Author: Momo Chan

At six months pregnant, I suddenly heard my unborn baby screaming for help inside my womb. “Mommy, help me! Please, you have to get me out early. Call the doctor, do the C-section now!” “I have a congenital respiratory illness. If I stay in here any longer, I’m going to suffocate!” Hearing those desperate, agonizing pleas, I had gritted my teeth and demanded an emergency premature C-section. It ended in a double tragedy. Both of us died on the operating table. Right before my consciousness faded into blackness, I heard the doctor’s baffled, sorrowful whisper: “The baby was perfectly healthy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his lungs.” But now, I had been reborn. And once again, the frantic cries for help echoed in my mind. Except this time, a second voice emerged—tiny, soft, and sweet. “Mommy, don’t believe that voice. They’re trying to force you into premature labor. They want to harvest my cord blood for his secret child. His mistress’s baby has a severe blood disease, and if he doesn’t get my cord blood this month, he’s going to die. That’s why your garbage husband is so desperate to get you onto that operating table.” … “If you don’t do this C-section right now, neither you nor the baby will make it out alive!” Sitting in my wheelchair, a cold shiver ran down my spine. In my previous life, the voice crying in my ear had always belonged to a baby boy. Why was there suddenly a little girl’s voice now? Where was it coming from? Before I could wrap my head around it, my husband, Connor Derrick, grabbed my wrists tightly. His face was a mask of sheer panic. “The doctor said the baby is already struggling to breathe. The OR is fully prepped. We have to go, Samantha! Now!” “His illegitimate child is fading,” the sweet little voice whispered in my mind again. “They’re running out of time, and they need my cord blood. Mommy, don’t you dare agree to this.” I frowned, my chest tightening. Within seconds, our live-in baby nurse, Chloe Pratt, stepped forward, her voice trembling with manufactured urgency. “Mrs. Rutherford, we can’t wait! Any longer and the baby will die!” “Look how panicked she is,” the little girl’s voice scoffed. “Her own child is dying. She’s losing her mind. If you die on that table, they’re going to swap us. They’ll forge a DNA test to convince Grandpa and Grandma that the bastard is your only surviving bloodline. Your family will pour all their resources into raising him, lifting a kid who belongs in a trailer park straight into high society. The sick baby is at Mercy Hill Private Clinic right now. If you don’t believe me, Mommy, go check.” Connor indeed came from nothing. If my family hadn’t patronized his talent and funded his career, he’d still be drowning in debt in some run-down rural town. As for Chloe, Connor was the one who had handpicked her, claiming she was the most qualified, elite maternity nurse who could ease my transition into motherhood. “Simon,” I said, turning my gaze to my personal assistant, Simon Fletcher. “Check Mercy Hill Private Clinic. Find out if there is a pediatric patient there with a severe blood disorder currently awaiting a cord blood transplant.” At those words, the color drained instantly from both Connor and Chloe’s faces. Connor’s grip on my wrist tightened, his voice dropping to a rushed, defensive whisper. “Samantha, why on earth are you asking about that now? We can run whatever background checks you want after the baby is safe. We need to go!” “What are you all standing around for? Get the wheelchair to the car!” Chloe snapped, lifting her chin to command the estate’s bodyguards. The guards took a step toward me. During my pregnancy, Connor had constantly told me how much he worried about my stress levels, insisting I hand over the household management to Chloe. Over the past six months, she had practically run the estate. It seemed she had truly started to believe she was the mistress of the house. “I dare any of you to lay a finger on me,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, freezing temperature as I stared the guards down. “Have you forgotten who actually signs your paychecks every month?” “Why are you bringing up money right now?” Connor scowled, his tone laced with sharp reprimand. “Chloe just took over the estate management. If you publicly humiliate her like this, how is anyone supposed to respect her authority? Stop throwing a tantrum, Samantha. Be reasonable and get to the hospital.” “Oh, I’ll go to the hospital,” I said. A flash of relief washed over Chloe’s face, but it withered instantly at my next words. “But first, I want a comprehensive ultrasound. I want to know, once and for all, whether I am carrying a boy or a girl.” The heavy silence in the room was broken only by the sound of a porcelain teacup slipping from Chloe’s fingers and shattering against the hardwood floor. Connor rushed to my side, his brows furrowed in utter bewilderment. “We talked about this, Sam. We agreed that boy or girl, we would love them just the same. Just get the C-section. You’ll know the gender the second the baby is out. If we delay this any longer, something terrible is going to happen.” In my mind, the frantic boy’s voice wailed again. “Mommy, I’m suffocating. I really can’t breathe. Please do the C-section. I want to meet you. I don’t want to die.” But the soft, sweet girl’s voice countered immediately: “Mommy, if you let them cut me out right now, we either both die on that table, or I’ll be born so premature that I won’t survive, and your uterus will be so badly damaged you’ll never be able to conceive again. Then, your garbage husband will blame you. He’ll say you waited too long, burying you under so much guilt that you’ll agree to adopt. He’ll bring his illegitimate son into our home under the guise of adoption, and you’ll be forced to watch him and the nanny play happy family while you spiral into postpartum depression and jump off a building. This is my third time trying to save us. You can finally hear me. Please, do not let them cut me out.” As the words echoed in my head, a deluge of memories from my past two lives crashed into my mind. In my first life, I had listened to the boy’s voice, rushed into an early C-section, and we both died. The illegitimate child was brought in to replace my lost baby. In my second life, I had still heard the voice but delayed the surgery out of sheer terror for two weeks. The baby was stillborn. Afterward, Connor had subjected me to a relentless campaign of psychological abuse. “If you had just listened and done the surgery earlier, my baby would be alive! You are a murderer!” he had screamed at me day after day. Freshly traumatized by the loss of my child, his accusations broke me. I shrank into myself, drowning in agonizing guilt. Eventually, I agreed to adopt a baby boy and put my entire family trust fund into his name. But as the boy grew, no matter how much love I poured into him, he remained cold and distant to me, while clinging desperately to Chloe. When I tried to fire her, Connor’s mother had cornered me with moral blackmail: “The boy is used to Chloe! You already killed your own child, do you want to destroy this one too? You selfish monster!” Connor had mocked my suffering. “You agreed to the adoption, Samantha. Now the boy wants nothing to do with you because you spend all day crying and acting like a lunatic. Who would want a mother like you?” Unable to bear the suffocating darkness, I had finally jumped from the roof of our estate. The memories felt so real, the phantom wind of the fall still whistling in my ears. “He already bribed the doctors at Mercy Hill Clinic,” the little girl’s voice warned, trembling slightly. “The surgeon will make sure you suffer a massive hemorrhage on the table. Mommy, the only reason you survived the surgery in your second life was because you delayed it for two weeks. You were strong enough to survive the blood loss, but I had already passed away in your womb.” “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you in pain?” Connor urged, his hand gripping the back of my wheelchair, trying to push me toward the waiting car. “We really don’t have time for this. We need to leave!” Before he could move me, Simon ran back into the courtyard, slightly out of breath. “Ma’am, I just confirmed it. There is a child currently admitted at Mercy Hill Clinic under critical care, desperately requiring a cord blood match.” My heart skipped a beat. “Take me to see that child. And draw a blood sample from Chloe for a DNA comparison.” “Have you completely lost your mind?” Connor bellowed, his face twisting with rage. “Are you seriously playing games when there is a living child’s life at stake in your womb? Do you even deserve to be a mother?” “She’s right, Mr. Derrick. You can afford to wait, but the baby in your belly cannot!” Chloe added, tears welling in her eyes as she tried to pull my wheelchair away from Connor. I rested my hand over my stomach, my jaw set. “Mommy, I can’t breathe. I think I’m dying,” the boy’s voice whimpered. “Please listen to them. Get me out.” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and made my decision. “Before any surgery, I am getting an ultrasound to verify the baby’s gender.” Chloe froze, her eyes widening in sheer panic. “Mrs. Rutherford, nothing is more important than the baby’s life! If this child dies because of your stubbornness, can you live with that guilt?” “You are a hired servant. Since when do you have the right to question my decisions?” I looked up at her, my eyes cold and dead. “And as for my child—if she dies, it is my burden to bear. Not yours.” Connor stepped forward, grabbing my wrist again, his tone dripping with patronizing condescension. “Chloe is going to help you raise this child, Samantha. You should be grateful to her. Didn’t I tell you we should treat her like family? Raising a child is exhausting, and she’s taking the brunt of the hard work so you can rest. Show some gratitude.” “She’s taking the brunt of the work?” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Am I not paying her an exorbitant salary? If she’s getting paid, this is a transactional employment. Don’t try to guilt-trip me with your twisted morals.” Connor looked stunned, clearly caught off guard by my sudden, sharp defiance. His face darkened, his patience evaporating. “Samantha, what is wrong with you today?” I ignored him, gripping the armrests of my wheelchair, and looked directly at our private security guards. “We are not going to Mercy Hill Clinic. Drive me to Rutherford Memorial Hospital. I want a gender scan immediately.” Connor chased after the car as we boarded. “We live in the twenty-first century, Samantha! Why are you so obsessed with the baby’s gender? Don’t you know prenatal sex determination is highly regulated? The baby is on the verge of death, and you’re obsessed with whether it’s a boy or a girl?” Chloe quickly climbed into the passenger seat, shoving her phone in front of my face. The voice of a doctor from Mercy Hill was on the line, sounding incredibly frantic, insisting that a scan was a waste of time and that I needed to be wheeled into surgery immediately. “You can’t do the scan! See? Even the specialist says so!” Chloe cried, her forehead slick with cold sweat. She turned to the driver. “Hurry, take us to Mercy Hill!” The commotion in the hospital lobby when we arrived drew a crowd of onlookers. People began whispering, casting judging looks my way. “She’s already six months along. Is she seriously going to abort the baby if it’s a girl?” “Her husband looks so devoted. He probably cooks for her and takes care of her every single day, and she’s here acting like a spoiled brat.” As they wheeled me toward the elevator, the murmurs in the corridor made my head throb. “Mommy, Daddy loves you so much. You should listen to him. Give birth to me, and let’s take care of him and his family together,” the boy’s voice urged, sounding sweet and compliant. “Aunt Chloe is so kind to us. Why won’t you listen to her? Let’s just go to the operating room.” “Mommy, don’t do the scan at Rutherford Memorial. The doctors there are corrupt; they’ve been bribed. They will lie to you. Listen to Daddy.” I blocked out the voices entirely. Once inside Rutherford Memorial Hospital, the obstetrician on duty performed a routine fetal heart rate check and handed me the chart. “The detailed ultrasound report will take some time to process. Please wait in the lounge.” Connor grabbed my hand, his voice laced with desperate pleading. “Samantha, you can wait, but the baby can’t! You can’t honestly tell me you’d abort our child just because she might be a girl?” “I never said I wanted to abort my baby,” I replied, my voice flat. “I simply want to know.” The doctor looked at my stomach, a flicker of disapproval in her eyes. “You’re six months pregnant. Why does the gender matter so much now? If it turns out to be a girl, surely you aren’t planning on an illegal late-term termination? The law strictly prohibits that.” I didn’t bother defending myself against the silent accusations of the medical staff. I walked out to the waiting room, sitting in silence. Connor was practically vibrating with anxiety, pacing back and forth, sweat dripping down his temples. But no matter what he said, I refused to move until the official report was in my hands. Suddenly, Chloe burst through the double doors of the waiting room, clutching a printed medical chart. “Mrs. Rutherford, we have to transfer you to Mercy Hill for an emergency C-section immediately!” she screamed, thrusting the paper in my face. “I just had the lab print your latest fetal monitor strip. Look at this! The baby’s heart rate has plummeted to ninety beats per minute! Every second we waste is a second closer to brain damage or death!” Connor bolted upright. “What are we waiting for? Call the ambulance! Get the surgical team ready!” I stared at the bold red stamp on the paper: “CRITICAL DISTRESS. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF PREGNANCY.” Out of nowhere, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Derrick, rushed into the waiting room, sobbing hysterically and begging me to save her grandchild. My breathing grew shallow. My mind spun in a vortex of doubt. Then, the little girl’s voice spoke again, clear and steady. “Mommy, they’re lying. That chart is a forgery. Chloe’s baby will die if he doesn’t get my cord blood within the hour. She is desperate to get you onto that operating table.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. Around us, the patients and nurses in the lobby began to murmur loudly. “Her baby’s heart rate is dropping that low, and she’s still sitting there waiting for a gender report? How heartless can a mother be?” “Is a boy or a girl really more important than a human life? If that baby dies, she’ll regret this for the rest of her life!” “I’ve never seen a pregnant woman so utterly cruel.” Seeing that I still wouldn’t budge, Mrs. Derrick suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, sobbing loudly in front of the entire waiting room. “Samantha, I beg you! Please, save the baby!” the elderly woman wailed, clutching at my knees. “The baby is six months old! That is a living soul!” “If I’ve ever done anything to upset you, you can beat me, you can curse me, but please don’t take it out on an innocent child! As the baby’s grandmother, I cannot watch my own flesh and blood die! I beg you!” The crowd’s whispers turned into open condemnation. “Mom, please get up. That’s not what I meant…” I muttered, my stomach turning. “Then what do you mean?” Connor demanded, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at me. “My mother is nearly seventy years old, Samantha! She is kneeling and begging you in public!” “All she wants is for you and our baby to be safe. Do you really have to push her to the brink of death before you’re satisfied?” Looking at my sobbing mother-in-law on the floor, a cold dread washed over me. The judgmental stares of the crowd felt suffocating, almost physical. “Fine,” Connor said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur. “If you must wait for the gender results, let’s at least transfer to Mercy Hill now. The moment the report is delivered, we can go straight into the OR. That way, we won’t waste a single second.” Under the overwhelming pressure of the crowd, I finally nodded. But the moment we arrived at Mercy Hill Private Clinic, they didn’t wait for any reports. I was immediately hoisted onto a gurney and wheeled straight into an operating room. The doctor on duty, a cold-faced man, immediately drew a clear fluid into a large syringe. The little girl’s voice returned, but this time, she was crying. “Mommy, that’s not an anesthetic! That is a lethal dose of potassium chloride! One injection, and my heart will stop instantly. They don’t want me to live—they only want my cord blood!” An icy spike of adrenaline shot through my veins. I kicked out wildly, breaking free from the nurses’ grip, and snatched the syringe straight out of the doctor’s hand. “What is this?” I demanded, my voice trembling with rage. “Why has the label on this vial been deliberately scraped off?” Chloe gasped, taking a step back. Connor quickly stepped in, his voice taking on a soothing, manipulative cadence. “Samantha, please, stop this. Hospital medications are strictly regulated. Are you really going to halt a life-saving surgery over a torn label?” He leaned over me, his hands pressing down on my shoulders to force me back onto the gurney. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve already signed the spousal consent form to accompany you into the OR. I’ll be right by your side the entire time.” I summoned every ounce of strength I had left and shoved him away, glaring at the medical staff surrounding me. “I am the sole trustee and beneficiary of the Rutherford Medical Trust,” I announced, my voice ringing out with absolute authority. “Under the law, any medical procedure performed on my body requires my explicit, written consent. If any of you touch me without my signature, I will have you arrested for assault and attempted murder!” Connor’s face turned a violent shade of purple. “Samantha! We have been married for years, and you’re using your family’s money and status to threaten me? I am the biological father of that child! I have the legal right to authorize an emergency procedure to save my baby’s life!” “Just close your eyes and trust me, Sam!” He signaled the nurses, and they lunged forward to pin me down. I fought back with everything I had, but I was vastly outnumbered. Just as they were about to force the needle into my arm, a loud bang echoed from the heavy double doors of the surgical suite. “Stop!” Simon Fletcher ran into the room, holding a sealed manila envelope, gasping for air. “Mrs. Rutherford, I have the official lab results from Rutherford Memorial!” He marched past the stunned security guards and handed the paper directly to me. “The ultrasound and genetic screening are complete. You are carrying a healthy baby girl.”

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I had been working for US Customs and Border Protection for five years. Because of my unusually heightened sense of smell—a classified asset in my line of work—my husband, Garrett, always believed I worked a dull corporate desk job. On our third anniversary, I spotted him at the international arrivals terminal. The same man who had texted me hours earlier saying he had to work late at the university. He was standing near the exit, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind Bianca’s ear, wearing a smile I hadn’t seen on his face in years. Bianca, his ex-girlfriend. The one that got away. When his eyes met mine, his hand dropped instantly. It was a casual, practiced movement, but his next instinct betrayed him: he stepped slightly to the side, shielding her from me. “Ida? Are you tracking me?” Garrett’s voice was instantly defensive, sharp enough to cut. “It’s just an anniversary. Missing one dinner isn’t going to kill you.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair with practiced exhaustion. “What is it this time? What do you want to make this go away? A new bag? Shoes? Jewelry? Just name it.” The surrounding travelers glanced at us, their eyes darting between me and Garrett, their expressions dripping with silent judgment. I felt the sting of a public slap. In my pocket, my fingers curled around the folded ultrasound printout, shoving it deeper into the dark. I pinched my trembling fingertips together. “I didn’t follow you.” “Garrett, thank you for picking me up,” Bianca chimed in, her voice soft, dripping with effortless grace. “But your wife comes first. You should go with her.” She gave him a gentle, reproving look. “And don’t be so harsh. Apologize to her.” Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Sorry,” he muttered, the word dry and entirely hollow. I stared at him, my throat tight. Garrett—proud, esteemed university professor Garrett—had never taken direction from anyone, least of all me. My heart sank into a cold, heavy pit. Bianca patted his arm, took the handle of her sleek silver suitcase from his hand, and gave me a polite, pitying nod before turning toward the exit. But then, a faint, unnatural scent caught the edge of my breath. It was sharp, chemical, underlaid with something metallic and organic. Dangerous. I stepped forward, extending my arm to block her path. “Excuse me. Please step aside and open your suitcase. Customs inspection.” … Bianca froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. Before she could speak, Garrett let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Ida, this act is getting pathetic,” Garrett snapped. “Who do you think you are, trying to play officer with Bianca?” “Garrett, it’s fine. Your wife is just really angry,” Bianca said with a bittersweet smile. She took a half-step back, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the suitcase handle. Garrett marched over, grabbing my wrist with a bruising grip and pulling me away. “Ida, you’re a low-level desk clerk at a logistics firm. Where do you get the nerve to impersonate a federal officer?” Bianca looked down, her tone dripping with gentle martyrdom. “Garrett, stop. She’s probably just… insecure. Because of me.” “Insecure?” Garrett sneered, looking at me with pure disdain. “No, she’s just petty and jealous.” He leaned in, his jaw clenched as he tried to control his rage. “Do you have any idea where Bianca just came from? She’s been in a conflict zone in East Africa, risking her life with Doctors Without Borders! While she was saving lives, what were you doing? Obsessing over designer sales and breathing down my neck! You are so thoroughly mediocre, Ida. You don’t even compare to a single hair on her head.” Every word felt like a poisoned needle sinking deep into my chest. But the scent in the air was growing stronger. It was a volatile organic compound, masking something biological. If that suitcase cleared the barrier and made it into the crowded streets of New York, the consequences could be catastrophic. Seeing my refusal to back down, Bianca bit her lower lip. Suddenly, she gasped, her knees buckling as she swayed toward Garrett. “Garrett… my wrist,” she whispered, leaning into him. “The old injury from the field… I think it just flared up when she blocked me…” Garrett instantly released me, wrapping his arms around Bianca. His face softened into pure, agonizing worry. “Bianca, are you okay? Do we need to go to the ER?” When he looked back at me, his eyes were cold with genuine malice. “Ida, if anything happens to her, I swear to God, I will make you pay.” “Ms. Ward,” I said, my voice steady despite the shaking in my knees. “Please cooperate and open the suitcase.” “Why should she cooperate with you?” Garrett snarled, stepping in front of her to block my view. “You’re in civilian clothes. You have no badge, no warrant, no authority. Who the hell do you think you are?” He was technically right. I was off-duty today. I wasn’t wearing my CBP uniform, and my active federal credentials were locked in my secure locker at the office. Seeing my silence, Garrett let out a cold laugh. “Typical Ida. You start drama out of thin air, and the moment things get serious, you play the victim.” A crowd was beginning to gather, their whispers rising like a slow tide. “Is that lady crazy? Why is she harassing her?” “Clearly insecure. Her husband’s gorgeous ex comes home, and she loses her mind.” Bianca stood up slowly, gently patting Garrett’s arm. “Don’t be angry, Garrett. Ida is probably just acting out of love. Maybe I should just open it to give her peace of mind.” Her tone was so reasonable, her demeanor so graceful, that it painted me perfectly as the hysterical, jealous wife. Garrett’s eyes softened even further. “You don’t need to indulge her madness.” Bianca smiled gently and shook her head, reaching down toward the suitcase’s combination lock. But as her fingers moved, I caught a split-second motion—her thumb flicked a small, concealed latch on the side of the case. She was triggering a hidden compartment. Destroying or sealing the contents. My stomach dropped. I lunged forward, grabbing her hand. “Don’t touch that!” Garrett snapped. He slammed his hand against my shoulder, shoving me back. I lost my footing, stumbling backward until my spine collided violently with the metal security barrier. A sharp, white-hot pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. I gasped, doubling over and clutching my stomach as cold sweat broke out across my neck. Garrett didn’t even look at me. He wrapped an arm around Bianca’s shoulder, grabbed her suitcase with his other hand, and walked briskly toward the exit. “Garrett,” I choked out, fighting through the nausea. “Stop.” He paused, turning back with a sneer of utter frustration. “What else do you want, Ida? Do you need me to spell it out in front of this entire airport? I regret marrying you. Is that enough for you?” He stared at me, cold and indifferent. “I’ve regretted it for three years.” He said it so calmly, his voice carrying over the noisy terminal. I stumbled back, unable to reconcile this cruel stranger with the man who, three years ago, had stood up to my estranged father for me. The man who, on our wedding night, had handed me his bank cards and sworn before my late mother’s photograph that he would cherish and protect me forever. Bianca clung to his arm, her eyelashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks, but a faint, triumphant smile played at the corner of her lips. I recognized that look. It was the same smug expression she wore in all the old photos Garrett still kept locked in his desk drawer. “Excuse me, sir, ma’am,” an airport security officer jogged over, breathing heavily. “We received a complaint about a disturbance here.” Garrett immediately pointed at me. “It’s my wife. She’s emotionally unstable. She saw me welcoming an old friend back to the country and had some kind of manic episode.” The officer turned to me, his tone stern. “Ma’am, you need to step back and stop obstructing other passengers.” Swallowing the metallic taste of fear, I stood up straight. My palms were slick with cold sweat. “I have probable cause to believe that suitcase contains high-risk biohazardous contraband. Please assist me in detaining the passenger for inspection.” The officer frowned, his hand moving closer to his belt. “Do you have federal credentials, ma’am?” My throat dry, I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Garrett let out a mocking chuckle. “She’s an administrative assistant making fifteen dollars an hour. She doesn’t have a badge.” Bianca stepped in, her voice tremulous and wounded. “I work with Doctors Without Borders. I just landed from a deployment in South Sudan. Inside my bag are only personal belongings and medical journals. I think… this lady is just confused.” She pulled a laminated ID card from her purse and handed it to the officer. The officer scanned the credentials, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Since you have official organization ID, ma’am… as for you,” he turned back to me, “you need to leave.” “The credentials are fake,” I said. The small crowd fell silent for a heartbeat, then erupted into louder snickers. “Right, and she’s a secret agent, I guess?” “This chick has lost her mind.” “Her own husband said she’s mentally ill. Poor guy, being married to a lunatic.” Garrett’s face darkened with embarrassment. He marched up to me, leaning in so close I could smell his cologne. “Bianca and I have nothing to hide,” he hissed. “This is pathetic, Ida. Come home right now, and I might consider giving you one last chance to save this marriage.” I didn’t budge. “Fine. You want to make a scene?” He grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging in as he tried to drag me toward the exit. “Garrett, let go of me! I’m pregnant—” “Oh, this lie again?” A sneer curled his lip. “Last semester, when you threw a fit over my female teaching assistant, you faked a migraine to get me to take you to the clinic. Now you’re claiming you’re pregnant? If you were actually carrying my child, you’d be resting at home, not acting like a psychopath in public.” Bianca stood near the exit barrier, her hand resting on her suitcase while her other hand fumbled inside her designer purse. She was seconds away from passing the final exit gate. I pushed past the pain in my abdomen, forcing myself upright. I didn’t chase Garrett. Instead, I sprinted toward the security desk a few yards away. Mounted on the wall behind the desk was a red button encased in a clear plastic protective cover. Below it, in small, bold letters, read: “Level 1 Biohazard Alarm.” I flipped the cover open and slammed my palm down onto the button. A deafening, high-pitched klaxon immediately pierced the terminal. Overhead, red strobe lights began to flash in a frantic rhythm. The noisy chatter of the terminal died instantly, replaced by a tense, chilling silence, followed by a wave of rising panic. Bianca froze in her tracks. When she pulled her hand out of her bag, her fingers were visibly trembling. Garrett, seeing what I had done, lost all academic composure. He stormed toward me, his hand flying up, swinging through the air in a blur. But the blow never landed. Not because he had a sudden change of heart, but because he caught sight of the security cameras and the staring crowd. A tenured Ivy League professor could never let the public see him hit a woman. Instead, he slammed his index finger hard against my forehead, shoving my head back. “Do you have any idea what the penalty is for a false federal alarm? Jail time, Ida! Massive fines! If you don’t care about your reputation, think about mine!” He shook his head, his face contorted in disgust. “You are a low-wage office clerk! What right do you have to touch that button? Do you even know what you’ve just triggered?” He truly didn’t know. He had never cared enough to ask about my actual duties. Whenever I came home late from a shift, exhausted and smelling of industrial disinfectants, he would dismissively scoff, “What could possibly keep you busy at that little desk job?” For three years, in his eyes, I was merely a useless accessory, a quiet housewife he had graciously chosen to support. “Step aside, please! Clear the area!” A specialized biohazard response unit in full hazmat gear rushed through the secure side corridor, pushing a sealed containment cart. The security captain led the charge, his radio crackling with static. “Command, this is Team Alpha. Level 1 alarm triggered at Sector A-3. No visible leak detected yet. Requesting containment backup.” Bianca stood rigid near the security gate, her suitcase now trapped on the inner side of the automated containment barrier. The flash of terror on her face lasted only a fraction of a second before her calm facade slipped back into place. She even offered the incoming response team a warm, apologetic smile. “Officer, my name is Dr. Bianca Ward. I’m registered with Doctors Without Borders. This woman is having a domestic dispute with her husband, and she’s using federal security to harass me.” The supervisor glanced at the official-looking papers Bianca presented, then at me—pale, shivering, and dressed in cheap casual clothes. He was clearly persuaded. He turned to me, his expression hardening. “Ma’am, this is a federal port of entry. It is not a stage for your marital drama.” Garrett smoothly stepped in, adopting his most respectable academic tone. “Officer, I deeply apologize. My wife has been struggling with severe emotional instability lately. We had an argument, and she… reacted poorly. I am so sorry for the inconvenience. This is all a tragic misunderstanding.” The surrounding passengers, annoyed by the delay, began grumbling loudly. “She’s out of her mind. Calling in a biohazard alert over a husband’s ex?” “I feel so bad for the doctor. She goes abroad to save lives, only to come back and deal with this crazy bitch.” “If I were him, I would have divorced her years ago.” I dug my fingernails deep into my palms to keep from collapsing. The response team was following protocol, but to bypass standard procedures and initiate an emergency search, they needed my active federal agent ID number. But my phone had shattered when Garrett shoved me. Without it, I couldn’t access my digital credentials or contact my supervisor. And without physical ID, the ground team couldn’t verify who I was. Garrett stepped closer, whispering in my ear. “If you get down on your knees right now, apologize to Bianca, and admit you did this pathetic stunt just to get my attention… I might use my standing at the university to bail you out of the federal holding cell.” Get on my knees. Apologize to Bianca. I looked at the face of the man I had loved for three years, and for the first time, he looked like a complete stranger. A monster. “Garrett,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet entirely steady. “I gave you one last chance to walk away from her.” “Are you threatening me?” He let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “It’s not a threat,” I said, looking directly into his eyes. “From this moment on, you will bear the full legal consequences of your choices.” Bianca watched us, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. With a crisp “click”, she spun the combination dial and threw the suitcase open, exposing the contents to the entire terminal. “Since you’re so desperate to see, look,” Bianca declared, her voice rising so everyone could hear. “Let everyone be my witness. If there’s nothing illegal in here, I will make sure she spends years in a federal prison.” The suitcase lay flat on the polished floor. Inside, there were only ordinary things. A few folded clothes. Some designer makeup cases scattered in the corners, and a thick stack of handwritten medical journals in English. The onlookers erupted in jeers. “That’s it? A biohazard? She needs a psych ward!” “She’s so desperate for drama, she framed an innocent doctor.” “Lock her up! She’s toxic.” Wanting to put an end to the spectacle and leave with Bianca, Garrett turned to the security officers. “Just take her away,” he demanded, pointing a finger at his own head. “My wife has a history of severe genetic mental illness. She’s delusional.” His face twisted in utter disgust. Those words were a rusty blade driving straight into my heart. When my father abandoned my mother years ago, he had used the exact same tactic—publicly labeling her as crazy to discredit her. It drove my mother to a point of pure despair, until she jumped from our fourteenth-floor balcony, dying instantly. It was the deepest wound I carried, a raw scar I never let anyone touch. Garrett knew everything. He knew the nightmares I still had. Yet, to protect Bianca, he chose to weaponize my mother’s tragedy against me without a second thought. “Look at yourself,” Garrett spat, stepping closer. “Hysterical, irrational. You’re turning out exactly like your mother. Just as crazy as she was before she took her leap.” The crowd’s mood shifted. The laughter died, replaced by a tense apprehension. A few travelers stepped back, treating me like a volatile threat. A mother nearby pulled her young daughter behind her back. “Security! Get her out of here before she gets violent!” The officers exchanged looks and began closing in around me. “I am not crazy. And my mother wasn’t either,” I whispered, my voice shaking, but I forced every syllable out clearly. But nobody listened. Hands grabbed at my shoulders, pushing and pulling me roughly toward the exit. “Move along, ma’am. You’re going to have to leave the premises.” In the scuffle, I was shoved to the hard floor. As I fell, a warm, terrifying sensation began to trickle down the inside of my thigh. Panic seized me. I reached out, desperately grabbing the hem of Garrett’s trousers. “Garrett… please. I am pregnant. I really am.” Garrett didn’t reach down to help me. Instead, he coldly kicked my hand away. “Even if you are, Ida,” he said, pausing as if to let his words carry maximum weight, before his lips curled into a cruel smile, “I wouldn’t want it. Who knows what kind of genetic ticking time bomb is lurking in your family bloodline? I have no interest in raising a kid who’s destined to jump off a building.” “Let’s go, Bianca,” he said, turning his back on me. “You just landed. Let me take you out to celebrate. Where do you want to eat?” People were chuckling. Several onlookers held up their phones, recording the entire scene. I lay on the freezing, sterile tile floor, feeling a piece of my own life slowly drain away. “Come on, ma’am, let’s get you up,” an officer said, pulling me by the arm. My knees buckled, and spots of darkness danced across my vision. Bianca zipped her suitcase, lifted the handle, and took a couple of steps toward the exit. “BOOM!” The heavy glass security doors were slammed open. Tactical federal agents in dark tactical gear, carrying black riot shields, swept into the terminal like a tidal wave. Automatic weapons were drawn, instantly aiming at anyone moving near the exit gates. The entire hall fell dead silent. Bianca froze, her hand locked onto her suitcase handle. Garrett’s expression morphed from smug satisfaction to stunned confusion, and then to absolute terror. Leading the team was Callum Reynolds. He wore his tactical commander uniform, the gold insignia of the special task force gleaming on his shoulder. When his eyes fell on me, his pupils contracted sharply. With the last of my strength, I pointed toward Bianca’s suitcase. “The suitcase… the makeup compacts… the false bottoms…” “Ida,” Callum gasped, dropping to his knees beside me. “You’re bleeding.”

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The day we were supposed to get our marriage license, I sat in the sterile, fluorescent-lit lobby of City Hall until the security guard politely told me they were closing. Chasel never showed. I spent the drive home gripped by a cold, clawing panic, imagining him in a ditch somewhere, bleeding and broken. But then I opened Instagram. I didn’t find an accident. I found a wedding. The groom smiling back at the camera was Chasel. And the venue—the cascading white roses, the exact shade of ivory silk draped over the altar—was the very theme I had spent the last month meticulously planning. By the time I arrived at the venue, the ceremony was over. Under the glowing canopy of fairy lights, the newlyweds were locked in a passionate kiss, surrounded by the raucous cheers of their friends. As the applause died down, I caught the hushed voices of Chasel’s groomsmen standing near the edge of the bar. “Man, you actually stood Piper up to play pretend with Naomi?” one whispered, shaking his head. “If Piper finds out, she’ll castrate you.” “Seriously,” another chimed in. “Piper keeps you on a short leash. This isn’t going to end well.” Chasel let out a soft, careless laugh, the sound dripping with indifference. “I lost a dare last night, okay? Naomi made me promise to skip the courthouse and play house with her for a day. I had to pay up. Besides, Piper suffocates me. What guy can put up with that constant monitoring?” He paused, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s not like I’m not marrying her. City Hall is open Monday through Friday. We can go any day of the week. What is there for her to throw a tantrum about?” I stood in the shadows, listening to every word. I didn’t scream. I didn’t make a scene. Three days later, on our actual wedding day, Chasel showed up in his tuxedo, looking every bit the dashing groom. I walked down the aisle, my hand resting on another man’s arm. I held up a crisp, official marriage certificate and let it catch the light. “You can sign a marriage license with anyone, Chasel,” I said, my voice steady. “But I don’t take back a man who’s already been soiled.” … When I pushed open the heavy double doors of the private banquet suite, Chasel and Naomi were still wrapped up in each other. They were kissing with a desperate, breathless intensity, completely ignoring the crowd around them. When they finally broke apart, Naomi looked flushed, leaning heavily against Chasel’s chest as he held her by the waist. “So?” Chasel asked, looking around the room with a smug grin. “I kept my promise for the dare. Do I get a perfect score?” Naomi gave him a playful, mock-offended swat. “I guess you pass. But… I really wish this were our actual wedding.” Chasel tapped her forehead gently, his voice softening into a tone he usually reserved only for me. “Stop teasing. You know the only woman I’m marrying is Piper.” Naomi pouted, crossing her arms. Chasel smiled, but as his eyes swept over her shoulder, they locked onto me. He froze. The easy, carefree grin slipped from his face, replaced by a momentary flash of guilt before he smoothed his expression back into indifference. He walked toward me, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone lighter than it had any right to be. He glanced back at his friends. One of them raised a hand sheepishly. “Sorry, Chasel. I got caught up in the moment and posted a video to my story.” I never could have imagined that my fiancé—the man I had spent five years loving, the man who was supposed to legally become my husband today—would conspire with his entire circle of friends to hide a mock wedding with another woman. Seeing the coldness in my eyes, Chasel rubbed his temples, exhaling a long, irritated sigh. It was his signature move when he wanted me to know I was being a burden. “I lost a dare last night,” he said, his voice flat. “The guys wanted me to have one last wild night before I got hitched. We’ve been brothers for over a decade. I couldn’t just back out and look like a coward.” I nodded slowly, keeping my face entirely blank. I thought about how I had tossed and turned last night, too excited about getting our marriage license to sleep. While I was counting down the hours to our future, he was enjoying his bachelor party by playing husband to someone else. “You could have called me,” I said. “It would have saved me from sitting at City Hall like a fool all afternoon.” He blinked, momentarily taken aback, a frown creasing his brow. Before he could speak, Naomi glided over. She was wearing a gorgeous, intricately beaded backless gown that caught the light with every step she took. “Piper, it was my idea not to tell you,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I knew how sensitive you get. I didn’t want you getting jealous and ruining Chasel’s night.” Her mouth offered an apology, but her eyes were pure, unadulterated triumph. If she had truly cared about my feelings, she would never have suggested this “dare” in the first place. “If you were so worried about my jealousy, you shouldn’t have begged him to buy you a mock wedding,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. Chasel’s expression hardened. The gentle facade was gone, replaced by a warning glare. “Piper, that’s enough. It was just a game. If there were anything going on between Naomi and me, do you really think we would have waited until now?” With just a few words, he shifted the blame onto me. I was the unreasonable one. I was the party pooper ruining their harmless, thrill-seeking fun. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the decor. I had spent months agonizing over every detail of this aesthetic. And then there was Naomi’s dress. When we went to the boutique, I had fallen in love with that exact backless gown. But Chasel had gently taken it from my hands. “Piper, you’re too sweet, too elegant for something so revealing. Besides, I don’t want other men staring at your bare back. I’d get too jealous.” At the time, my heart had melted. I thought it was a sign of how deeply he cherished me. So, I compromised and chose a modest, high-necked dress instead. Yet here it was, draped over Naomi’s shoulders. Noticing the direction of my gaze, Chasel cleared his throat. “We were short on time, so I just had the bridal shop send over whatever they had in stock. Naomi’s always had a bolder style. It suits her.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. I looked at Chasel, my eyes devoid of the warmth that had lived there for half a decade. “It really does. In that case, let me wish you both a very happy marriage.” A suffocating silence fell over the room. Chasel’s jaw clenched. In the past, whenever we bickered, he viewed it as a cute, harmless little lover’s spat. But today, I was refusing to play my part. I was embarrassing him in front of his audience. “Piper, seriously, drop the attitude,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t make a scene in front of my friends.” A cold numbness washed over me. I had already been made the ultimate joke the moment they decided to throw this little festival behind my back. “Chasel, don’t raise your voice at Piper,” Naomi said, stepping in with her practiced grace. “She’s always been a bit straight-laced. It’s only natural she doesn’t understand our sense of humor. Go on, comfort her. I’m going to go change.” She turned, lifting the heavy train of the gown to walk away. In that split second, my entire body went rigid. On her feet were my wedding shoes. I had spent three months sketching the design myself, sourcing the softest, most delicate Italian silk, and having them handmade. My mother had always told me that a woman deserves a pair of shoes that fit her perfectly—not just for comfort, but because they carry her toward the life she actually wants. And now, they were on Naomi’s feet, dirtying the pristine white leather. “Take them off,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the room. Naomi paused, blinking in mock confusion, though her eyes danced with malice. She had done this entirely on purpose. “What? Are you so desperate to play princess that you have to steal another woman’s wedding, her groom, and now her shoes?” I asked, taking a step toward her. “Does being a thief bring you that much joy?” With her mask stripped away, Naomi’s smug smile faltered. She looked back at Chasel, her lower lip trembling as she forced a look of pure vulnerability. Chasel immediately stepped between us, his brow furrowed in deep irritation. “They’re just shoes, Piper! When did you become so incredibly petty?” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I forced them back. I refused to shed a single tear in this room. “Those are my wedding shoes, Chasel.” “You’re just taking your anger out on her,” Chasel dismissed, waving his hand. “If it’s that big of a deal, I’ll buy you ten pairs just like them.” I looked at the man I had loved for five years, realizing with a sinking heart that once you stripped away his grand gestures and sweet words, there was nothing underneath. He didn’t understand why I was hurting. Or worse, he simply didn’t care. This mock wedding wasn’t just a dare. It was an obedience test. He wanted to see just how much disrespect I would swallow before our actual wedding day. Naomi slipped the heels off her feet and kicked them carelessly toward me. “If they’re such a precious treasure, here. Take them back.” I looked down. The delicate, hand-stitched silk was already scuffed and stained from the venue floor. It was a perfect metaphor for my relationship with Chasel. I bent down, picked them up, and threw them directly into the trash can in the corner of the room. Chasel’s face darkened, his patience entirely depleted. “Piper, enough. Are you done throwing your tantrum?” “Chasel,” I said, my voice quiet but carrying a weight that made his smile vanish. “You know me. I don’t wear shoes that someone else has already worn. And the same goes for weddings. You had yours with her. So ours is off.” The room went dead silent. It took Chasel several seconds to process my words before he let out a sharp, incredulous scoff. “Piper, you spent months obsessing over every single detail of this wedding. You’re really going to throw all that away over a game? Stop acting crazy. Go home, cool off, and wait for me to come marry you.” He spoke with such absolute certainty, like a man who knew he held all the cards. He believed that no matter how monstrously he behaved, I would always forgive him because I was too invested to leave. But who said I had to marry him to have my wedding? I turned on my heel and walked out. Chasel didn’t follow me. He assumed I was just running away to cry, and his arrogant laugh echoed down the hallway, accompanied by the snickers of his friends. “See? I told you,” one of his groomsmen chuckled. “Chasel has her wrapped around his finger. She’s just throwing a fit because she’s terrified he won’t walk down the aisle.” “Man, Chasel is a legend,” another added. “He played the good boyfriend for a few years, but a leopard doesn’t change its spots. He’s back to his old self.” Chasel’s voice drifted out, loud and clear: “I don’t mind humoring her occasionally, but I can’t keep doing this once we’re married. Let her stew for a couple of days. By Saturday, she’ll be crying tears of joy just to say ‘I do.’” The group erupted into laughter. “Come on, the dare isn’t over yet! We still have to carry the bride over the threshold!” When I got back to my apartment, the wedding planner had sent over the final PDF confirmation. I stared at the screen, looking at every detail of the day I had dreamed of. The aisles lined with white roses, the grand crystal installations, the hand-tied bouquet. Chasel had always known exactly how to charm me. When he was pursuing me, he locked away his playboy reputation so completely that everyone believed he had reformed for me. Even our wedding prep had felt like a fairytale. But he waited until the very moment I was most vulnerable to show me who he really was. One moment I was floating in the clouds, dreaming of our future. The next, I had been dropped onto the hard, cold earth. And he still didn’t think he had done anything wrong. I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I called the wedding planner and authorized a massive budget increase. “I want to change the entire design,” I said. “Not a single original element remains. Strip it all down and start over.” The planner hesitated. “Um, Ms. Vance… shouldn’t we consult the groom about this?” “No,” I replied, my voice steady. “Just do exactly as I say.” After hanging up, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat on the sofa in the dark. My phone buzzed. It was an audio file from Naomi. I tapped play. Instantly, the heavy, intimate breathing of a man filled the quiet room. Chasel. A wave of intense nausea hit me. I didn’t need to hear the rest to know exactly what was happening, or what kind of “afterparty” they were having. So much for a harmless dare. I saved the file to my cloud drive, my hands entirely steady. For the next two days, I didn’t send a single text to Chasel. And he, true to his arrogant nature, didn’t reach out to me either. Naomi’s social media, however, was a masterclass in psychological warfare. She posted photos of their “honeymoon suite,” a discarded men’s dress shirt on the floor, and a satin bra draped over the bedside lamp. Her caption read: “The wild Chasel is back. Thanks for an unforgettable ride.” The comment section was filled with mutual friends whispering, laughing, and throwing subtle jabs at me. But a strange thing happened as I stared at those photos. I didn’t feel the sharp, agonizing pain I expected. I just felt an icy, hollow emptiness. My best friend, Chelsea, called me, practically screaming into the receiver. “I knew it! I knew that bastard would never change! How could he do this to you after everything you’ve built together?” “I know,” I said softly. “I didn’t think he was capable of this either.” When Chasel first started pursuing me, I knew about his reputation. But I was young, stubborn, and foolish enough to believe I was special. I believed I was the one who could tame him. And up until two days ago, I genuinely believed I had. Chelsea’s voice cracked with sympathy. “Piper, call off the wedding. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.” I stayed silent for a long moment. “I made my bed, Chelsea. I’ll take the loss. But the wedding is still happening.” Slinking away in silence, letting everyone think I was the pathetic, discarded fiancée? That was never my style. On the morning of the wedding, Chasel woke up in Naomi’s bed. His groomsmen’s group chat was blowing up. “Is our boy even awake? Did Naomi drain him dry?” “Better hurry up, Chasel. If you’re late to your own wedding, Piper actually might murder you.” “Please, she’s practically house-trained. She knows exactly what Chasel has been doing the last three days and hasn’t said a word. Chasel really knows how to manage a woman.” “I’m so jealous. Getting married to a sweet, reliable girl while keeping a wild one on the side.” Chasel sat up, rubbing his eyes. He had to admit, he had pushed things a bit too far over the last forty-eight hours. Naomi was like a drug, but today was the day he had to return to reality. He typed a quick reply: “Running late. Go ahead and pick up the bride. I’ll meet you guys at the venue.” He tossed his phone aside and pulled on his trousers. Naomi wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, whispering, “Don’t go. We were having so much fun.” “I have to,” Chasel said, untangling her arms with a practiced, charming smile. “Today is my wedding day. You know I’ve always wanted to marry Piper.” He began putting on his tuxedo. He had planned this perfectly—stepping straight out of Naomi’s bed and onto the altar with me. He had gotten the wildness out of his system, and now he was ready to settle down and be the perfect husband. Remembering the look on my face when I walked out of the banquet hall, and my subsequent silence, his heart softened slightly. Today was our big day. He wanted to make sure I had no regrets. He sent me a text: “See you at the altar. I have a surprise for you.” I didn’t reply. Usually, she responded within seconds. Her phone was always in her hand, my chat pinned to the top. “Probably getting her makeup done,” he reasoned, a confident smile returning to his lips. As he closed the app, he caught a notification from Chelsea’s Instagram. It was a photo of me. I was wearing a breathtaking, diamond-encrusted gown, sitting on a bed covered in deep red roses. The sunlight hit the diamonds, creating a dazzling halo around me. But as Chasel’s eyes drifted to the back of the dress—completely sheer, showing off the elegant curve of my spine—his brow furrowed. He immediately sent another text: “Why did you change the dress? Are you still throwing a tantrum?” “Change it back. I bought you new wedding shoes. I’ll put them on you myself when I get there.” Still no reply. His phone buzzed with messages from his groomsmen: “She looks incredible, Chasel. We’re heading out to pick her up now!” Chasel let out a breath, his annoyance fading. It was just a dress. If she wanted to wear something sexy for once, he’d let her have her moment. He walked out of the hotel, got into his car, and sped toward the venue. Halfway there, his phone rang. It was one of his groomsmen. “Chasel… the security guard at her building says the bride was already picked up.”

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Lately, I’ve been gaining weight for absolutely no reason. Even on days when I eat nothing but a single hard-boiled egg, the scale somehow climbs another two pounds. My sister, Josie, is the exact opposite. She binges on takeout and junk food all day long, yet her body remains effortlessly runway-ready. Frustrated and utterly confused, I posted about it on an online forum, hoping for some advice. Instead, a stranger in the comments revealed a terrifying truth. “Your sister has bound you to a Gluttony Pact. No matter what she eats, she will never gain an ounce. She is anchored to you, destined to stay exactly half your weight.” I froze, staring down at the digital scale. One hundred and eighty pounds. The numbers glared back at me. The user messaged me again. “Did she give you some kind of personal keepsake? A piece of jewelry you wear close to your skin? Listen to me: take it off and fasten it to an animal. You will see what happens.” I did exactly that. Taking advantage of my job at the local zoo, I slipped the silver necklace my sister had given me onto the neck of an elephant in my care. Within three days, Josie completely lost her mind… … “Oh my god! Oh my god! What am I supposed to do?” It had been barely three days since I fastened her necklace to the elephant. Now, my sister’s hysterical screams were echoing through the drywall from the bedroom next door. My parents, hearing her breakdown, rushed to her room to soothe her. But when she couldn’t give them a straight answer, their panic curdled into anger. Together, they stormed down the hall and kicked my door open. The heavy bang of the wood hitting the wall shook the room. Before I could even blink, my mom ripped the blanket off my body, dragging me upright by my arm. It was a stark reminder of exactly where I stood in this family. “Iris! How can you sleep right now?” my mom shrieked. Her fingers dug painfully into my shoulder. Because I weighed a solid hundred and eighty pounds, she couldn’t easily budge me, which only made her angrier. She began to pinch my arms. “Did you do something to your sister? She’s in there crying her eyes out! Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear her?” My dad joined in, grabbing my discarded comforter and tossing it out into the hallway. My bedroom was a converted pantry—barely wide enough for me to turn around in, let alone fit my frame. It was a miracle my bed even squeezed in here. Yet, they had no qualms about crowding in, reducing my tiny sanctuary to utter chaos. But they didn’t care about my space. Their only concern was Josie’s endless, shrill sobbing. “Listen to her!” my mom demanded, shaking me. “She’s heartbroken, and you’re just lying here like a lump of clay! Why aren’t you comforting your sister?” “And what exactly am I supposed to say?” I asked, my voice flat. I looked at them with cold, tired eyes. I’d spent twenty-three years watching their favoritism play out; the armor I’d built was thick. “Just go in there and say something nice! Tell her how beautiful she is! You can’t just pretend she doesn’t exist!” Yes, that was always their playbook. I was the older sister—the bigger, plain, unpromising one. I had no grand ambitions; I was perfectly content working a quiet job at the zoo. But Josie was different. Josie was beautiful, slender, and fiercely determined to be a high-fashion model. A few weeks ago, she had registered for a major regional modeling showcase. By all standard agency metrics, her body fat and weight shouldn’t have qualified her. Yet, through some miracle I couldn’t comprehend at the time, she passed the physical screening with flying colors. The second-round callback was only a month away. To build up her confidence, my parents had spent years tearing me down, offering my self-esteem as a sacrifice to feed her ego. They shoved me down the hallway and into Josie’s room. She was stepping on and off her digital scale, weeping as she watched the numbers blink. “How is this happening? I gained half a pound! Half a pound!” Just half a pound. And it was enough to make her tear her hair out. Meanwhile, I had packed on fifty pounds in a matter of weeks, and my parents hadn’t batted an eye. Terrified that my organs were failing, I had begged my mom to take me to the clinic. She’d laughed it off, telling me I was overreacting. “Big girls are sturdier anyway,” she’d said, waving her hand to dismiss me. My dad had agreed. He said it didn’t matter if I got fat—this family only needed one star, and my extra weight would actually help Josie feel better about her own body. They treated me like a stray dog, tossing me scraps of attention only when it served their golden child. I’d ended up taking the bus to the clinic alone. The bloodwork, the thyroid panels—everything came back perfectly normal. Desperate, I turned to Reddit, posting a detailed breakdown of my sudden, inexplicable weight gain. That was when a user messaged me about the “Gluttony Pact”. Before all this started, I was a healthy hundred and ten pounds. But because Josie’s height required her to maintain a certain frame, keeping her at exactly half my weight meant she could eat whatever she wanted. She had spent the last month gorging on deep-dish pizzas, greasy burgers, and milkshakes—things she’d never dared touch before—all while staying skeletal. Meanwhile, the physical toll of those calories was mapping itself onto my ribs, my thighs, my face. Now I knew the truth. Every bite she swallowed was metabolized by my body. And the anchor keeping this curse locked in place was the necklace she’d given me on my twenty-first birthday. It was a delicate jade pendant—the only semi-valuable thing I had ever received from anyone in this house. The front was carved with my zodiac sign, and the back was inscribed with my exact birthdate and time. It was beautiful, small, and seemingly innocent. I remembered how my parents had smiled that night, their voices unusually warm as we blew out the candles on a cheap grocery-store cake. Josie had clasped it around my neck herself. “Happy twenty-first, Iris,” she had whispered, hugging me. “Twenty-one means new beginnings. I love you.” They had all clapped for me. For two years, I kept that necklace on, believing it was a token of real, albeit late-coming, family love. How foolish I’d been. Even after the internet stranger warned me, I hesitated to take it off. I cried for two nights, mourning the illusion of their affection. But as my joints began to ache from the sudden weight, the survival instinct kicked in. I unclasped the silver chain, my heart heavy with a grief far worse than physical pain. At the zoo, I worked with the African elephants. I chose Shirley, a massive female with a voracious appetite, and hid the pendant deep inside the leather strap we used for her enrichment monitors. Within seventy-two hours, Josie gained half a pound. “This can’t be happening!” Josie screamed, pacing her room. “I’m supposed to be the star of the showcase! I’m the youngest girl they scouted. I can’t ruin this now!” As she dissolved into another fit of hysterics, my mother’s eyes darted to me. A sudden, sharp realization crossed her face. She lunged forward, grabbing my hair with one hand while her other hand clawed violently at my collar. “Where is your necklace? The jade piece your sister bought you?” And there it was. She knew. She had always known what that necklace was doing to me, and she had let it happen anyway. Her fingers dragged against my chest until she felt a cheap red cord. She pulled it out, letting out a breath of relief. “It’s right here, Mom,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I wear it every day. Why?” I had ordered a five-dollar replica from Temu days ago. My mom stared at the cheap green glass, failing to spot the difference. She scowled, dropping her hand. “Nothing,” she muttered, smoothing her shirt. “It was expensive. Josie saved up for months to buy you that jade. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t being ungrateful.” “I’d never lose it, Mom. Don’t worry.” My mom’s eyes narrowed, her mind already pivoting. “Starting today, Iris, you’re on a strict diet. Look at you—you’re a balloon. We’re doing this because we care about your health. No more solid meals.” I nodded, playing the submissive daughter. “Thank you, Mom. With your help, I’m sure the weight will just fly off.” And so, the starvation regimen began. She locked the pantry and prepared all my meals herself—mostly raw celery, boiled cabbage, and watery vegetable juice. In a week, I lost eight pounds. But there were no celebrations in our house. Because as I shrank, Josie swelled. “Oh my god! I’m up eight pounds! Eight pounds!” Josie shrieked, her voice cracking as she ran wild through the living room. “Dad! Mom! Do something! The showcase is the day after tomorrow!” Everything was riding on this showcase. My parents had liquidated their savings to buy her a custom designer gown shipped overnight from Paris. They had even taken out a second mortgage on our small house to pay for her full-body laser treatments and skin-brightening therapies, ensuring every inch of her would glow under the runway lights. But Josie was gaining weight rapidly, and in the worst way possible. It wasn’t an even distribution. The fat settled entirely around her midsection, bloating her once-narrow waist into a thick, swollen tire of flesh. She screamed, punching her own stomach, before grabbing a pair of sewing shears from the counter. “Get it off me! Why is it all sitting here? It’s ruining my life! I’ll just cut it off… if I cut it off, it’ll be gone…” She had a manic, glassy look in her eyes. Thank God my dad was fast enough to tackle her, wrenching the heavy metal shears from her grip. “Josie! Are you out of your mind?” he gasped, pulling her into his arms, his face pale with terror. She sobbed against his shoulder, her ego shattered. “Dad, look at me! It’s disgusting. I look like a monster! I can’t even zip up the Paris dress. My career is over before it even started. How can I walk a runway like this?” My dad didn’t answer her. Instead, his gaze slowly shifted over her shoulder, locking onto me. His eyes were cold, hollow, and utterly devoid of fatherly warmth. He guided Josie back into her bedroom, telling her to lie down, and then grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the master bedroom. It was an interrogation. They cornered me against the wardrobe, their faces dark and menacing. “What’s wrong?” I asked, keeping my voice soft, playing the role of the innocent, dim-witted daughter they thought I was. My mother sneered, looking at me as if I were a piece of rotting garbage on the kitchen floor. “Iris, what did you do?” she hissed. “Tell us the truth, and maybe your father won’t lose his temper.” “I don’t know what you mean, Mom. What happened?” Without warning, her hand cracked across my cheek. The force of the slap sent a sharp sting through my jaw. “Don’t play dumb with me!” she screamed. “I’ve seen the way you look at us—you hate us! You’ve always hated us! Why are you acting like a saint now?” So she did know. She knew how much their cruelty hurt me, and she simply hadn’t cared. “Tell us the truth, Iris!” “Mom, I am telling the truth,” I whispered, rubbing my burning cheek. “Or is there a specific lie you want me to tell you?” My mom lost all control. She grabbed a fistful of my hair, her mouth opening to spit out the secrets of their ritual, completely oblivious to the phone recording from my pocket. But my dad, always the calculating one, stepped in and yanked her back. He saw through the act. He knew I was fishing for a confession. “That’s enough, Miriam,” he said smoothly, placing a calming hand on my mother’s shoulder. He turned back to me, his expression softening into a false, oily smile. “Don’t mind your mother, Iris. She’s just stressed. Josie is our only hope, and with the showcase tomorrow, emotions are running high.” He cleared his throat. “Oh, by the way… let me see your jade necklace. The priest who blessed it said it needs to be recharged every three months to keep its protective energy.” They both stared at my throat, waiting. The air in the room was thick with unspoken threats. To keep the peace and buy myself time, I reached behind my neck, unclasped the cheap Temu replica, and placed it in his outstretched palm. My dad took his keys and left the house immediately. He didn’t return that night. Josie cried herself to sleep, praying for a miracle—hoping that when she woke up, the roll of fat around her waist would be gone. As for me, I received an emergency call from the zoo. Shirley, the elephant carrying the real jade pendant, had gone into labor early. She gave birth to a beautiful, healthy female calf. Because she was exhausted and weak from the delivery, the veterinary team brought in two truckloads of high-protein feed and sweet potatoes to help her recover her strength. Shirley, absolutely famished, dug in. In a single feeding, she happily devoured over a hundred and fifty pounds of food. The next morning, Josie exploded. I mean that quite literally, though not in the way of fireworks. The fat around her waist hadn’t vanished. It had multiplied. The single roll of flesh had mutated into three thick, heavy folds. Because the weight had piled on so rapidly overnight, her skin couldn’t stretch fast enough. The epidermis had literally split open, leaving angry, weeping red tears across her torso. The skin that remained was dry, grey, and deeply creased—coarse and leathery, bearing a terrifying resemblance to elephant hide. And it wasn’t just her waist. Her ankles had completely vanished, swallowed by thick, columnar legs that looked like tree trunks, struggling to support her top-heavy frame. But the most horrifying part was the smell. A heavy, musky, primal stench of animal sweat and damp straw radiated from her. You could smell her from down the hall. My mom gagged the moment she entered the room, which only pushed Josie deeper into madness. “Mom! Mom, don’t look at me like that!” Josie shrieked, clawing at her own face. “I’m a model! I’m going to be on billboards! How did this happen? What went wrong? I can’t live like this! I’d rather die! Mom, please, you have to help me. Transfer it back to Iris! Make her take it! She’s supposed to carry this for me!” She lunged at me, her newly thickened fingers wrapping around my throat. She threw her heavy weight over me, pinning me to the floor as she shook me violently. “Why aren’t you the fat one?!” she screamed, her eyes bloodshot and wild. “You’re already plain, Iris! You’re already a nobody! Why can’t you just let me have this? If I make it, the whole family wins! You’d get to live in my shadow and enjoy my money! Why do you have to be so selfish? All you had to do was suffer a little for me!” The grip on my windpipe tightened. I could see the genuine, murderous intent in her eyes. Her heavy, elephantine limbs pinned me down. I couldn’t breathe. Spots danced in my vision, and my lungs burned as I thrashed beneath her. My mom finally rushed over, but she didn’t pull Josie off out of concern for me. She did it to protect Josie from exerting herself. She pulled her into a tight embrace, stroking her greasy hair, whispering words that carved a fresh hollow into my chest. “Oh, my sweet Josie, my beautiful girl, it’s okay. Mommy’s here. No matter what happens, we love you so much. You’re our star. Don’t ruin your hands on a creature like her. It’s not worth hurting your future. Just breathe, sweetie. Mommy will fix this.” My mother’s tears fell softly onto Josie’s shoulder. Every teardrop felt like a hot drop of lead searing into my soul. I lay on the floor, gasping for air, feeling an overwhelming, crushing exhaustion. I was so tired of fighting for scraps of love that did not exist. The front door slammed open. My dad walked in, his clothes disheveled and his eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night. He locked the deadbolt behind him with a heavy click. He walked toward me, his boots heavy on the linoleum, his eyes sharp as broken glass. With a sudden, violent swing, he hurled the Temu replica at my head. It struck my temple with a sharp crack before clattering to the floor. “This is plastic!” he roared, his voice shaking the small apartment. “The temple priest laughed in my face! Where is the real jade, Iris? Where did you put it? How can you be so vicious? Your sister gave you that beautiful gift out of the goodness of her heart, and you use it to poison her? Look at what you’ve done to her!” I let out a wet, hollow laugh. The physical pain of the blow was nothing compared to the dark amusement bubbling in my chest. “I’m vicious?” I spat, wiping a trickle of blood from my forehead. “Who let her bind me to a curse? You’ve treated me like her shadow, her trash bin, my entire life. I starved myself, I got sick, and you laughed. I tried so hard to make you love me, but I was never even human to you. Well, I’m done begging. If you want the real necklace, you’re going to have to crawl. Otherwise, watch your golden child turn into a monster.” My dad’s face purpled with rage. He raised his heavy hand to strike me again, but before he could, Josie let out a blood-curdling shriek. “It hurts! Dad, it hurts so much! Don’t hit her—just make it stop! I feel like my chest is going to split open!” The fury vanished from my dad’s face, replaced by pure panic. Without a second thought, he dropped to his knees right in front of me. “Iris, please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I’m begging you. Just tell us where it is.” Behind him, my mother slowly sank to her knees as well…

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The grand opening of my new lounge, “The Foundry”, was supposed to be a celebration. Instead, the State Narcotics Task Force swept the place like a SWAT team. Dozens of patrons were forced to lock their hands behind their heads and drop to their knees. Before I could even ask for a warrant, Rachel—my wife of five years and the newly minted Captain of the unit—slammed me face-first onto the polished hardwood floor. “Connor Duke,” she cold-eyed me, pressing her knee into my spine. “Caught red-handed distributing class-A synthetics. Make it easy on yourself, Connor. Who’s your supplier?” My business partner and closest friend, Galen, struggled against the deputy holding him down, shouting over the din of screaming customers. “You can’t just bust in here and manufacture a crime out of thin air! Where’s your probable cause? Where’s the proof?” The rest of the staff chimed in, yelling at the officers to show a warrant or prepare for a massive civil rights lawsuit. Rachel was completely deaf to them. “Proof?” She gestured toward her young protégé, Justin, who stood nearby with a smug expression. “My deputy saw the transaction with his own eyes. His word is all the proof I need.” She tightened her grip on my wrists. “Keep talking, and I’ll make sure they throw the book at you once we dig up the rest of your stash.” An hour later, the lounge had been utterly ransacked. Floorboards were pried up, ceiling tiles shattered, and leather booths slashed open. They found absolutely nothing. Rachel’s face turned a sharp, dangerous shade of pale. Just then, Justin walked over from the kitchen area, holding a small prescription bottle of unlabeled pills. “Found this near the pantry, Cap,” Justin said, his voice dripping with false innocence. “It’ll do for now. A dive like this is never clean anyway; we just need a pretext to haul them into the precinct and squeeze them. I’m only one major collar away from my permanent detective shield. We can’t walk away empty-handed.” At the mention of Justin’s career, the brief flicker of hesitation in Rachel’s eyes vanished. “We have probable cause,” she commanded her team. “Bag the evidence. Arrest everyone on the premises. Call the local news station—tell them we’ve got a major syndicate bust. I want this to be the division’s showcase case of the year.” Watching my own wife secure my wrists with heavy plastic zip-ties, treating me like a career criminal, the last remaining embers of my warmth for her finally turned to ash. I slowly lifted my head, scanning the ruined room, before looking her dead in the eye. “You want to play the frame-up game?” I thought. “Fine. Let’s see how you handle a double-cross.” … Justin shoved me hard from behind, sending me stumbling toward the transport van. “Keep your head down,” he sneered, his voice thick with unearned triumph. “It’s too late to start singing now. Rachel is making an example out of you. You’re looking at five to ten in a state penitentiary.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh and tried to shrug his hand off my shoulder. But Rachel intervened immediately, grabbing my arm with a crushing grip. “You’re already facing drug charges, Connor, and now you’re resisting arrest? Do you want to rot in a cell?” Her eyes filled with deep, burning disgust. “Look at you. You’re behaving like a pathetic, violent thug.” I looked down at her fingers, gripping me so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. On her left hand, the diamond ring I’d spent three months’ salary on caught the harsh fluorescent glare of the police cruisers, throwing a sharp, painful glint directly into my eyes. “Let go,” I said, my voice dropping to a freezing whisper. “I haven’t been charged, let alone convicted. I am not your collar, Rachel.” “Watch your tone,” she snapped, entirely unfazed. “This isn’t a domestic dispute. This is law enforcement. I don’t make arrests without cause.” I smiled, though there was no joy in it. “Cause? Or are you just using my neck as a stepping stone for your golden boy’s career?” The accusation hit its mark. Rachel’s face drained of color, and she quickly stepped closer, lowering her voice so her team couldn’t hear. “It’s just a procedure, Connor. Do you really have to humiliate me in front of my officers? Justin is my deputy. It’s my job to look out for his future.” “His future is a career,” I whispered back. “And mine is just collateral damage? I put five million dollars of my own life savings into this lounge. Is he going to reimburse me when my business is destroyed?” Rachel looked down, unable to meet my eyes, but she didn’t let go. Before she could answer, Justin called out from the back of the lounge. He was hauling a heavy, steel cryogenic lockbox out of our commercial walk-in freezer. “I knew it,” Justin yelled, holding it up like a trophy. “This place is filthy. Rachel, look at this. This is the real haul.” The remaining officers murmured in excitement. “That belongs to a private client,” I said, my voice raising slightly to carry across the room. “I’m holding it in escrow. I strongly advise you to leave it alone.” Justin threw me a condescending smirk. “Sure, the classic ‘holding it for a friend’ defense. We hear that every day. You can explain that to the magistrate. If you’re as clean as you claim, cooperating with a routine seizure shouldn’t be an issue, right?” I stared at him. “And the financial liability when you compromise a client’s private property? Are you paying for that, Justin?” Justin held up his hands, completely dismissive. “Hey, don’t look at me. I’m just a guy doing his civic duty.” I ignored him and turned my gaze back to Rachel. “You don’t want any part of what is inside that box, Rachel. If you ever trusted me—even for a second—step away from this case right now.” Rachel’s eyes wavered, a sudden flash of doubt crossing her face, but she quickly masked it. “Connor, we were married for five years. Of course I want you to be innocent,” she said, her voice hardening. “But the law has to be blind. I can’t show favoritism. Justin is right. Cooperate with the investigation. If this is truly a mistake, I’ll personally issue a formal clarification to the press.” The finality in her voice felt like a physical blow. I closed my eyes, letting the cold air of the street settle into my bones. “If that’s how it is,” I said quietly, “then I want a divorce.” Rachel flinched, her hand dropping from my shoulder as if she’d been burned. She stared at me in utter disbelief. “Connor, are you insane? You’re divorcing me because I’m doing my job?” “Five years, Rachel,” I said, stepping away from her. “And you still don’t trust me. There is nothing left to save.” Justin took a step forward, putting himself between Rachel and me. “Keep your family drama out of this. Threatening Rachel with a divorce to get out of a felony charge? Be a man.” Rachel looked up at Justin, her eyes softening with gratitude. For a fleeting second, the look that passed between them was so thick with unspoken intimacy that it made my stomach churn. I didn’t want to argue anymore. “I’ll have my lawyer deliver the papers to your precinct,” I said. “One last piece of advice, Rachel. Let me go. Right now. Otherwise, you are going to drag yourself into a hole you can’t climb out of.” But she was completely gone to me now, her loyalty entirely transferred to the young man standing beside her. “Let me give you some advice, Connor,” Rachel said coldly. “Own up to what you did. Denial only makes the fall harder.” To ensure Justin’s “heroics” were fully documented, she had already arranged for the local press to assemble outside. Under the blinding camera flashes, Rachel stood before the microphones, the picture of an unyielding, righteous public servant. “Rest assured, our community is safer tonight,” she declared to the cameras. “We have successfully seized a highly dangerous, illicit substance before it could flood our streets. Deputy Justin was the lead investigator on this operation, and I will be personally recommending him for a departmental commendation.” She painted Justin as a hero and reduced me to a corrupt, backstabbing criminal. The reporters swarmed me as the deputies pushed me toward the transport van. Microphones were shoved directly into my face. “Mr. Duke, as the husband of the division’s rising star, do you feel any guilt for sabotaging your wife’s career?” “Is it true you demanded a divorce to protect her reputation, or are you trying to leverage her into dropping the charges?” I held up my hands to block the lenses, but the reporters pressed harder. Sensing the optics, Rachel spoke over the noise, her voice carrying clearly over the crowd. “Justice knows no favorites. Even if it means the end of my marriage, I will see this investigation through to the absolute end.” She held her chin high, looking down at me with a smirk that said, “Your life is in my hands now. Bow down, or I’ll break you.” I let out a cold laugh. I reached out, grabbed the nearest reporter’s microphone, and spoke directly into it. “Fascinating. I feel exactly the same way. Divorce or not, I will never bow to corruption.” Rachel’s expression turned black as she turned on her heel and walked away. In the basement holding room of the precinct, the atmosphere was suffocating. Justin had me strapped into a heavy metal chair. He slammed his hand onto the table, leaning in close. “Let’s try this again. What’s the combination to the cryogenic lockbox?” I stayed silent. Without warning, Justin pressed a heavy-duty tactical stun gun against my ribs. A white-hot current tore through my chest, racking my body with violent spasms. I fell sideways, the heavy chair clattering against the concrete, dry-heaving as my muscles locked up. Rachel walked in a moment later, looking down at me with a look of practiced pity. She helped upright the chair, placing a hand on my trembling shoulder. “Connor, please,” she whispered, her voice laced with false concern. “This case has already reached the district attorney’s desk. If you don’t cooperate now, even I won’t be able to protect you.” I spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor and looked at her beautiful, deceitful face. “If you wanted to protect me, Rachel, you wouldn’t have let him touch me. You want to play the iron captain? Go ahead. Force that box open. But when you do, you’re the one who is going to burn.” Her eyes flared with rage. She raised her hand and struck me across the face, a sharp, ringing slap that cut my lip. “You never know when to quit,” she hissed. “Get the best locksmith in the state. I don’t care what it costs, we are opening that damn box.” Justin stepped up behind her. “Rachel, what do we do with him in the meantime?” Rachel looked at my bruised face, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. “The stun baton didn’t break him. What else do you expect me to do?” “You’re forgetting we have the clinical inventory,” Justin whispered, leaning in. “The restricted neuro-agent.” Beside them, a younger deputy, Tyler, went pale. “Captain, that’s a restricted chemical compound. Bypassing protocol to use a chemical coercion agent without a federal warrant… if internal affairs finds out, we’re done.” Justin whipped around, his voice sharp. “Who’s going to tell them? Rachel is running this division. Her word is the protocol. Besides, the Assistant Director’s chair is sitting empty. If we crack a case of this scale, Rachel gets the promotion by next quarter.” The bait was dangling. Rachel’s ambition, fueled by years of striving to prove herself, won out over her training. “Get the syringe,” she ordered, her voice cold. “Let’s see if his resolve can withstand a chemical probe.” The cold steel of the needle slid into my forearm. Within seconds, my brain felt like it was being split open with a rusted axe. My vision fractured into jagged shards of light, and my body began to shake uncontrollably. “Tell me what’s in the box, Connor,” Rachel’s voice drifted in, echoing as if from a great distance. “Just give me the combination, and I’ll give you the counter-agent.” I gritted my teeth, fighting the chemical haze tearing through my nervous system. I stared at her through blurry eyes. “It’s the thing… that’s going to end your career, Rachel,” I choked out, my voice raspy. “You are going to regret this… for the rest of your miserable life.” Rachel’s face twisted in fury. She reached for another syringe, but before she could press it to my skin, the heavy steel door of the holding room was thrown open. My lawyer, Franklin, stood in the doorway, flanked by two high-ranking state officials. His expression was carved from granite. “My client is being released on bail,” Franklin announced, tossing a stack of certified documents onto the metal table. “The paperwork is signed, sealed, and filed. Release him immediately.” Justin’s face flushed with anger. He snatched the papers, scanning them wildly. “We haven’t finished the interrogation! I don’t care about bail, we’re not letting a drug trafficker walk!” He turned to Rachel, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. “Rachel, we just used unauthorized physical force and a restricted chemical agent on him. If he gets to a medical examiner, we’re finished.” Rachel stared at the documents, her brow furrowed. She knew the lawyer’s arrival meant the situation had spiraled entirely out of her control. She shook her head at Justin and signaled the guard. “The paperwork is in order. Let him go.” “Rachel!” Justin protested. “I said, let him go,” she snapped. As the guards unbuckled the leather straps from my wrists, I stood up, my legs still trembling slightly from the drug. As I brushed past Rachel, she leaned in, her voice low and threatening. “Watch your step, Connor. You’re still under active investigation. One wrong word to the press or internal affairs, and I will find a thousand ways to make you beg for mercy.” Two hours later, Galen ran into my private office at the lounge, his shirt soaked with sweat, his face pale. “Connor, we have a massive problem,” he gasped, leaning against my desk. “The other owners on the strip have formed a coalition. They’re claiming our ‘drug raid’ has ruined the reputation of the neighborhood and killed their weekend traffic. They’re demanding three million dollars in liquidated damages, and they’ve hired private security to enforce it. They’re threatening to tear this place down if we don’t pay by tonight.” The lounge wasn’t just a business; it was a sanctuary I had built for my team. I had poured my entire life savings into it, and Galen and the others had invested their retirement funds as well. I couldn’t let them lose everything. “How did they get leverage so quickly?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain calm despite the dull ache in my ribs. Galen spat on the floor. “Someone leaked our lease agreement to them. There’s a boilerplate clause in there—if the tenant is implicated in felony criminal activity that brings disrepute to the commercial district, the neighboring tenants can sue for ten times the monthly rent or force an immediate eviction. They’re fabricating the loss-of-business numbers, Connor. This has Rachel’s fingerprints all over it. That cold-hearted bitch is trying to destroy us to clear the path for her boy toy.” My personal bank accounts were joint-managed, and Rachel had already frozen them. She was systematically choking off my resources, trying to force me to sign a confession just to survive. Right on cue, my phone buzzed with a text message. “Justin was severely reprimanded by the Chief because of your lawyer’s stunt,” Rachel’s text read. “He’s been in my office in tears all afternoon. For the sake of his future, I will see this investigation through to the end. If you don’t want to go bankrupt and lose your precious lounge, come back to the precinct and sign the confession.” Galen’s phone was ringing off the hook in the background. We were being pushed to the edge of a cliff. “I’ll sell my father’s old cabin upstate,” I told him. “It’s on prime lakefront land. It should fetch more than enough to cover the demands.” Galen stared at me, shocked. “The cabin? Connor, that’s the only thing your dad left you.” Our family had once owned a beautiful collection of historical heirlooms, but after I married Rachel, she had systematically pressured me to give them away as high-end gifts to curry favor with senior officials in her department. Later, when she was shot in the line of duty, I had quietly sold my father’s locked collection of rare, vintage coins to pay for private medical specialists to ensure she made a full recovery. I had never asked her for a single thank you. I never expected that my quiet devotion would be met with such a venomous betrayal. “It’s just wood and stone, Galen,” I said, my voice steady. “If she wants a war, I’ll give her one.” Galen worked quickly and managed to find a buyer willing to pay cash for the property by afternoon. But just as I felt a moment of relief, Franklin called my line. “Connor, bad news,” the lawyer said, his tone grim. “Rachel just filed for divorce and petitioned the court for an emergency asset freeze. Any sale of your property, including the upstate cabin, is officially flagged as an illegal dissipation of marital assets. If you close that sale, she’ll have you arrested for grand larceny.” Galen threw his hands up, swearing loudly. “She’s a monster! She’s trying to put you in the ground!” Before I could reply, the heavy glass doors of the lounge were shattered. A group of local collection enforcers, carrying iron pipes and heavy wooden bats, marched into the ruined lobby. “Where’s our money, Duke?” the lead enforcer barked, tapping a pipe against his palm. “If you don’t have the cash, we’re clearing out the liquor inventory and the sound systems.” Galen stepped forward, blocking them. “This is armed robbery! I’m calling the police!” The leader laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “The police? Go ahead, call them. We’ve got friends in high places, pal. You’re a suspected drug dealer. Nobody’s coming to save you.” He swung his pipe, shattering a nearby glass display case. “Get to work. Strip it bare.” A chaotic brawl broke out. I lunged forward to protect Galen, but an iron bar struck me squarely in the lower back, sending me crashing into the shattered glass on the floor. Galen screamed, rushing to help me, but another enforcer brought a wooden bat down onto his knee. These men were professional muscle. Every strike was precise, aimed at areas that would cause maximum internal damage without leaving obvious external bruising. Within ten minutes, the lounge was stripped clean. Before they left, the lead enforcer looked down at me, spitting on my face. “That’s what happens when you cross people you shouldn’t.” I lay in the wreckage, my hands bleeding from the glass shards, listening to Galen sob quietly nearby from the pain in his knee. Then, a familiar, mocking laugh echoed through the ruined doorway. “Well, well. Look at you, Connor. Two hours out of my holding cell and you’re already in the dirt.” Justin strolled in, stepped over a pile of broken wood, and looked down at me with a sickening grin. “Honestly, you would have been safer staying in my custody.” I clenched my fists, ignoring the agonizing pain in my ribs. I gathered every ounce of strength I had, lunged upward, and drove my fist straight into his smug face. To my surprise, Justin didn’t even attempt to dodge. He took the blow, stumbling backward, a bloody smirk spreading across his lips. A second later, Rachel’s furious voice cut through the air. “Connor! Touch him again and I’ll make sure you never see the light of day!” She stormed into the room, flanked by four officers. They tackled me to the ground, pinning my face against the broken glass. The shards sliced into my cheek, but Rachel didn’t even glance at the blood pooling on the floor. She rushed over to Justin, cradling his face in her hands. “Are you okay? Do we need to get you to the hospital?” Justin shook his head, looking down at me with absolute triumph. “I’m fine, Rachel. Did we get the assault on camera? We’ll need it for the press conference.” Rachel nodded, her eyes flashing with venom as she looked at me. “Don’t worry. He’s going to pay tenfold for this. I’m holding a live press conference in an hour, and he is going to sign his confession on camera.” She didn’t say another word to me. She simply signaled her men to drag me to the transport van. To prime the public, Rachel had her team leak the edited video of me “assaulting” Justin to the media while we were en route. By the time we arrived at the civic center, a hostile crowd had gathered, pelting the transport van with garbage and eggs. The security guards made no effort to protect me as I was dragged out. Rachel stood on the steps, watching the crowd jeer at me. “Let them,” she muttered to the guards. “A man like him deserves to feel the weight of his choices.” By the time I stood before the bank of television cameras, I looked like a broken street thug, covered in dirt, blood, and filth. Under the bright television lights, Rachel stood at the podium like a merciless judge, reading from her notes. “Following a thorough investigation, Connor Duke has been found guilty of manufacturing and distributing class-A narcotics, possessing unauthorized military-grade technology, and physically assaulting an officer of the law. Connor, the evidence is absolute. Sign the confession now. Don’t make this harder on yourself.” “Shut up!” I interrupted, my voice carrying clearly over the whispering press pool. I looked up, staring directly into the camera lenses. “Rachel, your time is up,” I said, a slow smile breaking through the blood on my face. “You’ve been dying to know what’s inside that cryogenic lockbox so you could secure your promotion. Let me help you.” I spoke clearly, reciting a twelve-digit numeric combination. I locked eyes with my wife. “I told you, Rachel. Open that box, and you’re the one who dies today. I’m going to watch you drag yourself to the bottom of the pit in front of the entire world.” A technician near the evidence table hesitantly entered the code. With a soft, metallic “click”, the heavy lock on the cryogenic case popped open. The crowd of reporters leaned forward, gasping as the lid rose. At that exact moment, the cold, unmistakable barrel of a service pistol was pressed firmly into the small of Rachel’s back. “Don’t move, Captain,” a voice whispered from behind her. “State Police Internal Affairs. You’re under arrest.”

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At my high school graduation party, just as I was standing up to give a toast of gratitude to my father, he suddenly walked up to the stage and snatched the microphone from my hands. “Actually,” he said, his voice echoing through the speakers, “I’m not your father.” The entire banquet hall fell dead silent. I thought he was playing some sort of sick, awkward joke. I reached out to take the microphone back, but he shoved me away so hard I nearly lost my footing. “The night you were born, I switched you with my brother’s baby in the hospital nursery,” he announced, staring out at the shocked faces of our friends and family. “And all those times you got sick during your exams? That was me feeding you spoiled food on purpose. I’m also the one who hacked into your student portal and changed your college applications to community college.” He let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “I couldn’t stand to see Raymond succeed in life, so I made damn sure his flesh and blood paid the price!” A cold, sharp pain bloomed in my chest. Suddenly, the pieces of my childhood fell into place with terrifying clarity. I remembered the night I accidentally took a bite of my cousin’s favorite dessert, and my father beat me until I was black and blue, locking me in the dark attic for three days and three nights without food. I remembered when my test scores came back higher than my cousin’s, and my father publicly accused me of cheating, forcing me to kneel in the school courtyard and apologize to the entire student body. I had spent eighteen years believing he was just a harsh disciplinarian, a demanding father who wanted me to be perfect. I never could have imagined that I was merely a stolen pawn, and that every ounce of misery he inflicted on me was a deliberate, calculated act of vengeance. He waved a manila folder in the air, his face twisted in a triumphant grin. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Your life is already ruined, thanks to me. Now, I’m taking this DNA test to go claim my real son, Austin.” I stared at the folder in his hand, momentarily frozen. I had found that exact paternity test in his study a few days ago. The bold, black print at the bottom of the page had been unmistakable: there was a 0% probability of paternity between my father and Austin. 1 My throat felt tight, as if gripped by an invisible hand. I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of the folder, trying to stop him. “Don’t,” I choked out. He violently slapped my hand away. Turning back to the remaining guests, he raised his voice even louder, determined to squeeze every drop of drama from the moment. “Look at him! He’s a parasite. He couldn’t stand seeing his cousin do well, so he used every underhanded trick in the book to drag Austin down.” He sneered, looking down at me. “He only got those high academic scores by cheating. Changing his college application was just my way of forcing him down to his actual, pathetic level!” I stared at his moving lips, a wave of nausea washing over me. On the day the college admission results were released, my acceptance to my dream university had vanished, replaced by an enrollment confirmation at a low-tier community college. I had nearly fainted from the shock. Our relatives and my high school teachers had urged me to call the police, suspecting identity theft. But my father had stood in front of me, his eyes gleaming with a strange, satisfied malice. “Call the police? You probably just screwed up your own application and now you’re lying to cover it up,” he had said. “This is your real level. You’re a loser, Dylan. You spent years grinding, and you still couldn’t beat Austin.” At the time, I thought his words were just the harsh, disappointed outbursts of a father who expected too much. Now, I realized he was simply celebrating his victory. By the time I pulled myself out of the memory, my father had already stormed off the stage. “Now that you all know what kind of trash he is, why are you still sitting here? Get out! All of you, leave!” he roared at the guests. Within minutes, the banquet hall was empty, save for the two of us. I stared at him, my fists clenched so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. “You threw this party… you spent all this money, just to humiliate me in public?” He rolled his eyes, the disgust in his gaze no longer hidden behind a mask of fatherly concern. “I’m not your real dad. Did you honestly think I’d ever do anything nice for you?” Before I could reply, he grabbed my arm with an iron grip and dragged me toward the exit. “Now, it’s time to send you back to where you belong.” I was dragged down the street, stumbling and scraping my knees on the pavement, until he threw me onto the porch of my Uncle Raymond’s house. The door opened, and before Raymond could even speak, my father shoved the paternity test into his face. “Ray, the nurse switched our babies at birth,” my father panted, his chest heaving. “The proof is right here. I’m returning this useless trash to you. Now, give me back my son. Give me Austin!” He shoved me forward, hard. Raymond barely glanced at the folder. He raised an eyebrow, a cold, indifferent smile playing on his lips. “Austin has been my son for eighteen years. He’s the only son I recognize.” He cast a brief, pitying glance at me before looking back at my father. “Even if this kid is biologically mine, I don’t want him. Keep him.” With that, the heavy oak door slammed shut in our faces. My father froze. A second later, he lost his mind. He threw himself against the door, pounding on the wood with his fists. “You can’t keep my son! Open the damn door! Austin is mine!” There was no sound from inside. I stood behind him on the porch, staring at his frantic, desperate back. All these years, he had showered Austin with secret affection and gifts because he truly believed Austin was his biological child. If he knew the truth, would any of this have happened? I took a deep breath, my fingers trembling as I reached out and gently tugged the hem of his jacket. “Dad,” I whispered. “You have it wrong. I saw the report. Austin… Austin isn’t your son either.” 2 “Shut up!” My father spun around, his face contorted in rage. Before I could flinch, his hand flew across my face, a sharp slap ringing out in the quiet neighborhood. “If you weren’t so pathetic, if you weren’t constantly outshone by Austin, do you think your uncle would reject his own flesh and blood?” he hissed, his eyes burning with venom. “You ruined this! You make everyone hate you!” I touched my burning cheek, tears finally spilling over. Was I really the useless one? He was the one who had spent eighteen years systematically breaking me down. When I was a little boy, the neighborhood kids loved playing with me because of my bright, outgoing personality. My father had dragged me inside, locked me in a chair, and beat me until my back was covered in purple bruises. “You look like a little freak, begging for attention,” he had growled, taking a pair of clippers and shaving my head to the scalp. After that, the other kids stayed away from me, frightened by my gaunt, shadowed appearance. With no friends, I poured all my energy into school. But when he found my textbooks, he ripped them to shreds and dragged me to the principal’s office to withdraw me from school entirely. If the principal hadn’t threatened to involve child protective services and fought to keep me enrolled, I would have never even finished middle school. I slowly withdrew my hand, letting it fall to my side. He would never believe a word I said. But a tiny, quiet doubt began to bloom in my mind. Was I really not his son? Driven by a desperate need for answers, I waited until he was asleep that night, snip a few strands of his hair from his pillow, and took them to a private lab for an expedited DNA test. When the results came back the next day, my hands shook so violently I could barely hold the paper. “The probability of paternity is 99.9%.” The words stared back at me, stark and unyielding. The blood in my veins was undeniably, genetically his. I sat in the hospital corridor, my vision blurring with tears. If I was his biological son, what was the point of all those years of abuse? What had I done to deserve such hatred from my own father? I clutched the report and stumbled back to the house. Down the street, a grand party was underway. It was Austin’s official college send-off celebration, hosted by my father. I saw my father walking toward the entrance. He looked happier than I had ever seen him, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit with his hair neatly styled. I ran up to him, holding out the envelope. “Dad, I went to the lab…” The warmth instantly drained from his face. “What are you doing here?” he whispered fiercely, grabbing my shoulder and pushing me into the shadow of a pillar. “I’m warning you, Dylan. Today is Austin’s day. If you ruin this for him with your pathetic jealousy, I will make you regret it.” He didn’t even look at the envelope in my hand. He shoved past me, knocking my shoulder, and walked straight toward Austin, who was standing on the outdoor stage. As he reached Austin, the hostility vanished from his face, replaced by a soft, proud smile. “Austin, getting into a decent state college is a wonderful achievement,” my father said loudly into the microphone, his voice dripping with affection. “It’s certainly much better than going to a trashy community college. Here, this is my gift to you.” He handed Austin a small, leather-bound document. When I saw what it was, a wave of shock went through me. It was the deed to a townhouse near the university campus. I felt entirely hollow. All my life, my father had insisted on extreme frugality. My clothes were always hand-me-downs with visible patches, and our dinner table was never allowed to have anything more than basic cabbage and potatoes. I was so thin my collarbones jutted out like knives, but he never bought me medicine when I was sick, telling me to just sleep it off. All those pennies he had pinched from my mouth were saved to buy Austin a home. Austin’s eyes went wide with mock surprise. He took the deed and flashed my father a brilliant, charming smile. “Thank you, Uncle Rick.” I sat in the shadows at the edge of the party, my head bowed, clutching the truth tightly in my fist. Late that night, after the guests had departed, I tried to leave quickly. But behind me, my father stumbled out of the venue, completely drunk, unable to even walk straight. Despite everything, I couldn’t just leave him there. I turned back and let him lean his heavy, alcohol-soaked frame against my shoulder, guiding him home. All the way back, he muttered under his breath. “Austin… my beautiful boy… Daddy’s going to bring you home soon.” When we finally reached our front door, the cool night air seemed to sober him up slightly. He looked down, realized it was me holding him up, and violently shoved me off the porch. “I told you, you’re not my son! How dare you follow me back here?” he screamed, his slurred voice echoing in the quiet street. “Tomorrow, I’m throwing all your trash out. This room belongs to Austin now. Get the hell out of my sight!” 3 The heavy wooden door slammed shut, and I heard the lock click into place. I stood frozen on the gravel driveway as the sky opened up, pouring cold, heavy rain over the neighborhood. Within seconds, my clothes were soaked through, clinging to my shivering frame. I huddled under a small awning down the street, trying to block out the chill. A pair of clean, expensive sneakers appeared in my field of vision. “You really are pathetic, Dylan. He still doesn’t believe you, does he?” Austin stood before me, holding a large umbrella, looking down at me with an amused smirk. I flinched, my eyes widening. “You… you knew?” Austin shrugged, completely unbothered. “For years. He’s been throwing money and affection at me because he thought I was his kid. Why would I stop him?” The sheer, casual cruelty of his words made me shake with rage. I forced myself up, grabbing his wet jacket. “You watched him destroy my life? You knew the truth and you just let him abuse me?” “You deserved it,” Austin said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You always thought you were better than me just because of your grades.” With a sudden, violent motion, he shoved me away. I was exhausted, shivering, and caught entirely off guard. My foot slipped on the wet pavement, and I tumbled backward over the low metal railing of the overpass behind me. There was a terrifying moment of weightlessness, followed by a sickening, bone-crushing impact. When I finally opened my eyes, the world was a blur of red and gray. Through the steady hum of rain, I could hear a police officer speaking on a radio nearby. “Is this Dylan’s father? Your son has fallen from the overpass. He’s in critical condition…” Through the officer’s receiver, a voice cut through the static—cold, impatient, and utterly dismissive. “I’m not his father. Stop calling this number.” The last bit of warmth drained from my body, and I let the darkness take me. When I woke up, I was in a sterile hospital room. Through the glass partition of the door, I could see a detective taking a statement from Austin, who was weeping softly, shaking his head in feigned terror. All my life, Austin had bullied me, and my father had always forced me to swallow my anger. ““Don’t you dare fight back,”” he would say, beating me if I even raised my voice. I had spent eighteen years being a ghost in my own life. But looking at Austin’s fake tears through the glass, something broke inside me. I didn’t want to stay quiet anymore. I dragged my broken body upward, grasping the bedrail with trembling fingers, and pointed toward the door. “It was him… he pushed me!” The detective turned toward the room. But before he could step inside, a heavy hand clamped down on my wrist, forcing my hand back down to the sheets. “Dylan, thank God you’re awake. You terrified me.” My father had appeared out of nowhere. Without giving me a chance to speak, he turned to the detective with a polite, apologetic smile. “Officer, I’m his father. I’ve already spoken with him. He’s confused—he slipped on the wet steps and fell. It was an accident. We won’t be filing any complaints.” He shot me a look so cold it felt like a physical blow. “Shut up,” his eyes said. The blood in my veins turned to ice. When I was lying in a pool of blood, dying in the rain, he had disowned me. But now that his precious Austin was facing a police investigation, he suddenly remembered he was my father—just so he could cover up the crime. The detective looked between us, sighed, and closed his notebook. I tried to push my father away, but his weight was crushing, pinning my fractured ribs to the mattress. I opened my mouth to scream for the detective, but my father’s hand clamped tightly over my mouth, stifling my cries until the detective’s footsteps faded down the hall. Only when the corridor went silent did he pull his hand away, wiping it on his pants with a look of pure disgust. Outside the door, Raymond arrived, wrapping a protective arm around Austin’s shoulders. I grabbed my father’s sleeve, my voice cracking with desperation as I pointed at the family through the glass. “He is not your son! They’ve been lying to you this entire time! They know everything!” 4 I stared into his eyes, hoping to find some shred of reason. But the brief flicker of confusion in his gaze was instantly replaced by a deep, burning hatred. He raised his arm and brought his hand down across my face. My ears rang violently, and the taste of copper filled my mouth. He didn’t stop until my lip split open, staining the white hospital pillows with red, before throwing me back onto the mattress. “First you try to ruin his party, and now you’re trying to frame him for murder?” his voice shook with rage. “I told you, Austin is my son. I know it in my bones. You’re just a bitter, jealous parasite who wants to drag him down. If you dare touch him, I will personally ruin you.” He spun around and slammed his hand onto the nurse’s call button. A nurse rushed in, pushing a cart. My father pointed a shaking finger at me. “He’s fine. We’re leaving. Discharge him now.” The nurse stopped, looking at him in disbelief. “Sir, his leg is fractured in two places, and we suspect internal bleeding. He needs immediate surgery, or he could lose the leg—or worse.” “Then let him die!” my father roared, his voice bouncing off the sterile walls. The entire room went quiet. A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my chest, so intense I could barely breathe. “He’s better off dead anyway,” my father muttered, glaring at me. “At least then he won’t be around to ruin Austin’s life.” I sank back into the pillows and closed my eyes. The desperate fight to prove our biological connection suddenly felt like a massive, pathetic joke. Blood didn’t matter. You couldn’t force someone to love you. I opened my eyes, gripping the side of the bed, and forced myself up. “Fine. I’ll leave.” Every movement felt like white-hot knives sliding through my bones, but I forced myself to stand, limping toward the door under the horrified stares of the medical staff. “You think you can just walk away?” my father hisses, catching up to me in the hallway and grabbing my collar. “You haven’t apologized to Austin yet!” He jerked me backward, and my fractured leg gave out. I collapsed onto the polished floor, sliding to a stop right in front of Raymond and Austin. “Since we’re all here, let’s settle this once and for all,” my father said, ignoring my groans as he reached into his breast pocket. He tore open the envelope, pulling out the folded sheets of paper, and held them high in the air for everyone to see. “Look at this, Austin! I’m your real father!” he cried, his voice crackling with emotion. Then, he sneered down at me. “And this broken piece of trash on the floor belongs to you, Ray. Look at the paper if you don’t believe me!” He thrust the document into Raymond’s hands. Raymond didn’t even look at the charts. He simply pointed to the bottom line with a dry, mocking chuckle. “Can’t you read, Rick? The report says there is a zero percent match between you and Austin.” My father froze, the color draining from his face. As he stumbled backward in confusion, his foot caught my discarded backpack, spilling my personal belongings across the floor. Among the mess, the official DNA test I had taken—the one bearing both our names and a 99.9% match—rolled out of its envelope, settling face-up on the cold linoleum floor.

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After the “walk-in” who had supposedly hijacked my best friend’s body for three years finally vanished, everyone told me I needed to move on and forgive her. My parents held Valerie close, their faces tight with pity as they looked at me. “The one who stole your place in this family and lived in luxury was that… that entity,” my mother said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Valerie was a victim, too. You need to be the bigger person, Lydia.” My brother, Nick, shielded her with his body. “The one who ruined your applications and switched your Harvard choice to a local community college was that imposter spirit. You can’t take your anger out on someone innocent!” Even Henry, my fiancé—the one who had promised to stand up for me—had changed his tune. “I’ll pay for you to do a prep year, Lydia. Let’s just let the past go.” Under their watchful, warning glares, I swallowed my bitter tears and resigned myself to my fate. Until the following summer. Right before the test scores were released, I was scrolling through an online forum and came across a thread. “What is the riskiest thing you’ve ever done that you now look back on with absolute gratitude?” The top-voted answer was pinned at the very top, drowning in a sea of angry, disbelieving comments. [My absolute favorite life hack? Playing the innocent lamb. I managed to steal my best friend’s spot as a billionaire’s heiress for a few years. Her entire family actually helped me lie to her, claiming my body had been “possessed” by some malicious walk-in spirit~] [I spent three years tormenting her behind closed doors, and nobody raised a finger. Even when I hijacked her college portal and changed her Harvard acceptance to a sketchy community college, her parents didn’t have the heart to blame me. Instead, they shipped me off to Europe to get a fancy degree to “recover” from the possession.] [If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a single thing.] I stared at the poster’s familiar avatar and the European IP address. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Last year, my parents had supposedly forced Valerie to study abroad in London, claiming her presence was “disruptive” to my exam prep. And the avatar on that forum was identical to the one Valerie used in our family group chat. … My trembling thumb tapped into the user’s profile. I scrolled from the very first post to the last, stopping only when I reached her bio: “I often think about how incredibly lucky I am. To have family and friends who love me so fiercely and unconditionally—it gives me the strength to face all of life’s injustices.” I stared at it, numb. “Injustices?” What did she have to complain about? While she was living her best life in a luxury flat in London, gifted to her by my parents alongside a brand-new Porsche, I was sent to live in a cramped, moldy boarding-school dorm, studying sixteen hours a day. When she boasted about learning how to cook a basic pasta dish, Nick rewarded her with a wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars. Meanwhile, my parents put me on a strict “budget”—claiming they didn’t want me to get spoiled—leaving me with just eighty dollars a month to survive on, forcing me to live off stale bread and instant ramen. When she scraped her knee skateboarding, Henry, my childhood sweetheart, flew across the Atlantic just to nurse her for a weekend. But when I fainted from severe malnutrition and lay on the cold classroom floor for hours, I woke up alone and simply dragged myself back to my desk to keep studying. “Why the tears? Did the prep tests go badly again?” A crisp, familiar voice broke through my thoughts. I turned my head and met Henry’s amused, smiling eyes. He reached out, intending to ruffle my hair the way he always did. But I flinched away. Seeing his hand freeze in midair and his smile falter, I quickly muttered, “I’m just tired.” He let out a soft chuckle. “You don’t have to push yourself so hard, Lydia. Even if you don’t get the perfect score, it’s fine. Your parents already said they can just send you abroad too.” I clenched my fists in my sleeves. I wanted to scream that I had always been top of my class. My SAT scores last year were high enough for Harvard, and after a grueling year of studying myself to the bone, this year’s scores would only be higher. But Henry didn’t care about my academic success. He smoothly changed the subject, as he always did. When we got back to the estate, my parents and Nick were actually home—a rarity. Nick gave me a playful shove toward the stairs. “Go pack your bags, kiddo. We have a flight at two. The whole family is taking you on a graduation trip.” I froze. For a split second, sheer joy washed away my lingering resentment. Then, I saw the destination printed on the boarding passes. “Hawaii.” “Don’t worry about the results. Just relax and have fun,” my mother said, wrapping a warm, affectionate arm around mine. I went stiff. A deep, biting chill crept through my veins, making me shiver in the heat of July. Valerie was the one who loved the ocean. Her latest post was literally tagged in Honolulu. I, on the other hand, had nearly drowned three years ago saving a panicked Henry when he first tried to learn how to swim. Ever since, I had carried a paralyzing, visceral phobia of deep water. I looked up, scanning the faces of the four people around me. They were all smiling. None of them remembered. My brother’s smile soured at my silence. “What’s with the long face? If it weren’t to make you happy, do you think any of us would bother flying all this way just to look at some stupid ocean? Don’t be so ungrateful.” Meeting his impatient, condescending gaze, the urge to explain myself withered away. The things I wanted from them were like dry sand in my fist; the tighter I squeezed, the faster they slipped through my fingers. If that was how it was… then I didn’t want this family anymore. And I didn’t want Henry, either. As soon as we stepped out of the Honolulu airport, I saw Valerie waiting for us. She stood in the crowd, her skin beautifully bronzed, looking radiant and carefree. She threw herself into my parents’ arms, and Nick and Henry immediately rushed to crowd around her. “Have you been skipping meals? Look how thin you’ve gotten!” “We told you to wait at the resort, Val. Why did you drag yourself all the way out here to pick us up? You must be exhausted.” “I missed you guys too much!” she beamed. “I couldn’t wait another second. I wanted to see you the moment you landed!” The bustling airport noise swirled around us, but their voices cut through the din, ringing painfully in my ears. Suddenly, Valerie’s gaze shifted to me. “Lydia, this is your first time traveling far from home, right? Let me be your tour guide. I’ll make sure you have the best time!” Her smile remained bright, radiating a sweet, approachable warmth. My mother laughed softly. “Lydia always has such fragile health. Every time we planned a family vacation in the past, she’d conveniently get sick and ruin the whole schedule.” Valerie giggled and looped her arm through my mother’s. “It’s all because of that horrible imposter spirit. She made poor Lydia feel so neglected that she had to pretend to be sick just to get some attention. It’s a good thing that entity vanished, or I’d have taught her a lesson myself to avenge Lydia!” She said it with such righteous indignation, completely glossing over the fact that before every single trip we planned, she was the one slipping peanut powder into my food. After I was rushed to the ER, she would whisper poison in their ears, claiming I was just starved for drama. And then, she’d lead my furious parents, brother, and fiancé away to enjoy their trip without me. I didn’t say a word. The cheerful atmosphere froze instantly. Nick nudged my shoulder roughly. “Cat got your tongue? She’s talking to you.” My parents frowned, their irritation clear. Henry took Valerie’s hand, offering a teasing, dismissive shake of his head. “She hit her head right before the exams. She’s a bit slow on the uptake these days. Don’t let her ruin your mood.” Valerie gasped dramatically. “Oh my gosh, I hope it didn’t affect her Harvard scores! If she misses out for another year, I’ll feel like the bad guy all over again!” “How is any of that your fault?” Nick scoffed. “If she fails, she just doesn’t have the brains for it.” “Exactly,” my mother added. “Let’s not talk about such depressing things. Let’s get to the resort.” The color drained from my face, and my knuckles turned white against the handle of my suitcase. Days before the exams, I had temporarily moved back home from the dorms, only to be chased and knocked down by a neighbor’s loose mastiff. I cracked my skull against the concrete. Dizzy and bleeding, I called my parents and brother dozens of times. None of them picked up. With my battery at one percent, I managed to text Henry. His reply had been cold: “Are you stupid? Why didn’t you call 911? I’m not a doctor. Even if I came over, I’d just tell you to do the same.” I had sat on the floor, holding a bloody towel to my head. “I don’t have the money for an ambulance fee,” I had typed, but the phone died before I could send it. If I had any savings at all, I would have booked a hotel near the testing center myself, instead of having to decline my classmates’ offer to split a room because I couldn’t afford a share. And I certainly wouldn’t have stayed in that hollow, cavernous mansion where I was always an afterthought. Looking at their completely indifferent faces now, a horrifying realization washed over me. They knew. They had always known I got hurt. They just didn’t care enough to ask. I silently followed them to the front desk. The receptionist apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker, but there is an issue with the HVAC system in one of the luxury suites you booked. Since it’s peak season, we don’t have any vacant suites left to swap. We can refund that portion and offer a discount on your overall stay, if that works?” Valerie turned to me with a look of mock concern. “Lydia, Hawaii is so packed this time of year. Do you want to go find another hotel yourself, or can you just rough it out in the room without AC?” I looked her dead in the eye. “I don’t know my way around this island, Val. Is this how you play host?” Instantly, their defensive glares locked onto me. My parents shielded Valerie. “It’s not Valerie’s fault the hotel’s system is broken. Why are you taking it out on her?” Nick sneered. “Your dorm back home doesn’t have AC either, and you survived the ninety-degree summer. Stop acting so spoiled.” Henry waved it off. “We’ve all had a long flight, Lydia. Let’s just sleep on it tonight, and we’ll figure out another room for you tomorrow, okay?” I knew arguing was pointless. I felt the last of my pride collapse inward, my shoulders slumping. Taking my silence as submission, they grabbed the keycards and headed upstairs. They had booked the sprawling penthouse suites. I was handed the key to a windowless, suffocatingly hot standard room near the service elevator. I woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and covered in itchy bug bites. My phone buzzed with a notification from the family group chat. Valerie had sent a message with a winking emoji: [If Lydia finds out you guys are throwing her Ivy League send-off party on my birthday, she’s going to be so mad at me, isn’t she?] The message was deleted almost instantly. But I had already seen it. It was only when I stumbled across Valerie’s social media page that I realized they had two family group chats. One with me. One without me. In the chat that included me, the last message had been sent six months ago. I used to think my family was just quiet, that they didn’t use social media much. But looking at the timestamp in the upper corner—3:00 AM—I saw they were still chatting merrily in the other group. They weren’t quiet. They just had nothing to say to me. Early the next morning, Valerie pulled up to the resort entrance in a sleek, cherry-red convertible. I recognized it instantly. It was the custom sports car she had received for her eighteenth birthday. Her eighteenth birthday had been celebrated with a massive gala at a private estate in the French countryside. Guests had flown in from all over the world. There had been a towering, castle-shaped cake, and a giant backdrop crafted out of actual hundred-dollar bills. My own eighteenth birthday had passed without a single mention. I hadn’t even remembered it myself until the power went out in our dorms one night, and my roommate happened to mention the date while I was doing practice tests under a flashlight. It had been just another grueling day. I had debated buying an extra roll at the cafeteria but decided against it to save money for the next day’s lunch. Eventually, I had drowned the hunger in math problems and slept right through to the morning. “What are you staring at? Get in,” Nick said, shoving me from behind. I stumbled, my knee slamming hard against the metal car door. Valerie let out a melodic, ringing laugh. “Lydia, don’t get too excited. Do you even know how to open the door to a sports car?” She sat in the driver’s seat, oversized designer sunglasses covering half her face. She looked effortlessly cool, but her words were like needles, piercing straight through me. It was just like the past three years since I had been brought back to the Whittaker house. Whenever my parents, Nick, or Henry bought her something expensive, she would always bat her eyelashes and ask, “Oh, did you get one for Lydia too?” When they admitted they hadn’t, she would put on a grand show of trying to give it to me, patronizingly asking if I even knew how to use it or what the brand was. And every single time, my parents would stop her, laughing and saying that giving luxury goods to me was a complete waste of money. Nick would mock me, saying that putting designer clothes on a girl like me only made them look like cheap knockoffs. Only Henry would pull me away, taking me for walks and buying me pastries. For the longest time, I foolishly thought he was trying to save me from the embarrassment. It wasn’t until much later that I realized he only did it to keep me from getting jealous and trying to take Valerie’s things. This time was no different. Before I could even respond to Valerie’s jab, my parents grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the resort’s shuttle bus. Nick blocked the exit, ensuring I couldn’t slip away, while Henry slid into the passenger seat of Valerie’s car. The engine roared, and the red convertible sped off down the highway. I watched as it shrank into a tiny red speck against the horizon, completely vanishing from sight. Valerie’s itinerary for the day consisted of snorkeling, surfing, and a dolphin-watching charter. When we arrived at the beach, I wanted to tell them I wouldn’t be participating. But I soon realized my anxiety was entirely unnecessary. Not a single person asked where I was going or what I wanted to do. When they finally finished, my parents changed back into their dry clothes and glared at me. “Why must you always be such a wet blanket? Do we have to beg you just to get you to participate?” Nick ran a hand through his wet hair, scoffing, “If you didn’t want to come, why didn’t you just refuse when we invited you?” Henry was busy drying Valerie’s hair with a towel, not even sparing me a glance. The diving instructor looked at me with confusion. “Wait, is she with your group? The waiver and booking only had four spots reserved. We can’t just add someone last minute without prior notice.” I froze, my gaze instantly shifting to Valerie. Her eyes pooled with tears in an instant. “I’m so sorry, Lydia. I remembered you were terrified of the water, so I didn’t book a spot for you. I mean… you wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway, right?” She remembered I was terrified of water, yet she had planned an entire day centered around the ocean. And yet, no one stood up for me. My parents praised her for being so thoughtful and remembering everyone’s preferences. Nick said we could just go to a music festival and watch some fireworks tomorrow to make up for it. Henry told me not to be so petty and ruin everyone’s vacation. I opened my mouth, but not a single sound came out. Valerie wiped her tears, stepping forward to take my limp hand. “Don’t be mad, Lydia. Mom and Dad are already planning your graduation party. They’re even going to combine it with the eighteenth birthday gala you missed. I had to beg them for weeks to agree to it, so please, can you just smile a little?” I shook with a silent, burning rage, only to meet my parents’ cold, warning stares. That night, I swiped my keycard and went back into my sweltering, airless room. Nobody mentioned finding me a better hotel. My phone buzzed with another notification. Valerie had posted a grid of photos on Instagram, carefully omitting her face. Her caption read: [Hehehe, I’ve got a graduation gift that our real heiress will never forget. First person to guess what it is wins a prize!] I gripped my phone, a dark, heavy dread settling deep in my chest. In the middle of the night, Valerie fell violently ill with food poisoning and was rushed to the ER. The next day’s plans were canceled. After spending a week in the hospital, Valerie suggested moving up the date of my party. “Lydia looks so miserable here in Hawaii anyway. Let’s not make her suffer. We can just have the party early and send her back home.” My parents nodded in eager agreement. I said nothing, moving like a lifeless puppet through their arrangements. On the day she was discharged, my parents were busy finalizing the event details with the planners. Nick was waiting in line at the pharmacy, and Henry was sorting out the discharge paperwork. Valerie and I were left alone in the quiet hospital room. She sat in bed with her laptop, suddenly waving me over with a sweet, venomous smile. “Lydia, look! The SAT and placement scores are out. You scored in the top 0.01% of the state! Tell you what—I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars if you just go quietly to that community college I enrolled you in last year, okay?” A deafening roar erupted in my head, like a physical blow. Before I could even think, I lunged forward, slapping the laptop from her hands. It clattered to the floor as I threw my weight onto her, wrapping my hands tightly around her throat. “What did I ever do to you?” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Why do you hate me so much?!” But a second later, a powerful force yanked me backward, slamming me hard onto the cold tile floor. “Slap!” A stinging, heavy blow struck my face. Blood pooled in my nose, and my ears rang as Valerie’s shrill, sobbing voice filled the room. “Lydia! I know you hate me, but I was just trying to celebrate your high scores! I was going to give you a half-million-dollar gift! Why would you try to kill me?!” My parents shoved me out of the hospital room. “Get out!” my father roared. “We don’t have a daughter this vicious and ungrateful!” Nick’s eyes burned with pure hatred. “If I had known you were this psychotic, I would have left you in that trailer park! Get lost, Lydia. I never want to see your face again.” Henry looked at me, a profound, chilling disappointment in his eyes, before turning his back on me without a word. I slowly pushed myself up from the floor, wiping the blood from my lip, and looked up. Valerie was tucked safely behind them, staring at me with a smirk of pure triumph. Nobody cared how a penniless teenager would survive stranded in a foreign country. But it didn’t matter. I had finally died to them. I turned and walked away, my steps firm and unwavering. This time, I didn’t try to go back to Boston or fight for a spot at Harvard. Instead, I accepted a full scholarship at a university in Savannah, Georgia—thousands of miles away from the Whittakers. From that moment on, we were strangers.

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For the three years I spent in Kent’s shadow, keeping our relationship a secret, everyone in his loud, glittering social circle took it for granted that Cecilia was his official girlfriend. She was the one allowed to stand in the light. She was the one who could publicly scold him for drag racing at midnight, or humiliate me when she caught us out on a date, warning me not to “corrupt” him. I felt so small, so deeply wronged. A thousand times, I wanted us to just go public. But Kent would always hold me back, soothing me with stories of his family’s brutal boardroom inheritance wars. He claimed Cecilia was nothing but a shield, a decoy to keep the target off my back. “The more convincing she looks,” he’d whisper, kissing my temple, “the safer you are.” I believed him. I swallowed my pride, over and over again, locking my resentment in a quiet corner of my chest. Until the day I was rushing back to my hometown in the Hudson Valley for the sweet cherry harvest. I reached Grand Central before realizing I’d left my ID on the vanity. Kent wasn’t picking up his phone, so I had no choice but to head back to his Manhattan penthouse. When I unlocked the door, the first thing I saw was lingerie scattered across the dark hardwood floor. Behind the half-open bedroom door, Kent and Cecilia were tangled in his sheets. Cecilia’s breathless voice drifted out, complaining, “Why aren’t you bored of her yet? Lydia has no family pedigree, she’s plain, she doesn’t even have any real talent. What do you even see in her?” Kent paused, then pressed his face into her shoulder with a low laugh. “Who else but Lydia would be stupid enough to drag herself back and forth across the state, looking like a total mess, just to bring me fresh, worthless cherries from her family’s farm?” In that split second, something fractured deep inside me. It felt like swallowing glass. The cherries weren’t the worthless ones. I was. Every time I had swallowed my hurt, every time I had accepted his hollow excuses—it was all because I was cheap in his eyes. It was time to go home. … Right there, in the middle of the discarded lace on the floor, lay my ID card. I walked into the bedroom without a sound. Cecilia screamed, pulling the duvet over her head. As I knelt on the cold floor to retrieve my card, a strange, toxic wave of satisfaction washed over me. “Look at that,” I thought. “I can make you look pathetic, too.” But I hadn’t won. Kent immediately shielded her, blocking her from my view with his broad shoulders. He glared at me, opening his mouth to lecture me, but the words died in his throat when I spoke. “Kent,” I whispered, my voice steadier than I expected. “Is this part of the decoy strategy, too?” I grew up in orchard country, where the air is sharp and people don’t play polite, polished mind games. I didn’t know how to be subtle. I leaned down, snatched a pair of lace underwear from the floor, and threw them right at his fiercely protective face. For the brief second his face was obscured, I felt an unexpected, liberating rush of relief. Kent ripped the lace away, veins pulsing in his neck. He swallowed his fury, trying to smooth things over with that familiar, patronizing tone. “Lydia, calm down. Sometimes I have to play the part to make it convincing. Otherwise, my family will see right through us.” “Play the part?” A bitter laugh escaped me. “Tell me one truth, Kent. Just one.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Was I the part you were playing all along? And is Cecilia the real story?” I already knew the answer. But some pathetic, wounded part of me still craved the finality of hearing him say it. I knew he would spin a web of beautiful, poisonous lies to keep me on his hook. Yet I stood there, inviting the poison anyway. Kent hesitated. His jaw worked, but before he could speak, Cecilia yanked his arm from behind. She ran a hand through her perfect curls, looking thoroughly bored. “Oh, come on, Kent. I’m tired of the drama. Stop pretending with her.” She cast a lazy, dismissive glance at me and scoffed. “Seriously, it’s embarrassing. Fighting over a man with a country bumpkin? It’s beneath me.” Kent tapped her waist, a silent plea for her to stop, but Cecilia just rolled her eyes, laid back down, and unlocked her phone. I stood there like the punchline of a joke, unable to move forward or back. Suddenly, Cecilia’s phone chimed with a loud bank alert. “Kent QuickPay transfer received: One hundred thousand dollars.” She smiled, tidied her hair, blew Kent a kiss, and grabbed her designer bag. As she brushed past me, a cloud of cloying, expensive perfume hit my nose. She tapped my shoulder playfully. “Relax, sweetie. We were just teasing you. Don’t take it to heart. He’s all yours. I’m going shopping.” A joke. No apology. He spent a hundred thousand dollars just to keep her smiling. And what about me? I slowly held out my open palm to him, demanding the same. Kent, seeing a crack in my cold exterior, let out a relieved laugh. He grabbed my hand and led me out to his car. But we didn’t go to Fifth Avenue. We stopped at a gritty, open-air farmer’s market on the edge of the city. He pulled up beside an elderly woman selling cheap cherries from the back of a pickup truck. Kent turned to me, completely earnest. “Do these make you feel any better?” My face contorted. A harsh, disbelieving laugh slipped out. “This is my compensation?” Kent chuckled, clearing his throat behind his hand. His voice took on a sharp, mocking edge. “Well, isn’t this what you usually bring me? Lydia, did you think you could play a cheap hand to win the jackpot? Were you expecting me to take you to Cartier to make up for this? That’s cute.” My family’s farm produces the finest Rainier cherries in the region. Every harvest, I would wake up at dawn, climb the tallest ladders to pluck the sweetest, most perfect fruit from the highest branches, and carry them back to the city like fragile treasure. Just so Kent could have the first, freshest bite. All that devotion—which I thought was beautiful—was nothing but trash to him. Yes, right now I was being petty. I wanted his money to balance the scales of my broken heart. But before today, I had never asked him for a single thing. He could throw a hundred thousand at Cecilia without blinking. For me, my worth was measured by a plastic bag of bruised cherries from a street vendor. “Eight dollars a pound, sweetie,” the old woman said, sensing our hesitation. “They’re very cheap.” I blinked back the tears stinging my eyes, knelt down, and picked out two pounds of the small, mediocre fruit. “Great,” I told Kent, looking up. “These will do. Pay her.” He looked stunned, clumsily pulling out his phone to scan her code. I doubted Kent had ever paid for anything so cheap in his life. On the ride back, I sat in the passenger seat and peeled one open. I popped it into my mouth, only to find the flesh soft and rotting. The tears almost spilled into the cheap plastic bag. “Cheap things really are garbage,” I murmured. Kent noticed. He let out a frustrated sigh, ran his fingers through his hair, and muttered, “Forget it.” He yanked the steering wheel, pivoting the car toward Manhattan’s most exclusive luxury shopping district. “Get out,” he said, shifting into park. He leaned over, his chest pressing close to mine, to unbuckle my seatbelt. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne filled the tight space. I clutched the crinkled plastic bag in my lap, feeling a knot of confusion and hurt. “Why are we here?” I asked. If he wanted to buy me off, what was the point of the humiliation at the market? Was it a test? But he was the one who cheated. What right did he have to test me? Kent sighed, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Don’t you want to feel better? You said you wanted—” I cut him off, shaking my head. “The cherries are enough. I only wanted the cherries.” “I only wanted your heart.” But I couldn’t say it. Before he could argue, a sharp knock rattled the window. The back doors were flung open, and the quiet tension in the cabin was shattered by a chorus of giggles. Cecilia’s friends, draped in designer shopping bags, piled into the back seat with sighs of relief. Cecilia stood outside the passenger door, her arms crossed, waiting. Only then did the brutal realization of Kent’s “Get out” hit me. He hadn’t brought me here to shop. He had brought me here to pick them up. I sat there, my face burning with a sudden, agonizing heat, staring at the cheap plastic bag of rotting cherries in my lap. Before I could even open the door to flee, the insults drifted from the back. “Oh, look who’s still clinging to Kent. The little country girl from upstate.” “Why is she still in the passenger seat? Doesn’t she know when she’s not wanted? Get out!” Someone whispered to Cecilia, “You’re too soft on him. If you don’t put this home-wrecker in her place, she’s going to keep acting like she owns him.” Cecilia laughed softly, looking at me with sweet pity. “Oh, please. I don’t micromanage my men. If he steps out of line, he pays the bill. Don’t tease her, she looks like she’s about to cry.” My entire body went numb. My pride, my dignity—everything I had desperately tried to preserve—was ground into the dirt. This secret relationship, this “shield” he claimed was for my protection, had turned me into a joke. A cheap mistress. I threw the door open and ran. No matter how fast I sprinted through the concrete labyrinth of the parking garage, their laughter echoed behind me, bouncing off the walls like a recurring nightmare. When I finally stopped, my chest heaved, a physical ache blooming in my heart. The tears came then, hot and choking, followed by a wave of pure, physical nausea. How had I let my life get this desperate? The plastic bag slipped from my hand, spilling the cheap, bruised cherries across the dirty concrete. My phone buzzed in my pocket. My heart leaped, but it wasn’t Kent. Of course it wasn’t. Nobody cares about the runaway mistress, least of all him. I answered, my throat tight. “Hello?” “Lydia, sweetheart!” My mother’s warm, cheerful voice flooded the line. “The first harvest from the crown trees is ready. Your dad already packed the biggest, sweetest cherries for you. When are you coming up to take them back to your little city boyfriend?” She laughed softly. “Every year you’re so impatient, terrified he’ll miss the best batch. We’re all packed and waiting for your word!” The tears poured down my cheeks. How could I explain to her that he didn’t care about my cherries? That he wasn’t my “boyfriend”? That it was all a lie? He had promised we’d get married, promised Cecilia was just a game, promised he loved me. All of it, lies. I couldn’t even tell her we were breaking up, because we were never officially together. “Mom,” I sobbed, breaking down completely. “I want to come home. I want to come home right now. Please, I don’t want to be here anymore.” Her voice turned frantic and soft with maternal instinct. “Okay, baby. We’re coming to get you. We’re bringing you home.” I took a cab back to his apartment to pack. The place belonged to Kent, so there was no lease to worry about. I didn’t even need to leave a note. The penthouse was empty when I arrived, but a row of orange and black designer bags sat lined up in the hallway. Chanel, Prada, Hermès. I didn’t look at them. None of it was mine. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the cheap cherries from the market. A cold shudder ran through my chest. “Stop,” I told myself. “Just go home.” As I dragged my small suitcase toward the front door, it swung open. Kent stood there. His eyes locked onto my luggage, his pupils shrinking. “Lydia, where are you going?” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice sharp with defensive anger. “Are you seriously running away just because I didn’t buy you designer bags?” He paused, realizing how ugly that sounded, and softened his tone. “Look, I know you’re not superficial. You’re upset about what Cecilia’s friends said, right? I’ll explain it to them. I’ll make it public. They won’t say another word to you.” I stared at his perfect, handsome face, and for the first time, I felt a deep, pulsing hatred. I hated him because I had loved him so much. “Kent, you don’t have to worry,” I said quietly. He blinked, looking relieved. He stepped toward me, wrapping his arms around me in a tight, desperate embrace, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “Lydia, you scared the hell out of me,” he whispered, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. “I thought you were actually leaving.” I stood perfectly still. “Are you actually capable of being afraid?” “Yes.” “Well, don’t be. I’ve done the math, and honestly, you didn’t lose anything in this deal. I lived in your apartment, but I also cooked, cleaned, and took care of you. Let’s call that even.” Kent squeezed me tighter, a note of panic in his voice. “Lydia, why are you talking like this?” “And even though I never understood why you were so terrified I’d steal your money—when you have more than you could ever spend—I never accepted a single dime from you. You offered, but I never took it. And since you paid for those cheap cherries today, our ledgers are perfectly balanced.” I shoved him away and slapped him, hard, across the face. “That’s for tricking me into a secret relationship and turning me into a side-piece,” I said, my voice ice-cold. Before he could recover, I slapped him again. “And that’s for the betrayal, and the public humiliation.” Kent had been pampered his entire life; nobody had ever raised a hand to him. The shock turned his face red with fury. He grabbed my arm, dragged me into the living room, and threw me onto the floor. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my spine as my tailbone hit the hardwood. He grabbed the designer bags from the hallway and started throwing them at me—handbags, jewelry boxes, silk scarves, a diamond watch—pelting me with luxury. When that wasn’t enough, he ran to his safe and came back with stacks of cash, car keys, and property deeds, scattering them over my head. “Is this enough?” he roared, towering over me. “Isn’t this what all the crying is about? You want what she has? Fine! Take it!” I looked up, tears streaming down my face, but I kept my chin high. If these things were given with love, they would be gifts. But thrown at me like this, they were just currency to buy my dignity. Kent paced the room, his hands over his face, breathing heavily. He knelt down, opened my suitcase, and started stuffing the cash and jewelry inside. “Just take them and go, if that’s what you want,” he said, his voice dropping. But I saw the arrogance in his eyes. He knew me. He knew I wouldn’t touch a single dollar of it. He thought by putting them in my bag, he was giving me a reason to stay. He sighed, reaching out to brush a tear from my cheek. “Don’t do this, Lydia. You know I really care about you.” Right then, his phone rang. It was Cecilia, demanding he get to the department store to pay for her new haul since he’d taken the last batch to “placate” me. Kent zipped up my suitcase, gave me one last look, and walked out the door. I swallowed the pain, unzipped the bag, and meticulously threw every single piece of Cecilia’s luxury items onto the floor. I stood up, took my handle, and walked out. I didn’t look back.

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I was at a high school reunion dinner with my best friend, Lynn, when I snapped a quick photo of the table and sent it to my husband, Derek. He replied almost instantly. “Lynn’s there? Why didn’t you order the Nashville hot chicken tenders for her?” I typed back: “This is an upscale seafood bistro, Derek. They don’t do deep-fried hot chicken here.” Thirty minutes later, a DoorDash driver knocked on our private dining room door. He was holding a grease-spotted bag from that legendary hot chicken joint on the South Side. Inside was a piping-hot, double order of their signature extra-crispy hot chicken tenders. Right on cue, my phone lit up with a FaceTime request from Derek. “Babe! Make sure Lynn eats those while they’re hot!” his voice boomed through the speaker the second I picked up. “I had to tip the courier thirty bucks to get them across town in rush hour! If they sit, they’ll lose that crunch!” … Derek’s voice cut through the warm, chatter-filled room like a stone shattering a windowpane. The clinking of wine glasses and the laughter of my old classmates suddenly stalled. Half a dozen forks hovered in mid-air, and the room went completely quiet. Eyes darted from me to Lynn, and then to the steaming box of chicken resting on the table. Drew, our old track captain, leaned over to the guy next to him and muttered under his breath, “Wait, isn’t that Hannah’s husband? Why is he so keyed into what Lynn eats from miles away?” Lynn immediately stood up, her face flushed with a practiced, breezy smile as she slid the box toward the center of the table. “Oh, stop it, you guys! Derek is just being his usual, socially awkward self. He obviously ordered these for Hannah, but he’s terrible at expressing it. He tries to be the sweet husband and ends up doing it backwards. Come on, everyone dig in! Let’s not let his thirty-dollar tip go to waste.” I stared at Derek’s face on my phone screen. He still had that eager, puppy-dog expression, waiting for me to praise him for being so thoughtful. My thumb hovered over the screen for an agonizing second before I tapped the red end-call icon. I forced the corners of my mouth upward, nodding at the curious, pitying faces of my old classmates. “Yeah. That’s just how he is. He worries too much.” The tension in the air dissolved. Lynn was already using her fork to pass the tenders to the people next to her. “He really knows where to order from,” she said, practically hosting the table. “Taste this cayenne-honey glaze. It’s the real deal—perfectly sweet, fiery, and incredibly crispy. You can’t get this crunch anywhere else in the city.” Drew took a bite, sucking in air as the heat hit him. “Oh, man! That has some serious kick. I’m addicted already.” As the rest of the table joined in, the lively hum of the reunion resumed. Lynn nudged my elbow, pushing the remaining chicken closer to me. “Hannah, why aren’t you eating? They’re going to get soggy. You heard Derek—he specifically said to eat them hot.” I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “I’m okay. You guys go ahead.” Lynn tilted her head, tapping her fork against the edge of her plate with a small, patronizing sigh. “Oh, come on, princess. Who are you picking a fight with now? It’s just a basket of tenders. Derek was just trying to be sweet.” Across the table, Megan, our former class valedictorian, suddenly gasped and slapped the table. She pointed directly at my mouth. “Oh my god, guys, we completely forgot! Hannah just got her braces on last Tuesday!” “The ceramic brackets, right? Aren’t you supposed to completely avoid hard, crunchy, and fiery-hot things?” Lynn froze for a fraction of a second. Then, she slapped her own forehead and let out a loud, self-deprecating laugh. “Oh my god, of course! I’m so scatterbrained. I completely forgot. Well, Hannah, definitely don’t touch these then! Don’t worry, we won’t let them go to waste.” I looked down at the glistening, golden-brown chicken sitting in the cardboard container. The grease reflected the harsh overhead light of the private room, making my eyes sting. Yes, I had just gotten braces last week. The metal brackets were constantly rubbing against the inside of my cheeks, leaving them shredded with painful canker sores. Every bite of solid food felt like swallowing shards of glass. That was precisely why Drew and the others had chosen this soft-food-friendly seafood bistro in the first place. They wanted me to be able to enjoy the clam chowder and delicate baked cod, rather than sitting there starving while everyone else enjoyed heavy, crunchy meals. But Derek? He knew about the braces. He had watched me struggle to swallow lukewarm broth and oatmeal for three days straight. He hadn’t asked how I was feeling once. I had tried to make excuses for him in my head. “He’s stressed at work. He’s just naturally forgetful.” But I had sent him a single, casual photo of our table, and within seconds, he had noticed that Lynn’s favorite comfort food wasn’t there. He had cared enough to spend forty minutes and thirty dollars to have it hand-delivered to her. The rest of the night passed in a dull blur. Lynn, fueled by the hot chicken, was the life of the party. By the time we stood outside the restaurant waiting for our rides, the sky had turned a dark, bruised purple. My phone showed that the Uber Derek had booked for me was still three minutes away. But Lynn’s ride arrived first. She rolled down the window and waved cheerfully. “I’m heading out, Hannah! Tell Derek I made it in safe!” I forced a wave as the car pulled away. It was only when the taillights disappeared into the city traffic that the realization fully settled in: even when it came to booking a simple ride home, Derek had made sure her car arrived before mine. When I finally pushed open our apartment door, the entryway light was already casting a warm glow on the hardwood floor. Derek heard the door and walked out of the living room, naturally reaching to take my handbag and hang it on the coat rack. He had a soft, satisfied smile on his face. “You’re back? Did Lynn get home okay? I wanted to make sure her Uber got there first so she didn’t have to wait in the cold.” I slipped off my shoes, keeping my eyes on the floor. I didn’t answer. I walked straight to the couch and sat down, staring at my hands. He followed me, sitting close enough that I could smell his laundry detergent, leaning in to read my face. “What’s wrong? Was the food bad? I thought that seafood place had amazing reviews.” The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. My throat felt incredibly tight, and the brackets in my mouth scraped against my raw gums. Finally, the words tore out of me, trembling with a quiet rage I couldn’t control. “Derek, why did you order those hot chicken tenders for Lynn? Why did you make sure her ride came first?” My voice cracked at the end, a pathetic, wavering sound. The smile on Derek’s face stiffened. In an instant, his expression shifted into that familiar, exhausted look—the “here-we-go-again” sigh. He leaned back against the sofa cushions, throwing his hands up in mild exasperation. “Hannah, are you serious? Didn’t you tell me yourself that a wife’s best friend is like a second mother-in-law? That I needed to go out of my way to win her over?” “I’m literally just doing what you asked me to do.” His words hit me like a splash of ice water, leaving me completely speechless. I “had” said that. Five years ago, when we first started dating and I introduced him to Lynn for the very first time. I remembered sitting in a crowded diner, holding his hand, and telling him, “I lost my mother when I was a kid. Lynn grew up with me—she’s my real family. You have to treat her like a sister. If she doesn’t approve of you, I can’t marry you.” Derek had nodded so solemnly back then, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. I had felt so incredibly loved, thinking I had found a man who truly understood my grief and respected my boundaries. But somewhere along the way, the boundaries had blurred into something grotesque. Derek’s office and Lynn’s office were in opposite directions of the city, yet he always “happened to be in the area” to drive her home on rainy days. Whenever the three of us went out for craft milkshakes, the “buy one, get one half off” promotional drink always ended up in Lynn’s hand, while I carried the full-price cup. On our wedding day, Derek was the groom, but he spent the entire reception acting like Lynn’s personal assistant. He adjusted the hem of her bridesmaid dress, handed her blotting papers for her makeup, and stepped in to block drinks and overbearing uncles during the reception games. Even on our wedding night, after the last of the guests had cleared out and we finally crawled into our hotel bed, the first thing he did was pull out his phone to play a mobile game with Lynn to help her rank up. He told me they had “scheduled it weeks ago.” For years, I had quietly rationalized it. “These are the two people I love most in the world,” I told myself. “It is a blessing that they get along so well. Derek is just a good, attentive man.” But that basket of extra-crispy hot chicken had popped the bubble of my comfortable denial. Derek wasn’t just a universally nice guy. He was selectively, meticulously attentive—exclusively to Lynn. He was so focused on her cravings that he could look directly at his wife’s bleeding, swollen mouth and see absolutely nothing. I looked up at him, the hot tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. “Derek, do you even know I have braces? Do you know I can’t eat spicy or crunchy food right now?” “When you ordered those tenders for Lynn, did it even cross your mind for a single second that your own wife wouldn’t be able to touch them?” Derek’s face went cold. He stood up slowly, towering over me, looking down with a heavy, deeply patronizing exhaustion. “Hannah, can you please stop being so incredibly dramatic?” “You asked me to make Lynn feel like family, and I did exactly that. Now you’re throwing a tantrum and getting jealous of your own best friend? What do you want from me?” “I work sixty hours a week, and I have to come home to deal with your paranoid delusions.” Before I could say another word, he turned on his heel, walked into our bedroom, and came out holding his pillow and a heavy grey blanket. “I’m sleeping in the study tonight. Let me know when you’ve calmed down.” The cold war between Derek and me lasted for eleven days. For nearly two weeks, we lived under the same roof like ghosts, speaking fewer than five sentences to each other. The heavy, suffocating silence was far worse than any screaming match. Every second in that apartment felt like walking on dry glass, my chest so tight I felt like I was going to shatter. And then, at two o’clock in the morning on the twelfth night, my phone began vibrating violently on the nightstand. I answered it in a daze, my voice thick with sleep. On the other end, my dad’s voice was trembling. “Hannah… I took a bad fall on the stairs. I can’t move my leg. The paramedics are on their way, the neighbor called them… don’t panic, okay?” I bolted out of bed, adrenaline surging through my veins. I kept talking to my dad, trying to keep my voice steady and soothing while scrambling to throw on a pair of sweatpants and a jacket. In my blind panic, I slammed my knee hard against the bedroom doorframe, but the pain barely registered. The noise woke Derek. He stepped out of the study, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on? What’s all the noise?” “My dad fell,” I said, my hands shaking as I grabbed my keys. “I have to get to the ER.” Derek’s eyes widened, and his sluggishness vanished. He immediately grabbed his coat. “I’ll drive you. It’s too late for an Uber, and it’s pouring out there.” I wanted to refuse, but a loud crack of thunder rumbled outside, and sheets of heavy rain were already lashing against the windows. I swallowed my pride and nodded. We ran down to the garage and got into his sedan. As he backed out into the street, the storm hit us in earnest. The windshield wipers were on their highest speed, but the road ahead was still just a blurry smear of streetlights and dark asphalt. I sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. My dad had texted me saying he was already at the hospital and was being wheeled back for X-rays. I let out a shaky breath, glancing at the profile of the man driving next to me. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the treacherous road. The thick ice of the past eleven days began to melt, just a little. Maybe I was being too hard on him. Maybe we could talk this through. Maybe we could fix this. But at the third major intersection, while we were waiting at a red light, Derek’s phone buzzed in the cup holder. He habitually swiped it open. In an instant, his entire demeanor changed. His face went pale, his breath catching in his throat. “Lynn just posted on her Instagram story. Her neighborhood lost power. She’s home alone, and she’s terrified of the dark.” Before the words had even fully registered in my mind, Derek unbuckled his seatbelt. He reached across the console, opened my passenger door, and gently but firmly nudged me out into the pouring rain. The freezing wind and water hit me instantly, soaking through my thin jacket and making me shudder violently. Before I could even speak, he grabbed the emergency umbrella from the side pocket and shoved it into my hands. “The hospital is only about a mile from here, Hannah! You can just walk up the avenue, it’ll take you ten minutes!” “Lynn is having a panic attack. I don’t know what’s happening over there—I have to go check on her.” I stood on the flooded sidewalk, holding the cheap black umbrella, watching his red taillights make a sharp, illegal U-turn and disappear into the curtain of grey rain. The streetlights were watery halos in the dark. I didn’t have the luxury of sitting down to cry. I braced myself against the wind and started walking. A mile. A distance that usually took fifteen minutes of casual strolling took me nearly forty minutes in the freezing downpour. By the time I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the emergency room, my shoes were squelching and water was dripping from my hair. When my dad saw me walk into the observation room, soaked to the bone, his eyes turned red with anger and pity. He already had a thick white cast on his leg. “What happened to you? Why didn’t Derek drive you? If I knew you’d have to walk through a storm like this, I never would have called you!” I forced a weak smile and lied, telling him Derek had been called into an urgent emergency at work. The next morning, around ten o’clock, Derek and Lynn walked into the hospital room together. They were carrying a basket of fresh fruit and a box of organic milk. They stood side-by-side at the foot of my dad’s bed, looking like a perfectly matched couple. My dad leaned back against his pillows, his gaze shifting coldly between the two of them. His expression was grim, but for my sake, he kept his mouth shut. Lynn set the fruit basket on the bedside table and chatted with my dad for a few polite minutes, her voice dripping with sweet concern. Then, she casually caught my eye and motioned toward the hallway. “Hannah, come outside with me for a second. Let’s get some fresh air.” I followed her out without a word. “Hannah, please don’t be mad at Derek,” Lynn said the moment the heavy door swung shut. She reached out and grabbed my arm, shaking it gently in that cute, pleading way she always did when she wanted her way. “Last night was seriously so terrifying. The transformer blew, and you know how I’ve been deathly afraid of the dark since we were kids…” I didn’t say anything. I just stared at her hand on my sleeve. Derek stepped out of the room behind us, jumping to her defense. “I literally just drove over, flipped the main breaker for her, and made sure she was okay. It took ten minutes, Hannah.” I still didn’t speak. The patience on Derek’s face began to evaporate, replaced by a defensive, hard annoyance. He took a step closer, lowering his voice so the nurses wouldn’t hear. “Hannah, what more do you want from me? Your dad is fine, and I’m here now, aren’t I? Lynn actually had an emergency last night!” I finally raised my eyes, looking at his chest. “The shirt you’re wearing,” I said quietly. “It’s the exact same one you wore when we left the apartment last night.” “So tell me, Derek. Where exactly did you sleep last night?” The words hung in the sterile hospital corridor like a sudden drop in temperature. The easy, confident expressions on both of their faces froze instantly. “Hannah, let me explain,” Lynn stammered, her voice losing its airy, playful quality. “Derek was going to leave, but the storm got so bad, and the roads were flooded…” She reached for my hands again, trying to offer a sweet, reassuring smile. “We’re best friends, Hannah. We’re family. You can’t honestly think we would…” I pulled my hands back, placing them firmly in my pockets. “You don’t need to explain anything to me, Lynn. I didn’t misunderstand a thing. I was just asking a question.” “I can handle my dad’s discharge on my own. You two can go.” My sudden, quiet withdrawal seemed to finally register with them. Realizing they had crossed a line, they began a desperate, coordinated campaign to win back my favor. Derek started showing up at the hospital every evening after work, sitting quietly by my dad’s bed, trying to help. Lynn bombarded my phone with deliveries—craft milkshakes, artisan cupcakes, gluten-free pastries—along with endless, rambling text messages about how much she valued our lifelong friendship. The weekend after my dad was discharged, they practically forced me to go to the downtown shopping district with them, claiming I needed to “get out of the house.” Lynn linked her arm through my left, and Derek walked on my right. They kept trying to direct the conversation toward me, but their eyes kept drifting past me, locking onto each other over my head. Every time I slowed my pace, falling a few steps behind, they didn’t even notice. They kept walking, lost in their own shared rhythm, until they realized I wasn’t next to them and turned around with apologetic, performative smiles. I felt like a heavy piece of luggage they were both dragging along—unwanted, but too valuable to leave behind. We walked into the central atrium of the mall, where a massive crowd had gathered. In the center was a neon-pink stage. A host with a wireless microphone was shouting enthusiastically into the speakers. “Couples Kissing Contest! The couple who holds on the longest wins the limited-edition, giant Capybara plush pillow! Participation prizes for everyone!” Lynn’s eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning. She turned to me, then to Derek. “Oh my god, that Capybara! Hannah, didn’t you say last week that you wanted a huge plush pillow for your bed? Derek and I will enter and win it for you!” Derek didn’t even look at me for confirmation. He grabbed Lynn’s wrist and pulled her toward the stage. “Come on,” he said, matching her excitement. “Let’s go win this for Hannah.” Neither of them asked what I thought. And the truth was, I had never once mentioned wanting a Capybara pillow. It was Lynn who had been obsessing over them on TikTok for months. The buzzer sounded. I stood at the very front of the barricade, watching my husband and my best friend lock lips on stage. They did it under the guise of doing me a favor, and they did it with an intensity that left nothing to the imagination. In front of hundreds of cheering strangers, they held on. One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Forty-three minutes later, they were the only couple left on stage. The host blew the final whistle, declaring them the undisputed champions. When Derek and Lynn finally pulled apart, their lips were swollen and flushed. Lynn hugged the giant, four-foot plush toy to her chest, her face glowing with triumph. Derek stood beside her, pulling out his phone, squatting down to get the perfect low-angle shots of her posing with her prize. I stood in the middle of the roaring crowd, my hands and feet completely numb. I knew exactly how I looked to everyone else. The pathetic, invisible third wheel. The most foolish woman in the room. Once he was done taking photos, Derek finally walked over to me, taking the giant stuffed animal from Lynn and holding it out to me. “Here you go, babe. It’s yours!” Lynn jogged over, her voice dripping with sweet, breathless satisfaction. “We did it just for you, Hannah! Go on, hug it! It’s so soft.” I stared at the brown, plush Capybara. It had tiny, blank black eyes and a stupid, vacant expression. I reached out and touched its soft fabric. It was still warm. Warm from the heat of their bodies as they pressed against each other on stage. I pulled my hand back and looked at the two of them. There was no anger in my chest. No tears. Just a vast, hollow emptiness. “Thank you.” “But Derek, I want a divorce.”

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In the third year of my marriage to Beck, I accidentally unlocked the hidden folder on his phone. There, staring back at me from the screen, were intimate photos of him and another woman in bed. My hands shook as I tapped through the photo library and then opened his notes app. What I found wasn’t just a fleeting mistake; it was a meticulous, years-long archive of his life with his ex-girlfriend, Talia. There were even photos of them holding a baby girl, smiling warmly, looking every bit like a happy, picture-perfect family. But before we married, Beck had looked me in the eye and promised he had deleted every trace of his past. He had held my hands and sworn he would never betray me. I shook him awake, my chest tight with a sudden, suffocating panic. He blinked against the light, his expression shifting from confusion to a brief flash of guilt, before settling into a weary sigh. “Since you’ve seen it, I suppose there’s no point in hiding it anymore,” he said, sitting up. “Talia doesn’t believe in marriage. We broke up before she realized she was pregnant, and I couldn’t just abandon my own daughter.” He looked at me, completely devoid of remorse. “I’ve given you a stable, respectable marriage, and I get to be responsible for them. Isn’t this a win-win? Why do you have to make a scene?” … “A scene?” I threw the phone onto the mattress between us. My voice was dangerously quiet, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I picked up the phone again and began reading his notes aloud, each word tasting like ash in my mouth. ‘September 5th — Mia’s first day of preschool. She was so excited, saying she finally has a dad to walk her to school. I feel so guilty for not being there more.’ I looked up at him. “September 5th, Beck. The day after Labor Day. My father was in the ICU. I called you twenty times. You didn’t answer until midnight, claiming you were locked in a critical board meeting.” I swiped to the next entry. ‘July 18th — Took Mia and Talia to the Hamptons for a beach weekend. The kid was so happy, and Talia finally looked relaxed. I’m so glad I can give Mia a normal childhood.’ My voice cracked. “July 18th was our anniversary. I cooked a three-course dinner and waited up until dawn. You texted me saying you had to work late and promised you’d make it up to me.” Before I could read the next one, Beck snatched the phone from my hand, his face darkening. “Look at the bigger picture, Naomi,” he said, his tone patronizing. “We’ve been married three years and have no children. Your health has always been fragile, and I didn’t want you to go through the physical toll of pregnancy. Now, you get to be a mother without any of the pain. You should be grateful.” I stared at him, my lips trembling, utterly speechless. The air in the bedroom felt heavy, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe. He stood up, grabbing his coat from the chair. “Enough. Mia is my daughter, and Talia is a fragile single mother. Can’t you show a little compassion? I came home to rest, not to deal with your hysterics.” He walked toward the door, his voice echoing back down the hallway. “I’m going over to Talia’s. Let me know when you’ve calmed down and are ready to act like an adult.” He left in such a rush that he forgot his personal phone on the nightstand. I sat on the edge of the bed and scrolled through the hidden album. There were thousands of photos. They spanned five years—capturing the baby in her crib, her first wobbly steps, and eventually her carrying a tiny backpack. He had been there for all of it. He had built a parallel life while I was left in the dark. My eyes burned as I tapped on another note. ‘September 6th — Mia’s fever is spiking after her first day of school. Stayed up all night holding her. Talia was crying, too. My heart breaks for them.’ On that exact night, September 6th, I had been admitted to the emergency room with severe gastroenteritis, vomiting until I was dehydrated. I had begged him to come home. His reply had been a single, cold text: “I’m working late. Don’t be dramatic.” The next morning, as I lay in the hospital bed, a local news notification had popped up on my phone. It was a photo from a children’s charity gala. Beck was there, holding a little girl’s hand, his arm draped protectively around Talia’s waist. They looked radiant. I stared at the screen, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. Just an hour ago, I had received a follow-up email from my doctor. My stomach lining was severely inflamed, and I needed to be admitted for immediate treatment. Perhaps, up until last night, a foolish part of me still hoped that even if the love had faded, there was at least some respect left between us. But he had gone straight from our home to play the doting father in public, treating his legal wife like an invisible nuisance. I stood up, walked into his home office, and began searching his desk. For three years, I believed I had a clear picture of our finances. But as I tore through the drawers and the small safe, I realized the deeds to our properties and our major investment portfolios had all been moved. He had been quietly shielding his assets from me for a long time. My stomach dropped. I logged into our joint bank portal on my laptop and pulled up the statements for the past six months. The transaction history was damning. Every major withdrawal was a direct transfer to Talia Pierce—or directly to a private preschool and pediatric clinics. The amounts ranged from ten thousand to nearly eighty thousand dollars. Meanwhile, when my father was fighting for his life in the ICU, Beck hadn’t offered a single dollar toward his care. He was funding his mistress and his child with our marital assets, while I had been pinching pennies, skipping new clothes, and draining my own modest savings to keep my father alive. With trembling fingers, I took clear, high-resolution photos of every single statement on the screen. The front door clicked open. Beck was back. He didn’t look tired. He had the relaxed, easy air of a man who had spent a comfortable night in a warm bed. When he walked into the office and saw the papers scattered across the desk, he merely frowned. “You really have no boundaries, do you? I’ll have Mrs. Gable come and clean this up later.” I looked up at him, my expression cold. “Tens of thousands of dollars transferred out of our accounts to support your mistress. You really are a piece of work, Beck.” He tossed his coat onto the sofa, his tone dismissive. “Talia has had a hard time raising a child on her own. What’s wrong with me helping her out? Mia’s tuition is expensive, and as her father, it’s my responsibility. I’ve never let you go without. You live in a beautiful home, so why are you obsessing over a few bills?” “Those ‘few bills’ belong to our joint estate,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room. “You transferred them without my knowledge or consent. Do you honestly think that’s legal?” Beck let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Naomi, don’t start acting like one of those petty, small-minded women who only care about money. You have the status of being Mrs. Marshall. You should know that tearing this family apart won’t benefit you. You should be thanking me for the lifestyle you enjoy.” A tear finally escaped my eye, hot and bitter. When Talia left him years ago because he was flat broke, I was the one who stayed. I was the one who went to corporate dinners, drinking until my stomach bled just to help him secure his first major investors. We had lived in a drafty, one-bedroom apartment, sharing packets of instant ramen. I had supported him through every sleepless night until his company finally took off. And now, he was asking me why I wasn’t grateful. I didn’t argue. Instead, I unlocked my phone and tapped on an audio file I had transferred from his device the night before. Talia’s voice filled the quiet office. “Beck, when are you going to tell Naomi? I’m tired of hiding. My friends keep asking when they can finally congratulate us. Mia wants her dad to show up at her school events.” Then came Beck’s voice, smooth and reassuring. “The timing isn’t right yet. She’s stubborn. If she makes a scene, it could hurt the company’s valuation and damage your reputation. Don’t worry. I’ll keep taking care of Mia, and I’m not leaving you. Once things settle down, I’ll ask for a divorce, pay her off, and we can finally be together.” Beck froze. The color drained from his face as he stared at me. After a long, heavy silence, he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, placating register. “Naomi… Talia’s mental health hasn’t been stable lately. I was just saying what she needed to hear to keep her calm. I never actually intended to divorce you.” He took a step closer. “I promise you, once Mia is a little older, I’ll phase them out of my life entirely.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. He always had a logical excuse, always prioritizing everyone else’s comfort over my survival. “Phase them out?” I asked. “Do you honestly think I’m that stupid, Beck?” He frowned, clearly frustrated by my lack of compliance. He reached out to grab my hand, using the gentle, persuasive tone he always used when he wanted me to back down. “Sweetheart, you’re my wife. What I feel for them is just obligation. You’re the one I love. Mia is young, and Talia is struggling. I can’t just walk away. I know this is hard on you, and I’ve tried to make up for it. Don’t ruin what we have by being greedy.” I violently shoved his hand away. “Make up for it? You used the money that could have saved my father to fund your secret family!” I pulled up the recent hospital invoices on my phone and thrust the screen in front of his face. “My dad was in the ICU, and the daily bills were astronomical! I called you begging for help, but your phone was off. I had to swallow my pride and borrow from every distant relative just to keep him on life support! And what were you doing? You were wire-transferring eighty thousand dollars to Talia for her apartment down payment!” Beck flinched, his eyes darting away. He swallowed hard. “If you needed money, you should have just told me directly. There was no need to go behind my back to borrow from others. Besides, I didn’t realize your dad’s situation was that critical. I thought it was just routine monitoring…” “You didn’t know?” I screamed, my voice cracking under the weight of three years of suppressed pain. “I sent you the medical updates every single day! I sent you the physician’s reports! I begged you at three in the morning to come to the hospital! You didn’t ‘not know,’ Beck. You just didn’t care!” “Alright, that’s enough!” Beck snapped, his patience finally wearing thin. He pulled a black titanium credit card from his wallet and slammed it onto the desk. “This is getting ridiculous. It was an oversight on my part, okay? But I can fix it. I’ll cover all of your father’s medical bills moving forward. Just stop screaming, and promise me you won’t go looking for Talia.” I looked at the black card sitting on the mahogany desk. The room fell into a dead, chilling silence. I didn’t want to cry anymore, but the tears kept coming, silent and cold. Beck watched me, momentarily stunned by my silence. I turned on my heel, walked into the master bedroom, and pulled my suitcase out of the closet. He followed me, grabbing the clothes out of my hands. “Naomi, stop acting like a child!” He threw my favorite sweater onto the floor. I stood frozen, looking down at the worn wool. It was a simple, gray thrifted sweater I had bought two years ago. On our first wedding anniversary, before his company went public, I had refused to spend money on myself, choosing instead to use my savings to buy him a luxury watch to help him look the part in front of investors. He had held me so tight that night, his eyes shining. “I don’t have much right now, Naomi. But I swear, once the company succeeds, I will make sure you have everything you’ve ever wanted. If I ever betray you, may I lose everything.” I had believed him. But looking down at that cheap sweater now, the illusion shattered. Last night, while scrolling through Talia’s social media, I had seen her posts from the last five years. Her gifts were never cheap. On our first anniversary, while I wore a thrifted sweater, he had bought Talia a designer handbag. On our second anniversary, he gave me a simple, unadorned gold ring. Talia received a three-carat diamond ring. On our third anniversary, I received nothing. Talia received a townhouse. This marriage had been a prison of my own making. My phone buzzed. It was an email from my regional director, sent late Friday night, offering me a transfer to our European headquarters. I realized then that it was time to cut my losses. Suddenly, Beck’s phone rang. The screen lit up with the name “Talia”. He immediately turned away, answering it in a soft, hushed voice. When he hung up, he looked back at me, his expression stern and commanding. “Stay here. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Mia has a high fever, and I need to go check on her.” The cold, dismissive authority in his voice made my heart go completely numb. The moment his car pulled out of the driveway, I packed my bags, ordered a rideshare, and left the house. Sitting in the backseat, I stared at my phone and booked the earliest flight out of the country. I called my director, my voice steady and clear. “Mr. Jenkins, I’m calling about the London transfer. I accept. I can be on a flight tonight if you can expedite the paperwork.” “Consider it done, Naomi,” he replied. “We’d be thrilled to have you.” I hung up, pulled the SIM card from my phone, and tossed it into the trash can at the airport terminal. As the plane climbed into the night sky, watching the city lights shrink into tiny, glittering dust motes below, I felt a physical weight lift from my chest. “Goodbye, Beck. The next time you hear from me, it will be through my lawyer.”

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