Author: Momo Chan

The crumpled scratch-off ticket lay in the trash can, the $100,000 prize printed on it burning my eyes. Just minutes ago, I thought it was a miracle. A wedding fund sent straight from heaven. I had rushed at my boyfriend, Timothy, waving the ticket like a lifeline. “Timothy! We can finally do it! We can get married!” My voice had trembled. The finish line of our five-year relationship was right in front of us. He wouldn’t have to stress about the ring, the down payment for a house, the crushing weight of starting our life together. But there wasn’t a single ounce of joy on his face. Instead, he let out a soft, mocking scoff. “Are you really that desperate to be a wife?” Before the ice of those words could even sink into my veins, a burst of harsh, echoing laughter erupted from the phone in his pocket. “Man, you lost the bet! She actually thinks she can use that chump change to marry you. Might as well just put a ring on it!” a guy’s voice snickered. “For real. A hundred grand? That wouldn’t even cover one of Una’s Birkins. This girl is so cheap.” Una. The trust-fund girl who used to corner me in the high school bathrooms. The one who made my teenage years a living hell. It turned out that in his eyes, I wasn’t even worth the leather on one of her handbags. Five years. Five years of love, of building a life, of sharing a bed. All of it was just a sick, twisted bet between him and his rich friends. 1. “Alright, knock it off, all of you.” Timothy’s voice was casual. “I’m not one to go back on my word. You all better get your wedding gifts ready.” Amidst the chorus of hoots and whistles from the speaker, a woman’s voice cut through—a voice that still haunted my worst nightmares. “Timothy, are you out of your damn mind?!” Una shrieked. “We agreed you were just going to mess with her! It was supposed to be a joke to help me blow off some steam. You’re actually going to marry her?” Timothy reached out, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb, answering the phone with a lazy drawl. “Yeah. If I don’t marry her, what, am I supposed to marry you?” “Una, sweetheart, did you really think I was your little lapdog? That I’d just roll over and do whatever you say?” The line went dead. The abrupt beep of the disconnected call echoed in the small kitchen. Timothy stared at his phone for a long moment before looking up at me with an easy smile. “What were you crying for just now? So happy you’re marrying a rich guy that it broke your brain?” Before I could force a syllable past the lump in my throat, he turned toward the stove. “You want fried rice? I’ll make it right now.” He tied his faded apron around his waist, cracking an egg, chopping scallions with practiced ease. He moved exactly as he had for the last five years. As if the soul-crushing humiliation that just unfolded in our kitchen had never happened. I took a shallow breath. My chest ached with a rhythmic, pulsing pain. I couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. “Aren’t you tired?” “What?” he asked over his shoulder. “Five years. Aren’t you tired of acting?” Timothy didn’t answer. The only sound left in the room was the heavy hum of the exhaust fan over the stove. It grated against my nerves, deafening and chaotic. I walked over, snapped the fan off, and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at me. “Are you not going to explain?” “I just came clean, didn’t I? What else is there to explain?” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. “Una and I grew up together. We’re childhood friends. Don’t read into it.” He neatly sidestepped the bet. He conveniently ignored Una’s comment about ‘blowing off steam.’ I tilted my head back, blinking hard against the raw burn in my eyes. Five years. Over eighteen hundred days and nights. I had hollowed out my chest and handed my heart to Timothy. I truly believed he was the man I would walk through the fire with. I didn’t care that we were broke. We could work for it. I didn’t care that we rented a tiny apartment or took the subway. We could save. And now he was telling me that every struggle, every tear, every quiet moment of comfort, was a meticulously crafted lie? A prank designed just to stroke Una’s ego? I couldn’t fathom it. I was a nobody. An ordinary girl trying to survive. What on earth did I possess that made me worth this kind of elaborate psychological torture? Why would a wealthy heir spend five years playing the role of a devoted, struggling boyfriend? When he used to hold me and apologize for not being able to give me a better life—did he have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing? When he warmed my freezing feet against his chest in the winter, when he scrubbed out stains in my underwear in the sink—was he suppressing a gag? What an incredible actor. Truly, I had inconvenienced him. “So, what day are we getting married?” he asked, his tone as light as if he were asking if I wanted soy sauce on my rice. I clenched my jaw, my voice dripping with pure venom. “We’re not.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Seriously? Because of a joke? Haven’t you been dying to marry me for years?” “Yeah, I lied. But look at the outcome. It’s a win for you, isn’t it? I can give you a million dollars for the wedding. A house. A luxury car. Just point at what you want. What the hell are you so hung up on?” “This isn’t about money—” Timothy froze, then suddenly hurled the ceramic bowl against the wall. It shattered on impact. Shards of porcelain grazed my bare arms, and raw egg splattered across the linoleum. “When we were broke, you wanted money. Now that we have money, you want to talk about something else!” he yelled. “Nicole, are you sick in the head?” A thin trail of blood snaked down my forearm. My hands were completely numb. He instinctively reached out to grab me. I shoved him away. “Yeah. I am sick in the head.” My voice was a ghost of a whisper. I reached down and shoved the sleeves of my sweater all the way up, exposing the jagged, overlapping pale scars that mapped my forearms. “I am clinically depressed. I am deeply mentally ill. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?” The tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, staring dead into his eyes. “Timothy, I’m asking you. Are you satisfied?!” “Why the hell would I marry you?! Why would I marry the man who turned my life into a sick game for my abuser?!” His lips parted, trembling slightly. Something flashed in his eyes. For a pathetic, split second, I actually thought it was remorse. Then his phone rang again. He answered it. “Timothy! Una is wasted! She’s screaming and breaking things. She says she needs to see you!” a panicked voice shouted through the receiver. “How is that my problem?” Timothy muttered, pulling the first-aid kit from the cabinet, stepping toward me with the iodine. “She said… she said if you don’t come right now, she’s going to find some random guy at the club and sleep with him.” The iodine bottle slipped from Timothy’s hand, spilling a dark brown puddle onto the floor. He clenched his fists, shooting me a conflicted, agonizing look, before his jaw set into a hard line. “Clean yourself up. I’ll be right back.” I didn’t say a word. I just stood by the window in dead silence. I watched him sprint down the sidewalk. When he reached the apartment exit, my beat-up electric scooter was blocking his path. He kicked it violently, sending it crashing to the pavement. He had bought me that scooter during our second year together. It didn’t keep the rain or the cold out, but it meant I didn’t have to squeeze into the crowded subway anymore. When he surprised me with it, I had cried with joy, riding him around our tiny apartment complex in circles. What I thought was love. What I thought was happiness. It was just like that scooter now. Lying in the gutter, its mirrors shattered into a thousand useless pieces. 2. Blood dripped steadily from my arm. I wrapped the gauze around the cuts with robotic, numb movements. The bright red mixing with my tears was a nauseating sight. I stared at the white bandages. My mind fractured, ping-ponging violently between the echoes of Una’s voice—“just mess with her”—and the memories of Timothy holding me. In those dark days, when I would wake up screaming from nightmares, my hands desperately searching for something sharp to make the emotional pain physical, Timothy had gripped my wrists. “Nicole! If you die, it’s over for you. But what about me?!” he had wept into my hair. “What are the people who love you supposed to do?!” He had held me so tightly. He sounded so profoundly terrified of losing me. His burning tears had soaked right through my shirt, warming me all the way down to my frozen bones. And so, I had cracked my chest open for him. Between ragged sobs, I told him everything. I told him about the explicit, fabricated rumors Una spread about me. How she framed me for stealing. How she and her friends cornered me in the locker room, dumping buckets of ice water over my head until I was shaking so violently I couldn’t breathe. The stress and physical trauma had triggered severe endometriosis. The pain was so agonizing I had to drop out of high school for a year. I spent six months in and out of the hospital. For years, just hearing the name “Una” was enough to send me into a panic attack. But I gritted my teeth and survived. And Timothy had been there, staying awake until dawn, stroking my hair, whispering, “Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.” Was he ever comforting me? Or was he just collecting data? Gathering stories to share with Una so they could laugh at her masterpiece? I felt physically sick. Across the room, the laptop screen glowed. The little Discord icon was flashing frantically. Timothy had left in such a rush, he forgot to log out. With shaking fingers, I clicked it open. It was a private server. Una was the admin. I scrolled to the very top. I read every single message. Every word. I read how Timothy’s relentless pursuit of me in college wasn’t love at first sight. It was a directive. Una: She got into the same university as you? What a joke. God, I hate her so much. Timothy, can you just pretend to date her? Ruin her and then toss her out. Timothy: You refuse to be my girlfriend, but you’re pushing me onto someone else? You’re brutal, Val. I read how every time I let my guard down, the server would explode with cheers. They took bets on when he would finally sleep with me. I watched the video of him gifting me the electric scooter. I read their comments. God, she’s so pathetic. Crying over a piece of trash like it’s a Mercedes. I saw them mocking the watch I bought him—the one I ate instant noodles for six months to afford. They called it cheap, embarrassing garbage. Line after line of venomous, merciless cruelty carved into my brain. Tears hit the keyboard, pooling between the keys. I scrubbed my face raw with my sleeve and kept reading. Later in the chat, Timothy spoke less. Until recently, when they began demanding the grand finale. The ultimate humiliation to break me permanently. I slumped back in the computer chair, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The air in the room felt thick, unbreathable. I could hear my own ragged breathing, mingling with the audio from the live video call playing in the group chat. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” “Timothy, man, Una is practically throwing herself at you! Don’t leave her hanging!” I stared blankly at the screen. Through the grainy footage of the club’s VIP room, I watched Timothy scoop up a heavily intoxicated Una into his arms. He kicked open the door to a private back room. The cheers and whistles from his friends were deafening, like they were sending a newlywed couple off to their honeymoon suite. Slowly, deliberately, I placed my hands on the keyboard. You disgusting animals. Why don’t you all just rot in hell? I hit send. A second later, the server disconnected. I had been kicked out. My stomach violently rebelled. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up everything in my system, dry-heaving over the toilet until my throat bled. The rain from my youth had never actually stopped. Timothy just held an umbrella over my head for a little while, tricking me into believing the sky had cleared. My phone buzzed on the bathroom tile. I swiped to answer. “You saw it?” Timothy’s voice was breathless. “Yes.” “Wait for me. I’m coming home. Let me explain, I—” “Don’t bother.” I sat exhausted on the cold tile, looking out into the living room we had decorated together. “You don’t need to explain, and you don’t need to come back.” “Timothy. I don’t want to play your game anymore. Just let me go.” “I know I can’t beat you people. But I can hide.” 3. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was agonizing. I finally held the power button and shut it off entirely. I shoved the property deed back into the drawer where I had found it while packing my suitcase. I had always praised Timothy for finding such a cheap, perfect apartment so close to my office. I never would have guessed that he was the owner. The moon hung high and cold, casting a pale light over me as I walked out of the building. The sound of my suitcase wheels rolling against the concrete felt deafening in the dead of night. But it was drowned out by the screech of tires skidding to a halt right in front of me. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Timothy was out of the car in a flash, chest heaving, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “You’re a grown woman pulling a runaway act? Are you five years old? Get in the car. We’re going home.” I turned my head, refusing to look at the fresh, bruising hickey blooming on his neck. I yanked my arm with all my strength, but he wouldn’t let go. “You and I don’t have a home.” He stared at me, his eyes dark. I tried to walk around him, and he hauled me back by the shoulders. “Be rational for one second, okay?” he snapped. “Whatever issues you have with Una are ancient history. How long are you going to hold onto high school drama?” “People need to move forward. You know exactly how good I’ve been to you these past five years. If you leave me, where are you ever going to find someone who treats you like I do?” Ancient history. Of course it was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one waking up screaming. He took the trauma that shattered my mind and permanently altered my body, and brushed it off as “drama.” I stared at him, truly looking at his face. This was the face that used to make my heart skip a beat. How did he look so entirely alien to me now? I suppose the fault was mine. I never really knew him at all. My head throbbed. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. “The keys are under the mat. I didn’t take a single thing you bought me. Except this sweater. And it got torn.” My voice was dead. “Tell me how much it costs. I’ll pay you back.” “You can’t afford it.” Timothy laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Did you really think I bought your clothes off the clearance rack? That was custom-made in Italy. How are you going to pay for it? With your pathetic entry-level salary? With your worthless pride?” “If you’ve got so much backbone, then take it off right now—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Because I had already reached for the hem. One button. Two buttons. “Jesus Christ!” he roared, ripping his own jacket off and violently wrapping it around my shoulders. “Nicole, you have lost your fucking mind!” He shoved me into the passenger seat before I could react, locking the doors from the driver’s side. He drove recklessly, speeding all the way to his real home. A sprawling, gated estate in a neighborhood I had only ever seen in movies. “You’re sleeping here tonight,” he ordered, dragging me into a massive bedroom. I looked around. The walk-in closet was filled with clothes in my exact size. The en-suite bathroom was stocked with the specific, drugstore brands I used. Sitting in the center of the massive king-sized bed was the giant, outrageously expensive stuffed bear I had once looked at in a store window but refused to let him buy. What was this supposed to be? Poison coated in sugar? A temporary anesthetic before the next round of psychological torture? My stomach heaved again. I gagged, my hair sticking to my tear-streaked face. Timothy frowned, stepping toward me, his voice suddenly shifting, laced with a strange urgency. “Nicole… are you…” Are you what? I saw a flicker of absolute elation cross his face, but it was instantly shattered by the sharp, aggressive click of high heels marching down the hardwood hallway. Una threw the bedroom doors open. She glared at me with pure, unfiltered hatred before raising her hand to slap me across the face. A visceral tremor shot through me. My body betrayed me, flinching violently as I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the impact. But the sting never came. Timothy had caught her wrist in mid-air. “What the hell is this?!” Una screamed, her face contorted in rage. “I told you to break her, not marry her! Timothy, did you actually fall in love with this trash?!” “She’s been a manipulative little bitch since we were kids! Stop letting her play you!” Timothy didn’t answer whether he loved me or not. He just stared at Una, his voice dangerously low. “The second you pushed me into her bed, you lost the right to ask me a damn thing.” I sat on the plush carpet, watching them scream at each other. A toxic, deeply entangled lovers’ quarrel. My head was spinning, my skin burning up with a fever. The last thing I heard through the haze was Una sobbing, “This is my room! Why would you put her in my room? You’re just doing this to make me jealous, aren’t you?!” I couldn’t hear the rest. I just smiled a little to myself. I smiled because I really was pathetic. To think, even for a second, that Timothy had an ounce of genuine feeling for me. He was nothing but a master manipulator, playing us both. 4. When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room greeted me. Timothy was sitting by the bed. Dark, heavy bags shadowed his eyes, but a frantic, uncontainable smile stretched across his face. “You’re pregnant.” He reached out, tentatively resting his hand over my stomach. He pulled up the calendar on his phone. “I looked at some dates. What do you think of a spring wedding? We can still do the botanical garden venue you always wanted. I’ll fly a designer out for your dress. You can start looking at silhouettes.” “And as soon as the reception is over, we’re on a plane for the honeymoon. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the Amalfi Coast? We can stay for a month—” He was rambling, completely manic, aggressively painting over the wreckage with promises of a future. I didn’t say a word. I just stared at my phone screen. There was an email from HR. I had been terminated, effective immediately. Orders from the top. I didn’t even have to ask. If it wasn’t Timothy’s doing, it was Una’s family pulling strings. Five years. I had bled for that company for five years. Gone in a single keystroke because I dared to exist in their orbit. A notification popped up. A trending video on TikTok. Una’s face filled the screen. I clicked it. She had a massive following—millions of subscribers who tuned in to watch her ‘day in the life of an heiress’ vlogs. Why did she get to live such a charmed, beautiful life? Did she deserve it? The video currently breaking the internet was her, makeup flawlessly messy, sobbing into the camera about her tragically stolen childhood romance. She talked about how she and Timothy were soulmates. How he rented out entire amusement parks for her birthdays. How he had bought her rooms full of diamonds. And then, she mentioned me. The manipulative, poverty-stricken homewrecker who clawed her way into their inner circle and seduced him away. Within minutes, the comments were a warzone. Thousands of people were threatening to dox me, calling for my head. My hands shook. I glanced at Timothy, who was now on the phone, loudly demanding a wedding planner’s availability. I opened my notes app. I typed everything out. I attached the screenshots from the Discord server. The high school medical records. And I hit post. I watched the likes climb. I watched her loyal fans call my scars fake, accusing me of lying about the bullying. But then, other people—people who remembered us from high school—started chiming in, validating my proof. The tide was turning. Then, the screen refreshed. Post deleted. Una’s team had scrubbed it. Timothy walked back into the room, ending his call, his brow furrowed in disapproval. “Nicole, you need to stop being so impulsive,” he sighed. “Una is an influencer. She has to exaggerate things for views, it’s her job. I wouldn’t let her actually hurt you.” He paused, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Listen. We’re all going to be in the same social circles moving forward. You can’t make things this ugly. Just… go apologize to her. We’ll clear the air, smooth over the high school stuff, and put it behind us.” The corners of my mouth twitched into a terrifyingly empty smile. The void in my chest was so vast, it couldn’t even echo with anger anymore. I felt absolutely nothing. I nodded submissively. I let him dress me. I let him lead me by the hand into the VIP room of the city’s most exclusive restaurant. Timothy pressed a glass of cranberry juice into my hand as we walked in. Across the table sat Una, dripping in designer jewelry, looking at me with victorious, sneering eyes. She tilted her head. “Well? Apologize. Just like in high school. Get on your knees…” The room was packed with their friends. The same faces from the group chat. All of them smirking, waiting for the show. Just like they did when we were teenagers. I walked toward her, slow and deliberate. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I am so sorry, Una. Let me apologize to a worthless, psychotic bitch like you—” I slashed the glass forward, throwing the dark red juice violently into her face. She shrieked, stumbling back, the red liquid dripping down her Chanel blazer, ruining her flawless makeup. Before anyone could react, I grabbed a heavy wine bottle from the table and smashed it over her head, letting the wine pour over her hair. “I apologize for being prettier than you!” I screamed, the numbness shattering into absolute, feral rage. “I apologize for being smarter than you!” “I apologize that the boys you liked always looked at me! I apologize that you had to torture me just to feel like you were worth breathing the same air!” Hands grabbed at me. I didn’t know whose. I didn’t care. I smashed the neck of the bottle against the table and whipped around, pointing the jagged glass at the room. “Whoever touches me is getting cut! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you!” Una was sobbing on the floor. I lunged, wrapping my hand into her extensions, hauling her up, and bringing my hand across her face in a vicious, echoing slap. “Apologize to you? I’d rather die, you piece of trash!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “434817”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Today marks exactly five years since Troy and I fell apart. Five years to the day. I had just stepped into the bakery to check on our inventory for the week. I never expected to run into him here. He was standing at the counter, picking up a custom order. The air in the room seemed to pull tight, vibrating with a heavy, sudden silence. He was the one who broke it. “Happy birthday, Maeve.” It caught me off guard. I offered a polite, hollow thank you and turned toward the kitchen. But just as my hand found the door handle, his voice pulled me back. “What happened back then… I was wrong.” I just smiled. I didn’t say a word in response. Those ghosts he was trying to summon? I buried them a long time ago. 1. Sophie, my shift manager, was in the middle of handing him the neatly tied pastry box when she noticed me. Her face lit up. “Oh, Maeve! You’re here. This is the regular I was telling you about, Mr. Sterling—wait, no, sorry,” she corrected herself with a laugh, “Mr. Thorne—no, wait, I’m terrible with names today. Mr. Vance—ugh, I mean, Mr. Caldwell! Troy Caldwell.” She beamed at him. “He was just telling me that he and his wife are absolutely obsessed with our cakes. He came all the way across town to pick up her birthday cake.” I gave a faint, professional nod of acknowledgment and made to walk past them. But Troy apparently didn’t care for my indifference. He closed the distance between us in two long strides and shoved the pristine white box directly into my hands. “Maeve, this birthday cake… It’s for you.” My brows pulled together. I stared at the box, utterly confused by his game. Before I could ask what the hell he was doing, his phone buzzed violently in his coat pocket. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening, and answered it. He was already walking backward toward the door, holding up a finger to me. “Maeve, I need to talk to you. Just wait for me, okay? Please.” I stood there and watched his tailored wool coat disappear into the Boston wind. My heart didn’t flutter. My pulse didn’t race. There was only a vast, echoing stillness inside my chest. I turned around, walked over to the heavy-duty trash can by the door, and dropped the entire box inside. Looking down at the faint smudge of buttercream that had transferred to my thumb, the realization finally washed over me. It was my birthday. The fifth one since the collapse of us. Back then, a cake had been an impossible luxury. Now, it was just garbage. When I stepped back behind the counter, Sophie came bustling out of the walk-in fridge carrying another identical white box. She looked flustered. “I am so sorry, I grabbed the wrong one! I wanted to surprise you for your birthday.” She opened the box she was holding. My heart sank. This was the cake she had meant to give Troy. A stunning pistachio gateau, the top smoothed to perfection. And piped across it in elegant, dark chocolate lettering: Happy Birthday, Wifey. Sophie leaned against the counter, her eyes gleaming with the kind of innocent, ravenous gossip only a twenty-two-year-old possesses. “I hear his marriage is like, a modern-day fairy tale,” she whispered conspiratorially. “They grew up in the same country club, total blue-blood families. Old money marrying old money. He’s gorgeous, loaded, and totally devoted to her.” She rolled her eyes, leaning in closer. “I also read on one of those local gossip blogs that some trashy homewrecker tried to ruin their marriage a few years ago. Tried everything to get her hooks into his money, but he shut it down. People have no shame, right?” She paused, suddenly realizing the tension in my shoulders. She blinked at me, her curiosity peaking. “Wait, when he said hi to you… do you guys know each other? Oh my god, do you know who the homewrecker was? You have to tell me.” I met Sophie’s bright, expectant eyes. My expression didn’t shift. My voice was as calm as a frozen lake when I finally spoke. “It was me.” I was the shameless mistress who tried to ruin his perfect marriage. 2. The shock on Sophie’s face was instantaneous. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in a small, horrified ‘o’. I just gave her a soft, reassuring smile and told her it was okay. But she couldn’t let it go. Her questions came rapid-fire, wrapped in apologies and wide-eyed disbelief. So, leaning against the flour-dusted prep table, I told her the story of Troy Caldwell. From the very beginning. When I first met Troy, he was nobody. His mother had just passed away from a prolonged illness, his father was drowning in the bottom of a bourbon bottle, and he was a broke kid buckling under tens of thousands of dollars in inherited debt. I was a girl who had clawed her way out of a hyper-traditional, deeply misogynistic household, working dead-end shifts in a city that didn’t care if I lived or died. We were two bruised kids colliding in the cheapest, darkest corner of the city. No money. No safety nets. A birthday cake? We couldn’t even afford to keep the heat on. But back then, Troy would walk two miles in the biting December sleet just to walk me home from my night shift. On the nights I worked overtime, he would make a cheap bowl of instant ramen, give me all the noodles, and drink the broth, smiling and swearing he wasn’t hungry. We were so poor that all we had to offer each other was love. I remember the way he used to hold me in our drafty studio apartment, his arms wrapping around me like a shield against the world. “Maeve, you’re it for me,” he’d whisper into my hair. “You’re my wife. The love of my life. I am going to make something of myself, I swear to God. And when I do, you’ll never have to struggle again. It’ll just be us. Forever.” We worked side by side. We paid off his family’s debts. We scraped together a modest savings, and the suffocating weight of poverty slowly began to lift. Eventually, we got married. Or so I thought. As his career skyrocketed, he was home less and less. The overtime turned into weekend trips, and the weekend trips turned into week-long business travels. But he handed over every single paycheck to me. He begged me to quit my grueling job. He wanted to take care of me. I remember crying, telling him I was terrified I wouldn’t be good enough for the man he was becoming. Troy had looked me dead in the eye, his hands cupping my face. “When I had absolutely nothing, you were the only one who stayed in the trenches with me. From that moment, I swore on my life I would never abandon you. I don’t care how successful I get, Maeve. I’m nothing without you.” That was his gift. The ability to look you in the eyes and make you believe every single word that left his mouth. No one could escape his orbit. Not the girl who met him in the cold. Not the woman who married him. And certainly not the woman who found out he was living a double life. “Cheating?” Sophie gasped, nearly knocking over a jar of sprinkles. “You guys were through hell and back! He cheated on you? With who? That wife he buys cakes for? Wait, so she was the mistress who stole him?” She crossed her arms, fiercely indignant. “That is so sick. They flipped the script and made the media think you were the other woman!” I let out a slow breath. “Actually, they didn’t have to lie about that part.” Because the marriage certificate Troy and I signed? It was a fake. A meticulously forged piece of paper. The woman named Brooke—the old-money heiress—she was his legal, lawful wife. When I was twenty-five, I found out I was pregnant. We were over the moon. I quit my job, just like he wanted, to stay home and prepare for the baby. He threw himself into his work, claiming he needed to build an empire for our child. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for a month. Whenever he came home, utterly exhausted, he would hand me his paycheck, and my heart would break for him. I would rub his shoulders, and he would place his hand over my small, swelling belly. “I have a family now, Maeve,” he’d murmur, his voice dripping with exhaustion and devotion. “I have to work harder. I want you to have the world. I want to build a fortress to keep you both safe.” He used to tell me he loved how soft I was. How unquestioning. How completely I trusted him to handle the outside world. In my tiny, isolated bubble of an apartment, he was God. He controlled the narrative, the finances, the reality. I didn’t understand what he meant by “keeping me safe from the world” back then. I understood it the very next day. I had found a beautiful, gently used bassinet online. I wanted to save money, so I took the train out to one of the wealthiest suburbs—Beacon Hill—to pick it up. When the door opened, I saw a glowing, perfectly manicured woman who had clearly never worked a hard day in her life. And over her shoulder, hanging on the wall of her grand foyer, was a massive, professionally lit family portrait. Staring back at me from the canvas was my husband. That was the day I witnessed the beautiful, untouchable reality of Troy’s actual family. And realized that I was nothing more than a dirty little secret. 3. That afternoon, the earth fell out from under me. I realized my husband—the man supposedly killing himself on business trips—was just spending time at his actual home. I realized the three thousand dollars a month he solemnly handed me was pocket change for a man who had recently inherited his grandfather’s massive real estate trust fund. I realized I was just a pet. A nostalgic plaything he kept tucked away in a cheap apartment to make himself feel grounded. I confronted him. I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled. But I didn’t get a tearful apology. I didn’t get an explanation. I got a cold, legally binding Non-Disclosure Agreement slid across the kitchen island. “Don’t take this to Brooke,” he said, his voice entirely stripped of the warmth I had known for years. “You and she are not the same.” My eyes stung with unshed tears. “What kind of person am I, then, Troy?” He let out a short, cynical laugh. It sounded like ice cracking. “Maeve, knowing the details won’t do you any good. Brooke and I have been matched since we were kids. Our families share boards, portfolios, legacies. You cannot compete with her on a single metric.” He reached out, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen. We can go right back to how things were. You have a good life here. Don’t ruin it.” I stared at the man standing in my kitchen. He looked like my husband, but there was a stranger behind his eyes. How could the boy who once held me like I was his whole world look at me with such calculated, corporate indifference? How did I go from a beloved wife to a disposable whore overnight? I refused the NDA. I refused to compromise. I completely lost my mind. I screamed, grabbing anything within reach and hurling it at the walls. Plates, glasses, the toaster—and finally, I took a hammer to the expensive bassinet I’d dragged home. I collapsed amid the shattered glass and splintered wood, my hair stuck to my wet, flushed face, gasping for air. Troy didn’t even flinch. He just looked at the wreckage of the bassinet, adjusted his cuffs, and said, “That piece cost me ten thousand dollars.” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. I understood. Ten thousand dollars was a number I couldn’t comprehend. I shouldn’t have offended him. I shouldn’t have made him angry. But the grief, the betrayal, and the pregnancy hormones became a lethal cocktail. If he wanted quiet, I would give him a hurricane. If he wanted to protect Brooke from the truth, I would make sure the whole world knew. I posted everything online. Photos, texts, the fake marriage license. But I had underestimated the power of true wealth. With one phone call, his PR machine crushed me. The narrative spun so violently I got whiplash. My personal information was leaked. I was painted as an unhinged, predatory stalker trying to extort a beloved local philanthropist. Troy released a polished, sympathetic public statement. “This young woman has been struggling with severe delusions and has harassed my family for years. We ask the public for privacy and urge people not to direct hate toward my wife.” He publicly affirmed that Brooke was the only woman he had ever loved. He knew exactly what the internet mob would do to me. He knew I would receive death threats, that I wouldn’t be able to leave my apartment safely. He didn’t care. He just needed to appease Brooke’s family. My parents—who had only ever seen me as a piggy bank for my younger brother anyway—called to formally disown me. I became a national joke. A cautionary tale. Meanwhile, Troy played the stoic, protective husband for the cameras. He came to my apartment one last time, his tone dripping with the exhausted patience of a man negotiating with a hostage. “Do you understand now, Maeve?” he asked, stepping over a broken plate. “Your apartment, your groceries, your so-called dignity… it all comes from my bank account. Without me, you are a ghost. Like I said, just be a good girl, and we can go back to normal. Is that so hard?” Yes. It was. I couldn’t share my bed with a man who had another wife, another life, another reality. If I couldn’t fight him, I would run. Seven months pregnant, I packed a duffel bag and tried to vanish. I tried Greyhound buses. Amtrak. Cheap red-eye flights. Every single time, his private security intercepted me before I could leave the city limits. He had me brought back to a high-security penthouse downtown. He sat next to me on a velvet sofa, reached out, and pressed his cold palm against my swollen stomach. “Why won’t you just behave, Maeve?” he whispered, his eyes devoid of light. “I can give you a life most people only dream of. Why are you throwing it away?” I didn’t want penthouses or allowances. I just wanted the boy who shared a bowl of cheap noodles with me on a Tuesday night. But that boy was dead. And Troy didn’t care what I wanted. He locked the door and kept me prisoner. I told Sophie all of this in a flat, even tone. By the time I paused, tears were streaming down her face, ruining her eyeliner. She choked back a sob. “What… what happened next?” What happened next was that Brooke found out where he was keeping me. She bypassed security. She came into the penthouse. And in the chaotic, screaming blur of a physical fight, I went into premature labor. 4. The baby didn’t take a single breath. He was gone before he even entered the world. For the first time since the facade shattered, Troy looked at me with something resembling guilt. He stood at the foot of my hospital bed, staring at my paper-white face, and lowered his voice. “Maeve… Brooke crossed a line this time,” he murmured. “But you have to understand, she’s been incredibly sheltered. She’s never dealt with anything like this. It triggered a panic attack. I’ll apologize on her behalf. And I will compensate you.” His version of compensation was a check for ten thousand dollars left on my bedside table. It was less than the cost of the Cartier bracelet currently dangling from Brooke’s wrist. I didn’t even have the energy to scream. I didn’t need his security guards to lock me up anymore. I went back to a small, dark apartment and curled into a ball, hollowed out, a body completely emptied of its soul. Troy didn’t bother checking on me. He was too busy doing damage control for his real wife. Brooke had been “traumatized” by the sight of my blood on her shoes. He canceled his meetings, flew her to a resort in St. Barts, and showered her in diamonds to calm her nerves. It was as if the violent confrontation—and the tiny, lifeless body of my son—had never existed. The man who used to press his ear to my stomach and sing to my baby forgot him the moment the heart monitor flatlined. The man who promised me a safe harbor was the one who drowned me. But that wasn’t even the end of it. Somehow, rumors leaked about Brooke’s involvement in my miscarriage. The society blogs started turning on her. And just like always, Troy couldn’t stand to see a single scratch on his wife’s reputation. So, naturally, I was served up on a silver platter. Using the ashes of my son as leverage, he forced me to go on a live stream and issue a groveling, public apology. His PR team wrote the script. I had to look into the camera and confess that I used my pregnancy to extort the Caldwell family. That I had stormed their property in a manic rage, and Brooke had merely pushed me in self-defense. That I killed my own child out of greed. They even painted Brooke as a saint. The press release noted her “deep Christian charity” in offering to pay my medical bills out of pity. Troy held a press conference shortly after. Standing at a podium, looking devastatingly handsome, he outlined my supposed manipulations. He dramatically pledged his undying loyalty to Brooke, announcing to the world that to prove his devotion, he had undergone a vasectomy. Standing there in the wings of that press conference, listening to a room full of journalists applaud him while the internet tore me to shreds, calling me a murderer… something inside my brain simply snapped. The pressure was too much. The walls closed in. I bolted out the side doors, ran into the freezing November night, and threw myself off the Longfellow Bridge into the icy, black waters of the Charles River. For the very first time, a crack of genuine, unfiltered panic broke across Troy’s face. He sprinted after me, his dress shoes slipping on the wet pavement, catching my wrist right as I vaulted over the railing. “Maeve, don’t do this!” he screamed. He promised he would cut ties with me. He promised he and Brooke would never, ever come near me again. But I didn’t want his promises. I just wanted it all to stop. I wrenched my arm out of his grip and let gravity take me. It was a miracle I survived. A passing rowing team pulled me out. But the physical trauma, the hypothermia, and the damage from the premature birth ravaged my body. I was told I would never be able to conceive again. I paused the story there and offered Sophie a small, genuine smile. “Actually, not being able to have kids is a blessing in disguise. It guarantees I’ll never replace him. I’ll never forget the one I lost.” “Everyone else got to move on and forget him. But I get to keep him.” “That first year in this city… I woke up screaming almost every night. I was plagued by dreams of a baby who never opened his eyes, and of Troy’s face. My mental health was so shattered I couldn’t hold down a normal job. So, I started baking. It required precision. It forced me to stay present.” “When I couldn’t sleep at 3 a.m., I baked cakes. And slowly, the panic attacks stopped. My hands stopped shaking. Now, I have this shop. I have a quiet life.” My voice was steady, but Sophie was completely falling apart. She was sobbing, wiping her face with a kitchen towel. “Maeve, that’s… that’s a nightmare. Oh my god, he is a monster. If I ever see him again, I swear I’ll take a rolling pin to his head.” Right on cue, the little brass bell above the bakery door chimed. The door pushed open. Troy stood on the threshold. He was holding a sleek, expensive-looking gift bag. He stared at me, his eyes dark, desperate, and terrifyingly certain. 5. “Maeve. I filed for divorce.” Sophie sucked in a sharp breath, her head whipping toward me. I didn’t miss a beat. I gave him a curt, polite nod. “Then I wish you the best of luck in your next chapter.” Troy physically flinched. He was so used to women hanging on his every word, so accustomed to my total, pathetic devotion, that my deadpan reaction scrambled his brain. “Maeve, I did it for you.” He took a heavy step toward the counter. “What happened back then… I know I destroyed you. I’ve been looking for you for five years. I want to make it right. I want to compensate you.” I finally lifted my chin and looked him dead in the eyes. Five years had passed, but he hadn’t changed a bit. Still the same devastatingly earnest eyes. Still speaking in grand, sweeping declarations designed to make a woman feel like the center of the universe. But I was no longer the girl who felt like a queen just because he shared his ramen broth with me. “Mr. Caldwell, I don’t need your compensation.” “And like I said earlier, I’ve forgotten the past.” He clearly didn’t believe me. His jaw worked, and he opened his mouth to argue, but I had already turned my back, heading for the swinging doors of the kitchen. Sophie, bless her heart, immediately stepped in front of the counter, blocking his view of me. “Sir, my boss has a business to run. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Troy stood frozen in the middle of the bakery. He stared at the swinging door, his voice dropping to a raw, ragged whisper. “Maeve… our son. I haven’t forgotten him.” My foot stopped inches from the kitchen tile. I forced myself to take the next step. I pushed through the doors. Just as the heavy wood swung shut behind me, I heard him call out into the quiet shop. “I dream about him. For five years. Every single month, I see him in my sleep.” I leaned my back heavily against the door, closing my eyes. My fingers dug into the thick canvas of my apron straps, knuckles turning white. He dreams about him once a month and thinks he knows what pain is? I dream about him every time I close my eyes. And my son never even got to look at the sky. … Troy didn’t let my coldness deter him. From that day on, he became a fixture at the bakery. Sometimes he bought a croissant. Sometimes just a black coffee. He would sit at the small table in the corner, nursing his drink, just quietly watching me work. At first, Sophie treated him like an active bomb threat. But when he didn’t make a scene, she slowly let her guard down, though she kept a steady stream of commentary going in my ear. “Maeve, what is his endgame? It’s been five years. Where was this energy when you were actually dying?” I never answered. I just kept my eyes on the turntable, carefully piping buttercream roses. The frosting formed delicate, precise ridges under my fingertips. Just like the life I had rebuilt for myself. Beautiful. Fragile. But whole. On the seventh day, Troy walked in holding a thick, leather-bound photo album. He walked straight to the counter and slid it across the glass display case. “Maeve. Just look.” I didn’t move. He opened the heavy cover. The very first page held a faded, glossy sonogram. My breath hitched. I recognized it instantly. It was the baby. My baby. Troy’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about him all these years. I kept everything. Every ultrasound printout. The empty bottle of prenatal vitamins you used to keep by the sink. And…” He swallowed hard. “Those little shoes you bought.” A violent tremor shot through my fingers. The shoes. I had bought them at a thrift store the week I found out I was pregnant. They were pale blue, with a tiny, ridiculous rabbit embroidered on the toes. I remembered Troy laughing at them, asking me what we would do if the baby was a girl. We’ll save them for the next one, I had said. There was never a next one.

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I was about five seconds away from dumping my sad, discounted Caesar salad over my co-worker’s head. Madison had been running her mouth for ten minutes, and frankly, I’d had enough. She was currently trashing the intern she’d just started dating, calling him a “total mama’s boy,” and—get this—trying to pawn him off on me. “I’m serious, Cass,” she said, picking at her manicure. “He has to ask his mother for everything. He literally FaceTimed her to ask what he should order for dinner on our first date. The internet says guys like that are a death trap. If you marry into a family like that, you’re just signing up to be a free live-in maid for some overbearing old lady.” Then came the kicker. She smirked at me, her eyes glinting with a mean sort of pity. “Actually, since you grew up in that group home, you never really had the whole ‘motherly love’ experience, right? You’d probably love catering to a demanding old woman. It’d be like a hobby for you.” I felt the blood rush to my face. My grip tightened on the plastic container. But just as I was about to let the ranch dressing fly, a line of glowing text flickered across my vision. [CASS, GIRL, DON’T DO IT! DON’T BLOW THIS! That ‘mama’s boy’ is the only son of the richest woman in the city. She’s insanely generous, fiercely protective, and worth billions!] Before I could blink, another one scrolled past: [The ‘old lady’ is only ‘demanding’ because she insists on buying her daughter-in-law penthouses and custom Porsches. She treats her son’s partners like her own flesh and blood!] And a third: [Relax, this mean girl is just a stepping stone. Once the billionaire mom finds out her son switched girls, she’s going to go all-in on Cass. We love a ‘Rich Mother-in-Law’ trope!] I froze. The salad stayed in the bowl. Slowly, I lowered it and pushed it toward Madison with a tight, serene smile. “You know what, Madison? You’re right. I’ve always wanted to be part of a family. Send me his contact info.” It wasn’t about the money. Not really. It was just that, more than anything in the world, I really, really wanted a mom. 01 To break the ice after he accepted my request, I scrolled through Adrian’s social media. His latest post was from three minutes ago. The location tag was a 24-hour emergency vet. It was a photo of a silver British Shorthair in an oxygen tank, tangled in tubes and wires. “Emergency! Snowy has had a sudden reaction and needs an immediate blood transfusion. Type A. The blood bank is empty. If anyone has a healthy cat nearby, please help. I’ll do anything.” A line of text drifted past my eyes: [The Male Lead refuses to use blood from ‘blood farms.’ He’s such a good guy. How could the other girl give him up?!] Blood farms. The thought made my stomach turn. I looked down at my big, goofy orange tabby, Marmalade, who was currently face-deep in a tin of premium tuna. I snapped a photo and sent it to Adrian. “My cat is twelve pounds and healthy as a horse. I’m ten minutes away. We’re coming.” When I arrived at the clinic, Adrian was slumped on a plastic bench, head in his hands. He looked like he was vibrating with tension. At the sound of my footsteps, he looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale. His high-end suit was rumpled, his tie loosened as if he’d been clawing at his throat. “You’re the one?” he asked, his voice a gravelly wreck. I handed him the carrier. “Save the cat first.” The next thirty minutes were a blur of needles, tests, and the rhythmic hum of the oxygen machine. I sat a few feet away from him. He kept glancing at the swinging doors of the surgery suite, his knuckles white as he gripped his knees. A nurse finally stepped out. “The cross-match is a success. Type A. We’re starting the transfusion now.” Adrian stood up so fast his knees slammed into the bench with a sickening thud. He didn’t even flinch. He strode over to me, fumbling with his phone. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you. Let me venmo you ten thousand for the trouble—more if you need it. For the ‘nutritional recovery’ of your cat.” His hands were shaking so hard he kept mistyping. I reached out and gently pushed his phone down. “No.” “This is a life-saving favor,” he insisted. “I have to pay you.” I pulled Marmalade into my lap, stroking his thick orange fur. “I’m doing this for good karma for my cat. If I take your money, it taints the kindness. Marmalade is happy to help a friend.” Adrian went still, staring at me as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The “Surgery in Progress” light flickered off. The vet walked out, pulling off his mask. “He’s out of the woods. We’ll keep him overnight for observation, but he’s going to be fine.” Adrian let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He leaned against the wall, the tension finally draining out of his shoulders. “I owe you everything,” he said, his gaze softening as it landed on me. “Wait… why did you add me on WeChat earlier today?” My phone screen lit up. It was Madison. A string of toxic messages: “Well? Did he ask his mommy where to take you for coffee yet?” “Only a weirdo like you could handle a freak like that.” I didn’t have a privacy screen. Adrian’s eyes tracked the words. I didn’t try to hide it. I’ve never seen the point in lying when the truth is right there. “Madison recommended you to me,” I said. “She told me you were a ‘mama’s boy.’ Said you couldn’t breathe without her permission and that whoever married you would just be a glorified servant.” Adrian’s face turned to stone. The air in the hallway turned cold. The glowing text flared up: [CANNON FODDER IS SO STUPID! You can’t just say that to his face! You’ve ruined it!] [RIP Cass. Her IQ is literally zero. Who tells a guy he’s a mama’s boy on the first meeting?!] My heart skipped a beat as I watched his expression harden. “Just take it as a joke,” I added quickly, trying to smooth the edges. Adrian looked down, silent. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, he let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. He pulled out his phone, found Madison’s contact, and hit Block and Delete without a second thought. “She’s half-right,” he said, looking me straight in the eye. “I do share everything with my mother. I value her opinion more than anyone’s. But my mother is not the kind of woman who wants a servant. She wants a daughter.” He took a step closer, invading my personal space in a way that felt strangely grounding. “You’re honest. And you’re kind,” he said, his voice sincere. “Can I officially ask you out? For real this time?” I stood there, my brain stalling. “I’m not doing this to spite her,” he added. “I’m doing this because I think you’re incredible.” The text in the air went haywire: [Wait, this isn’t the script! He’s supposed to walk away in a huff!] [Why is he into her?! This wasn’t in the spoilers!] I watched the chaos of the comments and then looked at Adrian. Rich, kind, loves his cat, and has a billionaire mother who supposedly wants to spoil her son’s girlfriend? I bit back a smile and looked into his hopeful eyes. “I’d like that,” I said. 02 Adrian’s way of courting me was clumsy but relentless. Every morning at 7:00 AM, a hot oat milk latte and a fresh almond croissant appeared at the office front desk for me. At noon, a thermal bag arrived at my cubicle containing a three-course meal—perfectly balanced, with fruit pre-sliced. At 6:00 PM, his car was idling at the curb, rain or shine. Madison watched this for a week, her face turning a sour shade of green. “Is he for real? All this for a mama’s boy?” I ignored her and took a sip of the slow-simmered beef stew Adrian had sent. It was still the perfect temperature. Adrian’s “mama’s boy” traits were exactly as advertised. He’d FaceTime me to ask what I wanted for lunch. He’d FaceTime me to decide which movie we should see. He even held up his phone in a bakery once so his mom could help him choose which flavor of cake I’d like best. One afternoon, while we were at a high-end mall, he pulled out his phone again. I leaned into the frame and waved. “Hi, Mrs. Norton.” The woman on the screen froze, then her face broke into a massive, radiant smile. “Oh! Is this Cassidy? Adrian hasn’t stopped talking about you! You’re even prettier than he said!” She looked to be in her early fifties, elegant but with warm crinkles around her eyes. Her smile wasn’t the polite, icy grin of a socialite—it was genuine. It reached her eyes. “Sweet girl, have you eaten? It’s getting chilly out, make sure you’re wearing enough layers, okay?” Sweet girl. My hand tightened on the phone. No one had ever called me that. Not with that tone. After the call ended, Adrian noticed my eyes were rimmed with red. “What’s wrong?” he panicked, hovering over me. “Did she say something? She can be a bit much, I know, I’ll talk to her—” “No,” I whispered, blinking hard. “It’s just… I grew up in the system. I don’t have parents. I don’t even know what they looked like.” The text in the air exploded. [An orphan and a billionaire? The mom is going to throw a check at her face and tell her to get lost.] [Old money families hate ‘nobodies.’ Just wait for the rejection.] [There’s no way a CEO mother accepts a girl with no background.] Adrian didn’t say a word. We were standing in the middle of a crowded atrium, surrounded by the noise of shoppers and mall music. He reached out and gently brushed a stray tear from my cheek. “The fact that you grew up to be who you are, all on your own… that makes you more impressive than anyone I know.” That weekend, he told me he was taking me home for dinner. As the car turned into a long, tree-lined driveway in a gated community, I knew I was in over my head. The lawn was manicured to perfection, leading up to a sprawling limestone estate with a fountain out front. “This is… your house?” “Yeah.” I looked down at the $20 fruit basket in my lap. I’d bought it at the local grocery store. It felt pathetic. My palms started to sweat. When the car stopped, I couldn’t move. Adrian came around to open my door, but I gripped the basket like a life raft. “Adrian, this gift is… it’s embarrassing. I should have gotten something else.” “My mom doesn’t care about that stuff.” Before he could finish, the massive front doors swung open. A woman in a stunning silk wrap dress and heels came flying out. I recognized the smile from the FaceTime call. She bypassed her own son entirely and pulled me into a suffocatingly warm hug. “My darling! You’re finally here!” “Mom, don’t scare her—” Adrian started. Violet Norton didn’t even look at him. “Hush, you.” She pulled back, looking me up and down with a frown. “You’re too thin. Are you eating enough?” Then, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and pressed them into my hand. “There’s a penthouse downtown. Three thousand square feet, fully furnished, top-of-the-line everything. It’s yours. Just a little ‘welcome to the family’ gift. Tell me if you need anything else.” I turned into a statue. “Mrs. Norton, I… I can’t. This is too much—” “Call me Mom,” she said, her expression turning stern. “’Mrs. Norton’ is for strangers. If you don’t take them, it means you don’t think I’m doing a good job as a mother.” The glowing text went silent. […] [I have nothing to say.] [Wait, so the mother-in-law is actually a saint? This isn’t a trap?] Standing at the door of a mansion, holding a cheap fruit basket and the keys to a multi-million dollar condo, my nose crinkled and the tears started falling. I looked a mess. Violet pulled me back into her arms, patting my back as if I were a wounded bird. “Oh, honey, don’t cry. You’re home now.” Twenty-three years. It took twenty-three years for someone to say that to me. I gripped the keys and managed a shaky, broken whisper. “Thanks… Mom.” I was never letting this family go. 03 Monday morning, Adrian’s car was parked in front of my office like clockwork. He hopped out to open my door and swapped my regular coffee for a thermos of herbal tea his mother had insisted on brewing for me. Madison came charging out of the building, intercepting us. “Adrian! Can we talk? I was just being immature before—” Adrian didn’t even give her a glance. He ushered me toward the entrance, leaving Madison standing on the sidewalk, her face flushing a deep, humiliated red. Suddenly, a line of gold text flashed: [DON’T GET TOO COZY! The ‘Childhood Friend’ returns today! She’s fragile, she’s sickly, and she’s here to wreck the relationship!] I stumbled slightly. A childhood friend? But the reality was nothing like the comments predicted. Her name was Gia. She’d been abroad for years receiving treatment for a chronic condition. She was soft-spoken and sweet. When we met, she grabbed my arm excitedly. “Adrian said you were special. I’ve been dying to meet the girl who finally tamed him!” Adrian stood by, looking completely relaxed. “Gia’s like a sister to me. She’s had a rough time with her health, so I hope you guys can be friends.” There was no drama. No “it should have been me” glares. Gia even started stopping by my office for lunch. We talked about skincare and gossip; she brought me snacks from Europe, and I showed her the best local hole-in-the-wall spots. The comments were quiet for a few days. But Madison wasn’t. I didn’t realize she’d seen me enter my passcode. I didn’t realize how long she’d been watching. That afternoon, I had a meeting on the 17th floor and left my phone at my desk. When I came back forty minutes later, my screen was lit up. It was open to my chat with Gia. The last message sent from my account read: “Gia, I found this amazing hidden cafe on the B3 level of the building. Come meet me!” Gia had replied with a heart emoji: “On my way!” B3. The entire building knew the B3 basement had been abandoned for two years. The lights were broken, and there was zero cell service. My heart plummeted. I reached for my phone to call her, to tell her it wasn’t me— A massive red block of text slammed into my vision: [YES! THE SCHEME IS SET! The Mean Girl dropped the fire shutters! The Childhood Friend has severe claustrophobia and asthma! She’s a goner, and Cass is the prime suspect!] The blood drained from my face. I didn’t even grab my bag. I sprinted for the stairs, skipping steps, my heart hammering against my ribs. The elevator was too slow. I flew down the concrete stairwell from the 12th floor. My legs felt like jelly, and I slammed my knee into a railing, but I didn’t stop. Gia has asthma. Closed space. No signal. Alone. She could die. When I hit B3, the lights were out. The only glow came from a flickering green emergency sign. The heavy iron fire shutters had been triggered, sealing the hallway shut. From behind the metal door, I heard it. A faint, wet wheeze. “Gia!” I screamed, pounding on the metal. “Gia, can you hear me?!” No answer. Only the sound of someone struggling for air. I lunged for the nearby fire station and smashed the glass with my bare hand. Shards sliced into my palm, blood slicking my wrist, but I didn’t feel it. I grabbed the heavy fire extinguisher and swung it like a sledgehammer at the lock of the shutter. Every strike sent a jar of pain up my arm. My grip was slipping because of the blood, so I wiped my hand on my shirt and swung again. The seventh hit, the lock groaned. The eleventh hit, it snapped. I threw the extinguisher aside and shoved the shutters up with everything I had. Gia was collapsed on the concrete, her lips tinged blue, her chest barely moving. I dropped to my knees, ignored the searing pain in my palms, and started CPR while fumbling for my phone to call 911. “B3 basement… asthma attack… she’s not breathing… hurry!” Compressions. Breaths. Compressions. I don’t know how long I did it. My arms went numb. Finally, Gia let out a ragged, whistling gasp. She was breathing. The paramedics arrived minutes later. And so did Adrian. He looked at Gia on the stretcher, his face a mask of horror. “What happened?!” I opened my mouth to explain, but a sharp voice cut through the air. “It was her!” Madison pushed through the crowd, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I saw her! I saw the messages on her phone luring Gia down here! She was jealous of how close Gia and Adrian were. She tried to kill her!” She turned to Adrian, tears streaming down her face. “Adrian, I tried to tell you. Someone from her background… she’s not as innocent as she looks!” The whispers started immediately. “She tried to kill someone for a paycheck?” “Typical orphan behavior. No morals.” Adrian took my phone. He scrolled through the messages, his hand shaking. “Did you send this?” he asked, his voice low and vibrating with hurt. “No,” I said, looking him in the eye. “Then how do you explain this?” Madison sobbed. “Look at her hands! They’re covered in blood! She probably locked the door herself and then played the hero when she realized she’d get caught!” Adrian closed his eyes. He handed the phone back to me without another word and climbed into the ambulance with Gia. As the doors slammed shut, he didn’t look back. I stood in the dim light of the basement, my hands dripping red. The comments flooded back: [The perfect frame-up! Cass is done for!] [She saved the girl but lost the guy. Talk about a backfire.] I looked down at my bleeding palms. The siren faded into the distance.

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Three in the morning. I was a ghost of myself, dragging my body toward my apartment after another soul-crushing shift at the office. The motion-sensor lights in the stairwell were on their last legs, flickering with a dying, stuttering rhythm. I’d barely cleared the first two steps when I heard it: the heavy, rhythmic thud-thud of footsteps behind me. My heart didn’t just beat; it lunged into my throat. I white-knuckled the strap of my laptop bag and bolted upward. The strange thing was, those heavy steps only followed for a flight or two. Then, they stopped. In their place came the sharp, elegant clack-clack-clack of high heels hitting the concrete. “Just a neighbor,” I whispered, a desperate prayer to the empty air. I forced my breathing to slow, fumbling in my bag for my keys. That’s when the world broke. Translucent lines of text began to drift across my vision, glowing like a low-latency Twitch stream. [Look! There she is! The lead in that legendary cold case!] [Don’t stop, you idiot! Run! The killer is right behind you! He’s got heels on his hands to mimic a woman’s walk!] [Women living alone have zero survival instincts. Walking home solo in the middle of the night? She’s practically asking for a target on her back.] 1 I froze. My brain stalled, trying to process the impossible subtitles hovering in the air. Was I… the victim they were talking about? Before I could wrap my head around the “how,” the clicking of those heels grew louder. Closer. Rapid. I didn’t stay to find out. I sprinted the last half-flight, dove into my apartment, and slammed the deadbolt home. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely pull the safety chain. The text was still there, scrolling across the grain of my wooden door. [He’s not just a killer; he’s a total freak. This case stayed cold for decades because he murdered her and literally bricked her into the walls of his new house. They didn’t find her remains until he died and the property was sold.] [The killer is a perfectionist. He’s been staking her out for days. He finally got his window tonight; he’s not giving up.] [So stupid. She hasn’t even called the cops. She deserves what’s coming.] [Ugh… can we not with the victim-blaming?] The “comments” snapped me out of my trance. I lunged for my phone and dialed 911. Heart hammering against my ribs, I pressed my ear to the door. Sure enough, I heard it—the surreal, sickening shuffle of leather dress shoes mixed with the sharp clack of heels, pacing right outside my entryway. I remembered my doorbell camera. With trembling fingers, I pulled up the feed on my phone. The image made my blood turn to ice. A man was there, fully masked, crouched on all fours like a predatory insect. He had dress shoes on his feet and a pair of red pumps over his hands. He was staring—unmoving, unblinking—directly at my door. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob. He lingered for a few more seconds, then began to crawl up the stairs, disappearing from the camera’s view. I waited, my lungs burning from holding my breath. Just as I started to exhale, he reappeared. But this time, he was different. He had stripped off his shoes. In just his socks, he moved with the silence of a shadow, gliding back to my door. He was standing right there. Inches away. Separated only by a slab of wood. My knees gave out. I collapsed into a heap, my strength vanishing. The camera feed wasn’t real-time—it lagged by a few seconds. Driven by a primal need to know where he was right now, I forced myself up and peered through the peephole. I gasped, reeling back. A single, bloodshot eye was staring back at me through the glass, wide and brimming with pure, concentrated malice. 2 The police were still minutes away. In this silence, minutes were an eternity. I had to survive. The sheer terror transformed into a jagged spike of adrenaline. I grabbed everything—the heavy bookshelf, the kitchen table, the entryway bench—and dragged them against the door, barricading myself in. I kept the monitor open, tracking him. He paced for a while, then finally, he seemed to retreat into the shadows of the hallway. I’m safe, I thought. I slid to the floor, my back against the barricade, gasping for air. My shirt was plastered to my skin with cold sweat. The text scrolled again. [Wait, why is this different? Wasn’t she supposed to be garroted from behind before she even reached the door?] [The lead seems to know. She blocked the door. She’s changing the script.] [Blocking the door won’t matter. She’s dead anyway.] [Can you guys at least hope for a win for once?] I stared at the words. The “plot” could be changed. But according to these… viewers… I was still marked for death. But how? The windows were locked. The door was a fortress. The killer was gone. Why did they sound so certain? He’s been staking you out for days, the text had said. What did I ever do to this man? I’d been living at the office for a week finishing the Q3 reports. Tonight was the first time I’d even come home to sleep. [Oh god, he’s inside. I can’t watch!] [I’m crying. She worked so hard to block that door, and he’s still going to get her.] [It’s like filling out a whole Scantron and still failing the exam…] [Seriously, what did she do to him? To make him work this hard to kill her?] [Nobody knows. When they found her body, the killer was already dead. The secret died with him. It’s starting! It’s starting! Eyes closed!] Inside? How could he be inside? Then, the realization hit me like a physical blow. The bedroom balcony. The neighboring apartment shared a narrow ledge. It was a jump, a dangerous one, but for someone this obsessed, it was a breeze. My scalp crawled. I scrambled to push the furniture away, to get out, to run into the hallway—the very place I had just fled. But I had done too good a job. I was trapped by my own barricade. Click. The bedroom door creaked open. I didn’t escape. I felt the thin, wire-like cord bite into the skin of my throat. As the world turned black and my lungs screamed for oxygen, I heard him. He was humming a soft, upbeat little tune, savoring the rhythm of my final struggle. 3 I snapped awake. I was standing in the mouth of a narrow alleyway. At the far end sat the rusted iron gates of my apartment complex. I was alive. I clutched my throat, gasping, the phantom sensation of the wire still burning into my flesh. I realized, with a jarring clarity, that I had been reset. Reborn. This alley was a trap. It was the only way into the complex, flanked by high brick walls. If he wanted me, this was where he’d wait. Was he behind me? Was he already tucked into a corner of the courtyard? I reached for my phone to call 911, but my thumb hovered over the screen. If he was right behind me, a phone call would trigger a “nothing to lose” attack. As I hesitated, the text flickered back into existence. [Is this the cold case? The one where she was found in the wall decades later?] [The killer is literally right behind her right now. This is terrifying.] My blood ran cold. I forced myself not to look back. In the previous timeline, he waited until I was inside. He wanted the privacy of the building to handle the “disposal.” If he killed me here, in the alley, the risk of a witness was too high. The building was old. No cameras in the halls. A dying security system. It was a killer’s playground. I was “safe” for the next sixty seconds, but as soon as I crossed that threshold, the clock started again. I began to walk, my legs feeling like leaden weights. [I wish I could jump into the screen and tell her to run!] [Running doesn’t help. Single woman living alone—the deck is stacked against her. If she dodges this guy, there’s always the next one.] [Look at Mr. Cynical over here. Shut up and let us watch!] I couldn’t run. I had to be smarter. I needed a witness. A protector. If the killer saw I wasn’t alone, he’d pull back. I couldn’t call the police yet—what would I say? “A man is walking behind me”? They’d arrive, he’d vanish, and I’d be labeled a hysteric while he waited for tomorrow night. No. I needed a deterrent. It was the middle of the night. My friends all lived uptown. Then I remembered Tyler. Tyler was the son of Mrs. Henderson, the lady who lived directly below me. He was a professional MMA coach—built like a tank and twice as tough. He’d been staying with his mom for the last week, helping her pack. A few days ago, he’d stopped me in the hall to give me a ceramic vase they didn’t want to move. He’d been friendly, almost hovering, and we’d exchanged numbers. In the last timeline, I remembered hearing a door click shut downstairs right before I died. He was awake. I shot him a text, my fingers flying. Tyler, please. Someone is following me in the alley. I’m scared. Are you awake? The reply was instant. Stay calm. I’m coming down to the gate now. I’d like to see some prick try to touch you while I’m there. The flickering streetlights overhead hummed, casting long, distorted shadows. I tucked my chin into my jacket and quickened my pace. 4 When I reached the gate, Tyler was there. He looked imposing in a heavy hoodie, leaning against the brickwork. The relief was so sharp it was almost painful. I hurried to him, and as I stepped into his shadow, the floating text vanished. The “plot” had shifted. I had survived the encounter. Tyler’s eyes were locked on the darkness behind me. He didn’t even look at me; he just started walking past me, his jaw set in a hard line of fury. “Tyler, wait!” I grabbed his arm. “Are you crazy?” “Don’t stop me,” he growled. “I’m going to teach this creep a lesson he won’t forget. He’ll be calling me ‘sir’ by the time I’m done with him.” I pulled harder, dragging him toward the stairs. “No. Just get me inside. Please.” I hadn’t told him it was a serial killer. I’d just said “stalker.” If Tyler went out there and got knifed, or if he just beat the guy up, it would only escalate things. Besides, I had no proof. I changed the subject to distract him. “Is your mom back yet?” Tyler’s face soured. Mentioning Martha Henderson always hit a nerve. “Who knows? She’s probably staying at a motel to ‘make a point’ to me and my dad. It’s pathetic. She thinks if she disappears for a month, we’ll suddenly start groveling.” He rolled his eyes. “It won’t work. Neither of us cares. She’ll realize she’s wrong and crawl back in a few days.” I frowned. “Tyler, she’s been gone for a month. Have you even tried to call the hospitals? Or the police?” He waved a dismissive hand. “She’s a grown woman. What’s going to happen to her? Besides, she was never exactly ‘Mother of the Year.’ My dad raised me. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be in jail or dead.” In my memory, Martha was anything but distant. She was fiery, sure, but she’d always been incredibly attentive to Tyler. She didn’t seem like the “absentee” type. 5 “Maybe you’re misjudging her?” I suggested softly. Tyler let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “My mother is a tiger, Mia. And not the good kind. She has a temper that could level a building. My dad told me she almost smothered me in my crib when I was a baby. If he hadn’t walked in and stopped her, I wouldn’t be here.” A voice cut through the air from the landing above, stopping Tyler mid-sentence. “Tyler!” We both looked up. A man was standing there, bathed in the dim yellow glow of the hallway light. Tyler’s face brightened. “Speak of the devil. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.” My heart skipped a beat. I’d been so caught up in the conversation I hadn’t realized someone had been following us up the stairs. But when I saw it was David, Tyler’s father, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I’d lived in this building for two years, but Martha had always lived here alone. This was the first time I’d actually met David in person. He was exactly as the neighbors described: distinguished, soft-spoken, and radiating a calm, gentle energy. David stepped down toward us. His voice was firm but lacked any real edge of anger. He looked at Tyler with a sort of weary, indulgent smile. “How many times have I told you not to talk about your mother like that?” He turned to me, his expression softening into one of genuine concern. “She might have had her reasons back then, Tyler. Even if she made a mistake in a moment of weakness, you owe her your understanding.” I felt a small prickle of unease. On the surface, he was defending her. But why did it feel like he was actually reinforcing the idea that she was unstable? Before I could analyze the feeling, we arrived at my door. As I reached for my keys, the translucent text flickered back to life. [Wait… why is the victim walking with the killer?] [This is sick. He’s giving her a false sense of security before the kill. Look at him smile. He loves this.] [Don’t go in there! Don’t stay near them! You’re walking into your own grave!] [No wonder she died so horribly. She literally invited the murderer into her home.] 6 A wave of nausea rolled over me. The safety I’d felt seconds ago vanished, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. My neck felt like a rusted gear as I slowly turned to look at the two men standing behind me. The killer was one of them. Last time, the killer had gotten in through the balcony. He must have come from Martha’s apartment next door. That’s why it was so fast. I swallowed hard, forcing a brittle, plastic smile onto my face. I couldn’t let them see I knew. I’d tried so hard to escape, and I’d walked straight into the wolf’s den. Tyler, noticing my pallor, poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on my counter. “Hey, take it easy. That creep won’t bother you anymore.” David looked curious. “What creep?” I opened my mouth to stop Tyler, but it was too late. “Some pervert was following Mia. But I scared him off.” “Well, that’s a relief,” David said with a light chuckle. He looked at me, his head tilting slightly. “Did you see his face? If you did, we should really call the police.” I shook my head, my eyes darting between them, searching for a crack, a slip, a tell. Nothing. They were perfect. My mind was a chaotic mess. Why me? What could I have possibly done to earn this level of calculated cruelty? Tyler reached out toward me. “You’re shaking. You’re really spooked, aren’t you?” My skin winced before he even touched me. I jerked away, my heart hammering. I caught myself and laughed nervously. “Sorry. Just… a lot of caffeine and a long night. I’m exhausted.” Tyler pulled his hand back, scratching his head. “Right. Well, get some sleep. Moving day tomorrow is going to be a workout.” “You’re moving tomorrow?” David asked. The question felt sharp, somehow. I didn’t have time to answer before the text scrolled again. [The video is almost over. She’s going to die in a few minutes.] [Her guard is way too low. Letting strangers into her place this late? Basic survival fail.] The comments were moving too fast to read, and none of them were giving me the one thing I needed: which one? I forced myself to breathe. I had to analyze. What was the motive?

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I will never forget the spectacle of my own ruined wedding. It was supposed to be the day my wife and I finally had the grand ceremony we never got. The guests had arrived, the Hamptons estate was draped in thousands of white hydrangeas, and the champagne was already flowing. But the bride was nowhere to be found. Just as the officiant began dabbing his sweating forehead, the estate manager boxed me in with a dozen security guards. He informed me, loudly, that the bride had just canceled all the wire transfers. I was suddenly on the hook for an eight-million-dollar venue fee. But the true devastation came moments later, when the massive LED screens behind the altar flickered to life. It wasn’t a slideshow of our memories. It was a live video of my wife, cruising down a sun-drenched coastline in a convertible with her first love. Through the towering speakers, she laughed into the camera, declaring that since I had humiliated her “golden boy” at the dealership, she was going to let me taste what it felt like to be abandoned on the most important day of my life. The dealership incident had happened months ago. She had secretly drained my personal accounts to pay for her ex’s supposed “psychological therapy.” Instead, the guy had marched straight into a Porsche dealership. When I found out, I called the bank, reported the fraud, and had the luxury car repossessed right as the salesman was handing him the keys. When she came home that night, she had hugged me. She’d praised my financial prudence, whispering that we shouldn’t encourage such vanity. Now, standing at the altar, I realized every single word had been a performance. 1 “You can stop staring at the door, groom. Vicky isn’t coming.” Brad, the estate manager, stepped into my line of sight. He wore a crisp suit and a smile that dripped with professional malice. My limbs felt like lead as I stood in the dead center of the Grand Ballroom at Crestview Estate. We were surrounded by New York’s elite, standing on a carpet of imported white petals. It was supposed to be the wedding of the season. It certainly was the spectacle of the season. Just not the kind I had planned. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my darkened phone. “What exactly are you saying, Brad?” Brad snapped his fingers. A dozen security guards, hands resting menacingly on their batons, tightened the circle around me. “Mrs. Ellsworth just withdrew every cent of the advance payments. She left specific instructions. Since you were the one who insisted on this little vow renewal…” Brad pulled a folded invoice from his breast pocket and flicked it open. “The venue, the catering, the floral arrangements, the staff. It comes to eight million dollars.” He shoved the paper at my chest. “And Mrs. Ellsworth said you’re footing the bill.” A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom. The whispers began immediately, sharp and stinging as they crawled into my ears. “God, Vicky is ruthless. A runaway bride on the day of the vow renewal?” “Well, look at him. He’s a nobody. A charity case she took in. He had no business marrying into the Ellsworth family.” “Eight million? You could sell his organs and he wouldn’t have enough.” I took a slow, agonizing breath, forcing the rising panic down into the pit of my stomach. “I need to speak with Vicky.” Brad scoffed. “Speak with the CEO? You think you still have that kind of access?” He turned and pointed toward the massive screens above the stage. “She knew you’d be pathetic about this. She left you a message.” The screen flickered. A bright, high-definition image filled the room. The backdrop was the endless, glittering blue of the Mediterranean. Vicky was lounging on the deck of a yacht, wearing a silk cover-up and oversized sunglasses, a flute of vintage champagne dangling from her fingers. And tucked securely under her arm was a man. Timothy. The tragic first love. The one with the “severe anxiety.” The one who had tried to steal my money for a sports car. The ocean breeze caught Timothy’s hair as he laughed—a loud, brazen sound—draping his entire body over my wife. Vicky’s voice boomed through the ballroom’s state-of-the-art acoustics, shaking the floorboards. “Nicholas, Timothy has been suffering from severe PTSD ever since you called the cops on him at the dealership. My therapist said he needs a change of scenery to heal. I have to be here for him.” She took a sip of champagne, her lips curling into a smirk. “As for the wedding? Figure it out yourself.” 2 On the screen, Timothy leaned in, batting his eyelashes as he pressed a kiss to Vicky’s cheek. “Vic, honey, isn’t Nicholas going to be a little embarrassed standing all by himself in front of those people?” Vicky stroked his jaw, her eyes full of sickening fondness. “Oh, his skin is thick enough. He’ll survive.” The video cut to black. For a fraction of a second, the ballroom was as quiet as a tomb. Then, the dam broke. A tidal wave of mocking laughter crashed over me. I saw the flashes of a hundred smartphone cameras going off. Off to the side, I spotted a couple of lifestyle influencers speaking frantically into their live streams. “Oh my god, you guys, absolute Hamptons meltdown! The billionaire bride just ditched her stay-at-home husband for her ex! He owes eight million dollars!” Standing under the glaring spotlight in my bespoke tuxedo, I felt like a clown in a circus ring. The sheer, suffocating weight of the humiliation threatened to crush my lungs. Brad signaled the audio tech to cut the house music. He crossed his arms, staring me down. “Enjoy the show? Good. Now, how are you paying?” I clenched my jaw. “I don’t have my cards on me. Let me make a phone call—” “No money?” Brad’s smug smile vanished, replaced by a thuggish sneer. “Then what the hell are you playing at? You think someone like you belongs at Crestview?” He stepped closer, his eyes raking over me, lingering on my lapels. “Mrs. Ellsworth figured you’d try to skip out on the bill. But I see you’re wearing a custom Brioni suit. The diamond cufflinks alone must be worth a few grand.” He snapped his fingers at the guards. “Strip him. Take the suit, the watch, the shoes. Let everyone see what happens to a gold-digger when the ride is over.” The guards laughed, stepping forward, rolling their shoulders. “Back off.” I took a step back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “This is assault. I will call the police.” “The police?” Brad barked a laugh. “Out here in the estates, I am the law. Take it off him! Rip it off if you have to!” A massive guard lunged forward. His calloused hand grabbed the lapel of my jacket and the collar of my silk shirt. Riiiiip. The sickening sound of tearing fabric echoed over the chatter of the crowd. The silk gave way, exposing my chest to the cold air conditioning of the ballroom. A tremor of absolute shame ripped through my body, but I didn’t cry. Tears are the currency of the weak, and right now, I couldn’t afford to be weak. I pivoted, driving the heel of my leather shoe down onto the guard’s foot with crushing force. “Agh!” The guard howled, stumbling backward and clutching his foot. I pulled my torn jacket tight across my chest, my eyes locking onto Brad with a venom that made him flinch. “You think you can touch me, Brad? Even the owner of Crestview wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me. Who the hell do you think you are?” Brad froze for a second before bursting into theatrical laughter. “The owner? Nicholas, have you lost your mind? I answer to no one but the Ellsworths! Mrs. Ellsworth told me to ruin you today, and I’m delivering! You think you’re still the lord of the manor? Without her, you’re less than a stray dog!” Suddenly, the massive LED screen flickered again. This time, it wasn’t pre-recorded. The icon for a live FaceTime call popped up, and Vicky’s face filled the screen. The background was still the yacht, the sound of the churning ocean now a live audio feed. Timothy had changed into designer swimwear. He was curled up against Vicky’s chest, rubbing at his eyes as if he were crying. “Nicholas, I’m so sorry,” Timothy whimpered into the camera. “I just… I couldn’t breathe without Vic. It’s my fault. Don’t be mad at her.” The manipulative, saccharine act made bile rise in my throat. I stared into the camera lens, my voice dropping to a frozen whisper. “Is this really how you want to do this, Vicky? After five years? I built you up from nothing. I stood by you when you were sleeping on the floor of a studio apartment. And you throw it away because he shed a single fake tear?” Vicky scowled, her annoyance radiating through the pixels. “Nicholas, stop being so dramatic. Timothy has severe emotional fragility. As my husband, shouldn’t you be a little more accommodating? Besides, this whole vow renewal was your idea. You wanted to ‘celebrate our journey.’ Now it’s a joke. You brought this on yourself.” The guests muttered among themselves. “She’s awful, but god, he has no spine.” “Right? His wife is literally cuddling her side-piece on screen, and he’s still begging for her love.” Before I could respond, a shadow darted onto the stage. It was my mother-in-law, Margery. A woman who spent her weekends at charity galas preaching about grace, but behind closed doors was the most vicious woman I had ever met. She didn’t hesitate. She raised her hand and struck me across the face. Smack! The blow was heavy, her diamond rings cutting into my cheek. My ear rang, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. “You absolute parasite!” Margery shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at my face. “You couldn’t even keep a woman happy! You’re a disgrace to the Ellsworth name!” She turned to the crowd, playing the victim. “I told her not to marry a charity case! He brought nothing but bad luck to our family! And now look! You drove my daughter away on her special day, and you have the audacity to stand here and whine?” I touched my bleeding lip, staring at the woman I had personally cared for, cooked for, and funded for half a decade. “Margery… she is the one cheating on me.” “Shut your mouth!” Margery snapped. “So what if she is? Vicky is a CEO! She works hard! What have you done? Five years living under our roof, and you haven’t even given her a child! You’re just taking up space!” Brad chimed in, pouring gasoline on the fire. “Mrs. Ellsworth, just so you know, he still owes the estate eight million dollars. Vicky made it very clear the family isn’t paying.” At the mention of money, Margery took three quick steps backward, throwing her hands up. “His debts are his own! The Ellsworths have nothing to do with him!” Brad turned back to me, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “Hear that? You’ve got no one left. But, Vicky left one loophole.” On the screen, Timothy giggled, his eyes flashing with malice. “Vic, he’s so stubborn. A simple apology isn’t going to fix my trauma. I think… I think he needs to clean up his mess. Literally. If he gets down on his knees and licks the spilled wine off the floor, I might find it in my heart to forgive him.” Vicky didn’t miss a beat. “You heard him, Nicholas. Kneel and lick it up, or go to jail for fraud.” The crowd erupted into a sickening chorus of jeers. “Do it! It’s eight million bucks!” “Get on the floor, gold-digger!” Margery lunged forward again, grabbing the back of my neck, trying to physically force me to the floor. “Are you deaf? Kneel down! Apologize to Timothy!” 3 My knees burned with the strain as Margery shoved her weight against my shoulders, but I locked my joints. I kept my spine steel-straight. I refused to bend. The humiliation washed over me like a freezing tide, but as the icy water receded, it took something with it. It washed away the last shred of lingering delusion I had about my wife. In that suffocating silence, beneath the blinding chandeliers, the man who had unconditionally loved Vicky Ellsworth simply ceased to exist. I violently threw off Margery’s hands. The force sent the older woman stumbling backward in her heels until she nearly pitched off the edge of the stage. “You ungrateful wretch! You dare push me?” she shrieked. I ignored her. I raised a hand, wiping the blood from my chin. Whatever tears of betrayal had been threatening my eyes evaporated, replaced by a cold, hollow calm. I looked up, staring directly into Vicky’s digital eyes on the massive screen. “Vicky. Do you honestly believe an eight-million-dollar bill is enough to break me?” Vicky blinked in surprise, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Nicholas, you don’t even have a hundred dollars to your name. Stop pretending. I shut off your credit cards. The money in your personal account went to Timothy’s car. You’re completely broke. You couldn’t even afford an Uber out of here.” I smiled. It was a terrifying, dead thing. I turned to Brad. “Give me ten minutes. If I clear this eight-million-dollar tab, I am going to make you, Vicky, and Timothy pay a price you cannot fathom.” Brad looked at me like I was a psychiatric patient. “Ten minutes? Buddy, you couldn’t scrape that together if you sold both your kidneys.” But Timothy, always eager for more cruelty, leaned into the camera frame. “Oh, I love a bet! If Nicholas can pull eight million dollars out of thin air, I will personally jump off this yacht and swim back to New York!” He paused, his smile turning toxic. “But if you can’t, you strip down to nothing, and you crawl out of this estate on your hands and knees.” “And,” Vicky added smoothly, “you sign a contract to become Timothy’s personal assistant. You will do whatever he says, whenever he says it, without a single complaint.” I gave a slow, deliberate nod. My voice was eerily quiet, yet it carried across the entire room. “Deal. Everyone in this room is my witness. The millions of people watching on those live streams are my witnesses.” The ballroom went electric. This was the kind of unhinged aristocratic drama money couldn’t buy. “Is he clinically insane? Eight million!” “He’s stalling. He’s totally stalling.” “I’ve got my camera ready. He’s gonna be crawling naked in ten minutes.” I tuned out the noise. I walked over to the bewildered officiant, who was still clutching a microphone and his smartphone. “Borrowing this,” I murmured, sliding the phone from his grip. Before he could protest, my fingers flew across the keypad, dialing a number I hadn’t used in five long years. A direct, encrypted line known only to the inner circle of the Beaumont family. It rang exactly once. An older, deeply refined voice answered. The composure was there, but beneath it, I could hear the sharp inhale of shock. “Young Master? Is… is that you?” My grip on the phone tightened. I took a steadying breath to push past the sudden lump in my throat. “Winston. It’s me.” “Sir.” “I’m at the Crestview Estate in the Hamptons. I’m currently surrounded by pests.” I paused, my eyes sweeping over Brad and Margery. “Clear the room.” Even through the cellular static, the sheer, murderous intent that radiated from the old butler was palpable. “Understood, Young Master. Five minutes.” I ended the call and tossed the phone back to the officiant. Brad checked his heavy gold watch, his face twisted in an ugly sneer. “Nine minutes left. Boys, get ready to help the groom out of his clothes. We wouldn’t want him to be late for his crawl.” Margery spat on the floor near my shoes. “Playing pretend! Let’s see who you think you’re calling! When you can’t pay, I’ll skin you alive myself!” I simply crossed my arms over my ruined shirt, leaned back against a floral pillar, and closed my eyes. Let them bark. Let them laugh. Vicky, Timothy, the Ellsworth family. You worship money so blindly? Then I will show you what true, absolute wealth really looks like. 4 The minutes ticked by. Brad began to count down, his voice thick with vicious anticipation. “One minute!” “Thirty seconds!” On the screen, Vicky had already popped a fresh bottle of champagne. Timothy was practically vibrating with glee. “Take it off, Nicky! You’ve got a decent body, don’t be shy!” “Ten seconds!” Brad crumpled the invoice into a ball and threw it at my feet. “Time’s up! Boys, take him down! Strip him!” The security guards, hopped up on adrenaline and cruelty, lunged at me like a pack of starving wolves. Hands reached for my shoulders, fingers clawing at my torn collar. Just as the first hand grazed my skin— FWHUMP-FWHUMP-FWHUMP. A deafening, rhythmic roar erupted from the sky, entirely drowning out the screaming crowd. The massive crystal chandeliers above us began to sway violently. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows vibrated so hard I thought they would shatter. Guests screamed, covering their ears and ducking as they looked toward the sky. Hovering just beyond the glass, hovering over the manicured lawns of the estate, were three military-grade Black Hawk helicopters. The downdraft was tearing the pristine wedding tents to shreds. Emblazoned on the side of the matte-black fuselage of the lead chopper was a single, gleaming gold crest. A stylized letter ‘B’. Thick ropes dropped from the open bays. Dozens of men clad in tactical black gear repelled down in terrifying unison, a scene ripped straight out of a blockbuster thriller. They didn’t even bother with the doors. They breached the terrace windows, stepping through the shattered glass with batons drawn. Crack! Thud! The security guards who had just been inches from my face were suddenly airborne, tackled to the marble floor and pinned with brutal efficiency. Brad didn’t even have time to scream before a tactical boot connected with the back of his knee, sending him crashing to the ground. “Agh! My leg!” Simultaneously, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom were violently shoved open. A convoy of five midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantoms glided into the courtyard outside, their presence suffocating and regal. The license plates were low-number diplomatic and elite state plates. Untouchable. The socialites in the room were backing away in sheer terror, pressing themselves against the walls. “What… what is happening?” “That crest… That’s the Beaumont crest. The Manhattan real estate billionaires!” “Why is the Beaumont family here? Who the hell did this guy piss off?!” On the screen, Vicky had gone pale. The champagne flute slipped from her fingers, spilling across her silk wrap. “Are those… Beaumont vehicles?” But Timothy clapped his hands, giggling hysterically. “I knew it! Nicholas borrowed money from loan sharks and pissed off the Beaumonts! They’re here to execute him! Oh, babe, this is the best day ever!” The center Phantom rolled to a smooth stop. The rear door opened. An older gentleman stepped out. He was dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, exuding an aura of absolute authority. He ignored the screaming billionaires, the broken glass, and the weeping guards. He walked in a perfectly straight line toward the center of the room. Toward me. It was Winston, the Chief of Staff for Beaumont Holdings. Under the terrified gaze of five hundred guests, Winston stopped three feet away from me. He meticulously adjusted his cuffs, and then bowed—a deep, perfect ninety-degree bow. His voice was clear, echoing through the stunned silence. “Young Master Nicholas. I apologize for my delay. I trust you are unharmed?” The entire ballroom stopped breathing.

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A few days ago, I was reported to the medical board again. And for the exact same absurd reason. It all started with a high-risk, incredibly delicate cardiac repair. Just hours prior, I had been standing under the blinding lights of the OR, successfully pulling a man back from the edge of death. When I walked into the waiting room, I expected his family to be tearful, maybe relieved. I expected gratitude. Instead, they were screaming, pointing a trembling, furious finger at the ID badge clipped to my chest. The one that read: Cardiothoracic Surgical Specialist. “We are paying a hundred grand for this surgery, and this hospital lets some glorified medical tech use my husband for target practice?!” “You just wait! I’m calling the medical board, the police, the news—everyone!” I opened my mouth, ready to calmly explain the chasm of difference between a Surgical Specialist and a medical technician. But before I could get a single syllable out, the Chief of Surgery shoved past me, forcing my head down, demanding I apologize to the family. I thought that would be the end of it. A bitter pill swallowed for the sake of hospital politics. “You honestly think I went to community college?” I stared at the patient’s wife, utterly blindsided by the sheer weight of her ignorance. 1. “Listen to her! Does she sound like a real doctor? They let a community college dropout take a scalpel to my husband’s heart!” Jocelyn Gallagher’s voice echoed like a siren down the pristine linoleum hallway of the cardiology wing. Before I could process her words, she lunged. She closed the distance between us in a single, heavy step and slapped me across the face with everything she had. The metallic tang of blood instantly flooded my mouth. I stumbled back, clutching my rapidly swelling left cheek, a high-pitched ringing drowning out the noise of the ward. Only a few hours ago, I had been on my feet for eight grueling hours in the surgical theater. As the only surgeon in the state board-certified to perform this specific, cutting-edge arterial reconstruction, I had literally wrestled her husband’s life out of the reaper’s grip. I thought she had come to thank me. Instead, she gave me a ringing, violent backhand. Jocelyn grabbed the lapel of my white coat, her knuckles white, her other hand aggressively tapping the laminated plastic of my hospital badge. “Everybody look!” she shrieked to the gathering crowd of nurses and patients. “This hospital is a slaughterhouse! We go into crippling debt for this surgery, and they hand my husband over to some diversity-hire tech who couldn’t even get into a real college!” “No wonder he still looks like a ghost! This quack probably botched the whole thing!” I drew in a sharp, trembling breath, forcing my clinical detachment to override my boiling rage. “Ma’am, you are fundamentally misunderstanding my title,” I said, my voice tight but level. “The ‘Specialist’ on my badge means I am an expert in a highly specific, advanced field of cardiovascular medicine. It does not mean I am a medical assistant. I graduated from—” “Save your bullshit!” Jocelyn spat. A thick glob of saliva landed squarely on the toe of my leather Dansko clog. She threw herself onto the floor, slapping her thighs, launching into a theatrical, dry-heaving sob. “My son warned me! He said all these new ‘specialists’ are just dropouts who bought their way in! You’re a fraud! You used my husband as a guinea pig! I want a refund! I want every damn penny back!” I stared down at the grown woman thrashing on the floor, feeling a profound, chilling sense of absurdity. You cannot reason with someone who is entirely insulated by their own stupidity. I reached into my pocket for my phone, ready to dial hospital security. Suddenly, a damp, heavy hand clamped over mine, forcing the phone back down. Dr. Richard Stanton, the Chief of Cardiology, pushed his way through the crowd, his forehead glistening with nervous sweat. He immediately plastered on a sickeningly sweet, accommodating smile and crouched next to Jocelyn. “Mrs. Gallagher, please, let’s take a breath. There’s no need to escalate things. Let’s not let tempers ruin the day.” Without dropping his smile, Stanton’s fingers dug into my bicep like a vice. He practically dragged me down the hall and shoved me into his private office. The second the heavy oak door clicked shut, Stanton’s obsequious smile vanished. “Vera, have you lost your mind? Are you trying to get us on the evening news?” I pointed a shaking finger at my left cheek, which was now throbbing and hot to the touch. I stared at him, my eyes hard. “Dr. Stanton, she assaulted an attending surgeon in the middle of the ward. She is publicly defaming my credentials. Are you telling me I shouldn’t call the police?” Stanton waved me off with a frantic, irritated gesture. He went to the water cooler, filled a paper cup, and shoved it into my hand. “Vera, you’re brilliant in the OR, but you are painfully naive about how the real world works. Do you have any idea how volatile doctor-patient relations are right now?” He paced behind his desk. “This department is up for the State Center of Excellence grant next month. The Board of Directors explicitly warned me: no PR disasters. No scandals. You bring the cops into this, you drag the hospital’s name through the mud.” I slammed the paper cup down on his desk. Water splashed over the rim, soaking into his blotter. “So what? I’m just supposed to take a physical beating? I’m supposed to let them tell the entire hospital I’m an uneducated fraud doing practice runs on human beings?” Stanton let out a long, patronizing sigh. He walked around the desk and patted my shoulder with heavy, paternalistic condescension. “With great talent comes a little sacrifice. The woman is stressed, Vera. She’s blue-collar, she’s scared, she doesn’t understand our jargon. Why are you, a Johns Hopkins fellow with a post-doc from Munich, picking a fight with an ignorant old woman?” He leaned in, his voice dropping. “Listen to me. Go back out there. Swallow your pride, apologize, and let it go.” I stared at him, the silence stretching tight between us. “You want me… to apologize to the woman who just assaulted me?” 2. Stanton’s eyes instantly hardened. The paternal facade melted away, leaving only a cold, bureaucratic threat. “Don’t forget who fought to bring you to this hospital, Vera.” He crossed his arms. “If you don’t bow your head right now, I will personally see to it that your name is removed from the year-end surgical excellence nominations. For the good of the department, you will take this hit.” Half an hour later, systematically worn down by Stanton’s relentless pressure and quiet threats to my career, I found myself standing back out in the hallway. Jocelyn Gallagher had picked herself up off the floor. She stood with her arms crossed, a look of smug, victorious entitlement radiating from her face. Stanton approached her, rubbing his hands together. “Mrs. Gallagher, Dr. Pierce has realized her mistake. And to show our goodwill, the hospital administration has agreed to waive twenty thousand dollars of your post-op recovery fees.” Jocelyn snatched the waiver form from Stanton’s hand, her eyes raking up and down my body with undisguised contempt. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving woman, or I would’ve sued this place into the ground.” She sneered at me. “Well? Did the tech lose her tongue? I’m waiting for my apology.” Behind my back, Stanton pinched my waist, a sharp, silent command. I ground my molars together. The taste of copper was still heavy on my tongue. “I’m sorry.” Jocelyn let out a loud, theatrical scoff, turned on her heel, and strutted away. Stanton let out a massive exhale, turning to me with a relieved, approving smile. “See? Was that so hard? You take a step back, and the sky opens up.” I truly believed that was the end of it. I had taken the hit, swallowed my pride, and paid the toll. But I had underestimated the bottomless, terrifying depths of human malice. Three days later, during our morning department briefing, Stanton walked into the conference room holding a stiff piece of hospital letterhead. His face was the color of ash. He slammed the paper down on the mahogany table. His eyes locked onto mine, wide and panicked. “Dr. Pierce. You are to hand over all your current patients immediately.” The room went dead silent. A dozen surgeons turned their heads to stare at me. “Effective as of this minute, you are suspended pending a full investigation. You are barred from the OR and all clinical duties.” I stood up so fast my chair scraped violently against the floor. “Suspended? On what grounds?” Stanton didn’t answer. He grabbed the remote and clicked the projector on. A video illuminated the pull-down screen. It was footage from the hallway three days ago. But it had been maliciously, brilliantly edited. There was no footage of Jocelyn slapping me. No footage of her spitting on me or throwing a tantrum on the floor. It was just a tight shot of my face—red, swollen, and humiliated—muttering the words, “I’m sorry.” Superimposed over the video in massive, glaring red text was a caption that made my stomach drop: [CORRUPT HOSPITAL COVERS UP MALPRACTICE! DROPOUT ‘DOCTOR’ BOTCHES SURGERY ON ELDERLY MAN, FORCED TO CONFESS AND PAY HUSH MONEY!] Stanton pointed a trembling finger at the screen, where thousands of vile, hateful comments were scrolling by in real-time. “On what grounds? On the grounds that this family took our twenty grand and immediately filed a formal complaint with the State Medical Board!” His voice cracked. “This video is everywhere. It’s on Twitter, it’s on TikTok. The hospital switchboard has been paralyzed for six hours! The State Board has formed a joint investigative committee, and until they clear you, you are a liability. You are suspended.” I stared at the comments flashing across the screen. My hands began to shake, a cold, sickening dread pooling in my chest. “Did she sleep her way into the OR? Who let a tech hold a scalpel?” “Find out who her daddy is. Burn this hospital down!” I had a dual MD/Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins. I had completed my cardiothoracic fellowship at Munich University Hospital, one of the most rigorous programs on earth. I had turned down lucrative offers in New York and Boston to come back and elevate the cardiac care in my home state. And now, I was being crucified as a fraudulent, uneducated butcher. When my shift ended, I walked to the underground parking garage, my spine stiff under the suffocating, sideways glances of my colleagues. I turned the corner to my parking spot and stopped dead. The heavy, toxic stench of aerosol paint hit me first. My white Audi was dripping with fresh, blood-red paint. Sprawled across the windshield, in jagged, dripping black letters, were the words: DIE QUACK From behind a concrete pillar, three teenagers stepped out. They immediately raised their phones, the camera flashes strobing in the dim garage. “That’s her! The fake doctor!” “Get her face! Make her famous!” My heart hammered against my ribs. Without a word, I unlocked the car, slid into the paint-slicked driver’s seat, and drove out into the blinding daylight. 3. The moment I got to my apartment, I tore through my closet, pulling out the heavy leather portfolios containing my diplomas, my board certifications, and my medical license. The next morning, I bypassed Stanton’s secretary and pushed open his office door. “Dr. Stanton. I want the hospital to publish my full credentials on the main homepage immediately. Every degree, every certification.” I slammed the thick stack of embossed paper onto his desk. “And I am retaining counsel to sue this family for defamation and vandalism.” Stanton didn’t even glance at the diplomas. He held his hands up, shaking his head furiously. “Absolutely not. If we release those now, the internet will just say we faked them! It looks like we’re scrambling to cover our tracks!” “The mob is out for blood, Vera. The harder you fight the current, the worse you’ll drown.” I planted both hands on his desk, leaning in until he was forced to meet my eyes. “So I am just supposed to let them ruin my life? My car was vandalized. My personal cell phone is ringing at 3 AM with death threats. Is this what you meant by ‘the sky opening up’?” Stanton huffed, pushing his chair back. He walked to the window, rubbing his temples. “Vera, you are making this about you, and it’s about the hospital. The investigative committee just needs time. Give it two weeks. The internet has the memory of a goldfish. The news cycle will move on.” He turned around, his eyes cold. “Go home. Keep your mouth shut. Do not escalate this.” The hospital. It was always about the hospital. I looked at this man—a coward who would throw a brilliant surgeon to the wolves just to protect his own administrative bonus—and felt something inside me snap. The dying embers of my respect for him went completely cold. “Fine. If the hospital won’t protect me, I’ll handle it myself.” I snatched my credentials off the desk and walked out. Stanton’s voice chased me down the hall. “If you go rogue on this, Vera, you will never work in this state again!” I didn’t even flinch. I pressed the elevator button for the lobby. If the administration was going to play dead, I would go straight to the source. I drove to the address listed on Frank Gallagher’s intake file. It was a rundown house on the edge of town. I knocked. The door swung open, revealing a man in his late twenties. He had bleach-blonde hair, sleeves of cheap tattoos, and a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. This was Jocelyn’s son, Kyle Gallagher. He looked me up and down, a cruel, mocking grin spreading across his face. “Well, well. Look who it is. The dropout doctor. What, did the hospital fire you? Come to beg for a cut of the settlement?” I kept my face perfectly still. I held up a clear plastic folder containing the color copies of my degrees. “I am giving you one chance to delete that video and issue a public retraction.” I tapped the glass over my Johns Hopkins diploma. “These are my board certifications and my doctoral degrees. What you and your mother are doing is textbook defamation, and it carries severe legal consequences.” Kyle stared at the folder for a second. Then, he threw his head back and let out a barking, ugly laugh. He snatched the folder from my hand, ripped the plastic open, and without even reading the papers, began tearing them into pieces. “You think a fake piece of paper is gonna scare me? I wasn’t born yesterday, bitch.” He threw the shredded pieces of my life’s work directly into my face. “A doctor? Yeah, right. If you’re a doctor, I’m the President of the United States!” Hearing the commotion, Jocelyn materialized from the hallway. When she saw me standing on her porch, her eyes lit up with malicious glee. “You got some nerve showing your face here, you quack!” she yelled, crossing her arms. “If you were any good, my husband wouldn’t be sitting in his recliner complaining about chest pains every five minutes!” “I’m telling you right now, unless we see a million dollars, we are taking you down!” I looked at the two of them. A mother and son, bonded by a toxic mixture of boundless greed and breathtaking ignorance. My voice dropped to an icy whisper. “Frank is having chest pains because he is explicitly violating my post-op orders. I know he’s been smoking and drinking. He started before he even left the ward.” “His reconstructed arteries are fragile. If he keeps this up, his heart is going to hemorrhage.” I looked Jocelyn dead in the eyes. “And when it ruptures, no god in heaven will be able to save him.” Kyle’s face turned violently red. It was as if I had flipped a switch. “You threatening my dad?!” He lunged forward. He hit me like a linebacker, his heavy hands shoving my shoulders with brutal force. I stumbled backward, my spine colliding hard with the brick exterior of the house. “Get the hell off my property before I kill you!” Kyle roared. He stepped back inside and grabbed the heavy wooden front door, rearing back to slam it. Pure instinct took over. Without thinking, I threw my right hand forward, trying to catch the door frame to keep my balance. 4. “You have to take the video down!” I cried out. Kyle saw my hand wrap around the doorframe. For a split second, our eyes met. I saw the flash of pure, unadulterated malice in his pupils. “You want me to delete it? Let’s see you do surgery after this.” He threw his entire body weight into the heavy, solid-oak door. CRUNCH. A sickening, wet, cracking sound echoed across the porch. “AGH!” A scream ripped from my throat. Cold sweat instantly drenched my clothes. My right hand was caught perfectly between the door and the jamb. The pain wasn’t just sharp; it was explosive. It traveled up my arm like a bolt of lightning, short-circuiting my brain. Black spots danced violently at the edges of my vision. From behind the closed door, I heard Kyle laughing. “Let’s see you fake your way into an OR with that, you stupid bitch!” The latch clicked. He released the pressure, and my right arm fell dead against my side. I slid down the brick wall, my knees hitting the concrete porch. I couldn’t breathe. I was a surgeon. I knew exactly what that sound meant. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Shaking uncontrollably, I used my left hand to fish it out and accept the call. “Dr. Stanton,” I gasped, my voice completely shattered by the pain. “The patient’s son… he just attacked me. My hand is broken. I’m calling the police.” There was a two-second pause on the line. Then, Stanton’s voice hissed through the speaker, vibrating with rage. “Vera, did you not hear a damn word I said?!” “The investigative committee is releasing their findings tomorrow! If you bring the cops into this and make this a criminal matter, you will bring the entire hospital down with you!” “Stop being so dramatic about your hand! Get back to your apartment right now. If I see a single police cruiser near this hospital, your medical career is over!” The line went dead. I sat alone on the cold concrete, listening to the dial tone. Between the vicious, feral cruelty of this family, and the soulless, calculating cowardice of my boss, I had nothing left. I drove myself—steering with my knees and my left hand—to a rival hospital’s orthopedic clinic across town. The X-rays confirmed my worst nightmare: a severe, comminuted fracture of the right metacarpals and severe crush trauma to the phalanges. The attending orthopedist wrapped my hand in a heavy fiberglass cast, his eyes filled with profound pity. “It’s a bad crush injury, Dr. Pierce. You are out of the OR for at least six months. As for recovering the fine motor skills required for cardiothoracic work… we’ll have to pray physical therapy does a miracle.” I walked out of the clinic feeling entirely hollowed out. I went back to the hospital. Using only my left hand, I began throwing my personal belongings from my desk into a cardboard box. I paused when I saw Frank Gallagher’s physical chart still sitting in my tray. A dark, bitter smile touched my lips. Frank’s vascular tissue was like wet tissue paper. He needed to pray to every saint in the sky that his heart held together while I was suspended and broken. I picked up my box and walked down to the hospital lobby, ready to walk out of this toxic wasteland for good. Just as I reached the revolving doors, a violent commotion erupted from the direction of the ER. “Help! Someone help him! He’s throwing up blood!” Jocelyn Gallagher’s hysterical, piercing scream echoed off the lobby’s high ceilings.

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A year ago, he left me standing alone at City Hall for a girl who scaled fish at the harbor for ten dollars an hour. I can still see the shadow of a smirk in his eyes when he told me, “Erica, you don’t understand. She’s… refreshing. She’s real.” I watched him walk away, a hollow, wintry ache settling behind my ribs. It felt like my entire life had been gutted and left to dry in the sun. It only took him six months to regret it. The girl from the docks was a novelty, a splash of salt air in his curated life, but eventually, the smell of the harbor wouldn’t wash off. The gap in their worlds became a chasm he couldn’t bridge. He crawled back, begging for forgiveness, certain that I would still be there, waiting to be his wife. And I did marry him. For the first six months of our marriage, he was the picture of a perfect husband. Attentive. Gracious. Desperate to atone. But why should I be the only one to know the copper taste of betrayal? Why should I be the only one who had to swallow the glass of a broken heart? Six months into our “happily ever after,” I made sure he caught me with another man. Nathan’s eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of fractured sanity as he demanded to know why. “Are you punishing me? Erica, I’m done with that life! I’ve been home every night. I’ve given you everything. Where did I go wrong?” 1 Clothes were strewn across the hardwood floor in a frantic, tell-tale trail. I sat on the edge of the bed, draped in nothing but a silk robe that revealed far too much, watching Nathan unravel. He stood in the doorway, a dark, suffocating silhouette against the hallway light. “Get out,” he spat at the man behind me. The man didn’t move. He looked at me first, searching my face for a signal. When I kept my gaze fixed forward, cold and unblinking, he finally stood, dressed with a practiced, lethal efficiency, and left. Then, it was just me and Nathan. He was shaking with a suppressed, violent kind of grief. He grabbed a stray shirt from the floor and tried to force it onto me, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. “Erica, I can overlook this. This once. But if you ever—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath hitching as he saw the faint bruises on my collarbone. His grip tightened, his movements turning rough as he shoved my arms into the sleeves. My wrist twisted painfully. I winced, my brow furrowing. “Nathan, stop it! You’re acting like a psychopath!” I shoved him back, my voice echoing in the silent room. He lunged forward, pinning my wrists, his teeth bared. “A psychopath? I walk into my own home and find my wife in bed with a stranger, and I’m supposed to what? Stand here and applaud?” Watching the agony ripple across his face, the sharp pain in my wrist felt like nothing. It felt like a fair trade. I looked up at him, a slow, sharp smile spreading across my lips. “I just wanted to see for myself. I wanted to see if the world outside was really as ‘refreshing’ as you claimed it was.” Nathan recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “You married me… just for revenge?” “I’m done with her, Erica! I haven’t seen her in months!” “Done?” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. It started in my chest and climbed up my throat until it turned into hot, stinging tears. “You crawled into her bed over and over again. You think ‘ending it’ scrubs that clean? You think I can’t smell the salt on you every time you touch me?” Nathan’s eyes were crimson. He paced the room like a caged predator, gasping for air, before his fist collided with the wall. A streak of blood smeared down the paint. The violence of it seemed to ground him. “Erica,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, terrifyingly calm register. “We’re even now. You’ve had your pound of flesh. From now on, we move past this. We live our lives.” I laughed again, the sound brittle. “You slept with her a thousand times, Nathan. You think one night with someone else balances the scales?” “What do you want from me?” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I. Want. A. Divorce.” “A divorce?” He looked at me with a sudden, cruel flash of derision. “Erica, look at yourself. You aren’t the girl you used to be. Who’s going to take you now? Who’s going to give you this life? You think you can find someone who loves you more than I do?” He reached out, his voice softening into a patronizing silk. “Be a good girl. I’ll forgive you this time. Let’s just forget the past and start over.” In that moment, I felt a profound sense of the absurd. This man, the boy who used to bring me wildflowers and talk about our future under the oak trees—how had he turned into this monster? 2 When did the rot start? I think it was when his startup finally took off, right around the time the “Old Money” of my family’s estate began to crumble. My father’s firm collapsed, a slow-motion car crash that ended in total bankruptcy. My parents moved back to the countryside, leaving me in Nathan’s hands like a precious heirloom. My father had said, “I’m glad I had the foresight not to stand in your way when Nathan was starting out. Now that the family name is gone, you have him to lean on. I can sleep peacefully knowing you’re taken care of.” I had nodded, tears blurring my vision, grateful that I had a rock like Nathan to cling to. But after my parents left, the rock began to erode. He started coming home later and later—midnight, 2:00 AM, sometimes not at all. When I asked if work was really that demanding, he’d give me the same tired script: “We’re breaking into the global market, Erica. I have to be there. I’m the CEO; I have to set the example.” He’d done the same during the early days of the company. I had no reason to doubt him. Until the day of the fender-bender. I was stuck in traffic near the waterfront when I saw his car parked illegally by the pier. I saw Nathan—my Nathan—carrying a young woman in his arms. He looked frantic, his face etched with a desperate worry as he lifted her into the back of an ambulance. The world went ice-cold. In the middle of a sweltering July afternoon, I started to shiver. I called him. Once. Twice. Ten times. He declined every single one. In a meeting, the auto-reply text read. Those three words felt like a death sentence. I drove home in a trance, and halfway there, I got rear-ended. My head hit the steering wheel, and as I felt the warm trickle of blood down my forehead, a sick thought occurred to me: This is good. I would call him, tell him I was hurt, and he would come rushing back. He would leave that girl and hold me. But as the paramedics loaded me into the ambulance, his phone was still off. The nurse handed me an ice pack, her eyes full of a pity that made me want to scream. “Try him again later, sweetie. I’m sure he’s just tied up with something important.” I sat in the sterile silence of the ER, listening to the busy signal, a strange, eerie calm settling over me. I sent him a photo of my injury. He didn’t reply. It wasn’t until I had been sitting in our dark living room for four hours that he finally burst through the door. “Erica! My god, are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do we need to go back to the hospital?” He stumbled over the rug, rushing to gather me in his arms. The terror in his eyes looked so real. After seven years, I knew he still loved me in his own twisted way. But the smell of the hospital—the scent of her crisis—was still clinging to his jacket. It ignited something inside me. “Where were you?” “I’m so sorry, babe. Things at the office are just insane. Once this merger goes through, I promise I’ll make it up to—” I slapped his hand away before he could finish the sentence. I looked at him, my eyes burning with a cold, sharp rage. “You’re lying. Nathan, where were you this afternoon?” He tried to double down. “I told you, I was in a meeting.” I picked up my phone and showed him the photo I’d taken at the pier. There he was, disheveled and frantic, holding a girl in a stained apron. Nathan’s face drained of color. He fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist, his voice thick with a fake, desperate remorse. “I’m sorry, Erica. It was a momentary lapse. I was weak. Please, you have to forgive me.” I broke. I threw my phone, I screamed until my throat was raw, and I smashed every piece of porcelain in that room. “Why, Nathan? Why her?” He just kept apologizing, letting me hit him, letting me vent my fury. “I just felt sorry for her, Erica. She has nothing. It wasn’t… it wasn’t like us. I’ll end it. I swear. You’re the only one who matters.” And I was stupid enough to believe him. I tried to bury the memory. I tried to go back to the way we were. He proposed again—properly this time—and I threw myself into wedding planning, counting down the days until our September 9th date at City Hall. 3 I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub that day from my mind. I stood in front of the Marriage Bureau, clutching my paperwork, watching the sun climb to its zenith and then sink below the skyline. The security guard, a man who had clearly seen enough heartbreak for ten lifetimes, finally sighed and told me it was time to go. They were closing. I walked for two hours. I walked until the heel of my Louboutin snapped, until my feet were blistered and bleeding. It felt right. The physical pain was a distraction. When I finally let myself into the house, it was pitch black. Nathan wasn’t there. My phone had died hours ago. I didn’t bother turning on the lights; I just sat on the sofa and watched the shadows stretch across the room until dawn broke. He didn’t walk through the door until 8:00 AM. He looked exhausted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He saw me and asked, “Why are you up so early?” He had completely forgotten. The most important day of our lives had been erased by whatever—or whoever—had kept him out. “Nathan,” I said, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. “Where were you yesterday?” There it was again. The question that had become the soundtrack to our relationship. Where were you? Who were you with? I had become the nagging, paranoid wife I always swore I’d never be. Nathan’s face darkened with annoyance. He yanked at his tie. “Something came up at the office. Don’t start, Erica.” I didn’t remind him what day it was. I just nodded and let it go. If he couldn’t let her go, I would do it for him. I hired a private investigator. Her name was Becca. She was a “fishmonger’s girl”—a high school dropout who worked the stalls at the local market, scaling sea bass with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She was young. She was beautiful in a raw, unrefined way. And she had a following. She was a local “blue-collar” influencer, the “Harbor Queen.” People loved her because she was “authentic,” a far cry from the polished socialites Nathan usually dealt with. That was the draw. The extreme contrast. To a man who had everything, she was a trip to the wild side. I made sure the “authenticity” of her brand was ruined. I leaked evidence of her affair with a married man to the local tabloids and her comment sections. Suddenly, the “Harbor Queen” was just another homewrecker. Her live streams were flooded with vitriol. Nathan grew more sullen by the day. Finally, the dam broke. Someone threw a bucket of fish guts at her during her shift, screaming that she was a slut. I was at home, eating lunch while watching the footage on my tablet, when Nathan slammed through the door. “Was this you? Why are you doing this to her? She’s not like you, Erica. She didn’t grow up in a mansion with a silver spoon. She’s just a girl trying to survive, and you’re destroying her!” “Stop it, Erica. Just stop.” I looked into his eyes—eyes full of disappointment and rage—and I actually felt a laugh bubble up. “Have you eaten yet?” I asked, smiling through the tears that were finally starting to fall. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. In the background of the tablet, the crowd’s jeers grew louder. Nathan’s expression hardened. He told me to end the “charade.” I looked at him defiantly. “And if I don’t?” “Then don’t expect me to be kind. Your family is gone, Erica. You have no one else. Where else are you going to go?”

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I found myself tracing the silver pendant at my throat, a nervous habit I couldn’t seem to break. Adrian had fastened this chain around my neck years ago, on the day he finally cleared his name. Back then, he held me with a desperation that felt like forever, promising he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to me. Looking back, I suppose I was the only one who took those vows as gospel. The usual hum of the post-op ward suddenly died down. Every head turned toward Adrian. A patient had just made a bold joke, nudging Dr. Beckett to “reconsider” his history with Lydia—to finally mend the heartbreak of their college years. Lydia, the woman in the center of the attention, flushed a delicate pink. She stole a shy, sidelong glance at Adrian. Adrian’s gaze flickered toward me for a fraction of a second, but it was hollow. To him, I was just a ghost in a white coat, a piece of irrelevant background noise. “I’ll give it some serious thought,” he said, his voice light, effortless. The room erupted. People were practically tripping over themselves to offer congratulations, whispering that the only reason the brilliant Dr. Beckett had stayed single all these years was because he was waiting for Lydia. They called it fate. They called it a missed connection finally coming home. Lydia made a move to get out of bed, feigning modesty, but she stumbled. Adrian was there in a heartbeat. He caught her, pulling her steady against him in a protective embrace that drew a fresh round of applause from the gallery. I stood at the very edge of the crowd, the wife he’d kept hidden for three years, watching the farce unfold with a heart that had finally gone cold. 01 Satisfied with the answer, the meddling patient pushed further. “So, Dr. Beckett, what actually tore you two apart back then? It seems like such a waste of all those years.” A nurse stepped in, trying to be helpful. “Oh, you know how it is in med school. Probably some trivial argument that got blown out of proportion. People drift, they come back. If they’re meant to be, they find their way.” There was a chorus of agreement. Adrian just smiled—that enigmatic, handsome tilt of the lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Lydia, meanwhile, moved closer, clutching the sleeve of his white lab coat and burying her face against his chest. A bitter taste rose in my throat. They had been broken up for nine years. And for every single one of those nine years, I was the one by his side. I was the one who held him through the night terrors, the one who worked two jobs so he could finish his residency. But to the world, I didn’t exist. Lydia suddenly looked up, her eyes landing on me with a flicker of feigned guilt. “Dr. Whitlock, I heard you’re on the night shift tonight.” She looked back at Adrian, then back at me, her voice dropping into a sweet, pleading honey. “Adrian is worried about me staying alone. He wants me to stay one more night for observation. Would you mind… would you mind swapping shifts with him? I’d really love for him to be the one nearby.” The room went silent, all eyes pivoting to me. Another doctor, a guy from neuro, pointed a finger at me with a grin. “Come on, Nina. You’ve got to swap. Don’t be the one to break up the reunion. If you say no, the karma will hit you with twenty trauma admissions tonight.” The room filled with easy laughter. I didn’t join in. I just looked at Adrian. “Do you want me to swap?” I asked, my voice flat. He finally looked at me, his expression as professional and detached as if he were discussing a lab report with a stranger. “Let’s swap,” he said softly. I felt a sudden, sharp heat behind my eyes. I looked down quickly, adjusting my surgical mask to hide the tremble in my lips. Lydia breathed out a “thank you,” her hand slipping into the crook of Adrian’s arm. He reached out, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and leaned in. I tried to pull my lips into a smile. I failed. By the time I made it back to the breakroom, my head was spinning. A few colleagues were already there, relishing the gossip. They’d all gone to the same medical school and knew the lore. “Did you see them? It’s like watching a movie,” one of them sighed. “They look exactly like they did in the library ten years ago.” I stood by the coffee machine, frozen. “I heard she was a lit major,” another added. “She used to drag Adrian to her poetry seminars. He’d skip his own rounds just to sit in the back of her class. He was so head-over-heels back then. Remember his social media? That pinned quote from Gone with the Wind has been there for nearly a decade.” My hand gripped the counter. Adrian’s pinned quote. I knew it by heart. ‘The fact that someone doesn’t love you the way you want them to, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they have.’ I had spent years convinced that quote was about his strained relationship with his parents. Every time I asked, he’d just shrug and say he liked the sentiment of the characters. I was so stupid. It wasn’t about family. It was a lighthouse for the woman who had left him. The fluorescent lights overhead felt too bright, making my eyes itch. Suddenly, one of the doctors turned to me. “Nina, you’re new to the department. We don’t even know your deal. Are you seeing anyone? Married?” The room went quiet again. The door pushed open. Adrian was walking Lydia toward the exit of the ward, but he stopped in the doorway. He looked at me, a warning flash in his eyes. He cleared his throat twice—a low, dry sound. Our signal. In the nine years I’d known him, he did that whenever he was uncomfortable or wanted me to shut down a conversation. The last time he’d done it was at my parents’ funeral, when a distant aunt asked when we were finally going to tie the knot. He hadn’t wanted to answer then, either. I took a deep breath. I didn’t look at him. I looked at my colleagues and forced a small, tight smile. “I am married,” I said. “But I’m actually getting a divorce.” 02 Adrian’s entire body went rigid. Lydia looked up at him, blinking in confusion. “Adrian? Is something wrong?” He waved her off, his hand trembling slightly as he gestured that he was fine. My colleagues shifted uncomfortably, the air in the room turning thick with embarrassment. “Oh, Nina, I’m so sorry,” the nurse from earlier whispered. “We didn’t mean to pry. Marriage is… it’s a big deal. Maybe take some time to think it over? You don’t want to regret it.” I didn’t let them finish. I kept my tone light, almost airy. “I won’t regret it.” I leaned against the doorframe, my voice steady. “We’ve been together for a long time, but I finally realized I never actually made it inside his heart. So no, there won’t be any regrets.” The room went deathly silent. No one dared to pick up that thread. Except Lydia. She leaned into Adrian, her voice carrying that sharp, polished edge of a woman who knows she’s winning. “Dr. Whitlock is so pragmatic. But isn’t that just how love works? Some people can try for years, but if it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. And then there are those of us tied by fate. No matter how many years pass, we always find our way back. Don’t you agree, Doctor?” The other doctors looked between us, sensing the tension but unable to decode it. “What do you mean?” one asked. Lydia shot me a look that was pure, cold triumph. “Nothing. Just that you can’t force a heart to want what it doesn’t.” Force. That word had been the soundtrack of my life. When I was just a plain medical student who couldn’t stop staring at the brilliant Adrian Beckett, people told me not to force it. When I stayed by his side for six years without a single public acknowledgement, they told me not to force it. And even after three years of marriage, here I was, being told the same thing. Even Adrian believed it. He convinced himself that he was only with me because I had willed it into existence, that our marriage was a debt he was paying. “Anyway, life goes on,” my friend Jordan said, trying to break the ice. “If it’s broken, it’s broken. Don’t worry, Nina. I’ve got a literal catalog of eligible guys. You want a doctor? I’ll find you a better one.” Jordan pulled out her phone to show me a photo, but the sound of Adrian’s knuckles rapping sharply against the desk cut her off. “Enough,” he said. His voice was cold, vibrating with a strange, dark energy. “She isn’t even divorced yet. This is a hospital, not a dating service. Act like professionals.” “He’s right,” someone chimed in, eager to appease the Chief. “At least wait until the papers are signed. You don’t want to give the guy any leverage in court.” “Right, right,” Jordan muttered, giving me a quick, apologetic wink. “But seriously, Nina, I’m keeping my eyes open for you.” I gave her a polite nod and sat down to chart. Beside me, Lydia leaned in and whispered something into Adrian’s ear. They both laughed. Adrian reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a leather-bound notebook, handing it to her with a look of immense softness. I recognized that notebook. In three years of marriage, he had never let me touch it. He’d told me he valued his privacy, his “intellectual boundaries.” I had respected that, thinking it was just part of his process. I realized now it wasn’t about the notebook. It was about who was doing the touching. 03 The office was soon consumed by the sound of typing and hushed medical consultations. Jordan walked me through a new admission from the night before, our heads bent over the chart. Across the room, Lydia had made herself at home in Adrian’s chair. She was “helping” him with some paperwork, their heads leaning so close they were practically touching. It was an eyesore. Watching them, you’d never guess Adrian and I even knew each other outside of these four walls. We were strangers who happened to share an employer. Even at dinner, there was nothing. Adrian had brought Lydia to the staff cafeteria, having gone home to grab her a change of clothes—a soft, cream-colored sweater. As he helped her pull the sweater over her head, the light caught something on her neck. A silver necklace. Exactly like mine. Except hers was better. The craftsmanship was finer, the metal brighter. It was clearly a new, high-end version of the one I wore every day. He led her toward a table, his hand resting naturally on the small of her back. She leaned her head against his shoulder. They looked like a couple in a jewelry commercial. I might as well have been a piece of the furniture. I sat with Jordan and the others. Jordan noticed where I was looking and waved a hand in front of my face. “Forget it, Nina. Beckett never eats with the peasants. Unless, of course, it’s her.” I forced a smile and looked down at my tray. The food tasted like ash. My colleagues were complaining about the mystery meat, asking if I liked it. I just shook my head, my eyes involuntarily drifting back to the table near the window. Seeing them huddled together took me back. Back to the year Adrian was accused of plagiarism. I had spent months traveling to different universities, digging through archives, tracking down witnesses to clear his name. Sometimes we only had enough money for one meal a day. He’d bought me my necklace then. We were waiting for a meeting, eating cold takeout on a curb, when he’d slipped into a cheap silver shop and came out with it. I’ll be like this chain, he’d told me. Always around you. Always holding you. When his name was finally cleared and he got his position at the hospital, he made a vow. “From now on, Nina, I’m going to make sure we always have a proper seat at the table.” And later, when I lost the baby—when the stress of the scandal and the two jobs finally broke my body—he had held me in the hospital bed, sobbing into my hair. “I’m so sorry, Nina. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.” Now I saw those vows for what they were: heat-of-the-moment emotions. Empty words from a man who was grateful for the help, but not the woman giving it. As I got up to head back to my shift, my phone buzzed. A text from Adrian. Nice performance today. But next time, try a less pathetic excuse than ‘divorce.’ I sighed, staring at the screen. I didn’t reply. There was nothing left to say that a lawyer couldn’t say better. 04 After my shift, I ordered Thai takeout and went home. Adrian hated takeout. He said the years of struggling and eating out of cardboard boxes had scarred him. Because I loved him, I had spent every evening—no matter how exhausted I was—cooking from scratch, making his favorites. He’d eat it with a shrug, but I kept doing it. Not tonight. Lydia was with him. I’m sure a salad from the hospital vending machine would taste like a five-course meal as long as she was the one feeding it to him. I went into the study and pulled a book off the shelf. On the night we officially started our relationship, Adrian had sat in this room until dawn. He told me he was too nervous, too overwhelmed by his feelings for me to sleep. I’d believed him. Until I found the letter. I had been cleaning months later and a page fell out of his copy of Gone with the Wind. The sycamores have turned brittle and yellow six times now, he had written. And I am still waiting for you. It was a letter to Lydia, never sent, perfectly preserved. I put the letter back. I took off my necklace and placed it in the back of a junk drawer. I opened my laptop and typed out a transfer request to another department, then hit send. That night, I didn’t sleep. My mind was a loop of Adrian’s breath against my skin as he fastened that necklace years ago, contrasted against the way he’d tucked Lydia into her sweater today. I fell asleep just as the sun began to peek through the blinds, my face damp with tears. The next day was my day off. I dressed in a tailored suit and sprayed on a gardenia perfume. It was an old bottle, probably expired. I’d bought it before Adrian and I were together. He hated scents, so I’d buried it in the back of the vanity. As I was grabbing my keys, the front door opened. Adrian walked in. He caught the scent immediately and frowned. “Lydia was scared to be alone in the hospital last night,” he said, skipping any greeting. “That’s why I asked you to swap. Don’t read into it.” I paused, my hand on the doorknob. In three years of marriage, he had never felt the need to explain himself to me. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, his eyes scanning me, landing on the source of the perfume. “Where are you going? And since when do you wear that stuff? You know I hate perfume.” I looked him in the eye, my voice perfectly level. “I never said I didn’t like it. You don’t like it. There’s a difference.” Adrian blinked, finally noticing the coldness in my expression. “Are you really still sulking because I asked you to swap a shift? I didn’t realize you were so petty, Nina.” Petty. I almost laughed. It was a sharp, jagged sound. “Is that what this is to you? Pettiness?” Adrian pressed his lips together. “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have asked in front of everyone. Lydia would have been embarrassed if I’d said no. You’re a doctor, Nina. Have some professional compassion. Stop being so dramatic.” He paused, then added, “Tell you what. I’ll take you to that concert tonight. The one Lydia mentioned—” “No.” I cut him off before he could finish. It was the first time I’d ever interrupted him. “Adrian, I’m done playing this part. I’m done pretending we—” Before I could finish, his grip on my wrist tightened. His eyes went wide, fixed on my throat. “Where is the necklace?”

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My fiancé Coran is the Alpha heir of Bronzefang pack. The night before the wedding, Coran took me to meet his friends. Throughout the evening, he was attentive to me in every way. His friends all praised him: “Cinnia is so innocent. You really hit the jackpot.” He smiled smugly: “Of course Cinnia is the best. She’s not like those shallow, frivolous women out there.” But when I went to the restroom, I overheard him bragging in a lowered voice outside the door: “Innocent? What’s the use of that? When we have sex, she’s like a dead fish. She can’t compare to Vivian’s passion at all. If she and Vivian weren’t twins who look exactly alike, I wouldn’t even bother touching her.” The next day at the wedding, my sister Vivian showed up with a pregnant belly, and he actually asked me to step aside for them. I laughed coldly, tore off my veil, and walked over to Cedric, who was sitting in a wheelchair below the stage. “Everyone says you like me. I’m single now. Do you dare marry me?” “Hahaha, Cinnia’s lost her mind!” “Choosing a cripple—she’s really desperate!” “Sure, Cedric’s father is the Alpha of Vexmoor pack, but everyone knows he’s never been valued because of his disabled legs. His father doesn’t even acknowledge him as a son. He’s nowhere near Coran’s level!” “How embarrassing! She’s completely humiliated Silthowl pack!” Harsh laughter erupted from the guests at the venue. Each word pierced my heart like a needle. My father’s face turned the color of liver, and my mother rushed onto the stage, gripping my arm tightly. “Are you insane?! Ruining yourself out of spite?!” Below the stage, Coran had his arm around Vivian, a smirk of amusement on his face. “Well, well. I underestimated her. Turns out she’s got some guts.” Vivian giggled mockingly: “Guts? I think she’s lost her mind. Cinnia, are you sure you want to spend your life with a waste of space?” She deliberately caressed her swollen belly, her eyes full of provocation and triumph. My heart felt like it was being viciously torn apart. I thought tearing off the wedding dress would give me freedom, but instead it brought me even greater humiliation. Cedric stood up and limped toward me. Compared to the polished and glamorous Coran, the difference was night and day. I suddenly regretted it. Impulse is the devil. Why did I choose a cripple? Did I really want to spend my life with him? Cedric stopped in front of me and pulled a ring from his pocket. The surface was set with tiny diamonds, dull and lifeless, not even a carat. The diamond ring Coran gave Vivian was a full three carats, sparkling brilliantly. In comparison, this ring looked pitifully shabby. The mocking laughter below grew louder. “Hahaha, even the ring is pathetic!” “Cinnia, are you really willing to settle for this?” Tears nearly fell from my eyes. When had I ever suffered such humiliation in my entire life? But when Cedric took my hand, I froze. His hand was warm and steady. “I dare.” Two words, spoken with certainty. Not like Coran’s honeyed lies, not like the guests’ cold mockery. Just two simple words, yet they made my heart tremble. “Are you sure? I might bring you trouble.” “I’m not afraid.” He didn’t hesitate for a second. The mocking laughter below grew even louder. “Two losers make a perfect pair!” “A cripple and a crazy woman—perfect match!” Coran called out loudly: “Cinnia, stop being childish. Come back. The baby in Vivian’s belly needs a father, and you need a whole man.” A whole man? I laughed coldly. What kind of whole man was Coran? Betrayal, deception, playing with sisters’ feelings—was that his version of being whole? Coran and I were fated mates. We fell in love shortly after meeting, and because we were both descendants of Alphas, marriage would benefit the cooperation between our packs, so we quickly confirmed our engagement. When our families got engaged, I introduced him to my sister Vivian. Coran was very interested in Vivian at the time. Coran said: “I’ve never seen twin sisters before, so I’m curious.” Later, during several dates with Coran, he kept asking me to bring Vivian along. Now that I think about it, the two of them must have hooked up back then. I looked at Cedric. His legs might be disabled, but his werewolf bloodline wasn’t, and his heart certainly wasn’t. “Alright. I’m willing.” I extended my hand and let him place that dull ring on my finger. The ring was small and fit perfectly, as if it had been custom-made for me. The crowd below erupted in uproar.

The contempt on Coran’s face instantly turned to fury. He strode over and grabbed my wrist. The force felt like it could crush my bones. “Cinnia, you’d rather choose a cripple to disgust me than beg me?” Before I could react, my father rushed over. I thought he was going to stop Coran and protect me. Instead, he raised his hand and delivered a resounding slap. “Smack!” The crisp sound exploded throughout the entire wedding venue. My cheek instantly swelled red and burned with pain. Blood seeped from the corner of my mouth. The mocking laughter in the hall came to an abrupt halt, then erupted into even more piercing whispers. “Cinnia! You’ve humiliated all of Silthowl pack! Get back here right now!” There wasn’t a trace of heartache in my father’s eyes, only anger and disgust. I covered my face, tears threatening to spill. Not because of the pain, but because of the icy coldness in my heart. This man was my father, the Alpha of Silthowl pack. At this moment, Vivian stepped forward with false concern. “Dad, Cinnia was just being impulsive. Don’t get too upset…” As she spoke, she “accidentally” stepped hard on my foot with her high heel. The piercing pain made me instantly lose my balance. She then pretended to lose her footing and slammed her shoulder hard into me. I stumbled and fell to the ground. The pristine white wedding dress was instantly stained with blood from my mouth. The guests below began pointing and whispering. “The older daughter is a lunatic. At least the younger one is sensible.” “Good thing Coran chose the right person.” Vivian smugly caressed her belly, her eyes full of provocation. Cedric tried to help me, but Coran’s friends held him back firmly. “What are you? You think you’re worthy of touching her?” Coran sneered. I lay on the floor, looking at his anxious but powerless face. A despair worse than physical pain surged through my heart. Was this the man I chose? He couldn’t even protect me. Coran looked down at me from above, his eyes full of triumph. “Cinnia, see clearly now? This is your choice. A waste who can’t even stand steady—how can he protect you?” He crouched down and reached out to pull me up. “Be good. Come back. I can let bygones be bygones and pretend none of this happened.” This man had called me a dead fish to his friends just last night. Now he was putting on a show of deep affection. Disgusting. I used all my strength to violently shake off his hand. “Get lost!” Coran’s face instantly darkened. “You don’t know what’s good for you.” He stood up and kicked the wedding dress beside me. “Since you’re so cheap, go ahead and be with your cripple. But don’t regret it!”

Seeing this, my father stepped forward again. “Cinnia, apologize right now!” My mother also rushed over, crying. “Cinnia, have you lost your mind? Ruining your whole life out of spite?” The guests below watched the show, pointing and whispering. “Cinnia has really gone crazy.” “Choosing a cripple out of spite—how desperate do you have to be?” “What did Silthowl pack do to deserve such a daughter?” Vivian walked over at just the right moment, her belly prominent. “Cinnia, calm down. Even though we have our misunderstandings, Coran truly loves you. Look at Cedric—he can’t even protect you. Is he really suitable for you to entrust your life to?” Her words were cutting, each one aimed at the heart. I lay on the ground, feeling malice coming at me from all directions. My parents’ disappointment. My ex-boyfriend’s mockery. My sister’s provocation. The guests’ ridicule. And… the powerlessness of the man I had chosen. Did I really make the wrong choice? At that moment, Cedric finally broke free from those who were blocking him. He limped toward me, each step difficult. He crouched down and gently helped me up. “I’m sorry for letting you suffer.” Then he turned his head and looked at Coran. “You’re right. I really can’t protect you.” My heart instantly sank to the bottom. Was even he going to give up on me? But the next second, he said: “But at least, I won’t hurt you.” He looked at everyone below the stage. “You mock her for going crazy, for choosing me out of spite. But have you considered what would drive a woman to make such a choice on her wedding day?” The entire hall fell silent. “It’s betrayal. It’s deception. It’s harm from those closest to her.” “My legs may be crippled, but my character is upright. I may not be able to give her the best material life, but I can give her the truest feelings.” Coran’s face turned ashen. “Stop with the emotional manipulation! You’re just a waste. What right do you have…” “What right do I have?” Cedric interrupted him. “I have the right to love her. What about you?” “Enough with the sappy talk. Friends, throw him out.” With that, Coran and his friends kicked Cedric out of the wedding venue. My mother finally moved. Not to help me up, but to yank me from the ground. Before I could react, Vivian had already grabbed my other arm. “Mom, what are you doing!” I struggled, but the two of them were stronger than me. “Shut up! You’ve embarrassed us enough already!” They dragged me toward the back of the stage. The guests below watched this scene, some pulling out their phones to record. “Let me go! Are you crazy!” I struggled hard, but Vivian took the opportunity to viciously pinch my waist. The sharp pain instantly robbed me of the strength to resist. They dragged me to a storage room backstage filled with clutter. “Bang!” The door slammed shut heavily, followed by the sound of a key turning.

I rushed to the door like a madwoman, pounding on it hard. “Open the door! What right do you have to lock me up! Open the door!” Outside, Coran’s amplified voice came through. He held a microphone, his voice spreading throughout the hall via the speakers. “Dear guests, I apologize for that little episode earlier.” “Now, my former fiancée who rejected me is in the storage room backstage reflecting. What do you all think—when will she come to her senses?” Raucous laughter erupted from below. “Coran is so funny!” “This is more exciting than watching a movie!” “That woman deserves it!” I had become the openly displayed joke of this wedding. My phone vibrated. I took it out and saw a message from my mother. “Cinnia, stop making a scene. Your sister’s happiness is what matters most. Just apologize to Coran and this whole thing will be over.” I stared at the words on the screen. My sister’s happiness is what matters most. What about me? Doesn’t my happiness matter? Doesn’t my dignity matter? Do I deserve to be humiliated, locked up, treated as a joke? The music outside grew louder. Coran and Vivian began to dance. The guests’ applause and cheers grew wave after wave. And I, like garbage, was locked in this dark corner. My phone vibrated again. This time it was from Vivian. “Cinnia, I know you’re angry right now. But think about it—Coran is so excellent, he deserves better. Just stop being stubborn, okay?” I slid down along the door and curled up into a ball. The physical pain, my family’s betrayal, my lover’s humiliation, and the departure of the person who said he would protect me—all of it pushed me into a bottomless abyss. I didn’t even have the strength to cry anymore. So be it. Let them mock me. Let them gloat. I have nothing left anyway. Coran’s voice came from outside: “Everyone, now for the most exciting part. Let’s go see if our former fiancée has come to her senses yet!” Footsteps drew closer. The sound of the key turning rang out. The door opened, and blinding light flooded in. Coran stood in the doorway, followed by a crowd of guests, all holding up their phones to record. “Cinnia, how’s your thinking going? Ready to apologize?” I raised my head, about to speak. Suddenly, the main door of the wedding venue was violently pushed open. A group of people burst in. Cedric stood at the entrance, followed by dozens of imposing bodyguards in black. The entire hall instantly fell silent. Everyone froze, including Coran. Cedric took off his suit jacket and strode toward me. His leg was still crippled. He draped the jacket over me, then without a word, scooped me up in his arms. “What are you doing! Put her down!” Coran finally snapped out of it. Cedric didn’t even glance at him. In that moment, I felt like I had come back to life. “Cedric, you think you can turn the tables with a crippled leg and a few men?” Coran was furious with humiliation. At that moment, a well-dressed middle-aged man stepped forward. He held a document in his hand and threw it directly in Coran’s face. “Mr. Coran, from this moment on, 35% of Bronzefang pack’s resources belong to Cedric. Your company has gone bankrupt, and you have been stripped of your position as Alpha heir by your father.”

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For ten years, I was just a stand-in for Ethan Reid and Adrian Cross. When Isabella came back, she stole my design drafts and put her name on them. They said they’d love me forever. Then I found them in bed with her. They were calling her “baby” while she moaned beneath them.” That’s when I knew. Isabella was the one they’d really loved all along. I packed my bags. Burned every photo we’d taken. Left for Milan. Later, they knelt in the rain, begging me to come back. But I held my fiancé’s arm and looked down at them. I tossed them a check. “Go back to where you came from. Don’t ever show up in front of me again.” Stella Hart POV After confirming my acceptance of the Milan Design Academy’s offer, I exited the group chat called “Stella’s Exclusive Knights.” The group originally had only three people: me, Ethan, and Adrian. But six months ago, a fourth person was added. Isabella. The name also changed to “One Happy Family.” The moment I left the chat, I didn’t hesitate for a second. It felt like finally cutting away a piece of rotting flesh. On my desk sat a photo of the three of us. In it, Ethan’s cold, sharp features were uncharacteristically gentle as he looked down adjusting my scarf. Adrian smiled brightly, his arm around my shoulders from behind, like he was protecting some priceless treasure. I picked up the frame, pulled out the photo, and tore it into pieces without expression, tossing them into the trash bin at my feet. “Ethan, Adrian, these ten years of entanglement end here.” My phone screen lit up with a private message from Adrian. “Stella, are you coming to Isabella’s welcome dinner tonight or not? Can you stop making a scene? Everyone’s waiting for you.” Immediately after, Ethan sent one too. “She just got to New York and doesn’t have many friends. As an investor in the studio, can’t you help her out?” I smiled bitterly and didn’t reply. Instead, I opened the Instagram post Isabella had made half an hour ago. In the photo, Isabella wore a haute couture gown with a dazzling sapphire necklace around her neck, smiling sweetly as she stood between Ethan and Adrian. The caption: “Thank you to my beloved brothers for this surprise. I feel like a little princess.” My gaze locked onto that sapphire necklace. It was my mother’s keepsake, locked away in the studio safe. Only the three of us knew the password. I took a deep breath and called Ethan. “Why is my necklace on Isabella’s neck?” My voice was surprisingly calm. There was a pause on the other end, then Ethan’s unconcerned voice came through. “Isabella didn’t have suitable jewelry for tonight. I saw that necklace wasn’t being worn, so I let her borrow it. Don’t be so petty. It’s just a necklace. If you want it, I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.” Adrian’s voice came from nearby, tinged with impatience. “Stella Hart, can you stop making a scene? Isabella’s had such a hard life. She finally has one happy evening, and you have to ruin it right now? What we did was wrong, but we’re the ones who opened the safe. If you want to blame someone, blame us.” I heard the background music from the party and Isabella’s delicate laughter through the phone, and felt my stomach turn. Before, if anyone so much as looked at me the wrong way, Ethan and Adrian would gouge their eyes out. When I was sixteen, at a gala, some tycoon said disrespectful things to me and tried to touch my hand. Ethan smashed a bottle on the spot and ground the man’s face into the broken glass. Adrian went further, using his family’s power to bankrupt the tycoon’s family and run them out of New York overnight. They used to spoil me endlessly, creating the strictest “protection circle” around me, not allowing anyone to hurt me. But now, they’d handed the knife to someone else themselves. “Don’t bother replacing it,” I interrupted them. “Since she likes it, give it to her.” With that, I hung up and blocked both their numbers. Seven days until my flight to Milan.

Stella Hart POV Early the next morning, I went to the studio. I didn’t go to my private office. Instead, I walked straight to the storage room, pulled out a large cardboard box, and started clearing out my things. Ethan and Adrian pushed through the door just as I was tossing a pair of custom baby’s breath couple rings into the trash. They had pooled their money at an auction when they turned eighteen to buy the raw stones, then spent three months polishing them themselves before giving them to me. Back then, they’d knelt on one knee and declared domineeringly, “Stella Hart, you can only wear rings we give you for the rest of your life. If you dare take them off, we’ll break your legs.” “What are you doing?” Ethan strode over and grabbed my wrist, staring darkly at the rings in the trash. Adrian’s expression turned equally grim. “Stella Hart, have you made enough of a scene? Fine, you didn’t come to the dinner last night, but now you show up and start throwing things away? What are you trying to do?” I yanked my hand free from Ethan’s grip, my tone indifferent. “Just clearing out garbage. These things take up space. Might as well throw them away.” “Garbage?” Ethan’s jaw clenched, disbelief flashing in his eyes. “Do you know what these rings-” “I know,” I cut him off. “But I don’t need them anymore.” Just then, Isabella walked in carrying two cups of coffee. Seeing this scene, her eyes immediately reddened and she said timidly, “Stella, are you still mad at me? I already took off the necklace from last night-I’ll return it to you right now. Don’t be angry with them, it’s all my fault…” She reached out to tug at my sleeve. I instinctively stepped back, and Isabella suddenly cried out. The coffee cup in her hand dropped to the floor, and scalding coffee splashed all over her leg. “Ah! It hurts!” Isabella fell to the ground, tears streaming down her face instantly. “Isabella!” Ethan and Adrian rushed over simultaneously. Ethan scooped Isabella into his arms, nervously checking her leg. Adrian spun around, glaring at me with vicious eyes. “Are you insane?! She was just trying to return the necklace to you. Why did you push her!” I stood there, watching their panicked reactions, and suddenly found it somewhat funny. “I didn’t push her.” “I saw it with my own eyes, and you’re still denying it!” Adrian roared. “Stella Hart, when did you become so vicious? Isabella has depression. She can’t handle stress. Are you trying to drive her to death?” Depression. This illness had become Isabella’s free pass in this studio. Because of depression, Isabella could freely take my design drafts and put her name on them. Because of depression, Isabella could monopolize Ethan and Adrian’s time whenever she wanted. I looked at them coldly. “Since she’s so fragile, you two take good care of her. I have things to do. I’m leaving.” I stepped around the coffee spill and walked out of the office without looking back. Behind me came Ethan’s voice, suppressing his rage. “Stella Hart, if you dare walk out that door today, don’t expect us to ever speak to you again!” My steps didn’t falter. Want to speak to me? You lost that right long ago.

Stella Hart POV I went to a law firm. I placed the studio equity transfer agreement in front of the lawyer. “Help me draft a free transfer agreement. I want to split all my shares in the studio equally between Ethan Reid and Adrian Cross.” The lawyer was stunned. “Miss Hart, you founded this studio. All the core design patents are under your name. If you transfer them for free now, you’re essentially leaving with nothing!” “I know,” my tone was calm. “Do as I say. The sooner the better.” This studio was something we founded together after graduating from college. Back then, to secure investment for me, Ethan and Adrian drank until they had bleeding ulcers and ended up in the hospital. From their hospital beds, they held my hand and said, “Stella, this will be your business empire. We’re just knights working for you.” But now, the knights had found a new princess. Walking out of the law firm, the sky opened up with heavy rain. I didn’t have an umbrella and stood under an awning waiting for my car. A black Maybach stopped in front of me. The window rolled down, revealing Adrian’s cold, sharp face. “Get in.” His tone was curt, commanding. I didn’t move. “No need. I called a car.” Adrian pushed open the door and yanked me into the vehicle, his movements so rough they hurt my wrist. The cabin had the heat on, but it felt suffocating. “How long are you going to keep this up?” Adrian lit a cigarette and took an irritated drag. “Isabella’s leg got burned. The doctor said it might scar. She’s a girl. Do you know how devastating this is for her?” I looked out at the rain, my voice completely flat. “So what?” “You!” Adrian was infuriated by my cold demeanor. “Stella Hart, you weren’t like this before! You used to be kind and understanding. You’d cry over an injured stray cat. How did you become so heartless?” Kind? Understanding? I found it ironic. When I was twenty, I broke my shin protecting Adrian. Back then, Adrian held me and cried, swearing he’d never let me suffer any grievance for the rest of his life. Now, just because I didn’t help Isabella, who fell on her own, I’d become a heartless villain. “Adrian,” I turned to look at him, my gaze calm, “my main show spot at Paris Fashion Week next month. You gave it to Isabella, didn’t you?” Adrian’s hand holding the cigarette paused, his eyes shifting away. “Isabella needs a chance to prove herself. You’re already a top designer in the industry. You don’t need this one opportunity. Just consider it… compensation for pushing her today.” Compensation. The design drafts I stayed up three nights to create, the show I’d been preparing for an entire year. It all became a casual “compensation.” “Fine.” I didn’t argue, didn’t even show a trace of anger. “Give it to her.” Adrian froze, seemingly not expecting me to agree so easily. He looked at me suspiciously, trying to find some sign of anger or grievance on my face, but there was nothing. Just calm like a stagnant pool of water.

Stella Hart POV The Paris Fashion Week lineup was announced. Isabella’s name replaced mine as the studio’s featured designer. The industry was in an uproar, everyone speculating whether I’d been replaced. I ignored the outside rumors, clocking in and out on time every day, quietly handing off my work. Five days until leaving the country. In the afternoon, the studio held a general meeting. Isabella sat in the main seat that used to be mine, holding my design drafts and offering opinions. “I think this gown’s waistline design is too rigid. It should be changed to cutouts, adding some sexy elements.” Isabella pointed at the blueprints, looking at Ethan delicately. “What do you think?” Ethan smiled indulgently. “Whatever you think is good. Change it according to your ideas.” I sat in the corner, looking down at flight information on my phone, as if none of this concerned me. That gown’s theme was “Salvation of the Deep Sea.” The waistline design was meant to echo the embracing sensation of ocean waves. Changing it to cutouts would destroy the entire concept. But I said nothing. After the meeting ended, Isabella called out to me. “Stella, can you stay and help me modify the blueprints? I’m not very good with that software.” Isabella looked at me with an innocent expression. Ethan frowned and said to me, “Help her out. Don’t let her get too tired.” I raised my head, looked at Ethan’s expression, and said flatly, “I’m off the clock.” “Stella Hart!” Ethan’s voice darkened. “Do you have to be so petty? Isabella is the main show designer now. Her work affects the entire studio’s interests. As an investor, don’t you have any sense of the bigger picture?” “Bigger picture?” I stood up, looking Ethan straight in the eyes. “My sense of the bigger picture is not interfering with the main show designer’s ‘great creations.’ Since she thinks my design is rigid, let her change it herself.” With that, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. Isabella suddenly rushed over and grabbed my bag, crying. “Stella, don’t go. I know you hate me for taking your position, but I really didn’t mean to. I just want to prove myself…” As we struggled, Isabella suddenly let go, and her whole body fell backward, hitting the glass display case behind her hard. Crash. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the entire office. Isabella’s arm was cut by the broken glass, blood flowing freely. “Isabella!” Ethan and Adrian rushed over like madmen. Adrian shoved me aside, causing me to crash into the sharp corner of the desk. Sharp pain shot through my waist. I grunted, my face turning deathly pale. But Adrian didn’t even glance at me. His eyes red, he picked up Isabella and roared at me, “Stella Hart! If anything happens to Isabella’s hand, I will never forgive you!” Ethan walked last. He stopped, looking down at me clutching my waist and breaking into a cold sweat, his eyes as cold as ice. “You’ve disappointed me too much. Starting today, you don’t need to come to work. Come back when you realize your mistakes.” The office door slammed shut. I leaned against the desk, the pain making even breathing difficult. I slowly rolled up my shirt. My side was already bruised purple over a large area. I didn’t cry. I just took out my phone and sent the lawyer a message. “Is the agreement ready? I’ll come sign it tomorrow.”

Stella Hart POV I went to the hospital alone. After examining me, the doctor said it was severe soft tissue contusion and I needed bed rest. He also prescribed me a pile of medication. Walking out of the hospital entrance, the cold wind hit me and I couldn’t help shivering. My phone vibrated. It was a text from Adrian. He wasn’t asking about my injury. He sent me a bill. “Isabella’s hand needed three stitches. The doctor said she can’t get it wet. Her medical expenses, nutrition costs, and other losses from this injury during this period will be deducted from your salary. Also, publicly apologize to Isabella in the group chat.” Looking at the words on the screen, I found it absurd beyond belief. I opened the group chat that had become “One Happy Family.” Ethan had sent a voice message in it. “Isabella, don’t be afraid. With us here, no one can bully you. Whatever compensation you want, just ask.” Isabella replied with a wronged emoji. “I don’t want anything. I just want Stella to stop hating me.” Adrian immediately transferred her money. “Take this and buy something you like to eat.” I quietly watched them perform in the group, my fingers typing out a sentence on the screen. “I’ll pay the medical expenses. But I will never apologize.” After sending this message, I muted the group chat. Returning home, I started packing. Actually, there wasn’t much to pack. This house was filled with traces left by Ethan and Adrian everywhere. The painting on the wall was something Adrian bought at a high price at an auction. The carpet was specially air-freighted from Turkey by Ethan. Even the mugs in the kitchen were ones the three of us made together at a pottery studio. I found a large garbage bag and threw these things in one by one. At the very end, I found a velvet box in the deepest part of the drawer. Inside were two wills. They were written when they were twenty-two, after they encountered an avalanche in Switzerland and narrowly escaped death. Ethan and Adrian wrote clearly in the wills: If anything happened to them, all their property and shares would unconditionally be inherited by me. “We are Stella’s knights. Even if we die, we’ll be Stella’s guardian angels.” I still remembered those vows. Now they’d become the most ridiculous joke. I took out a lighter and set those two wills on fire. The flames lit up my face. I watched the paper turn to ash, along with my ten years of youth and feelings, burning completely clean. Three days until leaving the country. The next day, I went to the law firm and signed the equity transfer agreement. The lawyer looked at my pale face and couldn’t help advising, “Miss Hart, won’t you reconsider? Once this agreement takes effect, you’ll truly have nothing left at the studio.” “Nothing to reconsider.” I put down the pen, my tone as light as discussing the weather. “Please help me mail this agreement to Ethan Reid and Adrian Cross three days from now.” Three days from now was the day I’d fly to Milan, and also the opening day of the Paris Fashion Week main show. Leaving the law firm, I received a call from Ethan. “What was that you posted in the group last night?” Ethan’s voice was thick with exhaustion and displeasure. “Stella Hart, do you think we won’t actually hurt you? Because of what you said, Isabella cried all night. She couldn’t even take her sleeping pills!” I stood on the street, watching the passing vehicles, my voice cold. “How is her crying related to me?” “You-” Ethan took a deep breath, seemingly forcing down his anger. “Fine, you won’t apologize? Then starting today, the studio is cutting off all your resources and access. You think you’re so great? Let’s see how you survive in this industry without the studio!” I laughed. “Fine.” I hung up and blocked Ethan’s number too. Returning to my apartment, I found the door lock password had been changed. I tried three times. All incorrect. Just then, the door opened from inside. Isabella, wearing my pajamas, held a glass of red wine and smiled at me. “Stella, you’re back.” Isabella swirled her wine glass. “Ethan said you’ve been emotionally unstable lately and was worried something might happen if you lived alone, so he had me move in to keep you company. I changed the password to my birthday. You don’t mind, do you?” I looked at Isabella wearing that limited edition pajama set I’d never worn, my eyes cold to the extreme. “Take it off.” Isabella froze, then bit her lip pitifully. “Stella, don’t be so mean. Adrian got this from your closet for me. He said you never wear it anyway…” “I said take it off!” I stepped forward, my eyes as sharp as knives. Isabella stepped back in fear, deliberately tilting her wine glass so the red liquid instantly splashed onto my white shirt. “Oh no! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” Isabella cried out. Just then, the elevator doors opened. Adrian came out carrying a bunch of things. He dropped everything and rushed over. He pushed Isabella behind him and slapped me. Smack! The crisp sound of the slap echoed through the hallway. My head snapped to the side. Blood trickled from my lip. “Stella, what the hell is wrong with you?” Adrian’s eyes were wild, like an animal backed into a corner. “Isabella just came to check on you, and you hurt her? You really think I won’t hit you?”

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