Author: Momo Chan

The day Charles’s first love, Melanie, and I were both in a horrific car accident, Melanie was the one rushed into the trauma bay. Charles choked me, his fingers digged into my throat as he snarled, “Melanie always insisted on riding shotgun, and you fought her for it every single time. Why didn’t you fight her today? Why did you let her sit there? It’s because of you she’s in the ER! You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” Beside him, our seven-year-old son, Toby, repeatedly slammed his small fists into my freshly bruised, bleeding leg. “If Aunt Melanie dies, I will never call you Mom again! Never!” “Why couldn’t you have died instead of her?” Charles hissed. Just then, a surgeon stepped out of the operating room. “Excuse me, about the family member who previously agreed to donate a kidney…” Charles’s face tightened. “I’m her husband—well, her partner. I consent. She’ll donate.” Toby raised his hands in the air, cheering. “Me too! I agree completely!” I lay on the gurney, the agonizing pain in my chest and leg so severe I couldn’t even part my lips to speak. Seeing my silence, Charles’s expression darkened into disgust. “I never realized you could be this malicious. I’ve told you a thousand times, Melanie is just a ghost from my past. Once I finally get some closure with her, I promise I will settle down and build a real life with you. Why can’t you just grant me this one simple peace of mind?” The surgeon blinked in confusion. “Wait. The patient we just treated only suffered a superficial scratch. I was referring to the other family…” But before the surgeon could finish, another doctor called him away, and they hurried down the hall. Left in the corridor, the father and son breathed a collective sigh of relief, utterly ecstatic that their precious Melanie was safe. In that quiet, sterile hallway, the last remaining shred of my affection for them died. Then, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind. “The once-in-a-decade window is open, Host. Do you choose to exit this world through physical death, or do you choose to stay?” The first time the System offered, I stayed for Charles. The second time, I stayed to give birth to Toby. This time, without a single moment of hesitation, I answered in my mind: “I want to leave.” … Melanie looked incredibly fragile, though the smug triumph in her eyes was barely concealed. “Look at how worried you both are,” she cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I just scraped my hand a little bit. It’s nothing.” The scratch was so minor it had practically healed already. Yet, looking at her, both Charles and Toby let out a massive sigh of relief, as if Melanie had just survived a life-threatening ordeal. Toby beamed. “It’s so wonderful that you’re okay, Aunt Mel! Now my mom doesn’t have to give you her kidney, and you won’t have to feel guilty at all. I hate seeing you sad.” Melanie blinked innocently. “What kidney donation?” Charles quickly clamped a hand over Toby’s mouth, shooting me a sharp, warning glare. “Don’t you dare say a word to Melanie about the kidney. She’s too pure and kindhearted; it would break her spirit if she knew we tried to force you. Let this matter drop. Don’t you go trying to make trouble for her.” Their Melanie. Years ago, I wasn’t allowed to so much as look at her wrong. Now, I wasn’t even allowed to speak in her presence. My leg was actively bleeding beneath my torn jeans, a sharp, white-hot agony radiating from my shin. Pale and trembling, I whispered, “Since she’s fine… can I please go get my wounds treated now?” I had been waiting this entire time, but they had refused to let the nurses wheel me away until they were absolutely certain Melanie was unharmed. Melanie’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Diana, you’re hurt? Oh, it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have asked Charlie to speed up. I just wanted a little excitement…” “This has nothing to do with you!” Charles snapped, his gaze cutting into me like a blade. “It’s Diana’s fault. She was screaming in the back seat the whole time, telling me to slow down. If she hadn’t been hysterical and distracting me, I wouldn’t have lost control of the wheel!” They were drag racing, flipped the car, and somehow it was my fault for begging them not to die. Charles saw me trying to shift my weight, but his first instinct wasn’t pity—it was irritation. “Stop trying to emotionally hijack the situation. Melanie is sensitive. It’s just a minor injury. Go put some ointment on it and stop being so dramatic. I’ll buy you that Chanel bag you wanted, alright?” He spoke with a lofty, patronizing generosity, as if a luxury handbag could somehow knit my shattered bone back together. Without another word, he wrapped his arm around Melanie’s shoulders, took Toby’s hand with his other, and the three of them walked away like a perfect, happy family. “Oh my god! Your leg is broken! There’s bone fragmenting, and you’re losing a lot of blood!” a passing nurse shrieked when she finally noticed me slumped against the wall. Just ten feet away, the three of them heard the scream. They were laughing and teasing each other, and not a single one of them turned back. While the doctor set my bone and stitched the deep gashes, the nurse asked softly, “Do you have any family we can call?” “I used to,” I whispered, staring at the fluorescent lights. “Not anymore.” In the silence of the recovery room, the System’s voice chimed again. “The once-in-a-decade window is open, Host. Do you choose to exit this world through physical death, or do you choose to stay?” Before I could answer, the door swung open. The three of them had returned. Staring at the heavy cast on my leg, Melanie’s tears flowed instantly. “Diana… it’s just a little scrape. Why did you have them wrap it up like that? Are you doing this to make me feel guilty? Because you hate me?” Charles lunged forward, grabbing my arm and wrenching me upward. The sudden movement sent a sickening jolt of pain through my leg, and my face contorted in agony. “I knew it,” Charles sneered. “You couldn’t just let us have a peaceful moment. You had to stay behind and orchestrate this little drama. Why the hell did you get a cast? Just to make Melanie feel like a monster? How much did you bribe the nurse to put this on you? Tear it off. Now!” The attending nurse marched in and snapped, “Are you out of your mind? This patient has a severe compound fracture and lost a significant amount of blood. Look at her chart! Do you honestly think she’s faking a broken bone?” Charles froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his eyes. “You’re… actually hurt? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” “Did you ever give me a chance to speak?” I asked, my voice flat, devoid of any warmth. Perhaps my tone was too cold, too detached. Charles’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “Well, you didn’t die, did you? Why do you have to be so hostile over a simple misunderstanding?” I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded by the sheer cruelty of his words. “Because I didn’t die… it doesn’t count as serious?” Toby crossed his arms, looking at me with pure disgust. “Aunt Melanie has suffered so much more than you ever have, and she never whines like this! Look at you—you’ve gone and driven her away again! Why can’t you just say you’re fine? You always get hurt at the worst times. You did this on purpose just to ruin our day! I hate you!” The brief flash of guilt in Charles’s eyes vanished, replaced entirely by cold impatience. “I’ll stay here for ten minutes. Otherwise, you’ll just use this as another excuse to play the victim and harass Melanie later.” He acted as if spending ten minutes by my hospital bed was the ultimate sacrifice. “Just go,” I said quietly. Charles’s temper flared. “If we leave, you’ll just scream and cry that we abandoned you, turning the whole house upside down. Haven’t you played that game enough?” I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. “I won’t. Not this time.” My compliance only seemed to anger him more. “Fine! Don’t complain when we go spend the weekend with Melanie. You brought this on yourself.” “Women are so exhausting,” Toby muttered, running after his father. Through the heavy wooden door, Melanie’s soft, weeping voice drifted back to me. “I’m so sorry, Charlie… it’s all my fault Diana got hurt. You should hate me…” “Aunt Mel, it’s not your fault at all,” Toby’s high-pitched voice echoed. “My mom is just a dramatic freak. When I grow up, I’m going to take care of you instead.” Melanie laughed softly. “Oh, sweetie, you can’t do that. You have to take care of your mother.” Toby raised his voice, clearly wanting me to hear him down the corridor. “I’m not taking care of her! She has a horrible temper and she’s always mean to you. I hate her! I wish you were my real mom!” Then came Charles’s warm, doting voice. “You had a terrible scare today, Mel. I had some premium organic chicken and fresh oysters flown in from the coast. I’ll make you a nice soup to help you recover, and as soon as you’re feeling better, I’m taking you on that trip to Paris.” “But what about Diana…?” “Don’t mention her,” Charles said dismissively. “With her dramatic personality, if she were actually hurt that badly, she would have screamed the hospital down. The fact that she’s being quiet now just means she knows she’s in the wrong. She’s probably got a scratch no bigger than a fingernail.” “And don’t forget, last time she claimed she was coughing up blood, it turned out to be fake.” I closed my eyes, tuning out the rest of their conversation. They didn’t realize that the reason I wasn’t screaming or fighting anymore was because I had already checked out. The “fake blood” incident they kept throwing in my face had been Melanie’s doing—she had spilled cherry syrup on my pillow and convinced them I was staging a medical crisis for attention. And of course, they believed her without question. In the quiet of the room, I spoke to the silence. “I choose to leave.” The System replied: “Acknowledged. However, because you declined to leave during the first two windows, exiting now requires a physical death in this world to sever the connection. Furthermore, you will never be allowed to return, and you will never see Charles or Toby again.” Hearing the System’s terms, my hand trembled as I looked at the medical shears on the bedside table. No one is entirely unafraid of dying. And Toby… he was the child I had carried for nine grueling months. I hesitated. Suddenly, the door burst open. A nurse shrieked, and a group of doctors rushed in. Charles, who had apparently forgotten his car keys, froze at the door. Panic flashed across his face, and like a madman, he lunged forward and violently wrenched the shears from my hand. He stared at my wrists, his face flushed with a mixture of terror and white-hot rage. “Diana! Are you out of your mind? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Melanie, hovering at the door, let out a soft, mocking hum. “Charlie, look… those shears aren’t even sharp. They’re safety scissors.” Charles looked down at his own uninjured hands, and the panic instantly morphed into utter humiliation and fury. “Right. First the dramatic cast, and now a staged suicide attempt? You really will stop at nothing to get attention, will you? Stop putting on a show!” I opened my mouth to explain that I was simply trying to cut the bandage that was too tight, but Charles didn’t give me the chance. He turned to the medical staff holding me down. “Leave her alone. She doesn’t have the guts to actually do it. Give her a sedative. Let’s see if that quiets her hysterical brain.” Without my consent, a nurse administered the injection. As darkness pulled me under, the last thing I heard was Toby’s whiny voice: “Is she done yet? I want to go have seafood with Aunt Melanie.” When I woke up, the room was empty. No surprise there. My phone buzzed with a text from Toby. “Mom, my school’s summer camp starts today. Parents have to attend the kickoff ceremony.” No matter how much he hated me, I was still his legal mother, and school events required my presence. The ceremony was starting in an hour. Dragging my broken, heavily wrapped leg, my throat parched and my stomach empty, I managed to limp my way to the school parking lot. A fleet of yellow school buses was lined up, parents and children boarding. I frantically grabbed the arm of Toby’s homeroom teacher. “Miss Lee, where is Toby? Did I make it in time?” Terrified of delaying the trip, I climbed up the steps of the bus, completely ignoring the teacher’s awkward, pitying expression. The moment I stepped onto the bus, I saw Melanie sitting in the very back row next to Charles. Her eyes instantly turned red. “Toby told me you refused to come, Diana. He begged me to fill in. Why are you doing this? You’re making me look like a homewrecker in front of everyone.” Melanie had fired the first shot. “I never said I wasn’t coming,” I gasped, leaning heavily against the handrail. “I came straight from the hospital the moment I got the text. I…” Anyone with eyes could see I was still wearing a thin hospital gown, my hair matted, my leg in a makeshift splint. But Charles didn’t see my pain. He only saw Melanie’s tears. “Enough!” Charles roared, standing up. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Melanie and I are just friends. You put on a suicide show yesterday, and today you show up like a lunatic to embarrass us! Do you have any idea how much shame you’re bringing upon our son?” I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking. “That’s not true. I only received Toby’s text an hour ago…” “Shut up! Get off the bus! Did that sedative yesterday do nothing to calm your crazy mind? Do you really want to ruin this trip for all these families?” With a few cruel words, Charles had painted me as a psychotic, jealous wife. Desperate, I looked at my son. “Toby… do you believe Mommy?” Toby’s face was flushed red with embarrassment. He glared at me with sheer disgust. “Mom, I beg you, just stop humiliating me! Aunt Melanie didn’t do anything wrong!” With all his strength, he shoved me. Unprepared and balancing on one good leg, I tumbled backward down the high steps of the bus, crashing onto the asphalt. Miss Lee sighed, looking down at me. “Mrs. Campbell, you’ve missed so many of Toby’s events lately, and Melanie has always had to step in. You really need to ask yourself why your own son doesn’t want you around.” I hadn’t missed them. Charles and Toby had simply hidden the invitations from me. The bus doors hissed shut, the engine roared, and the vehicle sped away, leaving me coughing in a cloud of exhaust. By the time I dragged myself back to our suburban home, the house was dead silent. And empty. Every single one of my personal belongings was gone. I had only been away for a week—first to visit my grandmother’s grave in upstate New York, and then straight to the hospital after the crash. In just seven days, my home had been entirely purged of my existence. My chest tightening, I limped to the bedroom and tore open the vanity drawer. Fortunately, my wedding ring box was still there. But when I opened it, I found three identical rings inside, engraved with “The Perfect Three.” I picked up the one that was supposed to be mine. The initials “D.C.” (Diana Campbell) had been crudely filed down and replaced with “M.P.” (Melanie Parker). My wedding ring had been melted and refashioned for Melanie. My phone chimed. It was a text from Charles. “Are you home? Clean up the house when you get back. You’ve been gone a week and left a sink full of dirty dishes. I let Melanie come on the trip with us, so don’t feel like you’ve been cheated out of anything.” I typed back, my fingers trembling: “I went upstate to bury my grandmother. If you needed me, you could have called. Why is all my stuff gone? Why is Melanie’s clothing in my closet?” Charles: “Melanie said your old clothes were horribly outdated, so she threw them out. You can just wear some of her spare outfits. It’s not like you have nothing to wear.” Me: “And my wedding ring? Was that outdated too?” Charles sent a frustrated voice note: “It was just a craft project Toby wanted to do. It’s not a big deal. It was just a fun activity for the kid. Why do you have to pick a fight the second you get back? If Toby isn’t close to you, you need to look in the mirror.” Then came a text from Toby: “Mom, if you keep acting like a psycho, Dad and I are never coming home.” Looking at the screen, a cold, peaceful finality washed over me. “Okay,” I replied. I blocked both of their numbers, turned off my phone, and walked into the bathroom. This time, I didn’t use safety scissors. I took a heavy, sharp shaving razor from Charles’s drawer, climbed into the bathtub, and drew it deeply across my wrist. When I opened my eyes again, the smell of sterile antiseptic hit my nose, accompanied by a barrage of familiar, angry shouting. “Diana! I only took Toby out to celebrate Melanie’s birthday, just to let the kid have some fun! Did you really have to do this?” “Now you’re cutting your wrists just to blackmail me?” Melanie stood beside the hospital bed, looking utterly miserable. “Diana, I’m so sorry. I won’t ever see them again. I’ll disappear. Just please, stop hurting yourself. You left the bathroom door unlocked and the front door wide open so the neighbors would see you bleed out… I know you just want me gone. Fine, I’ll go.” Charles’s face was dark with fury. “Diana, do you have any idea how excited Toby was for this summer camp? He talked about it for weeks! From now on, Melanie will represent our family at all of Toby’s school events.” “Until you learn how to behave—” “Weeks.” They had known about the summer camp for weeks. I had asked them repeatedly if there were any school events before I left for my grandmother’s funeral, and they had both lied to my face. The final, lingering warmth in my heart for these two people completely dissolved. “Okay,” I interrupted Charles. “From now on, Melanie can be his mother. She can attend everything.” Both Charles and Toby froze, clearly not expecting me to give up so easily. Charles’s voice carried a hint of suspicion. “If you really felt that way, why did you stage this suicide attempt right when we were leaving? You’re just trying to manipulate Toby and me…” The attending physician stepped in, frowning. “Actually, sir, the cut was incredibly deep. If it hadn’t been for the neighbor calling the paramedics, she would have bled to death in minutes. Furthermore, she was already severely anemic from her leg injury.” “If we had been even five minutes later…” Before the doctor could finish, Melanie burst into tears. “It’s all my fault. I’ll just leave!” She turned and ran out of the room. Charles hissed at the doctor, “You don’t know Diana. She’ll do anything to get her way. Melanie is just telling the truth!” He glared down at me. “She’s just acting.” To Charles, because I hadn’t died, it wasn’t real. I stared at him, remembering the man he used to be. Years ago, during the early days of his startup, an investor had tried to slide his hand over mine under the dinner table. Charles had flown over the table and beaten the man senseless, entirely destroying the deal. It took our company a full year to recover from the fallout. Back then, I had asked him, “What if we go completely bankrupt because of this?” Charles had wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “Then I’ll deliver pizzas to support you. You won’t look down on me, will you?” I had held him tight, deciding then and there that no matter what the System demanded, I would stay by his side. I worked eighteen-hour days, drank coffee until my stomach bled, and suffered two miscarriages due to sheer exhaustion to help him build his empire. When he finally made it, he threw me a magnificent wedding, swearing before God and hundreds of guests that he would spend the rest of his life protecting me. But the moment Melanie returned, every single promise was rendered null and void. “You made Aunt Melanie cry! You’re a monster, I hate you!” Toby yelled, running out of the room to chase after her. Charles turned to follow, but the doctor called out, “Mr. Campbell, your wife cannot be left alone. She is in an extremely fragile state.” Charles paused, his hand on the doorframe. “Melanie is young and sensitive. She shouldn’t be alone after being accused of such horrible things. Diana, you’re strong enough to handle yourself, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he ran after Melanie. They didn’t return for two days. When Charles finally called, his voice was tight. “Are you sobered up yet? Are you done throwing tantrums?” I was silent. Hearing no response, Charles adopted a proud, triumphant tone. “To make amends, Melanie actually drove all the way upstate to bring your grandmother here. Didn’t you say you wanted to see her? Melanie did that out of the goodness of her heart, despite her own exhaustion.” Ice water seemed to flood my veins. My voice went entirely breathless. “My grandmother has advanced heart disease. She can’t handle long-distance travel! Why would you move her?” I had purposely kept my grandmother in a specialized care facility upstate because the doctors warned me that even a short road trip could trigger a fatal cardiac event. Charles’s tone immediately turned defensive. “It’s just a car ride, what could possibly happen? Melanie went out of her way to do something nice for you, and this is how you trample over her kindness?” “Tell them to stop!” I screamed, pulling the IV from my arm. “Charles, I swear to God, tell them to turn around!” Melanie’s sweet, hurt voice echoed near the receiver. “Charlie, I was just trying to apologize to Diana. Why does she hate me so much? Should I just give her my kidney to make things right?” “Don’t listen to her, Mel,” Charles murmured softly. Then, his voice turned cold as he spoke back into the phone. “I’m warning you, Diana. Stay in that hospital bed. When we get back, you are going to give Melanie a formal, public apology for ruining her birthday. You have absolutely no conscience.” “I don’t need her apology! I don’t care about the birthday!” I sobbed into the phone. “Just please, don’t touch my grandmother! Please!” He hung up. When I tried to call back, the line was dead. I fell out of the bed, crawling toward the door. My grandmother was eighty-eight years old. She couldn’t survive a two-day road trip. I was losing my mind, but I didn’t know where they were. For two agonizing days, I lived in a state of suspended terror, praying that Charles was just trying to scare me. Surely, he wouldn’t actually endanger an elderly woman. But on the third day, a nurse escorted me down to the hospital morgue. When the metal door opened, I saw Charles and Melanie standing there. My heart stopped. “What are you doing here? Where is my grandmother?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “544704”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Because I was taking the fall for a coworker, I stood in the executive suite with my head hung low, enduring a merciless dressing-down. The man sitting behind the desk was our newly appointed CEO, Gale Lockhart. He was two years younger than me, but in our industry, he was already notorious as a ruthless, cold-blooded king. With a dark expression, he slammed the financial report onto the mahogany desk. My mind went completely blank. I was certain this was the moment I’d be packing up my desk. Just then, the heavy double doors of the executive suite were violently kicked open. My mother, fresh out of her hospital bed and seemingly possessed by a sudden burst of frantic energy, swept into the room like a hurricane. Before anyone could react, she marched right up to Gale and grabbed him by the lapels of his bespoke suit jacket. “Oh, my sweet son-in-law! Where are my two chubby little grandbabies? I just had them downstairs riding the coin-op spaceship, and the second I turned my head, they vanished!” The room plunged into a suffocating, dead silence. My ears rang. I stood there frozen, praying this was just a horrific nightmare brought on by my mother’s recent medical episode. But before I could step in and cover her mouth, she pointed a finger directly at Gale’s nose and continued her tirade: “You usually don’t even dare to breathe too loudly at home! You had to get down on one knee just to get Cheryl to let you buy that custom VR gaming rig!” She scoffed, tightening her grip on his lapel. “Did you eat a bowl of courage for breakfast today? How dare you yell at my daughter in your fancy office?!” Gale slowly, stiffly turned his head to look at me. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were wide with a pure, unadulterated terror. “I’m not even dating anyone,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly. “Not only did I apparently father two sons behind my own back, but I also have to kneel on the floor just to buy a gaming rig?” … “Mr. Lockhart, I am so incredibly sorry. My mother hasn’t been entirely clear-headed lately. I’ll take her to the hospital right away!” I lunged forward to grab my mother’s arm, but she slapped my hand away. She marched back to the desk and slammed her palms flat against the polished wood. “Why are you pulling me away?” she snapped, glaring at me before turning her fiery gaze back to Gale. “Cheryl might be a pushover, but as her mother, I’m not afraid of you! Who do you think you’re fooling? Playing the innocent bachelor in front of me, are we?” She leaned in, her voice carrying easily through the spacious room. “You have a copper-sized crimson birthmark on your inner right thigh. You act like an untouchable ice king here at the office, but when you’re at home, you can’t even sleep soundly unless you’re practically glued to my daughter.” “And last month, when you spent millions on that limited-edition cockpit without telling her? You made Cheryl so mad she banished you to the guest room. I could still count the scratch marks she left on your back!” Outside the glass partition, several administrative assistants simultaneously gasped and slapped their hands over their mouths. Gale’s cold, flawless facade cracked right down the middle. His eyes stretched wider, staring at my mother for five agonizing seconds. Suddenly, the office doors burst open again. Four security guards rushed in, brandishing riot shields. “Mr. Lockhart, this crazy old lady—” the lead guard began, breathless. Gale raised a hand, cutting him off instantly. “Get out. And close the doors behind you.” The guards hesitated, blinking in confusion. “Did you not hear me?” Gale’s voice dropped to a dangerously quiet octave. “Get the hell out.” The heavy doors clicked shut, instantly shutting out the crowd of onlookers who had been straining their necks to catch every word. My mind raced back to last weekend. At the dinner table, I had deleted the contact info of the blind date my mother had practically forced on me, refusing to go. She had been so furious she smashed three porcelain bowls, clutched her chest, and collapsed onto the sofa. We had rushed her to the emergency room in the middle of the night. Today was her discharge day, and the very first thing she did was storm into my office to stage this absolute circus. “Mom! Do you really want to destroy my career?” I cried, my voice trembling as cold sweat slicked my palms. “Are you trying to force me to pack my bags and go back home to get married?!” I turned desperately to Gale. “Mr. Lockhart, I will submit my resignation immediately. I’ll fill out the transition forms right now, and you don’t even have to pay me for this month. I swear I won’t say a single word to anyone about… about your birthmark. Please, just don’t take this out on my mother.” I reached out to drag my mother away. “Let go of me! Who gave you permission to resign?” my mother scolded, slapping my hand away again before tossing her purse onto the plush leather sofa. Gale didn’t even look at me. He walked past the desk, heading over to the water dispenser. The delicate clinking of bone china echoed in the quiet room as he poured a cup of warm water. He walked back, holding the cup with both hands, and offered it to my mother with utmost politeness. “Ma’am, please have some water first.” My mother accepted the cup, giving him a skeptical look. “Oh, so now you know how to be attentive?” She took a sip. “Where was this attitude when you were barking at my daughter over a few stupid pieces of paper?” My knees felt like jelly. I stared down at the tips of my flats, not daring to look up. The financial report had actually been prepared by my colleague, Courtney. When she realized there was an error, she had dumped the blame onto me, and I had been too timid to defend myself. Now, not only was the blame cemented, but my boss’s most intimate secrets had been laid bare in front of the entire office. “Mr. Lockhart, the error in the report is entirely my responsibility. I will take full accountability. It has nothing to do with my family,” I whispered, my voice shaking. Gale turned his gaze to me. “Be quiet.” I shut my mouth instantly, biting my lower lip. He pulled over an ergonomic chair and gently guided my mother down by her shoulders. Then, he leaned back against the edge of his desk, casually loosening his silk tie and crossing his arms over his chest. The face that usually made the company’s vice presidents tremble with fear now wore an expression of bizarre, genuine curiosity. “Mom, you were saying…” Hearing him slide so effortlessly into calling her “Mom” made me choke on my own breath. I nearly bit my tongue. This was Gale Lockhart. The man who had fired three executives on his first day. And here he was, riding the wave of my mother’s delusion without correcting her even once. Gale leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice incredibly soft. “When I buy a gaming rig at home, I really have to get down on one knee to beg for her signature?” My mother blew on the steam rising from her cup, took another sip, and settled comfortably into the chair. “Of course you do!” she said, patting her knee. “So what if you’re the boss out there? At home, you’re just a whipped husband who revolves entirely around his wife.” She patted her thigh, launching into the story with theatrical flair. “If Cheryl tells you to go east, you wouldn’t dare take a single step west. Most of your personal assets are already under her name, and any expense over five million from your private account requires a written request to her.” “Last month, you bought a private helicopter behind her back. Once she found the invoice, you spent two hours in the living room pouring her tea, massaging her shoulders, and writing a ten-thousand-word letter of apology. And that’s not even mentioning the ten million in slush funds you hid in the trunk of your vintage supercar. She found every single penny, threw you and your pillow out to the guest room, and didn’t let you back into the master bedroom for three whole days!” I crouched beside the desk, burying my face in my hands, my palms damp with nervous sweat. Yesterday, Courtney had dumped her unfinished work on my desk so she could leave early for a date. Last week, our manager had passed all of her tedious tasks to me, even making me write her daughter’s summer book report. I was the ultimate office doormat, unable to say the word “no.” And now, my mother was painting me as a fierce, husband-taming tiger who kept a billionaire CEO on a tight leash. “Mom, please stop talking!” I yelled, looking up at her in agony. “I don’t even dare to step on an ant! How could I ever kick him out of the bedroom?!” My mother was clearly unwell, and somehow, her madness was infectious. Instead of getting angry, Gale pulled a sleek fountain pen from his breast pocket and picked up a leather-bound notebook from his desk. “Besides the car trunk, where else do I usually hide things?” He flipped to a fresh page, holding the pen poised, his eyes locked onto my mother. My mother let out a scoff, raising her fingers to count them off. “You really think Cheryl doesn’t know? She’s just too lazy to call you out!” “In the very back of the walk-in closet, inside the pocket of your golf bags—there are several unregistered black cards. In the library, on the second shelf of the display cabinet, hidden inside those antique porcelain urns—that’s where you keep the hardware security keys for your offshore accounts. And in the master bedroom, under the hidden compartment of the wet bar—besides your rare whiskey, you’ve got several racing club membership cards!” “Did you really think your little tricks could escape her?” My mother was getting more animated by the second, her words pouring out like a rapid-fire machine gun. “And it’s not just at home. You do it here in the office, too!” “In the safe under your desk, the password is Cheryl’s birthday combined with your wedding anniversary. Inside, besides confidential documents, you’ve got several boxes of Cohiba cigars that Cheryl strictly forbade you from smoking!” My entire body was trembling. My knees were so weak I could only remain crouched on the floor. Gale’s pen paused for a fraction of a second. Then, he bent his head and continued writing furiously, as if he were transcribing a multi-billion-dollar trade secret. “Please, go on. Which porcelain urn is the security key in?” “The one on the left! Inside a little rosewood box!” my mother declared triumphantly. Gale nodded, drawing a neat circle on his notepad. He looked up, and his usually frosty face actually held a look of humble, studious concentration. “It really isn’t secure enough. No wonder she found them.” I scrambled to my feet, lunging forward to grab the pen from his hand. “Mr. Lockhart! Stop humoring her! I am calling an ambulance right now!” Gale snapped the notebook shut with one hand, gently patting my wrist away. “I’m just trying to familiarize myself with my future domestic survival environment,” he said, casting a sideways glance at me. His lips pressed together, clearly suppressing a smile. “Why are you interrupting?” My mother slammed her teacup onto the desk, splashing water over the ruined financial report. “Are you taking that tone with her again?” She stood up, planting her hands on her hips. “What’s the point of taking notes if you can’t even remember the basic rules?” She marched over to Gale, pointing a finger at the carpeted floor. “Right now. On the spot.” “Show me your standard apology pose when Cheryl gets mad at you!” Outside the executive suite, at least thirty people were pressed against the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, their faces comically distorted as they strained to see inside. Right in front of those thirty shocked faces, Gale took a few deliberate steps toward my desk. He was incredibly tall, and as he stood before me, he blocked out the fluorescent office lights. My knees shook, and I gripped the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles turned white. Just last week, he had taken over the company and immediately terminated three high-level executives. The disciplinary memos were still pinned to the main bulletin board downstairs. The general manager of our branch, who had tried to start a corporate rebellion, had been escorted out by legal representatives. Nobody in this building dared to breathe heavily around him. But now, he stood in front of me, his shoulders dropping slightly as he lowered his head. “Sweetheart, is this a good enough apology?” His voice was a low, quiet rumble, completely devoid of his usual authority. It was laced with a strange, submissive warmth. Through the thick glass doors, I could hear the collective gasp of the entire administrative wing. My foot slipped, and my knee banged hard against the metal desk leg. I shivered from the sudden ache. “No, no, no!” my mother called out, pushing herself up from the sofa. “Your attitude isn’t right!” “That’s not how you do it when you make her mad at home.” Gale turned back to my mother. Instead of losing his temper, he seemed even more intrigued. “Mom, what should I be doing instead?” My mother walked over, standing between us, and gestured with her hands. “Take off the suit jacket. Loosen your tie. Lay all those unregistered black cards on the desk yourself.” “Then, bend your knees slightly, look up at her, and focus entirely on her face to read her mood.” I threw my arms around my mother’s arm, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Mom, please stop. Let’s go to the hospital. Let’s get your head checked, please?” She shook me off, giving me a look of pure exasperation. “Why are you acting like such a meek, submissive wife? Trust me, in the future, you have a much bigger temper than this. You lock him out of the master bedroom at the drop of a hat.” She turned back to Gale. “Son-in-law, where are the cards?” “Hand them over. Lower your posture, or she’s going to think you’re not being sincere.” With absolute compliance, Gale reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an unlimited black card, and presented it to me with both hands. “Honey, I’m handing over the card.” He leaned in closer, his dark eyes searching mine. His nose was only inches from mine. “Is this enough sincerity to earn your forgiveness?” My scalp went numb. I buried my face in my hands, sinking back down to the carpet, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. Gale straightened up, pulling out his notepad once more. “Mom, are there any other rules I should know about?” My mother beamed, pulling up a chair to sit right next to him. “Oh, there are plenty! Let me give you a quick refresher course today.” “Any liquid assets over five million require a formal proposal. If you want to spend big money on a limited-edition supercar or a yacht, you have to get her approval first. And if you ever come home from a business dinner smelling like perfume or alcohol, she won’t just lock you out of the bedroom—she’ll lock the guest room, too, and make you sleep on the library sofa!” Gale’s pen scratched against the paper. “The library sofa is a bit stiff. It’s bad for my neck. Is the guest room really off-limits?” he asked, completely earnest. “Don’t even dream about it!” my mother replied confidently. “She changes the keycode on the guest room door specifically to keep you from sneaking in!” “Clank.” Outside the glass doors, the janitor dropped her mop. She stood frozen, her mouth hanging open. The clock on the wall struck six. The moment the end-of-day chime rang, I grabbed my canvas tote bag like it was a lifeline. I seized my mother’s sleeve and dragged her toward the door. “It’s six o’clock. We’re leaving!” My mother let out an annoyed huff as she was pulled a couple of steps, but she planted her feet and called out over her shoulder: “Son-in-law, put the notepad away! Go grab your keys and drive us home!” My hand on the strap of my tote bag shook violently. Who in their right mind would treat a billionaire tycoon like a personal chauffeur? Gale closed his notepad, tucked his fountain pen back into his pocket, and picked up his Porsche key fob from the desk. He tossed it lightly in his hand. “Let’s go, Mom.” The quiet of the subterranean parking garage was broken only by the sharp echo of our footsteps. I practically shoved my mother into the back seat of the Porsche. But as I turned to slip into the back beside her, the driver’s side door opened. Gale rested one hand on the steering wheel, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Sit up front.” I froze, holding onto the door handle as a cold sweat broke out across my back. My mother leaned forward from the backseat and shoved me in the lower back. “Your husband told you to sit in the front. What are you waiting for?” I stumbled forward, landing awkwardly in the passenger seat. I frantically pulled the seatbelt across my chest and clicked it into place. The engine purred to life, and the car glided out of the parking space. The interior of the car was suffocatingly quiet, saved only by the soft hum of the air conditioner. My mother rested her arms on the console between our seats, breaking the silence. “Son-in-law, are you laughing at me in your head? Do you think I’m just a crazy old woman?” Gale kept his eyes on the road, turning the wheel smoothly. “Mom, you worry too much.” “Don’t think I don’t know how you big-shot CEOs think,” my mother hummed. “I’ll prove to you right now that I really did come back from three years in the future.” “Tomorrow morning at nine, your company is going to announce the acquisition of Starwave Technologies, isn’t it?” “The final price isn’t the four hundred million the media is speculating. It’s three hundred and twenty-five million. And the person signing the contract on their end will be their VP, Gerald Davis.” As the numbers tumbled out of my mother’s mouth, the Porsche slowed down significantly. Gale stepped on the brake, bringing the car to a halt right before the exit barrier. He didn’t reach for the gate remote. Instead, he slowly turned his head to look at the backseat. The acquisition was a top-secret deal that he was personally finalizing tonight. There were no more than three people in the entire conglomerate who knew that exact final figure. The amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sharp, probing intensity. “How do you know that figure?” My mother lifted her chin proudly, tapping the back of my seat. “I told you, I’m from the future! Cheryl found the acquisition files in your study later on, and she told me all about it.” I felt a chill run down my spine. I reached back, trying to cover my mother’s mouth. “Please stop talking! Leaking trade secrets is a federal crime!” My mother easily swiped my hand away. She had surprisingly strong reflexes for someone who had just been discharged from the hospital. “What are you so scared of, you silly girl?” she huffed. “In the future, the man is yours, the money is yours—what’s wrong with looking at a few documents?” She looked at Gale, her eyes sparkling with maternal pride. “Don’t let her quiet act fool you. She seems like a mute who can’t even raise her voice right now.” She leaned in closer to Gale. “But this girl has been lusting after you for two whole years.” Gale’s gaze slowly drifted back to my face. A wave of heat rushed to my cheeks, burning all the way to the tips of my ears. “She has this locked diary in her desk drawer, and every single page is filled with your name,” my mother continued, her voice incredibly clear in the enclosed space. My heart stopped. Deep inside my desk drawer at home, there was indeed a locked journal. Tucked between the pages were three graphite sketches. They were sketches of him from the annual gala two years ago—the way his white shirt clung to his shoulders, the clean lines of his rolled-up sleeves. I had drawn them from memory. “And she even drew a few sketches of you without a shirt,” my mother added, driving the final nail into my coffin. “She drew your abs in detail, even marking which part felt the best to touch.” My hands shook. I grabbed the door handle, desperately trying to open it, ready to throw myself onto the concrete. “Last month, she came home drunk, hugged the floor lamp in the living room, and insisted it was your leg. She was rubbing it and drooling, begging you to let her touch your abs just one more time.” The door handle wouldn’t budge. With a soft, definitive “click”, Gale engaged the child locks, sealing us inside. He shifted in his seat, resting his elbow on the center console and leaning his body toward me. His throat Bobbed as he swallowed, his low voice brushing against my ear. “Cheryl.” “I had no idea you were so wild in the future.”

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The day we went back-to-school shopping, my mother spent four thousand dollars on a top-of-the-line MacBook Pro for my sister, Serena. My dad was busy picking out leather Tumi suitcases for her, while my brother, Austin, bought her a pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones. Even Sawyer, my childhood best friend, was kneeling in front of a shelf, carefully comparing smart desk lamps. “Iris’s eyes have been straining lately,” he murmured, adjusting the dial. “This light spectrum is supposed to be the most soothing.” My heart warmed for a fleeting second. But a heartbeat later, he stood up and dropped the box into Serena’s cart. He flashed her that warm, easy smile of his and said, “Don’t stay up too late studying, okay?” I stood there, pushing an empty cart, looking exactly like an unpaid assistant hired to watch their coats. It wasn’t until we reached the register that the cashier looked at me, taking in my empty hands. “Sweetheart, are you not getting anything today?” My mother frowned, looking over at me as if she had only just realized I was standing there. “She already has her old things, doesn’t she? As long as they work for college, it’s fine.” I looked down at the notes app on my phone. Inside was a checklist I had compiled over the past year for my freshman fall. “Laptop, bed canopy, desk lamp, suitcase, sneakers…” Every item had a price written next to it. And one by one, they had been crossed off. Because they said Serena was fragile and needed to be coddled. Because they said my grades were so good that a little hardship wouldn’t kill me. But none of them knew that I had already used my scholarship money to buy a one-way train ticket to another city. They had packed Serena’s suitcases to the brim. But I had finally, quietly, emptied myself from this house. … “Sweetheart, are you not getting anything today?” the cashier at the Target checkout lane asked me, barcode scanner poised in her hand. My mother was in the middle of handing over the shiny new MacBook. Hearing the cashier’s voice, her hand hovered. She turned her head, her brow furrowing with immediate irritation. “Don’t you have your old laptop?” she said, her voice tight with impatience. “College is for studying, not a fashion show. Your old things work perfectly fine.” Austin tossed the Bose headphones onto the counter, not even bothering to look up from his phone. “For God’s sake, Iris, can you not throw a tantrum in public for once? You’re a physics major. Half that stuff is a waste of money on you anyway.” I stood in the chilly, air-conditioned hum of the store, saying nothing. My gaze drifted past them, landing on Sawyer, who was tapping his card against the reader. His other hand was gently stabilizing the sleek box of the Dyson desk lamp. Ten minutes ago, he had been kneeling on the linoleum floor, analyzing the color temperature. He had said, “Iris’s eyes are sensitive. This light is perfect for her.” I had actually thought he meant me. During my entire senior year of high school, I had studied under the dim, flickering light of the hallway just to keep from waking Serena. My eyesight had deteriorated rapidly, my prescription jumping by two whole diopters. But a second later, he had turned and placed the lamp in Serena’s cart. “Your total is four thousand, eight hundred and sixty dollars,” the cashier announced. Before my mother could reach for her designer purse, Sawyer tapped his card. “I’ve got it, Mrs. Charlie. Consider it my early college send-off gift for Serena.” His smile was soft, gentle. When he turned to look at me, there was a comforting, albeit dismissive, familiarity in his eyes. “The lamp is pretty heavy, Iris. I’ll load it into the trunk for Serena first. This weekend, I’ll take you to get those maple bacon pancakes you love at the diner, okay?” I looked down, unlocking my phone. The screen displayed my college checklist. “Laptop, bed canopy, desk lamp, suitcase, sneakers…” I dragged my thumb across the screen, drawing a clean, decisive line through “Desk Lamp”. “No, thank you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Sawyer blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t expected me to turn down the pancakes. Usually, whenever I felt sidelined, a quick bribe of comfort food from him was enough to make me fall back into line, quietly trailing behind him like a shadow. “What’s the attitude for?” Sawyer muttered, a slight crease forming between his brows. He reached out, intending to ruffle my hair. “Serena’s eyes can’t handle harsh light. Don’t make everything a competition.” I tilted my head, letting his hand fall into empty air. “Iris!” my father barked, walking up with a shiny pink Samsonite suitcase. His face darkened. “Sawyer is trying to be nice. Stop being so dramatic.” “Unbelievable,” Austin scoffed. “You’ve been keeping score since we were kids. It’s a damn light. You wear coke-bottle glasses anyway. What difference does a lamp make?” I looked at them. My biological parents, my brother, and the boy who had once sworn he would always protect me. And suddenly, the suffocating ache in my chest simply… vanished. “Let’s go,” I said. I turned around, pushed the empty cart back into the corral, and walked out. The blast of late-August heat hit my bare arms, but for the first time in my life, I felt light. Free. On the drive home, my dad drove. My mother and Serena sat in the back, heads together, going over the user manual for the new laptop. Austin sat in the passenger seat, blasting indie rock through the car’s Bluetooth. I walked up to the SUV door and reached for the handle. But Sawyer had already slipped into the backseat, carefully holding the fragile box. “Scoot over a bit, Iris,” he said, shifting the lamp to the middle. “Don’t squish Serena’s laptop.” The backseat was cramped. I quietly withdrew my hand, sliding in and pressing myself into the small gap between the door and the leather seat. Outside, the suburban streetlights blurred into a continuous yellow streak. The checklist in my notes was completely blank now. Every item had been crossed out. I didn’t need to buy anything anymore. We pulled into the driveway of our brick house. Austin and Sawyer carried the bags inside, leaving a mountain of designer boxes and shopping bags in the living room. “Serena, try on these new Nikes. Let’s make sure they don’t blister your heels,” my mother said, kneeling down to help her change. Serena took a few steps, spinning on her heel with a bright laugh. “They’re perfect, Mom! Thank you!” I picked up my faded canvas backpack and headed for the stairs. “Iris, stop right there,” my mother called out. I paused. She stood up, pointing to the empty cardboard boxes scattered on the floor. “Take these boxes out to the recycling bin. And hand-wash those silk dresses Serena wore yesterday. Make sure you don’t put them in the dryer.” “Okay,” I said quietly, bending down to collect the cardboard. Sawyer walked out of the kitchen with a glass of water. Seeing me on the floor, he frowned slightly. “Mrs. Charlie, Iris has had a long day too. Let the laundry wait until tomorrow.” My mother let out a sharp sigh. “What is she tired from? She spent the whole day walking behind us with her hands empty.” Sawyer sighed, walking over to me. He pulled a small, pink USB desk fan from his pocket. “Since your room doesn’t have central AC, you can use this in your dorm.” I looked at the cheap plastic fan. The packaging was crushed, and it bore a massive Apple logo. It was a free promotional item from Serena’s four-thousand-dollar laptop. This was his consolation prize to me. “Thank you,” I said, making no move to take it. “But I don’t mind the heat.” Sawyer’s hand froze in midair. A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Iris, it’s just a desk lamp. Are you seriously going to pout about this forever?” “I’m not pouting,” I said, stacking the flattened cardboard and standing up. “I just don’t need it.” “You used to be so sensible. What happened to you?” his voice dropped, carrying a low warning. “Sensible.” That word had been a collar around my neck for as long as I could remember. When I was seven, my grandmother brought me back from her farmhouse in Ohio to live with my parents in the city. Because my birth registration had been delayed by two years, I was placed in the same grade as Serena. Back then, Sawyer had taken my hand, pointed at Serena, and said: “Iris, you protect your sister, and I’ll protect you.” But over the years, “protecting my sister” had meant yielding everything. I gave up my parents’ affection, my clothes, my bedroom. And in the end, I gave up him, too. Looking at Sawyer’s familiar face, I felt a strange, cold detachment. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m still very sensible.” I walked past him with the cardboard boxes and stepped out the door. When I came back inside, I went straight to my room. It was the small, converted storage closet under the stairs. I pulled my scuffed suitcase out from under the bed and began packing my few old clothes. At the very bottom lay a train ticket. Destination: Boston. My phone buzzed. I took a deep breath and answered. “Iris, sweetie? Have you eaten dinner yet?” My grandmother’s raspy, comforting voice filled my ear, her thick Midwestern accent instantly making my throat tight. “I ate, Grandma,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I went into town today and wired two thousand dollars to your account,” she whispered, her voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “It’s from my egg sales and what I saved from the pension.” “You’re going off to college, sweetie. You need some nice clothes so those city kids don’t look down on you.” A tear slipped down my cheek, hitting the back of my hand. In this house, two thousand dollars couldn’t even buy Serena’s desk lamp. But for my grandmother, it was months of living expenses. “Grandma, I got the full merit scholarship. Tuition and housing are completely covered. I don’t need money.” I pressed a hand over my mouth to choke back a sob. “Take it,” she insisted gently but firmly. “You need a safety net when you’re far from home. You worked so hard for this. Your parents might not care, but your Nana does.” I bit my lip until it bled. “Okay.” “Iris, once you get to the city, don’t look back,” she sighed. “Don’t end up like me, stuck in the mud of this small town forever.” “I won’t, Grandma. I promise.” After hanging up, I took out the train ticket and tucked it carefully inside my journal. Through the door, the muffled sounds of Serena practicing the piano floated in, accompanied by Sawyer hum-singing along to the melody. I closed my journal and pushed the suitcase back under the bed. Just a few more days. The next afternoon was the graduation celebration lunch. The private dining room at the country club was packed with relatives. “Tom, your Serena did so well! Getting into Ohio State is no small feat,” my uncle raised his glass, beaming. My father waved his hand, his face flushed with pride. “She’s always been delicate. To have her stay local at a great school is more than we could ask for.” “OSU is fantastic. It’s close enough that she can come home for Sunday dinners,” my aunt chimed in, then turned her gaze to me. “What about Iris?” The room fell into a brief, heavy silence. I was looking down, picking at the white rice in my bowl. My mother cut in immediately. “Iris applied to OSU too. Having her close by means she can look after Serena.” The relatives nodded in approval, murmuring about how sweet it was. My hand holding the fork didn’t stop. I continued to mash the rice into tiny grains. What they didn’t know was that on the day of college applications, Sawyer had stood behind me, watching me pull up the OSU portal. But the moment he turned his back to fetch Serena a glass of water, I had quietly hit delete. And in the first-choice slot, I had typed in: “Massachusetts Institute of Technology.” “Iris, stop daydreaming. Go ask the server for another pitcher of hot water,” Austin kicked the leg of my chair. I set my fork down and stood up. As I stepped out of the private room, I heard Sawyer’s smooth, reassuring voice. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Charlie. Iris and I will take good care of Serena on campus. The three of us will grab dinner together every day, just like old times.” I walked into the restroom, turned on the cold water, and let it run over my hands. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Thick, black-rimmed glasses. A faded grey t-shirt. A pale face from endless sleepless nights of studying. This was the Iris they knew. An accessory, a shadow who didn’t need a life of her own. When I returned to the table, the food was fully served. Sawyer, wearing a plastic glove, was putting peeled shrimp onto Serena’s plate. “Dip it in the sauce first. Your stomach is sensitive, so don’t eat too much seafood.” Serena gave him a playful pout. “I know, Sawyer. You’re such a nag.” Sawyer smiled, peeled another one, and dropped it into my bowl. “Here, Iris. Have some.” I looked down at the shrimp. The dark vein was still intact, barely peeled with any care. Just like his affection for me. Always messy, always an afterthought, cheap and diluted by his devotion to someone else. “I don’t eat seafood,” I said, using my fork to flick the shrimp out of my bowl and onto the tablecloth. Sawyer’s face instantly went cold. Austin slammed his hand on the table. “Sawyer went out of his way to peel that for you. Who the hell do you think you are, throwing a tantrum here?” My mother’s expression hardened. “She’s been like this since she was a child. Always jealous of whatever Serena has, and now she’s picking fights over a piece of shrimp.” Serena’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry, Iris. I won’t let Sawyer peel shrimp for me anymore.” I didn’t look at them. I pulled a napkin from the dispenser and began blotting the moisture on the tablecloth. “I’m allergic to shellfish.” The room went dead silent. Sawyer’s hand froze, his fork hovering in midair. He stared at me, bewildered. “Allergic? But you’ve eaten it before.” Looking into his confused eyes, I felt a bitter urge to laugh. When I was ten, he had taken me out to a seafood buffet. It was his treat using his allowance, and he had only invited Serena and me. Serena had whined for lobster, and he had peeled a mountain of it for her. To avoid making him feel bad or wasteful, I had forced myself to swallow a few bites. That night, my body broke out in hives, and a raging fever took over. I spent the night scratching my skin raw on the hard cot in my closet-room. The next day, when he came over to play with Serena, my mother told him I was just being lazy and sleeping in. Since that day, I had never touched seafood again. “Yeah, I ate it,” I said, tossing the wet napkin into the trash. “And I almost died in that storage room.” My mother’s hand stiffened on her wine glass. She cleared her throat. “For heaven’s sake, do you really have to bring up ancient history in front of everyone?” Sawyer stared at the discarded shrimp on the table, a sudden panic flickering in his eyes. “Iris, I… I didn’t know…” I put down my fork. “I’m full.” I sat quietly for the rest of the lunch, listening to the relatives toast to Serena’s bright future. Sawyer sat beside me, silent for the remainder of the meal. He kept glancing my way, waiting for me to play my usual part—to nudge him, to whisper an apology, to beg for peace. Instead, I kept my eyes on my phone, staring at the digital acceptance letter from MIT. The crimson and grey seal glowed softly on my screen. The day before move-in was pure chaos. Three massive suitcases lay open across the living room floor. My mother was cross-referencing a long checklist, ticking off items for Serena. “Sunscreen, bug spray, vitamins… Oh, we still need to pack Serena’s skincare routine.” “Mom, don’t forget the smart desk lamp,” Serena said, eating cherries on the couch and pointing toward the coffee table. “I won’t. Sawyer bought it specifically for you. I’m putting it right on top.” My father walked out of the study with a stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Put this cash in Serena’s inner pocket. We don’t want her running short on anything at school.” I walked out of the kitchen carrying a trash bag. As I passed through the living room, my mother didn’t even look up. “Iris, run down to the drugstore and buy some blister pads. Serena’s new shoes might rub. And while you’re out, drop her silk dresses off at the dry cleaners.” I stopped. The weight of the trash bag pulled at my hand. “I don’t have time.” My mother’s pen stopped. She snapped her head up. “Excuse me?” I looked her dead in the eye. “I need to pack my own things.” Austin let out a loud sneer from the armchair. “Pack what? Your three raggy t-shirts? Throw them in a duffel bag and call it a day.” “Besides, OSU is right down the road,” my dad added. “If you need something, you can just drive back and get it.” I ignored them both, walking straight to the entryway to put on my sneakers. As I opened the door, I ran into Sawyer, who was carrying a load of shopping bags. In his hand were two sleek dorm lanyard card cases. One was a sparkling pastel pink; the other was a plain black plastic one. “Iris, where are you going?” he asked, blocking my path. “Taking out the trash.” He held out the black card case. “Here, this is for you. Serena wanted the pink one, so I gave it to her.” “OSU move-in is tomorrow. I’m driving you both. Since you don’t have much luggage, you can help carry Serena’s pink suitcase.” I stared at the black plastic case. It was the exact same look he had when he bought the lamp. Completely certain I would accept it. Completely certain I would be grateful. But this time, the script had changed. “No thanks. You guys go ahead,” I said. I stepped around him, tossed the trash into the bin outside, and walked back to my room without looking back. The next morning, before the sun had even touched the horizon, I grabbed my suitcase. I slipped quietly through the front door. The house was dead silent; they had stayed up late celebrating Serena’s big transition and were fast asleep. The autumn morning air was crisp and biting. I dragged my squeaky suitcase down the empty street. By 7:00 AM, I was sitting at the gate of Logan International Airport. I got my boarding pass and sat in the departure lounge. My phone began to vibrate violently. It was move-in day at OSU. In the family group chat, my mother sent a barrage of frantic texts. “Iris, where the hell are you? I told you to help your sister carry her bags. Did you lose your hearing?” “You had to sneak off on your own, didn’t you?” “Get your ass to the south dorm residence hall right now!” Austin posted a photo of Serena smiling and flashing a peace sign in front of the OSU campus sign. “Some people just love to throw bitter tantrums because they’re jealous.” Then, a direct message from Sawyer popped up. “Iris, stop acting out.” “Which dorm are you in? Serena’s bed is set up, but she needs help hanging her curtains. Come over and help her out.” “I’ll buy you sushi tonight to make up for earlier, alright?” The airport intercom chimed. “Delta Flight 412 to Boston is now boarding…” I looked at Sawyer’s text: “to make up for earlier, alright?” I tapped his profile icon. Clicked the top right corner. “Block.” Then I went back to the group chat, selected every member of the Charlie family, and blocked them all, one by one. I stood up, picked up my worn suitcase, and walked toward the jet bridge. Outside the window, a plane tore through the clouds, ascending into the wide, endless blue.

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Every time the World Cup came around, Justin had the same routine for me: checking into the boutique hotel down the block, alone. “Delia, sweetie, you’re so sensitive, and you sleep so light. When the guys get rowdy, you’ll be up all night tossing and turning. “Just do this for me, okay? Book a room next door for the tournament. Once the finals are over, I’ll bring you back home.” To keep him happy, I did what I always did. I packed my suitcase and walked out of our shared condo. But as I sat in my car in the quiet of the underground garage, I realized I’d left my custom noise-canceling earplugs upstairs. When I reached the front door of our apartment, the muffled roar of laughter from Justin’s friends leaked into the hallway. “Justin, man, you’re really taking Carol to London for the final? Those tickets are impossible to get.” Justin’s voice carried that lazy, alcohol-softened drawl I knew so well. “The tickets weren’t the hard part. It’s the hotels—everything’s booked up over there, so we’re stuck sharing a king room.” “Delia’s practically a patient at this point. She can’t even handle a loud movie without getting a migraine. Taking her to a live match would just ruin the whole vibe. If she has any sense, she knows she’d just be a drag anyway.” My mind went entirely blank. For twelve years, I had swallowed countless anti-anxiety pills just so he could watch his matches in peace. The first tournament, I survived thirty-two days of him and his friends yelling over Discord. The second, I spent twenty-eight days nursing seltzers in crowded, thumping sports bars, using medication to suppress the physical sickness the noise triggered in my chest. And now, our new home already had a new mistress lined up. I sat there in the quiet hallway, pulled out my phone, canceled my flight to London, and booked a one-way ticket to Iceland. I wasn’t coming back. … The front door swung open before I could even reach for the handle. Justin stood there, heavy with the scent of IPAs and a trace of citrus perfume that didn’t belong to me. He stared at my suitcase, his brow instantly furrowing. “Why are you back?” There was no warmth in his voice. Only the irritation of being interrupted. “I forgot my sleep mask and my earplugs.” My voice was barely a whisper. I was terrified that if I spoke any louder, I would shatter the fragile glass holding my composure together. From the living room, Carol’s light, airy voice drifted over the music. “Justin? Seriously, don’t let Delia go to any trouble. I can just crash on the couch. I know she has that nervous condition and hates the smell of beer. I don’t want to be the reason you two fight.” Justin glanced back toward the living room, and when he turned his eyes back to me, they held nothing but casual expectation. “Delia, since you’re already here, go ahead and slice up some fruit for us, will you? And then clear out the guest room so Carol can get some rest. She’s had a bit too much to drink.” I stared at him. In our twelve years together, this kind of protective concern for his “bro” Carol made an appearance every four years. He would offer her every ounce of his gentleness and charm, leaving only chores and demands for me. “I only came to get my things,” I said, keeping my tone flat. Justin’s face darkened, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Look at how reasonable Carol is being! What do you ever do besides pout and ruin the mood? Is keeping our guests comfortable really beneath you? Stop making excuses and go do it.” Over on the sectional, one of his friends chimed in, raised cup in hand. “Delia’s ‘sensory issues’ are honestly so high-maintenance. She can’t even handle a watch party, let alone help out a friend. Taking her anywhere is like traveling with a fragile museum piece.” I didn’t reply. I walked past Justin, heading straight into the bedroom. Inside my nightstand drawer, my custom earplugs and silk eye mask lay side by side. I pulled them out, gripped them tightly in my palm, and walked right back toward the door. “Delia, what is your problem?” Justin called out behind me. I didn’t stop. I pulled the heavy front door closed, shutting out the roar of the television and the clinking of bottles. The moment I shut the door to my hotel room, my phone vibrated. It was my best friend, Becca, her voice thick with fury. “Delia, that absolute bastard!” Becca yelled. “Kyle just sent me a screenshot from their group chat. Justin bought Carol a first-class ticket to London and booked them a king suite at the Savoy!” Kyle was Becca’s boyfriend, and one of the regulars in Justin’s circle. I stared out the window at the city lights, feeling strangely hollow. “It’s fine, Becca. Don’t waste your energy on garbage.” “He knows how fragile your nervous system is, and he’s doing this… Please tell me you’re going to get some rest tonight. You must be completely exhausted.” “I will. Goodnight.” After we hung up, the hotel room returned to its quiet stillness. Then, my screen lit up again. It was a voice note from Justin. My fingers were trembling, and I accidentally tapped play. His loud, patronizing voice echoed off the sterile hotel walls. “Delia, you’re letting Becca poison your head again. You have no control over your own anxiety, you’re constantly paranoid, and now you’re dragging other people into our relationship? It’s embarrassing. Carol is my partner, my co-founder. What do you actually contribute besides drawing your little illustrations?” He always knew exactly where to slide the knife. My paranoia, my frayed nerves—he had built them piece by piece over a decade of neglect. He called Carol his partner, but every single pitch deck and design template Carol had ever presented to investors carried my layouts, my hand-drawn details, and my sleepless nights. He took everything I gave him as his birthright, then handed the credit to someone else. I didn’t type a reply. Instead, I pressed the custom earplugs deep into my ears. The world went instantly, blessedly silent. The only sound left was the slow, steady rhythm of my own breathing. For twelve years, I had lived in a state of constant compromise. He loved noise, so I choked down physical nausea to stand by his side at crowded launch parties. He protected Carol, so I forced myself to smile and pretend I was modern, cool, and unaffected. But as the morning light filtered through the hotel curtains, a sudden realization hit me. I had left my physical sketch portfolios back at the condo. Those drawings were the foundation of my brother Jamie’s upcoming surgery fund. They were a series of licensed illustrations under a signed contract, and the final files were due next week. I had been in such a rush to leave the night before, and so distracted when I went back for my eye mask, that I had completely forgotten them. By the afternoon, I was standing outside our apartment building, looking up at the ninth-floor windows. The blinds were thrown wide open, and I could see shadows moving behind the glass. The moment the elevator doors parted on the ninth floor, the noise hit me like a physical blow. The bass from the television speakers rumbled through the concrete hallway. The announcer’s raspy shouts were layered with clinking glasses and drunken cheering. The air in the corridor smelled of greasy takeout and stale IPA. I held my breath, pressed my back against the wall, and slipped into the study. Carol was sitting on our sofa, wearing the vintage designer jersey I had bought Justin for his birthday, a highball glass in her hand. When she spotted me, her lips curved into a tiny, knowing smile. She reached over and twisted the volume dial on the receiver all the way to the right. The low-frequency vibration rattled my skull, traveling through the soles of my shoes and straight into my temples. My ears began to ring—that sharp, agonizing high-pitched squeal that usually signaled a panic attack. “Just breathe,” I told myself. “Get the portfolio and get out.” I hurried into the study. The black leather folder was sitting on the mahogany desk. But just as my fingers touched the zipper, a sharp shatter echoed from the hallway. A beer bottle had broken on the hardwood. My stomach churned, and I had to press a hand over my mouth to keep from throwing up. “Oh my gosh, Delia, I’m so sorry!” Carol called out from the doorway, her eyes bright with amusement. “I didn’t realize you were back. I get so clumsy when the match gets this intense.” She leaned against the doorframe, holding her half-empty glass, a small sea of broken green glass at her feet. There was no apology in her eyes—only a cold, triumphant challenge. One of the guys sitting on the floor laughed. “Justin’s girl is such a downer. Walking in here looking like she’s attending a wake. Justin, you’ve got to upgrade before we get to London.” A chorus of chuckles followed. I clutched the heavy portfolio to my chest and walked out of the study. As I passed through the living room, I saw Justin lounging on the sectional. He had a lit cigarette between his fingers, his eyes glued to the screen. He caught sight of my pale face and scowled. “Stop acting like you’re suffering, Delia. We’re just having a few drinks. The tournament only happens once every four years. If you can’t handle a little excitement, go back to your hotel. Stop embarrassing me.” “Embarrassing.” The word felt like a rusty nail driven into a wound that had never been allowed to heal. Four years ago, during the last tournament, I spent half the night vomiting in a bar bathroom before putting on a smile to buy his friends another round. Now, he wouldn’t even allow me to occupy the same physical space. In the early days, if my symptoms flared, he would find my medication and hold a glass of water to my lips. Now, my pain was just an act to him. “This is my home,” I said. My voice was quiet, but every word was perfectly clear. “The people making the noise are the ones who need to leave.” The living room went quiet for a beat. Even the television seemed to lose its power. Justin stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked over to me. He stood a full head taller than me, using his height to crowd my space. He let out a dry, condescending laugh. “Are you out of your mind? I pay the mortgage. My name is on the deed. What right do you have to tell anyone to leave? Your little drawings barely cover the grocery bill. Without me, you wouldn’t even have a roof over your head.” He wasn’t entirely wrong about the deed. My parents had paid the full down payment in cash, but during the closing process, Justin had insisted on adding his name to the title. I had been too young, too trusting, to object. For twelve years, almost every dollar I earned from licensing had been funneled directly into his startup and our joint accounts. I had kept nothing for myself. He was used to having total control over my life, and for a long time, I had let him. I had been a quiet, efficient machine that kept his life running without ever making a demand. But I was done being a machine. Without another word, I walked back into the study, packed the portfolio into a duffel bag, and gathered my passport and birth certificate from the desk drawer. When I reached the front door, I took one last look at the apartment. Trash was piled high on the counters, Carol was curled up against Justin’s side, and Justin was lighting another cigarette, his back turned to me. “Enjoy the match,” I said. The heavy front door clicked shut behind me, and the high-pitched ringing in my ears stopped instantly. Though my head was still throbbing, I didn’t reach for my pills. I let the pain wash over me, feeling every single nerve ending. It was a useful reminder of exactly what I had tolerated for twelve years. By the third day after I left, Justin still hadn’t sent a single message, and I hadn’t reached out either. For the first time in our relationship, I refused to be the one who apologized. I spent those three days in the hotel room finishing my digital files, organizing the contract details, and confirming the date for Jamie’s surgery with his specialist. My upcoming solo exhibition was also in its final stages of preparation. The lighting, the curation, and the venue were all set for the opening tomorrow night. It was the culmination of six months of exhausting work, and the final source of funding for Jamie’s medical bills. At two o’clock in the afternoon, my phone rang. It was the gallery director. “Delia, I am so incredibly sorry,” she began, her voice tight with stress. “Justin’s office just contacted us. He’s pulled the corporate sponsorship budget and canceled the venue lease. We have to call off the exhibition.” I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, my phone pressed to my ear. “What do you mean? How can he do that?” “He told our team that the gallery space is being redirected for a private corporate event—some kind of send-off party. I’m so sorry, Delia. We had no choice…” When the call ended, I sat in the silence of the room, staring at the digital file of my show’s centerpiece. It was a painting of a vast, frozen tundra under a curtain of green auroras. Silent, empty, undisturbed. I had painted it in our study while Justin and Carol laughed in the next room, keeping my earplugs pressed deep into my ears. Six months of preparation, gone in an instant. I stood up, threw on my coat, and drove straight to Justin’s office. When I pushed open the conference room door, Justin was sitting at the head of the table, with Carol hovering over his shoulder. When Carol saw me, she immediately shrank back toward Justin, her face morphing into an expression of soft concern. “Oh, Delia. You’re here.” She tapped the printout on the table. “Justin felt your little art show was a bit too small-scale for the company’s current image. My send-off party is going to have some of our biggest tech investors in attendance. You’re helping Justin out, really. It’s not like you actually need the gallery space anyway.” I kept my eyes locked on Justin. “I signed the lease for that gallery. The funds came from my account. You had no right to cancel it.” Justin tossed his pen onto the glass table and leaned back in his chair. “Carol needs a proper send-off before we head to London. It’s a networking event. What was your little gallery show going to bring in anyway? A few thousand dollars?” He shrugged, his tone casual. “What’s mine is yours, Delia, and what’s yours is mine. Giving the space to Carol is just smart business.” “That money was for Jamie’s surgery!” He hesitated, then scowled. “I’ll cover Jamie’s medical bills. Stop using your brother as an excuse to throw a fit.” I looked at him, realizing how many times he had said those exact words. He “covered” the first round of Jamie’s bills, then quietly deducted the amount from my quarterly licensing payout. He “covered” the down payment on our home, using the money my parents had left me. Every act of generosity was a debt he forced me to pay back double. “You’re paranoid, neurotic, and insecure because you have nothing of your own,” he said, standing up and walking toward me until he was looking down at my face. “Look at yourself. You look like a bitter housewife. Why can’t you have Carol’s confidence?” Carol put in, “Delia, please don’t let this come between you two. I can talk to Justin about finding another venue…” “Don’t bother,” I said, cutting her off. Justin’s eyes narrowed. Looking at his handsome, arrogant face, I felt a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. Twelve years of swallowing pills, twelve years of stepping aside, twelve years of hoping he would finally see me. “Fine,” I said, nodding slowly. Justin blinked, clearly caught off guard by how quickly I had backed down. “Fine what?” I didn’t answer. I turned around and walked out of the room. He called my name as the door swung shut, but I kept walking. When I stepped out of the office building, the California sun was bright and hot. I stood on the sidewalk, pulled out my phone, and called my lawyer. “Mr. Adler, I want to revoke every single IP licensing agreement Justin’s company has with my portfolio. I want them pulled immediately. And I want to file the copyright infringement suit we discussed.” “Are you certain, Delia? This will completely halt their main app platform.” “Completely certain.” Next, I called Jamie’s surgeon and confirmed that the rest of his fees would be paid directly from my publisher’s international advance. Finally, I opened my chat with Justin, clicked the settings, and turned on “Do Not Disturb.” I didn’t want to hear his voice ever again. The following afternoon, Becca sent me a series of screenshots from Carol’s social media. There was a photo of two matching football jerseys draped over a suitcase. Then, a screenshot of a reservation confirmation for a penthouse suite in London, listing a single king-size bed for two guests. The caption read: “Huge thanks to the best boss ever for the VIP World Cup treatment. Some people are built for luxury, while others are stuck at home in the dark~” The comments below were just as petty. “About time Justin upgraded.” “Carol’s always been the real partner anyway.” “Some people can’t even handle a loud restaurant, let alone London. Good riddance, lol.” I looked at the images, expecting to feel a wave of anger, but there was only a dull, distant numbness. It was as if my capacity for pain had finally been worn down to nothing. I saved the screenshots and forwarded them to Mr. Adler as additional evidence of asset diversion. A moment later, a voice note from Justin arrived. I tapped it. “Delia, sweetie, stop being dramatic. We’re wrapped up in the VIP event prep right now. It’s too loud and crowded for your head anyway, so don’t worry about stopping by. We’re staying at a hotel near the venue tonight. Just pack your passport and get to the airport early tomorrow. When we get to London, you can have half of the king bed. See? I’m taking care of you.” He spoke as if he were handing me a prize. I typed a single word: “Okay.” I went back to our empty condo one last time. The place was clean—he must have hired a service to scrub away the party from the night before. I opened the closet. It was filled with the luxury items Justin had bought me over the years: designer bags, bracelets, diamond studs. Every single gift had come with strings attached. “Wear this dress to this dinner. Carry this bag to this gala.” They weren’t presents; they were props to make him look good. I packed every single piece into a cardboard box, taped it shut, and scheduled a courier to deliver it to his office front desk. Then I called Mr. Adler. “Is the filing ready?” “All set, Delia. The moment the courthouse doors open tomorrow morning, we submit.” “Good.” A text notification popped up on my screen. My ticket to London had been issued. I logged into the airline app, pulled up the reservation, and clicked “Change Flight”. I kept the departure time, but changed the destination. I booked a seat on a flight heading to Reykjavik, Iceland. It was the first stop of my solo international tour, a project I had been planning for three years. I had hesitated for months, wondering if I was ready, if I could afford to leave Justin, if I was strong enough to chase a dream on my own. I wasn’t hesitating anymore. The ticket was confirmed. The next afternoon, Justin, Carol, and their inner circle gathered in the airport’s VIP lounge. Carol was wearing her matching jersey, laughing loudly, while the guys cheered Justin on for booking first-class seats and a penthouse suite. Justin leaned back on the leather sofa, handing Carol a bottle of sparkling water. “We’re getting to London early, so you have the run of the place for the next month.” Carol smiled, her eyes lingering on his. “I might just hold you to that.” The guys whistled. Justin grinned, basking in the attention. He pulled out his phone, deciding to send me a quick text to tell me to hurry up. He hit send. A bright red exclamation mark popped up. “Message could not be delivered. You are no longer connected with this contact.” He blinked, assuming it was a temporary network error, and dialed my number. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” Justin stared at the screen for a moment, then set the phone face down on the table. He figured I was just playing games. “She’ll behave once we’re in London,” he thought. Carol pulled him over to the duty-free boutique. She pointed to a limited-edition leather bag with a six-figure price tag. “Justin, isn’t this beautiful?” “It is,” he said, pulling out his corporate card and handing it to the cashier. The cashier swiped it, paused, and looked up. “I’m sorry, sir. This card has been declined.” Justin frowned. “Try this one.” Declined. He tried a third card. Declined. He emptied his wallet, handing over card after card. Every single one came back declined. The cashier’s professional smile faded into a look of quiet judgment. Carol’s smile vanished. “Justin… what’s going on?” Without answering, Justin opened his mobile banking app. “Account Balance: $0.00.” He called his bank’s private client line. After a long wait through a automated piano track, the representative informed him that all his personal and corporate accounts had been frozen by a federal court order due to a pending intellectual property lawsuit. He hung up, his hands suddenly cold. Around him, the lounge was still humming with activity, his friends laughing over a card game, entirely unaware of his sudden ruin. Justin walked over to a quiet corner and tried dialing my number again. “No longer in service.” He tried twelve times, his thumb striking the screen with increasing desperation. Each time the automated voice answered, his chest tightened further. Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Trevor, his technical director. “Justin!” Trevor’s voice was shaking. “The app is dead! All our core UI assets have been flagged for copyright infringement and pulled from the App Store! We just got a cease-and-desist from Delia’s legal team. They’re suing for thirty million dollars!” Justin’s head spun. “What are you talking about?” “The company is in freefall! Our servers are offline, our investors are pulling out, and customer service is getting slammed!” Justin ended the call and quickly dialed Brad, one of his friends who was still back in the city. “Brad, do me a massive favor. Go to Delia’s hotel and our condo right now. Find her and bring her to the airport. Do whatever it takes.” Brad agreed, but twenty minutes later, his voice on the phone sounded hollow. “Justin… the hotel said Delia checked out first thing this morning. And…” Brad hesitated. “I went by your place. There’s a real estate lockbox on the door. An agent is inside showing the condo to buyers.” Justin’s hand went numb. The phone nearly slipped from his grasp. He leaned against the terminal wall, the ambient noise of the airport suddenly feeling muffled and far away. “That’s impossible!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “She’s sick! She can’t even handle a loud noise, let alone survive without my income! How could she sell the place?” Brad had no answers. Justin had no choice but to tell Brad to head to the gate so they wouldn’t miss the flight. He stared at his first-class ticket to London, and the printed confirmation for the Savoy penthouse. He had planned to present it to me at the gate, waiting for me to apologize and beg for his forgiveness. The airport intercom crackled to life. “This is the final boarding call for Flight 88 to London. All ticketed passengers, please proceed to Gate 42 immediately.” Carol walked over, her eyes scanning his pale face. “Justin? Are we boarding or what?” The rest of the group gathered around, waiting. Justin stood in the center of the terminal, clutching his useless ticket, his world quietly falling apart.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “544701”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day Greg confessed he was actually Manhattan trust-fund royalty—the sole heir to a massive real estate empire—he also handed me an invoice for five years of dating. “Miranda,” he said, sliding a neat stack of papers across the reclaimed wood table. “I know you wouldn’t want people whispering that you only stayed with me for my family’s money.” It was an itemized list. It went back to our very first cheap takeout dinner to the birthday cake he bought me. From the twenty-six-dollar Uber ride he ordered for me to the flu medication when I was burning up. Total: $16,874. Every single cent, meticulously recorded. I stared at the man I had loved for five years. I let the silence stretch between us for a long moment before I finally spoke. “I need to pay my mother’s hospital deposit first. I’ll pay you back next month.” Greg’s brow furrowed instantly. “Sasha was right. You always find an excuse to delay,” he sneered. “I should have listened to her from the beginning. I never should have gotten involved with a gold digger.” “Fine. One month. But you’re paying me interest.” I didn’t argue. I just let the silence swallow his demands. But when I reached the hospital billing desk, the receptionist shook her head, looking at the terminal. “I’m sorry, Ms. Colton. The transaction was declined. There are insufficient funds.” The thirty thousand dollars I had painstakingly scraped together for my mother’s emergency surgery was gone. With shaking hands, I called Greg. “Oh, that was me,” he said, his voice airy and completely unbothered. “Sasha saw a limited-edition Chanel bag she loved. It was exactly thirty grand, so I used the funds in your account to buy it. It’s a little more than what you owe me, but consider it my emotional distress fee for dealing with a liar.” With those two casual sentences, my mother’s life-saving money became a shiny accessory for his childhood best friend. Before I could scream, the line went dead. Behind me, I heard the soft, devastated voice of the attending nurse. “Ms. Colton… you don’t need to pay the deposit anymore. Your mother… she jumped from the roof just a few minutes ago. She left a note. She said she couldn’t bear to be a financial burden to you anymore.” I looked at the gurney being wheeled down the hall, at the pale, lifeless hand draping over the edge. My knees buckled, and the cold linoleum floor rushed up to meet me. “Greg, you don’t have to worry about me wanting your money anymore.” “Your money, I won’t touch.” “And you, I don’t want.” 1 After leaving my mother’s ashes at the columbarium, I returned to the apartment, carrying a bone-deep exhaustion. The moment I stepped through the door, I found Greg sitting on the sofa, his posture stiff and accusatory. “Three days. You haven’t been home in three days. I thought you were just throwing a tantrum over that thirty grand.” He scoffed, looking up from his phone. “Turns out you still have no spine. You came crawling back anyway.” He brought up the thirty thousand dollars as if he were talking about pocket change. I didn’t answer him. I walked right past the sofa, heading straight for my bedroom. Greg’s eyes widened in disbelief. He seemed genuinely shocked that I was actually angry about him taking the surgery money. “Where do you think you’re going? It’s past six. You should be in the kitchen making dinner.” For five years, I had grown accustomed to this tone. High-and-mighty, demanding, treating my presence as a given. But he hadn’t always been like this. When he first pursued me in college, he seemed like an ordinary, hard-working guy. “Miranda, I’m going to work so hard,” he used to whisper, holding my hands in the cold winter air. “I’m going to make sure I make up for every single struggle we go through right now.” I had been deeply moved by his earnestness. To me, being poor wasn’t terrifying; a life without love was. So, I worked alongside him, pulling double shifts, dreaming of building a quiet, comfortable future together. But privilege is a difficult thing to hide forever. Slowly, the subtle shifts began. He started shaming the cheap diners I loved. He threw away my thrifted clothes when I wasn’t looking. He began commanding me around the apartment like a live-in maid. He even started wearing a classic Patek Philippe, assuming I was too uncultured to recognize a hundred-thousand-dollar watch. And he was right. I didn’t recognize it. I had been kept entirely in the dark, a fool playing her part in his little game of pretending to be poor. When I finally asked him why he lied about his identity, his answer was simple: he needed to make sure I wasn’t a leech. Seeing my silence now, Greg’s impatience flared. “First you make up some story about your mother being sick to wring money out of me. Then you run away for three days, and now you’re giving me the silent treatment.” Greg stood up, his jaw tight. “Miranda, I never realized you were this manipulative.” A cold, dry laugh escaped my throat. “If I were actually that manipulative, Greg, do you really think you would have been able to swipe thirty thousand dollars from my account?” A flash of guilt flickered across his face, but it vanished just as quickly, replaced by his usual aristocratic disdain. “Sasha was right. You’ll scream and cry over a little bit of money. What’s your next move? Playing the victim so I’ll give you a handout?” He sneered, but his hand reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, designer hair tie and tossed it onto the coffee table in front of me. “Here. I bought this with the extra money from that transaction. Consider us even.” The hair tie was silk, stamped with a prominent luxury logo. But all I could see when I looked at it was the price of my mother’s life. The image of her quiet, tired face flashed through my mind, and before I could stop myself, I kicked the designer hair tie off the table. It skittered across the hardwood floor. Greg opened his mouth to snap at me, but the front door clicked open. Sasha walked in, a pristine leather handbag hanging from her shoulder. The leather perfectly matched the color of the hair tie. It was obvious the hair tie was just a free gift-with-purchase. “Miranda? You’re back?” Sasha asked, her voice dripping with mock surprise. “This is my apartment,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “Do I need an outsider’s permission to come home?” Sasha’s face fell into an expression of soft, wounded innocence. “I was just asking because I care about you. I didn’t think you’d take it the wrong way. I knew things were tight for you growing up, but I didn’t realize it made you so… bitter.” She turned to Greg, resting a hand on his arm. “Greg, you really have put up with so much.” She didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hung heavy in the air. Greg looked at her, his expression softening with agreement. He pulled out his phone and opened the calculator app. “I only calculated our direct dating expenses earlier,” Greg said, his fingers tapping rapidly on the screen. “But I didn’t calculate what I sacrificed to ‘test’ you over these five years. Because of you, I couldn’t live in my penthouse. I couldn’t eat at five-star restaurants. I had to provide constant emotional labor to keep up this charade. You need to compensate me for that.” He finished typing and turned the screen toward me. “Total: $86,171. Since the lease is technically in your name, I’ll round it down. Just give me eighty-six thousand.” 2 When we first rented this apartment, I had been hesitant. It was beautiful and close to my office, but the rent was incredibly high for a recent graduate. But Greg had held my hand and promised, “You work so hard, Miranda. If I can’t even give you a nice place to sleep and a warm meal, I’ll never forgive myself.” Because of those words, I signed the lease and took on all the household chores. In the beginning, we split the rent evenly. But then Greg started claiming he was overwhelmed with work. He would disappear for days at a time, and the rent transfers stopped entirely. Whenever he did come back, it was only to wake me up in the middle of the night to cook for him. And now, all of those sacrifices were nothing more than a bad investment on his spreadsheet. “Greg, did our five years together mean absolutely nothing to you?” I thought my tears had dried up the day my mother died. But looking at the man I had loved for five years calculating the cost of my affection, the hot tears spilled over anyway. Greg looked slightly unnerved by my reaction. “I was just making a point… you don’t have to take it so literally—” “Oh, please,” Sasha interrupted, her voice sharp and mocking. “I told you, Greg. Some people aren’t partners; they’re parasites. She cries a few tears to make you feel guilty, and then she’ll use that guilt to squeeze more money out of you.” I wiped the tears from my face. The sadness was gone, replaced by a cold, absolute clarity. I didn’t understand how Sasha could invent such malicious narratives so effortlessly, but I finally realized that the only people truly obsessed with calculation were the two of them. I looked at Greg, who was once again nodding along to Sasha’s words. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “An extra payout?” I whispered. “Sasha, Greg—you transferred thirty thousand dollars out of my account without my authorization. That is grand larceny.” I met Greg’s eyes. “If you don’t want the police knocking on your door, you will return every single cent to my account by tonight.” I turned to walk away, but Greg grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and frantic. His face was a mixture of disbelief and a strange, petulant hurt. “Miranda, since when did you lose your sense of humor? A thirty-thousand-dollar bag is pocket change to Sasha and me. You’re really going to the cops over this?” “How could it not be a big deal?” My mind flashed back to the day he threw the invoice at me, his face cold and indifferent. He was the same selfish, arrogant boy then as he was now. And I was finally done trying to make him understand. Some people are simply incapable of empathy. It didn’t matter that he had once stayed up all night to change the cold towels on my forehead when I had a fever. It didn’t matter that he had cooked for me when I broke my wrist. That was the poor boy, Greg. Not the Manhattan heir, Greg Reynolds. “We’re done, Greg. I want you out.” The moment those words left my mouth, a weight lifted from my chest. Greg’s face twisted into anger. “You’re breaking up with me? Over this? Who gave you the right to make that call?” He always had to be the one in control. Loving me was supposed to be a charity he bestowed upon me. I looked at him calmly. “Fine. You can say it. I agree to it.” “This way, you don’t have to play-act anymore. You don’t have to worry about me stealing your family’s precious money. You can leave this apartment, go back to your penthouse, and find someone from your own social circle.” I didn’t wait for his response. I walked into my bedroom and closed the door to pack my bags. A few minutes later, I heard his muffled, furious shout from the living room. “Don’t come crying back to me, Miranda! You’ll regret this!” Then, the heavy slam of the front door echoed through the apartment. For five years, I had believed that love was about compromise and endurance. I never cared about how much money he spent on me, and I never demanded that he carry the weight of my mother’s illness. But when the time came, he had looked at my desperate struggle, reached down, and stolen my only lifeline. An unequal love is not a partnership. It is a slow, quiet execution. 3 Packing didn’t take long. Five years in that apartment, and everything I owned fit into a single suitcase. I stayed awake until dawn, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling. When the sun finally rose, I dragged my suitcase to the office and walked straight to HR to hand in my resignation. The HR director looked at my letter, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Why now, Miranda? Is this Mr. Reynolds’ decision?” He paused, checking his screen. “And since it’s only the beginning of the month, do we still split your paycheck into the joint account?” I froze. “What do you mean, split my paycheck?” The director looked more surprised than I was. “Miranda, come on. Everyone in the office knows you and Mr. Reynolds are together. Didn’t you two sign an agreement when you started? Half of your monthly salary goes directly into his account as a ‘relationship contribution fund.’ We’ve been routing it that way for five years.” The room seemed to spin. For five years, I had received only half of what I was actually earning. No wonder my bank account never seemed to grow, no matter how many bonuses I earned or how many late nights I pulled. While I was taking on freelance gigs after midnight, exhausted to the bone just to save up for my mother’s care, Greg had been quietly collecting half my salary, watching me struggle with a smug, silent amusement. I walked down to the finance department and demanded a printout of the diverted funds. It totaled exactly thirty thousand dollars. I couldn’t even bring myself to laugh at the irony. I had begged, pleaded, and humiliated myself in front of distant relatives to borrow money for my mother’s surgery. My mother had taken her own life because she thought she was draining my last penny. She died never knowing that her daughter had already earned enough to save her, if only her money hadn’t been stolen by the man she trusted. Before I could go looking for him, Greg found me in the lobby. “I heard you’re resigning,” he said, stepping into the quiet corner of the room, his eyes dark with irritation. “Miranda, when is this tantrum going to end? Running to HR and making a scene over a petty breakup just proves how desperate you are for a handout.” Sasha was right behind him, holding her new Chanel bag prominently. “Miranda, I know you’ve always been desperate for Greg’s money, but bringing your personal drama into the workplace is pathetic,” Sasha said, her voice dripping with artificial pity. “If every employee threatened to resign just to get their boyfriend’s attention, how is Greg supposed to run a company?” I looked at them, these wealthy, untouchable people who viewed the world as their personal playground. A wild, furious laugh bubbled up in my chest. Before I could speak, Greg cut me off. “Sasha is right. This is highly unprofessional. But out of respect for our history, I won’t let this ruin your career.” He sighed, adjusting his cuffs. “But if you do this again, I’ll have to fire you. And don’t expect your paycheck for this month—consider it a fine for disrupting company operations.” 4 Every word that came out of Greg’s mouth made me realize how little I actually knew the man I had lived with for five years. Underneath the handsome face was a hollow, cruel stranger. The heavy glass doors of the lobby were open, and our conversation had drawn a small crowd of employees. Their hushed whispers drifted over to us. “I mean, she’s always been kind of a social climber, right? No wonder Mr. Reynolds was careful with his money.” “It’s so embarrassing. To make a scene at his office just because she got dumped.” “I heard she only got hired here because of him anyway.” Hearing the murmurs, Greg’s smug smile returned. Sasha leaned in, emboldened by the crowd. “Miranda, didn’t you claim you needed that thirty thousand for your mother’s surgery? If she was really that sick, why aren’t you at the hospital? Making up a fake illness about your own mother just to extort your boyfriend… how low can you get?” The onlookers looked at me with disgust. I didn’t say a word. I just looked at Greg. He was basking in it. He looked victorious, satisfied, and entirely vindicated. When he caught me looking, he put on a show of magnanimity. “Alright, everyone, let’s get back to work. Miranda knows she made a mistake. I’m not going to hold a grudge.” He turned back to me, his voice lowering to a gentle, patronizing tone. “You don’t have to pay me back right away, Miranda. Just apologize, and we can go visit your mother together this weekend. I know you’re stubborn, but we shouldn’t let this come between us and our elders.” The crowd murmured in admiration of his grace. “Mr. Reynolds is too nice. She doesn’t deserve him.” “Using her own mother’s health as a scam… that’s sickening.” “I actually bought her lunch once because I thought she was struggling. What a fraud.” Even the colleagues I had pulled all-nighters for, the interns I had mentored, were now looking down on me from their moral high grounds. I looked at Greg, my voice cold and steady. “Greg, why don’t we calculate every single cent right here, in front of everyone? Let’s see who owes whom.” “If the numbers show you owe me, you will return the thirty thousand you took, the thirty thousand you diverted from my salary, and the interest on both. Otherwise, you and this company can expect a lawsuit by tomorrow morning.” Greg’s smile faltered. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He couldn’t argue. Because deep down, he knew. He knew that for five years, I was the one who paid for his groceries, his utilities, and his dry cleaning while he pretended to be struggling. I was the one who gave up my youth for his comfort. I let out a sharp, cold laugh. Suddenly, Sasha stepped forward and shoved me hard. Unprepared, I stumbled backward, my knees slamming hard against the polished marble floor. “Miranda, stop lying!” Sasha shrieked. “How could Greg possibly owe you money? Keep fabricating these lies and we’ll have you arrested for slander! If you go to jail, who’s going to pay for your mother’s hospital bills? Apologize to him right now!” Sasha thought she still had leverage over me. She thought my mother’s life was a card she could play. But I had nothing left to lose. Just then, Greg’s executive assistant pushed through the crowd, holding a folder in her hands. She stopped when she saw the tension in the room, her face pale. “Mr. Reynolds… I have the bereavement fund request for Miranda Colton here. It needs your signature.” She looked around the silent lobby, her voice trembling. “Her mother… she passed away three days ago. The hospital confirmed she took her own life after her medical savings account was emptied by an unauthorized transfer.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “544700”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The year I ballooned to nearly two hundred pounds because of my illness, my classmates gave me a new name: “The Whale.” During gym class, halfway through the mile run, my legs gave out. I slammed onto the asphalt track, scraping my knees until they bled. Above me, the bleachers erupted in a wave of cruel laughter. I could hear the distinct, metallic clicks of phone cameras recording. When I finally managed to call my mother, sobbing into the receiver, she only had one thing to say: “If you could just learn to control your mouth, you wouldn’t be a laughingstock.” After that, I stopped talking to anyone. Until the day I stumbled upon an anonymous peer-support app called Haven. The voice on the other end of my screen was incredibly gentle, like soft cotton. When I wrote, “I feel like a monster,” the app replied: “You’re not a monster. You’re just sick, and none of this is your fault.” Every night, I huddled under my duvet, whispering my secrets into the screen until two in the morning. For the first time, staying alive didn’t feel like such a chore. Until Monday morning homeroom. I pushed open the classroom door to find the smartboard glowing. Scrolling across the white screen for everyone to see were my private chat logs. “I’m so ugly.” “I want to disappear.” “My mother has never loved me.” The classroom shook with laughter. Brooke, the school’s homecoming queen, stood near the front row holding an iced coffee. She raised her cup to me in a mock toast. “Hey, Whale,” she smirked. “Did you actually think someone cared? I paid a college theater kid fifty bucks to pretend to be your online therapist.” My mother was called to the school by my homeroom teacher. After reading the logs, she didn’t comfort me. Instead, she slapped me across the face in front of the entire room. “How did I raise something like you?” she spat. “Isn’t embarrassing me in public enough? You had to broadcast our private family matters to a total stranger?” I stood frozen by the teacher’s desk, my gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the hallway led straight to the roof. The breeze felt light today. Six stories up would be high enough. 1 “Hazel, stop right there.” My mother’s hand hung suspended in the air, her fingers trembling slightly, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had just done. But her eyes held no apology—only the sharp, defensive irritation of someone who felt deeply insulted. My cheek burned, and my left ear rang with a dull, steady hum. On the smartboard, the chat logs kept scrolling, an unceasing digital crawl of my deepest vulnerabilities. “I’m so ugly.” “I want to disappear.” “My mother has never loved me.” Fifty-three of my peers stared at me. Some bit their lips to hold back snickers; others kept their phones angled under their desks, recording the spectacle. Brooke sat in the second row, her lips wrapped around a green straw, taking slow, leisurely sips of her drink. She looked exactly like someone settled in for a good movie. “Hazel,” Mr. Humbert, my homeroom teacher, muttered as he squeezed through the back door. His suit was meticulously pressed, and his leather briefcase was tucked neatly under his arm. “What on earth is going on here? Why is there a scene first thing in the morning?” He glanced at the smartboard, his brow furrowing. “Who turned this on? Shut it off.” Nobody moved. Brooke raised her hand, her voice dripping with innocence. “Mr. Humbert, the board connected via Bluetooth automatically. I think Hazel’s phone is just acting up.” She sounded completely detached, as if she were merely reporting a mild technical glitch. Mr. Humbert looked at my mother, then at me. “Mrs. Wood, please have a seat. Let’s take this to my office so we can discuss it.” My mother didn’t sit. She turned on me, lowering her voice, but the room was so quiet that her words cut through the silence like a knife. “You told a stranger I don’t love you? I put food in your mouth, clothes on your back, and this is how you repay me?” “I didn’t—” “You didn’t? It’s right there in black and white!” Her finger jabbed toward the glowing screen. “Hazel, how much longer are you going to drag my name through the dirt?” Mr. Humbert cleared his throat. “Mrs. Wood, please, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We—” “Mr. Humbert,” my mother interrupted, her voice instantly shifting from rage to a trembling, fragile victimhood. She wiped a tear from her eye. “You have no idea how hard it is to raise her alone. Her father walked out when she was small. I work double shifts just to keep a roof over her head, and she spends her time writing these horrible lies about me…” The tears flowed effortlessly. Mr. Humbert immediately handed her a tissue, murmuring gentle reassurances. No one looked at me. I stood by the desk, my face hot, my ears ringing. Brooke’s gaze drifted back to me. She offered a tiny, sweet smile. Her lips moved silently. I could read them perfectly: “Deserve it.” My hands began to shake. I turned my head slightly, looking out the classroom door. At the very end of the corridor was the concrete stairwell leading to the roof. The heavy metal door at the top was usually unlocked. I knew that. “Alright, class, quiet down,” Mr. Humbert said, tapping the podium. “Let’s get back to reading. Hazel, you and your mother come with me.” His tone was dismissive, as if he were cleaning up a spilled cup of water. I turned to follow them out. As I passed Brooke’s desk, she subtly stuck her foot out. It wasn’t a violent trip, just enough to make me stumble clumsily. Behind me, the room erupted into a fresh chorus of giggles. Mr. Humbert didn’t look back. My mother didn’t either. Down the hallway, my mother marched ahead of me, her high heels clicking sharply against the linoleum. “Tell me,” she said without turning around, “did you do this on purpose? Did you want the whole school to see those things just to humiliate me?” “I didn’t put those files on the board.” “Then who did? It’s your phone, your chat history. Who else would bother to broadcast your miserable little thoughts?” “It was Brooke—” She stopped dead in her tracks and spun around to face me. “Brooke? As in Mr. Lattimore’s daughter?” I nodded. “And why would a girl like her want to hurt you? What do you possibly have that she would want to target?” Her face held genuine confusion. It wasn’t even disbelief; it was a fundamental assumption that I was too insignificant to be bullied. “Enough,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Stop blaming everyone else for your problems. If you hadn’t written those pathetic things in the first place, no one would have had anything to show.” I closed my mouth. Inside the office, Mr. Humbert poured my mother a cup of hot water. “Mrs. Wood, I assure you, I will look into this. Teenagers have intense emotional swings. It’s completely normal.” “Mr. Humbert, I am at my wits’ end with her,” my mother sighed, clutching the tissue. “She won’t speak a word to me. She just locks herself in her room all day, and heaven knows what she’s doing on that phone.” “I’ll talk to her.” Mr. Humbert turned his gaze toward me. “Hazel, if you’re feeling overwhelmed, you should come to me or the school counselor. Posting these things online… it’s a bad look for the school. It causes unnecessary disruption.” “A bad look.” Not “someone violated your privacy”. Not “someone is tormenting you”. Just “you are causing a disruption”. “Do you hear your teacher?” my mother nudged me sharply. “Yes.” Mr. Humbert nodded, flipping open a manila folder on his desk. “Good. Let’s consider the matter closed for now. Mrs. Wood, I know you’re busy, so please feel free to head back to work. I’ll take it from here.” My mother stood up, casting a brief, cold glance in my direction. “Get your own lunch today. I have a client meeting this afternoon.” She walked out. The sharp click of her heels faded down the corridor. Mr. Humbert shuffled his papers, not looking up. “Go on back to class, Hazel. You’re going to be late for first period.” I reached the doorway and paused. “Mr. Humbert.” “Yes?” “Brooke paid a college student to pretend to be a therapist on that app. She did this to get my chat history and play it on the screen.” He looked up, his expression strained and weary. “Hazel, Brooke’s father is one of the school’s largest donors. I appreciate you sharing your perspective, but without concrete evidence, my hands are tied. Surely you understand that?” I understood. I understood everything. “Go on,” he said softly. I pulled the heavy office door open. The hallway was empty; the warning bell had already rung. Leaning my hand against the lockers for support, I walked toward my classroom, one slow step at a time. When I passed the stairwell, I noticed the heavy metal door was slightly ajar. A draft of cool air slipped through the crack, whispering against my face. 2 “Hey, Whale. Your mom’s handprint is still showing.” Brooke’s voice drifted over my shoulder, sweet and artificial. The first-period bell had just rung, and I was trying to bury my face in my arms. She sauntered over to my desk and tossed a peach-scented makeup wipe onto my notebook. “Wipe yourself down. It looks kind of pathetic.” A few kids nearby snickered. One of them whispered, “Man, her mom has a mean right hook.” I didn’t move. The wipe had little cartoon strawberries on the packaging. It came from her limited-edition designer pouch. That was her favorite trick—performing acts of public kindness while twisting the knife, making sure everyone thought she was the caring one. “I don’t want it,” I said, pushing the wipe back. “Oh, don’t be like that,” she said, sliding it right back into my space. Her manicured fingernails tapped rhythmically against the wooden desk. “Tap. Tap. Tap.” “I’m just looking out for you. Your little diary said you wanted to disappear, and I’d hate for you to do something dramatic.” She whispered the last words, but she chose her volume perfectly. The three rows around us heard every syllable. “Brooke,” I said, finally raising my eyes. “Yeah?” She tilted her head, her smile bright and vacant. “You spent fifty dollars of your own money on someone you found disgusting. You must have been really desperate.” Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What did you say?” “Mr. Humbert said the matter is closed. So it’s closed.” I swept the wipe off my desk and into the wastebasket, then buried my head in my arms. A heavy silence fell over the desks. Then Brooke let out a sharp, loud laugh. “Wow, Hazel. You really are thick-skinned, aren’t you?” She spun on her heel, her sleek ponytail whipping against my shoulder as she walked away. I heard her whisper to Kayla, “Can you believe her? The whole class saw her diary, and she’s still pretending she’s fine. Unbelievable.” Kayla snorted. “Honestly, if that were me, I would have transferred schools by now.” During second-period algebra, the teacher’s voice became white noise. My mind kept looping back to the morning. When the smartboard first lit up, the thing that broke me wasn’t my own words on display. It was the look on everyone’s faces. Excitement. Pure, unadulterated excitement. They looked like they were getting front-row seats to a free circus. It had started three months ago. That was when I was diagnosed with severe hypothyroidism. The medication the specialist prescribed triggered an insatiable appetite. I gained forty pounds over summer break. On the first day of junior year, I walked into homeroom wearing the largest size of the school uniform hoodie. Brooke was sitting by the window applying lip gloss. She looked up, her hand freezing mid-stroke. “Hazel?” she drawled, dragging out the vowels. “What… did you eat over the summer?” The class erupted. From that day on, the name “Whale” stuck to me like wet paint. I went to Mr. Humbert about it once. He had sighed and said, “Hazel, kids tease each other. You shouldn’t be so sensitive. If you focus on managing your weight, I’m sure the comments will stop.” “Manage my weight.” I tried to explain that it was a hormonal issue and that I couldn’t stop taking my steroids and thyroid pills. Mr. Humbert had stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment before saying, “Well, then you’ll just have to ignore them.” “Ignore them.” And so, I did. For three months. Until I sought out Haven, searching for a single soul who would listen to me without judgment. Only to find out it was a college theater student paid fifty bucks by Brooke. Why fifty bucks? Because the student had posted the receipt on his public social media: “Easiest fifty bucks of my life. Just had to talk to some fat high school girl for thirty minutes a day and pretend to be nice. Genuinely nauseating, but money is money.” I saw the screenshot on the school’s anonymous forum the next day. It was pinned to the top of the board. The title read: “Brooke is a genius! Fifty bucks for the best reality TV of the school year.” There were over three hundred comments, all of them laughing. At lunch, I stayed in the empty classroom. I reached into the dark corners of my backpack where my pill bottle was buried, wrapped in layers of paper towels. I didn’t take them out. I just needed to feel the plastic edges. I needed to know they were there. It felt like a safety net. When you know there’s a net at the bottom of the cliff, standing on the edge doesn’t feel quite as terrifying. When I came back from third period, I found a small slip of paper on my desk. The handwriting was unfamiliar, written in hurried ballpoint pen: “I thought what you said this morning was really brave. Don’t let them get to you.” There was no signature. I flipped the paper over; the back was blank. I looked around the room, but no one met my eyes. I folded the paper and slipped it deep into my pocket. After fourth period, Brooke returned. This time she brought Kayla and two other girls, forming a semi-circle around my desk. “Hazel, did you report my post on the school forum?” “What post?” “Don’t play stupid. The post got taken down for harassment.” She crossed her arms, her fingers tapping against her elbows. “Everyone in our grade knew that post was about you. You’re the only one who would complain.” “It wasn’t me.” “Then who was it?” “I don’t know.” She stared at me, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. Then she leaned down, her lips brushing close to my ear. Her voice was a soft, intimate whisper: “Let me tell you something, Hazel. My dad literally built the new science wing of this school. You can complain to the principal, the school board, whoever you want—the result will be the same. But if you keep making trouble for me…” She straightened up, patting my shoulder gently. “…next time, it won’t just be fifty dollars.” She walked away, Kayla following closely behind. Kayla glanced back at me once. It wasn’t a look of malice. It was pity. And somehow, that felt so much worse. 3 “Hazel, you failed your physical assessment again.” Coach Riggs stood by the track, clicking his pen against his clipboard. His plastic whistle jingled against his chest. “Twelve minutes for the mile run. That’s a fail. Ten sit-ups in a minute. Fail.” He looked at me, drawing a heavy black ‘X’ next to my name. “Makeup test is next week. If you don’t pass, you’re looking at a failing grade for PE this semester.” “Coach Riggs,” I rasped, my throat dry. “I have a medical waiver for my thyroid condition. My doctor said high-intensity cardio is dangerous for my heart rate right now—” “Then show me the paperwork,” he cut in, not looking up. “Words don’t keep me compliant with the district. Bring me the signed medical release, and I’ll exempt you. Otherwise, I can’t give you special treatment. It’s school policy.” The waiver was locked in my mother’s dresser. Last month, when I asked her to sign the school’s exemption form, she had snapped: “Stop using your illness as an excuse to be lazy. You want the school thinking you’re broken? Do you know how embarrassing that is for me?” She had kept the original medical forms at home, refusing to give them to me. She thought my illness was a personal failure. “Have it on my desk by Monday morning, understand?” Coach Riggs called out, already walking toward the group of students practicing the long jump. I stood at the edge of the track, my gray school gym shirt soaked through with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. Brooke walked past, her arm looped through Kayla’s. Her high-waisted athletic shorts made her look like she belonged in an activewear ad. She caught my eye and smirked. “Hey, Hazel, if you need someone to run for you, I can do it. You can just stand there and hold my water bottle.” Kayla laughed. “Oh my god, stop. Remember the last time she fell? It took the janitor three days to get the blood off the asphalt.” “Right, right,” Brooke gasped, covering her mouth with theatrical horror. “Someone took a video of that, didn’t they? I think it got like four thousand likes on TikTok.” A dull, throb of pain bloomed in my knees. That fall was two months ago. I didn’t know anyone had filmed it. I had no idea it was on the internet. “Just search ‘big girl track fail’ and you’ll find it,” Kayla added helpfully. “Don’t worry, your face isn’t in it. Just your uniform. But everyone in town knows those colors.” They walked off, their laughter carried away by the wind. I stood frozen, the cold afternoon air seeping through my damp shirt, chilling me to the bone. I searched for it. During study hall, I borrowed my desk partner’s phone. My mother had taken mine away the previous week, claiming I was “addicted to screens.” I found the video. 4,316 likes. Over eight hundred comments. The clip was twelve seconds long. I was running, my movements heavy and labored, when my sneaker caught on a crack. I went down hard, sliding across the track. The blood on my knees was bright and clear. The audio was filled with the echoing laughter of the kids on the bleachers. The top comment read: “LMAO the seismic activity from that fall must have registered on the Richter scale.” Another read: “Maybe if she put down the fork she wouldn’t be ruining the school track.” A third: “Is that Lakeview High? They must be overfeeding the kids there.” I handed the phone back to my partner. “Thank you.” “Yeah, no problem,” he muttered. His name was Jared. He was a quiet boy who rarely spoke, but he looked at me now with an uncomfortable, lingering gaze. “What?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said quickly, looking back down at his notebook. After school, I didn’t go straight home. I walked to the public library and logged into my student portal. I found the digital copy of my medical diagnosis from the hospital. “Patient: Hazel Wood. Diagnosis: Severe Hypothyroidism. Undergoing active hormone therapy. Side effects include significant weight gain, lethargy, and joint pain. Strenuous cardiovascular exercise is highly discouraged.” The hospital stamp was visible at the bottom. I spent ten cents to print it out, placed it carefully in a folder, and slid it into my bag. At least this was one thing I could fix myself. When I got home, the house was dark. My mother wasn’t there. On the kitchen counter sat a bowl of cold, congealed pasta. A note was taped to the microwave: “Working late. Eat this.” The pasta had absorbed all the sauce, turning into a solid, unappetizing mass. I took a bite, but my throat was too dry to swallow. With my phone gone and the TV remote confiscated—my mother had taken it after declaring that “watching TV all day is why you’re getting fat”—there was nothing to do. The house was so quiet that the hum of the refrigerator sounded like a roar. I washed the bowl, went to my room, and sat at my desk. I tried to focus on my algebra homework, but by the third problem, my mind blanked. Usually, this was when I would open Haven. I would write: “This homework is impossible. I think my brain is broken.” And the voice would reply: “You’re not stupid, Hazel. The curriculum is just poorly designed. You’re doing great.” And I would smile, and keep going. 4 “Hazel, I can’t accept this printout.” Coach Riggs slid the folder back to my side of the desk, his finger tapping the paper. “Why not?” “It needs a parent’s signature. Your mother didn’t sign the waiver line.” “Coach, the diagnosis is real. You can call the clinic to verify—” “Rules are rules, Wood,” he said, waving his hand to dismiss me. “I’m not trying to make your life difficult, but if something happens to you on my watch and I don’t have a parental waiver on file, the school is liable. I can’t take that risk.” I clutched the folder to my chest, stood there for three seconds, and then turned around. In the main hallway, Brooke was leaning against the water fountain. When she saw me, her lips curved into a sharp little smile. “Waiver didn’t go through, huh?” I ignored her and headed toward the lockers. She followed me, her pace slow and deliberate. “I wanted to tell you something.” I walked faster. “Your mom worked really late last night, didn’t she? Like, past eleven?” I stopped. “How do you know that?” She took a sip from her water bottle, her tone light and conversational. “Because my mom’s spa had an evening event yesterday, and your mom was there getting the full package. She went in at nine and didn’t leave until almost eleven. I was waiting in the lobby for my mom and saw her run her card.” She leaned in closer, dropping her voice. “A six-hundred-dollar treatment. She certainly doesn’t mind spending on herself.” My fingers dug into the edge of my folder, bending the cardboard. “Why are you telling me this?” “No reason,” she said, blinking innocently. “Just thought it was funny. You wrote in your little diary that your mom wouldn’t buy you a new track suit because the old one was so tight you couldn’t breathe. But she has six hundred dollars for a facial.” She laughed, tossing her empty bottle into the recycling bin. “She’s not cheap, Hazel. She’s just cheap when it comes to “you”.” I stood in the hallway, my chest tightening so hard I could barely draw breath. It wasn’t because her words were cruel. It was because they were true. “Anyway, see you in gym,” Brooke said, waving a hand. “Don’t fall today, Whale. They just resurfaced the track.” She sauntered off. I stood alone in the hallway, the pale winter light cutting through the glass doors. My palms were sweating so much the ink on the printed diagnosis was beginning to smear. I didn’t hear a single word the teachers said for the rest of the day. My mind was trapped on that number: “six hundred dollars.” The buttons on my school hoodie were practically bursting. When I had begged her for a size up, she had told me, “We’ll buy it when you lose the weight. I’m not throwing money away.” But she had six hundred dollars for a spa night. When school let out, I didn’t wait for her. I walked straight home, went into her master bedroom, and approached her vanity. A brand-new jar of luxury night cream sat on the counter, the expensive packaging still pristine. I turned the box over. The price tag read: “Two hundred and eighty dollars.” I opened her top dresser drawer and found her credit card statement for the month. I scanned the charges: “The Oasis Spa: $600.00.” “Nordstrom: $800.00.” “The Grill Room (Dinner for Two): $150.00.” Dinner for two. Who had she gone with? “What are you doing in here?” My mother’s voice came from the doorway, her keys jingling in her hand. “Nothing,” I said, sliding the statement back into the drawer. “Who gave you permission to be in my room?” Her face darkened instantly as she dropped her purse onto the bed. “Spying on me? What is wrong with you?” “Mom, I need you to sign the PE waiver.” “Not this again,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. “I told you, I’m not signing it. You want the whole town knowing you’re sick? Just walk the track if you can’t run.” “I’ll fail PE if you don’t sign.” “Then run. Walking never killed anyone.” “The doctor said my heart rate—” “Doctors love to exaggerate!” she snapped. “Look at you, always whining about being sick. If you put half as much effort into your schoolwork as you do into finding excuses, we wouldn’t have these problems.” She hung up her coat and walked into the kitchen. I followed her, standing in the doorway. “Mom.” “What?” “You spent six hundred dollars at the spa last night.” She froze mid-movement. She turned around slowly, her expression hardening from annoyance to a cold, flat anger. “Who told you that?” “I saw the bill.” “You went through my things?” her voice rose, shrill and sharp. “Hazel, you are getting completely out of hand! It is my money. I work fifty hours a week for it. Do I not have the right to spend my own money?” “I didn’t say you couldn’t—” “Then what are you saying?” She slammed a frying pan onto the stove. “Are you going to write about this on your little app now? Tell everyone how terrible your mother is?” “The app.” It was always the app. Those words had become a weapon she used to silence me. Every time I expressed an ounce of frustration, she brought it up, as if any boundary I tried to set was just me betraying her to the world. “I just wanted you to sign the paper,” I whispered. “I’m not signing it. Get out of my kitchen.” She turned the stove on, and the smell of cooking oil filled the room, making my eyes water. I walked back to my bedroom and closed the door. I sat at my desk, opened my drawer, and pulled out the paper towels. The prescription bottle was heavy. I unscrewed the cap. The white tablets inside looked clean, almost peaceful. I began to count them out onto my desk. One. Two. Three. From the other room, I could hear my mother’s voice. She was on the phone, laughing. “Oh, of course, Mr. Davies. I have the marketing mockups ready for you to look over tomorrow morning…” Her laughter drifted through the thin drywall. It was a voice she never used with me. Warm. Eager to please. Alive. I swept the pills into my palm. Thirty-two tablets. A small mountain of white. I picked up the half-empty glass of stale water on my nightstand. Without pausing, I threw the pills into my mouth and swallowed. There were too many. They caught in my throat, dry and choking. I drank the rest of the water, tilting my head back, forcing them down. They tasted bitter. Chalky and sharp. My throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper. I slipped the empty bottle back into the drawer, laid my head down on the desk, and pressed my forehead against my unfinished algebra homework. My vision began to blur. My fingers went numb first, followed by a cold, heavy ache in my stomach. I don’t know how much time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more. I heard footsteps outside my door. “Knock. Knock.” “Hazel, dinner’s ready. Get out here.” I didn’t move. I couldn’t. “Hazel?” Her voice changed, sharp with irritation. “Stop throwing a tantrum. Open the door!” Silence. Then came the jingle of keys. She always kept the spare key to my room on her ring. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. I heard the sound of a plate shattering on the floor. Then, a scream. “HAZEL!”

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While Wesley was spending two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on a custom couture gown for his girlfriend, I was clutching a past-due hospital bill at the billing window, still bleeding from a miscarriage. I swiped my card twice. Both times, the terminal read “Declined: Insufficient Funds”. Right then, my phone buzzed with a transaction alert from his account. A second later, Daphne updated her Instagram. In the photo, she was wearing the gown, hand over her mouth in a coy laugh as she posed in front of a mirror. Her caption read: “He says little girls are meant to be spoiled.” I stared at those words for a long time before finally dialing his number. “Wesley, I’m at the hospital. I don’t have enough to pay the bill.” My throat was tight, dry. I wanted to tell him that our baby was gone. But he spoke first, his voice dripping with indifference. “Apply for medical expenses through my assistant. If it’s that urgent, just put it on your personal credit card for now.” Everyone on the outside envied me for marrying into a wealthy family. But the reality was that every single dollar I spent had to go through a formal application process, waiting for his assistant’s stamp of approval. Even the hospital bill for my post-miscarriage D&C was no exception. Yet, Daphne didn’t have to write a single request for her gown. Wesley seemed to suddenly remember his recent purchase. He let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Maggie, are you throwing another fit because of Daphne?” “We agreed on an open marriage. If you’re feeling neglected, go find yourself a college boy to keep you company.” In the background, someone laughed and chimed in. “Come on, Wes, stop teasing your wife. You know she’d never do that.” “She worships the ground you walk on. She wouldn’t have the guts to play around even if you paid her.” Wesley chuckled, too. “Just don’t take it too far. You’re still my wife, after all.” Listening to the chorus of laughter over the line, I suddenly realized Wesley was right. For the first time in our marriage, I forced a smile and whispered into the receiver: “Okay.” … The moment the word left my mouth, a wave of unabashed laughter erupted from the other end. “Sounds like she’s actually pissed this time.” “Oof, throwing down ultimatums now.” “You better go sweet-talk her, Wes.” No one believed my “okay.” Wesley’s tone remained casual, detached. “Sure, go have your fun. Want me to introduce you to some clean, discreet guys?” “No, thank you.” I gripped the paper bill until my knuckles turned white. It had only been three hours since my surgery. I could barely stand upright. My lower abdomen felt like it was being scraped repeatedly by a dull knife, and cold sweat was drenching my back. I scrolled through my contacts, my thumb hovering over a name. Jude. He was a junior from my university days, a bright, quiet boy my father had sponsored years ago. We hadn’t spoken in years. I stared at his name for a long time before hitting dial. It rang three times before he answered. “Maggie?” My voice was raw, barely a whisper. “Can I borrow five thousand dollars?” The line went silent for a beat. “Send me your routing number.” He didn’t ask what it was for. He didn’t ask where Wesley was. Three minutes later, a notification pinged. The money was in my account. I walked back to the window and cleared the balance. Then, my phone buzzed again. It was Wesley’s assistant. “Ma’am, Mr. Norton says that all medical expenses must be accompanied by full documentation.” “Additionally, your household budget for this month has already exceeded the limit. This will require secondary approval.” I looked at the phrase “secondary approval” and suddenly wanted to laugh. I laughed so hard my abdomen spasmed, forcing me to lean against the wall for support. I was still bleeding. The baby was gone. And yet, I had to prove that losing my child was a justifiable expense. I remembered the first two years of our marriage. Wesley had genuinely cared for me back then. After my parents died, when creditors were hounding me at the hospital doors, he was the one who pulled me behind him and stood tall. “From now on, she’s my responsibility,” he had told them. Back then, I thought that meant love. So when he suggested taking over the management of my parents’ estate and their outstanding debts, I didn’t hesitate. He had said, “Maggie, you’re fragile, and you don’t understand these things. I don’t want those monsters terrifying you anymore.” Later, he explained that the family trust accounts were complex, and that high-society families were paranoid about money. “If you need anything, just tell my assistant. It’s not to restrict you, sweetie. It’s just to keep people from gossiping. I don’t want anyone claiming you married me just to squander the family fortune.” At first, the approvals were only for large purchases. Then, they became for daily expenses. Eventually, even buying a bouquet of flowers, booking a photography class, or getting a prescription filled required a written explanation of purpose. It wasn’t until Daphne entered the picture that the truth became clear. The system wasn’t a family rule. It was just a leash for me. My phone lit up again. Daphne had posted another photo. She was standing on the deck of a yacht in that custom gown. Wesley’s hand was in the frame, gently draping a cashmere shawl over her shoulders. The caption read: “It’s breezy out here. He says little girls shouldn’t catch a cold.” I stared at the shawl. It was the exact one I had wanted for my birthday last year. Back then, Wesley had glanced at the price tag and said, “Maggie, you don’t need things like this anymore. A respectable wife should carry herself with dignity, not throw money around like a schoolgirl.” It wasn’t that he was stingy. He just hated spending money on me. Just as I put my phone down, Wesley called. The background was loud with music and laughter. His voice was lazy. “Did you pay the bill?” “Yes,” I murmured. “Don’t come directly to me for these minor things next time,” he said. “My assistant has a protocol to follow.” I squeezed the phone. “Wesley, I had a miscarriage today.” The line went quiet for two seconds. Then, he let out a soft, dismissive laugh. “Maggie, that’s enough.” I closed my eyes. “I’m not lying to you.” “You were still on birth control last month.” Daphne’s voice drifted through the receiver. “Who is that, Wes?” Wesley didn’t even bother to mute me. “Maggie’s throwing another tantrum about a baby.” Someone nearby laughed. “Is she still trying to trap you with a kid?” “Wes, do even high-society wives get this insecure?” Wesley said flatly, “She just has too much free time.” I stared at the sterile white ceiling of the hospital corridor. Suddenly, the pain in my stomach vanished. “Wesley, I want a divorce.” The noise on his end died instantly. When he spoke again, his voice was dangerously cold. “Maggie, do you even know what you’re saying?” “I do.” “Over a hospital bill?” “Because I don’t want to submit an application to be your wife anymore.” He was silent for a long moment, then let out a sharp laugh. “The townhouse you live in? Mine. The car you drive? Mine. The credit card you use is an authorized user card under my account.” “Maggie, if you leave me, you won’t even be able to afford your prescriptions next month without begging someone else for cash.” “Wake up,” Wesley snapped, “before you talk to me about divorce again.” He hung up. A few minutes later, a text from his assistant arrived. “Ma’am, per Mr. Norton’s instructions, your secondary credit card has been temporarily deactivated.” “Any essential future expenses must be submitted for approval seven business days in advance.” I stared at the screen. Wesley was right about one thing. I did need to wake up. I opened my browser, my fingers hovering over the search bar. Finally, I typed: “Divorce lawyers near me.” When the call connected, a woman’s calm voice answered. “Hello, how can I help you today?” Clutching my past-due hospital bill, I said, syllable by syllable: “I need to file for divorce.” The next day, the hospital called, asking me to pay a deposit for my follow-up medications. I took photos of my discharge papers and uploaded them to the family expense portal, following the rules Wesley had established. There was no category for pregnancy loss. After searching for a long time, I finally selected “Other”. In the justification box, I typed four words: “Post-miscarriage surgical D&C.” The system rejected it almost instantly. “Error: Incomplete supporting documentation.” I uploaded the doctor’s official diagnosis. Five minutes later, it was rejected again. “Error: Insufficient proof of non-elective or emergency nature.” I stared at the red text, my fingers clenching into fists. Half an hour later, the assistant called. “Ma’am, Mr. Norton has reviewed your medical expense request.” “And?” I asked. The assistant hesitated. “Mr. Norton feels that your emotions have been unstable lately. He believes medical expenses need to be verified more stringently.” I laughed quietly. “How does he want to verify it?” “He wants you to provide a signed statement from your physician, certifying that this was an involuntary termination of pregnancy.” I sat on my hospital bed, completely frozen. “Involuntary termination of pregnancy.” Wesley suspected me of aborting our child on purpose. Or rather, he had never believed I was pregnant in the first place. He thought I was playing games. Sensing the cruelty of the request, the assistant lowered her voice. “Ma’am, I am only delivering the message.” “Did Daphne have to prove her gown was an involuntary purchase?” I asked softly. The assistant fell silent. I hung up. I remembered the first time we had ever talked about having a baby. Wesley had come back from a business trip with a tiny pair of hand-knitted woolen booties. He said he had passed a boutique and couldn’t help himself. He had placed them in my palm, his ears flushing a light pink. “When we have a daughter, she’s going to wear these.” I had tucked those booties into the very back of my nightstand drawer. Now, they were probably long gone, discarded by the housekeepers as clutter. Not long after, an Instagram request popped up. The bio read: “Maggie, please. I just want to explain.” It was Daphne. I ignored it. She quickly texted me from an unknown number. “Maggie, don’t blame Wesley. He’s just terrified you’re going to trap him with a baby.” “He told me you used to be so sweet and compliant. He doesn’t know what happened to you lately.” “Also, as a woman, you really should take care of your body. Maybe losing the baby was just the universe’s way of saying it wasn’t meant to be.” Looking at the screen, my stomach churned. She knew I had miscarried. She knew Wesley doubted me. And yet, she chose to use those breezy, spiritual words to step on my bleeding wound. In the afternoon, Wesley finally showed up at the hospital. Not to see me. But to discharge Daphne. She had been admitted to the same hospital the night before for stomach pain after drinking too much at a party. She was in a private VIP suite. I was in a shared recovery ward. Through the glass doors of the corridor, I watched him drape his wool coat over her shoulders. Daphne caught sight of me. Her face paled, and she instantly shrunk behind him. “Maggie…” Wesley followed her gaze and frowned when he saw me standing there. “Why are you still here?” I leaned against the wall, a dull, heavy ache pulsing through my lower abdomen. “The hospital fees weren’t approved.” An impatient shadow crossed his face. “I told you to submit the required paperwork.” I looked him dead in the eye. “You want me to prove I didn’t terminate the pregnancy on purpose?” His gaze cooled. “Maggie, I am simply asking you to follow protocol.” Daphne tugged gently at his sleeve. “Wes, don’t be harsh on her. She just lost a baby. Her head must be in a terrible place right now.” It sounded gentle, but every syllable was meant to paint me as unstable. Wesley scoffed. “We don’t even know if there was a pregnancy to begin with.” Even now, he believed I was lying. He believed I was staging a tragedy to hold him hostage. “I’ll have my assistant approve a partial payment,” he said, turning back to Daphne. “But stop making a scene.” I looked at him. “Does Daphne’s VIP room for a hangover go through the same approval process?” Daphne’s eyes welled with tears. “Maggie, please don’t do this. I really had no idea you were in this hospital too.” Wesley stepped between us, shielding her. “Maggie, that’s enough.” A nurse rushed out of the ward behind me. “Mrs. Norton, what are you doing out of bed? You’re still actively bleeding, you shouldn’t be standing!” Wesley’s expression shifted, but only for a fraction of a second. Daphne suddenly clutched her stomach, whimpering. “Wes, it hurts again.” He immediately turned to support her. “I’ll get you to the car.” As he led her away, he threw a cold remark over his shoulder. “I’ll have the assistant handle the outstanding bill.” That night, the system sent me an automated notification: “Request Approved.” “Approved Amount: $150.” “Memo: Discretionary humanitarian allowance. Non-essential household expense.” I stared at those words for a very long time. “Discretionary humanitarian allowance.” So my baby. My surgery. My blood. To Wesley, they were worth exactly a hundred and fifty dollars of charity. On the day of my discharge, no one came to pick me up. I called an Uber. The driver caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Are you alright, sweetie?” “I’m fine,” I said. But as soon as the words left my mouth, tears spilled over my cheeks. I didn’t go back to the Norton estate. Instead, I rented a cheap, furnished studio on the south side of town. The room was tiny, the window let in a draft, and the sheets smelled faintly of bleach that wouldn’t wash out. But the deadbolt on the door was brand new. And the key was in my hand. That was enough. That night, I emailed Wesley the divorce papers. He didn’t reply. Half an hour later, Daphne updated her Instagram story. It was a screenshot of a text message. The contact name was blurred, but the avatar belonged to Wesley. In the chat, the man wrote: “Don’t worry about her. She has nowhere else to go.” Daphne had captioned it: “The ones who are truly loved never have to fight for it.” Someone commented below: “Wes is so shameless about how much he spoils you.” “Is the wife going to throw another fit?” Daphne replied: “Maggie just loves him too much.” I took a screenshot of the post. The next morning, Wesley’s call came through. His first words were: “Where did you sleep last night?” “None of your business,” I said. “Maggie, don’t test my patience.” I let out a soft laugh. “Mr. Norton, do I need to submit an approval form before I hail an Uber now?” The line went silent. His voice dropped to a low, threatening register. “Do you have to be this passive-aggressive?” “I’m just learning the rules.” “I saw the divorce papers,” he said. I held the phone close to my ear, remaining silent. Wesley took my silence as a sign of softening. His tone eased slightly. “Come home. I can overlook what happened at the hospital yesterday.” I closed my eyes. “You can overlook it?” “Yes,” he said, sounding like a king granting a pardon. “Daphne even said she doesn’t hold a grudge against you.” I actually laughed out loud. “She doesn’t hold a grudge? For what? For me miscarrying without submitting a request seven days in advance?” Wesley’s voice grew icy. “Are you ever going to drop this? How many times are you going to use this miscarriage excuse?” “Maggie, I am asking you one last time. Are you coming home?” “No,” I said. The next second, a series of text notifications flashed across my screen. “Your access to the Norton Estate smart locks has been revoked.” “Your garage access has been revoked.” “Your household allowance account has been frozen.” Then, Wesley’s cold voice echoed from the speaker. “Then learn how to survive on your own.” He hung up. Sitting on the edge of the creaky bed in my studio, the ache in my abdomen flared up again. My phone buzzed. It was another screenshot from Daphne. In a group chat with Wesley’s circle, someone had asked: “Did the wife really pack up and leave?” Wesley had replied: “Let her cool off.” Someone else laughed: “She can’t survive three days without you. She’ll be back.” Daphne had reacted with a laughing cat emoji. She added a direct message to me: “Maggie, don’t ruin your own life just to prove a point. Men don’t like stubborn women.” I looked at the messages, taking screenshots of every single one, and sent them to my lawyer’s inbox. Three days went by, and Wesley didn’t get the apology he expected. He had assumed that once my credit cards were cut off, my access revoked, and my allowance frozen, I wouldn’t last more than twenty-four hours. On the third night, his assistant stood in his study, speaking in a low, cautious voice. “Mr. Norton, Mrs. Norton still hasn’t returned to the estate.” Wesley’s pen paused over his paperwork. “Where is she staying?” The assistant handed over an iPad. On the screen was an image of a weathered, brick apartment building. Wesley took one look, then tossed the tablet back onto the desk. “Let her stay there.” “I’ve sheltered her too much over the years. She’s forgotten what the real world actually looks like.” His tone was detached, as if he truly didn’t care. His phone buzzed. Daphne had sent a photo of herself sitting in a plush booth at an exclusive lounge, smiling brightly. “Wes, everyone’s waiting for you.” Half an hour later, he arrived at the lounge. The lighting was dim, the clink of crystal glasses echoing over the low thrum of music. When his friends saw him walk in, they immediately began teasing him. “Hey, Wes! Still no sign of the wife?” “You’re really not going to go bring her back?” Wesley sank into the leather sofa, his expression unreadable. “No.” Someone quickly chimed in. “Honestly, she always does this. She talks a big game about divorce, but she’s just waiting for you to call her.” Daphne sat close to him, murmuring softly, “Honestly, I feel bad for Maggie. She’s just so desperate for your attention that she’d make up something like a baby.” Hearing the word “baby”, Wesley’s fingers twitched slightly against his glass. Another guy laughed. “Is she still trying to play the miscarriage card? Has she not gotten over that yet?” Wesley set his glass down on the table. His voice was flat. “She was on birth control last month. There was no baby.” The booth erupted into knowing laughter. “Do you think she’s actually found someone else?” someone joked, recalling my “okay” from the phone call nights ago. But someone else scoffed instantly. “No way. She’s just throwing a tantrum. She’d never touch another man. She’s too devoted to Wes.” “If she wanted to cheat, she would’ve done it years ago.” Wesley’s phone sat on the corner of the table, its screen dark. Yet, in the brief pauses of conversation, he kept imagining he heard it vibrate. He glanced down, but there was nothing. A sudden, sharp irritation flared in his chest. He knew me better than anyone. I was a creature of habit. I always waited for him to look back, always stopped in my tracks the moment he called my name. I couldn’t actually leave. And I certainly wouldn’t be with another man. Just then, his phone illuminated, the ringtone piercing through the chatter. A friend laughed. “See? Speak of the devil. She’s finally bowing her head. You really know how to handle her, Wes.” A smug smile touched Wesley’s lips as he answered the call. “Maggie, ready to talk sense?” “Hello, is this Mr. Wesley Norton?” The voice on the other end was unfamiliar and clinical. The smile on Wesley’s face froze. “This is the billing department at Mercy General Hospital. We haven’t been able to reach Ms. Maggie Norton, so we are contacting you as the primary guarantor.” “We need to know when she will be returning for her follow-up appointment. Although the surgical miscarriage procedure went smoothly, her physical state is weaker than average, and she requires—” “Who…” Wesley’s voice cracked, thick and hoarse, cutting the speaker off. “Who did you say had surgery?” “Maggie Norton. Your wife. She was admitted alone three days ago for a surgical D&C following a miscarriage.” In the lounge booth, the noise died down to a sudden, suffocating silence. Wesley sat frozen on the sofa, his body turning rigid as stone.

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At my son’s hundred-day celebration, my sister-in-law, who had spent the last three years treating my life like her personal bargain bin, suddenly leaned over the banquet table. She wore a bright, sharp grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Quanna,” Monica said, her voice cutting through the chatter of the private dining room. “How come this baby doesn’t look a single bit like Wyatt? Come on, you have to tell us the truth.” In my past life, I froze. Under the weight of thirty pairs of staring eyes, my tongue turned to lead. My silence was all the proof she needed. She immediately accused me of stepping out on her brother, spinning my stunned confusion into a confession of guilt. My mother-in-law turned on me instantly. Wyatt demanded a paternity test. I took it, and the results proved Henry was his. But they didn’t care. They claimed I’d forged the paperwork, dragged my name through the mud, and locked me out of my own home. Sinking into a severe, suffocating postpartum depression, I ended my life. Now, a sharp gasp rattled my lungs. The freezing water of the river from my memory vanished, replaced by the warm, yeast-heavy scent of the restaurant. I was back. Before I could even gather my bearings to fire back, my mother-in-law, Helen, stepped in to play her favorite role: the peacemaker. “Oh, ignore her. You know she’s got a big mouth. She’s just joking,” Helen said, waving a hand dismissively. But Monica, emboldened by my quietness, leaned in closer, raising her voice so the neighboring tables would hear. “Quanna, if you’ve got nothing to hide, why aren’t you saying anything? You know exactly whose baby this is, don’t you?” I remained silent, watching the two of them perform. It was only after my death in my previous life that I discovered how meticulously choreographed this routine was. Monica played the attacker; Helen played the reasonable mediator; Wyatt played the silent, heartbroken victim. It was a coordinated siege designed to wear me down, force me to agree to a divorce, and walk away with absolutely nothing—leaving them to seize the estate my parents had built for me. I looked down at the baby sleeping in my arms, and a quiet, cold smile touched my lips. … “Quanna, if you’ve got nothing to hide, why aren’t you saying anything?” Monica’s voice went up an octave, slicing through the ambient clink of silverware. “Whose kid is it, really?” I didn’t answer. My death in the last life had been too miserable, too quiet. This time, I wanted to let them perform. I wanted them to build their stage so high that the fall would shatter them completely. Seeing that I wasn’t rising to the bait, Monica reached back into her arsenal and pulled out her first witness. It was Wyatt’s distant aunt, Agnes, who worked as a nurse receptionist at the local community clinic. “Aunt Agnes, you were down at the municipal women’s clinic late last year, wasn’t that right? Tell everyone what you saw.” Agnes was pushed into the spotlight. Her face flushed a deep, uncomfortable red as she shifted her weight, stammering, “I… well, I was picking up some inventory records near the OB-GYN wing. I’m pretty sure I saw Quanna there. There was a man with her… and it definitely wasn’t Wyatt.” “Did you all hear that?” Monica slapped her knee, her voice screeching like metal on glass. “Going to her prenatal appointments with another man!” Agnes waved her hands in a frantic attempt to cover herself. “I only said it looked like her. I didn’t get a clear look at her face. I could have been mistaken…” But Monica had already turned to the rest of the family. “Even our own blood won’t cover for her anymore! I think we all know what’s going on here.” “Young women these days, honestly…” “Wyatt treated her like royalty. Bought her a house, let her drive the car, and this is how she repays him.” The murmuring rippled through the tables, growing thicker, heavier. The looks directed at me shifted from idle curiosity to cold disgust. My father-in-law, Richard, had remained quiet until now. He sat at the head of the table, slowly blowing the steam off his tea. He took a deliberate sip, set the cup down, and spoke with a low, measured gravity. “In matters like this, where there is smoke, there is usually fire.” The words weren’t loud, but they carried the weight of an verdict. Helen’s face hardened instantly. She slammed her palm onto the white tablecloth. “Quanna, you will give us an explanation today! You’ve dragged our family’s honor through the dirt!” The relatives quickly chimed in. “Exactly. She needs to explain herself.” “You can’t just sweep this under the rug.” “Wyatt, say something!” Every eye in the room pivoted to my husband. Wyatt sat beside me, his head bowed, slowly pushing food around his plate. Hearing his name, he raised his head, his face a perfectly crafted mask of quiet agony. “Quanna… just tell them. If you’re innocent, what is there to be afraid of?” His voice was gentle, almost pleading. But every syllable was a calculated twist of the knife. I kept my mouth shut. I knew this was only the prologue. Next, they would try to force me to my knees, demanding a confession before the entire family. I let out a soft, sharp laugh—at myself. At how desperately I had tried to explain myself in my past life, begging for Wyatt’s trust, completely blind to the fact that the man looking at me with such wounded devotion was the one pulling the strings. Monica caught the tiny curve of my mouth and pointed a manicured finger at me. “Look! She’s laughing! She’s not even ashamed! Look how shameless she is!” She reached into her designer purse, pulled out a folded, crumpled sheet of paper, and held it high above her head. “Look at this, everyone! I had a friend in the pathology lab run a check. Quanna had an amniocentesis done during her second trimester, and the genetic markers are right here—this baby does not belong to my brother!” She marched around the table, tossing the paper in front of the older relatives. “Black and white. Read it yourselves. It has her name right at the top.” Wyatt’s aunt Beatrice took it, clicking her tongue. Aunt Cynthia shook her head in disapproval. Monica sneered, turning back to me. “What do you have to say now?” I reached out my hand, letting it tremble just slightly. “Let me see it.” Monica rolled her eyes and flicked the paper toward me. It drifted to the carpet. I bent down, picked it up, and smoothed out the creases. My name was indeed printed at the top, but the formatting was completely off, and the processing dates didn’t align with my actual medical records. It was a cheap, rushed forgery. “This is fake,” I said. “I don’t recognize this.” Monica practically leaped into the air. “Fake? You’re calling an official lab report fake? You’re just terrified because you’ve been caught!” Helen joined the fray. “Quanna, do you think a hospital just hands out fake reports? Stop lying to save your skin.” “Fine,” I said, looking up. “Since you’re all so convinced, let’s do a legal paternity test. We can go to the clinic tomorrow morning.” Monica’s eyes flared with triumph. “Fine! But when the results come back and prove you’re a liar, you leave this marriage with nothing. No alimony, and you don’t touch a single thing.” I stared directly into her eyes. “Deal. But if the test proves you’ve slandered me, every single one of you packs your bags and gets out of my house.” The room went dead silent. Helen’s expression faltered. She knew exactly whose house it was. My parents had paid for it in cash, and the deed carried only my name. A relative muttered from the back, “Wait, I thought the house belonged to Wyatt?” “Yeah, didn’t he say he bought it before the wedding?” The whispers started up again, turning in a different direction. Wyatt’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. He lunged forward, grabbed my arm, and dragged me toward the quiet hallway near the restrooms. “Quanna, are you out of your mind?” he hissed, his grip tightening. “Saying things like that in front of my family? Where am I supposed to put my pride?” I pulled my arm back, but his fingers held fast. “Did I say anything that wasn’t true? Did my parents not pay for that house in full? Is my name not the only one on the deed?” Wyatt’s eyes widened, his lips trembling with anger. “You married me! What’s yours is mine. We’re a family—why do you have to keep score like this? How am I supposed to look my relatives in the eye if they think I’m living off my wife?” I wrenched my wrist free, leaving a dull red mark on my skin. “And how am I supposed to look anyone in the eye when your sister is calling me a whore in front of thirty people and you’re standing there letting her?” Wyatt choked on his own breath. He paused, his eyes darting around the hallway before his expression softened into a familiar, manipulative pity. “Quanna, I’m on your side. But you’re embarrassing me in public. Can’t you just swallow your pride for once? For the family?” “For the family.” I had swallowed my pride for three years. I had endured their demands, their insults, their passive-aggressive jabs, even through a difficult pregnancy. And this was my reward. Without another word, I turned and walked back to the dining room. Wyatt followed close behind, clearing his throat as we reached the table. He put on a brave, strained smile for the relatives. “Everyone, please ignore what she just said. The house is mine. I paid for it in full. She’s just lashed out because she’s backed into a corner.” The relatives sighed in relief, nodding. “I knew it. How could a schoolteacher afford a place like that?” “To lie about something so easily… she has no shame.” I stood at the edge of the table, my nails digging into the palms of my hands until it stung. I closed my eyes, letting the memories of the last three years wash over me. My parents had bought that house for $750,000, completely in cash, ensuring I would never have to worry about a mortgage. But from the day we returned from our honeymoon, Wyatt’s family had moved in like locusts. Helen had insisted that “a big house needs a family to keep it warm,” bringing Richard and Monica with her. Even Wyatt’s older sister, Diane, would bring her kids over to stay for weeks at a time. In a four-bedroom house, Wyatt and I took the master. His parents took one bedroom, Monica claimed another, and Diane’s family occupied the guest room. When my own parents drove down to visit me, there was no room left for them. They had to stay at a cheap motel down the interstate. I still remembered the quiet, sad look in my mother’s eyes as she hugged me goodbye in the motel lobby, pretending she didn’t mind. During my pregnancy, when the morning sickness was so severe I could barely keep water down, I dragged myself to the living room at midnight to get a glass of water. Monica was there, hosting a loud, drunken party with her friends, music blasting through the speakers. I had begged her, “Monica, please, can you turn it down? I’m so sick.” She had rolled her eyes, sneering, “This is my brother’s house. I can do whatever I want. You’re just an outsider here.” Helen, sitting on the sofa nursing a drink, hadn’t even looked up. And the postpartum weeks were a living hell. Whenever Henry cried at night, Helen would kick my bedroom door open, screaming at me for being incompetent, while Monica laughed down the hallway. The constant anxiety and lack of sleep dried up my milk. When I went to the kitchen to find the organic chicken soup my mother had prepared and left in the fridge, I found Monica feeding it to her dog. They truly believed the house belonged to Wyatt because he had spent years bragging to his colleagues and relatives about his “achievements.” And because they believed he owned the place, they treated me like unpaid help. “Quanna, vacuum the stairs!” “Quanna, go grocery shopping!” “Quanna, hand over your salary card. Helen will manage the household finances. You don’t have to worry about the mortgage, but you need to cover the utilities and groceries.” There was no mortgage. But my salary card went directly into Helen’s purse. Every dollar I spent on myself—even for basic hygiene products—required her permission and came with a lecture on budgeting. Monica was a parasite. She refused to keep a job, yet she treated me like her personal credit card. “Quanna, buy me that bag.” “Quanna, there’s a pair of boots online for four hundred dollars. Order them for me.” “Doesn’t your family have money? Lend me ten thousand so I can start my boutique.” She never paid back a dime. When I finally brought it up, she threw a glass at my feet. “This is my brother’s house! I live under his roof and spend his money. You have no right to talk to me!” And Wyatt would always pat my shoulder. “She’s just young, Quanna. Let it go.” I let it go for three years. They lived in my home, ate my food, drove my car, and didn’t contribute a single cent. Even the property taxes and HOA fees were drafted from my salary account, while Wyatt kept his paycheck entirely to himself for “professional networking.” I had stayed because of the baby. The doctor had warned me that stress could cause a miscarriage, so I endured. I survived until the hundred-day party. But this time, the debt was settled. My house. My child. My life. Everything they took, they were going to vomit back up. We had agreed on nine in the morning, but the entire family arrived at the clinic by eight-thirty, filling the narrow corridor with their loud, self-righteous presence. When I arrived, carrying Henry in his car seat, Monica was leaning against the waiting room counter, scrolling through her phone. Wyatt stood near the water cooler, deliberately looking away from me. Monica looked up, her lips curling into a smirk. “Well, look who actually showed up. And she brought the little mistake with her.” I ignored her, walking straight to the reception desk. Henry was fast asleep, his small face pressed against the soft cotton lining of the carrier. The blood draw was quick. The nurse took samples from both Wyatt and Henry, explaining that the official results would take three business days. Henry gave a tiny, startled cry when the needle pricked his foot, but he settled quickly when I rocked him. But the family didn’t leave. Monica grabbed Helen’s arm and pulled her into one of the consultation rooms, closing the door behind them. Ten minutes later, they emerged. Monica was beaming, holding a freshly printed sheet of paper in her hand. She marched to the center of the waiting room, holding the paper up like a trophy. “Attention, everyone! The doctor just pulled her medical history! Quanna has a record of multiple terminations before she married my brother! Her uterine lining is so thin she could barely carry a child to term. This baby is a miracle—or more likely, she brought home someone else’s trash!” The patients waiting in the lobby turned to look. People waiting by the pharmacy and the elevators shifted their attention to our corner. Helen chimed in, her voice dripping with artificial grief. “How could you do this to us? We took you in!” Richard shook his head, his voice booming in the quiet clinic. “Our family cannot associate with this kind of filth.” “I knew something was off about that kid.” “She should be thrown out on the street.” Wyatt stood at the back of the crowd, his head lowered, playing the part of the humiliated husband. Seeing the crowd gather, Monica grew bolder. She grabbed the arm of an elderly woman who was just passing by. “Ma’am, look at this. This woman cheated on my brother, had a bastard child, and is trying to swindle him out of his inheritance. Don’t you think she’s disgusting?” The woman looked at me, shook her head, and muttered something about “young people today” before walking away. A man holding a toddler nearby whispered to his wife, “Why would anyone bring this kind of drama to a hospital?” Monica ran toward the elevator bank, shouting to the people getting off. “Look at her! Quanna Vance! She’s trying to pass off another man’s mistake as my brother’s son!” There were nearly thirty people in the corridor now. Some were whispering, some were raising their phones to record, and others were murmuring insults. I stood by the lab entrance, holding Henry close. He stirred, unsettled by the noise, and I gently patted his chest until his breathing slowed again. “You still have the nerve to stand there?” Monica screamed, stepping into my space. “If I were you, I’d find a bridge and jump off it!” Richard: “You’ve ruined our family name.” Aunt Beatrice: “Just sign the divorce papers. You’re not getting a single dime of our money.” The crowd’s voices rose like a wave, but the noise felt distant, like static. The phone cameras flashed in my face, capturing my stillness. Monica, breathless from her performance, crossed her arms and sneered. “What’s the matter, Quanna? Lost your tongue? Or are you just too guilty to speak?” I raised my eyes, looking directly at her. The corridor went quiet for a fraction of a second. Every phone was pointed at my face, waiting for a breakdown, a tear, a confession. My voice was quiet, but it carried perfectly through the silent room. “Are you done? Because if you are, it’s my turn.”

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dating eight girls at the same time. Someone on the Hudson University forum had posted a thread complete with over a dozen photos as evidence. Monday: a woman in a sharp black blazer delivering pastries to me at Dining Hall Three. Tuesday: a woman in gold-rimmed glasses sitting next to me in my elective class. Wednesday: a woman driving a cherry-red sports car picking me up at the campus gates. … 1 The thread title read: [Oliver Garrison’s Eight-Timing Timeline: Sweet-faced College Boy or Master Player?] Overnight, it hit over ten thousand views. “Average looks, but quite the player.” “Eight of them on rotation? How does he manage the schedule?” Wesley was the resident golden boy of the Liberal Arts department—short hair, crisp white shirts, the kind of guy who looked like he stepped out of a classic Ralph Lauren ad. The next day, he stood in front of my oldest sister, blushing. “Is anyone sitting here?” The forum was updated instantly: Girl #1 seemingly charmed by our campus golden boy. The “Girl #1” they were gossiping about was actually the youngest regional president of Garrison Properties—my oldest sister, Diana. The rest of them? Also my sisters. But our mother had set a strict family rule, and my lips were sealed. If they knew those eight “conquests” all shared the same last name, I wondered if they’d still be so smug. The day after the post blew up, Diana showed up on campus. The Garrison intelligence network was infinitely more reliable than the Hudson University Wi-Fi. At seven-thirty in the morning, while I was still playing dead under my dorm blankets, her call came through. “Oliver.” The moment she used my first name instead of a nickname, I knew I was in trouble. I pulled the duvet over my head and whispered, “I’m fine, Diana.” Diana paused on the other end for two seconds. “I saw the forum screenshots.” I sat up instantly, sleep completely vanishing. “Algorithms don’t just target college students.” Wonderful. Death by algorithm. I lowered my voice. “Leave it alone. I can handle it.” “By staying silent? That’s your handling?” “We have the family rules.” “The rule is to stop you from using the Garrison name to bully others. It’s not meant to turn you into a sitting duck.” I fell silent. She added, “Dining Hall Three. Lunch.” I bolted upright. “What are you going to do?” “Eat lunch.” “Diana, please don’t come.” “Already on my way.” The line went dead. I stared at the dark screen. Just one word echoed in my mind: Screwed. My name is Oliver Garrison, a junior majoring in English at Hudson University. To my classmates, I was just an ordinary local kid. Canvas sneakers, a battered canvas tote bag, the kind of guy who would be thrilled for hours if the cafeteria server scooped an extra spoonful of potatoes onto his plate. Nobody knew what my family actually did. And none of my classmates knew that Diana wasn’t some “sugar mommy,” but my biological older sister. To prevent us from getting spoiled and entitled, my mother, Margaret Garrison, had personally laid down the law three years ago when I started college. 1. No actively revealing your family background. 2. No using family connections for personal affairs. 3. If caught violating a rule once, cards are frozen for a month. 4. For severe offenses, cars, vacations, and travel plans are confiscated. Back then, I had asked, “What if someone bullies me?” My mother had sipped her tea slowly. “Learn to stand on your own two feet first.” I thought she was cold-blooded. But I was also terrified of having my cards frozen. So, for three years, I kept such a low profile I was practically invisible. Diana arrived right on time at noon, when Dining Hall Three was at its busiest. She wore a sharp black blazer, her coat draped over her arm, with no assistants in tow. But it didn’t matter. Some people simply don’t look like they’ve come to fight for the last portion of sweet and sour pork. The moment she stood there, the ambient noise in the cafeteria dropped a notch. Sitting in the corner, I wished I could bury my face in my rice. Diana set two boxes of pastries in front of me. “Sweet yam cakes. Mom made them.” I gritted my teeth, whispering, “You knew they were taking photos of you on the forum, and you still came to deliver this?” She sat down, her expression cool and unbothered. “Let them take photos.” “Did you do this on purpose?” “I came to see exactly who has the audacity to paint my little brother as some cheap player.” My chopsticks froze. The quiet frustration that had been building up inside me suddenly popped like a bubble, leaving a sharp, aching sting. But before I could speak, a soft voice drifted down beside us. “Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” Wesley was standing by the table, holding a tray. White shirt, dark hair, eyes bright and clear. He was looking at Diana, his cheeks slightly flushed. He didn’t look at me at all. People at the surrounding tables were already raising their phones. I realized his game instantly. He wanted to prove that even “Girl #1” on the forum would fall for his charm. Diana didn’t even look up. “Yes.” Wesley stiffened slightly, finally turning his gaze to me. He offered a sweet, gentle smile. “Oliver, do you mind if I sit next to you?” Before I could speak, Diana set the container of yam cakes on the empty seat. “This spot is taken, too.” The cafeteria went quiet for a few seconds. The smile on Wesley’s face froze. He bit his lower lip, his eyes instantly welling with tears. “My apologies. Sorry to bother you.” He turned and walked away slowly, his retreating figure looking so pitiful, as if he had been abandoned by the entire world. With acting skills like that, it’s a crime he isn’t in the drama club. Sure enough, the forum updated that night: Girl #1 coldly rejects Wesley; Oliver seemingly marks his territory on the spot. After the lights went out, I stared at those words on my phone. Diana knew. The rest of the family would know eventually. But before I decided to tear down this wall of anonymity, I wanted to endure it just one more time. I wanted to see exactly how far Wesley was willing to go. 2 On Tuesday afternoon, my second oldest sister, Isabel, sent me a message ahead of time. “I’m giving a guest lecture at Hudson. Stopping by to sit in on your class.” I replied instantly: “It’s not on your way. Mentally, it’s not on your way.” “Denied.” The word “gentle” had absolutely nothing to do with Isabel. She wore gold-rimmed glasses, spoke with a measured pace, and possessed the emotional stability of a high-precision Swiss watch. Growing up, whenever she tutored me, her favorite line was: “The errors in your logic have fascinating layers.” It almost drove me to run away from home. At two in the afternoon, Isabel stood right outside the lecture hall. White shirt, gray trousers, holding a thick, original academic text. On the forum, they called her “Girl #2.” Some commented that she looked like a dangerous, ice-cold academic who would lock you in the library until you memorized the entire dictionary. Just looking at her made my scalp tingle. “You saw the forum too?” She pushed up her glasses and gave me a flat look. “So, do you plan to keep playing the martyr and let them keep dragging you?” I muttered a correction. “Not everyone is dragging me.” “No, just a loud vocal group of idiots.” “Isabel, remember your professional ethics as an academic.” “Right now, I am not a teacher. I am your sister.” I couldn’t out-argue her, so I had no choice but to lead her into the classroom. The moment she stepped through the door, the atmosphere shifted. The noisy back rows fell completely silent. Wesley was sitting in the third row, chatting with a few guys. When he saw Isabel, his eyes lit up. I took a seat by the window. During the lecture, the professor asked a question about the narrative structure of Wuthering Heights. The entire class ducked their heads, pretending to be statues. I did the same. Isabel tapped my notebook with her pen. In the next second, she raised my hand for me. I wanted to throw her out the window right then and there. The professor beamed at me. “Oliver, let’s hear your thoughts.” I had no choice but to stand up and speak for five minutes. The classroom was dead quiet. When I finished, the professor nodded in approval. “Excellent. Write those points down and email them to me as a short essay after class.” I sat back down, gritting my teeth. “Isabel.” She casually turned a page. “Your articulation hasn’t deteriorated.” “Your conscience, however, has.” She ignored me. After class, Wesley walked over, clutching his books. His voice was soft and tentative. “Oliver, is this your friend?” He obviously knew what the forum was saying, yet he insisted on asking in front of everyone. “No.” Wesley blinked. “Oh, is she pursuing you? She seemed very eager to help you just now.” Heads turned instantly. Isabel closed her book and looked up. “I am his—” I grabbed her wrist, stopping her. She paused, her eyes cool behind her lenses. Seeing my reaction, a flash of smugness crossed Wesley’s eyes. He said gently, “Oliver, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life. It’s just that the rumors on the forum are getting quite nasty. You should really be more careful. A guy’s reputation is incredibly important.” I stared at him. “Wesley, if you care so much about reputations, you seem to have a very precise finger when it comes to liking those rumor posts.” His face went pale. A guy next to him immediately chimed in. “Oliver, how can you talk to Wesley like that? He’s just trying to look out for you.” “You’re the one behaving sleazily, and you’re mad that people are calling you out?” “You’re juggling eight girls like a damn shipping company. Stop acting innocent.” Isabel’s face darkened. I held her back with all my might, terrified that a single “I’m his sister” would blow my cover and freeze my bank accounts. I grabbed my bag and walked out. Behind me, Wesley whispered, “Forget it, guys. Don’t say any more. He’s probably just sensitive.” That night, a new thread popped up: Girl #2 accompanies Oliver to class, acting as his shield. Wesley’s well-meaning advice met with hostility. Someone photoshopped my face onto an octopus, with eight tentacles holding the silhouettes of eight different women. The comment section was toxic enough to make me physically sick. It’s fine. Every single word will become evidence. 3 On Wednesday evening, my cousin Beatrice parked her cherry-red sports car right in front of the campus gates, blocking the path. “Oliver, you have three minutes. If you don’t get out here, I’m driving straight to the English department and blasting celebratory pop music.” Students were streaming in and out of the gates. The red car sat there, loud and burning like a flame. Beatrice leaned against the door, her sunglasses hooked in her collar, holding a cup of boba tea. On the forum, they called her “Girl #3.” The comments suggested she looked like she chewed up and spat out young college boys for breakfast. She swung the passenger door open. “Get in. Your mom wants me to drive you home to grab some things.” “Mom knows about the forum?” “Oh, she knows. She even asked me why I was only ranked third on your list of ‘conquests’.” I nearly squeezed my boba cup to bursting. “Can you guys please stop treating this like a joke?” Beatrice climbed back in, wearing a smug, irritating grin. I ignored her. By the time I returned to campus, things had escalated. I went to my evening class, left my backpack on my seat, and went to the restroom to wash my hands. When I returned, my backpack strap was severed. The cut was clean, clearly done with a utility knife. My textbooks were scattered all over the floor. Scribbled across the cover of my main text in thick red marker were the words: PLAYER, GET OUT. Snickers echoed through the classroom. A few guys kept their heads down, staring at their phones, but the smirks on their faces were unmistakable. Wesley sat in the front row. Turning around to see the books on the floor, his face immediately crumpled into a look of shock and deep concern. He hurried over and bent down to help me gather them. “Oliver, are you okay? Who would do something like this?” I placed my hand firmly over the book, staring up at him. “Don’t touch it.” Wesley’s hand froze in midair. His eyes filled with tears instantly. “I was only trying to help.” I let out a cold laugh. “Every time someone does something to me, you just happen to be standing right there. Every time someone drags me, you’re the one playing the victim. Don’t you get tired of the act?” Wesley’s tears spilled over. “I don’t understand why you hate me so much. Yes, I liked the post, but I never told anyone to bully you! You can’t just blame me for everything just because people happen to side with me.” The people around him immediately leaped to his defense. “Don’t cry, Wesley.” “Oliver, that’s enough out of you.” “Just because he doesn’t have your mysterious sugar mommies backing him up doesn’t mean you get to drag him through the mud.” Hearing the phrase “doesn’t have backing,” I suddenly wanted to laugh. They truly had no idea. Not a single person in this room knew who I actually was. To them, I was just some low-life juggling eight women, unable to explain my relationships. They believed they were on the side of justice, which made them feel entirely righteous in hurling the most venomous insults. That night, I returned to my dorm to find my bed soaked. Sweet boba milk tea had been poured all over my comforter, pillow, and sheets. The cloying, sugary scent was nauseating. I gathered up my sheets and carried them to the washroom. Under the cold tap, the milk tea ran into the drain in a sticky, murky stream. I knelt by the sink, scrubbing the fabric over and over again. Not yet. It’s not time. I would wait until they played every single card they had. Keeping a cool head and letting the line run long before reeling in the catch was a trait encoded into the Garrison DNA. 4 On Thursday morning, I was targeted in the library. A full cup of iced Americano was dumped over my head from the upper balcony. The cold liquid hit the crown of my head, dripping down my hair, neck, and soaking my white shirt. I froze from the sheer chill of it. “Wake-up call for the player.” “Time to sober up, lover boy.” I didn’t say a word. I simply turned and walked to the restroom. The reflection staring back at me was pathetic. My shirt was stained a dark, messy brown, my hair was plastered to my forehead, and my eyes were rimmed with a redness I couldn’t hide. My phone buzzed. It was my third oldest sister, Valerie. She was a lead detective with the city’s police department. Growing up, I feared her the most. One look from Valerie felt like a full-blown interrogation, capable of making you confess to stealing cookies from the jar years ago. I picked up. “Valerie.” Her voice was low and commanding. “Have you been crying? Don’t lie to me.” I bit my lip. “Just spilled some coffee.” She paused. “You need to understand something, Oliver. Endurance doesn’t mean lying down and letting people walk all over you.” The tears I had been holding back nearly spilled over. That afternoon, my academic advisor, Mr. Henderson, called me into his office. “Oliver, this situation has blown up completely. Do you have any idea how badly this reflects on our department?” “If you hadn’t kept these inappropriate involvements with external women so public, none of this gossip would have started.” I let out a dry laugh. “So, being secretly photographed, photoshopped, and publicly harassed is my fault?” His tone turned icy. “Tomorrow afternoon, Wesley is going to make a public statement in front of the library. I expect you to be there to clarify everything.” “Clarify what?” “Acknowledge your lack of appropriate boundaries with these women, and apologize to Wesley for dragging him into this mess.” I thought I had misheard him. “I need to apologize to him?” “He is under immense academic and social stress because of this. He came to my office yesterday in tears. Liking a post is not the same as fabricating a rumor. Meanwhile, your refusal to offer any explanation has only allowed these rumors to fester.” A fire flared in my chest. “Mr. Henderson, have you even dared to investigate who actually made that post?” “The university will conduct its own inquiry, but right now, you need to cooperate to quiet the public outcry.” “And your way of quieting it is making me bow my head?” Mr. Henderson slammed his pen onto the desk. “Oliver, don’t think that just because you associate with some wealthy women outside of school, you’re above our regulations. If you continue with this attitude, the department will seriously consider disciplinary action.” “Fine. Tomorrow afternoon at three, in front of the library. I’ll be there.” The moment I stepped out of his office, an announcement thread had already been posted on the forum. The comments were practically throwing a party. “Can’t wait to watch the player’s downfall.” “Will his eight sugar mommies show up to rescue him?” “Wesley is finally standing up for himself.” Standing at the end of the corridor, I pulled out my phone and texted Diana: “Tomorrow at three. Hudson Library.” Diana replied within seconds: “Are you ready?” I stared out the window. The sky was heavy and dark, holding back a storm. I typed back: “Tell everyone to come.” The family group chat exploded. Isabel: “Rescheduling my lectures.” Valerie: “The chain of evidence is complete and secured.” Beatrice: “The red ride is washed and ready.” Caroline: “Bringing my medical kit.” Rebecca: “Wrapping up my project review early.” Natalie: “Should I wear my team jacket to show some muscle?” Charlotte: “I’ll be there at three sharp.” Finally, our mother, Margaret, sent a single text: “The family rules are meant to keep you from bullying others, not to make you a victim of bullies.” Staring at the screen, a lump formed in my throat. I was done holding back. Let my eight sisters line up at the campus gates. We were going to shatter this lie once and for all. 5 The next afternoon, the plaza in front of the library was packed. The tree-lined boulevard of Hudson University was choked with students. People were standing on the steps, the edges of the planters, and beneath the streetlamps, all holding up their phones, waiting for the show. Wesley stood right in the center of the crowd. Crisp white shirt, perfectly styled hair, eyes red-rimmed. He had chosen his spot brilliantly. Behind him rose the white marble pillars of the library, with dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. He stood there like the tragic, noble protagonist of an indie film, misunderstood but brave. Mr. Henderson stood beside him, looking solemn and severe. When I arrived, the crowd parted automatically. Whispers broke out. “He actually showed up.” “Where are his eight girls? None of them came today?” “It’s a trainwreck. Who would want to be seen with him now?” I walked to the base of the steps and stopped. Looking down at me, Wesley’s eyes pooled with tears. “Oliver, I truly never wanted things to go this far.” His voice was soft, but pitched perfectly to carry through the quiet plaza. “I admit I liked those posts. But I was just shocked. I never had any malicious intent.” “You’ve always believed I had it out for you, but I’m only standing here today because I want you to be honest. Who are those women to you, really?” The crowd instantly erupted. “Explain yourself!” “Are those eight actually your girlfriends?” “Don’t play dumb!” Mr. Henderson lowered his voice, warning me, “Oliver, mind your attitude. Speak clearly and honestly, and the department might still show some leniency.” I gave him a long look. “Mr. Henderson, I hope you maintain that same firm resolve in a few minutes.” He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?” I didn’t answer. Because from the direction of the main gates, the first powerful growl of an engine had just echoed through the air.

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My boyfriend, Tony, dragged me to the campus blood drive run by the Student Volunteer Coalition. I was chronically anemic—nowhere near the safety threshold to donate—but when I tried to pull back, he just scoffed. “Why did you even join the SVC if you don’t have a bone of civic duty in your body, Naomi?” He coaxed and guilted me onto that bloodmobile. But I didn’t know then—not until I was already lying on a sterile hospital bed—that my blood wasn’t destined for some anonymous bank. It was being sent directly to a private lab to be matched with the bone marrow of our campus darling, Susanna Hastings. Tony forged my signature, shoved me into the extraction room, and watched as they took what wasn’t theirs. In the end, I got a severe infection, went into septic shock, and died alone in the ICU. When I open my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of an observation ward blind me. A nurse walks in, clipboard in hand. “Naomi Miller? Get ready. We’re heading up to Hematology for your final matching confirmation.” My boyfriend, Tony Henderson, is sitting by the bedside, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair with that practiced, sickening tenderness. “Don’t worry, babe. It’s just a formality.” I stare up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, and dial 911. 1 The second the line connects, Tony’s gentle smile freezes. I hold his gaze, my voice steady and clear as I speak to the dispatcher. “Hello. My name is Naomi Miller. I’m a freshman at Coastal State University.” “I have reason to believe that someone used a campus blood drive to illegally harvest my blood sample for a bone marrow match without my consent. Now, they are trying to force me into further testing.” “I am chronically anemic. I do not consent to any matching, harvesting, or donation.” “Please send officers. I’m in the observation wing of the Hematology Department at Valley Memorial Hospital.” Tony snaps out of his trance, lunging forward. “Naomi, have you lost your mind?” He reaches out, clawing at my phone. I don’t shrink back. I scream at the top of my lungs: “Nurse! He’s trying to take my phone! Someone call security!” The entire hallway goes dead silent. Two nurses poke their heads into the room, and a patient’s relative in the next bay stands up to get a better look. Tony’s hand freezes mid-air, his face twisting through a dozen ugly shades of panic before he quickly plasters on his signature look of gentle, long-suffering patience. “She’s just stressed,” he says, looking at the onlookers with a helpless shrug. “It’s a misunderstanding. We’re classmates—well, we’re dating. I just brought her in for a routine volunteer checkup.” I let out a cold laugh. “A volunteer checkup that requires HLA high-resolution typing?” The nurse blinks, looking confused. Tony’s eyes darken. “Naomi, stop throwing around medical jargon you don’t understand.” I reach under my pillow and pull out the clipboard clipped to the foot of my bed. In my past life, I hadn’t even glanced at it before he stuffed it into my bag. This time, I unfold it, holding it up for everyone to see. Under the “Requested Procedures” column, the words scream in black ink: “HLA Recipient Cross-match, Donor Confirmation, Complete Blood Count.” I point my finger directly at the word “Recipient”. “Who is the recipient, Tony?” Tony squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly as if trying to tolerate an unreasonable child. “Susanna’s condition is critical, Naomi. You’re just doing a confirmation. Nobody is making you donate right this second. Is saving a life really worth calling the cops?” “When did I consent to being screened in the first place?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer. “When did I sign the informed consent form for bone marrow donation?” Still silence. “And why does the system show my anemia profile as perfectly normal?” Tony’s expression turns utterly venomous. Sensing the shift in the room, the nurse immediately turns on her heel to fetch the charge nurse. I clutch my phone, my voice unwavering. “I want my medical records, blood draw logs, security footage, and signature files flagged and sealed immediately,” I announce to the room. “No one is taking me anywhere without my explicit, in-person consent.” Tony steps closer, dropping his voice to a menacing whisper. “Naomi, don’t blow this out of proportion. Susanna Hastings is lying in a ward upstairs, fighting for her life.” I look up at him. “And?” “Because she wants to live, I’m obligated to hand over my blood, my marrow, my actual life?” His brow furrows in genuine frustration. “How can you be so dramatic? No one is trying to kill you.” In my last life, I believed him. And it cost me my life. I don’t have the energy to appeal to his conscience anymore. Conscience is a luxury Tony traded away a long time ago to pave his career path. Ten minutes later, hospital security arrives. Twenty minutes after that, Officer Darren from the local precinct walks in with his partner. Tony is finally sweating. But his first instinct isn’t to explain—it’s to blame me. “Officer, she’s emotionally unstable,” Tony says, turning to Officer Darren. “We were just registering for a charity match. She suddenly panicked and started making wild accusations against the hospital.” Officer Darren looks at me. “Are you the caller?” I nod, unlocking my phone and pulling up the voice recorder app. I play it. From the moment the nurse walked in saying “final matching confirmation” to Tony whispering “Susanna is fighting for her life,” every single syllable is laid bare. Tony’s lips drain of color. I bring up my medical history, my freshman physical, and the photo I took of the bloodmobile schedule. “I don’t meet the medical criteria for blood donation. But during the drive, the Student Volunteer Coalition still drew an extra vial of my blood, claiming it was for a ‘volunteer health database.’ I never signed a registry. I have no idea how my sample ended up in a matching lab.” Officer Darren’s face hardens. He asks the staff to call the department head. Tony tries to speak, but I cut him off. “Officer, I want a forensic handwriting analysis on any consent form they claim to have. If my signature is on there, it’s forged.” Before the words can settle, a weak, trembling voice drifts in from the open doorway. “Naomi… why are you doing this to Tony?” I turn my head. Susanna Hastings is sitting in a wheelchair, draped in an oversized hospital gown. Her face is so pale it’s almost translucent, her eyes brimming with tears. “I just want to live.” 2 The moment Susanna appears, the atmosphere in the hallway shifts. She’s the golden girl of Coastal State—the face of our university’s promotional videos, the straight-A student, the star of every gala. Since her diagnosis, the university’s social media pages have posted endless pleas for her: “Save Our Golden Girl.” Thousands of dollars have poured into her GoFundMe. Even I had donated fifty dollars in my past life, genuinely wishing for her recovery. That was before she used my body to buy herself a second chance. Susanna grips the armrests of her wheelchair, tears spilling over her lashes. “Naomi, I know you’re scared. But it’s just a test. No one is forcing you to donate right now.” Tony immediately drops to his knees beside her, adjusting the blanket over her legs. It’s a scene I know all too well: the frail beauty, the devoted boyfriend, and me—the cold-hearted, selfish villain refusing to help. That was exactly how they painted me in my past life, turning the world against me. I don’t even look at Susanna. I keep my eyes on Officer Darren. “I refuse to discuss my medical information in front of people who have nothing to do with my care.” Susanna’s sobbing hitches. Tony looks up, his eyes flashing with rage. “She isn’t an unrelated party! She’s the recipient!” I let out a soft laugh. “So you admit it?” His face pales. Officer Darren immediately steps in. “You already knew the donor-recipient match? Who disclosed that information? Did the donor sign an authorization for this match?” Tony opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Susanna lowers her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know the procedures… I just heard from the doctor that there was hope.” Just then, a middle-aged man in a white lab coat rushes down the hall. His badge reads: “Dr. Barlow, Chief of Hematology.” In my last life, he was the one who altered my hemoglobin levels in the system. He was the one who breezed into my room before the harvest and said, “You’re young and healthy, kid. A little bone marrow draw won’t hurt. You’ll bounce right back.” Dr. Barlow frowns the second he steps inside. “Why are the police here? This is a routine medical consultation.” I look him dead in the eye. “Dr. Barlow, when did I authorize your department to run an HLA test on my blood?” He doesn’t look at me, keeping his tone icy and professional. “You registered with the SVC donor database. Screening is part of the standard protocol.” “Show me the registration,” I say, holding out my hand. “Show me my signature.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “The documents are filed in our system.” “Then pull them up. Right now.” The hospital’s chief administrator arrives shortly after. Officer Darren requests that all related physical charts, system logs, and signed authorizations be impounded. Dr. Barlow’s expression sours. “Officer, these are private medical files. We can’t just hand them over.” “The patient is the one requesting her own records,” Officer Darren replies calmly. “She has every legal right to verify her own signature.” While we wait for the physical archives to be pulled, a nurse begins to wheel Susanna back to her room. Suddenly, Susanna reaches out and snatches the hem of my shirt. “Naomi, please… I’m running out of time,” she whimpers, her hand trembling. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just need a little bit of hope.” I look down at her pale fingers. She had held me just like this in my previous life. Right before I was wheeled into the harvest room, she lay on her gurney, crying, “I’ll never forget what you did for me.” And then I died. And she lived. I gently but firmly pry her fingers off my shirt. “Your hope cannot be bought with my life.” Her tears flow faster. Within minutes, my phone starts vibrating violently. The SVC group chat is blowing up. “Did Naomi Miller seriously call the cops after matching with Susanna?” “Susanna is literally dying. Calling the police is so toxic.” “She was happy to log volunteer hours for her resume, but the second she actually has to give back, she plays dead?” “Anemia is literally so common. Stop using it as an excuse.” Then, someone posts a cropped screenshot of my university freshman physical. My name is fully visible. My low hemoglobin level is circled in red, captioned: “She’s not even that sick. Drama queen.” I stare at the screen, my fingertips turning numb. The cyberbullying in my past life had been brutal, but seeing it play out again makes my stomach turn. They called me selfish. They said I was a parasite. They said Tony deserved so much better. And when I died, they simply said, “Well, her health was poor anyway. You can’t blame anyone.” This time, I don’t type a single word of explanation. I screen-record the chat. I take screenshots. I save the names, the timestamps, the member list, and the forward history. Then I call Dean Collins, the faculty advisor for the Student Volunteer Coalition. “Dean Collins, my private medical records have just been leaked online by members of the coalition. Furthermore, I have reason to believe the campus blood drive was used to illegally harvest student blood samples.” There is a long pause on the other end. “Naomi, where are you right now?” “Valley Memorial Hospital.” “Stay put. I’m on my way.” As soon as I hang up, Tony steps into the doorway. The tender boyfriend act is entirely gone. “Naomi, do you really have to drag everyone down with you?” I look at him. “You’re the ones who dragged me onto a harvest table first.” His eyes turn cold and menacing. “If Susanna misses her transplant window because of you, you’ll regret this for the rest of your life.” I hold his gaze. “I’ve already regretted it for a lifetime.” He doesn’t understand what I mean. But I do. And the real battle hasn’t even begun. 3 By afternoon, the university forum is in a complete frenzy. The headlines are vile: “Donor Backs Out Last Minute, Calls Cops: Susanna Hastings Left to Die?” “Freshman Uses Volunteer Hours for Resume, Cowards Out When Actually Needed.” “It’s Just a Bone Marrow Donation. Does It Ever Actually Kill Anyone?” The comment section is a toxic wasteland. “Her boyfriend literally begged her. She’s so cold-blooded.” “Susanna is the pride of our school. If she dies, how will this girl sleep at night?” “I’m anemic and I donate blood all the time. Stop whining.” “Can we expose her face? People like this shouldn’t be allowed in our community.” My roommate, Becca, sends me a text. She’s usually timid, always trying to keep the peace. “Naomi, maybe you should just talk to Tony? Donating bone marrow is a good thing. Involving the police is going to ruin your reputation.” I stare at her message for a long time before replying: “If someone stole your blood, tested it without your knowledge, and then forged your signature to force you into surgery, would you still think it’s a “good thing”?” Becca doesn’t reply for several minutes. Finally, she writes back: “But Susanna is just so sweet. It’s so sad.” I close the chat. People always confuse sympathy with entitlement. Being pitiful isn’t a free pass, and it certainly doesn’t give anyone the right to harvest my organs. By evening, Dean Collins arrives at the hospital. Her face grows grimmer with every document I show her. “The university never approved any bone marrow screening programs for the blood drive,” she says. “Then who had access to the student roster and our ID copies?” I ask. Dean Collins hesitates. “The club president. Tony Henderson.” She immediately contacts the university’s legal counsel. Meanwhile, Officer Darren and his team secure the registration logs from the bloodmobile, the blood sample transit logs, and the hospital’s internal database history. Dr. Barlow keeps insisting it’s all a misunderstanding. “The student probably signed a stack of volunteer paperwork and forgot. Screening is a routine part of these drives. We haven’t performed any invasive procedures.” I listen to his excuses, feeling completely numb. This was exactly what they did last time. Step by step, they claimed it was “just a formality” until I was trapped in the ICU, and even then, they blamed my “unfortunate, weak constitution.” At nine o’clock, the head nurse comes by to check on me. “No one is authorized to transfer you or perform any tests without your physical, written consent. Don’t worry.” I nod. But I don’t feel safe. In my past life, they took me in the middle of the night. Not through the front lobby, but through the back exit. The transport vehicle didn’t even belong to the hospital; it was a private van belonging to some sketchy “wellness center.” Tony had told me then, “Valley Memorial is too crowded. We’re going to a partner clinic for a quick checkup. We’ll be right back.” I had been so blind, so trusting. By the time I realized something was wrong, they had confiscated my phone. Thinking of this, I open my location sharing and send it to Officer Darren and Dean Collins. Then I walk to the nurse’s station. “If anyone tries to transfer me, order a test, or check me out, please verify it with me directly. It only counts if I say yes on camera.” The head nurse looks at me with a soft, sympathetic gaze. “Understood, sweetie.” By ten-thirty, the ward grows quiet. Tony has been missing all afternoon, but I know he won’t let this go. Sure enough, at 11:07 PM, my door creaks open. A man wearing a blue transport uniform walks in. His badge reads “Blood Center Logistics Agent”. He holds a clipboard. “Naomi Miller? We have a transfer order for your follow-up screening.” I stare at his face, and the blood in my veins turns to ice. It’s him. The exact same transport driver from my past life. The one who had sneered at my tears and told me, “You’re a lucky girl. You get to save a life and get paid for it.” I lower my eyes, pretending to be frightened. “Now? Where’s my boyfriend?” The driver says, “He’s waiting for you downstairs.” Just as he says it, Tony steps into the room from behind him. He’s wearing a crumpled white shirt, looking exhausted, like a good guy who’s been driven to his wit’s end by a difficult girlfriend. “Naomi, please stop making a scene,” Tony says softly. “Let’s just finish the confirmation test, and this will all be over.” I shrink back into the mattress. “I’m not going.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “The Hastings family is going to compensate you. Fifty thousand dollars, plus an internship at their firm. You’ve been stressed about paying tuition, Naomi. This solves everything.” I look at him, my heart turning to stone. So that was my price. “And if I still say no?” Tony’s expression hardens, the gentle facade completely slipping. “You already signed the consent form.” He pulls a few sheets of paper from a folder. “Naomi, don’t make me make this ugly.” I look at the signature at the bottom of the page. The messy, curved letters look remarkably like my handwriting. But they aren’t mine. “Let me see that,” I say, reaching out. Thinking I’ve finally capitulated, Tony hands the papers over. The moment they touch my fingers, I slam my hand down on the emergency call button. Footsteps immediately start echoing down the hall. The transport driver’s face pales, and he spins around to bolt. Tony lunges forward, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip. “Naomi!” But before he can pull me, the door is flung wide open. “Let go of her!” a cold voice barks.

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