Author: Momo Chan

It wasn’t until the very end of my life that the truth finally clicked: our world was nothing more than a cheap paperback, a “Golden Girl” trope designed to revolve around a single, blessed protagonist. My twin sister, with her porcelain skin and a demeanor as fragile as a crushed lily, was that girl. She was the one the universe was scripted to adore. In my first life, I nearly killed myself trying to be enough. I excelled in every field, hit every milestone, and clawed my way to the top—only to realize I was merely the scaffolding built to make her climb look more effortless. I was the foil, the “difficult” twin, the shadow that made her light seem blinding. But fate, in a rare moment of glitchy generosity, handed me a reset. I woke up back at the beginning. Literally. I opened my eyes in the dark, swaddled in the warm, rhythmic hum of my mother’s womb. And there she was. My sister. Even here, she was greedy, draining the nutrients that should have been shared, her silent malice echoing in the cramped space: “You’re just the disposable extra. You don’t deserve this. Everything beautiful in this world belongs to me.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t fight back—not yet. She took my silence for fear, a confirmation of her divine right to rule. The days bled into months until the pressure built and the light at the end of the tunnel beckoned. My sister, desperate to claim her title as the “First Born,” the elder, the leader, scrambled to get out first. That was when I summoned every ounce of strength in my underdeveloped limbs. I didn’t just move; I struck. I kicked her back with a force that sent a ripple through our mother’s body. The “Script” said she was the heroine. But the script never specified which of us had to be the big sister. She wanted the lead role? Fine. Let’s see who makes it to the stage first. 1. When I first opened my eyes, the world was a warm, viscous haze. A tiny, blurred silhouette floated in front of me, huddled over a cluster of placental nutrients like a scavenger. It took me exactly three seconds to process the impossible: I was back. Reincarnated. I was a fetus. Through the thick wall of our mother’s belly, a voice drifted in—soft, melodic, and achingly familiar. “Only three months until the due date,” my mother, Lydia, whispered. “The doctor says they both look perfectly healthy.” Three months. I stared at the tiny creature in front of me—my sister, Patricia. She must have felt my gaze because she shifted, her tiny, wrinkled face contorting into an expression of spite that no unborn child should be capable of. “What are you looking at, Jacqueline?” Her voice echoed in my mind, sharp and poisonous. “You actually thought dragging us both off that roof would end things? I’m going to make sure you suffer even more this time.” My heart—the tiny, thumping thing in my chest—constricted. So, she’d come back, too. It made sense. In our last life, the day my parents decided to commit me to a psychiatric ward because of Patricia’s whispered lies, I had grabbed her hand and stepped off the thirty-eighth-floor balcony. If I was going to hell, I wasn’t going alone. Only in those final seconds of freefall did the “System” reveal itself to me. I learned that we were characters in a “Sweetheart Narrative.” Patricia was the chosen one, the girl everyone was destined to love. And I, Jacqueline, was the “High-Achiever Foil.” I was written to be the cold, ambitious sister whose only purpose was to highlight Patricia’s kindness and effortless grace. In that life, I had burned myself out. I was a prodigy at ten, graduated from MIT at twenty, and built a billion-dollar tech firm by twenty-five. And for what? My parents called me “calculating” and “power-hungry,” lamenting that I lacked Patricia’s “innocent heart.” My friends claimed I was “too strong to need anyone,” while they flocked to protect “sweet, vulnerable Patricia.” Even the man I loved for three years left me for her, claiming she was the “little girl he needed to shield from the world.” In the end, Patricia framed me for leaking corporate secrets, and my own family stood in court to testify that I was a jealous sociopath. Why? Because she was the Protagonist. She was entitled to the fruits of my labor. I looked at Patricia’s smug, fetal face and bared my tiny, newly formed gums. Sorry, sister. I’ve been a “striver” my whole life. I don’t know how to lose. The world only cares about who comes out first. The “Elder Sister” gets the mantle of the heroine. It doesn’t have to be you. “What are you smiling at?” Patricia’s mental voice spiked with alarm. I didn’t answer. I let go of the umbilical cord I had been clutching. Before she could react, I planted my feet against the uterine wall and launched myself at her like a small, fleshy torpedo. “What are you—!” Her scream was cut off as my foot connected with her midsection. I used every bit of my strength to shove her aside. Before she could recover, I leaned in and bit down on her umbilical cord—the source of her stolen strength. “Ahhh!” The rush of nutrients was sweet—mine. I took it all. I felt my tiny frame grow stronger, more robust by the second. “You dare touch me?” Patricia lunged back, her “Fragile Girl” persona forgotten. Here, in the dark, the mask was off. We weren’t sisters; we were rivals in a zero-sum game. The womb was our first battlefield. She scratched at my face; I bit her hand. She kicked my stomach; I headbutted her. “Ow… it hurts… Charles, it hurts…” The muffled voice of our mother, Lydia, drifted in from the outside, sharp with pain. We both froze. “Call the doctor! Now!” Moments later, I heard the cold slide of a stethoscope against skin. The doctor’s voice was calm, almost amused. “Everything’s fine, Mrs. Webster. It looks like the little ones are just having a bit of a wrestling match. One of them is a bit rowdy, but they’re both fine.” I relaxed, but then I heard my mother’s voice—a sharp, unmistakable hiss of resentment. “It’s definitely the younger one causing trouble. She’s been a headache from the start.” 2. The younger one? I drifted in the amniotic fluid, my heart fluttering unevenly. How could she possibly tell? We were seven months along. We were barely more than lumps of clay with heartbeats. Even the most sophisticated imaging couldn’t assign a personality to us yet, but there she was, already labeling me as the “troublemaker.” Was the script already that deeply ingrained? When they returned from the hospital, I felt the warmth of a hand pressing against the skin outside. Lydia’s voice was a soft coo. “My sweet girl, you need to eat more. You’re the only one Mommy loves.” “The little one is just like before—stubborn, difficult, even in the womb.” Patricia, basking in that unearned affection, turned to me with a psychic sneer. “Hear that, Jacqueline? It doesn’t matter how hard you fight. It doesn’t matter how much you steal. I am the lead. The luck, the love, the destiny—it’s all mine by birthright.” “You worked yourself to death in the last life, and I still destroyed you. This time, I’m going to make sure you don’t even make it to the delivery room!” I looked at her blurred, arrogant face and grinned. Sister, you’re forgetting one thing. Right now, you’re just the “Protagonist-in-Waiting.” I turned away, ignoring her. It was time to start my training. If I was going to be a “striver,” I was going to be the most intense one this world had ever seen. My schedule was rigorous. Mornings: Fight Patricia. Build muscle, improve reflexes. If I won, I took the best position and the most nutrients. If I lost, I waited for her to sleep and then ambushed her. Afternoons: Position myself against the uterine wall to listen to the Mozart and audiobooks Lydia played for “the good twin.” Early cognitive development was key. Nights: Keep Patricia awake. Don’t let her rest. Stimulate my own growth while she withered. At first, Patricia fought back with fury. Then, it turned into passive resistance. Eventually, she just tried to hide. But there was nowhere to go in a space this small. Every time I caught her, I made sure she felt it. “Leave me alone!” Two months later, she was breaking. “Jacqueline, you psycho! You’ve taken everything! Look at me!” I smiled. I looked. Her umbilical cord was barely two-thirds the thickness of mine. I lunged again, biting down hard. “Help… help me…” I watched her with cold eyes. In the last life, she used that “pity me” look to steal my company, my projects, my parents’ love—my very life. This time, the debt was being paid in advance. “Ahhh—!” Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the outside. “Doctor! Doctor, my stomach! Something’s wrong!” I let go immediately. The doctor arrived in a blur of motion. During the ultrasound, I hadn’t even moved off of Patricia yet. The cold gel hit the skin above us. The transducer slid slowly across. On the monitor, two fetuses appeared. One was large, active, pinning the other down. The one on the bottom was significantly smaller, her movements weak and lethargic. The doctor chuckled nervously. “Well, Mrs. Webster… it looks like your twins are having a real showdown in there.” Lydia stared at the screen. Her face didn’t soften with maternal concern. It twisted with a strange, venomous hatred. She blurted out, “How could she be so cruel to her sister?” The room went silent. The doctor blinked, adjusting his glasses. “Mrs. Webster, they haven’t been born yet. It’s impossible to know who is the ‘big sister’ and who is the ‘little sister’…” I stopped listening. Patricia was cackling in my head. “Hear that? It doesn’t matter how perfect you are. In Mom’s eyes, you’ll always be the villain. I’m the lead. You can’t win.” Then, she began her performance. She stopped struggling. She curled her body into a ball, shivering in the fluid. Then, she held her breath, forcing her heart rate on the monitor to drop… slow… slower… 3. Beep… Beep… Beep… The alarm on the heart rate monitor shrieked. “Oh no, the baby on the bottom! Her heart rate is crashing!” the nurse cried. “It’s her! The one on top is hurting her!” Lydia’s voice was thick with tears and rage. “Doctor, do something! You can’t let her kill her sister!” The doctor frowned. “Mrs. Webster, fetal interaction is normal. Please, try to stay calm—” “Normal? This is an assault!” Lydia was screaming now. I watched it all from the inside, detached. She was always like this. In the last life, I would stay up for three months straight to finish a project, only for Patricia to tear up in front of our father and say, “I feel like Jacqueline doesn’t want me to help,” and suddenly, she was the lead on the account. I spent five years building a company from scratch, and all it took was for her to “accidentally” leak core data and cry “I didn’t mean to” for our family to force me to forgive her. “Jacqueline, you have to be the bigger person.” “She’s fragile, you have to look out for her.” “How can you be so heartless? She’s your sister!” I looked at Patricia, still faking her distress. My tiny fists clenched. What is the creed of a striver? Never give up. Even if the whole world says you’re the villain, you prove them wrong. Even if the script says you’re the extra, you rip up the pages and write your own. “Jacqueline, I’m warning you,” Patricia hissed, sensing my resolve. “If you touch me again, I’ll make Mom kill you before you’re even born. The world doesn’t need an extra sister anyway. You should just be my stepping stone, like before. Maybe when I’m famous and loved, I’ll toss you a few scraps—” She didn’t finish. My fist slammed into her face. “Ugh!” She groaned in pain, but she didn’t retreat. Instead, she lunged forward, biting down on my umbilical cord with everything she had. I gasped, a surge of panic hitting me. “Didn’t expect that, did you? In the last life, I was too ‘pure’ to fight you. But this time… I want you dead, Jacqueline. I’m going to make sure you’re a stillborn!” Fury and hatred boiled over. I spun around, raising my leg to kick her— “Ahhh!” Outside, Lydia let out a scream so piercing it felt like it shattered the air. “It hurts! My stomach… Doctor, it’s happening! The babies are coming!” 4. Labor? Patricia and I both froze. We were two weeks early. “Quick! Get her to the delivery room!” the doctor shouted. “Breathe, Mrs. Webster. Don’t push yet, you aren’t fully dilated!” The chaos outside was a symphony of clattering wheels and frantic voices. I didn’t hesitate. While Patricia was still stunned, I turned and dove toward the birth canal with every ounce of strength I possessed. Flashbacks of my previous life burned through my mind. In a natural twin birth, the first one out is the “Elder.” The second is the “Younger.” In the last life, Patricia was the Elder. I was the after-thought. This time, whoever made it out first claimed the Narrative. “Jacqueline, what are you doing?” Patricia screamed. “Get back here! I’m the first-born! That’s my spot!” I ignored her, crawling forward. The amniotic fluid was draining, the pressure of the contractions squeezing me. I could see a faint light ahead—the outside world. Faster. Just a little faster. “I see a head!” the nurse shouted. “It’s the bigger one! Lots of hair!” The bigger one. Me. My two months of “womb-training” had paid off. I was significantly more developed than Patricia. “No—!” Lydia let out a primal, desperate roar. “The first one can’t be her! Patricia has to be the big sister!” I froze. Patricia heard it too. In that moment, she finally understood what I was doing. “You… you’re trying to steal my role…” “Jacqueline, you bitch! How dare you!” She lunged, grabbing my leg as I was halfway through the canal, and pulled with a terrifying strength born of desperation. “Come back! I’m the lead! I’m the one who’s supposed to be born first! You’re just a foil! You can’t take what’s mine!” I slipped back, losing ground. No… I gritted my teeth and kicked her hand with my free foot. Let go! “Never! I’d rather we both die in here!” “I am the protagonist of this world! You’re nothing! I killed you once, I’ll do it again!” “Mom! Mommy, help me!” she screamed in her heart. “Don’t let Jacqueline out first! Stop her! PLEASE!” Outside, Lydia seemed to hear the psychic plea. “Doctor… can we do a C-section?” her voice was weak but urgent. “I want… I want the smaller one out first… Yes, cut me open and take the little one out first…” The doctor sounded horrified. “Mrs. Webster, you’re already at eight centimeters. A C-section now is incredibly risky for you and the babies—” “I don’t care! The little one has to be the first-born!” “Ma’am, please, be reasonable—” “I am perfectly reasonable!” Lydia’s voice was a mix of tears and madness. “Doctor, I’m begging you… take the little one first. I’ll pay anything…” The depth of her favoritism was staggering. A mother’s bias so deep she would risk a major surgery just to ensure her “favorite” got the title. From the very beginning, I never had a fair chance. But so what? I turned my head and looked back at Patricia, who was still death-gripping my leg. She looked triumphant. See? her face seemed to say. Mom will always love me. The world will always bend for me. It doesn’t matter if you’re reborn. It doesn’t matter how hard you work. You can’t beat destiny. “Heh.” I looked at her and smiled. Before her eyes, I leaned down and bit her hand—hard. “Ahhh!” Her grip slackened for a millisecond. That was all I needed. I lunged toward the light. Head out. Shoulders out. “She’s here! She’s here!” the nurse cheered. But just as I was about to slide free— “I’m taking you with me, Jacqueline!” Patricia let out a final, desperate howl. She kicked upward, hard, against our mother’s uterus. The sudden pressure caused the birth canal to spasmingly contract, pinning me in place. And in that same second, using the recoil of her kick, Patricia shot forward like a cannonball, her head slamming into my hip as she tried to wedge herself past me. “They’re coming! They’re coming!” the doctor shouted. Then, his voice shifted into a tone of pure shock. “Wait—something’s wrong! They’re coming out together!” 5. We were both stuck, jammed side-by-side. “You won’t get away with this, Jacqueline! I’m the first!” “Try me.” I hissed through my teeth. Before the medical team could react, I used my last bit of leverage to kick Patricia square in the face. Her hand let go of my shoulder. With a final, agonizing surge, I threw my weight forward. “She’s out!” The nurse’s hands were warm and steady as she caught my wet, tiny body. The cold air hit my lungs, and I did the only thing I could. “WAAAAAAH!” My cry rang through the delivery room, loud and defiant. A split second later, the next contraction shoved Patricia out with a wet thud. “The second one is here! It’s twin girls!” The doctor sighed in relief, beginning the routine of clearing our airways. I lay in the nurse’s arms, forcing my blurry eyes to open. “Let me see them! Let me see my daughters!” The door to the delivery room burst open. A man in an expensive charcoal suit rushed in—my father, Charles Webster. Behind him was his father, Victor Webster. “Congratulations, Mr. Webster. Two beautiful girls.” The doctor placed us side-by-side in a bassinet next to Lydia. Charles and Victor gathered around. Then, they froze. Thanks to my “womb-training,” I was plump, healthy, with a thick head of hair. I was crying with the strength of a drill sergeant, my limbs flailing with vigor. Patricia, however, looked pitiful. She was tiny, her skin a sickly, wrinkled red. Her cry was a thin, wheezing sound, and she couldn’t even keep her eyes open. “This…” Charles looked from me to Patricia, his brow furrowing. “Why is there such a difference? Doctor, is the little one… okay?” “Don’t worry, Mr. Webster. The younger sister is just a bit underweight. She’ll need a few days in the NICU. But the elder sister is incredibly healthy. Her vitals are off the charts.” “The elder?” Victor, leaning on his mahogany cane, scanned us with sharp, calculating eyes. “This big one… she’s the first-born?” “By about three seconds, yes,” the nurse said cautiously. Victor stared at me for a long moment. Suddenly, he let out a booming laugh that shook the room. “Good! Now this is a Webster! Look at those lungs! Look at that grip! She’s got the fire in her!” He tapped my swaddle gently with his cane, his eyes gleaming with unhidden favor. “This little girl is going to be something special.” Then, he glanced at the shriveled Patricia. His smile vanished. “The other one… she looks weak. Since when do Websters look so fragile?” Charles nodded, his gaze shifting to me with newfound admiration. “You’re right, Dad. Look at her eyes—she’s not even afraid. But the little one…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the disappointment was palpable. Everything had changed. I lay there, feeling Victor’s rough finger brush my cheek, hearing Charles’s praise. But I didn’t feel happy. Is this all “favor” was? Something so cheap it could be bought with a few extra pounds of baby fat and a louder cry? “Waaa… waaaaa!” In the next bassinet, Patricia finally seemed to realize what was happening. She began to wail, a desperate, heart-wrenching sound. “Why is she making that noise?” Charles’s frown deepened, his tone impatient. “Nurse, take her to the incubator. She’s giving me a headache.” “Yes, sir.” The nurse whisked Patricia away toward the NICU. Her cries grew more frantic as she left the room. I watched her go, then turned my eyes to Lydia. Her expression was a mess. Shock, confusion, struggle… and a tiny, flickering spark of affection I had never seen before. Her lips trembled. “My… my big girl…” She reached out, wanting to touch me. But halfway there, her hand began to shake violently. Her face contorted as if she were fighting an internal battle. The affection vanished, replaced by a deep, hollow look of resentment. “No… it wasn’t… Patricia was supposed to be…” she whispered, her voice trailing off into a broken mumble.

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Eight years. That was how long Thomas and I had survived the agonizing, transatlantic bleed of a long-distance relationship. Just when I thought I was finally going to get the call—the one where he told me his Ph.D. was finished and he was coming home to Chicago—the phone rang, and it was his sixth request for an extension. “Baby, I’m so sorry. My advisor says the dissertation needs another year of revisions,” his voice crackled through the speaker, heavy with that familiar, practiced guilt. “Just give me one more year. Next year, I promise, I’m coming home to marry you.” After the call ended abruptly, a slow, hot anger boiled up in my chest. I opened my laptop and logged into his university’s digital library in London. I wanted to see exactly what kind of thesis required six extra years of his life. But the moment the page loaded, the name featured in the “Outstanding Alumni Dissertations” column hit me like a physical blow. There it was. Published six years ago. The author: Thomas. An absurd, dizzying question flooded my mind: If his thesis hadn’t passed, how the hell was it archived as outstanding? My hands were shaking so badly I could barely scroll. When I reached the Acknowledgments section, the words pierced my eyes like broken glass. “My deepest gratitude to my greatest love, Melody, for sharing a cramped flat with me, reading beside me, and getting me through the darkest days of my research.” “You crossed an ocean for me, and I vow to build our forever home on these shores.” Melody? The name drove an ice pick straight into my chest. My name wasn’t Melody. … 1 Thomas is having an affair. Those words looped in my brain like a skipping record. Trembling violently, I grabbed my phone and hit FaceTime. One call. Two. Ten. All unanswered. I couldn’t even pinpoint when a simple video call with him had become such a luxury. Gritting my teeth, I booked the next available flight to Heathrow. Eight years of loving Thomas across an ocean, and this would be my first time visiting him. It wasn’t a lack of money. It was a lack of time. I hadn’t wanted him taking grueling, minimum-wage shifts to pay his tuition, so I willingly became the corporate workaholic, burning the midnight oil in Chicago to fund his life in London. My only request was that he spend his holidays back home with me. But when was the last time we actually saw each other? Six months ago? A year? Sitting in the stark, fluorescent glare of the departure lounge, I hunted down Melody’s Instagram. She was twenty-five. Radiant, effortlessly pretty, the kind of girl who curated her life in golden-hour aesthetics. A post from Thanksgiving: “Caught a chill last night. Tommy instantly skipped his seminar to hold my hand at the clinic. He treats me like glass. If his undergrads saw him playing nurse, they’d die laughing.” I remembered that week. I had been stuck at the office, curled under my desk, crying from the sharp, stabbing pain of appendicitis. Crushed by the stress of my job, I had called Thomas, begging him to fly back just for a few days to be with me. His response back then? “Sabrina, I’m not a doctor. My advisor would kill me if I left campus right now.” A post from Christmas: “Tommy was supposed to fly back to the States today and was already at the airport. But my period came early and the cramps were awful, so he turned right around and came back to the flat! What an idiot, wasting a plane ticket like that. Doesn’t know the value of a dollar.” I remembered that Christmas. I had been ecstatic. I’d booked spa days, taken PTO, and even gone on birth control just to manipulate my cycle so we could be intimate without interruption. I was in an Uber on the way to O’Hare to pick him up when he called to say his flight was canceled. Reading those captions, I felt two massive, invisible hands wrap around my throat, squeezing until the room spun. I bombarded Thomas with texts, desperate to force him out of hiding. “I’m on the next flight out. I’m coming to you.” “Are you hiding something from me? Answer me!” “You’re going to look me in the eye and explain this.” Fat, heavy tears dropped onto my phone screen, blurring the text into gray smears. … By the time I landed and reconnected to the grid eight hours later, I had no tears left. I scrambled to open my messages. The blistering rage inside me instantly evaporated into a cold, sickening dread the moment I read his replies. “Don’t come looking for me. There’s nothing to explain. Please don’t disrupt my life.” “She’s pure, Sabrina. She’s innocent. I won’t let you drag your drama to her doorstep.” “And I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you.” No apologies. No elaborate lies. Just three short texts dismantling my entire existence. Stepping out of the terminal, the biting London wind slapped my face. I stumbled, barely keeping my balance. Suddenly, a blur of dark clothing rushed past me. A man in a black face mask violently yanked my left earlobe. Pain flared white-hot as he tore my gold hoop from my ear, sprinting away and flipping me the bird over his shoulder. I screamed, instinctively dropping my bags and bolting after him. That earring was the only thing I had left of my mother! But the street was a sea of strangers. I pointed, shrieking for help, but pedestrians merely glanced at me and hurried on, deaf to my panic. I chased him in my heels, bursting onto a busy commercial street. And there, amidst the chaos of the city, I saw him. Thomas. He was half-crouching, a DSLR camera pressed to his face, focused entirely on the woman posing in front of a fountain. Melody. She was vibrant, laughing, perfectly intact. Honk! A blaring car horn violently ripped me back to reality. Tires screeched. The hood of a sedan stopped inches from my knees. The driver rolled down his window, spitting curses at me in an accent I barely registered. My brain short-circuited. The world tilted, went black, and I collapsed against the pavement. 2 “I’m sorry, my friend is just causing a fuss. Don’t worry about the earring, officer. It’s not worth anything.” “Yes, I’m a friend of hers.” Thomas’s voice filtered through the haze of my unconsciousness. As he ushered the police officer out of the hospital room, I finally forced my eyes open, struggling up to grab his wrist. “What do you mean it’s not worth anything? It’s solid gold! It was my mother’s favorite piece of jewelry!” Thomas stood perfectly still, looking down at me with an unreadable expression. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses now. His hair was styled back, sleek and mature. The only thing that hadn’t changed were those deeply expressive eyes. “Petty theft is rampant here, Sabrina. Filing a report is useless.” His thin lips barely moved. “Look, I’ll just buy you a replacement.” My grip on his wrist loosened. I slumped back against the hospital bed, the delayed, agonizing ache of the accident finally seeping into my bones. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks. All the vicious, screaming questions I had rehearsed on the plane were lodged in my throat. I couldn’t utter a single one. “I actually wanted to tell you six years ago. But I was terrified you wouldn’t be able to handle it. I was afraid you’d hurt yourself. That’s why I…” Thomas took off his glasses, crouching beside my bed, and gently wiped a tear from my jaw. “Melody has been by my side in a foreign country for eight years. She spent the best years of her youth on me. We practically built a life here.” “Between that and how little we saw each other… it was impossible for me not to fall for her.” “Stop crying, Sab. Just be a good girl and go back to Chicago. Okay?” I stared at his face, and for a fleeting second, I saw the awkward, fiercely protective boy from ten years ago. After my parents’ messy divorce, I lived with my mother. She was a breathtakingly beautiful woman who couldn’t care less about me, often vanishing for months at a time. During a train ride back to college, I got my first period—years later than most girls—and accidentally stained the seat. The drunk, middle-aged man sitting across from me snapped. He grabbed a handful of my hair, demanding I apologize, calling me a filthy, classless slut who was trying to seduce him. I shrank into myself, crying and whispering apologies while the entire train car just watched in silence. He demanded money for his “distress.” I had no choice but to call my mother. She told me to call my father. My father didn’t even pick up. In the end, it was Thomas—who had just boarded at the last stop—who stepped in front of me. He punched the man in the jaw, his own face red with fury. “So your mom isn’t coming, huh!” he had yelled at me. “Girl, you have to learn how to protect yourself.” Over the years, I never really learned how to protect myself. But he protected me. Again and again. As the memory faded, a bitter taste flooded my mouth. I think I finally understood what he meant by, “It was impossible for me not to fall for her.” I tilted my head back, my voice ragged and broken. “You love her because she had the time to keep you company? You could have told me. I would have quit my job. I would have moved here—” “Sabrina!” Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. I caught the briefest flicker of exhaustion—and disgust—in his eyes. “She’s not like you.” “I’m taking you to the airport. Whatever else you need to say, we can talk about it when I visit the States next month.” As he tried to pull me out of the room, his phone rang. The moment he saw the caller ID, his entire demeanor softened into something sweet and tender. “Mel, hey. Yeah, it’s all sorted. It was just a friend from back home. She got mugged and decided she wants to fly right back. Don’t worry about it.” “Do you even know you’re the other woman!?” Some dark, demonic impulse seized me. I lunged and snatched the phone from his hand. A decade of swallowed sacrifices erupted into pure, hysterical jealousy. I screamed into the receiver: “Did you know he’s been with me for ten years? What gave you the right to—” Smash. My vision exploded into stars. Thomas had shoved me, hard. I flew backward, crashing violently against the metal bedframe. He didn’t even check to see if I was bleeding. He just scrambled to pick up the phone, his voice pitching up in pure panic. “Melody, baby, listen to me. She’s mentally unstable. It’s an old condition of hers, I swear to God. Are you seriously going to believe a lunatic over me?” “Where are you? I’m coming to you right now.” A lunatic? Eight years. I waited for him for eight grueling years. I worked until I gave myself a bleeding ulcer, just so he could study in peace, just so we could get married when he returned. And my reward was being called a lunatic. As Thomas grabbed his coat and bolted for the door, I scraped together the last ounce of breath in my lungs and screamed: “Thomas! If you walk out that door today, we are dead to each other! We are done!” 3 I thought if I screamed loud enough, I might awaken some microscopic shred of guilt in his soul. I thought it might make him turn around, look at the woman he had shattered, and give me the embrace I was owed after crossing an ocean and waiting a decade. But no. His broad shoulders tensed. He paused for exactly three seconds. Then he walked out. He never looked back. I lay paralyzed on the cold hospital bed, numbly pulling out my phone to text my mother. Even though I knew, for the rest of my life, I would never get a reply. “Mom, the earring you left me got stolen today. I’m so sorry.” “How could he cheat on me? He almost died for me once. How do you just stop loving someone?” In the sterile quiet of the room, my mind drifted to the year my mother died. My father, who I hadn’t seen in years, suddenly kicked my door down. He claimed my mother had conned him out of half a million dollars before she died. I took dozens of backhands to the face that day, screaming that dead women couldn’t steal money. He saw red. He picked up a jagged piece of concrete from the driveway and swung it at my head. But Thomas threw his body over mine. The rock tore a gaping hole in his scalp. Blood soaked his shirt, dripping onto my face, but he just smiled and wiped my tears away. “Don’t cry,” he had whispered. “My Sabrina has to be strong.” My face was wet with tears now, but my spiraling memories were violently interrupted by a flicker on my phone screen. (Typing…) What? How could it say typing? A wave of absolute nausea hit me. I slapped a hand over my mouth and stumbled out into the hallway, sprinting for the public restrooms. But as I rushed past the elevator banks, the doors slid open, revealing two impossibly familiar faces. Mom? Thomas? How is my mother alive? Why is she with Thomas!? I froze, rooted to the linoleum floor. It felt like a million insects were crawling under my skin. The moment my mother’s eyes met mine, her pupils contracted in sheer terror. But her first instinct was to step in front of the young woman beside her, shielding the baby in the girl’s arms. “Mom! Thomas! Seriously, I just had an upset stomach from those pastries, you guys didn’t need to freak out. Let’s just take the baby to pediatrics.” As they brushed past me, I got a crystal-clear look at the girl. It was Melody. The great love from Thomas’s thesis. My skull throbbed so violently I thought it would crack open. I clutched my chest, dropping to a crouch, gasping for air. Before I could even process the reality fracturing around me, a pair of polished leather shoes stepped into my line of sight. Thomas’s shadow fell over me. He stared down at me with cold, terrifying authority. “Why are you still here?” “Sabrina, why couldn’t you just listen to me?” I looked up at him, my eyes bloodshot and feral. “Don’t you owe me an explanation? My mother has been dead for eight years. How is she standing right there? Why is that woman calling her Mom?” “You stole my boyfriend, and now you’re stealing my mother too!?” I lunged like a wild animal, grabbing Thomas by the collar, trying to push past him to demand why my mother had risen from the grave. Suddenly, a sharp voice cracked like a whip behind me: “Enough!” It was my mother. “Melody is sweeter than you. She’s obedient. I prefer being by her side. Is that a crime?” “Why do you have to come here and ruin our lives?” my mother hissed. “You’re in America, she’s in Europe. I split my time. Nobody was getting hurt. What was the problem with that?” Thomas sighed. He wrapped his arms around my thrashing body, pinning me against his chest in a suffocating hug. His warm breath hit my neck. “I know it’s a lot to process. Let me explain everything to you slowly, later. Okay?” “Just go—” “Thomas!” The rapid clicking of heels echoed down the hall. Melody marched over, her face twisted in a scowl. She yanked Thomas away from me and delivered a stinging, open-handed slap across my cheek. “So you’re the ‘friend’ from back home, huh? If you’re a psycho, go check yourself into a ward. You fly all the way here to seduce my husband?” “Did you think I was just going to roll over?” My cheek burned. I raised my hand, fully intending to strike her back, but Thomas’s fingers clamped around my wrist like a vice. 4 “Apologize.” He stared me down, his jaw tight, eyes flashing with warning. The air in the hallway turned to ice. Melody patted Thomas’s back, her tone shifting into a sickening, theatrical sweetness. “Oh, whatever. Let it go, Tommy. I won’t stoop to her level.” “Hey. Look at this. We’re having our wedding ceremony soon.” She thrust her left hand in my face, flashing a diamond the size of a crushed ice cube. She looked me up and down with blatant pity. “You’re actually pretty. Why are you so desperate to be a homewrecker?” “Thomas and I have been together for eight years. We haven’t had a single fight.” “Just because I told him I loved the weather here, he left his whole life behind. He’s taken care of me and my mom for eight years.” “Do you really think a man like that would ever look at you?” “And look at our baby. Isn’t he perfect? Tommy said he hated the idea of me going through labor, so he made us wait until last year to have him. Otherwise, he’d be old enough to call you Auntie by now.” … The blood in my veins turned to slush. I stood there, a hollow shell, letting her words wash over me. My mother never died. She had stolen my father’s money, faked her death, and fled to Europe with her secret, illegitimate daughter, Melody. In my ten years with Thomas, I had gotten pregnant five times. Five quiet, sterile clinic visits. Five abortions. The last time I got pregnant, I was thirty. I begged him to let us keep it. Thomas had sighed, looking deeply conflicted, and shook his head. “I don’t like kids, Sab. And I’m just not ready to be a father.” It wasn’t that he didn’t like kids. He just didn’t want my kids. It wasn’t that he had no vacation days. It wasn’t that his thesis was delayed for six years. He simply had a family here. Something inside me finally snapped, cleanly and quietly. I gave a slow nod, my voice raspy but impossibly calm. “I’m sorry. I know I was wrong.” I was wrong to wait like a loyal, pathetic dog for eight years. I was wrong to spend every night of my twenties grieving a mother who had chosen to vanish. I turned on my heel and started walking. But Melody called out to me. She trotted up, pulling a heavy gold bracelet off her wrist and pressing it into my palm. “You didn’t know better. I forgive you.” “Tommy said you got mugged. Take this. Sell it for your cab fare to the airport. I can’t give you my gold earrings, though—those are a gift from my mom!” She gave me a playful wink, then spun around and tucked herself under Thomas’s arm. I looked down at the earrings dangling from her lobes. They were the exact same design as the one I had lost. No wonder Thomas told the police they weren’t worth anything. He knew. He always knew mine were fake. The gold was fake. The love was fake. The blood in my veins felt like a lie. The dark, starved beast that had been hibernating in my chest for ten years violently ripped its way out. It took total control of my limbs, turning me toward the emergency stairwell, forcing me to run toward the roof. … Outside the hospital. The tension from the hallway had vanished, replaced by an uneasy silence between the three of them. Melody dropped the sweet-girl act. She shoved Thomas’s shoulder, her brow furrowed. “Why did you hug her back there? I saw it with my own eyes. You initiated that hug.” “And Mom. Why didn’t you defend me when she tried to hit me? Why did you keep giving me that look to shut up?” “Well?” “Are you guys hiding something from me?” Thomas was staring blankly at the pavement. He had thought that telling me the truth would finally lift the crushing weight off his chest. It hadn’t. Right now, a cold, creeping panic was clawing up his throat. “You two go ahead. I think I dropped my phone inside. I’m going to go look for it.” Thomas felt it in his bones—he had to go back and check on me. He needed to look me in the eyes and say the words I’m sorry. Ignoring Melody’s shrill protests, he turned and sprinted toward the sliding glass doors of the entrance. Just as his foot crossed the threshold. A body fell from the sky. It smashed into the concrete, mere feet in front of him. A horrific explosion of crimson and bone.

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My online girlfriend was a total fraud. Just the day before we were supposed to meet, she’d asked me with this fragile, nervous hitch in her voice, “Logan, my family… we don’t have much. Are you going to think less of me because of that?” I looked at the balance in my savings account—a string of numbers that felt like a fortune to me—and told her with all the confidence of a man who thought he was a king, “Don’t even worry about it, baby. Money isn’t an issue for me. I’ve got us covered.” Fast forward to the big day. I was standing there, leaning against my blue Citibike, when she pulled up in a custom Maserati Levante. My entire body went rigid. I couldn’t have squeezed out a single word if my life depended on it. She climbed out of the car, saw me and my rental bike, and froze. The silence between us was deafening. After three seconds of pure, unadulterated shock, we both spoke at the same time. “This is what you call being ‘poor’?” I choked out. “This is what you call being ‘rich’?” she demanded. 1. We ended up calling the cops on each other. The officer looked back and forth between us, rubbing his temples. “Okay, let’s start over. Who defrauded whom?” “She faked being poor to manipulate my emotions!” I shouted. “He faked being a millionaire to toy with my heart!” she shot back. The duty officer stared at our bank statements for a long beat. He looked at me first. “You think you’re rich because you have thirty-eight thousand dollars in savings?” I bristled. “Yeah! Is there a problem with that?” Then he turned to her. “And you… you think you’re poor with eight hundred million in your trust?” She answered with total, unshakeable sincerity. “Yeah. I mean… look at the economy?” The officer let out a bark of laughter, slapping his thigh as he turned to his partner. “Man, you hearing this? These two have the most unique definitions of poverty and wealth I’ve ever seen.” We both flushed deep red, glaring at each other across the station. I was wearing my best slim-fit blazer, a mid-range designer watch, and polished loafers—I looked like I was here to sign a tech merger. She was in an oversized pink hoodie, cargo pants, and beat-up sneakers—looking like she was headed to a skate park. The cops eventually told us to settle it like adults. She crossed her arms, her face a mask of ice. “Settle what? He lied about his net worth. I thought we were at least in the same social circle, but he showed up on a rental bike.” My temper flared. “You have the nerve to say that? You told me you were struggling! To protect your ego, I didn’t even put gel in my hair today so I wouldn’t look too ‘unattainable.’ And then you roll up in a Maserati!” “You gave me hope for something real!” she argued. “You’re the one who needs to take responsibility for this mess!” “Oh, please. You’re so rich it’s blinding, and you want to play the victim? Maybe I should sue you for emotional distress!” The officer tried to pull us back to reality. He looked at her. “Why did you pretend to be poor?” She stayed defiant. “I am poor!” We both rolled our eyes at her. She finally shrunk back a little. “Fine. My mom always said never to flaunt it. She said people would only ever want me for the money.” The officer turned to me. “And you? Why the big-shot act?” I straightened my blazer. “I am doing well!” They both rolled their eyes at me this time. “Okay, fine,” I muttered. “I didn’t want people to think I was a loser.” The room went quiet. The officer sighed, a hollow sound. “I get it. You were both so terrified of being used for what you had that you both ended up with nothing.” His partner whispered under his breath, “No wonder they met online. Two weirdos, one wavelength. They’re actually perfect for each other.” 2. The “settlement” was a forced truce. By the time we walked out of that station, the resentment was thick enough to choke on. We broke up right there on the sidewalk. When I got home, I did what any sane, heartbroken man does: I Googled her. Michelle Samantha: Second heiress to the Samantha Empire, venture capitalist, CEO of X-Tech. The list of her achievements was staggering, ending with a very pointed: Status: Single. Fury and humiliation washed over me. In a fit of rage, I blocked her. Phone, Instagram, LinkedIn—everything. I spent the night tossing and turning, my mind a chaotic loop of “Eight hundred million. Eight hundred million.” I had spent three months genuinely worrying about her. I usually never spend more than twenty bucks on DoorDash, but for her, I’d once splurged on a twenty-one-dollar artisan pasta and left a note for the kitchen: “No cilantro, please—just put some extra love in there.” The chef had actually called me at midnight to ask what “love” tasted like. Michelle had told me she’d never had such “wonderful, homey food” before. I thought she was so broke she was living on ramen. Turns out, to someone like her, a twenty-one-dollar pasta is “homey.” She’d probably never even seen a grocery store from the inside. I tried to tell myself she was just a ghost, a glitch in the matrix. But every time the sun went down, my brain would whisper: Eight-hundred-million-dollar girlfriend. You had an eight-hundred-million-dollar girlfriend. It drove me insane. Not because of the girl, but because of the number. Why couldn’t I be the one with the trust fund? 3. I decided to bury myself in work. Three months later, I was promoted to Project Lead. Not because the company realized I was a genius, but because our department had shrunk to three people, and the other two quit. With a mountain of work on my desk, my boss practically begged me into his office. “Logan, my boy, I’ve always seen that spark in you… a true visionary…” Translation: The title changed, but the paycheck didn’t. On Monday, the Creative Director slammed his hand on the conference table. “The project we’ve been chasing for six months? We finally got a foot in the door. This is our chance to show the Samantha Group what we’re made of!” The office erupted in cheers. I was the only one still stuck in my “eight hundred million” fever dream. “Logan,” the Director said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Your previous project has a lot of overlap with this one. Come to the meeting this afternoon. Just sit by me and take notes.” “Sure, whatever,” I muttered, half-awake. It wasn’t until I sat down in the boardroom that reality hit me like a freight train. The woman sitting across from us was sharp, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, her hair perfectly coiffed. She was stunning. Exactly my type. Wait. Oh, god. No. My internal monologue turned into a chorus of screaming banshees. It was her. My eight-hundred-million-dollar ex. My scalp went numb; my limbs turned to stone. I ducked my head immediately, pretending to be fascinated by a stack of blank A4 paper. “Logan?” The Director nudged me with his elbow, causing my pen to clatter to the floor. As I bent down to grab it, my line of sight hit Michelle’s heels. Designer. Polished. They looked expensive. They looked like they cost more than my car. I straightened up and locked eyes with her. Her expression shifted from shock to amusement in a heartbeat. Crap. She saw me. I looked back down, flipping through papers so fast they sounded like a deck of cards. “Do you have Parkinson’s?” the Director whispered, leaning in. I lost my filter. My voice came out way louder than intended. “I’m just… a little overwhelmed by how beautiful our client is.” The silence that followed was absolute. Michelle’s face froze, a visible flush creeping up her neck. She took a sip of her tea, set it down, and then took another sip. Her hand went to the silk scarf at her throat, adjusting it nervously. The Director looked like he wanted to murder me, but he forced a smile to save the meeting. “Ms. Samantha, please excuse Logan. He’s our Project Lead, but he’s young. If he’s overstepped, I apologize on his behalf.” I offered a weak, “I’m a professional” smile. Michelle set her cup down, her eyes scanning me with a predatory sort of playfulness. She tilted her head. “It’s fine,” she said softly. “I understand.” You don’t understand anything! I screamed internally. “Young people,” she added, twisting the knife, “often have… unpredictable thought processes.” My smile felt like it was carved out of wood. She was definitely mocking me. The Director wiped sweat from his brow. “Exactly! Some young people… certain ones… are very… unconventional thinkers.” Seeing Michelle didn’t object, he decided to double down on throwing me under the bus. “Logan is usually so diligent. It’s just that he’s… reactive to beauty.” He paused, then added, “Actually, it’s rare for him. We had a gorgeous intern last month, and he didn’t even blink. I thought he’d gone monk on us, but he just said, ‘Is she pretty? I think she’s mid.’” I never said that! Michelle’s expression remained calm, but her eyes sharpened. “Is that so? I wonder how many women have actually managed to meet Mr. Wilder’s standards.” A cold draft seemed to blow through the room. I shivered. The Director went quiet, and I didn’t dare speak. Michelle continued as if she were analyzing a spreadsheet. “I imagine he’s the type to call a woman ‘baby’ constantly, right? Someone who chats about things he’d be too embarrassed to admit in public?” My face went from red to purple. I suddenly remembered the three months of messages I’d sent her—the kind of stuff that makes you want to fake your own death. “Baby, I miss you. Don’t you want to be in my arms right now?” “Baby, did you wear those matching pajamas I bought you? Send a picture so I can drool over you.” I couldn’t breathe. The shame was physical. 4. The Director looked at her, then at me, his eyes lighting up with a sudden, terrifying realization. “Logan… have you and Ms. Samantha met before?” “What makes you think that?” I snapped at Michelle, my face still burning. Michelle glared back. “No misunderstanding. I was just curious. Does Mr. Wilder usually call his business partners ‘baby’?” She wasn’t stopping. “Or does he buy pajamas for his contractors? Does he ask them if they’re free for a late-night ‘private viewing’?” I felt like I was being boiled alive. I couldn’t say a word. I just gripped my pen until my knuckles turned white. The Director’s eyes darted between us. He let out a nervous, knowing chuckle. “Well, you know… kids these days…” Michelle picked up her tea, her gaze darkening. “And then there’s the reliability issue. Some men promise to show you ‘something special’ at midnight, and then they fall asleep while you’re sitting there waiting.” The Director nearly dropped his cup. He looked at me with newfound respect—and horror. “And when they want to apologize,” she continued, her eyes locked on mine, “they offer ‘private photos.’ I’m still not quite sure what that entails.” The Director choked on his water, coughing into a napkin. He looked at me as if to say, What exactly did you do to this billionaire? “Then, to make up for it, they send an eight-dollar Venmo for coffee and ask to see your abs. Apparently, his rate is one dollar per muscle?” The Director was speechless now. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Michelle stared at me, her voice dropping to a cool, detached tone. “Tell me, what kind of man does that? And then, instead of apologizing like a man, he just… cuts all ties. Cowardly, don’t you think?” I couldn’t look at her. She let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Pathetic, really.” The Director, sensing the meeting was about to go up in flames, tried to pivot back to the pitch. Michelle flipped through our proposal carelessly and pushed it back across the table. “I’m not impressed. If your firm can’t produce something better than this, the Samantha Group won’t be moving forward.” With that, she stood up and walked out. 5. The door clicked shut. The silence in the boardroom was absolute for exactly three seconds. The Director slowly turned to me. “Logan,” he said, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and terror. “Be honest with me. Did you dump Michelle Samantha?” My hand shook. “I… it wasn’t…” I thought back to the police station. I remembered the feeling of my ego shattering as that Maserati sped away. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I guess I did.” I had broken up with her right after the cops let us go. I shouted, “We’re done, you liar!” and she had just stood there, her face turning pale before she slammed the car door and left me in a cloud of expensive exhaust. I gave the Director a truncated version of the story. His mouth formed a perfect ‘O.’ “So, let me get this straight,” he said. “You thought you were the rich guy taking care of a ‘poor’ girl. Then you found out she’s a billionaire while you’re on a rental bike, your pride couldn’t take the hit, so you threw a tantrum and dumped her?” “Can you… not summarize it so accurately?” “Holy shit,” the Director whispered. “You actually did it.” I hid my face in my hands. He looked at me with a strange, manic glint in his eyes. “Logan, my boy… you have balls of steel. To try and ‘sponsor’ a girl on a thirty-eight-thousand-dollar salary? If I had half your confidence, I’d be on my eighth marriage by now.” “She wasn’t a ‘job’…” “You called her ‘baby’! You bought her pajamas! You tried to buy a look at her abs for eight bucks!” I had no defense. Suddenly, he gripped my shoulders. “Logan, the future of this company is in your hands.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “Think about it! She’s clearly still pissed, which means she still cares. If you can just… get back in her good graces…” “No. Absolutely not.” “I’m not saying you have to marry her. Just… temporarily…” “No way.” Seeing I wasn’t budging, he shifted into ‘corrupt businessman’ mode. “Logan, if you land this contract, I’ll give you a three-thousand-dollar monthly raise. Effective immediately.” My eyes widened. “Fine. I’ll do it.” 6. I spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how to “fix” a relationship with a woman who had more money than some small countries. The Director kept hovering. “Don’t just sit there. You have her number, right? Unblock her and ask for her ‘input’ on the proposal.” I figured he had a point. I pulled her out of my blocked list, but instead of using my personal cell, I used the company’s official business account to send a friend request on the messaging app. The Director face-palmed. He opened his mouth to say something, but just sighed and walked away. I sent the request. Nothing. I sent it again. And again. By the eighth time, my phone started buzzing. Unknown number. I declined. It rang again. I declined. It rang a third time. I snapped. “Hello? Who is this?” The voice on the other end was much angrier than mine. “Logan Wilder, what the hell is wrong with you?” That voice. I’d know it anywhere. “Michelle?” “Why are you adding me from a business account?” she hissed. “I… I wanted to keep it professional,” I stammered. “Church and state, you know?” Silence for three seconds. Then, a cold, sharp laugh. “Professional? What company sends eight consecutive friend requests to a CEO? You think this is a game?” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. I’d forgotten I wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. “Logan, do you think I’m just some pushover?” “No! Look… I’ll add you on my personal account, okay?” “Don’t bother!” she snapped. “I don’t take back exes. I have standards.” “I’m being serious here, Michelle.” “Your ‘seriousness’ has a very short shelf life,” she retorted. “But fine. Since you want to be ‘professional,’ let’s do this by the book.” I felt a spark of hope. “Okay. I’m listening.” “First,” she said, her voice dropping into a business-like monotone, “I waited until midnight to see that ‘special something’ you promised months ago. I want an explanation. In writing.” “…” “Second, about those ‘private photos.’ I want a full disclosure of your intent.” “…” “Third, the abs. We need to establish a formal inspection standard if you’re going to be making valuations.” “…” “Once those three points are addressed and implemented, we can discuss the contract. Clear?” I swallowed hard. “Michelle, is this really ‘professional’?” “Absolutely,” she said firmly. “I’m just clearing up outstanding liabilities from a previous engagement.” The line went dead.

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Standing on that familiar street corner for the third time, the fog finally lifted. The marriage contract—that piece of paper I’d treated like a holy relic—was worthless. Ewan was right about that. But what he never understood was that those four words of his, tossed out like spare change, had cost me two separate lifetimes of youth. The same “chance” encounters. The same blurred lines and late-night invitations. I was foolish enough to say yes twice. He used to praise me for being “sensible,” for my “grace,” and my “boundless patience.” Then he’d turn around and use those very virtues as a blade to gut every promise he ever made. “A title is just a piece of paper,” he told me—twice. And both times, I walked away with nothing, not even a fake identity to cling to. I realized too late that some forms of tenderness aren’t a sanctuary; they’re just the knife you sharpen for your own throat. 1 By the third time I “accidentally” ran into Ewan, I was nearly thirty. In the eyes of the world, that’s the age where you’re supposed to stop being reckless. You’re supposed to have figured out that fire burns. And yet, there I was, thirty years old, standing on the edge of the Pacific, watching the tide come in. It wasn’t raining. The sun was mild, filtered through a haze of gray clouds, but I still held my umbrella up like a shield. Ewan stood beside me, draped in a cashmere overcoat that cost more than most people’s cars. “So, you actually came,” he said. I didn’t answer. I just watched the water. The setting sun hit the waves, turning the ocean into a sheet of hammered gold, shimmering and restless. A breeze kicked up, and I caught his scent. Spring Embers. It was the fragrance I had custom-blended for him years ago. I hadn’t expected him to still be wearing it. I felt a ghost of a tremor in my hands as he continued, “Does this mean what I think it means?” Does it? I didn’t know. I just remembered two years ago, when I’d burned our world down in a fit of rage and left him for the second time. Ewan had just caught my wrist, his expression maddeningly calm, and tucked a stray hair behind my ear with a smile. “When the regret hits you, go back to where we first met,” he’d whispered. “I’ll be there to pick you up.” Back then, I thought that was love. I thought it was his way of saying he’d always wait for me. Now, I saw the truth. He didn’t care why I screamed, and he didn’t care why I left. He just wanted to witness my eventual surrender. He was addicted to the sight of me regretting my independence because he was certain I couldn’t survive without him. When I didn’t offer an answer, he didn’t push. He never did. He just said, “Walk with me.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He just started walking. I watched his silhouette for a moment, then looked at the sun dipping below the horizon. Then, I followed. I did regret leaving. But not for the reasons he thought. I regretted leaving because, when I walked away, I hadn’t taken a single cent of what he owed me. 2 I went back to him. Still no ring, no title, no “Mrs.” At first, the novelty of the reunion gave him a high. He took me everywhere. He introduced me to his inner circle as “the one he was going to spend his life with.” Everyone laughed. I laughed, too. Later that night, I stepped out to use the restroom, and as I walked back toward the private lounge, I heard the muffled voices of his friends through the heavy oak door. “So, is the king finally retiring his jersey? I don’t buy it,” someone joked. Ewan let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Give me a break. I’ve cycled through enough of them to know that Jo is just… easier. She’s intuitive. She’s smart. She knows what I need before I even have to say it.” There was a pause, the sound of a lighter clicking. “If I actually have to get married one day, she’s the logical choice. Even if her little tantrums are getting a bit exhausting.” See? There’s no such thing as a reformed playboy. There’s just a tired runner looking for a place to sit down. The room went quiet for a beat before another friend spoke up. “I’ll put money on it. Ewan won’t last a month this time.” Suddenly, the room turned into a sportsbook. One month. One week. Six months. Ewan told them all to go to hell, but he didn’t stop them. He even threw a stack of bills on the table himself. “One year,” he declared. I felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest. I couldn’t help it. The door opened, and a server nearly bumped into me. “Oh! Ma’am, are you going in?” The room went dead silent. I pushed the door open and scanned the faces of the men sitting there. They were looking at me with that pathetic kind of pity, waiting for the explosion, waiting for me to scream at Ewan and make a scene. Instead, I walked straight to the table. I took the black card Ewan had given me as a “welcome home” gift and tossed it onto the pile of cash. “I’ll bet two weeks,” I said. A playboy might never change his spots, but a dog will always return to his vomit. It’s the law of nature. The shock in the room was palpable. Ewan sat there, his face darkening into a mask of cold confusion. I leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look so serious, darling,” I whispered. “We’re all just having a bit of fun, aren’t we?” His brow furrowed. I knew exactly why he was unsettled. I was using his own lines on him. Whenever I used to get upset about the rotating cast of women in his life, he’d kiss me just like that and tell me not to be so sensitive—that it was all just a joke. Now, I had learned the script. It’s hard work making a living off a man like him, and it’s even harder to swallow the pride that comes with it. But as long as the lights are off and the checks clear, you can learn to tolerate almost anything. Ewan wasn’t happy, though. That night, he wrapped his arms around me from behind in the dark. “You don’t believe a word I say anymore, do you? Jo, this time… it’s real.” I didn’t tell him if I believed him or not. I just turned in his arms and kissed him again. “I know.” There are a lot of ways to “spend a life” with someone. Being a quiet ghost in his bed was just one of them. 3 I lost the bet. Ewan lasted two weeks. He actually lasted six months. For half a year, he was a saint. No late nights, no mysterious “business dinners,” no perfume on his collar that wasn’t mine. People started whispering that the lion had finally been tamed. They told me I was lucky, that I’d hit the jackpot by catching him at the right time. Lucky? I didn’t think so. Sure enough, in the seventh month, Ewan came back from a business trip with a girl in tow. A recent college grad. “This is Penny. She’s a new intern. Find a place for her,” he said, avoiding my eyes as he spoke. I looked at her. She was young, vibrant, and had that specific look in her eyes—the look of someone who thinks she’s the first person to ever discover fire. I saw my own ghost in her. “Which department, Ewan?” I asked. He finally looked at me. We stared at each other for a long, heavy moment. The silence grew so awkward that even Penny started to fidget. “Wherever you think is best,” Ewan snapped, then turned and walked away. Wherever I think? Right. I turned to Penny. She was beaming at me with that dangerous kind of innocence. “He told me he wanted me to work directly under him,” she said. I nodded. Her fate was already decided. Why he felt the need to go through the charade of asking me was almost funny. 4 I gave the King what he wanted. I placed the intern right in his shadow. That evening, when he got home, he pulled me into a hug. “Are you jealous?” I looked down at the pot of soup I was stirring, shaking my head slowly. “No.” And I meant it. I’d seen this movie before. I knew the ending. But Ewan didn’t like my composure. He wanted the fire. He wanted the fight. “Don’t be jealous,” he murmured, trying to soothe me. “There’s nothing going on. I just saw potential in her at the branch office and brought her back. You know I have a weakness for talent. Don’t make things difficult for her just to spite me, okay?” I listened to him, and the irony was almost too much to bear. This wasn’t a comfort; it was a warning. But I couldn’t blame him for being cautious. I had a history, after all. I’d once made life a living hell for an assistant I thought was crossing the line. I understood his fear. I turned around, draped my arms around his neck, and kissed the tip of his nose. “I won’t. I promise.” Ewan didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe—crossing his eyes. I ignored it and smoothed his lapels. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up.” He didn’t move immediately. He stood in the kitchen doorway for a minute or two, watching me with a look of deep suspicion. It was as if he was searching for the “old” me, the one who would have shattered the soup tureen over his head. When he finally left, I caught my reflection in the dark kitchen window. I was smiling perfectly. Ewan didn’t realize that the bet—the one about when he’d get bored of me—had never actually ended. But this time, I wasn’t betting on him failing. I was betting on him staying. When you can’t get love, you might as well get equity. He kept telling me there was nothing with Penny, but soon he was leaving me behind to take her on trips and to gala dinners. He gave her the best team, personally coached her on her first deals. Anything she wanted, Ewan handed to her on a silver platter. Including a major contract I had spent two weeks of overtime securing. In his office, Ewan stood with his back to me. “The Henderson account is ready for signing, right?” “Yes,” I said. “Package the files. Give them to Penny to handle the closing.” “Penny is an assistant,” I said, glancing at her. She was standing by his desk, giving me that wide-eyed, “innocent” smile. “Since when do assistants close six-figure deals?” Ewan still wouldn’t look at me. “That’s not your concern. Just get the files to her. Now.” He paused, finally turning around. “Jo, you’re a senior lead. Mentoring new talent is part of your—” I cut him off with a soft nod. “Fine. The files are ready. She can come to my office and pick them up.” Now it was Ewan’s turn to be stunned. He looked at me, searching for the crack in the armor. “Is that it?” I smiled. “What else would there be?” He looked away, muttering, “Nothing.” As I left the office, Penny scurried after me. Once we were out of his earshot, she skipped up to walk beside me. “I’m so sorry, Jo. Truly. Ewan says I need the ‘experience,’ and he insisted I take this client. I really didn’t have a choice.” She was practically glowing. I kept my voice polite. “It’s fine.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a sugary whisper. “You’re actually dying inside, aren’t you?” I stopped walking and looked at her. The innocence was gone. Her face was twisted into a smirk. “Why do you keep up the act, Jo? Everyone knows how you got to where you are. We’re the same, you and I. But you should probably face facts: you can’t compete with me. I’m young. You’re… well, you’re past your expiration date.” If thirty was expired, Ewan belonged in a museum. I laughed softly. “You’re right. I can’t compete with a girl who has to steal her wins because she doesn’t have the talent to earn them. Good luck, you useless little brat.” The color drained from her face. When she snatched the files from my hand, the smugness was gone. I wasn’t angry. Stealing a contract is easy. Managing a client like Henderson? That takes actual skill. Sure enough, forty-eight hours later, the explosion happened. Henderson pulled the account and issued a formal statement: they would never work with Ewan’s firm again. Penny was hysterical in Ewan’s office. “I… I didn’t know he was so sensitive about the materials! I was just trying to save the company money! I didn’t think he’d care about a minor substitution… Jo’s files didn’t say anything about it!” She had tried to swap out high-grade raw materials for cheap alternatives to pad the margins. In the world of luxury manufacturing, that’s the ultimate sin. And she had the nerve to call it “saving money.” I watched her cry and had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. “The notes were in the file, Penny,” I said calmly. “Page ten, point six. ‘Never substitute grade.’ Should I have used a highlighter? Or maybe a larger font?” Penny wailed harder. Youth is a weapon, and tears are its ammunition. Ewan immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. “That’s enough!” he barked. “Snide remarks aren’t helping anyone right now!” He looked at me with a coldness that would have frozen my blood a year ago. “I don’t care how you do it, Jo. Fix this. Get Henderson back.” In the old days, I would have thrown my badge at him. Now, I just nodded. “Understood.” 5 Ewan didn’t get home until 9:00 PM that night. He handed me a small velvet box. Inside was a pair of diamond studs. It was his version of an olive branch—and a warning. It was him telling me to take the bribe and shut up. I took them, glanced at them, and set the box on the entryway table. “You don’t like them?” he asked, his voice tight. I gave him a bored smile. “They’re fine.” Ewan frowned. “Then why aren’t you wearing them?” “Oh, I don’t really wear ‘bonus’ gifts.” “They aren’t a bonus—” I pulled out my phone and pulled up a text thread from Penny. I held it out so he could see. “Penny told me they were a ‘gift with purchase,’” I said. “She said I was so ‘affordable’ that I only deserved the freebies.” The screen showed a photo Penny had sent me of a high-end necklace Ewan had bought her. The caption read: Ewan bought me this, and he got something for you too, Jo! But it’s just the free gift they give to big spenders. He told me you’re so cheap, you wouldn’t know the difference anyway. Ewan’s face went pale, then a mottled red. He opened his mouth to defend himself, then closed it. He looked at me, his voice a low rasp. “And you’re not angry?” I looked up at him, tilting my head. “Why would I be? You’re both right. I am cheap. I mean, look at me. I came back to you for absolutely nothing. I’d say that’s a pretty low price tag.” “Stop smiling!” Ewan suddenly roared, his composure snapping. “How can you sit there and smile while people call you cheap?” My smile didn’t waver. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re the one who started saying it first.” Ewan had no comeback for that. He stared at me for a long beat, then turned around and slammed the door as he walked out. Really, I don’t know what he was so worked up about. I wasn’t even mad. 6 Ewan didn’t come home for days. His phone stayed silent. No texts, no “where are you” calls. In the past, if he vanished for twenty-four hours, I would have blown up his phone. This time, I didn’t send a single message. I went about my life as if he didn’t exist.

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On my twentieth birthday, my supposed best friend gave me a bottle of perfume. She was notoriously cheap, so seeing her hand over a designer bottle with a price tag that required a payment plan took me by surprise. I was just about to spritz it on my wrists when a stream of glowing, scrolling text suddenly materialized in the air before my eyes, like a glitch in the universe. The floating text said this was a magic perfume. It said my best friend wanted to use it to swap bodies with me, to steal my life, and to get her hands on my incredibly wealthy boyfriend. I read the words hovering in the air. Then, I turned the nozzle toward myself and sprayed it. Hard. Three times. Another line of text drifted past my vision, warning me that according to the “rules,” all it took was another spray of the perfume to swap us back. No big deal, the text noted. Is that right? I thought. I immediately pivoted on my heel, walked into the bathroom, unscrewed the cap, and dumped the rest of the expensive liquid straight down the toilet. I flushed twice for good measure. 1. Earlier that day, my best friend, Tara Foster, had been standing outside my off-campus apartment, clutching a gift bag. We had gotten into a screaming match a few days prior, and the ice hadn’t thawed. My dad had been rushed to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy, and my family had called me three or four times demanding I go see him. I didn’t go. Not once. When Tara found out, she cornered me in front of everyone at our university’s art studio. She pointed her finger right in my face and called me an ungrateful bitch. She said if she had parents like mine, she’d give them the world. She called me cold-blooded. Spoiled. It had been a month since we last spoke. I genuinely didn’t expect her to remember my birthday, let alone show up to keep me company. In an instant, the bad blood seemed to evaporate. I dragged her to the most expensive omakase spot downtown, ordering all the premium sashimi she always drooled over but could never justify buying. Across the table, she slid a gift box stamped with a high-end designer logo toward me. Her voice was uncharacteristically tight. “Happy birthday, Mia. This… this is for you.” I opened it. It was a perfume I had owned before. The scent was cloying, sickly sweet—definitely not my vibe—but the price tag was absurd. My heart softened. For a girl who counted every penny, she must have skipped lunches for months to afford this. Tara came from a single-parent household. Her dad died in a car crash when she was in high school, and her mom had taken every cent of the settlement money and given it to Tara’s older brother, David, to study at Cornell. Her mom worked as a cashier at a grocery store, a tough life that made her hardened and bitter. Tara complained constantly that her mother would fight a vendor over a bruised apple and that she only had eyes for her golden-boy son, leaving Tara to fend for herself. I saw how hard her life was. I really did. “This is too much. You should return it,” I said, pushing the box back. “Just get me a card or something. I love whatever you get me.” She slammed her hand over mine, her tone suddenly frantic. “No! I bought it specifically for you. Try it. Just put it on, I swear you’ll love it.” As I hesitated, a line of glowing text floated across my line of sight: [Oh my god, is this another bleeding-heart protagonist? Getting sold out and still thanking the person doing it…] Excuse me? While I sat frozen, Tara aggressively tore the cellophane off the box, yanked the bottle out, and shoved it into my palm. A bizarre, manic excitement danced in her eyes. “Can’t return it now! Try it on!” Was I imagining things? She was looking at me the way a starving dog looks at a bone. And why was she so violently insistent that I use this exact perfume? Thinking back to that floating text, my thumb hovered over the atomizer. It froze. More text materialized: [No, no, no, don’t do it! It’s a body-swap perfume! She wants to steal your trust fund life and sleep with your billionaire boyfriend…] I knew Tara had a thing for my boyfriend, Norton. Norton was the textbook definition of an East Coast elite catch. Handsome, ridiculously wealthy, and lavish with his gifts. My closets were practically bursting with designer bags he’d bought me. When he saw I was running out of space, he leased me a luxury penthouse downtown, casually mentioning it was “better for storage.” On the day I moved in, Tara stood in the center of the marble foyer, her voice dripping with acid. “God, Mia. You have the best life.” A few days later, Norton and I got into a massive fight. Without even asking what happened, Tara took his side. She called me dramatic. She loudly proclaimed that if she were his girlfriend, she would never treat him like that, and that I didn’t know how lucky I was. Well then… let her have my luck. I pressed the nozzle down. Once. Twice. Three times. The corners of Tara’s mouth twitched upward into a grotesque, triumphant smile. Her breathing hitched with excitement. [Ahhh! The evil best friend won! Oh my god, the MC is about to get dragged into the trenches…] Another line drifted past: [Chill out! Didn’t you read the lore? She just has to spray it again later and they swap back. It’s fine…] Ah. I see. Thanks for the tip. I made an excuse to use the restaurant bathroom, poured the entire bottle into the toilet, and flushed my old life away. 2. When I woke up, I was staring at a popcorn ceiling. I was lying in a cramped, twin-sized bed. The room was tiny and cluttered. Sketchbooks were piled haphazardly on a chipped desk; an easel and cheap acrylic paints littered the floor. I instinctively raised my hand to rub my eyes. What came into focus was a pair of slender but heavily calloused hands. The skin was a healthy, sun-baked olive, and there was a distinct, reddish birthmark on the index finger. Tara’s hands. My heart hammered against my ribs. I threw the covers off and lunged for the cheap mirror pinned to the back of the door. The girl staring back at me had a warm, olive complexion, though her hair was dry and brittle from an obvious lack of nutrition. She was painfully thin, but her eyes—they were striking. Brilliant and alive. I… I was Tara Foster. Staring at my new reflection, a genuine, bubbling laugh escaped my throat. I smiled, revealing a pair of slightly crooked, cute front teeth. The glowing text flashed in the mirror: [Poor MC. She can never go back. Trapped in a life of poverty forever…] [She’s literally an idiot. Even if she didn’t like the scent, why did she pour it down the toilet?!] [Exactly. She’s gonna be crying herself to sleep when reality hits.] A cheap, older-model smartphone chimed on the nightstand. I picked up Tara’s phone. There was a text message from “Mia Smith”—my old name, my old phone. Don’t even try it, the text read. No one is going to believe you about a soul swap. If you dare open your mouth and spout some crazy bullshit, I’ll use the Smith family’s connections to have you committed to a psych ward. I read it, tapped the screen, deleted the thread, and blocked the number. The text feed in the air went wild: [Holy shit! This girl is 100 pounds, and 90 pounds of it is pure spite!] [Am I the only one who thinks she’s being way too calm?] [She’s probably in shock! Dropping from heaven straight to hell would break anyone’s brain…] Hell? I just crawled my way out of it. The phone chimed again. A text from “Mom.” This would be Tara’s mother. No. As of today, my mother. The message was simple: Tara, there’s whole-wheat bread and low-fat milk in the fridge. Make sure you eat before class. I read online that whole wheat doesn’t make you gain weight, so please don’t secretly starve yourself again. The nagging was laced with a deep, tangible anxiety. It didn’t sound at all like the “toxic, son-obsessed monster” Tara had always complained about. I opened the bedroom door and took in the apartment. It was an older walk-up building. The paint on the walls was chipping in places, and the furniture looked like it was from a thrift store a decade ago, but the place was spotless. Not a speck of dust. Out on the tiny balcony, several potted pothos plants thrived. The morning sun spilled through the glass doors, painting the worn carpet in a wash of gold. It was incredibly warm. It felt like a home. I walked over to the humming refrigerator, opened it, and found exactly what the text promised. I ate my breakfast in absolute contentment, packed up Tara’s art supplies, and headed out. At this moment, I was profoundly grateful that when I paid my own tuition for the university’s private sketching seminar last week, I had casually paid Tara’s fee too. At least I had a solid semester of art classes secured. The floating text buzzed: [She’s heading to the studio! She’s definitely going to corner the fake friend and demand her body back…] [Too late for that. Who wouldn’t want to keep that supermodel body and rich life?] Um… thanks for the compliment, I guess. As I walked down the street toward campus, a cherry-red Ferrari tore down the asphalt. A second later, the tires screeched, and the car aggressively swerved to block my path. “What the hell are you doing here?!” a voice snapped. It was a voice I knew intimately, yet it sounded entirely foreign. I turned my head and was instantly blinded by the girl in the driver’s seat. It was a delicate, heart-shaped face. Features sculpted to absolute perfection. Sleek, meticulously styled raven-black hair. It was a stunning face. But paired with the heavy, garish makeup smeared across it, it looked incredibly cheap. It was my face. 3. This was the first time I had ever looked at myself from an outsider’s perspective. I had to admit, the face was breathtaking, even if the eyes staring back at me were currently burning with malice. I took a few seconds to silently appreciate my own bone structure, then pulled my gaze away, expression totally blank, and kept walking. Tara wasn’t going to let it go. She put the Ferrari in drive and crept along the curb, keeping pace with me. She rolled down the passenger window, her voice dripping with gloating venom. “Mia Smith, your life really was a joke of privilege. A Ferrari just for turning twenty? Well, guess what? It’s all mine now. Oh, and your parents? They called me like four times yesterday. So worried about me. Wired me a ton of cash, terrified I might suffer even the slightest inconvenience…” The feed: [Ugh! The MC messed up so bad. Without the perfume, she can never go back.] [Thank god Tara doesn’t know she flushed it. She’s clearly a little scared Mia knows a loophole to swap back. If she knew the truth, she’d destroy Mia…] I ignored her completely and kept walking until I reached the art building. Tara and I had met in a summer prep class for this very program five years ago, back in high school. I was naturally quiet. I liked peace. She was a live wire. After every class, she’d gravitate toward me, talking my ear off, dragging me to lunch, to the mall, to the movies. Sometimes female friendship is just that simple. You do the holy trinity of hanging out—eating, shopping, watching movies—and suddenly you’re “best friends.” But I always knew she was difficult. I would buy her beautiful dresses, and she would leave them crumpled in a corner, claiming I was flaunting my wealth to humiliate her. I’d treat her to Michelin-starred dinners, and she’d accuse me of trying to make her fat so I’d look better by comparison. I knew that until the dust fully settled, she wouldn’t leave me alone. Luckily, Norton arrived. And he brought a wildly ostentatious spectacle with him. His household staff rolled up in a catering van. They hauled out designer bistro tables, fine china, and massive floral arrangements, spending half an hour transforming the overgrown, neglected courtyard outside the art studio into a high-end Parisian café. Professional pastry chefs and baristas set up stations. The smell of fresh espresso and butter croissants filled the air. My classmates poured out of the studio, their eyes wide with envy, swarming “Mia” with breathless compliments. “Oh my god, Mia, your boyfriend is insane!” “He is literally perfect. Rich, obsessed with you… I’m so jealous!” “You guys are like royalty. You belong together.” Every fawning comment acted like oxygen to Tara’s ego. She laughed, tossing her hair, leaning into Norton’s side with practiced, coy shyness. “I really am the luckiest girl in the world.” I stood on the fringe of the crowd. I wasn’t about to miss out on free food. I grabbed a slice of tiramisu and an iced coconut milk latte. Halfway through my cake, I felt a heavy gaze pinning me down. I looked up. Norton was staring directly at me through the crowd. Was I overthinking it? Why did the look in his eyes feel so… strange? The text feed exploded: [Did the male lead figure it out?!] [Yes! Go MC, go! Tell him you’re the real Mia! Omg I’m dying of anxiety…] 4. Tara seemed to notice Norton’s distraction. The smug smile froze on her face. She immediately put on an act of sisterly affection and marched over to me. Dropping her voice to a vicious hiss, she warned, “Back the hell off, Tara. Stay away from Norton. He’s my boyfriend now…” I ignored her, finished my latte, and turned to head home. I hadn’t taken two steps before Norton’s arm shot out, blocking my path. His expression was glacial. The doting, perfect boyfriend from two minutes ago had vanished entirely. The feed: [Oh my god! The male lead is coming through! He totally knows! True love sees the soul, not the face…] [I’m crying. The MC flushed the perfume because she trusted he would recognize her spirit…] My stomach dropped. Wait. Did he actually figure it out? “Tara,” Norton said, his voice dripping with disgust. “I’ve told you a hundred times. I don’t want you. I only love Mia. Stop sending me those pathetic, desperate texts. Your little schemes are as repulsive as you are.” He kept talking, tearing her down with a barrage of insults. I stood there, completely stunned. I had no idea Tara had been secretly messaging Norton. It suddenly made sense why Norton would casually drop hints, telling me not to get too close to her, saying she had ulterior motives. Right on cue, “Mia” rushed over. Her eyes were red, her voice thick with fake tears. “Tara… I am so disappointed in you. I considered you my sister. I can’t believe you were trying to steal my boyfriend behind my back. How could you do this to me?” The courtyard erupted. The murmurs turned into a loud, vicious chorus. “Wow, I can’t believe Tara is like that! Mia paid her tuition, bought her clothes, fed her, and she tries to steal her man?” “Seriously! Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. She’s so basic-looking, too. The audacity!” “What a literal parasite.” The feed: [Wait, isn’t this supposed to be a satisfying revenge plot? The MC is getting slaughtered out here…] [Why won’t she just open her mouth?! Speak! Tell him you’re Mia! He’ll protect you!] I looked at the circus unfolding in front of me. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped my lips. I decided to just play along with her script. “My bad. Sent those to the wrong number. Sorry for the drama, won’t happen again.” I just wanted to get away from them. I needed to be as far from this toxic wasteland as possible. They weren’t worth a second of my time. I hitched my bag onto my shoulder and started walking away. As I turned, I saw “Mia” holding up a white dress. She looked thrilled, throwing her arms around Norton’s neck, kissing him deeply in front of everyone. A white dress. My breath caught in my throat. The blood in my veins turned to ice. A violent wave of nausea hit my stomach, rising up my throat. I couldn’t hold it back. I dropped to my knees by the brick wall and violently threw up everything I had just eaten. Trembling, I braced my hand against the rough brick and slowly pulled myself up. I just needed to go home. Behind me, Tara’s exaggerated, theatrical laugh echoed across the courtyard. “I love you so much! Norton, how does a man as perfect as you exist? I feel so lucky. This is literally heaven…” Yeah, right. You just checked into hell. 5. I pushed open the door to the apartment, and the rich, savory smell of home-cooked food washed over me. I followed the scent to the tiny kitchen. A young man with thick, black-rimmed glasses was standing at the stove, stirring a pan. David. I had seen photos of him before. Tara used to scroll through her camera roll and point him out, sneering about her “deadbeat, cold-blooded” older brother. The feed flickered: [Wait, isn’t he supposed to be studying in the US? Why is he back?] [Flights are so expensive. Typical deadbeat son, blowing his dead dad’s money and abandoning his mom and sister.] Tara had complained about him relentlessly. She said she and her mom lived in poverty, saving every dime to send him to the States. She claimed he was ungrateful, that he treated them like burdens, that he was always irritated on the phone and never once asked how they were doing. I had always pictured a lazy, entitled frat bro draining his family dry. But the David standing in front of me was entirely different. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he had a grounded, quiet strength about him. He moved around the kitchen with the practiced ease of someone who had cooked for himself for years—not someone pampered and spoiled. He heard my footsteps and glanced over his shoulder. The stern lines of his face softened instantly. “You’re back. Go wash your hands. I made your favorite, tomato beef stew.” “Okay.” I was starving after throwing up. This was perfect. “Mom is still at the grocery store. I packed some up for her for later, so we can eat now,” David said, carrying the dishes to a small folding table. It was a simple, humble meal. Beef stew, sautéed greens, and a bowl of egg drop soup. As we ate, we made idle conversation. I couldn’t help but ask why he was back in the country. David set his chopsticks down, his tone perfectly even. “I’m finishing up my Master’s at Cornell. I flew back because a major biotech firm here flew me out for an interview for a director-level position. Base salary is a million a year, plus equity. I just got the offer this morning. Once I officially graduate, I’m moving back to start.” “Pfft—” I choked, spitting rice into my napkin, coughing violently. “You… you’re that smart? Cornell? A million a year?” “I’m a bio-engineer, Tara. Did you hit your head?” He gave me a look. “But… what about your tuition?” “I’m on a full-ride fellowship. They pay for my tuition and give me a living stipend. Mom was paranoid I’d run into an emergency abroad, so she forced me to take Dad’s settlement money. Honestly, it wasn’t even that much. Twenty grand. I haven’t touched a single cent of it. It’s sitting in a high-yield account. It’s for Mom’s retirement, and for you, if you ever get into trouble.” Wait. An Ivy League education cost easily eighty grand a year. Tara had sworn he took millions from a wrongful death suit and blew it on partying. Twenty grand. A full-ride scholarship. A million-dollar salary out of the gate. He wasn’t a deadbeat; he was a literal prodigy. This was a golden ticket, and I was going to hold onto it with both hands. I looked him dead in the eye, my voice entirely sincere. “David. You are my favorite brother in the world.” “I’m your only brother,” he said drily, scooping a massive spoonful of beef into my bowl. “How have you been? I know you’ve been doing the art thing, but is that what you really want? Do you have other plans?” I put my chopsticks down. A heavy silence fell over me. When I applied to college, I had secretly sent my portfolio to a prestigious art institute. But my parents—the Smiths—had used their connections to hack into the portal and change my major to English Literature. They told me: “A girl should just be a teacher. It’s respectable. It gives you time to manage a household. You need to focus on taking care of Norton so you can marry into his family…” “I want to be a makeup artist,” I said quietly. “I want to help people feel beautiful.” David didn’t say a word. He reached into his messenger bag, pulled out a thick envelope, and slid it across the table. “Do it. Go enroll in a cosmetology school. Getting a trade is a smart move. If you need more money, tell me. Whatever you want to do, I’ve got your back.” My nose stung. The room blurred as tears welled in my eyes. David panicked, awkwardly grabbing a napkin to wipe my face. “You’ve really grown up. A year ago, if Mom or I tried to give you advice, you would have thrown a chair and locked yourself in your room. We were terrified to talk to you. From now on, whatever happens, you tell me. I’m here.” “Thanks, David,” I sniffled, obediently gathering the empty bowls to help him wash up. Just as we finished, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a striking guy standing in the hallway. He was wearing a crisp white button-down. His smile was polite, his demeanor effortless. “Hi. I’m Wesley, David’s friend from grad school. I’m here to give him a ride to the airport.” Hearing his voice, David dragged his suitcase to the door and nodded at Wesley. “Let’s go.” Before stepping out, David turned back to me. “Take care of yourself. Take care of Mom. Call me if anything happens. If you need cash, tell me. Don’t let anyone walk all over you.” I nodded fiercely, my eyes burning again. The feed: [Oh my god, a protective older brother! I want one!] [Don’t be shallow. A little chump change isn’t going to win the MC over. Her real brother, Blake, is actual old money. On her 18th birthday, he rented out a whole five-star resort for her…] My 18th birthday. A phantom weight slammed into my chest, suffocating me. That night… was the absolute worst nightmare of my entire life. The feed kept scrolling: [Exactly. The MC took a massive L here. I can’t even imagine how much fun the fake friend is having right now. Literally winning at life…] Is she? She’s not going to be smiling for long.

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Toby stared into his bourbon glass, his voice thick with a reverence I had rarely heard. “She’s worth it. Daphne is worth it.” His friend pressed him. “And what about Caitlin?” Silence hung in the air for a long, agonizing moment before Toby’s voice returned, noticeably colder. “Caitlin already has the world at her feet. But Daphne… Daphne only has me.” I was standing just outside the door when I heard it. There was a time, years ago, when I swore to myself that if the girl who had silently orchestrated my high school hell ever stepped foot into Hollywood, I would crush her. I would make sure she never booked a single commercial, let alone a film. But reality has a funny way of making a mockery of our vows. Somehow, she always managed to snatch roles right out from under me. They weren’t blockbuster leads, but they were the kind of prestige indie darlings that let her shine. The kind that built a reputation. It wasn’t until much later that I realized who was playing god behind the curtain. It was Toby. My husband was the one building Daphne’s pedestal, brick by agonizingly painful brick. … The after-party for the Academy Awards had barely wrapped up. Toby poured me a glass of Cabernet. “Congratulations, my love. Best Actress.” I slipped my silk shawl off my shoulders, tossing it carelessly over the back of an armchair. I raised my glass, letting the crystal clink sharply against his in the flickering candlelight. “And congratulations to you,” I said, my voice smooth as glass. “For using the scraps from my table to buy your untouchable muse a Best Newcomer award.” Toby froze. The proud smile on his face cracked, stiffening into something ugly. A heavy silence stretched between us until he finally let out a long, exhausted exhale. “So, you know.” “It’s not what you think,” he started, the practiced lie rolling off his tongue. “We were all high school classmates. She’s been having a rough time in the industry lately, and I just pulled a few strings. A minor favor. Don’t overthink it.” I stared at the face I had known for nearly twenty years. In the dim light, he looked like a stranger. “A minor favor that lands her a golden statuette? You must be quite the Hollywood heavyweight now, darling.” He rubbed his temples, a gesture of profound fatigue. His patience for my sarcasm was visibly wearing thin. “Caitlin, please. Can we not do this tonight? Can we not fight? I am so incredibly tired.” Of course he was tired. He had just rushed from the ceremony where he personally escorted Daphne—showering her with orchids and borrowed diamonds, playing the white knight to make her smile. After playing his part in her victory lap, he had raced back to my agency’s event, putting on a spectacular show as the devoted, doting husband for the paparazzi. And now, he was playing chef. Candlelight. Red wine. Filet mignon. The steak on my plate was practically bleeding. The candles cast dancing shadows across the sharp, handsome angles of his jaw. A year ago, I would have thrown my arms around his neck. I would have spun around the kitchen, giddy with the intoxicating high of winning the biggest award of my life. Tonight, all I felt was a rising tide of nausea. He was a fraud. I hadn’t actually planned on bringing this up tonight. It was my night, my victory, and I didn’t want the stench of his infidelity ruining it. But he had served himself up on a silver platter, and to bite my tongue now would just make me look like a fool. “Toby, let’s just end it. Let’s walk away before it gets uglier.” I reached into my clutch and pulled out the divorce papers I had meticulously prepared weeks ago. I slid them across the marble island. “Sign them.” Toby stared at the thick stack of legal documents. The exhaustion on his face finally fractured into genuine shock. “What is this? What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?” I actually laughed. A dry, hollow sound. The thought of leaving him had been a parasite in my brain for years, slowly eating away at my sanity until I finally took the leap. And he thought this was a tantrum. He forced his features into a mask of patronizing calm. “Caitlin, stop it. Like I said, I’m exhausted.” “And whose fault is that? Did I ask you to run yourself ragged?” He flinched. A flicker of unease crossed his eyes. He genuinely thought his little disappearing act to pick up Daphne had gone unnoticed by the press. He had no idea that high-res photos of them looking intimately intertwined in the back of his Maybach had been sitting in my inbox for hours. Price tag: a cool million. Clearly wanting to drop the subject, he picked up his fork and knife. “Just eat your dinner.” Always this. Always the avoidance. Always retreating into cold silence when I was standing on the precipice of a breakdown. I grabbed the edge of the table and shoved. Plates shattered. The Cabernet splashed violently across his crisp white shirt, blooming like a bloodstain. Toby sprang up, his face livid. He lost his iron grip on his temper and roared, “Are you out of your mind?!” “Yes! Yes, I am crazy!” I screamed, the years of suppressed rage finally clawing its way out of my throat. “I lost my mind a long time ago, comparing myself to her, playing this twisted game! So let’s get a divorce. Do us both a favor. I’ll give you to her, and you give me my life back.” I was hysterical. My chest heaved. This was supposed to be the best day of my life. After years of bleeding for this industry, I had finally won the only award that truly mattered. My team had ordered a cake taller than I was. I had been drinking champagne straight from the bottle with my best friends, surrounded by directors and producers who finally saw me as a titan. And it all came crashing down the second Toby walked through the door. Toby scowled, his lip curling in disgust. He grabbed his ruined jacket and headed for the stairs. “You’re hysterical. I’m not talking to you when you’re like this. We’ll deal with your little meltdown tomorrow.” I slumped back, staring at his retreating figure. I stepped over the ruined steak, my heels crunching on broken glass, and picked up the divorce papers. Why was leaving the man who destroyed you always the hardest part? I collapsed onto the living room sofa. This massive, multi-million dollar mansion was as silent as a tomb. The graveyard of our marriage. I pulled out my phone and wired the million dollars to the account the paparazzi had provided. I had a reputation to protect. I couldn’t bear the thought of the internet dissecting my humiliation, mocking the oblivious A-lister whose husband was funding his high school crush. But this was the last time. The absolute last time I was cleaning up his messes. Every cent I had spent keeping their dirty secret out of the tabloids, I was going to bleed out of them. I tossed my phone aside. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Standing on my porch was Daphne. She wore no makeup, and God, she didn’t need it. The barefaced vulnerability only made her look more ethereally beautiful, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, looking desperately fragile yet defiant. She was shivering in a thin, white silk slip dress. She tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at me like a proud swan. “Where is Toby?” I leaned against the doorframe and jerked my thumb toward the second floor. “Taking a shower.” “Can I help you?” Daphne’s face twisted in disgust. “Are you two animals? Is sex all you think about?” She scoffed. “Oh, right. You won an award today. What, is letting him use your body his way of rewarding you? You’re exactly the same as you were in high school, Caitlin. Pathetic. You can’t survive without a man validating you.” Looking at the raw, venomous jealousy burning in her eyes, I couldn’t help it. I smiled. “What’s the matter, Daphne? Jealous? Jealous that I have a thriving, record-breaking career and a husband waiting in my bed?” I tilted my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Does he only sleep with me and not you?” “Shut your mouth, you psycho! Don’t you dare ruin my reputation!” Daphne hissed, her face draining of color. “He and I are strictly professional. I didn’t want him back then, and I don’t want him now. Only a woman like you would treat a charity case from the gutter like he’s a prize.” I couldn’t argue with that. Back in high school, Daphne had made her disdain for Toby abundantly clear. “Get to the point. Why are you here?” Daphne practically threw a cell phone at my chest. I caught it clumsily. “He left his phone at my place. It’s been ringing off the hook, it’s driving me insane,” she snapped. “I couldn’t put it on silent, so I was forced to bring it here.” Of course she couldn’t put it on silent. It was a custom-made phone. Toby had a tech guy disable the silent switch entirely—just so he would never, ever miss a call from Daphne. I had asked him once why he needed a phone that couldn’t be muted. I was a notoriously light sleeper, and the late-night buzzing often triggered my insomnia. His excuse? He said he was terrified of me not being able to reach him in an emergency. It wasn’t until a year later that I learned the truth. Daphne had been tricked by a sleazy producer into going to a “private audition” that was actually a predatory hotel room setup. She had called Toby in a panic, but he hadn’t answered. Because that night was our wedding anniversary. For once, Toby had put his phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ to focus on me. The next morning, Daphne had called him and screamed at him for abandoning her. The sheer terror of almost losing her had completely rewired him. He had the custom phone made the very next week. He even set her ringtone as a blaring emergency alert. I closed the door, gripping the phone and the divorce papers, and walked upstairs. Toby was just stepping out of the bathroom, dressed in fresh sweatpants. I walked right up to him and slammed the divorce papers against his chest. “Sign.” “Are you still doing this?” He was vigorously towel-drying his hair, clearly treating me like a toddler throwing a tantrum. I slammed the papers against the bathroom mirror. I hit it with so much force that a spiderweb of cracks splintered outward from beneath my palm. “I am not stopping until you sign.” Toby narrowed his eyes, truly looking at me for the first time all night. He was calculating, trying to read if I was bluffing. “Caitlin, is this really all over an award?” “Yes. It’s over an award.” He chuckled, a condescending sound of relief. “You’re jealous.” He said it with absolute certainty. I laughed back, matching his tone. “You really think you’re something special, don’t you? Jealous of you? You’re not worth the energy.” I stepped closer, dropping my voice to a lethal whisper. “You are going to sign this right now, and we are going to walk away clean. Because if you don’t, I cannot promise what I’ll do. But I will tell you this: I am the biggest actress in this town right now. Crushing a D-list nobody who survives on my leftovers would be as easy as stepping on an ant. Do we understand each other?” At the mention of Daphne, the arrogant smirk melted off his face. “Don’t you dare touch her. She has nothing to do with this.” “Then sign the damn papers.” “Caitlin.” He ground out my name, his eyes dark with warning. I casually raised my hand, dangling the custom phone in front of his face. “Oh, by the way. Daphne dropped by. She said you left this at her place.” I gave him a mock-sympathetic pout. “You really are a busy man, Toby.” Panic—raw and unadulterated—seized him. He bolted for the stairs. “Where is she?!” “Gone.” I said it lightly, but he reacted like a bomb had gone off. He frantically grabbed the phone, dialing her number over and over. Straight to voicemail. His breathing turned ragged. He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me violently. “How long ago did she leave? Was she alone? How the hell could you let her walk away in the middle of the night? It’s pitch black outside!” He shoved past me, frantically pulling a sweater over his head. I casually dragged a vanity chair over and sat right in the doorway, blocking his exit. “Caitlin, move!” “Sign.” He looked at me like I was a monster. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea what time it is? We live in the hills! The roads are completely unlit. What if something happens to her?!” “I don’t care. Let her get eaten by coyotes for all I care.” I examined my manicure. “Oh, and you’ll be thrilled to know she was wearing a very sheer, very white slip dress. Looked absolutely tragic and breathtaking. I can see why you’ve spent ten years obsessed with her. Did you buy it for her?” Toby’s fists clenched at his sides. The edges of his eyes rimmed with angry red. “You know what, Caitlin? This right here,” he spat, pointing a shaking finger at me. “This cold-blooded, heartless bitch routine. It’s what I hate most about you.” I smiled, though it felt like swallowing glass. If I were truly cold-blooded, I never would have saved him. Toby grew up next door to me. He was the golden boy—wealthy family, stunningly handsome, straight A’s. The textbook definition of perfection. Our families were casual acquaintances, mostly business rivals. We hated each other. From elementary school through junior high, we existed in a state of cold war, ignoring each other even when we were assigned seats at the same desk. Everything shattered the summer we were fourteen. His parents were driving him up the coast. A drunk driver crossed the median. His father died on impact. His mother, shielding Toby with her own body, bled out before the ambulance arrived. Toby walked away with broken ribs and a shattered collarbone, but he lived. After the funeral, the vultures descended. Aunts, uncles, cousins he had never met swarmed the estate, circling the massive inheritance. They dragged a traumatized, grieving fourteen-year-old into back rooms, screaming over trusts and assets. It was my father who finally had his security team throw them all out. I remember walking into his empty, echoing living room. I asked him, “Do you want to come home with me?” Toby just looked at me with hollow, dead eyes. And then, he nodded. My parents were deeply against it at first. Taking in a rival’s teenage son was complicated, legally and socially. But I went on a hunger strike. I refused to eat until I collapsed and was hospitalized with an IV in my arm. My parents finally caved. Toby moved into the guest wing. He became my shadow. I pitied him. I fiercely protected him from anyone who dared whisper about him at school. But boys grow up fast. Somewhere along the line, his shoulders broadened. He shot up past six feet. He didn’t need me to fight his battles anymore. Instead of me walking him to school, he started driving me in his restored vintage Mustang. A subtle, electric shift started happening between us. And then, one day, he packed his bags and moved back into his empty mansion. No warning. No explanation. Whenever he looked at me after that, there was a new guard in his eyes. A profound wariness. I wasn’t heartbroken then. I just assumed the universe was righting itself. We were back to being strangers. Back in the present, Toby’s face was flushed dark crimson with rage. He snatched a pen off my vanity, viciously scrawled his name on the divorce papers, and threw them directly at my face. I didn’t flinch. I just let out a long, shuddering breath, stood up, and moved out of the doorway. The next morning, the sun barely up, I had the locks changed. I hired a premium moving company to come in and strip the house of everything that had his touch. Every piece of furniture we picked out together, every rug, every painting. Thrown out. By noon, the massive house was a cavernous, echoing shell. The only thing left was the cat. We had adopted Bandit together. He was a temperamental, standoffish rescue who adored Toby but hissed and swatted at me if I even breathed too loudly near him. When Toby finally came back, Bandit sensed him before I did. The cat trotted to the front door, meowing frantically. Outside, the electronic keypad beeped loudly. Passcode denied. Fingerprint unrecognized. The beeping turned into aggressive, violent pounding on the heavy oak door. Bandit, terrified by the noise, scattered. When I finally swung the door open, Toby practically fell inside. He stumbled past me, ready to yell, and then froze. “Where is everything?” His voice dropped to a stunned whisper. “Where is our stuff?” His expression morphed from blank shock to boiling fury. I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms. “Dumped.” “Dumped? What the hell gives you the right to throw my things away?” “Because I paid for every single piece of it. That’s what gives me the right.” Toby choked on his words, running his hands frantically through his hair. “What is wrong with you?! What are you trying to prove?!” Before I could answer, a slender figure slipped through the open door, shivering in an oversized men’s blazer. Daphne. She immediately crouched down, her face lighting up. “Oh my god, kitty!” I fully expected Bandit to bolt—he hated strangers. But to my absolute shock, the cat practically purred, rubbing his head aggressively against Daphne’s calves before rolling onto his back, exposing his belly like a desperate sycophant. Daphne looked up at Toby, a rare, genuine smile softening her features. “You actually kept him? Why didn’t you tell me? I was worried sick about him back then.” The sheer aggression in Toby’s posture melted instantly. He looked down at Daphne, his eyes impossibly soft. He opened his mouth to reply, then caught me staring. He shut his mouth, suddenly looking incredibly trapped. “Go ahead,” I prodded, my voice dripping with venom. “Tell her. Tell her how you literally begged me on your knees to adopt this stray.” I turned my gaze to Daphne. “So, this is a little piece of your shared history, huh? God, I am so incredibly stupid. No wonder this feral little beast never let me touch him. He was already spoken for.” Toby’s face drained of color. A month before our wedding, Toby had taken me back to our old high school campus for a nostalgic walk. In a quiet corner by the old bleachers, a scrawny stray kitten had darted out of the bushes. Toby had scooped it up, his eyes entirely too frantic. He begged me to let us keep it. I was severely allergic to cats. I was terrified of them. I tried to say no, but looking at his desperate face, my heart broke. I gave in. I suffered for it. I broke out in agonizing hives. The rashes were so severe I spent weeks scratching until I bled, suffering through countless sleepless nights. He used to stand in the doorway of our bedroom, holding the kitten, looking at me with such profound, tortured guilt. Eventually, my body built up a tolerance, aided by heavy antihistamines and a small army of housekeepers who vacuumed twice a day so not a single hair was left on the rugs. I thought our marriage was solid. I thought we were building a life. And then, Daphne made her grand debut in Hollywood. She had this icy, untouchable aura that instantly set her apart from the cookie-cutter starlets. To seem more “relatable” to her new fans, she went on a late-night talk show and told a touching story about feeding a scrawny stray kitten behind the bleachers in high school. She described the cat perfectly. The torn left ear. The white patch over the eye. It was the exact feral beast that was currently shedding all over my Prada sofa. In that moment watching the broadcast, the world completely tilted on its axis. The memory of Toby finding the cat replayed in my mind like a horror movie. His desperation wasn’t about saving an animal. It was about rescuing the last living piece of Daphne he could find. I was the punchline to a sick joke. I had spent years of my life, compromising my own health, carefully preserving the shrine to his first love. Pathetic. Tragic. Disgusting. Toby lurched forward, instinctively reaching for my arm. “Caitlin, what are you talking about—”

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The three-minute window between life and brain death was bleeding out on the concrete, right outside the elementary school gates. My stepson, Toby, had collapsed. His small body convulsed, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, a sudden and violent asthma attack taking him under. I scrambled out of the car, my fingers white-knuckling the emergency inhaler and epi-pen. But before my feet could fully hit the pavement, a hand twisted into my hair, yanking me backward with enough force to snap my neck. It was Penny. My best friend. “Help! Somebody help!” she shrieked, her voice echoing over the chaotic swarm of parents and children. “She’s a kidnapper! She’s got drugs in her bag! Hold her down!” The crowd’s panic instantly weaponized. A mob of overzealous bystanders swarmed me. A heavy boot slammed into my back, driving me face-first into the damp asphalt. “Take the medicine!” I screamed, my vocal cords tearing. I blindly shoved the small plastic case forward through the forest of legs. “He’s suffocating! Let me go!” But Penny’s designer heel came down hard on my wrist, pinning my hand to the ground. Her eyes were red, welling with perfectly timed tears as she looked up at the horrified crowd. “It’s a crime,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “I can’t… I can’t just stand by and watch her ruin her life. She’s trying to kill him.” A school resource officer was already pushing through the crowd, unholstering his taser. Ten yards away, Toby’s face was turning a horrifying, bruised shade of purple. 1 Black spots danced in my vision from the sheer, suffocating rage. But the dizziness only lasted a second before a blinding pain in my knee snapped me back to reality. An older woman was kneeling entirely on my calf, pinning me. I thrashed violently, my manicured nails scraping against the wet pavement until they broke. “Let me go! He is going to die!” Penny ground her heel deeper into my wrist. Fat, tragic tears spilled over her lashes. “Gemma, stop pretending. That’s not medicine in your bag!” She reached into my spilled purse and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, holding it high like a trophy. “Look!” she yelled to the crowd. “This is a dark-web receipt for cyanide! She told me herself—if she gets rid of her stepson, she gets the entire family trust!” The collective gasp from the parents felt like a physical blow. “What a monster! To do that to a little boy?” “Hold her down! Don’t let her move!” Through the dirt and hair obscuring my eyes, I stared at the paper in Penny’s trembling hand. “That’s not a receipt for poison! It’s a pharmacy invoice!” I spat, tasting copper. “Penny! He calls you Auntie! How can you be this evil?!” Penny sobbed louder, her shoulders shaking. “Gemma, how can you twist this on me? I’m trying to save him!” She spun toward the officer. “Cuff her! Keep her away from the boy!” The officer dropped his knee into my spine, wrapping a thick arm around my throat. My oxygen cut off, but my eyes remained locked on Toby, ten yards out of reach. He was still on the ground. The purple of his skin was fading into an ashen, lifeless gray. His tiny hands, which usually gripped my fingers so tightly, were weakly clawing at the empty air. “Toby…” My voice was a broken rasp. Tears mixed with the grit and rain on my face, sliding into my mouth. “Please,” I begged the boots surrounding me. “Let me give him the medicine. You can lock me up for the rest of my life after, just let me save him!” A man kicked me squarely in the jaw. “Still trying to poison him? Sick bitch.” I spat out a mouthful of blood, the ticking clock in my head screaming at me. There were only two minutes left in the survival window. I crawled forward, dragging the officer’s weight with me like a wounded animal. Penny crouched down, bringing her face inches from mine. Under the guise of checking on me, she whispered, her voice a deadly, calm hiss only I could hear. “Gemma, why do you think your fingerprints are all over that receipt?” A cold shockwave ripped through my chest. I stared at her, the betrayal paralyzing me. “You asked me to hand you that paper from your desk this morning.” A slow, vicious smile spread across Penny’s glossed lips. “Exactly. And I swapped his rescue meds for the real thing. Toby is dead, Gemma. No one can save him now.” Something inside me snapped. The civilized, rational woman I was vanished. I yanked my arm free with a burst of adrenaline and sank my teeth directly into Penny’s calf. She let out a blood-curdling scream, collapsing onto the pavement. “She’s killing me! She’s crazy!” The crowd surged again, fists and feet raining down on my back and ribs. I curled into a ball, shielding the medicine case against my chest, my eyes never leaving Toby. Hold on, baby. Wait for Mommy. Just then, the screech of tires cut through the chaos. A sleek black Maybach slammed to a halt right at the curb. The door flew open, and my husband, Timothy, sprinted out, his eyes wild and bloodshot. 2 “Timothy! Save Toby!” He was my last lifeline. I screamed his name with everything I had left. Timothy shoved through the crowd, his broad shoulders clearing a path instantly. I thought he would drop to his knees for his son, or at least snatch the medicine from my bleeding hands. He didn’t. He walked straight up to me, and his heavy leather shoe caught me brutally in the shoulder. The force sent me rolling through the mud and puddles. “Gemma! What the hell did you do to my son?!” I was stunned. I ignored the excruciating burn in my rotator cuff, scrambling to my knees to hold up the plastic case. “Timothy, give him the shot! His asthma—” Penny threw herself at Timothy, wrapping her arms around his legs, weeping hysterically. “Timothy, don’t listen to her! That’s not his medicine, it’s poison! She tried to kill him, and when I caught her, she tried to kill me!” Timothy looked down at the bloody bite mark on Penny’s leg. The muscles in his jaw locked. His face turned a shade of pale I had never seen before. He reached down, ripped the medicine case from my hand, and hurled it onto the pavement. He stomped on it. The vials shattered, the life-saving liquid mingling with the dirty rainwater. My heart flatlined. “Timothy! Are you insane?! That was his lifeline!” He grabbed me by the lapels of my coat, hauling me off the ground until my toes barely grazed the asphalt. “His lifeline? Penny showed me the proof!” He snatched the crumpled paper from Penny’s hand and smacked it against my cheek. “It’s right here! You bought a lethal dose of cyanide off the dark web yesterday!” “Timothy, I was blind,” he snarled, his spit hitting my face. “I can’t believe I let a venomous snake like you into my home.” I shook my head frantically, the tears blinding me. “No! It wasn’t me! It was Penny! She made me touch the paper this morning to frame me! Timothy, we’ve been married for three years. You know who I am. I’m the one who sits up with Toby every night he can’t breathe. Why would I hurt him?!” Timothy sneered, his eyes filled with a disgust so profound it made my stomach drop. “You take care of him? You only play the doting mother to impress my father.” “Now that the old man is on his deathbed, you got terrified Toby would get the lion’s share of the trust. You couldn’t wait to eliminate him.” I trembled, a sickening chill seeping into my bones. “You actually believe that? You would rather believe a friend than your own wife?” Penny whimpered beside us. “Timothy, it’s my fault. I should have seen through her sooner. If we lose Toby… I don’t want to live.” Timothy’s grip on me loosened, and he reached out to gently help Penny up. “This isn’t your fault, Penny. You saved him.” The piercing wail of an ambulance finally shattered the noise. Paramedics rushed out, loading Toby’s limp body onto a stretcher. “The child is in profound shock! Start pushing epi, now!” the paramedic barked, the panic in his voice slicing through my eardrums. I fought to stumble toward the ambulance. “Toby! Let me ride with him!” Timothy shoved me back so hard I hit the side of a parked car. “Don’t you ever come within a hundred feet of my son again.” The wail of police sirens joined the ambulance. Cruisers boxed us in. Officers stepped out, hands on their belts. “Who called it in?” Penny pointed a manicured, trembling finger directly at me. “Officers, it’s her. She poisoned the boy.” An officer stepped forward, yanking my arms behind my back. The cold steel of handcuffs bit into my bruised wrists. “Gemma, you are under arrest for attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent.” I watched the ambulance doors slam shut and speed away. The flashing red lights blurred into streaks. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me. 3 The fluorescent lights in the precinct interrogation room buzzed with a maddening, relentless hum. They felt like needles in my eyes. “We have the evidence, Gemma. Why make this harder on yourself?” The detective slammed the crumpled receipt onto the metal table. I stared at the piece of paper, my jaw wired shut with tension. “I am innocent. That receipt is a forgery. It says cyanide, but did you even bother looking into the IP address? Or the logistics?” “Penny didn’t buy cyanide. She bought a neurotoxin.” The detective frowned, pausing his pen. “And how would you know she bought a neurotoxin?” I took a slow, jagged breath, forcing my racing heart to steady. I needed to be the smartest person in the room right now. “Because Toby’s symptoms were wrong. If it was a standard severe asthma attack, he wouldn’t have exhibited immediate cyanosis and convulsions at that speed. Penny poisoned him before I ever picked him up from school.” The detective looked at me with flat, unimpressed eyes. “That’s quite the theory. But the lab results from the shattered vials we scraped off the pavement? They tested positive for a lethal chemical agent. And this receipt? It only has your fingerprints on it.” I had no defense. The trap felt suffocating, perfectly engineered. Penny had worn gloves when she swapped the vials, and she had tricked me into handling the printed receipt. All the physical evidence pointed to me. The heavy metal door clicked open, and Timothy walked in. He looked like he had aged five years. His designer suit was wrinkled, his jaw rough with stubble, and his eyes were red-rimmed. The detective gave him a nod and stepped out, leaving us alone. I stood up. The chain of my handcuffs scraped loudly against the table. “Timothy. Is Toby okay?” Timothy walked right up to me. Without a word, he raised his hand and slapped me across the face. My head snapped to the side. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. “You have the audacity to ask about him?” Timothy’s voice was a ragged whisper. “The doctors said the cerebral hypoxia went on for too long. Combined with whatever you put in his system…” He choked on a sob. “He might never wake up.” The room spun. White noise roared in my ears. Never wake up? “No. That’s impossible. If they just give him the right counteragent, he’ll wake up.” I lunged forward, grabbing his forearm with both cuffed hands. “Timothy, please, just listen to me this once. Look into Penny’s finances! Look at her bank statements! Someone paid her to do this, or she has her own agenda!” Timothy ripped his arm away, his eyes glacial. “You are still trying to drag Penny down with you. She got five stitches in her leg because of you.” “She loves him so much she’s willing to donate her bone marrow to save him.” I froze. The breath hitched in my throat. “Bone marrow? Why does Toby need a transplant?” Timothy glared at me, pure hatred radiating from him. “They ran his bloodwork in the ER. Acute leukemia. And you—you sick, twisted woman—you decided to poison him when he was already dying.” I stood there, paralyzed. Acute leukemia. Suddenly, the puzzle pieces snapped together in a horrifying picture. That was why Penny chose today. She knew about his diagnosis. She knew the clock was ticking, and if Toby died now, Timothy would be emotionally destroyed, leaving her to step in as his savior and inherit everything. I looked at the man I had loved fiercely for three years. He felt like a total stranger. “Timothy… did you ever stop to think why Penny, a woman completely unrelated to us, just happens to be a perfect bone marrow match for your son?” “What exactly is your relationship with her?” Timothy’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second—a subtle tell—before his face contorted in rage. “Shut your mouth! She was just a girl I knew in college!” He unzipped his leather briefcase, pulled out a thick stack of legal documents, and threw them onto the metal table. “Sign them.” I looked down. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. And right there, in bold font, was the clause: Full Waiver of Alimony and Asset Distribution. A zero-payout, ironclad exit. 4 I stared at the divorce papers, and a laugh bubbled up from my throat. A dark, hollow sound that brought tears to my eyes. “Toby is on life support, fighting for his life, and you took the time to have your lawyers draft an expedited divorce?” “What’s the rush, Timothy? Need to clear the bed for Penny?” Timothy grabbed me by the throat, slamming my back against the metal table. “Being in the same room as you makes my skin crawl. Sign the papers, and I’ll tell the DA to go easy on you for the sake of our history. If you don’t, I will personally ensure you rot in federal prison for the rest of your life.” I wheezed, staring dead into his furious eyes. “I’m not signing a damn thing.” “I didn’t do this. I’d rather die than confess to something I didn’t do. You want to make room for Penny? You’re going to have to do it over my dead body.” Timothy shook with rage. He released me, backing away as if I were infectious. “Fine. Let’s see how long you can play tough in here.” He turned on his heel and stormed out. Not ten minutes later, the door opened again. This time, it was Penny. She was dressed in a pristine Chanel tweed suit, her heels clicking softly on the linoleum. She stood over me, looking down with a sickeningly sweet smile. I glanced up. The red light on the security camera in the corner was blinking steadily. Penny noticed my gaze. She dragged a chair to the far corner of the room—the blind spot—and sat down. She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “Do the cuffs chafe, Gemma?” I stared at her, my expression dead. “You’re going to burn for this, Penny.” She covered her mouth, giggling softly. “Burn? Sweetie, the winner writes the history. Do you want to know the best part?” “The toxin in Toby’s blood? I had it imported from a private lab overseas.” My body trembled with a primal urge to kill her. “You are out of your mind. He is three years old.” Her eyes went dead, flat, and shark-like. “So what? He was in my way. Timothy has been tired of playing house with you for a long time. It’s always been me.” “Once the brat is gone, I’ll be the only woman in the estate.” I shot up from my chair, ready to throw myself at her and wrap my chained hands around her neck. But before I even took a step, Penny threw herself backward. She crashed to the floor, taking the metal chair down with her in a loud clatter. She let out a blood-curdling scream. “Help! Help! Gemma, please, don’t hit me!” The door flew open so hard it dented the drywall. Timothy rushed in, dropping to his knees and pulling Penny into his chest. “Gemma! You are dead!” He kicked out, his heavy shoe catching me squarely in the stomach. The wind was knocked out of me. I collapsed onto the freezing floor, curling into a fetal position as a cold sweat broke out over my forehead. Penny buried her face in Timothy’s jacket, crying perfectly calibrated tears. “Timothy… she said she won’t sign the papers. She said she’s going to kill me…” Timothy’s eyes were bloodshot as he pointed a shaking finger at me. “You want to play games, Gemma? I will destroy you.” 5 The agony in my abdomen made the room tilt. Curled on the icy floor, I watched through half-open eyes as Timothy tenderly helped Penny to her feet, brushing the dust off her skirt. “Timothy,” I gasped, grinding my teeth against the pain. “She’s playing you.” “She literally just confessed it to me!” Timothy looked down at me like I was a rabid dog that needed to be put down. “Your lies are getting pathetic, Gemma. The police already raided the IP address on the receipt. The dark web vendor scrubbed their servers, but the transaction logs are still there. It’s over.” I froze. The vendor scrubbed their servers? But the logs remained? I lifted my head and looked at Penny. She was hiding behind Timothy’s broad shoulder, but she tilted her head just enough for me to see. The corner of her mouth twitched into a smug, victorious smirk. She mouthed the words: You can’t beat me. I closed my eyes. The fight drained out of my muscles, leaving behind a cold, terrifying clarity. “Take her and get out, Timothy.” “I’m not signing the papers. Let the judge decide.” Timothy scoffed, adjusting his cuffs. “Fine. Get used to the food in here.” He guided Penny out of the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. For the next two days, I sat in a holding cell. The detectives pulled me in for questioning every few hours, cycling through the same psychological pressure tactics. I didn’t break. I refused to confess. On the third day, the tide finally turned.

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On the night of my eighteenth birthday, I dragged myself home after a grueling closing shift at the local diner. My feet ached, my uniform smelled faintly of stale coffee and bleach, and the midnight air bit through my thin jacket. That was when I saw it. Sitting in the illuminated display case of the corner bakery was a single strawberry cake. A small, handwritten cardboard sign leaned against the glass: Clearance. 50% Off. I stopped. I stood on the sidewalk for a long time, the neon light washing over my reflection in the window. I thought about last month. It had been my older sister Penny’s birthday. My parents had rented out the entire back room of a high-end restaurant, inviting twenty of her college friends. They had bought a massive, three-tiered custom cake with gold leaf detailing. But today was my birthday, and my phone was a black, silent mirror. Not a single text. Not a single notification. I pushed open the bakery door, a little bell jingling overhead. I asked the woman behind the counter for the price. Even at half off, it was eight dollars. I pulled out my phone and checked my bank app. Available balance: six dollars and thirty cents. A heavy, familiar knot tightened in my throat. I shoved the phone back into my pocket, forced a polite smile, and turned toward the door. “Hold on, sweetheart,” the owner called out from behind the register. “Who’s the cake for?” I paused, looking back at her kind, tired eyes. “For me,” I said softly. “It’s my birthday.” She blinked, surprised, then reached into the case. She boxed up the strawberry cake, walked around the counter, and pressed the white cardboard box directly into my hands. “Just give me a dollar,” she said. “Happy birthday.” My fingers curled tight around the flimsy string handle. The sudden, sharp sting of tears rushed to the back of my nose. I ducked my head quickly, tapped my debit card against the reader to pay the dollar, and hurried out into the night. When I finally walked through the front door of my house, my mother was waiting in the kitchen. Her eyes immediately locked onto the bakery box. She snatched it right out of my hands, slamming it down onto the kitchen island. “You barely make minimum wage and you’re already learning how to blow it?” she snapped. “The owner only charged me a dollar,” I whispered, stepping back. She didn’t care. She grabbed my upper arm, her nails digging into my skin, and began pulling me toward the front door. “A dollar is still a dollar,” she hissed. “You’re taking it back. Get your money.” … I dropped my weight, planting my sneakers hard against the floorboards, fighting her grip. “It’s my birthday today! I just wanted a piece of cake. Is that really a crime?” My mother stopped dragging me. She turned around, her eyes narrowing into cold, hard slits. “If you wanted a cake, why didn’t you ask me? Why are you sneaking around wasting money?” My eyes burned. My voice shook so hard it barely sounded like my own. “If I asked you, would you have bought me one?” “No.” The answer came instantly. Brutal and clean. “Cake is nothing but sugar. It’s bad for you.” My fingernails bit into my palms. “You bought Penny a three-tier cake for her birthday!” She yanked my arm so hard my shoulder popped. “You and your sister are not the same!” she yelled. “She grew up with a certain lifestyle before her parents died! When we took her in, I had to keep things normal for her. If I treat her strictly, the rest of the family will gossip and say I’m an evil aunt!” She leaned in closer, her breath hot on my face. “But you are my biological daughter. I won’t let you develop those spoiled habits. I am raising you right.” She dragged me out the door and marched me down the block. By the time we reached the corner, the bakery’s security gate was pulled halfway down. A teenager in an apron was mopping the floor. My mother ducked under the metal grate, marched up to the counter, and slammed the cake box down. “Refund,” she demanded. The teenager froze. He looked at the box, then looked at me standing behind her. His brow furrowed. “Ma’am, that’s a clearance item. Discounted goods are final sale.” My mother’s voice hit a shrill, piercing pitch. “The box isn’t even opened! What do you mean, final sale?!” “We explain that to every customer before they buy it,” the clerk said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Once it leaves the store, we can’t take it back.” My mother let out a sharp, ugly laugh. “Oh, spare me! You just saw a kid and realized you could take advantage of her!” “Ma’am, please be reasonable.” The clerk was losing his patience. “We’re closing. If you return it, it just goes in the trash. And we only charged her a single dollar!” That was the exact wrong thing to say. My mother seized on it instantly. “Oh! So you admit you were going to throw it away! You sold my daughter actual garbage? You’re scamming a minor!” The shouting escalated. People walking down the street began to slow down. They clustered outside the window, peering into the bakery. They pointed. They whispered. I stood paralyzed under the harsh, bright fluorescent lights of the bakery. My face was burning, radiating a heat so intense I felt dizzy. The back door of the kitchen swung open, and the owner stepped out. She listened to her employee’s frustrated explanation, then she looked at me. I kept my head bowed, staring at the floorboards as tears finally spilled over, splashing silently onto the toes of my sneakers. Without a word, the owner turned to the register, popped the drawer, and pulled out a one-dollar bill. She slid it across the counter. My mother snatched it up like a starving animal. Then, the owner picked up the cake box by its string handle. She walked around my mother, came straight up to me, and gently pressed it back into my hands. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” she said softly, offering me a warm, heartbreaking smile. “Birthdays are supposed to be happy.” Before I could even open my mouth to thank her, my mother ripped the box out of my hands. “Thanks for the cake, then! Have a great night!” she said, entirely unashamed. She gripped my arm and marched us back home. The second we walked inside, my mother’s foul mood evaporated into a bubbly, frantic energy. She tore the box open. She cut the largest, most perfect slice of the strawberry cake and placed it on a porcelain plate. Then, she pulled a shopping bag from the hall closet. Inside was a sleek, brand-new Macbook box. I knew exactly what it was. I had looked it up online a few days ago—it cost over fifteen hundred dollars. For a brief, foolish moment earlier that week, I had dared to imagine it was a graduation gift for me. Or perhaps a surprise for my eighteenth birthday. With the cake in one hand and the laptop box tucked under her arm, my mother walked straight past me and knocked on Penny’s bedroom door. “Penny, honey! Look what Mom brought you! Come have a bite of cake!” “And look at this laptop! Didn’t you say your old one was getting slow? Do you like it?” From inside the room, Penny’s voice drifted out, laced with a sleepy, exaggerated whine. “Why are you bringing this to me now? I’m already in bed.” “I know, baby, I’m sorry. Your sister held me up. Just take one little bite, then you can go back to sleep.” I stood alone in the center of the dark living room. My mouth tasted like salt and ashes. For three months that summer, I lived in a blur of exhaustion. I made lattes and wiped down tables from sunrise to mid-afternoon. On my breaks, I handed out flyers for a local gym on the scorching pavement. At night, I washed dishes at a busy diner until the skin on my hands was raw and peeling. Three days before my freshman year of college was set to begin, I took every crumpled bill and bank envelope I had earned and spread them out on my bed. I counted it three times. Exactly six thousand dollars. State university tuition was eight thousand. I was two grand short, but it was enough to cover the bulk of it. I clutched the stack of bills to my chest and went to find my mother. She was lounging on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, the television blaring in the background. When I told her I was two thousand dollars short for tuition, she finally looked up. “How much did you make?” She held out her hand. “Let me see it.” I didn’t think twice. I handed her the thick stack of cash. She sat up straight, licked her thumb, and began counting. Bill by bill. “Six thousand exactly.” When she finished, she smiled, folded the money in half, and shoved it deep into her sweatpants pocket. Panic seized my chest. I lunged forward, grabbing her arm. “Mom! That’s my tuition!” Smack. She slapped my hand away. “Stop screaming. Are you crazy?” “That is my money!” I yelled, my voice cracking, bordering on hysterical. My mother sneered. “Your money? You live under my roof. You eat my food. Consider this your rent and grocery bill for the last few months.” “As for your tuition, don’t they have those federal student loans? FAFSA or whatever? Go figure it out yourself.” I stared at her, the room tilting slightly on its axis. “You want me to take out debt to go to school?” “Exactly. You kids today have it too easy. You need some pressure in your life.” She poked me hard in the center of my forehead with her index finger. “Otherwise, you’ll go off to college, completely out of my sight, and start blowing money like it grows on trees. If you have to pay back your own loans, you’ll actually learn the value of a dollar.” A deep, bone-chilling cold washed over me. The words to fight back lodged like glass in my throat. The door down the hall clicked open. Penny wandered out in silk pajamas, yawning delicately into her hand. “Mom, what’s going on? You guys are so loud, I can’t sleep.” My mother’s entire demeanor shifted instantly. She rushed over, her face softening into a doting smile, and smoothed Penny’s hair. “Oh, did we wake my precious girl?” Without missing a beat, my mother reached into her pocket, pulled out the six thousand dollars I had bled for all summer, and pressed it into Penny’s hands. “Here, honey. Some extra spending money for the semester.” “You’re leaving for the sorority house soon. I don’t want you struggling out there. Buy whatever you want, clothes, makeup. If you run out, you just call Mom and I’ll send more.” Penny held the wad of cash, feigning a modest retreat. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. This is way too much.” “Take it! A girl needs to be treated well so she doesn’t settle for less later. I won’t have those rich sorority girls looking down on you!” Penny giggled, a bright, chiming sound, and linked her arm through my mother’s. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.” My mother patted Penny’s hand gently. “Go back to sleep, sweetie.” We both waited in silence until Penny’s bedroom door clicked shut. The moment it did, my mother turned back to me, her face drooping into a scowl. She waved her hand at me as if swatting away a fly. “What are you still standing here for? Go to your room. I’m sick of looking at you.” “I have to take out loans for tuition,” I said, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. “But what about my living expenses?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Living expenses?” “You’re going to college, not a spa. You have plenty of free time. Get a part-time job. Other kids work their way through school to feed themselves. What makes you so special?” She shoved me hard toward the hallway and slammed my bedroom door shut in my face. The lock clicked. I slid down the cheap wood of the door until I hit the carpet. I sat there in the dark, pulling my knees to my chest, as the heavy, jagged tears finally spilled over. I wiped the wetness from my phone screen and opened my messages. My hands were shaking so violently I kept hitting the wrong keys. I typed out everything that had happened to my father. I hit send. Then I stared at the dark screen. Ten minutes later, the phone buzzed in my hand. My dad was calling. I answered, a desperate, pathetic sob escaping my throat. “Dad… my tuition…” “Enough with the crying! It’s the middle of the night, give it a rest!” His voice was a booming roar through the receiver. “So your mother took a few grand. Is that really worth this endless complaining?” “Kids these days,” he muttered, the volume rising. “You’ve never suffered a day in your life. You are entirely too selfish!” My chest squeezed tight, a physical pressure making it hard to breathe. “I’m selfish? But Penny isn’t?” “Don’t you dare compare yourself to Penny!” he bellowed. “How many times do I have to tell you? She is not our biological child! We took her in. We have a duty to treat her well so people know we’re good people!” I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Metallic and sharp. “Your mother is making you take out loans and work because she wants to build your character! Instead of being grateful, you’re sneaking around behind her back complaining to me. You are an ungrateful brat.” Click. The line went dead. I gripped the phone, my body rigid, and fell sideways onto my mattress. A moment later, the screen lit up again. Notifications from the extended family Facebook group. A flurry of audio messages. All from my mother. I tapped the first one. “Oh, my youngest is just so mature. She’s heading off to college soon, and she absolutely refused to let us pay! She insisted on taking out student loans.” “She won’t even let me send her grocery money. She says she wants to work part-time and be totally independent!” “I swear, this girl has always been so tough. Not spoiled at all.” The second audio message loaded. “As a mother, my heart aches, of course. But I have to support her independence.” The group was quiet for a few seconds, then the replies flooded in. Aunt Linda: “Wow, you are so blessed! What college kid these days doesn’t bleed their parents dry?” Uncle Dave: “Exactly! This just proves what a great parent you are. You raised such a sensible girl.” My mother sent a blushing smiley-face emoji. “Well, I was always very strict with her. It’s nice to see my hard work pay off. Kids need to learn to eat bitter. We parents can’t be too soft!” I lay awake staring at the ceiling until the sun came up, my eyes dry and burning. The next morning, the doorbell rang. I walked out to answer it. Uncle Mark strode into the entryway, a heavy black messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Hey, Uncle Mark,” I managed to say, my voice raspy. He took one look at my swollen, red-rimmed eyes, and his jaw tightened. He unshouldered the bag and held it out to me. “Kiddo, you’re going to college. Your uncle isn’t a rich man, but I got you this laptop. You’re gonna need it for your papers.” My mother, who had walked into the room, immediately changed color. “Mark, what are you doing spending that kind of money?” she said, stepping between us. “She’s just starting out, she doesn’t need anything that nice.” She reached out, trying to take the bag from him. Uncle Mark swatted her hand away effortlessly. He shoved the bag firmly against my chest. “I didn’t buy it for you,” he snapped at her. “I bought it for my niece. It’s a graduation gift.” My mother’s face flushed an ugly, dark red. “Mark! You…” “Save it. I don’t want to hear it.” He turned his back to her. “Take it to your room, kid. Make sure it turns on.” My mother stamped her foot in pure frustration, but she didn’t dare physically stop him. Once we were in my bedroom, Uncle Mark shut the door and locked it behind him. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and put it away. A second later, my phone vibrated. I looked down. It was a Zelle notification. Fifteen thousand dollars. I stopped breathing. I looked up at him, bewildered. “Uncle Mark… what is this?” He lowered his voice, his expression a chaotic mix of deep anger and profound heartbreak. “Student loans? Working for your dinner? Bullshit,” he swore under his breath. “I saw her grandstanding in the family group chat last night. I know my sister. I knew immediately she was pulling some sick stunt.” “Your tuition, your housing, your food. I’ve got it covered.” I shook my head frantically, trying to hand him the phone back. “Uncle Mark, I can’t. I can’t take this. It’s too much.” He wrapped his large, calloused hands around mine, forcing me to hold the phone. “When I tell you to take it, you take it. Don’t argue with me.” He leaned in closer. “And listen to me. Do not tell your mother about this. Put it in a separate account. And keep an eye out for Penny… she’s got her own agenda. You protect yourself.” The dam broke. The tears I had held back all morning rushed out, hot and fast. Uncle Mark pulled me into a hug, patting the back of my head. “Why are you crying? You’re going to college. You eat well, you study hard. If you run out of money, you call me.” He sighed, a heavy, tired sound. “Your parents are out of their minds, but I see exactly what’s happening.” After he left, I spent the afternoon packing my clothes into two duffel bags. I walked out to the living room, my backpack strapped tight across my chest. “I’m heading to campus early to figure out the loan office and get settled,” I told my mother. She didn’t look up from her TikTok feed. “Go. Try not to be stupid. If you get scammed out there, don’t expect us to bail you out.” I opened the front door and walked out. I never looked back. Once I got to the university, I registered for my classes and paid my housing deposit. Then, I wired the rest of the money right back to Uncle Mark. He called me immediately, ready to blow a gasket, but I cut him off before he could yell. “Uncle Mark, you have your own mortgage and your own family to take care of. I can’t take your savings.” “Consider the laptop a loan. I’ll pay you back. But I’m going to earn my own way.” I hung up. I signed up for DoorDash that same afternoon. Between classes, I lived on my bicycle, navigating the city streets with a massive thermal bag on my back. Through freezing rain and blistering sun, from dawn until midnight. While my roommates were binge-watching Netflix or going to frat parties, I was sprinting up six flights of stairs in elevator-less apartment buildings to deliver cold tacos. It was an exhausting, lonely life, but it belonged to me. I had momentum. Until the night of the storm. The rain was coming down in blinding sheets. A black SUV blew through a red light and hit me dead on. I was thrown over the hood, launched into the air, and hit the asphalt. Everything went black.

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I’ve spent ten years at this company. The contracts I’ve signed and the revenue I’ve brought in total well over a hundred million dollars. But today, because I spent a few minutes in the bathroom during work hours, my usual five-figure paycheck arrived as a measly $1,500. I went into my manager’s office to demand an explanation. She sat behind her mahogany desk, wearing a mask of professional fairness that couldn’t quite hide the sharp, jagged edges of her condescension. “According to the surveillance logs from last month, you spent a total of forty minutes in the restroom,” Sandra said, tapping a pen against her desk. “You weren’t exactly in there filing quarterly reports, were you, Callie?” She went on to explain the company’s “new policy”: the Efficiency Protocol. One minute in the bathroom equals a fifty-dollar deduction. “You’re a senior lead,” she added, her voice dropping into that faux-disappointed tone that makes my skin crawl. “You should be setting an example. Honestly, I went easy on the deductions this time.” I felt a cold weight settle in my chest. My most basic human rights were being traded for pennies on the dollar. When I didn’t immediately argue, she leaned back, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Look, if you don’t like the culture here, the door is always open. Do you really think this firm can’t survive without you?” She paused, letting the silence hang. “And don’t forget, your five-year non-compete and loyalty clause hasn’t expired yet. Even if you walked out that door, who would dare hire you?” I didn’t waste my breath. I didn’t beg, and I didn’t scream. I just thought about the calendar. My contract expires in five days. When that happens, she’s going to find out exactly how much this firm “doesn’t need” me. 01 Sandra wasn’t done. She loved the sound of her own voice too much to stop while she was ahead. “Callie, you’ve been here a long time. You know how this world works,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a stable job right now? I’m treating you like an old friend by only docking your pay. If it were anyone else, I would’ve had security escort them out weeks ago.” I actually had to bite back a laugh. For five years, I’ve been the engine of this office. I’ve lived and breathed these accounts, skipping lunches and working through fevers just to close a deal. Other firms have offered to pay my astronomical buyout fees just to get me on their payroll, but I stayed. I stayed because I felt a sense of loyalty to the people who gave me my start. Even this morning, I was planning on signing my renewal. But staring at that insulting pay stub she’d just tossed at me, I realized loyalty is a one-way street in this building. “Think it over,” she snapped. “Do you want to be a team player, or do you want to be unemployed?” I picked up the piece of paper. My voice was level, drained of all the warmth I used to give this place. “I understand. I won’t spend another minute in the restroom during work hours.” She blinked, clearly surprised by how easily I’d folded. A smirk of triumph spread across her face. “Good girl. Every minute counts.” As I turned to leave, she threw one last barb at my back. “I don’t know why these hourly types think they’re so special. You scream and pout, and in the end, you still come crawling back like a dog for a bone. God, I hate the drama.” I kept my mouth shut and walked out. In the main office, the mood was light. It was payday, and people were comparing plans for the weekend. A few of my closer colleagues noticed my face and tried to offer me snacks or a sympathetic look. Then there was Tiffany, the new intern and Sandra’s niece. She didn’t bother with sympathy. She reached out and snatched the pay stub right out of my hand before I could tuck it away. “Oh my god,” Tiffany gasped, her voice loud enough to carry across the entire floor. “Callie, your check is only fifteen hundred? That wouldn’t even cover my shoes!” She brandished the paper like a trophy. “I thought you were the big star around here. Are things really that bad? Did you mess up a client or something?” An older colleague, Marie, frowned. “Callie, that has to be a mistake. How is that even possible?” I forced a tight, plastic smile. “New rule. Restroom breaks are fifty bucks a minute.” The room went silent. Marie looked bewildered. “What are you talking about? There’s no such rule in the handbook.” My heart did a slow, painful thud against my ribs. “Alright, everyone, listen up!” Sandra called out, strolling out of her office with a casual grace that made my stomach turn. “We’re implementing a new efficiency standard. Fifty-dollar deductions for every minute spent in the bathroom during billable hours. We did a trial run with Callie this month to see the impact, and the results are promising. We’ll be rolling it out to everyone starting Monday.” She looked directly at me. “Also, just because some people have been here a long time doesn’t mean they get to boss the juniors around. Follow the chain of command. Do your own work.” She patted my shoulder condescendingly. “Thanks for being our guinea pig, Callie. You’re such a sport.” I stood there, frozen. It wasn’t a company-wide rule. It was a targeted strike. She had singled me out, humiliated me, and then framed me as a lazy bully to the rest of the staff. She’d forgotten one thing, though. My five-year contract ends in exactly 120 hours. And for five years, I’ve been the one doing her work. I pulled out my phone and found a message from a recruiter at a rival firm that had been sitting in my inbox since last night. “I’m leaving in five days,” I typed back. “I’ll be ready to start Monday morning.” 02 The reply was almost instantaneous. They were thrilled. “Whatever salary you’re looking for, we can make it happen,” the recruiter wrote. I took a long, shaky breath. For the first time in years, the crushing weight on my shoulders felt a little lighter. I spent the afternoon doing my job—and only my job. Without my “scheduled” breaks, my productivity actually plummeted. It turns out that when you treat a human being like a machine, the gears start to grind. Around 5:00 PM, a junior associate named Jordan came to my desk, looking frantic. “Callie, I need you. We have that meeting with the Henderson group, and they’re being impossible. You’re the only one who can talk them down.” Normally, I would have dropped everything. I viewed the company as a family. If the company succeeded, we all succeeded. I had burned myself out for years, fixing other people’s mistakes and saving failing accounts. But the “Efficiency Protocol” had cured me of my delusions. I wasn’t family. I was a line item on a balance sheet. I looked up at Jordan and put on a look of sheer, manufactured terror. “I’m so sorry, Jordan. I can’t help you.” “What? Why?” “Didn’t you hear the announcement this morning? Every minute I spend away from my specific tasks could be interpreted as ‘slacking off.’ If I leave my desk to help you, Sandra might think I’m avoiding my own billable hours. My paycheck is already too low to survive on. I can’t risk another deduction.” Jordan opened his mouth to argue, but then he looked at my desk—stripped of the usual extra files I handled—and went quiet. He walked away without another word. At 6:00 PM sharp, I shut down my computer. I didn’t stay to polish Sandra’s presentations. I didn’t stay to organize Tiffany’s filing. I just grabbed my bag and walked out. The evening air felt incredible. I didn’t call an Uber; I grabbed a city bike and pedaled toward the farmers’ market. In five years, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d made it home before sunset. I made a real dinner. I took a long, hot shower. I put on a movie and sat down to eat food that hadn’t been delivered in a grease-stained paper bag. For years, I’d sacrificed my health for that firm. I’d developed a nervous stomach and chronic migraines from the stress of the “hustle.” Tonight, for the first time, I felt like I was actually living. I was just looking up recipes for the next day when my phone started exploding. FaceTime calls, Slack notifications, texts, missed calls. 99+ notifications in ten minutes. I opened the group chat. “URGENT. Callie, pick up!” “Sandra is losing it. Where are you??” Then, Sandra’s name flashed across the screen. I let it ring for three beats before answering. “CALLIE!” she screamed. The volume was so high I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Where the hell are you? You left work unfinished! That’s a thousand-dollar fine for gross negligence!” I leaned back on my sofa, my voice calm and smooth. “Sandra, let’s be clear. My assigned tasks for the day were completed at 5:58 PM. I uploaded the logs for everyone to see. In fact, out of the goodness of my heart, I stayed two extra minutes for free. But don’t worry, you don’t have to pay me for those. I’m just that generous.” There was a stunned silence on the other end. “I’ve always been a team player, Sandra,” I added. “Have a great night.” I hung up. The rush of adrenaline was better than any bonus I’d ever received. 03 The silence on the other end of the line was the kind that precedes a hurricane. I scrolled through the Slack messages. It turned out that without me there to bridge the gap, the Henderson meeting had been a total disaster. The firm had lost a massive account, and the CEO had personally called Sandra to tear her a new one. Because I hadn’t stayed late to handle the “overflow,” everyone else’s workload had tripled. The office was in a state of total collapse because the person who usually held the ceiling up had simply walked out the door at quitting time. I set my phone to “Do Not Disturb” and went to sleep. The next morning, I walked into the office at 9:00 AM. Not a second early, not a second late. Sandra was waiting by my desk. She was smiling, but it was the kind of smile you see on a funeral director. “Callie, honey,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “We’re not a prison here. There’s no need to be so… cold. If you’re upset about something, let’s talk. I can fix it.” I felt a chill of internal laughter. She wasn’t apologizing because she felt bad. She was panicking because she realized I was the only thing standing between her and the CEO’s wrath. She didn’t want to fire me; she wanted to break me back into submission. She thought the contract gave her all the power. She’d forgotten that she hadn’t checked the expiration date in years. “Oh, Sandra, I’m not upset at all,” I said brightly. “We’re good. Truly.” She seemed relieved, but then she leaned over and scribbled a note on a clipboard. “Good. But I do have to dock you another two hundred for being late this morning.” I frowned. “My clock says nine on the dot.” “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said, her eyes flashing with a brief, ugly spark of triumph. “During the overtime session last night—the one you missed—I announced that the new start time is 8:30 AM. Since you weren’t here, you didn’t get the memo. Make sure you check your messages after hours so you don’t miss anything important again. Understood?” She slammed a thick folder onto my desk. “I’m heading out of town for a conference. You’re taking over this new lead. It’s a tough one—one of those old-school clients you used to handle. You’re going to mentor Tiffany on this. Make sure she’s the one who closes it.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping. “We have a major bidding war next week against Vertex Media. I’ll be back for that. When we win, don’t try to steal the spotlight in front of the CEO. Give the younger generation a chance to shine, okay?” She didn’t even wait for a response before she pivoted on her heels and headed for the elevator. She was playing a very specific game. Everyone knew Tiffany was her niece. Sandra wanted me to do the heavy lifting, let Tiffany take the credit, and then use that “succession” as an excuse to finally push me out. She wanted to hollow me out and use my skin as a suit for her niece’s career. But today was Tuesday. My contract expired on Friday. I wasn’t going to touch that new lead. Because on Monday, I’d be sitting in the offices of Vertex Media. I wouldn’t steal company secrets—I have too much integrity for that. But I certainly wasn’t going to help Sandra win. “I’ll be at the bidding war, Sandra,” I whispered to the empty air. “But I won’t be on your team.” 04 Tiffany strutted over and snatched the folder off my desk. I started to follow her, but she whirled around, her eyes narrowing. “Listen, Callie. Sandra made it clear. I’m the lead on this. You’re just the ‘consultant.’ Don’t try to jump in and steal my thunder.” I felt a wave of pure relief. I had been trying to figure out how to distance myself from this project without looking like I was sabotaging it. Tiffany had just handed me my exit strategy on a silver platter. “Of course, Tiffany,” I said, loud enough for the colleagues around us to hear. “It’s your show.” Later that afternoon, I made sure to linger near the breakroom. “Marie,” I said, making sure my voice carried. “I hear this new project is huge. If it goes well, the lead could be looking at a massive promotion—maybe even a junior VP spot.” Tiffany, who was sitting at a nearby table, perked up like a bloodhound. By the end of the day, she came to my desk, looking smug. “Callie, about that new project? I’ve decided I don’t need your ‘consultation.’ I’m going to handle the whole thing with my own team. I’ll tell Sandra I released you from the task.” I pretended to be offended. I threw my hands up. “Tiffany, what are you talking about? If this fails, Sandra is going to blame me for not helping you!” She rolled her eyes. “Then give me something in writing saying you weren’t involved. That way, when I win, you can’t claim any of the credit. Win-win, right?” I hid my smile. “Fine. If that’s what you want.” Ten minutes later, I had a signed memo from her. “I, Tiffany Vance, lead project manager for the Henderson-Vertex bid, hereby certify that Callie Reed has had zero involvement, zero contact, and zero influence on the strategies, bids, or proposals for this project.” I tucked that piece of paper into my bag like it was made of gold. For the next few days, I watched Tiffany and her little clique stumble through the project. I spent my time quietly cleaning out my digital files and packing my personal belongings into a small box I kept hidden under my desk. On Friday afternoon, at exactly 5:00 PM, I walked into the HR office. My contract was officially up. I handed over my badge and my formal notice. Most of my colleagues were genuinely sad to see me go. They knew who really ran the place. Tiffany, however, watched me walk toward the elevator with a look of pure, unearned arrogance. “Leaving so soon, Callie?” she called out. “Did you finally get fired, or did you just realize you can’t keep up with the new blood?” I didn’t even look back. I walked out of that building and didn’t look up until I felt the sun on my face. It was over. The big bid was in three days. I didn’t spend the weekend resting. I spent it preparing. This wasn’t just about revenge; it was about proving my worth to the people who actually valued me. Monday morning arrived. I walked into the downtown convention center wearing my best suit. I was with the team from Vertex Media. Tiffany and her team arrived shortly after, looking like they owned the place. I stayed in the back of the hallway, slipping into the restroom just as they passed, so Sandra—who had just arrived from her trip—didn’t see me. The bidding began. There were three firms. The first one gave a mediocre presentation. Then it was Tiffany’s turn. Sandra and the CEO of my old firm arrived late, slipping into the back row. The moment Sandra saw me standing near the podium with the Vertex team, her face went through five different shades of purple. “Callie!” she hissed, loud enough to turn heads. “What the hell are you doing? Get over here right now! Why are you standing with the competition?”

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Five years of marriage, and my wife has just burned through her ninety-seventh “Grace Token.” Those little slips of paper, hand-stamped with promises, were supposed to be her security blanket when we first wed. Ninety-nine of them—a symbolic vow that I would walk with her until the very end, through every stumble and every spat. But she’s spent them like pocket change on her “muse,” her young obsession. Every time she stumbles home in the dead of night, she tosses one at me with a casual shrug, another piece of our history turned into a get-out-of-jail-free card. It came to a head tonight. She was halfway out the door to rescue her “assistant”—her little stray, Logan—when I reached out and caught her wrist. “Can I use one this time?” I asked, my voice sounding foreign even to me. “Can I use a token to ask you to stay?” She paused, then laughed, patting my hand as if I were a petulant child. “You’ve still got over sixty left, babe. Use them for whatever you want. I have to go.” I watched her back as she disappeared into the night, then slowly tucked the voided slip into my pocket. She didn’t know. No one did. That was number ninety-seven. Back then, she was the one who chased me. She proposed ninety-nine times before I finally said yes, moved by the sheer tenacity of her devotion. Now, there are only two tokens left between us. And I’m done crying for her to stay. 1 Tonight was the victory gala for the East Side project. It was also exactly three days since I’d been discharged from the hospital following major liver surgery. The room was a blur of silk and champagne until Logan, Lydia’s “secretary,” managed to topple a champagne tower. The crystal cascaded down, soaking our most important investor in expensive vintage brut. Lydia’s first instinct wasn’t to apologize to the client. It was to pull Logan behind her, shielding him like a mother hen. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, she pointed at me. “Adrian, apologize to Mr. Lewis.” I froze, the words hitting me like a physical blow. Even the investor looked uncomfortable, frowning as he gestured toward Logan. “Lydia, the boy caused the mess. I only want an apology from him.” Logan’s eyes welled with practiced tears. He tugged at Lydia’s sleeve, the picture of a kicked puppy. Lydia’s expression softened instantly. She squeezed his hand and turned back to me, her voice hardening. “What are you waiting for? Pour Mr. Lewis a drink. Now.” “Lydia—” I started, my voice thin. “One glass won’t do it? Then make it two. Or three. Whatever it takes to make Mr. Lewis feel better,” she snapped. She had forgotten I was on post-op medication. Or perhaps, she simply didn’t care that a single drop of alcohol could send my recovery into a tailspin. The whispers started then. I could feel the pity in the room, thick and suffocating. Everyone saw the truth: it wasn’t my fault, but Lydia was hell-bent on protecting her pet. I opened my mouth to refuse, but Lydia leaned in. Her lips moved, barely a whisper, framing two words: Grace Token. When we were in college, Lydia proposed ninety-nine times. I turned her down ninety-nine times, terrified of her intensity. On the hundredth time, she gathered our entire world—friends, family, professors—and swore a blood-oath: “Adrian, it’s only ever been you. If you say no, I’ll just ask again. And again. Until you’re mine.” I let her in. I gave her my life. And on our wedding night, I gave her those ninety-nine tokens. A pact: as long as we had tokens, we were forever. For the first three years, she treated them like diamonds. She never used one. Then Logan appeared. In two years, she had burned through ninety-six. Now, number ninety-seven was being used to force a drink down my throat. My knuckles were white as I took the glass. I forced a smile for the investor. “Mr. Lewis. My apologies.” The man sighed, sensing my desperation. “Just a sip, son. It’s fine.” I didn’t take a sip. I drained the glass. The red wine burned like acid, clashing with the medicine in my system. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lydia playfully pinching Logan’s nose. “You little troublemaker,” she cooed, her voice a honeyed caress. “Watch your step next time. I’d hate for you to get hurt.” Logan beamed, clutching her hand. “You’re too good to me, Lydia.” Too good, I thought. The wine hit the back of my throat, making my eyes sting. It’s okay, I told myself. Only two left. 2 After the gala, I instinctively went for the passenger side of our SUV. Just as my hand touched the handle, I heard the sharp click of the locks. Lydia rolled down the window, looking at me with a cold, detached disdain. “Take an Uber,” she said. “I just had the interior detailed. You reek of booze. It’s disgusting.” She seemed to have completely erased the fact that she was the one who forced that smell onto me. Her disgust was brighter than the streetlights. In the past, I would have panicked. I would have scrubbed my skin raw, crying, pleading with her to understand it was just one drink. Or I would have stood there on the curb and screamed, demanding to know why she traded my dignity for Logan’s comfort. This time, I just nodded. “Okay. Drive safe.” Lydia’s grip on the steering wheel faltered. She looked at me, confused by the lack of friction. “Adrian, you—” Before she could finish, Logan appeared, practically skipping as he pushed past me. “Ready to go, Lydia! All packed up!” He was draped in Lydia’s spare blazer. His shirt was still soaked in champagne, the smell of fermented grapes far more pungent than the single glass I’d consumed. Lydia didn’t mention the smell. She got out of the car, personally opened the door for him, and tucked the blazer tighter around his shoulders. “It’s chilly. Don’t catch a cold.” Only then did she look back at me, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. “Don’t read into this. Logan is young, he’s still learning the ropes. He needs the guidance.” I nodded again. “I understand.” I added, just to be sure, “You used a token, remember? I’m not angry.” She stiffened. She wanted to say something, but Logan let out a theatrical sneeze, and her attention snapped back to him instantly. “Go home,” she tossed over her shoulder as they sped away. I stood in the dark, a cold shiver racing down my spine. When I got home, I pulled the ceramic jar—the one we’d labeled The Treasury—from the back of the closet. I reached in, my fingers fumbling through the small slips of paper until I found one. I shredded the ninety-seventh token into tiny pieces. Then, I sat at my laptop and began drafting the separation agreement. I called my mentor, Professor Whitlock, for advice. “Professor, if I were to file for divorce, how should we handle the equity split on the downtown firm?” The Professor was silent for a long beat. “Divorce? Adrian, what happened? The whole department still talks about how she chased you for years. You two are the campus legend.” A legend, I thought. A ghost story, more like. “It just… ran its course,” I said quietly. It started with the scent of his cologne on her neck. It grew with the nights she didn’t come home. It accelerated every time she reached into that jar to buy my silence. The Professor didn’t push. “I’ll draft the paperwork for you. When do you need it?” I looked at the jar on the desk. “When Lydia uses her last two chances.” The front door creaked open. “What chances?” Lydia asked, stepping into the room with a shopping bag in her hand. 3 I snapped the laptop shut. “Nothing. Just talking to the Professor about some pro-bono work.” Lydia’s eyes narrowed, and she crossed the room toward me. “Divorce? I thought I heard the word divorce.” I stepped back, keeping the desk between us. “Just a case we’re looking at. He wanted my perspective on a filing.” She exhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders. She held out the bag. “Here. For you.” The logo on the bag was from my favorite patisserie—the place where we used to go when we were first dating. Back then, if she upset me, she would wait in line for two hours, rain or shine, just to bring me a specific lemon tart. “Anything for you, Adrian,” she used to say. “It’s my pleasure.” A faint, bitter warmth stirred in my chest. I reached for the bag. “I didn’t think you remembered… what is this?” I stopped. My heart sank. Inside weren’t tarts. There were two shirts, heavy with the smell of stale alcohol. One was Lydia’s silk gala wrap; the other was Logan’s champagne-soaked button-down. Lydia didn’t even look ashamed. “Logan’s shirt is a mess. I figured since you were doing a load of laundry anyway, you wouldn’t mind. It’s just easier if you handle it.” She saw my expression and her voice took on that defensive, “reasonable” tone. “Look, I’ll use another token. I know how you get about ‘chores.’ There, we’re good, right?” The words died in my throat. I wanted to tell her: Lydia, there is only one left. You just used the ninety-eighth. But instead, I just looked at her. I took the clothes and walked them to the laundry room. I used to hand-wash her silks, obsessed with making sure she looked perfect. I realized then how much of a fool I had been. My devotion had become her convenience. To her, I wasn’t a husband; I was an upscale, live-in housekeeper. I tossed the clothes into the machine and turned it on. When I returned to the bedroom, Lydia looked up. “Done already? Did you get the stain out? That’s Logan’s favorite shirt. I promised him you’d take care of it.” “It’s in the wash,” I said flatly, already thinking about which dry cleaner I could call tomorrow to handle the rest of my life. Her phone rang—a bright, upbeat chime. Lydia glanced at me, then slipped out onto the balcony. I followed silently, standing just behind the sheer curtains. I heard Logan’s voice on the other end, playful and whining. “Lydia, the cake you bought me is so good! I’ve never had anything like it.” “I told you it was worth the wait,” Lydia replied, her voice dropping into that intimate register she used to save for me. “But you had to wait so long in line… I feel bad.” Lydia chuckled. “For you? I’d wait all night. It’s my pleasure.” Logan let out a soft laugh. “And my shirt? Is it okay that Adrian is washing it? I don’t want to cause trouble.” “Don’t worry about him,” Lydia said, her tone dismissive. “He’s used to it. Besides, your hands are too nice for manual labor. I’d hate to see them get rough.” I looked down at my own hands. Reddened from years of housework, the skin around my knuckles dry and cracked. She was right. I wasn’t the man she’d fallen for anymore. I was the man she’d used up. I retreated to the bathroom, feeling a wave of nausea. Ten minutes later, Lydia knocked on the door. “Adrian, something came up at the office. I have to head back. Don’t wait up.” “Lydia,” I called out as she reached for her keys. “If you don’t come back tonight… can I use a token?” I looked at her, my eyes damp despite my best efforts. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. 4 “Sure,” she said, flashing a quick, easy smile. “But you won’t need to. I’ll be back by midnight, I promise.” I watched her go. I had three hours until midnight. I pulled out my phone and ordered a cake from the same patisserie. Lydia’s assistant, Sarah, posted a photo on Instagram: “Finally leaving the office! Empty building, spooky vibes.” Lydia was nowhere in the background. Lydia texted me: “Just got to the office. Mountains of paperwork. Home soon.” Two hours until midnight. I was clearing out my old photos when I found the one of her hundredth proposal. I posted it to my private feed with a simple caption: “Five years. How quickly the time goes.” Lydia commented almost instantly: “More than five. Forever.” She followed up with a text: a photo of the city skyline. “The moon is beautiful tonight. Thinking of you.” I didn’t reply. I knew that skyline. Those buildings weren’t near her office. They were the view from The Gilded Lily, the most romantic rooftop restaurant in the city. Logan posted a story, visible only to a “Close Friends” list he’d forgotten I was on. “She says she’s married to her past, but I’m her future.” In the corner of the frame, Lydia’s hand was visible, resting on the table. Her wedding ring was missing. One hour until midnight. I sat on the sofa, playing our wedding video on loop while I ate the lemon tart I’d ordered. It tasted like ash. I realized then that I would never want this cake again. One minute until midnight. I pulled the very last token from the jar. There was a knock at the door. I froze, then hurried to open it. “Delivery for Adrian,” a courier said, holding out a sleek, expensive-looking watch box. “A gift from Lydia. Please sign here.” Simultaneously, my phone buzzed. “So sorry, honey. Work is running late, going to crash at the office suite. Use that token if you want. I’ll bring you that cake you like tomorrow.” I went to type a response, but my hand brushed against the bookshelf. Our framed wedding portrait—the big one that had sat there for five years—toppled over. The glass shattered, the shards scattering across the hardwood floor. The courier jumped. “Sir? You okay? Want me to help you clean that up?” I shook my head. I picked up my phone and sent the last text I would ever send her as her husband. “Don’t bother with the cake, Lydia. The tokens are all gone.” “I’m filing for divorce.” The next second, my phone exploded with notifications.

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