Author: Momo Chan

1 On my eighteenth birthday, burning with a fever of a hundred and six degrees, I lay alone on the freezing concrete floor of my tiny apartment. On my phone, notifications from the family group chat were lighting up the screen like fireworks. A five-tier custom cake. Ninety-nine red roses. My father was holding her, my mother was kissing her forehead, and my brother was raising a glass to toast her. The girl they were celebrating was Molly, the adoptive daughter who had been raised in my place. I was the biological daughter of the Prescott family, lost for fifteen years. They found me and brought me back three years ago, yet I had never truly managed to step inside their front door. I called Dad seven times, but nobody answered. I messaged my brother, but he left me on read. I called Mom, and the first thing she said when she picked up was, “Maeve, can you stop causing trouble?” Then the line went dead. I lay on the floor, next to a cheap strawberry cupcake that cost me under ten dollars. The candle on top was crooked, never having had the chance to be lit. I closed my eyes and made the exact same wish I had made for the past eighteen years. I hoped someone would remember today was my birthday. I hoped someone would say those two simple words to me: Happy Birthday. I had made this wish for eighteen years, and not once had it ever come true. And this time, it would be my last. … On the night of my eighteenth birthday, my fever spiked to a hundred and six degrees. I curled up on the cold floor of my rented room, waiting for the end. The room was barely seventy square feet, with no heating. The bitter November wind whipped through a cracked windowpane, cutting into my skin like tiny knives. I huddled into a tight ball, my bones feeling as if they were roasting in a furnace. Every cough felt like shards of broken glass scraping through my lungs. My phone screen lit up. It was the family group chat. Dad had sent a sixty-second voice note. My trembling finger tapped it, and a flood of laughter and music poured from the speaker. “Come on, everyone! Our darling Molly is eighteen today! Raise your glasses. Happy birthday to our little princess!” My brother Tristan’s voice followed immediately after. “Happy eighteenth to the sweetest little sister in the world!” A stream of photos flooded the chat. A heart-shaped wall of ninety-nine red roses, a five-tier custom fondant cake, and a glittering crystal chandelier. Dad, Mom, and Tristan stood in the center, their smiles brighter than the lights. Molly, the center of their universe, wore a pink gown shimmering with diamonds, her makeup flawless, her smile radiant. Three years ago, a DNA test had rewritten our destinies. I was the biological child the Prescotts had lost fifteen years ago, and Molly was the girl who had been accidentally swapped at birth. But three years later, the Prescotts kept Molly and left me out in the cold. “Molly grew up with us. It would be too cruel to force her to leave,” they had told me. “Just live on your own for a bit to adapt, and we’ll bring you home when the time is right.” Three years had passed. Three years of renting a room alone, working part-time, and going to school. What I got in the end was not a ticket home, but a steady stream of family portraits in the group chat, each one more lively than the last, and none of them featuring me. Mom sent another message, just three words: “My precious girl.” It was paired with a selfie of her kissing Molly’s forehead. My tears fell onto the hot, glowing screen. Today was my birthday too. Molly and I shared the exact same birthdate. Yet the entire group chat, the cakes, the flowers, the warm embraces, were all for her. Nobody remembered it was Maeve’s birthday too. I desperately dialed Dad’s number. The first call rang eight times and went to voicemail. The second call rang twice before being declined. The third, the fourth, the fifth… By the seventh try, his voice finally came through. But he wasn’t speaking to me. “Hey, stop it, Molly! Don’t cut the cake yet! Let me take this call… Hello? Who is this?” “Dad… it’s me, Maeve…” Laughter bubbled up on the other end, someone shouting for her to make a wish. “Maeve? What’s going on? I’m busy right now, let’s talk tomorrow…” “Dad… I’m sick… my fever is so bad…” Before I could finish, a sweet, high-pitched voice erupted through the receiver. “Dad! The ice cream cake is going to melt! Hurry up!” “Coming, sweetie! Maeve, take some medicine and go to sleep. I have to go.” Beep. The line went dead. The phone slipped from my weak fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. I turned my head, my eyes scanning the suffocating space of my apartment. Cheap instant noodles were stacked like a mountain in the corner. Two faded shirts hung on the drying line, and the broken window was sloppily patched with plastic wrap and tape. Finally, my gaze landed on the old cardboard box at the foot of my bed, tied neatly with a ribbon. Those were the gifts I had saved up all year to buy. Just hang in there, Maeve. Once you give them these gifts, they’ll want you back. I dragged myself up, leaning against the wall to search for fever reducers. The nightstand was completely bare. I was certain I had left the bottle on top of the cabinet yesterday. Molly had come by yesterday afternoon to return some keys, and the medicine was there. She had claimed her stomach hurt and asked to use my bathroom, staying for about five or six minutes. When she left, she had given me a sweet smile. “Take care of yourself, Maeve. Drink plenty of water.” Where was the medicine? I bent down, searching under the cabinet, the bed, the table. Nothing. My head felt like it was splitting in two, and there was no time to think. I dragged my shaking legs toward the door. I grabbed the knob and twisted. It didn’t budge. I twisted harder, putting all my weight into it. The lock remained completely frozen. I couldn’t open it from the inside. This lock worked perfectly last week. Why was it suddenly… I banged on the door, kicked it a couple of times, but the solid wood only gave a muffled thud. The hallway outside was silent and empty. Pressing my back against the door, I slid down to the cold floor. The phone buzzed again. A video was uploaded to the group chat. Molly was sitting on the leather sofa in the middle of the living room, surrounded by beautifully wrapped designer boxes. She opened the first one and squealed dramatically, “Oh my gosh! Tristan, the limited-edition journal! Thank you so much!” Tristan sat beside her, gently ruffling her hair. The room was bathed in golden light, the crystal chandelier casting a warm glow over their happy faces. I watched the video three times. On the third run, my eyes locked onto the corner of the living room, onto the empty chair beside the piano. During the brief two weeks I was allowed to stay with them three summers ago, that was where I sat every day. I had been too terrified to reach for food at the dinner table, too scared to speak loudly, too timid to touch the fruit on the coffee table. I had just watched them from afar, quietly, thinking that simply being in the same room was enough to make me happy. But then Molly had wept into Mom’s arms. “Mom, she wants to steal my family. I don’t want her here!” That very night, Dad had the driver take me back to my rented room. They didn’t even let me pack my things. I dialed Tristan’s number. It was my second call of the night. It rang three times before he picked up. “Maeve?” Tristan’s voice was laced with irritation, the background music deafening. “What is it?” “Tristan… I have a fever, a really bad one… and the door is locked from the inside… could you…” “Hold on.” In the background, Molly’s voice floated over, dripping with sweetness. “Tristan! Come take a picture with me! Mom wants to post it on social media!” Tristan’s tone shifted instantly, turning soft and indulgent. “Coming! Maeve, you do this every time. Every single time Molly has a birthday, you have to start drama. Just take some medicine and go to sleep. Stop acting out.” Beep. Call ended. Total duration: 23 seconds. He didn’t even listen to what I had to say. My phone screen reflected my shattered image, pale-faced, with dry, cracked lips bleeding slightly. I dialed Mom’s number for the very last time. It rang twice and connected. “Maeve? What’s wrong?” It was Mom’s voice. The voice of the woman who had given birth to me but never raised me for a single day. Tears spilled over my cheeks. “Mom… Mom, I feel so sick… I have a fever… the lock is broken and I can’t get out… Mom, can you come see me? Just for a minute… please…” A second of silence on the other end. Then, a slight scuffle over the phone, followed by Molly’s low but crystal-clear voice. “Mom! Who are you talking to? We’ve tried taking the family photo three times already, we’re just waiting for you!” Then, Molly’s voice rose, her sweet facade barely concealing the cold calculation beneath. “Maeve! If you’re not feeling well, you should sleep early. Make sure to drink plenty of water! Mom is really busy right now, so we can’t talk!” Beep. The call ended. It wasn’t Mom who hung up. It was Molly. I heard her laugh in the final second before the line went dead. A light, brief snicker. But that laugh carried a chill that turned my blood to ice, even through my hundred-and-six-degree fever. The floor was freezing. The chill brought a fleeting moment of relief to my burning skin, but it was immediately followed by a wave of violent shivering. I curled up by the door, my limbs spasms uncontrollably. My coughs grew heavier, leaving a metallic taste of iron in my mouth as warm blood dribbled from the corner of my lips. My vision blurred with tears. Looking up at the yellow water stain on the ceiling, I hallucinated that it was a moon. The moon of my eighteenth year. I only wanted to celebrate my birthday. No cake, no gifts, no parties. Just a single phone call, just a simple “Happy Birthday.” But the entire world was celebrating Molly, while I burned away in a dark corner. With the last of my strength, I reached for the cracked phone, unlocking it after three attempts. My call history showed: Dad, seven missed calls. Tristan, one call connected, 23 seconds. Mom, one call connected, 47 seconds. With trembling fingers, I dialed the final number: 911. “911, what is your emergency?” “I… fever… can’t get out… door is locked…” “What is your address?” “7… Cooper Lane… Apt… 3B…” “Understood, we are dispatching a unit. Can you open the door?” Open the door. I stared at the brass knob that refused to turn. The final ounce of life slipped from my fingers. “Can’t… can’t open…” “Stay on the line, we will contact you when we arrive.” The operator’s voice grew distant, muffled as if traveling through thick layers of cotton. The phone slipped from my grasp, the screen splintering further. Through the cracks, a new notification from the family group chat flickered: a family photo. Dad, Mom, Tristan, and Molly, all smiling perfectly. There was no fifth chair. There was no need for one. I collapsed onto the floor, my eyes taking a final look at the ribbon-tied cardboard box, then at the cheap strawberry cupcake under the bed. The crooked candle remained unlit. Forget it. I’ll just wish in my heart. I closed my eyes. “I hope in my next life… someone will say Happy Birthday to me on my birthday…” Eighteen years. The same wish every year. Not once had it been granted. My consciousness receded like a retreating tide, draining from my fingertips, my toes, my heart. In my final moments, I heard the wind howling through the broken window. The bitter November wind, weeping for someone.

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On the exact day of our anniversary, Declan wired fifteen thousand dollars to his first love. In the six years we had been together, he had never once transferred a single cent to me. Grief and a suffocating sense of injustice flooded my chest. For the first time in my life, I lost my mind. I screamed. I cried hysterically. Desperate to shut me up, he panicked and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across my face. “Are you done throwing a fit?” I spent the entire night sitting on the freezing hardwood floor, clutching my swollen, throbbing cheek in a dead daze. Outside the window, the streetlights flickered on, then died out. First thing the next morning, I packed my bags and walked out of the tiny apartment we had shared for six years. Three months later, the man who had never once bowed his head to anyone was kneeling at my door, begging for forgiveness. Only to watch me come home with my new husband. 1 A cold, damp chill hung in the air of the apartment. The elaborate anniversary dinner I had spent hours cooking sat on the table, completely untouched. Today was our six year anniversary. He had promised to come home early to celebrate with me. Instead, he made a last minute detour to his first love Lauren’s art studio, making a massive spectacle of wiring her fifteen thousand dollars. He had even opened our fridge, taken the anniversary cake I baked that afternoon, and casually justified it to me. “I know you don’t really have a sweet tooth anyway. Better not let it go to waste. I did you a favor.” Lauren had immediately posted a picture of my cake alongside a screenshot of the bank transfer on her Instagram story. The caption was a blatant flex. [No boyfriend for the holidays, but someone still sent me money and a cake hehe~] It was not that I disliked cake. It was that in our six years of dating, I, his actual girlfriend, had never even received a birthday cake from him. Let alone a random wire transfer of fifteen thousand dollars. The only time I ever asked him for money was when I maxed out my own paycheck buying groceries and household supplies for the both of us. I had to swallow my pride and beg him for help. Ever since then, he rigidly transferred me exactly five hundred dollars a month for “household expenses.” Compared to the fifteen grand he threw at Lauren without a second thought, my allowance was a joke. A sharp, burning cramp seized my empty stomach. I hunched over the dining table, breaking out in a cold sweat from the pain. That was exactly when Declan walked through the front door. He noticed me doubled over, his brows pulling together in a tight frown. He poured a glass of lukewarm water and set it near me. “Didn’t I tell you to eat first if you were hungry? Why wait for me?” I looked up at him. A bitter, numb sensation spread through my chest like poison. He had completely forgotten our plans. He had forgotten today was our anniversary. The only thing he remembered on this special day was to prepare a surprise for Lauren. My phone screen lit up with a direct message from Lauren. A pure provocation. “You do know, right? If Declan hadn’t made that promise to your conservative parents back then, he would be standing next to me right now.” “Harper, he only feels a sense of duty toward you. You have to be smart enough to see that.” I had received plenty of blunt messages like this from her over the past few months. I had always brushed them off. But this time, I could not find a single word to fight back. The fragile string holding my meticulously maintained relationship together suddenly snapped. Lauren was not wrong. Declan and I getting together was the result of a drunken accident. He never actually confessed his feelings to me. The morning after our messy, alcohol fueled mistake, my parents had shown up unannounced. They were old school, traditional folks. They sat him down at the square dining table and demanded he swear an oath. He had to marry me. He had to take responsibility. Deep down, I knew my parents had their own selfish motives. Declan was exceptionally handsome. Through casual conversation, he had revealed his wealthy background and his prestigious career as a surgeon. And me? I was painfully ordinary. The kind of girl who blended entirely into the background of any crowd. I fundamentally believed I was not good enough for Declan, yet I harbored this toxic, desperate hope. I hoped he would eventually fall in love with me. Declan did not let my parents down. He swore right then and there that he would eventually make me his wife and take full responsibility. Six years had passed, and he had kept his word. No matter how many arguments we had, he never once uttered the words, “Let’s break up. We aren’t working out.” But Lauren should never have known about that private promise. There was only one possible explanation. Declan had told her himself. I did not want to overthink it, but my mind was spiraling out of control. Did he also believe that all these years spent with me were just the heavy chains of a drunken mistake? A dense, suffocating pain radiated from my heart. I looked up at him, my eyes red, and asked a very serious question. “Have you ever loved me?” The silence that followed was agonizing. My heart pounded against my ribs. I had instinctively asked if he ever loved me, not if he loved me now. I had already subconsciously accepted the reality that Declan felt nothing for me anymore. A heavy, stifling atmosphere settled over the room. Declan frowned deeper, his voice laced with annoyance. “Can you stop being so dramatic? Fine, I’ll come home earlier next time.” Truth be told, for the past six years, Declan had been a homebody. He was always busy with the hospital, rarely going out. But lately, his schedule had shifted. The GPS history in his car showed that his most frequented destination was Lauren’s art studio. Some things were impossible to ignore, no matter how hard I tried to play dumb. I stood up, willingly tearing open this bloody wound. “I know Lauren. I know you went to see her today. I saw her Instagram.” I was never supposed to know Lauren. It happened one day when I was scouting pieces for a gallery exhibition. She looked at me with her bright, wide eyes, her face lighting up with pleasant surprise. “Oh! You’re the girlfriend Declan has been dating for six years, right? I’m his first love. He talks about you sometimes.” I was entirely average looking. Barely five feet tall with a softer, fuller figure. I was quiet, introverted, and terrible at making conversation. But Lauren was the exact opposite. She was radiant, sunny, and completely unapologetic. She could stand there and openly declare she was his first love without a shred of guilt. She made my insecurities feel like glaring spotlights. Later, scrolling through her social media, I discovered that the rigid, unromantic Declan who never planned surprises for me was actually a hopelessly romantic man in her world. He bought her gifts for every minor holiday. He sent her random cash drops just to make her smile. He took her to trendy restaurants she casually mentioned in passing. They looked perfectly happy. Perfectly in love. Even the way he looked at her in those photos held a soft tenderness he had never once directed at me. My heart felt like someone was taking a dull knife to it. I could not help but wonder. If my parents had not forced his hand back then, would we have broken up years ago? Because Declan had never treated me that well. He had never looked at me with that kind of warmth. Six years. Not once. Declan did not answer my question. His frown deepened into a scowl. “What Instagram post?” He was still playing dumb. I grabbed my phone and shoved the screen in his face. The woman’s gentle, victorious smile was right there. Anyone could feel her overflowing happiness through the pixels. My eyes brimmed with tears. I broke down, demanding an answer. “Why?” Why treat her better than me? Why send her money, plan surprises for her, and even ditch me on our six year anniversary for her? He glanced away from the screen, his tone completely indifferent. “Oh. I didn’t know she posted that.” Seeing my furious silence, he casually pivoted the conversation, brushing it off like dust on his shoulder. “It’s just fifteen grand. I wanted to give it to her, so I did. Do you really need to make such a big deal out of this?” Tears spilled out of my eyes, dropping heavily onto the cold, coagulated food on the table. “You think I shouldn’t make a big deal out of it? Everything you’ve given her these past six years… have you ever given any of that to me?” I swept a dinner plate off the table. It shattered against the floor, slicing through the dead silence of the room. Declan glared at me, his patience entirely evaporated. “Can you stop acting crazy? You’re ruining a perfectly good holiday.” I lowered my head, letting out a self deprecating laugh. “So you did remember what today was.” Honestly, I really hadn’t minded before. My father was a practical engineer, and so was Declan in his own medical way. My mother had raised me on the belief that men were the pillars of the household, and women were meant to be quiet, supportive wives behind the scenes. So during our years living together, I had grown used to giving everything and expecting nothing. I got used to his blunt, unromantic nature. I never cried. I never argued. I never demanded more. I silently took over all the household chores. I cooked every meal. I washed every dish. Even if he never bought me gifts or planned dates for the holidays, I thought it was fine. My dad was the same way. I assumed Declan was simply cut from the same cloth. But then Lauren’s social media proved me entirely wrong. Declan, the man who was supposedly as rigid and unmovable as a mountain, could easily be moved by a woman like Lauren. Just never by me. Outside, a torrential downpour began to pound against the windows. The chill in the apartment thickened. I looked at Declan, realizing for the first time just how fundamentally different we were. I finally woke up to how pathetic, subservient, and exhausted I had become in this relationship. I stood up, ignoring the violent churning in my stomach. I began screaming at him, desperate to drag every hidden resentment out into the light. I wanted to resolve it. I wanted to fix it. But as the words tumbled out, my overwhelming grief took over, and I started sobbing uncontrollably. Declan had probably never seen me like this. He was frantic to make me stop. In his blinding irritation, he swung his hand and slapped me across the face. “Are you done?” Clear. Loud. It hurt like hell, but it woke me up.

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The housekeeper called the cops and accused me of horrific abuse. She told them I dragged her into my basement and locked her in the dark for three days and three nights. On the witness stand, she cried until her voice went hoarse. The bruises on her skin, the terrifying audio recordings, the eyewitness testimonies. The evidence was absolutely ironclad. The courtroom gallery cursed me, calling me a monster. The internet demanded I be locked away forever. My tech company was on the verge of being burned to the ground by angry mobs. Through it all, I did not say a single word. I waited patiently until the judge finally looked down at me and asked if I had any final statements. I slowly reached into my suit jacket and pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment paper. “Your Honor, this is the official structural blueprint of my property, filed and stamped by the city planning department.” “My house is a single story ranch. I do not even have a crawlspace.” So I would really love to know. Where exactly is this pitch black basement she claims I locked her in? 1 I had been alive for thirty two years. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would end up sitting at a defendant’s table. The charge was kidnapping and severe assault. The plaintiff was my housekeeper, Brenda, a forty six year old woman. At this exact moment, she was sitting in the witness box, sobbing as if her entire world had collapsed. Tears and snot smeared her face. Faint purple bruises peeked out from around her neck. Her arm was wrapped in white gauze, her shoulders trembling violently with every breath. “He dragged me down into the basement,” she choked out, her voice shivering and broken. “He locked me down there for three days. Three whole days.” A collective gasp echoed from the courtroom gallery. Several older women practically jumped out of their seats. “You absolute monster!” “Lock him up and throw away the key!” The bailiffs had to rush over to force them back down. I sat at the defendant’s table with a completely blank expression on my face. I was not trying to look cold or intimidating. I genuinely just had no expression to give. Mostly because my mind was currently occupied with a very specific problem. I was wondering if I could still get a refund for the fifteen dollar teriyaki chicken bowl I ordered for lunch. Do not underestimate that fifteen dollars. My reputation was completely destroyed, my company was hemorrhaging investors, and the funds in my bank account might soon be frozen. Every single penny had to be stretched. “Your Honor, please look at this.” Brenda carefully rolled up her sleeve and extended her arm toward the judge. The edge of the white gauze lifted slightly. The dark bruising, the scraped skin, the angry red swelling. It was an awful sight. Another wave of unrest rippled through the gallery. Someone yelled that I was human garbage. Someone else yelled something much more graphic. A heavy set guy in the back row actually hurled a plastic water bottle at my head. He missed. The bottle flew about two feet wide. I stared at the plastic rolling on the floor and thought to myself that with an arm like that, the guy could not even make a high school junior varsity team. Sitting next to me, my defense attorney, Simon, looked physically ill. He leaned in, his voice a furious whisper. “Arthur, what the hell is your problem? You need to say something!” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “What is the rush?” “What is the rush?” His hands were literally shaking. “Look at the gallery! Look at this courtroom! The entire world wants your head on a spike! If you don’t speak up right now, the judge is going to buy every word of this!” I leaned back comfortably in my heavy wooden chair. “Let her finish her story.” Simon stared at me for three agonizing seconds. His lips moved silently. Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and scribbled a furious line on his legal pad. I peeked over his arm. “Client is experiencing severe psychotic break.” Fair enough. He could write whatever helped him cope. Up on the stand, Brenda’s wailing grew even louder. “He did unspeakable things to me in that dark room! I screamed for three days and nobody came to help me!” She curled her body into a tight, defensive ball, acting out the perfect picture of pure trauma. People in the gallery were openly weeping with her. My eyes drifted down to her feet. Wow. Brand new shoes. Designer Gucci sneakers. Twelve hundred dollars retail. She supposedly gets locked in a pitch black dungeon for three days, escapes by the skin of her teeth, and her very first priority is dropping over a grand on luxury footwear? Her mental resilience was vastly superior to mine. Truly fascinating. 2 The prosecuting attorney was a man named Pierce. He was in his early forties, lean, sharp, and wore thin gold rimmed glasses. In the city’s legal circles, he had a terrifying reputation. Rumor had it the man had never lost a criminal prosecution in his life. The moment he stood up, the gallery instantly went dead silent. The way he looked at me was identical to a scientist examining a dead butterfly already pinned to a corkboard. Absolute, condescending certainty. “Your Honor, I would like the court to hear our first piece of critical evidence.” He pressed play on his laptop. A disturbing audio recording echoed through the courtroom speakers. “Do not touch me! Please, let me go!” It was Brenda’s voice. Filled with pure terror, desperation, and soul crushing agony. “No! Please, stop!” The recording abruptly cut to static. The courtroom felt like a graveyard. A few young women in the gallery covered their mouths in horror. I stared blankly at the ceiling tiles. I knew about this recording. The production value was honestly pretty decent. But if you listened closely, there was a very strange noise buried in the background static. Faint, but definitely there. It sounded exactly like a DoorDash driver knocking on a door and yelling about a food delivery. Whoever edited the track got sloppy in post production. “This audio,” Prosecutor Pierce said, adjusting his gold glasses, “was extracted directly from the victim’s mobile device. Independent forensic analysts have confirmed the timestamps align perfectly with the days of the kidnapping.” Beside me, Simon’s hand was shaking so badly he could barely take notes. Pierce did not miss a beat before dropping his second bombshell. The official medical evaluation. “Extensive bruising concentrated on the arms, neck, and lower lumbar region. The distribution of these injuries is entirely consistent with violent dragging and prolonged physical restraint.” He read the report clearly, emphasizing every single syllable. Every word felt like a rusty nail being driven into the ears of the jury and the gallery. The verbal abuse hurled at me grew louder. Someone actually started clapping. They were applauding the prosecutor. In the middle of a criminal trial. The judge had to slam his gavel three times to restore order. The corner of Pierce’s mouth twitched. It was a highly controlled micro expression. But he could not hide the sheer arrogance radiating off him. “Our third piece of evidence is a sworn witness testimony.” A middle aged man wearing a faded plaid shirt was called to the stand. He claimed to be my neighbor. “It was late that night, probably around two or three in the morning.” He swallowed nervously, looking at the jury. “I heard a woman screaming coming from the defendant’s property.” “It was a horrible, bloodcurdling sound. It kept starting and stopping.” “It went on for at least ten solid minutes.” Pierce leaned on the podium. “Are you absolutely certain the sounds originated from the defendant’s house?” “Positive,” the man nodded vigorously. “It was definitely the house next door. The walls were literally vibrating.” I almost burst out laughing right then and there. Because my actual next door neighbor was Mrs. Higgins. She was an eighty three year old widow who lived entirely alone and had been completely deaf since birth. The loudest noise she could possibly generate at three in the morning was the creak of her orthopedic mattress. The walls were vibrating? What was Mrs. Higgins doing over there, hosting an underground CrossFit class? But I kept my mouth shut. It was not time yet. Simon noticed the slight upward curve of my lips. The poor lawyer looked like he was about to have a stroke. He scribbled another furious sentence on his legal pad and shoved it into my chest. “If you laugh right now, I am quitting on the spot. That is not a threat. That is a promise.” I slowly pushed the notepad back toward him, adding my own messy handwriting to the bottom. “Relax. We are ending this today.” He read it, and his expression perfectly translated into three simple words. You are insane. 3 To understand how this circus started, we have to rewind exactly one month. My name is Arthur Kingsley. Thirty two years old. Founder and CEO of a tech startup called Sentinel AI. We build advanced, artificial intelligence integrated security systems. We secured our Series B funding last year and were preparing for a massive public offering by the end of the winter. I was not a billionaire, but I had built a very comfortable life in this city. I bought a sprawling property in Crestview Estates. A massive, open concept house. Almost four thousand square feet. No basement. No attic. No hidden cellars. Just one massive, flat level of glass and steel where you could see from one end to the other in a single glance. A month ago, my mother forced me to hire a live in housekeeper. “You live alone in that giant glass box and survive entirely on takeout,” she nagged over the phone. “Mom, I have a state of the art dishwasher, a smart laundry system, and three robotic vacuums.” “Can a robot cook you a hot pot of beef stew after a fourteen hour shift?” Fine. You can never win an argument with a stubborn mother. That was how Brenda entered my life. She was forty six, a local woman with over a decade of domestic work experience. She came highly recommended by a premium agency, with glowing reviews from all her previous employers. Diligent, quiet, and an incredible cook. She really was excellent at first. The house was spotless, the meals were fantastic, and her beef stew was genuinely amazing. But there was one very specific thing she did that caught my attention. She had a habit of wandering through my house with her smartphone out. She would stroll from the living room to the guest bedroom, then from the guest bedroom into my private home office. Whenever she walked, the camera lens on the back of her phone was always facing outward, scanning the room. At first, I assumed she was just filming TikToks. Everyone wants to be an influencer these days. But one night, I came home from the office much earlier than usual. She was standing in the kitchen, whispering frantically into her phone. She did not hear the garage door open. “Do not worry, Vic, I memorized the layout. Yes, I know what to do.” Her voice was hushed, almost completely silent. The second she heard my dress shoes hit the hardwood, she killed the call instantly and spun around with a warm, grandmotherly smile. “Mr. Kingsley! I kept your dinner warm on the stove.” Her smile was flawless. But the speed at which she hung up that phone was completely unnatural. That night, while she was busy scrubbing the kitchen sink, I locked the door to my study and booted up my laptop. I accessed the backend of my home’s security grid. I run an AI security company. The camera network installed in my own house is the absolute pinnacle of our unreleased prototype tech. There were high definition lenses hidden in every single corner of the property. Twenty four seven cloud backups. Military grade voice print recognition. I scrubbed through the footage from the past two weeks. I found a few extremely fascinating details. First, Brenda received a phone call every single afternoon at exactly two o’clock. The calls always lasted between fifteen and twenty minutes. Second, she really was wandering through my house with her camera, but she was never filming herself. She was meticulously mapping the structural layout, documenting the blind corners, the window locks, and the hallway dimensions. Third, the moment she finished filming, she would text the photos to a specific contact on her phone. The contact name was simply “Vic.” I did not confront her. Instead, I quietly logged into the master controls, boosted the recording frame rate to maximum, and changed the cloud backup deletion cycle from seven days to permanent storage. Then I picked up my phone and called Simon. I asked him to run a deep background check on one specific man. Victor. My former business partner. Three years ago, Victor tried to secretly bundle our company’s core algorithm data and sell it to our biggest corporate rival. I caught him red handed. I had all the digital evidence. I did not call the police. I simply forced him to resign and stripped him of all his equity. I gave him a quiet, dignified exit. He did not appreciate the mercy. He hated me. He hated me down to the very marrow of his bones. A few days later, Simon called me back with the results. “Victor has been in constant contact with a premium domestic staffing agency for the last month. He wired several large sums of cash. One of the receiving bank accounts belongs to a woman named Brenda.” I sat in my office chair in total silence for a long time. Finally, I gave Simon his orders. “Do not spook them. Let her keep working. Let him keep plotting.” Simon panicked. “Are you out of your mind? They are obviously setting you up for something massive!” “If they want to destroy me, they have to make a move first,” I said calmly. “I need them to play their hand entirely so I can crush them all at once.” What happened next played out exactly as I predicted. Half a month later, Brenda vanished into thin air for three days. When she finally reappeared, she was sitting in a police interrogation room. Covered in horrific bruises. Sobbing until she was choking on her own breath. She pointed a trembling finger at my photo and accused me of viciously assaulting her and locking her in the dark basement of my house for three consecutive days. Four uniformed officers showed up at my front door. I opened it. “Arthur Kingsley?” the lead officer asked. “That is me.” “You need to come with us.” Before I stepped out into the cold night air, I turned back and took one long look at my house. One single level. A perfectly flat, modern piece of architecture. A small laugh escaped my lips. Victor. You want to frame me for a horrific crime, and you did not even bother to check if my house actually had a basement? Did you do absolutely zero homework? 4 The news exploded across the internet ten times faster than I could have ever imagined. By the afternoon of my arrest, the media had completely lost its mind. The headlines were clickbait gold. “Famous Tech CEO Arrested for Horrific Abuse of Housekeeper! Held Hostage in Basement!” “Monster in a Suit! Sentinel AI Founder Exposed as Violent Predator!” “Victim Speaks Out: He Dragged Me Into the Dark. I Did Not See Sunlight for Three Days.” It was the number one trending topic on every single platform. Pinned to the top of every feed. Going completely viral. The comment sections were an absolute bloodbath. “Give him the chair! Lock him up forever!” Over eighty thousand likes. “Rich scum like this do not deserve to breathe our air.” Over sixty thousand likes. “Everyone boycott Sentinel AI immediately! The CEO is a psychopath!” Over fifty thousand likes. Protesters organized a massive rally outside my corporate headquarters. They held up giant banners screaming for my head. Someone threw buckets of bright red paint across the floor to ceiling glass doors of my lobby. My security guards were physically assaulted trying to keep the crowd back. A college intern was recognized walking to his car, and a group of people ripped his backpack off and threw it into a dumpster. As for the company stock, it was a total massacre. The lead investor from our Series B round called my CFO in the middle of the night, his voice like absolute ice. “If these allegations against Arthur are proven true, we are pulling every single dime of our funding immediately.” And while all of this chaos was burning the world down. I was sitting quietly in a sterile holding cell. They had confiscated my phone. I could not see the news. I could not hear the outrage. When Simon came to visit me for the first time, the man looked like he had aged a decade in three days. “Do you have any idea what is happening out there?” he asked, rubbing his temples. “I can guess.” “You are the number one villain in the country right now.” “Makes sense.” “Your corporate lobby looks like a slaughterhouse from all the red paint.” “Unfortunate.” “Your biggest corporate rivals are poaching your elite engineering team while the ship is sinking.” “Expected.” “And your old buddy, Victor.” Simon paused, his jaw clenching. “He went on national television.” I raised an eyebrow at that. “He did an exclusive sit down interview with a prime time news network, playing the role of the deeply concerned former business partner.” Simon mocked Victor’s overly dramatic tone perfectly. “I am absolutely heartbroken by Arthur’s actions. When we worked together, I always noticed severe flaws in his moral character, but I never imagined he was capable of this level of depravity. My heart bleeds for the victim.” Simon finished his impression and stared at me. I let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then I nodded. “His acting is honestly not terrible.” Simon looked like he wanted to jump across the metal table and strangle me. “Arthur! Your life is completely ruined and you are giving him a review on Rotten Tomatoes?!” “Did you get the information I asked you to find?” I asked, cutting through his panic. Simon sighed heavily, pulling out a thick manila folder. “Victor wired a total of forty seven thousand dollars to Brenda over the last three months using three separate shell accounts. Also, exactly one week before the alleged kidnapping, Victor booked a luxury suite at the Ritz for her. Room 1208.” “Good.” “I also got the official architectural blueprints you wanted. Stamped by the city zoning department. Original copies.” “Perfect.” “Arthur.” Simon leaned forward, looking desperate. “When do we drop this?” “During the trial.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Bring every single piece of paper in that folder to court.” “Make absolutely sure you do not forget a single document.” He swallowed hard. “When exactly do you want me to present it?” “At the very end.” “I want them to say every single lie they have prepared. I want them to empty their entire arsenal.” “Then, I will speak.” Simon stared at me in silence for a very long time. Finally, he nodded his head. “Alright. I trust you.” While Simon was stressing himself into an early grave, my best friend’s reaction to the news was an absolute masterpiece of chaotic loyalty. When I finally got my phone back days later, I read Jax’s text logs in chronological order. 2:17 PM: “Bro are you okay????” 2:18 PM: “Is the stuff on the news actually real?” 2:19 PM: “There is no way man no freaking way” 2:22 PM: “I believe you! You are not that kind of guy!” 2:23 PM: “But just in case it is real you gotta tell me right now so I can pack your bags” 2:24 PM: “Just kidding just kidding” 2:25 PM: “But seriously if we need to flee to Mexico I have a van full of gas” 2:30 PM: “Why are you not answering?? Did they lock you up already??” 2:31 PM: “We are so screwed” 2:45 PM: “Hold up I just read the full article they said you locked her in a basement???” 2:46 PM: “Wait a minute” 2:46 PM: “You don’t even have a basement????” 2:47 PM: “You live in a flat one story house!!!!!” 2:47 PM: “I was just there last month! You don’t even have a decent closet! I tried to hide your birthday keg and couldn’t find a spot!” 2:48 PM: “This whole thing is a massive setup!!!!!” 3:00 PM: “Arthur do not worry your boy is on the case” 3:01 PM: “I am driving to your office right now to beat the hell out of those people throwing paint” 3:15 PM: “Just got here tried to talk some sense into them” 3:16 PM: “They swung first so I swung back currently sitting in the back of a police cruiser” 3:17 PM: “My eye is swollen shut but I feel great” 3:18 PM: “Worth it.” That was Jax. A six foot three wall of muscle. Not the sharpest tool in the shed. But his heart was pure gold. A very violent, fiercely loyal block of gold. 5 The second day of the trial began. Prosecutor Pierce strolled into the courtroom wearing an expression of absolute, guaranteed victory. His strides were longer and more confident than yesterday. Today was the day he pulled the net tight. He called a new witness to the stand, a man claiming to own the local convenience store down my street. “The defendant did not leave his house to buy groceries, nor did he order any food deliveries during those three specific days. For a wealthy bachelor living entirely alone, this total lack of activity is highly suspicious.” The man spoke with absolute conviction. I thought to myself, well obviously I did not buy anything locally. I was on a business trip in Chicago during those exact three days. I could not exactly reach my arm across the country to buy a bottle of water. Pierce then called a young woman who claimed to be Brenda’s close friend. “Brenda told me weeks ago that her boss was acting really creepy toward her. He would say things that were highly inappropriate. She was just too terrified to report him.” When the woman spoke, her eyes darted around the room constantly. Her fingers nervously picked at the seams of her jeans. Pierce looked incredibly satisfied with his theatrical production. Once the witnesses stepped down, he walked to the absolute center of the courtroom floor. It was time for his closing statement. “Your Honor, members of the jury.” He elegantly pushed his gold glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The facts of this case are undeniable. The evidence is mountainous.” “The victim’s harrowing personal testimony, the certified medical reports detailing her brutal injuries, the terrifying audio recording, and the corroborating statements of three separate witnesses. Every single piece of evidence points directly to one inescapable truth.” He turned slowly on his heel and pointed a perfectly manicured finger directly at me. “The defendant, Arthur Kingsley, abused his position of power to inflict unimaginable physical and psychological torment on a helpless woman, illegally holding her captive in the dark for seventy two hours.” His eyes were freezing cold. “Throughout this entire proceeding, the defendant has remained completely silent. He has offered absolutely no defense. In a court of law, silence of this magnitude is the loudest confession of guilt.” The gallery erupted into furious, vindicated applause. The bailiffs had to shout and physically intervene to quiet the mob. Pierce turned back to the judge, offering a crisp, respectful bow. “The prosecution rests. We beg the court to deliver the maximum possible sentence for this monster.” He casually walked back to his table and took a seat. He unscrewed the cap of his expensive bottled water and took a slow, victorious sip. His posture screamed that the guilty verdict was already printed, just waiting for the judge’s signature. The judge nodded solemnly, turning his heavy gaze toward my table. “Arthur Kingsley.” “Do you have any final statements before this court moves forward?” The entire room went completely dead. Hundreds of eyes locked onto my face. The angry citizens in the gallery glared at me, looking like they wanted to drag me out into the street and hang me from a streetlamp. Next to me, Simon took a massive, shuddering breath. He placed his hands firmly on top of the bulging manila envelope. A full week of meticulous, undeniable proof was stuffed inside. I stood up. I slowly adjusted the cuffs of my tailored suit. I took my time. I moved so slowly that the entire courtroom began to vibrate with impatient rage. Someone in the back yelled for me to stop stalling and just confess already. A bailiff barked for silence. I ignored all of it. I lifted my chin and looked directly into the judge’s eyes. “Your Honor.” “Yes, Mr. Kingsley.” “Before I begin, I would like to ask the court to officially verify the core details of the plaintiff’s sworn statement.” Prosecutor Pierce raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The plaintiff explicitly stated,” I paused, letting the silence hang, “that I dragged her down into a basement and locked her there for three days and three nights. Is that correct?” The judge flipped open the massive binder of trial transcripts. “That is correct. The plaintiff’s exact recorded words were, ‘He dragged me into the basement. There were no windows, and it was so pitch black I could not see my own hands.’” “Excellent.” I nodded slowly in approval. “A basement. Three days and three nights. No windows. Pitch black.” “She is absolutely certain those were her exact words?” “It is recorded in black and white under penalty of perjury,” the judge stated flatly. I turned my head and looked directly at Brenda. She was still crying into her hands. But I noticed her fingers suddenly dig viciously into her knees. Her knuckles went completely white. I turned back to the bench. “In that case.” I gave Simon a tiny nod. Simon ripped open the manila envelope and pulled out a massive, folded piece of architectural drafting paper. He unfolded it with a sharp snap and handed it to the bailiff. The bailiff passed it up to the judge’s elevated desk. “What exactly is this?” the judge asked, frowning. “That is the official architectural blueprint of my residence, registered with the city zoning and planning department,” I said, my voice projecting clearly across the silent room. “It includes the original structural layout tied to my property deed. It bears the official city seal, the lead developer’s signature, and is dated from the exact year of construction.” The judge flattened the heavy paper and began studying the lines. Prosecutor Pierce’s brow furrowed into a tight knot. But he did not object. He clearly thought this was just the desperate, pathetic flailing of a dying man. It did not matter. The judge stared at the blueprint for about fifteen seconds. His hands suddenly stopped moving. He pulled his reading glasses down to the bridge of his nose, stared closely at the paper, then pushed the glasses back up and read it a second time. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked down at me. “Defendant.” “Yes, Your Honor.” “This official structural blueprint indicates a specific architectural design.” The judge paused, his voice turning incredibly heavy. “Your residence is a single level slab on grade property.” “That is correct.” “There is no basement.” “That is correct.” “There is no subterranean level, no sunken storage room, and absolutely no structural enclosure below the ground elevation line.” “That is exactly correct,” I said. My voice was calm, but it echoed like a gunshot through the massive room. The silence stretched for two seconds. Then three seconds. Then five seconds. From across the aisle, I could clearly hear Prosecutor Pierce’s hand freeze on his water bottle. The faint, scraping sound of the plastic cap twisting shut abruptly stopped. Click. His hand just hovered there, completely paralyzed.

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Before she died, Emma begged me: “My new pen pal has depression. Please keep writing to him for me, save him.” After hesitating for a long time, I began to mimic her handwriting, keeping up the correspondence for three years. That was until Gavin, fully recovered, tracked me down and showed up at my door. As I stood there wondering if I should confess that I was the one behind the letters, floating text suddenly drifted across my field of vision like a live chat overlay on a screen: [Does this side character seriously think she’s the female lead? She’s just a ghostwriter.] [Once she takes credit, the male lead marries her. But when he finds out she’s a fake, he takes his anger out on her, divorces her, and ruins her life.] I stared at the man standing in front of me. Except for that very first letter, every single word sent over the last three years had come from my hand. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. The person you’re looking for is no longer here.” 01 I recognized Gavin the second I saw him. He looked much more mature than the photo he had slipped into one of his letters three years ago, but his face was unmistakable. Gavin panicked instantly. “No longer here? What do you mean she’s no longer here?” In his desperation, his hands flew forward and gripped my shoulders tightly. “Ouch, let go of me,” I said, swatting his hands away. “Who even are you? Let’s talk like civilized people, keep your hands to yourself.” Realizing he had let his emotions get the better of him, he let go of me immediately. “I’m sorry. What did you mean when you said she’s no longer here?” “Aren’t you looking for Emma? She’s dead.” In truth, I still had one unmailed letter sitting inside my apartment. Over the past year, I could tell from his replies that he had recovered from his depression and no longer needed “Emma” to keep him anchored. Because of that, I had started spacing out my replies, hoping he would naturally adapt to her gradual departure. “Dead?” Gavin looked completely shell-shocked. “How is that possible? She messaged me just last month.” I gave him a wary look. “Who are you, anyway? Why are you asking about her?” “We were pen pals. Did she ever mention that to you?” “Sorry, we weren’t that close. But she really is dead, so you can stop looking. If you don’t believe me, ask her other friends.” Emma had been a solitary, eccentric person who kept to herself. If she had any friends at all, I was the only one. “How did she die? When?” “Aren’t you her pen pal? Didn’t you know she was sick? She passed away earlier this month. You’re just too late.” 02 The floating comments in my vision flared up with skepticism: [Did she forget who is standing in front of her? Why is she lying about Emma’s death? And why is she pretending she doesn’t know him?] [Wait, this is wrong. Isn’t she supposed to claim she’s the one who wrote the letters? She should say she only used Emma’s name because she was shy, accept his proposal, and marry him.] [If she acts like this, how is the actual female lead supposed to show up? In the original plot, the male lead finds out the side character is a fake, forces a divorce, gets drunk, and has a wild night with the female lead. That’s how their true love story is supposed to start…] Reading the floating comments made me even more glad that I was playing dumb. Over the last three years, because I wasn’t great at inventing a fake life for Emma, I had simply written about my own daily routine. I was living a perfectly fine life; I had no desire to marry some rich guy only to be tortured and ruined. Gavin blocked my path as I tried to leave. “Can you take me to her grave?” “I don’t even know who you are,” I said, refusing him flatly. “First of all, it’s not safe. Second, I have to go to work.” He pulled out a credit card and a stack of letters. “There’s fifteen thousand dollars on this card. I want to hire you to take me to her. These are Emma’s letters. You must recognize her handwriting.” I recognized it, of course; I had practiced mimicking Emma’s handwriting until it was flawless. But I pushed them away. “Sorry, I don’t know how you found this place, but Emma and I were just roommates. I can’t tell her handwriting apart. I need money, but I’m not taking sketchy cash from a stranger. For all I know, you’re trying to kidnap me and sell my organs. Let me through, or I’m losing my punctuality bonus.” I took a step down the stairs. “You’re Fiona, right?” he said. “You weren’t just her roommate. You were her only friend.” 03 “Emma talked about you in her letters. She said you were wonderful to her, and she was incredibly grateful for you.” Oh, great. I had written so many letters over the years, sometimes after a glass of wine or two, that I had completely forgotten what I’d said. I must have let my vanity get the best of me and thrown in a few compliments about myself. [Look at her panic. She definitely remembers what the male lead looks like, so why is she playing dumb? Does she hate a comfortable life?] [He’s incredibly wealthy! With how much she knows about him, she could easily extract millions. Why is she throwing this opportunity away?] [Maybe she’s playing hard to get.] [Maybe she thinks confessing too early makes her look desperate.] “Fiona, you don’t need to be so defensive,” Gavin said softly. “If you’re uncomfortable, you can invite some friends or family to join us. I just want to visit her grave.” Emma was an orphan, and I had handled her funeral and burial. She once told me: “I’m totally alone in this world. When I’m gone, just put my ashes in a jar and dump them in the ocean.” I had teased her in return: “No way, I don’t want to end up eating a fish that ate you. I’ll buy you a cheap plot, don’t worry.” Even a cheap plot was a huge expense for me, so I had spent quite a bit of my savings on a small headstone that simply read: Emma. I let out a sigh. “Fine, I’ll request some time off and take you.” When we arrived at the cemetery, Gavin stood silently before the small headstone for a long time. It must have been incredibly hard for him to accept. He had fought his way out of a dark place, expecting to finally meet his savior, only to find a cold piece of stone. Eventually, he walked back over to me. “Fiona, is there anything you need? I want to repay you for taking such good care of Emma.” I thought about it, then pointed at the headstone. “Could you reimburse me for the grave? I’m really tight on money. Emma wanted me to scatter her ashes in the ocean, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Still, the plot was a massive expense for me.” [Haha, of course the side character is a gold-digger. Even now, she’s only thinking about money.] [She only marries Gavin for his wealth anyway.] [If she weren’t so greedy, how else would the pure and innocent female lead stand out?] “Of course,” Gavin replied instantly. “I’ll pay you back ten times that amount.” I smiled, thrilled by the sudden windfall. Just then, the cemetery keeper walked by and recognized me. “Hey there! Visiting your friend again? I’ve never seen anyone visit a grave so often. You’re here every single month!” Crap. Busted. 04 [Haha, she just said Emma died this month, but she’s been coming here every month. Let’s see how she lies her way out of this one.] [Her face is completely white. The male lead definitely noticed.] “Every month?” Gavin looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I thought you said she died recently?” I forced myself to stay calm, though my hands were sweating. I let out a heavy sigh. “I was talking about my mother. I miss her, so I come here every month to talk to her. Also, in the months before Emma passed, I came to look at plots for her. I didn’t want her to have nowhere to go when the time came, but no matter how many months I checked, the price never dropped.” Gavin looked only half-convinced. “Did Emma leave any final words for me?” I wanted nothing more than to sever any connection with this man. I shook my head. “She lost her ability to speak toward the end. It was my first time dealing with something like that, so I was too frantic taking care of her to ask.” “Did she pass away in your apartment?” I nodded. It was indeed my apartment; she had stayed with me, and I couldn’t just throw her out when she got sick. “Thank you for taking care of her.” “Don’t mention it. We were friends.” Suddenly, he asked, “Where is your mother’s grave? I’d like to leave some flowers.” Oh god. My mother was alive and well, living in another state. [The side character grew up without a mother in this town, so she’s totally making things up now.] [The male lead absolutely detests being lied to. His punishments are usually brutal.] I declined quickly. “No, thank you, Mr. Gavin. I promised my mother I would only ever bring my future husband to see her. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.” He accepted the excuse surprisingly easily. We walked back to his car. When we reached my apartment building, I said, “You can just drop me off here, Mr. Gavin.” Gavin remained quiet the whole ride. Once we pulled up, I reached for the door handle, but the doors remained locked. “Fiona, I have a request,” he said. I paused. What now? “May I see the room Emma lived in?” “It’s my apartment, so that’s not really appropriate. Besides, I’ve already cleared out her things.” “I’ll buy the apartment from you, then.” “No way,” I snapped, raising my voice. “This is the only thing my father left me. Absolutely not.” The lock clicked open. I scrambled out. “Fiona, please,” he said, getting out of the car. “Emma was incredibly important to me. She saved my life. I just want to see where she spent her time.” And then, he dropped to his knees. [Oh my god, when did the male lead become like this? Kneeling for love? He’s a multi-millionaire heir!] [I love this devoted husband energy! This is pure, unadulterated love.] [Look at his broad shoulders and narrow waist… how is she resisting this? Even if she’s a terrible side character, she gets to enjoy this view.] I couldn’t stand a scene in public, so I pulled him up. “Just for a minute. Then you leave.” He got up remarkably fast. My apartment had no trace of Emma, especially since she had passed away three years ago. The decor was soft and pastel pink, which was the polar opposite of Emma’s actual style; she had loved deep blue. “This is the guest room where she stayed. Take a quick look. I threw everything of hers away after she died.” He walked in, his long legs taking him straight toward the desk. I realized too late that I had made a terrible mistake. His fingers picked up an envelope. “I thought you said you cleared everything out?” The envelope was addressed to Gavin, signed by Emma. And the letter inside was a simple, normal update about daily life. It sounded nothing like a dying person.

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1 When I transmigrated into this trashy romance novel, my little sister was kneeling in the pouring rain, begging her billionaire boyfriend not to dump her. I lunged forward and slapped her right across the face. She cupped her cheek, tears welling in her eyes. “Summer? You hit me?” I shook my hand, which was completely numb from the impact. “Are you awake yet?” She sniffled. “Yeah. Fully awake.” I shoved the umbrella into her arms, spun around, and glared at the billionaire standing on the mansion’s porch. “Your turn, Gavin. Are you going to get on your knees yourself, or should I fetch a non-slip mat for you?” Rain hammered against the pavement in front of the Harrington estate. The marble tiles were polished so bright they practically reflected my face, which was still trying to adjust to this high-definition world after only three minutes of transmigrating. My name is Summer. One second I was on the subway, reading a trashy, angsty web novel and complaining about the plot; the next, I was standing outside a mega-mansion. Right before my eyes was my little sister, Jasmine, kneeling in the rain. She was clutching a breakup agreement, soaked to the bone, sobbing so hard she couldn’t even form words. Gavin Harrington stood on the sheltered porch, holding a black umbrella low. Not a single drop of water touched his bespoke suit. The words coming out of his mouth were as toxic as they get. “Jasmine, someone like you doesn’t belong in the Harrington family. You aren’t worthy.” In my head, the original plot instantly popped up. In the novel, Jasmine suffered a miscarriage for this man, faced endless public humiliation, got constantly misunderstood, and was eventually locked in his mansion’s basement. Even on her deathbed, she still had to listen to him say “I love you.” My blood pressure skyrocketed on the spot. My wet shoes slipped on the slick pavement, and I almost did a full face-plant into a bow. Thankfully, I caught my balance. Gavin’s brow furrowed. He looked like he was waiting for me to join the crying fest. I marched up to Jasmine, raised my hand, and smack. It was a crisp, resounding slap. Even the sound of the rain seemed to quiet down for a second. Jasmine stared up at me, hand on her cheek, water dripping from her eyelashes. Her lips trembled uncontrollably. “Summer?” I crouched down, grabbed her by the shoulders, and stared straight into her dazed eyes. “When you look at him right now, is he still glowing in a romantic soft-focus filter?” She turned her head dazed to Gavin. Gavin raised his chin, looking down his nose at her with utter contempt. Jasmine sniffled. “No.” I nodded in satisfaction. “What does he look like to you now?” She took another look, hesitated, and muttered, “Like a guy who got locked out of his apartment for not paying his rent but is still trying to act like the president of the HOA.” I almost applauded right there. Brilliant. The slap therapy worked perfectly. Gavin’s expression soured. He stepped forward a fraction. An umbrella-toting bodyguard immediately adjusted his coverage. The sheer dramatic staging of it made it look like they were shooting a high-fashion cologne ad. “Summer, you dare strike her?” I stood up, rainwater dripping from my hair. Just as I was about to strike a powerful, intimidating pose, my nose tickled. “Achoo!” The sneeze blasted directly toward Gavin. The bodyguard’s umbrella wobbled. A fine mist of sneeze-spray settled on the front of Gavin’s pristine suit. Combined with his scowling face, the high-society romantic drama instantly devolved into an infectious disease control hazard. I wiped my nose with my sleeve. “Sorry, Mr. Harrington. My reflexes are more honest than your personality.” Behind me, Jasmine let out a sharp, muffled snort, trying desperately to suffocate a laugh. Gavin raised his hand. A bodyguard offered a handkerchief, but he ignored it. He didn’t even look at me, keeping his cold gaze locked on Jasmine. “Jasmine, if you walk out of this gate with her, don’t you dare think of ever coming back.” Jasmine’s shoulders slumped slightly. I could already guess her line in the original book: Gavin, I truly love you. I reached out, grabbed her head, and physically rotated her ninety degrees so she was facing the main exit of the gated community. “Don’t look. It’s bad for your eyesight.” With her neck twisted, Jasmine squeaked in a muffled voice, “Summer, my neck doesn’t rotate like a security camera.” I let go and snatched the breakup agreement from her hands. The pages were packed with dense legal jargon: Jasmine was forbidden from harassing Gavin, forbidden from appearing near the Harrington estate, forbidden from speaking to the media, and forbidden from seeking compensation. The line for the payout amount was completely blank. I looked up. “Mr. Harrington, this contract is incredibly eco-friendly.” Gavin glared at me. “What do you mean?” “You saved a ton of paper by omitting the dollar signs.” One of the bodyguards failed to suppress a chuckle, his shoulders twitching before he quickly looked down at his shoes. Gavin descended the stairs, his umbrella escort moving in perfect synchronization to keep him dry. He stopped right in front of me and lowered his voice. “How much do you want?” I pulled out my phone, opened the calculator app, and tapped the screen furiously. Gavin watched me with a smirk of sheer disdain. I shoved the screen right in front of his face. It read: 250. His jaw tightened. “Are you mocking me?” I shook my head. “You misunderstand. That’s your appearance fee. In Vietnamese Dong.” Jasmine couldn’t hold it in anymore. She burst out laughing, quickly biting her own hand to muffle the sound. Gavin stared at me as if he wanted to file me away as a breach of contract. Just then, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the gates. The tinted window rolled down halfway, revealing a strikingly handsome face. The man wore gold-rimmed glasses and held a folder. He glanced at my outstretched phone screen. “Mr. Harrington, the board of directors is waiting.” Gavin snapped his gaze away from me, his voice stiff. “Gideon, you’re just in time. Escort these two off the property.” Gideon looked at my soaked sleeves, then glanced at the damp spot on Gavin’s chest. He remained silent for two seconds. “I can escort them out, but sanitation and disinfection fees will be billed separately.” I locked eyes with him through the rain. He was exceptionally good-looking, but his tongue was lethal. Gavin’s face went completely dark. I helped Jasmine stand up. As we passed Gideon’s car, he slid an umbrella through the open window. Jasmine reached for it, but I snatched the handle first. “Thanks. I’ll get it back to you.” Gideon stared at me. “The umbrella has a tracker.” My hand slipped, and I almost dropped it. He pushed up his glasses. “Just kidding.” I let out a breath. Then Gideon added, “It only has a Venmo code.” I looked down. Sure enough, a printed QR code sticker was taped to the handle. Jasmine whispered beside me, “Summer, do billionaires usually run side-hustles as umbrella rentals?” I stared at Gideon’s clean, elegant face, grinding my teeth. “Sis, remember this: even if a guy looks like a model, he might just be a smart-rental umbrella in human form.” The car window began to roll up. Just before it closed completely, Gideon’s voice drifted out. “Deposit is eighty-eight bucks.” I stood in the rain clutching the umbrella, thinking this novel world was absolutely exhausting. I hadn’t even dealt with the toxic billionaire yet, and I was already getting hit with a mobile transaction fee. 2 Back in our cramped apartment, Jasmine sat on the sofa clutching a mug of hot water, a faint red handprint still visible on her cheek. I rummaged through the drawers for ointment but only found a bottle of eucalyptus oil and half a block of hotpot base. Jasmine stared at the eucalyptus oil, shrinking back. “Summer, maybe we just let it heal naturally?” I shoved the bottle back into the drawer. “Fine. If your brain can wake up from love, your face can handle a little swelling.” She looked down, cradling her mug, her ears flushing red. I spread the breakup agreement across the coffee table. Next to it, I lined up the phone recordings, photos, the degrading text messages Gavin had sent her, and the stack of receipts for all the expensive gifts she had bought him over the years. The more I read, the more I wanted to list Gavin on eBay. Title: Billionaire, barely used, brain unboxing pending. Jasmine said softly, “Summer, Gavin wasn’t always like this.” I looked up. She immediately clutched her mug tighter. “I’m sorry! He was always like this. I just had a beauty filter on in my head.” The doorbell rang. Jasmine flinched, the lid of her mug rattling. I peeked through the peephole. Two men in sharp suits stood in the hallway, holding leather portfolios, their expressions so uniform they looked like they had been manufactured in the same factory. “Miss Lin, we are here on behalf of Mr. Harrington.” I didn’t open the door. I just yelled through it, “Did you bring care packages?” There was a pause outside. “We require Miss Jasmine Lin to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Mr. Harrington is willing to offer an additional hundred thousand dollars.” Jasmine’s eyes lit up for a fraction of a second before quickly dimming again. I reached out and covered her ears, shouting through the door, “Too low!” The voice outside responded, “Name your price.” I thought about it. “Have Gavin Harrington come here himself and sing I Will Survive. No lip-syncing, and he’d better hit the high notes.” Silence fell over the hallway. After a few seconds, a horribly familiar male voice echoed through the wood. “Summer, don’t push your luck.” Gavin had actually come. I unlocked the door and cracked it open just enough to show half my face. Gavin stood in the hallway, flanked by his assistant and two bodyguards. He held a revised contract, his face practically screaming: I am gracing you with my presence, so you’d better bow down and thank me. The moment I saw him, I slammed the door shut. Bang. Jasmine blinked, holding her mug. “Summer, aren’t you going to negotiate?” I leaned against the door, latched the safety chain, and cracked it open again. “Negotiating like this gives me a sense of security. Besides, it matches his gutter-dwelling vibe.” Gavin glared at me through the gap. “I will give you three hundred thousand. Leave this city.” I pulled out my phone and opened a food delivery app. “Hold your horses. Let me check how many pepperoni pizzas three hundred grand can buy.” A vein pulsed on Gavin’s temple. “Summer!” “Don’t worry.” I swiped the screen. “With the local coupons, that’s about thirty thousand pizzas. Mr. Harrington, are you trying to drown us in cheese?” The assistant couldn’t help himself. He let out a sharp cough. Gavin whipped his head around. The assistant immediately stared at the wall, his face turning a deep crimson. Jasmine peeked out from behind me, her voice soft but steady. “Gavin, I won’t bother you anymore.” Gavin’s expression relaxed slightly, clearly waiting for her to start crying. But Jasmine continued, “Just return the massage chair I bought you last year.” The draft from the hallway whistled through the crack. Gavin’s eyelid twitched. I looked back at her, a wave of sisterly pride washing over me. Look at that. The kid was finally learning how to collect debts. Gavin gritted his teeth. “Jasmine, are you sure about this?” Jasmine hesitated for half a second before opening her phone’s notes app. “And the watch I got you for your birthday. That was twelve thousand. The organic royal jelly your mother made me buy, five grand. And the pet grooming bill for your dog, Duke. I paid nine hundred bucks for that, and the dog bit my ankle right after.” The more she read, the smoother she got. No tears fell, but her mouth was moving at lightning speed. “Oh, and those forty boba teas I ordered for you when you said you were in a bad mood. You only took one sip, said it was too sweet, and left. I stayed up until three in the morning drinking them so they wouldn’t go to waste.” I chimed in, “That counts as emotional distress. I suggest we charge him per cup.” The billionaire filter on Gavin’s face was peeling off like cheap paint. He slapped the contract against the door. “Don’t regret this.” I slipped the contract through the crack and looked at it. This time, the compensation line indeed said three hundred thousand. I pulled out a pen and added two zeros to the end. Gavin sneered. “Are you out of your mind?” I handed it back. “Mr. Harrington, if you’re going to insult us, at least adjust for inflation.” At the end of the hallway, the elevator dinged. Gideon walked out, carrying a transparent document folder. His gaze drifted from our high-security doorway negotiation to Gavin’s thunderous expression. “Mr. Harrington, the Chairman wants you back at the office.” Gavin suppressed his rage. “What are you doing here?” Gideon held up the folder. “Delivering the receipt for the umbrella deposit.” My scalp went numb. Jasmine whispered behind me, “Summer, he tracked us down to collect a debt.” Gideon approached and slid the receipt through the door crack. I took it, looked at it, and stared at him. “The deposit was eighty-eight dollars. Why does this receipt say eight thousand eight hundred?” Gideon’s eyes behind his glasses remained perfectly calm. “The umbrella you took was a limited-edition commemorative piece.” I looked down at the black umbrella leaning against the wall. Printed in tiny font on the canopy was: Harrington Group 10th Anniversary Employee Benefit. I looked back up. “Your employee benefits are that expensive?” Gideon nodded. “The price reflects the fact that nobody wanted them.” Gavin finally snapped. “Gideon, whose side are you on?” Gideon tucked the folder under his arm, his tone deadpan. “Billed hourly, right now I am on the side of the receipt.” I watched him through the crack. For the first time, a thought popped into my head. This man is unhinged. But he is exactly the kind of unhinged I need on my team. The hallway motion-sensor light clicked off. In the sudden darkness, Jasmine grabbed my arm nervously. Gavin’s voice drifted through the gap, sounding like a utility shut-off notice. “Jasmine, I am giving you one last chance.” I was about to lay into him when Gideon’s voice echoed in the dark. “Mr. Harrington, motion-sensor lights require sound.” In the next second, he clapped his hands twice. The light flickered back on. Revealing Gavin’s face, pressed right against the door crack, trying to peek inside. Our eyes met from a mere three centimeters away. Jasmine let out a shriek and splashed her mug of hot water straight through the gap. Outside the door, Gavin unleashed a scream that was decidedly un-billionaire. 3 Gavin was howling and hopping down the hallway while his bodyguards scrambled around him. The corridor echoed with the sounds of dropping dignity and urgent requests for burn ointment. I shut the door tight, locked it, and turned to Jasmine. She was holding her empty mug, her face pale. “Summer, did I just ruin everything?” I patted her shoulder. “You just physically terminated a toxic engagement. High efficiency, really.” Jasmine’s lips twitched, wanting to smile but not quite daring to. Suddenly, our phones began to vibrate frantically. The original novel’s plot was fighting back. A PR account associated with the Harrington Group had just released a statement. It heavily implied that Jasmine had been stalking Gavin for years, and after failing to extort money from him, she had thrown boiling water at him in a fit of rage. Underneath the post, armies of internet trolls and bot accounts were marching in, calling her a gold-digger, an attention seeker, and a lunatic obsessed with marrying into wealth. Jasmine watched the comments roll in, her face draining of color. I snatched the phone away. “Don’t look into the dumpster. Roses don’t grow there.” Her eyes welled with tears. “But everyone believes them.” I opened a drawer and pulled out a small megaphone. It was a relic left behind by the original host of this body from when she used to sell hairpins at a street market, which was bright pink with two faded strawberry stickers. Jasmine stared at me, startled by the prop. “Summer, what are you doing?” I hung the megaphone around my neck, opened a video editing app on my phone, and began organizing our evidence. “Gavin loves public opinion. Let’s give him a feast.” As the sunset bled through the windows, I dragged Jasmine straight to the Harrington Group headquarters. The office tower was buzzing with rush-hour traffic. When the security guards spotted the neon-pink megaphone in my hand, their expressions instantly switched to high alert. I cleared my throat. The megaphone let out a screeching feedback howl, making passing white-collar workers collectively shrink their necks. “Attention, passersby and lovers of gossip! The Harrington Group’s Annual Relationship Fraud Customer Service Desk is now open!” Jasmine tugged at my sleeve, her fingers trembling. I handed her my phone. “Read the ledger.” She looked at the screen, then at the gathering crowd. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. I raised the megaphone. “During his relationship with my sister, Mr. Gavin Harrington accepted gifts totaling twenty-three thousand six hundred and forty-eight dollars! This includes a high-end massage chair, designer watches, organic supplements, dog grooming bills, and forty boba teas!” Someone in the crowd snorted. “Dog grooming counts too?” I nodded into the mic. “Even the dog got pampered, while my sister didn’t even get a thank-you!” Jasmine sniffled, lifting her chin. “And the Uber fares!” I passed her the megaphone. Her hands shook as she took it, her voice wavering at first but growing clearer with every word. “Every time we had an argument, he made me get out of his car and find my own way home. I had to take Ubers back just to apologize to him. The total round trips cost me nine hundred and seventy dollars!” The onlookers began whispering and chuckling. Two security guards lunged forward, trying to grab the megaphone. I sidestepped them, but my heel caught on a loose paving stone. I tilted sideways, losing my balance. A firm hand caught me by the back. The crisp scent of pine and rain filled my nose. I looked up. Gideon was standing right behind me, holding a coffee cup in his other hand. The coffee sloshed slightly but didn’t spill a single drop. Inappropriately, I found myself thinking: This guy’s balance is perfect for waitressing. “What are you doing here?” I asked. Gideon looked at the pink megaphone around my neck. “Working.” I pointed at the crowd. “It’s a circus outside your office tower. Aren’t you going to do something?” He looked down at his phone. “I’m waiting for the PR department to clock out.” I blinked. “Why?” Gideon turned his screen toward me. The internal PR group chat was scrolling at lightspeed. “There’s a woman holding a relationship fraud seminar downstairs.” “Security can’t catch her. She has insane agility.” “Mr. Harrington is asking who let her in.” “The revolving doors refuse to take the blame.” Gideon tucked his phone away. “If they haven’t clocked out, I can’t bill for overtime.” I stared at him, managing to squeeze out, “Your rebellion against capitalism is oddly refreshing.” Before Gideon could reply, the revolving doors spun open violently. Gavin stormed out. He had changed his shirt, but a patch of red skin was still visible on his collarbone. His expression was darker than the twilight sky. Jasmine’s hand holding the megaphone shrank back. I stepped half a pace forward, shielding her. Gavin growled, “Summer, have you had enough?” I turned the megaphone volume to maximum. “NO!” The piercing screech of feedback echoed across the plaza. Gavin’s eye twitched. He lunged to grab the device. Gideon smoothly extended his coffee cup between us. “Mr. Harrington, it’s hot.” Gavin froze. In that split second, the burn on his neck must have triggered a vivid flashback. I seized the opportunity to step back and hit play on my phone’s audio recordings. Gavin’s voice blasted through the speaker. “Jasmine, you are absolutely nothing without me!” The crowd gasped. Jasmine stood tall behind me, her shoulders no longer hunched. She looked at Gavin, her face completely devoid of the broken, pleading look from the original book. Gavin lunged again to shut off my phone. My foot slipped on the wet stone. This time, I couldn’t catch myself. I went down, taking the megaphone with me. Gideon reached out to catch me, but his coffee was caught in the crossfire. My elbow shoved his arm. Splash. The coffee splattered directly onto the massive digital billboard flanking the lobby entrance of the Harrington Group. The giant screen flickered violently. The corporate promotional video glitched, suddenly cutting to a bright blue error screen. Then, the megaphone fell to the pavement, triggering a pre-recorded intro I had set up earlier: “Welcome to the premier episode of: Gavin Harrington’s Epic Downfall!” Every single person outside the building looked up at the giant screen. The display flared to life. 4 On the massive digital screen, Gavin’s voice, “You are absolutely nothing without me!” looped three times in high-definition audio. With each repetition, Gavin’s face turned a shade closer to a boiled lobster. A security guard tried to pull the power cable, but the display’s control box was mounted too high. He jumped twice, only grabbing handfuls of empty air. A passing software engineer holding a boba tea yelled directions. “Reboot it! Hold the power button for ten seconds!” The guard roared back, “This is a commercial display, not your home router!” Gideon stood off to the side, staring down at his coffee cup. Only a smear of brown foam remained at the bottom. I cleared my throat. “I’ll pay for it.” He looked at me. “The coffee or the screen?” I immediately turned to Jasmine. “Jasmine, look! A wild guilt-trip in its natural habitat.” Jasmine looked up at the sky with a face so earnest it was almost heartbreaking. Gavin finally snapped out of his trance. He marched up to me, his finger practically poking my forehead. “You set me up?” I picked up the pink megaphone and blew the dust off it. “Mr. Harrington, this is called customer feedback.” He lowered his voice to a threatening hiss. “Do you think a couple of audio clips can ruin me?” I opened my phone’s gallery and held up a screenshot of the text messages showing he had made Jasmine wait in a torrential downpour for five hours. “I also have pictures.” I swiped to the next image, a voice-to-text transcript of his mother demanding Jasmine deliver imported supplements but forbidding her from entering the house. “And audio transcripts.” I kept swiping, showing screenshots of his friends betting on how long Jasmine would last in a group chat. “And group chats.” Gideon reached out, his fingers gently pressing down on the edge of my phone. I looked at him warily. “Are you confiscating the evidence?” He adjusted his glasses. “Your battery is at four percent.” I looked down. My breath caught. Gideon handed me a power bank. The casing, naturally, was another Harrington Group 10th Anniversary Employee Benefit. I took it in silence. Just how many unwanted promo items did this company manufacture? Gavin saw Gideon helping me, his brow furrowing into a tight knot. “Gideon, don’t forget who signs your paychecks.” Gideon checked his watch. “My employment contract explicitly excludes accompanying you during public embarrassments.” Several chuckles erupted from the crowd. Gavin’s temper flared. He turned to his bodyguards and ordered them to clear the plaza. The crowd began to disperse, pushing Jasmine back. I reached out to grab her, but she pulled away, taking a firm step forward. “Gavin Harrington.” Her voice was still thick from crying, but it carried perfectly through the megaphone. “You always said I couldn’t survive without you.” Gavin stared at her, his expression a complex mix of anger and expectation, clearly waiting for her to beg. Jasmine pulled a plastic card from her purse. “This is the gym membership you opened under my name. You never went once, and the trainer texts me every single day asking when you’re coming in.” Gavin froze. She held the card high. “Refund me the money. I’m taking up boxing.” The crowd burst into full-blown laughter. I almost squeezed the power bank to pieces, my heart bursting with sisterly pride. I wanted to commission a plaque for her. The last shred of Gavin’s romantic ego was utterly demolished by the word “boxing.” Just as the security guards were starting to sweat from the sheer chaos, a sleek silver luxury van pulled up to the curb. The door slid open, and Mrs. Harrington stepped out. She was immaculately put together, her hair coiffed without a single strand out of place, her pearl necklace gleaming under the streetlights. “What is the meaning of this?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but the plaza instantly fell quiet. Jasmine’s face paled. In the original novel, Mrs. Harrington was a major source of misery, famous for using multi-million-dollar checks and icy glares to crush the female lead into oblivion. I slung the megaphone over my chest, preparing for battle. Mrs. Harrington walked over, her gaze sweeping past Jasmine before settling on me. “So, you’re Summer?” I nodded. She reached into her designer bag and pulled out a card. Jasmine tensed. I braced myself. Here it comes. The classic “take five million and leave my son” routine. Mrs. Harrington slid the card toward me. “There is a thousand dollars on this.” My face practically cracked open. She lifted her chin. “Leave my son.” The onlookers fell into a collective, stunned silence. I stared at the card, taking a few seconds to process it before asking, “Mrs. Harrington… is your son really worth that little nowadays?” Beside me, Gideon turned his head away, his shoulders shaking slightly. Mrs. Harrington’s face turned livid. Gavin growled, “Mom!” Mrs. Harrington glared back at him. “Shut up! The company’s stock is tanking, and you’re out here hosting a relationship exit interview?” My eyes lit up. Ah. So the Harringtons do care about public scandal. Just as I was about to strike while the iron was hot, Mrs. Harrington turned to Gideon. “Gideon, take them to the conference room. We will settle this inside.” Gideon nodded. I took a step back. “We aren’t going.” Mrs. Harrington sneered. “Scared?” I held up the megaphone. “Just worried your conference room doesn’t have cameras.” Gideon tapped his phone screen a few times. “It does. And it records audio.” I looked at him. He added, “I just had it serviced today. I still have the receipt.” I was certain of it now. This man has an unhealthy obsession with receipts.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “455087”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

“Dad! I’ve paid off David’s penthouse apartment in full, and I even hired a live-in house manager. David won’t have to worry about a thing in his retirement!” My son, Kevin Miller, sounded thrilled. I, however, was stunned, somewhat at a loss. After my divorce, I had worked tirelessly, alone, to raise my son. He graduated college and successfully landed a coveted offer from a top tech company, earning a hefty six-figure salary. But the first thing he did after receiving his first-year bonus was to arrange a lavish, all-inclusive retirement for my own brother, David Stone. “David was so good to me when I was a kid. Now that I have the means, naturally I want to repay him first!” “He looked out for me then, and now I’ll look out for him!” Watching my brother, David, and my son, Kevin, chummily with their arms around each other, I couldn’t help but laugh. Last month, I’d tried to bring up wanting to catch up on my missing social security payments. What did he say again? “Social security is all a scam! At your age, you should be focused on your career!” “It’s pathetic to think about taking it easy before you’re even old enough. You have no ambition!” Thinking of that, I tossed the already melted pill into the trash. When I spoke again, my voice was devoid of emotion. “Alright, then. Let’s find a time for you to formally separate your residency from mine.” The moment the words left my mouth, the living room fell into a dead silence, which was then shattered by Kevin Miller’s furious roar. “Dad! You’ve really lost it!” “How can you be so petty at your age? Your heart is smaller than a pinhead!” David Stone looked awkward, patting Kevin’s back, his words hesitant. “Mark… I know… I know you think I’m taking advantage of Kevin’s filial devotion. I also feel it’s not right, but Kevin is such a loyal kid…” I remained expressionless, pulling open the front door. “Got it. This is my house. Please leave!” Kevin Miller was so enraged his face flushed crimson. He clenched his fists, about to step forward. Seeing the situation escalating, David quickly pulled and pushed Kevin out the door. “Mark! You’re angry right now. I’ll take Kevin for now. We can talk again in a couple of days when you’ve cooled down!” I watched, wide-eyed, as the uncle and nephew walked away with their arms around each other, feeling a huge chunk of my heart hollowed out. For the next week, Kevin acted as if I didn’t exist, completely silent. It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that my ex-wife’s call came through. “Mark, I swear, ever since we divorced, you’ve become more and more unreasonable!” “You’re going to hurt your son over something so trivial?” “It’s been a week, and you haven’t even bothered to reach out. Don’t you know you should apologize to your son when you’ve done something wrong?” I held the phone in silence, not uttering a word. “Mark! Are you listening?! Kevin’s been in a terrible mood these past few days, drinking himself miserable! Do you, as his father, even have a heart?!” “I’m warning you, Kevin is my only son!” “You were so adamant about raising him back then. If I’d known you’d act like this, I never would have agreed to let you take him!” Her words cut through me like a knife. She was right! All these years, I’d pulled double duty as both his mom and dad, raising him alone. How much he used to depend on me when he was little. But I don’t know when it started, my sacrifices were simply taken for granted. No matter how much I did, it seemed it could never compare to a few superficial words of warmth from his mom, whom he only saw twice a year. I choked back the lump in my throat, my voice trembling. “Is that so? I haven’t been good enough to him?” “Sarah Johnson, have you given a single penny in child support all these years? His food, his clothes, parent-teacher conferences, every ache and sniffle—which one wasn’t me?” “How dare you accuse me?” The woman on the other end was speechless, unable to utter a word for a long time. I wiped my eyes and simply hung up the phone. Before I could put my phone down, it rang again. It was David Stone. I hung up immediately. The next second, SnapChat notifications started pinging, one after another. [Mark! Aren’t you being too much?! What did Sarah do wrong? What did Kevin do wrong? Can’t you ever look for reasons within yourself?] [The way Kevin is now just proves he’s a good kid who knows how to repay kindness. I truly can’t understand how you could be a father like this!] [No matter what, Kevin is your only son. Do you really want to sever ties with him forever?] [Alright, I know you’re mad at me. I apologize, is that enough?!]

His condescending tone made me laugh bitterly. My temper boiled over, and I typed a reply directly. [What? So you *do* know you shouldn’t have taken it? If he treats you like his real dad, then I’ll step aside. From now on, he’s your son! Isn’t that perfect?] David Stone’s chat box showed “typing…” for a long time. In the end, not a single word was sent. I sat on the sofa, looking at the empty apartment, and couldn’t hold back my tears. How could a person end up like this? After being betrayed by my wife and my own brother, even my only son stabbed me in the back. What else is this but being completely alone and betrayed? … In the darkness, I dreamt of my first half of life. Married for 24 years, I hadn’t lived a single day for myself. At first, I tried desperately to be good to my wife, only for her to get involved with my own brother. Later, I devoted myself to my son, only for him to leave me with nothing. When I opened my eyes again, I looked at the paltry four-figure balance on my phone and the payment reminder from the social security office, finding it utterly absurd. I should have cried for myself. But I didn’t. I opened a local job search app, carefully sifting through suitable positions. From now on, every penny I earned would no longer be for anyone else. Only for myself. They say children are your retirement plan. But now, even my own son couldn’t be relied upon. Who else could I rely on? Only myself! The next morning, I finalized an agreement with a high-end property management company, taking on a live-in house manager position, with food and accommodation included. I started packing my luggage. Kevin Miller had a lot of things, and I sorted them out too. Since I decided to cut ties with this ungrateful wretch, I might as well be thorough. I was still debating whether to call him to pick up his stuff when the door was pushed open with a bang. Kevin Miller stormed in, fuming. “Dad, are you crazy?! I already told you, if I needed cash, I could just do some freelance work. Why would you become a live-in house manager? Isn’t that embarrassing?!” “You packed all your bags and didn’t even tell me?” “If the property management company hadn’t sent the contract confirmation to my email, I would still be in the dark!” I watched him explode, expressionless. While he caught his breath, I pointed to the pile of packages on the floor. “Perfect timing. All of this is your stuff. Take it with you.” His face immediately turned ashen. “What do you mean? Are you really kicking me out? Just because I object to you becoming a house manager?” “Dad, you’re almost fifty, can’t you use your brain?!” “If people find out that my dad, Kevin Miller’s dad, is working as a house manager, how am I supposed to show my face after that?!” I stopped what I was doing, looking at him, feeling a bit estranged. “Is that so? What do your feelings of shame have to do with me?” “You only think about yourself. Have you ever considered my situation?” Kevin Miller’s brows furrowed, “What situation could you possibly be in?” “I’m working myself to the bone out there, and you’re living comfortably at home. What more do you want?” I couldn’t help but sneer. “Kevin Miller! Did I raise you to be too naive?!” “The little money I earned from odd jobs all these years, you completely drained it before the end of each month. Now I only have a few thousand bucks left in my account!” “How many times has the social security office sent payment reminders? Do you understand what that means?!” Kevin Miller looked impatient. “Didn’t I tell you? You have me as a son; that crappy insurance is a waste of money!” “Do you really think I’d abandon you when you’re old?” I pulled at the corner of my mouth, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly trouble you.” “You still have to impress your mom and her lover. What about me?”

“What I said yesterday came from the heart. You’re an adult now, and you’re also your mom’s son. From now on, you don’t need to worry about my affairs.” Kevin Miller trembled with rage, his fists clenching audibly. “Enough! What ‘lover’?! What ‘lover’?!” “Hasn’t David done enough for you? After you divorced my mom, to spare your feelings, David hasn’t even agreed to marry Mom yet!” “Just for that, what’s wrong with me supporting him in his retirement?!” I nodded, not arguing further, simply politely pushing the luggage towards him, then ‘escorting’ him out. The moment the door closed, I immediately contacted a locksmith. See? How could I entrust my golden years to an ungrateful wretch who couldn’t tell right from wrong? On my first day of work at my employer’s house, I received a call from my dad. “Mark, Kevin just called me. What’s going on? Did you really go and become a house manager?” “And don’t be so harsh with the boy. Kevin was really hurt by you this time; his voice sounded hoarse on the phone.” Hearing that, a pang of sadness hit me. “Dad.” “Was I wrong?” “Yes, I admit that right after Sarah and I divorced, David, as his uncle, did help look after Kevin for a few days.” “But David stole my wife! Kevin was a victim too!” “How could he turn around and forget me, the father who raised him from diapers, and go support the man who broke up my family in his retirement?” There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. “…What?” “Didn’t Kevin tell you? I scrimped and saved to put him through college, helped him find a job.” “Now that he’s received his bonus, the first thing he does is arrange retirement for Sarah and David, and then he turns around and calls me petty!” “Now their ‘happy little family of three’ is doing just fine. What am I supposed to do?” “I only have a few thousand dollars in my account, and social security keeps sending reminders. If I don’t renew it this year, am I really supposed to rely on that ungrateful wretch?” Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably, yet I laughed aloud. “I’m earning money with my own hands to secure my own future. What’s wrong with that? Now, just because he finds it embarrassing, I have to back down?” “Do you think that’s fair?” After a long time, there was a deep sigh from the phone. “Mark, I know the boy didn’t act honorably, but no matter what…” “Kevin is still your only son, after all…” Before he could finish, I interrupted him directly. “Dad!” “I don’t have the same good fortune as you and Mom. I know my own son; I can’t rely on him in the future.” “So, starting today, I have to plan for myself.” Hanging up the phone, I stood in the small room assigned to me at my employer’s house, a jumble of conflicting emotions swirling inside me. Even though everyone said this line of work, “serving people,” wasn’t respectable. But this employer offered a very good salary – twelve thousand a month, with food and accommodation included. It wasn’t until now that I fully understood. The idea that children are your retirement plan. Sometimes, your own flesh and blood can be less reliable than the actual balance in your bank account! My own son, just to save a few grand, declared social security a scam. But the salary my employer provides, if I save it for a year, I can fill that entire retirement fund shortfall! I thought my attitude had made everything clear, and the matter would be over and done with. To my surprise, a month into my job, David Stone showed up at my employer’s house with Kevin Miller. Seeing me, Kevin Miller’s frown was so deep, you could almost see him crushing something between his brows. “Dad! How long are you going to keep this temper tantrum up? That’s enough!” David Stone looked around the staff room, his face still wearing that phony look of apology. “Mark! No matter how angry you are, you can’t embarrass Kevin and Sarah like this!” “Ignoring your own son to come serve strangers, doing this kind of work—what were you thinking?” “Just to spite us?”

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It was Christmas Eve, and I was temporarily called in to cover for a colleague at the blood draw station. Suddenly, a little girl cut into the line, her accompanying middle-aged father, masked, quietly urged, “Excuse us, my daughter’s in a hurry.” Seeing no one behind objected, I proceeded to verify their information. “Is this the bone marrow matching sample for Zoe Davies?” The girl obediently extended her arm, but the man suddenly reached out, blocking the needle. “Wait, we’re not doing it today.” I cursed him in my head, but when I looked up, they were already walking away, leaving the consent form on the counter. The guardian’s signature, “David Miller,” stared back at me. That was my dad’s name, and I recognized his handwriting. I pulled out my phone, my fingers stiff with cold. “Dad, are you working at the office today?” A hospital-specific PA announcement echoed from the other end of the line. He paused for three seconds. “…Yes, I’m at the office.” I remained silent. After hanging up, I accessed the hospital system backend and typed in Zoe Davies’ name. “Patient: Zoe Davies. Matching recipient: David Miller. Relationship: Father-Daughter.”

“Nurse? Are you going to continue?” An old man in line behind me impatiently poked his head forward. I snapped back to reality, realizing my knuckles, pressed against the counter, were white. “Apologies, just a moment.” I forced myself to finish the remaining work, my mind replaying Dad’s words. As soon as my shift ended, I rushed into the locker room, locked the door, and only then dared to take out the paper again. “Patient: Zoe Davies, Age: 6, Diagnosis: Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.” “Matching Recipient: David Miller. Relationship: Father-Daughter.” “Father-Daughter.” Those two words seared my eyes. I pulled out my phone and opened the hospital’s internal system, typing in “Zoe Davies’” name. A more detailed medical record page popped up. The earliest visit was nine months ago. The most recent was three days prior, an outpatient visit where a new round of chemotherapy drugs was prescribed. The contact phone number field listed an unfamiliar mobile number. The address was: Willow Creek Residences, Building 1, Apartment 602. This wasn’t our family’s address, nor was it Dad’s company apartment. I stared at the address, racking my brain. Nine months ago was precisely when Dad started his frequent “overtime” and “business trips.” Mom even felt sorry for him, saying the company had many projects that year, and I should bother him less. I opened my navigation app and typed in the address. 8.5 kilometers from the hospital, a mid-range apartment complex called Willow Creek Residences. I don’t know how I walked out of the hospital building, but I hailed a taxi. “Driver, to Willow Street, Willow Creek Residences.” On the way, I clutched the consent form in my pocket, my hands clasped in silent prayer that my worst fears wouldn’t come true. I arrived at the complex, pulled up my mask, and hid behind a large maple tree to the side. Just as I was about to freeze, starting to wonder if I had the wrong place or if this was all a ridiculous misunderstanding, a figure too familiar for comfort appeared in the complex. It was Dad. He went upstairs and appeared in a window on an upper floor. He bent down, his silhouette clear. He was stroking the little girl’s head. So gently, so tenderly. When I was little and had a fever, he would touch my forehead like that. But in recent years, such touches grew rare. He was always busy, and his head rubs became perfunctory, quick pats, his attention always seemingly elsewhere. It turned out his tenderness and time hadn’t disappeared. They were just given to someone else. I held back tears, raised my phone, my hand trembling slightly, but I still managed to capture that window, those three figures huddled together. I don’t know how long I stood under that tree. The window lights went out eventually, but my father never came out. It seemed Dad wouldn’t be coming home tonight. Thinking of Mom still waiting at home for Christmas Eve dinner. I dragged my numb legs out of the complex. On the way home, I tried to compose myself, attempting to make my expression look normal. “Alice, you’re back?” My mom, wearing an apron, peered out from the kitchen, a smile on her face. “Perfect, I just finished preparing dinner. Your dad just SnapChatted that something came up at the office and he’ll be late again this year, told us to eat first.” I opened my mouth, wanting to tell her the truth. But my throat felt completely constricted. I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing the truth that was about to burst out. “I’m going to wash my hands.” Turning towards the bathroom, my tears finally broke free. I turned on the faucet, letting the sound of the running water mask my sobs. At the dinner table, I tentatively asked Mom, “Is Dad really that busy with work? Not even a break for the holidays.” “I understand. Work is important.” I lowered my head, chewing the pasta in my mouth forcefully, but tasted nothing. My stomach felt like it was filled with ice. I couldn’t wait any longer. On the last day of my holiday, I arrived at the hospital early. I casually chatted with the nurses in the hematology ward. “Busy lately, huh? Can’t even get peace during the holidays.” “Tell me about it, especially those high-risk leukemia kids; treatment can’t stop. There’s a little girl named Zoe, only six, poor thing.” My heart clenched sharply. “Zoe? That’s a unique name.” “It is. She’s also adorable, and her dad is very dedicated. He comes almost every day, stays with her through treatment, coaxes her to take medicine, sometimes he stays all night. Dads like that are rare these days.” “They are…” I murmured, my throat dry.

Coming every day. Staying all night. Running around for her. These words were like fine grains of salt scattered on my heart. I remembered my appendectomy, how I cried out in pain, wanting Dad to hold me. But he was away on a “project inspection,” and it was Mom and Uncle who stayed with me for three days. When I was struggling with insomnia due to stress during my final exams in high school, he would only say, “Don’t overthink it, just do your best,” and then go back to his work in the study. He wasn’t incapable of giving, nor did he lack time. I decided to get one step closer to that other family. I put on casual clothes and a beanie, covering most of my face. In my hand, I carried a stack of prepared survey forms and brochures. She saw me and paused, startled. “You are…?” “Hello, sorry to bother you.” I tried to make my voice sound steady, even a little shy, like a student. “I’m a volunteer from the local Red Cross chapter. Excuse me, is this where Zoe Davies lives?” Hearing Zoe Davies’ name, her guarded look softened slightly. “We’ve received information about some families in need from the City Children’s Hospital’s Hematology Department. We’re very concerned about Zoe Davies’ situation.” She hesitated for a few seconds, then stepped aside. I took a deep breath and walked into another home. My gaze was immediately drawn to a large framed photo hanging on the central wall of the living room. “That’s my husband and daughter.” I dug my nails into my palm, forcing myself to stay clear-headed and maintain my expression. Just as I was about to probe further, the sound of a key turning in the lock suddenly echoed from the front door! David Miller stood at the doorway, carrying an insulated food container. “Grace, I made some fish soup for Zoe to help her get her strength back…” I sprang to my feet, pulling up my mask, and made to leave. “Sorry, something urgent just came up! I’ll leave these materials with you. You can call the number on them if you have any questions!” I pulled down my beanie, stumbled out of the complex, and gasped for air. After some time, my phone vibrated in my pocket. “Alice, your shift must be almost over, right? What do you want for dinner tonight? Your dad just called and said he might be late again tonight, has an unavoidable engagement. Shall we just eat something simple, just the two of us?” “Late again!” My last nerve snapped. “Mom! Dad is seeing someone else!” Mom didn’t say anything, just told me to come home. When I got home, Mom was sitting on the sofa, as calm as if nothing had happened. She pulled out her phone and showed me a SnapChat message. “Your husband has another home at Willow Creek Residences; his daughter is six years old.” “I didn’t want to believe it,” Mom’s voice trembled slightly, as if she were talking about someone else’s life. “Your dad, he has many flaws. He’s lazy, stubborn, sometimes he doesn’t keep his word. But… for twenty years, I thought, at least he had a bottom line. I secretly checked his phone, the lock screen password was still your birthday, the chat history was clean, and the bank statements showed nothing unusual. I even wondered if someone sent it by mistake or if it was malicious slander.” My last emotional defense collapsed. I pulled out the consent form from my pocket. Then I took out my phone and showed her the pictures. “Mom! Look closely, Dad is seeing someone else!” I took Mom and hailed a taxi to that hospital room. But from inside, suppressed sobs from a woman and a man’s low growl could be heard. Just as I was about to push the door open, it was suddenly pulled open. Dad, his face ashen, walked out and collided with me. When he saw me, his pupils constricted, and a flash of panic crossed his face, quickly replaced by feigned anger. “What are you doing here?” “That’s what I should be asking you, Dad. Didn’t you say you had an important meeting at the office today?” The murmuring patients, family members, and medical staff around us all turned their gazes our way. Dad’s face flushed crimson, then turned ashen again. He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong, almost dragging me into the nearby fire escape stairwell. “Alice Miller! What are you trying to do?!” he snarled, a vein throbbing in his temple. I pulled out my phone, opened my gallery, and swiped through the intimate photos of him and Grace Davies, one by one.

His shoulders slumped, and his voice softened, pleading: “Alice, Alice, listen to me… Dad was just confused for a moment… I was really just confused! I’m sorry to your mom, I’m sorry to you… But things are already like this, Zoe is so young, and she’s so sick… She needs her dad, she needs money for treatment… Your mom isn’t well, and she’s strong-willed, she definitely wouldn’t be able to handle it if she found out! Alice, please keep it a secret for Dad, okay? Dad promises, I’ll make it up to you two properly in the future, just don’t tell your mom, I’m begging you…” I stopped looking at him, turned, and pulled open the stairwell door. Outside, Mom was standing there, I don’t know how long she’d been there. Dad’s legs buckled, and he sank to his knees. “Sarah, Sarah, let me explain…” Mom didn’t look at Dad; she just took my hand. “Alice, let’s go home.” “Mom…” I began cautiously in the car. “Alice,” she cut me off, her voice soft but exceptionally clear. “When your dad knelt down, I wondered what kind of person I had truly known for these past twenty years.” “Then I thought about that child, Zoe, only six years old, diagnosed with leukemia.” My heart sank. “Mom, what do you mean?” “The child is innocent.” Mom’s words were like a needle, piercing my most sensitive nerve. “What about me?! Am I not innocent? For these twenty years, isn’t *our* family innocent? Mom, Dad lied to us! He has two families! That child… that child is his evidence!” “I know. I know all of it. But Alice, that child is dying.” “So what?” “So we’re supposed to be saints, give our money and resources to save his and the other woman’s child? Mom, wake up! When he begged me to keep it a secret from you, he only thought of himself and that child! He never considered how much you’d suffer if you found out!” “If he had considered me, none of this would have happened in the first place.” Mom looked up, a terrifying resolve in her eyes that I’d never seen before. “Alice, I will work with your dad to save that child. As for your dad and me,” she paused, “we’ll talk about it once that child’s condition is stable.” I stared at Mom in disbelief, as if seeing her for the first time. “You’re crazy!” I grabbed my bag and signaled the driver to stop. “If you want to be a saint, go ahead! I don’t want to see either of them again!” I sat down on a stone bench, quietly sobbing. I even wondered if I was wrong? I pulled out my phone and called my boyfriend, Ethan Hayes. “Ethan,” I choked out, almost incoherent. “My dad… my mom… they’ve all gone crazy… Are you home? Can I come over?” “I’m home. Take your time, don’t rush, I’ll wait for you.” Half an hour later, I knocked on Ethan’s apartment door. I poured out everything that had happened that day, from the confrontation at the hospital to my mother’s shocking decision. Ethan listened quietly, his brow gradually furrowing. “So, your mom’s saying, save the person first, then deal with right and wrong.” “That’s not even about right and wrong!” I sprang up from the sofa, agitated. “Ethan, why are you saying that too? That’s his mistress’s child!” Ethan was silent for a moment. He then took out a file folder. “Alice, there’s something your mom didn’t want me to tell you. For the past eight months, your mother has been secretly commissioning me to investigate your father.” Ethan’s voice was low. “She started to suspect something was wrong about nine months ago, but she had no evidence. She asked me to investigate your father’s itinerary, spending records, communication links…” I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning, frozen on the spot. Nine months ago… that was precisely when Dad started his frequent “overtime,” and also Zoe’s earliest medical visit. “Why… why did you keep it from me?” My voice trembled. “She said you were still young, and with your job at the hospital, you were already under a lot of stress. She didn’t want you to be distracted.” “She said today she’d use ‘her half’ of the money to save Zoe,” I looked at Ethan, and he nodded, confirming my guess.

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Five years ago, my family suddenly went bankrupt. My sister got cancer, and the entire family relied on me to survive. But when I returned to the villa we used to live in, I found the lights blazing inside. My parents and my sister, who was supposed to be gravely ill, were enjoying a lavish dinner in the living room, their mouths greasy with food. They were watching a video of me working three jobs a day, pointing and commenting. “No, she’s still not ruthless enough. She can’t even compare to us when we started from scratch.” My mother, Eleanor, said, eating premium Kobe steak. “She needs to suffer a bit more before she’s worthy of being our heir.” My sister, Chloe, casually tossed the birthday teddy bear I bought her into the trash. “Olivia still isn’t working hard enough.” I was utterly heartbroken. It turned out the bankruptcy was fake, the illness was fake, everything was a lie concocted by them to pressure and “educate” me. So, I partnered with my arch-rival and had all of my family’s assets seized. You said I wasn’t working hard enough, not ruthless enough? Well, now that I am ruthless, why are you crying and begging me?

It was four in the morning, and Northwood City’s sanitation trucks hadn’t arrived yet. As usual, I carried a woven bag bigger than myself and skillfully slipped into the greenbelt outside The Summit Estates. This was Northwood City’s wealthiest neighborhood. I felt a pang of guilt because my parents had repeatedly warned me not to come near here. “The debt collectors are waiting around there for us; whatever you do, don’t go near it.” But I often came secretly. After all, my face was so rough now that I barely recognized myself. And the rich people here were too lazy to even break down cardboard boxes they’d only used once. For a scavenger like me, it was more cost-effective. “Olivia, we’re still short five hundred for this week’s medicine. You need to find a way.” Last night, before I left, my mom grabbed my hand, her eyes swollen like golf balls from crying. My dad, Robert, lay sprawled on the bed in our leaky basement, clutching his chest, looking like he could kick the bucket at any moment. To save those five hundred bucks, I hadn’t eaten dinner for three days straight. My stomach was churning with hunger. I sped up my rummaging. Suddenly, a flash of pink appeared, and my hand froze. On top of a pile of freshly dumped kitchen waste, a pink teddy bear lay face down. Its belly was torn open, revealing the stuffing, and one eye was missing. It looked utterly pathetic. Just last night. I had scraped every penny together from my living expenses, then spent two agonizing hours at the toy store entrance haggling with the owner, almost begging him, just to buy this defective bear for fifty dollars. It was my adopted sister Chloe’s eighteenth birthday gift. Because I couldn’t afford wrapping paper, I had clumsily embroidered a few words on the bear’s paw: “Chloe, Happy Birthday.” Now, that line of text was stained with coffee. I frantically dug it out. My hands began to tremble violently. Just yesterday, when I presented this bear, my dad slapped me across the face and cursed, “Our family can’t even put food on the table, and you’re buying this garbage! Vain! A spendthrift!” My mom, Eleanor, cradled “sick” Chloe and said with a pained expression, “Olivia, you’ve disappointed us so much. Your sister can’t even afford her medicine, and you’re wasting money.” I knelt on the ground, admitting my mistake, swearing I would gather the medicine money by tomorrow. But still, this was a gift I had painstakingly saved up for my sister. *Vroom—* A black Maybach slowly drove out of the villa district, breaking my thoughts. The car windows were tinted, but I recognized the license plate—it read ‘ELITE8’. Wasn’t this the car of the mysterious billionaire who supposedly bought our foreclosed house? The driver had a crew cut, and that profile… it was clearly Mike, our old family driver! Dad had said that Mike had gone back to his hometown after we went bankrupt, hadn’t he? Driven by an inexplicable urge, I dropped my woven bag. And followed the car. I watched, mesmerized, as the car drove towards the villa we used to live in. The villa was brightly lit; it looked nothing like a seized property. I crouched behind the bushes and, through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, witnessed a scene I would never forget. My dad, Robert, who was supposedly paralyzed and unable to walk in the basement, was now energetically cutting a cigar, full of vigor. My mom, Eleanor, was wearing a face mask, directing the staff to carry boxes of luxury goods upstairs. And Chloe, who supposedly had a terminal illness, held an Hermès bag, pouting in distaste: “This color is so old-fashioned, Mom. Your taste is terrible.” Mom wasn’t angry; instead, she chuckled and coaxed her: “Alright, alright, we’ll go change it tomorrow, as long as our Chloe is happy.” “Oh, right,” Chloe suddenly remembered, “I accidentally lost the teddy bear Olivia gave me.” Dad blew out a smoke ring and sneered: “Good riddance. Just seeing that thing irritates me.” “Only suffered for half a year, and already can’t control her spending? Wasting money buying things? No sense of saving at all.” *Boom—* My world completely shattered at that moment. No bankruptcy. No terminal illness. No debt. For the past six months, I had been working day and night, washing dishes, doing manual labor, collecting trash, selling my blood. I lived in a moldy basement, eating their stale leftovers. I thought I was saving this family. Turns out, I was just a monkey for their after-dinner amusement.

What could I do if I rushed in now? Demand answers? Cry and lament? I bit my lip hard until I tasted blood. I quietly crept around to the back of the villa, where the staff quarters were. A window there was always left open; it was my secret passage for sneaking out to play when I was a child. I climbed in and hid in the secret compartment of the wardrobe in the second-floor study. The view here was the best, and I could hear everything happening in the living room. In the living room, a huge projector screen descended. “Alright, alright, today’s episode of our ‘Tough Love’ reality show is starting.” Dad excitedly rubbed his hands, beckoning Mom and Chloe. The screen lit up. The scene showed a day of heavy rain. I was riding that rickety old scooter I’d salvaged from a dump, delivering takeout. The rain was too heavy, and the road collapsed. I, along with my scooter, tumbled into a mud pit. The takeout food spilled everywhere. I ignored the bleeding cut on my leg, knelt in the muddy water, picking up each container, crying as I wiped them clean. Because if that order got a complaint, I would have to pay twenty dollars. Twenty dollars, enough to feed our family ramen for three days. “Oh my gosh, Olivia is so clumsy.” Chloe’s gasp echoed from the living room. She pointed at the disheveled, mud-covered figure on the screen, frowning. “Dad, I don’t think Olivia is suited for hardship?” “Crying like that for twenty bucks, she has no foresight.” Dad, however, looked serious. “Chloe, don’t talk nonsense if you don’t understand.” He pointed at me on the screen, using his cigar. “That look in her eyes is exactly right.” “People can only unleash their potential when they’re pushed to the brink.” “She used to spend ten dollars on books without batting an eye; now she’s kneeling for twenty dollars.” “What does this show? It shows her vanity has been crushed; she’s starting to understand the value of money.” “That’s exactly the effect we’re looking for.” Mom, Eleanor, walked over, holding a goblet of expensive champagne, taking an elegant sip. “We started from scratch, we know that building an empire is easy, but holding onto it is the real challenge.” “Olivia was too pampered before, too soft-hearted. If we don’t let her experience the hardships we went through, how will she take over the business in the future?” “Look how capable she’s been these past six months? Working three jobs a day, and she doesn’t complain about being tired.” “She’s a true heir of the Blackwood legacy.” Mom said, not noticing the resentment in Chloe’s eyes. The screen shifted, cutting to a different scene. It was me, standing outside a 24-hour convenience store, staring at the pastries inside, hesitating for nearly ten minutes. Finally, I turned and left, thinking two dollars each was too expensive. In the scene, I was forlornly nibbling on half a dry piece of bread I’d found. I rubbed my stomach, which was cramping from hunger, and reached for the beef they’d left on the table. As I ate, tears streamed down my face. Then, the scene shifted again. It was me washing dishes at a greasy diner. My old rival, with a group of rich kids, came to humiliate me. She splashed boiling hot oil from the fryer on my hand and threw two hundred dollars on the floor, telling me to pick it up. On the screen, I endured the searing pain, bent down, and picked up the two hundred dollars. Because back then, Dad was pretending to be sick in bed, saying his heart was hurting him to death. Seeing this, Dad nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent! She knows when to bend and when to stand tall!” “This is what it means to truly swallow your pride!” “She wasn’t picking up money; she was picking up her lost dignity. A qualified heir must learn to shed her pride.” Chloe pouted, a hint of jealousy in her voice: “Dad, how much longer are you going to test her?” “What if she finds out the truth and hates us?” “Hate?” Dad sneered. “She’s my blood, I’m her father.” “I’m doing this for her own good. This is the highest form of elite education.” “When she stands at the pinnacle of wealth in the future, she’ll kneel down and thank me.” My fingernails dug deeply into my flesh. So that’s how it was. My past six months of hellish living, in their eyes, was a meticulously planned reality show. They watched me bleed, watched me kneel, watched me beg for food like a dog. Not only did they feel no pity, but they were here, toasting and celebrating it.

I didn’t tip my hand. I returned to that moldy basement as if nothing had happened. For the next two days, I woke up early as usual, still rummaged through trash bins, but my eyes were no longer vacant. I began to discreetly observe this “poor” home. Before, I was too foolish, too desperate to save them, and I had overlooked so many obvious flaws. For example, Mom. Although she wore old clothes bought from a bargain store, her face had smooth, radiant skin. If you got close, you could still smell the subtle scent of a high-end moisturizer. How could a poor person have such a glowing complexion? Poor people, like me, have sallow complexions and chapped hands. Then there was Chloe. She was lying on the small bed, playing on her phone. Seeing me enter, she immediately hid the phone behind her back and weakly coughed twice: “Olivia… you’re back.” As she reached for a glass of water, I grabbed her wrist. It was a hand that had recently been meticulously cared for, nails perfectly rounded, even coated with clear nail polish, glowing with a soft pink sheen. “Chloe, your nails look great, like they’ve been treated at a top salon,” I said, a faint smile playing on my lips. Chloe’s face stiffened, and she recoiled her hand as if shocked: “This is… I just messed around with it myself.” I glanced at the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, which Mom had deliberately left for me to wash. I suddenly spoke, “Chloe, the bear I bought you…” “The bear… I’m sorry, Olivia, I accidentally lost it…” “But you’ll forgive me, right? After all, a bear like that, you can earn back by cleaning toilets for three days.” “But I…” “Enough!” Mom shoved me, shielding Chloe behind her, her eyes wide with fury: “Your sister isn’t well, and you’re still upsetting her! It’s just a silly bear, it’s lost, so what?” I staggered from the shove, my heart chilling to the core. But I wasn’t ready to give up completely. I wanted to give them, and myself, one last chance. That evening, Dad’s “condition” worsened. He coughed convulsively, as if his chest was tearing apart. He grabbed me, rehashing the usual drama: “Olivia… the doctor said the surgery would cost half a million… Dad doesn’t want to die…” Mom, beside him, dabbed her eyes, and then, her true intentions became clear: “Olivia, that crippled Mr. Wallace said that if you marry him, the dowry will be exactly half a million…” I took a deep breath, knelt by the bed, and stared intently into their eyes. “Dad, Mom. If I don’t marry Mr. Wallace, if our family really has to live in a basement and pick up trash for the rest of our lives, will you… still love me?” “Can’t we stop begging others? Just be together as a family, even if it’s a little hard, it’s okay?” The warmth in Dad’s eyes vanished, replaced by impatience. “Shut up! What’s ‘a little hardship is okay’? Without money, you’re worse than dirt! If you don’t want to save me, just say so. I raised you this long, and you won’t even make this small sacrifice? You ungrateful wretch!” Mom’s face also turned cold: “Olivia, don’t be so selfish. That’s your dad’s life! What’s wrong with you enduring a little hardship?” At that moment, I heard the sound of something in my heart completely shattering. They had money, yet they still wanted me to sell myself. They weren’t bankrupt, yet they pushed me to the brink. “Alright,” I lowered my head, hiding the tears and hatred welling up in my eyes. “I’ll raise the money. Even if I have to sell myself, I’ll get the money.” Dad lay back, satisfied, believing I had finally submitted. Late at night, when their snores were like thunder, I pulled out my burner phone from under the bed. The light from the screen illuminated my pale face. My fingers trembling, I transferred all the encrypted files to my cloud storage. After doing all that, I looked at my sleeping parents and softly said in my heart: Goodbye, Dad, Mom. This was the last lesson you taught me—push someone to the brink, and they will fight to survive.

When I walked out of the basement, the sky was just getting light. Chloe was standing at the top of the stairs, I don’t know when she got there. She held a cup of hot milk, not a hint of sickness on her face. She looked down at me from above, a malicious smile playing on her lips. “Olivia, are you going to marry that cripple?” “Actually, Mom and Dad are doing this for your own good. After all, you know, only those who truly enjoy the finer things can rise above. Anyway, even if we weren’t bankrupt now, Dad and Mom’s heir could only ever be me.” She took a step closer, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “So go on, be your crippled bride. I’ll enjoy the Blackwood family’s wealth and prestige for you.” She finished, covering her mouth with a triumphant giggle. I looked at her delicate face and nodded. “Chloe, you’re right.” “Some people are born to roll in the mud.” Only, that person might not be me. I didn’t look back, rushing straight into the curtain of rain. The cold raindrops stung my face, mixing with my tears. I didn’t hate the rain; the colder it was, the fiercer the fire in my heart burned. An hour later, I stood beneath the Titan Holdings building. This was Northwood City’s tallest building, and the only place that could truly overlook the Blackwood Group. Ethan Blackwood, Northwood City’s notorious business madman, was also my dad’s most feared arch-rival. I barged unimpeded into the top-floor office. Before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, a man stood with his back to me. “Get out.” His voice was cold and sharp. I didn’t retreat. Instead, I walked forward step by step and firmly slapped the USB drive, still damp from the rain, onto his expensive office desk. “Mr. Blackwood, I have a business proposition I’d like to discuss with you.” Ethan Blackwood turned around. He looked at me, soaking wet, covered in mud, yet with eyes that burned with an alarming intensity, and his eyebrow slightly raised. “The eldest Miss Blackwood? What, here to plead for your father?” “No.” I lifted my head, meeting his eagle-sharp eyes, and a crooked smile played on my lips. “I’m here to take him down.” Ethan Blackwood picked up the USB drive, intrigued. “What’s in this?” “The very core of Blackwood Group’s operations.” My voice was hoarse, but every word was clear and strong. “Ledgers proving tax evasion, offshore money laundering schemes, and all the evidence of cut corners on the Bayview Towers project.” “Mr. Blackwood, my dad always said that a person needs to be wolf-like, to show no mercy, even to family.” “These past six months, he taught me a lot. Now, I’m here to show you what I’ve learned.” Ethan Blackwood scrutinized me for a long moment, then suddenly chuckled. “If you give this to me, the Blackwood family is finished. You’ll lose everything, and even bear the infamy.” “What do you want?” Thunder rumbled outside the window. I didn’t need money, nor did I need status. I stared at Ethan Blackwood, saying each word distinctly: “I want them utterly ruined.”

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The morning I got my university acceptance letter, I woke up early and made Mom some toast and coffee. She seemed surprised, then smiled, wrinkles crinkling at the corners of her eyes. “Your acceptance letter arrived, didn’t it? It’s much more stable to stay close to home. I heard it’s a big, wild world out there, easy for someone young like you to get led astray. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to stay close? You could still have my home-cooked meals every night.” “Oh, and I already canceled your plane tickets. It’s too dangerous for a bunch of young guys your age to travel alone. If you really want to go, Mom will take some time off and go with you later.” “What’s with that expression? Everything Mom does is for your own good.” She hadn’t even finished speaking, taking a few bites, when she suddenly frowned. “This coffee… it tastes a little off?” I looked at her, and for the first time in months, I truly smiled. “Yeah, I added some of that rat poison you bought yesterday.” Maybe it was my expression, but Mom froze, her gaze immediately shifting to the rat poison on the shoe cabinet, which had been opened at some point. She’d just bought it and hadn’t gotten around to opening it yet. “Just because Mom changed your major, you’re going to kill Mom?” I looked at the disbelief on her face, barely suppressing the chilling sense of impending release, and picked up the glass of milk next to me, taking a sip. The bitter taste of the rat poison shot through my throat, making me gag and want to throw up. Just like every day since I received that community college acceptance letter. “I’m kidding.” Mom paused, then breathed a sigh of relief, and continued her lecture. “Mom knows you wanted to study medicine, but everyone says being a medical student is incredibly tough, a real grind. It’s not like being a teacher, which is much more chill and you get long breaks. Plus, you have a good grasp of the humanities, you should become an English teacher.” “Worst case, you can just marry a doctor, right? That way you won’t have to study so hard, and you can spend more time at home with Mom. By the time you’re thirty, you’ll definitely thank Mom for changing your major.” My hands, hanging by my sides, clenched tightly and trembled slightly, but Mom didn’t notice a thing. Actually, the poison was in my cup. I drank the last mouthful. “Mom, remember, you killed me with your own hands.” … Everyone said my mom loved me very much. When I was five, she divorced my dad, citing incompatible values, without hesitation. Mom didn’t take a dime in child support. She worked nine-hour shifts during the day and then set up a stall at the night market in the evenings. While she stir-fried noodles for customers, she’d supervise my homework. Whenever customers saw this, they’d feel for her, praising her as the most responsible mother in the world. She worked tirelessly, raising me all by herself. In first grade, my essay, “My Mom,” won the city’s gold prize. The principal, a friend of my mother’s, presented the award to me. After handing me the certificate, she patted my shoulder meaningfully. “You’re a boy, you need to learn to be good to your mom. She’s had such a hard life, and you’re all she has.” I nodded hard and said loudly. “I’ll definitely be good to Mom!” Mom stood below the stage, tears streaming down her face, applauding for me. For my eighteenth birthday party, Mom spent half a month taking a class and personally made my favorite chocolate mousse cake. She smiled and asked what I wished for. From her expectant gaze, I could tell she hoped my wish involved her, something like a dutiful child wishing for her health or safety. But I didn’t say anything, blowing out the candles in one breath. My wish actually *was* about my mom. Except it was to hope my mom would die soon. Or that I would.

I never liked milk since I was little. Because I’m lactose intolerant, every time I drank milk, I’d throw up and have diarrhea. The doctor said you don’t necessarily need milk to get calcium. But Mom believed milk was the most natural and purest high-calcium food, and that kids absolutely had to drink it. She didn’t have much money to buy branded milk from the supermarket, so she worked for a dairy delivery service in our apartment complex, waking up at four every morning to deliver milk to nearly two hundred households. By the time she finished at seven in the morning, she’d bring a few leftover bottles from the station for me to drink. Every time I saw Mom’s face, drenched in sweat after working for half the day, I’d feel a pang of pity. “Mom, our teacher said mustard greens and spinach also have calcium. I’ll just eat more at school. Can you please stop delivering milk?” Mom smiled and waved her hand. “Mom’s not tired. Hurry up and drink it, then Mom will take you to school.” Under Mom’s expectant gaze, I could only endure the discomfort and drink an entire bottle of milk. The way to school included a muddy, bumpy dirt path. I sat on the back of Mom’s scooter, my stomach acid surging up my throat several times, which I forcefully swallowed back down. But as soon as we reached the school gate, while greeting the teacher on duty, I couldn’t hold it in anymore and threw up in front of everyone. There were a few classmates and their parents around. Feeling embarrassed and mortified, I burst into tears. “Mom, I don’t want to drink milk anymore! Every time I drink it, I want to throw up!” Mom’s eyes instantly reddened, and she declared loudly. “You’re the shortest boy in your class! I wake up early and go to bed late, only sleeping four hours a night. Isn’t it all to save money to help you grow? Otherwise, why would I work so hard delivering milk?” “If it weren’t for you, Mom wouldn’t have gotten divorced. I wouldn’t be working this hard!” She cried to everyone around her, recounting the difficulties of raising a child alone after her divorce. Because Mom came to school every day to bring me lunch and pick me up, many parents and teachers knew her. Everyone’s gaze towards me changed subtly. Finally, Mom swayed, looking like she might faint at any moment. The teacher immediately rushed over to support her. The teacher frowned at me. “Alex, your mom loves you, that’s why she sacrifices so much for you and wants you to grow up strong. You need to understand how hard it is for her. If you act like this with your mom, I’ll have to give you a serious warning. Now, come apologize to your mom.” I was somewhat dazed, not understanding why feeling sick from drinking milk meant I wasn’t being understanding towards Mom. But out of respect for the teacher and guilt towards my mom, I still timidly apologized. Mom wiped away the moisture from the corners of her eyes while stroking my head. I heard my classmates whispering nearby. “Alex made his mom get divorced! So mean. I definitely don’t want my parents to divorce.” “I love drinking milk! My mom won’t even buy it for me. I wish Alex’s mom was my mom.” “My mom said if you don’t listen to your parents, you’re an ungrateful brat.” “Alex is an ungrateful brat!” In elementary school, the concepts of bullying and emotional blackmail weren’t yet defined. I only knew that from that day on, classmates seemed to slowly stop playing with me. They’d whisper behind my back that I was an ungrateful brat, heartless, and even said I had bad breath. Actually, that was the smell of stomach acid coming up, and fermented milk. The teachers also always looked at me meaningfully when teaching lessons about family. “Only your mother in this world would never harm you.” “Mothers are the greatest people in the world. Children, you must always listen to your mothers, only bad children don’t listen to their mothers.” “Mothers are the greatest people in the world.” I held that thought in my heart and wrote it into my essay. Later, the essay won an award, and I once again became the “good child” the teachers talked about. The teacher specifically printed out my essay and posted it on the classroom wall, for classmates to study and learn from. The teacher asked me, “Alex, tell us, what kind of person is your mother to you?” I thought for a moment. “Mom is… the hardest working person in the world, and the person who loves me most in the world.” I gave the rote answer, and the teacher was very satisfied. She nodded, smiling as she looked behind me. I abruptly turned to look out the window. My mom, in her work uniform, was peering in through the window.

Ever since I started elementary school, Mom quit her decent editing job at the newspaper and became a cashier at a supermarket near the school. Editing required long hours, from eight to six, and was very demanding, making it hard to focus on anything else. As a cashier, she only had to work six-hour shifts, giving her more time to be around the school and “supervise” my studies. I wrote that essay for three whole days. When I first wrote it, Mom wasn’t happy. So she sat beside me, watching me rewrite it. Perhaps due to her background as an editor, the grammatical errors and inappropriate similes in my essay infuriated Mom. She snatched the pen from my hand, correcting it while scolding me in my ear. “Why are you so stupid, don’t you have a brain? Can’t you just make things easier for Mom and give her less to worry about?!” If I accidentally made a mistake, she would immediately hit the back of my hand hard. She never used any tools to hit me. Mom said it was her way of sharing the pain with me, so I would remember and correct my mistakes. If I made too many mistakes, Mom would suddenly hit her own face, slapping herself. “Don’t you feel bad for Mom? Otherwise, why aren’t you studying properly?!” “I do, I feel bad for Mom, Mom, please stop hitting yourself!” As soon as I cried, Mom would rush into the kitchen, grab a kitchen knife, hold it to her wrist, and yell at me. “Mom is trying so hard to teach you, even hitting herself like this, why do you still make mistakes? Are you not even trying to study? Are you trying to kill Mom?!” In the end, Mom practically wrote two-thirds of the essay herself. No one noticed how mature the vocabulary and sentence structure were, far beyond what a first grader could write. I wasn’t good at writing at all. The one who was good at writing was Mom, the former editor. To me. Mom was the woman holding a knife. … As the years passed, people gradually forgot about the milk incident. But because Mom was always at school, whenever I got close to a classmate and she saw it, she would immediately interrogate them about their family background and grades, insisting on chatting with us. During these chats, Mom couldn’t talk about anything but me. “Hey, don’t pat Alex’s shoulder, he has homework tonight. What if you hurt him?” “Did you just sneeze? Are you catching a cold? Don’t sneeze towards Alex, that’s intentionally trying to infect him. If Alex gets sick, I’ll have to talk to your parents tomorrow!” Seeing a classmate from a less privileged family with some dirt under their fingernails, Mom frowned and said in front of them. “Alex, be careful who you make friends with. Some people just carry that ‘poor’ vibe, and you need to keep your distance. Those people won’t amount to anything later, you’re different from them.” At ten years old, kids already have self-respect. The classmate’s face turned bright red, and they quietly tucked their hands into their sleeves. Then, they grabbed their backpack, hastily said, “Ma’am, I have to go,” and ran off without looking back. Throughout elementary school, I didn’t have many friends, but Mom was very happy, because then no one would lead her precious son astray. Whenever I watched classmates walking arm-in-arm with envy, Mom would pull me forward. She pursed her lips. “What kind of friendship do kids have? Once you move up a grade, you’ll never see them again. Your main goal right now is to study, not make friends.” “Besides, you can tell Mom anything, Mom is your best friend.” I looked at Mom, saying nothing, and wrote all my teenage worries in my diary, painstakingly getting through six years of elementary school. In junior high, during the second semester of eighth grade, a transfer student joined our class. Because our school had a special fast-track admission program for prestigious high schools before the state-wide middle school exams each year, good students could get into the gifted class. So, during this critical period before the exams, transfer students from other areas would often come, hoping for a better opportunity. The transfer student had excellent grades. When the teacher assigned seats based on grades, she specifically told her to sit next to me. “Hi there, I’m Sarah.” The girl smiled and pulled out the chair next to me. “Where did you go this summer? My parents and I went to Macau, their Portuguese tarts were especially delicious. Here, try one!” Sarah was friendly with everyone. She took out a box of tarts from her backpack and shared them with the classmates around her. I quietly read my book, and she didn’t disturb me, instead quietly placing the last tart on the corner of my desk. Even so, Mom, who was peering in to check on us, noticed it. There was no teacher in the classroom, so she rushed over to us and loudly told Sarah: “Hey, kid! My Alex has a sensitive stomach and can’t eat unsanitary food from outside. Don’t make him get diarrhea!” I hunched my head even lower. But to my surprise, Sarah showed no embarrassment or fear. Instead, she smiled at my mom and said. “Don’t worry, Ma’am, I washed my hands, they’re not dirty. Plus, these are from an old, famous shop in Macau! My mom and I waited in line for a long time to get them.” Mom froze, as if she hadn’t expected a child to respond to her harshness so gracefully. She was silent for a few seconds, then her voice grew shriller. “Your parents work hard to earn money and take you out to see the world, and all you know is to show off to your classmates. You don’t think about how to study hard to repay your parents’ kindness, you don’t understand their good intentions, you don’t appreciate how hard they work for money!” “I will absolutely not let my son sit next to a child like you. You’ll lead my son astray!”

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My boyfriend was a warehouse worker. The moment he got home, I forced him to go back out in the rain to buy me a $199 strawberry cake. His voice was tired. “I don’t have enough money. Rent’s due tomorrow. Can I just buy the strawberries for now?” I grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it at him. “Get out! You loser!” After I kicked him out, I sulked on the couch. Suddenly, floating comments popped up on the screen in front of me: [This villainess is scolding a billionaire heir! He was framed and lost his memory, which is why he’s a warehouse worker!] [The real female lead will be here soon, and the male lead is about to regain his memory! Then he’ll know what a liar this villainess is!] [This drama queen is already pregnant. She’ll use her pregnancy to throw tantrums, but she’ll be taken care of right after giving birth, and the child will be abused!] I touched my lower belly, completely stunned. Just then, the door opened. Johnson came back, soaked to the bone, holding a small piece of strawberry cake. He looked at me nervously, carefully saying, “I unloaded another truckload of goods. I bought you the cake. Please don’t kick me out again, okay?”

Johnson stood at the door, rain dripping down his pants, his eyes like a lost puppy. Those words from the comments were still floating in front of me. “Villainess,” “billionaire heir,” “liar,” “pregnant,” “taken care of,” “child abused.” My legs felt a little weak. Normally, I would have snatched the cake, cursed him a few more times for being a “good-for-nothing,” then devoured it all and made him sleep on the couch. But today, I didn’t dare. I took a deep breath, my voice a bit dry. “You… go change your wet clothes first.” Johnson clearly froze. He probably thought I’d keep yelling at him. He nervously held out the strawberry cake. “I didn’t mean not to comfort you earlier. I just wanted to unload more goods, earn enough money to buy you the cake…” The man was drenched, his old clothes clinging to his strong chest and abs. I looked at his hands, which were pale and wrinkled from the rain. A chill went down my spine. For the past year, I had constantly yelled at and berated him, and he had never talked back. “I said, go change your clothes first!” I turned my face away, my voice tight. Johnson lowered his eyes. “Okay, I’ll go right away.” He put down the cake and fumbled for dry clothes. While he was in the bathroom, I stared at the cake on the table, tears almost falling. The comments said I was pregnant, then I’d be clingy and refusing to let go, and finally, the original female lead would get rid of me, and my child would be abused. If I wasn’t pregnant, it would be fine, but what if I really was… [Is this villainess finally scared? Too late!] [Honestly, it’s too late for her to act nice now, the female lead is already on her way.] [Poor male lead, he’s been yelled at for so long.] I bit my lip, forcing the tears back. Johnson came out in dry clothes, saw me staring blankly at the cake, and cautiously said, “Want me to feed you?” I grabbed the cake. “Come on, let’s return it.” “Huh?” He was confused. “It’s too expensive. How many shifts would you have to work for this? Let’s return it.” I pulled him and started walking out. Johnson was dragged along, his face full of disbelief. “You… aren’t you the one who wanted strawberry cake the most?” “Not anymore.” I didn’t dare look at him. After returning the cake, I took the $199 and stuffed it into his pocket. “For rent.” Johnson stood there. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. He just looked at me, his eyes holding an indescribable light, a mix of surprise and heartache. “Simmons, are you… on your period?” he asked tentatively. “No!” I almost cursed again, but bit it back. “Let’s go home.” Our rental apartment only had one bed. That night, I curled up on the very edge, my back to him. Johnson got into bed after his shower. After a long silence, he suddenly said in a low voice, “I’m really tired today… can we not try anything fancy?” My body stiffened. “Try anything fancy” was his euphemism. Normally, if I was in a good mood, I’d make him work hard in bed. He never refused, even if he’d worked his butt off all day and his back was aching. But now, the comments said I was pregnant. I instinctively covered my lower belly, my mind a mess. “Uh… let’s just sleep.” My voice was muffled. It was quiet for a few seconds behind me. Johnson softly said, “Oh,” his tone tinged with disappointment and confusion. [Why is the male lead disappointed? We don’t approve!] [The male lead is only being good to the villainess because he was tricked. Once he regains his memory, he’ll know she lied to him.] [Female lead, Moore, hurry up!] I buried my face in the pillow.

I barely slept a wink all night. Johnson, on the other hand, was asleep, his breathing even, one arm still draped over my waist. Even though I’d rejected him, he still habitually protected me. As soon as dawn broke, he quietly got up. I pretended to be asleep, peeking at him through narrowed eyes. He tiptoed to the kitchen, cooked oatmeal, fried eggs and bacon. Johnson then quickly ate his portion, leaving mine warming in the pot. He walked to the door, then turned back, kissing my forehead very lightly. After the door closed, I waited a few minutes, then immediately got up. Ignoring breakfast, I put on a mask and went to the pharmacy to buy two different brands of pregnancy tests. Back home, I rushed into the bathroom, my hands shaking so much I almost couldn’t open the packaging. Those few minutes of waiting were the longest minutes of my life. Two lines. Both tests showed two lines. I sat on the toilet, my legs too weak to stand. I really was pregnant. Everything the comments said was true. [Told you, pregnancy confirmed!] [Female lead, Moore, is almost here!] [The villainess’s good days are over. Once the male lead regains his memory, she’ll be the first one he kicks out, for lying to him for so long.] I suddenly remembered the first time I met Johnson. He was in an accident at a construction site and was sent to the hospital, the back of his head covered in blood. But that face, that demeanor—you could tell he wasn’t an ordinary person. I was possessed, and when he woke up, I told him, “I covered your fifty thousand dollars in medical bills. I’m your lifesaver.” I thought he’d be eternally grateful and give me hundreds of thousands, or even millions, as a reward. Instead, he honestly said, “Thank you, but I’m just a construction worker… I’ll work hard to pay you back.” I was stunned then. But his face was so handsome, and he was so compliant with me. Before I knew it, we were together. Later, I quit my nurse job and let him support me. I hated that he was poor, so I cursed him every day, made him do this and that, and constantly told him to “get out.” He never said a single “no.” Thinking back now, how could he be so good to me when I treated him so terribly? I covered my face, unable to even cry aloud. [Now you know how to cry? What were you doing before?] [The villainess is also pitiful, vanity is fun for a while, but the crematorium is unavoidable.] I came out of the bathroom, washed my face, and looked at my swollen eyes in the mirror. No, I couldn’t just sit there and wait to die. The comments said I’d “use my pregnancy to throw tantrums, be clingy and refuse to let go.” So I wouldn’t throw tantrums, and I wouldn’t be clingy. I had to find a way to survive, and save my child. But… would Johnson still be good to me, who had lied to him, after he regained his memory? I sat on the edge of the bed, lost in thought, suddenly remembering the things I used to yell at him. “You’re a loser,” “I must have been blind to get with you,” “You’ll never be able to afford a house in your life.” He just remained silent then, and worked even harder, doing construction and running food deliveries. I clutched my chest; it ached terribly. In the afternoon, I forced myself to go grocery shopping, wanting to learn how to cook. Before, Johnson always cooked when he came back. I never even stepped into the kitchen. After two hours of struggling, I made a plate of completely burnt pork chops. In the end, I ate two slices of bread for dinner. When Johnson came home that evening, he saw the tidied apartment, then the bread and two plates of “dark cuisine” on the table. He froze. “You… made these?” His voice was tight. I lowered my head. “Yeah, try some.” He picked up a fork, ate a bite of the black pork chop, and swallowed it without changing his expression. “It’s delicious.” My nose stung, and I almost cried. He put down his utensils, frowning as he looked at my hands. “Don’t do this anymore. I’ll cook when I get back.” I shook my head hard. “You can’t do everything… you’re already so tired from work.” Johnson was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly grabbed my hand. “What’s wrong with you?” [Male lead, don’t touch her!] [This villainess suddenly got smart, is she faking it now?] [Even if she does this, it won’t change the fact that she lied to the male lead. He’ll definitely settle scores with her when he regains his memory!] I was startled and pulled my hand back. “N-nothing’s wrong.” He looked at me, his eyes holding tenderness, confusion, and an emotion I couldn’t quite place. I was restless, terrified he’d see through me.

Over the next few days, I was like a different person. Instead of sleeping until noon, I woke up early to have breakfast with Johnson. After he left, I did the laundry, even though I ruined one of his work uniforms. I also tried to learn how to cook, though the results were still pretty terrible. Every time Johnson came back, he’d silently take over the chores from me, pushing me onto the couch. “Rest, I’ll do it.” [Why is she faking being so virtuous? Why didn’t she think about being good to him when she used to yell at and hit him?] [LOL, even begging won’t work, female lead Moore has already arrived.] [The villainess’s fate in the later stages will be miserable, just wait and see.] Every time I saw these comments, my heart felt like it was being squeezed. But the better I treated him, the higher my chances of survival later. Even if he regained his memory and didn’t want me, at least he’d remember these few days of me being good, right? Johnson also started acting strangely recently. He kept getting calls from unknown numbers in the evenings. Each time, he’d go out to the balcony or outside the door to answer, his voice very low. He’d come back looking serious. When I asked who it was, he’d say “the foreman from the warehouse.” I didn’t believe it. The comments said Moore had found him. One night, he went to the balcony again to take a call. I quietly followed, and through the crack in the door, I heard him say, “…I don’t remember anything from before. I have a girlfriend now. Please don’t come looking for me anymore.” Then he hung up and stood on the balcony for a long time. I retreated back to bed, my heart pounding. [The male lead is so devoted, so loyal even with amnesia.] [He’ll still choose Moore after regaining his memory. They’re from compatible backgrounds, you know.] [The villainess doesn’t deserve the male lead’s true feelings. Why didn’t she think about today when she was yelling at and hitting him?] After we lay down that night, Johnson turned over to face me. “Simmons,” he called me. “Hmm?” “I’m not too tired today. What kind of fancy stuff do you want to try? I’m open to anything.” I opened my mouth, unable to speak. Finally, I managed to blurt out, “I don’t want to.” He reached out and touched my face. “Did I do something wrong? Tell me, I’ll change it.” I took a deep breath, wanting to throw caution to the wind. “Johnson, I’m actually preg—” Before I could finish, his phone suddenly rang. He glanced at the caller ID, his brows furrowing. He hesitated for a moment, then answered. “Hello?” I don’t know what the other side said, but his expression changed from confusion to shock, and finally to a seriousness I’d never seen before. “I understand.” He hung up and immediately sat up to get dressed. “What’s wrong?” I asked nervously. “Something urgent came up. You go to sleep first, don’t wait for me.” He quickly kissed my forehead, put on his shoes, and left. The moment the door closed, comments floated across my vision: [Moore has arrived with a neurosurgeon. They’re helping the male lead regain his memory tonight.] [The villainess’s good days end here.] [By this time tomorrow, Johnson will be a billionaire heir, with no connection to this rental apartment.] I sat alone in the darkness, feeling cold all over. Johnson didn’t come home all night.

At ten in the morning, there was a knock on the door. I thought Johnson was back and rushed to open it. Standing outside the door was a woman, dressed in a designer outfit, carrying a Hermès bag, her makeup flawless, down to every strand of hair. She stood at the entrance of our rental apartment, completely out of place amidst the shabby surroundings, like a valuable rose stuck in a pile of trash. She sized me up, her eyes filled with unconcealed disdain. “You’re Simmons?” [She’s here, she’s here! The original female lead, Moore!] [That aura, the villainess is completely outclassed.] [It’s over, it’s over, the villainess is done for.] Before I could speak, she walked straight into the apartment, glanced at the cramped living room, and pursed her lips slightly. “My name is Moore, Johnson’s fiancée.” She turned to look at me, her tone flat. “He had amnesia, which is why he was with you. Now he’s regaining his memory, and it’s time for him to come home.” I gripped the doorknob tightly. “What’s your proof?” She took out her phone and showed me a photo of Johnson with an old man, with a luxurious villa in the background. Johnson in the photo wore a custom suit, his demeanor completely different from now—distinguished, cold, like another person. “This is a photo of him with his grandfather, Stuart.” Moore put away her phone. “His true identity is the only son of the Alston family in New York, the sole heir to the Alston Group. Do you, a nurse, really think you’re good enough for him?” Every word was like a needle pricking my heart. Because this relationship, from the very beginning, was something I’d tricked him into with lies. But hearing her say it to my face still made me so miserable I wanted to cry. “He… regained his memory?” My voice trembled. “Yes.” Moore sneered. “Last night’s treatment went very smoothly. He’ll remember everything. Do you think he’d still want you after remembering who he is?” I bit my lip, saying nothing. Moore looked around the room again, scoffing, “You let him live in a place like this? And let him work hard to support you?” “Miss Simmons, not only are you not worthy of him, but you also made him suffer so much. If you had any conscience, you’d disappear on your own.” She offered me a plane ticket. “This afternoon’s flight. Go wherever you want, just don’t come back.” I didn’t take it. Moore placed the ticket on the table. “Miss Simmons, you’ve taken care of Johnson for half a year. The Alston family thanks you. But some dreams should end.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Don’t harbor any false hope. After he regains his memory, the first thing he’ll investigate is that lie about the fifty thousand dollars. You know what you did.” My whole body stiffened. “Just leave. I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars, enough for you to live on for a while.” I picked up my phone and called Johnson. No answer. I called again. Still no answer. I called seven or eight times, all unanswered. [The male lead regained his memory, he doesn’t want to answer her calls.] [He’s about to be in an arranged marriage, why would he care about her? The villainess brought this on herself.] [Honestly, five hundred thousand dollars isn’t bad. Take it and leave. It’s a better outcome than in the original story.] My last bit of fantasy shattered. I suddenly laughed, looking at Moore. “Do you think five hundred thousand dollars is enough to get rid of me?” “How much do you want?” Moore narrowed her eyes. My mind raced. Even if I had to leave, I needed to save enough money for the child. “Fifty million,” I said. “Are you insane?” “Then there’s nothing to discuss.” I turned, making a move to close the door. “I’ve been with Johnson for so long, I don’t believe he’d be so cruel as to abandon me. I’ll just cling to him and never let go, what can you do about it?” Moore’s face was ashen, veins bulging on the hand gripping her bag strap. After a long silence, she gritted her teeth. “Thirty million. That’s the most.” “Deal.” I answered quickly, though my heart was trembling. I’d never seen so much money. After the transfer was complete, Moore said coldly, “The plane is at three this afternoon. If you try to pull anything, I guarantee your life will be miserable.” She left. I stared at my phone screen. Johnson’s calls still weren’t going through, and tears splashed onto it. He must hate me now that he’d regained his memory. I sniffled, wiped away my tears, and started packing my luggage. I blocked all of Johnson’s contact information, then dragged my suitcase out of the rental apartment. As I passed the fruit store downstairs, the owner called out, “Simmons, your boyfriend ordered a strawberry cake yesterday, said he’d pick it up today. Want to take it?” I paused, then shook my head. “No, you can return it.” On the way to the airport in the taxi, I cried the whole time. The driver glanced at me several times in the rearview mirror, wanting to say something but holding back. At the airport, I checked in. I wiped my face and dragged my suitcase towards security. Just as I handed over my boarding pass and was about to go through the gate, the airport announcement suddenly blared: “Attention all passengers, all flights are temporarily grounded. Now broadcasting a search—”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “409892”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster