Author: Momo Chan

The Whitmore and Lancaster families have been allies for generations, holding a grand gala every year where marriage matches are decided through a “blind selection.” For seven years straight, every slip my childhood sweetheart Asher Whitmore and I drew was blank. Because I was deeply in love with Asher, for the eighth gala’s selection, I pulled every string I could to ensure the box contained only his name. Until I overheard his mother’s frustrated question. “Asher, you’ve always said you’d marry no one but her. Why have you spent seven years replacing the slips in the selection box with blanks?” “Watching her cry in disappointment every year—doesn’t it hurt you?” The man laughed softly. “Of course it hurts.” “But Bianca just came back from abroad. Her mental state is fragile. I promised to help her through seven years of recovery.” “Besides, that fool won’t marry anyone but me.” “Next year, I’ll give her a grand proposal.” With that, he fed the slips bearing his name into the paper shredder. And in that instant, I was set free. After all, Grandfather had said it himself. The family alliance only gave me eight chances. Since you don’t want to marry me, I’ll simply marry someone else. …… “The sound of that shredder really is more pleasant than your crying.” Asher adjusted his cuffs and pushed open the door to the lounge without a care. Outside, the hall was ablaze with chandeliers and filled with designer gowns. This year, it was my family’s turn to host the selection gala. Also my last chance. He didn’t even spare a glance at me standing in the corner, face unreadable. He walked straight toward Bianca, who was surrounded by a swarm of socialites. “Asher!” Bianca’s eyes reddened as she threw herself into his arms like a startled doe. “They’re saying I don’t belong here, that I’m the other woman trying to break you and Serena up…” Asher’s brows furrowed, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room and landing on the gossiping women. “Who dares say she doesn’t belong? My word is law in this circle.” “Bianca is my honored guest. Anyone who makes her uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable.” The room fell dead silent. The women turned pale, looking desperately toward me as I stepped out from the lounge. After all, for the past seven years, I had been Asher’s girlfriend—the only woman he allowed by his side. He gave me everything I asked for. But year after year, the selection failed, and I never became his fiancée. Everyone expected me to march over and slap Bianca across the face, or break down in tears like I had for the past seven years, demanding to know why he was protecting another woman. But this time, I simply smoothed the folds of my dress, picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, and took a sip. The cold liquid slid down my throat, drowning the last flicker of affection I had for my childhood sweetheart. “Serena, aren’t you going to do something?” someone whispered hesitantly. I smiled. “Mr. Asher playing hero? Why would I get in the way? Besides—” I swirled my glass, eyes glinting with amusement, “—I’m curious to see what we’ll draw from the selection box tonight.” Asher froze, turning his head instinctively to look at me, as if he hadn’t expected this reaction at all. In the past, by now I would’ve been sobbing and making a scene, demanding Bianca leave. But tonight, I was as calm as a bystander. A flicker of irritation crossed his eyes as he let go of Bianca and strode toward me. “Serena, what kind of tantrum are you throwing now? Bianca just got back from overseas. She’s fragile. She can’t handle being frightened.” “You’re the daughter of one of the most powerful families in New York. Can’t you be a little more gracious?” Gracious? I looked at the man I’d loved for over a decade and suddenly, he felt like a stranger. Seven years. Over two thousand nights. I had molded myself to fit his tastes, softened my edges, learned to cook his favorite meals. And what did I get? My sincerity, shredded to pieces in that machine. “Asher.” I set down my glass, the crystal clinking sharply against the marble table. “I’m not throwing a tantrum. I just think you’re right—Miss Bianca is so delicate. She really does need someone to take care of her during her recovery.” Asher froze, staring into my eyes, searching for jealousy or resentment. But there was nothing. Only a calm, lifeless stillness. That loss of control unsettled him. He reached for my wrist. “Good. You understand. After tonight, next year—” “There won’t be a next year.” I stepped aside, avoiding his touch, my tone as detached as if I were discussing the weather. “Grandfather said it himself. Nothing lasts beyond eight tries. Tonight is the eighth.” “If we draw blanks again, then we’re done.” “Let’s part on good terms.”

“Part on good terms?” Asher looked like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “Serena, how many times are you going to play this little game of hard-to-get?” “Two years ago, you said you were going to study abroad. Then you called me crying at the airport.” “Three years ago, you said you wanted to break up. Then you stood in the rain all night and ended up with a fever.” “Can you even leave me?” He was certain, confident, even a little condescending in his pity. Because in his mind, I was nothing more than Asher’s shadow. And how could a shadow ever leave the light? He also knew something I didn’t—he’d personally made sure tonight’s box was filled with nothing but blanks. There was no way either of us could draw a name. No way this charade could end tonight. Beside him, Bianca covered her mouth with a soft laugh, her eyes sparkling with mockery. “Serena, I know you’re upset, but Asher’s only looking out for me. Don’t say things like that just to spite him.” “What if it backfires? Who else would want you after this?” “After all, everyone in New York knows you’ve been waiting for Asher for seven years. You’re practically a running joke at every party.” A joke? She was right. For Asher’s sake, I’d turned myself into a punchline. I looked at Bianca’s fake, saccharine face and suddenly remembered what I’d overheard earlier at the lounge door— “Besides, that fool won’t marry anyone but me.” So that’s what I was to them. My devotion? Foolishness. My persistence? Desperation. “You’re overthinking it, Miss Bianca.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, smiling gracefully. “My family’s wealth is beyond measure. I am the sole heir to everything.” “The line of men wanting to marry me stretches all the way to Paris.” “But you, Miss Bianca.” My gaze dropped to where she clung tightly to Asher’s arm. “I heard you spent seven years overseas recovering from an illness.” “So why is it that now you’re back, you still can’t seem to stand on your own two feet?” “Should I call an ambulance? Maybe they can take you straight to the morgue for a checkup.” “You—!” Bianca’s face turned red, trembling with rage. Tears welled up instantly and began streaming down her cheeks. “Asher, did you hear what she just said…?” Asher’s expression darkened. “Serena! That’s enough! Apologize to Bianca!” “Apologize?” I raised an eyebrow. “Why should I?” “Because she’s your precious little darling? Or because she’s shameless?” “Asher, have you forgotten? This is my family’s gala tonight.” “I’m the hostess here and I have every right to put an outsider who doesn’t know her place in check.” Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Asher’s mother hurried over, and when she saw the scene, her brows furrowed deeply. “Enough! Stop making a scene! You’re embarrassing yourselves!” She shot Asher a glare, then turned to me, her expression complicated. “Serena, it’s almost time. Don’t let irrelevant people ruin what matters.” Asher’s mother genuinely cared for me and genuinely hoped the selection would finally succeed tonight. But her beloved son had destroyed that possibility with his own hands. Asher took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, wrapped an arm around Bianca’s shoulder and patted her soothingly. Then he turned to me, his tone ice-cold. “Fine. If you want to go through with this so badly, then let’s begin.” “Let’s see, when we both draw blanks again, if you can still run your mouth like this.” He was so confident because he knew—he’d replaced every slip in that box with blanks just this morning. There was no possible way for this selection to succeed. With that, he turned and walked toward the raised platform in the center of the hall. There sat an ornate rosewood box—the very thing that would decide my fate. I watched his retreating figure, my gaze growing colder. Asher, you think you’ve controlled everything. But you don’t realize—the roles of hunter and prey can reverse in an instant.

Center stage, crystal chandeliers bathed the room in dazzling light. Every eye in the hall was fixed on the rosewood box. According to tradition, the box contained one hundred slips of paper. Our families alternated each year—one year Asher would draw, the next year I would draw. If Asher drew a slip with my name, or if I drew a slip with his name, it was fate—a match made in heaven, and I would become his fiancée on the spot. Draw a blank, and destiny hadn’t aligned. Try again next year. For the past seven years, we had taken turns drawing. And every single time, the slip was blank. I thought God was testing our love. But now I knew the truth—Asher had been replacing the slips all along, ensuring we’d always draw blank. “Serena, go ahead.” Asher’s mother stood below the platform, smiling encouragingly. “I had your astrology chart read. They said your stars are aligned this year. You’ll succeed.” Stars aligned? Maybe. But not with Asher. I lifted the hem of my gown and walked up the platform step by step. Asher stood beside the box, one hand in his pocket, expression arrogant, looking at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “Serena.” He lowered his voice so only I could hear. “Apologize to Bianca right now, and next year, I’ll make sure you draw the right slip.” “Hell, you don’t even have to wait until next year. As long as you behave and stop targeting Bianca, I’ll consider ending this game early and making you my fiancée.” A game. That’s what it was to him. Seven years of torment, my youth, my dignity—nothing more than a game he could end whenever he felt like it. I stopped in my tracks, standing across from him, only a few feet apart, but our hearts were worlds away. “Asher.” I looked into his eyes and asked softly, “Do you really think I can’t live without you?” Asher paused, then laughed mockingly. “What else? Who else would put up with your spoiled attitude? What other family is worthy of yours?” “Serena, face it. You’re destined to be mine.” He was so confident, confident to the point of arrogance. He thought he’d found my weakness and could trample on my boundaries however he liked. He also thought the box was full of blanks—there was no way I could draw a name. I lowered my gaze, hiding the scorn in my eyes. “Is that so? Then let’s see who’s the one who should face reality.” I took a deep breath, slowly raised my right hand, and reached into the dark box. My fingers brushed against cold paper—one slip, two slips, countless slips. Each one felt like a blade slicing through my heart. The crowd below fell silent. Bianca stood at the front, a victor’s smile playing on her lips. She knew the box was filled with nothing but blanks—she was waiting to watch me humiliate myself in public, to see me cry. Asher glanced away casually, as if he’d already foreseen the outcome. I closed my eyes, my fingers searching along the bottom of the box. Finally, I found a slip that felt slightly different. It was the one I’d had someone slip in before the gala—my last safeguard. I snapped my eyes open, gripped it tightly, and pulled it out. “Mr. Asher.” I held up my slip high, my voice clear and ringing across the hall. “It seems your promise just expired.”

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So, my child was not my child; my husband was not really my husband. I found the blood donation certificate while cleaning out my son’s room. I almost didn’t notice it. Caleb was away at college. His room had been empty for months, but I still went in every week to dust, to vacuum, to pretend my child still needed me. The certificate was tucked inside an old textbook. I almost threw it away without looking. Then I saw the blood type. Type B. I picked it up. I read it again. I stared at the letter for a long time. My vision tunneled. The walls of the room seemed to press in. I am Type O. Julian is Type O. I drove home with the certificate in my pocket. My hands were numb on the steering wheel. — Julian came home at seven. He’d poured himself two fingers of bourbon, until he’d lowered himself into the leather chair he liked best with the small exhale of a man who believed his day was finished. He looked up when I walked in. “You’re back early.” Then I set the donor card on the coffee table between us. “Caleb’s blood type is B,” I said. “We’re both O.” He didn’t look at the paper. He looked at me. And for one second—I saw something I had never seen in eighteen years of marriage. Fear. Then his face hardened. “What are you trying to say?” “I want a paternity test.” I had practiced them on the drive home, a hundred times, a thousand. They still tasted like broken glass. Then Julian was on his feet, and the bourbon glass was on the table. The man I had married—the man who used to hold my hand under the table at dinner—was gone. recognize. Julian’s voice was dangerous. “He’s our son. And you want to do this now?” “I want the truth.” “You need to see somebody.” He hit me. Twice. He’d never raised his hand to me before, not in eighteen years, not once. The first slap snapped my head to the side. The second sent me stumbling into the arm of the couch. I tasted blood. When I looked at him again, he wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking at his hand. “You’re sick,” he said. He was breathing hard. “Aria, do you hear me? I have been *patient*, and I am *done*.” He walked out. Then I heard the sound I had never, in eighteen years of marriage, heard from the other side of my own front door: The deadbolt turning. He had locked me in. I sat on the floor of our living room for a long time after that. My cheek throbbed. My ear rang. And then, I started to laugh. I had always work tirelessly year after year, building his business empire for his family, his corporation, and his operations, without ever asking for my name to be written in history. Moreover, I had never received a single penny of patent royalties. For the sake of my child and him, I was willing to remain an anonymous figure behind the Vance Group. And now, this is the consequence. I laughed until my ribs hurt and my mouth tasted like blood and my mascara was running into my hairline. Then I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found a name I had saved years ago but never called. Adrian Cole. Julian’s greatest enemy. The man who had tried to buy my patents a dozen times. The man Julian warned me about like a curse. I dialed. He answered on the second ring. “Aria.” Not a question. He knew my voice. “Adrian.” “It’s been a while.” “I know.” He waited. He’d always been good at waiting. “I agree to transfer the patents to Ashford Frontier. Exclusive license.” The line went quiet. For a moment, I thought he had hung up. When Adrian Cole spoke again, his voice was different—low. “Welcome back, Aria.” “I’ve been keeping something ready for you for a long time.”

I sat on the couch until the sky outside turned the color of cold ash. Julian had come home sometime after midnight, but he didn’t turn on the light. He walked past me without a word, and I didn’t call out to him. Eighteen years. We had good years once. When he was first building Vance Group, We had eaten cold takeout off the floor while I sketched circuit diagrams on the back of his résumé. We’d had nothing then. *When the company takes off,* he used to say, *I’ll give you the world, Aria.* The company got big. He stopped coming home. I said the apartment felt empty. He said, “You have Caleb.” I said I wanted to go to a concert. He said, “Have the assistant take you. I can’t get away.” Eventually, I stopped asking. I told myself this was what marriage was supposed to be—the heat cooling into companionship, passion settling into something quieter. Now I wondered if I had been the only one who turned into family. And he had turned into something else. At seven a.m., I heard the kitchen come alive. The sound of bread going into the toaster, the soft thud of the refrigerator door. When I came out in my robe, he was at the stove in a fresh shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm, plating two eggs onto two plates with the focused care of a man who hadn’t cooked breakfast in years. “You’re up,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. Dark circles under his eyes. “I made you something.” I sat. The table held milk, toast, and eggs—the edges a little burnt, the way he knew I liked them. He sat down across from me. Neither of us mentioned yesterday. “Cal’s coming home next weekend.” His voice was gentle. He had always done this—reset a conversation by force of pleasantness. I wrapped both hands around the warm cup of coffee he’d set in front of me “I know.” “Aria.” His tone softened to the one he used in boardroom he’d carefully rehearsed. I looked up at him. This face—I had watched it for eighteen years, from young man to middle age. I used to know exactly when he was lying. Now I couldn’t read him at all. “I need you to know I’m sorry about last night. I—I lost my head.” “I know that.” “Then can we please—” He set down his fork. “Can we please put this behind us? I know I haven’t been around. I’m going to fix that.” I looked down at my toast and sipped my coffee. “When will you do the DNA test?” The tenderness on his face froze. “You’re really doing this?” His chopsticks clattered against the porcelain. For one half-second—I could see his mind running the options the way it ran a quarterly forecast. Not angry. Not hurt. Calculating. Then the mask slid back on. “Fine. Do your test. But don’t expect it to change anything.” “Maybe.” “You’re going to be embarrassed when it comes back, Aria.” He pushed back his chair and walked out of the kitchen. He almost said something. He thought better of it. The front door closed behind him without slamming. Good. Now we both knew where we stood. …… I remembered something then. When Caleb was small, everyone said he looked just like Julian. No one ever said he looked like me. I stood up and walked to the balcony. Julian’s car pulled out of the garage, the taillights bleeding red through the gray morning. I watched him go. Then I turned and walked to his study. On the desk, I placed two documents: a divorce papers and a proposed asset division. The patents that kept Vance Group alive—I held one hundred percent of the rights. But Julian had been using them for so long, he had started treating them as his own. My phone buzzed. My mother. “Aria, are you feeling better?” Her voice was light, almost cheerful. “Celeste is flying back next week. Julian knew you’ve been down, so he bought her a ticket. He’s even setting her up with a director position at Vance Group. Isn’t that wonderful? You two haven’t seen each other in ages. We’ll all have dinner.” I said nothing. Celeste. The name made my jaw tighten. Not since the last time she’d flown home, eaten dinner in my apartment, kissed the top of Caleb’s head at the door. Now the moment she returned, she landed a office—at the company I had built with my patents. I kept my voice steady. “What time?” “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll bring everything. Just rest.” She paused. “And Aria, baby—be sweet to Julian tonight. Men need to feel admired. You know how he is.” I couldn’t listen anymore. I made a vague sound and hung up. Then I opened my phone and booked a rush DNA test at a private lab outside the city—one Julian’s people couldn’t reach. I went to Caleb’s room and collected strands of hair from his brush. I sealed them in an envelope and sent them out. Then I messaged the private investigator I had hired three days ago. *Run Julian’s financials. Everything. Offshore accounts, personal gifts, anything going to Celeste.* The PI replied within minutes: *Understood. Initial read in twenty‑four hours.* I set down the phone and looked out the window. Eighteen years. Enough waiting. Tomorrow, I would start finding out who I had really been married to. — That night, I didn’t go to bed. I sat in the study, the divorce papers still on the desk, and waited. At 11:47 p.m., my phone buzzed with an email from the lab. *Your results are ready.* I opened the link. The page loaded slowly—too slowly. I went straight to the last line. *“Aria Sinclair is excluded as the biological mother of the tested subject.”* Eighteen years. One sentence. I read the line three times. Then I closed the report and set down my phone. My hands were shaking. Not because I had been wrong. Because I had been right. Then I picked up my phone. I forwarded the report to three places. The first was my attorney. The second was the private investigator. The third was a single name in my contacts under no last name at all. **Adrian.** I walked to the window. The city lights stretched out beneath me—Ashford at night, cold and indifferent. Somewhere out there, my husband was probably still at his office, or maybe he had gone to the apartment he kept for “late nights.” Somewhere out there, Celeste was packing for her flight home. And somewhere I didn’t even know existed—there was a child who should have been mine. I pressed my palm against the cold glass. Tomorrow, I would tell Julian I wanted to go to the old house. I would find whatever Celeste had left behind. And I would start digging up every secret they had buried.

The weekend arrived faster than I wanted. My mother had called three times to confirm the menu, though she kept saying they would bring everything themselves. “Just set the table, Aria. Don’t lift a finger.” I didn’t lift a finger. I sat by the window and watched the street until their car pulled up. My father parked. My mother got out first, carrying two bags of groceries. Then the back door opened. Celeste stepped out in a cream wool coat, her hair fresh from a salon, a gift box in her gloved hands. I opened the door before they rang the bell. “Aria.” My mother kissed my cheek. “You look pale. Are you sleeping?” “Fine,” I said. My father grunted from behind her. He had looked at me for the last twenty years—with the evaluative expression of a man calculating whether his daughter was going to be a problem today or not. “Dad.” “Aria.” He kissed my cheek the way he always did. Once. Done. Celeste walked past him and stopped in front of me. She smiled—wide, practiced, the same smile she had worn since we were teenagers. “Sister.” She opened her arms. “It’s so good to see you.” I stepped sideways, smoothly, and took the gift bag out of her hand instead. “You shouldn’t have.” The smile flickered. She recovered before either of our parents noticed. “It’s just a little something. From LA.” I set the bag on the console table without looking at it. “Let’s eat.” — Dinner was the production it always was in my mother’s hands—four courses, three wineglasses per place setting, a centerpiece she’d brought from her own dining room because she didn’t trust mine. Julian sat at the head of the table. Celeste sat at his right hand. I sat at the other end, which is to say across from my husband, which is to say where I could watch both of them at the same time without turning my head. They were good. I’ll give them that. They had been doing this for so long that the choreography of it had become invisible—the way Julian poured Celeste’s wine without being asked, the way she laughed half a second before his joke landed. Now I had only just learned what I was looking at. We were halfway through the main course when Celeste reached across the table for the bread basket, and the cuff of her cream silk jacket slipped back from her wrist. The bracelet caught the light. I knew that bracelet. It was an emerald cuff—Cartier, vintage Trinity collection, the deep cabochon stones set in eighteen-karat gold so soft you could mark it with a thumbnail. I had seen it two years ago, in a glass case at a Sotheby’s preview in New York, while Julian stood beside me with one hand at the small of my back and asked me three times if I wanted it. I had said no. I had said it was too much. I had said it was the kind of piece a woman wears once a decade to a gala, and that it would sit in a safe the other three thousand six hundred and forty-nine days of the year. He had told me later, on the drive home, that someone else had bought it before he could go back. Now it was on my sister’s wrist. I lifted my wineglass and drank, slowly, and did not let a single muscle in my face move. Across the table, Julian was lifting his soup spoon to his mouth. Celeste noticed me staring. She turned her wrist a little, idly. “Do you like it, Aria?” Her voice was warm, conversational. “Julian gave it to me as a welcome-home present. He said the color suited me.” Julian choked on his soup. His face went a deep, expensive red. My mother fluttered her hands and said *oh dear oh dear* and reached for the water pitcher. Celeste lowered her eyes demurely to her plate. I didn’t look at her. I looked at Julian. But he did not look at me. He did not look at her. Celeste smiled again. “Some things just look better on the right person, don’t you think? Like this bracelet—it’s clearer on my skin than it ever was in the collection.” She was looking at Julian when she said it. The look was familiar. I had seen it before—on other women, at other dinners, in the way they glanced at men who weren’t theirs. But this was my sister. And this was my husband. I picked up my wine glass. “Excuse me. I have something to say.” …… I set my fork down. “Mom. Dad.” The table quieted. My mother turned to me with the small, anxious smile she wore whenever she suspected I was about to be difficult. “Yes, baby?” “I had a paternity test done on Caleb.” The silence that fell over the dining room was the kind that happens in the half-second between when a glass slips out of your hand and when it hits the floor. Celeste’s fork paused above her plate. Julian’s wineglass paused at his lips. My mother’s mouth opened. “He isn’t mine.” I said it gently, almost conversationally. “He never has been. The probability is zero.” For one long moment, no one moved. Then my father slammed his palm flat against the table. The wineglasses jumped. “Aria.” “Yes, Dad.” “Have you lost your mind?” I lifted my eyes to his. He was furious. Not surprised. Not stricken. Not horrified on my behalf, the way a father is supposed to be horrified when his daughter tells him her child has been stolen. Furious. The way a man is furious when his daughter has embarrassed him at the dinner table. “You sit here in your own dining room,” he said, low and shaking, “in front of your husband, in front of your mother, in front of your sister, and you make an accusation like that—based on what? A *blood type?*” “Based on a lab report from—” “You need to see a doctor, Aria. A real one. Tonight.” My mother’s hand fluttered to her chest. “Please—You’re not well. You have been sick for months. Julian has been telling me for months.” I looked at my husband. Julian was very, very carefully not looking at me. He was looking at the centerpiece my mother had brought from her own dining room. I turned to my mother. She was crying, prettily, into her napkin. She had always cried prettily. It was one of her gifts. “Mom,” I said. She didn’t look up. “*Mom.*” She lifted her face. Her mascara was still perfect. Of course it was. “Look at me. Look at my face. And tell me you didn’t already know.” She opened her mouth. She closed it. She looked at my father. That was the answer. I stood up from the table. I walked to the foyer. I took my coat off the hook. I did not look back at any of them. At the door, I paused. “Tomorrow,” I said, without turning, “I’m going to the old house. To tidy up some old things. Anyone want to come with me?” Behind me, no one spoke. “But I guess none of you probably wouldn’t.” The lock clicked shut behind me. — I didn’t go back to the apartment that night. I checked into a hotel two blocks from the old house, ordered a glass of wine I didn’t drink, and lay on top of the covers in my coat with the lights off, listening to the city forty floors below me hum the way only Ashford could hum at midnight—port, money, and quiet violence, all running on the same current. My phone buzzed twice on the nightstand. *Aria. Please. Pick up.* — Julian. *Aria. I never meant to upset you.* — Mom. I read both. I deleted both. I turned the phone facedown. I waited until 5:47 a.m. Then I got up, washed my face in cold water, put my hair back, and drove out to the old Sinclair house.

The house had been empty for almost a decade. I grew up there—before marriage, before Julian, before I became someone I no longer recognized. My parents had moved to a newer development years ago, but they never sold this place. Too much history, my mother said. I wondered now if that was the real reason, or if she had simply forgotten it existed. I let myself in with the spare key. Dust layered the furniture. The air was stale, heavy with disuse. I climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. The attic was crowded with old boxes, broken lamps, furniture no one wanted. I searched methodically—first the trunks, then the stacked bins, then the loose items scattered near the window. I found it in a leather suitcase shoved against the far wall where Celeste’d left it the summer she’d flown to Los Angeles. Inside: journals, photographs, and a small metal box. I opened the box. Dozens of Letters, folded neatly, envelopes yellowed with age. The top one was addressed in a handwriting I knew too well. *To Julian.* I pulled out the first sheet. *Julian, you came to the house again today. You looked at her the way I wish you would look at me. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can’t stop.* The next one was dated weeks later. *I heard you’re going to marry her. My sister is so lucky. Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I had met you first?* My hands began to shake. I kept digging. The letters went deeper—some from before the wedding, some from after. The handwriting grew more confident, the words less careful. At the bottom of the box, beneath the letters, I found a photograph. Celeste and Julian standing side by side under a cherry blossom tree. Her head rested against his shoulder. One hand lay on her stomach—rounded, unmistakable. I turned the photo over. On the back, in Celeste’s looping script: *”The unloved one is the mistress.”* It was the line of a girl who had spent her entire life knowing, in the deepest and most unforgivable part of herself, that she had not. She had not won. She had only stolen. I stood there in the dim attic, the photograph pressed between my fingers, and felt the floor tilt beneath me. I read it. I read it again. Not a theory anymore. Not a suspicion. She had been pregnant before I ever was. And eighteen years ago, the same year I gave birth to that child I was told was mine—she had gone abroad. —but it was not my kid. My hands started shaking. *Then where in the entire world was my child?* I pulled out my phone and messaged the private investigator. *Check the hospital records for the day my daughter was born. June 21, 3:00 to 5:00 PM. Also check Celeste’s overseas records. Anything about a birth.* I hit send and sat down on a dusty trunk. The phone in my pocket buzzed. It wasn’t anybody. Rither not the investigator—a notification from my home security app. > ***Living Room camera: Motion detected. 9:14 a.m.*** I frowned. Julian had said he would be at the office. The housekeeper had the day off. I tapped the live feed. The video loaded slowly, then resolved into color. …… The live feed loaded in stages, one frozen frame at a time, the way bad news always loaded—buffering, buffering, finally clearing. Our living room. Julian sat at one end, his tie loose, his head tipped back against the cushions. He looked exhausted. Then Celeste walked into the frame. She wasn’t in the cream silk suit she’d worn to my dinner table. She was in a slip of black silk that ended mid-thigh, the straps thin as wire, the kind of thing a woman wore at home for one audience of one. She sat down beside him, then shifted onto his lap. Her fingers found the top button of his shirt and worked it open. Julian did not push her away. His hand slid up her back, into her hair, then down to her waist. He pulled her closer. She leaned in, her mouth near his ear. I couldn’t hear what she said. But I could see him react. His breathing changed. His hands tightened. “Celeste,” he said—loud enough for the mic to catch. “Not here.” But he didn’t stop her. She laughed, soft and low, and kept unbuttoning his shirt. I watched the screen and gripped of my phone with both hands and watched her thread her fingers into his hair the way I had not threaded my fingers into his hair in six years. “Julian.” Her voice came through the speaker, thin and tinny. “When Cal calls me *Auntie*, I—you don’t know how much it hurts.” “*Celeste.*” Julian’s voice was low. “He should be calling me *Mom.*” I watched my husband of eighteen years close his eyes. The camera kept rolling. The room kept rolling. My husband and my sister did, on the couch I had picked out, what they had apparently been doing somewhere or other for the last nineteen years. My hands weren’t shaking now. They were steady. I tapped the small red button at the bottom of the screen. ***Recording.*** The phone in my hand vibrated softly to confirm. I walked to the attic bathroom and leaned over the sink. Nothing came up. Just dry heaves that left my throat burning. But i still held the phone steady against the sink and let it run. — The recording ran for nine minutes and forty-one seconds before I closed the app. I did not throw up. I had nothing left in my stomach to throw up. I rinsed my mouth with tap water. I splashed cold water on my face. Then I walked back into the kitchen, opened my laptop on the breakfast bar, and forwarded the entire nine-minute file to three places. My attorney. The private investigator. Adrian. I did not write a message to my attorney. The video was the message. — I had not slept. The investigator’s email came in at 2:47 a.m. *Found her.*

I opened the email with the same calm I had once used to open exam results. A file downloaded. Pages of records, then photographs. The first photo: a girl, maybe eight or nine, standing in front of a restaurant. Her clothes were too big. Her face was thin. The second: the same girl, older now—seventeen or eighteen—lifting a garbage bag in a back alley. Her hair was lank. Her arms were covered in bruises. The third: a close-up of an arm. Old and new, layered like she had never stopped being hit. A cigarette burn the size of a dime on the inside of the elbow. *Name: Nora. Works in a Chinatown restaurant in Los Angeles. No legal status. Now lives in a basement room. No windows.* *Celestine Sinclaircollects most of her wages through an intermediary.* I did not cry. I sat very still in the dark while the small, hot, brilliant rage that had been waiting under my breastbone for the last seventy-two hours finally bloomed all the way out into my hands. Eighteen years. Someone had been hitting my daughter for eighteen years, and the woman who had been wearing my Cartier emeralds at my dinner table on Sunday was the one who had been pocketing her wages. I had raised Celeste’s son. I had clothed him, fed him, paid for his school, loved him like my own. And my daughter—my real daughter—had been thrown away. I closed the email. I gathered the letters, the photograph, everything from the metal box, and put them in my bag. Then I walked out of the attic, down the stairs, and out of the old house. In the car, I just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, until my knuckles went white. Then I made one calls. To Adrian Cole. “I’m going to bring my daughter home.” There was a pause on the line. “What do you need me to do for you?” “I need a plane ticket that none of them know about.” “5:42 a.m. Direct to LAX. And then I’ll have a car waiting at LAX. Don’t go into Chinatown alone.” I hung up and finally let myself cry. Not for long. I had a lot of work to do. ….. I didn’t sleep on the flight to Los Angeles. The investigator’s file sat open on my tray table. Page after page of a life I should have been part of. **Subject: SINCLAIR, NORA. Female. DOB: June 21.** **Place of birth:** Ashford General, Ashford City. (*Records of original maternity ward closed; archive lost in 2009 fire.*) **Recorded guardian, age 0–1:** SINCLAIR, CELESTE. **Recorded relocation:** Los Angeles, California. November of birth year. **Education:** Public school district 17, Los Angeles. Attendance erratic ages 8–13. Withdrew at 16. **Employment, ages 8 to present:** – Dishwasher, two restaurants, off the books – Laundry, one dry cleaner, off the books – Current: prep cook / dishwasher, *The Hill Garden*, 815 Hill Street, Chinatown. Lives on premises. Underground room behind walk-in cooler. No window. No lock from inside. **Wages:** $4.50/hour, cash. Ninety percent collected monthly by intermediary on behalf of C. Sinclair, deposited into offshore account. **Medical:** Three documented ER visits. Broken wrist, age 11. Concussion, age 14. Lacerations to back of shoulder, age 16, twenty-two stitches, signed out against medical advice. **Police record:** None as offender. One filed report at age 12, alleging assault by guardian. Withdrawn within 48 hours. I closed the file before I got to the photographs. I took a deep breath. — The plane landed at LAX just after five in the morning. The car Adrian had promised was waiting at the curb in passenger pickup, exactly where he’d said it would be—a black SUV with tinted windows and a driver in a dark suit who did not introduce himself, did not take my luggage, did not say a single word to me. He held the back door open. He waited. I got in. He shut the door, walked around to the driver’s seat, and pulled out into the morning traffic. I leaned forward and unlatched the glove compartment. There was a manila envelope inside. I pulled it out and felt the weight of it on my lap. I opened the flap. Inside was a banded brick of one-hundred-dollar bills—twenty thousand dollars, give or take—and beneath it, a single folded sheet of paper that turned out to be a notarized statement of voluntary employment release, drafted in legalese, dated for today, with one blank line for a signature. Adrian had thought of everything. He had thought of the buyout. He had thought of the paperwork. I had not asked him for any of it. I sat back against the leather and watched the palm trees go past the window and let myself feel, for one brief and dangerous second, the warmth of being prepared for by someone who was not Julian. Then I closed the envelope. I tucked it under my arm. I leaned forward. I said. “Eight-fifteen. Pull around to the alley. Park where I can see the back door without them seeing the car.” The driver nodded once into the rearview mirror. We drove east.

A side alley ran between the restaurant and the building next door. I got out of the car and walked toward it. And there she was. My daughter. The alley smelled like rot. Cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. A metal dumpster near the back. And leaning against the dumpster, a young woman in a worn gray hoodie, stuffing two black garbage bags into the bin, with the practiced grunt of a body that had been doing this since it was eight years old. Her arms, where the sleeves of the T-shirt fell back, were marked the way the photographs had said they would be marked. She was too thin. Her jeans hung loose at the waist. Her hands were red and chapped from the cold. I stopped at the mouth of the alley. She turned her head. Our eyes met across twenty feet of cracked asphalt. She had my face. Not the shape of Celeste’s soft cheeks or Julian’s sharp jaw. My face—the same eyes, the same brow, the same way of looking at the world like she was waiting for someone to disappoint her. She blinked. Then she looked away, wiped her hands on her jeans, and started toward the back door of the restaurant. “Wait.” My voice came out rough. I hadn’t spoken in hours. She stopped. Looked back at me. Her expression was wary—not afraid, but guarded, like she had learned to expect bad news from strangers. “Are you Nora?” I asked. “Who’s asking?” I stepped closer. “I’m from the East Coast. I came here to find you.” Her eyes hardened. “Did Celeste send you? I already sent her this month’s money. I don’t have anything else.” “No. Not Celeste.” I took a breath. “I’m your mother. Your real mother.” She stared at me. A door banged open behind her at the back of the restaurant. A man’s voice, thick with impatience. “Nora! You little—where the hell did you—Where are the clean buckets? Get inside!” She flinched. Then she turned and walked past me, toward the dumpster, as if I was nothing. “Stay where you are,” I said. She didn’t stop. The owner came out of the back door in a stained apron and rubber sandals, scratching the side of his neck, his eyes already finding her before they found me. “What the hell is going on out here? Who is this?” “Are you the owner?” “Who’s asking?” I reached inside my coat. The manila envelope. I held it up. I didn’t open it. “Twenty thousand dollars,” I said. “Cash. American.” He stopped scratching his neck. “For her release. Effective immediately.” “She owes me—” “She doesn’t owe you anything.” I took one step forward. “But I’m offering you twenty thousand because I don’t have time to argue with you, and because the alternative is that the man in that car”—I tilted my head, fractionally, toward the SUV idling at the alley mouth—”makes a phone call to a friend of his in this city. And then *you* owe somebody. And it is not a debt you want.” He looked at the SUV. He looked at me. He looked at the SUV again. Whatever he saw there—the unmoving silhouette in the driver’s seat, the plate that wasn’t a plate any rental company would have issued, the particular stillness of a car that did not belong to a tourist—he straightened. “Lady,” he said carefully, “you take her. I don’t want trouble.” “There’s also a release form.” I handed him the notarized page from the envelope. I handed him the pen. He signed it on the rim of the dumpster, with his apron still on, in a hand that was steadier than I’d expected. I took the page back. I tucked it into the envelope. I held the envelope out to him. He took it without counting. “Get your things,” he said to her. Not unkindly. Not kindly either. Just the way a man speaks to a thing he is finished with. “Get out of my back room. Don’t come back tomorrow.” She didn’t move. He looked at her one more time, almost as if he wanted to say something else, and didn’t. Then he walked back into the kitchen and pulled the door closed behind him. The alley was very quiet. I turned back to her. “Nora.” She was looking at the ground. Her shoulders were still drawn up. Her hands were still fists. “Sweetheart. Look at me.” She didn’t. “I know what this looks like. I know I’m a stranger who just walked into the alley behind your job and bought you like a piece of furniture. I know you have no reason in the world to get in that car with me. But I need you to listen to me for thirty seconds, and then you can decide.” I made myself say the rest of it. “You were born to me, Nora. The records are on my phone. I have the lab results. I have the hospital archive. I have photographs of Celeste leaving the country eight days after I gave birth, with an infant girl who was not on any flight manifest she’d boarded going in. I have nineteen years of bank transfers from my husband to her offshore account. I have all of it.” “I am not asking you to come home with me.” “I’m asking you to come to a hotel. With a hot shower and a doctor and a bed. For one night. Tomorrow morning, if you want to walk out of that hotel and never see me again, I will hand you a check and the rest of the cash in this envelope and a passport in your own name and I will leave you alone for the rest of your life. I swear to God.” I waited. The wind moved through the alley. A piece of newspaper turned over near the dumpster. She lifted her face. She looked at me the way she had looked at me through the car window five minutes ago, and the look was not the same. Something underneath it had shifted. Not trust. Not anything as warm as trust. Just the smallest, most exhausted opening of a door that had been bolted shut for so long the hinges had rusted into the frame. “I don’t have anything to get,” she said. “What?” “In the back room. I don’t have anything to get.” “…All right.” “There’s a bag,” she said, almost as an afterthought. “Under the cot. There’s a bag.” “I’ll come with you.” “No.” She said it sharply. Then, softer: “No. I’ll get it myself.” She slipped past me through the back door of the kitchen. I stood in the alley and let myself breathe for the first time in three days. When she came back up the stairs, she was carrying a black canvas bag the size of a school backpack. Inside it, by the way she carried it, were perhaps three pounds of belongings. Eighteen years of life. Three pounds. I held the back door of the SUV open for her. She paused on the threshold of the car. “What do I call you?” The question stopped me. I had not let myself rehearse this part. I had not let myself imagine her using any word for me at all. “Whatever you want.” I walked around to the other side, slid in beside her, and pulled the door shut behind me. The driver met my eyes once in the rearview mirror. I nodded. The SUV pulled out of the alley. Nora sat very still beside me, her hands folded in her lap, her duffel bag wedged between her sneakers. She did not look at me. She did not look out the window. I did not reach for her hand. I did not touch her hair. I did not say anything else. I sat beside my daughter in the back of a stranger’s car and watched the morning sun climb the sides of buildings I had never seen before in a city three thousand miles from the apartment where my husband and my sister and the boy who was not my son were, at that very moment, very likely still asleep. Somewhere, my phone was buzzing in my pocket. I did not take it out. I had already won the only thing this morning that mattered.

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The day my adopted sister died, My brother took six bullets for me in a Vegas casino. Right before he did, he leaned in and whispered that he wished I’d never been born. He sold me to the highest bidder. Stood there in his three-piece suit while strangers ran their eyes over me like I was livestock. I begged him. I clawed at his sleeve. I said his name over and over until my voice gave out. He never even blinked. “If you hadn’t needed that kidney, Zoe would still be alive. She died on that table because of you, Grace. You’re going to spend the rest of your life paying for it.” That was supposed to be the night I died. Then the gunmen came through the doors. Bullets. Screaming. Glass everywhere. And before I could even move, Caleb threw himself on top of me and took every single shot. He coughed blood into my hair. Warm. Wet. “If there’s a next life,” he whispered, “don’t be my sister. Zoe was enough. Zoe was always enough.” I picked up his gun. Pressed the barrel under my chin. And pulled the trigger. Then I open my eyes. “Grace Hartley! You held Zoe’s hand under boiling water — over a piece of candy?! She saved your life, and this is how you treat her? How are you my sister?” That voice. His voice. Furious. Alive. I blink. The room swims into place — white curtains, hospital bed, that sharp antiseptic smell. Zoe sitting up against the pillows, hand wrapped in gauze. Caleb standing over me, jaw locked, fists shaking at his sides. Five years ago. The day I burned her. I’m back. I’m really back. I stare at him. No bullet holes. No blood on his lips. Just my brother, healthy and whole and furious, breathing right in front of me. My throat closes. I shove the tears down so hard it hurts. “I’m sorry, Caleb.” My voice comes out wrong — too quiet, too rough. “I shouldn’t have hurt her.” He freezes. I almost laugh. Of course he froze. In this lifetime, I have never once apologized to him. That stupid piece of candy — he was the one who gave it to me. The day our parents died. Sixteen years old, eyes red and raw, pressing it into my palm like it was the only thing he had left to give me. “Don’t cry, Gracie. I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you, I swear.” He doesn’t even remember. He was a kid drowning under the weight of a dead family. I can’t hold that against him. I turn to the bed. Look Zoe right in the eye. “I’m sorry, Zoe. I won’t fight you over him anymore. I’m done.” Zoe’s lashes flutter. Her eyes well up right on schedule. “Grace, I didn’t mean to step on your candy, please don’t be—” I don’t let her finish. I reach for the electric kettle on the nightstand — water still steaming, just boiled — and pour it straight down my own arm. The pain is white-hot. My knees nearly give. Cold sweat soaks through the back of my shirt. My breath comes out in short, broken pieces. “Is that enough?” Nobody moves. Nobody even breathes. Then Caleb lunges. Grabs my wrist so hard it hurts. “Grace — are you out of your mind?!” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He whips around and roars at the assistant in the doorway: “Don’t just stand there — get a doctor!” And just like that, my chest goes warm. Right now, in this exact second, he still cares enough to yell. His eyes aren’t ice yet. They aren’t disgust yet. It’s nice. Even if I know it isn’t really mine. Even if I know how this story ends. I let his hand stay on my wrist for one more second. Just one. Then Zoe sniffles. Tugs at the hem of his shirt with her good hand. “Caleb… I know she wants you all to herself. But hurting herself just to get your attention? That’s not okay…” She turns to me. Tears spilling. Perfect. “Grace, you and Caleb are real siblings. I’m the outsider. Please — please — stop hurting yourself, okay?” The hand around my wrist goes still. I watch his face turn cold again. Slow. One degree at a time. The worry drains out of him, and something harder takes its place. I shut my mouth. I was about to defend myself. There’s no point. There never was. “For one second,” he says quietly, “I actually thought you’d changed. What’s wrong with you, Grace? Are you even my sister?” In my last life, he said so much worse. This is nothing. This barely scratches. I lower my head. Soft. Obedient. “Whatever you say, Caleb.” “You—” He chokes on it. Points at me. Can’t find a single word. Then he turns away and snaps at his assistant without looking back: “Take her. Bandage her arm. Keep her out of Zoe’s sight — I don’t want her upsetting Zoe again.” I nod. Step back. Walk out without a sound. But I don’t go to the nurse’s station. Because the second I opened my eyes in this body, I felt it. That deep, familiar ache crawling up from my lower back into every nerve ending I have. Sharp. Heavy. Wrong. The kidney disease. That’s right. This is the day they diagnose me. In my last life, this is exactly the day. Without a transplant, I have two weeks. Maybe less. And this time? This time, Caleb — I’m not asking for your kidney. I’m not asking for your love either. This time, I’m just going to disappear.

I was the sick kid. Always. Fragile lungs. Weak heart. A blood type so rare the hospital couldn’t keep up. Every flu was a coin flip. Every surgery, a near miss. Then one operation went sideways. I bled out faster than the blood bank could refill. The doctors gave Caleb a number. He had hours. So he tore the city apart looking for a match. He found one. A skinny little orphan girl with the same rare blood running through her veins. Zoe Bennett. Her blood saved my life. And just like that, she went from nobody on the street to the adopted golden daughter of the Hartleys. That’s when my brother stopped being my brother. The Caleb who used to check my forehead every hour when I had a fever? Gone. The Caleb who carried me on his back down hospital hallways? Gone. Zoe and I got hurt at the same time once. Same day. Same accident. He didn’t even look at me. Scooped her up — the one with the smaller scratch — and ran. Left me sitting on the floor. I lost my mind after that. Jealous. Furious. Wild. I made ruining Zoe’s life my full-time job. One sweet little angel of a sister. One screaming, scheming, vicious one. You don’t have to guess who he picked. But deep down? I still told myself the lie. He loves me most. He has to. He’s only nice to her because she saved my life. That’s all. God, I was wrong. So wrong. In my last life, the day they found the kidney disease, Zoe went under the knife. To save me. Again. She died on the operating table. I lived. Miracle of miracles. And from that day forward, my brother hated me. The kind of hate that words can’t fix. He said things to me siblings shouldn’t even know how to say. Like we weren’t family. Like we were enemies in some war I never signed up for. Not this time. This time, let it be me. The New England winter is brutal. Wind like razor blades. Snow stinging my face raw. The ache in my kidney is dull and deep. The burn on my arm is sharp and bright. Together they make breathing feel like a luxury I can’t afford. I hunch my shoulders. Pull my coat tighter. Keep walking. I got greedy back there. I came back for one reason. To give Caleb the sister he actually wanted. I should’ve left the second I opened my eyes. I need to disappear. Now. A horn blares behind me. A window rolls down. Caleb’s cold face. Cold voice. “Get in.” I open my mouth to refuse. His bodyguard is already on me, half-lifting me into the back seat before I can blink. The heat is blasting. I’m still freezing. I curl up against the window so he can’t see me shake, and stare at the streets blurring past. “You didn’t even get your arm dressed.” His voice is glacial. “What’s the angle this time, Grace? The victim card didn’t land — so now you’re playing the martyr?” I’m quiet for a second. Then I turn and look him dead in the eye. “I’m serious, Caleb. You won’t have to deal with me anymore. I’m moving out. I’ll stay out of your life.” He laughs. It’s an awful sound. “Move out? Grace, look around. The clothes on your back, the cash in your wallet, the roof over your head — all Hartley. Every last thing. Step out that door, you’re a stray. How long do you think you’d last?” Not long. I already know. I drop my eyes. “That’s my problem.” I keep my voice soft. Steady. “I was a brat. I thought if I screamed loud enough, broke enough things, you’d look at me. I get it now. Some things aren’t yours, no matter how hard you fight for them. Zoe saved my life. Of course you love her. I shouldn’t have stood between you two. I’m done.” His eyes cut into me. Hunting for the lie. The angle. The next manipulation. He doesn’t find one. What he finds is ash. Cold gray ash where there used to be a fire — the jealousy, the desperation, the clinging please-just-look-at-me love. All burned out. It makes him angrier than anything I could’ve said. “You think pretty words are going to soften me up? You think I’ll buy that you’ve finally grown up? Grace, I’ve seen this act a hundred times.” “It’s not an act, Caleb.” My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “I’m just… tired. I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want…” I don’t want to walk into the next life carrying your hate. I don’t say it out loud.

The car rolls through the gates of Hartley Manor. I get out and walk straight to my room — tucked in the far corner of the estate. Huge. Beautiful. Empty. A pretty cage. I start packing. Just the basics. A few changes of clothes. A roll of cash. And an old photo album of my parents — the one Caleb probably forgot existed years ago. I’m zipping the backpack shut when the door swings open. Zoe leans against the frame. Fresh white bandage around her wrist. Cheeks artfully pale. Eyes shining with quiet, ugly little triumph. “Grace, you’re really leaving?” Her voice is honey-soft. “Is it because of what Caleb said? Don’t blame him, okay? He just worries about me. I know you two are real siblings, but… he believes me more.” I look at her. I feel absolutely nothing. In my last life, I’d have thrown something at her. Screamed. Lunged. And then Caleb would’ve come running and crucified me. Right now, I just want her out of my way. “Move.” She steps closer. Blocks the door. Drops her voice. Just for me. “”Let me spell it out for you, Grace. He doesn’t love you. He’s never loved you. You’re not his sister — you’re a pity project. So do everyone a favor and disappear. The sooner, the better.”” I don’t answer. Just turn sideways to squeeze past her. That’s when she screams. A fruit knife appears in her hand out of nowhere, and in one clean motion she drags the blade across her own arm. Blood blooms instantly. “Grace! What are you doing?!” She stumbles back. Sobs spilling. Eyes huge with horror. “I already said I was sorry — why are you still hurting me?!” Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Caleb appears in the doorway. His face goes dark the second he takes in the scene — the blood on her arm, the backpack in my hand, the knife on the floor between us. Three seconds. He doesn’t ask a single question. His hand snaps across my face. Time stops. The burn on my arm. The ache in my kidney. Gone. Vanished. There’s only the stinging heat blooming across my cheek. In two lifetimes, he has never once hit me. It hurts more than every other wound I’ve ever had. Combined. Even at his absolute worst in my last life — screaming the cruelest things a brother can scream at a sister — he never touched me. Not like this. He really does love her, I think. Calm. Almost peaceful. He really, really does. “Grace.” His voice is shaking. So is his hand. He grinds the words out between his teeth. “For one second back there — one second — I actually believed you’d changed. God, I’m an idiot. A snake never sheds its venom. What is wrong with you? What has Zoe ever done to you? She saved your life, Grace!” The same words. The same poison. Driving straight into the softest part of me. I told myself I was ready. I told myself I was numb. I’m not. My vision blurs. My knees almost go. I look up at his beautiful, furious face. I look at Zoe sniffling behind him, peeking at me over his shoulder with that tiny, satisfied flicker in her eyes. It’s all so absurd. So pathetic. Explain? He’d never believe me. He never has. In his head, I was guilty before I was born. Fine. I drag in a slow breath. Swallow the metal taste at the back of my throat. Blink the sting out of my eyes. And I pull my wrist out of his grip. Then I bend down. I pick up the knife. The one wet with Zoe’s blood. His eyes flash. “What the hell are you doing?” I press the handle into his palm. Close his fingers around it. The cold metal sits against his skin. My white, bloodless face reflects in the steel. I step in. Closer. Until I’m almost against his chest. Tilt my head up. Look him dead in the eye. My voice comes out soft. Barely there. “Caleb. You hate me this much. You really believe I hurt your Zoe. So — get even for her. Okay?” His eyes go wide. He understands what I’m about to do half a second too late. “Grace — don’t —” I lunge. The blade goes in clean. Right under my collarbone. I feel the steel slide between bone and muscle like it was waiting for me.

White-hot pain explodes from under my right shoulder blade and rips through every nerve I’ve got. I can feel the cold metal sinking deep. Tearing muscle. The kind of pain that turns the world to ice. Time stops. The fury drains out of Caleb’s face. What’s left is pure, gaping shock. His fingers spring open on instinct — but the knife stays buried in me. Blood spreads across my shirt. Fast. Too fast. Zoe’s sobbing cuts off mid-breath. Her mouth hangs open. She doesn’t move. “Grace…?” His voice cracks. He stares at his own bloody hand. Then at my face — the color already draining out of it — and for the first time, something breaks in his eyes. Not anger. Fear. I look up at him. There’s one more thing I want to tell him. That’s for the bullets. Last time. Now we’re even. But the cold is spreading too fast. My tongue won’t work. My knees fold. “Grace!” The sound that rips out of him isn’t human. He lunges. Catches me before I hit the floor. His hands hover everywhere at once — over the wound, over the knife, over my face — afraid to touch any of it. His arms are shaking. All of him is shaking. “Get a doctor! Call an ambulance — NOW!” He’s roaring at frozen faces in the doorway, eyes blown wide and red. The cold, untouchable Caleb is gone. What’s left is just a man drowning. I come back to the smell of antiseptic and the soft beep of a monitor. My shoulder is thick with bandages. The pain throbs in slow waves. But underneath it — deeper, heavier — is the thing I already know. That sinking, rotting weight inside my body. It’s really happening. The room is quiet. Through the door, I hear voices kept low. Tense. Caleb and Zoe. “I’m asking you one more time, Zoe. Did she cut you with that knife? Or did you do it yourself?” His voice is barely above a whisper. The kind of quiet that comes right before a storm levels a house. “Caleb… you don’t believe me? How can you not believe me? She’s always hated me — you know that — she’s always hated that you—” “I believe what I see. And Grace has done a lot of stupid, ugly things. But she has never turned a blade on herself. Not once. Not ever.” His voice drops lower. Colder. “Zoe. Don’t lie to me. If I find out you did — I’ll kill you myself.” A small, stunned breath. She’s never heard him like that before. She knows it. His footsteps walk away. I lie there in the dark and listen to him go. Something hot and stupid pricks behind my eyes. He believed me. For one second back there — he actually believed me. A laugh climbs up my throat. It comes out broken. Too late, Caleb. About five years too late. In my last life, you said those exact same words — I’ll kill whoever hurt you — except by then, the person you wanted to kill was me. I turn my face into the pillow. The bandage on my shoulder is already soaking through. I can feel the slow, hot trickle of fresh blood. I can feel the deeper rot spreading through my kidneys. Two weeks. Maybe less. I’m not wasting any of it crying over a brother who might have loved me, in some other version of this life. I have to go. Before he comes back. Before he looks at me with those eyes again. Before I’m stupid enough to start hoping. I push myself upright. The room tilts. My shoulder screams. I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. And I reach for the IV line. Goodbye, Caleb. This time — I really mean it.

I stare up at the pale hospital ceiling. There’s nothing left inside me. Just quiet. When the nurse finishes changing the dressing and slips out, I pull the IV out of the back of my hand. Slow. Careful. A drop of clear fluid beads at the needle’s tip. Every movement sets my shoulder on fire. Every breath drags through the deeper ache inside me. But I get my feet on the floor. I pull on the clothes I came in with — stiff and brown now, crackling where the blood dried. I sling the old backpack over my good shoulder. And I walk out of the hospital without making a sound. I don’t go home. That place stopped being home a long time ago. I go to the cemetery. Westfield Cemetery in mid-winter is a wasteland. The wind cuts. The snow stings my cheeks raw. The path is empty. I drop to my knees in front of my parents’ headstone. The cold from the granite shoots up through my legs and settles in my bones. “Mom… Dad…” The second the words leave my mouth, something snaps inside me. Every piece of grief I’ve been swallowing for two lifetimes comes flooding up at once. I wrap my arms around the freezing stone and I sob. “I miss you. I miss you so much—” “Caleb doesn’t want me anymore. He has a new sister now. He hates me — he really, really hates me—” “I’m sick. I’m so sick. Without a kidney, I don’t have much time left—” “I don’t want to be anyone’s burden anymore. I don’t want him hating me until the day I die—” “I’m so tired. Mom, Dad — can I come stay with you? Please don’t be ashamed of me. Please—” The wind howls and tears my words away in pieces. I cry until my throat is raw. Until even the sobs run out. Until all that’s left is a numb, shivering quiet. My body gets heavier. The world softens at the edges. The wound on my shoulder must have split open — something warm is soaking through the back of my coat. My burned arm throbs. My kidney throbs. Everything is throbbing and fading at the same time. I’m bleeding out. Slow. Quiet. I curl up at the foot of their headstone, the way I used to curl up between them when I was small. The sky overhead is lead-gray. Snow starts drifting down again. Light. Lazy. Caleb. This time, I really did give it back to you. I don’t need your kidney. I don’t need your love either. It stopped being mine a long time ago. I’m setting you free. You only have one sister now. The dark closes in. And in the very last second of it, I think I see them — my mom and dad — smiling at me. Reaching out their hands.

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I had thirty minutes to save his dying mother, but my husband smashed the only antidote because his mistress had a party. My mother-in-law had been poisoned and was dying. I was the only toxicology expert in the city who could save her. I hung up the phone and was about to leave when Silas blocked my way. “Today’s the grand opening of Bella’s Nightmare Estate. You walk out now, who’s gonna play the beggar NPC?” My face went cold. I told him the antidote window was thirty minutes. One second too late and his mother was dead. Silas just looked annoyed. “So your mom dies. She dies. I’ll toss a few bucks at the funeral home, problem solved. But you mess with my day and I will end you.” Bella threw herself onto him, laughing and wrapping around his neck. “Aw, is she in a rush to sneak off and ride some other guy? Look at that face, baby. She’s more worked up than you are when I’m on top of you. Isn’t that right, my man?” I could’ve laughed at how shameless these two were. Silas had it all wrong. He thought the one dying of poison was my mother.

“Fine. I’m not going.” I tucked the antidote serum back into my coat and kept my face perfectly still. Silas froze. He’d probably expected me to cry and beg, or to bolt for the door no matter what he said. He squinted at me. “Scared now, huh? Bella’s opening is worth a hundred of your trashy mother.” Bella gave his chest a playful smack and giggled. “See? My man’s got a real talent for training women.” “Speaking of which, baby, is that how you broke her in? In bed? Last time you tried that new position on me I couldn’t walk for three days.” The two of them were all over each other within seconds. I cleared my throat. Silas snapped. “What now, Elara? Your filthy, stinking mother dies, she dies. The woman reeks of piss and shit from head to toe.” “What, did she dig through another dumpster for food and poison herself?” “Why even bother going? To collect the body? Just flush her down the drain and be done with it.” I’d always told myself Silas was just being manipulated by Bella, that conniving pick-me bitch. That he was confused. That he wasn’t really this cold. But he actually thought the one dying of poison was my mother. And my mother’s life wasn’t even worth as much as the grand opening of Bella’s little haunted house. Disgusting. I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Sure. I’ll stay.” “Your fun matters most. Mom’s life is nothing.” Silas paused, and the contempt in his eyes deepened. “Smart girl. So even you know your stinking mother’s life is worthless.” Bella giggled and draped herself all over him. “Good for you, Elara, knowing your place. Your mom’s probably faking it to squeeze out some cash before she croaks. What, you wanna rush over and grab your cut before she flatlines?” Silas leaned back and let Bella’s hands wander wherever they pleased. “Let me make this real clear, Elara. I put three hundred million into the Nightmare Estate. It’s my gift to Bella.” “You ruin this for us and I won’t just let your mother die. I’ll wipe out your whole family.” Right then Silas’s phone rang and he hit speaker without even looking, irritation all over his face. “Mr. Vane? Your mother is fading fast. If Professor Thorne doesn’t get here with the serum soon, it’ll be too late.” Silas lost it. He grabbed me and shook me and the vial of serum slipped off me and hit the floor. “Don’t you dare compare Elara’s worthless old hag of a mother to mine. Let her die already! Call me again and I’ll blow your whole hospital to the ground!” The second he finished, he stomped down and crushed the serum under his heel.

Any chance of saving my mother-in-law was gone. My team had spent three full years in the lab developing that single vial of serum. Over a thousand failed attempts. Enough funding to buy ten Nightmare Estates. And that was the only finished dose. Silas hung up the phone with a smug grin still plastered on his face. “Go ahead and let your broke-ass mother rot in that hospital bed. If it weren’t for that face and the fact that you put in work between the sheets, you think you’d have ever set foot in the Vane household?” Bella stood on her tiptoes and kissed his jaw. “Honestly, Elara, your mom dying is a blessing. No more scheming for handouts. Last time she actually begged me to help her find a job sweeping parks so she could collect an extra twenty bottles a day. I almost died laughing.” I did laugh. The trust fund under my mother’s name generated enough interest every single year to buy ten Vane families. Who did they think they were? The Vane family’s entire business was a charity project I’d propped up because I felt sorry for him. After I was kidnapped as a child, the trauma stuck with me, and my mother made me hide my identity from everyone. And Silas turned around and used my money to buy Bella gifts, then mocked me to my face. Where did they get the nerve? “If someone’s dying and you don’t want to help, that’s your business. But insult my mother one more time and see what happens.” Silas whipped around, sneering. “Did you just threaten me?” “Your mother dying on opening day? That’s good luck for us. She should be honored.” His friends joined in. “Yo Silas, the opening’s tonight and we still haven’t tested that new extreme room.” Silas glanced at me and snapped his fingers at the bodyguards. “Since you want to run your mouth, you can be Bella’s test dummy.” I fought as hard as I could but they pinned me down on a surgical table inside one of the bio-lab themed rooms. The overhead light was a sickly green. Fake organs hung from the ceiling on hooks, swaying slightly in the air conditioning. Everything smelled like fresh paint and latex. Bella picked up an enormous syringe from the tray beside me. “Welcome to my horror laboratory!” “Today we’ll be conducting a thrilling live experiment!” Everyone burst out laughing. “Not gonna lie, the scare factor is insane. I’m streaming this. Tonight’s opening is gonna blow up.” Right then the phone in my coat pocket started ringing nonstop. Silas was clearly pissed that his little show was being interrupted. Then he saw the name on my screen, “CEO Thorne,” and smashed the phone straight into my head. “Look at you, Elara. Moving up in the world.” Bella jabbed a finger into his chest. “A CEO? Wow, Elara, you’re really something. Stringing along my man with one hand and hooking some rich old guy with the other?” “Bet you killed your own mother on purpose so you could scam some money and run off with this sugar daddy.” Bella moved closer as she talked, drawing a tube of strange liquid from one of the containers. “Let me teach this shameless little whore a lesson.” Silas was thrilled. “That’s my girl. When you’re done, strip her and lock her in a cage so every guest tonight can get a good look.” Bella grinned and drove the needle straight at my neck.

I broke free of the restraints in one move. All those years of escape training hadn’t gone to waste. I grabbed the syringe and jammed it right into Bella’s hand. Bella screamed. The skin on her hand started to corrode and dissolve, white smoke rising off the flesh. “My hand! My hand!” She shrieked in pure terror. Everyone around us panicked and stumbled backward. “What the hell? I thought that was a prop!” “Is that… is that real acid?” Silas lost it too. He saw the damage spreading up Bella’s arm and pulled her close, kissing her and cooing over her. Then he turned around and slapped me across the face. “You bitch! You hurt my Bella!” “Get on your knees and beg her for forgiveness right now, or I swear your mother won’t even have ashes left to bury!” Just then a commotion broke out near the entrance. “Professor Thorne! We’ve been calling you nonstop. We had to track your phone to find you!” “The patient was still hanging on, waiting for your serum, but on the way here…” A few of the staff members sighed. “She’s gone. We’ve brought the body to the family. You should start making arrangements.” Silas looked disgusted. “Your mother really doesn’t know when to quit, does she, Elara?” Bella’s face twisted with venom. “They brought the body here? What is this, a grand opening gift? One free corpse with every ticket?” The friends around them howled with laughter. “Holy shit, Silas! A real body delivered to the castle on opening night? Marketing genius!” “Kinda smells though. What is that?” Silas pinched his nose and kicked the stretcher over. “Disgusting piece of trash. Can’t even die in peace.” The body tumbled off and hit the concrete hard. The face was bloated and purple beyond recognition. Somewhere above us a prop skeleton swung on its chain, creaking. The green overhead light flickered once. Nobody was laughing anymore. But nobody was leaving either. Silas looked like he’d just found a new toy. He grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face down toward the corpse. “Get on your knees and bark like a dog for Bella, Elara. Apologize like you mean it and maybe I’ll spare your mother. Otherwise she becomes the Nightmare Estate’s first real ghost.” My scalp burned from the pulling. But all I could think was how perfectly this was playing out. I knocked his hand away. “You’re the one who loves barking. Go ahead. Let’s see how you little dogs sound.” Silas was livid. “You still have the nerve to talk back?” He lifted his foot and stomped down on the corpse’s head. I smiled. “Silas, all I said on the phone was that Mom had been poisoned and was dying.” “What if the head under your foot isn’t my mother’s? What if it’s yours?”

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Twenty-three years ago, a nurse on the maternity ward switched the wristbands on two newborn babies. Two families. Two scrambled lives. Two years ago, the truth caught up with mine. My fiancé’s little sister? She’s actually my little sister. Same blood. Same parents. The hospital ran the DNA three times to be sure. I thought it was a gift. Now we’re really family. Now nothing can come between us. Then, the night before our wedding, Sean sits me down at my kitchen table and asks — calm as anything — if he can marry her instead. “She’s been miserable since she got sent back to your parents,” he says, like it’s a business proposal. “She was raised soft. She can’t take it over there.” “Let me marry her first. On paper. Take care of her under my name. That way Chloe — the real Sutton daughter — won’t feel threatened.” I freeze by the counter. My hand drifts to my stomach without me noticing. He keeps going. “You’re different, Ally. You’re tough. You’re smart. You can take it. You always do.” “Give it two years. Once she’s settled, we’ll have our wedding. The real one.” He thinks I’ll scream. He thinks I’ll cry, throw the ring, slam a door — and then cave. Because that’s what I always do. Bend. Fold. Swallow it. I look him dead in the eye and smile. “Sure thing, Sean.” He blinks. The whole speech he had ready — be reasonable, baby, think of the big picture — dies in his throat. “Wait. You mean it? Because if you don’t, just say so. This calm thing? Honestly, it’s freaking me out.” Freaking him out. That’s rich. What’s he so worried about? When have I ever actually fought him? Every single time, he steps forward and I step back. Back, and back, and back, until there’s a wall behind me and I nod and say fine. I slide my hand off my stomach. Quietly. Like a thief. “I mean it. Promise.” “Wedding goes ahead tomorrow. Just swap the bride. Don’t change anything else.” He looks confused, but he doesn’t push. He doesn’t want me to take it back. He reaches out and ruffles my hair like I’m a golden retriever who finally learned to sit. “Knew you’d get it. You always do.” “Willa used to be my sister. Now she’s yours. Same family, right?” “That brat Chloe’s been making her life hell — screaming that Willa stole twenty-three years of her life, demanding she get out of the Sutton house.” He sighs, the picture of a long-suffering man. “Day after tomorrow, courthouse. Just you and me. Quietly. Like we planned.” “And the wedding — once Willa’s settled, I’ll throw you the biggest one this city’s ever seen. I promise.” “Got it.” I cut him off. “Go home. You’re the groom tomorrow. Get some sleep.” I turn my back on him. Pick up the crumpled invitation off the counter — Sean Sutton & Allison Carter, gold lettering — and drop it in the trash. He stares at me. Two long seconds. Whatever he’s looking for — tears, rage, a flicker of please don’t — he doesn’t find it. So he leaves. Relieved. Like a man who got away with something. The door clicks shut. I pull out my phone. Confirmation: Your courthouse appointment #4471-A has been cancelled. Then I open my email. The offer from across the Atlantic. I’ve been staring at it for three weeks. I read it one more time. I type two words back. I accept.

Three a.m. Something in the living room wakes me up. I crack the bedroom door open an inch. Willa is curled up on the couch in one of Sean’s white dress shirts, bare legs tucked under her, sipping a glass of warm milk. Sean is crouched on the floor in front of her, rubbing her foot. “Princess. How many times do I have to tell you. Don’t walk barefoot on the tile.” “You call me at midnight saying your foot hurts, I tear across town like a maniac — you remember we have a big day tomorrow, right?” Willa giggles and snuggles deeper into the cushions. “Awww. Tomorrow I get to call you husband. I’m allowed to be a little nervous.” Sean flicks her forehead. “Call me whatever you want. Go to sleep. I have to head back and get ready.” She tilts her head. Blinks up at him. “You came all this way. Aren’t you gonna check on my sister?” “She threw up in the bathroom for an hour today. She’s not okay with this, Sean.” His step falters. “She’s fine,” he says flatly. “She’s not as soft as you. She’ll throw up, she’ll get over it.” “And she’s running point on the whole wedding tomorrow. She knows the venue better than anyone. Let her sleep.” He reaches over and tweaks Willa’s nose. “You. Stop worrying about other people. You’re the bride tomorrow. Bed. Now.” Willa laughs and swats his hand. “Okay, okay. Go, go.” I stand behind the door. Watching them. And all I feel is sad. And ridiculous. Six months ago, Sean and I had just gotten engaged. My parents weren’t happy with the wedding fund he’d offered. They wanted more. They told me to go squeeze Sean for it. I said no. I screamed at my dad in the kitchen. He took off his belt and beat me with it. Beat me until I couldn’t stand up. That night was late too. Just like this one. I couldn’t take the pain. I called Sean. He listened. Then he said, “You know how your folks are, baby. They want money, I’ll send it. Just don’t fight them. I’ll come get you tomorrow.” Tomorrow. I lay on the bathroom floor in my own blood until sunrise. He never came. Because I was never the one he’d tear across town for at three in the morning. I’m about to slip back to bed when Willa’s voice rises again. “Oh — and we have to thank my sister for putting this whole wedding together! Isn’t she a saint?” I freeze. “She picked champagne gold as the main color. But you talked her into blush pink for me. Sean — it’s literally my dream wedding.” Sean’s voice goes soft. “As long as you love it.” My chest twists. Hard. Right where I thought it had finally stopped hurting. For three months I ran around this city. Every wedding planner. Every florist. Every venue. I did it all. Then one night Sean said, casual, “Pink would suit a wedding better, don’t you think?” I stayed up till dawn redoing the whole color scheme. I thought he was just being sweet. I thought I was making my groom happy. Turns out — The whole wedding was someone else’s show. And I’m not the bride. I’m not even a guest. I’m staff. Tomorrow’s job: greet the guests, manage the timeline, keep everything running. Smile. Don’t make a scene. I walk back to bed. Numb. Lie down. Willa’s laughter drifts through the wall. Muffled. Soft. I can’t get it out of my head.

The sun is barely up when I get to the hotel. My job today: keep this whole circus running. Greet the guests. Cue the music. Smile. I’m the “ex-bride.” Already forgotten. The bridal suite is on the fourth floor. Willa’s in there with her bridesmaids — champagne, hairspray, a photographer crouched in the corner snapping every giggle. Sean is two floors down with the groomsmen, getting his bowtie fixed. They won’t lay eyes on each other until she walks down the aisle. Standard Western wedding. Tradition. Bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony. I stand in the hallway with my clipboard, going over the timeline. The double doors of the groom’s suite swing open. Sean steps out first. The groomsmen tumble out behind him, fixing each other’s pocket squares, half-drunk on mimosas already. They head for the elevator. They don’t see me tucked behind the floral display by the wall. Their voices carry. “I thought I was hammered last night and heard it wrong. They actually swapped the bride?” “You didn’t know? The invitations were printed in two names from the start. One set for Ally, one for Willa. Sutton had them ready months ago.” “Damn. I thought Ally would lose it. Girl from nothing finally lands a Sutton — then hands him over to her own sister? Forget ever marrying into that family now.” “Nah, she’s classy. That’s why she lasted with the boss this long.” “Classy my ass. You’d be classy if you knew screaming wouldn’t change a thing?” They snort with laughter. Sean is a few steps ahead. He hears the last one. He stops. He turns around. Looks at them. “You guys done running your mouths?” They shut up fast. “My girl’s tough. Willa was raised soft — she can’t take what Ally can. If I don’t shield her, who will?” One of his closest buddies grins. Slaps his shoulder. “All right, all right. Ally’s still our girl. We all know this wedding’s just a show. You two have a courthouse appointment day after tomorrow, right?” He winks. ” That one counts. Once she signs that license, she’s not going anywhere.” Sean nods. Satisfied. The elevator dings. They step in. The doors slide shut. I stay behind the flowers. I don’t move. All I can hear in my head is one line. She can’t take what Ally can. Right. Of course. Willa grew up in the Sutton mansion. Spoiled. Soft. Of course she can’t take it. But why is it my job to? My mom used to yank me by the hair and call me a money pit. A useless girl. If school wasn’t free and mandatory, I never would have learned to read. I clawed my way into the best high school in the city. My parents wouldn’t give me a dime for food. I ate bread and pickles for three years straight. Sean knows all of this. I went to college on the other side of the country and never planned to come back. I wired money home every month. That was it. No calls. No visits. Those four years were the happiest of my life. Nobody hit me. Nobody screamed at me. Nobody kicked my door open at midnight asking for cash. I thought I was free. Then two years ago, Sean took me to meet his parents. Mrs. Sutton said it right up front. Sipping her tea. “The Suttons are a respectable family. A daughter-in-law’s family needs to be presentable. We don’t want gossip.” Sean took my hands. Pleaded. “Ally, baby. Just move back in with your folks for a while. For us. Hang in there until my mom signs off on the wedding.” So I moved back home. To make Sean’s life easier. For two years I played the happy daughter. Mom wanted money. I gave it. Dad lost at the track. I covered it. The neighbors said, “Look how your girl’s done so well.” My mother beamed. “Of course she has. She’s marrying a Sutton.” She forgot she ever called me a useless girl. She forgot. I didn’t. I thought there was an end to all this. Once I got married, I’d build my own home with Sean. Far away from them. If they came knocking? They’d be the Suttons’ in-laws too. Sean would have my back. That’s what I thought. But now — The elevator’s gone. The hallway is quiet. The floral display in front of me smells like a funeral parlor. I’m still standing here. Holding a clipboard. About to go run someone else’s wedding.

Three in the afternoon. The whole house is scrambling to get ready for the reception. I’m sitting on my parents’ living room couch. Already dressed. Already done with all of them. My brother Jake yanks at his red bowtie, grinning at the hallway mirror. “Willa hit the jackpot, huh? Grew up over there. Now she’s marrying back in.” “Should’ve been me the hospital swapped. I’d make a hell of a rich kid.” “Shut your mouth,” Mom snaps. “Polish your shoes.” I don’t say anything. Funny thing about Willa, though. The other baby in that hospital swap? She got taken. Mistaken identity. An accident. The day my mom gave birth to her, the second she heard it’s a girl, she walked out of that hospital and left the baby on the bed. Didn’t even pay the bill. She just never imagined the daughter she dumped would land at the Suttons’. Raised like a princess for twenty-three years. When Willa first got “returned” to us, she cried every day. One afternoon, when nobody was around, I sat her down. “Listen to me. Blood doesn’t mean love. They didn’t want you the day you were born. A family like this — bloodsuckers — you’re better off without them.” “You had an elite education at the Suttons’. You can stand on your own. Leave.” She nodded. Eyes red. I thought she heard me. Then Sean was at my door. Face like a thundercloud. “Willa says you told her to move out. She says you called her a burden. That you look down on her.” “Ally. Picking on her when she was my sister was one thing. Now she’s your blood. You’re really going to kick her while she’s down?” I just stared at him. What he was saying had nothing to do with what I actually said. But I wasn’t surprised. Because this kind of thing had happened a hundred times. Back when she was still “Willa Sutton” — same exact game. First time Sean took me to meet his parents, she sat next to me at dinner. Smiling. Piling food on my plate. All shellfish. All peanuts. Everything she knew I was allergic to. I didn’t want to make a scene. I forced down a few bites. Left half a plate. After dinner, I pulled her aside. Told her quietly — I’m allergic. I’m sorry. She smiled. Said she understood. Then she went and cried to Sean. Said I’d thrown out her food. Said I thought I was too good for it. A few months later, the three of us went out to eat. She draped herself across Sean’s arm. Begged him to peel her shrimp. Feed her like a baby. The waitress smiled. “You two are such a cute couple.” I put down my fork. “They’re siblings.” Next day Sean was at my door again. “She cried for hours last night. You were so quick to shut that waitress down. Do you not like her?” … It went on like that for years. I stopped explaining. I just let my actions speak. Let him see it on his own — that I wasn’t whatever villain his oversensitive sister kept painting me as. And now — they aren’t even brother and sister anymore. And here comes the same interrogation again. I wanted to explain. But then I looked at his face — that “why are you like this again” look — and suddenly I didn’t want to say a word. Does he really not know what kind of people my parents are? Does he really not know why I told Willa to leave? He knows. He just doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what I think. These past two years, I’ve seen Willa in a thin nightgown, curled up in bed with Sean, reading. I’ve seen him hold her in his arms and wipe her tears. Every time, I wanted to lose my mind. Every time, I told myself: just wait. Wait until they’re each married off. Then it’ll be fine. Then the night before the wedding, he sat me down and calmly asked if he could marry her instead. That’s when I finally got it. It would never be fine. Not even after the wedding. My hand drifts to my stomach. This. This is the only person in the world whose heartbeat is mine. I was hit, screamed at, starved growing up. I didn’t have a choice. This baby does. I won’t let it grow up the way I did. Picked over. Weighed. Ranked. Ready to be thrown out when something better comes along. When it was just me, I could swallow anything. The bloodsucker family. The boyfriend with no boundaries. The fake sister-in-law gunning for me. But not with this baby. Not anymore. My phone buzzes. Reminder: Your flight departs at 9:45 PM tonight. I stand up. Reach for my bag. Mom’s face changes. “Where do you think you’re going? I already told you — you’re not coming to the reception.” I haven’t even opened my mouth, and she’s already writing the script. “Can’t even hold on to your own man, and now you want to crash your sister’s wedding? Give it up. They were childhood sweethearts. Turns out they’re not even blood-related. What part of that has anything to do with you?” “I wasn’t planning to go,” I cut in. She freezes. She doesn’t believe me. Stares at me for a long minute. Something weird flickers across her face. “Huh. Sean was right about you after all.”

She clicks her tongue. “He called us this morning. Said you’re stubborn. Said to keep an eye on you. Said he was scared you’d do something dumb.” She grabs my wrist. “Come on. You’re coming with us.” I stumble. “I said I’m not going.” “Not going?” She snorts. “Leave you here alone? Yeah, right. The second we leave, you’ll be over there making a scene. Then we look like fools. Nope. You’re coming where I can see you.” She shoves me toward the door. … The reception is at the Sutton Hotel. The ceremony was earlier this afternoon. Garden venue. White chairs on the lawn. Rose arch. The officiant pronounced them husband and wife at four sharp. I wasn’t there. I told them I’d meet everyone at the reception. I’m sandwiched between Mom and Dad at the family table. The lights dim. A spotlight hits the dance floor. The DJ’s voice comes over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen — please welcome, for their very first dance as husband and wife — Mr. and Mrs. Sean Sutton.” The room erupts. Sean leads Willa onto the floor. She’s still in her white gown. He’s loosened his tie just enough to look effortless. Practiced. The first notes of their song drift out. Slow. Sweet. He pulls her in. She tilts her face up at him, eyes crinkled with laughter. He reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Someone in the crowd whoops. “Kiss her, man!” He laughs. Bends. Kisses her forehead. Mom leans into my ear. “Look how perfect they are together. Let it go.” I don’t say anything. She’s right. They look perfect. When I first told her I was dating the Sean Sutton, she said the exact same thing about us. The song ends. The applause swells. The best man steps up to the mic. Champagne flute in hand. He’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Most of you in this room have known these two since they were kids. Sean and Willa , sandbox to altar.” The room awwws. “I’ve watched my boy chase her around since they were six years old. I’ve watched him fight off every guy who ever looked at her sideways. And tonight — finally — he gets to call her his wife.” He raises the flute. “To the long road home. To the love that survived every storm. To Sean and Willa.” The room raises every glass in the house. I tilt my head down. Bite back something between a smile and a wince. Sandbox to altar. Sure. The storm their love had to survive — that would be me. I look around the ballroom. The warm gold uplighting. My pick. The peonies on every table. My pick. The playlist drifting under the speeches. I built it song by song. Every wedding favor at every place setting — I wrapped them myself. I planned the whole thing with my own two hands. Then I handed it over so he could marry someone else. You know what? It’s fine. It’s actually fine. I ended it all with my own hands. My phone buzzes in my clutch. The screen lights up. 9:45 PM. Flight to — I look at that line. My mouth moves. Not a smile. Just — the pain stops. My hand drifts down to my stomach. Soon I’ll have someone with my blood. A real career on the other side of the world. Something solid under my feet. I switch off the screen. Stand up. Head for the doors.

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Cole climbed up from the foot of my bed, caught my ankle, and pressed his lips to my calf. His collar hung open under the moonlight. “You saved my life, Evelyn,” he said softly. “So tonight, let me serve you.” Just as his kiss moved higher, footsteps sounded in the corridor. My heart jumped. I kicked him off the bed. “Go. Now.” Cole hit the floor and looked up at me, resentful and unwilling. I shoved him toward the window. He gave me one last bitter look, then disappeared into the night. The next second, the door was kicked open. Damon stood outside, eyes bloodshot. His gaze swept over my loose robe, the open window, and the messy bed. Then his face darkened. “Who is he?” I pulled the blanket over myself and smiled. “In what identity are you asking?” “As my brother-in-law, Rowan, or as my dead husband, Damon?” Damon’s eyes went darker. …… I was the human girl Luna Maren brought back to Nightfall Pack. When I turned eighteen, the Luna who loved matchmaking married me to Damon Blackthorne, Nightfall’s strongest warrior. After the ceremony, Luna Maren and the old Alpha left Nightfall to travel, while Damon became the new Alpha. But I did not become his Luna. Because Damon never gave me his mark. He said my human body was too weak for an Alpha’s bite. I believed him. So I was his mate in name only. A year and a half after our mating ceremony, rogues invaded the northern border. Damon led Nightfall’s warriors to drive them back. But he had died in that war. Then his younger twin brother, Rowan Blackthorne, though I had never met him, stood before me with Damon’s Alpha badge in his hand and red-rimmed eyes. “Evelyn, I’m sorry… I failed to bring my brother home whole. Curse me, hit me. I’ll take it.” I breathed in once. Pine, smoke, and cold rain. I knew Damon’s scent by heart. I was very sure the man standing before me was my dead husband. But since he had chosen to die as Damon and live as Rowan, fine. From that day on, he was only Rowan to me. After that, he became the new Alpha of Nightfall Pack. I moved to the Moon temple, far from the Alpha estate. But after thinking about it, being rich, free, and widowed did not sound terrible. In those two years, he took his childhood sweetheart as his mate and Luna. And I lived in the Moon temple for two full years. Out of sight, out of mind. Everyone was happy. Until I got tired of playing outside and returned to the Alpha estate. The moment I stepped into the main hall, Damon sat in the chair, staring at me with a face dark enough to summon a storm. His voice was ice-cold. “Evelyn, impressive. You haven’t even returned home, and another man’s bonding gifts arrived before you.” My gaze swept over the boxes piled across the hall. Silks. Jewelry. Rare herbs. A chest of perfect moon pearls. I suddenly remembered the poor rogue I had left behind, baring his teeth as he growled. “You touch me and run, Evelyn? Let’s see where you hide.” Wasn’t it supposed to be a one-night stand? Why did he come all the way to my home? I rubbed my cheek, not knowing what to say. Damon sat above me, his face black as burnt coal. He gripped his teacup for a long while before forcing out a sentence through his teeth. “Don’t you owe me an explanation?” I turned to look at him, perfectly calm. A “brother-in-law” had no right to control me. I leaned back in my chair, picked up the tea, and took a slow sip. “Pack law never said a widow couldn’t accept bonding gifts.” “You!” Damon shot to his feet. When he met my calm eyes, he took a deep breath, but the fist at his side clenched even tighter. I blinked. Well. Still such a temper. He said word by word, “The Blackthorne family has no precedent for a widow taking another mate.” I laughed. Then I said slowly, “Then I’ll be the precedent.” “Someone has to be the first, don’t they?” “And.” The teacup in my hand landed on the table with a soft click. “Damon never marked me, and he is dead.” “You are only his brother. Who are you to control me?” “I’m a twenty-year-old widow.” “Am I supposed to guard a dead male for the rest of my life?” “Evelyn Hart!” He slammed the table. I slammed the table too, stood up, pointed at him, and spoke clearly. “After your brother died, the Pack did not fall apart, the border stayed stable, and the Council remained at peace.” “So in the end, only I, the supposed victim, should live like a corpse?” Damon’s jaw locked, and a vein pulsed hard in his neck. His fists cracked with tension. But he could not explode. He could only swallow his rage. Looking at his miserable expression, I felt extremely pleased. When he faked his death, he should have known this would happen. Why did he think I would guard him forever? Why did he think I would waste my youth until my hair turned white? He was far too arrogant. “Enough.” I brushed my skirt and spoke with perfect grace. “Since the Blackthorne family can’t tolerate me, I’ll return to my own home. Anyway—” I deliberately paused and gave him a bright smile. “My mate is dead.” “I have no pup.” “Nothing ties me here.” After that, I turned to leave. Before I could take one step, my wrist tightened. The world spun, and he dragged me straight into his arms. The moment my back hit his chest, I smelled that familiar scent again. Pine, smoke, and cold rain. The scent that belonged only to Damon Blackthorne. Still the same scent from back then. But the man in front of me had changed his identity and become my husband’s younger brother. “Evelyn.” He lowered his head and stared at me, his voice pressed very low. “Don’t push me too far.” His arm locked around me like an iron band. I could not break free. “Too far?” I laughed. “Rowan, what identity are you using to say that to me?” His body went stiff. His eyes began to dodge mine. “You are my brother-in-law.” “Whether I choose another mate has nothing to do with you.” His breathing grew rough. His throat moved. His mouth pressed into a hard line. Fury swept through his eyes. He closed his eyes. As if the truth would spill out in the next second. Just then, a sweet, delicate voice sounded outside the door. “Darling, I heard Evelyn came home?” —

Damon let go as if my skin had burned him. I stumbled one step, steadied myself, and brushed my sleeve with open disgust. Tsk. That guilty look on his face was hard to watch. Serena Vale lifted the curtain and walked in with a sweet smile. “Evelyn, we haven’t seen each other for two years. You look well.” I looked up and smiled back. “Compared to you, I do look much better.” After that, I ignored Serena’s stiff face and walked out. I went down the path and reached the courtyard I had not lived in for two years. The white oak wreath from our oath ceremony was still on the door. A black mourning garland covered most of it. Behind that locked door was the room where Damon and I had spent our first night. Old things made people remember old nonsense. I did not remember much from the night of our ceremony. I only remembered Damon lowering his head to kiss me. His breath was hot. His hand stopped at the side of my neck. For one moment, I thought he would bite me. But he stopped. “Evelyn,” he said, voice low, “you are human.” “An Alpha’s mark could hurt you.” I did not understand what a mark truly meant back then. To me, it was just a bite. Painful. Dangerous. Maybe even deadly. So when he pulled back, I believed him. I even thought he was being gentle. That night, he still held me. He still kissed me. He still slept beside me until dawn. I thought that was enough. That year, Damon treated me well. When I wanted to visit the human town, he took me there. When I said I wanted honey cakes from the human market, he bought them. When the pack ladies mocked my human blood, he told them to mind their tongues. For a while, I thought this life was not bad. Until Serena Vale came back. She was Damon’s childhood sweetheart. A pure-blooded she-wolf. The kind of woman every elder wanted as Luna. Only then did I begin to understand. Damon had not refused to mark me because he feared hurting me. He had only saved that mark for the right she-wolf. At first, Serena did not dare go too far. She had just arrived and was living under someone else’s roof. So she had to pretend to be soft and harmless. Three days after she arrived, she called Damon away in front of me. That day, Damon finally had a free afternoon and stayed with me in the garden. He picked a gardenia and tried to pin it into my hair. He tried for a while, but only pulled my hair loose. I was laughing and calling him clumsy when Serena’s maid came. “Alpha Damon, Lady Serena’s wolf is unstable.” “She says only your scent can calm her.” After speaking, the maid knelt hard on the ground. Her voice was full of tears. I looked up at Damon. His hand paused. He looked at me with difficulty. I said nothing. I only took the gardenia from his hand and held it between my fingers. “What do you think?” I smiled and looked at him. He hesitated for a moment. “Evelyn, I’ll be right back.” Watching him leave, I tossed the gardenia into the pond. The fish tore the petals apart. My maid Nora spoke up for me. “Miss, Lady Serena is not as harmless as she looks.” I clicked my tongue. “She cast the line. Damon likes biting the hook.” “Who can stop him?” “Let’s go back. This is boring.” I turned and walked toward my room. Damon was gone for two hours. When he came back, the sky was already dark. He held my hand and explained. “Evelyn, I only went because of our childhood bond.” “Don’t think too much.” “There was nothing between us before.” “In this life, I care for you most.” After saying that, he bent down and kissed my forehead. I raised my hand and pushed him away. Then I asked with a smile, “What if Serena’s wolf becomes unstable every time she wants you?” He held my hand at once and spoke solemnly. “How could that happen?” “Next time, I will refuse her.” He lowered the bed curtain and pressed me beneath him. The next day, Damon and I had lunch together. For the first time, he only ate a few bites before saying he was full. Then he went to the study. After he left, Nora pouted and muttered under her breath. “Of course he’s full.” “If I had drunk a whole bowl of sweet soup and eaten six cakes before lunch, I wouldn’t be hungry either.”

After asking around, I learned Serena had sent lunch to Damon’s study before our meal. She said it was to thank him for saving her yesterday. I stirred my soup once and said calmly, “From now on, don’t prepare Damon’s lunch.” “It only wastes food.” Nora covered her mouth and went to pass the order. Yesterday’s promise had been swallowed with today’s soup. A man’s words were only meant to be heard. Not believed. Maybe pretending her wolf was unstable had become too boring. Soon, Serena started sending cakes to Damon’s study and asking him about Pack history. Tsk. What special insight could a border-trained Alpha Heir have about history? The next time Serena came, Damon had me trapped in his arms, teaching me werewolf customs. Serena wore a white dress and carried a food box. She looked at us and stopped. After two breaths, she bit her lip and said, “If Evelyn is here, I won’t disturb the Alpha Damon.” She lowered her head, showing a pale stretch of neck. So soft. So pitiful. Just as she was about to leave, pity flashed through Damon’s eyes. In the end, he spoke before she left. “Serena, did you make cakes again?” “I happen to be hungry.” When he said that, his eyes drifted toward me. I put down the pen in my hand. Then I sat steadily in the chair and watched Damon walk toward Serena. The two of them looked more like a matched pair. At that moment, I suddenly felt tired. I could not keep pretending this was a real marriage. I propped my chin on my hand and watched them eat and laugh as if no one else was there. Serena looked at me with a smile. The moment she met my eyes, she became timid. “ Evelyn, are you upset?” “I won’t bring cakes to the Alpha Damon anymore.” “Please don’t chase me away.” Then she dropped to her knees. Damon frowned slightly. Before he could speak, I stood and helped Serena up. “Why would I be angry?” “If someone so clever and thoughtful can help me care for the Alpha Damon, I should be happy.” Serena stood up and looked at me with suspicion. Only Damon’s face turned ugly. As if he had choked on one of her cakes. That night, he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Evelyn Hart,” he said through his teeth. “You are generous.” I turned and gently pushed him away. “She is your old friend.” “I should make her feel at home, shouldn’t I?” The hand on my waist suddenly tightened. It hurt enough that I let out a small sound. I felt the change in his body. I pushed him away again and said sincerely, “ I don’t feel well tonight.” “Let’s sleep early.” Then I turned away and closed my eyes. A moment later, I heard him kick the blanket in anger. After that, Serena stopped sending cakes to Damon’s study. She found a new trick. That night, my dress had just slipped from my shoulders when a maid’s voice sounded outside. “Alpha Damon, Lady Serena is trapped in a nightmare.” “Your Alpha aura can drive away the fear.” “Please save our lady.” Damon froze above me. He could neither move forward nor pull back. I pulled the blanket over myself and said lightly, “Since your dear Serena needs you so badly, why not go heal her?” The moment I finished, his bright eyes stared at me in the dark. The next second, he lifted my chin. “I never knew my wife was so understanding.” “So eager to push me into another woman’s room?” Then his kisses came down hard. That night, Serena’s plan failed for the first time. But the next day, she came to me with a sweet smile. In her hand was a pendant. She lifted it in front of my eyes. “Evelyn, do you recognize this?”

Of course, I recognized it. It was the bonding pendant Luna Maren left for me and Damon. A pair of carved blackwood pendants. One for him. One for me. No wonder I had not seen Damon wear it lately. So he had given it to someone else. Serena smiled. “I only said it looked beautiful.” “Alpha Damon took it off and let me play with it.” “I heard it belonged to your ceremony.” “Does it look familiar?” I looked at her face. Then I looked at the pride in her eyes. Without warning, I slapped her. Serena screamed and stumbled back, clutching her face. “Evelyn Hart! You hit me?” I sneered. “Yes. I hit you.” “What are you, to touch something Luna Maren gave me?” “Nora,” I said coldly. “Hit her.” Nora had been waiting for this. She grabbed Serena and slapped her hard from both sides. Serena cried at once. Her sobs sounded heartbreaking. “Stop!” Damon rushed in. He had not even changed out of his patrol uniform. He shoved Nora away. Serena immediately fell into his arms, crying like she had been wronged by the whole world. “Damon… Evelyn hit me…” “I shouldn’t have stayed in this Pack.” “I should have died outside.” Damon looked down at her. Then he looked up at me. I still remembered that look. Disgust. Anger. And something I could not name. “Why did you hit her?” His face was cold. “Serena has always been gentle. Why do you keep bullying her?” His Alpha aura bore down on me. But I was not afraid. I had done nothing wrong. Why should I be afraid? I threw the pendant to the ground. The blackwood split in two. “I need your permission to hit her?” “Then did she ask your permission before acting cheap?” I stared at him and lifted my chin. His eyes fell on the broken pendant. His pupils shook. “Rowan, it hurts…” Serena whimpered in his arms. The guilt in his eyes disappeared. He pressed his lips together and avoided my gaze. “Confine Evelyn to the old east wing.” “Without my permission, she is not allowed to leave.” I laughed. Great. Locked up again. It was not the first time. At least I had books, tea, and servants there. Better than watching the two of them act like lovers in front of me. On the fourth night of confinement, Damon came. He smelled of alcohol. He stood beside my bed. “Evelyn.” I turned over and gave him my back. He stayed silent for a while. Then he lay down and hugged me from behind. “Don’t be angry.” His voice was low. “It was my fault.” I did not move. “I’ll give you the new goods from the human market.” His chin rested on my shoulder. “Stop being angry. It’s bad for your health.” “But that day, you did go too far—” I pushed his hand away and cut him off. “I’m tired.” “Sleep.” He went stiff. After a long while, he said, “Fine.” But the next day, the things from the human market never reached me. Damon sent them all to Serena’s room. I heard she rewarded the healer. Rewarded the maids. Rewarded the old servants. And Damon personally placed my favorite coral hairpin in Serena’s hair. All because he was happy to become a father. Serena was pregnant. When Damon came to me that night, he stood in the courtyard, unable to speak. “Evelyn.” “Serena…” “She is carrying my pup.” I sat on the chaise with my eyes closed. I did not look at him. After two breaths, I said calmly, “You already got her pregnant.” “What else can you do?” His voice turned hoarse. “Is that all you have to say?” “What else?” I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Do you want me to go mad?” “Or drag Serena to the river and drown her?” He stared at me for a long time. So long, I thought he had nothing else to say. Then he spoke with rage. “Good.” “Very good.” “Evelyn Hart, you will regret this.” Then he turned and left. Regret? I stood at the door and watched him go. I almost laughed. Until one month later. Alpha Damon died in battle. No body was found. I stood in the mourning hall and looked at his memorial badge. Then I finally understood what he meant. “You will regret this.” So this was how he wanted me to regret it? What kind of twisted method was that? After I understood, I knelt at once and cried until my voice broke. Was that punishment? That was clearly a reward. I knelt in the mourning hall for three days. By the end, the whole Pack was saying Damon’s human wife loved him deeply. On the fourth day, I packed my things and moved to the Moon temple outside Pack territory. I stayed there for two years. I ate well. Slept well. Visited the human town when I was bored. Listened to music in the human town. Life was very comfortable. When a person has money and free time, she needs a little excitement. So I saved a dying rogue named Cole by the roadside. And began my second spring. That night, I lay in bed and thought of the bonding gifts in the hall. I almost laughed. Then the window made a sound. A shadow slipped inside and landed lightly on the floor. He straightened. Moonlight fell across his face. It was Cole. Wasn’t he just a poor rogue? How did a rogue get past Nightfall Pack’s patrols?

Cole wore a black shirt, the collar slightly open. His collar hung open, showing a hard line of chest muscle under the moonlight. He smiled at me. That smile looked far too dangerous for a poor rogue. “Evelyn,” he said softly. “Did you miss me?” I raised an eyebrow. This was new. He reached out and hooked a finger under my chin. “Evelyn.” His eyes curved slightly. “You really are heartless.” “You used me and threw me away.” “Did I fail to please you?” He leaned down until his lips almost touched mine. His breath brushed my face. I pressed a hand against his chest and smiled. “Have you been training in a fox den?” Before I could finish, he kissed me. Fast and hard. I struggled once. He did not let go. Instead, he pushed me down onto the bed. One hand supported the back of my head. His kiss went deep and fierce, as if he wanted to swallow me whole. In the end, I bit his lip. Cole gave a low laugh and pulled back a little. “Evelyn, you bite.” I glared at him, still catching my breath. “You started it.” He laughed again. The sound came from deep in his chest and made my heartbeat stumble. Then he leaned down again. His lips moved lower. Just then, the door was kicked open. Cole paused. Then he laughed softly. “What a mood killer.” His voice brushed my ear. “I’ll come back next time.” The moment he finished, he moved to the window and disappeared into the night. I sat up on the bed and looked at the man standing at the door. Damon stood there, covered in rage. He walked toward me step by step. His eyes were bloodshot. “Who was he?” His voice was rough. He looked like he wanted to tear someone apart. I only smiled at him. I said nothing. He stopped in front of me. Then his hand shot out and closed around my throat. His anger had finally broken through his reason. “I asked you who he was.” I could barely breathe. My vision started to darken. But somehow, I laughed. “You… have no right to ask.” “Rowan.” I said the last word very lightly. His eyes turned redder. His fingers tightened. “Whore.” “Go to hell.” I pulled the hairpin from my hair without thinking. Then I stabbed him. He hissed in pain and let go. The hairpin sank into his shoulder. Blood spread through his shirt. He looked down at the wound. Then he looked back at me. “You knew I would never truly hurt you.” “And you still stabbed me.” He pressed a hand to his chest. His eyes were full of disbelief. I held my throat and gasped for air. Tears fell from the corners of my eyes because I had nearly choked. When he saw my face, his rage seemed to shrink. He dropped to one knee before me. His lips trembled. “Evelyn…” “I am Damon.” “I’m not dead.” “I won’t allow you to choose another male.” “You can only be my wife.” After saying that, he pulled the hairpin from his shoulder without changing expression. Then he raised his hand and slid it back into my hair. I looked at him for a long moment. Then I laughed softly. “What nonsense.” “My husband died two years ago.” “Rowan, you already have your own woman.” “Don’t say such ridiculous things again.” He froze. “You should leave.” “If anyone sees a brother-in-law in his widowed sister-in-law’s room at night, it won’t look good.” After a long silence, he said, “Evelyn—” “I told you to leave.” “Get out!” Why should he get to die when he wanted? Why should he come back when he wanted? I refused to recognize him. I, Evelyn Hart, was never easy to fool.

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A brutal rape-murder had rocked the city. As the crime scene doctor, I followed protocol, checking the victim’s genital area for evidence—while my wife, Captain Sophia Brightwell, head of Major Crimes, publicly tore into me. “Are there no female medical examiners left? Don’t you realize this violates the victim—inflicts secondary trauma?” Her voice cut through the crowd: “And your wife is standing right here. Are you really that shameless?” Within hours, I became public enemy number one. The department suspended me and demanded fines to keep working. I resigned on the spot. Without me, no one in Clearwater City could solve this case. “Ethan Chase, you’ve destroyed our year-end evaluation! The media’s outside demanding your head!” Chief Morrison slammed his fist on the desk, face red with rage. Outside, protesters held signs: “FIRE ETHAN CHASE,” “PERVERT IN A LAB COAT,” “NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE.” Online was worse. Thousands demanding I lose my license and go to prison. I kept my voice level. “Chief Morrison, I followed every protocol. The victim had severe genital injuries—immediate documentation was legally mandatory—” The door flew open. Sophia strode in, timing perfect. “Chief, the crowd’s out of control. We need a disciplinary statement now, or this becomes a full PR crisis.” She turned to me, eyes cold as ice. “Still think you did nothing wrong? Marrying you is the biggest mistake of my life.” I’d followed procedure. Every. Single. Step. She weaponized the public’s ignorance—deliberately destroying my career during a routine examination. Sophia slid a proposal across the Chief’s desk. “I recommend demotion to auxiliary staff, plus a two-thousand-dollar monthly fine for twelve months. Minimum to restore public confidence.” She held up a press release. “I’ve drafted the statement. Give the word.” Chief Morrison signed without reading. Done. Sophia’s lips curled. “Oh, and given the current… sensitivity, I’m transferring you where you can’t cause harm.” She tossed a security guard uniform at my feet. “Patrol outside the morgue. If anything goes wrong inside, you’re accountable.” She snapped her fingers. Her team swarmed my office, dumping everything into the hallway. My files. My credentials. Even the autopsy report I’d just completed—thrown in the trash. I pulled it out and smoothed the pages. “Listen carefully, Sophia. Without me, this case will never be solved.” “Back me into a corner, and you’ll regret.” She scoffed, but I saw the flicker of doubt. She should doubt. During my examination, I’d discovered something critical—the injury patterns were identical to an unsolved case from six months ago. This wasn’t random violence. This was a serial killer. And the previous evidence—body, specimens, autopsy report—had all burned in the evidence room fire last winter. Gone. Cremated. Ash. That analysis existed in one place now: my memory. I opened my mouth to warn them. But the station entrance erupted in noise. A man entered like royalty, surrounded by bureaucrats shaking his hand. Sophia transformed instantly. Her cold mask shattered. She rushed forward, looping her arm through his. “Adrian! Thank God. The Chief’s been asking about you all morning.” I finally understood why Sarah publicly accused me of being a pervert during the examination and gotten me demoted. Sophia destroyed a legitimate examination and torpedoed my career. All to clear a path for him. Adrian Kade’s eyes found mine. His smile was poison. “Ethan Chase. Long time.” He savored each word. “Thanks for keeping Sophia company these past years. Must have been… difficult.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “But I’m back now. Everything reverts to its natural order. The Chief ME position? Mine. Sophia?” His hand settled on her back. “Also mine. She always was.”

Adrian Kade was Sophia’s first love. For five years of marriage, his name had been the unspoken taboo between us. I’d convinced myself she’d moved on. I was wrong. Monday’s department meeting was a coronation ceremony in disguise. Chief Morrison smiled proudly. “Dr. Adrian Kade comes to us with a PhD from Cambridge, twelve years specializing in forensic pathology abroad. His expertise will be a tremendous asset to this department!” He shot me a withering glare. “Unlike some people who showboat their amateur skills and drag our reputation through the mud.” Sophia clutched Adrian’s hand, her smile radiant. “Chief, Adrian would never engage in such unethical behavior. His integrity is beyond question—everyone who knows him can attest to that.” They looked like the perfect power couple. Meanwhile, I stood outside the conference room in a security guard uniform, invisible. Adrian’s eyes found mine through the glass. He gathered a stack of old case files and stepped outside, dumping them at my feet with theatrical disdain. “Take me to see the body. Allow me to give you a lesson in actual forensic work. I don’t even need to examine the victim to profile the killer.” The arrogance was suffocating. Under Sophia’s threatening glare, I forced a cold smile and gestured toward the morgue. “By all means. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Inside the autopsy suite, Adrian circled the victim’s body twice. Based on two scratch marks, he launched into an elaborate theory about the perpetrator’s MO. My former colleagues and I exchanged knowing looks. As Sophia heaped praise on his “brilliance,” my assistant finally snapped. “Captain Brightwell, with all due respect, this is complete speculation. There’s no way to determine a profile without a proper examination—” “And Dr. Chase mentioned this case might be connected to the unsolved murder six months—” Sophia cut her off with an icy stare. “Dr. Kade has an internationally recognized PhD from Cambridge. What does Ethan have? A degree from some no-name state school?” She turned to me with contempt. “If the Chief and I hadn’t vouched for you back then, you’d have been fired for credential fraud years ago.” My education couldn’t compete with Adrian’s pedigree—that much was true. But I’d joined the force straight out of undergrad and worked my way up through real cases. I had more street experience than these academic types. My lack of advanced degrees was a minor weakness at best. It didn’t define my capabilities. I smiled without humor. “A fancy diploma doesn’t replace actual forensic experience. Everything he just said is textbook theory with zero grounding in reality.” I met Sophia’s eyes, my voice steady and final. “If you’re going to stake your career on covering for him, then let’s get divorced.” We’d threatened divorce before—plenty of times. But every time I saw Sophia in action, saw her dedication to justice, I’d fallen for her all over again. Her integrity had been the foundation of everything I loved about her. But now? That foundation had crumbled to dust. She’d handled hundreds of cases. She knew better than anyone how unreliable injury-pattern profiling could be without a full autopsy. Yet she was betting everything on Adrian’s reckless guesswork. Sophia’s jaw tightened. “Are you threatening me? What makes you think our marriage gives you any leverage over me whatsoever?” Adrian laughed, low and mocking. “Feeling insecure now that I’ve taken your job? Is this some pathetic attempt to reassert your masculinity?” He leaned in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Just admit you’re jealous, Ethan. Stop whining like a scorned housewife. Whether my assessment is valid or not—that’s for the Chief to decide, not some washed-up rent-a-cop.” Sophia didn’t say a word in my defense. Her eyes held nothing but disdain—as if she’d already decided I was exactly what Adrian described: a bitter, incompetent fraud. I smiled, finally seeing her clearly. “I’ll say it one last time. If you’re going to protect him, we’re done.” Sophia’s response was immediate, her voice sharp as a guillotine. “Fine. Let’s get divorced. Adrian’s back now—I don’t need you anymore.”

Sophia worked around the clock closing cases under Adrian’s name. I delivered the divorce papers. She signed without reading. “Finally. Now I can focus on what actually matters.” After filing at the courthouse, I went to submit my resignation. Before I reached the Chief’s office, another family burst in with a body. The victim’s position, the ligature marks—identical to the previous case. I stepped forward. “I need to examine—” Adrian grabbed my wrist and shoved it away. “Keep your filthy hands off her.” He turned to the family. “This man is the predator from the news—the one who violated a deceased woman. He’s been demoted to security.” The mother lunged at me. “You monster! You just wanted to violate my daughter!” “Get away from her!” Adrian placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am, I’ll personally handle your daughter’s case with respect. Unlike certain people, I value the deceased.” The father spat at my feet. I turned toward the exit. “Ethan! Where do you think you’re going?” Sophia strode through with her team. “Adrian is going to performing a critical autopsy. You assist him. Hand instruments. Sterilize equipment.” She stepped closer. “I didn’t demote you to collect a paycheck doing nothing.” Adrian lifted his leg, letting a smear of dirt mar the toe of his shoe. “Actually, Ethan, start by cleaning these.” He gestured dismissively. “And bring two basins of sterile water. You remember basic protocol, right?” The officers snickered. I smiled. “Sure. I’ll clean them.” I grabbed a filthy mop rag from the janitor’s closet and shoved it into Adrian’s mouth. Then I punched him twice. Heard his jaw crack. “YOU PSYCHO! STOP!” CLICK. Sophia had her gun drawn, aimed at my head. “Adrian gave you a direct order. You assaulted him. That’s attacking a police consultant.” Her finger rested on the trigger. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t shoot.” Ice flooded my veins. Last year, when I was taken hostage, she’d told the suspects: “Shoot him if you want. One medical examiner is expendable. But fire, and you lose all leverage.” Now she’d drawn her weapon at me because of Adrian I slowly raised my hands and crouched down. Cleaned his shoes. He ground his heel into my hand until skin peeled away. “Know your place.” Two hours later, Adrian emerged from the morgue. The victim’s family waited anxiously in the lobby. Adrian approached them, expression grave and professional. “I’ve completed my examination. I’m very sorry to tell you this, but all evidence points to suicide by asphyxiation. Your daughter took her own life.” The mother collapsed into her husband’s arms, sobbing. “No… no, she wouldn’t… she was happy…” Adrian placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Depression can be invisible. Sometimes the people we love hide their pain.” I stood by the door, fists clenched. Suicide. He’d ruled it suicide. Just like the last three cases. This was the fourth victim in eight months. Four young women, all found with identical ligature patterns, identical bruising depth, identical positioning. And this idiot had just ruled the fourth one suicide. The only person who knew the truth was me.

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My father handed the company to his goddaughter right in front of the Board. “After careful consideration by the Board of Directors, effective immediately, Olivia Moore will assume the position of CEO, with full responsibility for the company’s core operations.” I sat in the director’s chair, head snapping up in disbelief. “Dad, you’re joking, right?” Three years ago, when I graduated and came back, I wanted to lead a team at our family company. He shot me down with one vote, and made me start as an intern. “You’re my biological daughter. If I just parachute you into leadership, what will the senior staff think?” “When you earn it, when you climb up with real results, then I’ll have something to be proud of!” I believed him. From coffee runs to all-nighters on pitch decks, three years. I took the East Coast division—bleeding money, on the verge of shutdown—and turned it profitable. Last month, I closed the year as the top performer. And now he was handing the CEO position to his goddaughter, Olivia. No experience required. Dad averted his eyes, voice hard. “Leah, you’re too ambitious. Too aggressive. You need a few more years to be seasoned.” “Olivia’s got a sweet temperament, she won’t fight you for power. For the greater good of the company, let her take the CEO first.” I stared at Olivia’s smug, self-satisfied face, and my heart went ice-cold. “She can’t even read a spreadsheet. That’s your ‘greater good’?” “Mr. Chairman, you really know how to play favorites. Your own daughter gets treated like dirt, while your foster daughter can do no wrong!” Dad’s face went purple. I ripped off my ID badge and slammed it on the table. “Well, starting today, I won’t stand in the way of your ‘greater good.’ You can pretend you never had a daughter.” As I walked out of the boardroom, Olivia’s fake-worried voice floated after me. “Dad, is Leah upset? Maybe… maybe she should be CEO instead. I really don’t mind…” “Nonsense!” My father’s voice was steel. “This position is yours. No one’s taking it away.” “She’s spoiled rotten. The way she is now, if we don’t make her pay her dues, she’ll cause real damage later.” He was working himself up, chest heaving. “LEAH! Get your ass back in here!” I froze. Behind me, whispers. “Leah’s brought in how much revenue these three years? East Coast used to hemorrhage money, now it’s our most profitable division.” “Shh, keep it down. You see Marcus’s face? The Chairman’s playing favorites so hard it’s embarrassing.” “But she’s his biological daughter.” “So what? Olivia knows how to play the game. ‘Daddy this, Daddy that,’ took the Chairman golfing last week. What’s Leah done besides work the last three years?” I listened to them talk, fingers curling tight. Yeah. What had I done besides work? Dad’s birthday—I was out of state, closing a deal. Olivia was there. Mom in the hospital—I was building the bid proposal. Olivia brought soup every day. Company gala—I skipped it to hit a deadline. Olivia sang on stage, making my mother cry with emotion. It was decided back then, wasn’t it? “Leah, don’t be mad.” Olivia walked up, eyes flashing with triumph under that earnest expression. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I’ll learn. If you really can’t stand me, I honestly don’t have to take this position.” Her eyes actually welled up. Dad immediately melted, yanked Olivia behind him, jabbing a finger at me. “Look how mature Olivia is! And then look at you! You social climber! All you care about is power, you don’t give a damn about family!” “I’m ‘social climber’?” I laughed. My chest ached. “Dad, East Coast—three years in the red. I took over, turned a profit in year one. Doubled it in year two. Year three, it became a company pillar.” “And all I get is you calling me ‘social climber’.” “Olivia lost the RFP documents last year—I stayed up all night cleaning up her mess!” Olivia’s face went pale. She tugged at Dad’s sleeve. “Dad, Leah’s right. I really messed up that project. I’m sorry. I let you down.” “You have nothing to apologize for!” Dad was even angrier now, glaring at me. “Everyone makes mistakes! Olivia’s only twenty-five, you need to give her room to grow!” I looked at him and felt nothing but disappointment. “When I was twenty-five, you sent me to China alone to break into new markets. Told me not to come back unless I succeeded.” “How come with her, it’s suddenly ‘room to grow’?” The conference room fell silent. A few of the old-guard directors exchanged glances. Some shook their heads. Some sighed. The VP Marcus spoke up. “Leah, the Chairman must have his reasons for this decision.” “Olivia may lack experience, but she’s good with people and builds team cohesion. That matters too.” “Exactly, exactly.” One of Olivia’s cronies chimed in. “Leah’s capable, sure, but sometimes she’s too controlling. People under her have complaints.” Just as the tide was turning in Olivia’s favor, Tom from Marketing suddenly stood, voice loud. “I have a complaint!” Everyone turned to look. Tom—one of mine, I’d brought him up myself—face red, voice shaking. “Mr. Chairman, seventy-eight employees from the East Coast signed a petition.” “If Leah doesn’t become CEO, we’re all resigning.” He pulled a thick stack of papers from his folder and tossed them on the table. The signatures covered every page. Dad looked stunned. Olivia’s eyes darkened, but she quickly rearranged her face into innocence. “Tom, don’t do this. It’s all my fault.” “I shouldn’t have accepted Dad’s offer. Leah, please—talk him down. The company can’t lose these people.” “Shut up.” I looked at Olivia, tearing off her mask in front of everyone for the first time. “Who gave you permission to speak? What even are you?” Dad’s eyes went wide. “LEAH!”

“What, did I say something wrong?” I turned to my father. “Someone who only got her bachelor’s degree through your connections, who has assistants ghost-write her project reports—she’s going to run core operations?” “Dad, are you trying to destroy the company you spent thirty years building?” Dad was shaking with rage. He grabbed the cup next to him and hurled it at me. I didn’t dodge. It grazed my temple. Warm liquid ran down the side of my face—tea or blood, hard to tell. Everyone gasped. Olivia shrieked—and rushed to grab my father’s hand, fussing over him. “Dad! Are you okay? Does your hand hurt?” Like he’d just thrown a boulder, not a cup. I was standing there with blood running down my face, and my biological father didn’t even glance my way. He was too busy comforting Olivia. “Leah, you’re bleeding!” Olivia acted like she just noticed. “Let me call a doctor!” “Don’t touch me.” I stepped back, looking at her. Looking at him. So this was what it felt like when your heart died. Not anger. Not pain. Just… flat calm. I pulled out my ID card, dropped it on the floor, and turned to leave. “Leah! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Dad barked behind me. “Nothing.” I didn’t turn around. My voice was level. “Just realized something. I’m too ambitious, too aggressive. I really don’t belong in such a harmonious company.” I paused, glanced back at Olivia. Caught the flash of contempt in her eyes. “The CEO job? Give it to whoever you want.” I wiped the blood off my face, smirked. “From now on, enjoy doting on your goddaughter. See if she can take the company public.” I walked. My father’s voice thundered behind me. “Leah! If you walk out that door, don’t even think about coming back!” I didn’t look back. Employees in the hallway scattered. Their eyes went wide when they saw the blood. Whispers followed. “Leah got hit with a cup by the Chairman.” “Why? Her numbers are the best, aren’t they?” “Olivia’s the new CEO. Leah didn’t take it well.” “But that’s his daughter.” “Daughter? Who cares when Olivia’s so good at sucking up? She bought me coffee once when I was working late. Leah? All she does is work, work, work. If I were on the board, I’d pick Olivia too.” I glanced at her. She shrank like she wanted to disappear. I couldn’t help but laugh. Turns out ass-kissing beats actual results. The elevator doors opened. My boyfriend Jasper stepped out. Saw the wound on my forehead. Froze. “Leah, your head—” He was cut off by Olivia rushing up, face full of fake concern. “Leah, where are you going? Dad didn’t mean it, just go apologize, and everything will be fine.” She spotted Jasper, lit up. “Jasper? Oh, good, you’re here. Please talk some sense into her—she and Dad had a fight.” Jasper looked at me, then at Olivia. Hesitated. Then spoke to Olivia first. “What happened? Are you okay?” I stared at him in disbelief. My heart shattered. Olivia bit her lip and shook her head lightly. “I’m fine, Jasper… really.”

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The night before Regionals, my roommate announced she was going to the abandoned camp by the lake with Jax to blow off some steam. I spent twenty minutes telling her it was a bad idea. The access road flooded after rain. The docks were rotted through. There was no cell signal past the tree line. I pulled her back into the dorm room and kept her there. She made weigh-in the next morning. The team took first at Regionals. Two months later her Penn letter came in. Mine came too. Yale, full ride, cheer recruit. But at the senior banquet that summer, she and Jax drugged my drink and drove me out to that camp. They walked me down to the old waterfront and pushed me into one of the storage pits behind the boathouse. The ones that used to hold equipment. Deep enough that I couldn’t pull myself out. Chloe stood at the edge and looked down at me. “You had to get involved,” she said. “Jax missed his connect that night because of you. You know what that cost him?” She crouched at the rim. Pulled out her phone and took a photo of me down there. “This is going in the group chat. I’ll caption it later.” Then she stood up and dragged the wooden cover halfway over the top with her foot. “Have fun, Carter.” Jax kicked the rest of it shut. I was in there for three days. No signal. No one came. By the time someone found me, my heart had already stopped. That’s how I died. In the dark. Twenty feet from a working road. Then I opened my eyes and the dorm ceiling was over me again. The clock on my phone said the night before Regionals. This time, I put down my pen and went to my dresser. Bug spray. A box of condoms. I set them on the edge of her bed while she was spraying dry shampoo into her hair, already wearing the black lace top she saved for Jax’s parties. “Have fun,” I said. “Watch out for the splinters on the dock.” She wasn’t my problem anymore. Chloe picked up the condoms and dropped them into her bag without looking at me. She grabbed the bug spray, twisted the cap and ran it up her shins twice. “Thanks.” She slung the bag over her shoulder, cracked the door, listened, and slipped out into the hallway. I heard her sneakers go quiet down the hall and then the stairwell door swing shut. I waited a minute. Then I unlocked the door and left it on the latch. She could go wherever she wanted. I picked up my phone and texted her: “I’ll leave the door for you.” She replied in under a minute. “don’t wait up lol, back before you know~” I screenshotted it. Last time I hadn’t kept anything. This time I wasn’t leaving gaps. I set my competition bag, my warm-ups, and my taped wrists by the door and checked everything twice. Outside, the insects were loud. June ran thick and close in this part of Ohio, the kind of heat that sat in your throat at night. I turned off the light. All I could see was dirt. Handful after handful, filling my mouth, my nose, the inside of my eyelids. Chloe at the edge of the pit, looking down. Still smiling. Phone up. “Ellie,” she said. “You should have stayed out of it.” Then the cover came down. I sat up hard. The dorm ceiling was white and flat. The clock on my phone said 1:42 AM. I got up and drank some water. It was fine. This time, I wasn’t the one going into the pit. My alarm went off at six-thirty. I looked at her bed first. Untouched. Pillow still centered. The morning came through the open window smelling like cut grass and lake water. Chloe hadn’t come back. I already knew she wouldn’t. I washed my face, pulled my hair into a high pony, taped my wrists, got dressed, went downstairs and bought a coffee and a muffin from the cart outside the dining hall. The bus to Regionals was already loading. Parents holding signs. Coach Daniels by the door with her clipboard, hair still wet from the shower. My mom didn’t come. She was on shift at the warehouse and couldn’t get the day off. She’d called the night before. “I believe in you,” she said. “Just do your best out there.” I told her I would. The team was on the bus. I climbed up the steps. Twelve girls in matching warm-ups. The empty seat was three rows back. Chloe’s seat. Bag still there from yesterday’s practice. No Chloe. Coach Daniels was on her phone, walking up and down the aisle, the muscle in her jaw working. “Chloe Crawford?” Her voice came down the bus. No answer. “Has anyone heard from Chloe Crawford?” Nobody had. She circled something on her clipboard, checked her watch, and told the driver to go. The bus pulled out. I sat by the window with my hands folded in my lap. Last time my hands shook the whole bus ride. I missed two stunts in the first round. Lost my spot on the pyramid. Came home with nothing. This time, my hands were steady. You don’t get nervous about a competition after you’ve already died once. We hit the floor at noon. I nailed every stunt. We took the regional title and I got the recruit packet from the Yale coach’s assistant in the parking lot before we even got back on the bus. Got home that night. Ran into Coach Daniels in the parking lot. She had her phone jammed between her ear and her shoulder and her lanyard was twisted sideways. She grabbed my arm when she saw me. “Ellie. Have you heard from Chloe?” “No. She wasn’t in the room when I got up this morning.” “You didn’t see her last night?” “I saw her leave. I texted her to check in.” I handed her my phone. The thread was right there on the screen. She looked at it for a second and her mouth went flat. Then she went back to her call. I picked up my bag and walked toward the dorms. The sun was on the front steps and I squinted into it. Last time, Chloe was on that bus. She nailed her stunts. The team won. She got her Penn letter in the mail. And I, the one who had pulled her back and kept her there, ended up at the bottom of a pit six weeks later. The team had a celebration dinner at the country club the next night. Chloe wasn’t there. I was walking out the front of the club when I saw Jax’s truck at the curb. Black, lifted, exhaust the kind you could hear from the other end of the block. Everyone at school knew that truck. Chloe was in the passenger seat. Her face was swollen on one side. Red scratches up her neck and arms. Her hair was tangled and the strap on her lace top had snapped and been tied back together with a hair tie. Someone’s old hoodie was thrown over her shoulders. Jax cut the engine and said something to her. She climbed down from the cab and her legs almost went out when her feet hit the ground. She caught herself on the side mirror and stood there for a second, getting her balance. She looked up. She found me across the lot. Her eyes were swollen and red. “Ellie.” She said my name like she was pushing it through her back teeth. I didn’t move. “You,” she started. She took a step toward me and her knee buckled. She went down on the asphalt. A girl from the team moved to help her. Chloe shoved her off. “Why didn’t you call me?” Her voice came out loud. Loud enough that the parents waiting by the curb all turned around. I looked at her on the ground. Last time, I was the one looking up at her from a hole in the ground. “I texted you,” I said. “That’s bullshit.” “Your phone died.” Chloe pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket. The screen was black. She stared at it. Her shoulders started shaking, all the way down to her hands. Jax got out of the truck. He was taller than me by a head, close-cut hair, a small silver hoop in his left ear. Quarterback shoulders. Those were the same hands that had kicked the cover shut over the pit. I took half a step back. Not because I was scared. I just didn’t trust myself if he got too close. Jax looked at Chloe, then at me, his eyebrows pulling together. “What happened?” I didn’t answer him. I turned and walked away. Behind me, Chloe was crying. The sound mixed in with the parents and the car doors and got smaller as I went.

Coach Daniels called me into her office. Door closed. She sat. I stood. “Chloe says you encouraged her to go.” “No. She decided to leave on her own.” “She says you gave her condoms. To take with her.” I nodded. Coach Daniels’ mouth opened and closed. She took a while to find words. This was probably above her pay grade. “She’s also saying it was deliberate. That you let her go on purpose so she’d miss Regionals.” “Coach. She’s 18. She wanted to go see her boyfriend in the middle of the night. It wasn’t my job to tie her to the bed.” She was quiet for a long time. She opened her desk drawer and touched a pack of gum, then seemed to remember I was still there and pushed the drawer shut. “You know her mother called the school board.” “About what?” “Said the dorm should have stricter sign-out rules. Said you didn’t stop her.” “Chloe has her own key card. She can come and go whenever she wants. That’s not on me.” She went quiet again. “Okay. You can go. The school will handle it.” Chloe was waiting at the end of the hallway when I came out. She’d changed into clean clothes. The scratches on her face were covered in ointment, pink and white in patches. I walked past her. She grabbed my backpack strap. “Ellie. Did you do it on purpose.” I stopped and looked at her. I’d been looking at this face for three years. Locker neighbors freshman year. Roommates for two years after that. I used to spot her on her tumbling passes. I used to stay after practice and run her routine with her until she got it. Last time I did everything for her. She paid me back with three days in the dark. “What do you think, Chloe?” She stared at me. Her lips were shaking. “You look different.” “I’m not different. I just don’t want to look after you anymore.” I pulled my strap out of her hand and walked away. The weeks waiting for the rest of the recruiting calls were quiet. During the day I helped my mom sort inventory at the warehouse. At night I sat at the kitchen table and went through college brochures. Last time I played it safe and stayed in-state. This time I wanted out. The official Yale offer came through on a Thursday evening in July. Full athletic scholarship. Cheer recruit. Pre-med track if I wanted it. My mom came home from her shift and saw the screen and sat down on the kitchen floor and cried. She kept saying, “Your dad has to hear this, he has to hear this.” She called him right there. The construction site was loud. My dad’s voice came through the phone at full volume. “What does it say? Read it again.” “Full ride, Dad. Yale.” A few seconds of quiet on his end. Then he said something I hadn’t heard in eighteen years. “That’s my girl.” My eyes stung. I looked down at my bowl. At ten o’clock that same night, Chloe’s mom called.

It came through on speakerphone. My mom thought it was the warehouse calling and picked up without checking. Chloe’s mom’s voice hit the kitchen like something breaking. “Is this Karen? Your daughter cost mine her shot at Penn, do you understand that?” My mom flinched and nearly dropped the phone. “What? What happened?” “The night before Regionals your daughter handed mine condoms and sent her out the door. On purpose. To get her benched. You people owe us an explanation or I’m calling the school board.” My mom hung up and looked at me. Her face moved through surprised, confused, scared, all in a few seconds. “Ellie. What actually happened?” I put down my fork. “Her boyfriend invited her out the night before Regionals. She wanted to go. I couldn’t stop her.” “And the other thing?” “She was going to spend the night out there. I didn’t want her to be stupid about it.” My mom opened her mouth and closed it again and didn’t say anything else. She hadn’t finished high school, but she knew where the line was. The next morning Chloe’s mom pulled up in a silver SUV. We lived in a small house on the edge of town, one story with a front yard, the kind of fence you could see over from the sidewalk. I was washing dishes in the kitchen when she pushed through the gate. Floral dress, blow-dried hair, white heels that caught in the gap between paving stones the second she stepped in. She yanked her foot hard. The heel snapped off. That doubled her anger. “Ellie.” I looked up. Chloe was behind her, head down. The scratches on her face had mostly faded but there was a fresh scab at the corner of one eye. “Get your mother out here.” My mom came out of the house wiping her hands on a dish towel. Chloe’s mom didn’t wait. She got her finger in my mom’s face. “Do you have any idea what your daughter did. The night before Regionals she hands my daughter condoms and sends her out the door. So she’d miss the bus.” My mom stepped back. “Let’s just calm down for a second—” “Three years. Three years of 5 AM practices. Three years of summer camps and physical therapy bills. Penn was locked in. Locked in. And your daughter ruined it.” The neighbors across the street were already watching. Chloe’s mom turned the volume up another notch, making sure the whole block could hear. “Karen. I’m giving you two options. One, your daughter gives up her Yale spot. Two, you pay eighty thousand dollars. Recruit consultant, retake fees, emotional damages. Pick one.” My mom went white. Eighty thousand. My dad worked a full year at the construction site and barely cleared that. “Pick one.” Chloe’s mom stood in the middle of the yard with her hands on her hips, her foundation cracking in the heat. She reached over and grabbed something off the porch table. My acceptance letter. It had arrived two days ago. My mom had put it in a clear sleeve and set it in the center of the dining room table with a bowl of fruit next to it. She squeezed the sleeve and the plastic made a sound. “You don’t pay, I tear this up right now.” My mom moved. Fifteen years on a warehouse floor will do something to a woman’s hands. She grabbed Chloe’s mom by the wrist, knuckles white, yanked the letter out of those pink-polished nails, and held it behind her back. “Try it.” My mom’s voice was shaking but her hand wasn’t. She looked straight at the other woman. “My daughter earned this herself. Whatever happened with yours has nothing to do with us.” Chloe’s mom just stood there. Two red lines pressed into her wrist. She didn’t move. I walked over and put my hand on my mom’s shoulder. “Mom. I’ve got it.” I turned to face Chloe’s mom. “If you want to go to the school board, go. I have three copies of everything.” I took out my phone and opened a video. I turned the screen toward her. Chloe’s mom leaned in to look. Chloe’s face went still.

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“I’m sorry, Maeve,” my coach said. “But the final roster has been confirmed. There wasn’t a mistake.” I stood outside the office for almost five minutes, staring at the sheet taped to the board. My name was gone. Under the Skating Training Grant, where Maeve Sullivan should have been, was Lyla Voss instead. My first thought was that there was something wrong with the roster. Then I realized Silas did that. When I found him, he was leaning against his car, scrolling through his phone. He saw me but didn’t even straighten up. Just flicked the ash off his cigarette and squinted at me through the smoke. “Lyla’s family is broke,” he said, before I could even open my mouth. “If she doesn’t get the grant, she’s done.” “You’re strong. You can fight your way through Sectionals.” “That grant comes with a full ride to the Olympic Training Center,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. “You know what that means for me.” “You’ll figure it out.” I stared at him. He was looking everywhere except at my face. Then he sighed, reached into his wallet, and pulled out a black card. He held it out between two fingers like he was tipping a valet. “Fine. Look. I’ll cover your training. Coaches, ice time, gear — all of it. Consider it me buying the spot off you. Are we good now?” The rain started. I looked at the card in his hand. Then at his face. He used to tell me that as long as I trained hard, I could leave my terrible family. And realize my dream of competing in an international skating event. So to get better training, I practiced hard and worked part-time at the skating club in my spare time. But ironically, he was putting a price tag on my dream now. I turned around and started walking. His voice cut across the parking lot, flat and cold. “Are you serious now? You bust your knuckles in that club’s shop. You’ve been hustling for money your whole life.” “I’m handing you more than you’ll ever see, and you want to play noble?” I stopped and turned my head, just enough to see him through the rain. Many years of something I’d thought was untouchable. And it had rotted through all at once. I gave him a small smile. “Sure, Silas. Think whatever you want.” By the time I got back to the skating club’s shop, my phone was buzzing. Bree. “Maeve. Tell me I’m reading the roster wrong. Tell me Lyla’s name is not where yours should be.” “You’re reading it right.” “That’s Silas. That has to be Silas. Did you talk to him?” “I just came from him.” I leaned against the back counter, looking at the row of skates lined up for sharpening. My hands were still wet. “He offered to pay for the rest of my skating career. Said he was buying the spot off me.” The line went quiet for a long beat. “That entitled piece of shit,” Bree said finally. “Tell me you threw it back in his face.” “I walked away.” “Maeve, you have to fight this. That grant is yours. Do you have any idea what you went through to earn it? The all-night training, your dad — ” “It won’t do anything.” “What do you mean it won’t?” “His family, the Kensingtons, endowed the training grant, Bree. They built this rink. If they pull my name once, they’ll pull it again.” She was quiet again. “Oh, I saw Lyla’s Instagram story just now. Silas booked out the whole restaurant to celebrate her nomination. Maeve.” “Fine.” “Fine? That’s it?” “I have to go. Customer just walked in.” I hung up before she could say anything else.

The next morning, I went to the training center to file the Skating Sectionals paperwork. I was halfway down the corridor when I saw them. Silas with Lyla on his arm. Lyla spotted me first. She flinched and ducked behind his shoulder. “Silas, I’m scared.” He stepped in front of her like a wall. “Maeve. Don’t start.” I went to walk around him. He caught my wrist. “What is your problem? Lyla didn’t do anything to you. None of this was her call. Why do you have to make a scene?” I yanked my arm back. “Let me go.” People in the hall were starting to look. Lyla’s eyes filled up right on cue. She slipped out from behind Silas and took a step toward me. “Maeve. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. If you need to hit someone, hit me. I deserve it.” She came closer with her chin raised. Silas grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against his chest. “Look at her,” he said to me, low and furious. “Look at what you’re doing to her. I never thought you could be this cruel, Maeve.” The whispers started. “That’s her. The skating club’s part-time girl.” “Wait, isn’t she the one who lost the grant?” “Lost it to Lyla, yeah. Honestly, look at her face. Total ice queen. No wonder he got tired.” “Lyla’s literally an angel. I’d pick her too.” I didn’t look at any of them. I kept my eyes on Silas. “I said, let me go.” He didn’t move but shoved me. I stumbled back and hit the row of lockers behind me. My shoulder blades cracked against the metal. I stayed there for a second, my back against the lockers, looking up at him. He was looking right back at me. There was nothing in his face. No flicker. Nothing. We grew up together. He was ten when his family sent him out from New York. His first week in the town, he picked a fight with three older boys behind the rink and was getting his teeth kicked in when I came around the corner. I held up a sharpened blade in my hand. They ran. After that, he followed me everywhere. When a boy at school bullied me, Silas put him on the ground. “Maeve. I’ve got you. Always.” “We’re getting out of this town. Both of us. Training Center, Olympics, the whole thing. You and me.” And now he was in front of me with another girl tucked against his ribs, and he had just put me into a wall. Lyla started to cry harder. “Silas, please, let’s just go. It’s my fault. All of this is my fault.” He turned his head and kissed her hair. “It’s not your fault. None of it is.” He gave me one last look — a warning, and walked her past me down the hall. I stayed against the lockers until I could breathe again. The office was at the end of the corridor. On the way I passed the Featured Athletes wall. Lyla’s photo was right in the center, bigger than the others. Underneath, in clean black letters: Promising young talent overcoming hardship. A story of resilience. I looked at it for a second and laughed bitterly. I remembered one night, I came back to the skate shop after a late training session. My dad was waiting in the parking lot. He smelled like whiskey from ten feet away. “Where’s the money?” I didn’t answer. I tried to walk past him to the door. He grabbed my hair and slammed me face-first into the side of the building. “I’m talking to you. Are you deaf in both ears now?” “There isn’t any money.” “Bullshit. That Kensington kid throws cash around like it’s nothing, and you’re up his ass twenty-four seven. You telling me you can’t squeeze a few hundred out of him for your old man?” He hit me across the face. “You holding out on me? Hiding it somewhere? Huh?” He started patting me down, yanking at my pockets. I shoved him off. That was the wrong move. He kicked me in the stomach so hard I went down on the asphalt. “You ungrateful bitch. You’re just like your mother. Trash, both of you.” He went looking for something heavier. A tire iron, a piece of pipe, I didn’t see what. That was when Silas’s car pulled into the lot. He was out before the engine stopped. He put my dad on the ground in two moves and pulled me up off the asphalt. His hands went over my face, my arms, my ribs, checking. “Where did he hit you. Maeve. Where.” I couldn’t answer. He took off his own jacket and put it around my shoulders. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.” He didn’t go home that night. He sat on the busted couch in the back of the shop until morning. The next day he walked into the police station and didn’t leave until they had my dad in a holding cell. When he came back, he sat down next to me and said, “I’m taking care of you from now on. You don’t have to worry about anything. Ever.” I’d actually believed him.

A week before Sectionals, our club ran a final mock competition. Full panel of judges, full scoring, the works. I took first. Highest combined score in the group field by almost twelve points. Lyla came in last. She picked the score sheet off the boards, balled it up, and tossed it into the trash on her way off the ice. “Doesn’t matter. I got the training grant.” Silas was waiting at the boards with two coffees. He handed her one. She lit up at him like she hadn’t just bombed in front of the club. “You were beautiful.” She pressed up onto her toe picks and kissed him on the cheek. I walked past them toward the locker room. “Maeve.” I did not stop. “Maeve. Hey.” He came around in front of me, blocking the path. “You still mad about the training grant?” I didn’t answer. “I get it. But come on. Look at her situation. She needs this more than you do. You’re going to win Sectionals in your sleep.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “That card I offered you. It’s still on the table. Anything you need — coaches, off-season camps… It’s covered.” He thought money was the answer. He thought money could buy back what he’d already broken. “I don’t need it.” “There you go again.” His jaw set. “How long are you going to keep doing this. You know how much you make in a month? I’m offering you more than you could pull out of that place in your entire life.” Lyla skated up behind him and put a gloved hand on his arm. “Silas, don’t. She’s just not used to it yet.” She gave me a small, sad, practiced smile. “Maeve. I know you hate me right now. But I was really, truly out of options. My stepmom has been awful since my dad lost everything. I had nowhere else to turn.” Her eyes welled up. I’d watched her do it for a year now. In every conversation, she was the victim. In every room, I was the one making her cry. “Silas said he’s going to take care of you,” she went on, with the soft, generous tone. “Whatever you need, just tell us. Both of us.” Us. Like she’d already moved into my life. The corner of my mouth pulled up. I couldn’t help it. Silas frowned. “What’s funny?” “Nothing. Just appreciating the matchup. You two deserve each other. Hope it lasts.” His face changed. “Maeve — ” I walked past him to the locker room. “Maeve, get back here.” I ignored all his words. That night, Bree sent me a photo. Lyla’s Instagram, screenshotted before it could disappear. Lyla and Silas were in the bar, Silas holding a bottle of champagne, Lyla draped across his lap. Their friends were in the background, raising glasses, shouting “CONGRATS LYLA!” Bree: Stop looking at it. She’s not worth your serotonin. I closed the app and tossed the phone aside. Then picked up my training journal off the nightstand, opened it to the next blank page, and started writing out my Sectionals program. As long as I kept training, I didn’t have to think about anything else.

A week before Sectionals, the club cut training to taper hours. Most of the teammates took the time off to rest. I took extra shifts at the skating club’s shop. Wednesday afternoon, Silas’s car pulled up outside. He got out and leaned against the driver’s door. Music thumping from the speakers, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. “Maeve. Come here.” I kept working, ignoring his words. “I’m talking to you.” He frowned and walked over. He reached for my arm, saw the dirt on my hands, and pulled his fingers back without touching me. “Go wash up. You’re coming with us.” “Where?” “Cabin. Up the mountain. Lyla wants a few days off the ice. You’re coming.” I straightened up. “I’m not going.” “Don’t start with this again.” He let out a sharp breath. “I drove all the way down here. Lyla wants to make peace. Don’t be difficult.” “I have nothing to make peace about with her.” “Maeve.” “I’m training.” He laughed, short and ugly. “Training. Right. Like you need to. You could skate Sectionals hungover and still take the podium.” “Just come. Get out of this dump for a weekend. Lyla actually wants to fix things with you.” “I’m not going.” His patience snapped. He stared at me for a second. Then he laughed again, this time with no humor in it at all. “Suit yourself.” He pulled his wallet out, thumbed off a stack of hundreds, and threw them on the floor at my feet. The bills fanned out across the concrete. “Here. Your wages for the month. I covered your boss for it. Take the money, keep your pride, and stay out of my face.” I didn’t move. “Not enough?” He pulled out another stack and threw it down on top of the first. “How about now?” Coach Miller came out from the back office, took one look at the cash on the floor, and walked over fast. “Mr. Kensington. What is going on here? We don’t need any of this.” Silas didn’t even look at him. His eyes stayed on me. “Pick it up.” I still didn’t move. Lyla had been waiting in the car. She got out now, all wide eyes, and came running over in her white shearling boots. “Silas, please, stop. You’re scaring her.” She crouched down and started gathering up the bills, one by one. “Maeve. Don’t be mad at him. He’s just looking out for me. He doesn’t mean it.” She held the stack up to me with both hands, eyes wet. “Please. Just come with us. I don’t want to be the reason you two aren’t talking.” I looked at her and Silas. He wasn’t sorry. He thought he was being generous, so I should be on my knees thanking him. I walked past both of them, into the back of the shop, and shut the door. Through the wall I heard him. “See? That attitude. You try to help her and that’s what you get.” The car engine started up. The music pulled away down the street. Coach Miller came in a minute later. He set the stack of cash down on the workbench in front of me. “Take it, kid.” “No.” “Maeve.” He pushed it closer. “Your dad. Your situation. You need this.” I stared at the bills. They smelled like Silas’s cologne. I walked to the utility sink in the corner, turned the water on as hot as it would go, and started washing my hands. Soap, scrub, rinse. I kept going until my skin was raw. That night, my dad came back. He was drunker than usual, and he’d seen the cash through the front window. He took it, then he started taking everything else. Even put a chair through the front glass. I called the cops. When they got there, he was still going, swinging a hockey stick at the lights. It took two officers to put him in cuffs. He spat at me on the way out, blood and saliva down the front of my work shirt. “You called the cops on me. On your own father. I hope you know what you are. I hope you rot in hell for this.” I watched the cruiser pull out of the lot. So this was what it felt like. To have nobody left around me.

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