Author: Momo Chan

The Research Claim for the Anti-Feral Serum I spent five years developing had someone else’s name on it. Theo. My fated mate Seraphina’s novice. I walked straight into her office and slapped the document on her desk. Seraphina, Head Healer of the Ironveil Pack Infirmary, barely glanced up. “I told him to put his name on it. So what? Theo is young. He needs this win.” “Can you stop being so petty? Give a newblood a chance. Is that so hard?” I told her this was formula theft. Academic fraud. A Pack Law violation. She stripped my title as Senior Healer on the spot and assigned me to Omega Duties—cleaning the kennels. That afternoon, Theo posted a photo on the Pack social feed. Two hands locked together on a bed. I recognized the bond ring immediately. The one I had custom-made. One of a kind in the entire world. The caption read: My leader and my mate. I liked the post and commented: Congratulations to you and Head Healer Sera. May your bond be eternal. The next morning, Theo was announced as Senior Healer. I walked in, threw the Council Decree and the Bond Severance Papers on the table, and walked out. On my way out, I sent my father a message. Withdraw the Pack Alliance resources from the Infirmary. — Later, I left for the Bloodmoon Pack in Europe. Seraphina lost her mind. — I had just posted the comment when Seraphina’s messages started flooding in. “Leo, are you insane? That’s not me!” “Delete that comment right now. People are going to think I’m cheating!” I almost laughed. That bond ring was designed exclusively for her. There was no other like it anywhere. And she wanted to deny it. My phone rang. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration dinner. Two seats reserved. Mine and Seraphina’s. Not anymore. “Sir, I’m calling to confirm your private booth for two at seven o’clock.” I paused. “Change it to a table for one.” I hung up. The Pack group chat pinged. Theo had posted a video apology. His voice cracked, eyes wet:”I’m so sorry, Leo. There’s a misunderstanding. That’s my girlfriend in the photo. She loved Seraphina’s bond ring so much that I had one made just like it. I should have told you first. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” Seraphina added one line below it: It’s fine, Theo. Don’t apologize. A dirty mind sees dirt everywhere. The moment the Head Healer spoke, the chat erupted. “No one here is confused. Some people are just too small-minded.” “Exactly. We’ve all seen Seraphina and Theo’s character. Sounds like someone is just too sensitive.” I read every reply and felt nothing but contempt. Every wolf in this Infirmary knew exactly what Seraphina and Theo were. And here they were, lying through their teeth. Then again—I was just a kennel-cleaner now. How could I compete with the Head Healer and her favorite? I didn’t reply. I opened my desk drawer and took out the Bond Severance Papers. She had signed them a month ago. She was rushing off to take Theo’s parents’ blood pressure that day, barely home five minutes, and signed without reading a single word. I couldn’t remember when Theo’s schedule started outranking mine. But it didn’t matter anymore. There was nothing left to hold onto. My phone rang again. Seraphina. Again. Nearly ten calls. For a moment, I thought—maybe she knows she crossed a line today. Maybe she’s calling to apologize. I took a breath. I picked up. I was wrong. “Leo!” Seraphina’s voice was sharp with anger.

“Where are you? Do you know what time it is? You’re abandoning your post. Get back here. Now.” I leaned back in my chair, fingers tracing the edge of the Severance Papers. “Abandoning my post?” I laughed once, short and flat. “Seraphina. You personally reassigned me to kennel duty. I’m not Senior Healer anymore, remember? Tonight’s shift belongs to the new Senior Healer. Theo.” Silence on the other end. She hadn’t expected pushback. “Theo has a family emergency tonight. He can’t cover the shift. I need you to come in.” So she had already forgotten about our celebration dinner. Or she never listened when I told her about it. “Theo has an emergency? Find someone else. Or cover it yourself. After all—you are his leader and his mate. Isn’t that your responsibility?” “Leo, you—” I hung up. Then I blocked her. I checked the time. The reservation was now. I drove to the restaurant. — I sat alone at the table for one, staring at a full spread of food I couldn’t eat. Maybe five years just couldn’t compete with something new. I used to believe we were untouchable. That nothing could come between us. Then Theo arrived, and everything changed. I kept telling myself it was just a phase—that the excitement would fade and she’d come back to who she was. I was wrong. They only got worse. I lifted my fork. Put it down. The food had no taste. From the private booth next door, I heard cheering. “Congratulations to Healer Theo for completing the Anti-Feral Serum!” I gripped the fork. The voices next door filled my empty booth like a tide. “Theo is so young and already this accomplished! Incredible!” “Seraphina has such an eye for talent! Without her championing Theo, none of us would be celebrating tonight!” “Wait—is Leo not here?” “I heard Seraphina reassigned him to… kennel maintenance?” Someone dropped their voice, but the mockery was intact. “Probably too jealous of Theo’s talent. Too embarrassed to show his face.” “Don’t mention that bad omen. Come on—a toast to Seraphina and Theo!” Then a voice I knew better than any other. Soft, warm, the tone she hadn’t used with me in years. “Theo. Don’t feel any pressure. This serum’s success—you earned it.”

“Thank you, Seraphina. Thank you, everyone!” Theo’s voice, smug beneath the false humility. “Without Seraphina’s guidance and your support, I wouldn’t be standing here. This achievement belongs to all of us!” The food in front of me looked perfect. My stomach turned. I put my fork down hard. It cracked against the table. One more second in this place was too much. I pushed out of my booth and headed straight for the exit. I was almost at the corner when the restroom door swung open. Seraphina walked out. Her cheeks were flushed from drinking. The second she saw me, she stopped. “Leo?” She frowned, voice carrying its usual authority. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?” Follow her. I almost laughed. “Your imagination is something, Seraphina.” I turned to face her. “You forgot. Tonight. This place. This was supposed to be my celebration dinner. Ours.” Her expression froze. A flicker of guilt crossed her face and vanished fast. “I’ve been busy. I forgot.” She waved it off. “Look—Theo needed this formula claim to establish himself. The Infirmary needed a young symbol of success. Whoever the formula is credited to, it still benefits our pack. What does it matter whose name is on it? I know the truth. That’s enough.” She stepped closer. Her voice softened to something almost patronizing. “Here’s what I’ll do—in a few days, once the attention dies down, I’ll reinstate your title. You go back to being Senior—” “No.” I cut her off. My voice was flat. No anger. No grief. “Keep the position. Keep the formula. Give it all to you and your prized man.” She blinked. A flash of surprise. She had assumed I would fold. That a little softening, a small concession, and I’d swallow it all again. Like always. “Leo! Stop being so impulsive. I’m giving you a way out of this. You—” Her phone rang. The moment she saw the name, her face transformed instantly. Every trace of irritation vanished. Her voice dropped to something gentle and indulgent. “Theo? I’m just outside. Coming back right now…” She couldn’t quite hear whatever he was saying, but the tone on the other end was whiny. Dependent. “Okay, okay, don’t worry.” Her voice softened even further, like coaxing a pup. “I’m right here. Coming back now. You can’t settle down without me there? Silly boy… be good. I’m on my way.” She was already moving as she spoke. She glanced once toward the private booth—and walked away. She didn’t look at me again. “Wait for me. Almost there.” The hallway went quiet. Just me. I looked once at the closed booth door. Then I walked out of the restaurant without a single hesitation. My phone buzzed. A message from my research mentor. “Leo—you haven’t submitted the Research Claim yet, have you? Don’t. There’s a problem with the compound.”

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The day my Harvard acceptance letter arrived, everyone expected me to frame it. Mount it on the wall like a trophy. Proof that Ethan White had finally made it. Instead, I declined the offer and enrolled at MIT. It wasn’t impulse. It wasn’t rebellion. It was survival. Because I reborn. In last life, accepting Harvard meant becoming the perfect husband for Sarah. It meant watching her, six months pregnant with my child, stand over me with a smile. “If you hadn’t gone to Harvard,” she’d whispered, rope cutting into my wrists as I hung from the ceiling beam, “my family never would have chosen you. And my love wouldn’t have drowned his heartbreak at that club. They wouldn’t have found him dead in some backroom, servicing strangers for pills.” Her voice had been so calm. So rational. “You stole his place. So you’ll pay with your life. Piece. By. Piece.” She deliberately had a miscarriage that night. The reason was that she didn’t want to have a child with me. She felt disgusted. I died at the same night… And then I woke up. Eighteen years old. Acceptance letters scattered across my desk. The same day. My phone buzzed. Mr. Kowalski, my guidance counselor. “Ethan, the deadline’s tonight. Harvard’s waiting. You’re really going to make them sweat?” I ended the call and stared at the MIT enrollment form on my laptop screen. Different path. Different future. No Sarah. The door flew open. “Ethan.” My mother swept in. Her hands fluttered. “Tell me you’ve confirmed Harvard. Please. I need to hear you say it.” Seeing mom now—alive, whole, not beaten to death by Hawthorne security—made my throat close. In that other life, she’d found my body. Seen what Sarah had done. And she’d lunged at the woman who’d butchered her son. The Hawthorne guards hadn’t hesitated. I reached for her hand. “I’m going to MIT, Mom. The research programs align better with my focus. Cybersecurity architecture, AI ethics, systems integrity—” “No.” She yanked her hand back. “You’re going to Harvard. Do you understand me? When you fall, you get back up where you fell. I taught you that.” My blood went cold. She remembers. She reborn too? “Mom—” The front door slammed. My father’s voice boomed through the house, followed by a second set of footsteps. Lighter. Deliberate. “Sebastian! Come on in, son. Let me grab you something to drink.” Sebastian Vance. Not my brother by blood. Not really. But my father—decorated veteran and self-made businessman—had adopted him at thirteen after his father, Dad’s Army buddy, died in combat. Except Sebastian’s father hadn’t died in combat. He’d died of a heart attack in a motel with his mistress, but my father had needed a redemption arc more than he’d needed the truth. I watched Sebastian glide into my room, all easy smiles. “Ethan.” He clasped my shoulder. “Dad wants to talk to you about Harvard. He’s really proud, man.” My father appeared behind him, already talking. “Two spots. Harvard only takes two from Riverside Prep, and this year it’s a miracle we got that many. Ethan—” He looked at me the way you’d look at a stain. “You’re going to withdraw your acceptance.” My mother stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“Sebastian needs this.” Dad’s voice carried the weight of absolute authority. “His father gave his life for this country. For me. The least we can do is make sure his son has every advantage. Ethan’s smart—he’ll land on his feet. MIT, Stanford, whatever. But Harvard?” He put his arm around Sebastian. “That’s Sebastian’s spot. And the Hawthorne family is looking for a Harvard man to marry their daughter. That’s his future. Not Ethan’s.” “He earned his acceptance—” “And Sebastian earned our loyalty!” My father’s face flushed. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to owe someone your life? His father took a bullet meant for me. So yes, Elena. Sebastian gets the girl, the school, and the life. That’s not negotiable.” My mother looked at me, and I saw it again—that flash of something ruthless beneath her beauty queen mask. She remembered Sebastian sitting outside while I bled out. She was trying to weaponize me against him. I pulled out my phone and opened the photo album. Found last night’s graduation party. There. Sebastian and Sarah Hawthorne, tucked into a corner booth at The Dorset Club. Her hand on his thigh under the table. His mouth at her ear. The angle of the shot made it clear—this wasn’t friendly. This was ownership. I held up the phone. “They’ve been together for months.” My voice came out flat. Clinical. “So it doesn’t matter where I go. I’m not in the running.” Sebastian’s smile never wavered. “Ethan.” He sighed, wounded. “I know you had feelings for Sera. But she sees you as a friend. A brother, even. You need to let her go.” He checked his watch. “Actually, I’m late. We’re catching a movie. Dad, you coming?” My father was already grabbing his keys. “I’ll drive you.” The door slammed. Silence. Then my mother’s hand cracked across my face. “You coward.” I tasted blood. “I thought getting a second chance meant you’d be smarter. Faster. But you’re still the same pathetic boy who let them walk all over him.” Her voice shook. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me in this house? Your father worships Sebastian. Your grandmother thinks I’m worthless because I can’t control you. My entire future depends on you marrying into the Hawthorne family, and you’re just going to—what? Run away to MIT and play with computers?” The same script as before. Always the same. In last life, I’d internalized it. Believed I owed her my success. My sacrifice. My life. I’d studied until I couldn’t see straight. Married a woman I didn’t love. Let myself be reshaped into the perfect Hawthorne son-in-law because I thought it would finally be enough. It never was. “I’m going to MIT,” I said quietly. “And this time, I’m living for myself.” She opened her mouth, but I was already walking out.

I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that simple. That night, I woke to the sound of my bedroom door clicking open. My father stood silhouetted in the hallway light. Behind him—Sarah. I lunged out of bed. “What the hell—” But they were already at my desk. My laptop glowed, enrollment page still open. Sarah’s finger hovered over the keyboard. “Don’t you dare—” My father caught me in a bear hug, pinning my arms. “She’s doing you a favor, son. Trust me.” “That’s my MIT enrollment—” Sarah clicked DELETE. The page refreshed. Application Withdrawn. I went numb. “Sarah—why?” She didn’t even look at me. Just reached down and unplugged the laptop, lifting it by the screen. “What are you—” “If I leave the computer intact, you’ll find a way to re-enroll.” Her voice was ice. “I won’t make that mistake.” She raised the laptop above her head. “No no no—please—” It shattered against the hardwood. Glass and circuitry exploded across the floor. I stopped fighting. My father released me, and I collapsed to my knees, staring at the wreckage. “You knew I picked MIT,” I whispered. “I told you this morning.” Sarah crouched in front of me, and for the first time, I saw her eyes. Empty. Flat. She’d reborn too. “You said a lot of things last time,” she murmured. “You said you didn’t want me. You said you weren’t interested. But the first night we were together, you were in my bed before I’d even finished unpacking.” My stomach lurched. “That wasn’t—Sera, your roommate drugged me. You know that. She wanted to humiliate me at the party, and I came to you because I trusted—” “Liar.” The word landed like a slap. She stood, smoothing her skirt. “You manipulated me from day one. Played hard to get so I’d chase you. And the moment you had me, you ruined everything.” She turned to Sebastian, who’d appeared in the doorway. Her voice went soft. Tender. “It’s done, baby. He can’t threaten you anymore.” Sebastian’s smile was small. Satisfied. “Wait—” My mind raced. “Sera, I’m not trying to come between you two. I want you to be together. Just let me go. I’ll transfer schools, move across the country, whatever you need—” “You really think it’s that simple?” She leaned close, her breath cold against my ear. “Did you think I’d forget what you did to Sebastian in last life? How you let him die?” “I already paid for that. I died—” “Not enough.” Her whisper was a blade. “I’m going to make you watch Sebastian and me build the life you stole from him. And you—” Her lips curved. “You’re going to spend every day in hell.” She straightened. “Oh, and before I deleted your enrollment? I submitted a formal withdrawal letter to MIT on your behalf. Citing personal reasons and a commitment to Harvard.” She tilted her head. “Congrats, Ethan. You’re going to be a Hawthorne after all.”

They locked me in my room after that. Took my phone. My laptop. Even the old iPad I kept in my desk drawer. For three days, I was a prisoner in my own house. But they didn’t know about the backup phone taped under my bed frame. The one I’d bought with cash the day I woke up reborn, because some paranoid part of me knew they’d try this. I powered it on and opened my email. One unread message. From: MIT Admissions Subject: Enrollment Confirmed Dear Ethan White, Welcome to MIT. Your enrollment in the Computer Science and Engineering program has been finalized. We look forward to seeing you at orientation on September 1st. I closed my eyes, exhaling for what felt like the first time in days. The system Sarah had accessed wasn’t real. I’d built a dummy server the day I got the acceptance letter—a perfect replica of MIT’s enrollment portal, hosted locally on my laptop. If anyone tried to tamper with my decision, they’d be deleting a ghost. The real enrollment had gone through the morning I woke up in this timeline. I texted my best friend Marcus: Need you to grab my dorm stuff and meet me at South Station. Day before move-in. I’ll explain later. His reply came in seconds: Dude. What did you DO? Escaped. — Move-in day. I waited until my mother left for her book club and my father took Sebastian shopping for his dorm at Langford College—the private liberal arts school Sarah’s family had paid to accept him after his 140 SAT score. Picked the bedroom lock in twenty minutes. Walked out the front door. Took the subway to South Station and didn’t look back. The train to Boston pulled away from the platform, and I watched my childhood disappear through the window. For the first time since I’d woken up in this nightmare, I let myself breathe. — I dozed off somewhere around Providence. When I woke up, something felt wrong. The train had stopped. But we weren’t at South Station. I looked out the window—and my blood turned to ice. We were at a private rail platform. Sleek. Modern. The kind of place you only accessed with a keycard and a seven-figure bank account. And standing on the platform, arms crossed, was my mother. She smiled when she saw me. “Ethan. You’re awake. Perfect timing.” The train doors hissed open, and two men in black suits stepped aboard. “Mrs. Vance.” The taller one nodded. “We’ll take him from here.” “Wait—Mom—what is this?” She leaned into the train, her smile bright and terrible. “The Hawthornes are very excited to meet their future son-in-law, sweetheart. Sarah’s been asking about you.” “I’m not—I don’t want—” “You’re eighteen. You’re brilliant. And you’re exactly what the Hawthorne family looks for in a match.” She stepped back as the men hauled me to my feet. “Oh, and I have wonderful news. They’ve agreed to let you and Sarah get engaged today. Isn’t that romantic? The wedding will be right after her graduation.” “You can’t do this—” “I can. And I am.” She waved as they dragged me onto the platform. “The Hawthorne estate is lovely this time of year. You’ll see.”

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The day I left the Frank family, Godfather Fabian drove through three border checkpoints trying to stop my car from reaching the airport. He didn’t succeed. His texts came in like a barrage of gunfire: “What the hell are you doing? All because Nydia was joking around and your hand got broken?” “I’ve told you a hundred times—Nydia’s father died saving my life. She grew up with me. I know she doesn’t mean any harm. You’re my wife. You’re the Godmother of the Frank family. Can you please act like it?” “Michelle, stop throwing tantrums like a child. You have one hour. Get back here. Now.” For days, every time I blocked a number, he’d find a new one to call from. Eventually I had no choice but to swap out my SIM card entirely, severing every last thread connecting me to the Godfather. Two years later, I returned to New York for a friend’s birthday. I’d barely stepped out of the airport when I ran into a member of the Frank family. He asked me, “Godmother, it’s been two years. Surely you’ve cooled off enough to come back and make up with the Godfather?” “After you left, he never looked at another woman. He’s been waiting for you this whole time.” … I listened to all of it and felt nothing. Because in the three years I was married to Fabian, I was sick for every single one of them. By the third year, a sudden neurological episode caused me to fall—my arm dislocated, my fingers shattered in multiple places. Forget my dream of becoming a pianist. I couldn’t even feed myself. When I was at my most wretched, ravaged by pain and illness, Fabian did stay by my side day and night, taking care of me. That much was true. Then I heard that a brilliant surgeon was visiting New York, and for the first time in a long while, a spark of hope flickered in my chest. I wanted Fabian to take me, but he was swamped with work, so I went to the consultation alone. After reviewing the thick stack of medical records I’d brought, the surgeon looked puzzled. “Ms. Michelle, your reports indicate that your current inability to move your hand isn’t caused by the fractures. Nor is it neurological.” “Rather, it appears that prolonged use of psychiatric medication impaired your judgment, leading to the accidental fall. After the injury, you were administered a drug that suppresses recovery over an extended period, compounded by improper rehabilitation.” His fingertip came to rest on the attending physician’s signature at the top of the most recent file. The look he gave me was loaded with meaning. “I’d suggest you switch doctors. Better yet, switch hospitals entirely.” I stared at the name of the attending physician—Nydia—and felt as though I’d been struck by lightning. She was Fabian’s adopted sister. No blood relation. For three years, she had been treating me at my husband Fabian’s request. My vision went black in waves. I stumbled out of the clinic, and my first instinct was to tell Fabian—Nydia was trying to destroy me. I went straight to the administrative building in the city center. I was about to go in when I heard an old lieutenant’s voice just inside the door: “If the Godmother keeps taking the medication Nydia prescribed, she may never be able to pursue her dream again. She’ll be half-crippled for life. Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Fabian’s voice followed, tinged with resignation: “Nydia probably saw me doing rehab with Michelle and got jealous again. The wrong medication—that’s just her throwing a fit. If Michelle’s hand ends up useless, I’ll take care of her for the rest of her life. She’s my Godmother. I can protect her.” He paused, as if trying to justify himself: “Nydia’s father died saving me. Back then, I promised I’d marry her when we grew up. But then I fell in love with Michelle at first sight and couldn’t keep that promise. I already owe Nydia more than I can repay.” “As long as it makes her feel better—whatever treatment plan she writes, I’ll go along with it.” Fabian’s words were a blade, and they shredded my heart to pieces. All this time, I’d thought I was simply unlucky—injured the day before my performance, then taking medication for so long, doing rehabilitation for so long, only to get worse instead of better. I’d felt guilty for burdening Fabian. Felt bad for troubling Nydia. But it had all been their doing. Together. I slammed the door open. The moment my eyes met his, scorching tears spilled down my face. “Why?” Fabian flinched, then quickly regained his composure. “Michelle, knowing about this isn’t going to help your recovery.” “Besides, as long as I’m here, even if you end up disabled, you’ll never be mistreated. I promise you that.” I could barely believe what I was hearing. My dream of playing piano—gone. My hand—useless. I could barely manage to eat on my own. From a golden girl to a broken woman, pitied and mocked by everyone around me. And he dismissed it all with a few easy words? I said nothing. I just turned around on instinct. I had no doubt—damn Fabian would sacrifice everything I had, my future, even my life, for his so-called “promise,” his so-called guilt. But the moment I turned to leave, his man Jack stepped into my path. “Enough, Michelle. Everyone in the Frank family knows how important Nydia is to me. No matter what you say or do, they’ll just think the medication’s gotten to your head and you’re talking nonsense.” “Just cooperate, and our life together will stay as happy as it’s always been. I’ll even tell Nydia to ease up—it won’t hurt as much anymore. Okay?” “Oh—and leave the examination report you’re holding. That kind of thing could hurt Nydia’s reputation.” Jack stepped forward on cue to grab it. I fought back with everything I had. No matter how I begged, Fabian didn’t move. He even gave Jack a look that said hurry up. When I wouldn’t let go, Jack pried my fingers open one by one. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the room alongside my screams. Because of the drugs I’d been given, my bones hadn’t healed the way a normal person’s would. And my hand had only just begun to show the faintest signs of improvement. This kind of second injury would destroy it for good. But Fabian only cared about the report now in his hands. He fed it straight into the office shredder without hesitation. I lifted my head with what strength I had left and met Fabian’s gaze—faintly disgusted, as if I were the one being unreasonable. My chest felt stuffed with cotton, swelling until I could barely breathe. Fabian sighed, then scooped me up gently into his arms. “Sweetheart, you understand, don’t you?” “I just owe Nydia too much.” He leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head away. Before I could say another word, the surge of emotion and pain dragged me under, and I blacked out. My last conscious thought was drenched in despair: So this is what he calls love. — That night, I spiked a fever and slipped into a coma. Half a day of emergency treatment. Another day in the ICU. When I finally opened my eyes, the doctor exhaled slowly and shook his head. “Godmother, your hand had just started to improve. After this… I’m afraid conventional treatment won’t be enough anymore.” I closed my eyes. All that remained inside me was a vast, dead silence. With the nurse’s help, I dialed the number of Fabian’s grandfather—the former Godfather, Keith. “Grandpa Keith.” My voice was raw, but perfectly calm. “I accept your deal. I’ll divorce Fabian and leave him. For good.”

Old Godfather Keith was overjoyed. For the first time, there was a smile in his voice when he spoke to me: “Once you’re gone, Fabian will settle down and come back to take over the family from me. He’ll stop wasting his days poring over useless medical textbooks for your sake.” “I’ll have the dissolution agreement sent over right away. One month from now, as we agreed, I’ll arrange for you to go to a rehabilitation center in Europe—and you’ll receive one hundred million.” It wasn’t long before Keith’s butler arrived and handed me a document. I signed without hesitation. The next day, Nydia had Fabian bring me to the operating room under the guise of an “experimental treatment.” When I drifted back to consciousness, I saw Nydia’s true face for the first time—stripped of its gentle mask. “What the hell did you do, you bitch! Fabian says he’s going to keep his distance from me from now on!” I could only marvel at the absurdity. Three years of marriage, and now Fabian decided to put some distance between them. I was about to speak when I met Nydia’s eyes—half-crazed, unhinged. She glared at me through gritted teeth, her gaze burning with a jealousy so fierce it frightened me. She turned around and rummaged through something on the table. When she turned back, one hand held a thick syringe filled with silver liquid and a scalpel; the other gripped a hammer. She looked deranged. “I’m going to teach you a lesson today, you worthless whore.” I tried to run, only to realize I couldn’t move. I was a fish on a cutting board. That’s when it came back to me—when I’d first been brought in, still groggy, Nydia must have injected me with something. She walked toward me, smiling, step by step. First, she drove the thick needle into my arm again and again until blood ran freely. Then she took the scalpel and carved lines across my entire body. Finally, she picked up the hammer, aimed it at my hand—the swelling had only just gone down—and brought it crashing down. I didn’t even have time to scream before the pain dragged me into darkness. When I woke again, my wounds had been neatly treated and both hands were back in casts. I spent three more days in the ICU. Fabian sat vigil at my bedside, guilt and heartache written all over his face. But before I could get a word out, he handed me a phone. “This is an apology video Nydia recorded.” “What she did this time was admittedly a bit much. I’ve already talked to her about it—she knows she was wrong. She’s still young, that’s all. Too impulsive. You’re her sister-in-law and the Godmother. Be the bigger person and forgive her, won’t you?” Watching Nydia’s radiant smile and smug eyes in the video, listening to a voice devoid of any real remorse, I felt as though a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head, chilling me to the bone. I lifted my gaze to Fabian, dazed. I wanted to raise my hands. I wanted him to see my wounds, to understand that Nydia’s hollow “apology” meant nothing—nothing—compared to the agony wracking my entire body. But he couldn’t read the devastation in my eyes. He assumed I was simply being difficult. His brow furrowed, his tone edged with irritation. “Michelle, can you grow up? Stop being unreasonable!” I looked up in disbelief. He knew perfectly well that Nydia had done this to me, and yet he still took her side, blamed me, and demanded I forgive her. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. “You two conspired to torture me! Why should I forgive—” Fabian cut me off, his voice cold as steel. “Michelle! Making accusations like that is not how a Godmother behaves. Jack—enforce house rules.” Jack hauled me upright, and his open palm struck my face. Then a second time. A third. As the fourth blow was about to land— Fabian raised his hand to stop it. He cradled my face gently in both hands, slipping back into his usual tenderness. “Michelle, I’ve told you before—you’re the Godmother now. You can’t keep acting out like this. Consider this a lesson. And an apology to Nydia.” He pressed a soft kiss against my reddened, swollen cheek and sighed with what sounded like genuine weariness. “Let me go check on Nydia. The poor girl’s probably still scared you’re angry with her.” I wanted to laugh—a cold, bitter laugh—but I couldn’t even manage that. The twin torment of body and soul had stripped me of every last word. I watched Fabian hurry away, my eyes frozen over. Fabian, we’re done. — I spent another week in the ICU. After I was discharged, Nydia sent me a message: “Fabian’s throwing me a birthday party. You’re invited too!” “Make sure you come—I’ve got a surprise for you~” On the day of Nydia’s birthday celebration, Fabian dressed me in a gown, clasped the family heirloom bracelet around my wrist, and personally trimmed my disheveled hair. An outsider watching would have been certain the Godfather adored his Godmother. But I had already seen the photos Nydia posted on Instagram: the gown she wore had been commissioned from a master tailor by Fabian over a year ago, and the jewels draping her body were worth at least ten times mine. Fabian bent down and lifted me into his arms. I flinched, struggling instinctively. He turned uncharacteristically forceful. In the struggle, the wedding ring slipped from my finger and went clattering down the stairs, pinging against each step. A passing maid didn’t notice and stepped right on it. That ring—from the selection of the stone to every detail of its crafting—had been Fabian’s doing. It was supposed to be proof of his love. Now it lay crushed beneath a careless foot. Fabian barely glanced at it, his voice impatient. “Hurry up. We can’t keep Nydia waiting.” So that was where I stood. The symbol of our marriage couldn’t even compete with a few seconds of Nydia’s patience. A bitter ache filled my chest, and I had no strength left to fight. We arrived at the banquet hall shortly after. Nydia’s gaze fell on my plaster-bound hands, her eyes brimming with contempt. “Fabian, is Michelle’s hand getting any better?” Her tone dripped with concern; the malice underneath didn’t even try to hide. “Oh—I know this amazing dessert. Come with me to get some for Michelle.” She latched onto Fabian’s arm, cooing sweetly. Before I could open my mouth, Fabian was already setting me down with an indulgent smile, rushing off after Nydia without a backward glance. I stood there alone. Dozens of gazes landed on me—some startled, some mocking, some dripping with disdain.

“Look—the Godmother really is out of favor.” “I heard from a few people in the Frank family that Nydia seems more like the Godmother than Michelle does.” “Obviously. You could tell just from Fabian’s attitude earlier.” “I mean, who’d want a cripple for a wife?” Malice came at me from every direction. I stood there trembling, my face burning. This kind of humiliation—I’d already endured it once, three years ago at my own wedding. Back then, Nydia deliberately hid my wedding dress, and I had to walk down the aisle in a plain white sundress. And through three years of illness, through every mortifying moment, I’d survived. Now, hearing these whispers, all I felt was numb. Not far away, Nydia was tugging Fabian along as she unwrapped birthday presents. I silently clenched my fists. The man who had sworn to protect me countless times had abandoned me long ago… The banquet was lavish and extravagant—less like a birthday party and more like a celebration fit for a Godfather and Godmother. With a grand wave of his hand, Fabian presented Nydia with three gifts: A nomination for a prestigious medical award. A private hospital with her installed as director. And a totem ring—the symbol of the family’s matriarch. The ring he’d told me he would place on my finger himself once I recovered. Now firmly on Nydia’s hand. I couldn’t suppress a bitter, self-mocking curl of my lips—but I hadn’t meant to provoke Nydia. She couldn’t make a scene in front of everyone, so she waited until the intermission and cornered me as I came out of the restroom. “What are you smiling at! All you have is a marriage certificate! I’m telling you—Fabian will marry me sooner or later and cut you off for good!” I remained perfectly calm. “I think so too.” But my composure only enraged her further. Her brow knotted, her face flushed red in an instant, and she lunged at me like a madwoman, trying to shove me down the stairs. I took a wary step back, but she grabbed my arm viciously. The stabbing pain in my arm made me struggle on instinct. In the middle of the scuffle, Fabian happened to appear. Nydia’s eyes filled with tears instantly. She cried out, “Michelle, I’m sorry—please don’t push me!” Then she gritted her teeth and threw herself down the staircase. Pathetic acting. A clumsy frame job. But Fabian—clever as he was—believed it. “Nydia!” Shock and fury twisted his face. He flew down the stairs without a single glance at me—half my body already dangling over the railing, pulled outward by her momentum. “Fabian…” Helpless. Desperate. My voice echoed through the stairwell. No one answered. Minutes later, my strength gave out, and I fell from the third floor. I don’t know how long I was unconscious this time. When I finally opened my eyes again, there was no one at my bedside. Three days later, Fabian finally came to see me. He walked in and immediately launched into accusations: “Nydia just wanted to enjoy her birthday and share the happiness with you. Not only did you refuse her kindness, you deliberately pushed her down the stairs and made her bleed. That was completely out of line!” Out of line? The only thing out of line was marrying him in the first place. I turned my face away. I didn’t want to speak to him anymore. Perhaps the sight of me—wretched, wrapped head to toe in bandages—finally stirred something in him. Fabian sighed and sat down beside me. “I neglected you a little, and you got so jealous you pushed her down the stairs. That’s not how a Godmother carries herself… Nydia’s being gracious about it and doesn’t blame you. Once you’re feeling better, go apologize to her.” “I won’t.” The words came out before I could think. Fabian’s expression shifted. A flash of anger crossed his eyes. It settled into reproach: “You’re practically her elder. A young girl throws a tantrum—you rest for a few days, let your body heal on its own, and it’s no big deal.” Rest for a few days and it’s no big deal? I’d fallen from the third floor. Multiple compound fractures throughout my body. My arms devastated yet again. I could barely eat, could barely move—and he dismissed it with a single offhand sentence. I had no doubt that even if I’d died right in front of him that day, his only concern would have been that my blood had ruined Nydia’s birthday party. A man who had long since stopped loving me—no amount of suffering on my part could earn even a scrap of his attention. I didn’t want to waste my energy anymore. I swallowed the cold laugh rising to my lips. “Fine. I’ll go later. Now get out—I need to rest.” But Fabian didn’t stand. After a moment’s hesitation, he tightened his grip on my hand and spoke gently: “Michelle, there’s something I need your consent for…” “Nydia wants me to give her a child. To carry on the bloodline.” I froze for a moment, then spoke: “Whatever’s between you and her—you don’t need my permission.” As if my refusal would have stopped him anyway. Fabian, thinking I’d misunderstood, patiently explained: “Don’t worry, I won’t let you be wronged. The technology is very advanced now. Artificial insemination will allow Nydia to conceive without any issue.” I felt dizzy, disoriented. The man before me had transformed into someone I no longer recognized. “Fine.” My voice was flat. A person who has truly given up doesn’t have emotional ups and downs anymore. “That’s my girl.” Fabian nodded with satisfaction. “Now this is more like it. At least Nydia’s all-night effort preparing your new treatment plan wasn’t wasted on you.” He clapped his hands, and Nydia walked in. When I saw the medical equipment she wheeled in behind her, my eyes went wide with horror. I shrank back instinctively—but Fabian caught me.

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I was Mafia Don’s most beloved little princess. However, a glass of orange juice got me sold to an underground strip club. Vincent Rosario is the most powerful mafia don in New York. My parents, the Colombos, died in a car crash. Vincent raised me for fifteen years, spoiled me rotten. When I was twelve, I fought a senator’s daughter over a limited-edition diamond necklace. Vincent bought the entire jewelry company and reopened the production line just for me. At a charity gala, someone called me Vincent’s caged canary. The next day, he and his father’s company vanished from New York. Once, a boy tried to hold my hand at the school dance. The next morning, his right hand was delivered to his family in a box. Vincent would also kneel by my bed after nights of dancing, removing my heels and massaging my calves. Then Serena Moretti arrived. She walked into the Long Island estate in a crimson gown. Her eyes were cold. I heard her on the phone in the garden. “I want the full Cartier ruby set. Vincent owes me. So what if he’s doting on that little brat right now? His money will all be mine eventually.” She hung up. A tortoiseshell cat trotted over. It had wandered into the estate months ago. I called her Pudding. Pudding brushed past Serena’s feet and dirtied her satin heels. “That filthy thing,” Serena said to the bodyguard. “Kill it.” The bodyguard hesitated. “Miss Moretti, this is—” “I said kill it.” He drew his gun. Attached a silencer. One muffled shot. Pudding collapsed in a pool of blood. Serena stepped out of her heels and walked away barefoot. That night, I knocked on Serena’s door. “Leave Vincent.” “Why?” “Because you don’t love him. You just love his money and power.” “Little girl, what do you know? You just a spoiled child. You could never understand.” “I saw what you did. You killed that cat.” “Jenna, you’re not Vincent lover. But I am. You think he’d give me up for you?” “He would.” “Alright. I’ll leave.” The next morning, a helicopter roared overhead. Black SUVs poured through the estate gates. The butler, Antonio, told me Serena had slipped away without telling anyone. Vincent was looking for her. Vincent growled into his phone. “Find her! ” “Maybe Serena just needed some air—” “Jenna. Go to your room.” He was gone. For three full days, he didn’t come back.

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After the Mafia Council’s memory-stripping procedure, I forgot Damian Moranti— the Don, my husband, the man I’d loved for seven years. I forgot the parents who had branded me a disgrace. With a body torn raw by ninety-nine lashes, I walked out of the Mafia world for good. Everyone assumed I was just throwing a tantrum. They thought I’d come crawling back soon enough, unable to give up the privileges of being a Donna, begging the family for shelter. Until the day a convoy of black sedans surrounded my wedding venue, and armed Mafia enforcers locked down the entire area in seconds. A secretary from the Moranti family pushed through the crowd to me and demanded. “All these years—why have you never once contacted Don Damian? Do you have any idea he’s waited five years for you?” I tightened my grip on my husband’s arm and asked, genuinely puzzled, “I’m sorry. Who is… Damian?” The air froze. A short distance away, a man in a black suit stood absolutely still. His eyes rimmed red, staring at me as though I might vanish if he so much as blinked. … … The day I discovered my husband Damian was sleeping with my cousin Isabel, our wedding had only just ended. The guests hadn’t even left, and I couldn’t find my new husband anywhere. I gathered up the train of my dress and went from one empty guest room to another, until I finally found him on the terrace of our bridal suite. Beneath the moonlight, Damian Moranti—heir to the Moranti family, the next Don—had my cousin Isabel pressed up against the railing. Isabel’s gown was shoved up around her waist, her legs locked around him. Most of the buttons on Damian’s shirt were undone. One of his hands gripped the railing; the other cupped the back of her neck as he kissed her, deep and frantic. Their breathing carried sharp and clear on the night wind. I stood in the shadow of the French doors, and somehow my heart slowed instead of racing. So here it was again. Everything in my life eventually ended up in Isabel’s hands. Isabel was my uncle’s orphaned daughter. Her parents had taken bullets meant for my father during an arms deal. From the time she was twelve, she’d lived under our roof. I sent her to the best schools, brought her into my social circle, arranged a respectable, comfortable office position for her in the family business. She was bright, sweet, charming with everyone—a soft, blooming rose. My friends, the elders of the family, even my own parents—their attitude toward her had shifted from polite acceptance to genuine, undisguised favoritism. “Isabel is so much more likable than you.” I’d been hearing that since I was a child. And now, even my husband of seven years was no exception. I stepped out of the shadow. My heels rang sharp against the marble tiles, and at last they heard me. Damian whipped his head around. I walked up to him, raised my hand, and slapped him across the face. What happened next happened very fast. I just heard Isabel scream and lunge forward, grabbing my arm. “Victoria—don’t hit Damian, it’s all my fault—” Then something shoved me backward, hard. My back struck the railing, and my whole body pitched over the edge. Wind howled past my ears. When I woke up, I was in the family’s private medical center, and Damian was sitting beside my bed. He looked like he’d been in that chair a long time. But the moment my eyes met his, I knew—he wasn’t here to ask after my injuries. “Victoria, what happened tonight… it was an accident. I had too much to drink. I mistook her for someone else. It will absolutely never happen again.” He paused, weighing his words. “Don’t blame Isabel. It was all my fault. And you know she’s struggled with depression ever since she lost her parents. She’s been through enough. Don’t hold it against her, all right?” I looked at him, and a small, bitter laugh almost escaped me. “Damian, the only reason you’re saying any of this is because you’re afraid I’ll make a scene. Afraid it’ll affect Isabel’s standing in the family. Right?” His face darkened. His fingers clamped around my wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind me, very precisely, who held the authority in this room. “Victoria, you’re the Donna now. Every move you make reflects on the family.” “This ends here. Don’t drag everyone into something uncomfortable.” The warning was naked in his eyes. Once, I would have agreed without hesitation. Now I just turned my gaze quietly away. He looked like he had more to say, but at that moment his second-in-command Carlo pushed open the door and murmured something near his ear. I caught the words Isabel and too distraught. Damian stood at once, tugged his cuffs straight, and slipped back into that clipped, professional tone: “There’s a problem with a shipment at the border. I have to handle it. Get some rest. And this matter—it ends here.” He emphasized it once more, then turned and walked out fast, without looking back. He didn’t return for the rest of the night. I lay there for I don’t know how long, watching the sky begin to lighten at the edge of the window. Then I picked up my phone and dialed the family Council. “I’m petitioning to leave the family.” The voice on the other end registered surprise. “Victoria? You’re the Donna. Do you have any idea what leaving the family means?” “You don’t get out without having your skin flayed off by the lash and surviving the agony of the memory-removal procedure!” “I know.” “Then you—” “I’ve made up my mind.” My voice was steady and clear. “I’m leaving.” A silence. Then the voice resumed its customary chill. “The Council will accept your application through confidential channels. In seven days, if you survive, you’ll be free to go.” “Good.” I hung up the phone and slept better than I had in years. On the third evening, I came back to the estate alone from the medical center. I pushed open the door of the great room and stepped into a party in full swing. “Beautiful work, Isabel—three new clients at the arms expo!” “Made the family proud!” Isabel stood in the center of the crowd, wearing a perfectly calibrated smile of modesty. Damian stood beside her, posture relaxed, an unmistakable look of approval in his eyes. The atmosphere chilled the moment they noticed me. A flicker of discomfort crossed Damian’s face. He stepped forward. “Vic? Why did you come back on your own? You should’ve called—I would’ve sent someone.” He reached out by reflex to support me. I stepped sideways to avoid him. “What? Am I disturbing you all by coming home?” The air turned awkward. “Of course not.” Damian recovered, and pressed an elegantly wrapped little box into my hand. “Perfect timing. This is a gift we got for Isabel to celebrate. She’s done so much for you—it should come from you.” I didn’t want to argue. I simply held the box out. Isabel reached for it. But the moment our fingers touched, the box dropped, and the jade ornament inside shattered into pieces on the floor. Isabel’s eyes brimmed instantly with tears. “Victoria… you still won’t forgive me, will you? I really didn’t mean to that night… I’ve been so worried about you…” Every gaze in the room swung onto me. “Victoria, that’s enough. Think how hard things are for Isabel.” “She saved your family. Today is her celebration. Can’t you let her enjoy one peaceful day?” I looked at them. My eyes settled, last, on the face full of disappointment. The husband I had loved for seven years. “Enough.” Damian’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried that weight that didn’t need to be raised to make a room go silent. He came over to me, leaned down, and spoke low—just for the two of us. “Victoria, stop making a scene. We’ve talked about this. It’s over. Even if you’re upset, look at where we are.” His hand pressed down on my shoulder, the gesture intimate on its surface, but the pressure increasing steadily, pushing me down without a word. I drew in a breath, turned my body, and shrugged his hand off. “That won’t be necessary. I came back to pack. I’m moving out.”

The words were barely out of my mouth before Isabel burst into tears. “Victoria, what does that mean… are you trying to drive me away?” She turned to Damian, the tears spilling down her cheeks, her voice thin and helpless. “Damian, you promised me…” Damian’s brows pulled into a deep furrow. When he looked at me, the thin layer of patience in his tone had vanished entirely. “Victoria, do you really have to push this to this point?” I opened my mouth to explain. I didn’t get the chance. “Victoria! You’ve gone too far!” “You’re throwing Isabel out? How is she supposed to survive on her own?” “Her parents died saving your father, and this is how you treat her?” The voices came at me from all sides, pinning me where I stood. And my personal secretary, Natalie—the woman I’d thought of as a sister—stood there with one hand patting Isabel’s back, giving me a pained, reluctant look. “Victoria, please stop targeting Isabel… she’s already suffered enough.” I looked at Natalie. Three years ago, she’d been bound to a chair as a hostage, covered in blood. I had crept alone into that abandoned warehouse, taken out two guards, and carried her on my back for three city blocks. Afterward she had clung to me, sobbing, swearing she would never forget what I’d done for her as long as she lived. Now she stood across from me, taking the side of the woman who’d slept with my husband. “Natalie, this is a private family matter. And what I said was that I’m the one moving—” “That’s enough, Victoria.” Damian’s voice cut me off. One arm wrapped around Isabel’s shoulders; the other extended in front of her, shielding her like something fragile and precious. “Natalie’s only speaking up for Isabel out of fairness. The truth is, you’re still holding a grudge over that night. But Isabel has suffered enough. If you have a problem, take it out on me. There’s no reason to take it out on her.” His eyes were ice, fixed on me. In that instant, it struck me that explanation was the most pointless thing in the world. I swallowed back what I’d been about to say and turned to leave. Isabel suddenly lunged forward and seized my arm, her nails biting into my skin. The tears came harder. “Victoria, please don’t be angry… I promise I’ll never speak to Damian again from now on…” I jerked my arm on instinct, trying to shake her off. I really hadn’t used much force. But Isabel went stumbling backward and crashed onto the carpet. I reached out to help her up. Damian shoved me away. The force of it sent me staggering two steps back. “Don’t touch her!” He crouched at once and gathered Isabel up like a piece of porcelain that might fall apart in his hands. It was the first time I’d ever seen him so undone, and a dull pain bloomed in my chest. “Damian, my ankle… I think I twisted it…” Isabel’s voice trembled, her weakness pitched at exactly the right note. Damian lifted her and stood. When his eyes turned to me, there was nothing in them but cold and disappointment. “You knew her health was fragile, and you still did this.” He carried Isabel toward the door. As he passed me, he didn’t look back. “Victoria, you are a disgrace to both families.” A disgrace to both families. Those words went through me like a knife, from sternum to spine. Once they were spoken, every other person heading for the door turned to look at me with mocking amusement. I stayed where I was, spine ramrod-straight, refusing to bend. The last young man to pass me deliberately raised his voice. “Some people just can’t stand to see anyone do better than them. Grown woman, jealous of the person who saved her family. No conscience at all.” My lashes trembled, just barely. Then it was quiet, as if the entire world had been emptied out and only I was left. No—maybe a long, long time ago, I had only ever had myself. The light was failing. I picked up my coat and walked out. The Council’s chamber was on the east side of the city, three stories beneath an unremarkable gray building. Iron doors, code locks, signal jamming—it was the coldest heart of the Mafia world. The man receiving me was an older Council member, hair neatly combed, every strand in place. His eyes were a cold, washed-out white, like a machine wearing the shape of a person. “As Donna, you should know what’s in your head—the family’s dealings, networks, contacts up and down the chain. None of it can leave with you.” “I know,” I said. “The memory-removal procedure is scheduled for three days from now. But before that—” He opened an iron door behind him. Inside was a dim cell. Cement floor. A single iron post, with newly-replaced leather restraints around its base. In one corner sat a bucket of saltwater and a soaked rawhide whip. “Ninety-nine lashes.” His voice was without inflection. “This is the price every member who chooses to leave must pay.” Then, finally, he raised his eyes to mine. “You still have the right to choose.” I didn’t answer. I walked to the post, and without hesitation took off my coat. Two large men in black suits stepped out of the dark, and a moment later I was lifted off my feet, my wrists bound to the post above my head. Behind me there was only the whoosh of leather slicing through air as they warmed up. Then— “Begin.” Crack. The first lash came down. I bit through the wooden block in my mouth. The saltwater-soaked rawhide tore into my skin like red-hot wire being driven into flesh, then ripped out again. The second lash. The third. The pain spread from my back through my whole body, blackness pulsing across my vision. My blouse soaked through with blood, plastered to my back, the fabric tearing free of the wounds with every new strike. I didn’t make a sound. I closed my eyes, and the images rose behind my lids—Damian’s open shirt, Isabel’s legs locked around his waist, his back as he carried her away without a single look back. By the time the ninety-ninth lash landed, there wasn’t an inch of unbroken skin left on my back. Blood ran down past my waistband and pooled in a small dark puddle on the cement. The old Council member tossed the keys to the man beside him and stamped a document without lifting his head. “Three days from now, eight a.m., come back here for the memory extraction. After that, you’ll have forgotten everything connected to this world.” “Then you’ll be free.” I lay face-down on the freezing concrete, shaking from head to foot, unable to tell anymore whether it was pain or cold. But there was only one thought in my head. Three days. Just three more days. I would forget everything about Damian, and then I would be gone from him—completely.

The men in black suits dumped me at the gates of the estate. The night air was thick with dew. No servant came out to ask whether the unimportant Donna had returned safely. Certainly none of the people gathered around the traumatized Isabel. I didn’t have the strength to climb the stairs. I sank sideways onto the great-room sofa and wrapped a throw blanket around myself. My back stuck to the fabric, and every breath tugged at fresh wounds. I don’t know how much time passed before the click of the front door turning startled me awake. Footsteps—soft, the muffled tread of dress shoes on carpet. A lamp clicked on, and in its yellowish light, Damian was standing in front of the sofa. He was still in his suit. Stubble had darkened his jaw. He didn’t look like he’d slept either. “Why are you sleeping out here?” He sat down on the arm of the sofa, and only then did I see the long box in his hand. Inside lay a silver chain holding a polished bullet, its surface gleaming, set in a platinum mount. “Came to see you. Brought this with me.” I glanced at it and didn’t move. “You didn’t have to make a special trip.” He shook his head. “This chain isn’t like the others.” He set the box on the coffee table and absently brushed his fingers across the pendant, his gaze going somewhere far away. “It makes me think about the years we’ve had together… that ambush in the south district warehouse, seven years ago. You took that bullet for me. Half an inch from your heart. Do you remember?” Of course I remembered. After they’d dug it out, he’d had the bullet polished into a pendant and put it around my neck himself. He had taken my hand and said— “From this day on, my heart belongs only to you.” But now, the words stirred nothing in me at all. “We’ve been through so much together.” He lowered his voice, deliberately gentle. “We’ve survived so many close calls. To freeze each other out over something like this… Victoria, it really isn’t worth it.” Something like this. “Vic—” He leaned closer. The lamplight fell across my face. “You look terrible. What’s wrong?” He reached out to touch my face. I flinched away on instinct. His hand froze midair. And just like that, the small flicker of real concern in his voice was gone. “Things have been hard for Isabel in the family lately. There’s gossip everywhere—saying she seduced your husband, that she traded on her debt to your father. Her depression was bad enough to begin with. Now she’s worse. She can’t even function at work.” He looked at me, his gaze steady, expectant—as if what he was about to say was the most natural thing in the world. “Have a word with the Council. Get the rumors shut down. Say you were mistaken about that night at the wedding. Get her back to her position.” I looked at him. The lamp threw his shadow against the wall, his profile sharp and beautiful as ever. But every expression on his face was one I knew intimately—he wasn’t asking. He was assigning. “Damian, in what capacity am I supposed to do this? As your wife?” He raised an eyebrow, as if it were a stupid question. “You are my wife.” “But I don’t want to be anymore.” The air froze for half a second. Confusion shifted to anger on his face, fast. “Victoria, would you stop with this.” “How many times do I have to explain that what happened that night was an accident? How many more childish things are you going to say before you’re satisfied?” I didn’t argue. Argument requires hope, and mine had drained out with the ninety-nine lashes. He must have read my silence as surrender. His tone softened a little. “Get some rest tonight. Take care of the situation with Isabel as soon as you can.” He stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt. “I’m going to the hospital to check on Isabel. She needs someone with her.” The door closed. His footsteps faded. I reached out and pulled the jewelry box toward me. The silver bullet pendant glinted coldly in the lamplight. But on the side of the mount, etched into the platinum, was not the V I remembered. It was a tiny line of script: LOVE ISA. I turned the pendant over three times to be sure. Then I got up, walked into the bedroom, and opened the safe. My own necklace was lying inside, untouched. Engraved on the back of its bullet pendant was a single V. The one he had brought me wasn’t mine. It was the one he had given Isabel. I stared at those two small words for a long time. Then I laughed once, softly. And as I laughed, the tears came. So a long, long time ago, he had already given his heart to someone else. I returned both necklaces to the safe and locked it. Then I started packing. I didn’t have much. One suitcase, a few changes of clothes, my passport, my own gun. Before sunrise, I’d submitted all the transfer paperwork, and I was checked into a motel in town. The motel room was small. Nothing like the perfectly climate-controlled air of the estate. But I had never felt so at peace. The day before the procedure, my phone rang. It was Damian. I hesitated three seconds, then answered. “Get to the family medical center. Now. That’s an order.” His voice was hard, edged with the tone of a man who expected obedience. I hadn’t yet completed the formal departure. Legally, I was still under Moranti jurisdiction. I had no right to refuse. But the moment I stepped onto the inpatient floor, I saw a row of people lining the hallway, and the air was deadly. Damian saw me, and his face caught fire. He crossed the space in three strides and grabbed my upper arm. The lash wounds on my back—still raw beneath the black fabric—exploded into pain. “Tell me! Why did you do this?” “You knew Isabel lost her parents young. You knew about her depression. And you sent someone to terrorize her?” “Victoria, when did you get so vicious?” It was about Isabel. Always Isabel. “It wasn’t me. I haven’t seen her this entire time.” The next instant, a slap landed across my face. It was my mother, Helen, whom I hadn’t seen in months. The day of my wedding, she had told me family business was too pressing for her to attend. But here she was now, ashen, eyes red-rimmed, looking at me with pure hatred—on Isabel’s behalf. “Victoria! Are you even human?” Her hands were shaking. So was her voice. “Isabel is your sister! I treated Isabel like my own daughter! How could you do this?” My father, Vincent, stood behind her. What he said cut deeper than any slap. “The greatest regret of my life is bringing a monster like you into this world.”

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Rayna Shaw and Ethan Chase were the famous couple who most hated each other in the entire Shaw mafia. Not because they were madly in love. But because they had spent eight years of marriage trying to kill each other. She put poison in his whiskey. He hid needles under her pillow. They spat venom with every breath and cursed each other to an early grave every single night. She hated him for being a stone she could never warm—a man whose heart had always belonged to another woman. He hated her for using her father’s power to foce him into marriage, for shoving her way in, for being the reason his beloved had been driven away. But when a deal went wrong and capture became certain, he did something she never expected. He took off his only bulletproof vest and shoved it into her arms. “Run, Ray!” Then he turned and ran the opposite direction, gunfire tearing after him. She watched him look back one last time, his lips moving. *I’m going to see Mia now. Next life… let’s not meet again. My heart only has room for one.* By the time she returned with reinforcements, all she found was his shattered body. She spent the next six months alone—luring the Vossberg soldiers, destroying their command center from the inside, and finally becoming nothing more than a name carved into the Shaw family mausoleum. Then she opened her eyes. She was back in her father’s office. The date on the wall told her everything. She reborned. Without a word, she found the current mafia don her father, and said the words she had never spoken before: “I want to cancel the engagement to Ethan Chase,” Rayna repeated. Her voice did not shake. “Mine and Ethan’s. And I want to take the undercover assignment in Mia’s place.” —

Don Shaw stared at his daughter for a long time. “You want to take Mia’s place? You’re not marrying Ethan?” “Rayna.” Her father took off his glasses. “Do you know what you’re saying.” “I know exactly what I’m saying.” He didn’t believe her. No one in the compound would. Rayna had spent years declaring to anyone who would listen that she would marry Ethan Chase or no one at all. She had shoved Mia into walls, screamed at her in hallways, and made it absolutely clear that she would burn the world down before letting her sister touch the man she loved. For her to give up the engagement and walk into enemy territory in Mia’s place — impossible. “Your wedding is in ten days,” her father said slowly. “Are you sure about this?” Rayna paused. Then she smiled—a small, tired thing. “You’re always telling me that Mia lost her father and I should let her have things. Isn’t that what you want?” Her father’s expression shifted through something complicated. Guilt, maybe. Or surprise that his headstrong daughter had finally listened. She didn’t wait for his answer. She turned and walked out. Ever since he had remarried, he had made a habit of telling her to rein in her temper, to be kinder to Mia, terrified she might feel unwelcome under their roof. In her last life, if she hadn’t thrown her dead mother — the woman who had died saving him — across his desk, he would have simply rewritten the drawing of lots and put her name on the slip. This time, she was saving him the trouble. So finally he added her name to the infiltration file instead. The hallway outside the Don’s office was cold, She had barely taken three steps when someone slammed into her shoulder hard enough to bruise. Ethan Chase. He looked frantic. His uniform was stained with mud, as if he had just dropped to his knees somewhere. She knew exactly where—in her past life, she had found him begging her father to take Mia’s name off the mission roster. She had dragged him to a priest that same day and forced him to sign the engagement contract. Now she just rubbed her shoulder and stepped aside. Ethan shot out an arm to stop her. Anger and confusion flashed through his eyes. “Rayna.” She pulled free. “The mission was decided by lottery. Those are the rules.” His jaw tightened. “If the Don just gave me more time, I could find another way. We don’t have to send a woman into his bed.” She almost laughed. Time? How much time did he think they had? The war between the families had been bleeding men for three years. Every day they delayed, more of their people would end up in the river. Right now, putting one woman — her or Mia — into Silas Price’s house to lift the ledger was the path with the fewest losses, the highest chance of success. “One of us is going,” she said quietly. “Mia or me. You can beg on your knees all day, Ethan. It won’t change anything.” His grip tightened on her wrist. His voice dropped. “”As long as you don’t go running to the Commander to make things worse, there may still be another way.” She pulled away again. This time, she didn’t look back. “Have it your way. The application’s already in. You’ll be satisfied when the day comes.” She walked off, leaving Ethan standing there, stunned. Behind her, she heard him call her name once. Twice. She kept walking. She had meant to tell him the truth. Now she didn’t want to. In her last life he had wished her dead. A few more hours of his hatred wouldn’t make much difference. When the wedding day came and he saw the bride wasn’t her — he’d probably be a little happier, even. But remembering how he had buckled his only vest onto her, shoved her out of the encirclement, and taken every bullet and shell himself — her throat still tightened. She had spent eight years believing that if she just kept him close, the bitterness would eventually turn sweet. But he had only left her the chance to live, and chosen to die in the dirt beside Mia. *Ethan Chase. You saved my life once. This time, let’s call it even.*

When back home, the first thing she did was spread out the Vossberg files across her desk. The target’s name was underlined in red: **Silas Price**. Silas Price held a ledger the Shaw family had been hunting for three years — the full record of his alliances, his foreign accounts, the names of every made man on his payroll. They had never gotten close. Now the head of the German Vossberg Cartel. Her mission was simple in theory: get close. Extract intelligence. Don’t get killed. In practice? No one had ever come back from an operation against him. In her last life, Mia had been exposed within three months and tortured to death. They hadn’t gotten the intel. They had exposed their own positions instead. The war had reignited from there, and the casualties had been catastrophic — until, in the end, Ethan had died under enemy fire shielding her. She sat at her desk and thought it through, hour after hour, without sleeping. At dawn, she changed into a simple black dress and headed for the door. The second she pulled the door open, the cold metal pressed against her forehead. A gun. “Why can’t you just leave your sister alone?” Ethan’s voice was raw, nearly shaking. For half a second she froze. She reached up to knock the gun away — and Ethan twisted her arm, locking it across her chest. The strength behind it forced a hiss through her teeth. “Ethan — let go!” She kicked back hard. He pressed her tighter. “You think I don’t know what you did? You went to your father and made sure Mia got the dangerous mission so you could keep me for yourself?” “You’re so selfish and cold—how can you expect anyone to love you?” She went still. Those words. She had heard them before. In a marriage that lasted eight years too long. In fights that left her bleeding on the inside. She came back to herself, drove her heel into his stomach, snatched up the pistol he dropped, and turned the muzzle on his forehead. “You want to shoot me, Ethan? On Shaw property?” The pain knocked the heat out of him. His eyes dropped to her trembling hand, still red where he’d twisted her wrist, and the anger in his face folded into regret. His voice came out softer than he meant. “I’m sorry…” “I lost my head.” She didn’t answer. She threw the gun at his feet. “It’s an assignment. Someone has to go. You don’t need to take it out on me. Maybe things will turn out exactly the way you want. Go home — focus on your wedding. You’ll be happy with the outcome.” He didn’t catch the bitterness in her voice. He bent down and picked up the pistol, gave a small, self-mocking smile. “You think everyone’s as cold-blooded as you, calm enough to plan a wedding at a time like this…” She drew a long breath and walked away, face carefully blank, her molars ached from clenching her jaw. *Ethan Chase. This life, I’ll give you everything you want.*

Outside her window, the long black cars came and went through the Shaw gates the way they always did, headlights sliding across the wallpaper. That night, someone left a small box outside her door. Inside was a tray of butterfly pastries—her favorite. The kind you couldn’t buy inside the compound. He must have driven all the way into the city to get them. She didn’t eat a single one. She knew why he did it. Not because he loved her. Because her mother had taken him in when he was an orphan boy, fed him, raised him like a son. He was only trying to repay a debt. She had always been a burden he tolerated out of gratitude. *I’m done being that burden.* The mission approval came through quickly. But her engagement cancellation was kept quiet—at her request. She had asked the Don for that herself. She told her father to inform Mia privately, let Mia sign her own marriage contract with Ethan’s name on it.The rest of the family — the Consigliere, the Capo, the gossiping wives in the long-island houses — would not find out until the morning of the wedding itself, when Ethan Chase lifted the veil and saw the wrong face under it. Every file the Shaw lawyers had built on Silas Price, every dossier on the Vossberg Cartel, every floor plan of his estate — she read once and burned in her own fireplace. Consider it her wedding surprise to him. Ethan, for his part, knew none of it. He moved through the compound like a man with a stone tied to his chest. He pulled men off the rotation just to corner her father in his study. He took up smoking again, the way he hadn’t since he was sixteen, and stubbed half the cigarettes out before they were done. He went to the Don’s office every day, argued with anyone who would listen, begged for more time, another solution. *Let me trade in for her. There has to be another way at Price.* Rayna heard about it from the maids. She did not look up from her tea. — It was a clear, cold afternoon when she came out of the canteen and meet them in the garden pavilion. Mia was sitting on the stone bench in a pale blue dress, her hands folded in her lap, the way she always sat when she wanted to look small. Ethan was bent over the table opposite her, sleeves pushed to the elbow, fingers working a tangle of dried grass into shape. Mia was glowing. She had been told, then. She had been told she was going to marry him. “Ethan.” Mia asked, leaning over his hands. “What are you making? I’ve never seen you do that before.” Ethan’s fingers moved without looking. Loop, twist, tuck. “Nothing,” he said. “Just some scrap.” Rayna stopped at the edge of the gravel path. *Scrap.* Her mother had taught him that *scrap.* On the long summer afternoons before the war between the families had bled into their own house, on the back porch of the old place, Rayna’s mother had sat with a teenage boy who had come in off a Brooklyn curb with a black eye and no last name, and had pressed a handful of dried grass into his hands and shown him, slow, how to braid. *Make her something pretty, Ethan. She’s still half a child.* After her mother had died, the only person who had still made those little woven things for Rayna had been Ethan. Until Mia came along. Rayna had hated that. She had thrown tantrums over it. She had ordered Ethan, with all the petulance of a Don’s daughter, not to weave a single thing for the new stepsister. And Ethan, calm and cool, had told her she was being unreasonable. He had told her that a great many times, in eight years of marriage. “What do you want?” Ethan asked Mia now, gentle. Mia’s eyes slid sideways. She found Rayna at the edge of the garden, and the corner of her mouth lifted, just a little. A smile only Rayna would catch. “A rabbit,” Mia said, sweet as syrup. “Make me a rabbit.” Ethan’s hands stopped. He didn’t say no. Rayna turned and walked away. A woven straw rabbit. Of all the things. Her mother had made her one, the last summer before the war took her — a small, lopsided thing with one ear bent. After the warehouse fire had taken their old house down to the studs, that rabbit had been the only piece of her mother Rayna had managed to dig out of the ash. It sat now on the top shelf of her wardrobe, in a velvet-lined box, where only one person in the world besides her knew to look. Mia had never cared about woven grass in her life. She was not asking for a toy. She just want to put her thumb on Rayna’s pain, because she saw her. Rayna did not hide. She did not duck down a side path. She walked straight back across the gravel with her chin up, and at the moment she passed the pavilion, she felt Ethan’s eyes lift and follow her. She did not turn her head. “Childish,” Rayna said aloud, to the empty hallway. Her voice was steady. She stepped over the box and shut her door. The next morning, the rabbit was still there. Untouched. The dew had not even gotten to it; someone had set a sheet of waxed paper underneath the box. She stared at it for a long moment, the cold tile under her bare feet. Then she bent down, picked the rabbit up, and slipped it into the inside pocket of her jacket, against her ribs.

The Don Shaw threw her a quiet send-off in the family ballroom. Quiet, for the Shaws, meant fifty people and a string quartet. Black suits, cigars, the smell of old whiskey and gun oil clinging to the men’s lapels even in their Sunday best. The big chandelier had been polished. The capos’ wives wore their second-best pearls — first-best was for funerals — and watched the door like hawks. By the time Rayna came down from the training wing, Mia was already in the center of the room, surrounded. A handkerchief in her hand. Eyes very wet, very bright. The picture of a brave young woman about to walk into the lion’s mouth for her family. “I didn’t think the draw would land on you, sweetheart.” One of the older wives was patting her wrist. “Rayna’s the Don’s blood daughter — she should have been the first to step up. Instead she’s running around the city forcing poor Ethan to marry her. Our Mia’s the one paying for it.” “That’s the truth of it,” another woman sniffed. “And Mia is the one risking her life, and she can’t even come say goodbye?”” Rayna watched Mia’s eyes shine through the tears — and underneath the shine, the small, satisfied glint of a girl who had spent her entire childhood learning exactly how to be pitied. Then Mia looked up, saw Rayna in the doorway, and froze. She had not expected her to come. Rayna smiled — a small, amused thing — and walked across the floor as if she had been invited. The whispers changed pitch around her. “What is she doing here —” “Showing off. What else.” “Don’t look at her like that. Mia’s just better than she is. Spoiled little thing — won’t even lift a finger while her own sister goes into Vossberg territory. God knows how the Don raised a daughter that cold.” Rayna did not break stride. She did not answer. She took a glass of champagne off a passing tray, sipped it once, and set it down again, untouched. After a while the chatter and the laughter began to bore her. She turned for the door. “Rayna.” Mia’s voice, behind her. Soft. Rayna stopped. She did not turn until Mia had crossed the floor and slid an arm through hers, easy, intimate, the way sisters did in photographs. “Dad told me,” Mia murmured against her ear. Her perfume was something light and floral; up close it smelled cheap. “He told me you gave up the engagement on your own. But Ethan’s always loved me, you know. So I can’t really say I stole him from you, can I?” Rayna let her arm be held. “The draw came up my name,” Mia went on, “but I gave you this once-in-a-lifetime chance to make your name in the family. Surely I’m allowed a few words with the soldiers before I go.” Rayna laughed. It came out short, low, genuinely amused, and Mia’s smile faltered for the first time. “Make your name,” Rayna repeated. She tilted her head, studied her stepsister like a curious specimen. “You think you could make a name on this chance .” Mia blinked. “Mia, sweetheart.” Rayna’s voice did not rise. It didn’t need to. “You can’t shoot. You can’t take a punch. You have never run a mile in your life. You think Silas Price’s bedroom is a tea party? You think a Vossberg house is somewhere a girl like you survives a week?” “The only reason you’re even in this life is because my dad protects you.” Her smile thinned. “I stepped in to clean up the mess that would have been you. I didn’t realize you were stupid enough to mistake that for a favor.” Mia’s face drained of color. For one long second they stood there, arm in arm, smiling for the room, while underneath the smiles something cold passed between them.

Then Mia’s eyes shifted. Just a flicker. A look past Rayna’s shoulder, toward the doorway behind her. Rayna saw the calculation land. Mia gripped her wrist tighter — and yanked Rayna’s own hand up and slapped herself across the face. The slap rang through the ballroom. “Rayna —” Mia’s voice broke beautifully. Tears spilled. “Why would you —!” Rayna opened her mouth to say something cutting about — And a body slammed into her from the side. She didn’t see him coming. She felt the shove — hard, deliberate, no half-measure in it — and then her back hit the carved stone edge of the fireplace mantel, low against her spine, and pain blew white through her whole body. The whole ballroom had gone quiet. Fifty pairs of eyes. The capos’ wives had even stopped pretending not to listen. Rayna saw, with a small distant part of her mind, that the string quartet had stopped playing. “You’ve been like this your whole life,” Ethan said. Quiet now. Cold. Each word landing exactly where he wanted it. “Spoiled. Cruel. Proud. I told myself for years there was something good underneath it. And now I see is a jealous, spiteful woman” Rayna stared at him. Her back throbbed. Her vision blurred. “Two girls raised under one roof,” he said over her, “and Mia comes out loyal, comes out brave, comes out willing to die for this family — and you come out this.” He drew a breath. “I don’t know who taught you to be this person,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what I think. I think your mother died of you.” The world went silent. Then her hand connected with his face. Eight years. Eight years of marriage, in another life. Eight years of curses across the breakfast table, eight years of pins under his pillow and his arm thrown across her in his sleep anyway, eight years of every cruel thing two people could find to say to each other. He had never crossed this line. Not once. Not even at the end. The slap was clean. It rang. His head jerked half a degree to the side, and a red bloom rose at once along his cheekbone. “You,” she said. Her voice was perfectly level. “Of every person in this room, are the one with no right to speak about my mother.” She did not wait to see his face. She turned, set her hand against the stone for balance, and started walking — slow, even, one foot in front of the other, because her lower back was screaming and she would die before she limped in front of any of these people. She made it ten steps before her knees buckled. Ethan was there before she went down. He caught her without a word. He swept her up off her feet — one arm under her knees, one behind her shoulders — the way he had carried her exactly once in their first life, on the night of the last mission, after he had buckled his vest onto her. His hands were shaking. Behind them, Mia called after him—“Ethan, wait!”—but he didn’t stop. He did not turn his head. He did not slow down. He carried Rayna all the way to the estate’s infirmary without another word. The family doctor patched up her back. Bruised, not broken. Ethan stood in the doorway, hands hanging at his sides. When the doctor had gone, he opened his mouth. “I didn’t mean it,” he said to the floor. Rayna did not look at him. She rolled onto her side, away from the door, and pulled the blanket up to her shoulder. “Get out. I’m sleeping.” A long silence. “I’m sorry, Rayna.” She did not answer. After a moment, the door clicked shut. She lay still in the dark, listening. A moment later, a muffled smack came from the hallway—the sound of a palm hitting a face. Ethan had hit himself. Rayna closed her eyes. Two more days. Then I leave. Then he marries Mia. Then everyone gets what they want. Everyone except me.

The morning of her departure arrived before dawn. She had laid everything out on the bed — the false papers, the fake jewelry, the small velvet box of pearl earrings that were a parting gift from her father and also, she suspected, a tracker. And the last one, the most important, the one that had survived fire and betrayal. But when Rayna reached for it, the drawer was empty. She knew, without needing to think, who had taken it. She knew, without needing to think, who had told her. She found Mia in the side garden. Mia was sitting on the low stone bench in a pale dress, the sun in her hair, a small pile of dry grass on her lap. “Mia.” The name came out of Rayna’s throat low and shaking. Mia’s hand jerked. The last of the woven body came apart in her fingers. The straw fell into her lap in a small, dead heap, and there was nothing recognizable left of it at all. Mia looked up with wet eyes. “Rayna—” The word was small, watery, prettily broken. “Please don’t be angry. I wanted to make Ethan something to remember me by — just a little keepsake — I didn’t think you’d —” She rose to her feet as she spoke. Apologetic. Trembling. Both hands lifted, palms out, as if she were the one being threatened. And as she rose, the toe of her shoe came forward — perfectly aimed — and ground down on what was left of the straw on the gravel. Carefully. The way a woman crushes out a cigarette. The last of the rabbit’s shape disappeared under her shoe. Rayna’s vision went white at the edges. She moved before she thought. Her hand went to the small holster at her hip, and the pistol came up, and she took two steps forward with the muzzle already rising. A hand closed around her wrist from behind and twisted hard. She knew that grip before she saw the face. Ethan locked her arm across her own chest, pinning the gun against her ribs, and his voice was low and tight against her ear. “It’s a straw rabbit, Rayna. You’re going to pull a gun on family over a straw rabbit?” She turned her head. Her eyes were burning. “You gave it to her,” Rayna said. Not a question. “You told her where I kept it.” He didn’t answer. Ethan’s silence was the only answer she needed. “Let me go,” she whispered. He didn’t. “Ethan. Let. Me. Go.” He held on tighter. “Because of you, Mia might die on that mission. Does a pile of straw really matter more than her life?” “A pile of straw.” Rayna repeated it, very quietly. “You know exactly what that was. You know who made it.” His jaw clenched. “It was my mother’s.” Ethan flinched. His grip loosened—just a fraction. “I’ll make you another one,” he said. “A better one.” Rayna wrenched her wrist free and lunged for Mia. “I don’t want anything from you.” In a single motion Ethan drew his sidearm and leveled it at her chest.“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” She stopped. She looked at the gun. She looked at the man holding it. The second time, now. The second time he’d put a gun on her under this roof. She laughed—a thin, wild laugh—and she kept walking. Ethan saw something in her face and flinched. His arm jerked. The pistol kicked in his hand before he could catch it. The crack of the shot rang off the marble. The bullet tore past her shoulder, grazing skin. Blood soaked through her sleeve. Time stopped. Rayna looked down at her own hand—still holding the training pistol she had grabbed. Ethan’s gun clattered to the ground. His face went gray. He had just realized. The pistol in her hand was a training replica. It couldn’t have fired a round if she’d begged it to. “You weren’t going to shoot,” he breathed. “You never… you never had bullets. Why didn’t you shoot me, Rayna? You hate me. Why didn’t you pull the trigger?” She didn’t answer. Her legs gave out. She fell into his arms before she could stop herself. Ethan caught her. She felt his arms close around her, felt how badly his hands were shaking. She had held back tears for two days. Now one slipped down and broke against the back of his hand. He flinched as if she’d burned him. “Sorry,” he said. “God, I’m sorry.” She weren’t even armed. Why was he so certain she’d kill him? She tried to speak. Her eyelids were too heavy. Something was rising in his chest that he couldn’t name and couldn’t swallow, something that locked his throat shut. In Ethan Chase’s arms, in the wreckage of a straw rabbit, Rayna closed her eyes.

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Every wolf in the Crescent Moon pack knows me and my mate are the unhappiest couple in pack history. They know it because he’s the male I stole. For eight years I called him my mate. For eight years I wore the Luna title and slept in the Beta’s chambers and watched him flinch every time I tried to touch him. We poisoned each other’s food. I hid silver pins under his pillow. He hid wolfsbane in my tea. Every single morning in that pack house started with one of us hissing *I hope you choke* across the breakfast table. I told myself he’d come around. I told myself the bond would settle. Then the rogues ambushed us at the border. He pressed his bullet-proof vest into my hands and shoved me behind a rock. I thought — gods, I actually thought — *he’s finally choosing me.* “Rae, run!” I ran. I ran like a stupid pup. And when I came back with the warriors, I found his body torn open by rogue claws, and Mira’s body curled up next to his. He’d died covering her. His last words floated back to me later from the one warrior who’d survived long enough to hear them. *”I’m coming, Mira. Next life — don’t let her find me first. My heart only has room for you.”* I stood over his corpse and I didn’t cry. I just walked back into rogue territory alone, took out their command post with my own claws, and bled out under their banner. My name went on the pack memorial wall. One line. Nothing else. Then I opened my eyes. I’m staring at the ceiling of my old room in the Crescent Moon pack house. My hands are small again. The mating ceremony with Caden is ten days away. Mira is still alive, still sleeping two doors down, still plotting whatever she plotted that put us all in the ground. I sit up slowly. The moon goddess gave me a second chance. Fine. I know exactly what to do with it. I get dressed. I walk straight to my father’s war room. Alpha Quinn looks up from his maps, and I say it before I can think twice. “Call off the mating ceremony. I’ll take the undercover mission instead of Mira.” He stares at me. “You want to replace your sister on the infiltration team. You. Are giving up Caden Wolfe.” “Yes.” “The whole pack knows you’d die before you let another she-wolf near him.” “Things change.” He keeps staring. He’s waiting for the punchline. Every wolf in this pack thinks I’m a spoiled brat who clawed her way into a mating with the Beta heir — and they’re not exactly wrong. Last life, when the lots fell on Mira and Caden begged my father to spare her, I dragged Caden home by the collar and forced the ceremony forward. This life, I’m done. “You always told me Mira lost her father young,” I say flat. “You always told me I should step back for her. So I’m stepping back.” His face does something complicated. He’s remembering my mother. The former Luna who took a rogue’s claws to the throat so he could live. He’s remembering how, after he married the widow with the small soft pup, he stopped looking at me the same way. He signs the papers. The mating ceremony is off. Mira gets Caden. I get the mission. I walk out of the war room and slam straight into a wall of muscle and rage. Caden. Last life he was already on his knees in front of my father, mud and blood streaked down his uniform, begging on behalf of Mira. Same desperate face. Same wild eyes. I rub my shoulder and try to step around him. He catches my arm. “What did you just do.” His voice is low. His inner wolf is right at the surface — I can see the yellow bleeding into his irises. “Drawing of lots is pack law,” I say. “You know that.” “Give me a week. I’ll find another way. We don’t have to send a she-wolf into that brutal Alpha’s bed —” “We have a week’s worth of warriors dying at the border every day, Caden. How many more do you want?” His jaw locks. “If you don’t go stirring things up in front of the Alpha, there’s still time —” There it is. Not *don’t go, Rae*. Not *I’m sorry*. Just — *don’t make trouble for Mira*. I peel his hand off my arm. “It’s done. The paperwork’s in. You’ll be very happy with how it turns out.” I walk past him. I don’t look back. In the courtyard, I let myself breathe. One breath. Just one. *Caden Wolfe, last life you gave me your vest and went and died next to her. This life I’m giving you back to her. We’re even.*

I spend the whole night with the rogue territory maps spread across my floor. The intel we’re chasing is huge. Last life Mira got caught three months in, tortured into telling them everything, and the whole operation collapsed. Warriors died. The war came back hotter than before. Caden died in the second wave shielding her. I died chasing his ghost. This time I know the layout. I know the schedules. I know which rogue warlord is sleeping with which traitor. I have one shot to walk in there clean and walk out with the names. I haven’t slept when dawn breaks. I throw on a plain jacket and crack my bedroom door open — A gun barrel presses straight into my forehead. “Why,” Caden grits out, “do you keep going after your sister?” I don’t even blink. I bring my arm up to knock the gun away. He’s faster. He twists my wrist, spins me, pins me against my own door frame. Stronger than I remembered. Stronger than a Beta should be at this hour, when his wolf hasn’t fed. “Caden. Let go.” I kick back. He just presses harder. “You’d let your own sister die just so I’d mate you? Is that the kind of she-wolf you are?” His voice is shaking with something ugly. Rage. Disgust. “Tell me, Raelynn. What gives a wolf like you the right to be loved?” For one ugly second I’m right back in that bedroom in the old pack house. Eight years of mating. Same words. Same voice. I snap. I drive my heel into his gut, scoop the gun off the floor, and turn it back on him in one move. The barrel kisses his forehead. “You drew a weapon on me. Inside our own pack territory. Do you have any idea what the Council does to wolves who do that?” He goes very still. His eyes drop to my wrist. It’s bruising already, ugly purple blooming under the skin. The fury drains out of him so fast I almost feel sorry for him. “…I’m sorry.” “Save it.” “I lost my head.” I toss the gun at his feet. “Someone has to take this mission, Caden. Yelling at me won’t change which name’s on the paperwork. Maybe you’ll get the result you want. Go home and prep for your ceremony.” He doesn’t catch the bitterness in my voice. He bends down for the gun like a wolf with a broken back. “You really think every wolf is as cold as you,” he says quietly. “Talking about a ceremony at a time like this —” I breathe in once. I walk past him. My teeth ache from biting down so hard. I don’t look back. If I look back I’ll claw his face off. *Caden. This life I’m going to give you everything you want. Watch.* That evening I come back to find a small box on my desk. Inside it: a stack of blueberry tarts, warm, fresh, the kind they don’t make in our pack kitchens. He’d have to have run them in from the human town to get them here. My favorite. He remembered. He always remembered the small things. That’s what kept me hooked for eight years. I don’t touch them. I know exactly what they are. They’re not love. They’re a thank-you note. My mother took him in when he was a starving pup with no pack. She raised him. She fed him. He owes her, and he’s been paying that debt out in tarts and small kindnesses to her pup for fifteen years. He doesn’t love me. He never did. I wrap the tarts back up and leave them out for the kitchen omegas in the morning.

The mission paperwork comes through fast. The cancellation of my mating to Caden — I told my father to sit on that one. Tell Mira privately. Let her file her own ceremony request. The rest of the pack finds out the day of the ceremony. Cruel? Maybe. Last life he buried me in a single line of carved stone. This life he gets a surprise of his own. All the mission files burn in my fireplace the second I’ve memorized them. Caden’s been useless for days. Anyone can see it. He skips training, skips meals, haunts the Council chambers begging to be let in on the mission planning. They keep turning him away. I cross the courtyard after dinner and there they are, tucked into the garden pavilion — Caden and Mira, his head bent over his hands, hers tipped toward his shoulder like a flower toward the sun. He’s weaving something out of long grass. His fingers know the pattern. My mother taught him that pattern. She used to make me wolves out of grass when I was small, little carved wolf shapes that would last a week before they fell apart. After she died, Caden started making them for me. That’s how he kept me from crying myself sick. Grass wolves. Then Mira showed up, and there was suddenly a second pup in the garden, and the grass wolves started getting handed to *her* too. “Caden, what’re you making? I’ve never seen one of those before.” Lying, soft-eyed bitch. She’s seen a thousand. “Just something stupid,” he mutters, hands still moving. Mira’s gaze slides past him and lands on me. Standing there in the path. Watching. Her eyes light up. “Oh — could you make me a little wolf? Just a small one?” Caden’s hands freeze. He knows. He has to know what she’s just done. The grass wolves are mine. The last one my mother ever made for me — the one she gave me the morning before the rogues hit our compound — that wolf is sitting on the shelf above my bed right this minute. It’s the only thing I have of her left. Caden looks up. His eyes find mine across the garden. I don’t give him anything. I turn around and walk away. Let him weave her one. Let him weave her ten. I’m not going to stand there and watch. That night there’s a small wooden box outside my bedroom door. I open it. A grass wolf, fresh, perfect, exactly the way my mother used to make them. Same little crooked ear. Same loop of stem for the tail. “Childish,” I say out loud, to no one. I put the box down outside the door and close it. In the morning the box is still there. Untouched. He didn’t take it back. I stare at it for a long minute. Then I pick the wolf up and tuck it into my jacket pocket, right against my ribs. I tell myself it’s because my mother made the original. It has nothing to do with the wolf who wove this one. Nothing at all. I walk out into the training yard and don’t think about Caden Wolfe for the rest of the day. I think about a wolf I’ve never met. Damon Ravencroft. Alpha of Ravencroft Pack. The wolf I’m going to crawl into bed with in nine days’ time. The reports say he hasn’t taken a mate. Hasn’t taken a Luna. Buries himself in war planning. Cold-blooded, brilliant, half a head taller than any wolf in his pack, and the rogues he’s been doing deals with say even *they* are scared of him. Good. I’d rather be scared of my target than soft on him.

The Council throws Mira a small send-off in the pack hall. I come out of the training yard sweaty and bruised, and there she is, sitting in the middle of the long table like a saint about to be martyred. Wolves crowded around her, hands on her shoulders, eyes wet. “To think the lots picked *you*, Mira. Raelynn’s Alpha Quinn’s only bloodline heir — *she* should be the one stepping up for the pack. Instead she’s busy bullying our Beta heir into mating her. Poor Mira.” “Right? And Raelynn doesn’t even have the decency to come see her sister off. Heartless bitch.” Mira lowers her lashes. There’s a single tear ready on the edge of one of them. But just behind that tear, I catch the flick of something else — satisfaction. Then she sees me. The tear forgets to fall. She wasn’t expecting me. Why would she? Last life I was tearing the pack house apart trying to drag Caden back to the mating altar by his collar. Showing up to her send-off would have been the last thing on my list. I smile. I walk over. I find an empty chair right at her side, drop into it, cross my legs. The wolves around her stare. The one closest to me actually pulls her chair back a couple inches. “What’s *she* doing here? Coming to gloat?” “Don’t waste your breath. Mira’s just *better* than her. Mira’s got the heart of a real Luna. Raelynn watches her sister get sent into rogue territory and doesn’t even blink — Alpha Quinn must be ashamed every time he looks at her.” I don’t argue. These wolves were my packmates once. Last life most of them died at the border within a year. The one talking the loudest right now actually took a silver round for me on a raid I don’t remember being grateful for. If they want to gossip into their drinks while they’re still breathing — gods, let them. It’s almost nice. After a while it gets boring. I push back from the table and head for the door. “Rae.” Mira catches up to me in the corridor, slips her arm through mine like we’re best friends. “Father told me. About you giving up the mating. That was so generous of you — Caden was always going to be mine anyway, right? You’re not going to call it stealing, are you?” She tilts her head up at me, sweet as poison. “The lots picked me, but I’m letting *you* have the glory of the mission. We can call it even. So just — be nice to my friends, okay? They’re worried about me.” I laugh in her face. “Glory.” “What?” “You think if it had been you out there, you’d have come back with glory? With *anything*?” Her smile freezes. “Mira. You can’t run a training drill without crying. You’ve never bled for this pack in your life. You really thought you were going to walk into Damon Ravencroft’s pack house and out-Alpha *him*?” I lean in. “If Father hadn’t covered for you, you wouldn’t even be a recognized member of this pack. You’d be a stray that wandered in behind your mother.” “I’m taking your mission because somebody has to clean up after you. Don’t mistake that for charity.” Her face goes white. Then ugly red. Then her eyes do this thing — that quick flicker I should have remembered from last life — and her hand snaps up, locks around my wrist, and yanks. She slaps herself across the face with my own hand. “Rae — *why* —” I open my mouth to call her a clumsy little — A shape blurs in from my left. A hand slams into my shoulder. I go backward, hard, and the small of my back cracks against the stone edge of the rockery. The pain whites out my vision for a second. When I can focus again, Caden is in front of Mira. Body angled to shield her. Eyes blazing yellow at me like *I’m* the rogue. “Raelynn! Since when do you raise a hand on your own sister?!” “She’s leaving on an undercover mission in three days. If she gets hurt now, are *you* going to step in for her?!”

“You hit me? Did you even *see* what just happened?! She grabbed my —” “Enough!” Caden’s voice drops into Beta tone — the heavy pressure of it slamming out toward me on instinct. It glances right off. My Alpha bloodline doesn’t bend for a Beta. But the part of me that loved him for fifteen years still cracks straight down the middle. His face is gray. His eyes are colder than I’ve ever seen them. “Your whole life you’ve been like this. Throwing your weight around because you’re Alpha Quinn’s only bloodline heir. I told myself you’d grow out of it. I told myself you weren’t really cruel.” “Now you can’t even leave your own sister alone.” “You and Mira were raised in the same pack, by the same parents — she gives everything she has for this pack, and you? You’re rotten with envy.” “I don’t know who poisoned you into this. I think your mother died from the shame of having a pup like —” A crack splits the corridor. I don’t remember moving. I don’t remember lifting my hand. My palm just goes off across his face like a bullet. He turns his head with the force of it. Slow. He doesn’t even raise a hand to his cheek. A thin line of blood splits his lower lip and runs down to his chin. Behind him Mira is making a thin pitchy noise — *Caden, Caden, your face* — like she’s been shot. I’m panting. My eyes are burning. The grass wolf in my jacket pocket is digging into my ribs. Eight years of mating, last life. Eight years of him screaming things at me across that dinner table. He called me selfish. He called me jealous. He called me a curse. But not *that*. Not my mother. He never crossed that line. This life he crossed it in three days. “The wolf in this corridor with the least right to say a single word about my mother,” I say, and my voice is shaking so hard I can barely shape the words, “is *you*.” I turn around. The small of my back is already swelling — I can feel it pulsing under my shirt — and I have to grip the wall to walk straight. I get maybe four steps. Then I hear him move. Fast. The kind of fast wolves move when they finally feel something. He scoops me up off the floor before I can swing at him. “Put me down.” He doesn’t. “Caden — *put me down* —” Behind him I hear Mira’s small wet voice. “Caden, I — I never meant for —” He doesn’t even turn his head for her. He just walks. Long strides, jaw locked, carrying me down the corridor toward the healer’s wing like a wolf carrying his own dying mate. For one second — one stupid, stupid second — my chest cracks open with old hope. Then I remember. Last life he carried me like this exactly twice. Once after a rogue raid where I almost lost a leg. Once after a training accident at the academy. Both times I told myself *see, he loves me, he just doesn’t know it yet.* Both times he set me down on a healer’s cot and left without a word and went to find Mira. I close my eyes. The healer’s wing smells like crushed wolfsbane and bandages. He lays me down on the cot, steps back, and stands at the doorway like a sentry while the healer works on my back. The healer asks who did it. “I fell,” I say. The healer looks at Caden. Caden’s hands are fists at his sides. After she leaves, he stays at the door. “I didn’t mean —” “Get out.” “Rae, what I said about your mother —” “Get out, Caden.” I roll over to face the wall and pull the blanket up to my ears. He doesn’t move for a long time. Then I hear the door click softly behind him. Half a minute later, from out in the corridor, I hear the *crack* of a palm on a face. He just slapped himself. Hard. Last life he did that too. Once. After he’d called me a worthless she-wolf in front of half the pack. He stood outside our bedroom and slapped his own face raw and then knelt at our door for two hours. I didn’t open it then either. I close my eyes. *Caden Wolfe, you ran out of chances eight years before I was born.*

Two nights before I leave for Ravencroft territory, I go to pack my mother’s grass wolf. The shelf above my bed is empty. For a second the floor tilts. I check under the bed. I check the dresser. I check every drawer, every shelf, every coat pocket I own. It’s gone. There’s exactly one other wolf in this pack house who knows where I kept it. I find her in the small parlor next to the kitchens. She has the grass wolf in her lap. She’s pulling it apart. Strand by strand. Slow. Methodical. Like she’s deveining a fish. “*Mira.*” Her hand jerks. The whole wolf comes apart in her fingers — ear, tail, body, all of it, fifteen years of careful weaving falling into her skirt as dry brown grass. She looks up at me with huge wet eyes and the cheekbone I “slapped” yesterday already purpling for the show. “Sister — I’m sorry — I was going to surprise Caden, I was going to weave him a little charm to wear at my ceremony, I just wanted to study how my mother — *your* mother — used to —” I draw the knife. Not a real blade. A training knife. No silver edge, no proper point — they don’t let us carry live silver inside the pack house. But I’m three days off training and my hand is steady and the look in her eyes when she sees the blade is so satisfying I could weep. I take one step toward her. Her foot moves. She steps forward — *toward* the knife, not away — and crushes the loose grass into the floor with the toe of her shoe. Grinds it in like she’s putting out a cigarette. What’s left of the grass wolf is a smear of green and brown on the stone. I stop breathing. I take another step. The training blade is at her throat. A wrist clamps around mine from behind. “Rae — *what are you doing* —” Caden. He twists my arm down and out. The training blade clatters somewhere I can’t see. Mira sags backward into a chair, all tears now, the act so practiced it would be funny if I wasn’t shaking. I turn my head to look at him. “Did you give it to her?” He doesn’t answer. “That charm was kept on the shelf above my bed. Nobody knows that except you, Caden. So I’ll ask again. *Did you give it to her?*” His silence is the answer. I laugh. It comes out wrong. “Tell me something. Is anything I own worth as much to you as her *mood*?” He flinches. He actually flinches. Then his eyes land on Mira, on her tear-soaked face, on the bruise that I didn’t put there, and his jaw locks again. “Because of you,” he says, low, “she might die in three days. And you’re going to put a blade through her over a *fistful of grass?*” “A fistful of grass.” I say it back to him slow. So he can hear it. “Caden. You *know* what my mother left me. You *know*.” He goes very still. For one second I see it crack open behind his eyes — the pup in the corridor of my mother’s house, twelve years old, watching her weave that wolf for me at the kitchen table. The pup who’d cried into her apron when he got his first shift wrong. The Beta heir who’d taught me how to pin a wolf twice my size on the training field. Then he looks at Mira again, and the door behind his eyes slams shut. “I’ll weave you a better one.” I stare at him. “I don’t want anything from you.” I drive my shoulder into his ribs and break for Mira. He’s faster — gods, he’s always been faster — and this time he draws his sidearm. Real one. From his hip. Points the barrel at my chest. “You’re acting against pack order. As Beta heir I have the authority to bring you in right now.” I freeze for half a second. Then I laugh, because I have nothing else. I draw my training blade out of my belt — useless, blunt, no edge — and I point it back at him. We stand there in the parlor like the eight years that never happened. “Stop it, Raelynn —” I take a step forward. Caden’s eyes go wide. His arm jerks — instinct, training, he’s trying to swing the barrel away from me — and his finger slips. *Crack.* The shot grazes across the top of my shoulder. Cloth shreds. Heat blooms. Blood runs hot down my arm in a thin clean line. The whole room stops. Mira screams. Caden’s gun hits the floor. He’s looking at me like he doesn’t understand what just happened. Then his eyes drop to the training blade in my hand. The dull edge. The blunted tip. “You — you weren’t going to —” His voice cracks. “You weren’t even going to *cut* her. Why didn’t you draw your real weapon? Why didn’t you —” He stops. Something opens inside his face. Something he didn’t know was there. *Why was I so sure you’d reach for a real blade. Why was I so sure you’d kill her. Why have I been treating you like a rabid wolf for fifteen years.* I sway on my feet. The pain is catching up. The grass under Mira’s shoe is catching up. My mother’s last gift in fifteen years catching up. Caden moves. He’s across the room and pulling me against his chest before I can swat him off. His hand is at my shoulder, shaking, pressing down on the wound. I don’t fight him. I’m too tired. The tears I’ve been swallowing for two lives finally roll down my face and land on the back of his hand. He makes a small broken sound against the top of my head. I let my eyes close.

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The first rule of marrying a mob boss: never go through his pockets. The second rule: if you do, don’t let him see your hands shake. Mine don’t. I’m hanging up Garrett’s tuxedo jacket — the one he wore to the Bonanno christening last night — when my fingers close around something stiff in the inside pocket. A receipt. The Plaza. Two glasses of Dom Pérignon. One filet, rare. One lobster, butter on the side. A chocolate soufflé, for two. He sees me holding it. Doesn’t even blink. “Sit-down with the Sicilians. Vivian sang at the after-party. I left before dessert.” “Sure.” I drop the receipt into the trash. There are a hundred women orbiting the Cole family — showgirls, capos’ daughters, the redhead who runs the casino floor in Atlantic City. But there’s only one Garrett would sit through a three-hour dinner for. Only one who could make the Reaper of New York behave like a goddamn altar boy. Vivian Marsh. I used to fight him over her. Screamed. Threw a crystal tumbler at his head and split his eyebrow open. Almost walked out — twice. Then I took a bullet meant for him in a parking garage off Mulberry Street, crawled across the concrete with my own blood pooling under me, and dragged him into the back of his Lincoln before the second shooter could finish the job. He broke after that. Knelt by my hospital bed with his forehead pressed to my hand and swore on his father’s grave he’d never see her again unless it was family business. That was eighteen months ago. I walk out the back door to the woodpile. We have staff for this. I don’t care. I like the weight of the axe. I like the sound steel makes splitting something clean down the middle. I bring it down. Crack. Garrett follows. Stops a few feet behind me. “Scarlett.” His voice is too careful. “You’re not going to say anything?” Crack. “You’re not even going to yell at me?” I almost died for this man. And here he is — smelling like another woman’s perfume, asking why I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’m not, because somewhere between the ICU and tonight, I stopped loving him. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet. I split one more log. Stack them neat against the wall. Brush the bark off my palms and walk past him into the house. He follows. Of course he follows. “What the hell is going on with you, Scar?” I run cold water over my hands at the kitchen sink. There’s blood under one of my nails — not mine, from a soldier I sewed up in the safe-house basement two nights ago. It won’t come out. He hates my hands. He’s never said it, but I know. He told me once Vivian’s hands looked like they’d never touched anything ugly in her life. Mine have touched nothing else. I dry them on a dish towel and pick up the leather notebook on the counter. Three months of work. Every contact in the underground medical network from Boston to Miami. Every off-books surgeon, every safe-house pharmacist, every gunshot protocol I rewrote from scratch. My handwriting, every page. Last week, old Doc Warren came to see me. He’s the Family Doctor of Record — the one official, licensed physician the Cole family puts on retainer. Clean medical license. Townhouse on Park Avenue. A private practice that quietly doubles as a laundering front. Six-figure annual stipend signed off by the Don himself. Only one such seat in the whole organization. Warren’s stepping down at the end of the year. He told me, eyes wet, that I was his pick. Twelve years of basement surgery — and finally, a way out into the daylight. A real license. A real life. Clean hands. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I push the notebook across the island. “It’s done.” He flips through it. Doesn’t really look. “I’ll pass it up the chain when I get a minute.” He sets it down at the edge of the counter like it’s a takeout menu. I don’t say anything. I start the water for pasta. We eat in silence. Then he sets his fork down. “There’s only one Doctor seat, Scarlett.” My hand stops on the wine bottle. “I know.” “Baby. You’re the best off-books surgeon on the East Coast. With or without the seat, you’re set for life.” I look up. “But Vivian’s different. Her lungs are shot from singing six nights a week. The seat is her only way out.” I set the bottle down. “And?” He won’t meet my eyes. “I put her name in with yours. She tests better. Sacred Heart pre-med. Gold Star daughter. Big-city polish. Her file’s stronger than yours, sweetheart.” The blood drops out of my face. “Garrett. Doc Warren told me the seat was mine. A month ago.” His jaw tightens. “Nobody promises anything in this life. Best candidate gets it.” “Don’t —” “Don’t be petty, Scarlett. You’ll never want for anything. But Vivian goes back to that club, she’s dead in a year. You really want that on you?” I don’t answer. I can’t eat another bite. Upstairs, I lie on my side of the bed and stare at the ceiling. He comes in. Slides a hand around my waist. Lower. I push him off. He goes still. “What now?” “I’m tired.” “Christ, Scarlett. You’re impossible to live with these days.” He turns his face to the wall. I lie there in the dark with my eyes wide open. For the first time in five years of marriage to a man the rest of the world is terrified of — I’m not afraid of him at all anymore. I’m just done.

The next morning, I walk past the back garden of the Velvet Room. There she is — Vivian Marsh, draped across a wicker chaise with three cocktail girls in silk robes around her, sipping mimosas at eleven in the morning. She sees me. Her voice climbs three octaves on purpose. “Ugh, you know Gar. He’s just too good to me.” “I told him a girl like me has no business on Park Avenue. He wouldn’t hear it. Said my daddy bled for this family — and he stayed up half the night filling out my paperwork himself.” One of the girls coos. “You and the boss, Viv — it’s like a movie.” Vivian giggles into her mimosa. Eyes flick at me over the rim. “Stop. You’ll embarrass Dr. Reed.” She lowers her voice. Just loud enough. “You know how she is. South Boston girl. Bit of a temper on her.” I tighten my grip on my medical bag and walk straight past them. I go to Linda’s. Linda Hayes is the closest thing this family has to a queen mother — Don Hayes’ wife, the only woman in the inner circle who ever looked at me like a daughter instead of an outsider. She pulls me through the door before I’ve even knocked. “Scarlett, honey. You and Garrett fighting again?” I shake my head. “Linda. I need to know about the Doctor seat.” She sighs. “Oh, sweetheart. Garrett’s gone and made a mess of this one.” “That seat was yours. Doc Warren went straight to the Don and said so himself.” “Then Garrett went around him. Put Vivian’s name in over yours. Pulled every string his father left in this city.” She shakes her head. “The Commission doesn’t know what to do with him.” My stomach drops. So he didn’t just file her application. He fought for it. Against me. I walk out of Linda’s house and the sky over Long Island is dirty and gray. The wind off the Sound cuts straight through my coat. Dylan jogs up the path from the carriage house. My baby brother. Twenty years old and built like a brick wall. “Scar. You okay?” I can’t answer. “It’s that bitch, isn’t it. Vivian.” His face goes red. “I’m going down to the club.” “Dylan. Don’t.” I grab his sleeve. “It’s the family. You don’t —” “You took a bullet for that man, Scar. A bullet. You almost died on a concrete floor in Little Italy.” “And now he’s handing your seat to a lounge singer?” “He’s a piece of shit, Scar. He’s an ungrateful piece of shit.” I clap a hand over his mouth. “Stop.” That night in the parking garage is the one thing Garrett and I don’t talk about. He hates it when I bring it up. He told me once a real man doesn’t owe his life to anyone — and a real man’s wife doesn’t remind him she’s the one he owes it to. Dylan rips my hand off and storms down the gravel drive. My heart kicks. I run after him. By the time I get to the Velvet Room, it’s too late. Dylan is on his knees on the back patio. Two of Garrett’s enforcers pinning his arms. His lip is split. Vivian is crying — beautifully — clinging to Garrett’s chest. “Garrett, I swear — I just wanted to talk to her —” “Her brother — he grabbed me — he grabbed me —” Dylan thrashes. “I didn’t touch her!” “She’s lying!” Garrett doesn’t even look at him. Drives his boot into Dylan’s ribs. “You don’t put hands on a woman under this roof. Ever.” I throw myself between them. “Garrett — stop! He didn’t do it!” His eyes are ice. “This is the brother you brought into my house? You keep defending him, I’ll put you in the basement with him.” He turns his shoulder against me. Slides an arm around Vivian. Voice softer than he’s ever used on me. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” Vivian buries her face in his shirt. I stand in the wet grass and feel something behind my ribs go quiet. Like a light switching off. They take Dylan to the basement. Lock him in. Garrett tells the family the boy will take the fall publicly. A formal strike. By Christmas he’s out of the organization. No protection. No name. No welcome anywhere in the five boroughs. I go to his study that night to beg. He’s at his desk. Polishing his father’s old service revolver. Doesn’t look up. “It’s family law, Scarlett.” “He didn’t do it.” “Vivian said he did. Two of the girls said the same. Whose word — yours or theirs?” “Garrett. He’s my brother.” He finally lifts his head. His eyes are full of disgust. “I told you to keep him in line.” “Now there’s a mess. And you want me to bend the rules for your feelings?” He shakes his head. “You disappoint me, Scar.” He snaps the cylinder shut. Lays the revolver in its case. “The seat’s decided. Vivian. The Commission announces Monday.” A pause. “I’ll keep your brother out of the books. No paper. No whispers. But the basement stays. The strike stays. That’s the most I’m giving you.” Like he’s tossing me a coin. I walk out of his study. The whole world goes black.

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Five years of marriage, and Chloe finally agreed to spend Christmas with my family. Then her phone rang. One call, and she slammed the brakes—right there on the highway. “Check the trunk. Something’s rattling back there.” I set up the warning triangle and checked everything. Nothing wrong. When I came back, the car doors were locked from the inside. I’d left my jacket in the car to save time. The December wind cut right through me, and I couldn’t stop shaking. “Babe, come on. Let me in.” “Mr. Sterling just moved up the meeting. I need to drop off this proposal. You wait here—I’ll be back.” Her eyes met mine through the window. Cold. Calculating. “Besides, going to your parents’ place is a waste of time anyway, Gabriel. I’m doing this so you won’t cause a scene. Try to understand.” She floored it. The car disappeared down the highway. I pulled out my phone and called my executive assistant. “Close the next exit. Then come get me.” “And tail my wife’s car.” “I want to know exactly who the hell thinks they can use my name to meet my wife on Christmas Eve.” Three minutes later, my assistant pulled up beside me. “Mr. Sterling, you must be freezing. Get in.” “I thought you were going home for the holidays. What happened? Did you and the Mrs. have another fight?” I climbed into the back seat, my frozen legs barely cooperating. “Not a fight.” He relaxed a little. “Good. Your father just calmed down. We can’t have any problems now, not when—” “An affair.” His face went white. He shrank back in his seat, didn’t dare ask another question. He just hit the gas and stayed on Chloe’s tail. The highway reopened. Chloe was flying—heels and all, she had the pedal to the floor. I watched the direction. My brow furrowed. The Sterlings don’t do business deals by the ocean. I called her again. Her voice dripped with irritation. “Gabriel, are you seriously not done yet? Just because you don’t have a job doesn’t mean you get to interrupt people who do, okay?” My son’s voice chimed in next, parroting her tone. “Dad, you’ve got it easy, sure, but don’t forget—Mom’s the one bringing home the money.” “She’s carrying the weight for this whole family. How can you be so shameless, bothering her at a time like this?” They hung up. I watched them jump out of the car and climb aboard a yacht docked in the shallows—slick, rehearsed, like they’d done it a hundred times. Funny thing: that yacht was my parents’ eighteenth birthday gift to me. I followed them, stone-faced. A server blocked my path. “The Sterling heir’s private family event. No outsiders allowed.” My assistant lost it. He grabbed the guy by the collar. “There’s only one Sterling heir, and he’s standing right in front of you! Gabriel Sterling!” The server’s jaw dropped. “But—but the manager said—” My assistant rolled his eyes and called the beach property manager. Two minutes later, the manager came sprinting over, bowing so low I thought he’d snap in half. “Mr. Sterling, this is a misunderstanding—a complete misunderstanding.” “We were told Mr. Sterling was hosting a family event on the yacht. We didn’t dare ask questions!” “We’ll stop everything right now and investigate everyone on board!” I glanced at the sweat pouring down his face and frowned slightly. “Don’t make a scene. And don’t tell anyone who I am. I want to see exactly who’s got the balls to pull this.” The yacht turned around. The gangway lowered. I stepped aboard. Everyone in the main cabin turned to stare. The moment they saw me, their faces twisted with rage. “Gabriel, this isn’t where you belong!” “Who do you think you are, showing up on Mr. Sterling’s yacht? Apologize to Mr. Sterling and get the hell out!” I looked at the man they were all fawning over—the so-called “Mr. Sterling.” He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. The two people yelling at me, though? I knew them very well. My in-laws. Chloe’s own parents. I laughed—bitter, sharp. “It’s Christmas Eve. My wife doesn’t come home with me. Instead, she shows up at a stranger’s family event.” “Mom, Dad… care to explain?”

“Explain?” My father-in-law sneered and shoved me. “You broke nobody—what makes you think you can demand explanations on our turf?” My mother-in-law clutched the Hermès shawl I’d given her tighter around her shoulders, smirking. “Exactly. Who the hell are you? What gives you the right to ask us anything?” “Get out. Now. Or we’ll throw you into the ocean ourselves.” I could see it was pointless talking to these two. “Where’s Chloe? I want to see Chloe.” I started shouting her name, heading for the stairs. My father-in-law grabbed me and punched me square in the nose. “What are you yelling for? Why are you looking for our daughter?” “Shout one more time and we’re calling the cops!” My assistant’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his skull. “You are the Sterling heir, and these are the in-laws you gave up everything to help?” The two immediately started cursing. “Stop lying! He’s not worthy of being called the Sterling heir. There’s only one Sterling heir in this world—Felix Sterling!” The man leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching like this was all some show, finally stepped forward. He grabbed me by the collar, a cold smirk on his face. “They’re right. What the hell are you? You think you’re good enough to set foot on my yacht?” Looking closer, I was certain—I’d seen this guy before. But I couldn’t remember where. I grabbed his hand and twisted. He yelped and let go. My assistant handed me my marriage certificate. I opened it right in front of Felix’s face. “I’m Chloe’s husband. I’m here to see my wife. Got a problem with that?” I thought that would end this circus. Instead, my mother-in-law pulled something out of her purse. “What are you so smug about? You’re just her Ex-husband.” I looked down at the document in her hand. My breath caught. “Divorce papers?” “That’s impossible. Chloe and I—we’re fine. We never got divorced—” I snatched the certificate and stared at it. It was real. My brain raced. A few weeks ago, Chloe had been so excited, telling me she’d met some big-time CEO. Then she said she wanted to help me switch jobs and asked me to sign a blank sheet of paper. I’d signed without a second thought. I trusted her completely. Turns out she’d divorced me—unilaterally, behind my back—a long time ago. Betrayal flooded through me like poison. I tore the certificate to shreds and hurled it to the floor, my eyes scanning the room for Chloe. “Chloe! Get out here and explain this!” Felix saw me losing it. He lunged at me from behind. I turned. His fist came flying. My assistant blocked it and swung back—hard. Felix hit the deck, blood streaming from his nose, screaming. “You dare hit me on my yacht? You’re dead! Get them!” A wave of security guards rushed us. We couldn’t fight them all. My assistant threw himself in front of a metal pole aimed at my head—and got flung overboard. My eyes went wide. I dove after him, grabbed his hand, but my own body slammed against the railing and hung there, dangling. The wind whipped around us. Cold sweat poured down my face. I shouted down at him. “Hold on to me! The current’s brutal here—if you fall, you’re dead!” He grabbed my other hand with a death grip, nodding through gritted teeth. I gasped for air and shouted toward the deck. “Someone help me up!” My in-laws looked at me dangling there—and took a step back. Everyone else just stood there, watching like it was a betting pool. How long could I hold on? Out of a dozen people, only one moved. Henry. My son. My chest warmed. Even if the rest of the family were monsters, at least my boy had a good heart. Then he lifted his leg—wearing the latest Air Jordans I’d bought him—and stomped on my hand. “Loser. We told you not to come. You just had to show up and ruin everything.” “If you mess with my new dad again, I’ll throw you off this boat myself.”

In that moment, my entire body went cold. I couldn’t breathe. I knew Chloe thought I was worthless. I knew her parents hated that I had no connections, no background. But my son—I’d raised him with my own hands. I’d never missed a single moment of his life from the day he was born. We shared blood. How could he do this to me? My throat tightened. Tears stung my eyes. Below me, my assistant was shaking with rage. “Mr. Sterling, forget about me—get up there and destroy them!” His shout snapped me back. He’d been with me since we were kids. We only got separated because I’d fought with my family over Chloe, cut all ties, and walked away. No matter what, I couldn’t let him disappear into the ocean. I tightened my grip on both hands, veins bulging on my forehead. The imposter—Felix—laughed. “Well, since our guest of honor is here, I’ve decided to move up the engagement party. Today. Right now.” He bent down and patted my face, mocking. “Chloe’s ex-husband… today, you’re gonna hang right here and watch your wife call me her man. How’s that sound?” Rage burned in my eyes. But all I could do was hold on. Then, from the staircase, Chloe appeared. She saw me hanging off the side of the boat and gasped, covering her mouth. “Gabriel—what are you doing here?” “And what’s going on? What are you all doing?” Felix laughed and strutted over, draping his arm over her shoulder—right in front of me. “I’m in a great mood today. Decided we’re getting engaged. Right here, right now.” “But there’s trash cluttering up my yacht. Chloe, if you can get rid of the trash, I’ll be very happy.” Chloe’s face went pale. But she did what he asked. “Gabriel… I’m sorry. Since you already know, just… help me one last time, okay?” “This opportunity means everything to me. I have to take it. You understand, don’t you?” Her voice was soft, gentle. Her hands were breaking my fingers. I screamed. The air punched out of my lungs. I almost lost my grip. Felix roared with laughter. “See that, buddy? People with money can do whatever the hell they want.” Below me, my assistant was screaming. “You bitch, stop! Felix is a FAKE—Gabriel Sterling is the real heir!” “He gave up everything for you! This year was the first time his parents agreed to accept you, and you’re listening to this fraud? Pull us up!” Chloe didn’t believe a word of it. “I know exactly who Gabriel is.” “So that’s why Felix wants you dead—you came onto his yacht to fake being someone you’re not. No wonder. You deserve this!” I stared at her—this woman I loved more than anything—and couldn’t find a shred of mercy in her eyes. She stopped pretending. Met my gaze head-on. And slowly, deliberately, one by one, she bent my fingers backward. I’d been holding a grown man off the side of a boat. My body was numb. I felt nothing but searing pain. Only my thumb and index finger were left gripping the railing. Then Felix spoke. “All right, pull them up.”

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Every April Fool’s Day, Ethan and his childhood sweetheart, Chloe, would play the same old “I dare you” game they’d played when they were kids. “Remember eighth grade?” Ethan leaned back in his chair with a grin. “I dared you to skip class, and you dragged me into the bathroom looking for a thrill. Then you showed me your 20-centimeter dick.” He laughed louder. “That’s nothing. In college, I dared you to date the hottest guy on campus, and you ended up stealing Sarah’s boyfriend instead. You even showed me the sex tape afterward.” I stood at the doorway, clutching the pregnancy test report between my fingers. After five years of marriage and countless hospital visits, today I finally got a positive result. Chloe glanced over and noticed me. She lifted her chin and said to Ethan, word by word, “Let’s make this year’s game even more exciting. Ethan, I bet you don’t have the guts to announce our engagement tonight, right here in front of everyone.” The room erupted into whistles and cheers. Ethan turned to look at me and laughed. “Why not? Wait for me.” He stood up, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into the hallway. “Sarah, everyone’s watching. Don’t ruin the mood.” His tone was relaxed, as though this were already some trivial little arrangement. “It’s just an April Fool’s joke. Please sign this divorce agreement tonight. I’ll tear it up tomorrow morning. I can’t back down in front of Chloe.” I stared at the man before me. For five years, I had constantly compromised and tolerated all those “little games” between him and his childhood sweetheart. This time, I hid the report behind my back and gripped it tightly： “But I’m pregnant.” “Sarah, you’re unbelievable!” Ethan blinked, then burst out laughing. “You actually made up a pregnancy just to stop me from winning? Fine, you win. That’s impressive.” Chloe dragged out her words mockingly: “Sis, it’s only a game. If you can’t handle losing, just say so. Using a child as an excuse is kind of low, don’t you think?” “Exactly.” Ethan grabbed my wrist tightly： “Come on. The party downstairs is about to start. If we’re late, the media won’t have time to report the news.” Without hesitation, he dragged me toward the exit. Five years. Using the novels I wrote at home, he had built his publishing company from nothing into a publicly listed corporation. And every year, I endured the humiliations he staged on April Fool’s Day, all for Chloe. The ballroom downstairs was packed with people. Ethan took a pre-drafted divorce agreement from his lawyer and shoved it into my hands. “Sign it. Before I propose to Chloe, the media needs something to photograph.” I picked up the pen and looked at the signature line he had already prepared. “Fine. I’ll give you what you want.” I signed it without hesitation. Our five-year marriage ended like the punchline of a terrible joke. The moment the ink dried, Ethan took off his jacket and changed into a tuxedo. Chloe pinned a white lace veil into her hair. They had even hired a professional makeup team on standby. I sat in the shadows, watching the two of them under the ring lights as makeup brushes swept across their excited faces. Five years ago, on the day Ethan and I got married, he wore a T-shirt and ripped jeans. When I asked him to change, he said true love needed no decoration, that sincerity was everything. Now, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, he wrapped an arm tightly around Chloe’s waist and smiled brightly at the camera. The photographer pressed the shutter, perfectly capturing their smiling faces. A few minutes later, Ethan walked toward me, holding two diamond rings. “Baby, see that? I won again. Tomorrow morning we’ll get ‘remarried.’ Don’t be mad. It’s just for the drama.” My morning sickness was so severe that I could barely stand. “Take me home,” I said, forcing down the acid rising in my throat. “I need to pack my things.” I reached for the passenger-side door. Before I could get in, Chloe squeezed past me. “Sarah, just cooperate a little. Tonight, Ethan and I are the ‘engaged couple,’ so this seat belongs to me.” She yanked the door open and slid into the seat. With one sweep of her arm, she knocked my cushion and stuffed toy onto the floor mat. Standing by the hood of the car, Ethan shrugged apologetically. I turned around and walked toward the roadside to hail a cab. Ethan jogged after me, opened the back door, and pushed me inside. “Stop sulking. It’s hard to get a taxi here. Just sit down.” A cheesy wedding pop song played through the speakers. Chloe hummed along, and when the chorus came on, she grabbed Ethan’s sleeve and swayed gently. “I’m marrying you today…” Ethan sang the next line. They looked at each other and laughed. She unscrewed a bottle of water, took a sip, then held it to his lips. Like a newlywed husband, he drank from the bottle in her hand. “Your collar’s crooked.” Chloe leaned closer to straighten his tie, her fingers brushing lightly across his throat. Half her body pressed against him. Ethan didn’t pull away. One hand stayed on the steering wheel while the other wrapped around her back. “Stop messing around. I’m driving.” His words said one thing, but his tone said the complete opposite. I leaned against the back window. The nausea surged again. I closed my eyes and placed a hand over my stomach.

The moment we walked through the front door, Ethan’s mother, Victoria, rushed straight to Chloe. She affectionately held Chloe’s hand, opened a jewelry box, and placed the family heirloom bracelet onto her wrist. It was something I had never received in five years of marriage. I had always assumed it was because I was too young and careless to wear it. Now I realized they had simply never accepted me. “Ethan already told me everything. This is absolutely ridiculous,” Victoria said in a tone full of indulgent affection. “Chloe, darling, I always knew you two were made for each other. If it weren’t for what happened back then—” As I bent down to take off my shoes, our eyes met, and she immediately changed the subject. “You’ve always been his destined partner.” Ethan stepped between them. “Mom, it’s a prank. An April Fool’s joke.” His mother gently patted Chloe’s hand： “Well, personally, I wish this performance could last forever.” Without saying a word, I walked straight to the bedroom and pulled out my suitcase. I had barely packed two outfits before Ethan followed me in. “Sarah, everyone’s here. Don’t throw a tantrum now.” He lowered his voice： “Stay for dinner tonight. Think of it as a warm-up celebration.” I shook off his hand and continued packing. “Tomorrow is the release day for the final book of your Nightwalker trilogy. The whole team will be here. If you disappear tonight, tomorrow’s promotional launch will be a disaster.” I paused. That trilogy had consumed three years of my life—countless sleepless nights rewriting drafts and starting over from scratch. Before the copyright transfer was fully settled, a fallout now would destroy everything I had worked for. I closed the suitcase. “Fine. I’ll stay for one meal.” Ethan immediately brightened and walked into the living room to make phone calls. I told myself this would simply be a farewell dinner with the team. Not long afterward, Chloe appeared at the kitchen doorway, leaning elegantly against the frame while swirling a glass of red wine. “Sis, since you already signed the divorce papers, shouldn’t you at least fulfill your duties as the hostess one last time before leaving? ” “Ethan works himself to death running the company. You spend all day at home scribbling away. The least you can do is help entertain the guests.” Ethan sat on the couch, drinking tea without saying a word. More than half of Apex Global Media’s core assets, including the screenplay concepts major film studios fought to acquire, had been written word by word by me in this apartment. And now, in her mouth, I had become a dead weight who merely “scribbled away” at home? Victoria chimed in as well. “The housekeeper has the day off. Darling, help out a little. The guests will arrive soon.” I didn’t want the team’s final memory of me to be an argument, so I rolled up my sleeves and walked into the kitchen. My stomach was still churning, and a dull ache twisted through my lower abdomen. I prepared the ingredients and carefully controlled the temperature before pouring oil into the frying pan. Chloe hovered nearby the entire time like a supervisor. “Don’t use too much wine. Ethan can’t handle strong tannins. Use baby carrots for the side dish. Don’t make it look like some country housewife’s stew.” The editors gradually began arriving. Jamie, one of the junior editors, finally couldn’t stand it anymore. He rolled up his sleeves and started helping wash vegetables. Chloe stopped him with a polite but sharp smile. “Sorry, Jamie. Touching things at someone else’s private dinner party isn’t exactly professional editor etiquette. Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the guests?” Flushed red with embarrassment, Jamie retreated back to the living room. I placed the final dessert delicately at the center of the long dining table. The doorbell rang just as I untied my apron. Chloe ran to the entrance while several deliverymen carried in huge insulated containers. “I figured Sarah’s homemade dishes might not be refined enough for everyone’s picky tastes,” Chloe said as she directed the delivery men to unpack everything. “So I went ahead and used Ethan’s card to order Michelin-star foie gras with black truffle and caviar tarts.” The table quickly filled with extravagant dishes. Without changing expression, Chloe picked up the beef noodles I had just made and dumped them into the trash to make room for her luxurious Michelin cuisine. Ethan didn’t even look up. He simply handed her a wet wipe to clean her hands. “You’re always so thoughtful.” I took a step forward, but someone grabbed my sleeve. Jamie shoved his phone into my hand, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sarah… look at this.” It was a book cover proof sent to Jamie for review. Above my name, “Sarah Quinn,” another name had been added: “Chloe Hart.”

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