appointment to my ex-boyfriend instead. And right now, he was already driving a getaway car of his own, heading this way to steal the bride. It worked out perfectly. Today, all four of us would finally get the marriages we actually wanted. … Halfway to the venue, my stomach began to churn violently. I grabbed a paper bag from the seat pocket, dry-heaving into it. Garrett immediately glanced back, his eyes tight with worry. But when he spoke, his voice was a hushed whisper: “Keep it down. Serena’s sleeping.” I stared at him, numb. Garrett knew exactly why I was sick. He knew better than anyone that I had a severe, life-threatening allergy to motion sickness medication. Yet earlier, when Serena had handed me a bottle of water, he had watched me drink it down before murmuring with a slight hesitation: “Serena knew you get carsick and hate swallowing pills, so she was sweet enough to dissolve one in your water.” The fact that I was only nauseous right now, and not in anaphylactic shock, was a miracle. Eventually, the car rolled to a stop outside the reception hall. Following a script he had run a dozen times before, Garrett stepped out and immediately opened the passenger door for Serena. The waiting media herd swarmed them instantly, cameras flashing in a frenzy. “Is this the lovely bride, Miss Hannah? Absolutely stunning! Look at how cherished she is—true love indeed!” I couldn’t blame them for the mistake. I had spent five years dreaming of this day. Every detail—from the venue styling to the floral arrangements—had been planned entirely by me. But Garrett had handed all of it to Serena on a silver platter. A beautifully made-up woman sitting in the front seat, helped out of the car by the groom himself, looked infinitely more like a bride than the pale, shaking ghost left behind in the back seat. I swallowed the bitter taste in my throat and slipped out of the other side of the car. I had only taken two steps before Garrett caught up, grabbing my wrist. “What is your problem now? Just because I didn’t stop the car to let you switch seats?” “You know how sensitive Serena is about her boundaries. If she realized she took your spot and forced you to sit in the back, she’d blame herself for weeks.” My lips parted, but no sound came out. Right. Serena’s feelings were always the priority, lest she feel a moment of guilt. So my stolen engagement ring became a generous gift to “spread good energy.” The wedding gown I designed became a custom-made bridesmaid dress. Even the wrong parking spots, the wrong seating arrangements, and the endless delays of our actual wedding day—Garrett explained them all away as my own stage fright, claiming I had begged Serena to step in and take the pressure off me. A quiet ache bloomed in my chest. I looked up at him. “Garrett, do I look like the bride of this wedding to you?” He blinked, his handsome features tightening into a scowl. “Can you please grow up? Serena flew back from Paris three months early just to be here for you. Now you’re throwing a tantrum, saying you don’t want to be the bride? What is she supposed to do?” “Garrett, if Hannah doesn’t want to do this, she shouldn’t have to,” Serena said, stepping between us. Her tone was soft, protective, and completely reasonable. “I can stand in for her for the ceremony so the guests aren’t confused. You two can just sign the legal papers later.” Garrett reached out and took her hand. The movement was so natural, so practiced. “Fine. Let her do what she wants. She’s always throwing these little fits at the worst times, making everyone walk on eggshells. You’re the only one who tolerates her.” “Hannah only has us,” Serena murmured, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We should be patient with her.” They traded soft words, turning their backs to me as they walked hand-in-hand into the grand ballroom. But Garrett seemed to have forgotten that when he was in that horrific car crash years ago, I was the one who threw my body over his to shield him from the glass. And Serena seemed to have forgotten that when her family tried to ruin her reputation and safety during their corporate feud, I was the one who took a physical blow for her. Years had passed, and the fierce loyalty I had poured into my friendship and my love had been reduced to a dismissive, “She’s got a small heart and a terrible temper.” I stood before the welcome sign—”The Wedding of Garrett and Hannah”—for five long minutes. The irony of it was suffocating. The hives on my neck were beginning to bleed from where I had scratched them. The allergy was clawing its way through my system. I pulled out my phone, booked an outpatient appointment at the hospital, and turned to hail a cab. But before I could open the taxi door, two of Garrett’s private security guards blocked my path. “Sir’s orders, ma’am. You can’t leave. Miss Serena will worry if she can’t find you.” By the time they dragged me back inside, Serena had already changed into a stunning silk reception dress. She was floating through the crowd on Garrett’s arm, raising glasses to the guests. Whispers of “the perfect couple” drifted through the air, as if this had always been their wedding. I gripped the edge of a table, my chest tightening as the room spun. I needed to get out. But before I could send a text, Serena appeared in front of me, holding a crystal glass with effortless grace. “Hannah, a toast. To our friendship. You will always be my sister.” Garrett naturally took the glass from Serena’s hand and held it out to me, replacing hers with a glass of sparkling water. Serena laughed softly. “You’re overprotecting me again. I can handle a sip of champagne.” I stared at the amber liquid in front of me. The nausea was rising, my vision blurring at the edges. “I can’t. I’m not feeling well.” Garrett didn’t seem to hear me. “Be good, Hannah. Don’t embarrass Serena in front of everyone.” Seeing my hesitation, Serena quickly spoke up. “It’s fine, Garrett. If Hannah doesn’t want to drink, she doesn’t have to.” “No, she does.” Garrett’s smile remained intact for the surrounding guests, but his voice dropped to a cold, warning whisper. “Hannah, it’s one glass of champagne. Your tolerance isn’t this low.” I looked up at him, disbelieving, my eyes stinging. “Garrett, if I drink this right now, I might end up in the ICU. Do you still want me to drink it?” He frowned, looking at me like I was a hysterical child. “Are you really going to use dramatic threats to ruin everyone’s night?” My throat closed up, not from the allergy, but from the sudden, sharp realization of what I was to him. I didn’t say another word. I reached out with a trembling hand, took the glass, and downed it in one swallow. The alcohol burned like fire against my swollen throat. I broke into a violent, racking cough. Garrett reached out to pat my back, but I shoved him away with every ounce of strength I had left. “Hannah!” Garrett pulled Serena back, his face darkening with irritation. “Leave her. She always demands that everyone cater to her drama. It’s embarrassing.” I left their voices behind, stumbling blindly into the corridor and collapsing into the nearest restroom stall. I retched until my throat tasted like copper and bile. By the time the black spots cleared from my vision, the noise from the grand ballroom had died down to a low murmur. I checked my phone. Two hours had passed. Neither Garrett nor Serena had sent a single text to check if I was alive. I let out a dry, silent laugh. Supporting myself against the cold tile wall, I dragged my exhausted body out of the restroom, only to collide straight into a broad chest. I gasped, immediately trying to push him away, but Garrett’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me tight against him. “Don’t move,” he mumbled, his voice thick with alcohol, dropping heavily against my hair. “Just let me hold you for a second.” I froze. I remembered when we first started dating. Back then, Garrett would frequently get drunk late at night, looking lost and vulnerable. He would hold me exactly like this, whispering, “Hannah, please don’t leave me. You’re the only one I have left.” Back then, I was foolish enough to believe that my quiet, years-long devotion had finally earned me a place in his heart. Until the night I accidentally overheard him talking to his friends on his balcony. “Garrett, you know Hannah is completely devoted to you. Leading her on like this when you don’t love her is cruel. What happens when she finds out she’s just a placeholder?” Garrett had flicked his cigarette ash into the darkness, his voice detached. “Keeping Hannah close is the only way I can keep Serena in my social circle without raising eyebrows. Just being able to see Serena from a distance is enough. Since I can’t have her, Hannah is the next best thing. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” And he had kept that promise. Over the years, the luxury cars, the penthouse keys, the designer jewelry—he gave them to me without a second thought. He was always there when I needed him, giving me a false sense of security that made me believe, just for a moment, that he cared. A warm tear slipped from his cheek, wetting the collar of my dress. He whispered into the crook of my neck: “Serena…” My entire body went rigid. It took me a long moment to find my voice. “Garrett, who am I?” He stiffened. Slowly, the alcohol haze seemed to clear from his eyes. He let go of me, stepping back and rubbing his temples. Neither of us spoke. It felt as if a cold hand had reached into my chest and scooped out whatever warmth was left, leaving only a hollow cavity. I really was just a placeholder. I turned to walk away, but his hand clamped around my wrist again. “Go apologize to Serena,” he commanded. I stared at him, unable to comprehend the words. Seeing my expression, his patience snapped entirely. “Do you still not realize what you did wrong? You made those dramatic remarks, drank the champagne like a martyr, and then hid away just to make Serena feel guilty on her first night back.” “She’s exhausted from running around acting as the bride for your sake, and all you can think about is your own petty jealousy.” I looked at his stern, righteous face, and the truth of my existence in his life became devastatingly clear. Serena’s slight discomfort was an emergency; my actual physical distress was an inconvenience. “Did I ask you to give her my dress?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Did I ask her to take my place at the altar?” “Crash!” The sharp sound of breaking glass shattered the quiet of the hallway. “Serena!” Garrett’s head snapped toward the sound, and he instantly let go of my wrist, throwing me off balance. I stumbled against the wall. When I looked up, Garrett was staring down at me, his eyes cold and full of disgust. “Are you satisfied now, Hannah?” he sneered. “You said those awful things just to hurt her, didn’t you? Serena doesn’t owe you anything. Stop treating her kindness like it’s your birthright!” My ears rang. It was the first time in five years Garrett had ever raised his voice to me like this. Before I could even process the sting, tears blurred my vision. “And now you’re crying. You’re always so damn fragile.” Completely done with me, he turned on his heel and ran toward the ballroom. A few of his friends walked past the hallway, their voices carrying clearly to where I stood. “Honestly, what a waste of space. She’s followed Garrett around like a lost puppy for five years, and she still can’t compete with a single second of Serena’s time.” “She brought it on herself. She never knew her place. She was always just a tool; did she honestly think Garrett would ever actually choose her?” Garrett paused for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing as if he wanted to say something. But another cry of concern from the ballroom made him quicken his pace, leaving me behind. I slid down the wall, collapsing onto the carpeted floor. My skin was burning with hives, and the copper taste of bile was back in my mouth. My phone vibrated in my clutch. With shaking fingers, I unlocked the screen and sent my live location. The response came within seconds: “Three minutes away.” I waited until the dizziness subsided slightly, then forced myself to stand and drag my feet toward the grand exit. As I passed the open doors of the ballroom, Serena spotted me. She hesitated, then walked over, her expression clouded with gentle concern. “I’m so sorry, Hannah. I almost tripped, and Garrett caught me. But… during the rush, his necklace caught on my bracelet. It broke.” I looked down at the glittering green shards scattered on the floor. I recognized that necklace. Years ago, after the car crash, Garrett had been so guilt-ridden and desperate to save our relationship that he had climbed to the peak of a snowy mountain temple in the middle of a blizzard. He knelt there for three days and three nights, praying for my recovery. When he came back, he gave me a pair of matching jade amulets. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile like a happy child. I looked up at Garrett, whose jaw was clenched tight. He was terrified. Terrified that I would say something to upset his precious Serena. I forced a small, tired smile. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a necklace. It wasn’t anything important anyway.” I reached up to my own neck, unclasped the matching jade amulet, and held it out to Serena. “Since you like it so much, you can have this one too. I don’t want it anymore.” The temperature in the room seemed to drop to freezing. Before Serena could reach for it, Garrett lunged forward, snatched the necklace from my hand, and slammed it onto the marble floor. “Fine! If you don’t want it, then none of it matters!” The jade shattered into a hundred pieces. Garrett instinctively stepped back, shielding Serena from the flying shards. But my balance was gone. I stumbled, falling hands-first into the sharp debris. A sharp, hot pain sliced through my palms. Blood pooled instantly onto the white marble. Garrett started to bend down to check if Serena had been touched by the shards, but she violently pushed his hand away. “Don’t touch me! I’m fine… Garrett, look at Hannah!” Garrett finally turned his head. His eyes widened slightly as he registered the angry red hives covering my neck and arms, and the blood dripping from my hands. His face went pale, but his voice came out defensive and angry. “Hannah! Can you stop causing a scene for one minute?!” He stepped forward to lift me up. I flinched, pulling my hands back, refusing to let him touch me. His hands hung uselessly in the air as I scrambled to my feet, using the wall to steady myself as I made my way toward the exit. “Hannah, stop! What are you doing?!” he yelled, his voice rising in panic. “I’m warning you—if you walk out that door today, the marriage license is off the table! We are done!” He made a move to follow me, but Serena’s weak voice drifted from behind him. “Garrett… I think the blood is making me dizzy…” Garrett’s head snapped back. He instantly turned around, catching Serena as she swayed. “Don’t look at it. Close your eyes, I’ve got you…” No one noticed the sleek black Maybach idling quietly under the canopy outside. The door opened, and a tall, commanding figure stepped out. Without a single word, he gathered me into his arms, lifting me off the wet pavement. Buried against his chest, the last of my strength finally gave out. After ensuring Serena was resting comfortably in the bridal suite, Garrett felt a dark, restless anger settling in his chest. He was convinced I was just throwing a tantrum. He was certain that within three days, I would crawl back to him, apologizing. To teach me a lesson, he spent the next few days taking Serena to high-profile events, making sure the media captured every moment. The tabloids were flooded with photos of them. Serena had watched him with a look of quiet exhaustion. “Garrett, since when did you become so childish?” Garrett kept his mouth shut, but his grip on his phone was tight enough to turn his knuckles white. But by the day we were supposed to sign our marriage license, I still hadn’t called. After tossing and turning all night, Garrett finally broke. He picked up his phone and typed out a message: “Hannah, this is getting ridiculous. Have you completely forgotten that we’re supposed to register our marriage today?” He pressed send. A sharp red exclamation point popped up on the screen. He stared at it, frozen. Before he could process the block, his phone began to ring. It was one of his friends. “Garrett! You need to look at the news right now. Hannah…”

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