Author: Momo Chan

When I finally found Vicky, she was leaning against the cold iron railing of the harbor bridge, her dark hair whipped wildly across her face by the autumn wind. A cluster of empty beer bottles lay clinking softly at her feet. I pulled my coat tighter and sighed. “The doctor was very clear, Vicky. You can’t be drinking.” She didn’t look at me. Her eyes, bloodshot and heavy with liquor, stayed fixed on the dark, shimmering water below. “I went to Adrian’s office today,” she said, her voice barely carrying over the wind. “He was holding his new assistant against the mahogany desk, kissing her.” She let out a ragged breath that turned to mist. “There was a box of Durex sitting right next to his laptop. The funny thing is… I’m the one who bought them for him.” A small, broken laugh escaped her throat. I stood beside her in silence for a long time, the chill of the iron railing seeping through my gloves. “Vicky,” I said softly, “let him go.” She turned her head slowly to look at me. “And what about you, Nora?” I froze. “Marcus almost drove you to a nervous breakdown over Gemma,” she whispered, her eyes sharp despite the drunkenness. “Are you really going to stay married to him?” 1 Vicky always hated funerals. So we kept it small—no fanfare, no grand speeches, just a handful of people who actually cared under a grey, bruised sky. I stood beside her headstone long after the others had drifted away. When I finally turned to leave, I saw Marcus. He was leaning against the hood of his black SUV near the cemetery gates, his eyes fixed on me. “What are you doing here?” I asked, stopping a few feet away. “Your assistant said you took the morning off,” he said, his voice quiet. “I guessed you’d be here with Vicky. I had a break between meetings, so I came to drive you back.” I climbed into the passenger seat without a word. When he leaned across the console to pull my seatbelt down, I raised my hand, blocking his chest. “I’ve got it.” Marcus stilled. His dark eyes searched my face for a fraction of a second before he drew back, returning to his side of the car. He started the engine. “You were gone before I woke up this morning. Why so early?” I stared out the window at the passing rows of wet headstones. I didn’t answer. He let the silence stretch for a block before trying again. “I can assign a full-time driver to you. You’ve been leaving early and coming home late all week. I don’t like you commuting alone.” When the quiet between us stretched too thin, he suddenly reached over and gripped my forearm. His grip was tight, heavy with an edge of command. “Nora. Are you even listening to me?” I turned my head to face him. “I submitted my resignation this morning,” I said evenly. “The HR file should hit your desk by this afternoon. Just sign off on it when it gets there.” He went rigid. The SUV swerved slightly before he hit the brakes, pulling the heavy car hard to the curb. “Why?” he demanded, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Is this still about what happened last month?” 2 Six weeks ago, I slapped Gemma across the face. In response, Marcus suspended me from my role at the firm and locked me out of our brownstone. It was ten at night when I tried to go home to get my things, only to be stopped at the wrought-iron gate by our housekeeper, Mrs. Gable. She looked pained, her hands wringing her apron. “Mr. Callahan said… he said this is his private property, ma’am. He instructed me not to let you in.” Through the tall floor-to-ceiling windows of the parlor, I could see Marcus’s broad, unyielding silhouette standing near the fireplace, his back to the street. A cold, sickening shame coiled in my gut, making me tremble from head to toe. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I turned on my heel and walked away into the dark. Earlier that afternoon, Gemma had walked into Marcus’s executive suite wearing a bone-white silk midi dress. It was a piece from a limited runway collection that I had casually pointed out to Marcus months ago, telling him how much I loved it. I had tried through three different personal shoppers to track it down, to no avail. Yet there it was, draped over Gemma. Gemma was a former scholarship recipient Marcus had sponsored through college—our shared alma mater. Over the past year, her name had bled out of his corporate philanthropy files and into our actual lives. She didn’t need an appointment to see him. Everyone in the executive suite knew her name. When I brought Marcus a box of pastries from a bakery across town, he would offhandedly remark, “Gemma likes these, too. Tell my assistant to leave a slice for her.” When she complained that her campus apartment was too noisy to study for finals, Marcus instructed his team to secure a quiet, luxury studio for her nearby. When I confronted him back then, exhausted after months of silent displacement, he had simply pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “Why do you keep fixating on her, Nora? She’s just a kid from a rough background with no family. Once you offer someone a hand, you see it through.” “I am sick to death of hearing about her,” I had whispered. And now, he had taken the effort to hunt down the exact dress I wanted, only to give it to her. Gemma had stood in his office that afternoon, her eyes downcast, her voice small and trembling. “Nora… Mr. Callahan was just being kind. He felt sorry for me. It doesn’t mean anything else.” “Kind?” I had laughed, the sound sharp and metallic. “Does his kindness extend to funding your entire wardrobe? Are you a beggar? Is there anything you won’t accept from him? Even street beggars have more pride than you!” “Nora, that’s enough!” Marcus had barked, stepping forcefully between us. His eyes were dark with anger as he leaned down, his voice a lethal whisper meant only for me. “Look at yourself,” he spat. “The clothes on your back, the jewelry you wear, the lifestyle you live—can you afford a single bit of it on your current salary? Even your position at my firm was something I handed to you. What right do you have to judge Gemma?” I had stared at him, the air completely knocked out of my lungs. 3 After Mrs. Gable turned me away at the gate that night, I walked down the dim residential streets with nowhere to go. The early autumn air cut straight through my thin coat. Marcus and I were childhood sweethearts. We grew up in the same country clubs, attended the same private galas. When my father’s real estate empire collapsed into a messy, humiliating bankruptcy years ago, everyone whispered that Marcus would break off our engagement. Instead, on my twenty-fourth birthday, he rented out the top floor of the city’s premier skyscraper. Surrounding us with our oldest friends, he got down on one knee. “Nora,” he had promised, holding my shaking hands, “no matter what happens, I will always be your shield. I will love you forever.” Now, standing in front of another woman, he had looked at me and asked what gave me the right to speak, when everything I had was merely his charity. My vision blurred. I reached up to wipe my cheeks, but the tears just kept coming, hot and fast. Then I heard the heavy, uneven footsteps behind me. I stiffened, realizing a man was tracking me down the quiet avenue. I quickened my pace, heading toward a brighter commercial street, but the footsteps broke into a run. Panic surged. I bolted, but in the dark, my heel caught on a crack in the pavement. I slammed hard onto the concrete. I scrambled back just as a glint of metal caught the streetlight. A man lunged at me with a pocketknife. Desperate, I grabbed a handful of loose asphalt gravel and hurled it into his face. The blade missed my ribs, slicing clean through my sleeve and deeply into my forearm instead. Someone shouted from across the street, headlight beams cut through the alley, and the attacker took off. The stranger called the police. At the station, bleeding and shivering under a thin blanket, I used the officer’s phone to dial Marcus’s private number. He answered on the third ring. His voice was cold, clipped, and devoid of warmth. “Nora, I am only interested in hearing this call if you are ready to apologize to Gemma. Otherwise, I have nothing to say to you.” I sat in the harsh fluorescent light of the precinct, the metallic smell of my own blood in the air. “I understand,” I whispered softly, and hung up. I turned to the officer. “My family isn’t available. I’ll… I’ll take care of myself.” After leaving the station, I went to a small boutique hotel nearby. I handed the clerk my credit card. He ran it, paused, and shook his head gently. I handed him another. Then another. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the clerk said, his eyes shifting from professional to pitying. “None of these are going through.” Marcus had frozen all my accounts. A terrible, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. He was right, wasn’t he? Without him, I was nothing. Just another person relying on his mercy. The next morning, I walked into a luxury consignment shop and sold the designer handbag off my shoulder for two hundred dollars cash. I went to an urgent care clinic to get six stitches in my forearm—the nurse warned me it would leave a faint, silver scar—and then checked into a shabby, eighty-dollar-a-night motel at the edge of the city. I walked into the small room, shut the door, and lay down on the thin mattress, staring at the water-stained ceiling. 4 I stayed in that tiny, decaying room for ten days. Except for popping down to the corner bodega to buy bread and bottled water, I never left. No money. No polished life. No prestige. No Marcus. On the eleventh morning, heavy, frantic footsteps echoed down the exterior corridor. Someone banged furiously on the hollow wooden door. “Nora! Nora, are you in there?!” The door swung open. The motel manager stood outside with a master key, and behind him stood Marcus. He looked disheveled, his expensive suit wrinkled, his jaw rough with stubble. He rushed in and threw his arms around me where I sat quietly on the edge of the unmade bed, pulling me into a grip so tight it hurt. “Why was your phone off?!” he breathed, his voice raw, buried in my neck. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you? Why are you so damn stubborn… You’d rather rot in a place like this than just bend your head to me?” He pulled back, his hands framing my face, his eyes wild with panic. “Do you know what went through my head when I finally found out you were mugged? Jesus, Nora… I’m sorry, okay? It’s my fault. Just come home.” I slowly turned my head, looking past his shoulder into the dusty mirror above the dresser. There was Marcus Callahan, immaculate and desperate. And there was Nora Hayes, pale, hollowed-out, and completely still. The nurse had been right about the scar on my arm. It was going to stay. The flashback dissolved as Marcus’s car idling at the curb brought me back to the present. I gently untangled my hand from his grip. “I just want to take some time off,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of any edge. “I need to handle Vicky’s estate.” Marcus studied my face for a long moment, searching for a spark of anger, a hint of leverage. Finding none, his throat worked silently before he rasped, “Okay.” 5 Back at the corporate tower, I took my signed resignation form and knocked on his office door. “Come in,” he called out. When he saw me, he paused. “Since when do you knock on my door, Nora?” I didn’t engage. I walked forward and set the document on his mahogany desk. As I did, my gaze caught on the ceramic mug sitting beside his laptop. It had a hand-painted sketch of a ballerina on it—Gemma’s prize from a university dance showcase, which she had gifted to Marcus as a token of “gratitude.” There had been a matching pen, too. The first time I saw it on his desk weeks ago, I had thrown it directly into the trash. We had fought viciously that night. “Are you ever going to stop this?!” Marcus had shouted, slamming his hand on the counter. “It’s a harmless gift from a young girl! Must you be so pathological? She looks up to me as a benefactor, Nora. Is your own mind so filthy that you see filth in everyone else?!” I remembered how the air had left my lungs that night, how I felt like I was drowning in shallow water. After he slammed the front door and drove off, I had slumped against the hallway wall, sobbing until my ribs ached. Noticing where I was looking, Marcus frowned quickly, his hand moving to cover the mug. “My assistant must have grabbed the wrong cup from the breakroom…” “It’s cute,” I said suddenly. Marcus blinked, stunned. “What?” “The mug. It’s cute.” I retracted my hand and pushed the paper a fraction closer to him. “Please sign.” He stared at me, his mouth set in a tight, uneasy line. Slowly, he picked up a pen and executed his signature. “My assistant told me something,” Marcus said casually, though his eyes never left mine. “The black card I gave you after… after I brought you back. You haven’t spent a dime of it. The balance hasn’t moved.” That day he brought me home from the motel, his fingers had lingered softly over the fresh stitches on my arm. He told me he had unfrozen all my personal accounts and handed me a new, unrestricted black card, promising he would never touch my finances again. I had held the heavy metal card between two fingers, looked at it for a moment, and tossed it into the back of a nightstand drawer. I looked at him now. “I didn’t have anything I needed to buy.” His jaw tightened, a dark shadow passing over his features. “I’ll drive you home after work,” he said abruptly. Ever since the motel, he had developed an almost obsessive need to keep tabs on me. If I was out of his line of sight for more than a few hours, his calls would start. It was as if he believed that the moment he turned his back, I would vanish into thin air again. I touched the faint silver line under my sweater sleeve. “Fine.” He dropped me off at the house, explaining he had an executive dinner with prospective arts foundation donors and wouldn’t be staying. I waved him off without looking back and walked inside. Mrs. Gable mentioned that Marcus had requested a heavy, comforting beef stew for my dinner. I looked at the steaming pot on the stove, said nothing, and simply pulled a pre-packaged turkey sandwich from the fridge. I heated it in the microwave, walked up to my room, and shut the door. Before turning off the lights, I opened my phone and scrolled through social media. Gemma had posted an update ten minutes prior: So grateful to the person who is always clearing the path ahead for me. The attached photo showed a candlelit table at an elite steakhouse. In the corner of the frame was a man’s forearm, a crystal whiskey glass held in a long-fingered hand wearing a distinctive platinum watch. It was Marcus. Gemma was graduating in a few months. She wanted Marcus to leverage his connections to secure her a principal dancer spot at the nation’s top ballet theater. Tonight’s dinner was clearly with the theater’s board chairman. I remembered when my father’s company was falling apart years ago. My father had desperately asked Marcus to introduce him to the CEO of a global investment firm, hoping for a restructuring loan. Marcus had refused him, cold and direct. “Your father’s business model is outdated, Nora. Using my personal capital or reputation to force a meeting won’t yield a return. It’s a bad investment.” My proud, dignified father had stood there, his face flushing with a terrible, crushed humiliation, stuttering, “Ah… of course, Marcus. You’re right. Business is business.” I had almost screamed at Marcus that night. But as we walked out, my father grabbed my arm, whispering, “Don’t fight with him, Nora. Marcus doesn’t like pulling favors for people. Besides… he’s right. It wouldn’t have saved us.” A few weeks later, my family filed for Chapter 11. And now? Because Gemma expressed a wish, Marcus was investing millions into an entertainment sector he had never previously touched, throwing private dinners just to hand a mediocre college dancer a golden ticket. I closed the app, locked my phone, and tossed it onto the nightstand. An hour later, the bedroom door opened. Marcus walked in, reeking of expensive scotch. He leaned against the doorframe, his dark eyes fixated on me with an unsettling, intense focus. I pulled the duvet up, preparing to sleep. In two quick strides, he was beside the bed, his fingers clamping down around my wrist. I turned my head. “What is it?” “Nora…” his voice was thick with alcohol, raspy and low. “You used to always have a hot tonic waiting for me when I came home late after drinking.” I gave a slight pull against his grip. “I forgot. There’s hangover medication in the vanity drawer downstairs. Go grab some if your head hurts.” He didn’t move. His grip tightened until the bone pressed against bone. When I winced and muttered that he was hurting me, he released me instantly, as if burned. He straightened up, smoothing his jacket with trembling fingers. “Go to sleep,” he said softly, his voice strained. “Tomorrow is the university alumni gala. We’re going together.”

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In my previous life, when my little sister was three years old, she was diagnosed with mild hydronephrosis—a little fluid backing up in her kidney. The doctor told us it was nothing to worry about. A quick, minimally invasive procedure would fix it. But after they wheeled her into the operating room, she never woke up. They called it an anesthesia complication. Later, my parents dug into the files. They found that her pre-op imaging had been swapped out. Her anesthesia logs had been tampered with. But the most terrifying detail of all was a glaring, inexplicable gap in her surgical records regarding her kidney. My parents realized the horrifying truth: she didn’t die from a medical accident. They had used the surgery as a cover to steal one of her kidneys. They gathered the evidence and drove out of state to an independent medical examiner. They never made it. Their car was crushed into a twisted cube of metal on the interstate. I survived for three years after that. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was the way my sister looked at me right before she was pushed through those double doors. And then, I died, too. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in the blindingly bright corridor of Mercy General Hospital. My mother was leaning over the nursing station, pen in hand, about to sign the surgical consent form. The doctor was smiling, his voice a smooth, comforting hum. “Don’t worry, Mr. and Mrs. Hayes. It’s a very standard, minor procedure.” I lunged forward, snatched the paper from beneath her pen, and ripped it to shreds. “No.” My voice tore from my throat. “We aren’t doing this surgery. Nobody is taking Lily into that room.” 1 Confetti of white paper drifted to the polished linoleum. The corridor went dead silent. My mother, Sarah, stared at me, her hand still frozen in the shape of holding a pen. My father, David, felt his face darken instantly. “Nolan, what the hell are you doing?” I didn’t look at him. I bent down and scooped my three-year-old sister, Lily, out of her hospital bed. She was swimming in a patterned gown, half a graham cracker clutched in her fist. Startled by the sudden movement, she blinked her wide, innocent eyes. “Noly?” I tightened my arms around her, a sudden, burning heat rushing to my eyes. She was warm in my arms. She was breathing. She was still calling me by my nickname. On this exact day in my previous life, right as my mother signed the paper, she had looked up and asked, “Dr. Campbell, are you absolutely sure there are no risks?” And the man had given her that same warm, practiced smile. “We do hundreds of these a year, Sarah. It’s as safe as can be.” Hours later, that same man had stood before us with a solemn face, saying, I am so incredibly sorry. We did everything we could. I locked eyes with the doctor standing in front of me now. Dr. Arthur Campbell. Chief of Pediatric Urology. Everyone said he was a miracle worker. The expert with a six-month waitlist. The guy whose bedside manner made terrified parents weep with relief. But he was the one who had sent my sister into an operating room that didn’t technically exist. Dr. Campbell frowned, adjusting his stance. “David, Sarah… it seems your son is a bit overwhelmed.” I let out a harsh, ragged laugh. “I’m not overwhelmed. I’m the only one thinking clearly.” My mother finally snapped out of her shock, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “Nolan, stop this right now. Lily’s scans were bad. Dr. Campbell said if we wait, there could be permanent kidney damage. She’s only three.” My throat tightened. “It’s not an emergency, Mom. It’s mild hydronephrosis. We can monitor it. We can do repeat ultrasounds. There is absolutely no clinical reason to put her on an operating table today.” The moment those words left my mouth, something flickered in Dr. Campbell’s eyes. A micro-expression. A fraction of a second where the warm physician dropped away. But he recovered seamlessly, his voice maintaining that perfect, measured cadence. “And where exactly did you read that, Nolan? WebMD?” I didn’t answer. In my past life, my parents had torn through every medical journal in existence trying to build their case. I had read them all alongside them. I was only a fifteen-year-old high school sophomore; I knew I couldn’t out-argue a Chief of Surgery on medical terminology. But I knew one thing with absolute, bone-chilling certainty. If my sister went into surgery today, she was never coming back out. My father was losing his temper. “You’re fifteen years old, Nolan. What the hell do you know about medicine? You think you know more than the Chief of Surgery?” The commotion had drawn the attention of the other parents in the ward. A woman named Brenda, whose son was in the bed next to ours, sighed and shook her head. “Listen to your folks, kid. Dr. Campbell is the best of the best. You can’t mess around with kidneys. If you delay this and she gets worse, you’ll never forgive yourself.” Forgive yourself. The words felt like a physical blow to my temple. In my past life, I had lived with the rot of regret for three agonizing years. Regret for trusting them. Regret for doing nothing but standing outside the surgical ward, staring at a red light that would never turn off. I took a step back, clutching Lily tighter against my chest. “We’re transferring,” I said. “We’re leaving right now.” My mother’s face drained of color. “Transfer? Nolan, are you insane? Do you know how long it took to get on Dr. Campbell’s schedule?” Dr. Campbell timed his intervention perfectly. “Sarah, I strongly advise against delaying. Pediatric cases can be deceptive. She looks stable now, but if renal function drops, it cascades quickly.” I saw my mother’s hands start to shake. My father swallowed hard. I recognized the terror in their eyes. It was exactly like the last time. They loved Lily so fiercely that the mere phrase ‘permanent kidney damage’ paralyzed their logic. I gritted my teeth. “Fine. Then we take her scans and go to Seattle Children’s for a second opinion. Right now.” Dr. Campbell reached up and casually pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. “The imaging and raw data are already archived in the pre-op system. If you cancel against medical advice today, it will take at least three weeks to get you back on the rotation.” He looked directly at me, dropping his voice into a tone of gentle reprimand. “I understand you’re protective of your little sister, Nolan. But by standing in the way right now, you are actively harming her.” Lily didn’t understand the words, but she felt the crushing tension in the air. Her lower lip quivered, and she wrapped her chubby arms around my neck. “Noly, my tummy doesn’t hurt anymore,” she whispered. “Can we go home?” The sting in my eyes turned into a blinding ache. “Yeah, bug,” I whispered back, my voice cracking. “I’m taking you home.” I turned toward the exit. My father stepped right into my path, his chest blocking the way. “Put your sister down.” 2 I shook my head. “Dad, please. For the love of God, trust me this one time. She cannot have this surgery. There is something wrong with him.” The corridor erupted into whispers. Dr. Campbell’s mask finally slipped, his voice turning icy. “Young man, you need to be very careful about the accusations you make.” I stared right through him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” My father grabbed my shoulder, his grip bruising. “Nolan Hayes! Have you lost your damn mind?” He yanked me back so hard I stumbled. Lily shrieked, bursting into tears. I curled my body entirely around her to shield her, digging my free hand into my pocket. I hit the speed dial on my phone by memory. The second the call connected, I spoke low and fast. “Aunt Claire. Get to Mercy General right now. They’re trying to take Lily into surgery. Someone is trying to kill her.” My Aunt Claire was the Charge Nurse for the main OR at St. Jude’s Women and Children’s Hospital across town. In my past life, after my parents were killed, she was the one who had helped me parse through Lily’s medical files. She was the one who had noticed that the time of death didn’t align with the anesthesia dosing. “Nolan, slow down,” her voice dropped an octave, shifting instantly from family mode into combat-ready charge nurse. “What floor are you on?” “Twelfth. Pediatric Urology.” The tears finally spilled over, hot and humiliating. “Claire, please bring people with you. I need you to pull the OR board, the anesthesia sheets, the pharmacy logs. Just get here. Please.” My mother heard the phone call and her expression shifted from shock to deep, horrified embarrassment. “Nolan, who are you talking to? Stop making a scene!” My dad ripped the phone out of my hand. “Claire? Ignore him. He’s having some sort of psychotic break about Lily’s procedure—” But Claire didn’t play along. Through the receiver, I could hear her sharp, focused voice. “David, what time is the surgery scheduled for?” My dad hesitated. “Two o’clock this afternoon.” At that exact moment, Dr. Campbell looked down at the tablet a nurse had just handed him and sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, we have a complication,” he announced, his voice carrying just enough to ensure the whole ward heard. “The lab just ran her latest urinalysis, and her repeat ultrasound shows the obstruction is worsening rapidly. With the parents’ consent, I am moving this to an emergency procedure. We need to go in now.” A bucket of ice water poured down my spine. In my past life, they took her at 2:00 PM. Because I was making a scene, because I had called my aunt, he was accelerating the timeline. He was going to take her now. I lunged forward to grab the tablet. “Show me the labs!” Two nurses instantly stepped in front of the doctor, blocking me. Dr. Campbell took a half-step back, all traces of warmth gone from his face. “David, Sarah, I suggest you get your family under control,” he said flatly. “If we delay this any further, whatever happens next is entirely on you.” That was the trigger. My dad snapped. He grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into my muscle, and dragged me away from the bed. “Did you hear him? She’s getting worse!” I fought against his grip. “It’s a lie! Dad, he’s faking the data!” My mother was sobbing openly now. “Nolan, I am begging you. Your sister is so tiny. Please stop taking whatever anger you have out on her body.” Anger. I froze. It was true that in my past life, when Lily was born, the entire axis of our household shifted to her. My mom always told me to let things go because I was older. My dad would come home from work and swoop Lily up before even looking at me. Relatives joked that I’d been replaced. But I had never hated her. Not for a single second. The first time she ever walked, it was to wobble directly into my arms. The first time she managed to say ‘Noly’, the whole family laughed until we cried. How could I ever be jealous of her? How could they think I would ever hurt her? “Mom…” My voice came out as a broken rasp. “I’m not.” She wrapped her arms around her own stomach, hyperventilating. “Then why won’t you let them fix her? Tell me! Why?” I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t say, Because I died and came back. I couldn’t say, Because they are going to carve her up and leave her to bleed out. All I could do was repeat, like a broken record, “Don’t let them take her. Just transfer her. Please.” Brenda, the woman in the next bed, chimed in again. “Sarah, I get that he’s scared, but he’s just a kid. You can’t let a teenager make medical decisions. Dr. Campbell has been running this floor for a decade. If he was doing something shady, they would have caught him by now.” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the onlookers. “We waited six months for this guy.” “Don’t hold up the line for the rest of us.” “If that kid dies because her brother threw a tantrum, it’s a tragedy.” Dr. Campbell met my gaze over the nurses’ shoulders. His look was dead calm. And in that moment, a cold sweat broke out across my back. He knew exactly what I was afraid of, and he knew I didn’t have a shred of proof. I was fifteen. In the eyes of this institution, I had zero legal rights. I couldn’t sign a discharge form, I couldn’t demand medical records, and I couldn’t physically walk my sister out the door. My father had reached his breaking point. He raised his hand and slapped me across the face. The sound echoed off the tile walls. The entire floor went dead still. My ear rang with a high-pitched whine. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. Lily screamed, reaching for me in terror. “Don’t hit Noly! No!” My father’s hand hovered in the air, trembling violently. But his jaw was set. “Nolan,” he breathed. “I am warning you. Put. Her. Down.” I stared at him. In my past life, this was the man who had knelt on the concrete outside the hospital entrance, begging for the truth until security dragged him away by his armpits. This was the man who stayed awake for days staring at redacted files, his eyes bloodshot, sobbing into his hands saying, ‘I failed her. I didn’t protect her.’ Right now, he was standing on Dr. Campbell’s side, using violence to force me to surrender her. I didn’t hate him. But I couldn’t obey him. I hitched Lily higher onto my hip, turned, and bolted for the fire stairs. I made it three steps before two male orderlies tackled me. Behind me, Dr. Campbell’s voice was the epitome of calm authority. “Security. The patient’s brother is having an episode and is at risk of dropping the child. Secure the patient.” They swarmed me. I slammed my back against the wall, hunching over Lily to protect her head as hands clawed at my arms. Lily’s face was purple with screaming. “Noly! Noly, I’m scared!” I buried my face in her hair, whispering frantically into her ear. “Don’t be scared, bug. I’ve got you. I’m going to protect you.”

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1 Three years into my relationship with Gavin, I came home with a heart full of light, ready to sit down with my mother and pick a wedding date. The sharp crack of her palm across my face echoed through the foyer before I even had time to take off my coat. The impact knocked my head back, my cheek burning hot and stinging instantly. “What wedding?” my mother snarled, her breath raspy with venom. “How shameless can you be? He’s your sister’s boyfriend!” I stood there, paralyzed, my hand flying up to cover my throbbing cheek. “Mom, what are you—” “Men these days are too good at faking it!” she cut in, her eyes wide, glittering with a terrifying sort of righteousness. “I was terrified Haley would pick the wrong guy, so I set him up with you first! I gave him to you for three years so you could test him out!” She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a firm, unyielding hiss. “Gavin was reserved for Haley from the very beginning. You don’t get to steal what belongs to your sister.” I stared at her, my vision blurring, completely unable to process the absurd, grotesque truth unfolding in front of me. I wasn’t a daughter bringing home her future husband. I was a guinea pig. A trial run. A terrible, suffocating clarity washed over me. Suddenly, the last three years made a twisted kind of sense. My mother—who had ignored me for most of my life—had been strangely insistent after I started dating Gavin. She constantly demanded that I bring him over for dinner, weekend brunches, family barbecues. For three long years, she had put Gavin through a brutal, invisible pressure test. She nitpicked his manners, scrutinized his background, pried into his finances, picking him apart inch by inch. I had thought she was just being a protective mother to me. It had all been for Haley. My mother was already pacing back and forth across the hardwood floor, muttering to herself in a high-pitched, excited blur. She was rambling about what a match made in heaven Gavin and Haley would be. “Honestly, at first, I wasn’t satisfied with Gavin at all,” she fussed, smoothing down her sweater with trembling fingers. “He was a bit too arrogant, didn’t know how to take care of anyone. A man like that was nowhere near good enough for Haley.” She stopped and looked at me, a proud, sickening smile touching her lips. “Thank God I was smart enough to steer him to you first. Three years by your side, and you smoothed out all his rough edges. Now he knows how to talk to women, how to cater to them, how to show affection. You broke him in nicely.” I bit the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper, desperately fighting back the tears threatening to spill over. “Mom,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Gavin loves me. We’re getting married. I am not handing my fiancé over to Haley.” The room fell dead silent. My mother’s face transformed, contorting into pure, unadulterated rage. SLAP. The second blow hit the exact same spot on my cheek, harder this time. My vision flickered black for a second, a sharp ringing filling my ears. “Are you deaf?” she screamed, towering over me. “I said Gavin is Haley’s! He was only beside you because of your sister’s grace! The timing is right now—Haley is getting older, and it’s time you return him to her!” She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me violently. “Grow up for once in your life! Pick up your phone right now, call Gavin, and break it off!” Something inside me snapped. The years of quiet obedience, of trying so desperately to earn a shred of her affection, crumbled into dust. I opened my mouth to scream at her, to tear down the walls of this house with my rage— She turned her back on me, completely unbothered, and dialed her phone. “Brenda? Hi, sweetie!” Her voice instantly shifted into a cheerful, melodic sing-song as she talked to my aunt. “Oh, yes, yes! Haley’s finally dating someone wonderful… My heart can finally rest easy…” Every word out of her mouth was about Haley. She didn’t spare a single glance for the daughter standing two feet away, bleeding from the lip, her heart shattered into pieces. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stay in that house for another second. I turned and bolted through the front door into the brisk afternoon air, the cheerful murmur of her phone call following me all the way down the driveway. Running down the sidewalk, surrounded by the cold autumn wind, I finally let out a ragged, ugly sob. 2 My parents were always biased. Haley was the golden child; I was the background noise. I had realized that when I was barely old enough to form memories. When we were kids, I was sent to the neighborhood public elementary school down the street, walking home alone every afternoon, constantly picked on by the older kids. Haley, on the other hand, was enrolled in an elite private academy twenty miles away. Rain or shine, my parents personally drove her back and forth every single day. When it came time to choose a major in college, I wanted to study graphic design. My mother threw a historic fit. She cried, screamed, and emotionally blackmailed me until I caved and enrolled in a rigorous pre-med track, eventually dragging myself into a brutal medical residency program. Yet, when Haley graduated high school a few years later, she didn’t apply to medical school like she had always promised. She picked Corporate Finance instead. One afternoon, when our parents weren’t home, I asked Haley why she had abandoned medicine. She looked at me with bright, innocent eyes, twirling a strand of her hair. “Oh, Mom said medical school is awful. She said the hours are grueling, the burn-out is crazy, and the golden era for doctors is over anyway. We don’t have any high-level connections in the hospital system, so I’d just be grinding myself to the bone for nothing. Mom told me to go into finance so Uncle can just give me a cushy job at his firm.” The breath left my lungs as if I’d been struck in the chest. Everything Haley rattled off was insider knowledge—hard truths you only learned after drowning in the medical system. Where had my mother gotten all that information? From me. From watching me cry over textbooks at 2:00 AM, from listening to me vent about eighty-hour hospital shifts. I was her crash-test dummy. She wanted Haley to go into medicine, but she was afraid of the dark, treacherous waters. So she threw me in first to map out the depths. Once she saw how deep the current was, she pulled Haley back and handed her a smooth, paved highway. My suffering was the blueprint for Haley’s happiness. And now, the man I had loved for three years was being packaged up and handed to her on a silver platter, too. My mother wanted to give Haley the world. But this time, I refused to yield. An icy cold war began. Or, more accurately, I cut my mother off completely. I stopped texting her, stopped visiting. She, predictably, didn’t bother to reach out to me either. I let myself drown in the dark silence, refusing to bow my head. Haley, however, began texting me occasionally, her messages dripping with casual complaints: “Nora, Mom’s standards are ridiculously high. Every guy I talk to gets torn apart by her—except Gavin, of course. At this rate, I’m gonna end up an old maid.” I stared at the glowing screen for a long time before typing back: “Why do you keep calling him Gavin?” I remembered distinctly that she used to call him “Brother-in-law.” I hadn’t realized when that shifted to just “Gavin”—a casual, intimate familiarity. Haley replied instantly, oblivious to the knife she was twisting: “Oh, Mom told me to! She said you guys might not end up together anyway, so I shouldn’t call him ‘Brother-in-law’ so I don’t get weirded out later.” I felt like I was plunging through ice. I forced myself to sit down and reconstruct the timeline. Haley had stopped calling him my fiancé about a year ago—right around the time I was hospitalized with a compound leg fracture after a bad car accident. My parents had dropped by the hospital twice, performing dutiful, shallow check-ins before slipping away. Gavin was the one who stayed. For three straight months, Gavin lived in that hospital room with me. He drove miles out into the countryside every weekend to buy fresh organic chicken just to stew rich, nourishing broth for my bones. He bathed me, cooked for me, carried me to the bathroom, refusing to let nurses do what he felt was his duty. I remembered one afternoon when my mother brought over a dish of spicy eggplant. Gavin ate it all himself, gently reminding her that nightshade vegetables could trigger inflammation and slow down my surgical wound healing. He had spoken with such authoritative care. I remembered the look in my mother’s eyes that day—a sudden, intense, calculating heat. By the time I could walk again, Gavin had lost nearly twenty pounds from exhaustion. It was right after my recovery that my mother’s attitude toward Gavin flipped overnight. She began inviting him over constantly. And every single time Gavin sat down at the dinner table, Haley was placed directly across from him. Connecting the dots tore my soul apart. Long ago, while I was broken in a hospital bed, my mother had already decided that Gavin belonged to Haley. And I had been the oblivious clown, smiling through the pain. 3 A week later, after yet another blind date arranged by Aunt Brenda fell short of my mother’s insane standards, she finally called me herself. She didn’t ask how I was doing. Her voice came blasting through the speaker, sharp and demanding. “Where are you? Have you broken up with Gavin yet? You have no idea what kind of losers your aunt tried to set Haley up with today. Not a single one of them holds a candle to Gavin.” I was in the middle of my residency rotation, running on three hours of sleep, the hospital intercom blaring overhead. My attending physician had already called my name twice down the hallway. I rubbed my swollen, aching temples, suppressing a wave of bone-deep exhaustion. “Mom, Gavin and I love each other. I am not breaking up with him. Haley can take her time and find her own boyfriend.” A beat of silence, and then the line shuffled. My father’s heavy, somber voice replaced hers. “Nora,” he began, adopting the posture of a wise, long-suffering patriarch. “Your mother and I are getting old. All we want is to see your little sister settled with a good man for the rest of her life. You’re the older sister—what’s wrong with making a sacrifice for Haley? If it weren’t for your sister’s sake, do you really think your mother would have let a high-caliber man like Gavin into your life in the first place?” He paused, letting out a heavy sigh. “You’ve enjoyed three years of a good man’s company. You should be grateful you got to borrow him thanks to Haley.” A harsh, hysterical laugh escaped my throat. “Borrow him?” my voice cracked, tight with rage. “What does Gavin have to do with Haley? I know you guys favor her, but I’m your daughter too! Do you hate me so much that you can’t bear to see me happy?” My voice had raised higher than I intended. Across the nurses’ station, my attending shot me a stern, warning glare. I took a deep, shuddering breath, lowering my voice into a cold, hard promise. “Gavin and I are not breaking up. Think very carefully about what you’re trying to do, Dad. Don’t blow this family apart.” I foolishly believed my warning would make them back off. Two hours later, my phone buzzed with an incoming photo from Haley. It was a shot of my parents’ living room. Gavin was sitting on the sofa, completely surrounded by a dozen extended relatives—aunts, uncles, cousins—looking visually overwhelmed. Haley’s text followed: “Nora, Gavin is being cross-examined by the whole family right now. Poor guy looks terrified haha.” The blood rushed out of my face. My head spun. My mother had invited Gavin to the house alone. What was she planning to do to him?! I ripped off my white coat, abandoned my charting, and drove like a maniac back to my childhood home. I threw the front door open, striding into the foyer just in time to hear my mother’s voice ringing out clearly over the crowd, discussing wedding terms. “I won’t let my precious daughter be wronged,” my mother was saying, her tone pompous and grand. “We will provide a $300,000 cash contribution toward their house down payment, plus a brand-new SUV as a wedding gift. And whatever registry money comes in, she keeps it all.” A collective gasp echoed through the living room. The relatives exchanged amazed glances, marveling at what an extraordinarily generous mother she was. It sounded like the ultimate expression of maternal love. Except the “precious daughter” she was talking about wasn’t me. Gavin spotted me standing by the entryway first. His face lit up with immense relief, and he instantly stood up. “Nora! You’re here!” He walked toward me, his eyes shining with adoration, completely oblivious to the trap laid out around him. “Nora, I’m going to marry you. I promise I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world.” The moment the words left his mouth, the room fell dead silent. Except for Haley, everyone in the room shot Gavin deeply uncomfortable, bizarre looks. Aunt Brenda broke the silence, her tone dripping with bewildered pity. “Oh, Gavin, sweetie… you must be so excited you’re talking nonsense. You’re Haley’s boyfriend! The girl you’re marrying is Haley!” Gavin froze mid-step, his jaw dropping. “What? No… Nora is my girlfriend.” I stood there, icy cold from head to toe, staring directly at my mother. She had clearly lied to the entire extended family, telling them all that Gavin was Haley’s fiancé. I wanted to see how she was going to wriggle her way out of this absurd lie. My mother met my gaze calmly, unhurried. She offered the relatives a gentle, long-suffering smile. “Nora and Gavin broke up a while ago,” she said smoothly, her voice laced with practiced sorrow. “Gavin is such a wonderful young man, and he and Haley are such a perfect match… so I thought we’d make it official today.” 4 Haley let out a soft, dramatic gasp. “Mom?” She stole a shy, blushing glance at Gavin, her cheeks turning bright crimson. “He is MY boyfriend!” I roared, my voice breaking the tension like a shattered window. “We never broke up! Haley, if you want a boyfriend, go find one yourself! Why do you always have to steal mine?!” I was losing my mind. The sheer absurdity of it was suffocating me. My mother turned to me, her eyes dropping into a frosty, commanding glare. “Nora, lower your voice. Control your emotions. Stop acting like a crazy person. Do you honestly think a hysterical woman like you deserves a man like Gavin?” Control my emotions? With parents like them, staying sane was a medical miracle! I had just pulled a twenty-four-hour shift at the hospital, running from patient rooms to emergency charts without a single second of sleep. My brain was firing on empty, my vision swimming with black spots, my chest tightening as if an iron band were wrapping around my ribs. One of the distant aunts chimed in hesitantly, “Evelyn… Gavin is Nora’s boyfriend. Doing this… isn’t it a bit inappropriate?” My mother shut her down instantly. “They weren’t engaged yet!” she declared, raising her chin. “Besides, as far as I’m concerned, they are completely wrong for each other!” She pointed a finger at me, turning to face the relatives. “Nora is just a lowly resident doctor! The medical field is an endless, soul-crushing grind with terrible pay starting out—what kind of future does she have? Haley is different. Haley is already a Corporate Finance Director at a major firm. She and Gavin—a regional manager—are a match made in heaven!” My mother’s eyes brimmed with sudden, tragic tears. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, performing the role of an exhausted, selfless mother to perfection. “I’m her mother! Would I ever hurt her? Instead of watching them get divorced five years down the road, it’s better to cut the cord now!” I’m her mother. Those three words were her ultimate shield, an impenetrable armor that made her morally invincible in front of the older generation. Aunt Brenda nodded thoughtfully, convinced. “Honestly… Evelyn has a point. Nora and Gavin really don’t seem to have much in common. If they got married, they’d probably end up drifting apart anyway.” She looked at me, her voice softening into a preachy tone. “Nora, honey… a marriage without your parents’ blessing never ends well.” The relatives chimed in one after another, picking apart my relationship, dissecting all the ways Gavin and I were supposedly incompatible. Gavin tried to step forward to defend us, but I raised a hand, grabbing his arm tightly, stopping him. I wanted to hear it. I wanted to see just how deep my mother’s cruelty could run. My mother looked at me, tears streaming down her face like a tragic heroine. “Nora, you and Haley are both my daughters. I love you both equally. But as your mother, I genuinely know what’s best for you. You two were never meant to be husband and wife.” Equal love. What a sick, malicious joke. The last embers of heat in my chest died out, leaving behind a cold, hollow void. I felt a finality settling over me—my blood ties to these people were officially severed. This was why she had assembled the entire family today. She wanted to publicly humiliate me, tear down my worth, elevate Haley, and use the collective pressure of our relatives to force me into walking away from Gavin. I looked at my mother’s tear-stained, manipulative face. Then I looked at the relatives nodding along like sheep. If she wanted to play dirty, then nobody in this room was getting out unscathed. I took a step forward, a cold smile spreading across my lips. “Aunt Brenda,” I said softly, my voice echoing clearly through the quiet living room. “Did you know that Cousin Audrey’s ex-fiancé was actually the first guy Mom scouted out to be Haley’s husband?”

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1 The summer vacation plans had been in motion for weeks. My mother spent half a month obsessing over itineraries. My father booked the oceanfront suite. My brother, Dylan, picked out a brand-new performance surfboard. My sister, Sadie, spent hours online shopping for breezy, photo-ready dresses. The night before we were set to leave, I helped them pack. I was zipping up Dylan’s duffel bag when I noticed the airline envelope sitting on the coffee table. Inside were the physical boarding passes—crisp, glossy cardstock. Four tickets. David Mercer. Diane Mercer. Dylan Mercer. Sadie Mercer. None for me. My mother caught me staring at the pile and froze, her hand hovering over a bottle of high-end sunblock. “Oh,” she said, a brief, awkward pause breaking her voice. “Summer, sweetie… I forgot to count you in.” Dylan didn’t even glance up from his phone, scrolling through his social media feed. “Then she can just stay home and watch the place.” Sadie lowered her head, her voice barely a whisper. “Maybe… maybe I shouldn’t go then?” My mother’s face softened with instant distress. “Don’t talk nonsense, Sadie. You’ve been looking forward to this trip for months.” My father walked over and patted my shoulder—two heavy, perfunctory thuds. “Summer, let’s skip it for you this time. Next time, we’ll take you to the coast.” I looked at those four tickets, the printed names glowing under the living room light, and let out a faint, dry smile. The next morning, they loaded their bags into an Uber and headed for the airport. I packed my life into a single suitcase, took the ten million dollars I’d won in the lottery, and boarded a flight to Clearwater—eleven hundred miles away. Under an endless sky, the road ahead stretched out into the unknown. I was never coming back. In truth, that winning ticket had been sitting in my drawer for two weeks before the beach trip. It was July 19th—my eighteenth birthday. I had kept quiet about it. I wanted to see if, during those final two weeks of my quiet, uncomplaining compliance, this family would remember to include me just once. They didn’t. On the morning of my eighteenth birthday, I got up early and boiled an egg for myself in the quiet kitchen. I had just cracked the shell when my mother poked her head out from the pantry. “Summer, don’t eat that,” she said casually. “Give it to your sister. Sadie needs the protein before her dance intensive.” I looked down at the warm egg in my palm. Steam was still rising from the cracked shell. “There are more in the pot, Mom.” “The ones in the pot are boiling hot. The one in your hand is already peeled—just let her have it.” Before I could answer, she reached over and slid it out of my hand. Sadie was sitting at the dining table in her pink ballet leotard, her hair slicked back into a tight bun. She looked up at me as our mother handed her the egg. “Sis, aren’t you eating?” I forced a tiny smile. “No.” She smiled back, bright and unburdened. “Thanks, Summer.” At lunch, Dylan came home from his morning workout. My mother had gone all out: garlic butter shrimp, spicy dungeness crab, and steamed egg with sea urchin. I have a severe shellfish allergy. When I was eight years old, a single bite of shrimp landed me in the emergency room. My skin broke out in hives, and my throat closed up so fast I couldn’t breathe. The doctor told my parents I could never touch shellfish again. But my mother always forgot. Or rather, whenever Dylan wanted seafood, my health became a detail too small to remember. She placed a bowl of cold, leftover white rice in front of me, topped with a spoonful of jarred pickled greens. “Summer, eat this. It’s really flavorful.” I didn’t say anything. I just lowered my head and shoved the rice into my mouth. It had been cooked the day before, stiff and dry. When I swallowed, it scraped against the back of my throat like sandpaper. Not a single person around that table remembered what day it was. That evening, my mother posted a photo on Facebook. Dylan was making a peace sign over a plate of crab legs, Sadie was grinning with a fork in her mouth, and my father was pouring soda into their glasses. I was sitting on the far edge of the frame, cut off so completely that only half of my bare forearm was visible. Her caption read: A lovely feast with my family, kicking off summer break early! My family. I opened the app, zoomed in, and stared at the image for a long time. That half-severed arm on the edge of the screen was the only proof I existed in that house. Later that night, taking out the trash, I passed the local convenience store down the street. The clerk was leaning against the doorway, taping a promotional flyer for the state lottery onto the glass window. Seeing me slow down, he smiled kindly. “Hey kiddo. You eighteen yet? Want to grab a scratcher or a draw ticket for good luck?” I was about to walk away. But then I remembered the date. It was my eighteenth birthday, after all. Maybe I was due for a little luck. “Today’s actually my eighteenth birthday,” I said softly. The clerk behind the counter paused, reached into a jar, and handed me a cherry lollipop. “Happy birthday, kid.” I gripped the paper stick of that cheap candy, and my eyes suddenly burned with a hot, terrible sting. The only birthday wish I received in the real world came from a complete stranger who didn’t even know my name. I pulled out a ten-dollar bill and bought a single quick-pick draw ticket. 2 When I got home, my mother was leaning over the sofa showing Sadie a board on Pinterest—aesthetic photoshoot ideas for the beach. Dylan was sprawled on the couch, reviewing options for customized surfboards. He had recently built a modest following on TikTok posting workout and action-sports videos, and he was desperately trying to curate his image to lock in brand deals with athletic companies. My father looked up from his iPad. “We should really treat ourselves this break. Everyone’s worked hard this year.” My mother beamed. “I agree. Sadie’s been dying to get out to the ocean.” “I get to do surf lessons, right?” Dylan interrupted, not looking away from his screen. “Sign me up for the private coaching.” “Of course,” my father said cheerfully. “I’ll get you the best instructor on the beach.” I stood in the entryway, slipping off my shoes. Nobody asked me where I wanted to go. Nobody asked me how my day was. At ten o’clock, when the winning numbers were announced online, I locked my bedroom door and checked my ticket against the screen. I checked once. Twice. A third time. Seven numbers. Every single one matched. Jackpot. Ten million dollars before taxes. I stared at the glowing numbers on my phone for ten solid minutes, my pulse slow, steady, almost surreal. “Summer!” my mother shouted from the kitchen. “Come cut up some melon for your brother!” I slipped the lottery ticket inside my acceptance packet from Clearwater University. The thick envelope had arrived a week ago. My mother had torn it open when it came in the mail, glanced at the letterhead, and said, “Clearwater? That’s clear across the country. You’ll have to figure out your own living expenses, Summer—we still have to support your brother’s college fund.” Then she turned right back around to book Sadie’s beach photography session. I slid the acceptance letter and the winning ticket together, burying them deep under the winter sweaters in my bottom dresser drawer. One was my future. The other was my exit strategy. A profound calm washed over me. Eighteenth birthdays weren’t entirely devoid of gifts after all. At least the universe remembered me. Once the family vacation was officially set, the house transformed into a whirlwind of excitement. My mother created a meticulously detailed three-page itinerary document. Page one: Oceanfront resort bookings. Page two: Waterfront dining reservations. Page three: Scenic photography spots. At the top of every single page, she had typed: Itinerary for Four. I stood by her desk and asked quietly, “Four people?” She was busy comparing reviews for sea-view suites and didn’t look up. “Well, don’t you have college orientation paperwork to deal with?” I watched her face. “I never said I wasn’t going with you.” She finally paused, raising her head as if noticing my presence in the room for the first time that day. “Oh… Summer. You wanted to come too?” Dylan let out a loud snort from the living room. “What’s she gonna do there? She doesn’t even like the sun, and she won’t swim. She’ll just drag down our schedule.” Sadie played with her phone, her voice small and delicate. “If Summer wants to come, can’t we just pack an extra bag?” My mother instantly reached out to smooth Sadie’s hair. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie. It’s your first professional photoshoot—Mom is going to make sure everything is perfect for you.” I lowered my eyes to the paper printed on the desk. The hotel was booked as a four-person suite. The dinner reservations were fixed for a four-course tasting menu for four. The rental car was a four-seater sedan. From the very beginning, there had never been a seat reserved for me. Over the next two weeks, I kept doing what I always did. I ran errands. I picked Sadie up from her dance studio. I picked up Dylan’s Amazon packages from the porch. I helped my mother cross items off her packing lists. At night, behind a locked door, I researched the legal procedures for claiming a major lottery prize. I looked up how to request anonymity under state law. I calculated the net lump-sum payout after federal and state taxes. I researched apartment rental prices in Clearwater, bank wealth management safety, and consulted with an estate lawyer online. I was eighteen now. I had my official ID. I had my own personal bank account. The lottery ticket had been purchased with my own debit card. I verified every single detail with cold, methodical precision. Not because I was greedy for the wealth, but because I knew them too well. If they found out before I left, I knew exactly what would happen. “Summer, you’re too young to handle this kind of money. Let us manage it for you.” “Your brother needs money for a down payment on a condo down the line.” “Your sister’s dance training is so expensive.” “We’re a family. Don’t be so selfish.” They would carve up that ticket using the knife of familial duty. A chunk for Dylan. A chunk for Sadie. A chunk for my parents’ mortgage. And for me? They’d hand me a pat on the head and a gentle reminder: “You’re just a girl going to school, Summer. You don’t need all that cash.” 3 A week before their scheduled departure, Clearwater University called my cell phone to confirm my enrollment in their early-arrival Urban Design program. I had just pressed the receiver to my ear when my mother pushed open my bedroom door without knocking. “Summer, go help Sadie pull up the zipper on her dress. She’s trying on her outfits.” I covered the phone speaker with my hand. “Mom, I’m on the phone with the university.” She frowned, her tone instantly sharp. “How long does pulling a zipper take? Don’t be ridiculous.” The admissions coordinator on the other end of the line was still speaking: “Ms. Mercer, your spot in the Urban Renewal Freshman Intensive has been finalized. Please ensure you arrive on campus by the 12th.” My mother caught the word Clearwater and her frown deepened into a scowl. As soon as I hung up, she stepped into the room. “Are you really going all the way across the country?” “Yes.” “What’s wrong with the state college ten miles down the road? It’s better for a girl to stay close to home. Get a teaching credential, get a stable local job—it’s safe.” “I want to go to Clearwater.” She let out a long, heavy sigh of disappointment. “You’ve always been like this. So stubborn, so full of your own ideas. But did you stop to think about what happens to this house if you just pack up and leave?” I looked at her, searching her eyes. “What happens to the house?” “Who’s going to drive Sadie to her weekend rehearsals?” she asked, as if the answer were glaringly obvious. “Who’s going to record Dylan’s athletic drills for his social media? Your father and I work full-time, Summer. Someone has to keep things running here.” A cold realization settled in my chest. She wasn’t sad to lose her daughter. She was stressed about losing her unpaid domestic help. In that moment, I realized there was no point in testing them anymore. The verdict was already in. Yet, I still stayed until the very end. I wanted to wait until the night before their trip—until those printed boarding passes were sitting on the counter—just to see if, at the absolute last second, a single one of them would realize I was being left behind. Three days before the trip, Dylan’s new custom surfboard arrived in the mail. Five hundred dollars. He unboxed it in the middle of the living room, practicing his stance and banging the heavy fiberglass tail against the coffee table with a loud thud. My mother only smiled, watching him affectionately. “Be careful with your knees, honey. Tomorrow we’re going to the mall to buy you those designer rash guards.” My university welcome packet arrived the same afternoon—a thin paper envelope. Dylan had sliced right through the top corner of it with his box cutter while opening his own parcel. I picked up the torn envelope from the hallway floor. Dylan glanced at it sideways. “It’s just paper. It’s not like there’s money inside.” I wiped the dust off the cardboard cover and didn’t reply. My mother was ironing Sadie’s white dresses nearby. “Summer, where’s that hard-shell luggage set of yours?” “In my closet.” “Bring it out so Sadie can use it. Her dresses can’t get wrinkled.” I looked up. “I need that suitcase for my own move.” My mother finally turned her full attention to me, exasperated. “Aren’t you staying home while we’re at the beach?” “I’m leaving for Clearwater.” A heavy silence descended on the living room. Dylan burst out laughing from the rug. “Wait, you’re actually going? How are you even paying for it?” My father stepped in from the balcony, adjusting his glasses. “Did you figure out your tuition and housing deposits?” “I’ll manage it myself,” I said quietly. My father’s face darkened instantly. “Summer, do you think going off to college is a game? Food, housing, transportation, health insurance—do you think those things drop from the sky?” Dylan leaned against his surfboard, tossing a roll of grip tape in his hand. “If you’re so tough, don’t ask Mom and Dad for a single penny.” I met his gaze dead-on. “I won’t.” The whole room stunned into silence. My mother’s brows knit together. “Don’t talk out of spite, Summer.” I wasn’t talking out of spite. I simply had money now. I didn’t need to depend on them for my survival anymore. I dragged my trunk back into my bedroom and closed the door. Outside, I heard Dylan’s voice carry through the thin drywall. “She’s just throwing a tantrum because we didn’t invite her on the trip. She’s being dramatic.” My father sighed. “Ignore her. She’ll get over it in a day or two.” “She used to be such an easy child,” my mother chimed in, her voice full of weary complaint. “Now she’s so resentful.” I sat down on the hardwood floor and began packing my essentials into my backpack. My driver’s license. My debit card. My university acceptance letter. My financial aid documents. My lottery ticket. And, tucked in the corner, a physical architectural model I had spent the last month building for my freshman design seminar. It was a scaled model of a deserted train station converted into a community library. I had named the project Sanctuary. I carefully placed the model inside a clear acrylic protective box and set it on my desk. Suddenly, a violent crashing sound erupted from the hallway outside, followed by the splintering of plastic. I rushed out. Dylan was standing on my desk chair, reaching up toward the high closet overhead to grab a duffel bag. He had stepped directly on my acrylic display case. The clear box was shattered into sharp shards. The miniature pitched roof of the library had collapsed inward, and the miniature wooden platform was snapped completely in half. I stood at the doorway, the blood rushing into my ears with a deafening roar. “Dylan Mercer.” 4 My father hurried out of his bedroom at the sound of my voice. “What happened now?” Dylan immediately raised his hands, pointing at the mess. “I accidentally bumped into her little art project, Dad, and she screamed my full name like I murdered someone.” My father glanced down at the broken plastic and wood scattered across the rug. “It’s just wood and glue, Summer. You can make another one. Your brother is traveling tomorrow—don’t ruin his mood over a toy.” I looked from my father’s impassive face to Dylan’s careless expression. In that exact second, every trace of sadness left my body. Sadness is a feeling reserved for those who still hold on to hope. I had none left. I knelt down on the floor and picked up the broken wooden pieces, one by one. That night, I stayed up until three in the morning repairing the model. The quick-dry wood glue stuck to my fingertips, peeling off a layer of skin when I rubbed them together, but I felt no pain at all. When it was finally reassembled, I packed the repaired model into the very bottom of my trunk. Then I placed my lottery ticket, my identification, and my legal paperwork into a cross-body bag that wouldn’t leave my side. Outside my window, the sky was beginning to turn light gray. I stared at the delicate, glued-together model and realized something simple: when something shatters, you can glue it back together, but the cracks remain forever. This family was no different. And I was done trying to mend it. On the night before their flight, I helped them pack their final items. “Summer, since you’re staying home anyway, organize these bags,” my mother instructed, tossing clothes onto the dining table. I didn’t argue. I packed Dylan’s surfboard accessories, Sadie’s white dresses, my father’s travel documents, and my mother’s skincare sets. “Make sure you keep an eye on the place while we’re gone,” my mother added casually, ticking items off her list. “Water the patio plants every two days. Dylan has a package arriving on Thursday—don’t open it. And if Sadie’s dance competition notice comes in the mail, make sure you put it on my desk.” My father put on his jacket. “There’s instant ramen in the pantry. If you’re hungry, cook that.” Dylan walked past my door. “Don’t go into my room while I’m gone.” Sadie held up a small, pearl-embellished shell charm. “Sis, I’ll bring you back real seashells from the ocean.” I looked at her and nodded faintly. “Okay.” That was the very last okay I would ever give them. They went to sleep early that night. I didn’t sleep at all. At four in the morning, I cleaned my bedroom until it was spotless. I smoothed out the bedspread. I wiped down the desk. All the old academic certificates, middle-school ribbons, and birthday cards they had forgotten to throw away were left behind in the top drawer. I walked out the front door with a single rolling suitcase. It was astonishingly light. Eighteen years in that house, and the things that were truly mine barely filled a bag. At five in the morning, I laid my house key softly on the shoe rack in the foyer. I pulled my old SIM card out of my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the dumpster outside the building. At six-thirty, they boarded a shuttle to the airport. At six-forty-five, I boarded an express transit line to the terminal. At eight-twenty, their flight took off for the coast. At eight-forty-five, my flight lifted into the sky, headed for Clearwater. By noon, my mother tried to reach me to check if Dylan’s package had arrived. She wasn’t calling out of concern; she just needed a task done. The line was dead. My social media profiles were completely dark. At three in the afternoon, their family taxi pulled up to the luxury beach resort. At the exact same hour, back in our old neighborhood, the convenience store hung a bright red banner outside its doors: JACKPOT WINNER! $10 MILLION DRAW TICKET SOLD HERE! A neighbor took a photo of the banner and texted it directly to my mother: [Diane! The store owner posted in the neighborhood group chat that the ten-million-dollar winner was an eighteen-year-old girl who bought it on her birthday! Isn’t that Summer? Didn’t she just turn eighteen two weeks ago?] My mother stared at the text, the color draining from her face second by second. She frantically dialed the store owner. “Yeah, Diane, it was a young girl,” the owner confirmed over the line. “Bought it on her eighteenth birthday. I even gave her a cherry lollipop for good luck. I heard this morning she flew out to Clearwater to claim the prize at the state office.” My father snatched the phone from her hand, his voice rising in disbelief. Dylan bolted upright from the resort lounge chair. Sadie dropped her pearl shell charm onto the tile floor. Meanwhile, my plane touched down eleven hundred miles away. I slid my new SIM card into my phone. A text notification lit up the screen from the Clearwater State Lottery Office: [Ms. Summer Mercer, your prize verification appointment for tomorrow at 9:00 AM has been confirmed.] The skies were wide, the roads were long, and they were far too late to ever catch me.

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1 After three years of managing our firm’s London branch, I stepped off the plane at Logan Airport and went straight to Cambridge City Hall. I hadn’t even checked into my apartment. I just wanted to finally get our marriage license. But when Vanessa met me on the steps, she wasn’t holding paperwork. She was holding a newborn baby, wrapped in a thin, faded hospital blanket. Before I could even ask, she casually pressed the bundle into my arms. “She’s mine and Blake’s,” Vanessa said, her voice entirely flat, as if she were handing me a coffee order. “Her name is Daisy. You’re going to help me raise her.” My ears started ringing. The noise of the city traffic faded into a dull hum. Behind Vanessa, Blake Miller—my childhood best friend—stepped out from the shadow of a brick pillar, a smug, easy grin plastered across his face. “We got wasted one night, Austin,” Blake said, chuckling as he clapped a hand on my shoulder. “One thing led to another. Hey, look at the bright side—you get to be a dad the second your transfer ends. Quite the welcome-home gift, right?” I looked from Blake’s grinning face to Vanessa’s cool, detached eyes. My hands trembled beneath the weight of the infant. “Is this some kind of sick joke to you two?” Blake’s laugh grew louder, sharper. “I told you, Nessa! I bet her fifty bucks you wouldn’t cry. I knew you’d take it like a man. Since I won, she’s keeping her promise to take me on that backpacking trip across South America. We’re leaving tonight.” Vanessa reached out, gently patting Blake’s arm with an affection she hadn’t shown me in years. Then she looked back at me, her tone dripping with a patronizing pity. “Look, Austin, my daughter is your daughter now. Just take good care of her while we’re gone. When I get back, we’ll get our license. I promise.” Without waiting for me to answer, she took Blake’s hand, and they walked down the stone steps. I stood there, frozen on the bustling sidewalk, looking down at the baby. Her skin had a distinct, deep yellow cast—severe jaundice. I called out their names, but neither of them turned around. They just kept walking, merging into the crowd. Three years later, she walked into my design studio in downtown Boston. “I’m here to keep my promise, Austin,” Vanessa said, stepping into my office with her chin held high. “I’m ready to marry you.” She walked toward my desk, pulling a small velvet box from her designer handbag. “But there’s a catch. For Daisy’s sake, Blake and I had to legally register our marriage last year to sort out her trust and legal status. So, I can’t give you a marriage license right now. But we can still have a beautiful, lavish wedding. Just for us.” She opened the box, revealing a platinum band, and reached for my left hand. I pulled my hand back, stepping out of her reach. “Save the ring, Vanessa. My wife already bought me one.” Vanessa froze, her hand hovering in the empty air. Her eyes drifted to my bare ring finger, and the brief flash of doubt in her eyes was quickly replaced by a familiar, patronizing confidence. “You’re still doing this?” she sighed, shaking her head. “You always did love playing hard to get when you were angry. Stop throwing a tantrum, Austin. I’m back now, aren’t I?” She reached up, trying to pinch my cheek the way she used to. I turned my head away, taking another step back. “Vanessa, you and I ended three years ago. There is no ‘us.’” Deep down, a sudden pang of regret hit me. I had been in such a rush this morning that I’d left my wedding band sitting on the bathroom sink. Vanessa let her hand drop, a look of weary tolerance settling over her features. “I know you’re still hurt about what happened with Blake. But it is what it is. I had to find a compromise that kept everyone happy. I’m trying to do the right thing here.” “A compromise?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Your idea of a compromise is giving him the legal marriage and giving me the party?” “Of course,” she said, as if explaining basic math to a child. “Blake’s daughter can’t be legally classified as born out of wedlock. It would ruin her standing in the family. But don’t worry, we won’t make our wedding too public. I don’t want to hurt Blake’s feelings.” I stared at her, genuinely amazed by the sheer scale of her delusion. “And you honestly believed I’d just sit here, waiting for three years, eager to jump into this absolute circus?” She smiled, interpreting my disbelief as a sign of weakness. “Austin, you loved me so much you almost died for me. I know I took a little detour, but I knew you’d never actually leave.” She was referring to our college graduation trip in the White Mountains. She had slipped near a steep ravine and fallen. The search and rescue team had looked for twenty-four hours and were ready to call it off, but I refused to stop. I scrambled down the slippery rocks in the dark, eventually finding her unconscious near the riverbank. I carried her up on my back, but slipped on a wet boulder, striking my head. I spent three days in a medically induced coma. When I finally woke up, she had wept over my hospital bed, whispering, “Austin, I know you love me, but you can’t throw your life away like that.” Later, during my three years in London, she stood me up at City Hall multiple times when I flew back on leave. When I asked her if she was afraid of losing me, she had run her fingers through my hair and said, “You love me more than life itself, Austin. You’re not going anywhere.” It was my own devotion that had given her the armor of absolute certainty. My love had turned into her license to abuse it. I opened my mouth, ready to tell her exactly who my wife was, but the office door swung open before I could speak. Blake walked in, looking exactly as he had three years ago, wearing the same easy, shameless grin. He acted as though he hadn’t systematically dismantled my life, opening his arms wide. “Austin! Man, it’s good to be back. Did you miss me?” I sidestepped his embrace. His arms hovered awkwardly before he slowly lowered them, his grin faltering. “Come on, don’t be like that,” Blake grumbled, his tone turning whiny. “I literally gave you my own daughter to raise. Why are you still holding a grudge?” At one point, their betrayal had felt like a physical weight in my chest. Now, looking at them, I realized they deserved each other. They possessed the exact same toxic trait: the ability to inflict maximum damage on someone else and convince themselves they were handing out blessings. “Look, I brought you a peace offering,” Blake said, reaching into his leather messenger bag and pulling out a couple of watches. I glanced at them. They were cheap, promotional giveaways from a high-end brand—the kind of junk they give you when you buy a real watch. I remembered seeing Vanessa post the actual, five-figure timepiece she had bought for Blake on her Instagram a few months ago. Years ago, I had saved up to buy a watch from that same brand, and Vanessa had scoffed, calling it an “unnecessary, pretentious waste of money.” When I didn’t reach for the watches, Vanessa chimed in, her voice hardening. “Is this how your mother raised you, Austin? Blake went out of his way to bring you a gift, and you’re just going to stand there with a sour face?” Before I could reply, Blake grabbed my wrist. “Forget the manners, Austin. Where’s my girl? Let me see her.” The memory of the fragile baby they had abandoned flashed in my mind, leaving a dull ache. I shook his hand off my arm. “I haven’t seen your daughter in years. Go ask Vanessa’s mother.” Vanessa let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You haven’t seen her? Then who the hell is that?” She pointed to the large, framed photograph hanging on the wall beside my desk. It was a picture of me holding my daughter, Lily, at the beach last summer. “That’s my daughter—” I began. “It’s her!” Blake cut me off, pushing past me to rip the frame off the wall. His fingers trembled as he touched the glass, his eyes instantly welling with tears. “Nessa, look at her. She’s beautiful. She has your eyes.” Vanessa leaned in, her expression softening into something remarkably tender. “She really does. She’s perfect.” Blake wiped his eyes, turning to me with a look of deep, righteous indignation. “Austin, I thought we were brothers. Why didn’t you send me any photos over the last three years?” I stared at him, incredulous. “Are you serious right now?” The moment they left for South America, Vanessa had blocked my number and all my social media accounts to “prevent any drama.” And whenever I had tried to call Blake during those first terrifying weeks with the baby, he had rejected my calls, busy posting photos of their luxury resorts and yacht parties. “This is my daughter,” I said slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “Why on earth would I send you photos of her?” “That’s enough, Austin,” Vanessa snapped, her patience finally evaporating. “We let you look after her, we didn’t hand over legal custody. You don’t own her.” She looked around my studio, her nose wrinkling in disapproval. “We left her with you so you could focus on being a parent. Clearly, you’re too busy running this little business to give her the attention she needs. Since Blake doesn’t have a job yet, you’re going to sign this studio over to him. It’ll give him an income, and it’ll free up your schedule to focus on the child.” For a second, I thought the room had lost oxygen. “You want me to hand over the business I spent three years building… to Blake? On what planet does that make sense?” Vanessa rubbed her temples, letting out a heavy, theatrical sigh. “Blake is your best friend, Austin. He’s been traveling for three years and has nothing on his resume. Is it really that hard for you to help him get back on his feet?” Blake looked at me with wide, puppy-dog eyes. “Yeah, Austin. You’ve always looked out for me. You wouldn’t say no to this, right?” A wave of disgust washed over me. Blake had grown up in a broken home, ignored by his mother after she remarried. I was the one who used my own savings to help pay his college tuition. During my final year in London, Blake had called me, panicking because his girlfriend was pregnant and wanted to keep the baby. I had never met the girl, but I didn’t ask questions. I helped him coordinate medical appointments and even offered financial support. I remembered him laughing over the phone, saying, “You’re going to be the godfather, Austin. No doubts about it.” And then, the day I landed, he told me the mother was Vanessa. I looked directly into Blake’s eyes. “All those times Vanessa stood me up when I came home from London… you were the one who made sure she didn’t show, weren’t you?” Blake’s gaze flickered with a brief, guilty panic before he quickly recovered. “Look, I was going through a rough patch back then. I needed her. Besides, that’s ancient history now. Why are you bringing it up? Just tell me where my kid is.” His eyes filled with tears again, playing the victim perfectly. The sheer hypocrisy made my temple throb. Just then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from my wife: My afternoon is clear. I’ll be there to pick you up in twenty minutes. I looked at the clock. She’d be here soon, and the last thing I wanted was for her to run into Vanessa and Blake. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice even. “Your daughter is not here. I have to get ready to leave, so please, get out of my office.” “How can you be so heartless, Austin?” Blake suddenly boiled over, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. “She’s my flesh and blood! You have no right to keep her from me!” He was crying now, but his grip was vice-like, his fingernails digging straight through my shirt into my skin. I tried to pry his hands off, but as soon as I pulled back, he threw himself backward, landing hard on the hardwood floor. Vanessa rushed to his side, pulling him up before turning on me like a wild animal. “Austin! What the hell is wrong with you? He just wants to see his daughter! Why did you push him?” It was like looking at a stranger. Three years of unchecked entitlement had completely eroded whatever intelligence Vanessa once had. Blake whimpered, rubbing his elbow. “It’s fine, Nessa. He’s clearly bitter. Let’s just come back tomorrow.” Vanessa’s eyes flared with anger. “Apologize,” she demanded, pointing a finger at my face. I stood ground, silent. “Fine,” she said, her voice dropping into a cold, transactional register. “If you won’t apologize, you’ll sign the studio transfer deed over to Blake as compensation.” She pulled a document from her bag and slapped it onto my desk. I glanced down. Blake’s signature was already at the bottom. They had planned this before they even walked through my door. “And if I don’t sign?” I asked. “Then the wedding is off,” Vanessa said flatly. “You’ll never get to stand at the altar with me.” A short, sharp laugh escaped my throat. “Vanessa, who said I wanted to marry you? I told you, I’m already married.” Vanessa’s grip tightened on my wrist. “Stop lying to save face, Austin! Who else would ever marry you?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to tell her that my wife was Audrey Harrington—the brilliant, terrifyingly capable eldest daughter of the Harrington family. The woman who, unlike Vanessa, actually ran the family empire. Vanessa leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Hey, stop being dramatic. I’m finally home. Do you really want to push me away over some stupid paperwork? Just sign it. I’ll make sure some money finds its way to your account. Blake is your brother. Just do this for him, and let’s put this behind us.” “You want me to give up my life’s work… to appease your husband?” I asked, completely dumbfounded. “Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” Vanessa hissed, her frustration breaking through. “Blake and I have to take Daisy to see my parents eventually. If he doesn’t have a respectable job, my mother will never let him through the door. You know what she’s like.” Of course I did. When I was a fresh college graduate working eighty-hour weeks, Mrs. Harrington had pulled me aside at a charity gala. She told me in no uncertain terms that a middle-class kid like me would never be welcome in their family. I had been devastated, even considering breaking up with Vanessa to spare her the drama, but my love for her had made me stay. I worked myself to the bone, sleeping five hours a night to build a reputation. Vanessa had never stood up to her mother for me. But now, she was willing to steal my business to protect Blake from that exact same judgment. The sheer absurdity of it broke something inside me. “Get the hell out of—” “Daddy, I’m back!” The glass door of the studio swung open. My daughter, Lily, ran into the room. She was only two, but she was tall for her age, inheriting my genes. The nanny usually brought her by the office around this time so we could drive home together. But before Lily could even reach my desk, Blake lunged forward, snatching her up into his arms. “My sweet girl,” Blake sobbed, clutching her tightly. “Daddy’s finally here.” Lily shrieked, her small body stiffening in terror. She began to sob, flailing her arms toward me. “Daddy! I want Daddy! Let me go! You’re a bad man!” “Let her go!” I yelled, stepping forward to pull her away. But before my hand could touch her, Blake spun around and delivered a hard, stinging slap across my face. “Don’t touch my daughter, Austin!” Blake roared, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “I let you watch her, I didn’t give you permission to steal her from me! You tried to turn her against her own father!” Lily’s cries escalated into high-pitched, panicked screams. When the nanny tried to step in and comfort her, Blake slapped her hand away too. “I’m taking my daughter home today,” Blake shouted, backing toward the door with Lily clutched to his chest. “And you’re never seeing her again.” Seeing my daughter’s pale, terrified face, my heart shattered. I lunged forward, desperate to get her back. “She’s my daughter! Let her go!” But Vanessa grabbed my jacket from behind, dragging me back with surprising force. “Austin, stop this! Are you obsessed? She’s three years old and she doesn’t even recognize her real father because of how you’ve brainwashed her!” I stumbled backward, my lower back slamming hard against the sharp corner of my mahogany desk. A white-hot pain flared up my spine, making me gasp. “She is my daughter!” I screamed at Vanessa, my voice cracking with rage. “I am the only father she has ever known!” Vanessa’s face twisted in fury, and she raised her hand to strike me. But a sudden, sharp cry from Blake stopped her. Lily, terrified and desperate to reach me, had sunk her teeth deep into the flesh of Blake’s hand. Blake cried out in pain, and in a blind reflex, he violently flung the toddler away from him. Lily’s small body sailed through the air. She couldn’t catch her balance, falling hard against the brass base of a floor lamp. There was a sickening thud as her forehead hit the metal, and blood immediately began to seep from a gash near her hairline. “She has a coagulation disorder!” I screamed, my vision turning red. “She won’t stop bleeding! Get out of my way!” I tried to crawl toward her, but Vanessa kicked me square in the knee, sending me crashing back down to the floor. “Austin!” Vanessa yelled, her face pale but her voice defensive. “You raised her to be a monster! She just bit her own father! You brought this on yourself!” The nanny rushed to Lily, trying to apply pressure with a tissue, but the blood was already soaking through, spilling down her small face. “Vanessa, she is bleeding out!” I roared, pushing myself up despite the pain in my leg. “Are you blind?” I gathered Lily into my arms. She was sobbing weakly, her voice fading to a whisper. “Daddy… it hurts…” But Blake lunged at me again, tearing her from my grasp. “Nice try, Austin. You’re just trying to scare us so you can keep her. A little cut doesn’t require a hospital. You’re trying to ruin my relationship with my daughter.” Vanessa stood by his side, her expression hardening into a mask of cold indifference. “Blake is right. You’ve spoiled her, Austin. A little blood and she’s crying like the world is ending? She’s a Harrington. She needs to be tougher than this.” “Sir! Sir, she’s losing consciousness!” the nanny cried out. I looked over. Lily’s eyes had rolled back, her small head lolling uselessly against Blake’s arm as the crimson stain spread across her collar. “Give her to me!” I screamed, throwing myself at Blake. I managed to rip Lily from his arms and ran out the door toward the parking lot. But as I reached my SUV, a heavy object struck the back of my head. My vision went black for a split second, and my knees buckled, sending me kneeling onto the hot asphalt, still clutching Lily to my chest. “I told you, you’re not touching my kid,” Blake hissed, holding a heavy metal paperweight he’d taken from my desk. Vanessa caught up, looking down at me with utter contempt. “You’ve really lost your mind, Austin. Calling yourself ‘sir’ in front of the nanny? Who gave you the right to put on these aristocratic airs?” She reached down, attempting to pry Lily from my arms. I squeezed my daughter tight, refusing to let go, even as my head throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. Blake grabbed my shoulder, dragging me backward onto the pavement. “If you want a kid, go breed your own. Stop trying to steal mine, you pathetic loser.” Vanessa didn’t say a word. She didn’t even look at the bleeding, unconscious child in her arms as she turned and headed toward their rental car. Blake followed closely behind. I lay on the asphalt, my vision blurring, a cold desperation clawing at my chest. Then, the screech of tires tore through the quiet afternoon air. A sleek, black Mercedes SUV swerved into the parking lot, blocking Vanessa’s car. The door flew open, and a woman stepped out, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. “Who the hell do you think you are, touching my daughter?” Audrey’s voice echoed across the parking lot, cold, sharp, and commanding.

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1 I was in my third month of playing the part of Sabrina Sinclair’s trophy boyfriend when she wrapped her Porsche around a guardrail and ended up in a medically induced coma. Just as I was about to pack my designer luggage and slip out the back door like any sensible gold digger, a stream of neon-blue text floated across my vision, looking exactly like the live chat on a Twitch stream. [These boy toys have absolutely no vision. She’s just in a coma, not dead. She’ll wake up in three years.] I froze. I rubbed my eyes hard, but another line of text scrolled past immediately: [Sabrina Sinclair is going to be Chicago’s wealthiest tech mogul. When these freeloaders realize what a massive cash cow they walked away from, they’re going to die of regret.] I didn’t hesitate. I flung my cashmere coat onto the chair, turned on my heel, and threw myself over Sabrina’s ICU bed, weeping hysterically. “Sabrina! Oh my god, Sabrina! Don’t worry, even if the whole world gives up on you, I never will!” [Wait, Reid isn’t leaving? Whatever, even if he plays the devoted nurse, she’s still going to choose Tristan in the end. Tristan looks ninety percent like her late husband, Thomas. Tristan is the destined male lead here.] [Besides, Tristan is too smart to show up now. Taking care of a vegetable is exhausting. The suffering belongs to the side character; the sweet fruits of victory belong to the male lead. Classic.] My throat hitched, and my sobbing faltered into a pathetic squeak. My ticket to the high life was going to run off with some look-alike? So what? I was here for the money, not the romance. Before she could dump me, I was going to scrape enough gold off this relationship to set myself up for life. As a top-tier kept man, I only played high-stakes games. I looked around the sterile, empty private suite and let out a soft laugh. A trophy boyfriend is paid to look pretty, not to empty bedpans. I pulled out my phone and dialed Vivian Ross, Sabrina’s executive assistant. “Mr. Carter?” Vivian’s voice was clipped, professional, and entirely cold. “Ms. Sinclair is hospitalized. Your contract is officially void. Please do not contact this office again—” “Vivian,” I interrupted, my voice sharp. “Is Sabrina dead?” “What? Of course not. She’s in critical condition, but—” “Then why the hell is she lying in a hospital bed alone, with not a single person here to look after her?” I snapped, not giving her a chance to breathe. “Or did her most trusted advisor decide to jump ship the moment she went under, just to suck up to the next CEO in line? Are you really that certain she’s never waking up?” Silence stretched over the line. When Vivian spoke again, the dismissive edge was gone, replaced by her usual guarded respect. “My apologies, Mr. Carter. It was an oversight. I will be at the hospital shortly.” The moment the call ended, my vision erupted in a flurry of scrolling comments. [How is Reid so arrogant? He’s literally a paid plaything. How does he dare talk to an executive assistant like that?] [Does he not know his place? He’s embarrassing himself.] [I can’t wait for Vivian to show up and put him in his place.] When Vivian arrived forty minutes later, I met her with an icy, disappointed glare. “I know the contract is legally void, Vivian,” I said, preempting her. “But I’m not leaving. Sabrina paid for my father’s heart surgery. Now that she’s the one fighting for her life, I’m staying by her side until she opens her eyes.” Vivian looked at me, her eyes scanning my face for any sign of a bluff. “The doctors aren’t optimistic, Mr. Carter. She might not wake up for three years, five years… or ever. If that’s the case—” “If she never wakes up, then I’ll stay for the rest of my life.” I met her skeptical gaze with absolute candor. “Look, I come from nothing. I don’t have a pedigree, I don’t have a safety net, and I certainly don’t have a trust fund. This is my one shot at changing my destiny. I’m betting everything on Sabrina. If she stays under, I accept my loss. But if she wakes up, my life changes forever.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “You’re a smart woman, Vivian. You can keep climbing the corporate ladder at Sinclair Enterprises, but leave a line open here. When the tide turns, keeping a foot in Sabrina’s camp might just be your ticket back to the top.” The floating comments blurred into a chaotic mess. [What a calculating snake! Reid is literally admitting he’s using her as a ladder.] [He’s so shameless. Vivian, kick him out! Don’t let his silver tongue fool you.] Vivian stood quietly for two long minutes, her gaze searching mine. Finally, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “Is there anything you need me to coordinate, Mr. Carter?” I smiled back. “First, I want a job at Sinclair Enterprises. Any department will do. If Sabrina doesn’t wake up, I still need to make a living. Second, I’ll oversee her daily care, but I need you to lease an apartment for me within walking distance of the hospital so I can be here every day.” [Is he serious? He’s a community college dropout, how does he expect to get hired at a Fortune 500 company?] [Entry-level salaries there start at eighty grand. Tell him to kick rocks, Vivian!] Vivian didn’t hesitate. “Consider it done.” The comments went wild. I just grinned. They were right—I was taking the scenic route. In this economy, a good career trajectory is hard to find, let alone one with rapid growth and high-paying opportunities. A kept man’s ultimate evolution isn’t to remain a pet. It’s to become the predator. 2 I immediately hired four elite private nurses, paying them top dollar to provide round-the-clock, meticulous care. It was hilarious to watch the comments complain about the cost. Why should I skimp on her care? The company was footing the bill anyway. Vivian assigned me to the sales department—the absolute most brutal, high-turnover division in the company. She was clearly still testing me, hoping the grueling pressure would make me quit. But she underestimated how badly I wanted to rewrite my life. Within a year, I was the top-performing sales representative in the regional division. My annual income, bolstered by heavy commissions, officially crossed into seven figures. Yet, I never let my performance at work overshadow my commitment to Sabrina. No matter how late I pulled overtime, I went to the hospital every single night. I sat by her bed, talking to her about my day. I walked the halls, building rapport with the doctors, consulting with specialists, and offering comforting words to other patients’ families. To the hospital staff and anyone looking on, I became the epitome of the devoted, grief-stricken boyfriend. Loyal. Incurably romantic. Selfless. When the opportunity for a promotion to Sales Manager came up, I turned it down. Instead, I requested a transfer to the Investment Department as a entry-level analyst. The comments watching my life play out were utterly baffled. [Is Reid out of his mind? He was about to be promoted to manager, and now he wants to start over from the bottom in investments?] [By the way, those two massive projects that eventually turn Sabrina into a billionaire are arriving in two weeks. It’s a shame the investment team is too blind to see their value and rejects them. Luckily, Sabrina discovers them herself after she wakes up.] I kept my face entirely blank, silently memorizing every scrap of information. I worked through a fever, refusing to take a single sick day, terrified I would miss the window. Finally, on a rainy Tuesday morning, the virtual chat lit up with excitement. [Here it is! The project that’s going to change everything. Who would have guessed Aegis Energy’s solid-state battery tech would completely disrupt the market?] [Quiet down, guys. The investment board is going to veto it anyway. They’re clueless.] During the pitch meeting, I sat quietly in the back, acting as a glorified shadow. When the board inevitably passed on the project, I volunteered to escort the founders to the parking garage. Once we reached the concrete basement, I stepped in front of them, blocking the elevator doors. “My company might have passed on your proposal,” I said, handing them my personal card. “But I believe in your technology. I want to invest in Aegis Energy under my own name. Money won’t be an issue.” Under their stunned gazes, we signed a preliminary contract right there on the hood of a sedan. The moment our hands met, the comments scrolled past so fast they were a blue smear. [What is this guy doing?! He’s literally stealing the female lead’s destiny! That’s a billion-dollar venture!] [Is he a regressor? How does he know about this?] [Whatever you do, don’t let him get his hands on tomorrow’s EcoLoop project!] The next morning, I executed the exact same maneuver with the green energy recycling start-up, EcoLoop. The virtual chat went entirely numb. There were curses, tears, and eventually, desperate pleas. [You’re just a man, why do you have to work so hard? If you just let Sabrina go, we can petition the collective consciousness to let her keep you as her exclusive kept lover.] [Being the man behind a powerful woman is so much easier. You get pampered, loved, bought luxury cars and expensive gifts. Why choose the hard road?] Why be a favorite concubine when I could build my own empire? I ignored the whining. Over the next few weeks, I picked up several quick-turnaround, mid-sized ventures, using their rapid returns to fund my two major acquisitions. And then, the day arrived for the “destined male lead” to enter the picture. [Tristan is finally on shift tomorrow! He’s assigned to Sabrina’s private wing.] [In a week, Sabrina is going to wake up. The very first thing she’ll see is Tristan working tirelessly by her bedside. It’s going to be love at first sight!] [She’ll think Tristan was the one who nursed her through those three years. The romantic tension is going to be insane. Ha! Reid worked himself to the bone for nothing!] 3 Someone was trying to harvest my crops? I had guarded this billionaire for over a thousand days. No one was stealing my harvest. First thing the next morning, I initiated a transfer to move Sabrina to a standard, multi-patient general ward. The head nurse was horrified. Given Sabrina’s wealth, a general ward was practically an insult. “I feel like the private suite is too sterile, too isolating,” I lied smoothly, letting my eyes well up with performative tears. “Sabrina’s vitals are improving. A livelier environment with ambient noise might give her the sensory stimulation she needs to wake up. I want her to feel the warmth of the living world.” And just like that, before Tristan could even clock in for his first shift, I had Sabrina wheeled out of his assigned wing. As we crossed paths in the corridor, Tristan glanced toward the gurney, but I casually stepped into his line of sight, blocking his view entirely. Not knowing the exact moment she would wake, I took a two-week leave of absence from work. I lived in that hospital room, sleeping in an uncomfortable plastic chair, running to the bathroom only when absolutely necessary. On the seventh morning, the floating comments began to flicker wildly. She’s waking up! I leaped out of my chair, draped myself over the edge of her mattress, and buried my face in my arms right beside her hand, making sure my exhausted, pale profile was perfectly positioned toward her. I closed my eyes and pretended to be fast asleep. When Sabrina opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was a handsome, deeply exhausted man holding her hand, sleeping fitfully by her side. I let my eyelashes flutter, slowly opening my eyes to look at her. “Sabrina? Oh my god… you’re awake? You’re really awake?” “One thousand, one hundred and eighty-four days,” I sobbed, letting the tears spill over. “You’re finally back.” Sabrina’s awakening threw the entire company into a frenzy. Executives and board members flooded the room, but I quietly withdrew to the corner, playing the part of the devoted, unassuming partner who only cared that she was safe. When the room finally cleared, Sabrina reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling me close. “Reid,” she said, her voice raspy but fierce. “Vivian told me everything. You were the only one who didn’t leave. You’ve suffered so much for me.” Billionaires have a wonderfully practical way of showing gratitude. Within forty-eight hours, she gifted me a penthouse, a custom sports car, and wired a nine-figure sum to my personal account as “living expenses.” To ensure the longevity of my investment, I spent the next few weeks reinforcing my devoted persona. During her physical therapy, I walked alongside her, encouraging her to take slow laps around the hospital gardens. I even coaxed her to eat in the public cafeteria to “experience normal life again.” Every time we went out, it was a masterclass in public relations. “Oh, Reid! Your girlfriend is finally awake!” a nurse called out. “Your dedication paid off.” “Reid is a saint,” an elderly visitor whispered to his wife. “He was here every single day, rain or shine.” With every public interaction, Sabrina’s affection for me deepened. The gifts became a daily occurrence: designer watches, bespoke cufflinks, gold bullion, luxury SUVs, and cash. Even with my high expectations, the sheer volume of wealth was staggering. Striking while the iron was hot, I requested to work directly from her VIP suite so I could manage my investments while keeping her company. I fed her, kept her entertained with lighthearted gossip, and occasionally asked for her advice on business matters. We fell into a comfortable, domestic rhythm. One evening, as she held me close, her chin resting on my head, she murmured softly, “Reid, let’s make it official. Let’s get married and spend the rest of our lives together. What do you say?” I buried my face in her shoulder and nodded slowly. The trophy boyfriend was finally securing the crown. The next day, confident in our arrangement, I returned to the office full-time. To make her own work easier, Sabrina transferred back to the VVIP wing. For the first time in three years, the virtual comments celebrated as if they had won a war. [Oh my god, they’re finally going to meet! The legendary ‘glance of destiny’ is happening!] [Look! Tristan just tripped and fell right into Sabrina’s arms!] 4 I watched the screen of comments with a detached calm, then quietly called my broker to liquidate several of the luxury watches and cars Sabrina had given me, funneling the cash straight into Aegis and EcoLoop. The projects were already beginning to yield massive returns. When I arrived at the hospital that evening, Tristan was indeed draped across Sabrina’s lap, looking flustered and delicate, though he showed no rush to get up. “What… what is going on here?” My voice trembled. I stepped back, my eyes wide with hurt, my hand flying to my mouth as if to stifle a sob. Sabrina panicked instantly, shoving Tristan away so hard he nearly hit the bedside table. “Reid! It’s not what it looks like. Tristan’s blood sugar dropped suddenly, and I was just holding him up—” Tristan hit the floor, staring up at Sabrina with wide, tear-filled eyes, but she didn’t even look at him. He shot me a venomous glare, scrambled to his feet, and pushed past me, deliberately clipping my shoulder as he stormed out. I forgave Sabrina with a display of quiet, magnanimous grace. She, consumed by guilt, immediately wired another massive sum to my account to “make things right.” [The second lead is so shallow. All he cares about is money. Our Tristan is so pure; he only cares about true love.] [Sabrina doesn’t even realize she’s falling for Tristan yet. She’s hurting him just to placate this gold digger. She’s going to regret this so much.] Over the next three months, the comments were filled with romantic developments between them. Sabrina “accidentally” brushing Tristan’s hand; Tristan “accidentally” falling onto her lap during a reflex test. I caught them in these intimate, lingering moments regularly. Every time, I played my part: I cried, I made a scene, I demanded answers. And every time, Sabrina explained, comforted me, and bought my silence with more assets. But I could feel the routine wearing thin. Her apologies were becoming perfunctory, and the look in her eyes when she watched Tristan was growing increasingly intense with curiosity and a strange, lingering familiarity. The plot was pulling them together, and no amount of my interference could stop it. The day after Sabrina gifted me a massive countryside estate, Tristan blocked my path on my way to the office. “Reid, are you blind?” he sneered, his delicate face twisting with arrogance. “She doesn’t love you anymore. She loves me. How do you still have the nerve to cling to her?” I rolled my eyes. “She calls me her fiancé, Tristan. I don’t care who she looks at; I’m the one who’s getting married to her. You’re just a side piece she keeps in the dark.” Tristan raised his hand as if to strike me, but he froze, his fingers trembling in the air before he dropped his arm. What a coward. “Don’t act so high and mighty,” he hissed. “I know you started out as her kept plaything. You only got promoted because of those three years. You won’t win. Just wait—in a few days, I’ll make sure you’re out of her life for good.” He turned and strutted away, his shoulders high. I watched him go, completely unbothered. Honestly, I had accumulated more than enough wealth, and my investment portfolio was becoming too demanding for me to keep playing this exhausting game of domestic jealousy. I just needed Tristan to be competent enough to give me a clean exit. A week later, I received a text from an unknown number. The trap was set. It was time to leave. When I arrived at the VVIP wing, the corridor was already packed with reporters, their cameras flashing. I smiled to myself—this was going to be spectacular. Under the harsh glare of the media lights, the door to Sabrina’s suite was wide open. Inside, Sabrina and Tristan were caught in a state of clear disarray, her coat hastily draped over her bare shoulders. A reporter spotted me and shoved a microphone into my face. “Mr. Carter! Ms. Sinclair has been caught in a compromising position with her private nurse, despite your three years of loyal devotion. As her fiancé, what is your response to this betrayal?” I let my eyes redden, casting one final, lingering look of deep sorrow at Sabrina before putting on a brave face for the cameras. “Ms. Sinclair and I actually ended our romantic relationship amicably some time ago,” I said, my voice steady but thick with emotion. “We are currently just close friends and business partners. Since both Ms. Sinclair and Mr. Tristan are single, it is entirely natural for them to explore their feelings. Please refrain from using terms like ‘infidelity’ or ‘betrayal’ to tarnish her reputation. Sinclair Enterprises will not hesitate to pursue legal action against any defamatory press.” Behind me, I heard Sabrina let out a choked, devastated cry of disbelief. I turned away, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across my face.

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1 Liam’s family was supposed to be broke. Since we started dating, I was always the one buying things, paying for dinners, trying to ease the burden of his empty pockets. With our anniversary just around the corner, I took a part-time job at a high-end luxury department store, hoping to save up enough to buy him a decent tailored suit. The store was quiet, the afternoon dragging, when a young couple walked into the Cartier boutique right next to my section. The girl clung to the man’s sleeve, her voice dripping with sweet, performative irritation. “Why haven’t you broken up with that charity case yet? You aren’t actually serious about her, are you?” The man didn’t look up from his phone as he handed his black card to the cashier, casually purchasing an array of gold jewelry. “Didn’t you tell me to make her fall madly in love with me before throwing her away? The game is only halfway through. What’s the rush?” A cold, heavy numbness settled in my chest. The girl was Brooke Harrington—the person who had made my high school years a living hell. And the man standing beside her, holding the black card, was Liam. When I first saw him in the boutique, my brain refused to connect the dots. He was wearing an Italian silk shirt, a luxury watch glinting on his wrist. The Liam in my head only wore faded denim jacket and worn-out sneakers, the kind of guy who stared at a six-dollar draft beer and hesitated before ordering. Just last week, we had walked past this very jewelry store. I had paused for half a minute, admiring a delicate gold pendant in the window display. Liam had looked at me with a heavy, guilt-ridden expression. “Audrey, I’m so sorry. I’m useless. I can’t afford things like this for you right now.” He had squeezed my hand, his voice thick with emotion. “But wait for me. I’ll save up. One day, I’ll buy you something real.” Liam was supposedly from a struggling family in a small rust-belt town, surviving on university financial aid. I knew how hard things were for him. So, I had gently pulled him away from the glass. “It’s just gold. Who cares?” I had led him down the street to a cheap convenience store, pointing to a rack of plastic hair clips. “This is perfect. Buy me this instead.” A hair clip was five dollars. It was something he could easily afford. I remembered how Liam’s eyes had shimmered with unshed tears. He had leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Audrey, you deserve so much more than this. I’m so lucky to have you.” But that same broke, self-sacrificing Liam was now spinning a titanium credit card between his fingers. Beside him, Brooke tried on a succession of thick gold bangles. He offered her a lazy, indulgent smile. “If you can’t decide, just take them all.” Every necklace she touched was added to the pile. The sales associate smiled warmly as she processed the transaction. “Your total is ninety-eight thousand dollars, sir.” Ninety-eight thousand dollars. I stood frozen in the shadow of the display pillar. That was ten times the amount he had once told me he was trying to save for our eventual wedding. 2 By the time I finished my shift and walked back to our cramped, rented apartment, Liam was already there. He was waiting for me in the small entryway. “Audrey, close your eyes and hold out your hand,” he whispered. A thin red thread fell into my palm. Threaded through the center was a tiny, gold-plated bead, no larger than a grain of rice. “I couldn’t get you a real bracelet, so I hope this holds you over,” he said, his voice soft and earnest. “Don’t let the size fool you—it cost me half of my grocery budget for the month. But as long as you like it, it’s worth every penny.” The warm, cheap light of the hallway lamp fell over his face, softening his handsome features. He looked so incredibly sincere. If this had been yesterday, my heart would have ached with appreciation and guilt. I would have hugged him tightly, telling him he shouldn’t have spent the money. But now, I only stared at the little red thread with a hollow, dead sensation. I knew exactly what it was. It was a complimentary gift—the cheap freebie the jewelry boutique gave out to customers who spent over fifty thousand dollars. I raised my hand and slowly slid the thread off my wrist. Liam blinked, his gentle smile faltering slightly. “What’s wrong? Are you embarrassed to take it?” He tried to laugh it off, pulling me closer. “Hey, aren’t you working extra shifts to buy me that suit? Gifts are supposed to go both ways.” Before we started working, Liam had mentioned he had never owned a proper suit. I wanted to get him a custom-tailored one for his upcoming birthday. It cost thousands of dollars—money I didn’t have—which was why I had taken the grueling retail job. As he spoke, he wrapped his arms around me from behind. An instant later, the familiar scent of his laundry detergent was overwhelmed by a sharp, heavy note of chypre perfume. Brooke’s signature scent. It was the fragrance that had haunted me throughout my sophomore year of high school. Just catching a whiff of it made my stomach violently churn. I jerked my head away, avoiding his lips as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. Liam froze for a fraction of a second. Then, he raised his hand to sniff his own collar, his expression smooth and untroubled. “Ah, someone in the crowded elevator must have been wearing some heavy perfume. It probably rubbed off on me. I’ll go take a shower.” He grabbed his fifteen-dollar Target sweatpants and disappeared into the bathroom. I walked silently into the small study and booted up my laptop. I hadn’t confronted him at the mall because I wanted to understand. I needed to see the full scope of the lie. 3 The computer was mine, but I rarely used it, so Liam had been using it for his schoolwork. His messaging app was still logged in. A new notification popped up from a contact saved simply as “Little Sis.” “Liam, thanks for the gold jewelry today! I absolutely love it.” “And remember, you’re just playing a part with Audrey. It’s a game.” “Do not dare to actually fall for her! Don’t forget how she used to treat me in school.” I knew the person on the other end was Brooke. But had I ever actually bullied her? During our sophomore year, I had stumbled upon someone hurting a stray cat in the alley behind the school. The poor creature was crying out in agony, a sound like a weeping infant. I had turned my phone’s flashlight toward the noise. Brooke had jumped, dropping a small pocket knife. She had quickly tried to laugh it off, explaining she wanted to go to pre-med and was just “practicing dissection.” In the corner of the alley, a pregnant stray was trapped in a wire cage. I had insisted on freeing the animals, but she had blocked my way. The commotion had drawn the attention of a nearby teacher and several students. The incident was exposed, sparking massive outrage across the school. But Brooke’s family was incredibly wealthy; they made a few phone calls, paid a hefty donation, and the school quietly buried the scandal. People eventually forgot. But Brooke never did. She and her friends began leaving dead mice in my locker. They put thumbtacks on my chair, threw my textbooks into the toilets, and followed me like ghosts. It only ended when my foster family relocated, and I transferred to a different school district. Another ping broke the silence. “Honestly, that ‘knight in shining armor’ stunt I planned for you worked perfectly, didn’t it?” “Is that idiot Audrey completely obsessed with you now?” My breath hitched. My first meeting with Liam had indeed been a rescue. During our junior year of college, Brooke had come to our campus as a visiting student. By some cruel twist of fate, we were assigned to the same community outreach project in a remote, rural town. While we were out collecting environmental data in the woods, my backpack—containing my phone and map—was stolen. I got separated from the group. As dusk began to fall, a few local men started following me, whispering and whistling. Just as panic was setting in, Liam had suddenly appeared from the trees. He got into a brutal physical altercation with them, giving me enough time to run. We escaped, but his leg was badly injured in the scuff. I had rushed him to the local clinic, where the doctor diagnosed him with a severe meniscus and ligament tear—a permanent, irreversible injury. Even when he was told he would always walk with a slight limp, Liam had looked up at me from his hospital bed, his eyes warm and comforting. “Audrey, don’t blame yourself. This has nothing to do with you. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” The sheer, overwhelming guilt and gratitude of that moment was what made me fall for him. Because he had permanently injured himself to save me, I had resolved that no matter what happened, I would always protect him. He had earned a permanent pass in my life. But the words on the screen kept scrolling. “She still has no idea that your leg was never actually injured, does she?” “It’s hilarious. That private clinic is literally owned by your family’s foundation. You could have ordered any medical report you wanted.” The room seemed to spin. Even his permanent injury—the ultimate proof of his love—was nothing but a fabricated lie. 4 Liam walked into the study after his shower, his hair still damp. He reached out to touch my shoulder, but I stood up, stepping out of his reach. “Audrey, what is it?” his voice softened, adopting that familiar, pleading tone. “It’s raining tonight. My leg is starting to ache again. Can we just hold each other and go to sleep?” In the past, the moment he mentioned his leg, any anger or stubbornness I held would instantly melt away. But tonight, I remained silent. He let out a small, hurt sigh. “Why are you acting like this? Are you still upset about the gold bracelet? Is it because the bead is too small? Do you think I’m too poor to give you what you want?” It was almost comical. The heir to one of the largest shipping empires on the East Coast was standing in my cheap apartment, lecturing me about being materialistic. I walked past him into the bedroom and closed the door. “I have a long day tomorrow. I need to sleep.” The department chair had been reviewing candidates for a prestigious study abroad fellowship in London. I had been working toward it for two years. The final recommendation list was supposed to be posted tomorrow morning. My GPA was perfect, and my community service hours were the highest in the department. I knew I was the top candidate. The next morning, my academic advisor called me into her office. She looked pale, holding a document in her hand. “Audrey, the university committee put you forward as our primary recommendation,” she began, her voice tight and hesitant. “But… this fellowship is fully funded by Brighton Holdings. The final decision rests entirely with their board.” I nodded, waiting. She sighed, refusing to meet my eyes. “They rejected our recommendation. They claimed you have… ‘questionable moral character.’ I’m so sorry, Audrey. The fellowship is going to someone else.” I stood there, completely numb. Questionable moral character? Based on what? My advisor couldn’t give me an answer. She only patted my shoulder and muttered some empty platitude about how the corporate world has its own harsh rules. But Brooke was more than happy to give me the answer. As I walked out of the social sciences building, she was leaning against the courtyard railing, swirling an iced latte and looking at me with a triumphant smirk. “Surprised about the fellowship?” she cooed. “Don’t look at me like that. You brought this on yourself when you decided to stick your nose in my business years ago. My brother happens to be close friends with the CEO of Brighton Holdings. A quick text was all it took to cross your name off the list.” With a single, casual text, she had demolished two years of my hard work. At that moment, Liam walked up to meet me after class. His eyes met Brooke’s for a fraction of a second. It was a cold, calculated look of mutual recognition, but they instantly masked it, acting like complete strangers. Liam turned to me, his brow furrowing with gentle concern. “Audrey, you look incredibly pale. What happened?” He reached into his pocket and produced a cheap pink plastic hair clip. “Look, I got paid for my tutoring shift today. I saw this and thought of you. Does this make you feel any better?” The cheap plastic clip caught the afternoon sun, looking utterly pathetic. Compared to the diamonds and designer clothes Brooke was wearing, it was an insult. I stared at Liam, my voice quiet. “Do you really want me to be happy?” He nodded without a second thought. “Of course I do.” Without another word, I turned and caught up to Brooke before she could walk away. Before she could even register my presence, I swung my hand and slapped her across the face. The crack echoed through the courtyard. Brooke stumbled back, clutching her reddening cheek in sheer shock. “Audrey! Are you out of your mind?!” I grabbed her by the wrist, keeping her pinned, and looked back at Liam. “Liam, she’s the one who’s been ruining my life. If you want me to be happy, do something about it.” Liam stood frozen. In all the time he had known me, I had never once raised my hand against anyone. He stared at Brooke’s swollen cheek, his eyes flickering with an incredibly complex web of panic and annoyance. Finally, he stepped forward, his voice low and tight. “Audrey, let her go. This is getting out of hand. Violence isn’t going to solve anything.” He didn’t ask what she had done to me. He didn’t ask why I was hurt. He simply took the high road, hiding behind a shield of moral superiority. When I didn’t let go, I raised my other hand and slapped Brooke again. Tears welled in Brooke’s eyes as she looked at Liam, silently pleading for him to intervene. Liam’s patience finally snapped. He lunged forward, grabbing my wrists with force. “Audrey! Stop acting like a crazy person! No matter what happened, you’re classmates. Can’t you talk like civilized adults?” In his haste to protect Brooke, the plastic hair clip slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the asphalt. A student riding a bicycle zipped past, and the tire rolled directly over the cheap plastic, crushing it into sharp, useless shards. My mind flashed back to that rainy evening outside the convenience store. Under the dim yellow streetlights, he had carefully tucked a similar clip behind my ear, his eyes full of nothing but me. I had held his hand, believing we were building a future out of nothing. A cold wind swept the plastic shards across the concrete. My chest construct contracted, a sharp, physical ache blooming behind my ribs. After all, I had loved him. Even when you find out it’s a lie, the extraction of that love still tears at your skin. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was an unknown number. Over the last few days, I had been getting persistent spam calls. The scammers were getting increasingly ridiculous, claiming I was the long-lost daughter of some prominent East Coast family. I cut the call off immediately. I looked up, meeting Liam’s eyes, and finally said the words I had been practicing all night. “Liam, we’re done. Don’t ever contact me again.” 5 That evening, as I worked my shift at the luxury boutique, my phone buzzed continuously. “Audrey, stop being dramatic.” “There were too many people around campus today. I was just worried about your reputation. Getting suspended for fighting isn’t worth it.” “Don’t use breaking up as a threat to get my attention. It hurts me.” I muted the screen and ignored every single message. By the time my shift ended, the sky had completely ruptured. Torrential rain poured down, accompanied by heavy rolls of thunder. The subways were delayed, and Uber prices had surged to three times the normal rate. My apartment was less than a mile away. I pulled my cheap umbrella open and stepped into the storm. The wind tore at the fabric, turning the umbrella inside out within seconds. I was soaked to the bone in an instant. My phone buzzed again. “Audrey, you must be off work by now, right?” “I wanted to come pick you up, but the damp weather is making my leg injury flare up. It hurts so bad I can barely stand.” “I’m heading to the clinic to get some painkillers. Just go straight home.” I reached the intersection, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Three feet away from me, a sleek black Maybach rolled to a stop at the red light. The passenger window was halfway down. Through the glass, I saw Liam. He was leaning back against the leather seat, one hand casually resting on the steering wheel. Brooke was in the passenger seat beside him. Liam’s brow was furrowed in mild annoyance. “Next time, wear a lighter perfume. Her nose is incredibly sensitive.” Brooke glanced at his phone, laughing. “Still not replying to you? All this drama over a tiny argument. It looks like the great Liam Campbell is losing his touch.” Liam tapped his index finger against the steering wheel—a habit he only did when he was genuinely agitated. “Don’t talk nonsense. Girls just like to be coddled. She’ll come around once I apologize. Audrey loves me too much to actually leave.” The soft yellow glow of the dashboard illuminated Brooke’s face as she admired her fresh manicure. “I suppose. If it weren’t for me, a charity case like her would never have even breathed the same air as someone of your status. She should be thanking her lucky stars.” She sighed, her tone turning bitter. “But she really went too far today. My face is so swollen I had to cancel my dinner with Ethan Vaughn. My dad spent months trying to set up that connection. If the Vaughn family gets insulted, we’re in deep trouble.” The light turned green. I stepped off the curb, walking directly past the hood of the Maybach. Liam’s eyes locked onto mine through the rain-streaked windshield. He saw me—completely drenched, my clothes clinging to my skin, my broken umbrella dripping in my hand. I remembered another storm, a year ago. We had been huddled under a single tiny umbrella, and I had whispered, “I wish we had a car. Just a cheap one, so we wouldn’t have to freeze like this.” He had pulled me closer, shielding me from the wind, and whispered, “We will, Audrey. I promise.” He already had one. He just never had any intention of letting me inside. The Maybach’s engine roared, and the luxury sedan sped past, kicking up a massive wave of dirty street water that drenched my legs. I pulled my wet coat tighter around myself, Brooke’s final words echoing in my mind. Vaughn. We shared the same last name, yet how could Ethan Vaughn and I live in such completely different worlds? He was the crown prince of Manhattan’s old money elite, born with a silver spoon, while I had aged out of a state-run foster home. As I stood lost in thought, a sleek black town car pulled up quietly beside the curb. I tried to step back, assuming it was another luxury vehicle about to splash me, but the passenger window slid down smoothly. Ethan Vaughn looked out at me, his dark eyes calm and serious. “Audrey,” he said. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”

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1 It wasn’t until the day we finally met in person that I realized my online boyfriend was mute. The boy sat across from me in the dim booth of the local indie coffee shop, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. His face was entirely devoid of color, a stark contrast to the bright, bubbly personality he had displayed over text for the past two months. He pushed a small blue Post-it note across the wooden table, his eyes darting down, utterly unable to meet my gaze. I’m sorry to disappoint you… I didn’t answer. I was too busy staring at his face, and the bizarre, glowing text that had suddenly begun drifting across the air right above his head. “Lmao, Wes is a menace. He literally set up his own twin brother just to get back at Riley.” “This is wild. He’s playing both the female lead and his own brother like absolute fools.” I blinked, my brain working quickly to piece together the floating words. Today was supposed to be the day I finally met my online boyfriend. Over the summer, out of sheer boredom, I’d matched with a guy who was incredibly witty, charming, and easy to talk to. We fell into a comfortable, flirty online relationship. He told me he was transferring to my university in the fall and promised we’d meet up as soon as he arrived. But once orientation week ended, he kept making excuses, dragging his feet every time I suggested getting a drink. It wasn’t until I threatened to block him and move on that he finally agreed to this date. The floating text continued to scroll across my vision, and the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. The “female lead” the comments were referring to was my roommate, Penelope. And the “male lead” was Weston Prescott, the newly transferred star athlete of our university’s soccer team—who also happened to be Penelope’s childhood best friend. The boy sitting in front of me, trembling in his vintage denim jacket, was Weston’s identical twin brother, Wyatt. I didn’t know what minor grievance had driven Penelope to orchestrate this. Maybe it was because right before summer break, I’d snapped at her for leaving her rotting takeout boxes in our shared kitchen. Whatever the reason, her little revenge plot with Weston was laughably pathetic. Did they honestly think matching me with a mute boy would utterly humiliate me? Looking at the boy across from me, I had to actively press my lips together to keep from laughing out loud. A mute boyfriend? That was actually perfect. He couldn’t talk back, couldn’t argue, and would probably blush at every single thing I said. How incredibly endearing. My prolonged silence only made him more anxious. Wyatt slid the blue slip of paper back toward himself, his shoulders slumping. He stood up, his movements stiff and awkward, and offered a small, polite bow of apology before turning to leave. I reached out and caught his wrist. His skin was warm, his pulse fluttering rapidly under my fingers. He froze, his lips pressed into a tight line, the outer corners of his eyes flushed a soft, bruised pink. “I’m not disappointed, baby,” I murmured, my voice soft. “Why would I ever be disappointed in you?” He clearly hadn’t expected the pet name. A crimson flush bloomed from his collarbone, racing up his neck to the very tips of his ears. Still, he sat back down, completely compliant. He pulled out his pen, his hands shaking slightly as he wrote on a fresh slip of paper. Really? But I can’t speak. I’m sorry. He kept his head low, sliding the note over, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. I leaned my chin on my hand, smiling at him. The invisible chat logs above his head erupted. “Wait, what is she doing? Isn’t the rejected girl supposed to scream at him for lying, throw her coffee, and storm out?” “Yeah, and then she’s supposed to run into the hot, perfectly healthy brother on campus, beg him to notice her, and get publicly humiliated so Penelope can laugh. Why is the script going off the rails?” Wyatt’s handwriting was beautiful—elegant and precise. He watched my face with a quiet, desperate intensity, as if he expected me to grow disgusted at any second and leave him behind. I picked up the blue sticky note, folded it neatly into a little origami heart, and slid it back into his palm. “Hey, boyfriend,” I said, my voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Do you actually know what people are supposed to do when they finally meet in person after dating online?” Wyatt blinked, looking down at the paper heart in his palm. He picked up his pen again. I looked it up online. It said we should go to a movie… I sighed softly, reaching across the table to cup his face. His skin was incredibly soft, and up close, his features were breathtaking. My heart did a sudden, violent flip. Who cared about a movie? 2 “Put the pen down,” I whispered. “Meeting in person is for kissing and holding each other. It’s not a study hall.” Wyatt went entirely rigid. Earlier, I’d been annoyed that the cafe staff had seated us in this secluded, high-walled booth in the back corner, but now, I wanted to leave them a massive tip. My gorgeous little mute boyfriend couldn’t speak, but he was incredibly sweet. He was clumsy at it—he didn’t know how to pace his breathing, and he kept his eyes wide open, staring at me in sheer wonder. I had to hand it to Weston Prescott. He had sent me an absolute treasure. Before we left the cafe, I gently took Wyatt’s phone from his hand. “Let me see our chat. I want to look through our old messages.” When I opened the thread, a wave of irritation washed over me. Weston’s performance as an online boyfriend had been incredibly lazy. His texts consisted of nothing but ‘Good morning,’ ‘Have you eaten?’ and ‘Going to sleep.’ And Wyatt, completely oblivious to the fact that his brother was using him as a pawn, had responded to every single dry text with adorable, customized little rabbit emojis. I opened the contact settings, deleted the old number, and added my actual personal line. “I got a new number,” I told him, dropping the phone back into his hand. “Use this one from now on.” Wyatt still looked dazed, his lips slightly swollen and dark, his eyes carrying a soft, watery sheen. Looking at how beautifully ruined he looked after a simple kiss, my chest tightened with a strange, possessive thrill. I leaned in close, pressing my cheek against his, and snapped a quick selfie before he could protest. Wyatt walked me to the bus stop, turning back to look at me every three steps. He was still clutching that little blue paper heart like it was made of solid gold. I hummed a song all the way back to my apartment, utterly delighted by my stroke of good luck. As soon as I sat on my bed, my phone buzzed. The contact name Baby—which I hadn’t changed yet—flashed on the screen. It was Weston, obviously texting from the burner account he’d used to catfish me. Are you satisfied with my performance today? He had probably just gotten home and was eager to hear how much of a fool I’d made of myself. I opened my camera roll and selected the selfie I’d just taken with Wyatt. Wyatt’s eyes were glassy, his lips flushed and parted, his hair beautifully mussed from where my fingers had tangled in it. I hit send, adding a quick text: I like you even more in person, baby. But next time we kiss, try not to tremble so much. It’ll make things easier. The floating text in the air above my desk filled with a long string of ellipses. “Holy hell, this girl is savage. Wes is probably turning green right now.” “The golden boy wanted to humiliate her, and instead his innocent little brother got absolutely devoured.” “To be honest, with the exact same face, Wyatt is so much cuter and sweeter. If he weren’t mute, he’d easily be the campus heartthrob.” It took a long, agonizingly quiet ten minutes before a reply finally popped up on my screen. I didn’t do well today. Let’s meet again tomorrow. Same time. I curved my lips into a cold smile but didn’t reply. The chat comments in the air were equally baffled. “What is Wes doing now? Is he going to play the mute brother again, or is he going to show up himself?” “I think he’s losing his mind. Why is he staring at that photo like he wants to tear it apart? He’s literally zooming in on her face…” “He’s probably memorizing her features so he can destroy her tomorrow.” I scoffed, opening Weston’s contact info. I deleted the name Baby and changed it to The Jerk. Then, I tapped into my actual chat with Wyatt—the real account we’d just set up. Did you make it home safe, baby? He replied instantly with a rabbit nodding emoji, followed by the blinking text: Typing… I waited patiently, watching the little bubbles dance. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of hesitation, a message appeared. Baby, I’m home? He was so nervous he’d accidentally added a question mark at the end. I laughed out loud, rolling over on my mattress. He quickly deleted the message, replacing it with a simple: I’m home. I didn’t let him hide. I hit the FaceTime button. He answered on the very first ring, his face flushing a deep, lovely pink the moment my screen connected. “I saw the first text before you deleted it, Wyatt,” I teased, leaning close to the camera. “Can you call me baby again?” The screen went silent. Wyatt’s eyes dimmed slightly, a quiet vulnerability flickering in his gaze. I immediately realized my mistake. He couldn’t speak, and asking him to “say” it was a thoughtless slip. “I had a really good time today,” I said quickly, changing the subject and pressing my face closer to the lens. “Did you?” On the screen, the boy’s shy, beautiful smile returned. He nodded eagerly, looking exactly like his favorite rabbit emoji. He was so incredibly precious. For the next two hours, we stayed on the call. Wyatt couldn’t talk, so he simply sat at his desk, his chin resting on his hand, watching me talk about my day. His eyes were wide and clear, reflecting the light of his screen like a pair of quiet, brilliant stars. There was a strange, deep sense of familiarity in the way he looked at me, but before I could search my memory to place it, a sharp knock sounded on his bedroom door. Wyatt jumped, his posture instantly stiffening. He pointed toward his door, his eyes wide with sudden apprehension. “Kiss me through the screen before you go,” I whispered. 3 Wyatt froze, his ears turning bright red, but before he could move, a cold, sharp voice echoed from the other side of his door. “Wyatt? Who are you talking to in there?” Without waiting for an answer, the door swung open. Wyatt scrambled to shove his phone into his pocket, but the call was still active. I kept the volume high, pressing my ear to the speaker. “Where did you go today?” Weston’s voice was smooth, but it carried an icy, condescending edge. There was a long silence. I assumed Wyatt was using sign language or simply keeping his head down. “You shouldn’t trust girls you meet on the internet,” Weston continued, his tone dripping with a quiet, toxic pity. “Especially not with your… condition. Did she actually look at you without being disgusted? Wyatt, don’t go wishing for things you don’t deserve.” My smile completely vanished. The screen stayed dark, but the raw arrogance in Weston’s voice made my blood boil. A moment later, the screen lit up again. Wyatt’s face appeared, pale and strained, though he tried to offer me a reassuring smile. My eyes hardened. I tapped out of our FaceTime call and opened my chat with The Jerk. Sure, I wrote back. Let’s meet tomorrow. When I finally hung up with Wyatt, he looked exhausted. I didn’t push him for another kiss; instead, I blew him a soft kiss through the camera. “I really, really like you, Wyatt. You’re perfect just the way you are. Seriously.” “Can’t wait to see you again.” I watched his eyes light up with a sudden, brilliant warmth before the screen went black. The next day, I made Weston wait. I arrived at our meeting spot—a completely unsheltered plaza under the blistering midday sun—exactly three hours late. Weston was standing by the concrete steps, looking slightly wilted from the heat. The moment he saw me, his eyes flared with a desperate, almost manic intensity. He took two long strides toward me. “Sunny…” The name caught in his throat, and my brows furrowed. Sunny. That was the nickname I had used back in middle school, before my parents divorced and I moved away, legally changing my name to Riley. How did Weston Prescott know that? I searched my memory, trying to find any trace of him from my childhood, but came up entirely empty. Seeing my cold, questioning stare, his confident smile faltered. He realized he’d made a slip. “I thought you couldn’t talk yesterday?” I asked, my voice laced with deliberate contempt. Weston swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a soft, pleading murmur. “It’s… a psychological issue. It comes and goes.” I stared at him, watching him spin his lie. Above his head, the floating comments were losing their minds. “Wait, what is happening? Why does Wes look like a kicked puppy? He’s supposed to be ruining her life, not begging for her attention.” “Is he seriously trying to steal his brother’s identity now? This is a trainwreck.” “I’m so confused. Did he actually fall for her? This is supposed to be Penelope’s revenge plot!” Even though Weston shared his brother’s exact face, he didn’t look nearly as handsome to me. His eyes lacked that quiet, luminous clarity; his posture carried an arrogant edge that made my skin crawl. And every time he spoke, I could only hear the cruel, mocking voice from Wyatt’s bedroom last night: “With your condition… don’t go wishing for things you don’t deserve.” “Do me a favor,” I interrupted, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Can you stop talking? Your voice is incredibly grating. I liked you a lot better yesterday when you were quiet.” The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. The color completely drained from Weston’s face. “…Okay,” he whispered after a long pause, his throat bobbing as he swallowed his pride. He pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling as he began typing. A moment later, my phone buzzed with a shared document—a meticulously planned itinerary for a perfect day out. The invisible text above him updated in real-time. 4 “No way. Wes spent all of last night researching the perfect date spots?” “So he let his brother act as his proxy yesterday, and now he’s acting as his brother’s proxy today? The irony is delicious.” “He’s completely whipped. I don’t think he even remembers who Penelope is at this point.” I offered a dry nod of approval. Weston reached out, his fingers hovering near mine as if to hold my hand, but I pulled away sharply, my expression cold. “I don’t like guys who are that forward,” I said. “You’re acting incredibly cheap. You weren’t like this yesterday.” His hand froze in the air, his fingers curling inward as he slowly pulled back. For the next three hours, I made his life an absolute living hell. When he bought me lunch, I pushed the plate away with a look of utter disgust. “Your taste is terrible. Yesterday you picked much better options.” When he ordered us drinks, I rolled my eyes. “I literally told you yesterday that I’m on my period. Do you have a memory deficit? How can you be this stupid?” Every time he flinched, a small, dark spark of satisfaction flared in my chest. I leaned in, continuing to chip away at his pride. “Yesterday, I thought you were the most attractive guy I’d ever seen. Today? Aside from your face, you’re incredibly disappointing.” Weston stood there, taking every hit in silence, a quiet ‘I’m sorry’ slipping from his lips. The arrogant, untouchable star athlete was entirely gone, replaced by a boy desperately trying to please someone who despised him. But the more I looked at his face, the more I missed Wyatt’s soft, starry eyes. Finally, after making Weston stand in a bakery queue for over an hour to get a specific strawberry tart, I glanced at my phone and sighed. “I don’t want it anymore. I’m going home.” He stared at me, the white bakery box held tightly in his hands. He took a step forward, his fingers catching the very edge of my sleeve. “But… we haven’t even had a real conversation today,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “And you didn’t…” He stopped, his ears turning a bright, furious red. “You said yesterday… that you’d kiss me again today.” I stared at him in sheer disbelief, and the floating chat above us went wild. “Oh my god, Wes, have some self-respect!” “Is he seriously begging for the kiss his brother got? This is tragic.” “So he told his brother to stay away, only so he could slide into his place? That’s low.” A wave of intense revulsion washed over me. I didn’t bother hiding my disgust anymore. “Let me be completely honest with you,” I said, stepping back so his fingers slipped off my sleeve. He looked up, his eyes wide and vulnerable. “Before today, I actually liked you,” I said, my voice dripping with cold indifference. “Especially yesterday. I was completely crazy about you. I didn’t even want to let you go.” The flush on his cheeks faded, leaving his face a stark, fragile white. “But today’s version of you? Honestly…” I let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “You’re pathetic. You’re not half as attractive as you were yesterday, and your personality is exhausting. You don’t even compare to the guy I met first.” Weston stood completely still under the harsh afternoon sun, looking like a piece of fine porcelain that had been shattered into a thousand pieces. I pulled out my phone, opened our chat, and blocked him right in front of his face. “Let’s not do this again. We’re done.” Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and walked away, never once looking back. My phone buzzed in my hand. I ignored the chaotic chatter of the floating comments and dialed Wyatt’s number. The moment the screen connected, his face appeared, his eyes immediately lighting up like a pair of lanterns in the dark. My sour mood evaporated instantly. “What are you doing, baby? Did you miss me?” Wyatt held up a thick textbook, bringing it close to the camera so I could see the cover, before lowering his head to write on a fresh Post-it. Reading. And yes, I missed you.

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1 Every time my secret husband went to visit his little canary, another block of shares in the family conglomerate would quietly slide into my portfolio. Our prenuptial agreement was written in dry, flawless legalese: he got to keep his darling on a gilded leash, and I got to keep my peace of mind. It was a transaction. Clean. Bloodless. Until the night of the autumn charity gala, when his canary, towering on four-inch stilettos, cornered me in the middle of the ballroom. “You shameless, homewrecking bitch,” she spat, her voice cutting through the ambient hum of string quartets and polite chatter. “Seducing someone else’s man—do you have no decency at all?” In an instant, the eyes of Manhattan’s elite shifted toward us. Before I could even register the absurdity of the accusation, she lunged forward, her fingers clawing at the collar of my dress. She grabbed the delicate pearl-and-diamond necklace resting against my collarbone. “He had his assistant buy this for the woman he actually loves,” she hissed, her face contorted with rage. “You think you’re worthy of wearing it?” With a sharp jerk, the silk thread snapped. A shower of South Sea pearls clattered violently against the marble floor, scattering in every direction like tiny, broken teeth. My hand flew up, driven by pure instinct to slap some sanity back into her. But she was prepared. Before my palm could connect, two burly security guards materialized from behind her, grabbing my shoulders and pinning my arms behind my back. She raised her hand and struck me. The crack of her palm against my cheek was so sharp, so loud, that the entire ballroom fell into a suffocating silence. Then came the second slap. And the third. The iron taste of blood bloomed in my mouth. But she wasn’t done. Kneeling, she snatched up the broken clasp of the necklace, its jagged, torn metal edges gleaming under the crystal chandeliers. She held it inches from my face. “Let’s see if he’ll even look at you once this pretty little face of yours is ruined.” The cold, sharp metal pressed against my cheek. I didn’t blink. I forced myself to look directly into her eyes, my voice dripping with quiet, lethal venom: “You are going to regret this.” The icy metal bit deeper into my skin. Serena Davis’s hand was trembling with a mix of adrenaline and malice. It felt as though a fraction of an inch more pressure would slice my cheek open. I kept my eyes locked on hers, watching the ugly distortion of jealousy warp her features. Just as her knuckles whitened, preparing to drag the metal down, I drove my heel—a sharp, pointed three-inch stiletto—directly into her kneecap. “Ah!” A shrill, agonizing scream tore from her throat. Her balance shattered instantly, and she stumbled backward, her hands flying to her knee. The jagged metal clasp grazed my earlobe, missing my face by a hair’s breadth. The two guards holding me instinctively loosened their grip to catch her as she fell. I seized the fraction of a second. With a violent twist of my shoulders, I ripped myself free from their grasp. “Are you trying to ruin my face because you know you can’t compete with it?” I stood tall, smoothing down the front of my white gown, refusing to show a single tremor of fear. The ballroom was so quiet you could hear the soft hum of the air conditioning. Several socialites in the front row drew sharp, audible breaths. Serena’s face flushed from a ghostly white to a dark, humiliated crimson. She knew exactly what she looked like. In a world where beauty was currency, everyone in this room knew Ethan Harrison kept a girl on the side. But outside of a sweet singing voice and a talent for playing the victim, Serena was average at best. Standard-issue pretty. She spent her life overcompensating for it. My words hadn’t just grazed her; they had dismantled her entire security system. “You… you crazy bitch!” she shrieked, her voice cracking as she threw the broken necklace to the floor. She seemed to realize that trying to physically disfigure me in front of a hundred witnesses was a bad strategic move, but the hatred in her eyes only intensified. “What good is a pretty face when you’re nothing but a cheap, back-alley mistress?” She spun around to face the crowd, her voice carrying across the high-ceilinged room. “Look at her, everyone! This is the woman who spends her mornings stalking Ethan at his office, trying to climb into his bed!” Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry grass. Ashley Myers, whose family’s logistics firm survived entirely on the scraps of Harrison Enterprises’ shipping contracts, stepped forward to stand beside Serena like a loyal lapdog. “Serena is the only woman Mr. Harrison ever brings to public events,” Ashley said, her eyes sweeping over me with practiced disgust. “Who do you think you are, showing up here and acting like you own the place? Sure, the dress is nice, but how many old men did you have to sleep with to pay for it?” A few muffled chuckles erupted from the back of the room. In this world, loyalty followed power. If Serena was the favored toy of the city’s most ruthless billionaire, then humiliating me was simply a cheap way to buy goodwill with the throne. I watched them, my expression completely blank. If Ethan hadn’t insisted on keeping our marriage entirely off the grid to “preserve his privacy,” I would have loved nothing more than to fling our marriage certificate in their faces. But I wasn’t his beloved wife. I was a business partner who had signed a contract in exchange for equity. And a business partner doesn’t breach contract over a little public humiliation. 2 I took a slow, deep breath, forcing my pulse to settle. When I spoke, my voice was dangerously quiet. “Miss Davis, defamation is an expensive habit. Which eye did you use to watch me seduce Ethan Harrison?” Serena let out a sharp, mocking laugh and pulled her phone from her clutch, waving it like a trophy. “I have Ethan’s schedule down to the minute. Every time he goes out of town on business, you coincidentally check into the same hotel. You honestly expect us to believe you aren’t stalking him?” I closed my eyes for a brief second, exhausted by her stupidity. The last few times Ethan had traveled, my own venture capital firm had projects in those exact cities. But explaining the reality of corporate synergy to a woman whose entire intellectual capacity was dedicated to keeping a man’s interest was a losing battle. “I don’t need to stalk men,” I said calmly. “And I certainly don’t need Ethan Harrison’s money.” Serena’s face twisted. “Get her out of my sight.” The two guards, eager to redeem themselves, lunged forward. This time, they didn’t just hold me; they pinned my arms behind my back and forced them upward until a sharp spike of pain shot through my shoulders. I gasped, my knees buckling slightly. “Still acting proud?” Serena walked up to me, her expensive perfume cloying and suffocating. “Get on your knees. Apologize to me. Admit to everyone in this room what a pathetic, desperate homewrecker you are, and maybe I’ll let you leave in one piece.” She looked down at me, her eyes shining with the sick pleasure of absolute control. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the burning agony in my shoulders. “Get on my knees for you? You aren’t worth the dry-cleaning bill.” That did it. Serena’s composure broke entirely. She turned to the long buffet table behind her, picked up a full glass of Cabernet, and turned back to me. “Let’s see how proud you are after this.” With a flick of her wrist, she threw the wine. The dark, cold liquid hit me square in the face. It dripped down my forehead, stung my eyes, and soaked into the front of my white custom silk gown. The red stain bloomed across the fabric like a massive, wet chest wound. I squeezed my eyes shut, my entire body shaking with a mix of cold and raw, unadulterated fury. The room erupted into snickers. Ashley was practically vibrating with joy. “Oh, look at that,” Ashley cooed. “The little princess looks like a drowned rat. I hope that dress wasn’t a rental. You’ll never afford the damage fee.” A couple of older executives in the corner nodded, murmuring amongst themselves. Beautiful girl, shame she didn’t know her place. You don’t cross Harrison’s woman. I struggled against the guards, trying to find leverage. “Let go of me!” I tried to kick out again, but one of the guards anticipated the move. He brought his heavy boot down hard against the back of my knee. My joints gave way. I hit the marble floor hard, the impact vibrating through my kneecaps and up my spine. Tears of pain threatened to spill, but I blinked them back, refusing to give them the satisfaction. Serena stood over me, laughing. She reached into her Chanel bag and pulled out a sleek, matte-black card, holding it between two fingers. “See this? It’s Ethan’s Centurion card. Unlimited limit.” She tapped it against my chin, her expression mocking. “You think you’re special? He doesn’t even know you exist. That fake pearl necklace you were wearing wouldn’t even cover the interest on what I spend in a day.” I stared at the black card, a dull, familiar ache starting to spread through my chest. 3 Three years of marriage. Every month, Ethan’s lawyers wired my dividend payouts with the precision of a Swiss watch. He never called. He never texted to ask how my day was. Yet he had handed an unlimited black card to this woman. A memory from last month flashed in my mind, sharp and painful. I had been on my way to a board meeting when a semi-truck hydroplaned, sending my car spinning off the highway into a rain-drenched ditch. Bleeding and trapped in the driver’s seat, I had dialed Ethan’s private number. But it was Serena who answered. Her voice had been soft, sleepy, and smug. “Ethan’s in the shower, sweetie. Can I take a message?” When Ethan finally called back hours later, his voice was cool, distant, and professional. “I was in a meeting. My assistant said it wasn’t urgent.” But then, the strange part: forty minutes later, he had arrived at the hospital, looking like a man who had run through a war zone. His coat was gone, his hands were covered in grease and dirt, and his eyes were wild with panic as he pulled me into his arms. For a brief, stupid moment, I thought he cared. Now, looking at Serena holding his card, I realized the truth. He didn’t care about me. He cared about the Harrison family name. He didn’t want his wife’s death on the front page of the Times before the merger went through. And right now, he was in London, entirely unaware—and likely unbothered—by whatever Serena was doing to me. “Ashley,” Serena said, her voice dropping into something cold and dark. “Strip that dress off her. I want to see how confident she is when she’s walking out of here in her underwear.” Ashley grinned, stepping forward. She grabbed the shoulder of my ruined gown, pulling hard. The delicate fabric tore with a loud, sickening rip. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed, struggling against the guards, but they held me fast. The fabric tore further, exposing my shoulder and the lace of my bra to the room. I could feel the oily, lingering stares of the men in the crowd, watching the spectacle like dogs waiting for scraps. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing the air from my lungs. “Throw her in the green room behind the stage,” Serena ordered, stepping on the torn train of my dress as she turned away. “Lock the door. Don’t let her out until I say so.” I was dragged across the floor like a broken doll. My left heel had fallen off during the struggle, and my bare foot scraped against the rough edge of the metal doorframe, leaving a thin trail of blood on the carpet. The heavy wooden door of the green room slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place. It was pitch black, smelling of stale cologne, dust, and cardboard boxes. I collapsed onto the concrete floor, my body aching from the bruises already forming on my arms and knees. I reached into my torn evening bag for my phone, but my fingers only found shattered glass. The screen had been completely crushed under someone’s heel during the scuffle. The isolation of the dark room pressed in on me. Outside, I could hear the muffled sound of Serena’s voice. She was on the phone, her tone dripping with sweet, performative innocence. “Ethan, darling… when are you coming back?” “I miss you so much.” “No, everything is fine here. Just some crazy woman tried to cause a scene at the gala, but security handled it. Don’t worry about it, sweetie. Just focus on your meetings.” I leaned my head against a stack of dusty chairs, my stomach turning at her voice. I knew Ethan’s schedule. He had a three-day summit in London with the board of directors. He wasn’t coming back early. Nobody was coming for me. My only hope was that my brother would notice I hadn’t returned his calls and send someone to look for me. 4 The footsteps outside the door stopped. “Mr. Henderson,” Serena’s voice carried through the thin wood, sharp and transactional. “The girl inside is all yours.” “Are you sure about this, Miss Davis?” a heavy, raspy voice replied. “If Mr. Harrison finds out…” “Please. She’s a nobody who’s been stalking him. If you teach her a lesson, I’ll make sure Ethan approves your bid for the West Side development project next week.” “Well, in that case… I’ve always liked a challenge.” My blood ran cold. Richard Henderson. He was a mid-level real estate developer who had spent the entire evening looking at me with greasy, lingering eyes. Serena wasn’t just trying to humiliate me; she was going to destroy me. The lock turned with a heavy metallic click. The door swung open, letting in a thin shaft of yellow light from the hallway. Henderson’s bulky silhouette filled the frame. He stepped inside and locked the door behind him. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart,” he muttered, loosening his tie as he took a step toward me. “We’re going to have a great time.” I scrambled backward, my hands scraping against the floor until my back hit the cold concrete wall. No exit. My hand brushed against something heavy on a low shelf—a thick, heavy crystal vase. I grabbed it, my fingers wrapping around the neck, and smashed it against the metal shelf beside me. Shatter. I held up the longest, sharpest shard of glass, my hands shaking so violently I could barely keep my grip. “Step back,” I whispered, my voice raw. “I will kill you. I swear to God, I will.” Henderson paused, looking at the glass in my hand, then let out a wet, disgusting chuckle. “I like a girl with some fight in her.” He lunged. I swung the glass with everything I had left. The sharp edge sliced through the sleeve of his jacket, cutting deep into his forearm. “You little bitch!” he roared, clutching his arm as blood began to seep through the fabric. Before I could swing again, his heavy hand came down across my face. The force of the blow lifted me off my feet. I crashed into the corner of a metal clothing rack, my forehead cracking against the sharp edge. A blinding white pain exploded behind my eyes. Warm, thick blood began to pour down my face, dripping into my eyes and blurring my vision into a haze of red. I couldn’t move. My limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. Henderson grabbed my ankle, dragging me across the concrete floor. My fingernails clawed at the dust, scraping until two of my nails ripped back, leaving bloody marks on the floor. He pinned me down, his heavy body crushing the air from my chest. His rough, calloused hand tore at the collar of my dress, his fingers digging into my shoulder. A cold, hollow despair washed over me. This was it. Just as his hand slid down my collarbone— BOOM. The heavy wooden door didn’t just open—it shattered. The frame splintered under a massive, violent force, and the door flew off its hinges, crashing into the wall.

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1 My twin sister and I were born with identical dark, irregular birthmarks. Mine was on my right cheek, a stark, ink-spill patch that drew stares and cruel nicknames from the moment I started school. My sister Norah’s was on her calf—easily hidden under a pair of jeans, invisible to the world unless she chose to wear a skirt. Our parents couldn’t afford the laser removal surgeries. I remember them sitting us down when we were ten, their eyes rimmed red with exhaustion, telling us we couldn’t be a burden on the family budget. If we wanted the birthmarks gone, we had to save up the money ourselves. To escape the label of the neighborhood monster, I became obsessed with money. While other kids went to summer camps, I collected aluminum cans from public parks, sold helium balloons at county fairs, and took whatever under-the-table yard work I could find. I lived on the cheapest generic white bread and tap water, counting every single penny. Norah was the exact opposite. She loved clothes, hanging out at the mall, and eating out. She burnt through her allowance within days and constantly asked our parents for advances. By the end of high school, the gap between us had widened into a chasm. While everyone else was celebrating graduation, I spent two grueling months working twelve-hour shifts at a local packing plant, sorting shipping crates in the sweltering heat. But by the end of August, I had finally saved enough for the down payment on my surgery. I practically floated home that evening, bursting with a quiet, manic joy. When I walked through the front door, I froze. Norah was spinning around the living room in a brand-new, buttercup-yellow sundress. Her calf, once marred by the dark patch, was completely smooth and clear. My father was watching her from the armchair, his eyes shining with a rare, soft warmth. “Look at our beautiful girl,” he whispered, as if afraid to break the spell. “You look absolutely stunning in that dress, Norah.” My mother smoothed Norah’s hair, her voice thick with emotion. “College is a fresh start, sweetie. I wanted my daughter to begin her new life feeling beautiful.” My throat went dry. “Where did the money for the surgery come from?” The room went dead silent. Norah’s eyes darted away, her fingers nervously clutching the hem of her yellow dress. The truth hit me like a physical blow. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s okay. I’ve been working at the plant. I saved up enough for my own surgery anyway.” My mother let out a long, heavy sigh, avoiding my gaze. “Naomi, the day of Norah’s surgery, the clinic told us there was a complication. They had to use a more expensive, specialized graft, and we didn’t have enough on the card. We… we had to transfer the funds from your savings account to cover the difference.” I stared at her, my hands trembling. That was a joint account. My mother’s name had been on it only because I was a minor when I opened it. Every single dollar in there was paid for in sweat and blistered hands. “Naomi, we can save up again,” my brother, Gavin, said quickly. He pulled a cheap pair of oversized sunglasses from his pocket and offered them to me with an awkward, apologetic smile. “Look, I got you these. You can wear them on campus. They’ll cover most of it anyway. A couple of years won’t make a difference.” I slowly touched my right cheek, feeling the rough texture of the mark that had defined my entire existence. In that moment, a cold, sharp realization washed over me. I was suddenly profoundly grateful that the college I had chosen was a ten-hour train ride away. Across the room, my mother kept staring at Norah, her eyes filling with tears again. “I’m so sorry we made you wait this long, Norah,” she cried, pulling her into a tight embrace. “A young girl shouldn’t have to hide herself away. You must have felt so self-conscious, so left out at school. But look at you now. You’re beautiful.” My father wrapped his arms around them both, his shoulders slumped with a quiet guilt. I opened my mouth, the words hot and bitter in my throat. What about me, Mom? You wanted your daughter to feel beautiful. Am I not your daughter? Do you think I didn’t feel self-conscious? Do you think the girls who locked me in the locker room and called me a freak didn’t make me want to disappear? But the words died before they reached my lips. There was no point. My twin sister had always been, and would always be, the family’s sole priority. When we were five, she got to choose her toys and clothes first. When we were twelve and my father’s hours were cut, they stopped paying for my advanced math tutoring but kept Norah in her expensive ballet classes. When we graduated high school, they spent nearly their entire summer budget buying her the latest iPhone. I was handed down an old, cracked model Gavin had discarded two years ago. Norah was sweet, bubbly, and charming. Because she had no mark on her face, she had grown up with a natural, effortless confidence. Meanwhile, I was the girl who walked with her head down, trying to shield the right side of my face with my hair, accustomed to having dirty dishwater splashed on my sneakers by school bullies. I was the quiet, invisible ghost in our house. When I tried my hardest to please them, the most I ever got was a distracted, “Thanks for being so sensible, Naomi.” They had told us we had to rely on ourselves for the surgery. But while I spent a decade sacrificing everything to save every penny, Norah had simply asked, and my parents had handed her my dream on a silver platter. I looked up to see my father holding up his phone, trying to take a picture of Norah. “My first photo of you in a dress,” he said, his face crinkling with a smile. “I’m going to print this and put it right in the center of the photo wall. When you’re away at school, your mother and I can look at it every day.” “Dad, stop! That angle is horrible!” Norah giggled, covering her face playfully. They laughed, a perfect, warm family unit. Only Gavin seemed to notice me standing on the periphery. His expression tightened with a brief flicker of shame. “Hey, Naomi, come on. Get in the picture with us.” He waved me over. But Gavin had forgotten. Ever since I could remember, I had avoided cameras. I was terrified of lenses, terrified of seeing my own face captured in high definition. The family photo wall in the hallway was filled with pictures of Gavin’s baseball games and Norah’s dance recitals. There was not a single photo of me. I shook my head silently and took a step back. The warmth in the room instantly evaporated. “Why do you always have to ruin the mood?” my father muttered, his irritation slicing through the silence. “Gavin went out of his way to buy you those sunglasses, and you didn’t even say thank you. Now you won’t even take a family photo.” He stared at me, his eyes cold. “Your sister is finally healed. We’re trying to celebrate. Can’t you look happy for her for once? Just because of the money? Is it really that big of a deal?” Something inside me snapped. “Is it a big deal?” my voice cracked, the tears finally spilling over. “I worked twelve-hour shifts in a boiling warehouse all summer. I dreamed about this surgery every single night. I just wanted to go to college looking like a normal person!” My father’s face flushed red, and he stood up, raising his voice. “Do you think the money in that account was entirely yours? Who paid for the food you ate, the roof over your head, the clothes on your back all these years? We are a family! What difference does it make who gets the surgery first? We never said we wouldn’t pay you back!” My mother covered her face, sobbing loudly. “It’s our fault. We’re bad parents because we’re poor. Is that what you want to hear, Naomi? Do you want us to get down on our knees and beg for your forgiveness?” “Naomi, seriously, watch your tone,” Gavin hissed, giving me a hard, warning look. “Just apologize so we can move on.” I looked at the three of them, and then at Norah, who was watching the scene play out with a look of mild, detached pity. A profound, hollow exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I lowered my head. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I walked over, stood stiffly at the edge of the frame, and forced a hollow, empty smile for the camera. The moment the flash went off, they crowded around my father’s phone to review the shot. Norah complained that her hair looked messy in that particular photo. Without a second thought, my father hit delete. The only photo containing me was gone in an instant. That evening, Norah suggested we celebrate her recovery by going to a trendy new Italian bistro downtown. My parents hesitated. The restaurant was notoriously expensive, far out of our usual budget. Norah’s eyes flicked to me, a sly, sweet smile spreading across her lips. “Naomi, Grandma gave you some cash last week for college expenses, right? I saw her slip it to you.” She wrapped her arm around mine, squeezing tightly. “Why don’t you treat us tonight? Please? You know I love you most, right?” I pulled my arm away, frowning. “No. That money is for my train ticket and textbooks. Grandma gave you the exact same amount.” Norah giggled, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a familiar card. “Too late! I already grabbed it from under your pillow. Come on, Naomi! I already spent mine on my new dress. Don’t be a party pooper!” My father let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You little thief. You always know how to get under your sister’s skin.” Gavin chuckled, tapping her nose playfully. “Seriously, you’re a menace. Fine, let’s go get some pasta.” Within seconds, the decision was made. They hurried upstairs to change, laughing and talking, completely ignoring the fact that my entire travel budget had just been stolen. I stood in the middle of the quiet living room, completely frozen. It was ten minutes after they left that my phone finally buzzed. “Naomi, what is taking you so long?” my mother’s voice sounded incredibly annoyed over the speaker. “We’re almost at the restaurant. Get moving.” They had driven off without even realizing I wasn’t in the car. By the time I walked out of the house, it had started to pour. I ran through the cold rain to the bus stop, my thin jacket quickly soaking through, and arrived at the restaurant shivering. “We’ve been waiting forever. You really have no sense of time,” my mother complained as I sat down. The table was already covered in empty plates and half-eaten appetizers—all of them Norah’s favorites. There wasn’t a single fresh dish left for me. Gavin, noticing my silence, tried to smooth things over. “Hey, there’s still some of the mango salad left. Norah forgot she was allergic and ordered it anyway. We had to stop her from eating it. Here, Naomi, you have it.” I looked at the wilted greens and the mushy, fork-stabbed mango chunks sitting in a pool of dressing. A bitter laugh threatened to escape my throat. They had all forgotten. We were identical twins. Our allergies were exactly the same. “No, thank you,” I said quietly. My father’s expression darkened. “Seriously, Naomi? Gavin’s trying to be nice. You act like you’re too good for a nice restaurant. Always pouting.” Norah blinked, as if suddenly remembering something. “Oh! I know why!” she gasped. “Naomi likes plain white bread. Remember? When we were in school, she’d never join us for pizza or burgers. She’d just buy the cheapest generic bread from the grocery store and eat it in the library.” She looked at me with mock sympathy. “Don’t worry, Naomi. I’ll buy you a loaf of bread on the way home.” My parents and Gavin burst into laughter. “I guess Naomi just doesn’t have the palate for the finer things,” my mother gasped, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. My father’s tension relaxed, and he sighed, looking at me with a mix of pity and disappointment. “Your sister is the thoughtful one, always remembering what you like. Look at you—you worked all summer, made decent money, and you still made a fuss about buying your family a single dinner. You’ve always been so tight-fisted, Naomi. You need to learn to be generous, like Norah.” A sharp, physical pain bloomed in my chest. I was tight-fisted because you told me I had to pay for my own medical bills. I was tight-fisted because every time I asked for a dollar, you looked at me with disgust. Norah was generous because whenever she spent her money, you happily refilled her pockets. I kept my head down and didn’t say a word. Under the table, I opened my phone and sent a message to the Hale University freshman group chat: “Hi everyone, does anyone know if the housing office allows students to move into the dorms early for work-study positions?” When we left the restaurant, the storm had worsened. There weren’t enough umbrellas. Gavin handed mine to Norah, huddled under my parents’ umbrella, and they all hurried toward the car. Once again, I was left standing under the awning. Before I could walk over, the car window rolled down. Norah leaned her head out. “Naomi, there’s a boba place two blocks down that has that lavender milk tea I love. Can you run and get me one? It’s hard to park over there. We’ll wait for you at home!” Before I could answer, the car pulled out into the rainy street and sped away. To them, I was the errand girl. The one who did the grocery shopping, washed the dishes, and ran through the rain. I walked through the downpour, my sneakers squelching with water, until I reached the shop just as they were turning off the neon sign. I bought two drinks. For the first time in my life, I bought one for myself. It was incredibly sweet. I finally understood why Norah liked it so much. By the time I walked through the front door of our house, it was nearly ten. The living room was warm, and the three of them were sitting around Norah on the sofa. “Naomi, what took you so long?” Gavin asked, barely looking up. “Go make some ginger tea for Norah, will you? She got a little damp running to the car, and I don’t want her catching a cold before school starts.” He paused, glancing at the counter. “Oh, you can leave the tea there. Norah says she doesn’t want it anymore.” None of them noticed that I was shivering, my clothes clinging to my skin, my teeth chattering. “I’m going to bed,” I said, my voice completely flat. “She’s so lazy,” my mother grumbled behind me as I walked down the hall. “I don’t know how she’s going to survive in the real world.” I closed my bedroom door, locking out her voice, and never looked back. The next morning, the house was filled with the smell of bacon and pancakes. Everyone was gathered around the kitchen island, excited and chatting about a pre-college trip. “Let’s go to the Outer Banks,” my father suggested. “Norah’s been wanting to try horseback riding on the beach.” “Or maybe Cape Cod?” my mother chimed in, scrolling through her phone. “Look at these rentals. And Norah’s never seen the ocean. This is the perfect time of year…” She caught sight of me walking into the kitchen and trailed off, her expression shifting slightly. It was obvious I hadn’t been factored into the budget or the plans. “Don’t worry about her,” my father said, dismissively. “She never wants to go anyway. She’s always been anti-social.” Norah gave me a apologetic shrug. “Yeah, Naomi, don’t be mad at Mom and Dad. We didn’t invite you because we know you hate traveling. Remember after middle school graduation? We tried to take you to the mountains and you refused to go.” I stood by the empty coffee maker, remembering that trip. Before that trip, Norah had begged me to buy her new hiking boots and snacks with my savings. Then, my parents told me I had to cover my own train ticket and hotel share. “You have your own savings, Naomi. Don’t be so selfish. Is money more important than family?” “Of course we’re paying for Norah. Look at how she spends—she’d be in debt if we didn’t help her.” So, I had lied. I told them I hated the outdoors, just to save those few hundred dollars. That night, I had stayed home alone, scrolling through their vacation photos on Instagram, crying myself to sleep. And after that, they simply stopped asking. No movies, no dinners, no weekend trips. I became the person who watched them leave and welcomed them back when they returned, laughing and full of stories. There was no food left in the kitchen. I pulled out my phone. A notification popped up from the Hale University housing coordinator: “Hi Naomi! Yes, we have early-arrival slots open for student workers starting next Monday. We’d love to have you.” A tight knot in my chest finally loosened. I used the last of my secret emergency cash to buy a one-way Amtrak ticket to Boston. I planned to slip away quietly while they were on their beach vacation. But two days before they were scheduled to leave, my mother surprised me. “We’re going to take you to the dermatologist tomorrow, Naomi,” she said, her voice unusually soft as she reached out to touch my arm. “We want to see if they can do a preliminary laser treatment on your face. Even if it just fades the color a little bit, it’s a start.” For a second, my eyes stung with hot tears. A wave of intense guilt washed over me. Perhaps I had been too harsh on them. Perhaps, in their own clumsy, flawed way, they really did care about me. “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered. The next morning, they treated me with a warmth I hadn’t experienced in years. They took me to a diner downtown and bought me a stack of pancakes. My mother gently stroked my cheek, asking if I was nervous about the laser clinic. Gavin even took a personal day from his internship to drive us. Norah was nowhere to be seen. But the moment we walked back through the front door of our house, the illusion shattered. My mother sat me down on the sofa, her face pale, her hands trembling. “Naomi… your sister called us yesterday crying. She made a mistake when she was registering for her classes and housing at East State. She put in the wrong campus code and got assigned to the local satellite branch, forty miles away from the main campus.” She looked at me, her eyes pleading. “She’s been crying all night. She’s devastated.” “What does that have to do with me?” I asked, a cold dread settling in my stomach. “Could you… could you defer your enrollment for a year? Just stay home and do a gap year with her? You could retake some classes, maybe apply to an Ivy League next year. You’ve always wanted to go to Hale, right?” My mother took my hand, tears streaming down her face. “Norah is so fragile, Naomi. She’s so attached to you. If you go off to college and leave her behind at that satellite campus, she’ll be depressed. Please, Naomi. Do this for your sister. I’m begging you.” I sat there, staring at her. On the day my acceptance letter had arrived, I had run into the kitchen, practically screaming with joy, showing them the large purple crest of Hale University. My mother had barely looked up from her iPad. She didn’t even know. She didn’t know I had already gotten into Hale—the exact school she was using as a bargaining chip. “No, Mom,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, though it felt like it took every ounce of my remaining strength. “I won’t do that.” I stood up, pulled my hand from her grasp, and walked into my room, locking the door. I pressed my back against the wood, sliding down to the floor as the tears finally spilled over, silent and devastating. The next morning, as I was hanging laundry on the balcony, I heard voices rising from the kitchen below. “Mom, don’t worry,” Gavin was saying, his tone confident and reassuring. “I talked to Norah. She’s already feeling better now that she thinks Naomi is going to stay with her. I’ll handle Naomi. She’s always been the sensible one. She’ll agree.” “I hope so,” my mother sighed. “I hate putting this on her, but Norah just can’t handle being alone.” “Mom, when has Naomi ever actually said no to us? Remember in middle school when she wanted to transfer because of those bullies? Norah didn’t want to change schools, so Naomi stayed. She always falls in line.” “You guys go ahead and enjoy the beach trip. We’ll sit her down and have a proper talk when we get back.” I stood on the balcony, the morning sun hitting my face. I looked down at my hands. They were calloused from the packing plant, but they were mine. I walked back into my room, pulled my dusty suitcase from the closet, and began to pack. This time, I was done falling in line.

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