Author: Momo Chan

My boyfriend’s “pure and innocent” childhood friend came to my OB-GYN clinic, and I found she was infected with three different STDs. My boyfriend didn’t believe me. In a fit of rage, he splashed hot coffee right in my face. “Do you have any idea how pure Lily is? She’s never even held a guy’s hand! If you’re going to make up lies to slander her, at least make them believable!” That night, he turned my hospital ID photo into a meme with the caption “Psycho Doc” and blasted it across all our professional SnapChat groups. I was forced to resign. I was stalked, and my door was defaced with red paint. Until one night, someone locked my garage door from the outside and let car exhaust fill the space. Before my consciousness faded, my phone screen lit up. It was a text from him: “If you had just disappeared sooner, Lily and I would’ve been together by now.” But when I opened my eyes again, I was back in my clinic. She was sitting right across from me, smiling like a sweet, innocent angel. This time, I calmly slid the paper over. “Here’s your report. See for yourself.” Since he believed she was so pure, then let her be pure. After all, I wasn’t the one getting infected. 0

“Dr. Vance, are my test results ready?” Lily Adams sat across from me, nervously twisting the hem of her dress. I looked at the lab report in my hand. The red bold letters were blinding. Secondary syphilis, gonorrhea, and genital warts. To contract these three STDs at the same time, she must have had an incredibly wild sex life. In my past life, for the sake of her and Ethan’s health, I had taken this report out to the waiting room to explain the situation to Ethan Cole. What I got in return was a cup of scalding coffee to my face, six months of relentless cyberbullying, and a suffocating death in a locked garage. This time, I took a deep breath and slid the lab report directly in front of Lily. “Ms. Adams, see for yourself.” Lily picked up the paper with a confused look. In an instant, her face drained of all color. “This is impossible!” “How could I have these dirty diseases? Your hospital’s equipment must be broken!” I leaned back in my chair and said seriously, “These numbers don’t lie.” “And looking at your current symptoms, if you don’t start treatment immediately, you might lose your fertility.” Lily’s tears spilled over instantly. She leaped up, rushed to my desk, and grabbed my hand. “Chloe, please help me! Ethan and you are the only people I know in this city.” “I swear, I must have caught this from a public swimming pool a few days ago. You have to believe me!” Looking at her tearful, pathetic act, I wanted to laugh. Getting three STDs from a public pool? Who was she trying to fool? “It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not. What matters is the treatment.” I glanced at the cracked-open door of the clinic. “Ethan is waiting for you outside. Should I call him in and explain the situation to him in detail?” “No!” Lily screamed, frantically covering the lab report. “Chloe, I beg of you, please don’t tell Ethan!” “He’s always thought of me as a pure, clean girl. If he finds out I have this, he will definitely leave me.” She fell to her knees in front of me, crying like a victim. “As long as you don’t say anything, I’ll do whatever you want!” I looked down at her. I hadn’t realized in my past life how desperately she would go to keep up her innocent facade in front of Ethan. “You’re an adult. You have the right to patient confidentiality,” I said, calmly pulling my hand away. “Since you don’t want him to know, then we won’t tell him.” Lily sighed in relief, nodding and thanking me repeatedly. She frantically stuffed the real lab report into her designer handbag. “But… how should I explain this to Ethan in a minute?” I opened my computer and pulled up a blank template. Three minutes later, I printed out a fake report showing all negative results. “If he asks, tell him everything is normal.” Lily took the “pure and clean” report. A flash of gratitude crossed her eyes, quickly replaced by a smug smirk. She was probably mocking my stupidity, thinking I had given in to my romantic rival so easily. The door was suddenly shoved open. Ethan Cole storm in. He didn’t even look at me; he went straight to Lily. “Lily, how are you? Are you feeling sick anywhere?” He gently helped Lily up, his voice filled with self-reproach. “I told you we shouldn’t have come here. This doctor has always hated you. She definitely didn’t give you a good attitude.” Lily immediately leaned into his chest, weakly raising the fake report. “Ethan, don’t blame Chloe. She said I’m perfectly fine.” Only then did Ethan deign to look at me, his eyes full of undisguised suspicion. “Chloe, did you actually check her thoroughly?” I looked up and politely met his gaze. “The report is completely normal. Congratulations.” Since he firmly believed she was pure, let them enjoy their “pure” intimacy. I wasn’t the one getting dirty anyway. Ethan let out a cold snort and wrapped his arm tightly around Lily’s shoulders. “At least you know your place.” “Let’s go home, Lily. I’ll make your favorite steamed fish tonight.” Lily looked back at me, a look of smug triumph in her eyes. I sat in my chair, quietly watching their figures fade away. The real show was just getting started. 0

After work, I didn’t go to the grocery store to buy the seafood Ethan liked, as I usually did. Instead, I went straight back to the apartment we co-owned. As soon as I pushed the door open, Lily’s giggles echoed from the living room. She was wearing a silk pajama set I had just bought, lounging on the sofa, opening her mouth to eat grapes Ethan was hand-feeding her. Seeing me walk in, Ethan’s face immediately darkened. “Why are you just getting back? You didn’t even make dinner. Are you trying to starve Lily?” He slammed the fruit plate onto the coffee table. “She’s a guest! Do you have any decency as the lady of this house?” My hands paused as I took off my shoes. The lady of this house? He had probably given that title to Lily in his heart a long time ago. “I’m a doctor, not your full-time maid.” I walked straight to the sofa and looked at Lily. “Besides, Ms. Adams doesn’t look like she should be eating cold, raw fruit right now.” Lily’s face froze, and she instinctively pulled down the hem of the pajamas. She glanced at me guiltily, then bit her lip, her eyes turning red. “Ethan, does Chloe not like me wearing her clothes?” “I’ll take them off right now. I’m so sorry…” She made a move to stand up, but Ethan held her down. “Don’t you dare! I told you to wear them!” Ethan spun around and glared at me like I was his worst enemy. “Chloe, don’t be so ungrateful. It’s just a pajama set. Do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “Lily is fragile. Would letting her borrow your clothes kill you?” I watched him throw a tantrum over another woman. In my past life, these words would have broken my heart, and I would have rushed into the kitchen to cook and appease him. But now, looking at them just made me sick. “Since she’s worn it, she can keep it.” I turned toward my bedroom. “I find it dirty.” I wasn’t just talking about the clothes. I was talking about her. Lily clearly understood my hidden meaning. Her body trembled, her fingers digging deep into the sofa cushions. She knew she carried three STDs, so the word “dirty” hit her like a physical blow. Ethan was completely enraged. He took three quick steps, grabbing my wrist tightly. “What did you just say? Who’s dirty?” “Do you want me to slap you?!” He raised his hand high. I stared back at him without flinching, my eyes as calm as a stagnant pool of water. “Go ahead, Ethan. Try it.” “If that hand lands on me, I will call the police tomorrow. And I’ll send the ledger of all the kickbacks you’ve taken to your boss.” Ethan’s hand froze in midair, his face turning an ugly shade of green. He looked at me in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe I would threaten him like this. “Are you crazy? We’ve been together for three years, and you’re threatening me over this petty crap?” I yanked my hand back with force. “Three years is just a lesson learned. Let’s call it a mistake.” “I’m moving out tonight. I’ll have my lawyer handle the division of this apartment. You’d better prepare yourself.” With that, I walked into the bedroom and locked the door behind me. Outside, Ethan’s furious curses and Lily’s fake, comforting whispers drifted through the door. “Ethan, it’s all my fault. I’ll move out tomorrow…” “Don’t leave! If she wants to throw a fit, let her! Let’s see where she can actually go!” I pulled out my suitcase and began packing my valuables and documents. Halfway through, my phone vibrated. It was an informal hospital SnapChat group. Someone had posted a blurry photo of a female patient wearing a mask, taking medication at the pharmacy window. [Isn’t this the woman who visited Dr. Vance’s clinic this afternoon? Why is she sneakily picking up long-acting penicillin?] [Look how sketchy she’s being. Ten to one, she’s got *that* disease.] I looked at the screen, a cold smile forming on my lips. Terrified of Ethan finding out, Lily hadn’t gone to a specialist. Instead, she was trying to quietly suppress the disease with antibiotics. But syphilis and genital warts weren’t things you could just wave away with a few pills. She was playing with fire. I stuffed a few everyday clothes into the suitcase and opened the door. In the living room, Ethan was holding Lily, comforting her. Hearing the door open, he turned and saw my suitcase. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, quickly masked by anger. “Chloe, look at you, acting all tough. Moving out in the middle of the night?” He stood up, blocking my path. “I’m telling you, once you walk out that door, don’t you ever think about coming back!” I stopped and looked at his pathetic, blustering face. “Fine.” I walked right past him without a second thought. At the door, I glanced back at Lily, who was huddled on the sofa. “Ms. Adams.” Lily snapped her head up, her eyes filled with sheer terror, afraid I would spill her secret. I gave her a sweet smile. “Remember to take your meds on time. Ignoring your illness will only lead to bigger problems.” Ignoring Ethan’s furious shouting, I stepped out into the night and never looked back. 0

I moved into a long-term rental apartment near the hospital. Three days later, I contacted a real estate agent and handed over all the records showing I paid the vast majority of the down payment to my lawyer. That apartment had to be sold immediately. I wouldn’t leave Ethan a single dime. While at work, I pulled up Lily’s medical records from that day. She had only picked up one course of antibiotics and some topical creams. That dosage wouldn’t cure her; it wouldn’t even manage the pain. What I found even more amusing was that she had used Ethan’s credit card on the hospital’s payment system. In other words, Lily was spending Ethan’s money to buy STD medications every single day. And that idiot Ethan probably thought she was just buying some supplements. During my afternoon rounds, my phone rang. It was Ethan. He had been calling me every day. His tone had shifted from furious insults to a softer, pleading demeanor. I walked to the end of the hall and picked up. “Chloe, where are you?” His voice sounded incredibly exhausted. “You’ve been throwing this tantrum for days. Isn’t it time to cool off? Come home tonight. Lily said she wants to cook dinner to apologize to you.” I stared at the traffic outside the window, my voice flat. “Ethan, you should have received my lawyer’s letter. I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “If you don’t sign the property division agreement, I’ll see you in court.” There was a silence on the other end, followed by a sudden roar. “Chloe, are you fucking kidding me?!” “Just because Lily is staying here for a few days, you want to sell the apartment? Does our three-year relationship mean absolutely nothing to you?!” He panted heavily, trying to suppress his rage. “Lily suddenly got a massive rash all over her body yesterday. She’s running a fever so bad her face is pale.” “She refuses to go to the hospital because she’s terrified you’ll give her attitude again.” “As a doctor, can you put your petty jealousy aside for once and come take a look at her?” Hearing this, I almost burst out laughing. A massive rash? That was a textbook secondary syphilis rash. Combined with her drug abuse, her immune system was utterly collapsing. Lily didn’t dare go to a real hospital because she knew she would be exposed instantly. “If she won’t come to the hospital, how can I treat her?” I replied coldly. “I don’t have time for house calls. If she’s that sick, she needs to see a doctor properly.” “You—” Ethan choked on his words, completely powerless. “Fine, Chloe. You’re heartless.” “I’ll take her to a private clinic myself. We don’t need your fake sympathy!” He slammed the phone down. Looking at the dark screen, I put his number on do-not-disturb. A private clinic? Perfect. Those shady, uncertified private clinics loved using heavy steroids to temporarily suppress visible symptoms. It would only make Lily’s condition deteriorate faster. After work, I stopped by the real estate agency. The agent told me there were several interested buyers, but because Ethan lived there and refused to open the door, they couldn’t do any showings. “Dr. Vance, if the co-owner refuses to cooperate, it’s going to be very hard to sell this place at market value.” I tapped my fingers on the desk, an idea forming in my mind. “Bring the buyers tomorrow afternoon,” I said, handing a spare key to the agent. “He won’t be home then. There’s only a female guest staying there. Just ignore her.” The next afternoon. Using the excuse of picking up the rest of my belongings, I went back to the apartment early. As I approached the door, before I could even pull out my key, a series of breathless, gasping sounds echoed from inside. “Ethan… gentler… what if Chloe suddenly comes back…” Lily’s sweet, whiny voice drifted through the thin door. “Don’t mention that buzzkill of a woman,” Ethan panted, his voice dripping with lust. “She’s practically frigid anyway.” “You’re much better, my sweet Lily. Let me show you how much I love you.” I stood outside, my hand holding the key without a single tremble. In my past life, they had hooked up behind my back, and I had stupidly confronted them, only to be turned into the villain. This time, I felt that even getting angry was a waste of energy. I pulled out my phone, turned on the voice recorder, and quietly leaned against the wall for ten minutes. Right on cue, I heard the elevator ding. The agent walked out with a middle-aged couple. “Oh, Dr. Vance, you’re here! Great, great,” the agent greeted me warmly. I made a shushing gesture, then turned the key and opened the door. *Click.* The door swung open. The living room was a disaster zone, clothes scattered everywhere. The two bodies tangled on the sofa froze instantly, as if struck by lightning. “Ah—!” Lily let out a blood-curdling shriek, frantically grabbing clothes from the floor to cover herself. In that split second, I clearly saw the dense, red rashes covering her back and thighs. They looked like rotting spots on decaying meat, making the heavy air in the room turn nauseatingly repulsive. Ethan, completely naked, scrambled to grab his pants, his face filled with sheer panic. The couple behind me gasped, covering their mouths in horror. “This… this is the apartment you wanted to show us?” The woman stepped back in absolute disgust. “This is filthy! It’s bad luck. We’re leaving!” With that, she dragged her husband away. The agent stood there, completely dumbfounded and mortified. I walked in, pulled a sanitizing wipe from my bag, and slowly wiped my hands. “Ethan.” I thoroughly enjoyed his pathetic state. “Didn’t you say she was so pure she’d never even held a guy’s hand?” “What’s this? Did you two fall in love while treating her illness?” Ethan’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. 0

He frantically buckled his belt while trying to shield the shivering Lily with his body. “Chloe! Are you out of your mind?! Bringing strangers here to mock me?” He pointed a finger at me, roaring in embarrassment and anger. “My name is on this deed too! I can do whatever the hell I want here!” I tossed the dirty wipe into the trash, my eyes cold with disgust. “Sure, what you do in a trash pile is your business.” I looked at him coldly. “But I should remind you to pay attention to your hygiene.” “After all, some dirty things can never be washed off once you catch them.” Lily heard this sentence, and she suddenly lifted her head, her eyes filled with absolute panic and guilt. She looked deathly pale, holding onto Ethan’s arm so tightly that her nails almost dug into his flesh. “Ethan… don’t fight with her… let her go…” She was shivering violently, absolutely terrified that I would reveal her three STDs in front of Ethan. Looking at her act like a cornered animal, a wave of satisfaction washed over me. This was exactly what I wanted. Not exposing her directly meant she would live in constant, agonizing fear of being found out. She would do anything, lie to any extent, just to keep this secret. “Ethan, if you don’t pack up and get out of this apartment by tomorrow, I’ll send the recording of this little show and a detailed description to your company’s HR department.” With that threat, I turned and walked away. The next day, Ethan indeed packed his bags and slunk out with Lily. I finalized the apartment sale at lightning speed. The day I received the full payment, I treated my entire department to a lavish seafood dinner. My life went back to normal. Aside from surgeries and consultations, I focused entirely on upgrading my professional skills. Two weeks later. My peaceful days were shattered by a sudden commotion. Just as I was about to clock out, screaming and crying echoed from the hospital hallway. “Get Chloe out here! Tell her to get her ass out here!” The voice was painfully familiar. It was Ethan. I pushed open my office door and saw Ethan acting like a rabid dog, grabbing a nurse on duty by her collar. Lily sat in a wheelchair nearby, wearing a hat and mask, completely bundled up. But on her exposed neck and the backs of her hands, I could see massive, weeping, ulcerated red sores. It was ten times worse than two weeks ago. Clearly, the steroids from the private clinic had backfired, causing the infection to explode across her entire body. The moment Ethan saw me, his eyes turned bloodshot. He pushed the nurse aside and lunged at me. “Chloe, you evil bitch! I’ll kill you!” “Security! Hold him down!” Several male doctors and security guards rushed over, slamming Ethan hard against the cold tiled floor. With his face pressed against the floor, Ethan thrashed wildly, screaming at the top of his lungs. “What did you prescribe Lily?!” “She was fine! Ever since she used that vaginal wash you prescribed, she started rotting!” “You’re not just a petty bitch, you’re a hack doctor! I’m reporting you to the medical board!” Standing a few feet away, I raised an eyebrow in amusement. Wow, what a creative way to shift the blame. I turned to look at Lily, who was hiding her head in the wheelchair. “Ms. Adams, did I ever prescribe you a vaginal wash?” I asked calmly. “All my prescriptions are logged in the hospital database. Should we go pull them up right now?” Lily panicked, clutching the armrests of her wheelchair. “I… I don’t know…” her voice shook, thick with tears. “Maybe I remembered wrong… Ethan, let’s go, I don’t want to get treated anymore…” “Go? We can’t go!” Even pinned down by security, Ethan desperately defended his “pure” white moonlight. “Lily, don’t be afraid! This woman is just abusing her power as an attending physician to bully you!” “I’m going to make sure everyone in this hospital sees her true colors today!” More and more patients and visitors gathered, whispering among themselves. In my past life, under such public pressure, I would have panicked and tried to explain myself. But now, I knew exactly how to deal with them. “Ethan, you keep saying she ended up like this because of my prescription.” I walked over to him in my high heels. “But do you even know what disease she actually has?”

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“Valerie Miller, 231 pounds. Severely obese.” The red digital numbers on the scale burned my eyes. I looked down at my collarbones, so hollowed out they looked like caves. And my legs. They were like thin twigs. Today was the final round of the International Supermodel Search. My entire career was on the line. “There’s a mistake. I only weigh 92 pounds.” The head judge, Robert Croft, sneered and shut my file. “The machine doesn’t lie, Valerie. You’re disqualified.” Beside him, Chloe Sinclair—the nepotism baby of the industry—covered her mouth and giggled. She was clearly two sizes larger than me, yet her recorded weight on the screen was perfect. “And don’t think you can just walk away,” Robert added, his voice cold. “Your breach of contract fine is five million dollars. Payable immediately.” Every camera on the stage, from telephoto lenses to livestream rigs, slammed into my face. I shoved the security guard aside and lunged straight toward the main live camera. “Five million dollars, right? Open your damn eyes and look at this!” In front of millions of live viewers worldwide, I ripped down the zipper of my skin-tight evening gown, exposing my skeletal torso and every single rib beneath my skin. “Does this look like two hundred and thirty pounds to you?!” 0

“Get her off the stage!” Robert roared. Two security guards grabbed me by my upper arms. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed. “The entire country is watching. Touch me, and see what happens to this network!” I gripped the metal frame of the tripod with all my strength. Robert flicked a quick look at the control booth. *Click.* The live feed went completely black. “Signal terminated,” a technician’s voice announced over the intercom, flat and indifferent, as if reporting the weather. Robert slowly adjusted his cuffs and walked over to me. His voice was dropped so low only those within a few feet could hear. “Valerie, your little stunt just disrupted a major international broadcast. Our digital scales are calibrated by global authorities. There is no technical error.” “Global authorities?” I stared down at my wrists. The bone was so prominent you could count every tendon. “Then explain to me how someone whose wrist is thinner than a plastic water bottle weighs over two hundred pounds?” He didn’t answer. He turned to the guards. “Take her out the back. Don’t let the paparazzi get a single shot.” Chloe stepped up from the wings. Her makeup was flawless, though her custom gown was visibly strained at the seams of her waist. She walked over holding a glass of water, her face filled with mock sympathy. “Valerie, honey, take a sip. What you just did… honestly, it broke my heart to watch.” I stared at the glass in her hand. “Chloe, what was your official weight today?” “One hundred and seventeen pounds,” she blinked innocishly. “You saw the board.” One hundred and seventeen. In a dress that was practically screaming at the seams. And me, showing a cage of ribs in a saggy dress, at two hundred and thirty-one. “If you’re one-seventeen and I’m two-thirty, then I must have swallowed an entire extra copy of you. Where is she, Chloe? Point her out.” Her smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. “You’re just hysterical, Valerie. I get the pressure is high, but this isn’t healthy…” She turned to Robert, her voice trembling with fake concern. “Mr. Croft, does Valerie need medical attention? I’m really worried she might… hurt herself.” Robert nodded gravely. “I’ve already called the specialists. The committee will handle her mental and physical well-being, but her run in this competition ends today.” “There is nothing wrong with my mind! The only thing broken is your damn scale!” The guards began dragging me down the backstage corridor. Robert didn’t look at me again. He whispered something to his assistant, who nodded and rushed toward the equipment area on the side of the stage. The digital scale was still there. The screen had already been cleared from 231.00 to 0.00. They were erasing the data. “Are you wiping the logs?!” I yelled. No one answered. The guards threw me into a dressing room and locked the door from the outside. My phone was gone—it had dropped during the struggle on stage. A single fluorescent lightbulb overhead flickered, buzzing like an angry hornet. Ten minutes later, the lock clicked. A woman in a white lab coat walked in. She looked to be in her late forties, her ID badge reading: *Dr. Abigail Vance, Licensed Clinical Psychologist.* Behind her was a man carrying a video camera, the red recording light already blinking. “What is the camera for?” I demanded. “Valerie, I’m the mental health consultant hired by the committee.” Dr. Vance pulled up a chair and sat opposite me, her smile calculated and cold. “Given your violent outbursts on stage, we need to conduct a brief psychiatric evaluation.” “Exposing my ribs to prove I don’t weigh two hundred pounds is a ‘violent outburst’?” She opened her notepad, her eyes scanning my hollow collarbones with absolute detachment. “You stripped off your clothing without authorization, which constitutes public indecency and disturbing the peace. Furthermore, looking at your extreme physical state, you show classic signs of severe anorexia nervosa and body dysmorphic disorder. Simply put, your perception of your own weight is completely detached from reality.” I got it. They wanted to paint me as a lunatic. A crazy girl who thought she was thin but was actually obese. “So you’re telling me that I think I’m ninety pounds, but I’m actually two-thirty?” “I’m not diagnosing you yet,” her pen scribbled quickly on the pad. “But your violent denial of objective data, combined with public exposure, aligns with several clinical criteria.” I stared at the blinking red light on the camera. I didn’t need to guess how they would edit this footage. “If this ‘evaluation’ is over, I want my phone. I need to make a call.” “Your device is being held by the committee for safekeeping,” Dr. Vance said, closing her notepad as she stood up. “For your own safety, of course.” The door clicked shut and locked again. In the four mirrors of the dressing room, my reflection stared back—sunken cheeks, arms like sticks. Two hundred and thirty-one pounds. My ass. Muffled footsteps stopped outside the door. It was Chloe. She was on the phone. Her voice was low, but the cheap dressing room door did nothing to block the sound. “Dad, it’s done. The live stream was cut in time. Barely anyone saw… Yes, I’m keeping an eye on Robert.” She paused. “Did your people pull the chip from the scale yet? …Good. Swap it with the backup. Don’t worry, Dad. Who’s going to audit a scale for some third-tier nobody?” She chuckled softly, and her footsteps faded away. The chip. There was a chip inside that scale. I leaned my back against the locked door and closed my eyes. “Your father sure runs a tight ship, Chloe.” 0

“Valerie, have you seen the internet today?” My agent, Gillian Hayes, spoke through the keyhole of the locked dressing room. It was the next morning. The committee wouldn’t let me leave, claiming they had to wait for the official psychiatric evaluation report. I had spent the entire night curled up on the small sofa. “What video? They took my phone.” The lock turned, and Gillian walked in. Her face was pale. She handed me her phone. On the screen was a short video uploaded by an account called *Concerned for Models’ Health*. It already had over 200,000 views. It was the footage of Dr. Vance evaluating me—heavily edited. The clip of me saying, “I only weigh 92 pounds” played on a loop, followed by a voiceover: *Prominent psychologist warns that the contestant suffers from severe body dysmorphia, leading to a dangerous delusion regarding her body weight.* The top pinned comment read: *Poor Valerie. I hope she gets the professional help she needs.* 120,000 likes. “Who posted this?” “We don’t know,” Gillian sighed, avoiding my gaze. “But the account is registered under Sinclair Media Group.” Chloe’s father’s company. “Gillian, look at this. They cut out everything I said to defend myself. They only kept my denial of the scale’s weight, framed by a doctor’s diagnosis—” “I know,” Gillian interrupted. “But the agency has already made a decision.” She looked at me, her eyes filled with pity and fear. “Valerie, the agency is suspending your contract.” “Suspending it?” “Robert Croft sent a formal letter to our board this morning. He cited your ‘extreme behavioral instability’ and suggested we review your professionalism. The legal department went into panic mode.” I gripped her phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “Gillian, I tore my dress because the scale was rigged. I heard Chloe on the phone last night—” “Do you have proof?” My mouth opened, but no words came out. I didn’t. No phone, no recording. I was the only one who heard that call. “Valerie, I want to believe you. But belief doesn’t win lawsuits. The agency needs hard evidence.” Gillian sighed, pulling a document from her bag and placing it on the table. “This is a notice of intent to sue for breach of contract. If you can’t provide solid proof of the committee’s wrongdoing within seven days, the agency will terminate your contract and sue you for your development debt.” “How much?” “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” My hands began to shake. After Gillian left, the door was locked again. About an hour later, a random staff member opened the door and tossed my phone onto the table without a word. “The committee says you’re free to go. Use the back exit.” I grabbed the phone and lit up the screen. Forty-seven missed calls. Thirty of them were from my mother. I dialed her back immediately. She picked up on the first ring. “Valerie? Are you okay? I saw the videos on Instagram—” “Mom, I’m fine. The videos are fake, they’re edited.” “But the news says you’re sick… Tell me the truth, honey. Are you not eating again? Are you okay?” “Mom, I am not sick. The competition is rigged. They messed with the scale—” “Valerie,” my mother’s voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. “Someone called the house earlier.” My body went rigid. “Who?” “She didn’t give a name. She said she was your colleague. She said you were having a mental breakdown and that I needed to commit you to a hospital. She also said…” My mother choked up. “What else, Mom?” “She said if you keep making a scene, the committee will sue. She said you’ll go to prison, and they’ll seize the money you used to pay for my medical treatments.” The blood rushed to my ears. “Mom, she’s lying. What hospital are you in right now?” “The… Serenity Care Facility. The place Sinclair Group owns. The one you transferred me to last month because of their great physical therapy program.” Sinclair Group. Chloe’s father’s facility. My mother was in a building owned by the man trying to destroy me. “Valerie? Are you there?” “Mom, listen to me. Don’t worry. I’m going to fix this.” “What is happening, Valerie? I can’t walk well, but I can—” “Mom, listen.” I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to sound steady. “If anyone comes to ask you about me over the next few days, do not say a word. Do not sign anything. Do you understand me?” “But the nurse just came in with a form—” “What form?!” “She said it was a family consent form for your psychiatric evaluation… I haven’t signed it yet. Something felt off.” My hand was trembling so hard I could barely hold the phone. “Do not sign it. It’s not a consent form, Mom. It’s the paperwork they need to legally lock me up in a mental institution.” Silence stretched over the line. “Valerie… what are these people trying to do to you?” I looked at my reflection in the dressing room mirrors—skeletal, pale, makeup smeared. “They want to convince the world I’m crazy, Mom.” Right after I hung up, an Instagram notification popped up. Chloe had just posted a new video. She was sitting under soft, flattering lighting, her eyes slightly red, her voice dripping with sweet sorrow. “Valerie and I may be competitors, but I’ve always respected her. Seeing her break down like this breaks my heart. Please, everyone, stop attacking her. She’s just sick. I’ve already reached out to the best psychiatric team in the country, and I’ll personally cover all her medical expenses. Valerie, no matter how you feel about me, I just want you to get better.” In the bottom right corner, the like count was climbing by thousands every second. The top comment: *Chloe is a literal angel. I’m crying.* I slammed the phone onto the sofa. “Chloe, you are a walking, talking vending machine of fake tears.” 0

“Valerie, your lease is now being managed by Sinclair Realty.” My landlord, Mrs. Higgins, sounded a hundred times more polite than usual. A fake, terrifying kind of polite. “What do you mean managed by them? I pay my rent directly to you every month. Since when does Sinclair Realty have anything to do with my apartment?” “Well… they acquired our building’s management team recently. They claim you have three months of unpaid building maintenance fees.” “Three months? I’ve lived here for a year and a half. I have never missed a single payment!” “Valerie, I’m sorry… they sent a legal notice, and my hands are tied. Maybe you should take it up with their management?” “Take what up? Just tell me the truth. Did someone pay you to kick me out?” The line went dead. I stood outside my apartment building, with nothing but my phone and the jacket I wore yesterday. My evening gown was still backstage, likely confiscated as “evidence.” My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *Valerie, your breach of contract fine has been adjusted to $8 million due to the severe reputational damage you have caused to the organizers. The committee reserves the right to pursue further legal action.* Eight million. From five million to eight million. I swiped the message away and searched my name on Instagram. Trending topic: *Valerie Miller Weight Fraud.* I clicked it. The top post was a new video. It showed a girl in loose sportswear, viewed from behind, looking quite chubby, stuffing her face at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The camera panned quickly to her profile—the face looked eighty percent like mine. But it wasn’t me. I never went to buffets. My stomach had shrunk so much from stress that I could barely finish half a bowl of soup. But the internet didn’t care about facts. *“So she really is over two hundred pounds? She must be a secret binge-eater.”* *“She looked thin when she ripped her dress, but body dysmorphia makes people do crazy things.”* *“I feel so bad for Chloe. She’s being targeted by a crazy person.”* Deepfake. They actually deepfaked a video of me eating. I tried to log into my own Instagram account to post a statement, but the screen flashed: *Incorrect Password.* I tried three times. All incorrect. They had hacked my account. I went to a local internet cafe to submit an account recovery request. The system required me to upload a photo of my ID and a selfie holding it. I did it. Five minutes later, a red warning popped up: *This account has been permanently suspended for spreading misinformation.* The reporting party: *The Digital Integrity Alliance.* I looked up the registry of that organization. The registered owner’s name: *Richard Sinclair.* Chloe’s father. I walked to three different news outlets. At the first one, the receptionist waved me off the moment she heard my name. “We don’t do personal disputes. Get a lawyer.” At the second, a junior editor actually listened to me for ten minutes, but then asked one question. “Do you have proof?” “I heard Chloe on the phone saying they removed the chip from the scale—” “Heard conversations aren’t legally admissible evidence. Do you have a recording?” “No. They took my phone.” The editor closed his notebook. “Did you secure the scale?” “They swapped it out.” “Valerie, I believe you, but everything you have is just hearsay. If we publish this, they’ll sue us for defamation, and we will lose.” The third outlet didn’t even let me past the lobby. The security guard stood in my way. “Mr. Sinclair called ahead. We know who you are. Leave.” Mr. Sinclair. Even the security guards at random news stations called him “Mr. Sinclair.” I sat on the curb, clutching my locked-out phone. An incoming call popped up. Caller ID: *Los Angeles.* I answered. “Valerie Miller? This is Arthur Pendelton from the legal department at Sinclair Media Group.” “Speak.” “Regarding your recent slanderous claims online—” “My account is suspended! What claims could I possibly be making?” “We have logs of private messages you sent to various influencers before your suspension, containing defamatory statements about Chloe Sinclair and Robert Croft.” “You hacked my private messages too?” “That data was legally provided by the platform under terms of service violations. Valerie, I am here to inform you of two things: First, if you continue to spread these lies, we will file a formal defamation lawsuit. Second—” He paused. “Given your current mental state, Chloe Sinclair has filed an emergency petition for an involuntary psychiatric evaluation. If approved, you will be escorted to a designated medical facility for a thirty-day mandatory observation period.” My scalp went numb. “You’re trying to throw me in an asylum?” “It’s a luxury care facility, Valerie. It’s for your own good.” I slammed the phone down. The sun was setting, casting my shadow on the pavement—thin as a wire. A wire they claimed weighed 231 pounds. The phone rang again. My mother. “Valerie! Two men just came into my room. They said they’re transferring me to a ‘high-security ward.’ They told me you signed the papers—” “Mom, I didn’t sign anything! Don’t let them take you. I’m coming!” “Valerie, I’m scared—” I stood up, my knees buckling. I had to grab the lamppost to keep from falling. An eight-million-dollar lawsuit, a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar agency debt, my social media blocked, my apartment seized, the media bribed, and my mother threatened. And I had absolutely nothing. My screen lit up with a text from an unknown number. It was only one line: *“Valerie, I recorded the entire live stream before they cut the feed. Do you want it?”* 0

“Who is this?” I stared at the text and called the number back immediately. It rang three times before a voice answered. “It doesn’t matter who I am. I saw you rip your dress open on the live stream. I started screen-recording before they could cut the feed. The whole thing, from the moment you stepped on the scale to the blackout. Four minutes and seventeen seconds.” The voice was male, young, and fast-talking. “Why did you record it?” “Because I saw the exact same thing happen two years ago.” My heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?” “The 2022 East Coast Supermodel Search. A girl named Becca Rivers. Her weight data was altered too. She wasn’t as fierce as you; she didn’t dare rip her dress open on live TV. She tried to go through official channels. The result—” He stopped. “What happened to her?” “Her complaint was rejected. The committee produced certified calibration reports, and Becca’s accusation was turned into a defamation lawsuit. She was blacklisted from the entire industry. Three months later, she jumped from the fourteenth floor of her apartment building.” My grip on the phone tightened. “Was Becca in the same competition as Chloe?” “Yes. Chloe won that year. Becca was the only one who publicly questioned the data, and she was completely destroyed for it.” The cold night air hit my face, sending a shiver down my spine. “What can your video prove?” “It proves that your body shape before you stepped on that scale had absolutely nothing to do with two hundred and thirty pounds. In that four-minute-and-seventeen-second video, your bones, your ribs, your collarbones are all on display. No sane person would believe that number.” “That’s not enough.” “I know. But you just need to get the video seen. Public outrage will do the rest.” “They’ve flooded the internet with deepfakes and fake medical evaluations. My accounts are blocked. I don’t even have a platform to post a tweet—” “I have a platform.” His voice suddenly dropped. “But before that, Valerie—you need to survive tonight.” “What do you mean?” “The court just signed the 72-hour psychiatric hold order. The officers are on their way to serve it to you tonight. Where are you?” I gave him the street name. “You’re three blocks away from Serenity Care. Your mom is there, right?” He went quiet for two seconds. “They won’t come for you first. They’re going to use your mother.” It felt like someone had pushed me off a cliff. I lunged into the street, waving down a cab. “I can’t explain everything now. Get your mom out of there. I’ll meet you at the south gate of the hospital. I’m driving a gray van.” Who was this guy? Was he trustworthy? I didn’t have time to think. The only thing that mattered was that Richard Sinclair’s people were about to move my mother to a locked ward. Once she was in there, I would lose all legal rights to see her. Fifteen minutes later, I burst into the lobby of Serenity Care. The elevators were too slow, so I ran up the stairs—seven flights. My knees were shaking by the time I reached the top. Room 708 was wide open. The bed was empty. The sheets were tossed aside, and my mother’s slippers were still under the bed. “Mom!” I ran into the hallway, looking left and right. The nurse’s station was abandoned. At the far end of the hall was a heavy glass door with a digital keypad. A sign on it read: *Intensive Care & Psychiatric Hold Unit—Restricted Access.* Through the glass, I saw my mother. She was in her wheelchair, her back to me. A male orderly in green scrubs was pushing her deeper into the ward. “Mom!” I pounded on the glass door. The sound echoed down the corridor. My mother turned her head and saw me. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her through the thick glass. I slammed my finger onto the intercom button. “Hello? This is restricted access. State your name.” “That is my mother! Who authorized you to move her in there?!” “We have a signed consent form from her legal guardian, Valerie Miller.” “I never signed anything!” “Our system shows an electronic signature submitted today at 3:00 PM. If you have questions, please contact our legal team.” I pulled out my phone—at 3:00 PM, I was on the curb talking to that stranger. I hadn’t signed a single thing. They had forged my digital signature. Through the glass, my mother was being pushed further and further away. “Mom! Mom!” I slammed my fist against the glass. Once, twice—on the third strike, a crack spiderwebbed across the pane, and blood began to seep from my knuckles. The click of high heels echoed from behind me. “Valerie, sweetheart, are you here to see your mom?” Chloe stood at the other end of the hall, holding a bouquet of lilies, her smile sweet and toxic. Behind her stood two men in dark suits. They didn’t look like hospital staff. “Her old room was so basic, so I asked the director to move her to the VIP psychiatric wing. It has 24-hour private care. She’ll be much more comfortable there.” “You forged my signature to lock my mother in a secure ward, and you call that comfortable?” “Oh, Valerie, look at you getting hysterical again.” Chloe sighed, turning to the men behind her. “Mr. Pendelton, please show Valerie the court order.” One of the men stepped forward, handing me a document stamped with a red court seal. “Ms. Miller, this is a court-ordered involuntary psychiatric evaluation. Under state law, your immediate family has requested this assessment.” “My family? My mother is locked behind that door! When did she request this?” “Signed and dated at 3:15 PM today.” “She didn’t even know what she was signing!” Chloe tilted her head slightly, positioning herself perfectly so the security camera above would capture her most innocent profile. “Calm down, Valerie. Your mom signed it willingly. We have video proof. Your behavior right now… honestly, it’s making me really worry about you.” She glanced at the men. “If Valerie refuses to cooperate with the court order, do we need to call the police to assist?” I took a step back, my spine pressing against the cold, cracked glass door. At the end of the hall, two security guards were walking toward me, their walkie-talkies buzzing. To my left was a locked ward; to my right was a wall of security guards. I was trapped. Chloe’s eyes welled with beautiful, perfectly timed tears. “Don’t be scared, Valerie. It’s just an evaluation. If you’re not sick, you’ll be out in thirty days.” Thirty days. In thirty days, they could announce to the world that I was mentally incompetent. They would strip me of every ounce of credibility. Behind my back, my fingers brushed against the crack in the glass. The sharp edge sliced my finger, a sudden, stinging pain. My phone was still in my pocket. Before running up here, I had done one thing—something the stranger on the phone had instructed me to do. *“Keep your voice memo recording active,”* he had said. *“Let it run in your pocket. It automatically uploads to my cloud.”* “There’s no need to call the police,” I said. I pulled my hand from the glass, wiped the blood on my coat, and looked Chloe dead in the eye. “Chloe, when you were on the phone outside my dressing room, you told your dad to swap the chip in the scale with the backup. Did you think I forgot?” Chloe’s pupils contracted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yes, you do.” I took a step forward. “You also said—’Who’s going to audit a scale for some third-tier nobody?’” The hallway went dead silent for three seconds. Chloe’s smile didn’t waver, but her left hand began to tremble. “See? This is exactly why you need that evaluation, Valerie. You’re hallucinating.” She turned to the lawyer, her voice firm. “Let’s go. Call security to escort her.” “Understood.” The two guards grabbed my arms. The phone in my pocket remained silent, recording every second. I knew there was no point in arguing here. I couldn’t win this fight in this hallway. But a small smile tugged at the corner of my lips—the first real smile I’ve had in days. “Chloe, do you know what cloud storage is?” Her footsteps faltered. “It means—even if you smash my phone right now, everything we’ve said is already saved online.”

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In the back seat of my car, my fiancée sat up, rubbing her sleepy eyes. “Why is it so dark? Ethan, we’re in the middle of nowhere. Where are you taking me?” I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. I didn’t answer. Chloe kept talking. “By the way, of all the wedding dresses I tried on this afternoon, which one did you like best?” “Ethan?” “Why are you ignoring me?” Because I didn’t dare to look at her. My fiancée, Chloe, had been dead for six months. “You’re regretting it again. You want to call off the wedding, don’t you? I just don’t get it. What is so good about that cheap little bitch? She does nothing but spend your money! You wouldn’t have this company today if it weren’t for me!” “Let me tell you something, Ethan. Over my dead body will you ever leave me!” Chloe’s voice kept ringing in my ears. I was paralyzed with fear. My foot slammed down on the gas pedal. I didn’t dare to look in the rearview mirror, not even once. Ever since I got back from the Cascade Mountains, she had been in my car. Her voice grew louder, sharper, and more grating. The hair on my neck stood on end. It felt like her lips were pressed right against my ear. “Ethan, don’t be like this. I won’t yell at you anymore. Just talk to me, okay?” “Haha, are you still pretending?” “I know you can see me!” “Ethan… Ethan…” I couldn’t take it anymore. I let out a terrified scream and floored the gas. If I could just make it through the last traffic light, I’d be in the crowded downtown area! But as I sped through the intersection, a blinding flash of light hit me from the side. There was no time to swerve. The impact sent my car spinning and flipping through the air. The airbag deployed with a deafening bang, pinning me to the seat and choking the air from my lungs. Behind me, Chloe was still whispering in my ear, laughing. “Are you coming to join me now?” “Hehe… I told you. Dead or alive, you’re staying with me!” Her face leaned in close. Her hair was matted with blood, her skin pale and rotting. My soul shivered with pure terror. Ignoring the agonizing pain in my body, I fumbled to unbuckle my seatbelt, crawled out of the shattered window, and scrambled on my hands and knees toward the other driver. “Help! Help me—” “Ethan Vance? Are you out of your mind?” “Who the hell runs a red light at midnight? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” The driver who hit me was my biggest business rival in Seattle, Marcus Sterling! But right now, my pride meant nothing. I pointed frantically at the back seat of my wrecked car. “Chloe… Chloe is in there—” Then, I froze. Inside my car, other than a smear of blood on the seat, there was absolutely no one. Marcus glared at me with pure disgust. “I’m warning you, Ethan. You were speeding and ran a red light. Don’t you dare try to pin this on me! And your missing fiancée has nothing to do with me. If you hire those internet trolls to spread rumors that I kidnapped her again, I’ll sue your ass into bankruptcy!” I couldn’t speak. I just sat on the cold asphalt, trembling. With Chloe gone, the adrenaline began to fade. A searing, tearing pain ripped through my body. I looked down and realized I was covered in blood. Marcus called 911 and stood by his car, waiting. I forced myself to stand, ignoring the pain, and hobbled over to him. “Marcus… when you hit me, did you see… was there anyone else in my car?” Marcus spat on the ground. “Fuck off! For the last time, I didn’t hit you, you ran into me. And did you hit your head too hard? You don’t even know if there was someone in your own car?” Suddenly, Marcus paused, his brows furrowing deep. “Wait a minute. Ethan, did you just say Chloe? Isn’t she still missing? Did you find her?” Seeing Marcus’s genuine confusion, I realized what had just happened was likely a hallucination. I let out a shaky breath and lied, “No… still looking for her…” And I would never find her. Because she was dead. Buried in a place where no one would ever look.

When the police arrived, Marcus blamed the entire accident on me. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. I admitted to everything, wanting nothing more than to get bandaged up and go home. As I was being loaded into the ambulance, Marcus blocked the door, looking suspicious. “Ethan, did you take the wrong meds today? Usually, you’d use any excuse to ruin my reputation. Now you’re half-dead, and you just take the blame without a fight?” Marcus and I had been at each other’s throats for three years. We had used every dirty trick in the book to sabotage each other. But right now, I was too exhausted to care. I snarled, “Fuck off,” and slammed the ambulance doors shut. By the time the hospital finished stitching me up, it was 3:00 AM. I refused to be admitted and called Hailey to pick me up. “Ethan! Oh my god, what happened to you?” “Chloe is missing. Just let the cops handle it! Why are you running around in the middle of the night for her?” Hailey’s eyes welled with tears. Her fragile, helpless look made my heart ache. I pulled her close and whispered softly, “Shh, it’s okay. You know I only love you. Honestly, I hope she never comes back.” “But everyone knows I built my career on her back. If I don’t put on a show of looking for her, people will call me heartless. It’ll ruin my reputation and the company. How else am I going to give you the life you deserve?” Hailey parked the car by the curb and wept in my arms, deeply moved. Feeling her young, soft body against mine, my frayed nerves finally began to calm down. Hailey was a college student I had sponsored through my charity foundation. She was young and beautiful, but more importantly, she was obedient and highly capable—miles ahead of Chloe. As long as I could be with her, any amount of stress was worth it. In time, people would forget about Chloe… “Mr. Vance, Miss Miller embezzled another $200,000 from the purchasing department! When Chloe was managing things, she never took a single dime from the company.” Hearing my secretary, Leo, mention Chloe again made my head throb. “I don’t care. Why are you making a big deal out of it? I’ll talk to Hailey in private.” Leo looked troubled. “When business was good, we could overlook these things. But ever since Chloe vanished, the company’s financials have been—” “Enough!” I cut him off, annoyed. “I said I’ll handle it!” Leo lowered his head. “There’s one more thing. Chloe’s parents are sick with worry because they can’t find her. Her father was hospitalized, and they came to the office asking if you could help with the medical bills…” I waved my hand dismissively. “Tell them the company is struggling and we don’t have the cash.” “What?” Leo looked at me in disbelief. “Mr. Vance, Chloe gave everything to this company. Her parents are sick, and you’re just going to ignore them?” My patience snapped. “What kind of bullshit are you talking? Chloe was just a manager, she didn’t own shares. Now that she’s gone, why the hell should I take care of her parents? If every senior employee went missing, would I have to support their entire families?” “But Mr. Vance, Chloe only transferred her shares to you because you two were engaged—” I grabbed my coffee mug and hurled it at him. “Get the fuck out! Just do what I told you to do!” If Leo hadn’t been incredibly loyal to me—even refusing a massive bribe from Marcus to defect—I would have fired this blind idiot on the spot. Once he left, I immediately called Hailey to my office under the guise of work to soothe my growing anxiety. Another week passed, and Chloe didn’t appear again. I thought my mental state was improving, that life was returning to normal. But then, the unthinkable happened. The dead woman didn’t just reappear. She came back to my house. Wearing an apron, cooking dinner for me.

I opened the front door. Through the darkness, I saw Chloe carrying a steaming plate of food from the kitchen to the dining table. My skin crawled, and my limbs went completely numb. I tried to flip the light switch, but the power was out. I pressed it repeatedly, but nothing happened. I pulled out my phone. No service. “Ethan, you’re home. Why are you standing at the door?” “Go wash your hands. I made all your favorites.” Was I having another hallucination? But her voice, the smell of the food… it was all so incredibly real. I pinched my thigh hard. The pain was real, but the scene before me didn’t change. Chloe kept talking. “Oh, silly me. Ethan, I forgot to get your slippers. Hold on, I’ll grab them for you—” She set the plate down and began walking toward me, step by step, through the pitch blackness. A freezing chill ran up my spine. My legs turned to jelly, but I forced myself to turn around and run toward the elevator. For the first time in my life, the elevator felt like it was taking an eternity. Footsteps echoed down the dark hallway behind me, getting closer and closer. Chloe’s voice trailed right behind me. “Sweetheart, we haven’t eaten dinner, and we aren’t married yet. Why are you in such a rush to leave?” “Did you forget? When you begged me to sleep with those clients and sacrifice my dignity to save your business, you swore you’d marry me. When I was hospitalized with alcohol poisoning, you held my hand and told me I was the only one you’d ever love.” “Oh? Are you scared? Why are you shaking so much?” “Hehe… you must remember now! You said if you ever betrayed me, you’d lose everything and suffer a fate worse than death. I’m just here to help you keep your promise…” I leaned against the wall to keep from collapsing, my body shaking violently as I frantically mashed the elevator button. Finally, just as I was about to scream, the elevator doors slid open. The hallway flooded with bright light, and Hailey’s beautiful face appeared before me. I threw myself into the elevator, grabbing her, trembling. “Go! Get us out of here! She’s coming—” “Who?” Hailey worriedly touched my forehead, then peeked out into the hallway. “Ethan, there’s nobody out there. Are you sick?” Nobody? I took a deep breath and forced myself to look. The hallway was empty. Chloe was gone. The building’s lights were back on, and my phone suddenly had full service again. Hailey held my hand as we walked back to my apartment. “Ethan, is work stressing you out too much? Maybe you should see a doctor.” I shook my head, unable to speak, my mind a chaotic mess. Was it really just a hallucination? But my mind had felt perfectly fine lately! Soon, I realized it wasn’t a hallucination at all. Because on my dining table sat a fresh, hot dinner. Hailey giggled and gave me a playful shove. “Oh, stop it! Ethan, did you scare me on purpose just to surprise me with this dinner?” “It smells amazing. You’re such a good cook!”

Hailey sat down, picking up a fork. Suddenly, my brain kicked into gear. I lunged forward, grabbed the plates, and threw everything into the trash can. “Don’t eat that!” “I… I didn’t make this.” Hailey blinked, confused. “Then who did? Only Chloe cooks this well. Ethan… did Chloe come back?” She stood up and wrapped her arms around me. “Is she… really back?” Seeing the strange, testing look in Hailey’s eyes, my body went rigid. I pushed her away. “Chloe lost her mind, screamed at me, and ran away. Who knows if she’s ever coming back?” I couldn’t let anyone know Chloe was dead. Not even Hailey. I kept up the lie that we had a fight and she ran away. To cover my tracks, I had dropped hints to the police that Marcus Sterling was behind her disappearance, which threw off their investigation. No one should have been able to find her. I should have been safe. But… The horror of the car crash and tonight’s feast kept looping in my head. I dug my fingernails into my palms to keep myself calm and took Hailey out to a restaurant. I was too terrified to be alone, so I didn’t go back to my place. I stayed at the apartment I had bought for Hailey. But that night, I dreamed of Chloe again and woke up drenched in cold sweat. I couldn’t keep running. The dinner on the table proved that these occurrences weren’t in my head. My sanity was intact. “Chloe” was back. She wanted revenge. She wanted to punish me. She wanted to strip me of everything and torture me. On top of the psychological horror, my company was suddenly facing aggressive, expensive attacks from a rival, causing our stocks to plummet. The next day, I gathered my courage and went back to my apartment alone. I didn’t turn on the lights. I just sat on the sofa in the pitch black, waiting. As expected, she came. The front door creaked open. Then came Chloe’s voice. “Sweetheart, didn’t we agree to take our wedding photos today? Why are you sitting in the dark?” My heart leaped into my throat. Controlling my terror with every ounce of strength, I secretly sent a text to Hailey. “Gosh, ignoring me again…” Chloe’s melancholic voice seemed to echo from every corner of the room, swallowing me whole. Her footsteps sounded clearly behind me, drawing closer. Suddenly! A cold hand touched my shoulder. The icy temperature sent goosebumps breaking out all over my skin. “Sweetheart, it’s me. Why are you shaking?” “Hehe, what are you afraid of?” In a split second, I grabbed her wrist and snarled through gritted teeth, “Stop playing games! You’re not Chloe! You’re her best friend, the one she helped study abroad, aren’t you?” “Did you think getting plastic surgery to look like her would fool me?” Staring at her pale face, I wrapped my other hand around her throat. “Tell me! What the fuck do you want?!” She squinted, looking confused. “Sweetheart, what are you talking about? I’m your fiancée.” “Still playing dumb?” I squeezed harder. “The night of the crash, why did Marcus Sterling just happen to be there? Because he’s my rival! He’s the only one who would help you!” “He helped you act, pretending he couldn’t see you. He’s the one funding the attack on my company to make me think Chloe’s ghost is coming for me!” Hearing the front door unlock, I let out a vicious laugh. “Hailey is here. You worthless bitch, let’s see how long you can keep up this act!” The door swung open, and Hailey stepped in. I yelled immediately, “Hailey! Call the cops! Catch this fucking imposter!” But Hailey didn’t move. After a few seconds of silence, she shrank into the corner, trembling. “Ethan… stop scaring me! There’s no one else in here but us!” Then, Chloe began to laugh, a chilling, high-pitched giggle. “Sweetheart, looks like your little mistress can’t see me either~”

My hand, still wrapped around Chloe’s throat, began to shake uncontrollably. Her laughter grew louder and sharper, piercing straight into my skull. “Hehe… Sweetheart, you’re even more terrified now.” “But what are you afraid of? You promised to marry me, to be with me forever. How could you bring your little mistress into our home right in front of my face?” She raised her icy hand and easily broke my grip. Her fingernails grazed my cheek, slowly tracing down to my neck. The sheer terror paralyzed me; I was like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. I used every bit of energy in my lungs to squeeze out a raspy scream. “Get out! Get the fuck away from me!” “You’re not real!” “Chloe, I’m not afraid of you! I’m not!” In my panic, I didn’t notice Hailey approaching. Only when her shaking arms wrapped around me did I realize she was there. “Ethan, what’s wrong with you? Who are you talking to?” I couldn’t answer. Chloe was standing right in front of her, yet Hailey couldn’t see a thing, even as Chloe leaned in and blew cold air onto my neck. At that moment, fear overcame everything. I shoved Hailey away. “Go! Get out of here!” My concern for Hailey temporarily overpowered my fear. No matter what, I couldn’t let Hailey get hurt. But my action enraged Chloe. She suddenly grabbed my throat, her voice turning wild and malicious. “You care about this little bitch that much?!” “I gave you everything! I sacrificed my body, my dignity, and you threw me away for this whore!” “Die!” “Just die!—” Her sharp nails sunk into the flesh of my neck. The pain and terror overwhelmed me, and my vision went black. When I opened my eyes, it was morning. I was lying in my own bed, sunlight streaming through the window. Hailey, her eyes red from crying, was sitting beside me. Seeing me wake up, she threw herself into my arms, sobbing. “Ethan, you scared me to death!” “Last night, you started choking yourself and then just collapsed.” “What is happening to you…” Dazed, I touched my neck. My fingers came away stained with dried blood. Marcus could have been lying to me, but Hailey would never lie to me. “Hailey.” “Do you… do you know any spiritual mediums? Anyone who deals with the occult?”

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Ten years after I vanished, my husband bought me like trash. I didn’t know it was him yet. I only knew the Vallis had finally decided I was worth more sold than dead. The Madam dragged me down a back hall of The Velvet Underground, her red nails pinching my chin. “Listen carefully,” she said. “You serve the man in the VIP room tonight, and if you survive, you walk out free.” Free. The word hit harder than any fist. For ten years, I had lived under the Valli family. Basements, locked rooms, knives, cameras, men who laughed when I begged them to kill me. I had lost pieces of myself one by one, one kidney, half my hearing, most of my face, until there was almost nothing left. But I had kept one thing. Dante. Don Moretti. My husband. The man I stayed behind to save. The man who promised he would come back for me. I used to repeat his name when they hurt me. I used to bite my tongue and tell myself: He’s looking. He’s coming. Dante would burn the world down for me. Then the Madam opened a heavy red door and shoved me inside. The VIP room stank of cigars, liquor, and money. Men sat around a long black table. Guns showed under their jackets. Women in glittering dresses leaned against them. A man in a black suit and a gold lion mask sat at the center. My breath stopped. Even with half his face hidden, I knew him. I knew his shoulders, the ring on his right hand, and the scar across his wrist from the night I saved him. Dante. I took one step forward before my knees almost gave out. He did not stand and reach for me. He barely looked up. The Madam bowed her head. “Don Moretti, fresh company for the evening.” A few men laughed. Dante lifted his glass. His eyes moved over me for half a second. With disgust. He took a stack of cash from the table and threw it at my feet. “Sit in the corner,” he said. “Stay quiet.” I stared at the money scattered over my shoes. A man beside him grinned. “Don Moretti, you’re too generous. She looks like she came out of a grave.” More laughter. Dante did not laugh. That gave me hope for one stupid second. Then he said, “I don’t touch goods the Valli family already ruined.” The words hurt worse than a slap. I swayed where I stood. Ruined. Goods. That was what I was to him now. Not Elena Moretti, not his wife, not the woman who stayed behind with a gun to her head so he could escape. Just damaged merchandise. The Madam dug her nails into my arm. “Move.” I stumbled toward the corner. Every step felt wrong. I wanted to scream his name, rip off that mask, and make him see me. But my voice was broken, my face ruined, my body too thin, my hair cut short and uneven. Would he know me? Would he care? I sat on the edge of a low couch, hands locked in my lap. The men went back to talking. They talked money routes, dock workers, a shipment through Brooklyn, and a judge who needed pressure. Dante listened, and every man at the table waited for his answer. I kept staring at his wrist. The scar was still there. That scar came from me. Ten years ago, Lorenzo Valli had swung a blade at Dante’s throat. I blocked it with a metal chair. Dante still got cut. I stayed behind so he could run. He held my face that night and said, “El, no matter what happens, you are my wife. My only love. I will find you.” I believed him. A server placed a glass in front of me. I did not touch it. Dante’s eyes flicked toward me again. “Drink if you want. Cry if you want. Just don’t make noise.” The men laughed harder. I lowered my head. I was the joke. Then Dante reached for his glass, and his sleeve shifted. The scar flashed under the gold light. I moved before I could stop myself. I crossed the room and grabbed his arm. Guns came out at once, every weapon in the room aimed at my head. Dante went still. His eyes locked on mine through the mask. For one second, I saw something sharp and scared. My lips trembled. “Dante,” I whispered. “Is it you?” His fingers tightened around the glass. Before he could answer, the VIP door slammed open so hard it hit the wall. A woman’s voice cut through the room. “Who the hell is touching my husband?” —

The woman wearing my face called Dante her husband. I turned toward the door, still holding his wrist. She stood there in a red silk dress, with my old hair, my old mouth, and the tiny beauty mark under my left eye. My hand slipped from Dante’s arm. The woman crossed the room fast and slapped me so hard I hit the carpet. My ear rang. Before I could lift my head, she slapped me again. Her ring had sharp little points around the band. One of them tore into my cheek. Blood ran down my jaw. “You cheap bitch,” she snapped. “Who told you to touch my husband?” I looked past her at Dante. Say something. Tell her I am Elena. Tell her I am your wife. Dante stood. For one stupid second, I had hope. Then he stepped over me and pulled her into his arms. “Bianca,” he said. “Enough.” Bianca. So that was her name. She pressed herself against him and pointed at me. “She had her hands all over you.” “She’s nothing,” Dante said. Nothing. I had survived ten years on his name and he erased me in one word. Bianca forced tears. “Then why was she beside you?” Dante’s hand settled on her waist, gentle and familiar. That touch used to be mine. “I came here for business,” he said. “The girls in this place don’t interest me.” Bianca pouted. “Really?” Dante looked down at me. No warmth. “Really,” he said. “I don’t touch Valli trash.” A few men laughed. One of them leaned toward another and whispered, “The Doll is jealous tonight.” The other man muttered, “Careful. Don Moretti still loses his mind when anyone mentions Elena.” Elena. My name. They knew my name. They knew Dante had a wife. They knew I was missing. And yet he stood there with a woman built from my stolen face. I pushed myself onto my knees. My cheek throbbed. Blood dripped onto the carpet. “Dante,” I whispered. His jaw tightened. He heard me. I knew he had heard me. Bianca turned slowly. “What did you call him?” I tried to crawl toward him. “Dante, please. It’s me.” Her heel came down on my wrist. Pain shot up my arm. “You don’t get to say his name,” she said. “You don’t get to look at him.” She slapped me again. This time I stayed upright. I would not fall for her. I would not give her the pleasure. “Look at me,” I begged him. “Please.” Dante picked up his glass. He didn’t deny it. “I was being polite before,” he said. “Don’t mistake that for interest.” My vision blurred. “You women hear a man’s name and think it gives you power,” he went on. “It doesn’t.” Bianca smiled. She bent close to my face. Her perfume made my stomach turn. “You heard him,” she said. “Crawl back to whatever basement they found you in.” Dante did not stop her. He did not look at the blood on my face and ask why I knew his scar. He turned away from me and set his glass down. Then the VIP door opened again. Every guard near the entrance straightened. An older man walked in with silver hair, a gray suit, and a smile I had feared for ten years. Lorenzo Valli. The man who took me. The man Dante was supposed to kill. Lorenzo opened his arms. “Don Moretti,” he said. And Dante smiled back. —

Dante shook hands with the man who destroyed me. Lorenzo Valli stood ten feet away from me, clean and smiling, while my blood dried on the carpet. For a second, I was back on concrete, in chains, with Dante bleeding on the floor while Lorenzo held a gun to my head. “Run,” I had screamed at Dante then. “Go!” He had refused at first. Then I had lied. I told him I hated him. I told him I would rather die than watch him get weak for me. He believed me enough to leave. Or maybe he wanted to. I never knew. But I stayed. Lorenzo kept me. And now Dante welcomed him. “My apologies,” Lorenzo said. “The docks are a mess tonight.” Dante released his hand. “Brooklyn always is.” Lorenzo laughed. “That is why you need my people on the ground.” Dante nodded toward the table. “Sit.” My stomach turned. Sit? That was all? No gun. No blood. Dante walked back to his seat and Bianca slid beside him, smug and safe. Lorenzo sat across from them. His eyes moved over me once. Then stopped. For the first time all night, he stopped smiling. He recognized me. I saw it. His fingers twitched against the armrest. Dante noticed. “What?” Dante asked. Lorenzo looked away fast. “Nothing. Bad work by the club. You should demand better quality.” Bianca wrinkled her nose. “I said the same thing.” Dante did not even glance at me. “She’s leaving soon,” he said. Lorenzo’s smile returned. “Good.” My hands shook. He knew. Lorenzo Valli knew I was Elena Moretti. And he said nothing because Dante did not care enough to look twice. A man in a navy suit opened a folder on the table. Maps. Numbers. Names. Dante leaned forward. “Two docks,” he said. “Red Hook and Sunset Park. Your trucks move at night. My men clear the checkpoints. We split the clean cash sixty-forty.” Lorenzo lifted a brow. “Fifty-fifty.” Dante smiled. “You came to me.” “Because your judge is useful,” Lorenzo said. “Not because I need permission.” Dante’s eyes hardened. For a second, I thought one of them might pull a gun. Then Lorenzo raised both hands. “Sixty-forty, then.” Bianca stroked Dante’s sleeve. “See? Everyone behaves when you ask nicely.” Dante kissed her knuckles. I went numb. That mouth had once promised me forever. Now he was making deals with the man who sold me piece by piece. Lorenzo took a drink. “And the past?” Dante’s fingers tightened around his glass. I held my breath. Dante stared at Lorenzo for a long moment. Then he said, “The past is expensive. But everything has a price.” Lorenzo nodded slowly. “Ten years ago was messy.” Dante leaned back. “Ten years ago was a small accident.” A small accident. People kept talking around me, but I stopped hearing them for a few seconds. My body had been sold. My kidney had been cut out. And my face had been ruined. I had begged for death in locked rooms. And to Dante, it was a small accident. Bianca laughed softly. “Men are so dramatic about old grudges.” Dante looked at her with that same gentle patience he once saved for me. “You’re right,” he said. “Tonight is about business.” I lowered my head. Something inside me went quiet. I was not weak anymore. I was done. The Dante I loved had died long ago. Maybe he had never existed. Maybe I had made him better in my head because the truth hurt too much. Lorenzo signed the papers. Dante signed after him. Their men shook hands. Money moved. Territory shifted. My life became one more thing they ignored. Then Lorenzo stood and looked at me again. This time, his smile was calm. “Is this one included?” he asked. Bianca tilted her head. “What do you want with her?” Lorenzo shrugged. “Loose ends make noise.” Dante glanced at me at last. For one heartbeat, I waited. Then he said, “Do whatever you want. Just not in my suite.” The Madam grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. I did not fight. I only looked back once. Dante had already turned away. And when the door shut behind me, Lorenzo’s men were already waiting in the hall, and one of them had a knife. —

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Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a knack for putting labels on people. Not just ordinary labels, but the kind of dramatic, psychological diagnoses that completely shift the room’s gravity. When the boy next door told me he wanted to “escape to see the world,” I casually let it slip to his parents that he was harboring severe, self-destructive tendencies. They locked him in his room for a week and sent him straight to intensive family counseling. In middle school, when a teacher banished me to the back corner of the classroom because my family didn’t participate in the annual “teacher appreciation fund,” I filed a formal complaint with the school board, accusing him of enforcing a socio-economic caste system. He was quietly reassigned by the end of the semester. So, when I was finally brought back to my biological family, and the fake heiress, Delilah, stood in the living room crying her eyes out, sob-whispering about how she would pack her bags and “make room for me,” I knew exactly what to do. I reached into my bag, pulled out my newly minted clinical psychologist license, and laid it gently on the coffee table. “She has a pathological lack of self-worth,” I murmured, my voice dripping with professional concern. “It’s a serious defensive coping mechanism. She needs immediate clinical intervention.” Delilah waved her hands frantically, tears smudging her mascara. “No, that’s not it! I just… I feel like because I took what was yours for so long, you must hate me.” I turned to our parents, letting out a heavy, clinical sigh. “You see? Classic Oppositional Defiant Disorder. We need to book an admitting evaluation immediately.” Delilah’s face went entirely pale. “I’m not being oppositional!” I shook my head slowly, looking at her with pity. “The denial is deep. She’s already exhibiting cognitive dissociation and memory lapses to protect her ego.” My parents, terrified by my professional diagnosis, instantly whipped out their phones to look up specialists. Delilah dissolved into loud, hysterical sobs, prompting her fiercely protective older brother, Brandon, to step in. He shoved me back roughly by the shoulder. “Shut your mouth! If you try to curse Delilah again, I will personally throw you back onto the street where we found you.” I gently rubbed my shoulder, my expression turning grave. “A classic case of intermittent explosive disorder with deep-seated violent tendencies at such a young age. This household has some severe systemic dysfunction.” … Brandon was so incensed by my calm clinical jargon that he looked ready to cry. He lunged forward, his hand raised to slap me. But over the years of growing up in the rougher parts of the city, I’d dodged enough swings to anticipate his trajectory. With a swift, fluid sidestep, I spun and delivered a stinging backhand right across his cheek. Brandon stumbled back, cupping his face, his eyes wide with utter shock. “You… you actually hit me…” “Of course I hit you. Do I need to schedule an appointment to put you in your place?” Before Brandon could recover his breath to yell at me, I took the initiative, gasping in mock horror. “Oh, Brandon, my dear brother! You saw that coming—why didn’t you dodge? Is it possible you have deep-seated masochistic tendencies?” I turned to my parents, who were standing there in stunned silence, and nodded gravely. “This confirms it. Mom, Dad, does he usually suffer from severe irritability and emotional volatility?” Before my mother could rush to comfort her son, she hesitated, absorbed by my professional tone, and nodded slowly. “Well… yes. Brandon has always had a very short fuse. If we push him on anything, he completely loses patience.” I clapped my hands together triumphantly. “Exactly! It’s a classic textbook case of masochistic behavioral compensation. He deliberately provokes people, seeking physical retaliation to achieve emotional release. He suppresses his rage until he can force someone to strike him. It’s the only way his nervous system knows how to regulate itself.” In reality, he was just a spoiled brat with a massive ego, but “masochistic compensation” sounded so much more clinical. The moment the words left my mouth, Dad’s gaze shifted from shock to deep disgust. “Get the security detail in here! Send this boy to the private clinic immediately! He is an absolute embarrassment to this family!” Brandon’s face contorted with panic. He looked desperately at Mom. “Mom! Help me!” Mom’s heart softened, and she took a step forward to defend her golden boy. But before she could speak, I leaned in and whispered softly in her ear. “Mom, be careful. His constant fixation on your approval… it points to a very severe, unresolved Oedipus complex. If you coddle him now, you’re only reinforcing his unhealthy psychological attachment to you.” Mom recoiled as if stung, her face pale. She took three hasty steps backward. “Quick! Get Brandon out of here! Call the clinic’s transport team now!” Brandon screamed and thrashed as our private security guards dragged him out the front door, looking less like a high-society heir and more like a toddler throwing a tantrum at a grocery store. Looking at Delilah’s pale, trembling face, I gently patted Mom’s hand to comfort her. “I can’t believe how much you and Dad have endured while I was gone. Don’t worry. Now that I’m back, I will personally handle the psychological healing of this family.” My parents looked at me with tears in their eyes, filled with profound gratitude. “Thank God you’re a licensed psychologist, Cassidy. If it weren’t for you, we would have never known how sick they both were!” Brandon spent a few days undergoing intensive observation and behavioral therapy at an exclusive private clinic. When he finally returned, the look in his eyes was pure venom. But things didn’t stay quiet for long. During Sunday lunch, Delilah couldn’t resist putting on another performance. I had asked the chef to prepare a rich seafood bouillabaisse for lunch. Halfway through the meal, Delilah suddenly gasped, pointing at her neck where a faint pink rash was starting to bloom. “Why is there seafood on the table?” she cried out, her voice trembling. “Mom, I’m breaking out! I’m so itchy!” Mom panicked instantly, calling out to the housekeeper to fetch the medication. Delilah scratched at the few barely visible red spots on her arm, looking at me with tear-filled eyes. “Cassidy, why are you doing this to me? I told everyone I have a severe shellfish allergy! Why was there seafood in my broth? Do you have any idea that this could actually kill me?” I stared at her, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. If you knew you were allergic, why did you willingly take a spoonful of soup that smelled strongly of lobster and shrimp? Did you think your allergy would take a holiday? Mom hurriedly handed Delilah her medication, giving me a pointed, disapproving look. Ever since Delilah’s allergy had been diagnosed years ago, shellfish had been completely banned from the household menu. Before Mom could vocalize her frustration, I jumped up from my seat, rushing over to wrap Delilah in a tight, protective embrace. “Oh, sweetheart, I am so incredibly sorry! It’s entirely my fault. Mom and Dad never mentioned your allergy to me—they must have just wanted to make me feel welcome by letting me order my favorite food. Please, don’t blame them!” Delilah shook her head, slipping out of my embrace and sinking to her knees on the dining room floor, weeping beautifully. “Cassidy, if you want me gone, just say the word. But please… I don’t want to die.” With a theatrical roar, Brandon slammed his hands onto the table, flipping a tureen of bouillabaisse. The rich, red broth splashed everywhere, staining the white Persian rug. “Cassidy, what the hell is wrong with you? Getting me locked up in a clinic wasn’t enough? Now you’re trying to murder Delilah?” I raised my hands in a defensive gesture, looking entirely innocent. “I’m not trying to cause trouble! But Delilah, are you sure you aren’t exhibiting symptoms of Histrionic Personality Disorder? Just because you have an allergy, does it mean the entire family is forbidden from eating seafood forever? Why can’t you simply decline the dish instead of enforcing a household ban? Or… do you secretly believe Mom and Dad are favoring me, their biological daughter, and you’re using this to manipulate everyone and punish them for your status as the adopted one?” Having such a massive psychological label slapped on her caught Delilah completely off guard. She stammered, her words tumbling out twice as fast. “No! No, that’s not true! Mom and Dad chose not to eat seafood on their own to support me!” I rubbed my chin, appearing to analyze her statement deeply. “Ah. So what you’re saying is that Mom and Dad are just being overly dramatic? Creating artificial hardships to play the role of perfect, self-sacrificing parents? You’re suggesting they are emotionally martyring themselves just to guilt-trip you and maintain psychological control? Oh my god… Dad, I had no idea you were such a master of emotional manipulation!” Dad’s face darkened instantly, looking as though he had just stepped in something foul. He stared coldly at Delilah. “Delilah… is that really how you view our care for you?” Delilah burst into fresh, frantic tears, while Brandon looked ready to tear me limb from limb. “Stop twisting things! Delilah is literally breaking out in hives, and you’re standing there debating semantics! Do you even have a shred of humanity left in you?” Anyone else might have fallen into the trap of trying to defend themselves. Fortunately for me, my clinical style leans heavily toward aggressive reframing. “Brandon, how can you say that about Delilah?” I gasped, looking deeply offended on her behalf. “Are you implying that she is deliberately exaggerating her physical symptoms to play the victim, exploit our sympathy, and avoid taking responsibility for her own dietary choices? I refuse to believe Delilah is that manipulative!” Brandon’s finger shook as he pointed at me, his face turning an angry shade of crimson. “Are you out of your mind?!” “I am so, so sorry,” I offered quickly, taking a step back to pacify him. “I didn’t mean to trigger your intermittent explosive episodes again. Perhaps the behavioral therapy at the clinic was cut short? If your symptoms are regressing, we might need to recommend a more intensive course of neuro-stimulation therapy.” The mention of the clinic’s therapeutic methods made Brandon visibly flinch. He let go of Delilah and took a step back, looking thoroughly terrified. “Enough!” Dad slammed his fist on the table, cutting through the chaos. “A simple lunch turned into this absolute circus! Delilah, I am deeply disappointed in you. Even after we brought Cassidy home, we never once considered sending you away. I had no idea you harbored such resentment and viewed our parenting as a form of control.” The lunch ended in a tense, silent disaster. As Brandon and Delilah left the dining room, the venomous glares they threw my way sent a small chill down my spine. I knew they wouldn’t let this slide; the real storm was yet to come. Following my official introduction to high society, invitation cards for various upscale parties began piling up on my vanity like a small mountain. I sorted through them carefully until I found the invitation from Tiffany Reynold. “This is the one,” I murmured. Just the night before, while passing by Delilah’s bedroom, I had overheard Brandon plotting his revenge. “Our entire social circle only recognizes you, Delilah,” he had told her smugly. “To everyone else, she’s just some uncultured stray from the backwoods. I’ve set up a few things for tomorrow’s party. We’re going to ruin her.” I had smiled to myself. Did they really not understand how fragile elite social circles actually are? The moment I arrived at the Reynold family’s estate, before I could even find a seat, a full glass of Cabernet Sauvignon was “accidentally” splashed directly onto the bodice of my white chiffon gown. The fabric became instantly translucent, drawing amused whispers and stares from the surrounding guests, who were clearly waiting for me to break down. “Brandon said we could treat this country girl however we wanted today,” someone whispered nearby. “The show is just getting started.” I remained perfectly calm, offering only a polite, unfazed smile. “Here, use this. They’re always like this, don’t let them get to you. Let me help you clean up.” A petite, innocent-looking girl stepped forward, offering me a soft hand towel with an expression of deep concern. I took the towel, holding it over my chest, and followed her out toward the quiet pool area behind the villa. I looked at her with a face full of vulnerable gratitude. “Thank you so much. If you hadn’t stepped in, I think I would have burst into tears.” The girl—Tiffany—flashed a brilliant, reassuring smile. Seeing how easily I had trusted her, a look of smug satisfaction flickered in her eyes. “Why don’t you take off the damp outer layer so you can dry it off properly? I’ll stand guard and block the view for you.” Pretending to be completely oblivious, I nodded in realization. “You’re so right. Let me do that.” As I unzipped the side of my dress, Tiffany quietly slipped behind me, her hands reaching out to shove me into the deep end of the pool. But before she could apply any pressure, I spun around and firmly gripped her wrists mid-air. Tiffany’s face went pale, though she tried desperately to maintain her composure. “What… what are you doing?” I squeezed her hands gently, looking at her with wide, admiring eyes. “You are literally my savior. I haven’t even asked for your name yet.” Frustrated, she wrenched her hands free. “It’s Tiffany. Are you going to clean up or not? My time is limited. If you’re going to stall, I’m leaving.” I let out a soft, sharp gasp, my brow furrowing with sudden concern. “You’re Tiffany? But you’re so incredibly sweet… Why would Delilah say those horrible things about you? Actually, never mind… I shouldn’t say anything.” Tiffany’s eyes widened instantly. She grabbed my arm with surprising strength. “What do you mean? Finish your sentence! What has Delilah been saying about me behind my back?” I shrank back slightly, looking intimidated. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.” Tiffany’s face flushed red with anger as she gripped my shoulders. “Tell me! Did that little hypocrite talk trash about me?” “I’m sure she didn’t mean it maliciously,” I stammered nervously. “She… she just mentioned that you weren’t particularly attractive and that you were desperately throwing yourself at Brandon. She called you a pathetic, desperate clinger and said our family would never accept someone like you.” Tiffany’s temper flared instantly. “I knew it! I knew that fake bitch looked down on me! Let me tell you something, Cassidy—they set this whole thing up to humiliate you today. There’s a bet going on inside. The stake is a brand-new Ferrari, and whoever pushes you into the pool first wins!” She pointed toward the dark water. “And that’s not all. They’ve set up waterproof cameras in the pool to capture you soaking wet and exposed!” Meanwhile, back inside the villa, Delilah had grown impatient waiting for Tiffany to report back. She walked out to the pool deck, muttering under her breath, “Is Tiffany completely useless? Why hasn’t she texted me yet?” As soon as she neared the edge of the water, I stepped out from the shadows and delivered a swift, firm kick directly to her backside, sending her flying into the deep end. Before she could scream for help, a young man who had been waiting in the dark water to “catch” me lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her and muffling her face to keep the prank quiet. “Help… mmmph…” Within ten minutes, word had spread through the villa that the prank had been executed. The wealthy heirs and socialites poured out onto the dark patio, eager to witness my humiliation. The pool area was unlit, but the sound of heavy splashing and muffled gasps echoed clearly in the dark. “It worked! Turn on the floodlights!” someone yelled eagerly. “I want to see the look on her face! She must look like a drowned rat!” The powerful stadium-grade floodlights around the pool snapped on all at once, illuminating the water in a brilliant, harsh glow. The laughter died instantly, replaced by a chorus of shocked gasps and screams. “Delilah! Oh my god, it’s Delilah!”

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My daughter was severely allergic to shellfish. Ever since she was a baby, I had meticulously managed every single thing that went into her mouth. Before I left for my trip, I pleaded with my husband, Greg, reminding him a dozen times never to let our daughter eat seafood. He brushed me off with a careless, “I got it, Meredith.” But the moment I touched down, I was met with a nightmare. My three-year-old daughter, Lucy, had suffered anaphylactic shock and suffocated after eating a seafood-infused egg dish. As the doctors failed to revive her and declared her dead, Greg was standing on the glittering stage of the Magnolia Gala, presenting the Best Supporting Actress trophy to his ultimate muse, Scarlett. Holding the microphone, he looked at her with an adoration he had never shown me. “You will always be the brightest star in my sky, Scarlett. The lead role in my films will always belong to you.” When the news broke, my parents collapsed from grief. But I didn’t shed another tear. I wiped my face, letting a cold, hollow laugh slip past my lips. “A fraudulent starlet and a hack director. I hope they rot in each other’s arms forever.” … 1 The red light of the ICU flickered, then went dark. The heavy double doors swung open, and a doctor pushed out a gurney carrying a cold, silent body. Looking down at Lucy’s pale, lifeless face—her sweet little features frozen in a permanent sleep—my hands shook violently as I pulled the white sheet over her head. My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the sterile hospital floor, my chest so tight with agony that I couldn’t even draw enough breath to scream. On the hallway television mounted above the waiting area, the Magnolia Gala was broadcasting live. There was Greg, smiling warmly, gallantly holding up the train of Scarlett’s designer gown as she glided up the stairs. We had been married for seven years. Every single time Scarlett was nominated for an award, Greg made sure he was the one presenting it to her. Even when I used to beg him to stay home, fabricating every excuse I could think of just to keep him by my side, it never mattered. He always chose her. And of course, tonight was no exception. But with Lucy gone, something inside me died too. Whatever he did next, wherever he went, I no longer cared. My parents fainted from the sheer shock of it, leaving me to handle the arrangements entirely on my own. For three days, I dragged my numb body between the hospital and the funeral home. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lucy’s angelic smile, her soft laughter echoing in my mind. By the time I finally returned home, it was the third afternoon. The moment I pushed the front door open, I was blinded by the flash of camera lenses. A crowd of reporters was crammed into our living room. Scarlett sat on our velvet sofa, her arm casually slipped through Greg’s. They were laughing and whispering, looking every bit the picture-perfect, adoring couple. When Greg noticed me, a flicker of awkwardness crossed his face. But as he took in my sunken eyes and disheveled, exhausted state, his expression quickly hardened into a scowl. “Meredith,” he snapped, his voice dripping with authority. “Look at yourself. You look like a mess. Go upstairs right now.” The disgust in his tone was bare and humiliating, as if my very presence was an embarrassment to him. Scarlett, sensing the cameras, softly called an end to the interview. She smoothed down her haute couture gown and walked toward me with a sweet, patronizing smile. “Meredith, I’m so sorry to barge in like this,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I’m flying to Paris tomorrow for the red carpet, and Greg was sweet enough to let the press do a quick home shoot here before I go.” She tilted her head, assessing my face. “But look at you. Your skin is so dull, and those crow’s feet are really showing. If the paparazzi catch you looking like this, it’ll look terrible for Greg. Why don’t you go get some rest?” She spoke with the easy confidence of the lady of the house, successfully relegating me to the status of an unwelcome guest. My gaze fell to the trophy in her manicured hand—a Magnolia Award for Best Supporting Actress. For a cheap, meaningless award, Greg had left our three-year-old daughter home alone. I had called him dozens of times, sobbing into the receiver, only to be met with an automated voicemail telling me his phone was turned off. Because of Scarlett, Lucy never got to see her father one last time. I remembered her tiny, bruised lips parting as she wept in the hospital bed, asking me over and over, “Is Daddy here yet?” And I had lied to her, telling her Daddy was on his way, praying desperately that death would spare my baby girl. But he never came. A wave of profound nausea hit me. Looking at the two of them made me physically sick. A couple of cheap, parasitic industry players. Let them lock themselves away in their own filth. I didn’t turn to go upstairs. Instead, I stood my ground, my voice flat and icy. “Greg, I want a divorce.” 2 I was entirely done with him. Ten years together, seven years of marriage—every sweet memory, every promise we had made—had disintegrated into ash the moment Lucy died. But Greg didn’t take me seriously. He assumed I was just throwing another jealous tantrum over Scarlett. “Meredith, there are reporters here,” he hissed, lowering his voice. “You used to be an actress too. Can’t you learn a little grace and poise from Scarlett?” “I invited her here for a quick press feature as a favor. Is it really necessary for you to be this petty?” “Petty.” To Greg, I was always the petty, dramatic wife who couldn’t handle herself. Whenever Scarlett was involved, I lost my mind. But he never bothered to ask why. Why was I like this? Because on our wedding day, a single phone call from Scarlett had lured him away, leaving me to face a room full of whispering guests alone. Because he kept a secret archive of photos from every movie Scarlett had ever made, publicly calling her his “creative muse.” Because Scarlett was the girl he had loved first, the gold standard he measured everyone else against. No matter how loving and supportive I was, no matter that I had given him a child, sacrificed my own career to cook his meals, and kept the porch light burning for him every night—there was a corner of his heart that always belonged to her. It was a space I could never conquer. And now, I was done trying. I looked at Greg’s rising anger and said coldly, “I’m serious. I want a divorce. I don’t want to look at you for another second.” Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked upstairs. Perhaps because my coldness was so out of character compared to the doting, compliant wife he was used to, Greg actually followed me up. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about the shoot beforehand,” he said, trying to soften his tone. “I won’t do it again.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tell you what—doesn’t Lucy want to go to Disneyland? Once this press cycle wraps up, I’ll take both of you. How does that sound?” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. The man I had shared a bed with for seven years felt like an utter stranger. It was almost time for our daughter’s seven-day memorial. If he had called her preschool even once, or stepped foot in this house over the last three days, he would have known. But he hadn’t. His mind had been entirely occupied by his golden girl. I cast a freezing look at him. “Go spend time with your muse. Don’t waste your energy on us.” I reached out to shut the bedroom door. Greg froze. He knew how deeply I loved him. In all our years of marriage, I had never looked at him with such utter disdain. He stepped forward, wanting to push the door open to demand an explanation. But right then, Scarlett’s voice drifted up from the foyer. “Greg, babe? I think I might be overstaying my welcome. I’ll head out. Next time, I’ll just take Lucy to that seafood spot she loves so much.” Instantly, the blood in my veins turned to liquid fire. I threw the door open, flew down the stairs, snatched a heavy ceramic vase off the entryway table, and smashed it directly into Scarlett’s smiling face. 3 Scarlett screamed, clutching her bleeding forehead as she collapsed onto the hardwood floor. My eyes were wild with rage. Just as I raised my hands to strike her again, Greg threw his arms around me from behind, pinning me back. “Meredith! Have you lost your goddamn mind?!” he roared. I didn’t even look at him. My whole body shook as I stared down at Scarlett. “You took Lucy to a seafood restaurant?” I demanded, my voice cracking. Scarlett looked up at me, tears streaming down her face, playing the perfect victim. “Meredith, I was just trying to build a relationship with her. Greg told me she loved seafood, so I took her. I didn’t mean any harm!” I whipped my head around to face Greg. “You knew about this?” He grimaced, waving a hand dismissively. “It was just a dinner. Are you seriously going to ruin a friendship over a petty fit of jealousy?” The world seemed to fracture around me. “A petty fit of jealousy.” I had gone to London to attend a dear friend’s funeral. Before I stepped foot out the door, I had looked him in the eye and begged him, reminding him that Lucy had a deadly allergy to shellfish. Greg had nodded and promised, his tone lazy and distracted. At the time, I convinced myself that even if he didn’t care about me, Lucy was his own flesh and blood. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. It was only three days. I wanted them to have some father-daughter bonding time since he was always so absent. But still, I hadn’t been fully at ease. I had written a bright neon reminder on a sticky note and slapped it right onto the refrigerator door. Driven by a sudden, frantic panic, I violently broke free from Greg’s grip and ran into the kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty takeout containers and dusty dishes. The cutting board on the counter was covered in a thin layer of grime. It was obvious the kitchen hadn’t been used since the day I left. And on the refrigerator door, the neon sticky note was completely gone. My mind went entirely blank. I clutched my head and sank to the floor. Greg marched into the kitchen, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me up so hard I nearly tripped. “Meredith, what is wrong with you? You assault Scarlett and then just walk away?” Scarlett limped in behind him, whimpering loudly. “Greg, my head is throbbing. I have to walk a red carpet tomorrow! How am I supposed to go out looking like this?” Greg’s fury boiled over. His grip on my upper arm tightened until I felt my bones groan under the pressure. “You are going to apologize to Scarlett right now, or so help me God, you will regret it!” I looked at him, my expression going entirely blank, a cold smile touching my lips. “I have nothing to apologize for. She does.” Greg’s face darkened dangerously. “Meredith, do not test my patience.” In his mind, Greg had forgotten who I actually was. I was a woman of fierce pride and stubborn resolve. When I first started in the industry, I fought tooth and nail for every role, and when I chose to retire for love, I did it without a single backward glance. I had loved him fiercely, unconditionally. We had both climbed up from the bottom of the industry, sharing the laughter, the tears, and the exhausting grind. But by the time I hit thirty, the daily routine of serving him, of keeping his house, had slowly eroded my sense of self. I had shrunk myself to fit into his shadow, making compromises just to keep him happy. I had sacrificed so much that I lost who I was, and he had learned to take it all for granted. But that woman was dead now. I stared directly into Greg’s eyes, silent and unyielding. His jaw clenched. Seeing the stand-off, Scarlett stepped in, wrapping her arms around his waist and sobbing dramatically. “Greg, I have never been so insulted in my life! If you’re just going to let her treat me like this, then we are done. I never want to see you again!” Greg looked at her tears, then turned back to me. A dark, dangerous storm brewed in his eyes. “Meredith, I am giving you one last chance. Apologize to Scarlett.” His voice was a low, freezing threat. I looked at this man. The man I had loved for ten years, the man I had given my youth and my soul to. Tears finally blurred my vision. I began to laugh, a broken, hysterical sound. “Greg, marrying you is the single greatest regret of my entire life.” My refusal to submit pushed him over the edge. With Scarlett’s weeping ringing in his ears, Greg lost his mind. He grabbed me by the throat, pinning me against the wall, and delivered two hard, stinging slaps across my face. He didn’t hold back. My head spun instantly. A loud, high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out all sound. He grabbed me by the hair, forcing my face toward the vanity mirror in the hallway. My cheeks were already swelling, bright red handprints blooming against my pale skin. A thin trickle of blood dripped from the corner of my mouth. I looked absolutely broken. Greg’s voice hissed in my ear like a poisonous snake. “Look at yourself, Meredith. Look at how ugly and malicious you’ve become. Striking Scarlett… this is exactly what you deserve.” “Apologize! Or I swear to God, you will no longer be my wife!” 4 “You think I care about that?” The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Greg sneered, looking down at me with utter contempt. “Meredith, please. I know you. You can try this reverse psychology once or twice, but it gets old.” “You don’t have a job. If you divorce me, you’ll end up on the street. And don’t forget, I will easily take custody of Lucy. Don’t come crawling back to me crying when you lose her.” A terrible, hollow laugh bubbled up in my chest. Our daughter was already a pile of ashes in a columbarium. And he was still using her to threaten me. It was tragically pathetic. Years ago, when he wanted to focus on directing his breakout film and couldn’t handle domestic life, I had discovered I was pregnant. I chose to step away from my rising acting career to support his dreams, ensuring his path to fame was clear. And yet, the devotion I had poured into our life had turned into the very hand that slapped me across the face. But the pain had finally woken me up. I would pay whatever price I had to for my past stupidity. Even if I had to tear my own skin off, I was leaving him. I looked at him, my voice completely flat. “Let’s divorce, Greg. Take whatever you want. I’ll leave with nothing.” Greg still thought I was playing games. He let out a dry laugh. “Oh, really? So you’re just going to abandon the daughter you supposedly cherish? Look at you. You don’t even look like a mother right now.” Scarlett immediately clung tighter to his arm, chiming in. “Greg, some women just aren’t built to be mothers. Meredith is clearly unstable. Why don’t we let Lucy come live with us for a while? We had such a wonderful time at dinner. I absolutely adore her.” My vision went red. “Shut up, you bitch! Don’t you dare speak her name!” I lunged forward, clawing at Scarlett’s hair. Greg instantly threw his body in front of her, looking at me with deep, disgusted disappointment. “Scarlett is right. In the state you’re in, you are completely unfit to raise our daughter.” Just then, the front door burst open. Greg’s assistant ran in, breathless and trembling, his face white as a sheet. “Greg… we have a major problem…” Greg frowned, raising a hand to cut him off. “Get my divorce lawyer on the phone. Tell him to prep the papers. Get the best one in the city; money is no object.” “And another thing—go to the preschool and pick up Lucy. Take her to my mother’s place for the night.” Greg looked down at me, his eyes mocking, waiting to see the terror and regret paint itself across my face. But I only stared back at him in dead silence. The assistant looked between us, swallowed hard, and spoke in a cracking, terrified whisper. “Greg… Lucy passed away from an allergic reaction. It happened the night of the Magnolia Awards. I just got the official confirmation from the hospital…”

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In the circles I used to run in, there was an unwritten rule: if you’re playing the part of another woman, the most important thing you can do is stay in your lane. But by the time I fully understood that, Glenn’s termination agreement was already sitting on the glass coffee table. “She’s coming back from Paris next month. You need to move out,” Glenn said, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of heat. “Find a nice, normal guy from a decent family. Settle down. Build a real life.” When he spoke, my fingers were caught in the silk of his necktie, adjusting the knot. It was the deep charcoal one he always wore to his most important board meetings. My fingertips went rigid against the fabric. I forced my hands to finish the knot, stepped back, and offered a quiet, pleasant nod. “Okay.” My name is Una. For three years, I had belonged to Glenn Elvis. I was the bird he kept in a gilded cage—a high-rise penthouse overlooking the Hudson River. To put it bluntly, I was a dirty secret. A placeholder. When Roxie, a seasoned fixer in the city’s high-society underbelly, first brought me to him, she gave me a blunt warning: “In this line of work, you take the money, you do the job, and you keep your mouth shut. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you’re the main character. When he gets bored, take your payout and walk away. That’s when your real life begins.” But I broke the cardinal rule anyway. I crossed the line, and now I was being swept out like morning trash. All because I had dared to ask for more. … I had begged him to call off his arranged family marriage. I had begged him to actually look at me. “To be honest, Una, I’m going to miss you,” Glenn said as I smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket. “You’re the only one I’ve kept around this long. You never used to care about titles or marriage licenses.” I hung his coat up in the closet, turning back to him with a practiced, flawless smile. Glenn had no idea that I had only run into his world to escape my own. I had hidden my real identity—the runaway daughter of the Cleveland logistics empire—and fled to the city with nothing. When I was at my absolute lowest, unable to scrape together rent for a damp basement room, Glenn had been the one to step in and pay my debts. At the time, I thought it was salvation. So, I willingly folded up my pride and tucked it away. Over the next three years, I memorized every detail of his life. I knew the exact temperature he wanted the water for his morning Americano, which pressure points to massage on his temples when his stomach flared up during late-night corporate dinners, and, above all, how much he despised tearful, dramatic women. The first lesson of being a perfect substitute: the more low-maintenance you are, the more indispensable you become. Roxie’s advice had worked. I had molded myself into his perfect, quiet dream. On my twenty-fifth birthday, Glenn did something unprecedented—he stayed the entire night. In the heat of the dark, his hands traced the curve of my jaw, but his eyes were vacant, staring through me at a ghost. “As long as you’re good, Una, there will always be a room for you here.” I was good for three years. Right up until today, when he didn’t even glance at the dinner I’d spent three hours preparing, and casually handed down my sentence. “Leave tomorrow. I’ve already had accounting wire the severance to your account. It’s more than enough to ensure you live comfortably for the rest of your life,” Glenn said, clipping the end of a cigar. His tone was as casual as if he were discussing a minor stock divestment. “Okay,” I said, my voice steady. “If you hadn’t gotten greedy and asked for things beyond your station, we could have kept going. Was it worth it, Una?” I looked at him, letting the quiet stretch out between us. I didn’t answer. Substitute Lesson Two: Always be ready to be discarded. Never make a scene. “What are you going to do next?” he asked, almost as an afterthought. I let my mind wander. Years ago, when I was traveling and learning the art of mixology, I spent a week in Reykjavik. I remembered how clean the air felt, how the northern lights painted the sky in shades of green and violet. “Travel a bit,” I said softly. “And then find something to keep me busy.” Before Glenn, I was a rising star in the craft cocktail scene. But when we met, he made it clear he didn’t like me working in late-night lounges, showing myself off to strangers. He told me I didn’t need to worry about money anymore. Others my age spent their youth pouring their passion into shakers behind mahogany bars; I spent mine locked in a penthouse. When I finally cut ties with the nightlife scene back then, it had been a messy, public exit. Though Glenn used his influence to quiet the rumors, my professional reputation was effectively ruined. “If you ever find yourself in a tight spot, call me,” Glenn added. “I’ll do what I can to help.” “How?” I wanted to ask. “By keeping me as a shadow in another luxury apartment?” Instead, I turned away and silently began packing my suitcases. That night, Glenn slept deeply beside me. I lay awake in the guest room, watching the headlights of Manhattan drift across the ceiling, counting down the hours. “Miss Cleveland, Mr. Elvis left this for you. There is fifty million in the account. The PIN is your birthday.” The housekeeper handed me the black debit card the next morning, her eyes carrying a thin, poorly hidden layer of pity. Three years of my life, stripped of my identity, valued at fifty million dollars. To my father, that sum was pocket change—a rounding error on a minor shipping lane. I dragged my suitcase straight to JFK and bought a one-way ticket to Iceland. The dream of seeing the northern lights was finally mine to chase. The service in first class was impeccable. The flight attendant offered me champagne with a sweet, effortless smile. Everyone was fighting their own quiet wars just to survive, to reach some version of a better life. I stared out the window at the endless gray ocean of clouds, feeling entirely hollowed out. When I reached into my bag for an eye mask, my wrist gave out—a lingering ache from a strain years ago—and the heavy leather tote slipped from the overhead bin. I braced for the impact, but a hand caught it mid-air. The fingers were long, elegant, and perfectly steady. That was the first time I met Beckett Stafford. Beckett was the kind of man who carried power in his marrow. He was refined, quiet, with a delicate strand of dark, polished sandalwood prayer beads wrapped around his left wrist. The faint scent of expensive cedarwood and rain clung to him. He was deeply imposing, yet carried an air of immense, quiet danger. “When you find a high-tier man, grab him. Youth is a short lease,” Roxie’s voice echoed in my head, a relic of a life I wanted to leave behind. “Are you hurt?” he asked, looking down at me. I blinked, pulling myself back to reality, and offered a polite, distant smile. “No. Thank you.” Even after three years in hiding, my eye for high society hadn’t failed me. His simple black overcoat had no visible branding, but the drape of the cashmere screamed bespoke luxury. His watch was a custom piece that most collectors could only dream of seeing. He was old money. The kind of top-tier elite that wealthy women ruined themselves trying to catch. I thanked him politely and returned to my seat. But when we landed, he caught up with me at baggage claim. He noticed the vintage, hand-carved silver cocktail strainer keychain hanging from my bag, and used it to strike up a remarkably natural conversation. By the time we reached the terminal doors, we had exchanged numbers. “Do you have any idea who that was?” my friend whispered, spitting out a plume of cigarette smoke when she picked me up from the airport. “That’s Beckett Stafford. The Wall Street kingmaker. He practically controls the flow of private equity in New York. If you can get into his orbit, Una, you’re set for life. You could walk through Manhattan like you own it.” The winds in Iceland were freezing, but fate has a strange way of repeating itself. We ran into each other again at the Black Sand Beach in Vik, and shared a mug of spiced mulled wine in a small wooden tavern to escape the storm. The next day, a package arrived at my hotel. It was a custom, handmade leather mixology set, complete with hand-blown glassware. Attached was a note in precise, elegant handwriting: “Your hands are incredibly steady. You belong behind a bar.” That night, under a sky lit by the emerald glow of the aurora, I looked at his profile, his cheeks slightly reddened by the icy wind. He turned to me, his dark eyes reflecting the green light. He told me he was drawn to me. He asked if we could try dating. I looked at him and said, “No.” A flash of genuine surprise crossed Beckett’s features. Clearly, he wasn’t used to hearing that word. I pulled my coat tighter around myself. “I want a man whose eyes are entirely on me. A man who would risk everything for me. I don’t want to be a temporary distraction for a powerful man.” With that, I turned and walked back to the warmth of the hotel. Substitute Lesson Three: Don’t play games with men you can’t afford to lose. I was done being a kept woman. I was exhausted. My heart had been reduced to a barren wasteland trying to please Glenn. If a man couldn’t give me his whole heart, I preferred he didn’t touch it at all. But I underestimated Beckett’s persistence. For the rest of our week in Iceland, he remained by my side, perfectly respectful, keeping a comfortable distance. When we returned to New York, I used Glenn’s severance money and my own savings to lease a space in Soho. I was going to open my own high-end craft cocktail lounge. During those months of construction, I kept my replies to Beckett’s texts brief and polite. Substitute Lesson Four: Never let a man think you’re an easy catch. He sent me updates about his day, photos of stray cats he saw on his way to the office, even complex market analyses of the hospitality sector. I only replied when the conversation turned to local supply chains or the cats. It wasn’t until our first month of operations, when we urgently needed a round of angel investment to stay afloat, that the truth came out. When the lead investor walked through the doors of my lounge, I realized Beckett’s venture firm was the sole backer. “I tried to let it go, but I don’t want to lose you, Una,” he said, standing in the empty bar. “Give me a chance to show you. I’ll prove this isn’t a game to me.” He was entirely sincere, stripping away all the arrogance of his status. The Stafford family was an empire, and Beckett had survived its cutthroat politics to reach the top. Yet, here he was, willing to bow his head to me. Substitute Lesson Five: Never fall for the client. Once you do, you lose. But this time, I lost completely. I agreed to date him because he gave me something Glenn never had: respect. He stayed up late with me, analyzing spreadsheets and liquor licenses. He taught me how to navigate the city’s complex distribution networks, and how to deal with difficult suppliers. On weekends, this titan of Wall Street would shed his bespoke suits to sit with me at a metal table in a cramped Chinatown alley, eating cheap noodles. I ate without a shred of elegance, while he coughed from the chili oil. When I laughed so hard my ribs ached, he just watched me with a soft, helpless warmth. “You have a beautiful laugh, Una,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Promise me you’ll only laugh like that for me.” My eyes stung, and I had to fight to keep the tears back. “Once the lounge’s cash flow stabilizes, let’s go back to Iceland,” he said, holding my hand. “Let’s finish watching those lights.” Under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, I nodded. Beckett was a perfect partner—emotionally grounded, completely transparent. Six months later, he proposed. “I don’t care what the papers say, or how much my family fights it,” he said, kneeling on the floor of my closed bar. “I want you to be my wife.” He held out a cluster of deep red roses. His hand was slightly scratched from the thorns, a tiny bead of blood forming on his knuckle. His eyes were filled with a terrifying vulnerability. “I don’t want to live with regrets. Una, marry me.” I took the roses. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. A forehead kiss—the kind of touch reserved for someone you hold sacred. In three years, I had never let Glenn touch his lips to my forehead. I was getting married. I was finally leaving the shadows to step into the light. But because of the sheer weight of the Stafford name, our engagement was a massive piece of news. It meant meeting his family. I prepared myself for the worst. In Glenn’s circle, I was known as the kept girl who sold her youth for a penthouse. Even though I had built my own business, in the eyes of the elite, I was still damaged goods. But Beckett’s family was surprisingly welcoming, especially after they learned I ran a highly successful, upscale lounge. His mother was a woman of immense grace. Though she came from old money, she carried no visible snobbery. Before visiting the Stafford estate in Connecticut, I had researched her thoroughly. I knew she loved classic opera, so we talked about the Met. I knew she had a delicate stomach, so I prepared a light, traditional French-Asian fusion dinner that left her delighted. Beckett watched from the side, mock-jealous, complaining that I had completely stolen his mother’s affection. “Since you’ve chosen this girl, you better drop that stubborn attitude of yours. Don’t you dare make Una unhappy,” his father said from the head of the table, his voice stern but approving. I kept my head down respectfully, giving Beckett a sly wink under the table. He let out a quiet, genuine laugh. For the first time in my life, I realized I was allowed to be cherished. The sting in my eyes became too much to contain, and a single tear slipped down, landing on the lapel of my coat. It was a beautiful, custom-tailored coat Beckett had bought for me. I had never felt so safe in my own skin. Beckett was the greatest gift the universe had ever handed me. But the universe has a cruel way of giving you a taste of heaven right before dragging you back to hell. “Slinging drinks for Wall Street royalty now, are we, Una? Quite a step up. I suppose that means we can finally settle our old accounts.” I froze as I walked into the alley behind my lounge. Standing near the dumpster, a greedy, jagged grin on his face, was Clay. Clay was a parasite from my early days in the nightlife scene. He was a bartender I had personally reported to the police for slipping date-rape drugs into women’s glasses, which had gotten him fired and blacklisted. “What do you want?” I whispered, my voice flat with dread. I didn’t know how a rat like him had managed to find me. “Five million,” Clay said, blowing a stream of cheap cigar smoke into the cold air. His eyes slid down my body with a filthy familiarity. “That’s the price for keeping all those bedroom photos and videos from your time with Glenn Elvis off the internet. I wonder… if the Stafford family gets a look at their future daughter-in-law begging like a dog at another man’s feet, will they still let you through the front gates?” My body went entirely numb. The air felt thick, like water filling my lungs. Running away from my family and meeting Glenn was the darkest stain on my soul. I couldn’t lose Beckett. I couldn’t. After a long, agonizing silence, I took out my phone and transferred the five million dollars to his account. This was my penance, wasn’t it? People like me, no matter how hard we try to clean ourselves, are always stained by the mud we crawled through. Even when we walk in the sunlight, we are terrified of someone peeling back our skin to reveal the rot underneath. I wanted to marry Beckett as quickly as possible. I foolishly believed that once the ring was on my finger, the past would lose its grip on me. “A used-up toy like you actually thinks she can be the next Mrs. Stafford? Dream on, sweetheart,” Clay sneered, pocketing his phone before disappearing into the dark. I stood in the freezing wind, my hands trembling. His words felt like glass in my throat. I needed to see Beckett. I needed to look into his eyes and know we were still real. But when I arrived at the private club where Beckett often held his business dinners, I froze. In the lobby, a woman was gripping his lapels, her face tight with anger. I knew her. Olivia Lancaster. The heiress to the Lancaster investment dynasty. Her family and the Staffords controlled half the financial sector. I turned to run, but before I could take a step, two large men in dark suits blocked my path, their heavy hands clamping down on my shoulders. My collarbone throbbed under the pressure. “Beckett, are you out of your mind?” Olivia screamed, her voice echoing off the marble walls. “You’re going to break our engagement for this cheap, run-around garbage? Our families’ assets are already legally bound! You’re destroying everything!” I struggled against the guards, but the grip on my arms only tightened. It hurt. It hurt so much. But the pain in my chest was worse, a slow, tearing sensation. I had thought that by leaving Glenn, I could start fresh. I thought that under Beckett’s protection, I could finally just be Una Cleveland. But I was just a homewrecker again. No wonder Clay had laughed at me. But why hadn’t Beckett told me about Olivia? Ah. Because I was the one who had rushed in, blind and desperate for love. I had forgotten who I was dealing with. “Get your hands off her! Don’t touch her!” Beckett roared, shoving Olivia back. His eyes were wild, bloodshot with a panic and desperation I had never seen on him. My heart broke at the sight of him. I had stepped into a world of wealth and power that didn’t belong to me, disrupting lives that were already mapped out. “Beckett, wake up!” Olivia sneered, pointing a manicured finger at me. “She’s filthy. She was Glenn Elvis’s kept dog for three years. You’re picking up another man’s discarded trash. Aren’t you disgusted?” The guards let go of my shoulders, and I stumbled backward, turning to run out into the freezing night. Beckett tried to follow, but Olivia’s security detail swarmed him, pinning him to the marble floor.

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My sister Lynn was a hurricane of a human being. From the moment she could walk, she tore through life leaving wreckage in her wake, and from the moment I was old enough to understand, I was the one who swept up the ash. I did it because of the clock. It was a digital hum beneath the skin of my left wrist, a glowing red countdown that only I could see. [Days remaining until family demise: 193] A voice in my head—a system I believed in with the desperate, naive faith of a child—told me that every time I took the fall for Lynn’s transgressions, the clock would extend. If I took the blame ninety-nine times, the curse would lift forever. My family would live. So, I took the fall. I took it until my high school expelled me. I took it until my friends stopped calling. I took it until the judges in the county courthouse looked at me with the weary, disgusted eyes reserved for hopeless, repeat offenders. For the ninety-ninth time, I took the fall for her and spent two years in a state penitentiary. The day the heavy steel gates slid open and I walked free, the countdown on my wrist finally blinked down to zero. I thought it was worth it. I thought I had bought their lives. But when I finally reached our front door, my hand froze over the brass handle. Through the thin wood, I heard my parents talking inside. “Erica’s coming home today,” my mother sighed. “At least Lynn finally learned her lesson. She’s been so quiet since the trial, too scared to cause any more trouble.” “Yeah,” my father’s voice was dry, dismissive. “It wasn’t easy, but seeing her older sister go behind bars did the trick. She fell right into line. But listen—make sure you delete all the message logs on your phone.” “Of course.” “If she ever finds out that ‘countdown’ was just a little app my nephew Kyle coded over a weekend…” My father scoffed, waving his hand. “Relax. I deactivated the server this morning. The app is dead. She’ll never know.” I stood frozen in the dim hallway, the blood in my veins turning to ice. The grand, holy sacrifice I thought I was making to save my family—it was nothing but a sick, carefully orchestrated lie. In that single, quiet moment, my heart turned to ash. But then, the dead skin on my wrist flared back to life. ——– 1 “Erica? What are you doing, just standing out here?” Lynn threw the heavy door open, chewing a piece of mint gum as she looked me up and down. I looked down at my left wrist. The numbers that had hit zero were back, glowing a vicious, violent red. [Deception shattered. Host selected for dimensional extraction. Time remaining in this world: 72:00:00] I blinked, hoping it was a hallucination. It wasn’t. The clock kept ticking. I wasn’t a savior. I was just a guest with an expiration date. I raised my head to look at Lynn’s flawless, contoured face. There wasn’t a single trace of guilt on it. She didn’t care that I had just given up two years of my youth so she could keep hers. “Just got here,” I said quietly. Inside the living room, my parents—who had been whispering about deleting evidence moments before—instantly plastered wide, welcoming smiles on their faces. My father rubbed his hands together, his eyes darting away from mine. “Erica! You’re back! Why didn’t you knock? How long have you been standing out there?” He was fishing, trying to see if I’d heard. “Just got off the elevator.” I didn’t expose them. What was the point? I only had seventy-two hours left before I could leave this farce behind forever. Hearing my answer, my father’s shoulders visibly sagged with relief. He stepped forward, reaching out to take the faded canvas duffel bag slung over my shoulder. Lynn immediately took a sharp step back, pinching her nose shut. “Ugh, Dad, don’t touch that bag. It smells like the state pen. It’s bad luck.” My father’s hand hovered in the air before he awkwardly pulled it back. “Right… well, Erica, we should probably just throw those old things away. I’ll take it down to the dumpster later.” “My ID and my release papers are in there,” I said, my voice flat. My mother rushed over to smooth things over, pushing me gently into the entryway. “Oh, we’ll just grab those out first! Toss the rest of the clothes, sweetie. I’ll take you shopping tomorrow for a whole new wardrobe.” I stood barefoot on the polished hardwood of the foyer. The shoe rack was overflowing with designer sneakers and expensive heels, but there wasn’t a single pair of slippers for me. “Where are my shoes?” I asked. My mother hesitated, casting a guilty glance at Lynn. Lynn rolled her eyes. “Your old shoes have been sitting there for two years, Erica. They were covered in dust and bacteria. I threw them out last month to make room for my limited-edition platforms. Besides, the floor has underfloor heating. You won’t die walking barefoot for a bit. Why are you acting so high maintenance?” My mother let out a nervous chuckle. “She’s right, Erica, the heat is on. It’s warm. I’ll buy you some new slippers tomorrow.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked barefoot into the living room. The dining table was piled high with food. There were braised short ribs, which used to be my favorite, and garlic butter shrimp, which were Lynn’s. I pulled out a chair to sit down, but Lynn let out a sharp shriek. “Erica, stop! You haven’t even showered yet! You’re so dirty—how can you just sit on the dining chairs? That’s custom upholstery. Do you have any idea how much it costs to clean?” My hand froze on the back of the chair. I looked at my father. In the old days, whenever Lynn threw one of her tantrums, he would at least make a show of scolding her. But today, he just cleared his throat and avoided my eyes. “Erica… your sister is a big social media influencer now, she has hundreds of thousands of followers. She has to keep the apartment looking nice. Just go take a quick shower first. Wash off… you know, the bad luck.” I nodded slowly, pulling my hand back. I turned toward the bathroom. In the bottom corner of my vision, the red numbers pulsed. [71:45:12] When I finished showering and walked out, they were already eating. At my place, there was a single paper plate and a set of cheap, flimsy plastic takeout cutlery. Lynn was using her silver fork to pick at a short rib. “Mom, these ribs are so dry. Gross.” She spat the half-chewed meat back onto her plate. My mother immediately began fussing over her, ladling soup into her bowl. “I’ll watch the heat next time, sweetie. Drink some soup. You work so hard on your livestreams every day, you need to keep your strength up.” I walked over and sat down. I picked up the plastic fork. A sharp plastic burr on the handle dug into my palm, but I didn’t care. I picked up a piece of broccoli and ate it. My father looked at me, a brief flicker of shame passing over his face. “Erica, we ran out of clean plates. And since you just got out, we thought disposable might be safer for your immune system.” “It’s fine,” I said, swallowing the tasteless food. It didn’t matter. I didn’t belong in this house anyway. After dinner, I walked toward my old bedroom. But before my hand could touch the doorknob, Lynn dighted in front of me, blocking the path. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Going to sleep.” “This isn’t your room anymore,” Lynn sneered, pushing the door open. Inside, the room had been completely transformed into a professional streaming studio. There were pink ring lights, acoustic panels on the walls, and shelves overflowing with high-end cosmetics. My bed, my desk, my childhood journals—everything was gone. “Where is my stuff?” I turned to my mother. My mother rubbed her hands nervously against her apron, stepping forward. “Erica… money was tight while you were… away. Lynn had to start streaming to support us. Her old room was too small, so I let her use yours. Your old things… I sold them. Or threw them out.” Even my journals. Ten years of silent endurance, of taking the fall, of my foolish pride in believing I was saving my family. All of it had been treated as garbage. I nodded. “Where do I sleep, then?” My father pointed to the utility closet at the end of the hall. “I cleaned it out and set up a cot for you. Just for a few nights, Erica. Once things look up, I’ll rent you a nice studio apartment nearby.” I didn’t argue. I dragged my feet to the utility closet. It was packed with cardboard Amazon boxes and Lynn’s discarded trash. The air was thick with the scent of mildew. I lay down on the squeaking, metal cot, staring up at the dark ceiling. The countdown on my wrist glowed like a fresh wound. [70:12:05] Through the thin drywall, I could hear Lynn’s high-pitched, fake-sweet voice starting her livestream. “Hey guys! Welcome back! Today we’re doing a huge giveaway, so make sure you hit that follow button in the top left corner…” I closed my eyes and turned over. Less than three days. Just a little longer, and it would all be over. Suddenly, the closet door was kicked open. Lynn stood there, her phone held high, the camera lens pointed directly at my face. “Look, guys! This is my ex-con sister, fresh out of the state pen today. Let this be a warning to all of you—never end up like her!” 2 The bright flash of her phone camera blinded me. On the screen of Lynn’s phone, the live chat was scrolling at a dizzying speed. Words like “trash,” “disgusting,” and “why is she even in your house” flashed across the display. I instinctively reached for the thin, yellowed blanket to cover my face. But Lynn lunged forward and ripped it away with surprising force. “Oh, don’t hide now! You weren’t this shy when you were committing crimes, were you?” “Guys, you have no idea how embarrassing she is. Two years ago, she stole proprietary data from her own fiancé’s startup and sold it. Got herself two years in the state penitentiary.” I stared at her perfectly contoured face, my stomach turning. When she was thirteen, she had shattered our neighbor’s priceless Victorian Meissen vase. That was the day the countdown first appeared on my wrist. My father, with tears streaming down his face, had begged me to take the blame, telling me the clock meant we would all die unless I paid the debt. I took the beating from the neighbor. When she was eighteen, she was drag-racing without a license and broke a pedestrian’s leg. She had cried and begged me on her knees. I took the fall, losing my Ivy League scholarship in the process. And when she was twenty-two—two years ago—she had stolen the source code from my fiancé Wyatt’s tech startup just so she could buy a limited-edition Birkin on the black market. When Wyatt called the police, the countdown on my wrist showed it was the last time. I truly believed that if I took this final hit, my family would be safe forever. So I stood in that courtroom, looked Wyatt in the eye, and told him I had done it out of jealousy. Wyatt broke our engagement on the spot, looking at me as if I were a parasite. And now, the real thief was broadcasting my “shame” to the world for clout. “Lynn, stop it. Let your sister rest,” my father said, walking into the hallway. But his hand didn’t move to block the camera. He actually took a step back, making sure his face stayed out of the frame. “Dad, shut up! My stream has over a hundred thousand viewers right now!” Lynn’s face was flushed with excitement. She shoved the phone closer to my face. “Come on, Erica, say something to the chat. When you were working the laundry lines in prison, did you ever feel a single shred of remorse for the lives you ruined?” I stared into the lens, silent. My eyes drifted to a gold username hovering at the top of the chat. Top Donor: [Wyatt_W] It was Wyatt’s account. A prominent gold message rolled across the screen. [Ask her if she’s already looking for her next target to leech off of.] Lynn squealed with laughter when she saw it. “Oh my gosh, Wyatt, always straight to the point!” “Hear that, Erica? Wyatt wants to know if you’re already hunting for your next victim. Though looking like a cheap ex-con, I doubt anyone would touch you with a ten-foot pole.” I stared at the familiar username. My heart felt completely flat. “I don’t know any Wyatt. I’m going to sleep.” I turned my back to her. Lynn grabbed my shoulder, trying to yank me back. “Stop acting so high and mighty! Wyatt is my top donor. If he tells you to speak, you speak!” Just then, my mother walked in carrying a plate of sliced fruit. Instead of stopping Lynn, she smiled and popped a grape into Lynn’s mouth. “Have some fruit, sweetie. Don’t strain your voice.” Then she looked at me, her expression hardening into a frown. “Erica, your sister works so hard to keep a roof over our heads. Just cooperate. That gentleman bought her so many gifts; would it kill you to say hello? Did they teach you no manners in prison?” I slowly sat up, my eyes sweeping over their faces. My father’s evasion. My mother’s enabling. Lynn’s malice. [48:21:03] The clock had jumped down again. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll cooperate.” I looked directly into the camera lens, my voice dead calm. “I’m Erica Hale. I just got out of prison. I’m not looking for a target, and I’m not looking to leech off anyone. I only hope that the thief who actually stole the code gets what’s coming to them.” Lynn’s face faltered for a fraction of a second, a flash of panic crossing her eyes. But she quickly recovered, laughing it off. “See, guys? Still unrepentant! A total sociopath!” [Wyatt_W] sent two massive virtual gifts that flashed across the screen. Then, another gold message appeared: [Make her get on her knees and apologize. I’ll send ten more.] Lynn’s eyes practically turned into dollar signs. Ten of those gifts were worth ten thousand dollars. She shoved her phone into its desk stand and marched over to me. “Erica! Get on your knees and apologize to Wyatt! You ruined his life’s work. It’s the least you can do.” My father frowned slightly. “Lynn, she just got home. Making her kneel…” “Dad! That’s ten grand! Do you know how many months I have to stream to make that much? Besides, she’s the one who committed the crime. What’s wrong with a little humility?” My father went silent. He looked at me, a brief flash of guilt drowned by greed. “Erica… just do it. It’s only a knee. You’ve been to prison; this is nothing. Do it for the family.” 3 My mother chimed in, pulling a crumpled envelope from her pocket and shoving it into my hand. “Erica, I know it’s hard. Take this, buy yourself a nice sweater tomorrow. Just do what your father says. We’re relying on your sister now.” I squeezed the envelope. It was thin. Maybe fifty dollars. Fifty dollars for my final shred of dignity. I didn’t cry. The tears had been wrung out of me on the concrete floor of my cell long ago. [24:05:11] Only twenty-four hours left. “Okay,” I said. I pushed my mother’s hand away, stepped in front of the camera, and dropped straight onto the cold tile floor. The underfloor heating wasn’t even on. The cold seeped into my kneecaps, a sharp, biting pain that went straight to my bones. Lynn screamed into her mic. “Wyatt! She’s on her knees! Where are my gifts?” The screen exploded with flashy digital animations, obscuring my pale face. Wyatt requested a voice connection. His voice, which used to whisper sweet things to me, was cold and mocking. “Erica Hale. Look at you, begging like a dog. Pathetic.” “When you destroyed my life’s work, you were so proud. Now you’re crawling on the floor.” I looked at the grout lines on the tile. “I’m sorry,” I said, flatly. “I’m sorry I stole the data. I’m sorry I ruined your hard work.” I took the blame. Just like the ninety-nine times before. Wyatt sounded irritated by my lack of emotion. “You think an apology fixes it? Do you have any idea what that project meant to me? People like you shouldn’t even exist.” Lynn fake-cried next to me. “Wyatt, don’t let her ruin your night. She’s always been cold like this. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she never bothers you again.” Wyatt hung up. The chat cheered. Lynn checked her streaming dashboard, humming a tune. “Alright, get up. You’re blocking the shot.” She kicked my foot lightly. I used the wall to pull myself up, my knees completely numb. My father tried to reach out to help me, but I flinched away from his hand and limped back to the utility closet. Behind me, my mother sighed. “She’s so bitter. Prison changed her.” “Whatever, we got the money,” my father said, sounding pleased. Late that night, they ordered a massive steak dinner to celebrate Lynn’s earnings. Nobody invited me. I sat on the cot, watching the clock tick down in the moonlight. [12:30:45] Almost there. In the dead of night, I heard rustling. I opened the door. My father was carrying my cheap canvas duffel bag toward the front door. “Dad, what are you doing?” He jumped, dropping the bag. “Erica, you’re awake?” He rubbed his neck. “Lynn has some VIP guests coming tomorrow. She said this bag smells like prison and wanted me to throw it out.” I walked over, zipped open the bag, and took out my ID and release papers. Then I handed him the empty bag. “Throw it away.” My father looked stunned. “Erica… don’t hate me. Your sister is the breadwinner now. We have to keep her happy.” “I don’t hate you,” I said. Why would I hate strangers? Back in the closet, I cleaned up my final traces. There was barely anything to clean; they had already thrown out my childhood. I took the fifty dollars from the envelope and slid it under the thin pillow of the cot. I put my few worn shirts into a plastic grocery bag. As dawn broke, the red numbers pulsed. [03:15:22] I opened the small window to let the fresh air in, clearing the moldy scent. Outside, Lynn was already yelling. “Mom! Where’s my Chanel coat? Why isn’t it steamed yet?” “Coming, sweetie! Don’t scream, you’ll ruin your voice!” I walked out of the closet. 4 In the living room, Lynn was admiring herself in the mirror in her Chanel coat. She saw me with the plastic bag and frowned. “What are you doing with that trash? Don’t get the floors dirty.” I changed into my old sneakers. “Just taking out the trash.” My father popped his head out of the kitchen with a spatula. “Going downstairs, Erica? Take the compost bag with you.” He pointed to a smelly bag of food waste by the door. I picked it up and walked out. The morning air was crisp and damp. I tossed the compost into the bin. Then, I took my plastic bag of old clothes to a secluded corner of the courtyard. I pulled out a cheap plastic lighter—something I had traded for instant noodles in prison. I had originally wanted to burn my prison uniform in front of my parents as a symbol of starting over. Now, I had a better use for it. I emptied the bag. Cheap T-shirts from my youth, tight discount sneakers, hand-me-down sweaters from Lynn. The physical remnants of their “love.” I flicked the lighter. The synthetic fabrics catch fire quickly, black smoke billowing into the cold air. I watched it burn. [00:45:10] Less than an hour. When I got back, the apartment was in chaos. Lynn was screaming at her designer purse on the sofa. “Who touched my bag? There’s a black smudge on it!” She saw me enter. “Was it you? You touched it!” I showed her my clean hands. “I didn’t.” “Who else could it be? You’re the only outsider here! Once a thief, always a thief!” She grabbed my collar. My father tried to intervene. “Lynn, calm down.” “Dad, this is a limited edition! It costs fifteen thousand! She can’t afford this!” My mother looked at me with deep suspicion. “Erica, did you accidentally brush against it? Just apologize and I’ll clean it.” I laughed softly. “Outsider.” Yes, I had always been an outsider. “I didn’t touch it.” I pulled her hand off my collar. “Liar!” Lynn pulled out her phone. “I’m calling the police. Let’s see if they’ll send you right back!” My father tried to stop her. “Don’t, it’ll ruin your reputation.” “I don’t care! She needs to go back to the pen!” She dialed 911. “Yes, I want to report a theft. We have an ex-con in the house, she’s stealing and trying to set fires.” I stood still, watching the clock. [00:10:05] Ten minutes. The police arrived quickly. Two officers looked at the mess. “Who called?” Lynn played the victim, sobbing. “Officers, it’s her. She just got out of prison. She vandalized my bag, and she was burning things downstairs. She’s a threat to society!” The cops look at my parents. “Is this true?” My father avoided their gaze, muttering. My mother sighed. “Officer, my oldest daughter has some… mental issues from her time inside. Please don’t mind her.” They wouldn’t even say a word to defend me. They threw me to the wolves again. The cop asked my name. “Erica Hale.” “Did you burn things downstairs?” “I was clearing out my own trash.” My voice was serene. “I didn’t touch her bag. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m just… leaving.” “Leaving? Where to?” I looked at my wrist. Single digits. [00:00:05] I smiled gently at my parents and Lynn. Four. “Somewhere you can’t reach me.” Three. Lynn rolled her eyes. “Oh, drama queen. Where are you gonna go with no money?” Two. A wave of dizziness hit me. The world blurs. One. [Countdown complete. Extraction sequence initiated.] [00:00:00] The last thing I heard before the darkness swallowed me was the dull thud of my body hitting the floor.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “542314”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At the wedding photo shoot, a server brought over a tray of drinks. Ryan Mitch naturally took the iced Americano from Aubrey Adams’s hand, replacing it with a warm herbal tea. Aubrey glared at him. “Ryan Mitch, what is this? It’s scorching hot, and you’re giving me this?” He chuckled, pinching her cheek. “Your period’s due soon. Didn’t you keep track?” They bickered and playfully shoved each other in the studio, a chaotic tangle. The photographer shouted “Groom, look at the camera!” for the third time, but Ryan was crouched on the floor, re-tying Aubrey’s shoelace which had come undone. Aubrey yelled over to me, “Aubrey, look at him! He has to manage even my shoes! Is your boyfriend secretly crushing on me?” Ryan chimed in without looking up, “Yeah, crushing on the silly way you cried when I beat you up as a kid.” This was the sixty-seventh time. Suddenly, I found it utterly meaningless. I pulled out my phone and sent a text: “Derek, I want to go home.” … “You, playing on your phone, don’t ruin the mood. Go wait over there.” The photographer impatiently lowered his camera, clearly annoyed that I was obstructing his artistic vision. Ryan’s brow furrowed with a flicker of displeasure. “Aubrey, come on, babe. Let me get a few shots with Autumn first, then we’ll take yours.” He pulled me aside. His grip was firm, and burdened by the heavy wedding gown, I nearly stumbled, bumping into the makeup artist behind me. The makeup artist, a perceptive woman, let her gaze sweep over the three of us. When her eyes settled on me again, they held an unspoken understanding. That look felt like it could burn through me. I instantly flushed with shame, awkwardly looking away. “Mind if I borrow this? These roses will match Autumn’s dress perfectly.” Ryan suddenly plucked the bouquet from my hands. But I was the bride. I was the star of today’s wedding photoshoot. I’d waited six months for this specific studio slot, choosing my favorite natural outdoor style. But Autumn had insisted on coming along to “help me choose,” claiming it was too plain. So, on the spot, she’d convinced us to switch to her preferred vintage oil painting style. Looking at the new set, Ryan nodded in satisfaction. “Autumn and I haven’t really had a proper photoshoot together. This is a great chance to get a few shots.” Autumn tilted her head, giggling. “Aubrey, I’m totally riding your coattails! Don’t worry, I’ll be your most loyal bridesmaid.” Ryan personally picked out a gown for her—one with a fuller skirt and more intricate detailing. The studio was filled with the constant click-click of the camera. “Yes, exactly, groom’s arm around her waist.” “Perfect, get closer, groom, kiss the bride’s forehead.” The photographer directed them, snapping photos. “Don’t be shy, groom, kiss the bride directly on the lips.” Autumn burst out laughing. “Hahahaha, I’m not his bride! I wouldn’t have him. I’m going to be his dad!” “You little brat, you want a spanking, don’t you?” The photographer rapidly pressed the shutter, capturing their most natural interactions. “Excellent, what a delightful pair! A very lively and playful set of photos.” By the time they finished, darkness had fallen. The studio staff were already packing up. Autumn grabbed my hand, looking anxious. “Oh no, Aubrey hasn’t had her photos yet! If we miss today, we’ll have to wait another six months.” Ryan playfully tapped her on the head, mimicking her tone. “Oh no? Tough luck!” “Stop joking, I’m genuinely worried.” Autumn pouted, cheeks puffed out. “It’s fine. We already took plenty. We can just Photoshop your face onto Aubrey’s. Besides, I don’t even want to be in a picture with you.” “You—!” Autumn actually considered his suggestion, then her gaze drifted to my belly. “That’s not a bad idea. Aubrey’s pregnant; her figure’s bound to be a bit different.” She turned back to me, her voice softening. “Aubrey, honey, I’m so sorry I stole your thunder today. But don’t worry, on your wedding day, I promise to show up with greasy hair and no makeup. I’ll be the perfect background!” Silently, I pulled my arm from her tight grasp. I said calmly, “There won’t be a next time.” Autumn quickly nodded, agreeing. But they misunderstood. I meant, there wouldn’t be a next wedding. After checking out, Ryan, as he had countless times before, slung Autumn’s bag over his shoulder. A Patrick Star keychain hung from it – a prize we’d won from a crane game when the three of us went out last time. I’d spotted it immediately and gone through hell to win it. But Ryan had said, “Today is Autumn’s and my ten-year-and-one-day anniversary. Let her have it.” The keychain, still warm from my touch, was snatched away. In the two years we’d been together, he always found countless excuses for me to yield. Before, I hadn’t seen it, even appreciating their deep friendship. But now, I no longer wanted to play along. When we reached the car, I reached for the passenger door. But Autumn, like an eel, slipped in first. The backseat was already crammed with the two newly purchased wedding gowns and various accessories. Ryan fastened her seatbelt, saying, “Autumn’s on her period; she’s exhausted after shooting all day. I’ll drop her off first.” He glanced at me. “You can take a taxi, or grab a rental scooter to get home.” A wave of injustice surged through me, and I blurted out, “I’m pregnant, too.” Ryan froze, then slammed the car door shut with a sharp thud. His face darkened. “The baby isn’t even born, and you’re using him to manipulate me?” He scoffed. “Is being pregnant some rare miracle? Even roaches get pregnant. Don’t flatter yourself.” I gaped, unable to believe those words came from his mouth. He left me with a terse “Go reflect on yourself,” and sped off, exhaust fumes spitting in my face. Tears streamed down, whether from the fumes or the sheer anger, I couldn’t tell. I clutched my stomach. “Baby, see? Don’t come. Get a do-over, choose a dad who actually loves you.” The photo studio was in the suburbs. I couldn’t hail a cab, and even the shared bikes on the roadside were broken. It was completely dark now, and animal cries echoed from the roadside woods, where some neglected graves lay hidden. I fought down my fear, forcing myself to walk, but I was wearing the high heels from the photoshoot. Blisters on my feet burst, blood tracing winding paths onto the ground. Just as despair threatened to swallow me whole, blinding headlights flashed in the distance. A car roared closer. “Aubrey Adams.” I heard my name called and looked up. Ryan’s stern face filled the car window. “Just this once.” “Huh?” “We were almost home, but Autumn was worried about you and insisted we come back to get you. Get your act together, you won’t always be so lucky.” His tone dripped with condescension. Autumn playfully tugged Ryan’s ear, warning him, “Ryan, you jerk, don’t you dare be mean to Aubrey! If you scare her away, who’s going to be your wife?” Ryan chuckled, teasing, “Then you can be my wife.” “Pffft! No way, don’t even think about it! Even if you were the last man on Earth, I wouldn’t want you, humph.” The two of them continued their playful banter, oblivious. I, however, silently opened the back door and squeezed myself between the wedding gowns. The throbbing in my feet finally subsided. As for them, let them do whatever they wanted; I’d just watch the show. My reflection stared back from the car window. I remembered when I first met Ryan. Back then, his eyes were only for me. He’d shed tears of concern if I cut my hand cooking for him, holding my hand and promising, “Aubrey, I’ll cherish you my whole life. I’ll make sure you have a good life.” He was touched when I helped him get an internal referral to a major tech firm, saying, “I’ll work hard and earn money to give you a good life.” He said it so sincerely, and I believed him. The car pulled into our apartment complex. As I opened the door, Autumn, familiar as always, flopped onto the living room sofa, propping her feet on the coffee table as if she were home. Ryan followed, closing the door, his voice nonchalant. “Autumn lost her key, so she’s staying with us tonight.” I said nothing, walking directly to the master bedroom, wanting to change into my loungewear. But the door suddenly swung open. Ryan walked in, pulling Autumn behind him. My hands reflexively went to my chest; my bra was halfway unhooked. The scene made my scalp tingle with mortification. “Hehe, Aubrey, why are you shy? What you have, I have too!” Autumn giggled, tilting her head. Ryan also chuckled. “Once you’re changed, come out.” My head was full of question marks. “Go where?” “You’re sleeping in the guest room tonight. Autumn’s lucky direction today is south, and our guest bed is the only one facing south.” Autumn clasped her hands together, bowing to me. “Aubrey, please, please! Don’t worry, Ryan and I won’t do anything, promise! If there were anything between us, you wouldn’t even be in the picture. We’re just pure, platonic buddies.” A bitter ache swelled in my chest, but I quickly suppressed it. Forget it. I didn’t want this man anymore, anyway. He could do whatever he liked. The guest bed was hard, and the blankets smelled faintly of mothballs, but I was so exhausted that I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. In the middle of the night, I was suddenly jolted awake by the sound of muffled moans and heavy breathing. I got up and walked to the hallway; the master bedroom door was ajar. Under the soft, yellow nightlight, Autumn sat wearing Ryan’s shirt, one shoulder bared. Ryan was shirtless, and they sat facing each other. “Call me ‘Husband.’” “Get lost! No way I’m calling you that!” Ryan reached out and tickled Autumn. She couldn’t take it anymore and quickly begged, “Husband~” “Who’s in your heart?” “Husband…” “So soft and sweet, I want to give you my life.” My stomach churned with nausea. Unable to hold it in, I threw up. “Aubrey? Why are you awake in the middle of the night, eavesdropping?” Rage surged through me, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. “If you two like to cheat, just lock yourselves away together! Don’t come out and ruin other people’s lives! You shouldn’t have bothered me in the first place!” “Why are you saying such awful things? Who’s cheating? Autumn and I are just playing a game.” Ryan walked towards me barefoot. Autumn, looking flustered, also got up. The hem of Ryan’s shirt barely covered her thighs, and the wide neckline revealed an intimate red mark on her neck. “Aubrey, it’s not what you think! It’s not dirty! Aren’t you two getting married? Ryan thought ‘wife’ sounded awkward, so he was practicing on me.” Practicing? How could they even say that? While I was stunned, Ryan leaned in and gave me a comforting kiss on the lips. “Stop making a fuss, Aubrey.” The sticky sensation and familiar peach scent made my nausea worse. That lip balm was a gift I’d given Autumn last week. Now it was on Ryan’s lips. Everything became painfully clear. Autumn also tried to reach for my hand. I recoiled, disgusted, quickly shaking her off. Autumn suddenly cried out, “Ouch!” Her lower back hit the nightstand with a dull thud. “Autumn!” Ryan rushed to her, and when he turned back to me, his eyes had completely changed. “What are you doing?! Autumn privately told me you didn’t like her, but I didn’t believe it. Now you’re laying hands on her right in front of me?” I almost laughed from sheer indignation. “You two are the shameless ones! He’s cheating before the wedding, and she’s knowingly playing the other woman! You two deserve each other – a scumbag and a hussy!” My words were harsh. Their faces visibly flushed with anger. But then they exchanged a look and suddenly laughed. A chilling, unsettling laugh. Ryan slowly pulled a small red booklet from the nightstand drawer. His voice was light and natural. “Aubrey, actually, you’re the real mistress.” He held up the booklet. “See? It’s got the official seal. Autumn is my wife.” I froze, staring at the marriage certificate in disbelief. The date was from last month. Autumn quickly scrambled up, explaining, “Aubrey, don’t misunderstand! It was really just a misunderstanding! It’s all because this jerk lost a bet with me, so he used my ID to register, and who knew the civil affairs office would process it so fast…” She quickly added, “Divorce requires a one-month cooling-off period. It’ll be back to normal next month, really.” Autumn stuck out her tongue sheepishly. So, this was why Ryan kept delaying our marriage. I had brought it up eight times, and each time, Ryan had an excuse. Either he forgot his ID, or his household registration was back in his hometown. The last time, he said the current month wasn’t auspicious and we should pick a date next month. And I had actually believed him. “You two are disgusting.” My voice was a low growl. “Ryan Mitch, since you two are married, then you and I have nothing to do with each other anymore. We’re officially breaking up!” Ryan froze for two seconds, then burst out laughing. “What kind of temper tantrum is that? You’ve dated me for three years, lost one baby, and you’re carrying another. If you leave me, what man out there would want you?” I stared at him, suddenly realizing how utterly rotten this man was. “Don’t worry, this baby will be gone soon too.” His laughter instantly froze. “You wouldn’t dare! That’s my flesh and blood!” I had already pulled open the master bedroom door and walked out. I found the nearest hotel and checked in. Thankfully, my brother answered my call and said he would pick me up tomorrow. The next day, I went to the office to hand in my resignation. Finally, I was going to say goodbye to all these rotten people and rotten things. My mood was unusually light. My boss, Mr. Davies, seeing my cheerfulness, asked, “Getting married? So happy?” “No, not getting married. That’s why I’m happy.” Mr. Davies’s smile faltered. He lowered his head, scanned my resignation letter, and his expression turned serious. “What’s wrong? You’re doing so well; I was even planning to promote you to project manager for this new product launch. We have an important event coming up later, and the CEO of Starlight Corporation will be there. I was going to have you join to gain some experience and exposure.” I didn’t say anything. The CEO of Starlight Corporation was my older brother, Derek, a fact no one in the company knew. I had always written “parents deceased” on my resume to avoid trouble. Seeing my resolute attitude, Mr. Davies sighed. “Alright, I’ll approve your resignation. But you still need to attend the launch event later, just to finish your last shift properly.” I nodded. As soon as I returned to my desk, Ryan burst in. “Aubrey, it’s Autumn’s first time at such a big event. Can you help her with her dress and keep her company?” The venue was already quite full. Autumn wore a champagne-colored evening gown, and when she saw me enter, a small smirk touched her lips. Someone nearby whispered, “That’s her, right? I heard she got dumped, and she’s lost two babies.” “Serves her right. Got used by a man, still clinging on. Who told her to be so careless?” “Shhh, keep your voice down…” Autumn walked over to me, lowering her voice. “Aubrey, just behave yourself today. There are important clients here; don’t make a scene.” I shook off her hand and turned to leave. She suddenly took a step forward, and her dress snagged on the corner of a table. Rip! The champagne satin split into a long tear. “Aubrey Adams!” Autumn shrieked, bursting into tears on the spot. “You did that on purpose! You ruined my dress! You just want to humiliate me!” She wailed, “How am I supposed to handle such an important event now?!” Everyone turned to look. Seeing the scene, Ryan, without asking any questions, raised his hand and slapped me hard across the face. Smack! The sound was sharp and loud. “I warned you once already! This is on you!” he snarled. “Cut out your little games; this isn’t the place for your drama!” I was sent sprawling to the ground, my cheek burning, my ears ringing. The next second, a sudden, sharp pain tore through my lower abdomen, and a warm gush of liquid flowed between my legs. It was a sign of bleeding. My voice trembled. “It hurts so much. Please help me, I’m losing the baby…” A flicker of panic crossed Ryan’s eyes, and he instinctively leaned down to help me up. But Autumn shrieked, “She’s faking! She’s totally faking! She’s probably just on her period, putting on a show! She had enough strength to push me just now!” Ryan, predictably, stopped, a look of disgust on his face. Cold sweat broke out all over me from the pain. My vision blurred, and I felt on the verge of passing out. Autumn’s hangers-on started clamoring. “Still faking it! Come on, everyone, strip this bitch naked and see how she’s lying!” “Yeah! An eye for an eye!” “Ugh, I hate people who play dirty tricks like this! She’s definitely jealous that Autumn gets to host this event.” I felt like I was dying from the pain, my vision going black in waves. Just then, Mr. Davies’s voice boomed from behind the crowd. “What is all this commotion?! The launch event is about to begin!” Everyone turned. Mr. Davies’s secretary jogged over, her voice tight with panic. “Mr. Davies, the CEO of Starlight Corporation has arrived. But he said he’s here to find his sister.”

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On my birthday, my boyfriend bought me a cheap pack of grocery-store cupcakes and a single wax candle. He told me birthday cakes were nothing but a capitalist marketing trap, a distraction from our real goal: saving every penny for a down payment on a house. I was hurt, but I swallowed my disappointment and agreed. Then, on the evening of my birthday, my best friend breezed through our front door. She bypassed the empty chair and squeezed herself right onto the sofa between us, wrapping her arms around mine and preening. “Oh my god, Dylan is literally the most amazing guy,” Sally cooed, resting her head on his shoulder. “He just put down eight thousand dollars to secure the lease on my new apartment downtown. I got to sleep in until nine this morning. It was absolute heaven!” My mouth went dry. To make it to my office on time, I had to wake up at five in the morning, ride an electric scooter for twenty minutes in the freezing cold, and transfer through three different subway lines. I did it because Dylan insisted that living this far out in the Boston suburbs was the only way to save two thousand a year on rent. Buzz. I looked down at the screen of my phone. [Card ending in 8744: Wire transfer of $400,000 to Sally completed. Remaining balance: $400,000.] Dylan had just transferred the savings we had built together over ten years—our future home—directly to my best friend. I looked up, my chest tightening. Dylan was casually peeling a shrimp, dropping the pink meat directly into Sally’s bowl. His voice was entirely conversational. “Oh, that. It’s to help fund her grad school. We can always buy a house later, Alice. Sally won’t have an income while she’s getting her master’s degree. Actually, I was thinking you might want to chip in a bit, too?” I looked down at my faded, worn-out flannel pajamas. Ten years of devotion, of sacrificing my own comfort, suddenly felt like a joke. “Sure,” I said, my voice completely flat. “I’ll go to the bank right now and pull out everything left in the account.” I would empty the account, and in doing so, I would erase him from my future. 1 “See? I told you Alice is reasonable. She’d never make a fuss over something like this. You owe me twenty bucks,” Dylan said, looking at Sally with an affectionate, indulgent smile. He reached out and playfully pinched her nose. Sally pouted, pretending to be annoyed, and grabbed his shoulder, giving it a playful, teasing bite. “Fine, fine. I admit I underestimated Alice,” Sally said, though her eyes remained locked on him. “I just know how badly she wanted that house.” She turned to me, her voice dripping with sweet concern. “I didn’t hurt him too bad, did I, Alice? I know how protective you get over your man.” They both looked at me, expecting the usual flash of anger. But I simply kept eating my dinner, chewing slowly. Seeing that I wasn’t reacting, the smug satisfaction on Dylan’s face faltered. A shadow of disappointment crossed his eyes, and he cleared his throat. “I’m glad you’re finally learning to be mature, Alice,” he said, adjusting his collar. “I was worried you’d make a scene like you did last time. It’s nice to see you’re finally growing up.” The “last time” he was referring to was our college reunion. During a game of Truth or Dare, he and Sally had been dared to kiss through a thin plastic card. I had stood up, furious, calling out the complete lack of boundaries. Dylan had shut me down in front of everyone, calling me dramatic, insecure, and a psycho. I had cried until my eyes were swollen, and in the end, I was the one who begged for his forgiveness. But sitting here now, I realized I felt nothing. No anger, no jealousy. The food in front of me was far more interesting than he was. Before I could answer, Sally gasped. She shifted in her seat, accidentally knocking her elbow against the small ceramic figurine on the edge of the table. It fell. The small porcelain boy and girl, sculpted to look like they were embracing, snapped cleanly in two on the hardwood floor. Dylan’s hands shot out to steady Sally, his eyes wide with concern. He didn’t even look at the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked her, before turning a defensive glare toward me. “Alice, don’t get mad. It was an accident. I’ll buy you another one.” That figurine was the very first gift Dylan had ever given me, back when we first made our relationship official. “No need,” I said quietly. “Once something breaks, it breaks.” If I didn’t want the man anymore, why would I care about a piece of painted clay? Dylan opened his mouth to say something, but Sally let out a soft groan, rubbing her lower back. “Oh, my back is so stiff from moving boxes all day.” Without a second thought, Dylan turned his back on me and began gently massaging her shoulders. I wiped my mouth with a napkin, stood up, and slipped into my coat. “Enjoy your dinner. I’m going to the bank.” As I stepped into the hallway to put on my boots, Dylan’s hesitant voice drifted over. “Hey… we haven’t even blown out the candle yet. Make a wish before you go.” I didn’t look back. There was no birthday cake. Just cheap, dry cupcakes and a single candle bought from a convenience store. He had claimed real cakes were a capitalist trap, yet every year on Sally’s birthday, he spent hundreds of dollars ordering custom, multi-tiered artisanal creations from the best bakeries in the city. I shut the door behind me. The bitter, freezing winter air hit my face, making my eyes water. As I walked past the dumpster at the end of the block, I pulled the silver ring off my left hand. It was a cheap, ten-dollar ring he’d bought off Amazon years ago, but I had treated it like a priceless heirloom. I tossed it into the trash. I took a cab to the bank and arrived just minutes before the lobby closed. I withdrew every single cent of my portion of our shared savings, opened a brand-new private account, and deposited the money there. When I was done, I drove to the Prudential Center. I walked straight into a luxury French boutique patisserie, bought the most expensive, beautifully frosted champagne-berry cake in the display, and took myself to a bustling hot pot restaurant downtown. When the staff gathered around my table with a glowing sign, singing “Happy Birthday,” I didn’t feel embarrassed. I smiled, blew out the sparkler, and carved out the largest, sweetest slice for myself. By the time I got back to the apartment, my phone was buzzing with a FaceTime call from Dylan. “Hey,” he said, the camera shaking as he walked around Sally’s apartment. “Sally mentioned seeing some sketchy guy loitering near her building earlier. She’s terrified to be alone, so I’m going to crash on her couch tonight to make sure she’s safe.” Sally popped into the frame, her arms looped casually around his neck. She gave a playful wink. “Alice, you’re my savior! Let me borrow your boyfriend for just one night to protect a damsel in distress!” She knew I had never been able to say no to her. We had been best friends for seven years. Dylan adjusted his camera, briefly looking at my screen. “Make sure you lock the deadbolt. Don’t fall asleep with the stove on.” Sally patted his cheek. “Oh, don’t worry about her. Our Alice is the toughest girl I know.” But I wasn’t tough. When we first moved to this isolated suburb, I had been followed home from the subway station twice. I had called Dylan, sobbing and hyperventilating in the dark. He had told me I was overreacting, that I was just trying to create drama. Eventually, I bought pepper spray and a small taser to carry in my purse, convincing myself that he was just a typical, unobservant guy who didn’t know how to handle fear. He wasn’t incapable of worry. He was just incapable of worrying about me. I swallowed the sudden, sharp lump in my throat and forced a polite smile. “You’re right. I’m tough. Enjoy your night.” Before they could respond, I hung up. I walked to the closet and began gathering every single gift Dylan had ever given me. A five-dollar red string bracelet from a street vendor. A plastic phone case he got for free with a promotion. A pair of cheap, knockoff wireless earbuds. He had always told me I was a “sensible girl” who didn’t care about material luxuries, that we needed to save for our future. Yet for Sally’s birthdays, he bought Van Cleef & Arpels bracelets, luxury La Mer skincare sets, and the newest, most expensive iPhone. When I had confronted him about it, he had cupped my face and looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Babe, I only buy her those things to make you look good. If your boyfriend is generous to your best friend, it makes you look high-class. Since I spent so much of my personal cash on her, maybe you could help me out with rent this month?” I threw every single one of his cheap trinkets into a heavy black trash bag. Then, I dialed my father’s number. “Dad,” I said when he picked up. “The family matchmaking setup you mentioned… I’m ready to come back to New York and meet him.” 2 The next morning, while waiting for the train, a local lifestyle video popped up on my feed. It was a candid clip filmed inside the Louis Vuitton boutique downtown. The caption read: “Obsessed with this couple! Look at how he looks at her. Where do I find a guy like this?” In the video, Dylan was draped over Sally, carefully adjusting the strap of a luxury handbag on her shoulder, his face glowing with a sweet, adoring smile. While I was sitting alone in a restaurant celebrating my birthday, he was playing the doting boyfriend in a designer boutique. I watched the video three times. Then, I liked it. When I arrived at the office, I walked straight to my manager’s desk and handed in my two weeks’ notice. My work bestie walked over to my desk later, holding two mugs of tea. “Alice, what’s going on? Why are you leaving so suddenly? Yesterday you were literally talking about saving up to buy Dylan that new MacBook for his office.” I looked at the screen of my computer, where the video of Dylan and Sally was still paused. I smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach my eyes. “He’s someone else’s boyfriend now. He doesn’t need my gifts.” An hour before my shift ended, my phone rang. It was Dylan. “Is something wrong with you today?” he asked, his tone laced with irritation. “No. Why?” “You haven’t texted me once. No updates, no phone calls. Nothing.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. I hadn’t even realized. For the first time in ten years, I hadn’t spent my day wondering what he was doing or if he was safe. In the past, if he had stayed overnight at another woman’s house, I would have spent the entire day calling him, crying and demanding reassurance. “Did you need something?” I asked. There was a long silence on the other end. “Don’t take the subway,” Dylan said, sounding uncharacteristically awkward. “I’ll drive down and pick you up after work.” Ever since he bought his car, he had insisted I keep a low profile at work by taking public transit. He rarely offered to drive me, though he frequently went “out of his way” to pick up Sally. “Okay,” I replied. When I opened the passenger door and got in, Dylan didn’t even look up. He was staring at his phone, typing rapidly, a soft smile tugging at his lips. My dad called. I picked up immediately. “Everything is set, Dad. My resignation is processing. I’ll be back in New York next week.” I hung up, and Dylan finally tossed his phone into the cup holder. “What’s happening next week?” “Nothing.” I reached down to adjust my seat and brushed against something soft. I pulled out a pair of pink lace underwear from the crevice of the passenger seat. Dylan’s face went pale. He snatched them out of my hand, stuffing them into the glove box with a clumsy, panicked laugh. “Sally… you know how she is. She’s so disorganized. She must have dropped them when we were moving her things.” I simply nodded, turning my gaze to the window. He nervously turned on the radio. An indie-pop song—one of Sally’s favorites—filled the car. He skipped it, but the next song was by the same artist. And the next. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “Just leave it.” Dylan’s hand froze over the dashboard. The nervous smile on his face slowly dissolved. “Alice, you’re acting weird. You usually hate this kind of music.” Before I could answer, his phone rang. He answered it on the car’s Bluetooth speaker. “Dylan…” Sally’s voice whimpered through the speakers. “My cramps are getting really bad. I don’t think I can walk to the pharmacy.” Dylan cut the call, pulled over to the side of the road, and looked at me with an apologetic, pleading expression. “Alice, can you hop out here and take the train? I need to go get her some medicine. You know how fragile she gets during her cycle. You care about her, right?” I sat quietly for a moment, staring into his eyes. “Dylan. Do you even remember whose boyfriend you are?” His face instantly flushed with anger, his eyes narrowing. “What does that have to do with anything? Why do you always have to be so incredibly selfish, Alice? She’s your best friend!” He reached over and unlocked the passenger door. “Get out. I don’t want her waiting in pain because of your jealousy.” I didn’t say another word. I grabbed my purse, stepped out into the cold, and watched the taillights of his car disappear into the evening traffic. By the time Dylan got home, it was past ten. He walked into the kitchen with a sheepish, placating smile, holding out a small bakery box. “Don’t be mad, babe. Look what I brought you.” Inside was a slice of salted caramel peanut cake. Sally’s absolute favorite. I didn’t touch it. “I’m severely allergic to peanuts, Dylan.” His face drained of color. “Oh… God, Alice, I’m sorry. I forgot…” This was the man who, during our first year of dating, used to painstakingly pick every single stray peanut out of my takeout food. Now, he couldn’t even remember the allergy that could send me to the ICU. To cover his guilt, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, elegantly wrapped gift box. “Here. Sally and I picked this out for you. Consider it a belated birthday gift.” I opened the box. A silk Louis Vuitton scarf lay inside. I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and showed him the TikTok video I had liked earlier. His expression went from embarrassed to defensive in a fraction of a second. “Sally is starting her graduate program. She needed a professional bag to make a good impression! Why do you always have to compare yourself to her? If you don’t want the scarf, then don’t take it!” He slammed the box onto the counter, marched into the bathroom, and slammed the door so hard the glass rattled. A few minutes later, his phone buzzed on the kitchen island. I looked down. [Sally: Is it okay that we gave Alice the free promo scarf? I felt a little bad, but I really, really loved the bag.] [Dylan: Don’t worry about it. A designer logo is a designer logo. It’s more than enough for her.] I didn’t feel the tears fall, but I felt the cold trail they left on my cheeks. Later that night, Dylan climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my hair. This was his routine—his way of apologizing without ever having to say the words. In the past, I would have softened instantly, turning around to hold him. But tonight, his touch made my skin crawl. I gently but firmly pulled his arms off me and rolled to the far edge of the mattress. He went stiff. After a long, tense silence, he grabbed his pillow and walked out to the living room. Our sofa was small and stiff. In the past, I would have lain awake, consumed by guilt, before finally going out to pull him back to bed. But tonight, I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. 3 When Dylan woke up the next morning, I was already in the living room, packing my books into cardboard boxes. He rubbed his eyes, looking around the messy apartment. “Where’s breakfast?” Dylan had a sensitive stomach and got severe acid reflux if he didn’t eat right away. No matter how badly we fought, I had always woken up early to make him a warm meal. “I already ate,” I said, tape-sealing a box. “If you’re hungry, make something yourself.” He stared at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and wounded pride, but I didn’t look back. Ping. Our shared group chat lit up. [Sally: Oh my god, look at this new brunch place downtown! It’s so aesthetic. We should all go this afternoon!] Dylan glanced at me, his fingers flying across his screen as he typed his reply. [Dylan: Let’s just go the two of us. Alice is clearly too busy with her packing projects.] Usually, the fear of leaving them alone would have driven me crazy. I would have dropped everything, begged him to let me come, and the fight would have ended in a fragile compromise. But now, I simply picked up my phone. [Alice: Yeah, I’m busy. Have fun, guys.] Dylan lingered by the front door for a long time, adjusting his coat, waiting for me to say something. When I kept my back turned, he let out a frustrated sigh and slammed the door behind him. By three in the afternoon, my hands were dusty, and the apartment was mostly bare. I checked my social media. Dylan, who hadn’t posted a photo since college, had uploaded a picture of him and Sally sitting close together at a candlelit table, holding up their drinks. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was waiting for me to call him, furious and crying, so he could play the reasonable partner and graciously invite me to join them. But I felt nothing but exhaustion. I locked my phone and went back to packing. Dylan didn’t come home that night. The next afternoon, he called me, his voice sharp and demanding. “Did you wire the money to Sally’s account yet?” “No,” I said calmly. “And I’m not going to.” There was a heavy pause on the line before he let out a condescending chuckle. “Come on, Alice. I know you’re just doing this to get my attention. It’s classic you.” He paused, his voice softening into a patronizing hum. “How about this? I’ll take you to see that movie you wanted to watch tonight. After the movie, you can transfer the money to Sally. Deal?” I sighed, realizing how useless it was to argue with someone who refused to hear me. “Sure. Let’s meet at the theater.” A proper breakup deserved to be done in person. When I arrived, Dylan was waiting near the ticket booth holding a bucket of popcorn. He reached out to take my hand, but I slipped my hands into my pockets, stepping past him. The movie started, but I couldn’t focus. The onscreen drama felt incredibly trivial compared to the quiet, heavy reality of my own life. Dylan kept shifting in his seat, checking his phone under his jacket. Finally, he leaned over. “I have to step out for a quick call. I’ll be right back.” He never came back. When the lights came up, I walked out of the theater and into the bustling plaza outside the mall. And there they were. Sally and Dylan, standing close under the streetlights, laughing as they shared a single waffle cone. Sally’s hand was resting casually on his hip. I felt a strange sense of relief. It was like watching a movie I already knew the ending to. When they spotted me, Sally’s smile froze. She quickly pulled her hand away from Dylan’s waist and jogged over to me, grabbing my wrists. “Alice! I swear I just wanted to try a bite of his ice cream! You’re not actually mad, are you?” I pulled my hands back, looking at her with a disgust that had been building for years. “If you think that’s normal, go ahead. But I don’t share food with other women’s boyfriends.” I took a deep breath, my voice steady despite the cold. “Dylan, we’re over. Sally, we’re done.” 4 I turned to walk away, but Dylan lunged forward, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me back. “Are you serious right now? Stop being so incredibly childish! You can’t just throw around words like ‘breakup’ every time you get jealous!” “Sally literally just explained it to you!” he yelled, his face contorting. “It’s just ice cream!” As we struggled, a delivery scooter suddenly whipped around the blind corner of the plaza, speeding directly toward us. Instinctively, Dylan’s arms shot out—not to grab me, but to pull Sally tightly against his chest, shielding her with his body. In the process, his elbow shoved me hard. My heel caught on the uneven pavement, and I crashed violently onto the concrete. I sat there, the palms of my hands scraped and stinging, staring up at the man I had loved for a decade. Even though I had already decided to leave, watching his back as he shielded another woman still sent a sharp, physical pain straight through my chest. Sally pushed Dylan away, her face filled with horror as she looked at me. “Dylan! What the hell did you push her for?” She scrambled down to my level, her worry genuine. “Alice, are you okay? Oh my god, you’re bleeding.” “What are you standing there for?” Sally snapped at Dylan. “Help me get her to the hospital!” Dylan hesitated, looking down at his watch. “But… doesn’t your manager need that report submitted by midnight?” I looked at him, and the last lingering ember of my love finally went cold. I wiped the tears from my face, stood up on my own, and flagged down a passing taxi. I went to the urgent care clinic alone, got my scrapes bandaged, and took a cab to a hotel. The next morning, Dylan was waiting outside my office building. “Alice, let me drive you to work. Let’s talk.” “There’s nothing to talk about. We broke up.” Dylan let out a frustrated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Over a bite of ice cream? Over an accident where I tried to keep everyone safe? You’re completely fine, Alice! Look at you, you don’t even have a scratch. Stop playing these ridiculous mind games. My patience has a limit.” I looked at him, feeling nothing but pity. “I’m not playing games, Dylan. It’s over.” He stared at me, searching my face, before letting out a smug, knowing chuckle. “Right. This is your new tactic, isn’t it? Playing hard to get.” He checked his watch. “Sally and I have a five-day business trip to Portland. Use this time to calm down and think about your attitude. When I get back, wire the money to Sally, and I’ll bring you something nice.” Before I could correct him, his phone rang with Sally’s ringtone. He answered it, muttered a quick “I’m on my way,” and hurried off toward his car. Over the next five days, I quietly packed up the rest of my life in Boston. During that time, I received two sets of daily notifications. The first was a constant stream of texts from Dylan, detailing what he ate, what he saw, and how much he missed me. The second was from Sally’s “Close Friends” Instagram stories, which she had specifically allowed me to see. It was a curated gallery of her and Dylan: holding hands on the beach, sharing room service in their hotel, laughing over drinks. I liked every single one of her stories, took screenshots of them, and forwarded the entire gallery to Dylan’s chat. Then, I blocked them both. On the morning of my flight to New York, my phone rang. It was Dylan’s mother. “Alice,” she said, her voice dripping with disapproval. “I think it’s highly inappropriate for a girl from your background to be living rent-free in my son’s condominium when you aren’t even engaged yet.” My blood ran cold. “Your son’s condominium?” “Yes. Dylan bought that place years ago with our family’s help. I hope you aren’t taking advantage of his kindness.” I hung up, my hands trembling. I pulled up my banking app, screenshotting every single monthly rent payment I had sent to Dylan’s personal account over the past three years—rent he told me went to a “strict, greedy landlord.” I forwarded the screenshots to his mother, along with a simple message: “I’ve paid exactly half of your son’s mortgage every single month. Feel free to ask him where that money went.” I blocked her number, switched my phone to airplane mode, and watched the Boston skyline fade into the winter clouds.

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