Author: Momo Chan

Today is Wednesday. It’s time for me to “accidentally” bump into my fiancé again. Half a year ago, Asher was hit on the head by a collapsing beam during a fire rescue mission. When he woke up, his memory could only last for seven days. Every Wednesday, his brain automatically formats. He goes back to the very first day we met. So, every Wednesday morning, I go to his favorite local diner to “accidentally” meet him. I chat with him about his ginger cat, Mochi. By the fourth day, he will actively look for me. By the sixth day, he will look into my eyes and say, “I’m in this for life. It’s you, Chloe. It’s always been you.” And in the early hours of the seventh day, I will watch him fall asleep, waiting for him to completely forget me when the sun rises. I have seventy-three voice recordings saved on my Snapchat, all of him saying those exact words: “It’s always been you.” His tone is identical in every single one. Because every time he says it, his love is real. It’s just that every single week, it has to start all over again. The week my grandmother passed away, I had to fly back to Oregon for her funeral. My roommate, Serena, patted my shoulder and said, “Chloe, babe, don’t worry. I’ll take care of him while you’re gone. Just focus on your family.” So, I trusted her. I gave her the address of the diner, his exact coffee order, and told her all of Mochi’s quirks. Nine days later, I finally came back. I unlocked the apartment door. Mochi was curled up on Serena’s lap. Asher walked out of the kitchen holding two bowls of pasta. When he saw me, he gave me a polite, friendly smile. “Hi there. Can I help you? Who are you looking for?” Serena wrapped her arm around his. “Babe, she’s my coworker.” ***0

“Do you want to come in and sit down? I actually made a bit too much pasta,” Asher said, placing the bowls on the dining table. He naturally pulled out a chair. He pulled it out for me. He did it with the polite hospitality you’d show to any random guest. It was courteous, but completely distant. I stood frozen in the entryway. The plush slippers on my feet were the ones I had spent hours searching for on Amazon. In the shoe rack by the door, his sneakers were lined up next to a pair of white canvas shoes. Women’s size 8. I wear a size 7. Serena’s hand was still wrapped tightly around his arm. Her nails were painted a soft, dusty pink. She used to only wear bright red, claiming nude shades were too boring. “No, thank you. I just came to grab something.” “What do you need?” Serena tilted her head, her voice incredibly natural. “The second shelf on the right side of the bedroom closet. There’s a grey knitted scarf.” She didn’t move. Suddenly, Mochi jumped down from the sofa. He scurried over to my feet, frantically rubbing his head against my ankles. “Mochi, come back here,” Serena called out, patting her thigh. The cat completely ignored her. Asher chuckled. “What’s up with him today? He’s usually not like this with strangers.” Usually. Usually, Mochi only clung to me. He hated being held by Asher and would always squirm. I had to support the cat’s hind legs from behind for him to calm down. But Asher didn’t remember any of that. Every Wednesday, everything was wiped clean. “Your cat is really cute,” I whispered, squatting down to gently scratch Mochi behind the ears. “You like cats too?” Asher’s eyes lit up. “His name is Mochi. He’s three and a half. See his left ear? There’s a little notch. He got into a fight with a stray when he was a kitten—” “—and it left a scar,” I finished his sentence. Asher blinked, startled. “How did you know that?” Serena quickly took the pasta bowl from his hand and set it down, her soft voice cutting in seamlessly. “I probably mentioned it at the office. I talk about Mochi all the time. Everyone at work knows about him.” She pivoted the conversation so fast, like a seasoned actress following a script. No pause, no hesitation. She shut down his suspicion before he could even process it. I was the one who taught her that trick. Back when we pitched scripts together, I told her: *If a producer asks a difficult question, redirect the conversation before they can overthink it.* “Yeah. Serena mentioned him.” Asher let out an “oh” and didn’t press further. “I’ll get that scarf for you,” Serena said, scooping Mochi up from the floor. The cat let out a sharp, uncomfortable mewl. She wasn’t supporting his hind legs. As Mochi struggled to break free, she just squeezed her arm tighter around him. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it next time.” “Alright then,” she smiled. “Get home safe, Chloe. I won’t see you out. The pasta is getting cold.” Asher sat down at the table and waved at me. “Drive safe.” The very first time he said those words to me, he had chased me down half a block from the diner. He was panting, clutching the grey scarf I had accidentally left on the chair. That exact grey scarf. “Yeah.” I turned around. Serena followed me to the door, closing it until only a small crack remained. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Chloe, don’t come back next week. Every time you show up, his vitals fluctuate. The doctor said he can’t handle emotional stress.” “This is my apartment.” “The lease is under Asher’s name. You didn’t put your name on it back then, remember?” My hands clenched into fists inside my pockets. She was right. I thought we were getting married anyway, so it didn’t matter whose name was on the lease. “What are you trying to do, Serena?” “I’m taking care of him.” “You called him ‘babe.’ You’re acting like his wife.” “He was the one who called me that first,” she said, looking down, her eyelashes fluttering. “He said it to me on the sixth day after you left. What was I supposed to do? Push him away?” The door clicked shut in my face. The lock turned. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, I could hear the faint, muffled voices from the living room. “Is she gone?” “Yeah.” “Your coworker? She looks kind of familiar.” “She’s new. We aren’t really close.” Then came the clinking of forks. Light, casual. Like any ordinary couple having an ordinary dinner. I leaned my back against the cold hallway wall. A few minutes later, the living room fell quiet. And then, a melody drifted through the cracks of the door. It was shaky, off-key. The pitch went up on the third note, dipped on the seventh, and ended with a long, soft exhale. There were no lyrics, just a soft, humming tune. My grandma’s lullaby. My grandma was tone-deaf, so she always sang it terribly. I learned it from her, so I sang it terribly too. But Asher loved it. He said it was the only sound that made him feel safe. For seventy-three weeks, I hummed that exact song to him until he drifted off to sleep. Last month in our shared apartment, I had hummed it casually while sitting on my bed. Serena had tossed and turned on her bunk bed. “Chloe, what is that song? It’s kind of catchy.” “Just something my grandma used to hum. I don’t even know the name.” “It’s beautiful.” She only asked once. But now, behind that closed door, she was humming the second verse. Even that long, drawn-out exhale at the end was identical to mine. My phone buzzed. A Snapchat message from Serena. *“Chloe, get some rest. He’s asleep. Don’t worry.”* ***0

“What can I get for you?” “A cinnamon roll and a hot latte, please.” I sat at the second booth by the window. This was my spot. The one I had occupied every Wednesday morning for seventy-three weeks. The vinyl seat had a tiny tear on the side, and the table wobbled if you leaned on it too hard. Wednesday, 8:15 AM. Usually, at this exact time, Asher would walk through the door, sit at the empty table across from me, and order a coffee and a bagel. I waited for two hours. He never showed up. My latte went cold. A thin skin formed over the milk. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. Serena picked up. “Chloe?” “Where is he?” “We’re eating at home. I made him breakfast.” “He always comes to this diner on Wednesdays.” “He used to. But I wanted to change things up. Eating the same thing every week isn’t healthy. Oh, and by the way, Chloe, he reset today. You know how it is. He doesn’t remember a thing. Calling him right now won’t do you any good.” He doesn’t remember a thing. Not the fake memories Serena spent seven days building in his head. Not that she was his “wife,” not her face, and not that lullaby. She had to start all over again today. “Where are you taking him today?” “There’s a new cafe on the South Side. I think he’ll like it.” “I’ve been there. He hates that place. The tables are too close together. He gets anxious. He needs a window seat.” The line went dead silent for a few seconds. “Thanks for the tip, Chloe. I’ll make sure we get a window seat.” I hung up. I paid for my untouched food and walked down to the South Side. Standing across the street, I looked through the glass window of the new cafe. Asher was sitting by the window. Serena was sitting opposite him. She had listened to me. A window seat. She was laughing, tracing something on the table with her finger. Asher tilted his head, listening intently, nodding occasionally. That was his signature look when he was intrigued. The textbook reaction for Day One. I knew this routine inside out. Because I was the one who spent six months figuring it out through trial and error. Day 1: Bumping into him. Talking about the cat. Keep it casual, don’t be too eager. Day 2: Do not contact him. Give him space to process. Day 3: If he shows up, let him speak first. Day 4: He will initiate contact. Day 5: Take a step closer. Day 6: He will say those words. Day 7: Watch him fall asleep. Wait. Serena sat there, executing my playbook, step by step. I turned and walked away. At 8:00 PM, I went back to his apartment building. I didn’t go upstairs. I just stood on the sidewalk below. The lights on the third floor were on. The curtains were half-drawn. I could see Serena’s shadow moving in the living room, holding Mochi. Mochi was meowing again. High-pitched, anxious cries. The cat was uncomfortable. She was still holding him wrong. Her silhouette sat on the couch. Next to her, another shadow sat down. Asher. He was probably staring at his phone, or just spacing out. On the first day of his reset, he always stared blankly into space. His brain was desperately trying to fill the void of his missing memories. And then, that familiar melody drifted down from the third-floor window. It was shaky. Up on the third note, down on the seventh. Through the night air, Serena’s voice sounded so much like mine that I could barely tell the difference. I stood under the streetlamp, listening for three minutes. Then, I walked back to my lonely room. Day Two. Day Three. Day Four. On Saturday, a coworker forwarded me a screenshot of Serena’s private Instagram story. In the photo, Asher was sitting on the balcony chair. Mochi was curled up on his lap. Asher was smiling. The caption read: *“He reached out to me first today. ☀️”* I stared at that photo for a long time. I was the one who planted the ivy on that balcony. I was the one who bought that vintage chair off Craigslist. I was the one who named the cat sleeping on his knees. Everything in that photo belonged to me. Except for the smile on his face. That belonged to her now. My coworker texted me: *“Is your roommate dating your fiancé now? What’s going on?”* I didn’t know how to answer. After a long pause, I typed out: *“We broke up.”* I closed the chat and opened Asher’s contact card. I knew his number better than my own social security number. Our last call was from ten days ago, the night before I left for Oregon. That night, he had whispered, “Hurry back. I’ll be waiting for you.” He didn’t remember. But my phone did. I took a screenshot of that call log and saved it into a folder. The folder was named: *“Things He Said.”* There were already seventy-three recordings in there. Now, there was a screenshot. On Friday afternoon, my coworker sent me another screenshot of Serena’s Instagram. It was a photo of Asher in the kitchen, wearing an apron, holding a plate of food. The caption read: *“First time someone’s cooked dinner for me. ❤️”* It was his signature lasagna. He used to make it for me every single week. Seventy-three times, he had asked me, “Is it good?” And when I said yes, his eyes would crinkle up with pure joy. In the comments, Serena replied to another coworker: *“He told me I’m the only one for him.”* I flipped my phone over, screen down on the desk. “Is it good?” His voice suddenly echoed in my mind. It was so loud, so clear, that for a split second, I thought he was standing right next to me. But the room was empty. My phone vibrated again. A text from Serena. *“Chloe, he made lasagna tonight. You told me he likes extra brown sugar in the sauce, right? I added it. He said it was perfect.”* ***0

“Your project is being reassigned.” Frank, the showrunner, slid a folder across the desk. The cover had the title of my script—the original pilot I had spent three months perfecting. “Reassigned to whom?” “Serena. She said you’ve been dealing with some family tragedy and aren’t in the right headspace. She offered to take over the client meetings so we don’t fall behind schedule.” “When did she say this?” Frank flipped through his planner. “Last Thursday. She brought your outline to my office and said you authorized her to take the lead.” Last Thursday. That was the day of my Grandma’s memorial service. I was kneeling in front of her grave, unable to even look at my phone. Serena had sent me a text that morning: *“Chloe, honey, take all the time you need. I’ve got things covered here.”* I thought she meant she was watching Asher. “Frank, I never authorized that. That outline is my intellectual property.” Frank sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You two need to work this out between yourselves. The network executives have already met with Serena, and they loved her pitch. It’s too late to swap writers now.” “It’s my show! The pitch deck, the character bibles, the episodic breakdowns—I wrote every single word!” “I know, Chloe. But the executives only know Serena’s face. She ran the last two creative sessions and they bought into her vision. If we pull her now, it looks bad on the studio. I can’t do that.” He said “I can’t do that” so casually. Like he was commenting on the weather. I stormed out of his office and immediately called Serena. “Chloe! Hey, are you back? About the studio—” “You stole my project.” “I didn’t steal it, babe. You were gone, and the network was breathing down our necks. I was just keeping the seat warm for you.” “You told Frank I authorized it.” “Chloe, I was panicking. I couldn’t reach you, and we couldn’t just let the deadline pass. I fully intended to hand it back to you once you got back.” “Then hand it back. Now.” The line went quiet. Then, she let out a soft laugh. “Chloe, honey, I’ve already done two rounds of revisions based on the network’s feedback. If you take over now, you won’t know what they liked or hated. If you change it back to your original vision, the executives are going to lose their minds.” “The revisions are still based on my outline. I can handle it.” “But what if you can’t? Why don’t you take a few more days off, let me finish this phase of development—” “Serena.” “Yeah?” “Do you think because I’m grieving, I’m an easy target?” There was a three-second silence. “You’re overthinking, Chloe. I was genuinely trying to help you.” Her tone was warm, gentle, and utterly sympathetic. The perfect facade. Like I said, I was the one who taught her how to play the game. I hung up and opened her Instagram. Her latest post was from this morning. A photo of her laptop screen showing my script document, next to a Starbucks cup. The caption: *“Crushing those revisions! So excited to be head-writing my very first show! 👩‍💻✨”* Head-writing. In the comments, our coworkers were leaving emojis of fire and congratulations. Not a single person pointed out that it wasn’t her show. Because they didn’t know. Or rather, Serena had already convinced everyone that it belonged to her. I scrolled down her feed. For the past ten days, her profile had been an alternating showcase of two narratives: First, Asher. Photos, videos, cute snippets. *“Making him dinner,”* *“He said the sweetest thing to me today,”* *“Can’t believe we found each other.”* Second, her career. Pitch meetings, late-night writing sessions, network feedback. Not once did she mention my name. Ten days. In just ten days, she had constructed a perfect narrative online. The hardworking rising star, the devoted girlfriend, the angel of support. And in her story, I was nothing but “a colleague going through a rough patch.” That afternoon, I ran into Zach in the breakroom. He hesitated when he saw me, then walked over with his coffee mug. “Hey, Chloe. Welcome back. You holding up okay?” “I’m fine, Zach.” “Serena’s been really looking out for you. At the pitch meeting, she told the network executives that you guys co-created the show, but you had to step away for a family emergency, so she’s carrying the torch.” Co-created. My pitch deck. My character bibles. My outline. She hadn’t even read the first draft before I left. “Is that what she said? Her exact words?” Zach tried to recall. “Yeah… she said, ‘Chloe and I built this project together. She’s dealing with a personal loss right now, so I’m stepping up to keep us on track until she’s ready to jump back in.’” *Built it together. Stepping up. Keeping us on track.* Every word was calculated. It wasn’t a theft; it was a rescue. It wasn’t greed; it was teamwork. Anyone who heard it would think she was a saint of a friend, and that I was incredibly lucky to have her. Seeing my expression, Zach whispered, “Is everything okay? You guys are a team, right?” “Yeah,” I said, throwing my paper cup into the trash. “A team.” As I walked out of the breakroom, my phone buzzed. A text from Serena. It was a photo of Asher sleeping on the couch, with Mochi curled up on his chest. She attached a two-word message. *“Good night.”* Every time Asher fell asleep, I used to text myself the date followed by “Good night.” She had even copied that. ***0

“What do you actually want, Serena?” Serena stood in the doorway of the apartment, blocking my way. Behind her, the door was half-open. The TV in the living room was playing a reality show, and Mochi’s anxious meows echoed from the balcony. Asher wasn’t home; she said he was at the clinic for his routine check-up. “I’m just here to pack up the rest of my things.” “You should have texted me first. If you show up out of nowhere when he’s here, it might trigger an episode—” “He’s not here. You just said so.” She bit her lip, then reluctantly stepped aside. I walked in. Everything was so familiar, yet completely alien. My slippers were gone from the rack. There was a new vase on the coffee table filled with baby’s breath. The framed photo of Asher and me on the fridge had been taken down, replaced by a selfie of him and Serena. I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. The second drawer on the right was empty. “Where is my scarf?” Serena leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “What scarf?” “The grey, hand-knitted one. I left it in this drawer.” “Oh, that,” she tilted her head. “Mochi got his claws into it last week and covered it in cat hair. I washed it and put it in the storage locker downstairs.” “Where is it?” “I’ll have to look for it.” She turned to go to the storage closet. I stood in the bedroom, my eyes sweeping over the nightstand. There was an open notebook lying there. I took a step forward. It was Serena’s handwriting. Round, neat cursive with little loops. The first line read: **Wednesday Protocol** Underneath, she had listed: * *8:15 AM: Cafe on the South Side, Table 2 (by the window). Order a bowl of oatmeal and black coffee. Sit quietly, don’t make eye contact first.* * *Talk about Mochi. Mention the nick on his left ear from a kitten fight. Keep it brief.* * *Thursday: Do not text or call. Let him wonder.* * *Saturday: He will say the words.* At the very bottom, a line was heavily underlined: * *Lullaby: Pitch up on the 3rd note, dip on the 7th. Long exhale at the end. Sing every night until he falls asleep.* My hands began to tremble. It wasn’t just anger. It was a cold, sharp pain piercing my chest. I wanted to scream, but my throat felt tight. She had turned my three years of love with Asher into a step-by-step user manual. Serena walked back in with the grey scarf. Seeing me standing by the nightstand, she froze for a fraction of a second. But she didn’t panic. “Chloe, those are just my notes. I was afraid I’d mess up the details you told me, so I wrote them down.” “Do you have any idea what those details mean to me?” “I do,” she said softly, handing me the scarf. “But to him, it doesn’t matter who is doing those things. He doesn’t remember last week. He only knows who is standing in front of him right now.” “You are erasing me.” “I am loving him.” “With my routine. My cafe. My cat. My grandma’s song. You copy-pasted my entire soul to insert yourself into his seven-day loop.” She remained silent. I clutched the scarf tightly. “You planned this from the start, didn’t you, Serena? You didn’t want to help me. You wanted him.” She raised her head, looking at me. There was no guilt in her eyes. Not even a sense of triumph. There was only a chilling, practical calm. “Chloe, let me ask you a question.” “Go ahead.” “Do you really plan on doing this for the rest of your life? Bumping into him every Wednesday, hearing him say the same words every Saturday, and watching him forget you every Sunday?” I couldn’t answer. “Don’t you see that you’re just torturing yourself?” She reached out to touch my arm—her nervous habit whenever she was about to spin a lie. “I can give him a stable life. He doesn’t need to remember the past; he just needs his present to be perfect. But you? You show up every Wednesday with tears in your eyes, looking at him like he broke your heart, and then you disappear. Don’t you think that terrifies him?” I stared at her hand on my arm. “That song you hum.” “What about it?” “How many times did you practice it?” Her fingers twitched, pulling back slightly. “It’s not just a song,” I said, brushing her hand away. “My grandma sang that to me. She passed away last week, Serena. And you are using her memory to seduce a man who can’t even remember my name.” Her lips parted, but no words came out. I took my scarf and walked out. That night, I didn’t go back to our shared apartment. I booked a cheap Airbnb near my office. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I opened my phone. Seventy-three voice recordings were lined up in a folder. Every single one was Asher’s voice. *“I’m in this for life. It’s you, Chloe.”* The first recording was from six months ago, on a rainy night. He had traced circles on the back of my hand as he said it. In the forty-seventh recording, you could hear me humming my grandma’s lullaby in the background, and his voice was thick with sleep. The seventy-third recording was from the night I got the call about my grandma. I was sobbing on the balcony, and he wrapped his arms around me from behind. *“Don’t cry, Chloe. I’m in this for life. It’s always been you.”* That was the last one. I transferred all seventy-three files onto a tiny black flash drive, no bigger than a fingernail. A week later, I found a small studio apartment across town. I packed my clothes and a few boxes. I locked the flash drive inside a small digital safe in the corner of the room. The passcode was Asher’s birthday. A six-digit number. Only I knew it. Before I logged off, I drafted a resignation email and cc’d Frank and Serena. It was brief: *“Resigning effective immediately due to personal reasons. Serena will take full responsibility for the project.”* I sent it and shut off my phone. The window of my new studio faced north. I couldn’t see his apartment building from here. The landlady, a kind older woman named Mrs. Gable, helped me change a lightbulb and asked, “Living alone, sweetie?” “Yes.” “Let me know if you need anything. I’m right next door.” “Thank you, Mrs. Gable.” As she walked out, she paused at the door and looked back at me. “K”Keep your chin up, honey. Whatever it is, it’ll pass.” It was only then that I realized tears were streaming down my face.

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Richard had been paralyzed for three years. I was the one who did everything for him—feeding him, bathing him, and cleaning up his waste. After the manufacturing plant shut down, I had to swallow my pride. At fifty years old, I took a low-paying temp job at an office, working alongside twenty-somethings. Every day, I worked from dawn to dusk. I’d rush home to flip him over, wipe his body down, and feed him. I left my debit card at home so he could have access to funds if needed. Every day at noon, I used DoorDash to have warm soup delivered right to his bedside. But last month, twenty thousand dollars went missing from the account. Thinking I was a victim of identity theft, I went to the bank to print out the transaction history. The recipient’s name was Chloe Vance. Richard’s ex-girlfriend. Every single transfer was made right after I left for work in the morning. The memo line on every transaction read: “Voluntary Gift.” I folded the bank statement neatly and shoved it into my pocket. When I got home, I warmed up some oatmeal and fed him, one spoonful at a time. He acted just like he always did—opening his mouth, eyes closed, completely motionless. I set the bowl down and wiped my hands. “Richard, you’re paralyzed and only have a basic flip-phone. How exactly did you transfer that money?” 01 “What did you say?” Richard opened his eyes. “Twenty thousand dollars is missing from the account. The recipient is Chloe Vance, your ex.” “Never heard of her.” “You dated her for three years before we got married. And now you don’t know her?” “That was decades ago. What does that have to do with me?” “Every single transfer was made right after I left the house. Only you and I know the passcode to that card, and you’re the only one home during those hours.” “What are you trying to say?” “I’m not trying to say anything. I’m asking you what this means.” He closed his eyes again. “Helen, have you been working too hard lately?” He called me Helen. For three years, he only called me in two ways: either a grunt to get my attention, or simply opening his mouth to be fed. The only time he ever used my actual name was when he wanted me to shut up. “Look at yourself. You’re fifty. Half your hair is gray, and you have more wrinkles than my mother. Are you sure you’re not just going through menopause?” “I am asking you about the bank transfers.” “And I’m trying to help you find the real reason. Women your age go through hormonal changes. You get paranoid. You start seeing conspiracies everywhere. Remember Sarah, the accountant from my old office? At forty-eight, she kept accusing her husband of cheating. Turns out she just had severe anxiety.” “I don’t have anxiety. I have the bank statements.” “Banks make mistakes all the time. Didn’t you see the news last week? Some old guy had eight thousand dollars randomly deposited into his account by mistake.” “He got extra money. I lost mine.” “Either way, it’s the bank’s fault. Why are you standing over my bed interrogating me? I’m a paralyzed man. I have a cheap flip-phone and two useless legs. How could I possibly transfer money?” As soon as he finished speaking, he started coughing. His whole body shook, his face turning bright red. I went to fetch a glass of warm water. It had to be exactly body temperature—he hated it when it was too hot. He took slow sips, then turned his head away. “Don’t bring this up again.” “Why?” “You’re waving a piece of paper in the face of your paralyzed husband who hasn’t been able to move for three years. You look like a psycho.” His voice was barely a whisper. “If you’re tired of taking care of me, just say so. I won’t stop you. Just let me rot in this bed. Nobody cares if a useless cripple lives or dies anyway.” This guilt trip worked every single time. Over the past three years, whenever I showed even a hint of exhaustion, he would throw this line at me. It was his shield, blocking any questions I had. I washed the bowl, mopped the floor, and soaked his dirty bed sheets. Before turning off the lights, I leaned down to grab some tissues from under his pillow—he liked keeping a pack there for his nighttime coughing fits. My fingers brushed against something hard. Flat, rectangular, with sharp metallic corners. A smartphone. It wasn’t the giant-button flip-phone I had bought him, the one that sat on his nightstand solely for emergency calls. This was a high-end smartphone. I didn’t pull it out, but I could feel that the screen was slightly warm to the touch. “Is the light off yet?” his voice drifted from the pillow. “Turning it off now.” I slid the phone back exactly where it was and stood up. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?” He had never asked me about my schedule before. “Seven.” “Tell your boss that the medical bills went up again this month.” “Okay.” “Helen.” “Yeah?” “Don’t talk about that bank statement anymore. If neighbors hear about it, they’ll think we’re going broke.” 02 “Ma’am, here is the transaction history for the past three months.” The bank teller slid the stack of papers across the counter. I hadn’t waited until seven to leave the house. At five-forty, after leaving his oatmeal warming in the pot, I slipped out. At six AM, the bank was practically empty. The statement was seven pages long. I flipped from the back, circling every transfer to Chloe Vance in red ink. It wasn’t just twenty thousand. In three months, there were eleven transfers. The smallest was one thousand, the largest was five thousand. Totaling twenty-eight thousand dollars. The timestamps were always between 7:15 AM and 8:00 AM—right after I left, but before I clocked in at work. There was even one transfer at 12:30 PM. I remembered that day. Our office was on break, and I had taken a twenty-minute nap in the lounge. “Do you need anything else, ma’am?” “Can you tell me which branch this recipient account was opened at?” “Well… by policy, we can’t disclose the personal details of other account holders—” “I’m the one who sent the money. My money was taken and sent to someone else. I can’t even know where they opened the account?” The teller hesitated for a few seconds, then tapped on her keyboard. “It was opened at the Pine Street branch on the East Side.” Pine Street. My commute to work was toward the West Side. Pine Street was in the exact opposite direction—a forty-minute bus ride. During my lunch break, I skipped the cafeteria and took a bus to Pine Street. I wasn’t familiar with this area. It was filled with brand-new apartment complexes. I didn’t have Chloe’s address, but I remembered a detail from Richard’s old internet service bill from three years ago, right before his accident. I had helped him set up a plan, and the billing address wasn’t our home. At the time, he claimed it was for a friend. I hadn’t questioned it. That address was 118 Pine Street, Pine Crest Apartments, Building 3, Apartment 140

The security gate at Pine Crest was broken, so I slipped inside easily. It was a modern building with a blue-gray exterior. I took the elevator to the 14th floor. The door to 1401 was shut tight. I didn’t knock. On the mailbox next to the door, there was a small label: “Chloe Vance.” The handwriting wasn’t hers. It was Richard’s. I had lived with his handwriting for over twenty years. The way he dragged the last stroke of his “R” was unmistakable. A man who had allegedly been paralyzed in bed for three years had his handwriting on his ex-girlfriend’s mailbox. I stood in the hallway and quietly snapped a photo. Then I took photos of the apartment door, the hallway, and the building’s exterior. By the time I got back to the office, I was fifteen minutes late. My supervisor, Sarah, gave me a look but didn’t say anything. At three in the afternoon, my phone rang. It wasn’t Richard. It was his mother, Eleanor. “Helen, did you forget to change Richard’s adult diapers today?” “I changed them twice this morning.” “He said you only changed him once. And his lunch was late. The food was cold when it arrived. Are you just giving up on him now?” “Mom, I had things to take care of during lunch—” “What could possibly be more important than your husband? He has been paralyzed in that bed for three years. You are his wife, Helen, not a stranger. You took vows. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health—” “Mom.” “If you’re tired of him, go ahead and leave. But think about what you’ll do. You’re fifty, you have no degree, no savings, and your old factory is gone. Where would you go without Richard? Who would even look at you?” She had said this so many times. The phrasing was always the same. Like a pre-recorded tape on loop. “I got it. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen tomorrow.” “And another thing, Richard said you’ve been asking him weird questions lately. It’s stressing him out. As his wife, you need to be more supportive. He’s going through enough without you nagging him.” I hung up. When I got home that night, Richard was waiting for his food with his eyes closed. I fed him, wiped his face, and turned his sheets. When I tucked him in, my fingers brushed the edge of his pillow. The phone was gone. “Richard, you’re out of tissues under your pillow. Let me get you a new pack.” “No need. I can reach them myself.” He could reach them himself. A man who supposedly couldn’t move his arms, a man who needed me just to roll over, could reach under his own pillow. “Okay. Get some rest then.” “Helen.” “Yeah?” “Tomorrow, make an extra batch of oatmeal before you leave. Keep it in the slow cooker on warm. Don’t order DoorDash anymore. It’s not healthy.” “But who’s going to serve it to you at noon?” “I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it.” 03 “Which year of Richard Collins’ medical records do you need?” The hospital archives window was small, forcing me to lean in to speak. “October 2021. The car accident.” “Are you immediate family?” “I’m his wife.” The clerk checked my ID, searched the database for ten minutes, and handed over a thick manila folder. I didn’t open it at the window. I walked over to a bench in the hallway. Discharge summary, surgery logs, MRI reports—twelve pages in total. On page three—the spinal scan report. I am not a doctor, but after taking him to countless follow-ups over the past three years, I had learned to recognize the medical terms. “L3-L4 herniated disc. Mild compression on the dural sac. No significant spinal cord signal abnormalities detected.” A herniated disc. Not a severed spinal cord. I pulled out my phone and found the medical certificate from his check-up last year. It clearly stated: “Spinal cord injury resulting in incomplete paraplegia.” Two reports. One saying “no spinal cord abnormalities,” the other saying “spinal cord injury.” Same patient, same hospital. I looked at the signatures on both. The original MRI was signed by: Dr. David Miller. The follow-up certificate was also signed by: Dr. David Miller. The same doctor had signed two completely contradictory documents. I took photos of every page, put the documents back into the folder, and returned it to the window. At lunch, a young coworker named Lily sat next to me. She was sweet but incredibly chatty. “Helen, what are you looking at so intensely?” “Nothing, just checking my bank app.” She leaned in to take a peek. “Chloe Vance? That name sounds so familiar.” My fork froze in the air. “You know her?” “Not personally, but I’ve seen her on TikTok. There’s an influencer called @ChloeCares. Her real name is Chloe Vance. She makes caregiving videos, teaching people how to care for bedridden patients. She’s pretty popular—has like fifty thousand followers.” “What kind of videos?” “You know, stuff like how to roll a patient over, how to prevent bedsores, techniques for feeding. Very professional. Apparently, she’s caring for someone herself, and she posts updates constantly.” I immediately opened TikTok and searched “@ChloeCares.” Her profile picture was a white gardenia. Her bio read: “To love is to serve. Three years, day by day. I do it gladly.” Three years. I scrolled through her videos. She never showed her face, only close-ups of her hands. They were clean, well-manicured hands with pale pink nails, rolling a faceless patient over, wiping his back, and feeding him oatmeal. The oatmeal was served in a light blue ceramic bowl. Ours were plain white. But her feeding technique—scraping the excess off the spoon against the rim of the bowl before bringing it to the mouth, waiting patiently for the lips to open—was identical to mine. Richard was a slow eater. If you fed him too fast, he would choke. It took me six months of trial and error to master that exact rhythm. The comment section was filled with praise. “You are such an angel.” “This is true love.” “God bless your beautiful soul.” When I got home that night, Richard was waiting for his food, eyes shut. I brought the spoon to his lips. He opened his mouth slowly, swallowing one bite at a time. It took twenty-three minutes to feed him. “Richard, you seem to have a good appetite today.” “Yeah.” “There’s this TikTok creator called @ChloeCares. She posts a lot of videos about caring for bedridden patients. Have you seen her?” He didn’t answer. But his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Do you know her?” “Are you starting this again?” His voice suddenly became sharp. “I told you, I don’t know her. You have nothing better to do than creep on social media all day? Do you know how you sound right now?” “How?” “Like one of those paranoid, menopausal women who spy on their husband’s phones all day. Keep this up and I’m going to commit you to a psych ward.” “Fine, I’ll drop it.” “Good. Just do your job and take care of what you’re supposed to. Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” I cleared the bowl. While washing the dishes, I went back to Chloe’s TikTok profile. The latest video was posted last Wednesday. It showed the silhouette of a man standing by a window, wearing a gray cotton robe. He was standing. 04 “Helen, are you okay? You look pale.” Lily walked over with a cup of coffee. I was sitting at my desk, staring at my phone screen. I had watched that video seven times. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.” “Want some coffee?” “No, thank you.” I played the video again. The foreground was a sheer white curtain with warm sunlight filtering through. The background music was a soft piano melody. The man stood by the window, hands in his pockets, his head slightly tilted as if admiring the view outside. He was wearing a gray cotton robe. I had bought that robe. Last winter, there was a sale on Amazon—two for forty dollars. I got a blue one for myself and a gray one for Richard. He had claimed he didn’t need it. He said a paralyzed man had no use for a robe and that hospital gowns were fine. But the man in the video was wearing it. The collar was buttoned to the second button, and the left pocket bulged slightly—exactly where he liked to keep his lighter. The video was only eight seconds long, and it didn’t show his face. But I didn’t need to see his face. That posture—leaning his weight on his right leg, his left foot slightly flared outward—was a posture I had looked at for over twenty years. The timestamp on the video was last Wednesday at 6:00 PM. Last Wednesday— My supervisor, Sarah, had given me a mountain of spreadsheets to finish. I didn’t leave the office until 11:00 PM. I had ordered him lunch, left dinner in the slow cooker, and texted him before I got busy: “Food is in the cooker.” He had texted back: “Okay.” I had assumed he meant he would figure out a way to have the delivery guy help him, or just wait. But he had gotten up and walked over to get it himself. I flipped my phone face down on the desk. The screen went black, but the image remained burned into my mind. I scrolled further back into Chloe’s Instagram posts. The earliest post was from April 17th, three years ago—exactly three weeks after Richard was discharged from the hospital. It was a photo of a bouquet of flowers with the caption: “Finally, I can take care of you properly.” Three years ago. I thought I was the only one caring for him. Waking up at five every morning to roll him over, wash him, feed him, clean his bedpan, check his blood pressure, and do physical therapy. I had spent hours massaging his useless legs until my own hands shook with exhaustion. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days. He had laid there like a corpse, and I had served him like one. Meanwhile, his ex-girlfriend was posting videos online boasting about her “devotion.” Before clocking out, I found an even older post on Chloe’s profile. It was from two years ago—a photo of a dining table with two cups of coffee, two steaks, a salad, and two sets of silverware. The caption was just a single heart emoji. In the top right corner of the photo, outside the window, you could see a distinct blue-gray building. Pine Crest Apartments. Two years ago, while Richard was enjoying steak and red wine with Chloe, I was grinding at my job just to pay for his medical supplies. On the subway ride home, I held onto the handrail, my other hand gripping my phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. I got home at nine. When I opened the bedroom door, the lights were off. Richard was lying in bed in the exact same position I had left him in that morning. He was on his back, hands flat on the blanket, eyes shut. “Did you eat the soup?” “Yeah. It was cold.” “I left it in the slow cooker on warm. How could it be cold?” “Maybe the cooker was unplugged.” His eyes remained shut as he spoke. I walked over to the kitchen. The slow cooker’s indicator light was glowing. It was plugged in. “Richard.” “Yeah?” “What did you do today?” “What do you think? I’m a cripple. What can I do besides lie here?” “All day?” “All day. I can’t even get a sip of water when you’re not here, and you’re asking me what I did? Do you have a conscience?” His voice pitched up. “Fine. I won’t ask.” “You better not,” he muttered, his tone dropping back down. “Go heat up some water. My feet are cold.” I went to boil the water. As the kettle heated up, my heart turned to ice. I hesitated for a long time, then dialed the police department to report my husband for hiding and transferring marital assets. The officer on the line listened patiently before telling me this was a domestic/civil matter. They couldn’t intervene. I needed a lawyer.

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My college psychology professor gave us an assignment: text your parents “I love you” and record their reaction. Since both of my parents died years ago, I took the chance to send it to Julian, my adoptive uncle and guardian. The chat window showed “typing…” on and off, but nothing came through for the longest time. Two hours later, he finally replied: [Don’t start having thoughts you shouldn’t have.] After that, he stripped away every bit of affection he had ever shown me. He blocked my number on Snapchat. He even told his assistant, Marcus, that he never wanted to hear another update about my life. The security guard at Vance Group blocked me from entering the building to see him. “Mr. Vance’s orders, Hazel. You’re blacklisted. He said he’d rather let a stray dog in than you.” Whenever I happened to cross his path, he would immediately turn around and walk away. This went on for six months, until I was diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer. In my final days, just to stop him from treating me like a stranger, I agreed to go on a blind date with Tristan, a guy Julian had set me up with. For the first time in months, Julian spoke to me with a hint of gentleness. “How are things going with Tristan? Are you two planning the wedding yet?” “It’s going well.” The tears in my eyes were threatening to spill over. I couldn’t bear to ruin this rare, peaceful conversation, so I described the wedding of my dreams. “We’re planning it… The venue will be themed with lavender, my favorite. The ring will be a purple diamond, shaped like a lavender blossom…” The more he listened, the tighter his brows furrowed. Finally, as if he couldn’t stand listening to me anymore, he cut me off. “As long as it’s being planned. Just remember, Hazel, I will always be your uncle. We will always be family, and this place will always be your home.” He looked around my room, which was already half-empty, and added, “Have you moved your things to Tristan’s place? That’s fine. Whatever you left behind, I’ll have someone buy you new ones…” A sharp, needle-like pain pierced my heart. I forced a smile and shook my head. “No need, Julian. I… probably won’t be coming back here to live anyway.” Honestly, it wasn’t that I wouldn’t come back often. I was never coming back. And my bags weren’t at Tristan’s. They had already been shipped overseas. Dr. Miller had scheduled me with a lung cancer specialist in Switzerland. In three days, on the day of Julian’s wedding to his fiancée, Victoria, I would leave this place for good. Whether the surgery succeeded or failed, I would stay in Switzerland forever. Julian’s face darkened slightly. He looked like he wanted to say something else. I spoke quickly before he could. “Julian, do you know what kind of flowers Victoria likes?” “Cherry blossoms,” he replied instantly. Then, a look of suspicion crept into his eyes. “Why are you asking?” That look was like an icicle, freezing me to the core. He was probably worried that I would be childish again and do something to ruin things for his fiancée. I looked away, staring out the window at the lavender field in the yard—the one Julian had planted with his own hands years ago. My voice was so soft it almost drifted away in the wind. “I just wanted to get a wedding gift for you and Victoria.” He waved his hand coldly. “Don’t bother. She doesn’t need anything.” I lowered my head, a bitter smile forming on my lips. Right. I had forgotten again. Dr. Miller said the cancer had metastasized to my brain, and I would start forgetting things. I forgot that when I was a kid, Julian would do anything to make me happy, no matter how ridiculous my requests were. When I once said I wanted to see a real castle, he bought a plot of land in the suburbs and built a European-style estate just for me. I also forgot that I had seen what he looked like when he truly loved someone. With him around, Victoria obviously didn’t need anything from me. I just… wanted to show a little gratitude for all the years he had raised me. We stood there in silence. The awkwardness stretched between us. The night wind blew in with a chill, making me shiver. Ever since I got sick, my body had become extremely sensitive to the cold. “Julian, I’m a bit tired. I’m going to head to bed.” I turned around. I could feel his gaze heavy on my back until the bedroom door shut him out. When I woke up the next morning, my mind was a complete blank. I couldn’t even remember what had happened yesterday. It wasn’t until I checked my phone and saw the reminders—”Two days until departure” and “To-Do List for Today”—that I realized what I had to do. I finally hired workers to dig up that lavender field and replaced it with cherry blossom trees that were just about to bloom. In the afternoon, I took some heavy-duty cough suppressants before meeting Tristan. Since I had decided to leave, I shouldn’t lead anyone on. I told him honestly about my diagnosis and my plan to go to Switzerland for treatment. Surprise flashed across Tristan’s eyes, quickly followed by genuine pity. “Does Julian… know about this?” I tried hard to recall, then shook my head. “Probably not. And… please don’t tell him.” Tristan promised to keep my secret. I pulled out a document and slid it across the table, asking him to take a look. When he opened it, shock was written all over his face.

“You’re transferring all the shares your parents left you to Julian? Hazel, this is your inheritance!” I smiled faintly. “My parents left me a trust fund. It’s more than enough to cover my medical bills.” “I’m not coming back to this country.” “Think of this as my way of thanking Julian for taking care of me all these years.” “After all, I used to be so immature and caused him so much trouble.” Human emotions are strange. Out of nowhere, a memory flashed in my mind. Six months ago, I was still heartbroken by Julian’s coldness. To get me to stop bothering him, he had said to me: “Hazel, can you have some self-respect? Stop clinging to me like a piece of cheap gum.” Those words had cut like a knife back then. But remembering them now, I felt absolutely nothing. Maybe this sickness was taking away not just my memories, but also those intense feelings, the deep-seated pain… And my inappropriate, deep attachment to him. I looked at Tristan. “Julian’s wedding is the day after tomorrow. He probably doesn’t want to see me there. Could you do me a favor and give this to him after the ceremony?” This share transfer agreement was my second wedding gift to him. Tristan took the document and nodded solemnly. After thanking him, I went back to the Vance estate. The housekeeper, Martha, told me I had an international package. I opened it. It was a Swiss SIM card sent by Dr. Miller’s contact. Suddenly, I felt a sense of relief I had never experienced before. For the next two days, I stayed in the villa, wanting to see Julian one last time before I left, just to say a proper goodbye. Maybe he was too busy with the wedding preparations. He didn’t return until the night before the wedding—my very last night in this house. He looked exhausted. I was in my room, coughing so hard it felt like my lungs were about to tear apart. The loud noise naturally caught his attention. Panic seized me. I quickly threw a handful of cough suppressants into my mouth. But the moment Julian pushed my door open, I hacked up a mouthful of dark red blood. The white pills, mixed with blood, scattered all over the floor.

My heart hammered against my ribs, and my face went pale. When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I had imagined a thousand times how Julian would react if he found out. But ever since I decided to go to Switzerland, I didn’t want him to know. He couldn’t cure me anyway. Knowing would just be another burden for him. I was frantically trying to think of an explanation. But he just curled his lips into a mocking sneer. “I thought you’d finally grown up, Hazel. But you’re still using the same cheap tricks. Faking an illness?” I froze for a second, then forced a smile through the tears in my eyes. “You caught me, Julian. It’s just vitamins mixed with ketchup.” His face grew even darker. He glanced at my thin frame, swallowed up by my oversized sweater, and frowned. “Is this house starving you? Do you really need to put on this act?” His eyes swept across the room. Because I had packed up most of my personal belongings, the room looked incredibly bare. “And why is this place so empty? It looks like no one lives here.” My chest tightened. Avoiding his sharp gaze, my voice—hoarse from coughing up blood night and day—sounded dry. “You’re getting married. Getting rid of old things makes room for new blessings.” “I hope you and Victoria have a wonderful life together. A happy marriage and a big family.” He let out a sarcastic laugh. “A wonderful life? A happy marriage?” “Are those really the only words you have for me right now?” Maybe because I used to care so much about his mood, I instantly picked up on his irritation. But I truly didn’t understand what I had said wrong this time. Or maybe, just my sheer existence was enough to annoy him. If that was the case, he would be much happier after tomorrow. Because this would be the last time I ever stood in front of him. Tomorrow morning, when Julian left as a groom to pick up his bride, I would head to the airport and fly to Switzerland. I took a deep breath, looked up, and gave him my most sincere wish. “Julian, I hope you have a beautiful wedding.” His brows drew together tightly, his eyes searching my face as if trying to catch some hidden motive. But my words were perfectly polite, and my expression was completely neutral. I didn’t even wait for him to respond. I turned around and walked upstairs. The next morning, I woke up early and packed my last suitcase. Fortunately, my mind was incredibly clear today. I knew exactly what day it was—the day of my departure. Outside the villa, luxury cars were lined up. Billionaires and public figures who usually only appeared in Forbes were gathering. Reporters with cameras were crowding the gates, eager to cover the wedding of the century. I took my cough suppressants before stepping out of my room. The moment I walked out, I ran into Julian, who was wearing a custom-tailored tuxedo. He glanced at me, his face immediately clouding over. “Is that what you’re wearing to my wedding?” A sharp pain hit my chest. I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know how to explain that I wasn’t going. Luckily, a voice from downstairs saved me. “Julian! The cars are ready. We need to leave now!” He pressed his lips into a thin line, gave me one last deep look, and said, “Go change into something decent.” I gave a vague nod and watched him walk downstairs, surrounded by the crowd. I could faintly hear an elder laughing downstairs. “Why is the groom looking so serious? Aren’t you happy to marry the girl of your dreams?” I couldn’t hear the rest. But in my heart, I knew this was our final goodbye. I went back to my room, looked at the framed photo of my parents on the desk, and whispered, “Mom, Dad. Julian is getting married today. I saw his bride for you. She’s beautiful, and they look great together…” I touched the frame, my voice cracking. “From now on, the three of us will be together forever.” It was time. I stood by the window and watched Julian get into the lead wedding car. The convoy drove away amidst the loud cheers. The moment the villa fell completely silent, it felt like a piece of my heart had been carved out. But only for a second. I pulled myself together. Under the bewildered stares of the maids, I walked out carrying my parents’ photo and my suitcase, and got into the private car I had called to take me to the airport. All along the highway, the giant LED screens on skyscrapers and billboards were broadcasting Julian and Victoria’s wedding. I watched silently, my eyes dry and aching from the wind. When I arrived at the airport, I received a text from Tristan. It was a photo of the wedding venue. The entire place was decorated with purple lavenders, flower petals falling from above, purple diamonds… My heart stopped. It was almost identical to the dream wedding I had described to Julian a few days ago. Was it on purpose, or just a coincidence? But I quickly pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter anymore. I was leaving. None of this had anything to do with me. The second photo was of the ceremony. Julian looked dashing in his black suit, and Victoria was stunning in her white gown. Tristan texted: [I’ll deliver your gift after the reception. Hazel, I hope your surgery goes well. Safe travels.] Even though the photo made a dull ache spread through my chest, I let out a long sigh of relief. At least the last family member I had in this world had found his happiness. I smiled and replied: [Thank you, Tristan. I hope you find your happiness soon, too.] I hit send and turned off my phone. A flight attendant walked by and handed me a small bag of wedding candies with a sweet smile. “Miss, today is the wedding of Mr. Vance of the Vance Group. These are being handed out to all passengers to share the joy.” I stared at it. So, the entire city was celebrating his wedding… I thanked her softly, unwrapped a candy, and put it in my mouth. It was sweet. Exactly like the candies Julian used to drive across the city to buy for me when I was little. Except… this was probably the last one I’d ever have. As the plane started to taxi on the runway, I took out my phone and quickly typed out one last text to his Snapchat: [Julian, I was young and foolish, and I caused you a lot of trouble in the past.] [I’m gone now. Please forget about me completely. I wish you eternal happiness.] After sending it, I popped out my domestic SIM card, snapped it in half, and dropped it into the trash bag. Then, I slid the Swiss SIM card into the slot. “Ladies and gentlemen, our flight to Zurich is about to take off…” As the engines roared and the plane lifted into the air, I pulled down my eye mask. It blocked out the world outside, and hid the tears silently slipping down my cheeks. Thousands of miles would separate us now. We would probably never see each other again. This would be the last time I cried for the stubborn, foolish girl who loved him with everything she had. From now on, in sickness or in health, in joy or in sorrow, I would learn to love myself. I would never look back. Goodbye, Julian. Goodbye forever.

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I agreed to drop out of the Alpha King’s summer boot camp for my bullied childhood friend. But the day before signing the confirmation papers, I changed my mind. At the rest area, his friends were laughing and teasing him. “Man, you really played the long game just to get rid of Grace, huh?” “You guys grew up together. Are you really okay with letting her drop out alone?” Ethan’s voice was completely indifferent. “It’s just a year of training. It’s no big deal.” “Besides, she follows me around all day. It’s annoying as hell. This is actually perfect.” I stood outside the door for a long time before I finally turned around and walked away. But on my dropout application form, I didn’t sign to leave. Instead, I transferred myself from the Alpha King’s Basic Boot Camp to the Heir’s Advanced Elite Training. Ethan seemed to have forgotten one thing. He and I were never on the same level. He was the dirt, and I was the sky. The moment I heard those words, it felt like a hard punch straight to my face. For the past month, Ethan had been targeted and jumped by wolves from other packs in the camp. The first time was in the cafeteria. Someone dumped a tray of food right over his head in front of everyone. The second time was on the training field. They broke his bones on purpose, and it took him two whole days to heal. Every single time, I was the one who rushed in to shield him. The worst time, I ended up with three broken ribs and couldn’t even get out of bed for twenty-four hours. Unable to watch him suffer anymore, I suggested we drop out together. At that time, Ethan had just walked out of the infirmary, his face still covered in bruises. He grabbed my hand, his voice trembling. “Grace, I really can’t take this anymore.” Ethan and I grew up together in neighboring packs. Because our families were close, we had been running and playing together since we were pups. For over a decade, we were inseparable. And deep down, I was secretly in love with him. So, in a fit of impulse, I promised him, “Don’t be afraid. Wherever you go, I’ll go with you.” But now, I finally realized it was all a show. He had orchestrated the attacks just to get me to leave. I couldn’t help but wonder—did Ethan really hate me that much? Inside the rest area, the conversation continued. “But man, Grace is seriously loyal to you.” “If you make her drop out for you, aren’t you worried she’ll fall for someone else?” “Her?” Ethan let out a mocking laugh. “She literally took hits from other packs for me. She was covered in blood and still didn’t back down. You really think she’d change her mind about me?” Someone chimed in, “What if? Grace is not someone to be messed with.” Ethan’s voice was lazy and arrogant. “There is no ‘what if.’ There are so many Alpha heirs in this camp, and she hasn’t looked at a single one of them.” His tone was filled with pure contempt. “She’s like a lost puppy following me around. It’s suffocating.” Laughter erupted in the room. It felt like a physical slap across my face. *I want to tear him apart,* my inner wolf snarled. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying hard to calm the beast inside. Another guy laughed. “Honestly, it’s my first time seeing someone push away a girl who’s so obsessed with him. Boss move.” “But if you don’t like her clinging to you, why didn’t you just say so? Grace doesn’t seem like the type to beg.” Ethan let out an annoyed sigh. “Grace is too proud. If I told her the truth, do you think she’d just let go?” He paused, his voice softening slightly. “Besides, Lily feels uncomfortable whenever Grace is around. She only feels safe when it’s just the two of us.” “For Lily’s sake, I have to make Grace make some sacrifices.” The moment he said that, everything clicked. Looking back at the timeline, Ethan decided to “get attacked” exactly one week after Lily joined the camp. One of his friends laughed and nudged him. “You slick bastard. She just got here and you already marked your territory?” “But yeah, Lily is definitely the cute, fragile type. Any guy would want to protect her.” “Unlike Grace, who walks around with a resting bitch face all day, like everyone owes her money. Who cares if she’s pretty?” The degrading comments about me kept coming, like a rising tide. And Ethan, the boy I had loved for years, did nothing to stop them. He didn’t argue. In fact, he agreed with them. Standing outside the door, my heart sank to the freezing depths of the ocean. *I’m going to rip his throat out right now,* my wolf growled. For a split second, I wanted to kick the door open and storm in. I wanted to scream at him: *When you watched me take those beatings for you, did you feel even a shred of guilt?* I wanted to ask: *All these years we spent together, what did they mean to you?* But then, I remembered my mom’s words: *Never waste your energy on trash.* She was right. I didn’t kick the door. But I didn’t walk away quietly either. I took a deep breath and spoke in a voice loud enough for everyone inside to hear: “Ethan, I heard everything.” The room went dead silent instantly. Without waiting for his reaction, I turned on my heel and walked away.

The pain didn’t hit me right away. It came in slow, sharp waves. I wouldn’t have been this hurt if it was just a regular betrayal by a pack member. But Ethan was the one who had crossed the line first. On the night we decided to drop out together, he had dragged me to the clearing behind the training camp to drink. The moonlight was beautiful, and the way he looked at me was so gentle. I had loved him for so long that my brain completely short-circuited. So, when he leaned in to kiss me, I didn’t pull away. My heart was beating out of my chest. I couldn’t help but ask, “Ethan, what are we now?” Ethan leaned down, kissed me again, and smiled. “Whatever you want us to be.” At that moment, my heart had soared. I never expected that just two days later, I would hear him shatter my feelings so easily. I let out a bitter laugh as a tear slipped down my cheek. So, that kiss was just another lie to get me to leave, wasn’t it? The wind chimes in my room jingled softly, slowly drying my tears. My broken heart began to piece itself back together. Ethan had made a huge mistake. The Alpha King organized this summer boot camp to pull the young heirs out of their comfortable school environments and put them in real-world scenarios. It was designed to test their leadership, alliances, and true nature. But that only applied to the weak pups who hadn’t even awakened their wolves yet. I had awakened my inner wolf when I was sixteen. I was supposed to be in the Heir’s Advanced Elite Training from the start. I was supposed to be learning pack diplomacy and territory management. The dropout form in my hand was smudged by my tears, the ink bleeding into an ugly mess. But that was fine. I could just get a clean one. The Miller Pack never ran out of backup plans. I reprinted the form. Before filling out the program section, I called my mom. “Mom, which heir training program did you want me to join?” “Yes, I’m going alone.” The wind chimes in my room rang clearly, as if celebrating my decision. I closed my eyes. This time, Ethan’s face didn’t pop up in my mind. Instead, I saw a man who looked slightly like Ethan, but was far more handsome and commanding. He had smiled at me two years ago and said with absolute certainty: “Grace, sooner or later, you’ll leave Ethan and choose me.” Back then, I thought he was joking. But now, I whispered in my mind: *Ethan, I’m officially done with you.* After signing the new form, I let out a long sigh of relief. My heart was finally at peace. Suddenly, there was a knock on my door. I froze. I lived alone in this house, and the only person who knew the passcode was… I opened the door, and sure enough, Ethan was standing there. He spoke in his usual gentle tone. “Grace, you didn’t come to say goodbye to the guys. I was worried about you.” I kept my voice as flat as possible. “I’m not feeling well, so I stayed in.” I was about to shut the door when I caught sight of a figure hiding behind him. Lily was standing half a step behind Ethan. She looked sweet and innocent, but her eyes were quickly scanning my face. The moment our eyes met, she flinched dramatically and shrank behind Ethan. Ethan immediately stepped in front of her to shield her. “Grace, you’re scaring Lily.” There she went again. Lily always acted like I was some big, bad bully out to get her, even though I hadn’t done a single thing. My face went cold. “I told you before, I don’t like strangers in my house.” Ethan frowned, looking annoyed. “Lily isn’t a stranger.” “Besides, she only came because she was worried about you.” Before I could fire back, Lily’s eyes welled up with tears. “Grace, I’m so sorry. I know you look down on me, but I wash myself every day.” She sobbed. “I won’t get your house dirty…” Hearing this, Ethan’s frown deepened. He glared at me. “Grace, Lily might come from a normal family, but she’s not dirt. You don’t have to treat her like trash.” “I’m seriously disappointed in you.” Lily gently tugged at Ethan’s sleeve, acting like the bigger person. “Ethan, it’s fine. Please don’t fight with Grace because of me…” She sniffled, giving him a weak but brave smile. “After all, Grace said you guys grew up together. I can never compete with that kind of bond…” “What are you talking about? You are one of a kind, Lily,” Ethan said, his heart aching as he cupped her face, whispering sweet details to calm her down. Then, he turned to me, his face as cold as ice. “Lily is upset. I’m taking her home.” “You need to think about your behavior. And don’t forget to sign the dropout form tomorrow.” I definitely thought about my behavior—specifically, my terrible taste in men. Then, I walked over to the keypad and changed my house passcode. The heavy weight in my chest finally lifted a little.

The next morning, I took my new form to the administration office. The administrator looked at the paper and raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious? You’re ranked third in the camp. People would kill for this spot.” I nodded. “I’m sure.” The moment the stamp hit the paper, I felt a slight pang of emptiness. As I walked out, someone blocked my path. Ethan stood there, frowning. “Grace, did you change your house passcode?” “I went back to see you last night after dropping Lily off, but the code didn’t work…” I cut him off. “Yeah, I changed it.” He looked slightly miffed, but quickly brushed it off, trying to act close again. “What’s the new code? It’ll be easier for me to come over and take care of you.” I said calmly, “No need. I won’t be living here after I leave the camp.” Ethan looked at the folded paper in my hand, as if suddenly remembering. “Oh, right. I almost forgot about that.” “Don’t worry, Grace. I’ll go sign my dropout form tomorrow.” Since Lily’s arrival, Ethan and I hadn’t walked together like this in a long time. Suppressing the lingering bitterness, I tested him. “Do we really need to go through all this trouble for each other?” Ethan went quiet for a moment. “Grace, actually, I…” “Ethan!” Lily suddenly appeared from behind, carrying a stack of training notebooks. She ran up and pouted at him. “You promised to help me with my combat skills. Why did you disappear?” She handed him the notebooks. “I saw that your tutoring schedule for me goes on for the next two months, so I brought the materials.” She winked playfully. “You won’t get mad at me for looking through your stuff, right?” “Of course not…” Ethan’s smile was strained. He shot me a guilty look. Seeing that I had absolutely no reaction, a flash of disappointment crossed his face. Ah. So while you were pushing me away, you were already planning a future with someone else. But that future never included me. I forced myself to stay calm, though a wave of bitterness washed over me. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay clear-headed. “You two have fun. I’m leaving.” Lily acted as if she had just noticed me, gasping in exaggeration. “Grace, Grace…” “Are you mad because Ethan is training with me?” “But I’m just a normal wolf. I don’t have natural talent like you…” As she spoke, she started sobbing again. I had no patience for her drama. “Move.” The tiny bit of guilt in Ethan’s eyes vanished. He grabbed my wrist, his voice rising in anger. “Grace, what is wrong with your attitude?” He yanked me toward Lily and yelled, “Apologize to Lily right now!” The last piece of my heart shattered into dust. Without any hesitation, I raised my hand and slapped Ethan hard across the face. “Ethan, the only person who needs to apologize here is you.” “And not to Lily. To me.”

I went home and threw out every single thing Ethan had ever given me. The necklace he gave me for my coming-of-age ceremony—I had only worn it once before I saw it on Lily’s neck. She had smiled and said, “Ethan said good things should be shared.” The limited-edition teddy bear—he said he liked my perfume on it and took it. The next day, it was sitting on Lily’s desk. And the heels, the scented candles… I used to think I was special to him. Now I realized I was just his free supplier. I thought about how protective he was of Lily, always putting her first. I let out a dry laugh. None of this trash mattered anymore. I finalized my route to the advanced training camp for the next morning. Before leaving, I went to the camp’s bulletin board, ripped down my name card from the third-place spot, and tossed it into the trash can. Then, I went back to my place to spend my last quiet night. At 2:00 AM, my phone rang. I answered it half-asleep. The other end was silent for a few seconds. Just as I was about to hang up, Ethan’s voice came through. “Grace, I’m sorry.” I woke up instantly. I thought he was finally going to tell me the truth. But then he said, “Lily got hurt. I can’t leave her alone. I’ll sign the dropout papers once she’s better…” My heart leaped into my throat, then crashed violently to the ground. I wanted to scream: *What about me? What about the bruises and beatings I took for you this past month? Did they mean nothing?* Ethan’s voice kept going. “Just apologize to her.” I thought I misheard him. “What did you say?” Ethan’s voice was firm. “Grace, you really need to apologize to Lily.” “Are you going to tell me her getting hurt had nothing to do with you?” I was completely speechless. I finally realized that as long as Lily was around, every breath I took was a crime in his eyes. Ethan spoke again, his voice as cold as ice. “Grace, you’re really disappointing me.” “If you apologize, I can pretend none of this happened.” “Are you really going to let your pride ruin our years of friendship?” I heard the threat in his voice. But instead of pain or anger, I felt nothing but disgust. I hung up, blocked his number, and deleted his contact. I didn’t want to think about him anymore. The scenery at the advanced training camp was fresh and beautiful. Someone immediately took my bags. I looked up and locked eyes with the heir of the Taylor Pack. “Grace, long time no see.” I smiled and reached out. “Long time no see, Daniels.” My phone buzzed, interrupting our greeting. I looked down and saw it was a call from one of Ethan’s friends. Confused, I answered. Ethan’s frantic voice came through the speaker. “Grace, where the hell are you?” “Why is everyone in the basic camp saying they haven’t seen you?”

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When I found the text messages between my boyfriend, Alpha Daniel, and a strange girl, I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight up to him and shoved the phone in his face, demanding an explanation. After a long, heavy silence, he finally confessed. “She’s an Omega I met when I visited the Southfall Pack… I admit, I was momentarily distracted by her.” “But Emily, you are the only one I want as my Luna. I swear, I’ll keep my distance from her from now on.” Looking into Daniel’s pleading eyes, I swallowed my heartbreak. I chose to forgive him, letting our mate ceremony proceed as planned. But on that day, in front of the entire pack, Gamma Zachary suddenly burst into the hall. “Alpha Daniel! Sophia found out about the ceremony. She just slit her wrists with a silver dagger!” The ring dropped onto the floor with a sharp clatter. Daniel bolted for the door without a second thought. With tears welling up in my eyes, I screamed at his retreating back, “Daniel! If you walk out that door today, we are over!” His footsteps paused for a fraction of a second, but he still left the ceremony hall without looking back. In the end, he broke his promise. ***

The ceremony hall fell into chaos. The guests’ whispers felt like sharp needles stabbing into my ears. Our parents rushed over, completely lost as to what was happening. Zachary stood to the side, looking helpless, his face flushed red. “Emily… Sophia, she’s Alpha Daniel’s fated mate. He saved her life last time when she tried to slit her wrists. She’s completely dependent on him. Only Daniel can calm her down… You know how the fated mate bond works. He had no choice. Please, don’t blame him…” Zachary had been with the pack for three years. He had always been respectful, greeting me with a warm smile. But now, he didn’t even have the courage to look me in the eye. I didn’t know how many things he had helped Daniel hide from me, or what kind of mess Daniel had gotten into with that girl, Sophia. A sharp, stabbing pain spread through my chest. I felt the bitter sting of Daniel’s betrayal. My parents held my hands, frantic. “What on earth is going on? Isn’t he supposed to be completing the ceremony? What kind of emergency could possibly drag him away right now?” The Elder Alpha, guilt-ridden, tried to mind-link Daniel, only to realize he had blocked the link. So, he pulled out his phone and dialed Daniel’s number, repeating anxiously, “Don’t worry, Emily. I’ll call that brat back right now. If he dares ignore me, I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget!” The ring lay on the red carpet, kicked aside by the bustling crowd. It looked just like my shattered heart. I stood there frozen, my heavy gown dragging on the floor like a wilted flower after a storm. I had dreamed of this ceremony a thousand times. I never thought it would end in such humiliation. An Alpha abandoning his Luna in the middle of a crowded hall for another girl. For five long hours, we called him a hundred and eight times. Daniel didn’t answer once. I watched my phone screen light up and fade, over and over, until it finally went black. The sunlight streamed through the windows, casting cold, mocking shadows on my empty ring finger. The guests gradually dispersed, leaving behind scattered confetti and half-eaten food. Inside me, my wolf was howling, wanting to tear him apart. Then she mocked me, blaming me for wasting so much time on him instead of finding my own fated mate. Suddenly, the world began to spin. The last thing I heard before blacking out was my mother’s panicked scream. When I opened my eyes again, the scent of herbal medicine filled the air. The healer saw me waking up and said softly, “You’re eating for two now. You can’t let your emotions get the best of you. Take care of yourself.” I stared at the ceiling, tears flowing silently. Daniel and I grew up together. From the age of seventeen, when I accepted his token at a pack gathering, to the busy days after he became Alpha when we barely saw each other, to the day of his coronation when he held me with red eyes and whispered, “I will protect the pack, and I will always protect you.” Seven years of memories flashed through my mind like a fast-forwarded movie. I looked at my parents and Daniel’s parents, who couldn’t hide their excitement about the baby. I smiled bitterly, tears stinging my eyes. How was I going to explain to them that this seven-year relationship had reached its end? ***

At seven in the evening, Daniel finally showed up after being missing for six hours. His face was pale, and his eyes were filled with guilt. “Emily, I’m sorry,” his voice was hoarse. “Sophia… she’s my fated mate. I couldn’t just watch her die. It’s my responsibility.” Swallowing the bitterness in my throat, I couldn’t help but ask, “Fated mate? If you found your fated mate, why did you still want to go through with our ceremony?” “And she chose today of all days to slit her wrists? Demanding you go to her? What is she trying to pull?” “Daniel, I am not an idiot.” After a long silence, he took my cold hand, his voice cracking. “Emily, in these seven years, I’ve never begged you for anything. Just this once, I beg you, don’t let this get out. Don’t let it ruin Sophia’s reputation, okay? She’s my fated mate, and she’s just a fragile Omega. I don’t think she can handle the pack’s judgment.” Looking at the desperation in his eyes, my heart felt squeezed so tight I could barely breathe. He shouldn’t be begging for her. He should be apologizing to me. A person’s first instinct never lies. He hadn’t thought about how humiliated I was at the ceremony hall. He hadn’t worried about why I ended up in the clinic. The moment he opened his mouth, it was all about Sophia. My tears fell like broken strings, soaking into the white bedsheets. It took everything I had to squeeze out one word. “Okay.” He visibly relaxed and added, “Sophia is mentally unstable because of the ceremony. Let’s postpone our ceremony for now.” “I’ll spend some time helping her through her therapy. Once she’s doing better… maybe in three months, we’ll have our ceremony. What do you think?” Daniel’s voice was cautious, testing the waters. I had waited seven years. Another three months shouldn’t have mattered. But as I looked at his concern for another woman, I realized I couldn’t wait even another three seconds. The little life in my womb seemed to feel my grief, shifting slightly. I gently touched my abdomen. A six-week-old life was growing inside me. It was ours, yet it felt like he had nothing to do with it anymore. I slowly pulled my hand away, my voice as dead as still water. “Daniel.” “I don’t have the best memory, but I still remember when you were seventeen. You gave me your token at the pack bonfire, and you were so nervous you couldn’t even walk straight.” “I remember the first time you held my hand. Your palm was so sweaty, but you didn’t let go for blocks.” “I remember the day you became Alpha. You held me and promised to protect me forever, saying you’d make me the happiest mate in the world.” “Through all these years, you remembered that I hate onions, and you knew every little habit of mine… I genuinely believed you cherished me above all else.” I looked up at him, my tears spilling over. “But today, I can’t feel your love anymore…” As seven years of memories rushed through us, Daniel’s eyes reddened. His throat bobbed, and a single tear escaped. “But Emily, Sophia is my fated mate. She needs me right now.” That single phrase, *fated mate*, completely crushed my last shred of hope. I looked at him and suddenly smiled through my tears. “Then go to her.” He froze, clearly not expecting me to let go so easily. But in the end, he said nothing. He turned and left the room. ***

The next morning, as I packed my things to leave the clinic, I bumped into Daniel at the corner of the hallway. His eyes weren’t on me. All his attention was focused on the girl beside him. She was wearing a patient gown, looking pale and fragile, clinging to him like a frightened little deer. So, this was the girl who made him abandon me at our own ceremony. Perhaps my gaze was too heavy, because Sophia noticed me first. She instinctively shrank behind Daniel, her fingers gripping his coat. Only then did Daniel look up. His brows furrowed immediately, his tone laced with impatience. “Emily, Sophia is very fragile right now. Let’s talk at home. Don’t make a scene here and scare her.” Sophia peeked out from behind him, her voice barely a whisper. “Emily, there’s nothing going on between Daniel and me… Please don’t misunderstand.” I gripped my medical report, my knuckles turning white, but I forced a smile. “You’re overthinking. I’m just here to get my prescription from the healer.” With that, I ignored them and walked past. Daniel’s expression flickered with confusion. He hadn’t expected me to be this calm, and a sudden emptiness seemed to wash over him. He reached out to grab me. I instinctively turned, and my eyes fell on the dirt smudge on his jacket. His eyes followed mine. Seeing me shrink back, he took off his jacket and tried to drape it over my shoulders, but I dodged him. He froze, then tried to take my bag. “Let me carry that. Since you love this jacket so much, I’ll take it back and have it dry-cleaned for you.” I shook my head and threw the jacket straight into a nearby trash can, my voice flat. “Just throw it away. I don’t like things that are stained. You know I’m a perfectionist.” Seeing my cold face, Daniel’s smile stiffened. He knew I wasn’t just talking about the jacket. I was talking about us. Before he could say another word, I turned and walked away. Not long after I left the clinic, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Daniel: *Don’t be mad at me. I ordered those chocolate tarts you love from that bakery downtown. Make sure to eat them.* When the delivery arrived, I stared at the familiar pink box and smiled bitterly. In the past, whenever he made me angry, he would always buy these tarts to coax me. I took a bite mechanically. It used to taste so sweet. Now, it just tasted like ash. Daniel didn’t come home that night. Ending a seven-year relationship was far more painful than I had imagined. I couldn’t sleep. By midnight, I got out of bed and started packing my things. The matching hoodies in the closet, the photo frames lined up on the bookshelf, the sticky notes on the fridge… Every single item felt like a thorn covered in memories. I remembered the year Daniel had just become Alpha. He was drowning in work. Yet, he would still run to see me during his few hours off, his eyes shining like stars. “Emily, once I get the pack settled, we’ll have our mate ceremony.” Three years later, he stood before me with a diamond ring, his voice trembling. “I did it. I built us a home. I kept my promise.” The sun was so bright that day. I held him and cried for a long time, believing I was the luckiest girl alive. We decorated our house together, planting sunflowers on the balcony because I loved them. He said he wanted our home to always be filled with sunshine. But now, this house had no room left for me. By the time I taped up the last moving box, the sky was turning gray. When the moving truck arrived, both of our families showed up. I hadn’t told my parents about Daniel yet, so they still didn’t understand why a couple who was supposed to be mated two days ago was suddenly splitting up. My parents sighed but didn’t push. They only said, “If you want to come home, just come home.” But Linda held my hand, refusing to let go. “Emily, please give Daniel another chance, okay? What happened at the ceremony… he was just confused…” I remained silent, letting the movers carry the boxes. Just as Linda was about to beg further, the front door opened. Daniel walked in. And he brought Sophia with him. ***

She was wearing Daniel’s jacket, clinging to his arm like a lost puppy. The living room fell into a suffocating silence. All eyes locked onto them. Linda’s voice trembled. “Daniel… did you… did you betray Emily?” Robert was shaking with anger. “Who is this girl?!” Daniel didn’t answer. He swept his eyes over the empty living room before locking onto me. “You’re moving out?” “Yes,” I replied calmly. “Back to my parents’ house.” He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “Okay. I’ll come pick you up before our next ceremony.” He took a deep breath and gently pulled Sophia to his side, his arm instinctively protective around her waist. “This is Sophia, my fated mate. Her mental state is very fragile right now. I can’t just leave her alone.” He didn’t look at me when he said this. His tone carried a sense of entitlement, as if this explanation should make everything okay. Sophia stood timidly beside him, her fingers clutching his sleeve, her head bowed in silence. Linda looked at me with a conflicted expression. “Emily, maybe… we should all sit down and talk this through?” Just as I was about to refuse, Sophia suddenly spoke up, a flash of provocation in her eyes. “Why don’t you stay, Emily? The more, the merrier, right?” *Slap!* The sharp sound of a slap echoed through the room. My eyes widened in shock as I watched my mother strike Sophia across the face. “Sarah!” Robert gasped. My mother glared at them, her eyes red and her voice shaking violently. “I carried Emily for nine months. Do you think I don’t know my own daughter?” “She has been with you since she was seventeen, Daniel! She is twenty-four now! Seven years! For you, she turned down the Beta position at the Silver Creek Pack just to stay here and manage your pack affairs. She learned how to cook your favorite meals, and she knows where every single pair of your socks is… If her heart weren’t completely broken, would she be leaving?” “I never demanded she marry into extreme wealth, but you abandoned her at your own mate ceremony for some Omega, and today you have the nerve to bring her into our home? As her mother, I will not stand for this!” “If Emily won’t stand up for herself, I will do it for her!” My mother’s words hit me like thunder, making my eyes burn. Sophia held her cheek, tears welling in her eyes, but she didn’t dare make a sound. Daniel immediately blocked her, his face dark and menacing. “Emily! How old are you? Still running to your parents to fight your battles…” Before he could finish, I stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. “Daniel, you are the one who deserves this the most!” After the slap, I grabbed a piece of paper from the coffee table drawer and threw it at him. It was my medical report. “Do you want to know what my biggest regret is?” Daniel picked up the paper. The moment he read the words, his pupils shrunk. “Emily… you’re pregnant?” Looking at the sudden joy lighting up Daniel’s eyes as he rushed toward me, shouting, “I’m going to be a father!” I felt a wave of disgust. He forgot Sophia standing right there. He forgot his abandonment at the ceremony. He forgot his cold shoulder over the past few days. He behaved as if a baby could magically erase all his sins. But how could those nights of tears, those moments of being abandoned, and my shattered heart be forgotten? I shoved him away with all my strength, screaming with tears in my eyes: “You’re celebrating too early!” “Yesterday, when you were begging me to help you protect Sophia, I booked an appointment to terminate the pregnancy.”

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My stepsister Vivian came sobbing to my three older brothers and my fiancé, telling them she could see the Comments. She said the Comments had told her I suffered from persecutory delusional disorder, and that at my eighteenth birthday gala my condition would worsen and I would strangle her to death with my own hands. Even the doctor said Vivian had suffered a shock and was hallucinating. But no one believed I wasn’t sick. They think I should be sent to a mental hospital, as Vivian suggested. Julian, my eldest brother, signed the Involuntary Commitment Form on the spot. Ethan, my second brother, called ahead to a private psychiatric facility. Caleb, my third brother, and my fiancé Sebastian Hayes personally dragged me inside as I cried and begged. “It’s only a year.” “Once Vivian gets through her birthday safely, we’ll bring you home.” But every time the day came to bring me home, Vivian cried and said the Comments were still there. One year became three. Inside the facility, they forced pills down my throat. Every time I denied being sick, they ordered another round of ECT. By the end, all it took was hearing the name Vivian Lockhart, and I would drop to my knees and confess. Three years later, Vivian finally said the Comments were gone. Only then did my three brothers and Sebastian come to collect me. Then did they finally come to take me home. Sebastian held out his hand. “She’s safe now. You’re home. It’s time we got married.” But at the word home, I dropped to my knees and hid my hands behind my back. “I confess.” “I wanted to kill Vivian Lockhart.” “Please don’t shock me anymore.” They froze in stunned silence. Sebastian’s outstretched hand froze in midair, his face drained of color. They all thought Vivian was the one who could see the Comments. But when I lifted my head, a line only I could see was drifting across my vision. 【Life Countdown: 7 Days.】 【When the countdown ends, you may return to your original world.】 *** Vivian couldn’t see the Comments at all. I was the one who could. This world, to me, was nothing more than a livestream someone was watching. I didn’t belong here. Seven more days, and I could go back to my real home. In the car on the way back, Sebastian sat beside me. Several times he reached for my hand. The moment his fingertips brushed mine, I pulled my hands behind my back, lowered my head, and waited for him to fasten the restraint straps. Every treatment at the facility had started exactly that way. No struggling. No arguing. Never look the doctor in the eye, or they’d turn the current up. Sebastian looked at the layered scars on my wrists, and his eyes went red. “Never again.” “No one is ever going to lock you up or hurt you again.” Three years ago, he had said the same thing. And then he had personally forced me into the transport van. The car pulled up in front of the Lockhart house. Julian told me they had renovated the entire ground floor to welcome me home. But when the door opened, what I saw wasn’t a bedroom. It was a Seclusion Room. Transparent isolation door. Twenty-four-hour surveillance. A lock that could only be opened from the outside. A narrow meal slot cut into the wall. Not a single mirror, pane of glass, or sharp object inside. Identical to the room where I had lived for three years. Julian followed my gaze and explained under his breath. “Vivian only just confirmed the Comments are gone.” “We can’t take away all the safety measures at once.” My old bedroom had become Vivian’s walk-in closet. The racks were full of her dresses. The piano my mother had left me was buried under her unopened gifts. Caleb said quietly. “Vivian has had nightmares for three years.” “She can only sleep in your room, where she can be sure you aren’t there.” “She’s used to it now. Just let her have it.” That evening’s welcome dinner, Sebastian had wanted me at the table with everyone else. I sat down, but I didn’t touch the silverware. At the facility, you only ate after the bell rang. Reaching early counted as trying to steal food. Ethan placed a piece of fish on my plate. “This used to be your favorite.” “You’re home now. You don’t have to wait. Eat whenever you want.” I was staring at the fish, had just picked up my fork, when footsteps came down the staircase. Vivian was coming down. The moment she saw me, the color drained from her face. “The Comments…” She clutched her chest, her voice trembling. “The Comments say Elise is going to poison the soup.” The dining room went silent. Every dish had been prepared by the household staff. I hadn’t gone near the kitchen since I came home. Julian knew perfectly well it was impossible. He still set down his silverware. “If Vivian is afraid, then we check.” Ethan took my plate away and carefully searched my pockets. “It’s a routine check.” “Just cooperate.” Caleb crouched beside me, his eyes rimmed red. “Vivian only just started getting better.” “Be good one more time. For me?” In the end, it was Sebastian who guided me into the Seclusion Room. When we were children, some classmates had once locked me in a supply closet. He was the one who broke down the door and carried me out, exhausted from crying. Back then, he had said. “As long as I’m here, I’ll never let anyone lock you away again.” Now, he closed the transparent isolation door himself. He even bent down to check the lock twice. “Just a few days.” “When Vivian isn’t afraid anymore, I’ll let you out.” Through the transparent glass, I watched them go back to the dinner table. Vivian sat in what used to be my seat. My three brothers gathered around her, coaxing her not to be afraid. Sebastian gently rubbed her back. Vivian, eyes wet, had the staff pass my food through the meal slot. “Even through the door, Elise is having this family dinner with us.” Everyone praised how kind she was. When the lights in the Seclusion Room went out, everything went black. I hugged my knees and curled up quietly in the corner. The Comments drifted into view again. 【Life Countdown: 6 Days.】 For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of being locked in. It was fine. Six more days, and I would go home. I would leave this world for good.

Two days later, Caleb said he wanted to make up for the debutante ball I had missed by three years. He had a gown sent over, and told me sorrowfully. “Every birthday you missed in these three years, I’ll make it up to you.” But when I arrived at the venue, I saw what was written on the invitations. 【A Celebration for Vivian Lockhart.】 Julian’s tone was calm. “Vivian was tormented by the Comments for three years.” “Now that the Comments are gone, our friends and family want to celebrate her coming of age.” “Your debutante ball fits in perfectly. It’s festive, and it clears up any misunderstandings people have about the Lockhart family.” Vivian sat at the center of the head table with Sebastian beside her. My three brothers took turns serving her food and deflecting toasts. My seat was in the corner nearest the exit. No porcelain in front of me. No knife. Just the plastic bowl and spoon the facility used to prevent patients from hurting anyone. Julian noticed and offered a mild explanation. “Our friends don’t know yet that you’ve recovered.” “Better safe than sorry, so everyone can relax.” Once the reception began, a relative asked me where I’d been for the past three years. Vivian’s face went pale. She grabbed Sebastian’s sleeve. “The Comments are back.” “They say the death prophecy won’t disappear until Elise publicly admits she was ill, and admits she wanted to kill me.” Julian had someone open the livestream on the Lockhart family’s official account. Ethan set a sedative on the table. “Don’t get worked up.” “Lose control now, and everyone will think you aren’t really better.” Caleb handed me a confession Vivian had prepared in advance and coached me through it line by line. Sebastian personally placed the microphone in front of me. “Cooperate, get through it, and the past is wiped clean.” “Once you’re fully recovered, I’ll still marry you.” I lifted my head and looked at Julian. In high school, someone had spread a rumor that I had cheated on an exam. He had reviewed every second of school surveillance overnight. And in front of the entire school he had said. “No one bears a false name against the Lockhart family.” Now, to clear Vivian’s name, he was asking me to destroy my own with my own mouth. The camera zoomed in on my face. Viewers in the comment section were already pressing for answers. I held the scripted confession, my fingers trembling badly. Caleb settled a hand on my shoulder. His touch was gentle, but his fingertips slowly tightened. “Just like they taught you at the hospital.” “Read it well.” The blinding lights, the cold restraint straps, the sound of electric current, all rushed back into my mind. I didn’t dare hesitate. I opened my mouth to the camera and spoke mechanically. “I suffer from persecutory delusional disorder.” “I once tried to harm Vivian Lockhart.” “My three brothers committed me to save my life.” “Every treatment over these three years was voluntary.” “Vivian has never lied.” The moment I finished, the comment section flooded with abuse. Some called me a psychopath who had tried to commit murder. Some praised Vivian’s kindness, saying it was incredible she could forgive the sister who had tried to kill her. Others said the Lockhart family had already gone above and beyond by taking me back. Vivian sobbed and threw herself into Sebastian’s arms. “I don’t have to be afraid anymore.” My three brothers were surrounded by guests. Everyone praised them for standing by me for three years, for being so devoted to their ill sister. Once the livestream ended, Julian had the confession video pinned permanently to the top of the account. Vivian watched the view count climb, and a faint smile flickered in her eyes. The next moment, she was clutching Sebastian’s sleeve again. “The Comments say…” “Elise’s confession just now was also an act.” Four faces changed at once. And the real Comments only I could see slowly drifted into view. 【Life Countdown: 4 Days.】

Vivian said as long as I still remembered the grudge from three years ago, I would come back and kill her. The only solution the Comments offered was to make me forget her completely. That same night, Julian took me back to the facility. The director read through my treatment history from the past three years and, for the first time, refused. “She has already received prolonged, excessive treatment.” “Any more high-intensity ECT or pharmacological intervention could cause permanent memory loss and language deterioration.” “In severe cases, she may not even recognize her own family.” Julian was silent for a long time. In the end, he picked up the pen and signed his name on the High-Risk Treatment Consent Form. “Memory can come back over time.” “Vivian only has one life.” Ethan, a doctor, knew perfectly well there was no medical indication for treatment, and still signed off in the signed off on the medical recommendation. Caleb held me, begging through his tears. “Be good one last time.” “When the treatment is done, I swear I’ll take you home.” Only Sebastian didn’t agree right away. He blocked the door to the treatment room, and for the first time his voice carried real anger. “We’ve already destroyed three years of her life.” “This can’t go on.” I thought that maybe this time, at last, he was going to choose me. Then Vivian’s call came through. She sobbed into the phone. “If Elise forgets Sebastian, won’t she hate me even more?” Then she swallowed the sleeping pills she had hidden in advance. Not a lethal dose. But enough to strip all four of them of any remaining reason. Sebastian was silent for a long time, then walked over to me. He slid the ring off my finger. “Just forget the hatred.” “Even if you forget me, I’ll make you fall in love with me all over again.” Then he lifted me himself onto the treatment bed, and the cold restraint straps closed around my wrists and ankles. Before the treatment began, I handed Ethan the photograph my mother had left me. “Keep it safe for me.” “Don’t lose it.” When the current hit, my body arched violently. The pain tore through my skull. I wanted to scream stop, but only broken sobs came out of my throat. Through the glass, I could see my three brothers and Sebastian standing outside. Caleb was crying with a hand over his mouth. Ethan turned his face away. Julian’s fists were clenched white. Sebastian raised his hand several times, as if to shove the treatment room door open. But messages kept coming from Vivian. 【The Comments are fading.】 【Just hold on a little longer.】 【Elise won’t hate me for much longer.】 Not one of them hit the stop button. When it was over, I woke up in the hospital bed. Ethan held the photograph in front of me. “Elise, do you know who this is?” I stared at the woman in the picture for a long time. Her smile was very gentle. I couldn’t remember who she was. In the end, all I could do was shake my head, lost. Caleb broke down sobbing on the spot. Sebastian took my hand again. “What about me?” “Do you remember me?” I flinched, pulled my hand back, and hid both behind me. “Doctor.” “I’ll cooperate with the treatment.” His face went white in an instant. They had wanted me to forget the hatred for Vivian. What they erased instead was every trace of the fact that I had ever loved them. Even so, Vivian said the Comments hadn’t disappeared entirely. Julian decided to keep me in for further observation. When the lights went out in the ward, I lay on the cold bed. The last day of the countdown appeared before my eyes. 【Life Countdown: 1 Day.】

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I was finishing a handmade anniversary gift for my husband, Dominic, when my second-in-command brought me our son Marco’s drawing titled My Family. In the center, Dominic and a brown-haired woman kissed Marco’s cheeks. At the edge stood a blond woman like me, labeled Fake Mommy. The gift slipped from my hands. I ran to Marco’s room and heard him bragging to a classmate. “You only have one mom, but I have two. The fake mom at home takes care of me and Daddy—she’s like an unpaid babysitter.” “My real mom is far away doing important things. She’s the one my dad and I really love.” I clutched the drawing, my fingers shaking. Dominic appeared behind me. The moment he saw the drawing, he tried to rip it from my hands. “Marco’s just messing around. Maybe he drew one of his teachers.” I didn’t let go. Dominic’s reaction told me Marco might actually be telling the truth. I was the fake mommy—then who was the real one, and where was the child I’d actually given birth to? … “Serena? What are you spacing out about?” Dominic waved a hand in front of my face. “It’s our tenth anniversary. What did you get me?” I looked at him in silence, then reached into my bag and pulled out the velvet box I’d been carrying all day. He couldn’t wait to lift the lid. Inside lay the Beretta I’d prepared for him myself—mother-of-pearl grip, engraved with his initials. In our world, a weapon meant trust. It meant entrusting your very life to another person. “God, Serena. It’s beautiful.” He pulled me into his arms and kissed my cheek. “Lock it in the safe for me, would you?” I took the gun back. The cold metal sat heavy in my palm. I had never forgotten a single anniversary or birthday. I always chose something for him. He had never once done the same for me. I had always told myself that was just the kind of man he was: someone who expressed love through presence rather than ceremony. But then I remembered what Marco had said. “Dad loves giving Real Mommy presents. He says picking out a gift for the person you love is more important than the gift itself.” A child’s innocent chatter. But each word dragged across my chest like a dull blade. So it wasn’t that he didn’t know how to show love. It was that his love had never been meant for me. “Dominic.” My voice came out strained. I held his gaze, giving him one final chance to tell me the truth. “I’m going to ask you once. Is there anything you’re keeping from me?” His body stiffened for just a fraction of a second. Then he turned, his expression shifting to impatience. “Serena, are you really questioning my loyalty over a child’s drawing?” “The kid scribbled something on a piece of paper, and you’re turning it into an accusation?” I opened my mouth to say more, but he had already walked away, disappearing into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him. I watched his retreating back and felt, for the first time in ten years, just how vast the distance between us truly was. Years of protecting his pride had made Dominic forget who I was. I was Don Enzo Valentini’s only daughter, the woman he had publicly named as his successor. Dominic had married into our power. He had never owned it. That night, Dominic fell asleep quickly. I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot toward his study. In ten years, I had never once set foot inside that room uninvited—only because he had once said he wanted a space where he could handle his own affairs alone. But tonight, I pushed the door open. The study was spare enough to take in at a glance. I walked straight toward the safe—then stopped short at the sight of a framed photograph on the desk. It was a portrait of the three of us. Our family. A study I had never set foot in—and yet a family photo sat on the desk. Was I imagining things after all? Marco was just a child. It was nothing but a few careless words. I picked up the frame, my fingertips brushing lightly over the man’s face in the photograph. And then, the backing of the frame suddenly came loose. My heart plummeted. Before I could react, my hands had already pried the frame open. A photograph slid out from inside. It showed the same man—but the woman was different. She had long brown hair, the same color as the hair in Marco’s drawing. With trembling hands, I turned the photograph over. It was Dominic’s handwriting—unmistakably his: Natalia—no matter whose ring sits on my finger, my heart will always belong to you. The date was the day before our wedding.

The next morning, I dropped Marco off at St. Xavier’s, watched him disappear behind the oak doors, and then called Valentina from the car. Val had been with me since I was sixteen—not just my assistant, but the second-in-command my father, Don Enzo, had personally chosen to stand beside me when I inherited the family. “Val. Pull Dominic’s communication records. Last six months. Every call, every text.” By evening, a sealed envelope sat on my desk at the Red Hook office. I opened it. Hundreds of entries. And I saw it at once—a New Jersey number, recurring like a pulse. Always between midnight and three a.m. Calls ranging from fifteen minutes to over an hour. I noted the number and locked the records in the drawer. Dominic came home late that night, reeking of whiskey. “Business with Caruso’s people.” He kissed my forehead and disappeared into the bathroom. His phone was left on the nightstand. I tried our wedding anniversary. Wrong. His birthday, Marco’s birthday—wrong. Then, with a bitterness rising in my throat like bile, I entered the date written on the back of the photograph. The screen unlocked. The carrier records showed dozens of calls to the New Jersey number. His phone showed none. He had deleted every trace. I entered the number into a messaging app. A profile page opened. The avatar was a photo of a sunset—perfectly ordinary. But the banner image showed the silhouettes of three people against a golden dusk—two adults, a small child between them, walking hand in hand along a shoreline. The man’s face was hidden, but the Valentini signet ring on his right hand caught the light. It was Dominic. I set the phone back exactly as I’d found it, locked myself in the other bathroom, and gripped the edge of the sink until my arms stopped shaking. Then I walked into Marco’s room. He was asleep, curled up, clutching his stuffed bear. Dominic always said Marco had my eyes, my smile. But when I really looked now—there wasn’t a trace of me in that face. Carefully, I plucked a few strands of hair from his scalp, roots and all, and sent them, along with a sample of my own, to a private forensic lab. Three to five business days for results. Those days stretched on like years. That week, Dominic began coming home later and later. Tony wanted to renegotiate. Sal’s crew had a problem. The meeting with Caruso ran long. Every excuse delivered with easy composure. But one thing changed: every night before he left, he stood in front of the mirror, smoothing his hair, switching cologne, changing shirts twice. He had never done that for me. One evening, the moment he pulled out of the driveway, I quietly followed. Dominic drove south, deep into New Jersey, then turned into the Pine Barrens—down a dirt road, all the way to a small cabin nestled in the woods. I knew this land. It belonged to the Valentini family. My father used to hold meetings at that cabin—meetings that could never take place anywhere that might be bugged. Dominic parked. A woman stepped out of the cabin. Even from that distance, I recognized her at once. The white sundress had been replaced by a beige coat, but the face was exactly the same. The woman from the photograph. He took the handbag from her shoulder with practiced familiarity, his other hand settling at her waist. He bent his head and murmured something in her ear. Even in the dim light, I could see the color rise in her cheeks. Together, they walked into the cabin. My phone buzzed. An email from the lab. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely open the attachment. I skipped past the methodology, the graphs, straight to the last page. Serena Valentini is excluded as the biological mother of Sample B (Marco Valentini). One sentence. The child I had raised for six years. The child I had held through fevers, the child I had soothed to sleep. Not mine. I shoved the car door open and threw up on the gravel. When the retching stopped, I sat back and stared at the cabin. My father’s cabin. My family’s land. He was fucking her on Valentini ground. Suddenly, I remembered the day I gave birth. Just as my contractions began, the private clinic I had arranged with in advance was attacked by a rival family. My contractions were only minutes apart, and my guards had rushed me to the nearest maternity hospital—a chaotic, understaffed place full of strangers. So on the day Marco was born, I had my family’s own doctor personally collect DNA samples from both of us, and I sent them, under his direct supervision, to a private lab. I even had one of my men stationed outside the nursery, twenty-four hours a day. The maternity test confirmed that the baby was mine. Then how could the boy I had raised for six years carry another woman’s blood? Unless—the report had been forged from the very beginning. Unless Dominic had already bought off the doctor, the nurse, and the lab technician before I ever held that baby in my arms. Unless every precaution I had taken had already been factored into their plan. Dominic had switched my child. I had to find him. And every traitor was going to pay.

I took out my phone and called Val. My voice was terrifyingly calm. “Two things. First—dig up everything on a woman named Natalia Ferro, and every connection between her and Marco. Second—find my son. At any cost. Whatever it takes.” “Understood.” The call ended. For the next several days, I wore a mask that would have made even my father proud. I smiled at Dominic across the breakfast table, asked him how his day had gone, and didn’t flinch when he kissed me goodbye. But at night, I moved into the guest room at the end of the hall—my excuse a persistent migraine and a draining project. He watched me with those blue eyes of his but said nothing. Good. Let him keep believing everything was fine. A week later, Val laid a sealed envelope on my desk. “We recovered DNA from a coffee cup Natalia discarded at a café in Hoboken. The lab compared it with Marco’s retained sample. She’s his biological mother.” I had been expecting it, but the moment the final confirmation was in my hand, the pain still cut like a knife. Six years. Every goodnight kiss, every scraped knee, every birthday cake—every ounce of love I had poured out had gone to a child carrying another woman’s blood. And then the more terrible truth hit me. Marco hadn’t just been raised as my son—he had been formally presented to the entire family as the grandson of Don Enzo Valentini. Everyone believed he would inherit the family after me. “One more thing.” Val’s jaw tightened. “Natalia Ferro was admitted to the same maternity ward that night—the same night you gave birth. She delivered a boy a few hours after you did. The emergency contact listed on her admission form was Dominic Valentini.” “And her child? What happened to him?” “Official records show he died on the third day. Heart failure.” The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place—one dark truth strung after another, like beads on a string. Val’s voice went on. “There was a nurse working in the ward that night. Her name was Agnes Russo. She left the hospital soon afterward and later entered a convent on Staten Island. ” “Take me to her.” … Two days later, I sat across from Sister Agnes in the Sacred Heart Convent. She was very old, her eyes cloudy, but the guilt of years shone through them. “Tell me what happened that night.” She drew a trembling breath. “Two women went into labor that night, almost at the same time. You delivered a healthy baby boy first. The other one—Miss Ferro—had a harder labor, but her child was born alive too. I held him myself. He was small, but he was breathing.” Her voice dropped. “Then your husband arrived. He sent the guards away, spoke to the doctor alone, and I saw an envelope change hands. And then, with my own eyes, I watched that woman lift your baby out of the bassinet with her own hands, and put her child in his place.” The room fell into a dead silence. “My son. What did they do to him?” “They said he had died. But I saw that woman walk out of the hospital that night carrying a living child.” Her voice broke. “Dominic paid me to keep quiet. I took the money. May God forgive me.” Val and I sat in the car in silence for a long time. “Find him. Alive or dead, bring me the truth.” … Three days later, Val called at two in the morning. “Found him. A Catholic orphanage in rural Pennsylvania—St. Michael’s Home for Boys. Six years ago, an infant boy was left there. No name, no listed parents. The timing matches down to the day.” I left that night. Four hours of dark highway, the needle pinned at a hundred. By six in the morning, I was being led into a small walled courtyard. Children were playing in the pale morning light. My eyes moved across face after face. And then I saw him. In the farthest corner, a small figure curled against the wall. Knees drawn to his chest, drowned in a sweater three sizes too big, the cuffs falling past his hands—hands blue with cold. The nun followed my gaze and let out a soft sigh. “When he was brought to us six years ago, he was wrapped in a blanket marked Holy Cross Hospital. He was only a few days old, badly dehydrated, and covered in bruises.” Even across that courtyard, I knew him at once—the shape of that face, the set of those eyes, the line of that jaw. He was mine. My son. He had spent six years in that cold, forgotten corner—while I had poured all my love into another woman’s child. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Dominic. Natalia. You stole my life. And for six years, my child has carried the weight of your sins. I will make you pay for every single day.

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The moment I got the ultrasound report, my boyfriend Jason—the Don—suddenly said: “Alice, there’s something important I need to tell you.” My heart skipped a beat. My hand drifted instinctively to my belly. After eight years of waiting, I thought he’d finally convinced the family. That he was going to marry me. Give me the title of Donna. “I’ve already married the Black family’s daughter.” I froze. The ultrasound slipped from my fingers and fluttered down to the marble floor. “What did you just say?” Jason rushed forward and pulled me into a tight embrace. “It’s just a family alliance. A marriage in name only.” “I can give you everything else—half the underground operations in New York. You’ll still be my Donna.” “You and the baby—you’re my real family.” I pushed him away. My cold gaze swept across the faint red marks barely visible above his shirt collar. “Jason, we’re done.” “And the baby—I’m getting rid of it.” …… “Have you lost your mind?!” Jason’s roar exploded through the hallway of the medical center. He seized my wrist, his grip so crushing I could feel the bones grinding together. His eyes bored into mine, wild with disbelief. “That’s my child! Capone blood! Who the hell gave you the right to decide that?!” I tried to shake his hand off. I couldn’t. “Your child? Jason, you married into the Black family! You want an heir—have your Donna give you one!” “Alice, stop this!” “I’m not doing anything.” He stared at me, eyes rimmed red. “Private jets, villas, vineyards, a laundered trust fund your grandchildren couldn’t burn through—I can give you everything except that marriage certificate!” “What more do you want from me?!” I looked at him. Eight years ago, behind the back gate at Yale, Jason was just another street kid in a wrinkled shirt, clutching a crumpled bouquet of red roses. Nervously telling me he’d had a crush on me for three years. That he knew he wasn’t good enough for a doctoral candidate like Miss Renaud, but he’d work hard to close the gap between us. Eight years later, he had more wealth and power than he could ever spend—and he was telling his pregnant girlfriend he was marrying another woman. “Jason Capone.” I heard my own voice, hoarse and raw. “I have never been anyone’s mistress, and I’m not about to start with you.” His face darkened instantly. “Mistress?!” “I told you—you are the one I recognize as my Donna!” “But as long as I keep this baby, that’s exactly what I’ll be. A mistress hidden in the shadows.” My expression didn’t waver. I held his gaze. “A mistress in the eyes of the Capone family. A mistress in the eyes of your wife. And someday, when this child grows up and asks me, ‘Mom, why isn’t my name on the family register?’” “What am I supposed to say? That he’s the Don’s bastard?!” Jason stood there as if the words had struck him physically. A vein throbbed at his temple. He said nothing for a long time. Long enough that the armed guard stationed at the end of the hall and the nurses all poked their heads out nervously, faces full of dread. Finally, he slowly raised his head. The tenderness and sorrow were gone from his eyes, replaced by the cold, alien gaze of the Don. “Alice, if you get rid of that baby, we’re finished.” “We were finished a long time ago.” “The day you married Sofia Black for control of the docks—that was the end.” He stepped closer. His tall shadow swallowed me whole. I didn’t flinch. I looked straight into those hawk-sharp eyes. Jason’s lips curled into a cruel, cold smile. “Alice, why do you think your father’s shipping company has been operating safely at the port—without any protection?” My heart plummeted. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t answer directly, but the contempt in his eyes said everything. He was using my parents’ lives—our family’s entire logistics business—as bargaining chips in this game. I didn’t say another word. I turned and walked toward the exam room. Behind me, he shouted, losing control: “Alice!” I didn’t stop. “Stop right there! That’s an order from the Don!” I pushed open the steel door of the exam room. Inside sat a woman in a white coat. She looked up at me, startled. “Can I help you?” “I need an abortion. Can you schedule it today?” The doctor looked past my shoulder at Jason standing in the doorway. Her hand trembled so violently that her pen dragged a jagged line of ink across the chart. “Do you… do you have an appointment?” “No. I’m making one now.” She flipped through the appointment book with shaking hands, her voice barely holding together: “Today’s… today’s fully booked. The earliest would be three days from now.” I turned and cast a cold glance at Jason, standing in the shadows. “Three days, then.”

For those three days, I didn’t leave the apartment. I pulled the blackout curtains shut and lost track of day and night. I sat by the window, gently touching my still-flat stomach, where a Capone bloodline was quietly growing. My phone buzzed relentlessly on the table— Missed calls: 47. iMessages: 93. All from Jason Capone. The earliest ones were voice messages. I didn’t play them. The later ones were texts: *Alice, listen to me. I’ll handle things with Sofia. Just give me some time.* *She and I really are just a political marriage. Once the docks are fully under our control, I’ll take care of everything. I promise.* *The baby is innocent. Please don’t do anything rash.* As the days wore on, the tone of the Mafia heir’s messages shifted: *Do you really have to push me like this?* *I already said I’d handle it. What more do you want from me?* The last message came this afternoon. A single cold line: *Surgery’s tomorrow, right? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.* I stared at those words for a long time. After he’d risen from Made Man to Underboss, women threw themselves at him constantly—pressing up against him during business meetings, slipping potent aphrodisiacs into his drinks. Every time, he’d have them tossed into the freezing harbor to sober up. Then he’d find me, kiss me with a desperate hunger, take me completely. Promise me he’d never change. Now, as Don, he was resorting to threats against me because of Sofia. I didn’t reply. On the day of the surgery, I sat on the long bench in the hallway, the appointment slip damp with sweat in my clenched fist. With ten minutes to go, hurried footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. I looked up and saw my mother. Her hair was a mess. Two of Jason’s men trailed behind her. “Alice!” She rushed over. “Mom? What are you doing here?” She was panting. “Jason called me.” “He said you two had a fight. That you’re going to terminate the pregnancy.” “Alice—” She grabbed my hands. “Couples fight, that’s normal. But you don’t want to cross the Capone family in New York—that’s no joke. And it’s a life we’re talking about. Don’t take it out on the baby…” “Mom, let go of me first.” She wouldn’t. That was when I got a good look at her face. Her eyes were swollen, ringed with dark, bruise-like circles. “Mom, what happened? What’s going on?” Her gaze flickered. “Nothing. I was just worried about you, couldn’t sleep…” “That’s not it.” I stared at her. “Tell me the truth.” She opened her mouth, then her eyes turned red, her voice dropping to almost nothing: “Your father… your father’s company is in trouble. Several shipments got seized by Customs and the Federal Task Force. Suspected smuggling and money laundering… The penalties are more than we can pay. We might have to sell the house to cover the debts.” “I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to worry…” The blood drained from my body in an instant. “Mom, sit here and wait for me. I need to use the restroom.” I walked to the stairwell at the end of the hallway. I dialed Jason’s number. “Made up your mind?” His voice came through perfectly steady, as if he’d been sitting by the phone waiting. “What happened to my father’s company—that was you.” A soft laugh from the other end. “Your father ran into some compliance issues at the docks. Normally, one word from me would’ve fixed it. But you insisted on cutting ties with me.” “So under the circumstances, I really don’t see why I should help. Do you?” His voice was gentle, conversational—like he was chatting about the weather. But it sent ice crawling down my spine. “Jason, you’re threatening me with my parents’ lives.” His voice finally dropped, the pretense gone: “I can make your father’s problems go away. But if you insist on breaking up with me and aborting the baby—why would I lift a finger for a stranger?” “Alice, I’m not that broke kid at the bottom of the food chain anymore. Tens of thousands of men depend on me for their livelihood. If I go soft for you, who’s going to go soft for me?” “I’ve already swallowed my pride to come to you. Doesn’t that prove how much I love you?” “And what about Sofia?” A beat of silence on the other end. “I’ll handle it. Give me time.” I closed my eyes. The stairwell was dark. Only the light above the operating room door glowed in the distance. “Fine. I’ll keep the baby.” On the other end, he let out a long, slow breath. Then he said: “Alice, thank you. I’ll send the lawyers over right away. Your father’s company will be stabilized by tonight.” I said nothing. He added: “I know you hate me right now.” “But someday you’ll understand—in this jungle where the weak are nothing but meat, everything I’m doing is for our future.” I hung up. I stood in the stairwell, gripping my phone, perfectly still. *For our future.* I looked down at my belly. Still flat, but something was taking root inside—a life he’d forced me to keep through power and threats. I laughed. And as I laughed, the tears fell. He said he’d handle Sofia. He said to wait. But not once—not a single time—did he say: *I’ll divorce Sofia for you.*

Jason was a man of his word. Three days later, my father’s company was out of danger. The seized shipments cleared customs. The federal investigation was dropped. That afternoon, my phone buzzed. Jason’s iMessage: *Coming to see you tonight. What do you feel like eating?* I didn’t reply. For the past two weeks, he’d texted every day. I answered maybe one in ten. When he came to the apartment, I let him in but wouldn’t let him stay the night. He never got angry. Before leaving, it was always the same line: “Get some rest. Call the guards if you need anything.” Like a caring boyfriend. Like the perfect lover. As if the man who’d leveraged my family against me had never existed. Then one day, my phone exploded. Texts first—hundreds of messages flooding in, all vicious: “Homewrecker, go die!” “Ivy League degree and you’re still a dirty side piece? You sure you didn’t sleep your way into Yale?” “Wrecking the Capone-Black marriage—enjoy getting dumped in the ocean to feed the fish! A slut like you deserves to die a thousand times over!” Then someone tagged me on Twitter. I tapped through to a gossip account’s exposé post. My photo was the header image. The headline read: **EXPOSED: Ivy League PhD Clings to Mafia Don, Gets Pregnant to Force Donna Out** The article claimed I’d known about Jason and Sofia’s engagement all along but refused to let go, using my pregnancy to pressure him into divorce. It said Sofia had been so distraught she’d been hospitalized. It said the apartment I lived in was bought by Jason. Every single comment was people cursing me out. My hands started shaking. I scrolled further—my father’s shipping company address had been doxxed. Someone was calling for people to “go throw blood on their docks and smash their cargo ships.” My stomach lurched violently. I barely made it to the toilet before I was retching until the world went black. I knew. This was Sofia Black’s doing. When the vomiting stopped, I sat on the floor. The marble tiles were cold, but my mind had never been clearer. I went back to the living room and opened the cloud-synced photo album on my laptop. April 2018, outside the Yale library—Jason with his arm around me, smiling warm and bright. The day he finally won me over. December 2019, my birthday—he’d bought me a cake by the sea. 2020—our first apartment together. Him in the kitchen making curry beef pasta. 2021—he came home with me to meet my parents. 2023—he’d taken a bullet for the previous Don, earned his way to Underboss. Shirtless, bandages wrapped around his wounds, pulling me close and flashing a peace sign at the camera. 2024—he’d won a hundred-million-dollar pink diamond necklace at a black-market auction and clasped it around my neck. I’d snuck a photo of his profile. Every single photo had an unalterable timestamp. Every single one proved that we’d been in love for six years before 2024. Jason and Black’s marriage certificate was dated this March. I picked nine timestamped photos and posted them in a grid, with one line of text: *Who’s really the one who came between someone else’s relationship? See for yourselves.* I tossed my phone on the couch. When I picked it up again, that post had been shared over ten thousand times. Public opinion had flipped completely: “Wait—according to this timeline, they were together for six years. Sofia’s the one who used her family’s power to force her way in!” “Desperate to be the other woman, then has the nerve to smear the real girlfriend? This is what Black family class looks like?” The comments section erupted. Sofia Black’s reputation cratered overnight. She was being mocked as a clown who’d bullied her way into a marriage through family connections. Within half an hour, #SofiaIsTheHomewrecker was trending number one on Twitter. My phone rang. Mom. “Alice! I saw everything! Are you okay?” Her voice was urgent, aching with concern. “I’m fine, Mom.” “Who does that Sofia woman think she is? How dare she bully my daughter?!” I blinked—my mother never swore. “Mom, are you really okay?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” Her voice was full of fire. “Just now a bunch of dockworkers who owe your father favors showed up at the office with flowers—said something about ‘standing with Alice against cyberbullying’!” I held the phone, tears rolling down one by one. “Alice, I almost misjudged you. I thought you’d really gone and become someone’s mistress…” She didn’t finish. “It’s okay, Mom.”

That evening, Jason came. Impeccable suit, but the dark circles under his eyes were brutal—like he hadn’t slept in days. “Alice.” I said nothing. He looked at me, his expression tangled with something complicated: “Black family stocks have tanked hard. Offshore shadow banks are pulling out. The Blacks and the Council of Elders are both putting pressure on me.” “And?” He took a deep breath, pulled his phone from his pocket, swiped a few times, and handed it to me. On the screen was a pre-drafted statement. I took it and read line by line: *This is Alice. I want to set the record straight about recent events.* *Jason Capone and I were together once, but that was a long time ago.* *We broke up before his marriage to Sofia Black this year. I’m the one who couldn’t let go—I kept pursuing him.* *I reached out to him, trying to win him back. I drugged Jason to get pregnant, hoping to use the baby to force a divorce.* *When Donna Sofia found out, she was understandably furious. Her post was meant to make me back off. This is entirely my fault. Sofia has nothing to do with it.* I looked up at Jason. “You want me to post this?” “The Black family needs an explanation.” Jason gripped my shoulders, his voice urgent. “If you say this, Sofia becomes the victim—the deceived wife. The Capone-Black alliance holds. The stock recovers. You know how many wolves are circling, waiting for me to slip up so they can tear the Blacks apart and feast.” “And if I don’t?” “Right now, you’re the only one who can defuse this. Post it, and the Blacks calm down. Your father’s business stays under my protection. Don’t post it, and neither side can walk away clean.” “Alice, don’t make me use family methods.” Jason gave me three days to think it over. Three days later, he texted: *Alice, have you decided?* I didn’t reply. He called. I declined. He texted again: *Alice, don’t push me.* Still no response. I was gambling—betting on eight years of love, betting on his last shred of conscience. But the Don of a Mafia family has no conscience. I lost. On the seventh day, my father’s shipping company was forcibly liquidated and shut down. The Federal Task Force raided overnight, citing severe accounting irregularities and money-laundering channels. The fabricated evidence had materialized out of thin air. Dad called. His voice was destroyed. “Alice, the company’s gone.” I stood at the window, gripping my phone. “Dad…” “A team from the Task Force just came through. Took all the books. They’re talking about major money laundering—could be thirty years…” He couldn’t go on. “Dad, don’t panic. Let me think of something…” “Alice.” He cut me off. His voice went suddenly, deathly calm. “Tell me the truth.” My heart sank. “What?” “Is this because of that man from the Capone family?” I said nothing. “The day the company first got hit—that was the day you broke up with him. Then suddenly everything was fine again—that was the day you got back together. And now it’s happening again…” His voice was shaking. “Alice, is he using me to threaten you?” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. “Dad…” “Don’t lie to me.” I closed my eyes. Tears poured out. “…Yes.” Dead silence on the other end. After what felt like forever, he said: “Alice, I understand now.” “Dad, listen to me, I still have options—” The line went dead. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling until three in the morning. My phone erupted—Dad’s number. I picked up, but it wasn’t his voice on the other end. It was the wail of sirens and the chaos of a crowd. A stranger’s voice: “Hello? Is this Alice Renaud?” “Yes. Who is this? Where’s my father?” Several minutes of silence before he spoke. “Your father, Mr. Renaud, jumped from the Brooklyn Bridge. The body has been recovered. I’m sorry for your loss…”

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I was the sole heir to the Moretti crime family, yet Lorenzo Vitale kept me waiting for three miserable years before he finally agreed to marry me. Before our fourth engagement party, he promised me over the phone: “Tonight, I’ll put the ring on your finger myself.” By Moretti tradition, an heir sealed an alliance by placing the family ring on their chosen partner’s hand. Two hours later, I stood in the ballroom before the Dons, consiglieres, and capos of both families and held out the Moretti family ring to him. But he threw it straight out the window, then turned and took Viola’s hand. “Viola is going to South America to track down a missing shipment of weapons. It’s dangerous there. I promised I’d go with her.” I looked at him. “If you leave with her tonight, we’re finished for good.” Lorenzo scoffed. “Whatever. You could pick up a homeless man and marry him, and I still wouldn’t come back.” With that, he escorted Viola out without another glance at me. Under everyone’s gaze, I removed the matching ring from my own finger. My father’s North Harbor docks, covert warehouses, and underground freight routes had all been meant to join the Vitale family’s operations through this marriage. Not anymore. I left the hotel and found the ring in the back alley below. The man who had picked it up was a stranger in tattered clothes, his body covered in injuries. “My name is Serafina Moretti. Will you marry me?” Lorenzo, you were the one who told me to marry a homeless man. Once you find out who he really is, I hope you can still stand when you speak to me. … Three years later, I saw Lorenzo again outside the Moretti family’s private hospital. I was carrying the medication my doctor had prescribed to protect my pregnancy, and my cashmere coat concealed the slight curve of my stomach. Several black SUVs suddenly pulled up in front of me. Lorenzo stepped out, the Vitale family’s silver-wolf pin fastened to his suit lapel. The rear window lowered, revealing half of Viola’s face and her gentle smile. “Well, if it isn’t Serafina.” She paused deliberately. “The poor girl who was abandoned at her own engagement party three years ago.” She stressed the word poor girl, waiting for me to be humiliated. I only found it amusing. I had certainly been humiliated that night three years ago, but now I was grateful he had abandoned me. If he hadn’t, I would never have the life I had today. Lorenzo looked me over from head to toe, then glanced behind me. When he saw no man there, a knowing smile tugged at his lips. “Three years apart, and you’ve finally learned to behave.” My stomach turned. “Mr. Vitale, we’re not close enough for you to speak to me that way.” His smile stiffened. “Why are you pretending we’re strangers?” I stepped around him, but he blocked my path with his cane. Viola got out of the car and sighed softly. “Serafina, don’t blame Lorenzo. If you truly can’t let him go, I’m willing to compromise and let him keep taking care of you.” Taking his cue from her, Lorenzo said: “Forget about a wedding.” He paused, his tone softening. “I promised Viola I would marry her. As for you, if you still want to stay with me, you can be my mistress.” He said it as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, as though I should be grateful to accept this humiliation simply because he was willing to take me back. When had the boy I once loved become so ugly inside? I laughed. “Three years ago, you said you wouldn’t come back even if I married a homeless man.” His expression darkened. “I said it in anger. You didn’t actually take me seriously, did you?” My lips curved without humor. “Of course I did.” He gave a cold laugh. “If you were really married, would you be standing here alone today?” Viola lowered her eyes. “Serafina, stop using marriage to spite him. Lorenzo is still willing to take care of you. You should accept.” I looked at her. “You stole my fiancé, and now you’re advising me to become his mistress. Viola, do you think I’m as shameless as you are?” Viola went pale. Lorenzo immediately stepped in front of her. “You’re still as vicious as ever, Serafina.” I couldn’t be bothered to explain. I turned to leave. Behind me, Lorenzo lowered his voice. “Check her marriage records. I want to know if she’s really married.” Viola asked softly, “What if she is?” Lorenzo scoffed. “Everyone in North Harbor knows she loved me for more than a decade. Other than some lunatic off the street, who would dare marry a shameless woman like her?”

Lorenzo’s man had already driven off, but Lorenzo had no intention of letting me leave. Two armed bodyguards blocked my path. “This is a public street,” I said, looking at him. “Tell your men to move.” Instead, Lorenzo came closer. “You deliberately hid from me for three years because you wanted me to come looking for you, didn’t you?” Just then, a dull ache tugged low in my abdomen. I pulled the bag of medication protectively against me. “You think too highly of yourself. Who would still want you?” Lorenzo clearly didn’t believe me. “You hid for three years because you were waiting for me to come back.” He took another step, utterly certain of himself. “You loved me for more than a decade, Serafina. I know you can’t let go.” I looked at him and found him ridiculous. “Three years later, and you’re still just as full of yourself.” Viola lightly caught Lorenzo’s arm, though her gaze kept moving between my coat and the pharmacy bag. “Don’t be angry. Maybe her life hasn’t been going well. That’s why she’s saying such cruel things.” I looked coldly at her. “How I live is none of your business.” Viola put on her usual innocent expression. “Serafina, I’m only worried about you.” I nearly laughed. “Your way of worrying about me is telling me to become Lorenzo’s mistress?” She stepped back, her eyes immediately filling with tears. Lorenzo’s face hardened. “Viola has done nothing but consider your feelings. Don’t be ungrateful.” I watched him stand protectively in front of her. One was skilled at pretending to be innocent, and the other was always eager to believe her. They truly deserved each other. Half an hour later, Lorenzo’s man hurried back with a printed marriage record. “Mr. Vitale, we found it. Miss Serafina did legally marry three years ago.” The smile vanished from Lorenzo’s face. He snapped his gaze toward me. “You’re really married?” I met his eyes calmly. “Why are you surprised? Weren’t you the one who told me to marry a homeless man?” The veins stood out on the back of his hand, and his voice carried the anger of a man who had somehow been betrayed. “You actually married some random man just to get revenge on me?” “I don’t need your permission to marry anyone.” His face darkened completely. “Who is he? Where is he now?” Lorenzo’s man glanced at me before answering in a low voice. “The mute homeless man from the alley behind the hotel that night.” Lorenzo froze for a second, then burst out laughing. There was no guilt in it, only condescension. “I knew it. You were still trying to spite me.” “Don’t flatter yourself. Who I married has nothing to do with you. We ended the moment you threw away that ring three years ago.” I turned to leave. Lorenzo stepped in front of me and seized my wrist. “A mute vagrant thinks he deserves to be your husband? One word from the Vitale family, and he’ll disappear.”

Lorenzo’s grip tightened until my wrist began to ache. I wrenched myself free. “Is manhandling another man’s wife in public how the Vitale family operates?” Lorenzo gave a cold laugh and raised one hand. Several bodyguards immediately surrounded me. “You expect me to respect a homeless man?” I instinctively stepped back as my abdomen suddenly tightened. People on the street had begun to stop and watch. I deliberately raised my voice. “You all heard him. Lorenzo Vitale is abducting a married woman in broad daylight.” Several people pulled out their phones. Lorenzo’s guards opened their jackets to reveal the guns at their waists. The crowd immediately backed away. Viola moved to his side and looked at me with feigned concern. “Lorenzo is helping you. Marrying a homeless man no one knows will only turn the Moretti family into a joke.” Her false concern made me sick. “No matter whom I married, it’s cleaner than being his mistress.” Lorenzo grabbed my arm. “Enough.” The pharmacy bag fell from my grasp. Medicine boxes, test results, and an ultrasound photo scattered across the pavement. Viola saw the image and abruptly raised her voice. “Serafina, you’re pregnant?” Lorenzo’s hand tightened sharply. He looked down at the ultrasound, then at the hand I held over my stomach. “You’re carrying that homeless man’s child?” I didn’t answer. He stared at my stomach, and for the first time, I saw murderous intent in his eyes. “You would rather bear a homeless man’s child than wait for me?” Suppressing my disgust, I asked coldly, “Why would I wait for a man who abandoned and humiliated me?” Lorenzo’s breathing grew heavier. “You’ve lost your mind.” He turned to his guards. “Take her.” I immediately shielded my stomach. “Don’t you dare, Lorenzo!” He leaned close to my ear and lowered his voice. “This child cannot stay.” A chill shot up my spine. “Get rid of it, Serafina, and I’ll overlook the fact that you were married.” I finally understood. He had never truly loved me. He just couldn’t accept that the woman who once revolved around him had actually married someone else—and was even carrying another man’s child. I slapped him hard across the face. The sharp crack silenced the street. Lorenzo ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, then ordered his men, “Put her in the car.” Two guards seized my arms. Afraid for the baby, I didn’t dare struggle too violently. “If you hurt my child, the Vitale family will pay the price.” Lorenzo laughed contemptuously. “What price could a homeless man’s bastard possibly make me pay?” Standing beside him, Viola feigned sympathy as she urged me, “Stop fighting. Once the baby is gone, you can finally start over.” I looked at her and committed every word to memory. The guards shoved me into the armored car. The moment my back struck the seat, pain cramped through my abdomen again. Fear finally crawled up my spine. I could turn against Lorenzo. I could risk the Moretti family’s territory in North Harbor. But I could not gamble with my child’s life. This was the baby Adrian pressed his cheek to my stomach and spoke softly to every night before bed. He wanted this child so badly. Clenching my teeth, I slipped a hand into the hidden pocket of my coat and gripped the obsidian ring. An emergency tracker was embedded inside it. Outside the car, Lorenzo ordered coldly, “Take her to the west-side safe house. Call the family doctor. Get rid of the baby today.”

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The night we were supposed to pick out my wedding dress, Ethan never showed. When I arrived at his office, it was packed with people. “Ethan, congratulations! Won the case and won the girl back.” “Olivia, your childhood sweetheart—she found her way back to you after all.” “So does this mean your wedding with Emma is postponed indefinitely?” In the center of the crowd, Ethan’s voice was cold. Not a trace of warmth. “Don’t compare Emma to Olivia. I can’t survive without Olivia. Emma’s different.” I stood outside the door and tossed the wine I’d brewed for him by hand into the trash. Ethan, I never wanted the kind of love that threatens to kill you. As I walked out of the firm, my phone rang. Ethan. His voice was low, tinged with apology. “Emma, there’s a celebration at the firm tonight. Can we push back the dress fitting?” I watched Olivia walk through the front doors and smiled softly. “Sure. No need to go at all.” On the other end, I could hear his relief. He even laughed. “My Emma, always so thoughtful. Pick whatever style you like. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.” I’d heard that line a thousand times. I used to think it was trust—his way of making me feel safe. Now I understood. It was because he simply didn’t care. I raised an eyebrow. “Alright. I’ll take care of it.” After I hung up, I canceled the dress appointment. I didn’t feel an ounce of reluctance. I’d never once doubted my feelings for Ethan. And I’d always believed we loved each other. Ethan and I met in a brewing room. That day, he stood beside an oak barrel, his profile impossibly handsome. From then on, every wine I made carried a new flavor—something called love. I started chasing after him, bottle after bottle of my latest creations. “Ethan, I just brewed this. Try it.” “Ethan, smell this—isn’t it amazing?” “Ethan, do you like this one?” Every day I flitted around him like an excited little bird, chattering nonstop. Slowly, we started talking more, drinking together. He tasted my experiments without complaint. And I was more than happy to be his companion in loneliness. Until one drunken night, I said those words. “Ethan, I like you.” That single sentence ended thirty days of ambiguity. My love had been the driving force from the very start. And Ethan was like a puppet without a soul. He mechanically agreed to everything I asked. Even “I love you” seemed like something he only said because I’d said it first. But I was too happy then. I thought that was what unconditional devotion looked like. It wasn’t until I saw Olivia that I finally understood. For the entire three years we were together, Ethan had been searching for another woman’s shadow in me. I was nothing more than a placeholder for his loneliness. I was about to drive away when my phone started buzzing with messages from an unknown number. “Hey Emma, Ethan’s really busy right now. Could you bring a couple bottles of wine over?” “He specifically asked for the Heart’s Memory blend.” “He’s always told me your wine reminds him of me. Thank you for keeping his memory of me alive these three years.” Heart’s Memory was a wine Ethan and I had created together. I handled the technique. He handled the tasting. I went through twenty attempts before I earned his first genuine smile. Later, Ethan named it Heart’s Memory. He said it was the feeling of holding someone in your heart so completely that you could never forget them. I’d thought he was describing our love, so I kept every bottle stored away like treasure. I never imagined that the person he couldn’t forget was never me. I held my phone, hands shaking so badly I couldn’t type a single word. This one-sided love affair should have ended long ago.

Back in the cellar, I pulled out the last four bottles of Heart’s Memory. This wine had always been produced in tiny quantities. Not because I didn’t want to scale up—because Ethan wouldn’t allow it. He said it belonged only to us. He didn’t want to share it with anyone. So Heart’s Memory was only ever opened on our anniversaries. We’d raised our glasses under the moonlight, laughing. We’d toasted to our love. We’d promised to stay together forever. Back then, his tears fell onto my shoulder again and again. I thought it meant he loved me to the bone. Only today did I realize he was using me to miss someone else. Inside the private room, Ethan was shielding Olivia from drinks. He hadn’t noticed me standing in the doorway at all. His cheeks were flushed, and the smile never once left his face. In three years, I had never seen him like this. This version of Ethan was happy. Fulfilled. He was no longer the guarded, distant man he’d always been with me. Sitting beside Olivia, he looked like a painting that had finally been made whole. The people around them kept egging them on, and neither of them bothered to keep their distance. “Come on, let’s all congratulate Ethan!” “About time. He used to mope around like a husband who’d been abandoned at home.” “Olivia, you have no idea—when you got married, Ethan disappeared for an entire month. We nearly lost our minds.” “Thank God he met Emma back then. Otherwise, who knows what would have happened.” My name pierced through the noise like a needle. The room went silent for a few seconds. I watched everyone fall quiet, and somewhere deep inside, I was still pathetically hoping Ethan would say something to acknowledge me. I stared at him without blinking. As if by looking long enough, he would admit that our three years together weren’t a lie. But waiting it out never gives you the answer you want. After a long pause, Ethan tightened his grip on Olivia’s hand. His voice was slow and certain. “Olivia is the one who healed me.” The room erupted in cheers. Olivia had seen me standing at the door all along. The look she gave me was proud and dismissive—a victor surveying reclaimed territory. I knew I wasn’t welcome in that celebration. Not one bit. I simply signaled the server to bring the wine inside. “Mr. Ethan, here’s the wine you ordered.” The smile on his face froze the moment he saw me. Something flickered in his eyes—panic. He started to stand, to come toward me, but Olivia kissed him without a second’s hesitation. Meeting his gaze, I turned and walked away. In that moment, I fled the battlefield. I didn’t have the courage to fight for what I once thought was mine in front of all those people. In the cab, Olivia’s messages came one after another. In the video, Ethan was confessing to Olivia in front of everyone while they cheered him on. He was holding Heart’s Memory, down on one knee before her. “Olivia, this is the wine I made for you. Do you like it?” “Olivia, this wine is like my life. And you are my life too.” He said it with absolute sincerity, and Olivia blushed. At the end of the video was a text from Olivia. “Emma, thank you for brewing that wine on my behalf. Ethan was never yours. I hope you have the self-awareness to accept that.” None of it ever belonged to me. Back home, the memories rushed in like poison. Matching slippers sat neatly by the door—except Ethan’s pair looked brand new. Matching mugs sat on the counter in their bright colors—except his was coated in dust. Matching pajamas hung on the balcony swaying in the breeze—except his set had never been worn. My life with Ethan was as hollow as two lines that briefly intersect and immediately run parallel. Close in appearance. Worlds apart in reality. He’d never liked any of the things I prepared for him. He only tolerated my existence because Olivia wasn’t there. Ethan had never betrayed Olivia. I was the accident. A phone call dragged me back to reality. The wedding photographer, polite as ever: “Miss Emma, I heard you canceled the dress reservation. Should we still go ahead with tomorrow’s shoot?” I watched the video loop on my phone, and there wasn’t a shred of longing in my voice. “Cancel that too.”

I was about to throw out every matching thing we owned when I heard Ethan’s key in the door. Seeing me still home, the tension visibly drained from his shoulders. He walked over, took my hand, and smiled gently. “Thank you, my Emma, for being so understanding.” “I loved the wine tonight. Olivia loved it too.” When I didn’t respond, he patiently explained. “Olivia—you know how it is. We grew up together. Just friends. You’re not jealous, are you?” “My Emma is so good. I know you wouldn’t be jealous.” With that, he leaned in and kissed my forehead. Ethan was always different when he was drunk. In that state, he became like an obedient puppy. “Ethan, tell me you love me.” “Emma, I love you.” “Ethan, tell me you miss me.” “Emma, I miss you.” “Ethan, call me your wife.” “Emma, my wife.” All the things he’d never say sober came pouring out without hesitation when he was drunk. I used to be secretly thrilled by it. His tenderness, his warmth, his devotion—they only fully belonged to me under the influence of alcohol. Every time, I tested my place in his heart with the same repeated questions. And every time, I got the answer I wanted. I filled the insecurity inside me with that counterfeit love. But now, I was tired of hearing it. It was time to wake up. I clenched my fists and looked up at him. “Ethan, do you love Olivia?” Ethan didn’t hesitate for a single second. “Yes. Olivia, I love you.” I stumbled backward, step by step. This was the secret he’d hidden for three years. I heard myself continue. “Ethan, do you want to marry Olivia?” The man’s eyes reddened. His lips trembled with something that looked like grievance. He stepped forward and pulled me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my shoulder like a prayer. “Yes… I dream about it.” “Olivia, will you marry me?” Through the haze of alcohol, Ethan had mistaken me for Olivia. The lawyer who always stood above everyone else was now as small and desperate as a child terrified of being left behind. His lack of love for me was a blade, stabbing into my heart over and over. The pain made me tremble. The disappointment froze me to the core. Of course. From start to finish, he had never loved me. I was just a shadow. Now his light had returned, and the shadow was meant to disappear. I didn’t humiliate myself further. I didn’t answer. In that vast room, the only sound was the clock ticking. I stood there, letting him lean heavily against me, letting his body heat slowly seep into mine. I used to crave his warmth so badly. On freezing winter nights, I’d instinctively press closer to him. In the biting wind, I’d hold his hand and refuse to let go. But now, even though the breeze outside was mild, I was suddenly, impossibly cold. I didn’t move, not until my legs went numb, not until he had no strength left. Finally, I shoved Ethan away. He fell onto the sofa and sank into a deep sleep. That night, for the first time, we slept apart. His breathing filled the living room. My tears fell without a sound. The next morning, I was woken by Ethan’s phone. His assistant’s excited voice came through the speaker. “Ethan, you and Olivia move fast! The wedding planner’s been waiting forever. Olivia’s already here. Get over here!” “Oh, and what about your wedding with Emma? Want me to notify them to cancel?” The wedding planning company—Ethan had contacted them himself. He’d told me I was working too hard preparing the wedding alone. He wanted to take some of the burden off my shoulders. I’d smiled so happily at the time. I had no idea all those arrangements were for Olivia. Ethan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Keep it down. Don’t let Emma hear.” He shot up from the sofa and rushed into the bedroom. Our eyes met.

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