Author: Momo Chan

My father gave me a choice: inherit the family’s $30 billion trust fund, or take a $1,500 monthly allowance. I chose the allowance without a second thought. I wasn’t worried. But my roommate Gerald was losing his mind. In my past life, I’d chosen to inherit the $30 billion — and Gerald had used my family trust to take our entire class on a trip to Las Vegas. In a single night, he blew through every cent. The family business went bankrupt, and my father, overcome with rage, died of a heart attack. I went to Gerald and demanded he pay it back. He just hid behind my girlfriend Monica, looking sorry for himself. “Dallas, you can’t blame me just because your family went broke.” Monica kicked me so hard she cracked my ribs, then pointed her finger at me. “Dallas, you’re the one who threw it all away gambling. And now you’re framing Gerald? Have you no shame?” When I tried to hire a private investigator to look into it, Gerald ran me over with his car. Monica and every single classmate testified on his behalf, swearing I’d thrown myself at the vehicle on purpose. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I had to make my choice.

It was the week before graduation. Gerald stood up in class and proposed a trip to Las Vegas to celebrate. “Everyone, let’s hit Vegas before we graduate — my treat, all expenses covered!” His words sent a shiver down my spine. The memory of shattering bones hadn’t quite faded yet. That’s when it hit me. I’d been reborn. The moment Gerald said it, the whole class erupted. “That’s what we’re talking about — old money!” “If we’re going to Vegas, we have to hit the casino! I’ve seen the ads forever but never actually been!” Gerald flashed his most dazzling smile. “Then the casino it is!” Then his gaze drifted to me. He walked over and draped an arm around my shoulder. “Dallas, I heard the Franklin family has a VIP card at the casino. Lend it to us, man. Let everyone get the full five-star treatment.” My expression went cold. In my past life, everything had started the moment Gerald asked for that card. He’d used it as a pretense to quietly pocket the Zurich Bank card tied to my father’s $30 billion trust fund. It wasn’t until a court clerk called my phone to inform me the company had filed for bankruptcy that I realized the money Gerald had been throwing around all night was my family’s trust fund. When I showed up at Gerald’s place to demand repayment, he hid behind Monica with the most pitiful look on his face. “Dallas, you can’t blame me just because your family went bankrupt.” My girlfriend Monica kicked me so hard she cracked my ribs, then screamed at me. “Dallas, you’re the one who gambled it all away. Now you’re trying to pin it on Gerald? You’re disgusting!” When I tried to hire a private investigator, Gerald got in his car and drove straight at me — running me over again and again until I stopped breathing. Afterward, Monica and every classmate testified that my family had gone under and I’d snapped. That I’d thrown myself in front of the car on purpose. My father had also passed away from a heart attack brought on by the stress of it all. I reached mechanically into my bag. My fingertips found the cold metal of the card. I wrapped my hand around it tight. When I didn’t respond, Gerald grinned and hooked his arm around my neck. “Dallas, come on. Let us borrow it for a bit. It’s not like you’re losing anything!” “Sorry, that card belongs to my father. I can’t just lend it out.” I pushed the VIP card back to the bottom of my bag. Gerald’s smile dropped. “You’re going to inherit your dad’s company sooner or later anyway. Why are you keeping score between family?” Monica snatched my bag and turned it upside down. Everything spilled across the floor — my phone, my Switch, my tablet. She spotted the gold card instantly, picked it up, and held it out to Gerald. “There it is. Just take it.” When Gerald took it, his fingers lingered over Monica’s hand. “Monica always gets it. Dallas, you could really learn something from her.” Then something else caught his eye. He stared at the console on the floor. “Wait, is that a Switch 2? I heard those sold out everywhere. I’ve been trying to get one forever.” Monica caught the look in his eyes and bent down to pick it up, pressing it into Gerald’s arms. “Take that too. Dallas is obviously done with it.” “Thanks, Monica.” Gerald’s face lit up. I grabbed both — the console and the card — right out of his hands. “Sorry. Neither of those are available.” Monica’s expression curdled. She grabbed my arm. “Dallas, when did you get so petty?” “Petty?” I turned and slapped her across the face.

The crack of the slap rang through the classroom. Monica stumbled back two steps, her hand flying to her cheek, her carefully styled bangs falling loose. Her eyes went wide, like she couldn’t believe what had just happened. The rhinestones on her nails caught the sunlight. “Dallas! You actually hit me!” Her shriek was like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. I shook out my stinging hand. “That’s for overstepping. What gave you the right to hand my things to someone else?” The classroom exploded. “Dallas, have you lost it?” “It’s just a game console — seriously?” “He hit his own girlfriend!” “Rich kids think they can do anything!” Gerald rushed to steady Monica, then turned on me. “Dallas, Monica was just trying to do something nice for everyone. What is your problem?” I picked my things up off the floor and calmly tucked the VIP card into my pocket. “My position is simple. Not lending it.” Monica shook Gerald off and charged at me. “Dallas! Give that card to Gerald right now and apologize to both of us, or we’re done. I don’t want a boyfriend who’s this small-minded!” “Give it back? It was mine to begin with. Give it back to who, exactly?” I stepped past her reach. A small smile tugged at my lips. “If you want to break up, fine. Saves me a breakup gift.” That set her off completely. Monica was shaking. “You — you think I care about your money?” “Don’t care about it?” I glanced at the Cartier watch on her wrist. “Then hand back the birthday present I got you last week.” Her face went white. Her free hand instinctively moved to cover the watch. The looks on everyone’s faces around us turned complicated. Class president Rafael shoved back his chair and slammed his hand on the desk. “Dallas, you’re being completely selfish! Gerald is paying for everyone to go to Vegas and you can’t do one thing for the group?” “Exactly,” other voices piled on. “Always acted so laid-back, but when it matters he shows his real colors.” I looked around the room. Familiar faces, but strangers to me now. These were the same people who’d stood in a courtroom in my past life and said I’d killed myself. “Gerald’s taking you to Vegas. Go ask Gerald for what you need. Why are you coming to me?” Gerald stepped forward again. “If we use your VIP card, all our spending counts toward your points and moves you up a tier. It’s a win for everyone.” Monica pressed close to Gerald’s side. The pain in her cheek seemed to have disappeared entirely. “He’s so thoughtful. Even after how Dallas just acted, Gerald’s still looking out for him.” “Since everyone wants to go to Vegas so badly…” I reached into my wallet and slowly pulled out a card. “Fine. Here.” Gerald’s face lit up. He reached for it. I flipped it over. It was a campus meal card. “Are you messing with me?” Gerald’s face darkened. “Right back at you.” I flipped the card through my fingers. “Isn’t that exactly what you were doing to me — trying to guilt me into it?” Monica grabbed the box of chalk off the teacher’s desk and hurled it at me. “Dallas! I must have been blind to ever get involved with you!” I stepped aside. Chalk scattered across the floor.

When Gerald realized I wasn’t giving up the card, his expression went dark. He signaled to the guys around him. A handful of them moved to surround me almost immediately. “Dallas.” Gerald dropped his voice, his eyes turning cold. “Don’t push this. It’s just a card. Do you really want to make this ugly?” I held my bag in front of me. “What — when borrowing doesn’t work, you try taking it?” “Taking it? We’re just helping you come to your senses.” Rafael shoved me from behind. I stumbled and hit the edge of a desk. My bag fell, everything scattering across the floor again. Monica stood off to the side with a smirk. “Serves you right.” A few guys kicked my textbooks aside. One of them deliberately stepped on my Switch. The screen cracked with a sharp snap. “What are you doing?!” I pushed back to my feet, but someone pressed down hard on both my shoulders. “Relax, Dallas.” Gerald smiled, reaching toward my pocket. “We’re all classmates here. What’s the big deal about a card?” I knocked his hand away. “Back off.” That did it. Gerald’s expression turned ugly. He grabbed me by the collar. “So you want to do this the hard way, huh?” The people around us didn’t step in. They egged it on. “Hit him! What’s having money got him?” “It’s a card. Get over yourself.” Gerald cocked back his fist and swung at my face. I turned my head. His punch missed. I grabbed his wrist and twisted. “Ah!” He let out a sharp cry and staggered back. Monica screamed. “Dallas! You’re going to hit him now too?!” She lunged at me. I pushed her back and pulled out my phone, dialing 911. “I’m on the third floor of Building 5 at Whinston University. Someone is attempting to rob me, damaging my property, and assaulting me.” Monica’s face went pale. She threw herself at me. “Are you insane?!” She ripped the phone from my hand and, without a second thought, hurled it out the window. It hit the pavement below and the screen exploded. The classroom went dead silent. But what no one expected was that in less than ten minutes, they heard sirens from the street below. When the officers walked in, Gerald and Monica went white. “Who called this in?” The lead officer looked around the room. “I did.” I raised my hand. “They took my belongings and threw my phone out the window.” The officer looked at everything on the floor, then at my cracked Switch, then at the shattered phone on the ground below. His brow furrowed. “What happened here?” Gerald immediately put on his most innocent face. “Officer, this is a huge misunderstanding. We were just messing around!” Monica was right behind him. “Exactly, just friends goofing off. It’s nothing!” The other students backed them up one by one. I looked around calmly. Same as my past life. Every single one of them. The officer’s expression didn’t change. “Throwing a phone, assault — this is what you call goofing off?” Mr. Tim, our professor, came rushing in with a stormy look on his face. “What on earth is going on in here?!” The officer gave him a quick rundown. Mr. Tim listened, then turned to Gerald with a hard stare. “You again.” Gerald tried to argue, but the evidence was right there on the floor. In the end, under police oversight, Gerald and Monica were made to reimburse me for the phone and the Switch, and to apologize in front of the class. As we left the office, Monica grabbed my arm and hissed through her teeth. “Dallas. You’ll regret this.” I looked at the rage twisting her face and, for some reason, I laughed. “I’ll be waiting.” When I got back to the dorm to pack, I noticed someone had gone through my things. But nothing was missing, so I let it go. I’d barely stepped off campus when a black Maybach pulled up in front of me. “Mr. Dallas, your father has urgent business. He needs you home.” The family butler, Mr. Johnson, didn’t wait for a response. He pulled me straight into the car. That evening, my father slid two documents across the table. Behind his gold-framed glasses, his eyes were sharp as a blade. “Dallas. This is your last chance to choose. The $30 billion family trust fund — or a $1,500 monthly allowance.” “The full amount has already been deposited into your Zurich Bank account. Sign the papers and the money is yours. The business is yours.” The crystal chandelier in the boardroom scattered harsh light behind my father. I squinted. For a moment I was back there — headlights coming straight at me, the sound of bones breaking under tires. Gerald’s grin as I died was still fresh in my memory. “I’ll take the $1,500 a month.”

I pulled the document on the right side of the table toward me and signed my name. My father’s pen hit the hardwood with a sharp clack. He shot to his feet. “Have you lost your mind?” I looked up at him and smiled. “I’m still young. I don’t have enough experience. I’m not ready to manage something the size of a $30 billion fund.” “Besides — you’re in great health, Dad. I’ve got time to learn.” My father studied me for a long moment without saying a word. “If you take the $1,500, that’s all you get. Not a cent more per month. You’re sure about this?” I nodded again to confirm. He could see I meant it. His voice came out flat. “Johnson. Freeze Dallas’s Zurich Bank card.” The next morning, I fished out the two fake cards Gerald had swapped in and tossed them in the trash. Then I followed him and the others out to Las Vegas. My father was a regular at this casino. He’d brought me here more than once. Even the guys at the door knew my face. The manager jogged over to greet me. “Mr. Dallas, you’re on your own today?” “I heard some of my classmates were here. Figured I’d come take a look.” He nodded along eagerly. “A group of young people did come in this morning, actually. So those were your classmates, Mr. Dallas! Had I known, we’d have made sure they were taken care of properly.” I waved it off. “It’s fine. Just show me to them.” He pressed a stack of ten chips into my palm with a grin. “These are on me, Mr. Dallas. Enjoy yourself.” I tossed one in the air and caught it. Each chip was worth a hundred thousand dollars. I smiled and took them. The main floor of the casino was blazing with lights, loud and electric with energy. The moment I walked in, someone at Gerald’s table spotted me. Then came the laughter. “Well, look who it is.” Gerald swirled a champagne flute, the diamond cufflinks at his wrist glinting in the light. “Mr. Dallas, heir to the Franklin fortune. Change your mind about joining us?” Monica was leaning against him, fresh rhinestones on her nails tapping the stack of chips in front of her. “Should have just lent us the VIP card when we asked. Now you show up like this…” She drew out the pause. “Don’t tell me you’re here to apologize?” “Probably just jealous seeing us playing big,” Rafael called out, slapping the table with a laugh. “Little late to figure out which side to be on, don’t you think?” I unbuttoned my jacket and took a seat at the next table over. The dealer was about to start when Gerald kicked back his chair and swaggered over. A cloud of cheap cologne mixed with cigarettes and alcohol hit me before he arrived. “Drop the act.” He threw a stack of chips down on my table with a crash, the pieces rolling to my side. “Get on your knees and maybe I’ll let you play with a few of these.” The casino manager moved toward us. I raised a hand to stop him and gently nudged the chips back across the felt. “Gerald — you know why casinos put carpet on the floors?”

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Just because my uncle Keita’s first love jumped off a building, and I was the last person to see her before she did. Keita decided I was the one who killed his first love, Louise. He hated me for ten years because of it. Later, on the way to take me to pay respects at Louise’s grave, we got into a car accident. Keita threw himself in front of me to shield me. He died from his injuries. With the last of his strength, just before he passed, he said to me: “Sophia, I regret ever taking you in.” Keita’s parents broke down at the funeral: “You bitch! First you killed your mother, now you’ve killed my son!” So on a clear night, I walked into the ocean and let it take me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back, three days before Louise jumped. This time, I decided to walk away and let everyone have the life they wanted. I was reborn. Sent back to three days before Louise jumped. The smell of him reached me before the slap did. The crack of his palm against my face snapped me back to my senses. Keita stood in front of me, his expression hard, his hand still raised. “Sophia, what are you saying? I’m your uncle!” “When your mother left you in my care, I raised you like my own. If I’ve somehow given you the wrong impression—” “Keita, I’m sorry!” I cut him off, ignoring the burning pain spreading across my cheek. Looking at that cool, serious face in front of me — I understood. I was reborn. In my past life, when the car crash hit, Keita had thrown himself around me with everything he had. He died from his injuries. Just before the end, his pale lips parted, and he said each word slowly: “Sophia, I truly regret taking you in.” Then his eyes closed forever. I stood there, frozen, his parents’ crying filling my ears. Keita’s mother stared at his cold body and wept until she couldn’t breathe. She pointed a finger in my face and screamed: “You bitch! Wasn’t it enough to kill your own mother? You had to kill my son too!” “Give Keita back to me!” Keita’s father shoved me hard. I stumbled and fell to the ground. Dead. My Keita, the person I loved most, was dead. “Keita, you’ve got it wrong!” “I lost a bet at school today. They dared me to confess to the person I cared about most.” “You’ve always been the only one I have, so I just…” Keita blinked, then let out a slow breath. He looked at me, somewhere between exasperated and relieved. “Don’t joke around like that again.” I nodded, doing my best to look innocent and harmless. “I’m sorry. Does it still hurt?” Keita reached out and gently touched the cheek he’d just slapped. In my past life, I would have leaned into his hand and fished for comfort. But now my heart felt completely still. If anything, I felt a quiet sadness. I would never forget that Keita had used his dying breath to tell me he regretted taking me in. So this time around, I was going to give him the life he actually wanted. “It’s fine. I took the joke too far. I won’t do it again.” I shook my head and stepped back. Keita’s hand hung in the air for a moment, then retreated into his pocket. “By the way, this weekend is Louise’s birthday. Come with me to drop off a gift.” “I’ll introduce you to my friend.” Just a friend? If I remembered correctly, three days from now was Louise’s birthday — and her death anniversary. In my past life, I watched Louise climb over the railing of her terrace and fall. She was gone before she hit the ground. Because I was the last person to see Louise before she died, Keita decided I was responsible for her death. No matter how I tried to explain, he refused to believe me. What he never knew was that Louise had died because her plan had fallen apart — because of me — and she had taken her own life out of shame and rage. In my past life, Louise had invited Keita to her birthday party. At the party, she slipped something into his drink. What she hadn’t counted on was that I happened to be resting in a back room. One thing led to another, and I became the one who unknowingly helped Keita through it. By the time Louise rushed to the back room, what was done was done. Knowing her plan had failed, she stormed up to the roof terrace, consumed by humiliation. When I got there, she already had one leg over the railing. “Sophia, you filthy little home-wrecker! You ruined everything between me and Keita — I’ll make him hate you for the rest of his life!” The words had barely left her mouth before she let go. When Keita came to, he was convinced I had drugged him and driven Louise to her death. He hated me for ten years after that. No matter how many times I tried to tell him the truth, he refused to hear it. Fine. Then I’d give him what he wanted. “Sorry, Keita, I have a school event this weekend. I’m needed to help out.” “I won’t be able to make it — please wish Louise a happy birthday from me.” I turned and walked out of the study, so I didn’t see the shadow that passed across Keita’s face.

Back in my room, I finally let myself breathe. Looking at myself — whole, unharmed — my feelings twisted into something I couldn’t name. I’d been called a jinx my whole life. They said my birth killed my grandmother. That at three years old, I caused my father’s accident on the highway. My mother couldn’t take the whispers anymore. She packed us up and left, just the two of us, and came to New York. She worked three jobs so I could have a better life. It didn’t take long. The exhaustion wore her down, and one day she simply didn’t wake up. I didn’t understand what that meant then. I only knew I couldn’t wake my mother no matter how hard I tried, and I went two days without eating, alone in that apartment. On the third day, a line of luxury cars pulled up outside our building. A young man in a suit got out and dropped to one knee in front of me. His eyes were full of something that looked like heartbreak. He pulled me — half-starved and barely conscious — into his arms. “Sophia, will you come with me?” It wasn’t until I was older that I understood what had happened. My mother was gone. Keita had taken me in. I asked him why. He told me that when he was fifteen, enemies had kidnapped him and left him in the countryside. My mother — a woman with nothing but her bare hands — had pulled him out of that field and saved his life. The Keita family had spent years trying to track her down. By the time they found my hometown, she had already moved away. They followed the trail all the way back to New York. But my mother was already gone. She never got to see anyone return the favor. So Keita took me in. He treated my mother like an older sister, and had me call him Uncle. I never imagined that, on the day he died, he would tell me he regretted it. Maybe I really was the jinx they all said I was. Everyone who got close to me ended up hurt. Then why did fate send me back? Someone like me, a walking curse — I should have just stayed dead. Maybe the only reason I was given a second chance was to finally take my life into my own hands. I stayed at school all the way through Sunday evening. By then, I figured Keita had gone to celebrate Louise’s birthday. So I felt safe going home. I didn’t expect Keita to be there. He was sprawled on the couch, reeking of alcohol, completely out of it. I walked over and shook his shoulder. Nothing. Strange. Wasn’t he supposed to be at Louise’s, falling into bed with her? Or had they already… Never mind. None of that was my business anymore. I called for the housekeeper, and together we helped Keita back to his room. I had no idea how much he’d drunk. In my memory, Keita had only ever been this far gone once — the day Louise died. He’d drowned himself in alcohol trying to kill the grief. Louise was his first love. She’d gone abroad to study a few years back. I used to see a photo of the two of them on his nightstand. I glanced over at it now. There was only a lamp there. Nothing else. Keita was a man who loved deeply. After Louise died, he brought me to her grave every year on the anniversary of her death. He would press my head down in front of the headstone and force me to apologize. But it wasn’t my fault she died. So why should I apologize? I would rather have died than bow my head, and we stayed at that standoff for ten years. Keita’s hatred never faded. Then came another anniversary. The sky was gray and it was raining hard. Keita insisted on making the drive to the cemetery, nearly forty miles away. And then the accident happened. When the crash hit, Keita threw himself over me without thinking. I walked away with minor injuries. He didn’t walk away at all. His parents, shattered with grief, threw me out. Now I stood looking at Keita’s flushed face, and all I could manage was a bitter smile. I turned to go back to my room. Keita’s hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Drunk as he was, his grip was iron. I lost my footing and stumbled into him. Keita half-opened his eyes and pulled me against his chest. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, I could feel the heat radiating off him. “Don’t leave me…” I lay there against him, listening to his heartbeat pound like a drum. “I’m sorry…” His grip didn’t loosen, and he kept murmuring things that didn’t quite make sense. Drunk people are the hardest to reason with. Maybe I just wanted one last moment of his warmth. I stopped fighting and let him hold me. Slowly, the tiredness crept in, and with Keita’s arms around me, I fell asleep. It’s just a hug, I told myself. Nothing will come of it.

I jolted awake the next morning. The other side of the bed had already gone cold. Keita was long gone. Good. At least we wouldn’t have to stare at each other across the sheets. When I was little, Keita used to hold me while I slept sometimes. I was terrified of thunder. One night during a bad storm, I hugged a pillow and hovered outside his bedroom door, working up the nerve to knock. Before I could, a crack of thunder scared the tears right out of me. Keita heard me crying and opened the door immediately. He carried me inside, held me close, and told me I could always come to him when I was scared. Keita was so good to me. He took care of everything, paid attention to everything. He made me feel like the most important person in the world. And because of that, I started to feel things I shouldn’t have. I became dependent on him. Possessive, even. And in the end, he used his dying breath to tell me he regretted taking me in. Let it go. That was a different life. This time, I was going to live for myself. Louise’s birthday came and went. Nothing happened. Everything stayed quiet. I felt a private wave of relief. As long as Louise was okay, Keita wouldn’t get into that accident. And if Keita didn’t get into that accident, there was no reason for me to stay. It was time to go. I started researching schools abroad. I wanted to study overseas. Keita was my legal guardian, and some of the paperwork for studying abroad required his signature. Once I had everything quietly prepared, I went to find him in his study. After all these years, I knew his habits by heart. Around nine at night, he usually worked late in the study. I made my way there alone and found the door slightly ajar. Louise’s voice drifted through the gap. “Keita, after what happened that night, are you really just going to pretend it didn’t?” My heart dropped. I thought back to how Keita had acted that night — the drinking, the things he’d said. Had he and Louise actually… “Louise, calm down. If something did happen, I’ll take responsibility. I mean that.” Keita’s voice was steady. “Right now, Sophia is in her senior year. I don’t want anything disrupting her before her SATs.” “But she’s not even your real niece. Once she turns eighteen, you’re not legally obligated to do anything for her.” Their voices were tense. Sharp. This was the first time I’d ever heard Keita and Louise argue, and it was about me. Should I have been grateful? Keita was willing to keep me around until I turned eighteen. “She turns eighteen in two months. By then, I’ll find a reasonable way to send her off.” My chest went cold. Even in this life — even though I’d already let him go — he was still going to get rid of me for Louise’s sake. If that was how it was always going to end, then I’d rather be the one to leave first. He wouldn’t need to bother finding a polite excuse. I’d take care of it myself.

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My daughter Alice had been trafficked by my foster brother Valencia. My wife Angel — a decorated police officer — turned him in without hesitation. Five years. Six interrogations. Valencia walked free every single time. After the seventh review came back empty, she dragged herself home, exhausted down to the bone. “There’s no evidence linking it to him,” she said. “Let’s just try for another baby.” I held her and cried through the whole night. The next morning, I threw Valencia into a pit I’d dug myself, and went live. I smiled into the camera. “Angel, you have five chances. Hand over the evidence you’ve been hiding. Otherwise…” I tossed a shovelful of dirt straight into his face. “You can come identify the body yourself.” Three minutes in, the viewer count was closing in on half a million. On camera: the outskirts of town, a stretch of wasteland, a freshly dug rectangular pit. Valencia was bound with rope, a rag stuffed in his mouth, lying at the bottom of the hole. I stood at the edge in a black jacket, face blank, a shovel and a mound of fresh dirt at my feet. And on the other side of that screen, the person who couldn’t breathe — the woman everyone called a legend — was my wife. Head of the Criminal Investigation Division. Angel. “Endrick! Stop it right now! What the hell is wrong with you?! Whatever this is, we can talk about it at home!” She was in full uniform, screaming at the camera. I watched her face on the big screen — all that panic — and let the corner of my mouth twitch. “Home? Angel, I don’t have a home anymore. Right now, all I want is the evidence.” The comment section was losing its mind: [Holy shit! This opening is INSANE! Is he actually going to bury this guy alive?] [Wait — his wife is THE Angel? The detective who cracked like a hundred major cases?? What is he doing?? Has he lost it??] [Setting aside everything else — this guy is livestreaming the kidnapping of a cop’s brother. That takes guts.] [This is kidnapping. This is a CRIME. “Guts”?? Someone call 911!!] The one-sided condemnation seemed to loosen something in Angel’s posture. She straightened up and switched into full professional mode. “Endrick! Alice’s case — all the evidence pointed to the trafficker who died in that accident!” “The case is closed! I don’t understand what more you want!” “Stop what you’re doing right now! Release Valencia! For the sake of our marriage, I’ll get you the best attorney money can buy!” I didn’t say a word. I just quietly bent down, grabbed the shovel, and scooped up a heap of wet dirt tangled with grass roots. Then I flicked my wrist, and the clump hit Valencia square in the face. He turned into a mud-caked mess, thrashing wildly at the bottom of the pit, letting out muffled, desperate wails. Angel’s expression froze solid. I drove the shovel into the ground with a heavy thud. “Angel, you think this is a game to me?” She went pale, her finger pointing at the screen, lips trembling. “You — you wouldn’t dare—” I pulled a small USB drive from my pocket and held it up to the camera. “One.” I raised a single finger. “Angel, it’s been five years. You handed me six ‘flawless’ case reports. Now you get six chances. That’s fair.” “That encrypted folder on your computer — the one protected by your badge number — upload everything in it. No edits, no deletions. Put it online.” “Each chance comes with one hour.” “If I don’t see it when that hour’s up…” I scooped another shovelful of dirt and let it fall into the pit, burying Valencia’s ankles. “…I’ll finish filling this hole.” [??? An encrypted folder?? Her own badge number as the password?? There is SO much going on here!] [Wait — how does he even know about the folder? This is genuinely terrifying the more you think about it.] [She’s a detective. Of course she has confidential files. This guy is just looking for a fight.] [Exactly. He’s clearly always been jealous of her and her brother. He’s using their daughter as an excuse to get revenge. Men can be so twisted.] The department’s official account posted an emergency notice: [Sir, your actions are in serious violation of the law. We have located you and officers are on their way. Stand down immediately.] Amateur hour. I’d had a friend set up IP masking for me. The signal had bounced through eighteen layers of the dark web. Their tech team wasn’t cracking that anytime soon. The minutes ticked by. The police made zero visible progress, cycling through the same warnings on the public feed over and over. Viewers flooded the department’s official account demanding action. Eventually, the department posted another update — claiming their technical team was working at full capacity, and warning me not to get comfortable. I checked my watch. Then I jumped down into the pit, pinned his hand under my boot, and raised the shovel over his palm. “Mmmph—!” Valencia’s eyes went wide with terror. He shook his head frantically. I brought it down without expression. Crack. A clean, sharp sound — the snap of bone — came through the mic and spread across every screen in the feed. I took a slow breath and raised the shovel again, this time over Valencia’s face. Just before it came down — “Stop!” Angel’s voice cracked. The veins along her temples were standing out. “I’ll give it to you! I’ll give it to you! Don’t touch him!”

A document appeared on the livestream a moment later. The title read: Analysis Report on Alice’s Psychological Profile and Assessment of Runaway Risk. I skimmed it. Just as I suspected — something I’d never seen before. The report had been issued by a well-known psychiatric institute. Dozens of pages, dense and official-looking. It described Alice as a child with severe Oppositional Defiant Disorder, and “scientifically” concluded that there was a 90% probability she had run away on her own. I read one line, and brought the shovel down on Valencia’s face. CRACK. The sharp edge connected hard. Valencia’s scream tore through the wasteland. Blood poured from his nose and the corner of his mouth. A few teeth came loose, dropping into the dirt mixed with red. “Endrick!” Angel slammed her fist on the table so hard the camera shook. “I gave you what you asked for! What the hell do you want now?!” I zoomed in on the report and held it up so everyone watching could read it clearly. “You think every person watching this is an idiot?” “Alice scored top of her class on every single test. And now you’re telling me she had a psychological disorder?” I cut the display and stared cold into the camera. “Angel, don’t insult me with garbage like this. It won’t work.” Angel went another shade paler. The comment section erupted: [I mean, isn’t the report scientifically valid? Mental health issues and academic performance aren’t related. Plenty of gifted kids have behavioral disorders.] [Detective Angel’s professional record is nationally recognized! What do YOU know about psychology?] [Let him go! Just let him go! This guy has completely lost it. He’s being completely unreasonable.] I smiled and glanced at my watch. “Sweetheart. You have four hours left.” Angel pressed both hands flat on the table, eyes locked on mine. “That report is what the case is. What exactly do you think I’m hiding?” “You know what.” I held her gaze just as hard. “If you actually care about Valencia as much as you say you do, stop wasting his time.” Angel’s jaw tightened. “If I really wanted to deceive you, did I need to spend five years on this myself?! I could’ve closed the case on any excuse I wanted!” I tilted my chin up slightly. “Which only tells me that what you wanted wasn’t just a closed case.” The hate online was torrential. Comment after comment calling me ungrateful, saying I was throwing away a devoted and dutiful wife. The department’s negotiators started rotating through different accounts, sending me private messages, gentle and persistent, trying to talk me down. I ignored all of it. I sat at the edge of the pit, tapping the ground with the shovel, over and over. “Time’s up.” I stood. Valencia stared up at me, eyes stretched wide with terror. “Endrick!” A voice — elderly, sharp, commanding — cut through the feed. I spun around. There, in front of the camera, was a woman in a dress. Older, but sharp-eyed and upright. “Meredith?” My mother-in-law. Angel’s mother.

“Meredith. What are you doing here?” My mother-in-law stood in front of the camera, leaning on her cane, her face a portrait of disappointment. “Child, how can you be so thoughtless?” “Angel has barely been home these past five years because of Alice’s case. Can’t you just make things a little easier for her?” I almost couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So you’re saying I’m the one being unreasonable?” She sighed and struck the floor with her cane. “There are bigger things at stake here. Think about appearances! The way you’re carrying on — how is Angel supposed to hold her head up at work after this?” “No — you’re the ones who are completely unreasonable!” I pointed at the camera, my composure starting to crack. “That was my daughter! She wasn’t a tool for your family to cash in on for status and career advancement!” “A living person is gone, and you’re here talking to me about the bigger picture?” “When Angel was pregnant, it was YOU who said a girl was a waste, who told her she had to have a son!” “And now that Alice is gone, this is how you treat me?” Meredith’s face went red. Then the fury hit. “You — you’re talking nonsense! This is completely outrageous!” I laughed. I reached down and yanked the rag out of Valencia’s mouth. “Hel—” He barely got a sound out before I picked up a bag of quicklime sitting nearby, tore a slit in it, and held it over his battered, blood-soaked face. “Valencia,” I said, my voice quiet and cold. “Do you remember — three days before Alice disappeared, five years ago — why you went with Angel to the clinic for that procedure?” Valencia’s crying stopped instantly. His pupils contracted to pinpoints. Meredith leaned in close to the camera. Her voice was unsteady. “You — you’re making wild accusations! When did Valencia and Angel ever go to a clinic like that?!” Valencia caught up a second later and started screaming. “You’re lying! I never did that! Mom, he’s lying!” I stared into the screen. “So you’re vouching for him too?” She flinched, then quickly rebuilt her righteous expression. “Endrick! Baseless accusations like this will only add to your charges!” I let out a cold laugh and checked the time. “You’ve burned through two chances.” “Third chance. One hour. Clock starts now.” I sat back down and traced slow circles in the dirt with the shovel. Angel paced in front of the camera, going back and forth, whispering urgently with Meredith. With ten minutes left, I started counting down out loud. “Five hundred and forty… five hundred and thirty-nine…” “There is nothing to find! What do you want from me?!” Angel was coming apart. The comments raged alongside her: [She would’ve handed it over already if it existed! He’s trying to force her to fabricate evidence so he can destroy her career!] [Exactly! What kind of father is this? How does he deserve a child?] [Absolutely vile. This broke my whole view of people.] “Ten… nine…” “Endrick!!” “Eight… seven…” “Endrick, snap out of it!” “Six…” “Daddy!” A small, childlike voice drove itself into my chest like a blade. My whole body locked up. I shot to my feet. A little girl, five or six years old, appeared on screen, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. “Alice…”

“Daddy!” On camera, a little girl who looked just like my daughter, crying like her heart was breaking. “Alice, how are you here? You were taken — you were gone.” My mind went blank. This couldn’t be real. “Daddy! I left on my own! It wasn’t Mom’s fault! It wasn’t Valencia’s fault!” My vision sharpened instantly. The comment section detonated: [Oh my GOD. The twist!! The kid ran away herself this whole time?!] [I knew it. This guy looked unstable from the start. The control issues, the obsession — of course the kid couldn’t handle it. Of course she ran.] [What kind of failure as a father does it take to push your own daughter away like this? And now he’s doing this?? Unreal.] I gripped the shovel tighter. “Alice, don’t be scared. Talk to me. Tell me what really happened. Where have you been?” “Did someone tell you to say this?” The girl cried harder. “No! I hate you! You made me study this and practice that every single day. I had no freedom at all. I hate you!” Angel pulled the girl into her arms and looked at me through the screen, her eyes full of bitter fury. “Endrick! You heard her! It was you! Your suffocating, relentless love drove Alice away!” I let out a sudden, easy laugh. “Angel. Where’d you find this little actress?” [Seriously?? That’s your DAUGHTER and you still won’t believe her?!] [Now I know where all those oblivious male leads in bad novels come from. Life really does imitate fiction.] [Does he have some kind of cognitive issue? He literally can’t recognize his own kid?] “Endrick! She’s your child and you won’t even take her word for it?! Do you have any humanity left?!” Angel was shaking with outrage. I just grabbed Valencia by the hair and turned his ruined face toward the camera. I lifted the bag of quicklime, tilted it slowly over his head. White powder sifted down in a thin stream. I smiled. “Angel. These past five years — did you really think the light in your study at midnight was for work?” Angel’s eyes went wide. “Third chance — gone.” I raised the bag high, aiming directly for Valencia’s eyes. “Daddy!!” The girl suddenly held up a small voice recorder. “This is what Alice recorded for you!”

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I opened my eyes again. The cold still clung to my skin. The terror from my final moments — that suffocating grip on every nerve — hadn’t left me yet. I was locked in a psychiatric facility. So how am I back here, on the day I married Ethan? I’ve been reborn. A rush of wild joy swept through me. Does this mean I can change the fate of myself and my family? In my past life, Ethan had crushed my entire family into bankruptcy — all for the sake of his first love. Then, after he’d destroyed everything we had, he had me committed. The orderlies were free to do whatever they wanted to me. I died slowly, broken, in the cold of a winter night. This time around, I had spent my days scouring the world for women who looked like her — like Catherine, his precious first love. This time, I want to see for myself just how unshakeable this great love of yours really is. In my past life, Ethan and I married as part of a business arrangement between our two families. At first, we managed a civil enough distance. Then his first love, Catherine Cole, came back from abroad — and everything changed. I didn’t care how many women he kept on the side. Our marriage was a bridge between the Song family and the Lu family, and that was all it needed to be. But I underestimated how cruel people could be. And I overestimated how much that bridge meant to him. All it took was Catherine saying she refused to get involved with a married man. That one sentence was enough for Ethan to make up his mind. He planted spies inside my family’s company, stole our most valuable technology, then turned around and accused us of wrongdoing. He drove the Song Group into bankruptcy. My brother and my father were sent to prison. When my mother heard the news, she stepped off the roof of the Song Group building. And me — I went after Ethan with nothing left to lose. He had me committed to a psychiatric facility for it. I endured the orderlies’ endless cruelty until one winter night, they left me outside in the cold and I never came back in. Thinking about it now, I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron. Ethan. This life, it’s your turn to pay. After the wedding, Ethan and I moved into his villa up in the hills. I hadn’t noticed before, but the whole place was soaked in memories of him and Catherine. The pink stuffed animals on the couch. The bow-tied curtains. The sweet floral diffuser in the bathroom. Eight years, and he’d kept every trace of their life together perfectly intact. First thing the next morning, I called the housekeeper and had all of it removed. When Ethan woke up and found the house completely transformed, he came at me furious. “What did you do? You completely rearranged my house without even asking me?” I looked at him with a calm smile, mockery tucked just beneath the surface. “Your house? We’re married — I live here too. Why can’t I change what I don’t like?” I tilted my head. “Or are you saying you never actually intended to make this marriage work?” Ethan’s move against my family wouldn’t come for another two years. Right now, he still needed the Song family’s support, so he had no choice but to swallow his anger. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper. That was out of line.” He stared at me, his words slow and deliberate. I pretended not to notice the fury in his eyes. I didn’t even bother responding. After breakfast, I went back to the office at Song Group. My brother, Marcus, looked up in surprise when he saw me walk in. “Why didn’t you take a few more days? Aren’t you two supposed to be on your honeymoon?” I laughed it off. “I wasn’t feeling it. I’m young — I have plenty of time to travel. Right now I’d rather be building something.” Marcus shook his head with a grin and gave me a light knock on the head. “Relax. Even if you turned out to be completely useless, I’d still take care of you.” My throat tightened. I almost cried right there. My brother. This wonderful, ridiculous man. In my last life, he ended up in prison because of me, beaten so badly he walked with a permanent limp. I pushed the rage back down and called my assistant over. I handed her a photo and a USB drive. “Find me at least five women who look as close to this person as possible.” “Have them study the videos on that drive. Every gesture, every expression — I want them to learn how she moves, how she smiles.” “It has to be convincing. So convincing that even I can’t tell them apart from the real thing.” What I was doing didn’t stay secret from my parents or Marcus for long. At dinner, my father glanced at me carefully, then finally spoke up. “Ava… who is this woman you’ve been looking for?”

I swallowed my food and answered quietly. “Ethan’s first love. He never got over her.” I set down my fork. “I figured — why wait for her to show up and blow everything apart? Better to get ahead of it. Kill it before it starts.” My parents exchanged a long look. Neither of them spoke. Marcus stepped in. “Ava’s handling her own marriage, and she’s doing it for a reason. Our job is to have her back.” He glanced at me. “When has she ever done anything without thinking it through?” I shot him a grateful look. My parents didn’t push further, though the worry never left their eyes. That evening, I came home to find Ethan on the couch, looking dark. I had no interest in engaging. I walked straight past him and headed upstairs. The sound of glass shattering stopped me on the stairs. “Ava. We’ve been married one week. Is it too much to ask where you’ve been?” His voice rose. “I came home expecting to have dinner with you. I waited three hours!” I turned and looked at him, my voice flat. “Ethan, this is a business arrangement. What exactly did you think was going to happen — that we’d actually build a life together?” I held his gaze. “And for the record, don’t wait on me for dinner. I’m not here to cater to you.” I ignored the crash of something else hitting the floor behind me and locked my bedroom door. Three months later, my assistant reported back: the women were ready. She asked me to come review them. Five near-identical versions of Catherine stood in the dance studio, lined up and waiting. They greeted me politely in unison. “Miss Song.” The college student — Zoe — was the most convincing of them all. The moment Ethan spotted her at the charity auction, something shifted in him. “Catherine?” I watched his hand tighten around the railing. “What’s wrong?” I asked, playing innocent. A flicker of something crossed his face. “Nothing. I thought she was someone else.” He didn’t say another word for the rest of the evening. I spent the night happily putting Ethan’s credit card to good use, bidding on a necklace I’d had my eye on — a massive, deep blue sapphire pendant they called the Heart of the Ocean. Zoe brought it to me with both hands, her head slightly bowed. Her hair smelled like gardenia, which was exactly the scent I’d told her to wear. Catherine’s scent. That same night, Zoe messaged me. Ethan had already reached out to her. The fish had taken the bait. After meeting Zoe, Ethan stopped coming home. He set her up in a private villa on the outskirts of the city. Two months later, I arranged for another Catherine lookalike to apply for the position of his personal assistant. She got the job without a hitch. Then came the elder Mr. Lu’s birthday. Ethan came to pick me up — but someone was already sitting in the passenger seat. His new personal assistant, Jessica. Catherine number two. I stood outside the car, arms folded, and just looked at him. Jessica played her role perfectly, greeting me with a bright smile. “Ma’am, Mr. Lu says I’m required to accompany him at all times. I hope that’s not a problem?” I made a show of irritation and fixed her with a cold look. “Get out.” She reached for the door handle, but Ethan’s hand shot out and stopped her. “Stay where you are. That’s your seat.” Then he turned to me. “If you don’t want to ride with us, you’re welcome to drive yourself.” I turned and walked toward the garage. That was exactly what I’d been waiting for him to say. By the time I arrived at the Lu estate, everyone was already assembled. Jessica stood at Ethan’s side, playing the gracious companion as he greeted guests. When I walked in, the room went quiet. Jessica moved to greet me — and managed to splash red wine all over my dress. Every person in that room read it the same way: Ethan’s mistress putting his wife in her place. Ethan stepped forward and put himself between us, shielding her. “Jessica didn’t mean it. Just go change.” I didn’t say a word. I simply looked at both of them. Sensing the tension, Ethan’s mother cut in and slapped him on the arm. “Who told you to bring someone like this to a family event?” To his credit, Ethan wasn’t stupid enough to embarrass his parents over a kept woman. He hesitated, then quietly told the butler to see Jessica out. Her eyes went glassy, and she looked up at him with the expression of someone trying very hard not to cry. “Behave. I’ll come find you when this is over.” Then he shot me a look of pure disdain — as if I were the one responsible for her being sent away. Everyone present could see exactly what he was doing. He was humiliating me, and he wasn’t trying to hide it. On the drive home after the banquet, with the elder Mr. Lu present, I brought up the matter of compensation. “What you do on your own time is your business. But if you want me to keep covering for you, that’s a separate conversation.” Ethan had drunk more than usual. He let out a short, contemptuous laugh. “Ava. You really do have a price for everything.” I didn’t flinch. “I want the position of Director of Human Resources at Lu Group. Is that unreasonable?” He opened his eyes and looked at me sideways. “What would you want that for?” The elder Mr. Lu cut him off with a quiet nod in my direction. I understood. It was his apology for his grandson’s behavior. And his way of asking me not to make a scene.

In the days that followed, I installed Catherine number three as a live-in housekeeper at the hill villa. Then I arranged for Catherine number four to take up a regular spot at the bar Ethan liked to visit. Each of them had her own personality — but every one of them moved with a trace of Catherine in the way she carried herself. Every single one of them pulled at something in Ethan he couldn’t control. He welcomed all of them, one by one. But after a while, even the things you’re drawn to start to lose their pull. Ethan began coming home more often. That irritated me. I did the math. Catherine would be back in the country in six months. It was time to make sure he was completely, thoroughly worn out on her face before she arrived. His university’s alumni anniversary was coming up. As his wife, I was expected to attend. I planned something special for the occasion. I’d heard the story of how they first met — at a campus gala. Catherine was the emcee. Ethan, as student body president, was called up to give a speech. As they passed each other on stage, she turned her ankle. That stumble was where it all began. I decided to recreate it. Catherine number five was booked as the emcee for the event. Right on cue, she stumbled as she passed Ethan — and fell neatly into his arms. But something unexpected happened. Ethan paused for only a moment. He didn’t seek her out afterward. If anything, he surprised me completely. After the speech, he walked directly toward me, took my hand, and led me over to the faculty members and administrators gathered nearby. “I’d like you all to meet my wife, Ava. I wanted to take the opportunity to introduce her to the people who’ve meant the most to me here.” I smiled and greeted them warmly. One of the professors — an older man — chuckled and said, almost to himself, “Didn’t you spend half your university years chasing after that girl… what was her name, Catherine? You two were absolutely inseparable.” “Half a semester, you were skipping my class for dates. If I hadn’t gone easy on you, you would have failed.” Ethan took it in stride, laughing and making an apology to his old professor. Still, I wanted to be thorough. To make certain that face had completely lost its hold on him. On the drive home that night, Ethan had been drinking. I suggested we walk a little to clear his head. He agreed easily enough. We were passing a narrow alley when a woman’s voice rang out from the darkness — crying for help. The voice was identical to Catherine’s. Ethan grabbed my hand and told me to call the police. Then he went in himself. By the time the police wouldn’t have even arrived, he was already walking back out — with Catherine number five in his arms. But the moment he got her to the hospital and made sure she was settled, he turned to leave, pulling me along with him. I was surprised. “You’re not going to stay with her?” He gave me an odd look. “Do we know her? We helped her — that doesn’t mean we’re responsible for her. Come on, let’s go home.” I let myself smile. When the white-moonlight fantasy stops working, what comes next isn’t indifference. It’s revulsion. On my instructions, Zoe — who had recently been broken up with — began making a scene. Every day, she packed a homemade lunch and waited outside Ethan’s office building, eyes red-rimmed and brimming. One afternoon, Ethan happened to be walking a client out when she spotted him and ran over, not caring who was watching. “Ethan, please don’t do this. You said you’d love me forever — were you lying?” The clients turned to stare. The expressions on their faces said everything. Ethan’s face went through several shades. He shook her off hard. “Security — get her out of here!” Zoe stumbled and hit the ground. The carefully packed lunch she’d brought him scattered across the pavement. Afterward, she sent me a message confirming it was done. I raised my glass. Ethan. This is only the beginning.

The second one to cause a scene was Jessica. Ethan and I had just come home from a dinner event when we found her blocking the entrance to the villa. He’d spoiled her. She knew it. She yanked open the car door and pulled me out by the arm before either of us had a chance to react. I stumbled and barely caught myself. “Jessica, what the hell—” Her eyes were red. Her voice shook with barely contained fury. “You said you’d never fall for her! You said you only loved me! You said I could do whatever I wanted!” The tears came then, fast and uncontrolled. “I’m not accepting this breakup. If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.” That woke Ethan’s temper up fast. He stepped in front of me, then turned and slapped Jessica hard across the face. “Don’t ever threaten me. You want to? Go ahead.” His coldness chilled something inside me. This was the same man who, in another life, had turned on me after two years together without blinking. Even for someone he’d actually cared about, he could walk away without hesitation. His assistant called shortly after — Jessica had gone home and slit her wrists. Ethan’s only response was to mutter that it was bad luck. He didn’t go see her. He didn’t even look up. Just sat there looking mildly inconvenienced. Two months left before Catherine’s return. I was getting anxious. I couldn’t let last time repeat itself. To be sure, I had the remaining lookalikes turn up the pressure — pushing every boundary until, within a single week, Ethan ended things with all of them. That evening, Marcus called me out for dinner. He leaned back in his chair and gave me a look that was almost reproachful. “Ava, since you moved into Lu Group, I’ve noticed you’ve been pulling some of our people over there.” He paused. “Can you tell me why?” I stared at him. My grip tightened on my fork. After a long pause, I finally spoke. “What if I told you that Ethan is going to come after us? Would you believe me?” Marcus went still. “How could you know that? Did he do something to you?” My eyes burned. I felt the tears coming before I could stop them. So I told him everything. The whole truth — the other life, the rebirth, all of it. I wasn’t sure he’d believe me. But the secret had been crushing me for months. I couldn’t carry it anymore. What I didn’t expect was for him to stand up immediately and pull me into a hug. “Ava. I’m so sorry. You’ve been carrying all of this alone.” I grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and finally let myself fall apart — crying until I couldn’t breathe, letting out everything I’d been holding back across two lifetimes. When I finally steadied, Marcus asked what my plan was. “I’m not completely sure whether Ethan went after us purely because of Catherine or whether there were other factors. But we can’t afford to assume anything.” I steadied my voice. “The people I moved from Song Group to Lu Group — they’re the same employees who sold our core technology last time. Given how greedy they are, a little persuasion is all it’ll take to get them selling Lu Group’s secrets back to us instead.” “And Jessica already handed over everything she could access — evidence of Lu Group’s connections to some very questionable business dealings.” “This time, we’re going to be ready. By the time we’re done, Ethan won’t have anything left to stand on.” Marcus held my shoulder and told me not to worry. This time, he promised, he would protect me. The two months passed quickly. The contact I’d placed near Catherine sent word: she’d bought a return ticket. She’d be landing next Monday. That night, I overheard Ethan on the phone. His voice was calm, measured — but he agreed to pick her up from the airport. At arrivals, the moment Catherine saw Ethan, her eyes lit up. But Ethan — something was different. The instant he saw her face, an inexplicable irritation rose inside him and didn’t stop climbing.

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My right hand was deliberately smashed by a rival. My father — one of the country’s top hand surgeons — falsified the injury assessment. At the police station, he spoke with complete conviction, dismissing the deliberate attack that destroyed my career as “soft tissue contusion from an accidental fall.” All because that girl’s mother was the woman he’d been in love with for half his life. When I confronted him, my father looked me dead in the eye, righteous as ever. “As a physician, I deal in objective facts. I can’t exaggerate an injury just because you’re my daughter — that would be framing an innocent person.” “Anya is about to compete in an international piano competition. A criminal record would ruin her life. Can’t you show a little compassion?” I watched Anya and her mother walk out of the police station, smug and untouched. And I smiled. I reached into my bag and pulled out the document I’d prepared — a formal declaration severing our relationship as father and daughter — and threw it in his face. “Since you’re so committed to your medical ethics. Since you love being the good guy so much.” “Then I hope when you’re old, your precious first love is there to see you through the rest of your days.”

My father didn’t read the declaration. In his eyes, it was nothing but a jealous tantrum. “Emma, are you done throwing your fit?” He picked the paper up off the floor, didn’t even glance at it, tore it in half, and dropped it in the trash. “Mrs. Shen is hosting a dinner at the Prestige Club tonight. You’re coming with me.” “Anya will be there too. It’s a good chance to clear the air and put all this behind us.” I stared at him, disbelief written all over my face. Put it behind us? My right hand was shattered. I couldn’t even lift a cup. The person who did it had just walked free. And he wanted me to go celebrate with her? “I’m not going.” Three words, flat and cold. I pushed the door open with my good hand. Behind me, my father’s voice followed — barely containing his fury. “Emma! Why do you have to be so cruel?” “Mrs. Shen raised Anya alone. It wasn’t easy. She practically begged me to come to this dinner.” “If you don’t show up, you’re disrespecting me. You’re as good as destroying that woman and her daughter.” I didn’t look back. I walked fast, down the corridor and out into the open air, away from him. Outside the police station, the night wind cut through me. My bones ached. My mother’s car was parked at the curb. She saw me and rushed over, eyes red and swollen, wringing her hands. “Sweetie, what happened? Did they open a case?” Looking at this woman — who’d spent her whole life swallowing her pain inside that house — I felt something hollow open up in my chest. “No case. They ruled it accidental.” My mother froze. Tears spilled down her face. “How… your father said he’d make sure Anya faced consequences. How can they call it an accident?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Mom. Your husband is a top authority in his field.” “If he says it’s an accident, then it’s an accident.” “Even if the person just crushed his own daughter’s hand.” My mother twisted her fingers together, visibly uncomfortable. “I… I’m sure your father had his reasons.” “That woman — she did save his life once, all those years ago…” “Stop.” I cut her off. “Take me to the hospital. I need nerve repair surgery.” My mother hesitated, glancing at her phone. “The thing is… your father just texted. He wants us both to go straight to the Prestige Club.” “He said if we don’t show up tonight, he’ll cut off my allowance.” I looked at her. Forty-five years old. Living like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin. Every cent she had came from my father. She didn’t even dare raise her voice at him. “Then you can go.” I took out my phone and called a rideshare. “I’ll get there myself.” “Emma, please don’t—” She reached for me. I stepped back. “Mom. If you still want to be my mother, don’t go to that dinner.” “If you go, then as far as I’m concerned, you never had me.” The car arrived. Through the window, I watched my mother standing on the curb, torn. Then she sighed, turned around, and got in her own car. Heading toward the Prestige Club. I closed my eyes. The tears finally came. This was my family. A father drowning in a love that wasn’t meant for us. A mother too weak to swim against the current. And me — the unwanted sacrifice caught in the middle. — Back at the hospital, I’d barely lay down when my phone started buzzing nonstop. On Instagram, Anya had posted a nine-photo spread. She was in a designer gown, seated at a grand piano that probably cost more than most people’s apartments. My father stood behind her, smiling — warm, paternal, like something out of a catalog. The caption read: “Grateful for Dr. Lin’s integrity, and for my mom’s love. Real talent doesn’t bow to rumors. Cheers!” Integrity? Real talent? Go to hell. I tapped the comments. All her socialite friends, falling over themselves. “Anya, you’re amazing!” “Dr. Lin truly put principle over family — respect!” “Whatever happened to that girl who played piano like she was punching it? She couldn’t even make it to toast her?” Anya replied: “Probably home losing her mind, lol lol lol.” I stared at the screen. My good hand clenched into a fist. Then a new notification popped up. A money transfer. From my father. Amount: $200. Note: “Stop acting out. Get yourself some vitamins. I’ve already told Mrs. Shen she doesn’t need to cover your rehab costs — they’re preparing for an international tour and expenses are tight. Try to be understanding.” I read it twice. My stomach turned over. I wanted to be sick. I threw my phone at the wall. —

I spent three days in the hospital. My father didn’t visit once. Instead, Mrs. Shen — Sandra Shen — showed up. She brought a box of discount cookies that were nearly expired. She was dressed in a simple but well-tailored dress, standing at the door of my room with her signature wounded expression. “Emma, sweetie. Just came to check on you.” She set the cookies on the bedside table and smoothed her hair. “Anya’s been under so much pressure with the competition. She accidentally hurt your hand.” “I’ve already had a serious talk with her.” “And your father helped clear everything up. So we’re even now, right?” Even? I looked at that cheap little box of cookies and almost laughed. “My hands could play Chopin. And you think they’re worth a box of clearance cookies?” Sandra’s expression flickered. Then the smile came back. “Oh, Emma, don’t be like that.” “When your father had that malpractice incident years ago, it was me who took the fall for him. Remember that.” “A person has to have some conscience. Your father understands that — that’s why he’s so reasonable.” “Besides, your family is well off. You’re not exactly hurting for the rehab money, are you?” “My Anya is performing at Carnegie Hall. She cannot have a criminal record following her around.” In that moment, I finally understood the expression shameless and unstoppable. These people were leeches. And my father was the fool who’d been baring his neck for them — and complaining the blood wasn’t flowing fast enough. “Get out.” I pointed at the door. “Take your cookies and get out.” Sandra’s smile collapsed. “You have no manners whatsoever. No wonder Anya can’t stand you. You need to be taught a lesson.” She muttered all the way out, cookies in hand. Right before the door closed, she threw one spectacular eye roll. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. That afternoon, the head nurse came in with a billing statement. Her expression wasn’t good. “Emma, your account is in arrears.” “If you don’t make a payment, tomorrow’s secondary nerve reconstruction surgery will have to be cancelled.” I went still. “Arrears? My father — Dr. Lin — didn’t pay?” The head nurse shook her head. “Dr. Lin called yesterday and withdrew the $20,000 prepayment.” “He said… he said the other family urgently needed the money to purchase a limited-edition antique violin, and he was lending it to them in the meantime.” “He said you should cover it yourself for now.” Something snapped inside me. Clean and final. He withdrew my surgery money — to buy an instrument for the person who destroyed me? What kind of father does that? My hands were shaking as I borrowed the nurse’s phone to call him. It rang for a long time before he picked up. From the background came the lilt of a violin, and my father’s easy, relaxed laughter. “Hello? Who’s this?” “It’s me.” A brief silence on the other end. Then my father’s voice, impatient. “Emma? Where’s your phone? Why are you calling from a strange number?” “Richard. You withdrew my surgery funds.” I used his first name. “Is that how you talk to your father?” His voice climbed a few notes. “Sandra and Anya are about to go on tour and they need to look the part.” “You’re resting in the hospital — that surgery can wait a few days, it’s not going anywhere. So I moved the money to help them out temporarily.” “You still have money from your performances, don’t you? Use that.” “Don’t be selfish. Learn to be happy for other people.” Happy for other people? He was breaking my fingers one by one to roll out a red carpet for someone else. “That surgery is my only chance to save my right hand!” I screamed into the phone. “The doctor said if we miss this window, I will never play again!” “You gave the money to Anya for a violin? Are you out of your mind?” From the other end, Sandra’s voice drifted in, theatrical and soft. “Oh, Richard, if Emma really needs it urgently, we can hold off on the violin for now…” Then my father’s voice, firm and decided. “Sandra, don’t listen to her. She’s being dramatic.” “These local doctors love to scare people — it’s never as serious as they make it sound.” “The performance is what matters. Anya is on the verge of being scouted by the Royal Academy. She needs a proper instrument.” “Emma, figure it out yourself. Don’t bother me with this.” Click. The line went dead. —

I stood there holding the phone. Frozen. The head nurse looked at me with something like pity. “Emma… maybe you could call your mom?” My mom? The woman who had to log every grocery receipt and get it approved? I shook my head. “It’s okay.” “Please start the discharge paperwork.” “But your hand—” “I’m not getting treated.” If the world was going to be this rotten, I didn’t have to keep pretending to be a good girl. I went home once — while no one was there. I packed everything that was mine. Except for the written declaration severing ties with my father. That I left behind. My rare vinyl records. My formal gowns. Every gold medal I’d earned since childhood. All of it went up on eBay. Priced to sell. Cash only. With that money, I rented a small apartment in the next town over — one with an elevator. Then I found a private rehabilitation center. I’d missed the optimal treatment window. I’d never play technically demanding pieces again. But the doctor said with enough hard work, I could regain basic use of my hand for everyday life. I used to be the national youth piano championship winner. Now I was someone who couldn’t hold a fork without trembling. But I didn’t cry. I’d cried all my tears out that afternoon. There was nothing left. — Half a month later. I was in the middle of rehab, sweating through grip exercises with a silicone ball. The door to my room swung open. My father walked in with Anya and Sandra. The three of them moved like they owned the place. His face was tight. He was holding a document. “Emma! What are you doing hiding out here?” “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” I ignored him. Kept squeezing the ball, jaw clenched. Every squeeze felt like tearing something loose inside my hand. Anya was chewing gum, bored out of her mind. “Told you she was hiding, Dr. Lin.” “So dramatic. It’s just a hand injury. It’s not like she’s dying.” My father dropped the document on my bedside table with a slap. I glanced at it. Voluntary Waiver of Liability. For the competition organizing committee. “Word got back to the committee that Anya hurt someone. They’re threatening to revoke her entry.” My father said it like he was stating obvious logic. “If you sign this — admit that you hurt yourself accidentally — they’ll reinstate her spot.” “Anya is on the verge of winning gold. You can’t let something this small ruin her future.” I hurt myself. I stopped moving. I turned and looked at him. “She waited until I wasn’t looking and brought a solid wood piano lid — dozens of pounds — crashing down on my hand.” “And you’re calling that me hurting myself?” “Dr. Lin, how do you even say that out loud?” His eyes shifted for just a second. Then the authority snapped back into place. “If you say it happened that way, then that’s how it happened.” “I’m the certified expert. I know how to handle these things.” “Sign it. Stop wasting everyone’s time.” Sandra chimed in helpfully from the side. “Exactly, Emma. We’re practically family. Why make everything so tense?” “If Anya gets banned, how is she supposed to have a career?” “Why do you have to be so vindictive?” I looked at the three of them. And suddenly the whole thing felt almost absurd. “And if I don’t sign?” Anya spat her gum on the floor, crossed the room, and shoved me — hard. I was already off-balance. I hit the ground. My right hand caught the floor. The pain was blinding. “Ahh—” I cried out. My father flinched, started instinctively toward me. Anya stopped him. “Don’t baby her, Dr. Lin.” “She’s faking.” “Emma, listen to me. You’re signing this today whether you want to or not.” “Every time I see you, I’ll make you hurt. Every single time.” She raised her foot — in heels — directly over my bandaged right hand. “Stop!” —

My father finally spoke up. Not to protect me. To protect himself. “Anya, keep your hands to yourself. There are cameras in here.” He pulled Anya back and looked down at me from where I lay on the floor. “Emma. I’m asking you one last time. Are you signing or not?” “If you don’t sign, don’t expect another cent from me. Ever.” “And don’t bother coming home.” I was on the floor, soaked in cold sweat from the pain. But I started laughing. “Home?” “The home where my surgery money was handed to the person who broke my hand so she could buy a violin?” “The home where my own father lied for the person who attacked me?” “Richard. Did you forget?” “I already cut ties with you.” With my left hand, I pulled a backup phone out of my pocket. The screen showed it was recording. “Anya shoving me just now. All of you pressuring me to sign a false statement. I got it all.” “This time, I’m not letting any of you walk away from this.” My father’s face went white. “You… you set me up?” I pushed myself up off the floor, inch by inch. Like a hawk with a broken wing — but with the eyes of something far more dangerous. “You taught me, Dad.” “A physician deals in objective facts.” My father panicked. He was one of the top specialists in the country. He knew better than anyone what reputation was worth. Anya shoving me — causing a second injury. Combined with audio of them pressuring a victim to sign a false statement and admitting to falsifying the original assessment. If any of this got out, his career was finished. “Emma, give me the phone.” His tone softened. Trying to use family as leverage. “We’re family. We can talk this through.” “Anya just has a short temper. She didn’t mean it.” I watched his hand reach toward me. “Grab the phone, Anya.” Sandra’s voice cut across the room. Anya lunged for it. I’d been ready. I hit send. The file went straight to cloud storage — and simultaneously to several prominent music journalists I’d already contacted. “Too late.” I dropped the phone on the floor. “It’s already out.” Anya stomped it to pieces, then grabbed my collar. “You little—you set me up?” Then the door burst open. Security flooded in, followed by my attending physician. “Hey! What the hell is going on in here!” The doctor took one look at me on the floor — blood seeping through the bandaging — and went pale with fury. “She’s in recovery. This is deliberate assault!” “Call the police. Right now.” The police arrived fast. It was a hospital — a public space — and the conduct was flagrant. Anya was cuffed on the spot. Sandra threw herself on the floor, wailing that I was trying to frame them. My father stood in the corner like a statue someone had forgotten to animate. He looked at me. No guilt in his eyes. Only the stunned, burning anger of a man who’d been defied. “Emma. You’ve deeply disappointed me.” His voice was hoarse, but he was still trying to hold onto that tone — authoritative, above it all. “Is this you destroying Anya? Destroying your own father?” I climbed back into my treatment chair. The nurse came over and rewrapped the bandaging. Blood seeped slowly through the gauze, blooming like something ugly. I looked up at him. My voice was perfectly calm. “Dad, it’s not me that’s destroying you.” “It’s your greed. Your favoritism. And that self-righteous idea you have of what ‘integrity’ looks like.” I paused, like I was just reminding him of something routine. “Also — while you still have a license, find yourself a good lawyer.” “I’m going all the way with this.” — That night, the video went viral.

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The day I received the Outstanding Young Entrepreneur Award, I stared into the camera and said what I’d been holding back for years. “Grateful to her? No. The driving force of my entire life has been the refusal to end up like her.” The host awkwardly held the microphone toward me. On the screen behind us, a live feed showed my mother, Linda, slouched on the couch picking at her feet while playing video games. I went home and dropped the trophy on the coffee table. I stood there in the cold silence, staring at the takeout containers littering the floor. “Linda, can you at least get a job? Sweeping streets, anything.” She kept her eyes on the screen, thumbs working the controller. “Sweeping streets sounds exhausting. I’ve got a daughter to support me — why would I work? Ugh, I died again. Top up my account, would you? I need sixty bucks for the battle pass.” A mother like that? I was done with her. I dropped the crystal award — the one engraved with Outstanding Young Entrepreneur — straight into the trash can. Right in front of Linda. It hit the bottom with a sharp crack. Linda was buried in the couch, her flannel pajamas stained with grease at the collar, her hair a tangled mess. She didn’t even turn around. Her fingers kept pressing buttons on the controller. On the screen, a little pixel character ran into a wall, died, and respawned. Over and over. “Ellie, honey,” she said, eyes still fixed on the screen, voice thick and unfocused, “if you don’t want it, you don’t want it. Why all the drama?” “Oh, and this month’s allowance still hasn’t come through.” “My premium subscription expires tonight.” I laughed — the kind of laugh that comes out when you’re too angry for words. My chest heaved. “Linda, you make me sick.” I grabbed my bag and slammed the door behind me. The deadbolt clicked shut. Inside, the apartment went still. I didn’t go far. I stood in the hallway catching my breath. It was quiet in there. No shouting after me. No sounds of things being thrown. Just the tinny loop of game music bleeding through the wall. On the other side of that wall — The moment the door slammed, Linda’s controller slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. The hands that had been pressing buttons were curled inward now. Her knuckles were swollen and misshapen, trembling. She tried to bend down to pick it up, but her back seized and she slid off the couch entirely, hitting the floor hard. “Hss—” She sucked in a sharp breath. Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead. The takeout containers spread across the floor smelled of rot. She moved through the garbage, arm stretched out, reaching for the pill bottle wedged under the coffee table. The bottle rolled a few inches further away. Linda closed her eyes. Tears ran down the creases at the corners of her eyes and disappeared into her hair. “Ellie…” she murmured, barely audible. “Mom’s useless… I’m sorry…” — I checked into a five-star hotel in the city center. I lay on the king bed and didn’t sleep a single hour. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Linda’s back. The mother in my memory always wore blazers and heels. She’d been the top sales rep at her company. She was the one who could scoop me up with one arm and spin me around. Back then my father was still around — but he was a compulsive gambler. Every time debt collectors showed up at the door, Linda would drive them off with a broom, then pull me out of the corner where I was hiding and hold me close. “Ellie, don’t be scared. Mom’s here.” Later, he cleared out every dollar in the house. He maxed out Linda’s credit cards. Then he ran off with another woman. That night, Linda held me and cried until morning. The next morning she made me breakfast with red-rimmed eyes and said: “Ellie, from now on it’s just the two of us.” “Mom is going to give you a good life. I won’t let you make the same mistakes I made.” To pay off the debt. To keep me in private school. Linda worked three jobs at once. She sold insurance. She sold real estate. She washed dishes at a diner late into the night. I remember one winter, her hands were covered in chilblains — the cracks raw and weeping — and she still came home smiling with a keyboard for me. “Girls need grace. Hands are for playing piano, not washing dishes.” That version of Linda was the light I carried inside me. She was the person I swore I’d spend my whole life paying back. Then everything changed the year I was a senior in high school. I came home from school one afternoon and found out she’d quit her job. She was lying in bed. She looked at me and said: “I’m tired. I’m done.” “Ellie, you’re grown now. You’re on your own. Mom’s going to start enjoying her life.” At first I told myself she just needed rest. But one month passed. Then two. Then a year. She never looked for work again. She fell into video games. The apartment turned into a mess she never touched. When debt collectors came, she just shrugged. “No money. Come back when I’m dead.” In the end it was me, working part-time around my classes, chipping away at the interest payments one by one. I got into a top university. I came home with the acceptance letter, hoping to see relief on her face. She stared at the TV screen. “Oh, you got in? Good.” “Don’t forget to take care of me once you’re making money. It wasn’t easy raising you, you know.” My phone buzzed. —

A voice message from Linda on Snapchat. I frowned and opened it. “Ellie, honey, the hotel comfy?” “So… since you’re not coming home… can you transfer this month’s allowance over?” “It’s urgent. There’s a limited skin in the game store, goes away at midnight.” I took a deep breath and typed back: “Linda, go ahead and waste away in that game for the rest of your life.” Then I transferred five hundred dollars with a note: [Buy yourself a coffin.] A second later, I blocked her. What I didn’t know was that on the other end of the call, Linda looked at that transfer notification and tugged the corner of her mouth into a small smile. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the screen — a phone with no games installed on it at all — and opened a delivery app. She placed an order for a box of painkillers and a pack of adult diapers. Account balance: $23.50. “That’s enough… two more days…” She said it softly to herself, then tried to roll over. A bolt of pain cut through her and she let out a muffled groan. — Without Linda dragging me down, my career moved fast. The company was gearing up for Series A funding. As the founder, every day was packed. I had something to prove to Linda. That I was better off without her. That I was doing more than fine. Then, about a month later, I decided to sell the old apartment and free up capital. The property was in my name. Years ago, Linda had transferred the title to me to keep my father from gambling it away. The day I brought a real estate agent to see the place, I timed it deliberately — during what should have been Linda’s afternoon nap. The door swung open and a wave of stale, sour air hit us both. The agent stepped back, hand over his nose, and glanced at me. “Ms. Harris, this is…” My face burned. I pushed inside. The living room curtains were drawn tight. It was dim and stifling. Linda was sprawled on the couch under a blanket. The coffee table was buried under takeout containers and bottles. The floor was covered in crumpled tissues. She heard us and lifted her eyelids. When she saw me, her eyes shifted. “Well,” she said, voice raw. “Ms. Harris herself. To what do I owe the honor?” I crossed the room and yanked the curtains open. Sunlight poured in, lighting up a storm of dust swirling in the air. Linda reflexively raised a hand to shield her face. “I’m selling the apartment. I’ve rented you a studio. You’ll move in a few days.” I told her. Not a question. Linda lowered her hand and squinted at me. Then she smiled — slow, showing her two front teeth. “Selling? Sure.” “But I have one condition.” Those misshapen hands of hers extended two of the fingers that still moved. “I want half the sale price.” “Otherwise I’m staying right here, and I’d love to see who’s brave enough to buy it.” The agent drew a sharp breath and gave me a sympathetic look. Every drop of blood in my body rushed to my head. Half? That was hundreds of thousands of dollars. “Linda, have you lost your mind?” “You signed this place over to me voluntarily years ago. You’ve been living off me ever since. And now you want half the money?” “I was foolish back then.” Linda maneuvered one trembling hand toward her water glass on the table. She missed. Water soaked through her clothes. She didn’t seem to care — she even rubbed it deliberately into the couch cushion. “I have no job. No insurance. If you don’t support me, who will?” “Give me two hundred thousand, and I walk out of here today. I won’t get in the way of your big career.” “Fine.” I nodded. I pulled a bank card from my purse — the company’s reserve fund. “Fifty thousand now. The rest when the sale closes.” “Now. Get out.” I snapped the card onto her. The edge of the card caught her cheek. It left a thin red line. Linda didn’t flinch. She grabbed the card, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. “Deal.” She pressed her hands against the arm of the couch and tried to stand. Her legs didn’t respond. The moment she shifted her weight, her whole body pitched forward and she went straight down. The impact was loud. I stood where I was and watched. Cold. Another performance. She’d been pulling this since I was a child. I’d seen it a hundred times. “Save it. The agent’s right here. You want to embarrass yourself?” Linda lay face-down on the floor, her face buried in a pile of tissues. A long moment passed. Then she let out a low, quiet laugh. “Oh my… legs fell asleep… guess I’m just getting old…” “Give me a minute, Ms. Harris… I’ll grab a few things and get out of your hair… I’m sorry for the trouble…” Inch by inch, she began to crawl toward the bedroom. Something flickered in my chest watching her move like that. But the feeling was quickly buried under disgust. She was just lazy. Too lazy to bother walking. — In the month after Linda moved out, my company closed its funding round. I treated that fifty thousand dollars as the final price of severing a family tie. I thought I was free. Then one day, my fiancé, James, suggested we swing by and pick up my ID documents to start the marriage paperwork. —

James came from a good family. I didn’t want him to see where I came from. But he insisted on meeting my mother, even a mother with a “difficult personality.” I couldn’t talk him out of it. I drove him to the studio I’d rented for Linda. The moment we entered the stairwell, I smelled it. Rot and waste and disinfectant, all tangled together. We knocked for a long time before her voice came through the door: “It’s open…” I pushed inside. Linda was lying on a cot. Around her, half-eaten instant noodle cups and empty pill bottles were piled up in every direction. She’d wasted away. Her cheeks were hollow, her cheekbones jutting. The sheet under her was damp. The kind of damp that comes from something drying and being soaked through again. James pressed his hand over his nose. His brow furrowed. He took a step back. “Ellie… is this… your mom?” I rushed to her and ripped the blanket back. “Linda! What the hell is going on?” “Where is the fifty thousand? All of it?” “You let yourself get like this on purpose? Are you trying to humiliate me?” Linda squinted against the sudden light. She spotted James standing behind me, and something flickered in her eyes — a split second of alarm. She struggled to reach for the blanket, to pull it over her legs. The legs that had shriveled away. She wheezed. “It’s… it’s gone… the gear in the game was expensive…” “Ellie, can you give Mom a little more… I want the roast duck from downstairs…” “Gone?” I shouted. “Fifty thousand dollars. In one month?” “Did you gamble it? Are you on something?” I tore through the room looking for evidence of where the money had gone. Under her pillow, I found a box. It was the packaging for a game controller. “Give me that.” Linda erupted. She threw both arms around the box and her eyes went fierce. “That’s mine. Nobody touches it.” “That’s your whole life, isn’t it? A stupid game console matters more to you than your own daughter?” I yanked it away from her. “Give it back! Ellie! Please, give it back!” Linda rolled off the cot. Those completely deformed hands clawed at the air, her nails raking across my forearm. “Ow!” I cried out and shoved her backward. She hit the dresser with a dull thud and stopped moving. “Ellie, stop wasting your breath on her.” James had seen enough. He took my hand. “Find the documents and let’s go. A mother like this — you’re better off without her.” “You’re right. Better off without her.” I caught my breath, staring at the woman still twitching on the floor, trying to drag herself back toward the box. “Linda. Starting today, you are not my mother.” “I’ll arrange for you to go to a care facility. Whatever happens after that — don’t call me.” I pulled the document from my purse — a formal written declaration of severance — and slapped it on the table. “It doesn’t hold up in court. But in my heart, you’re already gone.” I turned and pulled James toward the door. “Wait…” Her voice came from behind me, barely a sound. She didn’t beg. She didn’t curse. She raised her head. And somehow, there was a smile on her face — faint, but unmistakable. The smile of someone being released. “Ellie… keep going… don’t look back…” I stopped mid-step. My chest clenched. Those words. I knew those words. “Crazy woman,” I said through my teeth, forcing the tears back down. I grabbed the controller box I’d taken from her and hurled it at the floor. “Take your junk and die.” I walked out before James could stop me. By the time I got to the car, my hands were still shaking. “Don’t cry, Ellie.” James started the engine. “Some people can’t be helped.” I nodded and looked out the window. Then, from somewhere in the distance, a siren began to wail. An ambulance, lights flashing blue, pulled directly up to Linda’s building. My heart lurched. I looked down at the paper that had slipped out of the box — the one I’d never dropped. I’d assumed it was a manual. It wasn’t. It was a trust fund statement. Beneficiary: Eleanor Harris. Amount: $200,000. Date: five years ago. The same year Linda quit her job. The same year she “gave up.” Tucked beneath the statement was a stack of medical documents. The first one was dated five years ago too. Diagnosis: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS). Estimated prognosis: 3 to 5 years. Patient notes: Patient declined all treatment. Pain management only. Requested all remaining funds directed to trust… The world went silent. My mind went blank. My hands shook as I turned to the note folded beneath everything else. The handwriting was almost illegible — smeared with tearstains and grease. “Ellie, Mom couldn’t give you much. I’m sorry I couldn’t build you a fortune. Mom didn’t want you to watch me fall apart. To watch me turn into something that just drools and stares. Hate me. Hate me so you can fly far away. That fifty thousand — Mom used it to clear the last of the loan sharks your father owed before he died. Nobody will come after your company anymore… Ellie, it hurts. Mom is so tired… Mom just wants to sleep…” “Stop the car!” I screamed it. The car hadn’t even stopped fully when I threw the door open and ran.

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Grandpa said the caregiver pinched him at night and tied him up in the bathroom. I didn’t believe him, of course. An eighty-year-old man with worsening dementia — he’d make up anything to avoid staying in the nursing home. I swallowed my frustration, forced a smile at the caregiver, and even had a commendation banner made for him. The next day, Grandpa had another bruise on his arm. He was still trembling as he said it was the same person who’d pinched him. His eyes were full of disappointment in me, but he kept saying it with total certainty. On the third day, when I watched the security footage again and saw the caregiver gently feeding him, I completely lost it. “Do you just not want to stay here? Is that it? You’re making all this up just to mess with me!” Grandpa shook all over, but still worked up the courage to nod. “It’s true. It really is…” That night, I left him alone at the nursing home. I was halfway home when I couldn’t stop myself from thinking: Why would an eighty-year-old man keep insisting he was telling the truth even after I screamed at him?

Grandpa was my only family. My parents died when I was young. Grandpa raised me by collecting scrap and recycling, scraping together enough to put me through college so I could build a life in the city. I bought an apartment in the city, but he refused to move in. He said the place felt like a cage — too cramped, hard to breathe. Last year, his memory started getting worse. One time he put water on to boil and forgot to turn off the stove, nearly burning down the old house. Our neighbor called me, voice shaking. “Lily, you need to come back right now. Your grandfather almost burned himself alive!” I took a week off work and brought Grandpa to the city. But I had a job to go to, trips to take — I couldn’t watch him twenty-four hours a day. Hire a home aide? He got anxious around strangers. Two different aides quit within their first three days. With no other options, I gritted my teeth and moved him into the best care facility in the area. Sunset Haven Senior Living. Eight thousand eight hundred a month. Premium care — doctors, nurses, meals delivered to the room, one-on-one caregiver service. When the director gave me a tour, he made a point of introducing the lead caregiver. “This is Greg. Eight years with us. The most patient man we have, best at keeping our residents comfortable. Leave your grandfather with him and you won’t have a thing to worry about.” Greg was in his fifties, heavyset, soft-spoken. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I treat every resident like my own family.” I left feeling completely reassured. The first month, Grandpa sounded happy every time he called. “Lily, the food here is great. Greg is so good to me — draws me a foot bath every single night.” The weight lifted off my chest. Eight thousand eight hundred well spent. But starting the second month, his calls changed. “Lily, I don’t want to stay anymore. Please come take me home…” I asked why. He fumbled and couldn’t explain — just said he missed home. I tried to reassure him. “Grandpa, your legs aren’t good. I’d worry if you were home alone. Once things calm down at work, I’ll bring you over to stay for a few days.” He went quiet for a long moment, said “okay,” and hung up. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was normal for old people to miss home. Over the next few days, his calls came more and more often. The same thing, over and over: “Lily, when are you coming to get me?” I started losing my patience. “Grandpa, I’m busy with work. Can you please stop calling so much? If you need something, ask the caregiver. Isn’t Greg good to you?” Grandpa went quiet after that — and then something happened. I was in a meeting when my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. The nursing home. I slipped out to take the call. Greg’s voice came through, carrying a hint of resignation. “Lily, your grandfather took a fall. Just scraped his arm a little — nothing serious, already taken care of. Don’t worry.” When I got there, Grandpa was sitting on his bed. His right elbow had a large bruise on it, and a few marks that looked like scratches. “How did he fall?” Grandpa glanced at Greg, shrank back, and said nothing. Greg sighed. “He got up in the night to use the bathroom. I offered to help him, but he wouldn’t let me — insisted on walking himself. His foot slipped and he went down. I rushed to catch him, and he grabbed onto me and scratched me.” He rolled up his sleeve. There were a few red marks on the back of his hand. “It’s fine, really. Old folks can be stubborn. I get it.” I believed him. As I was leaving, Grandpa suddenly grabbed my hand — with a grip that scared me. “Lily, I didn’t fall. Greg pinched me. He pinches me in the middle of the night…” I froze. I looked back at Greg. He wore a helpless expression, shaking his head with a tired smile. “Lily, your grandfather has been a little confused lately. The doctor says it’s the disease progressing — he may start having hallucinations and paranoid episodes. Please don’t take it to heart.” I let out a slow breath. Right. Grandpa had dementia. The doctor did say hallucinations would come eventually. I crouched down beside him. “Grandpa, were you maybe dreaming? Greg takes such good care of you — why would he pinch you?” Grandpa got upset, eyes going wide. “I wasn’t dreaming! It was him!” “At night, when I’m asleep, he comes and pinches my thighs, pinches my sides. I wake up from the pain, and he tells me I was dreaming!”

Greg kept that same patient expression, walked over, and tucked the blanket around Grandpa’s shoulders. “Sir, if you’re not comfortable with me, I can talk to the director and have someone else assigned to you. How does that sound?” Grandpa went completely silent. A flash of fear crossed his eyes. I thought it was guilt. I even resented him a little for being so unreasonable. “Grandpa, can you please stop this?” “I pay all that money so you can be taken care of.” “Greg does so much for you, and you’re accusing him of things like this — does that seem right to you?” Grandpa opened his mouth. Tears spilled down his face. He let go of my hand, turned onto his side, and lay with his back to me — shoulders trembling. I felt awful too. But I wasn’t wrong. He was confused. I couldn’t let his confusion pull me under too. The drive home, my mind was a mess. Eight thousand eight hundred a month — nearly half my salary. I’d agreed to it without flinching because I wanted Grandpa to have a good life. Why couldn’t he understand that? The next day, Greg sent me a few photos. Grandpa sitting in a wheelchair in the sun. Greg crouched beside him, clipping his nails. Both of them smiling. Greg sent a voice message too. “Lily, your grandfather is in a much better mood today. I took him outside for some sunshine and got him to eat half an apple. Don’t stress — older folks just need a little extra love and attention.” I felt a warm rush of gratitude. Greg really was a good person. That evening I called Grandpa, hoping to smooth things over. It rang for a long time before he picked up. His voice sounded flat. “Lily…” “Grandpa, did Greg take you outside today? Did you have a nice time?” Silence on the other end. After a long pause, he said, “Lily, do you trust me?” My stomach dropped. “He pinched me again. Outside in the sun, when no one was around — he pinched my side. He said if I told on him again, he’d pull out my teeth…” My anger flared instantly. “Grandpa! Why do you keep making things up like this?” “Greg sent me photos. He was crouched down clipping your nails, smiling like he loves you. Why would he pinch you?” Low, muffled sobbing from the other end of the line. “You don’t believe me. You never believe me…” I took a deep breath and forced my voice steady. “Grandpa, it’s not that I don’t believe you. The doctor said this disease causes hallucinations.” “Think about it — if Greg were really doing that to you, could he smile like that?” “He puts on an act. Everything nice he does is an act…” “Enough!” I cut him off. “I’ll come see you this weekend. Stop overthinking and get some sleep.” After I hung up, there was a heaviness in my chest I couldn’t shake. My friend saw the look on my face and asked what was wrong. I told him everything. He let out a long breath. “That’s just how dementia goes. My grandpa was the same way — kept saying I stole his money when it was sitting under his pillow the whole time. Don’t get worked up over it. Just go along with whatever he says and keep him calm.” I nodded. He was probably right. That weekend I went to the nursing home and knew something was off the moment I walked in. Grandpa was sitting on the bed. When he saw me come in, his first reaction wasn’t happiness — he flinched back. “Grandpa?” He kept his head down, wouldn’t look at me. I walked over and tried to take his hand. He pulled away. “Grandpa, what’s wrong?” Still nothing. Greg came in carrying a plate of fruit, greeting me with a smile. “Lily, you’re here! Have some fruit — I just cut it.” At the sound of Greg’s voice, Grandpa’s whole body jerked. For just a moment, something nagged at me. But Greg seemed so completely normal — smiling warmly, casually mentioning that Grandpa had eaten half a bowl of rice, that his mood had been pretty good today. I pushed the feeling aside and told myself I was reading too much into things. As I was leaving, Grandpa suddenly grabbed my arm. His eyes were red. “Lily, are you coming back next week?” “Yes. Of course I will.” He nodded, let go, and curled back onto the bed — small and still, looking so fragile. I stepped outside. Greg caught up with me, his manner careful. “Lily, there’s something I’d like to run by you.” “Go ahead.” “Your grandfather has been saying some confused things lately, and it’s been disturbing the other residents.” “I was thinking — would it be possible to move him to a private room? The cost is a little higher, about two thousand more per month. What do you think?” My chest tightened. “What has he been saying?” Greg sighed, looking pained. “You know — saying I’ve been pinching him, hurting him. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me personally. I know who I am. But it’s not a good look.” “If other families hear it, they might think we actually mistreat residents here.” My face went hot with embarrassment. “Greg, I’m sorry. He’s causing you trouble. I’ll think about the private room — money’s a little tight right now.” “No rush, no rush. I just wanted to mention it. It’s for your grandfather’s sake too.” On the way home, the more I thought about it, the worse I felt for Greg. He worked so hard caring for these elderly residents, and my grandfather was putting him through this — with not a single complaint. I decided I needed to do something.

On Monday I took a half day off and went to a gift shop to have a commendation banner made. Eight words: Dedicated Care — Better Than Family. I brought it to the nursing home during afternoon visiting hours. There were several other families in the hallway. When Greg saw the banner, his eyes crinkled completely shut with his smile. “Oh, Lily, you really didn’t have to do this! I’m just doing my job!” I held his hand and raised my voice on purpose. “Greg, you have to accept this banner!” “My grandfather isn’t all there — he says confused things and puts you through so much, and you still take such good care of him. I honestly don’t know how to thank you!” The families nearby nodded along. Someone gave a thumbs-up. “Greg really is great — my mom says so too.” “Absolutely. Greg’s been at Sunset Haven for years. Best caregiver here.” Greg smiled from ear to ear and made a show of waving off the praise. The director came out too, and posed with Greg and me in front of the banner for a photo to post on the facility’s social media page. I smiled for the camera, and felt something settle in my chest. Maybe now Grandpa would finally let this go. When I went to see him, I found him crying. No sound — just tears running down his face. When he saw me come in, he quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Grandpa?” He wouldn’t look at me. He was staring at the banner. A flicker of irritation. “Grandpa, I just gave Greg a commendation banner to recognize how well he cares for you. Please stop saying things about him. He really is good to you.” He slowly raised his head and looked at me. His eyes held something — a deep hurt, and beneath it, despair. “Lily, do you think Grandpa has lost his mind?” The words hit me like a wall. “Grandpa hasn’t lost his mind. Sometimes his memory slips. But whether something hurts — Grandpa can tell the difference.” He pulled up his pant leg and showed me the inside of his thigh. Covered in bruises. Several had gone black, and you could see individual finger marks pressed into the skin. “He did this yesterday. He knew you might look, so he pinched where it wouldn’t show.” A roaring sound filled my head. The next second, Greg’s voice floated in from the doorway. “Sir, telling on me to Lily again?” He came in carrying a mug of hot water, smiling pleasantly, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Lily, don’t mind him — older folks go through phases. He was laughing with me just a little while ago, and now he’s upset. It happens.” I stared at the bruises. Then I looked at Greg’s smiling face. I didn’t know who to believe. Grandpa pulled his pant leg back down, closed his eyes, and stopped looking at me entirely. Greg steered me toward the door and lowered his voice. “Lily, those bruises on his legs are from when he knocked himself getting into the shower. I saw it happen myself.” “His memory’s poor — he bumped himself and forgot all about it. Now he thinks someone did it to him. If you don’t believe me, pull up the security footage.” Security footage. My eyes lit up. “Can you actually do that?” “Of course. All the common areas have cameras. The rooms don’t — privacy reasons, obviously.” “But the hallways, the activity room — all covered. You can check anytime you want.” I followed Greg to the security office and pulled up yesterday’s footage. On the screen, Grandpa sat in a wheelchair. Greg pushed him down the hall toward the activity room — gentle, steady, leaning down to say something to him. Nothing but calm between them. In the afternoon, Greg helped him into the shower. When Grandpa came out, he did walk with a slight limp — but Greg was supporting him the whole time. Nothing out of the ordinary. I exhaled. “Greg, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you.” Greg patted my hand, expression warm and kind. “It’s fine. I understand. Families have it hard too.” On the way home, I called my friend and told him about checking the security footage. “See? I told you — he’s confused. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Nothing you could’ve done.” I nodded. The knot in my chest finally loosened. Wednesday. Two in the morning. My phone went off. The nursing home’s landline. Half-asleep, I picked up. Greg’s voice came through, slightly breathless. “Lily, I’m so sorry to call at this hour.” “Your grandfather is acting up again. He’s locked himself in the bathroom and won’t come out no matter how many times we call.” “We’re worried something’s happened. Do you have any idea how to reach him?” I sat bolt upright. “What happened?” “I honestly don’t know. He was fine earlier tonight. I was doing rounds and noticed he was gone. Searched everywhere, found him in the bathroom with the door locked from the inside. He won’t answer. It’s been almost an hour.” I threw on my clothes and ran. By the time I got to the nursing home, it was nearly three in the morning. A small crowd had gathered outside the bathroom — staff and security. Greg stood at the front, looking frantic. “Lily, thank God you’re here! He’s still in there. Won’t respond to anything. I’m worried he’s hurt!” I knocked on the door. “Grandpa! It’s me! Lily! Open the door!” Silence. Panic gripped me. I told security to force it open. The door gave way — and what I saw inside is something I will never forget for the rest of my life. Grandpa was on the floor with his back against the wall. His hands were bound to the radiator pipe with his own pajama pants. There was a wad of cloth shoved into his mouth. When he saw me, tears poured down his face. He made muffled, desperate sounds, but he couldn’t speak. I flew at him, tore his hands free, yanked the cloth from his mouth. “Grandpa! Grandpa! Who did this? Who did this to you?” Grandpa shook violently and collapsed sobbing into my arms.

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After Declan secretly drove Marissa home for what felt like the hundredth time, I was done. A bone-deep, marrow-sucking exhaustion washed over me. I told him it was over. He buried his face in his hands, playing the tortured victim. “Just because I gave her a ride?” “What exactly do I have to do for you to be satisfied, Paige?” “We’re in the same department. It’s a professional requirement. I can’t just cut her out of my life.” I stared at the tube of lip gloss tucked beneath the passenger seat. A harsh, hollow laugh scraped its way up my throat. “Is it because she’s a colleague that you can’t cut her off?” I asked softly. “Or is it because she was your first love?” 01 I was so incredibly tired. Maybe this psychological fatigue had been festering since the day Declan brought the wrong bag home. Declan owned a faded, charcoal-gray canvas messenger bag that he’d lugged around for over a decade. He claimed it was a relic from his high school debate team—sturdy, utilitarian, indestructible. From high school to undergrad, through his PhD, and straight into his tenure-track position at the university, he had a habit of stuffing it with lecture notes and grant proposals. We had been together for seven years. I knew the geography of Declan’s life like the back of my hand. That included the frayed edges of that canvas bag. So, the evening he tossed it onto the entryway bench, the smudge on the strap caught my eye immediately. “When did you get nail polish on your bag?” The sound of running water from the bathroom made his voice sound fragmented, distant. “Huh? What do you mean?” I held up the strap, pointing to a tiny, dark smear catching the hall light. “Look. It’s black, but it’s got glitter in it. You only see it when the light hits it.” He took the bag, angling it under the pendant light. He unzipped the main compartment, peeked inside, and let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. “I see. This is Marissa’s bag. She must have grabbed mine by mistake.” “Marissa?” Declan didn’t miss a beat. “The new adjunct in our department. We actually went to high school together.” I nodded, piecing it together. “So she has the same debate team bag.” At the time, I thought it was just a cute coincidence, a shared piece of alumni nostalgia. I wouldn’t find out until much later that fifteen years ago, they had swapped these exact bags by mistake. That the hazy, intoxicating rush of their teenage romance had sparked from that very mix-up. Sturdy. Built to withstand the test of time. Not just the canvas bags. But the unresolved, tragic romance of the girl who got away. 02 Declan’s face went rigid. “You knew we dated in high school?” I rolled the lip gloss between my fingers, letting out a quiet breath. “It would take a miracle not to know, Declan. I’m not blind.” He lowered his eyes. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. “When did you find out?” I tilted my head, studying the stranger sitting in my living room. “Does it matter?” “Are you trying to figure out where the leak was? Run a post-mortem on your strategy so the next lie is airtight?” I couldn’t keep the venom out of my voice. “When you, Marissa, and Kelsey were all coordinating your stories to keep me in the dark, did you hold weekly departmental meetings about it? Like you do with your lab data?” “Tell me, Declan. As my boyfriend, and as my supposed best friend, did it give you a thrill to stand on Marissa’s side of the line and make a fool out of me?” Declan took a sharp, suffering breath, the picture of a man pushed to his limits. “How many times do I have to say it? We didn’t team up to lie to you!” It was laughable. “Are you an idiot, Declan, or do you just think I am?” 03 For months, Marissa’s name had been a constant hum in the background of my life. They shared a faculty office. They were both the university’s rising stars in the department. They shared a hometown, a high school, a history. Whether it was the dean assigning them joint research projects or the undergrads gossiping in the corridors, the world seemed determined to tether them together. Marissa was woven so tightly into the fabric of Declan’s career that he couldn’t even tell me about his Tuesday without mentioning her. Naturally, I grew curious about her. But I was naive. I brought a gentle, friendly curiosity to the table, entirely unaware that she brought an arsenal of quiet, malicious exclusion. And Declan? He played the blind man. He couldn’t see Marissa’s calculated toxicity. He couldn’t see her ulterior motives. He simply let her bulldoze right past every boundary a man in a seven-year relationship should have. It started small. His undergrads, oblivious and eager, would joke about how perfect Professor Shaw and Professor Howell looked together. He never corrected them. Then, it escalated. He began driving her home every single day. He looked me in the eye and swore he was keeping his promise to me—that outside of faculty meetings, he had zero contact with her. Then came my suspicions. When I casually asked about the mythical, devoted high school boyfriend Marissa loved to brag about, Declan lied again. He claimed he hadn’t really paid attention to her dating life back then. And then there was Kelsey. My college roommate. The woman I considered my chosen sister. To my face, she played the peacemaker, urging me to give Declan the benefit of the doubt, telling me I was letting my insecurities win. Behind my back, she was the bridge connecting them. She curated group hangouts, manufactured excuses for them to be together, and played lookout. Time and time again, I swallowed my discomfort. I choked down my grievances. I gave Declan my grace, and I gave Kelsey my trust. And they took those gifts, sharpened them into blades, and gutted me. 04 “I explained everything you were upset about, didn’t I?” Declan’s jaw clenched. His tone was drenched in genuine bewilderment. I stared at him, marveling at the fact that I had loved this man for the better part of a decade. “Your students joke that you two are soulmates, and did you ever shut it down?” “You and Marissa just exchange those little smiles and let them whisper. You never deny it. You never set the record straight. But you come home and tell me I’m overreacting, that I’m inventing ghosts.” “You promised me you wouldn’t interact with her outside of work, yet you’re playing her personal chauffeur every afternoon.” “You come home smelling like her perfume, and you look me in the eye and lie!” Declan’s brow furrowed, his voice rising to match mine. “Because the second her name comes up, you lose your mind! I couldn’t tell you the truth because you’re impossible to talk to!” He caught himself, swallowing his temper, and shifted into damage control. “If we break up, what are we supposed to tell your parents?” “Your dad’s heart isn’t great, Paige. Your mom has been waiting for us to pick a wedding venue. It’s been seven years. Are you really going to throw all of this away over a misunderstanding?” My hands froze. When my dad started showing the warning signs of a mini-stroke two years ago, Declan was the one who caught it. He drove him to the ER. Because of that, my parents didn’t just love him; they owed him. They felt a profound, unbreakable gratitude toward him, frequently hinting that we shouldn’t wait much longer to tie the knot. If I walked away now, how would it break them? “Paige, baby, let’s just stop fighting, okay?” Declan dropped his voice an octave, slipping into that soft, velvet tone he knew I loved. “If you’re really this insecure about it, come to the high school alumni dinner this Saturday with me.” “See for yourself. See how we interact. You’ll realize you’ve built this whole thing up in your head. Okay?” 05 I went to the dinner. Somewhere, buried deep in the bruised tissue of my heart, a pathetic little ember of hope still flickered. You don’t just sever a seven-year bond like a loose thread. Once the blinding red rage faded, the memories crept back in. The years of being adored, of being prioritized, of laughing until my ribs ached in his kitchen. Those ghosts coaxed me into trying one last time. Give him the chance to prove me wrong. I wanted him to evolve. I wanted him to finally look at me and understand the exact shape of my pain. From the moment we walked into the private dining room, Declan kept his fingers interlaced with mine, holding on tight. “Hey, class prez is here! And who is this gorgeous woman?” a guy greeted us, his smile wide and genuine. Declan didn’t hesitate. “Everyone, this is my girlfriend, Paige.” “Leave it to Shaw to pull someone completely out of his league.” Declan’s lips twitched upward into a proud, devastatingly familiar smile. “I’m a lucky guy, what can I say?” The table erupted into good-natured cheers. For a dizzying second, I felt like I was time-traveling. I was back in our mid-twenties, back when we first became an ‘us,’ insulated and untouchable. Something tight in my chest went soft. Maybe coming here was the right move. 06 For the first hour, Declan was a man of his word. He was hyper-attuned to me. If anyone brought up an inside joke that left me out, he smoothly derailed the conversation, redirecting it to something inclusive. I watched him navigate the room, charming and attentive. The coiled spring in my chest began to unwind. Then, the heavy oak doors swung open. Marissa. She drifted into the room, dispensing gentle, practiced smiles to everyone who called her name. Taking the empty seat right beside Declan seemed like nothing more than an innocent coincidence. Instinctively, Declan shifted his chair to give her more room. Before she even sat fully down, he reached across the table, picked up the wine glass set at her place setting, and swapped it with a tumbler of warm water. “Your stomach has been acting up. Skip the Pinot tonight,” he murmured. The intimacy in his hushed voice was a physical blow. The movement was fluid, unconscious, lacking even a fraction of a second of hesitation. It was muscle memory. “Man, you two never change,” the guy across from them laughed. “Remember when you guys swapped those debate bags senior year? Swear to God, you were the IT couple…” The guy next to him sharply elbowed his ribs, gesturing wildly with his eyes toward me. “Oh, uh, my bad. But hey, Shaw’s girlfriend doesn’t look like the type to sweat ancient history, right?” Declan said nothing. He didn’t agree. He didn’t deny it. He just laughed easily and pivoted the conversation, exactly like he had done for me all night. The soft, hopeful thing in my chest crystallized into ice. He was right. I was never the type to sweat ancient history. So who turned me into this paranoid, score-keeping shadow of myself? I turned slightly to Kelsey, who was seated on my left. “You see it, right?” I whispered. “You see how he is with her?” “Do you still think I’m just being sensitive?” I waited for her answer. I was offering up the pulse of our friendship, waiting to see if she would save it or let it bleed out. Kelsey’s brow furrowed in fierce annoyance. “Declan is already walking on eggshells, Paige. He’s barely even looked at her tonight.” “Do you have to be so exhausting? They’re old friends. What do you want him to do, build a Berlin Wall between them so you can feel secure?” She didn’t offer a single word of comfort. She just leaned forward, catching Marissa’s eye, and launched into an animated conversation about her new earrings. Seeing my expression, Declan frowned and reached out to brush my arm. “Hey. What’s with the face?” His eyes flicked down, finally registering the full glass of Cabernet sitting untouched in front of me. “Are you feeling sick? If you’re not feeling well, you really shouldn’t drink.” Two glasses of wine. When it belonged to her, he preemptively removed the danger. When it sat in front of me, it was practically invisible until I inconvenienced him with a bad mood. It was a sick joke. “I did everything you asked,” he whispered, his tone edging into frustration. “Why are you still punishing me?” I looked at him. The urge to explain myself, to communicate, evaporated entirely. His “boundaries” were just theatrical performances put on for my benefit. His “compromises” were just a chore, a tax he paid to keep me quiet. From start to finish, he never felt my grief. Because his emotional real estate was already occupied. By a ghost he didn’t even have to consciously think about to protect. Someone who had a VIP pass to his instincts, someone who naturally bypassed the line and stood at the very front of his heart. 07 Love gave me my answer. Now, it was time to put Friendship on the chopping block. It took three separate attempts before Kelsey finally agreed to meet me for lunch. She slid into the booth opposite me, radiating impatience. “What’s so urgent? Couldn’t we just FaceTime later?” I took a slow, steadying breath. I thought about the last few months. When I asked her out on weekdays, she was drowning in deadlines. On weekends, she was burnt out, needing a “rot day.” Yet, my Instagram feed was constantly updated with photos of her at brunch, at wine bars, at spin classes with other girls. It seemed like no matter what day of the week I chose, it was the exact day she lacked the time, the energy, or the desire to exist in my orbit. I gave a dry laugh. “When exactly is ‘later,’ Kelsey? Because it feels like whenever I ask, you’re magically booked solid.” Kelsey’s gaze flicked away, a telltale sign of her guilt, before she forced a defensive glare. “What are you talking about? I would never avoid you!” “We’re best friends.” Best friends. I rolled the words around in my head. They tasted like ash. “If you really consider me your best friend,” I said quietly, “then why did you play matchmaker for your ‘best friend’s’ boyfriend and another woman?” Kelsey’s face hardened instantly. “Is this about Declan and Marissa again?” “Jesus, Paige, why are you like a dog with a bone? You’re so paranoid!” “When did I ever play matchmaker? You’re just hypersensitive. You project your insecurities onto everything everyone does!” Watching her put on this ferocious, self-righteous act, I felt a strange, chilling calm settle over me. “You didn’t?” “Then why didn’t you tell me Marissa was his high school sweetheart the day she was hired?” “Why did you laugh along with the rest of the faculty when they made jokes about them dating, knowing full well he came home to me every night?” “You’re close friends with both of them. When you laugh at those jokes, it validates the rumors. It tells the world there’s a spark there. Are you going to sit there and tell me you didn’t know exactly what you were doing?” “I…” Kelsey opened her mouth, scrambling for a lifeline. But I didn’t want to hear it. I had waited in the dark for her explanations for so long. I had starved waiting for her loyalty. And all she ever fed me was gaslighting. I just wanted to purge the poison from my system. “I came to you, crying, telling you Declan had no boundaries with her.” “And knowing exactly how much it was destroying me, you suggested he drive both of you home from happy hour. And you made sure he dropped you off first, leaving them alone in the car.” “What was the goal, Kels? Make sure they had thirty minutes of uninterrupted time in the dark to trauma-bond?” “At first, Declan felt guilty. He knew it crossed a line. But you were the one who told him it was fine. You told him that since you were there, it wasn’t a ‘solo hangout,’ right?” Tears blurred my vision, hot and humiliating. It wasn’t just that she chose Marissa over me. The knife twisted deeper because of a much colder truth. “You stopped being my friend a long time ago, didn’t you?” I knew Kelsey. “Even if I were just an acquaintance to you, you have too much pride to be an accomplice to an affair. You only did it because I ceased to matter to you at all.” 08 “You’re right.” Kelsey’s voice was stripped of all its frantic defensiveness. The silence that followed was heavy and metallic. “I don’t consider you my friend anymore.” She looked at me, her face a mask of cool indifference. “So, helping my actual friend get what she wants? Yeah. I’d say that’s pretty justified.” Memories hit me like a physical blow. Our cramped sophomore dorm room. Eating takeout on the floor. Walking aimlessly around campus at midnight, dissecting our fears, our messy breakups, our chaotic futures. She knew my deepest insecurities. I knew the fragile ego beneath her armor. Then came grad school. The corporate world. The slow, agonizing fade of her affection. I used to tell myself it was just adulthood. People get busy. People get tired. I just needed to try harder. Be more accommodating. Be the low-maintenance friend. I bled myself dry trying to water a dead plant. Until she started building a bridge between the man I loved and the woman who wanted him. Until this very second. When she sat across from me and admitted that my heart had simply been collateral damage in her game. 09 I tilted my head up, refusing to let the tears fall. Kelsey’s jaw was set tight. Not a flicker of remorse behind her eyes. “Then this is where we get off,” I whispered, swallowing the jagged rock in my throat. “From this second on, whatever you do, whatever happens to you—it’s none of my business.” I slid out of the booth. “You probably don’t care, but for the record? Declan and I are done.” “I hope you and your friend finally get everything you deserve.” 10 I had intended to dump Declan to his face. It was the respectful thing to do, for him, and for the seven years we built. But seven o’clock came and went. Then eight. He wasn’t home. Where are you? We need to talk. It’s important. Half an hour later, his reply popped onto my screen. Marissa got super sick. I had to take her to the ER. Is it an emergency? Just hold on, let me get her admitted and I’ll head back. It was the final nail in the coffin. I wanted to end this with grace. With quiet, adult dignity. So I replied: Okay. I’ll wait. But midnight struck, and the front door remained shut. In that quiet, dark living room, the tether snapped. The obsession, the anxiety, the desperate need for closure—it all evaporated into the ether. There was nothing left to say. There was no point in looking at his face one last time. I pulled my suitcase from the hall closet, packed the essentials, and ordered an Uber. As the car pulled away from the curb, I sent Declan Shaw one final text. We’re done.

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My husband makes twelve thousand dollars a month, net. His father holds his payroll card, and for six years, he hasn’t contributed a single dime to our household. I pay the mortgage. I pay the car loan. I maxed out my credit cards just to cover our daughter Zoe’s preschool tuition. The year I was suffering from severe postpartum anemia, my credit card debt spiraled to over eighteen thousand dollars. That same year, his father took my husband’s money to buy his younger brother a forty-five-thousand-dollar SUV. I asked him if he could just bring three thousand dollars a month home. He smashed his glass right in front of the entire family: “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to steal from my father?” Looking at his unfamiliar face, the sheer absurdity of it finally hit me. The next morning, I cancelled all the autopay accounts, packed up our daughter, and went back to my parents’ house. By day ten, overdue notices were plastered all over his door, and the bank was calling his office. He finally panicked. 01 My father-in-law, Richard, was bragging in the family group chat again, posting a screenshot of a wire transfer. $12,000. Sender: Greg. Recipient: Richard. The caption read: “A son who knows his duty is worth more than anything in this world.” The chat blew up instantly. My brother-in-law, Justin, posted three thumbs-up emojis: “Greg is the man. Mom and Dad are set for life.” My mother-in-law, Beverly, added a heart-eyes emoji. I sat at the dining table, staring at this month’s stack of bills spread out in front of me. Mortgage: $2,800. Car payment: $600. Daycare: $1,200. Utilities, Wi-Fi, and trash: $400. On top of that, Zoe had been hospitalized with bronchitis last month. Even after insurance, the out-of-pocket medical bill was $2,400. My monthly salary was $3,500. The minimum payments on my credit cards felt like a noose tightening around my neck. Zoe sat in her booster seat, poking her spoon into her bowl of oatmeal, her voice soft and sweet. “Mommy, is Daddy coming home for dinner tonight?” I glanced toward the kitchen. The slow cooker still had the beef stew I’d kept warm for Greg. “Yes, sweetie.” Right on cue, the front door clicked open. Greg walked in, his suit jacket draped over his arm, his face lined with the exhaustion of working late. When he saw the bills on the table, his movements faltered. “Calculating the budget again?” I pushed the statements toward him. “I can’t make the credit card payments this month. Can you talk to your dad? Just ask him if you can start bringing four thousand a month home to cover our expenses.” He didn’t even look at the paper. Instead, he picked up his glass of water. “My dad needs the money right now.” “He bought Justin a forty-five-thousand-dollar car last week.” “Justin is getting married. He needs a reliable car.” “Zoe’s preschool tuition is due next week. I have exactly two hundred and sixty dollars left in my checking account.” He unscrewed the cap and took a slow sip. “Daycare is too expensive anyway. If we can’t afford it, find a cheaper one.” I stared at him, my hands tightening in my lap. “Do you even know why Zoe is at this daycare? Your mother told me public preschool waitlists were too long and told me to handle it myself. I did the research. I do the pick-ups and drop-offs. When she gets sick, I’m the one taking unpaid leave.” Greg slammed his glass down onto the table. “Do you have to turn everything into a lecture? I work hard, Lydia. I’m tired.” The sudden noise startled Zoe, and her spoon clattered to the table. I picked it up, wiped it clean with a napkin, and handed it back to her with a gentle smile. “I’m not saying you don’t work hard,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’m asking if you can help support our household.” He finally looked at me, his eyes cold and defensive. “Lydia, don’t be so obsessed with money. When I was in school, my dad worked twelve-hour shifts at a freezing warehouse just so I could go to college. His hands were literally cracked and bleeding. Now that I have the means, giving him my paycheck is the right thing to do. It’s my duty.” “Then what about me?” He frowned. “What about you?” “I pay the mortgage. I pay the car payment. I feed our child, handle every utility bill, and max out my credit cards to keep a roof over our heads. What am I to you?” He was silent for two seconds before his voice dropped to a frigid tone. “You live in this house too, don’t you? You drive the car. Zoe is your daughter. Stop acting like you’re doing me a favor by paying for your own life.” I looked at the mountain of debt on the table and suddenly let out a soft, dry laugh. Zoe reached out and tugged at my sleeve. “Mommy, don’t laugh like that. It’s scary.” I stroked her soft hair. “I’m sorry, baby. Don’t worry.” Greg tossed his jacket onto the couch. “You’ve gotten so bitter lately. You never used to be like this.” 02 My mother-in-law, Beverly, came over the following morning. She let herself in, carrying a plastic bag of cheap oranges in one hand and a cardboard box of high-end collagen wellness shots in the other. “Lydia, I couldn’t stand the taste of these wellness shots. You take them. Give yourself a little boost.” I took the box. It was already open, with only two small bottles left inside. Beverly kicked off her shoes and scanned the living room floor. “Zoe’s toys are everywhere. You shouldn’t spoil her like this.” I was busy braiding Zoe’s hair. “She just finished playing. I’ll clean it up in a minute.” Beverly sat on the couch, pulling out her phone. “Did you pick another fight with Greg about money last night?” The hair tie twisted in my fingers. Zoe’s hair was fine and slippery, and a few strands fell loose. “It wasn’t a fight. We literally do not have enough money to cover our bills.” Beverly let out a dismissive laugh. “You young people just don’t know how to budget. You make thirty-five hundred a month. How is that not enough? Back in our day, we raised two kids on a fraction of that.” I zipped Zoe’s little backpack. “Beverly, we have a mortgage now.” “But the house is in your name, isn’t it?” “It’s in both of our names.” “Then it’s perfectly normal for you to pay for it. A woman needs her own home to feel secure.” She said it so smoothly, as if this crippling debt wasn’t a burden, but a privilege I should thank her for. Zoe ran up to Beverly, her backpack bouncing. “Grandma! I’m going to paint a bunny at school today!” Beverly pinched her cheek. “Why waste time on painting? Kids don’t need all these expensive activities. Your father never went to any fancy extracurriculars, and he still went to an Ivy League school.” I walked Zoe down to the car. When I returned, Beverly was already standing in front of my open refrigerator. “Why is there barely any food in here?” “It’s the end of the month.” She slammed the fridge door shut, her expression tightening. “Lydia, I actually came over to talk to you about something. Justin is getting engaged next month, and his fiancée’s family expects a beautiful ring and a down payment on a house. Your father-in-law is under immense pressure. Stop pressuring Greg for money.” I froze. “Justin is getting married. Why is Greg funding it?” Beverly looked at me as if I’d asked the stupidest question in the world. “They’re brothers. Why wouldn’t he help? Greg is the older brother, the successful one. It’s only natural he carries the weight.” “And what about his own daughter?” “Zoe has you. It’s not like she’s starving.” I leaned heavily against the dining table, my palms pressing into the hard wood. “Beverly, I am eighteen thousand five hundred dollars in credit card debt.” She blinked, her brow furrowing. “How did you run up that much debt? Have you been buying luxury things behind Greg’s back?” I pulled up my banking app and thrust the phone toward her. Hospital bills, mortgage payments, car payments, daycare tuition, groceries. Line by line. Clean, necessary, unavoidable. Beverly glanced at it for a second, then pushed the phone back to me. “I don’t understand all these digital statements. Look, if your little family is struggling, you need to find a way to fix it ourselves. Greg’s money has already been promised to his father. We can’t just take it back.” “And what if I can’t fix it?” She stared at me, her voice turning sharp. “Then spend less. Pull Zoe out of preschool. Stop driving. Stop ordering takeout. You’re a mother, Lydia. If you tighten your belt, you can make it work.” I thought of the cold leftovers I had eaten for dinner the night before. I thought of my winter coat, which was three years old and fraying at the seams. I thought of the follow-up medical checkup my doctor had ordered months ago, which I still hadn’t scheduled because I couldn’t afford the co-pay. Beverly stood up and grabbed her designer purse. “Your father-in-law is waiting for me at the jeweler’s. I have to go. Make sure you drink those wellness shots—don’t let them go to waste.” The door clicked shut behind her. I looked at the box containing the two remaining bottles, picked it up, and threw it directly into the trash. 03 I didn’t attend my brother-in-law’s engagement party. It wasn’t out of spite. Zoe woke up that morning with a fever of 102.5. I called Greg. He didn’t answer. I sent him a text. He replied hours later: “Today is a massive day for my family. Take her to the clinic yourself.” The emergency room was packed. Zoe’s face was flushed red, her tiny hands clutching my collar as she rested her heavy head on my shoulder. “Mommy, it hurts,” she whimpered. I rocked her back and forth, staring at the endless line at the registration desk. In front of me stood a young couple. The father held their crying toddler, while the mother carefully reviewed the paperwork. They took turns whispering comforts to the child, taking turns standing in line. I was entirely on my own. By the time Zoe’s fever finally broke, it was 11:00 PM. I sat in a hard plastic chair in the pediatric unit, holding her small, limp hand. My phone buzzed. It was a notification from Facebook. My mother-in-law had posted. In the photo, Justin was wearing a sharp new suit, and his fiancée was showing off a sparkling diamond ring. Richard stood right next to them, his face flushed red with joy and alcohol. The caption read: “My youngest is officially set. The oldest funds it, the youngest builds his home. That’s what family does.” The oldest funds it. I zoomed in on the photo. Greg stood on the very edge of the frame, holding a thick envelope, a polished, polite smile plastered on his face. That envelope looked incredibly heavy. I looked down at Zoe. Her tiny arm was taped down where the IV had been, her sleep fitful and uneasy. My phone buzzed again. A credit card payment alert. Minimum payment due: $980. My bank account balance: $122. The nurse walked over, checking the IV drip. “Her second bag is almost done, sweetie. Keep an eye on it and let us know when it finishes.” I nodded, unable to speak. A young mother sitting in the chair next to me quietly handed me a pack of tissues. “You look pale,” she said softly. “Are you alright?” As I took them, I realized my forehead was drenched in a cold sweat. We didn’t get home until 1:00 AM. Greg still wasn’t back. I wiped Zoe down with a warm cloth, gave her her medicine, and tucked her into bed. It was past 2:00 AM when I heard the front door open. Greg walked in, smelling heavily of whiskey. “How’s the baby?” “Her fever is down.” He let out a long breath, loosening his tie. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. It was Justin’s big night, and Dad got so drunk I had to stay and handle everything.” I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the digital thermometer. “How much did you give them?” He froze. “Why are you asking that?” “I saw your mother’s post.” He hung his suit jacket over the back of a chair. “Fifteen thousand. It’s a standard wedding contribution.” I stared at him. “Zoe’s medical bill was twenty-four hundred dollars, and you told me we had nothing. But you can hand your brother fifteen thousand dollars for a party?” His face darkened. “That was money my dad saved up. I was just handing it over on behalf of the family.” “Where did your dad get that money, Greg?” “Don’t start interrogating me.” I set the thermometer down on the nightstand. “I have one question, Greg. While our daughter was hooked up to an IV in the emergency room, did it ever cross your mind that her father was busy handing out fifteen-thousand-dollar gifts?” He tried to suppress his anger, his jaw clenching. “Lydia, can we please not do this when our kid is sick?” “Where were you when she got sick?” He looked at Zoe’s sleeping form, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I’m exhausted. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I sat on the edge of the mattress, wide awake, watching the sky slowly turn from black to a bruised gray. As dawn broke, I opened my laptop and exported my bank statements from the last six years. Spreadsheet after spreadsheet filled the screen. As I scrolled through the cold, hard numbers, something inside me died. Six years. I had paid $182,000 toward our mortgage. I had paid $43,000 for car payments and auto insurance. For Zoe—from formula, diapers, and vaccines to preschool and medical bills—I had spent over $90,000. The rest of our daily living expenses, groceries, repairs, and furniture totaled another $65,000. The grand total: $380,000. Meanwhile, Greg’s after-tax income over those six years was nearly $800,000. Every single cent had gone directly into his father’s account. 04 The final straw came during Preschool Family Field Day. The school had sent out a flyer a week in advance, stating that they hoped both parents could attend. Zoe had been practically vibrating with excitement for three days straight. Every night before bed, she would look up at me and ask, “Is Daddy coming?” I asked Greg. Initially, he said he’d see if his schedule allowed it. The night before, I asked him again. He was sitting on the couch scrolling through his phone, watching a video his father had posted on TikTok. Lately, Richard had become obsessed with social media, posting videos about his “parenting secrets” and his “devoted, successful sons.” The comments were flooded with strangers praising him for raising such a loyal eldest son. Greg read through the comments with a smug smile. I stood directly in front of him. “Daycare Field Day is tomorrow at 2:00 PM. Take a half-day off.” “I have a project meeting tomorrow.” “You promised her last week.” “I said I’d try.” Zoe peeked her head out from her bedroom. “Daddy, you’re not coming?” Greg put his phone face down. “Daddy will do his best, sweetie.” “Do my best.” Adults know what that means. But children don’t. He didn’t show up. During the parent-child relay, every other child was piggybacking on their fathers while their mothers cheered at the finish line. I had to carry Zoe and run the race myself, then scramble to the finish line to hold up her team’s banner. Zoe clung to my neck, her little arms wrapped tightly around me. “Mommy, am I too heavy?” “No, baby. You’re light as a feather.” In reality, my vision was blurring, and my knees were shaking. After the event, the teacher sent out a group photo. Every single child had two parents smiling beside them. Zoe only had me. She was incredibly quiet on the drive home. As we approached our neighborhood, she suddenly spoke up. “Mommy, does Daddy not like me?” I pulled over and turned to face her. “Of course he likes you, sweetie.” “Then why does he never come?” I reached over to brush a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “Daddy is just very busy with work.” She looked down at her lap. “But Tommy’s dad works too, and he was there.” I had no answer for her. When Greg came home that evening, he was holding a box with a shiny new toy. “For Zoe. A little makeup gift.” Zoe looked at it but didn’t touch it. She picked up her stuffed bunny and quietly retreated to her room. Greg stood there awkwardly, placing the box on the coffee table. “What’s wrong with her?” I pulled up the group photo and handed him the phone. “She asked me today if you don’t like her.” His expression stiffened. I swiped to a video the teacher had sent. In the video, I was running with Zoe in my arms. Near the finish line, my foot slipped, and I nearly went down. Zoe had started crying in terror, clinging to me and screaming for her mommy. Greg watched it in silence. I took my phone back. “Greg, I can’t carry this family alone anymore.”

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There was an open secret in the upper-bracket social circles of Chicago. Beckett Shaw, the ruthless heir of Shaw Enterprises, was marrying his kept woman of five years—not out of love, but out of sheer spite toward his first love. In the master bedroom of his Gold Coast penthouse, Beckett wrapped his arms around me from behind. His breath was hot against the crook of my neck, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and cedarwood. “Gwen,” he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy warmth. “It’s been five years. I can barely even remember what Cynthia looks like.” He turned me around, holding my face in his hands. “Give me a child after the wedding, and we’ll build a real life together. Just you and me.” I looked into his dark eyes, watching the sudden, intense affection swirling in them. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung with a sudden rush of heat. I nodded, leaning into his touch like the obedient girl I had always trained myself to be. I actually believed him. I believed that five years of quiet, devoted companionship had finally thawed the icy edges of Beckett Shaw’s heart. Until the night before the wedding. I was walking down the hallway of our new suburban estate when I heard muffled voices coming from the master suite. Cynthia Ward—his first love, the girl who had left him to marry a European baronet, and who had just returned to the States after a bitter divorce—was standing inside, confronting him. “Are you serious, Beckett?” her voice cut through the heavy oak door, sharp and trembling with indignation. “To force me back to Chicago, you’re really going to marry some cheap escort just to make me suffer?” Inside, there was a long, heavy pause, followed by the low, dragging sound of Beckett exhaling smoke. “Even if she’s just a placeholder,” Beckett said, his tone dripping with a quiet, lethal indifference, “she’s the one I’m putting at the altar. At least Gwen doesn’t pack her bags and run off with another man the second things get difficult. At least she didn’t leave me alone for five years.” The air in the hallway seemed to drop to freezing. … Inside the room, Cynthia’s voice cracked, turning into a frantic, desperate plea. “Beckett, I divorced my husband for you! I came back for you! Are you really going to go through with this tomorrow? Are you really going to marry her?” A dry, rustling silence followed. Then came the sound of Beckett fastening his cufflinks. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual, haughty calm. “Cynthia, you didn’t honestly think that the moment you showed up, I’d just fall back to my knees, did you? The wedding is happening tomorrow. And I want you sitting in the front row, watching me put a ring on Gwen’s finger.” I stood frozen in the dim hallway, my fingers gripping the paper in my pocket—the positive pregnancy scan I had picked up from the clinic only three hours ago. I couldn’t move my feet. I didn’t even have the right to push open the door. The five years of devotion I thought had finally borne fruit were nothing but a weapon. I was just a tool he was using to bleed his ex-wife dry. I didn’t storm in like a madwoman. Instead, I walked down the hall, dropped the ultrasound scan into the silver trash can by the stairs, and stepped out into the freezing Chicago night wind. It was nearly midnight when Beckett returned to our city penthouse. The moment he saw me sitting on the sofa, his eyes lit up. He held out a wrapped bundle of white lisianthus flowers, presenting them to me with a boyish, almost proud grin. “The florist finished setting up the pavilion by Lake Michigan, baby,” he said, pulling me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my hair. “It’s covered in your favorite lisianthus. Tomorrow, you’re going to be the most beautiful bride this city has ever seen.” He held me so tightly I could barely breathe. “It’s only when I’m next to you that I feel grounded. Gwen, you’re never going to leave me, right?” I sat rigid in his arms, my face blank. If I hadn’t heard his conversation with Cynthia, I would have spent the night worrying about his hectic schedule, convincing myself that this was what true love felt like. But as he leaned closer, the heavy, sweet scent of a woman’s expensive French perfume invaded my senses. I had the quiet, practiced dignity of a kept woman. I knew when to look away. But tonight, I couldn’t force myself to play the part. I took a slow step back, slipping out of his embrace. Beckett’s hands remained suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, his posture stiffening. “Where is the silver tie clip I bought you last month?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye. My voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it, reaching out to pinch my earlobe with an easy, patronizing smile. “I must have misplaced it during the dinner meeting tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll have my assistant track it down tomorrow.” I didn’t flinch away from his touch. I just stared into those arrogant, old-money eyes—eyes accustomed to owning everything they looked at. “Beckett,” I said softly, “since Cynthia is back, let’s call off the wedding.” The smile on his face froze. He was so used to my obedience over the last five years that he had never expected me to be the one to rip the curtain down. The warmth in his eyes drained away, replaced by a cold, unfamiliar glare. “Gwen, a wedding of this scale isn’t something you get to cancel,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped closer, towering over me. “You’ve always been the smart one. There are a thousand women in this city who would crawl through broken glass to be Mrs. Shaw. Don’t lose your head at the finish line.” Beckett once told me that I was the first woman who had ever actively pitched herself to him. Before I met him, I was a struggling actress, suffocating on the fringes of the indie film scene, desperate to avoid the greasy, bloated producers who viewed girls like me as currency. At a high-profile charity gala, I had slipped away during the dinner service, cornering Beckett Shaw outside the private restroom. I didn’t play coy; I laid myself bare and told him exactly what I wanted: protection, stability, and a way out of the meat market. Beckett had looked me up and down, his gaze heavy and assessing, the tip of his cigarette glowing like a dying star in the dark hallway. “You’re very young to bind yourself to a man like me,” he had said, blowing a thin stream of smoke over my head. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” After that night, the indie film scene lost a promising face. And the Shaw estate gained a perfectly obedient canary. When his personal assistant handed me the contract, his voice was filled with a strange, quiet envy. “You’re very lucky, Ms. Collins. In all his years, Mr. Shaw has never let a woman stay the night.” I spent the night of my wedding eve dreaming of that first meeting. When I woke up, I was already in my wedding dress, sitting alone in a small, drafty holding room at the luxury hotel. There was no grand motorcade. No family greeting me. The Shaw family’s elderly butler walked in, his eyes carrying that familiar, quiet disdain he had worn for five years. “Ms. Collins, Mrs. Shaw senior had her spiritual adviser run the charts again last night. He claims the alignment today is highly inauspicious. The ceremony has been postponed.” I kept my smile pinned to my face, nodding politely. “I understand.” But we both knew the truth. There was no room for spiritual charts in a family that worshipped compound interest. It was simply a matter of old money drawing its borders. The holding room was freezing, the air conditioning humming loudly in the silence. On the velvet sofa sat my parents, looking small and deeply uncomfortable in their cheap off-the-rack formal wear. Next to them were two of my college friends who had flown in to be my bridesmaids. I forced myself to walk over to them, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. “Mom, Dad… I’m so sorry. There was an issue with the scheduling…” I bowed my head, offering a deep, silent apology to everyone in the room. When I straightened up, my father was rubbing his calloused hands together, his face flushed with embarrassment, while my friends whispered quietly among themselves. In five years, I had never once told them about the nature of my relationship with Beckett. Suddenly, they were told I was marrying a multi-billionaire, only to be left standing in a cold backroom on the morning of the wedding. My pride was ground into dust, scattered across the polished marble floor. Before I could comfort my mother, the heavy double doors were pushed open. Cynthia Ward marched in, wearing a vibrant, custom-tailored red silk dress that practically screamed defiance. She swept her eyes over my family, her lips curling into a smug sneer. “Oh, sweetie, there’s no scheduling error,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial pity. “Beckett’s mother found out I was back in town. She was never going to let a woman with a price tag on her head walk down their aisle.” Seeing the color drain from my face, she stepped closer, leaning in. “Do you want to know what old Mrs. Shaw actually said? She said she’d rather leave the seat empty than let a paid escort play house in her family home.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears. My father’s chest heaved with rage, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. He took a step toward her, but I grabbed his arm, my nails digging deep into my own palms to keep from shaking. Just as I was about to scream at her, a pair of warm, heavy hands settled onto my waist. Beckett had arrived. He pulled me flush against his side, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal intensity as he glared at Cynthia. “Who let her in here?” Beckett’s voice was a low growl. “If you ever show your face near Gwen again, Cynthia, I will personally ensure your family’s firm is run out of this state by Monday morning.” Cynthia’s face went pale. Before she could speak, two of Beckett’s security guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her out of the room. The silence that followed was suffocating. Beckett turned around and, in front of my trembling parents, took my hand in his. His grip was tight, almost desperate. “I apologize for the distress, everyone,” Beckett said, his voice loud and clear. “The real reason we are postponing the ceremony is because Gwen is in her first trimester. The doctor advised against any unnecessary stress. We’ve decided to postpone the wedding and combine it with our child’s christening.” Once the room cleared, leaving only the two of us in the quiet bridal suite, the silence returned. I slowly placed my hand over my flat stomach, my voice trembling. “Beckett… was any of that true?” The man rubbing his temples paused. He looked down at my hand resting on my stomach, a cold, amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Gwen, you didn’t actually think you were going to have my baby, did you?” My heart stopped. Before I could explain that I actually was pregnant, Beckett let out a dry scoff. “If I didn’t tell them you were pregnant, the Shaw Enterprises stock would have plunged five percent by tomorrow morning on rumors of a jilted bride. Besides,” he added, his eyes flashing with a cruel satisfaction, “Cynthia didn’t look miserable enough when she left. I need her to stew in that jealousy for a few more days. It’ll teach her a lesson.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. He looked at my pale face, his expression turning slightly mocking. “Do you really think kept women get to play house with their benefactors? We don’t belong in the same world, Gwen. I pay you for your time, not your feelings.” For the next two weeks, Beckett didn’t come home once. The white lisianthus in the living room withered into brown, crispy husks, their petals scattering across the hardwood floor. I didn’t bother cleaning them up. The next time I saw him was on the television screen during a live broadcast of a Shaw Enterprises press conference. Beckett stood at the podium in a bespoke charcoal suit, his posture impeccable. It was the exact suit I had spent three weeks picking out for our rehearsal dinner. Back then, he had dismissed it as too theatrical. Now, he was wearing it while holding Cynthia’s hand under the flashing lights, his face softened by a warmth I had never seen. “Five years ago, there was a terrible misunderstanding between Ms. Ward and myself,” Beckett said to the crowd of reporters. “Next month, we will be holding a private ceremony on Lake Michigan to celebrate our marriage.” The room erupted into murmurs. A bold reporter stepped forward, raising a microphone. “Mr. Shaw, what about your previous engagement to Gwen Collins? There were rumors of a pregnancy…” The warmth vanished from Beckett’s face instantly. He stared directly into the camera lens, his expression hardening into a wall of cold, professional detachment. “Ms. Collins was well aware of my desire for a family. In a desperate bid to force her way into my family, she went so far as to forge a pregnancy test. I do not tolerate that kind of manipulation in my personal or professional life.” I sat quietly on the sofa, a pair of wooden needles in my hands, slowly knitting a tiny pair of yellow baby booties. My phone began to vibrate violently on the coffee table. When I picked it up, my mother’s sobbing voice filled the quiet room. “Gwen… marrying into that kind of wealth is like swallowing broken glass. I don’t want you to destroy yourself just to keep up with those people. Come home, baby. Please.” My hand slipped. The sharp wooden needle pierced my index finger. A bright bead of crimson blood welled up, dripping onto the soft yellow yarn, blooming like a tiny, violent flower. I quieted my mother with a few soft lies and hung up the phone. With a deep, exhausting weariness, I stood up and walked over to my vanity, pulling open the bottom drawer. Lying right next to the non-disclosure agreement I had signed five years ago was an official ultrasound report from three days prior. The image showed a tiny, dark shadow. The report noted a strong fetal heartbeat and the faint, delicate outline of a spine. That afternoon, I put on a black face mask and drove to the private hospital owned by the Shaw family’s medical group. The chief of obstetrics recognized me instantly, her manner overly deferential. But the moment she looked at the termination consent form in my hand, her face went white. She reached frantically for the desk phone. “Ms. Collins, I… I have to notify Mr. Shaw immediately.” I reached out, pressing my hand firmly over the receiver. I forced a small, tired smile. “Why? Men are allowed to keep women in the dark. Why can’t a woman keep a secret too?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t bother calling him. The baby isn’t his.” The doctor froze, staring at me as if I had lost my mind. I could see the frantic calculations running through her head—the assumption of a massive, career-ending scandal. Without another word, she signed her name on the authorization line. I took the paper back, turned around, and walked into the cold prep room. On the line marked Patient Signature, I wrote my name. Loss is a two-way street. If Beckett Shaw was willing to let me go, then I was going to make sure I left nothing of myself behind. Two hours later, my body aching and empty, I walked out of the hospital doors. A sharp spring breeze swept across Lake Michigan, carrying the scent of thawing ice. I looked out over the gray water, feeling an odd, weightless peace for the first time in five years. Standing on the crowded street corner, I dialed an old friend who had moved to Europe years ago. “I need a new identity,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the wind. “As fast as possible.” “I want to go somewhere Beckett Shaw will never find me.” By evening, Beckett was waiting for me at the penthouse. The anesthesia had mostly worn off, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen. My back was damp with cold sweat. Beckett stood near the glass window, keeping a deliberate, polite distance from me. “The reporter who asked that question at the press conference won’t be working in Chicago anymore,” he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “I’ve settled things with the major networks. You’re getting older, Gwen. It’s time you moved on and lived a normal life.” He lit a cigarette, his eyes lingering on my face with a faint, unspoken regret. We had lived together for five years. We knew each other too well. We both knew this was the end. “Gwen,” he said softly, “if your family had a different name, I really would have made you Mrs. Shaw.” I nodded quietly. “I know.” Seeing my compliance, Beckett pushed two thick leather folders across the marble kitchen island. “You gave me five years of your life. These two lakefront properties are yours. Consider it a parting gift.” He paused. “If you ever run into financial trouble, contact my assistant. He’ll take care of it.” I didn’t look at the deeds. I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the release form. My hand didn’t shake. I pushed the signed documents back toward him, keeping my eyes on his face, offering him one last, gentle smile. Beckett seemed taken aback by how quickly I had signed. He stared at me, his eyes dark and complicated. “Gwen… is there anything else you want?” Beckett, what else could I possibly ask for? The divide between us was a chasm of old money and power. The more I wanted, the less I would ever have. I looked at the cigarette burning down between his fingers. “You’re getting older, Beckett. You should really smoke less.” Our final dinner ended without another word. I packed my single suitcase and climbed into the back of his Mercedes. The pain in my stomach was so sharp I had to curl into a ball against the leather seat. As the car pulled out of the iron gates, a sleek red sports car passed us, heading toward the house. Cynthia was moving in. I looked through the tinted window, watching the warm lights of the master bedroom flicker on. On the sheer curtains, a slender silhouette reached up to drape her arms around a man’s neck. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Ms. Collins, Mr. Shaw instructed me to take you to the lakefront property. Shall we head there now?” I pulled my gaze away from the house, looking at the familiar skyline of the city I was leaving behind. “No,” I said quietly. “Take me to O’Hare Airport.” Back at the estate, Beckett was pacing the living room, a strange, suffocating restlessness clawing at his chest. Upstairs, Cynthia was tossing my remaining things out of the closet, her voice carrying down the hall. “Cheap polyester trash. How did you let her keep her things in our room?” With a sharp clatter, a thick manila envelope rolled down the stairs, landing right at Beckett’s feet. A folded piece of thermal paper slid out. Beckett looked down. The moment his eyes registered the black-and-white ultrasound image, his knees buckled. He collapsed onto his knees on the hardwood floor. His fingers shook so violently he could barely pick up the paper. He scrambled for his phone, dialing his driver’s number three times before the call finally went through. “Where is she? Did she get to the penthouse?” he roared, his voice cracking. On the other end, the driver’s voice was trembling. “Mr. Shaw… Ms. Collins didn’t go to the penthouse. She… she had me drop her off at O’Hare.” Realizing what was happening, Beckett tore off his tie, bolted out the front door, and scrambled into his car. “Stop her! Block the terminal! Don’t let her plane take off! Now!” “It’s too late, Mr. Shaw,” the driver whispered. “She’s already cleared security. But before she left… she told me to give you a message.”

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