Author: Momo Chan

My husband Zach’s childhood best friend, Maisie, had a pathology. She called it her “honest baby” routine. The very first time we met, she looked up at me with wide, doll-like eyes and asked in a sugary, high-pitched coo, “Lola, before you married Zachy, how many boyfriends did you sleep with? How many times did you get pregnant? You have to tell Maisie the absolute truth!” I was deeply unsettled, but Zach only laughed and squeezed my hand. “Maisie is just a sweet kid at heart. She speaks without a filter, Lola. She doesn’t mean any harm.” Later, when I was hospitalized on bed rest to save my difficult pregnancy, she came to visit, holding a pastel pink boba tea. She stood by my bedside, her eyes fixed on my swollen belly without blinking. “Maisie heard that if a girl has too many abortions, her uterus gets ruined and she can’t hold a baby. Lola must have been dishonest. She must have kept her past from Zachy.” Zach’s face had darkened slightly then, but he said nothing. Then came the day I finally gave birth to my son. Maisie showed up at the hospital again, pouting as she pointed a finger at the baby’s face. “Zachy, you and Lola both have light blue eyes. How does this tiny baby have dark brown eyes? Two blue-eyed people can’t make a brown-eyed baby. Biology 101! Lola was dishonest. She lied to you.” I couldn’t take it anymore. Driven to the edge of sanity, I demanded a DNA test right there in the ward. But when the results came back, the unthinkable happened—the baby was biologically mine, but he shared no genetic connection with Zach. I was entirely paralyzed, staring at the paperwork in absolute disbelief. Zach, blind with rage, beat me until I was black and blue. My own mother declared she would never own a shameless daughter like me, dragging me out of the hospital room by my hair and throwing me onto the street. In a daze of physical pain and profound betrayal, I stumbled into oncoming traffic. And then, I woke up. I gasped, looking down at my hands. I was back in the hospital bed, holding my newborn, preparing for my discharge. It was the exact same day. 1 “Zachy, Maisie learned this in biology class.” “Two blue-eyed people physically cannot have a brown-eyed baby.” “So this little baby must belong to another man. Lola was dishonest. She kept secrets from you.” In the sterile, fluorescent-lit hospital room, I cradled the baby close, getting ready to leave. Zach’s childhood friend stood near the door, wearing a ruffled pastel pink pinafore and clutching a plush pink rabbit, offering her “earnest” analysis. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Taylor, turned on me instantly. Her sharp, manicured nails dug into my bare arm, pinching the flesh. “Lola! What is the meaning of this?!” The sharp, stinging pain anchored me. I was back. In my previous life, this was the exact moment the nightmare had begun. The joyous atmosphere of the room had vanished in a second. Back then, Mrs. Taylor’s hand had cracked across my face before I could even process what was happening. “You cheap tramp!” she had screamed. “I knew the baby didn’t look like Zach! You’ve been carrying some random bastard!” Zach’s face had turned a terrifying shade of ash. “Lola, how could you? I gave you everything, and you put another man’s child in my arms?” And Maisie had stood in the corner, tapping her cheek with a childish finger. “Shame, shame. Lola is a big girl and she still tells lies. You have to be a good, honest girl like Maisie if you want people to love you.” In that lifetime, I had never even looked at another man after Zach and I became exclusive. Yet they had believed Maisie’s childishly packaged poison without a single hesitation. I had demanded the DNA test to prove my innocence, only for the results to shatter my world. The baby was mine, but not Zach’s. I had stood there, helpless and voiceless, as my own mother grabbed me by the neck and slammed my head against the hospital wall, screaming, “You shameless bitch! You’ve ruined our family’s name! Why don’t you just die?!” She had dragged me out, leaving me to wander into the path of a speeding truck. But this time, I knew the truth. I calmly placed the baby into Mrs. Taylor’s startled arms, quietly propped my phone up on the bedside table with the camera rolling, and walked directly over to Maisie. 2 “Newborns’ eye colors can change over the first year, Maisie,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “To throw out wild accusations with zero proof is called slander. By your logic, I could claim you had this baby with some random guy and snuck him into my bassinet. Would you confess to that?” Maisie shrank back from my sudden intensity, her bottom lip trembling as she began to sob dramatically. “I-I wasn’t lying! That’s what the schoolbooks say! Just because Maisie caught you doesn’t mean you can bully me. Maisie feels so bullied…” Zach stepped forward, thrusting himself between me and Maisie. “Enough! If you have nothing to hide, why are you attacking her? Maisie is honest. She has never told a lie in her life!” He turned, glaring furiously at my mother, Helen. “You swore to me she was pure, that she’d never even been in a serious relationship before we met! How do you explain this?!” Mrs. Taylor joined in, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at Helen. “A tramp like this had the nerve to take a hundred-thousand-dollar dowry from us? Give the money back!” That hundred thousand dollars had already been spent. Helen had used it to buy my brother Cody a new car and put a down payment on his condo. There wasn’t a cent left. Paled by the onslaught from Zach and his mother, Helen turned her wrath on me. “Lola, speak! Who is the man? Why do you have to ruin a perfectly good life? How did I raise such a shameless daughter?!” Her breathing grew shallow with rage, and she lunged forward, hands aiming for my throat. I was ready. I caught her wrists and shoved her back with all my strength. “Stop! Am I your daughter, or is she? You believe a single sentence out of her mouth, but you won’t even listen to me?” Helen stumbled back, shocked that I had dared to resist her. She stared at me, her eyes wide with indignation. “You… you dared to push me?! The proof is staring us in the face, Lola! What is there to explain?!” It was always like this. Since I was a child, Helen had lived by a simple rule: if someone accused me of something, I was automatically guilty. “If they’re talking about you, you must have done something to provoke it! Why else would they choose you?” “You did something wrong and now you’re lying! I’ll teach you some respect!” After I married Zach, it only got worse. Whenever we had a disagreement, Helen never cared about the details; she assumed it was entirely my fault. “A wife submits to her husband. In my generation, no woman dared to argue with her man. You don’t have to work, he provides for you—what do you have to be miserable about?” Seeing the chaos she had unleashed, Maisie peeked out from behind Zach and stuck her tongue out. “Mrs. Mitchell, you really need to teach her some manners. Dishonest girls are bad girls.” Helen’s face flushed red, then white, completely humiliated. The commotion had grown so loud that patients and visitors from neighboring rooms were gathering at our open door, whispering among themselves. “Unbelievable. Passing off a bastard baby as her husband’s…” “And she actually gave birth to it! She wanted him to be the sucker who pays for another man’s kid.” “In the old days, a woman like that would have been run out of town.” Though they spoke in low murmurs, the words cut through the room clearly. Mrs. Taylor’s face turned purple with embarrassment. She rushed over and slammed the door shut, shutting out the onlookers. Zach’s chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged expansions. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles popped. “Are you still trying to protect the real father?!” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “How do you think this baby was made, Zach? Did you forget? It took three grueling, agonizing rounds of IVF for me to get pregnant. Why aren’t you wondering if the hospital made a mistake? Why don’t you care where our actual child is right now?!” Zach froze, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. But Maisie immediately tugged at his sleeve, shaking his arm. “Zachy, Maisie has more proof.” 3 Every eye in the room locked onto her. Maisie giggled, unzipping her plush bear backpack and pulling out a folded piece of paper, holding it up like a trophy. “Look! This bad girl is Type A. Zachy is Type O. But the tiny baby is Type B. A Type A parent and a Type O parent physically cannot have a Type B baby.” Zach snatched the paper from her hand. As his eyes scanned the lab report, his face twisted in raw fury. He crumpled the sheet into a tight ball and hurled it directly at my face. “Lola! What do you have to say to this?!” Before I could blink, Mrs. Taylor lunged at me, her palm striking my cheek with a sickening crack. “You cheap bitch! Give us back the hundred thousand!” The sting of the slap burned, but this time, I didn’t cry. I swung my hand back and slapped her right back, hard enough to make her stagger. “I never touched a single dollar of that money! If you want it back, go talk to the people who spent it!” In the next second, Zach’s foot connected violently with my stomach. The force of the kick knocked me off the bed, sending me crashing onto the hard linoleum floor. The pain was blinding, robbing me of breath. Before I could even attempt to stand, his boot struck my ribs. “You crazy bitch! You dare lay a hand on my mother?!” He grabbed Helen by the arm and dragged her over, shoving her toward me. “Look at your psychotic daughter! Do something!” Prodded by Zach, Helen let her embarrassment turn into violence. She dropped to her knees, straddling my waist, and began raining slaps down on my face. “I raised you to be decent! To be honest! And you threw it all away! Zach gave you a perfect life, and you destroyed it!” I lunged upward and bit her arm as hard as I could. She shrieked in pain, loosening her grip, and I used the opportunity to throw her off me. I pushed myself up against the side of the bed. My face was throbbing, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, dripping steadily onto the cold floor. I knew I looked monstrous, but my eyes were clear. Maisie shrank into Zach’s chest, crying crocodile tears. “Zachy, did Maisie do something bad by telling the truth? If Maisie kept quiet, everyone wouldn’t be fighting, and Mrs. Mitchell wouldn’t have been hurt by that bad woman.” Zach stroked her hair, his voice dripping with uncharacteristic tenderness. “Shh, sweetie, it’s not your fault. You did the right thing. It’s all her fault. She deserves everything she gets.” I spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor and stared at them. “Even with a blood type discrepancy, how does that prove I cheated? Why are you so absolutely certain the hospital didn’t swap the baby? Unless… you already knew something.” Zach’s face drained of color for a split second, replaced quickly by a mask of outrage. “Fine! You want to play the victim? I’ll strip away every last bit of your dignity today. We’ll do a paternity test right now, and you can explain the results to the judge.” He slammed his hand on the call button, summoning the nurse. An hour later, the rapid-testing lab delivered the results. It was an exact replica of my previous life: I was the biological mother, but Zach had zero genetic relation to the child. He gripped the document, shaking it in my face. “Lola! What lie are you going to invent now?!” In my past life, this was where my mind had shattered, leaving me a hollow shell as they dragged me away. But now, I reached out with lightning speed, snatched the paper from his hands, and gripped it tight. “In about ten seconds,” I whispered, “you’re going to find out exactly what I have to say.” The heavy wooden door of the hospital room swung open, and two figures stepped inside. At the sight of them, Zach and Maisie froze, the color completely vanishing from their faces. “Lola…” Zach stammered, his voice cracking. “Why the hell did you call them?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “461700”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I met Logan on May twentieth. We fell in love on May twentieth. Now, I am pregnant, due in August. But his mother has made it chillingly clear: we will only get her blessing to buy a marriage license if the baby is a boy. Logan used to wrap his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder, a soft smile on his face. “Wouldn’t it be perfect if our baby was born on May twentieth, too? A complete, beautiful circle.” I thought he was just being a foolish romantic. In May, the baby would only be twenty-four weeks along. A micro-preemie. Delivering a baby that early is practically a death sentence, or at best, a lifetime of machines, developmental delays, and pain. No sane father would wish for that. Until the afternoon I went to his office to surprise him with lunch. I stood outside his heavy mahogany door, holding a warm container of honey-glazed pork chops, and heard him talking to his close friend, Dr. Thomas. “We have to deliver on May twentieth, Thomas. The umbilical cord blood is the only thing that can reverse the rejection in Fiona’s eyes. It’s my gift to her—our one-year wedding anniversary present.” “What about Gwen? It’s her baby, too. You think she’s just going to agree to this?” The doctor’s voice was casual, almost bored. “It’s just a baby,” Logan replied, his tone light and conversational. “If it survives, it survives. If not, I’ll just give her another one later. Besides, the kid is technically a bastard anyway.” “But still—” “Ever since her parents died, she does whatever I tell her to do. Who else does she have to turn to? I buy her a designer bag, and she’s happy.” “You make it sound so simple.” “If she makes a fuss, I’ll just print out a fake marriage certificate to keep her quiet. She’s too devoted to ever leave me.” Listening to that familiar, smooth voice—so cold yet sounding so gentle—I clutched my stomach. I slid down the hallway wall, my knees giving out, sobbing silently into my hands. He truly believed I had no one left. That night, my hands shaking, I sent a text to my adoptive brother, Ian, who was living abroad. This May twentieth, I want to spend it with you. … When I left Logan’s office building, my legs felt like lead. I walked aimlessly, eventually dragging myself to the private hospital where Fiona was regularly treated. Fiona’s corneas belonged to Lydia, Logan’s deceased first love. For the past five years, Logan had openly doted on Fiona, claiming he was simply guarding “the last physical relic” Lydia had left in this world. Whenever Fiona so much as complained of a dry eye, Logan would drop whatever he was doing—meetings, dinners, our quiet evenings—and rush to her side. I used to tell myself: She’s a ghost. Why compete with a dead woman? But I was wrong. The ghost had handed a living woman a weapon, and she was using it to tear my life apart. “Yes, ma’am, your husband indeed scheduled an early delivery and a neonatal team for May twentieth…” The nurse’s polite voice broke through my thoughts, shattering the last fragile pieces of my denial. The clinic we were standing in wasn’t even my regular OB-GYN. Everything I had overheard in that office was real. He didn’t care about our child. He didn’t care about me. Six years ago, on May twentieth, I met Logan. He was drowning in grief, drinking himself to death after Lydia passed away from stomach cancer. Five years ago, on May twentieth, we became official. I foolishly believed that with enough patience and warmth, I could slowly heal him and take her place. Every year on that anniversary, I waited for him to propose, to finally make me his wife. Every holiday, I dutifully visited his mother’s house, cooking, cleaning, and acting as her unpaid housekeeper, trying to earn her approval. But she never gave me a kind look. To her, I was just a convenient, quiet girl who didn’t demand a ring. During the holidays, I would stand in the kitchen for hours preparing a massive family feast, only to find there was no seat left for me at the table. For years, Logan kept one chair empty for Lydia. Then, two years ago, Fiona sat in that empty chair. And I was still left standing, eating leftovers by the kitchen counter. “Gwen, sweetie,” Logan had whispered to me back then. “My mother is just old-fashioned. She needs to see a grandson before she’s comfortable letting us register our marriage.” And like an idiot, I believed him. I let myself get pregnant. “Gwen, you just have to cook this one holiday meal so my mother likes you more,” he’d say. “The rest of the year, I’ll do all the cooking.” And he did. For five years, he was incredibly gentle. He never raised his voice, never lost his temper. He was like a calm pool of water, enveloping me in comfort. Whenever I came home exhausted from client dinners, he would have a bowl of warm noodles waiting. He would wash my feet and gently blow-dry my hair. My friends used to tease me, saying I had found the ultimate devoted partner. That was why, even when he slipped out in the dead of night to comfort Fiona, I never felt a sense of danger. I wiped my tears and began packing my bags. I would not let him touch a single hair on my baby’s head. Today was May twelfth. I had eight days left. My phone buzzed with an instant reply from Ian. I’m flying back tomorrow. Wait for me at home. My parents were ordinary blue-collar workers, but they had hearts too big for this world. Five years ago, during a massive flash flood in our county, they had volunteered to help evacuate a local school. They managed to pull every single child out of the rising waters, but they never made it back. I dusted the glass of our old family portrait, the tears starting to fall again. Dad, Mom, what do I do? I’m so scared. When I was little, whenever I was sad, my dad would magically produce a strawberry hard candy from his pocket, pop it into my mouth, and scoop me up in a giant hug, rocking me until I laughed. I sat on the living room sofa, clutching the photograph, watching the afternoon sun slowly sink into a gloomy, gray twilight. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was Logan. I felt a visceral wave of revulsion, but I knew I couldn’t ruin my chance of escape by acting suspicious. I pressed answer. Logan’s voice was as warm and tender as it always was. “Gwen, where are you? You aren’t at the house.” “I was feeling lonely. I came back to my parents’ old place to clear my head.” “What do you want for dinner? I’ll drive over and cook for you.” “No, don’t worry about it. I’ll just order—” Before I could finish, a woman’s voice whimpered in the background. It was Fiona. “Gwen, hold on a second. Fiona is calling me.” “Why do I always have to wait?” I asked, my voice trembling with a sudden, sharp edge. “Why can’t she wait for once?” Logan sighed. He sounded patient, like a father dealing with a petulant child. “Fiona’s eyes are acting up again. I need to make sure she’s okay. She’s sick, Gwen. Don’t be petty. Can you please just be reasonable?” Reasonable. Always reasonable. “Logan, am I your partner, or is she? Who actually matters to you?” I asked, the word bastard echoing in my ears. “You, of course,” he said without a second of hesitation. “Wait for me there. I’ll come find you.” He hung up. He probably figured I was just having hormonal pregnancy swings and that a little pampering would fix it. I stared at the screen. The lock screen was still a photo of us smiling at a beach. It felt like a mockery. I immediately changed it to a default wallpaper and tossed the phone onto the table. On the other side of town, Logan stared at his phone, hovering over my name on his chat list for a moment before locking his device. Fiona called out to him again from the hospital bed. “Logan… it hurts so much. Do you think Lydia is missing you? Is that why her eyes are crying?” Logan’s face softened instantly, his brief flash of guilt toward me vanishing. He leaned over her, staring into her eyes with intense devotion. Through Fiona’s pupils, he was looking at Lydia. They had only been dating for a month when Lydia was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. He had stayed by her side until her very last breath. Lydia had smiled at him near the end and said, “Logan, I want to donate my corneas. Let someone else see the world for me.” He was so grateful she had left a piece of herself behind. But Fiona’s body was constantly trying to reject the transplant. When he read a medical article suggesting that compatible stem cells and umbilical cord blood could alleviate transplant rejection, he immediately thought of the baby in my womb. He loved Lydia so deeply that he didn’t even care to verify the medical feasibility with other specialists. He just wanted a cure. After the doctor examined Fiona and assured him she was stable, Logan stood up to leave. Fiona grabbed his sleeve. “Can’t you stay tonight?” Logan frowned. “I have to cook dinner for Gwen.” “But I’m the one whose name is on your marriage certificate,” Fiona whispered. Logan coldly pulled his arm away. “So what? You’re just a vessel for Lydia’s eyes. Being on that paper is a privilege I granted you. Don’t forget your place.” When Logan arrived at my parents’ old house, he found me sitting in the dark with tear-stained cheeks. He set the groceries down and immediately went to hug me. “Gwen, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I pushed his arms away. “Don’t touch me.” Looking at him, all I could think about was the fact that I had been unknowingly playing the role of the mistress in my own relationship. Logan didn’t get angry. He adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses, his expression calm and gentle. “Okay, I won’t touch you. Let me make you some dinner first. What are you craving?” “How about crispy honey-glazed pork chops? You’ve been liking sweet and sour things lately.” I turned my head away, tears slipping silently down my face. Since we moved in together, he had handled all the domestic chores while I managed his professional life. I used to think I was the lucky one, that I had successfully built a life with him. But now, I realized I didn’t even rank above Fiona. Logan put on his apron and began working efficiently in the kitchen. If I hadn’t overheard his conversation earlier today, I would still be looking at his back, thinking how blessed I was to have such a husband. Did he truly feel nothing for the child growing inside me? He had accompanied me to every single ultrasound. We had watched the tiny flicker of a heartbeat grow into a little body with kicking legs. We had spent hours debating names, wondering if the baby would inherit his eyes or my smile. How could he be so heartless? He suddenly popped his head out of the kitchen door. “Would you like some bang bang shrimp? I bought some fresh tiger prawns.” “I saw a recipe online saying kids love it. I want to try making it for you first.” “Then, when our little one grows up, I’ll make it for them every single day. We’ll have a big baby and a little baby to feed.” He smiled, his eyes full of tenderness. He looked exactly like a doting father-to-be—completely different from the man who had coldly declared that the baby “must be delivered on May twentieth.” Whose baby was he actually planning for? Fiona’s? Or was he just planning to feed a ghost? A sudden spark of rage flared in my chest. I stood up, marched into the kitchen, and stood directly in front of him. The anger I had been suffocating all afternoon finally erupted. “Logan! Do you have the guts to look me in the eye and tell me what you actually plan to do to my baby?!” I screamed, my voice cracking. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. How dare he stand there and talk about our baby’s future? Logan realized something was seriously wrong. He turned off the burner, set down his spatula, and let his gentle mask slip away. “Gwen, what did you find out?” “I know everything!” I sobbed. “I know what you’re planning!” Logan reached out to grasp my shoulders, trying to guide me to a chair. “Sit down. Calm down.” I violently slapped his hands away. He pulled out his phone and dialed his assistant. “Did Gwen come to the office today?” “Yes, Mr. Harley,” the assistant stammered. “She dropped off some paperwork, but she left almost immediately.” Logan hung up, his eyes darkening. “So, you heard what Thomas and I were discussing.” “Yes! I heard every single word! You want to sacrifice our baby for a dead girl’s eyes!” Logan’s face went completely cold. “Calm down, Gwen. I am not killing our child.” “Then tell me you aren’t planning to force a C-section on May twentieth!” Logan went silent. I let out a harsh, bitter laugh, pulling my messy hair away from my face. “You can’t even deny it, can you?” I held up my hand, counting on my fingers. “On May twentieth, I will only be twenty-four weeks pregnant! How is a baby supposed to survive that?!” Logan remained entirely unmoved. His voice was steady and quiet, making my rage look like the hysterics of a madwoman. “I’ve already contracted the city’s top neonatal intensive care team. Even at twenty-four weeks, they have a high success rate. They will keep the baby alive.” “By keeping them in a plastic incubator? Hooked up to ventilators? Growing up weaker and smaller than every other kid? Spending their childhood in and out of hospitals?” I screamed. “You are the father! How can you be so cruel?!” A flicker of hesitation crossed Logan’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a chillingly rational resolve. “But what about Lydia’s corneas? They are the absolute last piece of her left on this earth. Even if this baby doesn’t make it, we can always have another one. A healthier one. Gwen, you’ve always been the sensible one. Your parents sacrificed their lives to save strangers. Didn’t you learn anything from their selflessness? It’s just one baby. If it saves Lydia’s legacy, isn’t that worth it?” I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, and then I started to laugh. He was so deeply, pathologically in love with a dead girl that he had lost all touch with humanity. I had been so naive to think I could ever compete with a ghost. I ran to the counter, grabbed a heavy kitchen knife, and pointed it directly at his chest. “If you dare touch my baby, I will kill you myself!” Logan’s calm facade finally cracked. “Gwen! Put the knife down! You’re going to hurt yourself!” I lunged forward in a blind panic, but he easily caught my wrists, twisting them until the knife slipped from my fingers. The blade grazed his cheek as it fell, leaving a thin line of bright red blood. Before I could scream, my vision went entirely black, and I collapsed. When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I did was clutch my stomach. It was still round. The baby was still there. A figure was sitting quietly by my bedside. It was my brother, Ian. He was staring at me, his eyes bloodshot and filled with worry. “Ian!” I gasped, the tears immediately spilling over. “Gwen, I’m so sorry. I should have come back sooner.” He squeezed my hand tightly. I shook my head. It was my fault for losing my temper and alerting Logan. Ian had been rescued from a child trafficker by my parents when we were young. Because they could never locate his biological family, my parents legally adopted him. We grew up as siblings, but as we got older, Ian realized he had developed romantic feelings for me. Fearing he would ruin our family dynamic, he chose to keep his distance and eventually moved abroad after finding his biological relatives. But he was still the only person in this world I could trust implicitly. “I’m taking you away,” Ian said, his voice hard. “You’ll get a divorce, and I will take care of you and the baby for the rest of my life.” My chest ached. Ian was exactly the same as he had always been—the moment I called, he appeared, ready to be my shield against the world. “Ian… I was so stupid.” Years ago, Ian had warned me about Logan. He told me Logan was obsessed with a dead girl, and that competing with a ghost was a losing battle. But I had been too blinded by what I thought was love to listen. Ian reached out, gently smoothing my hair. “It’s okay. No matter what happens, I’m here to carry the weight.” I gave him a weak, bitter smile. But divorce? I didn’t even need to go through a divorce. Ian assumed we were legally married and had simply pushed back the wedding ceremony because of the pregnancy. “She is my partner. You aren’t taking her anywhere.” The door swung open, and Logan walked in, a small band-aid across his cheek. Ian stood up instantly and threw a heavy, solid punch straight into Logan’s jaw. Logan didn’t try to dodge. He stumbled back, his lip immediately splitting and bleeding. “Do you think Gwen has no family left? You think you can just treat her like garbage?” Ian growled, his tall, athletic frame towering over Logan. Ian didn’t know the full details of the C-section plan yet; he only knew Logan had pushed me to a breakdown. Logan wiped the blood from his mouth, his polite, gentle mask firmly back in place. “Gwen’s been having severe mood swings due to the pregnancy. I must have done something insensitive to upset her. It’s my fault. I’ll make it up to her.” Ian clearly didn’t buy a word of it. He had returned to this country with the sole intention of taking me away, and he wasn’t about to leave me in this man’s hands. “Ian,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “In my old room back at our parents’ house, there’s a small wooden box in the closet. It has my childhood toys. Can you go get it for me? I want to save them for the baby.” Ian looked at me, realizing I was trying to get him out of the room so I could speak to Logan alone. He gave me a lingering look, threw a warning glance at Logan, and finally left. Logan sat down on the edge of my bed. He took an apple from the bedside table and began peeling it, his voice dropping into that familiar, soothing register. “Gwen, I’ve been thinking about what happened last night. I was wrong.” “Lydia’s corneas are important, but they’re just a physical object. Our baby is a living, breathing miracle. I want to see our child grow up, too.” He placed a slice of the apple into my hand, holding my fingers gently. His eyes were filled with absolute sincerity and remorse. “Gwen, I want this baby just as much as you do.” “On May twentieth, let’s go get our marriage license. I’m going to finalize my divorce paper with Fiona immediately. She blackmailed me using her eyes, and I felt obligated to comply. But now I see that you are the only one who matters to me. You’re the one I want to spend my life with.” “Really?” I whispered, my voice trembling. A wave of desperate hope washed over me, threatening to pull me under. It was so easy to want to believe him. “I was just panicked yesterday because Fiona’s doctor said her eye condition was critical,” Logan murmured, pulling me close. “And honestly, the baby’s blood might not even be a match. I would never actually risk our child’s life. Gwen, we’ve been together for five years. Do you really think I’m capable of that?” I stared into his eyes, looking for any sign of a lie. Then, I let out a sob, burying my face in his chest, crying until I couldn’t breathe. “You terrified me, Logan… I was so scared…” Logan rubbed my back, letting out a long, quiet sigh. “…I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “461699”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the anonymous diary of a secret, unrequited love from the account User0601 went viral on TikTok, the entire comment section was moved to tears by the tender, excruciatingly detailed perspective of the narrator. The whole internet was trying to track down the girl whose birthday was on June 1st. Then, my childhood best friend—whom I hadn’t spoken to in years—suddenly forwarded the video to me. She said she recognized who the original poster was and asked if I wanted to hear the gossip. Her birthday was June 1st. When the realization hit me, my first instinct was actually relief for her. I was glad someone out there had loved her so deeply, for so long. But the smile froze, then completely shattered, when I read her next few texts: “It’s Damian. I actually always kind of liked him.” “But he confessed to me yesterday that he’s getting married. He said that diary was just to put an end to his youth. Said I shouldn’t take it seriously.” “Ugh, he’s so stubborn. He sounded like he was about to cry on the phone…” A single tear slipped from my eye, landing with a faint, metallic clink against the diamond engagement ring on my left hand. I sat there, paralyzed in a state of stupid, numb shock for a long time. Then, the delayed agony tore through my chest. Half-joking, half-serious, Cassidy sent one last message: “Tell me—if I crash his wedding, do you think he’d run away with me?” … 1 I tilted my head back, staring at the ceiling, but the tears refused to recede. “Evie? Why’d you go quiet?” Cassidy’s voice crackled through the speaker. I took a deep, trembling breath, desperately trying to iron out the shake in my voice. “Didn’t you say you couldn’t stand him in high school? You called him a pretentious nerd. Why the sudden change of heart?” Cassidy sighed, her tone dripping with a wistful kind of nostalgia. “We were so young back then. My pride was louder than my heart. That’s why we missed out on each other for all these years. Do you remember the high school theater club? He was the head playwright. His scripts were always so dark, so macabre and tragic. But every character I played was always perfectly protected. Because of his soft spot for me, everyone else on stage met a tragic end, but my character always got her happily ever after.” I knew. Of course I knew. Because those were the same three years I had spent secretly, agonizingly in love with Damian Cross. I had collected every single script he ever wrote, thumbing through the pages until the edges frayed. It was because of him that I had chased the blinding, brutal lights of Hollywood like a madwoman. I swallowed unimaginable bitterness, clawing my way up until I was an A-list actress standing center stage, bathed in the glow of millions. It took so much to finally catch up to his shadow. It took so much for Damian to finally look at me. It took so much for us to finally get engaged. So why, out of all the days in a lifetime, did this have to happen now? I didn’t blame Cassidy for reappearing. I blamed Damian. I blamed the man who had slid a ring onto my finger while still carrying the ghost of a girl from his past in his chest. Was I just… not enough? I hung up the phone as if fleeing a burning building, pulled the covers over my head, and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. My manager, Roxy, burst into the room upon hearing the noise. She panicked immediately. “Jesus, Evie, no! Stop crying! You have an audition in an hour!” She dropped her clipboard. “Don’t forget, this is the casting for Three Years in August! You’ve waited years for this book to be adapted into a film, you cannot go in there with swollen eyes!” She frantically yanked an ice pack from the mini-fridge and pressed it hard against my face. I violently flinched. The biting, unforgiving cold shocked my system, forcing a harsh clarity back into my brain. Holding the ice pack to my cheek, I lowered my eyes, sinking into absolute silence. Three Years in August was the best thing Damian had ever written. It was also his earliest work. And the female lead in that novel was the only character he had ever publicly admitted was based on a real person. During the years I spent following in his footsteps, I watched him transition from an indie screenwriter to a bestselling author. His debut novel was a massive cultural phenomenon. His sheer, undeniable talent made his rise to the top impossibly smooth. Because he had attained everything so easily, he approached life with an infuriatingly detached, indifferent air. He was famous for his aloofness. It was a sharp, fascinating contrast to the fiercely intense emotions woven into his work. Online, Three Years in August was a beloved masterpiece, and its heroine, August, was an iconic literary figure. She was the sole recipient of the author’s blatant favoritism; amidst a sea of tragedies, she was the only character allowed to be happy. Even Roxy, who was usually incredibly conservative with her predictions, promised me that whoever landed this role was guaranteed an Oscar nomination. It was the kind of role an actress could coast on for the rest of her life. She knew about my relationship with Damian. Her eyes dropped to the diamond on my left hand, and she smirked. “You’re the inspiration for this character, aren’t you?” she said, her voice softening. “It’s your fiancé’s intellectual property. We’ve got this in the bag! Stop crying, Evie. Everything is about to fall perfectly into place.” 2 Before that phone call, both I and my millions of fans were absolutely certain that the character of August was written about me. Because during the era Damian wrote that book, I was the only girl by his side. Even I had the utter hubris to believe that if it was ever adapted, the role belonged to me by divine right. “I’m sorry, Miss Hamiltion. You are not a right fit for the role of August.” At the audition space, beneath the blinding, clinical glare of the temporary studio lights, the bustling room went dead silent. Damian’s words were spoken softly, but they dropped like an anvil. As the screenwriter and original author, he sat at the center of the table. He held the ultimate casting power. Everyone in the room had been glancing at the diamond on my finger. They all assumed my audition was just a formality—that the role of August had been tailor-made for me. No one expected Damian to humiliate me. To screen me out. Perhaps the devastation in my eyes was too loud. Damian frowned slightly. He flipped through the character breakdowns, casually pointed to a nameless, D-list background extra who met a gruesome end, and said, “You can play this part.” The silence in me thickened. He looked annoyed now. “Do you absolutely have to play August?” I let out a broken laugh. My eyes stung fiercely, but my voice was pure steel. “Yes. It has to be me.” Damian stared at me for a long beat. Then, he smiled. It was a cruel, blinding thing. He said, “I’ve said it before in interviews. This character is based on a real person.” “And it isn’t you.” Someone in the room was already secretly recording on their phone. Once this video leaked, my social media would become a bloodbath. The relentless mockery of the internet would tear into me and my loyal fans like shrapnel. Look at the desperate A-lister, rejected by her own fiancé. My career would take a massive hit. Instead of reaping the glory of the role, I’d be branded a pathetic punchline for the rest of my life. Driven by a sickening sense of defiance, I asked, “Then who exactly do you plan to cast?! Who could possibly play her?!” Damian’s expression softened. The tense, suffocating atmosphere seemed to dissipate around him as he thought of someone. He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “The girl she was based on, of course.” That was the moment the last, pathetic ember of hope in me died. Roxy, looking pale and panicked, practically dragged me out of the studio. She cursed him the entire ride back. “What the hell is wrong with him?! You two are practically married! What the fuck does ‘based on’ even mean? This role is yours!” “Don’t let it get to your head, Evie. These pretentious literary types always love to create unnecessary drama!” But what stressed her out more was the impending PR nightmare. Damian’s words were brutal. Once it hit the internet, it would be a media massacre. Ultimately, she and the agency’s crisis PR team made a desperate, unified decision: We needed to fast-track the official announcement of my engagement to Damian. By doing so, the narrative would shift. Damian wouldn’t be the cruel boyfriend rejecting his lover; he would be the brilliant, uncompromising artist who refused to mix business with pleasure, prioritizing the integrity of his film above all else. Roxy asked me for a cute, intimate photo of us to post with the announcement. I instinctively opened my camera roll. My thumb hovered over the screen. I froze. Nothing. There was not a single picture. Seven years together. I scoured the depths of my phone, and the only tangible proof of our intimacy was the ring on my finger. It was absurd. It was pathetic. Roxy frowned deeply, but we were racing against the clock. We had to beat the leaks. She grabbed a male production assistant, told him to hold my hand so our fingers intertwined, making sure the diamond caught the light, and snapped a picture. We rushed the post out. We beat the leaked audition video by exactly one second. The internet exploded. The brilliant, brooding author and the stunning A-list actress. The internet had been quietly shipping us for years, and the confirmation sent them into a frenzy. My team watched the analytics skyrocket and let out a collective sigh of relief. Someone happily chimed in that a massive luxury brand endorsement was now locked in. Suddenly, the head of PR swore loudly. Her face drained of color as she marched over to me and shoved her tablet into my hands. “Look at this.” Damian, who hadn’t posted on X in three years, had just tweeted a single sentence: “That is not my hand.” 3 It felt exactly like a physical slap across the face. Roxy and the rest of the team were shaking with rage. “Is he out of his fucking mind?! He’s deliberately trying to ruin you, Evie!” “Evie, you and I have worked together for years. Look me in the eye and give it to me straight—did he actually propose to you?” Roxy demanded. “Or did you stage this whole thing?” I offered a hollow, bitter smile, my hands trembling violently by my sides. Right on cue, my phone lit up. It was Damian. “Why would you announce our relationship without discussing it with me first?” he demanded, his tone laced with irritation. I was dumbfounded. A laugh escaped my throat, harsh and dry. “Our relationship? Am I your underground mistress? Am I your enemy? Is our engagement something shameful that needs to be hidden in the dark?” Damian scoffed coldly, his words dripping with condescension. “You’re just doing this to force me to give you the role of August, aren’t you?” “Did you really think backing me into a corner publicly would make me hand it over?” In all our years together, we had never fought like this. He was always so mild, so detached. I had never seen him so fiercely agitated. The only explanation was the role of August. In his heart, that character—and the girl she represented—was infinitely more important than the woman wearing his ring. In that singular moment, the humiliation lodged in my throat like shards of glass. His mocking words were repeated slaps to my dignity. Desperate to salvage the last agonizing shreds of my pride, I screamed a lie: “Yes!” “I want the role of August. If you don’t give it to me, we are done!” The moment the word ‘done’ left my lips, the tears I had been fighting back broke free, sliding rapidly down my cheeks. I had a million questions festering inside me, and today, I was going to carve them all out. A heart has to be emptied completely before it can walk away light. “Damian, would you ever write a book for me?” “Do you look at me and feel inspired?” “Where does all your creative passion and desire actually go? Toward whom?” Finally, my voice cracking with a sob, I asked the fatal question: “Is the inspiration for Three Years in August Cassidy Blake? The anonymous account, User0601… that was you, wasn’t it?” For a long time, the only sound on the line was the static hum of his breathing and the frantic beating of my own heart. He said nothing. His silence was his confession. Heartbreak. Devastation. Total, humiliating defeat. That was all I was in that moment. “So you set the wedding date for June 1st… because of her birthday, right?” Damian finally spoke. His voice was hoarse. “You’re overthinking this. I told you I would marry you, and I am a man of my word.” “As for that account, I already explained it to Cassidy. It was just a moment of nostalgia. A regret from my youth. It doesn’t mean anything now.” “I’m just angry that you used someone else’s hand to announce us. I’ll explain it to the fans later so it doesn’t hurt your career.” I found it almost hysterically funny. Why did I have to use a fake hand? Because you never allowed us to leave a single photographic trace of our intimacy. He hated documenting his life. So my ten years of loving him left no footprints. My devotion existed only in the void. We fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Neither of us said another word before the call disconnected. I lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling until my eyes burned and my vision blurred into a gray haze. The PR director watched my face carefully, choosing her words like walking on a minefield. “Evie, Damian just posted a follow-up tweet. He confirmed the engagement. The internet is eating it up. It’s trending number one.” “But… those brand deals just called. They said they need to ‘evaluate the situation.’ We’re on pause.” I nodded weakly. I pulled up X on my own phone. When I refreshed Damian’s profile, a new casting announcement had just gone live. It was the official casting for August. A complete unknown. He had publicly confirmed that she was the real-life inspiration for the character. Cassidy Blake. The timestamp showed it was posted exactly thirty seconds after his post confirming our engagement. He was so terrified that I would use my new status as his official fiancée to aggressively steal the role, that he rushed to lock Cassidy in publicly. I sat on the edge of the bed, mindlessly twisting the diamond ring on my finger. Taking it off, putting it back on. In my blurred vision, the ring seemed to expand, turning into a massive steel trap, daring me to stick my neck inside and lock myself in a cage. I shivered violently. At midnight, after wrapping up a grueling day of damage control, I sat alone in the back of my SUV. A DM popped up on Instagram. “I warned you, Evie.” “It’s only because we used to be best friends that I tried to let you down gently. I really, really didn’t want to hurt you.” 4 I didn’t reply to Cassidy. Instead, I went back to work. I smiled for the cameras. I hit my marks. With only three days left until June 1st, Damian finally remembered that our wedding had zero actual preparations. He rubbed his exhausted eyes as he walked into the house we shared. “Why don’t we just hire a luxury planning agency to handle it?” he asked. “Have them do an all-inclusive package. If we try to do it ourselves, three days isn’t enough.” I didn’t argue. I just let him do it. So, three days before the wedding, Damian outsourced the entire event to an agency. He didn’t even bother putting together a guest list. When the wedding planners chased him down on set, he was too busy directing. He waved them off and said he didn’t have anyone he particularly wanted to invite. The planners were baffled. They came to me. I shook my head. I wasn’t inviting anyone either. Even the most seasoned luxury wedding planners had never seen anything like this. It was as if this wedding was just a corporate errand, a 9-to-5 task to be checked off a list. The night before the wedding, Damian came home with bloodshot eyes. He had three pages of script in his hands, covered in red ink, obsessively rewriting a single scene. I glanced at it. I didn’t even have to read the words to know it was August’s scene. Damian, who was famously indifferent to everything in life, was treating her character with an agonizing, meticulous reverence. Still clutching his pen, he collapsed onto the bed and passed out. Right before he went under, he mumbled, “Wake me up tomorrow. We have to get married.” It was so casual it bordered on the surreal. The next morning, I woke up on time. I had my makeup done. I was as coldly professional as if I were stepping onto the set of a low-budget indie film to play a bride. As for Damian, I didn’t wake him. The ceremony was set for noon. The grand, dreamlike ballroom was practically empty, save for a few confused venue staff looking around for a groom. Roxy stood at the edge of the stage, her eyes red with unshed tears of fury. I gave her a helpless look, and she turned her head away, grinding her teeth. The soft, romantic string quartet began to play right on schedule. Wearing a flawless white gown, I walked slowly down the aisle toward an empty altar. My professional instincts kicked in. I found the cameras. I thought, at the very least, I can get some editorial-quality photos out of this to feed my fans. I didn’t need this marriage, but my career desperately needed this wedding. Losing the role of August hadn’t just cost me an Oscar; it had planted a time bomb of public humiliation that threatened to taint my entire legacy. I needed this wedding to reclaim my narrative. The flashbulbs went off in rapid succession. I calmly directed the photographer: “Pan a little to the left. Leave some negative space on the right so it’s easier to Photoshop the groom in later.” Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom were violently shoved open. Cassidy Blake, wearing a flowing white sundress, burst in, panting heavily. She shot me a look, then smiled radiantly and shouted toward the empty room: “Damian!” “I’m here to stop the wedding!” The romantic string music echoed awkwardly in the cavernous room. Cassidy’s face flushed red. She glared at me. “Evie! Where did you hide him?!” Roxy let out a primal noise of rage and lunged forward to throw her out. But before she could lay a finger on Cassidy, a hand shoved Roxy hard. It was Damian. He had just woken up and rushed over, his hair disheveled. He roared at Roxy, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” I stepped down from the altar. I pulled the diamond ring off my finger, grabbed Roxy, and pulled her behind me. With everything I had, I hurled the ring directly at Damian’s face. “Get the hell out,” I said, my voice ice-cold. Behind me, Roxy whispered in my ear, “The boss just landed from New York. He knows what’s going on, and he is livid. He’s on his way right now. Let’s just clear out these losers.” A jolt of panic hit my chest. I pointed at the doors, telling them to leave. Damian rubbed his face, his expression twisting into a sneer. “You want me to leave? What, are you going to hire a body double to stand at the altar with you?” He was mocking me over the hand-model photo. “Weren’t you the one who threatened to leave if I didn’t marry you? Are you throwing this tantrum now to blackmail me into giving you the role of August?” he scoffed. “Or are you just going to Photoshop me in? Aren’t you exhausted from faking everything?” Before I could open my mouth, the ballroom doors were kicked open with earth-shattering force. A man in a bespoke Tom Ford suit stood in the doorway, radiating a terrifying, arrogant energy. “Evelyn Hamiltion!” Donovan Pierce’s voice boomed through the hall, dripping with furious disbelief. “I go to Wall Street to ring the Nasdaq bell for two days, and you decide to throw your life away on a wedding?!” As the most powerful producer in Hollywood and the man who owned my management agency, Donovan was notorious for his ruthless, imperial attitude. “I poured millions into making you a star. What kind of garbage indie IP is worth you begging on your knees? I put top-tier, Academy-level scripts on your desk for you to pick from, and you’re here playing the tragic martyr?” He slowly turned his lethal gaze toward Cassidy in her white dress. “Oh? Are you in the business too?” Donovan smirked, a cruel, mocking curve of his lips. “You here to crash the wedding? Move over, sweetheart. Let me join the party.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “461698”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Emily brought her manipulative personal assistant—the one who’d been faking a heart condition—to my haute couture atelier for a tuxedo fitting. Her wealthy socialite friends were huddled in the VIP lounge, placing bets on how many suits he’d try on before I finally lost my mind. But as Jasper slipped into the final bespoke piece, I merely kept my measuring tape taut, quietly recording the numbers with practiced precision. “Emily, honey,” Brittany drawled, swirling her champagne. “I can’t believe your husband is actually measuring your side-piece. The man has absolutely no spine.” Emily leaned back against the velvet sofa, her tone dripping with casual disdain. “He’s a kept man. Every dime he spends, every breath he takes, is funded by me.” “Consider this prep work for his new role as a caregiver. I need him trained and ready to nurse Jasper back to health without any attitude.” I wound the tape measure around my palm and handed her the invoice. “Everything is perfectly tailored. That will be a two-million-dollar deposit. Thank you.” Emily didn’t even look at the bill. Instead, she tossed a thick document onto the table—an agreement for the division of assets. “Sign it. Jasper’s heart is weak and his temper is fragile. He refuses to take his medication unless he’s the only man in my life.” “It’s just a formality. Walk away with nothing for now to appease him. Once his health stabilizes, I’ll bring you back.” Without a word of protest, I signed my name. Then, I picked up the two-million-dollar check she’d left on the table and tore it into tiny, irreparable pieces. … The lazy curve of Emily’s spine snapped straight as she watched the white paper scraps drift down to the polished floorboards. The easy, cruel smile she’d been wearing simply dissolved. Brittany crossed her legs in her armchair, letting out a sharp laugh. “Please. Playing the hard-to-get card at this point is so pathetic. Emily is giving you an easy exit, Elliot, and you’re acting like a martyr. Know your place.” Emily rose to her feet, her stilettos grinding the torn check into the floor. She stepped into my space, looming over me with cold fury. “Have I been too soft on you, Elliot?” she hissed. “Every single brick of this building was paid for by my family’s estate. You live on my dime, yet you dare to act like you’re above me?” I met her blazing gaze with absolute stillness. No anger, no tears. Just empty space. She always hated my silence; she wanted me to crawl, to beg. Emily whipped around, her arm cutting through the air as she pointed to the racks of bespoke suits lining the showroom. “Tear it down. Destroy all of it.” The four bodyguards stationed at the entrance immediately lunged forward. Heavy steel batons shattered the massive crystal display case in the center of the room. Shards of glass rained down like ice. Dozens of suits—pieces I had spent three years hand-sewing—were violently ripped from their mahogany hangers. Heavy boots stomped onto the exquisite black silk, tearing the fabric apart with a sickening, metallic rip. Thousands of hand-stitched seed pearls, delicate crystals, and custom cufflinks clattered and rolled across the ruined floor. Emily stood close enough for me to feel her breath, searching my face for a crack. “Jasper is young. He’d probably find these designs outdated anyway. Since you want to play the stubborn artist, let’s see how much your pride is worth when it’s shredded.” A bodyguard raised his metal rod, aiming for a small glass display case in the corner. Inside sat a pair of inexpensive silver rings. They were worthless to anyone else—just cheap bands she’d bought for thirty dollars at a street market back when we first started the business, our first-love rings. Suddenly, Emily’s composure broke. She threw herself across the room, shielding the case with her own body. A flying shard of glass sliced through her trench coat, drawing a thin line of red across the back of her hand. The guard froze, horrified. Emily stared at the undamaged rings, her chest heaving as she breathed in sharp, ragged gasps. Then she spun on the guards, her voice shrill. “Watch where you’re swinging! Keep away from this corner!” Standing amid the wreckage, I watched her self-contradicting display. Once, a gesture like that would have made my heart ache, giving me the delusion that she still cared. Now, it just felt pathetic. She marched back to me and gripped my jaw, her manicured nails digging deep into my skin. With her other hand, she raised her phone, aiming the camera at my face. “Look at the lens. Record a video for Jasper.” Her voice was low, threatening. “Tell him you’re stepping down willingly. Wish us a long and happy life together.” She forced my head up, pushing my neck back to align with the camera. Beneath her designer heel lay a diamond bowtie clasp. It was a flawless stone she had stayed up all night to win for me at an auction years ago. She’d told me then that I was the only man in the world worthy of wearing it. Now, she ground it into the dirt, forcing me to surrender my dignity to her new muse. I didn’t fight her. I looked directly into the lens, taking in my own hollow, pale reflection. “I, Elliot Marshall, am leaving willingly,” I said. My voice was level, each syllable crisp and clear. “I wish Jasper and Emily Harlow a lifetime of happiness.” Emily tapped the screen to stop the recording, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. She released my jaw and immediately uploaded the clip to her high-society group chat. “Think you’re too good for this? Let’s let everyone see exactly how low you’ve fallen.” Brittany and the others cheered and whistled. “Classic Emily. Jasper is going to love seeing the ex-husband beg for mercy.” Emily flicked a drop of blood from her hand and slipped a slim cigarette from her case. “I’m going to step out for a smoke. Keep an eye on him. Make sure he cleans up this mess before he leaves.” She waved her hand, leading her entourage out the door. Once they were gone, I turned away, the soles of my shoes crunching on broken glass and discarded gems as I walked toward my private studio at the end of the hall. I needed my passport and the portfolio containing my confidential submissions for the international exhibition. I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stopped. My eyes landed on the sofa. Scattered across the leather cushions were several medical reports. The page on top bore Jasper’s name, stamped with the words: CARDIAC MATCH CONFIRMED. Beside the documents was a black tablet Emily had left behind a few days ago. The screen was unlocked, glowing in the dim room, playing a video on an endless loop. The footage was shot in our master bedroom at the estate. Jasper was wearing the silk pajamas I had bought for our wedding night, with Emily curled up in his chest. He was pointing mockingly at the sketches piled on my nightstand. “Emily, this mattress is way too stiff,” Jasper complained, his voice dripping with faux-sweetness. “And all these ugly paper sketches… they make my head hurt. This whole place smells like him. It makes me sick.” Emily leaned up to press a soft kiss against his jaw, her hand resting over his heart. “Then we’ll burn it all,” she murmured, her voice chillingly indifferent. “Every single piece of paper he holds dear. Once he signs the papers and leaves with nothing, we’ll use his precious sketches to light the fireplace and keep you warm. We’ll only keep him around long enough to act as your nurse.” I stood frozen in the center of the room. No tears came. I walked over, picked up the medical reports, and pulled open the bottom desk drawer to retrieve a stack of yellowed envelope letters. They were the love letters Emily had hand-written to me back in college. I carried them to the paper shredder in the corner and flipped the switch. The machine roared to life. I fed the medical records and the love letters into the slot together. The blades cut through them effortlessly, reducing our entire history to unrecognizable confetti. From the hidden compartment at the bottom of the wardrobe, I pulled out a sleek black suitcase. I unzipped the lining, tucking away my passport and ID. Next, I packed my confidential design portfolio—the key to my professional rebirth—and the half-finished centerpiece gown, The Phoenix, which had taken me six grueling months to hand-stitch. I zipped the bag shut, locking away five years of wasted youth and foolish devotion. I carried the suitcase back out into the ruined showroom. The lobby remained a war zone of shattered glass and shredded silk. Stepping carefully over the sharp debris, I pushed through the front doors into the biting autumn wind. I pulled out my phone to hail a ride. Before the app could load, a wall of dark-suited bodyguards closed in on me, blocking my path entirely. Brittany stepped out from behind them, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “Elliot, honey, Emily didn’t say you could leave. Where do you think you’re going with that suitcase?” “Look at you—so pale and sickly. You’ve been married to Emily all these years and couldn’t even give her a child. Let me guess, a low sperm count? It’s pathetic, really. A man who can’t even perform his basic biological duty.” My hands clenched into tight fists at my sides, my knuckles white. Emily walked back over, a half-burned cigarette dangling between her fingers. Her eyes drifted from my face down to the handle of my suitcase, and her expression instantly darkened. “Oh, don’t be too hard on him, Brittany,” Emily drawled, taking a slow drag. “With what little he can manage in bed, I would never let myself carry his child. Besides, I’ve been on birth control the entire time. All these years, the poor fool actually thought he was the infertile one.” The sheer cruelty of her words drained the remaining warmth from my chest. I stared at the woman who had once sworn she loved me, unable to comprehend how she could weaponize such a personal pain so casually. She stepped closer, blowing a cloud of harsh white smoke directly into my face. She pointed the glowing tip of her cigarette at my suitcase. “Open it.” Her voice was soft, but carried a dangerous weight. I held onto the handle tightly. “This is my personal property, Emily. We’ve already signed the separation agreement.” Emily let out a harsh laugh. “Please. You’re taking the ‘leaving with nothing’ martyrdom a bit too far if you’re trying to smuggle my inventory out. Open the bag, or my men will do it for you.” She nodded to the guards. Two large men immediately grabbed my arms and shoved me back. They snatched the suitcase, throwing it onto the glass-strewn steps. Using a steel bar, one of them pried the lock open with a loud metallic crack. The zipper split apart, and my design portfolio slid out, its pages scattering across the pavement. Her wealthy friends snickered. “How pathetic.” “What a loser.” Then, The Phoenix fell out. The half-finished garment—the centerpiece of my upcoming Paris exhibition—unfurled in the wind. Its deep charcoal silk caught the dim afternoon light, the subtle jacquard patterns woven into the fabric shimmering like rain on asphalt. A sleek black Mercedes van pulled up to the curb. Jasper stepped out, flanked by assistants, carrying himself with an insufferable arrogance. He slid his arm around Emily’s waist, pressing close. “Emily, babe, I can’t find my tablet. Did I leave it inside?” His eyes darted down to the stairs, locking onto The Phoenix. He let go of Emily and walked over to the silk garment, nudging the hem with the toe of his designer shoe. “Oh, Emily… this one looks so much better than the trash you had him measure me for. Look at the drape. It actually has some structure.” Without a second thought, Emily bent down and scooped up the piece that represented my entire future. She brushed the dirt off the silk and draped it over Jasper’s shoulders. But Jasper’s frame was far narrower than mine; the jacket, tailored precisely to my proportions, hung off him like a child wearing his father’s clothes. Emily tugged at the lapels, trying to force a fit, but the fabric groaned under the strain. She frowned in disgust. “Cheap tailoring. It can’t even hold a proper shoulder line.” With a sudden, violent motion, she grabbed both sides of the silk backvent and pulled. The sound of tearing silk pierced through me like physical pain. Six months of delicate, late-night handiwork ripped in two. Yet, as the fabric gave way, her hands hesitated for a fraction of a second, carefully avoiding the silk label stitched near the collar where my initials—EM—were embroidered. “Aww, Emily, you ruined it,” Jasper whined. “I wanted to take it home to use as a throw pillow.” Emily cast a freezing look at me, tossing the shredded garment back into the dirt. “It’s garbage anyway. You shouldn’t be wearing second-rate rags.” I stared at the ruined halves of The Phoenix, my mind going entirely blank. This was my ticket to Paris. She had once promised me she would stand by my side when I took the grand stage. Now, she was grinding my soul into the pavement. Like a madman, I threw myself onto the scattered pages of my portfolio, trying to gather the remaining sketches. “Stop it! Please, no! This is my life… this is all I have left!” My fingers brushed the edge of a drawing. Before I could pull it close, Emily grabbed my shoulder and shoved me back with brutal force, her heel coming down hard on my bare hand, grinding my knuckles into the concrete. “Stop acting like a lunatic! Get out of the way!” I lost my balance and tumbled backward down the steps. My back hit the cold ground, and my abdomen slammed violently against the sharp, jagged corner of a shattered glass display case. A searing, blinding pain ripped through my stomach. I lay tangled in the broken glass, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. A warm, metallic taste filled my mouth, and hot blood welled up, spilling past my lips and soaking through my light-colored linen shirt, pooling onto the concrete steps. The smirk on Emily’s face vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid horror. She stared at the spreading crimson stain on my chest. I curled into a ball on the glass fragments, shivering. As I fell, my leather pouch had slipped from my hand, and a folded medical report slid out of the passport pocket, drifting to a stop right by her designer heels. It was the diagnosis I had received just this morning. I had planned to show it to her tonight at our anniversary dinner—my last desperate plea for help. I wasn’t some lazy, keeping-up-appearances husband; I had just been diagnosed with an aggressive gastric tumor. Emily’s gaze drifted from the blood to the white paper. She bent down and picked it up. As her eyes swept over the medical letterhead and the severe diagnosis, a flash of pure panic crossed her face. Her fingers trembled, crumpling the edges of the sheet. Jasper leaned over to look, and his expression instantly twisted into a mask of ugly jealousy. He immediately clutched his chest, letting out a dramatic, pained cry. “Emily… my heart… it hurts so bad! He’s just doing this to scare you, it’s triggering my palpitations!” Hearing Jasper’s cry, Emily’s panic hardened into a defensive, venomous mask. She tore the medical report in half and threw the pieces into my bleeding face. “Elliot, you’ve hit a new low. Forging a terminal illness just to get my attention?” The sharp edge of the paper sliced across my cheek, leaving a thin, burning line of red. She looked down at the blood pooling around me, her voice cutting like winter wind. “Even if you are sick, a man as manipulative as you doesn’t deserve pity. Consider your suffering a sacrifice to build up good karma for Jasper’s upcoming surgery.” She turned her back on me without a backward glance, wrapping her arm around Jasper to support him as they walked toward the waiting Mercedes van. Just before stepping inside, she looked back at me, bleeding on the ground. “You need a lesson you’ll never forget.” She pointed at the heavy steel security grilles of the atelier. “Roll down the security shutter. Lock him in.” “Nobody calls an ambulance. Let him think about what he’s done.” One of the guards grabbed my phone from where it had fallen, walked to the curb, and tossed it into a public trash can. The heavy electric security shutter began to descend with a deafening metallic rattle. The last sliver of daylight caught Emily shielding Jasper as they drove away. With a thunderous thud, the metal door slammed against the pavement, the lock automatically clicking into place. The atelier fell into a suffocating darkness, save for a few thin needles of street light piercing through the gaps. I lay there in the ruins of my life’s work, the warm blood steadily draining from my body. My temperature was dropping rapidly; each breath felt like inhaling shards of glass. Gritting my teeth, I picked up a sharp piece of broken crystal and dragged it across my forearm. The sharp, biting pain kept my slipping consciousness from fading into the dark. I dragged my body across the floor, leaving a thick, dark trail of red behind me. My fingers finally brushed against the plastic cord of the old landline telephone tucked under the counter corner. With trembling, bloody fingers, I pressed 9-1-1. The operator’s voice crackled through the receiver, but my vision was already dissolving into a dark crimson fog. Just as the phone slipped from my limp grasp, a frantic, high-pitched scream cut through the steel shutters outside. It was Brittany, her voice cracked with sheer terror. “Emily! Stop! Pull over!” “It’s not fake! Elliot is actually bleeding out—the clinic just called. He has a rare O-negative blood type and severe internal hemorrhaging! If we leave him locked in there, he’s going to die!” The distant roar of the departing engine abruptly ceased. Seconds later, a raw, primal shriek echoed from the street, followed by the frantic, deafening sound of someone throwing themselves against the steel door.

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When my fiancé, Wesley, casually suggested that his “female bestie” should be one of my bridesmaids, I didn’t even try to hide my grimace. “I’ve read enough of these stories,” I said, setting my coffee cup down with a deliberate click. “The platonic female friend always ends up sliding into the wife slot, while the actual fiancée gets cast as the villainous third wheel. Honestly, maybe we should just call the wedding off.” Wesley panicked instantly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hands. “Gwen, baby, don’t talk like that. You’re overthinking it. Roxy is basically a guy. She’s loud, she’s crass, she drinks beer out of the can. We’re just bros. It’s pure camaraderie.” I nodded slowly, pulling out my phone and opening TikTok. “Just to make sure she isn’t using the ‘bro’ card to slowly chip away at our boundary lines, you need a crash course in ‘Pick-Me Girls’ and their endless playbooks. Here’s a playlist of a hundred videos documenting their classic moves. Once you watch them all, we can talk about setting a date.” A hundred videos later, Wesley sat there, blinking in sheer disbelief at the calculated maneuvers of the modern Pick-Me. “Okay, some of these are wild. But it’s all just coincidences, Gwen. Roxy would never do stuff like this.” I didn’t argue. Instead, I slid a pre-printed piece of paper across the counter. “Great. Then you won’t mind signing this ‘Pick-Me Liability Agreement.’” “What’s this?” he muttered, scanning the page. “A penalty clause,” I said smoothly. “Every time she pulls one of these classic stunts, you owe me. Sharing a water bottle or cup? Ten grand. Falsely accusing me of something? Twenty grand. And if she ever pulls some dramatic stunt that results in me being pressured to donate blood or organs to her? You sign over the deed of our new house to me entirely.” 1 Wesley looked at the terms, shaking his head with a patronizing laugh. “Fine, fine, I’ll sign. But you’re wasting your time, Gwen. Roxy isn’t like this. You won’t see a single dime.” The universe, however, loves a good irony. It didn’t take long for reality to slap him across the face. “Wes! Holy crap, I’m dying out here! Give me some water!” Roxy burst through our front door without knocking, drenched in sweat and wearing an oversized men’s basketball jersey. She didn’t care about personal space, let alone manners. There was a brand-new, unopened bottle of water sitting right on the kitchen island. Naturally, she ignored it. Instead, she grabbed Wesley’s half-empty tumbler, threw her head back, and chugged. “Ah, much better,” she sighed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I swear, Wes, water just tastes sweeter out of your cup.” My eyebrows shot up. Before I could say a word, Wesley jumped in defensively. “Gwen, don’t start. That’s just how Roxy is. If we make a big deal out of a little water, we’ll just look petty and insecure.” I didn’t waste my breath arguing. I unlocked my phone, clicked play on a video, and slid it directly under his nose. On screen, an influencer was explaining: Rule #3 of the Pick-Me Girl: Indirect Kissing disguised as ‘sharing.’ She will always prefer his cup over her own. The defensive lecture Wesley had prepared died in his throat. He cleared his throat, his face turning a brilliant shade of crimson. “Uh, Roxy,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe don’t do that. It’s… you know, kind of unsanitary.” Roxy froze, her jaw dropping. She clearly hadn’t expected her fiercely loyal “bro” to take my side. “Wes, are you serious right now? You think I’m dirty?” Her eyes welled with instant, theatrical tears. “We literally shared popsicles when we were kids! Now that you’ve got a fancy fiancée, I’m suddenly an outsider, is that it?” She slammed the tumbler onto the coffee table with a loud thud and spun on her heel. I tapped the screen again, loading the next video. Rule #4: The Strategic Exit. She will storm off to play the victim and make him chase her. Roxy’s back stiffened for a fraction of a second. Then, letting out a dramatic sob, she fled out the door and into the humid night. “Roxy! Wait! Don’t do anything stupid!” Right on cue, Wesley bolted upright from the sofa. But before he crossed the threshold, he couldn’t resist throwing a glare back at me. “Gwen, she’s just simple-minded and blunt! Can’t you be the bigger person for once?” I stared at him, genuinely amused by his sheer lack of logic. “She’s the one who engaged in indirect kissing, slammed my cup, and threw a tantrum in my house. How exactly am I the one lacking grace here?” Wesley cut me off without thinking. “She did that because she considers you family! You’re the future wife here, Gwen. You need to show her some grace and tolerance.” “So, what you’re saying is, I should sit here and smile while the two of you swap saliva right in front of me?” Wesley exhaled a heavy, exasperated sigh. “Just… apologize to her, okay? Give her an out. If she gets hurt out there tonight, it’s on us.” “Demanding the victim apologize to the instigator is a classic trope for the spineless male lead in cheap soap operas,” I remarked coolly. Wesley’s face went rigid. He didn’t dare utter another word. I opened my bank app, pulled up my QR code, and held it out to him. “Rule one of our agreement: sharing a drink. That’ll be ten thousand dollars. Pay up, sweetie.” 2 Apparently, Wesley found Roxy at some dingy dive bar downtown. She was completely wasted, draped all over a group of shady-looking guys. When Wesley finally hauled her back to our place on his back, she was still kicking and screaming. “Let me go! I don’t want to be here… Gwen hates me! She thinks I’m a scheming bitch, oh god…” Wesley’s heart clearly bled for her. He gently wiped her tear-stained face as if she were made of fragile porcelain. “Roxy, stop. Nobody hates you. You’re just too honest for your own good, and people misinterpret it,” he cooed. “No matter who I marry, you will always be my best friend. Nobody can ever replace you.” Roxy squinted up at him through her drunken haze, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “Pinky promise? If you lie, you’re a dog…” I watched the entire display with detached amusement. The internet forums weren’t lying: when confronted with a “friendship” that has zero boundaries, a fiancée’s dignity is treated like scrap paper. Thank God I had mentally checked out early on. If I actually loved him, this would have broken me. Wesley noticed my cold, observant gaze, and his face instantly darkened. “Roxy is practically alcohol-poisoned, and you’re just standing there like a statue? Do you have a single shred of empathy, Gwen?” I shrugged. “What do you want me to do? Juggle fire to keep her entertained?” Wesley choked on his anger. “Go wring out a warm washcloth so I can clean her up!” Getting a washcloth? Simple enough. I went to the linen closet, selected a thick, plush white towel, folded it neatly, and brought it back. Roxy was half-squinting. As her hand reached for the towel, Wesley turned his back to grab a glass of water. In that split second, she looked directly at me and raised an eyebrow in a silent, mocking challenge. Ah, yes. Episode 12 of the Pick-Me Playbook: The Martyr’s Trap. I remained entirely still, eager to see just how far she was willing to go to hurt herself. Roxy took the folded towel. I watched her fingers slip deftly into the inner folds for a split second before she pressed the steaming cloth flat against her face and dragged it down hard. “Ahhh!!!” The white towel tumbled to the hardwood floor. Rolling out from the fabric were two silver sewing needles, gleaming under the vanity lights. “My face! Wes… what did Gwen put in this towel?!” she shrieked, clutching her cheek. Wesley didn’t even pause to think. He spun around and shoved me out of the way. “Gwen! Are you insane? You hid needles in the washcloth?!” Caught off guard, I stumbled backward, the sharp corner of our wooden sideboard slamming hard into my lower back. A sharp gasp of pain escaped my lips. “Gwen, I am so incredibly disappointed in you! Are you really so threatened by Roxy that you’d resort to disfiguring her?” Gritting my teeth against the throbbing pain in my back, I pulled out my phone once more. “Attention, viewers,” the TikTok creator’s cheerful voice echoed through the bedroom. “When a toxic friend feels her grip slipping, she will resort to extreme self-sabotage. Watch out for needles or razor blades planted in towels or cosmetics to frame the partner.” The actress on screen was executing the exact same hand gestures Roxy had just pulled off. “Did you forget the videos already, Wesley? Or is that brain of yours purely decorative?” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Wesley’s righteous fury instantly evaporated. He awkwardly shuffled out of the room, mumbling about finding a Band-Aid. He didn’t even glance at my lower back, which was already bruising, let alone ask if I was okay. Once Wesley finished patching up his “bro” and calming her down, my phone buzzed. A banking notification popped up: Wesley sent you $20,000. Excellent. Day one, and I was already up thirty grand. 3 Driven by a deep sense of guilt, Wesley was on his absolute best behavior over the next few days, catering to my every whim. Roxy, too, seemed to have undergone a sudden personality transplant. Suddenly, she was all smiles, bringing me bowls of sliced fruit and pouring my tea with sickeningly sweet devotion. “Here you go, Gwen! Try some of these grapes!” Wesley’s eyes practically welled with tears at this display of sisterly harmony. “See, Gwen? I told you Roxy doesn’t hold grudges. She’s got a heart of gold. Let’s put the past behind us.” To reward her “good behavior,” Wesley took her on a massive shopping spree at the luxury mall downtown that afternoon. On the fourth day, Wesley’s younger cousin, Cody, returned from his study abroad program in London. “Wes, check it out! I got you this vintage Dunhill lighter!” Cody announced, throwing open his suitcase in the living room. “And Roxy, I got you that signed soccer jersey you wanted!” He had gifts for everyone, even a box of Belgian chocolates for our housekeeper. I was the only one left empty-handed. I didn’t care in the slightest. I quietly retreated to my room to check my bank account balance. It was far more comforting than any souvenir. But Wesley finally noticed the awkward gap. “Cody, where’s Gwen’s gift?” Cody scoffed, crossing his arms. “Gwen? Please. Roxy is the only sister-in-law I recognize.” Grandma Helen, who had just walked through the front door, caught the end of that sentence. She marched over, grabbed Cody by his ear, and gave it a vicious twist. “You little punk! What did you just say? Say it again!” Grandma Helen was seventy-five, but she had the voice and grip of an army general. “Gwen is the woman Wesley is marrying. She is the future mistress of this house. Who is this Roxy girl? A freeloading hanger-on! Since when does she deserve your respect over Gwen?” “Freeloading hanger-on.” The words hit Roxy like a physical slap. Her face flushed a deep, ugly red, but she didn’t dare talk back to the family matriarch. She could only glare at me with pure venom. Cody was wincing in pain, but his teenage stubbornness won out. “I don’t care! Roxy takes me go-karting and plays video games with me! She’s way cooler!” “You absolute idiot!” Grandma Helen brought her mahogany cane down hard against his backside. “You’ve rotted your brain with those games! You don’t even know who your real family is!” As Cody yelled in pain, Wesley rushed forward to intervene. “Grandma, please! Cody is still young. He doesn’t know any better. Don’t hurt him…” Grandma Helen gave a disdainful snort. She reached into her handbag and pulled out an exquisite, velvet-lined jewelry box, snapping it open in front of everyone. Inside was a breathtaking, flawless golden bangle—deep green and glowing with history. “Gwen, sweetie, I’ve got your back,” Grandma Helen said, sliding the cool gold onto my wrist. “This is a family heirloom. It is passed down strictly to the wives of our family. Today, it belongs to you. No one else even deserves to look at it.” Roxy stared at the bangle, her eyes brimming with tears of jealousy. Wesley, unable to bear her distress, spoke up hesitantly. “Grandma, don’t you think we should get something for Roxy too? She spends so much time keeping you company…” “Ha!” Grandma Helen scoffed loudly. “My belongings are reserved for family. If certain outsiders had any self-respect, they’d pack their bags and leave.” It was as direct an insult as it got. No matter how thick-skinned Roxy pretended to be, she couldn’t take this. Wesley frowned, his tone laced with quiet resentment. “Grandma, that’s uncalled for. Roxy might be a bit rough around the edges, but she has a good heart. Why do you have to be so cruel to her?” Grandma Helen glared at him, her disappointment palpable. “You blind fool! Mark my words, that girl is going to be the ruin of you!” Because of the scolding, Cody’s hatred for me reached a boiling point. He started launching a petty guerilla war: pouring superglue inside my heels, mixing hot sauce into my toner, and even leaving a dead mouse on my pillow. I didn’t care. In fact, I looked forward to his daily stunts. According to our agreement, Wesley had to pay for his family’s hostile behavior. Every little prank cost Wesley a hefty penalty. In just one week, I racked up another $150,000 in damages. 4 Cody was practically vibrating with rage. “You’re just a gold-digging parasite! You only care about my cousin’s money!” I smiled inwardly. Well, yes. What was love anyway? Liquid assets were the only real source of security in this world. “Wes is going to dump you eventually! Roxy is his true soulmate!” Cody sneered before running off to find his beloved “Roxy-sister” in the backyard. Looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw the two of them whispering conspiratorially near a pile of dry brushwood at the edge of the lawn. My gut told me they were up to no good. Sure enough, ten minutes later, a bloodcurdling scream shattered the afternoon quiet. I looked out the window. Cody’s shirt was caught in flames, and he was rolling frantically on the grass. Meanwhile, Roxy—the self-proclaimed “one of the guys” who supposedly feared nothing—was standing ten feet away, screaming with her hands over her mouth, too terrified to even step forward. There was no time to waste. I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hallway and bolted into the yard. By the time Wesley and Grandma Helen rushed outside, the fire was out, but the lawn was covered in white chemical powder. Cody lay panting on the grass, covered in soot. “Cody! Oh my god, what happened?” Wesley cried, dropping to his knees. Cody coughed up a cloud of dark smoke and immediately pointed a trembling finger at me. “It was her! She wanted to get back at me for the pranks! She tried to burn me alive!” Wesley spun around to look at Roxy. “Roxy, you were here. Is that true?” Roxy shrunk back, her eyes watering on cue. “It happened so fast… I just… I saw Gwen running toward him with something in her hand…” Before she could even finish her sentence, Wesley’s hand flew out and struck me across the face. Slap. “Gwen! He is just a kid! How could you try to kill him?!” he roared, his eyes wild with fury. “You are absolutely monstrous!” Grandma Helen looked shocked, momentarily silent. I tasted a trace of copper in my mouth. Slowly, I pulled out my phone and loaded the live feed of our outdoor security camera. “Watch this,” I said quietly, “before you decide whether you need to get down on your knees and beg for my forgiveness.” The screen displayed the scene with crystalline clarity: Cody had been playing with a lighter and lighter fluid, accidentally igniting his own shirt. I was the one who had sprinted out and saved his life. Roxy, on the other hand, had done absolutely nothing but scream and retreat. Wesley froze, the blood draining from his face. “Gwen… why didn’t you just say so?” Why? Because if I stopped you, how could I cash in on that slap? I smirked inwardly. Wesley stammered, trying to deflect. “Why do you even have cameras hidden in the yard? Isn’t that a bit paranoid?” “Paranoid? It seems to have saved me from a felony charge,” I retorted. Overcome with shame, Wesley looked away. Grandma Helen, absolutely livid, slipped off her leather shoe and began raining blows down on Cody. “Cody! You reckless little liar! You set yourself on fire and then tried to frame Gwen? I am going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!” Roxy shot Cody a frantic look, and the boy immediately scrambled behind Wesley. “Wes, help me! I didn’t mean it! I was scared!” Wesley gave him a few performative taps on the shoulder. “Your sister-in-law is a forgiving person. She won’t hold it against you. But if you ever lie like this again, I’ll deal with you myself!” I had zero interest in their family drama. I pulled up my QR code. “That physical assault, plus the false accusation, plus the rescue fee. That’ll be one hundred thousand dollars. Instant transfer, please.” Wesley didn’t even attempt to negotiate. He immediately initiated the transfer. Perhaps out of guilt over the red handprint blooming on my cheek, he added an extra ten thousand as a silent apology. Listening to the satisfying chime of my bank app, I decided my face could probably take another hit for that kind of money. The compounding guilt drove Wesley to his knees. In a desperate bid to make things right, he insisted we move our engagement party forward and formally announce our wedding date. 5 The night of the gala, the estate was bathed in warm light, packed with high-society guests. Wesley held my hand tightly as we stood on the elevated stage, a picture-perfect smile plastered on his face. Only Cody sat in the far corner, still wearing a sour expression. Right as Wesley leaned into the microphone to announce our wedding date, I began counting down in my head. Three, two, one. Right on cue, his beloved “bro” made her move. Episode 50 of the Pick-Me Playbook: The Eleventh-Hour Emergency. She will always have a crisis right at your most critical milestone. Wesley’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered it, and within seconds, his face drained of all color. “Roxy slit her wrists?! What? We’re on our way!” Without a single word of explanation to our guests, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the exit. “She did this because of the stress we put her through! We have to go!” Cody followed close behind, sobbing. “Roxy! Don’t die!” Outside the emergency room, the harsh red light flickered. Through the glass window, I could see Roxy lying perfectly still on a gurney. A young doctor in scrubs rushed out, looking suitably panicked. “Are you the family? The patient has lost a critical amount of blood. We need RH-negative blood immediately, but our blood bank is running dangerously low. If we don’t transfuse right now…” Wesley spun around to face me, his hands shaking. “Gwen! You’re O-negative, aren’t you? I saw it on your medical checkup! You have the rare type!” Cody yelled, “Drain her! She’s a walking blood bag! Do it now!” I let out a dry laugh, looking at this ridiculous chamber of bad actors. “Wesley, honestly, isn’t this plot a bit too clichéd? A suicide attempt, massive blood loss, an empty blood bank, and—lo and behold—your fiancée is the perfect rare match?” It felt like a textbook scam. But before I could pull out my phone to find the exact video breakdown, Wesley lunged forward and slapped the device out of my hand. It shattered against the tile floor. “A life is on the line, Gwen! How can you be so incredibly cold and cynical right now?” I stared at my shattered phone, my eyes growing ice-cold. “Fine. I’ll save her.” I held up five fingers. “Five hundred thousand dollars for 400 milliliters. Not a penny less.” Cody flew into a rage, swinging his fists at me. “I knew it! You’re just a greedy leech! Roxy is dying and all you care about is cash! I hope you rot!” Wesley looked at me with absolute disgust. “Fine! You’ll get your money. Just go in there and give her the blood. After today, we are done.” The moment the wire transfer cleared on my backup device, I turned and walked calmly into the blood donation room. Wesley and Cody remained glued to Roxy’s bedside. Neither of them cared if the sudden blood loss would make me dizzy, let alone ask if I would be okay. As the 400 milliliters finished draining, I prepared to pull the needle out. But the young doctor sneered, pinning my wrist down to the armrest. “The patient’s vitals are dropping. We need another 1,000 milliliters.” My survival instincts flared. “1,400 milliliters? That’s lethal for a single donor! Are you a doctor or a murderer?” Before I could scream, two nurses rushed out from the shadows of the room, pinning me down with brutal force. It hit me then: Roxy wasn’t trying to win Wesley back. She was trying to kill me. The world began to spin as my vision blurred. Just as darkness started to creep in, a thunderous voice shattered the silence. “Who dares touch a daughter of this family?”

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It was 9:07 PM. I had just swallowed two Tylenol and crawled under the duvet when my phone began to vibrate violently on the nightstand. It was Greg, my department manager. Again. This was his eighteenth call this month, always at this exact hour. During the day, he would lounge in his office, scrolling through his phone or playing games, never uttering a single word about the actual workflow. But the moment the clock struck eight in the evening, he would suddenly find a mountain of menial tasks to dump on me. Tonight, it seemed, would be no exception. Sure enough, the moment I slid the bar to answer, Greg’s lazy drawl filtered through the speaker. “Mona, I need you to head back to the office. The client modified their requirements this morning. We need the proposal revised and ready tonight.” I pressed the phone to my ear, my head throbbing with a dull, heavy ache. This morning? At noon, I had gone out of my way to ask him if there was any feedback from the client. He had been in the middle of a Candy Crush level, not even bothering to look up before tossing a two-word answer at me: “Nothing yet.” I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing a polite, almost pleading tone through the pain. “Greg, I got caught in the pouring rain today and I’m running a really high fever. Is there any way I can handle this first thing tomorrow morning?” The line erupted instantly. “Tomorrow morning?! Do you think the client is going to sit around and wait for you? What’s a little fever anyway? It’s not like the sky is falling! Get your ass over there right now, and stop making excuses!” Listening to his casual, entitled arrogance, the resentment I had bottled up for five long years began to simmer, rising hot against my collarbone. As his voice spiraled into a barrage of petty insults, I didn’t argue. I simply hung up, opened my settings, and added his number to my block list. For years, my compliance had bought me nothing but more exploitation. This time, I was done. … The next morning, a vicious headache dragged me awake. I checked my thermometer: 101.6. When I unlocked my phone, the first notification waiting for me was a automated alert: Sick leave request: Denied. Beneath it was a relentless stream of messages—over forty notifications, all from Greg, sent before I blocked him on other platforms. The most recent one, sent ten minutes ago, was stark: [My office. Now.] I stared at the screen for a moment, popped two more pain relievers, and walked slowly toward the bathroom. For the first time in five years, I didn’t rush. I clocked in at exactly 8:59 AM, precisely one minute before the grace period ended. The moment I sat down, Greg’s assistant was already hovering over my desk, telling me I was summoned. When I entered the office, Greg slammed a thick folder onto his desk, the wood rattling under the impact. “Mona, what the hell was that last night?” His face was dark, his voice tight with a rage he was barely keeping in check. “Intentionally ignoring my calls, actively trying to undermine me?” I kept my gaze steady, my voice entirely flat. “Greg, I caught a severe fever after yesterday’s rain. My temperature was running close to 102. I physically could not make it.” I paused, meeting his furious eyes. “Furthermore, I asked you twice yesterday—once at noon and once before leaving—if the client had updated their scope. You told me they hadn’t.” Greg stiffened, his jaw tightening. Then, he slammed his palm on the desk. “And I’m telling you now they did!” He stood up, leaning over the desk so far I could see the spit flying from his mouth. “Are you seriously trying to lecture me on how to delegate? When I tell you to come in, you come in. I don’t pay you to make excuses!” “Greg,” I said. I didn’t drop my head or offer the usual rehearsed apology. Instead, I looked him in the eye, speaking with absolute clarity. “I am happy to cooperate with your directives during contract hours. But my personal time is mine. The work you sent last night was not an emergency, and it certainly did not warrant me working through a medical issue.” This was the spark that blew up the room. He pointed a shaking finger at my nose, his voice raising an octave. “You’re talking back to me now?” “Mona, you think this department can’t run without you? Let me tell you something—as of today, you are off every single account you manage. Not one stays on your desk.” He snatched up the files from his desk and thrust them toward Hannah, the intern who had been waiting outside the glass door to deliver a report. “Hannah! Starting today, you’re handling these accounts.” Then he turned back to me, a cruel smile stretching his lips. “Mona, you’re on archive duty. You can go down to the basement and sort through the physical records. Don’t bother coming back up until they’re done.” Our base salary here was modest; the real money came from project commissions. Greg knew this. He expected me to break, to cry, to beg for my accounts back. But he didn’t realize that the moment I hung up on him last night, I had checked out of his game entirely. Watching him shake with rage, I felt nothing but a strange, quiet peace. I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I just nodded. “Understood.” As I turned to leave, his cold sneer followed me out. “Let’s see how our five-time Employee of the Year survives without her portfolio.” I let my lips curve into a small smile. Greg had no idea that by stripping those accounts from me, he had just stepped off the edge of a cliff. The archives were located in the dampest, most isolated corner of the building. My assignment was to digitize and reorganize ten years of historical project files, without a single error. There was no deadline. The subtext was clear: I would stay down here until I humbled myself enough to beg for his forgiveness. I didn’t complain. I arrived on time every day, ignoring the low-grade fever that kept creeping back to make my temples throb. I set a firm boundary: I gave the work my full attention during the day, but the second my shift ended, I was completely unreachable. Corporate offices are notoriously sensitive to shifts in power, and Greg’s attitude was the compass by which everyone else navigated. When I was running the core accounts, colleagues would constantly drift by my desk to chat or invite me to lunch. Now, the social temperature had plummeted to freezing. Whenever I entered the breakroom to fill my water bottle, the lively chatter would die instantly. If I ran into a colleague I had helped on a major project, they would look the other way, suddenly fascinated by their phones. The whispers followed me like a bad smell. “Did you hear? Mona got banished to the basement because she refused to take Greg’s calls.” “Yeah, completely unprofessional. I don’t know what she was thinking. She deserved it.” “Glad I kept my distance. You don’t want to get dragged down with her.” The words stung, small needle pricks of betrayal. I had spent years pulling late nights to cover for these very people, only to be branded “unprofessional” the moment I protected my own health. But Greg’s campaign didn’t stop at social isolation. During the weekly department meeting, he went out of his way to praise Hannah, the intern. He even put up a PowerPoint slide showcasing screenshots of their late-night WhatsApp exchanges. “This is what real dedication looks like,” Greg announced, his eyes sliding mockingly toward me. “Unlike some people who find any excuse to clock out.” When I delivered the first batch of archived files to his office—nearly three hundred pages of carefully indexed records—he glanced at them for three seconds before throwing them back. “Substandard. Redo it.” I knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to break my spirit until I returned to being his personal assistant. A few of the older colleagues pulled me aside in the hallway. “Mona, just apologize,” one whispered. “He’s the boss. Digging your heels in is only going to hurt your career.” “Yeah, is a late-night phone call really worth losing your commissions over? Just play the game.” I knew they meant well, but they didn’t understand. I wasn’t fighting a phone call. I was fighting the slow, silent erosion of my life. I could handle hard work, and I didn’t mind the occasional crunch, but I was no longer willing to sacrifice my sanity to keep an incompetent manager comfortable. As the days crawled by, the basement became my sanctuary. My fever finally broke, and in its place, a quiet, cold resolve took root. I was waiting for the right moment—the one card that would take Greg down permanently. I just didn’t expect it to land in my lap so quickly. Over my five years at the firm, I had nurtured several major accounts, but our most critical partner was Aegis Global, a high-profile multi-national firm based in Tokyo. I had secured the account myself three years ago. The managing director, Jeff, was a notoriously precise, details-oriented man who demanded flawless execution. He trusted me because I never gave him corporate fluff. Because of the thirteen-hour time difference between New York and Tokyo, our communication window was tight, usually falling between 8:00 PM and 10:00 PM our time. For three years, I had managed this seamlessly. Jeff respected boundaries and never called unless it was absolutely necessary, allowing us to maintain a highly productive, respectful partnership. In fact, during executive reviews, Jeff had explicitly told our board: “As long as Mona is on this account, Aegis has complete peace of mind.” Then came the Friday morning emergency meeting. Our managing director, Robert Henderson, attended in person to deliver some massive news: Aegis Global was planning to expand their partnership, offering a three-year contract worth close to fifteen million dollars. It was the firm’s biggest deal of the fiscal year. The room buzzed with excitement. An account of this scale meant massive bonuses and a career-defining line on anyone’s resume. Naturally, everyone assumed I would lead it. I assumed so too. Despite Greg’s petty exile, he was a corporate survivor; I figured he wouldn’t let personal spite jeopardize a fifteen-million-dollar deal. But I had underestimated his capacity for foolishness. Before Robert Henderson could finish his slides, Greg stood up, casting a triumphant look in my direction. “Robert, I strongly recommend we don’t put Mona on this lead. Aegis is based in Tokyo, which requires constant night-time communication. Mona has made it clear she is no longer willing to take client calls after hours. With a contract of this magnitude, we can’t risk communication delays.” He gestured to the man sitting next to him—Kyle, his favorite sycophant, a man whose only talent was nodding in agreement. “I recommend Kyle. He’s always on call, completely dedicated, and ready to do whatever it takes to get this over the finish line.” Robert turned to me, his brow furrowed. “Mona? You’ve always managed this relationship. Is there an issue with your availability?” I took a deep breath, keeping my voice level. “Robert, I have managed Jeff’s account for three years without a single delay. What I object to is non-urgent, non-client communication during my personal hours…” “That’s enough!” Greg cut in, his voice sharp. “If you can’t commit to being available when the company needs you, you shouldn’t be on the account. Stop making excuses.” Robert stared at us for a long moment, then sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. We’ll go with Greg’s recommendation. Kyle, you’re lead on Aegis. Mona, make sure the transition is completed by the end of the day.” I didn’t argue. I knew Greg was baiting me, and any defense would only look like desperation in front of the executive board. But as I looked at Kyle’s smug face, a cold realization washed over me. Greg had just handed his golden goose to a man who didn’t understand the tax structures, couldn’t navigate Jeff’s meticulous demands, and had zero crisis management skills. In his rush to punish me, Greg had hand-delivered his own destruction. After the meeting, Kyle swaggered over to my desk, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Hey, Mona. No hard feelings, right? Greg’s right—in this business, you’ve got to grind. You can’t expect to run the big leagues if you turn your phone off at night.” Greg strolled up behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Spend some time in the archives, Mona. Reflect on what it means to be a team player. If you change your mind, maybe I’ll find a junior spot for you on Kyle’s team later this year.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Better hurry, though. Without those commissions, I doubt you’ll be able to afford your rent by next month.” I looked at them, their faces flushed with temporary victory. I felt no anger, only a strange, detached pity. I let my lips curve into a polite smile. “Good luck to you both.” During the hand-off, I prepared a comprehensive transition document, detailing Jeff’s communication preferences, key financial metrics, and local regulatory requirements. But Kyle barely looked at it, tossing the folder onto the corner of his desk. “Yeah, yeah, got it. It’s just a client, Mona. I can handle a foreigner.” Watching him walk away, I knew the countdown had begun. Over the next two weeks, Greg used every department stand-up to sing Kyle’s praises, showcasing his late-night login times as proof of “excellent work ethic.” Meanwhile, I quietly did my work in the archives. But even down there, the office gossip filtered through. Kyle was drowning. He had already missed several key tax-compliance details, and Jeff had reportedly torn him apart on a conference call for giving vague, unprepared answers. The proposal had been rejected and sent back for revisions three times. Yet Greg remained oblivious, blinded by Kyle’s constant availability. “Don’t worry about it,” Greg had apparently told him. “Jeff is just high-maintenance. Keep pulling those late nights, and I’ll handle the heat from corporate.” It was a beautiful, slow-motion train wreck. On Friday night, three weeks after the transition, I was returning home from a quiet dinner with friends. I had just finished washing my face when my phone began to buzz incessantly on the vanity. Since I had blocked Greg’s number, my phone had been peaceful. Now, the screen was lit up with a barrage of texts on our company messaging app. Thirty unread messages from Greg. His tone evolved from demanding to frantic, and finally, to desperate. [Mona, pick up. This is an emergency.] [Mona, where are you? The Aegis account is in serious trouble.] [Mona, I apologize for my attitude earlier. I shouldn’t have moved you. Please, just pick up and help us fix this. I need you to salvage the relationship.] [Mona, if you help me through this, I will move you back to the core team immediately and fast-track your promotion. Please.] The phone kept ringing, the screen flashing in the dark room. I didn’t answer. Instead, a notification popped up on the global company channel. Robert Henderson’s icon was active. [Emergency Zoom meeting in fifteen minutes for all core team members. @Greg, bring Kyle and all communication logs.] I stared at the screen, a quiet smile touch my lips. The storm had arrived.

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My husband’s first love—the girl he’d put on a pedestal for a decade—killed my father in a drunk-driving accident. And my husband, one of the city’s top defense attorneys, tried to force me to take the fall. He slipped the confession in front of me, his tone so flat and indifferent it made my blood run cold. “It’s a first offense for a relative, Marina. They’ll go easy on you. Besides, Cassandra’s parents are old; they need her to support them in their golden years. She can’t go to prison. Your dad is already dead. You don’t have anyone left to take care of anyway. Just think of it as a final act of charity to help your dad’s soul rest in peace.” Sickened and furious, I refused on the spot, determined to fight for justice. But on the way to the courthouse, someone ambushed me from behind. A blunt, agonizing force struck the back of my skull. The world went black. Just before I lost consciousness, my husband’s icy voice whispered in my ear: “You just had to appeal, didn’t you? Let’s see how you make it to the courtroom from the heart of Death Valley.” 1 I forced my eyes open. Nothing but endless, shimmering heat waves and cracked desert earth. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, baking my skin until it felt ready to split. In the distance, a black SUV sat idling. Its windows were rolled halfway down, a thin mist of air conditioning escaping into the blistering dry air. Inside sat my husband, Daniel, and his assistant—his first love—Cassandra. Daniel leaned back against the leather seat, his eyes devoid of any warmth as he looked at me. “You brought this on yourself, Marina. This is the price you pay for refusing to let it go.” Cassandra sat beside him, her fingers tracing the hem of his tailored suit sleeve. A smirk of quiet triumph played on her lips. “Thank you, Daniel. If it weren’t for you, I’d be in a cell right now.” My throat was a dry, scraping wasteland. Every breath felt like swallowing shards of broken glass. Pushing myself up against the scorching gravel, my voice came out as a raspy whisper. “Water… please, give me water…” Daniel frowned, a momentary flicker of hesitation crossing his face. I stared at him, my body trembling with a mix of heat and pure betrayal. “Daniel… where is your conscience?” “Have you forgotten? Without my dad, you would be absolutely nothing!” Daniel had been an orphan, raised on the charity of a small town. My dad, Robert, had paid for his high school, his college, even the prep courses for his bar exam. When we married, my dad treated him like his own flesh and blood. Yet here he was, sitting next to the monster who ran my father down, watching me struggle for survival in a wasteland. His eyes wavered for a second, but then he looked at Cassandra, and his expression hardened. “Your father lived a full life, Marina. Cassandra is still young.” “He was old anyway. Why waste resources keeping an old man alive? Cassandra did you a favor by saving you the cost of eldercare. You should be thanking her.” Thanking her? Thank the drunk driver who slaughtered my father? Looking at this stranger who wore my husband’s face, I shook with a rage so violent that a copper taste rose in my throat. Seeing me on the verge of collapse, he paused, his hand drifting toward the water bottle in the cup holder. But Cassandra caught his hand, her voice sweet and pleading. “Oh, Daniel, water won’t quench her thirst. I brought something special for her.” She reached into the console and pulled out a plastic bottle with a long cord tied around its neck. Leaning out the window, she tossed it onto the dirt a few yards away from me, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Want a drink? Come and get it.” The SUV slowly began to roll forward. Survival instinct overrode my pride. All I could see was that bottle. I crawled forward on my hands and knees, then scrambled to my feet, throwing myself into a desperate run. The hot gravel tore into my shoes, burning the soles of my feet, but I couldn’t care. I was getting closer. My fingers stretched out, almost touching the plastic. Then, the car accelerated. The cord snapped tight, dragging the bottle away instantly. I lunged and hit the dirt hard, coughing up a mouthful of dust. Behind me, the low roar of the engine sounded like mocking laughter. Again and again. I ran. The car drifted ahead. The primal urge to survive kept me moving, chasing that single bottle of liquid. My mind began to slip; my vision blurred into a hazy mix of yellow and red. I was a machine now, moving only on raw instinct. Daniel watched my desperate, humiliating scramble, and something in his face finally cracked. He reached over and grabbed Cassandra’s arm, his voice low. “Stop. That’s enough.” The SUV ground to a halt. The bottle lay right at my feet. I threw myself onto it, clutching it to my chest. I twisted the cap off and, without a second thought, tilted my head back and drank. A foul, burning stench hit my nose. It was urine. I froze. My stomach violently convulsed. I collapsed, retching dryly, vomiting up what little strength I had left. Stomach acid and dirt tore through my throat. Cassandra leaned her head out of the window, clicking her tongue in disgust. “Ugh, what a waste. We give you a drink, and you’re still so picky.” “Some people just don’t know how to be grateful.” I forced my head up, my eyes bloodshot, staring daggers at Daniel. “This… this is piss!” Daniel flinched, turning a sharp, questioning look toward Cassandra. Cassandra immediately softened, her face twisting into a mask of hurt innocence. “It’s sweet tea, Daniel! She’s just lying because she wants you to hate me. You know how she is.” 2 I pushed against the burning dirt, my voice hoarse and desperate. “Daniel, she’s lying!” “Don’t you remember? When you had acute appendicitis, my dad carried you on his back to the hospital in the middle of a storm!” “He sold his only motorcycle just to pay for your surgery! Have you forgotten everything?” His pupils dilated slightly, his jaw clenching tight. The memory struck a nerve. His hand moved toward the door handle, ready to step out. Cassandra’s expression darkened, a flash of pure malice crossing her eyes. But before he could open the door, Daniel’s phone buzzed loudly. He answered it. Within seconds, his face drained of color, turning a furious, ugly red. “What? Security footage? How did she get it?” He slammed the phone down and turned back to me, his eyes burning with hatred. “You manipulative bitch, Marina!” “You secretly submitted the traffic footage to the court? You’re trying to ruin Cassandra’s life!” I stared back, my mind spinning. “No! I didn’t! I couldn’t have!” I had never even seen the security footage, let alone sent it to a judge. But he wasn’t listening. His rage was absolute. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Cassandra’s fleeting smirk before she instantly melted into tears. She grabbed Daniel’s arm, her voice trembling. “Daniel, what are we going to do?” “I can’t go to prison! I just got my acceptance letter from Harvard Law!” “We promised we’d make it to the top together. It can’t end like this!” She bit her lip, tears streaming down her face, looking small and fragile. “It’s my fault… I shouldn’t have had those drinks. Daniel, our dream… I think I have to break my promise to you.” Her tears broke through his remaining defenses. Daniel’s gaze softened as he looked at her, then hardened into steel when he turned back to me. He patted her hand gently. “Don’t worry. As long as I’m here, no one is ruining your life.” “I already have my people intercepting the footage.” I collapsed onto the burning sand, my body completely drained of strength. The world was spinning, waves of heat rolling over me in suffocating layers. “It wasn’t me… I swear…” Daniel threw the car door open. His leather shoes crunched against the dry gravel, step by heavy step, until he stood over me. He looked down at me, his eyes colder than the desert night. “Stubborn to the end.” Before the words fully registered, his hand swung down. Slap! A sharp, stinging pain flared across my left cheek. Before I could gasp, his hand swung back. Slap! The force of the blow snapped my head to the side, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. “Since you’re so eager to ruin your own life, don’t blame me for being heartless.” He stood up, adjusted his designer suit jacket, and turned away without a backward glance. “Come on, Cassandra. We need to catch our flight. We have to be back in the city by tomorrow morning.” Cassandra gave me one last contemptuous sneer before scurrying into the passenger seat. The engine roared, and the SUV sped away, leaving a thick plume of dust that swallowed the horizon. Inside the car, Daniel watched the barren landscape fly past, a faint flicker of unease finally crossing his mind. “Cassandra, you made the arrangements, right?” “Someone is coming to drop off supplies? Water, food?” “Her family was good to me once. I wanted to teach her a lesson, but I don’t want her dead.” Cassandra nodded quickly, offering a sweet, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Daniel. Everything is handled.” “Water, protein bars, a portable fan—she’ll have everything she needs. She won’t starve.” “It’s just a little tough love so she doesn’t try to cross us again.” Daniel relaxed back into his seat, letting the worry fade. Meanwhile, back in the desert, as soon as the black SUV vanished beyond the horizon, another cloud of dust rose in the distance. A battered, rusty pickup truck roared toward me, stopping with a screech of brakes. 3 The doors swung open, and four burly men stepped out, their faces twisted into ugly grins. Before I could even speak, a heavy boot slammed into my ribs. Pain exploded through my body. I curled into a tight ball on the dirt, helpless against the rain of blows. “Think you’re smart, bitch? Trying to mess with Miss Cassandra?” “Here’s the ‘supplies’ she wanted us to deliver. Enjoy!” They cursed and laughed, kicking me repeatedly in the chest and back. One of them grabbed my ankle, violently ripping off my shoes and tossing them far into the brush. My bare soles touched the white-hot gravel. The searing heat immediately blistered my flesh, an agonizing pain that shot straight to my spine. I shook violently, sweat and dirt pasting my hair to my face. The leader spat on the ground and ground his heel into the back of my hand. “Did you know? Mr. Daniel is Miss Cassandra’s man now. She’s pregnant with his baby.” “And you, clueless idiot, didn’t have a damn clue.” My eyes flew open. My body went rigid. “What… what did you say?” “Hard of hearing?” The man pressed harder, grinding my knuckles into the dirt with a brutal laugh. “This is what happens when you cross people who own this town.” “Consider this a lesson for your next life. Mind your own business.” Another kick sent my head spinning. Blood dripped from my mouth, and my consciousness began to drift into a dark, welcoming void. The last thread of hope I held for Daniel shattered into dust. My feet burned like they were on fire, my ribs felt shattered, and blood dried sticky against the dirt on my skin. I don’t know how much time passed. But then, the distant hum of another engine broke the silence. A clear, youthful voice pierced the quiet: “Hey! I think someone’s out there!” I struggled to lift my heavy eyelids. A van was pulling up, a camera rig mounted on its roof—some travel vloggers. The van stopped, and a few people jumped out, a camera lens pointing directly at my face. “Guys, we just found someone in the middle of the desert. She looks like she’s barely breathing. Let’s get her some help!” The host knelt down, gently pulling me up. An assistant handed over a cold bottle of water, the camera zooming in close. “Slow down, don’t choke. Oh, you poor thing.” I drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing the fire in my throat, pulling my mind back from the edge. The feeling of returning to life filled me with hope. I was going to live. But then, the chat overlay on their livestream screen began to scroll at lightning speed. Wait, she looks familiar. Holy crap, is that Marina Ross? Oh my god! It is! The woman wanted for running over her own father and fleeing the state! The host’s face went pale. He quickly pulled up a news alert on his phone, comparing the mugshot to my swollen face. “Holy shit, it is her. The whole internet is calling her the monster who killed her dad!” The comment section exploded: What a piece of trash! Don’t save her! She tried to hide in the desert to escape justice. Let her burn! Hey host, don’t be soft. I’ll donate a thousand dollars if you slap her! Donation alerts started flashing across the screen. The host’s eyes lit up. He turned and delivered a stinging slap to my cheek. “That’s for the donation, guys!” The assistant joined in, laughing as she shoved me back down. “Thanks for the support! Today we’re doing some street justice on a patricide monster!” My head spun from the blows, completely defenseless, listening to the host cheerfully thank his viewers for the money. Suddenly, the assistant covered the microphone and whispered into the host’s ear. The host’s smile vanished. He glanced at me, a cruel, mocking look returning to his face. “Well, well. Seems you’ve pissed off some very powerful people.” “A guy named Mr. Hardy just offered a massive bounty for your exact coordinates. Looks like your clock just ran out.” He gestured to the assistant. “Send him the GPS pins. Let’s get out of here before things get messy.” “Hardy…” Hearing that name, my dimming eyes sparked with a sudden, desperate light. My fingers twitched, trying to claw at his sleeve. But the pain dragged me under, and the world went dark once more. Fearing they’d get tangled in a crime scene, the vloggers packed up and sped away. But I knew. I was safe. It didn’t take long. A deep, heavy thrumming vibrated through the desert air. Three sleek black helicopters swept over the horizon, landing in perfect formation, kicking up a storm of dust and gravel. The cabin door slid open. A man in a tailored, sharp charcoal suit stepped out onto the desert floor. 4 Meanwhile, on a first-class flight back home, Daniel and Cassandra sat side-by-side, sipping champagne. Daniel flipped through a legal brief, a cold smile touching his lips. “I’ve made sure the paper trail points entirely to her. Drunk driving, vehicular manslaughter, fleeing the jurisdiction.” “By the time the court signs off, she won’t have a choice but to plead guilty.” Cassandra leaned against his shoulder, her eyes full of devotion. “Daniel, thank God for you. I don’t know what I would have done.” Daniel squeezed her hand gently. “I told you, I’ll protect you. We made a promise when we were kids, and I won’t let anything destroy our future.” But as he spoke, his brow furrowed slightly. “Though… I don’t know why, but I have this nagging feeling…” Cassandra’s eyes flickered with a brief, nervous tension. She quickly smoothed it over, resting her chin on his chest. “Don’t worry so much, honey. The drop-off crew handled the supplies. She’s got food, she’s got water. She’s fine.” Daniel paused, then nodded. “Once the dust settles, we’ll arrange to bring her back.” “When the baby is born, we’ll let her raise it as her own. It’ll keep her from completely losing her mind.” Cassandra leaned up to press a soft kiss against his cheek, smiling warmly. “I know you’re too kind-hearted to let her suffer too much. I’ll take care of it when the time comes.” As she spoke, her phone buzzed with a trending notification. It was a live-stream thumbnail showing a battered woman face-down in the desert dirt. Her eyes narrowed, a flash of pure venom crossing her face. Without a word, she swiped the notification away and locked the screen. She kept her voice sweet, gently rubbing Daniel’s back. “Don’t think about it anymore. Let’s focus on the hearing tomorrow.” Daniel didn’t notice the change in her demeanor. He simply closed his eyes and mumbled a quiet agreement. Two days later, the courtroom was packed to the brim. The story had become a media sensation, and reporters crowded the gallery. Daniel and Cassandra sat at the plaintiff’s table. The judge banged his gavel, his voice echoing through the quiet room. “Is the defendant, Marina Ross, present?” The courtroom remained silent. No one stood. Daniel, dressed in a sharp, professional black suit, stood up with practiced calm. He looked toward the bench, his voice steady and commanding. “Your Honor, we have undeniable evidence that although the vehicle in question was registered under Cassandra’s name, it was borrowed by Marina Ross on the night of the incident.” His logic was flawless, each word hitting the room like a hammer. “Mrs. Ross has a documented history of alcohol abuse. That night, she drove under the influence, resulting in the tragic death of her own father, Robert Ross. To evade justice, she destroyed the vehicle’s dashcam and fled the state.” He opened a leather-bound folder, presenting it to the court. “Given her flight from prosecution, the evidence of vehicular manslaughter, and her attempts to frame an innocent party, we ask for the maximum sentence.” He bowed slightly and returned to his seat, the perfect picture of an upright, objective officer of the law. Beside him, Cassandra played the role of the grieving, innocent victim, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. The judge nodded, looking over the sentencing documents. “Based on the prosecution’s complete chain of custody and the defendant’s failure to appear, this court finds—” Before he could finish. Bang! The heavy double doors of the courtroom burst open.

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The very first time my husband was supposed to pick up our daughter from school, I got a call from the South District precinct. Instead of being safely in his car, our six-year-old had been found wandering alone in a torrential downpour at a busy intersection. A kind delivery driver had spotted her shivering in the middle of traffic and brought her in. I frantically begged my boss for the afternoon off and rushed to the station. There she was—soaked to the bone, clutching a paper cup of warm water with her tiny, trembling hands. My chest burning with rage, I called Rob. Straight to voicemail. The dozens of texts I’d sent him sat in a silent, unanswered thread. Then, a notification popped up at the top of my screen. It was an Instagram update from my sister-in-law, Heather. “Thank you to the best uncle in the world for spending the day with Toby! He says you’re his favorite person ever~” The attached photo showed Rob holding his seven-year-old nephew, Toby. Both of them were beaming under a shower of confetti, a massive two-tiered superhero cake sitting on the table in front of them. Rob looked at him with an expression of pure, fatherly devotion. I stared at the screen, my hand slowly falling to my side, swallowed by a cold, hollow sensation. Seven years of marriage, and nearly every weekend of it had been spent at Heather’s house. Susie’s birthdays, her first day of kindergarten, parent-teacher conferences—he had missed them all. I remembered the night I’d confronted him, my eyes raw and stinging. “Who is actually your family, Rob?” He had only sighed, wearing that exhausting look of martyrdom. “My brother died too young, Lauren. Heather isn’t independent like you. If I don’t step up and help, how are they supposed to survive?” I wiped a stray tear from my cheek, double-tapped the post to leave a like, and typed a simple comment: Indeed. Quite a milestone. Celebrating Susie’s safe return. And celebrating my final decision to take him for everything he was worth. … “Susie’s mom, you can just sign right here.” The young officer pushed the registration form toward me, pointing to the blank line in the bottom right corner. My hand was still shaking as I took the pen. I took a deep breath and signed my name. “It was pouring out there, and there’s absolutely no shelter at that intersection,” the officer said, placing a fresh cup of warm water on the desk. “If that delivery driver hadn’t spotted her wandering through the traffic… honestly, it could have been tragic. You parents need to be more careful. How could you leave a child that young waiting at the school gates for so long?” I kept my head down, offering no excuses. I turned and walked toward the bench where my daughter was sitting. Susie was six. She sat in her oversized school uniform, completely drenched, her dark hair plastered against her pale cheeks. She held the paper cup with both hands, the rising steam misting her quiet, watchful eyes. She wasn’t crying. Most kids her age would have been hysterical, screaming for their mothers the moment they realized they were lost. But Susie just sat there, terrifyingly still, like an object that had grown accustomed to being forgotten. I knelt in front of her, wrapping a dry towel around her small shoulders. “Susie, baby. I’m so sorry. Mommy’s here.” She looked up at me, her face flat and unreadable. “Don’t be mad at Daddy, Mommy.” A sharp pain pierced my chest. “Daddy didn’t mean to miss it. He told me he had a really important meeting he couldn’t escape.” An important meeting. The image of Heather’s post flashed in my mind. Rob wearing a pointed birthday hat, holding Toby in his lap, playing the perfect father for someone else’s child. “Let’s go home,” I whispered, lifting her into my arms. She felt as light as paper, her wet clothes dripping onto the tiled floor. By the time we stepped out of the precinct, the torrential rain had slowed to a steady, rhythmic drizzle. The rideshare I’d called was waiting at the curb. The driver opened the door, glancing at us with a sympathetic frown. “Oh, poor kid. She’s absolutely soaked. Where’s her dad? Couldn’t he drive out to get her in this weather?” I settled Susie onto the back seat. “She doesn’t have a dad anymore.” The driver blinked, caught off guard. He didn’t ask another question, silently turning the heater up to its maximum setting. We got home just after nine. I ran a hot bath for Susie and made her some ginger tea. She drank it without a word of complaint, then climbed into bed and pulled the covers to her chin. “Mommy, can I go to school tomorrow?” “Of course, sweetie.” “Will you be the one to pick me up?” “Mommy will always pick you up. Every single day.” She closed her eyes and drifted off quickly, her breathing heavy and ragged. I touched her forehead; it felt hot and dry. I retrieved a cooling patch from the medicine cabinet and gently pressed it to her brow. Then I walked out to the living room, sat on the sofa, and waited. The clock on the wall ticked away the hours. At ten past midnight, the front door lock clicked. The door swung open, and Rob stepped into the foyer, bringing with him the sharp smell of alcohol and the cold draft from the hallway. He kicked off his shoes, tossed his car keys onto the entryway table, and loosened his tie. In his hand, he held a sleek, glossy paper bag from an expensive boutique toy store. “You’re still up?” he asked, walking toward the kitchen. I stared at the logo on the bag. “Just got back a little while ago.” “Overtime?” He poured himself a glass of water. “I went to get Susie.” His hand paused for a fraction of a second before he finished pouring. “Right. Yeah. I got so slammed at work today, I couldn’t slip away.” “Busy celebrating Toby’s birthday?” He turned around, his glass in hand, his brow furrowing. “Did you look at Heather’s social media again?” “Am I not allowed to?” “Lauren, do you have to be so incredibly sensitive about everything? It was Toby’s seventh birthday. He was crying for his uncle.” He took a sip of water, his voice dripping with defensive justification. “My brother died so young. Toby has grown up without a father. As his uncle, it’s my responsibility to step up. What is so wrong with that?” “Rob, Susie was waiting for you in a storm today.” “I sent a message to her teacher saying I’d be late! And besides, you went and got her anyway, didn’t you?” He set his glass down, walking over to sit in the armchair opposite me. “You spoil her too much. What’s the big deal if she had to wait in the school office for a bit? It’s not like she’d disappear.” She had vanished. She had been lost in the middle of a flooded intersection in the dark. But I didn’t say it. I knew that if I did, he would only accuse me of exaggerating to pick a fight. “Why was your phone off?” “My battery died.” He pulled the phone from his pocket and tapped the black screen. “It was chaotic at Heather’s place. I didn’t notice the battery percentage.” “I called you forty-five times.” “I told you, my phone was dead! Lauren, are you interrogating me right now?” He rubbed his temples, his patience clearly wearing thin. “I worked a full shift today, and then I had to go deal with a kid’s birthday party. I’m exhausted. Can you please show some understanding for once?” He viewed playing father to his nephew as a noble sacrifice. He viewed my silence as a lack of empathy. I stood up, walked to the foyer, and picked up the paper bag from the table. I peeked inside. It was a massive, limited-edition Lego collector’s set. “What is this?” “A gift for Toby. I grabbed the wrong bag when I left—I accidentally left my spare tie over there, so I have to run back tomorrow morning anyway.” He glanced at the bag dismissively. “Just put it somewhere safe so Susie doesn’t mess with it. That set was incredibly hard to find.” Susie’s seventh birthday was next week. Last month, she had stood in front of a toy store window, staring at a simple stuffed bear, asking if her daddy could buy it for her. Rob had told her that a basic toy wasn’t worth that kind of money and that we should wait for a Black Friday sale. That bear was thirty dollars. This Lego set was easily four hundred. “I see,” I said, folding the top of the bag and placing it on the highest shelf of the entryway closet. “Go to bed. Aren’t you supposed to take Susie to school tomorrow?” He yawned, walking toward the master bedroom. “Actually, I can’t do it tomorrow. Heather said Toby ate too much cake and has an upset stomach. I need to go check on him first thing in the morning.” He stopped at the bedroom door and looked back. “You’ll have to take Susie. She’s old enough to handle a little independence anyway.” I watched his back disappear into the bedroom. The house fell silent, save for the relentless ticking of the clock. “Okay,” I whispered to the empty room. At six the next morning, I was jolted awake by the sound of labored, shallow breathing. Susie’s face was flushed a deep, burning crimson. The cooling patch on her forehead was dry and warm. I slipped a thermometer under her arm. 102.5 degrees. The cold rain from the day before had finally taken its toll. I immediately got up, filled a basin with lukewarm water, and began wiping her down to bring the fever down. Rob was still fast asleep in the master bedroom. I walked over and pushed the door open. “Rob, Susie has a dangerously high fever. I need to take her to the hospital.” He rolled over, pulling the duvet over his shoulder without opening his eyes. “Just give her some Tylenol. There’s some in the cabinet.” “It’s 102.5. The medicine isn’t touching it. It’s pouring outside—can you please drive us to the pediatric clinic?” He finally opened his eyes, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. “I told you, I have to go to Heather’s to check on Toby. He’s sick, and Heather can’t handle it alone.” Toby had a mild stomach ache from overeating. Susie was burning up, on the verge of febrile seizures. But on his scales, the former would always outweigh the latter. “Toby has a stomach ache. Susie’s fever is spiking,” I said, my voice deadpan. “Lauren, do you really have to turn everything into a competition?” Rob sat up, throwing the blankets aside. “Heather is a single mother. She has no one to turn to, no one to help her make decisions. You, on the other hand—you’re incredibly capable. What is so hard about taking a kid to the clinic by yourself?” He walked into the master bathroom and turned on his electric toothbrush. Over the loud hum, his muffled voice drifted out. “Just call an Uber. I’ll reimburse you for the ride, okay?” I stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He didn’t even look at me, completely unbothered. “Okay.” I closed the bedroom door. I dressed Susie in warm clothes and wrapped her in a thick fleece blanket. The rideshare I called was waiting in the apartment building’s parking garage. “The pediatric emergency room, please,” I told the driver as I climbed into the back seat. “As fast as you can.” The emergency room was a chaotic sea of crying children and exhausted parents. I stood in line to register, in line to see the triage nurse, in line to get her blood drawn. Susie was delirious, her small, limp body draped over my shoulder like a broken doll. When the needle pierced her tiny arm, she flinched but didn’t make a sound. The doctor reviewed the lab results with a frown. “Acute suppurative tonsillitis, complicated by severe exposure to the cold. We need to start her on IV antibiotics immediately. She’ll likely need to come back for the next three days.” I went to the pharmacy counter to collect the medication. The infusion room was packed; there were no empty cots, only rows of cold plastic chairs. I found a corner seat and pulled Susie into my lap. The nurse came over and started the IV. I watched the clear, cold fluid drip slowly into her tiny veins. At ten in the morning, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Rob: How’s Susie? Did the fever break? Using one hand, I typed back: On an IV. Severe infection. The status indicator showed “typing” for a long time before a brief message came through: Thanks for handling it. Toby is doing better, but Heather is still anxious, so she wants me to drive them to get some probiotics. I’ll head over to the hospital as soon as I’m done and take you guys out for lunch. I stared at the screen, closed the app, and slipped the phone back into my pocket. At noon, the first IV bag was nearly empty. I pressed the call button for the nurse to swap it out. My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a call from Rob. “Hey, Lauren.” In the background, I could hear the distinct, noisy hum of a bustling shopping mall. “Where are you?” I asked. “I’m over at the Galleria. The thing is… Heather said Toby’s feeling a bit better and wants some light sushi. Since she didn’t drive, I need to drop them off.” “So you’re not coming to the hospital.” “I’ll come this afternoon. Just take her home when she’s done. I’ll buy some groceries later and cook us all dinner.” He paused, perhaps feeling a rare prick of conscience. “Don’t be mad, okay? My brother only left this one child behind. I can’t just leave a widow and her son stranded in the cold.” I watched the medicine drip steadily through the plastic tube. “Okay.” “Wait, really? You’re fine with that?” He sounded genuinely surprised by my lack of resistance. “Go ahead.” I hung up. At two-thirty in the afternoon, the three bags of medication were finally finished. Susie’s temperature had dropped to 100.4. She was still warm, but she looked a little more presentable. “Mommy, I want to sleep in my own bed.” “Okay, baby. Let’s go home.” The nurse pulled the needle out, leaving a small, dark bruise on the back of Susie’s hand. I pressed a cotton ball to the tiny wound and carried her out. As we crossed the lobby, I ran straight into a senior colleague from my office, Rachel. Rachel was holding a bag of prescription medicine. She stopped, startled to see me. “Lauren? I thought you took a personal day. What are you doing here?” “My daughter has a severe infection. We just finished her IV.” Rachel leaned in, gently stroking Susie’s hair. “Oh, sweetie, look how pale she is. Where’s your husband? Didn’t he come with you?” I shook my head. “He’s busy.” Rachel sighed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Men are so useless. Honestly, on my way here, I could swear I saw your husband’s SUV parked right outside that massive toy store opposite the Galleria.” Rachel was a straight shooter, notorious in our office for knowing everyone’s business. “I saw him walking out with this massive bag. He had a woman with him, and a little boy. Is that… family?” I pressed down harder on the cotton ball in my hand. “It’s his sister-in-law and nephew.” “Oh, got it. I saw him buying that kid toys and thought maybe you had another child I didn’t know about. Anyway, go get some rest.” She waved and walked away. I tossed the bloody cotton ball into a nearby trash can. He wasn’t just driving them to get sushi. He was buying Toby that limited-edition Lego set. He had promised to come to the clinic at noon, but instead, he spent his afternoon wandering through a toy store with another woman’s child. I carried Susie through the hospital doors. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a gray, heavy sky. “Mommy,” Susie whispered against my shoulder. “When is Daddy coming home?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “461693”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day the oncologist confirmed my father’s cancer was terminal, I found a folded piece of notebook paper tucked beneath his pillow. It was a bucket list, written in his shaky, fading print. The very first line read: See Mark get married. I spent the next three weeks meticulously planning a proposal. I wanted it to be beautiful, a quiet promise of a future that would give my father some peace. I asked Sylvia to meet me at the coast, intending to ask her to be my wife. But I waited. From the pale light of afternoon until the freezing, pitch-black dark of midnight, she never showed up. Instead, she sent a flurry of brief voice notes, her tone dripping with impatience. “Mark, seriously? How low can you and your father go? Faking a terminal illness just to guilt me into a wedding? It’s pathetic.” “I never said I wouldn’t marry you. But I absolutely despise emotional blackmail. As a lesson, let’s push the wedding back another two years.” “Oh, and that beachside couple’s photoshoot package you booked? I gave the slot to Troy. He’s young and loves trying new things, and it’s not like you’ll be using it anytime soon anyway.” When the final message played, the friends who had gathered to help me set up the lights stared at the ground, their silence heavy with pity. In their eyes, I was nothing but a fool standing in the dark. Later that night, Sylvia’s executive assistant, Troy, posted a new update on Instagram. It was a beautifully curated nine-photo grid. In the center, Sylvia wore a flowing white gown, a radiant, soft smile on her face as she leaned back into his chest. So that was why she couldn’t make it. She was too busy playing the bride for someone else. I didn’t reply to her messages. I didn’t leave a comment on the post. Instead, I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “The family alliance you proposed last month,” I said, my voice hollow in the empty room. “I accept.” … The next morning, the office lobby was buzzing when I arrived. A small crowd of employees had gathered around Troy’s desk, giggling and whispering. “Troy, come on, spill! How did you end up doing a bridal shoot with the CEO? Are you two finally official?” “Man, Mark must be losing his mind right now. I bet he’s seething in his office, haha…” Troy offered them a delicate, performative blush, looking down at his desk. “No, guys, don’t say that. Sylvia just didn’t want the booking to go to waste, so she stepped in to keep me company. But… even the photographer said we had amazing chemistry.” The HR director, Judith, cleared her throat loudly. The group finally noticed me standing by the glass doors. The laughter evaporated instantly, and they scurried back to their cubicles. Sylvia and I had been childhood sweethearts. We had spent ten years building this marketing agency from a two-room apartment into a multi-million-dollar firm. Everyone in the industry assumed our marriage was a foregone conclusion. But reality had just delivered a quiet, devastating blow. Troy looked up, offering a sheepish, fragile smile. “Mark, they were just teasing. Please don’t take it personally. And thank you so much for giving up the shoot. That beach was absolutely breathtaking. I would have never found such a hidden gem if Sylvia hadn’t taken me there.” Looking at his smug, youthful face, my chest tightened. It wasn’t about how difficult that specific photographer was to book. It was about the beach itself. That cove was our secret place. It was where Sylvia had first told me she loved me, where we had promised, years ago, that we would one day take our wedding photos. Now, she had handed that memory to a boy she had known for six months, dismissive of the history we shared. I reached past Troy, picked up the weekly attendance log from Judith’s hands, and looked at it calmly. “You don’t need to thank me,” I said, my voice steady. “Because you’re fired.” Troy’s eyes went wide, his boyish innocence instantly melting into panic. “What? On what grounds?” “On the grounds that you were late three times last month, left early four times, and this week, you went entirely AWOL for seven days without filing a single PTO request. That is a material breach of your employment contract. You have zero professional discipline.” I turned to Judith. “Draft the termination papers. I’ll sign off.” Before Judith could step away, a manicured hand reached out, snatched the attendance log from my grip, and tore it in half. Troy’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Sylvia…” Sylvia stood there, her jaw set, her eyes cold as she glared at me. “Mark, have you forgotten who actually runs this company? You don’t get to decide who stays and who goes. Know your place, and stop overstepping.” I froze, staring at her as if she were a stranger. This was the first time in ten years Sylvia had ever publicly humiliated me. She was beautiful, sharp, and incredibly successful. In the past, whenever male interns had tried to flirt with her, she had shut them down without a second thought. “I have a partner,” she would say, her voice icy. “And I won’t tolerate anything that makes him uncomfortable. Pack your things.” When did the boundaries change? When did I become the one who had to “know his place”? Was it when Troy confessed his feelings to her, got rejected, but kept showing up at her office with home-cooked lunches anyway? Was it when she rehired him as her personal assistant, claiming she “just wanted to keep things professional”? Or was it when she took the multi-million-dollar account I had spent eight months nurturing and handed it to Troy on a silver platter, just to “help him build his resume”? When I had argued with her about it, she had called me domineering, accusing me of stifling new talent. But none of that mattered anymore. I slowly unclipped my security badge and placed it gently on the mahogany desk. “You’re right, Sylvia. This isn’t my place anymore.” I met her gaze, feeling a strange, weightless clarity. “I’m leaving the firm. And we’re done.” Ignoring Troy’s poorly concealed smirk, I kept my eyes on her. “I expect my equity to be liquidated and transferred to my account by the end of the week. I’m getting married at the end of the month, and weddings aren’t cheap.” Without waiting to see the shock register in her eyes, I turned and walked out. After picking up a small sugar-free cake, I drove straight to the hospital. Today was my father’s sixty-fifth birthday. When I told him the wedding was still happening, his pale face lit up, though a quiet shadow of disappointment lingered in his eyes. “Sylvia is just busy, I know,” he murmured, trying to comfort me, his voice barely a whisper. “I just haven’t seen her in so long. I miss her. But knowing you’ll have someone to walk beside you… that’s all I need to rest easy.” When my mother walked out on us years ago, my father had raised me alone in a cramped, drafty apartment. Sylvia had lived down the street. Her stepmother and father neglected her, often leaving her without dinner. My father was the one who welcomed her into our home, fed her, and helped her with her homework. Later, when she fell seriously ill, her parents refused to pay for her treatment, sold their house overnight, and disappeared. It was my father who emptied his modest savings to pay for her surgeries and kept her in school. He always told me that seeing Sylvia healthy made him feel like he had saved a daughter. In return, Sylvia had studied relentlessly, worked herself to the bone to build the agency, and sworn she would be our shield against the world. But over the last year, her visits to the hospital had dwindled to nothing. She missed his birthdays, always sending a text about a last-minute merger or a late-night client dinner. My father insisted on going to the mall nearby to buy a gold bracelet. He wanted to give it to the bride himself, a traditional family welcoming gift. The doctors had warned me that his heart was weak and he shouldn’t overexert himself, but I couldn’t bear to deny him this last piece of joy. I hadn’t told him that the bride’s name had changed, but it didn’t matter. The gesture remained. By the time we bought the jewelry, my father’s face was alarmingly pale. I helped him to a bench near the fountain, gave him some water, and stepped away to the restroom. But when I came back, my heart stopped. My father was sitting on the polished tile floor, holding his cheek. A middle-aged man in an expensive-looking, flashy designer jacket was hovering over him, screaming. “Are you blind, old man? If you don’t need those eyes, I’ll gouge them out for you!” the man roared, dusting off his sleeve. “This is a limited-edition jacket my daughter-in-law bought me! You spilled water all over it! You’re paying for this—fifty thousand dollars, right now!” My father looked up, his voice trembling. “I didn’t… you were taking a selfie and walking backward. You bumped into me…” “Bullshit! You think you can lie your way out of this? I’ll beat some sense into you!” I sprinted across the atrium, throwing my shoulder into the man and shoving him back. When I saw the bright red handprint blooming on my father’s pale cheek, a cold, blinding fury took over. The man stumbled, startled by the sheer venom in my eyes. He took a step back, blustering. “What do you think you’re doing? My son and his boss are right upstairs! You touch me, and they’ll ruin you!” I didn’t say a word. I raised my hand, ready to strike back. But before my swing could land, my wrist was grabbed in a tight, suffocating grip. The older man gasped in relief. “Son! Thank god you’re here!” I turned my head and met Sylvia’s dark, furious eyes. “Mark, what on earth do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. The older man immediately pointed a finger at me, whining to Troy. “Troy, this piece of garbage’s father ruined my jacket and refused to pay! Then this kid tried to attack me! Call security and have them thrown in jail!” I wrenched my wrist out of Sylvia’s grip and let out a cold laugh. “No wonder he’s so bold. He’s got the great CEO Sylvia backing him up.” I glared at Troy’s father. “Fortunately for you, there are cameras all over this mall. Let’s pull the footage and see who actually caused the collision. But I promise you, if the tape shows what I think it does, I am filing charges for assault and extortion.” That cheap jacket was worth five hundred dollars at best. Sylvia finally noticed my father sitting on the floor, his hand still cradling his swollen face. She frowned, turning to Troy’s dad. “Frank, why did you lay hands on him? We could have just talked.” Frank, realizing there were security cameras nearby, began to fidget. “I… I didn’t know they knew you, Sylvia. Fine, whatever, forget the jacket. Troy, tell her to let it go.” Troy, seeing his father’s guilt, quickly stepped in front of me, his expression turning into one of theatrical remorse. “Mark, I am so, so sorry. My dad was just so excited about the birthday gift Sylvia gave him, he got protective. Please don’t hold it against him.” He looked up at Sylvia, his eyes glistening with tears. “It’s my fault. I’ll make it up to you.” Sylvia softened instantly. She looked at me, her voice exasperated. “Alright, Troy’s apologized. Let’s drop it. Take your father to the clinic upstairs, and send the bill to my assistant.” Beside me, my father’s eyes had gone completely dim, the light of hope entirely extinguished. The absurdity of the situation made me laugh out loud. “Sylvia, do you actually hear the words coming out of your mouth? Since when does an apology erase an assault?” I looked at Troy. “I’ll give you two options. Either I call the police right now, or I slap your father back.” Troy went pale, taking a dramatic step back. “Mark, I know you’re bitter about Sylvia and me, but you can’t humiliate my family like this. He’s an elder! If you hate me so much, fine—I’ll punish myself!” He raised his hand as if to slap his own face, making sure to do it slowly enough for his father to grab his wrist. It was a pathetic, theatrical display. But Sylvia bought it. Before I could even react, Sylvia grabbed my hand, pulled me forward, and forced my palm against her own cheek with a sickening, hollow crack. The sound echoed through the mall corridor. The onlookers gasped. I stumbled from the force of her pull, staring at her in utter disbelief. Sylvia let go of my wrist, her eyes like chips of dry ice. “You’ve always been like this, Mark. Selfish. Obsessed with winning, no matter who you have to humiliate to do it.” She glanced at my father’s shopping bag, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Terminal cancer? And he still has the energy to go luxury shopping? I knew it was a lie. This whole breakup, the wedding—it’s just a pathetic attempt to force my hand.” She grabbed Troy’s hand, turning her back on us. “I despise this manipulative side of you.” Behind me, my father’s breathing became ragged, his chest heaving as he stared at the woman he had raised like a daughter. In her, he saw the exact same cruelty as the wife who had abandoned him decades ago. With a soft groan, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the cold tile floor. Because of the severe emotional stress, my father fell into a deep coma. That night, my phone buzzed with a text message from an unknown number. “Mark, I’m boarding my flight back to the States tonight to finalize our wedding. I’m so happy you’re finally marrying me. I want to formally introduce you to the family. Do you mind?” Before I could type a reply, the heavy wooden door of the VIP hospital suite was kicked open. Troy strode in, flanked by three burly men in black suits. He looked around the spacious, private room with a critical, approving nod. “Not bad. The VIP wing really does have the best views.” He pointed at my father’s bed. “Get this old man out of here. My dad is having chest pains and needs this room immediately.” My father loved quiet. I had pulled every favor I had to secure this specific, peaceful room for his final days. I stood up slowly, my voice deadly quiet. “There is a patient in this bed. Get the hell out.” Troy blinked, playing innocent. “Oh, didn’t Sylvia tell you? Your little stunt at the mall gave my dad a panic attack. Sylvia wanted him to have the best care possible, so she told me to take this suite. Don’t be difficult, Mark.” The three men moved toward the bed. The private nurse tried to block them, but was easily pushed aside. By the time Sylvia arrived, a small crowd of doctors and nurses had gathered in the hallway. I was standing in front of my father’s bed, my hair disheveled, my shirt torn at the collar from the scuffle. Sylvia’s eyes caught the dark bruise forming on my forearm where one of the men had grabbed me. A flicker of hesitation crossed her face. “I told you to ask them to leave politely,” she snapped at Troy’s guards. “Get out.” She turned to me, her voice softening slightly, though her tone remained condescending. “Mark, Troy’s dad is genuinely ill. Frankly, he’s being incredibly generous by not filing charges against you for the mall incident. Stop being so stubborn.” She glanced at my father’s motionless body. “Are you seriously still making him play dead just to win an argument? Get him up. We’re going home.” The sheer, venomous ignorance of her words made a laugh tear from my throat. I reached over to the bedside table, grabbed the thick stack of my father’s medical records and biopsy results, and hurled them directly at her face. “Play dead? Open your eyes and read the damn charts, Sylvia!” I screamed, my voice cracking with a lifetime of repressed rage. “He has stage-four lung cancer! Are you blind to the IV lines, or do you just choose not to see them?!” Sylvia flinched as the papers scattered around her feet. She instinctively bent down to pick them up. But Troy stepped forward, his leather boot stomping directly onto the medical report. He glared at me. “Don’t let him trick you, Sylvia. My friend is a makeup artist for film sets. They can easily fake pale skin and put on fake IVs. This whole report is probably photoshopped. They’re just trying to guilt you into giving up your company shares!” He sneered, leaning over my comatose father. “I’m not going to let them keep lying to you. Let’s see how long he can keep up this act.” Troy reached out his hand, his fingers clawing toward my father’s neck. I didn’t think. I grabbed the silver paring knife from the fruit basket on the table and pressed the blade directly against Troy’s throat. “Touch him,” I whispered, my voice flat, “and I will open your throat.” Troy froze, his face draining of color. I looked past him, locking eyes with Sylvia. “My father gave up his life savings to save you. He raised you for ten years and never asked for a single dime in return. And you? You sleep with your assistant, ignore his birthday, let his trash family beat him in public, and now you want to throw him out of his deathbed.” My grip on the knife tightened. “I built that company with you. I worked eighty-hour weeks, drank myself into stomach ulcers to secure our first twenty clients, and built our reputation from nothing. Now you want to claim my shares are ‘charity’? Who is the real parasite here, Sylvia? Me, or you?” The murmurs from the hospital staff in the hallway grew louder. “Jesus, so she’s the one they raised? How can someone be so heartless?” “The son helped her build everything, and now she’s bringing her side piece to kick a dying old man out of his room? Unbelievable.” Sylvia’s face burned a deep, humiliated red. With Troy trembling under my knife, she finally succumbed to the pressure. “Mark, you’ve lost your mind!” she hissed, her voice trembling. “Let Troy go. I’ll have the finance department liquidate your shares and wire the money tomorrow morning!” I pulled the knife back. She grabbed Troy and practically fled down the corridor. I sat back down by my father’s bed, listening to the steady, rhythmic beep of the monitor. The silence of the room settled around us like a heavy shroud. I pulled out my phone and replied to the text message from the heiress, Isla. “I don’t mind. But I choose the venue.” The transfer cleared the next afternoon. Within forty-eight hours, I registered a boutique consulting firm. When word got out that I had left Sylvia’s agency, five of our senior account directors—people I had personally mentored and protected for years—quietly handed in their resignations and walked over to my new office. My departure seemed to throw Sylvia into a frantic, public spiral of retaliation. She immediately promoted Troy to Vice President and began parading him to high-society events, posting endless photos of them together. More petty still, Troy began undercutting every single client pitch my new boutique firm made. No matter how small the contract, Troy would swoop in and offer to do the work at half the price. Compared to my fledgling startup, clients naturally preferred the security of a larger, established agency. In the eyes of the local business community, I was a fallen star, destined to drown in Sylvia’s shadow. My lead strategist, Henry, walked into my office one afternoon, looking exhausted. “Mark, I can handle losing the small accounts. But the Summit Enterprises contract… you spent over a year laying the groundwork for that deal. It’s a hundred-million-dollar account. To watch them slide in and steal it at the finish line… it’s sickening.” I looked up from my laptop, offering a small, calm smile. “Don’t worry, Henry. Let them have it.” Sometimes, the most dangerous thing you can do to an enemy is let them have exactly what they want. By paying out my equity, Sylvia had drained almost all of her firm’s liquid cash. She was desperately counting on the Summit Enterprises deposit to keep her operations afloat. Two weeks later, the business world was rocked by the return of Isla, the sole heiress to the prestigious East Coast Commerce Association. To celebrate her return and her impending marriage, her family hosted a private, black-tie gala at the Ritz-Carlton. Rumor had it that her mysterious, low-profile groom was the sole heir of Summit Enterprises itself. When I arrived at the hotel entrance in a custom, charcoal-grey tuxedo, I ran straight into Sylvia and Troy. Troy was draped over Sylvia’s arm, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Mark? What are you doing here?” “The same thing you are, I assume,” I replied smoothly. Troy laughed, a sharp, patronizing sound. “Hardly. The heir of Summit Enterprises personally sent us an VIP invitation to finalize our contract tonight. Once we sign this deal, Sylvia’s agency will be untouchable. But you? You don’t even have a ticket, do you?” He gasped, mocking surprise. “Or is your little startup doing so poorly that you’re trying to sneak in to find a wealthy sugar mommy? Wow, Mark. I knew you were desperate, but this is a new low.” A year ago, Troy wouldn’t have dared look me in the eye. Now, he spoke to me as if I were dirt beneath his shoe. Sylvia looked at me, her expression a mix of irritation and a strange, lingering discomfort. “Mark, stop this. The guests tonight are the elite of the city. If you cause a scene and get thrown out, I won’t help you. Just go home.” Troy tugged at Sylvia’s sleeve, his voice turning into a sweet, whiny purr. “Sylvia, look at Mark’s tuxedo. It’s a limited-edition piece. I tried to buy it last week but they said it was reserved. Since he can’t even get through the door, why don’t you make him give it to me? It would look so much better on me for the photos tonight.” Sylvia hesitated, then looked at me, her voice softening into that old, manipulative warmth she used to use when she wanted me to work overtime. “Mark, let’s not make things ugly. This contract is life or death for my company. Give the suit to Troy and go wait for me at my apartment. I promise you, once the papers are signed tonight, we can get married.” She took a step closer. “We can hire a new VP, and you can stay home. I’ll give you a monthly allowance. Isn’t that easier than killing yourself trying to compete with me?” I looked at her, feeling absolutely nothing. No anger, no grief. Just a profound sense of pity. “Sylvia,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “You really are incredibly arrogant. Why do you get to have a career, while I’m expected to sit at home, playing the obedient housekeeper who ignores your affairs for a monthly stipend?” Sylvia’s face hardened. “If you’re going to be difficult, don’t blame me for being harsh.” She signaled the two burly security guards standing near the entrance. They took a step toward me, their shadows falling over my chest. A few local executives who were waiting in line, eager to curry favor with Sylvia, began to chuckle. “I always knew Mark had a pretty face, but who knew he was this desperate?” one whispered. “Hey, Mark, if Sylvia’s throwing you out, strip down right here. If you look good enough, maybe I’ll hire you as my personal driver, haha…” I watched Sylvia stand by, completely indifferent to their mockery. I remembered a rainy night seven years ago, when a group of local thugs had cornered me in an alley. Sylvia had charged in with a loose brick, her own head bleeding as she threw herself over me. “Mark, you and your dad are my family,” she had screamed through her tears. “I will never let anyone hurt you as long as I live.” The girl who said those words was dead. The woman standing before me was just a stranger wearing her skin. I heard familiar, crisp footsteps echoing behind me. I let a small smile touch my lips. “I could give him the suit,” I said, looking directly at Troy. “But I’m afraid it wouldn’t do you any good. Because if I leave, this contract won’t be signed. In fact, this entire gala won’t even happen.” I turned around to face the woman walking toward us, my smile widening. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

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During my lunch break, a coworker leaned over to look at the new watch my husband had given me. “Fiona, why does the screw on the back of this watch look like it’s been messed with?” My stomach dropped. I grabbed a small precision tool from my desk and carefully unscrewed the backplate. Inside was a micro-GPS tracker. My mind raced, flashing back to all the times Jared had called me lately during my shifts, always saying, “I love you, babe,” with a strange, frantic intensity. Yet when I came home, he wouldn’t let me near him. I threw the watch into my desk drawer, grabbed my car keys, and bolted out of the office. … I slammed my foot on the gas. The world blurred outside the windows as my car tore down the road. The only thing spinning in my head was the image of that tracker. I screeched to a halt in front of our apartment building, threw the car into park, and rushed through the lobby. I pressed the elevator button repeatedly, my heart hammering against my ribs. The doors slid shut, lifting me to the seventeenth floor. The moment they cracked open, I squeezed through and ran down the hallway to our door. I pounded on the wood with everything I had. “Jared! Open the door!” Silence. “Open up, Jared! I know you’re in there!” I screamed, throwing my fists against the door. After what felt like an eternity, the door finally opened a fraction of an inch. Jared stood there in his silk robe, his hair slightly disheveled, his cheeks flushed a deep, guilty pink. “Fiona? What are you doing back? Did something happen?” He gripped the doorknob, blocking the entryway. I shoved past him and stormed inside. The living room looked exactly as I had left it this morning. “Are you out of your mind, Fiona?!” Jared yelled from behind me. I ignored him and marched straight into our bedroom. I ripped the comforter off the bed. Empty. I pulled open the closet doors, then dropped to my knees to look underneath the bedframe. “What are you looking for?” he asked, trailing after me, his voice trembling. I spun around and ran into the master bathroom, ripping open the shower curtain. Nothing. “What is wrong with you? Did something go wrong at work? You’re scaring me.” Jared reached out and grabbed my arm. His hand was ice-cold. I flung his hand off. “Where is she?” Jared’s face went entirely pale. “Who? What are you talking about?” Suddenly, a muffled commotion rose from the street below. There were shouts, followed by a man’s sharp scream. “She jumped! Someone fell from the balcony! I think it was the seventeenth floor!” I froze. The seventeenth floor. Our floor. I lunged toward the bedroom window. “Don’t look!” Jared threw himself in front of me, spreading his arms to block my path. “Fiona! Please, don’t look!” His face was white, his voice cracking with sheer panic. “Get out of my way,” I said, staring him down. “I don’t want you to see it! You’ll have nightmares!” he wept, shaking his head, refusing to budge. The more he resisted, the more I needed to see. I shoved him hard against the wall. He let out a muffled grunt, his knees buckling as he slid down to the floor. I leaned out the window, looking down. On the grass below, a few neighbors had gathered, pointing up at our building. But the lawn was empty. There was no blood, no body, no ambulance. An older woman called out, “Where did she go? Weren’t she hanging from the ledge just a second ago?” Another woman replied, “You must be seeing things. There’s no one there. Let’s go inside.” The crowd slowly began to disperse. I pulled my head back in, suddenly drained of all strength. I turned around and looked at Jared, who was slumped against the wall. On his face was an unmistakable, sickening look of relief. I walked over to him. “Where is she?” He lowered his head. I knelt, grabbing his jaw, forcing his face up. “I asked you a question. Who was at that window?” Jared shudders and tries to look away. “Who? Fiona, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You pushed me… it hurts.” He whimpered, tears welling in his eyes. I leaned in close. “You weren’t afraid I’d get nightmares from a body.” “You were afraid I’d catch her.” “Do you know what your face looked like when I turned around? Relief. You were relieved she got away, relieved I didn’t catch her. Do you think I’m blind?” My voice was quiet, but every word cut like a razor. Jared looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Relief? Fiona, I’m relieved my wife isn’t losing her mind! I’m relieved our home isn’t ruined by some freak accident!” He scrambled up, pulling himself up by the wall, pointing at the messy bedroom. “Look at what you just did! Barging in, screaming, tearing the place apart! You don’t trust me?” “Is this what our marriage is to you?” His voice was high-pitched, dripping with defensive indignation. If it weren’t for the tracker sitting in my desk drawer, I might have actually believed I was the crazy one. I stood up, pulled out my phone, and brought up the photo of the tracker, holding it right in front of his face. “And what about this, Jared? Explain this to me.” The glow of the screen hit his face, and his features instantly drained of color. His lips parted, but no sound came out. I expected a confession, but instead, he burst into tears. Thick, heavy tears rolled down his cheeks. “I… I was worried about you!” he cried, his voice cracking. “You’ve been working late every single night, coming home and barely saying a word. I call you, and you don’t answer. I was terrified something would happen to you. What was I supposed to do?” “I just wanted to know you were safe! Is it a crime to love you, Fiona? Is loving my wife a mistake?” He wept, turning himself into the victim so flawlessly it made my stomach turn. I grabbed his wrist. It was freezing. “So, because you were worried about me, a woman had to dangle from our seventeenth-floor window?” “Stop it!” he screamed, ripping his hand away. “You just want to believe I did something wrong! You want to ruin us!” He stumbled back and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. “Fine! You want to play this game? I’ll call my parents. I’ll let them hear exactly how their perfect daughter-in-law is tearing their son apart over nothing!” He unlocked the phone, his thumb hovering over his contacts. My head throbed. I knew he’d do it. If his parents showed up, they’d only see a trembling, weeping son and a frantic, erratic wife. No one would believe me. I would be the villain who broke a good man’s heart. The fight drained out of me all at once. “Don’t call them.” My voice was dry, hollow. Jared stared at me, tears streaming, his finger poised over his father’s name. I closed my eyes, then opened them. “I’m sorry.” The words were like ash in my mouth. “I’ve been under too much pressure at work. I lost control. I’m sorry.” Jared’s sobbing slowed. He studied me for a few agonizing seconds, making sure I’m not mocking him, before slowly lowering the phone. He stepped closer and took my hand. “I know you’re tired, sweetie. I don’t blame you.” His hand was still cold, but his voice was a soothing, gentle purr. “Just don’t scare me like that again, okay?” I looked at his tear-stained face and nodded. “Okay.” He smiled—a soft, triumphant smile of pure relief. And I felt a deep, icy chill settle in my bones. The next morning, Jared was still asleep, resting peacefully with a faint, content smile on his lips. Yesterday felt like a fever dream. I made breakfast as usual, ate alone, and walked out the door. But the moment the front door clicked shut, I slipped into the stairwell and called my coworker Megan to take a personal day. I waited until I heard the hum of the elevator going down, then quiet as a ghost, I unlocked our front door and stepped back inside. While he was still asleep, I quickly and discreetly installed tiny cameras in a few blind spots around the apartment. For the next few days, I spent my working hours sitting in the coffee shop downstairs, my eyes glued to the live feed on my phone. On screen, he didn’t do his usual workouts or watch TV. By midday, he’d be curled up on the sofa, texting furiously. His fingers flew across the screen, his mouth curled into the goofy, lovestruck grin of a teenager in the honeymoon phase. Watching it, I felt like the air was being squeezed out of my lungs. At exactly six in the evening, I walked through the door. “Welcome home, babe,” he said, jogging over to take my bag, wrapping his arms around me. After dinner, he went to take a shower. Listening to the rushing water, I walked over to the sofa and picked up his phone. I used his passcode and opened his messages. The chat list was pristine. Aside from work channels and group chats with his buddies, the active conversation from this afternoon had been scrubbed clean. I stared at the blank screen, my blood running cold. Without a word, I slid the phone back into place. Two days later, in the dead of night, the silence finally drove me mad. I lay in bed, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but my mind was spinning. At 1:30 AM, the mattress shifted. Jared pulled the comforter back and slipped out of bed barefoot. He padded out of the room and into the master bathroom, closing the door behind him. Soon, the faucet was running. The rush of water was loud enough to drown out a whisper. But the tiny microphone I had hidden beneath the vanity caught every single syllable, feeding it directly into the earbud in my left ear. “Hey sweetheart, I miss you too…” His voice was pitched low, thick with a sweet, cloying affection I hadn’t heard in years. “I know, but she’s like clockwork. Home every day, sitting there like a lump of wood. It’s exhausting just looking at her.” The voice on the other end mumbled something, and he let out a soft chuckle. “Alright, let’s wait until the weekend. I’ll tell her I’m going out with the guys, and then I’m all yours…” In the dark, I stuffed the corner of the comforter into my mouth to muffle my sobs. Tears soaked into the pillow. Every word felt like a physical blow to my chest. So that’s what I was to him. A boring piece of wood he had to tolerate. The weekend arrived. The city was alive with couples holding hands, enjoying the spring air. Jared spent the morning preening in front of the mirror. He wore a brand-new designer shirt I’ve never seen before and groomed his hair to perfection. As he headed for the door, he grabbed a sleek, brand-new leather bag. “Babe,” he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my cheek, “I’m heading out with the guys. Might be a bit late tonight.” I looked at his handsome, sculpted face, feeling nothing but a wave of nausea. “Sure,” I forced a smile. “Have fun.” His eyes crinkled with delight. “Thanks, babe!” The moment he stepped out of the building, I pulled my baseball cap low and followed him down. I slipped into my car, parked across the street. He didn’t head for the subway. Instead, he lingered on the curb, checking his phone. Within minutes, a sleek black Mercedes pulled up beside him. The door swung open, and he slid into the passenger seat. Before the car even pulls away, the woman in the driver’s seat leaned over, cupping his face, and kissed him deeply. I turned the key in the ignition and followed them. The Mercedes bypassed the city center, heading straight for the scenic, upscale suburbs of the north valley. My hands were steady on the steering wheel. Eventually, the car pulled into the grand driveway of the Whispering Pines Resort & Spa. Jared got out, and the woman followed, looping her arm through his. They laughed, sharing some private joke as they strolled into the gilded lobby. I killed the engine, pulled the key, and sat in the quiet of my car. The afternoon sun was blindingly bright. I pulled down the sun visor and retrieved my phone. First, I called my father. “Dad, it’s me.” “Fiona! Sweetheart, why are you calling at this hour? Aren’t you working?” “I took a few days off. I wanted to surprise Jared with a little getaway. We’re actually up at the Whispering Pines Resort—it’s beautiful here. I booked a private dining room for dinner. Why don’t you and Mom drive up and join us? Let’s have a family dinner.” My dad sounded thrilled. “Oh, that sounds wonderful, sweetie. Your mother and I will get ready right away.” “Perfect. I’ll text you the reservation details.” As soon as I hung up, I dialed my mother-in-law’s number. It rings a few times before she picked up. “Hello? Fiona?” Her voice was sharp, energetic. “Hi, Helen. Are you and Arthur home?” “Yes, we’re just watching some TV. Is everything alright?” “Everything’s great. Jared and I are out celebrating, and I booked a gorgeous private room at a restaurant up in the valley. I realized we haven’t all sat down for a nice meal in ages. I’d love it if you and Arthur could join us.” “Oh? Jared is with you? That boy didn’t say a word about a trip.” “I wanted it to be a surprise. Can you make it? It’s not far—the Whispering Pines Resort.” “Of course we can make it. We’ll get ready and head out now.” “Great. The room is called the Summit Suite. Just ask the host when you arrive.” “We’ll see you soon, dear.” I slid my phone back into my pocket, pushed the car door open, and stepped out into the warm breeze. Entering the lobby, the receptionist greeted me with a polished, professional smile. “Welcome, how can I help you today?” “I have a reservation for the Summit Suite. Fiona Albright.” She tapped on her screen. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Albright. The room is ready for you in our second-floor dining hall.” “Thank you.” I walked toward the elevators. I remembered exactly where the Mercedes parked, and I knew exactly which direction they went. I stood in the quiet, carpeted hallway of the resort, waiting for my family. Waiting for his parents. My parents arrived first. “Fiona, have you been waiting long?” My mom hugged me, pulling back to look at my face. “You look a little thin, sweetie. Are you sleeping?” “Just busy with the quarterly budget, Mom,” I smiled. “Dad, let’s head up to the room first.” A few minutes later, Arthur and Helen arrived. Arthur spotted me immediately. “Fiona! Where’s Jared? I thought you were surprising him.” “He’s upstairs freshening up. You know how he is—has to make sure every hair is in place before he dines.” Helen chuckled. “Naturally. It’s so sweet of you to plan this, Fiona.” I took Arthur’s arm. “We’re family. It’s the least I can do. Let’s go have some tea in the suite, and then I’ll go grab him.” The Summit Suite was beautiful, featuring massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a serene pine forest. I poured tea for the four of them. Arthur took a sip, then asked, “Which room are you guys staying in? I’ll go nudge him. I’d love to see the suites here anyway.” I set the teapot down, smiling warmly. “Actually, Dad, I was thinking we could all go up together and surprise him. He’ll be absolutely thrilled to see you both.” I stood up. “Come on, let’s go.” They all rose, smiling. The five of us walked out of the private dining room and stepped back into the elevator. On the ride up, Arthur was still singing my praises. “Fiona is one in a million. Jared is a lucky man to have a wife who cares this much about family.” My parents beamed with pride. The elevator chimes, opening on the sixth floor. The corridor was long, lined with plush, sound-dampening carpets that swallowed the sound of our footsteps. Helen whispered, “Which room is it?” “Just down here,” I said, pointing toward the end of the hall. We stopped outside Room 608. I turned around, putting a finger to my lips with a playful grin. “Shh. Big surprise.” They all quieted down, their faces bright with anticipation. I raised my hand and knocked three times. Firm, but polite. Nothing. I knocked again, harder this time. A few seconds passed, and then my husband’s voice drifted through the door. “Who is it?” Behind me, the smiles on four faces began to stiffen. The door swung open to reveal the woman from the Mercedes, a plush hotel bathrobe draped loosely over her shoulders.

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