Author: Momo Chan

The quarterly sales rankings were posted. I closed a $50 million commercial deal, ranking number one in the entire company. Yet, my name wasn’t on the “Employee of the Quarter” list. The person who got the title was Tyler, the nephew of our branch manager, Richard Sterling. Just last month, Tyler messed up the square footage on three different client contracts, almost landing us in a massive lawsuit. Richard called me into the breakroom. “Ethan, a good broker shouldn’t just focus on the money.” “That client was actually Tyler’s lead first. It’s only fair the commission goes to him.” Meanwhile, Tyler was casually sitting at my desk, taking pictures of my client roster with his phone. “Don’t sweat it, Ethan. Next time you close a big one, just leave some crumbs for me.” Richard slammed his hand on the table. “If you don’t like it, leave. We aren’t short of smooth talkers here.” I ripped off my ID badge and threw it onto the reception desk. “Fine. I quit.” Richard sneered behind me. “Without this firm, you won’t even be able to rent out a doghouse.” I walked out and dialed a number that had never once rung during my three years at this company. “Dad, I’ve finished auditing the East Coast branch’s books. I have three years of evidence right here. Tell the corporate audit team they can move in.” 0

“Ethan, you can leave, but you must hand over your client database.” The call was from Chloe in Admin, her voice tight with the awkwardness of being forced to play messenger. I had just stepped out of the office building. My ID badge was probably still sitting on the receptionist’s desk, and already, this call was chasing me down. “That database is the result of three years of my own hard work, client by client. It has nothing to do with the company.” Chloe was silent for two seconds before lowering her voice. “Ethan, these aren’t my words. Richard’s exact words were—if you don’t hand it over, they will sue you for leaking trade secrets.” I stood by the curb, watching my reflection in the glass facade of the skyscraper across the street. “Trade secrets? A list of public contacts?” “Ethan, I’m just the messenger. Please don’t make this hard for me.” The line went dead. I shoved my phone into my pocket. Before I could take two steps, it buzzed again. This time, it was a client. David Harrison, the developer behind the luxury waterfront estate project. “Ethan, what’s going on? Some kid named Tyler just called me, claiming he’s taking over your accounts. He wanted to go over our negotiated terms again?” I paused. “Mr. Harrison, I just resigned. It must be the company’s transition process.” “Transition?” David let out a dry laugh. “That kid couldn’t even tell me the total square footage of the project. The first thing out of his mouth was asking about my budget. I told him I only deal with you, and he said—” David hesitated. “What did he say?” “He said you were fired for gross misconduct and warned me not to contact you again.” I gripped my phone, my knuckles turning white. Fired. I resigned on my own terms, but in his mouth, it became a shameful termination. “Mr. Harrison, I’ll explain everything to you later.” “No need. I trust you, Ethan. But that kid’s attitude… what the hell is going on with your company?” I couldn’t answer, because I didn’t know how to explain the sheer audacity of it. After hanging up, two text messages popped up. One was from Mrs. Clara Bennet from the Lakefront project: *Ethan, did you quit? Someone texted me using your name, saying we need to resign our contract.* The other was from Marcus Sinclair, a VIP client I had nurtured for two years: *Ethan, someone claiming to be your colleague added me on Snapchat and immediately started spamming me with listings. What’s the deal here?* I read through them one by one, my fingers hovering over the screen. Not only did he steal my commission, but he also swiped my physical contact book and was hitting up my clients one by one. My phone buzzed again. It was a message from Richard, sent not privately, but to the entire department WhatsApp group. “Notice: Due to Ethan Vance’s sudden resignation under personal circumstances, all his client accounts are now transferred to Tyler Sterling. Please cooperate with the handover. If any clients contact Ethan, please redirect them to Tyler.” A string of “Understood” messages followed immediately. Tyler Sterling—the guy who literally put the wrong square footage on three contracts and almost got us sued. Right after, Tyler sent a voice note to the group. I tapped it. His arrogant, nasal voice leaked through the speaker, sounding like he had just rolled out of bed. “Thanks, team! From now on, Ethan’s clients are my clients. If you guys have any extra leads, throw them my way. Dinner’s on me at the end of the year!” He followed it with a smirking emoji. Nobody else said a word. But nobody protested, either. I left the group chat, standing on the sidewalk as my screen slowly went dark. Three years. From my very first cold call to a $50 million deal. For three years, I hadn’t taken a single day off. My phone was on 24/7. Even if a client called at 2 AM, I answered. Now, with a single group chat notification, it all belonged to Tyler. My phone rang again. My dad. “Did you pack up your files?” “Yes. Three years of commission records, inflated expense sheets, and contract discrepancies. I have everything.” Silence on the other end for two seconds. “The corporate audit team will arrive the day after tomorrow. Don’t go back to that office.” “Dad, they took all my clients.” My dad didn’t say anything at first. Then, he said something I didn’t expect. “Let them take them. The more they steal, the easier it will be to lock them up.”

“Ethan, you’ve been absent for seven days. Under Section 14 of your contract, the company has the right to demand liquidating damages for breach of contract.” The call was from HR. Sweet voice, razor-sharp attitude. I stared at my phone, wondering if I was dreaming. “I handed in my physical resignation letter to Richard last Friday. The front desk saw it, and Richard was right there.” “I just checked the system, and there’s no record of any resignation request. Furthermore, your attendance sheet shows you were absent Monday through Friday without any approved leave.” I froze. “Excuse me?” “Ethan, you have consecutive unexcused absences. Richard has already reported this to corporate headquarters. If you don’t cooperate, our legal team will proceed with a lawsuit.” I pulled the phone away and stared at the HR rep’s contact name. Falsifying attendance. They didn’t just steal my clients; they wanted to financially ruin me on my way out. “How much are these ‘damages’?” “Three months’ salary, plus the training and certification costs the company sponsored for you. A total of forty-two thousand dollars.” I laughed. “Tell Richard to call me himself.” The HR rep hesitated. “Mr. Sterling is very busy. He asked me to—” “Busy doing what? Busy helping his nephew take pictures of my client list?” The line went silent for three seconds, then clicked off. I tossed my phone onto the squeaky desk in my rented apartment. Outside the window was a dusty, gray street. Downstairs, a food truck was packing up, the smell of grease wafting up. My phone buzzed. It was a screenshot from Lily, my former cubicle neighbor. She had screenshotted the department chat. Tyler had posted: “Good riddance to Ethan. All his commissions are officially mine now! 🤪” A few people replied with thumbs-up emojis. Lily added a text message: *Ethan, this guy has absolutely no shame.* I stared at that stupid emoji for a long time. My phone buzzed again. David Harrison. “Ethan, that Tyler kid called me again. This time it’s even more ridiculous. He claimed you falsified contract data during your tenure and asked me to re-verify the terms. He even asked if we could cancel the deposit and sign a new one.” My temples began to throb. “Mr. Harrison, every single digit on the contract I signed with you is fully backed up. You don’t have to worry.” “I trust you, Ethan, but this guy is harassing me day and night. Is this how your firm does business?” “Mr. Harrison, I will handle this.” “How? You don’t even work there anymore,” David said, his voice laced with frustration. “Ethan, look, you should’ve cleaned up this mess before you left.” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. He was right. I had walked away, but the fallout was crashing down on my clients. Right after David, Marcus Sinclair called. “Ethan, your colleague sent me a new contract. The square footage is suddenly twenty percent higher than what we agreed on, which bumps the price up by six hundred thousand dollars. When I asked him about it, he said the original draft had ‘clerical errors’ and we needed to resign.” My grip tightened on the phone. Twenty percent higher. This was his signature move—padding the numbers to pocket the difference. He wasn’t incompetent; he was running a scam. “Mr. Sinclair, do not sign that contract. The original one is perfectly valid.” “I trust you, Ethan, but I need this sorted out. I don’t have time to play games with your firm.” “Mr. Sinclair, give me three days.” He was quiet for a moment. “Three days. Not a day more.” I hung up and pulled up the files on my laptop—every single transaction I had meticulously documented over the last three years. Every kickback, every altered contract price, and every fake invoice Richard had personally approved. I had known this branch was rotten since my first year. My phone rang. My dad. “The corporate audit team is confirmed. They will arrive the day after tomorrow. Until then, do not make a move.” “They’re falsifying my attendance to extort forty-two thousand dollars from me.” Silence on the line. “Let them sue. The more fake charges they file, the more evidence we have to bury them.” I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Downstairs, the food truck honked its horn as it drove off. “Dad, his nephew is padding client contracts to steal money.” My dad’s voice dropped an octave, dripping with cold fury. “Document it. Document everything.”

“Hi Ethan, this is corporate customer service, agent ID 6847. We received a client complaint and need to verify some details with you.” The next morning, this call woke me up. “What’s the complaint?” “Mr. David Harrison from the Waterfront project called. He reported that Tyler Sterling from the East Coast branch has been repeatedly harassing him to alter signed contract terms. Mr. Harrison explicitly stated he only recognizes the contract signed by you and refuses any changes.” I sat on the edge of my bed, my bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. “And how is corporate handling this?” The agent paused. “We notified the East Coast branch manager, Richard Sterling. His official response was that this is an internal adjustment. He said the client is just unfamiliar with the new broker and needs time to adjust.” Internal adjustment. Three months ago, when a client complained about a padded contract, Richard used the exact same excuse. “So you’re just closing Mr. Harrison’s complaint?” “The current directive is to let the branch manager handle it locally.” The branch manager was Richard. The fox was guarding the powerhouse. “Right. Got it.” I hung up and splashed cold water on my face. My phone buzzed again. Lily. “Ethan, we have a major problem.” “What happened?” “Tyler went through your cubicle this morning. He copied all your backup client files and even pried open your locked drawer to take your black notebook—the one where you keep all your client notes.” The towel in my hand slipped into the sink. That notebook was three years of my life. What kind of coffee each client liked, their kids’ birthdays, their preferred layouts, which days to avoid calling them—over a hundred clients, all detailed in my handwriting. “Who authorized him to break into my drawer?” “Richard did. He escorted Tyler himself, saying that since you abandoned your job, any personal belongings left behind became company property.” My knuckles popped as I clenched my fists. “Ethan, there’s more,” Lily’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tyler is using your notes to call your clients. He saw the note on Mrs. Bennet’s file—the one saying ‘Daughter is taking the SATs next month, keep stress low, don’t talk about college prep’—and he literally laughed out loud in front of everyone.” “Laughed?” “He said, ‘Ethan actually wrote down client kids’ exam schedules? No wonder he couldn’t close real volume, focusing on useless garbage.’ Then he called Mrs. Bennet right there. The first thing he said was, ‘Mrs. Bennet, I hear your daughter is taking the SATs. Honestly, even if she fails, buying a premium property is better than any Ivy League degree anyway.’” I closed my eyes. Clara Bennet’s daughter was dealing with severe anxiety. Clara had told me multiple times how terrified she was for her daughter’s mental health. “What did Clara say?” “She slammed the phone down and immediately called corporate to file a complaint. Ethan, she was crying on the phone.” I stood in my cramped bathroom, the tap running loudly, but my mind was completely silent. “Ethan? You there?” “Yeah.” “When are you going to fix this? Everyone in the office is disgusted, but no one dares to speak up. Richard made it clear in yesterday’s meeting that anyone caught talking to you would be fired on the spot.” “Don’t take any risks, Lily. Delete my contact.” Silence for a few seconds. “Ethan, you’re the best broker I’ve ever met. You don’t deserve this.” The line went dead. I turned off the faucet. The face in the mirror looked exhausted, dark circles bruised under my eyes from lack of sleep. My phone lit up. It was a post on Tyler’s Instagram. A picture of him sitting at my old desk, his feet up, flipping through my black notebook. The caption: “Hitting the books. 📚” I stared at the photo for a full minute. Then, I opened a hidden folder on my computer. Inside was a digital copy of every single note I had ever made. They had only stolen paper; the real weapon was backed up in my cloud. My phone rang. My dad. “The corporate audit team is leaving this afternoon. They will arrive tomorrow morning. One last check—is the evidence complete?” “Yes. Kickbacks, padded contracts, fake invoices, and recorded client complaints. Three years’ worth, without a single gap.” A brief pause. “Are they still harassing the clients?” “Yes. They’re falsifying contracts as we speak, inflating the square footage to steal more money.” My dad’s voice was flat, but I could hear the dangerous edge to it. “Perfect. Fresh crimes are much easier to prosecute than old ones.” “Dad, they brought a client to tears today.” Five seconds of silence. “After tomorrow, nobody will be crying but them.”

“Ethan, this is your final notice. Transfer the forty-two thousand dollars in damages to the company account by 3:00 PM today, or our legal department will file a formal lawsuit.” HR called again first thing in the morning, her tone even colder this time. “Tell your legal team to pull up my resignation log first.” “I’ve told you, there is no resignation log. Richard confirmed you never submitted one.” “What about the lobby security footage? I threw my badge right in front of him.” A pause. “Ethan, I don’t manage security footage. If you have an objection, take it to labor arbitration. But as of now, you owe the company forty-two thousand dollars.” I let out a soft laugh. “Fine. Tell Richard to get ready.” I hung up and pulled up the video I had recorded on my phone when I threw my badge down. It was a habit I’d picked up after three years of working under a corrupt boss—always keep receipts. In the video, Richard was standing behind the reception desk, arms crossed, a smug sneer plastered on his face. The timestamp was clearly visible in the bottom right corner. I saved the video in three different places: two cloud backups and one in my email. My phone vibrated. Marcus Sinclair. “Ethan, the three days are up.” “Mr. Sinclair, tomorrow. By tomorrow afternoon, I will have a complete resolution for you.” “What is going on over there? Since you left, that Tyler kid has called me eight times in three days. Yesterday he sent another contract, and the square footage was inflated by another ten percent! I showed it to my attorney, and he asked if I was being scammed.” Another ten percent. First twenty, now ten more. “Mr. Sinclair, keep that contract safe. Do not delete it.” “Keep it? What are you planning, Ethan?” “You’ll see tomorrow, Mr. Sinclair.” He didn’t ask further and hung up. By noon, David Harrison called. “Ethan, is your corporate hotline a joke? I complained three times, and every single time, Richard Sterling was the one who called me back, saying they were ‘handling it.’ Nothing has been handled! This morning, Tyler called me again. Guess what he said?” “What?” “He said, ‘Mr. Harrison, Ethan Vance had a terrible reputation at the firm. The contracts he drafted were full of errors. Don’t worry, I’m here to clean up his mess. I’m much more reliable.’ He even added, ‘Ethan was just a brown-noser with zero actual talent.’” I gripped my phone, sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at a crack in the wall. “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Harrison.” “Ethan, I’ll be blunt. I trusted your firm because of you. Now that you’re gone, I see what kind of clowns run that place. If you move to another agency, let me know. You’ll have my business.” “Mr. Harrison, I might not need to change agencies.” “What do you mean?” “You’ll find out tomorrow.” I hung up, opened my laptop, and did a final check of the files. The kickback spreadsheet: Richard had used a shell consulting company to funnel $2.4 million in commissions over three years. Every transaction matched a bank statement belonging to an account under his wife’s name. The contract discrepancies: Out of seventeen contracts handled by Tyler, seven had inflated square footage, totaling $980,000 in excess charges. All of it had been funneled through a private intermediary account. The fake expense reports: Out of 162 invoices submitted as “client entertainment” over three years, 83 were completely fabricated. The companies listed on the receipts didn’t even exist. I packaged everything. My phone buzzed. It was a screenshot from Lily. She had changed her WhatsApp name to random characters to avoid detection. In the screenshot, Tyler had sent a voice note to the team chat. The automated transcript read: “Hey team, heads up! Richard is buying everyone afternoon tea today to celebrate our department hitting number one in quarterly sales! And a little early celebration for my upcoming Agent of the Year title, haha.” Quarterly sales number one. That was my $50 million deal. Lily added a text: *Ethan, they’re currently arguing over which bakery to order the cake from.* I stared at the screen and didn’t reply. At 4:00 PM, my dad called. “The audit team has arrived. Six corporate auditors. Their SUV is parked in your building’s underground garage.” “Do they know?” “No. They’re currently throwing a victory party in the conference room.” I took one last look at my screen. “Dad, let’s do it.” A brief pause. “Tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, the audit team will walk directly into the office. You don’t need to be there.” “I”I want to be there,” I said. My dad was silent for a moment. “Fine.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “466446”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

The day of our divorce, when I walked out with absolutely nothing, I asked my son, Julian, to drive me to my temporary rental apartment. On the way, he pulled over to buy a pack of cigarettes, but he forgot to disconnect his phone from the car’s Bluetooth. Suddenly, my ex-husband Richard’s voice echoed through the car speakers, dripping with smug satisfaction: “Julian, did your mother really sign over all the properties to you?” Immediately after, my son’s voice replied: “Of course. Wasn’t my acting perfect? The money and the houses are all yours now. Just don’t forget the sports car you promised me.” “Don’t worry. Once the title transfer is officially complete, we won’t have to keep acting for that crazy woman anymore.” I froze in the backseat, feeling as if ice water had been poured down my spine. Julian hurried back into the car. The moment he saw the Bluetooth screen active, panic flashed across his face. “Evelyn! You… you’re awake?” “…Yeah, I just closed my eyes for a second. What’s wrong?” I kept my voice incredibly soft. Julian stared at me through the rearview mirror for two long seconds. “Nothing. Just wanted to tell you we’re here.” He pulled the car to the curb and engaged the handbrake. Outside the window stood a dilapidated, old walk-up. The exterior tiles were cracked and falling apart, and bags of trash were piled up at the entrance. Sixth floor. No elevator. He grabbed my single suitcase from the trunk and walked ahead of me. As we reached the corner of the third floor, he suddenly turned around to warn me, “Careful with your steps, Evelyn. The brick here is loose.” What a dutiful son. What a great actor. He pushed the door open, and a musty, suffocating smell of decay rushed into my nose. The space was barely three hundred square feet. A single bed was pushed against the wall, its mattress stained with unwashable yellow rings. The faucet was leaking, dripping water one drop at a time, like a countdown timer. Julian set my suitcase on the floor, looked around the depressing room, and scratched his head. “The place is a bit rough, but it’s only temporary.” “Once the quitclaim deeds are processed and everything settles down, I’ll find you a better place.” *Once the deeds are processed.* He brought up those words again, his tone as casual as if he were talking about the weather. “Sure,” I said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and forcing a small smile. He let out a sigh of relief, muttered a few more words about buying me a new comforter later, and told me to just make do for now. Right before leaving, he hesitated at the doorway. “Evelyn, there’s one more thing I need to tell you.” “What is it?” “We need to go to the notary public tomorrow. Richard needs a signature on one last document. Just a formality.” “What document?” “An addendum to the property transfer. They need a signed Quitclaim Deed from you, waiving your rights as a joint tenant.” “Technically, the divorce agreement already covered it, but their title company won’t accept it without your direct signature.” He spoke so lightly, as if he were just asking me to pick up a package from the post office. “Okay. Just set the time, and I’ll be there.” He nodded and walked away. His footsteps echoed down the stairwell, fading further and further away until they were completely swallowed by the heavy thud of the building’s iron door. I sat alone on that strange bed, motionless. My phone screen lit up, dimmed, and lit up again. It wasn’t a call. It was a Snapchat notification. I opened it and saw a new message in a group chat. The group was named “The Clan”—our old family chat. I thought they would have kicked me out the moment the divorce papers were signed. But they didn’t. Maybe they just forgot. The message was from Richard. He wrote: “Julian, come home early tonight. Valerie made glazed ribs, your favorite.” Right below was a voice note. I tapped it, and a woman’s sweet, giggling voice played: “Julian, bring a carton of milk on your way back. Mama Valerie’s fridge is empty.” *Mama Valerie.* A woman in her early thirties, calling my twenty-four-year-old son “Julian,” and referring to herself as “Mama.” Valerie—Richard’s mistress. I stared at that voice note for a long time. Then, I scrolled up and saw an earlier message sent by Julian this afternoon—right before he dropped me off at this dump. He had written: “Don’t worry, Valerie. Evelyn didn’t hear a thing. Everything went exactly as planned.” Followed by a thumbs-up emoji. Right after sending that message, he had walked up the stairs, carried my suitcase, and told me to watch my step. Before leaving, he even promised to buy me a new comforter. My phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the cold concrete floor. The screen cracked right down the middle. I heard myself laugh. A short, dry, hollow laugh. From downstairs, the neighbors started screaming at each other—a man cursing, a woman sobbing. The faucet kept dripping. One drop at a time. I sat there, staring into space. *Evelyn,* I thought, *you raised him for twenty-four years, and a stray dog would have shown more loyalty.* On the cracked screen, the progress bar of that voice note was still frozen at the end. Valerie’s voice seemed trapped in that fracture, smilingly calling him “Julian.” “Mama Valerie’s fridge is empty.”

“Ms. Evelyn, please sign here to confirm this relinquishment of joint tenancy.” The notary officer pushed a stack of documents toward me. I picked them up and flipped through. The first page was indeed a “Voluntary Quitclaim Deed of Real Estate,” listing three properties—the luxury condo on the Westside, the high-value school-district townhouse, and the commercial building by the riverfront. Every single one of them was bought with the money Richard and I had saved during our marriage. Every single one was registered under Julian’s name. During the divorce, I hadn’t fought for them because Julian had held my hand, looking into my eyes, and said: “Evelyn, trust me. Keep the properties in my name. It’s the only way to protect them from Richard. Otherwise, he’ll take everything from you.” Now that I recalled it, his eyes had been red, his voice trembling. What a brilliant performance. I flipped to the last page. The quitclaim deed required two copies—one for the notary records, and one for the “designated recipient.” Under the recipient column, it read: *Richard.* “Just sign it if everything looks good,” Julian said, sitting next to me. He had his legs crossed, tapping away on his phone. I didn’t move. He looked up. “Evelyn?” “This—” I pointed at the column. “Why is the recipient Richard? Didn’t you say keeping the properties under your name was the safest option?” Julian froze for a split second before quickly recovering. “Evelyn, this is not giving the properties to Richard. It’s just a procedural step. Don’t overthink it.” I stared at him. He couldn’t meet my gaze and looked out the window instead. Just then, the glass door of the office was pushed open. Richard walked in, accompanied by a woman. Valerie. She wore a chic beige cashmere coat. Around her neck hung a necklace—a jade pendant of deep, rich green. I recognized it instantly. It was my tenth-anniversary gift from Richard. He had told me he got it specially imported from Myanmar. One day, the necklace had gone missing. I searched the entire house but couldn’t find it. Richard told me I must have been careless and lost it myself. Now, it was resting on Valerie’s collarbone. “Oh, hi, Evelyn.” Valerie smiled at me, her voice carrying that same sugary tone—like pouring two cups of syrup into a jar of honey. Richard spared me a cold, emotionless glance, walking straight past me to ask the notary about the paperwork. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. Actually, he would treat a stranger with more respect. “Evelyn, you need to move on,” Valerie said, tilting her head as she pulled up a chair to sit directly across from me. “Richard wants an amicable split. Don’t make things difficult. Once you sign, everyone can move on with their lives.” She stroked the jade pendant, her fingers tracing the smooth green stone, pausing deliberately. “This jade is so beautiful, isn’t it? Richard truly has impeccable taste.” I stared at the jade, remaining silent. Beside me, Julian cleared his throat. “Evelyn, don’t keep the notary waiting. Just sign it.” “I know exactly what this document means once I sign it,” I said, pulling my hands back and leaning against the chair. “I’m not signing.” Julian’s face instantly hardened. He leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Evelyn, don’t be foolish. The properties are already in my name. Frankly, it doesn’t even matter if you sign or not.” “But if you don’t, you’re just making this ugly for everyone.” “Ugly?” I laughed. “Ugly for whom?” Richard walked over from the notary’s desk, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking down at me. I used to think this man was my partner for life. Right now, his eyes held nothing but impatience and a sliver of pity. That pity stung worse than outright hatred. “Evelyn, keep some dignity,” Richard spoke, his voice low but razor-sharp. “Look at yourself. You’re a forty-eight-year-old housewife with no income, no network, and absolutely zero leverage.” “Julian supporting you in your old age is a favor, not an obligation.” “He’s young. He needs to buy a car, build his career. By refusing to sign, are you trying to ruin your only son’s future?” My fingertips went numb. I gripped the strap of my purse tightly. Valerie chimed in right on cue: “Evelyn, Richard doesn’t mean any harm. He just wants Julian to have a good life. You’re his mother. Surely you have more grace than this?” Julian reached over, grabbing my hand. His grip was light, his expression pleading. “Evelyn, just do it for me.” I shoved his hand away. I stood up, pushing the documents back onto the desk. “I said, I’m not signing.” As I walked out of the office, Julian’s voice drifted from behind me. He probably thought I was out of earshot, so he didn’t bother to quiet down: “I couldn’t get her to do it. Richard, you handle her.” Richard’s voice was much calmer. “Don’t worry. A middle-aged woman with no money and no job? Give her two days in that dump, and she’ll come crawling back to sign it herself.” The sun was bright outside. But as it hit my face, it couldn’t warm me at all.

“Mom, open the door. It’s me.” I stood outside my mother’s security door, ringing the bell three times. Finally, the door swung open. My elderly mother, wrapped in a heavy cardigan, gasped when she saw me. She peeked behind me before opening the door just a crack. “What are you doing here?” “Mom, I got divorced.” “I know,” she said flatly. “Richard came by two days ago. He sat here all afternoon, brought me groceries and some expensive tea.” I froze. “What did he tell you?” My mother sighed, pulling me into the living room. The TV was on, the volume turned down low. On the coffee table sat two empty paper cups and a box of premium tea—Richard’s trademark gesture. “He said you’ve been going through menopause these past two years, that your temper has gotten terrible, and you’ve become completely paranoid. He said he couldn’t take it anymore, which is why he filed.” “He also said he was worried you might do something drastic, and asked me to talk some sense into you.” My jaw dropped. “Mom, he’s lying to you.” “Lying about what?” My mother frowned. “Richard sat right there and cried twice. A grown man crying like that—you think he was acting?” “He even told me about Julian. He said Julian is caught in the middle of your constant fighting, stressed out of his mind and unable to sleep at night.” “Evelyn, you’re almost fifty. You can’t be this stubborn. Richard said you’re refusing to sign some paperwork. Why are you making things so hard for your own kid?” “Mom!” My throat tightened. “Those properties are what Richard and I built together over twenty-five years! He manipulated Julian into getting me to sign them over to Julian’s name, and now he’s forcing Julian to transfer them to him—” “Enough!” My mother slammed the remote onto the coffee table. “Listen to yourself! Your son is lying? Richard is lying? Is everyone in the world evil except for you?” “When your father opposed your marriage to Richard back then, what did you say? You said he was a good man and told us not to worry.” “Now that you’re divorced, you’re claiming everyone is scamming you. Evelyn, have you ever stopped to look at yourself?” I sat on the sofa, completely speechless. By the time I walked out of my mother’s building, the sky was nearly pitch black. She hadn’t invited me to stay for dinner. Before I left, she shoved two hundred dollars into my hand, telling me to use it for now. Clutching the bills in the stairwell, I dialed Harriet’s number. It rang six or seven times before she picked up. “Evelyn?” Harriet’s voice sounded hesitant. “Harriet… I was wondering if I could borrow some money, just to get me through the month.” Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. “Evelyn, let me be honest with you.” “Richard called my husband two days ago. He said you haven’t been mentally stable since the divorce, and asked us not to trigger you.” “He said you believe everyone is out to get you, even Julian.” What a masterclass from Richard. Before I could even open my mouth, he had already painted the perfect picture of me—a menopausal, hysterical, unstable woman. “Harriet, you believe him?” “I… Evelyn, it’s not that I believe him, I’m just worried about you. You need to rest. Let’s take things slow, okay?” “As for the money—don’t be mad—but Will said things are a bit tight for us right now, too.” I hung up. I didn’t say another word. My next stop was the bank. I brought my ID to check the savings account my father had set up for me before he passed. It wasn’t much—about eighty thousand dollars—kept in a long-term fixed deposit. The teller searched the system for a long time before looking up. “Ms. Evelyn, this account was reported lost and replaced last month. The entire balance has been wired out.” “What? Who authorized that?” “The registration form shows it was authorized by you in person.” “I never filed for a replacement.” The teller looked uncomfortable and showed me the transaction slip. On the signature line was my name. But the handwriting wasn’t mine. Richard was left-handed and could mimic almost anyone’s signature—it was his favorite parlor trick when he was younger. He used to perform it in front of me, laughing and saying he learned it in college to sign attendance sheets for his friends. I had thought it was funny back then. I stood in the busy bank lobby, clutching the transaction slip. Eighty thousand dollars. The very last thing my father had left me. I sent a Snapchat message to Julian, asking if he knew about this. He replied instantly: *Evelyn, stop overthinking things. I don’t know anything about the bank account. You should ask Richard.* He added a hugging emoji at the end. Staring at that smiling yellow face, I felt like it was mocking me. “Evelyn, you truly have nothing left.” This was the second time I said those words to myself.

“Ms. Evelyn, your rent is due today. Please transfer the payment when you can.” The landlord stood at my door, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his eyes sweeping over the dismal little room behind me. “I’ll send it now.” I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app. Account balance: $0.00. I froze. There was supposed to be three thousand dollars in there—money Julian had “kept safe” for me during the divorce and supposedly returned for my living expenses. It was there yesterday. Today, it was gone. I opened the transaction history. At 2:12 AM, a wire transfer of three thousand dollars had been sent to Richard’s account. The reference line read: “Repayment of Loan.” I had never borrowed a single cent from him. Seeing me hesitate, the landlord’s face darkened. “Look, Evelyn, I’m not running a charity here. If you’re short on cash—” “Give me three days.” “Fine, three days. If I don’t see the money by then, you’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep.” The door slammed shut. I sat alone on the bed, burying my face in my knees. Then, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t a message, but an Instagram notification. Julian had posted. A nine-photo grid showing a gorgeously renovated living room, with a marble dining table overflowing with gourmet food. Richard sat at the head of the table, Valerie sat snugly beside him, and Julian stood proudly behind them. All three of them were beaming. The caption read: “First dinner in the new home. Surrounded by the people who love me.” The first comment was from Valerie: “My sweet boy is getting so good at taking photos! ❤️” Julian replied to her: “Stepmom Valerie makes the best food! 😋” Below were dozens of comments from their mutual friends. “The new house is stunning! Richard has amazing taste!” “What a beautiful family of three!” “Valerie is finally moved in, congratulations!” No one mentioned me. It was as if I had never existed. I scrolled through them one by one. When I reached the very last comment, my thumb froze. It was Harriet. She wrote: “Julian has grown up so well. Richard, you are truly blessed.” Harriet. My friend of thirty years. The one who, three days ago, had told me “I’m worried about you” and “you need to rest.” Now, she was happily leaving congratulatory messages on a family photo of Richard, Valerie, and my son. I closed the app. I didn’t move for a long time. Outside, a mother was shouting for her child to come home for dinner, her voice echoing down the street. The couple next door started screaming again, dishes smashing, tables slamming. The faucet kept dripping. One, two, three. Suddenly, a memory sparked in my mind. For Julian’s birthday last year, I bought him a new car—not a luxury vehicle, but a decent seventy-thousand-dollar sedan, paid in installments. On the day we picked it up, I was the one who installed his dashcam. I was also the one who registered the cloud storage account for it. He didn’t understand technology. I set the password, and it was linked to my phone number. With trembling fingers, I opened the dashcam app on my cracked screen. Log in—fingerprint scan—cloud playback. I dragged the timeline to this afternoon. Nothing. He had turned off the dashcam. I scrolled back to the day of the divorce—four days ago. The files were there. I tapped play. The footage was crystal clear. From Julian’s driver-seat perspective, I could see myself in the rearview mirror, fast asleep in the backseat. Then, he got out of the car to buy cigarettes. The Bluetooth was still connected. Richard’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Julian, did your mother really sign over all the properties to you?” Julian’s voice replied from the other end: “Of course. Was my acting perfect? The money and the houses are all yours now. Just don’t forget the sports car you promised me.” Richard laughed. “Don’t worry. Once the title transfer is officially complete, we won’t have to keep acting for that crazy woman anymore.” My breathing grew heavier, echoing in the musty air of the tiny rental. The recording kept playing. Richard said something else that I hadn’t heard clearly back then—probably because the Bluetooth signal had briefly cleared up: “Julian, there’s one more thing. Valerie said don’t cut her off completely just yet. There’s still one asset in her name—the title deed to your grandfather Arthur’s country estate. Once we get our hands on that, you can deal with your mother however you want.” Julian replied: “Don’t worry, Richard. She trusts me so much. She’ll do whatever I say.” I paused the video. The screen froze on my own face in the rearview mirror—eyes closed, with a peaceful, trusting smile on my lips. That woman actually believed her son was going to protect her. I saved the video, synced it to my email, and uploaded a backup copy to Google Drive. Then, I turned off my phone. I sat in the dark for a long, long time. Not until the mother’s shouts faded, and the neighbors’ fighting ceased, ddid I finally stand up and grab my keys. It was time to make them pay.

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I was born a walking polygraph. Whenever someone lies in front of me, they hiccup involuntarily. Lies that could fool the entire world are completely transparent to me. But because I knew too much of the truth, I ended up with zero friends. Then, Victoria Harrison, the matriarch of the ultra-wealthy Harrison family, tracked me down. She wanted me to marry her son, Ethan Harrison. Gripping my hands tightly, she pleaded: “Chloe, someone among the partners at Harrison Group is cooking the books. We’ve audited for two years and found nothing. Only you can pinpoint the liar with a single glance.” “If Ethan ever lets you down, you can divorce him anytime. The Harrison family will pay you $100,000 a month.” I figured since no one would ever truly open up to me anyway, I might as well put my curse to good use and get paid for it. So, I nodded. During our three years of marriage, I helped Ethan expose five high-level executives who were embezzling funds, recovering over $180 million in losses. The Harrison Group went from being plagued by internal crises to becoming an impenetrable fortress. I also moved from my modest suburban apartment into the sprawling Harrison Estate, where the hallways were so long you could ride a bicycle down them. On this particular day, I was cruising down the hallway on my bike when I overheard Ethan speaking with his partner inside the study. “Ethan, now that the bad debts are cleared, isn’t it time to get rid of that freak wife of yours?” “Give her eighty thousand dollars,” Ethan’s voice was cold. “Tell her the company is pivoting to overseas markets, and we no longer need her services domestically.” “What if she refuses to leave?” “She’s a girl with literally zero friends. Who would ever stand up for her?” Hearing this, I slammed on my brakes, walked up, and knocked on the study door. “Then let’s get divorced right now!” The arch-rival of the Harrison family was currently being pushed to the brink of bankruptcy by their own crooked partners and was desperately searching the world for a top-tier auditor. My services as a human polygraph would be way cheaper—and far more effective—than hiring the Big Four! 0

“Chloe, how long have you been standing out there?” Ethan’s voice held no surprise, only the annoyance of having his plans disrupted. Julian Beck—his dear partner—remained perfectly calm, lounging on the leather sofa with his legs crossed. “Well, you’re just in time, Chloe. Saves Ethan the trouble of bringing it up.” “No need to bring it up.” I leaned my bicycle against the doorframe. “Do you have the divorce papers ready? If not, I can wait for you to print them.” Ethan clearly hadn’t expected this reaction from me. He probably thought I would cry, demand answers, or even beg to stay. After all, in his own words—who else would take in a girl with zero friends? “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” He walked over to his desk, sliding his hands into his pockets. Three years of marriage taught me exactly what that gesture meant: his decision was final, and the rest was just legal formality. “More than sure. But I do have one question—the eighty thousand, is that pre-tax or post-tax?” Julian let out a sharp chuckle. Ethan didn’t laugh. His gaze swept over my face as if he were cataloging a piece of office equipment about to be decommissioned. “Chloe, my lawyer will send you the agreement later today. But let’s be clear about one thing: you signed an NDA. You are not allowed to utter a single word about Harrison Group’s business secrets, including the audits you performed.” “Does that include who was cooking the books?” “It includes everything.” Wow. He was completely shutting my mouth. Just as I was about to reply, Julian stood up and adjusted his silver cufflinks. I had watched him make that gesture for three years—he always did it right before saying something venomous, like firing a starting pistol for himself. “Don’t feel too bad, Chloe. Last week, the company officially hired Dr. Valerie Stone. She has a Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology from Columbia University and specializes in micro-expression analysis. Actual science.” He put heavy emphasis on the word “science.” “From now on, Harrison Group’s risk assessment won’t have to rely on…” He paused. “…alternative medicine.” Alternative medicine. Three years ago, Ethan’s mother had practically knelt in my tiny rented room, crying and begging me to be the savior of the Harrison family. Three years later, I was dismissed as mere “alternative medicine.” As he uttered that word, Julian let out a hiccup. It was very faint, bubbling up from the depths of his throat. He didn’t even notice it. But I heard it. That hiccup meant he didn’t actually believe I was just “alternative medicine.” He knew my abilities were real. But he chose to drag me through the mud anyway. “Fine.” I picked up the pen from the desk, spent two minutes flipping to the last page of the NDA, and signed my name. As Ethan took the document, my phone buzzed. He had wired me eighty thousand dollars. The memo read: *Thank you for your hard work over the past three years.* No “thank you” in person. No “I’m sorry.” He didn’t even bother with the polite “overseas restructuring” excuse anymore. Stepping out of the study, the hallway felt just as long as ever. Halfway down, I saw two maids carrying cardboard boxes out of the side door, their movements practiced and swift. My things. They had started packing before I even knew. This wasn’t a sudden decision; it was a rehearsed play. They had probably practiced when to tell me and what expressions to use in front of a mirror. I had just caught them early. “Mrs. Harrison, your things are all here.” Two boxes. I had moved in with two boxes three years ago, and I was leaving with the exact same two. I carried the boxes out through the wrought-iron gates. The June evening breeze blew through the maple trees, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass. The gate clicked shut behind me. The sound of the latch sliding into place was soft, like a “goodbye” that was never meant to be spoken aloud. Sitting on the curb, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. Only three names: Victoria Harrison, the butler, and the food delivery guy I’d used for three years. When Ethan said “she’s a girl with zero friends, who would ever stand up for her,” he hadn’t hiccuped. It was the absolute truth—and that was why it cut straight to the bone. Taking a deep breath, I pulled up a number I had kept in my favorites folder for a month: the direct line to the Sterling Group. On the document wall in Ethan’s study, there was a competitor analysis report labeled “Top Secret.” I had glanced at it while organizing the files. The Sterling Group was currently being bled dry by internal fraud and was on the verge of collapse. I dialed. It rang four times. “Hello, office of the CEO of Sterling Group.” “Transfer me to Asher Sterling. Tell him Ethan Harrison’s ex-wife is calling.” Five seconds later, the call went through. A man’s voice came over the line—deep, slightly gravelly, carrying the exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept in days. “Chloe Vance?” He knew who I was. “Mr. Sterling, I heard you’re looking for someone to audit your books.” “You signed an NDA.” “I won’t be auditing the Harrison Group,” I said, holding the cardboard box tight against my knees. “I’ll be auditing yours.” Silence stretched over the line for two seconds. When Asher spoke again, his tone completely changed, like a match being struck in a pitch-black room. “Tomorrow morning, 9:00 AM, 32nd floor. Don’t be late.” 0

“So, you’re the walking polygraph?” Asher Sterling leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, studying me. He was younger than I expected, probably twenty-eight or nine, with a sharp brow and a clean jawline. However, the dark circles under his eyes were so heavy that even concealer couldn’t fully hide them. His office was massive, but half of the three-wall bookshelves were empty, leaving only dust outlines where books used to be. Sold off. The Sterling Group was in even worse shape than I had imagined. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. I remained standing. “Test me first.” He raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t have called me if you weren’t desperate, but you still don’t trust me. That’s fine; nobody does at first. Say a few truths, then a few lies. See for yourself.” Asher stared at me for three seconds before slowly uncrossing his arms. “Fine. I had steak for dinner last night.” Silence. No hiccup. “Truth,” I said. He continued, “Sterling Group’s current financial health is perfectly fine. There are no fraudulent accounts.” *Hiccup.* A muffled sound escaped from deep within his throat. His composure cracked slightly, and his hand instinctively went to his throat. “That’s impossible. I never hiccup.” “You do in front of me.” He tried again. “Meeting you today was a last-minute decision.” No hiccup. “Truth,” I said, finally sitting down across from him. “Mr. Sterling, you can test me a hundred times. In my presence, there are only two options: truth or lie.” A long silence followed. His fingers tapped against the edge of the desk, as if he were weighing the odds. “Assuming I believe you. How do you plan to help me?” “How many partners do you have?” “Seven.” “Get them all into one room. I’ll ask them questions one by one. Whoever lies will hiccup. They’ll expose themselves on the spot.” “It’s that simple?” “It’s that simple.” He picked up the desk phone. “Toby, notify the seven partners. Financial review in the main conference room at 10:00 AM.” He hung up, then looked at me, hesitating slightly. “What’s your price?” “Let’s see the results first. You can make an offer when you’re satisfied.” At exactly 10:00 AM, the seven partners filed into the conference room. Once seated, some looked at me with curiosity, others with disdain or suspicion. A bald man sitting on the far left stared at me for a few seconds before turning to Asher. “Asher, who is this?” “Our external risk-control consultant, Chloe Vance.” The bald man scoffed. I opened the financial summary and flipped to the first page. “Everyone, I only have a few simple questions. Please answer honestly. First: Over the past twelve months, has anyone in this room authorized off-book expenditures?” The room went dead silent for a beat. A tall man spoke first. “No.” No hiccup. A woman with glasses followed. “No.” No hiccup. Then it was the bald man’s turn. “No.” *Hiccup.* It was a dull, heavy sound, like a fist hitting a drum. The entire room fell into an uncomfortable silence. The bald man rubbed his throat. “Sorry, swallowed some spit the wrong way.” I ignored him. “Second question: Have you shared Sterling Group’s financial data with any external parties?” “Of course not.” *Hiccup.* This one was louder than the first. The other six partners began exchanging uneasy glances. I pressed on. “Are you familiar with an offshore shell company called Adler Holdings?” The bald man—I glanced at his name tag, Marcus Brody—jerked backward in his chair, his lips parting, but no words came out. He didn’t dare speak. Because he knew that if he denied it, his own body would betray him. Asher took over, his voice cold as ice. “Marcus, you don’t have to answer. But our legal team will be stepping in this afternoon.” Marcus scraped his chair back violently against the floor. He stormed out of the conference room, slamming the door so hard the vibration traveled up through the soles of my shoes. The remaining six partners stared at me in unison. The weight of their gaze had shifted—they were no longer looking at an “external consultant.” They were looking at some sort of terrifyingly precise machine. I had seen that look before at the Harrison estate. *Freak.* They didn’t say it aloud, but the word was plastered all over their faces. After the meeting adjourned, Asher kept me behind. “Two minutes to catch a parasite.” The way he looked at me had changed as well. Before, he was testing me; now, he was evaluating me like a general calculating the blast radius of a new weapon. “Chloe, Ethan Harrison used you for three years, yet he only cleared out five people. Why?” “Because some people are smart enough to stay silent. They never tell direct lies in front of me; they only state indisputable facts. They hide behind the truth, and I can’t touch them.” He frowned. “I caught five people in the Harrison Group, but the sixth one… never discussed finances in my presence during those three years.” “Who?” I didn’t answer. The ink on my NDA wasn’t even dry yet. He didn’t press me. Suddenly, a frantic knock sounded on the door. Toby, the assistant, rushed in, looking pale. “Mr. Sterling, people from the Harrison Group are here. Julian Beck came in person, and he brought…” “A behavioral analysis consultant,” I finished the sentence for him. Toby looked at me in surprise. I stood up and adjusted my collar. “Her name is Dr. Valerie Stone, Columbia Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology. She is the Harrison family’s replacement for me.” Asher leaned forward slightly. “How did you know she’d come here?” “Because the Harrison family wants to block every single path left for me,” I said, my voice flat as I looked toward the door. “She’s not here to collaborate. She’s here to cut me off.” The door pushed open. Julian Beck walked in first, followed by a woman in a sharp black blazer and skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a neat low ponytail, her face pale, with a picture-perfect smile. When she saw me, her eyes widened slightly. “Chloe? Oh, what a coincidence to see you here.” 0

“What a surprise to run into you here, Chloe.” Valerie’s voice was sweet enough to be drizzled over waffles. As she walked in, her eyes swept across the conference room—a rapid, scanning observation that missed absolutely nothing. A true professional. Behind her, Julian adjusted his silver cufflinks, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Mr. Sterling, let me introduce Dr. Valerie Stone, a top-tier expert in micro-expression analysis. Although the Harrison Group and the Sterling Group are competitors, we can still share resources when it comes to risk management.” Asher didn’t reply. He just glanced at me. I remained silent as well. Valerie, showing no stranger danger, stepped forward to shake Asher’s hand before turning her sweet smile toward me. “Chloe, I heard you just helped Mr. Sterling catch a bad apple. That’s so impressive.” As she said “so impressive,” she let out a tiny hiccup. It was incredibly soft, like a bubble popping at the surface of water. She didn’t seem to notice it. But I did. She didn’t find me impressive at all. “Julian,” Asher finally spoke, “you didn’t come all this way just to pitch a consultant, did you?” Julian smirked. “Not at all. It’s just that Dr. Stone is highly respected in the industry, and many of our peers rely on her services. We came today to offer Mr. Sterling a free demonstration.” He paused, his eyes shifting to me. “And, of course, to see how her methods compare to Chloe’s. We’ll let Mr. Sterling judge for himself which approach is more effective.” A comparison. A head-to-head test. He wanted to weigh me against Valerie right in front of Asher. Asher frowned. “That won’t be necessary—” “Mr. Sterling,” Valerie interrupted smoothly, her voice gentle yet firm, “I’ve been in this field for six years. My work relies on the peer-reviewed FACS coding system. It’s not…” She chose her next words carefully. “…based on unprovable personal instincts.” This statement didn’t cause her to hiccup. She genuinely believed it. She truly thought my ability was a scam. Asher looked at me. “Do you mind?” he asked. I shrugged. “Go ahead.” Valerie quickly set up the test. She had Toby arrange for three Sterling Group employees to sit in the observation room next door, separated from us by a one-way mirror. Valerie and I sat on our side, with a synchronized intercom system in front of us. “The rules are simple,” Valerie explained. “Each of the three employees will read a statement. One of them is lying. Chloe and I will separately determine who the liar is.” It seemed fair. Except for one crucial detail. The one-way mirror. They were in a completely different room. My ability only worked when people lied *directly in front of me*. In person. Not separated by a soundproof glass wall. My spine went stiff. Valerie had already pressed the intercom button. “Subject number one, please begin.” A voice came through the speaker. The first employee read a statement explaining the legitimacy of a certain expense report. I listened intently—no hiccup. But the problem was, I couldn’t tell if they were telling the truth, or if my ability was blocked by the glass. Subject two: no hiccup. Subject three: no hiccup. My hand gripped the pen tightly. In all my tests at the Harrison Group, no one had ever put a wall between me and my target. Never. Because everyone at the Harrison Group knew my rule: the interrogation must be face-to-face. Did Valerie not know this rule? No. I caught the faint glint of amusement in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing. “My assessment,” Valerie spoke first. “Subject two is lying. When describing the reimbursement amount, there was a 0.3-second micro-contraction in his right brow, and his lip corners pulled down by more than 40% compared to his baseline.” She sounded incredibly professional, her terminology flawless. Everyone turned their gaze to me. “Chloe, what’s your verdict?” I looked at the three people sitting in the adjacent room. They sat quietly behind the glass. “I need to see them face-to-face.” Valerie tilted her head slightly. “Face-to-face? What do you mean, Chloe? Didn’t you say you could spot a lie instantly?” “My ability requires close proximity—” “So it stops working the moment you’re not up close?” Julian’s voice cut in from behind, filled with barely suppressed laughter. “You see, Mr. Sterling? This is exactly what I meant by ‘unprovable personal instincts’.” Asher remained silent. But I noticed his fingers tapping lightly on the desk. He was doubting me. Valerie’s assessment was put to the test. Toby went next door to verify. The result: Subject two was indeed lying. He had been instructed to read a fabricated expense report. Valerie smiled. It was a soft, non-threatening smile, which only made it cut deeper. “Chloe, I mean no offense. It’s just that some methods require scientific validation, don’t you think?” As she said those words— *Hiccup.* Just one. Quick and quiet. She hiccuped on “mean no offense.” She absolutely meant offense. This entire test was a trap designed to humiliate me. But in that packed conference room, nobody cared about her hiccup. They only cared about the results: Valerie was right, and I had failed to answer. Julian stood up, slowly adjusting his cuffs. “Mr. Sterling, take your time to think about it. Harrison Group is ready to send Dr. Stone over whenever you’re ready to make the switch.” As he walked past me, he lowered his voice so only I could hear: “Your little hiccup trick is over, Chloe.” He didn’t hiccup on “is over.” He genuinely believed it. I stood alone in the emptying conference room as they filed out one by one. Asher didn’t leave immediately. He lingered by the door for a moment. “Chloe.” “Yeah.” “Why did you insist on a face-to-face meeting for that test?” “Because my ability is real,” I said, staring at the floor, my voice much quieter than I intended. “But it has rules. The person has to be right in front of me. Glass walls, video feeds, phone calls—none of it works.” Asher fell silent for a few seconds. “Then why didn’t you explain that from the very beginning?” “Because even if I did, no one would believe me.” I looked up at him. “Mr. Sterling, you’ve been searching for three years and found nothing. I caught a crook for you in two minutes. Wasn’t that enough?” His expression was unreadable. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but at least there was no disgust in his eyes. Before he could speak, Toby rushed back into the room, holding his phone, looking deeply concerned. “Mr. Sterling, Dr. Stone’s assistant just posted on Instagram.” Toby handed the phone over. It was Valerie’s verified Instagram account. Her profile picture was highly edited, and her bio read: *Behavioral Analyst / Criminal Psychologist.* Her latest post read: *“Did a risk-control demo at a major firm today. Ran into a lady who calls herself a ‘human polygraph.’ She claimed she could only detect lies face-to-face and completely failed behind a one-way mirror. Science respects all hypotheses, but repeatability and verification are the baselines of truth. I hope everyone remains rational regarding so-called ‘supernatural lie detection.’ ”* The comment section was already flooded with thousands of replies. *“Lmao, ‘human polygraph’? Just call yourself a fortune teller at this point.”* *“How does someone like this even get hired by a legit company?”* *“Ivy League micro-expression analysis vs. supernatural hiccups. You’d have to be brain-dead to believe the latter.”* I stared at the screen, tapping my fingers against the edge of my phone. Asher shifted his gaze from the screen back to my face. “Chloe, what do you want to do?” “Nothing,” I said, handing the phone back to Toby. “I’m just wondering who authorized her to post that.” “You think it was Julian?” “Valerie hiccuped when she said she ‘meant no offense’ earlier,” I said, looking into his eyes. “Mr. Sterling, aren’t you curious? Why is the Harrison family so desperate to make me disappear from this industry?”

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On my fourth IVF cycle, I finally got pregnant. Ethan was more excited than I was. Every day, he made me organic soups, tracked my blood pressure, and wouldn’t even let me walk down the stairs without holding my arm. I thought he had finally changed. But during my prenatal checkup, the lead OB-GYN asked me a question that made my blood run cold. “Mrs. Miller, you signed the embryo donor consent form, correct?” “Yes,” I replied. She hesitated. “Then… are you aware that this embryo’s paternal blood type does not match Ethan’s?” I didn’t understand. She put it in plain English. “The child you are carrying has a different biological father. It is highly unlikely to be your husband’s.” I thought the lab had made a mistake. But when I went home and confronted Ethan, he stayed silent for a long time. Then, he looked at me and said calmly: “The embryo belongs to a friend of mine. His wife is infertile, and I promised to help him.” “Your uterus has the best medical indicators. You had the highest success rate.” “Don’t worry. Once the baby is born, they will give us a massive payout. It’s enough for us to—” I didn’t let him finish. I stared at the ultrasound photo on the coffee table. The tiny, seven-week-old dot was still flickering with a heartbeat. This child should never have been created. But the one who deserved to disappear from this world was Ethan.

“Who is this friend?” I was clutching the ultrasound sheet so hard my nails almost ripped through the paper. Ethan looked at me. There was no guilt in his eyes. Only calculation. He was measuring my anger, deciding how much truth he needed to feed me to keep me quiet. “You’re too emotional right now, Chloe. Let’s talk tomorrow—” “I asked you a question.” After a few seconds of silence, he picked up his glass of water, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Adrian Vance.” Adrian Vance. The real estate mogul. He was on the Forbes list every single year. His wife was Victoria Vance, a mega-influencer with over twenty million followers on Instagram. Her brand was built on being “the ultimate, most elegant mom-to-be.” Wait. Victoria. “Three years ago… she was the one who set us up at that dinner party, wasn’t she?” He didn’t deny it. At that dinner, Victoria had smiled warmly, pushing me toward Ethan, saying, *“You two are a match made in heaven.”* “What is your relationship with her?” “We went to college together.” We had been married for three years, and he had never mentioned her once. I pushed myself up from the sofa and walked into the study. His laptop was closed but still running. On the desktop, there was a folder named *“The Project.”* He hadn’t even locked it with a password. He probably thought I was too stupid to do anything about it. The first file was my gynecological report. My name, ID, uterine position, endometrial thickness, ovarian reserve—every detail was annotated with handwritten notes. The creation date of the file was two months before we even met. The second file was an Excel spreadsheet. The title: *Candidate Evaluation Matrix.* Fourteen rows. Fourteen women. Age, height, weight, menstrual cycle, history of pregnancy. The last column was labeled: *Overall Score.* I was in row three. Score: 9.2. The highest on the sheet. Ethan leaned against the doorframe, watching me. His expression was like an adult watching a toddler open a toy. “You made a product catalog of women?” “It’s a screening sheet for the surrogate carrier,” he corrected me, his tone clinical. “Victoria has a uterine defect. She needed a carrier with the absolute best physical indicators. Standard agency surrogacy is too public and carries too many legal risks. I proposed a more secure option.” “By marrying me.” “Yes. Doing IVF under the guise of marriage is completely legal. No loopholes.” He smiled slightly as he said those words, as if he were presenting a beautiful business model. “So, where did I rank on this list?” “First.” “Oh. And the prize for first place was getting to marry you?” “You could look at it that way.” My nails dug deep into the leather of his office chair. My entire arm was shaking. “I’m terminating the pregnancy tomorrow.” Suddenly, his hand clamped down on my wrist like a steel cuff. In three years of marriage, he had never laid a finger on me. He had never needed violence; his psychological control was always enough. But now, he was panicking. “You can hate me, but you cannot touch this child. Victoria has waited five years. The first three attempts failed—” He stopped mid-sentence. “The first three?” Three times on the operating table. Three times bleeding. Three times staring at a single line on a pregnancy test. Every time, I thought it was my fault, that my body was broken. Every time, he had held me and said, *“It’s okay, honey. We’ll try again.”* “Were those first three times accidents, or was that planned too?” He let go of my wrist. Not out of mercy, but because he realized he had said too much. “Chloe, calm down.” “Answer me!” He took a step back, slipping into his corporate-presentation voice. “The embryo batches for the first three runs didn’t meet the standards. It was Victoria’s call. She only wanted the premium-grade embryos.” Quality control. She called my pain *quality control*. The agony of those three procedures, kneeling over the toilet vomiting until my stomach spasmed, the heartbreaking look on his face when I came out of the clinic—it was all an act. He was just helping her run a quality-assurance check on my body. “Let me remind you of one last thing,” his voice was quiet, but every word felt like a nail driving into my chest. “Your mother is living very comfortably at Meadowview. The $8,500 monthly care fee—did you really think I was paying that out of my own pocket?”

I was fully dressed before sunrise. As I was tying my sneakers, his voice drifted from the bedroom doorway. “Going somewhere?” “Getting groceries.” “There’s some pork chops in the fridge. I’ll make you stew for lunch.” His tone was exactly the same as yesterday. He was even sweeter, as if the spreadsheet of fourteen women and the three failed “quality checks” had never happened. I grabbed my bag and walked out. He didn’t stop me. But when I got downstairs, a white Porsche was idling at the curb. The window rolled down, revealing a face so heavily filtered it looked like airbrushed plastic. She smiled at me. “Chloe, right? Get in. Let’s get some breakfast.” Victoria. She was wearing a loose knit dress, her stomach showing a slight, perfect bump—the classic second-trimester look. Her twenty million followers watched that belly “grow” every single day on Instagram. “No.” “Your mother’s care bill for this month hasn’t been signed off yet,” she said, tapping her steering wheel. “Want to take a look at it in the car?” My feet froze. Three seconds later, I opened the passenger door and climbed in. She didn’t take me to a cafe. Instead, she drove into the underground garage of a commercial building and killed the engine. The car fell silent, save for the low hum of the AC. “Since this is our first official meeting, let me introduce myself,” she said, pulling a Chanel compact from her bag to touch up her lipstick. “I’m the client for this project.” “Project?” “Yes. The one in your belly,” she pointed at my stomach with her manicured, glittering nail. “Your body is the vessel. My husband provided the sperm, I provided the egg, and Ethan handles the logistics and daily maintenance. Clear division of labor. Everyone plays their part.” I wanted to laugh, but my jaw was too tight. “You call this a project?” “What else would you call it? Did you think you were in a romance novel?” She snapped her compact shut. “Don’t flatter yourself, Chloe. You’re just a container. A highly rated, high-functioning container.” She unlocked her phone and slid it in front of my face. It was a live camera feed of my living room. “You spent forty-three minutes in the study last night. You went through his laptop and found the matrix,” she said, her voice as flat as a weather report. “Your reaction was a bit slower than I expected. I thought you’d start questioning things after the second failed cycle.” “You put cameras in my house?” “It’s not your house. I bought that condo,” she tilted her head. “I had the cameras installed during the renovation. I check in every now and then to monitor your diet and sleep. After all, you are carrying my baby.” She swiped to her Instagram profile. Her latest post was from this morning—a mirror selfie of her holding her “pregnant” belly. The caption read: *“Week 19! Baby kicked today!”* Millions of likes. The comments were flooded with: *“You’re so glowing, Victoria!”* and *“The luckiest mom ever!”* “You’re not pregnant,” my voice shook. “That stomach is fake.” “Medical-grade silicone. Custom-made. It feels incredibly real,” she patted her stomach like it was a new Hermès bag. “Why would I actually ruin my body? Do you know how much money I make per live stream? If I ruin my figure, who pays my bills?” She restarted the engine. “I’ll drop you back. Be a good girl and stay put. I see every step you take.” I stared out the windshield, my hands gripping the seatbelt. “And if I refuse to cooperate?” She didn’t turn her head. “In your mother’s room at Meadowview, in the second drawer on the right, there’s a bottle of aspirin. High-dose blood thinners are very dangerous for the elderly. One extra milligram can change everything. You wouldn’t want an accident to happen to her, would you?” “Are you threatening—” “I’m helping you make the right choice.” She pulled up to the gate of my apartment complex and turned to look at me. “Just give me seven months, Chloe. Hand over the baby, take your payout, and your mom stays at Meadowview. We all win. Let’s keep it classy.” I opened the door and stepped out. “And what if I don’t want to be classy?” Her lips curved into a perfectly rehearsed smile. “Then you and your mother will lose everything.”

When I got back, Ethan was in the kitchen chopping vegetables, his apron tied immaculately. “Did you see Victoria?” He didn’t even ask *who* I met. He already knew. “Get her to leave me alone.” “I can’t. She’s the client.” “I don’t care what she is. Tell her to take the cameras out of my home.” He laid down his knife, wiped his hands, and pulled an envelope from the entryway drawer. “Your ID is in here.” I reached for it, but he pulled it back. “Chloe, you have two choices. Option one: follow the plan, deliver the baby, your mom’s bills are paid, and you walk away with a million dollars. Option two…” He slid the envelope into his pocket. “I have the embryo consent form with your signature. It’s real. Even if you sue me, you’re legally tied to this process. You’re an accomplice.” “That form had your name on it, not Adrian’s.” “The original copy has Adrian’s name. You didn’t even read it when you signed.” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. He was right. I had trusted him blindly. Every document he put in front of me, I had signed without reading past the first line. “I’ll hold onto your ID and cards for now. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll buy it for you.” “This is kidnapping.” “This is just domestic negotiation.” He went back to chopping vegetables. When he went down to throw out the trash in the afternoon, I picked up the landline in the living room. No dial tone. He had restricted the settings. It could only receive incoming calls. I took a deep breath, walked out of the apartment, and knocked on my neighbor’s door. Mrs. Davis opened it, gasping when she saw my pale face. “Chloe? Oh dear, you look terrible.” “Sarah, can I borrow your phone? Mine is broken.” She handed it to me. I quickly dialed Sienna’s number from memory. It rang twice. “Hello?” “Sienna, it’s me. I need—” The phone was ripped from my hand. Ethan was standing behind me, offering Mrs. Davis a polite, apologetic smile. “Sorry about this, Sarah. My wife’s hormones are all over the place because of the pregnancy. She’s a bit paranoid lately, thinks everyone is out to get her.” “Oh, pregnancy brain is no joke,” Mrs. Davis said sympathetically, looking at me with pity. “Get some rest, Chloe. Don’t stress.” The door shut. Ethan grabbed my wrist and dragged me back inside. Not painfully, but firm enough that I couldn’t break free. “Don’t try that again.” “You’re keeping me prisoner!” “I’m protecting you.” That afternoon, he drove me to a private clinic. Not the high-end hospital where I did my IVF, but a sketchy office tucked away at the end of an alley. In the exam room, a middle-aged man in gold-rimmed glasses flipped through my chart while hosting a FaceTime call. Victoria’s face appeared on his screen. “Dr. Carter, how are her stats?” Dr. Carter lifted his stethoscope from my belly, checking me like a machine off an assembly line. “Vitals are stable. But her stress levels are too high. High cortisol can affect placental function.” “What’s the fix?” “I recommend Clonazepam. One pill every night. Once her sleep improves, her mood will stabilize.” “Write the prescription,” Victoria ordered. I pushed Dr. Carter’s hand away. “You’re giving me heavy sedatives? I’m pregnant!” Dr. Carter didn’t even look up. “A low dose has manageable risks for the fetus.” Victoria’s voice came through the speaker, cold and monotone. “Just cooperate, Chloe. You need to sleep so my baby can grow.” The nurse walked over with a cup of water and a small white pill. “Drink up, Mrs. Miller. You’ll get a good night’s sleep.” Ethan watched me from the corner, silent. I took the pill and put it in my mouth. I took a sip of water. I pressed my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth, trapping the pill underneath, and swallowed only the water. “Good girl,” Ethan said, patting my head.

For three days, I hid the pill under my tongue and spat it down the toilet whenever they weren’t looking. Seeing me “docile” from the meds, Ethan happily reported to Victoria: “She’s stable. Dr. Carter’s prescription is working.” On the fourth day, a black SUV arrived to pick me up. “Victoria wants you at a private gathering to meet some friends,” the driver said. Ethan opened the car door for me, whispering, “Don’t say anything stupid.” The gathering was at a VIP lounge in a private club. Crystal chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling windows, and plates of high-end molecular gastronomy. Five women were seated around a long table, all dressed in designer outfits. Victoria sat at the head of the table. When she saw me, she got up and wrapped her arm around mine. “Everyone, let me introduce her,” she said, looking around the room. “This is our carrier. Her medical stats are perfect. I had to screen over a dozen candidates before finding her.” She patted my shoulder, like a breeder showing off a prize horse. The woman sitting closest to me reached out and touched my stomach. “Oh, Victoria, you have such good taste. Narrow waist, wide pelvis. She’s built for easy labor.” “How far along is she?” “Almost nine weeks,” Victoria answered for me. “The numbers are beautiful. Dr. Carter says she’s exceeding expectations.” They talked about me like I was a piece of fine art on display. They critiqued my skin, guessed my diet, and asked Victoria how much she was paying for a “vessel” like me. I sat there, gripping the edge of my chair, saying nothing. Halfway through, I excused myself to use the restroom. Just as I reached the door of the powder room, I heard Victoria’s voice coming from the adjacent lounge. She was on a call. The door was cracked open. “I had Dr. Carter manipulate the parameters for the first three runs. He kept the embryo viability under thirty percent. The implantation rate was practically zero.” My feet glued themselves to the tile floor. “Exactly. We only used the premium batch on the fourth try. I needed her to suffer a few failures first. It breaks their spirit, makes them desperate and grateful. When it finally succeeds, they think it’s a miracle… No, Adrian doesn’t know. He thinks we went through a legitimate agency in California.” I threw my hand over my mouth. Three times. Three years. The terror of being wheeled into the OR, the despair of seeing a single line, the nights I spent crying until I threw up in the bathtub—it was all a setup. It wasn’t because my body was broken. It was because she wanted me to suffer. She was testing my breaking point, breaking my spirit until she knew I was completely broken before she implanted the real embryo. Quality control. She wasn’t just controlling the embryo. She was controlling me. She was grinding my soul into dust until I was completely obedient. I backed away down the hallway and slid down the wall to the floor. I was shivering, my breath coming in ragged gasps. When I returned to the lounge, Victoria had already hung up. She noticed my pale face and squinted slightly, but her smile returned instantly. “You look pale, dear. Should I have the driver take you home?” I didn’t answer. My eyes fell on a dark blue designer coat hanging on the rack next to her. The initials *AV* were embroidered inside the collar. Adrian’s coat. This was a private club; Adrian probably came here often. A business card was sticking out of the pocket. As I walked past the rack, my fingers darted out. I slipped the card into my sleeve. That night, Ethan fell asleep early. His phone was charging on the nightstand, face down. I lay in the dark for a long time. Once his breathing became deep and heavy, I slipped out of bed. The card in my palm was sweaty and crumpled. It had Adrian’s private number on it. I grabbed Ethan’s phone. I pressed my thumb to the sensor—he had registered my print as a backup years ago and had forgotten to remove it. I opened Snapchat. I searched for Adrian’s name. Their last message was from three days ago. Ethan had sent: *“Everything is on track. Don’t worry.”* I quickly typed a message: *“Mr. Vance, this is Chloe, Ethan’s wife. Victoria is using my womb to carry your child without my consent. Please help me.”* Sent. Delete chat history. I put the phone back exactly as it was. I crawled back into bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Ten minutes later, the screen lit up in the dark.

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My fifth year as Luna, and it was the first time my Alpha, Marcus, sat down to have breakfast with me alone. But a three-year-old boy was sitting right next to him. “Catherine’s husband passed away last month. She’s struggling to raise the boy alone. We grew up together, and I can’t just stand by. I’m bringing them to live here for a while.” The boy looked up. His features were almost identical to Marcus’s. I froze. Not because of his face, but because I couldn’t smell a thing. A three-year-old pup was sitting right in front of me, yet I couldn’t scent him. Even now, my wolf didn’t surge forward to rip Marcus’s throat out. #### I pushed down the tremor in my chest and sneered. “Grew up together? Her husband just died, and you’re already rushing to bring her into our home?” His face darkened. “She doesn’t want any status. She’ll just live here to help take care of the kid… You’re still the Luna, and you get an extra child. It’s a win-win.” I set my fork down and stared at the Alpha in front of me. Five years ago, when the Blood Ridge Pack declared war, the Shadow Fang Pack was almost wiped out. It was my father who led his warriors to push them back, rebuilt their territory, and established their supply lines. Without the Silver Creek Pack, the Shadow Fang Pack wouldn’t even exist today. “Marcus, I’m leaving. Take your woman and your kid, and get the hell out.” He picked up the boy, placed him in his chair, turned to me, and slid his hands into his pockets. “Luna Elena, you’ve been married into the Shadow Fang Pack for five years. Everything here is under my command.” His tone was flat, stating a fact that needed no debate. “I remember the favor your father did for us back then. But since you married in, those resources belong to Shadow Fang. If I say no, they have nothing to do with you anymore.” He pulled out a chair, sat down, and casually picked up a piece of toast, taking a bite. “What do you have to fight me with?” The three-year-old boy sat on the high chair, poking his yogurt cup with a spoon, glancing at me with every poke. His brow bone, the bridge of his nose, even the mole at the corner of his lip—he was a carbon copy of Marcus. “You think I didn’t come prepared?” “Prepared what? Calling your father’s messenger?” He smirked. “That guy bowed his head to me yesterday. In this territory, no one dares to defy my orders.” I just stared at him. He put the toast down, brushed the crumbs off his hands, and stood up. “Luna Elena, stop throwing a tantrum. Catherine is coming this afternoon. Help clean up the room next door.” He walked to the door to change his shoes. Bending down to tie his laces, he glanced back at the boy. “Liam, be good. Daddy will be home tonight.” Daddy. Not uncle. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. After the door slammed shut, I stood by the window, watching Marcus’s car drive out of the gates. I lifted my arm and sniffed. Nothing. I couldn’t even smell my own scent anymore. I walked back to the kitchen and opened the deepest cabinet. Three months ago, Marcus started giving me a “nutritional supplement” every morning. He said it was formulated by the pack healer and was good for my body. I drank it every time, never thinking twice. But now, I was starting to wonder. Over the past few months, my wolf felt weaker and weaker. Every time I drank that stuff, my body felt sluggish in a way I couldn’t describe. I used to think it was just stress. Now, putting everything together, the answer was staring me in the face. I didn’t make a scene. I just took a clean vial from the cabinet, poured half of tomorrow morning’s “supplement” into it, screwed the cap tight, and hid it at the very bottom of my closet. Then, I went about my day like nothing had happened. Yesterday, I tried to send a messenger to contact my father, wanting him to send people to pick me up for a few days. Now, it seemed that messenger had already fallen into Marcus’s hands. Twelve minutes after the door closed, my phone rang. An unknown number. “Luna Elena, this is Catherine.” Her voice was soft and sweet, with a southern drawl. “Alpha Marcus said I should come over at three. Is the room ready?” “What else did he tell you?” “He said… you agreed to it.” “When did I ever say I agreed?” The line went quiet for two seconds. “Luna Elena, I really won’t take up much space. I’m just here to help with Liam and cook. You can just treat me as a free nanny…” “Who is the pinned contact on your Snapchat? What’s his nickname?” Her breath hitched. “I saw it this morning. Between eight and nine today, you sent him eight messages. The last one: ‘Honey, did she agree? I’m so nervous.’” “Elena…” “You also have another social media account called ‘Secrets of Happiness’ on TikTok, with 1.17 million followers. Three months ago, you posted a video. The background was a living room with warm lighting, a mahogany coffee table, and custom Italian drapes. You told the camera, ‘Everyone, this is the home my husband and I share.’” She fell silent. I continued, “That living room is mine. Those drapes were ordered by me from Milan. I brought that coffee table in.” She remained silent. “Are you still coming at three?” Her voice was small, but she didn’t back down. “Luna Elena, Alpha Marcus told me to come.” At three sharp, the doorbell rang. She wore a cream knit dress, her hair in a low ponytail, her skin ridiculously fair. When she smiled, two deep dimples appeared. “Hi, Luna Elena.” She bowed slightly, dragging two suitcases. The boy jumped off the couch and ran into her arms. “Mommy!” She picked him up, kissed his forehead, and looked at me. There wasn’t a shred of guilt in her eyes. She walked around the living room as if she owned the place. In her mind, maybe she did. “Luna Elena, where is the guest room? I can find it myself.” “That ring on your left hand.” Her smile froze. On her left ring finger was a sapphire ring. My engagement ring. Two years ago, Marcus said he took it for cleaning and never brought it back. She hid her hand behind her back. “Alpha Marcus gave it to me…” “I know he did.” I turned and went upstairs. Her voice trailed behind me, laced with a whiny, spoiled pout. “Luna Elena, I really am just here to help.” ####

“Don’t be so petty.” Victoria’s call came earlier than I expected. “Marcus told me. The boy’s father died last month. It’s hard for a single mother. As a woman, how can you lack such basic compassion?” “Victoria, that boy looks exactly like Marcus.” “So what if they look alike? It’s just a coincidence.” Her words came fast, like she’d been practicing them all night. “Marcus also told me. The girl is only staying for a few days. If you have to think the worst, is it because you haven’t produced a pup in five years of marriage and feel insecure?” As those words pierced through, my nails dug into my palms. “Victoria, do you know why I haven’t had a child in five years?” “If your health is poor, go get it treated. How many times do I have to tell you?” “Marcus had me taking medicine for six months, claiming it was to help me conceive. I took the prescription to get it checked. Long-term use of that drug causes permanent infertility.” The line went silent for two seconds. “Nonsense. My son treats you incredibly well. Are you just trying to tear this family apart?” She hung up. I put down my phone and pinched the bridge of my nose. Three months. Every single day. Marcus handed it to me himself, telling me it was a supplement. I trusted him for three months. I opened the bottom drawer of my nightstand and took out the vial from this morning, containing half a bottle of dark liquid. A few dried droplets clung to the bottom. At noon, Catherine came down from the guest room and cooked a full spread. Roasted pork ribs, garden salad, fruit salad. Liam sat at the dining table, holding his bowl, his face smeared with food. She sat next to him, wiping his face with a wet wipe. Seeing me come downstairs, she stood up. “Luna Elena, I scooped a bowl of soup for you.” The soup bowl was placed at the far end of the table. She was sitting in my usual seat. I didn’t touch the soup. That afternoon, when I went out to buy some medicine, I swiped the credit card Marcus gave me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, this card has been deactivated.” I switched to my personal debit card and entered the PIN. Insufficient funds. I opened my banking app. Three days ago, a transfer had been executed from my personal account. One point four million dollars, fully transferred to the Shadow Fang Pack’s escrow account. Authorized by: Marcus. Marcus had revoked my resource access. He froze my accounts. He didn’t need my consent; he only needed to issue an order. In the evening, Victoria arrived. In her seventies, wearing low-heeled leather shoes, she walked in carrying a bag of fruit. The moment she saw Catherine, she beamed. “Oh, look at you, so beautiful. Come, let me see Liam.” She held the boy, stroked his face, and kissed his forehead, her eyes crinkling into slits. “This nose is exactly like Marcus’s when he was a boy.” She knew. She knew everything. Victoria pulled a box from her bag and opened it. A moonstone bracelet, gorgeous. I recognized it. It was a family heirloom amulet my family gave me when I got married, valued at eight hundred thousand dollars. During our second year of marriage, Victoria asked to borrow it once and never returned it. She slid the bracelet onto Catherine’s wrist. “Here, this is for you. Thank you for working so hard with the baby.” Catherine feigned a polite refusal before accepting it perfectly. “Thank you.” She said it while smiling at me. Victoria sat on the couch, took a sip of the tea Catherine poured, and glanced at me. “Luna Elena, you’re thirty now. They say it’s hard for a female to conceive after thirty. Look how sweet Liam is. Just raise him as your own first, and we can talk about the rest later.” “Victoria, that amulet is mine.” “What’s yours is mine? Once you step through the gates of the Shadow Fang Pack, it belongs to the Pack.” She set her teacup down. “Luna Elena, if you really can’t get over this, let me make things clear. Marcus told me you want to leave.” She stared at me, her warm expression shifting into something cold. “You can enter the Shadow Fang Pack, but you don’t get to just walk out. The resources your father provided were a donation. Support can be cut off, but haven’t you learned your lesson? You don’t even have your wolf anymore. You’re no different from a cripple. How many days do you think you’d survive out there?” Catherine stood by the kitchen door holding Liam, keeping quiet. But she was smiling. Victoria stood up and brushed off non-existent dust from her skirt. “Think it over before you speak to me again. An Alpha like Marcus has countless she-wolves lining up to marry him. You should be counting your blessings.” ####

“Come to the main house for dinner tonight. Elder Luna invited a few people.” Marcus’s message arrived at four in the afternoon. When I arrived, seven or eight people were sitting in the living room. The core members of the Shadow Fang Pack, usually busy with their own tasks, were all gathered today. At the dinner table, my seat was gone. Catherine sat on Marcus’s right, with Liam on her lap. My usual chair had been pushed to the corner. “Luna Elena is here. Grab a chair for yourself,” Victoria said, not even looking up. Margaret spoke up, her eyes scanning Catherine and Liam, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “He really does look like you when you were little.” Marcus smiled, not denying it. Margaret turned to Catherine. “Long time no see.” “Yes, Margaret,” Catherine replied, smiling sweet and demure. Victoria piped up, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Exactly. Some people have been here for five years without a single sign of a pup. Others come back, and in three months, the child is already running around.” At a table full of people, not a single soul spoke up for me. They cut their steaks, poured their wine, and occasionally exchanged knowing glances. No one looked at me. I stood there, holding a glass of water. “Luna Elena, don’t just stand there. Sit,” Marcus finally spoke, pointing to a small, temporary chair placed at the far end of the table. I didn’t sit. “Where is the messenger I sent to my father?” “We’re having dinner. Why bring that up now?” The table fell silent for a few seconds. “Luna Elena,” Victoria tapped her fork against the table. “Are you trying to make a scene in front of everyone?” “Is this what you call making a scene?” “You just have no sense of decorum,” Margaret put down her glass, her voice turning cold. “Marcus has been more than generous with you. You haven’t produced an heir in five years, and he hasn’t complained. In any other pack, you would have been rejected long ago.” I looked at Margaret. “So he brings his mistress and bastard home, and I’m supposed to bow down in gratitude?” Margaret’s face twisted. “How dare you speak like that?” “Am I not stating facts?” “Enough.” Marcus finally set his fork down. His voice wasn’t loud, but it instantly silenced the room. He looked at me, his eyes showing no anger, only a condescending patience. “Elena, you’re tired. Sit down and eat.” I didn’t sit. “Where is the messenger I sent to my father?” “I said, we don’t discuss this at the dinner table.” “What did you do to him?” The room fell dead silent for three seconds. Marcus stared at me, a trace of a smirk still lingering on his lips. “What do you think?” My heart sank. But I didn’t press further. I wouldn’t get answers now anyway. Catherine kept her head down, feeding Liam, keeping quiet and avoiding my gaze. But her phone screen lit up. I caught her sneakily typing a quick message: *”It’s handled.”* Who she sent it to, I couldn’t see clearly. But I clearly saw the nickname of the chat thread: *Baby’s Daddy.* At eleven PM, I sat alone in my bedroom. All my resource permissions were severed. My communication channels were blocked. The entire pack leadership stood by his side. From the room next door, the faint, sweet sound of Catherine cooing to her child drifted in. I pulled out my phone, stared at my father’s contact number, and put it back down. Not yet. But I snapped a picture of the half-filled vial of “supplement” and saved it in a secure folder only I could access. The day I walked out of here, this evidence would serve its purpose. ####

“Drink it.” The next morning, Marcus slammed a bowl of dark liquid in front of me. My sense of smell had mostly deteriorated, so I couldn’t tell what it was. But its color and texture were identical to the “supplement” I’d been given every morning for three months. Combined with my recent symptoms—loss of smell, inability to summon my wolf, and full-body sluggishness—the truth was glaringly obvious. Fine, black sediments rested at the bottom of the bowl. I looked up at him. He didn’t flinch. “Drink this, and I’ll let you leave here alive.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat opposite me. “You can live in the cabin near the border. Someone will deliver food and supplies to you every month. It’ll be enough to keep you alive.” Keep me alive. When the Blood Ridge Pack attacked years ago, it was my father who saved the entire Shadow Fang Pack. The post-war reconstruction, the supply lines, the warrior training—my father handled all of it. Marcus owed everything he had to the Silver Creek Pack. And he repaid me with wolfsbane. “And if I don’t?” He took a sip of his coffee. “If you don’t? You can still try to leave. But you won’t make it out of this territory. Your wolf will get weaker by the day, and within a month, you’ll be completely crippled. You won’t even be able to stand. How far do you think you’ll get?” He set his cup down and locked eyes with me. “Luna Elena, you overestimate yourself. What do you think you have? Your father’s name? That might work on other lands. But in my Pack, I make the rules.” Catherine walked out of the kitchen with plates. Fried eggs, toast, fresh orange juice. She placed a plate in front of Marcus, and another in front of Liam. There was nothing for me. “Alpha Marcus, have some breakfast.” She sat right next to him. At this table. In my seat. Victoria came downstairs, glancing at the bowl on the table. “Drink up, Luna Elena. The sooner you drink, the sooner you find peace. Look at you now—no money, no power, no allies. Why keep struggling? If you refuse, don’t blame me for being harsh. Strip away your father’s connections, and what do you actually have left?” Marcus leaned back, crossing his legs as he watched me. I knew that expression all too well. It was a confidence born from his very bones. He was certain I would drink it. Certain I had no leverage. Certain he had won this game. “Luna Elena, you don’t have to drink. But once you leave the Shadow Fang Pack, you are nothing.” He smirked as he said those words. Right then, my phone rang. The screen lit up—it was my father. I didn’t have time to answer. Because in the exact same second, Marcus’s phone rang too. Marcus frowned as he answered. The voice on the other end spoke only one sentence. I couldn’t hear what was said. But I watched his face. The color drained from it, layer by layer. He put his phone down and stared at me, his lips trembling, unable to make a sound. Victoria’s phone connected too, and someone was shouting on the other end. Her face instantly crumpled. “What do you mean all supply lines are severed? What do you mean their warriors have completely withdrawn?” Catherine stood there holding the child, her smile frozen, completely clueless about what was happening. I picked up my phone and answered. “Father.” My father’s voice on the other end was calm. “My daughter, it is done.”

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At the annual party of Brian’s pack, his “best friend” Vanessa leaned against him, smirking. “Emma, you’re not actually an orphan, are you?” My heart skipped a beat. How did she know? I had never told anyone about my past. Before I could even process this, she kept going. “What, cat got your tongue? I heard your mother was a homewrecker who forced her way into a rich family, and you’ve been living as a sugar baby ever since you turned eighteen. You only hooked up with Brian recently, right?” “I know this is our first time meeting, but I know all about your dirty little secrets.” I stared at her. She didn’t actually know me. Vanessa gasped, quickly covering her mouth as if she had accidentally let something slip. She looked at Brian and stuck her tongue out playfully. “Oh my gosh, Brian. I totally forgot that daughters of mistresses hate talking about their past. Please don’t be mad at me.” The smile froze on Brian’s face. Just a second ago, he was bragging to his pack members about how hopelessly in love with him I was. I swallowed my shock and forced myself to calm down. I had run away from home to escape an arranged political marriage with Sam Collins, the heir of the Shadowfang Pack. I lied about being an orphan because I didn’t want anyone to find out I was actually the daughter of Alpha Edward Sterling, the leader of the powerful Silvermoon Pack. Vanessa claimed my mother was a homewrecker. But my father, Alpha Edward, was famous across the entire werewolf realm for worshipping his wife. If Vanessa had actually investigated me, she would never have made up such a stupid lie. She didn’t know anything. She had only somehow found out I wasn’t an orphan, and she had pulled the rest of the story out of her ass. Realizing this, I relaxed. I looked at her face. The more I stared, the more familiar she looked. I felt like I had seen her somewhere before, but I couldn’t quite place it. Whatever. She was just bluffing. But the moment Vanessa finished speaking, the envious looks the pack members had been giving Brian turned into judging stares. One of the guys tried to laugh it off and save face. “Come on, Vanessa. You must have the wrong girl. Emma looks like she comes from a decent family. She’s not like that.” Vanessa didn’t back down. She just sighed dramatically. “Well, her mother was smart, wasn’t she? Selling her body to a rich Alpha just for the money.” “But honestly, I could never respect a girl like that.” I sneered inwardly. She really had no idea who she was messing with. If she knew I was the daughter of the Silvermoon Alpha, she wouldn’t dare utter a single syllable of this trash. If my father, Alpha Edward, heard this, the entire werewolf world would tremble. Brian’s face darkened. He looked at me, then at Vanessa, his brows furrowing. Seeing his hesitation, Vanessa shrunk further into Brian’s chest. “Brian, did I say something wrong? I’m sorry. I’m just too honest. I don’t know how to play mind games like other girls.” I clenched my fists, holding back the urge to slap her across the room. If I hit her here, she would play the victim card and make my life hell in his pack. Distracted by my anger, my hand tilted. A splash of red wine spilled from my glass, staining Vanessa’s white dress. She shrieked, looking incredibly offended. “Emma! Are you seriously getting physical just because I told the truth?” “I mean, keeping up such a perfect lie must be exhausting. I almost admire you for it.” Brian’s face turned icy cold. He grabbed some napkins from the table and began wiping Vanessa’s dress with extreme care. Then, he glared at me. “Vanessa is just brutally honest. She doesn’t know how to sugarcoat things. What is wrong with you?” “Apologize to Vanessa. Right now!” I almost laughed out loud. Vanessa had just dragged my mother’s name through the mud, and Brian had stood there doing nothing. Now, because of an accidental wine spill, he was losing his mind. Vanessa clung to Brian, her eyes pooling with tears. “It’s fine, Brian. Let’s just pretend I made a mistake. It was just a joke.” I stared at her, my voice dropping to a freezing register. “You said I’m not an orphan. Why don’t you tell everyone who my parents are then? What is my mother’s name?” Panic flashed in Vanessa’s eyes, but she quickly masked it with attitude. “I… how am I supposed to remember their names? Everyone in the high society packs knows your mother was a side chick!” My inner sneer grew deeper. Just as I thought. She couldn’t even name my mother. She was completely fabricating this. “Next time you make an accusation, bring receipts. I don’t find your jokes funny.” I said this to warn Brian. He shouldn’t believe her without proof. Brian hesitated. He slowly stopped wiping Vanessa’s dress and pulled his hand back. Vanessa’s body stiffened. She looked up at him, looking like a kicked puppy. “I’m sorry, Emma. I just heard it from someone else. I didn’t verify it.” I stared at her coldly. “Who did you hear it from? Call them. Let’s get them on FaceTime right now.” I expected her to choke on her words, but her expression suddenly turned into one of pity. “Emma, even if you did those things, you don’t have to deny it so aggressively. I wasn’t going to tell the whole pack anyway.” The surrounding pack members began whispering, throwing disgusted looks my way. A girl sitting next to Vanessa laughed mockingly. “I guess girls with loose morals always have it easy. Just spread your legs and you get a ticket to the top.” “Unlike Vanessa and me. We’re just simple girls looking for real love.” Brian was a man who cared about his pride more than anything. He had brought me to this annual party to show me off. Now that his pride was being dragged through the dirt, he slammed back a whole glass of whiskey. Across the table, a guy named Mike mocked him openly. “Well, Brian is a lucky guy. Other guys spend money on their girls. Brian gets a girl that the whole town has already paid for… haha…” “Shut up!” Brian snapped. He threw a hard punch, smashing Mike’s glasses right off his face. I felt absolutely no satisfaction. I knew he wasn’t defending my honor. He was just mad that his own ego was bruised. Before Mike could swing back, others jumped in to break it up. “Alright, alright! Don’t ruin the party. Let’s change the subject.”

With everyone’s eyes on them, Mike lowered his fists, swallowing his anger for now. Someone suggested a game: share the most loyal thing someone in the pack had done for you. The best story would win a bottle of rare liquor. The first few stories were typical pack stuff. An Alpha settling a border dispute, or an ally pack sending emergency supplies. When it was Vanessa’s turn, she looked at me with a triumphant smirk. “Early last month, I got too drunk at a business dinner. I called Brian in the middle of the night.” “He drove all the way back from his business trip just to take care of me the entire night…” “I only found out later that his girlfriend was trying to reach him that same night.” The table erupted in murmurs of admiration. “Brian really is a loyal guy.” “He always comes through when it matters!” Amidst the applause, my entire body went numb. Cold sweat broke out across my skin. That exact night, I had been attacked by rogue wolves on the edge of the pack’s territory. My phone had been smashed during the fight. The only number I had memorized was Brian’s. But when I finally managed to call him from a payphone, he had simply muttered that he was busy and hung up. I had almost died out there. The next day, Brian had literally gotten on his knees in front of me, slapping his own face. “Emma, I was just so stressed about planning our mating ceremony that I neglected the border patrol. I swear I didn’t know it was that serious.” I looked at Brian now. He avoided my gaze, his jaw clenched tight. The crowd started chanting for Vanessa and Brian to sing a song. Soon, the chant turned into, “Kiss her! Kiss her!” Vanessa blushed and pushed Brian playfully. Brian laughed, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her in for a kiss on her forehead. The crowd cheered and whistled. I watched them, completely numb. The spotlight operator, following the crowd’s energy, suddenly swung the beam right onto me. The whispers started again. “She is gorgeous, though.” “Beauty is cheap. Who knows how many guys have been in there?” Vanessa raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Oh, don’t worry about Emma’s finances, guys. She has plenty of ‘generous friends’ supporting her.” She gave the room a knowing wink. A collective, dirty chuckle rippled through the men in the room. The way they looked at me made me feel like a piece of meat on display. I stared at Vanessa, my voice deadly quiet. “You should watch what comes out of your mouth. Some words carry a heavy price.” She rolled her eyes, pulled out her phone, and turned the screen toward the crowd. “I’m not lying. See for yourselves.” It was a photoshopped picture of me entering a high-end hotel room with several different men. Laughter and mocking comments flooded the hall like a wave. “She looks so innocent, but she’s actually wild!” “Brian, man, you’ve got a whole forest growing on your head!” I stood up to speak, but before I could, Brian rushed over and slapped me hard across the face. “Emma!” He snatched Vanessa’s phone, his eyes burning with absolute rage. “I saw the original file of this photo! It’s not photoshopped! You’ve been lying to me this whole time!” I didn’t say a word. I just slowly stood up straight, touching my burning cheek. I didn’t even want to explain myself anymore. My heart was completely dead. Now, I was calculating something much more practical. This slap was going to cost him everything. Vanessa quickly slid her hand onto Brian’s shoulder, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. “It’s okay, Brian. Girls get wild when they’re young. It’s normal to make mistakes.” “Unlike us. We only know how to stay loyal to one man.” I looked at Vanessa’s heavily contoured “no-makeup” look and sneered. Once I washed that fake face off, everyone would see what a monster she really was.

The crowd started chanting for them to sing again. I watched them walk up to the stage hand-in-hand, lost in thought. What bothered me the most was how Vanessa knew I wasn’t an orphan. I had never told anyone. Not even Brian. I pulled out my phone and sent a Snapchat message to my father. [Dad, look up a girl named Vanessa Lane. She’s in the Ironclaw Pack.] On stage, Brian dropped to one knee, singing Bruno Mars’s “Marry You” to Vanessa with fake adoration. I felt a pang of emptiness. When did this man, who once seemed so bright and heroic, become so pathetic? I had met Brian shortly after running away from home. To escape the political marriage my father arranged with Sam Collins, I had slipped out of the Silvermoon territory under the cover of night. I was young and naive. I thought I could survive on my own. But I underestimated the dangers of the neutral zones. On my third night, I was surrounded by a pack of feral rogue wolves in the middle of nowhere. Their glowing green eyes closed in on me through the dark, low growls vibrating in their chests. I fought with everything I had, but I was outnumbered. I was covered in deep gashes, the scent of my blood driving them into a frenzy. Just when I thought I was going to die, a dark shadow crashed into the pack. It was Brian. He had shifted into his half-wolf form, tearing open the throat of the nearest rogue and kicking another ten feet away. He stood in front of me, covered in blood, refusing to take a single step back. The rogues were finally intimidated by his sheer brutality and dragged their dead away into the shadows. He turned around. Under the moonlight, I saw his face. Young, handsome, covered in blood, but wearing a tired, gentle smile. “You’re safe now.” He brought me back to his pack’s town and got me medical help. When I woke up, he was sleeping by my bedside, his head resting near my hand. At that moment, I thought he was my savior sent from heaven. I lied and told him I was an orphan with nowhere to go. He didn’t doubt me. He took me in, found me a place to live, and showed me around. Back then, he was my hero. On the grassy hills behind the town, he confessed his love to me, promising he would only ever love me. But once we moved closer to the pack’s inner circle, Brian forgot his promises. During our dates, he would leave the movie theater at the climax just because Vanessa called. When he got drunk, he would mumble, “Let me drink for Vanessa, don’t pressure her.” His family dinners never included me, but Vanessa was always guest of honor. I suddenly felt completely disgusted by it all. I grabbed my purse to leave when my phone buzzed. It was a text from my dad. [Got her. Vanessa Lane, Ironclaw Pack.] [She is currently sleeping with at least six different men. One of them is someone you know—Alpha Marcus Harrison.] [Last month, she got sent to the hospital because of some rough play with those guys and caught an STD. Alpha Harrison begged me for hush money. He was trying to close a business deal with the Silvermoon Pack and didn’t want a scandal to ruin it. I paid the bill for him.] I stared at the screen, my breathing turning shallow. So that was it. Alpha Harrison’s hush money had come from my father. No wonder Alpha Harrison had looked so nervous earlier. He was terrified I would expose his dirty secrets and ruin his business. As for Vanessa, she had no idea who she was playing with. She had just gotten lucky, leeching off a few rich Alphas. Now she had her sights set on Brian, the heir of the Ironclaw Pack. And I was the obstacle she needed to clear. She had somehow found out I wasn’t an orphan and decided to use it as a weapon. The cheating and sugar baby rumors were entirely made up. After all, lies are free. As long as she could ruin my reputation, she won. My phone buzzed again. [Do you need me to send the Silvermoon warriors?] I replied: [No. I’ll handle this myself.] I locked my phone, a cold smile playing on my lips. Vanessa was completely done for.

The song on stage ended to a thunderous round of applause. Vanessa and Brian held hands, bowing to the crowd. When she walked down, she looked at me, pretending to be shocked. “Emma! You’re still here?” She blinked her big eyes, acting innocent. “Wow, your skin really is thick, isn’t it?” Brian frowned, stepping closer to her and creating distance between us. “Don’t call her Emma, Vanessa. We don’t know if she even deserves that name.” My heart was cold, but my face remained a mask of calm. Vanessa’s eyes flared with pure triumph. “True. A mating bond is a lifetime commitment. You can’t be marrying someone who might bring STDs into the pack lineage.” Brian’s face paled. “Vanessa, don’t say things like that.” Vanessa flinched as if frightened. “I’m sorry, Brian! I’m being too blunt again.” “I shouldn’t talk about other people’s dirty laundry.” The moment she said that, everyone sitting near me dragged their chairs away. They looked at me as if I were a walking plague. Brian’s knuckles turned white. His voice shook. “Where did you hear that?” “From Emma’s old flames, of course. They weren’t exactly careful when they were together.” Vanessa tapped her head as if remembering something. “Oh! One of them actually sent me a photo.” The moment Vanessa pulled up the photo—a picture of me in a suggestive pose with a man—I snapped a quick photo of her screen and sent it to my dad. Brian completely lost his mind. He lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar and yelling in my face. “Emma! You dirty b*tch! You refused to sleep with me before the mating ceremony, but you were out there getting dirty with other guys?!” “If I knew you were this cheap, I would have let those rogue wolves tear you apart three years ago!” The lack of oxygen made my head spin. I struggled to break his grip. Looking at this face that I had loved for three years, now twisted with ugly rage, I felt a deep ache in my chest. “Brian,” I choked out, “the only thing I lied about was my background. I never cheated on you! Vanessa is the one lying! She—” *SMASH!* A wine bottle shattered against the side of my head. It was one of the guys who had been kissing up to Vanessa. “You cheap wh*re! How dare you try to defame Vanessa? She is our pack’s princess!” I tried to defend myself, but two men pinned my arms behind my back. A girl from the pack stepped up, grabbing my chin and squeezing it painfully. “So, how much did this pretty face cost to maintain?” The guy next to her laughed dirtily. “Let’s see if the rest of her body is as fake as her face.” My vision blurred as I looked at Brian. I held on to a tiny, pathetic hope that he would step in and save me, just like he did years ago. But he just turned his face away coldly. My heart died completely. Just as the man’s hand was about to touch my shirt, a commotion broke out near the entrance. “Alpha Harrison is here!” Through the haze of blood and wine dripping down my face, I saw the crowd parting for Alpha Marcus Harrison. I couldn’t believe my luck. Brian grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the exit. “Emma, we are done! Get the hell out of my pack!” I ripped my arm out of his grip. “I’m leaving. But not before I ask one question.” “What else do you have to say?!” Brian hissed. Across the room, Alpha Harrison was raising his glass to the VIP table. I looked at Luna Elizabeth Harrison, who was smiling elegantly next to him. I pointed directly at Vanessa, my voice cutting through the noise of the hall. “Luna Elizabeth! Did you know that girl is your husband’s favorite side chick?” The entire hall fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

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1 My son waited six months to finally get a surgical slot with the top pediatric ophthalmologist. But my wife gave his spot away to the grandson of her late mentor. Her justification was simple: “Finn is a boy. He can tough it out. Lily is just a little girl; it breaks my heart when she cries.” That afternoon, my son took his crayons and drew a picture of a woman with no eyes. He handed it to his teacher and said, “This is my mom. She can’t see me.” … “Nolan, can you stop being so incredibly selfish? What difference does it make if Finn’s procedure is pushed back a few days?” My wife, Elena, stood in the center of our living room. She frowned at me, her eyes brimming with corporate impatience. “Dr. Harrison was my mentor. I owe him my career. Am I supposed to just stand by and watch his great-granddaughter go blind?” I crumpled the voided surgical notice in my hand, my fingertips trembling with rage. “Pushed back a few days?” I stared at the woman I had been married to for ten years. “Elena, we have been on the waitlist for Dr. Webb for six months!” “Next Wednesday is the optimal surgical window. And you’re telling me you pulled rank to give his slot to Oliver’s kid?” Elena avoided my gaze, walking over to the kitchen island to pour herself a glass of water. “Lily’s eyes hurt so badly she cries all night. Oliver is raising her entirely on his own. The stress is driving him into a clinical depression.” “Finn is a boy; he can handle a little discomfort. Lily is just too pitiful when she cries.” She took a sip of water. “You’re a senior attending surgeon, Nolan. Can’t you look at the bigger picture?” The bigger picture. Always the bigger picture. I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “The only picture I care about is my son’s! Finn’s optic nerve is already showing signs of damage. His vision is getting blurrier by the day. As his mother, have you asked him about it even once?” Elena slammed her glass down on the marble counter. Bang. “Stop being so melodramatic!” she snapped. “Dr. Webb said Finn’s condition is chronic. Waiting one more month isn’t going to kill him. I already pulled strings with Administration; they’ll get him on the schedule next month.” “I’m done having this argument. I have a board meeting.” She snatched her leather tote from the sofa and walked out the front door without looking back. The door clicked shut. The apartment sank into a suffocating, dead silence. My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the sofa, the backs of my eyes burning with unshed tears. “Dad?” A tiny voice drifted from behind me. I spun around. Finn was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, barefoot in his pajamas, clutching his sketchbook to his chest. His usually bright, clear eyes were now clouded with a dull, grayish haze. “Did Mom leave again?” he asked, rubbing his right eye softly. I swallowed the lump of glass in my throat, walked over, and pulled him tightly into my arms. “Mom’s just busy with work, buddy. I’m right here.” Finn didn’t throw a tantrum. He didn’t cry for her like he used to. He just leaned his small head against my shoulder and flipped open his sketchbook. “Dad, I drew a picture of Mom yesterday.” I looked down. On the paper was a woman in a sharp, tailored business suit. She had a nose, a mouth, and perfectly styled hair. But where her eyes should have been, Finn had taken a black wax crayon and gouged out two deep, violent voids. My heart twisted violently in my chest. “Finn… why did you color Mom’s eyes black?” He looked up at me with that hazy, failing right eye. “Because Mom can’t see me, Dad.” His voice was entirely matter-of-fact. “She only sees Lily.” Those few innocent words felt like a physical knife turning in my ribs. That afternoon, I dropped Finn off at school and drove straight to the hospital’s executive administration building. I refused to believe Elena could play God with the surgical schedule like this. I was going to find Dr. Webb and get my son’s spot back. But as I approached the Chief of Ophthalmology’s office, I heard Oliver Brooks’s voice through the cracked door. “Elena, I really can’t thank you enough. If it weren’t for you, Lily’s vision would be in real danger.” Oliver’s voice was warm, soft, and laced with a highly calculated vulnerability. I pushed the door open. Elena was standing by the mahogany desk, looking down at a stack of charts in Oliver’s hands. Oliver was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, his hair perfectly tousled. When he saw me, his eyes darted nervously, and he immediately stepped slightly behind Elena. “Nolan, please don’t be mad at Elena,” Oliver said softly. “It’s my fault. I’m just so useless as a single dad. I couldn’t even manage to book a specialist, so I had to bother her. If you’re really that upset, I’ll take Lily out of the hospital right now and give the slot back to Finn.” His eyes turned red on cue, tears pooling perfectly without spilling over. Elena’s brow instantly furrowed. She stepped protectively in front of Oliver. “Don’t listen to him, Oliver.” She turned her glare on me. “Nolan, what the hell are you doing here? Isn’t it enough that you throw tantrums at home? Now you have to humiliate me at the hospital?” I ignored her completely and walked straight to Dr. Webb. “Dr. Webb, I went through the proper medical channels six months ago to secure this surgical block for my son. By what authority did Elena use her administrative override to give it to a non-emergent patient?” Dr. Webb looked deeply uncomfortable, adjusting his glasses. “Well, Nolan… Dr. Mercer is the Director of Operations. She was just… reallocating resources for the greater good. Lily’s situation is quite urgent too, you know.” 2 I slapped a copy of the medical charts onto his desk. “Urgent?” I demanded. “Lily has a routine lacrimal duct obstruction. A course of steroid eye drops would alleviate the pain. Finn has congenital retinoschisis. If we miss this surgical window, his optic nerve damage will be permanent!” “Dr. Webb, you are the leading specialist in this state. Look me in the eye and tell me—medically—who needs this surgery more?” Dr. Webb opened his mouth, but no words came out. Seeing the shift in the room, Oliver gently tugged at the sleeve of Elena’s blazer. “Elena, let’s just forget it. If Lily has to be in pain, she’ll just have to be in pain. I can’t be the reason your marriage falls apart.” That was all it took to ignite Elena’s fury. She grabbed my arm, dug her nails in, and physically dragged me out of the office and into a secluded corner of the hallway. “Are you out of your goddamn mind, Nolan?” she hissed. “Do you have to act like a petty, hysterical child in front of everyone?” I ripped my arm out of her grip. “I am fighting for my son’s vision! How does that make me hysterical?” I stared at her, utterly disgusted. “Are you completely under his spell, Elena? Are you blind?” She raised her hand, entirely ready to slap me, but caught herself at the last second. She pointed a manicured finger in my face instead. “On his deathbed, my mentor made me promise to look after Oliver and his daughter. Are you asking me to break a vow to a dying man?” She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper. “Let me make this perfectly clear: Next Wednesday, Lily is getting that surgery. If you cause another scene, I won’t just forget our vows—I’ll forget you.” She turned on her heel, walked back into the office, and slammed the door behind her. I stood in the freezing, sterile corridor, shaking with a rage that felt cold to the touch. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Finn’s homeroom teacher. “Mr. Wright? Do you have a moment to come down to the school?” The teacher’s voice was tense. “Finn drew something in art class today… and it terrified the other children.” My stomach plummeted. I sprinted to my car. When I arrived at the elementary school’s administrative office, Finn was standing quietly in the corner, his head bowed. The teacher handed me his sketchbook. “Mr. Wright, you need to see this.” I flipped it open. A dozen pages. Every single one depicted a woman without eyes. Standing. Sitting. Eating at a dinner table. Without exception, where her eyes should have been, the paper was violently scribbled over with black ink, the pressure so intense the paper was torn in several places. “I asked Finn who he was drawing,” the teacher sighed heavily. “He said it was his mother. He told the class his mother is blind.” “My mom isn’t blind.” Finn suddenly lifted his head, correcting the teacher. His left eye—the good one—stared directly at me. His gaze was terrifyingly calm for an eight-year-old. “She just doesn’t see me.” The teacher froze, looking at me with profound discomfort. I crouched down and wrapped my hands around Finn’s icy little fingers. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Davis. We’re going through a family crisis right now. His emotions are just… manifesting.” I didn’t offer any further excuses. I took Finn’s hand and led him out to the car. On the drive home, Finn was eerily quiet. He leaned his forehead against the glass, watching the suburban streets blur past. “Dad. I’m not getting the surgery next week, am I?” he asked suddenly. My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles ached. “You are. I will find a way to get it done, Finn. I promise.” He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he unzipped his backpack, pulled out a glossy flyer, and handed it to me. It was an invitation to the State Youth Art Showcase. “My painting got selected, Dad,” he said softly. “My teacher said it’s going to be hung in the main gallery next Friday.” I took the flyer. Printed right there was his name: Finn Wright. Title of the piece: The Mother Who Doesn’t See Me. My throat burned. I forced a massive, enthusiastic smile. “That is incredible, buddy. Dad is going to be front and center next Friday to cheer you on.” A faint, fragile glimmer of hope flickered in Finn’s eye. “Do you think Mom will come?” “She promised before… she said if I ever won an award, she’d buy me the new limited-edition Lego set.” My throat seized up. I couldn’t force a single word out. That night, for the first time in weeks, Elena came home before dinnertime. She walked in holding a box from an expensive bakery, wearing a patronizing, placating smile. “Finn! Look what Mom brought you!” Finn was sitting on the rug, snapping Lego bricks together. He didn’t even look up. Elena awkwardly set the cake box on the coffee table. She walked over to me, lowering her voice. “Nolan, I know I lost my temper this afternoon.” She sighed, playing the exhausted peacemaker. “I already confirmed with Administration. Finn will definitely get his surgery at the beginning of next month. Just drop the attitude, okay?” I looked at her with dead eyes. “The beginning of next month? Do you even realize his right eye has deteriorated so badly he can’t see anything past six feet?” She rolled her eyes. “Stop exaggerating. I just walked in, and he’s perfectly fine playing with his Legos.” She crouched down next to him. “Finn, how about Mom takes you to the aquarium next weekend?” Finn put down a plastic brick. He turned to look at her. “Mom, my painting is going to be in the State Art Showcase next Friday. Can you come see it?” Elena blinked in surprise, then smiled warmly. “Really? My little artist! Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Finn’s eyes lit up. “Pinky promise?” He held out his little finger. Elena hooked her pinky around his with practiced ease. “Pinky promise.” Over the next few days, Finn’s mood visibly brightened. He counted down the days to the exhibition. On Friday afternoon, I took half the day off, dressed Finn in a sharp little navy blazer, and drove him to the downtown gallery. The exhibition hall was packed. Finn gripped my hand, practically vibrating with excitement as he pulled me through the crowd. “Dad, my painting is in Section C!” But when we reached the premium display walls of Section C, Finn abruptly stopped. Hanging directly in the spot assigned to Finn Wright was a colorful, overly sweet watercolor of two little girls holding hands. The signature in the bottom right corner read: Lily Brooks. Finn stood absolutely paralyzed, staring blankly at the wall.

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1 I’ve been able to hear the plants for as long as I can remember. The potted barrel cactus on our porch used to bellow with fury whenever the neighbor’s stray cat sprayed its base. The patches of clover crushed underfoot by oblivious kids on the playground would whimper, pleading with me to lift the weight off their stems. And the sweet corn I ate for summer dinners always murmured its gratitude as I chewed—thanking me for truly tasting it, for honoring the work it took to grow. Because of them, I knew my life belonged to the soil. I wanted to protect food. I wanted to ensure that people didn’t just survive, but thrived—fed by a earth that was treated with dignity. Which brings me to right now. Dr. Victor Harlan, the undisputed titan of agricultural science, was standing beneath the blazing Midwestern sun, beaming into a bank of local news cameras. “By implementing our lab’s newest standardized protocol,” Dr. Harlan declared, his booming voice echoing across the experimental fields, “this crop yield will break every state record in recorded history.” Around him, university board members, department heads, and eager graduate students burst into frantic applause. Words of praise rained down like confetti. I stood at the far edge of the crowd, hands pressed over my ears, feeling like my eardrums were about to shatter. “Bullshit!” a raw, agonizing scream vibrated through my skull. “My roots are on fire! The chemical is burning me alive!” “Too much water! God, I’m drowning!” another voice shrieked, sick and raspy. “That fat bastard doesn’t know a damn thing about farming! If he keeps this up, every single one of us is dead by nightfall!” I winced, the agonizing static of plant pain vibrating in my teeth. Stepping around a news crew, I shoved my way through the press of bodies to the front. “Excuse me—the formula is toxic,” I called out, my voice cutting through the applause. “Can we try a different fertilizer blend?” “This protocol represents three years of relentless research by my team,” Dr. Harlan continued smoothly, his voice carried by the directional microphone attached to his lapel, sweeping over the demonstration plots. “By combining high-density synthetic fertilization with micro-calibrated drip irrigation, we aren’t just speeding up growth cycles—we are standardizing them. We are raising crop output to industrial efficiency.” The crisp sound of his speech resonated across the research station. The audience clapped again, hanging on his every word. “Dr. Harlan is truly the bedrock of this department,” a associate dean murmured to the university donor beside him. “If this rollout goes nationwide, it’s going to trigger a seismic shift in commercial agriculture,” a senior researcher added. The atmosphere was thick with triumph, as if the university had already pinned a medal of honor onto Dr. Harlan’s linen jacket. Yet standing at the outer fringe of the circle, all I felt was a blinding headache as the screaming intensified. “Help us! What is this stuff?! It stings, it stings! My leaf veins are scorching!” “Gagging! This runoff is straight poison! If we keep drinking this, we’re all going to be rotted out by sunset!” “That bald idiot is killing us! He’s feeding us industrial sludge!” The agony detonated inside my head. Beneath the speaker’s podium, a stalk of corn was slumping, its roots writhing in dirty, oversaturated soil, sending me its final, desperate plea. I couldn’t take it anymore. I burst through the front line of onlookers into the open dirt. “We can’t keep using this protocol!” In an instant, every camera lens, every microphone, and every eye turned toward me—a fourth-year intern wearing a faded, mud-stained denim work shirt. The smug, practiced smile on Dr. Harlan’s face froze. “Whose lab are you from?” he asked, his tone dripping with quiet disdain. A nervous teaching assistant hurried to Harlan’s side, whispering frantically into his ear. “Dr. Harlan, that’s Maeve Brooks. She’s a senior intern assigned to the field station this term. She just submitted her application for your master’s program.” I stepped forward, taking a deep breath to steady the tremor in my legs. “Dr. Harlan, your chemical ratios are completely out of balance. This soil can’t absorb it. You’re killing the crop.” Dr. Harlan chuckled softly, a patronizing sound that drew appreciative snickers from his inner circle. “Ah, youth. So impatient. So eager to grab the spotlight after skimming a few chapters in a textbook.” He straightened his posture, looking down his nose at me. “This is a state-funded, top-tier research facility, Miss Brooks, not your grandmother’s backyard garden patch. You don’t just swap out chemical inputs on a whim because you have a hunch. Who do you think you are—Norman Borlaug?” The crowd erupted in a roar of laughter. I clutched the hem of my denim shirt, my knuckles turning white. A wave of heat washed over my face, burning like a physical slap. 2 The chatter among the surrounding graduate students started up immediately, their whispers sharp and cruel enough to bleed right into my ears. “Is she out of her mind? Who calls out Dr. Harlan in front of the press?” “Do you know how many grad students he takes a year? Maybe five out of hundreds. She’s about to graduate and she just flushed her entire career down the toilet.” “She’s probably just desperate for attention. Thought she could go viral on the local news.” Dr. Harlan rested his hands behind his back, staring at me like I was a pest he’d found on his shoe. “Every couple of years, some arrogant kid thinks they’re smarter than the scientific establishment. Agriculture is a rigorous, quantitative discipline, Miss Brooks. It doesn’t care about your loud mouth or your opinions. Get out of my field before I lose my patience.” Standing there under the glare of the cameras, my skin felt hot enough to blister. “Don’t back down, kid! Hit him! The old bastard doesn’t know shit about us!” “Please help us… it hurts so bad…” The faint, agonizing whispers of the crops circled my mind, pleading, terrified. My memory flickered back to the stories my grandfather used to tell me about the Dust Bowl, and the images of Norman Borlaug kneeling in the dirt in Mexico, devoting his life to understanding the language of wheat so the world wouldn’t starve. I hadn’t clawed my way into this agricultural program just to nod along to bad science. I came here to protect what grows. To make sure people were fed by food raised with integrity. That was the soul of farming. I looked straight into Dr. Harlan’s narrowing eyes. Instead of backing away, I stepped closer and raised my voice so the directional mics picked up every word. “Agriculture is a science, Dr. Harlan,” I said, my voice ringing out clear and steady. “And good science adapts to the environment! Your high-nitrogen mix is burning the root systems. Look at the leaf margins—they’re already yellowing at the tips!” Harlan’s face turned a mottled, furious purple. “Who the hell do you think you are to question my methodology? I’ve published forty peer-reviewed papers and won more national awards than years you’ve been alive! You’re an undergraduate nobody! You think you can lecture me on agronomy?” He took a step toward me, his breathing heavy. “Let me tell you something. Thousands of students graduate from this university, and fewer than five get to sit in my lab. You take a few intro classes and suddenly you think you’re a visionary? You’re a joke.” The tension in the air was suffocating. Seeing him cornered into genuine rage, I took a calculated breath and softened my posture, pivoting. “You’re right about your experience, Professor,” I said, adopting a measured, respectful tone. “So give me a chance to prove my point scientifically. Give me one month. Split this experimental plot in half. Give me control over one side. If my half underperforms yours, I will voluntarily withdraw my application for graduate school, surrender my honors standing, and issue a full public apology to you and the department.” I paused, letting the media cameras capture every inch of my face before continuing. “But if my half yields healthier crops with a better chemical balance… then the university gains a superior protocol. Isn’t that what real research is about?” Silence fell over the field. The news cameras were still red-hot, recording every second. I had boxed Dr. Harlan into a corner. On live local television, turning down a challenge from an undergraduate who offered to put her entire career on the line would make him look terrified of his own science. He stared at me, a dark, venomous spark flashing in his eyes. He let out a low, harsh sneer, rolling his eyes for the benefit of his colleagues. “Fine,” Harlan spat out, his voice laced with icy malice. “If you’re that eager to humiliate yourself on record, I’m happy to oblige. I’d love to see what kind of miracle a naive kid thinks she can perform. Show us what you’ve got, Miss Brooks.” By that afternoon, I had taken over my designated half of the field. I spent the rest of the day and half the night mixing a custom, gentle organic slurry—rich in beneficial microbes, balanced with natural potassium, and carefully calibrated for the soil’s natural pH. I adjusted the irrigation lines, cutting the water volume by half to let the suffocating roots breathe. The moment my new mixture soaked into the earth, a deafening wave of relief rippled through the plot. “Oh God, yes! Mmm, this tastes like home!” “We’re alive! We’re alive! The burning stopped! Look at my leaves unfolding!” “You’re amazing, kid! Just wait till I mature—I’m gonna grow you the biggest damn ear of corn you’ve ever seen!” Listening to the surge of vital energy returning to the soil, I slumped against the wooden fence at the edge of the dirt ridge, exhausted, a genuine smile breaking across my face for the first time all day. 3 Two weeks later. The local news anchor returned with her production crew for the mid-term progress report. “Welcome back, viewers,” the host said into her mic as the cameraman adjusted his focus. “It’s been fifteen days since the field challenge was laid down right here at the university extension station. Let’s take a look at the results so far…” As the lens panned across my side of the experimental plot, a collective gasp rustled through the gathered crowd. The difference was staggering. My rows were a dense, vibrant sea of emerald green. The corn stalks were thick, sturdy, and nearly a foot taller than expected for this stage of the season. The rice plants stood proud and firm, their leaves glistening with health. “Man, being well-fed feels incredible!” “Hey, Maeve! Look at me! Did I get taller today?” The crops chirped and chattered in my ears, boasting about their growth, and my heart lifted with every word. Then the camera panned across the dirt ridge to Dr. Harlan’s side. His side of the field was a stark, depressing contrast. While the plants had shot up quickly at first, they now looked weak and stressed. The leaf tips were stained with an unhealthy, scorched yellow, drooping under the weight of excessive moisture. “It hurts so bad… the poison is still soaking down…” “We’re dying… Maeve, please save us…” Hearing their weakened cries tore at my heart. I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second, sending a silent thought back to them: Hang on just a little longer. As soon as the thirty days are up, I’ll replace all their fertilizer. “Intern Brooks, this is remarkable,” the host said, turning the microphone toward me, her eyes wide with genuine surprise. I opened my mouth to respond, but my gaze caught Dr. Harlan standing at the back of the crowd. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t playing the confident academic anymore. He was staring at me with an expression so cold, so heavy with quiet malevolence, that a chill ran down my spine. Did he realize what I was doing? Did he know his formula was failing? Once the broadcast wrapped up, the crowd began to disperse. I picked up my clipboard, heading toward the equipment shed, when a female classmate stepped into my path, pulling me behind the wooden structure out of view. It was Hannah Reed. She was a senior like me, always quiet, always top of the class, and usually kind to everyone in the field labs. She cast a nervous glance toward the parking lot where Dr. Harlan was getting into his SUV, then leaned in close. “Are you insane, Maeve?” Hannah whispered, her voice tight with panic. “How long are you going to keep picking a fight with Dr. Harlan?” “I’m not picking a fight,” I said calmly. “I’m running an experiment.” “Do you have any idea who Harlan actually is?” Hannah demanded, grabbing my forearm. “He isn’t just an authority in the field—his primary corporate sponsor is the largest donor to the entire agricultural college! You made him look incompetent on live television. He will destroy you before he lets you win this. Go to his office and apologize. Beg him to let you drop the bet.” I looked at Hannah’s frantic face, then turned my head to look back at the vibrant, rustling green leaves of my field. “I have nothing to apologize for,” I said softly, but with absolute finality. “My responsibility is to the land. Not his ego.” Hannah looked at me with a mixture of awe and pity. She let out a heavy sigh, shook her head, and hurried away. I turned back to my plot, setting my jaw. No matter what Harlan tried, I was going to carry this land to the finish line. The final day of the thirty-day deadline arrived. Because I had spent the last three nights sleeping in two-hour increments to monitor the soil moisture, I collapsed onto my dorm bed the night before the final inspection, exhausted beyond measure. When my alarm went off, I jolted awake, realizing with a spike of panic that I had slept through my backup timer. I was ten minutes late. I sprinted across campus toward the research greenhouses, my heart hammering against my ribs. As soon as I reached the main security gate of the field station, I felt the shift in the air. The atmosphere was heavy, unnatural. A thick crowd of students, faculty, and reporters had already gathered outside my plot. Whispers buzzed through the air like hornets. As I pushed my way through, several graduate students threw malicious, gloating looks in my direction. A terrible, cold knot formed in my stomach. I shoved past the last row of onlookers and burst into my plot. The sight made my mind go completely blank. Destroyed. Everything was utterly destroyed. 4 “This is heartbreaking… what on earth could have happened?” the TV host murmured, looking at the scene with genuine pity before extending the microphone toward me. “Your crops were thriving yesterday. How did a thriving field collapse into rot overnight?” The news cameras zoomed in on my face, while surrounding students smirked and nudged each other. I squeezed my hands into fists, forcing my racing pulse to slow down. “They were pristine when I checked the soil at midnight,” I said, my voice tight as I raised my head, scanning the faces in the crowd. Right then, a faint, agonizing whimpering rasped in my ears. It was coming from the blackened, slumping stalks at my feet. “Maeve… late last night… a guy came in…” “He fed us something awful… it burned… our leaves fell off in minutes… our roots are melted…” Poison. I swallowed hard, the cold shock turning into a white-hot flare of fury. I pointed straight at the decaying, blackened soil. “This wasn’t a natural crop failure! Someone trespassed into my plot last night and dumped high-concentration toxic runoff onto my soil! I want the security footage pulled immediately!” Dr. Harlan let out a loud, mocking laugh from the front row. He stepped forward with an insincere expression of elder sympathy, shaking his head. “It’s understandable,” Harlan said smoothly to the cameras. “Young people have fragile egos. They can’t handle losing. Instead of looking at her own technical flaws, she invents a grand conspiracy about being sabotaged.” “If it’s an invention, let’s look at the footage!” I snapped, staring him down without flinching. Faced with the press cameras, the head of campus security had no choice. He pulled up the greenhouse facility’s digital surveillance feed on a portable monitor. He scrubbed through the timeline to midnight. Just as the clock hit 1:45 AM, the screen suddenly flickered into harsh, static snow. Three full hours of footage were completely missing. “The feed was tampered with!” I pointed at the screen, my chest heaving. “Three hours of missing data right when my plot died—you’re telling me that’s a coincidence?!” Dr. Harlan brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his jacket sleeve with absolute nonchalance. “The wiring in these older field stations is notoriously unreliable. Power surges happen all the time. Do you honestly think someone risked a criminal charge just to ruin a few ears of corn grown by an intern?” Snickers rippled through the crowd of graduate students. “Right? She’s basically accusing Dr. Harlan of breaking into her shed.” “She over-fertilized her own crop, killed it, and now she’s trying to drag her advisor down with her.” “She’s done for. Academic misconduct for sure. She’ll be expelled by noon.” Seeing the narrative swing entirely in his favor, Dr. Harlan put on a heavy, disappointed sigh. “Miss Brooks, if you’re going to sling wild accusations at this university and its staff, you need physical evidence. Making baseless claims against your faculty is a severe violation of the student conduct code.” I stared at him. That was the exact trap I wanted him to set. Without a word of argument, I reached into my denim jacket, pulled out my smartphone, and held the screen directly in front of the primary news camera. “This is my daily video log,” I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. I tapped play. The screen showed clear, high-definition footage of my lush, thriving plot from yesterday evening—every leaf healthy, every soil read balanced. I swiped backward. Day twenty-nine, day twenty-eight, day twenty-seven… thirty continuous days of time-stamped video records showing steady, flawless growth. “For thirty days straight, this plot was healthier than anything else on this station,” I said, turning the phone toward the crowd. “And then, on the exact night before the final evaluation, every single plant rotted to the root within four hours—precisely during a three-hour security blackout. Does anyone here actually believe that’s a natural biological event?” The murmurs died down. Several faculty members exchanged uneasy glances as they looked at the undeniable daily footage. “She’s got a point…” an assistant professor muttered. “A systemic fungal rot doesn’t turn a field black in four hours without warning.” Recognizing the shift in the room, Dr. Harlan’s expression darkened. He scoffed loudly, cutting in with an authoritative bark. “Agriculture is full of anomalies! Certain weak, genetically unstable hybrids experience a temporary growth spike before their cell structures undergo rapid death—it’s a documented phenomenon in stress-testing! Don’t waste the media’s time with your novice confusion.” He gestured dismissively toward the host. “Let’s move on from these failed, sub-par samples. Ma’am, please come take a look at the commercial yield produced by our standardized protocol.” The host, eager to avoid an ugly confrontation, nodded and began shifting her crew toward Harlan’s side of the field, where the crops looked large and bright under the morning sun. On the surface, his fruits looked full and glossy. But as I stood there, my ears were bombarded by a chorus of screaming from inside his plants. “It hurts! My skin is going to burst! Help us!” “We’re burning our reserves! We can’t hold this shape much longer!” My fingers dug into my palms. Isolation and panic pressed in on me from all sides. I was standing in a field of death, watching a fraud prepare to take his victory lap. And then, from the dusty, overgrown corner where the greenhouse wall met the gravel path, a tiny, timid voice piped up. “I saw him…” a little tuft of wild foxtail grass whispered, trembling in the shade. “I saw the guy who came last night.” My heart slammed against my ribs. I quietly slipped away from the back of the crowd, dropping to a crouch near the wall, keeping my voice down to a whisper. “Little grass… what did you see?” The tiny foxtail shook its soft, fuzzy head, its voice fragile but unmistakable. “I saw the man who brought the dark bucket last night.”

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1 To help organize the spring field trip for my daughter’s first-grade class, I called in a favor from an old college friend and secured an insider rate of eighty dollars per person at an organic eco-farm. It was half the standard commercial price. Yet the moment I posted the details in the class parent group, I was accused of taking a kickback. Rick Henderson, one of the fathers, immediately jumped in: “I just saw a Groupon for another farm at twenty-nine ninety! What kind of shady racket are you running asking for eighty bucks? Profiteering off our own kids—are you that desperate for cash?” The group chat exploded. Parents lined up behind him: “Seriously, that’s insane.” “Unbelievable.” I let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh and called the farm to cancel the reservation on the spot. On the day of the field trip, a video was dropped into the parent chat. In it, my seven-year-old daughter, Nora, stood off to the side while the rest of the class ate lunch. Duct tape was slapped tightly across her mouth. A child’s high-pitched voice—Rick’s son, Carter, her supposed best friend—rang out from behind the camera: “Her dad is a liar! We taped her mouth shut to punish her.” A second later, Rick sent a text message to the group. “You tried to scam us for dirty money. Consider this a free lesson for your daughter so she doesn’t end up just like you.” My hands shook violently with rage. I slammed the voice call button in the chat. “Taping a seven-year-old’s mouth shut and filming it—what the hell kind of ‘lesson’ is that?” Rick replied within seconds in plain text: “It’s just kids playing around. Why are you clinging to it? Don’t you know what you did?” Another parent chimed in: “Rick, come on, look at the kid…” Rick shot back instantly: “Look at what? Kids mess around all the time, it’s totally normal. He tried to rip us off, and now he’s playing the victim.” More parents joined the pile-on. “Right. He didn’t blink when he asked for eighty bucks, but now he’s crying wolf.” “Mark, be honest. Were you planning to pocket the difference?” “Rick said last month he wanted to organize this semester’s field trip anyway. Mark stepped in out of nowhere, obviously Rick’s annoyed.” I ignored them. Grabbing my car keys, I dialed her teacher, Ms. Gable, as I hurried out the door. “Hello? Nora’s dad,” she answered, her voice dropped to a low, guilty whisper. “Nora’s dad, listen… the kids were just fooling around. Don’t panic. I’ll head over and check on them in a bit.” “Ms. Gable, did you see the video?” “I saw it, I saw it. Kids take jokes too far sometimes, it’s normal. I’m really busy right now, I’ll handle it shortly.” I couldn’t stop my voice from rising. “Duct tape over her mouth is ‘taking a joke too far’?” She let out a heavy sigh. “Nora is a bit withdrawn to begin with. The other kids were just messing with her. If you make a huge production out of this, it’s only going to make things harder for Nora later on.” I scoffed, hung up without wasting another second, and sped toward the farm. Guilt crushed my chest like a lead weight. I should never have let Nora go on this parent-child trip alone just because a last-minute work issue came up this morning. A thirty-minute drive took me barely twenty. I threw open the doors of the farm’s glass greenhouse dining hall. Nora was sitting all by herself at a table in the furthest corner. The tape had been ripped from her mouth, leaving a angry red ring around her lips. The moment she saw me, she bolted upright. Tears welled up and spilled over her cheeks, but she didn’t make a sound. Ms. Gable trotted over with an awkward smile. “Oh, Nora’s dad, you didn’t need to come all this way! It was just a silly game between classmates, really no big deal.” I ignored her completely. Walking past her, I knelt in front of Nora. The front of her shirt was soaked in a dark, reddish-brown soup stain. “Nora, who did this?” Her lower lip trembled. “Carter threw his tomato soup on me. His dad said… said a liar’s kid doesn’t deserve to eat.” “It’s not your fault. It’s theirs,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Daddy’s sorry. I should have been here with you today.” I reached out to touch her cheek, but she pulled back slightly, afraid her dirty clothes would rub off on me. “Daddy… I don’t want to be here anymore.” I pulled her tightly into my arms. “Okay. We’re leaving. But before we go, Daddy has one thing left to do.” I held her hand and turned toward the exit. “Well, look who decided to show up.” Rick Henderson stepped into our path, leaning in to size up Nora in my arms. “Oof, look at that shirt. Kids really are so careless, aren’t they?” “Your son threw it on her.” The smirk on his face flickered for a fraction of a second. “Kids mess around, you know how Carter is. I’ll make him apologize to her later.” I let out a harsh, furious laugh, stripping every ounce of politeness from my tone. “If this is just ‘messing around,’ how about I tape your mouth shut and see how you like it?” “Save it,” I added. “We’re going straight to the security room to pull the footage.” Ms. Gable tried to intervene again. “It’s just a minor thing between kids, there’s really no need—” I didn’t answer. I lifted Nora into my arms and kept walking. Rick cut in from the side, backed by five or six other parents, completely blocking the corridor to the security office. He thrust his phone directly into my face, the camera lens practically touching the bridge of my nose. “Hey everyone, look at this!” he yelled at his screen. “Gets caught taking kickbacks, throws a temper tantrum, and now wants to inspect security footage! Does a guy like this even deserve to be a father?” A mother with tightly curled hair shouted beside him, her voice shrill: “You should’ve thought about this before asking for eighty bucks!” Blinding camera flashes went off in a barrage. Nora buried her face deep into my chest, her tiny frame shaking like a leaf. Rick kept yelling, encouraging the crowd: “Get a clear shot! Let everyone see what a scookeeper who steals from kids looks like!” I pressed Nora’s head firmly against my collarbone, shielding her face with my palm. “Which eye did you see me steal money with? Did you look at the farm’s itemized invoice? You take one random Groupon screenshot and declare me guilty?” Rick sneered, pulling the corner of his mouth up. “Then explain it! A twenty-nine ninety ticket and you charge eighty? Did you eat the extra fifty?” “There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world! You don’t even know where the front gate faces, yet you dare claim twenty-nine ninety covers an all-inclusive package? Did you leave your brain at home? How about you explain why my daughter was bullied!” Rick choked on his words for a second, then raised his phone even higher. “Explain what? The tape on your daughter’s mouth was a game between kids, and she spilled the soup on herself! What does any of that have to do with me?” The security office was barely ten feet behind him, but Rick and his mob stood as a human wall. “Whether it has anything to do with you—we’ll know once we see the tape,” I said, locking eyes with him. “The room is three yards behind you. Do you dare let me in?” Rick’s eyes flickered with a quick flash of panic, but his mouth didn’t stop. “Why wouldn’t I dare? One thing at a time—first you explain where that dirty money went!” 2 Nora suddenly lifted her head from my chest, tear stains glistening on her eyelashes. “Mister, my daddy didn’t take dirty money! He called the farm uncle and asked if it could be cheaper for us. I heard him!” Rick froze for a beat, then let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Your daughter already learned how to lie for you? Talk about the apple not falling far from the tree.” The surrounding parents joined in, their mockery pressing in from every direction. Nora’s face turned bright red with panic. She squirmed against my shoulder. “I’m not lying! I was standing right next to Daddy when he made the call! He said we were all kids and asked them not to charge too much!” Rick shoved his phone forward, pressing the camera almost right up against Nora’s nose. Nora broke down completely, sobbing hysterically. “I’m not lying! I’m not lying! I’m not lying!” Her voice grew weaker with every scream, as if draining the last bit of strength from her small body. “Listen to that, folks,” Rick sneered to his camera. “Dad taught her so well, she doesn’t even blink when she lies.” A fury roared straight to my head. I reached out and slammed my hand over his phone, gripping it tight. “Point that camera at my daughter one more time, and I promise you won’t walk out of this building today.” The phone in his hand wobbled under my grip. He tried to yank it back twice, but couldn’t budge it. His face flushed a dark, mottled red. “You dare touch me?” I shoved him back hard, my eyes locked on his face. “You pointed a camera at a seven-year-old child and dragged her through the dirt. If anything happens to her mental health because of this, touching you will be the least of your worries—I will personally tear your mouth apart!” I pulled Nora tight against me and leaned down to her ear. “Daddy believes you. You don’t have to argue with them. They’re the ones being unreasonable.” “But… but they don’t believe me,” she sobbed into my neck. The words stabbed straight into my heart, dull and excruciatingly painful. Ms. Gable let out another long sigh. “Nora’s dad, why don’t you just apologize? Just bow your head, let this go, and make it easier for everyone.” Before I could speak, Nora suddenly curled up tightly in my arms. “Daddy…” Her voice was paper-thin, barely a whisper. “My tummy hurts so bad…” I looked down. Her small face was chalky white, her forehead glistening with a layer of cold sweat. “Nora? Nora, what’s wrong?” Panic hit me like a physical blow. I squatted down and laid her gently on the bench, pressing my hand to her forehead. It was ice-cold and drenched in perspiration. Rick let out a loud scoff from the side. “Keep acting. Look at you two, a pair of professional actors.” Nora curled inward like a tiny shrimp, her lips turning a faint, alarming shade of purple. “Rick, shut the hell up!” I roared, scooping Nora up in my arms and sprinting for the exit. “Call an ambulance!” Rick stood stunned for a second, then instinct took over—he raised his phone again, following me out. “Look at this, everyone! She was totally fine a second ago, now she’s pretending to be sick because I asked for an apology—” Before he could finish, Nora let out a violent gasp and vomited all over the floor. The dining hall fell dead silent. A second later, another child nearby clutched her stomach and collapsed onto her knees. “Teacher… my tummy hurts…” I spun around. It was Sadie, sitting at the adjacent table. Rick’s raised phone slowly dropped. The smug arrogance on his face froze, turning step by step into pure horror. “Carter? Carter, what’s wrong with you?!” Carter was squirming on the floor, clutching his abdomen, white foam clinging to the corners of his mouth. “Daddy… it hurts…” Rick let out a blood-curdling shriek and dove to the floor to grab his son. Ms. Gable went pale as a sheet. Her phone slipped through her fingers and smashed against the tile. “W-what is happening?!” I bolted out the doors carrying Nora, her tiny body trembling violently in my arms. “Nora! Nora, look at Daddy, open your eyes!” I screamed as I ran, my voice cracking completely. Her eyelids fluttered once, then drifted shut. At the entrance of the farm, the wail of sirens grew louder in the distance. Three hours later, in the Emergency Department of the City Children’s Hospital. The hallways were packed with terrified families. Over twenty children were split across two observation rooms on IV drips—some were still dry-heaving, while others had collapsed into exhausted sleep. Nora lay on a gurney, a cannula taped to the back of her hand. A faint trace of color had finally returned to her face. She was asleep, dry tear tracks still visible on her eyelashes. I sat at her bedside, holding her small, cold hand tightly in mine. The attending physician walked over holding a thick stack of lab results. Parents swarmed him immediately, blocking the corridor. “Doctor, how is my kid?” “When can we leave?” “Everyone, please quiet down,” the doctor said, holding up his hands. His voice was exhausted but firm. “We are administering IV fluids and antibiotics to all the children. Currently, there are no critical cases, but they need to remain under close observation.” He cleared his throat. “Our preliminary diagnosis is acute bacterial food poisoning. The lunch served to the children tested positive for Salmonella, with bacterial counts exceeding safe limits by a massive margin.” The hallway erupted. “Food poisoning? How could it be food poisoning?” “They only ate one meal! Didn’t the farm say all the food was locally grown and fresh?” “Ms. Gable! What kind of place did you bring our kids to?!” Ms. Gable’s face was ghost-white. She rubbed her hands together frantically. “It… it was Carter’s dad who arranged it! He said his relative owned the place, so I didn’t think twice…” In an instant, every glare in the hallway locked onto Rick Henderson.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541781”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My roommate, Bianca White, was the undisputed campus goddess. She had built a pristine, untouchable reputation as an ethereal angel who stood far above the petty temptations of the mortal world. Only I knew the truth: she was a consummate hypocrite who used a fake, lofty morality to protect her fragile ego. At the university’s anniversary gala, Sebastian Hayes—the sole heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire—staged an extravagant confession of love that sent shockwaves across the entire student body. Bianca dramatically threw the custom Amex Black Card he handed her onto the ground, her voice ringing out with resolute disdain. “Thank you for your feelings, but I refuse to accept a love wrapped in a golden filter.” “The most precious thing about affection is its purity. A romance built on material wealth is cheap and vulgar.” The faculty and students erupted in applause, praising her unyielding moral compass and noble spirit. Overnight, her popularity surged to legendary status. Devastated and humiliated, Sebastian stood frozen. As I leaned down to pick up the discarded Black Card for him, a strange, distinct voice suddenly echoed directly inside my head. [This poor kid has been starved of affection his entire life. He’s so awkward he thinks money can solve everything, believing a girlfriend will stop him from being so lonely. Who would’ve thought she’d treat gold like dirt?] [His parents are desperate to connect with him. The second they heard he liked a girl, they drew up deeds for a waterfront estate, a yacht, and access to their top-tier elite network.] [He has a total imprinting complex right now. Whoever steps up to rescue him from this humiliation will have his undivided devotion forever!] I froze in absolute shock. The voice was coming directly from the Black Card… My mind instantly flashed to my grandmother lying in the ICU, crushed under mountains of unpaid medical bills. I looked up and met Sebastian’s desolate, wounded eyes. “Sebastian,” I said softly. “Can I be your girlfriend?” After making my sudden confession to Sebastian, I returned to my dorm room. My roommate, Kylie, was stepping directly on my study notes and my financial aid application form on the floor. “Well, well, look who’s back—our resident desperate scavenger,” Kylie sneered. “Bianca rejected him a second ago, and you couldn’t wait to jump in and confess? Are you that eager to show everyone how shameless you are, Avery?” Standing beside her, Lauren picked up a cup of water and splashed it straight across my desk. “Talk about an ugly duckling trying to mimic a swan. Do you honestly think you’re anywhere near as pretty as Bianca? She’s an untouched angel, and you’re just a greedy, money-grubbing toad.” “You broke loser. You rushed over to confess, and Sebastian only said he’d ‘think about it.’ That’s just a polite way of telling you to get lost.” I ignored their childish malice, kneeling down in silence to gather my wet papers. What they didn’t know was that when Sebastian hesitated and said he needed to think, I had heard the Black Card’s voice again: [Our young master—who has reached twenty without ever holding a girl’s hand—just got confessed to in public!] [His heart rate is spiking at 200 bpm! He’s completely panicking and has no idea how to play it cool!] Bianca, who had been sitting quietly at her desk, turned toward me with a heavy, pitying sigh. “Don’t be so harsh on Avery, guys. Her family is struggling, and her grandmother is critically ill. Those astronomical hospital bills must be suffocating her.” “It’s only natural she’d look for a shortcut when she sees a billionaire heir like Sebastian. We should try to be understanding.” Her words instantly ignited the room. “Bianca, you are way too kind! You treat her so well, and she stabs you in the back like this? It’s utterly disgusting.” Treat me well? I cast a cold glance at the two girls hovering around Bianca like loyal servants. Who could have guessed that the university’s pristine goddess was nothing more than a calculated fraud? She had intentionally fluttered around Sebastian for weeks, dropping subtle hints to lead him on. Taking advice from his friends, Sebastian had impulsively confessed. But the moment the fish took the bait, Bianca used him as a stepping stone to cement her “untouchable” persona. Bianca reached out, gently taking my hand. “How about this, Avery? I’ll organize a campus-wide charity drive to help raise money for your grandmother’s medical bills.” “As for Sebastian, I’ll go explain things to him for you.” “Playboys from wealthy families are all the same. His confession to me was probably just a game of Truth or Dare.” “You’re too naive, Avery. If you actually get involved with him, you’ll just end up getting played. Once he dumps you and your reputation is ruined, how will you even survive on this campus?” She looked at me with deep melancholy, as if she were genuinely worried for my future. Kylie and Lauren nodded in fervent agreement. I let out a faint, dry laugh. “You’re right. I need money. If you guys want him so badly, you’re free to confess to Sebastian yourselves.” They choked on their words, speechlessly stunned. “Avery… why can’t you see we’re just trying to help you?” Bianca stomped her foot in exaggerated frustration, running out of the dorm as if heartbroken by my stubbornness. The other two hurried after her. A second later, my phone chimed. It was a friend request from Sebastian. A knot of nervousness tightened in my chest. The moment I accepted, a bright orange notification banner popped up across my screen: [Sebastian Hayes has transferred you $50,000.00.] Below the transfer was the very first message he sent me: “Daily transfer limit reached. Send me your bank account number.” 2 Who transfers fifty grand the exact moment they add a girl? I recalled the Black Card’s inner voice. It had mentioned that Sebastian had a unique quirk—the more money a girl spent of his, the more attached he became. In his skewed worldview, needing his wealth meant needing him. This fifty thousand dollars would temporarily cover my grandmother’s ICU expenses. I tapped Accept. The moment the transaction went through, another distinct voice echoed in my mind: [Our master’s palms are drenched in sweat right now! He was terrified he’d run into another girl like Bianca who would play games with him. Seeing her accept the money so cleanly just made him breathe a massive sigh of relief!] [Hurry, send the account number! The more materialistic she acts, the safer he feels that she’ll actually stay by his side!] Wait… could I hear the sentient voice of the money transfer itself? Without hesitation, I typed out my bank routing and account numbers and sent them over. Ten minutes passed, but Sebastian didn’t reply. A quiet doubt crept into my mind. Maybe I was having auditory hallucinations. Maybe that fifty thousand was just severance pay to keep me from bothering him again. I closed the chat, contacted my academic advisor to request a fresh copy of the scholarship form, confirmed my weekend tutoring gigs, and spent the evening looking into medical loan options on government portals. No matter what happened, I had to secure the funds for my grandmother’s treatment on my own. In the wake of Sebastian’s failed confession, Bianca went viral on the university forums yet again. Beside the “Campus Goddess” tag, she was now crowned the “Untouchable Pure-Hearted Muse.” Meanwhile, a photo of me picking up the Black Card and confessing to Sebastian was posted online. I was instantly labeled a gold-digger, a shameless opportunist, and the most desperate girl on campus. “Sebastian hasn’t responded to her at all, has he? He probably got terrified by a boundaryless leech like her.” Bianca personally pinned a comment at the top of the thread: “Please be kind to Avery, everyone. She’s just facing immense financial pressure. I believe that given time, she will realize that material wealth can never buy true affection.” Hundreds of replies flooded under her post, claiming that a billionaire like Sebastian could never genuinely like someone like me, and that he was merely biding his time for another chance to win Bianca over. After class the next day, Kylie kicked the back of my chair. “Well, well. Someone tried to scavenge a billionaire and got destroyed by cyberbullying instead. What’s next, Avery? Going to throw a pity party and pretend to commit suicide?” “No,” I replied flatly. I ignored her toxic mocking. She let out a contemptuous scoff and walked away. All day, I received no messages from Sebastian. It would be a lie to say I wasn’t anxious, but I refused to stake my entire life on a man I barely knew. While standing in line at the campus dining hall’s discount counter, Bianca walked past me accompanied by a group of girls. “Avery, eating this has no nutritional value at all,” she said, pulling out her own meal card with an air of gracious charity. “If you don’t have money for food, just use my card. I might not be as rich as Sebastian’s family, but I want to do what little I can to help.” The surrounding students cast sneering, disdainful looks in my direction. I ignored her completely and tapped my student ID against the reader. Beep— The digital screen flared to life, displaying an absurdly long string of digits. [Current Balance: $1,000,300.00] “One, ten, hundred, thousand… A million dollars?!” a male student behind me shrieked in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?! Who loads a million bucks onto a campus meal card?!” I froze in place. At that exact second, a booming inner voice echoed in my head: [Pity our poor master! He’s been trapped in an emergency European business summit for ten straight hours. During an intense closed-door meeting, he couldn’t touch his phone, so he ordered his executive assistant to load some lunch money onto her student card first so she wouldn’t go hungry!] Lunch money? The tight knot in my chest suddenly dissolved, replaced by a strange sense of amusement at Sebastian’s absurdly intense personality. Bianca’s face paled in sheer disbelief. “Avery… I know it hurts to be mocked by the whole school, but you don’t need to forge a fake display just to act rich.” The crowd’s shock instantly turned into righteous contempt. “A fake balance? Unbelievable! How can an honors student be this fake and desperate for clout?” “How did she even get into this university? I seriously doubt her academic records are real.” Someone reached out and roughly knocked my food tray to the floor. The crowd pressed in, shoving and jostling me. “Don’t touch me!” I snapped, shoving a girl’s arm away. A triumphant smirk flickered across Bianca’s lips. “Everyone, please calm down! Avery has always been insecure. Her attempt to climb the social ladder failed, and she just took a wrong turn, that’s all.” Phones buzzed as more videos were recorded, framing Bianca once again as the forgiving, perfect angel. Suddenly, a massive commotion broke out near the dining hall entrance. Kylie craned her neck, her eyes widening as she grabbed Bianca’s arm in excitement. “Bianca! Isn’t that the luxury motorcade Sebastian usually drives?! Oh my god, he must be coming to confess to you again!” 3 Bianca claimed she didn’t care, but her hands immediately moved to adjust her hair and outfit. Holding my million-dollar meal card, I turned my gaze toward the doors as well. The man who stepped out of the lead vehicle was the Hayes family’s head butler. A flash of disappointment crossed Bianca’s face. “Miss White,” the butler said respectfully, stopping before her. “Mr. and Mrs. Hayes invite you to be a guest at our estate.” Envious gasps erupted from the surrounding students. Bianca knitted her brows, tilting her head with a firm, unyielding expression. “I refuse.” “If someone wants to be my friend, I expect genuine sincerity—not being dragged to a billionaire estate to have my morals contaminated by money.” The crowd marveled in awe. “As expected of our goddess! That’s the multi-billion-dollar Hayes family, and she didn’t even hesitate to say no!” “It’s just one rich family. With Bianca’s character, she’ll attract even more powerful suitors in the future.” I noticed Bianca subtly biting her lower lip. The butler’s face remained entirely unbothered. He turned his body slightly and looked directly at me. “Miss Lin, please come with me.” I nodded cleanly. “All right.” The crowd exploded in chaotic chatter as I stepped into the back of the limousine and was driven away. “Why did they suddenly take her instead? Don’t tell me Sebastian is actually with that charity-case Avery?!” “Please! It’s obvious what’s happening. The Hayes family found out a leech was trying to crawl onto their son, so they hired the butler to throw money in her face and tell her to get lost.” “Exactly. Look at all these tricks Avery pulls—the fake million-dollar meal card, the luxury car… She probably rented them just to save face!” Kylie shook Bianca’s arm. “Bianca, thank god you didn’t go. It really was a trap!” Bianca snapped out of her daze, forcing a faint, serene smile. Inside the limousine, the butler handed me a sleek, black supplementary card. “Inviting Miss White was the Master and Madam’s idea,” he explained smoothly. “But inviting you, Miss Lin, was the Young Master’s personal instruction.” As I held the cold, heavy Black Card in my palm, its sentient voice roared in my mind: [Our young master felt making individual bank transfers was too much of a hassle, so he figured giving you a card was easier! Spend whatever you want—the more you spend, the happier he gets!] [He has no idea how to interact with girls, so the moment his plane touched down, he drove straight to the hospital, cleared your grandmother’s entire medical bill, and flew in a team of top specialists to oversee her care! Little girl, you can finally breathe easy!] A surge of warmth flooded my chest. If this was true, I needed to have a real talk with Sebastian. When I stepped into the SVIP hospital suite, I saw my grandmother sitting up in bed, her color noticeably healthier. My eyes welled with tears instantly. The door pushed open, and Sebastian walked in, thrusting a heavy designer shopping bag straight into my arms. “Your grandmother’s condition is stable,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “The chief specialist is on a private flight and will arrive tonight to perform her surgery.” I had been stuck on a waiting list for three agonizing months, yet Sebastian had summoned the country’s top medical team in less than twenty-four hours. I lowered my head, squeezing the heavy handles of the bag. “What’s this?” “Souvenirs,” he muttered, looking away. “My friend told me that when you return from a trip, you’re supposed to bring a gift for your girlfriend.” I blinked in surprise. The Black Card in my pocket spoke up: [This poor boy had no idea what you’d like, so he bought one of everything! This bag is just the tip of the iceberg!] [The poor guy is terrified inside that you’ll call him vulgar for buying luxury brands!] I looked up at him immediately. “Thank you. I love it.” “Sebastian… does this mean you accept my confession?” He let out a faint, quiet “Yeah,” his cheeks flushing slightly. “We can try.” “The butler mentioned you haven’t eaten lunch yet. Come on, I booked a restaurant.” “Okay.” I followed him into the elevator. The moment the metal doors slid shut, a panicked voice echoed in my mind: [Oh no! The young master has suffered from severe claustrophobia since he was a kid! He can’t handle enclosed spaces like this!] Startled, I immediately reached out and took his hand. Sebastian’s ears turned bright red within seconds. His palm was trembling, and his body instinctively leaned closer to mine. “Sebastian… about my grandmother… thank you.” “N-No need to thank me.” [Mayday! Our master’s brain has completely short-circuited! All he can think about is how soft and warm her hand is—he forgot all about being scared!] [He wants to lean even closer! He absolutely adores the scent on her!] I bit my lip, suddenly feeling too shy to look at him directly. But I quietly shifted my steps, leaning a fraction closer to his side. I felt his fingers tighten gently around mine. He didn’t let go of my hand all the way out of the building—not until my phone chimed with a message from Bianca. The moment I withdrew my hand to check my screen, his face instantly fell into a sulky pout. Bianca: Avery, are you okay? Did the Hayes family humiliate you and demand that you stop clinging to Sebastian? I replied: I didn’t go to the Hayes estate. She texted back instantly: That’s a relief. I was so worried about you. I didn’t bother responding. After dinner, Sebastian took me to an high-end boutique, buying me clothes and jewelry. I didn’t refuse a single item, because the Black Card kept whispering that he thoroughly enjoyed the process of dressing me up. Late that evening, carrying armfuls of luxury shopping bags, I stepped back into my dorm room, feeling as though I had walked through a surreal dream. 4 “Well, look who’s back! Carrying a mountain of knockoffs just to get on our good side?” “Avery, can you stop pretending? Having a roommate like you is an absolute curse!” Kylie and Lauren sneered at me without holding back. Only Bianca’s eyes hovered intently over the brand logos on the bags. “They’re just cheap street-vendor fakes, guys. Don’t touch them,” Bianca said smoothly. My phone chimed with another notification. It was a money transfer from Sebastian. [Our young master is so high-maintenance! Ever since he started dating, he can’t bear to be apart for a single second! He’s too shy to ask if she made it back to the dorm safely, so he’s using transfers as an excuse to start a conversation!] I immediately took the initiative to send him an update. “I’m back in the dorm. Remember to text me when you get home.” He provided the finances, and I provided the emotional security. Once I realized how touch-starved and high-need Sebastian actually was, I made it a point to share my daily life with him. I sent him my class schedule, snapped photos of my meals and outfits, called him after lectures, and initiated video calls whenever I was alone. Having just begun taking over the family enterprise, he was drowned in work, yet he made time to reply to every single one of my messages. On the day academic scholarships were awarded, Kylie led a group of girls to surround my desk. “Avery, Sebastian hasn’t shown his face on campus for a whole month! Do you have any idea how hilarious you look, making fake calls every day pretending you’re dating a billionaire?” “She’s out of her mind trying to marry into wealth. Sebastian dumped her, so she created a fantasy billionaire boyfriend in her head!” I replied coldly, “Believe whatever you want.” Bianca stepped out of the advisor’s office, and the girls immediately quieted down. Since Sebastian hadn’t publicly confessed to Bianca again over the past month, many assumed the drama had fizzled out. “Avery,” Bianca said, her voice dripping with moral disapproval. “You spent money renting luxury cars and buying fake luxury goods. What would your critically ill grandmother think if she knew?” “This scholarship should go to students who actually need it.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “I really can’t stand watching you ruin yourself like this. The Hayes family sent me an official invitation to their private gala. Once everyone sees the truth there, how will you even face people? Wouldn’t it be better to just be honest and admit Sebastian never accepted you?” I frowned slightly. “A gala?” I remembered Sebastian mentioning a gala next week. He said he had mailed me an invitation, though I hadn’t received it yet. “That’s right,” Kylie chimed in proudly. “It’s the Hayes family’s private gala. No one enters without an invitation.” The girls swarmed around Bianca in awe. “Oh my god! I saw videos of that gala before—it’s ridiculously luxurious! Everyone attending is worth tens of millions! Bianca, could Sebastian be planning another grand confession for you?!” “I was wondering why he went silent for a month—he was preparing a massive surprise! I can’t even imagine how romantic it’s going to be!” “Bianca, you’re so perfect. I bet his parents will recognize you as their daughter-in-law on the spot!” Bianca maintained an expression of noble detachment. “I’m not going.” That afternoon, the campus forum exploded again with news that Bianca White had refused the Hayes family’s gala invitation. With three days left until the event, I walked past Bianca’s desk and heard a faint, sharp voice coming from inside her locked drawer, where a gold-embossed invitation was hidden: [Can a thief really be a campus goddess these days? What a complete joke!] [She claims she isn’t going, but she emptied her entire savings and maxed out her credit cards to rent a designer gown and jewelry! What a hypocrite!] On the night of the gala, Bianca was dressed in a sweeping gown, putting on a reluctant face. “It is a formal event after all. It would be impolite not to show up. I need to clear things up with Sebastian face-to-face.” Kylie and Lauren hovered around her in envy. “Can we come along to see the estate, Bianca? You’re the best!” “Bianca is the future daughter-in-law of the Hayes family anyway. Taking a few friends in is nothing for her!” Bianca hesitated for a moment before nodding graciously. She then turned her gaze toward me as I sat typing on my phone. “Avery, why don’t you come with us? It must be so lonely staying in the dorm all by yourself.” On my phone, Sebastian was frantically pleading with me to attend the gala tonight. I had wanted to stay back to study for finals, but Kylie’s sneering voice cut in: “Some people really need to look in the mirror and see what they actually are.” “You’re just terrified of seeing Sebastian in person, aren’t you, Avery?” I closed my textbook. “Fine. I’ll go.” At eight in the evening, the Hayes family’s western estate was illuminated by grand chandeliers. A stream of luxury vehicles lined the private driveway. Kylie and Lauren stared at the sprawling, castle-like architecture, rendered utterly speechless. Bianca stepped up to the main gates and presented the gold-embossed invitation. “Hello. I am Bianca White. I was invited by the Hayes family.” The head security guard glanced at the card, his expression stern. “I’m sorry, but this name is not on tonight’s master VIP list.” Bianca’s face flushed with irritation. “This invitation is genuine! What is the meaning of inviting me here only to disrespect me at the door?” Kylie and Lauren stepped forward to argue, but security firmly requested them to step aside. Suddenly, the grand wrought-iron gates swung open, and a authoritative voice rang out from within: “Show some respect to our guest!” Kylie let out a smug smirk. “See? The Hayes family is coming out to apologize to Bianca personally!” Bianca’s posture straightened instantly, a triumphant smile returning to her face. A distinguished, middle-aged couple dressed in exquisite formalwear walked quickly toward the gates. “Thank goodness! We’ve been eagerly waiting for you to arrive!”

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