Author: Momo Chan

1 After my parents transferred for work, I found myself enrolled in a complete dump of a high school. To give you an idea of how utterly bottom-tier it was: out of the ten classes in our grade, exactly one of them actually studied. The good news was that I had been placed into this sole honors class. The bad news was that even this class, so the rumors went, was notorious for bullying. My best friend back home had warned me that a bookish nerd like me would be the prime target for anyone looking to terrorize the halls. If I wanted to make it through without getting my life ruined, I had to master one basic rule of survival: Look like someone you don’t want to mess with. “Do I look unapproachable enough yet?” I asked, puffing out my cheeks and trying my absolute best to pull off a menacing glare. My friend had given a weary, helpless sigh. “Oh, sweetie,” she had said. “You just look like a very angry hamster that’s about to aggressively waddle away.” I had been at this school for a full week now. Miraculously, no one had actually bullied me yet. But people kept giving me these strange, lingering looks—a mix of bewilderment and faint pity. And absolutely no one spoke to me. I couldn’t tell if this was the ominous calm before the storm, and the anxiety was slowly eating me alive. After turning it over in my mind a hundred times, I finally hit upon a brilliant strategy. Since I was the softest pushover in the room, why not find someone even softer and pick on them first? After a careful scan of the classroom and a lot of internal debate, my eyes finally landed on the guy who spent his entire day face down on the desk beside me. 2 Noah Sullivan. A guy who spent ten hours at school and slept for eight of them. In the entire week since I’d transferred, I hadn’t seen a single soul utter a word to him. Clearly, he was being ostracized. If my logic held up, he had to be the softest pushover in the entire building. “Hey. Desk-mate,” I whispered, reaching out to give him a tentative poke. “I have a rather awkward favor to ask, and I really need you to say yes.” Noah didn’t move. Not a single peep. Silence meant consent. I forged ahead on my own. “Just so you know… when I start bullying you in a minute, try not to make a sound, okay?” Noah finally shifted. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Bullying who?” Poor guy. Not only was he isolated, but his hearing was shot, too. I enunciated every single syllable very clearly. “Bullying. You.” “You?” A slow, incredulous smile touched his lips. “You’re going to bully me?” I nodded with solemn earnestness. “Yes. But please understand, I have my reasons.” Noah seemed to finally wake up. He reached up, sliding a pair of thin silver-rimmed glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. Propping his chin in one hand, he tilted his head and looked at me with an amused glint in his eye. “Go ahead. I’m listening. What are your reasons?” I laid out my entire “Junk School Survival Guide” for him. If I let people think I was an easy target, I’d inevitably become fodder for the local delinquents. Therefore, I needed to establish a fierce reputation right out of the gate. Noah listened in silence, taking a long moment to digest my elaborate paranoid manifesto. That was when I finally got a good look at him. He had a high, straight nosebridge and impossibly thick, dark eyelashes. The sharp, predatory line of his eyes was softened just enough by the lenses to make him look refined and scholarly. The corner of his mouth twitched. “So, after scanning the room for a week for the softest target… you landed on me?” I gave him a resolute nod. He leaned back in his chair, a lazy, reckless amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “Fine. Let’s see it then. How exactly do you plan to bully me?” 3 It was my first time ever bullying anyone. I was so nervous I swallowed hard three times, straightened my school blazer, and then suddenly launched myself out of my seat. I threw a vicious kick straight at the leg of Noah’s chair. The chair didn’t even budge. Still, the sharp thud was enough to make the entire classroom snap to attention. The noisy, chaotic atmosphere of the mid-morning break instantly evaporated. Dozens of pairs of eyes locked onto me, followed by a collective, audible intake of breath rippling through the rows. It was working! They were already terrified of me! Noah slowly lifted his eyelids, looking up at me from his seated position with an expression of absolute, defenseless innocence. He looked so painfully docile. For a second, my heart twitched with guilt. Too late to turn back now, I told myself. I leaned in close, lowering my voice in a desperate bid to soothe him. “I’m so sorry. Once I’m done bullying you, I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Noah’s entire body stiffened. The tips of his ears turned a faint, imperceptible shade of red. I tightened my jaw, plastered on my most menacing scowl, and reached blindly across his desk. The original plan was to swipe his pen, but his desk was completely immaculate—not a single speck of dust, let alone a pen. My hand was already out there, though, and I couldn’t just pull it back empty-handed. With zero hesitation, I snatched up his bottled water instead. Another wave of sharp gasps echoed around the room. In for a penny, in for a pound. I unscrewed the cap and chugged half the bottle in one long, dramatic gulp. Even the gasps stopped at that. Someone in the back let out a choked, “What the actual hell—” Noah shot a cold, lethal glance in that direction. Every single classmate who had been rubbernecking immediately jerked their heads back down to their books. I slammed the empty bottle back onto his desk with a dramatic clatter. “Just so you know, I drank out of that,” Noah said, his voice entirely flat. I choked on air, desperately scrambling to save face. “It’s fine! I don’t mind!” He looked right at me. “What if I mind?” I thrust out an index finger, wagging it back and forth with maximum hostility. “Rule number one of the Junk School Survival Guide: the soft targets don’t get a say.” 4 Ever since I picked on my designated soft target, the looks my classmates gave me shifted dramatically. They went from a mild, sympathetic pity to a solid thirty percent admiration and seventy percent sheer terror. To cement my terrifying new persona, I kept up the abuse. When Noah brought breakfast to school, I snatched half of it. The next day, he brought a double portion. When he fell asleep in class, I yanked him upright by his sleeve and forced him to pay attention. The next day, he showed up wearing earplugs. Naturally, I ripped those out and tossed them in the trash, too. Every time I walked into the room, I made a point of kicking his chair with as much malicious flair as I could muster—followed immediately by a frantic, whispered apology. Noah had the patience of a saint. No matter how much I kneaded, stretched, or tormented him, he never once lost his temper. It was no wonder the rest of the school had isolated him; he was entirely too accommodating for his own good. Of course, I wasn’t a monster. Every time I bullied him, I made a point of making it up to him somehow. Noah never seemed to have textbooks or pens—probably because whoever had terrorized him before had thrown them all away. So, I photocopied my own notes and textbooks, and bought him a pack of ridiculously cute little bear pens. Whenever I had good snacks, I quietly slipped him a share. Whenever I saw a pretty notebook, I split the set with him. Slowly but surely, the clutter on Noah’s desk began to pile up. Even his sad, deflated black backpack ended up decorated with a plush, sardonic little bear charm I’d clipped onto the zipper. 5 On the walk home from school one afternoon, I overheard some kids from my class gossiping about the school’s reigning thug. “Can you believe it?” one of them whispered. “I heard that guy—six-foot-two, built like a brick wall—uses a bear pen now. It’s hilarious.” “Tch, old dogs learning new tricks, I guess. First time he’s ever fallen for anyone.” “Seriously. Think about all the girls and guys who threw themselves at him the last couple of years. He rejected the girls and beat up the guys. Now that he finally grows a heart, he’s acting like a total simp.” I pricked up my ears, trailing behind them, but I never caught the actual name of this infamous delinquent. The next day, I brought it up to Noah. “Do you happen to know who the school thug is?” I asked, blinking innocently at him. Noah’s eyelid twitched. “Why on earth do you want to know who he is?” I chewed on the end of my pen, deep in thought. “Well, if we know who he is, we can actively avoid him, right?” Noah gave me a look that screamed he had a lot of things he wanted to say, but lacked the energy to utter them. Naturally, I assumed that as a low-ranking soft target, he was just as clueless about the school’s criminal underworld as I was. I gave his shoulder a comforting pat. “Don’t worry about it. I heard his crush just reciprocated, so he’s probably in too good of a mood to bother terrorizing anyone right now.” Noah let out a sudden, violent fit of coughing. Sigh. Poor guy. Just hearing the word “thug” was enough to scare him half to death. 6 Sure enough, whenever you dread something, it has a habit of finding you. If I’d known high school was going to be like this, I would have studied harder for my middle school exams and prayed for an early acceptance to boarding school. Walking home that afternoon, I was ambushed by a pack of local punks. Under their casual, casual intimidation, I lost twenty dollars and gained a cup of bubble tea I hadn’t asked for. The next morning, I dragged myself into school looking like a deflated balloon. Noah glanced sideways at my miserable posture and lowered his voice. “What happened?” I slumped across my desk, completely devoid of life. “I’m retiring. The whole ‘acting tough’ thing is a total scam.” “Why?” “Some street punks shook me down for twenty bucks yesterday.” “What?!” The news apparently rattled him to his core. I quickly patted the air between us. “Relax, it’s fine. Twenty bucks is a cheap price to pay for my life.” “I’m not worried about—” He stopped himself mid-sentence, changing tack. “Never mind. Describe what he looked like.” I racked my brain. “Well… his head looked like a bleach-blond with dark roots.” “You know, dyed yellow on top with a solid two inches of dark roots growing out.” Noah couldn’t help it; a snort of laughter escaped him. “Right. I know the type.” He fished his phone out of his pocket, his thumbs flying across the screen as he started texting someone. Our school didn’t bother enforcing a ban on smartphones. It was useless anyway. Besides, letting these problem kids keep their phones was actually a convenient leash; it kept them pacified. A wave of guilt washed over me. I muttered, “I’m really sorry for picking on you all the time. Since this whole act obviously doesn’t work, I’m done harassing you. Deal?” Noah kept tapping away, not even looking up. “Who said it doesn’t work?” “Huh?” “Have you ever considered that you just weren’t bullying me hard enough?” I blinked, thoroughly disoriented. “What?” He lifted his gaze, the light behind his lenses flashing with a sudden, razor-sharp edge. “Haven’t you noticed? Ever since you started bullying me, everyone in this class has been terrified of you.” I paused. Now that he mentioned it… even the class president looked like she wanted to burst into tears every time she collected my homework. Noah looked at me, his expression melting back into something infinitely soft. “Today after school, when the gates are at their busiest… hit me. Really lay into me.” “I promise you, after that, not a single soul will ever dare lay a finger on you.” 7 My stomach was doing backflips. Up until now, I had only ever bullied Noah in front of our immediate classmates. Doing it in front of the entire school was a whole different tier of public execution. Just walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him toward the exit made me feel the weight of a hundred burning stares. Could everyone tell I was about to commit a hate crime? My palms were sweating profusely. I took a massive, shaking breath. “Alright, whenever you’re ready,” Noah murmured, leaning in so close his breath brushed my ear, making me jump out of my skin. Before I knew it, we were standing right in front of the main gates. He was looking down at me with a soft, crescent-eyed smile. “Want me to hold your backpack so you can get more leverage?” The late afternoon sun was dipping behind him, casting a halo of warm gold around his shoulders and sharpening the handsome lines of his face. The evening breeze ruffled the stray locks across his forehead. He looked impossibly gentle, a picture of quiet, effortless grace. For a second, I completely forgot how to breathe. My heart skipped a bizarre, uncoordinated beat. Noah gave me a tiny nod, silently signaling that it was time to strike. I let out a long, ragged exhale, raised my hand, and squeezed my eyes shut. Putting every ounce of force I possessed behind it, I brought my palm down hard against his shoulder. Slap. The world went dead silent. The sound was far too crisp, and the tactile feedback felt completely wrong. I snapped my eyes open. Noah had instinctively ducked his head, turning his face away from the blow. And right there, stark against his pale cheek, was the unmistakable crimson imprint of my hand. 8 At the bustling school gates, the air froze solid for a single, agonizing second. Every single pair of eyes within a fifty-foot radius snapped toward us. My brain completely short-circuited. I swear on my life I had aimed for his shoulder! Who could have predicted he would lean down at that exact microsecond, putting his face right in the trajectory of my swinging hand? Honestly, I wanted to drop to my knees right there on the pavement and beg for his forgiveness. Slapping someone across the face in public was the ultimate violation of human dignity! Yet Noah didn’t seem to care in the slightest. He casually worked his jaw, reached over to take my backpack from my shoulders with practiced ease, and swung it over his own. “Show’s over. Let’s go.” Before I could process it, he slung an arm around my paralyzed, wood-stiff body and steered me away under the weight of a thousand gaping stares. I kept shooting terrified sideways glances at his face. The handprint was fading, but why was his face getting redder? Panic clawed at my chest. “Are you okay? I swear I didn’t mean to do that.” “Yeah, I know.” “Should I go buy an ice pack?” “I’m fine.” “Then why is your face still so bright red?” Noah’s stride faltered for a fraction of a second. He turned his head just enough to meet my eyes. “If you keep staring at it like that, it’s going to get redder.” Right. I ripped my gaze away, staring fixedly at the ground, too terrified to look at anything else. Consumed by guilt, I spent the rest of the walk home offering a steady stream of frantic apologies. Noah brushed it off with admirable magnanimity. “Don’t sweat it,” he said with a warm, easy smile. “You’re going to be famous around here by tomorrow morning. I guarantee nobody will ever bother you again.” When we finally reached my apartment building, I nervously twisted the hem of my shirt and dropped into a deep, agonizing bow. “I swear I’m going to make this up to you!” Noah chuckled, handing me my backpack. “Looking forward to it.” “Take your time,” he added softly, “since you’re going to be protecting me from now on anyway.” 9 I racked my brain until my temples throbbed, but I couldn’t come up with a single way to compensate Noah for that accidental face-slap. The little things I’d done before—sharing snacks, buying pens—felt entirely inadequate now. Slapping someone across the face wasn’t something you could fix with a novelty notebook. After tossing and turning all night and running entirely on fumes, I finally crawled out of bed with a brilliant plan. When I got to school, Noah slid a ready-made breakfast sandwich across my desk. “What were you doing last night? You look like a panda.” I snatched the carton of milk and sucked down half of it in one go. “Thinking about you.” Cough! Cough! Cough! Noah, who had been right in the middle of a bite, nearly choked to death. He went into a violent fit of coughing before finally catching his breath, shooting me a look of pure, unadulterated panic. “Thinking about… what?” “You.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He stared at me with unblinking intensity. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and pressed on. “I thought about it all night, trying to figure out how to make it up to you. And I finally came up with something!” “Oh.” Noah turned his head away, clearing his throat. “You were thinking about that.” “What else would I be thinking about?” “Nothing,” he muttered, taking another bite of his sandwich and looking back at me. “So, what’s your master plan?” “Hehehe…” I leaned in close across the aisle. “Get closer. This is a secret.” He tensed instantly, the heat rising all the way to his hairline. “What are you doing?” “Shh, keep your voice down. This isn’t the kind of thing you shout about.” I dragged a thick textbook over and propped it up like a barricade to block the view of anyone looking our way. “This compensation method I came up with… it might feel a little invasive. I’m not entirely sure you’ll be comfortable with it.” Noah’s throat worked again. “…How invasive?” “It involves a fair amount of… compulsion.” The pupils behind his lenses dilated sharply. I chewed my lip, pushing forward. “And once we start doing this, there’s no turning back. You don’t get to quit halfway through.” I looked up—and stopped. Noah’s entire face was so red it looked like it was about to start whistling steam. I tilted my head in confusion. “Why are you so red? Is the classroom that hot?” He stared at me, trapped in a visible war between utter disbelief and grim resignation. “Little scholar… your tastes are… this specific?” I quickly waved a hand. “Well, to be fair, it’s mostly just a healthy outlet for my academic stress.” “Of course, if you really don’t want to do it, I won’t force you.” “That’s why I said we had to keep it quiet. It’s a bit forward. And honestly, I didn’t feel like our relationship had… reached this stage quite yet.” Noah abruptly straightened up in his seat. He yanked off his glasses, pressing the bridge of his nose as he took a series of heavy, measured breaths. “Give me a second. I need to mentally prepare myself.” I blinked obediently. “Take all the time you need!” Then, trying to be encouraging, I added, “Don’t worry, it’s the kind of thing that hurts so good. I promise you’ll grow to love it!” Noah froze mid-motion. He slowly lowered his hand, his handsome brows furrowing in deep perplexity. “How… how did you figure that out? Is it because of that slap at the school gates?” I stared at him, entirely lost. What did any of this have to do with the slap? “I’ve been observing you for a while,” I explained patiently. “I just knew you had a lot of hidden potential.” Noah let out a long, shuddering sigh—the sound of a man whose internal debate had finally reached a brutal, inevitable conclusion. “Fine,” he said tightly. “I’m in.” “Yes!” I pumped my fist in victory. “Alright, let’s start this weekend. At my place. I still need to go pick up some supplies.” Noah’s entire body went rigid as a board. The blush rushed back down his neck, coloring even his ears, and his voice turned distinctly choppy. “We need… supplies?” I gave him a reassuring, confident pat on the shoulder. “Just put yourself entirely in my hands. Trust me, I’m a professional.” 10 Over the next few days, however, things started to feel deeply weird. As I walked down the school hallways, random students—the kind who looked like they regularly terrorized the faculty—would actually stop, look at me, and bow. One or two I might have written off as mistaken identity. But as I walked the short stretch from the classroom to the cafeteria, seven or eight different people bowed to me in sequence. That was getting statistically alarming. Being naturally timid, I didn’t dare ask questions. When they bowed to me, I instinctively bowed back, which apparently only terrified them more because they would double the angle of their waist and practically sprint away. “Desk-mate, have you noticed anything weird lately?” I poked Noah’s arm. The guy who had been dead to the world, face down on his desk a second prior, jerked upright at my touch like he’d been electrocuted. His face flushed bright red instantly. Refusing to meet my eye, he stammered, “Maybe… maybe people around here just really like stretching? Don’t worry about it.” “Then what’s up with you lately?” I narrowed my eyes, inspecting him with mounting suspicion. “Every time I look at you, you look away. Every time I touch you, you jump a mile. And you’re blushing every five minutes…” A sudden flash of understanding hit me, and I dragged out the syllable. “Ohhh~ I know what’s going on!” Panic flashed across his face. “You know what?” I poked him in the chest with an accusatory finger. “Have you been doing something shady behind my back?” Noah’s eyes darted away, muttering under his breath, “Things that happen in dreams shouldn’t count as shady…” He spoke too quietly for me to catch. “What did you say?” “Nothing.” “Fine. Just don’t forget to come over this weekend,” I said, flashing him a bright grin. “The supplies have arrived!” Noah turned a brilliant shade of crimson all over again. I knew there was something wrong with him!

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The billionaire heir of Manhattan’s most powerful dynasty had been chasing me relentlessly for two years. I still hadn’t said yes. My friends all said I was playing hard to get—that I was dragging out the “chase” for too long. I looked down from my window at the man leaning against his sleek black Porsche, a cigarette between his lips, looking every bit the cold, untouchable Prince of the Upper East Side. “…Do you even know I have a twin sister?” I whispered to the empty room. “A sister with my exact face?” My friend, standing beside me, froze. In my past life, I was blinded by Harrison Reed’s grand gestures. I fell into his orbit, blurred by the whirlwind of his passion, and we were married before I could catch my breath. It wasn’t until our wedding day, when he laid eyes on my sister returning from London, that I realized the devastating truth: he had married the wrong woman. Snow began to fall, but the man below didn’t move. Finally, I pulled out my phone and sent him a single text with a flight number and a time. Meet me at JFK this Friday. This Friday was the day my sister was coming home. 1 The moment I sent the message, the man below finally moved. I stood by the window, hidden, watching him take his phone out with a practiced, nonchalant grace. A second later, he tilted his head back, searching my dark window. The lights were off; the curtains were drawn. Harrison couldn’t see me. Still, I instinctively pressed myself against the wall, hiding in the shadows. My phone buzzed. A new message from the man below: Where did you go? When did you leave the building? His questions were sharp, pressing, and demanding. I didn’t reply. Ever since he ran into me at the hospital two years ago, he had crashed into my life with the force of a hurricane. But this time, I had the memories of a ghost. I knew that every ounce of his heat, every desperate pursuit, was fueled by a case of mistaken identity. He thought I was the girl from his past—my sister. In my previous life, he hadn’t been kind to me. So in this life, unable to reveal Alana’s existence yet, I had treated him with nothing but ice. 2 But Harrison Reed was born with a silver spoon and a titanium will. His pursuit was suffocating. Money, attention, time—he threw them at me as if they cost him nothing. He made sure everyone in my circle knew he wanted me. Even my closest friends started accusing me of playing games. After all, this was Harrison Reed. Handsome, powerful, brilliant. A man without a single flaw on paper. My phone buzzed again. Another text. Ignore me then. Outside, the snow was thickening. Harrison looked up at my window one last time before finally getting into his car. He sat there for ten minutes, the engine idling, before driving out of the complex. I closed my eyes. When Harrison wanted to be good to someone, he made it easy to drown in him. That was how I had fallen in love so effortlessly the first time. But when he decided to be cold, he was a blade. The despair of that marriage was a wound that hadn’t healed. 3 While my sister, Alana, was preparing to return to New York, I was quietly preparing my own paperwork to go abroad. We shared the same face. Swapping lives was the easiest thing in the world. Our mother had once been a mistress, forced into the shadows. When she was pregnant with us, she fled to a remote town to hide. No one knew she had given birth to twins. Years later, when she was brought back into the high-society mansion of our biological father, she could only take one daughter with her. She took me. Alana was sent to a boarding school in Switzerland. For twenty years, we rotated. One year she was the “socialite daughter” in New York, the next year I was. Our mother could only afford to have one daughter exist in the public eye. We studied the same major—Medicine. We shared the same social media accounts. Alana knew exactly who Harrison Reed was. 4 In my past life, I fell for Harrison too fast. Love is exclusive, and in my selfishness, I hid Harrison’s existence from Alana, terrified of losing him. It wasn’t until our wedding day that I realized I was just the glitch in his and Alana’s story. But in this life, the day Harrison first appeared, I told her everything. Is this a debt you left behind in New York five years ago? I had asked her. Alana was always more vibrant than me. She laughed over the video call. Five years ago? How old was I then? She had no memory of a Harrison Reed. Even when I showed her photos and videos, she was a blank slate. I messaged back: But five years ago, I was in London. If he met someone, it couldn’t have been me. 5 Before I left the country, I didn’t expect to see Harrison one last time. It was 3:00 AM at the hospital. I had just finished assisting my mentor on a grueling surgery. I was slumped in a quiet stairwell, nodding off from sheer exhaustion, when someone sat down beside me and draped a heavy black wool coat over my shoulders. I opened my eyes to see the sharp, aristocratic lines of Harrison’s face. He didn’t care about his expensive suit as he sat on the dusty concrete steps, watching me. “Why med school? If it’s this exhausting, why did you choose this?” he asked. Because my mother almost died giving birth to us. A doctor saved all three of our lives. Alana and I had made a pact to pay that debt back to the world. But I didn’t tell Harrison that. I just leaned my head against the cold wall, turning away from him. “Why are you here again?” I whispered. “I told you—Friday. At the airport.” In the silence of the winter night, Harrison’s voice was low and devastatingly tender. “You’re not even trying to lie well,” he said. “I asked your professor. He said you aren’t leaving for your research trip until Wednesday.” He was too observant. “You were up there the other night. In your apartment. Watching me.” Harrison suddenly leaned in, resting his chin lightly on my shoulder. “Elena,” he said, using my name in a way that felt like a prayer. “Why are you so hard to catch?” As he leaned in, his scent—cold air and expensive sandalwood—wrapped around me. I blinked back tears. It wasn’t that I was hard to catch. It was that I had seen the ghost of his future coldness. I was terrified of the man he would become. I wanted nothing to do with him in this life. Finally, I told him, “Just give me a little more time.” Until Alana comes back. Until he sees her. They were the original players in this game. I would let Alana make the final move. 6 Friday night. Alana and I wore identical coats, carrying identical suitcases. We met in a cramped restroom at JFK. She hugged me tightly. “Five years, Elena. Then we swap back.” I didn’t commit to that. I just held her. If she found someone she loved here, if she wanted to stay and build a life, I would stay in London forever. We parted ways. She stepped into the role of the surgical intern, joining my mentor’s team. I stepped onto a flight bound for Heathrow. As the plane prepared for takeoff, I received a text from her. Your Harrison Reed is here. He’s quite the welcoming committee. They had met. It was done. I turned off my phone. 7 We had swapped SIM cards. When my ten-hour flight landed, my phone was flooded with messages. Mom, Alana, friends from London. Alana’s messages were at the top. She was talking about Harrison. I finally understand why you said everyone knows about him, she wrote. He’s loud. Not with words, but with presence. There was a department dinner tonight after the trip. Harrison just… showed up. He didn’t just pick me up; he had town cars waiting for the professor and all the residents. He’s colder in person than in the photos. Looking at him, I can’t imagine him chasing anyone. But he’s a gentleman. He knows exactly how much space to give. I can’t even find a reason to say no to him. The earlier messages were from right when she landed. She insisted she had no memory of him. Even seeing him in the flesh, I don’t remember him at all. I skimmed through the rest. I didn’t want to talk about Harrison. I’ve landed, Alana, I replied. It was nearly dawn in New York. She was likely asleep. I pushed my cart and walked out into the London fog. 8 Life in London was fast, but I adapted. Still, Alana’s messages from New York were a constant tether. Her topics were always the same: the grueling hospital shifts and Harrison Reed. Maybe it was because he was impossible to ignore. Alana’s casual chats always circled back to him. One night, she asked: Does Harrison remember every little thing about you? What you like to eat? I replied: Probably not. We didn’t eat together that often. I had been careful. I never showed him my true preferences. With the shadow of my past life hanging over me, I knew I was just a “placeholder” until the real girl arrived. I had spent two years being a shadow. Alana’s next message came quickly: But tonight at dinner, I reflexively picked the onions out of my salad. Harrison just… watched me. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at me for a long time. We had the same hair, the same face, the same voice. But our habits were shaped by different environments. Alana hated onions; I didn’t mind them. Do you think he suspects? she asked. I comforted her: Don’t worry. I never told him what I liked. He couldn’t possibly know. And besides, if he did find out there were two of us, it just meant he was one step closer to the truth. Alana was the one he had the “history” with. She was the one he was supposed to be with. 9 Our mother gave us her beauty. That was the curse that allowed our father to use her. And Alana and I inherited every bit of it. In London, men were constantly trying to get my attention. I looked at the blonde, blue-eyed intern currently trying to charm me into a date and shot him down for the third time. He didn’t give up. He slumped into the chair next to me, propping his chin on his hand, staring at me. He was persistent in a way that was just… annoying. Inevitably, my mind drifted back to Harrison. He had been raised in a house of stone and tradition. Even when he was being a rebel, he was refined. He was a gentleman. His pursuit was grand, but it was never “annoying.” I had fallen for him so easily once. Now, I was running away not just because of the pain, but because I was terrified of falling again. My phone chimed. Alana. It was late in New York. She said Harrison had found another “flaw” in the disguise. The scar on my inner right arm, she wrote. The one you don’t have. I knew that scar. An old childhood injury, faded almost to the color of her skin. Even our mother didn’t know about it. Harrison brought dinner to the hospital for me, Alana wrote. The heating was too high, so I pushed my sleeves up. When I reached for the bag, he went quiet. He just stared at the scar. He didn’t say anything, but I felt him watching me all evening. Harrison’s presence was a physical weight. I could practically feel Alana’s nervousness through the screen. I typed back: We didn’t spend enough time together for him to know your skin like that. The scar is faint. He’s probably just tired. 10 But Alana’s next question caught me off guard. Elena, what do you really think of Harrison Reed? She said he had been chasing me for two years—that he was devoted and patient. She didn’t understand why I was so resistant to a man who was, by all accounts, the catch of the century. Only two weeks in London, and even Alana was questioning my sanity. I waited a moment before replying: I don’t love him. I wanted to make it clear. Whatever you decide to do, Alana, don’t consider me. He was waiting for you from the beginning. Alana pushed back: It’s not about my decision. I’m telling you, Elena—I have no memory of this man. I don’t feel like I’ve ever met him. I can play your role anywhere else, but with him… when he’s good to me, I feel like a thief. I feel like I’m taking something that belongs to you. I froze at the screen. I remembered our wedding day in the past life. Alana had rushed back for the ceremony. Harrison had looked at her and gone completely still. In that one look, he realized everything. Our marriage was the end of “us.” We were strangers in a house of glass. We barely spoke. On our first New Year’s Eve as a married couple, the house was freezing. Harrison came home from a gala, sitting in the dark living room, silent. I had tried to talk to him. Since you realized you got the wrong one… why don’t you just go to her? I’m not unreasonable. We can swap. I’ll go back to London, let her come home. That was the first time I had initiated a conversation in months. In the shadows of the sofa, Harrison had looked at me for a long, agonizing time. Then he ripped his tie off, his voice raspy and cold. “She forgot me,” he said. “Or rather…” He paused. “She never remembered me at all.” 11 I had been staring at the phone for so long that the blonde intern nudged my arm. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said in broken, accented English. I startled, standing up abruptly. I packed my laptop and books, my heart racing. “Don’t follow me,” I snapped when he tried to chase after me. Alana was the cheerful one. I was the ice queen. He didn’t notice the difference; he just waved his car keys. “Let me give you a ride.” My phone vibrated. Alana was calling. I picked up, and before she could speak, I said, “You don’t need to feel guilty. Some things you forget, but others remember for you.” Alana sighed on the other end. “Elena… Harrison hasn’t come to see me in three days.” “The first week, he was there every single day. Then he noticed the onions. He saw the scar. He didn’t ask a single question, but it’s like he’s behind a wall of fog now. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He just… stopped coming.” I stood still in the middle of the sidewalk. “Elena,” Alana asked softly, “are you absolutely sure you haven’t remembered it wrong?” I hadn’t. The memories of my past life were etched into my bones. I had met Harrison at the hospital the day my “second life” started. He had already met Alana by then. He had mistaken me for her. It was destiny. “I haven’t remembered it wrong,” I told her. “And Alana… stop talking to me about him. Do whatever you want, but I don’t want to hear his name again.” Every time I thought of him, I was back in that dark, cold house. 12 After that day, Alana stopped mentioning him. I didn’t know how he was, or what was happening between them. I threw myself into my studies, finally feeling a sense of peace. The blonde intern wouldn’t leave me alone, though. Eventually, I lost my temper. “What do you even like about me?” He grinned. “Everything. If it’s you, I like every part of it.” I laughed bitterly. He couldn’t even tell the woman in front of him was a different person, yet he claimed to love “everything.” A month passed. I hadn’t heard the name Harrison Reed in weeks. He felt like a dream from a past life—until he wasn’t. It was a chaotic night in the ER. The nurses were rushing a gurney toward the OR. I instinctively looked down. A man with dark hair, his face covered in blood, lay unconscious on the bed. My heart stopped. My entire body turned to stone. I thought I was hallucinating. Why was I seeing Harrison Reed, half-dead and bleeding out, in a hospital on the other side of the Atlantic?

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1 At my own birthday party, my best friend confessed she was pregnant with my boyfriend’s child. In a fit of blind rage, I lunged at her, my nail accidentally grazing her skin. It was barely a scratch. But for that “sin,” Brooks destroyed me. He hired men to wreck my design studio and used his family’s influence to tear up every contract I had spent years signing. Fueled by a cold, white-hot hatred, I spent weeks gathering evidence of their affair. I called the tabloids. I was ready to burn their wedding to the ground in front of the whole world. But at the final moment, Brooks’ best friend, Everett, stopped me. “Sloane, stop! If you do this, you’re just destroying yourself along with them!” As my tears finally broke, he pulled me into his arms, whispering promises over and over. “Sloane, I’m not like him. I will protect you forever.” I didn’t believe him at first. But Everett became a shadow in my life, a constant, comforting presence. When I was sick, he flew back from a business trip overnight just to hold my hair back while I threw up. I have a laundry list of allergies; he kept a leather-bound notebook of every ingredient I couldn’t touch. A man who had never stepped foot in a kitchen started learning to cook five-star meals just to keep me safe. On my twenty-fifth birthday, he took me to Iceland. Under the ethereal glow of the Northern Lights, I finally accepted his hundredth confession. For the next three years, he showed me that love could actually make a person feel whole again. Until a week before our engagement. I was organizing the library when I found an old phone tucked into the lining of a drawer. I turned it on. In the outbox, there was a single text sent four years ago: [Milly, don’t worry about the wedding tomorrow. I’ll take care of Sloane.] My fingers went numb. I stared at the screen for a long time, my brain a static mess of white noise. I took a few deep breaths, waiting for the paralysis in my limbs to fade. Then, my eyes drifted to the Notes app. Everett had a habit. He recorded everything he deemed important. On his current phone, he has notes on my cycle, my allergies, and my favorite obscure coffee roasters. A sickening curiosity took hold of me. What did his old self find important enough to record? Just as I was about to tap the icon, the library door pushed open. “Sloane? Do you need a hand with those boxes?” He was leaning against the doorframe, his usual warm smile in place. But when his eyes fell on the phone in my hand, his expression flickered for a fraction of a second. Then, he straightened up, his tone casual. “What are you looking at, honey?” I pulled my finger away from the Notes app and turned the screen toward him. My voice was a jagged blade. “What is this?” “You didn’t stop me for my own good. You stopped me for Melanie?” “The ‘protection’ you promised me… was that all a lie, too?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it betrayed me, trembling with the force of my heartbreak. He looked at the text, then at me. After a heavy silence, he lowered his head. “Sloane, I’m sorry.” My heart skipped a beat. My nails dug into my palms. Before I could scream at him, he stepped forward, gently taking the phone from my hand and pulling me into a half-embrace. He sounded genuinely pained. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to overthink things. I stopped you because I didn’t want you to get hurt.” “You have no idea how unstable Brooks was back then. If you had actually ruined that wedding and made Melanie cry, Brooks would have stopped at nothing to ruin your life. I sent that text to her just to keep her quiet so she wouldn’t run to Brooks and escalate things.” He sighed, his large hand gently stroking the back of my head. “Sloane, after everything we’ve been through, do you really trust me so little?” So, that was what he was apologizing for. Not the intent, but the secrecy. The hollow ache in my chest softened slightly. But that text remained like a splinter under my skin. He had called her Milly. Everett’s mother once told me that while Everett always had a smile on his face, he was colder than anyone she knew. Very few people earned a nickname from him. Even with me, he didn’t call me Sloane-y until we had been together for a year. “Come on. Our engagement party is in a week. Let’s not dig up ghosts. I’m taking you out for a massive dinner tonight,” he said, smoothing things over with his usual easy grace. I played the part. I went to dinner. I smiled. But in the dead of night, I crept back into the library. My hands shook as I opened the Notes app, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was empty. My stomach dropped. Everett had used that phone for three years. Knowing his personality, there was zero chance his notes were blank. He had deleted them. And you only delete things you can’t afford to have seen. I didn’t sleep for the next two nights. My mind was a battlefield. One voice told me I was being paranoid—maybe he deleted them because they contained sensitive corporate data. But another voice whispered that he was hiding a monstrous secret. By the third day, the lack of sleep triggered a blinding migraine. I had just swallowed a sedative when my phone buzzed. A text from Everett: [Sloane, I’ll be home late tonight.] Then a second one: [Brooks and Melanie are back in New York. The group is getting together for dinner.] I froze. Brooks and Melanie had moved to London shortly after their wedding. Part of it was business, but the other part was obvious: Brooks wanted to get Melanie away from me, especially since she was pregnant at the time. Four years later, and the “Happy Couple” had returned. I typed back: [Send me the address. I’m coming too.] He called me immediately, sounding worried. Only after I promised him multiple times that I wouldn’t cause a scene did he finally agree. I arrived at the restaurant first. When I pushed open the door to the private room, I found myself face-to-face with Melanie. She had put on a little weight, draped in diamonds and Cartier. Next to her sat a little boy, about three years old, playing quietly with a toy car. She smiled at me. It was that same wide-eyed, “innocent” look she had used to play me for years. “Sloane. It’s been a long time.” I didn’t answer. Suddenly, a familiar scent—expensive cologne and cold air—pressed against my back. “Sloane.” I jerked away, coming face-to-face with Brooks’ icy expression. He was as stoic as ever, but for a second, I thought his gaze lingered on my face a bit too long. When I looked back at Melanie, her smile had faltered. The tension only eased when Everett arrived. He was a natural socialite, the life of every party. He kept the conversation flowing while Brooks offered the occasional monosyllabic response. As he talked, Everett’s hands were busy. He spent the entire meal peeling shrimp and placing them in my bowl. Brooks, on the other hand, ate in silence, only occasionally dropping a piece of broccoli onto his son’s plate. I remembered how it used to be. Brooks used to wait on Melanie hand and foot while we were all “friends.” Back then, as his actual girlfriend, I had never received that level of devotion. A server brought out a new dish. Everett immediately stopped him. “Excuse me, this is the wrong order.” The server looked confused. “The ticket says the Roast Beef Salad, sir.” “This has sesame seeds on it,” Everett said, his voice firm. “I specifically told the host that none of the dishes could have sesame. The boy is highly allergic.” My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. The server apologized profusely and took the plate away. Brooks glanced at Everett, his expression unreadable. Melanie looked up, curious. “How did you know Toby was allergic to sesame?” Everett smiled easily. “You posted about it on Instagram a while back.” He went back to putting food in my bowl, but I couldn’t swallow a single bite. For the last two years, Everett has been working himself to the bone. He barely had time to sleep. I used to tease him about never liking my posts, and he’d give me a tired smile and say he hadn’t even opened the app in days. But he had time to read Melanie’s posts carefully enough to memorize her son’s allergies. That terrifying suspicion from the library flared up again, and this time, I couldn’t shove it down. On the drive home, I was a ghost. Sensing my mood, Everett pulled the car over on a quiet stretch of road. He reached out to touch my hair, but I flinched. He looked genuinely hurt. “What’s wrong? Was seeing them too much? I told you it was a bad idea…” “How do you remember her Instagram posts from months ago?” I interrupted, my voice raw. “Everett, why did you really stop me four years ago? Was it for me, or was it because you’ve always been in love with Melanie?” He let out a long, heavy sigh. “Sloane.” I stiffened. He rarely used my full name like that. “I know what Brooks did to you was traumatic. But I am not him. I am nothing like him.” Seeing me quiet down, he leaned over and pulled me into his chest. “Please, just trust me. I happened to see that post while I was waiting for a meeting. That’s all.” His arms were thick and strong. These were the arms that had dragged me out of the abyss four years ago. He was the one who held me through every nightmare. I wanted to believe him. I gripped the fabric of his shirt, ready to apologize for being crazy, when a sharp, piercing ringtone shattered the silence of the car. He looked at the caller ID and immediately let go of me. “Hello?” “What?!” I had never seen Everett look so panicked. “Stay exactly where you are. I’m coming to get you!” He slammed the car into gear, the tires screeching as we tore down the road. I grabbed the handle, terrified. “What’s happening?” His jaw was set so tight the muscles were bulging. “Brooks and Melanie got into a massive fight. That idiot kicked her out of the car and left her on the side of the highway. She’s surrounded by a group of drunks.” The words died in my throat. I watched his face—the raw anxiety, the sheer terror. Everett was always the calm one. A year ago, I was eating at a late-night diner with friends when a group of guys started harassing us. It got physical. When Everett arrived, he didn’t swing a single punch. He calmly called the police and took us to the ER. When I asked him why he wasn’t angry, he just kissed my forehead and said, “Anger solves nothing. Logic does.” But now, as he blew through three red lights, there wasn’t a shred of logic left in him. Melanie was fine. Some Good Samaritans had chased the drunks away before we arrived. She was sitting on a park bench, looking lost. Everett threw the car door open and ran to her, completely forgetting I was even in the car. I didn’t move. I watched through the windshield as Everett hovered over her. Melanie started sobbing, and after a moment of hesitation, Everett’s hand landed on her shoulder, rubbing gently. He brought her back to the car. She sat in the backseat, crying softly. Everett explained to me that Brooks wanted a divorce—that they had been fighting for months. It was almost funny. They had betrayed everyone to be together, and it hadn’t even lasted five years. The great Brooks Reed was dumping the woman he “loved” more than his own soul. But the real joke was on me. Because looking at Everett’s face in the rearview mirror, I realized the truth. Everett didn’t just care about Melanie. He was head over heels for her. Melanie ended up staying in our guest room. I asked Everett why he didn’t just take her to a hotel. “She’s a woman alone, Sloane. It’s not safe.” I almost laughed. I travel for work all the time. I stay in hotels across the country by myself, and he has never once suggested it wasn’t safe. In the middle of the night, I heard Everett on the balcony. He was on the phone with Brooks, his voice low and furious. They were fighting over her. Everyone said Everett had a heart of gold, but apparently, he only grew claws when it came to Melanie. A dull, familiar ache throbbed in my chest. I rolled over, tears soaking my pillow. I pulled out my phone. There was a message from a data recovery shop I had visited a day ago. [The phone you sent in has been processed. We’ve recovered the deleted files. Sending the backup now.] The next morning, I was woken up by the sound of laughter. I walked into the kitchen to find Everett and Melanie cooking together. The “devastated” woman from last night was gone, replaced by a glowing, domestic goddess. She waved at me. “Sloane! E and I made breakfast. Come try it.” E. The nickname hit me like a physical blow. I stared at her, my nails drawing blood from my palms. Everett, who was usually so sensitive to my every mood, didn’t even notice I was upset. I sat down. Melanie handed me a cup of hot tea, but before I could take it, she let go. The cup shattered on the floor, scalding water splashing everywhere. “Oh!” she cried out, collapsing into a chair and clutching her leg. Everett was on her in a second, grabbing the first-aid kit. “It’s just a minor burn. This ointment will fix it.” Then he turned to me, his eyes cold with reproach. “Sloane, how could you be so careless?” I was stunned. The injustice of it made my voice come out in a raspy whisper. “She let go on purpose.” Melanie looked down, her voice trembling. “It’s okay, Everett. I deserve it. I did a terrible thing to her years ago. I should accept whatever she does to me.” The “innocent victim” act. I had seen it a thousand times. Something inside me finally snapped. “Melanie, stop the act! You used these pathetic tricks to steal Brooks, and now that he’s done with you, you’re moving on to Everett? Is that the plan?” Melanie’s eyes welled with tears. “Enough!” Everett roared. I flinched. In three years, he had never raised his voice at me. Not once. But for Melanie, he was ready to go to war. “Brooks’ betrayal was his fault! Why are you taking it out on her?” Everett stood up, glaring at me. “Sloane, you need to calm down. In this state, how can we even have an engagement party?” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. He was so worked up he didn’t even realize he had called her Milly again. Or maybe, in the heat of the moment, his mask had just slipped. I watched him walk away. “I’m taking her to the clinic to get this checked properly,” he snapped, not even looking back. Melanie picked up her purse. As she passed me, the tears vanished. She leaned in, a triumphant smirk on her face. “Sloane, there’s one thing you don’t know. Everett tried to date me first. Long before Brooks.” It was the same look she gave me four years ago at my birthday party, right after she whispered, “I’m pregnant, and it’s Brooks’.” The door slammed shut. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. The recovered files were open. One note stood out. The title was: Everything About Milly. It was a meticulous list. Her favorite brands, how many sugars she liked in her coffee, the places she dreamed of visiting… it was ten times more detailed than anything he had ever written about me. And at the very bottom, there was a single sentence: [If Sloane falls for me, she’ll be too distracted to seek revenge on them. Then, Milly can finally be happy.] I stared at the words until they blurred. I started laughing, hot tears streaming down my face. I finally had my answer. I forwarded the file to Everett’s phone. I didn’t say much. Just a few words: [Everett, you and Brooks are exactly the same.] [We’re done.] I packed a suitcase and walked out the door without looking back.

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1 With thirty minutes to go before the ceremony, Ethan Montgomery’s first love came back into his life. Instead of walking down the aisle, he told me to stay put for an hour while he raced to the airport, desperate to buy himself a sense of closure for the one that got away. Nobody in his inner circle called him out on it. Instead, his groomsmen stood in the suite, swirling their scotch, offering quiet, sympathetic sighs. “Honestly, if Ethan hadn’t completely given up on himself back then, a girl with her background wouldn’t have let him anywhere near her.” And they were right, wasn’t it? He had an Ivy League PhD and a family tree rooted in Boston old money; I had a state-school bachelor’s and a mother who raised me alone on a seamstress’s wage. I had spent five years acutely aware of the chasm between us, walking on eggshells, terrified of making a fool of him. For five long years, his friends had treated me like a place-filler. And in the end, so had Ethan. The bone-ing of my custom bridal corset suddenly felt suffocating, cutting into my ribs like dull knives. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to the wedding coordinator: The bride is changing. Please prepare accordingly. I had been standing in the corner of the suite for ten minutes, silent as wallpaper, when one of his groomsmen finally turned to me. “Cassidy, look—it’s the biggest moment of Ethan’s life. Just try to be understanding, okay?” I stared at him, my heart dropping through the floorboards. If meeting up with Scarlett Albright is the biggest moment of his life, then what the hell is marrying me? None of them saw anything wrong with it. I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as I dialed Ethan’s number. The line rang and rang, chiming endlessly in the heavy silence of the room, until it went straight to voicemail. From the exact second Ethan and I started dating, I had been waiting for this wedding. Five years of waiting. Out in the grand ballroom, hundreds of guests were already taking their seats. My mother, who had broken her back her entire life just to give me a decent upbringing, was sitting in the front row, waiting to watch me finally step into my own happiness. Panic roared in my chest like a flash fire. All I wanted was an explanation from the man I was supposed to marry. When I dialed a second time, the ringing made one of Ethan’s friends groan in irritation. “What are you spiraling for, Cass? He said an hour tops.” “Yeah, turn the phone off,” another added, flicking an ash into a glass tray. “The noise is getting annoying.” Their casual disdain cut straight through me. They had never spoken to me with a grain of respect, and the most humiliating part was that I had spent five years silently permitting it. Five years ago, Ethan’s mother was pushing him hard into setup dates with girls from their country club network. Instead of going along with it, he showed up on my street. It was a freezing December night. I was outside helping my mother drag crates of winter produce into our tiny grocery shop, snow dusting my hair and shoulders. Suddenly, a dark umbrella drifted over my head, blocking the wind. I looked up, and there he was—tall, impossibly handsome, his voice ice-cold in the winter air. “Cassidy. Be my girlfriend.” It wasn’t a proposal or a question; it was a demand delivered by someone who knew I would never say no. And why would I? I had been orbiting his universe for years, a quiet ghost in the background since high school. Back then, just buying him a Gatorade after a basketball game was enough to keep me floating for a week. My feelings were utterly transparent, my devotion entirely worthless. I worked myself to the bone to get into the same university, hoping to bump into him in a crowded hallway and pretend it was fate. I had spent months rehearsing a casual, “Oh, what a coincidence!” But before I could ever say it, Ethan’s eyes had already fallen on Scarlett Albright. They dated, they fought, they filled the campus with their dramatic, tempestuous romance. And when Scarlett vanished abroad right after graduation without a word, Ethan’s pride kept him from begging her to stay. He simply let her go. And then, his gaze had landed on me. God, I was so thrilled back then. I remembered staring at him with wide, hopeful eyes, treating his barest attention like a sacred gift—never stopping to realize that in his eyes, I was just the dirt beneath his shoes. When he made us official, he brought me to a dinner with his old fraternity brothers. They took one look at me in my off-the-rack dress and openly sighed. “Ethan, man, you’d be better off flying to London to fetch Scarlett back.” “Seriously. If you bring her to the alumni galas, you’re losing the room before you even walk in.” I remembered the way my knuckles turned white against the hem of my dress, my ears ringing as if I’d been slapped in front of a crowd. I looked at Ethan, silently praying he would say something—anything—to protect me. She’s my girlfriend. Watch your mouth. Instead, Ethan just swirled the bourbon in his glass, his heavy eyelids lowered, uttering not a single word of defense. The amber liquid caught the chandelier light, stinging my eyes until they watered. I squeezed my spine straight, swallowing my shame, and spent the rest of the night comforting myself: Scarlett is brilliant. He’s just coming off a brutal heartbreak. It’s normal. I fed myself those lies over and over again, but no matter how much I swallowed, the bitterness kept leaking out. Standing in the bridal suite now, listening to those same men excitedly speculate about Ethan and Scarlett’s emotional airport reunion, a thought suddenly struck me: Would they ever dare speak to Scarlett like this? No. They’d be smiling, pouring her champagne, calling her “Scarlett, darling.” Because they knew Scarlett was valued. She was dangerous to cross. I, on the other hand, was entirely expendable. My hand went limp, and I locked my phone screen. Down in my messages, the event manager sent a final confirmation: Ms. Miller, are you absolutely certain you want to replace the bride? I looked around the room—at the empty groom’s suit hanging on the rack, at the men who didn’t even bother to look me in the eye. My mind had never felt so painfully, brilliantly clear. Replace her. 2 I turned around and walked straight back into the bridal dressing room. The moment the door clicked shut, my maid of honor, Harper, rushed over, grabbing my shoulders. In less than fifteen minutes, rumors had already ripped through the back hall: the groom had ditched his own wedding to chase down his ex at Logan Airport. I had officially become the punchline of the day. Harper was cursing up a storm, her face red with fury, though her eyes were terrified that I was going to swallow my pride and wait for him anyway. When I quietly told her I was done and wanted to go home, she let out a breath so hard her shoulders dropped. She immediately moved behind me, unzipping the heavy, suffocating layers of the gown, helping me carefully lift it off and mount it back onto the mannequin. It was a hundred-thousand-dollar piece of haute couture, encrusted with hundreds of tiny seed pearls that caught the vanity lights like crushed glass. Harper watched me staring at it. “Do you feel bad leaving a dress like that behind?” “No,” I said softly. There was nothing to mourn about it, because the dress had never belonged to a happy story. Ethan had always hated the idea of a wedding. Between his research firm and his family’s obligations, he didn’t want to waste time on what he called “performative circus acts.” This wedding—and this dress—had only happened because I had completely broken down and fought for it. In our five years together, I had never once felt grounded. I had seen how Ethan loved when he actually cared. I knew that when he was with Scarlett, no matter how brutal his academic workload was, he’d spend weeks secretly planning elaborate birthday trips for her. I’d seen the archived videos of the surprise fireworks show he had bought her over the harbor, and the stories of him standing outside her dorm in a blizzard for three hours just so they could “walk in the snow together until their hair turned white.” With me, five years yielded nothing but his schedule. On my last birthday, I had waited all day with foolish, fluttering anticipation, wondering what thoughtful surprise he might have planned. At six in the evening, his executive assistant delivered an American Express card to our apartment with a brief note: Buy yourself whatever you like. On our anniversary, I cooked a four-course meal and sat at the dining table until two in the morning. When he finally stumbled in, exhausted from work, he glanced at the cold food and said, “Don’t wait up next time. It’s impractical.” I tried asking for weekend trips, for couple’s portraits, for a proper proposal. Every single time, he brushed me off with a single word: Busy. He called those things superficial, claiming true commitment didn’t need useless theater. But I needed those “useless” things. I desperately needed some tangible proof that he loved me—even if it was just a tiny, microscopic slice of the love he had given someone else. I got nothing. I spent countless nights lying awake beside his quiet, rhythmic breathing, staring at the ceiling and asking myself: Am I just not good enough? Is that why I don’t deserve his effort? Every time the thought crossed my mind, I’d cry into my pillow until my throat burned. My weight dropped; I lost my appetite. I knew I was slowly dying inside. Just as I was trying to make peace with the emptiness—telling myself that maybe a life without a wedding was fine as long as I had him—Scarlett posted a throwback on her blog. The caption read: Remembering when he spent an entire night designing our dream wedding. Accompanying the post was a photo of Ethan’s distinct, elegant handwriting detailing a complete wedding itinerary, complete with hand-drawn sketches of a custom lace gown he had designed for her himself. That was the night I finally lost my mind. I tore through our apartment like a wild animal, smashing vases, sweeping his expensive crystal off the counters, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. Ethan had stood in the doorway, watching me with cold disgust. “Cassidy, are you really this shallow? You’re throwing a hysterical fit over a party?” “Yes!” I screamed, tears streaming down my neck. “If there’s no wedding, there’s no marriage. We’re done!” I locked myself in the guest room for three days without eating or drinking. In the end, he caved. He told me we could have the wedding, get the dress, do whatever I wanted. But the gown was picked out by a stylist he hired; the itinerary was drafted entirely by an event management agency. Ethan operated like a wealthy donor checking off a line item—he showed up only when a signature was required. On the day of my dress fitting, he glanced at me for three seconds, said, “Looks fine,” and immediately stepped out to take a conference call. When the invitations went out, his friends mocked me behind my back: “Never underestimate a desperate woman. She actually cried and threw a tantrum until Ethan agreed to put a ring on it.” I had dragged that heavy, suffocating boulder all the way to the finish line. And now, I was finally letting it drop. Dressed in a pair of loose jeans and a simple cotton sweater, I looked at Harper and managed a genuine smile. “Go pull the car around to the side entrance. I’m going to get my mom, and then we’re going home.” 3 I jogged toward the main reception hall, but the moment I turned the corner into the VIP holding room, my feet froze. Victoria Montgomery sat in a high-backed velvet armchair, her leather handbag resting across her lap, her posture immaculate, her brow pinched in deep distaste. My mother was standing in front of her like a scuffed, obedient doll, repeating a set of physical posture drills under Victoria’s sharp instruction. Mom had worked manual labor her whole life; she was small, frail, and her shoulders were permanently rounded from years over a sewing machine. When she bowed her head, she looked tiny next to Ethan’s mother. Mom’s elbow sagged half an inch out of line. Without warning, Victoria snapped her silk-ribbed folding fan down hard across my mother’s weathered knuckles. Clack! The sharp crack echoed in the empty room. My mother gasped, flinching hard as she pulled her hand back, looking at Victoria with wide, helpless eyes. A terrible, boiling heat rushed into my skull. I sprinted across the polished floor, stepping directly between my mother and Victoria, my voice shaking with rage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing to my mother?!” Victoria didn’t even blink. “I am teaching her basic decorum so she doesn’t embarrass us out there. What are you screaming about?” My mother, panicked by Victoria’s darkening expression, frantically pulled at my sleeve, forcing a timid smile. “Cass, sweetie, don’t be rude. Your mother-in-law is just trying to help. It’s your big day, I don’t want to mess it up.” Her desperate, pleading submission tore my heart to shreds. The word “mother-in-law” only made Victoria’s sneer deepen. “Get back in line and finish the posture exercises,” Victoria commanded my mother, her tone as cold as marble. “I won’t have you looking like a street vendor in front of the Senator’s family.” “Yes, of course,” Mom murmured, stepping forward again. I grabbed my mother’s wrists, holding her firmly behind me. For the first time in five years, I locked eyes with Victoria Montgomery without dropping my gaze. “Mrs. Montgomery, my mother is supposed to be your equal today. Walking all over her like she’s your housemaid—do you have any idea how grotesque that is?” Victoria’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Talking back to your elders? Is this the pathetic excuse for manners your family brought into my home?” A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. Manners. It was always about their superior manners. The very first time Ethan took me to his family’s estate in Beacon Hill, Victoria had pulled me aside into the parlor to inform me that the Montgomerys were a legacy family with deep European roots. I was from a “different social class,” she said, and if I wanted to stay near Ethan, I had to learn my place. Back then, desperate not to embarrass Ethan, I swallowed every insult. When I slouched slightly at the dinner table, she slammed her silverware down and dismissed me from the meal. I took it. When I drank my tea too quickly during afternoon service, she deliberately tipped her hot cup onto my wrist to “teach me control.” I took that, too. I endured it because I was young, foolish, and believed that sacrifice was the price of love. But why on earth should my gentle, hardworking mother have to bow her head to these monsters? I stared into Victoria’s cold, arrogant eyes, my teeth clenching until my jaw ached. “Do you even know where your son is right now?” Victoria smoothed her skirt calmly. “Of course. He went to collect Scarlett from her flight. You will sit quietly and wait for him to return.” I sucked in a breath of frigid hall air, my skin turning ice-cold. “I am not waiting for him.” “What did you just say?” “Whether he comes back in ten minutes or ten hours, I am not marrying him.” A dead silence hung in the air for three seconds before Victoria let out a low, amused puff of air. “Cassidy, who do you think you’re throwing a mood at? Do you honestly think you have the leverage to play hardball with us?” I opened my mouth to rage at her, but suddenly, an overwhelming tide of exhaustion washed over me. What was the point? Explaining myself to a woman who viewed me as vermin was a complete waste of breath. “Come on, Mom,” I said softly, taking my mother’s hand and turning toward the exit. Behind us, one of Victoria’s assistants asked nervously, “Mrs. Montgomery… should we call Mr. Ethan and tell him to come back immediately?” Victoria’s dismissive voice drifted down the corridor, loud enough for us to hear every word. “Let her walk. A stray cat thinks it can turn into a pedigree just by making a scene? The Montgomery family doesn’t cater to common tantrums. She’ll be begging on her knees by nightfall.” Every sentence they spoke was a poisoned dart, piercing my heart until it was shredded beyond recognition. But as we stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, I realized something wonderful: I was finally pulling the darts out. I held my mother’s hand tightly as we walked toward the curb, where Harper’s car pulled up to the ring. As I opened the back door for my mother, a sob finally tore past my lips. “Mom… I’m so sorry,” I wept, bowing my head against her frail shoulder. “I made you suffer so much for my own stupidity.” When I first started dating Ethan, I told myself his family was just distant because they didn’t know me yet. Five years later, I told myself they were cold because I hadn’t officially crossed the threshold into their family. It was all pathetic self-deception. They didn’t lack familiarity; they lacked basic human respect for us. And I was the fool who had dragged my innocent mother into their lion’s den, all to chase a high-society ghost who never loved me in the first place. I should have walked away a year ago. A year ago, my mother had suffered a massive hypertensive crisis and was rushed to the ICU. The doctors warned me she might not survive the night. Terrified, surrounded by the stench of hospital disinfectant, I called Ethan, hyperventilating into the receiver. “Ethan… please, can you come? My mom wants to see you.” Ethan had promised he would. He said he was arranging the top cardiovascular surgeons from the university hospital and would board the next shuttle flight to be at my side within an hour. That night, I stood outside the operating room under the harsh fluorescent lights for four agonizing hours. Ethan never showed up. When the lights finally went off and the doctor confirmed my mother was out of immediate danger, we sat together in the sterile room, waiting for him until dawn. At six in the morning, my phone buzzed with a short text: Urgent work matter came up. Can’t make it. My mother had squeezed my hand that morning, her voice weak and filled with sorrow. “Cassie… are you sure this is the man you want to spend your life with?” I choked back my tears and lied for him, claiming his research project was at a critical phase. It wasn’t until three months later, during a drunken party, that one of his fraternity brothers let it slip: Ethan hadn’t been at work that night at all. Someone had lied to him, claiming Scarlett had been spotted at the airport, and Ethan had spent four hours pacing the terminal concourses in the dark, calling a dead phone number. I had walked along the riverbank alone all night after finding that out, ready to break things off the moment I walked through the door. But when I got home, Ethan unexpectedly pulled out a ring and proposed. I mistook his guilt for love. Harper accelerated onto the highway, putting miles between us and the country club. Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my lap. It was Ethan. I picked it up. “I’m done at the airport,” Ethan’s voice came through, crisp, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth. “I’m heading back now. Scarlett is coming with me to the venue—she wants to give us her personal blessings.” Still that same tone. Still notifying me, never asking. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Don’t read into this, Cassidy,” he added, his tone clipping along. “I just needed to give myself a proper sense of closure.” Not a single word of apology. Then, Scarlett’s voice piped up near the receiver, airy and light. “Hi, Cassidy! Don’t be nervous, okay? Honestly, if I actually wanted to fight for him, you wouldn’t be standing in that dress today anyway.” She hadn’t changed at all. Years ago, when she and Ethan were still together, she had marched straight into my lecture hall, slamming her notebook onto my desk in front of eighty students. “A clown should know her place,” she had announced loudly. “Stop hovering around my boyfriend.” I remembered the excruciating heat in my face as eighty pairs of eyes pinned me to my seat. My dorm mates pulled away from me after that day; rumors spread on campus message boards that I was a desperate stalker. My entire college experience was tainted by her cruelty. I took a deep, steadying breath into the phone. “Ethan. The closure you’re looking for? I’m giving it to you right now.” He paused, a slight edge slipping into his voice. “What do you mean by that?” “Go take a look at the altar,” I said smoothly. “May you two have a long and blissful life together.” In all our five years, Ethan was always the one to hang up first. This time, I ended the call. He immediately called back. I declined it, opened his contact profile, and blocked his number. Then, I began deleting everything. I deleted the videos of us hiking in Maine. I deleted the candid photo I’d taken of him asleep on the couch while taking care of me when I had the flu. I swiped back, back, back through five years of memories, purging them one by one, until my thumb stopped over a photo from seven years ago. It was high school. A stray basketball had been flying toward my head at full speed, and Ethan—a head taller than me—had sprinted across the court, throwing his body over mine to take the impact. After that day, I never missed a single one of his games. During the championship final, I had pointed my cheap camera at him from the bleachers. Just as I pressed the shutter, he had unexpectedly turned toward my lens and offered a rare, faint smile. A single, heavy tear dropped from my eye, splashing onto the glass screen, blurring his smiling face. My mother gently nudged my arm. Her phone was ringing now. It was Ethan’s number. I took her phone and answered it. “Cassidy, stop throwing a child’s temper tantrum!” Ethan’s voice was dark, laced with a cold anger I recognized from the night he proposed. “I am already at the venue. We are getting married right now.” It was the exact tone he had used that snowy night years ago. I had asked him once why he chose me out of all the girls who liked him. He had looked at me with chilling indifference and said: Because heartbreak is exhausting. I wanted someone who would never leave. “Ethan,” I said, my voice steady and crystalline. “There is no one in this world who will stay forever.” I ended the call, opened my mother’s settings, blocked his number, and permanently deleted the last photograph from my cloud storage. 4 Ethan stared at his phone as the screen went black again. A sudden, unfamiliar flicker of panic flared in his chest, but he quickly extinguished it. No. Cassidy is just trying to scare me. She’s probably waiting inside the bridal suite right now, waiting for me to go in and placate her. He shoved his phone into his jacket pocket and sprinted up the marble steps toward the groom’s quarters. His fraternity brothers were lounging inside, drinking scotch. When they saw him burst in disheveled, they cracked jokes. “Whoa, look who decided to show up! Where’s Scarlett?” “In the guest seating,” Ethan panted, his collar slightly wrinkled, his hair messy from the wind. “Where’s Cassidy? Is she waiting in the main hall?” The guys glanced at each other, looking mildly confused. “Uh, yeah, I guess? Isn’t she usually waiting for you?” “Right.” Ethan let out a massive, shuddering breath, his chest settling. “Good.” He gestured for them to follow him out. Just as he stepped into the main corridor, the wedding coordinator caught sight of him like a drowning man catching a lifeline. “Mr. Montgomery! Thank God you’re back!” she gasped, grabbing his arm. “The bride went into the hall a few minutes ago. Hurry, the procession is starting!” Hearing the word bride, Ethan’s eyes lit up, the last remnants of anxiety melting away. He straightened his tie and smoothed his jacket. He strode confidently through the grand double doors into the main ballroom. But the moment his polished shoes stepped onto the runner, he froze. The ballroom was half-empty. Nearly all the tables on the bride’s side were completely deserted, and the altar was vacant. Ethan hesitated, an icy knot tightening in his stomach. He walked swiftly down the aisle toward the officiant. “Where is my bride?” The officiant offered a professional, albeit strained, smile into his lapel mic. “Well, it seems our groom is eager! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the bride!” The house lights dimmed, and a bright, brilliant spotlight began sweeping across the room. It bounced off the floral arches, drifted over the polished dance floor, and finally locked onto a figure sitting in the third row of the guest section. It landed squarely on Scarlett Albright. The officiant’s voice boomed over the speakers: “Please rise for the bride, Miss Scarlett Albright!” A collective gasp echoed through the hall. Scarlett sat paralyzed under the harsh beam of the spotlight, her face draining of all color, shifting from pale white to a mottled green. Ethan’s face turned terrifyingly dark. He lunged toward the officiant, seizing the lapel of his jacket. “What the hell are you doing?! My bride is Cassidy Miller!” The officiant stumbled back in utter confusion. “Mr. Montgomery… Ms. Miller gave us explicit instructions an hour ago. She officially changed the bride’s name on the registration sheet!” “She told you to change it, and you just did it?!” Ethan roared. “You—you told us during the planning stage that Ms. Miller had full authority over every detail of this event!” Because Ethan had found the planning tedious and useless, he had signed a waiver months ago instructing the agency to follow Cassidy’s directives without question. While a normal agency might have verified such a bizarre request, the event team had spent months watching Ethan treat Cassidy like an afterthought. They felt immense sympathy for the girl who brought them coffee and planned every detail alone—and they were more than happy to execute her final command. Murmurs rippled through the audience like a spreading fire. “Wait, wasn’t the bride named Miller? Why did it switch to Albright?” “I heard the groom ran out right before the ceremony to pick up his ex-girlfriend!” “Is that her in the spotlight? Wow, crashing a wedding and forcing herself into the dress? That’s utterly shameless.” “Look at the bride’s family side—they’re completely gone! Her mother walked out!” The hushed, scathing whispers bounced off the high ceilings. Scarlett sat trapped in the glare of the spotlight, her high-society composure crumbling into dust. She had spent her whole life being adored and pampered; she had never experienced a humiliation of this scale. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she looked up at the stage, her voice trembling over the whispers. “Ethan… what do we do? Did Cassidy… did she misunderstand something?” Ethan turned his head, his cold eyes brushing over her face before snapping back to the coordinator. His mind was spiraling into absolute chaos over Cassidy’s disappearance; he didn’t have a single drop of energy left to handle Scarlett. “Look at her, she’s actually crying!” a woman in the second row sneered loudly. “Why is she crying? The real bride left! God, she reeks of desperate home-wrecker.” The sharp, brutal insults cut through Scarlett like glass shards. But the person whose face looked even worse than hers was Victoria Montgomery.

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1 My sister’s classmate asked her over for a sleepover, and I dropped her off at the front gate. The next day, my sister didn’t come home. The police finally located her twenty-four hours later in an abandoned auto body shop on the outskirts of town. When we brought her to the emergency room, the medical report came back with four words that shattered our lives: Evidence of sexual assault. After that night, Sadie flinched at the mere shadow of any man. On her fifteenth birthday, she walked up to the gravel roof of our apartment building and stepped over the ledge. My parents, hollowed out by guilt and grief, followed her to the grave not long after. And I? I went back up to that same roof and threw myself into the empty air to find her. When I opened my eyes again, the sweltering afternoon sun was beating down on my shoulders. I was standing right outside the middle school, right at the moment I was about to send my sister off. Sadie, ten years old, with her pink backpack bouncing against her spine, ran toward me, looking up with big, bright eyes. “Noah! Sophie invited me to stay at her place tonight. Can I go? Please?” Beside her stood Sophie, who chimed in with a sweet, rehearsed smile. “Noah, my dad is home tonight too. It’s totally safe!” The blood in my veins turned to liquid ice. I reached out, my fingers clamping down around Sadie’s small wrist like a iron vice. “No.” “You’re coming home with me right now.” “You are not going anywhere.” Sadie blinked, startled. She had never heard me use a voice like that with her. Her lower lip began to tremble, tears instantly brimming in her lashes. “Noah, it’s just for one night! You always used to say yes!” Used to. That phrase slammed into my chest like an unsterilized needle. She was right. In my past life, I had said yes. I had even helped her pack her stuffed teddy bear into her backpack, reminding her not to drink too much soda before bed. I stood on the sidewalk, watching her take Sophie’s hand and skip cheerfully through the security gate of that apartment complex. I had foolishly believed she would come bouncing back the next morning. She didn’t. When we finally found her, she was huddled in the back of a squad car, wrapped in an officer’s heavy trench coat. She was shaking violently, screaming in pure terror if anyone so much as brushed against her skin. Later, the doctor pulled my parents into a quiet hallway and whispered, “She’s been severely assaulted.” My mother collapsed onto the linoleum floor right there. My father punched the concrete wall so hard he shattered three knuckles without even noticing the pain. And I stood in that sterile corridor, unable to squeeze out a single tear. I was entirely numb. I could still vividly remember the day Sadie woke up in the hospital, staring at the acoustic ceiling tiles for hours before quietly asking me, “Noah… am I never going to be the real Sadie again?” That single question had destroyed my soul. I swallowed the lump in my throat, my grip tightening on her arm. “Not today. Absolutely not.” Sophie pulled on Sadie’s sleeve, her voice small and pleading. “But my dad already ordered pizza for us!” Dad. My eyes snapped over to Sophie. Sophie’s biological father didn’t even live in the state. In the original timeline, it took the police seven years to uncover the truth: the man living in that apartment was never her father. He was just her mother’s live-in boyfriend. His name was Garrett Cole. He was the monster who dragged my little sister from the light into a living nightmare, slipping away into the chaos and remaining a ghost for seven long years. I stared down at Sophie, my voice vibrating with an uncontrollable, violent rage. “Back off. Stay the hell away from my sister.” Sophie’s face drained of color, taking a step backward. Sadie flared up, tugging against my hand. “Noah! Why are you being so mean to Sophie?!” I didn’t bother trying to explain it to her. I couldn’t. She was only ten. She had no concept of how monsters could wear friendly adult faces, offering candy with a warm smile while hiding a butcher’s knife behind their backs. I dragged her toward the school gates. Sadie kicked and squirmed the entire way. “Noah Mercer!” she screamed, her small voice echoing down the sidewalk. “You’re hurting my arm! I’m calling Mom!” I abruptly stopped. Mom. Right—we needed help. But I couldn’t call my parents. Today, my father was conducting an unannounced inspection at a rural construction site; his phone was always locked in his truck on silent mode. My mother was covering an emergency shift at the hospital, her cell tucked away in a locker at the nurses’ station where she couldn’t answer. I pulled out my prepaid cell phone with shaking hands and dialed a memory etched into my brain. The line connected, loud rock music blaring through the receiver. “Uncle Rick,” I sobbed out, tears bursting past my lashes the moment I heard his voice. On the other end, the music abruptly cut. “Noah? What’s wrong, buddy? Who’s picking on you?” My fingers went numb against the plastic case. “Uncle Rick… please come to our place right now. Someone… someone is trying to take Sadie. I don’t think I can hold them off by myself.” The line went dead silent for two seconds. Then, Uncle Rick’s voice came back, dropping into a low, deadly register. “Where are you guys right now?” “Outside the school gate.” “Don’t take the back alleys. Go straight home, lock the deadbolts, and don’t open the door for anyone. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Ten minutes. From the school to our apartment, the fastest route was seven minutes on foot. Uncle Rick’s gym was two blocks away from our place; if he pushed his motorcycle, he could make it in under ten. If we could beat Garrett Cole to our front door, throw the deadbolts, and hold out until my uncle arrived, we might survive this. I slammed the phone shut and grabbed Sadie’s arm, pulling her into a jog. Sophie was still trailing behind us, practically in tears. “Sadie, don’t leave! My dad said he has to pick you up today!” I stopped in my tracks, spinning around to glare at her. Sophie flinched, cowering back. Part of me wanted to scream at her: Do you have any idea that you almost killed my sister?! But she was only ten years old herself. During the police interrogations in my past life, she had sobbed until she threw up, confessing that Garrett Cole had threatened to throw her mother out and sell her into foster care if she didn’t obey him. She didn’t understand the mechanics of crime. She was just terrified. But my sister was terrified, too. I couldn’t sacrifice Sadie just because Sophie was a victim of the same monster. “Run,” I hissed to Sadie, pulling her into a full sprint. The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across the pavement. Sadie cried the entire way home. “I hate you, Noah!” she wailed, her hot tears splashing against my hand. “I’m never talking to you again!” I held on tightly, refusing to loosen my grip for even a second. She could hate me. She could resent me for the rest of her life. As long as she was breathing. As long as she could lay safely in her own bed tonight. I would take whatever hatred she had to give. 2 We lived at the very end of Oak Street, in an old three-story brick walk-up. I practically dragged Sadie up the narrow stairs to our third-floor unit. When I pulled out my house key, my hands were shaking so violently I dropped them twice. It took three frantic tries before the brass key finally turned in the tumbler. The door swung open. The apartment was quiet and empty, bathed in the orange glow of twilight. Seeing it intact made my throat tighten with unspeakable grief. In my past life, this home never saw light again after that day. My mother had sealed Sadie’s bedroom, sitting on her bed every night clutching her small pillow until dawn. My father took to heavy drinking, sobbing softly into his hands in the dark kitchen whenever he thought I was asleep. I shoved Sadie inside and slammed the heavy wooden door. Click. Click. I threw the upper deadbolt, flipped the bottom latch, and secured the heavy brass security chain. Sadie slammed her pink backpack onto the couch, her small face flushed with anger. “Noah Mercer, you are being crazy! I was supposed to eat pizza with Sophie!” I dropped to my knees in front of her, seizing her small shoulders. “Sadie. Look at me.” She huffed, wiping her wet nose with her sleeve. “Just trust me once,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “No matter who knocks on that door today, do not touch the lock. Do not go outside.” “Why?!” she demanded, tears spilling over again. “You have to give me a reason!” I opened my mouth, but the truth was too horrific to speak aloud. How could I tell a ten-year-old girl about the horrors waiting for her in the dark? Instead, I pulled her tight into my arms, burying my face in her shoulder. “Because I’m scared, Sadie. I’m so, so scared.” Sadie went still in my embrace. She let out a small, huffy sigh, mumbling against my shirt, “Scaredy-cat.” But she stopped pulling away. I was about to let out a breath of relief when a knock sounded at the front door. Knock. Knock. Knock. It was light. Polite. Measured. Yet it felt like a hammer striking directly against my ribs. Sadie’s eyes lit up. “It’s Sophie!” She scrambled up, reaching for the handle. I lunged forward, grabbing her around the waist, pulling her back, and clapping my hand tightly over her mouth. From the other side of the door, Sophie’s small voice drifted through the wood. “Sadie? Is your brother mad at you? Just open up, I can talk to him!” Sadie squirmed wildly in my grip, muffled protests bubbling against my palm. “Mmmph! Mmmph!” I hauled her backward toward the hallway. A silence fell over the corridor for two terrifying seconds. Then, a man’s voice echoed through the crack of the door. It was warm. Refined. Perfectly polite. “Hey there, kids. I’m Sophie’s dad,” the voice coaxed gently. “Your parents aren’t home, right? It’s really not safe for two young kids to be left alone like this. Sadie promised Sophie she’d come over, so I thought I’d swing by and pick her up. I’ll make sure she gets to school safely tomorrow morning.” A cold sweat broke out across my back, soaking through my shirt. That voice. I would know that voice if I were dead and buried. In the previous timeline, the police had recovered a fragment of security footage from a convenience store. A man had carried a unconscious Sadie past the checkout counter, and when the clerk casually asked if the little girl was okay, that same gentle voice had chuckled, “Oh, she’s just worn out from playing. Out like a light.” My grip tightened over Sadie’s mouth until my knuckles turned white. Outside, Garrett Cole continued his performance. “Noah, right? Don’t be nervous, big guy. If your parents are worried, you can call them right now. I’ll just wait right here in the hallway.” He was incredible at playing the responsible adult. If I were truly a twelve-year-old boy in this moment, I probably would have hesitated. I might have opened the door. But I wasn’t just a twelve-year-old boy anymore. “You’re not Sophie’s dad!” I screamed at the deadbolt. “You have no right to touch my sister!” Outside, Sophie sounded panicked. “Noah, he is my dad! He’s really nice to me!” A bitter, terrible laugh bubbled up my throat, though tears were streaming down my face. “Sophie! Your real dad’s name is Miller! The creep standing next to you is Garrett Cole!” The hallway went dead quiet. A second later, the polite warmth vanished from the man’s voice. What replaced it was something cold, flat, and hollow. “Kid,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t throw accusations around like that. Open the door.” I didn’t answer. I backed down the hallway, pulling Sadie with me toward the back bedroom. Just a few more minutes. Just hold out until Uncle Rick gets here. Then, a metallic scratching sound echoed from the front lock. Someone was picking the lock from the outside. My mind went entirely blank. Our apartment door was an old, cheap model from the late nineties. My father had talked about replacing it for years, but work had always gotten in the way. I shoved Sadie into the master bedroom, turned, and threw my entire body against the front door, slamming my weight against the wood. Through the thin frame, I could hear the lock tumbler clicking open. Click. The upper bolt retracted. The lower latch slipped. The door jolted inward, straining against the brass security chain. A gap opened, and a thick, pale hand reached through the crack, feeling around for the chain latch. I screamed at the top of my lungs. “HELP! SOMEONE HELP US! HE’S BREAKING IN! HELP!” The hallway was silent; the neighbors were all at work. A low, vicious curse came from the man outside. BANG! He slammed his heavy shoulder against the door frame. The brass security chain snapped with a loud, metallic pop, sending tiny screws flying across the entryway. The door flew wide open. Garrett Cole stood on our threshold. Behind him, standing on the landing, was Sophie, her face as pale as a corpse. 3 I grabbed a heavy golf umbrella resting in the entry rack and swung it with everything I had. Garrett jerked his head back, but the metal tip scraped across his cheek, leaving a thin, angry red line. The last fake smile vanished from his face, replaced by pure, murderous rage. “You little bastard.” He lunged forward, snatching me by the collar of my shirt. He hoisted me off my feet effortlessly, squeezing my throat until the air cut off in my lungs. I thrashed against him, opened my mouth, and bit down on his forearm with all the force left in my body. I bit so hard my teeth hit bone, the metallic taste of blood instantly filling my mouth. Garrett let out a strangled groan of pain. He pulled back and backhanded me across the face. The blow sent me flying into the wooden shoe cabinet. My head slammed against the edge, my ears ringing violently as bright spots exploded before my eyes. Sadie was paralyzed with fear. She let out a piercing shriek. “Noah!” I scrambled up from the floor, threw myself forward, and wrapped my arms around Garrett’s knees. “RUN!” I screamed, my voice hoarse and raw. “Sadie, run to the balcony! Yell for help!” Sadie burst into tears, sprinting toward the back of the apartment. Garrett kicked me hard in the ribs. Pain flared through my chest, forcing me to curl inward, but I refused to let go of his legs. He shouted over his shoulder at the trembling girl in the doorway. “Sophie! Close the damn door! Don’t let anyone see!” Sophie’s hands shook uncontrollably as she pulled the heavy door shut, sinking to the floor in tears. “Mr. Cole… I’m scared… You said we were just picking Sadie up to hang out…” Garrett ignored her completely. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small pack of chemical wipes, and turned toward me. I fought like a wild animal, scratching his face, kicking his shins. But a twelve-year-old body was no match for a grown man. He dragged me into my parents’ bedroom, shoved me into the dark wooden wardrobe, tied my hands tightly with his leather belt, and stuffed a gym towel into my mouth. The heavy doors slammed shut. Darkness engulfed me. I heard him drag a heavy wooden armchair across the floorboards, jamming the back beneath the door handles to seal me inside. I kicked. I slammed my shoulder against the wood. I hit the door with my forehead. The heavy oak wardrobe barely shook. From outside, Sadie’s frantic cries echoed through the wood. “Noah! Let my brother go!” Then came Garrett’s sickeningly sweet voice. “Shh, sweetie, don’t cry. I’m just taking you out for pizza…” “I don’t want pizza!” Sadie sobbed. “I want my brother!” Through the tiny gap in the closet doors, I could see his shadow move toward her. I saw his hand reach out, pressing one of those chemical wipes firmly over her mouth and nose. A wave of red hot agony hit my eyes. “NO!” The scream was choked back into the towel, reduced to a muffled, pathetic groan. Sadie struggled for a few brief seconds before her small body went completely limp. Her pink backpack slid off her shoulder, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. I froze, terror turning my blood to ice. The horrific images from my past life flooded back: the blinding white hospital lights, Sadie’s hollow, lifeless eyes, the deep purple bruises wrapped around her small wrists. “Noah… am I never going to be real again?” I threw myself against the closet doors with demonic fury. BANG! BANG! BANG! My forehead slammed against the wood over and over again. Pain exploded behind my eyes, skin tearing, warm blood trickling down my nose. It hurt. It hurt terribly. But it was nothing compared to the agony of failing her a second time. Outside, Garrett snapped at Sophie. “Check the hallway! If it’s clear, we move!” Sophie was weeping softly. “Is… is she dead?” “Shut your mouth!” Garrett hissed softly. “Do you want me to tell your mother you stole money out of her purse? You want her to know you bullied those kids at school?” Sophie went completely silent. I finally understood why she had covered for him in my past life. She wasn’t inherently evil; she was just another child trapped in his web of blackmails and terror. I didn’t have time to pity her. I kept battering the wardrobe door. Once. Twice. Three times. Just as my vision began to darken and I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, a thunderous crash echoed from the front entryway.

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1 It was past midnight, and I was just about to surrender to a much-needed sleep when a frantic pounding erupted at my front door. “Dr. Weaver! Madeline! Open up, please! It’s an emergency!” “My baby… she’s burning up! She’s not moving! You have to help her!” It was Liam Bennett’s voice from across the hall. He and his wife, Sarah, had a six-month-old named Lily. We’d been neighbors for two years. I threw off the covers, my doctor’s instinct overriding my exhaustion. I was halfway to the door, my hand reaching for the deadbolt, when a row of glowing, translucent text suddenly flickered into existence right before my eyes. They looked like live-stream comments, scrolling across my field of vision in an eerie, digital shimmer. [DON’T OPEN THE DOOR. Pretend you aren’t home!] [The infant has no vitals. If you touch her, they’ll pin the death on you!] My hand froze. I recoiled from the handle as if it were red-hot. “Dr. Weaver! Please! For the love of God, open the door!” The shouting grew louder, more desperate. I felt a wave of dizziness. The Bennetts were good people—or so I thought. Sarah was always bringing over Tupperware containers of homemade lasagna or boxes of muffins, telling me how much she respected my work at the hospital. “You’re a hero, Madeline,” she’d say. “You save lives all day; someone needs to make sure you actually eat.” I had even used my connections to get her into a top-tier OB-GYN when she was pregnant. We weren’t just neighbors; we were friends. “Maddy, please! I’m begging you! Just look at Lily!” Liam’s voice cracked. My heart hammered against my ribs. My hand moved toward the door again, purely out of habit, out of the oath I’d taken. But the shimmering text surged into a frantic crawl. [Stop! Do not open it! They’re waiting to shove the body into your arms!] [The baby is already gone. Liam dropped her. She hit the back of her head.] [If he’d taken her to the ER immediately, she might have lived. But he waited twenty-four hours. He realized she was dying and hatched a plan.] [They’re hoping for a miracle, but if you can’t perform one, you’re the scapegoat. You’ll lose your license. You’ll lose everything.] Sweat pooled at the small of my back. I didn’t know if I was having a psychotic break or seeing the truth, but the fear was real. I leaned in, peering through the peephole. Liam was holding the baby, his face a mask of frantic impatience. He wasn’t crying; he was looking at my door with a dark, simmering intensity. He balled his fist and thudded it against the wood again. “Open the damn door, Madeline! I know you’re in there!” I looked at Lily. Usually, she was a squirming, giggling little thing. Now, she lay unnervingly still in Liam’s arms, wrapped tightly in a thick wool blanket. Was she just lethargic from a fever? Or was the text right? [Trust us! Stay inside!] The text was relentless. I’d held that baby. I’d smelled the scent of lavender lotion on her skin. If there was even a one-percent chance I could save her and I stayed behind this door, I’d never be able to look at myself in the mirror again. But the alternative… Suddenly, the door across the hall opened. Sarah stepped out, her eyes red-rimmed, her face gaunt. She walked over to Liam and reached for the baby. “Liam,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this. This feels… wrong.” Liam turned on her, his eyes flashing with a vitriol I had never seen in our quiet hallway. “Shut up, Sarah!” A chill raced down my spine. The mask was slipping. The “nice guy” from the backyard barbecues was gone. “But she’s not answering,” Sarah muttered. “Maybe she’s not home?” Liam took a deep, shuddering breath. “She’s home. I saw her car pull in on the Ring camera thirty minutes ago. She’s hiding.” I backed away from the door, my breath coming in shallow hitches. They weren’t looking for a doctor. They were looking for a target. The commotion was drawing the rest of the floor out. Mrs. Higgins from 4B came shuffling down the hall in her slippers, followed by Mr. Miller and the young influencer couple from the end of the hall, Jason and Tiffany. “What’s going on? It’s nearly one in the morning,” Mrs. Higgins asked, her voice laced with concern. Liam clutched the baby tighter as Sarah began to sob on cue. “The baby has a high fever. She’s unconscious. We’re trying to get Dr. Weaver to help, but she’s just… ignoring us!” Sarah wiped a stray tear, glancing at the bundle in Liam’s arms. I saw the flicker of a mother’s desperate hope, but it was drowned out by something colder. “I think she’s just heartless,” Liam spat, loud enough for the whole hallway to hear. “Some doctor she is. Letting a baby die right in front of her door.” “That doesn’t sound like Madeline,” Mrs. Higgins defended me. “The other day, when I had that dizzy spell in the elevator, she walked me all the way to my door and stayed to check my blood pressure.” Mr. Miller nodded. “She’s a good kid. Maybe she’s just not home? Could be an overnight shift?” Liam let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “I saw her come in! Half an hour ago! She’s in there, watching us through the peephole like a coward!” The atmosphere in the hall shifted. The neighbors began to murmur. “That’s not right,” Jason said, pulling out his phone. “If she’s in there and the kid is dying, that’s messed up.” Mrs. Higgins stepped up and knocked gently. “Madeline? Honey, are you there? The Bennetts’ baby is sick. Just take a quick look?” She reached out to touch the baby’s blanket, but Liam violently swatted her hand away. “Don’t touch her!” Mrs. Higgins froze, startled. “I… I just wanted to see her. I’ve held her a dozen times, Liam.” The text on my vision flared bright red. [He can’t let her see. The baby isn’t breathing. He’s a monster.] [All that ‘kindness’ was a lie. He only befriended you so he’d have free medical advice on tap.] [The muffins Sarah gave you? They were store-bought and expired. They thought it was funny to see if you’d notice.] A wave of nausea hit me. “Look,” Mr. Miller suggested, “If she isn’t opening up, maybe she’s passed out from exhaustion. You need to get to the hospital. Now.” Liam’s face contorted. “The hospital? That’s a forty-minute drive with the construction on the I-90! If something happens to her on the way, are you going to be responsible, Miller? Are you?” The old man withered under the aggression. “Why don’t you try calling her?” Tiffany suggested, holding her phone up as if recording the drama. “Right. Call her,” Sarah said, fumbling for her phone. My heart stopped. My phone was on the coffee table in the living room. I’d forgotten to silence it. I scrambled toward the living room, but I was too slow. The upbeat ringtone blasted through the quiet apartment. I lunged for it, hitting ‘decline’ with trembling fingers, but the damage was done. “Did you hear that?” Liam screamed. “She’s in there! She just hung up on us!” Sarah’s voice turned shrill, dropping the facade of the grieving mother for something more accusatory. “She hung up? She’s really going to let my baby die?” She threw herself against my door, sliding down to her knees. “Dr. Weaver! Madeline! I’m begging you! Save my daughter! She’s so small… please!” The hallway went silent, save for Sarah’s wailing. Then, the young couple started in. “Unbelievable,” Jason muttered. “A doctor who watches a baby die because she’s ‘off the clock.’ This is going on Nextdoor. The whole city is going to know what kind of person you are.” “She’s literally a murderer by omission,” Tiffany added, her phone camera pointed directly at my door. I was being nailed to a cross of their making. “Wait,” Jason said, his voice dropping into a menacing register. “I’m posting the address. People like this shouldn’t be allowed to practice medicine.” Mrs. Higgins and Mr. Miller tried to intervene, but Liam was in a frenzy now. He kicked my door, the wood groaning under the impact. “Nice? You think she’s nice?” Liam yelled at the neighbors. “My wife slaved over meals for her! We treated her like family! And now, when our daughter is at death’s door, she won’t even turn the handle!” I thought about the lasagna Sarah had brought over. I’d always tried to refuse, not wanting to be indebted, but she’d insist, saying I was “part of the family.” I’d always reciprocated with expensive toys for Lily or Nordstrom gift cards. I’d given more than I’d ever taken. [He’s desperate,] the text scrolled. [He’s trying to provoke you. The moment you open that door, Lily is your responsibility. And Lily is already gone.] My phone buzzed incessantly. It was the building’s group chat. Jason had posted the video. The comments were pouring in, a digital lynch mob forming in real-time. “Is that Dr. Weaver from Memorial General? I’ve seen her. She’s always so arrogant.” “Expert or not, she’s a monster. How do you sleep at night?” “Isn’t there a law about this? Duty to assist?” Sarah replied to the thread: “We’re heartbroken. We thought she was our friend. Now we’re just watching our baby fade away.” The pressure was an physical weight, crushing the air out of my lungs. Through the peephole, I saw Liam and Sarah exchange a look. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but it wasn’t a look of shared grief. It was a look of calculation. A cold, hard check-in to see if the plan was working. I grabbed my phone and typed into the group chat: “I have a severe case of the flu. If I come out, I risk cross-contaminating an infant with a compromised immune system. If the child is in a crisis, you need an ER, not a neighbor. I have already called an ambulance for them. It should be here in ten minutes. I’ve pulled strings to ensure it’s a priority dispatch.” The hallway went quiet for a beat. I saw Liam’s face pale. If the paramedics arrived and found the baby dead—and realized I had never touched her—their plan to sue me for malpractice or “wrongful death” would evaporate. Some neighbors began to waver. “Actually, Dr. Weaver has a point. If the kid is that sick, why are they still in the hallway?” But Jason wasn’t letting go. “Ten minutes? In ten minutes, the kid could have permanent brain damage from the fever. If she’s a doctor, she can at least do basic triage through the door or step out with a mask. She’s making excuses.” Sarah sobbed louder. “Brain damage… oh god, my Lily!” Liam kicked the door again, harder this time. [The young couple are Liam’s cousins,] the text revealed. [They moved in last week specifically to help with this. They were laughing about your salary yesterday, planning how much they’d ask for in the settlement.] Then, Mrs. Higgins sent me a private text: “Madeline, something is wrong. The baby hasn’t moved a muscle, and it’s eighty degrees in this hallway, but they have her wrapped in a winter bunting. They won’t let me look at her.” I had an idea. I moved close to the door and shouted through the wood. “Liam! Take the blanket off her! She’s running a fever; you’re trapping the heat. She needs to breathe. Strip her down to her diaper!” The hallway went deathly silent. The neighbors picked up the cry. “Yeah, Liam, take the blanket off! You’re going to smother her!” Liam looked trapped. Sarah moved closer, helping him shield the bundle, their bodies forming a barrier. “She’s sick!” Liam barked. “If she catches a draft, it’ll get worse! Are you a doctor or not? You should know that!” “I am a doctor,” I replied coldly. “And I’m telling you that you are overheating that child. Unless, of course, you don’t want us to see her.” [They can’t,] the text scrolled. [Because the moment that blanket falls, everyone will see the lividity. Everyone will know she’s been dead for hours.] The elevator chimed. It wasn’t the paramedics. It was the building manager, Mr. Henderson, and a man carrying a heavy toolkit. “Alright, move aside,” Henderson said, his voice tight. “Dr. Weaver, I’m here with a locksmith. Either you open this door right now, or we’re drilling the lock. This is a life-and-death situation, and the board will back me up on the property damage.” He wasn’t asking. He was threatening. “Mr. Henderson,” I shouted, “if you break into my home, it’s a felony. I have not authorized entry.” “I don’t care!” Henderson snapped. “If a baby dies on my watch because you were being difficult, I’m the one who gets sued. Open up!” I saw the locksmith reach for the handle. I saw Liam and Sarah leaning in, like predators at the edge of a cage, waiting for the latch to click. [Henderson took a bribe,] the text flashed. [Liam promised him twenty thousand dollars from the settlement if he got that door open.] The air in my lungs felt like ice. I was surrounded. “Henderson!” I yelled. “I’ve already called the police. Not just for an ambulance, but to report a home invasion. If that locksmith touches my door, he’s an accomplice.” The locksmith stopped. He looked at Henderson, then at Liam. “Whoa, whoa. You said this was a medical wellness check authorized by the tenant. You didn’t say she was in there telling us to stay out.” “It’s an emergency!” Liam screamed. “I don’t care,” the locksmith said, backing away. “I’m not catching a B&E charge for a neighbor dispute. Figure it out yourselves.” He turned and ran for the elevator. Liam let out a guttural roar of frustration and hammered his fists against my door. “You bitch! You heartless bitch! You’re killing my daughter!” He was unraveling. The plan was failing, and he knew it. “Liam, I told you,” I said, my voice steady despite my shaking hands. “The police are coming. If you’re so worried about Lily, why aren’t you downstairs waiting for the ambulance?” Liam stumbled back as the elevator chimed again. “Police! Nobody move!” I peered through the peephole one last time. The text appeared again, flashing with a warning. [DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR YET.]

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1 Five years ago, I dumped a broke grad student for a quarter of a million dollars. Today, he walked into the executive suite as my new boss. On his first day, he wiped a disciplinary write-up off my HR record. On his second day, he transferred me directly to the CEO’s office. On his third day, he stood in the middle of the open-plan floor, looked me dead in the eye, and asked, “Are you currently in need of a boyfriend, Ms. Davis?” The whole office whispered that Harrison Cole was still desperately in love with me. Only I knew how much he hated me. After all, five years ago, at the absolute lowest point of his life, I broke up with him, turned around, and got into another man’s car. But his pursuit felt so painfully real. He remembered that I couldn’t drink ice water. He knew my right knee ached when it rained. He systematically fired or relocated every middle manager who had ever made my life difficult. Slowly, against my better judgment, I started to believe that maybe he had actually forgiven me. That is, until the company’s winter gala. I was walking past the VIP lounge when I heard Declan Pierce ask him, “You’re about to announce your engagement to Audrey Kensington. Why are you still messing around with Sloane?” Through the cracked door, I saw Harrison casually swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Five years ago, it only took two hundred and fifty grand for her to sell me out,” he said, his voice smooth and detached. “I have more money than God now. Keeping her on the payroll for a few years is nothing to me.” Declan frowned. “And what if she takes it seriously? What if she begs you to marry her?” Harrison let out a low, breathless laugh. “Then I’ll let her get on her knees and beg.” He took a sip of his drink. “And when she’s done begging, I’ll remind her that you can buy a mistress, but you have to earn the title of Mrs. Cole.” I stood frozen in the hallway, my hand gripping the small velvet box in my pocket. I slowly let go, letting the silver cufflinks fall back into the darkness of my coat. So this was it. He hadn’t spent five years climbing his way back to me for a second chance. He had done it to avenge a betrayal that never actually happened. Because five years ago, I never touched a single cent of that quarter-million dollars. From inside the lounge, the sharp clink of ice against crystal echoed through the silence. Declan was quiet for a long time. “Did you ever think that maybe she had a reason? That she was backed into a corner?” “She took the buyout, she dumped me, and she got into someone else’s Mercedes.” Harrison’s tone was ice. “What other reason do I need?” He set his glass down. “Besides, isn’t she enjoying it? The promotion, the gifts, the envy of everyone in the office. I’ve given her everything she wants. Letting her believe she’s actually going to marry me before I strip it all away—that’s what I call justice.” My fingernails bit into the palms of my hands. The small box in my pocket felt heavy, bruising my hip. Two standard silver cufflinks. It had taken me a month to pick them out. On the back, custom-engraved, were the letters S and H. Sloane and Harrison. I had planned to give them to him tonight. Because just a few hours ago, he had pinned me against the railing of an empty terrace, the winter wind whipping around us, and asked if I was ready to start over. Before I could even answer, he had dipped his head and kissed me. And in that brief, suspended moment, I truly believed the last five years of heartbreak could be undone. The sharp click of heels on marble snapped me out of my thoughts. “Sloane?” I turned. Audrey Kensington stood there in a floor-length crimson gown. Her gaze flicked from my face to the cracked door of the lounge, then drifted down to the edge of the velvet box poking out of my coat pocket. “A gift for Harrison?” She didn’t wait for my permission. She reached out and pulled the box from my pocket, snapping it open. Seeing the engraved initials, her lips curled into a perfectly polite, entirely devastating smile. “It’s the thought that counts, I suppose. A bit pedestrian, though, don’t you think?” She snapped the box shut. “The blue diamond ones he’s wearing tonight? I gave him those last month. Nothing crazy. Seven figures.” She pressed the box back into my hand. “But a gift is a gift. Go ahead and take it in, Sloane. I really don’t mind.” Right on cue, the lounge door swung open. Harrison stood in the frame. When he saw me, his eyes hitched for a fraction of a second. “What are you doing out here?” “Looking for the restroom,” I said. “Took a wrong turn.” He studied my face for a long moment, then looked away. Audrey slid seamlessly to his side, looping her arm through his. “Harrison, your mother is texting me. She says she’s narrowed the engagement venues down to three, and we absolutely have to pick one tonight.” “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.” Harrison didn’t pull his arm away, but his eyes were back on me. “What’s in your hand?” I pushed the box deep into my pocket. “Just something a friend asked me to hold onto.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. Audrey laughed, a light, musical sound. “Oh, it wasn’t for Harrison. I told her as much. He’d never wear something so… basic.” She reached up, intimately adjusting his tie. “Let’s go. Your parents are waiting.” I stared at the massive diamond already sitting on Audrey’s ring finger. Over the last month, Harrison hadn’t mentioned a word about an arranged marriage. I had been stupid enough to think Audrey was just a family friend his mother kept pushing on him. But they were already looking at venues. “Sloane.” Harrison’s voice cut through the air. I looked up. He slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “Your hands are freezing. You need to dress warmer.” The smile on Audrey’s face fractured. Harrison acted like he didn’t notice. He took my hands in his, using his body heat to warm my skin. The gesture was so innate, so familiar, it felt like we had never been apart. “They have the AC blasting in here,” he murmured. “Keep this on.” “Aren’t you supposed to take Audrey home?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “She has a driver.” Audrey’s face flushed tight. “Harrison, your mother said tonight—” “I said, tomorrow.” He cut her off, pulling the lapels of his jacket tighter across my chest. “Don’t wander off. Wait for me in the ballroom.” So gentle. If I hadn’t stood outside that door five minutes ago, I would have been thrilled by the favoritism. I would have thought he was choosing me over the woman he was supposed to marry. But I knew the script now. When I got back to my table in the ballroom, my phone lit up. Liam had texted, saying he was parked downstairs. Gemma, the junior coordinator sitting next to me, saw the name flash on my screen and nudged me. “A guy picking you up this late? Gotta be a boyfriend.” Across the table, Harrison froze, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. He recognized Liam’s name. Five years ago, Liam was the man who had picked me up in the pouring rain. A VP down the table laughed. “Careful, Mr. Cole. Looks like you’ve got some competition. Aren’t you going to intervene?” Harrison stared at my phone, the warmth bleeding completely out of his eyes. “Why would I?” he said, leaning back in his chair. His tone was utterly bored. “Ms. Davis is just an employee.” A heavy, awkward silence fell over the table. Audrey smirked, taking a delicate sip of her champagne. “Let’s not make inappropriate jokes, everyone. Harrison takes care of Sloane out of a sense of nostalgia. You look out for an ex when they’re struggling. But it’s not like you’d actually bring them home to meet the family.” The executives shifted uncomfortably. I stood up, sliding Harrison’s jacket off my shoulders and draping it neatly over the back of my chair. “Audrey is right,” I said. Harrison’s head snapped toward me. I picked up my clutch, gave him a polite, hollow nod, and said, “Goodnight, Mr. Cole.” It was snowing outside. Liam was waiting at the bottom of the hotel steps with an umbrella. The moment he saw me, he unwrapped his wool scarf and looped it around my neck. “Why are your eyes red?” he asked, frowning. “I had some wine.” “You don’t drink.” He took my bag and opened the passenger door. Before I ducked inside, I glanced back. Harrison was standing under the awning of the hotel entrance. He was bathed in the harsh yellow light, his eyes locked violently onto Liam’s hand resting on my shoulder. Liam lowered his voice. “Do you want me to go over there and explain?” “No.” Five years ago, I had tried to explain. He hadn’t believed a single word. When I got home, I dropped the velvet box into a manila envelope. Then I opened my laptop and logged into the corporate Workday portal. I stared at the blank screen for a few seconds, taking a slow breath, before typing my name at the bottom of the resignation form. Audrey showed up at the office the next morning carrying a designer insulated tote. Security didn’t stop her. She breezed right into the executive suite, dropping her Birkin on the sofa in Harrison’s office. “Harrison, your mother had the chef make your favorite bisque.” Harrison was in the middle of a Zoom call. He gave a noncommittal hum. But Audrey didn’t leave. She shrugged off her coat, walked out to my desk, and sat in the guest chair. “Sloane, be a dear and fetch me some bowls.” I gestured politely toward the breakroom. “The dishware is in the cabinets on the right, Audrey. Feel free.” She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I am a guest. You are administrative staff. Is client hospitality not in your job description?” Out on the floor, heads began to turn. Harrison ended his call and pushed open his glass door. I thought he was going to intervene. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, sweeping a cold glance over both of us. “Get her the bowls, Sloane.” A sharp, phantom pain flared in my chest. I lowered my eyes. “Right away.” I went to the kitchenette, retrieved the bowls, and poured the soup exactly as Audrey instructed. She picked up a spoon, blew softly on the steam, and held it up to Harrison’s mouth. “Your mom made it from scratch. Try it.” Harrison didn’t open his mouth. His eyes bypassed her completely, landing heavily on my face. Audrey didn’t seem to care. “By the way, I think we should just book the Pierre for the engagement party.” She pulled three glossy venue brochures from her bag and slid them across my desk. “You’re in logistics, Sloane. You’re good at this stuff. Look these over and tell us which one makes the most sense.” The entire floor went dead silent. Everyone in this building knew Harrison had been aggressively pursuing me for a month. And now, his fiancée was making me plan their engagement party. Gemma couldn’t take it. She leaned over her cubicle. “Ms. Kensington, I don’t think that’s appropriate—” “What’s not appropriate?” Audrey smiled, all teeth. “Sloane is someone Harrison trusts. I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving this in anyone else’s hands.” I picked up the brochures. I flipped through them, my face perfectly blank. “The Pierre has a higher ceiling in the grand ballroom, and it’s closer to the Cole family estate. It’s the most logical choice.” Audrey clapped her hands together. “See? I told you she was sensible.” Harrison’s face turned into thunder. The second Audrey left, he called me into his office. The door had barely clicked shut before he snatched the venue brochures out of my hand and slammed them onto his desk. “Who gave you permission to pick a venue for her?” “Audrey did.” “And whatever she tells you to do, you just do it?” “It’s my job.” Harrison stepped into my space. “Are you seriously going to stand here and pretend you don’t care?” I looked up at him. “Am I supposed to care?” “Liam picked you up last night, and today you’re planning my engagement party.” He grabbed my wrist, backing me up until the edge of his mahogany desk dug into my spine. “What the hell am I to you, Sloane?” I almost laughed. He sat there and let Audrey humiliate me in front of the entire company, and now he was furious that I wasn’t fighting for him. “What do you want me to do, Harrison? Rip her hair out in the middle of the bullpen and claim you as mine?” He flinched. I looked at him, my voice completely hollow. “Under what title would I be claiming you?” Silence suffocated the room. Harrison slowly let go of my wrist. He opened his top drawer and pulled out a silver key. Attached to it was a small keychain engraved with the letter S. “My penthouse in Tribeca,” he said, pressing the key into my palm. “I had the master closet cleared out for you. You can move in tonight.” Five years ago, we had lived in a cramped, two-hundred-square-foot studio in Brooklyn. He had given me the only closet. His clothes stayed in a duffel bag under the bed. I remembered him holding me in the dark, promising that one day, when he made it, he would give me a walk-in closet the size of a living room. The promise had come true, but all I felt was a bone-deep chill. “Audrey is a strategic choice for a wife,” he said, folding my fingers over the key. He spoke like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “But that doesn’t change anything between us.” I stared at him, numb. Thinking I didn’t understand, he softened his voice, as if explaining something to a child. “She wants the title of Mrs. Cole. You want me. The two things don’t conflict.” The last, pathetic shred of hope I hadn’t realized I was still holding onto shattered completely. In his mind, because I had once taken money to leave him, I was now only worthy of living in the shadows. He would give me real estate. He would give me unlimited credit. He would give me his twisted version of tenderness. The only thing he would never give me was respect. “Do you understand?” he asked softly. I nodded. “I understand.” Harrison looked relieved. He reached out and smoothed a hand over my hair. “Wait for me tonight. We’ll get dinner.” I took the key and walked back to my desk. An alert popped up on my screen. It was the HR Director. “Sloane, your resignation requires approval from your direct supervisor.” I glanced through the glass at the man in the office. He was sipping the lukewarm water I had brought him that morning. “I’m still in my probationary transfer period,” I typed back. “Route it through internal compliance bypass.” “But Mr. Cole personally transferred you. If he finds out—” “Keep it quiet for now.” The typing bubble hovered for a long time. “Bypass takes three business days.” “That’s fine.” I closed the chat and dropped the penthouse key into the manila envelope. Right before five o’clock, Harrison’s phone rang. Audrey had rear-ended someone in a parking garage and was sobbing hysterically, demanding he come. He grabbed his coat and stopped by my desk. “We’ll do dinner another night.” “Okay.” He hesitated. “You’re not going to ask where I’m going?” I didn’t look up from my monitor. “Audrey needs you.” Harrison’s jaw tightened. From the phone still clutched in his hand, Audrey’s wailing drifted through the air. “Harrison, my neck hurts so much, where are you?” He stared at me for three agonizing seconds, then turned and walked out. I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. Down on the street level, I watched him emerge from the building. Audrey practically threw herself out of a cab and into his arms. He didn’t hug her back. But he didn’t push her away, either. The next morning, corporate panicked. A massive institutional client pushed their visit up by two days, and the VP of Operations had just been rushed to the ER with a ruptured appendix. The entire administrative floor was in chaos. I spent the next fourteen hours rerouting town cars, renegotiating block rates at the Four Seasons, and dragging Gemma through every item on the itinerary. At 11:00 PM, Audrey strolled into the office carrying a garment bag. She dropped it directly onto my keyboard. “Sloane, take this in to Harrison. He needs to change.” Gemma snapped. “Ms. Kensington, Sloane is the Director of Operations, not a personal valet.” “Is there a difference?” Audrey looked me up and down, a cruel little laugh escaping her throat. “Harrison brought her up here to fetch things, didn’t he?” I put a hand on Gemma’s arm, stopping her. “I’ll take it.” I walked into Harrison’s office. He was rubbing his temples, having just finished a brutal conference call. When he saw the garment bag, his face darkened. “Who sent that?” “Audrey.” “Throw it out. I don’t have time tonight.” I laid the suit across the leather sofa. “The prep for the client visit is done. You’re free to leave, Mr. Cole.” His eyes snapped to mine. “Are you kicking me out?” “Your fiancée is waiting.” The door flew open. Audrey strutted in and immediately locked her arm around his. “Harrison, even Sloane is telling you to go. What are you dragging your feet for?” She turned to me. “You know, Sloane, you’re a lot more pragmatic than I gave you credit for.” She smiled sweetly. “Men like to play with shiny new toys, but when it’s time to settle down, pedigree matters. Just because Harrison is keeping you entertained right now doesn’t mean you’ll ever step foot inside the Cole family home.” “Enough.” Harrison’s voice cracked like a whip. I looked up. He had pulled his arm out of Audrey’s grip, his expression lethal. “Keep that garbage out of the office, Audrey.” He wasn’t mad that she said it. He was just mad she said it at work. Audrey looked at me like she had just won a war. I nodded slowly. “Audrey is absolutely right. Who you marry has nothing to do with me.” Harrison’s face went bone-white. “Say that again.” “It’s late. Have a good night, both of you.” I gathered my clipboards and tried to walk past him, but Harrison reached out and clamped his hand around my wrist. “I told you, Audrey does not affect your position,” he hissed, his voice dropping low, sounding exactly like a man trying to placate a hysterical mistress. “Just stay in your lane. Don’t try to compete with her, and she won’t make your life difficult.” Audrey laughed from the doorway. “Hear that, Sloane? Harrison hates women who don’t know their place.” I looked down at Harrison’s fingers wrapped around my arm. “Okay,” I said. “I won’t compete.” His grip loosened for a fraction of a second. I didn’t know why, but even though I had given him exactly the answer he wanted, he looked sicker than before. By 1:00 AM, the itinerary was locked. Gemma sat at my desk, flipping through the handover binder I had just printed. Her eyes started to water. “Sloane… are you sure you’re just taking PTO?” “Why do you ask?” “This is… insane.” She pointed at a page. “You wrote down the exact pharmacy to call when his ulcer acts up. You noted that he can’t handle morning meetings if he hasn’t slept. You even documented the exact temperature he likes his water.” I closed the binder. “I’m transitioning my duties. It needs to be thorough.” “But you’re the only one he trusts.” I smiled faintly. “Not for much longer.” My phone buzzed on the desk. An email from HR. Compliance bypass approved. Physical paperwork filed. I swiped the notification away and clipped my corporate ID back onto my lanyard. The client visit wrapped up successfully the next afternoon. When Harrison returned to the office, he was holding a white paper box tied with string. Canelés from a French bakery across the bridge in Brooklyn. The place was an hour out of his way. Years ago, I had mentioned them in passing once. He had remembered. “About last night. Don’t be mad,” he said, setting the box on my desk. “I’m not mad.” “Liar.” Harrison reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a long, rectangular velvet box. Inside lay a delicate silver necklace with a crescent moon pendant. Five years ago, our studio apartment hadn’t even had a fire escape. In the dead of summer, when the heat was suffocating, we would sit on the roof eating instant ramen. I had pointed at the moon and told him that one day, I wanted an apartment high enough to look the sky in the eye. He had held me from behind, swearing to God he’d buy me a penthouse in the clouds. He hadn’t forgotten a thing. Harrison unclasped the chain and fastened it around my neck. The cold silver rested heavy against my collarbone. “Do you like it?” “I love it.” “Then don’t take it off.” He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. “I booked a table for tomorrow night. Seven o’clock.” “What’s the occasion?” “It’s time we set the ground rules.” He trailed his thumb over the moon pendant, his eyes full of smug certainty. “From now on, Audrey is Audrey, and you are you. As long as you’re a good girl, you’ll never want for anything.” I looked at him. “What exactly does that mean?” “I’ll transfer the deed of the Tribeca place to your name. I’ll get you a black card,” he said effortlessly, tossing out life-changing wealth like it was loose change. “Buy whatever you want.” The girl who had supposedly been bought off for a quarter-million dollars could surely be bought again for millions more. It made perfect sense to him. I smiled, a quiet, broken thing. “Okay.” He pulled me into a deep hug. “Good girl.” I rested my cheek against his chest, listening to the steady, familiar beat of his heart. “Tomorrow night,” I said calmly, “I have something to give you, too.” Harrison glanced at the drawer of my desk. “The cufflinks?” “You’ll see.” Thinking I had finally accepted my role as his kept woman, he practically beamed, ruffling my hair. “I can’t wait.” The second he was gone, I unclasped the moon necklace. I dropped it into the manila envelope, right next to the apartment key and the cufflinks. Early the next morning, Audrey marched into the office with a team of luxury wedding planners trailing behind her. She slammed three massive leather-bound binders onto my desk. “Sloane, the Pierre only has two weekends available next month. Look at the calendars and pick a date for us.” The bullpen fell dead quiet. People exchanged horrified looks. “Is he seriously getting married?” someone whispered. Audrey stroked the diamond on her finger, glowing with triumph. “Our parents have already signed the preliminary contracts. What do you think?” Harrison stepped out of his office right at that moment. Every eye in the room darted toward him. He didn’t deny it. He just flipped open the top binder, glanced at it, and tossed it back onto my desk. “You have good taste, Sloane. Pick a date for her.” Just last night, he had held me in his arms and promised I’d never want for anything. Today, he was making me select his wedding date. Audrey leaned over my desk. “So, Sloane. What day works best?” I opened the calendar. “The 28th.” “Why?” “The almanac says it’s an auspicious day for a wedding.” She laughed, utterly delighted. “Perfect. We’ll do the 28th. You should come, Sloane. You and Harrison have history. You’re practically an old friend.” I closed the binder. “If I’m still at the company by then, I wouldn’t miss it.” Harrison let out a sharp, dismissive sigh. “Stop throwing a tantrum.” He clearly thought I was just acting out of jealousy. As he turned to leave, he leaned down, his mouth brushing my ear. “Don’t be late tonight. I’ll give you everything you’ve been asking for.” I looked at him, the corners of my mouth curving up. “I won’t disappoint you, Mr. Cole.” I ran my final meetings before noon. By 1:00 PM, I transferred all my administrative access to Gemma. At 5:00 PM, HR brought me my physical exit paperwork. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for Mr. Cole to get back?” the HR rep asked nervously. “If he sees this, he’s never going to sign off.” That was exactly why I wasn’t waiting. I signed the bottom line. I handed over my corporate card and my building badge. After five years at this company, I had surprisingly little to take with me. A ceramic mug, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a gray wool scarf my mother had knitted for me. I put them in a small cardboard box. Before I left, I walked into Harrison’s empty office. On his desk, his calendar had a thick red circle around 7:00 PM. Next to it, he had written one word. Sloane. I stared at it for a long time. Then I opened the second drawer on the left side of his desk. It was where he usually kept his ulcer medication. I placed the thick manila envelope inside and shut the drawer. At 7:00 PM, Harrison was sitting at a window table in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive restaurants. On the table in front of him sat the deed to the Tribeca penthouse, an American Express Centurion card, and a velvet box containing a diamond tennis bracelet. Declan, sitting across from him, checked his watch. “She’s late.” “She’s doing it on purpose.” Harrison leaned back, swirling his bourbon, radiating confidence. “Audrey came into the office today. Sloane is just making me sweat. She wants me to coax her.” By 7:30, the chair across from him was still empty. “You want to call her?” Declan asked. “Let her throw her fit.” Harrison took a slow sip of his drink. “She’s swallowed her pride for a month just waiting for me to make this official. When she’s done being mad, she’ll walk through that door.” At 8:00 PM, the private dining room door swung open. It wasn’t me. It was Audrey. She tossed the engagement planner onto the table. “The 28th. Sloane picked it out herself.” Harrison glanced at the date, a smirk playing on his lips. “She picked it to piss me off.” “What are you talking about?” “She’s jealous.” Audrey’s face twisted in disgust. “You really think you’re God’s gift to women, don’t you? She took the money and ran five years ago. Now she’s just holding out because you haven’t offered her enough.” Harrison’s eyes went cold. “I’m offering her a hell of a lot more than two hundred and fifty grand.” “Right.” Audrey let out a vicious, mocking laugh. “God, she acted so high and mighty back then, refusing to take the envelope to her face. But the second your mom’s assistant dropped the trust account card at her apartment, she was gone by morning.” Harrison froze, the glass halting halfway to his mouth. “She didn’t take the card from my mother?” Realizing she had slipped up, Audrey looked away. “What difference does it make? She got the card, and she dumped you. Who knows what she spent it on.” Harrison slammed his glass down. He pulled out his phone and dialed his private wealth manager. “Pull the records on the escrow account my mother opened five years ago under Sloane Davis’s name.” His voice was eerily calm, the voice of a man securing the final piece of evidence needed to destroy an opponent. “I want a line-by-item breakdown of every transaction.” He hung up and looked at his watch. “She left my gift at the office.” Audrey frowned. “You’re going back there now?” “I’ll be right back.” Harrison walked into the empty executive suite. He went straight to his desk and pulled open the second drawer on the left. The manila envelope was exactly where I had left it. He pulled it out, a triumphant smile touching his lips. “Told you she cared.” His phone rang. He pinned the phone between his ear and his shoulder, tearing open the envelope. The wealth manager’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and professional. “Mr. Cole, I’ve reviewed the ledger.” “The initial deposit of $250,000 has never been touched. No withdrawals, no transfers, no card authorizations.” “For five years, the account has been completely dormant.” At that exact moment, Harrison tipped the envelope upside down. The silver key to the penthouse hit the mahogany desk. Then, the silver moon necklace. Then, the two cufflinks engraved with S and H. And finally, a single sheet of paper slid out. It was a fully executed, HR-approved resignation form. The timestamp on the electronic signature was from the night of the winter gala, hours after he had told Declan he wanted to see me beg.

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1 “I heard Summer Holloway is back in town.” “She’s the one who walked away from Grant, right? Filed for divorce herself?” “Grant is running the family firm now. You’d think she’d be kicking herself. He’s the most eligible man in the state.” “Why would she regret it? She only got the ring because her sister ran off. She was just a placeholder. The crown was always going to return to its rightful head.” I stood outside the heavy mahogany doors of the country club lounge, the muffled whispers drifting through the cracks like a foul draft. For three years, I had been the ghost of this town, a cautionary tale whispered over mimosas. They called my departure a “gambit,” a desperate play for attention. Even my parents believed that lie. The day the ink dried on the divorce papers, my mother hadn’t offered comfort. She’d offered a warning. “Since it’s over, Summer, don’t you dare reach out to him,” she’d said, her voice sharp as a razor. “Sloane’s leg is still healing. She needs Grant right now. Don’t you dare stir the pot.” When I didn’t answer, her expression hardened. “That marriage belonged to your sister. If she hadn’t gone to London for the Royal Ballet, you never would have even been in the room.” Sloane and Grant. The golden couple of our social circle. But on the eve of the most anticipated wedding of the decade, Sloane had fled to Europe to chase a spotlight she loved more than him. With the press already hovering and the merger of two family fortunes at stake, the Holloways and the Huxleys made a cold, tactical decision: Swap the bride. I don’t know what they said to Grant to make him agree. All I knew was that for three years, he treated me with the polite distance of a stranger. Everyone knew he was still mourning the ghost of my sister. He kept his study locked. But one afternoon, he left the door ajar. I made the mistake of looking. The walls were a shrine. Framed photos of Sloane—Sloane dancing, Sloane laughing, Sloane in a white dress that was supposed to be hers. I had never seen Grant look at me the way he looked at those pictures. In those photos, he was alive. With me, he was a statue. The seed of divorce took root in my heart that very moment. The day I finally reached my breaking point, I overheard him on the phone. His voice was a low, tender murmur I had never earned. “Hey, don’t be scared. I’ll be there in ten minutes… You can’t walk on that leg yet. Wait for me. Just stay put, okay?” He turned and saw me standing in the hallway. “Dinner is ready,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You should eat before you go.” He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even look at the table. He just grabbed his coat. “Eat without me. Don’t wait up.” As he reached the door, I called his name. “Grant.” He stopped, his hand on the knob, a flicker of impatience crossing his handsome face. “What is it, Summer?” “Grant,” I said, the words feeling like a heavy weight finally being lifted. “I want a divorce.” 2 By the time the news reached my parents, the papers were already signed. Grant hadn’t fought me; in fact, he’d been surprisingly generous, granting me a settlement that amounted to half his personal assets. My parents hauled me home that night like I was a criminal in the dock. They interrogated me, disgusted that I had “gutted” a man who was practically family. “Summer, how could you be so cold-blooded?” my father barked. “Did you marry him just for the payout? Is that who you are?” Sloane stood by the fireplace, leaning heavily on her crutches, tears welling in her eyes. “Summer… is this about me? Do you hate me because I came home? Because he’s been helping me?” Before I could speak, my mother cut in. “Grant was supposed to be her husband. If Sloane hadn’t been so impulsive three years ago, they’d be raising our grandchildren by now.” Sloane loved Grant, but she loved the stage more. After he’d proposed, she’d received an offer from a world-class troupe. She had chosen the limelight and left him in the dust. For three years, they’d been silent. Until that night. The night his phone rang at 3:00 AM. He was pressed against my shoulder, his breathing just beginning to level out. He answered it right there, in our bed. Because we were so close, I heard the broken, sobbing voice of my sister on the other end. Grant froze. One second. Five seconds. Ten. It took thirty seconds for him to snap out of it. He threw on a robe and walked out without a single word to me. He didn’t come back that night. The next morning, I learned from my mother that Sloane had suffered a career-ending fall during a performance. Grant had flown out personally to bring her home. Even though she moved back into our parents’ house, Grant was the one who managed her doctors, her physical therapy, her every need. My parents even had the audacity to give me a “pep talk.” “Don’t take it personally,” my mom said. “She can’t dance anymore. Her life is over. Grant is the only one who can pull her out of this depression.” Sloane was always the masterpiece; I was just the rough sketch. She was beautiful, talented, the sun everyone orbited. I was the “smart one,” the quiet one, the girl who didn’t know how to charm a room. Everyone hovered over the broken star. Including my husband. His patience for me evaporated. One evening, he promised to pick me up from work. I waited for two hours in a torrential downpour. I caught a fever that night, a brutal, bone-shaking chill that landed me in the hospital. Grant was forced to leave Sloane’s side to sit by my bed. My mother saw it as a tactical move on my part. She stormed into my room, screaming. “You dragged him away for a common cold? Sloane almost tried to hurt herself last night because she felt so alone!” she hissed. “You’re healthy, Summer. How can you be so cruel to a sister who is disabled?” I looked at her, my vision blurred by fever. “But Mom… Grant is my husband.” “So what? You only have him because she let you have him! You stole her life!” The irony was suffocating. Sloane was the one who had begged me to marry him. Before she’d left for London, she’d sat me down in her room. “Summer, I know you’ve had a crush on him since we were kids. This is your chance. It’s better if it’s you than some stranger. You don’t want Grant to end up with some gold-digger, do you?” I had remained silent, my heart aching. “Please,” she’d pleaded. “Unless… you’re worried I’ll come back and take him from you?” I had flinched then. She’d laughed, relieved. “Don’t worry. I’m going to be a star. I’ll never look back. I promise.” She kept that promise for three years. Then she broke it, and my world along with it. 3 Once the divorce was finalized, I moved south. I bought a small, aging inn on the South Carolina coast and didn’t look back. I didn’t call home for three years. Then, out of the blue, Sloane called. “Summer, come home for the wedding,” she said, her voice sweet and cloying. “I won’t feel right starting my life with Grant unless you’re there to give us your blessing.” I stared at the ocean for a long time. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.” The day I arrived at my parents’ house, the autumn air was crisp. As I rolled my suitcase through the front door, Sloane came flying down the hallway. “Summer!” She moved with ease—the “permanent” disability seemed to have vanished. Despite the chill, she was wearing a thin, silk slip dress. Following closely behind her was Grant, carrying a pair of slippers and a cardigan. “Sloane, put your shoes on,” he scolded, his voice soft. “If you catch a cold, I’m going to have to—” He stopped dead. He saw me. It was the first time we’d stood in the same room since the courthouse. I forced myself to be civil. I nodded toward him. “Grant.” Three years hadn’t changed him much. He was still striking, but the cold edges of his face had softened into something warmer. He looked… happy. He gave me a stiff nod and turned his attention back to Sloane, draping the cardigan over her shoulders. “I’ll leave you two to catch up. I have some calls to take.” Sloane looped her arm through mine, her grip surprisingly tight. “I was so worried you wouldn’t come. We’re doing my final fitting tomorrow. You have to come with me.” I pulled my arm back gently. “I have plans tomorrow.” Sloane pouted. “Something more important than your sister?” “Yes. Much more.” “Well, maybe we can move it to the day after? You’ll be staying here, so—” “I’m staying at a hotel,” I interrupted. “Tell Mom and Dad I’ll see them at the rehearsal, but I won’t be staying in this house.” I turned and walked out before she could protest. I hadn’t gone two blocks when a sleek black SUV pulled up beside me. The window rolled down to reveal Grant. “Get in. I’ll give you a lift.” “I’m fine, thanks,” I said, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk. He was persistent. He crawled the car forward at my walking pace. “It’s impossible to get an Uber in this neighborhood. Just get in, Summer.” The walk to the hotel was miles away. I gave in and climbed into the passenger seat. I gave him the address of a modest boutique hotel downtown. He frowned. “Why aren’t you staying at the condo on the Waterfront?” The Waterfront condo was part of the divorce settlement. “I don’t like that place,” I said. He didn’t know I’d sold it the month the divorce went through. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t push. When we arrived, he got out and grabbed my suitcase before I could reach for it. “I’ll take this up.” “I’ve got it, Grant.” I reached for the handle, but he didn’t budge. He looked at the hotel—it was clean, but far below the luxury he was used to. “Are you having money trouble, Summer?” “No.” He ignored me and walked into the lobby. “What room?” Grant had always been like this—once he decided on a course of action, he was a bulldozer. I led him to the elevator in silence. When we reached my door, I took the suitcase from him. “Thanks. I’m pretty tired, so I won’t invite you in.” “Summer, wait.” I turned. “Have you been… okay? These last three years?” His gaze was searching, almost sincere. I couldn’t remember him ever using that tone with me when we were married. Before I could answer, the hotel door swung open from the inside. A man stepped out. He was tall, with the kind of effortless, rugged grace that made the hallway feel too small. He had messy dark hair and a jawline that could cut glass. He didn’t even look at Grant. He just wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me flush against his chest. “You’re late. I was starting to think you got lost.” He leaned down, his lips brushing mine. “What the hell is going on?” Grant’s voice was like a thunderclap. The man ignored him, deepening the kiss for a lingering, possessive beat before finally looking up. He looked at me with a lazy, teasing grin. “I leave you alone for three hours and you already found a stray? You’re a handful, Summer.” I tried to push him away, but he was like a mountain. I looked at Grant, whose face was pale with fury. “We’ll talk later, Grant.” Grant’s hands were curled into fists. This was the silent rage he usually reserved for boardrooms. But before he could explode, I was pulled inside the room and the door was shut in his face. The man—Jude—pinned me against the door. “If I recall, your flight landed at eleven. It’s two o’clock. Three hours, and you’re already making eyes at the ex?” I poked his solid chest. “Jude…” He caught my hand, his voice dropping an octave. “Don’t ‘Jude’ me.” I gripped the hem of his shirt and looked down. He sighed, his large hand cupping my chin to force me to look at him. He saw the shimmer in my eyes and his anger vanished instantly. “I haven’t even started teasing you yet. Why are you crying?” I sniffled. “I just… I missed you.”

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The company’s annual holiday party was in full swing when I pulled the raffle ticket that effectively ended my career. “I’m so sorry, Sloane,” Brenda, our HR director, said, her voice dripping with a sickly sweet, unmistakable schadenfreude. “You know how the market is right now. The tech sector is taking a beating, and we just can’t afford to keep everyone. We have to let you go.” I stood there, staring at the Q4 sales dashboard projected on the wall behind her. My name sat at the very top, boasting a cool $6 million in closed revenue for the quarter. I let the silence stretch, my mind spinning trying to process the sheer audacity of it. I had never, in my life, heard of a company stupid enough to lay off their top-performing sales director to cut costs. By that afternoon, I had packed my desk, walked out the door, and taken my ongoing $20 million client portfolio directly to our biggest competitor. When my now-former boss finally realized the magnitude of his catastrophic error, he called me, practically in tears, begging me to come back. But my new firm offered a culture and a compensation package that made my old job look like a bad joke. My new CEO even took the phone from my hand during one of those desperate calls. “Back off, Declan,” he barked into the receiver. “Sloane belongs to us now. You cut your own jugular to save a buck. Don’t come bleeding on my carpet.” 1 “Oh my god!” Ashley, one of the junior account executives, let out an ear-piercing squeal. “I won the five-day stay at Declan’s Aspen cabin!” The rest of the staff waiting in line buzzed with restless anticipation, practically vibrating with the hope of pulling a winning ticket. I was the only one standing off to the side, entirely unfazed. I knew exactly how this company operated. A startup that expected you to log into Zoom on a Sunday morning wasn’t suddenly feeling generous. Whatever “perks” were handed out tonight would undoubtedly be squeezed back out of us in unpaid overtime by mid-January. When there was only one folded slip of paper left in the glass bowl, Brenda waltzed over to me, a plastic smile plastered across her face. “Come on, Sloane. The whole floor has drawn a ticket except for you. I’ve got exactly one left. Just play along for the sake of the party.” Cornered by the HR director in front of half the marketing team, I felt a familiar flush of awkwardness. I didn’t want to be the office killjoy. “Sure. Thanks, Brenda,” I muttered, taking the slip. I unfolded it. Printed in bold, cheerful letters were the words: Indefinite Sabbatical. We hope you enjoy your time off! What the hell was this? An indefinite sabbatical? That wasn’t a prize. That wasn’t even a corporate concept. Before I could ask Brenda to clarify, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a Slack message from Declan, our CEO. Sloane, emergency meeting in Conference Room A. Need you here right now. I typed back a quick On my way, my stomach tightening into a cold knot as I navigated through the crowd. As I passed the women’s restroom, the heavy oak door was propped open, and I caught the hushed, urgent voices of two colleagues. “I don’t know whose toes Sloane stepped on,” one whispered, “but firing the top earner? It’s insane.” “Keep your voice down!” the other hissed. “If Declan hears you defending her, you’ll be next. Just keep your head down.” I stopped dead in the hallway. I looked down at the stupid little slip of paper in my hand—Indefinite Sabbatical—and suddenly, the pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. This was a setup. Declan and HR had orchestrated this entire humiliating spectacle. A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped my lips. Even through the shock, my dominant thought was simply: Who the hell fires their cash cow? 2 I had been with Hayes Digital since day one. Four years ago, this company wasn’t the sleek, five-hundred-person operation it was today. It was a no-name digital agency operating out of a cramped, poorly ventilated loft. In the beginning, we barely made payroll. Declan, a trust-fund kid playing entrepreneur, frequently had to dip into his own pockets just to keep the lights on. But even in our darkest months, he never missed a paycheck. Because of that bare-minimum loyalty, I turned down lucrative offers from established firms. I poured my soul into his vision. When the pandemic hit, I saw the shift in digital consumption and pivoted our entire strategy. I became a one-woman production house—writing scripts, shooting content, handling client outreach. There were weeks where I survived on black coffee and adrenaline, going three straight days without seeing a bed. The grind paid off. Our accounts exploded. A modest following turned into millions of impressions, and suddenly, premium brands were knocking on our door. Our monthly revenue didn’t just grow; it skyrocketed. We outgrew the loft, then the midtown office, expanding rapidly until we hit five hundred employees. Everyone was stunned by the hyper-growth. The original core team I’d started with were all bumped up to VP or C-suite roles. All of them except me. I was left in middle management, still doing the heavy lifting on the floor. I hadn’t fought it. Office politics and schmoozing weren’t in my DNA. I was a worker bee, happiest when I was in the trenches, closing deals and building campaigns. Because I didn’t care for the spotlight, someone else was more than happy to steal it: Harper Montgomery. Harper was Declan’s personal hire. The rumor mill had long since deduced she was sleeping with him, but everyone was too afraid of Declan’s temper to say it out loud. When she first arrived, she was placed under me to “learn the ropes.” For exactly two weeks, Harper played the eager, humble protégé. Then, the mask slipped. She didn’t want to learn; she wanted a stage. She started taking subtle digs at my background, weaponizing her elite education against me. “When I was at Columbia, my professors always emphasized macro-trends,” she’d purr during meetings. “But it’s so cute how much you’ve managed to pick up, Sloane, considering you just went to a state school.” Harper was there to build a resume without doing the work. When I landed in the ER for exhaustion after working three consecutive all-nighters, Harper took my meticulously crafted quarterly presentation, slapped her name on the title slide, and delivered it at the corporate summit. She was promoted to department head the next day. When my team and I stayed up until 4:00 AM drafting a massive pitch for a legacy retail brand, Harper took the client out for mimosas and shopping on Madison Avenue, casually handing them my proposal as if she had written it on a napkin over brunch. Whenever anyone dared to question the sheer imbalance of it, Declan shut it down immediately. “Harper is an Ivy League graduate with an eye for the big picture,” he would say, looking pointedly at me. “Some people need to stop being bitter just because they don’t have the pedigree for executive leadership.” Pedigree. He used my state university degree like a weapon, conveniently forgetting that it was my blue-collar work ethic that bought him his glass-corner office. The digital space is brutal and fast. Recently, newer, hungrier agencies had started eating into our market share. Revenue was dipping, and HR had been whispering about “optimizing headcount.” I had been too busy working to see the writing on the wall. I had outlived my usefulness. Now that the empire was built, they were throwing out the architect. 3 I hadn’t even officially been terminated yet, and Harper’s loyal lapdogs were already dancing on my grave. As I approached Conference Room A, a sharp, nasal voice echoed from the open bathroom door, stopping me in my tracks again. It was Jessica, Harper’s newly appointed deputy and chief sycophant. “Are you guys seriously falling for Sloane’s martyr act?” Jessica scoffed. “If Sloane was actually some genius rainmaker, why is she still slumming it in middle management while Harper is running the department?” Jessica continued, her voice echoing off the subway tile. “Think about it. Everyone who started with Sloane is a VP now. It just proves she doesn’t have what it takes. Honestly, if she wasn’t riding on the ‘original employee’ pity card, she would have been fired years ago.” “But Harper totally takes credit for Sloane’s campaigns,” one of the younger girls murmured hesitantly. “Jessica, are you sure?” another voice chimed in. “Sloane is always the last one to leave the office. And whenever I need help with a client brief, she actually knows the product inside and out…” Jessica scoffed loudly, the sound sharp and condescending. “That’s exactly why you juniors are so easily manipulated. It’s all a performance. Sloane just acts busy to cover up the fact that she’s incompetent. Trust me, give it two days and she’ll be out on the street with her things in a cardboard box.” They were doing this right out in the open. They were so confident in my demise that they didn’t even bother to lower their voices. I pushed the bathroom door all the way open. It hit the wall with a dull thud. “Wow, Jessica,” I said, my voice eerily calm, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “I had no idea I was such a manipulative mastermind. You seem to know my career trajectory better than I do.” Jessica stiffened, the color draining from her face. But she quickly recovered, crossing her arms and jutting out her chin. “Sloane? I thought you liked playing the quiet, unbothered victim. Why are you suddenly trying to pick a fight? Did HR finally give you the boot? Barking because you’re backed into a corner?” I didn’t waste time on a witty comeback. I closed the distance between us in two strides and slapped her. It wasn’t a movie slap. It was a sharp, stinging crack across her cheek that echoed through the tiled room. I was never one for corporate diplomacy. If you pushed me to the edge of the cliff, I was going to take a piece of you with me on the way down. Jessica gasped, clutching her face, a high-pitched scream tearing from her throat. “I’d advise you to brush up on your legal terminology,” I said, leaning in close so she could see the absolute zero in my eyes. “What you were just doing is called defamation. Say my name again, and see what happens.” I turned on my heel and marched out of the bathroom, leaving her sobbing in shock. I was getting fired anyway. To hell with networking. 4 The moment I stepped into Conference Room A, Brenda slammed a stack of exit paperwork onto the mahogany table. “Sloane! You are literally on your way out the door, and you have the audacity to pull a stunt like this?” Brenda’s face was flushed purple with rage. “Harper just told me you physically assaulted Jessica in the restroom! She’s threatening to call the police!” The adrenaline from the bathroom was still coursing through my veins, hot and volatile. “She was spreading malicious lies about me to junior staff,” I snapped back, refusing to cower. “That does not give you the right to put your hands on another employee! You need to pack your personal belongings and vacate the premises immediately.” “I want to hear it from Declan.” “This is Declan’s directive,” Brenda countered, her voice dropping into that robotic, liability-dodging HR cadence. The injustice of it formed a hard, suffocating lump in my throat. I swallowed it down. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “What about the handover for my accounts?” I asked, my voice dangerously tight. “I have twenty million in active Q1 pipelines.” “That is no longer your concern. Just pack your things and go. Frankly, Sloane, our hiring standards have evolved. We only take Ivy League or top-tier candidates now. Your role isn’t something we can’t easily replace with a fresh graduate.” I let out a dark, humorless laugh. If she wanted to devalue me, I wasn’t going to stand here and beg for my worth. I flipped open the termination letter. Under Reason for Dismissal, it read: Failure to meet performance standards and suspected ethical violations regarding client kickbacks. The fire that had just started to cool roared back to life, scorching my lungs. They weren’t just firing me; they were trying to destroy my reputation so I couldn’t poach my clients. They were making me the scapegoat for their declining numbers. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the paper. I spun around, bypassing Brenda entirely, and marched toward the executive suites to find Declan. But I didn’t make it to his office. The moment I stepped out of the conference room, I ran straight into Harper. She wasn’t alone. She had two of the building’s burly security guards flanking her, looking like a queen presiding over an execution. “Well, if it isn’t the violent liability,” Harper sneered. “Running away now that you realize you’re actually in trouble?” “Get out of my way, Harper. I’m talking to Declan.” “Oh, honey. You really think you’re important enough to demand an audience with the CEO? Look in a mirror. You don’t belong here.” “I built here,” I hissed, taking a step toward her. The security guards tensed. “I bled for this company when it was a ten-person operation running out of a basement. I am the reason you have a job to play pretend at. We both know you couldn’t close a deal if your life depended on it. Let’s see how long you survive playing executive once I’m gone and my numbers walk out the door with me.” Harper’s smug smile faltered. For a split second, genuine panic flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by vicious anger. “You’re delusional! Everyone knows I’m the one driving the sales department! You’re just a bitter, aging dinosaur coasting on the fact that you’ve been here since the start.” A few people in the open-plan office muttered in agreement, too terrified of Harper to do anything but nod along. Realizing that logic was useless against a cult of personality, I decided to cut my losses. I turned to walk back to my desk to grab my things. But Harper stepped in front of me, her hand pressed flat against my chest to stop me. “You aren’t going anywhere until the police get here. Jessica is in the breakroom with an ice pack! You psychopathic bitch, you’re going to pay for that.” My vision blurred at the edges. I raised my hand, fully prepared to give Harper the exact same treatment I’d given her lapdog, when a booming voice echoed down the hall. “What the hell is going on out here? This is a corporate office, not a reality show!” Declan strode out of his glass suite. Instantly, Harper morphed from an attack dog into a wounded butterfly, fluttering over to his side and lightly gripping his bicep. “Declan, thank god,” she breathed, her voice trembling with manufactured distress. “Sloane completely lost her mind when Brenda gave her the news. She attacked Jessica!” Right on cue, Jessica emerged from the breakroom, clutching her cheek and looking appropriately devastated. “It’s true, Declan,” Jessica whimpered. “Sloane thinks just because she’s an original employee, she can bully anyone she wants.” Watching Harper and Jessica execute their synchronized performance, a profound, heavy exhaustion washed over me. I had spent weeks mentoring Harper when she first arrived. I had stayed late to help her fix her mistakes. And this was the return on my investment. 5 “That’s a lie,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “And you know it.” Declan held up a hand, cutting me off, his expression dripping with disdain. “Save it, Sloane. I know exactly what kind of person you are.” Harper’s grip on his arm tightened. “Declan, don’t let her manipulate you. She’s been undermining this company for months—” “Enough,” Declan snapped, silencing Harper. He turned his gaze back to me, shaking his head with a theatrical sigh of disappointment. “Security,” he commanded, gesturing to the guards. “Since Ms. Hastings is no longer an employee, escort her off the premises. If she causes a scene, call the NYPD for criminal trespassing.” He looked back at me, his eyes dead and unfeeling. “Consider this a mercy, Sloane. I’m not pressing charges for the assault, out of respect for our history. But you are going to pack your shit and leave, right now. I have a massive client coming in fifteen minutes, and I don’t have time for this middle-school drama.” It felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. To have four years of my life, my health, and my relentless dedication dismissed in three sentences… it was a betrayal so profound it physically hurt to breathe. But beneath the crushing grief, a slow, hot fury was igniting. I stood on the sidewalk twenty minutes later, the December wind biting through my coat. One of the security guards callously dumped my cardboard box of belongings onto the concrete. A few of my pens and a framed photo spilled onto the pavement. “You soulless corporate hack!” I screamed at the glass doors, not caring who heard me. “I built you! I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me?!” Harper had followed the guards down to the lobby. She stepped out through the revolving doors, shivering in her designer silk blouse, an ugly smirk on her face. She casually kicked my spilled photograph further down the sidewalk. “I’d shut my mouth if I were you,” Harper sneered. “Our VIP investor is about to pull up. If you do anything to jeopardize this deal and embarrass us, I will personally make sure you are blacklisted from every agency in New York.” As I knelt down to gather my scattered pens, a sleek, jet-black Maybach silently glided to the curb, stopping mere inches from where I crouched. Instantly, Declan burst through the revolving doors, practically vibrating with eager subservience. He and Harper rushed toward the rear passenger door, elbowing me out of the way like I was an unruly panhandler. I clutched my cardboard box to my chest and stayed exactly where I was, watching the pathetic display unfold. They had absolutely no idea that their “VIP investor”—the savior they were banking on to keep Hayes Digital from going under—was my cousin. The only reason he had even agreed to look at Hayes Digital’s bloated, rotting financials was because I had spent three months begging him to give us a chance. Carter was a ruthless venture capitalist. He didn’t throw money at failing companies. He was only doing this because he believed in me. The gull-wing door slowly rose. A man stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke suit. He had sharp, intelligent eyes framed by tortoiseshell glasses. Declan immediately launched into a sickeningly sweet greeting, bowing his head like a peasant greeting a king. Harper shoved her chest forward, flashing a dazzling, flirtatious smile that she usually reserved for happy hours. Carter didn’t even look at them. His icy gaze landed directly on me, kneeling on the concrete with my box of desk supplies. Harper, sensing the tension, quickly tried to do damage control. “Mr. Sinclair, I am so sorry,” she cooed, gesturing dismissively at me. “That’s just a disgruntled former employee having a mental breakdown. She’s insane. We’re having security remove her right now.” Carter slowly turned his head to look at Harper. His brow furrowed in a way that made the temperature on the sidewalk drop ten degrees. “Excuse me?” Carter’s voice was dangerously soft. “Did you just call my sister a lunatic?” (Note: While cousins, ‘sister’ or ‘little sister’ is often used by protective older male figures in US contexts when asserting familial dominance, but for clarity of the original text’s “cousin/brother” dynamic, I will adjust to the exact American equivalent of a fiercely protective older cousin). “Did you just call my family a lunatic?” Carter corrected himself, his tone lethal.

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1 I met Silas Ford during the darkest year of his life. It was a night defined by a torrential New York downpour. I found him in a literal gutter, his clothes paper-thin and soaked through with blood. He had been beaten within an inch of his life. Back then, I was working two dead-end service jobs just to keep him in a hospital bed and pay off the surgeons. When he finally pulled through, I spent a year dragging him out of the psychological wreckage. Then, I spent three more years in a cramped, thirty-square-meter studio in Queens, watching him rebuild his empire from nothing. He used to hold my hands—calloused from scrubbing floors—and swear to me: “Once I take back what’s mine, I’m going to make you the happiest woman in the world.” And for a while, he kept that promise. He became the toast of Manhattan’s elite, a man famously, almost pathologically, devoted to his wife. Until our third wedding anniversary. I was heading to the parking garage of his office building when I saw his black Escalade. It was rocking—a rhythmic, violent motion that didn’t stop for a long time. I stood there, paralyzed, the air in the garage feeling like lead in my lungs. Eventually, the door opened. Silas stepped out, his silhouette as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. He reached back into the car to help a slender woman out, his arm draped possessively around her waist. He whispered something in her ear that made her erupt into a fit of giggles. “I never would have guessed,” she teased, her voice like a jagged piece of glass. “The legendary Silas Ford, the man who worships his wife, actually has a side chick.” Silas didn’t even hesitate. His voice was casual, light, as if he were discussing the weather. “Well,” he said. “She’s just… gotten old.” 2 Hearing those words felt like a physical blow. It wasn’t just a sting; it was a total internal collapse. I was twenty-four when I “awoke” in this world—a stranger in a strange land. Silas was the first person I truly connected with. We survived the lean years together. We shared the bitterness of hunger and the sweetness of our first real paycheck. We had lived a lifetime in seven years. Seven years. My entire youth. And it all boiled down to: She’s gotten old. I forced a brittle, ugly smile. I watched the elevator display. It stopped on the 16th floor. The irony was a physical weight in my stomach. She lived in the same luxury high-rise we did, just a few floors below our penthouse. How many nights had they spent together while I sat upstairs, keeping his dinner warm? The bitterness surged like a tide. I took a breath, smoothed my hair, and walked into our home as if nothing had changed. I sat on the sofa, the TV flickering with some meaningless show, waiting for him. When he finally walked in, he didn’t look at me. He headed straight for the master bath, stripping off his jacket. He glanced at the spread on the dining table—the steak, the wine, the candles I’d lit for our anniversary. “Summer,” he said, his voice flat. “Don’t wait up for me to eat anymore. Just have yours. I’m exhausted, I’m going to skip dinner and shower.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He just closed the bathroom door. 3 I sat at the table alone. I picked up a fork and forced a mouthful of cold steak into my mouth. It tasted like ash. When Silas emerged from the shower, he walked past me with a gaze so indifferent it made my skin crawl. The man who used to look at me with such fierce adoration was gone. In his place was a stranger who found my presence a chore. “Silas,” I said, my voice steady. “Sit down. Eat something with me.” He sighed, checking his watch. “I told you, I’m not hungry.” “Eat,” I repeated. “You might not get to eat my cooking ever again after tonight.” He frowned, his irritation flaring. He sat down purely to pacify me, taking a few aggressive bites. “There. Happy?” he snapped. “This is freezing, Summer. It’s terrible. Stop being so dramatic; it’s not like we can’t afford a private chef. You don’t need to do this.” A lump formed in my throat, choking me. I remembered him saying, Baby, your cooking is the best thing in the world. I could eat this every day for the rest of my life. I remembered him saying, I hate seeing you in the kitchen. I want to be the one taking care of you from now on. He had forgotten. He had forgotten the promises, the struggle, and the fact that today was our anniversary. His phone buzzed on the table. He checked it ten times in five minutes. 4 A notification popped up, and he immediately dropped his fork to head into the study. “Go to sleep,” he said. “Something came up with the firm.” He didn’t notice the small, involuntary smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he turned away. Later that night, curled up in bed, my stomach began to cramp—a sharp, stabbing pain from the cold food and the stress. Silas wasn’t there. I texted him; no reply. I called; busy signal. I got up to find some antacids. When I couldn’t find them in the kitchen, I headed toward the study. Silas had always insisted on “total transparency” to give me security. He never locked his doors; he even used to take calls on speakerphone in front of me. He seemed to have forgotten to break that habit. I stopped at the door, hearing his best friend, Grant Miller, on the line. “Silas, man,” Grant’s voice was skeptical. “Do you even remember who stayed by your side when you were a nobody? Do you remember how much you loved her?” “I haven’t forgotten,” Silas replied. “It’s just… she’s become so dull. So predictable.” “In other words, you’re bored,” Grant surmised. Silas didn’t deny it. “So you’re really messing around with that new intern? What’s her name? Tiffany?” Silas’s tone sharpened with defensive pride. “‘Messing around’ is a bit crude, don’t you think?” “Wait. You’re catching feelings for this girl?” Silas gave a soft, wistful laugh. “She’s just so… vibrant. So innocent. She looks at me like I’m a hero, not like someone who remembers me when I was bleeding in a gutter.” “Be careful, Silas,” Grant warned. “We all saw what you went through for Summer. You were willing to lose everything for her. If she finds out, there’s no coming back.” “She won’t find out,” Silas said, his voice dripping with chilling confidence. “And even if she does… I don’t think she’d ever walk away. Not from this life. Not after seven years of her youth. Honestly, Grant, sometimes I wonder if she only saved me back then because she knew who I really was. It was an investment.” 5 His words turned my blood to ice. He had no idea. Saving him—”completing his route”—was the mission the System gave me when I first arrived in this world. But my final task was supposed to be leaving him at the height of his love for me. That was my ticket home. I had agonized over it for three days back then. How could I not fall for the man who looked at me like I was his entire universe? In the end, I chose him. I stayed. I sacrificed my only chance to return to my real world because I thought our love was the exception. The pain in my stomach intensified. It wasn’t just the food. It was the realization that his recent coldness wasn’t “stress.” He was simply done with me. He was so confident in my devotion. He thought my seven years were a cage that kept me trapped at his feet. He was using my love as a weapon against me. 6 I knew Tiffany’s name. I remembered the first time Silas mentioned her. He had acted so annoyed. “The new intern is a disaster,” he’d said, rubbing his temples. “She’s not half as sharp as you, Summer.” “Then why keep her?” I’d asked. “She’s the daughter of a major partner. I owe the guy a favor. It’s a political move.” Seeing my silence, he had pulled me into his lap, sounding desperate. “Don’t overthink it, okay? I’ll get rid of her as soon as the deal closes. She’s clumsy and honestly, she’s a headache to look at.” I had laughed, and he had looked relieved—as if he were genuinely terrified of losing me. I realized now that she was the first woman he had ever bothered to complain about to me. It was the oldest trick in the book. 7 By the time I crawled back into bed, the physical pain had gone numb, eclipsed by the hollow ache in my chest. I curled into a ball, trying to hold myself together. The next morning, Silas was gone. It was our housekeeper’s day off—I’d given her the holiday for our anniversary—so I dragged myself into the kitchen to make some simple oatmeal. I didn’t hear Silas come back in. Suddenly, he was standing behind me, his expression tight with disapproval. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, reaching for the pot. “I’ve got it,” I said, my grip tightening on the handle. In the struggle, the boiling liquid splashed onto the back of my hand. I hissed in pain. Silas immediately turned off the stove and dragged my hand under the cold tap. “Clumsy,” he muttered, his voice cold. “I told you to stay out of the kitchen. Stay here, I’ll get the ointment.” His phone rang before he could step away. He checked it, glancing at me. This time, he didn’t use the speakerphone. But in the quiet kitchen, I heard everything. “Silas… I had a nightmare,” a girl’s voice sobbed on the other end. “I dreamt you didn’t want me anymore.” I saw Silas’s jaw relax. He was suppressing a smile. He didn’t get the ointment. He just dropped my hand and grabbed his keys. “Find the medicine yourself,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “There’s an emergency at the office.” He didn’t even grab his coat before he slammed the door. 8 He wasn’t gone five minutes before I got a friend request on Instagram. The bio said: Tiffany L. I hit accept with trembling fingers. Immediately, a photo popped up in my DMs. It was a selfie of her lying in Silas’s arms. “Sorry, Summer. Silas is just so impatient. He wore me out this morning.” “He says I’m his breath of fresh air. He told me you’ve gotten… well, ‘stale’ was the word he used.” “He won’t divorce you yet because he feels guilty about that whole ‘saving his life’ thing. But what do you think will happen if I tell him I’m pregnant?” A bitter laugh escaped me. He had told her everything. Our entire history was just pillow talk for them. I took a deep breath and screenshotted the conversation. I walked to the window and looked out at the New York skyline. I had no one in this world but him. If he was gone, I was truly alone. But I wasn’t going to stay a ghost in his house. I summoned the System—the interface that had been silent for years. “I’d like to trade my accumulated points,” I whispered. “I know I can’t go home anymore. But I want a new heart. I want to leave Silas Ford and ensure he can never find me again.” The System’s mechanical voice flickered in my mind. “Are you certain, Host? Once the ‘Disappearance Protocol’ is activated, it cannot be reversed.” “I’m certain.” “Understood. The protocol will take thirty days to finalize.” 9 One month. The countdown would end on the exact date I first met him. I began systematically purging my life. I packed a small bag of essentials and threw away years of mementos. Silas came home early that evening, but he went straight to the walk-in closet and started packing his own suitcase. “I have a business trip for a few days,” he said, his tone dismissive. “Why doesn’t your secretary pack for you?” I asked. Silas froze. He slowly turned around, his face a mask of calm. “She’s a young woman, Summer. It wouldn’t be appropriate for her to handle my personal things.” “Is that so?” I leaned against the doorframe, mocking him with a look. His face darkened. “Don’t start with the irrational jealousy. There’s nothing going on.” “Did I say there was? Why are you so defensive? Did something happen?” He realized he’d overplayed his hand. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t have time for this.” He zipped his suitcase and pushed past me without a second glance. 10 As soon as he left, his grandmother arrived. She was flanked by a nurse carrying a thermos. I knew exactly what was inside. “Summer, dear,” the old woman said, her voice sharp despite the endearment. “Drink this. You and Silas have been married long enough. It’s time we saw some results in that belly of yours.” Evelyn Ford was the only person Silas truly respected. I had spent years trying to win her over, despite her making it clear she thought a girl from the streets wasn’t fit for the Ford name. She had only tolerated me because Silas had been so unyielding about our marriage. Since the wedding, she had bombarded me with “traditional remedies” and fertility tonics. I used to drink them to keep the peace. I hated the smell of medicine—it made me nauseous—but I’d endure it, even if I threw it all up afterward. Not today. “I’m not drinking it,” I said. Evelyn’s face contorted. “Don’t you forget what you promised when you entered this family.” “I’m divorcing Silas,” I said clearly. The room went dead silent. Even the nurse looked up in shock. Everyone knew how much I loved him. They had built their cruelty on the foundation of my devotion. Now, that foundation was gone. 11 After kicking the old woman out, I went to a lawyer. I had the divorce papers drawn up and started looking for a new city. The rain didn’t stop for three days. It felt like the city was mourning the death of the woman I used to be. That night, I drank a little too much wine and fell asleep on the sofa. I dreamed of our Queens apartment. Those New York winters were brutal. I’ve always been sensitive to the cold, and back then, we couldn’t afford the heating bill. Silas used to wrap himself around me every night, acting as my human space heater. He had been so tender then. Everyone envied me for having a man so devoted. We had crawled out of the darkness together, hand in hand. On our wedding day, he had held me so tight his knuckles turned white. “I finally have you,” he had whispered, his eyes red. “I’ll make you the happiest woman alive. Just promise you’ll never leave me.” My phone vibrated, jarring me awake. It was a message from Tiffany. Three photos. One of her in a hospital gown. One of Silas sitting by her bed, looking at her with heartbreaking tenderness. And the last one: a photo of the door to the OB-GYN clinic. The dream was over. It was time to wake up. 12 “Sorry, Summer. The baby’s been a bit unstable these last three days, so Silas has been staying at the hospital to look after us.” “Oh, wait—did I forget to tell you? I’m pregnant. Silly me, it just slipped out.” I stared at the screen, unmoved by her amateur dramatics. I saved the photos and drove to the hospital. Silas was a man of habit; when he cared about someone, he bought the best. It wasn’t hard to find him. I found the maternity ward. I saw them immediately. He was supporting her by the waist, walking with agonizing slowness as if she were made of glass. “I’m not that fragile, Silas,” she giggled. “Maybe not,” he said, his voice thick with affection. “But he is.” He placed a hand gently over her stomach. She beamed, leaning in to kiss him. Silas caught her by the shoulders, then leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. It was a beautiful picture. They looked like a perfect, happy family.

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