Author: Momo Chan

1 I was scrolling through a campus resale board late at night when a listing stopped my thumb dead in its tracks. Five-star luxury tasting buffet, valued at $500. Selling my spot for $25. Only one opening available. I sat bolt upright in bed. Twenty-five dollars for a five-hundred-dollar private buffet? That wasn’t just a discount; it was practically highway robbery in reverse. A food vlogger I followed had recently reviewed the place. Her video featured glistening plates of A5 wagyu and towering tiers of seafood, and I remembered sitting in my dorm room, practically drooling onto my screen. But the actual price tag equaled two months of my college grocery budget. I couldn’t afford a single appetizer, let alone the full spread. And yet, here it was. Handed to me on a silver platter. I immediately opened a direct chat with the seller. Is this for real? He replied within seconds. Cross my heart. One hundred percent legitimate. How do I claim it once I pay? Meet me outside the front entrance tomorrow at four in the afternoon. I’ll walk you right in. Suspicious, but thoroughly blinded by the prospect of unlimited truffles, I sent the money. When I told my roommate about my impending feast, she stared at me for a long, quiet second, reached into her closet, and handed me an opaque black trash bag. I gave her a knowing smirk. “For smuggling out the wagyu?” She shook her head solemnly. “No. In case you get caught by the general manager, you pull this over your head. We don’t need your mugshot trending on Reddit under the headline: Local College Girl’s Morally Bankrupt Scam—A Tragic Descent into Petty Gluttony.” I lunged across the rug and tackled her onto her beanbag. “You dare question my survival instincts?” After a minute of breathless wrestling, I dusted off my knees and checked my phone. “Look, his seller rating is five stars. He’s obviously a good samaritan who just had an extra ticket.” The next afternoon, I showed up thirty minutes early. The seller wasn’t there yet. I didn’t have the courage to walk up to the velvet ropes alone, but lingering on the sidewalk made me feel like an undercover spy with zero training. Glancing around, I noticed a row of massive, waist-high terracotta planters flanking the courtyard. I ducked my head, scurried over, and wedged myself neatly behind a dense cluster of ornamental palms. Perfect. I crouched there, waiting, until my calves began to cramp. Just as I was considering crawling out, the low hum of conversation floated across the courtyard. A small crowd of men in tailored suits was approaching. Crisp lapels, mirror-shined oxfords, effortless posture—the kind of corporate pedigree that radiates from boardrooms and private clubs. Especially the man walking in front. He was striking in a sharp, aloof way, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that framed broad shoulders and a lean waist. His stride was deliberate and unbothered, carrying that distinct, bone-deep ease of someone who had never known material lack a single day in his life. Handsome, undeniably. But far out of my tax bracket. I stayed low, scanning the group for my seller. Suddenly, someone in the pack coughed three times in rapid succession. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. I froze. The secret code. The seller had told me he’d clear his throat three times, I’d call him “bro,” and he’d take it from there. I stood up, rustling the palm leaves, and immediately locked eyes with a guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses in the back row. I swallowed hard, stepping onto the pavement, and ventured a tentative, “…Bro?” His eyes lit up with relief. “Hey! Little sis, over here!” Under the collective stare of half a dozen executives, my legs nearly forgot how to walk in alternating sequence. The guy in glasses quickly steered me toward the tall man at the front. “Mr. Shaw, this is my younger sister. She goes to school nearby, and since the company memo said we could bring a family plus-one to the celebration dinner, I figured I’d invite her along.” My brain short-circuited. A plus-one? This is a corporate team dinner? Mr. Shaw turned his gaze on me, his dark eyes cool and unreadable. I curled my toes inside my sneakers, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole. “All right,” he said simply. “Let’s head in.” I let out a shaky breath, feeling a thin film of cold sweat glaze my back. The guy in glasses leaned close to my ear and muttered, “Relax. Once we’re inside, just focus on eating. Don’t worry about anything else.” I nodded numbly. At this point, there was only one thing left to do: get my twenty-five dollars’ worth. 2 Inside, the restaurant was an altar to fine dining. Crystal chandeliers threw refractions across polished marble floors, and the silver cutlery gleamed with surgical precision. Australian wagyu, seared foie gras, Alaskan king crab legs, butter-poached lobster tails, beluga caviar, shaved winter truffles—luxuries I had only ever seen through a high-definition screen were arranged in generous, glistening spreads. A silent tear of joy nearly escaped the corner of my eye. I pulled out my phone, snapped a covert photo of the spread, and sent it to our dorm group chat: Behold, mere mortals. The notification banner instantly began to vibrate off the hook. I slipped my phone into my pocket, grabbed a plate, and went to work. For the next forty minutes, I existed in a state of pure culinary bliss. I floated between the carving stations and the raw bar, piling my plate high. The king crab meat was sweet and tender; the wagyu practically melted on my tongue, leaving behind a rich, smoky savor; the foie gras on toasted brioche was decadent perfection. I ate with total, shameless devotion, utterly oblivious to the quarterly projections and market strategies being discussed around the long table. Until an elbow nudged my ribs. “Hey, slow down,” the guy in glasses whispered. “It’s time to raise a toast to Mr. Shaw. Wipe your face.” I froze, a piece of lobster halfway down my throat. A toast? No one told me the fake sister had to give a speech! I frantically dabbed my mouth with a linen napkin. By sheer bad luck, the CEO was standing right near our end of the table. It was my turn. Wait—what was his last name again? I had heard someone address him earlier, but the noise of the room had garbled the syllables. Did they say… Mr. Shite? Mr. Short? Sean Shaw looked down at me, holding up a crystal flute of champagne with a faint, polite inclination of his head. He looked devastatingly put-together. I panicked, gripped my glass, and blurted out, “M-Mr. Shite, thank you for having me!” The table went completely, agonizingly dead silent. Several executives froze with their glasses mid-air. One junior associate turned beet red, his shoulders twitching violently as he tried not to choke on his wine. Sean’s expression hardened, his handsome jaw tightening into stone. “It’s Shaw.” I am going to die right here on this imported Italian marble. How could anyone butcher a name so spectacularly? If he realized I was a complete imposter, would security drag me out by my collar? My brain spun at a million miles an hour. “I am so, so sorry, Mr. Shaw!” I stammered, pulling a desperate face. “I grew up out in the deep rural sticks, and when I get nervous, my backwoods accent comes out and my vowels get completely tangled, haha…” Sean arched a single, razor-sharp brow. “The rural sticks?” He signaled the guy in glasses over. “Greg, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t your parents lifelong downtown Chicago residents? Is she actually your sister?” Greg’s smile turned painfully brittle. “Uh, yes, sir. Half-sister. Raised on a farm out in the countryside.” Greg was staring at me with silent, wide-eyed terror. I couldn’t drag him down with me. He was the saint who had facilitated my lobster feast. I had to divert the CEO’s attention immediately. I bit the bullet and flipped the switch straight to wide-eyed reverence. “Mr. Shaw, the truth is, I begged my brother to let me come because I’ve admired you for years! I just wanted to see you in person!” Greg’s jaw dropped. A glimmer of sheer awe crossed his eyes. Sean frowned slightly. “You’ve seen me before? I don’t recall meeting you.” “Not in person, no, but through everything my brother says!” The words poured out of me like an unbroken stream of commercial propaganda. “He always tells me how you built this enterprise from the ground up at such a young age, how visionary and brilliant you are, a true titan of industry and an inspiration to our entire generation! You are a paragon of modern leadership, a financial savant, a walking masterclass in executive excellence—” I threw every superlative I had ever learned in my business communications class into the fire. Sean cleared his throat softly, cutting me off. “That’s enough. Go finish your dessert.” The tips of his ears, I noticed with a jolt, were tinged with a faint shade of pink. Knowing when to retreat, I nodded meekly. “Right away, Mr. Shaw!” As soon as he turned back to the senior partners, I slumped back into my seat, exhaling a massive breath. Greg discreetly gave me a thumbs-up under the table. “Sis, if you don’t go into enterprise sales after graduation, it’ll be a crime against the economy.” “Just doing my civic duty,” I whispered modestly. 3 By the time the dinner wrapped up, my stomach was pleasantly rounded. I waddled out of the restaurant, fully prepared to take the long, slow walk back to my dorm to burn off the thousand calories of butter I’d consumed. I had only walked half a block when a sleek black Maybach slowed to a crawl alongside the curb. The tinted rear window rolled down smoothly, revealing Sean’s sharp profile. “Your brother didn’t arrange a ride for you?” I gave an awkward, tight smile. “He had some errands to run. It’s totally fine, I like walking.” “You go to the university nearby, right?” “Yes, sir.” “Get in. It’s on my way.” “Thank you, Mr. Shaw, but really, I wouldn’t want to trouble you—” Before I could finish my polite decline, the chauffeur had already stepped out and pulled the heavy door open with a crisp click. “Please, miss.” I stood there, cornered by luxury. What choice did I have? I ducked inside and gingerly perched on the edge of the leather seat. The car smelled exquisite—a clean, crisp blend of dry cedarwood, bergamot, and very expensive upholstery. It was Sean’s scent. The seat was so plush it felt like sinking into a cloud, far removed from the squeaky vinyl of campus transit. I shrank as close to the window as physically possible. Sean leaned his head back against the headrest, eyes shut, rubbing his temples with long, elegant fingers. He seemed exhausted, perhaps carrying a slight buzz from the scotch he’d been drinking all evening. His hands were striking—cleanly defined knuckles, neat nails, the kind of hands that looked effortlessly authoritative. As someone with a mild aesthetic weakness for well-kept hands, I couldn’t help stealing a few glances. “See something interesting?” he asked quietly, his eyes still closed. I jumped in my seat, snapping my gaze straight ahead. “N-no! Not at all!” A faint, breathy chuckle escaped his lips, but he didn’t say another word. The cabin settled into a heavy, quiet stillness. Between the food coma, the smooth suspension of the car, and the quiet purr of the engine, my eyelids grew impossibly heavy. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the darkness pulled me under. Some time later, a gentle tap on my shoulder dragged me back to consciousness. “Wake up. We’re here.” I blinked sleepily, my vision swimming into focus. A gorgeous, chiseled face hovered just inches from mine. Dark lashes, a high nasal bridge, and that intoxicating woodsy cologne. Still half-drowned in a dream, my unfiltered subconscious took the wheel. “Wow,” I murmured dreamily. “You are ridiculously pretty.” Sean froze, then cleared his throat and leaned back into his seat, an amused curve touching his lips. “You’re at your dorm gate.” The fog vanished instantly. Heat rushed up my neck and painted my face in bright crimson. “I—I am so sorry! I was talking in my sleep!” I fumbled frantically with the seatbelt buckle, my fingers trembling. “Thank you so much for the ride, Mr. Shaw! Have a great night, goodbye!” I shoved the door open and bolted onto the sidewalk like a fugitive. Behind me, the Maybach’s taillights vanished into the city traffic. Standing in the cool night air, I pressed both hands to my burning cheeks. What a night. 4 The following afternoon, my roommate and I were slurping down bowls of extra-spicy takeout noodles in the dining hall when my phone buzzed with an email notification. My appetite evaporated on the spot. Prospectus review: What on earth is this? The logic is convoluted, the thesis statement lacks academic merit, and the methodology is nonexistent. Rewrite it from scratch. My roommate peered over my shoulder. “Babe, did Professor Ellis just reject your senior thesis proposal for the fifth time?” I dropped my head onto the table with a dull thud. Professor Arthur Ellis was not yet thirty, brilliant, and possessed an academic tongue that could strip paint off a wall. As my misfortune would have it, he was assigned as my senior project advisor. The bad news: my proposal was dead. The worse news: the email ended with an order to report to his office immediately. I slumped in my chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Why does the universe test me like this? It’s one thing to get roasted via email, but now I have to walk into the lion’s den and get shredded in person. Save me.” My roommate took a thoughtful sip of her broth. “There’s only one way to survive this: psychological warfare.” “Explain.” “When he starts yelling at you, just picture that when people scream, their glutes involuntarily clench up super tight. Keep your focus on that mental image. It’ll dilute the fear.” I stared at her. “…You are an absolute menace.” Ten minutes later, I was standing outside his office door, clutching my laptop. “Come in.” I stepped inside. “Professor Ellis.” Arthur looked up from his desk. He was sharply dressed as always, his expression sour. “Did you read my notes? Do you understand what’s wrong with your premise? Walk me through it.” If I understood what was wrong with it, I wouldn’t have written it that way in the first place. I attempted to string together some coherent academic jargon. Arthur listened for about thirty seconds before cutting me off with a dry scoff. “What do you do with your brain all day? This is fundamental research theory. I’ve mentored dozens of undergraduates, and I rarely see someone miss the mark this consistently.” Here it came—the signature verbal flaying. I kept my head down, trying to look appropriately penitent. Then my roommate’s words echoed in my head. My brain betrayed me, instantly generating a vivid, high-definition mental image of the dignified, intellectual Arthur Ellis passionately clenching his rear end while lecturing me. A snort slipped past my lips. Arthur stopped mid-sentence. His face darkened dangerously. “Are you laughing? You think your academic probation is a joke? With this attitude, do you actually expect to graduate this spring?” I am a dead woman. Just as I opened my mouth to beg for mercy, a brisk knock sounded at the door. I turned around. Standing in the doorway, framed by the afternoon light, was Sean Shaw. He paused when he saw me, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Greg’s sister?” I offered a weak, agonizingly polite grimace. “Mr. Shaw. Nice to see you again.” Arthur looked between Sean and me, his eyebrows furrowing in deep confusion. “Sean? How do you know my student?” “She’s the sister of one of my analysts,” Sean said casually. “Met her at a team dinner.” Arthur’s gaze snapped back to me, piercing and incredulous. “An analyst’s sister? Brooke, your file says you’re an only child. Since when do you have a brother?” Trapped between two towering, imposing men whose combined presence sucked all the oxygen out of the room, my survival instincts gave up. I squeezed my eyes shut and confessed everything. “I’m sorry! I paid twenty-five dollars on a resale app to pose as his sister so I could crash your company’s luxury seafood buffet! I let my gluttony win, I disgraced you, I disgraced the department, and I am an embarrassment to higher education!” A heavy silence descended upon the room. I cracked one eye open. Arthur’s temple was visibly twitching with sheer, unadulterated exasperation. “Brooke Lind! If you applied even ten percent of this rogue ingenuity to your literature review, you’d have a published paper by now!” “Yes, Professor, I know, I’m sorry,” I squeaked, stealing a cautious glance at Sean. To my shock, Sean didn’t look angry at all. In fact, the faintest trace of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a fitted black button-down today, the sleeves rolled up to reveal lean, corded forearms. Leaning casually against the doorframe, he exuded an effortless, magnetic poise that felt distinctly unfair. “All right, Arthur,” Sean said smoothly, intervening on my behalf. “Let it go. I came by because I need your expertise on a data modeling project we’re rolling out.” Arthur let out an irritated breath and gestured to the chairs. The two of them shifted into a dense discussion about statistical models and consulting contracts. I stood awkwardly off to the side like a piece of decorative office furniture, uncertain whether to stay or bolt. Suddenly, Arthur changed tracks. “By the way, do you need an extra set of hands around your corporate office? Classes are winding down before finals, and this one has too much free time on her hands. Take her as an intern for two weeks. Let her see how actual industry projects operate so she stops writing pure theoretical nonsense.” I snapped my head up, pointing at my own chest. “Me?” Arthur glared at me. “Who else?” Sean let out a low, amused sound. “Works for me. Have her report to my office on Monday morning.” I stood frozen. Did you two just casually decide my fate in five seconds? Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “Get out of here, Brooke. We’ll deal with your thesis rewrite tomorrow.” “Thank you, Professor!” I clutched my laptop to my chest and fled the building before anyone could change their mind. 5 After the office door clicked shut, Arthur leaned back in his leather chair, rubbing his forehead. “Speaking of which, has your mother been on your case lately?” Sean took a seat on the opposite sofa, crossing his long legs. “She’s on yours?” Arthur’s mouth twisted in annoyance. “She set me up on three different blind dates last weekend. It’s relentless.” “Same old story,” Sean replied smoothly. “So when are you actually planning on settling down?” Sean rested his head back against the cushion, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “No plans. I’m in no rush.” “No one caught your eye?” “No one.” His tone was light, indifferent. “Marriage isn’t on my radar for the foreseeable future.” Arthur let out a dry laugh. “Fine by me. Just don’t ask me to be your best man when the day comes.” “You won’t have a choice.” Arthur fell quiet for a moment, then spoke in a more grounded, protective tone. “Listen, about Brooke… she’s actually exceptionally bright. She’s just spirited and hates sitting still. If she makes a few rookie mistakes at your firm, go easy on her.” Sean raised an eyebrow. “Defending your student already?” “She’s my responsibility.” Sean didn’t answer right away. Instead, his mind drifted back to the quiet backseat of his car—the way the girl had blinked awake in the dim light, looking at him with groggy sincerity before blurting out that he was pretty. A quiet, nearly imperceptible warmth touched his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 6 On Monday morning, I woke up early, dressed in my most professional business-casual attire, and arrived at the gleaming high-rise headquarters of the Shaw Group. The receptionist passed me to Sean’s executive assistant, Patrick, who led me toward the executive suite. As he walked, Patrick kept throwing me strange, subtly complex looks. I didn’t understand why—until we reached our destination. My assigned desk was set up inside Sean Shaw’s corner office. Granted, the office was massive, with floor-to-ceiling panoramic views of the skyline, and my small desk was tucked away in the corner near the entrance. But still—an intern sitting inside the CEO’s private sanctuary? No wonder the assistant looked like he was trying to solve a quantum physics equation. At nine sharp, Sean walked in. “Good morning, Mr. Shaw!” I scrambled to my feet, greeting him with military precision. He gave a brief nod. “Morning.” At ten o’clock, a senior marketing director entered to deliver a quarterly performance report. The man, well into his forties and impeccably groomed, looked as though he were walking toward a firing squad. “Do you honestly believe these projected conversion figures?” Sean’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a scalpel. “Rework the entire deck. I want realistic numbers on my desk by eight tomorrow morning.” “Mr. Shaw, the supply chain delays—” “I asked for results, not a post-mortem. Next.” Every syllable carried the chill of sub-zero frost. Without a trace of warmth on his face, he looked less like an executive and more like an apex predator evaluating weak links. I shrank into my cubicle corner, barely daring to breathe. Ten minutes later, the director emerged, pale, sweating through his collar, and visibly shaking. Then came the second manager. Then the third. Then the fourth. Every single one entered looking confident and exited looking like their souls had been thoroughly vacuumed out through their ears. A profound realization washed over me: to survive two weeks in this room, emotional meteorology was a matter of life and death. Over the course of the morning, I discreetly observed his habits and drew up a brightly colored “Mr. Shaw Mood Barometer” on a bright yellow sticky note: Sunny: Walks to the espresso machine himself with a relaxed jawline — Safe to ask basic questions. Overcast: Flips through portfolio pages with increasing velocity — Avoid eye contact. Heavy Rain: The word “Redo” is spoken — Lethal danger; do not approach. Thunderstorm: Personally leaves his desk to hunt down a department head — Suggest playing dead. Extremely pleased with my survival guide, I slapped the note neatly onto the bottom bezel of my monitor. During lunch, Greg sneaked over to check on me. When his eyes caught the sticky note, he stared at it for three full seconds before raising a hand in silent tribute. “You are an absolute genius.” I beamed. “Pure evolutionary survival instinct.” Naturally, my brilliant system blew up in my face the very next afternoon. I returned from the breakroom humming a quiet tune, tea mug in hand, only to stop dead in my tracks. Sean was standing right in front of my desk. He was leaning slightly over the partition, one hand resting on the surface, looking down at my monitor with a quiet, intense focus. The blood in my veins turned straight to slush. He was reading the barometer. My hands shook so violently the hot tea almost sloshed over my knuckles. Hearing my footsteps, Sean turned his head. His expression was completely neutral, but his dark eyes were impossibly deep. “Brooke.” “Here, sir!” I lunged forward, slammed my mug onto the coaster, and reached frantically to peel the sticky note off the screen. “I am so sorry, Mr. Shaw! I’ll shred it immediately! I shouldn’t have engaged in non-work-related activities during business hours—” “Don’t touch it.” My hand froze an inch from the paper. Sean straightened to his full height, slipped both hands into his trouser pockets, and looked down at me, a lazy arch in his brow. “Tell me. Based on your scientific analysis… what’s the weather like right now?”

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1 At every gathering, Vivian had a parlor game. She called it the Truth Box. To anyone else, it was just a sleek lacquer container passed around over craft cocktails to liven up the room, but we both knew what it actually was: a pillory built specifically for me. I was the stray she had picked up—an orphan whose university tuition and living expenses had been funded entirely by her philanthropy. And every single time the box landed in my lap, the slip of paper I drew held the exact same neat, slanted handwriting. *Does dumpster food from the group home taste better than prime rib?* *Was the most pathetic moment of your life the afternoon you begged Vivian on your knees to pay your semester fees?* It was always Tristan’s handwriting. Her golden-boy childhood friend. As the private lounge erupted in suppressed chuckles and tinkling crystal glasses, Vivian would gently wrap an arm around my shoulders, drawing me against the expensive silk of her blazer. Her eyes would brim with an ache so tender it almost looked real. “Tristan’s just spoiled, sweetheart,” she would murmur, her breath warm against my ear, slicing me open in the softest way imaginable. “He’s only messing around. Be good, don’t hold it against him.” Bound by a suffocating sense of gratitude, and hopelessly addicted to the counterfeit warmth she rationed out to me, I played the fool. I swallowed the poison for three straight years. Until tonight. I reached into the box and pulled out a fresh strip of cardstock: *If Vivian ever gets tired of her little charity case and throws you out, are you going to start turning tricks on the street corner?* Vivian laughed softly, reaching across the low table to pinch Tristan’s cheek, chiding him for being a terror. The room went dead silent, everyone sitting back, waiting for me to do what I always did—bite my lower lip, look down at my shoes, and swallow the humiliation whole. Instead, I stood up. Very deliberately, I pulled a folded bank slip from my inner coat pocket and set it down beside her crystal tumbler of scotch. My voice was quiet, so brittle it seemed on the verge of splintering in the conditioned air. “No,” I said. “Because tonight, I’m the one walking away.” “Miles, don’t make a scene.” Vivian’s voice remained perfectly smooth. Not a single line on her composed, patrician face shifted. The air in the VIP lounge seemed to freeze. Vivian lowered her gaze, her eyes scanning the official repayment voucher with mild amusement before lifting to meet mine. It was the exact look she gave a child throwing a tantrum over a toy that had been placed just out of reach. “I know you’ve had a long week,” she said, extending a hand to catch my wrist. “Don’t make jokes like this. It isn’t funny.” I took half a step backward, just far enough that her manicured fingers caught only empty air. Her brow pinched, a micro-fracture in her effortless composure. Tristan, lounging on the velvet sofa beside her, let out a delighted little snort. “Oh, look,” he purred, his wide, innocent eyes locked onto mine. “Is our sweet little boy actually angry? Miles, it was just a joke. We’re all friends here, just keeping things light. Can you seriously not take a little banter?” Tristan reached out and laced his fingers through Vivian’s. “Vivian, look at him. He’s so fragile.” Vivian didn’t pull her hand away. She simply turned her gaze back on me—patient, generous, and entirely suffocating. “Tristan is right, Miles. It’s just a game. What is this paper supposed to be? Are you trying to embarrass me in front of everyone?” She spoke in a near-whisper, but the weight behind her words was designed to crush. “I funded your education because you were destitute,” she continued evenly. “Not so you could save up your pride and throw money back in my face.” I stared at her, a bitter, acid burn rising in my throat. Memory pulled me back to the fall of my freshman year. I had been sitting on the cracked concrete curb outside the county youth center in the freezing rain, sobbing because my bursar account was locked and I couldn’t afford registration. It was Vivian who had stepped out of a sleek black sedan, holding a large dark umbrella over my head. Her voice had sounded like deliverance itself. *Don’t be afraid. You have me now. You’re not on your own anymore.* And now, that very same savior sat beside her darling, watching him methodically strip the skin off my old wounds for the table’s amusement. I looked down at the receipt. “Every single dollar is accounted for. Principal, interest, compounded annually. You are paid in full.” Vivian’s warmth evaporated, replaced by a cool, aristocratic detachment. She never yelled. She never lost her temper with me. She merely dismantled my existence with casual efficiency. “Paid in full?” A faint, mocking smile touched her lips. “Miles, look at yourself. The suit on your back, the polished manners, the very confidence you’re using to stand there and lecture me—which part of that didn’t come from my pocket? How do you propose to pay me back for that?” Tristan tugged gently at her sleeve, his face a portrait of faux-concern. “Vivian, go easy on him. Miles has a lot of pride. It must have taken him years of scraping pennies to put that amount together.” He turned to me, his gaze dripping with patronizing pity. “Still, Miles, even if you want to be independent, you shouldn’t use words like that to hurt her. Saying you’re leaving her? That’s just cruel.” I looked at Tristan’s handsome, vicious face. The strip of paper was still crumpled in my palm. I smoothed it out and laid it flat on the glass table between us. “This is your handwriting,” I said. “Is that just a harmless joke too?” Tristan’s smirk flickered. He shrank back toward Vivian, his lower lip quivering instantly. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I might have scribbled some random prompts weeks ago, I don’t remember. Do you really have to corner me like this?” Vivian tightened her grip on Tristan’s hand, turning a sharp, reprimanding look on me. “That’s enough, Miles. Tristan already explained himself.” “If the paper asked whether he was going to sell his body on the street,” I asked her, “would you still call it a joke?” A collective intake of breath swept through the room. The softness in Vivian’s eyes turned to sheet ice. “Miles.” Her voice dropped an octave, heavy with warning. “You are forgetting yourself. Apologize to Tristan.” I looked at her—at those refined, immaculate features that had dictated the terms of my life for three years. In my chest, the raw, rotting wound I had carried for so long suddenly stopped hurting. The nerve had simply died. “Did I say something incorrect?” Vivian stood up. Tall, commanding, radiating the kind of effortless authority that inherited wealth and boardrooms breed. “Where are your manners? I didn’t spend three years grooming you into someone respectable just so you could stand here and throw vile insults at my friends.” A quiet, hollow laugh slipped past my lips. “My manners were ground into the dirt the first time you let him put an orphan joke in that box and laughed along with him.” I reached down, picked up my coat, and slung my bag over my shoulder. “The wire transfer went through to the personal account you used to pay my tuition. We’re even, Vivian.” I turned toward the exit. Behind me, her voice cut through the room, perfectly level, absolute in its certainty. “Miles. If you walk out that door, don’t think you can come back. I’ll give you three days to clear your head. On the third day, you come find me and apologize to Tristan in person.” I didn’t break stride. I didn’t look back. As the heavy soundproof door swung shut behind me, the cold night air of the city hit my face, carrying Tristan’s muffled, whining complaint from inside: “Vivian, look at him… why does he always have such an awful temper?” Outside the private club, a light drizzle was falling over the Chicago streets. I didn’t have an umbrella, but the cold mist felt clean against my skin. I took a long, deep breath of the damp air, feeling an almost dizzying sense of expansion in my lungs. I took a cab straight to the luxury high-rise apartment Vivian and I had shared for three years and began packing. There wasn’t much to take. The designer suits, the Italian leather shoes, the luxury chronographs she had bought to make me look presentable by her side—I left every single piece in the walk-in closet. I took only my legal documents, a few worn pairs of jeans from my college days, and my heavy architectural theory books. Everything I truly owned fit into a single twenty-inch carry-on suitcase. I stood in the entryway and looked back into the apartment. On the living room sofa lay the cashmere coat Vivian had tossed aside the night before; on the marble coffee table sat her half-finished mug of dark roast. Her presence was stamped onto every square foot of the space. Yet standing there, it felt as foreign as a hotel lobby. At two in the morning, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was Brenda, Vivian’s executive assistant. “Miles,” Brenda began, her tone distinctly strained. “Ms. Mercer wants you at the office tomorrow at nine.” I pulled the zipper shut on my bag. “What for?” A brief, awkward pause on the line. “It’s about the museum concept proposal you finalized last week. Ms. Mercer said Mr. Tristan expressed a strong interest in the design.” My hands froze against the luggage handle. That proposal was the culmination of three weeks of sleepless nights, hundreds of iterative sketches, and every ounce of creative energy I possessed. It was the centerpiece of my portfolio—the design I intended to submit to the International Young Architects Competition next month. Vivian knew exactly what that project meant to me. “What does she want?” I asked quietly. “Ms. Mercer mentioned… well, Mr. Tristan is preparing to open a contemporary gallery space next spring. Your blueprints fit his vision perfectly. Ms. Mercer would like you to transfer full authorship and design rights to Mr. Tristan.” A dry, incredulous chuckle tore from my throat. “Give it to him?” Brenda sighed, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Miles, you know Tristan’s been in low spirits lately. Ms. Mercer said this would be a suitable way to smooth things over after what happened tonight. She said if you agree to sign over the rights, she’ll consider the matter settled and won’t hold tonight against you.” My knuckles turned white against the phone. This was Vivian’s signature method. She never used brute force; she merely used a velvet glove to slice away whatever mattered most to you, piece by piece, offering your life’s work as a plaything to keep her favorite boy smiling. “And if I refuse?” Two seconds of heavy silence. “Ms. Mercer asked me to remind you that the project was developed using firm workstations and licensed software during your residency. If you do not consent to the transfer, the firm reserves the right to shelve the project internally and issue a formal cease-and-desist to prevent you from using it elsewhere.” A bitter chill washed down my spine. She knew precisely where to strike. She knew I needed that competition win to establish my own name—to finally bury the labels of *charity case* and *kept man*. I closed my eyes, took a measured breath, and let it out slowly. “Tell Vivian the answer is no.” “Miles, please don’t be reckless,” Brenda pleaded. “She’s just frustrated with you right now—” “I’m not being reckless,” I said evenly. “If she wants to bury the draft, let her bury it.” I ended the call. The following morning, I didn’t go anywhere near her corporate tower. I stopped by the leasing office, handed over the spare key fobs to the apartment, and checked into a modest budget room near the transit center. By two in the afternoon, my phone rang again. Vivian’s voice came through the speaker, as smooth and unruffled as morning tea. “Why weren’t you at the office?” I stood on the bustling sidewalk, the city noise swirling around me. “Why would I be? To gift three months of my labor to Tristan on a silver platter?” A soft, weary sigh on the line. “Miles, must you always be so dramatic? Tristan simply admired your aesthetic and wanted to use the spatial layout for his gallery. You’ll have endless opportunities to design buildings in the future. Why turn a single blueprint into a battlefield?” Listening to her, the sheer absurdity of it struck me like a physical blow. “Because it’s mine, Vivian.” “Yours?” A quiet, patronizing chuckle escaped her. “Miles, have you genuinely forgotten who provided the platform you’re standing on? Without my backing, you wouldn’t even have a portfolio that qualifies for the entry list.” Her voice remained low, sweet, and laced with absolute poison. “Be sensible. Bring the digital files to my office tomorrow, apologize to Tristan, and we’ll pretend none of this happened.” It was always this cycle. A backhanded slap, followed by a spoonful of magnanimous forgiveness. She was utterly convinced I would fold, just as I had folded a hundred times before to preserve the illusion that she cared. I looked at my own pale reflection in the plate-glass window of a nearby café. “Do whatever you want with the files, Vivian. I won’t be apologizing. And I won’t be coming back.” Her breathing tightened noticeably. “You’re still testing me. Miles, my patience has limits.” “Then save what’s left for Tristan.” I hung up, powered down the device, popped out the SIM card, and dropped the tiny piece of plastic into the street trash can, burying three years of subservience along with it. I had foolishly assumed that severing digital ties would be enough to slip away. But I had underestimated her reach in this city. On the third afternoon, as I exited a boutique design firm following an exploratory interview, two broad-shouldered men in charcoal suits stepped into my path. “Mr. Miles. Ms. Mercer would like a word.” Their tone was professional, but their positioning made it clear that refusal was not on the table. I was escorted into the city’s premier private museum district, where an exclusive preview for a modern art exhibition was underway. The moment I was ushered into the main gallery hall, my eyes landed on Tristan, holding court in the center of the room. He wore a bespoke ivory suit, radiating the effortless glow of someone who had never been denied anything in his life. Beside him stood Vivian. She wore a charcoal tailored skirt suit that accentuated her lean, commanding silhouette. She was leaning in, listening to Tristan with that familiar, indulgent half-smile on her lips. When security escorted me through the crowd, Vivian’s gaze drifted past the guests and locked onto me. Her smile vanished instantly, settling back into her default mask of cool authority. Tristan spotted me a second later. His eyes lit up with theatrical excitement as he gathered his champagne flute and hurried over. “Miles! You actually came!” He reached out to take my arm. I pivoted sharply, stepping away. Tristan’s hand froze in midair, his eyes immediately glistening with ready tears. The surrounding hum of conversation dipped as nearby patrons turned to look. Vivian stepped forward, placing herself between us. Her eyes fixed on me with quiet reprimand. “Miles, Tristan was kind enough to have you included on the guest list. What is this attitude?” I looked at her coldly. “I didn’t receive an invitation. Your security dragged me off the street.” Vivian’s brow furrowed slightly. “I simply knew you’d let your pride get in the way if I asked normally.” Her tone softened, adopting that practiced, soothing cadence she used when managing difficult subordinates. “Today is important for Tristan. Don’t cause a scene here.” Tristan peeked out from behind her shoulder, his voice trembling with exaggerated humility. “Vivian, please don’t be hard on him. He’s probably still upset about the gallery blueprints.” He looked at me, a vision of wounded innocence. “Miles, I’m really sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to steal your thunder. Vivian just said my debut needed a flawless concept, and your layout happened to fit. I promise I’ll make sure the firm pays you an independent consulting fee.” It was a masterclass in performative modesty, designed solely to broadcast Vivian’s total devotion to him in front of the city’s cultural elite. The surrounding whispers began instantly. “Who is that? So combative…” “Some scholarship kid Vivian Mercer took in during college, I hear.” “Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. Tristan offered him compensation, and he’s still acting like a martyr.” The barbs pricked at the edges of my hearing. I set my jaw. Vivian heard every word, of course. She made no move to correct them. She simply stood there, waiting for the public pressure to force my head down. “Keep the money,” I said, looking Tristan dead in the eye. “Consider the proposal garbage I tossed out. If you enjoy rummaging through my trash, help yourself.” Tristan’s face drained of color. “Miles!” Vivian’s voice dropped, sharp and biting. The veneer of patience was gone, cracked by genuine displeasure. “Your tongue is getting entirely too reckless. Apologize to him right now.” I looked at her, my throat tight with old fury. “Why should I? You have me hauled here by guards just so your circle can humiliate me in public, and I’m supposed to apologize?” “No one is trying to humiliate you,” she said, her voice tight. “You are creating your own misery by refusing to bend.” Before I could answer, Tristan let out a sudden, startled gasp. He stumbled backward two steps, colliding awkwardly with a freestanding marble plinth behind him. The pedestal wobbled, and the antique Celadon ceramic urn displayed on top tipped over the edge. It hit the hardwood floor with a deafening crash, shattering into a hundred jagged fragments. The entire hall fell dead silent. Tristan clapped both hands over his mouth, visibly trembling with horror. “Oh god… Vivian… that was the Ming dynasty piece you won at Sotheby’s last month…” He whipped around to face me, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. “Miles, I know you hate me! But why did you have to shove me?” I stood frozen. I hadn’t moved an inch. “I didn’t touch you,” I said clearly. Tristan’s sobs grew louder, drawing the crowd tighter around us. “Everyone saw you standing right in front of me… why are you lying?” He grabbed Vivian’s sleeve, hiding his face against her shoulder. “Vivian, I’m so sorry, it happened so fast, he just lunged—” Vivian stared down at the pulverized porcelain on the floor—the centerpiece artifact meant to anchor the exhibition. When she raised her eyes to mine, they were devoid of all warmth. “Miles, are you finished?” “I didn’t touch him!” I repeated, meeting her gaze without flinching. “Do you really expect me to believe that?” Her voice was flat, carrying an unbearable weight of cold disappointment. “It wasn’t enough to be bitter; now you’ve resorted to petty violence and bald-faced lies.” She turned to the two security guards flanking the alcove. “Hold him down right here. He can pick up every single shard with his bare hands until Tristan accepts his apology.” The sentence struck the room like a physical blow. I stared at her in utter disbelief. “What did you say?” Vivian’s expression was an impenetrable slate of ice. “When you make a mistake, you face the consequences. That is what I taught you.” She delivered the degrading command in the calmest, most measured voice imaginable. Around us, several guests exchanged knowing, satisfied glances. The two guards stepped forward, heavy hands clamping down onto my shoulders, applying downward force to drive my knees into the hardwood floor. Tristan whimpered softly from behind Vivian’s arm. “Vivian, please, don’t. Miles is so sensitive… making him kneel in front of everyone will break him. I’ll pay for the urn, please—” Vivian patted his back gently. “This isn’t about the money, Tristan. It’s about discipline. He has forgotten his place, and he needs to learn it.” The guards increased their pressure, their grips grinding painfully against my collarbones. I locked my legs, every muscle in my body straining against the downward shove, refusing to give them an inch. “Let go of me!” I gritted out, my joints popping under the strain. “Vivian! By what right do you think you can treat me like this?” Vivian looked down at my strained, flushed face, entirely unmoved. “By the right that I built the life you have,” she said quietly. “By the right that without me, you would still be nothing. Kneel.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it radiated total, autocratic control. In that singular moment, I felt the final, lingering shred of my old illusions get ground beneath her designer heels. I stopped struggling. Not out of obedience, but out of sheer, bone-deep exhaustion. Fighting back against someone who viewed you as private property was an exercise in futility. The guards relaxed their grip slightly. I stood tall amid the sea of sharp ceramic shards, lifted my chin, and looked directly into her eyes. “Vivian,” I said, my voice dropping to a clean, steady whisper that carried effortlessly across the quiet room. “Every cent of your funding has been returned to your account. I owe you nothing. Not a dollar. Not an apology. You can break both my legs today, and I still won’t drop to my knees for you.” Vivian’s eyes darkened, caught off guard by the absolute finality in my demeanor. Before the tension could snap, the head of gallery security came jogging through the crowd, a tablet in hand. “Ms. Mercer—wait, please,” he stammered, glancing nervously at Tristan. “We pulled the high-angle security feed from the ceiling rig. Mr. Tristan… he lost his footing while stepping backward. Mr. Miles was over two feet away. There was no physical contact.” A suffocating silence descended on the hall. The murmurs died instantly. Tristan’s tear-stained face turned an ash-gray color. “I… I must have misremembered,” Tristan stammered, frantically gripping Vivian’s arm. “I was just so startled, I felt a draft and thought Miles reached out—” Vivian stared down at the video playback on the tablet. The footage was indisputable. I had remained completely stationary. She stared at the screen for two full seconds. Then, she looked back at me. No apology. No remorse. Only a slight adjustment in her tone, as if dismissing a minor scheduling error. “It was a misunderstanding,” she said smoothly. “Tristan was startled and confused.” She gave a small flick of her wrist, signaling the guards to stand down. “That’s enough for today. You can go home now, Miles. We’ll discuss your portfolio arrangement over dinner tomorrow.” Just like that. A wave of her hand, and the public degradation she had nearly forced on me was reduced to a passing clerical error. A wave of intense nausea rolled through my stomach. “Discuss it tomorrow?” A harsh, incredulous laugh broke from my chest. “Your boy frames me, you order your muscle to force me to my knees in front of high society, and when the camera catches him lying, you call it a misunderstanding and tell me to go home?” Vivian’s brow pinched again, irritation leaking through. “Tristan is already shaken, Miles. What more do you want? Do you need him to prostrate himself before you’re satisfied?” Her patience was clearly exhausted. “Learn to be less abrasive.” I looked at this woman whom I had quietly worshipped for three long years. It was astonishing how blind someone could choose to be when their favorites were involved. In Vivian’s worldview, Tristan’s tears were rare pearls, while my dignity was just scrap paper to be discarded. “Understood,” I nodded slowly. “I see it clearly now.” Without another word, I turned and walked straight toward the grand double doors of the museum. There were no footsteps following me. I knew what Vivian was thinking. She assumed I was merely retreating to nurse my wounded ego in some corner, waiting for her to toss me another crumb of attention. She was certain I had nowhere else to go—certain I would inevitably crawl back. She was wrong. I walked out into the amber glow of the late afternoon sun, went straight to the hostel, grabbed my twenty-inch carry-on, and hailed a yellow cab to O’Hare International Airport. This city was suffocating, soaked in her influence and three years of humiliating compromises. In the departure terminal, as the overhead intercom announced boarding for the late flight to New York, I took out my phone. One by one, I permanently blacklisted Vivian’s numbers, her social accounts, and every mutual contact connected to her sphere. I wheeled my single bag down the jet bridge without looking back once. As the plane climbed into the night sky, leaving the glittering grid of Chicago far below, my heart settled into an unnatural, absolute peace. I was flying toward a tomorrow where Vivian Mercer did not exist.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560771”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The moment I stepped through the door of our dorm suite for sophomore year, Trevor shoved his phone directly in my face. “Babe, look,” he purred, tapping a screen displaying a gilded omakase counter. “It’s only three hundred a head. I’ve been craving this place all summer, just counting down the days until move-in so you could take me.” If this had been last year, I would have already tossed my duffel bag onto the mattress and grabbed my car keys. Instead, my smile tightened. The rehearsed words sat heavy on my tongue. “I can’t treat you this year, Trevor. My family went bankrupt over the break.” I had braced myself for shock, or at the very least, a tentative pat on the shoulder. We had spent nine months living in each other’s pockets; I thought our friendship warranted a shred of basic human empathy. Trevor simply lowered his phone, his brows knitting into an irritated knot. “What, you can’t even swing a couple hundred bucks?” I stared at him. His eyes held no warmth, no pity—just raw, unvarnished annoyance. “God, what a pain,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he turned toward his closet. “You could’ve told me before I drafted my entire Instagram caption for tonight.” I stood frozen in the center of the common room. Without another word, he snatched his designer sunglasses off the counter and walked out, letting the door click shut behind him. That night, when Trevor set up the shared utility split on Splitwise, my share was fifty dollars higher than everyone else’s. I confronted him right there in the hallway. He didn’t even look up from filing his nails. “You used to cover the whole electric bill out of pocket, Nolan. I’m only asking you for an extra fifty instead of the full tab. Honestly, you should be thanking me.” Ten minutes later, a screenshot accidentally dropped into our four-person dorm group chat. It was a message Trevor had meant for his fraternity group: Spent an entire year kissing his ass just to lock down a summer internship at his mom’s firm, and the bastard goes broke. Across the room, Owen Bennett cleared his throat—a sharp, nervous sound meant to warn Trevor to delete it. Trevor glanced down at his phone, gave an exaggerated eye roll, and muttered loud enough for the whole room to hear, “Why bother unsending it? He can’t even afford dinner anymore. I’m under no obligation to provide emotional support to someone with an empty trust fund.” Owen’s fingers froze over his textbook. He shrank into his desk chair, pulling the hardcover higher to hide his burning face. I turned over on my twin XL bed, facing the plain drywall, and let the heat sting the back of my eyes. Over the past year, I hadn’t just been generous; I had practically underwritten their lives. Three-hundred-dollar steak dinners on Tuesday nights were normal. Bottles of Augustinus Bader creams and Tom Ford colognes worth thousands were casually tossed onto their desks whenever I restocked my own vanity. Back then, Trevor would cradle a jar of La Mer to his chest, squealing, *”Nolan, you absolute angel, you’re the only reason my skin doesn’t look like a public university student’s! I could cry!”* Owen had been different. Whenever we went out, he stubbornly insisted on Venmoing me fifteen or twenty dollars toward a four-hundred-dollar bill. Whenever I handed him luxury grooming products, he would transfer five dollars with the note: *Consider it bought.* He always said, *”I pay my own way.”* Even though the pocket change he sent couldn’t even cover the glass packaging, I always accepted it with a gentle smile. He was on a full Pell Grant and worked grueling shifts at the campus library. I thought it was his pride talking—the quiet dignity of a scholarship kid who refused to be seen as a charity case. Now, lying in the dark, the reality settled into my chest like cold lead. Owen hadn’t been protecting his dignity. He was settling an imaginary ledger. By sending ten dollars, he convinced himself we were equals, absolving himself of gratitude while continuing to consume the luxury. He wanted the perks of my wealth without ever having to acknowledge the debt of kindness. It wasn’t integrity. It was calculated opportunism. A quiet, bitter laugh caught in my throat. I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, reached for my iPad, and opened a new presentation deck. I typed the title on Slide 1: *The Controlled Burn: Day One.* I screenshotted the group chat, logged the Splitwise discrepancy, and detailed the exact timeline of their reactions. Just as I was reaching to switch off my reading lamp, Trevor’s knuckles rapped against the metal railing of my lofted bed. I leaned over the edge. My eyes were still raw and rimmed with red. He didn’t soften in the slightest. “Hey. Are you still getting me that birthday gift next month?” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Seeing my silence, his scowl deepened. “You promised me before finals last semester that you’d get me that Omega Seamaster. It was supposed to be my twentieth birthday present.” My hands began to tremble against the railing. A hot, furious surge rose in my throat. I wanted nothing more than to fling my tablet at his face, to tell him that my family’s private equity firm was thriving, that the rumors were a trap we had set for corporate rivals, that I was richer than he could ever dream of. Let them show who they are when the well runs dry,* my father’s voice echoed in my memory. *A man only knows who loves him when he has nothing left to give. I swallowed the fire down. “I don’t owe you a ten-thousand-dollar watch, Trevor,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Then you shouldn’t have promised it!” he snapped, tossing his head. “Did I put a gun to your head? You made a commitment, you broke it, and now you expect me not to have feelings about it?” He spun around, stomping back to his side of the room. He climbed under his duvet and began hammering away at his phone keyboard. I didn’t need to see his screen to know he was tearing me apart in three different group chats. I turned off the light. The next morning, long before the sun even grazed the horizon, a violent metallic clatter shattered the silence. Trevor flicked the overhead fluorescent lights on with a sharp snap. The blinding white glare seared through my eyelids. I checked my phone. 5:12 AM. “Could you keep it down?” I rasped, shielding my eyes. “Some of us are trying to sleep.” Trevor dropped his plastic shower caddy onto the hardwood floor with a deafening *thud*. “Still think you’re living in a penthouse, Mercer? Your family is broke. Drop the aristocratic act. I have an early workout, and I’m allowed to shower in my own room.” Across the suite, Owen stirred, peeked out from under his blanket for half a second, and immediately pulled the duvet over his head, pretending to be dead to the world. Trevor picked up his caddy, strutted into the adjoining bathroom, slammed the door so hard the frame rattled, and blasted high-energy trap music through his portable speaker. I didn’t yell. I sat up in bed, unlocked my iPad, and documented Slide 2. Last semester, they used to tiptoe across the rug in their socks so they wouldn’t disturb my light sleep. Trevor used to shower in the dark with his phone screen as a flashlight because he knew the overhead fan buzzed. Once, when he stubbed his toe against my desk in the dark and yelped, he spent ten minutes apologizing for waking me. I used to think I had hit the roommate lottery—two considerate, well-adjusted guys who respected my boundaries. Now I knew the truth. Those boundaries hadn’t been built on respect. They had been rented by my black card. 2 When my alarm finally went off at eight, a sharp, twisting cramp seized my lower abdomen. I climbed down the ladder, clutching my stomach, and began rummaging through my plastic storage drawers. Not a single roll of toilet paper. Historically, I had always ordered commercial multi-packs of three-ply bamboo tissue from Amazon, leaving stacks of them under the shared sink for everyone to use freely. Sweat prickling my forehead, I swallowed my pride and walked over to Trevor’s desk. “Hey. Do you have a spare roll of paper I could borrow?” I thought, despite everything, basic biological necessity would elicit some shred of decency. Trevor didn’t pause his Netflix show. He kept his eyes locked on his laptop screen and delivered a flat, two-word verdict: “I’m out.” A cold drop seemed to fall through the center of my chest. Just five months ago, when I caught a mild flu, this was the same guy who had plugged in a hot pot on our desk to brew ginger-pear tea for my throat. The physical pain in my gut was sharp, but the realization was sharper: my bankruptcy was an illusion, but their cruelty was entirely real. If my family had truly collapsed, this was the exact caliber of cruelty I would have had to endure. Without another word, I shuffled over to Owen’s desk. “Owen. Can you spare a few tissues?” Owen bit his bottom lip, shifting uncomfortably in his ergonomic chair. He took an agonizing thirty seconds before slowly pulling open his bottom locker. His hand hovered over a brand-new, unopened pack of the exact bamboo toilet paper I had bought in bulk last May. He didn’t offer me a roll. Instead, he reached past the pack, picked up a loose, slightly dusty wad of napkins from a takeout order, counted out four sheets, and handed them to me. I took the crumpled napkins. The paper was rough against my palm. “Thanks,” I murmured, my jaw clenched so tight my molars ached. By midday, the muggy September heat broke into an unseasonable downpour. I had just walked out of the campus bodega with a bag of toiletries when the sky opened up. Lightning tore across the gray canopy, dumping sheets of water onto the quad. In the past, I wouldn’t have even needed to check the weather. The moment the first drop fell, Trevor would text me: *Where are you? Stay under the library awning, I’m bringing your umbrella!* Even if it was a twenty-minute trek across campus, he would jog through the rain, breathless and beaming, angling the wide canopy over my shoulders while his own backpack got soaked. I used to believe that was brotherhood. I had matched it in kind—bringing them lunch between classes, covering their groceries, picking up their dry cleaning. Now, I knew better than to ask for an umbrella. I opened the dorm group chat and typed: *Hey guys, it’s torrential out here. Could someone please grab my laundry and bedsheets off the balcony drying rack? Really appreciate it. Five minutes passed. No reply. Ten minutes. The read receipts showed two people had viewed the message. Fifteen minutes. The chat remained dead silent. I sighed, pulled my jacket over my head, and ran the half-mile back through the freezing deluge. When I burst through the suite door, dripping wet and shivering, Trevor barely glanced up from his phone before returning to a TikTok scroll. Owen was hunched over his desk, mouthing vocabulary words from a set of GRE flashcards, ignoring my existence entirely. I pushed open the glass slider to the small balcony. Their hoodies and gym shorts were neatly stacked inside on the dry folding table. My duvet cover, sheets, and cotton tees were still hanging on the metal rack, completely saturated with dirty rainwater, sagging under the weight of the downpour. To make it worse, my clothes had been shoved aggressively to the far end of the rack, bunched into a tight, sodden mass just so their clothes would have had more airflow before they brought them in. The water dripped off my eyelashes. A sudden, sharp ache blossomed behind my ribs. In their eyes, a broke Nolan Mercer didn’t even qualify for the basic courtesy you would extend to a stray dog on a porch. I pulled out my phone, snapped high-resolution photos of the balcony, the bunched clothes, and the timestamps on the group chat, and synced them to the presentation. By the time I finished hanging my ruined sheets in the communal laundry room, Trevor had already left to meet his friends for pre-drinks. Owen hovered near my desk, shifting from one foot to the other. “Hey, Nolan,” he said quietly. I looked up, wiping damp hair from my forehead. “Yeah?” “That limited-edition plushie I got you for your birthday last November… it’s still in your closet, right?” — 3 I frowned, mentally sorting through the clutter of last semester before remembering. It was an imported designer collectible—a forty-dollar plush rabbit he had made a huge show of giving me after I took him out for an expensive steakhouse dinner. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “It’s in the top bin. Why?” Owen rubbed the back of his neck, looking mildly embarrassed, though his voice remained entirely pragmatic. “Well, Trevor invited me to his birthday party next week, and I really don’t want to drop money on a new gift. Since I’ve never seen you display that plushie, I was thinking… maybe you could just give it back to me so I can re-wrap it for him?” The sheer absurdity of the request hung in the air. Seeing my expression, Owen hurried to justify himself. “Look, you don’t have to get me anything for my birthday next semester. We’ll just count this as your gift to me. Fair’s fair. I mean, given your family’s situation, you probably won’t have the budget for a decent present anyway.” I didn’t utter a single syllable. I stood up, walked to my wardrobe, grabbed the plush rabbit from the shelf, and handed it to him. Owen inspected the fabric, turning it over twice to ensure there were no stains or dust, and let out a relieved sigh. He slipped it into a glossy gift bag, then leaned against my bedpost, assuming the posture of a benevolent mentor. “Listen, Nolan. You don’t need to keep putting on airs like you’re still an heir,” he said, his tone thick with condescending sympathy. “Trevor’s only bitter because your family going under completely wrecked his plans. His parents are comfortable, sure, but he spent months walking on eggshells around you to secure that private equity spot. It’s natural he feels cheated. If you just let him boss you around for a couple of weeks, let him blow off some steam, he’ll get over it.” Every word landed like a dull hammer against my sternum. The sheer twisted logic of it made my head spin. I looked at him, my expression deadpan. “Let him boss me around? To achieve what, Owen? So he stops terrorizing me in my own room? Did I ever boss him around? Was I the one who begged him to eat wagyu and use two-hundred-dollar serums, or did he hustle for invitations every single weekend?” My voice sharpened, cutting through the quiet room like a scalpel. “Or are you saying his time is so miraculously valuable that running to the dining hall once a month is worth ten thousand dollars in gifts?” Owen’s mouth clamped shut. The brilliant debater who led the university’s mock trial team suddenly looked like he had swallowed glass. His faux-neutral stance wasn’t about mediating peace; it was about positioning himself as Trevor’s loyal subordinate while stepping on my neck to solidify his place in the new hierarchy. “I was just trying to give you practical advice,” Owen muttered, his face darkening as he turned away. “Ungrateful as always.” For the next two weeks, the dorm settled into an icy, hostile truce. We moved around each other like ghosts in a shared cell. That silence lasted until the Friday of Trevor’s twentieth birthday. Trevor invited half the Greek life social circle and every notable business major in our year. The only person on the entire floor excluded from the guest list was me. “I’m doing him a favor,” Trevor had loudly announced in the hallway while waiting for an Uber. “Wouldn’t want him having a panic attack trying to split the bar tab.” At eleven that night, while I was lying in bed reading a case study, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Caller ID: *Owen Bennett.* — 4 “Hey, Nolan,” Owen’s voice came through, unusually hesitant, competing with the thumping bass of a nightclub in the background. “Are you looking for some quick cash? A gig?” I paused, caught off guard. Owen had always juggled multiple side hustles—tutoring, bartending, driving delivery vans. For a second, I wondered if some tiny fragment of his humanity had resurfaced. “What kind of gig?” I asked calmly. “What’s the hourly rate?” Instead of answering, the call abruptly switched to FaceTime. The camera flipped. The screen focused on a dimly lit alleyway behind an upscale private lounge downtown, zeroing in on a laminated flyer posted near the staff entrance: *NOW HIRING: Private Suite Attendants / VIP Hosts. Attractive young men needed. Cash tips daily. $800+ guaranteed per shift.* A sudden wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. “Owen. What the hell is this?” Owen’s face reappeared on screen, his tone dripping with fake innocence. “Look, your trust fund is gone, man. Why keep acting like you’re too good for the service industry? An eight-hundred-dollar night just for pouring drinks and keeping wealthy older women company at private tables? That’s rent for a month.” Blood rushed to my ears with a roar so loud it drowned out the room. “If it’s such a goldmine,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, “why don’t you apply?” Owen shrugged, taking a sip from a plastic cup. “I already have my tutoring gigs. Besides, you actually have the *experience* for this kind of client.” He dragged out the word *experience* with a vile, suggestive cadence. “I mean… you spent all of freshman year taking those middle-aged female executives out to five-star dinners, didn’t you?” A gag rose in my throat. He was talking about the formal donor dinners and board galas I had attended with my mother and her business partners—family friends and philanthropic leaders who had known me since I was in diapers. “Go to hell,” I snapped. Before I could hit the red button, the phone was snatched away on the other end. Trevor’s flushed, alcohol-sweating face filled the screen. “Pride doesn’t pay tuition, little prince!” Trevor slurred, swaying into the camera. “Drop the Harvard-prep morality and get to work! Hey—everyone, come look at this!” He flipped the camera around to a crowded VIP booth. A dozen drunk classmates were huddled together, red plastic cups in hand. “Take a good look, everyone!” Trevor hollered over the music. “This is Nolan Mercer, formerly of the Mercer Group! If any of you ladies need some private company this weekend, make sure to throw a few singles at our boy!” A burst of raucous laughter erupted across the lounge. “Wait, is that actually Nolan?” a girl in a sequined top shrieked, leaning into the lens. “I mean, he’s got the face for it, honestly. Sucks that he lost his trust fund, but hey—a boy’s gotta eat!” “Right?” a guy in a polo chimed in. “Old habits die hard. Once you’re used to flying private, you can’t just work at Target. VIP host is still *host*, right?” My knuckles turned paper-white as I gripped the edges of my phone. In the top left corner of my screen, the little red recording icon blinked steadily. I forced my breathing to stay slow, even, and silent. Let them talk, I told myself. *Let every single one of them speak on record. A girl in the back stumbled forward, pulling three crumpled hundred-dollar bills from her purse and waving them at the camera with a drunken hiccup. “Here, cutie! Come down to the club right now, sit on my lap for an hour, and this is yours!” The table howled with delight. I didn’t scream. I didn’t break down into the humiliated tears they were waiting for. I simply stared back through the lens, my gaze steady, cold, and entirely detached. My lack of reaction seemed to infuriate Trevor. He snatched the phone back, his face contorting into an ugly snarl. “You know what I despise most about you? That pathetic, sanctimonious look on your face! You think you’re better than everyone just because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth? Well, you’re nobody now!” “Why are you so angry, Trevor?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. That single question seemed to detonate whatever was left of his restraint. “Because you treated us like pets!” he screamed into the microphone. “Dossing out your designer scraps, throwing your leftover skin creams at us just so you could watch us wag our tails and say thank you!” The sheer depth of his venom left me breathless. “Trevor, Owen,” I said, every word articulated with razor clarity. “If you didn’t want those gifts, you could have said no. I would have tossed them in the trash before forcing them on you. Every single time I gave you something, I bought it brand-new and told you it was a spare just so I wouldn’t bruise your pathetic little egos.” “And now that you think I’m down,” I continued, “you act like you’re the victims? Why didn’t you have this grand moral awakening when you were unboxing ten-thousand-dollar watches?” Trevor’s face turned an ugly shade of mottled purple. He opened his mouth to shout another slur when a sudden, piercing shriek cut through the party. The girl who had offered me three hundred dollars dropped her cup, staring wide-eyed at her phone screen. “Holy shit… you guys, look at Bloomberg! Look at Twitter!” The entire table went dead silent as everyone pulled out their phones.

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1 Serena Blake was the kind of ex-girlfriend people talked about in hushed, exhausted tones. A high-maintenance ghost who had haunted every room Gavin Brooks ever occupied. Back when they were together, if he was in a board meeting and missed a single text, she would call him forty-seven times in a row. If he was out of town on a business trip, she would call at two in the morning, sobbing into the receiver that she heard a noise outside her window, forcing him to rebook the earliest flight home at dawn. For four years, she ran him into the ground. Whenever his friends brought her up over drinks, their voices carried a heavy, shuddering pity. “She broke him.” “Trust me, the guy would rather die a bachelor than ever look at Serena Blake again.” I spent three years believing them. What I didn’t realize at first was that the wreckage Serena left behind had quietly carved out the boundaries of my own existence. Her preferences became my forbidden territory. Serena used to keep cats. After their catastrophic breakup, Gavin developed a sudden, visceral hatred for felines. It didn’t matter that my ginger tabby, Chestnut, had slept on my chest through every lonely night of my twenties; Gavin gave me an ultimatum, cold and unyielding, until I tearfully rehomed him with a friend. Serena had loved playing the delicate maiden who needed coaxing just to take an aspirin. So when it was my turn—when I was delirious with a 102-degree fever, shivering under the duvet and barely able to lift my head, whispering to Gavin to please bring me a glass of water—he simply stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets, his voice flat and detached. “The nightstand is right next to you, Nora,” he said. “You’re an adult. Nobody has an obligation to baby you.” I took the lesson to heart. I taught myself never to lean on him, never to inconvenience him. Our weekly Friday date nights were the fragile, polished glass that kept our relationship looking intact. But tonight, Gavin stood in front of the walk-in closet, his jaw locked so tightly the muscle ticked under his skin. “Where is it?” he demanded. “Where’s the charcoal sweater?” The anger simmering behind his dark eyes was terrifyingly close to boiling over. I blinked, taken aback. “It was worn thin at the elbows, Gavin. The cuffs were unraveling. I threw it out and bought you a cashmere replacement from Saks yesterday. It’s hanging right there.” He looked at me as if I had just set fire to a family heirloom. In that quiet, terrible second, the illusion finally shattered. It wasn’t trauma. Serena hadn’t “broken” him. He wasn’t running from her memory—he was desperately guarding every shred of it. And my gentle, domestic attempts to care for him were nothing more than a trespass on her shrine. I was so tired. I had been choking down this half-cooked, bitter love for three years. And tonight, I couldn’t swallow another bite. “Nora,” Gavin said, his voice dropping into that familiar, condescending register, “your habit of making unilateral decisions to ‘take care’ of me isn’t thoughtful. It’s suffocating. It crosses a line.” Three years. For three years, I had walked on eggshells around every invisible landmine in this apartment. I had swallowed my pride, muted my grief, and molded myself into the low-maintenance, perfectly self-sufficient partner he claimed he needed. Only to find out that all his tenderness, all his capacity for indulgence, had been spent on someone else long before I ever walked through the door. “I’m sorry,” I heard myself say. My voice was calm, almost distant, dropping into the silence of the bedroom. Gavin paused. He hadn’t expected a surrender so swift and devoid of emotion. The rage in his eyes flickered, caught off guard by an apology that offered no friction to fight against. “I’ll go to the department store tomorrow,” I added quietly, looking at the sharp contour of his jaw. “I’ll track down the exact brand and replace it.” His brow furrowed into a tight knot of irritation. “Nora, you know damn well this isn’t about buying a new sweater.” “I know.” He stared at me, his lips parting as if to argue, but then he pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. “It’s just… an old piece from before. Forget it.” He dropped his hand, his tone softening into something transactional. “Don’t start a fight over this. I had a brutal day at the firm. I’m exhausted.” To him, every ounce of my quiet heartbreak was just a tantrum. I looked at the man standing in front of me. Even with that cold detachment masking his features, he was devastatingly handsome. There was a time when that face had been my entire world. I remembered the first year we dated. My team lead had humiliated me over a project error, and I had slipped out into the freezing rain, hiding in the entryway of a twenty-four-hour convenience store, sobbing into my scarf. Gavin had somehow found me. He hadn’t asked questions; he had simply wrapped his wool overcoat around my shivering shoulders, its heavy warmth smelling of cedar and rain. He had looked down at me with those cool, guarded eyes and murmured, “All done crying? If you’re done, let me take you home.” In that fleeting moment, I thought I had found my shelter from the storm. It took me three years to understand that his brand of warmth was lined with barbs. “Okay,” I said, looking down at my bare feet against the hardwood. “I’m not fighting. Go finish your work.” Gavin studied me for a beat, visibly pleased by my compliance. He stepped forward and reached out to ruffle my hair—a habitual, dismissive pat—but I instinctively tilted my head away. His hand froze in midair. The air between us went brittle. Gavin loosened his tie with a jerk of his fingers. “Look,” he said, forcing his voice into an easy, conciliatory rhythm. “I lost my temper. I’m sorry. Go throw on a dress. I’ll take you to that omakase place in SoHo you’ve been wanting to try. Consider it my treat.” When he lowered his guard to coax someone, his deep eyes carried a heavy, cinematic sincerity. It was the kind of look that used to pull me under, making me scramble for any excuse to forgive him. In the past, I would have smiled, taken the olive branch, and told him it was fine. “I’m not hungry,” I said evenly. “I’m staying in.” Gavin’s face darkened instantly. “Nora, are you seriously going to make a scene over a discarded piece of clothing?” His patience, as always, was a shallow puddle. “I already apologized. What else do you want from me?” I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply turned on my heel and walked into the guest room, closing the door behind me. In the living room, I heard his pacing footsteps, followed by the heavy slam of the front door. At eleven that night, the lock clicked. He came back carrying a white pastry box from a bakery in Brooklyn—a chestnut cream tart, the kind I used to love. He set it on the kitchen island. “I happened to be passing by,” he said stiffly, looking away. “Come eat something.” Brooklyn was twelve miles out of his way in rush hour traffic. It wasn’t on the way to anything. He knew how to apologize; he just refused to lower his chin to do it. But the gesture, which once would have made my heart ache with gratitude, now left me entirely cold. The next morning was Saturday—the day we had scheduled for my bridal gown fitting. Gavin stood on the balcony, taking a call with his voice dropped to a low murmur. When he stepped back into the loft, he didn’t even look at me as he grabbed his car keys off the marble console. “Something came up at the office,” he said briskly, avoiding my eyes. “We’ll have to reschedule the bridal salon.” He moved so fast he didn’t notice his phone screen lighting up on the counter before he shoved it into his coat pocket. A single banner notification had popped up. Serena: “Gavin, I’m back in the city. Where are you?” Serena had returned. And the minor aftershocks of his past had instantly mutated into a fatal condition. The wedding preparations stalled completely. Gavin began vanishing for hours without explanation, his phone perpetually going straight to voicemail. Part of me had known this day would come. But another part of me—the stubborn, aching part that had loved him to the point of ruin—had refused to surrender without a fight. I was caught in the agonizing purgatory between knowing I should leave and being unable to tear my own heart out. On Wednesday night, after three consecutive days of fourteen-hour shifts, my chronic gastritis flared up violently. The pain hit like a serrated knife twisting in my abdomen. I was curled into a fetal position on the sofa, cold sweat soaking through my cotton t-shirt. Gavin happened to stop by the apartment to grab a contract from his home office. Hearing his footsteps near the foyer, I pressed a trembling hand against my ribs and called out, my voice raspy and strained: “Gavin… could you please grab my stomach meds from the bathroom? I can’t stand up.” He stopped near the console table, his brow creasing with mild annoyance. Before he could answer, his phone rang. A custom, frantic ringtone sliced through the quiet room. The second he answered, the irritation on his face melted into absolute, breathless panic. “Serena? What’s wrong? Stop crying—don’t do anything stupid, I’m coming right now!” He hung up and snatched his keys off the tray in one fluid motion. “Gavin,” I gasped, clutching my stomach as I watched his back. “I’m really hurting.” He turned around, his eyes flashing with a mix of guilt and sharp reproach. “Nora, Serena just finalized her divorce. Her depression is severe. She’s standing on her balcony right now talking about jumping.” He glared at me as if I were the unreasonable one. “You just have a stomachache. The pills are in the medicine cabinet; walk over and get them yourself. She’s talking about ending her life. Be a little mature, Nora—don’t pick a fight with someone who’s clinically ill.” The front door slammed shut. The reverberation echoed through the empty apartment. The agony in my gut peaked until my vision went gray. In the end, I dragged myself across the floor on my elbows, pulling open the low bathroom drawer and dry-swallowing two capsules with my own tears. The next evening, Gavin came home uncharacteristically early. Guilt had clearly caught up to him. He offered, with uncharacteristic gentleness, to drive me to work the following morning. When I slid into the passenger seat and reached down to adjust the lever, something rolled out from beneath the leather cushion. A tube of lipstick. Bright, unapologetic crimson. A year ago, I had bought a shade just like that for an anniversary dinner. Gavin had taken one look at me, his face turning to ice, before tossing the tube straight into the garbage can. He told me he despised women who wore loud, attention-seeking colors. Now I knew. It wasn’t the color he hated. It was the face wearing it. “What is it?” Gavin asked, glancing over as he adjusted the rearview mirror. When he saw the gold tube in my fingers, his expression flickered. He snatched it out of my hand and jammed it into the center console. “Serena had a panic attack in the car yesterday. She must have dropped it,” he said, staring straight out the windshield, his voice stiff. “We have a history, Nora. I couldn’t just leave her on the street.” He had an ironclad excuse for everything. I looked out the window as the Manhattan skyline blurred past. “Pull over at the corner,” I said quietly. “I’ll walk from here.” He hesitated. “Nora… Dylan’s birthday drinks are tonight at that lounge in the Meatpacking District. I’ll text you the address.” When I pushed open the heavy velvet curtain of the private booth that evening, I thought for a second I had walked into the wrong room. Gavin was sitting in the center of the plush leather banquette. Right beside him sat a woman in a sleeveless red silk dress. Serena. All those years, Gavin’s inner circle had sworn to me that Serena had traumatized him, that the mere mention of her name made him physically ill. Yet there she was, leaning against his shoulder, wrinkling her nose as she pushed away a crystal glass. “This bourbon is awful, Gavin. It tastes like lighter fluid.” Gavin didn’t snap. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he took the glass from her fingers with an exasperated, indulgent little sigh. “You have a fragile stomach and you’re drinking straight liquor? Are you trying to end up in the ER?” Serena pouted, tilting her chin up. “Then get me warm water. Exactly lukewarm. If it’s too hot, I won’t drink it.” I stood frozen near the entryway, the blood draining from my face. The man who had told me to get off the floor with a 102-degree fever was now resting the back of his hand against a glass of water, testing its temperature with infinite, practiced patience. He tested it twice, nodding to himself, before handing it to her. “Here. It won’t burn you.” The laughter and chatter in the booth died the moment someone noticed me standing there. A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the room. Every eye turned toward me. I felt like an uninvited ghost at a feast. Slowly, I walked over to the low table and set down the wrapped gift box I had bought for Dylan. Only then did Gavin finally look up. The soft smile lingering at the corners of his mouth vanished instantly, replaced by a defensive scowl. Serena let her gaze wander over my simple beige trench coat and flat shoes, letting out an airy, musical laugh. “Gavin, is this the fiancée? She looks so… serious. A little plain, don’t you think?” Gavin’s eyes darted away from mine. “She’s just quiet. Don’t mind her.” Serena smiled into her glass. “Younger girls bruise easily, you know. Talk like that and she might run away.” She nudged his ribs with her elbow. “I better not see you doing the whole dramatic groveling routine later. I’ll never let you live it down.” She paused, swirling the water. “So… you two are really making it official?” “Yeah,” Gavin muttered. Serena sighed, leaning her head back against the leather. “Honestly, think it through carefully. Don’t be like me—rushing into a marriage with an idiot and ending up in therapy for two years.” She gave Gavin a knowing look. “You’re too proud, Gavin. If you marry someone who’s like plain tap water, you’ll suffocate in a year.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she gasped softly, pressing a manicured hand over her lips. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, looking directly at me with wide, apologetic eyes. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Woman to woman, I just… I worry about people getting trapped.” The room went dead. Gavin lowered his eyes, clicking a silver lighter open and shut, his tone utterly indifferent. “It’s just an engagement party. A wedding is a long way off. Besides, do you think I’m like your deadbeat ex? I don’t drive people crazy.” They bantered back and forth with a seamless, effortless intimacy that closed like a wall around them. There was no space in that booth for anyone else. A cold hand seemed to squeeze my lungs until I couldn’t draw breath. Dylan’s face shifted uncomfortably. He stood up, caught my arm, and gently pulled me toward the dimly lit hallway outside. “Nora,” Dylan whispered, his tone anxious and pleading. “Do me a favor. It’s my birthday—don’t make a scene in there. Gavin’s just being an idiot. He’s got that stubborn, arrogant pride. Don’t take it to heart.” Dylan glanced back toward the curtain and sighed. “We all know how much you’ve done for him these past three years. Everyone in that room knows who actually deserves him.” “Dylan,” I cut in softly. He stopped. “You’re wrong,” I said, looking straight into his eyes. “He’s not being stubborn. He just doesn’t love me.” I offered him a small, tired smile. “Happy birthday. Have a good night.” I pulled my arm free and walked toward the exit. Perhaps because I had walked away without a single tear or sharp word, Gavin actually came running out after me into the chilly night air. “Nora, wait!” He grabbed my elbow on the sidewalk. “Don’t read into things. I’ll call an Uber to take you home.” “Don’t bother,” I said, slipping out of his grip. “I can take the subway.” His forehead creased with sharp irritation. “Nora, I thought you were more mature than this. Serena is on suicide watch. Can you please stop acting like a jealous, insecure schoolgirl for five minutes? You’re usually so reasonable. Don’t start acting like one of those high-maintenance drama queens.” I looked at him under the yellow glow of the streetlights and nodded. “Okay,” I said. “I won’t cause any drama.” Because drama only works when the other person cares. When they don’t, you could throw yourself off a bridge and they would only complain about the traffic you caused. I wasn’t going to compete anymore. I pulled out my phone as soon as I turned the corner and dialed a leasing agent I had saved weeks ago. “Hi, Sarah. I need a furnished one-bedroom available for immediate move-in. Anywhere near Midtown. The sooner the better.” When I got back to the loft, I dragged my large suitcase from under the bed. As I packed, my eyes caught the scratching post still standing in the corner of the spare room. I had raised Chestnut from a four-week-old stray. He was family to me. But Gavin had claimed the cat hair triggered his asthma, that the litter box made him sick to his stomach. To save our relationship, I had stood on my friend’s porch in tears, handing over my cat, grieving for a month. Only later did I learn that Serena had been an obsessive cat lover, and when she walked out on Gavin, she took their two Persians with her. He was never allergic to cats. He was just terrified of being reminded of the woman who broke him. Three years of quiet devotion hadn’t even managed to scratch the surface of her ghost. At eight o’clock, the door clicked open. Gavin walked in, loosening his tie with an exhausted sigh. He wandered into the kitchen out of habit, but the stove was dark, the marble counters wiped completely bare. Frowning, he walked down the hall to the master bedroom and froze at the sight of the taped cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. “What is all this?” “Seasonal cleanout,” I said without looking up, tucking an old notebook into the top box. “Getting rid of junk.” He walked over and kicked the box lightly aside, planting himself in front of me. “Nora, I don’t have the bandwidth for the walking-out-the-door routine.” I stopped my hands and looked up at him. “Don’t worry. I’m not doing a routine.” Gavin took a slow breath, reached down, and caught my wrist. When his fingers met my ice-cold skin, he paused, his brow furrowing again. He pulled me up from the floor and draped his wool suit jacket over my shoulders. “Your hands are freezing. Put on a sweater. Go sit in the living room; I’ll make you some pasta.” He headed to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he placed a steaming bowl of tomato-egg noodles in front of me. Gavin sat down across the island and flicked his lighter, sparking a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked in front of me for three years because he knew the smell triggered my migraines. Through the thin gray haze, he spoke. “Serena’s baseline is still precarious. I need to check in on her over the next few days.” He looked at me through the smoke. “Just be patient. Don’t do what she used to do.” I kept my head down, chewing slowly. The tomato sauce was sour, sharp enough to sting my throat, but I forced every bite down. Seeing me eat quietly, Gavin seemed to exhale, the tension in his shoulders dropping. I set the fork down and dabbed my mouth with a linen napkin. “If you want to be with her, Gavin, just go.” For the next four days, my life followed a seamless, quiet routine. I went to the office, ate my meals, and packed a box every night after work. Gavin sent occasional updates. “Took Serena for her psych evaluation today. The new medication seems to be stabilizing her.” “Staying late to make sure she’s asleep. Don’t wait up for dinner.” To every single text, I sent back the same three letters: “Okay.” On Friday afternoon, my phone rang. It was Gavin, his voice lighter and more buoyant than I had heard it in months. “I know this week was rough on you,” he said smoothly. “Tomorrow morning, I’m taking you to Harry Winston. You’ve been staring at that custom cushion-cut setting forever, right?” I stood in the center of the living room, watching the movers carry out the very last cardboard box. “Okay,” I said softly. Gavin let out a low chuckle. “Good girl. Wait for me at home. I’ll pick you up at nine.” After hanging up, I took a final look around the loft we had shared for three years. The warmth was entirely gone. The silk ties and silver cufflinks I had bought him, the handwritten recipe cards I had taped inside the pantry—I had cleared them all out. I wiped away every trace of my existence until the apartment looked as sterile as a staged showroom. The next morning, sunlight cut through the bare, curtainless windows. My phone buzzed with an incoming image from Gavin. It was a photo of a brilliant diamond ring resting on a black velvet tray, taken inside a luxury showroom. “Looking at settings now. What do you think of this one? Serena said the pavé band looks stunning, and I think it’d look great on your finger.” I stared at the text for five seconds. I didn’t reply. I zipped my small carry-on bag, pulled the handle up, and walked out the door, letting it latch shut behind me.

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1 The sharp, medicinal stench of bourbon hit me the second I pushed open the front door. Daniel was slumped over the kitchen island, his forehead pressed against the cold quartz, a flush burning high on his cheekbones. Scattered across the counter were two empty bottles and an overturned tumbler. Daniel was normally the kind of man who lined up his coffee mugs by height and couldn’t stand a single speck of dust on the hardwood. In all the years I had known him, I had never once seen him lose control like this. My own bruised heart receded into the background. I rushed over, setting my bag aside, and tapped his arm before raising my hands to sign: Daniel, what happened? Are you hurt? In my memory, Daniel Mercer had always been an unshakeable pillar. Calm, composed, capable of weathering any storm with a cool, measured grace. At the sound of my footsteps, he lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy, but the rest of his face maintained that familiar, sharp elegance. “Jesse,” he murmured, his voice thick with gravel. “You’re home.” He blinked slowly, steadying himself. “I’m fine. Just… a long night.” The knot of panic in my chest loosened slightly. I turned toward the stove, intending to boil some water and brew ginger tea to settle his stomach, but before I could take two steps, a pair of strong arms locked around my waist from behind. Daniel pulled me flush against his chest, burying his face into the curve of my neck. “You went to see him, didn’t you?” his voice cracked, trembling against my collarbone. “You like him that much? You’re really going to leave me behind?” He drew a ragged breath, sounding completely broken. “I have nothing left, Jesse. Nothing.” I froze. Heat radiated from his body in waves, soaking through my thin linen shirt. Was he truly this drunk? “Why can’t you look at me?” he whispered, his grip tightening until my ribs ached under the pressure. “I could give you everything. I’m not worse than him…” A muffled sob shook his broad shoulders. I tried to pry his fingers off my waist, but his strength was overwhelming. Trapped in his hold, I twisted my wrists to sign in front of his chest: Daniel, look at me. You’re confusing me with someone else. We had never been this close. Since we became adults, an unspoken distance of careful respect had always kept us a few polite feet apart. Then, right before my eyes, an impossible, translucent stream of glowing text rippled through the empty air: [Sweetheart, how could he possibly confuse you with anyone else? You’re the only person he’s ever wanted.] [Seeing our precious boy come back from a date with an online lover—big brother is losing his damn mind with jealousy.] [My heart breaks for him. He only dares to let out this dark, suffocating love when he’s completely wasted, and our naive little angel still thinks it’s a case of mistaken identity.] 2 The floating words hovered in the air like lines of digital code, sharp and unmistakable. My mind went blank. I couldn’t speak to ask what was happening. And Daniel was holding me so tightly, his face buried in my shoulder, that he couldn’t see my hands moving. Communication was impossible. I didn’t dare thrash or shove him too hard, terrified of knocking his unsteady frame into the sharp marble counter. We stayed locked in that quiet, suffocating embrace for what felt like hours. My mind drifted back to this morning. When I had stood by the foyer putting on my sneakers, Daniel had leaned against the doorframe, watching me with a heavy, unreadable gaze. “Heading out?” he had asked quietly. I had nodded, smiling as I tapped out on my phone: Yeah. Meeting someone. “Be safe,” he had said. I had signed back: Thanks, Daniel. I will. At the time, the air around him had felt uncharacteristically desolate. There was a shadowy, melancholic weight in his dark eyes that I had never seen before. But my giddy excitement about finally meeting Trevor in person had blinded me to everything else. Was his silence this morning because of me? Against my shoulder, Daniel’s murmurs began to slur into soft, rhythmic breathing. “Jesse… Jesse… don’t leave me.” Eventually, his grip slackened. I carefully shifted his weight, catching his drooping shoulders, and used every ounce of my strength to half-drag, half-carry him down the hallway into his master bedroom. I hoisted him onto the mattress, pulled off his leather oxfords, and went back to the kitchen to finish making the hangover broth. When I brought the mug in, he drank it in small, compliant sips, his eyes half-closed, looking remarkably defenseless. This was Daniel completely undone. A stark, staggering contrast to the poised, ruthless executive who ran a multi-million-dollar logistics firm. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I looked at his flushed cheekbones and couldn’t resist reaching out to gently poke his warm skin. Daniel was undeniably handsome. Sharp jawline, high bridge of the nose, a lean, athletic frame that carried tailored suits with effortless authority. Ever since high school, people had thrown themselves at his feet. The floating text claimed he was in love with me. It felt like a cruel joke. Trevor’s venomous words from just hours ago still rang in my ears like physical slaps: “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a mute? What a waste of a pretty face.” “You’re a pathetic scammer! No wonder you never hopped on a FaceTime or sent a voice note. Who the hell dates a mute freak? You’re just a glorified burden.” A bitter, stinging ache pooled behind my eyelids, and two heavy tears spilled over my lashes, dropping onto the cotton sheets. Trevor was right about one thing. I was broken. What could someone like Daniel possibly see in me? He had taken the impossible burden of raising me upon his young shoulders after his parents died; that alone was an immense debt I could never repay. How could I ever drag him down into my quiet, ruined world? A man of his caliber deserved a partner who was whole. Not a stray he had to take care of forever. I grabbed a damp washcloth, gently wiped the stray sweat and tear tracks from his forehead, tucked the heavy duvet over his chest, and quietly clicked the bedroom door shut behind me. I crawled into my own bed and pretended nothing had happened. 3 When I woke up the next morning, the apartment was already filled with the rich aroma of fresh coffee and toasted sourdough. Daniel was standing by the stove in a crisp white dress shirt and dark slacks, looking entirely put-together except for the slight tension around his temples. “Morning, Jesse,” he said, turning around with a warm plate. “Breakfast is ready.” I walked over and signed: Morning. On the kitchen island sat two plates: sunny-side-up eggs, avocado toast with crushed red pepper, and grilled tomatoes—exactly the way I liked it. Ever since his parents passed away, Daniel had insisted on cooking our meals whenever he was in town. He took the seat across from me, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose with a quiet wince. “By the way,” he began casually, his eyes fixed on his black coffee, “what time did you get home yesterday? The client dinner went off the rails. I ended up blacking out pretty soon after I got through the door. I didn’t… do anything weird, did I?” My breath hitched. I paused for two seconds, keeping my hands steady as I signed: I got back really late. You were already asleep in bed when I arrived. It was completely quiet. Nothing happened. A visible wave of relief washed over his features, though a faint, cold disappointment seemed to flicker in the depths of his eyes before he masked it behind his usual professional composure. “I see,” he said, clearing his throat. “Good. I need to head into the office early today.” He finished his coffee, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out the door with smooth, brisk steps. No one looking at him now could ever connect him to the shattered man who had wept into my collarbone eight hours earlier. It was just the alcohol, I told myself. A blackout hallucination. Then, the iridescent lines of text materialized once more, shimmering across my vision: [Oh, my heart aches for him. Look at him hiding his pain.] [Jesse said he came home late… Daniel definitely thinks Jesse spent the night sleeping with that online scumbag.] [When will our baby realize his brother’s feelings? I can’t bear watching him suffer in silence.] [Wait, today is the day Daniel gets distracted during the contract review because of this heartbreak! His trusted VP of Operations is going to slip in that poisoned clause and jump ship to their rival firm. The company is about to take an eight-figure hit…] I stared at the empty space where the text drifted, my pulse quickening. Was it real? Were these invisible observers looking at our lives with an omniscient view? An icy prickle of anxiety spread through my chest. Even if there was only a one-percent chance it was true, I couldn’t let Daniel’s life’s work get destroyed. By eleven in the morning, I had made up my mind. I packed an artisanal lunch from a nearby gourmet bistro, carefully labeling the containers, and called a cab to Daniel’s corporate headquarters downtown. Standing in the sleek, towering glass lobby, I felt entirely out of place. I pulled out my phone and shot him a text: Hey, I was nearby and picked up some great lunch for you. What floor are you on? I can drop it off. His reply came within seconds: You’re here? Stay in the lobby. I’ll come down to get you. I typed back quickly: Don’t bother, I know you’re busy. Just tell me the floor. 17th floor. I’ll let security know. I tucked my phone into my jacket and walked through the security turnstiles. The elevator was packed with employees in sharp suits, stopping at almost every floor. Bored and slightly claustrophobic, I opened a puzzle game on my phone to pass the time. A chime sounded. The doors slid open, and I mindlessly stepped out behind a group of people, completely unaware that I had stepped off on the 14th floor instead. “Jesse? What the hell are you doing here?!” 4 I spun around, my heart dropping. A hand clamped down hard on my forearm, yanking me toward the corridor alcove. “Are you stalking me now?” Trevor sneered, his face contorting with disgust. “Didn’t I make it clear yesterday? I don’t date mute charity cases. How desperate are you?” My stomach twisted into a knot of disbelief. Trevor Davis worked here? In Daniel’s company? I ripped my arm from his grip, pulled out my phone, and rapidly typed on the screen: I am not here for you. Stop flattering yourself. Trevor didn’t even glance at the screen. He stepped closer, cornering me against the glass wall. “Don’t play dumb with me! Scamming me online for three years wasn’t enough, so now you’re hunting down my office? What kind of lowlife creeps into a corporate firm like this? People like you don’t belong in a building like this!” His voice was loud, sharp, and intentionally theatrical. Heads began turning from nearby cubicles. Several employees paused by the water cooler, murmuring among themselves. I stared at him in stunned silence. Five years of texting. Three years of calling each other boyfriends across a screen. Whenever I had felt insecure about meeting up, Trevor had sent long, comforting paragraphs: Baby, why would I ever care about your voice? I fell in love with your soul. I’m not shallow like other guys. You’re beautiful and pure, and nothing could ever change how I feel about you. Those sweet, reassuring promises had slowly chipped away at my defenses. After years of isolating myself in shame after the accident that ruined my vocal cords, his messages had felt like warm sunlight. Okay, I had finally typed back last week. Let’s meet for coffee. He had showered me with excitement: I can’t sleep, I’m so excited to finally hold you. Yesterday at the café, he had looked just like his profile pictures—ordinary, well-dressed, completely normal. He had greeted me with wide eyes, looking thrilled: “Wow, you’re even prettier in person.” He had chattered on for ten minutes while I smiled, listened, and nodded. Eventually, his brow had furrowed. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you disappointed in how I look?” Confused, I had brought out my Notes app and showed him the screen: My vocal cords were scarred in a fire years ago. I can’t speak. I told you this when we first became friends, remember? The warm smile on his face had instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of pure revulsion. “What?” he had spat, his voice dropping into a vicious hiss. “You’re a fucking mute? Are you kidding me? What a waste of a pretty face. Why the hell didn’t you make that crystal clear? No wonder you dodged every phone call. You led me on for three years, you deceptive little freak!” 5 In that crowded café, Trevor had made a scene, his insults cutting through the quiet hum of the room like knives. Panic had seized me. I had fumbled with my phone, desperately trying to type out that I had never lied, that our old chat logs proved I had mentioned my disability during our very first month of talking. He had snatched the phone right out of my hands and slammed it against the concrete floor. The screen had shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. Patrons at nearby tables had stared, whispering judgmentally as I knelt on the floor, gathering the pieces of my broken screen with trembling hands. Trevor hadn’t understood a single sign I made. He hadn’t wanted to. He had leaned over me, his face twisted with malice. “You owe me every single cent I ever wasted on you.” He had stormed out, leaving me to pay the coffee bill amidst the whispers: “God, what a scammer… pretty face, but totally rotten inside.” “Catfishing someone for money… unbelievable.” I had fled the café with burning cheeks. Later that evening, an itemized invoice had landed in my inbox. Trevor had calculated three years of birthday gift cards totaling $800, holiday gifts totaling $1,200, and even added $350 for the new jacket, haircut, and Uber ride he had booked specifically for our date. He had conveniently forgotten that for every gift he sent, I had sent back designer watches and tech gadgets worth twice as much. I didn’t want to fight him. I had simply transferred the exact sum he requested via wire, wanting to scrub his existence from my life. But the moment the payment cleared and I attempted to send a final farewell, I found myself blocked on every platform. Five years of perceived warmth, reduced to a hollow, transactional scam. And now, here he was on the 14th floor, his fingers digging into my arm again, bruises already forming beneath my skin. I showed him my phone screen: I am here to see my brother. Let go of me. Trevor let out a cruel, barking laugh. “Your brother? A scammer’s brother is just a bigger scammer! If someone from your trashy background could walk into this executive suite, I’d eat my own shoe—” “Trevor, what the hell is wrong with you?” A young woman in a tailored beige blazer pushed through the small crowd, stepping squarely between us and forcing Trevor’s hand away. “He hasn’t touched you or said a word to you. Why are you dragging him around like a maniac?” She turned to me, her voice softening. “Are you okay? Don’t worry, I just paged building security.” 6 Trevor sneered, crossing his arms with smug arrogance. “You don’t know the whole story, Megan. This guy catfished me online for three years and drained my bank account. I have proof right here.” He pulled out his phone and flipped it toward the surrounding colleagues. On the screen were several lewd, overtly provocative photos attached to vulgar chat transcripts. The face in the pictures was undeniably mine, pasted onto a body and setting I had never inhabited in my life. A cheap, malicious Photoshop job. The murmurs from the crowd shifted instantly from curiosity to disdain. Disgusted glares locked onto me. “Look at that… he actually sent those?” “He looks so innocent, too. Disgusting.” I shook my head frantically, waving my hands, trying to mouth: That’s not me… please, that’s not me. No sound came out. No one understood my signs. The typed words on my cracked phone were brushed aside as desperate lies. Humiliation and suffocating helplessness rose like a tidal wave, choking the air from my lungs. “What is going on here?” A low, commanding voice cut through the corridor like a blade. “Jesse!”

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The harsh overhead glare of the surgical lights flickered off, and once again, the doctor stepped out to hand down another critical condition notice for my younger brother. “His heart went into sudden arrest,” the surgeon said, his voice flat with routine gravity. “We need to secure a donor immediately.” A single sheet of paper was passed across the corridor. My entire family turned their heads in unison, their eyes heavy with expectant silence, locking onto me. I nodded. Without a word, I turned and followed the nurse down the tiled hallway to begin the tissue matching process. This was the third time. I was already used to it. The first time was three years ago, when my brother was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder. For months, I sat in cold clinical chairs, letting them drain my blood weekly just to keep him stable. The second time, post-operative complications led to acute renal failure. Out of the entire family, I was the only matching donor for his kidney transplant. And the third time was today. I climbed onto the narrow prep table with effortless composure, my movements devoid of the slightest hesitation. They thought I was blindly devoted. But they didn’t know that yesterday afternoon, right after my latest blood draw, I had stood outside the consultation room and overheard my father weeping behind the closed door. “You know Toby isn’t actually sick!” my father’s voice had cracked, raw and trembling. “Are you really going to let them harvest Jesse’s heart too? That will kill him! He’s my son, Morgan!” “We’ve spent years lying to Jesse—tricking him into giving his blood, coaxing him into giving up a kidney—and he never pushed back once. Look at him now! His hair is falling out in handfuls. He doesn’t have a speck of color left in his face!” My older sister, Morgan, had placed a steady hand on Dad’s shaking shoulders, her tone smooth, pragmatic, and chillingly composed. “Dad, calm down. The surgery is a setup. Toby was born fragile; even if he looks healthy now, who’s to say he won’t fall ill down the line?” “If we don’t test Jesse’s loyalty now—if we don’t prove how far he’s willing to go for his brother—who is going to look after Toby when we’re gone? As the elder brother, this is his responsibility. Tomorrow is the final test. If he passes, I’ll personally make sure he gets access to the best medical care and resources money can buy.” It was all a lie. Toby was perfectly healthy. What Morgan and Dad didn’t realize, however, was that years of forced, frequent blood extractions and losing a organ had driven my remaining systems into rapid, irreversible failure. I didn’t need a fake surgery to end me. I genuinely only had a few days left to live. … I took the donor consent form from the clipboard and breathed in slowly, the sterile scent of rubbing alcohol stinging the back of my throat. When I glanced back over my shoulder, Dad, Mom, and Morgan were standing in a tight cluster. Their faces were stretched tight with anxiety, their mouths opening slightly as if on the verge of speaking. I waited. I stood there on the linoleum floor, waiting for a single word of comfort, a hesitation, a plea for me to stay. Nothing came. Morgan’s thumb rested on her phone screen. The stopwatch app was open, the small digital numbers ticking upward. She was timing me. She was measuring how many seconds it would take for me to sign away my heart for Toby. “I’m ready, nurse,” I said softly, handing the signed document back. Behind me, an audible sigh of relief rippled through my family. Dad looked almost proud, leaning over to whisper to Morgan in a hushed, emotional voice, “I knew Jesse wouldn’t let Toby down. You can call off the experiment now, right?” Morgan’s brow furrowed in sharp disapproval. “No.” “Jesse is smart,” she insisted under her breath. “He knows a signature isn’t legally binding once he’s on the table. The heart is inside his body; if he refuses at the last minute, no one can force him.” “What more do you want?!” Dad whispered harshly. “Do you actually want to kill your brother?!” “Dad, I’m doing this for Toby’s future!” Morgan shot back, her tone clipped. “Jesse has always been quiet, secretive, and calculating. We’ve made it this far—he needs to go into the operating room and be put under anesthesia.” “Only when he’s lying unconscious on that table will I truly believe he’s doing this willingly.” In the end, Dad conceded. He shifted his weight, half-stepping forward as if to reach out to me, but forcibly checked his own movement and stayed put. The nurse led me down to the prep room for a pre-op blood draw, telling me it was a mandatory check for cardiac cross-matching. I reached out, gently tugging at the edge of her scrubs, and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my coat pocket. “Can we skip the draw?” My voice was barely a raspy murmur, trembling slightly at the edges. “I have my lab results from last week. Will this do?” The paper was from an evaluation I had done at another clinic after giving blood for Toby last Tuesday. Severe chronic anemia had left my vital organs starved of oxygen, my immune system had utterly collapsed, and my hemoglobin levels had plummeted far past the critical line. Simply put, my body was giving up. The nurse paused, finally taking a proper look at me. I was twenty-two years old, but I weighed less than eighty pounds. My shoulders caved inward, hunched over because I no longer possessed the back strength to stand up straight. She reached out, pulling my hand toward her to roll up my sleeve. Beneath the cotton fabric, my skin was a mottled canvas of deep violet bruises and dense, overlapping needle puncture marks. It looked horrifying. “Oh my god…” she gasped, her eyes wide with shock. “In this condition? And your parents are letting you go through with a heart transplant?!” “No, this is wrong. I’m going to get the attending physician right now.” I wanted to tell her not to waste her breath. If Morgan had the power to fabricate medical records and orchestrate fake surgical prep teams inside this private wing, she clearly had people on the inside. Before I could speak, a grip clamped down on my forearm like a steel vice. Morgan had rushed over, her fingers digging so violently into my bruised tissue that I felt the bone beneath ache. I caught my breath, wincing as a sharp spike of pain shot up my shoulder. “Dad, look! See what I mean?” Morgan yelled, turning back toward the hallway. “He doesn’t want to save Toby at all!” “Now he’s trying to convince the nurse to help him orchestrate an escape! Jesse, I can’t believe you!” The flicker of sympathy in Dad’s eyes instantly withered, replaced by a dark, heavy disappointment. “Jesse… I never thought you could be so heartless toward your own brother,” Dad said, his voice dropping into a hollow register. “If you weren’t willing to donate, why didn’t you just say so from the beginning?” “You gave Toby hope, only to snatch it away at the last second. How could you be so cruel?” In my state, I didn’t even have the physical leverage to twist out of Morgan’s grip. It was Nurse Rachel who stepped between us, physically pushing Morgan back. “Let go of him! Look at his clinical markers—he is in no physical condition to enter an operating room, let alone survive a major procedure!” Morgan didn’t hear a word. In her mind, I had already been tried, convicted, and branded a coward and a liar. Anything coming out of my mouth—or the nurse’s—was just a pathetic excuse. “Morgan, please… let go of Jesse!” A small, raspy voice called out from the end of the corridor. Toby stood there in oversized hospital pajamas, looking impossibly small and frail. He shuffled toward us, clutching his chest, coughing with every few steps. He reached us and gently tried to pry Morgan’s fingers off my arm, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “It’s okay, Jesse,” Toby sobbed quietly, looking up at me with profound innocence. “If you don’t want to donate, you don’t have to. Nobody should force you.” “I don’t have much time left anyway. I just want our family to be together, peacefully, to walk me through my final days.” His tone was soft, sweet, and entirely protective of me on the surface. But a cold, sickening shiver ran down my spine. Toby knew. He knew the whole time. He wasn’t just a beneficiary of this sick test; he was an active participant. Toby was only a year younger than me. Because he was born prematurely, he spent his infancy sick, crying in dark rooms. Our parents were constantly working to build their business, and Morgan was away at prep school, so I was the one who raised him. I changed his diapers. I warmed his bottles, measuring the formula more meticulously than any hired nanny. When he couldn’t sleep, I strapped him to my chest and paced the floor for hours. The first word he ever uttered wasn’t “Mama” or “Dada”—it was my name. When he went to preschool, he’d save half of his candy, wrap it in a napkin, and shove it into his tiny pocket to bring home to me. He used to take the blame when I broke a glass; he used to sit beside me when I was grounded. I genuinely believed I had the sweetest, most loving younger brother in the world. That was why, when they told me he had a terminal condition, I offered up my body without a second thought. I was his older brother. I wanted to bear the weight for him. …… Perhaps my gaze was too raw, too transparent, because Toby flinched slightly and leaned back into Morgan’s side. “You don’t need to glare at your brother like that,” Morgan sneered, pulling Toby close. “Testing your match was my idea. You’re full biological brothers—you were the only viable option.” “Toby has suffered his entire life. He’s lived in and out of hospitals, and now he has three months left. His only chance at a future is sitting right inside your chest. As his brother, can you really stand there and feel nothing?” “Jesse, he is younger than you. He actually has a life ahead of him.” “A one-year difference.” Did a one-year difference mean my life had no value? And besides—who was actually dying here? Despite his exaggerated wheezing, Toby’s skin was supple, his cheeks carried a healthy flushed undertone, and his voice, though pitched to sound faint, lacked the dry, rattling resonance of true pulmonary distress. He didn’t look like someone on the brink of death at all. I raised my eyes and surveyed the three of them. Dad looked broken and disgusted, as if staring at a stranger he regretted raising. Morgan stood like an impenetrable shield in front of Toby, her sharp eyes cutting through me with cold fury. And Mom stood a few paces back, her arms crossed over her chest, watching the drama unfold with detached indifference. Me. Jesse Mitchell. I had given my blood for nearly two years. I had given up a kidney. Half an hour ago, I had signed away my own heart. And now, I was the villain of the family. “Morgan,” I whispered, my voice sounding like rusted metal dragging across pavement. “If I told you that I only have a few days left to live… would you still push me onto that table?” Nurse Rachel couldn’t hold back anymore. She stepped forward, her voice echoing down the hall. “I don’t understand what is wrong with you people! He is your son! He is your brother!” “You’re asking to trade one life for another!” With a quick, decisive movement, Nurse Rachel unzipped my oversized winter coat and pulled it off my shoulders, exposing the truth to the hallway. A heavy silence fell over the corridor. I was nothing more than a cage of bones draped in pale, translucent skin. But worse than the emaciation were my arms: from my wrists to my inner elbows, the skin was a jagged map of dark purple hematomas, scarred vein tracks, and fresh needle marks. Dad gasped, the color draining from his face. “Jesse… my God, what happened to you?” “Tell Dad… does it hurt?” His lips trembled. He reached out and struck Morgan’s back with a frustrated, heavy hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words to stop everything. The test wasn’t over. I hadn’t passed the final hurdle yet. I didn’t answer him. I just quietly took my coat back from the nurse and pulled it back on, zipping it up to my chin. Morgan stared at my covered frame, stunned into a long, suffocating silence. How could this be? It was just routine blood draws—once a week. And didn’t the doctors say a person could function completely fine with just one kidney? “I… I’m sorry,” Morgan stammered, her composure cracking for the very first time. “I didn’t realize… You should have told me.” “But—but even so, you can’t just throw a fit and make up absurd lies! “‘A few days left to live’”? That’s ridiculous, Jesse.” “You’ve become so comfortable lying to our faces. How are you supposed to set an example for Toby when you act like this?” She spoke faster and faster, her voice rising as she anchored herself back to her righteous indignation. I cut her off. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not backing out.” “Let’s go, Nurse Rachel.” I took the nurse’s hand. My thin, frail shadow flickered under the fluorescent lights as we turned the corner, fading like a gust of wind that no one could hold onto. “A family of absolute bloodsuckers! What the hell is wrong with them?!” Nurse Rachel fumed as she walked me down the hall to the prep room. “That little brother of yours looks healthier than I do! Are they all completely blind?!” She cursed under her breath the entire way. I looked at her, finding a strange, quiet sense of warmth in the middle of it all. This was the first time in years anyone had ever taken my side. Ever since Toby fell “sick,” my family went from visiting once a month to moving back into the family house permanently. Back then, I was thrilled. I thought we were finally going to be a real family again. I remember proudly leading Toby out to the living room to show them how well I had been taking care of him while they were gone. But Morgan hadn’t even looked at me. She had immediately snatched Toby’s wrist, her face tight with distress. “Why is Toby so thin? Jesse, have you even been feeding him properly?” “Forget it, I knew I couldn’t rely on you to do anything right. From now on, Toby comes with me. Toby, sweetie, do you want to come live with big sister?” Toby had looked up at her with bright, curious eyes, slowly slipping his small hand out of mine. Looking back, I suppose that was where everything truly broke. Dad had noticed my silence back then and tried to smooth things over later that night. “Don’t be mad at your sister, Jesse. Toby’s always been delicate, and we were away for so long. Morgan just feels guilty for not being around.” Dad had stared at Toby’s bedroom door, his eyes misty. I had wanted so badly to ask him: “What about me? Don’t you feel guilty about leaving me behind too? I’m only one year older than him…” After Toby was admitted to the hospital, he claimed he couldn’t stomach the hospital food and would only eat meals I cooked. So I spent my days sprinting between high school classes and the hospital ward. I had no friends, no hobbies, no life of my own. It wasn’t until I blindly passed Morgan’s first two “loyalty tests” that my family finally started seeing me again. After every major blood donation, Dad would make chicken soup for me. Morgan would bring me little gifts—sometimes a cute hair clip, sometimes a stuffed animal. Desperate to keep that warmth, I tried to copy the way Toby talked to them. I softened my voice, trying to act sweet and dependent. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Morgan. I love it so much.” Morgan’s smile had instantly frozen. Dad’s hand, holding the soup ladle, hovered in mid-air. “Jesse, that doesn’t suit you,” Morgan had said flatly. “Stop trying to compete with Toby for attention. You’re the older brother. Act like it.” “Your sister is right,” Dad added quietly. “Toby is a child. You’re practically an adult now. Be composed.” Standing near the staircase, Toby had watched the whole interaction. I stood frozen in the center of the living room, feeling like a pathetic, embarrassment of a person trying to perform a script I hadn’t been cast in. I was quiet because they told me I was too loud; I tried to open up, only to be pushed back into the dark. Late that night, Toby had knocked on my bedroom door, stepping inside and looking at me with a cool, unnerving clarity. “Jesse, why are you always trying to copy me?” “When Morgan buys me toys, you ask for them too. When I cuddle with Dad, you start talking in that weird voice. My teacher says that kind of behavior is called envy.” He spoke with matter-of-fact precision, yet he placed his favorite stuffed bear gently on my pillow before leaving the room. I hadn’t understood him at all. A burning shame had crawled up my skin, consuming me from head to toe. Toby was wrong. It wasn’t envy. It was desperation. But no matter how desperate I was, Jesse Mitchell was never going to be Toby Mitchell. The cold sting of iodine on my inner arm pulled me out of the memory. Nurse Rachel looked down at me, her hands hovering over the IV tray, her eyes filled with deep hesitation. “Sweetheart… I really shouldn’t take any more blood. If I do, your body is going to give out before you even reach an operating table.” “And honestly, with your vitals, you aren’t even qualified to be on a donor match list.” It didn’t matter whether I was qualified. Morgan’s rules were simple: she wanted absolute, unquestioning submission. She wanted me to sacrifice myself willingly for Toby, because I had been born healthy and he hadn’t. In her mind, my health was an offense I owed the family for. “It’s fine,” I murmured gently. “Draw it. I’m at the end of the line anyway.” “Nurse Rachel… could you bring me a different form instead? The whole-body and organ donation consent form?” “I’d like to give what’s left of me to people who actually need it. I heard that after you die, they carve your name onto a memorial wall, and volunteers come to leave flowers. That sounds really nice.” My lighthearted tone made Nurse Rachel force a watery smile, though her eyes glinted with tears. Maybe it was true. Maybe the dead version of Jesse Mitchell would be much easier to love than the living one. …… They wheeled me into the surgical suite under a fog of sedative haze. According to Morgan’s script, as soon as the anesthesia took hold, the procedure would be halted, and I’d be wheeled right back out unharmed. The three tests would be complete. Afterward, she planned to hire top specialists to rehabilitate my health, hand over my share of the family trust, and grant me a ten percent stake in the family business. The things I had to strip my own flesh and blood away to earn were things Toby had been given at birth. The day our parents returned home, they took sixteen-year-old Toby straight to a lawyer to finalize his trust fund. Morgan had already assigned the dividends of a subsidiary company directly to his account. To this day, I had nothing. Just this absurd, degrading obstacle course designed to prove my worth. In the end, Morgan was going to be disappointed. My body was a engine running on fumes. The moment the general anesthetic entered my bloodstream, my vessels dilated violently, and my blood pressure plummeted off a cliff. A healthy heart could adapt and fight back. But my heart had been stretched paper-thin over years of abuse. It simply stopped beating. …… Outside the surgical suite. Dad stood by the waiting room chairs, a sudden, suffocating panic gripping his chest. He reached out, grabbing Morgan’s arm. “Morgan… you’re sure Jesse will be fine, right? I can’t get the image of his arm out of my head. He was so thin… those needle marks…” Dad’s eyes began to fill with tears again. Morgan tapped her fingers against her thigh, using her free arm to lightly pat Toby’s shoulder. “Dad, stop it, you’re scaring Toby,” she snapped quietly. “What could possibly go wrong? It’s just mild anesthesia. They’ll push him out in a few minutes.” “He barely passed these three tests, but at least it’s over. I’ll make it up to him afterward.” “You see how many siblings turn on each other for money these days? Jesse is smart—if I didn’t test him now, how could I trust him to take care of Toby when we’re gone?” She paused, the image of my hollow face briefly flashing through her mind, softening her voice slightly. “Toby, promise me something. When Jesse comes out, treat him well. He’s gone through a lot for you.” Toby nodded dutifully. Yet, deep down, an uncharacteristic dread was clawing at his throat, mimicking the panic in Dad’s chest. The quiet, hollow look in my eyes earlier had unsettled him far more than he cared to admit. Initially, Morgan had presented this to him as a simple family game. But as the game escalated, Toby had considered telling me the truth. The terrible reality was that Toby had wanted to know the answer too. He had wanted to see just how much Jesse Mitchell would break himself to keep his little brother alive. Over the past few weeks, seeing everything I had endured for him, it was impossible not to feel moved. Toby had already made up his mind: the moment I woke up, he would hand over every cent of the property and trust funds Dad and Morgan had set aside for him. He trusted me completely now. Less than thirty minutes later, the red light above the operating room doors went dark. Morgan released a long breath, a triumphant smirk touching her lips as she turned to Dad. “See? I told you. Everything is fine. Now we just wait for him to wake up so we can tell him the truth.” “Jesse Mitchell, congratulations. You finally passed.” “Waiting for you out here is a real future, full family support, and more money than you can ever spend.” Dad and Toby stepped forward, relief washing over their faces. Then the double doors swung open, and the medical team pushed the gurney out. The three of them froze in their tracks. A thick white sheet was pulled completely over my head. My hand hung limply off the side of the metal frame, pale, waxen, and utterly lifeless. The lead surgeon pulled off his mask, his face heavy with solemn grief. The entire surgical team lined up beside the gurney and bowed deeply toward my family. “We are deeply sorry. We did everything we could.” “Patient Jesse Mitchell was pronounced dead at 6:11 PM. Please accept our deepest condolences.”

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Eight years of long-distance had turned my heart into a fragile, hyper-vigilant thing. To ease my constant anxiety, my mother and my best friend volunteered to keep tabs on him for me. “Don’t worry, Gina,” they’d say. “We’ve got your back. We’ll make sure he stays in line.” Whenever my boyfriend had a company dinner, my best friend would text me photos from the venue. “Gina, sweetie, I’m right here. I won’t let a single female mosquito get within three feet of him.” When he was swamped with work and went dark for an entire day, panic would claw at my chest, making me want to buy a last-minute ticket and fly across the country. My mother would go over to his place to check on him for me. “Gina, look, Devin’s just working late in his office. Stop overthinking.” And slowly, the tight, terrified knot in my chest would loosen. Until I finally handed in my resignation, packed up my life, and moved back to his city. I was sitting at his desk when I noticed his laptop was still logged into his messaging app. Right at the top of his pinned chats was a group named “Happy Family”. Inside were my mother, my best friend, and an account with a cute cat avatar—a woman who wasn’t me. I was nowhere in the group. The last message sent was from Devin: [I’ve uploaded a batch of pre-staged photos to the shared drive. Just drop those into your chats with Gina whenever she asks.] [Oh, and give her that necklace I bought to hit the free-shipping threshold when Kendra was buying her designer bag. That’ll keep her quiet for a while.] My hand froze over the mouse. A violent tremor ran down my arm, and a searing heat surged behind my eyes. I sat there, paralyzed in the quiet apartment, for a long time. Then, I raised a hand, wiped away the unshed tears, and opened my work email to revoke my resignation request. The photos were pre-staged. The gifts were minimum-spend fillers. And I was just a nuisance to be managed. … I gathered every gift Devin had given me over the past few years and started visiting the local boutiques, tracing them by the logos stamped on their boxes. My first stop was a high-end leather goods store. The gift was a sleek coin purse. Tucked inside was a tiny framed photo of the two of us. At the time, Devin had pressed it into my hand and whispered, “This way, every time you spend money, you’ll see my face.” I placed the purse on the counter and showed it to the sales associate. “Could you look up the purchase record for this, please?” She typed into her terminal for a minute before her eyes lit up. “Ah, found it! Purchased three years ago. I actually remember this transaction quite vividly.” She smiled warmly, misreading my expression. “The gentleman’s girlfriend was making a massive purchase that day—bought half the display case. If I recall correctly, this little coin purse was just an add-on item he tossed in at checkout to qualify for our VIP gift package.” My hand clenched around the counter edge, then slowly uncurled. “Thank you,” I murmured. I went to the second store. Then the third. The answers were always the same. Every keepsake I had treasured, every item I had cradled to my chest during lonely nights, was nothing more than a threshold filler—a throwaway item bought to snag a discount or hit a minimum spend for another woman. A suffocating, icy rage swept over me as I walked back into Devin’s apartment. “Gina? I saw your suitcase in the hall and thought you might be back.” Devin was coming out of the kitchen, his voice soft and smooth as velvet. “Is your company on holiday? Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve picked you up from the airport.” He stepped forward, effortlessly chivalrous as he took my purse, then pulled a fresh pair of house slippers from the closet. “You caught me off guard, babe. I didn’t have time to buy you a proper pair of slippers yet.” I put them on in silence. My heel hung over the back edge by a good inch. They weren’t my size. Devin noticed and patted my shoulder gently. “I’ll take you shopping for a new pair tomorrow. Just make do for today, okay?” “Okay,” I whispered. He bustled into the bathroom. “I don’t have your usual skincare line stocked up here either. Why don’t you just use these disposable travel kits for now?” He set the cheap, plastic disposable toiletries next to a plush, high-end set sitting on the counter. The contrast was stark, like a chasm carved between two worlds—between him and me. “Sure.” Devin paused, turning to look at me with a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if expecting me to push back. He opened his mouth to say something, but the front door chime chimed, and the smart lock clicked open. “Devin, I came to grab the clothes I left here last week!” A woman walked in, her movements practiced and familiar. She reached into the shoe rack and pulled out a pair of slippers—a matching set to the ones Devin was wearing. Devin stepped forward quickly, putting himself slightly between us. “Gina, let me introduce you. This is Kendra. She’s the new senior accountant at my firm.” He smiled smoothly. “Last week, I got completely plastered at a client dinner, and she was kind enough to drive me home. I threw up all over her jacket, so she had to borrow something clean before heading out.” Kendra. “The Kendra.” I observed the way his body subtly leaned back toward her, an instinctive, protective posture. “Nice to meet you, Kendra,” I said, my voice flat. “Thank you for looking after him.” “Oh, it was no trouble at all, Gina. Just doing my job,” she replied smoothly. Without a hint of self-consciousness, she walked straight into the master bedroom and emerged a moment later holding an item of clothing. It was a black silk slip nightgown. I saw it clear as day. As Kendra swapped her slippers back for her heels, she turned to Devin with a pout. “Devin, if you’re not too busy, could you come over and help me set up the venue for the wedding? I’m completely drowning in decorations, and I can’t manage it alone.” “Of course,” Devin agreed instantly. “I’ll be right there.” Once the door clicked shut behind her, a flicker of guilt finally crossed Devin’s face. “Gina, I am so sorry. You just got here, and now I have to run out…” He apologized with his lips, but he didn’t offer to stay. He didn’t even pretend to reconsider. “It’s fine,” I said, keeping my head down, my hands trembling deep inside my coat pockets. “Go ahead. I understand.” Devin leaned down, gave me a brief, superficial hug, grabbed his car keys, and was gone. Ten minutes later, I took a cab and followed his car at a distance. He pulled up to the grand ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, I saw the team of people busy setting up floral arches and silk drapes. I recognized every single one of them. My mother was there, handing out favor boxes. My best friend, Lydia, was laughing while adjusting a banner. The only person missing from that ‘happy family’ was me. I pulled out my phone and sent Devin a message: [Are you hiding anything from me?] He replied almost instantly: [Gina, why are you being paranoid again? Have I not given you enough peace of mind?] A second later, a flurry of five or six photos flooded my screen. They were all selfies of him sitting at a cluttered office desk, framed carefully so no background detail could be identified. Pre-staged. Ready to deploy. I stared at the screen, a sick, hollow ache swelling in my chest. He always claimed he loved me. He pretended to be the patient, long-suffering boyfriend who tolerated my LDR insecurity and laughed off my constant check-ins. And all the while, he was building an entirely separate life—a life so real he was stepping up to the altar for it. I gripped my phone until my knuckles turned white, turned on my heel, and fled. In the hotel lobby restroom, I gripped the edges of the marble sink and leaned in close to the mirror. The woman staring back at me had bloodshot eyes and skin as pale as chalk. My phone vibrated. It was Lydia. “Gina! Devin told me you’re back in town! Why didn’t you tell me, you brat?” Her voice was bright, energetic, and completely unbothered. “Anyway, I’m just calling to check in and tell you—relax, okay? I’m watching your man like a hawk. No woman is getting within a mile of him, promise!” Her tone was so fiercely sincere it made my stomach turn. Lydia and I had been best friends since high school. We had made a pact on our graduation day to be each other’s maid of honor. When Devin and I were forced into a long-distance arrangement, she had pointed a finger at his chest and threatened, “If you ever do anything to hurt Gina, I will personally ruin your life.” And now, she was ringleader number two in the circus of my humiliation. “Thanks, Lydia,” I whispered, and hung up. I cupped my hands under the tap and splashed freezing water over my face, forcing the numbness away. When I pushed open the bathroom door, Kendra was standing right there. “Oh, Gina! What a coincidence,” she said, her smile perfectly poised. “You must be looking for Devin. It’s completely my fault for dragging him away to help with the venue setup. Come on, let me take you to him.” She didn’t flinch. There wasn’t a flicker of guilt in her eyes. She took my wrist with easy familiarity and led me straight into the grand ballroom. “Look who I found!” Kendra called out cheerfully. The bustling room went dead silent. Devin turned, his composure cracking for a fraction of a second. “Gina? What are you doing here?” He stepped forward swiftly, positioning his broad shoulders to block my view of the main stage. My mother and Lydia froze, terror flashing across their faces. “Gina!” My mother hurried over, her voice unnaturally fast and high-pitched—the exact nervous cadence she always adopted whenever she was lying. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming today? Oh, you haven’t met Kendra yet, have you? We’re just… helping her set up her wedding venue!” Lydia stammered, her eyes darting everywhere except my face. “Yeah, Gina! Oh my gosh, I missed you so much! Kendra is a new friend of ours, and since she was doing this all on her own, we thought we’d lend a hand.” The four of them stood in a neat, cohesive line. A family unit. And I was the intruder crashing their party. My body went rigid. A bitter, agonizing sorrow choked my throat, demanding to be screamed out loud. I wanted to tear down the floral arches, to demand how they could do this to me. But when I opened my mouth, all that came out was a quiet, empty whisper. “Right. I see.” Devin kept Kendra firmly behind him. “Well, we’re pretty much wrapped up here anyway. Let’s head back. I’ll drive your mother and Lydia home first—their place is close by—and then you and I can…” “I’ll take a cab,” I interrupted softly. Devin swallowed the rest of his sentence. “Okay. If you’re sure.” He walked out to the hotel entrance, opened his car door, and naturally ushered Kendra into the front passenger seat. He glanced back at me, suddenly realizing how bad it looked. “She gets terrible carsickness,” he offered smoothly. “She can’t ride in the back.” Kendra didn’t even look up. She sat down, pulled open the center console, and pulled out a designer lipstick to touch up her makeup with practiced ease. I looked down at the pavement. “Right. You don’t need to explain.” Devin visibly relaxed. “I’ll see you at the apartment.” I watched his car pull away into the afternoon traffic. And only then, standing alone on the curb, did the tears finally spill over. …… I made it back to the apartment before Devin. I gathered every single item from the stash of minimum-spend gifts, dumped them into a heavy paper tote bag, and walked out. I found a high-end luxury consignment store three blocks away and emptied the bag onto the plush velvet counter. “I want to sell all of this,” I said. The appraiser pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and began inspecting the items one by one. It took him nearly half an hour. “Well, ma’am, these are all in pristine condition,” he said, looking up with a sympathetic smile. “Unfortunately, none of these pieces hold high intrinsic value. In our industry, we call these ‘threshold fillers’—items purchased simply to bump a receipt up to a higher tier.” “Threshold fillers.” The words pierced my heart like a needle. “I’ll take whatever you offer,” my voice rasped. “I can give you thirty-eight hundred dollars for the lot. Does that work for you?” “Yes.” When I walked out of the store, the bag was empty, and my bank balance was thirty-eight hundred dollars heavier. When I returned to the apartment, Devin was waiting in the kitchen. “Gina, tomorrow is your mother’s birthday dinner. You’re still coming, right?” My mind went blank for a second. It had been years since I had been home to celebrate a birthday with her. “Yes,” I said. “I’m coming.” “Good.” That night, Devin and I lay in the same bed. But between us lay a silent, invisible abyss that neither of us dared to cross. …… The next evening, Devin and I walked into the private dining room at the restaurant. My mother sat at the head of the long table. Seated directly to her left was Kendra; to her right sat Lydia. When we walked in, Kendra made a theatrical move to stand up and offer me her seat, but my mother caught her arm and pressed her back down. “Stay put, sweetie,” my mother said gently. Then she gestured toward the far end of the table, near the service door. “Gina, sit over there.” After the meal, I pulled an envelope of cash from my purse and handed it to my mother. “Happy birthday, Mom. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much these past few years.” My mother took the envelope, her expression cool and distant. “Thanks. You don’t need to feel guilty, Gina. I was busy when you were growing up, too. It’s only natural that we aren’t particularly close.” She smoothed the paper envelope with her thumb. “You’re a smart girl. Some things don’t need to be spelled out for you to understand. My life is very peaceful right now, and I’d like to keep it that way. Don’t ruin it.” A sharp pain hit my chest. I fought to keep my expression completely still. “I understand.” I backed away toward the quiet corner of the room. A moment later, Kendra slid over, a sweet, triumphant smile playing on her lips. “Gina, your mother is such a wonderful woman,” she purred. “She actually offered to officially adopt me as her goddaughter today. You don’t mind, do you?” I stared at her, my mind numb. She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Oh, by the way, how long is your visit? Will you be able to stay for my wedding? I wanted to wait until after the baby was born to hold the ceremony, but Devin was just so impatient.” My eyes slowly dropped to her lower abdomen. “A baby.” So that was it. That was why they were rushing the wedding. Why my mother and my best friend were keeping me at arm’s length. She was carrying his child. “Congratulations,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm. “I won’t be able to make the wedding. I have to get back to work.” I turned to leave, but as I passed her, Kendra suddenly threw herself backward, tumbling hard onto the floor with a dramatic gasp. Before I could even process what happened, Lydia rushed forward and shoved me violently out of the way. “Gina! What the hell is wrong with you?!” Lydia screamed. “Why did you push her?!” My spine slammed into the sharp edge of the drywall corner, a blinding flash of pain searing across my back. Devin rushed over from the other side of the room, seeing both of us on the floor. “My stomach… Devin, it hurts so much! Is the baby okay?!” Kendra sobbed, cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. Devin dropped to his knees beside her, scooping her into his arms. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you. The baby will be fine, I won’t let anything happen to you!” He didn’t cast a single glance in my direction. He carried her out of the restaurant at a run. Lydia glared at me with pure venom before turning to follow them. My mother walked over, staring down at me as I struggled to pull myself up off the floor. “Crack.” Her hand flew across my face, the sharp blow echoing through the private room. “If anything happens to Kendra’s baby,” my mother hissed, her voice trembling with rage, “you are no daughter of mine.” Everyone left. I pressed my back against the wall, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, refusing to let a single sob escape into the empty room. …… I limped back to the apartment. The dull, throbbing ache in my spine served as a constant reminder of what had transpired. I sat on the dark sofa for hours, my legs going numb, until the front door finally unlocked and Devin walked in. “Devin,” I said into the darkness, my voice raspy. “I didn’t push her.” My words seemed to ignite something dangerous inside him. His face twisted in dark, ugly fury. “Gina, stop lying! There was nobody else near her except you! Are you telling me she threw herself on the ground on purpose?! She’s pregnant with a human life! The doctor said she almost suffered a miscarriage!” I opened my mouth, desperate to defend myself. I wanted to ask him why he trusted her so easily, why he refused to listen to me. But my silence only stoked his rage further. “Say something!” he roared, stepping into my space. “Why are you playing the quiet victim now?! I never thought you could be this cruel—to attack a pregnant woman! How could you?!” A lump lodged firmly in my throat. He didn’t believe me. In his mind, I had already been tried, convicted, and sentenced. Anything I said now would just sound like a desperate excuse. “Devin,” I whispered, looking straight into his furious eyes. “No matter what you believe… I didn’t do it.” He stared at me, his eyes dark and icy. The next second, his hand flew out, landing a heavy slap across my cheek. The impact snapped my head to the side, filling my vision with blinding white spots and a burning pain across my jaw. “You are utterly unhinged,” he spat. The front door slammed shut with a deafening bang. Devin was gone. …… He didn’t return for three days. He ignored my calls, left my messages on unread, and vanished completely from my world. The only way I knew he was still alive was through Lydia’s social media updates, which showed him dutifully sitting by Kendra’s hospital bed. On the eve of the wedding, a single text arrived from Devin: [Stay home and reflect on what you’ve done. And don’t you dare show your face around Kendra tomorrow. She’s terrified of you.] Every word dripped with tender concern for Kendra—and cold disgust for me. My hands shook violently as I held the phone. A single tears finally slipped down my cheek and splashed onto the illuminated screen. …… On the morning of the wedding, my bags were packed. I threw the cheap, plastic travel toiletries into the trash bin. The house slippers—the ones that didn’t fit—were left neatly by the door. I pulled the matching promise ring from my finger and placed it on the dining table, resting it directly on top of a thick Manila folder containing the evidence I had printed out. I walked out, flagged a taxi, and sat in the back seat, ready to leave this city forever. My phone rang. It was a video call from Kendra. When I picked up, she didn’t say a word. She simply pointed her phone camera toward the front of the altar. Through the small screen, I heard Devin’s clear, resonant voice: “I do.” I saw Lydia, glowing in her bridesmaid dress, excitedly catching the bridal bouquet. I saw my mother sitting in the front row, clapping tears of joy from her eyes. I flipped the phone face down onto the vinyl seat, buried my face in my hands, and let the silent tears flow. The taxi driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Hey, kiddo… you alright? Look, whatever it is, no heartache lasts forever. Tell you what—this ride’s on the house.” I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve and swallowed the hard lump in my throat. “No, thank you, sir. I appreciate it, but I can pay.” I ended the video call, deleted the app, and walked into the terminal. Security. Gate. Boarding. As the plane lifted off the tarmac, the sudden weightlessness caused a sharp, familiar pressure in my ears. I went through the motions of swallowing to pop them, staring out the window as the city shrank into a grid of tiny, meaningless blocks. All of them—and all their cruelties—were left behind in the clouds. Three hours later, the plane touched down in my home city. I pulled my suitcase from the baggage carousel, stepping out into the familiar, crisp air of a place where I actually belonged. My floating, anxious heart finally settled back into my chest. I took my phone out of airplane mode. The screen immediately lit up with dozens of missed call notifications.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560146”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Five years into our relationship, David instituted what he called the “Relationship Penalty System.” If I took more than ten minutes to reply to a text, that was fifty dollars. If I cooked dinner and forgot to include a dish he liked, that was one hundred dollars. If I accidentally offended his mother, that was three hundred dollars. He framed it with the persuasive charm that had seduced me in college. “Think of it as our Future Fund, Jo,” he’d say, kissing my temple. “It’s just tough love to help you build better habits. Every cent goes into our joint account for the down payment on our dream home.” And because I was desperate to keep him, I believed every word. I spent years tiptoeing around his endless rules, transferring chunk after chunk of my hard-earned salary as a corporate payroll specialist into that locked high-yield account. Until the afternoon my father suffered a massive hemorrhagic stroke, and the neurosurgeon needed a hundred and fifty thousand dollars upfront for the emergency surgery and ICU care. I ran to the bank with our joint card, only to find that out of the three hundred and fourteen thousand dollars I had painstakingly deposited over five years, the remaining balance was thirty-five cents. When I called David, hyperventilating in the hospital corridor, his voice was smooth, detached, and entirely devoid of panic. “I wired that money yesterday for my brother’s down payment,” he said. “Besides, Jo, your dad’s condition is a money pit. We can’t throw our future down a drain.” Later, when his corporate embezzlement and identity fraud caught up with him, leaving him facing a decade in federal prison, he fell to his knees in a visitor room, clawing at my jeans through the partition, begging me to sign a plea leniency waiver. I pulled a thick, worn leather notebook out of my bag and slammed it against the glass. “According to your rules, David, every time you make me unhappy, it’s a thousand-dollar fine.” I leaned into the microphone, my voice dead air. “You tell me—how many years of your life does it take to clear your balance?” … It was ten-thirty on a frigid November Tuesday when I stepped out of my office building, shivering as the damp city wind cut through my coat. My phone vibrated in my palm. A text from David: “You’re thirty minutes late.” My stomach dropped into a familiar, nauseating knot. I quickly hit dial, putting the phone to my ear as I hurried toward the subway entrance. “David, I’m so sorry,” I breathed, trying to sound repentant, hated how small my voice sounded. “The quarterly audit ran over. I didn’t mean to miss your text.” David’s voice on the line was colder than the slush beneath my boots. “Joanna. How many times have we talked about accountability?” “I know, but—” “No buts. A relationship without boundaries falls apart. If you can’t respect my time now, how are you going to manage a household when we have kids?” He paused, letting the silence heavy with disappointment stretch between us. “Standard penalty: fifty dollars per ten minutes. You’re thirty minutes late. That’s one hundred and fifty dollars to the account. Now.” I swallowed back the iron taste of anxiety, my eyes stinging. “David… my rent is due this week, and after my car payment, I barely have two hundred left in my personal checking. Can we please—” “No,” he cut in, sharp and final. “If I make an exception, the system fails. Are you saying you think I’m stealing from you, Jo? That money belongs to “us”. It’s for our home. If you aren’t committed to our future, maybe we shouldn’t be talking about marriage at all.” The word “marriage” was the leash he used to pull me into line. I was an endlessly anxious woman, damaged by an upbringing where love was scarce. My parents had divorced when I was six, and my father, a quiet, gentle mechanic, had raised me alone in a drafty small town upstate. David had been the shining, structured light of my senior year at university—handsome, impeccably organized, always knowing exactly what to do. I was terrified of losing him. “I’ll transfer it right now,” I whispered into the freezing night. Standing under the neon glow of a subway sign, fingers numb, I opened my banking app and sent my last hundred and fifty dollars into the account labeled “Our Future”. Once the transaction cleared, I reflexively opened a password-protected note on my phone. As a payroll specialist, my brain was wired for numbers. I couldn’t help it. For five years, I had kept an exact, immutable ledger of every penalty David had levied against me. “Nov 12: Late response to text — $150. Total cumulative: $314,500.” Three hundred fourteen thousand, five hundred dollars. It represented every bonus, every overtime check, every birthday gift from my father, and every penny of savings I had generated since turning twenty-two. When I unlocked the door to our rented apartment, David was sprawled on the Italian leather sofa, playing Xbox. He didn’t look up. “There’s cold takeout in the fridge,” he said, his eyes glued to the TV screen. “Heat it up yourself. And do the dishes in the sink before you come to bed. Next time you’re late, the fine doubles.” I didn’t argue. I set down my bag, walked into the kitchen, rolled up my sleeves, and plunged my hands into the greasy water. I told myself what I always told myself: “He loves you. He’s just disciplined. He’s building a life for us.” I had no idea I was simply fattening a wolf. … The following weekend, David’s mother, Patricia, and his younger brother, Tyler, arrived at the apartment. Tyler was graduating from community college, and Patricia had declared that as the eldest son, David was responsible for helping Tyler secure a down payment for a condo in the city. “A young man can’t get a proper girl without real estate,” she liked to say. “Joanna, go prep some fruit,” Patricia commanded the moment she stepped through the door, dropping her designer handbag onto the kitchen island. “Make sure you slice the imported ones, not those cheap apples you usually buy.” I smiled politely, walked into the kitchen, and carefully washed and arranged the Cotton Candy grapes and organic cherries I had bought yesterday. I brought the platter out and set it on the coffee table. Tyler scooped up a handful of cherries, popped three into his mouth, and immediately spat them into a napkin on the table. “Ugh, gross! Jo, where’d you get these? They taste sour as hell.” Patricia’s face instantly hardened. She slammed her teacup down. “Joanna, what is the meaning of this? We drive two hours to visit, and you serve my son trash? Are you disrespecting me on purpose?” I froze, my hands trembling against my thighs. “Mrs. Robert, no, I bought those at Whole Foods yesterday. They were sixteen dollars a pound—” “Don’t talk back to my mother!” David’s voice cracked through the room like a whip. He stood up, stepping between me and his family, looking down at me with contempt. “Apologize to my mother. Right now.” “David, I didn’t do anything wrong—” “I said, apologize!” He stepped closer, lowering his voice into a dangerous hiss. “Have you forgotten the rules? Disrespecting family is a three-thousand-dollar fine. You want to add disrespecting “me” on top of that?” My heart plummeted. “David, my account is empty. I don’t have three thousand dollars.” “Then take out a cash advance on your credit card!” he snapped. “I am not going to let your pathetic attitude humiliate me in front of my family. Not one cent less.” Tyler smirked behind his mother’s back, taking another bite of the fruit he had just called sour. Patricia crossed her arms, looking at me like I was grease under her shoe. Standing there in the middle of the living room, under the cold, united gaze of the Robert family, hot tears welled in my eyes. I walked into the bathroom, locked the door, opened my credit card app, and executed a three-thousand-dollar cash advance directly into the “Our Future” fund. I opened my ledger. “Total cumulative: $317,500.” That afternoon, I cooked a four-course dinner. I sat quietly at the end of the dining table, picking at dry rice while the three of them laughed, drank wine, and discussed real estate listings. As Patricia was leaving, she grabbed David’s arm at the door. “Davey, that condo in the West End requires a hundred and fifty thousand for the down payment. You need to lock that down this week. Tyler’s engagement depends on it.” David patted her hand confidently. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got the money lined up. I’ll make the deposit next week.” At the time, I foolishly felt a flicker of admiration for David, thinking he was a devoted older brother. I never stopped to wonder how a mid-level procurement manager on an eighty-thousand-dollar salary was casually sitting on a hundred and fifty grand. The nightmare struck three days later. … It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. I was in the middle of reconciling quarterly tax forms when my phone went off, buzzing frantically across my desk. It was Mrs. Oscar, my dad’s neighbor upstate. “Joanna! Sweetheart, you need to come home right now!” Her voice was shrill with panic. “Your dad collapsed in the driveway! The ambulance just took him to the regional trauma center—they say it’s his brain!” My mind went completely blank. The pen in my hand clattered to the floor. I didn’t even pack my bag or request time off. I sprinted out of the building, flagged a cab, and bought a train ticket straight upstate. When I arrived at the hospital, my dad was already in the Intensive Care Unit, hooked up to a maze of monitors. A neurologist met me in the hallway, his expression grave. “Massive hemorrhagic stroke,” the doctor said, holding up an MRI scan. “The pressure on his brain stem is critical. We need to perform an emergency craniotomy immediately, followed by specialized neurological ICU care.” He looked at me sympathetically. “Because your dad’s rural insurance package doesn’t cover this high-tier trauma center out-of-network, you need to settle the initial deposit. It’s going to be roughly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to clear the surgical team and the bed.” “One hundred and fifty thousand,” I repeated, the number echoing like a death knell in my ears. “We need your authorization and payment confirmation within the hour, Joanna. Every minute we wait, brain tissue dies.” I stumbled away from the doctor, ducking into a stairwell. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely unlock my phone. I dialed David. “David! David, my dad had a stroke!” I sobbed into the receiver, grasping at him like a lifeline. “He’s in surgery prep! I need you to wire a hundred and fifty thousand from the Future Fund to the hospital right now! Please, David, hurry!” The line was quiet, save for the distinct, rhythm of David clicking his computer mouse. “A stroke?” his voice was flat. “How bad is it?” “It’s critical! They need the money now to start the operation! I’m sending you the hospital’s routing info—” “I can’t move that money, Jo.” The world seemed to pause. The hum of the fluorescent lights above me grew deafeningly loud. “What do you mean, you can’t?” “I wired the funds yesterday,” David said casually. “I used it for the down payment on the West End condo.” Blood rushed to my ears with the sound of a roaring ocean. “You… what? David, that’s “our” money! That’s “my” money! I paid every single dollar into that account!” I shrieked, my voice breaking in the concrete stairwell. “Joanna, stop shouting,” David’s tone turned instantly sharp and reprimanding. “We established the rules. That money is the Family Building Fund. Helping my brother secure an asset is a family priority. Besides, let’s be realistic—your dad is over sixty, he’s had a massive brain bleed. Even if they save him, he’s going to be a vegetable. Throwing a hundred and fifty grand into a lost cause is irresponsible.” I squeezed my eyes shut, my chest heaving so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. “David… that’s my father. He’s all I have. Pull the deposit back! Cancel the contract! Give me my money!” David let out an irritated sigh. “The contract is signed, Jo. The earnest money is non-refundable. You’re completely out of control right now, screaming at me like a crazy woman.” He took a breath, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm, authoritarian tone. “That’s a five-thousand-dollar penalty for emotional instability and verbal abuse. Call me back when you’ve pulled yourself together.” “Click.” The line went dead. I stared at the black screen of my phone, my soul crumbling into ash. I sprinted out of the stairwell, down the block to the nearest Chase branch. I pulled the joint debit card out of my wallet—the card David had given me years ago, the one he claimed was connected to our high-yield account, though he had always managed the online access himself. I shoved the card into the ATM with trembling fingers. I entered our anniversary date. “Invalid PIN.” I entered my birthday. “Invalid PIN.” I entered “his” birthday. The screen flickered, loaded, and displayed the account overview. “Available Balance: $0.35.” I slid down the cold side of the ATM machine, collapsing onto the tiled floor of the bank vestibule. He hadn’t just used the money. He had changed the security credentials. He had stripped the account bare. For five years, I had been paying a predator to slowly starve me alive. … There was no time to process the betrayal. My father was dying. I sat on a wooden bench in the hospital corridor, frantically making phone calls. “Aunt Susan, please, my dad needs surgery… I just need ten thousand…” “Oh, Jo, honey, you know Uncle Mark lost his job last month…” “Sarah, I’m so sorry to ask, but it’s an emergency…” “Joanna, I can wire you two thousand, but that’s literally all I have in savings…” By midnight, after begging every acquaintance, colleague, and distant relative I possessed, I had raised barely twenty thousand dollars. A drop in the ocean. In utter humiliation, I texted David: “I’m begging you. Please. I’ll sign whatever contract you want. I’ll pay you back with interest. Just lend me thirty thousand so they can do the procedure.” He never replied. Desperate, I called Patricia. The moment she picked up, her voice dripped with annoyance. “Joanna, David told me everything. Stop harassing my son! Your father had a good run. It’s God’s will. Why are you trying to drag our family down into financial ruin over a dying old man?” “That thirty thousand was MY money!” I screamed into the phone, my nails digging into the palm of my hand until I felt wet blood. “I paid those fines! It was my salary!” “Fines?” Patricia scoffed maliciously. “That was penalty money for your failures as a woman! Once you paid it, it belonged to the Robert family. Stop calling us, you ungrateful little brat!” She hung up. I pressed my forehead against the icy hospital glass, tears streaming silently down my face. Because I couldn’t produce the deposit, the hospital could only administer palliative care. They kept him comfortable, but they couldn’t stop the pressure in his skull. At four in the morning, the heart monitor beside my father’s bed dragged into a long, flat, agonizing tone. I knelt by his bed, too exhausted to cry. My father died hard. His fingers were locked around the bedsheets, his dull eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling as if he were still worrying about how his weak, timid daughter would survive in this cold world without him. I gently reached up, closed his eyelids, and wiped the moisture from my cheeks. In that quiet, sterile room, as the harsh morning light began to bleed through the blinds, the weak, eager-to-please Joanna died right alongside him. What was left behind was an empty shell—devoid of love, devoid of fear, driven entirely by a cold, mathematical rage. … It took three days to arrange my father’s cremation and pack up his modest belongings. During those three days, David didn’t call once. He didn’t text. To him, I was an obedient dog that had run away temporarily and would inevitably crawl back when it got hungry. On the train back to the city, I opened Instagram. The very first post on my feed was from David. It was a gallery of nine high-definition photos: a sun-drenched floor-through condo with floor-to-ceiling windows, hardwood floors, and a sweeping view of the city skyline. In the center photo, David, Patricia, and Tyler were standing on the balcony, holding champagne glasses, radiant with joy. Caption: “Major milestone! Closed on the new luxury condo today. As the head of the family, taking care of my little brother is my ultimate duty. Onward and upward! #Blessed #FamilyFirst #RealEstate” The comments section was flooded with praise from his colleagues and friends. I stared at the sparkling champagne glasses in the photo. Every square foot of those hardwood floors was paved with my father’s life. I didn’t like the post. I didn’t comment. I closed my phone, leaned back against the train seat, and looked out at the passing grey landscape. I was going to make them bleed. I was going to make them choke on every single dollar they had stolen from me.

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For ten long years, my older sister and I shared a single body. She despised me for having a physical form of my own, while her lingering spirit was forced to coil inside me like a parasite, taking control for only a brief window each day. She hated me with a burning intensity. During high school, she would steal from classmates, then retreat, leaving me to face the accusations, the screaming teachers, and the humiliation. In our senior year, during the SATs, she intentionally cheated under my name—nearly putting me behind bars and permanently ruining any chance I had at higher education. I cried. I screamed. I begged my parents for help. They only looked at me with cold indifference and said: “If it weren’t for your sister, we never would have brought you into this world.” In the entire world, only my boyfriend, Beckett, loved me. He used to hold me close, whispering softly into my hair: “You are your own person, Callie. You aren’t just an instrument meant to exist for someone else.” Until our wedding day. I overslept. By the time I woke up, the ceremony was already over. In the video recorded by my parents, Beckett and my sister, Lorelei, were smiling radiantly, wrapped in each other’s arms. I confronted him, tears streaming down my face, asking why. Beckett didn’t even bother to deny it. He just offered a soft, dismissive smile. “I couldn’t help it, Callie. When Lorelei cries and begs, she looks so much more fragile than you ever do. So I put a sedative in your drink.” He paused, adjusting his cuffs. “Besides, your parents found a way to separate the two of you for good. Once that’s done, I’ll just sign the marriage certificate with you. That makes it fair, doesn’t it?” My parents stood nearby, watching me warily, terrified I might lose my mind and cause a scene like I used to. But this time, I was completely calm. If all of you love Lorelei so much, fine. I’ll leave. But when I leave, and how I leave, will be strictly on my own terms. … The wedding dress Lorelei had worn was carefully hung in the walk-in closet, its mermaid silhouette shimmering with delicate sequins. It was her dream dress. Mine—the one I had spent three agonizing days selecting—had been tossed into the dumpster outside our villa. Beckett looked at me as I stood trembling in the hallway, his expression sickeningly gentle. He reached out, softly tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Come on, Callie. What’s done is done. Crying won’t change anything. I promised I’d make it up to you, didn’t I? Just be a good girl, okay?” When I glared at him, he smiled indulgently. “Alright, drop the attitude. The reception is over, and you know what comes next, right?” He leaned in close. “The wedding night.” Ignoring the sheer horror frozen on my face, Beckett gave my shoulder a light shove toward the bathroom. “Go on. Take a shower and prepare yourself a little. Your sister doesn’t have much experience, and I don’t want anything to hurt her.” The hot water blasted down from the showerhead, soaking my skin, yet I couldn’t feel a trace of warmth. I wanted to cry, but my eyes were bone-dry. Water droplets washed over my face, trailing down my cheeks and splattering on the tiled floor—shattering into pieces just like my absurd, miserable life. I was brought into this world solely to be an instrument. When Lorelei died in an accident years ago, my parents were so consumed by grief they nearly took their own lives. Then, they stumbled upon an occult, fringe ritual: conceive another child to serve as a vessel to anchor Lorelei’s remaining soul. I was the unlucky soul born to be that container. For as long as I could remember, I was forced to swallow strange, bitter concoctions that made my stomach turn. Suspicious practitioners were brought into our house, conducting bizarre experiments on my developing body. Pain was my constant companion. Yet, I endured it all. I bore the agony because I believed it was my parents’ desperate hope. I couldn’t bear to disappoint the only people I loved in this world. It wasn’t until ten years ago, when the ritual finally succeeded, that the cruel reality hit me. I watched from deep within my own mind as Lorelei used my face, my voice, to embrace my weeping parents. Only then did I realize I was nothing more than a tragic shell. I was never their beloved child. My phone, resting on the vanity, buzzed repeatedly. Wrapped in a plush bathrobe, I hesitated, dreading stepping out into the bedroom. I unlocked the screen and saw Beckett’s group chat with his closest friends blowing up with notifications. “Congrats, man! You actually pulled it off. All that acting finally paid off.” “For real. A bland chick like Callie is painful to even look at. Props to you for saying all those sweet things to a literal piece of wood.” “Hey, love at first sight is powerful stuff. The second Beckett caught a glimpse of Lorelei, he was completely hooked… Wait, isn’t Callie in this chat group too?” The group went dead silent for a second. Then, Beckett sent a reply: “So what? What is she going to do about it?” The chat immediately erupted into cheers, showering Beckett with praise for being a “cold-blooded alpha.” My hand went limp, and the phone clattered to the floor. The tears that had refused to fall in the shower finally spilled over, heavy and scalding, slamming against the cold tile. I had spent years believing Beckett was my salvation—the single ray of sunlight cutting through the barren wasteland of my life. He was the one who stood up for me in high school when my classmates accused me of stealing. He was the one who used his varsity jacket to cover the word “THIEF” carved into my desk. When I missed college because of the SAT scandal, he held me, whispering words of encouragement, taking me to try new things, helping me find a reason to keep living. And now, before I could even process the reality of my marriage, the fairy tale had ripped off its mask, revealing the monstrous truth underneath. “Callie? Are you done in there?” I pulled open the bathroom door. What met Beckett’s gaze was a pair of bloodshot, hollow eyes. He froze for a fraction of a second. But as his gaze flicked past me to the framed wedding portrait of him and Lorelei hanging on the wall, the flicker of concern in his eyes instantly hardened into disgust. “I know you can control it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Let Lorelei out.” When I didn’t move, his jaw clenched. “Callie, for the love of God, consider everything I’ve done for you in the past. Don’t be ungrateful and ruin the happiest night of Lorelei’s life.” His words hit my chest like serrated blades. Unable to take it anymore, I retreated into the deepest dark of my own consciousness, forcing my sister’s presence to the surface. The moment Lorelei took control, Beckett’s eyes softened into a tenderness I had never once seen directed at me. Swallowing the dull, agonizing ache in my chest, I forced my consciousness into a deep slumber. … When I woke up again, it was the next morning. I was wrapped in a warm embrace, Beckett’s soft breathing brushing against the back of my neck, tingling against my skin. This used to be the exact cozy scene I had dreamed of for years. Except now, this intimacy belonged to someone else. I blinked away the moisture in my eyes and shifted slightly. The movement stirred Beckett. With his eyes still closed, he pulled me tighter into his chest, pressing a tender kiss against my forehead. “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured sweetly. “What do you want for breakfast? I’ll make whatever you want.” His soft lips brushed my skin, leaving me stiff and paralyzed with dread. Sensuality turned to suspicion as Beckett noticed my stony silence. He opened his eyes, and in a heartbeat, the warmth evaporated entirely. “Oh. It’s you.” Beckett immediately rolled out of bed, leaving the sheets without a second glance. “I have a busy schedule at the firm today. Grab whatever you can find in the kitchen.” He adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, then paused, as if remembering something. “Don’t eat anything cold today,” he added over his shoulder. “I’ll pick up some cake on my way home tonight.” Before I could even process this unexpected bit of concern, he shattered it with his next sentence. “Your period is starting in a couple of days. Lorelei has a terrible pain tolerance. Don’t eat junk and make her suffer.” The last flicker of light in my heart went out completely. The door clicked shut, leaving the heavy, suffocating silence of the house to settle over me. I looked around the master bedroom. Pink velvet curtains. A plush cat-shaped cushion on the armchair. Fresh hydrangeas on the nightstand. Every single detail was curated for Lorelei’s taste. As for what I liked? No one had ever asked, and no one cared to know. I wandered aimlessly downstairs into the kitchen. When I reached the refrigerator, I stopped dead in my tracks. A heavy metal padlock was secured around the handles. Beckett was terrified that I might intentionally eat something cold or spoiled out of spite, just to make Lorelei suffer cramps. A wave of profound absurdity washed over me. Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the foyer downstairs. My parents had arrived. The moment they caught sight of me coming down the stairs, their faces lit up with an unprecedented joy. “Callie!” That single word froze me in place, suspending my instinct to bring Lorelei out. In my entire memory, my parents had never spoken my name with such warmth. To them, I had no identity. I wasn’t a living, breathing human being—just an organic vessel containing their precious lost daughter. And vessels didn’t deserve to be noticed. I blinked frantically, forcing back the sudden tears brought on by hearing my own name from their lips. I didn’t want them to see my weakness. I stiffened my back, my voice flat and distant. “What are you doing here?” My mother rushed forward like a loving parent, taking my hands in hers and pouring out fussing questions. “Silly girl,” she scolded gently. “Can’t your parents come check on you? You’re our flesh and blood, too. Of course we care about you.” I stayed silent. Over the years, because Lorelei shared my physical body, I had never lacked material wealth. However, ever since I learned to read, I was handed a thick, precise manual titled “Body Maintenance Guidelines”. I was forbidden from eating sugar because Lorelei was afraid of tooth decay. I wasn’t allowed to go outside and play with other kids because a scraped knee might cause Lorelei pain. Even my daily water and food intake were calculated down to the gram by expensive clinical nutritionists hired by my parents. Because Lorelei hated gaining weight, and she hated being unrefined. For twenty-five years, I ate meals that tasted like damp chalk. Yet whenever Lorelei took control, all those rigid rules magically vanished. She could gorge on her favorite greasy foods and run wild doing whatever she pleased. As if she were the rightful owner of this skin. “Callie?” my mother called softly, her voice dripping with affection. I knew she didn’t truly love me. Yet, part of me was still pathetic enough to crave that tiny crumb of maternal affection. I couldn’t bring myself to crush her hope just yet. I squeezed her hand back softly. “Mom?” She flinched slightly, an awkward flicker passing over her features before she smoothed it over. “Here’s the thing, honey,” she said, her voice faltering slightly. “Your father and I finally found a definitive way to separate your soul from Lorelei’s.” She took a breath. “We just need your full cooperation.” My eyes drifted to the corner of the room, landing on an intricately carved wooden mannequin doll resting on the side table. Lorelei’s new vessel. Being separated from her was everything I had ever dreamed of. It meant freedom. So I nodded. But I had no idea how terrible the price of my compliance would be. The pain hit instantly. It felt as though invisible, clawed hands were tearing through my muscle, skin, and marrow, ripping my very soul away from the flesh it had grown around. A sharp, agonizing scream tore from my throat. My mother instinctively clapped her hands over her ears, her face contorting with a flash of guilt—yet she didn’t say a single word to stop the ritual. Because to her, the end justified the means. Ten years ago, my parents had pushed past their discomfort to perform dark experiments on me, successfully bringing back their favorite daughter. Now, all they had to do was endure a few minutes of uncomfortable guilt to have her fully restored in the physical world. “It worked!” someone shouted in the room. At that exact moment, a violent tremor shook the foundation of the house. An earthquake. Without a second thought, my parents lunged forward, scooped the wooden doll into their arms, and bolted for the front door without looking back once. They completely forgot that behind them, their younger daughter was lying on the floor, paralyzed by unimaginable pain, unable to move an inch. I lay there, watching their retreating backs through blurred vision, tears slipping quietly from the corners of my eyes. That fragile drop of motherly love I thought I had just gained dissolved into ashes. I really was abandoned, wasn’t I? … When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a sterile hospital bed. Outside the glass partition of the room, Beckett was locked in a heated argument with my parents. “…You two were completely out of your minds!” Beckett snapped, his voice trembling with rage. “Forcing a soul separation carries an eighty percent mortality rate for the host vessel! You knew that!” I froze under the thin hospital blanket. No wonder my mother had looked at me so strangely. No wonder she was willing to lower herself to speak to me so softly. No wonder she hadn’t given me a single glance when the earth shook, cradling the doll as she fled. From the very beginning, she never intended for me to survive the ritual. She only needed Lorelei to live. My life was entirely disposable. “It’s a miracle she didn’t die!” Beckett shouted, pacing back and forth. “She only broke a leg in the collapse! If she had died, the consequences would have been catastrophic…” I stared blankly at Beckett’s furious face. He had always been polite, refined, and calm. I had never seen him yell, let alone disrespect my parents like this. For a split second, a pathetic swell of hope rose in my chest—until his next words shattered it completely. “Callie is a month pregnant!” Beckett hissed, pressing his knuckles against his temples. “That is my child with Lorelei! Even if you want to separate them, it can’t happen until she gives birth!” My parents, who were about to argue back, instantly went pale. The realization that they had almost destroyed Lorelei’s unborn child crushed them. My mother broke down, sobbing hysterically as she pounded her own chest in remorse. “It’s my fault… God help me, I almost killed Lorelei’s baby…” Beckett and my father quickly rushed to comfort her, surrounding her with gentle reassurances. In the midst of their chaotic family unit, no one noticed me lying on the bed, feeling as though I had been plunged into an abyss of ice. A child. They had only been married for a day. How could there be a month-old pregnancy? Unless… Long before the wedding, while I was still blissfully unaware, they had already been sleeping together using my body. A violent surge of nausea hit my throat. I suddenly remembered all the unusual fatigue and morning sickness I had experienced over the past month. Beckett had casually brushed it off, telling me I had just eaten something bad. And I had trusted him blindly. It turned out… it turned out that all those years of salvation, romance, and shared memories were nothing more than my pathetic, one-sided delusion. I had lived on this earth for twenty-five years. I had no real family, no true lover, and no friends. All I had to show for my existence was a unwanted, cursed seed forced into my womb without my consent. I was entirely, utterly alone. Wiping away my tears, I waited until their attention was completely consumed by my mother’s hysterics, then quietly swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Dragging my broken, cast-bound leg, I stumbled out of the room and began walking aimlessly through the hospital corridors. I didn’t know where I was going, or where I even “could” go. In this vast, crowded world, there wasn’t a single inch of space that belonged to me. Before I realized it, I had reached the top floor. As if drawn by an invisible force, I pushed open the heavy metallic door and stepped out onto the hospital rooftop. The cold wind whipped against my hospital gown. Behind me, frantic footsteps suddenly burst through the doorway. Beckett, along with my parents, froze in terror the moment they saw where I was standing—right on the edge of the ledge. “Callie! What are you doing?! Step back!” Beckett screamed, his voice cracking. For twenty-five years, this was the very first time I had looked down at them from above, taking in the raw expressions on their faces. Panic. Horror. Desperation. They held out their hands, reaching toward me, shouting frantically—yet not a single one of them dared to take a step forward. Because they knew, deep down, I was truly ready to jump. “Callie, please, just calm down!” Beckett begged, tears streaming down his face. “Whatever it is, we can talk! Don’t do something stupid!” My parents joined in, their voices frantic with despair. Yet I knew the bitter truth. They weren’t terrified of losing me. They were terrified of losing the sister living inside my body, and the baby nestled in my womb. A sharp gust of wind swept across the roof, gently pushing against my shoulders like an invitation. Before their horrified eyes, I let go. I tipped backward, falling through the air like a weightless, dying leaf. “Lorelei!” In the final second before darkness consumed me, a faint, peaceful smile touched my lips.

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Every year, ahead of anyone’s birthday, I was the one who set the automated reminders in our family group chat. It was a habit I’d formed young, making sure no one felt forgotten. This year, on a quiet whim, I toggled my own birthday reminder off. I didn’t post a cryptic story on social media, nor did I drop subtle hints over breakfast. I told myself that even without a digital ping, my parents would remember. By ten in the morning, the family chat was dead silent. No birthday wishes, no playful emojis, not even a casual mention. “They’re just busy,” I reasoned, staring at the blank screen, holding onto that faint, childish hope that maybe – just maybe – they were planning a surprise. At three in the afternoon, my phone finally buzzed. It was a message from my mother, tagging me directly. A faint smile touched my lips, that foolish, eager little girl inside me sitting up in anticipation. But when I unlocked the screen, the words “Happy Birthday” were nowhere to be found. Instead, there was only a single, functional line: “Do you know how to fill out Tracy’s study abroad application for his overseas program?” I stared at the screen until the words blurred into meaningless shapes. A quiet, breathy laugh slipped past my lips. They only remembered I existed when there was a job to be done. I closed the family chat and opened a private line. “Dr. Wallace,” I said, my voice eerily steady when he picked up. “That spot on the classified research expedition into the Arctic Circle – I want it.” … Silence stretched over the line for so long I thought the call had dropped. “Christine?” Dr. Wallace’s voice sounded bewildered. “Are you sure about this?” “You know the protocol,” he continued, his tone turning heavy. “Because it’s a top-tier classified government project, you’ll be off the grid for a minimum of ten years. No home visits. No contact with your family – they won’t even be allowed to know where you are stationed. And frankly, the stipend doesn’t hold a candle to that tech package in San Francisco you were lined up for.” He paused, letting the weight of it settle. “The isolation up there… the harshness… can you really handle that kind of solitude?” I gripped the phone, my breath catching in my throat, unable to form a word. Hearing my silence, Dr. Wallace let out a soft sigh. “You’ve always been so cautious, kiddo. But a choice like this isn’t something you make on an impulse. Talk it over with your family first. The team doesn’t ship out until tomorrow morning anyway. You have tonight to think it through.” “If you don’t show up at the airfield at dawn, I’ll pretend we never had this conversation.” The line went dead. I sat on the sofa, slowly lifting my eyes to the framed family portrait hanging on the living room wall. Dr. Wallace was right. The tech giant in California had offered me a starting package of three hundred thousand a year, a luxury downtown apartment, and stock options after three years. Compared to a decade in frozen isolation, it was a dream offer. Which was exactly why my mother had taken it upon herself to submit my application in the first place. At first, I foolishly believed her when she stroked my hair and said she was doing it all for my future. Until this morning, when my eighteen-year-old brother, Tracy, received an acceptance letter from an elite university abroad. Only then did the pieces fit together. The company had a corporate sponsorship deal that guaranteed study-abroad placements for the immediate family members of key hires. I finally understood my true place in this home. I was like the person who took that family portrait: while they sat in comfortable velvet chairs, glowing and laughing, I was merely the girl behind the camera, holding the frame steady. They didn’t need a daughter to love. They needed a tool that worked. I don’t know how long I sat in the dimming light of the living room before my ringtone shattered the quiet. My mother’s voice came through the speaker, silky and smooth. “Christine, sweetie, why haven’t you replied to my text in the group chat?” “I know you’re exhausted getting your visa paperwork sorted, but Tracy’s application portal closes at six. I need to know if you can handle it. If you can’t, I need to hire a consultant immediately. We can’t let anything derail your brother’s future.” Her tone was gentle, almost affectionate. It was the kind of soft, reasonable voice that made it impossible to argue without looking like a monster. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, squeezing out a single word: “I’ll do it.” Mom let out a light laugh, relieved. “Oh, thank goodness, my sweet girl. I’m at the mall right now picking out Tracy’s suit for his interview. I’ll bring you back those salted caramel tarts you like so much!” “You’ve always been the sensible one, Christine. You save your father and me so much stress.” Listening to her, an ugly, bitter ache flared up in my chest. When I was prepping for my own high-stakes corporate interviews, neither of my parents offered to help me pick out a blazer, let alone buy me one. When I asked if Dad could drive me to the final round because it was pouring rain, they said they were too busy with work and told me to call an Uber. They used the exact same phrase back then, too. “You’re sensible.” Is being sensible just an invitation to be sidelined? I pressed my trembling left hand against my knee, forcing my voice into a flat line. “Mom… did you forget what today is?” “Even if you’re busy with Tracy… couldn’t you at least say Happy Birthday?” My voice cracked on the final word, the raw emotion bursting through my carefully built walls. Silence followed. One second. Two seconds. Three. I pulled the phone away from my ear. The screen blinked back at me with four stark words: “Call Ended. 0:42.” A hollow laugh scraped past my throat. The tiny, pathetic sliver of reluctance I’d been holding onto vanished into smoke. I tapped open my chat with Dr. Wallace. “Dr. Wallace, I don’t need the night to think it over. I’ll be at the airfield tomorrow morning, on time.” Almost instantly, the family group chat lit up with a notification. It was a mirror selfie sent by Tracy, wearing a sharply tailored navy suit. Within seconds, the chat flooded with praise from aunts and uncles. Aunt Pamela was first: “Oh my goodness, look at our Tracy! So handsome! With a suit like that, I’d think he was about to walk down the aisle!” Mom sent an audio message, her laugh rich with maternal pride. “Oh, Pamela, stop teasing! He’s only eighteen. It’s just an interview suit. He got an invitation from an Ivy League university, so I brought him out to get styled.” The chat erupted. Aunt Susan fired off a string of voice notes, her flattery practically dripping from the speaker. “Ivy League? Lord above, what an incredible boy! Though, if it were Harvard, it’d be even more impressive!” Uncle Dan jumped in to correct her, playing the expert. “Susan, don’t be ignorant. An Ivy League degree from abroad carries serious weight. It’s top-tier!” Messages rolled in like a rising tide. Even Grandma Beatrice, who rarely typed in the group, dropped a massive digital envelope for Tracy. “My favorite grandson,” Grandma wrote. “You’ve brought so much honor to our family. Grandma has a special reward for you!” A second later, another notification popped up. Grandma had sent a much smaller transfer, tagged directly to me. “Christine,” Grandma’s text read. “Your father told me that Tracy landing this opportunity is all thanks to your new job. When you two are living overseas, you need to look out for your little brother. Make sure he’s well taken care of, clear?” My thumbs hovered over the glass. I couldn’t type a single word. I knew what that small gesture meant. It wasn’t a gift, and it certainly wasn’t praise. It was a retainer. A public gentle-reminder that my primary function in this family was to serve as Tracy’s stepping stone. My silence caused an awkward pause in the chat. Mom quickly sent an audio note to smooth over the tension. “Oh, Mom, don’t you worry about a thing. Christine has always been a good girl. She never makes trouble for us. She’d do it even if you didn’t ask.” The relatives immediately chorused in agreement. “Christine is so mature. Mark my words, she’s going to achieve great things.” “She’s always thinking of others first. With her watching over Tracy, Greg and Lori can sleep easy.” “Honestly, I envy you two. Having a daughter like Christine is a blessing from above.” They showered me with compliments, building a pedestal out of words. But it didn’t feel like praise. It felt like a trap, constructed out of filial duty, designed to keep me trapped under the weight of being “the good child.” I had been the good child for over twenty years. Today, I didn’t want to be good anymore. I typed into the chat: “Mom, since everyone is praising me so much, can I make a birthday wish?” A few seconds passed before Mom replied with a smiling emoji. “Of course, sweetie! Tell Mom what you want, and I’ll do my best.” “I want a birthday cake.” The chat went dead quiet. A minute later, Mom posted a frowning sticker. “Christine, the boutique bakery you like is on the west side of town, and Tracy and I are clear on the east side. The traffic is terrible. Can you pick something else?” My fingers tapped rhythmically against the glass. “No. I want that one.” My bluntness cut through the cheerful atmosphere like a blade. Sensing trouble, Aunt Pamela tried to diffuse the room. “Christine, honey, it’s just a cake. No need to make your mother drive across the city in gridlock. Tell you what, Auntie will Uber you a nice dessert, okay?” I stared at the screen, a cold smile forming on my face. It was my birthday, and all I asked for was a cake. Yet asserting a single desire was considered throw a tantrum. What was truly hilarious was that among all these relatives praising me to the sky, not a single one had actually remembered “why” I wanted a cake today. I had turned off the group reminder as a test. And I had lost, completely and utterly. Before I could reply, Mom declined Aunt Pamela’s offer. “No need, Pamela, don’t trouble yourself.” Then she tagged me again. “Christine, I still need to help your brother try on two more suits. We won’t have time today. I’ll buy you one tomorrow, okay? You’re a sensible girl. You understand your mother, don’t you?” There it was again. The golden cage of “you’re sensible.” I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over the key, unable to type “No.” When you’ve been the reasonable one for too long, even your grief feels like an inconvenience to others. Wanting what should have been yours feels like an unreasonable demand. After a long silence, I typed back a simple emoji: “[OK]” I was done fighting. I had been sensible my whole life; I could manage to be sensible one last time before I walked out of their lives forever. Still, I opened a delivery app and ordered a miniature, three-inch cake for myself. If no one in the world was going to celebrate my birth, I would do it alone. At seven in the evening, the delivery arrived. I carefully unboxed the tiny cake, placing a single thin candle in the center. I turned off the living room lights, sitting in the soft darkness. I closed my eyes, pressed my palms together, and whispered softly to the empty room: “Happy birth – ” The word died in my throat as the front door swung open. The harsh overhead lights flashed on, blinding me. Mom stood in the entryway, bags hanging from her arms, looking at me with genuine bewilderment. “Christine? It’s just a slice of cake. Do you really need to sit in the dark like it’s a whole tragic production?” Before I could speak, Tracy darted past her, swooping down and snatching the box right off the table. “Woah, Sis! You’re the best!” he grinned, unboxing it with ravenous enthusiasm. “I’ve been craving this ice cream cake for weeks! I was literally just telling Mom we should buy one. I can’t believe you already got it!” He paused, throwing me a critical look. “Though, seriously? Celebrating my acceptance into the Ivy League with a cake this small? Who is this even supposed to feed?” He grabbed a fork and plunged it deep into the center. My heart hammered against my ribs. I stood up abruptly and snatched the plate out of his hands. “This isn’t for you. Don’t touch it.” Tracy froze, blinked, and then turned his head toward Mom with an exaggerated pout. Mom’s expression shifted from surprise to mild irritation, though she kept her voice smooth. “Christine, it’s just a piece of cake. Why are you picking a fight with your brother?” “Be sweet. It’s a big day for Tracy. Let him have it.” I don’t know where the surge of courage came from, but I stood my ground, clutching the tiny plate to my chest. “No. Neither of you touches this cake today.” A flicker of rare anger flashed across Mom’s face, her tone hardening. “Why are you being so difficult? I told you, your brother has something to celebrate! Can’t you just let him have this? What is wrong with you today? You’re usually so mature!” I didn’t move. I held the cake like it was the last scrap of my dignity. Losing her patience completely, Mom stepped forward and reached out to yank the plate from my grip. “Give it to me! Stop acting like a child!” “If you don’t hand it over right now, Christine, I swear to God – ” I held onto the ceramic edge with everything I had. “Crack.” The brittle plate snapped under the opposing forces, shattering into sharp pieces that clattered onto the hardwood floor. The tiny cake slid into a ruined heap of white cream and crushed sponge. The silence that followed was deafening. The invisible wire inside me – the one labeled “the good daughter” that had been stretched taut for twenty-three years – snapped completely. Tracy jumped back on the sofa, pointing a finger at my face and shouting, “Christine, what the hell is wrong with you?! It’s just a piece of cake! Even if you didn’t want to share, did you really have to smash the plate?!” “Apologize to Mom right now! Look how upset you made her!” I didn’t say a word. I knelt down, my movements slow and deliberate. I picked up the ruined cake and the sharp ceramic shards in my bare hands, standing up under my mother’s incredulous gaze, and walked quietly into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. Outside, Tracy’s indignant complaints and Mom’s soft, tearful voice echoed through the hallway. I sat at my desk, dipping my thumb into the smear of white cream on my palm and bringing it to my mouth. Tears tracked silently down my cheeks, mixing with the metallic tang of blood from a small cut on my hand. It tasted salty and iron-rich. But underneath it, I could still taste the sugar. At nine that night, my father finally returned from his late shift. He knocked once before pushing my door open, holding a sleek black cake box in his hand. “Christine,” he said softly, walking over and placing the box on my desk. “I bought this special for you. Eat some.” He untied the ribbon. Inside was a slice of red velvet – a signature item from the most expensive patisserie downtown. My chest tightened. Had Dad remembered? Had he realized it was my birthday and bought this to make it up to me? The rigid armor around my heart began to soften, just a fraction. I reached out toward the box, ready to apologize for the scene earlier – “Your brother was out of line today,” Dad said, his voice calm and measured. “I scolded him for taking your things. This is to make it up to you.” “But you’re an adult now, Christine. You shouldn’t have reacted the way you did with your mother. Eat the cake, and then go out there and apologize to her. Be sensible.” My hand froze in mid-air. The small, faint light that had just flickered in my eyes went completely out. The cake wasn’t a birthday gift. It wasn’t a gesture of love. It was a transaction. A bribe to buy my quiet compliance. Seeing me pull my hand back, Dad placed the cake near the edge of the desk. “Also, your mother told me you haven’t finished uploading Tracy’s application yet.” “Finish it after you eat. Don’t make me have to call in favors to ask the system administrators for an extension, alright?” He patted my head lightly, his hand heavy and brief. “You’ve always been the child we never had to worry about. Don’t start causing trouble over a minor mood swing.” He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him, not giving me a single second to decline. I stood by my desk, my body shaking involuntarily. As my tears hit the floorboards, I heard low, muffled voices drifting from Tracy’s bedroom across the hall. “How did it go, Dad? Did she say yes?” “Don’t worry. She was just upset because you grabbed her food. I handled it.” “She’s a sensible girl. She won’t let a silly piece of cake get in the way of your study abroad program.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to laugh. But my throat was locked tight. I wanted to storm into the hallway and break everything in sight, but my legs felt heavy, as if rooted to the floor. In that quiet bedroom, I realized something profound. Anger and sadness are feelings born from heartbreak, but as long as there is love and expectation, a broken heart can eventually be mended. My heart hadn’t broken tonight. It had simply died. The next morning, while the heavy snores of my parents and brother still echoed through the hall, I picked up my pre-packed suitcase and stepped out of my room. Passing the living room wall, I paused in front of the family portrait. I didn’t say goodbye. I simply reached out and turned the frame face-down against the console table. I left the girl who was always good right there, buried in the dark, alongside the family that demanded her sacrifice. Downstairs, a black SUV sent by the institute was waiting by the curb. I didn’t look back as I pulled open the door and climbed inside. As we drove toward the airfield, Dr. Wallace looked back at me from the passenger seat. “Christine, now that you’ve joined the expedition, you have to abide by security protocols,” he said gently. “Once we board, your current phone number and device will be confiscated. All personal communications will be cut off.” “If there’s anyone you need to say goodbye to, do it now.” I looked at my phone for a long time. I typed out a brief, formal text message, pressed send, and handed the device over to Dr. Wallace. He glanced at the screen, looking surprised. “In your final minutes, you didn’t call your family? You sent an international text to a recruiter?” I looked out the window as the city skyline slowly faded into the morning mist. There was nothing left to say. The mountains were high, the roads were long, and from this day forth, in life or in death, I would never see those three people again.

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