Author: Momo Chan

The day the SAT scores came out, I sent a message to my online crush. “I didn’t get into Harvard. Goodbye.” Then, I turned around, enrolled at MIT, and blocked him. Fast forward to my freshman year practical lab, the substitute T.A. called me out in front of everyone. “Come up here and solve this problem. I’ve taught you this before.” Me: “…” Are you kidding me?! Why is the online crush who wanted me to go to Harvard standing in front of me at MIT?! 01 After choosing my academic track in high school, my grades plummeted drastically. I was terrified I wouldn’t get into MIT. Out of desperation, I flirted with a guy online whose username was “Harvard Reject.” I asked him to help me study. He was gentle, considerate, and understanding. “Don’t worry. With me here, I guarantee you’ll get into Harvard.” I was flattered but slightly panicked. “No, no, no, not Harvard.” Actually, I was thinking: MIT is perfectly fine. “Tsk, what kind of talk is that, little girl? You can doubt your own IQ, but you can’t despise my abilities.” Me: “…” Yes, yes, yes. I really didn’t dare despise him. Because “Harvard Bro” really knew his stuff. Under his tutoring, my grades not only shot up quickly but also stayed consistently high. On my second mock exam, I scored an incredibly high 1560 on the SATs. I excitedly shared the news with him. Harvard Bro was very calm. “Yeah, that score should be enough for Harvard.” It was definitely enough, but I didn’t want to go to Harvard. I had always wanted to go to MIT. But during the year he tutored me, I clearly felt that Harvard Bro had a special obsession with Harvard. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have kept the username “Harvard Reject” for over a year. If I didn’t go to Harvard, would he be disappointed? Looking at the message he sent, I decided to test the waters. “What if I don’t get into Harvard?” “Don’t worry, you’ll definitely get in.” Hmm… He probably thought I was just nervous before the real exam and was comforting me. Just like that, I never mentioned my MIT dream to Harvard Bro. The day before the SATs, he sent a message telling me to do my best. He said he would be busy with his senior thesis for a while and asked me to message him once I got my scores. 02 The scores came out in late June. I got a 1580. Hmm… I could go to Harvard, and I could go to MIT. While I was agonizing over which one to choose, my mom got a call from the MIT admissions office at three in the morning. So, she decisively chose MIT for me… Goodbye, Harvard. Of course, I was happy to choose the school I had always wanted to go to. But whenever I thought of Harvard Bro, who had tutored me, I felt a bit anxious. He kept telling me to aim for Harvard, and now that I had chosen MIT… It felt like I had betrayed him. Just as I was agonizing over how to reply, his message came through first. “Scores are out, right? How did you do?” Look at this gentle greeting. The guilt in my heart deepened. I hardened my heart, gritted my teeth, and sent a message back. “I didn’t do well. I can’t go to Harvard.” “…” He fell silent. Before he could send a second message, I sent another: “I’m sorry. Goodbye.” Then, I decisively blocked him and went offline. 03 After that, I lost contact with Harvard Bro. Even though it was just a fleeting online connection, when I passed by the Harvard gates at the start of my freshman year… I couldn’t help but stop. My friend, Chloe, asked me what was wrong. She saw a trace of regret and longing in my dazed eyes. I sighed: “Once, I was this close to going to Harvard.” “…” She was speechless and dragged me toward the library to grab seats. “To be honest, every MIT student who passes by here says that. Hurry up, or there won’t be any seats left.” Me: “…” What an authentically refreshing, unpretentious humblebrag… Sure enough, there were no seats left in the library. Chloe let out a wail: “Are these people demons? They got into MIT and they’re still grinding this hard?!” At a glance, every seat was taken. There were a few seats left in the discussion area. But after hearing a cacophony of different languages and voices… We decided the “silence is golden” reading area was far more precious. “Hey, I see a spot! Over there!” Chloe excitedly slapped my arm. She immediately ran over to negotiate with the people sitting there. A few seconds later, she waved at me. “Audrey, come quick! There’s a spot here.” I walked over just in time to hear their conversation: “No problem. You guys are freshmen?” “Yeah.” Chloe smiled, her voice impossibly sweet. I quietly sat down and noticed the seat opposite me was empty, but there was a book on it. “You should definitely call me a senior, but I’m quite a few years older than you. I’m a grad student now.” “Wow, awesome!” While I was wondering if someone was sitting opposite me, Chloe had already exchanged numbers with the guy. After everyone settled down, it got quiet again. I looked down at my book. A little while later, the light in front of me dimmed. A figure pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. Then came a quiet conversation: “The professor dragged you to the office again?” “Yeah, there was an error in the data, had to recalculate it.” The first voice belonged to the senior who gave us the seats. The second voice was unfamiliar, but exceptionally nice to listen to. I sneakily looked up. A young man wearing glasses was sitting across from me. He had high cheekbones, deep and intense eyes, and long, thick eyelashes. His eyes were incredibly beautiful, almost like they were drawn in a comic book. He seemed to notice my gaze. He looked up. The moment our eyes met, I saw his face clearly. He was so good-looking that my breath caught. But this comic-book-perfect guy just gave me a flat glance. Then, upon seeing the textbook in front of me, he raised an eyebrow. He sounded surprised: “Polymer Materials and Engineering? Is that your major?” Huh? He actually spoke to me. I nodded. I took AP sciences in high school, and thanks to Harvard Bro, my grades were always good. So when I got to MIT, I chose this major directly. I don’t know if it was my imagination, but the man opposite me curled the corner of his lips: “Not bad.” I was puzzled when the senior next to him friendly added: “What a coincidence, that’s our major too.” Ah, that was a coincidence. A direct senior in my program. “Hi, nice to meet you.” I greeted him politely. The man just gave an “Mhm,” his attitude seemingly turning cold again. “Don’t mind him, that’s just how he is.” I smiled and didn’t take it to heart. 04 My major is a bit complicated. The homework is plentiful and difficult. It was another weekend. Chloe and I were stuck in our dorm room, getting a headache over a physical chemistry problem. Finally, Chloe let out a wail. “I really can’t do this anymore. Just kill me! Why is it so hard?! No matter how many times I calculate it, it’s wrong.” Looking at the few hairs she had pulled out of her head, I felt a bit bad for her. But we were helpless. College coursework was more than just a little harder than high school. “Should we go ask someone else?” “Ask who?” Chloe’s question stumped me. The professor… I was a bit too intimidated to ask. Classmates? Chloe, sitting right next to me, was the state science valedictorian. While I was agonizing over this, a person popped into my head. Harvard Bro. If Harvard Bro were here, this problem would probably be a piece of cake for him. But I had deleted him! If I had known that college homework would be this torturous, I wouldn’t have acted so impulsively back then. Just then, Chloe, who was lying there like a corpse, suddenly sat bolt upright. “I thought of someone.” “Who?” “The senior we met at the library last time. Didn’t I get his number? He’s in the same major, he definitely knows.” Chloe was a woman of action. She grabbed her phone and sent a text. A minute later, she excitedly grabbed me and started heading for the door. “Let’s go, let’s go. He agreed. We’re going to find him right now.” 05 Chloe dragged me to the research lab building. “They’re doing an experiment, we have to wait a bit.” Not long after, several people trickled out of the lab. Then, the senior who gave us his number—the one who gave us his seat—also came out. His name was Ryan, and when he saw us, he invited us in. “Is it okay to go into the lab?” “The people doing the experiment are inside; out here is a meeting area, it’s fine.” Chloe nodded a few times and pulled me to sit in an empty seat. Ryan sat across from Chloe, and I listened from the side. A senior is a senior; his skills were no joke. It wasn’t long before Chloe nodded in sudden realization. I was just about to ask something when the lab door was pushed open. The person who walked in stared at the three of us. “Hey, Liam, you’re back?” The person who came in was exactly the handsome guy with glasses who sat opposite me at the library last time. So his name was Liam. Liam’s gaze swept over Chloe and me. Ryan explained: “Oh, these are the freshmen we met at the library last time. They had a few questions they couldn’t solve, so they came to ask.” “Mhm.” Still that cold, aloof attitude. Chloe and I exchanged a look. Chloe pulled me up. “Well, um, thank you so much, Ryan. We’ll get going now.” “No problem, anytime. Oh, by the way, our lab is short two assistants. Are you guys interested?” Ryan suddenly asked. Chloe and I both froze. Then I acutely sensed Liam frown. Obviously, this guy was not thrilled about the idea. I was just about to decline. But Chloe said: “Sure! Um, Audrey, go ahead, get his number, we’ll be in touch.” Wait, why did I have to get his number? Didn’t she already have Ryan’s? While I was wondering this, Chloe pushed me forward, winking furiously. I was riding a tiger and couldn’t get off. I walked over to Ryan and Liam with a dry laugh. Ryan was straightforward and cheerfully exchanged numbers. Then it was Liam’s turn. I could see he looked ready to refuse. Sure enough, when I stood in front of him, he glanced at me. The words of refusal were just about to leave his lips when he looked down at my profile QR code and froze. “This is your account?” He suddenly frowned and looked up at me. “Ah… yes. Is there a problem?” “What’s your name?” “Audrey Miller.” “…” As soon as I said it, Ryan next to him burst out laughing. Liam looked completely speechless. I felt a bit awkward: “You can just call me Audrey.” “Where are you from?” “Hey, Liam, are you doing a background check?” Before I could answer, Ryan spoke up. And received a glare from Liam. Then Liam continued to stare at me: “Answer.” “B-Boston.” I shivered; I had to answer. But answering seemed to make things worse. Because after hearing my answer, the guy doing the “background check” suddenly let out a laugh. Then he looked me up and down. That look… how should I describe it? It was like looking at a captured prey. It made my hair stand on end. I felt like Liam was hostile toward me. Even though he had a smile on his face, it didn’t reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that was purely superficial. “Did pretty well on your SATs to get into MIT, huh.” That sounded weird. I didn’t quite process it at the moment and just nodded dumbly. “I-it was okay.” Liam smiled again. As if out of anger. But this time he took out his phone and scanned my QR code. “Fine. Come to the lab tomorrow after class.” Huh? Forget me, even Ryan was stunned. “Weren’t you just… unwilling?” He was forced to swallow his words before he could finish. 06 Because we joined Liam’s lab, Chloe and I didn’t join any other clubs. Just one lab was exhausting enough. Ryan had applied to their advisor for Chloe and me to have assistant positions. Twice a week, two hours at a time. Every time it ended, Chloe would let out a groan of exhaustion. But I was even more pitiful. Before I could even agree with her, a message popped up on my phone. “Liam asked me to go back to the lab again. There’s a calculation error in some data.” I got up. Chloe looked at me with pity. “Audrey, did you do something to offend Liam?” “No, I only met him for the first time.” “Then why is he working you to the bone every day?” When I entered the lab, I was assigned to shadow Liam. Chloe shadowed Ryan. After finishing our first day of experiments, Chloe expressed her condolences for my life as an assistant. “I heard from Ryan that Liam is an academic maniac. Audrey, you’re so pitiful.” During this time, I had a deep understanding of that statement. When Liam did experiments, he truly went without sleep or food. I went back to the lab building. Liam was the only one left in the lab. He was wearing a white lab coat and safety goggles. The whiteboard next to him was densely covered with calculated experimental data. “Liam.” Liam didn’t even look at me, just pointed to the whiteboard next to it. “The stuff I just sent you. Recalculate it.” “Oh.” The experimental data calculation was massive and repetitive. Once I started calculating, I lost track of time. “Done?” “Almost.” I answered honestly. Liam glanced at the clock on the wall. “What part don’t you understand?” “Here.” I pointed to a spot. Liam walked over and took the whiteboard marker from my hand. “Watch.” This immediate, no-nonsense tutoring style inexplicably reminded me of Harvard Bro. Liam put down the whiteboard marker. “Understand?” “I… I think so.” “Okay, it’s late, go back first. We’ll continue tomorrow.” Liam turned and said to me. “I’ll recalculate it one more time before I leave.” Liam, who was taking off his lab coat, paused. “Experiments are important, but your health is the most important. Go back and rest first, you’ll have a clearer mind to learn tomorrow. We’re done for today.” He hung up his lab coat and added: “I’m the only one with a key. Are you going to make me stay here with you?” “Ah, no, it’s fine.” Only a few key personnel had keys to the lab. I didn’t dare take a key, and I certainly didn’t dare make Liam stay with me. 07 We left the lab building. He said he would walk me directly back to my dorm. Unable to refuse, I followed silently. The whole walk was incredibly awkward. I felt I should find a topic to break the silence. “Um, thank you.” “It was nothing.” “…” There was no way to continue this conversation. I tried a few other topics, but Liam shut them all down. I think Chloe was right. Liam probably only had experiments in his brain. When I got back to the dorm, I complained to Chloe. Chloe considered it for a moment and said: “Could it be that you’re just bad at finding topics to talk about?” “Really? I thought the topics I picked were pretty good.” “But your conversation was so awkward. Are you like this with other guys too?” Other guys? I thought back. Besides my high school classmates, The only other guy was Harvard Bro. Even though we only talked online and never met in person, Our conversations flowed very smoothly. Especially Harvard Bro, he never let a conversation die. Comparing them, I suddenly missed Harvard Bro even more. I sighed. I wonder how Harvard Bro is doing now? I had originally planned to meet up with him and thank him in person after the SATs. If I added him back now… Once the thought popped up, it grew wildly like weeds. I agonized over it for days. Finally, I convinced myself: Logically and emotionally, I owed him an apology and a thank you. So, I unhesitatingly clicked on that familiar profile, And sent a friend request. 08 But after waiting for half the day, there was no acceptance. I felt deflated. He was probably still angry and didn’t want to accept my friend request. In a bad mood, I slouched through the entire morning. But just after classes ended in the afternoon, I actually had a new message in my notifications. “The other party has accepted your friend request.” Harvard Bro! I sat up straight in excitement and couldn’t wait to send the first message. “Harvard Bro! Long time no see!” “…” Looking at those ellipses, it felt so familiar. I was just about to type a long paragraph expressing my gratitude and how much I missed him, When a message from him popped up. “Why did you delete me?” “…” Oh man, I was planning to gradually lead into this topic, I didn’t expect him to cut straight to the chase. Fortunately, there was a screen between us, so he couldn’t see my embarrassment. I guiltily typed out a few words: “I was too embarrassed to face you.” “You got into MIT and you’re too embarrassed to face me?” “You knew about that?” “…” He fell silent again. I remembered I had posted a picture of my MIT freshman orientation on Instagram. He probably saw it. At this point, I could only apologize with the utmost sincerity. I explained my guilt and regret over the past few months. And casually mentioned that I had always wanted to go to MIT. It’s just that he kept motivating me with “Harvard, Harvard.” I was afraid of disappointing him, which was why I lied about not doing well on the test at the very beginning. I sent a flurry of messages. He didn’t reply again. I thought he was angry again. Ten minutes later, his message came through. “I was doing an experiment.” “Yeah, MIT is pretty good too.” Oh, so Harvard Bro wasn’t angry. The tension in my heart instantly lifted. It seemed I had found the relaxed feeling of chatting with him again. “Doing an experiment? Harvard Bro, are you still in school?” “Yeah, doing a joint Master’s/Ph.D. program.” “Wow! That’s awesome, what’s your major?” “Materials Engineering.” Huh?! Isn’t that the same major as me?! I was instantly thrilled. My eyes lit up: “That’s my major too! Harvard Bro, we really have a connection.” “…” He stopped talking again. But it didn’t matter. The rock that had been weighing on my heart was finally lifted. 09 After making up with Harvard Bro, my mood improved significantly. Even when Liam dragged me to do experiments until nine at night, I didn’t complain. Chloe was shocked and wondered if I had been assimilated by Liam. And ever since I found out Harvard Bro and I were in the same major, I asked him immediately whenever I didn’t understand something. It felt like being back to when he was tutoring me for my senior year. That night, I was chatting with Harvard Bro as usual. There was a step in today’s experimental data that I didn’t understand. I could only write it down and ask Harvard Bro when I got back. After Harvard Bro answered my questions, he asked me, puzzled: “Why didn’t you say something while you were doing the experiment earlier?” Me: “I was afraid the senior mentoring me would think I’m stupid.” “…” Once I started, I couldn’t help but complain. Being Liam’s assistant wasn’t bad, per se. After all, I was indeed learning a lot. But one thing was… his brain just worked too fast. Before I could even figure out how the previous step formed, he had already jumped to the conclusion. Maybe to him, those steps were simple and could be skipped. But to me… I honestly couldn’t keep up. “I suspect his brain is a computer. He doesn’t even have to think; his head is just full of programming.” I sent the message. Harvard Bro didn’t reply again. He was probably doing an experiment again. The next day I went to the lab. I arrived early; the lab wasn’t open yet. I waited for a bit and saw Liam arriving late. “Hi, Liam.” I greeted him. He glanced at me and gave an “Mhm.” When the experiment was over and I was packing my things, Liam suddenly called out to me: “Audrey.” “What?” “Is there anything you didn’t understand about today’s experiment?” Huh? I looked at Liam in surprise. He was wearing a white lab coat, his safety goggles resting over his own glasses. Seeing me look at him, Liam actually coughed. His expression seemed a bit unnatural. “I said, is there anything you didn’t understand about today’s experiment?” “Oh, yeah, yeah, I do.” I immediately pulled out my little notebook, ready to be a diligent student. Liam answered my questions one by one. In the end, he actually said: “If you don’t understand anything in the future, just come directly to me.” “Okay, sure. Thank you.” Liam gave an “Mhm” and left the lab. When I got back to the dorm, I couldn’t wait to message Harvard Bro. “Harvard Bro, the sun must have risen in the west today! The senior I shadow for experiments actually asked me if there was anything I didn’t understand after we finished.” “And?” “Harvard Bro, you are truly my lucky star.” I sent several emojis in a row. No reply from his end. But I was used to it. 10 The following days were busy and fulfilling. As Chloe and I spent more time as assistants, we got familiar with the seniors in the lab. Occasionally, we would all go out for meals together. “Audrey, Chloe, are you free tonight? Everyone’s getting together for dinner.” “Sure!” “Okay.” I only realized after I agreed that Liam was still beside me calculating data. Come to think of it, In the two months I’ve been his assistant, I rarely see Liam eat with everyone else. “Liam, are you going to the dinner tonight?” Liam looked up at me. His eyes were truly beautiful. It’s a pity they were too cold when he looked at people. I never really dared to talk to him. If his attitude hadn’t changed recently, I really wouldn’t have dared to ask that. Just when I thought Liam wouldn’t agree, He actually took off his safety goggles. “Sure.” He agreed?! I was surprised and shocked. Everyone chatted happily at the dinner that night. I took out my phone and habitually sent a message to Harvard Bro. “Harvard Bro, I’m out at a dinner with the seniors from the lab today.” After sending the message, I waited for his reply. I looked up and saw Liam sitting across from me. Even though we were all here for dinner, he was quietly sitting there like an outsider. Liam had his head down, seemingly playing with his phone. I don’t know why, but he actually looked up at me. That sudden glance… Made my heart race in panic. Fortunately, my phone chimed. Harvard Bro replied. He asked: “And then?” “No ‘and then,’ just letting you know.” “…” Hmm… This conversation topic was a bit boring. I was just preparing to find a new topic. When someone at the table called my name. “Audrey, don’t just play on your phone, join the conversation.” “Huh? Oh, okay.” I looked up blankly. Liam had also put down his phone when I was called out. But he looked like he was in a better mood than before. There was actually a faint smile on his face. I was puzzled. Playing on his phone made him that happy? I was forced to join the conversation. Someone asked me: “Hey, Audrey, do you have a boyfriend?” Huh? As soon as those words were spoken, the whole table looked at me. Being suddenly stared at, I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. How should I answer? Was someone trying to set me up? My heart only had room for studying, not love! Suddenly, a flash of inspiration hit me, And I blurted out: “I do.” As soon as the words fell, the table went quiet. Chloe stared at me wide-eyed. “When did you get a boyfriend? How did I not know?” I gave a dry laugh: “Hahaha, I like to keep a low profile.” I suddenly felt a sharp gaze land on me. I looked up, And it was actually Liam. Why was he glaring at me?

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When the rest of the world woke up with memories of the apocalypse, I became the only outlier. My parents, who had always loved me more than anything in the world, didn’t hesitate to liquidate every single asset we owned, handing every last cent over to the Global Defense Coalition. Even my boss, a man so notoriously cheap he’d squeeze a dime until it bled, suddenly open-sourced all of our company’s highly classified proprietary tech. He went on national television and said we had to carry the weight of this alongside the rest of humanity. It was as if someone had pressed a massive, invisible “Unite” button on the entire planet. Everyone was violently, desperately preparing for a coming catastrophe. Everyone except me. I had absolutely no idea what was going on. I was a stranger in my own reality. The exact moment my parents realized I didn’t possess these “reborn” memories, the look in their eyes completely fractured. It was a gaze so complex and utterly terrifying that it made my pulse hammer in my throat, yet I couldn’t put a name to the emotion behind it. From that day forward, my life went dead silent. They never spoke another word to me. Just like that, I was thoroughly and completely abandoned by the entire human race. 1. Brrrring. My alarm jolted me awake. April 3, 2026. The morning sun was pouring through the blinds, bright and completely ordinary. I was just reaching out to swipe off the alarm when a text popped up from my boyfriend, Gavin: “Jo, I messed up. I’m so sorry. I can’t live without you! Please, just give me one more chance? For the next three years, I swear I won’t leave your side for a single second!” I stared at the screen, entirely dumbfounded. Why on earth was Gavin sending me something like this? We were still deeply in the honeymoon phase. We hadn’t even had a fight, let alone broken up! Before my brain could even process his text, an audio message from my mom chimed in: “Joanna, your father and I are on our way to your apartment right now. We’re going to be together, sweetheart. All of us. We are never, ever being separated again!” Hearing the hysterical, sobbing crack in my mother’s voice only deepened my confusion. What the hell had happened overnight? It wasn’t just my parents and my boyfriend acting like they’d lost their minds. My company’s Slack channel was exploding. “I’m drafting an itinerary to backpack across the globe. Who’s coming with me?” “I’m in! I’ve been a corporate slave my whole life and I haven’t even seen the Pacific Ocean. I’m actually going to live this time!” “A vacation? Are you kidding me? You selfish cowards, the world is on the brink and you’re only thinking about yourselves…” Two distinct factions were ripping into each other in the general chat. I sat up in bed, eyes wide, totally paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of it. Our company policy explicitly forbade non-work-related chatter in the main channels. If anyone so much as posted a meme, our tyrannical boss, Mr. Wallace, would usually swoop in and dock their bonuses. Why were my coworkers acting so recklessly? And was Wallace just sleeping in? Why hadn’t he intervened? Through the fog of my confusion, the doorbell rang. My parents were here. I practically sprinted to the door, desperate to ask them what was going on. But before I could even get a word out, my mother lunged forward, wrapping me in a suffocating embrace, weeping so hard her whole body shook. My dad, a man who treated emotional vulnerability like a physical allergy, had eyes that were bloodshot and brimming with tears. “Joanna, listen to me. We’re selling the house. We’re giving the funds to the federal emergency mandate, and we’re moving into this apartment with you.” “This way, we can do our part for the survival effort, and we get to stay together!” I physically recoiled, the words tearing out of me: “Dad, are you insane?” “If you missed me, you could have just come to visit! Why would you sell the house? What about your retirement?” The second those words left my mouth, my mother’s sobbing stopped. Instantly. Her expression morphed with a whiplash-inducing speed. She looked at me with a bizarre, almost panicked scrutiny. The warmth drained from my father’s face, leaving behind something cold and hardened. “Joanna, what are you talking about?” “You’re the most educated person in this family. You’ve always been the rational one. You know perfectly well that right now, humanity has to stand united. We have to give everything we have to the state. Otherwise, none of us are going to live to see retirement.” “How could you say something so selfish?” I felt like the floor was tilting. None of this made any sense. “Dad, I literally don’t understand a word you’re saying!” I cried. “Are we at war? Did the country get attacked? Even if we are, the government doesn’t need the money from our suburban three-bedroom!” In the next heartbeat, the look in my parents’ eyes shifted from confusion into something else. Something resembling pure, unadulterated dread. When they spoke, their voices were hoarse, trembling with a probing terror. “Joanna…” “Do you really… not remember anything?” 2. Their deeply unsettling reaction was making my skin crawl. “What am I supposed to remember?!” I demanded, throwing my hands up. “I’m going to be late for work. Just tell me what’s going on, stop with the cryptic nonsense!” My dad stumbled backward. Two full steps. My mom desperately tried to reach out to me, to say something, but my dad grabbed her arm and yanked her back. “Are you out of your mind? You can’t talk to her!” “You’re the one who’s out of your mind, she’s our daughter! She just hasn’t fully acclimated to the Return yet, her memories just haven’t—” My mom shoved him away and fiercely grabbed both of my hands. “Jo, sweetheart, did you forget? We are all Returners. Three years from now, the end of the world happens. We all died. But we’ve been given a second chance. We’ve been sent back.” “Our only chance at survival is to pool every single resource we have and face this together!” I stared at her. A beat of total silence passed before a sharp, incredulous laugh punched its way out of my chest. “Did you guys really drive all the way over here at eight in the morning to pull this ridiculous prank on me?” I glanced at my phone. 8:50 AM. If I didn’t leave right now, I was actually going to be late. And Wallace never hesitated to dock pay for tardiness. “Look, I have to go to work. Whatever this is, we can talk about it tonight.” I didn’t believe a single word of their sci-fi doomsday pitch. I sidestepped them and hurried out the door. They didn’t try to stop me. As I walked down the hall, I could faintly hear my mother’s gut-wrenching wails echoing from inside my apartment. “Why did it have to be this way? God, why did it have to be our little girl?” Her grief grated on my nerves. Part of me suspected this was some elaborate, manipulative theatrical performance to get me to agree to them selling the house. They had brought up liquidating their assets to play the stock market before. I had vehemently talked them down, terrified they would lose their entire nest egg. Were they trying this angle again? But I wasn’t a child. What was the point of using such an absurd, unbelievable lie? “Jo!” Gavin’s voice shattered my racing thoughts. He was standing by the entrance of my apartment complex, frantically waving at me from a distance. “I already quit my job, Jo! Every single second I have left is going to be devoted to you. We are never spending a minute apart!” Looking at Gavin’s red-rimmed eyes and the desperate, manic devotion swimming in them, I suddenly remembered the text he had sent me. He had said he wouldn’t leave my side for the next three years. My parents had just said the world ends in three years. Was Gavin playing along with this “Returner” prank too? No. I froze in my tracks, my eyes locking onto his. “Gavin, did my parents put you up to this? Did they tell you they want to sell the house, and you’re helping them gaslight me?” Gavin blinked, genuine bewilderment washing over his face. I knew his expressions well enough to know he wasn’t acting. Ping— His phone buzzed. From where I stood, I could see my father’s contact photo pop up on his lock screen, though I couldn’t read the text. I took a step toward him. “What did my dad just text you?” Gavin didn’t answer. A second ago, he had looked like a man violently, desperately in love with me. Now, his eyes widened in sheer, abject horror. He pointed a trembling finger at me, stumbling backward as if I were holding a loaded gun. “You… you…” “You’re not one of us!” He let out a strangled, guttural noise and turned on his heel, sprinting away without once looking back. I tried texting him. Message Not Delivered. You have been blocked. I tried calling him. Straight to voicemail. I opened my phone, intending to reach out to one of Gavin’s friends, only to be met with something far more terrifying. My social media feeds. Almost everyone I knew, as if part of some massive, synchronized cult, had posted screenshots of digital receipts. They were entirely liquidating their bank accounts, their stocks, their properties, and transferring the funds to a newly formed Global Defense Coalition. 3. I clicked on a link from one of the screenshots. It took me to an official, government-backed portal. It was real. The site was clunky, clearly rushed into existence overnight, but it had a public ledger. You could type in a donor’s name and see exactly what they had surrendered. I typed in my father’s name. They had done it. They had actually surrendered their life savings and the deed to the house. It wasn’t a scheme to play the stock market. They weren’t lying. A shard of ice slid down my spine. At that exact moment, I saw my parents rushing out of my apartment building. “Are you really from the future?!” I yelled, running toward them. But the moment they saw me, it was like they were looking at a ghost. They violently flinched, veering away to avoid coming anywhere near me. They scrambled into their car. I threw myself in front of the hood, desperate for an answer. My father didn’t even hesitate. He slammed his foot on the gas. I barely threw myself out of the way in time, scraping my knees on the asphalt. They hadn’t even tapped the brakes. They didn’t care if they killed me. I sat on the pavement, the world spinning out of focus. Why? Why had the people who loved me most—my parents, the man I was going to marry—suddenly severed all ties with me? Just because they were “Returners” and I wasn’t? Brrrring— My phone rang, pulling me out of my shock. It was my boss, Wallace. His voice was frantic, breathless. “Where the hell are you? Have you looked at the time?” “Get to the office right now. We need you to finalize the upload of all our proprietary algorithms to the Global Crisis Database…” White noise roared in my ears. Wallace worshipped money. Making him lose a dollar was like drawing blood. Our new algorithm was projected to double our quarterly revenue, and he was just giving it away to an open-source global database? There was only one logical conclusion left. The world really was ending. Half an hour later, scrolling through the news on my commute, I confirmed it. The entire globe was mobilizing to face a crisis three years away. I scoured comment sections, forums, and subreddits. Not a single person was questioning the concept of waking up with future memories. That meant it was everyone. Every single human being on Earth was a Returner. Except me. Because I wasn’t a Returner, my boyfriend and my parents were terrified of me. They cut me off to survive. But the logic didn’t track. Even if I didn’t have memories of the apocalypse, I was just one woman. How could one ordinary person possibly threaten the survival of the world? There had to be another reason they were so afraid of me. When I got to the office, I played it safe. I didn’t breathe a word about my memory gap. I pretended to be one of them. I sat down with the engineering team and seamlessly helped them upload our life’s work to the public domain. At lunch, everyone gathered in the breakroom. The air was thick with a strange, manic energy. A few people were talking about blowing their savings to live out their wildest fantasies, trying to make up for regrets they carried from their “previous” deaths. But the vast majority had already enlisted in the colossal, global engineering projects being drafted to prepare for the end. When there was a lull in the conversation, I took a calculated risk. I mimicked the exact look of visceral terror I had seen on my mother’s face that morning. “Did you guys hear?” I whispered, keeping my voice shaky. “I… I ran into someone today. A guy. He didn’t remember. He wasn’t a Returner.” The words hung in the air. Instantly, the entire breakroom went dead silent. The blood drained from my coworkers’ faces. The atmosphere became so heavy and suffocating it was hard to breathe. 4. I knew it. Their reaction confirmed my deepest suspicion: there was something monstrously wrong with not being a Returner. I kept my mouth shut, waiting for them to start whispering, waiting to glean some scrap of information. The office gossip, a guy who usually never stopped talking, broke the silence with a trembling voice. “Are… are there really people who didn’t return?” “Because if there are, that means—” “Shut up!” The tech lead, Diane, cut him off with a voice like cracked ice. She stood up slowly, her finger raising to point directly at my chest. “Did you all hear exactly what she just said?” Diane asked, her eyes boring into mine. “She said she met a Returner…” She paused, her voice dropping to a terrifying hiss. “She said she met a person who didn’t remember.” I didn’t understand why the singular phrasing was an issue, but the effect was immediate. It was as if a spell had been broken. Every single person in the room lunged out of their chairs, scrambling backward, putting as much physical distance between us as the breakroom allowed. I realized I had made a fatal error. I forced a nervous laugh, trying to do damage control. “Guys, what’s going on? Are you misunderstanding me? I’m not the one who—” “Then answer me this,” Diane interrupted, her tone lethal. “What was the specific catalyst that wiped out human civilization in our previous timeline?” I froze. My mind raced, but I had nothing. The internet forums had confirmed an impending apocalypse, but nowhere—not a single post, not a single article—had mentioned how the world ended. Were they deliberately censoring the cause of the apocalypse? Was the entire planet actively conspiring to keep this information from me? But… why? I was just an ordinary woman. What could possibly make me so dangerous? My silence was all the answer they needed. Without another word, my coworkers turned and practically fled the room. No matter what I screamed after them, not a single person looked back. Ten minutes later, the alert that I was a “Non-Returner” was pushed to every digital device on the planet. I was systematically erased from society. My landlord dragged my belongings onto the sidewalk. Every grocery store, restaurant, and hotel refused to process my cards or let me through their doors. I was banned from every public space. In fact, I was strictly forbidden from being anywhere near another human being. A squad of heavily armed, tactical military personnel was assigned to tail me. Their only job was to corral me away from population centers. I was forced to scavenge through dumpsters in the dead of night just to find scraps to eat. I was thrust into an existence of pure, unadulterated isolation, drowning in a sea of confusion and loneliness that felt worse than death. “Why?!” “I don’t have the memories, I get it! But I am willing to give everything for the future of humanity, including my life!” “If I am a threat to you, then just put a bullet in my head right now!” I stood in an empty, desolate lot, screaming at the squad of soldiers watching me through their scopes from a hundred yards away. “Why are you doing this to me? Why torture me? Why did you make my parents abandon me?!” They didn’t answer. They never did. A full year passed. I hadn’t exchanged a single word with another human being in 365 days. From my forced exile in the wilderness, I watched massive, monolithic space elevators pierce the clouds, built to harvest resources from other planets. I watched as armadas of interstellar warships blotted out the sun. And down in the dirt, there was just me. A fragile woman made of flesh and bone, someone who could be taken out by a single stray bullet. What made me worthy of this global quarantine? My sanity began to fracture. Late one night, I snuck back toward the edge of the city limits to rummage through the industrial trash bins. But this time, I wasn’t hoping to find food. And I had finally stopped harboring the delusion that my parents might sneak out to save me out of familial love. I was utterly, totally broken. I dug through the refuse until I found a jagged, heavy shard of shattered glass. Without a second thought, I drove it deep into the side of my neck. I thought I was finally buying my freedom. But the soldiers guarding me wouldn’t even let me die. They swarmed me with terrifying speed, applying advanced, futuristic trauma care. When I woke up, the wound was entirely sealed, and I had been dumped further out into an uninhabited wasteland. But something had shifted inside me. I was no longer drowning in despair. The fear was gone. I looked up at the sky, obscured by the shadows of a thousand battleships, and let out a dry, raspy laugh. “I know why you’re all so afraid of me.”

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I was driving when the radio host casually dropped the bombshell about the rumored romance between Craig Ellsworth and Daphne. He frantically reached over to kill the volume, tripping over his own words as he rushed to explain. I just gave a careless shrug, telling him I knew it was all tabloid trash. When he kept rambling, practically begging for absolution, I laughed and teased that I’d even help him cover it up in front of his parents. The words had barely left my mouth when he slammed his foot on the brake. All the color drained from his face. It reminded me of that night not so long ago, when he had grabbed his ex-girlfriend by the arm and dragged her into a hotel room right in front of me. He had sneered at me then, his voice dripping with venom, saying that since I was so paranoid, he might as well give me a show. The breathless, muffled moans that had filtered through the phone receiver later that night shattered the very last remnant of whatever we used to be. From that moment on, I never shed another tear of jealousy. I never picked another fight. 1. The moment Craig Ellsworth took Daphne to that hotel room, our marriage effectively flatlined. So, when I heard their names strung together once again, praised by internet strangers as a match made in heaven, the breakdown I expected never came. Daphne was a prominent influencer. She had built a massive following on TikTok and Instagram by romanticizing her life as a Stanford graduate living her best life. A month ago, Craig made a cameo on her feed. It was an Instagram Story—just a two-second live photo. You could catch a fleeting blur of Craig’s distinct profile in the background. But more glaringly, sitting right there on the nightstand, was a box of Trojan condoms. The internet works fast. Within hours, sleuths had identified the mystery man as the elusive CEO of Vanguard Holdings. The screenshot went viral, climbing the trending charts on Twitter and TikTok. Her comment section was flooded: [Daphne!! Give us the tea, are you in a relationship?!] [Wait, isn’t that the CEO of Vanguard?] [Omg, the guy in the back is insanely hot. They look so good together.] Reading those comments, I had stood frozen in the middle of our living room. That unmistakable little gold-foil box practically screamed what was happening between them. A bone-deep chill washed over me. When Craig came home that night, I had waited for an explanation. He brushed it off with a handful of dismissive words. “It’s just a misunderstanding.” When I didn’t react, he added, “I’ve already had my PR team kill the story.” But after that, Daphne’s name became an inescapable phantom in my life. I heard the nurses gossiping about it during my shifts at the hospital. The algorithm, cruel and precise, constantly pushed her latest posts to my feed. The rumors of her and Craig only grew louder. The whole world, it seemed, was heavily invested in guessing the nature of their relationship. 2. The following weekend, Craig went on a “business trip.” I had made plans with a girlfriend for a spa weekend in the Hamptons. And there, lounging at the luxury resort, I saw them. Craig and Daphne. She was wearing a string bikini, her flawless figure on full display, with an oversized, expensive men’s suit jacket draped over her shoulders. Craig was right beside her. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the forearms, tailored trousers hugging his long legs. He looked utterly relaxed, completely in his element. Walking side-by-side, they were the picture-perfect couple. Craig leaned in slightly, tilting his head to catch whatever she was saying. I couldn’t hear the words, but they both broke into a synchronized, intimate smile. Later, Daphne went into the cabana to change. She emerged in a sheer white slip dress, but she kept his jacket firmly draped around her. I watched them disappear into the same private suite. Without thinking, I followed. Driven by some masochistic ghost, I pushed the heavy oak door open. My mouth moved faster than my brain. The accusation tore out of me: “Craig, you’re sleeping with Daphne, aren’t you?” Then, I froze. The suite wasn’t empty. A room full of executives and associates turned in unison to stare at me. Craig looked at me. His eyes were perfectly hollow. Glacial. He looked away, his jaw tight, and spoke barely above a whisper. “Get the door, please.” I forgot how to breathe. His utter dismissal was a public execution. The sheer humiliation radiated through my bones. The spa weekend was ruined. I made a hollow excuse to my friend and fled the resort. Craig didn’t come home until late that evening. Part of me felt awful for crashing his meeting, but beneath the guilt was a violent, uncontrollable swell of hurt. The bitterness rose in my throat, choking me. I couldn’t hold it back. “Craig, are you cheating on me?” I demanded. “What exactly is your relationship with her?” He gave me a sideways glance, his demeanor entirely detached. “Jodie. What exactly do you want our relationship to be?” he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. “Barging in like that in front of a dozen people—did you even for a second consider how you were affecting her reputation?” My mind went entirely blank. My stomach dropped through the floor. His coldness was a surgical blade, slipping perfectly between my ribs. Craig cast one last disgusted look at me, then turned his back and vanished into the darkness of the house. 3. The cold war began. Craig started taking back-to-back business trips. The final, fatal blow happened at a boutique hotel in Manhattan, a property owned by Vanguard. I saw them in the lobby. Daphne and Craig. I watched them step into the private elevator reserved for the penthouse suites. I followed them up. “Craig.” They both stopped in the dimly lit corridor and turned to face me. I looked at my husband. “Is this your ‘business trip’? Booking a suite with your ex-girlfriend?” Craig let out a dark, breathless laugh. “Fine,” he said. “You’re so convinced I’m cheating on you?” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing mine. “Do you want me to give you a show?” Before I could process the threat, his hand wrapped tightly around Daphne’s arm, pulling her toward the door of the suite. His eyes, pitch-black and fathomless, locked onto mine. “What? Aren’t you going to follow us in and see exactly what we do?” The door slammed shut in my face. The sound echoed down the empty hallway like a gunshot. My eyes burned. My throat constricted so tightly I couldn’t draw air, let alone speak. By the time I stumbled back into the elevator, my phone buzzed in my hand. An unknown number. I answered. No one spoke. There was only the quiet, rhythmic sound of a woman panting. Breathless. Ecstatic. I stood in the descending elevator for a long, long time. That unmistakable sound of intimacy confirmed everything. Craig and Daphne were crossing every line. A sharp ache pierced the bridge of my nose. Craig and I were finished. It was over. I hailed a cab outside the hotel. Sitting in the back seat, watching the city lights blur, I found myself scrolling through Daphne’s old digital footprint. The internet had dug up her old VSCO and Finsta accounts from high school and college. They had mapped out her entire romantic timeline with Craig. They were high school sweethearts. They went to Columbia University together, studying in different departments. Looking at her old posts, I saw a version of Craig I had never met. The Craig on her feed remembered her menstrual cycle and packed Advil for her. He patiently followed her to every trendy pop-up cafe in the city, holding her bags. He bought a professional camera and learned photography just so he could take the perfect candid shots of her. He took her to Disneyland. To the Hamptons. Her old feed was saturated in the blinding, sickeningly sweet pink of young love. Every word she wrote dripped with the security of a girl who knew she was adored. [He literally spent a month learning how to edit photos just for me.] [He tracks my period better than I do. I swear he loves me more than I love myself.] Under that post, an old comment read: [Omg Daphne, I’m a freshman from your high school! Everyone at Columbia still talks about you and Craig. You guys are literal goals. Forever endgame!] And Craig, using his own account, had replied to that freshman: [Thank you. I’m going to hold onto her for a long time.] Now, the old Columbia University Reddit threads were ablaze again, brought back to life by the recent rumors. [Craig and Daphne were the golden couple on campus. They only broke up because she left for Stanford, right?] [So this is the ultimate reunion? The one that got away?] [I have a wild theory. Daphne’s family isn’t exactly loaded. Stanford out-of-state tuition is insane. What if Craig footed the bill? That makes it even more romantic—the billionaire CEO grinding in NY to support his girl on the West Coast.] Craig flew out to California religiously every year. Daphne’s alma mater was in California. My hands shook violently against the illuminated screen. I didn’t dare think about it any deeper. 4. Ten minutes after I got home, the front door unlocked. Craig walked in. His suit was immaculate. Not a single hair out of place. He looked entirely undisturbed. My eyes were still red and swollen. I refused to look at him. He walked over and grabbed my wrist. “Nothing happened between us,” he said, his voice an attempt at soothing. “Earlier tonight… I was just angry. I was trying to provoke you.” He was explaining. But it was too late. The damage was in my marrow now. I gave a small, hollow nod. “Okay. I understand.” I didn’t speak another word to him for the rest of the night. The next morning, I felt entirely hollowed out, so I took a cab to the hospital. When my shift ended, the thought of going back to that house felt suffocating. Diane, an attending physician on my floor, had a night shift but desperately needed to attend her daughter’s parent-teacher conference. I offered to cover for her. The ER was a war zone that night. We had multiple trauma arrivals. By the time I finally scrubbed out of surgery, my phone screen was lit up with over a dozen missed calls. Diane rushed back into the breakroom, out of breath. “Jo, thank you so much,” she sighed, dumping her bag on the chair. “I heard you guys got slammed and you had to scrub in. I am so sorry. I brought you an iced matcha.” I didn’t bother being polite. I took the drink gratefully. “Thanks, Diane. I’m gonna head out now.” She smiled warmly. “I owe you one.” It was almost midnight when I walked out of the hospital sliding doors. Since I had cabbed to work, I ordered an Uber home. Only after I settled into the back seat did I actually check my phone. Every single missed call was from Craig. He had texted too: [Where are you?] [I’m in the hospital parking garage. I’m waiting for you.] I stared at the screen as the car merged onto the avenue. [Don’t bother.] [I’m already on my way home.] Shortly after I unlocked the front door, I heard his car pull into the driveway. Something fundamental had shifted inside me since that night at the hotel. Seeing him suddenly walk through the door left me feeling nothing but awkwardness. We stood in the foyer, staring at each other. The air was thick and strange. His dark eyes were fixed heavily on me. I looked away. Every time I looked at him now, I saw Daphne. I saw him dragging her into that room. I heard the breathless panting vibrating against my ear. I saw the ghost of their decade-long romance filling every corner of my house. I used to carry the weight of this marriage entirely on my own. I would come home and tell him about the weird patients in the ER, what I ate for lunch, desperately trying to spark a conversation. But now? Now I realized we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. The silence in the room was deafening. It reminded me of another one of Daphne’s old diary entries: [God, he talks so much. I’m literally falling asleep and he’s still dragging me into a conversation about his finance models.] My chest seized up tight. Craig’s deep voice shattered the quiet. “Weren’t you on the day shift? Why are you back so late?” I could feel the weight of his gaze tracking my every movement. I kept my back to him, walking over to the kitchen island to pour a glass of water. “Yeah.” I didn’t explain. I didn’t have the energy to. He didn’t deserve the details of my life anymore. When I turned around, he was standing right behind me. His lips parted, like he was trying to find the right words. I beat him to it, and he swallowed whatever he was about to say. “I’m going to take a shower.” When I stepped out of the bathroom, he was standing right outside the door. I jumped, startled. Catching his eye unexpectedly, I just gave a stiff nod and walked past him. Lying in the dark, my mind raced. Just sharing a mattress with him made my skin crawl. 5. Craig was an early riser. By the time I dragged myself out of bed, he had already showered and dressed in a crisp suit. Breakfast was laid out on the dining table. Craig sat there, his expression unreadable, reading the news on his tablet. Looking at the spread, my mind drifted again. I thought of Daphne’s tweet: [Told him I was craving a breakfast sandwich last night. Woke up to him in the kitchen making me the perfect BLT.] [His cooking is actually getting scary good.] A comment underneath: [You’re so lucky, girl.] Daphne’s reply: [Haha, hoping you find your own happily ever after!] “Jodie.” His voice snapped me back to the present. “Eat.” I blinked, checking the time on the microwave clock. “You go ahead. I’m running late.” A heavy hand clamped down on my forearm. Craig looked up at me through his lashes, his dark eyes intense and unyielding. “You have time. I’ll drive you.” I sat down, forcing myself to swallow a few bites of toast. “My grandmother wants us at the estate for dinner tonight,” he said smoothly. “I’ll pick you up from the hospital when you get off.” I nodded mechanically. “Fine.” When I stood up to leave, Craig rose with me. His tone left no room for argument. “I’m driving you.” I rejected him without a second thought. “No need.” I saw his brow twitch, a minute furrow of irritation, but I didn’t care. I grabbed my bag and walked out the door. 6. I grabbed lunch with Diane in the hospital cafeteria. Between bites of a terrible salad, she brought up the upcoming medical exchange program in Asheville, North Carolina. She let out a heavy sigh. “Man, my kid is applying to college this year. There is no way I can disappear for three months.” “Honestly, anyone with a family here is gonna pass on it,” she continued. “And the newlyweds? No chance they’re packing up for the South.” I looked up at her. “Diane, if you’re not taking it… I will.” She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Jo, are you serious?” I nodded firmly. “Yeah. I really want to use this opportunity to learn.” As soon as my tray was clear, I marched straight to the department head’s office and put my name on the list. Right as my shift was ending, my phone rang. Craig. I picked up, putting it on speaker as I organized my desk. His deep, velvet voice filled the small room. Diane and a few other nurses happened to be walking by. They stopped, leaning against the doorframe with knowing, teasing smiles. “Ooh, Jo. Is that the boyfriend?” I forced a laugh and shook my head. “No.” Through the speaker, Craig said, “I’m down in your parking garage.” “Okay, I’ll be right there.” The underground garage was dimly lit. He was leaning against his black G-Wagon, a tall, imposing silhouette. I walked toward him. To my horror, Diane was also heading to her car in the same aisle. She spotted us and walked over, her eyebrows raised in absolute delight. “Jo! Is this the boyfriend?” she beamed. “Not bad to look at, I gotta say.” My brain short-circuited. I spun a lie out of thin air. “No, no. He’s my cousin.” Craig slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes darkened dangerously. Diane bought it immediately, her scandalous interest fading into polite nods. “Ah, gotcha. See you tomorrow!” I slid into the passenger seat. The leather felt suffocating. Craig got in, his jaw clenched tight. He turned to me, the engine idling. “Why did you say that?” I looked straight ahead, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “I don’t want my coworkers getting the wrong idea.” Craig flinched slightly. A deep frown etched into his forehead. “The wrong idea?” He put the car in drive and pulled out of the garage. The radio was on, tuned to a pop-culture SiriusXM channel. A bubbly host was mid-sentence. “…Vanguard CEO Craig Ellsworth and influencer Daphne were spotted at a luxury Hamptons resort recently. Daphne was wearing a tiny bikini, draped in Craig’s suit jacket. Let me tell you, the sexual tension in those photos is off the charts…” Craig slammed his hand against the console, killing the radio instantly. He exhaled sharply. “You were there that day. You know there were other investors present.” I stared out the window at the passing traffic. “I know,” I said lightly. Craig tried again. “Nothing happened between us.” A small, cynical smile touched my lips. I assumed he was just doing damage control so I wouldn’t rat him out to his family tonight. “Relax,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me. I won’t say a word to your grandmother.” Craig slammed his foot on the brake. The SUV lurched forward violently before skidding to a halt. The blood drained completely from his face. He stared at me, a violent storm of emotions swirling in his eyes.

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My wife had barely boarded her international flight when my phone vibrated with a banking notification. Incoming Transfer: $1,000,000.00. The sheer volume of the number was jarring enough, but it was the attached memo that slid into my ribs like a blade of ice. “This is my final compensation to you. From here on out, we go our separate ways. I’m moving overseas with her to start over.” My hand began to shake, the phone suddenly heavy and foreign in my grip. This wasn’t Norah. My Norah was grounded, relentlessly loyal. Even if her heart had somehow wandered, she was the kind of woman who would sit me down at our kitchen table, look me dead in the eye, and break me with the honest truth. Before I could even process the shock, the doorbell rang. A courier dropped an anonymous package on my porch and vanished. The moment I tore through the brown paper, the air evacuated my lungs. Inside was a stack of glossy photographs. My wife. And another woman. I recognized the stranger. Her name was Val. In the pictures, they were tangled together, Norah’s face lit up with a brilliant, breathless smile I hadn’t seen in years. But it was the very last photo that made the blood freeze in my veins. The background wasn’t a restaurant or a hotel room. It was the distinct, curved interior of an airplane cabin. A horrific, suffocating realization violently forced its way into my mind. I didn’t think. I just grabbed my phone and dialed 911. “I need to report a crime,” I gasped out, the words tasting like ash. “There’s a body on American Airlines Flight 3218.” The dispatcher’s voice was sharp, urgent, demanding the identity of the victim. A sob ripped its way up my throat, impossible to suppress. “It’s my wife. Norah.” … 1 Norah and I had been married for ten years. To our friends, we were the blueprint. The couple everyone envied. She used to lay with her head on my chest and talk about our future. How, even if we never had kids, we would grow old together, checking into a swanky retirement home, holding hands until the very end. But tonight, that beautiful, quiet illusion of a forever-love had been brutally shattered. Norah had packed for a last-minute business trip. The second her plane was in the air, she wired me a million dollars and left me a digital goodbye. In her message, she confessed to a seven-year betrayal. [Seven years ago, I fell in love with someone else. In that exact moment, I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with them.] [I am so sorry, Theo. But I can’t fight who I am anymore.] She was giving me her entire life savings as a parting gift, a severance package for a decade of marriage. The message was absolute. Cold. Final. The moment she crossed international airspace, she and her lover were going to get married abroad. She left me no room to beg. No room to fight for her. Ten years of breathing the same air, and seventy percent of it had been built on a lie. I sat in the dead-silent living room. My heart was hammering against my sternum like a trapped bird, but my eyes were bone-dry. She had timed it perfectly. The flight was already in the air. She was gone, leaving me alone with a suffocating, toxic rage. The anger boiled over. I surged to my feet, marched into our bedroom, and ripped our massive, custom-framed wedding portrait off the wall. It hit the hardwood floor with a deafening crash, glass spiderwebbing over our smiling faces. I flicked open my lighter. The flame danced, inches away from the torn canvas of the photo, when the frantic pounding on the front door interrupted me. By the time I yanked the door open, the porch was empty. Just the anonymous package sitting innocently on the welcome mat. A memory flashed. Last year, Norah had pulled the exact same stunt. I had opened a mysterious box on the porch, and she had jumped out from behind the rhododendron bush, wrapping her arms around my neck with a bouquet of hydrangeas. “Happy ninth anniversary, husband!” For a split second, looking at this new box, a desperate, pathetic hope flared in my chest. Was this a prank? Did she remember today was our ten-year anniversary? Was she hiding in the shadows right now? With trembling fingers, I tore the package open. But there were no flowers. Only evidence. A handsome, sharp-jawed woman, pressing against my wife in a dozen different, intimate poses. Browsing boutiques. Sharing a candlelit dinner. Tangled up in the back seat of the SUV we shared… The photos slipped through my fingers, revealing the final Polaroid. The two of them, cheeks pressed together in the first-class cabin. Written in black marker across the bottom: [Norah & Val. Forever.] In the photo, Val’s eyes were locked dead on the camera. Smirking right at me. A victor’s gloat. It was designed to humiliate me. To provoke me. But as I stared at the harsh lighting of that airplane cabin, my rage suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, primal terror. Fighting the panic rising in my throat, I called the police. “I need to report a concealed corpse on Flight 3218!” I shouted into the receiver. “The victim… is my wife.” 2 The police drilled me for details, and I answered every question with rapid-fire precision. But when they asked for concrete proof, I choked. Silence stretched over the line. Every ticking second meant the plane was getting closer to the border. The dispatcher’s tone turned severe. They warned me that forcing a commercial international flight to turn around carried devastating federal consequences. If this was a hoax, the fines alone would exceed a million dollars. I could face serious prison time for inciting a panic and grounding a multi-million dollar route. I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling my erratic heartbeat. For one agonizing second, doubt crept in. If I was wrong—if I was just a paranoid, jealous husband—my life would be over. I’d be bankrupt and behind bars. But I looked down at the Polaroid again. Something about it… the lighting, the stiffness in Norah’s shoulders. The doubt vanished. My voice trembled, but it was forged in steel. “I am fully prepared to accept the consequences. Ground the plane. I need the truth.” While the police mobilized, I grabbed Norah’s work briefcase and bolted for my car, speeding toward the airport. Time was bleeding out. At every red light, I frantically dug through her files. My gut was screaming at me. This sudden “business trip” had to be connected to the massive expose she had been obsessed with. Norah was the senior investigative editor at The Tribune. For months, she had been quietly reopening a cold case—a string of grotesque serial murders from a decade ago. This trip was supposed to be a covert meeting with the sole surviving witness. Everything in her notes looked perfectly normal. I flipped through pages of rigid schedules and meticulously documented interviews. Norah was a creature of absolute habit. Her timeline left zero room for a secret, seven-year, globe-trotting affair. Even without physical proof, the idea that she had been lying to me hurt. It hurt like hell. I tossed the files onto the passenger seat, closed my eyes, and let out a ragged sigh. Suddenly, a dog darted into the street. I slammed on the brakes. I jolted forward, the seatbelt biting into my collarbone. The briefcase tumbled off the seat, spilling papers all over the floorboards. As I scrambled to gather the mess, my fingers brushed against the false bottom of her leather portfolio. A small, yellow sticky note fluttered out. It was Norah’s handwriting. Frantic. Rushed. [Flight pushed back a day. She has to be on this plane!] Every hair on the back of my neck stood up. The air in the car turned to ice. I ignored the blaring horns of the traffic jam at the airport entrance, abandoned my car at the curb, and sprinted through the sliding glass doors toward the international arrivals gate. The PA system chimed. The police had successfully forced the airline to return. I sat in the holding area, gripping Norah’s files so hard my knuckles were white. Every passing minute was a physical torture. I wiped my sweating palms on my jeans, my eyes locked on the secure exit doors. Finally, just as the sun began to dip below the terminal windows, the announcement echoed: “Flight 3218 has arrived at the gate.” I shot out of my chair, pressing myself against the glass partition. As the passengers were escorted out by federal agents, I spotted Detective Vargas leading the pack. I shoved my way forward, practically begging her. “Detective Vargas! Please, you have to investigate my wife’s murder!” I shoved the files toward her. “This is the cold case she was working on. It has to be connected!” Vargas didn’t even look at the papers. She pushed my hands away and pointed toward the back of the passenger line. “Mr. Davis,” she said, her voice dripping with exhaustion and disgust. “Your wife is right there, at the end of the line.” “And as for you,” she continued, “do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You grounded an international flight, terrified 113 passengers, and wasted federal resources. Do you have a lawyer?” I whipped my head around. My eyes locked onto the woman at the back of the line. She was wearing Norah’s beige trench coat. Her hair was styled just like Norah’s. And her fingers were intertwined with Val’s. My voice came out as a hollow, weightless whisper. “That’s impossible. That’s not my wife.” Because the passenger manifest for this flight… was 114. 3 Where was the missing passenger? That question clawed at my brain, expanding into a dark, bottomless abyss of terror. Seeing Detective Vargas turn to walk away, I grabbed her sleeve, desperate. “Please! Check the headcount again! Someone is missing!” Vargas yanked her arm free, her patience completely exhausted. “We did check, Mr. Davis. One passenger canceled at the absolute last second. The actual onboard count was 113. It matches perfectly.” She stepped closer, her tone lowering into a legal threat. “I don’t care about your messy divorce. But you don’t get to use the federal government to stage a domestic dispute. You’re looking at a million dollars in airline restitution, and I will personally see to it that you’re charged.” Her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I was cornered. If I couldn’t prove the woman standing ten feet away wasn’t my wife, I was going to prison. I forced myself to breathe. To focus. I looked at the woman in the trench coat. She wore Norah’s wire-rimmed glasses. She stood with Norah’s stiff, slightly awkward posture. When a TSA agent asked her a question, she nervously pushed the bridge of her glasses up with her index finger—an exact mirror of Norah’s tic. The only difference was the way she clung to Val’s hand. I took a step forward, staring relentlessly into “Norah’s” face, hunting for the seams of the lie. Suddenly, my view was blocked. Val stepped between us, puffing out his chest with a nasty, mocking smile. “Hey, buddy. You should be begging the cops for a plea deal right now, not staring at my fiancée.” He crossed his arms, oozing arrogance. Behind him, the woman with Norah’s gentle eyes looked at me. But her gaze was a void. Pure, unadulterated ice. It took me a second to process. Val. The “handsome woman” from the photos was standing in front of me presenting as a man. The gender-bending disguise was deliberate, meant to confuse and disorient. I looked Val up and down, and a dark, hysterical laugh bubbled out of my chest. “You aren’t Val,” I said. “And she isn’t my wife.” Val’s jaw clenched. He lunged forward, raising a fist. I didn’t flinch. I just glanced over his shoulder at the armed federal air marshals. Val froze, lowering his hand but pointing a harsh finger at my chest. “You’re a real piece of work, Theo. Keep talking crazy. Let’s see how confident you are when the feds hand you that million-dollar invoice.” My fingernails dug crescent moons into my palms. Just then, the forensics team descended the jet bridge, shaking their heads at Vargas. Four officers, plus a K-9 unit. They found nothing. No body. No blood. Nothing. The narrative was cementing: I was just a psychotic, jealous husband who called in a bomb threat-level hoax to catch his wife cheating. Vargas glared at me. The passengers, realizing why their flight had been grounded, turned venomous. “Are you kidding me?! This psycho ruined our trip because he’s insecure?!” “I have a thirty-million-dollar merger waiting in London! I’m suing this lunatic!” The collective hatred of the room pressed down on me like a physical weight. I couldn’t breathe. Then, an electric jolt of realization hit me. The fake Norah hadn’t spoken a single word yet. If I could just get her to talk, I could prove it. I knew the cadence of my wife’s voice, the rhythm of her breathing. My heart hammering against my ribs, I shoved past Val and stood right in front of her. “Norah—” My voice cracked, the grief suddenly swelling in my throat. She cut me off. The voice was pitched perfectly, but the tone was dripping in a haughty, arrogant cruelty my wife had never possessed. “Theo, I didn’t want to do this here. The reason I wouldn’t have children with you all these years… is because Val and I already have a son. He’s six.” She tilted her head, enjoying the knife twist. “You wanted to force my hand? Fine. Are you satisfied now?” The sheer audacity of the lie hit me like a physical blow. I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. It was a broken, breathy sound. I reached up to wipe my face and realized my cheeks were soaked with tears. “Is that why you wired me a million dollars?” I asked softly. “As a… divorce settlement?” I expected her to maintain that flawless, arrogant mask. But for a fraction of a second, the muscles around her eyes tightened. A micro-hesitation. “…Yes.” In that single, quiet moment, a strange, terrible peace washed over me. The tears were still falling, but the panic was gone. If she was the one who wired the money, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She didn’t know what I was talking about. My wife was still on that plane. 4 Seeing the ground crew preparing to tow the plane to the hangar, I sprinted toward Vargas, practically throwing myself in her path. “Detective Vargas, I need you to weigh the aircraft! Please!” It was a theoretical forensic tactic Norah had explained to me years ago over dinner, while researching cartel smuggling routes. Vargas recoiled, her face flushed with anger. “Mr. Davis, this is a federal tarmac, not your personal theater! Step back!” The crowd groaned, the whispers turning into vicious insults. “If I had a husband acting like this, I’d fake my own death too.” “Arrest him already! He’s unhinged.” But I didn’t care. I looked wildly around and locked eyes with the forensic lead, Dr. Rossi. “Dr. Rossi! Check the gross takeoff weight versus the landing weight minus fuel burn!” Rossi paused. She looked at me, then turned to Vargas. “Actually… that’s a highly specific metric. It’s worth a check.” Reluctantly, the plane was towed onto the load cells. I stood in the terminal, my shirt plastered to my back with cold sweat. The adrenaline was making my vision blur. Minutes felt like hours. Finally, a technician jogged over, holding a tablet. “The aircraft is heavy,” he said, looking bewildered. “Factoring in fuel consumption… the plane is exactly 140 pounds heavier than it should be.” The weight of an adult human being. A deadly silence fell over the gate. Vargas’s annoyance vanished, replaced by the sharp, terrifying focus of a homicide detective. She grabbed the K-9 leash and marched back down the jet bridge herself. Dr. Rossi motioned for me to follow her toward the imposter. “We’re running biometric scans on-site,” she told the woman. They brought out the mobile scanners. Facial recognition. Retinal scans. Fingerprints. The machine beeped. Green light. Green light. Green light. It was a perfect biometric match. My stomach plummeted into an endless freefall. The crowd, which had gone quiet, immediately reignited. “See? He’s making it up!” “Maybe the ‘body’ on the plane is just him threatening her! Lock him up!” The conspiracy theories mutated in real-time. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a sad husband; I was a dangerous predator. The passengers backed away from me. Dr. Rossi remained clinical. She pulled out the final piece of equipment—a next-gen EEG polygraph headset. The woman sat down calmly and let Rossi attach the nodes to her temples. Rossi asked the baseline questions. Name. DOB. Purpose of travel. The woman answered flawlessly. The monitor held steady in the green. Then, Rossi asked about the million-dollar transfer. Again, I saw that micro-fraction of a pause. “I felt a moral obligation as his wife to provide for him.” I stared at the monitor, praying for a spike. The system processed the brainwaves… and flashed a steady, quiet green. The collective glare of the terminal felt like a physical heat. It was over. I looked crazy. The fake Norah stood up, smoothing her trench coat with delicate fingers. Val wrapped an arm around her, sneering at me. “The only one who needs a lie detector is you, man. If you hadn’t pulled this psycho stunt, my fiancée and I would be halfway to the Maldives.” The passengers started shouting at the airline staff, demanding my immediate arrest. I ground my teeth together, tasting copper. “Hook me up,” I told Dr. Rossi. I sat in the chair. The nodes were cold against my skin. The crowd watched, waiting for me to fail. I breathed through the panic, answering every question with cold, hard truth. The machine glowed green. Dr. Rossi’s face paled. If the woman wasn’t lying, and I wasn’t lying… what was the truth? Rossi pulled out the Polaroid of the two women. “Mr. Davis, why did this specific photo lead you to the conclusion that your wife was murdered, rather than just having an affair?” I closed my eyes. I reached into my bag and pulled out a battered, leather-bound notebook from seven years ago. I leaned in and whispered a single sentence into Dr. Rossi’s ear. The moment the machine registered my truth in brilliant green, Dr. Rossi bolted upright and pointed directly at the couple holding hands by the gate. “Arrest them right now! Nobody moves!”

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This was my fifth wedding. Or, more accurately, my fifth attempt at one. The groom, Logan, was late. Again. My phone buzzed on the vanity, a push notification from a local trending thread: “Now that you’ve finally landed the guy you’ve pined after for years, what’s the most reckless thing you’ve done?” The original poster had answered her own prompt: “Become his wife, obviously. And steal him away from his ‘best friend’s’ wedding. Five times and counting.” She added a follow-up: “We just finished in the bridal suite. It was world-shifting.” The comment section was a vitriolic bloodbath, but the poster didn’t seem to care. She uploaded a photo—shot from the neck down, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Her face wasn’t visible, but the bridesmaid’s dress she was wearing was unmistakable. Beside her, a man in a tailored tuxedo was partially visible, his sharp profile caught in the shadows. A cold, hollow sensation settled in my chest. I knew that profile. I knew that dress. The heavy double doors of the bridal suite creaked open. Two people walked in, looking exactly like the figures in the photo. It felt like the temperature in the room plummeted forty degrees. One was Melanie, my “soul sister” and best friend of thirteen years. The other was Logan, the man I had legally married five years ago, even if we’d never managed to make it down the aisle. 1 My father stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. He ripped the boutonniere from his lapel, his face contorted with rage, the veins in his neck bulging. “Five times, Logan. Five goddamn times. What could possibly be more important than your own wedding ceremony?” the guests in the hall held their breath, the silence thick and suffocating. Logan offered a practiced, charming smile, stepping forward to placate him. “Please, Tom, calm down. There was an emergency at the office. A crisis that couldn’t wait.” After settling my father, he turned to me. He pulled a velvet box from his pocket, a diamond ring glittering inside. His expression was light, almost teasing. “I didn’t mean to be late, Jo. Tell me how I can make it up to you, and I will. Anything you want.” He moved closer, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur. “Let’s just get through the vows, okay?” But my eyes weren’t on the diamond. They were on the small, flesh-colored bandage on his neck. It was positioned perfectly to hide a fresh bite mark—Melanie’s signature. “Is that so?” I asked, a sharp, jagged laugh escaping my throat. He blinked, startled. He likely thought I was so blinded by love that I’d offer him a sixth chance. He looked relieved. In the next heartbeat, I lunged. I grabbed Melanie by her perfectly styled hair and emptied a glass of vintage red wine directly over her head. “Diana, have you lost your mind?!” Logan roared. As I threw the glass down, it shattered against the marble. Logan’s first instinct wasn’t to check on me, but to shield Melanie. A flying shard of glass sliced a thin line across my cheek. Every guest in the room stared at me with horror, as if I were the one who had just committed an act of madness. Logan tucked Melanie behind him, his eyes burning with a sudden, sharp loathing. “Yes, Melanie had a family emergency, and I went to help her. That’s why I was late. She’s been your sister since you were kids—how could you do this to her?” His voice rose, thick with accusation. “How can you be so vicious?” I tried to remember when he had started caring for her so much. In college, Melanie’s crush on him was a joke everyone was in on. Back then, Logan spoke of her with a curated disgust. “She’s exhausting,” he’d say. “Not particularly bright, either. I don’t know why you’re friends with her.” It was cruel, but back then, I felt a shameful sense of relief. I thought I had secured both my love and my friendship. I was a fool. He had gone to the mat for me once. He had stood before his grandfather, the patriarch of the wealthy family firm, and endured a literal beating to prove his devotion. “I won’t marry anyone but Diana,” he’d shouted. “I’ll die before I give her up.” And Melanie? She had stood in the sweltering heat outside their estate for five hours, pleading my case. “Diana’s happiness is everything,” she had sobbed. “Please, let her be with the man she loves.” Now, Melanie stood there, drenched in wine, looking at me with a performative, guilty flinch. The guests whispered. My father looked broken. Logan stood there with the air of a man granting a stay of execution. “Enough drama,” he said. “Let’s just finish the ceremony.” I reached up and unpinned the pathetic corsage from my dress. My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else—someone cold and terrifyingly calm. “I’m done, Logan. I want a divorce. I don’t want you anymore.” Logan froze. He searched my face for a hint of a bluff, a sign that I was just throwing a tantrum. We’d been legally married for five years; this wedding was supposed to be a formality, a celebration of a life already built. But he didn’t realize that I had spent those five years waiting for this one day. As he stepped toward me, Melanie caught his arm. “Diana, I know you’ve been resentful since the wedding planning started,” she whimpered. “But don’t do this. Don’t embarrass Logan just to get attention. It’s your big day. Don’t ruin it.” Logan’s eyes turned icy. If there was one thing he hated, it was feeling manipulated. “You’re the one who told me to look out for her, Diana,” he snapped. “You said she was alone in this city, that she had no one. Now you’re turning into a paranoid shrew? You’re making us look like a joke. Think about the family’s reputation!” Suddenly, the narrative shifted. I was the villain. I could feel the judgmental weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. Logan’s grandfather, who had remained silent until now, spoke with a gravelly, authoritative venom. “I knew a girl from a family like yours would be trouble. Security! Escort her out and deal with this insolence.” Logan looked at his grandfather, then at me. He chose silence. As the security guards moved in to grab my arms, my father surged forward. He swung a mahogany chair at the guards. “You stay the hell away from my daughter!” But with a single nod from Logan, the guards overpowered him, dragging him toward the exit. “Tom, look at her,” Logan said, his voice devoid of warmth. “She’s out of control. We have standards in this family. We won’t let her spread these lies.” 2 The first blow from the heavy wooden ruler across my back sent me sprawling to the floor. It was a custom-made piece, used for “disciplinary” purposes in the family’s old-school tradition. By the third strike, I felt the warm, sticky bloom of blood soaking through the white silk of my wedding gown. Involuntary tears blurred my vision. I remembered when Logan had taken ten strikes for me, years ago, after we eloped behind his grandfather’s back. He had emerged pale, drenched in sweat, but he had smiled at me through the pain. “Anything to be with you,” he’d whispered. He knew exactly how this felt. And yet, he was letting them do it to me. The dress felt like it was made of lead, heavy with blood. I crawled toward him, clutching at the hem of his trousers, my voice a broken rasp. “Please… take me to the hospital.” Before the words fully left my lips, Melanie gasped and collapsed into his arms. “Logan, my head… everything is spinning. I think I’m going to pass out.” Logan caught her instantly, his face a mask of concern. He didn’t look down at me again. The room cleared out. The “family” business was done. By the time a sympathetic catering staff member got me to the ER, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctors treated the lacerations on my back. As soon as I could hold a pen, I called my lawyer. “Draft the papers,” I said. “Everything. I want out.” I fell into a heavy, medicated sleep, only to be jolted awake by a frantic call from my father. “Diana, you have to get here! A construction crew… they’re at the house. They say they’re tearing the old place down!” Before I could answer, a sickening thud echoed through the line, followed by my father’s agonizing scream. Then, silence. The world tilted. I ripped the IV out of my arm and threw on my clothes, racing to my childhood home. I found him pinned beneath the treads of a bulldozer. He was gasping for air, his voice a thready whisper. “Diana… don’t… don’t beg him. Not for me.” The ambulance took him away, but the crew didn’t stop. They kept moving, iron and steel grinding against the history of my life. “Stop! Who authorized this?!” I screamed. The foreman stepped forward and shoved me back. “Move it, lady. Mr. Logan personally called this in. We have the permits.” I fumbled through my bag, pulling out our marriage certificate. “I’m his wife! I’m telling you to stop!” The crew gathered around, looking at the paper. Then, a roar of laughter erupted. “You’re really trying to pull a fast one with a fake document?” the foreman mocked. “There’s no seal on this, lady. It’s a prop. Get lost before we call the cops on you.” I looked down at the certificate. He was right. There was no state seal. No official signature. I remembered Melanie’s post. “My husband.” She meant legally. In the eyes of the law, I was a ghost. I was a laughingstock. I waited outside the operating room like a hollowed-out shell. I called Logan, my hand shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. “How could you?” I sobbed. “Why are you tearing down my father’s house? Your people… they crushed him, Logan. He’s in surgery!” Logan’s voice came back as a vicious snarl. “Then he shouldn’t have gone around telling people Melanie was a mistress. He shouldn’t have posted her private photos online!” “What are you talking about?” “You want the medical bills paid? Fine. Go on a livestream. Apologize. Tell the world you lied because you were jealous of Melanie. Do it now, or don’t expect a cent from me.” I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. I didn’t say a word. But he wasn’t done. Within the hour, I found my bank accounts frozen. I was penniless. I tried to apply for emergency loans, for jobs, for anything—but every door slammed in my face. A sympathetic HR manager eventually showed me why. My name was tagged in a private industry database: History of instability. Violent tendencies. Narcissistic personality disorder. He had once promised to make me the happiest woman in the world. Now, he was grinding me into the dirt to make me bow to Melanie. The hospital’s billing department called every twenty minutes. The pressure was a physical weight on my chest. Finally, I broke. I agreed to the public apology. Logan’s voice on the phone was smug. “I knew you’d see reason. It’s your father’s fault, really. He brought this on himself. Be a good girl, Diana. Or watch him die.” He flicked a gold credit card against the camera during our video call. “I’m holding the check for his surgery right here.” He used to say I’d never have to worry about money again. He was right. He’d made sure I was completely dependent on his mercy. 3 I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. As I stood before the bank of microphones at the press conference, Melanie stepped forward with a look of faux-sympathy, reaching out to steady me. “Diana, I never wanted it to come to this,” she whispered, loud enough for the mics to catch. “But your father’s lies… the things he said about me being a ‘homewrecker’… the photos… I’ve been living in a nightmare. If we’re truly sisters, you’ll do the right thing.” The word sisters made my stomach turn. I wanted to reach out and tear her throat out. Before I could speak, Logan’s voice cut through the room, cool and detached. “She’s right, Jo. You gave those photos to your father, didn’t you? It’s only fair that you give Melanie a sincere, public apology. In fact, maybe you should show everyone the kind of ‘remorse’ you expect from others.” I stared at him, my heart stopping. “Are you insane? Logan, I’m your wife!” The flashes from the cameras were blinding. In the harsh light, Logan looked like a stranger. “You’re wasting time,” he said. “And your father is running out of it.” The reporters surged forward, hungry for the fall of the “Golden Girl.” Melanie played the protector. “Give her a moment, please. She’s going to apologize.” I looked at her beautiful, lying face and spat on the floor at her feet. The room gasped. Logan’s expression darkened into something murderous. Suddenly, my smartwatch chimed—a notification from my father’s home security system back at the old house. My neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was calling. “Diana! Some men are here—they’re auctioning off the furniture right off the lawn! They’re saying the house is sold!” I looked up at Logan, my eyes wide. “You’re selling the house? My father will die if he loses that place.” “Apologize,” Logan said. “And I’ll stop the sale. It’s just a few words, Diana. Don’t let your pride kill your father.” A jagged, hysterical laugh broke from me. With numb fingers, I began to unbutton my coat. I let the cold air hit my skin. I didn’t care who was watching anymore. I didn’t care about the cameras. I knelt on the hard floor. I pressed my forehead against the linoleum until it bled. “I. Am. Sorry.” When I looked up, blood was trickling into my eyes. “Are we done?” Melanie couldn’t hide the glint of triumph in her eyes. Logan, however, looked momentarily stunned. He cleared his throat and tossed his blazer and a credit card at my feet. “Stop making a scene. Put your clothes on. This will cover the hospital bills.” I kicked the card away. I didn’t look back as I bolted out of the room. As he watched me run, a flicker of unease finally crossed Logan’s face. But Melanie was already pulling at his sleeve. “The interviewers are waiting, Logan.” “Right.” He turned to the cameras. And then, the world exploded. A massive boom shook the building, shattering the windows behind us.

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When I finally came to on the studio floor, the carnage surrounding me and the rhythmic throbbing in my body told me everything I needed to know: last night wasn’t a fever dream. It was a massacre. I called my father. When he picked up, my voice was a haunting, hollow thing—shatterproof and terrifyingly calm. “Dad,” I said. “They broke your daughter.” The night before the National Fine Arts Competition, the man I had loved for five years, Parker Prescott, told me he needed a live model for his final piece. He’d looked at me with that signature warmth, the kind that usually felt like home, and asked me to strip. I let my guard down. I drank the glass of water he handed me, and then the world began to blur at the edges. I remember the echoes of laughter. Harsh, masculine voices. They were commenting on my body, their words slick with a grease that made me want to claw my skin off. Then, a familiar voice drifted from above. Parker’s voice, breezy and dismissive. “Don’t call her that. She’s not really my ‘girlfriend.’ She’s just… available.” His childhood friend, Tinsley Price, let out a high-pitched, melodic giggle. “She’s a utility, Parker. Her only value is helping me win this competition. Let’s be honest.” Through the hazy scratching of charcoal on canvas, Tinsley sounded triumphant. “This was brilliant, Parker. Tomorrow’s trophy is already mine.” They moved me. They posed my limp, unconscious body in ways that were designed to strip me of every ounce of humanity. Just before the darkness took me completely, I heard Parker’s final instruction to the others in the room: “Don’t rush it. Make sure Tinsley sees the movement. She needs the anatomical detail.” In that moment, the girl who loved Parker Prescott died. I wasn’t just betrayed; I was a prop in their sick game of ego and ambition. The cold reality acted like smelling salts. I dragged myself up. I was going to burn their world down. … I had just hung up with my father when footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the half-open studio door. Parker and Tinsley. They were walking side-by-side, their conversation bleeding through the crack in the door with a casual cruelty that made my stomach turn. “Parker, honestly, how many guys showed up last night? I was so into the zone, I lost count,” Tinsley asked, her voice dripping with a perverse kind of curiosity. Parker let out a low, nonchalant chuckle, the kind he used to save for jokes over Sunday brunch. “Six or seven, I think. I didn’t exactly take attendance.” My fingers dug into the paint-stained floorboards. My nails caught on a splinter, drawing a thin line of blood, but I felt nothing. Six or seven. Those three words were a rusted saw, slowly hacking through my nervous system. “One of them was a bit of a prick, though,” Parker added, his tone teasing. “He wouldn’t leave until he’d taken a dozen photos and some video. Said he wanted a souvenir.” Tinsley gasped, though it sounded more like a thrill than a shock. “My god. And you just let him?” Parker gave a dark, throaty laugh. “I didn’t let him do it for free. I charged him ninety-nine cents on Venmo.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Ninety-nine cents. My sanctity, my dignity, five years of shared secrets and whispered promises—in the eyes of the man I loved, I was worth less than a song on iTunes. Parker’s voice drifted in again, light as a feather: “By now, that video is probably circulating through the entire frat row. She’s a viral sensation.” Right on cue, my phone began to vibrate violently against the floor. Notification after notification. A relentless, demonic hum. Horrific messages from unknown numbers, screenshots of my own face in states of vulnerability I couldn’t bear to look at. Tears hit the floorboards, silent and heavy. Five years ago, we were in the university library when a creep tried to take a photo up my skirt. Parker had turned into a literal lion. He’d smashed the guy’s phone and held me while I shook, whispering into my hair, “Jade, I’ve got you. No one gets to look at you like that. No one.” And now, he was the one who had peeled me like fruit and offered me to the world. Suddenly, a loud bang shattered the silence. The studio door was kicked open. A wave of students flooded in, a sea of glowing phone screens held aloft like torches. The camera flashes were blinding, rhythmic stabs of light. “Holy shit, it is Jade Lancaster!” “Those photos are real! Damn, Jade, you acted like such a saint on campus. Who knew you were this much of a slut behind closed doors?” I scrambled for a piece of discarded drop cloth, desperately trying to shroud my broken body. I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled. The crowd parted. Parker walked in, Tinsley clinging to his arm. He looked down at me, clapping his hands slowly to quiet the mob. “Relax, everyone. This is just our new life model. She’s here for the sake of art.” “Take your photos, do your sketches,” he said, his eyes empty of any warmth I recognized. “There’s enough of her to go around today.” I looked up at him, my eyes burning a raw, jagged red. My voice came out as a broken rasp. “Parker… why? Why would you do this to me?” He glanced at me as if I were a stain he’d forgotten to bleach. “Tinsley said you had the best lines for her piece. What’s the big deal? Art requires sacrifice, Jade. You should be honored to be part of a masterpiece.” Slap. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent studio. My palm stung, my whole body vibrating with a rage so pure it felt like electricity. “You’re a monster, Parker. A goddamn animal.” The room went dead still. Parker’s head stayed turned for a second. He licked the inside of his cheek where his teeth had cut his skin, and when he looked back at me, his expression was murderous. “Playing the victim now?” He grabbed my jaw, his grip so tight I heard the bone groan. “This was for Tinsley. It was for her career. You think anyone is ever going to want your used-up body after today anyway?” He leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper intended only for me. “I knew about that night in the alley years ago, Jade. You were already ‘ruined’ by those thugs back then. Why do you care if a few more people see the goods now?” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. I froze. That night in the alley… the darkest nightmare of my life. Parker was the one who had pulled me out of the wreckage. He told me it didn’t matter. He told me he didn’t care about my past, that I was his “Golden Girl,” his most precious treasure. He hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t forgiven it. He had just tucked that blade away, waiting for the perfect moment to twist it into my heart. The crowd erupted into whispers. “Wait, she was a victim of a gang thing before?” “Explains why she’s so comfortable being the campus plaything now. Once a slut, always a slut.” The insults hit me like physical blows. I was drowning. “No… that’s not… it wasn’t like that…” I opened my mouth to tell them I’d been drugged, but Tinsley stepped forward, her voice like honeyed poison. “Alright, Parker, let’s not waste time.” She smirked at me, her eyes dancing with malice. “Everyone, get your easels ready. This model only cost us ninety-nine cents, so let’s make sure we get our money’s worth.” A roar of laughter followed. A guy from the back of the room stepped forward, licking his lips. “If it’s for art, we need to make sure we’re seeing the real thing, right? Maybe she’s wearing a bodysuit. I should probably do a physical check.” He reached out, his hand diving toward the cloth I was clutching. I screamed, shrinking back. Just as his fingers grazed me, Parker’s hand shot out, catching the guy’s wrist. Parker frowned. “Stick to the brushes, man. No touching the display.” The student grumbled but backed off, his eyes still devouring me. I couldn’t take it. I turned, trying to bolt for the door, but Tinsley caught a handful of my hair. She yanked me back with a force that nearly tore my scalp. “Jade, honey,” she whispered in my ear, “you’ve been paid. You have to perform.” She held up her phone, showing the $0.99 transaction Parker had sent to me. Then, her voice dropped to a hiss. “You really thought you could compete with me for that scholarship? This is what happens to girls who get in my way.” She grabbed two lengths of industrial rope from an easel and lashed my wrists to the metal rack in the center of the room. I was displayed. Exposed. A specimen. I looked through the crowd, searching for Parker. I begged him with my eyes, my tears a torrential downpour. He just turned his back on me and started sharpening Tinsley’s pencils. For three hours, I was a ghost. I endured a thousand leering eyes and a thousand filthy critiques. When it was finally over and the room emptied, I collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. I threw on some discarded clothes and walked back to my dorm like a zombie. The first thing I did was take the PEP (Post-Exposure Prophylaxis) pills I had hidden in my drawer, swallowing them dry with the salt of my own tears. My roommate walked in, immediately covering her nose. “Ugh, you smell like sex and cheap gin. Gross.” She pulled out her phone and started recording. “I’m posting this on the campus board. ‘The Fall of Saint Jade.’ Everyone needs to see how dirty you really are.” I ignored her. I had one singular focus. Today was the submission deadline. If my painting won, I’d get the full international scholarship. I could leave. I could escape Parker and this hellhole. But when I stumbled into the storage locker where my masterpiece was kept… my heart stopped. Three months of my soul. A painting my professor had called “transcendent.” It was gone. In its place was a canvas drenched in black tar-like paint. It had been shredded with a knife, and across the ruins, someone had scrawled the word “WHORE” in thick, crimson acrylic. I broke. I fell to my knees and wailed. Only two people had the key to this climate-controlled locker. Me. And Parker. With shaking hands, I dialed his number. He picked up after a dozen rings, his voice heavy with boredom. “What now?” “You destroyed my painting, didn’t you?” I screamed, the sound tearing my throat. Parker let out a soft, mocking huff. “Yeah. I did.” “Consider it a lesson. You weren’t a very ‘good girl’ last night. You moved too much, and Tinsley had to fix her lines so many times her wrist started aching. This is your punishment. Forget the scholarship, Jade. Try again next year.” He hung up. I stared at the dead screen, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. Last year, when I stayed up all night painting for a mid-term, my wrist had flared up with tendonitis. Parker had stayed awake with me, applying warm compresses and massaging my hand, telling me my hands were “made for creating miracles” and that he’d never let anything hurt them. Now, he’d destroyed my future because Tinsley’s wrist was “sore.” The last thread of my sanity snapped. I stood up and ran toward the main gallery hall like a hunted animal. The hall was packed. Tinsley was surrounded by a sycophantic circle of admirers. On the main easel sat the piece she’d finished last night—a haunting, hyper-realistic painting of my own violation. “Tinsley, the lighting! The raw emotion! This is it,” someone gushed. “The gold medal is yours.” Tinsley touched her throat, feigning modesty. “Honestly, it was all about the model. She was… very vocal. Her screams really helped me find the right aesthetic.” The crowd chuckled knowingly. “Tinsley! You bitch!” I charged through the crowd like a wounded beast. I tackled her, my fingers seeking her throat. She shrieked, her heels skidding on the marble, and we went down hard. “My leg! Parker!” she wailed. Before I could land a second blow, a massive force threw me backward. Parker was there, his face a mask of rage. He backhanded me so hard my vision went white and blood bloomed in my mouth. He gathered Tinsley into his arms, looking at me with the kind of coldness you reserve for a rabid dog. “Apologize to her. Now,” he commanded. I spat blood at his shoes. “I’d rather die. You ruined my life! You ruined my art!” “No apology?” Parker’s eyes turned predatory. “Fine. You love art so much? You think your ‘talent’ makes you special?” He stepped toward me, his shadow swallowing me whole. “Let’s see how you paint with a broken hand.” He looked at two of his frat brothers standing nearby. “Break it.” They didn’t hesitate. They grabbed a heavy, solid oak easel. They pinned me to the floor, my right arm stretched out against the cold stone. CRACK. The sound of my bones splintering was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. “AAAAAHHH!” The scream that left my lungs didn’t sound human. The pain was a white-hot iron searing through my brain. I writhed on the floor, soaked in a cold, agonizing sweat. Parker watched me with total indifference. I bit my lip until it bled, using my left hand to fumbled for my phone in my pocket. “Parker… this is a crime. I’m calling the police…” My thumb hovered over the digits. Parker lunged, snatched the phone, and shattered it against the wall. “You don’t get it, do you, Jade?” He sneered. “You fucked up. You attacked Tinsley. Now you want to play the law card?” He grabbed the collar of my shirt. Rrip. He tore the fabric down the middle, exposing me once again to the room full of spectators. He pulled out his own phone and took several high-resolution photos of my battered, exposed body. “Still want to act tough?” He shook the phone. “I’ll sell these to the highest bidder for ninety-nine cents. Given your performance last night, I’m sure there’s a long line of buyers.” I closed my eyes, the tears falling like broken glass. I had nothing left. No fight. No hope. Five years ago, in that alley, Parker had taken a knife for me. He’d bled for me and told me I was safe. And now, he was the one delivering the killing blow. Tinsley stepped forward then, clutching a small, greyish-white ceramic urn. She leaned against Parker’s shoulder, her voice saccharine. “Parker, it’s okay if she won’t apologize. I found something better for my final touch. I read in a journal that using human bone ash in pigment creates the most exquisite, haunting shades of white.” She rattled the urn. My heart stopped. My blood felt like it was flowing backward. I knew that pattern. I knew that urn. The year before, I had gotten pregnant. Parker said we weren’t ready, that our careers came first. I’d had the procedure, heartbroken, and I’d kept the tiny, unformed remains after cremation in that specific urn. “Parker!” I shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated soul-death. “You told me… you said you buried our baby on the South Hill!” Parker looked at my frantic state. A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a callous shrug. “I did bury it. But Tinsley wanted to use that spot for a garden project, so she dug it up. It’s just a jar of ash, Jade. Don’t be dramatic.” The world collapsed. He had cried with me after the surgery. He had sworn to protect that memory. And now, he was letting this woman use our child as paint thinner. “Give him back to me!” I lunged with a strength born of pure madness. I clawed at Tinsley, my nails leaving jagged red tracks across her cheek. “My face! Parker, she’s scarring me!” Tinsley screamed. Parker’s boot caught me square in the stomach, sending me flying back. He snatched the urn from Tinsley’s hands. “You want it so bad?” His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a snarl. He pointed to the open window three stories up. “Go get it!” He threw the urn. It arched through the air, a grey blur against the sky, and vanished out the window. “NO!” That was my life. That was the only thing I had left to live for. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I vaulted over the windowsill and threw myself into the empty air after it. As I fell, the last thing I heard was Parker’s voice, suddenly high and terrified, screaming my name. “JADE!”

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Everyone tells me I’m the luckiest man alive for marrying a woman like Margot. They see the devoted wife, the powerhouse CEO, the woman who stands by her husband’s bedside with red-rimmed eyes. They don’t know that those same hands—the ones currently smoothing my hair—are the ones that systematically destroyed mine. It happened the day the “prodigal son” returned. Margot’s eyes had been a manic, bloodshot red as she swung the heavy paperweight. She didn’t stop until my hands were a pulp of shredded skin and splintered bone. The sound of my own skeleton snapping is a rhythm that still plays in my nightmares. Her tears had fallen directly into the open, weeping wounds on my wrists. She kept whispering, “Don’t hate me, Gideon. Please, don’t hate me,” like it was a prayer that could undo the carnage. Afterward, she shifted into a terrifyingly efficient caregiver. She paced the hospital halls, barking orders at the nation’s top orthopedic surgeons, her voice trembling with a faux-desperate humility. “He’s the star of the cardiothoracic department,” she pleaded with the Chief of Surgery, her knuckles white. “Please, save his hands. I don’t care about the cost. Just make him functional again.” She stayed by my bed every hour of every day, a saint in designer silk, performing a tireless act of penance. “If you can’t hold a scalpel, Gideon,” she whispered one night when she thought I was asleep, “then Timothy can finally take his rightful place as the best surgeon in the country. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I’ll take care of you forever.” I didn’t even look at her. It was almost funny, in a dark, twisted way. She really thought that by breaking my hands, she could hand my talent to Timothy. She forgot one thing: Timothy was a hack. Even with me out of the way, he’d never be more than a shadow. 1 I kept my mouth shut. There was no point in arguing with a fanatic. For the next week, Margot cleared her schedule. She walked away from billion-dollar mergers to wash my face and spoon-feed me broth. I caught the nurses whispering in the hall, their voices thick with envy. “Gideon Wayne hit the jackpot with that woman. You don’t see devotion like that anymore.” I felt a cold, sharp laugh echoing in my chest. Was it guilt driving her? Or was it the thrill of the “compensation” she planned to provide for the rest of my crippled life? On the seventh day, her closest friend, Tinsley, came to visit. She dropped off a basket of overpriced fruit, offered a few perfunctory words of sympathy, and then pulled Margot toward the doorway. The room was deathly silent, making their “hushed” conversation vibrate against the walls. “Margot, you’ve pushed three major acquisitions for this. The board is breathing down your neck to get back to the office, and you haven’t slept in days.” “I can’t leave him yet,” Margot replied. “You love him, I get it,” Tinsley countered, her voice dropping. “But if you wanted to keep him home, a simple accident would have sufficed. Did you really have to go that far? To actually break the bone and tendon?” Margot’s voice turned icy, the warmth of the “devoted wife” vanishing instantly. “His hands had to be destroyed completely. It’s the only way to ensure Timothy’s seat at the top is secure. Gideon stole Timothy’s life, his legacy as the Wayne heir, and the prestige that comes with it. Timothy cares about that surgical chair more than anything. I’m just protecting what belongs to him.” Timothy. The pretender. The man who had occupied my place in the Wayne family for twenty years while I grew up in the back of a dusty laundromat with people who treated me like an unwanted chore. When the DNA tests finally revealed the truth and I was brought back to the Wayne estate, I was a scrawny, awkward kid with defensive eyes. Standing next to the polished, charismatic Timothy, I looked like a mistake. Margot had been the one to approach me. “The Wayne-Cross marriage pact was always intended for the true heir,” she’d said, taking my hand. “Now that the real Mr. Wayne is back, the engagement should return to its rightful owner.” I had been so moved by her, so desperate for a shred of genuine affection, that I swore I’d spend my life being worthy of her. Looking back, it was all a game. Timothy had probably pissed her off by choosing a year-long backpacking trip through Europe over their wedding date. I was just a pawn in their lovers’ spat. But then I worked. I studied until my eyes bled. I discovered I had a gift—a steadiness in my hands that Timothy never possessed. Within years, I was the one the medical journals were calling a prodigy. I became the “star” that outshone the original “sun.” If the tool becomes more brilliant than the master, it has to be broken. She couldn’t kill me; my parents were too consumed by “survivor’s guilt” for the years I spent in poverty. If I died, Timothy would be the first suspect, and he’d lose the Wayne inheritance forever. So, she took my hands instead. She wanted to turn me into a dull, quiet accessory. But she made a mistake. She thought a man who had clawed his way out of the gutters of a nameless town would just lie down and be slaughtered. “With the Wayne fortune and the Cross family backing him, he can spend the rest of his life as a wealthy socialite husband,” I heard her tell Tinsley. “It’s a good life.” That sentence stung worse than the fractures. My foster parents had treated me like livestock. To change my fate, I had worked two jobs at greasy diners while studying under streetlights. I had built a kingdom out of nothing, only for her to burn it down because Timothy felt insecure. I stopped listening. My mind, however, was clearer than it had ever been. This woman had to go. A few minutes later, Margot crept back in. She tucked the blanket around me with a touch as light as a feather. “Gideon,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of you forever.” You already ended me forever, I thought. Now it’s my turn. 2 Margot became even more suffocating as the days passed. She barely left my side, her phone tossed carelessly onto the nightstand, ignored. In a different life, I would have been moved. Now, I just felt the chill of the predator watching the prey. She wasn’t worried about my health; she was monitoring the damage. She was terrified I might recover enough to threaten Timothy again, or that I’d cut a deal with the doctors behind her back. I played the part. I was silent, passive, and let her do everything. I let her wash me, dress me, and watch every painful bandage change. The pain was a living thing—hot, throbbing, and visceral. But beneath the agony, my plan was taking root. A month later, the lead surgeon finally unwrapped the final layers. What lay beneath wasn’t a pair of hands. It was a twisted map of angry, purple scars and distorted joints. Margot’s eyes welled up. She dropped to her knees by the bed, clutching my lifeless fingers. “Gideon, I’m so sorry…” I looked at her, my stomach churning. You did this. You did this so a mediocre boy could play God in an OR. Timothy had been a “rising star” since he was nineteen, mostly because he had the Wayne name and the Cross money buying his way into research papers. He had five percent of the family company handed to him for simply existing. I, on the other hand, was the “Research Machine.” I was the doctor who never slept because I remembered the way my grandmother died of heart failure in a cramped apartment because we couldn’t afford the specialist. I didn’t want to be a trophy; I wanted to be a savior. When the Waynes brought me back, they admired my grit but didn’t know how to handle my intensity. Timothy had hugged me then, saying, “Brother, our research interests align. If you ever need help, just ask.” I believed him. I shared my data. I shared my theories. And he published them under his name while I was busy in the lab. When I found out, Margot had stepped in. She told me she’d use every resource her family had to make me the greatest surgeon in history. She promised me the top of the mountain. On our wedding night, her passion was frightening. I thought it was love. Now I realize I was just a tool she was using to make Timothy jealous, to punish him for leaving her. She played the perfect wife for two years. She helped me reach the peak. But now that Timothy was coming home from his “soul-searching” travels, she decided the mountain belonged to him again. I was being retired. But I hated being “kept” more than anything in this world. My foster parents had “kept” me like a dog. Margot wanted to keep me like a bird with clipped wings. 3 Timothy returned two weeks later. I saw it on the morning news. The hospital held a massive gala for him. The headlines were nauseating: The Return of the Prodigy: Dr. Timothy Wayne Back to Save Lives. The hospital gossip shifted instantly. The nurses who used to pity “poor Gideon” were now whispering that the “true master” had returned. “Gideon was good, but Timothy has that natural flair,” I heard one say. “I heard Margot was always supposed to be Timothy’s. Gideon just moved in while the seat was warm. Now the real drama begins…” Margot walked in just as the whispers died down. She snapped at the nursing station, her voice like a whip. “Is this a hospital or a tabloid office? If I hear my husband’s name in your mouths again, you’ll be looking for work in another state.” The hallway went silent. Margot entered my room, softening instantly. She sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t listen to them, Gideon. I love you. Only you.” I nodded slowly. I didn’t say a word. Her heart had never been mine. After we married, she used to love kissing my hands. I thought it was a fetish for my talent. Now I knew she was just measuring the threat. She pulled out a warm salt pack and placed it over my scarred knuckles. “The doctor says heat helps the circulation.” The door pushed open. It was Timothy. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly tousled in that “effortless” way that cost two hundred dollars at a salon. He looked vibrant, tan, and utterly unburdened. His face went through a rehearsed series of emotions: shock, then devastating grief. He practically fell to his knees at the foot of my bed. “Gideon… brother. How did this happen?” His tears were perfect. They didn’t even ruin his bronzer. He looked like a tragic hero in a prestige drama. I looked at him and remembered Margot’s words: Only if you can’t hold a scalpel can Timothy be the best. Was he here to mourn me, or to verify the kill? “Brother, why won’t you speak?” Timothy sobbed. “Do you hate me for not being here to save you?” I shook my head. “I’ll do anything,” he continued, clutching the bedsheets. “I’ll spend every cent I have to find a way to fix this.” “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice raspy from disuse. He reached for my hand, but I flinched away. “You should go, Timothy.” His face flickered—a moment of genuine annoyance. “You’re kicking me out?” “Our parents miss you,” I said. That was his weak spot. He craved their adoration. Then his career. Then Margot. Margot walked him to the door. When she came back, she watched me carefully. “Gideon, Timothy had nothing to do with this. Don’t take your anger out on him. If you have to hate someone, hate me.” I gave a non-committal hum. She relaxed, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes. Guilt? No. Just the satisfaction of a plan coming together. She didn’t want love; she wanted a husband who matched her stature, and a lover who made her feel like a queen. She wanted the “shining” version of Timothy, and she wanted me to be the silent, grateful ghost in the background. 4 After Timothy’s visit, Margot’s “devotion” hit a fever pitch. She flew in specialists from Germany and Tokyo. “I will fix this, Gideon. When you’re better, we’ll go to conferences together. I’ll be your hands. We’ll be a power couple.” She said it so often I almost started to believe the lie. I looked at her, finally speaking more than a sentence. “Margot, can you do me a favor? Can you look after Timothy? He’s my brother, and I don’t want him to struggle while I’m… like this.” I looked down at my mangled hands, letting my voice crack. “I can’t be the man he needs anymore. Or the man you need.” The joy in her eyes was almost obscene. She tried to hide it, but her smile twitched. “Whatever makes you happy, Gideon. I’ll do anything.” I looked her in the eyes. “If Timothy hadn’t gone on that trip, he would have been the one to marry you. Now I’m just a burden. I’m an embarrassment to you.” Margot’s face went pale. “Enough!” she snapped, then lowered her voice. “Gideon, don’t think like that. Timothy was a placeholder. I didn’t love him then.” Liar. If she didn’t love him, why did she break me for him? She knelt before me, looking like a lost child. “Please, believe me.” I just nodded. She let out a long, shaky breath, convinced that even though she’d ruined my life, I was still her loyal, pathetic lapdog. To fulfill her “promise” to me, she started spending more time with Timothy. She helped him prep for his return gala, accompanied him to high-society fundraisers, and soon, they were all over the tabloids. The CEO and the Surgeon: A Match Made in Heaven? The hospital gossip grew cruel. “He crawled his way into that family, and now that the real heir is back, he’s discarded like trash.” “He thought he could be a star. Look at him now. Can’t even tie his own shoes.” I stayed silent. I didn’t argue. The harder they hit now, the more they’d bleed later. On the day of my discharge, Timothy came to pick me up. Margot was at the Wayne estate, busy “decorating” a private wing for my recovery. “Gideon, my keynote symposium is next week,” Timothy said, helping me into the car. “You’ll come, right? It would mean the world to me.” “No,” I said flatly. Timothy’s eyes went red instantly. “Are you still blaming me because your hands didn’t heal?” I looked at him until he started to fidget. “Margot broke my hands, Timothy. She did it so I couldn’t compete with you. She did it to secure your ‘top surgeon’ title.” He froze. It wasn’t shock on his face. It was a terrifying, subtle ripple of triumph and ego. Before he could speak, I laughed. “I’m kidding. Why do you look so serious?” Timothy exhaled, a ragged, relieved sound. On the day of the symposium, the auditorium was packed with the elite of the medical world and every major news outlet in the city. I wasn’t supposed to be there. But as Timothy stood at the podium, bathed in a spotlight, I walked onto the stage. Timothy’s jaw dropped. I didn’t give him a second to recover. I hit the remote for the projector. The flashbulbs began to explode like gunfire. The room erupted.

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The exact moment my marriage to Vicky shattered wasn’t a screaming match. It was the moment she looked me dead in the eye, grabbed her ex-boyfriend by the wrist, and pulled him into a hotel room. Her mouth had curved into a glacial, mocking smile. You’ve been suspicious for so long, she had said, her voice dripping with venom. Why don’t you see for yourself? Within seconds, the heavy, muffled sounds of ragged breathing and undeniable intimacy bled through the heavy oak door. Standing in that carpeted hallway, I felt something inside my chest quietly and permanently snap. It was over. From that day forward, I stopped being jealous. I stopped picking fights. Much later, when a prominent gossip radio show blared a rumor about her and Wesley Mercer, she lunged for the dial, snapping it off before frantically turning to me to explain. I just looked at her, my voice perfectly level. “I know it’s fake.” But she kept talking, kept justifying, terrified that I was misunderstanding the situation. I couldn’t help but laugh softly. I patted her shoulder, a gesture devoid of any real warmth. “Relax,” I told her. “I’ll keep your secret. I won’t let your family know.” The words had barely left my mouth when she slammed on the brakes, the color draining entirely from her face. 1. The affection I held for Vicky Hastings died the moment she walked into that hotel room with Wesley Mercer. So, when I began hearing their names tethered together again—people in my periphery gushing about how they were a match made in heaven—I didn’t experience the mental breakdown I once would have expected. Wesley Mercer was a prominent lifestyle influencer. He had built a massive following on TikTok and Instagram by romanticizing his life as an Ivy League grad and a Stanford alum. A month ago, Vicky made her debut on his feed. It was a Live Photo. Just a brief, two-second flash. But in that fraction of a moment, Vicky’s unmistakable reflection was caught in the glass of a coffee table, right next to a crumpled, glaringly obvious box of Durex. The internet works fast. Within hours, sleuths had identified the woman in the reflection. The Live Photo rocketed to the top of the trending pages. Wesley’s comment section was a war zone of excitement: [Wes, tell us the truth! Are you finally off the market?] [Wait, is that the CEO of Vanguard Holdings?] [Holy shit, the woman in the reflection looks like a total boss.] When I saw the post, I froze in the middle of my living room. That bright blue box of condoms screamed the nature of their relationship. A creeping, icy numbness spread through my veins. When Vicky finally came home, I waited in the dark for an explanation. She offered me exactly four words, tossing her keys onto the entryway table. “It’s just a misunderstanding.” When I didn’t say anything, she let out a short, irritated exhale. “I’ve already had my PR team scrub the trending tags. It’s handled.” After that, Wesley’s name haunted my existence. I heard the nurses gossiping about him during my shifts at the hospital. The algorithm, cruel and precise, force-fed me every single one of his updates. The rumors of their rekindled romance only burned brighter, consuming the internet’s imagination. 2. The following weekend, Vicky told me she was going on a business trip. I took the opportunity to drive up to a luxury spa resort in the Catskills with a friend. I needed the quiet. Instead, I found Vicky and Wesley. I saw them by the outdoor heated pools. Vicky was in a sleek white bikini, her perfectly toned shoulders draped in an oversized, expensive-looking men’s blazer. Wesley stood next to her in a linen button-down, the collar unbuttoned deep, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked completely at ease, exuding a lazy, magnetic confidence. Walking side by side, they looked like they had stepped straight out of a Vogue editorial. Vicky leaned in, tilting her head to catch whatever he was saying. I watched them share a private, synchronized smile. Later, I saw her emerge from the changing rooms. She had swapped the swimsuit for casual white loungewear, but she was still wearing his blazer. I watched them walk into a private VIP lounge. Something ugly and impulsive hijacked my brain. I followed them. I pushed open the heavy mahogany door, the words spilling out of my mouth before my rational mind could stop them. “Vicky, did you really just bring him here to sleep with him?” The room went dead silent. I froze. They weren’t alone. A room full of executives and investors turned to stare at me. Vicky looked up. Her eyes were devoid of any emotion—just a flat, chilling indifference. She broke eye contact with me, turning her head slightly. “Davis,” she said to her assistant, her voice like ice. “Close the door.” I forgot how to breathe. The public humiliation, the sheer disdain in her dismissal, suffocated me. I had zero desire to stay at the resort. I found my friend, made an excuse, and drove back to the city immediately. Vicky didn’t return to our townhouse until late that night. Logically, I knew I had embarrassed her that morning, and a part of me felt guilty. But beneath that guilt was an uncontrollable, surging tide of betrayal. The sour, burning knot in my chest refused to be swallowed down. I cornered her in the hallway. “Are you seeing him, Vicky?” My voice shook. “What exactly is your relationship with him?” She offered me a single, sideways glance. She looked at me like I was a stranger bothering her on the subway. “What do you want our relationship to be, Simon?” she countered smoothly. “Did you even stop to think about how your little stunt today would affect his reputation moving forward?” My brain short-circuited. My heart plummeted into my stomach. Her coldness was a scalpel, sliding perfectly and painlessly between my ribs. She stared me down with those freezing eyes, then simply turned and vanished into the shadows of our living room. 3. We plunged into a bitter cold war. Vicky was suddenly “traveling for work” constantly. The final, catastrophic explosion happened at a boutique hotel owned by the Vanguard Group. I was walking past the lobby when I saw them—Vicky and Wesley, heading toward the private elevators. They pressed the button for the penthouse. I followed them up. “Vicky.” They both stopped in the middle of the plush hallway and turned to look at me. “Is this what your business trips are?” I asked, my voice echoing in the quiet space. “Booking suites with your ex-boyfriend?” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Alright,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. “You’re so convinced I’m screwing around behind your back? You want me to prove it?” She reached out, grabbed Wesley by the bicep, and physically pulled him toward the suite’s door. She swiped her keycard. The light flashed green. She turned back to me, her dark, unfathomable eyes pinning me to the floor. “Well? Aren’t you coming in to watch?” Before I could form a single word, she dragged him inside and slammed the heavy door shut. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot. My eyes burned fiercely. My throat closed up. I stood there in the empty hallway, totally stripped of my dignity. I forced my legs to move, making it to the elevator bank. Just as the doors opened, my phone vibrated. An unknown number. I answered it. No one spoke. There was only the low, heavy, ragged sound of a man exhaling into the receiver. I stood paralyzed for what felt like hours. That muffled, deeply intimate sound was the final nail in the coffin. Vicky and Wesley. They had crossed the line. A sharp, violent sting hit the bridge of my nose. My marriage was dead. I hailed a cab outside. Sitting in the back seat, watching the city lights blur by, I found myself scrolling through Wesley’s digital footprint. Internet sleuths had dug up his old, private Twitter account from his high school and undergrad days. They had pieced together a comprehensive timeline of his romance with Vicky. They had gone to the same elite prep school. They started dating right after graduation, before both heading to Columbia University, studying in different departments. Scrolling through Wesley’s old posts, I was introduced to a version of my wife I had never met. College-era Vicky remembered his obscure food allergies and kept antihistamines in her purse. She patiently followed him around the city, taking aesthetic photos for his early blog. She studied men’s fashion just to help him curate his wardrobe. She went on trips to Disney, to the Hamptons, to the beach. The account was a digital museum of teenage devotion. Every single word he wrote proved how deeply she loved him. [She literally spent hours researching streetwear just to help me pick out outfits.] [She knows my allergens better than I do. I swear she loves me more than I love myself.] Underneath that specific post, an old comment read: [Wes, I’m a freshman from your high school! Everyone at Columbia knows about you and Vicky. You guys are the sweetest. Rooting for you both!] And right beneath it, Vicky had replied: [Thank you. We’re going to take good care of each other.] Because of the viral Live Photo, the long-dead Columbia alumni forums had resurrected the topic. [Vicky and Wes were the golden couple of our graduating class. They only broke up because he moved to the West Coast for his Master’s.] [So this is the grand reunion? I’m seated.] [I have a wild theory. Wes comes from a pretty normal, middle-class family, right? Stanford tuition and living in Palo Alto isn’t cheap. Do we think the Vanguard heiress bankrolled his degree? Omg, the CEO staying in New York to fund her man’s dreams. I’m obsessed.] Every single year, Vicky took a solo trip to California. Specifically, to the Bay Area. Right where Wesley had been studying. The phone shook in my grip. I couldn’t let myself think about it anymore. 4. Ten minutes after I walked through my front door, Vicky arrived. Her clothes were perfectly neat. Not a hair was out of place. She looked completely put-together, betraying absolutely nothing. My eyes were still bloodshot. I refused to look at her. She walked up and grabbed my wrist. “Nothing happened in there,” she said. “I was just angry. I was trying to hurt you.” She was explaining. But she was entirely too late. I nodded slowly, pulling my arm free. “I know.” I didn’t speak another word to her for the rest of the night. The next morning, feeling like a ghost, I took an Uber to the hospital. By the time my shift ended, the thought of returning to that townhouse made my stomach turn. Maggie, one of the senior attending physicians, was scheduled for the night shift but was stressing about missing her daughter’s parent-teacher conference. I offered to cover for her. The ER was brutal that night. We had multiple traumas roll in. By the time I scrubbed out of the OR and checked my locker, my phone screen was lit up with over a dozen missed calls. Maggie had rushed back from the school. “Simon, thank you so much,” she breathed, handing me a paper carrier. “I heard we got hit with a multi-car pile-up and you had to jump into surgery. I brought you coffee.” I didn’t pretend to be polite. I desperately needed the caffeine. “Thanks, Maggie. I’m going to head out.” “No, thank you,” she smiled. It was nearly midnight when I finally walked out of the sliding glass doors. I hadn’t driven that morning, so I ordered another ride. Sitting in the back of the car, I finally opened my phone. Every single missed call was from Vicky. Two texts sat unread: [Where are you?] [I’m parked in the hospital garage. Waiting for you.] I typed out a response, my thumbs moving mechanically. [Don’t bother. I’m already on my way home.] She must have driven recklessly, because she walked into the house only minutes after I did. Ever since the hotel incident, my entire psychological framework regarding my wife had shifted. Seeing her standing in our foyer suddenly made me feel incredibly suffocated. We stared at each other. The air was thick with an unbearable, heavy awkwardness. Her eyes were locked onto my face, tracking my every movement. I averted my gaze. Looking at her only conjured images of Wesley Mercer. It brought back the visual of her pulling him into that suite, the phantom sound of his breathless panting against my ear, the digital archive of their golden years together. I used to come home and eagerly tell Vicky every mundane detail of my day—the patients I saw, the terrible cafeteria food I ate. I had spent years desperately trying to manufacture conversation, trying to bridge the gap between us. Now, standing in our beautiful, sterile living room, I realized I had absolutely nothing left to say to her. The house was deafeningly quiet. My mind flashed back to one of Wesley’s old posts. [She talks so much. I’m literally falling asleep and she’s still rambling about what happened in her macroeconomics seminar today.] My chest tightened painfully. Vicky finally broke the silence. Her voice was cool, ringing out in the empty hall. “Weren’t you on the day shift? Why are you back so late?” I could feel the weight of her stare on my back as I walked over to the kitchen island to pour myself a glass of water. “Yeah.” I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t be bothered to explain the shift swap. I just didn’t care enough to let her into my life anymore. When I turned around, she had closed the distance and was standing right in front of me. Her lips parted, hesitating on the edge of a sentence. I beat her to it. “I’m going to take a shower.” She swallowed whatever she was going to say. When I stepped out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, she was standing right outside the door. I jolted, startled by her presence. We made eye contact. I gave a tight, uncomfortable nod and walked past her. Lying next to her in the dark that night, my mind spun out of control. Even just sharing a mattress with her felt profoundly wrong. 5. Vicky was an early riser. By the time I finally dragged myself out of bed, she had already showered and dressed for the office. A full breakfast was laid out on the dining table. Vicky sat at the head of it, her expression unreadable and pristine. I stared at the spread, my mind slipping away again. Another memory from Wesley’s timeline. [Told her I was craving a breakfast sandwich last night. Woke up to find her in the kitchen making me one from scratch. Her cooking is actually getting decent.] A comment underneath: [You’re a lucky guy.] Wesley’s reply: [Haha, hope you find your happiness too!] “Simon.” Her voice pulled me back to reality. “Eat breakfast.” I blinked, checking my watch. “You go ahead. I’m running late.” I turned to leave, but a hand clamped down hard on my forearm. Vicky looked up at me through her dark, narrow eyelashes. Her gaze was intense, heavy with something I couldn’t place. “You have time,” she commanded softly. “I’ll drive you.” I surrendered. I sat down and forced a few bites down my throat just to placate her. “My grandmother wants us at the estate for dinner tonight,” she said, watching me chew. “I’ll come pick you up at the hospital this evening.” I nodded vaguely. “Okay.” When I stood up to leave, she pushed her chair back, mirroring my movement. Her tone brooked no argument. “I’m driving you.” This time, I didn’t yield. “No.” I pulled my arm away. “There’s no need.” I saw the faint, rare crease between her brows form, but I didn’t stay to analyze it. I grabbed my coat and walked out. 6. I grabbed lunch at the cafeteria with Maggie. Mid-bite, she brought up the upcoming fellowship exchange to Charleston, South Carolina. She sighed, stirring her soup. “Honestly, my daughter’s taking her SATs this year. I can’t just up and leave for three months,” Maggie lamented. “Most of the senior attendings have families. None of them want to go. And the newlyweds definitely aren’t volunteering.” I paused. “Maggie. If you don’t want to go, I’ll take your spot.” She stopped stirring. “Simon, are you serious?” I nodded, feeling the first real spark of clarity I’d had in weeks. “Yeah. I think it would be a great opportunity to learn from the program down there.” As soon as my lunch break ended, I marched into the department head’s office and formally submitted my name. Right as my shift ended, my phone rang. I was at the nurses’ station, and I answered it on speaker while organizing my charts. Vicky’s crisp, cool voice drifted out. Maggie and two other nurses happened to be walking by. They stopped, smirking at me with obvious amusement. “Oooh, Dr. Wright,” Maggie teased. “Is that the girlfriend?” I forced a polite smile and shook my head. “No.” “I’m in the underground parking garage,” Vicky said through the speaker. “Alright, coming down,” I replied, ending the call. The hospital garage was dimly lit. Vicky was leaning against the sleek black exterior of her G-Wagon. She wore a tailored wool coat, her silhouette tall, imposing, and elegant. As I walked toward her, Maggie suddenly emerged from the elevator bank, heading to her own car. She spotted us and her eyes lit up. She jogged over, eyebrows raised. “Simon! Is this the mystery woman?” Maggie beamed at Vicky. “She’s gorgeous.” My brain scrambled for an exit strategy. I lied without missing a beat. “No, Maggie. She’s my cousin.” I saw Vicky physically flinch. Her dark eyes snapped toward me, the temperature in them dropping to absolute zero. Maggie, oblivious to the sudden tension, lost interest in the gossip. “Oh, got it! Have a good night, you two.” I got into the passenger seat. Vicky’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She turned her body toward me. “Why did you say that?” she demanded. “I just didn’t want my coworkers to get the wrong idea,” I answered, my voice perfectly steady. She stared at me, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing her features. “The wrong idea?” She put the car in drive and pulled out of the garage. The radio was on, tuned to a popular entertainment channel. The overly enthusiastic voice of a celebrity gossip host filled the cabin. “…Vanguard CEO Vicky Hastings and influencer Wesley Mercer broke the internet again after being spotted together at a luxury Catskills resort. Hastings was seen in a tiny bikini, draped in Mercer’s tailored blazer. The sexual tension? Absolutely off the charts, folks.” Vicky lunged for the console, violently shutting the radio off. She turned to me, words tumbling out in a rush. “You were there. You know there were other corporate partners present.” I looked out the window at the passing traffic. “I know.” She tried again, her voice tightening. “Nothing happened between us.” I offered her a small, placating smile, assuming she was just doing damage control so I wouldn’t rat her out to her family. “Don’t worry, Vicky. Your secret is safe with me. I won’t say a word to your grandmother.” Vicky slammed her foot on the brake. The tires screeched. I pitched forward against the seatbelt. When I looked over, all the blood had drained from her face. She was staring at me, her eyes chaotic, a storm of emotion violently warring beneath the surface.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “438305”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I am the Chief Legal Officer for one of the largest multinational conglomerates in the Midwest. Recently, returning to Chicago from a grueling two-year overseas assignment, I decided to move into the luxury high-rise condo I’d purchased right before I left. It had been sitting completely empty since the day I closed on it. On my very first day in the apartment, I opened my mail to find a utility bill that nearly made my heart stop. Twelve thousand dollars. According to the city’s water department, my vacant apartment had somehow consumed over half a million gallons of water in the last sixty days. I immediately drove down to the municipal utility office to dispute it. I expected a clerical error, an apology, maybe a swift keystroke to fix a misplaced decimal. Instead, the district manager rolled his eyes at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s just twelve grand, lady. You can afford to live in a penthouse but you want to stiff the city?” he mocked, leaning back in his squeaky swivel chair. “The meter turns, you pay the bill. That’s how the world works.” To prove my innocence, I paid out of pocket for an independent, certified plumbing inspector to examine the hardware. The result? The city’s water meter was well past its expiration date and severely malfunctioning. But the utility office didn’t just reject the certified report. In retaliation, they sent a crew to physically cap and lock the main water valve to my home. And then came the punchline: the very next month, with my pipes literally welded shut, I received an automated text alert charging me for another hundred and fifty gallons of water. When I slapped this undeniable proof onto the district manager’s desk, he doubled down. He flat-out refused to acknowledge the error and actually threatened to sue me for the malicious theft of municipal resources. In my fifteen years of corporate litigation, I had never encountered someone so profoundly, aggressively ignorant of the law. I quietly slipped my hand into my trench coat pocket, my fingers brushing the metallic edge of the digital recorder I’d kept running. If they thought this kind of petty extortion was just business as usual, then the ten-million-dollar lawsuit I was currently drafting in my head would be perfectly reasonable, wouldn’t it? 1 I stared down at the man across the desk, my palm flat against the absurd twelve-thousand-dollar bill. “Twelve grand. Half a million gallons of water in two months,” I said, my voice dangerously low and steady. “Since you refuse to recognize the independent inspector’s report, and you refuse to admit your meter is compromised, then my ten-million-dollar lawsuit will be sitting on your desk by the end of the week.” The man blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. A loud, grating sound that bounced off the drab fluorescent-lit walls of the municipal office. “Oh, I’m shaking in my boots,” he sneered. “A ten-million-dollar lawsuit? Who do you think you are, the feds? Let me tell you something, sweetheart. My name is Gary Higgins. I run the water for this entire district.” He stood up, leaning over the laminate desk to point a stubby finger right at my face. “Go ahead and ask around. I’ve been running this show for fifteen years. You think a piece of paper from some lawyer scares me?” “If the meter runs, you pay,” Gary barked. “Your toilet probably ran for two months straight. Your HOA’s property management already checked the pressure and said the mains were fine. That makes it a ‘you’ problem. So stop standing in my office pretending you’re some hotshot legal genius.” I met his gaze, my expression turning to ice. “A running toilet doesn’t generate half a million gallons, Gary. Do you think I have Niagara Falls hidden in my guest bath?” I kept my tone perfectly level. “The property management testing the pressure only proves the main line hasn’t burst. The independent inspector’s report explicitly states your meter is internally corroded and the gears are spinning wildly out of control. You ignored a state-certified engineering report and maliciously cut off my access to a basic human necessity.” I leaned in just a fraction. “That is the textbook definition of abuse of power and extortion.” Gary curled his lip, his face twisting into a mask of pure contempt. “A certified report? Please. You can buy those things online for fifty bucks. For all I know, you forged it.” He crossed his arms over his cheap polo shirt. “Let me make this crystal clear: your little third-party inspector means jack shit to me. I go by the data in my system. You’re going to pay this bill today. I don’t care if your condo was empty for two years. Maybe you were running an illegal aquarium in there.” He scoffed, looking me up and down. “Don’t think that just because you wear a designer suit, you get to steal from the taxpayers.” He slammed his palms on the desk. “I’m telling you right now, if you don’t pay, you will never see a single drop of water in that apartment for as long as you live. And I won’t stop there. I’ll send this straight to collections. I’ll tank your credit score so fast you won’t even be able to finance a Honda Civic.” He was practically glowing with the intoxicating thrill of his own perceived power. His face screamed, What are you gonna do about it? “Go ahead and sue me,” he mocked. “I’ve got friends in high places. A lawsuit? Your little piece of paper isn’t even fit for me to wipe my ass with.” I felt a strange, chilling calm wash over me. It was the same hyper-focus I felt right before tearing a hostile witness apart on the stand. I nodded slowly, gathering my documents and sliding them back into my leather briefcase. “All right. Remember everything you just said today,” I told him softly. “Gary Higgins, isn’t it? I sincerely hope you’re still laughing this hard when the process server hands you the summons.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the dingy utility office. As the glass door swung shut behind me, I could hear Gary’s voice booming down the hallway. “Stupid bitch thinks she can play hardball with me. She’s got no idea.” I stood on the sidewalk, the crisp Chicago wind pulling at my hair. I took out my phone and dialed 911. “Yes, hello. I need to report a crime,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet street. “I am the victim of active extortion and the illegal destruction of private property.” If Gary thought he was untouchable, it was time to let the police remind him how the real world worked. 2 After hanging up, I stood on the pavement just outside the utility building, letting the chill of the afternoon settle my nerves. A few minutes later, Gary swaggered out the front doors, jingling his keys. “Still here? What, did you actually call the cops?” he jeered, pausing on the steps. “Let me give you a reality check, Val. The cops show up, they tell you it’s a civil dispute, and they tell you to take it up with me. You’re wasting your breath. Just pay the twelve grand, and maybe I’ll be nice enough to send a guy to unlock your pipes before dinner.” I didn’t even look at him. I just kept my eyes on the street. Five minutes later, a blue-and-white cruiser pulled up to the curb. Two officers stepped out, scanning the area. I walked straight toward them, retrieving my ID and the absurdly long, itemized water bill from my bag. “Officers. I’m the one who called. That man right there is Gary Higgins, the district utility manager,” I said, pointing directly at him. “My condo has been completely vacant for two years while I worked abroad. He is using fabricated data to extort me for twelve thousand dollars. When I provided state-certified proof that his equipment was faulty, he rejected it and illegally severed the water supply to my primary residence.” The older officer turned his gaze to Gary. Instantly, Gary’s arrogant sneer melted into a slimy, subservient grin as he practically jogged over. “Officers, hey, how are you? Total misunderstanding,” Gary said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “This lady is just trying to cause a scene. Her toilet had a massive leak, she racked up half a million gallons, and now she doesn’t want to foot the bill. We’re just following city protocol. Delinquent accounts get shut off. It’s the law.” The officer held up a hand to stop him. “There’s a legal procedure for shutting off residential utilities. Did you serve her with the mandatory written notices?” Gary patted his chest confidently. “Absolutely. Taped ’em right to her front door. Been there for days. Not my fault if she doesn’t read.” “That is a lie,” I cut in sharply. “I flew back into the country yesterday. My door was completely clean. And more importantly, I have a certified engineering report proving the meter is broken. On what authority is he enforcing a shut-off?” The officer glanced at the thick report in my hand, then back at Gary. “Since there’s a dispute over the physical property, we need to go to the residence and assess the situation.” Gary nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, fine by me! Let’s go. In fact, let me call Kevin Russo, the property manager over at her HOA. He’ll tell you exactly what’s going on.” He pulled out his phone and stepped away to make the call. Watching the smug tilt of his head, a cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach. Something wasn’t right. A short drive later, we pulled up to the circular driveway of my high-rise. Kevin Russo, the property manager, was already standing out front, flanked by two security guards. When he saw our little convoy approach, his face broke into an exaggerated, welcoming smile. “Gary, my man! What brings you by?” Kevin called out. Gary jerked a thumb in my direction. “This resident right here. Racked up twelve grand in water bills and swears the place has been empty for two years. Kevin, you’re running the building. You tell the officers—has this unit been empty?” Kevin slowly turned to me, giving me a long, theatrical once-over. “Officers,” Kevin said, his voice dripping with faux sympathy, “Ms. Monroe is one of our regulars. I see her coming in and out of the lobby almost every single day.” I froze. The breath hitched in my throat. “What are you talking about?” I demanded, my voice cracking like a whip. “I have been stationed at our corporate headquarters in London. I only transferred back yesterday. My furniture isn’t even fully delivered. How could I possibly be living here every day?” Kevin sighed, putting on the face of a disappointed parent. “Ms. Monroe, I understand nobody wants to pay a huge utility bill. But you can’t just lie to the police. I literally saw you carrying groceries into the elevator two days ago.” He gestured to the guards behind him. “It’s not just me. The concierge, the cleaning staff—we’ve all seen you.” The guards nodded in unison, their faces blank. I let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Wow. You got your stories straight. You’re actually committing perjury on the spot?” I turned to the officers. “They are lying. It’s incredibly easy to prove. Pull the fob swipe data for the lobby doors, or the elevator security cameras. It will prove I haven’t been here.” The older officer nodded, turning to Kevin. “Mr. Russo, we’ll need to see the security footage for her floor from the last two months.” “Of course, officer. Right this way,” Kevin said smoothly, leading us into the marble-floored security room behind the concierge desk. He tapped at the keyboard, pulling up the feed for my floor. On the screen, the grainy image of a woman in a beige trench coat appeared. She was walking down the hall toward my door. It was only from behind, catching a sliver of her profile, but the haircut, the posture, the style of the coat… it was an uncanny resemblance to me. And according to the timestamps Kevin clicked through, this woman had been showing up every few days for the last month. Gary tapped the screen with a fat finger, beaming. “Well, look at that, officers. Cameras don’t lie, do they? She’s been living here, burning through the water, and now she’s trying to cry extortion to get out of it.” I stared at the screen, my legal mind racing, dissecting the trap they had just sprung. “Look at the timestamp,” I said, pointing at the glowing numbers. “Tuesday at 3:00 PM. At that exact moment, I was sitting in a boardroom in Canary Wharf. I have corporate attendance records, flight logs, and meeting minutes to prove it. That woman is a body double. Your property management is actively manufacturing evidence.” Kevin’s face darkened. “Ms. Monroe, be careful. That sounds a lot like slander. The camera clearly shows you. Why are you still denying it?” The officer sighed, looking between me and the monitors. “Ms. Monroe, frankly, the evidence right now is not in your favor,” the officer said gently, but firmly. “We have eyewitness testimony and video footage placing you at the scene. As of right now, the utility bill is a civil breach of contract. I highly advise you take this up in civil court. But as for your claims of extortion… there’s simply no probable cause for an arrest.” I swallowed the bitter taste of frustration. I understood the officer’s position. Law enforcement operates on surface-level evidence in the moment. Until I could definitively prove the video was staged, their hands were tied. After taking a brief statement, the police left. The heavy metal door of the security room clicked shut, leaving me alone with Gary and Kevin. 3 Gary leaned back against the console, a triumphant grin plastered across his face. “I told you, Val,” he sneered. “I’ve got friends everywhere. In this zip code, if I say you used the water, you used the water.” Kevin chuckled, adjusting the lapels of his suit. “Look, Ms. Monroe, let me give you some neighborly advice. Pay the toll. Twelve grand is probably pocket change to a fancy corporate lady like you. You pay the bill, we get your water back on, and we all go back to our happy lives.” I looked at the two of them, a cold fury settling deep in my bones. “Do you really think you can play God in this city?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “Tampering with surveillance, coordinating perjury… these are felonies.” Gary threw his head back and laughed. “Then go tell the judge! Weren’t you going to send me a lawyer letter? I’m terrified! Send me the ten-million-dollar lawsuit!” I didn’t waste another breath on them. I turned and walked out of the room. As I rode the elevator up to my silent, waterless apartment, the reality of the situation locked into place. They had built a wall of lies, thinking conventional methods would never break it. They thought I was just some rich, helpless woman they could bully into submission. But they didn’t know who they were dealing with. If they wanted to play dirty, I was going to bury them. Once inside, I opened my laptop and logged into my company’s secure VPN. As the Chief Legal Officer of one of the city’s largest real estate and tech conglomerates, my access to high-level data was something these low-level grifters couldn’t even fathom. I pulled up the original architectural blueprints for my high-rise. My company’s development arm had built this very building five years ago. I traced the blue lines of the plumbing schematics. There it was. The main water line for my specific residential tier had a bypass valve running directly down into the subterranean parking garage. Specifically, into the commercial car wash bay operating in the basement. I did a quick public records search. The car wash was an LLC registered to a man named Dominic… whose wife’s maiden name was Russo. Kevin Russo’s brother-in-law. The pieces clicked together perfectly. A commercial car wash burns through tens of thousands of gallons of water a week. To avoid paying the exorbitant commercial utility rates, Kevin had colluded with Gary at the city water department. They quietly spliced the car wash’s intake pipe onto the meter of my vacant condo. They figured since I was out of the country for years, the bill would just accumulate, unnoticed. And if I ever did come back and complain, they had their little system of forged footage and fake witnesses ready to force me into paying it to make the problem go away. It was a brilliantly executed racket. The next morning, I walked back into the city utility office, a freshly printed legal binder in my hand. Gary didn’t even look up from his computer when I walked in. “Oh, look who it is. Did you bring your checkbook, or are you just here to whine again?” I dropped the heavy legal binder onto his desk with a loud thud. “Gary, consider yourself served,” I said. “This lawsuit mandates the immediate restoration of my utilities, alongside claims for defamation, intentional infliction of emotional distress, and gross negligence, seeking compensatory and punitive damages totaling ten million dollars.” Gary picked up the binder, flipped it open, and skimmed the first page. “Ten million?” He let out a barking laugh. “Are you out of your mind? You think printing a big number on a piece of paper is gonna make me back down?” He grabbed the thick stack of papers in both hands and violently ripped them down the middle, tossing the torn shreds into his trash can. “I’m going to tell you this once. You aren’t getting a dime from me. Hell, you aren’t getting a penny.” He stood up, planting his knuckles on the desk, looming over me. “I’m telling you to back off, Val. You’re just a woman playing dress-up. You can’t beat the system. You pay the bill, or I will personally make sure you can’t even buy a cup of coffee in this town.” I didn’t flinch. I stared right into his eyes. “Destroying a legal summons means you waive your right to mediation, Gary,” I said smoothly. “And that statement you made yesterday—about meters ‘having momentum’—I already have that recorded.” I tapped the discreet, pin-sized lens clipped to the lapel of my blazer. Gary’s face went slack. The blood drained from his cheeks. “You wearing a wire? You bitch!” He lunged across the desk, grabbing for my jacket. I took a swift step back, easily evading his grasping hands. “Don’t touch me. You’ll just add assault to the charges.” I tilted my head, watching him panic. “Did you really think splicing the commercial car wash line onto my residential meter was a flawless crime?” Gary froze. He looked like he’d been struck by lightning. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. What car wash? That’s defamation!” “We’ll let a federal judge decide if it’s defamation,” I replied, my voice chillingly calm. “Oh, and a quick piece of advice: hire a very good criminal defense attorney. Because what you’re facing isn’t just civil damages anymore. You’re looking at federal wire fraud and corruption charges.” I turned and walked out. From my car, I didn’t go home. I drove straight to the federal courthouse to officially file the suit. Then, I mailed thick, heavily documented whistle-blower packets to both the Mayor’s Office of Inspector General and the state’s anti-corruption task force. 4 The courts moved faster than I anticipated. When a lawsuit involves a ten-million-dollar claim and allegations of municipal corruption against a prominent corporate officer, judges tend to pay attention. Three days later, we were sitting in a sterile, wood-paneled mediation room at the courthouse. Gary and Kevin sat shoulder-to-shoulder, both flanked by their respective attorneys. The court-appointed mediator reviewed my filing, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Ms. Monroe, a ten-million-dollar demand is… highly irregular. While it appears the utility department may have skipped some procedural steps regarding your shut-off, this sum is—” I raised a hand, cutting her off politely but firmly. “Madam Mediator, the ten million dollars is not about a water bill,” I said, my voice ringing clear in the small room. “It is about a coordinated criminal enterprise. These men used their municipal and corporate authority to steal public utilities and fraudulently offload the financial burden onto an innocent private citizen. That transcends a billing dispute. It is systemic fraud.” Gary’s lawyer slammed his hand on the table. “I object to this entirely! Ms. Monroe, watch your accusations. You have zero material proof that my client stole anything. The HOA’s security footage clearly establishes that you were residing in the unit, making the water usage entirely plausible.” I reached into my leather tote and pulled out a manila envelope, sliding it across the table to the mediator. “These are certified corporate employment records, flight logs, and passport data,” I said, watching Kevin out of the corner of my eye. “For the last twenty-four months, I have been living in London, serving as Chief Counsel for our European division. Included are sworn affidavits from customs and border patrol verifying my entry and exit dates. They are indisputable.” Gary and Kevin stared at the documents. I watched the color rapidly drain from Kevin’s face. They had gambled everything on the assumption that I was just a wealthy ghost. They never imagined I could pull federal immigration data to prove my alibi. Kevin swallowed hard, a nervous sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Well… I mean… the security camera timestamps must have glitched. It’s a technical error.” “A technical error?” I leaned forward, locking eyes with him. “Then who is the woman in the video who looks exactly like me? You hired a lookalike to stage evidence. In the eyes of the law, Mr. Russo, that is conspiracy to commit perjury.” Gary couldn’t sit still anymore. He stood up, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Listen here, you can’t just throw us under the bus! Even if you were out of the country, your meter broke! Why the hell do you think you deserve ten million dollars?!” I stood up slowly, matching his height, radiating absolute authority. “Because I am the Chief Legal Officer for a Fortune 500 company,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “My billable rate is five thousand dollars an hour. You have wasted an entire week of my time trying to cover up your petty theft. Factor in the gross negligence, the emotional distress, and the attempted extortion? Ten million is a bargain.” The entire mediation room fell dead silent.

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A banner notification dropped down from the top of my phone screen: “Baby, I’m here.” A second later, the metallic scrape of a key turning in the front door lock echoed through the apartment. Just minutes before, I had been staring at that exact same screen, my thumb trembling uncontrollably over a brand-new iMessage group chat I’d just been pulled into. Counting me, there were exactly ten women in this group. The latest message glared up at me in stark white text against a gray bubble: “Ladies, the 6:15 AM ‘Good morning, you’re my first thought’ text is automated. All ten of us get it. Every single day.” The exclusive, sweeping romance I thought I had was nothing but a scheduled push notification. The group chat was moving fast now, a frantic pile-up of messages as everyone began swapping timelines of when they’d met him. Most of them dated back a year or two. Are the other nine women in this chat really his girlfriends? But Declan and I had been together for six years. We were getting married next month. When he first started sending those 6:15 AM texts, I used to wake up, see the timestamp, and think I was the luckiest woman in the world to be loved with such relentless devotion. 1 Declan stood in the entryway, his arms wrapped around a massive bouquet of blush peonies. “Babe, we did it. No more long-distance.” He walked in, offering the flowers to me, his eyes crinkling at the corners with that smile I loved so much. “The transfer went through. I’m finally back. I get to wake up next to you every day.” Right. We did it. Six years of cross-country flights and living out of suitcases. Six years of that exact 6:15 AM text, never missing a single morning. I thought it was our thing. Our anchor. He used to say that if we could survive the distance, we’d have a lifetime. He said we’d never have to be apart again. I believed him. I wanted to speak, but my lips just parted, dry and useless. No sound came out. Declan bent down to untie his shoes, wheeled his sleek Away suitcase into the living room, and turned back to me. Seeing me frozen in the hallway, he reached out and gave my shoulder a warm, familiar squeeze. “Hey, what’s going on?” He tilted his head, studying my face, and let out a soft chuckle. “Are you overwhelmed? Don’t know what to say?” His thumb brushed gently against my cheek. “Your eyes are all red.” He stepped closer, dropping his voice into that intimate, gravelly register he reserved just for me. “Come on, don’t cry. It’s just the end of an era. We’re going to be in each other’s space all the time now. Just promise you won’t get sick of me.” He thought they were happy tears. Declan didn’t notice the absolute rigidity of my posture, or perhaps he just categorized my strangeness as the natural shock of a woman overwhelmed by joy. He gently pulled the peonies from my rigid grip, set them on the console table, and tugged me by the wrist toward the living room. “You sit and decompress. I’m making dinner.” He pressed me down onto the sofa cushions. “You mentioned last week you were craving braised short ribs. I looked up a recipe, practiced it a few times, and I’m making it for you tonight. Gonna show off a little.” I sat on the sofa. I didn’t move a muscle. Declan bustled around my kitchen, opened the fridge, checked the crisper, and popped his head back out. “Sit tight, gorgeous. No more crying.” He ruffled my hair, then turned back to the stove. His phone was sitting on the coffee table. I slowly extended my hand and picked up the sleek device. I knew the passcode. It was my birthday. I opened his texts. My heart was hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs. My fingertips were visibly shaking against the glass screen. And there they were. The names. I recognized every single one from the group chat. Not a single one was missing. They were all sitting right there in his recent contacts. I tapped the first name. Blank. Clean as a whistle. Not a single message history. I checked the next one. Blank. The next. Blank. The only thing left was the timestamp of when the contact was created. The oldest one was a girl named Paige. Added two years ago. Two years ago. What had he told me two years ago? “This new product launch is killing me, babe. I might be MIA for a bit, my response times are gonna suck.” I had believed him. I’d even ordered him expensive adaptogens and sleep gummies, begging him not to burn himself out. I opened his photo album. Nothing. A few screenshots of Jira boards and a DoorDash receipt. I scrolled up. And up. Just useless, mundane photos. No pictures of other women. No screenshots of flirty texts. Nothing. He kept it meticulously, ruthlessly clean. 2 A memory slammed into me. A year ago, I had checked his phone. My best friend had warned me that long-distance required a little healthy paranoia. I had gone through his phone while he was in the shower. I found absolutely nothing. I remember feeling so guilty afterward. I felt like a toxic, paranoid girlfriend. I felt like I didn’t deserve him. Now the truth settled heavy in my stomach. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been cheating. It was that he was a professional at erasing the evidence. But I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I really, truly didn’t understand. Why? We were good. We were so good. Even separated by three time zones for six years, we talked every single day. The conversations never dried up. Those first two years, we’d be on FaceTime for three hours at a time, talking about what we had for lunch, seamlessly transitioning into what we were going to name our future kids. By years three and four, the calls got shorter. Three hours became one hour. One hour became thirty minutes. I thought that was normal. It was long-distance. The honeymoon phase had to end eventually, right? What couple doesn’t transition from fiery obsession to comfortable silence? But whenever he flew in, it was electric. We were right back in the honeymoon phase. And then there was the 6:15 AM text. “Good morning, beautiful. You’re my first thought.” Every single day, like clockwork. Six years. He told me it was my thing. He told me no one else on earth got to wake up to that. I believed him. The dam broke. The tears I’d been holding back spilled over, hot and fast, tracking down my cheeks. When Declan walked out of the kitchen carrying a steaming plate, he froze. He set the food down on the dining table and rushed over to me. “Hey, hey, why are you crying?” He dropped to his knees in front of me, his thumbs gently wiping away my tears. His voice was devastatingly soft. “Shhh, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here. We’re never doing distance again. You’re just happy, right? God, seeing you cry like this is breaking my heart.” I set his phone face-down on the coffee table. I didn’t say a word. Declan stood up, pulled my shoulders into his chest, and rested his chin on the top of my head. “Alright, deep breaths. Come on. I made the short ribs. And a mushroom risotto, just the way you like it. Go wash your face, and let’s eat.” Braised short ribs. Creamy mushroom risotto. Roasted asparagus. My favorite foods. The meals he used to cook for me all the time. Declan handed me a fork and pushed a wine glass toward me. “Taste it. I’ve been practicing this braise for a week, just waiting for you to grade me.” He sat across from me, beaming. I picked up my fork. I pierced a piece of meat. I put it in my mouth and chewed. It tasted like ash. I couldn’t register a single flavor. “What’s wrong? Did I dry it out?” Declan was watching me, his own fork hovering mid-air. I shook my head. “Then eat up. You look too thin.” He placed another piece of meat onto my plate. “We need to fatten you up before the engagement shoot, or the photographer is going to yell at me for starving my bride.” The engagement shoot. My mind flashed to the last three months. I had been waking up at dawn to run three miles. I’d cut out carbs. I had scoured hundreds of Pinterest boards and Instagram portfolios, compiling a twelve-page Google Doc of photographers. I had a spreadsheet. Which studios had the best natural lighting, who didn’t over-edit skin textures, who printed the highest-quality albums. I thought that day was going to be the pinnacle of my life. Me in white silk. Him in a tailored suit. Standing on the red rocks of Sedona, laughing into the wind. And now? Looking at him across the table made me want to vomit. Declan was still talking. “One of the guys at work recommended a spot out in Sedona. Said the lighting at golden hour is insane. Or did you still want to do the Amalfi Coast? You always talked about Italy.” 3 I remained completely silent. I rested my fork on the edge of the plate. My fingernails dug into the grain of the wooden table. “Babe?” he prompted. I raised my eyes to meet his. His expression was utterly sincere. A soft, loving smile played on his lips. His fork was still suspended in the air, waiting for me to engage in our shared future. My phone buzzed against my thigh. My screen was lighting up with rapid-fire texts from the group chat. “Ladies, I need to tell you all something.” It was a girl named Brianna. “This morning, he was with me. In a hotel.” My hand shot down, gripping the phone tight enough to crack the case. Brianna kept typing: “He told me he flew in yesterday to surprise me. Said he missed me. We spent the whole night at the Marriott.” “When he left this morning, he kissed me and said he’d come back tonight. I swear to god I had no idea. I literally thought I had the best boyfriend in the world.” “How did you find out?” someone asked. “He left his phone on the bed when he went to the bathroom. I went to plug it in for him, and a text popped up. I accidentally swiped it and saw his contacts. I saw all these female names, but zero message history. Why would you delete every single text? I got suspicious, so I searched your names on Instagram.” Brianna was typing in massive blocks of text. “And guess what? Half of you have photos with him on your feeds. Cozy, romantic, couple-y photos. I just kept scrolling, and my blood ran cold. I wrote down everyone’s handles, DM’d you all, and made this chat.” “So you’re the one who found us?” “Yeah. I added you guys this morning. I thought there would be maybe three or four of us. I didn’t expect nine. And honestly, there were more names, but I couldn’t memorize them fast enough before he came out of the bathroom.” I stared at the screen, my hands trembling violently now. This morning. He was in a hotel bed with Brianna this morning. He woke up with another woman, played the devoted boyfriend, and then got on a plane to stand in my kitchen and tell me we were going to be together every day for the rest of our lives. A seamless, sociopathic transition. “Are you still there, OP?” Brianna tagged me in the chat. “I’m here,” I typed back. “Be careful. He’s dangerous. I have this necklace he gave me last night—told me it was custom jewelry. I reverse-image-searched it. It’s a twelve-dollar drop-shipped piece from TikTok Shop. I threw it at his head and walked out.” Just as I read that, Declan stood up and walked around the table to stand beside my chair. “What’s going on? You’ve been glued to your screen since I got here.” He leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse of my phone. Smack. I slammed the phone face-down onto the table. Declan flinched, startled, but quickly recovered with a soft laugh. “So secretive. Are you looking at wedding dresses? Okay, okay, I won’t look. Keep it a surprise.” He kissed the top of my head. “If you don’t want to eat, we don’t have to. You’re totally off tonight. Did you not sleep well? Let me clean this up, and I’ll come cuddle you.” He took my hand, walked me to the bedroom, and pulled back the duvet for me. Declan washed the dishes, lingering in the living room. I heard the zip of his suitcase. Then, the soft pad of his footsteps approaching the bedroom door. “Are you asleep?” he whispered. I didn’t answer. “Babe.” Nothing. “I know you’re awake.” “I can see your phone lighting up the room.” I froze. “Declan.” I finally spoke. My voice sounded jagged, like shattered glass. “Yeah?” “Where were you this morning?” He paused. Just for a fraction of a second. “At my apartment.” His tone was flawlessly casual. “I spent the whole morning packing up the last of my boxes, then headed to the airport. Why? What’s up?” I rolled over to face him. “Look at me,” I demanded. “I’m looking right at you.” He smiled, reaching out to stroke my cheek. “You are being so weird today. Seriously, what is going on in that head of yours?” “Declan. Exactly where were you this morning?” He blinked. His face was a masterclass in innocent confusion. Not a single micro-expression out of place. “I was at my place. I just told you. Packing up the apartment.” He pulled his hand back and sat on the edge of the mattress, angling his body toward me. “Did you see something on social media? Did someone say something to you?” “Let me show you something.” I sat up. I picked up my phone. I unlocked it, opened the group chat, and turned the screen directly toward his face.

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