Author: Momo Chan

At the orchestra’s open auditions, I was the unintended center of gravity. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the redirected stares of my colleagues. Some offered the sharp sting of pity; others, a voyeuristic curiosity that felt like needles under my skin. They all knew the score. I was Bennett, the man who had stood by Adrienne Montgomery for seven years, the “almost-fiancé” waiting for a wedding invite that never seemed to get printed. For seven years, I’d been her shadow. I’d walked beside her through the lean years of obscurity to the sun-drenched heights of her current fame. But even for me, there was a sanctuary I was never allowed to enter: her father’s Steinway. It was a relic, a piece of her soul left behind by the man who taught her to play, kept under a metaphorical glass case. Until today. Toby, a soft-featured boy barely out of conservatory and the newest hire, pointed to the piano beside Adrienne. “I heard only your husband is allowed to touch that,” he said, his voice trailing off with a playful, dangerous tilt. “Is there any room for an exception?” Adrienne didn’t even pause. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t blink. “Yes,” she said. One word. One syllable that effectively erased seven years of devotion. In that moment, the symphony of our life together hit a dissonant, final chord. I knew then: it was time to close the book. 1 After the auditions, the orchestra manager caught me in the hallway. “Bennett, about that four-hands piece you were supposed to perform with Adrienne… you can take it off your schedule.” I looked at him, already knowing the answer. “And?” “Adrienne wants the new kid, Toby, to play it with her instead.” Even though I’d felt the blow coming, the actual impact left a bitter taste in my mouth, like copper. I didn’t argue. I simply nodded. That night, I retreated to the guest room and dialed a number I hadn’t touched in years. “Mandy?” I said when the line connected. “You once told me you wanted to get married at the Musikverein in Vienna, and you wanted me there. Does that offer still stand?” There was a long silence on the other end, muffled by the sound of someone waking up. Her voice was thick with sleep, a soft rasp. “Am I dreaming?” “You can say no,” I began, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t get to finish. I heard a loud thud—the sound of someone literally falling out of bed—followed by a frantic, breathless scramble. “It stands! Bennett, it stands today, tomorrow, and every day after. Yes. God, yes.” I let out a breath, a small, tired smile flickering across my face. The day’s wreckage felt a little less heavy. When Adrienne finally came home, I was in the middle of packing. She didn’t notice the suitcase at first. She was busy tugging at her silk tie, her movements sharp and distracted. “Make me some ginger tea,” she tossed over her shoulder. “The welcome party for the new hires got a little rowdy. The boys kept buying me rounds. I’m seeing double.” I looked at her. I looked at the faint, unmistakable bloom of a hickey near the collar of her shirt. I didn’t move. “Adrienne,” I said, my voice steady. “We’re done. I’m leaving.” She froze. Only then did her eyes drop to the suitcase by my feet. She rubbed her temples, her dark eyes—usually so captivating—now clouded with irritation. “Is this about the piano?” she snapped. “Bennett, don’t be so small-minded. He’s a talent. I’m doing what’s best for the orchestra’s future.” A talent. The boy had botched a dozen transitions during his audition. She turned toward the master bath, her tone dismissive. “Go fix the tea. Stop overthinking things. You’re being dramatic.” “Adrienne.” My voice was a wall she couldn’t walk through. “I told you years ago. My life plan was to be married by thirty. I turn thirty this week.” She stopped. The thin veneer of her patience finally shattered. “Bennett, do you have any idea how cheap this makes you look? Begging for a ring, over and over? It’s exhausting. You’re making yourself look pathetic.” She stepped closer, her words like scalpels. “I’ve told you: the orchestra is in a growth phase. I don’t have the energy to waste on something as trivial as a wedding right now.” Trivial. For seven years, I had built that orchestra from a dream into a powerhouse. Every tour, every donor gala, every glowing review—I had traded my own health for those things. I had the blood-red marks on my medical charts to prove it. And in return, she called me “cheap.” Her energy was apparently very expensive—far too expensive for me. But she had plenty of it for the new boy. Plenty of energy to make sure his seat cushion was soft enough, to ask if he was having fun at the party, to laugh at his jokes. But for the man who had carried her for nearly a decade? I was just a waste of time. I sighed, meeting her gaze with a clarity I hadn’t felt in years. “I’m tired, Adrienne. So, it’s a wedding or a breakup. You choose.” Adrienne’s eyes flashed with pure, cold venom. “Fine. Break up. Leave. See if I care.” As the sound of the shower started up, a wave of hollow grief washed over me. I’d always known I wasn’t her “first choice.” Adrienne was a sun that everyone wanted to orbit. I just had more endurance than the others. I had stayed when she had nothing, and because of that, she felt a moral obligation to keep me around. But love? Love is unmistakable. If I asked for a birthday cake, she’d buy one—but it was never the flavor I liked. If I was sick and asked for medicine, she’d get it—but only after I was already recovered, a sudden afterthought. I looked at the “Groom’s Guide to the Perfect Wedding” and “Three Months to Your Best Self” brochures I’d tucked away in the nightstand. I’d bought them with such hope, only to hide them whenever she gave me that look of profound disgust. I was done being an afterthought. 2 My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket. It was the orchestra’s group chat. Toby had posted a video of him and Adrienne performing at the after-party. They were playing on her father’s piano. Toby had even set a wine glass carelessly on the mahogany finish—something I would have been crucified for. In the video, their eyes locked, the air between them thick with a calculated, youthful flirtation. As the song ended, their faces brushed so close it looked like a kiss. Toby’s caption was a masterpiece of faux-humility: “Just a newbie trying to keep up. I can’t believe I’m getting more love than the veterans who’ve been here for seven years. So touched. Thanks for the favoritism, Adrienne! ” Adrienne, who was still in the shower, somehow found the time to reply instantly: “You’ve earned it. ” They went back and forth, Adrienne even using the kind of cutesy emojis she used to tell me were “beneath a serious professional.” I remembered three years ago, when I’d secured a major national award for the orchestra—a feat that was nearly impossible. I’d posted in the chat, half-joking, half-seeking a crumb of affection: “Chief, did I do good? Do I get a gold star?” That message had hung there, unanswered, for twenty-four hours. When I finally confronted her about it, she’d sneered. “Bennett, you’re a grown man. Acting like a needy teenager is embarrassing. I’m not going to humiliate myself by entertaining that.” I was twenty-nine then. And I had spent the next week apologizing, wondering if I really was the problem. But seeing her now, playing along with Toby… I realized she wasn’t an ice queen. She was just a woman who didn’t love me. I hauled my suitcase out the door that night and never looked back. The next few days were a blur of wrapping up my resignation and handing off my responsibilities. I stopped killing myself for the orchestra. I stopped making Adrienne’s life easy. She and Toby grew bolder, and I simply looked the other way. Until the morning my mother called, her voice trembling. “Bennett… your father found out about the breakup. He got so upset, he collapsed. He’s in the ICU.” My heart dropped. “Mom, did you use the insurance card?” “That’s the problem,” she sobbed. “Adrienne still has it. Remember? You gave it to her months ago when she promised to get him in to see that heart specialist. We can’t afford the deposit for the surgery without it.” Panic flared in my chest. I’d asked Adrienne about that specialist a dozen times, and she’d always waved me off, saying she was “working on it.” I called her. No answer. I called again. Straight to voicemail. I drove to the villa—the house I’d helped her pay for—and tried the door. The code had been changed. Desperate, I grabbed a stone, smashed a side window, and climbed inside. The interior stopped me cold. The minimalist, pristine aesthetic Adrienne insisted on—the one she used to tell me my “cheap taste” would ruin—was gone. The living room was littered with plastic action figures and designer hoodies. It looked like a college dorm. I remembered wanting to put a single, artistic lamp in our bedroom once. Adrienne had looked at it like it was radioactive. “Bennett, don’t pollute my space with your low-rent sensibilities.” Apparently, Toby’s mess was “art.” I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I began tearing through the drawers, looking for my father’s medical ID. Suddenly, a heavy boot slammed into my side. I was thrown to the floor, my breath hitching in a painful gasp. Two police officers swarmed me, pinning my arms behind my back. “Someone reported a break-in,” one of them barked. “Don’t move.” In the interrogation room, the lead officer glared at me. “You claim you’re her boyfriend, but there isn’t a single item of yours in that house. No clothes, no photos, nothing.” “I moved out three days ago,” I croaked. “You say you’re the manager of the orchestra, but the owner—Ms. Montgomery—says the manager is a man named Toby. Bennett, why can’t you tell us a single truth?” I was shaking. I looked at my phone on the table. My mother’s name kept flashing. Missed call. Missed call. Every second I sat there, my father was slipping away. “Fine,” I whispered, the fight leaving me. “I’ll confess to the trespass. Just let me go to the hospital. My father is dying.” The officer scoffed. “Oh, now it’s a dying father? You think we’re idiots? Ms. Montgomery and her boyfriend specifically requested we hold you until they can finish an inventory of the ‘stolen’ items.” I was held for forty-eight hours. On the third day, Adrienne finally showed up. 3 She wasn’t alone. Toby was trailing behind her like a pampered lapdog, followed by a handful of my former colleagues from the orchestra. Toby stepped forward, his face a mask of fake concern. “Oh, Bennett. I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea it was you in the house. I just saw someone through the security feed and panicked.” He leaned in, his voice loud enough for the others to hear. “I’m the new Director of Operations now, and I wanted to take the team on a celebratory retreat. I didn’t mean for you to spend two nights in a cell. My bad, man. Truly.” Adrienne grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Don’t apologize, Toby. He broke in. We’re over, and he’s trespassing. It’s his own fault.” I looked at her, my eyes burning. “Adrienne. My father’s insurance card. Where is it? He needs the surgery.” Adrienne blinked, clearly caught off guard. She began rummaging through her designer bag, her movements frantic but hollow. It was obvious she hadn’t thought about my father once in the last six months. She couldn’t find it. Of course she couldn’t. Just then, my phone chimed with a text from my mother. I didn’t even have to open it. I felt the soul-crushing weight of the news before I read the words. Bennett, he’s gone. My hands fell limp at my sides. I looked at Adrienne, who was still digging through her purse. “Stop,” I said. My voice was a hollow shell. “Don’t bother. I don’t need it anymore.” Adrienne looked up, her expression flickering with something like guilt, but I was already turning away. I started for the door, my legs feeling like lead. “Wait!” Toby called out. “I’m sorry you were stuck in here, but you did break in. We have to make sure you didn’t take anything. Security protocol, you know?” Before I could react, Toby grabbed my messenger bag and flipped it over. The contents spilled across the precinct floor. Among my notebooks and keys were dozens of high-end wedding invitations—the ones Mandy had sent over for me to look at. Toby gasped, covering his mouth. “Oh… Bennett. You were still planning a wedding with Adrienne? The medical card thing… was that just a drama you staged to get her attention?” I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. “Are you satisfied?” I asked, looking at the pile on the floor. “Is any of that yours?” Toby had what he wanted—a way to humiliate me in front of Adrienne. He stepped back. I gathered my things and walked out. I was halfway to the parking lot when Adrienne caught up to me, grabbing my arm. “Where are you staying?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “None of your business. Go back to Toby. You two deserve each other.” She let out a sharp, cold laugh. “You’re jealous. I knew it.” “Believe whatever helps you sleep at night.” “Bennett, enough!” she snapped, her patience evaporating again. “You’ve made your point. You’ve sulked for three days. It’s time to stop this. Just wait a few more years for the wedding, okay? Why do you have to push me like this?” I shook her hand off. I felt a strange sense of peace—the kind that only comes after everything has already been destroyed. “I am getting married, Adrienne. But the bride isn’t you. And I will never, ever push you again. Do you understand?” Adrienne’s face turned ashen, then she smirked. “Bennett, you’re thirty. Let’s stop with the childish games. Look at you—you’re a mess. Who else would have you?” “That’s not your concern.” I turned to leave, but she softened her voice again, a tactic she used whenever she realized she was losing control. “Look, Saturday is your birthday. You’ve always wanted to meet my mother properly. I’m hosting a dinner at the Montgomery estate. We’ll celebrate you there. Does that make it better?” I stared at her. For years, I was the only one who remembered her birthday. She had never once acknowledged mine. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.” 4 I didn’t go to that dinner because I wanted a birthday cake from Adrienne Montgomery. I went because the guest list was a Who’s Who of the industry. With my father gone and my career at the orchestra over, I needed to build a bridge to my future. I needed a new life. But when I arrived at the estate, I realized I’d been played. The evening wasn’t a birthday party for me. It was the night Adrienne was introducing Toby to her mother. It turned out Adrienne wasn’t “not ready” for a husband. She just didn’t want me to be the one. I turned to leave, but the family butler intercepted me. “Ah, you must be the help Miss Montgomery hired for the evening. You’re late. The gala is starting.” He looked at my suit—a nice one, but not a tuxedo. “And what are you wearing? You look like you think you’re a guest of honor.” Before I could argue, the music swelled. Adrienne and her mother entered the ballroom with Toby on Adrienne’s arm. I was shoved into a corner by the staff. Adrienne took the microphone on the small stage. “Tonight, I am proud to introduce my most brilliant protege and partner: Toby.” I watched the crowd—men and women who controlled the fate of every musician in the country—applaud. My chest ached. I remembered a few years back, when I’d made the finals of a national concerto competition. My parents had been so proud, waiting to see me on TV. But the day before the finals, I was bumped for a donor’s son. I’d asked Adrienne to use her influence to fight for me. She’d told me: “Bennett, the world isn’t fair. Normal people don’t get ‘shortcuts’ just because they know me. You need to learn to adapt, not rely on me for handouts.” And yet, here she was, throwing a literal gala to give Toby a shortcut. “And now,” Adrienne announced, her voice radiating pride, “Toby will perform an original composition of his own.” Toby flashed a charming smile at the crowd and took his seat at the piano. The first few bars echoed through the hall. My heart stopped. I knew that melody. It wasn’t Toby’s. It was the song my father and I had written together when I was seven years old. Back then, we were poor. We couldn’t afford a piano, so my father had drawn the keys on the kitchen table with a marker, teaching me the notes one by one. One evening, as he watched the sunset from his sickbed, he hummed a tune. “This is for you, Bennett,” he had whispered. “Our song. ‘The Sunset Promise.’” When I finally got to music school, the first thing I did was transcribe it. It was my most sacred possession. And now, it was Toby’s “original composition.” There was only one way he could have it. Adrienne had given it to him. I looked at her. She caught my eye and immediately looked away. My phone buzzed. “Don’t cause a scene,” her text read. “Toby is performing with me at the Musikverein next week. People are questioning his depth. I did this for the good of the orchestra.” The song ended. The room erupted in applause. Adrienne’s mother stood up, beaming. “Toby is a rare talent. Adrienne is lucky to have such a partner. In fact, the Montgomery family would be lucky to have such a son-in-law.” Adrienne laughed, offering no correction. “Wait,” I said. My voice was raspy, but in the sudden silence of the room, it carried like a gunshot. “That song… that isn’t his. My father and I wrote that twenty-three years ago.” The room went cold. Adrienne’s brow furrowed. Toby’s face paled for a fraction of a second before he settled into a look of wounded innocence. “Bennett,” Toby said, his voice trembling perfectly. “I know you wanted to marry Adrienne, but you can’t just make up lies because you’re jealous of my work.” Adrienne’s mother stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “So you’re the man who’s been hounding my daughter for seven years? No wonder she never brought you home. You have no class.” Adrienne didn’t defend me. She just looked exhausted. “Bennett, stop. This desperate attempt to trap me into a marriage is suffocating. Just go.” The guests began to whisper. “That’s him? The one who follows her around like a lost dog?” “He’s delusional. She’s clearly with the new guy.” Toby smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Bennett, if I stole your song, surely you have the original files on your phone? Show everyone. If you have proof, I’ll apologize.” I froze. I knew what was on my phone. A few months ago, in a moment of pathetic longing, I had photoshopped a picture of myself and Adrienne in wedding attire. I’d never shown it to anyone, but I hadn’t deleted it yet. Adrienne’s mother signaled the security guards to take my phone. I struggled, trying to keep it, but I was shoved to the ground. Toby snatched the device. “If you won’t show us, I will.” He hooked my phone up to the ballroom’s large projector screen. “Let’s see the ‘evidence’ of your genius, Bennett.” He swiped through my gallery. He found the “Wedding” folder. The crowd began to titter, anticipating my humiliation. “Oh my god,” someone laughed. “He actually photoshopped himself into a tuxedo next to a bride. This is beyond sad.” The mockery was deafening. I sat on the floor, humiliated, defeated. Adrienne looked like she was about to call for security to throw me out. But then, a voice rose from the back of the room. A voice that was sharp, clear, and carried the weight of a billion dollars. “Wait a minute. That bride in the photo… that isn’t Adrienne Montgomery.”

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My life had been hollowed out by my father’s drinking long ago. Every time he stumbled home, reeking of cheap bourbon and resentment, the walls of our house would shudder under the weight of his rage. My mother was the first to break; she fled into the night years ago, leaving nothing but a cold trail and a shattered silence. My little sister, Hallie, didn’t have the strength to run. The years of witnessing his violence had turned her into a ghost—a hollow-eyed girl who drifted through the house, her mind stalled in a permanent state of shock. Now, I was the only one left standing. The only one sane enough to bear the brunt of his fists and the only one standing between Hallie and the abyss. I endured it, gritting my teeth and tallying the bruises like a countdown. I had a plan: get through graduation, take my saved tuition money, and disappear with Hallie in the middle of the night. But then, he found the money. That afternoon, he cornered me, his breath a foul cloud of malt and rot, demanding I hand over my future. I looked at his distorted face, the features bloated by years of malice, and I felt something snap. Not a break, but a hardening. My eyes drifted to the heavy lead pipe leaning in the corner. I walked toward it, my movements slow and deliberate, and wrapped my fingers around the cold metal. He used to roar that “a belt teaches a boy to be a man.” Well, I was starting to think that maybe a pipe could teach a monster how to be a father. Maybe, if I swung hard enough, I could finally wake him up from the nightmare he’d built for us. … When he saw the pipe in my hand, he let out a jagged, mocking laugh and spat on the floor. “What? You think you’re tough enough to take a swing at your old man?” He slammed his bottle onto the kitchen table with a bone-jarring thud, thrusting his chin forward. He tapped his forehead with a nicotine-stained finger. “Go ahead! Right here! Do it! Kill me!” My Uncle Silas, his favorite drinking buddy, scrambled out of his chair, grabbing my father’s arm. “Frank, knock it off! Take it easy!” Then Silas turned his glare on me, his eyes narrowing with a self-righteous fire. “Put that thing down, Casey! Don’t push him. Your dad’s had a hard enough life as it is!” A laugh bubbled up in my throat—sharp and bitter. “Hard? He spends his days doing nothing and his nights beating his kids. Tell me, Silas, which part of that is the ‘hard’ part?” “A father has a right to discipline his own!” Silas barked. “And who says he doesn’t work? He put in two days at the construction site this month, didn’t he? He even bought gifts for you and the kid!” I let out a cold snort. I reached into the junk drawer, pulled out a crumpled bag, and threw it onto the table. It slid across the wood and hit my father’s chest. “You mean this?” It was a bag of generic saltwater taffy. The plastic was coated in a layer of grime, the candy inside melted into a single, neon-colored lump of sugar and dust. It was years past its expiration date. Silas blinked, looking at the bag, then at my father. He cleared his throat, doubling down on the lie. “So what? It’s the thought that counts. Children are supposed to show gratitude. Don’t be like that mother of yours—no heart, no loyalty. Just a runner.” “Loyalty?” I stared them down, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You know exactly why she ran. If she’d stayed another week, you’d have been burying her in the backyard.” My father slammed his fist onto the table, his face turning a bruised purple. “She got what she deserved! Women like her… they need to be kept in line! They’re built for it!” He pointed a trembling finger at my nose, spraying spit as he screamed. “You and that idiot sister of yours, you’re just dead weight. I’m doing you a favor by raising you. Spare the rod, spoil the child. You should be thanking me for the education!” I gripped the pipe until my knuckles turned white. A fire was roaring in my chest, a heat so intense it made my fingertips go numb. “Oh, I’m feeling very educated right now.” He huffed, thrusting his palm toward me. “Enough talk. Where’s the cash? The money you hid from that summer job. Hand it over.” I didn’t move. He took a step into my space, looming over me. “Are you deaf? Give it here! You’re not going to college. I found you a spot at the poultry plant down in the valley. Room and board included. Twelve-hour shifts, six days a week. You’ll send the checks home to me.” Silas nodded in approval. “He’s right. What’s a girl need with a degree? You’re just going to get married and pop out kids anyway. Might as well make yourself useful to your father while you’re young.” I took a deep, steadying breath, looking my father directly in the eye. “You aren’t getting a dime. And I am going to school.” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “If you try to stop me, I will end you.” The room went silent. My father’s face went from purple to a deep, angry crimson. “You little bitch! I’ll kill you first!” He reached down, ripping off his heavy leather belt, ready to lunge. I raised the pipe, holding it level between us. Silas jumped between us, his voice cracking. “Casey, stop! You really want to hit your own father? You want God to strike you down for being an ungrateful brat?” “Drop the pipe! Get on your knees and apologize!” Silas screamed. Behind him, my father was bouncing on the balls of his feet, emboldened. “Let her try! She doesn’t have the guts!” “Look at her! Hands shaking like a leaf. You’re a coward, Casey! Just like your mother! You were born to be under someone’s boot!” The insults became a blur—filthy, degrading, a lifetime of venom poured into a few seconds. I closed my eyes for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then, I swung. The pipe connected with his temple with a sickening, wet thud. Warm blood sprayed across my cheek. A guttural scream tore from his throat as he collapsed, clutching his head, blood seeping through his fingers like oil. Silas stood there, frozen, his mouth hanging open like a landed fish. I wiped the blood from my face with the back of my hand. I took one step forward and raised the pipe again. That broke Silas’s trance. He lunged at me, wrestling the pipe away and tossing it against the far wall. “Are you insane? You’re going to murder your own father?” He pointed toward the hallway. “Your sister is watching!” I turned. Hallie was standing in the shadows of the doorframe. Her small frame was trembling, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. She looked so fragile, like a bird made of glass. “Casey…” she whispered. My heart twisted. I walked over and scooped her up. Her hands were ice-cold as she reached up to touch the blood on my face, her eyes filled with a terrifyingly adult kind of worry. “Casey… blood. I’m scared… I don’t want you hurt.” My throat tightened. I kissed the top of her head. “It’s not my blood, honey. I’m okay. I promise.” In the kitchen, Silas was frantically pressing a dirty kitchen towel against my father’s head. My father was moaning on the linoleum, his eyes rolling back, his body jerking in small, pathetic spasms. Silas fumbled with his phone, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it as he dialed 911. The sirens arrived ten minutes later. As the paramedics loaded my father onto the gurney, Silas leaned in close, his voice a low hiss. “You’re done, Casey. When he gets out, he’s going to break you. And I’m going to let him.” The news spread through our small town’s gossip vine like a brushfire. Within hours, my phone was blowing up with messages from aunts and cousins I hadn’t seen in years. “He’s still your father. He only hits you because he loves you.” “Even if he’s wrong, you don’t raise a hand to a parent. It’s a sin.” “Your mother already destroyed this family. Don’t finish the job. Go apologize.” “All that book-learning has rotted your brain. Honor thy father.” I remembered the nights I had carried a bruised and crying Hallie to their doorsteps, begging for a place to sleep. They had kept their doors locked then. Not a single one of them had spoken up for us. Now, they were all experts on “family values.” My father ended up with seventeen stitches and a Grade 2 concussion. He sent me dozens of voice memos from his hospital bed—poisonous rants, promises to kill me, threats to “sell” Hallie to the highest bidder just to spite me. The “family elders” issued an ultimatum: Come to the hospital, get on my knees, beg for forgiveness, and hand over the tuition money. Or else. I tucked a brand-new collapsible baton into my sleeve—one I’d bought with the last of my grocery money. I typed a single word back into the family group thread: Fine. When I pushed open the door to the hospital room, the smell of antiseptic hit me like a wall. A handful of relatives were huddled in the corner. Their expressions shifted from anger to smug satisfaction the moment they saw me. My father bolted upright in bed, tossing the sheets aside to get at me, but the others held him back. “You little bitch! You actually showed up!” His eyes were bloodshot and feral. “Get out of my way! I’m going to teach her what happens to traitors!” Uncle Silas stepped forward, his voice booming with false authority. “Look how upset you’ve made him! Now, get down on your knees. Maybe if your attitude is right, he’ll still let you live under his roof.” The chorus began behind him. “He raised you for eighteen years, and this is how you repay him?” “If you can hit your own father, what else are you capable of? You’re a danger!” I didn’t say a word. I walked to the edge of the bed. My wrist flicked. Snap. The baton extended with a sharp, metallic ring. Before anyone could draw a breath, I put my entire weight into a swing, aimed directly at my father’s head.

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The day of the school field trip, I was burning up. My skin felt like it was on fire, and the thermometer had climbed to a terrifying 104 degrees. My mother didn’t care. She was too busy getting my younger brother, Toby, ready for the outing. To her, my illness was just an inconvenience, a smudge on her perfect day. “Keep an eye on her, Ma,” my mother said to my grandmother as she headed for the door. “Don’t let her cause any trouble.” When the front door clicked shut, my grandmother stepped into my room. She looked at me lying there, my sheets drenched in sweat, and a look of pure disgust twisted her features. “Wretched girl,” she spat, her voice thick with irritation. “Always looking for drama. It’s just a little fever. You’re not dying, so stop acting like a martyr.” Before I could breathe a word of protest, she ripped the duvet off my shaking body. Her hand clamped onto my arm like a vice, and she hauled me out of bed. I was so weak I couldn’t even find my feet; I collapsed, my knees hitting the cold hardwood floor with a dull thud. “If you’re so hot, we’ll cool you down,” she muttered. “Medicine is a waste of money for a girl who’s just faking it for attention.” I realized then where she was taking me. Panic flared through the haze of my fever. I started sobbing, my forehead hitting the floor as I begged her, “Grandma, please! I’m sorry! Don’t put me in the chest freezer. Please, I’ll freeze to death!” She didn’t listen. She never did. She heaved the heavy lid of the deep freezer in the utility room, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, and shoved me inside. “You’ll be fine,” she said, her voice chillingly casual. “Sleep it off. Sweat the fever out. I’ll let you out when I get back from my bridge game.” Bang. The lid slammed shut. A second later, I heard the metallic click of the padlock. I screamed. I thrashed. I clawed at the plastic interior walls until my fingernails bled, but my voice was swallowed by the relentless, mechanical hum of the compressor. I don’t know how long I was in there. Ice crystals began to form on my eyelashes. My lips felt stiff, crusted with frost. The world started to tilt and fade, my eyelids becoming heavy as lead. Just before the darkness took me completely, a single, silent thought flickered in the back of my mind. Grandma. June is sorry. If there’s a next life, I promise… I’ll never get sick again. … I thought that was the end of my story. Then, the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed through the house. “Toby? Diane? Mom? I’m home!” The voice was a spark in the dark. It was my father. He was back. For a heartbeat, hope flared. But it died just as quickly. It’s a hallucination, I told myself. My father was supposed to be on a business trip across the state. He couldn’t be here. Mom and Toby were at the park; Grandma was at her game. The house was empty. I slipped back into the fog of despair. But then, I heard footsteps. Real, heavy footsteps approaching the utility room. I forced my eyes open. Rrrrrip. The sound of my eyelids tearing away from the frost was sharp and sickening. My body was a block of ice; I couldn’t move a finger. But a desperate, frantic thought took hold of me. One more time. Just one sound. If my father heard something, he’d look. He’d save me. I gathered every ounce of my soul and slammed my head against the side of the freezer. Thump. The sound was muffled, but clear. At that exact moment, his phone started ringing. “Hey, honey! You guys at the fair? Great. Yeah, call me when you’re headed back, I’ll pick you up. How’s June? Is she still throwing her little tantrum?” It was my mother’s voice on the other end. For a second, I felt a pang of warmth. She was asking about me. She cared. “Haven’t seen her,” my father replied, his voice cooling. “Mom probably took her out to run errands.” “That girl is so spoiled,” my mother sighed through the speaker. “She was so mad I didn’t take her to the fair that she started faking a fever just to get my attention. She’s learned how to manipulate us to get what she wants.” My father sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. “I don’t know where she gets it from. She’s become so needy lately.” The tiny flame of hope inside me didn’t just flicker out; it was crushed. Mom, I wasn’t lying. I really was sick. Why won’t you believe me? Then, the back door opened, and I heard my grandmother’s voice. “Robert? When did you get back?” “A little while ago. Ma, where’s June? Wasn’t she with you?” Finally. He was asking for me. I waited for the sound of the key, for the lid to lift, for the nightmare to end. I waited and waited. “She’s not with me,” Grandma said. There was a brief, calculated pause. Then, a sharp gasp. “Oh dear. That girl is so headstrong… you don’t think she ran away, do you? She was throwing such a fit before I left.” I stopped listening to the lies she told him. Something inside my mind just… snapped. She had forgotten me. In the silence of the freezer, memories began to swirl like a blizzard. I saw my mother’s face, contorted with resentment. “If you hadn’t been a girl, my life wouldn’t be this hard. Why were you even born? You’re just a weight around my neck.” I saw my father, his eyes red with rage, blaming my mother for his own failures. “Another mouth to feed and she can’t even carry on the family name. What good are you to me?” And finally, my grandmother at the dinner table, rapping my knuckles with a wooden spoon. “Useless girl. All you do is eat and take up space. We should have left you at the hospital.” In the chorus of their cruelty, I suddenly felt a strange, chilling peace. I couldn’t feel the cold anymore. The pain was fading into a dull, distant throb. I was slipping away, and for the first time in my life, I felt light. Mom, Dad, Grandma… are you going to be happy now? Now that I’m finally out of your way? I found myself sitting on the lid of the freezer, looking down. I could see through the white plastic. There was a tiny, frozen statue inside. That was me. No weight. No temperature. So this was what it felt like to be dead. My father and grandmother were chatting in the living room, their voices light. Robert checked his watch and stood up. “Ma, start dinner. I’m going to go pick up Diane and Toby.” “Sure thing,” she said. “I’ll get the ribs started. My grandson needs his strength.” I watched her bustle about the kitchen. She walked past the utility room a dozen times. Not once did she look at the padlock. Not once did she remember the girl she’d put on ice. An hour later, the front door burst open. Toby came running in, his new sneakers flashing with every step. “Grandma! Look at my cool shoes! They light up!” “Oh, they’re beautiful, sweetheart. Anything looks good on my favorite boy.” I remembered asking for those shoes. My mother had slapped me so hard my ear rang for an hour. “Unless you’re getting a scholarship, don’t ask me for a cent. I give you an education, and you repay me by being a greedy brat.” I never asked again. But Toby? Toby only had to whisper a wish, and it became reality. He was the “bloodline.” I was just a “disappointment” that would eventually be married off to someone else. “Mom, where’s June?” Toby asked, looking around. “Who cares?” my mother snapped, slamming her keys on the counter. “She’s probably off sulking somewhere. She’s lucky she’s not here; I’d give her something to really cry about.” Grandma set the table, placing a steaming bowl of soup in front of Toby. “That girl is a lost cause. If she’s run away, good riddance. She’s nothing like our Toby. He’s the only one with any sense in this house.” My father sighed, his gaze hardening. “She’s gone too far this time. When she crawls back tonight, I’m locking her in her room for a month.” Dad… I’m never coming back. Over dinner, Toby saw a commercial for a traveling carnival in the town square. He pointed at the screen, eyes wide. “Mom! I want to go!” “Of course, honey,” she said, not even hesitating. Toby glanced at my empty chair. “Is June coming?” My mother peeled a shrimp and dropped it into Toby’s bowl. “She’s off being dramatic. Forget about her. You’re the only one who doesn’t make our lives a living hell.” My heart—or whatever was left of it—ached. Even in death, they only saw my absence as a provocation. After dinner, the house felt festive. They were all going to the carnival. “Grandma, you have to come!” Toby pleaded. Grandma looked touched. “Oh, you go on. I’m tired.” “No! If you don’t go, I’m not going!” Toby pouted. My parents laughed. “Alright, alright. We’re all going.” It was seamless. No one mentioned searching for me. No one wondered if I was cold or hungry or safe. I was a ghost before I even died. They piled into the car, and I sat in the backseat next to Toby. I watched Grandma play with him, her eyes crinkling with a genuine love I had never seen directed at me. The carnival was a cacophony of lights and sugar. Toby ran straight for the snack stands. My mother didn’t scold him for his impulsiveness; she just smiled. I remembered being eight, at a similar fair. I’d asked for a candied apple. My mother had screamed at me in front of everyone. “Are you ever not hungry? We just ate! Look at your brother, he’s not complaining!” Toby had made a face at me and ran toward the bounce house. The carnival music was blaring when a woman suddenly shrieked. She tore through the crowd, frantic. “Has anyone seen my daughter? She’s in a white dress! She was right here!” People shook their heads. The woman began sobbing, slapping her own face in a fit of grief. “It’s my fault! I shouldn’t have left her to go to the bathroom! My baby!” A hush fell over the crowd. Someone suggested calling the police. The woman ran off toward the security station, her face a mask of agony. Toby watched her go, then looked up at Mom. “Is June lost too? She’s been gone a long time.” My mother froze for a second, then her face softened into that condescending look she always used for me. “No, sweetie. June is too smart for her own good. She’s just hiding to make us worry.” “She’s just being stubborn,” my father added, handing Toby a stuffed animal he’d just won. “She’ll be home when she gets hungry.” Suddenly, sirens cut through the air. Word spread through the crowd—security footage showed a man leading the girl in the white dress away. The exits were being blocked. Panic rippled through the carnival. My mother grabbed Toby, her face pale. “We need to go. Now.” As they were stopped at the exit by police for questioning, my father suddenly looked uneasy. “Maybe we should go home and check on June,” he muttered. “With everything going on… what if something happened?” Grandma rolled her eyes. “Robert, don’t be so sensitive. She’s a teenager, not a toddler. The house is locked. Unless a kidnapper has a key, she’s fine.” She was so indignant, so sure. But Grandma… you knew where I was. You told me you’d let me out. You lied to them. My father’s patience snapped. “I don’t care, Ma. She’s my daughter. She’s annoying and she’s a brat, but she’s been gone eight hours. If she’s not there when we get back, I’m calling the cops.” My mother scoffed. “Fine. Go ahead and indulge her. This is exactly what she wanted—everyone frantically looking for her.” When they got home, the house was silent. My father ran to my room. He saw the messy bed, the cold air. “She’s not here,” he shouted. My mother slumped onto the sofa, and Grandma emerged from her room, both shaking their heads. Then, a knock at the door. My mother grabbed a broom from the corner, her face hardening. “That little bitch. I’m going to—” She opened the door, broom raised, but it was our neighbor, Mrs. Gable. “What on earth are you doing?” Mrs. Gable asked, staring at the broom. My mother forced a laugh. “June’s been out all day. I thought she was finally sneaking in.” Mrs. Gable frowned. “Out? What are you talking about? You told me this morning she had a 104-degree fever. How could she be out?” The broom clattered to the floor. “If she’s missing,” Mrs. Gable said, sensing the shift in the room, “you need to check the security cameras at the gate.” My father didn’t wait. He and Mom ran to the neighborhood security office. I followed them, a silent shadow. They watched the footage from the moment Grandma left. I never walked out that gate. The ride back was tense. “She’s in the house,” my mother insisted, her voice trembling now. “She’s hiding in a closet or under a crawlspace. She’s just trying to scare us.” My father’s face was a mask of fury. “If she is, I swear to God, I’m done with her. She can stay in the street for all I care.” They burst back into the house. “Found her?” Grandma asked. “No. She never left the neighborhood.” My mother’s eyes suddenly darted to the utility room. She frowned. “Ma… why is there a padlock on the deep freezer?” My father stepped closer, his brow furrowed. “What’s in here that needs a lock?” Grandma’s face went bone-white. She started to tremble. “Nothing… just… I didn’t want the girl stealing the good meat.” “Where’s the key?” my father asked, his voice low and dangerous. “I… I don’t know. I misplaced it.” Her voice was a fragile thread. My mother realized something was horribly wrong. She guided Grandma to the sofa. “Ma, sit down. I’ll find the key. It’s summer, we need to clean that freezer out anyway before the food spoils.” “No!” Grandma shrieked, standing up. “I’ll do it tomorrow! Just go to bed!” The more she resisted, the more my father’s suspicion grew. “I found it,” my mother called out, holding up the spare key from the junk drawer. Grandma threw herself in front of the freezer. “Don’t! I’m telling you, it’s fine! Go to sleep!” “Get out of the way, Mom,” my father roared. “I want to see what’s in this damn box!”

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My life didn’t just change that day; it fractured. It was the day the world stopped being a series of sounds and started being a symphony of secrets. I suddenly, inexplicably, possessed the ability to hear what people were thinking—the unfiltered, ugly truths they kept locked behind polite smiles. The first voice to pierce my consciousness belonged to my “younger sister,” Melody. We were standing in the hallway of our family home when her mental sneer hit me like a physical blow: Does this charity case really think she can compete with me for the inheritance? God, she’s pathetic. I stared at her, the girl I’d shared bedtime stories and secrets with for nineteen years. Her face was a mask of wide-eyed innocence, but her mind was a pit of venom. Then came my mother’s voice—warm and maternal on the outside, but ice-cold within: Melody is my only real daughter. This girl is just a stray I picked up. Of course I’m going to protect my own flesh and blood. Nineteen years of “I love you, honey” and “You’re my world” evaporated. It wasn’t just a secret; it was a masterpiece of deception. And finally, Tyler. My childhood sweetheart. The boy I’d loved since I was twelve. His mental voice was a jagged blade of contempt: Jade is a nobody. A squatter in a palace she doesn’t belong in. She’s nothing compared to Melody. I took a sharp breath, the air burning in my lungs. I looked up at the man standing before me, the man who was currently pretending to care about my day. I felt a strange, cold clarity settle over me. If the world I knew was a lie, then I was done playing by its rules. I felt a sudden, reckless impulse. I turned my gaze toward a stranger across the quad—a man who radiated a different kind of energy. I let a playful, dangerous smile touch my lips. “Hey, stranger,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Are you looking for a girlfriend, or just a new perspective?” 1 It was the first day of my sophomore year at St. Jude’s. I’d hauled my luggage up to the dorms early, desperate to make a good impression on my new roommates. I was unpacking my sweaters when the first “glitch” happened. I should wear the white dress today… it makes me look soft, approachable… I froze. The voice was clear as a bell, but the girl in the next room was huming to herself, her lips nowhere near moving. I shook my head, rubbing my temples. Lack of sleep, I told myself. Auditory hallucinations brought on by caffeine and nerves. I finished organizing my desk and dialed my mother to let her know I’d moved in. “Mom, I’m all set. The room is great, and the campus is beautiful,” I said, trying to sound like the dutiful daughter she expected. “That’s wonderful, Jade,” her voice flowed through the receiver, honey-sweet. “Focus on your studies, sweetheart. Call us if you need anything at all.” Then, the static in my head cleared, and I heard the second layer of her voice. Melody is my daughter. She’s the only one who matters. As for Jade… she’s not mine. I just have to play the part a little longer. Don’t let her suspect a thing. The phone felt like a piece of dry ice in my hand. My fingers went numb. “Mom?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Yes, honey? Is something wrong?” Why won’t she just hang up? I need to call Melody. I actually want to hear her voice. My pulse was a frantic drumbeat in my ears. It wasn’t a hallucination. I was hearing the thoughts behind the words. And the words were devastating. Not mine. Not my daughter. “Nothing,” I forced out, my voice cracking. “I have to go. Talk later.” I hung up and slumped onto the edge of my bed. My phone nearly slipped from my trembling grip. Nineteen years. Every birthday, every scraped knee, every “proud of you” moment—was it all a scripted performance? I took a ragged breath, trying to claw back some semblance of sanity. Maybe I was having a breakdown. Maybe the stress of the new semester had finally snapped something in my brain. The door creaked open. Melody swept in, her designer suitcase trailing behind her. She saw me and her face lit up with a choreographed glow. “Jade! Oh my god, we’re in the same dorm? This is amazing!” She lunged for a hug. I instinctively recoiled, stepping back toward the window. Melody was six months younger than me. She was the “golden child”—delicate, beautiful, and perpetually “needing” things. I was the “responsible” one. The one who smoothed the path for her. “Jade? Is something wrong?” She tilted her head, her eyes brimming with fake concern. You idiot. You really think I’d let you walk away with the family estate? You’re a fake, Jade. A counterfeit. I’ve been waiting for this. Once you’re married off to some nobody, everything our parents built will finally be mine. Just where it belongs. The words felt like lightning strikes. I stared at her, at the perfect curve of her smile and the practiced light in her eyes, and I realized I didn’t know her at all. “Jade? You’re acting weird,” she said, reaching for my hand. “Did you not sleep? Maybe you should lie down for a bit.” God, look at her. Pathetic. She probably didn’t even turn on the AC to save money. Cheapskate. I wrenched my hand away. “I’m fine. Just… unpack your stuff. I need some air.” I bolted out of the room before the scream building in my throat could escape. I needed to think. I needed to understand if I was crazy or if my entire existence was a fraud. I wandered the campus aimlessly, my mind a chaotic storm. If I wasn’t their daughter, who was I? Had there been a switch at the hospital? Did the “golden child” and the “responsible one” actually belong in different lives? My phone buzzed. A text from Tyler. Tyler: Hey Jade, you moved in yet? Thinking about you. A week ago, that message would have made my day. We’d been together for two years, and I’d loved him for eight. He was my anchor. I started to type a reply, but then the air around me seemed to ripple again. Jade is such a drag. How did I end up stuck with the fake heiress? Does she really think I love her? Please. Melody is the real prize. Once she officially inherits, I’m making my move. She’s the one with the real pedigree. But I have to keep Jade on the hook for now. I still need her to ghostwrite my senior thesis. I stared at the screen, at the little blue bubble of his “care.” It felt like a sick joke. Everyone knew. My mother, my sister, my boyfriend. They were all in on the secret, watching me play the role of the fool while they waited for the curtain to fall. I sat on a park bench, the sun hot on my neck, and felt a single, hot tear track down my cheek. I wiped it away savagely. Nineteen years of a mother who never loved me. Nineteen years of a sister who plotted my downfall. Two years of a boyfriend who saw me as a tool. I started to laugh. It was a sharp, brittle sound that drew looks from passing students. My life was a tragedy, sure, but I wasn’t going to let it be a comedy for their amusement. If they thought I was a “fake,” I was going to show them exactly what a counterfeit was capable of when she stopped playing nice. 2 When I finally dragged myself back to the dorm, the other two roommates had arrived. There was Piper—small, bubbly, with a voice like a Disney princess. And then there was Jordan—tall, sharp-edged, dripping in labels that cost more than my tuition. “Hi, I’m Jade,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Oh, hi!” Piper chirped. “I’m Piper. So excited to meet you!” Jordan just gave a curt nod, her eyes scanning my outfit with the clinical precision of a seasoned socialite. Melody immediately chimed in, “And I’m Melody! Jade is my big sister.” Disgusting. I have to play the ‘doting sister’ act again. Whatever. If people think we’re close, I can make her do my laundry and take my notes. I didn’t look at her. I just started organizing my bookshelf. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension until Piper tried to break the ice. “Wait, you guys are sisters? That’s so sweet! You must be so close.” Melody beamed. “The closest! Jade is basically my best friend.” I turned my back on them, my jaw tight. Later that afternoon, Jordan’s phone rang. “Hey, Hailey… what? You need money? Right now?” Here we go again. She knows I’m a soft touch for a ‘family emergency.’ If I send her the five grand, I’ll never see it again, but I can’t just say no, can I? I looked over at Jordan. She looked genuinely distressed, clutching her phone. “Hailey, what happened? Is your dad okay? How much do you need?” Come on, Jordan, just say yes. I need that deposit for the new car. You’re so easy. I felt a surge of cold anger—not at Jordan, but at the person on the other end of the line. I’d had enough of people being used. I walked over and put a firm hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “Don’t do it.” Jordan looked up, startled. “What?” “Your ‘friend’ is lying to you,” I said, my voice low and steady. “She has no intention of paying you back because there is no emergency.” Jordan’s eyes widened. “How could you possibly know that?” “Call it a gut feeling,” I lied. “I’ve seen this script before. Don’t be her ATM.” Jordan hesitated, then spoke into the phone. “Hailey, look, I’m actually a bit short myself right now…” “Jordan! We’ve been friends for ten years! How can you be so selfish?” The voice on the other end was hysterical. Jordan looked at me. I shook my head once. She took a breath. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it this time.” She hung up. Two minutes later, Jordan’s phone chimed with a series of texts. Her face went pale, then flushed a deep, angry red. “Wow. She just called me a ‘stingy bitch’ and blocked me. You were right. She wasn’t even asking—she was demanding.” She actually saved me five thousand dollars. I was going to be such an idiot. I owe her. Jordan looked at me, her guard dropping significantly. “Thanks, Jade. How did you catch that? The tone?” “People who really need help don’t start with a guilt trip,” I said with a shrug. Jordan reached into her Prada bag and pulled out a slim leather wallet. She pulled out five hundred dollars in crisp bills and pressed them into my hand. “I don’t need a reward,” I said. “Take it,” Jordan insisted. “You saved me five grand and a lot of heartache. Consider it a finder’s fee for my missing common sense.” She looks like she could use it. Those shoes are three seasons old. I suppressed a smirk. If she wanted to think of me as a “charity case” while paying me for my services, fine. I’d need a war chest for what was coming. “Thanks,” I said, tucking the money away. That night, Melody’s voice drifted over from the other bed. “Jade? You awake? I want to go hit the shops tomorrow, come with me?” “I’m busy.” “Oh, come on! It’ll be fun.” Please. She’s probably just embarrassed because she can’t afford anything at the galleria. So pathetic, living on a budget. I stared at the ceiling, the darkness of the room reflecting the coldness in my heart. Nineteen years of lies. The reckoning was coming.

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When the judge’s gavel finally struck the wood, the sound echoed through the courtroom like a gunshot. I sat there, my fingers white-knuckled around the court order, my nails digging so deep into my palms I thought I might draw blood. The verdict was in. I was ordered to record and post a public apology video every day for the next ten days. The recipient? The man currently preening at the plaintiff’s table—my husband, Justin Whitmore. It had started three months ago. In a moment of raw, uncensored fury, I’d taken the sordid details of his affair and posted them on a local community forum. I didn’t expect it to go viral. I didn’t expect it to become the scandal of the year in Chicago’s social circles. Justin hadn’t just gotten angry; he’d gotten litigious. He hired the most expensive legal team in the city to sue me for defamation. People online had been worried for me. They’d told me to crowd-fund a high-powered attorney of my own. Instead, I’d walked quietly into a legal aid office. “Can’t even afford a real lawyer, Natalie? And you thought you could take me down?” Justin had hissed when we crossed paths in the hallway earlier. The contempt in his voice was thick enough to choke on. Beside him, Amber, his little “associate,” clung to his arm. She looked at me with a look of staged pity. “You should just admit you were wrong, Natalie. Justin is a good man. If you ask nicely, maybe he’ll let you keep some of your dignity.” I didn’t give them the satisfaction of a response. I just walked into the courtroom. Now, as the court adjourned, Justin was busy adjusting his silk cufflinks, looking like a man who had already won the war. He was waiting for it—waiting for me to break, to beg, to crawl. I looked up at him and forced a bright, sharp smile. My voice was clear, carrying across the thinning crowd. “Don’t you worry, Justin. I’ll make sure those ten days of apologies are… memorable. I guarantee they’ll be full of ‘sincerity.’” I tilted my head, my eyes locking onto his. “After all, there are some things I’ve been dying to talk to you about for a long, long time.” 01 Outside the courthouse, Justin and Amber were waiting for me like a pair of vultures. “See that, Natalie? Your little stunts don’t work in the real world,” Justin snapped. He looked down at me, the man I’d spent a decade of my life with, and I saw nothing but a stranger. “If you ever try to drag my name through the mud again, I’ll make sure you realize exactly what my legal team is capable of.” He took his copy of the judgment and flicked it at me. It hit my shoulder before fluttering to the pavement. Amber covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fake sympathy. “Natalie, if you were that desperate for cash, you could have just asked. I would have lent you enough for a decent lawyer so you didn’t have to lose so embarrassingly today.” I looked at them both—the polished executive and the girl who thought she’d won a prize. I leaned down, picked up the paper, and straightened my coat. “Lend me money, Amber? That’s generous,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “But considering we aren’t divorced yet, every cent Justin has spent on you—the jewelry, the rent for that condo, the ‘business’ trips—is legally marital property. I’d suggest you start tallying it up. I’ll be expecting a full refund.” “You—” Amber’s face went from pale to a blotchy, ugly red in seconds. The people lingering on the courthouse steps started to slow down, their ears perking up. I could hear the whispers starting. “Is that the guy from Midwest Steel? He’s cheating on her?” “Ugh, look at them ganging up on the wife. How pathetic.” Justin’s smugness evaporated instantly. He stepped toward me, pointing a finger. “Don’t listen to her! She’s unstable. She’s been making up lies for months because she can’t handle the fact that our marriage is over!” The crowd wavered, looking between his expensive suit and my quiet composure. Amber seized the moment, grabbing the judgment from my hand and holding it up like a trophy. “Look! The court literally ruled that she lied! She’s been ordered to apologize publicly because she’s a slanderer!” The tide of public opinion shifted back. I felt the weight of their judgmental stares—the “crazy ex-wife” narrative was a powerful one. “Natalie,” Justin warned, his voice low and dangerous. “Post those videos. Ten days. If you miss even one, or if you don’t sound sorry enough, I’m coming for everything you have left.” He turned, leading Amber away with his head held high. I didn’t care about the whispers. I didn’t care about the looks. I just looked down at the court order in my hand. Publicly apologize for ten days. Justin, if you wanted a spotlight, you should have been careful what you wished for. 02 The next day, I didn’t hide. I sat in front of my ring light, took a deep breath, and hit ‘record’ on the first of my court-mandated videos. “Hello, everyone. My name is Natalie Rossi, and I’m making this video as a formal apology to my husband, Justin Whitmore. I am here to apologize for the ‘fact’ that I publicly exposed his affair with his subordinate, Amber Montgomery, on a public forum…” By that afternoon, the video was everywhere. It hit the local trending page within hours. The comments were a battlefield. Some people pointed out that my apology felt… specific. Others, clearly legal-savvy, warned me that I hadn’t specified which Justin Whitmore or Midwest Steel I was talking about, suggesting I wasn’t being “sincere” enough. “Make sure you pin the video for at least ten days,” one helpful commenter wrote, “otherwise he can claim you didn’t fulfill the court’s requirements for visibility.” Noted. On the second day, I didn’t just apologize. I leaned in. I made sure to mention his full title: General Manager of Midwest Steel’s Chicago branch. I mentioned Amber’s role in the HR department. I spoke about the “alleged” misuse of company travel vouchers that happened to coincide with their weekends in Cabo. Justin called me within twenty minutes of the upload. “Natalie! You bitch! What the hell are you doing? Delete it! Delete it now!” He was screaming so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. I felt a cold, sharp spark of satisfaction. “I’m just following the judge’s orders, Justin. I’m apologizing publicly. Isn’t that what you wanted?” “You’re making it worse! You’re naming the company! You’re naming Amber!” “Well, the internet said my first apology was too vague. I’m just trying to be thorough. And don’t worry—this is only Day Two. We have eight more days of ‘sincerity’ to go. I won’t miss a single one.” “Natalie, you’re destroying my reputation! You’re going to ruin my career! How can you be this malicious?” Malicious. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. This was the man who had cheated for years while I stayed home raising our daughter. This was the man who had hidden our savings and tried to gaslight me into thinking I was losing my mind when I first found the receipts. “Am I?” I laughed, and the sound surprised even me. “Remind Amber to start saving her pennies, Justin. Every dime you spent on her is coming back to me. It’s marital property. My lawyer—the ‘bad’ one, remember?—is very clear on that.” I went to hang up, but his tone shifted. The rage vanished, replaced by a low, manipulative honey. “Nat, come on. We’ve been together since college. Remember when we were at U of C? Everyone thought we were the ‘it’ couple. We’ve built a life together. We have a daughter. Do you really want to burn it all down?” My hand trembled. For a second, I saw him—the boy who had chased me for three years, the man who had cried when Zoe was born. But then I remembered the texts I’d found. I remembered the coldness in his eyes when he’d served me with the defamation suit. “You’re really going to bring up Zoe?” I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed disgust. “You’re going to talk about her ‘delicate heart’ when you’re the one who broke our home? You make me sick, Justin.” “Natalie—” I hung up. That evening, when Zoe came home from school, I made her favorite dinner—creamy mac and cheese with the good breadcrumbs. I watched her eat, her small face so full of innocence, and my heart ached. “Zoe,” I whispered, “are you… are you mad at Mommy for being mean to Daddy?” She put her fork down and climbed off her chair. She walked over to me and wiped a tear away from my cheek that I hadn’t even realized had fallen. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” she said, her voice small but firm. “I know Daddy was being mean to you first with that other lady. I’m on your side. Always.” I pulled her into my lap and held her so tight it was like she was the only thing keeping me on this earth. Her strength gave me exactly what I needed. I wasn’t just fighting for my pride anymore. I was fighting for her future. I pulled out my phone and sent a message to the contact I’d been working with in secret. We’re ready for the next phase. 03 The reply came back instantly: Locked and loaded. The third day began like the others. I dropped Zoe at school, but as I drove away, a cold knot of dread began to tighten in my stomach. Justin was a cornered animal, and cornered animals lashing out. By noon, the internet was a wildfire. My “apology” series had become a true-crime soap opera for half of Chicago. People were digging into Midwest Steel’s glassdoor reviews; they were finding Amber’s old social media posts. The pressure was mounting. Then, my phone buzzed. A text from Justin: “You think you’re so smart, Nat. You’re going to regret this. I’m taking what matters most.” My heart stopped. Zoe. I told myself I was being paranoid. He was her father. He was a monster, but surely he wasn’t that kind of monster. But the panic wouldn’t subside. I left my office, ignoring my boss’s confused looks, and raced to Zoe’s elementary school. When I got there, the receptionist looked at me with a confused frown. “Oh, Mrs. Whitmore? Zoe’s already gone. Her father picked her up twenty minutes ago.” The blood drained from my face. “I gave specific instructions,” I said, my voice cracking. “I told the office that only I was allowed to pick her up until the custody hearing.” The woman looked sympathetic but helpless. “He’s her father, Natalie. He’s a legal guardian. We can’t legally stop him from taking his own child unless there’s a court order on file. He said there was a family emergency.” I stumbled out to the parking pool, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I dialed Justin’s number, my hand shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. “Where is she, Justin? Where is my daughter?” “She’s with me,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “As for where… that’s not your concern right now. If you want to see her again, you know what you have to do.” “Bring her back now, or I’m calling the police!” I screamed. He chuckled. “Go ahead. Call them. Tell them a father is spending time with his daughter. See how fast they rush to help you with a ‘domestic matter.’ But if you want this to go away quietly, here’s the deal.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. “What?” “Delete the videos. All of them. Then, you’re going to go live. Right now. You’re going to tell everyone that you were the one who had an affair. You’re going to say you made up the stuff about me and Amber because you were jealous and mentally unstable. You’re going to clear my name, Natalie. Or you’ll never see Zoe again.” From the background of the call, I heard a sharp, piercing cry. It was Zoe. Then, Amber’s voice, cold and sharp: “Shut up, you brat! Stop crying!” “Justin, she’s your daughter!” I shrieked. “She’s a bargaining chip,” he snapped. “And Amber is pregnant with my son. I don’t need a daughter who’s been brainwashed by a crazy woman. Do the livestream, Nat. Now.” He hung up. I stood in the school parking lot, the world spinning around me. He had no soul. He was willing to use our child as a shield for his own crimes. Then, my phone buzzed again. A different caller. “We found the files,” a deep, masculine voice said. “They’re in your inbox. We can move whenever you’re ready.” “He took Zoe,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Please, Dan. I need you to find her. I can’t do this if she’s in danger.” There was a pause. Dan Kessler—my “legal aid” lawyer, who was actually a high-stakes corporate litigator I’d known since our undergrad days at U of C—softened his tone. “I’ll get her, Natalie. I promise. Stick to the plan. He thinks he’s won. Let him keep thinking that for ten more minutes.” I took a shaky breath. I checked my messages. A new one from Dan: “Got her location. We’re five minutes out. Go live.” I opened the app. I hit the ‘Go Live’ button. Within seconds, ten thousand people joined. Then twenty thousand. Justin and Amber joined the split-screen almost immediately. They were sitting in what looked like a home office, looking smug. “Go ahead, Natalie,” Justin said, leaning into the camera. He held up a stuffed rabbit—Zoe’s favorite, the one she slept with every night. “Tell everyone the truth.” I gripped my phone, my eyes burning. Then, a text popped up at the top of my screen. “She’s safe. I have her. Finish it.” The weight lifted. The fear died. In its place, a cold, crystalline rage took over. I cleared my throat and looked directly into the camera, my voice echoing to nearly a hundred thousand viewers. “Everyone, Justin is right. I’m here to tell the truth. But it’s not the truth he wants.”

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When the judge’s gavel finally struck wood, my fingernails were biting so deeply into my palms I was surprised I didn’t draw blood. I sat there, clutching the ruling that declared I had lost the case. The judge ordered me to record and post a public apology video for ten consecutive days. The recipient of this apology was the man currently glowing with arrogant victory at the plaintiff’s table—my husband, Toby Crawford. It all started three months ago when I found out about his filthy, cliché affair. In a moment of sheer, blinding rage, I wrote an anonymous post about it on a local community forum. I didn’t expect the algorithm to pick it up, turning my heartbreak into a viral sensation. Toby was livid. He immediately hired the most ruthless, egregiously expensive legal team in Chicago and sued me for defamation and emotional distress. The internet commentators, who had been following the drama, held their breath for me. They told me to set up a GoFundMe, to hire a shark of a lawyer to fight back. Instead, I quietly turned around and walked into a free legal aid clinic. “You can’t even afford a decent attorney, and you still have the nerve to go to war with me?” Toby had cornered me in the courthouse corridor earlier that morning. The disdain in his voice was so thick you could choke on it. The other woman, clinging to his arm like a designer accessory, pouted her glossed lips. She looked at me with faux, sugary pity. “You should just admit you were wrong, Gemma. Toby has a good heart. If you beg a little, he might just leave you enough to survive.” I hadn’t given their little theatrical performance the time of day. I just walked straight into the courtroom. But now, with the verdict handed down, Toby was standing up, leisurely adjusting his custom French cuffs, looking at me as if he were already watching me drop to my knees. I slowly lifted my head. I looked right into his eyes and flashed him a bright, blinding smile. My voice was crystal clear. “Don’t you worry, Toby. For the next ten days, you have my word—every single apology video will be packed with absolute sincerity.” “After all,” I added softly, “there are a few things I’ve been meaning to really talk to you about.” 01 The moment I stepped out of the heavy courthouse doors, Toby and his mistress, Madison, blocked my path. The damp city wind whipped around us, but they stood there like they owned the pavement. “See that, Gemma?” Toby sneered, tossing his copy of the court order so it hit my chest and fluttered to the ground. “Your pathetic little stunts mean nothing to me. If you ever dare to spew garbage on the internet again, I’ll let my legal team ruin whatever is left of your miserable life.” Beside him, Madison gasped, covering her mouth in a perfectly choreographed display of sympathy. “Oh, Gemma,” she cooed, her eyes wide. “If you had just told us you were broke and couldn’t afford a real lawyer, I could have loaned you some money. It breaks my heart to see you embarrass yourself like this today.” I looked at the two of them—the man I had built a life with, and the girl who was currently wearing a necklace bought with my daughter’s college fund. I slowly bent down and picked up the paper from the concrete. When I straightened up, my voice was dead calm. “Loan me money, Madison? That’s actually perfect timing,” I said, smoothing out the paper. “Because until Toby and I are legally divorced, every single dollar he transferred to your accounts, every gift he bought you, is classified as joint marital property. I’ll be expecting you to return my half of it as soon as possible.” “You—!” Madison choked, her carefully cultivated sweet-girl persona cracking. Her face went from flushed pink to a sickly, pale green. A few bystanders lingering on the courthouse steps had caught the exchange. I could feel the weight of their stares shifting heavily onto Toby and Madison. “Wow, the cheating husband and the mistress bullying the wife? That’s vile,” a woman muttered loudly. “Have they no shame?” another whispered. Hearing the crowd turn, the smugness evaporated from Toby’s face. He stepped toward me, his jaw tight. He pointed a finger at my face, shouting to the onlookers, “Don’t listen to a word she says! She’s mentally unstable! She makes things up because she’s delusional!” The crowd exchanged hesitant glances, the seed of doubt planted. Seizing the moment, Madison snatched the court ruling from my hand and waved it like a white flag of vindication. “Look!” she cried out. “The judge just ruled that she was lying! The court is forcing her to apologize publicly!” Seeing the official seal on the document, the murmurs in the crowd shifted. The sympathetic looks they had given me curdled into disgust. “Who would have thought? She looks so normal, but she’s actually psycho,” someone scoffed. “You really can’t judge a book by its cover.” Toby puffed his chest out, his ego instantly inflating on the validation of strangers. “Gemma,” he warned, his voice dripping with malice. “You better follow this court order to the letter. Ten days of public apologies. Do not test me, or you will regret it.” Without waiting for my response, he grabbed Madison’s hand and pulled her away, his chin held high, walking down the steps like a conquering king. I didn’t care about the whispering crowd. I just stood there, looking at the empty space they left behind. I reached down and picked up the court ruling one more time. I looked at the black ink mandating a ten-day public apology. A slow, quiet smile crept onto my lips. You want a public apology, Toby? Careful what you wish for. 02 The very next day, I followed the judge’s orders. I set up my phone on a ring light in my living room, hit record, and posted my first public apology to every major social media platform. “Hello, Toby Crawford. I am your wife, Gemma. I am here to publicly apologize to you. I am sorry for exposing the fact that you have been having an affair with a married woman named Madison to the internet…” The video caught the algorithm like a house on fire. Within hours, it was trending locally, then nationally. The comment section was a war zone. People began picking apart my statement, complaining that it wasn’t specific enough. Which Toby? Which Madison? There are thousands of them! This apology feels like a passive-aggressive joke. Some helpful armchair lawyers even tagged me, warning that I needed to pin the video to the top of my profile for the full ten days, otherwise Toby’s lawyers could file a motion for contempt of court. I took their advice to heart. On day two, I pinned the video. But I also uploaded a new one. This time, I looked directly into the lens and clarified, with absolute enunciation, that I was apologizing to Toby Crawford, Managing Director of Vanguard Development in Chicago, and his direct subordinate, a married woman named Madison. The moment it went live, it dominated the trending pages. Less than an hour later, my phone vibrated furiously across the kitchen counter. Toby’s name flashed on the screen. “Gemma! You crazy bitch!” he roared the second I answered, his voice cracking with panic. “Who told you to post my company information? Take it down! Delete it right now!” Listening to his hyperventilating rage, I leaned back against the counter, tracing the marble with my index finger. A cold, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “Toby, I’m just following the law. The judge ordered a public apology. I’m making sure it’s public.” “You take it down,” he hissed. “Now.” “That’s impossible. And honestly, it’s only day two. Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be here every single day for the next eight days, apologizing just like the judge asked. I won’t miss a single one.” The silence on the line was heavy, suffocating. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, trembling snarl. “Gemma, you are going to destroy my reputation. You’ll ruin my career! How can you be this vicious?” Vicious. The word hung in the air, absurd and suffocating. He was the one who had spent years sleeping in my bed while stripping off my clothes and slipping into someone else’s. He was the one I caught secretly draining our joint savings accounts, funneling away the foundation of our family. And I was the vicious one? Exhaustion washed over me. I didn’t have the energy to play his twisted games anymore. “Call it what you want,” I said, my tone flat. “I’m hanging up. Oh, and remind Madison to wire me back every dime you spent on her during your little romance. Joint marital property, Toby. I have every legal right to claw it back.” I pulled the phone from my ear, ready to end the call, when his tone suddenly shifted. The aggression vanished, replaced by a soft, mournful sigh that made my stomach churn. “Gemma… please. We’re husband and wife. Why does it have to come to this?” His voice was a masterclass in manipulation. “We were college sweethearts. Do you remember how jealous everyone was of us on campus? We’ve been through so much together. Why do you have to be so ruthless?” I froze. My breath caught in my throat. We had met freshman year. He chased me for three years, wearing me down with late-night coffees, endless patience, and promises of a beautiful, simple life. When we graduated, I defied my parents—who thought he lacked ambition—and married him when he had absolutely nothing. We built our life from the ground up. The late nights, the stress, the eventual promotions. We had finally made it. We had our beautiful daughter, Mia. I had genuinely believed I was the luckiest woman in the world. Until three months ago, when a glowing notification on his locked screen shattered the glass house I was living in. When I didn’t respond, Toby took my silence as a victory. His voice dropped lower, thick with feigned heartache. “Gemma, even if you hate me, think about Mia. She’s just a little girl. You’re blasting our dirty laundry for the whole world to see. Have you even stopped to think about the psychological trauma you’re inflicting on her?” A wave of pure, unadulterated nausea hit me. I gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white. “Don’t you dare bring Mia into this,” I whispered, the ice in my voice cutting through the phone. “Did you think about her trauma when you were unbuttoning another woman’s blouse? Drop the caring father act, Toby. It makes me want to vomit.” “You—!” I could hear him gasping for air, choking on his own fury. It took him several seconds to compose himself. Realizing his guilt trip had failed, the mask slipped entirely. “Gemma, I am warning you. Delete the videos and post a retraction clearing my name immediately.” “Or what?” “Or you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of.” The line went dead. I scoffed, tossing my phone onto the sofa. But as the afternoon wore on, his threat echoed in the quiet corners of the house. It left a dark, lingering stain on my peace of mind. That evening, after I picked Mia up from school, I made her favorite mac and cheese. I sat across from her at the dining table, watching the way her little feet kicked under the chair, the way she carefully picked the peas out of her bowl. A sharp ache seized my chest. My eyes blurred. “Mia,” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Are you… are you mad at Mommy? For what I’m doing to Daddy?” Mia stopped eating. She looked at me with her big, solemn brown eyes. Then, she slid out of her chair, padded around the table, and wrapped her little arms around my neck. Her small thumb brushed against my cheek, wiping away tears I didn’t even realize were falling. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” she said softly. “I know Daddy hurt you first. I know he loves that other lady now.” She pressed her forehead against mine. “Don’t be scared. No matter what happens, I’m always going to hold your hand. I’m on your side.” My breath hitched into a sob, and I pulled her into my lap, burying my face in her soft hair. The purity of her love, her heartbreaking understanding of a situation she never should have had to witness, broke me open. But it also fused my spine with steel. If Mia was with me, I had nothing left to fear. The internet was already a powder keg. It was time to strike the match. I reached for my phone, opened my encrypted messages, and sent a single text to my contact. 03 When the reply came through, I let out a long exhale. The next morning, after dropping Mia safely at the elementary school gates, I went home and uploaded the third apology video. Fueled by the algorithm’s love for drama, the scandal of the Vanguard Development VP forcing his scorned wife to publicly apologize while keeping his married subordinate as a mistress had hit critical mass. The internet was out for blood. The comments under Vanguard’s corporate pages were devastating. My phone buzzed. A text from Toby. You’ve really crossed the line, Gemma. You’re going to regret this. My heart gave a violent, sickening lurch. An icy dread washed over me. Mia! My mind immediately flashed to my daughter sitting in her classroom. A brief moment of rationalization tried to soothe me—he’s her father, even a monster wouldn’t hurt his own child—but the suffocating tightness in my chest wouldn’t dissipate. I couldn’t sit still. I grabbed my keys, abandoned my half-finished coffee, and drove straight to her elementary school. When I rushed into the front office, the receptionist’s words made the ground drop out from beneath me. Mia was gone. Toby had picked her up an hour ago. I felt the blood drain from my face as I stared at her homeroom teacher. “I told you,” I said, my voice shaking with restrained hysteria. “I told you specifically that no one is allowed to take her except me.” The teacher looked sympathetic but defensive. “Mrs. Crawford, I’m so sorry, but Mr. Crawford is her biological father. He’s on the authorized list, and he has joint legal custody. We have no legal grounds to stop him from signing her out.” My fingernails dug into my palms, reopening the half-healed crescents from the courtroom. I forced myself to take a shallow, trembling breath. “I… I understand. I’m sorry for raising my voice.” The moment the teacher walked away, I stumbled out to the parking lot. My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock my phone. I dialed Toby’s number. He picked up on the second ring. “Where is she?” I demanded, my voice raw. “Where did you take my daughter?” Toby chuckled, a low, relaxed sound that made me want to scream. “She’s with me. As for where we are, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that.” “Toby,” I growled, “bring her back to school right now. If you don’t, I swear to God I will call the police.” “Oh, call them!” he mocked, utterly unfazed. “Go ahead, Gemma. Call 911. Tell them a loving father picked his daughter up from school early for a dentist appointment. Let me know how fast they rush over to arrest me for exercising my parental rights.” I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. “What do you want?” I rasped. “What do you want me to do to get her back?” “Simple,” he said smoothly. “Delete the apology videos. All of them. Then, record a new one. A retraction. You will tell the world that you were the one who had an affair, that I caught you, and that you made up these vicious lies about me and Madison because you were bitter and wanted to ruin me.” “You’re out of your mind,” I spat. “I will never do that.” The next sound I heard through the speaker wasn’t Toby. It was the sharp, terrified sound of Mia crying, followed instantly by Madison’s cold, irritated voice snapping, “Stop whining, you’re giving me a headache!” “Toby, she’s your daughter!” I screamed into the phone, tears finally spilling over. “She’s just a girl,” he said dismissively. “Besides, Madison is pregnant. We’re having a boy. Now, be a good girl and do what you’re told, Gemma. Because if you don’t, I will drag this custody battle out for years, and I’ll make sure you never see Mia again.” The line clicked dead. I stood paralyzed in the empty parking lot, a heavy, suffocating weight crushing my chest. Toby had lost whatever shred of humanity he had left. The thought of Mia trapped in a room with him and Madison made me feel physically ill. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. I answered it immediately. A deep, steady male voice came through the speaker. “The files you requested are secured and in your inbox. We are ready to execute the plan whenever you give the word.” I didn’t acknowledge the files. I just gripped the phone and whispered, “Toby took Mia. He took her from school. Please. Please find her. Bring her back to me.” There was a brief pause on the other end. “Don’t panic,” Colby said quietly. “I’ll get her. I promise.” With Colby’s promise holding me together, I drove home. When Toby texted me again, sending a picture of Mia looking terrified on a strange sofa as a reminder of his leverage, I set up my ring light. I went live. Because of the massive internet frenzy, my live stream pulled in tens of thousands of viewers within minutes. And just as I anticipated, Toby and Madison, feeling invincible with Mia as their hostage, confidently requested to join the stream as co-hosts. I accepted the request. The screen split. Toby and Madison sat side-by-side, exchanging a smug, victorious look that they didn’t bother hiding from the camera. “Go ahead, Gemma,” Toby said, playing the magnanimous victim for the audience. “Tell everyone the truth. Tell them how you got caught cheating, and how you tried to drag my name through the mud to cover up your own sins.” I opened my mouth to speak, but my eyes caught a movement on his side of the screen. Toby’s hand was subtly squeezing a plush bunny—Mia’s favorite toy, the one she carried in her backpack every single day. It was a silent, violent threat. My heart hammered against my ribs. Just as the silence stretched too thin, my computer chimed with an encrypted message notification. We have her. She’s safe. A rush of adrenaline hit my bloodstream, flushing out the terror. The heavy stone on my chest shattered into dust. I looked straight into the camera, at the viewer count climbing past a hundred thousand, and cleared my throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, my voice steady and resonant. “Toby is right. I did come here today to tell you the truth. But it is not a retraction.”

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My stepbrother, Stephen, and I somehow managed to get ourselves sucked into an NC-17 romance novel. In the real world, Stephen was the kind of man whose shirts were always buttoned to the collar, whose academic records were flawless, and whose investment instincts were terrifyingly sharp. Ever since we were kids, he looked at me the way one might look at an empty chair. The novel’s synopsis, however, was explicit and unhinged: A personal assistant suffering from severe touch starvation relentlessly seeks unspeakable pleasures from his boss, day and night. When we first woke up in this bizarre reality, I had actually joked that he was about to get lucky. But with a face like carved stone, he informed me that I was the “lucky” boss. I stared at him, bewildered. “Then what’s your role?” His voice was ice. “Your personal assistant. And apparently, a very personal one.” At the time, I thought, how bad could it really be? Until the day I came back from a date and found him curled up in my bed. His clothes were a crumpled mess, and he was clutching my worn pajama shirt to his chest, utterly wrecked by the agonizing withdrawal of his fictional disease. He lifted his head. His voice was a raw, low rasp, breaking as he begged, “Naomi… please. Just… touch me.” 1 “Naomi Stanford, if you touch me one more time, I swear to God.” Those were the last words Stephen said to me before we fell into the book. I had slipped on the staircase at home, pitching forward and grabbing blindly. My fingers caught the sleeve of his dress shirt, popping two buttons in the process. Stephen stared down at his exposed wrist, the revulsion on his face so thick you could choke on it. I sheepishly let go. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a sanitized wet wipe from his pocket and methodically scrubbed the exact spot my skin had grazed. My mother hovered nearby, trying to smooth the tension. “Stephen, Naomi didn’t mean to.” He fastened his spare cufflink, his tone as indifferent as an automated weather report. “It’s fine. I just don’t like being touched.” Doesn’t like being touched. Right. He didn’t like being touched by me. Just last month, at his stepfather’s corporate gala, a female partner had a few too many drinks and slumped heavily against his shoulder. Stephen hadn’t even blinked. I had lived in the Pierce household for six years, and Stephen’s attitude toward me could be summed up in a single phrase: willful blindness. No, it was worse than that. Willful blindness implies he didn’t see me. He saw me, and then he deliberately looked away. So, when I woke up sitting behind a massive, unfamiliar mahogany desk, wearing a sharply tailored pencil skirt with a gold nameplate reading Naomi Stanford, CEO staring back at me—my first reaction wasn’t panic. It was the door swinging open. Stephen stood in the doorway. He wore a slate-gray shirt, the top two buttons undone, a cup of coffee in his hand. His entire aura was fundamentally different from the man I knew at home. His striking features were exactly the same. The coldness was the same. But beneath it all, there was an indescribable… fragility. He set the coffee on my desk, his voice a low hum. “Ms. Stanford, the files for your nine o’clock meeting are organized.” Ms. Stanford. He called me Ms. Stanford. I stared at him for five long seconds, confirming that the face belonged to my stepbrother. Then, my gaze dropped to a book splayed open on my desk. The cover read: The Boss’s Ruin. The pages fluttered open to the table of contents on their own accord, the chapter titles glowing with an unnatural light. Chapter 1: The Assistant’s Secret. Chapter 3: A Younger Man’s Obsession. Chapter 5: The Hacker’s Gift. Chapter 7: The Rival’s Bargain. I flipped further. The deeper I went, the more absurd it got. My face burned hot. “Done reading?” Stephen’s voice drifted from above. I slammed the book shut. He looked down at me, his expression wearing its usual impenetrable armor, but the corners of his mouth were pulled tight. “There are four romantic targets in this universe,” he said flatly. “And they are all coming for you.” I swallowed hard. “…And?” Stephen snatched the book from my hands, flipped to the character glossary, and pointed a long, elegant finger at a specific paragraph. “Personal Assistant: Stephen Pierce. Afflicted with extreme touch starvation. Harbors a pathological physical dependency on his boss, Naomi Stanford. If deprived of her scent or physical contact for more than twenty-four hours, he will spiral into severe withdrawal: high fever, violent tremors, and delirium.” He finished reading, then dropped the book onto the desk with a heavy thud. “Did you hear that, Naomi?” Oh, I heard it. My stepbrother—the clinically precise germaphobe who used wet wipes to erase my touch—was written into this world as a man who would literally die without my physical affection. I held it in for three seconds. Then, I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. Stephen’s face went absolutely black. 2 My amusement didn’t last long. A translucent, holographic panel suddenly materialized, hovering in the air between us. [Welcome to the world of The Boss’s Ruin. Please complete the main storyline within the allotted time, or remain permanently trapped in this dimension. Main Quest: Complete all intimate storylines with the Personal Assistant. Current Progress: 0%.] I stared at that 0%, my throat suddenly dry. Stephen saw it too. His interface was clearly synced with mine. He stood across from me, his face blank, but his knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the coffee cup. “Is there another way around this?” I asked the ceiling. A cold line of text materialized: [Negative.] “What happens if we refuse?” [The Personal Assistant will suffer catastrophic organ failure due to Touch Starvation withdrawal within 48 hours. Character death will result in the immediate and permanent deletion of the bound host.] My head snapped up to look at Stephen. He set the coffee cup down. His voice was terrifyingly calm for a man discussing his own impending death. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m finding this out at the exact same time you are.” “How do you feel right now?” “I feel nothing.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out. Just as the door clicked shut, I noticed his hand resting against the doorframe. It was shaking. I sank back into my leather chair, pulled the book toward me, and started reading from page one. In the original novel, Naomi Stanford was a ruthless corporate prodigy who tripled her father’s company’s profits, but suffered from profound emotional obliviousness. Four dangerously attractive men orbited her, and she was blind to all of them. The personal assistant was the first to appear, and his emotional arc carried the heaviest weight. The book detailed how his symptoms flared up on his very first day. Whenever the boss accidentally brushed his hand, he had to lock himself in the breakroom for twenty minutes just to breathe. Not out of disgust. But because he craved it so fiercely, he was terrified he would lose control. I closed the book and pressed the heels of my hands into my temples. If this were any other man, I would be eating up the angst. But placing this trope on Stephen Pierce? All I could see in my mind’s eye was him aggressively scrubbing his wrist with a sanitized wipe. At exactly 2:00 PM, Stephen appeared at my door. He had changed into a crisp white shirt, buttoned to the very top—a carbon copy of his real-world uniform. “A client is arriving at three. These are their corporate background checks.” He placed the file on the desk and immediately turned to leave. “Wait.” He froze. I hesitated for a beat. “Are you… feeling it yet?” Stephen didn’t look back. “That’s none of your concern.” “The System said forty-eight hours—” “I said, it is none of your concern.” He walked out. I watched him go. His gait was off. Usually, Stephen walked like he owned the floorboards, every step measured and precise. Now, his right shoulder slumped slightly, as if he were carrying an invisible, crushing weight. At 5:00 PM, I went to the breakroom for water and ran straight into Target Number Two. He looked to be in his early twenties, wearing an intern badge and a grin so bright it could blind you. “Ms. Stanford, let me get that for you!” He reached for my glass, his fingertips very deliberately grazing the back of my hand. I glanced at his badge: Dylan, Marketing Intern. The holographic panel chimed softly: [Target 2: Dylan. Archetype: The fiercely devoted, relentlessly obsessed younger man. Status: Activated.] I snatched my glass back. “I’ve got it. Thanks.” Dylan tilted his head, his golden-retriever smile unwavering. “You know, Ms. Stanford, you look incredibly beautiful in that dress today.” I grabbed my water, fled back to my office, slammed the door, and took three deep breaths. This book was going to kill me. 3 By 8:00 PM, I was still at the office. It wasn’t that I loved working late. It was because the System informed me that Stephen and I shared the same upscale penthouse apartment in this universe. Two bedrooms, one shared living space. I stalled until the cleaning staff essentially kicked me out. The penthouse was just a few floors above the corporate offices, accessible via a private elevator. When I swiped my keycard and stepped inside, the living room was pitch black. I ran a hand along the wall, found the switch, and flicked it on. That was when I saw him. Stephen was sitting on the sofa in an unnatural, rigid posture—arms crossed tightly over his chest, his entire body curled inward. Sweat beaded heavily on his forehead, catching the overhead light. A glass of water sat on the coffee table. Untouched. “Stephen?” No answer. I took two steps closer and realized he was trembling. It wasn’t a subtle shiver. His entire frame was vibrating, his teeth chattering audibly in the quiet room. “Stephen!” I dropped to my knees in front of him and reached out to check his forehead. He violently jerked his head away. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” His voice was a shredded, ragged whisper, yet the hostility was still there. “You’re burning up.” “I know.” “The System said you would—” “I know,” he cut me off, finally raising his head. His face was flushed a dangerous crimson, his lips cracked and dry, but his eyes were still glacial. “Naomi, I don’t need your pity. Go to your room.” I stood slowly, stared at him for three seconds, then turned and walked into my bedroom. I shut the door and leaned against the heavy wood. The countdown timer on the holographic panel pulsed in the corner of my vision: 39 Hours, 16 Minutes. I opened the closet. It was filled to the brim with designer clothes perfectly tailored to my measurements. There was a drawer for sleepwear. Three sets of silk pajamas sat perfectly folded on the top shelf. I changed into one, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was dead silent. I couldn’t tell if he had passed out or finally fallen asleep. At 2:00 AM, a sound woke me. It was faint. A dull, heavy scraping, like something being dragged across the hardwood floor. I slipped out of bed, padded barefoot to the door, and opened it just a crack. The living room was still dark, but the motion-sensor light in the hallway had flickered on. Stephen was on his knees outside my door. One hand was planted flat against the floor holding his weight, the other was curled into a fist, knuckles resting lightly against the wood of my door. He looked like he was trying to knock, but couldn’t summon the strength. Over and over. His dress shirt was completely soaked through, clinging to his back so tightly I could count the vertebrae. I threw the door open. Without the wood to support him, he pitched forward. I caught him by the shoulders. He was radiating heat like a furnace. “Naomi…” His voice was barely a breath of air. “Your pajamas… the shirt you wore yesterday… can I… can I just borrow it…?” I froze. “The one I was wearing?” He didn’t answer, but his trembling fingers blindly reached out and curled into the hem of the silk shirt I currently had on. The movement was agonizingly slow, as if he were terrified I would strike him for it. “Get inside,” I said. 4 I hauled him up from the floor, slinging his heavy arm over my shoulder, and practically dragged him into my bedroom. Stephen was six-foot-two. With his dead weight fully pressing down on me, my knees buckled, and we almost went down together. Even delirious with fever, he tried to pull away. “I just… wanted the shirt… you don’t have to…” “You can’t even stand up. A piece of fabric isn’t going to save your life.” That shut him up. I maneuvered him to the edge of the mattress. The moment his legs hit the bed, he collapsed backward. By the time I rushed to the en-suite bathroom, soaked a hand towel in cold water, and came back, he had buried his face entirely into my pillow. He was curled into the fetal position, his arms wrapped around the pillow like a drowning man clinging to debris. His breathing was harsh and erratic, his broad shoulders shaking uncontrollably. I draped the cold towel over the back of his neck. He flinched violently. “Cold…” “Your fever is spiking. I have to bring your temperature down.” “Not… that kind of cold,” he mumbled into the pillow, his voice muffled. “It’s cold inside. In my bones.” The holographic panel sprang to life: [Touch Starvation Withdrawal: Mid-Stage. Symptoms: High external fever, internal chills, cognitive blurring. Recommended Treatment: Continuous skin-to-skin contact with the bound host. Minimum duration: 30 minutes.] Continuous skin-to-skin contact. I looked at the text. I looked at Stephen. Thirty minutes. I took a deep breath, climbed onto the mattress, and lay down beside him. I reached out and wrapped my hand firmly around his wrist. His reaction was a hundred times more violent than I expected. He shot backward as if my fingertips carried a live current, throwing the pillow aside. His fever-bright, bloodshot eyes locked onto mine. For a split second, there was total confusion in his gaze. Then, sheer disbelief. Finally, it warped into a look of absolute, unadulterated agony. “What are you doing?” he choked out. “Saving your life.” “I don’t need—” “Stephen Pierce, if you give me one more snarky comment, I swear to God I will let go. Test me.” His jaw snapped shut. I kept my grip on his wrist. His pulse was hammering against my palm, erratic and dangerously fast. But then, inch by inch, his own hand began to move. Almost involuntarily, his fingers curled inward. From the wrist, to the thumb, to the palm, until his large hand completely enveloped mine, interlocking our fingers. His grip was crushing. It felt like my bones were going to snap. “A little lighter,” I winced. He didn’t let go, but the crushing pressure eased slightly. Beneath my skin, I felt his temperature slowly begin to drop. The terrifying, unnatural heat faded into a normal, comforting warmth. The ragged edge of his breathing smoothed out. But he didn’t let go. Ten minutes passed. The color returned to his face, and the delirious fog cleared from his eyes. He stared down at our intertwined hands, his expression a chaotic mess of emotions I couldn’t decipher. “Is that enough?” I asked quietly. The System updated: [Touch Starvation temporarily alleviated. Next withdrawal countdown: 18 hours.] “It’s enough,” he said softly. He still didn’t let go. It took another five seconds before he suddenly yanked his hand back as if my skin had burned him, scrambling off the bed. “…Thank you.” He tossed the words over his shoulder and walked out without looking back. When the door clicked shut, I opened my hand and looked at my palm. There were four deep, red crescent moons dug into my skin from his fingernails. I stared at the marks, a sudden realization washing over me. In the real world, after Stephen touched me, he immediately scrubbed his hands with a wet wipe. In the book, after Stephen touched me, he dug his own nails into his palms until they bruised. It wasn’t disgust. He was holding himself back. 5 The next morning at the office, Stephen’s impenetrable armor was fully restored. His shirt was buttoned to the collar. His documents were impeccably aligned. When he poured my coffee, his hands were as steady as a surgeon’s. The only difference was the perimeter. The standard three-foot professional distance had expanded to six feet. When he handed me a folder, he slid it across the furthest edge of the desk, withdrawing his hand with lightning speed. I pretended not to notice. At 10:00 AM, a new System prompt pinged: [Main Quest Update: Target 2, Dylan, has triggered a critical plot event. Please proceed to the Marketing Department immediately.] I didn’t want to go. But the System provided a thirty-minute countdown timer. [Failure to attend will result in a 10% penalty to Main Quest Progress.] Cursing under my breath, I took the elevator down. The Marketing Department was on the twelfth floor. As soon as the doors parted, I saw Dylan waiting for me in the hallway. He wore a crisp white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. When he saw me, his face lit up. It was a completely different kind of smile than Stephen’s. Getting a fractional upward curve of the lips from Stephen felt like an act of God. When Dylan smiled, his whole body seemed to radiate warmth. “Ms. Stanford! You’re here.” “What’s the emergency?” “There’s an inconsistency in the Q3 projections. The Director asked if you could take a look.” I followed him into the glass-walled conference room. There were indeed files scattered across the table. But the room was completely empty. “Where is the Director?” “Stepped out for a call.” Dylan pulled out a chair for me. “Have a seat. I’ll walk you through it.” I sat. He leaned over me to flip through the pages, his shoulder practically brushing mine. “The metrics here don’t line up, see—” He tapped the spreadsheet with one hand. His other hand casually came to rest on the back of my chair. I looked at him. He was still smiling, but the look in his eyes had absolutely nothing to do with Q3 projections. “Dylan.” “Yeah?” “Your hand.” He glanced down at his hand gripping the back of my chair. He didn’t pull it away. Instead, he shifted his grip an inch closer, his fingertips grazing the fabric at my shoulder. “Ms. Stanford, I just wanted to be a little closer to you.” His voice dropped an octave, dripping with that reckless, unabashed intensity specific to men his age. “Ever since my very first day, when I saw you standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows taking a call, I just—” The conference room door swung open. Stephen stood in the doorway, holding a fresh cup of coffee. His icy gaze locked onto Dylan’s hand resting against my shoulder. Then, it slowly moved up to Dylan’s face. His expression was a locked vault. But the temperature in the room plummeted by ten degrees. “Ms. Stanford, you have a conference call at eleven.” He set the coffee down on the nearest edge of the table and turned on his heel. Dylan retracted his hand and let out a low whistle. “Your assistant has quite the temper, doesn’t he?” I picked up the coffee and took a sip. The temperature was perfect. One and a half sugars. Exactly how I took it in the real world. Stephen had never once asked me how I took my coffee. But it was perfect every single time. I set the cup down, stood up, and walked out of the conference room. Back in my office, Stephen was meticulously reorganizing a bookshelf. I closed the door behind me. He didn’t turn around. “Next time someone puts their hands on you, handle it yourself.” His voice was dead flat, like he was discussing printer toner. “Are you jealous?” A hardcover book slipped from his hands and crashed to the floor. Stephen bent down to retrieve it. For a fraction of a second, the tips of his ears flushed dark red, but his tone remained entirely devoid of inflection. “I am merely reminding you that every man in this universe is a threat. Including me.” He shoved the book into its slot and walked past me toward the door. I watched him leave, suddenly realizing that when he said including me, his voice had faltered. Just a little.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “422545”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I stayed in this simulation, this constructed reality, for three long years. I stayed for one reason: to take care of Martin Pierce, the man who had supposedly suffered irreversible brain damage while saving my life. The System’s punishments were a constant, quiet hum of agony in my veins, but I endured them in silence. For him. Until the afternoon he drove his SUV straight into me, sending my body flying across the asphalt. As I lay bleeding, he walked over, his fingers perfectly interlaced with Evie’s—the fragile, tragic girl who had always haunted his heart. Looking down at me with cold, lucid eyes, he casually explained that he had been faking his mental deficit the entire time. He had been waiting for this exact moment. Once I bled out, he and his precious Evie would inherit my status as the System’s “Host,” granting them the one thing money couldn’t buy: immortality. I looked up at them. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, but inside, I felt an eerie, hollow calm. System, I thought, projecting my voice into the void of my mind. I have two new candidates willing to take my place. Can I finally go home now? 1. “So, you were faking it. Every single day.” I lay in a spreading pool of my own blood, staring up at Martin in disbelief. He pulled Evie tighter against his side. The dark depths of his eyes held nothing but frost. “Obviously,” he said, his voice smooth, devoid of the childlike stutter I had spent three years soothing. “How else was I supposed to make you pity me enough to stay?” He offered a tight, patronizing smile. “Though I suppose I should thank you. If you hadn’t spilled the secret about the System, I never would have found a way to save Evie.” Evie shrank against his chest, her pale, delicate face a portrait of practiced fragility. She was Martin’s first love, the girl who got away. She had leukemia. She had been fighting a losing battle against it for years. Martin used to tell me, with that vacant, innocent look in his eyes: I don’t care that she’s sick. She’s in the past, Jo. I only want you. Only now did I realize the depth of his long con. He had been orchestrating this for three years, all to save her. Suddenly, a tearing, white-hot agony ripped through my chest. It had nothing to do with the shattered ribs from the car hitting me. It was the System. The punishment protocol. Because my assigned mission was to win Martin’s love. And if he didn’t love me, I paid the price in pain. “God, it hurts…” The whimper slipped past my bloody lips before I could stop it. I had endured this sensation—the feeling of my joints being pulled apart, my nerves catching fire—dozens of times over the years. But a person never truly gets used to torture. “Is it really that bad?” Martin looked down at me, mildly amused. “I thought you Hosts could just ask the System to turn off your pain receptors.” His casual cruelty was dizzying. It brought back a sudden, sharp memory of our golden days. The days when he looked at me like I hung the moon. I had been so stupidly in love, so convinced I had found my soulmate in this artificial reality, that I confessed the truth about the System to him. But I never told him about the punishments. I hadn’t wanted him to worry. The invisible fire inside me flared higher. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ground together. “Stop talking,” I gasped out. Every word he spoke, every confirmation of his lack of love, dialed up the System’s torture. Evie suddenly stepped forward, crouching just out of reach of the blood, and put her hands on her knees. “Joanne, does it really hurt?” she asked, her voice dripping with saccharine concern. She looked up at Martin. “Martin, maybe we shouldn’t do this. I don’t need to live forever. It’s okay if I die.” “Absolutely not.” Martin shot it down instantly, his gaze softening entirely as he looked at her. “Evie, it’s different for her. She’s a Host. Even if she dies here, she just wakes up in her original world. But if you die, I lose you forever. Don’t waste your pity on her.” Where Martin couldn’t see, Evie’s lips curved into a smug, triumphant smirk. Leaning in closer to me, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Did you know I was the one who told him to keep saying he doesn’t love you? I figured out that’s what triggers your little punishments. He knows exactly what it does to you.” She stood back up, sighing dramatically. “He doesn’t love you, Joanne. He never did. He only loves me. I am the main character of his story, after all.” The moment the words left her mouth, Martin pulled her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. The look in his eyes was devastatingly tender. “I bought the estate in the Palisades,” he murmured to her. “The one you liked. It’ll be our home.” My breath hitched. I had told Martin once, late at night, that I grew up in the foster system back in my real world. I had no family, no roots. My only dream was to build a real home. He had bought that estate in the Palisades for me. I had spent the last year agonizing over the renovations, the paint colors, the kitchen tile, waiting for the day we could finally move in. And now, he was handing the keys to my executioner. I let my head fall back against the pavement, staring up at the smoggy sky. System, I thought. I found them. Two new Hosts, completely willing. Can I go now? Martin Pierce. You threw me away. So be it. I’m throwing you away, too. 2. [Acknowledged. Scanning for willing Host replacements… Match confirmed.] [Host, are you absolutely certain you wish to transfer your binding to these two individuals?] Listening to the sterile, echoing voice of the System in my mind, I dragged my eyes back to Martin and Evie. They were making out against the backdrop of the city skyline, entirely unbothered by my dying body on the ground. For a split second, an old memory superimposed itself over the horrific present. I saw the Martin from two years ago, the one who smiled at me with pure, unjaded devotion. Thank you for staying with me, Jo. I love you. He used to warm up milk for me when I couldn’t sleep. He used to wash my stained sheets when my period cramps were too bad to move. No one had ever loved me in the details before. I really thought he was my safe harbor. I was so profoundly wrong. I’m certain, I answered the System. The thought tasted like ash. [Understood, Host. Initiating transfer protocol.] “Why isn’t the System showing up?” Evie whined, pulling back from Martin. Martin stroked her hair. “She’s probably negotiating with it right now. Just give it a second. She always spaces out when she talks to the thing.” [Greetings, Candidates.] The System’s voice suddenly materialized into the open air, a metallic resonance that they could hear, too. [As of today, you will become my new Hosts. Please state your chosen targets for the affection-binding protocol.] “I choose Evie Lawson,” Martin said instantly. “I choose Martin Pierce,” Evie echoed. They spoke in perfect unison, their hands clasped tight. A picture-perfect portrait of true love. My chest tightened. I remembered when Martin had looked at me with that same unwavering certainty, swearing, I will choose my Jo, every single time, no matter what. But times change. People change. [Acknowledged. However, the transfer calibration requires a 72-hour gestation period. You must wait three days.] The ambient hum vanished, and the System’s voice retreated back into the privacy of my mind. [You will be extracted in exactly three days, Host. I will accelerate your cellular repair so you may spend this time saying your goodbyes to your loved ones in this reality.] The moment the transmission ended, the agonizing fire in my veins shifted into a cool, tingling sensation. The broken ribs knitted together. The lacerations sealed. Martin let out a breath of awe. “Look, Evie. I told you she could just have the System heal her. The System is incredible. Once we have it, we’ll never have to worry about sickness or death again.” I slowly pushed myself off the blood-stained pavement, looking at him with utter exhaustion. He had no idea. He thought the System was a god of miracles. He didn’t know it was a warden. 3. I took an Uber straight to the hospital to see Grandpa Joe. In this entire constructed world, outside of Martin, Grandpa Joe was my only anchor. He was the only family I had. He had treated me with a kindness I had never known in my real life. He had emptied his meager savings account to help Martin and me buy our first car. He would always save the best cuts of meat from his dinners, wrapping them in foil just for me. As I walked down the sterile hospital corridor, I froze. Martin and Evie were walking toward me. They were holding hands, swinging them lightly between them. In Martin’s free hand was a glossy sonogram printout. “I can’t believe it, Evie. I’m going to be a father,” Martin was saying, his voice thick with emotion. The words were a physical blow, a machete to the chest. I had begged Martin for a baby. When I thought he was mentally recovering, I had gently broached the topic of starting a family. He had pulled away, his face twisting in distaste. I don’t want kids, Jo. They’re too loud. They’re a burden. I had brushed it off, thinking it was just his condition talking. Now, standing in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, the truth was glaringly obvious. He didn’t hate the idea of children. He just hated the idea of having one with me. He had been sleeping with Evie while I was playing house, playing nurse, playing the devoted wife. [Host, I am permanently disabling your punishment receptors. You will no longer suffer physical repercussions tied to your target’s emotional state.] As the System spoke, an immense, suffocating weight lifted from my shoulders. It was as if I had been carrying a boulder for three years and someone had finally cut the straps. I was free. The emotional shackles were gone. I watched Martin and Evie walk past me without a second glance. And to my surprise, I realized I felt fine. 4. When I walked into his room, Grandpa Joe’s eyes lit up. He immediately reached for a plastic container on his bedside table. “Joanie,” he rasped, offering it to me with trembling hands. “The nurse gave me these dumplings. I saved them for you. Eat up.” The dam broke. Hot, stinging tears spilled down my cheeks. If I left this world in three days, what would happen to him? Who would pay his exorbitant medical bills? Who would sit with him? I had to secure his future before I vanished. I wiped my face, kissed his forehead, and practically ran out of the hospital, heading straight for the house I had shared with Martin. Every dime I had earned over the last three years—my flower shop revenue, my investments—was sitting in a joint account controlled by Martin. When I arrived at the townhouse, Maria, the housekeeper, was hauling garbage bags onto the porch. She jumped when she saw me. “Miss Joanne… Mr. Pierce told me to pack up all your things. He said… he said you wouldn’t be living here anymore.” I looked past her. Through the open bags, I could see my clothes violently shoved inside. I saw the shattered pieces of the plaster figurine Martin and I had painted together on our first anniversary. He was erasing me. With brutal efficiency. I didn’t care about the clothes, but I needed my debit card. I stepped up to the digital keypad on the front door and punched in my code. BEEP. Error. Maria looked down at her shoes. “He had me change the code this morning, Miss.” My heart gave a dull, hollow thud. I steadied my breathing. “What’s the new code, Maria?” She hesitated, terrified of being caught in the crossfire. “Maria, please,” I kept my voice even. “My wallet is inside. I just need to get it.” She swallowed hard. “08122018.” August 12, 2018. The day Martin and Evie first started dating. I took two steps back, a dark, cynical laugh bubbling up in my throat. Just yesterday, he had held me in bed, kissing the back of my neck, whispering that he loved me. Just this morning, he had asked me to get out of the car on a deserted stretch of road, telling me to cover my eyes because he had a “surprise” for me. I had stood there, heart pounding with anticipation, only to be hit by a two-ton vehicle. He wanted me dead so badly. He was so desperate to steal my power. But Martin Pierce had absolutely no idea the kind of hell he was inheriting. 5. I punched in the code and pushed the door open. Martin had Evie pressed up against the marble kitchen island. His hands were gripping her waist, his face buried in her neck, murmuring about how he was going to worship her forever. My purse slipped from my fingers, hitting the hardwood with a loud thwack. Even knowing I was leaving, even having let him go, seeing the man I had bathed and fed and loved for three years dry-humping someone else in our kitchen was a punch to the gut. “What the hell are you doing here?” Martin snapped, pulling back. His eyes narrowed with immediate hostility. “You aren’t welcome here.” His icy glare violently transported me back to a night three years ago. I had defied a direct order from the System to save him from a bad business deal. The punishment was the sensation of having my femur snapped in half. I had laid on the floor, biting a towel to keep from screaming, wishing for death. But I survived it, because I thought we were building a forever together. I was such a fool. “I came for my money,” I said, my voice dead flat. “The money I earned from the shop is in the joint account. I need it to pay for my grandfather’s surgery.” Martin didn’t even flinch. He just tightened his grip on Evie’s waist, dragging his thumb lazily over her hipbone, deliberately ignoring me as if I were a telemarketer on the phone. Bile rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down. Three days. Just three days. “Fine. I’ll get the card myself.” I started toward the master bedroom, but Evie’s voice stopped me. “Joanne, wait. Isn’t your grandpa doing better? Why would you need that much cash?” She blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “Are you trying to embezzle Martin’s money so you can take it back to your real world?” Martin’s head snapped toward me, his jaw clenching. “Is that it? You’re just a parasite?” he sneered. “Let me make this crystal clear: even the money you brought in belongs to this world. You aren’t taking a single red cent with you.” The sheer audacity of it left me momentarily speechless. The gentle, devoted Martin was entirely dead. This man was a stranger. “Martin, I told you, it’s for my grandfather’s hospital bills. I’m not taking anything with me.” “I don’t give a damn. Get out of my house!” I balled my hands into fists. There was no reasoning with him. He had completely bought into whatever narrative Evie spun for him. 6. I turned on my heel to leave, but Evie suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my forearm. “Joanne, don’t leave mad! If you really need cash, I can loan you some of my allowance.” Before I could pull away, she suddenly let go, throwing herself backward. She crashed to the floor, intentionally cracking the side of her head against the edge of the glass coffee table. “Ah! Oh my god, it hurts!” she shrieked. “Evie!” Martin didn’t even think. He crossed the room in two strides and shoved me with all his strength. I stumbled backward, slamming into the tea station. The heavy, boiling-hot electric kettle tipped over, raining scalding water down my shoulder and chest. I screamed, dropping to my knees as the heat blistered my skin. “What is wrong with you, Joanne?!” Martin roared, kneeling beside Evie to check her head. “If you’re pissed at me, take it out on me! Don’t you dare touch her!” His voice was a violent physical assault. Could he really not see the steam rising from my soaked shirt? Did he not care that my skin was peeling? I didn’t have the energy to fight him anymore. I just needed to take care of Grandpa Joe and go home. “Martin,” I breathed heavily, clutching my arm. “Just give me the five hundred thousand. Half a million. That’s my share. Give it to me, and I walk out that door and you never see me again. If you don’t, I swear to God I will make Evie’s life a living hell.” “You bitch.” He stood up, his eyes black with rage. He lunged at me, his hand clamping around my throat. He pinned me to the cabinetry, his grip tightening, systematically cutting off my oxygen. “Why do you have to be so damn toxic? Why couldn’t you just let us have a clean break?” he hissed in my face. “I… wanted a… clean break,” I choked out, clawing at his wrist. “I just… want my money.” He stared at me with pure disgust, then let go, throwing me to the floor like trash. “Fine. You want the money? I’ll give it to you.” He adjusted his cuffs, breathing hard. “On one condition.” “What?” I coughed, rubbing my bruised throat. “Get on your knees and apologize to Evie.” I froze. I looked up at him, searching for even a flicker of the man who used to rub my feet after a long day at the flower shop. There was nothing. “Okay.” I forced myself up. I dragged my battered body over to where Evie was sitting on the sofa, clutching an ice pack. I dropped to my knees. “I’m sorry,” I said, bowing my head. Suddenly, Martin’s hand was on the back of my neck. He shoved my face downward, slamming my forehead into the hardwood floor. I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted copper. “You made her hit her head,” Martin said coldly above me. “Now we’re even.” “Okay,” I whispered to the floorboards. “Can I have my card now?” He reached into his wallet, pulled out the black debit card, and dropped it onto the toe of his leather shoe. “Crawl over here and take it.” “Okay.” I heard him shift, genuinely surprised by my total submission. I used to be so proud. I used to demand respect. But what did pride matter now? I was a ghost in this world. I just needed to buy my grandfather some time. I dragged myself forward. As my fingers brushed the card on his shoe, he suddenly stomped down, pinning my hand beneath his heel. He ground his jaw. “It’s pathetic how low you’ll sink for a paycheck, Jo.” A hot tear finally broke free, tracking through the dust on my cheek. He didn’t care about me. He never did. I pulled the card free and scrambled to my feet. Just as I did, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from the hospital: Grandpa Joe coding. In resuscitation. Panic seized me. I bolted for the door, but Martin caught me by the back of my shirt, violently yanking me back. “Think you can just take the money and run? Nothing in this life is free, Jo.” He practically spat the words. “You’re staying right here. You’re going to be our maid for the next few days.” “Let me go!” I thrashed wildly against his grip, but he was too strong. “Martin, my grandfather is dying! Let me go to the hospital!” “You’re pathetic,” Martin laughed darkly. “The second you get the cash, suddenly your grandpa is dying. You’d use an old man’s life just to pull a scam.” “I’m not lying!” I screamed, tears blinding me. Suddenly, the cold, metallic voice echoed in my skull. [Host, the transfer matrix has initialized early. The 72-hour window is no longer required. Would you like to execute the transfer now?]

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The door to my examination room swung open just as I was looking down, organizing the morning’s patient charts. A man walked in, his arm wrapped possessively around a young woman’s waist. His voice was a low, melting murmur, the kind reserved for intimate, quiet spaces. “I know, sweetheart. Blame me. I just couldn’t keep my hands off you. I promise I’ll be more careful next time.” At the sound of that voice, the pen in my hand froze. I looked up. It was Jonathan. My husband. The man who was supposed to be halfway across the country at an academic symposium in Chicago. He saw me in the exact same fraction of a second I saw him. The tender smile wiped from his face, replaced by a sudden, violent paleness. His pupils dilated in sheer panic. The girl leaning against his side didn’t notice a thing. She just pouted, her hands resting on her heavily pregnant belly. “Tell him, Dr. Foster,” she whined, her voice syrupy and petulant. “Tell him he needs to be careful in the third trimester. He never listens to me. Scold him for me, won’t you?” I stared at her swollen abdomen. My mind automatically pulled up her file. Isabella Rossi. This was her ninth visit in three months for high-risk pregnancy monitoring. A tidal wave of nausea and grief threatened to drown me, but I forced it down, locking it behind a ribbed cage of professional detachment. A cold, razor-thin smile touched my lips. “Jonathan,” I said softly. My voice was as calm as if I were discussing the weather. “Is this your wife?” He flinched as if I’d struck him. His lips parted, but no sound came out. I took a slow step from behind the desk, my eyes locking onto his, refusing to let him look away. “Then what does that make me?” … 1 The blood completely drained from Jonathan’s face. He instinctively broke eye contact, his jaw working as he struggled to form a single word. Smack. The sharp crack of a palm against my cheek echoed in the sterile clinic room. My head snapped to the side. Isabella glared at me, her pretty face contorted into something ugly and mean. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Dr. Foster?” she hissed. “Aren’t you a little too old to be playing the homewrecker? Trying to seduce my husband?” My cheek burned. The physical sting was nothing compared to the ice flooding my veins. I leveled a dead-eyed stare at her and raised my hand to return the favor. “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “Who exactly is seducing whose husband here?” Before my hand could connect with her face, Jonathan grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. He yanked my arm down, glaring at me with a warning so intense it made my stomach turn. “That’s enough, Mag. She’s pregnant. Don’t cross the line.” He stepped between us, shielding her. “She’s young. She doesn’t know any better. You’re a grown woman—are you really going to stoop to fighting with her?” The raw impatience in his eyes was a serrated blade, twisting right into my chest. Seven years. We had been together for seven years. We got married right out of grad school. The first six months were a dream; I got pregnant almost immediately. Then came the vacation three years ago. Jonathan, my mother, and I. The drunk driver who blew through the red light. In the fraction of a second before impact, my mother threw herself across the backseat, shoving me down. She took the brunt of the crushed steel. She survived, but was left paralyzed from the neck down. I lost the baby. The internal trauma was so severe that the doctors told me it would be a medical miracle if I ever carried a child to term again. When Jonathan found out, he collapsed to his knees beside my mother’s ICU bed. I can still hear the wet, choking sound of his crying. “Mom, if it weren’t for you, I’d be dead in that wreck,” he had sworn, his hands gripping her lifeless fingers. “I will take care of Marina for the rest of my life. Even if we never have kids, I will protect her. I swear to God.” For three years, he held me through the night terrors. He whispered into my hair that we were enough, just the two of us. But on the nights he thought I was asleep, I would find him sitting in the dark nursery, clutching the tiny, unworn onesies we had bought, staring at the wall. I knew then that the ghost of our unborn child was a splinter festering in his heart. Because of that, I put my body through hell. I couldn’t tell you how many hormone injections I’d given myself, how many rounds of IVF we had tried, chasing a miracle. And now, standing in this sterile room, I realized that while I was bleeding myself dry for him, he was out building a family with someone else. The sour taste of bile and heartbreak rose in the back of my throat. My eyes burned as I stared at him. “Is it because she can give you a baby?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Is that why you’re with her?” He couldn’t hold my gaze. He looked at the linoleum floor. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until he finally let out a single, barely audible word. “…Yes.” In a single heartbeat, my mother’s paralysis, my dead baby, my three years of agonizing, silent endurance—it was all reduced to a punchline. A pathetic joke. Smack. I wrenched my hand free and slapped him across the face with everything I had. “Fine,” I said, a bitter, broken laugh escaping my lips. “I want a divorce. You two deserve each other.” Panic flickered in his eyes. He reached out, trying to catch my hand. “Marina, wait—” “You bitch! Don’t you touch my husband!” Isabella lunged at me, her manicured nails aimed at my face. I took a quick step back on pure reflex. Before she even grazed my scrubs, she suddenly shrieked, clutching her heavy stomach, and collapsed onto the clinic floor. “It hurts…” she gasped, her face going stark white. “I… the baby is coming…” A dark stain of crimson began to pool on the pristine white tiles beneath her. My medical training overrode my shock. I instantly dropped to my knees to assess her, but she shoved me away with surprising force. “Get off me!” she screamed. “If you hadn’t pushed me, I wouldn’t be bleeding!” She clawed at Jonathan’s pant leg. “Jon… I’m so scared… save our baby… If anything happens to my son, I swear to God, I’ll make sure she never practices medicine again!” 2 Isabella went into premature labor. It was a boy. A few hours later, gripping the freshly printed divorce papers I needed Jonathan to sign, I walked down the maternity ward hallway. Before I even reached the door of her private suite, I heard the chatter. The room was packed. Looking through the glass, I saw a dozen of Jonathan’s university grad students crowding the space, carrying balloons and expensive floral arrangements. “Bella, Professor Mercer is practically obsessed with you! I can’t believe he pulled out of the tenure track review just to take a six-month paternity leave to be with you!” “Professor, you and Bella have been together for three years now. It’s about time we had a baby in the department!” “Bella graduates next spring, right? Once the wedding happens, we’re going to have to start calling you Mrs. Mercer!” Jonathan was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, holding Isabella close. The smile on his face was one of profound, unadulterated peace. “Yeah, it’s time we finally had a real wedding,” he said softly, kissing her temple. “I’ve made my Bella wait far too long.” They laughed. A picture-perfect, joyous family. I stood in the hallway, my feet cemented to the floor. The chill of the air conditioning seemed to seep directly into my bones. When I was pregnant, he told me he was trying to secure funding for his lab. He was too busy. My mother was the one who drove me to every single ultrasound. But for Isabella, he dropped his tenure review and took six months off without a second thought. They’ve been together for three years. My baby died three years ago. So, after the car crash—after my mother traded her mobility for his life, after I buried my child—while he was kneeling beside a hospital bed swearing to be my protector, he was already hunting for a younger, more fertile replacement. And I, like an absolute fool, had let doctors harvest my eggs over and over, bruising my stomach with needles, desperate to give him the family he had already started somewhere else. Tears of pure rage blurred my vision. A violent tremor took over my body. I pushed the heavy wooden door open, letting it bang against the wall. The laughter died instantly. Every head in the room snapped toward me. Isabella shrieked. She grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from her bedside table and hurled it directly at me. “You psycho!” she screamed. “You caused my early labor, and now you stalk me here? Are you that desperate to steal my husband?” The pitcher shattered against the doorframe, shards of heavy glass exploding outward. A piece sliced deep into my calf. Hot blood immediately soaked into my scrubs. Jonathan didn’t even glance at my bleeding leg. He just tightened his arms around Isabella, stroking her hair. When he finally looked at me, his eyes were flat. Dead. “Get out,” he said, his voice freezing cold. “Isabella is my wife. I don’t even know who you are. If you keep harassing my family, I’m calling security and having you arrested.” A laugh clawed its way up my throat—a harsh, jagged sound. I pulled our marriage certificate from my bag and whipped it directly at his chest. “You don’t know who I am?” I demanded. “Then what the hell is this?” The room plunged into a suffocating silence. Jonathan stood up, his face an unreadable mask. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t try to defend himself. One of the grad students cautiously picked up the booklet from the floor. He opened it, frowned, and then let out a scoffing laugh. “Lady, are you serious?” he sneered, holding it up for the others to see. “This piece of paper doesn’t even have the county clerk’s embossed seal. It’s an obvious fake!” “Yeah,” a girl chimed in, glaring at me. “When Professor Mercer married Bella, we were all there! We went to City Hall with them.” “We literally took pictures of the judge signing their license!” They pulled out their phones, aggressively shoving screens in my face. There it was. Jonathan and Isabella, smiling under the fluorescent lights of the municipal building, holding a legally binding marriage license. The raised county seal on their document felt like a physical blow to my ribs. My vision swam. A sickening realization crawled over my skin. The quick “courthouse wedding” Jonathan and I had right after graduation. The paperwork he promised to mail in because I was starting my brutal residency hours. He never filed it. My marriage—the foundation of my entire adult life, the reason my mother was currently staring at the ceiling of a long-term care facility—had been a lie from the very first day. Tears spilled over my lashes, mixing with a hatred so venomous it tasted like copper. I stared dead into Jonathan’s eyes. “Jonathan,” I whispered, my voice shaking with fury. “How do you sleep at night? How do you face the memory of my dead baby? How do you face my mother?” For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. His face went ashen, and a flash of raw, unfiltered guilt passed through his eyes. But before he could speak, a sharp wail pierced the tension. Isabella had picked up the newborn. She let out a bloodcurdling scream. “What is this?!” The students panicked, rushing to the bed. On the infant’s tiny, fragile arm was a stark, dark purple bruise. Isabella sobbed hysterically, her whole body shaking as she pointed a trembling finger right at me. “You monster!” she wept, clutching the baby to her chest. “If you hate me, come after me! How could you hurt an innocent newborn?!” 3 The sheer absurdity of the accusation left me momentarily speechless. “Are you insane?” I snapped. “I haven’t been within ten feet of that baby! Don’t you dare try to pin your own—” Smack. The blow came so fast I didn’t even see it. My head snapped back, a high-pitched ringing exploding in my left ear. Jonathan stood over me, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a terrifying malice. “Since he was born, you and Bella are the only two people who have been alone in the delivery suite with him,” he snarled. “Are you really trying to suggest a mother would bruise her own flesh and blood?” He leaned in closer, his voice a lethal hiss. “You’re just jealous she gave me a son. This is your sick revenge.” He pointed toward the bed. “Apologize to Bella. Right now. Or I promise you, you won’t have a medical license by the end of the day.” The side of my face throbbed. I looked at the man I thought I had known for seven years, and I saw a total stranger. “I will never apologize for something I didn’t do,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “If you’re so sure, go pull the security footage from the hallway and the suite.” He didn’t even blink. He simply turned his back on me, scooped up his son, and walked out to find a pediatrician. Ten minutes later, standing alone in the hospital’s security office, the guard gave me an apologetic wince. “Sorry, Dr. Foster. The camera covering Suite 4 is down for maintenance. Has been since yesterday.” I stood frozen in the dim glow of the monitors. The buzzing in my head finally quieted, leaving behind a cold, crystalline clarity. It was a setup. She had orchestrated the entire thing. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the Chief of Medicine. “Marina,” he started, his voice heavy with exhausted resignation. “We just got a formal complaint from a patient accusing you of assaulting a newborn. There’s no physical evidence tying you to it, but she has a dozen witnesses claiming you’ve been stalking and harassing her.” I closed my eyes. “Chief—” “It’s already all over Twitter and TikTok, Marina. The PR nightmare is escalating by the minute. The board had an emergency meeting. To protect the hospital’s reputation…” He sighed. “We need your resignation. Today.” Witnesses. The grad students. I remembered the ice in Jonathan’s eyes. I stood in the hallway, shaking from head to toe. He knew better than anyone what this job meant to me. Over the last three years, I had turned down fellowships in Boston and London, passing up incredible career opportunities just so I could stay at this specific hospital—because it was a ten-minute drive from his university. And now, to protect his new life, he was burning mine to the ground. I pulled my phone back out, my fingers numb, and scrolled to a contact I had ignored for years. I hit dial. “I just resigned,” I said the second the line connected. “Is that position in your department still open?” The voice on the other end erupted in immediate, undisguised relief. “Of course it is! I’ve been holding it for you, Marina. Just say the word. Actually, I’m in town right now, I can come pick you up—” Before the sentence finished, the phone was violently ripped from my hand. Jonathan stood there, his grip bruising my wrist, his jaw tight with anger. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded. “You’re trying to leave me?” His tone suddenly shifted, dropping into that manipulative, soft cadence he used to use when I was crying over negative pregnancy tests. “Look, I know I handled the Bella situation badly. I should have told you.” He stepped closer, trying to pull me into his chest. “But you went too far today, Marina. That’s my son. How could you hurt a baby?” I jerked my arm free with so much force my shoulder popped. I looked at him like he was a piece of trash stuck to my shoe. “Where I go is none of your business, Mr. Mercer. We aren’t legally married, remember? We’re strangers.” The words hit him. A flash of genuine pain crossed his features, and he softened his voice even more. “Marina, please. Do we have to make this so ugly?” he pleaded. “Bella was just a surrogate to me. You’re the woman I love. You’ve always been the one.” He reached for me again. “I’ll buy her a house in the suburbs. I’ll make sure she never comes near you again. You get to be the mother. Just… don’t leave me, okay?” The sheer audacity of his delusion left me breathless. But before I could even formulate a response, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed down the linoleum corridor. Three of his students came sprinting around the corner, looking terrified. “Professor Mercer! It’s bad!” one of them gasped. “Someone leaked everything on the university forum! They posted that Bella is the side piece and you manipulated your marriage documents… The Dean’s office just called her. They’re expelling her!” “She completely lost it, Professor! She took the baby and she’s threatening to jump off the parking garage!” I froze. Before my brain could even process the information, Jonathan lunged. He shoved me backward with a vicious, unthinking force. My back slammed against the concrete wall, and the back of my skull cracked sickeningly against the edge of a fire extinguisher cabinet. Pain exploded behind my eyes in a blinding flash of white. I crumpled to the floor. “Mag, how can you be so fucking evil?” Jonathan roared, standing over me. “Are you going to destroy both of us just to satisfy your own jealousy?!” Warm blood began to pool at the nape of my neck. My vision tunneled, the edges bleeding into black. The last thing I heard was the sound of his dress shoes sprinting away, and his voice echoing down the hall. “If anything happens to Bella or my son, I swear to God, I will kill you myself!” 4 The wound on the back of my head was bleeding freely, matting my hair. I pressed my hand to my skull, using the wall to drag myself upright. I stumbled blindly toward the exit. As I pushed through the doors to the adjacent parking structure, I heard the shrieks. Isabella was standing on the concrete ledge of the third floor, holding the infant, half her body leaning out into the open air. A crowd had already formed below, phones out, recording. “She ruined my life! I don’t want to live anymore!” Isabella screamed, making sure her voice carried to the onlookers. “The whole internet is calling me a whore! They’re calling my son a bastard! What’s the point of even being alive?!” She took a precarious step forward. Jonathan burst onto the scene, his face chalk-white. He threw himself onto the concrete, grabbing her leg. “Don’t do it!” he begged, his voice breaking. “Bella, please! Just step down. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just name it!” A flicker of pure, calculating malice flashed through Isabella’s tear-stained eyes. “Then I want her to tell the world the truth,” she demanded, pointing down at the crowd. “I want her to look into the cameras and admit that she is the mistress!” Jonathan didn’t hesitate for a single second. “Done! I’ll make her do it! Just step away from the ledge!” He scrambled up and whipped his head around, spotting me leaning heavily against the stairwell door. He didn’t care about the blood soaking my collar. He marched over, grabbed me by the upper arm, and dragged me toward his parked SUV. I fought him. I kicked and twisted, but my head was swimming, and I had no strength left. He shoved me into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “I told you that you were always going to be my wife!” he screamed, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. “Why couldn’t you just let it go?! Are you trying to force her into a coffin before you’re satisfied?!” He peeled out of the garage. “I’m calling a press conference right now at the hospital entrance. You are going to stand in front of those reporters and you are going to say that you made it all up. You are going to admit you’re the mistress.” He turned to look at me, his eyes dead and ruthless. “Or I call the nursing home and cancel the payments for your mother’s memory care unit. Today.” I stopped breathing. I stared at him, the man sitting in the driver’s seat, entirely unrecognizable from the boy I had loved. The memory of him kneeling beside my mother’s broken body, weeping, swearing on his life to protect us, overlaid with the monster sitting next to me now. He was willing to sentence the woman who had sacrificed her spine to save his life to state-run neglect, all to protect his lie. Hatred—pure, unadulterated, toxic hatred—snapped the last thread of my sanity. I threw myself across the console, grabbing him by the collar, clawing at his neck. “How could you do that to her?!” I screamed, my voice tearing my throat. “She saved your fucking life!” He didn’t flinch. He just held up his phone. He had already dialed the nursing home’s billing department. He looked at me, his finger hovering over the speaker button, an unspoken ultimatum hanging in the tense air. Do it, or she’s out on the street. A violent shiver ripped through my spine. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The fight drained out of me, leaving only a hollow, cavernous void. I closed my eyes. The tears finally spilled over, hot and humiliating. “Fine,” I whispered into the silence of the car. “I’ll do it.” The moment the SUV parked near the hospital’s main plaza, a swarm of local reporters and internet livestreamers descended on us like locusts. “Dr. Foster! Are the rumors about Professor Mercer’s infidelity true?” “Is Isabella Rossi the homewrecker who ruined your marriage?” The camera flashes were physically painful against my concussed brain. The blood on my neck felt sticky and cold. I stood in front of the microphones. I dug my fingernails so deeply into my palms that they broke the skin. I forced a hollow, agonizing smile. “Jonathan Mercer and I… have no legal relationship,” I said into the barrage of microphones. “Isabella Rossi is not a mistress.” The crowd quieted, hanging on my every word. “The rumors online… I made them up. I was jealous. I fabricated the entire story.” For two seconds, there was dead silence. Then, the mob erupted. “You psychotic bitch! How could you be so selfish?!” “You physically assaulted a pregnant woman and a newborn baby? You tried to destroy an innocent family? You shouldn’t even be allowed near a hospital!” “Revoke her medical license!” “Get out of here, you freak!” The shouting turned violent. Someone threw a half-empty iced coffee. Then came the crumpled food wrappers and trash. I raised my arms to shield my face, but there was nowhere to run. I was trapped against the side of the SUV. Thwack. A heavy stone, hurled from the back of the crowd, struck me dead in the forehead. The impact knocked me off balance. Blood immediately blinded my left eye. Through the blur of red and the screaming mob, I looked up. Standing on the periphery of the crowd, safely tucked under Jonathan’s arm, was Isabella. She was looking right at me. The smug, triumphant sneer on her face was unmistakable. Suddenly, a sharp, agonizing cramp ripped through my abdomen. Someone in the crush of the mob shoved me hard, and I hit the pavement knees-first. Another foot clipped my stomach as the crowd surged. I collapsed onto the asphalt. A terrifying heat bloomed between my legs. Blood—so much blood—began to pool on the gray concrete beneath me, soaking through my pants. The pain was a living thing, tearing me apart from the inside. I curled into a fetal position, my face pale as death, clutching my stomach. “Help me…” I gasped, looking up at Jonathan’s shoes. “Please… I’m pregnant…” Jonathan looked down at me from his towering height. His eyes were filled with nothing but profound disgust and disappointment. “Stop putting on a show, Mag,” he spat. “We both know you’re barren.” He turned his back on me, wrapped his arm carefully around Isabella’s waist, and walked away. I watched his retreating back as the edges of my vision rapidly collapsed into blackness. The pain was dragging me under. Right as I was about to slip into unconsciousness, a deep, authoritative voice cut through the chaos of the screaming mob. “Who the hell gave you permission to touch her?!” A second later, strong arms scooped me off the pavement, pulling me into a warm, solid chest. That evening, Jonathan was sitting in the living room of his new suburban house, gently rocking the baby while Isabella dozed on the couch. A courier knocked on the door and handed him a thick manila envelope. Still holding the baby in one arm, he broke the seal and pulled out the paperwork. He froze. All the color drained from his face in a violent rush.

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After I barely survived a horrific car crash, my husband brought his pregnant mistress to my hospital room to demand a divorce. That was what broke me. Stripped of every ounce of hope, I dragged my battered body up to the hospital roof. The wind whipped my hospital gown around my bruised legs. I just wanted it all to end. But right as I stepped up to the concrete ledge, ready to let gravity take me, a voice screamed from deep within my own abdomen. It was frantic. Familiar. It was Gemma. She yelled at me, her voice echoing right into my brain, furious that I would even consider throwing my life away. She told me she hadn’t died in that crushed metal of our car just so I could jump off a building. At first, I thought my grief had finally fractured my mind. The auditory hallucinations of a shattered woman. The thought that I would never see my best friend again twisted the knife in my chest, and the sorrow threatened to pull me over the edge. I shifted my weight forward. Then, that familiar, sharp voice rang out again. It wasn’t a hallucination. Gemma had been reborn, carrying all her memories, straight into the tiny, unborn life growing inside me. She told me things she couldn’t possibly know unless she had lived a life I hadn’t. She told me that in her previous timeline, Marvin, my cheating bastard of a husband, abandoned us for his mistress, leaving us with nothing. And then, he struck it rich. Seventy million dollars, won on a lottery ticket. Gemma remembered the exact numbers. She told me to get down from the ledge, buy that ticket, and focus on bringing her safely into the world. But she didn’t stop there. She told me Marvin had been embezzling from his own company. He’d hidden solid gold bars and stacks of hundred-dollar bills in the soil of the massive, imported planters on our balcony. She told me to clean him out before I signed any papers. Hearing that, the cold wind on the roof suddenly didn’t feel so chilling. The urge to die evaporated, replaced by a white-hot, diamond-hard resolve to live. I was going to survive. And I was going to ruin him. … I practically ran out of the hospital against medical advice, arriving back at our sprawling suburban house pale and out of breath. The housekeeper took one look at my bruised face and made herself scarce. I went straight to the master bedroom and locked the glass balcony doors behind me. I slipped on a pair of gardening gloves, grabbed a heavy metal trowel, and looked down at the slight bump of my stomach. “Gem, which one?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “That bastard is going to be home any minute. If I dig up the wrong one, we’re screwed.” From inside me, her voice bubbled up—crisp, sassy, and wonderfully alive. Maddie, swear to God, you have to trust me! The gold is buried under the two giant Fiddle-leaf figs in the far corner! Stop overthinking. Start digging. I drew in a sharp breath. I gripped the trowel. My hands were shaking. Not from fear. From pure, unadulterated adrenaline. Marvin had frozen my credit cards weeks ago to force my hand in the divorce. After the crash, he hadn’t spent a single night by my bedside, and he’d fought the hospital billing department over my emergency surgery. Now, he was openly parading his new girl through our life, trying to throw me out on the street with absolutely nothing. Did he really think Madeline Hayes was a doormat he could just wipe his expensive Italian shoes on? He was dead wrong. I knelt beside the massive, thriving Fiddle-leaf fig. I drove the trowel violently into the expensive potting soil. The stitches in my side pulled and burned. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead, but I didn’t care. Because an inch down, the metal of my trowel scraped against something dense and unyielding. Gemma wasn’t lying. I dug frantically, tearing up the roots. One. Two. Three… Ten bars in total. Small, heavy ingots, probably a hundred grams each. That was easily eighty thousand dollars right there. Jackpot. I moved to the largest planter, stabbing the soil until I hit metal. A lockbox. I pried it open to find tightly banded stacks of crisp US dollars. “How much is this?” I breathed. Roughly half a million, Gemma’s voice echoed. He skimmed it from his company’s offshore accounts. He was planning to take his little influencer girlfriend to Europe. Maddie, in the other timeline, you never even knew it existed. After he threw us out, you bounced between cheap motels with a newborn. You worked yourself to death. I had to grow up starving. Meanwhile, those two sociopaths lived like royalty on this cash and the seventy million from the lottery. My chest tightened, a suffocating heat rising in my throat. Marvin. You absolute monster. I gave him my best years, from college dorms to our wedding day. I worked three jobs to support him when his startup was bleeding money. When he broke his leg skiing, I bathed him. When I nearly died in a car crash, he brought his mistress to my hospital bed and hid half a million dollars in dirt so I would starve. Carefully, I transferred the heavy gold bars and the stacks of cash into a large leather backpack I’d pulled from the closet. “The box is empty,” I whispered, looking at the mess of spilled soil and exposed roots. “What about the holes? He’s going to know the second he steps out here.” If he caught me now, divorce would be the least of my worries. I probably wouldn’t make it out of this house alive. Mads, are you kidding me? Gemma scoffed in my mind. Take the soil from the Monstera plant next to it. Fill the holes, pack it down, arrange the decorative moss over it, and water it so the dirt settles. He’s so obsessed with his new girl right now, he’s not inspecting his houseplants! By the time he figures it out, we’ll be ghosts. Right. Panic was making me stupid. I moved fast, burying the empty lockbox at the very bottom of my backpack, moving the soil, smoothing it out, and wiping the rim of the ceramic pots with a damp towel. When I was done, I leaned against the brick wall of the balcony, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Standing on the edge of the hospital roof hadn’t terrified me this much. But stealing my own life back? It was the most intoxicating, terrifying thrill I had ever felt. Just then, I heard the heavy thud of the front door downstairs. Then came Marvin’s irritated voice, followed immediately by a sickly-sweet, high-pitched whine. “Marvin, babe, where did she go? She’s all banged up. You don’t think she actually jumped, do you?” It was Marvin and his shiny new toy, Brittany. My spine stiffened. My hand instinctively dropped to cradle my stomach. Breathe, Mads, Gemma commanded. Play the victim. Look like a woman who has completely given up. Make him think he’s won. Lower his guard. I quickly shoved the heavy backpack deep into the balcony storage bench and zipped it shut. I ran a hand through my hair, purposely tangling it. I rubbed at my pale face, letting my shoulders slump under the weight of an invisible defeat. Dragging my bruised leg, I limped slowly into the living room. Marvin looked up. There wasn’t a flicker of relief in his eyes when he saw I was alive. Only disgust. “Oh, you’re back,” he sneered, loosening his silk tie. “I honestly thought you might have actually had the guts to jump.” He picked up a manila folder from the glass coffee table and tossed it onto the floor at my feet. “Maddie, don’t make this harder than it has to be. Sign the papers. You leave with what you came with: nothing. Keep the kid, get rid of it, I don’t care. I’ll cover the hospital bills, but after this, we’re done.” Get rid of it? I stared at my stomach. Inside was not just my child, but the soul of the woman who died trying to save me. Even an animal protects its young, but Marvin… he was something entirely soulless. The hatred in my chest felt like swallowing glass, but I knew I had to swallow it down. Now was not the time. I slowly lifted my head, making sure my eyes looked entirely hollow. I channeled every ounce of grief I had felt on that roof. “Marvin,” I whispered, my voice breaking perfectly. “Seven years of marriage. Are you really going to leave me with nothing?” Marvin scoffed. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it right there in the living room, not even glancing at my pregnant belly. “We’re adults, Maddie. Don’t make a scene. Seven years? So what? We haven’t loved each other in years. Brittany is young, she’s vibrant, and she’s giving me a son. I need to do right by them.” He blew out a plume of smoke. “Who knows what you’re having. If it’s a girl, I’d just be losing money.” Oh, hell no. I am your worst nightmare, buddy! the little tenant in my womb raged. Mads, ignore him! Brittany isn’t even carrying his kid! It’s her personal trainer’s! In the other timeline, Marvin didn’t find out until the baby was born and looked nothing like him. They destroyed half the house fighting over it! A hysterical, bubbling laugh almost escaped my throat. I had to quickly drop my head, burying my face in my hands, letting my shoulders shake. To Marvin, it looked like I was sobbing uncontrollably. “Fine…” I choked out. I looked up, letting a single tear track down my cheek. “I’ll sign.” Marvin perked up, his eyes narrowing. “You want a payout? Because I’m telling you right now, the company is entirely illiquid. You’re not getting a dime.” “I don’t want your money.” I cut him off, my voice dead and flat. “I just want to pack my clothes. My skincare. I don’t want anything else from this house. I just want… to be completely done with you.” Marvin exhaled a long breath, a smug, contemptuous smile spreading across his face. “Smart girl. Go pack. I want you out by tonight. We’ll finalize everything at the courthouse tomorrow morning. Don’t keep us waiting.” I didn’t waste another breath on them. I turned and limped into the bedroom. I took the heavy backpack from the balcony, shoved it into the bottom of an old Samsonite suitcase, and piled my sweaters and expensive face creams on top of it. When I rolled the suitcase out into the living room, Marvin and Brittany were making out on the expensive leather sofa. Marvin pulled away, stood up, and reached for my suitcase. “Hold on. Let me make sure you aren’t walking out with the silverware.” My heart vaulted into my throat. Every muscle in my body tensed, preparing to bash his head in with a lamp and run. But Marvin unzipped the top, saw a pile of folded wool sweaters and half-empty moisturizer bottles, and curled his lip in disdain. “This is it? You’re taking this garbage? Don’t come crying to me later saying I didn’t let you pack.” I gave him a pitiful, broken smile. “No. Everything else here feels dirty now.” Marvin’s face darkened. “Get the hell out.” I dragged that impossibly heavy suitcase out the heavy oak door I had once thought would protect me forever. The second I hit the sidewalk, I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address for the Four Seasons downtown. Mads! You are a literal Oscar winner! Gemma cheered in my head. They are sitting on that couch thinking they won the lottery. Wait until he checks the dirt and realizes his golden egg is gone! His face is going to melt off! But listen, we have to move fast. Tomorrow, after the judge signs off, we go straight to the gas station. Seventy million dollars. We cannot miss that draw! I leaned back against the leather seat of the cab, watching the suburban streets blur past the window. My ribs ached, my head pounded, but the suffocating weight that had been crushing my chest for months was gone. Marvin thought he was taking out the trash. He had no idea he had just handed me the keys to the kingdom. That night, in a plush suite overlooking the city skyline, I ordered a ridiculous amount of room service—everything I used to deny myself to save money for Marvin’s business. As I ate, I listened to Gemma recount the nightmare of the previous timeline. After I jumped off the hospital roof in that life, Marvin hadn’t shed a single tear. Instead, he hired a PR firm to spin my death, claiming the grief of losing my best friend in the crash had driven me to severe depression. He played the tragic, devoted widower. His company’s stock skyrocketed. Brittany had taken my life insurance payout and bought herself limited-edition Birkin bags. They hadn’t even given me a proper funeral; they’d had me cremated and dumped the ashes somewhere off the highway. And Maddie… Gemma’s voice dropped, losing its usual snark. Before I died in the other timeline, I found out the car crash wasn’t an accident. Marvin tampered with the brakes. The silver fork in my hand snapped in half under my grip. “Gemma,” I whispered, resting my hand over my stomach. “I promise you. In this life, I will never let you down. I will never let you suffer. Everything Marvin and Brittany owe us, I will extract it from them, a thousand times over.” Damn right you will, Gemma replied fiercely. Tomorrow at the courthouse, they’re going to try to humiliate you. Just swallow it. The second we have that seventy million, we own them. Oh, and by the way… Brittany’s wearing a fake Chanel jacket tomorrow. If you bump into her, it literally leaves a dye stain. Just a heads up. I let out a wet, startling laugh. Death had apparently made my best friend even more savage. The next morning, the courthouse steps were bathed in sunlight. Marvin looked like a man who had just conquered the world, his hair slicked back, wearing a bespoke suit. Clinging to his arm was Brittany, her pregnant belly pushed out as far as it could go against a tight, beige designer-knockoff dress. When she saw me arriving alone, she immediately put a hand over her mouth in mock sympathy. “Oh, Maddie. You came all by yourself? No one to hold your hand? That is just so sad.” Marvin patted her waist, giving me a patronizing look. “Leave her alone, Brit. We don’t want her having another breakdown and finding a bridge to jump off.” He checked his Rolex. “Do you have your ID? Let’s get this over with, I have a board meeting.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked past them through the metal detectors. Signatures. Stamps. The cold finality of the judge’s gavel. The moment the divorce decree was handed over, Marvin let out a massive breath, as if shedding a physical weight. He looked down at Brittany. “You’re officially the new Mrs. Hayes.” Brittany giggled, going up on her tiptoes to kiss him, making sure I was watching. “Take care of yourself, Maddie,” she cooed. “If things get really desperate, give us a call. Marvin might be able to find you a job answering phones or something.” Marvin pulled his wallet out, extracted three crisp hundred-dollar bills, and casually dropped them onto the marble floor at my feet. “Here. For an Uber. Consider it severance pay. I don’t want anyone saying Marvin Hayes doesn’t take care of his exes.” The bills fluttered to the ground. People in the lobby turned to stare. Marvin and Brittany smirked, waiting for me to kneel and pick up his scraps. I looked down. Slowly, I bent over. Their smiles widened. I ignored the money, calmly retied my shoelace, and stood back up. Then, I planted the heel of my boot directly onto the bills and ground them into the dirty marble floor. “Keep it for your medical bills, Marvin,” I said softly, meeting his eyes. “You look a little pale. I’d watch my back if I were you.” Marvin’s face flushed red. “You ungrateful bitch!” Brittany shrieked, “Are you threatening him? You psycho!” I just smiled, turned on my heel, and walked out into the sunlight. Sitting in the back of my rideshare, my palms were sweating. “Gemma, what if he checks the planters today and realizes I took it?” Let him find out, she hummed. You signed the division of assets. It clearly states ‘personal effects belong to their respective parties.’ You packed your ‘personal effects.’ Can he prove the gold was his? It was embezzled, Maddie. It’s dirty money. Is he going to call the cops and report that someone stole the half-million dollars he hid from the IRS? I slapped my thigh. She was right. He couldn’t say a damn thing. He had to choke on it. Now, the most important task. I had the driver pull over at a rundown gas station on the edge of town. I walked up to the bulletproof glass. “Five Quick Picks for the Powerball, please.” NO! Maddie! Stop! Not a Quick Pick! Gemma screamed in my head. I know the numbers! Write them down! 03, 09, 17, 22, 30. Powerball 11. I blinked, quickly correcting myself. “Sorry, no. I have my own numbers.” When the clerk slid that thin strip of paper under the glass, it felt heavier than all the gold in my backpack. Seventy million dollars. “Gemma, are you absolutely sure?” I murmured as I walked back to the car. I would bet my soul on it, she said. In the other life, a construction worker bought those exact numbers and lost the ticket on the street. Marvin found it. That’s how he built his empire. We are not letting him have it this time. I was just opening the car door, a smile finally breaking across my face, when a hand violently snatched the ticket from my fingers. I spun around. It was Marvin.

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