Author: Momo Chan

The golden boy’s Bluetooth speaker accidentally disconnected, broadcasting his phone’s audio to the entire room. A familiar, cool, and tender female voice drifted through the air: “Baby.” I froze. Declan Vaughn’s face flushed as he scrambled to lock his screen. “The rest is R-rated,” he teased, waving his phone. “Not for your innocent ears.” When the guys in the room pressed him for details, Declan just tilted his head back, shooting a brief, sidelong glance in my direction. “It’s just some untouchable ice queen who finally melted for me,” he said with a lazy shrug. “It’s really no big deal.” I knew that voice. It belonged to Eden Monroe—the girl I had grown up with, the girl I had loved for years, and the girl I was just about ready to give up on. 1 Right at the height of the locker-room banter, Eden walked into the classroom. Declan immediately closed the distance between them, dropping his voice to a theatrical whisper. “That audio recording from last Friday night… I accidentally just played it—” He cut himself off abruptly. What followed was a pair of bright red ears and a look of practiced, deliberate timidity aimed directly at me. Declan tugged gently at the cuff of Eden’s sleeve. “Eden, maybe you should explain things to Jude? Tell him nothing actually happened between us last Friday.” He sighed, playing the victim. “Otherwise, he’s just going to throw another tantrum at you.” Last Friday was my birthday. No wonder Eden hadn’t shown up. She was too busy losing herself in someone else. Eden’s brows drew together. When her eyes met mine, they were brimming with raw impatience. “Jude, you know what kind of person I am. I’m not cheap,” she said. “That night—” “You don’t have to explain,” I interrupted, my voice surprisingly steady. “You said it yourself. We’re just friends. You have no obligation to answer questions that cross a boundary.” The air in the room went dead. Declan stepped squarely in front of Eden, blocking my view of her. “Jude, you’re a guy. Can’t you be a little more mature about this? Why are you always picking fights with her?” He lowered his voice, coated in false sympathy. “Eden told me your constant paranoia is exhausting. You’re draining her.” My chest tightened on instinct. A Pavlovian response to the heartbreak. Clutching my books to my chest, I turned toward the door, desperate to escape the amused, predatory stares of our classmates. As I passed Eden, I looked at her properly for what felt like the last time. “Declan is right,” I said quietly. “Eden, I won’t bother you anymore.” She just turned her head to look at me. Her beautiful eyes were entirely devoid of emotion. “Suit yourself.” The familiar, suffocating weight of drowning finally pulled me completely under. The first time I confessed my feelings to Eden was in high school. Back then, she told me that as long as we got into the same university, we would be together. But once we actually enrolled at the same college, she threw herself entirely into launching her tech startup. I still remember the day of my second confession. Eden couldn’t even be bothered to look up from her laptop. “Jude, don’t you have your own life to live? Do we absolutely have to date “right now”?” She told me to keep being friends. As for a relationship, we would talk about it later. So, I waited. And I waited. I waited until Eden and Declan started spending all their time together. I waited until I was practically forced to abandon the idea of her entirely. The childhood promise I’d clung to had completely expired. 2 Because Eden never bothered to clear the air, rumors about her and Declan began to spread like wildfire across campus. In every version of the story, I was naturally cast as the pathetic collateral damage—the desperate orbiter who couldn’t take a hint and wouldn’t leave Eden alone. While walking across the quad later that week, I predictably bumped into the two of them. Declan was the first to speak, practically dripping with forced innocence. “Jude, please don’t misunderstand Eden. I lost my ID and needed to go to the DMV to get a new one. She was heading that way, so she just gave me a ride.” I gave a vague, noncommittal hum, wanting nothing more than to put as much physical distance between us as possible. But Eden suddenly grabbed my arm. “You blocked my number?” she demanded softly. I had blocked her the night of my birthday, almost a full week ago. It had taken her this long to even notice. I gave her a lazy excuse. “My account got hacked.” She exhaled a breath of relief, but her expression quickly shifted to worry. “Do you have enough money then?” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved a sleek black credit card into my palm. “The pin is your birthday.” At the word “birthday”, the color completely drained from Eden’s face. I watched her lips part as realization hit her, but I just pressed my mouth into a thin line. I really didn’t want to ask. Looking intensely frustrated with herself, Eden pulled out her phone and started canceling all her afternoon meetings. Declan panicked. “Aren’t you supposed to be pitching to investors today? How can you throw away an opportunity like that over something so trivial?” Eden ignored him, keeping her eyes fixed quietly on me. My heart did that pathetic, habitual stutter. Even though every shred of logic in my brain was screaming, “Jude, you cannot keep loving her”, the moment she opened her mouth, my rationality began to disintegrate. “It was never trivial,” she said. “Making up for Jude’s birthday is the most important thing right now.” We went to the Italian place we used to practically live at. When the slice of cake was brought out, Eden finally started to apologize. She said she had been so swamped she forgot what day it was. But even as the apologies spilled from her mouth, her eyes never left her phone screen. From my angle, it looked exactly like a live location-sharing map. Even knowing her mind was miles away, I couldn’t stop myself from asking the one question that was killing me. “If you forgot…” I started. “Then why did you text me that night, telling me to wait for you in that dark alley off Fourth Street? You know I’m terrified of the dark.” But before I could finish the sentence, her phone buzzed. I caught a glimpse of the caller ID: “Declan”. All the words I had left choked in my throat like glass. Eden stepped outside to take the call. Just as I expected, she never came back. I sat there looking at the table full of cold food and the untouched slice of cake. I knew then that whatever existed between Eden and me was truly, irreparably dead. It didn’t matter how many years of memories we had shared. None of it mattered anymore. 3 That night, alone in my apartment, I drank a lot. Going cold turkey on an unrequited love you’ve harbored for nearly a decade is a vicious kind of withdrawal. I sat in the dark for a long time. Eventually, I couldn’t stop myself. I just wanted to hear her voice. When I realized my cell phone was dead, I forced my heavily intoxicated body up from the floor and stumbled into the living room to use the vintage landline answering machine we had bought at a flea market years ago. As it dialed her old home number, I heard the voicemail greeting I had recorded for her two years ago: “Hey, you’ve reached Eden’s place! This is Jude, the guy who follows her absolutely everywhere. If you can’t find her, you can always check with me first!” The sheer joy in that recorded voice now only made my chest ache with a violent, acidic regret. I clutched the heavy receiver, my consciousness slipping around the edges. Stripped of my inhibitions, I finally spilled all the questions I had buried deep in my chest. I figured Eden probably didn’t even use this landline anymore. I was just treating it like a hollow tree, whispering my most humiliating secrets into the void. I asked her so many things. I asked if she knew that while I was waiting in that alley for her, a mugger had cornered me. When he lunged at me with a switchblade, if I hadn’t dodged exactly when I did, I wouldn’t be here crying into a phone. I remembered running out of that alley to find the police, my legs shaking so violently they could barely hold my weight. I didn’t even realize until I got home that the blade had caught my arm. I had been bleeding through my shirt the entire time. That scar still crawled up my forearm like a pale centipede. I also asked her just how important Declan Vaughn was to her. Was he really more important than me? Though honestly, I already knew the answer. Loving Eden Monroe was an exhausting, agonizing existence. If I could rewind time, the very first thing I would do is figure out how to run as far away from her as humanly possible. I gripped the phone and breathed out my final truth into the receiver: “Eden, I never want to love you again.” 4 I didn’t know when I passed out, but I woke up slumped on the floor, my back pressed painfully against the sofa. My entire body ached. My cell phone was fully charged now. As soon as I turned it on, Eden called. “Declan called me last night in a panic,” she said quickly, her tone defensive. “He said his Uber driver was taking him down these super sketchy, deserted roads. Anyway, I didn’t mean to abandon you at the restaurant.” When I didn’t respond, she assumed I was giving her the silent treatment. Her tone sharpened into a reprimand. “Jude, there’s a hierarchy to emergencies. What do you think is more important? Your birthday cake, or his safety?” Right on cue, Declan’s delighted voice echoed from the background of her end of the line. “Eden! Your bathroom is massive. Where do you keep the towels?” Every muscle in my body tensed. My first instinct was to scream at her, to start a massive fight like we always used to. Instead, I forced my jaw shut, swallowed the bile in my throat, and hung up the phone. Once the adrenaline faded, I sat staring out the window, completely zoning out. At this point, I didn’t even know if what I felt for Eden was love, or just bitter resentment. Because I grew up with wealthy, doting parents, things had always come easily to me. Everything, except Eden. Because of that, I was fascinated by her. I felt possessive of her. I wanted to “win” her. But I never expected that this tangled, messy affection would slowly mutate me into an incredibly stupid, hysterical lunatic. The next day, I didn’t go to class. I spent the entire day cornering my parents, finally convincing them to let me transfer to a university in London. They were hesitant, worried I’d struggle so far from home. But to me, staying anywhere near Eden was the real struggle. It was rotting me from the inside out. During the days I skipped school to finalize my transfer papers, Eden never once texted to ask where I was. I was already used to it. When I finally returned to campus, Eden was sitting by the window. The sunlight caught the delicate bridge of her nose. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but Declan, who was half-sitting on her desk, was laughing, his eyes crinkling with pure adoration. I tried my best to act like they didn’t exist as I walked toward my seat. But Eden called out. “Jude.” She stood up. “We need to talk.” 5 We stood in the stairwell. As Eden stood next to me, I glanced down and noticed a silver star bracelet circling her wrist. It was a bracelet I had lost a few months ago. While I was staring at it, her cool voice floated down from above. “You’ve been distancing yourself from me.” “Ever since last Friday, you stopped texting me first. You used to at least say goodnight, even when you were throwing a tantrum.” My chest gave a hard thud, but I didn’t say a word. She reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and silently unblocked her own number. In a rare moment of compromise, Eden looked up at me. “If I agree to let us be official right now, will you stop pushing me away?” I looked down, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my lips. It was funny. Hearing the exact words I had spent half my life bleeding for, only to realize how utterly cheap they sounded now. “Eden, dating is a waste of time,” I said. “You have an empire to build. Your time is money, and I really can’t afford to hold you back.” She didn’t even get the chance to process what I had said. The heavy stairwell door burst open, and one of Declan’s frat brothers rushed in, breathless. “Eden! It’s Declan! He collapsed on the field during practice!” The moment she heard the word “collapsed,” it was as if I ceased to exist. She shoved past me, racing down the stairs toward the athletic fields without a backward glance. Declan’s buddy lingered just long enough to shoot me a smug, victorious smirk. It was as if he was saying, “Look at you, Jude. You lost again.” I walked over to the stairwell window and looked out over the campus. I watched as Eden practically carried Declan toward the infirmary. And as I watched them disappear, I realized something deeply profound. I didn’t feel sad anymore. Every single thing she did—every movement, every betrayal—could no longer create even a ripple in the dead water of my heart. 6 Eden didn’t come to campus for the next couple of weeks. She told me she was in Silicon Valley closing a massive venture capital deal. Suddenly, she gave me permission to “bother” her again. “If you miss me, call me anytime,” she texted. I never called. Not once. Her behavior became entirely erratic. Every single night, she would flood my phone with photos of everything she ate and everything she saw. How many clouds were in the sky, the exact shade of the sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge—she shared it all. Even though the meals in her photos were clearly portioned for two. Even though the beaches she visited were notoriously romantic date spots. Even though, in the corners of her photos, I could occasionally spot the hem of a men’s dress shirt. I knew perfectly well that Declan had flown out to California with her. As I sat there, Eden’s texts continued to ping in rapid succession. More unappetizing food, more boring skies. I didn’t want to reply to a single one. Just like how she never used to bother replying when I shared things with her. I opened Instagram. Declan had posted a relentless string of Stories: “Eating the couple’s tasting menu with someone special tonight! So insanely good!” … “She’s so sweet. She knew the food was too spicy for me so she ordered me a milkshake on the side~” “I told her I liked the stars, so someone took off her favorite star bracelet and gave it to me! I’m literally swooning rn!” “Someone spilled coffee on my designer shirt today. Blackmailed her for $5,000. Not too harsh, right?” … The rest was so obnoxiously cloying it made my stomach turn. I closed the app. Just then, another text from Eden came through. “Jude, I have a surprise for you when I get back.” After that, silence. My thumb hovered over the screen. A surprise. That was a first. In all the years I’d known her, Eden Monroe had never prepared a surprise for me. But the truth was, I really didn’t want it anymore. I didn’t reply. I just quietly went into my settings and blocked them both on every platform. I was moving to London anyway. There was absolutely no point in keeping the contact info of old college acquaintances. 7 I started going around and saying my goodbyes to my closest friends in the cohort, handing out the parting gifts I had bought for them. One of my friends tugged at my sleeve. “I heard Eden’s flight lands today. She’s only like two hours away. Jude, aren’t you going to wait for her?” I looked over at Eden and Declan’s empty desks. “No,” I said mildly. “I’m never waiting for her again.” Missing her entirely felt like the cleanest ending. After handing out all the gifts, I took the largest, heaviest shopping bag and set it squarely in the center of Eden’s desk. My friend looked confused. “Jude, why are you giving Eden so much stuff? Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on her.” I shook my head. Inside that bag was every single gift Eden had ever given me since we were kids. There weren’t many, but every single item was wildly expensive. “These are all the high-end things she’s bought me,” I explained smoothly. “Since we’re going our separate ways, it’s only right to return to sender.” But the moment the words left my mouth, everyone in the room suddenly turned to look at the doorway. Following their shocked stares, I saw Eden. She looked utterly exhausted, her hair windblown and her eyes completely bloodshot. It looked like she had changed her ticket and taken the earliest, most miserable red-eye flight just to get here. And tightly gripped in her hand was a small, velvet bag. The logo on the outside was unmistakable. It was from a luxury jeweler that exclusively sold custom engagement rings.

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At the city clerk’s office, when it came time to sign our marriage license, Corey didn’t write my name. Instead, his pen glided across the paper with a practiced, muscle-memory ease, and wrote my best friend’s name instead. The clerk froze. I stared at the paper, my chest tightening. Melanie snatched the pen from his hand, quickly crossing out the name with a sharp, nervous laugh. “Corey, did you lose your mind staying up late with me last night?” she teased, her voice dripping with mock exasperation. “You don’t even know your own wife’s name.” But she pressed too hard. The sharp metal tip of the pen ripped right through my passport photo attached to the form. To reschedule the appointment, we would have to wait another month. Corey cleared his throat, his face flushing with a brief, performative embarrassment. “Don’t be mad, Giselle. I’ve just been helping Melanie draft her corporate reports all week. Her name is practically burned into my retinas.” They shared a quiet, lingering look, completely oblivious to me. I squeezed the pen in my hand until my knuckles turned white. For months, I had been planning this wedding. The walk-in closet in our new house had been custom-built to Melanie’s exact height. My reception dress had been changed to champagne—not because I liked it, but because Melanie thought it was the most elegant shade. I looked down at the engagement ring that was still two sizes too large, slipping loosely on my finger, and then at the ruined license with another woman’s name written where mine belonged. A quiet clarity washed over me. If he couldn’t even get the bride’s name right, perhaps it was time to change the bride. … I set the pen down and turned toward the door. Corey grabbed my arm on the steps outside, pulling me to a halt. “Giselle, are you seriously throwing a tantrum right now?” I shoved his hand off, looking at him with a coldness I hadn’t felt in years. “A tantrum, Corey? Who just put another woman’s name on our marriage license?” Before I could finish, Melanie caught up to us. She slid her arm through mine, offering a bright, dazzling smile. “Oh, Giselle, sweetie, please don’t be mad at Corey. He’s such a workaholic. He stayed up until three in the morning helping me finish my project pitch. His brain is just mush today.” She playfully rolled her eyes at him, her tone carrying an intimate, practiced warmth. “Corey, you really are terrible. Messing up on a day like today! I feel so awful for Giselle!” It was always like this. For years, she had played the role of my fierce defender, but every word she spoke was a calculated reminder of how deeply her life was woven into my fiancé’s. I coldly pulled my arm out of her grasp. Melanie froze, her eyes instantly welling with tears. Corey immediately stepped in, placing her behind him and knitting his brows in deep annoyance. “Giselle, what is your problem? Why are you taking this out on Melanie? She didn’t do anything wrong. I already checked the schedule. We can come back and do this next month. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” I stared at him, my voice barely a whisper. “Corey, do you even know what next month’s date is?” “What date?” he asked, completely indifferent. “It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death.” Corey’s face hardened. A brief flash of guilt crossed his features, quickly replaced by his usual impatience. “Fine, so the date is bad. We’ll do it the day after. It’s just a date. Do you really have to look at me like that?” I took a step back, the distance between us suddenly feeling like an ocean. “There’s no need to reschedule.” Corey’s shoulders relaxed slightly, thinking he had won. I smiled, a weight lifting from my chest. “We’re done. There isn’t going to be a wedding.” Corey stared at me, his face turning pale and then darkening with rage. “Over a slip of the pen? Giselle, you are being completely irrational.” He turned, putting his arm around Melanie, and walked toward his sedan parked by the curb without looking back. “Let’s go, Melanie. Let her cool her head.” The tires rolled through a puddle, splashing muddy water all over my legs. I stood there, watching the red taillights vanish around the corner. My phone vibrated. It was a voice note from my college mentor, Professor Adler. “Giselle, the deadline to submit the names for the European design fellowship is tomorrow. Are you really going to throw away this opportunity for Corey?” I wiped the muddy water from my face, pressed the record button, and held it to my mouth. “Professor, I’ve changed my mind. I’m going.” The sky grew dark, and a torrential downpour began to fall. I arrived back at the apartment completely drenched, shivering from the cold. My fingers trembled as I pressed the six-digit passcode on the door. “Incorrect passcode,” the lock chirped. I frowned and tried again, slowly. “Incorrect passcode. Three remaining attempts before lockout.” I leaned in to use the facial recognition scanner. The screen flared red: “Face recognition failed.” The mechanical voice sounded like a cruel joke in the empty hallway. I pulled out my phone to call Corey, but the screen flickered twice and died from water damage. With nowhere else to go, I curled up on the cold floor outside the door, waiting. I waited for four hours. At eleven o’clock, the elevator doors slid open. Corey and Melanie walked out, laughing and talking. Seeing me huddled on the floor, Corey stopped in his tracks. “What happened to you? Why are you sitting out here like a ghost?” I used the wall to pull myself up, my legs entirely numb. “The passcode didn’t work. Neither did the face scan.” Corey’s eyes darted away as he stepped past me. “I changed the code.” His fingers flew across the keypad, and with a soft chime, the door unlocked. I stared at the numbers he had pressed. It was Melanie’s birthday. “You changed the security code to her birthday? And you deleted my face scan and fingerprint?” My voice was trembling, partly from the cold, partly from the sheer absurdity of it. Corey kicked off his shoes, his voice devoid of any remorse. “Melanie has been coming over to retrieve files for our project lately. She’s terrible with numbers, so I made it something she can remember. As for your access, we can just re-register your face scan tomorrow.” Melanie walked in, carrying two cups of boba tea. She reached out to take my hand, her face a mask of sweet apology. “Giselle, please don’t be mad at Corey. It’s my fault for being so forgetful. I stood in line to get you your favorite boba tea to make it up to you.” She inserted the straw and held it to my lips. The sharp, cloying scent of mango hit my nose. I knocked her hand away, sending the plastic cup crashing to the floor, spilling the orange liquid everywhere. “I am severely allergic to mango, Melanie. Are you trying to kill me?” Melanie’s tears fell instantly. “I’m so sorry, Giselle… I just wanted to make you happy…” Corey shoved himself between us, pulling Melanie into his chest. “Giselle! Are you out of your mind? She went out of her way to get you something, and you push her? You’re acting like a psychopath!” I didn’t have the energy to argue. I walked past them into the guest bedroom to find dry clothes. Staring at my pale, shivering reflection in the mirror, my mind drifted back five years. There was a time when I protected Melanie intensely. Back then, she was a broke scholarship student who couldn’t afford meals. Because she hated the local food, I woke up early every day to cook for her. When she was cornered by local thugs, I threw myself in front of her, taking a beating that left me hospitalized for weeks. She had cried by my hospital bed, swearing I was the best thing in her life, like a real sister. But now, that “sister” was systematically consuming everything that belonged to me. A deep, bone-chilling cold settled in my chest. In the middle of the night, I woke up with a pounding headache. The rain and the cold had caught up to me; my skin was burning with a fever. I fumbled my way out of the room, intending to ask Corey to drive me to the ER. The guest room door was slightly open, a warm light spilling into the hallway. They were sitting close together on the bed, their heads nearly touching as they stared at a phone screen. “Get down to the bot lane, Corey! I’m getting ganked!” Melanie giggled. “Don’t worry, I’m right behind you,” Corey replied, his voice incredibly soft. From the phone’s speaker, Corey’s friends laughed over Discord. “Damn, Corey, matching couple skins? Your girl is so chill. If my girlfriend saw me doing this, she’d burn the house down. You really know how to keep her in line.” Corey let out a low chuckle. “She wouldn’t dare make a scene.” I leaned against the doorframe, a wave of nausea washing over me. I turned back to the closet, grabbed my coat, and walked out into the night alone. By the time I reached the hospital, the sky was beginning to turn a bruised purple. I walked to the billing window, handing over my card. “Declined. Insufficient funds,” the receptionist said, sliding the card back. I blinked, confused. “That’s impossible. That account holds my mother’s inheritance and my savings. There should be nearly fifty thousand dollars in there.” “Well, look at the ungrateful runaway,” a sharp, venomous voice sneered behind me. I turned around to see Regina, my stepmother. She was dressed in designer labels, clutching an expensive leather handbag, her eyes filled with mock pity. “What’s the matter? Did your penniless boyfriend finally dump you? Can’t even afford a hospital copay?” I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. This woman had destroyed my family. She was my father’s secretary, using an unplanned pregnancy to force her way into our home. My mother’s heart couldn’t take the stress; she passed away in the hospital shortly after. I cut ties with them the moment I went to college. When Corey proposed, he had stood before Regina and promised he would protect me, that he would never let me look down on myself again. Where was he now? I dialed Corey’s number. “The line you are trying to reach is busy…” Busy. Every single time. Regina walked up to the counter and slapped several hundred-dollar bills onto the desk. “Pay it for her, nurse. Consider it a charitable donation to a beggar.” She turned back to me, her lips curling into a cruel smile. “Giselle, you can play tough all you want, but in the end, you still end up living like a dog.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. As the IV fluids dripped into my vein, my phone lit up with a social media notification. Melanie had just posted a new photo on Instagram. It was a picture of her and Corey standing under a giant, illuminated Ferris wheel. The caption read: “He said no matter how old I get, he’ll always treat me like his little girl.” A single tear fell onto the screen, blurring the image. When Corey finally came home, I had been sitting on the living room sofa waiting for him all night. “Corey, did you touch my bank account?” He tossed his keys onto the entryway table, his tone entirely casual. “Oh, that? I used it for Melanie’s down payment.” My brain went entirely numb. “You did what?” “Melanie’s family is having some trouble, and she needed her own place to settle down.” Corey poured himself a glass of water, looking at my pale face with utter confusion. “It’s not safe for a single woman to rent in that neighborhood. I used your savings to help her secure the apartment. She’ll pay us back when she can.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh, though no tears came. “That was my money! My mother’s inheritance!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “How dare you touch my money without asking me? How dare you use my mother’s legacy to buy another woman a house!” Corey’s face darkened, his voice rising to match mine. “Giselle, watch your mouth! What do you mean ‘another woman’? Melanie is your best friend!” “Why are you being so materialistic? It’s just money. Do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “Why are you always targeting her? She’s your friend! Can’t you just be happy for her for once? Can’t you be a bigger person?” I stared at his angry, defensive face, suddenly realizing how absurd the last five years had been. It was always this way. Every time Melanie and I had a conflict, he would choose her side without hesitation, turn the blame on me, and accuse me of being jealous and small-minded. My heart died in that exact moment. “Corey, we’re calling off the wed—” Before I could finish, his phone rang. It was Melanie’s custom ringtone. His expression softened instantly as he answered. “Melanie? What’s wrong?” Melanie’s crying voice echoed from the receiver. “Corey, I’m lost… it’s so dark here, and I’m scared.” “Don’t worry, send me your location. I’m coming right now.” Corey grabbed his coat, rushing out the door before he had even fully laced his shoes. “Giselle, we’ll talk about this later. I’ll see you at the company gala tonight. We’ll celebrate your promotion then.” The heavy door slammed shut behind him. That evening, I arrived at the company gala alone. The banquet hall was alive with clinking glasses and laughter. Several colleagues approached me immediately, their faces full of curiosity. “Giselle, congratulations! A promotion and a wedding—double blessings!” “You and Corey got your license today, right? Why didn’t you post anything on social media? You’re too modest!” I looked at them coldly. “We didn’t get married.” The circle went silent, the atmosphere instantly turning awkward. Right then, the double doors of the banquet hall swung open. Corey and Melanie walked in side-by-side. Melanie was wearing a stunning, high-end designer gown, her hand draped casually over Corey’s arm. Whispers broke out through the crowd. Seeing me, Melanie slid her arm away from Corey and walked directly over to my table. “Giselle, look at this! This is the blueprint Corey just sent me. Isn’t it absolutely brilliant?” She held up a tablet displaying a complex architectural structure. In the bottom right corner was Corey’s signature. My chest felt as though it were being pierced by a thousand needles. That was the blueprint I had spent consecutive sleepless nights drafting for the European fellowship. Corey had never cared about my career. He had never asked about my work. But he would stay up until dawn to help Melanie with her spreadsheets, and now, he had handed my life’s work to her on a silver platter. Melanie leaned close, her voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear. “You see, Giselle? In this company, and in his life, you’re nothing but a third wheel.” Looking at her smug, beautiful face, the anger I had kept bottled up finally broke through. “Melanie, do you have any shame at all?” I grabbed a glass of red wine from the table and threw it directly into her face. “A thief who sleeps her way to the top and steals my designs has no right to speak to me.” Melanie gasped, covering her face as she began to sob dramatically. “Giselle, how could you say that? I know you’re jealous of my position, but you can’t just ruin my reputation!” Corey rushed over, pulling Melanie protectively into his arms. He glared at me, his eyes wild with fury. “Giselle! Are you out of your mind?” “How many times do I have to tell you? I only look out for Melanie because she’s like a sister to me! Why do you have to be so malicious?” As Melanie was led away to clean up, the whispers around the room grew louder, the glances directed at me turning sharp and judgmental. But I was too exhausted to care. I had only come to this gala to close the final chapter of my life here. For the next two hours, Corey ignored me entirely. When it came time for the promotions, the host took the microphone. “Now, we invite our Managing Director, Corey, to the stage to announce our new Project Director.” Corey adjusted his suit and walked up to the podium, his eyes scanning the crowd before landing on Melanie. “The promotion for Project Director goes to… Melanie.” A heavy silence fell over the room. I stood at the back, staring at the man on the stage. “Corey, on what grounds are you giving my promotion to her?” For years, I had dimmed my own light to help Corey build this company. Every time a promotion came up, he asked me to step back to “avoid favoritism,” and I had agreed. Then Melanie joined the company. She knew nothing about design, yet within a year, Corey had promoted her to my level and placed her on my projects. She made countless mistakes, crying and begging me to fix them. When I refused, Corey would scold me: “She’s new, Giselle. As her senior, why can’t you help her? Don’t be so selfish.” To earn this promotion, I had done the work of three people, losing sleep and hair. And now, the credit belonged to Melanie. “I managed this entire project alone,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline. “What did Melanie do? Corey, have you thrown away your professional ethics just to favor her?” Corey looked down at me from the stage, his expression cold. “I made this decision to build your character. You are too stubborn, Giselle. You don’t understand teamwork.” Melanie hid behind him, wiping her tears. “Giselle, I’m so sorry… I didn’t know you wanted this so badly. If this is going to ruin your relationship with Corey, I won’t take the position…” “Shut up!” I snapped. Corey’s face turned white with anger. “Giselle, that is enough!” “Consider this a lesson. Once you learn to humble yourself and stop fighting Melanie, I’ll consider going back to the clerk’s office with you.” I let out a soft laugh. It was hilarious, really. All my hard work, my sacrifices, and my devotion were nothing but an obedience training exercise to him. The anger drained out of me, leaving behind a cold, hollow peace. “Don’t bother,” I said quietly. Corey blinked, caught off guard. Before he could speak, the doors to the hall were pushed open. Two police officers walked in, their eyes scanning the room. “Is there a Giselle here?” The room fell dead silent. “I am Giselle,” I said, stepping forward. The officer produced a badge. “We have a warrant for your arrest. You are suspected of online defamation and malicious harassment. Please come with us to the station.” I stared at him, completely lost. Melanie gasped loudly, covering her mouth. “Officers, there must be some mistake! I only reported the online accounts that were calling me a homewrecker… I didn’t know it was Giselle!” Tears spilled over her cheeks. “Giselle, why would you do this to me? If I knew it was you, I never would have called the police…” As she spoke, the projector screen behind the stage flickered. A screenshot of a local forum appeared, showing the IP address and the burner account used to post the thread. I stared at the username. It was indeed my old burner account. But the timestamp of the post was from the exact hours I was lying semi-conscious in the ER. In an instant, everything clicked. “It was you,” I said, pointing at Melanie. “You took my phone while I was sick, made those posts, and then called the police on me.” Corey stepped in front of her, shoving me back. “Giselle! You are sick! You get caught committing a crime, and you try to frame Melanie?” I stumbled backward, my back hitting the edge of a table, a sharp pain radiating through my spine. The officers stepped in, securing my hands. “You can make your statement at the station.” As the cold metal of the handcuffs locked around my wrists, I looked back. Corey was busy wiping the tears from Melanie’s face. He didn’t look at me once. At the station, the officer informed me that Melanie was demanding ten thousand dollars in civil damages to drop the charges. But my accounts had been cleared out by Corey. I didn’t even have a hundred dollars to my name. Just as I was preparing myself to spend the next two weeks in a holding cell, the sound of heels echoed down the corridor. Professor Adler walked in, accompanied by a corporate lawyer. Within thirty minutes, they had processed my bail. “I booked you a ticket,” Professor Adler said, handing me a boarding pass. “The flight leaves at two this afternoon.” She looked at my pale face and sighed. “Let’s get you out of this swamp.” I looked out the window at the gray skyline of the city. There was no sadness left inside me, only a cold, absolute resolve. “Okay.” Two hours later, Corey walked into the police station precinct, his tone dripping with condescension. “I’m here to pick up my fiancée.” Melanie clung to his arm, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. “Corey, Giselle must be terrified after spending the night in jail. Don’t be too hard on her when she comes out.” Corey patted her hand. “You’re too sweet, Melanie. Still defending her after what she did.” He turned to the desk sergeant. “I’m her partner. Tell her that if she apologizes to Melanie, I’ll sign the papers to get her out.” The officer looked up from his ledger, completely unimpressed. “Giselle? She was bailed out two hours ago.” Corey froze. “Bailed out? By whom?” “Her university professor and a lawyer. All the paperwork went through.” Corey’s face darkened. “She really has a way of making a scene, running to her old mentors.” He pulled out his phone and dialed my number. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service…” The automated voice made his chest tighten. Melanie pulled at his sleeve. “Corey, is Giselle mad at me? Is she hiding?” “Where could she possibly go?” Corey sneered. “She’s probably too ashamed to face me. She’ll have crawled back to her hometown to hide.” Melanie bit her lip. “Corey, there have been some strange men hanging around my apartment lately. I’m really scared. Since Giselle isn’t at the apartment, do you think… I could stay with you for a few days?” Looking at her fragile, tearful expression, Corey’s heart softened. “Of course. Move your things over. The code is already your birthday anyway.” “Thank you, Corey! You’re the best.” Meanwhile, at the airport. “Giselle, buckle your seatbelt. We’re about to taxi,” Professor Adler said from the seat next to mine, handing me a sanitizing wipe. I took it and gently wiped the red chafing marks the handcuffs had left on my wrists. “Thank you, Professor.” “Are you still thinking about Corey?” she asked softly. “No,” I replied, looking out at the heavy clouds outside the window. “I’m just calculating a bill.” “A bill?” “The fifty thousand dollars my mother left me,” I said, turning to look her in the eye. “And the five years of labor I gave to his company.” I paused. “Professor, when we land in Paris, I want to meet with a commercial litigation lawyer.” A proud smile touched her lips. “Good. I was worried you’d let them off the hook.” The plane broke through the heavy gray clouds, and the brilliant, untamed sunlight flooded the cabin. I closed my eyes, letting the light wash over me, completely erasing their names from my life.

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On our third wedding anniversary, I spent five hours kneeling on the cold floor of the VIP lounge. Olivia didn’t make an appearance until midnight, her arm casually looped through Brody’s—her childhood sweetheart, the boy she had spent her entire life protecting. With a wave of her hand, her entourage lined up thirty shot glasses of overproof whiskey on the low table in front of me. “Drink up, Jesse,” she said, her voice cool and detached. “Every glass you down buys your lunatic sister another day of care at the facility.” I didn’t say a word. I just reached for the first glass and poured the burning liquid down my throat. By the fifth shot, my stomach was on fire. I collapsed onto my knees, clutching my gut, coughing so violently that my chest heaved. A ripple of laughter echoed through the dim, plush room. “Three years of this, and Olivia still finds the best ways to make him pay,” one of her wealthy trust-fund friends sneered. “It never gets old.” “He got what he deserved,” another added, swirling their drink. “If Jesse hadn’t spiked Brody’s water back then and ruined his vocal cords, Brody would be headlining arenas right now. Jesse’s lucky she didn’t throw him in a cell. He should be swallowing the glass, too.” Olivia’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. She picked up an empty tumbler and tossed it at my feet. It shattered, scattering sharp, glittering shards across the floor. She leaned down, her fingers gripping my chin, forcing me to look up into her beautiful, cold eyes. “The former darling of the West Coast music scene, and this is all the liquor you can handle? Fine. You don’t have to drink.” She let go of my face, wiping her hand on a napkin. “Just swallow those shards of glass, get down on your hands and knees, and bow to Brody a hundred times. Do that, and I’ll forgive you. I’ll even pay for ten years of your sister’s care.” She looked at me with absolute certainty, waiting for the broken, desperate compliance she had grown so accustomed to over the last three years. I looked back at her, and for the first time, a laugh slipped past my lips. It was a hollow, tragic sound. “There’s no need anymore,” I whispered. Just before dawn, the facility had kicked Maisie out. Disoriented and panicked in the middle of an episode, she had wandered onto the highway. A semi-truck hit her. She was already gone. … Olivia froze, her expression faltering for a fraction of a second. “What did you say?” My gaze drifted past her to the mug of warm honey water sitting in front of Brody. It was exactly ninety-eight degrees—not too hot, not too cold. Olivia had personally prepared it for him before they walked in, a meticulous ritual to soothe his throat. “I said, I don’t need your money,” I repeated, my voice raspy and dead. “And I don’t need your forgiveness. Let’s get a divorce.” The lounge fell silent for half a beat before Brody’s friends erupted into louder, harsher laughter. “Is he seriously trying to play hard to get? Olivia offers him a lifeline, and he uses it to throw a tantrum? Talk about ungrateful.” “Does he honestly think he has options? With that ruined throat of his, he couldn’t get a gig singing at a dive bar. Without Olivia, he’s nothing. Is he planning to take his idiot sister and go beg on the streets?” I listened to the insults, my face completely blank. I had spent three years acting as their punching bag. Every month, on this exact date, was my day of penance. Being publicly humiliated was just one of the many ways Olivia ensured I remembered my place. Olivia scrutinized my face, her irritation hardening into a scowl. “Jesse, that’s enough. Are you really throwing a fit just because I was busy putting Brody to bed last night and missed a few of your calls?” She scoffed, crossing her arms. “What could you possibly have had going on in the middle of the night that was so urgent? You’re bringing up divorce over a few missed calls? If Brody hadn’t been so kind, you’d be sitting in a penitentiary right now. Stop being so dramatic. This is what you owe him.” I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t bother correcting her. It wasn’t “a few” calls. It was thirty-two. But what was the point of explaining? Any pride, any fight I had left in me, had been slowly, systematically eroded by three years of neglect and quiet cruelty. A sharp, metallic taste rose in my throat, followed by a burning wave in my chest. I couldn’t hold it back. I coughed, and a splash of bright red blood stained the floor between my hands. Olivia’s face drained of color. She took a sudden step forward, her hand instinctively reaching out to me. “Jesse, you—” Before her fingers could touch my shoulder, Brody slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her back against him. His voice, though slightly husky, carried a soft, vulnerable tremor. “Jesse, Olivia is only offering you this chance because she thinks you’ve shown some remorse over the years. If you don’t want to make amends, you can just say so. There’s no need to fake-cough blood for sympathy. It’s not like five shots of whiskey are going to kill you.” Brody lowered his head, his eyes casting downward. “When you spiked my drink back then, my throat burned much worse than that.” I closed my eyes. “No, it won’t kill me,” I thought. “It just makes me wish I were dead.” But Olivia believed him. For three years, she had always believed him. The brief flash of concern in her eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar, biting coldness. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Jesse. When did you learn to become such a manipulative actor?” She checked her designer watch. “It’s time for Brody’s vocal therapy. I don’t have time for your little performances.” She grabbed her coat. “Since you refuse to take this seriously, I’m only wiring five days of care fees for the five glasses you drank. The rest will wait until you’ve actually learned your lesson and are ready to clear your debt.” She took Brody’s hand, and they walked out, her friends trailing behind them like a loyal court. A moment later, my phone vibrated with a bank notification. What Olivia didn’t know—what she hadn’t cared to learn—was that the care facility didn’t accept daily payments. They didn’t care about a delay of a few hours. During the hours she was ignoring my calls to comfort Brody, Maisie had been shoved out the front doors into the freezing night. Terrified and confused, she had run into the path of oncoming traffic. She didn’t need a care facility anymore. At the hospital, the ER doctor told me the blood was caused by severe acid reflux and esophageal irritation from the high-proof alcohol. It wasn’t terminal. I suppose I should have been relieved, but I felt absolutely nothing. Just a vast, hollow space where my chest used to be. The only person in this world who actually needed me was gone. I went to the crematorium alone to arrange Maisie’s service. As I stood outside the heavy iron doors, listening to the low, mechanical rumble of the incinerator, I began to sing. My voice was a ruined, gravelly whisper, but I forced the melody out anyway—the quiet, gentle lullaby I used to sing to her when she was small. I remembered how she used to curl up in my lap, her sticky fingers tracing my jaw, her eyes bright and wide. “Jesse, you sing prettier than the birds,” she’d whisper. She had loved my voice more than anyone. And now, this ugly, broken rasp was the only send-off I could give her. When the attendant finally handed me the small wooden urn, my voice cracked as I thanked him. The man stared at my face, recognition slowly dawning in his eyes. He gasped. “Wait… are you Jesse Lin? What happened to your voice?” I lowered my eyes, adjusting my grip on the urn. “I swallowed something bad.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Over the last three years, Olivia had found countless ways to ruin my throat, all in the name of making me “atone.” The first time, she had locked me in a karaoke room for fifteen hours straight, forcing me to sing without a single drop of water. The second time, she made me drink a glass of concentrated chili extract. The third time, she forced me to eat boiling soup dumplings straight from the pot, the liquid blistering my throat before I could even swallow. After a while, the methods blurred together. My voice was gone, and there was nothing left to save. Sensing the heavy silence, the attendant quickly tried to soften his tone. “Well… I guess it doesn’t matter much anyway. You’ve got Olivia Cornell taking care of you. You don’t need to work. We all saw that massive, beautiful proposal she did on the harbor livestream. We were so envious.” He paused, looking around the empty hallway. “By the way… where is she? Shouldn’t she be here for her sister-in-law’s service?” I managed a faint, bloodless smile. “She’s busy.” As I stepped out into the blinding afternoon sun, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Olivia. “You ruined the rug in the lounge when you threw up. Brody bought that piece. Go back and clean it yourself, or the cost is coming out of your sister’s care fund.” “Also, we’re having dinner at my mother’s house tonight. Take a cab there. I have to pick up Brody first.” I looked up at the sky, the light burning my eyes. I remembered another bright, sunny afternoon, years ago, when Olivia had held my hand on a grassy hill. We had watched Maisie, whose mind had reverted to that of a five-year-old after a traumatic assault in her teens, chase butterflies through the clover. Olivia’s hand had been so warm. Her promise had felt unbreakable. “Jesse, I’ve got her into the best facility in the state,” she had whispered, pulling me close. “We’re going to take care of her together. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.” I had truly believed I was the luckiest man alive. Until the night of the national music showcase, right before our wedding. Brody had taken a sip of water from a bottle I had handed him, and within minutes, he was choking, clawing at his throat. The doctors said his vocal cords had been permanently scarred by a corrosive chemical. He would never sing again. Olivia hadn’t called the police. She had quietly buried the scandal, carried on with our wedding, and convinced me to retire from the public eye. Only later did I realize it wasn’t mercy. It was a trap. By pulling me out of the industry, she stripped away my career, my financial independence, and my support system until I had nowhere left to turn but her. Then came the threats about Maisie’s care fees. The demands for penance. I had screamed, begged, and sworn my innocence, but she never believed me. She had only looked at me with cold disgust. “Brody comes from money, Jesse. He’s a gentle soul. He would never sacrifice his own dream just to frame someone like you,” she had said. “Only an orphan from a group home would have a mind that twisted. You’d do anything to climb to the top, wouldn’t you?” She was no longer the woman who loved my music. She was my jailer. But I still had to go to the Cornell estate tonight. Maisie’s favorite necklace—the one she had woven for me out of cheap, colorful plastic beads—was still in my old room there. It was a childish, worthless thing, but it was the last tangible piece of her I had left. I had to get it back. When I entered the Cornell mansion, Olivia, Brody, and her mother were sitting in the dining room, discussing the menu. Olivia was peeling fruit, gently placing a slice of pear into Brody’s mouth. “Mom, make sure the kitchen—” “I know, I know,” Mrs. Cornell interrupted with a fond laugh. “I already told the chef to prepare the glazed salmon and asparagus. Brody’s favorites. You’re not the only one who pampers him, Olivia.” Olivia smiled, silent and content. Brody looked up, offering a sweet, innocent grin. “Thank you, Mrs. Cornell. But… isn’t Jesse coming tonight? Shouldn’t we ask what he wants?” Mrs. Cornell scoffed, her face instantly hardening. “Who cares what that busker wants to eat? He should thank his lucky stars he’s even allowed to sit at our table. He has no right to be picky.” She had never liked me. To her, Brody’s pursuit of music was a refined, artistic hobby for a wealthy heir. Mine was just the desperate grab of a penniless social climber. When Mrs. Cornell caught sight of me standing in the doorway, her expression soured further. “What is that garbage you’re carrying?” I held the wooden urn a little tighter against my chest. “It’s not garbage. It’s… my sister.” She rolled her eyes, her voice rising in a sharp, irritating pitch. “What’s wrong with her now? What cheap trinket did that simpleton send you this time? Honestly, Jesse, everything we give you—your clothes, your food, her medical bills—is paid for by our family. Instead of giving me attitude, you should be focused on giving this family an heir. I still don’t understand what my daughter saw in you. You’re just a parasite.” It was always like this. She didn’t listen to the words coming out of my mouth; she just looked for any excuse to degrade me. In the beginning, Olivia would have jumped to my defense. Now… I looked at her. She was entirely focused on slicing another piece of fruit for Brody. We had almost had a child once. But the moment the pregnancy test came back positive, Brody had broken down in tears in front of Olivia. “Jesse took away my voice, my entire future,” he had sobbed, clutching her sleeve. “How can he just move on and have a perfect, happy family while I’m left with nothing?” Olivia’s heart had broken for him. She had turned to me, her eyes dead and resolute. “We’re not keeping it, Jesse. Until Brody’s depression is managed, you don’t deserve this kind of happiness. And don’t tell my mother. I don’t want her blaming Brody for this decision.” “Jesse,” Olivia’s voice cut through my memory, sharp and commanding. “Put that box away and go wash your hands. Brody wants your specialty braised duck tonight. Don’t make him wait.” My fingers dug into my pockets, pressing against the hard wrapper of an orange-flavored candy. It was Maisie’s favorite flavor. She had saved it for me, even when her memory was slipping away. Near the end, she would always ask me, “Jesse, when is Olivia coming to see me? I saved these orange candies for her. She’s so nice to you. I want to give them to her.” She had died waiting for a sister-in-law who never came. The butler entered the room, carrying a small, perfectly groomed Pomeranian. “Mr. Brody, your dog is back from the groomer’s.” Brody cooed, taking the small dog into his arms. “Olivia, look! Doesn’t he look adorable in his new collar?” My chest seized. Woven around the dog’s neck, held together by a cheap silver clasp, was Maisie’s hand-made plastic bead necklace. I walked straight over to him, extending a trembling hand. “Give it back.” Olivia’s face darkened. “Jesse, don’t start. It’s a cheap piece of plastic. Don’t lose your dignity over a dog toy.” “My sister made that for me,” I said, my voice shaking. Olivia let out an irritated sigh. “Maisie gave you dozens of those plastic toys. If you want one so badly, I’ll buy you a box of beads tomorrow and have her string them together. Given the pain you caused Brody, letting his dog play with a cheap trinket to make him happy is a tiny price to pay. Now go to the kitchen.” Looking at the absolute lack of empathy in her eyes, a profound, crushing exhaustion washed over me. “What’s the point?” I thought. Maisie was gone. A plastic necklace wouldn’t bring her back. But I knew if I didn’t cook this dinner, Olivia wouldn’t let me leave. I went to the kitchen and began preparing the food. Halfway through, Brody wandered in. He leaned against the counter, watching me with a smug, lingering smile. “You know, Jesse, given our families’ history, I really didn’t want to treat Olivia’s husband like a servant,” he murmured, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of his usual raspy strain. “But the truth is, you’re not really her husband, are you? You’re just a servant paying a debt. And you’ll be bowing to me for the rest of your life.” I stopped chopping, turning slowly to face him. “What do you mean?” Brody tilted his head toward the back door. “Why don’t you go listen for yourself? Unless you want to accuse me of lying again.” A cold dread pooled in my stomach. I walked quietly out to the side terrace. Above me was the open window to Mrs. Cornell’s second-floor study. I could hear their voices clearly. “Olivia, you told me three years ago that the marriage license you signed with Jesse was fake,” Mrs. Cornell was saying, her tone impatient. “You said it was just a legal leash to keep him here so he could pay his dues to Brody. But how much longer are you going to drag this out? Brody has loved you since you were kids, and I want him as my son-in-law. Dump Jesse and marry Brody. I want grandchildren before I’m too old.” I stood frozen, the breath completely trapped in my throat. My hands clenched into tight fists. There was a long silence, and then Olivia’s calm, level voice floated down. “Just a little longer, Mom. He hasn’t finished paying his debt yet.” Something inside me fractured into a thousand silent pieces. For three years, I had knelt, starved, and bled to earn her forgiveness. I had let her drag my soul through the mud because I believed we were bound by vows. But our marriage was a lie. The certificate was fake. She never had any intention of letting me go. She was just waiting until she had broken me completely before tossing me aside. I walked back into the kitchen like a ghost. Brody was still there, twirling Maisie’s plastic necklace around his finger, waiting for my reaction. He glanced up at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling, then took a step closer, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Jesse, did you know your sister is dead?” I stared at him, my heart stopping. “How…” “When she got kicked out of that place, she couldn’t reach you, so she tried to FaceTime Olivia. Olivia was in the shower, so I answered.” Brody’s eyes gleamed with a sickening, malicious delight. “I decided to show her some fun videos. You know, the ones of you singing until your throat bled, crawling on the floor, eating hot coals. She went absolutely hysterical. Started screaming, crying, apologizing to her ‘big brother,’ and then she just ran out into the street. Right into a truck. It was honestly hilarious.” Brody’s voice dropped to a venomous hiss. “A worthless charity-case orphan like you… how dare you think you could sing better than me? How dare you take Olivia? I wanted to see you suffer, Jesse. And now you have nothing.” My brain went entirely numb. The night Maisie died, I had been desperately calling Olivia, begging for money to save my sister. Olivia’s line had been busy for hours. It wasn’t because she was ignoring me. It was because Brody was using her phone to torture my sister. Before I could even think, I grabbed the heavy, boiling pot of duck and threw it at his face. But Olivia walked into the kitchen at that exact moment. Seeing my movement, she lunged forward, grabbing my right wrist and twisting it back with brutal force. The boiling fat and heavy iron pot fell back onto me. The scalding liquid poured down my right arm, instantly searing my skin. Giant, angry blisters began to rise, the pain white-hot and agonizing. Olivia shoved me back against the counter, her eyes flashing with rage. “Jesse! You just can’t stop, can you?!” Brody huddled behind her, his eyes red and tearful, cradling his hand. “Olivia… I just wanted to give him his necklace back. I don’t know why he attacked me…” Mrs. Cornell rushed into the room, screaming that I was a psychopath who belonged in a psychiatric ward or a prison cell. Olivia ignored her mother, her eyes dropping to my blistered, raw arm. She frowned, a trace of unease flicking across her face. “Jesse… apologize to Brody, and I’ll take you to the hospital.” She chose him. Again. But the pain didn’t reach my heart this time. The numbness had finally taken over. “Apologize to him?” I let out a dry, broken chuckle. “I’d rather die. He’s the one who needs to go to hell and apologize to my sister.” Olivia stared at me, her expression hardening. “Are you still playing this game? Now you’re cursing your own sister just to get out of an apology?” I didn’t answer her. I picked up the plastic necklace from the floor, walked upstairs to get Maisie’s urn, and walked out the front door. Behind me, Olivia’s angry voice echoed through the foyer. “Jesse! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare come back crying!” When I arrived at the public hospital, the nurses, patients, and visitors in the lobby stared at me with strange, disgusted expressions. Several people pulled out their phones, pointing the cameras directly at my face. Sensing that something was deeply wrong, I pulled out my phone and opened social media. A photo of me throwing the boiling pot at Brody had already been uploaded, trending at the top of the local news feed. Along with the photo, a detailed article about our “rivalry” from three years ago had been published. “Former indie darling Jesse Lin exposed: Ruined rival’s vocal cords with chemical poisoning to win showcase.” The comment section was a toxic wasteland. Thousands of people were calling me a jealous, talentless parasite, telling me I deserved to rot in hell. Someone had even dug up Maisie’s personal information. They claimed her mental disability was the result of a severe, untreated sexually transmitted disease she contracted from being promiscuous. They fabricated stories about her working at cheap, illicit clubs. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the phone. I dialed Olivia’s number. When she picked up, my voice was barely a whisper. “Why… why would you let them target Maisie? She’s dead.” On the other end of the line, I heard the click of a lighter. “I didn’t want it to go this far, Jesse,” Olivia said, her voice sounding tired but firm. “But you refused to apologize to Brody. I had to use the only leverage I had left to make you listen.” “Maisie isn’t leverage! She was a human being! She called you her sister, Olivia! She saved her favorite candies for you!” Olivia was silent for a long moment. “She’s not mentally competent anyway, Jesse. She can’t even read those comments. Once the news cycle moves on, everyone will forget about it. But you hurt Brody, and I had to give his family an explanation.” I hung up the phone. The final thread of my sanity snapped. As I stood in the corridor, dazed and bleeding, three large men suddenly stepped out of the stairwell, blocking my path. “Are you Jesse Lin?” one of them sneered, stepping closer. “We finally found you.” Before I could call for help, they dragged me out onto the empty, wind-swept terrace on the fourth floor. “You’re the piece of trash who ruined Brody’s life?” the leader growled, shoving me to the concrete floor. “And then you burn him with boiling water? We’re going to make sure you never hurt anyone again.” Even though Brody had retired, he still had a small group of obsessive, fanatical followers. I was kicked to the ground, my arms wrapped protectively around Maisie’s urn. But one of them kicked my chest, and the urn slipped from my grip, shattering against the concrete wall. My sister’s ashes spilled across the dirty floor. “No! Please, no!” I sobbed, crawling toward the ashes, but a heavy boot brought me down again, pinning my head to the ground. “What kind of sick freak carries ashes around?” the man spat, kicking me in the ribs. “Beating you is a public service.” A rain of fists and heavy boots fell upon me. Through the pain, I watched as the harsh wind began to catch Maisie’s ashes, lifting them over the terrace railing and scattering them into the gray sky. My tears mixed with the blood on my face as I reached out toward the empty air. “Stop! Someone’s coming! Let’s go!” one of them shouted, and the men quickly scrambled back into the stairwell. When Olivia finally arrived at the hospital after being alerted by the staff, she found me kneeling on the concrete. I had spread my thin jacket on the floor, desperately trying to scrape the remaining ashes onto the fabric. My face was swollen and bloody, my lips split open. Olivia gasped, her face pale with shock. “Jesse… are you stupid? Why didn’t you call me?” She reached out to grab my arm, her voice trembling. “If the nurses hadn’t called security, they would have killed you! Come inside, we need to get you to an doctor right now!” I looked up at her, my eyes flat and lifeless. “Don’t touch me.” She froze. She had never seen me look at her with such absolute, chilling detachment. I carefully folded the corners of my jacket, tying the sleeves together to ensure none of the remaining ashes could escape. I hugged the bundle tight against my chest. “Olivia,” I whispered, standing up slowly and backing toward the edge of the terrace. “You said… once I paid my debt, you’d let me go, right?” Panic flared in her eyes as she saw how close I was to the low railing. “Jesse… what are you doing? Step back.” I pressed the bundle to my cheek, closing my eyes. “Maisie, I’m sorry. I’m coming to find you.” I turned and stepped over the railing, falling backward into the open air. Above me, Olivia’s desperate, horrified scream tore through the sky. “JESSE!!!”

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The day Victor won the Nobel Prize, a reporter traveled all the way to my quiet cottage in upstate New York to interview me—his disgraced ex-wife. The live-stream camera was shoved directly into my face, catching every raw, unedited detail of my weathered skin. “Mrs. Pearl Harold, forty years ago you allegedly grew impatient with Professor Harold’s poverty, had an affair, and were caught in bed by your husband. We also understand your own parents took their lives out of the shame of your actions.” The reporter paused, letting the heavy words hang in the air for the thousands of viewers watching online. “Now, Professor Harold is a world-renowned Nobel laureate and a lifetime honorary professor at Columbia University. As the woman who was once his wife, what do you have to say to him today?” I kept watering my hydrangeas, offering no response. Unwilling to let the story slip away, the reporter pressed on. “We’ve heard you have a daughter. Does she know what kind of mother you were?” My hand froze on the watering can. Slowly, I straightened my aching back and looked directly into the camera lens. “Victor,” I said, my voice steady and quiet. “I am giving you three days.” “Either you tell the world the truth about what happened back then, or I will do it for you.” Forty years. Some secrets have festered in the dark for far too long. It is time for the truth to breathe in the sun, and for the real culprit to be pinned to the pillar of shame. … “Mrs. Harold, what exactly do you mean by that?” “Is there more to the story? Are you claiming you didn’t betray Professor Harold, that the entire scandal was a lie?” The reporter’s voice climbed with the frantic energy of someone who had just stumbled onto a career-making headline. Since the Nobel committee had announced this year’s laureates, Victor’s name had been trending across social media for a week. His entire life story had been unearthed and repackaged for public consumption, and the most captivating chapter for the public was always me—the unfaithful ex-wife who had supposedly “shattered” him, inadvertently driving him to seek solace in his work. In the public narrative, I was the ultimate villain. I was the dark stain on his brilliant life, the catalyst that pushed him to climb to the pinnacle of scientific achievement. My lined, exhausted face was broadcast in high definition to millions of screens. The live chat on the stream was moving too fast to read. “Is this woman out of her mind? She couldn’t handle being married to a broke researcher, slept with his best friend, and got caught red-handed. Victor almost lost his mind back then. It was his current wife, Beatrice, who saved him and stood by him.” “Victor has never said a single bad word about her in public all these years, and now she’s trying to drag his name through the mud? The nerve.” “If I were her, seeing how incredibly successful and wealthy he is now, my chest would be tight with regret.” “Don’t underestimate a quiet man when he’s down. She played herself. If she had just been patient, she’d be the one standing on that stage next to him.” “Please. Look at how elegant and cultured Beatrice is. This woman looks bitter and miserable. If I were Victor, I’d choose Beatrice too.” The comments flashed before my eyes, but they didn’t leave even a ripple of emotion in my chest. I had spent forty years listening to whispers far worse than these. Seeing the viewer count skyrocket, the reporter practically pressed the microphone against my lips. “Mrs. Harold, please, don’t leave us hanging. There are fifty thousand people waiting for your explanation right now.” I ignored the microphone, picked up my watering can, and walked toward my front door. “What does it mean?” I paused at the threshold, looking back one last time. “You’ll find out in three days.” The moment the door clicked shut, my phone began to ring. My daughter’s frantic voice filled the quiet kitchen. “Mom, they leaked your address. People are sharing it online, and more reporters are heading your way. It isn’t safe there. I’m having Matthew come pick you up right now. You need to stay with us for a while. Sammy misses you anyway.” I knew she was trying to shield me. She wanted to protect me from the ghosts of a past that had already broken me once. But running never truly saves you. “Joy, sweetheart,” I said softly, staring out the window at the distant, rolling hills. “I ran once. I spent forty years hiding in the shadows of someone else’s lies. I won’t do it again.” Only the guilty need to hide. I carried Victor’s shame on my back for four decades, and my shoulders are tired. I have no intention of taking his sins into my grave. By evening, my short statement had taken over the internet. The clip of me demanding the truth from a Nobel laureate was playing on loop across every major news site. Victor was at the height of his glory—a celebrated mind who had contributed immeasurably to human progress. I was a forgotten, disgraced woman from a small rural town who had supposedly broken his heart. The court of public opinion had already reached its verdict. The harassment began almost immediately. Strangers photoshopped my face onto funeral portraits, my phone vibrated constantly with threatening text messages, and a wave of digital rage washed over my quiet life. For a few disorienting hours, I felt like I had been pulled back in time, standing once again in the center of a town that looked at me like I was a monster. Forty years ago, Victor and I were the only two kids from our impoverished Appalachian coal town to get accepted into Columbia University. We had planned to leave the dust behind, to build a life together in New York. But weeks before we were supposed to register, Victor’s mother suffered a massive stroke. The local church and our neighbors pooled their meager savings to help pay for her immediate medical bills, but she was left paralyzed, requiring constant, intensive care. Victor had put on a brave face in public, but behind closed doors, he collapsed against my shoulder, sobbing hysterically. “Pearl, what am I supposed to do? I can’t leave her. My life is over before it even started.” Looking at his tear-stained face, knowing how brilliant his mind was, I couldn’t bear to watch him fade away in our small town. I made a choice that everyone in my family begged me not to make. I married him in a rushed, quiet ceremony, gave him my savings, and told him to go to New York alone. I stayed behind to nurse his paralyzed mother. On the day he left for the bus station, he held my hands tightly. “Pearl, wait for me. I’ll make this up to you. I’ll build a life for us, and I’ll come back to get you and Mom.” I believed him. I woke up every morning before dawn, cleaned his mother, fed her, and walked her through her physical therapy. To pay for her expensive medications and send Victor extra money so he wouldn’t have to work while studying, I took a job at a local shipping yard, hauling heavy crates until my shoulders bled and my hands became thick with calluses. The labor was brutal, but every night, I would look at his letters and feel a sweet, warm hope. Victor was a star student. He graduated at the top of his class, was immediately recruited into a prestigious research lab, and spent his summers working. He was too busy to visit, and his letters gradually became shorter, colder, and further apart. Eventually, he wrote to tell me he had been offered a tenure-track position. He said as soon as things settled, he would bring us to the city. Six months later, he finally came home. He brought a expensive bottle of wine, thanking me with tears in his eyes for everything I had sacrificed. I was so happy, so incredibly relieved, that I drank more than I should have. When I woke up the next morning, the room was bright, and a local man named Roy was lying naked in the bed beside me. Before I could even process the horror, the bedroom door flew open. Victor stood there, his eyes bloodshot, screaming at me, asking how I could betray him. His mother, crying from her wheelchair in the hallway, claimed she had seen us whispering and sneaking around for months. Roy fell to his knees, weeping, begging Victor for mercy, and claiming that I had seduced him. I had no voice. No one would listen to my confusion, my terror, or my denials. Victor divorced me within days and moved his mother to New York. I was branded a faithless, deceitful woman. The scandal was so intense in our small, conservative town that my parents, unable to bear the constant ostracization and the cruelty of our neighbors, took a lethal dose of sleeping pills together in our family home. I was left completely alone. Men in town began to knock on my door at night, believing I was easy prey. When I fought one off, his wife publicly accused me of trying to steal her husband. At my lowest point, discoverable only to myself, I realized I was pregnant. I stood on the edge of the local quarry, looking down at the dark water, seriously considering jumping. But I chose to live. While I struggled to raise my daughter in a tiny, rented room in a strange city, working three jobs just to buy baby formula, Victor married the dean’s wealthy daughter. His career took off like a rocket, and he became the celebrated genius the world knew today. It was only by a twist of fate, decades later, that I uncovered the truth. And I have been waiting for the right moment to use it. By the next morning, the online anger had boiled over into my physical reality. I noticed unfamiliar cars idling near my driveway. Neighbors whispered when I walked to the mailbox. Someone threw a rock through my kitchen window, and when I went outside, I found the front door defaced with red spray paint, the word “SLUT” drying in the morning sun. A sleek, black luxury car pulled into my gravel driveway shortly after. A young man and woman stepped out, their faces carrying an unmistakable mix of arrogance and deep disdain. They looked like younger, polished versions of Victor. “Are you Pearl Harold?” the young woman asked, her eyes sweeping over my simple clothes. “The woman who betrayed our father?” I opened the door and gestured for them to step inside, pouring them two glasses of water. “Did Victor send you?” Diana Harold offered a cold, artificial smile as she slid a check across the wooden table. “Our father wants nothing to do with you,” she said. “The past is forty years old, and he has no interest in revisiting your old mistakes. He knows you’re doing this because you’re struggling. There is a hundred thousand dollars on that check. Sign this non-disclosure agreement, promise never to speak his name again, and the money is yours.” A hundred thousand dollars. To Victor, it was pocket change. I didn’t touch the check. Instead, I studied their young, untouched faces. “Do you actually know your father? Do you have any idea what kind of man he truly is?” Christian Harold crossed his arms, his chest puffing out with pride. “Our father is one of the greatest scientific minds of our generation. He is a hero to this family and to this country.” I looked at him, my expression perfectly still. “If that’s true, why are you both so terrified?” Diana’s smile vanished, her voice dropping into a hard, threatening register. “Mrs. Harold, our father is being incredibly generous because he remembers where he came from. Don’t be foolish enough to ruin your daughter’s life over a grudge.” I sat down, taking a slow sip of my tea. “Go back and tell Victor he has two days left,” I said. “Two days. And I expect a full, public apology at his upcoming Columbia University lecture.” Christian slammed his hand on the table, standing up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. “Who do you think you are? You’re nothing but a washed-up, desperate old woman. Our father could crush you like an insect. He’s trying to do you a favor, and you’re standing here making demands?” Diana placed a hand on her brother’s arm, pulling him back. She picked up her bag and looked down at me. “We’ve delivered the message. I hope you’re prepared for the consequences of your choice.” They walked out, slamming the door behind them. That evening, I was watching the news when a report popped up on my tablet. The pending public offering for Joy’s logistics company had been abruptly halted by regulatory authorities, citing a sudden, anonymous audit request. It was a project she and her husband had poured ten years of their lives into. To have it frozen at the finish line was devastating—and there was only one person with the political connections to pull those strings. As I stared at the screen, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from an unknown number. “Enough.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. Victor believed that by threatening my daughter’s livelihood, he could force me back into the dark. But he had forgotten who I was. If I backed down now, Joy’s company would still be tarnished, and we would spend the rest of our lives under his thumb. He had used fear to destroy my youth, but he would not destroy my daughter’s future. On the day of the lecture, the university auditorium was packed to capacity. Media outlets had set up cameras at every angle, and the online pre-show had already attracted over a million viewers. The crowd was a sea of eager young faces, professors in formal attire, and journalists waiting for a statement. When Victor walked out onto the stage, immaculate in a tailored dark grey suit, his silver hair neatly combed back, holding Beatrice’s hand, the applause was deafening. Before the lecture began, the university moderator stepped up to the microphone. After a few softball questions about his research, her tone shifted, becoming noticeably sharper. “Professor Harold, the world has watched your incredible partnership with your wife, Beatrice, over the last forty years. But recently, a series of allegations from your first wife, Pearl, have taken over social media. Today is the deadline she set. Do you have a response?” Victor appeared relaxed, offering a warm, self-deprecating smile to the audience. “I can only say that when it comes to my past, my conscience is entirely clear.” Beatrice took the microphone from him, her voice dripping with high-class indignation. “We have noticed that certain individuals will use any opportunity, no matter how desperate, to pull themselves into the spotlight. To try and tarnish a lifetime of academic devotion for cheap internet fame is disgraceful, and we condemn it entirely.” The comments on the live-stream screen near the stage side-monitor began to scroll rapidly. “Why is the moderator bringing this up now? This is an academic event, let’s keep it professional.” “Victor and Beatrice are handled this with so much grace. I would have walked off stage.” “Beatrice is right. Some people just want a handout.” The moderator, however, didn’t back down. “But we’ve received some information that seems to contradict that timeline. Is it true that you and Beatrice were already romantically involved before your divorce was finalized?” Victor’s face darkened, his voice echoing sharply through the speakers. “That is an absolute lie! I have lived my life with integrity. I came here today to inspire these students, not to defend my character against baseless, malicious rumors.” Beatrice stood up, pulling Victor with her as she glared at the moderator. “This is slander,” she hissed. “Our legal team will be contacting this university and your network immediately. We are leaving.” The crowd began to murmur, some students shouting in defense of the professor. But as Victor and Beatrice turned to walk toward the wings of the stage, I stepped out from behind the curtain, blocking their path. “Pearl?” Victor gasped, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes darted around the stage, looking for a way out. I stood straight, my shoulders back, walking slowly toward the center of the stage. “Your three days are up, Victor,” I said, my voice carrying clearly through the lapel mic I had secured before walking out. “Since you don’t have the courage to tell the truth, I will.” I pointed to the massive projector screen behind them and pressed the button on the small remote in my hand. Victor turned around, and every ounce of color drained from his face.

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On the night we finished shooting our wedding photos, I posted a TikTok. My caption: “A little reward for the first time you ever spoke to me.” The post featured a screenshot of our very first text exchange, alongside our fresh, glowing wedding portrait. Ten minutes later, Mabel posted her own update. Her caption: “Thank you for still being by my side after all these years.” It was a carousel of twenty photos of her and Eric, tracing their lives from childhood to the present. The final slide showed her hooked up to an IV in a hospital bed, with Eric leaning over, his profile sharp and intense as he carefully adjusted the drip rate. Two minutes later, he left a hugging emoji in her comments. I waited until dawn, but my own post remained empty. Not a single trace of him. He had forgotten. Today was our anniversary. Eight years ago today, Eric—a brilliant geneticist with a PhD—pressed a DNA compatibility report into my palm. He told me our genetic sequences were a near-impossible match. He said I was his absolute, once-in-a-lifetime soulmate. As a professional tarot reader, I knew how to read the signs. I knew where this road would lead us, but I dove headfirst anyway. Now, in this three-player game we’ve been running, I’ve finally folded. I’m stepping off the board. … Eric didn’t get home until one in the morning. Finding me sitting there in the dark on the sofa, he let out a sharp, impatient breath. “Why are the lights off? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I stared at him through the gloom, the silence heavy between us, before asking if he would take me out for late-night diner food. Elliott’s brow furrowed. “It’s too late. Next time. I have to drop off breakfast for Mabel first thing in the morning.” In the end, I took a fifteen-mile Uber ride back to the college town night market. The sweet old lady at the dumpling stall I used to frequent immediately recognized me, greeting me with a warm smile. “Sweetheart! It’s been years. Where’s your handsome boyfriend? You two used to be glued at the hip. Made an old woman believe in love again.” I swallowed hard, my vision blurring as hot tears spilled directly into my bowl of steaming wonton soup. Yes, Eric and I used to have our sweet moments. The cold, brilliant prodigy everyone else found intimidating used to spend hours waiting in line at dessert shops with me, chase sunrises at dawn, and film silly vlogs just to see me laugh. The next morning, Mabel posted on her feed. “A little surprise to cheer me up while I’m sick. Thank you, Eric, for the gorgeous gold bangle. I love it so much~” She tagged him. On her slender wrist gleamed a thick, trendy solid gold bracelet. Yet, when Eric and I got engaged, there was no traditional gold jewelry. I had gently brought it up once, and he’d dismissed it. “Gold is tacky, Miranda. I don’t like it.” My chest tightened with a bitter ache. I showed him the post, my voice trembling as I confronted him. Eric looked genuinely baffled. “Mabel’s been depressed because of her illness. I bought it on a whim to cheer her up. Are you seriously picking a fight over a sick woman?” “Then go to the mall and buy one for me right now.” My voice cracked, thick with unshed tears. He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. “Miranda, stop being childish. It’s not about the money. It’s a stupid gold bracelet—is it really worth all this drama? When did you become so materialistic?” My heart felt squeezed by a cold fist. Right. It was just a stupid gold bracelet. A luxury Mabel could get with a simple pout, while I had spent eight years waiting for a gesture that never came. Sensing my darkening mood, Eric venmoed me $5,000. “Buy whatever you want,” he said coldly, turning away. “This is exhausting.” Watching his retreating back, my mind drifted back to the day we met. Freshman year. I had almost been hit by a speeding car while crossing the street, and Eric had pulled me back just in time. From that moment, we fell into a deep, consuming love. But everything shifted the moment Mabel returned from abroad. My thoughts spun out of control. Trembling, I pulled a card from my deck. The Moon. Uncertainty, hidden truths, illusion. I resolved to find an opportunity to have a real, honest talk with him. But before I could, Mabel and her son moved into our house. It was a cozy place, and Eric had wanted to upgrade for years, but I’d refused because every corner held eight years of our history. When I pushed the door open that evening and saw toys scattered across the living room rug, I froze. Eric was a neat freak who hated strangers in his space; I didn’t even hire cleaning services, handling every chore myself to keep him comfortable. Yet here he was, sitting on the floor with a five-year-old boy named Toby, building a Lego castle. Toby looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Daddy, who is that lady?” “Nobody, buddy. Just a friend,” Eric said, not even looking up. Mabel noticed my stiff posture and offered a demure, apologetic smile. “Miranda, please don’t mind him. Kids just say things. Eric insisted I move in because my health makes it hard to care for Toby alone. I hope we aren’t intruding?” “Don’t worry about it. Make yourselves at home,” Eric said, gently stroking Toby’s cheek with a rare, soft tenderness. “I love having Toby here.” Mabel let out a soft giggle, shooting me a fleeting, triumphant glance. The three of them began discussing Toby’s preschool family day tomorrow, laughing and chatting like a perfect little family. I stood at the threshold, a ghost in my own home. I walked down the hall and opened the master closet. It was packed to the brim with another woman’s dresses and a little boy’s clothes. My things were nowhere to be seen. Eric walked in, taking a sip of water. “Toby tends to thrash around in his sleep, so they need the king bed. I moved your clothes to the guest room. You’ll sleep there from now on.” Later that evening, after my shower, I walked out to find him reading Toby a bedtime story, looking every bit the doting father. Suddenly, Toby pointed at me and began to scream. “Why are you wearing the same clothes as my mommy? Get out! Daddy, make her leave!” I looked over at Mabel, who was stepping out of the master bathroom drying her hair. She was wearing the exact same silk pajama set I had on. It was a graduation gift Eric had given me—one I’d cherished and worn for eight years. Hers was crisp and brand-new. I rubbed the worn fabric of my sleeve, feeling a wave of nausea. Mabel let out a soft, knowing laugh. “Oh, Eric. After all these years, your taste hasn’t changed a bit.” Eric looked momentarily uncomfortable. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the foyer. “He’s just a kid, Miranda. Don’t take it personally.” “You own dozens of properties, Eric. Why do they have to live here?” “It’s close to Toby’s preschool.” “I’ll book them a suite at the Four Seasons. Let’s get them out tonight.” “No.” My eyes stung with hot tears. I ripped my hand from his grip and slammed the front door behind me as I bolted. Misfortune loves company. On my way down, the elevator suddenly jolted and ground to a halt. In an instant, the suffocating darkness of the cramped space closed in on me. Panic seized my chest, triggering the darkest, most terrifying memory from my childhood. I clawed at the emergency buttons, my hands shaking so violently I could barely unlock my phone to dial Eric. It rang and rang. No answer. Just as despair was about to swallow me whole, the call connected. “Eric, please… I’m trapped, help me…” But it wasn’t his voice. Mabel’s whispered tone cut through the line. “Shh. Eric is putting Toby to sleep. Stop calling.” Through the quiet receiver, I heard the faint, muffled sound of Eric softly humming a lullaby, his hand rhythmically patting a child’s back. Before my world went black, a single thought consumed me: If Eric knew, would he come? I was unconscious for thirty minutes before the paramedics got to me. The property manager apologized profusely, assuring me they had already contacted my family to pick me up. I sat in the leasing office, clutching a paper cup of water, thinking: Eric, if you show up, I’ll give you one last chance. I waited all night. Nobody came. I sent him a text saying we needed to talk about something crucial this weekend. The next morning, he called to say he had a sudden academic conference and had to fly out of town for a week. “What was so urgent last night anyway? You called so many times you woke Toby up.” The irritation in his voice choked the words right out of my throat. I swallowed my pain and simply told him we’d talk when he returned. Then, the sky truly fell. My mother fell down the stairs at her apartment. A massive brain hemorrhage. She was rushed into the ICU, requiring immediate emergency surgery. I had no connections in the medical field and, in my panic, turned to Eric. “Eric, please, my mom is in surgery. Can you come? I’m so scared,” I sobbed into the phone. “I’m in the middle of a panel, Miranda. I’ll pull some strings and get the chief of neurosurgery on it.” He hung up, cold and detached. I sat outside the ICU, praying to every god I didn’t believe in, begging for her life. Meanwhile, a national entertainment tabloid headline trended all day: Renowned Geneticist Spotted on Vacation Abroad with Secret Wife and Son! The photos showed a tall man holding a little boy’s hand, his other arm protectively wrapped around a woman’s shoulders. The comment section was a storm of envy: “They’ve been together since childhood, she posted about it on TikTok before!” “This is what real love looks like.” I thought back to when we had soft-launched our relationship; Eric had insisted I blur his face because he “valued his privacy.” It was all a lie. The surgery was successful, and my mother was moved to a general ward. I practically lived at the hospital, losing ten pounds in a matter of days. Eric never once showed up. My mother watched me with worried eyes, wanting to ask but keeping quiet. One afternoon, Mabel walked in carrying a bouquet of fresh lilies. “What are you doing here?” I demanded, stepping between her and my mother’s bed. “Just paying my respects to your mother, of course. After all, Eric and I are so close.” She dragged out his name with a sickeningly sweet lilt. Seeing the confusion on my mother’s face, I grabbed Mabel’s arm and dragged her out into the hallway. “Well, aren’t we hostile!” Mabel pouted, her eyes darting around as she sized me up. “Aren’t you even a little curious if Toby is his?” My breath hitched. Of course I was. Suddenly, Mabel’s eyes widened as if she’d spotted someone. She slapped her own face, let out a sharp cry, and collapsed onto the polished hospital floor. Pointing at me, tears streaming down her face, she sobbed, “I only came to wish your mother well! Why did you hit me?” Before I could even process her words, a stinging slap caught me across the face. My head spun, and my cheek instantly swelled. Eric stood there, his eyes bloodshot with pure, unbridled fury. “Miranda, you’ve gone too far!” I stared at him in utter disbelief. He didn’t believe me. To him, I was nothing but a violent, jealous monster. He scooped Mabel into his arms and walked away, without even stepping foot inside my mother’s room. My best friend, Georgia, came to visit me. She told me Eric and Mabel were being spotted everywhere together, completely ignoring the rumors swirling online. She looked at me with deep concern. Georgia worked in public relations; I asked her to leak the news of my engagement to Eric. I wanted to force him to face me. The coffee shop was quiet when we met. “Miranda, what is this stunt?” Eric rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. “Who is Toby’s father, Eric? And what exactly is Mabel to you?” “Miranda, stop with this paranoid delusion! Look at yourself—you’re acting completely unhinged!” his voice boomed. Perhaps realizing he had crossed a line, his tone softened, and he reached out to clasp my hand. “Miranda, please. Don’t overthink this. Mabel and I aren’t what you think. Once I wrap up this project, I’ll take you on a trip. Just the two of us.” I looked at his hand, then up into his eyes. Slowly, I pulled my fingers away. I said nothing, turned, and walked out. He reached for my coat sleeve, but his fingers slipped off the fabric, grasping nothing but air. Back in my apartment, I stared down at the lab results. Pregnant. Eight weeks. But could I bring this child into our broken world? I pictured Eric reading to Toby, the rare warmth in his eyes. He loved kids, didn’t he? Caught in a web of indecision, I eventually returned to our house to pack the rest of my things. As I reached the front door, the sound of a heated argument echoed from inside. “Eric, if I hadn’t gone abroad back then, would we…” “Mabel, stop.” “I’m not stopping! Miranda looks exactly like me. Even her name sounds like mine. How could you ever love her for who she is?” “I know I made mistakes in the past, but I’m back now. Eric, can we please just start over—” “Enough! Mabel, our genetic markers are completely incompatible. We could never be together. Besides, you and my—” The world began to spin, a loud buzzing filling my ears until Elliott’s voice drowned out entirely. Miranda Callahan. Mabel. So that was it. He was with me because our names sounded alike. He was with me because our genes matched on paper. I was nothing but a biological placeholder. I booked an appointment at an abortion clinic. Before I could be called back to the surgical room, Eric burst through the doors, grabbing my arm in a violent, desperate grip. “Miranda! What gives you the right to murder my child?” “Your child? Isn’t Toby your child?” I spat, laughing bitterly. “What are you talking about?” He looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Have you no shame, Eric? We are engaged, and you have another woman living in our home!” I pounded my fists against his chest. “At least I don’t harbor disgusting secrets, Miranda. Do you think I don’t know about what happened to you when you were seven? With that older man?” he hissed. I froze, my hand flying to my mouth as a torrent of tears spilled over. Being molested by my elementary school teacher when I was seven was the defining nightmare of my life. The broken window theory is real: the scars you bare to someone in vulnerability will eventually become the weapons they use to destroy you. During our sweetest nights, when I would wake up screaming from nightmares, Eric would kiss my forehead tenderly, whispering that it wasn’t my fault, that I was safe with him. Seeing the utter shock and devastation on my face, Eric realized his mistake. He tried to reach out, his voice suddenly frantic. “I didn’t mean it like that, Miranda, I…” I clapped my hands over my ears, screaming to drown out his voice. The pregnancy continued. Because of Elliott’s immense influence and wealth, no doctor in the city would perform the procedure without his consent. Using my mother’s medical care as leverage, he locked me away in his suburban estate. I was under twenty-four-hour surveillance, unable to even step past the front gate. He would kiss the crown of my head and whisper, “Just focus on the baby, Miranda. I’ll make sure your mother gets the best care. Once the baby is here, we’ll have our wedding.” I stared at the Death card I had pulled over and over again from my tarot deck, and quietly whispered, “Okay.” When he discovered I was carrying twins, his devotion turned obsessive. He accompanied me to every prenatal checkup, cooked every meal, and held me from behind at night, massaging my aching calves the moment I cramped. But during his business trip in my eighth month, I finally managed to pick the lock on the study door he kept strictly barred. Inside, I found the genetic reports for Toby and my unborn babies. Toby suffered from a rare, congenital genetic blood disorder. Eric had dedicated years of research to finding a cure, and he finally had. My unique genetic sequence meant the cord blood from my babies could save Toby’s life. I dug my fingernails deep into my palms until they bled. My eight years had been a beautifully orchestrated lie. Meanwhile, across the ocean, Eric was standing on a stage at a prestigious international gala, accepting accolades for solving a major genetic breakthrough. As he smiled for the cameras, thinking about what expensive gift to bring home to appease me, his phone began to vibrate…

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On my wedding day, my sister Summer—who had a severe stutter and crippling anxiety—challenged me to a debate. “I love Ryan too, Sadie. I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. Before I could even open my mouth, my parents answered for me. I looked at them, then turned my gaze to the man I had loved for eight years. My fiancé. “Do you really think I should do this?” I asked him. Ryan frowned, nodding as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “She overcame her anxiety just to stand here and ask for this, Sadie. I can’t let her down.” Of course. It was always Summer who won. Since we were children, our parents had drilled one rule into us: “We treat you both exactly the same. If you want something, you have to win it in a debate.” And I had believed them. But Summer had anxiety. The moment her eyes welled with tears, the debate was over, and I was the loser. When we were small, it was the strawberry candies my parents brought home—I lost, so I got none. When we grew older, it was our college applications. Because I lost, my parents forced me to attend the same state school as Summer, even though my SAT scores were hundreds of points higher than hers. And now, they were putting my fiancé on the block. But true love isn’t something you should have to fight to win. They just didn’t want me to have it. So, I gave up. 1 “I concede,” I said, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. “Let’s call it a round hundred times you’ve beaten me. Happy wedding. I hope you two are very happy.” Summer immediately burst into tears, her chest heaving. “Are you blaming me, Sadie? I was just… I was just fighting for what I wanted.” My mother stepped in front of her like a protective hen shielding her chick, glaring at me as if I were a hawk. “What is that look on your face? I have always been fair to both of you. You will debate her. Whoever wins gets today’s ceremony.” I looked around the room. Every guest, every relative, had a look of solemn agreement on their faces. It was absurd. My own wedding was being turned into a forensic match to decide if I deserved to be the bride. “Is there any point?” I asked, my voice cracking. “With her condition, have I ever won a single debate since we were kids? What is the point of a rigged game?” My mother’s hand slashed across my cheek. Slap. “You owe her this,” she hissed. Right. I owed her. When we were eight, our family went to an amusement park. My parents found me after we got separated in the crowd, but Summer was snatched by a stranger. Though she was found and returned safely a few hours later, she was traumatized, left with severe anxiety and a stutter. From that day on, the “fair debate” system was born. Only the winner got their desires fulfilled. And I was never allowed to win. My father’s face darkened, and he stepped in to smooth things over. “That’s enough. Don’t make a scene. It’s embarrassing. We’ll let the guests act as the jury this time. How about that?” Ryan looked irritated, whispering in my ear, “Sadie, please. Be good. I’m obviously going to choose you anyway. Don’t make this look cheap.” But no one was actually giving me a choice. Summer wiped her eyes and, buoyed by the crowd’s encouraging nods, spoke into the microphone with a shaky voice. “Sadie, Ryan and I already went on our honeymoon. All I want is the ceremony to make my dream complete. Once the novelty wears off, I’ll help convince Ryan to marry you again. I’ll even be your maid of honor, okay?” She pulled out her phone and opened her social media. There was a photo of her and Ryan standing at the continental rift in Thingvellir National Park, Iceland. The caption read: Caught between two worlds, with the whole earth as our witness. Iceland. Ryan and I had traveled to many places, but we had never gone to Iceland. Because he had told me, “Sadie, we’ll go there for our wedding. I want the whole world to witness how much I love you.” Now, he had taken someone else. My eyes drifted down to the timestamp on the post: June 10th. That was the day I had met with a client’s husband’s mistress. As a relationship interventionist, my job was to dissolve affairs, but that mistress had tried to bribe me to convince the wife to sign the divorce papers. When I refused, she had her hired goons break two of my ribs. I had called Ryan a dozen times from the hospital. Every call went straight to voicemail. Now I knew why. He was on a honeymoon. My parents, my best friend, my closest colleagues—none of them had answered my calls that day either. And there they were in the comment section of her post. “This is so beautiful. Why does Summer have to love him so deeply without a happy ending?” “At least she got a honeymoon, or I’d be crying my eyes out. Wholesome!” They had all kept me in the dark. Summer gently touched my face, trying to wipe away my tears. “I’m sorry, Sadie. But Ryan used all of my design suggestions for this wedding anyway. Just let me have it, okay?” The tears stopped. A cold numbness washed over me. I spun around and kicked open the heavy doors to the ballroom. The elegant, icy-blue floral arrangements I had spent months planning were gone. In their place were cascading arches of jasmine—Summer’s absolute favorite. I walked over to the catering tables, my hands trembling as I lifted the silver cloches one by one. Every dish was heavily spiced, loaded with chili peppers and heat. But I had a severe stomach ulcer. I had spent years on a strict, bland diet. Summer was the one who ate spicy food with every meal. My chest rose and fell violently. A sharp, hollow laugh tore from my throat. I grabbed the edge of the nearest tablecloth and yanked it with all my strength. Plates, crystal glasses, and silver platters crashed to the floor, shattering in a chaotic, greasy mess. “Is this even my wedding anymore?” I screamed. No. It never was. This wasn’t a debate. It was a public execution, designed to show me exactly where I stood. 2 I didn’t care about the wedding anymore. I walked out, hailed a cab, and left. On the ride back, I pulled out my phone and began deleting photos. My family. My lover. My friends. It took only a few swipes to erase ten years of my life. By the time I finished, the phone felt lighter in my hand. I went back to the apartment Ryan and I shared and began to pack. My eyes swept over the living room. Summer’s pink slippers by the door. Her plush pillows on our sofa. Her favorite mug on the counter. Her silk pajama set hanging in the bathroom. She had already moved into my life, piece by piece, while I wasn’t looking. I opened the closet to pack my clothes. My hand caught on an old, worn leather belt. I remembered my first day of college. I had stood by the campus lake, sobbing, refusing to unpack, begging to go home and study for another year so I could retake the exams. I couldn’t accept that my hard work had been discarded just to keep Summer company. Ryan had found me there. Thinking I was going to jump, he had lunged forward and literally tied me to him with his belt. “Hey, don’t do anything reckless,” he had gasped, holding me tight. “As long as you’re alive, we can get through whatever is hurting you.” That was how he had entered my world. On the birthdays my family conveniently forgot, he was always there with a small cake and a single candle. At twenty-two, when I secured our startup’s first major contract and my parents demanded I hand the credit to Summer, Ryan had stood his ground. “This belongs to Sadie, and Sadie alone,” he had argued. At twenty-four, when our apartment building caught fire during the holidays and my parents left me behind in their rush to get Summer out, Ryan had run back into the smoke to drag me out. He had sat by my hospital bed afterward, crying like a child. “Sadie, don’t go back to them. Move in with me. Just wait a little longer. Once the company is on its feet, we’ll get married.” But in the end, he gave my wedding to Summer. The doorbell rang. Ryan and Summer pushed past the door. Summer grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging deep into my skin. She sobbed, hyperventilating. “Sadie, I’ll give Ryan back to you, I swear! Just please… please tell the people online to stop calling me a homewrecker!” The sharp pain in my arm made me react instinctively. I shoved her away. She fell back, tumbling to the floor with practiced grace. Ryan immediately lunged forward, shoving me hard. I lost my footing and crashed backward. “I thought you were finally showing some maturity by leaving, but you went online to smear Summer?” Ryan hissed, his eyes full of disgust. “You know how fragile her mental state is! If anything happens to her, you won’t survive the guilt!” “I was going to take you to the courthouse tomorrow to get registered anyway,” he continued, looking down at me. “But look at you. You don’t deserve it. If you love calling people homewreckers so much, I’ll make sure you have a reason.” A dull, hot pain throbbing at the back of my head told me I was bleeding, the white tile floor staining red. But Ryan didn’t notice. He was already kneeling, cradling Summer with a tenderness he had never shown me. I pulled out my phone. Social media was flooded with posts exposing Summer as a homewrecker. But as I watched, the algorithm shifted. A heavily edited video of our confrontation in the ballroom went viral. It was cut to make it look like I was the bitter intruder trying to ruin my sister’s wedding. Then came a video of my parents. They stood before a wall of reporters, tears streaming down their faces. “Sadie has always been envious,” my mother sobbed into a microphone. “She always wanted whatever her sister had. Summer just asked her to help plan her special day, and Sadie convinced herself the groom belonged to her.” Next was my best friend. She was still wearing the slate-blue bridesmaid dress I had handpicked and paid for. She looked directly into the camera with absolute disdain. “Sadie?” she sneered. “Oh, she’s a habitual homewrecker. She does this all the time.” I stared at the screen, my throat closing up. Years ago, her family had tried to pull her out of college to marry her off for a dowry to buy her brother an apartment. I was the one who hid her in my dorm, paid her tuition out of my savings, and stood between her and her parents. She had held my hand and sworn: “Sadie, I will never, ever betray you.” And now, this. Then, Ryan’s official company account posted a photo of his fresh marriage certificate with Summer. The caption: My one and only. To a certain someone: stop clinging. It’s pathetic. I had already given him up. Why were they doing this to me? I needed an answer. I stumbled out of the apartment, got into my car, and slammed my foot on the gas. When I reached my parents’ house, I reached for the doorknob, but the door was slightly ajar. My parents’ voices carried through the gap. “The little brat should have never been born,” my mother was saying, her voice dripping with venom. “She stole Summer’s spot as our only child.” “Remember that day at the park?” my father replied, his voice chillingly casual. “We thought we finally got rid of her. Who knew she’d find her way back and nearly ruin Summer? Thank god we had Summer play up her anxiety all these years. It kept Sadie right where she belonged—under our thumbs.” “And Ryan,” my mother hummed happily. “Such a successful young man. He was always meant for our Summer.” “Now that Sadie is branded a homewrecker, she won’t dare try to claw her way back…” My hands shook as I pulled out my phone, pressed record on the voice memo app, and set it to automatically sync to my cloud backup. 3 Before I could turn around, a shadow fell over me. Ryan and Summer were standing right behind me. Without a word, Ryan snatched the phone from my hand. “What are you trying to do to Summer now?” he demanded, his voice thick with unearned anger. The door flung open. My father, hearing the commotion, grabbed the phone from Ryan and slammed it onto the concrete floor, stomping on it until the screen shattered into a million black shards. “You were eavesdropping so you could edit more videos to ruin your sister, weren’t you?” my father roared. “You malicious little viper!” I let out a raw, broken laugh, my eyes burning red as I looked at them. “Malicious?” I whispered. “I could live a thousand lives and never match what you’ve done.” I bent down to reach for the broken pieces of my phone, but Summer’s heel came down hard on my fingers. She looked down at me, her eyes brimming with beautiful, theatrical tears. “Are you going to try and clear your name, Sadie?” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “If you do, everyone will hate me. They’ll call me a mistress. What will I do?” She turned to Ryan, clutching his lapels. “Ryan, your company’s stock is already dropping because of the rumors. If they find out… maybe it’s better if I just end it all. If I die, everyone will be happy.” My mother’s face twisted in maternal agony. She grabbed my arm, her nails sinking into my flesh as she shook me. “You are going to hold a press conference tomorrow,” my mother ordered, her voice cold and unyielding. “You will tell them you were the homewrecker. You will tell them you lied.” “And if I don’t?” I spat. My mother smiled, a slow, terrifying curve of her lips. “If you don’t… well, your dear grandmother is quite old. I have plenty of ways to make sure she doesn’t see another sunrise.” She pulled out her own phone and showed me a live video feed. My grandmother, who was suffering from advanced dementia, was tied to a wooden chair in a dark, unfamiliar room. Her lips were moving, whispering over and over: “Sadie… where is my little Sadie…?” After the amusement park incident, my parents had abandoned me at home every summer and winter break because I “lost” the family debates. It was Nana—my father’s stepmother—who had fed me, kept me warm, and loved me when no one else would. She was the only reason I had survived my childhood. I couldn’t let them hurt her. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and looked at Ryan. He avoided my eyes, staring at the floor. “You brought this on yourself, Sadie,” he muttered. “You need to fix the mess you made. Instead of dragging things out, just do what they say. It’s your company too; you don’t want to see it go bankrupt. Just do this, and… I might still find a place for you. Nearby.” I looked at him, realizing the boy who had saved me from the lake was long gone. The day of the press conference, the lights were blinding. Summer stood on the stage first, presenting my clients and my past successful cases as her own, looking radiant under the flashing cameras. I stood in the wings, waiting to be paraded out as the cheap thief who had tried to steal her life. My mother stood behind me, pinching the soft flesh of my waist. “Your turn,” she whispered, her voice sweet for the cameras but sharp as a needle. “Don’t you dare try anything.” My father gave me a warning glare from the front row. I walked up to the podium, my fingers clutching the typed confession they had prepared for me. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to tear the paper to shreds. But as I raised my hands, a commotion broke out at the back of the room. Nana. Somehow, she had wandered out or been brought to the venue. She was disoriented, crying out my name. Before I could move, my parents’ security guards rushed her, shoving her roughly to keep her away from the cameras. She fell, her fragile, ninety-year-old body hitting the hard marble floor with a sickening thud. “Nana!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my chest. “Get out of the way! She’s hurt!” I tried to run to her, but two heavy hands clamped onto my shoulders, pinning me to the podium. “You want to help the old bag?” my mother’s voice hissed through my earpiece. “Read the script. Now. Or she doesn’t leave this building alive.” Through the gaps between the security guards, I could see Nana lying on the floor. She wasn’t moving. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard the taste of copper flooded my mouth. With a hollow, robotic voice, I spoke into the microphone. “I… I am the homewrecker,” I whispered, the words like ash in my mouth. “I tried to steal my sister’s husband. It was all my fault. I was greedy…” When I finished, my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the stage. I saw a flash of regret in Ryan’s eyes. He took a half-step toward me, his hand reaching out. “Ryan,” Summer’s soft, warning voice echoed from behind him. “Are you going to ruin everything now?” He froze, then slowly pulled his hand back, turning his face away. I dragged myself up, using the wall for support, and stumbled toward the back of the room where Nana lay. But as the crowd parted, all I saw was a dark, spreading pool of crimson on the white floor. 4 The reporters didn’t care about the dying elderly woman. They swarmed me, their flashing cameras reflecting off the blood on my hands. “Miss Foster, they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Did she teach you how to steal other women’s husbands?” “Is this her karma for raising a homewrecker?” “Get away from me! Get away!” I screamed, holding Nana’s frail, cold body against my chest. I pressed my trembling fingers against her neck. Her pulse was a faint, dying flutter. I reached into my pockets for my phone, only to remember it had been crushed to dust the night before. My parents had made sure I had no way to call for help. I fell to my knees, bowing my head until my forehead touched the blood-stained floor. “Please,” I sobbed, begging the circle of reporters. “Please, someone call an ambulance. Please…” They only took more photos. No one moved. Just as the darkness began to close in on me, Ryan stepped forward, pulling out his phone with a deep scowl. “This is Ryan Mitch. We have a medical emergency at the corporate headquarters. Send an ambulance immediately.” My father gripped his shoulder, his face contorted in anger. “What are you doing? Why are you getting involved with her again? You’ll ruin our reputation!” “This is my company,” Ryan said, his voice cold. “And there are limits to what I will tolerate.” Summer stood beside them, a sweet, small smile playing on her lips, though her eyes remained entirely vacant. At the hospital, I begged the receptionist to let me pay for Nana’s emergency surgery. I handed her the card Ryan and I shared—the one we had both deposited our savings into for the wedding. The machine beeped. Declined. Insufficient funds. I tried again. Declined. With trembling fingers, I borrowed the receptionist’s phone and dialed Ryan’s number. My hands shook so violently it took me three tries to get the digits right. “Ryan, please,” I sobbed into the receiver the moment it connected. “The account is empty. I need to pay for Nana’s surgery…” “Sadie,” a sweet, mocking voice answered. “This card belongs to my husband now. As his wife, this is marital property. Why should we let you use it?” “My money is in that account!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “My savings!” “The company accounts are under my name now,” Summer replied smoothly. “And since I am the lead consultant, your old salary belongs to me. Goodbye, Sadie.” The line went dead. I called everyone I knew. My friends hung up the moment they heard my voice. My colleagues didn’t even answer. Desperate, I dialed Valerie—the client I had helped weeks ago. She didn’t ask a single question. Within two minutes, she wired fifty thousand dollars directly to the hospital’s account. I grabbed the receipt and ran toward the operating room, my heart hammering against my ribs. But before I could reach the doors, the surgeon stepped out. He looked at me, then slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “She was deprived of oxygen for too long before she arrived. We did everything we could.” The paper receipt slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor like a mocking joke. She was gone. The only person who had ever loved me was gone. I didn’t cry. I felt as if my tear ducts had dried up, leaving nothing but a vast, hollow desert inside my chest. I held Nana’s cold hand as the orderly wheeled her gurney toward the basement service elevator that led to the morgue. We entered the narrow, concrete corridor connecting the emergency wing to the basement. Suddenly, the orderly stopped the gurney. He turned around, his face twisted in a look of pure disgust. Before I could react, he shoved the gurney hard, sending Nana’s body crashing onto the dirty floor. “I hate homewreckers,” he spat, pulling a canister from his jacket. “People like you deserve to burn in hell.” He splashed liquid across the floor. The sharp, choking smell of gasoline filled the air. A spark flew, and within seconds, a wall of orange fire erupted, blocking both ends of the corridor. Thick, black smoke filled my lungs. I fell to my knees, trying to drag Nana’s body toward the exit, but my limbs felt like lead. My vision began to blur. Is this how it ends? I thought, my eyes closing. Just before the darkness took me completely, the heavy fire doors at the end of the hall crashed open. A silhouette burst through the smoke. “Don’t close your eyes!” a deep, steady voice called out. “Hold on! I’ve got you…”

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My boyfriend and my best friend told me they were going to cure my aquaphobia. For my birthday, they bought me a custom silicone mermaid tail. “Put it on and you’re a mermaid, Izzy. How can a mermaid be afraid of water?” Amanda smiled warmly as she helped me slide into the tight silicone tail. She zipped it up to my waist, binding my legs together completely. Before I could even process what was happening, Charlie shoved me into the six-foot-deep end of the pool. The silicone tail flooded instantly, dragging me down like a block of concrete. I thrashed desperately, my fingers scraping against the rough pool wall, splitting two of my fingernails down to the quick. As the chlorinated water rushed up my nose, I heard Amanda laughing on the deck, completely breathless. “Look at her! Oh my god, she looks like a stranded catfish!” Charlie crouched by the edge, holding his phone, adjusting the angle for her. “Alright, that’s enough. Get the video, then pull her up.” But he didn’t jump in. I choked on water, my knees slamming against the concrete bottom. It was a stranger who finally plunged in and dragged me out. Amanda was already swiping through her camera roll, tears of laughter in her eyes. “That was perfect! Next time we go to the beach, you won’t be scared at all, I promise.” Charlie patted my back, repeating his usual refrain. “Alright, let’s not make it so intense next time.” But every “next time” was just the opening act for Amanda’s next round of amusement. I knelt on the edge of the pool, coughing up water, my vision blurred, feeling like I was trapped in a giant glass fishbowl. Even the weakest person has to learn how to drag themselves ashore. Don’t they? …… 1 “Charlie, look at her. She looks like one of those belly-up goldfish on TikTok.” Amanda squatted in front of me, shoving her phone in my face, looping the video of me drowning. I gripped the wet tile of the pool deck, my throat burning with acid and chlorine. The silicone tail was still bound tightly around my legs, heavy and suffocating, like a pair of underwater shackles. Charlie finally walked over. He knelt beside me, gently brushing my wet hair away from my face. “Izzy, drink some warm water.” He poured some water from his thermos, his fingers warm, his touch incredibly tender. But just moments ago, he had stood six feet away, watching me sink, and hadn’t moved an inch. “Charlie,” my voice was raw, barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you jump in?” He blinked, a flicker of defensive evasion crossing his eyes. “I thought you could get out on your own. It wasn’t that deep.” Amanda chimed in, her tone light, as if talking about the weather. “Exactly, Izzy, don’t be dramatic. It’s only six feet. I was diving in the deep end in elementary school.” She reached down to unzip the tail, her long acrylic nail scraping against my split fingernail. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my arm. I flinched, pulling my leg back. “Jeez, stop moving,” she frowned. “I’m trying to help you, and you’re acting like I’m hurting you.” Charlie patted her hand away and took over the zipper. “Let me do it. Her hand is bleeding.” The way he leaned down, completely focused and careful, made him look like the perfect boyfriend. But staring at the back of his head, a cold dread settled deep in my chest. Twenty-one years. Ever since I fell into the town reservoir at five years old and had to be dragged out, half-dead, I hadn’t touched deep water. Charlie knew that. Amanda knew that. They knew every detail. “Izzy,” Amanda smiled again, slipping her phone into her purse. “I’m keeping this video. Once you’re ‘cured,’ we can do a before-and-after post. It’ll go viral.” I didn’t say anything, watching Charlie finally slide the heavy silicone off my ankles. My calves were marked with deep red welts, the skin pale and shriveled from the water. The stranger who had pulled me out was still standing a few yards away, looking uncertainly at us. Charlie noticed, stood up, and gave him a polite, charming nod. “Thanks, man. My boyfriend duties were slacking. Appreciate the help.” The guy looked at me, then at the beaming Amanda. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and walked away. I wanted to laugh. Panicked easily. It was always those two words, draped over everything like a cheap sheet to cover up the ugly truth. “Come on,” Charlie said, helping me up. “I’ll drive you home. It’s your birthday. We’re going to that Italian place you love.” Amanda slipped her arm through his other one, as naturally as if she owned it. “Yeah, Izzy. Charlie made reservations, and I’m coming along to celebrate you properly.” I stood there, my legs trembling, water dripping from the ends of my hair. “Charlie, how much did that tail cost?” He paused, caught off guard. “Why do you ask? About five hundred dollars. It’s custom medical-grade silicone.” “Five hundred dollars,” I repeated. “To push me into a pool.” Amanda’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before smoothing over. “Izzy, that’s unfair. We’re trying to help you face your fears, not hurt you.” “Yeah,” Charlie agreed, gently ruffling my wet hair. “We only want what’s best for you.” What’s best for you. I looked at the two of them standing side by side, the world blurring around the edges. “Sure,” I said quietly. “Then next time, maybe find a different way to care about me.” Charlie let out a breath, his easy smile returning. “Deal. We won’t make it so intense next time.” There it was again. That empty promise. 2 During the ride back, I leaned my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, Charlie’s dry jacket draped over my shivering legs. Charlie was driving. Amanda sat in the passenger seat. They were talking about the upcoming office retreat, laughing easily. I closed my eyes, the chemical smell of chlorine still burning my throat, dragging me back to when I was five. That summer, we had gone to the reservoir with the adults. Amanda wasn’t “Amanda” to me back then. She went by “Mae,” the foster kid living next door, a year older than me. She told me there were shiny shells clinging to the concrete lip of the dam. She coaxed me to crouch over the edge. And then, her hand pressed into my back. I remember it with terrifying clarity. It was a push—not a slip, not an accident. A deliberate, forceful shove. As I plunged into the dark water, I heard her screaming for help from the bank, her voice frantic, tearing at her throat. When the adults finally dragged me out, everyone praised Mae for her quick thinking, for saving my life by calling out. No one believed a terrified five-year-old who claimed her friend had pushed her. My mother had even slapped my face, telling me to stop lying and trying to ruin a good girl’s reputation. Since then, I’ve been terrified of deep water. And I learned a bitter lesson: No one believes me. “Izzy, we’re here,” Charlie’s voice broke through the memory. I opened my eyes to the harsh neon sign of the restaurant. Inside the private dining room, several of Charlie’s coworkers and Amanda’s friends were already seated. The moment I walked in, someone whistled. “Hey, look, the mermaid’s here! How was the big performance in the pool today?” Laughter erupted around the table. Amanda laughed loudest, pulling out her phone. “Oh, you have to see the live footage. Izzy was an absolute star.” The video played again. My choking, thrashing figure reflected in the glowing faces around the table. The laughter felt like needles, pricking my skin. Charlie sat beside me, ignoring the screen, placing a piece of chicken onto my plate. “You’ve been losing weight, Izzy. Eat up.” He was always so flawless. Attentive, gentle, leaving me with no room to express anger without looking like a hysterical child. “Charlie is seriously too good to you,” one of Amanda’s friends sneered. “If my girlfriend was this much of a buzzkill, I’d have dumped her ages ago.” Buzzkill. I stared at the food on my plate, my appetite completely gone. “Oh, Izzy,” Amanda said suddenly, as if remembering something. “The company retreat is next month at the Outer Banks. You and Charlie have to come.” “The Outer Banks?” “Yeah! It’s the perfect chance to finish your therapy. A swim in the ocean, and your phobia will be gone for good.” My hand tightened around my fork. “I’m not going.” The room fell quiet. Amanda’s smile dimmed. “Izzy, don’t be like that. Everyone is just trying to help.” “I don’t need this kind of help,” I said, looking up. “Every time you have an idea, I’m the one who ends up suffering.” Under the table, Charlie squeezed my hand. His grip was soft but firm, a silent warning to keep the peace. “Izzy, Amanda is just worried about you. If you don’t face this, how are we going to travel or do anything in the future?” Amanda. Since when did he speak about her with such soft, familiar concern? “Charlie,” I looked him in the eye. “What did you just call her?” He blinked. “Her name. What’s wrong with that?” Amanda chimed in with a sweet laugh. “Izzy, don’t be paranoid. Charlie and I went to the same college before he ever met you. We’ve known each other forever.” Known each other forever. It sounded harmless, but a wire snapped tight in my chest. I had known her since I was five. I met Charlie when I was twenty-three. When she said “forever,” what timeline was she actually talking about? 3 Despite my protests, Charlie coaxed me into going to the coastal retreat. “Just come for me,” he promised. “You don’t have to touch the water. You can just relax on the beach. I promise.” I believed him, because he always made promises. The first two days were quiet. I sat on a lounge chair, watching them swim from a safe distance. But on the third night, there was a bonfire by the marina. Amanda, flushed with wine, staggered over and grabbed my arm. “Izzy, come on. We’re playing a game. Super simple.” She dragged me onto the wooden pier. Below us, the high tide surged, black and heavy. “What game?” I asked, pulling back. “Truth or Dare. If you lose, you jump in for a quick lap,” she said, her eyes crinkling. I immediately turned around. “I’m not playing.” She grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who claimed to be drunk. “Don’t be a party pooper, Izzy. Charlie already agreed. He said it would be good for you.” I looked back at Charlie. He stood by the bonfire, holding a beer, smiling at me. “Come on, Izzy, just give it a try. Amanda’s right there with you.” A crowd of coworkers had gathered on the narrow pier. Amanda suddenly raised her voice, addressing everyone. “Did you guys know Izzy fell into a reservoir when she was five? She’s been terrified of water ever since. So tragic, right?” My face burned with humiliation. “Amanda, shut up.” “What did I say wrong?” she gasped, looking hurt. “I’m just helping you open up. Keeping it bottled up is why you aren’t getting better.” She threw her arm around my shoulder, leaning in close, playing the doting sister. But a second later, I felt the hand on my shoulder shift, pushing weight outward toward the edge of the pier. The exact same pressure, the exact same trajectory as twenty-one years ago. My blood ran ice cold. “Amanda,” I hissed, grabbing the wooden railing with both hands. “You’re trying to push me again.” “Push you?” Her eyes widened, her voice instantly cracked with tears. “Izzy, how could you say that? I was holding onto you because I thought you were slipping!” Whispers broke out among the coworkers. They looked at me like I was a paranoid lunatic. Charlie hurried over, pulling me away from the railing. “Izzy, calm down! Why would Amanda push you?” “It was her! Twenty-one years ago, she pushed me into the reservoir, too!” My voice shook violently. Amanda burst into tears, looking like a victim of a terrible slander. “I knew it! You’ve hated me all this time! You slipped on your own back then, and I was the one who screamed for help!” “Charlie,” she turned to him, sobbing. “She always accuses me of trying to kill her. What did I ever do to deserve this? We grew up together…” Charlie sighed, stepping in front of Amanda to shield her. “Izzy, that was decades ago. Let it go. Amanda has carried that guilt for years, and she was just a kid too.” Guilt. I looked at how naturally he protected her, how practiced it felt. One of the coworkers shook their head. “His girlfriend is so toxic.” “Imagine attacking someone who’s just trying to help.” I stood on the pier, shivering in the ocean breeze. Twenty-one years later, I was standing alone against the world again. No one believed me. Suddenly, I didn’t want to explain anymore. “Charlie,” I said softly, looking at him. “You believe her, not me.” He hesitated, reaching out to touch my arm. “Izzy, it’s not that I don’t believe you…” “Then you jump,” I interrupted. “Jump in and swim a lap. Prove to me the water is perfectly safe.” His hand froze in midair. “I… I can’t swim.” The pier went dead silent. I let out a cold laugh. “You can’t swim.” “That day at the pool… you couldn’t swim either.” “So when you watched me sink, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to save me. You couldn’t.” 4 After we got back from the coast, the insomnia started. The realization that he couldn’t swim festered in my mind. He knew he couldn’t save me, yet he let me be pushed into a six-foot pool, gambling that someone else would step in. He gambled with my life just to keep up his facade. I started searching through Charlie’s things. Not to catch him cheating, but because I needed to find the missing pieces. In his study, in a drawer beneath some tax documents, I found an old photo album. Inside were photos of him and Amanda. The dates were meticulously labeled. The earliest was from fifteen years ago. Two teenagers standing outside a middle school. Charlie wore braces; Amanda had her hair in a high ponytail, smiling brightly. On the back, a line written in faded ink: “Mae’s birthday. Love, Charlie.” Mae. My hands began to shake. Amanda’s childhood nickname was Mae. She had known Charlie for fifteen years. And she had told me they met through work just a couple of years ago. I kept flipping through the pages and found a stack of letters written by Amanda to Charlie. The most recent was dated just a week before our trip to the pool. “Charlie, once we handle the situation with Izzy, make sure the deed to the condo is put in my name.” “She’s so terrified of water. A little accident in the pool, and no one will question it, right?” I collapsed onto the floor, my limbs turning to ice. The pool incident wasn’t an aggressive form of exposure therapy. It was a rehearsal. They wanted me to “accidentally” drown so they could inherit the downtown condo my father had left me. It was a fully paid-off property, solely in my name, left to me after my father passed. During our two years of dating, Charlie had constantly pressured me to add his name to the title. I had refused, because it was the only piece of my father I had left. They simply couldn’t wait any longer. I took photos of every page in the album and every single letter. Then I put everything back exactly as I found it. I sat in the dark study until the sun came up. When morning broke, my mind was made up. I opened my laptop and logged into a portal I hadn’t touched in months. Three months ago, I had received a job offer from a marine research institute in Norway. I had been too terrified to accept. The position required living on a research vessel in the North Sea. I, the girl who couldn’t stand the sight of a swimming pool, had applied for a job surrounded by miles of open ocean. Perhaps, subconsciously, I had been trying to escape long before this. I opened the email and typed a single word in my reply. “Accept.” Over the next week, I dismantled my life in total silence. I resigned from my job, ended the lease on my small studio, and changed the locks on my father’s condo. Most importantly, I paid a visit to a trust attorney. I had the photos of the album and the letters officially notarized, leaving a copy with my lawyer. Charlie and Amanda had no idea. That entire week, Charlie was frustratingly sweet. He drove me everywhere, bought me flowers, and acted like the doting partner. Amanda stopped bringing up the beach trip, acting as sweet as a lamb. They were waiting for me to soften, waiting for me to finally sign the deed over to Charlie. The day I left was a Wednesday. I told Charlie I had a three-day business trip out of state. He didn’t suspect a thing. He drove me to the airport, helped me with my bags, and kissed my forehead. “Hurry back,” he murmured. “I’ll be waiting.” I stared at his face—the face of the man I had once believed I would grow old with. “Charlie,” I asked quietly. “When did you stop loving me?” He blinked, startled. “Izzy, what are you talking about? Of course I love you.” “What do you love about me?” He opened his mouth, then closed it. “You’re… you’re a good person. Sweet, sensible.” Sensible. The ultimate compliment for an obedient pet. I offered him a faint smile, turned around, and walked toward security without looking back. Right before the plane took off, I sent him one final text. Then I turned off the phone, discarded the SIM card, and deactivated my social media accounts. When I landed in Oslo to board the small propeller plane to the North Sea research station, I looked out the window at the endless expanse of gray-blue water. The abyss I had feared for twenty-one years lay beneath me, vast and silent. And somehow, the terror was gone. At that very moment, Charlie was standing outside the door of my locked condo. He was staring at his phone, reading my final text for the seventh time. It read: “I’ve donated the condo to a children’s crisis charity. You and Amanda can figure out how to split the rest.” He tried calling me frantically, but all he got was the cold, automated operator. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

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From a street-side food cart to one of the most sought-after names in the venture capital world, it took Clay ten years. I spent those ten years right beside him. In our poorest year, I threw my pride in the dirt. I literally got down on my knees in front of my father—the man who had abandoned my mother and me—just to beg for a twenty-dollar bill so we could buy groceries. When Clay looked at me with those pitying, heartbroken eyes back then, I just wiped my face and said: “When your company finally lists on Nasdaq, promise you’ll take me with you.” He promised. Years later, when the firm was flying high, I brought it up again. He didn’t even look up from his laptop. “I’m incredibly busy right now, Josie. Let’s talk about it later.” So, I never brought it up again. Until I stumbled upon a short video of his company’s Nasdaq debut. The ten-second countdown. The explosion of confetti. The grand declaration under the flashing lights. The man who had told me he was going out of town for a “stressful business trip” was standing right there in Times Square. But the woman beside him wasn’t me. It was my half-sister, Delilah. Clay held her hand as they rang the opening bell together. As the screen erupted in digital fireworks, he pulled Delilah into a gentle, lingering embrace. Deeply affectionate, yet carefully restrained. “Thank you for being here to witness the most important moment of my life,” he said in the clip. “I’m so incredibly happy.” Delilah hugged him back, her voice soft. “Me too, Clay.” I locked my phone. I let out a quiet, dry laugh, and then I went to the store to buy groceries and make dinner, just like any other day. Once I was full, I sent Clay a text. “Do you have $20?” He didn’t ask why. Within seconds, a notification popped up: he had wired me $20,000. I accepted exactly $20. Then I wired back $19,980. I sent a two-word reply: “Too much.” I forwarded that twenty dollars straight to my father’s bank account, settling the score once and for all. Ten years ago, I traded my dignity and self-respect for twenty dollars. Ten years later, he used that same twenty dollars to buy out our relationship and our future. There was no room for me in his Nasdaq dream. And there was no longer any room for him in my quiet, ordinary life. … 1 “Still awake?” Around ten o’clock that night, the front door swung open. It was Clay. He was wheeling his charcoal-grey suitcase, still wearing the exact same designer suit from the video. I didn’t rush to the door to greet him like I usually did. I just stayed curled up on the sofa, not even bothering to look up. “Waiting for you,” I said, my voice flat, empty of any warmth. He walked over, pausing as he unclasped his watch. “What’s there to wait for? We’re basically an old married couple at this point.” I corrected him. “We aren’t married.” “We will be. It’s only a matter of time.” As he spoke, the scent of crisp cedarwood drifted off him. It was a cold, expensive cologne. Not his usual scent. I smiled. “Clay, do you actually still want to marry me?” I was genuinely curious. “Of course I do. What kind of question is that?” How fascinating. After telling another woman how happy he was, he still expected to come home and marry me. But I didn’t want to marry him anymore. He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the back of the sofa. “I need to adjust to the jet lag. Go to sleep.” “Okay.” I stood up and went straight into the bedroom. I could feel his eyes on my back, lingering. He was probably confused by the sudden shift in my behavior. Normally, no matter how late he got home, there would be a warm glass of lemon water waiting for him on the counter. There would be a pot of slow-simmered chicken soup on the stove, kept warm to soothe his sensitive stomach. I would hover around him like a devoted housekeeper, taking his jacket, hanging it up, and gently complaining about the rising price of organic eggs or how the local market was shorting us on fresh herbs. But tonight, I did nothing. I said nothing. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the bedroom door. “How do I heat up the soup?” “Take a ladleful, put it in a small saucepan, and turn the burner to low. Let it simmer for five minutes.” The room was dark. He walked in, sat on the edge of the mattress, and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. What is wrong with you today, Josie?” I brushed his hand away. “Clay, where did you actually go on this trip?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second. His voice remained perfectly steady. “New York. Just checking out the Nasdaq offices.” He wasn’t technically lying, but he wasn’t telling the truth either. When had he gotten so practiced at deceiving me? Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Clay frowned. He pulled the comforter up over my shoulders and murmured, “Go back to sleep. I’ll get it.” He slipped out of the room and opened the front door. “What are you doing here?” I heard the sharp note of surprise in his voice—and the unmistakable undercurrent of delight. I got out of bed, walked to the doorway, and saw Delilah. She was standing in the hall, her smile bright and radiant, exactly the way she looked under the billboard lights in Times Square. “Clay! You grabbed my suitcase by mistake at baggage claim. We have the exact same one.” I looked down. The suitcases were identical in color, size, and brand. Delilah caught sight of me. She arched an eyebrow, her expression shifting into something sweet and performative. She waved. “Oh, Josie! You’re awake. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in and interrupted you and Clay this late.” I didn’t say a word. From the corner of my eye, I saw Clay wheeling the identical charcoal-grey suitcase out of the guest room. He had already slipped his suit jacket back on, and his car keys were jingling in his hand. “Where are you going?” “I’m a little hungry. I’m going to help Delilah load her bag and grab a quick bite with her down the street.” “Are you two…” Before I could even finish the question, his alibi was ready. “Don’t overthink it, Josie. We just happened to catch the same flight back. She’s your sister, remember? I hitched a ride with her from the airport to save on cab fare. It was just easier.” I stared at him. His expression didn’t flicker. His voice was smooth, even, completely devoid of guilt. A flawless performance. 2 I let out a soft laugh and took a step forward. “Clay.” He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?” “Where’s my souvenir?” “Your what?” He had completely forgotten. “The ring.” He froze. But his instinctive reaction wasn’t to look at me—it was to glance nervously at Delilah. My smile widened. “The elevator’s here!” Delilah called out from the hallway. “Right, coming!” he called back, almost frantically. He practically ran out the door with Delilah, disappearing down the hall without another word. Five years ago, I asked him when we were finally going to get married. He had wrapped his arms around me, his eyes shining with absolute certainty. “On the day the company goes public, will you propose to me?” he had whispered. “I want to be the happiest man in the world.” He told me he would take care of the ring. But he never told me the company was listing. And there was no ring for me. I walked back to the kitchen, picked up my phone, and made a call. “That private catering contract you mentioned… I’ll take it.” The voice on the other end gasped. “Are you serious? I’ve been begging you to come back to the industry for three years. What changed?” Then, catching herself, she asked, “Wait, aren’t you and Clay getting married this year?” I looked around the cavernous, quiet apartment. “No,” I said softly. “We aren’t.” When I woke up the next morning, Clay had already left for the office. He had only been back for a single night, yet his presence was messily splattered across the apartment. His dirty clothes were strewn across the bathroom floor. His half-empty coffee mug sat on the dining table. Used face towels were piled up on the vanity. I didn’t clean any of it. Instead, I pulled out my phone and hired a professional cleaning service. The housekeeper was efficient, finishing the entire place in less than thirty minutes and even whipping up a quick breakfast for me. “You’re so sweet to your husband, leaving the place tidy for him,” she chatted. “He’s not my husband.” “Oh,” she said, pausing. “A roommate?” “Something like that. I’d like you to come back at this exact time for the next five days. I’ll pay your full-day rate.” Her face lit up. “Oh, absolutely! Thank you so much.” After she left, I started packing my suitcase. Buster, my six-year-old golden retriever, trotted over and dropped his favorite metal food bowl right into the middle of my open luggage. He panted, his tongue lolling out, giving me a goofy grin. I patted his head. “Okay, buddy. You’re coming with me.” Clay had given me Buster the year my mother passed away. “Whenever I can’t be here, Buster will keep you company,” Clay had promised. “He’s family now.” Out of all the empty promises Clay had made over the years, that was the only one he actually kept. Because in the end, Buster was the only one who stayed. And Buster was the only thing I wanted to take with me. At six in the evening, my phone rang. It was Clay. “Don’t worry about dinner tonight, I have a business dinner.” I looked down at the lukewarm takeout container on my lap. “Okay.” “Also, it’s your dad’s birthday today. Make sure you call him.” I stopped chewing. “Since when do you care about my father’s birthday?” “It doesn’t matter. In business, there are no permanent enemies, Josie. Just do it for me, okay?” Before I could refuse, the line went dead. He was so entirely sure that because I loved him, I would swallow my pride and call the father who had abandoned me. But that was when I loved him. Now, I didn’t. I tossed the phone onto the cushion and went back to eating, completely ignoring his request. Ten minutes later, my screen lit up again. This time, it was a message from Delilah. It was a short, ten-second video. It was a private family dinner at the Marshall residence. And Clay was sitting right there. In the video, he was sitting next to Delilah, carefully peeling a tiger prawn. He meticulously removed the vein and placed the clean, perfect shrimp directly into Delilah’s plate. He was so attentive, so gentle. He had never once peeled a piece of seafood for me in ten years. My father’s laughter boomed in the background. “Well, look at you two. Looks like we’ll be planning a wedding in this family very soon.” Clay didn’t deny it. He just smiled. Then, a text popped up from Delilah below the video. “You can’t give him what he needs, Josie.” I stared at the screen, then slowly typed back: “You’re right. He’s yours. Want him?” Her reply came back instantly. “Yes.” 3 I turned off my phone. I forced down the rest of my food, swallowing my tears along with the cold rice. My stomach was full, but my chest felt like a hollow, gaping wound. Buster whined softly, resting his heavy chin on my bare foot, offering his silent comfort. At eleven o’clock, Clay finally came home, carrying a paper takeout bag. Buster trotted over to greet him, but Clay carelessly nudged him out of the way with his shoe. Buster let out a soft whimper and retreated behind my legs. I pulled the dog close, my eyes dropping to the takeout container Clay set on the table. “Leftovers?” “It was a fantastic dinner. I saved some especially for you.” “I’m not hungry.” His brow furrowed, his tone instantly sharpening with irritation. “I brought this all the way back for you, Josie. At least sit down and eat a bite.” He had repackaged his leftovers as a thoughtful gift. I didn’t move. He walked over, snatched the phone out of my hand, and looked down at me. “What is your problem lately? If you have something to say, say it. I hate when you act like this.” “Like what?” “Sullen. Like everyone in the world owes you something.” Didn’t he owe me? I didn’t want to fight. I quietly stood up, walked to the table, and opened the takeout containers. Garlic butter lobster, spicy deviled crab, and a rich oyster chowder. I pointed at the spread, keeping my voice completely level. “Clay, you brought this back “especially” for me?” “I’m severely allergic to shellfish. Did you forget?” He blinked, momentarily speechless. “I… I didn’t think. Del—a friend packed it up for me.” “Delilah?” His expression hardened. “Are you tracking my location now?” I unlocked my phone and held it up, showing him his own mother’s social media feed, which was plastered with photos of him and my father. “It’s hard to miss when it’s all over my feed.” He sighed heavily, walking over to the bar to pour himself a stiff drink. He downed it in one go. “It was your father’s birthday, Josie. You didn’t even bother to call. You can afford to be stubborn and petty, but I can’t. I have a business to run.” His voice carried a heavy, resentful exhaustion. “If you had just swallowed your pride and patched things up with your family years ago, I wouldn’t have had to struggle so hard to build this company.” He looked at me, shaking his head. “I am so tired, Josie.” He was blaming me. Blaming me because I didn’t let him use my family’s connections as a shortcut. I turned around and walked toward the bedroom, closing the door behind me. “I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.” Following that tense, unresolved argument, we fell into an icy, unprecedented silence. While he was at work over the next few days, I systematically cleared out my belongings. I packed up my high-end pantry stock—the dried porcini mushrooms, the premium saffron, the aged balsamic vinegar. I took every single jar. My stash of homemade truffle paste that I had carefully preserved for years—gone. The artisanal hot honey I had fermented last winter—I boxed it up and shipped it out. I even arranged a private transport service to take Buster ahead of me. On Saturday evening at eight, Clay walked through the door, barely having slipped off his oxfords before he spoke. “My mother and Delilah are setting up a dinner tomorrow night. Our families are getting together. You’re coming.” My hand paused over my phone. “Can I say no?” He stared straight at me. “Josie, you know what a family dinner like this signifies. Don’t make this difficult for me.” Signifies what? An engagement? A wedding announcement? But who was the bride? Me, or Delilah? I didn’t ask. I just nodded and said, “Okay.” I only agreed because I wanted to see exactly how far they had already gone. The next evening, when I arrived at the restaurant, the private dining room was already packed. Delilah sat right in the center of the room, holding court. She said something that made Clay’s mother burst into a bright, tinkling laugh. When Clay’s mother noticed me, her smile instantly vanished. “You’re late,” she said coldly. My father, who had been absent for over twenty years of my life, chose this moment to play the stern patriarch. He slammed his teacup onto the saucer. “How disrespectful. Keeping your elders waiting like this—where are your manners?” Before I could speak, Delilah slid out of her seat and walked over to wrap a sweet, performative arm around my shoulders. “Oh, don’t blame Josie, Dad! It’s my fault. I asked Clay to pick me up on the way, so he had to make a detour, which probably delayed Josie.” I nodded, looking her dead in the eye. “You’re right. It is your fault.” 4 The room went dead silent. Clay shot me a dark, warning look before immediately pivoting to defend Delilah. “We had some urgent company business to discuss,” he said smoothly, offering the room a charming smile. “I actually begged Delilah to drive me. When you’re asking for a favor, you have to play by the other person’s schedule, right?” The tension broke, and the room erupted into easy, indulgent laughter. Once again, they were a perfect, happy family. And once again, I was the outsider. Over dinner, the conversation turned to Clay’s rise in the business world. Clay’s mother raised her glass to my father. “Richard, we really owe so much of Clay’s success to your guidance.” She took a sip of her wine. “Clay told me how much you helped him during those brutal early years. He never would have survived without you.” My fork hovered in the air. He had repackaged all of my sacrifices, all of my hard work, and handed the credit to my estranged father. My father beamed with self-importance. “Oh, it was nothing.” He patted Delilah’s hand. “Honestly, I should be thanking Clay. When Delilah was studying in New York, she was so young and overwhelmed. Thank goodness Clay flew out to see her so often.” “Whenever I was too busy to fly over, Clay was there to keep her company. I really should be the one offering a toast.” Clay’s mother beamed. “Well, he always did enjoy her company.” Clay and Delilah shared a quiet, knowing look across the table. A silent, intimate understanding that I had never seen between us. I focused on my plate, slowly peeling a shrimp, but the bite tasted incredibly bitter in my mouth. Three years. He had taken seventy-eight business trips, and fifty-one of them had been to New York. I remembered the time I was bedridden with a 103-degree fever. I had begged him, just that once, to cancel his trip and stay with me. He had only offered a distracted apology before grabbing his suitcase and heading to the airport. I thought he was building an empire for our future. But the empire was in New York, and its name was Delilah. I set my fork down, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, and stood up to leave. Delilah’s voice rang out, sharp and dripping with feigned concern. “Josie, don’t you feel any shame at all?” I paused, turning slowly. “What?” “I’m sorry, but I can’t keep quiet anymore,” Delilah said, looking around the room as if she were pleading for justice. “You have a college degree, yet you just sit at home doing nothing. Clay is human, Josie. He gets tired of carrying all the weight.” The raw, aching pity in her eyes as she looked at Clay was nauseating. She wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. “Did Clay tell you that?” I asked. “He didn’t have to. I can see it.” I turned my gaze to Clay. “Are you tired?” He looked back at me, his jaw tight. “Delilah is right, Josie. It’s time you got a real job.” A real job. Before I gave up everything to help Clay build his company, I was a sous chef at a three-Michelin-starred restaurant. I was considered one of the most promising young culinary talents in the city. I was at the absolute peak of my career. But for him, I walked away from the kitchen. And now, in his eyes, I was just a useless parasite living off his hard work. I let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Okay.” I turned and walked out of the restaurant. No one followed me. It was as if they had all been waiting for me to leave. 5 The next morning, Clay was sitting at the dining table when I came out of the bedroom. “My mother was extremely unhappy with your behavior last night, Josie.” I poured myself a glass of water and took a slow sip. “And?” “Don’t you think you need to reflect on yourself?” “Reflect on what?” “Your lateness. Your hostility. The way you treated Delilah.” I set the glass down and looked at him. “So?” He met my gaze, his eyes narrowing with irritation. “I have a limit, Josie. Don’t push me to the point of walking away. Because if I leave, I am never coming back.” I looked at him, completely detached. “I won’t ask you to.” He let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Ten years, and you’re still this stubborn.” “Are you really that confident that I’ll never actually break up with you?” I looked deep into his eyes, trying to find a shred of the man I used to know. “Will you?” He looked away, his voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. “I don’t know.” “I don’t know.” Was he unsure, or just too cowardly to say it out loud? It didn’t matter anymore. I walked past him into the kitchen. “Have you eaten?” He blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. “No.” “Let’s have a quick bite, then.” I boiled some fresh pasta, fried a couple of eggs, and tossed in some baby spinach. Before serving, I carefully wiped the rim of the bowls with a clean cloth. He took a large bite, letting out a satisfied sigh. “If you had acted like this last night, maybe I would have already given you the ring.” I stared at him, not quite understanding. “Last night, I was planning to propose to you,” he said, sliding a small black velvet box across the table toward me. “I bought the ring.” I opened the box. Inside was a delicate, intricately carved platinum band. It was beautiful. I picked it up and tried to slip it onto my ring finger, but it stopped at my knuckle. It wasn’t even close to my size. A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. I couldn’t believe I had held onto a tiny sliver of hope. Ten years together, and he didn’t even know my ring size. “Why didn’t you propose then?” I asked quietly. He laid his fork down, his voice cool and detached. “Delilah was right. I need to teach you a lesson so you’ll start appreciating what you have.” I put the ring back into its velvet slot. “Did Delilah know you were planning to propose?” “Yes. She actually helped me pick out the ring.” Of course. It was Delilah’s ring size. I let out another soft laugh and slid the box back across the table. “Keep it.” Clay’s brow furrowed. “Are you expecting me to get down on my knees?” I looked up at him. “Do you want to?” He grabbed the box, shoved it into his pocket, and stood up. “You’re going to regret this, Josie. Next time, I won’t make it this easy for you.” But there wouldn’t be a next time. “Clay, do you actually want to get married right now?” I asked. He shook his head. “You’re the one refusing to marry me.” “I have a lot of work at the office this week. I won’t be coming home.” He grabbed his briefcase and walked out, slamming the door. The apartment fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. But I was used to being alone. At five-thirty that afternoon, during the peak of rush hour, my Uber crawled to a stop at a major intersection on South Grand Avenue. I looked out the window and froze. Clay’s office building was right on the corner. And there he was, standing near the glass entrance, as if he were waiting for someone. A moment later, a sleek Mercedes pulled up to the curb. Delilah stepped out of the driver’s seat. She threw her arms around Clay’s neck, and as the setting sun caught her hand, the platinum ring on her ring finger flashed blindingly bright. The Uber driver, a chatty local, shook his head as he watched them through the windshield. “Well, look at that. That’s Clayton Ward, the big shot tech CEO. That must be his fiancée.” “I saw the video of them ringing the Nasdaq bell all over my social media feed last week.” “With a rock like that, she’ll probably be Mrs. Ward by next month.” I felt a strange, cold wave of numbness wash over me. The ring had always been meant for Delilah. He had just used a clumsy lie to keep me on the hook, pretending he still loved me. I rolled up the window and closed my eyes. “Please just drive,” I whispered to the driver. The light turned green, and the car sped away. My flight out of the city was just as fast. Clay, you have your empire. And I have my life to live. I am done playing a supporting role in your story.

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My mother is the most celebrated starry-sky painter in the City Art Coalition. On my sister’s tenth birthday, she spent all day on a ladder, painting a massive galaxy mural across her bedroom wall. My sister pointed to the brightest star and said, “Mom, write my name on that one.” Mom smiled and repainted it three times until it was perfect. I handed her the sketchbook I’d saved up for six months to buy, begging her to draw a little cat on the first page. She didn’t even look at it. She just pushed the pencil back to me. “Use the copier,” she said. “It looks exactly the same.” Later, her new exhibition opened. The theme was “The Universe I Gave to My Two Daughters”. On the promotional poster, my sister stood in front of the galaxy wall, her dress swirling like a cloud. I stood in the corner of the gallery, my name tag reading: “Volunteer”. A reporter asked her, “Did your eldest daughter inherit your artistic talent too?” Mom hesitated for a fraction of a second, then smiled. “She’s more practical. She handles the logistics.” My sister, holding a bouquet, chimed in, “Yeah, Isabel is really strong at carrying the heavy frames!” I looked down at the blank sketchbook in my hands. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to draw a little cat. It was just that she had never once thought of painting me into her world. … 1 “Isabel, the reporters want a family photo. Can you hold our coats for a second?” Daphne shoved a heavy bouquet of champagne roses into my arms. The sharp edge of the wrapping paper scraped against my wrist. “Sure.” I held the flowers and took a couple of steps back, retreating into the shadows where the camera flash couldn’t reach. My dad adjusted his silk tie and wrapped an arm around my mom’s shoulders. Daphne stood between them, her white tulle dress blooming like a cloud. “Click.” The camera captured the moment. The photographer glanced at the preview screen and smiled. “Ms. Croft, you have such a beautiful family. The genetics are incredible. Your youngest definitely inherited your artistic grace.” “A family of three.” I stood two yards away, a plastic volunteer badge hanging around my neck. On it, my name was scrawled in black Sharpie: “Volunteer”. My mom adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, her voice calm and elegant. “Art requires innate talent. Daphne indeed has that rare spark.” She paused, her gaze bypassing the photographer to land on me. “Isabel is more practical. She managed all the logistics and setup for this exhibition.” The photographer blinked, only just realizing I was also a member of the family. “Oh, the oldest daughter is here too! Want to step in for a quick photo?” “No need,” my dad said, checking his watch. “We’re on a tight schedule. Daphne’s been standing for four hours; her energy levels are depleted. We need to get her some carbs.” He turned to me. “Isabel, stay behind and coordinate the teardown and closing procedures with the gallery manager. This is a great opportunity to build your project management skills.” “The teardown will take at least two hours,” I said, looking at him. “It’s already eight p.m.” “Then you’ll need to work efficiently,” he replied, his tone as detached as a manager instructing an underling. Daphne walked over, tugging on my mom’s sleeve. “Mom, I want to go to that dry-aged steakhouse on Grand Avenue. If we’re late, we’ll lose our reservation.” “Alright, let’s go now,” my mom said, patting her hand. I looked at my mother. “Mom, Grand Avenue is twelve miles from here. By the time I finish cleaning up, the subway will have stopped running.” “You can take an Uber.” “My account ran dry last week.” My mom frowned. “Isabel, I’ve always taught you the importance of financial planning. Your monthly allowance is fixed. If you overspend, you must bear the consequences. That is basic adult responsibility.” She didn’t mention “why” my allowance was gone. She didn’t mention that two days ago, Daphne had set her heart on a rare, discontinued set of Winsor & Newton watercolors. Three hundred dollars. Half of my monthly budget. Daphne had whined that she was out of allowance and begged me to pay for it first, promising to pay me back. “Go ahead and finish up, Isabel,” Daphne said, giving me a quick wink. “I’ll Venmo you the Uber fare later.” She never did. And I never brought it up. Because I knew my parents wouldn’t care about such trivialities anyway. In their highly intellectual, rational world, only the weak or the extraordinarily gifted deserved attention. And as the “older sister,” I was default-programmed to be the one who sacrificed. At eleven p.m., I finally made it home on the night bus. When I pushed the front door open, the living room lights were still on. On the coffee table sat three empty takeout boxes from an upscale New American bistro. Next to them was an empty, elegant pastry box from a boutique bakery. Daphne hated strawberries. Those gourmet strawberry shortcakes had been my favorite. My mom was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through the exhibition’s feedback metrics on her iPad. She didn’t look up when the door opened. “There’s some leftover clam chowder in the kitchen. Microwave it for two minutes. It won’t lose its nutritional value.” I paused in the middle of taking off my shoes. “Are there no strawberry shortcakes left?” “Daphne wanted to try them,” my mom said, swiping the screen. “She took one bite, found it too sweet, so Richard finished it. It’s just a pastry. You can buy yourself one tomorrow.” “Just a pastry.” I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the empty box. “It was a seasonal limited-edition from the bakery on Grand. They only make twenty a day.” My mom finally looked up, her gaze behind her gold-rimmed glasses sharp and analytical. “Isabel, don’t waste your emotional energy on low-value sunk costs. You are an independent individual. If you’re going to compare and compete over a pastry, your artistic vision will never rise above mediocrity.” “Artistic vision.” She always used professional jargon to dress up her blatant favoritism. My dad walked out of his study, holding a thermos. “Why aren’t you getting ready for bed? Tomorrow morning, you need to go to the art supply warehouse to pick up Daphne’s custom canvases. Double-check the weight and texture; she’s very particular about her materials.” “I have to submit my entry form for the Regional Youth Biennial tomorrow,” I said, looking at him. “You can submit it in the afternoon,” my dad said, taking a sip of water. “Daphne’s canvases are for next month’s Statewide Invitational. Her timeline is a higher priority. We must allocate resources rationally.” I didn’t argue. I walked to the pantry and opened it. Four boxes of organic strawberries sat in the fridge, prepped for Daphne’s morning fruit bowls. My single box of cheap dollar-store mac and cheese had been squeezed into the deepest, coldest corner of the pantry, the box crushed. I put a pot of water on the stove. The water boiled, bubbling away, as I dumped the dry macaroni in. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my thesis advisor. “Isabel, the competition for the Biennial’s preliminary round is incredibly fierce. Your mother is the Vice President of the Fine Arts Association—did you manage to get that letter of recommendation from her?” My grip on the utensils tightened. Last month, my mom had promised me. She said as long as my work met her professional standards, she would write it. I had pulled fourteen consecutive all-nighters to finish that painting. I turned off the stove and strained the mushy, overcooked macaroni into a bowl. Holding the bowl, I walked over to my mother. “Mom, about my painting, “Midnight Rain”… when can you give me the recommendation letter?” My mom’s finger hovered over her iPad. She put the tablet down, clasped her hands over her knees, and delivered her verdict in a detached, objective tone. “Isabel, I re-evaluated your piece.” “Your composition is too rigid. It lacks soul. It doesn’t resonate.” “So, I cannot write the letter.” 2 “You can’t write it?” I asked. “No,” my mom said, entirely unapologetic. “An association recommendation carries my professional reputation. I cannot compromise my academic standards just because you are my daughter. That would violate my professional ethics.” “Professional ethics.” Those two words felt like a mountain crushing the air out of my lungs. My dad walked over, patting her shoulder. “Your mother is right. There is no room for sentimentality in academia. Isabel, you need to learn to accept your own mediocrity. Not everyone is meant for the top of the pyramid.” I looked at the bowl of bland, overcooked pasta. I had completely lost my appetite. “But last month, you wrote a recommendation letter for Daphne’s finger-painting.” I raised my eyes, staring directly into my mother’s. “The perspective in that piece wasn’t even technically correct.” My mom’s expression chilled. “Daphne is only ten.” “She is ten, which is why her work is full of untamed vitality. It has the raw energy of Fauvism. If you don’t understand that, don’t use your rigid, exam-oriented mindset to judge her.” Ten. At ten years old, “vitality” could excuse any technical failure. But at twenty, the piece I had poured my soul into was dismissed as merely “rigid.” The bedroom door clicked open. Daphne walked out, rubbing her eyes, dragging a pink plush bunny behind her. “Mom, I can’t sleep. The stars on my galaxy wall aren’t bright enough.” My mom stood up instantly, the coldness on her face melting into pure warmth. “Not bright enough? But sweetheart, I used the best glow-in-the-dark pigment. Come on, let’s go take a look.” She didn’t give me a single glance as she followed Daphne into the bedroom. My dad checked his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty. Clean up the kitchen when you’re done. Daphne is sensitive to food odors.” He turned and went back into his study. I was left alone in the living room. I walked over to the trash can and scraped the contents of my bowl into the garbage. Back in my room, I pulled open my desk drawer. Inside was that sketchbook. The first page was still blank. I had saved my allowance for six months when I was ten to buy it. I had wanted her to draw a little cat. She told me to use a copier. I flipped to the very last page. Tucked inside was a thick stack of receipts. The three-hundred-dollar watercolor receipt. A fifteen-hundred-dollar custom canvas preorder invoice. Four hundred dollars in gallery tickets. All of it paid out of my meager savings and part-time job earnings, advanced for Daphne’s needs. In this house, my money was a communal resource. Daphne’s desires were the highest command. The next morning. I didn’t go to the art warehouse to pick up her canvases. Instead, I went straight to the Biennial registration office. The coordinator flipped through my file. “Isabel Holloway, right? Your piece “Midnight Rain” passed the first round of reviews. But since you’re still a student and don’t have an institutional sponsor, you need to pay a three-hundred-dollar exhibition deposit.” “Sure, let me pay by card.” I opened my banking app. Balance: $8.65. I froze. Last night, I had exactly three hundred and ten dollars. I clicked on the transaction history. At 1:00 AM, an automatic transfer of three hundred dollars had cleared. Recipient: “Summit Art Camp”. It was the authorized family card my dad had linked to my account, which was normally used to cover my school fees. But yesterday, he had changed the settings to prioritize withdrawals from my account. My fingers grew cold as I stood at the counter. I dialed my dad’s number. It rang five times before he picked up. “What is it? I’m in a meeting,” he said quickly. “Dad, three hundred dollars was withdrawn from my account last night for the Summit Art Camp.” “Oh, that,” he said dismissively. “Daphne is going to Europe for a study program next month, and her registration fee was slightly short. I checked your account, saw you had exactly three hundred, so I transferred it over.” “That was my exhibition deposit.” “It’s just the Youth Biennial, Isabel. You won’t place anyway. Going there is just making up the numbers. The return on investment is too low.” There wasn’t even a hint of apology in his voice. “Dad, today is the deadline.” “Isabel,” his voice dropped, taking on a stern edge. “Don’t be difficult. Daphne’s trip to Europe will broaden her international perspective. It’s the most efficient use of our resources. Your three hundred dollars would have just sat there.” “That was my money. I earned it working a month of formatting layouts for my advisor.” “This family has supported you for twenty years, and you’re nickel-and-diming me now?” My dad’s logic was always ironclad. “I’ll transfer it back to you next month when my stipend clears. Don’t let a small amount of money disrupt family harmony.” The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in my ear. The coordinator nudged me gently. “Miss, are you going to pay? There are people waiting behind you.” I looked at the $8.65 left in my account. “I’m sorry,” I said, stepping back. “I won’t be submitting.” 3 I walked out of the Fine Arts Association building. The morning sun was so bright it made my eyes water. I had spent six months preparing “Midnight Rain”. To capture the reflection of neon lights in the puddles on a rainy night, I had stood on street corners in the downpour for a week straight. And now, it would remain rolled up, stuffed inside a cardboard tube. When I got home, it was three in the afternoon. The house was empty. I pushed open my bedroom door, and the pungent smell of turpentine hit me like a wall. I froze. My bookshelf had been shoved into the corner. My easel was folded up and packed away. In its place were several massive art supply crates and mountains of high-end pigments. Daphne’s easel stood proudly in front of my window, occupying the best light in the room. Splashes of wet paint dotted the hardwood floor. I took a deep breath. I walked back into the living room, picked up my phone, and called my mother. “What happened to my room?” “Oh, you saw?” my mom’s voice was even, accompanied by the faint sound of jazz playing in a café. “Daphne said her room was too dark, and it was stifling her inspiration. Your room has the best southern exposure.” “So?” “So I had the housekeepers move her supplies in. Your things have been packed up and moved to the basement.” The basement. “Are my paintings down there too?” “Yes,” she said. “They’re just practice pieces anyway. They won’t get ruined down there. You need to learn to share space.” “That is my bedroom.” “Your father and I pay the mortgage on this house. As someone who hasn’t financially contributed, you have the right to use the space, not to dictate it.” She always did this. Using cold, legalistic language to draw lines between us. “Daphne has her Statewide Invitational coming up. She needs the best possible environment,” my mom added. “As her older sister, yielding some physical space is a negligible cost.” “Understood.” I hung up. No screaming, no crying. Because I knew it was useless. I walked down to the basement and pushed open the creaking, rusty door. There were no lights. Only a tiny high window letting in a sliver of gray light. My books, my clothes, my paintings—all piled like trash on top of a plastic tarp. I turned on my phone flashlight and knelt to search through the clutter. At the very bottom, I found “Midnight Rain”. The cap to the protective tube was missing. The edges of the heavy paper had warped from the basement dampness. I carefully pulled it out and unrolled it. Right in the center of the canvas was a distinct, muddy footprint. Size five. Daphne’s shoe size. I stared at the footprint for a long time. Inside me, the fragile vessel that had spent years trying to rationalize their behavior finally shattered with a clean, sharp crack. It wasn’t that they were just objective and rational. It was that favoritism could be as concrete and physical as a muddy shoe print. At seven p.m., they came home. Daphne was clutching a luxury shopping bag, beaming. “Isabel! Look at the dress Mom bought me! I’m going to wear it to the opening next week.” She pulled out the dress, holding it up against herself. White silk. It probably cost thousands. Meanwhile, my three-hundred-dollar deposit had been taken because my “return on investment” was too low. “Do you like it?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. “It’s beautiful,” I replied quietly. My dad walked in, taking off his coat. “Isabel, Daphne’s exhibition opens next Friday. You’ll be attending as family. You’ll also need to handle the press and media coordination that day. It’s a great opportunity for you to practice.” “Next Friday,” I said, looking at him. “Yes, is there a problem?” Next Friday was my final thesis defense. If I missed it, I wouldn’t graduate. “I have my graduation defense that day.” “You can request an extension,” my dad said dismissively. “Daphne’s exhibition is her first major milestone. As part of this family, you cannot be absent.” “If I delay my defense, I’ll miss this year’s recruitment cycle.” “Then look for a job next year,” my mom chimed in, walking over with a glass of water. “There’s no rush for you to find work. Focus on managing family affairs first. That is your core competency.” “Core competency.” Being my sister’s assistant had become my core competency. “What if I don’t go?” I asked. My mom stopped in her tracks. She turned to me, her gaze heavy and intimidating. “Isabel, do not try to use rebellion to seek attention. This kind of low-level emotional manipulation doesn’t work in this house.” She set her glass down. “I’ve told you before, we are a rational family. If you do not contribute, do not expect to receive.” I looked at them. I looked at Daphne, hiding behind my mother’s arm, a smug little smirk playing on her lips. “Okay,” I nodded. “I’ll go.” 4 Friday morning. I didn’t go to Daphne’s gallery opening. I put on my cleanest white button-down, grabbed my portfolio, and walked out the door. My defense was scheduled for ten a.m. But at nine-thirty, my advisor called. “Isabel, we have a bureaucratic issue. Because of your previous absences, university policy requires a parent or guardian to sign off, confirming that your absences were due to a family emergency, in order for you to defend today.” I froze. My previous absences were because my mother had undergone minor surgery. My dad was on a business trip, and Daphne claimed she couldn’t miss school. So I had been forced to stay at the hospital for two weeks straight as her sole caregiver. “Professor, let me contact them right away.” I hung up and stood in the quiet hallway, dialing my mother’s number. This was the very last time I would ever ask them for help. It rang for a long time before she finally answered. In the background, I could hear chatter and classical music. “What is it? The opening ceremony starts in ten minutes, and the reporters are waiting,” my mom said, her voice sharp with impatience. “Mom, there’s a problem with my graduation defense. I need you or Dad to come sign a form proving my absences were because I was caring for you in the hospital.” “Right now?” “Yes, it has to be signed before ten.” There was a silence on the line. “Isabel, are you deliberately testing my time management skills? Or is this some petty attempt to punish us for not prioritizing your defense?” “It’s not punishment. It’s a strict university rule,” I said, taking a deep breath to steady my shaking hands. “It will only take ten minutes. The campus is only three miles from the gallery.” “A three-mile drive plus parking will take at least twenty minutes. It would completely disrupt Daphne’s opening schedule,” my mom said with cool, analytical detachment. “The cost is simply too high.” “If you don’t come, I won’t graduate.” “Then graduate next year,” she refused without a second thought. “An extra year to find yourself isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” “Mom, I missed those classes to take care of you.” “Did I demand that of you? That was your moral duty as a daughter. Don’t use morality to blackmail me.” My dad’s voice floated over from her end. “Who is that?” “Isabel. She wants me to go to her school right now to sign some paper.” “Ridiculous,” my dad’s voice came through clearly. “Daphne is about to give her speech. How can we leave? Tell her to handle it herself. She relies on us far too much.” I held the phone, listening to them back each other up. “Is sister mad at Mom because of me?” Daphne’s soft, innocent voice piped up. “If she really needs you, Mom, you should go. I can face the reporters alone, even though I’m really scared.” “What is there to be scared of? Mom is staying right here,” my mom soothed her, her voice turning incredibly tender. Then, she spoke back into the receiver, cold as ice. “Did you hear that? Daphne needs me. You’re an adult, Isabel. Clean up your own mess.” The line went dead. I stood at the end of the university hallway. The morning sun flooded through the window, but the air felt entirely stagnant, suffocating me. I looked at the “Call Ended” screen. Strangely, all the exhaustion that had weighed on me for years suddenly vanished. The desperate obsession to prove my worth, to claw my way into their hearts, popped like a balloon pricked by a needle. In an instant, there was nothing left. I opened my advisor’s text thread. “Professor, my parents can’t make it.” “Then your defense…” “I’m withdrawing.” I sent the message. I turned away from the defense room and walked out of the building. I took the subway back to the apartment. Not to pack my things, but to purge them. I placed the bank card they used to send my monthly allowance on the coffee table. Beneath it, I slid my house keys. Finally, I took the sketchbook—the one with the galaxy painted three times, its first page still empty—and threw it into the trash can. I stood in the entryway with a single rolling suitcase. I realized then that leaving someone forever doesn’t require a dramatic, screaming fight. It just takes a quiet accumulation of disappointments, until the very last crack is filled. The door clicked shut behind me. I didn’t look back.

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I paid three thousand dollars to board my cat at an ultra-exclusive pet resort. They promised a private suite, twenty-four-hour cloud camera access, and high-definition video updates three times a day. On the eighth night of my business trip, I was scrolling through live streams when I saw her. She had been shaved. She was wearing a tight breeding collar, locked in a metal crate with a massive male cat. The streamer was grinning at the camera. “This blue bicolor queen has immaculate genetics,” he said. “Drop your deposits now if you want to lock in a kitten from the next litter.” I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice as I looked at the tiny, crescent-moon birthmark inside her left ear. It wasn’t a resemblance. It was Mochi, my companion of five years. … Before leaving for Tokyo on business, I had spent weeks vetting boarding facilities. I didn’t dare leave her at a standard pet shop. Mochi was five years old, a blue bicolor Ragdoll, skittish, and unspayed. It wasn’t a choice; two years ago, she had been diagnosed with a mild heart murmur. Dr. Fletcher had written it clearly in her chart: “Breeding not recommended. Avoid severe stressors. Avoid close contact with unfamiliar cats.” So, I eventually chose Verdant Pines Pet Oasis. Three thousand dollars for fifteen days. The price was staggering, but their marketing was flawless. A private room for every cat, climate-controlled, with independent HEPA ventilation, daily UV sterilization, and a round-the-clock live feed. You got three video updates a day and a dedicated handler assigned to your pet. The contract was explicit: “Under no circumstances, without the owner’s written consent, shall the pet be co-mingled, transferred, shaved, used for commercial purposes, streamed, bred, or handed over to a third party.” On the day I dropped Mochi off, the owner, Maxwell Crawford, met me personally. “Mr. Gallagher, you’ve selected our Platinum Boarding Package. Every step of her care is logged. How much she eats, her hydration, her litter box habits, her emotional state—all of it will be sent to you daily.” The handler assigned to Mochi was Cody Jenkins, a quiet young man in his early twenties. He knelt beside the carrier, whispering gently through the mesh grate. “Don’t worry, sweet girl. I’m going to take this slow. I won’t force you out.” I handed over Mochi’s medical records, vaccine certificates, microchip registration, and Dr. Fletcher’s diagnosis. “She has a heart murmur,” I emphasized. “She cannot be bred, she cannot be stressed, and she must not be near other cats. Call me before you do anything.” Maxwell flipped through the file in front of me, circling “Breeding not recommended” with a red pen. “Rest assured, Mr. Gallagher. We run a luxury resort, not a backyard mill. You’re paying for peace of mind.” His words had brought me a wave of relief. The suites were indeed impressive. Clean glass doors, climbing structures, a cozy heated bed, a fountain, and a dedicated camera on the wall. A small digital screen outside displayed the temperature, humidity, and pet profile. When Mochi first went inside, she squeezed into a tiny fabric tent, only showing half her face to look at me. Cody didn’t force her out; he simply placed her water and wet food close to the opening. Maxwell opened a tablet to show me the live feed. The picture was crystal clear. “You can check on her anytime during your trip, Mr. Gallagher,” Maxwell said. “And we will send our own updates so you never have to worry.” For the first five days, they delivered on every promise. At 8:30 AM, Cody would send a video. “Mochi ate about two-thirds of her breakfast. She seems to be adjusting well.” At 1:00 PM, a second clip. “Getting some sun. She stepped out of her tent today.” At 9:00 PM, the last one. “Played with the feather wand for a couple of minutes. Normal litter box use.” In the videos, her suite was spotless, the water bowl was full, and her blankets were neat. Sometimes Cody would add, “She’s a bit sleepy today, so I let her rest.” I was working grueling hours in Tokyo, returning to my hotel exhausted enough to collapse immediately. But seeing those daily videos of Mochi kept me grounded. I even told a colleague, “It’s expensive, but the professionalism is worth it.” Then came the eighth night. I couldn’t sleep. It was past 1:00 AM when I was mindlessly scrolling through short videos on my phone. The algorithm pushed a live stream to my feed. “Lumina Champions Breeding – Late Night Session.” I was about to swipe away. Then the camera zoomed in on a heavy metal display cage. Inside, a blue bicolor Ragdoll was cowering in the corner. She wore a bright pink collar, and a patch of fur on the side of her neck had been shaved raw. Right next to her, separated only by a thin wire mesh, lay a massive male cat. The streamer’s voice was gratingly cheerful. “This female is our star tonight, folks. Perfect facial symmetry, deep blue eyes, excellent coat density. It’s her first breeding match. You can put down a deposit to reserve her kittens now.” The chat was moving rapidly. “She’s gorgeous. Those kittens are going to be expensive.” “Why is she hiding like that?” “How much is the deposit?” “She looks absolutely terrified.” I stared at the screen, my fingers freezing over the glass. Inside that cat’s left ear was a faint, crescent-shaped birthmark. The tip of her tail had an irregular ring of white fur. And when she tense up, her front left paw curled slightly inward. These were details only I would know. I hit the screen record button. Then I quickly toggled over to the Verdant Pines cloud app. The screen read: “Camera Offline for Scheduled Maintenance.” Almost simultaneously, a text from Cody popped up with a video clip. “Mr. Gallagher, Mochi just woke up. She’s doing great today!” I opened it. In the clip, Mochi was curled up in her bed, her room quiet and bathed in soft light. But when I zoomed in on the background, I saw the small desk calendar resting beside her water dish. The date on the calendar was from four days ago. I stared at the numbers on the screen as a cold sweat broke out across my back. The daily peace of mind they had been sending me was nothing but a library of pre-recorded clips. My actual cat was miles away, trapped in a live-streaming cage, being marketed as breeding stock. 2 I called Maxwell Crawford. The first call went unanswered. On the second try, he picked up, his voice heavy with sleep. “Mr. Gallagher? Is everything alright at this hour?” I sent him the screenshot from the live stream. “This is Mochi.” The line went quiet for a few seconds. I heard him shift in bed. Then Maxwell let out a soft, patronizing chuckle. “Mr. Gallagher, I think you’re just missing her. Blue bicolors look incredibly similar. Please don’t worry yourself over nothing.” “The crescent mark in her left ear, the white ring on her tail, the way she curls her front left paw when she’s frightened. It’s all there,” I said, my voice shaking with restrained anger. “We do have partner catteries that run promotional streams, but those are their own breeding queens. They are kept completely separate from our boarding area.” “Then show me Mochi right now. Start a video call.” “At this hour? The cats are asleep. Waking her up suddenly will cause unnecessary stress.” “Go pick her up, hold her next to a phone showing the current time, and record a ten-second clip.” “The handlers have all gone home for the night.” “Scan her microchip.” He paused. “Our scanner is actually out for calibration today.” The hotel room in Tokyo was dead silent. I could hear my own breathing, cold and calculated. “Maxwell, you promised twenty-four-hour visibility, three updates a day, and dedicated care. Now I’m asking to see the cat I paid three thousand dollars to board, and you’re telling me the cameras are offline, the scanner is broken, the staff is gone, and she can’t be disturbed?” His tone cooled, the professional warmth evaporating. “Mr. Gallagher, you are being highly emotional. Your cat is perfectly safe. We can discuss this in the morning.” “I’m booking the next flight back.” Silence. “That really isn’t necessary.” I hung up. The earliest flight I could get was at 4:00 AM. As I packed my bags, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I kept the live stream open on my iPad. The streamer, Troy, reached his hand into the cage to nudge Mochi’s chin up. She shrank back, her ears flattening against her head, a low, guttural growl escaping her throat. Troy just laughed. “This little lady is just shy. She’ll warm up soon. If you want to reserve a kitten, type ‘1’ in the chat.” I recorded every second of it until the stream finally went dark. By the time my flight landed, it was 10:00 AM. I dragged my suitcase out of the terminal and hailed a cab straight to Verdant Pines. The digital display in their lobby was still looping their slick advertisement: “Luxury boarding. A home away from home for your beloved pet.” But as I stepped past the threshold, I saw that the hallway usually reserved for boarding clients was cluttered. Heavy studio lights, colored backdrops, temporary wire cages, and plastic carriers blockaded the corridor. Several cats were crying from inside the cages, their mews sharp and distressed. A man stepped out of a side door, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lip. He looked at my suitcase and shrugged. “You here to view the queens or place a deposit on a litter?” “I’m here to pick up my cat,” I said. The man’s expression hardened. He spun on his heel, trying to shut the door behind him, but I threw my weight against it. “Get out of my way,” I said. He scowled. “Who the hell are you?” “Mochi’s owner.” Rapid footsteps sounded from the stairs, and Maxwell hurried down. He was still impeccably dressed, his hair perfectly coiffed, but the warm, reassuring look he had worn on drop-off day was entirely gone. “Mr. Gallagher. You’re back early.” “Where is Mochi?” I demanded. “Mochi had a minor stress response last night,” Maxwell said smoothly. “As a precaution, we had her transferred to our partner clinic for observation.” “Which clinic?” “It’s just down the road.” “Give me the name of the clinic.” He hesitated, his mouth opening slightly before closing. I turned my gaze to the man with the cigarette. A laminated badge hung from his pocket: “Brock Larson, Breeding Consultant.” “The male cat in the stream last night,” I said, pointing at Brock. “Was that yours?” Brock stubbed out his cigarette on the doorframe and let out a cold laugh. “Don’t come in here throwing accusations, pal. All these purebreds look alike. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cody stepped out from the back office. When he saw me, his face drained of color, and the tablet in his hand slipped, nearly clattering to the floor. I looked directly at him. “The video you sent me yesterday. Why was the calendar on the desk dated four days ago?” Cody opened his mouth, his eyes darting frantically to Maxwell. Maxwell cut in quickly. “A simple filing error. The handlers take multiple clips throughout the day. It was an honest mistake.” “An honest mistake that involved sending me four-day-old footage to hide the fact that my cat wasn’t even in her room?” Maxwell’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Gallagher, I suggest you watch your tone.” I pulled out my phone. “Let’s see if the police like your explanation.” Brock sneered. “Calling the cops over a cat? Go ahead, try it.” I dialed 911 right in front of them. 3 Once the police officers arrived, Maxwell’s demeanor shifted instantly into cooperative professionalism. “Officers, we run a registered, high-end boarding service here,” Maxwell said, spreading his hands. “This client is simply having a misunderstanding. The cat in the stream belongs to one of our breeding partners. He’s just incredibly anxious and confused her with his own pet.” I laid out my documentation on the lobby table, piece by piece. I showed them the contract containing the explicit “no breeding, no co-mingling” clauses. I played the screen recording of the live stream. I showed them the screenshot of Cody’s update with the outdated calendar. The responding officer, Officer Davis, reviewed the materials carefully. He turned to Maxwell. “Where is the cat right now?” “At our partner veterinary clinic under observation,” Maxwell replied. “Name of the clinic?” “My staff handled the transport. I’ll need to confirm the name with them.” Officer Davis stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re the manager of this facility. A client’s pet is hospitalized under your care, and you don’t know where she was taken?” Maxwell’s jaw tightened. Brock chimed in. “Officer, this isn’t a big deal. Cats get stressed. This guy doesn’t understand the industry.” “My cat is microchipped,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Scan her, and we’ll know exactly who she is.” Maxwell immediately interjected. “She’s not on the premises.” “When can you have her back here for verification?” Officer Davis asked. Maxwell bit his lip. “Tomorrow morning.” “Give me an exact time.” “Ten o’clock.” Officer Davis made Maxwell sign a formal statement on the incident report. As I packed up my documents to leave, Maxwell leaned in and spoke in a low, tight voice. “Mr. Gallagher, making a scene like this is going to hurt our business. We could have handled this quietly.” I looked him in the eye. “When I brought her here, what did you tell me? That I was paying for peace of mind. Instead, you gave me forged videos, offline cameras, a fake hospital, and a breeding cage.” The polite mask finally slipped from his face. “Don’t burn your bridges. There is still room to negotiate here.” I didn’t answer. I walked out, got into my car, and backed up every video, screenshot, and call recording to my secure cloud drive. Then I called Dr. Fletcher. When Mochi’s vet heard what had happened, his voice turned sharp and serious. “She has a heart murmur. I wrote specifically that she shouldn’t be bred. The moment you get her back, bring her straight to my clinic. We need a full cardiac workup, blood panels, hydration levels, physical trauma checks, and we need to start monitoring her for pregnancy.” “What if they actually bred her?” “Just get her back first, Thomas. Don’t go in there alone to fight them. Keep gathering evidence.” The next morning, at 9:50 AM, I walked back into Verdant Pines. Maxwell was nowhere to be seen. Cody stood behind the desk, trembling. “Mr. Crawford is in a meeting,” he murmured. I called Maxwell’s cell. It rang for a long time before he answered. “Mr. Gallagher, Mochi is still highly stressed. Today is not a good day to move her.” “The police report states she was to be returned here by ten.” “We are doing what is best for the animal. If we force a highly stressed cat to travel and she suffers a cardiac event, who is going to take responsibility for that?” “Give me the name of the hospital.” “I’m not at liberty to disclose that under our partner privacy agreement.” I let out a cold laugh. “She was never at a hospital, was she?” The line went dead. Ten minutes later, Maxwell walked down from the second floor. He didn’t look at me as he slid a printed invoice across the counter. “If you want to take your cat, we need to settle the outstanding balance first.” I looked down at the sheet. “Stress Management Care: $1,200” “Emergency Transport Fees: $500” “Dedicated Medical Monitoring: $800” “Stream Cancellation Damages: $4,500” “Brand Reputation Maintenance Fee: $8,000” “Total Due: $15,000” I looked up at him, incredulous. “You took my cat without my consent, put her on a commercial stream, and now you’re billing me for your lost streaming revenue?” Maxwell sat down on the lobby sofa, crossing his legs with a chilling composure. “First of all, there is no proof the cat on stream was Mochi. Second, your police report and threats of public complaints caused our streaming partner to halt their broadcast. Actions have consequences, Mr. Gallagher. You are an adult; you must take responsibility for the financial damage you’ve caused.” Brock was leaning against the doorframe, smirking. “You want your cat back? Then pay up. Stop throwing around the word ‘police’ like it scares anyone.” In that moment, I realized exactly what they were doing. They weren’t panicking. They assumed I was just a frantic pet owner who had rushed back from a business trip, desperate to get his cat back, and that I would eventually break under the pressure and pay them to make it go away. I didn’t argue. I took a clear picture of the invoice, recorded the “System Offline” notice on their wall, and took a voice memo of them refusing to provide the hospital details. Then, I turned around and walked out. Sitting in my car, I used a burner account to request access to Troy’s private online breeding community. The screening question was: “Which queen’s litter are you interested in?” I typed: “The blue bicolor from last night.” Within minutes, I was approved. The pinned announcement in the chat group read: “The blue bicolor queen from last night was a massive hit. Bookings for her upcoming litter are officially open. $800 deposit to reserve, final price based on coat quality at birth.” I scrolled up through the chat history. Someone had posted: “Is the queen yours? No ownership issues, right?” Brock had replied with a voice note. I clicked it. “Don’t worry about it, it’s shop inventory. The owner is out of the country; he won’t find out. Even if he does, we’ll just tell him all Ragdolls look the same.” Troy had followed up: “She’s too perfect to let sit in a boarding room. Just don’t post clear photos of her face online yet; we’re still wrapping things up with the owner.” Cody’s account was in the group, too. He had messaged: “I’ll keep sending him the older clips. That should buy us another two days.” I stared at my phone screen, my hands ice-cold. They hadn’t just used Mochi. They had planned this from the very beginning, knowing exactly who she belonged to. That evening, a friend connected me with a litigation lawyer, Attorney Callahan. Callahan listened to my story and gave me direct advice. “Stop calling them. Don’t argue. We need to send a formal legal notice immediately. This establishes that they have no authorization. If they continue to stream her, move her, or demand money, they are doing so with full knowledge of their illegality.” I drafted the notice with his guidance: “Mochi is my legally registered property. Her microchip number, vaccination logs, purchase contract, insurance policy, and medical records are fully documented.” “Our boarding contract strictly prohibits co-mingling, transfer, shaving, streaming, commercial display, breeding, or third-party transfer.” “I have never authorized any breeding, recording, streaming, or pre-sales of her offspring.” “I demand the immediate cessation of all commercial use of Mochi and her immediate return. You are required to preserve all camera footage, care logs, transport records, streaming data, and financial transactions. Continued concealment, transfer, or commercial exploitation of my property will result in full legal prosecution.” I sent the document to Maxwell, Cody, Brock, Troy, and the resort’s official email. Five minutes later, Maxwell texted back: “Do not threaten us.” Brock’s reply was faster: “You think a piece of paper scares anyone?” At 11:00 PM that night, Troy’s live stream went active again. This time, the camera was angled to obscure most of the cat’s face, and her collar had been changed to blue. But as she shrank back from the light, the faint crescent mark inside her left ear was clear for a split second. Worse, a handwritten sign was taped to the front of her cage: “Mated. Pending Observation.”

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