Author: Momo Chan

During my annual checkup, the doctor found an ovarian cyst. She said it was nothing serious and suggested we monitor it at the next follow-up. But my husband disagreed. He frowned and insisted I have surgery. “Better safe than sorry. What if it gets worse? Trust me, Summer — let’s just get it taken care of. I’ll feel a lot better knowing you did.” Hard to say no to that kind of concern, so I ended up on the operating table. What I didn’t expect was that the surgeon would be my husband’s childhood sweetheart. She streamed my entire surgery without my knowledge or consent, exposing me in front of over a hundred thousand people. When I came out of anesthesia, my phone was flooded with disgusting messages from strange men. I was ready to lose it and confront Sandra about what she did — but my husband and his mother blocked me. “That was a contribution to medical education, Summer. How can you be so unreasonable? Honestly, the only reason you’d find anything wrong with it is if your own mind was in the gutter.” I lost my job. Then, in the depths of my depression, I swallowed a bottle of pills. As I lay there, I heard my mother-in-law laughing. “After being exposed like that in front of everyone, she was already damaged goods. Honestly? Good riddance. Now Sandra can finally have what’s hers.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back — the day my husband first pushed me toward surgery. This time, I said yes without hesitation. Then I turned around and went to find his mother. “Mom, you really shouldn’t keep putting it off. I went ahead and booked a surgery appointment for you.”

My mother-in-law was sprawled on the couch, legs crossed, watching TV. When she heard me, she didn’t even bother to look up. “At my age? Surgery? It’s not like it’s killing me. I’m getting by just fine.” I’d expected exactly that. I made a show of hesitating, picked up a pair of her pants from the laundry pile nearby, and let my voice trail off like I wasn’t sure how to say what came next. “It’s just… Mom, it seems like the leaking has been getting worse lately. Look — it’s only been a few days, and already so many pairs you can’t wear anymore. And the smell…” The moment she realized what I was holding — her urine-stained pants — her face went crimson. Her neck stiffened. “Summer! What exactly are you implying? Are you saying you’re too good for this? You married into this family. Doing a little laundry for your mother-in-law — isn’t that just part of the deal?” I laughed on the inside. This bladder problem of hers started when she gave birth to my husband, Ethan. By any reasonable standard, it was her son’s responsibility to look after her — what did that have to do with me, the daughter-in-law? But ever since she’d moved in with us, the apartment had carried this persistent, sour smell that never quite went away. At first, I’d felt sorry for her. She’d worked hard her whole life. So I’d helped with the laundry a few times out of kindness — and somehow that turned into my permanent job. If I didn’t do it, the dirty clothes would pile up in the hamper until the whole living room reeked. Even Ethan’s clothes and mine ended up smelling strange. I frowned slightly and leaned closer, keeping my voice low, my tone nothing but sincere. “Mom, I’m not complaining about you. I’m worried about Ethan. He’s been grumbling to me lately — saying the smell is bothering him. Have you noticed? He’s been coming home less and less.” “And Dad — I mean, why else would he rather stay out at that old property than come live here with you? I just want things to be good between you and Dad. That’s all I’m thinking about.” The moment I brought up her precious son and her husband, her whole expression shifted. She instinctively lifted her sleeve and sniffed it. Her eyes flickered. She thought about how Ethan had been citing “late nights at the office” as his excuse lately, and how her husband refused to budge from their old place no matter what she said. Her resistance crumbled — though her pride made sure her mouth held on a little longer. “Well, if you’re so sure about it, fine. But you’re paying for the surgery. And you are not to tell Ethan or his father. You hear me?” I smiled and nodded, offering a few reassuring words. Not wanting to give her time to change her mind, I headed to the hospital first thing the next morning and booked her procedure. I was just leaving with the paperwork when a nurse called out to me. “Family member? The doctor needs to go over the procedure with you.” I pushed open the exam room door. The woman sitting behind the desk looked up — and it was Sandra, Ethan’s childhood sweetheart and the woman he’d never quite let go of. She was holding the freshly printed surgical paperwork, eyebrows drawn together, looking at me with poorly concealed suspicion. “I thought you were here for a uterine fibroid. Why did you schedule a urinary incontinence procedure?”

My stomach dropped — and then quietly, I felt relieved. Thank god I’d booked everything under my own name. If I’d used my mother-in-law’s name, it would’ve been over before it started. Sandra never missed a chance to make my life difficult. I’d barely finished booking, and she’d already gotten her hands on the paperwork. I quickly lowered my eyes and put on my best uncomfortable, hard-to-admit expression, forcing the words out slowly. “Dr. Hayes, I looked into it and the fibroid really isn’t serious. But this other problem — even though it’s not dangerous, it’s been affecting my life. A lot.” I glanced up briefly, then dropped my eyes again, voice barely above a whisper. “My husband hasn’t been coming home much lately. I just want to fix this as fast as I can.” Sandra listened. The corner of her mouth twitched — just barely — and a layer of smug satisfaction settled over her face before she could smooth it away. Of course she knew exactly where Ethan had been spending his time. With her. She composed herself quickly and put on the superior, lecturing tone she liked to use with me. “According to your file, you’ve never had children. You’re young — why would you have this kind of issue?” “Honestly, it makes me wonder about your lifestyle choices. A woman should take care of herself. Otherwise, the day your husband loses interest and moves on, no one’s going to want what’s left.” I seethed on the inside. On the outside, I nodded like I was taking notes, properly chastened. She seemed to enjoy the sight of me taking it. Satisfied, she waved me off like she was doing me a favor. Right before I reached the door, she made a show of fanning the air in front of her nose, her face scrunched in exaggerated distaste. “Summer — personal hygiene before the procedure, please. You’ve only been in here a few minutes and the whole room is already…” She let the sentence hang there unfinished. The look on her face said everything she didn’t. I kept nodding and walked out. When I got home, Ethan was already at the dinner table. He looked up when I came in. The flicker of disgust in his eyes was barely disguised. Sandra had already told him something, clearly. Once everyone sat down and the food was on the table, Ethan made a production of covering his nose, his face twisted. “What is that smell? Something’s off in here — like something sour.” “Summer, are you even keeping this place clean anymore? You can’t even manage basic hygiene? Mom, aren’t you going to say something to her?” I played dumb and glanced nervously over at my mother-in-law. Her face had gone the color of a bruise. Her lips were trembling. Her eyes were glassy with humiliation — the kind that’s about to boil over into rage. There were actual tears forming. I almost had to bite the inside of my cheek. Ethan was gearing up to say more, but his mother suddenly slammed her fork down on the table with a crack that made everyone flinch. “Will you stop talking nonsense at the dinner table! I don’t smell anything! Nothing at all!” “Ethan, I know you’re tired from work, but don’t you dare bring that attitude home and take it out on us.” Ethan looked thrown. He stared at his mother, then at me, visibly confused by the sudden outburst. Under her warning glare, he backed down. He mumbled something under his breath and went quiet. “Alright, alright. I’ll drop it. Geez, what’s gotten into you tonight.” The rest of dinner was eaten in an atmosphere that was equal parts tense and bizarre. That night, I gathered up the pile of my mother-in-law’s clothes that needed washing and carried them to the bathroom. I’d just dropped them into the basin when footsteps sounded beyond the curtain. Ethan. He clearly had no idea I was in there. He walked straight in, pulled out his phone, and dialed. A second later, his voice came through — softer than I’d ever heard him use with me. “Hey, Sandi — do you need any help with that livestream setup?” “Don’t worry, she won’t find out. I won’t let anything get in your way.” “I know the competition for the department head position is brutal right now. Once this stream goes well and you get that promotion — your happiness is my happiness.”

Listening to him speak to Sandra with that kind of warmth — I was suddenly back there. The messages. The screenshots. The things men I’d never met thought it was fine to write to me. When I’d gone after Sandra in a blind rage, Ethan had stepped between us and turned on me instead. “That stream was a contribution to medicine. It was a noble thing. The only reason you’d have a problem with it is if you have a filthy mind.” He’d said it like he meant it. He never once thought about what came after. What I was supposed to do with my life once that footage was out in the world. He’d thrown my life away without a second thought — just to give Sandra a shortcut to a promotion. He loved her that much. Funny he didn’t volunteer himself for the table. I was furious, but I didn’t make a sound. He couldn’t know that I already knew about the stream. Not yet. That would ruin everything. I held my breath and waited for him to finish the call and leave. The voice on the other end said something. Ethan gave a low, quiet laugh, then hung up. But he didn’t leave. After a few seconds of silence, he sniffed the air and muttered to himself. “What is that? Did Summer leave something in here?” I pressed myself back — too slow. He yanked the curtain open. We stared at each other. Then his face changed. “You heard everything, didn’t you.” I knew that going quiet would only make things worse — he’d read it as guilt, and his paranoia would spiral from there. So instead, I let the anger out. “Yes. I heard all of it.” I looked straight at him. “I can’t believe you would do this, Ethan. A livestream? Of my entire surgery? Do you understand what that means? It’s a gynecological procedure. Once that’s out there — how am I supposed to face anyone? What does that do to my life?” His face darkened. He’d been so focused on making Sandra happy that he’d agreed without really thinking it through. Now, caught out and knowing it, he fell back on attack. “There’s nothing wrong with it! To a doctor, it’s just a routine procedure. Can you stop making everything dirty? This is normal medical education content.” He looked me over with contempt. “And honestly? You’re not exactly young anymore. You really think anyone’s going to be watching for the reason you’re imagining? Don’t flatter yourself.” I stared at him harder. “So being older makes it okay to humiliate me? If you’re so committed to the cause of medical science, Ethan — why don’t you get on the table? Let Sandra stream you. Go ahead.” “That’s completely different and you know it —” “Because she’s in gynecology? I know.” I cut him off. “The real reason you’re fine with this is that it’s not happening to you.” He shifted tactics, his voice turning contemptuous. “You know what your problem is? You’re jealous. You’re jealous that Sandra is accomplished and successful and doing something meaningful. So you want to drag her down. You’re being completely irrational.” “This is standard procedure. If it weren’t you, it’d be someone else. I’m giving you the chance to be part of something worthwhile — and you’re too selfish to see it. Keep this up, and I want a divorce.” The word landed. I let my face fall. I looked down. I went quiet. At that moment, his mother appeared in the doorway, drawn by the noise. “What is all this shouting? Some of us are trying to sleep.” Ethan almost turned to her — almost made it her problem — but then he remembered how she’d defended me at dinner. He swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. She was traditional. She would never understand the livestream. He couldn’t risk it. He switched to a breezy, dismissive tone. “Nothing, Mom. Just a little couple’s spat. You know how it is. Go back to bed — we’re fine.” He shot me one last hard look, then steered his still-grumbling mother out of the bathroom and closed the door behind them.

The next day, the livestream equipment Ethan had ordered for Sandra arrived at the house. I looked at the boxes stacked in the entryway and felt nothing but a cold, hollow amusement. He was still dreaming about being her hero, paving her road to the top. He had no idea that the person climbing onto that table wouldn’t be me. I thought about my mother-in-law’s face at dinner — how a few careless words about smell had nearly reduced her to tears. I sighed. A last flicker of pity moved through me. I pulled Ethan away from the equipment he was fussing with. “Ethan. I’m saying this one more time. Livestreaming a surgery without the patient’s consent is a serious violation of privacy. It’s illegal. You will ruin someone’s life.” He shook me off with barely disguised annoyance. “Privacy? What law? I’m the family member giving consent — that’s all that matters. Why are you always so dramatic?” “And can you stop projecting your own twisted thinking onto everyone else? Normal people don’t sit around imagining the worst.” While we argued, his mother wandered in. She hadn’t caught the specifics, just saw me grabbing at Ethan while he was trying to work. She dug her fingers into my arm and shrieked. “Summer! What do you know about any of this? Ethan handles his own business. Stop throwing tantrums every five minutes!” Her nails left marks on my wrist. I looked at her face — that absolute, unthinking certainty that she was right — and the last trace of hesitation left me. Some people really can’t be warned. The following morning, under Ethan’s repeated reminders to hurry up, I brought my mother-in-law to the hospital early. Ethan and Sandra were busy setting up the stream. Neither of them came by the room once to check on the patient. On my way out, I stopped by the nurses’ station with a quiet request. “My mother-in-law is a very private person. She gets embarrassed easily. Could you make sure her face is covered during the procedure? Just to keep her comfortable. Thank you.” Then I slipped out of the ward and found an empty waiting room down the hall. The stream went live. At first, it was a quiet, niche medical channel. The viewer count barely moved — until Sandra pulled back the surgical drape without warning, exposing my mother-in-law fully under the HD camera. The numbers exploded. The comment section became a blur of motion. Messages scrolled too fast to read. Crude jokes, disgusting symbols, mockery — it filled the screen in waves. And somewhere in the middle of it, Ethan’s anonymous account was in there too, leading the charge. “Holy — how is it even like that? That’s disgusting.” “Lol, clearly been through a lot. No wonder she has that problem.” “Someone tell me what this woman does for a living that would do that kind of damage.” Ethan stared at the screen. Some small, nagging unease flickered at the edge of his mind — something about what he was seeing didn’t quite match what he’d expected. But the live viewer count was going up by the thousands, and that drowned everything else out. He told himself it was the lighting. And then he went back to work stoking the comments. Behind her surgical mask, Sandra was watching the numbers climb. Her smile had gone wide. The promotion felt like a sure thing. Riding the momentum, she made her move. She turned away toward the instrument table as if to grab something — and as she turned back, her foot drifted toward the head of the table. Her hand caught the covering over my mother-in-law’s face. She pulled it away. My mother-in-law’s face, unobstructed, filled the camera. Sandra’s eyes went wide. A startled cry escaped her. The instrument in her hand clattered to the floor. At the same moment, on the other side of the screen, the grin froze on Ethan’s face. “That’s — that’s my mother.”

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I found a beggar and spent all my savings treating his injuries and funding his business. A year later, he became the city’s newest billionaire. Everyone envied my eye for talent, waiting for me to marry into wealth. But instead, he got down on one knee before my sister, claiming he’d loved the wrong person and only now realized she was his true love. I didn’t cry or make a scene. I just smiled and nodded. My whole family thought I’d accepted my fate. But no one knew—I was born with the gift of reading fortune. I’d seen long ago that Ethan carried the rarest golden koi luck. One year of preparation, all to claim that fortune for myself. Marrying into wealth? Please. I was going to become the wealth myself! I was born with the ability to see everyone’s fortune. Ordinary people were surrounded by a faint white glow. A-list celebrities on TV shows radiated brilliant red. Those plagued by misfortune, destined for bankruptcy or sudden death, were wrapped in thick, impenetrable black. Only me—when I looked in the mirror, my fortune was completely transparent. A void. I spent my childhood poring through mysticism texts and seeking out reclusive masters. Finally, a blind fortune teller told me the truth. I had an empty fate. Short life, thin destiny. Only one solution existed. Steal someone else’s fortune and make it my own. But I searched for years and never found a fortune worth taking. Until one day, in the trash-filled alley of the old district, I saw a blinding golden light. Getting closer, I realized the light came from a filthy beggar. He was skeletal, his wounds infected and crawling with maggots. But that golden fortune was solid as crystal, swimming around him like koi fish. The legendary Nine-Turn Golden Koi Fortune—a once-in-a-century phenomenon! This fortune promised unimaginable wealth and the power to defy fate itself, turning disaster into blessing. My heart pounded like I’d fallen in love at first sight. I extended my trembling hand toward him. “Come with me.” The moment I got home, my sister Tiana’s shriek shattered the silence. “She brought home a disgusting beggar!” Mom rushed out of the kitchen, pinching her nose and pointing at me accusingly. “Where did you pick up this vagrant? He reeks and looks half-dead! Get him out of here right now!” Dad sat on the couch, his face dark with anger. “Have you lost your mind? Do you want the whole neighborhood laughing at us?” But I didn’t hear them. I was born without family bonds. I was born at 4:44 AM, and even my cry was weak as a kitten’s mewl. When the nurse handed me to Mom, she pushed me away in disgust. Dad stood beside her with only one comment: “This child is unlucky.” Later, Tiana was born—adorable, affectionate, everything they’d hoped for. From then on, all the warmth and attention in the house went to her. I became invisible in my own family. When I had a fever so high I lost consciousness, they told neighbors I was just lazy and sleeping in. When asked about my favorite food, they said “leftovers.” Even though I was older than Tiana, I had to wear her hand-me-downs… I felt nothing about their favoritism. No hurt, no hope. Just indifference. I didn’t care whether they loved me or not. My heart was never here. This Nine-Turn Golden Koi Fortune was what I truly wanted. It wasn’t ordinary good luck—it was heaven-defying fortune that could rewrite fate itself and control destiny. With it in my grasp, I’d have absolute power over my own life. Soaring ninety thousand miles high, vast sky and endless sea, free from all constraints. Once I obtained it, everything I wanted would be within reach. So I said, word by word: “I want him.”

Everyone said I’d gone crazy. I’d brought home a beggar, spent a fortune on private doctors and imported antibiotics, and even enrolled him in the most elite financial trading courses. When Tiana saw the bandaged figure seriously studying “Security Analysis,” she burst out laughing. “Serena, has this beggar scrambled your brains? Does he even know what ‘finance’ means?” Mom chimed in, shooting me a disgusted look. “What’s so special about this beggar? You’re just throwing money down the drain!” I didn’t even look up. “My money. I’ll throw it wherever I want.” And it was true—all the money I’d saved over the years from reading fortunes and feng shui was flowing like water toward him. I even bought an expensive tourmaline ring at auction and gave it to him. Everyone thought I was man-crazy. Bewitched by a beggar. Only I knew—once he survived this final trial, Ethan would soar. And I would use his fortune to defy heaven itself. Resilient and enduring, Ethan—continuing fortune. “Ethan, don’t disappoint me.” He didn’t disappoint me. In three months, Ethan completed all the finance courses. I gave him startup capital to register Ethan Capital. By the fifth month, he attacked the stock market, precisely shorting overinflated green energy stocks. One week, two hundred million profit. He became famous overnight. By the seventh month, he moved to commodity futures. I helped him predict policy shifts. Another eight hundred million. In just one year, Ethan Capital grew from a tiny office into a financial empire. Ethan himself made headlines as the city’s newest billionaire—mysterious and low-profile. And I, as general manager, stayed by his side the entire time. The day came quickly. Ethan’s injuries healed completely. He removed the bandages from his face. When he was invited to the Annual Outstanding Entrepreneur Awards, the entire financial world went wild. Major media outlets swarmed: “One Year to Billionaire Status! Mysterious Rising Star Ethan’s First Public Appearance!” Amid massive anticipation, Ethan stepped onto the stage. He stood against the light—eyes like stars, tall and striking. For a moment, the entire venue fell silent. Then thunderous applause erupted. Ethan’s acceptance speech contained only one name: Serena. The tourmaline ring on his left hand gleamed under the spotlight. Now he’d created a matching couple’s ring and personally placed it on my ring finger. Then he announced our wedding date: one month away. The media exploded. Camera flashes went off like fireworks. “Breaking news! The man who became a billionaire in one year—his first public appearance is a proposal!” “Oh my god, such a handsome, devoted billionaire—he’s straight out of a romance novel!” “Marrying him would be a dream come true!” I looked at Ethan up close—his sharp nose and thin lips. Less than a month until the fortune transfer array would be complete. Once I obtained that top-tier golden koi fortune, I’d soar to the top. At that point, Ethan would be marrying into my wealth. I could certainly afford to keep him. But no one noticed that Tiana was there that day, working as an intern reporter. She stared at the man on stage, lips parted, hands pressed over her heart, as if the surrounding noise didn’t exist. Only her pounding heartbeat remained. She murmured like she was dreaming: “My… Prince Charming has actually appeared…”

That evening, I returned home after signing contracts at the company. My bedroom door was slightly ajar. Looking inside, I saw Ethan sitting at the desk—and Tiana wearing my nightgown. The next second, Tiana threw her arms around Ethan from behind. Her face was flushed, eyes sparkling like a startled deer. Ethan turned around and saw it wasn’t me—but he didn’t immediately push Tiana away. As the two of them gazed at each other with obvious chemistry, I kicked the door open. Tiana jumped back like a frightened deer, clutching her hands to her chest. “Serena! You scared me. Why are you always so rough?” I said flatly: “Why are you in my room wearing my nightgown?” She lowered her head shyly, twisting the hem. “All my nightgowns were in the wash. Mom said I could borrow yours. You don’t mind, right?” “Actually, this nightgown is a bit tight on you anyway. It fits me perfectly.” “And I think it looks better on me than on you.” How shameless. I sneered. “Get out.” Tiana’s eyes immediately welled up with tears. She bit her lower lip. “Why are you so mean to me, Serena? We’re sisters. Can’t I even come in your room? Do you hate me? Is that why you’re always attacking me?” Then she looked on the verge of tears, casting a helpless glance at Ethan. I looked at Ethan too. He frowned, thinking for a moment before saying: “Tiana is pure and kind-hearted. She doesn’t have any bad intentions.” “Besides, you’re her sister. You shouldn’t be so harsh with her.” Tiana quickly covered Ethan’s mouth with her small hand. “Don’t scold Serena because of me. I don’t want you two fighting over me. You two need to stay happy together.” With that, she wiped her tears with her little hands and ran out with her head down. I heard her soft crying from the living room. “I never imagined… my ideal Prince Charming… would actually be living in our house. Isn’t that fate? But he belongs to Serena…” And my parents’ comforting voices. “Neither of you is married yet… how does he ‘belong’ to your sister?” “Girls need to be bold… pursue true love.” Looking at Ethan’s slightly dazed expression, I knew. He was starting to change. A few days later, I arrived at the company in the morning. HR specifically handed me a new hire form. Tiana. Position: Chairman’s Special Assistant. I, the general manager, hadn’t been informed at all. When I walked to Ethan’s office, I heard Tiana’s sweet voice inside. “Ethan, you’re so good to me, giving me such a high salary. Won’t Serena be upset when she finds out?” Through the crack in the door, I saw Tiana leaning across the desk to adjust Ethan’s tie. Ethan looked down at her, his eyes showing a hint of affection. “Your sister, she…” Ethan paused. “She’s too calculating. Don’t tell her.” Tiana’s eyes lit up, shimmering with emotion. “What about me? Everything I’m thinking, I only tell you.” Watching Ethan’s obvious interest, I just wanted to warn him. Ethan, don’t be stupid. In the following days, Tiana spent every day by his side at work, gazing at him adoringly. At home, laughter echoed from the kitchen as they cooked together. “If Ethan marries Serena, then Ethan and I will become family too.” “But I’ll probably be alone forever…” Tiana sounded cheerful, but her voice carried loneliness. Ethan paused, then said indulgently: “Silly Tiana. Even if I don’t marry her… can’t we still be family?” Two weeks until the wedding.

At the dinner table, Mom beamed. “Oh my! This is our little Tiana’s first time cooking. Remember when she was little? She said she’d only cook for her future husband.” Dad laughed too. “Our Tiana always had strong opinions. She said whoever ate her cooking would be hers.” Tiana looked like she wanted to crawl under the table with embarrassment. Ethan’s eyes warmed with affection. The change was obvious not just to me, but to everyone. Rumors spread quickly. “I thought Ethan really loved Serena. Turns out he got hooked by someone else so easily.” “Looks like we’re getting a new Mrs. Ethan.” But no matter what people said, I remained unmoved. Seeing this, people started new rumors: “Serena’s such a doormat. Ethan and her sister are practically making out in front of her.” “Well, Ethan is a billionaire. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to break up either.” One week before the wedding, I finally closed a difficult client I’d been working on for three months. Holding the cross-border strategic cooperation agreement worth billions, I walked into Ethan’s top-floor office. But before Ethan could pick up his pen to sign, Tiana rushed in like a startled deer. She clutched his sleeve, voice tearful. “I just saw that man… he looked so fierce, his eyes were so scary…” Ethan immediately put down the pen to comfort her gently. Tiana pressed against him, sneaking a glance at me while saying softly: “Working with someone that vicious will only cause trouble. He’ll definitely take advantage of us later.” I thought Ethan would at least show a moment of rationality. After all, this wasn’t just a billion-dollar deal—it was key to the company’s overseas expansion. But he actually tore up the contract and said three words: “Deal’s off.” I thought I’d misheard. “What did you say?” “I said, cooperation cancelled. We’re not signing.” Ethan looked down at the world arrogantly. “Tiana doesn’t like it. I trust her instincts.” I laughed in anger. I didn’t care about his romance, but this concerned the company’s core interests. “Ethan, wake up! This isn’t playing house—this is the company’s strategic layout! Do you know how much damage offending this client will cause?” Ethan shot to his feet, pressure dropping around him. He looked at me furiously: “Serena, what gives you the right to yell at me? Do you act like a woman at all? You’re nothing like Tiana—she’s gentle and sweet.” “I’m telling you—one week from now at the wedding, Tiana will be the bride. You’re out!” Tiana looked up from his embrace sharply. “Ethan, do you really mean it?” Ethan looked down, voice tender and intimate: “Yes, really.” “I mistakenly loved Serena. She’s cold and calculating. But then you appeared, like a little deer running into my life, and I finally realized—” “The one I love is you.” I stood there, watching this perfect couple before me. I didn’t cry, didn’t make a scene, didn’t question them. I just slowly, slowly smiled.

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During the Christmas celebration, my sworn enemy kidnapped my husband and son. The thugs placed two tons of TNT explosives underneath them and brazenly broadcast it on the giant screen in Times Square downtown. “Everyone in the police department says Captain Sarah is the backbone of the bomb disposal unit, saving countless lives!” “Well, today I’m going to test her. Cut the red wire and your husband dies. Cut the blue wire and your son dies. Which will our expert choose?” Every citizen understood this was a death trap. No matter which wire I cut, I would become a criminal for all eternity. Amid the terrified screams of tens of thousands of spectators, I casually typed a comment in the live chat. “Human fireworks must be beautiful. Make sure to record it for me!” 0 On the giant screen in Times Square, my husband James’s face and my son Bobby’s face were magnified to the extreme. Beneath them sat barrels of explosives, connected to two prominent red and blue wires. A woman wearing a clown mask spoke, her voice processed to sound sharp and piercing. The live chat comments refreshed like a waterfall. “This is insane! This has to be a movie promotion! Pulling this kind of stunt on Christmas?” “Look at the hostages’ expressions! They’re not acting! Their mouths are taped shut, they’ve cried themselves dry!” “I looked it up. Captain Sarah is Sarah from the Municipal Police Bomb Squad! Her family’s been kidnapped?” My father-in-law Richard grabbed my arm, his nails digging into my flesh. “Sarah! You’re usually so capable, aren’t you? Why aren’t you saying anything now!” I pulled his hand away and calmly adjusted my sleeves. “Richard, why are you panicking? They didn’t ask for money, just want me to make a choice. This is obviously a trap.” “A trap? What trap is more important than your husband and son’s lives! Is your heart made of stone?” His chest heaved violently with anger. “If you make one wrong move, your life is over! Do you understand?” My mother-in-law Laura rushed over, about to slap me across the face. “You jinx! It’s because of you that our family is being targeted for revenge!” “If anything happens to my son, I’ll kill you!” I dodged to the side, my eyes showing not a ripple of emotion. “So according to you both, I should choose my son, right?” My words were like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing their fury. The old couple exchanged glances. Neither dared to respond. On screen, the clown woman’s voice rang out again, tinged with mocking laughter. “Captain Sarah, it seems your family understands how to choose better than you do!” “Stop wasting time. Hurry up and tell the entire city—do you love your husband or your son more?” The tone of the live chat began to shift. “Holy crap, this kidnapper really knows how to torture someone psychologically!” “Yeah, Captain Sarah is a hero who’s saved so many people. Now she has to personally decide her family’s fate. This is too cruel!” “I believe in Captain Sarah! She’ll definitely find a way!” The clown woman seemed enraged by the comments. She ripped the tape off my husband’s mouth. Immediately, James’s hoarse crying voice came through the screen. “Sarah! Don’t worry about me! Save Bobby! He’s our only son!” His face was streaked with tears, his eyes filled with the radiant glow of “noble” paternal love. The citizens watching the live broadcast were all moved. My father-in-law Richard was even more tearful, almost ready to kneel. “Sarah, did you hear that! James is telling you to save Bobby! Hurry and tell the kidnapper!” “Tell them? Tell them what?” I lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled smoke rings. “Richard, your son has already made peace with it. He’s willing to sacrifice himself for his grandson.” “We… shouldn’t let his noble intentions go to waste, should we?” 0

The clown woman seemed quite satisfied with my husband’s “heroic” performance. She gave a close-up shot of the detonation device. It was a device linked to the citywide Christmas fireworks show controller. “Captain Sarah, do you see it clearly? Tonight’s midnight bells will be the death knell for your family!” “Countdown—less than twenty minutes remaining.” She paused, then burst into maniacal laughter. “Oh, right, I forgot to tell you. This detonator is dual-function.” “Not only can the controller trigger it, but I’ve also installed a voice-activated receiver in the chandelier in your living room.” “As soon as you say the three words ‘I choose’ followed by the name of the person you want to save, the other one will explode instantly!” I glanced up at the ornate crystal chandelier overhead and let out a soft sigh. Then I turned my gaze to my mother-in-law behind me. “Laura, you heard that. It’s not that I don’t want to save them—the kidnapper isn’t giving me any chance.” “One is my husband, one is my son. They’re both precious to me. Tell me, how can I choose?” My mother-in-law Laura’s face turned red then white. Her lips trembled, unable to speak. Just as I was about to say more, the door was violently burst open and a group of SWAT officers rushed in. Leading them was my deputy, Lieutenant Davis. He looked grave as he quickly walked up to me. “Captain Sarah, this is urgent. We can’t locate the kidnapper in such a short time, and we can’t disable the connection to the city’s fireworks system.” He glanced at me and lowered his voice. “The higher-ups have given strict orders. We must ensure civilian safety and can’t cause mass panic, so…” Before he could finish, my father-in-law rushed forward excitedly. “You heard that! Your colleague is telling you to choose! What are you waiting for! Do you want to get the whole city killed?” I crushed out my cigarette and slowly stood up. “Lieutenant Davis, everyone, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I won’t make any choice!” “The hostages’ fate should be decided by us police officers, not by criminals!” As my words fell, the entire room went silent. Everyone looked at me like I was insane. My mother-in-law’s eyes rolled back and she collapsed straight down, fortunately caught by a nearby officer. “Sarah! You evil woman!” My father-in-law pointed at my nose, his voice trembling. “That’s your family! How can you… how can you just watch them die? Do you have any humanity left?” Lieutenant Davis couldn’t help but try to persuade me. “Captain Sarah, we know this is difficult. But given the current situation, saving one is better than losing both.” “Yes, Captain Sarah, no matter who you choose, we’ll understand. The citizens will understand too.” Facing everyone’s “well-meaning advice,” I laughed coldly. “Easy for you to say.” “If it were you today, wife or child, which would you choose?” I swept my gaze across everyone present. They all lowered their heads, not daring to meet my eyes. “I’ve been a cop for ten years and defused more bombs than you’ve eaten meals!” “My duty is to save lives, not to judge who deserves to live!” “Today is no different!” After hearing my words, my father-in-law completely exploded, raising his fist to strike me. But just as his fist was about to hit my nose, Lieutenant Davis’s radio suddenly crackled. “Lieutenant Davis! We’ve located the kidnapper!” Davis immediately led his team out. I didn’t move, just quietly watched the screen. On screen, the clown woman lost patience seeing I wasn’t responding. A stun baton appeared in her hand, its blue electric arc crackling ominously in the dim background. “Captain Sarah, it seems I need to give you a taste of consequences before you’ll make a choice!” With that, she viciously jabbed the stun baton into my husband James’s side. James let out an inhuman scream, his body convulsing violently as he curled into a ball. The citizens watching the broadcast gasped in horror. In the corner, my son Bobby burst into wailing tears. The clown woman, wearing her mask, spoke in a distorted, crazed voice. “Captain Sarah, you should have received the remote control, right?” “Oh wait, I forgot—there’s no remote this time!” “Fifteen minutes until the fireworks show. Starting now, every minute that passes, your husband gets to enjoy another round of electrotherapy!” “Until you speak up!” 0

Watching my husband’s agonized state on screen, my mother-in-law, who had been silent until now, suddenly rushed in front of me. “Sarah! Just choose! Do you want to watch him get electrocuted to death?” I looked at her calmly and spoke softly. “Laura, instead of begging me here, why don’t you make a phone call and ask?” As I spoke, I slowly raised both hands in a phone gesture. “Ask if your son is really in that much pain right now.” My mother-in-law froze, clearly not understanding what I meant. “You… what do you mean? Are you cursing your husband to death?” I smiled. “My husband studied finance. He couldn’t hurt a fly. But look at that man on screen—he’s been electrocuted for so long and can still scream with such vigor. Don’t you find that strange?” “Also, on the back of his neck—there doesn’t seem to be that mole we’re all familiar with.” My words stunned everyone. Even my mother-in-law, who had just regained consciousness, stopped crying and stared fixedly at the screen. Some of the younger officers were already breaking into cold sweats. My father-in-law stood frozen in place, not daring to move. Seeing this, one of the officers left behind snatched the tablet from my hands, trying to zoom in on the image. “Captain Sarah, this is a matter of life and death. How can you be so reckless?” I looked at my husband still “wailing in agony” on screen, the corner of my mouth involuntarily curving upward. “Reckless?” “Either way, one of them has to die. Does it really matter to me which one?” The officer was speechless on the spot, his brow furrowed. “Captain Sarah, but they’re your family. Don’t you care at all?” I grinned and smiled at him slightly. “Why should I care?” “If my husband dies, I can claim half the assets. If my child dies, I can have another one. But if I actually speak those words, wouldn’t I become an accessory to murder?” The tech department called in. Lieutenant Davis’s voice was extremely anxious. “Sarah! The hospital network was tampered with. The signal source is fake! We can’t find them!” Everyone’s last shred of hope was extinguished. The clown woman on screen, seeing I remained unmoved, flew into a complete rage. She threw down the stun baton and grabbed a metal bucket from behind, pouring the yellow liquid all over my husband. The strong smell of gasoline seemed to seep through the screen, permeating the entire living room. “Sarah! I’m giving you one last minute! If you still don’t choose, I’ll light him up like a torch!” The clown woman pulled out a lighter. The pale blue flame danced in front of the camera. The number of viewers in the live stream reached an unprecedented peak at that moment. The flood of comments nearly caused the video to lag. “This is insane! This kidnapper has completely lost it!” “What is Captain Sarah waiting for? If she doesn’t choose, everyone will die!” “You don’t understand—there’s no way to choose! Choosing makes her a murderer! Captain Sarah is in an impossible position!” The clown woman also screamed at the screen. “Sarah, I’m counting to three. If you don’t speak up, prepare to collect his body!” “Three!” “Two!” I took a deep breath and, under everyone’s shocked gazes, picked up my phone. The call was answered almost instantly. My voice, through the speakerphone, clearly carried throughout the entire room and through the broadcast to the whole city. “Captain Sarah, say your choice loudly! Let everyone see who you love most!” On the other end, the clown woman’s voice was filled with perverse excitement. “No, no, no. I think you’ve misunderstood.” I chuckled softly and said slowly, word by word. “I’m calling to tell you something.” “Those two people you kidnapped have nothing to do with me. If you want to burn them, burn them. If you want to blow them up, go ahead. Be my guest.” The clown woman completely froze. She hadn’t expected this answer from me. A moment later, she let out a shrill shriek, lit the lighter, and threw it viciously toward my husband. With a thunderous “boom,” the screen was instantly engulfed in flames. The entire room fell deathly silent. “Ahhhhh—!” My mother-in-law let out a heart-wrenching scream and fainted on the spot. “Sarah!” “You murderer! You killed my son! I’ll have your life!” My father-in-law grabbed the ashtray from the coffee table, his face contorted, and charged at me. The scene instantly spiraled out of control. And I, as the instigator of all this, sat calmly on the sofa. “Richard, the dead can’t come back to life. Please accept my condolences.” The first to react were the officers present. They quickly rushed forward and pinned my raging father-in-law to the ground. “Sarah, you refused to save them! Why did you deliberately provoke the kidnapper! You killed my son!” My father-in-law, his eyes bloodshot, roared at me. I dusted off my clothes and stood up. “At least I didn’t kill him. The law can’t touch me.” “This is already the best outcome!” Perhaps my cold-blooded attitude completely enraged everyone. Even the officers who had just been restraining my father-in-law now looked at me with eyes full of anger and contempt. “What kind of bomb disposal expert are you? You’re just a cold-blooded murderer!” “Captain Sarah, we really misjudged you! You don’t deserve to be a cop!” In an instant, I became the target of everyone’s criticism. I looked up at the clock on the wall and slowly spoke. “Alright, enough. Stop arguing. You can all do whatever you want.” “I’m taking my son to dinner at Hot Pot Palace.”

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My name is Olivia. Back when I was studying in Boston, I fell hard for a guy named Luke. He had these striking, crystal-blue eyes and a sharp jawline framed by effortlessly messy blonde hair. He looked like he had stepped straight off a high-end fashion catalog, and I was completely, foolishly captivated. We had been married for just three months when I finally saw the darkness lurking beneath his polished exterior. It was a quiet weekend morning. We had just finished tangled in the sheets, and I was lying across his chest, my skin still flushed, feeling a lazy, post-coital warmth. “Olivia, Trey invited us to a couples’ retreat this weekend,” Luke said. His voice was entirely casual, but there was a flicker of eager anticipation in his eyes. I shifted slightly, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. “Are you sure you want to take me to that kind of party, Luke?” My tone was laced with quiet resentment. I knew exactly what he meant by a “party.” To Luke, it was never just about drinks and music; it was about swapping. He was a man who lived on the edge of cheap thrills. In our short three months of marriage, he had already pushed me into roleplaying as a nurse, a secretary, a schoolgirl… but apparently, those private fantasies were no longer enough to satisfy him. He chuckled, tracing a finger down my spine. “Come on, babe. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, Trey is built like a freight train. You’d probably enjoy him. Especially his…” He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air like a dare. “And you’re okay with that?” I asked, testing him, my heart aching under the weight of my own words. “You won’t get jealous hearing me scream under your best friend?” “Jealous?” Luke smiled, a sly, wicked curve of his lips. “Of course not. Because I’ll be putting twice as much energy into tearing his wife apart.” ——– 1 The weekend arrived in a blur of silent anxiety. To prepare for the party, Luke hadn’t touched me in days. He claimed he was “saving his ammunition” for the main event. “Well, look at you. You actually showered and styled your hair this early,” I remarked, watching him stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Even though I had ultimately agreed to go, I had absolutely no intention of participating in their sick game. But seeing Luke so meticulously groom himself for another woman made a bitter taste rise in my throat. He flushed slightly, smoothing down his collar. “Just trying to make sure I don’t embarrass you, babe.” “Right.” I turned away, letting out a sharp, cold breath. I went to the closet and deliberately pulled out a set of black lace lingerie, pairing it with a deep-V plum silk slip dress and sheer black stockings. It was elegant, sophisticated, and undeniably provocative. When I looked in the mirror, my chest was partially exposed, the pale skin of my collarbone contrasting sharply with the rich fabric. I looked beautiful, and more importantly, I looked untouchable. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that dress before,” Luke said, his eyes darkening as they swept over me. “I bought it specifically for today,” I said, offering him a cool, triumphant smile. I wanted him to see what he was so willing to throw away. I wanted him to realize that no matter how alluring another man’s wife might seem, she couldn’t compare to what he already had. “God, you look incredible. That purple is insane.” Luke stepped closer, his hands sliding around my waist as he lifted me onto the edge of the dresser. “We have some time. Let’s do a quick round.” “Oh? What about saving your ammo?” I patted his cheek, my voice dripping with quiet mockery. “You wouldn’t want to get outshined by your buddy, would you?” I expected him to brush it off, to choose me over the fantasy. But my words hit a nerve. Luke froze, his hands dropping from my hips. “Right. Right, you’re absolutely of course. Can’t let the team down.” My heart sank into a dark, hollow space. He actually stopped. Before the silence could stretch too thin, his phone vibrated on the counter. “They’re downstairs,” Luke said, checking the screen. “Trey and Tasha are waiting.” 2 “Let’s go,” Luke urged, grabbing his keys. “Okay,” I murmured, checking my lipstick one last time before following him down the elevator. The moment we stepped out of the building, I felt a heavy, burning gaze lock onto me. Standing by a sleek black SUV was Trey. He was tall, heavily built, with a raw, athletic frame and a magnetic intensity that made the air feel thick. When his eyes swept over my body, a sudden, nervous heat flushed through my skin. Even though I had resolved not to participate, knowing he was the man Luke had chosen for me sent a strange, involuntary shiver down my spine. Trey didn’t look away when he caught me watching him. Instead, he flashed a slow, predatory grin, his teeth white against his dark skin. “You look beautiful, Olivia.” My cheeks burned, and I struggled to find my voice. Fortunately, Luke chimed in, saving me from having to answer. “Babe, you ride shotgun,” Luke said, already opening the back door and sliding in. I hesitated, looking at Trey, who was holding the passenger door open for me. As soon as I buckled my seatbelt, a sharp, dripping voice cut through the quiet of the car from the backseat. “Is that really all you have to show off, sweetie? I expected more.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. Tasha, Trey’s wife, was sitting next to Luke, her posture rigid as she pointedly adjusted her own low-cut top. I had purposely gone braless beneath the silk dress to see if Luke would show even a shred of possessiveness. He hadn’t. But Trey had certainly noticed when I leaned in to buckle up, and Tasha’s sharp tongue was born out of pure jealousy. “I don’t see any issue with it, Tasha,” I said smoothly, looking back at her. “We’re all here to have a good time, aren’t we? Might as well put on a show.” “Don’t go easy on the exhibitionist, Trey,” Tasha snapped, her eyes narrowing as she targeted her husband. “Show her how we do things.” Trey let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his eyes darting toward me with a quiet amusement. “Consider it done, baby.” “And don’t you worry, Tasha,” Luke chimed in, his hand sliding onto her knee in the rearview mirror. “I’ll make sure to handle you so thoroughly she’ll be the one begging for a turn.” “Thanks, sweetie,” Tasha purred, leaning into his touch. I turned back to the road, my face frozen in a polite mask, though my chest felt tight enough to burst. Luke actually believed he was playing the game, completely blind to the hollow ache he was leaving in his wake. For a long stretch, the car was dead silent. I figured the tension would hold until we reached the secluded cabin in the Berkshires, but it was my husband who shattered the peace. An abrupt, breathless gasp echoed from the backseat. I adjusted the rearview mirror and caught Tasha quickly dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a tissue. Next to her, Luke was smugly zipping up his jeans, a look of pure, satisfied arrogance on his face. “Couldn’t even wait thirty minutes, Luke?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “How was she? Better than me?” Luke’s face flushed red in the mirror. He coughed, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh, she was great. Really great.” Tasha glared at him, clearly unsatisfied with the diplomatic answer. “Actually,” Luke quickly added, trying to smooth things over, “you’re both incredible. No comparison.” Tasha rolled her eyes. “I haven’t even brought out my best moves yet, Olivia. Just wait until we get to the cabin. We’ll see who keeps their man interested.” “I’m not worried,” I replied, staring straight ahead. 3 “That’s my girl,” Trey said, letting out a booming laugh as he gripped the steering wheel. “Don’t worry, Olivia. You’ve got this in the bag,” Luke added, though his gaze remained glued to Tasha’s collarbone. “If you two are so confident, why wait?” Trey suggested, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he looked between the rearview mirror and me. “We could pull over right now.” “Let’s do it,” Luke agreed instantly. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I cut in, my voice sharp. “The car is cramped and dusty. Wait until we get to the house.” I wasn’t trying to build anticipation; I was desperately trying to buy myself time. The casual degradation of the entire setup was beginning to suffocate me. “Olivia’s right,” Trey said, sensing my shift in mood. “Let’s wait till we have actual beds. We’re only twenty minutes away anyway.” The rest of the drive was heavy with unspoken hostility. What was supposed to be a weekend retreat had warped into a bitter, hyper-sexualized competition. And as I watched the trees blur past the window, a cold realization settled deep in my bones: Luke was entirely gone. There was no saving this marriage. When we finally pulled up to the secluded, modern cabin, the air was crisp. The moment the engine cut, Luke was out of the car. “Trey, let’s head upstairs and settle this.” “Hell yeah,” Trey replied, his eyes locked on me as he stretched his arms. “Tasha, go with Luke.” “My pleasure,” Tasha said, offering me a parting, victorious smirk as she wrapped her arm around Luke’s. “Shall we, Olivia?” Trey asked, reaching out to take my hand. “Lead the way,” I said, letting him lead me toward the cabin doors. We walked into the beautifully decorated living room and immediately split into separate wings of the house. No sooner had Trey closed our bedroom door than the thin cabin walls began to vibrate with the loud, performative moans of Tasha from across the hall. “Don’t let me down, Trey,” I murmured, stepping close and wrapping my arms around his neck. I had to play the part perfectly if I wanted to survive the night. “I won’t,” Trey whispered, his eyes dark with sudden hunger. 4 He leaned down, his hands sliding to my hips, but I gently pressed a palm against his chest to stop him. “Here,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out a cold bottle of water I had prepared. “Hydrate first. We have a long night ahead of us.” Unsuspecting, he took the bottle and guzzled down half of it in one go. Within ten minutes, the heavy sedative I’d dissolved in the water took effect. Trey’s eyelids fluttered, his speech slurred, and he collapsed onto the plush mattress, fast asleep. For the next two hours, I sat quietly in an armchair by the window, watching the shadows lengthen across the forest floor while the agonizing sounds from the other room slowly faded to a halt. Once the house went quiet, I got to work. I carefully undressed Trey, leaving him in his boxers, and ruffled his hair. Then, I unzipped my dress, messed up my hair, and lightly shook his shoulder until his eyes blinked open. He looked around, completely disoriented. “What… what happened?” “You got a little too excited, handsome,” I whispered, putting on a tired, breathless smile. “You passed out right after we started. I had to finish things on my own.” A flush of deep embarrassment crawled up his neck. He rubbed his large head, looking utterly mortified. “Olivia, I… I’m sorry. This has never happened to me before. Please don’t tell Luke.” “Of course I won’t,” I said, gently stroking his chest. “But you should probably head to the guest bathroom and clean up before he comes in. It might be awkward.” He nodded quickly, grabbing his clothes and scrambling out of the room. A few minutes later, the bedroom door swung open and Luke walked in, wearing nothing but a loosely tied robe. He looked thoroughly spent and incredibly pleased with himself. “Your friend’s wife is something else,” Luke boasted, leaning against the doorframe. “Incredible stamina.” “She has an insurance policy on that body of hers,” Trey’s voice called out as he walked back into the room, having successfully put his clothes back on. He gave Luke a knowing, masculine nod, then looked at me with a lingering, greedy hunger. “But Olivia… man, she’s something special. Totally worth the wait.” “Told you,” Luke smirked, slapping Trey on the back. “Let’s take a breather. We can go for round two tonight.” “Sounds good,” Trey agreed, though he quickly excused himself to go find Tasha. Once the door clicked shut, the smile fell from my face. I looked at Luke, allowing a look of intense physical distress to wash over my features. “Luke, we need to go home,” I said, my voice trembling. “I think Trey was too rough. I think I’m bleeding.” Luke frowned, his expression hardening with annoyance rather than concern. “Come on, Olivia. We just got here. Don’t ruin the weekend.” He stepped closer, a dark, unsettling smile spreading across his face. “Besides, it’s not really up to you to decide when we leave anymore.” He raised his hand and clapped twice. “Come on in, boys.”

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I had finally managed to carve out a few days of leave to visit my parents. We were sitting in the quiet warmth of their living room when the encrypted satellite phone in my pocket buzzed. A single message flashed on the screen: “Ticket booked. Depart immediately.” My professional instincts kicked in, accompanied by a cold spike of dread. I didn’t ask questions. Within minutes, I was in a cab rushing toward the airport. I sprinted through the terminal, arriving at the boarding gate just as the final call was echoing through the PA system. But a hand reached out, blocking my path. “I’m very sorry, sir,” the gate agent said, her voice carrying that practiced, plastic warmth common to airline staff. “The flight has been overbooked. We’ll have to move you to the next available departure.” “We can offer you a five-hundred-dollar travel voucher as compensation.” She was already tapping away at her keyboard, modifying my booking without waiting for my consent. “Wait,” I said, trying to keep my breathing steady. “That’s impossible. I booked this seat through a restricted federal priority channel. It bypasses standard inventory. You don’t have the authority to bump me.” She didn’t even look up. The aircraft was scheduled to push back in forty minutes. Thousands of miles away, thirty-five lives were counting on me arriving on that flight. 1. The agent handed me a new boarding pass with a polite, dismissive smile. I looked down at the paper. The next departure wasn’t for another sixteen hours. If I waited that long, whatever waited for me at the other end would be a recovery mission, not a rescue. “Ma’am, please,” I urged, leaning closer to the desk. “Double-check the system. This is a first-class ticket. How does a first-class seat get overbooked on a Tuesday morning?” She rolled her eyes, her professional composure fracturing just enough to let her irritation show. “We get it, sir,” she said, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “You saved up and splurged on a first-class ticket. First time? Is that why you were loitering in the VIP lounge until the absolute last second instead of boarding like everyone else? You only have yourself to blame for missing the window.” I stared at her, bewildered. “A minute ago you said the flight was overbooked. Now you’re claiming I’m late? The gate doesn’t close until forty minutes before departure. It’s forty-five minutes right now. The jet bridge is still open.” “Look, there’s no need to keep shouting that you’re in first class,” she muttered, adjusting her headset. “It’s honestly embarrassing. We know you wanted your little taste of luxury, but you missed your chance. Don’t make a scene.” “I am not making a scene. I am asking you to respect the booking,” I said, the pressure in my chest tightening. “I do not consent to this change. You need to let me on that plane.” “Sir, please step back,” she said, her voice rising just enough to draw the attention of nearby passengers. “I’ve already been incredibly patient. I gave you the voucher out of our own courtesy pool. Most people would be grateful.” “I don’t want the voucher. I want my seat.” “Some people just don’t know how to act,” she whispered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear. I pointed a finger at the desk, my anger finally breaking through. “That is incredibly unprofessional. Let me speak to your supervisor.” Our exchange had begun to draw a crowd. Travelers carrying neck pillows and dragging carry-ons began to linger, sensing a delay. “What’s going on? Is the flight delayed?” a man in a business suit asked. The agent’s demeanor shifted instantly. She shrank back, her eyes wide and watery, playing the victim perfectly. “This passenger arrived late,” she told the gathering crowd, her voice trembling slightly. “The gate is closed, but he’s demanding we hold the entire aircraft of two hundred people just for him. He keeps throwing his first-class ticket in our faces, threatening to get us fired. We offered him a free change and five hundred dollars in compensation, and he’s still screaming at us.” The onlookers immediately turned their judgments on me. “Come on, man, she’s just trying to do her job.” “Seriously. Working gate duty is hard enough without some entitled guy throwing a tantrum over five hundred bucks.” “Who raised these people? He honestly thinks the world revolves around him.” I took a deep, centering breath, trying to block out the noise of their whispers. “I arrived on time. The gate was open when I got here. They claimed the flight was overbooked, changed my ticket without my permission, and then insulted me when I protested. I am only trying to get on the flight I paid for.” The crowd murmured, momentarily swayed, but the defense was weak. “Even if they made a mistake, you don’t treat service workers like that,” a woman in the back called out. “Just take the next flight. You’re disrupting everyone else.” “Yeah, who knows where he even got the money for first class anyway,” another whispered. Before I could reply, a man in a sharp navy blazer stepped through the security stanchions. “What is the issue here?” he asked, his voice carrying the practiced authority of airport management. “Why is there a crowd gathered at a closed gate?” 2. I felt a brief wave of relief. Finally, someone who might actually look at the data. “Are you the supervisor?” I asked. “My name is Dr. Lucas Edmund. I cleared security and arrived at this gate before the boarding window closed. Your staff refused to let me board, changed my reservation without my consent, and have been stalling me with false claims. I have an urgent matter to attend to. I need to be on this flight.” The supervisor adjusted his glasses, his eyes scanning me with a strange, calculating intensity. “Let me see your ID, sir,” he said. I handed him my government-issued identification, my eyes darting to the digital clock above the desk. The minutes were bleeding away. He tapped on his terminal for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he looked up, his expression completely blank. “Sir, our system shows you checked through the main security line only five minutes before the gate was set to close. It is physically impossible to walk from TSA to Gate B12 in under eight minutes during a holiday rush. Our agents followed standard protocol. There was no error.” I shook my head, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck. “That’s a lie. I didn’t go through the main line. I cleared through the priority government lane. It took me less than two minutes.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the supervisor said, his smile entirely devoid of warmth. “The system doesn’t lie. You’ll have to take the next flight.” “See? I told you he was lying,” a bystander remarked. “Probably thought he could throw a tantrum and get away with it.” “Typical. Thinks because he bought a nice ticket he can rewrite the rules of space and time.” I felt like I was punching a wall of fog. Every argument I made was absorbed and twisted. I didn’t want to pull rank—doing so risked exposing the nature of my work—but the clock was down to thirty minutes. I pulled out my secure satellite phone to call my liaison. As I dialed, a gate agent moving a stack of metal queue barriers “accidentally” veered into my path, her shoulder slamming hard into my arm. The phone—a rugged, unbranded black device—slipped from my hand, skittering across the polished floor toward the boarding door. Another agent carrying a heavy metal stanchion tripped, dropping the heavy iron base directly onto the screen. A sharp crack echoed through the terminal. The screen shattered into a web of black glass. The two agents scrambled to their knees, their faces painted with exaggerated terror. “Oh my gosh, sir, I am so sorry!” the woman cried. “It was an accident, I swear! Please don’t report us. We’ll pay for the screen, just please don’t get us fired!” The crowd’s murmurs turned vicious. “What kind of phone is that? Looks like a cheap burner.” “Probably some knockoff he bought online to look like a high-roller. No wonder he’s so protective of it.” “He’s probably a grifter,” someone laughed. “Spent his last dime on a first-class ticket hoping to find a wealthy sponsor in the lounge, and now his little plan is ruined.” The laughter cut through the stress in my chest, leaving a cold, sharp anger. The supervisor, Howard Cross, watched me with a quiet, triumphant glint in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing. “Call the police,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Call them right now. We are going to review the security footage of this entire interaction. And let me make one thing absolutely clear: if I am not on that aircraft, this flight does not leave the ground.” 3. No one moved to help me. To them, I was just a man having a public breakdown. I stood there, watching the minutes tick away on the departure board. By now, the gate should have closed. The ground crew would be preparing for pushback. At my destination, the command center would be waiting for my confirmation of departure. When they realized I wasn’t on the manifest, the pressure would shift. But I hadn’t anticipated how far Howard Cross was willing to go to cover his tracks. Behind me, a young woman had her phone raised, her screen showing a live-stream interface. The title on the screen read: Entitled “First-Class” Loser Screams at Gate Agents. “Put that phone away,” I said, pointing at her. “You do not have my permission to record me. Shut it down.” The girl laughed, turning the camera back to herself. “Oh look, guys, he’s threatening me now. Keep sending those gifts, let’s see how far he goes before security gets here.” The comments flooded the screen, visible even from where I stood. “Call the cops on him.” “He’s probably broke and trying to scam a free flight.” “Look at his face, he knows he’s caught.” I clenched my fists, my chest burning. I couldn’t afford to have my face plastered across social media. The syndicate we were tracking was highly sophisticated. If they saw my face at a civilian airport, they would know we had compromised their location. My family in Maine would be in immediate danger. “Please,” I turned to a couple of men standing nearby. “Help me call the police. I need an officer here to take a statement. I will personally compensate you for any delay this causes you. Tenfold.” They looked away, avoiding my eyes. “Look, man, we don’t want to get involved in whatever scam you’ve got going on,” one of them muttered. “Just take the loss,” another added. Howard’s walkie-talkie chirped. He spoke into it quickly, his eyes never leaving mine. Moments later, the heavy doors at the end of the concourse opened, and two separate teams in uniform came marching down the terminal. The first team wore the dark tactical vests of airport security. The second wore the duty belts of the Port Authority Police. “Over here!” Howard called out, waving them down. “We have a passenger disrupting airport operations and making threats to halt the flight.” I looked at the lead officer, Captain Eric Shaw. For a brief second, I thought the system had finally worked. Surely they had been alerted to protect my transit. Then I saw the handcuffs on Shaw’s belt. 4. “Sir, step away from the desk and put your hands where I can see them,” Captain Shaw said, his voice level and cold. “Captain, there’s been a mistake,” I said, keeping my hands open and visible. “I am Dr. Lucas Edmund. I was booked on this flight under a federal priority clearance.” Howard stepped forward, pointing at his screen. “Officer, the priority passenger we were instructed to assist is already on board. Seat 2B. Mr. Frank Cross. This man is using a fraudulent name and trying to disrupt the flight.” Frank Cross. I looked at Howard Cross’s nametag, and then at the screen. It was a classic bait-and-switch. Howard had used his administrative override to bump me from the government-reserved seat and place his own relative on the flight, likely thinking I was just some low-level contractor who wouldn’t dare make a fuss. “Officer, call your district commander,” I urged, my voice tight. “Ask him who is supposed to be in seat 2B. This is a matter of national security. I am heading to Helena, Montana. There are thirty-five hostages in the wilderness right now, and I am the only specialist who can locate them. If I do not board this plane, people are going to die.” A collective snicker went through the crowd. “Oh, now he’s a secret agent,” the live-streamer giggled into her phone. “He’s literally inventing a terrorist plot because he missed his flight. This is gold.” Captain Shaw’s face hardened. He didn’t believe a word. To him, I was just another unhinged traveler who had snapped under the pressure of holiday travel. “Sir, you are under arrest for making false terroristic threats and interfering with airport operations,” Shaw said, grabbing my arm and pulling it behind my back. The cold steel of the handcuffs clicked around my wrist. “Wait!” I yelled, struggling against his grip. “Call the number on my profile! Just look at the reservation notes!” “Save it for the station, Dr. Edmund,” Shaw said, pushing me toward the exit. Howard Cross stood by the gate door, a thin, satisfied smirk on his face. “The plane is pushing back in five minutes, sir. Safe travels in the back of the cruiser.” They began to drag me down the concourse, the crowd parting to let us through, several people still holding up their phones to capture my humiliation. Then, the heavy security doors at the end of the terminal flew open. A squad of federal marshals in tactical gear, carrying automatic weapons, came sprinting down the hallway, their boots thundering against the tile.

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On Thanksgiving night, I stumbled upon a livestream that seemed to defy time. It was me, from five years ago. “Look, everyone! He just proposed!” She was beaming, radiating the dizzying happiness of Conrad’s grand, romantic gesture. I just watched quietly, a faint, tired smile resting on my lips. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a video from Conrad. The screen filled with raw, intimate heat. Heavy, breathless gasps echoed from the speakers as he pressed his new girl against a wall, kissing her with a desperate, performative hunger. I closed the video with practiced numbness and returned to the livestream. I looked at my past self, so young and glowing with hope. Amidst the flood of “forever and always” and “happily ever after” scrolling through her chat, I typed two lines: [You and Conrad—it doesn’t end the way you think.] [Leave now. While you still can.] … The moment those lines posted, the chat erupted. “Who is this bitter troll?” “Jealous much?” “Some people just can’t stand seeing childhood sweethearts make it to the altar.” Five years ago, I sat in front of the camera, trying to maintain a polite, fragile smile. “Don’t worry about it, guys. Just ignore them.” But less than three minutes after logging off, a direct message request popped up on my personal account. It was her. I accepted. Instantly, a FaceTime call rang through. She looked defensive, her eyes scanning my face. “I never mentioned Conrad’s name. How did you know? And please stop spreading lies. He’s protected me since we were seven years old…” Her voice faltered. She finally took in my gaunt, hollow face, the dark circles carved under my eyes. She froze. “Who… who are you? Why do you look exactly like me?” Before I could answer, the heavy front door of my apartment rumbled open. While she waited on the other end, demanding answers, I silently flipped the camera, aiming it toward the foyer. Conrad had brought her home. Their hands were all over each other before the door even clicked shut. He pinned her against the wall, her high heels kicking off onto the hardwood floor as they lost themselves in a frantic, sloppy kiss. On the screen, my past self went deathly pale. I watched the scene unfold, completely numb. I had stopped feeling this pain a long time ago. Every time Conrad got a new girl, he recorded a video and sent it to me. “Keeping me in the loop,” he called it. It was a cruel, humiliating game he had played for three years, never tiring of the sport. The noise at the door settled. Conrad spotted me sitting in the dark, motionless on the sofa. He didn’t even pause. Instead, he kept his hand wrapped tightly around her waist, guiding her over. “Why the long face? I sent you the video beforehand. You knew we were coming.” I looked at the woman. This time, it was my best friend. Daphne. Daphne giggled, pressing her body flush against his. “Gwen, sweetie. I always knew you were the understanding type.” With a sly smile, she hooked her finger into Conrad’s belt loop, tugging him toward the master bedroom. The heavy door slammed shut. From inside, the muffled, unmistakable sounds of intimacy began to drift out. I looked back at the phone screen. My younger self had red, swollen eyes. She was already crying. “I’m you, five years from now,” I whispered. “This is your future.” Tears spilled over her lashes, her voice trembling violently. “No. He would never do this. He’s loved me since we were kids…” I didn’t argue. I simply forwarded the video he had just sent me to her inbox. She watched it, her face a mask of absolute disbelief. “If… if he really becomes this monster… why are you still there? Why do you stay and take this?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. How beautifully naive I was five years ago. I sat on the sofa all night, sleep a distant luxury. My phone screen lit up repeatedly through the dark hours. She was sending endless messages. “Daphne is my best friend. How could she and Conrad…” “Why did you let yourself become like this?” “Gwen, what on earth happened to you over these five years?” I stared at the glowing text, closed my heavy eyes, and didn’t reply to a single one. In the morning, Conrad left for the office. Daphne strolled out of the master bedroom, stretching lazily when she saw me. “Still here? God, Conrad was absolutely relentless last night. My back is killing me.” She lifted her hand, sweeping her hair back to deliberately show off the dark purple bruises blooming across her collarbone. “But don’t worry, Gwen. He’s never going to divorce you. After all, you have a lifetime of debts to pay him back for.” Daphne’s smile widened, sharp and poisonous. “Besides, even if you wanted to leave… would you dare?” She was right. Conrad would never let me go. And I couldn’t afford to leave. My father’s life was hanging by a thread, entirely dependent on the private medical resources and specialists Conrad funded. I said nothing. Feeling like she was throwing punches at a ghost, Daphne scoffs, lost interest, and left. My phone buzzed again. Unable to handle my silence, my past self called me directly on FaceTime. She looked like she hadn’t slept a wink either, her eyes raw and red. The moment the connection stabilized, she demanded, “Why aren’t you answering me? You have your own career! Even if he changed, why didn’t you just pack your bags and walk out?” My heavy silence slowly drained the remaining spark from her eyes. She began to realize the truth, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “So… in five years… we have nothing left? Is that it?” I nodded slowly. Walking over to the window, I aimed the camera down the street toward a cleared, gravel-strewn lot two blocks away. “That was my design studio,” I said quietly. The place I had built from scratch, pouring over hundreds of blueprints, working late into the night until my hands cramped. But Conrad had systematically pressured my clients to cancel their contracts, bought out the entire building, and razed it to the ground. Looking at the empty lot, she stammered in sheer shock. “Why? Why would he be so heartless? What did you do? Tell me, Gwen, please!” I looked down, my throat tight and dry. “You don’t want to know.” Four winters ago, Conrad’s younger sister, Iris, jumped from a high-rise building, dying instantly. And I was set up. I woke up in a hotel room, disheveled and barely dressed, lying in the same bed as Iris’s boyfriend. Conrad convinced himself that I was a shameless homewrecker whose actions drove his sister to suicide. From that day on, the boy who swore he would protect me forever died. He stripped away everything I loved, dragging me down into his personal hell. Pulling myself out of the memory, I looked at the screen. My past self was staring at me, her eyes hollowed by despair. “Is there really nothing you can do?” After a long, suffocating silence, I slowly shook my head. “Not for me.” In the quiet that followed, I held her gaze and spoke clearly, letting every word land. “But for you, there is still time.” The call disconnected, leaving me alone in the empty, silent house. Just as the screen went black, a text notification hums. It was from my dad: Gwen, sweetie, did you get some of those Thanksgiving pies? How are you holding up? Dad is doing just fine here at the clinic. Don’t work yourself too hard, okay? A sudden, sharp ache hit my throat, and my eyes prickled. After four years of systematic emotional wearing down, most of my wounds had lost their ability to feel pain. Now, Dad was the only thing left that connected me to this world. I went to the hospital. In the private room, Dad was propped up against the pillows, his skin a fragile, sallow yellow. He forced a weak smile when he saw me walk in. “Gwen. Have you eaten yet?” “Yes,” I lied. He studied my face, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear, just like he did when I was a little girl. “You’ve lost so much weight.” “Just busy at the studio,” I managed a faint, reassuring smile. Dad sighed, shaking his head. “The nurses told me, Gwen… your studio closed four years ago.” I froze, struggling to keep the fake smile on my face, murmuring that it was just a minor setback. Suddenly, Dad gripped my hand with surprising strength. “Gwen… is Conrad treating you well?” I wanted to say, He’s just busy. But the words lodged in my throat, choking me. “Dad, don’t worry about us. Just focus on resting.” I gently pulled my hand away and practically fled the room. Out in the quiet hallway, I tilted my head back, swallowing down the bitter lump in my throat. But before I could compose myself, the attending physician approached with a grim expression. “Gwen, your father’s kidney function is deteriorating rapidly. We need to increase his dialysis treatments. You need to speak with Conrad about funding this extension as soon as possible.” I nodded, my body stiff. As the doctor walked away, the elevator doors chimed open. Conrad and Daphne stepped out. Daphne was holding an ultrasound printout, one hand resting protectively over her stomach, a triumphant smile on her face. He was here for her prenatal appointment. Swallowing my pride, I stepped forward and blocked Conrad’s path. “The doctor says my dad needs more dialysis sessions. Can we please—” Conrad glanced at me with cold indifference. Daphne gently tugged on his arm. “Conrad, honey, they’re going to call our name. The doctor said we might hear the heartbeat today. Let’s go, please?” Without a second glance at me, he wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her toward the OB-GYN wing. I watched their retreating backs. A pain far deeper than any humiliation tore through my chest. Two years ago, the constant psychological abuse drove me into severe depression. I was surviving on heavy doses of medication. It wasn’t until I collapsed and was rushed to the ER that I found out I was pregnant. But because of the heavy meds, the fetus had already stopped developing. I had to undergo a grueling procedure. I hemorrhaged on the table, and they issued a critical condition notice. When I finally woke up from the anesthesia, cold and trembling, I called Conrad. The only response I got was the low, breathless sound of him with another woman. When he eventually found out about the baby we lost, he actually wept. He held me tightly, sobbing, begging for forgiveness over and over. For a brief moment, I thought it was a flicker of his humanity returning. But his guilt didn’t even last a month. Soon enough, he was back to his cold, sadistic self, revolving through an endless cycle of women. The pain of losing our child was a chapter he closed with ease. Leaving me to rot in the aftermath, day after day. My phone vibrated. It was my past self. She asked why I haven’t replied today. I looked toward the digital screen in the waiting area, took a quick photo of Daphne’s name listed under the OB-GYN appointments, and sent it to her. Then I locked my phone, dragging my exhausted body out of the hospital. What I didn’t know was that behind me, my father had slowly dragged himself out of his room, leaning against the hallway wall, his eyes red and brimming with silent tears as he witnessed the entire exchange. When I returned to the house, I find all my belongings piled in boxes out in the hallway. The housekeeper looked at me apologetically. “Mr. Dennis said… Ms. Daphne is moving in.” I nodded quietly and dragged my boxes into the small guest storage room off the hallway. Late that night, lying on the narrow cot in the storage room, my phone rang. It was the hospital. The nurse’s voice was shaking. “Gwen… your father… he waited until the night shift nurses were doing rounds, and he pulled out his ventilator tubes.” “We tried to resuscitate him, but he’s gone. I’m so sorry.” My mind went entirely blank. I didn’t even put on shoes. I ran out of the house barefoot, sprinting down the cold asphalt toward the hospital. Rocks cut into the soles of my feet, leaving bloody tracks, until I managed to wave down a cab. In the backseat, shivering, I finally saw the last voicemail Dad left me: Gwen, my sweet girl. Dad doesn’t want to be the chain that keeps you locked in that cage anymore. You’ve suffered so much for me over these years. My beautiful daughter… don’t look back. You’re free now. When I arrived, the hospital room was perfectly still. A white sheet was drawn over his face. Holding his cold hand, I broke down. For the first time in years, the wall of numbness cracked, and I sobbed until my chest felt hollow. By the time the paperwork was processed, it was four in the morning. I sat on the concrete steps outside the morgue, my phone screen glowing in the dark. On the other end of the screen, my past self had red, swollen eyes. She stayed on the line with me through the entire night. Without her, I wouldn’t have survived the dark. When I walked back into the house, the sun was already high. Conrad was sitting on the living room sofa. Hearing the front door, he cast a frigid look over his shoulder. “The housekeeper said you ran out in the middle of the night. What is wrong with you? You’re not answering your phone or your texts.” I ignored his anger. My voice was as flat as stagnant water. “I want a divorce.” Conrad blinked, stunned for a fraction of a second, before letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Sure. Try it. The moment you sign those papers, your father’s treatment stops. Gwen, you’d better think long and hard before you start playing games with me.” With that, he stood up and walked upstairs, completely unbothered. I watched him walk away, feeling nothing but a vast, silent emptiness. He thought he held the ultimate leverage. He thought that as long as my father needed his money to survive, I would always crawl back, begging for forgiveness. But he had no idea. Just hours ago, the only thing keeping me in this prison… vanished. I walked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and opened the video call with my past self one last time. The connection went through. Her eyes were still terribly red. “Tell me,” she said, her voice steady and resolute. “What do I need to do right now?” I looked at her—at my younger, unbroken self—and say only four words. “Leave him. Never look back.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them, there was nothing left but sheer determination. “Okay. I promise.” The call ended. I took one last look around this house, realizing how absurd these last five years had been. But at least it was over. I walked out the front door, leaving it all behind. Meanwhile, in his second-floor study, Conrad leaned back in his leather chair. He wondered why I hadn’t come upstairs to beg for his mercy yet. Usually, all it took was a mention of my father, and I’d be knocking on his door within ten minutes, apologizing. This was taking too long. An unfamiliar prickle of irritation prompted him to stand up. He opened the door and walked down the stairs. The living room was dead silent. Empty. “Gwen!” he called out, his brow furrowing. No answer. He descended the stairs, but his steps suddenly faltered. The shoe rack near the door, which used to be lined with my neatly organized shoes, was completely bare. He looked around, a sudden sense of wrongness settling over him. The throw pillows I picked out for the sofa were gone. The mug I always used on the coffee table was gone. On the wall where our wedding portrait used to hang, there was now a landscape painting he had never seen before. Panic seizing him, he bolted up the stairs and threw open the door to the small guest storage room. It was completely bare, as if no one had ever set foot inside. Every trace of my existence in this house had vanished into thin air. “Gwen!” he roared, his voice cracking with sudden, desperate confusion. The housekeeper ran out of the kitchen, startled by his shout. “Mr. Dennis… who is Gwen?” Conrad grabbed her by the shoulder, his voice shaking with suppressed fury. “Stop playing stupid! My wife! She was just here!” The housekeeper trembled under his grip. “Sir, please… I’ve worked for you for five years. You’ve always lived here alone.”

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I fell in love with my brother’s roommate at first sight. I spent nearly three weeks cultivating this breathless, high-pitched princess voice, practically purring whenever he walked into the room, only to find out he absolutely loathes sweet, girly girls. The realization shattered me. In a fit of sheer, dramatic panic, I hijacked his live stream, typing like a woman possessed: Hilarious. Honestly, you’re not even my type. You uptight poser. I already have a new man. He’s a college quarterback—sweet, gorgeous, and doesn’t look like he’s running on empty. That night, for the first time in his legendary esports career, the cold god of gaming shut down his stream mid-match. I didn’t even make it halfway out of the building before he caught me in the stairwell. Trembling, crying, begging for mercy in the shadows, the pink silk bow on the front of my dress shredded under his fingers. “Heather,” he whispered, his breath hot and dangerous against my ear. “Even bad girls have to be punished…” 01 My older brother, Brandon, was a certified player, but recently he seemed to have retired from the field. Lately, he was practically a monk, locked up in his off-campus apartment. No clubbing, no bars, and he’d even ruthlessly turned down several invitations from gorgeous women. Our parents grew highly suspicious. They were terrified Brandon was hiding some poor, innocent girl in his den of iniquity, tricking her with his charm. Naturally, they dispatched me to his apartment to investigate. I rang the doorbell. No answer. Frustrated, I pounded heavily on the heavy wood door. “Brandon Colton! Exactly how many food deliveries did you order?” A voice answered from the other side—deep, cold, and entirely unfamiliar. “One second.” My heart did a violent little flip. My mother’s instincts were spot-on. Brandon’s apartment actually had a secret resident. But the “sister-in-law” sounded incredibly intimidating, like someone who didn’t tolerate nonsense. I was busy conjuring up an image of a fierce, sophisticated older woman when the door was pulled open. I looked up. There was no beautiful, intimidating older sister. Instead, I was staring at a face so ridiculously handsome it stole the breath right out of my lungs. He was easily six-foot-three, with pale skin, sharp, aristocratic features, and a chilly aura that screamed do not cross me. He possessed a lean, muscular frame that even his casual gray t-shirt couldn’t hide, and an effortless, quiet wealth radiated from his very posture. I stood there, completely entranged, unable to even blink. Then a shocking realization hit me: had my brother actually pulled a god-tier hunk? Had Brandon gone on a journey of self-discovery and brought home a boyfriend who looked like a literal runway model? Every single cell in my body was suddenly screaming. He was, down to the very last detail, my exact type. I had to have him. If I didn’t get this man’s number, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. And if he really was my brother’s boyfriend… well, Brandon and I would just have to fight for him fairly. “Hi,” I said, tilting my head to offer my sweetest, most dazzling smile. “I’m Brandon’s sister, Heather Colton.” My mother was a beauty-obsessed woman who had married a strikingly handsome man, and I had been lucky enough to inherit their best features. All my life, teachers and classmates had told me my smile could melt glaciers. But right now, my face was practically aching from smiling so hard, and the man’s expression remained as cool and still as winter. His eyes swept briefly over my outfit—a pleated navy schoolgirl skirt, thigh-high white socks, and a tiny cropped cardigan—before he stepped back to let me in. “Brandon is in the shower,” he explained, his tone even and brief. “I’m his roommate.” Roommate. I let out a long, silent breath of pure relief. Thank god. He wasn’t the boyfriend. Once we sat down in the living room, he handed me a chilled bottle of strawberry cream soda. I seized the opportunity. As I took the bottle, my fingers deliberately brushed against his palm. I pitched my voice into a soft, breathless coo. “A guy this handsome must have a really beautiful name.” He paused, looking at me with a steady, unreadable gaze. “Beckett Song.” He seemed slightly caught off guard by the fact that a girl who looked like a quiet, sweet student would flirt so aggressively. “What a coincidence,” I said, my eyes shining with manufactured excitement. “A fortune teller once told me my future husband would have that exact name.” “Superstition is a bad habit,” Beckett replied, his voice entirely flat. “The fortune teller lied to you. You shouldn’t go back.” I choked on my own breath. Talk about a romance-killer. I pushed forward anyway. “Someone as amazing as you must have girls lining up to date you, right?” Instead of looking flattered, Beckett remained entirely indifferent. “Not really.” “Then can I be first in line?” I asked softly, gently tugging at his sleeve, looking up at him with the most innocent, earnest eyes I could muster. Beckett’s heavy lids lifted slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Dating too young will ruin your grades.” What? I sat up straight, my brain stalling. After all my heavy-handed flirting, this man thought I was a high schooler? What an absolute tragedy. I squared my shoulders and puffed out my chest. “Beckett, I’m in college.” I emphasized the word, making sure he got the point. Then, complaining about the heat, I casually slid my baby-blue cardigan off my shoulders. Beckett’s eyes followed the movement, drifting downward for a fraction of a second before he instantly looked away. His expression remained perfectly blank. “I’ll go get the air conditioning remote.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, sliding closer to him. I could smell the faint scent of his clean, cedarwood soap. “AC isn’t eco-friendly. Besides, you look so delightfully cool. Why don’t we just…” Before I could finish, Brandon walked out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel, and sat down directly between us. “I’ll let you two siblings catch up,” Beckett said, rising smoothly and politely retreating to his room. I instinctively wanted to follow him, but Brandon caught me by the collar. Through the crack of Beckett’s door, I could only see the glow of a high-end dual-monitor gaming setup. 02 “Heather, take a piece of advice from your brother,” Brandon said, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Drop the fantasy. Wake up. Do not mess with Beckett Song.” “Who’s messing with him?” I muttered, feeling a little defensive. With a face like that, he was clearly the one messing with my peace of mind first. Besides, Brandon was supposed to be in the shower—how much of our conversation had he actually heard? Brandon reached over and aggressively ruffled my pigtails. “We’ve both been playing the field for years, Heather. Don’t play innocent with me. You looked like you wanted to devour him whole.” “Fine,” I grumbled. “But I really like him. Didn’t you teach me that if you like someone, you go after them with everything you’ve got?” Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long sigh. “Kid, Beckett is different. He’s from an incredibly old-money, strict family. The guy’s never even had a girlfriend. He doesn’t know how to deal with a little predator like you.” “But physical attraction is a perfectly valid starting point,” I argued in a small voice. Then, remembering why I was here, I squinted at him. “Wait. If you and Beckett are living here alone, where is my sister-in-law?” “Which one?” Brandon asked dryly. I stared at him. “Look,” Brandon shrugged, “I’ve been taking a break to grind the new Wukong game. I haven’t had time to date anyone.” Mystery solved. No wonder Brandon hadn’t been leaving the house. He was just pulled into a massive gaming binge. 03 “Does Beckett play games too?” I asked, remembering the lit-up screen I’d glimpsed. Brandon waved a dismissive hand. “Him? Yeah. He’s a little worse than me.” I was shocked. Worse than my brother? He had to be absolute trash at gaming. Over the next few weeks, Beckett and I rarely saw each other in person. Most of our communication happened over text. No matter how I tried to flirt—asking him “innocent” questions about my college calculus homework—he managed to steer the conversation back to academics with surgical precision. After a month, our romantic progress was absolute zero, though my math grades had never been higher. My roommate, Chloe, finally offered a different perspective. “Heather, men find a girl most attractive when she’s dominating in her own element. What are you good at?” The only thing I could think of where I might have an upper hand on Beckett was gaming. I immediately opened his contact—which I had saved as Husband—and sent a sweet, breathy voice note: “Hey, are you playing games tonight? Want to play together? I can carry you.” “No,” came his predictable, swift rejection. I kept pushing: “It’s okay if you’re bad, Beckett! I’m really good.” This time, his reply was incredibly brief: “Sorry. I’m streaming.” Streaming? Did he stream his terrible gameplay as some sort of comedy routine? The more I thought about it, the more suspicious I became. I quickly opened a search engine and typed in his name. Within seconds, my jaw hit the floor. The man my brother claimed was “worse than him” was actually the reigning MVP of the pro league, a legendary esports champion nicknamed “The Reaper” for his brutal, merciless play style. And I had just offered to “carry” him. Before the mortification could fully paralyze me, I found his stream link and clicked in. There he was, sitting in his gaming chair, looking exactly like he did in person. Quiet. Distant. Aloof. When he wasn’t smiling, he looked entirely untouchable. He was pulling in millions of viewers purely on his god-tier mechanics and that face. His chat was usually focused on strategy, but because of my text, some unusual comments were slipping through: Who was that girl who texted Reaper saying he was bad? And why did he actually reply to her in the middle of a match? Lmao, I’m cringing for her. Imagine telling a world champion you’ll carry him. I stared at the screen, my face burning. A little later, the stream host announced a viewer giveaway: they would select one viewer for a live voice call, and they could ask Beckett for a small wish. I threw all shame out the window. Under the username Beckett’s Wife, I began furiously spamming the chat: Husband! Pick me! My school just paved a new road today, it’s called ‘No Way Out of Loving You.’ Beckett, you’re stepping on my hair… If we have a baby, I’ll let them take your last name. My shameless, chaotic energy quickly broke through the sea of standard gaming comments. Beckett looked at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly as if his vision was being assaulted. He gestured to the moderator. “Pick her.” The chat erupted: Reaper is ruthless. He’s going to publicly execute this fan. Don’t you guys know? Beckett absolutely despises obsessive fangirls. He’s probably just going to give her a polite warning to behave. Everyone, including Beckett, probably assumed I’d back out of the call from embarrassment. But I clicked accept within a millisecond. Shame? What was that? Could shame help me land a gorgeous billionaire’s son? 04 The stream host laughed, reading my username aloud. “Beckett’s Wife, welcome. What is your wish?” My camera turned on, and my eyes met Beckett’s through the screen. His dark pupils contracted slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his otherwise stoic face. “Beckett,” I said, resting my chin in my hands, putting on my sweetest, most teasing voice. “Can I get a kiss?” Under the gaze of millions of viewers, Beckett coolly replied, “No.” The chat flooded with comments: Oh my god, she actually asked that. “Can I come over and look at your abs?” I continued. “No,” he said, perfectly deadpan. “Will you call me baby or wifey?” “In your dreams.” I felt like I was interacting with an AI bot, and it was honestly thrilling. “You’re so good at this, Beckett. My brother lied to me. Your fingers are so incredibly flexible, and the pink on your knuckles is so pretty…” It would look even prettier on my skin, I added silently in my mind. Beckett maintained his polite, chilly distance, parrying every single one of my advances. As his scheduled stream time neared its end, I finally threw down my real card. “Take me out to dinner, Beckett.” He stared at his camera for a long moment. Then, his lips parted. “Okay.” “Love you, husband!” I blew a kiss to the camera and immediately disconnected the call. The host was grinning, and the chat was in absolute chaos: She’s like a sweet strawberry shortcake. I don’t know if Reaper was charmed, but I certainly am. I can’t believe I just witnessed this live. Is this a romantic comedy? I’ve been following Reaper for three years, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen a girl get close to him. Are they secretly dating? The straight-forward girl always wins the quiet guy. I bet he falls for her. No way, she goes to my college. She’s a total social butterfly. They’re from completely different worlds. On the day of our dinner, I woke up at six in the morning. I selected my absolute best dress—a pastel piece with a delicate pink silk bow at the collar. I spent two hours applying a flawless “no-makeup” makeup look. I spun around in front of my roommate. “How do I look?” Chloe gave me a thumbs-up. “Like a princess.” Satisfied, I arrived at the restaurant forty minutes early. I immediately ordered a full steak dinner for myself and devoured it. That way, when Beckett arrived, I could eat two bites of a salad and pretend I had the delicate appetite of a bird. I was happily chewing on my last bite of steak when I heard a familiar voice. I looked up to find Beckett standing there, staring at my empty plate with a highly complex expression. Even in my embarrassment, I couldn’t help but admire him. Unlike his usual gaming hoodies, he was wearing a crisp, tailored white shirt buttoned all the way to his collar, and dark trousers that emphasized his long, powerful legs. He looked incredibly sophisticated, and the restraint of his outfit only made him look sexier. I wondered if he had dressed like this on purpose, knowing exactly what it did to me. “The waiter just brought this by mistake,” I said, my voice entirely confident despite the lie. “I told him I didn’t want it, but he insisted.” Beckett listened to my terrible excuse, his lips twitching into a tiny, rare smile. The waiter walked over, handing us the menus. “What else would you like?” Beckett asked. I quickly slipped back into my sweet persona, smiling warmly. “I’m already full. My appetite is quite small. You should just order for yourself.” The waiter looked confused. “Miss Colton, did you still want the double order of truffle mac and cheese you requested with the steak, then?” The private room fell into a dead, agonizing silence. The dinner ended up being a very quiet affair, with Beckett quietly ordering a few signature dishes to save me from further embarrassment. 05 A few glasses of red wine later, the alcohol began to warm my blood. I slid my foot out of my heel under the table, letting my toes brush lightly against his trouser leg, slowly tracing upward. He moved his leg away, but I immediately followed, pressing closer. This time, I bumped against something solid and remarkably firm. Beckett looked up, his dark eyes darkened by a sudden, heavy intensity. “Heather, stop. My patience isn’t as limitless as you think.” I blinked, sensing a sudden shift in him that I couldn’t quite define. He quietly sliced a fresh piece of steak and placed it on my plate. “You’re still growing. Eat.” That word—growing—bothered me. I didn’t call him “husband” because I wanted to be his little sister. The wine gave me a sudden burst of courage. I reached across, grabbed his collar, and pulled him down into the seat next to me. Before he could react, I straddled his lap, my voice dripping with honey. “Husband, do kids do this to you?” “Get up, Heather, or I’m throwing you out the window,” Beckett said, his hand landing with a firm, swatting pressure just below my waist. It wasn’t hard, but the sheer intimacy of the contact sent a shiver straight down my spine. “You wouldn’t dare,” I whispered, staring at his lips. I leaned down, but just as our lips were about to touch, a sharp knock sounded on the door. I flinched, pulling back quickly, and my elbow slammed hard against the edge of the table. “Are you made of glass, Heather?” Though his voice was exasperated, his hands were incredibly gentle as he lifted my arm to inspect the rapidly reddening skin. Before we could adjust, the door swung open. The lingering tension in the room instantly turned into a cold, sharp awkwardness. I looked toward the door. Standing there was a highly elegant, sophisticated young woman. She was tall, impeccably dressed, with a classic, refined beauty that made her look like she belonged in a museum. But the way her eyes swept over me made me instantly uncomfortable. She froze at the entrance, looking shocked. “Beckett, I’m so sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “461704”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Zach’s phone had an automated reminder set. I only saw it once, a fleeting glance when his screen lit up on our nightstand. The note read: Rain this weekend. Remind her to bring an umbrella. I swallowed the warmth of that gesture whole, foolishly believing the “her” was me. Until the night of the tropical storm. I stood under the shallow awning of our office building, the wind whipping rain against my shins, waiting for him with a heart full of quiet anticipation. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The chill seeped through my flats, but he didn’t show. When I finally called, his voice on the other end was clipped, flat. “What’s up?” It was the tone you used for a telemarketer who had interrupted your dinner. I stood in that downpour for forty minutes before I finally gave up and called an Uber. That night, while he slept, I did something I had never done in our three years together. I opened his phone. Pinned to the top of his iMessage was a contact named “Helen.” Their last exchange was from 2:00 PM that afternoon. Helen: Got it, Zach! Umbrella packed. You always remember, even when I forget. Sweeter than my own alarm clock. Zach had replied with a simple sun emoji. I scrolled back through three years of their chat history. Every single week, without fail, there were one hundred and fifty-six variations of: Looks like rain today. Make sure you grab an umbrella. I opened our own thread. Three years of logistics, grocery lists, and dry confirmations. Not a single word of unprompted care. The “her” had never been me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t wake him up to scream. I just sat in the dark, the blue light of my phone illuminating my face, and quietly opened the email from the executive recruiter. If he wanted to save his warmth for someone else, that was his choice. My future belonged to me. 1 “What are you doing with a suitcase in the middle of the night?” Zach emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. His eyes settled on the twenty-eight-inch silver spinner standing by the closet. I folded the canvas dust cover and slid it into a drawer. “There’s an international trade show next week. I might have to travel.” “For how long?” “It’s not set yet.” He didn’t push. He walked over to his side of the bed, sat down, and reached for his phone with practiced ease. The moment the screen woke, a banner notification flashed. It was Helen. The thunder finally stopped. I survived! Zach’s thumb hovered over the glass for a fraction of a second. He typed a rapid response, then flipped the phone face down on the nightstand. He turned to look at me, his gaze carrying a faint, barely perceptible layer of scrutiny. “It was pouring tonight. Traffic was absolute hell. You didn’t freeze, did you?” “No.” I picked up a dry towel and sat at the vanity to dry my own hair. The rainwater from the storm had been icy, and my scalp still felt numb. “The client on that Charleston project,” he said, his voice casual, almost conversational. “She’s a new grad. Just moved to the city and had never experienced a coastal storm before. She was terrified, kept me on the phone for an hour.” I met his eyes in the mirror. “Is that so?” “Don’t overthink it.” He stood up, walked over behind me, and gently took the towel from my hands. “I was mostly worried she’d drop the ball on our project deliverables. Otherwise, who wants to listen to a kid cry at midnight?” His hands were incredibly gentle, working through my damp strands just as he had done a hundred times before. I watched his reflection, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration. “Zach.” “Yeah?” “Was there a storm in Charleston today?” His hands froze. Just a tiny hitch in his rhythm, lasting no more than half a second. “Just the outer bands, I think,” he said, resuming his gentle rubbing without missing a beat. “They got hit pretty hard too.” I didn’t call him out. I had checked the weather radar before coming home. The center of the storm was a thousand miles away from Charleston. They had a light drizzle, but no thunder, and certainly no hurricane-force winds. Whenever Zach lied, his voice dropped half an octave. It was a subtle gravity he used to anchor his deceptions. “Where’s the hairdryer?” he asked, opening a drawer. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.” I took the towel back, stood up, and walked into the bathroom. “Phoebe,” he called out behind me, “are you mad at me?” I stopped at the threshold. “Because I was late picking you up?” “No.” “I promise it won’t happen again.” He closed the distance between us, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind and resting his chin on my shoulder. The scent of his cedarwood body wash mingled with the faint trace of tobacco on his collar—a scent profile I had memorized over the last two years. “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he murmured. “Let me take you to that omakase place you love. As an apology. Deal?” “Sure.” He let go of me, a satisfied smile touching his lips. “Get some sleep. I’ll make the reservation in the morning.” The next morning, the automated voice of our smart speaker woke me. “Good morning. It is currently 9:00 AM. Today in Atlanta, expect clear skies with a high of eighty degrees. In Charleston, expect overcast skies with light rain, high of sixty-eight. Please dress accordingly.” I opened my eyes. Zach was buttoning his Oxford shirt by the bed. When the speaker finished, his hands visibly stiffened. “What is wrong with this thing? Why is it reading out-of-town weather?” He walked over and slapped the mute button. “I added it,” I said, propping myself up against the headboard. His hands paused on his collar. “What?” “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I was messing around with the smart home app. I saw Charleston was saved in your location preferences, so I added it to the morning briefing.” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Zach finished his last button, turned around, and looked at me, his forehead creased with irritation. “Phoebe, are you tracking my phone now?” “I didn’t touch your phone. I looked at our shared router settings.” His face darkened. “Are you serious right now? I told you she’s just a client. Is this what we’re doing now? Spy games and interrogation?” “If I hadn’t looked, would you have ever told me it was raining in Charleston?” “Why should I?” he snapped, his voice rising. “What does it have to do with you? Do I need to submit a detailed report of my work life for your approval?” He snatched his tie off the bed, his movements sharp and aggressive. “You used to be so reasonable, Phoebe. You’re turning into someone else.” I watched his anger flare. For two years, Zach had been the poster child for emotional stability. He never raised his voice, never lost his temper. Yet here he was, unraveling over a “client.” “Are we still getting sushi?” I asked quietly. He blinked, clearly thrown by how easily I had let the subject drop. He took a deep, stabilizing breath, forcing his anger down. “Yes. Let me wash my face and we’ll go.” He disappeared into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, opened my phone, and logged into a luxury resale app. I uploaded a listing for a custom-tailored silk dress—the one I had bought for the engagement photos we were supposed to take next month. The bathroom door opened, and Zach walked out, his expression carefully reset to his usual warmth. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I’ve been under a lot of pressure at work. I shouldn’t have snapped.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Go get changed. I’ll wait in the car.” Twenty minutes later, I climbed into the passenger seat. As soon as he started the engine, the center console screen lit up with an incoming call. It was Helen. The air in the cabin turned to stone. Zach stared at the screen, frozen. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t decline it either. After fifteen seconds, the call timed out. A second later, a voice memo automatically began to play over the car’s Bluetooth system. “Hey, Zach! I washed the windbreaker you lent me yesterday. When do you want it back? Let me know!” Her voice was bright, casual, and dripping with an easy, unbothered familiarity. I turned to look at him. “You saw her last night?” His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “Her car broke down on the highway. I happened to be driving past after work, so I let her borrow my jacket.” “Driving past?” I asked, my voice level. “Which route did you take to pick me up that required a detour to the highway where she was stranded?” “She’s in Atlanta for a business trip!” he blurted out. A deadly quiet descended on the car. I looked at him, realizing with a strange pang of detachment how unfamiliar his face had suddenly become. “Oh. So she’s here.” I turned my head back to the window, watching the neat suburban lawns roll past. “Then that forty-minute delay last night… you must have been driving very fast.” Zach slammed on the brakes, pulling the SUV sharply to the curb. “Phoebe, cut the passive-aggressive act. She’s a kid who just started in the industry. She’s completely green, she has no one in this city, and she panics easily. What am I supposed to do as her mentor? Let her freeze in the rain?” “So you sat in your warm car, connected to her Bluetooth, listening to her talk, while I stood in the pouring rain for nearly an hour?” “I told you, traffic was blocked!” “Zach,” I said, turning to face him directly. “If you gave her your jacket, what were you wearing when you finally came to get me?” He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “When you arrived, your hair was dry. You didn’t have an umbrella, and you weren’t wearing a jacket. How did you manage to walk through a tropical storm and show up completely untouched?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Because you never got out of the car,” I answered for him. “You parked in her hotel’s covered garage. You walked her to the lobby, made sure she was warm and dry, and only when she was safe did you slowly drive over to me.” “Are you tracking my car now?” he whispered, his eyes darting to the dashboard. “The dashcam account is registered under my email, Zach.” He stared at the center console, his chest rising and falling. “What do you want from me, Phoebe?” “I don’t want the sushi anymore.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed the door open. “Go get your jacket.” 2 “Phoebe!” Zach scrambled out of the car, slamming his door and catching up to me in three strides. He grabbed my wrist, his grip tighter than usual. The spray from a passing sedan splashed dirty water across our jeans. “Are you seriously doing this right now?” His eyebrows were knitted into a hard knot. “Over a jacket? You’re refusing to eat, walking down the street, trying to start a fight on the side of the road?” I pulled my arm back, twisting out of his grip. “I’m not starting a fight. I’m just not hungry.” “Then what is your problem?” He stepped in front of me, blocking my path, his face etched with exhaustion. “I told you, she’s just a clueless kid. She acts like one of the guys. There is absolutely nothing going on between us. Why do you have to ruin everything with this jealous wife routine?” One of the guys. I looked at his self-righteous expression, a sudden wave of dark humor washing over me. “Do ‘the guys’ call you at midnight to tell you they’re scared of a little thunder?” “She’s alone in a strange city with no friends. Of course she was scared.” “I was alone too. Standing in the rain at my office.” “You’re a grown woman!” he shouted, his voice cracking. A couple walking their dog across the street paused to look. “You’ve always been independent, Phoebe. You know how to take care of yourself. She didn’t even have a windbreaker. What was I supposed to do, let her get sick?” Ah. Because I was independent, I deserved to be left in the rain. Because I was strong, my comfort was negotiable. I took a step back, widening the gap between us. “So you think you did nothing wrong.” “What did I do wrong?” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I work sixty hours a week, Phoebe. I am exhausted. Can you please just give me a break instead of picking a fight over nothing?” Nothing. I nodded slowly. “Okay. I get it.” I turned and walked toward the bus stop at the corner. “Where are you going?” “Home.” “Get in the car. I’ll drive you.” “No thanks,” I said, not looking back. “Go take care of your helpless kid.” Zach didn’t follow me. From the window of the city bus, I watched his black SUV sit idling by the curb for several long minutes. Finally, his blinker flashed, and he pulled out, heading east toward Midtown. Midtown. Where the trendy corporate boutique hotels were. Where a certain “new grad” would be staying. When I got back to our apartment, I pulled my suitcases out and began sorting through the closet. The clothes I wanted to keep went onto the bed; the rest went into large heavy-duty garbage bags. After two years of living together, I didn’t actually own much. Zach was a minimalist. He hated clutter. To please him, I had stopped buying decorative trinkets, gave away my collection of throw pillows, and even kept only a single coffee mug for myself. While clearing out the desk, I opened the bottom drawer and found a leather-bound sketchbook. It was his first anniversary gift to me. On the cover, he had embossed: A Blueprint for Phoebe’s Future. Inside were detailed, hand-drawn floor plans of a house. He had sketched where the sectional sofa would go, where we’d build a window seat, where our future cat’s climbing tree would stand. Back then, he had held me close and whispered, “Once I save enough for the down payment, Phoebe, we’re going to build this exact house. Just for us.” I flipped to the last page. The edges of the paper were already starting to yellow. I tossed it into the garbage bag with the old magazines. At 3:00 PM, my phone rang. It was the relocation agent. “Hi, Phoebe. Great news. The landlord for that short-term loft in Helsinki approved your application. You can sign the lease online whenever you’re ready.” “Excellent. Send it over, I’ll sign it now.” After hanging up, I opened my laptop and completed the digital signature. The moment the confirmation page loaded, a physical weight seemed to lift from my chest. I could breathe again. The front door lock chimed. Zach walked in, carrying a premium paper bag from the sushi restaurant we had planned to visit. He stopped when he saw the black trash bags piled near the door. “Are you deep cleaning?” “Just throwing out some old junk.” He set the bag on the dining table and walked over, reaching out to wrap his arms around my waist. I stepped sideways, neatly evading him. His arms hung in the air for a second before he dropped them, a flicker of irritation passing over his face. “Still mad?” He sighed. “Look, I stood in line for forty minutes to get you that fatty tuna you love. I went out of my way for this.” I looked at the bag. There was a bright yellow sticky note attached to the handles. The handwriting was neat, looped, and distinctly feminine: Thanks for the amazing lunch, Z! The salmon was incredible~ Zach followed my gaze. His face went pale. He snatched the sticky note off the bag, crumpling it into his pocket. “That… the hostess must have left that.” “The hostess calls you ‘Z’?” “Phoebe, let me explain.” He stepped closer, his voice urgent. “I did go to her hotel to get my jacket back. It was on the way, and we decided to grab a quick bite. But this bag—I ordered this fresh for you. I swear.” “On the way?” I pointed to the bag. “The restaurant is on the west side. Her hotel is in Midtown. You crossed the entire city. How is that ‘on the way’?” “She insisted on coming!” Zach yelled, using volume to cover the panic in his voice. “She said she’d never had real sushi before. She practically begged to tag along. What was I supposed to do, kick her out of my passenger seat?” She begged. He used words like that to describe her, yet he had carried her handwritten note all the way back to our apartment. “So you took her to the restaurant we were saving for our anniversary,” I said. My voice was so calm, so entirely devoid of anger, that it surprised even me. “And then you brought me her leftovers as a consolation prize.” “It’s not leftovers! I ordered it fresh!” He was sweating now. “Phoebe, why do you always have to look at everything through such a toxic lens?” “Toxic?” I let out a soft laugh. “Zach, if I spent the afternoon at a romantic spot with a male intern who called me ‘P,’ and brought you the packaging with his cute little note on it, would you think that was fine?” “That’s completely different!” “How?” “She looks at me like a big brother!” he practically screamed. “She doesn’t have a single romantic thought in her head. You’re just projecting your own insecurities!” I nodded. “Right. My insecurities.” I walked past him to the table, picked up the bag of sushi, and walked into the kitchen. I dropped it straight into the trash can. “What the hell are you doing?!” Zach lunged forward, staring at the discarded food, his face turning an angry, blotchy red. “I waited in the heat for forty minutes for that!” “I think it’s dirty,” I said, meeting his furious gaze. “Your jacket, your sushi, your little ‘brotherly’ bond—I think they’re all dirty.” He glared at me, his chest heaving. “Fine,” he spat, his voice trembling with rage. “You’re so pure. You’re so above it all. You are being completely manic right now, Phoebe.” He snatched his car keys off the counter. “Let me know when you’ve calmed down and are ready to act like an adult.” The door slammed so hard the frames on the wall rattled. I stood in the silence of the empty apartment. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed with an image message from an unknown number. It was a photo of Zach sitting in a private booth at the restaurant, leaning over to peel a shrimp for Helen. Helen’s arm was visible in the frame, wearing his black windbreaker. Below the image was a text: Don’t be mad at him, Phoebe! Z says you’re the sensible one. I knew you wouldn’t mind me stealing him for lunch. I stared at the screen. I tapped ‘Delete.’ Then I opened my email and messaged the recruiter. “My flight is booked. I’ll be in Helsinki by Friday.” 3 Monday was Zach’s mother’s sixty-first birthday. Per tradition, we were expected at his parents’ house in the suburbs for dinner. Zach hadn’t slept at the apartment over the weekend. He didn’t show up until 3:00 PM on Monday, wearing a fresh change of clothes, his usual scent of smoke masked by a heavy application of mint cologne. He glanced at the neatly wrapped box sitting on the entryway table. “Is that the blood pressure monitor for my mom?” “Yes.” He cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Look… about the other day. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.” I’m sorry. It was the same perfunctory, low-effort apology he had handed me for two years whenever he crossed a line. I didn’t reply. I slipped on my shoes and picked up the gift. “Phoebe,” he said, catching my wrist. His tone softened. “It’s my mom’s birthday. The whole family is going to be there. Just… don’t be cold, okay? I don’t want her worrying that we’re having problems.” I pulled my hand back. “I know how to behave.” The drive was silent. Zach tried to start a few conversations, but my monosyllabic responses quickly discouraged him. He eventually gave up and focused on the highway. When we arrived at his parents’ colonial home, several cars were already parked in the driveway. The moment we walked through the front door, a burst of bright laughter drifted from the living room. “Oh, Mrs. Davis, you have to keep this massager right on the recliner! If you use it while watching your shows, your neck stiffness will be completely gone in a week, I swear!” I paused in the foyer. In the center of the living room, a girl with shoulder-length hair and an oversized collegiate sweatshirt was kneeling by Zach’s mother’s knees, enthusiastically demonstrating a sleek neck massager. Mrs. Davis was beaming, patting the girl’s hand. “Oh, Helen, you are such a darling. This looks so expensive. You really shouldn’t have.” “It’s nothing! Zach approved the expense!” Helen laughed, looking up just as we entered the room. She didn’t look embarrassed at all. She waved at me with a huge smile. “Hi, Phoebe!” Zach beside me went completely rigid. He shot a nervous glance at me, whispering frantically under his breath: “My mom said the more the merrier… she insisted on inviting her. I… I forgot to mention it.” Forgot. Inviting a casual coworker to his mother’s intimate family birthday dinner was something he just “forgot” to mention. I ignored him, walked into the living room, and placed the blood pressure monitor on the coffee table. “Happy birthday, Mrs. Davis.” His mother’s smile faltered slightly. “Oh. Thanks, Phoebe. You shouldn’t have bothered. We have plenty of these things.” She casually pushed my gift to the side and turned back to Helen. “Now, Helen, show me that stretch you were talking about.” Helen shot me a fleeting, triumphant look before kneeling back down. “Of course! Zach gets the worst neck tension at the office too, you know. I have to make him do these stretches every afternoon or he’d be a total wreck.” Zach. Not Mr. Davis. Not her boss. Just Zach. The aunts and cousins sitting around the room exchanged subtle looks. One of the aunts leaned over and whispered to Zach’s sister, “Who is that girl? She seems awfully close to Zach.” The sister cleared her throat nervously, glancing at me. “She’s a new hire at his firm. Just a very outgoing girl, she’s like that with everyone.” “A coworker?” the aunt murmured. “I thought she was… well, Phoebe is certainly patient.” I stood there, feeling like a ghost haunting someone else’s family gathering. Zach came up behind me, nudging my elbow. “Why don’t you go help my mom in the kitchen? There are a lot of dishes to prep.” I turned to look at him. “Are you asking me to cater for your guest?” His jaw tightened. “Can you please just think about the bigger picture? It’s my mother’s birthday. Do you have to make a scene now?” “I’m not making a scene,” I said, stepping away from him. “I’m just not going into the kitchen.” “You—” “Oh, Zach, don’t boss Phoebe around!” Helen had appeared beside us, playfully swatting Zach’s shoulder with a familiar warmth. “Phoebe works so hard at her corporate job. She’s probably exhausted. I’ll go help your mom in the kitchen!” Without waiting for an answer, she took Mrs. Davis’s apron off the wall hook, tied it around her waist with practiced ease, and disappeared into the kitchen. Zach let out a sigh of relief, turning back to me with a hint of accusation in his eyes. “See? She’s just trying to help.” I watched Helen’s shadow move behind the kitchen door. “Yes. She’s very helpful.” I sat down on the edge of the sofa, pulled out my phone, and began reviewing my transition documents for the Helsinki office. When dinner was served, Helen naturally claimed the seat to Zach’s left. I sat on his right. Throughout the meal, Helen fluttered around the table like a butterfly. “Mrs. Davis, try these ribs, I asked the kitchen to make sure they were extra tender for you.” “Zach, slow down on the wine. Didn’t your stomach hurt yesterday?” Then, with absolute naturalness, she picked up a piece of sea bass, carefully flaked the bones out with her fork, and placed the clean fish directly into Zach’s bowl. The entire table went dead silent. Every eye turned to me. Zach stared at the fish in his bowl, then at me, a flash of panic crossing his face. “Uh, Helen, I think you got the wrong bowl,” he said, trying to laugh it off as he moved the fish to his discard plate. “Oh, come on, we do this at the office cafeteria all the time!” Helen laughed, completely unbothered. “Zach is so clumsy, he always chokes on fish bones.” She turned to me, her eyes wide and innocent. “Phoebe, you’re not going to be mad about this, are you? We work in the trenches together. We’re basically brothers. Gender doesn’t even exist in our department.” I placed my fork down. The sharp clatter of metal against porcelain sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. “I’m not mad,” I said, dabbing my mouth with a napkin. “I just think that since the two of you have such a wonderful dynamic, you should enjoy this family dinner together.” I stood up, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. “Mrs. Davis, something came up at work. I have to run.” “Phoebe!” Zach bolted upright, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip. His fingers dug into my skin, bruising. “Don’t do this,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “This is my mother’s sixty-first birthday.” “Exactly,” I said, looking down at his hand. “So why should I stay and block your ‘brother’ from playing the perfect daughter-in-law?” “You are being utterly ridiculous!” “Zach!” Mrs. Davis slammed her hand on the table, her face purple with anger. “Let her leave! I will not have my birthday ruined by her attitude. Who does she think she is? If you didn’t spoil her so much, she wouldn’t dare act this way!” “Mrs. Davis, please don’t get upset,” Helen said quickly, gently rubbing the older woman’s back. “I’m sure Phoebe didn’t mean it. She’s just stressed with work. Zach, go after her, make sure she gets a cab.” The textbook execution of a manipulator. Zach closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let go of my wrist. “Take an Uber home. We will talk about this tonight.” I looked at him, then tossed my crumpled napkin onto the table. “We won’t.” I reached into my purse, pulled out a metal key ring, and dropped it onto the table right next to the plate of deboned fish. “I deleted my fingerprint from the smart lock. Here’s the spare key. I’m returning it.” Zach stared at the key, his pupils dilating. “What is this?” “Exactly what it looks like.” I turned and walked toward the door. Behind me, I heard Helen’s hushed, theatrical whisper: “Oh my god, Zach… is she playing some kind of game? Is this a guilt trip?” I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped out into the cool autumn air. No games. I was just done breathing in their poison. 4 “Phoebe, pick up your phone. Now.” The messages from Zach were flooding my screen as the taxi sped back toward the city. “What is the key supposed to mean? Are you threatening me?” “You’re going to humiliate me in front of my entire family because she served me a piece of fish?” “Do you have any idea how high my mother’s blood pressure got because of your little stunt?” I watched the notifications stack up, then quietly put my phone on “Do Not Disturb.” The city lights blurred past the window. Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days. I had cooked his meals, turned down a major promotion that would have required relocation, and tolerated his mother’s endless, passive-aggressive remarks about my career. All of it, only to be told I was “ridiculous.” When I got back to the apartment, I packed my remaining coats into my second suitcase. The place felt hollow. The matching ceramic mugs we had bought on our first trip were gone—I had thrown them in the trash after learning Helen had broken Zach’s and he’d laughed it off. The coffee table was completely bare now. Just as I was pulling the zipper shut on my final bag, the front door lock clicked. It wasn’t the electronic chirp of the keypad. It was the mechanical turn of a key. The door swung open. Zach stood in the entryway, panting, his coat left behind in his rush. His eyes locked onto the two massive suitcases on the floor, and the color drained from his face. “You’re actually leaving?” He strode over, slamming his hand down on my suitcase to stop me. “Because of tonight? Phoebe, how old are you? You’re still throwing tantrums and running away?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum,” I said, gently but firmly pushing his hand away and pulling the zipper shut. “I’m moving.” “Moving where?” he laughed, a cold, mocking sound. “You don’t have anyone else in this city. Where are you going to go, a hotel? Your salary can’t support that for more than a week.” He was so certain. So absolutely convinced of my dependence on him that even his attempt to stop me was wrapped in condescension. “That’s my business.” I stood up, pulling the handles of the suitcases up. Zach’s arrogance finally cracked. He realized I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t screaming. I wasn’t looking at him with the fire of a woman who wanted to be persuaded. I was entirely, chillingly calm. Like a woman discarding a piece of broken furniture. “Phoebe, please stop,” he pleaded, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper as he stepped in front of the door. “I admit I shouldn’t have let Helen come tonight. But I only did it because my mom keeps saying the house feels empty. Helen’s family is broke, she has a rough life, and I’ve been trying to mentor her. She only came to help out as a thank-you.” “By giving your mother a neck massage?” “Don’t be like that!” “Zach,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Do you remember last month when my mom was admitted for emergency gallbladder surgery? I spent three nights sleeping in a plastic chair in her hospital room.” He flinched, his eyes darting away. “I had the Q3 review that week, I couldn’t get away…” “You couldn’t get away,” I repeated. “But you had time to leave a comment on Helen’s Instagram post—the one captioned ‘Late night claw machine adventure with my favorite person.’” Zach’s face turned a violent shade of red. “That… that was a team-building event!” “Just the two of you?” I pulled out my phone and held up a screenshot. It was a photo Helen had posted on a secondary spam account. In it, Zach was carrying a giant pink plush toy on his back, laughing warmly at the camera. The caption read: The best Z in the world. My personal genie. The timestamp of the post was 11:32 PM on the night my mother was rolled into surgery, while I was crying alone in the hospital stairwell. Zach stared at the screen, his lips parting, but no sound came out. “You weren’t busy,” I said, putting my phone away. “You were just busy with someone else.” I reached for my bags and tried to step around him. “Phoebe!” He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around my shoulders from behind, holding me so tightly it hurt. “I’m sorry! I was an idiot! I didn’t realize how much you needed me! I swear, I will never see her outside of work again. Please, don’t do this. Don’t leave.” There was genuine terror in his voice now. It was the first time I had ever heard him sound small. Usually, whenever I expressed dissatisfaction, he’d shut me down with ‘you’re being too sensitive’ or ‘you’re overthinking things.’ He had finally run out of leverage. “Let go of me, Zach.” “No! If you walk out that door, we are over. Two years, Phoebe. Think about what we built!” Right then, his phone burst into life. A high-pitched, upbeat ringtone echoed through the room. It was the custom ringtone he had set exclusively for Helen. Zach went entirely rigid. The sound was deafening in the quiet apartment, a shrill mockery of his desperate pleas. His arms stayed locked around me, but I could feel his breathing hitch. After ten seconds, the call cut out. Then, a text notification pinged. Even though his phone was face down on the counter, the text-to-speech feature on his watch chimed clearly: Zach! Help! My water pipe just burst! There is water everywhere, it’s up to my ankles and I don’t know where the shut-off valve is! Please! Slowly, the pressure of his arms around me faded. His eyes flicked toward his phone on the counter. That single, instinctive movement told me everything I would ever need to know. I turned around, looking at the agonizing conflict written across his face. A profound sense of emptiness washed over me. “Go,” I said softly. “Phoebe, I…” He looked from me to the phone. “A burst pipe is dangerous. It could cause an electrical fire. I’ll just run over, turn off her main valve, and come straight back. I swear.” “Okay.” “Don’t leave. Wait for me. We’ll talk when I get back.” He snatched his keys, not even bothering to put on his shoes, and bolted out the door. The heavy door slammed shut behind him. The apartment returned to its silent, dead state. I didn’t wait. I walked to the dining table, pulled a sticky note from my bag, and wrote four words: Do not find me. I stuck it to the counter, grabbed my suitcases, and walked out of the apartment we had shared for two years. As I rode the elevator down, my phone buzzed with an email from the relocation service. Hi Phoebe, your flight is confirmed. Your corporate apartment in Helsinki is fully prepared. A private car will be waiting for you at the airport. “Thank you,” I texted back. I walked out of the building. My Uber was already waiting at the curb. The driver helped me load the he

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Serena had an automated reminder set on her phone. I only saw it once, by accident. The note read: Rain this weekend. Remind him to bring an umbrella. For a long time, I foolishly assumed the “him” was me. Until the night the tropical storm hit, and I stood waiting for her, entirely convinced she was on her way. I was stranded outside my office building. Ten minutes passed in the torrential downpour, and there was no sign of her car. When I finally called, she answered with a flat, “What’s up?” Her tone was cold, the way you would talk to a stranger who had inconvenienced you. I waited in the storm for forty minutes before I finally gave up and called an Uber. That night, while she was in the shower, her iPad lit up on the nightstand. There, pinned at the very top of her messages, was a thread with a contact saved as “Toby.” The last message, sent at 2:00 PM, read: Got it, Serena! Brought my umbrella. You always remember—honestly, you’re more reliable than my own alarm clock. She had replied with a single sun emoji. I scrolled through their chat history. Three years of messages. Every single week, without fail, there was a message from her: It’s going to rain today. Make sure to bring an umbrella. One hundred and fifty-six reminders. Then I opened our own thread. Three years of shared life, and not a single text checking in on me or asking if I was safe. The “him” had never been me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just closed the messaging app, opened my email, and clicked on the offer letter a headhunter had sent me the previous week. If she wanted to save her care for someone else, that was fine. I was taking my future back. 1 “What are you doing with the suitcase in the middle of the night?” Serena asked, drying her hair with a towel as she walked out of the bathroom. Her gaze fell on the twenty-eight-inch silver suitcase sitting by my feet. I folded the dust cover and slipped it into the drawer. “There’s an international expo next week. I might have to travel.” “For how long?” “Not sure yet.” She didn’t press further. She walked over to the bed, sat down, and habitually reached for her phone. The moment her screen lit up, I caught a glimpse of a notification. The sender was Toby. The message read: The thunder finally stopped. I survived! [crying face emoji] Serena’s thumb hovered over the screen for a second. She typed a quick reply, then flipped the phone face-down on the nightstand. She turned to look at me, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of calculation in her eyes. “The rain was brutal tonight. Traffic was a nightmare. Did you get cold?” “No.” I sat at the vanity, slowly drying my hair with a towel. The rainwater from the storm had been freezing, and the chill still lingered at the roots of my hair. “That client,” she started, her voice entirely too casual, “he’s a recent college grad. The point person for our Boston project. He’s never experienced a storm like this before and was absolutely terrified. He practically begged me to stay on the phone with him.” I looked at her reflection in the mirror. “I see.” “Don’t read into it,” she said, standing up and walking over to stand behind me. She took the towel from my hands. “I only did it because I didn’t want the project timeline to slip. Otherwise, why would I spend my night listening to a kid cry?” Her touch was gentle, exactly the way she used to dry my hair. I watched her lowered eyes in the mirror. “Serena.” “Yeah?” “Was there a storm in Boston today?” The towel in her hands stopped moving. It was a tiny pause—barely half a second. “It must have been the outer bands of the hurricane,” she said, her expression smooth as she resumed her gentle movements. “They got a lot of rain over there, too.” I didn’t call her out. According to the National Weather Service’s radar, the hurricane’s eye was over a thousand miles away from Boston. Boston had some light overcast skies today, but no rain, and certainly no thunder. Whenever she lied, her voice naturally dropped half an octave. “Where’s the blow dryer?” she asked, pulling open a drawer to rummage through it. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.” I took the towel from her hands and stood up, walking toward the bathroom. “Gary,” she called out behind me. “Are you mad?” I stopped. “Because I was late picking you up?” “No.” “I promise it won’t happen again.” She walked over, wrapping her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder. The cedar scent of her body wash mingled with the faint, crisp pear perfume she always wore. It was a scent I had lived with for two years. “Tomorrow is the weekend. Let me take you to that upscale sushi place you love to make it up to you, okay?” “Okay.” She let go of me, a satisfied smile on her face. “Get some sleep. I’ll make the reservation tomorrow.” The next morning, I was woken up by the smart speaker’s daily broadcast. “Good morning. It is currently 9:00 AM. Today in the city, it will be sunny with a high of eighty degrees. In Boston, it is currently overcast with light rain, and a high of sixty-eight. Please dress accordingly.” I opened my eyes. Serena was standing by the bed, buttoning her blouse. When she heard the weather report, her hands froze. “What’s wrong with this speaker? Why is it broadcasting random cities?” She walked over and hit the mute button. “I added it,” I said, sitting up and leaning against the headboard to watch her. Her hand stopped on her collar button. “What?” “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I was messing around with the smart home settings. I noticed you had Boston saved under your weather locations, so I added it to the morning briefing.” The bedroom fell into a suffocating silence. Serena finished buttoning her shirt, turned around, and looked at me, her brow furrowing. “Gary, did you go through my phone?” “No. I went through our home network router logs.” Her face darkened. “Is this fun for you? I told you, he’s just a client. Is it really necessary to play these cheap monitoring games?” “If I hadn’t checked, would you have ever told me it was raining in Boston?” “Why would I?” she raised her voice. “What does it have to do with you? Do I need to report every single detail of my work to you?” She frustratedly tossed her blazer onto the bed. “Gary, you never used to be this insecure.” I stared at her outbursts. For two years, she had always been the emotionally stable one. This was the first time she had ever raised her voice at me—all for a “client.” “Are we still going for sushi?” I asked quietly. She blinked, clearly caught off guard by my lack of anger. Taking a deep breath, she forced her temper down. “Yes. Let me wash my face and we’ll go.” She disappeared into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, pulled out my phone, and opened Poshmark. I listed a custom-tailored suit—the one I had bought for our scheduled engagement photos next month. The rushing water in the bathroom stopped. Serena walked out, her face restored to her usual gentle expression. “I’m sorry about my attitude earlier. I’ve just been under so much pressure at work lately.” She walked to the bedside, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “Go get dressed. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Twenty minutes later, I sat in the passenger seat. She started the ignition, and the center console screen suddenly lit up with an incoming call. It was Toby. The air in the cabin turned to ice. Serena stared at the screen, neither answering nor declining. The phone rang for fifteen seconds before going to voicemail. Then, because her phone was connected to the car’s Bluetooth, a voice note began to play automatically. “Hey, Serena! I washed that windbreaker you lent me yesterday. When do you want me to drop it back off?” The voice was bright, casual, and dripping with familiarity. I turned my head to look at Serena. “You saw him last night?” Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “His car broke down on his way back. I happened to be driving that way, so I pulled over and lent him my jacket.” “On your way back?” I looked at her. “Which route were you taking to pick me up that required a detour to Boston to lend someone a jacket?” “He’s in town for business!” she blurted out. A deafening silence filled the car. I looked at her, suddenly finding the face beside me entirely unrecognizable. “Oh. So he’s here in the city.” I turned back to look out the window at the passing streets. “Then those forty minutes you were late… you must have been rushing.” Serena slammed on the brakes, pulling the SUV sharply to the curb. “Gary, can you stop with the passive-aggressive attitude? He’s just a kid who just started in this industry. He’s clumsy. What’s wrong with me looking out for him as a mentor?” “So you stayed connected to his Bluetooth, listening to him whine, while you let me stand in a tropical storm for twenty minutes?” “I told you, there was traffic!” “Serena,” I said, turning to look her straight in the eyes. “If you gave him your jacket, what were you wearing when you came home?” She froze. “When you finally showed up last night, your hair was perfectly dry. You didn’t have an umbrella, and you weren’t wearing a jacket. How did you manage to walk up to me completely untouched by a storm?” Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. “Because you never got out of the car,” I finished for her. “You parked in his apartment’s garage, watched him go upstairs, and only when you knew he was safe inside did you take your sweet time driving over to get me.” Her throat tightened. “Are you tracking me?” “The dashcam is linked to my account.” Her head snapped toward the center console. “Gary, what is it that you actually want?” “I don’t want the sushi anymore.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed the door open. “Go get your jacket.” 2 “Gary!” Serena threw open her door and ran after me, grabbing my wrist. The splash from a passing car’s tires soaked our legs. “Are you done throwing a tantrum?” Her eyebrows knitted into a tight knot. “Over a jacket? You’re refusing to eat and starting a fight in the middle of the street?” I shook her hand off. “I’m not starting a fight. I just don’t want to eat.” “What is your actual issue?” She stepped in front of me, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “I told you, he’s just an immature kid. There is absolutely nothing going on between us. Do you have to disgust me with these constant interrogations?” Looking at her righteous indignation, I felt a sudden urge to laugh. “Nothing is going on, yet he texts you in the middle of the night saying he’s scared of thunder?” “He’s alone in a new city with no friends, and a massive storm hit. It’s completely normal to be scared.” “I was alone in a storm too, standing outside my office.” “You’re a grown man!” she snapped, her voice so loud that several pedestrians turned to look. “You’ve always been independent and capable. You know how to find shelter. What about him? He didn’t even have a windbreaker. Was I supposed to just let him freeze and get sick?” Ah. So being independent and capable meant I deserved to be left in the rain. I took a step back, widening the distance between us. “So you truly believe you did nothing wrong.” “What did I do wrong?” She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “Gary, my job is exhausting enough. Can you please show some empathy instead of nitpicking over trivial things?” Nitpicking. I nodded slowly. “Okay. I understand.” I turned and walked toward the nearest subway station. “Where are you going?” “Home.” “I’ll drive you.” “No need,” I said without turning around. “Go take care of your helpless kid.” Serena didn’t follow me. As I sat on the train, I saw her black SUV parked by the curb for a long time. Finally, her blinker flashed, and she drove off toward Eastside. Eastside—the area where the city’s cheapest business hotels were clustered. Exactly where a “recent college grad” would be staying. When I got back to our apartment, I began sorting through my closet. The clothes I wanted to take went onto the bed; the ones I didn’t went straight into trash bags. After living together for two years, I didn’t actually have that much. Serena was a strict minimalist who hated clutter. To accommodate her, I had given up collecting books and decor, and even kept only a single coffee mug for myself. While clearing out the desk, I pulled open the bottom drawer and found a sketchbook. It was a birthday gift she had given me during our first year together. On the cover, she had written: Blueprint of Gary’s Future. Inside were hand-drawn floor plans of a house—where the sofa would go, where we would put the cat tree, all detailed in her neat handwriting. Back then, she had said, “Gary, once I save enough for a down payment, we’re going to build a home exactly like this.” I flipped to the last page. The edges of the paper had already yellowed. I tossed it into the trash bag. At 3:00 PM, my phone rang. It was the relocation agent. “Mr. Reynolds, the landlord for the short-term apartment in Helsinki confirmed. You can sign the lease online whenever you’re ready.” “Great. I’ll sign it right now.” I hung up, opened my email, and digitally signed the lease. The moment the contract went through, a physical weight lifted from my chest, and I could breathe again. The door lock beeped. Serena walked in, carrying a paper bag from the sushi restaurant. She froze when she saw the trash bags on the floor. “Are you deep cleaning?” “Yeah. Getting rid of things we don’t need.” She placed the bag on the dining table and walked toward me, reaching out for a hug. I stepped aside. Her arms hovered awkwardly in the air, her face tightening with embarrassment. “Still mad?” She sighed. “I drove all the way to that restaurant to get the thick-cut salmon sashimi you love. I waited in line for thirty minutes.” I looked at the paper bag. The restaurant’s logo was printed on the front, and next to it was a yellow sticky note. The handwriting was delicate and bubbly: Thanks for dinner, Serena! The salmon was amazing~ Serena followed my gaze. Her face went pale. She lunged forward, ripped the sticky note off, crumpled it into a ball, and stuffed it into her pocket. “That… the hostess must have written that.” Watching her pathetic attempt to cover it up, I didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. “The hostess calls you Serena?” “Gary, let me explain,” she said quickly, stepping closer. “I did go see him to get my jacket back. Since we were right there, we grabbed a quick bite. But this bag is fresh! I ordered it specifically for you!” “Right there?” I pointed at the bag. “The restaurant is on the west side of town. He lives in the east. You crossed the entire city. How is that ‘right there’?” “He insisted on tagging along!” Serena raised her voice, trying to drown out her guilt with volume. “He said he’d never been to a high-end sushi place and practically begged to get in my car. I couldn’t just throw him out on the street, could I?” Begged. She used a degrading word to describe him, yet she had carried his sweet little note all the way back to our home. “So, you took him to the restaurant we were saving for our anniversary.” I looked into her eyes, my voice so calm it surprised even me. “And then, you brought his leftovers home as an apology gift for me.” “No! This is a fresh order!” she panicked. “Gary, why do you always have to think the worst of people? Why is your mind so toxic?” “Toxic?” I let out a dry laugh. “Serena, if I took a female intern to a romantic restaurant, let her call me by a pet name, and then brought her leftovers home to you, would you call that toxic?” “That’s different!” “How?” “He sees me as an older sister! We’re basically best friends, like girlfriends!” she practically screamed. “The kid didn’t think anything of it. You’re the one overcomplicating things!” I nodded slowly. “Right. I’m the one overcomplicating things.” I stepped past her, picked up the sushi bag from the table, walked straight to the kitchen, and threw the entire thing into the trash can. “Gary, what are you doing!” Serena rushed over, staring at the discarded food, her face twisted with rage. “I stood in line for half an hour for that!” “It’s dirty.” I turned to face her. “Your jacket, your sushi, and your little ‘best friend’—they all make me sick.” Serena stared at me, her chest heaving violently. “Fine,” she spat, nodding bitterly. “You’re so pure, so above it all. Gary, you are being completely unreasonable right now.” She stormed to the entryway and grabbed her car keys. “We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.” The door slammed shut behind her, rattling the frame. I stood in the silence, listening to the elevator descend. Five minutes later, my phone vibrated. It was a picture message from an unknown number. In the photo, Serena was sitting in a private booth at the sushi restaurant, leaning forward to peel a shrimp for the boy sitting opposite her. Only the boy’s arm was visible, clad in her black windbreaker. Underneath, a caption read: Don’t be mad, brother-in-law. Serena says you’re the mature one. I’m sure you wouldn’t get jealous over me. I stared at the screen. I hit delete. Then, I opened my chat with the headhunter. My flight is booked. I leave Friday night.

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Jason said something to me once. I held onto those words for four years. He’d looked deep into my eyes and said, “The person who pulled me out of that water is the person I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.” I had smiled back then—a quiet, knowing smile. He didn’t know how close I’d come to dying at the bottom of that freezing river just to drag his broken body to shore. But that was before. Before I was seven months pregnant, and Cynthia pushed me down the stairs from the second floor. My stomach collided brutally with the edge of the steps. In an instant, a hot, terrifying rush of blood bloomed across the fabric of my dress. Right then, the heavy double doors swung open, and Jason walked in, flanked by his private medical team. I reached out a trembling, blood-stained hand, crying out his name, begging for help. But his eyes only lingered on me for a fraction of a second. Then, without hesitation, he stepped right past me, rushing to Cynthia, who was sitting on the floor with nothing but a superficial scrape on her forearm. One of the paramedics saw the crimson pool spreading beneath me and lunged forward to assist. But Jason grabbed the man’s arm, physically redirecting him to Cynthia. “Take care of Cynthia first,” Jason commanded, his voice cold and absolute. I stared up at him through a haze of agony, my voice a ragged whisper. “Jason… how could you…” Jason cut me off, his expression hardening into stone. “Don’t look at me like that, Gwen. Years ago, when I was being hunted and bleeding out, you turned your back and ran. If Cynthia hadn’t jumped into that river and saved my life, I’d be dead.” He looked down at me with a sickening mixture of resentment and pity. “This is just karma, Gwen. An eye for an eye.” Tears hot and bitter flooded my eyes, blurring his face. All this time. Four years of marriage, and he believed Cynthia was his savior. Weakly, my fingers fumbling over the screen of my phone, I dialed 911. And then, I sent a text to a number I had kept blocked for five long years: “Bring back the evidence of what happened at the river four years ago. Show him the truth.” … A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my abdomen, and I could feel the warm, terrifying flow of fluid continuing to pool beneath me. A few yards away, Cynthia was already being gently guided into the sleek private medical van, surrounded by a flurry of attentive doctors. A minor scratch on her arm, yet she received the royal treatment. Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper, couldn’t bear to watch any longer. With tear-filled eyes, she grabbed a soft throw blanket from the sofa, trying to slip it under my hips. But one of Jason’s security guards stepped forward, blocking her. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he warned coldly. “You know how Mr. Hale gets.” Mrs. Gable sobbed, her voice cracking. “But Gwen is seven months pregnant! She’s bleeding out! She’s going to die!” The guard barely glanced at the blood on the hardwood floor. “Miss Gwen, you hurt Miss Cynthia. Mr. Hale is furious right now. I suggest you stop making a scene and wait quietly until we get Miss Cynthia’s test results back.” I closed my eyes, swallowing the metallic taste of blood rising in my throat. This was the same man who once panicked and called a private surgeon in the middle of the night because I had nicked my finger while chopping vegetables. Now, he was perfectly content to let me bleed out on the floor. Finally, the wail of a city ambulance echoed down the driveway. The paramedics burst through the front door carrying their trauma kits. When the lead paramedic saw the sheer volume of blood on the floor, his face went pale. But as a nurse rushed toward me, the guard stepped in front of the gurney, physically blocking her path. “I’m sorry,” the guard said smoothly. “No one leaves with her without Mr. Hale’s direct authorization.” “Are you out of your mind?” the paramedic roared, slamming his stethoscope down onto the gurney. “This is an obstetric emergency! If she or the baby dies, are you going to take the fall for manslaughter?” The guard didn’t even blink. “The Hale family handles their own affairs. But right now, she stays here.” Grunting in frustration, the paramedic shoved past the guard, kneeling beside me. “Ignore them,” he snapped to his partner. “Check her vitals, get an IV started, we need to stop the hemorrhaging now.” Under the relentless pressure of the paramedics, they finally loaded me onto the gurney and wheeled me out to the ambulance. Inside the rig, the paramedic applied firm pressure to my abdomen to staunch the bleeding while hooking up monitors that beeped frantically. The pain was an agonizing wave that made me shudder violently. I bit my lip until it bled, forcing myself to reach out and grab the sleeve of the paramedic’s shirt. “Please,” I sobbed, my voice trembling with raw panic. “Please save my baby. Do whatever it takes… just save my baby.” He squeezed my hand, his voice tight with urgency. “We’re doing everything we can, sweetie. But you’ve lost a lot of blood. Where’s your husband? We need a primary contact for emergency consent.” I stared up at the flickering fluorescent lights of the ambulance ceiling as my vision began to fade around the edges. Years ago, I had braved the freezing currents of the river to drag Jason out of the jaws of death. Now, I was carrying his flesh and blood, and he was the one leaving me to die. Slowly, my fingers slipped from the paramedic’s sleeve. “I’ll sign it myself.” The ambulance screeched to a halt outside the emergency bay. But before they could even wheel me into the trauma room, Cynthia’s whimpering voice echoed from the far end of the corridor. “Jason, I’m so scared… My head is spinning so fast…” Then came Jason’s familiar, deep voice, carrying that cold, commanding weight. “Get the chief of obstetrics over to Cynthia’s room immediately. Gwen’s situation can wait.” Through the half-open door of the trauma room, every single word sliced through me like a razor. The emergency room physician was staring at my charts, sweat dripping from his brow. “The patient is showing severe signs of threatened miscarriage, and the bleeding isn’t stopping. We need an OB-GYN consult on the double!” The nurse spoke into her radio, but when she got the reply, her face drained of color. “Dr. Jenkins, the on-call specialists, Dr. Harris and Dr. Cooper, have both been paged to the VIP wing.” “What?” the doctor shouted. “Why? Is there a patient over there in worse condition than a hemorrhaging pregnant woman?” The nurse lowered her eyes, helpless. “It was a direct order from Mr. Hale. He said the young lady in the VIP suite is experiencing dizziness and abdominal discomfort, and he wants a full panel of specialists to check her over.” Outside, Cynthia’s delicate, soft voice drifted in. “Jason, really, it’s fine. It’s probably just a lingering symptom from when I jumped into the river to save you all those years ago. A little rest is all I need. Don’t cause a scene for my sake.” Hearing that, Jason’s tone softened with intense devotion. “You ruined your health saving my life, Cynthia. I will never let anything happen to you again.” Listening to his tender, protective words, the last ember of warmth in my heart died. Unable to stand it any longer, the ER doctor stormed out of the trauma room. “Mr. Hale! Gwen is heavily pregnant and actively hemorrhaging! This is life-or-death, we cannot afford to wait!” Jason didn’t even deign to look toward my room. He merely offered the doctor a cold, indifferent profile. “She’s the one who initiated the violence. If she had enough strength to push Cynthia down the stairs, she’s strong enough to survive a wait. Let her wait.” Risking the wrath of the powerful Hale family, the ER doctor turned back and performed an emergency procedure to stabilize the bleeding. I bit down hard on the edge of the hospital bedsheet, refusing to let a single sob slip past my lips. It felt like hours before the doctor finally let out a long, ragged breath. “The baby is stable for now, but it’s incredibly touch-and-go. You need absolute bedrest in a high-dependency maternal care room immediately.” When I drifted back into consciousness, the nurse’s whisper that the baby was still breathing made tears spill silently down my temples. Gently, my trembling fingers traced the high curve of my stomach. Don’t be afraid, sweetie. Mommy’s here. The heavy door clicked open. Jason walked in, followed by Cynthia. Her cheeks were flushed with healthy color, though she took pains to lean heavily against his side, feigning fragility. The moment Cynthia saw the spacious, sunlit maternal suite I had been assigned to, she shrank back into Jason’s chest. “Oh, Jason… it’s fine. I can just take a standard room. Gwen is pregnant, and her baby is so much more important than my health. I don’t mind a little discomfort.” Jason fell silent for a beat. His cold gaze swept over my pale, hollow face. He turned to the attending physician who had followed them in, his voice cutting and absolute. “Transfer Gwen to a standard ward. Cynthia takes this suite.” The doctor’s jaw dropped in disbelief. He shook his head frantically. “Mr. Hale, absolutely not! Gwen’s pregnancy is extremely unstable. Moving her right now is a massive risk.” Jason’s brow furrowed with irritation. “I said transfer her. If anything happens, I’ll take responsibility.” I stared at this man. The man I had loved fiercely for four years. He had once sworn that I was his most precious treasure, promising that he would never let a single tear of sorrow fall from my eyes. Now, to appease a liar, he was willing to endanger not just my life, but the life of our unborn child. Before I could speak, Cynthia staggered slightly. Her hand swung backward, catching on my IV line and ripping it completely out of my vein. The needle tore through my flesh, and blood began to bubble and spill over the back of my hand. Seeing the bright splash of crimson, Jason’s hand instinctively twitched toward me. But Cynthia let out a sharp cry of pain, clutching her chest. Jason froze, instantly retracting his hand, and hurried to guide Cynthia onto the room’s sofa. Within the hour, I was wheeled down to a cramped, drafty standard ward on the lower floors. Late that night, the door to my room creaked open. A nurse quietly slipped inside, placing a bottle of high-end prenatal vitamins and a plush, soft cashmere blanket at the foot of my bed. I stared at the luxury items, refusing to touch them. “Who sent these?” The nurse avoided my gaze, shifting on her feet. “It was sent down from the administrative office, Miss Gwen. Please don’t ask. Just get some rest.” I closed my eyes and buried my face in the stiff hospital pillow. A slap in the face followed by a sweet treat—it was his favorite cycle. But I was done. I didn’t want his scraps anymore. The ward was noisy, filled with the groans of other patients and the constant hum of machinery. I barely slept a wink, a dull, heavy ache throbbing continuously in my lower abdomen. Just as I reached to press the call button, the door was thrown open. Cynthia walked in, draped in Jason’s oversized designer suit jacket. She moved with a slow, deliberate ease. Gone was the fragile, trembling victim she played in front of him. She turned around and locked the door behind her with a soft click. Stepping up to my bedside, she looked down at me, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across her lips. “Well, Gwen, I have to hand it to you—you’re tough. Even after a tumble down the stairs and a night in this dump, that little parasite is still hanging on.” My heart went cold, and my hands instinctively flew to cover my belly. “Get out.” Instead of leaving, Cynthia leaned in closer, her voice a poisonous whisper. “Do you really think bearing a Hale heir is going to make him love you again? Keep dreaming. In Jason’s eyes, your life and that unborn brat’s life combined aren’t worth a single hair on my head.” I reached blindly behind me for the call button, desperate to summon security to drag her out. But Cynthia was faster. With a swift yank, she ripped the cord out of the wall outlet. Then, she reached for my IV drip, spinning the dial to the maximum rate. The cold, concentrated medication flooded into my vein. Sensing the danger, I lunged forward to stop her. Cynthia slapped my hand away. “What’s the rush? I just want to see how much this baby can actually take.” I struggled to sit up, desperate to claw back the IV line, but a violent spasm of pain seized my abdomen. The color drained from my face, and cold sweat instantly drenched my thin hospital gown. Cynthia’s eyes drifted to my pillow, where a hand-carved sandalwood amulet lay. It was a protective medallion Jason had hand-carved for me himself, engraved with our intertwined initials. Jason was a staunch rationalist; he had never believed in gods or superstitions. Yet, during our early days, he had climbed the steps of a remote, sacred mountaintop temple just to secure this blessed piece of wood for my safety. He had stayed up for three consecutive nights, meticulously carving it with bleeding fingers. Cynthia picked up the amulet, tracing the rough engravings. A flash of pure envy crossed her face. “My, my. He really did adore you once, didn’t he? How touching. Too bad he only listens to me now. Keeping this around is just pathetic.” I didn’t care about the amulet; I only cared about saving my child. Summoning every ounce of strength left in my broken body, I shoved her away. Caught off guard, she stumbled backward. The sandalwood amulet slipped from her grip and shattered against the linoleum floor. Just then, the heavy, familiar sound of Jason’s footsteps echoed in the hallway. Before I could process what she was doing, Cynthia snatched up a jagged wooden shard and sliced it deep into her own forearm. “Gwen, please! I only came to ask you not to use the baby to blackmail Jason! Why are you doing this to me?” she wailed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. The door burst open. Jason stepped in to see Cynthia on the floor, blood dripping from her arm, surrounded by the splintered remains of the keepsake. She was sobbing hysterically. “Jason… I’m okay. Please, don’t be mad at Gwen. She… she said this baby is her ultimate leverage. She said she’d rather let the baby die than let me have you.” Jason turned his gaze to me, his eyes dark with absolute disgust. “Gwen. Are you so utterly sick that you’d use your own child as a pawn to win me back?” The pain was blinding now, the contractions rolling over me in rapid, agonizing waves. I clutched the thin bedsheets until my knuckles turned white. “She… she messed with my IV… She cut herself,” I gasped out. Cynthia shrank back, trembling like a leaf as her tears redoubled. “I didn’t! I only came to check on her! But she accused me of stealing her husband… she pushed me and threw the amulet at me!” Jason didn’t even wait for me to finish. He marched over to the bed, slamming his hands down on either side of my shoulders, looming over me. “How much lower are you going to sink, Gwen? Apologize to Cynthia. Now.” I forced my eyes open, staring straight into his cold, familiar face. “Apologize? For what?” His jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “You hurt her. You will apologize.” Cynthia reached up, plucking weakly at the hem of his trousers. “Jason, let it go. Don’t force her. I’m… I’m so worried about her stress levels affecting the baby.” Jason’s face darkened further. He pulled out his phone and made a brief call. Within minutes, two of his towering security guards stood in the doorway. “Get her out of bed,” Jason ordered coldly. “Make her apologize to Miss Cynthia.” The attending physician rushed in, hearing the commotion, and tried to block them. “Mr. Hale, stop! Gwen cannot be moved! She is in active, severe premature labor! Any more stress and we will lose the baby!” Jason didn’t even look at him. “She seemed to have plenty of strength when she was throwing things at Cynthia.” The guards stepped forward, hauling me out of the bed. My legs gave out instantly under the weight of the agony. As I fell, my body pitched forward, heading straight toward the sharp metal corner of the bedside table. Jason’s eyes widened in sudden panic. In a rare flash of instinct, he lunged forward, throwing his own hand between my pregnant belly and the sharp metal edge. Seeing this, one of the young nurses in the back couldn’t stay silent. “Mr. Hale! Look at the IV! Someone maxed out her medication drip. This dosage is lethal for a fetus!” Cynthia’s face went pale. Sensing she was losing control of the room, she immediately cried out, clutching her arm. “Jason! I’m so dizzy… I think I’ve lost too much blood…” Jason’s gaze snapped back to Cynthia. He hesitated for only a second before sweeping her into his arms. “Take care of Cynthia first,” he commanded, carrying her toward the door. “Gwen can wait until she’s ready to apologize.” I didn’t say another word. I lay on the floor, the sharp fragments of the shattered sandalwood amulet biting into the palm of my hand, drawing blood. Inside my pocket, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Adrian: “The evidence is fully restored. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Cynthia was rushed to the VIP wing. Half an hour later, the chief of internal medicine came out, holding a thick folder. “Mr. Hale, as you know, Miss Cynthia suffered a severe chronic pulmonary infection after her freezing rescue years ago. This recent blood loss has triggered acute respiratory distress. She’s in critical condition. We need to perform an emergency procedure using stem cells—specifically, compatible umbilical cord blood—to stabilize her.” Cynthia was wheeled back past my room, an oxygen mask strapped over her face, weeping softly between shallow breaths. “Jason… I don’t want to make things hard for Gwen. I don’t want to hurt her baby… But if I don’t get this treatment… I don’t think I’ll survive. I can’t bear the thought of leaving you.” Hearing the words saving your life, Jason’s face hardened into a mask of grim determination. He strode into my ward and slammed a document onto my bedside table: a consent form for forced labor induction. I stared at the bold letters at the top, and the blood in my veins turned to ice. He was going to force me into early labor—at seven months—just to harvest the umbilical cord blood for Cynthia. I snatched the paper and tore it into shreds, throwing the pieces in his face as I shielded my stomach. “Jason, she is your daughter! Your own flesh and blood!” Jason’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice cracking with a desperate, twisted conviction. “Cynthia gave me my life, Gwen. I owe her a life…” I looked at this monstrous, delusional man. Reaching blindly for a pair of medical scissors on the side tray, I pressed the sharp point directly against my carotid artery. “If you let anyone touch my baby, I will plunge this into my neck. You will get two corpses, Jason. Two!” Jason’s pupils shrunk. He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. “Gwen! Are you out of your mind? Put the scissors down! When you ran away and left me to die by that river, did you ever stop to think about my life?” Looking at his furious, self-righteous face, the tears finally spilled over, but I couldn’t stop the cold, hysterical laughter bubbling up from my chest. “Jason… when you opened your eyes on that muddy riverbank four years ago, you held my hand exactly like this. You wouldn’t let go.” The words made him freeze for a split second, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes. But he quickly shook it off. “Cynthia saved me, Gwen. Stop trying to steal her place.” He turned his back to me, his voice flat. “Prepare her for surgery. If she resists, sedate her.” The guards stepped forward, pinning my shoulders down. I thrashed wildly, screaming, but my exhausted body was no match for their brute force. Just as they began to drag me toward the operating room, the double doors of the ward were violently kicked open. The thunderous bang echoed through the ward, freezing everyone in their tracks. Adrian stood in the doorway, his dark trench coat damp from the rain, flanked by a dozen burly security guards of his own. He strode in with a terrifying calm, lifting a heavy manila envelope and hurling it straight at Jason’s face. “Jason Hale,” Adrian said, his voice dripping with pure venom. “Do you honestly believe Cynthia was the one who pulled you out of that river?”

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