Author: Momo Chan

The screen of my phone flickered to life, casting a cold, blue glow across my darkened dorm room. It was a message from her. “Babe, I’m so down right now. You’re the only one who truly understands me. Can we talk?” I stared at the words, my heart hammering against my ribs—not with the fluttering excitement of a lover, but with the cold, hard rhythm of a survivor. I tapped out a response: “Of course.” No one would have guessed that three months from now, this “sweet” digital romance would be the thing that dragged me into a bottomless abyss. In my past life, the day the prestigious Ivy-Track Fellowship list was posted, our department’s group chat didn’t explode with congratulations. It exploded with screenshots. Tyler—my roommate, the man I shared a cramped twelve-by-twelve space with—had posted everything. Every late-night confession, every vulnerable secret, every “babe” and “sweetheart.” It turned out the person who had been checking in on me, the “girl” who had become my emotional crutch, was just Tyler using a burner account. The mockery from my peers had been a tidal wave. “He acts all high and mighty in class, but look at him—he’s just a desperate loser.” “‘I can’t wait to hold you’? God, that’s pathetic. Doesn’t he have any self-respect?” In that life, I had walked into our room only to find Tyler holding up his phone, a cruel smirk plastered on his face. “Oh, hey, Babe. You’re finally back.” “Why?” my voice had trembled. “Why would you do this?” He had just shrugged, utterly indifferent to the life he was ruining. “It was fun. I wanted everyone to see what the ‘Ice King’ of the Honors College looks like when he’s begging for a little attention.” When he saw the look on my face, he rolled his eyes. “Don’t act so holier-than-thou. You’re the one who said all that cheesy shit. If you’re embarrassed, maybe you shouldn’t have been such a simp.” Then, another screenshot hit the group chat. It was something I’d said in a moment of extreme weakness: I think I’m starting to depend on you too much. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Tyler’s caption underneath it read: He was practically crying when he typed this. I was in the top bunk laughing so hard I nearly choked. From that day on, I was a pariah. The “Lapdog” of Northwood University. The humiliation triggered a spiral of clinical depression. When Tyler found out, he just laughed. “Depressed? Why don’t you just get it over with and jump then?” And eventually, I did. But then I opened my eyes. I was back. Three months before the fellowship announcement. Three months before the end. This time, I had a head start. 1 “Babe, it’s so good to have you.” The light from the screen made my eyes ache. I looked at the chat window, my mind a whirlwind of static and sharpened glass. In my previous life, I had just finished a grueling research project. “She”—claiming to be a student from a rival university—had added me. She was kind, attentive, and occasionally played the victim to get me to care for her. I started staying up until 2:00 AM to talk to her. I became dependent. She always knew exactly what I was thinking. She always appeared right when I was at my lowest. She called it “soul-connection.” I realized now it was just proximity. Tyler was in the bunk above me; he saw every sigh, every tear, every exhausted slump of my shoulders. Every secret I told “her” was a weapon he was carefully sharpening. He was waiting for the fellowship announcement—the moment of my greatest triumph—to slit my throat with them. I sent a few non-committal replies. It didn’t take long for him to show his hand. “Babe, can you do me a huge favor?” “I’m trying to organize this massive pile of research data for my thesis. It’s too much; I’m drowning.” “You’re so brilliant… could you help me out? Just this once?” I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. “What kind of data?” He replied instantly with a zip file. “Just these. No rush, take your time.” I didn’t even need to open it to know what it was. It was a tedious, high-level task—literature reviews, data cross-referencing, statistical modeling. In my last life, I didn’t just do this for him; I wrote him a second, polished report just to be “sweet.” Later, when I was at my lowest, he told me that that specific report was what got him into the good graces of Charlotte, a wealthy socialite whose father sat on the university board. They were engaged within the semester. “You know,” he had mocked me then, “your writing was actually decent. She loved it. She bought me dinner and called me a genius. Thanks for the leg up, Babe.” I stared at the screen now, a cold smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Sure. I’ll help you.” A string of exclamation points followed. “You’re the best, Babe!” I put the phone down, turned on my desk lamp, and opened my laptop. I pulled the sources, I checked the references, and I meticulously organized the data. At 1:30 AM, I saved the file and sent it. He replied immediately. “Thanks! You’re a lifesaver!” “Get some sleep, don’t work too hard.” I sent back a smiling emoji. In my last life, doing this made me feel like I was building a future with someone who loved me. In this life, it just made me feel nauseous. The next morning, Tyler was up early. He showered, put on a crisp new shirt, and strapped on a flashy watch he’d clearly gone into debt for. He carried himself with a new, arrogant swagger. Before he left, he gave me a condescending look. Half an hour later, the dorm room door slammed open. Tyler stormed in, his face flushed with rage. He looked like a rabid dog, his eyes fixed on me with pure venom. 2 I expected him to blow up right then and there, but he just slammed his bag onto his chair and started typing furiously on his phone. My phone buzzed incessantly. I took my time picking it up. “Did you do that on purpose?!” I played the confused lover. “What happened, Babe?” “The data you gave me! It was all wrong! It was a mess! Do you have any idea how much of a fool I looked like today?!” I let a faint smile touch my lips before typing a frantic apology. “I’m so sorry. I must have been so tired… the pressure lately has been getting to me. Are you mad? Please don’t be mad.” “Babe? Why aren’t you answering?” “Maybe we aren’t right for each other… I’m so sorry. Maybe we should just end this.” I set the phone down. It didn’t take three seconds for the notification to pop up. I waited five minutes, letting him sweat. He was desperate now; he couldn’t lose his “ghostwriter” yet. “I’m not mad. I was just stressed. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” “You should rest. I shouldn’t have pressured you.” “This was just really important to me, and I trust you more than anyone. We’re perfect together, right? Let’s not talk about breaking up.” I watched his expression shift from fury to calculated manipulation. “Of course,” I replied. He sent another message: “Since you messed up, don’t you think you owe me a little something to make it up to me?” My eyes narrowed. “What kind of compensation?” He sent a smirking emoji. “I want to see a shirtless photo. You know, show off those gym gains you’re always talking about.” I froze for a second. In the last life, he only ever asked for selfies—never anything like this. I had clearly bruised his ego more than I realized. I opened an AI image generator on my laptop. Within seconds, I had a perfectly rendered, headless shot of a torso that looked vaguely like mine, but better. I sent it over. “Babe, you’re hot!” “I knew you weren’t as innocent as you look.” I sat on my bed, watching him sit at his desk, staring at his phone and smirking. Suddenly, he looked up and met my eyes. There was a glimmer in his gaze—the look of a man who thought he’d just secured the ultimate blackmail. A few days later, a package arrived for me. “Babe, I bought you a suit!” he messaged. It was in a box with a high-end designer logo. “Your department’s 30th Anniversary Gala is coming up, right? You’re the star student, you’re giving a speech. You need to look the part. I’ve seen all the guys talking about this brand. If other guys have it, my boyfriend should too.” In my previous life, I had been so moved I nearly cried. That brand was thousands of dollars. How long had a student like Tyler saved for that? I wore it to the gala, feeling like the luckiest man alive. The mockery started before I even reached the stage. By midnight, the campus forums were ablaze. “Star Student Wears Fake Couture.” The “designer” suit was a cheap knockoff, and I was the laughingstock of the elite university circle. When I got back to the dorm, Tyler had led the charge. “Wearing a fake to a black-tie event? How embarrassing can you get?” The whole floor laughed. They called me a social climber, a fraud. I was so humiliated I couldn’t leave my room for a week. When I confronted “her” via text, “she” turned it on me: “Are you accusing me? I’m just a girl, I don’t know about brands! I just wanted to do something nice for you, and you’re being so ungrateful!” This time, I replied: “Thank you, Babe. I love it.” The night of the gala arrived. I stepped onto the stage under the burning spotlights. The auditorium was packed. Tyler was in the front row, his eyes fixed on me like a hawk. He was waiting for the first whisper of “fake,” waiting for the forums to explode, waiting for my public execution. But as the minutes ticked by, nothing happened. No one pointed. No one laughed. Finally, he couldn’t help himself. He leaned over to the people next to him, his voice just loud enough to carry. “Hey, does Emmett’s suit look a bit… off to you? Like a knockoff?” He stood up slightly. “The cut is weird, right? And the color? No student can afford a ten-thousand-dollar suit. It’s got to be a fake.” Murmurs started to ripple through the crowd. People pulled out their phones. During the intermission, Tyler and a few of his cronies blocked my path. “Emmett, where’d you get the threads? Amazon? Looks like a two-hundred-dollar special.” They roared with laughter. I calmly pulled out my phone and sent a message to “her.” “Babe, everyone is saying the suit you gave me is a fake. My roommates are laughing at me.” He replied instantly: “Don’t listen to them! They’re just jealous! It’s real! Don’t you trust me?!” I looked at him standing right in front of me, staring at his phone, playing his part with Oscar-worthy dedication. Back in the hall, the Q&A session began. A guy in the back raised his hand. “Emmett, there’s a rumor going around that you’re wearing a counterfeit suit tonight. Is your academic integrity as fake as your clothes?” The room went dead silent. Tyler and his friends were wearing shit-eating grins. I stood on the stage, unhurried. I turned around, letting the back of the jacket catch the light, revealing the gold-threaded logo. “Who told you it was a fake?” 3 Tyler stood up, his chin tilted back defiantly. “Oh, come on, Emmett. Just admit it. Why be so stubborn? That suit costs more than a semester’s tuition. How could a scholarship student afford it? You’ve always been a poser, but this is a new low.” In my last life, those words would have made me want to vanish into the floorboards. In this life, they were just pathetic. Tyler thought he knew me. He thought because I lived simply, I was poor. He didn’t know that my family was actually quite well-off—I just preferred to earn my own way. The moment that “designer” package had arrived, I’d called my mother in London. The suit I was currently wearing was the real deal, overnighted and tailored. I stepped closer to the edge of the stage, pointing to the discreet, authentic stitching. “I think anyone who actually knows this brand can see the craftsmanship. It’s limited edition.” A girl in the second row gasped. “He’s right! That’s the seasonal runway piece! I saw it in Vogue!” “Wait, what kind of family does he come from?” I smiled graciously into the camera. “My mother knew how important this night was to me, so she had this sent over. I wanted to represent Northwood with the respect it deserves.” The applause was thunderous. The university deans were nodding in approval. Tyler’s friends looked at each other, their faces turning a shade of sour crimson. Our faculty advisor, Professor Higgins, shot a look of pure disgust at Tyler. “Mr. Vance, accusing a fellow student of fraud without proof is a serious violation. You’ll be writing a formal apology and losing two credit points for conduct!” Tyler’s eyes welled with crocodile tears. “Professor, I didn’t know! I was just repeating what I heard!” Back at the dorm, I messaged “her.” “Babe, the suit you gave me was a fake. My roommates were right.” There was a long pause before the reply came. “Really? I had no idea! I’m just a girl, I don’t understand these things! I just wanted to do something nice for you. You don’t blame me, do you?” I smiled and typed: “Of course not. But I think I should call the police. You were scammed out of a lot of money. We can’t let them get away with this.” He replied instantly: “No! No need! Forget about it!” I pushed harder. “No, we have to. Someone stole your savings. I’ll go to the station tomorrow.” He snapped. “I said forget it! Why are you being so pushy? If you’re mad at me, just say it!” A barrage of angry texts followed, and then—silence. The silent treatment. A few days later, realizing I wasn’t chasing after him, he “crawled” back with an apology, some overpriced coffee, and pastries. He acted as if nothing had happened. “Babe, could you help me with my final credits? There are only a few modules left and I’m falling behind.” I agreed. But halfway through the online testing, I “lost” my connection. “Why did it stop?” he messaged. “Wi-Fi’s down.” “What? The deadline is in ten minutes!” “Guess you’ll have to finish it yourself.” The next day, he was livid, claiming I’d caused him to fail. I replied: “So sorry, Babe. My phone died.” A week later, he asked for help with his thesis paper. I opened an AI bot, fed it the prompt, and told it to write a logically incoherent, data-skewed mess. He didn’t even read it before submitting. The result was predictable. His advisor tore him to shreds. He messaged me, shaking with rage: “I thought you were a straight-A student! How could you mess up something so simple? You did this on purpose!” I typed slowly: “Babe, it hurts my heart that you’d think that of me.” He didn’t reply. But through the gap in the bed curtains, I could see him kicking his desk chair in a silent tantrum. That afternoon, I saw three different people delivering flowers to the dorm for him. He strutted downstairs to collect them, noticing me standing by the entrance. “See this?” he sneered, clutching the bouquets. “This is what it looks like to be loved. Has anyone ever sent you flowers, you lonely loser?” He marched upstairs. I did a little digging. It turned out Tyler wasn’t just catfishing me. He was “dating” three other girls online simultaneously, milking them for gifts and attention. This was getting interesting. The day the fellowship results were finalized was also the day the final grades came out. In my last life, because I’d tutored him and done his work, our grades were neck-and-neck. In this life, I had obliterated him. I was ranked first. He was at the bottom of the list. The Dean announced my fellowship. In my last life, Tyler had stood up immediately to protest, claiming our grades were too similar and causing a delay that nearly cost me everything. And then, he’d leaked the chats. This time, his grades were so low he shouldn’t have had a leg to stand on. But he still stood up. He pointed a trembling finger at me. “Why him?!” he screamed. “How can someone with such a disgusting moral character be given this fellowship!” The Dean frowned. “Mr. Vance, do you have evidence? This is a grave accusation.” Tyler smirked. “Oh, I have plenty.” He hit ‘send’ on a file he’d prepared for the campus-wide group chat. The room erupted.

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The salesman stood there, pen hovering over the paperwork, waiting for my final word. I pointed to the sleek, matte-black silhouette of the luxury sedan in the center of the showroom and said, “This is the one. I’ll take it.” Right then, my phone vibrated. It was my brother, Tyler. When I answered, his voice was a jagged mess of sobs and gasps, as if he were drowning on dry land. He told me his two boys—my nephews—had been kidnapped. The kidnappers were demanding two million dollars in ransom. He said he couldn’t scrape together even a fraction of it and begged me, his big brother, to save the kids. He promised, over and over, that he’d pay me back every cent the moment he had it. As a rising star in the Silicon Valley tech scene, two million was roughly what I cleared in a good month. It was a staggering amount to most, but for me, it was a business expense. But I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even soften my voice. I told him, “No. I’m not giving you the money.” 01 “The MSRP on this model is two million, including the custom trim…” The salesman froze, his mouth hanging open as he stared at me. On the other end of the line, Tyler’s voice escalated into a raw, frantic scream. “Logan! You’re seriously telling me you’d rather spend two million on a damn car than save Ben and Toby? They’re your own flesh and blood! Are those kids worth less than a piece of metal to you?” Tyler’s voice was so loud it bled through the speaker, echoing in the hushed, expensive silence of the dealership. People at the nearby espresso bar turned, their eyes narrowing as they caught the drift of the conversation. I ignored them. I walked a slow circle around the car, admiring the carbon-fiber accents. “Do you have this in any other colors?” I asked the salesman, my tone conversational. “We… we have the ‘Midnight Amethyst’ as well. It’s stunning. One moment, let me pull up the spec sheet for you.” “Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll take that one too.” The salesman blinked, convinced he’d misheard. “Mr. Weaver? You mean… you want two? Two identical cars in different colors?” I nodded, my expression bored. “Exactly.” “Right away! I’ll… I’ll get the contracts drafted immediately!” The salesman’s voice was a frantic, joyful chirp, a sickening contrast to the explosion of rage coming from my phone. “Logan, have you lost your mind? Ben and Toby are waiting for that ransom! You’re their uncle—how can you just sit there and let this happen?” “They have a father,” I said, my voice dropping into a cold, flat register. “Why is this my problem?” There was a beat of silence. When Tyler spoke again, the rage had dissolved into a pathetic, watery whimper. “Logan, please. You know I’m broke. I’ve lost everything on those bad investments. I’m drowning in debt. Just lend it to me. I’ll work for you, I’ll be your slave, I’ll do anything once the boys are safe.” I didn’t say anything for a long time, just listened to the sound of my own footsteps on the polished marble floor. “Logan,” he sobbed. “I’m begging you.” “Stop crying,” I snapped, my patience finally hitting a wall. “They aren’t dead yet.” I hung up. But the silence didn’t last. Ten minutes later, the glass doors of the showroom swung open, and my mother, Martha, stormed in. “Logan! You have to save your nephews! They’re just babies!” She lunged for me, grabbing my arm with a grip that was surprisingly strong for a woman her age, her face already a mask of tears. Just then, the salesman returned, beaming as he held out the folders. “Mr. Weaver, here are the contracts for both vehicles. The total comes to four million. If you could just look these over…” “Four million?” Martha gasped. She snatched the papers out of his hand, her eyes darting across the numbers. When she saw the total, she looked like she was about to scream, but she caught herself. She forced her voice into a trembling, maternal plea. “Logan, honey… the boys have been kidnapped. Please, take this money and save them.” I gave her a long, chilly look. “What’s the rush? Let me finish buying the cars first.” She stared at me as if I were a stranger. “They are your nephews! Your brother’s children! How can you be so heartless? You’re standing here picking out paint colors while they’re in some dark room terrified for their lives? They love you, Logan. How can you just watch them die?” By now, a small crowd had gathered. In a high-end dealership like this, people usually minded their own business, but the drama was too juicy to ignore. Once they pieced together what was happening, the whispers started. “He can afford four million for cars but won’t pay two to save kids? That’s sick.” “Most people in this zip code are cold, but this is a new low. It’s two lives.” “I know him—that’s Logan Weaver. He’s that tech guy from the news. Worth a fortune. I guess he traded his soul for his bank account.” I didn’t blink. I didn’t defend myself. I simply pulled out my black card and handed it to the salesman. “Process it,” I said. A young woman in a white sundress stepped out from the crowd, her face flushed with indignation. “Ma’am,” she said to Martha, “is there some kind of family feud? Why is he doing this to you?” Martha played her part perfectly, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “There’s no feud. They’ve always been close. Logan, have you forgotten? When you were a kid and fell into the river, Tyler was the one who screamed for help until his lungs gave out. He saved you.” She wiped her eyes, her voice cracking. “We were poor. When you got into that fancy university, Tyler gave up his own dreams. He went straight to work at the warehouse just to make sure you had tuition money. And now that you’re rich, you won’t even help him save his sons?” I stayed silent. Because everything she said was technically true. Tyler had been there when I fell. He had skipped college while I went. Martha’s voice rose to a crescendo. “Logan, look, just consider it a loan. The second the boys are back, I’ll make Tyler and his wife move abroad. They’ll work two jobs, three jobs—they’ll pay you back every cent. Just give them the chance to save their children!” “Enough!” I barked. The sound echoed like a gunshot. “It’s a ‘no.’ Not a dime.” I turned my back on her to look at the cars again. Martha flew at me. The slap was loud, stinging my cheek and turning my face to the side. “You ungrateful monster!” she shrieked. “I wish I’d never given birth to you!” The girl in the white dress joined in, her voice shaking with rage. “He saved your life! Those are his kids! Are you even human?” “Mind your own business,” I snapped at her. Her face turned a deep, blotchy red. “Logan, please,” Martha sobbed, dropping to her knees on the cold floor. “I’m begging you. I’ll do anything.” I didn’t move. I didn’t reach out to help her up. I just signaled for the security guards. “Get her out of here,” I said coldly. “If there’s a kidnapping, call the cops. Don’t call me. You’re wasting my time; I’m trying to buy a car.” The salesman looked nauseous. “Mr. Weaver… maybe you should take the money and go to the police? We can put the sale on hold…” “No,” I said, my voice like iron. “Run the card.” The transaction went through. As the machine beeped, the crowd’s vitriol reached a fever pitch. “His own mother is on her knees and he doesn’t care. Absolute scum.” “All that money and he’s still just a hollow shell of a man.” “I hope those cars crash the moment he drives them off the lot.” I turned to the room, a thin, polite smile on my face. “Anyone here is welcome to donate their own two million to the cause,” I said. “But as for me? I’m out.” 02 “Fine! We’ll do it! It’s just two million—if we all chip in, we can save those boys!” someone shouted from the back. A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd. “I’m in for twenty thousand!” a man in a tailored suit yelled. “I’ll give ten!” another added. The room was suddenly alive with the spirit of a lynch-mob-turned-charity-auction. I let out a short, dry laugh. “You people are as gullible as you are self-righteous. But let me make one thing clear: If anyone in this room gives a single cent to this woman today, I will make it my personal mission to ensure your business is bankrupt by tomorrow. Try me.” The room went deathly silent. In this city, my reputation preceded me. I had the capital and the connections to make that threat a reality. “Right. Fun’s over,” I said, checking my watch. “I have a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a school I funded. I’d hate to be late.” I walked toward the exit, the crowd parting like the Red Sea, their eyes burning holes in my back. But before I could reach my car, Tyler and his wife, Tiffany, blocked my path. They weren’t alone. They had brought a swarm of reporters with them. The moment they saw me, they threw themselves onto the pavement, sobbing hysterically. “Logan! Please! Save our boys!” Microphones were thrust into my face. Cameras flashed. “Mr. Weaver, we’ve heard you’re worth hundreds of millions. Why won’t you pay a two-million-dollar ransom for your nephews?” “Is it true your brother saved your life as a child? How can you turn your back on him now?” “Is a luxury car really worth more to you than the lives of two innocent children?” The questions pelted me like hail. I didn’t even try to push through. “Are you done?” I asked, looking directly into the nearest lens. “It’s my money. I earned it. I spend it how I want. End of story.” “But Mr. Weaver, you’re a known philanthropist,” a reporter pressed, her voice dripping with fake concern. “You’ve built schools in the Appalachian mountains. Are you really going to let your own family be killed?” I leaned in closer to her mic. “Apparently so. I choose who gets my charity. And right now? I don’t feel charitable toward them.” The reporters, sensing a viral moment, shifted gears. They started live-streaming, narrating my “villainy” to thousands of viewers in real-time. Tyler and Tiffany continued their performance, their foreheads hitting the concrete as they bowed. “Logan, we’ll do anything. We’ll be your servants for life. Just don’t let them kill Toby and Ben!” By now, Tyler’s forehead was actually bleeding. It was a hell of a show. “If you have time to bleed on the sidewalk,” I said, looking down at him, “you have time to go to the bank and take out a mortgage. Or sell your cars. Maybe if you look pathetic enough, someone will give you a high-interest loan.” Tyler froze for a second, his eyes flashing with something that wasn’t grief. Then the mask slipped back into place. “I would sell everything!” he wailed. “But I have nothing! Our parents spent every cent they had putting you through school! Even my wedding money went to your tuition! Mom had to go door-to-door begging neighbors for loans just so I could get married, and we’re still paying them back!” He looked at the cameras, his voice trembling. “Logan, if I’ve offended you, I’m sorry. I’ll change. Just please… don’t let them die.” The crowd around us sighed in sympathy. “He’s a monster. His family sacrificed everything for him and he won’t give back a penny.” “Look at the poor guy. He has nothing because he gave it all to his brother.” On the live-stream, the comments were a tidal wave of hate. Cancel him. Eat the rich. Hope he loses everything. I didn’t get angry. I actually laughed. “You’re right,” I said, grinning at the cameras. “I am exactly what you think I am. I’m the ungrateful son. I’m the cold-hearted brother. I haven’t sent a dime home since the day I graduated. And guess what? I’m still not paying the ransom.” 03 The crowd turned feral. People started spitting toward me, throwing crumpled flyers and trash. I calmly pulled out my phone and pointed it at them. “Keep it up. I’d love to see how many of you can afford the legal fees for an assault charge against me.” “Who cares?” someone yelled. “People like you belong in jail anyway!” A few people surged forward, fists clenched. Tyler and Tiffany jumped up, ostensibly to “protect” me, though they were really just positioning themselves for the cameras. “Don’t hurt him! He’s still my brother!” Tyler cried. Then, leaning into my ear, he whispered, “Logan, just give us the money and this all goes away.” “Not happening,” I whispered back. Martha appeared again, her face wet with “old mother” tears. “Logan, I raised you. I gave you life. Just consider this two million your ‘repayment’ for all those years. Please.” I looked at her, my smile fading. “You’re right. I do owe a debt for my upbringing. But I won’t be paying it today.” “Then when?” she screamed. “When they’re dead?” My phone rang. It was my Chief of Staff. “Logan, it’s a disaster. The video is everywhere. The board is panicking, our stock is dipping, and the PR team is losing control. What do we do?” The people nearby heard the panic in her voice and cheered. “Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?” “Lose it all! See how you like being broke like your brother!” I paused, looked at the crowd, and then back at the camera. “Tell the team to schedule a press conference for tonight at eight. I’ll address everything then.” I smiled. “The bigger the mess, the better the cleanup.”

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The call from the precinct was the crack that finally shattered the fragile peace of my remarriage to Adrian. The detective on the line said Adrian was being detained on suspicion of sexual assault and battery. He told me to get down there immediately to cooperate with the investigation. In the mediation room, the sight of Adrian and Sabrina—disheveled, clothes half-torn, and radiating a guilty heat—seared into my retinas. Sabrina was hysterical, sobbing that Adrian had to divorce me right then and there. If he didn’t, she threatened to “confess” everything about her pregnancy, claiming her husband would kill her and the baby if he found out. Adrian’s face went rigid. I watched the gears turn behind his eyes, the agonizing struggle of a man caught between two worlds. Finally, he nodded. The moment his head dipped in agreement, I knew our marriage was over. For good this time. I signed the mediation transcript without a word, ending the farce. With a few strokes of a pen, I drew a final, jagged line through ten years of shared history. I looked at him and remembered how different he’d seemed after we remarried. He’d stopped staying out all night; he stopped calling me “crazy” or “unstable.” We’d started living like a normal couple again—dinners out, movies, planning for a future child while sitting on the porch swing, making wishes for a lifetime of happiness under the Fourth of July fireworks. It was all a lie. The only reason he’d changed was that Sabrina, his little mistress, had married another man out of spite. … The heavy door to the mediation room swung open, and my eyes met Adrian’s. “Claire? What are you doing here?” He faltered when he saw my gaze drop to Sabrina’s protruding stomach. He let out a sharp, jagged breath. “You… you saw. Fine. I won’t lie to you anymore. Sabrina and I are back together. I’m the one who reached out to her.” He stepped in front of her instinctively, shielding her as if he expected me to fly into the kind of hysterics I used to be known for. “Blame me if you want, but leave her out of it. She’s innocent in all of this.” Only when he realized I wasn’t screaming did he relax his guard and step toward me. “Claire, I’m sorry. I know I broke my word. But her husband, Victor, is a goddamn lunatic. If he finds out about us, he’ll kill her. And it’s my fault—she only married him to get back at me.” He lowered his voice, his tone shifting into that manipulative, pleading register I knew so well. “The only way to get her away from him is if she leaves. But she’s pregnant and stubborn as hell. She refuses to leave Victor until she sees our divorce papers. So, Claire, can you just sign? Once she’s safe and the divorce is finalized, we’ll find our way back to each other. Okay?” In the three years since we’d remarried, I thought Adrian had grown a soul. But looking at him now, all I saw was the familiar flicker of irritation and impatience. When I didn’t answer immediately, his temper flared. “What are you waiting for? Claire, be realistic. Your grandmother’s medical bills, her physical therapy—I’m the one paying for all of it—” “Fine. I’ll sign.” The words cut him off mid-sentence. I reached out and took the papers from his hand. He stared at my signature, written in a steady, cold hand. He seemed stunned by how easy it was. His voice softened instantly. “Thank you. You know you and Grandma are still the most important people in my life. Once Sabrina is safe, everything goes back to the way it was. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take even better care of you both.” I felt nothing. His promises had become white noise, static in the background of a life I no longer recognized. Was it the first time I caught him cheating that the words lost their meaning? Or the night he knelt on the floor, begging me to remarry him, swearing he’d never betray us again? It didn’t matter. I nodded vacantly, paid the fine for his “disorderly conduct,” and turned to leave. I hadn’t made it ten feet before Adrian lunged after me, dragging me back toward the station’s side exit. “Someone leaked the story. The press is crawling all over the front entrance.” He suddenly reached out, his fingers digging into the skin of my neck. He squeezed, hard enough to leave a mark, forcing a bruised discoloration to bloom on my throat. “If Victor’s people see the footage, Sabrina is dead. Claire, I need you to do this for her. Just tell them… tell them it was you in the car with me last night. That you were the one the cops caught. Please?” Before I could even gasp out a refusal, he shoved me through the doors and into the blinding flash of cameras. “Mrs. Sterling! Were you the woman caught in the car on the bridge last night?” “Who’s the other man? How could you do this to your husband?” “Is it true you were recently released from a psychiatric ward? Did you really try to burn your own grandmother alive during a breakdown?” “What did you say?” The rage hit me like a physical blow. “Don’t you dare mention my grandmother!” I lashed out, knocking the microphone from the reporter’s hand. In the ensuing scuffle, a heavy camera lens swung toward me. It connected with my temple with a sickening thud. Hot blood began to crawl down my face. I collapsed to the pavement, shivering and humiliated. “Claire!” Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Adrian’s voice. He started to break through the crowd, rushing toward me. “Adrian… my stomach… it hurts so much…” Sabrina’s voice was a pathetic whimper, but it worked. Adrian’s footsteps stopped instantly. He pivoted, turning his back on me to scoop her into his arms. By the time he looked back, I had already crawled away. I stood up, wiped the blood from my eye, and pulled out my phone. I booked a one-way ticket out of the country. Two days later, I checked myself out of the hospital early. When I walked into the house, Adrian was—for the first time in years—standing in the kitchen heating up milk. He froze when he saw the bandage on my head. A flicker of genuine guilt crossed his face. He walked over, holding the mug out as if to feed me. I stepped back. “I’m allergic to dairy, Adrian.” The mug trembled in his hand. The guilt deepened. He’d forgotten. Of course he had. Years ago, when we were “in love,” I’d eaten an entire cake he’d baked for me just because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I’d ended up in the ICU with a throat so swollen I could barely breathe. Back then, he’d held me and cried, swearing he’d never forget as long as he lived. But “as long as he lived” was apparently just a decade. “I’m so sorry, Claire. These last few days… I’ve been buried. I know I put you through hell.” He leaned in, pressing a soft, pacifying kiss to my bandaged temple. “Just trust me one more time? Once Sabrina gets her divorce and has the baby, I’ll set them up somewhere else. I’ll come back to you completely. We’ll take care of Grandma together, just like we planned.” The same old script. I’d believed it a thousand times. I’d believed it at the altar. I’d believed it when my grandmother and I emptied our savings to fund his first start-up. I’d believed it when he knelt in the dirt three years ago. Every single time, reality had slapped me across the face. I looked past him into the hallway. I saw the door to the nursery—the room we had meticulously decorated for our son, Teddy. It had been a sanctuary. Now, the door hung open, revealing a wreckage. I pushed him away, a cold, jagged laugh bubbling up in my throat. “Stop it! Stop acting! It’s disgusting!” “You let her stay in Teddy’s room. You knew exactly what that would do to me. We are done, Adrian!” I stumbled toward the nursery, my heart breaking all over again. Teddy’s little toddler bed had been kicked over and shoved into a corner. His favorite toy cars—the ones he’d played with the day he died—were smashed. And the photos. The photos I had tucked away so carefully were shredded, scattered across the floor like confetti. “Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Sabrina was sitting on the sofa, sipping her milk with a look of pure, predatory triumph. “Adrian was so worried about me. He said this room got the best sunlight, that it was the best place for the baby. I didn’t know it was your son’s room. Adrian never mentioned him.” The rage was a physical thing now, making my hands shake uncontrollably. “Besides,” Sabrina said, her eyes glinting. “If Teddy were here, I’m sure he’d want his new little brother or sister to have the room, right? It’s not like a dead kid can use it.” I didn’t think. I lunged. My hand connected with her face in a crack that echoed through the house. “If it weren’t for you and Adrian, Teddy would still be alive! How dare you? How dare you!” The memory of my son’s final moments flooded my brain, stripping away my sanity. I struck her again and again, ignoring her screams. Then, a shock of ice-cold water hit me. I gasped, my body seizing as Adrian stood over me with an empty ice bucket. I slid to the floor, shivering and broken. Adrian’s hand was shaking, but his voice was hard. “That’s enough, Claire! Teddy’s death was an accident. Sabrina had nothing to do with it!” “I’m grieving too, goddammit! But he’s gone. He’s not coming back. I’ve done everything I can to make it up to you—what else do you want from me?” “An accident? Innocent?” I was screaming now, my voice raw with salt and blood. “You left him! You left a three-year-old alone in the car because you had to go inside and see her! He got out… he wandered into the street… he was hit by a truck because you weren’t there! Tell me again who’s innocent!” The scar I had tried so hard to stitch shut was ripped wide open. Every night, I wondered: If I hadn’t been sick that day… if I hadn’t trusted him with our son… would Teddy still be here? “I’m sorry, Claire. I am.” Adrian reached down to pick me up, his voice softening again. “But we have to let the past go. When Sabrina’s baby is born, he can be your child too. We can be a family again.” I shivered, but before his hands could touch me, Sabrina let out a sharp cry of pain. “Adrian… my stomach. It hurts. My face…” She was sobbing, clutching her belly. “If you hadn’t come in, she would have killed the baby. What if she does something to me when you’re not around? What if she hurts me like she hurt her grandmother?” I saw it then. The shift in Adrian’s eyes. The pity for me vanished, replaced by a cold, sharpened fear. After Teddy died, I’d been a ghost. Grief is a madness no one tells you about. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my son’s body broken on the asphalt. I didn’t sleep. I wandered the house clutching his favorite blanket, searching for him. I thought if I just kept looking, he wouldn’t really be gone. But Adrian saw my grief as a liability. “You already left your grandmother in a coma, Claire. Are you going to kill another person?” He turned his back on me to cradle Sabrina’s face. I stared at his spine. “Are you really sure I was the one who did that to Grandma?” The sleepwalking. The fire in the kitchen. The night the world went up in flames. Grandma had run in to save me. But when we reached the door, it had been locked from the outside. With a heavy chain. She had used her last bit of strength to shove me through a window. She had stayed behind, crushed by falling debris, her right leg lost, her body a map of third-degree burns. When I finally woke up in the hospital, I had told the police exactly who I saw lurking in the shadows that night. Sabrina. “It was her,” I’d sobbed into Adrian’s chest. “I saw her. She locked us in!” But Adrian had pushed me away. “You’re delusional, Claire. Sabrina was with me. Why are you trying to ruin her life?” He’d handed the police a hotel receipt—his alibi for her. And then, he’d used my “mental instability” to sign the papers that committed me to the state asylum. “So what now?” I asked, my voice a dead whisper. “Are you going to send me back to the psych ward to protect her again?” I stood up and ripped my sleeve back, then my collar. I bared my skin to him. It was a landscape of horrors. Cigarette burns, needle marks from forced sedatives, long-faded whip marks from the orderlies. Adrian froze. His mouth hung open. He reached out to touch a jagged scar on my wrist, his fingers trembling. “How… how did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?” His eyes welled with tears. “Claire, I didn’t know. I swear, if I’d known they were hurting you like this, I never would have sent you there.” He moved to help me up. “I’ll take you to the hospital. We’ll get you the best plastic surgeons. I won’t let these scars stay on you.” “Adrian!” Sabrina screamed again. “It hurts! Help me!” Without a second thought, he let go of my arm. He turned and ran to her, leaving me to fall back onto a pile of shattered glass from a broken picture frame. As the blood pooled in my palm, I started to laugh. It was a hollow, jagged sound. Adrian would always choose the lie. Two hours later, my phone buzzed with a text from him. I’m so sorry, Claire. Sabrina’s having complications with the pregnancy, I can’t leave the hospital. I asked the housekeeper to make that herbal tea you like. Stay home and wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can… I didn’t reply. I dragged my suitcase to the door and called an Uber. He thought I was the same stupid girl who would wait forever. He didn’t know that I’d already moved Grandma to a private facility under a different name. I was leaving the pain behind. But when I reached the airport, two officers stepped into my path. “Claire Sterling? You’re under arrest. You’re a suspect in a homicide investigation. Come with us.” The handcuffs were cold and heavy. At the station, the truth came out. Sabrina had gotten into a fight with her husband, Victor. She’d stabbed him. And to clear her name, Adrian had taken the murder weapon and hidden it in the trunk of my car. “Claire, I know it’s not fair.” Adrian stood on the other side of the bars, his face haggard. “But if Sabrina goes to prison, what happens to the baby? That’s two lives, Claire.” “And you have a history,” he continued, his voice low and desperate. “The judge will be lenient because of your mental health record. I’ve hired the best lawyers. You won’t be in for long.” “Once the heat dies down, I’ll get you out. I’ll make it up to you for the rest of my life. I swear.” I listened to him, but the words felt like they were in a foreign language. “You want me to take the fall for a murder? For her?” I stared at him, truly seeing him for the first time. The man who had promised to love me forever was gone. In his place was a monster wearing his skin. “Just this once, Claire. The last time.” He was practically begging. “I already lost Teddy. I can’t lose another child. Do this for me.” It was the first time he’d ever humbled himself before me. And he was doing it for her. I stayed silent for a long beat. Then, I smiled. “No.” Adrian’s expression turned to one of pure, venomous disappointment. “How can you be so heartless? You’d watch a mother and her child die?” “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.” “Fine,” he snapped. “Wait here. I’ll find a way to fix this, but don’t expect things to be ‘fine’ when you get out.” When I get out? I laughed. You’re on your own, Adrian. You will never see me again. After he left, I looked at my hands—hands that had been nearly broken by the guards in the asylum. I asked for my one phone call. “The deal you offered,” I said into the receiver. “I accept.” … The next morning, Adrian hurried back to the station with a team of lawyers. As he stepped out of his car, he saw a black sedan speeding toward the airport. His heart skipped a beat. A sudden, inexplicable dread washed over him. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake the feeling, but as he entered the lobby, the world fell out from under him.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “438300”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

A recording went viral overnight. It was a maliciously edited audio clip that painted me as a predatory, cold-blooded CEO who exploited interns for sport. Almost instantly, the very interns who had once sung my praises turned on me. The white walls of my office were defaced with “CAPITALIST BLOODSUCKER” in angry red spray paint. Public opinion spiraled out of control. I became the internet’s favorite villain. What they didn’t know was that I was an outlier in the industry. From the beginning, I had designed the most generous internship program in the city. One-on-one mentorship, paid professional development, and even full housing stipends and Uber credits for late nights. I was preparing to roll this program out company-wide when the storm hit without warning. Facing a room full of furious employees, I walked calmly into the conference hall and opened a file none of them had ever seen. When the truth was finally laid bare, the room fell into a deafening silence. Everyone was paralyzed. 1 Marina, my CFO, slid the Internship Program Budget Proposal across the mahogany desk. “Hedy, are you sure you won’t reconsider?” I didn’t answer. Marina flipped to the final page, her finger tapping the bottom line. “For this batch alone—thirty-seven interns—between the mentor fees, the base salary, the housing stipends, and the premium insurance, we’re looking at nearly 1.2 million dollars. That’s practically our entire net profit from last year.” I finally looked up from my laptop. “Marina, our net profit was 1.8 million. I’ve already trimmed the budget from 1.5 to 1.2. Some of the mentors are executives doing this pro bono. We’re using the vacant corporate apartments for housing. I’ve run the numbers; the actual overhead isn’t that high.” Marina sighed, pushing the papers closer to me. “Hedy, I’m not saying it’s a bad plan. I’m saying our current cash flow can’t sustain this kind of… charity.” Charity. The word stung. It felt like a physical blow. I thought back to my senior year of college. The December wind in Chicago felt like a serrated blade against my skin. I was wearing a thin, cheap blazer from a thrift store and heels that blistered my feet, handing out resumes door-to-door. I remembered one HR manager who shredded my resume right in front of me. “We have Ivy League MBAs lining up for unpaid roles,” he’d said. “You’re from a mid-tier state school. You think you’re worth a paycheck?” When I finally became the person in charge, the first thing I wanted to do was burn that old system to the ground. Marina didn’t say another word. She knew that 1.2 million wasn’t just a line item; it was my obsession. She hesitated. “The board… they won’t be happy.” I tucked the file into my drawer. “I’ll handle the board. The program launches Monday.” 2 Monday morning at 9:00 AM, thirty-seven interns were gathered in the main conference room. “Welcome to the firm,” I told them. “Starting today, you’ll begin a three-month paid residency. Each of you has been assigned a dedicated mentor. Your salary is set at 120% of the industry average. We provide housing stipends, full health coverage, and we reimburse all transport for late shifts.” A murmur rippled through the room. Some of them stared at me, eyes wide. Others traded skeptical glances. I heard a few whispers of disbelief. I waited a beat. “I only have one requirement: learn everything you can. Work hard.” The thirty-seven were split across seven departments. I had hand-picked every mentor myself. At first, the senior staff resisted. Frank, the CTO, complained to Marina behind my back. “It takes me three years to train a decent dev. She wants them ready in three months? Hedy is dreaming.” But soon, Frank stopped complaining. By the second week, his intern had independently completed a complex code module. The quality was so high Frank thought he’d misread the file. At the Friday check-in, Frank couldn’t hide his grin. “The kid is a natural. I’ve coached him for two weeks, and his syntax is cleaner than some of my juniors who’ve been here a year.” The reports kept coming in. An intern in Marketing pitched a campaign that a client signed off on immediately. The Design intern’s poster series won an internal award. The Product team’s intern delivered a user-experience report so thorough it changed our Q4 roadmap. I kept a small leather-bound journal of these wins. Every night before bed, I’d flip through the pages. The program was working better than I had dared to hope. I thought it was time to scale. Then, the floor fell out from under me. 3 I was jolted awake by my phone vibrating against the nightstand. It was barely dawn. Forty-seven missed calls. My Slack and WhatsApp were a graveyard of notifications. I played a voice memo from Jordan, my HR Director. “Hedy, have you seen Twitter? Someone leaked a recording from the executive meeting. It’s been edited to hell. We’re in crisis mode, but this is moving too fast—” I opened the app. The top trending hashtag: #FattenedForSlaughter The third: #HedyRossiLeaked The seventh: #InternshipVampire I clicked the top post. A video with over thirty million views was pinned to the top. It was a still image of me from a security feed, looking stern and unapproachable, with an audio track playing over it. I hit play. “The interns… it doesn’t matter if the initial investment is high. You have to fatten them up first. Once they’re dependent on us, once they’re hooked, we can manipulate them however we want. You have to understand—the more you invest in someone, the harder it is for them to walk away. They belong to us.” The clip cut off abruptly. The comments were a bloodbath. [Is this the ‘Saint Hedy’ everyone was talking about? Lol, the mask slipped fast.] [I knew it. No CEO is that nice for free. Paid training? Housing? It was always a trap to keep them trapped in a toxic cycle.] [I’m a former employee. I knew something was off. She’s just raising livestock for the corporate machine.] [Cancel this bitch. Let’s make her unhireable.] I dropped the phone on the bed and closed my eyes. The recording was real. But it was a surgical hack-job. The first half had been me berating a manager who was using interns as personal assistants. I’d spent ten minutes screaming about treating people with dignity. The second half—the part they kept—was me talking about how to build long-term loyalty through genuine investment and career paths. But with the context stripped away, my words of empowerment became a manifesto for psychological warfare. It was a masterpiece of character assassination. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. While I was brushing my teeth, Jordan called again. “Hedy, we tracked it. The leak came from inside. The audio files are stored on a secure server only the attendees had access to. There were eight people in that room.” I spat out the toothpaste. “I know.” “You know who did it?” “The list of people with that kind of access is tiny. Don’t panic. I’m coming in.” I hung up and caught my reflection in the mirror. My hair was a mess, my eyes were bloodshot, but my expression was iron. I told myself: Hedy, just because you want to do something good doesn’t mean everyone wants to see you succeed. 4 The moment I stepped into the lobby, the atmosphere shifted. The receptionist, a young girl named Chloe—no, her name was Mia—looked at me with brimming eyes. She looked like she wanted to say something, but she just bit her lip and looked away. I nodded to her and headed for the elevator. When the doors opened on my floor, I saw it. Four words sprayed in jagged, dripping red paint across the corridor wall: CAPITALIST BLOODSUCKER. The paint was still wet, weeping down the drywall like blood. I stood there, staring at it for ten seconds. Footsteps echoed behind me. It was Jordan and Howard, our head of Legal. Howard spoke first. “Hedy, I’ve already called the police. This is vandalism and defamation—” “Wait,” I interrupted. “Just take photos for evidence. Don’t make a scene. If we bring the cops in now, the internet will just say we’re trying to silence the victims.” Jordan gritted her teeth. “But Hedy, three interns already resigned this morning. Two seniors followed them.” “Which interns?” “Jamie, Tyler, and Cassie.” I felt a sharp pang in my chest. I knew those three. Jamie had been a star last year, just promoted to full-time. Tyler was a new recruit with so much potential. And Cassie… Cassie was already leading projects. I never expected Cassie to bail. “Hold their resignations,” I said. “Follow the standard thirty-day notice period. Don’t give them a hard time, but don’t waive the protocol. Treat it like any other day.” I went into my office, shut the door, and opened my laptop. The digital world was a bonfire. People were digging up “dirt” that didn’t exist. Claims that I withheld overtime pay. Claims that I was using interns to launder government grants. I looked at the “proof” they posted. It was all fabrications—fake pay stubs that didn’t even have our company seal, wrong fonts, wrong dates. But nobody cared about the truth. In the rush of a digital mob, the truth is the first thing to get trampled. I leaned back and made a decision. I picked up the desk phone. “Jordan, prep the main hall. 10:00 AM. I want a full-staff meeting. Everyone. Including the interns.” “Hedy, there are protestors at the gate. Are you sure?” “Just do it.” I opened my bottom drawer and pulled out a thick, heavy manila envelope. I’d been preparing this for months. I’d planned to reveal it at the Christmas party as a surprise. It looked like the surprise was coming early. 5 At 10:00 AM, the room was packed. The air was thick with tension. Some people were staring at their laps. Others were whispering. A few looked at me with cold, sharp eyes. I stepped onto the small stage. No PowerPoint. No teleprompter. Just me and the manila envelope. “You’ve all seen the news,” I began. “I’m not going to give you a point-by-point rebuttal. If you already believe I’m a monster, no explanation will change your mind. If you trust me, you don’t need one.” Someone in the back scoffed. I ignored it. “I want to show you something else.” I opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of documents. The first page was a list of names, followed by dates and figures. “This is what I call the Growth Ledger. Since the day we launched the program, I’ve had HR track every single intern. Their initial skill assessment, their growth curve, their salary jumps, and their career trajectory after they leave.” I held up the first page. “Jamie. Started last March. Initial skill rating: 42. Three months later: 78. Starting salary: $55k. Current salary: $82k. She resigned this morning.” In the third row, Jamie’s head snapped up. Her face went pale. I kept reading. “Tyler. Started this June. Initial rating: 38. Current: 65. Monthly stipend: $4,000. He resigned this morning.” The boy in the back corner shifted uncomfortably. “Cassie. Started May of last year. Initial rating: 51. Rated 85 at the time of her promotion. Currently a project lead earning $110k. She also resigned this morning.” Cassie was in the front row. She bit her lip, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. I set the list down. “Do you know why I had HR track this? It wasn’t to monitor you. It was for me. I needed to know if this program actually worked. If it changed lives, I’d keep doing it. If it didn’t, I’d fix it. It was that simple.” I flipped to a data sheet and projected it onto the screen. “Over the last year, we’ve hired 67 interns. 52 were offered full-time roles. That’s a 77% retention rate. Only 6 have left the firm since. Their average starting pay was $45k; their average pay after one year is $72k. That’s a 60% increase.” I let the silence hang. “The people screaming at me on Twitter don’t know these numbers. Some of you didn’t even know them. But HR knows. Finance knows. Every one of you who sees your bank balance on the 1st and the 15th knows.” The whispering stopped. The room became unnervingly quiet. “I know what you’re wondering,” I said. “Was the recording real? Do I want to ‘fatten you up’?” No one moved. “The recording is real. But it was gutted. What I said was that we need to invest so much in our people that they choose to stay. Not through coercion, but through mutual value. A partnership.” My voice dropped an octave. “But I’m not here to argue semantics. I’m here to do this.” I pulled the final document from the envelope. The header read: INTERN EQUITY INCENTIVE PLAN. The room erupted. “This was meant for the end of the year,” I said over the noise. “Every intern who completes three months and stays for one year as a full-time employee will be granted equity in this company. Between 0.05% and 0.5%, based on performance.” I looked at their shocked faces and managed a small, tired smile. “Does this look like something a person who wants to ‘slaughter’ you would do?”

When I pushed open the door to my bedroom, Toby was balanced precariously on a chair, his fingers straining toward the heavy metal lockbox perched on the very top shelf of my wardrobe. He didn’t expect me back so early. The sudden creak of the hinges sent a jolt through him; his grip slipped, and my $45,000 Patek Philippe hit the mattress with a sickening, muffled thud. His eyes darted everywhere but at me, his face flushing a guilty, blotchy red. “Gavin… I was… I just wanted to look at it…” I didn’t move. I just watched him. “My roommate was right,” Toby blurted out, his voice rising in a defensive whine. “You wouldn’t even let me borrow a watch for one night. You’ve always been looking for reasons to lock me out!” I didn’t waste breath on an argument. I walked straight over, grabbed a handful of his hair to steady him, and delivered a sharp, stinging backhand across his face. The sound of the slap cracked through the silence of the room like a gunshot. The commotion brought my parents running. They burst in from the living room, faces tight with alarm. Toby immediately collapsed onto the bed, clutching his cheek and wailing. “Dad! Mom! He hit me! Gavin’s trying to kill me!” My mother’s eyes didn’t go to Toby first. They landed on the Patek Philippe lying on the duvet. Her expression went from shock to a cold, stony gray. She turned on her heel, marched to the mudroom, and returned a second later with a heavy, thick-soled leather clog in her hand. She didn’t hand it to Toby to comfort him. She shoved it into my palm. “Your hand will get sore if you keep using your palm,” she said, her voice trembling with a terrifying, quiet rage. “Use this. And don’t you dare stop until I say so.” “We’ve given you everything, Toby,” she hissed, turning her gaze to my brother. “And you repay us by becoming a common thief in your own home? Gavin, hit him. Hard.” I gripped the shoe, the weight of it familiar and solid, and brought it down across Toby’s back. The dull whack echoed against the walls. 1 The sound of the impact was heavy, followed by Toby’s shrill cry as he scrambled across the floor. “Mom! Dad! Help me! He’s actually going to kill me!” My father stood in the doorway, his face a mask of granite. He reached back, gripped the handle, and shut the bedroom door firmly. He didn’t leave even a crack for the light to escape. “Do it,” Dad said, his voice dropping an octave. “If he’s stealing from his own blood today, he’ll be robbing strangers at knifepoint tomorrow. Better he learns the cost of it here than in a cell.” I swung again. Toby had been the baby of the family, coddled and cushioned from every sharp edge the world had to offer. These hits were the first real consequences he’d ever felt, and he was falling apart, sobbing and crawling toward the corner. I planted a boot firmly in the center of his back, pinning him to the carpet. “What did you do wrong?” I asked, looking down at him. Toby was a mess of tears and snot, shielding his head with his arms. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have touched your stuff! Gavin, please, just stop!” WHACK. I hit him again. “Liar,” I said coldly. “You said your roommate told you I was ‘locking you out.’ Give me the details. Who is he, what exactly did he say, and what were you going to do with my watch?” Toby flinched, refusing to look up. I increased the pressure of my boot on his spine until he let out a strangled yelp. He broke. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! It’s Dexter! Dexter said he was going to a birthday party for some billionaire’s kid this weekend, and he’d look like a loser if he didn’t have the right accessories.” “He knew you had the Patek. He told me to ‘borrow’ it so he could make an impression!” My mother let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “He asked to borrow it, so you decided to steal it?” Toby looked up, his face swollen and tear-streaked, radiating a pathetic sense of martyrdom. “I wanted to ask Gavin… I did! But Dexter said Gavin is too arrogant and selfish, that he’d never say yes…” “He said we’re brothers. That what’s yours is mine. He said taking it for a few days isn’t ‘stealing’—it’s just sharing. He said if I didn’t help him, it was because I looked down on him for being a ‘scholarship kid.’ That I was just another elitist jerk…” I felt a wave of genuine nausea. A forty-five-thousand-dollar piece of horology, and this kid wanted to ‘borrow’ it to play dress-up. And if I said no, I was the villain. It was the kind of toxic, bottom-feeding logic that made my skin crawl, and Toby had swallowed it whole. 2 “So, because he’s poor, he’s entitled to my life’s work?” I asked. Toby sniffled, trying to find his footing. “Gavin, you don’t understand. Dexter’s had it rough. He scrapes by on nothing… he just has a lot of pride. He needs to make connections at that party. It could change his life.” “A watch is nothing to you,” Toby added, his voice regaining a sliver of that borrowed self-righteousness. “But for him, it’s a gateway to a future.” I kicked him square in the shoulder, flipping him onto his back. “Nothing to me?” I leaned down, grabbed his collar, and hauled him up until we were eye-to-eye. “I bought that watch with the first real profit from my startup. I worked twenty-hour days for three years to earn that ‘nothing.’ And you’re going to give away my blood and sweat so some parasite can ‘change his life’? You’re playing Robin Hood with your own brother’s heart?” My father stepped forward, pulling a chair from the desk and sitting down. When he spoke, the room felt smaller. “Toby,” Dad said. “This Dexter… does he make a habit of ‘borrowing’ from you?” Toby shook his head violently. “No! He’s a great guy! He… he gets me coffee when I’m pulling an all-night study session!” Mom walked over to Toby’s closet and yanked the door open. It was half-empty. His North Face parkas, his designer hoodies—all gone. She turned to his desk. The $3,000 MacBook Pro we’d bought him for his birthday two weeks ago was nowhere to be seen. “Where are your coats, Toby? Where is your laptop?” Mom’s voice was like a whip. Toby’s eyes went shifty. He stammered for a moment before whispering, “Dexter had an interview. He needed to look the part… and the laptop… we just share it in the dorm. He couldn’t afford a good one, and I didn’t want to be that guy. I didn’t want to be ‘the rich kid’.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. I dropped the shoe. “Fine,” I said, dusting off my hands. I turned toward the door. “Gavin, where are you going?” Toby asked, panic lacing his voice. “To help your ‘best friend’ find his destiny.” I drove to Toby’s university dorm with a cold, vibrating clarity. It was 9:00 PM. The hallways of the sophomore wing were buzzing with the usual Friday night energy. I walked straight to Room 304 and didn’t bother knocking. I kicked the door so hard the frame groaned. BOOM. The door flew open. Three guys were inside. Two were sprawled on their bunks, staring at their phones; they nearly jumped out of their skins. The third guy was standing in front of a full-length mirror, admiring his reflection. He was wearing a limited-edition varsity jacket I’d bought Toby for his birthday. He was decked out in name brands from head to toe. On his desk sat Toby’s MacBook. This was Dexter. He froze, his brow furrowing as he processed my intrusion. “Who the hell are you? You ever hear of knocking?” I didn’t say a word. I crossed the room in three strides, grabbed a handful of his carefully styled hair, and slammed him down to the floor. Dexter let out a sharp, pathetic shriek as he hit the linoleum. The two roommates scrambled into the corners of their beds, eyes wide, terrified. I put my weight onto my boot, pinning Dexter’s shoulder to the ground, and gripped his chin, forcing him to look at me. “I’m Toby’s brother.” I stared into his eyes, my voice a low, lethal hum. “A forty-five-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe. You really had the balls to ask for that?” 3 Dexter’s face went ghost-white. He struggled under my boot, but I didn’t budge. “What are you doing? Get off me! Toby said I could have it! You can’t just break in here and assault me!” Dexter screamed. “Borrow it?” I leaned down and delivered a sharp slap to his face. The sound echoed in the cramped room. His lip split instantly, a bead of dark blood blooming on the corner of his mouth. “I paid for that watch. Toby doesn’t have the authority to lend out my property,” I said. Dexter’s eyes welled with tears. He realized he couldn’t overpower me, so he pivoted. He looked toward his roommates, his face contorting into a mask of fragile, victimized innocence. “Caleb, Sam! Call campus security! He’s crazy! Just because he has money doesn’t mean he can hunt us down! He’s bullying us because we’re not like him!” The roommate named Caleb looked conflicted. “Hey, man… maybe just let him up? Dexter said Toby was cool with it. Toby’s always giving him stuff. Can’t we just talk about this?” “Talk?” I looked at Caleb. “He manipulated a nineteen-year-old kid into committing grand larceny. That’s a felony. Are you sure you want to be the character witness for a felon?” Caleb shut his mouth and backed away, his face pale. Dexter was still squirming, clutching the varsity jacket like it was his own skin. “I didn’t steal anything! Toby wanted to help me! You’re just a psycho who’s jealous because Toby actually likes me!” I knelt down, my face inches from his. “Take it off.” Dexter blinked. “What?” “The jacket. I paid for it. Take it off. Now.” Dexter clutched the lapels, sobbing. “You’re a monster! Toby gave this to me! You can’t just strip me in front of everyone!” I didn’t argue. I just grabbed the collar and yanked. The expensive silk lining tore with a jagged, ugly sound, exposing his t-shirt underneath. Dexter screamed and curled into a ball, weeping as if I were the villain in a Dickens novel. “Help! He’s killing me! The rich guy is trying to kill me!” A crowd was already gathering in the hallway, students peeking in, the murmur of voices growing louder. Someone started recording on their phone. Seeing his audience, Dexter’s performance went into overdrive. He crawled toward the doorway, reaching out to the onlookers. “Please! Someone help! I just borrowed a jacket, and his brother broke in to beat me up! Do we even matter to people like him? Are we just trash to be stepped on?” The whispers from the hallway turned sharp. “That’s messed up.” “You can’t treat people like that, no matter how much money you have.” “Call the cops. This is assault.” I stood in the center of the room, cold and detached. I pulled a wet wipe from my pocket and slowly cleaned the blood from my knuckles. It was a classic move. The weaponized victimhood of the “underdog.” 4 He’d wrapped himself in the armor of poverty, using it as a get-out-of-jail-free card, banking on the collective empathy of the crowd. Just then, the dorm supervisor and the faculty advisor, Mr. Henderson, pushed through the throng. Henderson took one look at Dexter—bloody, disheveled, and weeping—and his face turned a bright, indignant red. “What is going on here? Who is responsible for this?” Dexter lunged for Henderson’s legs, sobbing into his slacks. “Save me! Toby’s brother… he just started hitting me! He tore my clothes! He’s trying to humiliate me in front of everyone!” Henderson glared at me. “You’re Toby’s family? How dare you bring this kind of violence onto this campus! Do you have any idea how many laws you’ve just broken?” I tossed the used wet wipe into the trash can. “Mr. Henderson, right? This boy spent the last four hours convincing my brother to steal a forty-five-thousand-dollar luxury watch from my home. As the owner of the property and the victim of an attempted theft, I’m here to recover my stolen goods and address a criminal. You have a problem with that?” Henderson blinked. The crowd went silent. “Forty-five thousand? Theft?” Henderson stammered, looking down at Dexter. Dexter shook his head frantically. “I didn’t! He’s making it up! I just asked Toby if I could wear it for a night! I didn’t know he was going to ‘steal’ it! I’m innocent!” Henderson looked relieved, shifting back into his “peacekeeper” role. “Look, Mr. …?” “Gavin.” “Mr. Gavin. This is clearly a misunderstanding. Dexter is one of our top scholarship students. He’s had a very difficult life, but he’s a hard worker. He wouldn’t do something like this.” “Since nothing was actually stolen, let’s keep this in the family. Bringing this kind of drama to the school is bad for everyone. Apologize to Dexter, cover his medical bills, and we can forget this ever happened.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Apologize? Pay him?” I walked over to Dexter’s desk. “Where’s the rest of the stuff Toby ‘gave’ you?” Dexter cowered behind Henderson, silent. I brushed past Henderson and looked at the desk. It wasn’t just the laptop. There were limited-edition collectible figures, high-end headphones, all things I’d bought for Toby over the years. I picked up a rare, $500 glass-sculpted figurine. CRASH. I dropped it. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. “What are you doing!” Henderson shouted. I didn’t answer. I picked up a pair of $600 Sennheiser headphones and snapped the headband like a twig. The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of destruction. Dexter watched the wreckage of his “gifts” with a look of pure agony. “You’re insane! Those are mine!” “Yours?” I stopped and looked him in the eye. “You’re a ‘scholarship student’ who qualified for the Pell Grant, yet you have over ten thousand dollars worth of luxury tech and collectibles on your desk. And you’re telling me they’re yours?” The students in the hall started murmuring again, but the tone had changed. They were looking at Dexter’s desk with new eyes. Dexter’s face went through a kaleidoscope of colors—red, white, then a sickly gray. “Toby didn’t want them! He gave them to me! Is it a crime for a poor person to have nice things?” 5 I was done listening to his lies. I walked to his wardrobe and ripped it open. A dozen designer shirts. Three pairs of Balenciaga sneakers. Every single one was a piece I had helped Toby pick out at the boutique. I tore them off the hangers and threw them into the pile of broken glass on the floor, stepping on them for good measure. “Toby ‘gave’ you these too?” I asked. Dexter grit his teeth, tears streaming down his face. “Yes! He has so much, he can’t even wear it all! Why shouldn’t I have a turn?” “Is it a ‘turn,’ Dexter? Or is it a shakedown?” I pulled out my phone and pulled up Toby’s Venmo history. I held it up to Henderson’s face. “Look at this, Mr. Henderson. In the last month alone, Dexter has had Toby pay for over fifteen DoorDash orders—all of them expensive steakhouse or sushi dinners. Dexter’s phone bill? Toby paid it. That brand-new iPhone in his pocket? Toby bought it on a monthly installment plan.” I turned back to Dexter. “You didn’t find a friend in Toby. You found a vein, and you’ve been draining him dry while telling him it’s ‘sharing.’ You aren’t just poor, Dexter. You’re a parasite.” Dexter snapped. He stood up, pointing a finger at me, his voice shaking with rage. “Shut up! Toby wanted to spend that money! What do you know about friendship? You’re just a cold-blooded shark who thinks everything has a price tag!” I took a step toward him. He flinched so hard he hit the wardrobe door. That’s when I saw it. A secondary phone, half-hidden in the top drawer of his nightstand. I reached for it. Dexter turned into a wild animal, lunging for my arm. “Don’t touch that! That’s my private property! You’re a thief!” I swept his leg, and he hit the floor with a heavy thud, kneeling before me. I picked up the phone. It wasn’t locked. I tapped the photo gallery. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll.

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Three months ago, the day I discovered Pierce’s infidelity, I quietly packed my things and moved into the guest room. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream. I waited until the System notified me that all evidence of his betrayal had been collected. Only then did I step back into our master suite. The door was ajar. Inside, Pierce was on speakerphone, his voice filled with a warmth he hadn’t shown me in years. On the other end, three voices—voices I knew intimately—were joking around. My three ex-husbands. “So, Pierce,” one of them teased with a familiar lilt, “did you give her the divorce papers yet? Lacy made it clear—no tag-alongs allowed at her bachelorette party. If you want an invite, you come alone.” Pierce chuckled, a cold, sharp sound. “Don’t worry. I’m about to force her to sign.” He looked up then, spotting me in the doorway. His expression shifted instantly from amusement to a mask of icy indifference as he hung up. “Since you heard everything,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “let’s just end it. You were always just damaged goods, Jacqueline. A relic tossed aside by your exes. You should be grateful I let you play the part of my wife for as long as I did.” I looked at him, feeling the hollow ache in my chest settle into something hard and crystalline. In the quiet theater of my mind, I reached out and pressed the System’s ‘Punishment’ key. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply smiled. … 1 Pierce’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. He stood up, jabbed a finger toward my face, and snarled. “Jacqueline, have you finally lost your mind? Are you going insane?” “Those three men kicked you to the curb years ago. Do you honestly think they’d ever want you back? If I hadn’t been charitable enough to marry you, you’d be nothing but a used-up socialite nobody would touch with a ten-foot pole!” I watched his desperate bravado, the way his veins thrummed with malice. In my mind, the System issued a crisp, mechanical ding. [Punishment Protocol Initiated. Pain Sensitivity increased by 10%. Luck Depletion: 10%.] Suddenly, Pierce went pale. He gasped, clutching his chest as he stumbled back against the vanity. His breath came in ragged hitches. “Did you… did you poison me?” he wheezed, his eyes darting around in a panic. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. I turned on my heel and went to the guest room to grab my suitcase. As I reached the foyer, the electronic lock chimed. The door swung open, and a wave of cloying, sugary perfume flooded the hallway. “Pierce, honey? I brought those artisanal honey-glazed chestnuts you love from the Upper East Side.” Lacy walked in, looking like a portrait of innocence in a white eyelet lace dress. She froze when she saw me with my luggage, her hand flying to her mouth in a choreographed gesture of shock. “Jacqueline? Are you… leaving?” Her eyes pooled with sudden, practiced tears. “Is this because I called Pierce yesterday? Please, don’t be mad at him. I was just so scared staying at the hotel by myself. I needed someone to talk to.” She trembled, ducking behind Pierce as if I were a physical threat. Despite the pain in his chest, Pierce pulled her into his arms, shielding her with a protective glare. “Jacqueline, enough! Lacy is fragile. Stop trying to intimidate her.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. It felt like glass breaking. “Fragile? It takes a lot of nerve to sleep with another woman’s husband. Doesn’t seem very ‘fragile’ to me.” Lacy’s tears began to spill over. “Jacqueline, how can you be so cruel? Pierce and I… it’s pure. We’re soulmates. You can’t let your three failed marriages turn you into someone this bitter.” A ripple of mocking laughter came from the hallway. “Lacy’s right, Jacqueline. You really need to work on that temper.” Three tall, well-dressed men filed into the penthouse: Beckett, Colton, and Jude. My past, standing in my present. Beckett tossed his Ferrari keys onto the marble console, his eyes sweeping over my suitcase with disdain. “What, the runaway bride act again? You did this when you divorced me, too. It’s getting a bit cliché, don’t you think?” Colton walked over to Lacy, patting her head before turning to me with a sigh. “Jacqueline, be an adult for once. Pierce works his tail off to provide this lifestyle for you. So what if he has a muse on the side?” Jude leaned against the doorframe, flicking a designer lighter open and shut. “You think you’re still the untouchable heiress of the Mercer estate? You’re a three-time divorcée. You should be thanking God anyone was willing to take the hand-me-downs.” Seeing the four of them standing together, a united front to protect their ‘golden girl,’ I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated nausea. Years ago, Beckett had begged me for a tactical marriage to secure his family’s inheritance. Colton had knelt in the pouring rain, pleading for my help to dodge a disastrous merger. Jude had been at death’s door, needing my signature and my resources to survive a medical scandal. Every single time, I had helped them. Every single time, when the crisis passed, I had walked away with nothing, leaving them the space to thrive. And now, they stood here, using the very status I helped them build to grind me into the dirt for a girl like Lacy. I looked at Pierce. “You called them here?” Pierce held Lacy tighter, his chin lifted. “Lacy said today was a day for celebration, a fresh start for all of us. She wanted you to see the reality of things so you’d stop using the threat of divorce as a weapon. You walk out that door today, Jacqueline, and you are dead to this circle. Don’t think for a second you’ll be allowed back in.” I gripped the handle of my suitcase, my spine as straight as a blade. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “This place is so filthy I wouldn’t stay if you paid me.” I shouldered past Jude, walking out into the hallway without a backward glance. Behind me, I heard Lacy’s voice, sweet and venomous. “Oh dear, Jacqueline is so sensitive. She didn’t even say goodbye to the boys.” “Let her go,” Beckett scoffed. “She’ll be back in three days, crawling and crying for Pierce to take her back.” “Exactly,” Colton chimed in. “A woman like her can’t survive five minutes without a man’s bank account.” I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. In the silence of the car, the System’s voice echoed in my mind. [Host, revenge sequence initiated. Shall we proceed with full-scale Luck Depletion?] “Full power,” I whispered. If these four wolves wanted to hunt in a pack, they could starve in one, too. 2 Leaving that penthouse was like finally exhaling after holding my breath for three years. I didn’t go to a hotel. I drove straight to the glass-walled triplex overlooking Central Park. It was my grandfather’s private legacy, a property Pierce didn’t even know existed. He’d spent our entire marriage convinced I’d poured my last cent into his startup, believing I was nothing more than a dependent trophy wife. I’d just stepped out of the shower when my phone buzzed on the vanity. A message from Colton. A photo. In the picture, Lacy was perched on the velvet sofa in the penthouse, wearing a birthday tiara. Pierce, Beckett, Colton, and Jude were gathered around her, their faces soft with adoration. On the table sat the custom-ordered fondant cake I had designed months ago. The caption read: [Be smart. Come back and apologize to Lacy. It’s her birthday—don’t be the one to ruin it.] I stared at the screen for a second, then blocked his number. I followed suit with the other three, purging them from my digital life with a few taps. The next morning, I arrived at Pierce’s corporate headquarters with my lead attorney in tow. This company wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t leveraged my family’s old connections to secure its first round of Series A funding. I pushed open the door to the executive suite. Pierce was hunched over his desk, his hair a mess as he glared at a series of red spreadsheets on his monitor. He looked up, stunned to see me, before a smirk touched his lips. “So, one night in a cheap hotel was enough to bring you to your senses?” “I knew you couldn’t stay away,” he continued, leaning back. “Tell you what. Go buy Lacy that Hermès bag she wanted as a peace offering, and I’ll pretend yesterday never happened.” I dropped the divorce decree onto his mahogany desk with a dull thud. “Sign it.” Pierce glanced at the header, his face darkening. “Jacqueline, drop the act. You’re not scaring me with this. I pay for your clothes, your food, your soul. Without me, you’re a literal vagrant.” I sat down in the chair opposite him, tapping the desk. “Pierce, did you really forget whose money started this ’empire’? Or whose name opened the doors for those ‘exclusive’ contracts you’re currently losing?” His expression faltered, but he blustered through it. “So what? The company is in my name. The accounts are mine. You want a divorce? Fine. You leave with nothing. Not a single cent.” I nodded to my lawyer. Mr. Simon stepped forward, sliding a leather-bound folder onto the desk. “Actually, Mr. Prescott, per the initial investment covenant, Mrs. Blackwood—soon to be Ms. Mercer—retains a sixty percent equity stake held in a private trust. In the event of a legal separation involving infidelity, she has the right to call in all debts and liquidate her shares immediately.” Pierce lunged for the papers, his eyes scanning the clauses. The veins in his neck bulged. “Jacqueline, you… you set me up?” “It’s called an exit strategy, Pierce,” I said coldly. “You have three days to secure the buy-out funds, or I’ll see you in court for a forced liquidation.” I stood up to leave, but the door swung open. Lacy walked in carrying a boutique lunch bag. Seeing me, she immediately switched into her ‘victim’ persona. “Jacqueline! Are you here to see Pierce? Please, don’t pressure him. He’s been so stressed about the firm lately.” She touched her eyes, which were conveniently brimming with tears. “If it’s about money… I can give you my savings. I don’t want to be the reason you’re struggling.” Pierce pulled her behind him, roaring at me. “Do you see this, Jacqueline? Lacy is thinking about you while you’re trying to bleed me dry! You’re nothing but a vampire!” I couldn’t help it. I laughed—a genuine, amused sound. “Lacy, keep your little ‘savings.’ You’ll need them to buy your own coffee once Pierce is back in a cubicle.” Lacy’s face went white. Pierce raised his hand, his face contorted with rage, ready to strike. His wrist was caught mid-air by a hand with long, elegant fingers. Beckett stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed. He shoved Pierce’s hand down and looked at me with a mix of disappointment and irritation. “Jacqueline, that’s enough. Lacy was trying to be kind. Why must you be so incredibly toxic?” I shook out my own wrist, though he hadn’t touched me. “Mr. CEO is quite the regular here lately. Don’t you have a company of your own to run, Beckett? Or are you hoping to pick up the scraps of this one when it crashes?” Beckett stiffened. “I’m here to discuss a partnership. And to check on Lacy.” I didn’t bother responding. I walked past them, my lawyer following close behind. As I hit the elevator bank, the System chimed again. [Luck Depletion Active: Pierce’s Midtown Development Project just hit a massive safety violation. Stop-work order issued.] I felt a ghost of a smile pull at my lips. 3 Over the next seventy-two hours, Pierce’s world didn’t just crumble—it imploded. The Midtown project was a disaster. The bank froze his lines of credit. His partners, smelling blood in the water, began pulling out one by one. Meanwhile, I sat in my floor-to-ceiling windowed living room, sipping a vintage Bordeaux and watching the ticker on my tablet. Prescott Holdings was bleeding out in real-time. My phone rang. An unknown number. I’d changed my SIM, but somehow Jude had found it. “Jacqueline, what the hell are you doing?” Jude’s voice was thick with suppressed fury. “Are you behind the short-selling of Pierce’s stock? Stop this childish vendetta.” I took a slow sip of my wine. “If he can’t manage his own risk, Jude, that’s hardly my problem.” Jude scoffed. “Don’t play coy. Nobody else would be this ruthless. Drop the lawsuits, Jacqueline. Don’t force our hand. You think you’re still the Mercer girl? The three of us can make sure you never work in this city again.” “And how would you do that, Jude?” I asked. “The last time I checked, you were the one begging for my signature on your medical release forms so you wouldn’t die a ward of the state. Have you forgotten how to be humble?” There was a sharp silence on the other end, followed by a snarl. “That was years ago! Don’t you dare throw the past in my face! Lacy is devastated by all this stress. You will stop this, and you will publicly apologize to her for the slander.” I hung up. The delusion was almost fascinating. Did they really think they were the protagonists of this story? That evening, a courier delivered a heavy, gold-embossed envelope. An invitation to an exclusive solo art exhibition for Lacy. It was being held at the Starry Night Gallery—the most prestigious venue in the city. Inside was a handwritten note: [Jacqueline, tomorrow is my big night. Pierce and the guys will all be there. I hope you can come so we can finally put this misunderstanding behind us. Love, Lacy.] I looked at the note and laughed. Put the ‘misunderstanding’ behind us? More like ‘publicly humiliate me with a show of force.’ The System spoke up. [Host, malice levels detected from the target are peaking. Suggest attending the event for a ‘Face-Slap’ bonus. Rewards: Double Revenge Points.] “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I tossed the invitation into the fireplace. The next night, I stepped out of a black town car in front of the gallery. I was wearing a vintage black velvet gown that hugged every curve, my hair swept up to reveal a throat that felt far too bare. My makeup was lethal—sharp wings and a blood-red lip. The gallery was packed with the city’s elite. Lacy, in a custom blush silk gown, stood in the center of the room like a princess, flanked by her four knights. The room went silent as I walked in. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the air like a cold wind. Lacy’s eyes lit up. She hurried toward me, her skirt swishing. “Jacqueline! You actually came!” She reached out to grab my hand in a display of faux-sisterhood. I pivoted slightly, letting her hand grasp empty air. Her smile faltered, her eyes immediately welling up. Pierce was there in a heartbeat, stepping between us. “Jacqueline, what is wrong with you? Lacy went out of her way to invite you, and you can’t even be civil?” Beckett walked over, swirling a glass of scotch, his eyes raking over my dress. “Dressed like that… are you here to sabotage her, or are you just desperate for our attention again?” Colton chuckled darkly. “She’s run out of moves, Beckett. This is a cry for help.” A few people in the crowd tittered. I ignored them, looking instead at the ‘art’ on the walls. “This is the exhibition?” I asked, loud enough for the nearby guests to hear. “The colors are muddy, the composition is amateur, and the technique is… well, I’ve seen better work in a middle school hallway. Your taste, gentlemen, has plummeted.” Lacy’s face turned a blotchy red. “Jacqueline! You can hate me, but don’t insult my art!” Jude slammed his drink down on a nearby pedestal. The glass shattered, sent shards flying. “Jacqueline, you’re here to cause trouble. Apologize to Lacy. Now.” 4 The atmosphere was suffocating. Every eye in the room was on me, waiting for the fall. Pierce stepped closer, looming over me with a dark, triumphant look. “I’m giving you one last chance, Jacqueline. Get on your knees and apologize to Lacy. Right here, in front of everyone.” I looked at him, truly looked at him, and realized I felt nothing but a mild sense of pity. “Pierce, you’ve lost your mind. Me? Kneel for her? She couldn’t handle the weight of my shadow, let alone my respect.” Lacy retreated into Colton’s arms, sobbing. “Pierce, please, just let it go. Jacqueline has always looked down on me. I don’t want to be the reason your marriage is ruined…” Colton glared at me. “Look at how kind she is! And look at you—you’ve turned into a bitter, vengeful hag!” Beckett stepped forward then, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. He flipped it open. Inside was a glowing emerald necklace. My breath hitched. It was my grandfather’s—the only thing I had left of him. I’d left it in the wall safe at the penthouse in my haste to leave. Beckett saw my reaction and smirked. “Want it back? I had a locksmith open that pathetic little safe of yours.” “Give it to me, Beckett,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Sure,” he said, holding the necklace over a trash bin. “As soon as you give Lacy the three head-bows she deserves for your bullying. Otherwise, I’ll drop this into the disposal and watch it get ground into dust.” I stared at the emerald, my nails digging into my palms. “Beckett, don’t you dare.” Jude sneered. “Who’s going to stop us? You have nothing left. No status, no husband, no friends. Get on your knees.” The crowd began to whisper. “Poor Jacqueline… she’s really fallen.” “She probably deserved it. You don’t get four men to hate you that much for no reason.” “Just apologize and get it over with, honey. Why keep up the act?” Pierce reached out, his hand moving to shove my shoulder downward. “I said, kneel!” His hand never reached me. The gallery doors were kicked open with a thunderous bang that made everyone jump. Two rows of men in black suits flooded the room, creating a human corridor. Then, a man walked in—tall, commanding, with a presence that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. He was in a charcoal-grey bespoke suit, his eyes like flint. Callum Blackwood. The King of the Manhattan elite. A man who didn’t just own companies; he owned the people who ran them. The room fell into a deathly silence. Callum walked straight to me. He saw Pierce’s hand hovering near my shoulder. Without a word, he delivered a backhand so sharp and powerful it sent Pierce sprawling across the floor. The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot. Callum took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hand with clinical precision, and dropped the cloth onto Pierce’s bleeding face. He then turned, pulled me firmly into his side, and let his voice ring out through the gallery. “Who gave you trash the right to lay a finger on my fiancée?”

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I had never liked my boyfriend’s older brother. From the very first moment we met, he made no effort to hide his disdain, mocking my “pedestrian” background with a razor-sharp tongue. I swallowed my pride and endured his coldness, purely for the sake of the man I loved. I never expected a freak accident to hurl me ten years into the future. When I opened my eyes, a small boy—no older than five—approached me with a shy, tentative look in his eyes. He asked if I would come to his kindergarten’s “Family Field Day” tomorrow. Looking at that tiny face, which was a spitting image of my boyfriend, my heart melted instantly. I nodded before I could even think. Excited, he grabbed my hand and led me toward the hallway to “find Daddy.” As we rounded the corner, we collided with a familiar, towering figure: Everett, my boyfriend’s brother. Before I could stammer out an apology, the boy’s voice rang out with pure joy: “Daddy! Mommy finally said yes!” I froze. My mind went completely blank. 1 Everett reached out to steady me, his hand lingering on my arm for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. He looked down at the boy with a cool, measured expression. “Charlie, it’s past your bedtime.” Charlie let go of my hand reluctantly, his eyes filled with a mix of lingering excitement and hesitation. But under Everett’s habitually commanding gaze, he had no choice but to retreat. He trudged obediently back toward his bedroom. I watched the whole scene, my brain still stuck in a massive system failure. Daddy? He called Everett Daddy? And I’m the Mommy? I was a sunny, carefree twenty-year-old college student when I went to sleep. How did I wake up as a married woman with a child? And how, in God’s name, was the husband Everett? This made zero sense. He was my boyfriend’s brother. How did the next ten years involve me ending up in some twisted, forbidden romance with my own brother-in-law? And where the hell was my actual boyfriend? Everett watched Charlie disappear into his room before turning his gaze toward me. He studied me for a few beats, his eyes unreadable. “Are you not going to sleep? It’s late.” My ability to think had flatlined. I just followed his lead, my voice cracking slightly. “Sleep. Right. Going now. Immediately.” I looked up at him, and for a moment, I felt a strange sense of vertigo. The Everett standing before me was vastly different from the man I remembered. By my count, he should only be thirty-five now. So why was his hair so heavily streaked with silver? I felt a prickle of dark humor in my chest. I guess corporate life really does a number on you. Still, my old instincts kicked in. I couldn’t stand the weight of his stare, so I turned and hurried back into the bedroom I had just come from. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire way—a heavy, intense physical presence. God help me. Someone needs to explain why ten-year-older me married Everett and produced a five-year-old son. Before I could spiral further, Everett appeared in the doorway. He held out a small white pill. “Vitamins,” he said, his voice flat and concise. Suspicion flared in my gut. Vitamins? Then why not just give me the bottle? We stood in a tense standoff for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Everett let out a sigh so faint I almost missed it. He looked down, pulling the pill back. His movements were practiced, weary—like a man who was intimately familiar with being rejected. “If you won’t take it, just leave it be.” He didn’t push. He just told me to get some rest and walked away. After he left, I felt more lost than ever. Was our marriage this strained? Did we even sleep in the same room? But then a thought hit me: if I actually had to share a bed with Everett, I’d probably have nightmares for the rest of my life. 2 That wasn’t hyperbole. Everett had genuinely traumatized me in the past. The first time we met was at Beckett’s—my boyfriend’s—birthday gala. As Beckett’s girlfriend, I was at the top of my game: charming, well-dressed, and perfectly capable of handling a room. But the moment Everett saw me, he winced as if he’d smelled something foul. “Which backwater bargain bin did you crawl out of?” he’d asked. I was stunned. Ugly? Low-class? To be fair, I was neither. I was a dean’s list student with a scholarship and a face that could stop traffic. Everett had to be legally blind to say that with a straight face. If it had been anyone else, I would have torn him apart. But Everett was the head of the family empire, the eldest son, and a man known in the business world as a “cold-blooded reaper.” I gritted my teeth and forced a smile. “Hello, Everett. I’m Beckett’s girlfriend.” His expression didn’t shift an inch. He didn’t even give me a second glance. Instead, he looked at Beckett with a mocking tilt of his head. “Beckett, since when did your standards for ‘company’ drop this low?” Beckett looked mortified, trying to smooth things over. “Everett, come on. Isla is great. Once you get to know her…” “No need,” Everett cut him off, his gaze already drifting away. “I’ve delivered the gift. Enjoy your party.” He didn’t even stay to wish his brother a happy birthday. He just walked out, treating his own brother like a piece of insignificant furniture. Later, I learned that his initial greeting was just the appetizer. Everett’s tongue was a weapon designed to make people question their entire existence. Because of that, every time I crossed paths with him back then, I’d break into a cold sweat. I spent years worrying about whether he would approve of me if Beckett and I ever got engaged. I never imagined I’d skip the engagement, skip the wedding, and wake up married to the Reaper himself. I tossed and turned, my mind a frantic loop of these memories until I finally drifted into a fitful sleep. Somewhere in the haze between dreams and reality, I felt a presence. Someone was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me for a long, long time. Then, a hand touched my hair. It was a stroke so light, so impossibly tender, it felt like a ghost. Who…? 3 I woke up to the feeling of someone staring at me. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains. Charlie was standing there, his little yellow duck backpack already on, his eyes wide and blinking. “Mommy! It’s time to go!” Go where? It took me three seconds to remember the Family Field Day. Right. I scrambled out of bed to get ready. Charlie followed me like a little shadow. Everywhere I went, he was there, his eyes glued to me as if he were terrified I might vanish if he blinked. I couldn’t help it. I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Charlie froze like a tiny, confused penguin. A deep crimson flush crept up his chubby cheeks instantly. He nearly jumped. “You… you kissed me!” I frowned, a knot forming in my stomach. What did that mean? Had the “ten-year-older me” been so cold that I didn’t even kiss my own son? That seemed impossibly cruel. Before I could dwell on it, Everett walked in. He was already dressed. I stared at him for a second. Seeing him out of his tailored power suits was jarring. In his athletic gear, he looked… younger. Almost approachable. Then my eyes caught the streaks of white in his hair again, and the thought vanished. No. Still old. Still Everett. Everett glanced at us—at the way Charlie was hovering near me—and his eyes softened for a fleeting second. “The event starts at nine-thirty.” I immediately let go of Charlie and hurried to get myself together. I might not have experience being a mom, but I knew how to look the part. I wanted Charlie to be proud of me. I picked out an outfit that felt like “me”—or at least, the twenty-year-old version of me. When I stepped out of the dressing room, Charlie started cheering, turning into a one-man hype machine. Everett, however, just stood there. He looked me up and down, his body stiff. Beyond the shock in his eyes, there was something else. A flicker of… nostalgia? 4 On the drive to the school, I stared out the window. Charlie was chirping away in the back seat. Is this what ten years later looks like? Everything felt remarkably the same. Technology hadn’t made some giant leap into the future. Even the scenery felt strangely familiar. Before I could process it, we arrived. Charlie was vibrating with excitement, dragging me inside. Whenever we passed one of his little friends, he would wrap his arms around my leg. “This is my mommy! See? I told you she was the prettiest!” I laughed, but then a cold realization hit me. Was this the first time ‘I’ had ever shown up at his school? Why else would he say something like that? I looked toward Everett, who was walking on my left. Our eyes met. I wanted to ask him something—anything—but he immediately looked away. Classic. Whether it was ten years ago or ten years from now, Everett was still the most frustrating man on the planet. The kindergarten field day was packed with activities. But when I saw the equipment, my smile faltered. Crap. I was wearing a skirt. I had prioritized “looking pretty” over “being functional.” Everett spoke up, his voice level. “You stay in the stands and rest. I’ll handle the events.” Charlie was equally supportive. “Yeah, Mommy! Don’t worry, I’m gonna win a medal for you!” I gave them a weak smile and headed for the bleachers. By ten o’clock, the sun was starting to bite. I squinted, watching the father-son duo in the distance. Maybe it was the sunlight softening his harsh edges, but Everett didn’t look so terrifying anymore. He looked… human. Watching him with Charlie was actually quite beautiful. The genes were strong. They looked so much alike. And yet, there was a nagging feeling in the back of my mind. Charlie reminded me of Beckett, too. The thought of Beckett hit me like a physical blow. Where was he? Why was he gone? And why, since I woke up, had I not been able to find my phone? Had phones evolved into some kind of brain-link tech I didn’t know about? The cloud of suspicion in my mind began to grow. Suddenly, a warm voice spoke beside me. “You must be Charlie’s mother.” 5 It was the school’s principal. She sat down in the empty seat next to me and started chatting as if we were old friends. Apparently, the Blackwood Group—Everett’s company—was the primary donor for the school. I tried to mimic the way I’d seen my own mother talk to teachers, nodding and smiling. But the more she talked, the more unsettled I became. What did she mean by, “I know your work keeps you busy”? Why was she saying I should “try to be more involved in the school community”? And why was she gently suggesting that, as a mother, I needed to “spend more quality time” with my child? I was reeling. What the hell had I been doing for the last ten years? According to the principal, I sounded like an absentee parent. I said a dazed goodbye to her and watched Everett and Charlie compete in the races. Everything about this “time travel” was wrong. Why was Charlie so surprised when I kissed him? Why did I have no phone, no social life, no job? Why weren’t there any wedding photos on the walls of our house? The points were starting to connect, forming a dark, jagged shape. The cheers of the other parents felt distant, like they were happening behind a thick pane of glass. I didn’t belong here. When Charlie eventually ran up to me, beaming, I just nodded blankly. “Mommy, was I great?” “Yes, baby. So great.” Everett ended our day early and drove us home. Charlie didn’t seem upset by the early exit; in fact, he seemed used to it. He just kept watching me with an expression that broke my heart—pure, unadulterated worry. When we got back, I went straight to the bedroom. Everett followed me, but I blocked the door. “I just need to rest. Alone.” Everett stayed silent for a moment, his eyes searching my pale face. Finally, he gave a heavy nod. “Fine.” 6 The second the door was locked, I started tearing the room apart. It was a huge suite. Searching just one corner took me thirty minutes, and I found nothing. No clues. No identity. Frustrated, I went into the walk-in closet to change. My eyes were drawn to the very bottom drawer of the jewelry cabinet. It was tucked away, almost hidden. Driven by a strange, magnetic pull, I knelt down and pulled it open. Inside was a weathered, yellowing journal. I recognized it instantly. It was the style of notebook I’d been using since I was eighteen. I felt like I was standing at the threshold of a dark secret. My hands shook as I opened it. The damage was extensive; it looked like someone had tried to rip it to shreds. Nearly every page was missing a corner or a chunk of text. I read through the entries from when I was eighteen to twenty. It was full of the typical “girl in love” musings. I winced at my own younger self—God, I was so dramatic. I flipped faster. I wanted to see when things changed. Apparently, Beckett and I had stayed together for a long time. I desperately wanted to know what caused the breakup. But suddenly, the entries stopped. The dates ended right around my twenty-first birthday. I felt a wave of disappointment. Why didn’t I keep writing? Why was I so careless with this? I prepared to close the book and give up. But then, a scrap of paper—a torn corner from a later page—slipped out from the binding. There were only a few words. But they were written in my handwriting, frantic and jagged. [RUN!] [GET AWAY FROM HIM!] [HE IS A MONSTER!] My scalp went numb. Him? Did I mean Everett? Did he force the breakup? Did he force me into this marriage? It all started to click. The isolation. The lack of a phone. The silver hair. The “vitamins.” He had done something. He had taken my life and locked me in this golden cage. But ten years ago, he hated me. Why would he…? I couldn’t breathe. My head throbbed with a blinding pain. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the notebook. I stood up, clutching my chest, tears of sheer terror pricking my eyes. I have to get out. I have to divorce him. I have to run. As I turned to the door, a shadow blocked the light. I froze. Everett’s voice drifted from the doorway, low and dangerous. “Isla. What are you doing?”

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The emergency room door was left slightly ajar, and Ted’s voice cut through the sterile hallway, reaching me loud and clear. He was telling the doctor that Daphne was a violinist. That her hands were her livelihood, that they absolutely could not be damaged. He demanded they treat her first. At that exact moment, I had just been pulled from the twisted metal of our car by the firefighters. My left wrist was slick with my own blood, a gash on my temple was steadily weeping down the side of my face, and a massive, ugly bruise was blooming across my thigh. By the time the ambulance arrived, the pain had escalated into a dull, terrifying numbness. My knees had been pinned in the crumpled gap of the passenger seat, the seatbelt biting into my collarbone so hard I couldn’t move. Half my body had lost all sensation. I remember the torrential rain hammering against the shattered windshield, the freezing wind howling through the broken glass. And I remember watching, helpless and pinned, as Ted kicked his door open, scooped up a bleeding Daphne, and disappeared into the storm with her. He moved like a man possessed. He never once looked back. “Daphne!” In the chaotic second the car was struck and the metal buckled inward, I didn’t even hear my own scream. I only heard my husband screaming another woman’s name. Right then, in the freezing wreckage, I simply stopped struggling. I finally understood. I could live a hundred lifetimes, and I would never win against the ghost of his first love. … “How is this woman related to you, sir?” the doctor asked. Ted hesitated. The silence lasted exactly two seconds. “Just treat them both.” That sentence was the perfect summary of what he had given me for the past three years. He never rejected me. He never truly acknowledged me. He never blatantly picked a side, but he never, not once, stood firmly in my corner. Lying on the narrow hospital bed, staring at the fluorescent ceiling panels, I suddenly let out a laugh. The nurse bandaging my head paused, her voice gentle. “Does it hurt?” “I’m okay,” I whispered. The truth was, the pain was blinding. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. But compared to the physical agony, what hurt far worse was the realization that I wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. Because this wasn’t the first time. And it wouldn’t be the last. When Ted finally pushed open the door to my cubicle, I had just finished getting stitches. His shoulders were still soaked from the rain. There was blood on the cuffs of his expensive dress shirt, and I didn’t know if it was Daphne’s or mine. “How bad is it?” he asked. I looked at him, my voice eerily calm. “Ted, I want a divorce.” He froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to drop that word, not here, not now. His brow furrowed, and his tone slipped into that familiar, restrained impatience. “Nancy, you’re running high on adrenaline right now. We’ll talk about this when you’ve calmed down.” “I am perfectly calm.” “Today was an accident.” “You’re right,” I nodded slowly. “The crash was an accident. But every single time you choose her over me, Ted—that is a choice.” His eyes darkened, his jaw ticking. “Do you really have to throw a tantrum right now?” I actually wanted to laugh again. A tantrum. To him, me asking for a divorce was just another hysterical female tantrum. We had been married for three years. Three years of staying up until dawn to help him draft proposals when his tech startup was bleeding money. Three years of wrangling his board of directors, drinking on his behalf at endless corporate dinners to secure funding, cleaning up his messes, and playing the perfectly poised, soft-spoken wife to the world. Everyone in our circle always said the same thing: Ted might be a little cold, but he takes good care of Nancy. He gave me black credit cards. He gave me a penthouse. He gave me a title. He gave me everything except his heart. Because every instinct, every subconscious reaction he had, belonged to someone else. Daphne. His untouchable golden girl. His first love. The dream he had never been able to wake up from. I used to be so painfully naive. I thought that if I poured enough warmth, enough devotion into him, I could eventually thaw the ice around his heart. It took me three years to realize the heart wasn’t frozen. It just didn’t belong to me. That night in the hospital, Ted didn’t argue with me anymore. He stood by the bed in silence for a long time before finally saying, “My grandmother’s birthday is next week. We’ll talk after that.” Classic Ted. Every time I backed him into a corner for an answer, he gave me a raincheck. I closed my eyes. “Fine.” Maybe it was how quickly I agreed, but he lingered, looking at me a second longer than usual. But I was already done explaining myself. The next morning, I discharged myself from the hospital. Ted had gone to check on Daphne. He sent me a brief text. Gideon is going to drive you home. Remember to take your meds. It read like instructions left for an assistant dealing with a minor inconvenience. Not a husband. Not a lover. Walking into our apartment, I really looked at the place for the first time in three years. Ted had bought this penthouse. He had chosen the interior design. Slate gray, stark white, matte black. It was beautiful, but it was as sterile as a luxury hotel lobby. The flowers on the kitchen island were white roses. Daphne’s favorite. The crystal wine glasses in the cabinet were a niche French brand. The exact ones Daphne had posted on her Instagram a year ago. The vintage record player in the study? The same brand Daphne used to obsess over in college. Even the low-fat yogurt permanently stocked in the fridge was Daphne’s preferred flavor. I am lactose intolerant. One bite gives me agonizing stomach cramps. It wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed these little breadcrumbs over the past three years. I just chose to play blind. Because acknowledging them meant admitting that I was living inside someone else’s lingering love story. That I was just a squatter in my own marriage. Even though I was the one wearing the ring. As I packed my bags, I pulled open a nightstand drawer and found an old, brushed silver lighter. In the bottom corner, deeply engraved, was a tiny letter “D.” A gift from Daphne. I had asked him about it once, shortly after we got married. He had come home drunk, and as I was helping him out of his coat, it fell from his pocket. “You still have this?” I had asked. He only gave me three words. “Forgot to toss it.” And yet, here it was, years later. Some things don’t get thrown away because they are much more than objects. I put the lighter back in the drawer and slid it shut. Then I began clearing out my life. My clothes, my books, my skincare, my files. I erased every trace that I had ever breathed the air in this apartment. When Gideon, Ted’s executive assistant, showed up to help, he stood in the doorway, totally bewildered. “Mrs. Crystal… what is all this?” “I’m moving out.” He opened his mouth to argue, then wisely shut it. Anyone who worked closely with Ted knew that while I appeared soft-spoken, once I made a decision, God himself couldn’t change my mind. Gideon stood awkwardly for a long time before muttering, “Mr. Crystal didn’t mean anything by it yesterday, you know.” “Didn’t mean what?” “With the crash… Ms. Daphne’s injuries just looked more severe in the moment…” I didn’t stop folding my sweaters. “Gideon, you’ve worked for him a long time. Do you honestly believe I’m only upset about yesterday?” Gideon fell silent. Because he knew. It wasn’t just yesterday. It was never just yesterday. The first time was three months after our wedding. It was my birthday. Ted had promised to take me out to dinner. I sat in an absurdly expensive, dimly lit restaurant for two hours. I stayed until the busboys were wiping down the tables and I was the only patron left sitting by the window. When he finally called, his voice was hushed. “Daphne ran into some trouble in Paris. I’m dealing with it. I’ll make it up to you.” I had gripped the phone, my voice trembling. “What about my birthday?” Silence on the line. Then: “We’ll celebrate tomorrow.” The second time, my fever had spiked to 103 degrees. He was supposed to be in Chicago on a business trip. I didn’t want to bother him, so I drove myself to urgent care for an IV drip. Sitting alone in the clinic at 2:00 AM, I opened Instagram. Daphne had posted a story. The location tag was the exact same hotel Ted was staying at in Chicago. The photo was just two coffee cups, but in the corner of the frame was a man’s wrist. The watch on that wrist was the Patek Philippe I had bought him for our anniversary. He came home the next day, bringing me medicine and a tasteful gift, his explanation airtight. “Ran into her in the lobby. She was having a panic attack, so I sat with her for a bit to talk her down.” I didn’t call him on his lie. Because I was still lying to myself. I was still foolishly believing that one day, he would wake up and realize who was actually building a life with him. The third time was last year, when his grandmother was hospitalized. The doctors needed a family member to sign the consent forms for surgery. His phone went straight to voicemail for hours. I ran around the hospital alone, dealing with insurance, doctors, and nurses, absolutely frantic, until 2:00 AM. When he finally walked into the waiting room, I thought he had rushed back out of fear for his grandmother. Instead, his first words were: “Daphne has a big recital tomorrow. She was spiraling tonight, so I drove her up to her friend’s cabin to get away from the noise. I didn’t have service.” His grandmother had looked at me from her hospital bed and let out a long, heavy sigh. I still remember the look in her eyes. It was a mix of pity and absolute clarity. She saw the truth then. I was just the only one who refused to see it. I taped up the last box of books. My phone buzzed. It was Daphne. I stared at the name glowing on the screen, then answered. Her voice was just as soft and melodic as always, carrying a hint of a delicate, post-traumatic rasp. “Nancy? Could we meet up?” My first instinct was to hang up. But then I thought, no. Some things needed to be said out loud, once and for all. “Text me the address.” I met Daphne at an upscale cafe a few blocks from the hospital. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater dress. Her face was fashionably pale, and a tiny, pristine gauze pad was taped to her forehead. She looked like a bruised porcelain doll. As soon as I sat down, she spoke. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.” “You don’t need to apologize to me.” She traced the rim of her latte, offering a small, self-deprecating smile. “I actually didn’t even want to move back to the States. Ted was the one who insisted I come back to recover.” I raised an eyebrow, staring right at her. If she noticed my frigid demeanor, she ignored it. Her tone remained impossibly gentle, almost aggressively harmless. “Please don’t misunderstand us, Nancy. There is truly nothing going on. It’s just… we’ve known each other for so long. It’s natural for him to feel a little protective of me.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. It wasn’t a direct insult, but it was far more humiliating than one. I kept my eyes locked on hers. “Did you ask me here just to tell me that?” She finally looked up, a flicker of mock-sympathy in her eyes. “Nancy, I know you hate me. But there are some things in life you just can’t change, no matter how much you dislike them.” “Such as?” “Such as the fact that he cares about me.” She let that hang in the air for a second before delivering the final blow. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” In that exact moment, the fight completely drained out of me. Because she was right. I did know. I knew better than anyone that the softest, most fiercely guarded part of Ted’s heart was never meant for me. I had just spent three years operating under the delusion that if I was just a little more perfect, a little more understanding, a little more patient, he would eventually turn around and see me. I waited three years. I waited until I was sitting in a crushed car next to his golden girl. I waited until he left me in the bleeding dark. I was finally done waiting. I picked up my black coffee, took a sip, and looked at her with total calm. “You can relax, Daphne.” She blinked, confused. “I’m done competing with you.” For a fraction of a second, her perfectly curated expression slipped into rigid shock. I smiled. “And it’s not because you won. It’s because I don’t want him anymore.” I stood up and walked out without looking back. Stepping out of the cafe, the autumn wind stung the fresh stitches on my temple. But inside, I felt unimaginably, euphorically light. Walking away didn’t mean I lost. It just meant I refused to bleed to death for a man who would only ever see me as second best. That night, I checked into a boutique hotel downtown. By the time Ted got back to the apartment, half the place was empty. My phone rang. I answered it. “Where are you?” “I moved out.” “Nancy.” His voice dropped an octave, the warning tone he used in boardrooms. “I told you, we will discuss this after my grandmother’s birthday.” “And I told you, fine.” “Then what the hell is this?” “It means that until then, we’re sleeping in separate zip codes. It saves us both a headache.” A heavy silence fell over the line. “Are you really going to push this?” I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my hotel room, watching the headlights blur into rivers of gold on the street below. “Ted, do you honestly still think I’m just throwing a tantrum?” He didn’t answer. I let out a soft breath of a laugh. “I guess I can’t blame you. You’re used to it. You’re used to me acting out and then quietly cleaning up the mess anyway.” “That’s not what I think.” “It’s exactly how you act.” I hung up before he could string together another excuse. The next morning, I went into the office. I was the Director of Corporate Communications for Crystal Technologies. I was one of the founding executives who had been with Ted since the garage days. When I handed my resignation letter to the VP of HR, he practically fell out of his Herman Miller chair. “Nancy… are you absolutely sure about this? Should we take a few days to—” “I’m sure.” “Does Mr. Crystal know?” “He’s about to.” I walked out of HR and nearly bumped into Gideon in the hallway. He looked panicked. “Mrs. Crystal, Ted is in a board meeting—” “Perfect timing. Tell him to check his email when he gets out.” When I went back to my office to pack my desk, my two junior managers were practically in tears. “Nancy, are you seriously leaving us?” “Yeah.” “What are we supposed to do?” I dropped a stack of PR strategies into my cardboard box, not missing a beat. “Keep doing your jobs. This company won’t collapse just because I’m not here.” One of the girls sniffled. “But without you, Mr. Crystal is going to lose his mind.” My hands paused over the box. A slow smile spread across my face. “Then let him.” I think that was the first time in my adult life I ever prioritized my own peace over his stability. It felt intoxicating. Less than ten minutes after the company-wide email went out, my phone rang. “Are you in the building?” Ted demanded. “Yes.” “My office. Now.” “If you have a work question, you can ask it over the phone.” “Nancy.” The suppressed fury in his voice was vibrating through the speaker. “Do not make me say it again.” The old me would have caved instantly. But today, I just adjusted my phone against my ear and said, “I’m busy packing up my desk. I don’t have the time.” Click. Three minutes later, he materialized in the doorway of my office. He was a tall, imposing figure in a bespoke suit, and the second he stepped in, the entire floor went dead silent. Every head in the bullpen swiveled toward my glass walls. I didn’t look up. I kept sorting my files. Ted stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes locked onto the printed resignation form on my desk. His jaw clenched tight enough to snap bone. “Is this a joke to you?” “Do I look like I’m joking?” He stared at me, the anger barely contained. “You are the head of PR. Do you have any idea what kind of market panic it will cause if you walk out the door right now?” I finally looked up at him. “Are we having a professional conversation right now, Ted? Or a marital one?” His lips thinned into a hard line. I stood up and handed him my signed handover checklist. “If this is about work, my contract requires a three-month transition period. You have me until then. If this is about our marriage, we can go straight to the courthouse the morning after your grandmother’s party.” You could have heard a pin drop in that office. He probably never imagined that I—the woman who spent years protecting his ego and our public image—would pull the trigger so ruthlessly in the middle of corporate headquarters. He never expected the woman who always left him a way out to barricade the door. It took him a long time to find his voice. “Are you really doing this?” “I’m just sorry it took me this long to do it.” After that day, Ted and I entered a bizarre, suffocating cold war. He didn’t bring up the divorce again, and he stopped trying to block my resignation. But suddenly, he was everywhere. When I went to drop off tea for his grandmother, he was sitting in her parlor. When I went to the hospital to get my stitches removed, the elevator doors opened, and he was standing there. When I took a client out for drinks, the waitress came over and told me the gentleman at the bar had already covered the tab. Even the concierge at my hotel whispered to me, “Ms. Crystal, a gentleman has been calling every night for three days to ask if you’ve checked out.” It was insulting. When I slept next to him every night, I was invisible. Now that I was walking out the door, he suddenly knew how to pay attention. Too little. Too late. Grandma Estelle’s birthday dinner at the estate was a massive affair. The sprawling living room was packed with aunts, uncles, and cousins. The champagne was flowing, and everyone naturally assumed Ted and I would arrive together. But I walked through the double doors alone. The collective shift in the room’s energy was immediate. The glances turned sharp and speculative. “Nancy, sweetheart, where’s Ted?” an aunt asked. “He’s on his way.” The words had barely left my mouth when the front doors opened behind me. Ted walked in. And walking right beside him, looking like a vision, was Daphne. The entire room went dead silent for two agonizing seconds. I stood holding a glass of sparkling water, and in that moment, I realized I didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. This was who he was. Just when you thought about letting your guard down, he found the perfect, surgical way to plunge the knife back in. Daphne was wearing a sweeping champagne-colored gown, her hair pinned up elegantly. She looked fragile, artistic, and completely out of place at a private family dinner—yet she stood next to my husband as if she owned him. Ted spotted me, and his footsteps faltered. Even he seemed to realize the catastrophic optics of what he had just done. But the older relatives were already sizing Daphne up. One of his uncles frowned. “Ted, who is this?” Daphne opened her mouth, her voice trembling slightly, but I cut her off with a bright, razor-sharp smile. “She’s a friend.” A friend. A friend he brought to his wife’s family dinner. A friend he chose to pull from a burning car while his wife bled in the backseat. What a lovely, versatile word. Ted’s face darkened. “Nancy.” “Did I say something wrong?” I looked right into his eyes, my smile not reaching my own. “If she’s not a friend, what is she? Family?” The air in the room practically crystalized. No one dared to breathe. The tension broke only when Grandma Estelle emerged from the hallway, leaning heavily on her silver-tipped cane. “Nancy. Come here.” I walked over and gently took her arm. She patted my hand, her sharp eyes lingering on the faint, pink scar near my temple. Then she looked at Ted, and her expression turned to absolute ice. “In my study. Now.” She was talking to Ted. Before the heavy oak doors of the study clicked shut behind them, I caught a glimpse of Daphne standing alone in the center of the lavish room, looking pale and humiliated. I just felt bored. Half an hour later, Ted walked out of the study. He looked like he had been put in front of a firing squad. The housekeeper came out and told me Estelle wanted to see me. The old woman was sitting in a velvet armchair, looking exhausted. She patted the ottoman next to her. “Sit, child.” When I sat down, she reached into her pocket and pressed a heavy, velvet box into my palm. Inside was an antique emerald ring, framed in crushed diamonds. It was the Crystal family heirloom. I stared at it, horrified. “Nana, I can’t take this.” “It’s yours.” “I can’t.” “And why not?” She looked at me, her voice quiet but carrying the weight of a judge’s gavel. “You’ve been married to that boy for three years. You’ve swallowed more poison than you’ve had champagne. If I don’t give this to you, who on earth deserves it?” My throat tightened. Estelle sighed. “I already took a strip off that idiot’s hide. Nancy, I’m not going to sit here and make excuses for my grandson. If you are too tired to carry this marriage anymore, I won’t stand in your way.” Tears prickled the back of my eyes. In three years, the only person in this family who had ever truly seen my worth, who had ever truly protected me, was his grandmother. She squeezed my hands tightly. “But I need you to remember one thing, Nancy. It is not because you weren’t good enough. It’s because he doesn’t deserve you.” I kept my head bowed. I couldn’t speak. The rest of the birthday dinner tasted like ash. Halfway through the meal, Daphne excused herself to the powder room. Ted immediately stood up and followed her. If this were last year, my stomach would have been in knots. I would have agonized over what they were whispering about in the hallway. I would have wondered if he was holding her, comforting her. But tonight, I just quietly picked up a piece of sea bass and put it on Estelle’s plate. Estelle watched me for a moment. “You’re really done, aren’t you?” I paused, then smiled softly. “Yeah. Pretty much.” Estelle let out a grim huff of laughter. “About damn time.” I almost choked on my wine. By the time I left the estate, a light drizzle had started falling. I had just reached the bottom of the front steps when Ted caught my arm. “I’ll drive you.” “I have a cab coming.” “Nancy, we need to talk.” I looked at him. “Shouldn’t you be driving Daphne home?” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “She already left.” “Got it.” I tried to step around him, but his grip tightened on my wrist. His fingers pressed directly into the deep, bruised laceration from the airbag. I hissed, sucking in a sharp breath of pain. He dropped my arm instantly as if I had burned him, staring at my wrist in horror. “God. I’m sorry.” What a novelty. Ted Crystal, apologizing to me. Unfortunately, I had outgrown the need for his apologies. “You don’t need to do this, Ted.” I took a step back, the gravel crunching under my heels. “What do you want to talk about? Do you want to explain how bringing her to Nana’s birthday was just ‘helping a friend’? Or do you want to break down the logistics of why pulling her out of the wreckage first made tactical sense?” “Does every single word out of your mouth have to be an attack?” “Is the truth attacking you?” I smiled dryly. “Because none of it is a lie.” He stared at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply, swallowing down some heavy, unnamed emotion. Finally, his voice cracked. “She came tonight because Nana used to be fond of her. She just wanted to pay her respects.” I nodded slowly. “And?” “I didn’t do it to humiliate you.” “But you did.” The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was the rain hitting the pavement. I looked at him, feeling a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion. “Ted, stop explaining. Every time you hurt me, you tell me you didn’t mean to. But the bleeding is always the same.” “I used to think you were just emotionally stunted. That you didn’t know how to love someone. But I realize now that’s not true. You know exactly how to love. You just don’t want to put me first.” “So let’s just call it. We’re done.” I turned and climbed into the back of my waiting Uber. As we pulled away, I looked in the rearview mirror. Ted was standing alone in the rain. He didn’t chase the car. A few days later, my notice period officially ended. On my last day, my old team threw a small farewell party in the breakroom. It was just the core group, the people who had survived the startup trenches with me. One of the senior developers had a few too many IPAs. He got red in the face and pointed a plastic cup at me. “Nancy, I’m telling you, without you here, the boss is gonna lose half his soul.” I tapped my plastic cup against his and smiled. “That sounds like a ‘him’ problem.” When I walked out of the lobby with my final box of belongings, Declan was leaning against the hood of his matte-black Porsche. Declan was a partner at a massive, cutthroat PR agency in the city, and a rival I had battled in boardrooms for years. He’d been trying to poach me for eighteen months. “Finally escaped Alcatraz?” He spun his keys around his index finger. “I thought you were going to die behind a desk at Crystal Tech.” “I almost did.” “And now?” “Now, I’m going to figure out what I actually want.” Declan studied my face for two seconds before a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Welcome to the dark side.” A week later, I accepted an offer as VP of Crisis Management at Declan’s firm. The day the press release went out, the corporate grapevine caught fire. Some people gossiped that Ted and I had an explosive fallout. Some said I was smart to jump ship. And a few veterans whispered that letting me walk away was the most catastrophic miscalculation Ted Crystal had ever made in his career. When I read that last rumor, I smirked. At least someone in this city had some sense. It was two weeks after I moved out that Ted finally cracked and came to my hotel. I had been working late, drafting a campaign launch. When I stepped off the elevator at 9:00 PM, I found him standing outside my room. He was in a tailored suit, but he looked wrecked. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept in a week. I walked past him, slid my keycard into the door, and pushed it open. I didn’t invite him in. “Can I help you?” He stared at me. “You look thin.” Coming from him, the concern was so utterly absurd I almost laughed out loud. “And?” “Nancy, please. Stop this. Come home.” My hand tightened around the doorknob. “Whose home?” “Our home.” “That was never my home,” I looked him dead in the eye. “That was a museum dedicated to your memories of her.” His frown deepened. “I know I’ve been neglecting you lately. I admit that. But divorce isn’t a game. You shouldn’t throw our marriage away just because you’re angry—” “Ted.” I cut him off. “Do you really, truly believe I’m doing this out of spite?” He went quiet. I held his gaze. My voice was dangerously quiet, dropping every word like a stone into a glass lake. “The day of the crash. When I was trapped in that seat, bleeding, and I watched you carry her away… I had an epiphany.” “I spent three years bending over backwards for you. I sold my soul for your company, I drank your clients under the table, I played the perfect wife for your family. But the second it was life or death, your body moved toward her.” “In that moment, I wasn’t angry. I woke up.” “I finally realized that no matter how much I bled for you, no matter how perfect I was, I was never going to win against her.” “And since the game is rigged, I’m done playing.” I watched the words hit him. He actually flinched. It was the look of a man who suddenly realized the ground beneath him was gone. He realized I wasn’t negotiating. I wasn’t punishing him. I wasn’t waiting for flowers or an apology. I was just gone. Watching the color drain from his face, I felt a morbid sense of amusement. So, Ted Crystal knows how to panic. Too bad it didn’t move me at all. “Have a good night,” I said. “Don’t come back here.” I went to shut the door, but he slammed his hand against the wood, holding it open. “Nancy, what do you want me to do? Tell me what to do.” I looked at his hand. This was the first time in three years he had ever asked me what he should do. Usually, I was the one swallowing my pride, adjusting to his orbit, fixing the cracks. Now he wanted a map. But I had burned it. “It’s simple,” I said. “Sign the papers.” The tendons in his hand stood out in stark relief. It took him a long time to speak, his voice thick and wrecked. “Anything but that.” A tiny tremor went through my chest. Not from pity. From irony. “That’s funny,” I smiled thinly. “Because ‘anything but that’ is what you gave me for three years. You’re an expert at it.” I pushed his hand back and slammed the door. The hallway outside remained perfectly silent. It was silent for so long I thought he had left. But when I finally peeked through the peephole, he was still standing there. Standing perfectly still, staring at the closed door, like a man who had arrived years too late to realize the woman inside was never coming back out. I walked away and didn’t look again. For the next month, I didn’t ask anyone about Ted. I didn’t care. Until his company blew up in a spectacular PR disaster.

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I was at the boutique that morning, standing before the three-way mirror for the final fitting of my wedding suit. It was a piece I had spent months designing, a labor of love for the day I’d finally marry the woman who had been my entire world for a decade. The bell above the door chimed, and a young man sauntered in. One of the floor assistants leaned toward me, whispering that this customer had already rejected ninety-nine different suits in the last three months. Apparently, he was impossibly high-maintenance, backed by a wealthy, doting fiancée who didn’t mind paying for his endless revisions. As the assistant grumbled about the guy’s pickiness, the man suddenly stopped in his tracks. He pointed directly at me—or rather, at the suit I was wearing. “I want that one,” he said, his voice ringing with the casual entitlement of someone who had never been told ‘no.’ The assistant politely explained that the suit was a bespoke, one-of-a-kind piece belonging to a private client. It wasn’t for sale. Without a word, the man pulled out his phone and made a quick call. Minutes later, the store manager came rushing out, breathless and pale. He informed me that the man’s fiancée had just purchased the entire boutique. They were “insisting” that I hand over my suit to him. “Absolutely not,” I said, my voice steady despite the spike of adrenaline. “I designed this for my own wedding. It’s not a commodity.” The assistant who had been helping me earlier nudged my shoulder, whispering urgently, “Adrian, be careful. That’s the fiancé of Diana Beaumont. You don’t want to be on her bad side. Playing nice could open a lot of doors for your career.” The name Diana Beaumont hit me like a physical blow. My heart skipped a beat, then began to thud painfully against my ribs. If he was Diana Beaumont’s fiancé… then who the hell was I? … He saw the shock written across my face and mistook it for awe. A smug, practiced smile spread across his lips—the look of a man who knew he held all the cards. “You’re a designer, right?” he said, nodding toward my reflection. “Think of it this way: if I wear your work to my wedding, your name will be everywhere by Monday morning. It’s a career-maker.” I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I forced myself to swallow the bile rising in my throat and looked at the manager. “Let me see his contract,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. The manager hesitated, but after a sharp look from the young man, he handed over the tablet. I scrolled to the final page, my fingers trembling. There, at the bottom, was the signature I’d seen a thousand times. Diana Beaumont. Her elegant, looping script was unmistakable. It was the same handwriting that had filled the margins of my college notebooks. The same hand that had signed our engagement party invitations just months ago. Now, it was here, tethered to a man named Parker. The world turned cold, a sharp, crystalline frost settling into my bones. The reality was as absurd as it was undeniable. My fiancée, Diana, was living a double life. She wasn’t just cheating; she was planning a whole other forever. I felt my knees weaken. I reached for a glass of water on a nearby side table, forcing myself to take a slow sip. I studied Parker. He looked to be in his early twenties, radiating a restless, boyish energy. There was a haunting similarity in the set of his eyes and the curve of his jaw to my own. The realization didn’t bring comfort. It made me feel sick. He was a younger, shinier version of the man I used to be. “Fine,” I said, setting the glass down. “He can have the suit.” Parker grinned, unsurprised. He turned to head toward the dressing rooms, but I reached out and caught his sleeve. “This suit has a very specific silhouette,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let me style your hair for you. It needs the right look to really work.” Parker’s private suite was a testament to excess—plush velvet sofas, a fully stocked bar, and rows upon rows of designer labels. He noticed my gaze lingering on the racks. “My fiancée’s doing,” Parker said with a casual shrug. “She says since I spend half my life in here picking out clothes, I might as well be comfortable.” I forced a thin smile. “She sounds very devoted.” Parker arched a brow and sighed, though his smirk betrayed his pride. “She loves throwing money at me, yeah. But she’s always ‘too busy’ to actually show up for the fittings.” The assistant, who had followed us in to help with the pins, chimed in. “Oh, don’t say that, Mr. Parker! Miss Beaumont was here for almost every other session. She must be truly swamped at the office today to miss this one.” Parker beamed at the compliment. “True. She hates being away from me. I’m sure she’s miserable in whatever board meeting she’s stuck in.” The words felt like shards of glass in my chest. I remembered how Diana had been so “checked out” during our own wedding planning. When I asked her about the venue, she’d just say, “Whatever you want, Adrian.” When I booked the photographer for our engagement shoot, she stood us up three times. I had told myself she was just stressed with the merger. I told myself she was doing it all for our future. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the time. She just didn’t have the heart for me. I picked up a curling iron and began to work on Parker’s hair. “So,” Parker asked, looking at me through the mirror. “Was that suit for a client? The staff said it was a ‘not-for-sale’ piece.” I paused, the heat of the iron radiating against my palm. “No,” I said softly. “It was meant for my own wedding.” Parker blinked, looking genuinely sheepish for a fleeting second. “Oh. Man, I’m sorry. That’s… awkward.” He said he was sorry, but there was no move to give the suit back. He tilted his head, his eyes bright and pleading like a spoiled puppy. “It’s just—I’m so incredibly picky, you know? And this is the first thing that’s felt right. You’re clearly talented, though. I’m sure you can whip up something even better for yourself. You’ve got this!” I managed a nod. “It’s fine. I’m in no rush.” As I worked, Parker’s phone buzzed on the vanity. He couldn’t reach it because of the styling, so he hit the speakerphone. “Hey, babe,” he chirped. “Parker, how’s the fitting going?” The voice was a warm honey-pour I knew by heart. It was the voice that used to whisper “Wake up, Adrian,” into my ear every morning when we first moved in together. Back then, she was like a child, full of light, tickling me until we both collapsed into breathless laughter on the floor. I turned my head away, blinking back the sudden sting in my eyes. I had almost forgotten what she sounded like when she was being gentle. She hadn’t used that tone with me in years. “I’m getting my hair done, actually,” Parker said, grinning at the phone. “This suit is perfect, Diana. It’s going to look amazing next to your dress. It’s such a shame you’re not here to see it.” “I know, honey,” Diana soothed. “I’m buried in the board meeting. I’ll make it up to you, okay? I promise.” Parker pouted. “But this might be the last time I try it on. Don’t you want to see us together before the big day?” A soft sigh came through the line—the sound of her giving in. “Alright, you win. I’ll head over as soon as we wrap up. I can never say no to you.” I let out a silent, bitter laugh. Last night, I had begged Diana to come with me to pick up the suit. I told her it was a big moment for me. She had looked at me with cold, judgmental eyes. “Adrian, stop being so needy. I have work.” Then she had walked away without a second glance. Apparently, her schedule was flexible after all. I just wasn’t the one worth bending it for. Parker hung up, looking victorious. The assistant sighed wistfully. “You two are just goals, Mr. Parker. Truly.” Parker laughed, then looked at me. “So, man, when’s your big day?” I froze, the question hanging in the air like a guillotine. Before I could answer, a rival designer from the shop—a guy who had always hated my “artistic” approach—walked in with a tray of accessories. He’d caught the tail end of the conversation. “He’s been working on that suit for months,” the guy sneered, looking at me with pure schadenfreude. “But we’ve never even seen this ‘fiancée’ of his. Honestly, we were starting to wonder if she even existed.” He turned to Parker, his face instantly transforming into a mask of sycophancy. “Now, you, Mr. Parker—you’re the lucky one. A woman like Miss Beaumont? She clearly can’t breathe without you.” I looked down, unable to find a retort. It was true. Diana hadn’t even set a date with me yet. Every time I brought it up, she found a reason to delay. I had been planning a wedding for a ghost. Parker frowned, seemingly coming to my defense, though his voice held a note of condescending pity. “Really? She hasn’t been helping? That’s a red flag, brother. You should watch out for that.” I played along, my heart a lead weight in my chest. “Maybe you’re right. I should rethink things. What about you? When are you two tying the knot?” Parker thought for a second. “The big ceremony is later this year, but we actually already made it official.” My breath hitched. “Official?” Parker nodded proudly. “Yeah, we eloped at City Hall on May 20th. I insisted on the date—5/20 sounds like ‘I love you’ in the old tradition, right? She was supposed to be on a business trip, but I talked her into it.” May 20th. My thirtieth birthday. I had waited up for her until 2:00 AM that night. She had texted me saying she was stuck at a conference three states away, exhausted and alone. I had felt guilty for even wanting her there. And all the while, she was signing a marriage license with a boy who shared my eyes. We had been together since we were eighteen. For a decade, she was the girl who couldn’t wait to turn twenty-one just so we could legally elope. Then, as her career took off, she became the woman who was “too busy for paperwork.” She had cried when I proposed. We were under a canopy of fireworks, and she had clung to me, sobbing “Yes, yes, forever.” I realized then that “forever” was just a word she recycled for whoever was currently holding her interest. Parker went into the dressing room to change into the final look. I followed him in to help with the delicate tailoring of the jacket. “Hey,” Parker whispered, leaning in close. “Could you guys let out the waist on the wedding dress a little? Just a preemptive strike?” I blinked. “The dress?” Parker smirked, a secret shining in his eyes. “She thinks she’s surprising me, but I know she’s pregnant. I don’t want to ruin her surprise, but I know she’ll be showing by the time we do the big reception. Can you make sure the designers know? Keep it on the down-low, though.” The world went silent. A cold, crushing weight settled onto my lungs. Pregnant. Diana—the woman who had told me for years that she was “strictly child-free”—was carrying a child. She had told me she was afraid of the pain, afraid of losing her career, afraid of being “trapped” by motherhood. I had respected her choice. I had defended her when her family pressured us. I had made my peace with a life that was just the two of us. And now, she was having a baby with him. I mumbled something incoherent and bolted out of the dressing room. I leaned against the door in the hallway, my chest heaving. The cruelty of it was breathtaking. Maybe she didn’t tell him because she planned on “handling” it. Or maybe, she just didn’t want a life with me. Parker’s phone rang on the sofa again. It was Diana. “Adrian!” Parker yelled from inside the room. “Can you grab that? My hands are full!” I stared at the phone. A dark, jagged urge took root in my mind. I wanted to see her world burn the way mine just had. I picked up. “Hello?” There was a pause. She didn’t recognize my voice through the digital filter of the phone. “Who is this?” “I’m an assistant at the boutique,” I said, my voice flat. “Mr. Parker is in the dressing room. Can I take a message?” She didn’t suspect a thing. “Oh, fine. Just tell him I ordered some afternoon tea to be sent over. Make sure he eats; he gets migraines if his blood sugar drops.” The tenderness in her voice was nauseating. It was a ghost of the woman I used to love. “Of course,” I said. “And one more thing,” Diana added, her voice dropping an octave. “Regarding the dress I ordered… tell the lead designer to adjust the waist. Make it larger.” My grip tightened on the phone. “Is there a specific reason for the change?” There was a long silence. Then, softly: “I’m pregnant. But please, don’t tell Parker. I want to surprise him. Just make sure the designer handles it.” I hung up and slowly sank to the floor, burying my face in my hands. It wasn’t that she didn’t want children. She just didn’t want my children. Ten years. I had given her a decade of my life, and I was nothing more than a placeholder. Parker stepped out of the room, looking radiant in the suit I had built for myself. It fit him perfectly. We really did have the same taste—in clothes, and in women. The staff hovered around him, showering him with praise. Parker lived for it. He snapped a selfie and sent it to Diana. “Babe, look at this. I’m a masterpiece, right?” Her reply came instantly: “Stunning. You were born to wear that.” I watched him, a boy vibrating with a happiness I once owned. I remembered when I first started in design. I had no formal training, just a sketchbook and a dream. Everyone told me I’d fail. Except Diana. She was my fiercest advocate. Back then, there was a vintage gown in a window downtown that I used to stare at. I loved the craftsmanship, but I was a broke student and buying a wedding dress seemed like a jinx. I never told her. I just looked. The next day, it was sitting in my bedroom. I remembered the way she looked at me then—with a fierce, unwavering devotion. “Adrian, if you love it, it’s yours. Whatever you want to do, I’m behind you. Always.” She had loved me once. I knew she had. But time is a slow, silent thief. Parker was preening in front of the mirror when his assistant suggested a pop of color—a brooch, perhaps. “You’re right,” Parker said, snapping his fingers. “I almost forgot. I just picked up that piece from the auction house today.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a velvet jewelry box. He pinned a shimmering object to his lapel and turned to me. “What do you think? My fiancée won this at an estate auction for me. Goes great with the suit, right?” My heart stopped. I stared at the brooch. I moved closer, my eyes wide, my breath hitching in my throat. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was a vintage emerald and gold piece—my mother’s only heirloom. An antique that had been in my family for generations. Years ago, when the Beaumont firm was on the verge of bankruptcy, Diana had been desperate. I couldn’t stand to see her lose everything. I had sold that brooch—the only thing I had left of my mother—to inject capital into her company. It was the seed money that saved her empire. I had spent my life feeling guilty for losing it. Diana knew how much it meant to me. She had promised me, a thousand times, that she would find it and bring it home. She had found it. And she had given it to Parker. I felt the blood drain from my face, replaced by a searing, white-hot rage. My nails bit into my palms until I drew blood. How dare she? How dare she use my mother’s legacy to buy the affection of a boy she was using to replace me? The door to the lounge swung open. A familiar silhouette stepped in, bathed in the soft glow of the boutique lighting. “Parker, honey? Are you ready to go home?” I turned slowly.

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My “Lawyer-on-Call” livestreams had become an accidental sensation. One evening, a caller joined the queue, her voice heavily distorted by a digital modulator. “Attorney Valentine,” she began, the robotic pitch masking her age. “I’m seeing a man—an ‘uncle,’ though we aren’t related by blood. Is there anything in the law that says we can’t be together?” I pushed down a sudden, inexplicable prickle of unease. “Legally? No. If there’s no biological tie and both are consenting adults, it’s not a crime.” “Then I have nothing to worry about,” she said, her tone visibly lighter even through the filter. “He’s getting married next Saturday. I’m planning to confess everything to him at the altar.” I fell silent for a few seconds, the ethics of the situation clashing with my professional detachment. “Sweetheart, if he’s marrying someone else, it means he’s made his choice. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t throw away your dignity for a man who’s already at the finish line with someone else.” To my surprise, she let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “He’s afraid of the dark, Attorney Valentine. Did you know that? Even if he has to slip his fiancée a sedative in her milk, he still comes to my room to hold me until I fall asleep. Tell me… is that not love?” I froze. The air in my study suddenly felt too thin. As I scrambled for a response—some piece of advice to pull this girl back from the edge—the heavy oak door to my study pushed open. My fiancé, Garrett, walked in. He was carrying a glass of warm milk, a soft, practiced smile on his face. … Looking at that swaying glass of white liquid, my brain let out a high-pitched ring. I snapped my head up to look at Garrett. The girl on the stream said her “uncle” put sedatives in the milk. Coincidentally, Garrett had a niece. I forced myself to remain still, my eyes darting toward the monitor. The girl had disconnected, leaving behind a chaotic waterfall of comments that confirmed this wasn’t a fever dream. Poor fiancée… for the love of God, don’t drink the milk. This ‘uncle’ and ‘niece’ are monsters. Using someone’s health as a tool for their affair? There’s a special place in hell. I checked—the girl’s using a burner account. This was a targeted strike on Brooke’s stream. I took a jagged breath and clicked the “End Stream” button. “Everything okay?” Garrett asked, stepping closer. “You look pale. Too many hours on the screen?” He leaned down and pressed a dry, cool kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry, Brooke. Maisie was being impulsive. It’s her fault you lost your position at the firm, and now you’re forced to hustle on these streams just to keep your reputation alive.” A month ago, Maisie had thrown a tantrum because Garrett and I went to a charity gala without her. In retaliation, she filed a formal, anonymous complaint with the State Bar, accusing me of bribing a federal prosecutor. I was suspended pending an investigation. Though I was eventually cleared, the stain on my “Golden Girl” reputation was indelible. I was forced to resign to save the firm’s face. “You don’t have to work this hard, you know,” Garrett murmured, brushing a stray hair from my face. “I can take care of you. After the wedding, you can just focus on the house. We’ll have three boys, and they’ll grow up happy with Maisie right there to help us. Like one big family.” “Here,” he said, pressing the glass against my lips. “Drink this. You need to sleep. Stop overthinking.” I swallowed hard, the cold rim of the glass clinking against my teeth. The girl’s voice echoed in the silence of my mind: He’s taking the milk to her now. It’s got the pills in it. It felt like a conspiracy theory, a glitch in the Matrix. But the hair on my arms stood up. I faked a heavy cough and pushed his hand away. “I’m not thirsty right now. I’ll drink it in a minute.” Garrett’s expression instantly soured. His features, usually so handsome and refined, twisted into something sharp and unrecognizable. “Are you still holding a grudge against Maisie?” He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight enough to leave a ghost of a bruise. “Do you have any idea how much guilt that girl is carrying? She can’t sleep because of what happened at the firm! She’s just a kid, Brooke. The pressure is killing her. To be honest, she’s the one who warmed this for you. She said if you drink it, it means you’ve finally forgiven her. Otherwise—” “Garrett, let go. You’re hurting me.” I struggled, but his hand was like a lead shackle. “Auntie Brooke… do you really hate me that much?” I hadn’t heard her come in. Maisie stood in the doorway, wearing a white silk nightgown that looked more like a slip. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Without warning, she crossed the room and dropped to her knees in front of my chair. I was stunned into silence. Garrett immediately let go of me to scoop Maisie up, pulling her into his chest. He turned on me, his voice trembling with a terrifying kind of righteous anger. “Brooke, are you trying to destroy this family?” “I’ve told you a thousand times—Maisie’s father died in my arms in the Sandbox. He was my brother-in-arms. He left her to me. It is my sacred duty to protect her for the rest of her life! In this house, her well-being comes first!” My heart felt like it was being crushed by a giant’s hand. My voice came out as a fragile whisper. “Does her ‘well-being’ include lying to the Bar? Does it include ruining my career because of a missed dinner?” When she found out I was pregnant two years ago—during her finals week—the two of them sat me down and shamed me. They told me I was “undisciplined,” that my timing was “selfish” and “disgusting.” The stress became a physical weight. I miscarried three days later. I had endured it all for Garrett. I had swallowed the bitterness because I believed in his “heroism.” But he didn’t care about my sacrifice. “You’re a grown woman arguing semantics with a twenty-year-old?” Garrett hissed. “You can find another job. But if you break her spirit, that’s forever!” “Garrett,” Maisie sobbed, clutching his shirt. “It’s my fault. Please don’t fight. If Brooke can’t stand the sight of me, I’ll just… I’ll just end it! I don’t want to live in a world where I’m a burden!” She broke from his arms and ran toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Garrett lunged for her. In his haste, he shoved me aside. I hit the edge of the mahogany desk, a sharp pain exploding in my temple as a knot began to form. Maisie struggled in his arms, her cries growing louder. “She won’t drink the milk! She hates me! I just want to go be with my dad in heaven!” My head was spinning, my vision blurring. Through the fog, I heard Garrett’s barking command: “Brooke! Drink it! Now! Show her you forgive her or so help me—” “You know what she means to me! If you drive her to the edge, you’re driving me there too!” Watching them—the “grieving” veteran and his “broken” ward—I felt a sudden, profound exhaustion. The fight left me. I stood up unsteadily, picked up the glass, and downed the milk in three long gulps. When the glass hit the table empty, I caught a glimpse of Maisie’s face over Garrett’s shoulder. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was wearing a tiny, predatory smile. My gut screamed at me. Something was wrong. I waited until they left the room, then stumbled into the bathroom. I didn’t hesitate. I shoved two fingers down my throat and forced everything back up until my stomach was empty and my throat burned. At 3:00 AM, I heard the faint floorboards creak in the hallway. “Garrett? Are you still coming?” My heart stopped. Garrett’s voice was a low, firm murmur. “Of course. You’ve been afraid of the dark since you were five. I’m not letting your father down tonight.” A moment later, my bedroom door eased open. Garrett crept in, checking on me. “Shh, she’s out cold,” he whispered to someone in the hall. Maisie stepped into the room, giggling softly. “I told you. She’s not waking up for a long time.” She walked over to my closet and pulled it open with a flourish. “God, Brooke is such a closeted flirt. Look at all this lace. She won’t mind if I borrow something, will she?” Garrett looked nervous. “Maisie, don’t. If she finds out, she’ll blow up. You know her temper.” Maisie ignored him, sliding a sheer negligee over her shoulders. “Let her. I’ll put it back before she even stirs. I want her clothes, Garrett… and I want her man, too.” She jumped onto Garrett’s back, whispering into his ear, “Actually, I prefer sleeping with nothing on. Is that okay, Uncle?” Garrett’s ears turned bright red. He glanced one last time at my “sleeping” form, his face a mask of conflict and desire, before carrying her out and closing the door. The moment the latch clicked, a single, hot tear tracked down my temple. It was her. The girl on the livestream. It had been Maisie all along. I didn’t sleep a wink. At 6:00 AM, Garrett slid back into bed beside me, radiating the scent of Maisie’s floral perfume. He kissed the corner of my mouth. “I love you, Brooke.” The bile rose in my throat. I nearly vomited on him right then and there. At 8:00 AM, I walked downstairs, the dark circles under my eyes heavy enough to feel. Maisie was in the kitchen, glowing with energy, stirring a pot of steel-cut oats. “Brooke! I heard you love honey and cinnamon oats. I got up at six just to make them for you. I felt so bad about the firm… I wanted to do something nice.” Her voice was a sugary poison. I felt a violent shiver run down my spine. “I’m not hungry.” I reached out to gently move her hand away from the bowl she was offering. The next second, the bowl hit the floor with a ceramic crash. Maisie let out a theatrical shriek. “It’s hot! Brooke, why would you push me?!” Garrett, half-dressed, came flying down the stairs. “Brooke! What is wrong with you? I leave the room for five minutes and you’re bullying her?” He grabbed Maisie’s hand and thrust it under the cold tap. “It’s okay, Maisie. I’ve got you.” “Don’t be mad at her, Garrett,” Maisie whimpered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It’s my fault. I’m just… so sore and exhausted from last night. I was clumsy. My legs felt like jelly.” Garrett’s face flushed deep crimson. “If you’re that tired, you shouldn’t be standing. Come here.” He swept her up into a bridal carry. As they reached the stairs, they didn’t even bother to lower their voices. “Garrett, you’re so mean to her. What if she doesn’t marry you next week?” Garrett let out a ragged breath. “Please. She wouldn’t dare.” “We’ve been together seven years. She’s obsessed with me. She has nowhere else to go.” I watched them go, my eyes finally dampening. Seven years ago, he was my mountain guide on a trek through the Grand Tetons. We got caught in an avalanche. In that moment, he defied every human instinct for self-preservation and threw his body over mine. When he woke up in the hospital, the first thing he said was, “You’re mine. I’ll keep you safe forever.” I had been so swept away that I walked away from a pre-arranged family merger, a life of high-society security, just to be with him. Seven years later, the rugged guide was the CEO of a luxury travel empire. We had everything now. But his heart had rotted along the way. If Maisie was more important than me, then it was time I looked for my own version of “forever.” I pulled out my phone and dialed the wedding planner. “About the ceremony next Saturday,” I said, my voice cold and clear. “Change the venue. All of it.” “And… we’re going to need a different groom.” The night before the wedding, I went live one last time. The viewer count exploded—over a hundred thousand people in minutes. My stomach dropped. Something was wrong. The comments were a blur of vitriol: Look at the trending news, Brooke. You’re a fraud. I opened a news app. My name was at the top of the social media scandal board. SHOCKING: FAMOUS ‘VIRTUE’ LAWYER BROOKE VALENTINE REVEALED AS SERIAL BRIBERY OFFENDER. SECRET ABORTION FOR HIGH-PROFILE CLIENT EXPOSED. An hour before my stream, an account claiming to be my “former assistant” had posted a massive thread. It accused me of systemic bribery during my time at the firm. Even worse, it posted a photo of me from two years ago—masked, looking haggard and broken, sitting outside an OB-GYN clinic. The comments were merciless: No wonder her win rate was so high. She was buying judges. Preaches about the law and justice, but she’s just a high-end fixer. Who knows if she paid with money or her body? Probably both. I stood up, phone in hand, and kicked open the door to Garrett’s study. “It wasn’t her,” Garrett said before I could even speak. “Maisie is twenty. She doesn’t have the resources or the malice for a hit job like this. You probably pissed off the wrong person at the firm and they’re coming for blood.” I shoved the phone in his face. “Look at the account handle. This person joined my livestream yesterday. Look at the clip.” I played the recording. The distorted voice was clear: Is it legally problematic if I’m seeing an ‘uncle’—not by blood, obviously? Garrett’s brow furrowed as the clip played. The realization was right there, written in his eyes. But he shook his head, hardening his expression. “You’re so obsessed with winning, Brooke. It’s pathetic.” “You’re actually framing a young girl just to save your own skin? You don’t know Maisie. She’s gentle. She’s kind. She would never drug someone. But you—” He stood up, looking at me with pure disdain. “You’re a criminal defense lawyer. You know every dirty trick in the book. You’ve probably been planning this ‘scandal’ for months just to make her look like a villain.” I stood there, paralyzed. A sharp, acidic burn rose in my throat. “You think I would destroy my own career? My own reputation? Just to spite her?” I tried to breathe, but the air felt like shards of glass. He hadn’t just broken my heart; he was trying to erase my soul. My phone buzzed. It was the wedding coordinator. “Brooke, we’ve seen the news. About tomorrow… is the ceremony still on?” I looked Garrett dead in the eye. “Yes. Everything is proceeding as planned.” Garrett leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “You really are desperate to marry me, aren’t you? Too bad.” He dragged out the words. “You’ve spent so much time attacking my Maisie that you deserve a lesson. Don’t expect me to show up on time tomorrow. Maybe I won’t show up at all.” A smirk touched my lips. “Suit yourself.” On my way out, I passed Maisie in the hall. She raised an eyebrow, her face full of triumph. “Oh, Auntie. Going out to try and fix the ‘leaks’? Honestly, you should just admit it. The internet has a short memory. In a few months, everyone will forget you ever existed.” “And by then, you’ll have no job, no money, and no name. You’ll just be a housewife, totally dependent on Garrett. I wonder how long his ‘protection’ lasts for a loser like you.” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I walked out the front door. The wedding was in ten hours. … “Garrett, are you really not going?” Maisie stood before a mirror, her eyes gleaming as she adjusted Garrett’s silk tie. He was already in his tuxedo. “Let her wait.” Garrett pinched her nose playfully. “She went out of her way to frame you. I can’t just forgive that. I’m going to let her sweat. Let her realize who actually holds the power in this relationship.” Maisie wrapped her arms around his waist. “Garrett… after you’re married, will you still love me best?” “Always. I promised your father.” “Then… why can’t you just marry me?” She looked up at him, her lips parted. Garrett stiffened slightly, then gently pushed her back. “Maisie, don’t be silly. You’re family. I sleep in your room because you’re scared, that’s all. It’s… different.” He checked the gold watch on his wrist and picked up a bouquet of white roses. “Okay. It’s been two hours. That’s enough of a lesson. Let’s go.” When they arrived at the cathedral, Garrett stepped into the foyer and stopped dead. The place was empty. He grabbed a wandering janitor by the shoulder. “Where is everyone? Where’s the Valentine-Miller wedding?” The man looked at him like he was insane. “Mister, you’ve got the wrong day or the wrong place. This hall wasn’t booked for today. It’s empty.” Garrett felt the blood drain from his face. He had booked this venue six months ago. He had paid the deposit himself. How could it be empty? He dialed my number frantically. Busy signal. Over and over. In a fit of rage, he hurled his phone against the marble floor, shattering it into pieces. Seeing his meltdown, the janitor pointed upward. “Maybe try the rooftop garden? There’s a huge wedding happening up there. Started a while ago. Looks real fancy.” I had always been the one with the money. I had planned every detail of this day. Garrett felt a surge of relief. She moved it to the rooftop. Of course. She wanted a better view. He sprinted up the stairs. Halfway up, he collided with me. I was in my full Vera Wang gown, radiant and composed. The moment he saw me, he exploded. “Brooke! What the hell is wrong with you? Changing the venue without telling me? Do you have any idea how many people are waiting?” I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. From behind me, Callum walked forward and swept me into his arms.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “438294”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel