Author: Momo Chan

1 After six months of meticulous planning, we finally made it to the airport. But at the gate, Ethan changed the script. He stood by the boarding area for New York, his brow furrowed as he checked his watch. “I forgot to tell you—Serafina and I talked it over. We think New York is a better vibe for this trip.” He didn’t look at me. He just tapped the face of his Rolex. “There’s another flight to JFK in an hour. You have time to book a seat if you hurry.” I stared at him, a sudden, suffocating lump forming in my throat. This trip to Miami was supposed to be our milestone. My dream vacation. And he had gone behind my back to let my best friend rewrite it. Serafina stood beside him, offering a sympathetic, sugary smile. “Summer, don’t be mad. You were so busy with the Madison account last month that Ethan and I just ended up going to Miami without you. I’ve seen the city—honestly, it’s overrated. Not much to do.” She gave me a playful, sisterly wink. Ethan caught her eye and a small, indulgent smile touched his lips. Then, he turned his frown back to me. “You’re the one who insisted on a vacation,” he said, his voice laced with the irritation he always reserved for me. “Change your ticket and get on the New York flight. Or don’t. But I’m not waiting around.” I watched them walk through the gate together, their silhouettes blending perfectly. I looked down at my ticket for Miami. It was crumpled, the edges white from where my grip had tightened. The intercom crackled to life. “Final boarding call for Flight 1204 to Miami. All remaining passengers, please proceed to Gate B12.” I didn’t hesitate. I turned my back on the New York gate and walked toward Miami. I wasn’t waiting anymore. This time, I was the one leaving. Five minutes earlier, Ethan’s fingers had been tapping rhythmically against his suitcase handle—the telltale sign of his growing impatience. I had suppressed the bitterness in my chest to ask a simple question. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I had spent half a year on this. I had sent him links to the best beach clubs, the hidden seafood spots, the galleries. He had always responded with a distracted “Sure, whatever you think is best.” I thought he was trusting my taste. I didn’t realize he just wasn’t listening. Ethan’s scowl deepened at my question. “Why does it need a ‘why’? I had a window of time last month, and Serafina had just closed that massive contract. You were buried in overtime. We couldn’t just sit around waiting for you forever, could we?” He adjusted his collar. “Consider it a favor. I took her out to celebrate so you wouldn’t feel guilty about missing her big win.” The “big win.” I knew that contract. I was the one who had stayed up until 3:00 AM three nights in a row fixing her projections, drafting the pitch, and sourcing the vendors because she “wasn’t quite sure how to close yet.” Even the “overtime” Ethan mentioned—that was me finishing the back-end paperwork for Serafina so she could go home early. I remembered her leaning her head on my shoulder that night, smelling like expensive lilies. “Summer, you’re a lifesaver. I’m still such a mess with the technical stuff. I only feel safe if you’re the one doing the final check.” I had smiled and told her it was fine. She was my best friend; I didn’t mind looking out for her. Now I realized she wasn’t resting at home while I worked. She was on a beach with my boyfriend. Serafina had put a hand on my arm at the airport. “Summer, I know you won’t let such a tiny thing ruin the mood. Ethan and I will be waiting for you in the city. I’ll keep a close eye on him for you—make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble in Manhattan!” Ethan had chuckled at that, his face softening in a way it never did for me. “Forget it, Sera. Why bother explaining? We’re going to miss the flight.” He had grabbed his bag and effortlessly took hers too, trailing after her like a loyal shadow. No apology. No “are you okay?” No second glance. I watched them walk away, and for the first time, I saw how well they fit together. There was no room for me in that picture. The exhaustion hit me then—not just from work, but from the five-year marathon of trying to be “enough” for a man who was already looking past me. The intercom called for Miami one last time. I looked at the crowd moving toward their own destinations, their own lives. I realized I could see a beautiful view on my own. The sun was setting by the time I landed in Miami. After checking into the hotel, I took a car to L’Azur, the restaurant Ethan had mentioned once. He’d said it was “impossible to book” and “too much effort,” so I’d taken it as a challenge. I had secured a reservation six months in advance. But when I gave my name to the host, he paused, a confused smile on his face. “Ms. Miller? Yes, we have your reservation on file… but it was fulfilled last month.” I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. “I’m sorry? I wasn’t in Miami last month.” The manager tapped his tablet, his eyes flickering with a memory. “Oh, I remember that night! A Mr. Ethan Miller? He came in with a young lady. He had the confirmation text on his phone.” He leaned in slightly. “We usually don’t take early arrivals, but he told us it was their anniversary. A very special occasion. We even had the chef prepare a custom cake.” Anniversary. The word hit me like a physical blow. They had celebrated their “anniversary” in the restaurant I had booked for us. The reservation I had spent months securing—the one I had dreamed of sharing with him—had been stolen and repurposed for her. He gestured toward the restaurant’s “Celebration Wall”—a digital display of happy guests. “See? There they are.” I followed his finger. There was Ethan. He was laughing, a smear of chocolate frosting on his cheek. Serafina was leaning into him, her eyes bright with triumph. He looked at her with a raw, unprotected adoration I hadn’t seen in years. When I had accidentally smeared cake on him during my last birthday, he had wiped it off with a cold, disgusted look. “Summer, don’t be childish. This suit is Italian silk. And honestly, at your age, you should know better.” At your age. I had swallowed that insult too. I had told myself he was just a serious man who didn’t like mess. I thought he had outgrown “cute” moments. Now I saw that he just didn’t want them with me. He didn’t want to laugh with me. He didn’t want to be silly with me. He wanted to be adored by me—from a distance, at his convenience. And with Serafina? He was a completely different person. Playful. Warm. Utterly smitten. The manager noticed my face. “Ms. Miller? Are you alright? We truly can’t fit you in tonight, the books are closed. Perhaps another time?” I blinked back the stinging in my eyes and gave him a small, empty smile. “No. Another time won’t be necessary.” I walked out into a sudden, tropical downpour. The wind was fierce, but I barely felt it as I stood on the sidewalk, drenched. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I thought it might be Ethan. It wasn’t. It was an Instagram notification. Serafina had posted a story. It was a photo of a late-night diner in New York. She and Ethan were eating greasy burgers—the kind of “low-brow” food Ethan always mocked when I suggested it. The final slide was a photo of their glasses clinking. “Just the two of us. The best things in life are unplanned. [Heart emoji]” I stared at the screen. Not a single text from Ethan. He hadn’t asked if I landed. He hadn’t asked why I wasn’t in New York. To him, I simply didn’t exist unless I was there to serve a purpose. I looked at my own reflection in the dark phone screen—red eyes, wet hair, a total mess. The last shred of hope in my chest finally flickered out. I tapped the “Like” button on her post and left a comment: “I hope you and Ethan have the time of your lives. You deserve each other.” My phone rang within thirty seconds. It was Ethan. “Summer, what the hell is wrong with you?” his voice barked the moment I answered. “That comment you left on Serafina’s post—do you have any idea how that looks? People are going to get the wrong idea.” He sounded so righteous, so genuinely offended on her behalf. “Did I say something untrue, Ethan?” I asked, my voice as cold as the rain. “Are you not having fun? Is she not your preferred company?” The line went quiet for a beat. I had never spoken back to him. I was the “stable” one. The “understanding” one. “Delete the comment, Summer. Now,” he hissed. “And where the hell are you? Get to the hotel in Manhattan and apologize to her. She’s crying because of you.” “I think I’ll leave you to your ‘unplanned’ evening,” I said. “You seem much happier without me.” “Summer, you’re being slow,” he snapped, his guilt turning into aggression. “We couldn’t just starve because you were taking forever to get your act together. You’re an adult—take responsibility for your own timing. We can’t all cater to you. Besides, you were the one who told me to look after Serafina when she moved here!” That was the knife in the heart. When Serafina joined our firm, she knew no one. I had mentored her. I had asked Ethan to help her network. I had literally handed him the leash, and he had used it to walk away from me. “Ethan,” I said, my voice finally steady. “We’re done. Don’t call me again.” I hung up. I didn’t wait. I blocked them both—phone, social media, everything. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving behind a vibrant, neon-orange sunset over the Atlantic. I took a deep breath. The weight that had been crushing my chest for five years was gone. I spent the next two days following my own itinerary. I went to the galleries, I sat on the beach, and I realized that the scenery is much better when you aren’t looking at it through someone else’s shadow. I took photos of the sunsets, the waves, the street performers—and in every single one, I was smiling. A real smile. Not the forced, accommodating one I’d worn for five years. When I returned to the office on Monday, Ethan was already waiting at my desk. He looked disheveled, his face dark with fury. “Summer. You blocked me? Over a dinner?” I sat down calmly and opened my laptop. “We broke up, Ethan. There’s no reason for us to be in contact.” He let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Are you still doing this? Are you really this petty? We didn’t wait for you for one meal and you’re throwing away five years? Serafina is your best friend. How can you be this small-minded?” “I’m at work, Ethan. Please don’t disturb me.” The office went quiet. People were starting to stare. Everyone had seen Serafina’s post—the office group chats had been buzzing about it all weekend. Ethan’s face turned a deep, humiliated red as he realized he was becoming the subject of the very gossip he hated. “You’re going to regret this, Summer!” he spat before storming off. I didn’t look up. I just typed three words at the top of a fresh document: Letter of Resignation. For years, I had stayed at this mid-sized firm because of Ethan. I had sacrificed promotions, turned down headhunters, and even moved into a support role because he said he wanted me to “focus on the family we’ll have one day.” I had given him everything. I had given him my clients, my time, my youth. And for what? So he could climb the ladder using my work while I stood in the shadows, playing the role of the “supportive girlfriend.” While I was playing “support,” he was using my leads and my hard work to climb the ladder. I had given Serafina my best clients because she was “struggling.” No more. I walked the letter to Human Resources. When I got back to my desk, a colleague leaned over. “Summer, check the internal forum. Ethan is losing his mind.” I opened the company’s anonymous board. The top post was titled: [LEAK] The Truth About Summer Miller: Sabotaging Colleagues Out of Jealousy. The post was a hit piece, written by Ethan. He claimed I was harassing Serafina because I was “jealous of her performance.” Because he was the Golden Boy of the firm, people were actually buying it. The comments were toxic. “I knew she was a snake. She’s been here forever and still acts like a gatekeeper.” “Typical ‘mean girl’ behavior. Just because she’s been here longer doesn’t mean she owns the clients.” I felt a surge of cold fury. I was leaving, but I wasn’t leaving with my reputation in tatters. Serafina walked toward me then, her eyes red and puffy, the perfect image of a victim. “Summer, please. Why are you doing this? I thought we were sisters. How can you doubt me and Ethan?” Ethan pushed his way to her side, grabbing my wrist. “That’s enough! You’re making her life a living hell over a misunderstanding!” He looked at me with pure contempt. “Is this because I haven’t proposed yet? Is that what this is? You thought if you forced a vacation, I’d be cornered into it? I told you, Summer—I hate being pressured.” I looked at the man I had once planned my entire future around. He looked ugly. Small. “I don’t want your proposal, Ethan,” I said, wrenching my arm away. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on Earth.” Ethan froze. The sheer certainty in my voice seemed to rattle him. But he quickly regained his mask of superiority. “Fine. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll marry you. We’ll go to City Hall tomorrow. But only if you apologize to Serafina in front of the entire office right now. You tell everyone that the Instagram post was a joke you didn’t get. I’ll take down the forum post, and we can go back to being a team.” He spoke like he was offering me a million-dollar settlement. He was so sure I’d crawl back. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and smiled. “Okay.” Ethan smirked at Serafina, victorious. “See? I told you she just needed to be put in her place.” The next morning, Ethan and Serafina stood in the center of the office during the morning meeting, waiting for my public apology. “I have a brief announcement,” Ethan said to the room. “Regarding the misunderstanding between Summer and Serafina… Summer has realized her mistake and wants to clear the air.” Everyone leaned in, phones out. They waited. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Finally, the HR Director walked into the center of the room. “Summer Miller resigned effective immediately yesterday afternoon,” she said, her voice echoing in the silence. “Her clients have been notified, and her files are closed.” She looked at Serafina. “And since Summer was the one actually managing your ‘top accounts,’ Serafina, we have three clients in the lobby right now demanding to know why their projects are in complete disarray. I suggest you get to work.”

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1 Nathan’s “guardian angel” was at it again. On the day of our engagement party, she left a suicide note. “As long as you’re happy, I have no regrets.” “I hope fate is kinder to us in the next life. I’m going now. Forget me.” Before this, she had jumped into the lake ten times, slit her wrists six times, and overdosed five. Every single time, she emerged without a scratch. Yet, the moment the message hit his phone, Nathan abandoned me. He tore out of the ballroom like a madman, rushing to play his part in her twisted drama. “Elise, Skylar literally saved my life once,” he had whispered, his eyes frantic as he grabbed his coat. “She’s too deep in her feelings for me. I’m the one who broke her like this. I have to be responsible. Once I talk her down, I’ll come back and we’ll get married. I promise.” I watched him go, my face a mask of cold indifference. Marry me? Nathan was under a delusion. This merger between the Holloway and Barrett families didn’t necessarily require him. The engagement party was a disaster. The groom-to-be had vanished, and my parents looked like they wanted to set the building on fire. Nathan’s parents were spiraling, forcing awkward smiles and stammering apologies to the guests. “Nathan is just… he’s impulsive. We’ll deal with him the moment he’s back!” his father blustered. “Elise, honey, don’t take it to heart,” his mother added, clutching my hand with trembling fingers. “He said he’d be back.” I looked at them, seeing right through the frantic damage control. “And when exactly is that?” Silence. They both dropped their gazes, unable to look me in the eye. The atmosphere in the room turned brittle, thick with the kind of secondhand embarrassment that makes people want to crawl out of their skin. Eventually, the Barretts couldn’t take the whispers anymore. They made some flimsy excuse about a family emergency and fled. They left me there to face the music alone. Nathan hadn’t just left; he had handed Skylar a total victory over me in front of everyone who mattered. My mother’s face was tight with fury. “Elise, if you marry a man like that, how can I ever sleep at night? It’s your engagement day, and he chooses another woman. Are you really going to stay blind to this?” I didn’t answer. I just rubbed the edge of my phone. Was I blind? No. This wasn’t the first time. In the beginning, I had been genuinely terrified that Skylar might actually do it. When Nathan ran to her then, I didn’t feel resentment. I felt it was a matter of life and death. But the cycles continued. I saw Skylar, perfectly healthy and smug after every “attempt,” and I saw Nathan, perpetually abandoning me at galas, dinners, and birthdays to be by her side. I felt like the punchline of a very long, very cruel joke. Even knowing he’d eventually crawl back to me, the hollow ache in my chest had become a permanent resident. I used to pray he would turn around and choose me just once. I used to think that if he showed me even a shred of true priority, I’d forgive everything. But I was never his first choice. I was just exhausted. “I’m telling you, cancel the whole thing,” my father grumbled in my ear. “The Barretts aren’t the only family in this city. Elise, think about the Westbrook merger again. Don’t throw your life away on a man who isn’t there.” “He’s right,” my mother whispered. “Adrian Westbrook has always been fond of you. His parents mention it every time we see them.” My phone vibrated. It was a message from Nathan. I opened it to find a string of photos. They were selfies, taken from a low angle on a bed. The photographer was Skylar. The photos were slightly blurred, but I could clearly see the back of Nathan’s head. He was holding her, cradling her as he whispered into her hair. On the nightstand, orange pill bottles were scattered like confetti. This time, it was an overdose. I accidentally tapped the Live Photo icon. The sound bled out of the speakers—clear, intimate, devastating. “Skylar, please, don’t hurt yourself. I’m so scared of losing you…” I swiped to the next one. “I’ll do anything, as long as you’re okay.” I didn’t watch the rest. Nathan had already hit ‘Unsend.’ A text bubble appeared: “Sent those by mistake. Don’t think too much about it.” I stared at that sentence for a long time, the coldness finally reaching my bones. Then, I looked up at my parents. “Mom, Dad,” I said, my voice steadier than it had been in years. “Let’s go to the Westbrooks’ place. Now.” When our car pulled up to the Westbrook estate, Adrian’s parents were already waiting at the door. They welcomed us with genuine warmth, their smiles reaching their eyes in a way Nathan’s parents’ never did. The dining table was already set. A figure moved in the kitchen and stepped out, wiping his hands on a towel. “It was short notice, so I didn’t have time for anything too elaborate,” Adrian said, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile. I froze. I hadn’t expected to see him in an apron. Adrian Westbrook had been a year ahead of me in college. We had crossed paths in the library and at a few charity events, but we’d never been close. After graduation, we’d lost touch entirely. My parents had hinted that he liked me, but I’d never understood when or how that could have happened. As we sat down, Adrian began describing the dishes he’d prepared. My parents were beaming, clearly impressed. The menu was suspiciously specific—every single dish was something I loved. Especially the lemon-butter shrimp. Nathan always claimed he had a seafood allergy. To accommodate him, I hadn’t touched shellfish in years. It wasn’t until a group dinner with Skylar months ago that I realized he wasn’t actually allergic; he just didn’t like the smell. He had never once asked if I missed it. He certainly never peeled a shrimp for me the way Adrian was doing right now. The conversation flowed effortlessly. Adrian’s attention was entirely on me—checking if I was full, noticing which side dish I was eyeing but hesitating to reach for. It was the most relaxed, most satisfying meal I had eaten in a decade. “I think these two get along famously,” Adrian’s mother said, covering my hand with hers. “Why don’t we move things along? Elise, would you be interested in looking at wedding dresses tomorrow? A friend of mine owns a boutique downtown—she just got a shipment from Paris, and I told her to save the best for you.” My mother jumped in immediately. “Yes! Absolutely. We should get the engagement photos done next week.” I was caught off guard by the sheer speed of it all. Adrian saw my hesitation and stepped in to smooth the waters. “There’s no rush,” he said gently, looking at me. “We’ll go at Elise’s pace. I’m ready whenever she is.” He smiled, a warm, genuine expression that felt like a localized sun. In a sudden rush of heat and rebellion, I reached out and took his hand. “Let’s go,” I said. “I want to try on dresses.” In the past, I had begged Nathan a dozen times to look at venues or find a weekend for a photoshoot. Every time, Skylar had intervened. “We’re not in a hurry to get married, Elise. Skylar’s life is on the line. You can’t be so cold-hearted that you ignore a dying girl, right?” Now I realized the truth: a man who actually wants to marry you, who actually holds you in his heart, doesn’t want to wait a single second. The years I’d wasted with Nathan weren’t just a mistake; they were a tragedy of misplaced loyalty. The Westbrooks were ecstatic. My mother looked relieved, as if she’d finally seen me wake up from a coma. Adrian’s mother was so excited she called her friend at the boutique to open the shop after hours just for us. We drove to the boutique, the two families trailing behind us like a royal procession. As the owner began pulling out exquisite gowns, the parents started debating dates for the ceremony. I was about to suggest we slow down when my phone buzzed. Nathan again. “Elise, where are you?” “I’m sorry about today. It’s my fault. I’ll redo the engagement party, I promise.” “Don’t worry, I’ve talked to Skylar. She won’t be so reckless next time.” I watched the bubbles pop up, my thumb hovering over the screen. I typed three words: “Don’t bother. Goodbye.” Nathan didn’t reply for a long time. I saw the “typing” indicator appear and vanish repeatedly. Finally: “Elise, what the hell does that mean?” Adrian’s mother called me over to the fitting room. I turned off my phone and didn’t look back. I tried on three dresses. The first two were ornate, heavy masterpieces, but I fell in love with the third—a sleek, silk-satin gown with a modern silhouette. Throughout the fitting, Adrian was attentive in a way that felt quiet and profound. He brought me water, held a towel for me when I got overheated under the studio lights, and noticed the second I looked uncomfortable in a corset, immediately asking the stylist to adjust it. These were the crumbs of affection I had never even thought to ask for from Nathan. We settled on a date for the photoshoot the following week. The Westbrooks were already booking the venue; Adrian was helping my parents choose their formal wear. I finally checked my phone to find several missed calls from Nathan. I scrolled through the wall of texts he’d sent while I was being measured for my veil. “Are you seriously still mad? Because of Skylar?” “Elise, I know you’re upset, but don’t be petty. She can’t control her emotions.” “Stop throwing a tantrum. You’re making Skylar feel terrible. She doesn’t want to be the reason we fight.” “She’s already lost me because of you. Do you want her to suffer even more because we’re arguing?” I let out a sharp, cold laugh. The audacity was breathtaking. If he was so desperate for another engagement party, I’d give him one. “Fine,” I messaged him. “I’ll set a new location. Just show up.” I sent him the address and time for my photoshoot with Adrian. Nathan was finally satisfied. “I knew you were reasonable. I’ll bring the custom ring I had made. I told you I’d marry you, and I don’t break my word.” A few minutes later, he added: “I can’t leave for a few days, though. Skylar’s still recovering. She needs someone with her.” I locked my phone. I knew Nathan wouldn’t show up. Not for me. The day of the photoshoot arrived. Five minutes before we were scheduled to start, Nathan’s last text was from fifteen minutes prior: “Almost there.” The stylist touched up my hair one last time. The photographer led us to the set. “Alright, let’s do this!” the photographer chirped. “Groom, get closer to the bride. Let’s see some intimacy!” Adrian looked at me, a silent question in his eyes. He cautiously wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. I smiled, leaning naturally into him, feeling the steady, rapid thrum of his heart. His ears turned bright red. The photographer started clicking away. “Yes! That’s the spark!” We shot for two hours. We ended with a massive group photo with both our families, everyone laughing and clinking champagne glasses. I finally stepped out of the dress and wiped off the heavy makeup, feeling a strange sense of completion. Still no Nathan. No calls. No texts. He had missed his chance to see the truth. That evening, as our families sat down for a celebratory dinner, Nathan’s name finally popped up. “Sorry, Elise. Something came up. I got delayed.” I typed back with a blank expression: “Did Skylar try to kill herself again?” There was a long pause. He was probably busy. “Don’t blame her. It was a car accident this time. It’s really serious.” I didn’t bother responding. My family was already debating wedding dates. Adrian kept glancing at me, worried the pace was too fast, his hand hovering near mine as if he wanted to offer an out. I gave him a reassuring look, squeezing his fingers. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to be settled. I wanted to be home. They set the date for ten days later. I checked the calendar. It was the exact same date Nathan and I had originally discussed months ago. He was still playing nursemaid to Skylar, completely oblivious to the fact that my heart had moved on to a different house. He told me to wait for him. He told me he’d marry me. I had spent my whole life waiting. Now, the clock had run out. After dinner, I took a car back to my apartment. Two figures were silhouetted against the streetlights near my entrance. Nathan saw me and his eyes lit up. “Elise, thank god. We’ve been waiting for hours.” He was propping Skylar up. She was leaning heavily on him, looking pale and fragile. “Skylar knew she messed things up for us again,” Nathan said, his voice thick with that familiar, nauseating pity. “She insisted on coming here to apologize to you. Look at her—she can barely stand and she’s still being this thoughtful…” I looked down at their hands. They were interlaced. On both their ring fingers, I saw identical bands. I recognized the design instantly—it was the custom ring Nathan had promised me. I hadn’t even seen it yet, but it was already on her finger. Nathan noticed my gaze and pulled his hand back slightly. “Skylar thought the design was interesting… I just let her try it on…” I let out a soft, jagged laugh. “The size fits her perfectly, I see. You really are a match made in heaven.” Nathan winced. “Don’t be like that. You know you’re the one I’m marrying.” Skylar bit her lip, looking like a kicked puppy. “Elise, I know you hate me. But Nathan is innocent. I just want you both to be happy. I’ll even be there on your wedding day to cheer you on.” She looked like she was about to cry, as if I were the villain stealing her soulmate. Nathan stepped in front of her protectively. “Elise, don’t bully her. We’re going to be family. I need you to be the bigger person here.” I nodded slowly, pulled out my phone, and sent Nathan a pinned location for a hotel ballroom. “The wedding is in ten days. There’s the address.” Nathan froze, shocked by my sudden “generosity.” A look of pure relief washed over his face. “Elise, I knew you’d understand. I’ll be there. I’ll be on time.” “I have to take Skylar back for her meds now,” he added, already turning away. “I’ll call you later.” Skylar shot me a tiny, triumphant smirk over her shoulder as they walked away. I didn’t care. I had work to do. The next ten days were a whirlwind. It was a tight schedule, but the Westbrooks were a force of nature. Adrian took me to pick out a diamond that made the Barrett ring look like a toy. We signed the marriage license. We moved in silence and efficiency. Then, the wedding day arrived. The hotel entrance was flanked by massive posters of our engagement shoot—Adrian and me, looking like a dream. Guests were filing into the ballroom. The ceremony began. Adrian and I were standing at the altar, about to exchange rings, when the doors at the back of the hall were flung open. Nathan stood there in a tuxedo, breathless, eyes wild. He looked at me, then at the posters, then back at the altar. “Elise! What the hell is going on with the posters outside?” he screamed. “Why is he standing there?!”

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1 Three days after I gave birth to our daughter, my husband, Grant Miller, sat by my hospital bed with a face carved from marble. He told me he’d been diagnosed with a terminal cardiac deformity. He had less than a month to live. As the supposed deadline neared, a doctor—one of the specialists Grant had “vetted”—approached me in a sterile corridor. He told me I was a perfect match. He asked if I was willing to donate my heart to save my husband. I looked at the sleeping infant in the bassinet, her tiny fingers curled like flower petals, and I didn’t even blink. I said yes. I told myself: even if the past month had all been a lie—even if every kind word, every gentle touch was just a performance—I still couldn’t say no. Because my love for him was real. It had always been real. And that love deserved this much. It was only later, as my spirit lingered in the cold shadows of the world, that I learned the truth. Grant never went under the knife that day. He wasn’t in an OR; he was at a rooftop bar overlooking the sound, celebrating Sienna Reed’s birthday. “You won, Grant,” Sienna had laughed, her voice like honey and glass. “She actually agreed to give up her heart. So, about that trip around the world we talked about—when are we leaving?” Grant had smiled, that devastatingly handsome smile that used to make my breath catch, and pinched her cheek. “Whenever you want. Once the kid is older, I won’t have as much time to devote to my favorite girl.” “I’m just an outsider, Grant,” she teased, leaning into him. “We grew up together, Sienna. The three of us. You could never be an outsider.” That “trip” lasted three years. Grant didn’t just leave; he vanished. He made sure the nanny was on Sienna’s payroll. He ensured the silence was absolute. And in that silence, our daughter, Lily, starved to death in a house that was supposed to be a sanctuary. Three years later, Grant Miller returned to the city, triumphant and sun-kissed. “They say the first three years are the hardest for parents,” he remarked to Sienna as they stepped off the private jet. “Good thing you had the foresight to get us away for the worst of it.” “She’s three now,” Sienna added with a saccharine lilt. “I bet she’s just waiting to call you ‘Daddy.’” I hovered in the slipstream of the wind, a fractured soul tethered to my own tragedy. Did Grant really not know? Did he truly believe that we were still waiting for him in that graveyard of a home? — 2 Three years. I stared at his face—the face I had once memorized with the devotion of a saint. Not a single wrinkle. Not a hint of gray. He looked rejuvenated, polished by the salt air of the Mediterranean and the high-altitude sun of the Alps. He had lived a lifetime of luxury while his child’s bones turned to dust. “The three-year bet is over, Sienna,” Grant said, adjusting his Rolex. “I have to head back to the family. But nothing changes between us. We’re still the core.” “Aren’t you afraid Elena has forgotten you?” Sienna leaned against his arm, her touch possessive, her tone dripping with mock concern. “You haven’t sent a single text. You blocked her on everything. For all you know, she took the kid and moved on with someone else.” Grant let out a sharp, arrogant bark of a laugh. “She wouldn’t.” He caught his reflection in a window, looking satisfied. “Elena would have died for me. Literally. Three years is nothing to a woman that obsessed. And honestly? She brought this on herself. If she hadn’t made such a scene about me going to that gallery opening with you—using her due date as leverage—I never would have had to teach her this lesson.” In his mind, this was a punishment. A disciplinary measure for my “unreasonable” demands. I remembered the night before Lily was born. I had reached for his hand, my body aching, my heart heavy with a premonition I couldn’t name. “Grant, please. Tomorrow is the induction. Just stay at the hospital with me. Don’t go to the gallery with Sienna.” He had wrenched his hand away as if my touch was acid. “Don’t be pathetic, Elena. What good is a man in a delivery room anyway? It’s work, for God’s sake. Sienna needs to build her portfolio, and I’m helping her develop an eye for the market.” I went into labor alone. I hemorrhaged. I nearly died on that table bringing Lily into the world, and Grant didn’t walk through the door until the following afternoon. He didn’t look at the baby. He glanced at my pale, sweaty face with nothing but irritation. “It’s just a birth, Elena. Women do it in fields. You’re being dramatic.” I cried for forty-eight hours straight. Then, on the third day, he changed. He became the man I’d fallen in love with in college—tender, whispering promises, petting my hair. And then, the blow: *I’m dying, Elena. My heart is failing.* So when the “surgeon” asked for my life, I gave it. Even if it had all been a lie, even if every gentle word was just an act—I still couldn’t say no. Because I had loved him truly. And that love was real enough to give everything for. 3 Grant straightened his tie and finally, casually, unblocked my number. He typed out a message with the bored indifference of a man ordering takeout. **[Elena, it’s been three years. I assume you’ve cooled off by now. I’m bringing Sienna over tonight. Have a proper dinner ready for us when we get home.]** He stared at the screen, refreshing it. Once. Twice. The silence was immediate. “She used to reply in seconds,” he muttered, a frown marring his perfect forehead. “What’s her deal?” Sienna patted his chest. “Grant, honey, you were gone a long time. She’s probably just playing hard to get. Let her stew.” Grant sneered. “She has the nerve to ignore me? Unbelievable. She’s testing my patience. The audacity.” He decided, on a whim fueled by Sienna’s suggestion, not to go home immediately. “Let’s hit that new spa resort in the foothills. I need a soak after the flight anyway.” I followed them, a silent passenger in their luxury SUV. I felt no fatigue, only the cold, sharp edge of a hatred that kept me anchored to this plane. I was waiting. I was waiting for the reckoning. At the resort, Sienna made a show of booking a single suite with an open-concept stone tub. She moved through the steam in silk lingerie, pressing her warmth against him. “Don’t be mad at her, Grant,” she whispered. “She’s been raising a toddler alone. It couldn’t have been that easy.” Grant leaned back against the heated tiles, his eyes closed. “Please. I left her with a nanny and a black card. She’s been living the high life on my dime while I was out there working. You’re too kind, Sienna. That’s your problem.” He opened his eyes and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “The twenty-eight countries we visited… that was for your career. Making you the Creative Director of the firm was the best move I ever made.” As they left the spa area for dinner, wrapped in plush robes, they rounded a corner and nearly collided with a woman in a housekeeping uniform. Grant froze. His eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Gable?” The woman looked up, her face instantly draining of color. She dropped her stack of towels and bolted. Grant was faster. He cornered her near the service elevator. “What the hell are you doing here? I paid you to stay at the house and look after my daughter. Why are you working at a resort?” The nanny looked at the floor, her hands shaking so violently she had to tuck them into her pockets. When she spoke, the words were jagged glass. “The baby… the baby died years ago. I had to find work. I had to eat.” Grant’s face twisted. He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “That’s a lie.” “Sir,” she sobbed, backing away. “Don’t you know? She’s been gone for three years…” “Shut up!” Grant slammed his fist into the drywall beside her head. “I sent money every month! Child support, nanny fees, school funds—over five thousand a month, every single month! How could she be dead?” He loomed over her, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of rage and denial. “Elena told you to say this, didn’t she? This is a performance. She sent you here to guilt-trip me.” He stepped back, adjusting his robe, his lip curling in disdain. “She’s so small-minded. She’s actually using our daughter’s life as a prop to get back at me for being gone. If she ever tries to use my daughter’s life as a bargaining chip again, I’ll take Sienna back to Europe for another three years. I’m dead serious.” 4 Sienna caught up to them, her eyes darting between the shaking nanny and Grant. The nanny’s eyes widened when she saw Sienna. She shrank back, shielding her face, trembling even harder. “Grant, what’s going on?” Sienna asked, her voice high and breathless. “The baby is fine. We had that video call just last week, remember? The little girl called me ‘Auntie.’ You saw her on the screen right next to me.” Grant’s breathing slowed. The logic clicked back into place. Of course. Sienna wouldn’t lie to him. He looked at the nanny with pure coldness. “Go back and tell Elena that this little stunt didn’t work. If she ever uses my daughter’s life as a bargaining chip again, I’ll take Sienna back to Europe for another three years. I mean it.” He grabbed Sienna’s hand and walked away without a backward glance. “Don’t let it get to you, Grant,” Sienna soothed as they sat down in the dining room. “You know how Elena has always been. She was jealous of us since we were kids. She’s just trying to stir up drama.” “You’re the only one who’s been reasonable through all this, Sienna. You’ve never made things difficult. If it were anyone else, I would have lost my mind by now.” I stood by their table, my gaze fixed on their entwined hands. They were wearing matching custom-made gold cuffs. I recognized the design—Grant had spent nights sketching it years ago. I had thought it was my anniversary gift. But that brand only allows one custom pair per customer, for life. He had designed them for her all along. I didn’t realize until after I died that he’d given them to Sienna on her birthday. He always called his favoritism “history.” He used “we grew up together” as a shield for every betrayal. Grant couldn’t eat. He kept refreshing his phone. “It’s been this long and she still hasn’t replied. She’s really committing to this.” He got up, claiming he needed the restroom, but he went to the quiet hallway to call me. The mechanical voice of the operator was the only answer. “Elena, you’re really pushing it! You’re really pushing your luck!” On his way back, he passed a utility closet. The door was slightly ajar, and he heard a muffled, rhythmic chanting. He pushed the door open. Inside, amidst mops and buckets, a small wooden crate had been turned into a makeshift altar. On it sat a tiny, framed photo of a baby—Lily—and a hand-carved wooden plaque with her name on it. Three sticks of incense were burning in a cup of sand. The scent of burnt offerings hung thick in the stale air. The nanny was kneeling there, sobbing. “God forgive me… I didn’t mean for her to starve… I was so scared of that woman…” Grant’s vision went red. His pupils contracted sharply when he saw the name carved into the wood. He kicked the crate over, the plaque clattering across the concrete floor, the incense scattering like dying sparks. “You disgusting woman!” he screamed. “Do you have any idea who my daughter is? How dare you curse her with this voodoo nonsense!” I reached out, my fingers trembling, trying to pick up the pieces of my daughter’s memory. But my hands passed through the wood like mist.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “539824”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 I’m a gold-digger. Or at least, that’s what everyone on campus called me. Back when I was dating Harrison Mercer—the golden boy heir to Mercer Enterprises—I was always asking him for money. So he kicked me to the curb. He traded me in for a high-minded, pristine girl who turned down every expensive gift he offered. Naturally, his social media exploded with congratulations from his inner circle. Glad to see Harrison finally dumped the parasite. The new girl is incredible! A million times better than that Tess girl. Why drag my name through the dirt? Honestly, I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I was too busy—busy working, busy making money, busy drowning in debt. I was far too exhausted to even ask Harrison why he had promised to protect me, only to turn around and break my heart. Then came the aftermath. Everywhere I worked, Harrison started showing up. He would chase me down, pleading, “Tess, take all my money. Just look at me again, please?” No. Not a chance. He fooled me once. I wasn’t about to let him do it a second time. By the time I saw Harrison’s Instagram hard-launch, twelve hours had passed. I had just gotten back to my basement room from a tutoring gig. Gated estate neighborhoods are ridiculously far from campus. After two hours of tutoring high school AP Physics and a freezing forty-minute ride back on my beat-up electric moped, it was already midnight. Forcing a freshly dumped, broke college student to watch her ex parade his shiny new romance feels cruelly poetic. But I couldn’t stop my thumb from clicking his story. In the photo, Harrison was holding hands with a gorgeous girl, smiling with a tenderness I used to think was mine alone. Damn it. Harrison really landed on his feet. He had actually managed to pull Serena Blake—the star ballerina from the neighboring conservatory. Good for him. The comments section echoed my thoughts, though far less generously. Amid the chorus of heart emojis and envy, my name stood out like a stain: Congrats to Harrison for finally ditching the leech who only cared about his wallet! Not only did he break free from Tess the gold-digger, but he scored a literal angel! Right?! I was there today! Harrison bought a pile of designer bags and diamond jewelry for the new girl, and she returned every single thing! She literally told him: ‘Harrison, I don’t want your money. I just want you.’ Omg! I’m screaming! They’re so perfect together! The new girl is stunning! Way classier than that Tess. Did these people really have nothing better to talk about? Why did they have to tear me down just to build her up? Couldn’t they at least have blocked me? Or was this public execution the whole point? Then again, maybe they weren’t wrong. All I ever did was ask Harrison for money. In our six months together, I took thirty thousand dollars from him. It made sense that they despised me. I tapped the photo again, zooming in. Serena’s head was resting on Harrison’s shoulder, her smile radiant and effortless. How could I compare? I just looked worn-out and calculating. The lightbulb in my ancient basement rental flickered, buzzing softly in the damp air. Great. Now my eyes were watering from the glare. It was hitting me hard. So hard my vision blurred, tears spilling over before I could stop them. No matter how many times I wiped my face, I couldn’t dry my cheeks. Tess, come on, I told myself. When you ran away from that dirt-road town at eighteen, didn’t you swear you’d never cry again? Why are you tearing up over a guy? Damn romance. It really ruins your survival instinct. 2 Crying was one thing, but wasting electricity was another. Utilities were expensive. I clicked off the switch, and the basement plunged into pitch-black darkness. When you lose your sight, your other senses take over. I could smell the heavy moisture rising from the concrete floor. From behind the thin drywall, I heard the subtle, frantic gnawing of mice chewing through old wood. I buried my face deep into the thin mattress. Just like when I was a kid: no matter how unbearable life felt, if I cried enough, I’d eventually fall asleep. And once I was asleep, the cruelty of the world couldn’t reach me. I wouldn’t hurt anymore. 3 Targeted alarms, however, have no respect for heartbreak. I didn’t have the luxury of acting like a tragic heroine in a movie—I couldn’t dramatically pack a bag, drop out of school, or catch a one-way flight out of the city. I had a degree to finish. I had paychecks to collect. Even if I threw everything away and ran, the debt collectors would track me down anyway. What a pathetic mess. Once fully awake, I pulled myself together and prepared to step back into the daily grind. Harrison’s announcement had made huge waves. The night before, the wealthy heir had reportedly set off fireworks across half the bay just to celebrate his new girlfriend. Everyone on campus knew. As I walked across the quad, two girls passed me, lowering their voices to a whisper: “Didn’t the campus heartthrob make a huge spectacle chasing that poor girl a few months ago? He got bored of her after half a year?” “Who knows? But honestly, they were from completely different worlds.” “Exactly! Life isn’t a romance novel. Why would a rich guy settle for a Cinderella who has nothing when he can have a real heiress?” “At least Cinderella was nobility,” another chimed in. “Tess Moss has nothing…” I let out a sharp cough. The girl talking caught my eye, frantically tugging her friend’s sleeve and making a terrified face. Their conversation cut off instantly. Before I could walk away, Garrett Cole stepped out from behind a tree, cutting off my path. “Why are you scaring them?” Garrett sneered, leaning casually against the brick pillar of the lecture hall. “They didn’t say anything wrong. A sparrow doesn’t become a phoenix just because it lands on a high branch for a second.” Garrett had hated me long before the breakup. He called me materialistic. He said I was just leeching off Harrison’s trust fund. In truth, Garrett was largely responsible for Harrison pulling the plug on us. Seeing him kick me while I was down felt entirely on brand. I tried to dodge him, but he shifted his weight, blocking the entrance completely. “Guilty conscience?” he mocked. I shook my head, trying to step around his left side. He cut me off again. “Don’t play innocent, Tess. The stench of money-grubbing is practically stamped on your forehead. You spent thirty grand of Harrison’s money. If you really didn’t care about his wealth, why don’t you pay him back?” Garrett’s tone was aggressive, echoing the predatory loan sharks who used to corner me at my high school gates. I knew from experience: if you cringe, people bite harder. I lifted my chin, staring straight into his eyes. “I will pay him back.” Garrett barked out a laugh. “With what? You’re literally a broke, nameless—” Orphan. The word hung in the air, unsaid. He swallowed it back, looking momentarily uncomfortable. Only my academic advisor and Harrison knew about my dead parents. I had accidentally let it slip to Harrison during a vulnerable moment late one night. Harrison had sworn to keep it between us. Yet here Garrett was, knowing my exact wound. Harrison had lied to me. Then again, what hadn’t he lied about? I was a fool for ever believing his promises to protect me. The debt was real. The money was borrowed. And I was going to repay every single cent. I worked three jobs, earning cash dollar by dollar. I had already chipped away a chunk of it, and I would finish the rest eventually. I opened my mouth to shoot back at Garrett, but a familiar voice cut through the air. “Leave her alone, Garrett.” It was Harrison. I didn’t need to turn around to picture his face—that effortless, relaxed composure that only belongs to people who have never had to worry about rent. You can’t fake that kind of privilege. Then, a crisp, elegant female voice followed: “Forget it, Garrett. Let’s go.” It was Serena Blake. Bright, confident, perfectly poised. She stepped forward, holding her head high, passing me with fluid grace. The scent of her expensive perfume drifted over, and the soft rustle of her designer silk coat brushed against my arm. She was radiant—the quintessential product of unconditional love and endless wealth. My plain, faded white t-shirt suddenly felt like a physical badge of my poverty. The contrast was brutal. Nobody said it out loud, but everyone watching was thinking it. Harrison followed right behind Serena as they walked into the lecture hall together. A power couple. Matching family backgrounds. They looked even more perfect in person than they did in the Instagram photo. Bitterness aside, I still had to step into that classroom. I couldn’t afford to skip. I needed a high GPA to maintain my merit scholarship. Staying in school meant surviving, and surviving was a prerequisite for caring about a broken heart. Under the collective, mocking gazes of my classmates, I walked down the aisle and took my usual seat in the front row. Only this time, the boy who used to nap beside me during morning lectures was sitting five rows back, next to someone else. Even the professor gave me a brief, sympathetic look when his eyes swept across the attendance sheet. Life was teaching me a lesson in the starkest way possible: from here on out, I was walking this road completely alone. 4 Going to class alone was fine. Going straight to my shift at the coffee shop afterward was fine, too. I was grinding through my afternoon shift, dizzy with fatigue, when the bell above the shop door chimed brightly. I looked up, only to see a group of students crowding around a couple. There was no time to hide. Someone in the group spotted me immediately. “Well, well. If it isn’t Tess! Since Harrison dropped you and you can’t afford your lavish lifestyle anymore, you actually have to work for a living?” Laughter erupted among them. The jabs came fast and sharp: “Or maybe she’s working at an upscale coffee shop to hunt for her next rich target? Can’t blame her, with that manipulative face, she definitely has the assets for it.” I wanted to snap back. But on the day Harrison dumped me, Garrett had gotten me fired from another cafe by filing a fake customer complaint. I didn’t have the luxury—or the safety net—to stand up to him here. Instinctively, my eyes sought out Harrison. I knew he looked down on me now. But we had been together for six months. At the beginning, I could have sworn he truly loved me. Even if that love was gone, did it really have to turn this ugly? Harrison’s eyes swept over me coldly, as if I were a stranger. Maybe he was desperate to draw a clean line to prove his loyalty to his new girlfriend. He turned to Serena, his tone soft: “Babe, let’s leave. This place is depressing…” Serena, however, didn’t want to leave. She pouted playfully. “But I really wanted their sea salt Oreo Basque cheesecake. What’s wrong? Are you uncomfortable seeing your ex? Or are you afraid to let her serve me?” More laughter rippled through the group. “Harrison, how are you gonna choose between the old flame and the new queen?” “Is that even a question? Who would choose a greedy ex?” “Tess must be devastated. She lost her golden ticket…” I couldn’t tell what was colder—their cruel taunts or the winter wind howling outside the window. But over the years, I had learned how to keep a polite smile plastered on my face, no matter what was being thrown at me. Ignoring the hostile stares, I kept my voice professional. “Welcome. Will that sea salt Oreo Basque cheesecake be for here or to go?” The laughter faltered slightly. I repeated smoothly, “Is that for here or to go? Would you like to try any of our seasonal drinks? Our new matcha cold foam and single-origin pour-overs are very popular.” I delivered the pitch with absolute, unwavering professionalism until my voice completely drowned out their whispers. My coworker finally snapped out of her shock and stepped up beside me to help take orders. Harrison looked at me, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes. He had never seen me like this—rigid, composed, unbothered. Just as he parted his lips to speak, Serena cut him off. “Your ex actually has great customer service,” she said, pulling out a black credit card. “I’ll take one sea salt Oreo Basque cheesecake and an iced Americano. For here.” She handed over the card, then turned to the rest of the group. “Their desserts are amazing. Order whatever you want, guys. It’s my treat.” Someone chimed in, “Harrison’s right here, Serena, we can’t let you pay!” Serena laughed, waving her hand. “I don’t like relying on my boyfriend’s money. I’m an independent woman. Not like some people’s exes.” Her words were sharp. But in the service industry, I had heard far worse. It was just that… Harrison used to shield me from this. Back when we were dating, whenever a customer was rude to me at work, I would complain to Harrison over dinner. He would get furiously defensive on my behalf, pulling me close and saying, * Quit that job. It’s not like I can’t take care of you.* I had always insisted on keeping my jobs. He would sigh, fondling my hair. * You stubborn little mule.* And whenever I felt overwhelmed, he would wrap his arms around me. * Don’t be upset. Next time someone hurts your feelings, come straight to me. I’ll buy you a slice of cake and fix it.* Maybe the cake he bought me back then was too sweet, lulling me into the delusion that we were built to last. I remembered once asking him a quiet, hypothetical question: * What if it’s you who hurts my feelings?* He had frowned, pretending to be offended. * How could I ever hurt you?* Promises, it turns out, have an expiration date. They only last for the few seconds it takes to say them. Once the moment passes, you’re a fool for holding on. 5 I learned my lesson. I tuned out Serena’s passive-aggressive comments and processed the orders one by one. As for Harrison, he was nothing more than a creditor who wouldn’t lift a finger to help me. I expected nothing from him. The bill came out to several hundred dollars. Serena paid without blinking. Once the group finally grabbed their tray and headed to a corner table, my coworker slipped a small pack of tissues into my apron pocket. “If you need to cry, go to the breakroom,” she whispered sympathetically. “I’ll cover the counter.” The wind chime above the entrance had stopped swaying. The quiet acoustic music played softly through the speakers. They were sitting far away now. I didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing my weakness or turning my tears into campus gossip. But I didn’t want to cry. I pulled the tissues out and handed them back to my coworker with a small smile. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I can handle it.” I was like moss growing in a dark corner. I adapted to harsh environments. I had stopped being fragile a long time ago. 6 Adopting the philosophy of removing unnecessary drama from my life, I blocked Harrison on all platforms. That way, I wouldn’t have to see his updates anymore. It used to be photos of us; now it was photos of Serena. Still, Harrison was high-profile by nature, and since we shared a major, it was impossible to completely avoid hearing news about the campus golden couple. I kept telling myself: Tess, you’re just not busy enough. If you’re working hard enough, you won’t have time to care. Earlier, when I was dating Harrison, I had turned down a high-paying tutoring gig from 6:30 PM to 8:30 PM because I wanted to keep my evenings free for our dates. Now that my evenings were empty, I re-contacted the family. My standardized test scores and academic record were top-tier, and my track record for improving students’ grades was undeniable. I landed the gig instantly. My schedule became insane: morning classes, afternoon shifts at the coffee shop, and two separate tutoring clients every evening. When your day is packed from 6:00 AM to midnight, your brain doesn’t have the bandwidth to grieve. Breaking up had its perks. At least now, I was earning money fast enough to clear my debts sooner. 7 The only complication was my new 6:30 PM tutoring client. The agency had only given me the client’s last name—Cole. I hadn’t realized until I showed up at the gated estate that I was tutoring Garrett Cole’s younger sister. When I arrived at the grand brick house, materials in hand, I ran right into Garrett as he was heading out. When he recognized me, he burst out laughing. “Did you seriously stalk me all the way to my house? Is working too hard for you, or did you realize you can’t get Harrison back, so you’re moving on to me?” He spun his sports car keys around his index finger, his posture oozing arrogant mockery. “Points for effort on finding my address, Tess. But I’m not interested in a gold-digger. Try your luck somewhere else.” I had zero energy to waste arguing with someone like Garrett. I just wanted to do my job and leave. But considering the Cole family was paying double the market rate, I swallowed my pride. “I’m here for a job,” I said quietly. Before Garrett could scoff again, his mother walked into the foyer. Mrs. Cole smiled warmly when she saw me. “Ah, Tess! You’re here. Come in, come in! I’m putting my daughter Lily in your hands from now on.” Garrett stood there, his jaw practically dropping to the floor. His face cycled through a spectrum of shock, embarrassment, and anger before he grumbled, “Mom, she probably has ulterior motives.” Smack. Mrs. Cole slapped the back of his head with zero hesitation. “What nonsense are you talking? Do you know how hard it was to book Tess? She’s the top-rated tutor in the city!” Garrett sneered, “Mom, she’s the gold-digger who got dumped by Harrison Mercer.” Mrs. Cole snapped, her voice stern: “I don’t know who raised you to be so judgmental! A young woman caring about money just means she’s realistic and grounded. You were born lucky, Garrett, so you don’t have to worry about survival. That doesn’t give you the right to judge people who do. Stop talking nonsense.” After shutting her son down, Mrs. Cole turned to me with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry about him, Tess.” Maybe I had been surrounded by hostility for too long. Feeling unexpected empathy from a stranger made my eyes sting. I took a deep breath, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s okay, Mrs. Cole,” I said softly. “It doesn’t bother me.” 8 My life settled back into a quiet, relentless routine: working, studying, and pushing my GPA as high as it could go. On payday, I calculated my total earnings across all jobs: twenty-seven hundred dollars. Twenty-five hundred went straight to my debt repayments. Fifty dollars covered my utilities and shared basement rent. That left me with one hundred and fifty dollars for living expenses. I decided to buy a new dress. Back when we were dating, Harrison had once made a offhand comment: Do you only own, like, three dresses? You wear them on rotation. Ever since then, whenever I saved a tiny surplus, I made a point to buy myself one cheap, pretty dress. This was the first dress I had bought for myself since the breakup. I put it on, applied a touch of light makeup, and looked at myself in the cracked mirror on my wall. It looked nice. I was doing just fine taking care of myself. So why, I wondered, when Harrison confessed his feelings to me with those soft, loving eyes, did I ever entertain the thought of depending on him? I suppose life had been too bitter back then. I had mistaken love for something sweet. Now I knew better. Romance was just life wrapped in a thin layer of candy coating. Once the sugar dissolved, you were left with the exact same harsh reality as before. Under the soft moonlight, I washed the new dress by hand and hung it on the clothesline in the small ground-floor courtyard of my building. The night breeze blew past, carrying the fresh scent of laundry detergent mixed with faint floral notes from the garden. I sat on a wooden crate and stared at the moon for a long time. Tomorrow was my day off. After a long, uninterrupted sleep, I would be unstoppable again. 9 The next afternoon, I put on my new dress and rode my moped toward the Cole estate. Halfway there, three men stepped into the middle of the quiet suburban road, blocking my path. It was the loan shark who had haunted my life since middle school—a man with a jagged scar running across his cheek—along with his two heavy-set thugs. Scarface stood dead center in front of my moped. I tried to steer around him, but one of the thugs stepped in front of my tire. “Time to pay up, Tess,” Scarface grunted. “I already wired the monthly twenty-five hundred this morning,” I said, keeping my voice steady. I knew why they were here. They had likely gambled away their money and were trying to squeeze extra out of me. In the past, whenever they ambushed me like this, I would panic and borrow emergency cash from Harrison—sometimes three grand, sometimes five grand. But I didn’t have Harrison anymore. And I didn’t have extra money. I spread my hands open. “Twenty-five hundred a month is my absolute limit. Where do you expect me to get more?” Scarface smirked, his facial scar contorting menacingly. “You said the exact same thing last time. But after I hung around your campus gate for a couple of days, you magically found the cash.” When you’re at your absolute lowest, the last thing you want is for the world to see your shame. You don’t want pity. But when you fight too hard to keep your pride intact, people realize what leverage they have over you. Scarface knew my pride was my weak spot. “Maybe we should pay another visit to your university,” the thug added, stepping closer. “Let your classmates see who—” His threat was drowned out by the roar of a high-performance engine. A sleek blue sports car pulled up along the curb, its window rolling down to reveal Garrett Cole’s smirking face. “Well, well, look what we have here,” Garrett mocked, adjusting his sunglasses. “If it isn’t our resident gold-digger!” Why him? Why now? I didn’t want anyone—least of all Garrett—to see the degrading details of my life. I stepped forward, blocking his view of the men. “Keep driving, Garrett,” I said sharply. “This has nothing to do with you.” Garrett, of course, never listened. He glanced past me at the three rough-looking men, his eyes lighting up with cruel amusement. “Tsk, tsk. What’s going on, Tess? Cornered by debt collectors? I told everyone you weren’t clean. First you scammed Harrison, now you’re tutoring my sister? You really know how to play the system.” He leaned out of the car window, pulling out his phone to record the scene. I lunged forward and snatched the phone out of his hand. “This is private! It has nothing to do with you, Garrett. I’ve never done anything to you—stop harassing me!” Garrett let out a cold laugh, stepping out of the car. “I just hate hypocrites like you. You’re taking out high-interest loans, and you still pretend you’re pure?” “Who are you calling high-interest?!” Scarface snapped defensively, puffing out his chest. “We run a legitimate private lending firm!” His two thugs nodded in agreement. Garrett shrugged carelessly, brushing off the loan shark. “Whatever loan you want to call it. I’m just curious—what did a broke college girl need all that money for? Buying designer bags?” Before I could speak, Scarface barked out a laugh. “Designer bags? Are you blind? Does anything she’s wearing look like it costs more than thirty bucks? This money wasn’t even hers! It was the debt her parents left behind when they died in that highway crash. They kicked the bucket, so the kid has to pay!” A sudden gust of wind blew across the road, kicking up dust and dry leaves. A sparrow flew overhead, disappearing into the trees. I stood frozen on the asphalt. The secret I had guarded so fiercely for years—the secret I buried under long shifts, high grades, and polite smiles—was violently torn open right there on the roadside. My dignity was smashed to pieces at Garrett’s feet. I braced myself for his laughter. I waited for him to say, So that’s why you’re a gold-digger, or Trash like you deserves a life like this. But the insult never came. Garrett’s smug smile vanished completely. His face went pale, his eyes darkening as a heavy silence fell between us. When he finally spoke again, his voice lacked all its previous arrogance, tinged with a hesitation I had never heard from him before.

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1 My fiancé and my childhood best friend were sworn enemies. For the five years of our relationship, Garrett and Sophie were like oil and water. They bickered over everything, constantly competing for my time, my attention, and my loyalty. It was exhausting, but in a quiet, foolish way, I found it sweet. I thought I was simply loved by the two most important people in my life, caught in the middle of a harmless, protective tug-of-war. Then, Sophie’s parents died in a horrific head-on collision on the interstate. Within a month, she was diagnosed with severe clinical depression. Overnight, Garrett’s attitude changed. The first time Sophie tried to end her life, slitting her wrists in her bathtub, it was Garrett who broke down her bathroom door. Terrified she would try again if left alone, he suggested she move into the townhouse we had just bought as our future marital home. On our next Valentine’s Day date, he insisted she join us, seating her between us at the restaurant and spending the entire evening putting food onto her plate. Whenever I quietly voiced my discomfort, Garrett would pull me into his arms, his eyes welling with defensive hurt. “Audrey, if Sophie actually goes through with it, the guilt will destroy you. I’m doing this because I can’t bear to see you broken.” His words made me feel incredibly selfish. I swallowed my doubts, buried my unease, and tried to be an even better friend to Sophie to make up for my private resentment. But then came the day of our wedding rehearsal. I woke up at five in the morning to get my hair and makeup professionally done. I sat in my dress, waiting in the kitchen, but Garrett never came to pick me up. My calls went straight to voicemail; my texts remained unread. Panicked, I took an Uber to the venue—a luxury penthouse ballroom on the ninetieth floor of a downtown Chicago skyscraper. When I pushed open the double doors, the room was quiet. There, in the center of the aisle, Garrett was on one knee, gently sliding a diamond band onto Sophie’s finger. I froze in the doorway, the air instantly leaving my lungs as if I had fallen through the floor. I made a move to step forward, to scream, but my parents grabbed my arms from behind, anchoring me in place. “Audrey, stop,” my mother whispered, her grip tight and bruising. “Sophie is highly unstable right now. Don’t trigger her.” “She lost her parents, Audrey,” my father added, his brow furrowed with disapproval. “She has no family left to do this for her. Just let her have this moment.” Looking at their defensive, blaming faces, a sudden, freezing clarity washed over me. This suffocating, over-allocated love? I didn’t want it anymore. This biased, enabling family? I was done with them, too. On the stage, the coordinator was quietly explaining the mechanics of the ring exchange. I stood at the back of the room, my fingers curling into tight fists, fighting a wave of pure suffocation. When we were planning the decor, I had requested classic blush and white roses. But Garrett had canceled the order, claiming Sophie’s pollen allergies were too severe, replacing them with heavy, dark burgundy velvet drapes that made the space feel like a funeral home. I have severe vertigo, which is why I had begged for an outdoor garden ceremony. But Garrett had booked this ninetieth-floor penthouse anyway. “Sophie said ninety is a lucky number,” he had told me back then. “And the skyline views will look incredible in her photos.” It was always about Sophie. Every time I had tried to set a boundary, he had turned it back on me, looking more wounded than I was. “We are getting married, Audrey. Why are you keeping score against your own best friend?” “She has a psychological illness. Can’t we just show a little basic empathy?” Five years of devotion had been reduced to a series of moral shakedowns. When I had tried to turn to my parents for support, they had taken Sophie’s side without hesitation. “If Sophie’s father hadn’t bailed us out of that business bankruptcy years ago, we’d still be drowning in debt,” my mother had lectured me. “The Wards were good to us. Now that they’re gone, Sophie is our responsibility.” “You need to grow up, Audrey. Stop throwing tantrums.” Because Sophie was sad, they told me to give up the birthday dinner I had planned for six months so she could have a quiet night instead. Because Sophie was broke, they told me to hand over the inheritance my grandmother had left me for my wedding registry to help pay her rent. And now, they had given away my wedding rehearsal. What was next? Was I supposed to hand over the groom on our wedding day, too? A cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. On stage, Sophie seemed to sense my presence. She turned, her eyes locking onto mine. The fragile, beautiful smile on her face froze, and her cheeks turned completely bloodless. “Audrey… it’s not what it looks like. Please let me explain…” Before she could even finish her sentence, Garrett stepped firmly in front of her, shielding her body with his own. He glared at me, his face tight with irritation. “Don’t start a scene, Audrey. We are just running through the choreography of the walk.” “Choreography with a different bride?” I asked, my voice flat, empty of the tears I felt behind my eyes. “Why wasn’t I invited to my own rehearsal? I’ve been ready since five this morning. I sat in our kitchen waiting for you until noon. No calls. No texts. If I hadn’t taken a cab here myself, were you even going to tell me?” Garrett’s posture stiffened, a brief flicker of shame crossing his features before he looked away. My parents remained silent, refusing to meet my eyes. Sophie’s eyes instantly filled with tears. She let out a trembling sob. “I’m so sorry, Audrey. This is all my fault. I just… I wanted to know what it felt like to have a family stand by me on a wedding day, the way my mom and dad promised they would before they died. I didn’t mean to take this from you. I’ll take the dress off right now. I’ll give it all back.” She reached frantically behind her back to pull down the zipper of the white gown, but her hands began to shake violently. She fell to her knees on the stage, weeping hysterically, her chest heaving. Garrett’s face went pale. Without a second thought, he scooped her up into his arms. My parents rushed up the steps, crowding around her, murmuring soft, desperate comforts. “It’s okay, sweetheart, don’t cry…” “Audrey isn’t angry. You’re her sister, Sophie. She would never begrudge you this.” My mother shot a venomous look over her shoulder at me. “Are you happy now? You know how fragile her mental state is, and you still chose to attack her!” Garrett didn’t look at me, his eyes entirely focused on the sobbing woman in his arms. “She is having a panic attack. I’m taking her home.” He carried her down the aisle, past me, without stopping. My parents followed closely behind, whispering sweet, anxious reassurances to her as they went. The massive penthouse ballroom fell silent. The wedding coordinator approached me cautiously, her clipboard pressed against her chest. “Ms. Bennett… do you still want to run the rehearsal?” I stared at the heavy double doors where they had all vanished. The silence of the high-rise felt deafening. “No,” I said quietly. “Not today. Not ever again.” When I got back to our apartment, I dragged my suitcase out of the closet and began to pack. I only took my basic clothing, my passport, and my legal documents. I left behind the photo frames, the custom-made mugs, the matching linen—every physical scrap of our five years together. Garrett came home at dusk. He walked into the living room and glanced at the open suitcase on the floor, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “Do you have a conference coming up?” he asked distractedly. Without waiting for my reply, he sat on the edge of the sofa, rubbing his temples. “We need to make a duplicate set of keys for the townhouse and give them to Sophie,” he said, his tone casual but testing. “She’s in a bad place, Audrey. Every time she goes back to her empty apartment, she starts thinking about her parents’ crash. If she lives right around the corner from us, it’s too risky. I think we should just have her move into our spare room.” He tried to smile, offering a dry chuckle. “You used to always say you wanted to live with your best friend after we got married. Well, I’m finally agreeing to it.” I stood still, looking at him for a long, quiet moment. My mind drifted back to the early years of our relationship. I remembered how he and Sophie used to bicker. If Sophie bought me a fifty-dollar lipstick for my birthday, Garrett would go out and buy me a thousand-dollar handbag. If Sophie took me to a local indie movie, Garrett would book a weekend trip to Cabo. They had seemed so competitive, so eager to prove who loved me more. How had I been so blind? Every single time Sophie ended up crying from their bickering, Garrett was the one who would eventually slip away to comfort her. He had insisted on buying our townhouse in Wicker Park—blocks away from her apartment—claiming it was a “good investment,” ignoring the fact that it added three hours to my daily commute to my office. I had spent my entire summer vacation painting that place, negotiating with contractors in ninety-degree heat until I nearly fainted from heatstroke, just so we could have a home. And it was never meant for me. “Do whatever you want,” I said, my voice empty. Garrett didn’t notice the deadness in my tone. Relieved, he immediately pulled out his phone to text her. I caught a glimpse of his screen. My contact, which had been pinned to the top of his chat list for five years, was gone. In my place was Sophie’s contact, pinned with a little heart emoji. Seeing my gaze, he frowned, quickly locking his screen. “Don’t start, Audrey. You know she’s sick. I need her pinned so I don’t miss an emergency alert if she tries to hurt herself.” I smiled. It felt like a small, sharp stitch tearing in my chest. “Sometimes I genuinely can’t tell whose boyfriend you are.” He bristled, his expression hardening into cold annoyance. “That is a low blow, Audrey. Sophie is your best friend, and she is clinically depressed. How can you be so incredibly bitter? It’s a pinned chat. You are making a mountain out of a molehill.” “Am I?” My voice remained quiet, but the words felt like needles. “If she’s my best friend, why does she never call me when she’s in crisis? Why does she only call my fiancé? If she’s clinically ill, why isn’t she talking to her therapist instead of lying on my boyfriend’s shoulder?” Garrett stood up abruptly, his face dark with anger. “You are completely irrational right now, and I refuse to engage with this behavior. I’m going to the office to clear my head. I won’t be back tonight.” The front door slammed shut, the heavy thud rattling the frames on the wall. It was his favorite tactic. Whenever Sophie came between us, he would shut down, punish me with silence, and walk away until I was forced to apologize just to keep the peace. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification. Sophie had posted a photo. It was a dimly lit, cozy shot of our living room. She was lying on our sofa, wrapped in the wool throw blanket my grandmother had knitted for me. Resting gently over her lower abdomen was a man’s hand, the fingers long and distinct. On his ring finger was the white gold band I had spent three weeks picking out. The caption read: “Audrey is always the sweetest—making sure I’m taken care of during my cramps by sending her boy over to keep me warm.” Underneath, Garrett had already commented: “Some people are too stubborn to ask for help when they’re hurting, while others are busy throwing tantrums over rehearsals.” I stared at the screen. The small, petty cruelty of it didn’t even sting anymore. Instead, the years of quiet compromises, the skipped dinners, the constant yielding of my own life to keep Sophie stable—it all simply evaporated. I tapped the heart icon to like the post, and typed a comment: “No need to run rehearsals anymore. You can have the wedding. I’m handing him over to you permanently.” Within sixty seconds, the post was deleted. My phone began to blow up with text messages from Sophie. “Audrey, I’m so sorry! Please don’t be mad, it was just a joke!” “If you’re upset, I’ll tell him to leave right now!” “I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m just so sick and lonely, I just wanted some company. Please don’t hate me.” I stared at the blue bubbles. It was always the same narrative. She was the fragile victim, and I was the cold, harsh bully. I typed back: “Couldn’t I have kept you company, Sophie? Why did it have to be my fiancé?” “If you wanted Garrett, you should have just told me. I wouldn’t have fought you for him.” “We’ve been friends for ten years. Was a man really worth doing this to me?” The three dots appeared, then vanished. No reply came. A half-hour later, the front door burst open. Garrett stormed in, his eyes wild with rage. Behind him stood Sophie, her face pale, her hands trembling. “Audrey!” Garrett roared, marching directly up to me. “What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what your petty, passive-aggressive comments do to her? Sophie almost swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills because of you! If I hadn’t caught her hand in time, she’d be dead right now! Apologize to her this instant!” Before I could even blink, a sharp, loud crack echoed through the room. Sophie had slapped him across the face. She was shaking, tears streaming down her face as she screamed at him. “Garrett! Audrey is my sister! How dare you speak to her like that? Apologize to her right now, or I swear to God I will never speak to you again!” The slap was incredibly hard; Garrett’s head was turned to the side, his cheek blooming with a dark red mark. He clenched his fists, his chest heaving as he forced down his temper. He stood there for a long time, swallowing his pride, before he slowly turned back to me. His voice was incredibly quiet, completely stripped of the rage from a moment ago. “I’m sorry, Audrey. My tone was uncalled for. I apologize.” He paused, his jaw tight. “But you have to understand, I only went over there to help her. You shouldn’t have targeted her for my choices.” I looked at the man who had frozen me out for weeks at a time, who had never once in five years offered me a sincere apology, bowing his head instantly because Sophie demanded it. It was almost comical. I wanted to laugh, but my throat felt dry and tight. The sound of keys rattling in the lock broke the silence. My parents walked in, their faces grim. My mother didn’t even look in my direction; she immediately rushed over to Sophie, grabbing her hands. “Sophie, sweetheart, Garrett called us. We came as fast as we could. Are you alright?” My mother turned to me, her face twisting into deep disappointment. “Audrey, we have raised you with every advantage, and yet you’ve grown into such a bitter, selfish girl. What is wrong with you?” My father stepped forward, pointing a heavy finger at my face. “How many times do we have to tell you? Sophie is ill! All she asked was for Garrett to sit with her for an hour, and you turn it into a public spectacle? Do you have to drive this poor girl into her grave before you’re finally satisfied? How did we raise such a malicious daughter?” The words felt like physical blows, knocking the wind out of me. My body began to shake, but I forced my eyes to stay dry. “Fine,” I whispered, my voice trembling but clear. “Since you love Sophie so much, let her be your daughter.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and pulled it toward the door. Garrett stepped in front of me, his brow furrowed. “Audrey, stop. Your parents are just stressed. Apologize to them, and let’s put this behind us. The wedding is in forty-eight hours. Don’t make a scene we can’t clean up.” I looked up at him, my tears turning to ice. “There is no wedding, Garrett,” I said, each word deliberate. “We are done.” The room went dead silent. Garrett’s eyes widened with a mix of panic and sudden fury. “Are you insane? The catering is paid for! The deposit on the townhouse is locked in! You’re throwing a five-year relationship away over a temper tantrum?” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “I have a lethal allergy to shellfish, Garrett. Yet you ordered lobster and crab for the reception menu because Sophie loves them. I spent three months searching for apartments near my office, and you bought a place in Wicker Park next to Sophie, forcing me into a three-hour daily commute. You gave away my wedding rehearsal today without even asking. Tell me, Garrett—whose wedding were we actually planning?” Garrett’s face drained of color. My parents stood frozen, their mouths slightly open, unable to find a reply. In the heavy silence, Sophie suddenly let out a broken, hysterical sob. “I’m sorry, Audrey! I’ll give it all back! I’ll leave! I’ll never ask for anything again!” Before anyone could react, she grabbed a silver paring knife from the kitchen counter and dragged it hard across her forearm. “No!” my mother shrieked. Garrett let out a guttural roar and lunged forward to disarm her. As he bolted past me, his shoulder slammed heavily into my chest, throwing me backward. My lower back collided violently with the sharp marble edge of the heavy coffee table. A sickening, wet crack echoed through my ears, followed by a white-hot flash of agony that paralyzed my legs. I collapsed onto the hardwood floor, gasping for air, unable to make a sound. None of them looked back. My parents and Garrett rushed Sophie out of the apartment, holding a towel to her arm, their frantic voices fading down the hallway. Before the front door slammed, my father threw a final, disgusted shout back into the apartment: “She tried to kill herself because of you! If she dies, Audrey, we will never forgive you!” The door clicked shut. The apartment fell into a dark, suffocating silence. I lay curled on the cold floor, the pain in my spine so intense that my vision kept turning black. Tears finally spilled over my cheeks as I dragged myself centimeter by centimeter toward my phone on the counter, sobbing in the dark. At the hospital, the ER physician stared at my CT scan, his expression incredibly grim. “You have a fractured lumbar vertebra, Ms. Bennett. You are incredibly lucky there’s no permanent spinal cord damage, but you need strict bed rest and observation for at least a week. We need to admit you immediately.” He paused, looking around the curtained bay. “Where is your emergency contact? Is there any family we can call?” Just then, through the thin curtain, the familiar voices from the adjacent room drifted over. “Sophie, eat some of this soup, sweetheart. It’s still warm.” My mother’s voice was tender, filled with maternal warmth. “That ungrateful girl,” my father’s voice grumbled. “Once we get Sophie settled, Eleanor, we are going to have a serious talk with Audrey. She has crossed the line this time.” I looked back at the doctor, my face completely expressionless. “I don’t have any family,” I whispered. Against medical advice, I refused admission. I signed the AMA forms, gritting my teeth against the blinding pain in my back as I slowly dragged myself along the corridor wall, using a metal cane from the physical therapy department to reach the billing department. At the corridor corner, I ran straight into Garrett. He stopped, staring at me in shock. When his eyes fell on the hospital discharge papers and the brace wrapped around my waist, his expression flickered with sudden panic. “Audrey? What are you doing here? Are you hurt?” He reached out, his hand shaking as he tried to grab my papers. “Garrett? Who is it?” Sophie peeked out from the room behind him, her arm neatly bandaged. The moment she saw me, she shrank back, her eyes wide with manufactured terror. “Audrey… why are you here? Please, I swear Garrett and I didn’t do anything… don’t be angry with me…” She began to weep, her shoulders shaking delicately. Garrett’s concern vanished instantly. He stepped in front of her, his face hardening into defensive rage as he glared at me. “Audrey, she just survived a suicide attempt! Are you so malicious that you had to follow us here to terrorize her? Get out of here! Don’t let me see your face again!” I looked at the crumpled discharge papers in my hand, then up at the man I had loved for five years. My heart felt completely hollow, like an old, empty house. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You won’t.” I turned to walk away. Suddenly, a loud, ragged scream echoed from the elevator lobby. A woman with wild, bloodshot eyes and a kitchen knife in her hand came sprinting down the hallway, her gaze locked onto Sophie. “You! Your parents killed my son in that crash! I’m going to send you to join him!” Sophie shrieked in terror. “Garrett! Save me!” Without a second thought, Garrett grabbed Sophie and pulled her into the room. My parents, hearing the screaming, rushed to the doorway, grabbed both of them, and pulled them inside. Before I could even reach the door, the heavy oak panel slammed shut in my face. A sharp, mechanical click echoed through the wood. They had locked the door from the inside. I stood in the empty corridor, my back frozen, my hand still holding the useless cane. I turned to look at the frantic woman rushing toward me, her knife raised. I tried to run, but my fractured spine gave out. I collapsed onto my knees. A cold, sharp agony plunged into my abdomen. I fell sideways onto the cold linoleum floor, watching the bright red blood pool around my hands, staining the hospital tiles. The screaming in the hallway faded into a dull, rhythmic hum, and the lights above me slowly went dark.

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1 After we had shared the night together, the woman I had rescued—the one who claimed to have lost her memory—leaned back on my worn-out velvet sofa, her eyes tracking my movements. I took a slow breath, letting the fading warmth of her touch cool on my skin, and walked into the cramped kitchen to start dinner. I was halfway through chopping vegetables when her arms slipped around my waist from behind. In the quiet of the apartment, she murmured against my shoulder, “Actually, my amnesia was a lie. I’m Gwen Prescott, the heiress to the Prescott estate.” I let out a soft laugh. “Right. And I’m the long-lost heir to a tech fortune.” She didn’t laugh. Her eyes curved into a quiet, serious smile. “I have a fiancé. I’m getting married tomorrow.” Feeling the sudden stiffness in my spine, she pulled out her phone and showed me a photo. “He’s suffocatingly possessive,” she whispered, her voice dropping. “He can’t stand any other man near me, which is why I ran away in the first place. But the moment I saw you down by the lake, I felt this raw, physical pull. I couldn’t help myself. That’s why I pretended to lose my memory—just to get close to you.” I stared at the screen, my hand tightening around the handle of the knife. The metal grew cold against my palm, but I could barely feel it. I knew the man in that photo. I knew him intimately, though we had never met. He was the boy living the life that had been stolen from me. Gwen was still talking. She spoke of how Tristan Sinclair was a control freak, how their upcoming wedding was merely a corporate merger, and how she wasn’t entirely heartless—she just had to go back. Finally, she reached up and cupped my cheek, her thumb brushing my cheekbone as if comforting a petulant child. “I can still take care of you after the wedding,” she said softly. “A man with your sweet, quiet nature… you won’t survive long without me.” I looked at her. Really looked at her. For the past two weeks, this woman had held my face in her hands, whimpered in pain from fake headaches, and whispered my name in the dark. I had thought we were two lonely souls finding shelter in a storm. But to her, I was just a low-risk indulgence. A cheap stray she’d taken temporary pity on before returning to her high-society cage. Suddenly, a hundred little details clicked into place. She had claimed to remember nothing, yet she instantly recognized expensive wine, knew the brands of luxury watches, and possessed flawless table manners. Whenever I had suggested calling the police or filing a missing person’s report, she had always steered the conversation away, kissing me or teasingly refusing to let me go. It wasn’t because she was terrified of losing me. She was just terrified of being sent back before her game was finished. “So, it was all a lie?” I asked quietly. She shrugged, her tone light and easy. “Not a lie, exactly. I just wanted to see if you’d actually take me home.” She let out a small laugh. “And I was right. You’re too soft-hearted.” I didn’t answer. Gwen seemed to lose interest in maintaining her fragile facade, laying all her cards on the table. She told me how, after a massive fight with Tristan, she had driven down to the Lake Michigan pier. She had spotted me crouching by the water, trying to coax a shivering stray kitten into a cardboard box. I had a bag of cheap, bruised groceries at my feet, looking desperately poor. And yet, my quiet gentleness had piqued her curiosity. She recounted this with a relaxed, nostalgic smile, as if reminiscing about a particularly successful hunting trip. Listening to her, a wave of cold nausea washed over me. I hadn’t rescued a helpless, vulnerable woman. I had been selected, lured in, and quietly managed. But the real irony—the thing that made me want to laugh out loud—was Tristan Sinclair. Twenty-five years ago, a private Chicago hospital had made a terrible mistake, swapping two newborn boys on a snowy winter night. One went to the Sinclair estate on Lake Shore Drive; the other went to a drafty apartment in Pilsen, raised by a struggling mechanic named Arthur Miller. When I was sixteen, Arthur’s kidneys began to fail. While searching through his metal lockbox for insurance papers, I had found a faded hospital receipt and a DNA test Arthur had quietly run years prior but never acted on. I never went back to claim my place. By the time I found out, Arthur was already hooked up to a dialysis machine, and we were drowning in medical bills. I didn’t have the luxury or the energy to gamble on the conditional love of a wealthy family who had spent two decades loving someone else. I was too busy trying to keep the man who raised me alive. But now, the universe, with its sick sense of humor, had brought Gwen Prescott to my doorstep. Gwen stood before me, her voice dripping with a casual, wealthy patronization. “Once the ceremony is over, I’ll come back for you. Don’t throw a tantrum, and don’t do anything foolish.” Down on the street, a pair of headlights flashed through the window. She adjusted her silk cuffs, picked up her designer coat, and gave me one last look from the doorway. “Think about it. When you’re ready, come to me.” After the door clicked shut, I stood in the silence for a long time. The apartment still smelled of her expensive perfume, the sheets were tossed, and the pot of vegetable soup was still lukewarm on the stove. A few minutes ago, I had been imagining a future with her. Now, I realized the genuine affection I had poured into her was entirely worthless in her eyes. My phone buzzed. It was an address for a luxury high-rise in River North, followed by a photo of a digital keycard. “The lease is in your name now,” her text read. “I’ll make sure your account is taken care of. Just don’t make a scene in front of Tristan, and I’ll keep being good to you.” I stared at the screen and typed two words: “I’m out.” The phone rang almost instantly. I picked it up but remained silent. Gwen let out a sharp sigh, her voice carrying a thin edge of irritation. “Elliot, don’t be childish. I told you, I’m coming back for you. You love me, don’t you? Making this ugly won’t benefit you.” My chest felt tight, the air turning thick. Of course I had loved her. I had run out into a freezing Chicago rainstorm at midnight to find an all-night pharmacy when she complained of a migraine. I had spent my meager grocery budget on fresh ingredients just to make her favorite meals. “I don’t want it anymore, Gwen,” I said quietly, and hung up. I sat in the dark living room, surrounded by the physical remnants of her stay—her half-empty coffee mug, her discarded sweater, the lingering scent of jasmine. Before I could even stand up to clear the table, the front door was kicked open. It was Tristan Sinclair. He looked exactly like his photos—tall, impeccably tailored, with a cold, aristocratic posture. Two heavy-set men in dark suits stepped in behind him, flanking the door. Tristan’s eyes swept over my cheap furniture, finally landing on my collarbone, where a faint purple bruise from Gwen’s bite was still visible. His face hardened into a mask of pure disgust. “So, you’re the rat?” I didn’t answer. He stepped into the apartment, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the worn hardwood. He looked from the small kitchen to the unmade bed, then back to me. “A man living in a dump like this actually dared to touch my fiancée?” I reached for the door, intending to push his guards out, but one of them stepped forward, slamming his palm against the wood to lock it in place. Tristan chuckled, a low, condescending sound. “Gwen was just looking for a little pre-wedding thrill. You didn’t actually think you were going to win her, did you? Men like you get a taste of a high-society woman and suddenly think they’re royalty.” “I have no intention of being with her,” I said, my voice flat. He sneered, clearly not believing a word. “Cut the act. People like you always want a payout.” With a casual flick of his wrist, Tristan swept my grandmother’s ceramic water pitcher off the counter. It shattered on the floor, water and clay shards spraying across my feet. Before I could speak, he nodded to his men. “Clean it up.” In an instant, they began to systematically tear my apartment apart. Bookshelves were tipped over, drawers were dumped, and chairs were smashed. I lunged forward to stop one of them, but the other grabbed my shoulder and threw me backward. My lower back collided with the sharp corner of the dining table, a dull, blinding pain radiating through my spine. Tristan stood amidst the wreckage, watching me struggle to stand. “You need to learn your place,” he said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. “You don’t belong in our world, Elliot. Even if you tried to climb, you’d never reach the bottom step.” He turned, his shoe coming down directly on a small, wooden frame on the floor. It was the only photo I had of Arthur Miller and me, taken at a diner after my high school graduation. “No!” I lunged for his leg, but the guards pinned my arms behind my back, forcing me to my knees. One of them snatched my phone from my pocket. Tristan looked down at the shattered glass of the frame, his heel grinding into Arthur’s face. He glanced at my phone, a cold smirk playing on his lips. “Were you going to call the police?” he asked, turning the phone over in his hand. “Who do you think they’ll believe? A Sinclair, or a mechanic’s kid with a criminal record for trespassing?” He tossed my phone onto the ruined sofa, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a checkbook. He scribbled a number, tore the slip of paper, and let it flutter down onto the floor in front of me. “Take the money and leave Chicago. If I ever catch you near Gwen again, the next visit won’t involve a check.” He turned and walked out, his guards trailing close behind. The apartment fell into a heavy, ringing silence. I crawled over to the shattered frame, my fingers picking through the glass shards. A sharp edge sliced my thumb, and a bead of dark red blood welled up, dripping onto the torn photo. I stared at Arthur’s ruined face. I had never wanted their money. I had never wanted their status. I had only wanted to be left alone. But they wouldn’t let me. That evening, the knock came again. I didn’t open the door. I stood on the other side of the wood, my voice hoarse. “What do you want, Gwen?” “Why did you have to provoke him, Elliot?” her voice drifted through the door, tight with exasperation. I let out a dry, breath of a laugh. “I provoked him? He came into my home and destroyed everything I own.” There was a long pause. “I’ll compensate you for the damages,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “I’ll talk to Tristan and make sure he leaves you alone. Just… stop throwing a tantrum, Elliot. I’m trying to take care of you.” It was always the same. She spoke to me as if I were a difficult child who didn’t understand the rules of her world. “Go away,” I said. She didn’t move. “Open the door. Let’s talk.” I stayed silent. A moment later, her phone rang. I heard her answer it, her voice instantly shifting into a polite, sweet cadence as she spoke to Tristan. “I’m on my way,” she murmured. Then, through the door: “Wait for me, Elliot. I’ll come back after the rehearsal dinner.” Her footsteps faded down the stairwell. She was always leaving. No matter what she promised, the moment her real world called, she ran back to it without a backward glance. For the next two days, she didn’t return. I assumed she was locked in the pre-wedding whirlwind of high-society events. I thought I would have a moment to breathe, but the afternoon before the wedding, Tristan’s men returned. This time, they didn’t speak. The moment I opened the door, three men forced their way in, pinning me to the floor. A heavy boot came down on my back, pinning my chest to the wood. I felt a fist slam into my jaw, followed by the dull, heavy impact of a blunt object against my temple. Blood warm and thick began to pool over my eyebrow, dripping into my eyes. “Tristan says congratulations on your move,” one of them whispered, before they finally let me go and vanished into the corridor. I lay on the floor, my breathing ragged, my head throbbing with a violent, white-hot pain. But as I slowly dragged myself up against the wall, my eyes drifted to the small, dark lens of the security camera hidden inside the bookshelf. I had installed it months ago after a series of break-ins in the building. The little red light was still blinking. They had recorded everything. I cleaned the blood from my face, grabbed my jacket, and walked to the nearest clinic. After getting six stitches in my forehead, I walked out into the cold Chicago air, only to see Gwen’s black town car pulled up to the curb. She stepped out, wearing a sleek, tailored coat. When her eyes fell on the white bandage taped over my forehead, her face drained of color. “Did Tristan do this?” I didn’t answer, stepping past her. She caught my arm, her fingers trembling. “I’ll handle him, Elliot. I swear I will. But tomorrow is the wedding. You have to endure it just a little longer. Once the ceremony is over, I’ll make it up to you.” The last lingering shred of my affection for her died in that exact moment. She knew what he had done, she knew the violence he was capable of, and her only solution was for me to endure it so her perfect day wouldn’t be ruined. I snatched my arm back, grabbed a paper coffee cup from a nearby trash bin, and threw it at her feet. “Get out of my way, Gwen.” She stood frozen on the sidewalk as I walked past. I went back to my ruined apartment, packed the raw footage from the security feed into a flash drive, tucked the family signet ring into my pocket, and prepared my final documents. I was done playing the victim. The day of the wedding was cold and gray. The Peninsula Hotel was crowded with Chicago’s elite, the air thick with the scent of expensive floral arrangements and high-end champagne. I walked through the lobby, my cheap wool coat and the stark white bandage on my forehead drawing sharp, whispered murmurs from the guests in tuxedos and gowns. But I kept my chin up, walking straight toward the groom’s private suite. When I pushed the double doors open, the room fell dead silent. Tristan was standing in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting his silk bow tie. Gwen was sitting on the velvet chaise lounge, a silk robe draped over her shoulders. The moment she saw me, her glass of champagne slipped from her hand, shattering on the marble floor. I stood in the doorway, looking at Tristan. My voice was incredibly quiet, but it carried to every corner of the room. “I didn’t want to be here, Tristan,” I said, stepping inside. “But you insisted on dragging me into your world.” Tristan’s face twisted into an ugly, dark sneer. “Are you out of your mind? Get this trash out of here!” I didn’t look at the guards who stepped toward me. Instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the heavy platinum signet ring, holding it up so the light caught the engraved Sinclair crest. Catherine Sinclair, Tristan’s mother, had just walked into the room. The moment her eyes fell on the ring, her breath caught, her face turning completely translucent. “Where… where did you get that?” she whispered, her voice shaking. Tristan panicked, his eyes darting to his mother. “Mom, don’t listen to him! He’s a con artist Gwen brought in from the streets! He’s trying to ruin the wedding!” I didn’t argue. I simply pulled out my phone, connected it to the suite’s smart screen, and hit play. The ninetieth-floor security feed flashed onto the wall-sized screen. The entire room watched in horrific silence as Tristan’s men dragged me to the floor, beating me while Tristan stood by, calmly adjusting his cuffs. Then, the audio of Gwen’s voice cut through the room, clear and damning, detailing her plans to keep me as a secret lover after her marriage. Gwen’s face turned entirely gray. She looked at me, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with a sudden, paralyzing terror as she finally realized who I was. “You…” she breathed, her voice cracking. “Who are you?” I looked her dead in the eye. “According to the Sinclair estate,” I said softly, “I’m the man who was supposed to be standing at the altar today.”

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1 I was covering an extra shift for a colleague in the ER when I saw his chart. According to the electronic records, he had been admitted to the emergency room nearly a hundred times over the past year for acute cat dander allergies. Thirty-eight of those visits had ended with him in the respiratory ICU. “Don’t you know you have severe, life-threatening asthma?” I asked, keeping my voice low, almost a whisper. “Sustained exposure to cat dander is going to kill you.” He didn’t recognize me behind my surgical mask. Between a grueling twelve-hour shift and training the incoming residents the night before, my voice was completely shot, reduced to a dry rasp. He simply smiled, a gentle, patient expression on his face. “I don’t have much of a choice, Doc,” he explained softly. “My girlfriend’s clinical depression is incredibly severe. Having a cat is the only thing that keeps her grounded and brings her any joy. She hasn’t been doing well lately, so I’ve had to step in and care for the kitten myself. If a little suffering on my part makes her smile, it’s worth it.” I froze. The words struck me like a physical blow. Because of his allergies, I had personally given away my two cats—animals I had loved and raised for ten years. If he was doing all of this for his girlfriend… then who was the woman living in his apartment? Tears welled up in my eyes, completely bypassing my control and spilling over my cheeks. I quickly lowered my head, pulling the bridge of my mask higher to hide my face, but my sudden distress didn’t escape Carter Hayes’s notice. “Doctor… are you alright?” I waved my hand quickly, trying to dismiss his concern. “It’s nothing. Just… I’m just incredibly touched by your devotion. Mr. Hayes, you’re a remarkably good man.” Carter scratched his cheek, which was already red and slightly swollen from the allergic reaction, though a genuine warmth remained in his eyes. “Well, a man has to protect his partner. Life is hard enough for women; the least we can do is cherish them.” But that wasn’t what Carter had said when we first discussed moving in together in Boston. Back then, the mere presence of my two cats had sparked a screaming match that lasted for days. “Jasmine, you don’t love me! To you, those damn cats are more important than my actual survival!” “I love you, and I’d compromise on anything else, but I can’t compromise on this. This is my health, Jasmine. It’s a matter of life and death!” At that time, his allergy was mild—nothing more than seasonal rhinitis. Yet, for the sake of his health, and to build a future with him, I made the heartbreaking decision to send my ten-year-old cats away. Oliver and Barnaby had been with me since the day I graduated from college. I would never forget the quiet, confused whimpering from inside their carriers when the transport van drove away. Carter had been moved by my sacrifice, holding me tightly for a few minutes to comfort me. “My sweet girl, you’ve sacrificed so much for us,” he had whispered. “I know I chose the right partner. True love is all about mutual compromise.” I had believed him. I really had. But sitting in that sterile exam room, I finally realized the truth: true love meant he was indeed willing to endure anything, even the threat of suffocation, for the person he loved. Just not for me. Carter seemed to view me as a safe confidante. “You know, Doc, since you’re a woman, maybe you can help me understand. I want to make her feel better, but I’m at a loss. Aside from her medication and my constant presence, what else can I do for someone struggling with depression?” “Why don’t you…” I swallowed the lump in my throat, my voice cracking. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about your story?” To my surprise, the usually reserved Carter opened up completely. From his detailed, affectionate descriptions, I easily identified the “girlfriend” in question. It was Paige Jenkins, the girl who grew up next door to him. The bitter irony was that whenever Carter spoke of Paige to me, his tone had been dripping with contempt. “That girl is a nightmare,” he’d say with a scoff. “She used to bully me when we were kids because she hit her growth spurt first. Now she’s grown up and developed this dramatic, self-indulgent ‘depression’ to get attention. It’s exhausting. I can’t stand women who are constantly falling apart. Jasmine, I’m so glad you’re an independent woman. You don’t drain my energy.” Suppressing the tremor in my hands, I leaned on my professional training to offer him standard clinical advice on supporting a partner with severe depressive episodes. Carter nodded along, taking notes on his phone. “Thank you, Doc. This helps a lot. It really takes a woman to understand a woman.” I felt entirely numb, as if my nervous system had simply shut down to protect itself. Suddenly, Carter reached out, his hand hovering near my face. “You know, Doctor… your voice, and even the shape of your eyes, they actually remind me a bit of my girlfriend.” Later, during a brief lull in the ER, I pulled up Paige’s social media on my phone. I covered the lower half of her face in her photos, comparing her to my own reflection in the staff restroom mirror. We didn’t look alike at all. And our voices were completely different. I couldn’t help but wonder: when Carter referred to his “girlfriend” in those quiet, tender moments, was he thinking of me, or was he already living in a reality where Paige had taken my place? When I finally returned to our apartment that night, I collapsed onto the sofa, unable to stop myself from scrolling through old videos of Oliver and Barnaby. When I first graduated and moved to Boston, I was entirely alone. The crushing pressure of my residency, the sleepless nights, and the overwhelming isolation would have broken me if not for those two cats. They would press their warm, furry heads against my chin, purring until my breathing slowed down, rolling on their backs to make me smile. And yet, I had abandoned them. Even though Carter had paid for a high-end boarding facility, it didn’t change the fact that I had traded their loyalty for a lie. My hands began to shake—a physical symptom of anxiety I hadn’t experienced in years. In a sudden fit of self-loathing, I struck my own cheek, the sharp slap echoing in the empty room. “Jasmine! What are you doing?” Carter rushed forward, catching my wrists. He had taken a heavy dose of prescription antihistamines, and his face had mostly returned to normal, though his skin was still slightly flushed. His eyes fell on the video playing on my phone, and a brief flicker of guilt crossed his features. “Oh. You’re just missing Oliver and Barnaby.” He pulled me into his chest, rubbing my back. “If you miss them that much, we can go see them at the foster home. I’ll go with you. I’m just incredibly busy at the clinic this week, so let’s plan for a few days from now, okay?” He was wearing the same black wool sweater from earlier. Though he had carefully lint-rolled it, I could still spot a few stray white cat hairs clinging to the back of his shoulder. “Carter…” I gently pulled out of his embrace, looking up into his eyes. “I don’t want to just visit them anymore. I want to bring them back. I want them here.” The warmth in his eyes instantly vanished. “I promise I won’t let them near you,” I continued, my voice pleading. “I know you’re allergic. This apartment is spacious enough; I can set up a dedicated sunroom for them. I’ll deep-clean every single day, I promise. Not a single stray hair will get near you.” Carter looked at me with cold, thinly veiled irritation, as if he were explaining something simple to a difficult child. “Jasmine, we’ve settled this. Is your temporary mood really worth risking my actual physical survival?” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Besides, your hospital schedule is insane. Who’s going to end up cleaning after them and feeding them? It always falls back on me.” Every argument I had prepared died in my throat. I wanted to scream, to demand why Paige’s mood was worth his life while mine wasn’t even worth a minor inconvenience. But the truth was already laid bare. There was no point in arguing with a man who had already made his choice. That night, we entered a silent, freezing cold war. “Jasmine, stop being so unreasonable,” he muttered before grabbing his pillow and sleeping in the guest room. I lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling until dawn, the gossip of my ER colleagues echoing in my ears: “What kind of love makes a man risk his actual life like that?” “She must have saved a universe in her past life to deserve a partner who loves her that much.” As the first light of morning filtered through the blinds, I unlocked my phone and opened a contact I hadn’t messaged in years. Is it too late if I come to Asheville now? Almost instantly, the status changed to typing… It’s never too late. A minute later, another message popped up. Jasmine… did something happen? Without a single drop of hesitation, I booked a one-way flight to North Carolina and drafted my resignation letter to the hospital. Standard protocol required a one-month transition period. The next afternoon, Carter ended up in my triage lane again. “I’m so sorry to keep bothering you, Doctor,” he said, offering a sheepish, apologetic smile as he sat down. He began recounting his symptoms with practiced ease. “I didn’t make it back to her place last night, and her anxiety flared up so badly she couldn’t even bring herself to groom the cat. She has very high expectations, you see—the kitten needs daily brushing, and because I wasn’t there…” I looked down at his lab results. His oxygen saturation levels were bordering on dangerous. “I try to understand,” he murmured, sighing. “She’s just so insecure. But last night was an unavoidable business obligation. I couldn’t get away.” I couldn’t take it anymore. With trembling hands, I reached behind my ears and pulled off my surgical mask. “So, being with me is what you call an ‘unavoidable business obligation’?” Carter froze, his eyes widening in sheer terror. “Carter,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. “Do you want to explain this to me? Honestly?” The pieces of the past year fell into place with terrifying clarity. The sudden “late-night shifts” at his clinic, the weekends spent “visiting his parents,” the wedding date that kept getting pushed back further and further. “Jasmine… let me explain. You’re misunderstanding this,” he stammered, reaching out to grab my hand, but I pulled away. “Paige and I… we grew up together. You know that. I’m only doing this out of obligation to our families. And when I called her my girlfriend to you… it was just a slip of the tongue. I meant a ‘girl friend’—a female friend.” The sheer audacity of his lie made me physically sick. Despite every code of professional ethics engraved in my mind, I couldn’t stop myself. I raised my hand and slapped him hard across the face. “Don’t touch me, Carter. You make me sick.” The confrontation spilled out of the exam room, escalating into a bitter, public spectacle in the hospital corridor. By the time security intervened, Carter’s face was marked with red scratches, and he had resorted to viciously tearing down my character to protect his pride. “Fine! I care about Paige, so what?!” he yelled, ignoring the stares of the staff. “If you hadn’t been so paranoid, if you weren’t constantly buried in your residency and canceling our plans, would I have needed to look elsewhere for emotional support? You chose your career over us, Jasmine!” My fingers clamped tightly around the printout of an experimental research file tucked inside my white coat. Carter had a rare, complex immune profile that made him highly sensitive to multiple environmental allergens, not just cats. My mentor had told me it was nearly impossible to treat effectively. But I hadn’t given up. For the past three years, I had spent every spare hour in the university lab, developing a targeted immunotherapy protocol specifically tailored to his genetic markers. The final clinical trials had just concluded successfully, and the drug was close to approval. I had planned to present it to him as a wedding gift. Not so I could bring my cats back, but so he could finally walk through a park in the spring without struggling to breathe. In an instant, the anger left me, replaced by a profound, empty exhaustion. “Let’s end this, Carter. We’re done.” After that day, Carter made no attempt to contact me. I threw myself into my final weeks of hospital duty, focusing entirely on wrapping up my research and preparing for my departure. Meanwhile, my phone kept buzzing with updates from Asheville. I looked at a few houses with large yards today. Let me know if any of these layouts work for the sanctuary. I’ve already spoken to the local zoning board about the permits. Here are the documents. Jasmine, I’m here. Whenever you’re ready. My heart ached with a complex mix of grief and relief. Just as I was about to lock my phone, a string of messages arrived from an unknown number. Babe, Barnaby threw up another hairball. Come over and clean it up. Oliver has diarrhea again. It’s so disgusting. The sender was Paige. Attached were two short videos. A gorgeous Ragdoll and a large Golden Shaded British Shorthair. It was Oliver and Barnaby. In the videos, both cats looked neglected. Their eyes were dull and weeping, their coats matted, and their bodies visibly thinner than the last time I had seen them in the boarding facility photos. I sat in my car, staring at the screen for two minutes, my breathing shallow. Then, Paige quickly deleted the messages. Oh, my god, I am so sorry! Wrong chat. Please don’t misunderstand, Jasmine—that was meant for my boyfriend. A cold, dark fury took hold of me. I turned the key in the ignition and drove straight to the address I had found on Paige’s public profile. When she opened the door, a smug, mocking smile was already plastered on her face. “Oh, hi, Jasmine. Are you here because you think my cats are cute?” “Give me Oliver and Barnaby. Now.” I pushed past her, ignoring her dramatic gasps of protest. The moment I stepped into the living room, the two cats let out low, plaintive meows and scrambled out from under the couch, throwing themselves against my ankles, burying their faces in my shins as if pleading not to be left behind again. I scooped them both into my arms, ignoring Paige’s screeching behind me, and walked out. Safely back in my car, I texted Luke. Change my ticket. I want to leave tonight. His reply came three seconds later. I’ll handle it. Back at the apartment, I packed my bags in a quiet frenzy, my tears blurring my vision. When we had first leased this place, it was a run-down, empty shell. Carter had spent weekends painting the walls, installing custom shelving, and organizing every corner to match my exact aesthetic, spending several months’ worth of his salary to make it perfect. I had told him it was too much effort for a temporary rental. He had held my hands and said, “The apartment is temporary, Jasmine, but my devotion to you isn’t. I want to build a real home with you.” Looking at those beautiful, hand-carved shelves now, the memories felt like a cruel joke. I decided to leave everything behind. I didn’t want a single reminder of the life we had planned. I only wanted my cats and my freedom. But as I reached for the doorknob with my suitcases, the door swung open, revealing an infuriated Carter. He lunged forward, his hand raised as if to strike me, though he stopped himself at the last second, his chest heaving. “Are you out of your mind? Who gave you permission to assault Paige in her own home?” he screamed. “I told you, she has severe clinical depression! Caring for those cats was the only thing keeping her stable!” When I didn’t answer, he pulled out his phone and shoved a blurry, poorly edited photo in my face. “Look at this! Because you violently dragged those cats away, Paige tried to cut her wrists! If anything happens to her, Jasmine, I swear to God I will make your life a living hell!” The depth of my disappointment was so absolute that I didn’t even have the energy to argue. I looked at him with complete indifference and gently pushed his hand away from my face. “Oliver and Barnaby belong to me. Now, please step aside. The movers are on their way.” Only then did Carter notice the suitcases lined up near the door. “Oh, I see,” he sneered, crossing his arms. “You’re running away now? Just because I’ve been trying to save a girl’s life, you’re going to throw a tantrum and pack your bags? Who are you trying to scare, Jasmine?” I shook my head slowly. “I’m not throwing a tantrum, Carter.” “We’re done.” His face twisted in frustration. “Jasmine, stop acting like a child! Paige is literally suicidal right now because she lost those cats, and I don’t have time for your jealousy! Give them back to me!” He lunged forward to grab the cat carriers. When I stepped in front of them, he shoved me hard, sending me crashing against the entryway table. “Jasmine!” Before Carter could reach for the carriers again, a tall figure burst through the open doorway, slamming into Carter and throwing him back against the wall. A deep, furious voice echoed through the hallway. “Get your hands off her.”

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1 I was supposed to be a nobody in this story—a passing extra who made a reckless, lust-fueled mistake and ended up in the second male lead’s bed. The next morning, he slid a five-million-dollar check across the nightstand. I was about to reach for it when a strange, glowing scroll of text—a virtual wall of comments—flashed across my vision. “The second male lead is so tragic. The moment he found out the female lead got married, he completely lost his mind. He donated every cent of his fortune and burned himself alive in his townhouse.” “And to think, this random extra was actually carrying his baby. She could have left him a legacy, but she was just using him for a quick hookup. She took the cash and ran, leaving him to rot.” My hand froze inches from the check. I pulled my fingers back, looking him straight in the eyes. “Five million to raise a child? In this economy? Honestly, it’s a bit tight.” Ethan Hawthorne blinked, his icy composure faltering. “What? Since when does raising a kid require that much capital?” Ethan stared at me, his gaze dropping to my flat stomach. “It’s been exactly one night,” he muttered, his voice tight. “There’s no guarantee you’re even pregnant.” He reached for his phone on the nightstand. “I’ll have my assistant run to the pharmacy and get some emergency contraception.” “I’m severely allergic to morning-after pills,” I lied smoothly, shaking my head. “The active hormones put me straight into anaphylactic shock.” I leaned back against the headboard, crossing my arms. “But what if I am pregnant? You aren’t seriously planning to leave me and our child to fend for ourselves with a measry five million, are you?” “If it happens, you can always get an ab—” “How can you be so heartless?” I gasped, looking at him with deep, theatrical condemnation. “The poor baby hasn’t even had a chance to see the world, and you’re already plotting its demise?” “Besides,” I continued, letting my voice tremble slightly, “I have a delicate constitution. If I undergo a procedure like that, my doctor says I might never be able to conceive again.” Ethan looked deeply conflicted, his jaw clenching as he tried to process this sudden complication. I didn’t press him. Instead, I let out a heavy, tragic sigh and slid out from the other side of the bed, wrapping the sheet around myself. “Never mind.” “If I really am pregnant, I’ll just carry her to term and find a nice family to adopt her. It’s a hard life, growing up in foster care, never knowing who your real parents are. If she’s a girl, she’ll probably have an even tougher time… but I suppose that’s just her hand in life.” “Wait!” Ethan couldn’t take it anymore. He lunged across the bed and caught my wrist. “Just… let’s wait and see if you actually are pregnant first. If the test is positive, I’ll make proper arrangements.” He snatched the check from the table and shoved it back into my hand. “Take the money for now.” “If you insist,” I said, slipping the check under my pillow. We exchanged contact information, and as I walked out of the hotel suite, the glowing comments floated before my eyes again. “Wait, the plot is changing? Is it because of this extra?” “Whatever the reason, at least he’s alive for now…” “Ethan is honestly the most tragic character. He never received a shred of warmth growing up, except for that one time the female lead was nice to him.” “That’s why he treats Madelyn like his absolute savior, building an entire corporate empire just to impress her. But she just treats him like a convenient backup option, discarding him when she’s done. I really hope he finds a reason to live.” I quietly pocketed my phone. A man this stunningly attractive and wealthy shouldn’t be allowed to burn himself to ash. I was going to keep him too busy to die. Over the next two weeks, I used his five million dollars to thoroughly upgrade my living situation. The virtual comments popped up occasionally, warning me that his mental health was spiraling. Every time the screen hinted he was getting close to the edge, I sent him a text. I’ve been feeling really nauseous lately. I think it might be happening. He would reply almost instantly: Have you tested yet? Not yet. It’s still too early. I kept him dangling on a thread. Two weeks later, I sat in the waiting room of a private prenatal clinic. Suddenly, the virtual comments began to scroll at a manic pace. “Oh no! Richard and Madelyn’s wedding is today! And they actually had the cruelty to send Ethan an invitation!” “He’s watching them exchange vows right now. He’s completely broken. He’s heading back to his place to swallow a bottle of pills!” “Someone do something! Ethan, don’t do it!” 2 My heart leaped. I quickly pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the positive pregnancy test in my hand, and sent it to him. I’m pregnant. You’re not going to flake on me, are you? The three dots appeared immediately. After a tense minute, a reply came through. Where are you? I pinned the clinic’s location and sent it. In less than twenty minutes, a sleek black town car screeched to a halt outside the clinic doors. Ethan burst through the entrance, looking completely disheveled. He stared at the test result in my hand, then looked down at my perfectly flat stomach, utterly dazed. I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s only been two weeks, Ethan. It’s barely a cluster of cells. What are you looking for?” Before he could speak, I pressed the issue. “You promised you’d take responsibility if it happened. If you want to back out, I’ll start looking at adoption agencies today.” “I never said I was backing out,” he said, clearing his throat. He took my hand, his grip surprisingly firm. “Come with me. You’re moving into my place.” He drove us to his suburban villa on the lakefront. It was a beautiful, secluded estate surrounded by towering pines and crisp, fresh air. I made myself right at home, wandering through the spacious rooms. “This is perfect. I’ll take the master suite. Also, since this is my first pregnancy, we’re going to need a team of professional prenatal nannies and a specialized chef. Any objections?” “No,” Ethan murmured, his voice hollow as he pulled out his phone to instruct his assistant. I settled into the villa. The staff Ethan hired was top-tier, preparing meticulously balanced meals and guiding me through every stage of prenatal care. But Ethan remained a ghost in his own home, spending most of his time locked in his study. One evening, around midnight, I woke up to a sudden flurry of comments hovering near my ceiling. “Since the wedding, Madelyn has been posting nonstop couple goals on Instagram. Even her husband feeding her a spoonful of soup gets a five-hundred-word sappy essay.” “Ethan is sitting in his dark study, scrolling through her feed and completely spiraling. I’m afraid the baby won’t be enough to keep him here.” I frowned, threw off my blanket, and marched down the hallway, knocking loudly on his study door. After a long pause, the door swung open. Ethan stood there, his face pale and eyes shadowed with exhaustion. “I have terrible morning sickness,” I announced, keeping my expression perfectly serious. “My stomach is burning, and I’m starving. Go make me something to eat.” Ethan blinked, looking entirely lost. “I… I don’t know how to cook.” “Then look up a video tutorial,” I said, crossing my arms. “The chef and nannies are asleep, and it’s dangerous for a pregnant woman to operate heavy appliances in the middle of the night. What if I slip and hurt the baby?” “I’ll do it,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping. He walked down to the kitchen, propped his phone against the spice rack, and clumsily attempted to boil a bowl of chicken noodle soup. I took one spoonful of the broth and immediately set the bowl down. “This tastes like dishwater.” Ethan’s brow furrowed. “Is it really that bad?” He took a small sip from his spoon and immediately spat it into the sink. He looked at me, embarrassed. “Should I order takeout?” “We’re in the suburbs, Ethan. By the time a delivery driver gets here, it’ll be time for my prenatal yoga class. Go make another bowl.” I kept him in that kitchen for two hours, rejecting six consecutive attempts. By the seventh bowl, the broth was actually rich and flavorful. I ate two spoonfuls, patted my stomach, and stood up. “I’m full. I’m going back to sleep, and you should too.” Ethan was so physically drained from standing over the stove and chopping vegetables that his exhaustion completely overrode his grief. He nodded numbly and stumbled toward his bedroom, forgetting his phone entirely. The comments in my room were practically vibrating with laughter. “Oh my god, she worked him so hard he didn’t have time to be sad!” “When you’re too busy cooking noodles, you don’t have time to contemplate the meaning of life.” “This is brilliant. Keep making him work!” 3 The next morning, before the chef could even set the table, I marched over and knocked on Ethan’s door again. He opened it, sporting a pair of massive dark circles under his eyes. “I can’t stomach the chef’s breakfast today,” I declared. “I have a sudden craving for pumpkin oatmeal. Go look up a recipe and make it from scratch.” He stood there, his brain clearly struggling to boot up. I stepped lightly on his slippered foot. “Hurry up. The baby is hungry.” Ethan cleared his throat, sighed, and headed straight for the kitchen. Making oatmeal required constant stirring, forcing him to stand by the hot stove for forty minutes without a single moment to check his social media. Once the oatmeal was done, I ate a few spoonfuls to satisfy my hunger, then laid out my demands for the rest of the day. “For lunch, I want steamed sea bass, roasted herb chicken, and sweet and sour ribs. You have to make them yourself. Ask the chef to supervise you.” Without waiting for his response, I turned and headed back to my room for a morning nap. When I woke up at noon, the dining table was set with the exact dishes I had requested. Under the chef’s strict guidance, the food was actually quite good. From that day on, the kitchen became Ethan’s domain. I refused to eat anything he didn’t personally cook. If he tried to sneak a dish prepared by the chef, I would take one bite, pretend to gag, and claim that the baby possessed an incredibly sensitive palate that only recognized its father’s cooking. Faced with the threat of my malnutrition, Ethan didn’t dare slack off. Between managing the Hawthorne Group’s daily operations, learning gourmet recipes, and looking after my health, his schedule was packed to the second. He had absolutely no time to search for Madelyn’s updates. One evening, after finishing dinner, I carefully packed a portion of the leftover chicken and placed it in the warming drawer. Ethan watched me, his brow raised. “Still hungry?” “No, this is for you,” I said, looking at him. “You’ve been cooking all day and barely touched your own plate. You’ve had a terrible stomach since your startup days, and skipping meals is only going to trigger your ulcers. If you collapse from a stomach bleed, who’s going to feed me and the baby?” Ethan froze, staring at the warm container. “I don’t need—” “Eat it,” I commanded, leaving no room for argument. “You look like a ghost walking around this house. I need my personal chef in prime condition.” He didn’t argue further. The next morning, when I checked the kitchen, the container was clean and sitting in the dishwasher. As the months passed, my belly began to swell. Ethan seemed fascinated by the physical reality of the pregnancy, his gaze constantly lingering on my stomach. By the fifth month, the baby began to kick. Seeing him stare at my belly with quiet awe during dinner, I smiled. “Want to feel?” “Can I?” he whispered, his voice hesitant. I took his hand and pressed his palm against the soft curve of my stomach. A second later, a distinct, gentle thump nudged his palm. Ethan’s eyes widened, a genuine, brilliant smile breaking across his face. He leaned down, pressing his ear against my belly, holding his breath as he listened to the faint, rapid heartbeat of our child. “Her heart… it’s beating so fast,” he whispered, looking up at me with bright, wonder-filled eyes. “Of course it is,” I laughed, running my fingers through his hair. His attitude had shifted completely. He was no longer just fulfilling a duty; he was falling in love with the life we were creating. 4 In my sixth month of pregnancy, an uninvited guest arrived at the villa. A middle-aged woman with a loud, abrasive voice barged through the front doors, ignoring the security guards. The moment she saw Ethan, she pointed a crooked finger at his nose and began to shriek. “Well, look at you, Ethan Hawthorne! I slave away to raise you after your parents died, and the moment you make a few dollars, you lock yourself in this mansion and ignore your own flesh and blood! You ungrateful, heartless leach!” Ethan’s face drained of color, his hands trembling at his sides. The virtual comments immediately began to scroll across my vision. “It’s Beatrice Miller, his biological aunt. She took him in after his parents’ car accident.” “She abused him for years, and now she has the audacity to show up here demanding a handout? Disgusting!” “The truth is, she was only nice to him for the first two years because she wanted his parents’ life insurance payout. Once she got pregnant with her own son, everything changed.” “They spent every cent of his inheritance on their own kid, ignored Ethan, starved him, and beat him whenever their son threw a tantrum.” Beatrice took a seat on the custom leather sofa, crossing her legs with a smug expression. “I raised you for ten years, Ethan. You owe me at least five million dollars.” “My son is getting married next month, and you’re going to buy him a brownstone in the city. And you’re going to give him an executive position at the Hawthorne Group, or I’ll go to every major news outlet and tell them exactly how the great Ethan Hawthorne treats the aunt who saved his life!” Ethan clenched his fists, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I could see him slipping back into the dark, helpless space of his childhood. I took a slow breath, walked down the stairs, and offered Beatrice a sweet, pleasant smile. “Five million? Of course, Aunt Beatrice. We can certainly discuss that.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “539819”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 In my third year as Arthur Bradford’s little secret—the pretty thing he kept tucked away in a gilded-cage townhouse—his high-society fiancée finally came knocking. She didn’t throw a scene. Instead, she laid a folder on the marble kitchen island. Inside was my mother’s critical care chart, along with a quiet, icy threat: make myself disappear, or my mother’s medical support would be cut off that very night. I’ve always been a pragmatist. I valued survival over pride. Before the sun rose, I had swept my most valuable jewelry into a duffel bag, packed a single suitcase, and fled Boston in the dead of night, carrying a secret of my own: a child growing inside me. The rumor mill whispered that when Arthur discovered my empty closet, he went absolutely feral. Word was he vowed to tear the country apart to drag me back, threatening to break my legs and lock me inside that townhouse forever. I was terrified enough to stay entirely off the grid for five years. I hid in Savannah, Georgia, building a quiet, small life under a different name. But my luck ran out on the day of my son’s preschool graduation. Standing near the school gate, I froze when I saw my little boy, Toby, clinging to the tailored trousers of a very tall, very imposing stranger. “You took my twenty dollars,” Toby declared, his voice carrying over the chatter of the crowd. “That means you have to be my dad for the day!” The man gripped the hood of Toby’s green dinosaur sweater, lifting him slightly so they were eye-to-eye. A cold, dangerous smirk played on his lips. “Little con artist. You think twenty bucks buys a father?” Toby immediately dropped to his bottom on the concrete, opened his mouth, and let out a theatrical wail. “Hey, everyone, look!” he screamed, tears flowing on command. “This rich guy took a kid’s money and won’t do his job! He’s bullying an orphan!” Dozens of parents instantly whipped out their iPhones, cameras pointing at the scene. A sharp vein pulsed at the man’s temple. But what made my knees turn to jelly was his face. It was an absolute, undeniable mirror of my son’s. I retreated into the crowd, my chest tight. God help me. How on earth was Arthur Bradford in Savannah? And worse… the man I had spent five years running from had just been bought by his own son for a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “Stop crying, kid. I’m not in the mood.” Arthur held Toby by the hood of his dinosaur sweater, his face dark enough to summon a thunderstorm. Toby took a deep, dramatic breath and let out another earth-shattering sob. It was a masterpiece of emotional manipulation. Arthur actually looked stunned. He wasn’t used to people treating his threats as an invitation to make more noise, let alone a tiny human who barely reached his thigh. The crowd of onlookers grew larger. Toby peeked through his fingers, realized he had an audience, and raised the volume. “He took my twenty dollars! I don’t even have a dad, and now I’m being scammed!” A woman nearby raised her phone, frowning at Arthur. “He looks wealthy. Why is he stealing twenty bucks from a toddler?” “Cheap soul in an expensive suit,” another murmured. Arthur looked down at the two crumpled ten-dollar bills in his palm, his jaw clenching so hard I thought his teeth might crack. I desperately searched for an escape route. The other parents had no idea who Arthur Bradford was, but I did. He was the head of the Bradford Group—ruthless, impatient, and legendary for his temper. He was also my son’s biological father. I took a slow step backward. Then another. But Toby caught sight of me through the gaps in the crowd. “Mommy!” he squealed, scrambling up and sprinting toward me. At that exact second, Arthur’s gaze followed the boy. Across the sea of parents and bright balloons, our eyes met. He froze. I spun on my heel and bolted. “Nora!” The familiar, deep baritone sliced through the humid morning air. I ran faster. “Stop right there.” Only an idiot would stop. He had threatened to break my legs five years ago; I had an excellent memory for self-preservation. But I’d only made it three paces before Toby threw his arms around my knees, anchoring me to the spot. “Mommy, you’re leaving me behind!” My sweet boy, I thought, I was trying to save us both. I bent down and scooped him into my arms. “I was just… testing your reflexes.” “Did I pass?” “Yes. Your reward is that you’re not grounded today.” A gloved hand wrapped firmly around my wrist from behind. The faint, expensive scent of cedarwood and cold rain washed over me. Arthur’s voice was low, vibrating with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. “Take another step. I dare you.” My legs felt like water, but I forced a bright, perfectly vacant smile as I turned around. “Mr. Bradford! What a small world.” “It’s not small,” he said, his fingers tightening gently but immovably around my wrist. “I’ve been looking for you for exactly one thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven days.” My heart hammered against my ribs. He had counted the days. He was definitely here to ruin my life. I shifted Toby higher on my hip, hoping the sight of his own flesh and blood would appeal to whatever tiny shred of humanity Arthur possessed. Arthur’s gaze drifted down to the boy. Father and son stared at each other. They had the exact same slate-gray eyes, the same straight nose, and the same stubborn curve of the lip when they were annoyed. When I was pregnant, I had prayed every night that the baby would take after me. Clearly, those prayers had gone unanswered. Except for a mutual hatred of carrots, Toby was a miniature clone of his father. Arthur’s eyes fell on the graduation name tag pinned to Toby’s small gown. “Toby Mercer?” Toby puffed out his chest. “Toby with a Y. Mercer like my mom.” “You have your mother’s last name?” “Of course.” Arthur looked back at me, his eyes narrowing. “How old is he?” “Five,” I blurted out before Toby could speak. “He just turned five. He was premature. Very delicate, very small for his age.” Toby patted his beautifully round tummy. “Mom, you told me I was eight pounds when I was born.” I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Remind me to throw away his storybooks tonight, I thought. Honesty is highly overrated. Arthur’s lips curved into a dangerous, mocking smile. “An eight-pound preemie?” “He… grew very quickly in the incubator.” “And where is his father?” “Dead,” I said flatly. “How did he die?” “Bad temper. Quite tragic, really. He choked on his own stubbornness.” Arthur’s face went completely dark. Toby slid down from my arms and reached up, shoving the crumpled twenty-dollar bill back into Arthur’s hand. “Alright, mister. We still have a contract to finish.” “What contract?” Arthur asked. “Three minutes of photos, five minutes of listening to my teacher tell you how smart I am, and you can have a two-minute break.” Arthur looked at the money, then knelt down to Toby’s eye level. “Why did you choose me out of everyone here?” “Because you look like me,” Toby said simply, then leaned in to whisper, “And my teacher won’t be able to tell you’re a fake.” My heart skipped a beat. Arthur was quiet for a long moment. Then, he stood up, easily lifting Toby into his arms. “Ten minutes?” “No price increases,” Toby negotiated, pointing a tiny finger. “Deal.” Arthur turned his gaze to me, the intensity in his eyes burning hot. “As for our outstanding debts, Nora… we’ll calculate those very slowly.” Before I could protest, the school photographer ushered us toward the graduation backdrop. “Mom and Dad, lean in closer,” the photographer called out. I stepped to the far left. Arthur remained on the far right. An entire ocean of empty space separated us. Toby sighed, reaching out to grab a handful of my dress and a handful of Arthur’s suit jacket. “You grown-ups are so much work.” With a sharp tug, he yanked us together. I lost my balance on my heels, stumbling straight into Arthur’s chest. His hand instinctively came up, wrapping securely around my waist to steady me. The flash went off. And just like that, our first family photo in five years was captured. “Arthur? I’ve been looking all over for you.” A soft, melodic voice drifted from the edge of the lawn. I looked up. Victoria Sinclair stood there, her eyes locked onto me. Five years ago, she was the one who had handed me my mother’s critical care transfer papers, forcing me out of Boston. Victoria’s expression of shock lasted only a second. Quickly, a polished, gracious smile masked her face as she walked toward us. “Nora. What a miracle. You’re actually alive.” She spoke as if she were thrilled, but the cold calculation in her eyes told a very different story. I instinctively stepped in front of Toby, shielding him from her view. Five years ago, right after I discovered I was pregnant, my mother suffered acute heart failure. The specialist hospital she was admitted to belonged to the Sinclair family network. Victoria had laid the transfer agreement next to my mother’s emergency surgery consent form. If I vanished, the surgery would proceed immediately. If I stayed, the surgeon would walk out, the bed would be cleared, and the critical medication would be withheld. Arthur was in Europe at the time. I had called his personal line seventeen times, but it went straight to voicemail every single time. I couldn’t risk my mother’s life on a silent phone line. I sold the jewelry Arthur had given me and left Boston that afternoon. Now, Victoria was staring at Toby. Her gaze lingered on his face for so long it made my skin crawl. “Is this your son?” she asked. “Yes.” “Who’s the father?” “None of your business.” Victoria let out a soft, dry laugh. “I suppose not.” She reached down, intending to pat Toby’s cheek, but he quickly ducked behind my leg. “Ma’am, I don’t like being touched by strangers.” “I’m an old friend of your mother’s, sweetheart.” Toby peeked out from behind my dress, studying her face with analytical gravity. “But whenever Mommy looks at you, she starts shaking.” The air on the lawn instantly turned frigid. Arthur turned his gaze to me. “You’re afraid of her?” “I’m just cold,” I lied. “It’s ninety degrees out, Nora.” “I have poor circulation.” I grabbed Toby’s hand, desperate to leave, but he checked his little dinosaur wristwatch. “We still have two minutes left of your rental time.” “What rental?” Victoria asked, her brow twitching. “The temporary dad,” Toby explained. Arthur’s expression soured further. At that moment, Toby’s preschool teacher walked over. “Oh, Toby’s dad made it after all!” Toby nodded. “I rented him.” The teacher’s smile faltered. Toby thought about it, then corrected himself. “He’s seasonal.” It didn’t sound any better. The teacher cleared her throat and handed me an envelope. “Tonight is the graduation banquet. Toby is our valedictorian, so he’ll be giving a speech on stage. We expect all parents to attend.” Toby immediately wrapped his arms around my leg. “Mommy, you promised you’d record it.” He had been practicing his speech in front of his stuffed animals for an entire month. I nodded, my heart softening. “Of course I’ll be there, sweetie.” “I’ll be there too,” Arthur said quietly. Victoria’s smile stiffened. “Arthur, your mother is waiting for us in Boston to discuss the wedding arrangements.” “There are no arrangements,” Arthur replied, his voice flat. “But our families agreed—” “Then let our families marry each other,” Arthur cut her off. I stared at him, bewildered. They aren’t married? Then why, five years ago, did Victoria carry herself with the absolute authority of the future Mrs. Bradford? Before I could puzzle it out, Arthur walked away with the teacher to discuss the evening’s logistics. The moment he was out of earshot, the warmth drained from Victoria’s face. “Bring the child tonight,” she whispered, her voice sharp as glass. “But the moment he finished his speech, you will pack up and leave Georgia. Permanently.” I clenched the invitation card in my hand. “On what authority?” “On the authority that the experimental medication keeping your mother alive is manufactured exclusively by Sinclair Pharmaceuticals.” She stepped closer, her perfume cloying and suffocating. “I saved her life five years ago, Nora. I can take it away just as easily.” A cold dread settled deep in my bones. “Victoria, what do you want from me?” “I want a kept woman to stay in the gutter where she belongs.” She cast a dismissive glance at Toby. “I don’t care whose child that is. But nothing—especially not a stray kid—is going to stand in the way of my marriage into the Bradford family.” A warm, sticky hand slipped into mine. Toby looked up at me, his eyes wide with confusion. “Mommy, what’s a kept woman?” My throat felt tight. “It’s… just an old term for a bird in a cage, sweetie.” “Why did that lady call you a bird?” I looked at Victoria, my voice steady and clear. “Because her vocabulary is very limited, Toby.” Toby let out an “O” of understanding. “Ah. That explains why her face doesn’t move when she laughs.” Victoria’s face turned an exquisite shade of green. I led Toby away before she could speak. But we had only walked a few yards when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from an unknown number. If you don’t show up tonight, I will personally come to your house and drag you out. My hand shook, nearly dropping the phone. Faced with Victoria’s threats on one side and Arthur’s pursuit on the other, this wasn’t a graduation. It felt like the funeral of my freedom. At seven o’clock that evening, the graduation banquet began. I tried to slip into the very back row of the ballroom, but the school staff enthusiastically escorted us straight to the head table. Arthur sat directly across from us. From the moment we sat down, his eyes never left Toby. It made me so nervous I could barely swallow my water. Toby, however, was entirely unfazed. He carefully picked the carrots out of his salad and dropped them onto Arthur’s plate. “Here, mister. You eat them.” “Why are you giving them to me?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because you’re on my payroll.” “Our ten minutes ended hours ago.” Toby reached into his pocket and produced a gold plastic arcade token, sliding it across the white tablecloth. “I’m extending the contract.” Arthur picked up the token. “This isn’t currency.” “It gets you a ride on the toy spaceship at the mall. That’s worth way more than twenty dollars.” “I don’t ride spaceships.” “Then what do you like?” “Silence,” Arthur said dryly. Toby nodded solemnly. “Fine. Then stop talking and listen to me explain how the Tyrannosaurus Rex hunts.” Arthur’s temple twitched, but he didn’t pull away. Within five minutes, he had received a comprehensive lecture on prehistoric apex predators. To my surprise, he actually listened, his expression remarkably patient. Watching them sit together—the same sharp jawlines, the same intense focus—a dull ache bloomed in my chest. Toby had always been a sensitive, observant child. During previous father-son events at preschool, he had never asked me why he didn’t have a dad. He had only asked me once, right before bed: “Mommy, are dads very expensive to buy?” He had spent six months saving his allowances, thinking that if he just had enough cash, he could purchase a father of his own. “Toby, sweetie, it’s time to head backstage and get ready,” a teacher called out, interrupting my thoughts. Toby jumped off his chair, adjusting his little cap. “Mommy, make sure you take the video from a high angle so I look tall.” “You’re only three feet tall, Toby.” He thought about it. “Then make everyone else look shorter.” I walked him to the backstage waiting area and smoothed down his little graduation gown. Just as I finished, a frantic school staff member rushed up to me. “Ms. Mercer? Your mother just collapsed downstairs in the lobby.” Panic seized me. “My mother? She didn’t come tonight; she’s back at the apartment!” “A Ms. Sinclair told us she arrived to surprise you and fainted near the entrance.” A cold dread flared in my chest. But where my mother was concerned, I couldn’t afford to hesitate. I told Toby to stay put, ran out of the ballroom, and took the elevator to the lobby. The reception area was completely empty. I pulled out my phone and called my mother. She picked up on the second ring, her voice clear and lively as she watched her evening game shows. She was perfectly fine. It was a distraction. I turned and bolted back to the elevators. The moment the doors opened on the banquet floor, I heard a chorus of gasps from the ballroom. Victoria stood near the stage, cradling an open leather case, her expression one of theatrical heartbreak. “This was my grandfather’s antique violin,” she cried, her voice trembling. “It’s worth over three million dollars. We were planning to auction it for the school’s music program tonight. Who would do this to the strings?” A janitor stood nearby, pointing a finger toward the stage. “I saw that little boy playing near the case earlier.” All eyes in the room locked onto Toby. He stood there in his oversized gown, clutching a violin bow in his small hand, his face pale with confusion and fear. “I didn’t break it,” Toby whispered. Victoria knelt down in front of him, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Sweetheart, if you just tell us who told you to do this, no one will be angry with you.” “Nobody told me to do anything.” “Then why is the bow in your hand?” “A lady in a blue dress handed it to me.” “Which lady?” Toby looked around the crowded room, but the assistant who had lured me downstairs was nowhere to be seen. The whispers from the crowd started rising, sharp and cruel. “I heard the kid doesn’t even have a father.” “No discipline at all. What a shame.” “A three-million-dollar instrument… how is a single mother supposed to pay for that?” I shoved my way through the crowd, pulling Toby behind me. “You have absolutely no proof it was him!” Victoria stood up, brushing off her skirt. “The bow was in his hand, Nora. And we have an eyewitness.” “I want to see the security footage,” I demanded. The school principal stepped forward, looking uncomfortable. “Ms. Mercer, the backstage cameras experienced a system malfunction about half an hour ago.” Of course they did. The trap was seamless. Get me out of the room, cut the cameras, and frame a five-year-old. Victoria sighed softly. “Nora, if the boy apologizes, I won’t press charges. But given the circumstances, I don’t think it’s appropriate for him to deliver the valedictory speech tonight.” Toby’s small body went rigid. His eyes welled with tears, but he bit his lip, refusing to let them fall. “Mommy, I didn’t do it,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I practiced so hard. Why can’t I go on stage?” My heart shattered. He had spent hours reciting his lines to his stuffed bear, sometimes even mumbling the words in his sleep. The principal sighed. “Ms. Mercer, please. Just have the boy apologize so we can move on.” “Apologize for what?” The heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open, and Arthur strode in. His eyes swept over Toby’s tear-stained face, and his expression instantly hardened into ice. “Who touched him?” Seeing Arthur, the tears Toby had been holding back finally spilled over. “Mister… they’re saying I’m a bad kid.” Arthur walked straight to us, ignoring the whispers of the crowd, and held out his arms. Toby hesitated for a fraction of a second before burying his face in Arthur’s neck. My throat tightened. The twenty-dollar father was proving to be worth every penny. Arthur patted Toby’s back, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Did you break the violin?” “No.” “Then you didn’t do it.” Toby sniffled, looking at him. “Why do you believe me?” Arthur was silent for a moment. “Because you’re a lot of things, kid, but you’re not stupid enough to get caught like this.” Leave it to Arthur to offer comfort that sounded like an insult. But it worked. Toby stopped crying, wrapping his small arms tighter around Arthur’s neck. “You’re not as mean as you look.” Victoria’s expression turned incredibly sour. “Arthur, the bow was in his hand, and the staff saw him. This is a common delinquent behavior. You shouldn’t risk the Bradford family reputation for a child who means nothing to you.” Arthur turned a cold, piercing glare on her. “Who told you he means nothing to me?” Before Victoria could respond, Arthur motioned to his personal assistant, who had just entered. “Check the violin.” The assistant knelt by the case, inspecting the broken strings with a small flashlight. A minute later, he pulled a thin, transparent wire from the bridge of the instrument. “The strings weren’t cut,” the assistant announced. “Someone wrapped high-tension fishing line around the pegs. The moment anyone lifted the bow out of its holder, the tension snapped the strings automatically.” The room erupted into murmurs. Victoria quickly recovered. “That only proves it was a trap, Arthur. It doesn’t prove who set it.” “Actually, it does,” Arthur said. He reached down and tapped the small plastic dinosaur keychain clipped to Toby’s backpack. “My son’s bag has a built-in safety camera.” I stared at him. “Since when?” “Since we took the photos this morning,” Arthur said calmly. “A certain little con artist claimed I don’t do my job after taking his money. If I’m on the clock, I protect my client.” I decided right then that Toby’s twenty dollars was the best investment we’d ever made. The assistant connected the keychain’s memory drive to the ballroom’s large projector screen. The screen flickered to life. The wide-angle feed showed Toby sitting quietly in the corner, holding his speech cards. A young woman in a blue dress walked up to him, smiling warmly as she handed him the violin bow. The moment he took it, a sharp snap echoed from the case. The woman immediately turned and walked away. “Wait,” someone in the crowd called out. “Isn’t that Ms. Sinclair’s personal assistant?” The room went dead silent. The assistant tried to slip toward the exit, but Arthur’s security team blocked her path. “It wasn’t my idea!” the woman shrieked, her face pale with terror. “Ms. Sinclair told me to do it! She wanted to ruin the boy’s speech so she could force Ms. Mercer out of the city!” Victoria’s face drained of color. “Shut your mouth!” I stepped forward, my voice shaking with years of pent-up anger. “You were terrified Arthur would recognize me, so you staged this entire farce. Just like five years ago, you only know how to threaten people’s families!” The ballroom was silent enough to hear a pin drop. Victoria straightened her spine, desperately clinging to her dignity. “Nora, don’t be ridiculous. You’re delusional.” She reached into her designer clutch and pulled out a document, tossing it onto the table. “You’re the one who took a settlement from the Bradford family five years ago and ran. Now you show up with a child of questionable parentage, clearly trying to extort Arthur.” The projector screen suddenly flashed with several scanned photographs. They showed me years ago, sitting in Arthur’s private Boston townhouse, wearing his silk robe and the diamond necklace he had bought me. Below the photos was a signed “Relationship Termination and Settlement Agreement.” The room erupted into scandalous whispers. “So she was just his kept mistress.” “No wonder she hid the kid.” “She’s clearly back for a payday.” The whispers buzzed in my ears like a swarm of hornets. The past I had spent five years trying to bury was being stripped bare in front of my son’s teachers, classmates, and neighbors. I didn’t care about my own reputation, but Toby was only five. How was he supposed to survive this? Victoria looked at Arthur, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Arthur, you don’t even know who fathered this child. Tell everyone the truth. Tell them this boy has nothing to do with you.” Arthur didn’t say a word. Toby, sensing the hostility in the room, clung tighter to Arthur’s neck, his voice fierce as he cried out, “Stop saying mean things about my mommy! She works every day, and she feeds the stray cats, and she’s the best mommy in the whole world!” My eyes stung. I reached out to take him. “Toby, sweetie, let’s go home.” But Arthur didn’t let go of him. Victoria pressed on, stepping closer. “Arthur, speak up. Surely you aren’t going to claim a child of unknown blood?” “Who said his blood is unknown?” The deep, quiet question cut through the noise of the ballroom. Victoria’s triumphant smile froze. “What?” Arthur leaned down, gently straightening Toby’s crooked dinosaur hood. Then, holding the boy securely on his hip, he turned to face the crowd. “The violin was a setup,” Arthur announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. “And this boy is not a child of unknown blood.” Victoria’s lips trembled. “Arthur, you haven’t even run a DNA test.” “I don’t need one,” Arthur said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “He is my son. From this day forward, Toby is a Bradford.” A collective gasp echoed through the room. But I knew the truth. He didn’t need to adopt anyone else’s child to save us. Because the boy he was holding was his own biological son. “You’re insane,” Victoria whispered, stepping back. Arthur looked at her, his eyes cold as death. “Your debt will be settled shortly. But first, let’s look at this.” His assistant handed him a blue folder. Arthur took the papers inside, along with the “settlement agreement” Victoria had produced, and threw them onto the table in front of her. The papers scattered across the polished wood. The forensic report was clear: the signature on the five-year-old settlement agreement was a forgery. Arthur had never signed it. Victoria’s face went entirely white. “Why does a document I never signed exist in your files, Victoria?” Arthur asked, his voice dangerously soft. “And who gave you the authority to threaten Nora’s mother to force her out of Boston?” Victoria’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Arthur didn’t wait for an answer. He carried Toby toward me, his footsteps slow and deliberate. I instinctively stepped back, but he stopped directly in front of me, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Her debt is clear,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he looked down at Toby, then back at me. “But now, Nora… it’s your turn.” My heart leaped into my throat. Arthur’s voice was barely a whisper, rough and thick with unshed tears. “Tell me the truth, Nora.” “Whose son is he?”

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“Harper! Please. I finally landed this absolute unicorn of a job. Just cut your hair and go for me!” “We’re identical twins, Harp. Literally the exact same face!” My brother, Hudson, clutched his heavily casted leg on the hospital bed, blubbering like an oversized, pathetic golden retriever. I gave him a cold, flat stare. “Not happening. I just quit my toxic agency job, and I am actively entering my soft life era.” “I’ll give you the entire ten-grand-a-month salary! Plus my custom-built, liquid-cooled gaming rig!” I paused. My eyes drifted to the mirror, taking in the long, waist-length waves I’d spent two years growing out. Slowly, silently, I picked up the styling shears. Look, for that kind of cash, dignity is negotiable. How hard could it be to strap down my chest, throw on a Brooks Brothers suit, and pretend to be a guy for a few weeks? I, Harper Hayes, was nothing if not adaptable. As long as I kept my head down, did the work, and remained a perfectly invisible corporate drone, I could ride this out until his femur healed, take the money, and vanish into the sunset. It was a flawless plan. Until my very first morning, when I tripped in the middle of the executive lobby, tackled the notoriously ruthless billionaire CEO to the marble floor in front of the entire company, and planted a dead-center, high-impact kiss right on his mouth. 1 “Boss, if I told you that was just a very passionate, modern corporate greeting, would you believe me?” I scrambled off him, my limbs flailing as I tried to salvage whatever was left of my brother’s career. “What department are you in? You’re fired.” Roman Brooks stood up, his face a thundercloud of pure, unadulterated rage. He was already ripping a sanitizing wipe from a dispenser on the security desk, scrubbing at his lips so hard I thought he might draw blood. Fired? Absolutely not. My ten grand! My gaming rig! Without a second thought, I dropped to my knees and threw my arms around his tailored Tom Ford trousers, hugging his thigh for dear life. “Mr. Brooks! Please! I have an eighty-year-old mother who needs medication, and a starving dog at home! I cannot lose this job!” Roman’s face turned a shade of glacial blue. He tried to yank his leg away, but I locked my grip. I was a barnacle. He was the ship. “Let. Go.” “Not until you take it back! I’ll be your corporate pack mule! I’ll scrub the toilets! Anything!” A vein pulsed visibly at Roman’s temple. Through gritted teeth, he shot a lethal glare at his Chief of Staff standing nearby. “Elias. Who the hell is this?” Elias wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Sir, this is Hudson Hayes. Your new executive secretarial assistant. He started today.” Roman looked down at me. If looks could physically sever limbs, I would be in pieces. “Fine. Hudson, is it? Go scrub every single men’s restroom in this building, from the lobby to the thirtieth floor. Now.” My eyes went wide. Ten grand a month. An absolute unicorn of a job. And my first assignment was toilet duty. I marched toward the janitorial closet, teeth grinding so hard my jaw ached, mentally cursing Hudson to the deepest pits of hell. Three hours later, I was squatting in a stall on the thirtieth floor, clutching a toilet brush, deeply questioning my life choices. My lower back was screaming. Suddenly, the heavy oak door creaked open. Footsteps echoed against the tile. Roman walked in, followed by Elias. I immediately ducked my head, scrubbing the porcelain with the manic intensity of a seasoned convict. “Hayes. Are they clean?” Roman’s voice was like ice water down my spine. “Immaculate, Mr. Brooks. You could eat a five-course meal right off the bowl.” Roman ignored me, stepping up to the urinal and unzipping his slacks. I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified. “Why are your eyes closed?” The chill in his tone sharpened. Because I’m a woman, you psychopath! I don’t want to see your junk! “Just out of profound respect for your intimidating presence, sir. I feared looking might induce a deep sense of masculine inadequacy,” I babbled, saying the first insane thing that came to mind. Roman let out a low, derisive scoff. The sound of running water echoed in the quiet bathroom. I thought I’d survived, but after he washed his hands, he didn’t leave. Instead, he walked right up to me, his dark eyes narrowing as they locked onto my chest. “You’re completely lacking in height, yet your pectorals are bizarrely prominent. Your buttons are practically screaming for mercy.” My stomach dropped into my shoes. I was wearing a heavy-duty chest binder, but Hudson’s spare dress shirt was definitely pulling tight across my bust. “I, uh… I hit the bench press really hard this weekend, sir. Swollen pecs. Huge gains.” Roman’s eyes darkened with skepticism. Without warning, he reached out, a single finger extending to poke me directly in the chest. Panic seized my throat. I recoiled violently, my heel slipping on a puddle of soapy water. I threw my arms out as I tipped backward. Roman’s reflexes kicked in—he grabbed my wrist to steady me, but my momentum was too much. With a deafening crash, we both went down. He landed flush against me, pinning me to the wet tiles. My face was buried directly in his very real, very solid chest. “Hudson Hayes!” His roar bounced off the subway tile, rattling my eardrums. “Sir, you grabbed me! I am a victim of physics!” I yelled back, terrified and out of breath. “Half a month’s pay. Gone.” He spat the words out, scrambling off me as if I were radioactive, and stormed out of the bathroom. I lay on the cold, wet floor, staring at the fluorescent lights, wanting to cry. What kind of twisted nightmare was this? For the next month, Roman Brooks made it his personal mission to break me. 2 I hadn’t been at my desk for five minutes before the intercom buzzed. It sounded less like a phone and more like a death knell. “I want a pour-over. Single-origin Ethiopian beans. High altitude. Water temperature at precisely 186 degrees.” I rolled my eyes at the blinking red light. Why don’t you just drink morning dew collected by elves, you absolute tyrant. I marched into the executive pantry, armed myself with a digital thermometer, and brewed the damn coffee. I carried it into his cavernous, glass-walled office. Roman didn’t even glance up from his tablet. He took a sip. “Too hot. Scalds the tongue. Do it again.” I swallowed the urge to dump the ceramic mug over his impeccably styled hair. I took it back. Second cup. “The grind was uneven. I can taste the over-extraction. Again.” Third cup. “You let it bloom ten seconds too long. It’s bitter. Again.” For the entire morning, I was a hamster on a wheel, running between the pantry and his desk nine separate times. By the tenth time I stood in the kitchen, staring at the steaming mug, a dark, villainous laugh bubbled up in my throat. You want to play games, Brooks? Let’s play. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small glass vial of concentrated wheatgrass, spirulina, and cayenne pepper extract I used for detoxing. It looked like swamp water and tasted like battery acid. I unscrewed the cap and dumped half the vial into the dark roast. To mask the lethal smell, I stirred in three raw sugar cubes. Wearing my best customer-service smile, I carried the toxic sludge into his office. “Your perfect cup, Mr. Brooks. Please, enjoy.” Roman took the mug, brought it to his lips, and took a generous gulp. I watched in quiet fascination as his complexion shifted through a beautiful spectrum of colors—flushed pink, sickly green, and finally, a terrifying, mottled purple. He spat it out, choking, coughing, and scrambling out of his leather chair as he bolted for his private en-suite bathroom. The sound of violent dry-heaving echoed through the open door. I stood there, blinking innocently. When he finally emerged, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his eyes were bloodshot and murderous. “Hayes! What the hell did you put in that?” “Just a holistic wellness blend, sir,” I said, my voice practically dripping with concern. “You’ve seemed a bit stressed lately. It’s an organic, cold-pressed detoxifier. Great for the gut. Even better for male vitality.” “I am docking your entire performance bonus for the month!” he rasped, gripping the collar of his shirt. “You’re staying here tonight. You’re going to audit the last ten years of expense reports for the entire C-suite. And you are not leaving this building until it’s done.” I bowed my head submissively, internally calculating how I was going to extort this lost bonus money out of Hudson. By 11:00 PM, the executive floor was a graveyard. The only light was the glow of my monitor. Roman’s office door was cracked open. He was absolutely still in there, waiting for me to crack, relishing the sight of my suffering. The stack of expense reports was a mountain. Worse, the building’s HVAC system had switched to its overnight cycle. It was blowing stale, lukewarm air. No AC. Sweat prickled at my hairline. I was boiling in the stiff button-down and the suffocating chest binder beneath it. Figuring I was the only one out here, I unfastened the top two buttons of my shirt, letting the air hit my collarbones. I slipped a portable neck massager around my shoulders, popped in my AirPods, and blasted a true-crime podcast to keep myself awake. I was deep in the zone when a shadow suddenly fell across my desk. I pulled out an earbud and blinked up slowly. Roman was standing right in front of my desk. His eyes weren’t on my face. They were locked, with alarming intensity, on the open V of my collar. I glanced down. Oh, god. The thick, beige elastic edge of my chest binder was clearly visible. I slapped a hand over my chest, violently yanking the neck massager off, and shot out of my chair. “Mr. Brooks!” I gasped. “You—you can’t just stare at a male subordinate like that!” Roman’s gaze snapped up to my face. His expression was freezing cold, but there was a strange tension in his jaw. My fingers fumbled as I frantically tried to re-button my shirt. My brain went into overdrive. “Look, I know I’m on the slender side, and maybe I have a… delicate bone structure,” I babbled, holding a massive binder of expense reports over my chest like a shield. “But that is no excuse for you to be late-night lurking over my clavicles.” His left eyelid gave a microscopic twitch. I didn’t give him a second to speak. “And for the record, this isn’t what you think it is.” Roman finally broke his silence. His voice was incredibly low, a rough gravel sound. “And what exactly do I think it is?” I choked for a fraction of a second before doubling down. “It’s a men’s orthopedic posture-correction vest.” He stared at me in dead silence. I kept shoveling the dirt. “I have severe lumbar lordosis. My chiropractor says if I don’t wear the structural support garment, my spine will eventually curve until I resemble a cocktail shrimp.” Roman’s eyes drifted back down to my chest. My scalp prickled with nervous heat. I had to keep talking to fill the terrifying quiet. “Of course, if corporate policy explicitly forbids male employees from pursuing spinal alignment, I can strip it off right now. But if the board hears that the CEO is forcing his male assistants to undress in the dark after midnight… well, the optics aren’t great.” 3 Something shifted in Roman’s expression. He stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds, opening his mouth as if to say something, before his jaw snapped shut. Without a single word, he turned on his heel and walked back into his office, shutting the door. I collapsed into my ergonomic chair, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I took the job. Too close. Surprisingly, Roman didn’t make my life a living hell the next day. But the relief was short-lived. That afternoon, Elias dropped a bomb in the executive team’s Slack channel. Team, as a reward for Q2’s incredible margins, Mr. Brooks will be personally hosting a mandatory departmental retreat this Friday at the Aspen Springs Wellness Retreat. The chat exploded with party parrot emojis. I stared at the words Wellness Retreat and broke out in a cold sweat. Aspen Springs meant hot springs. Pools. Saunas. If I had to strip down to swim trunks, the gig was up instantly. Roman stepped out of his office. He slipped his hands into his tailored pockets, his eyes cutting straight through the bullpen to lock onto me. “Hayes. This retreat is mandatory for all executive staff. Anyone who no-shows is terminated on the spot.” Friday afternoon, Aspen Springs. The outdoor geothermal pools were steaming in the crisp mountain air. The rest of the staff were already in their swimsuits, lounging with drinks. Roman was sitting at the edge of the main pool, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his waist. He looked like an underwear model—lean, broad-shouldered, with eight-pack abs that looked carved out of marble. But his eyes were fixed on the locker room doors. I shuffled out. I was wearing a full-body, UV-protective, long-sleeved neoprene surfer’s rash guard. Over that, I had layered a massive, baggy vintage band tee. I looked like a deep-sea diver who got lost on the way to a grunge concert. Roman scoffed, pushing himself up and walking toward me. “Hayes, what the hell are you wearing? Are you planning to salvage the Titanic? Take the shirt off.” I took a deep breath, molding my face into an expression of profound, tragic grief. “Sir, to be completely transparent with you, I cannot remove my clothing. Nor can I enter the water.” Roman crossed his arms, his biceps flexing. He looked highly amused. “Why? Hiding a dark secret?” “I have a severe, medically diagnosed phobia of water. And my spiritual healer specifically warned me that my rising sign is currently in a severe hydro-conflict.” My coworkers floating nearby fell completely silent, staring at me. “She said if I submerge in unpurified natural water, I will absorb toxic frequencies, suffer a spontaneous psychic break, and die instantly.” Roman’s teeth ground together audibly. “Hayes. Do you think I’m an idiot? You’re getting in the water today if I have to throw you in myself.” Before I could react, his hand shot out, grabbing the hem of my baggy T-shirt. “Take it off. I won’t say it again.” “No!” I gripped the fabric desperately. We began pulling back and forth right at the edge of the wet flagstone. My foot slipped on a patch of slick algae. I lost my balance, my flailing arm catching his shoulder, and we both tumbled backward into the deep end. The water swallowed us. I aspirated a lungful of chlorinated hot spring water, thrashing wildly as I kicked toward the surface. Roman’s arm hooked securely around my waist, hauling me up into the air. My coughing fit was violent, but it was eclipsed by the sudden, burning heat of his palm against the side of my waist. Through the wet, clinging fabric of the rash guard, his hand felt like a brand. I panicked, shoving him hard in the chest, and scrambled up the pool ladder like a drenched rat. I stood on the deck, shivering. The oversized T-shirt was now plastered to my skin. Even with the heavy chest binder, the subtle curve of my waist and hips was suddenly, glaringly obvious. Roman stayed in the water. He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten to dock my pay. He just floated there, staring up at my dripping silhouette, his dark eyes turning unreadable and dangerously deep. He didn’t force me back into the water that day. But after we returned to the city, everything changed. The torture stopped. The insane coffee demands stopped. Instead, he just started… watching me. All the time. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. During a Tuesday briefing, I was furiously typing up minutes. I glanced up and realized he wasn’t listening to the VP of Finance at all. His eyes were locked on my throat, staring exactly at the spot where my Adam’s apple should have been. I casually reached up and popped my collar, adjusting my tie to hide my neck. As soon as the meeting ended, Roman stood up and addressed the room. “Given the stress of the quarter, I’m implementing mandatory executive health screenings. I’ve brought in a concierge medical team today. Full biometrics, skeletal analysis, and precise bodily measurements for ergonomic seating.” Measurements? My blood ran cold. Roman slowly turned his head to look at me. “Hayes. You’re up first.” The temporary medical suite was set up in an empty boardroom. It was just me, Roman, and a mild-mannered male doctor wearing a stethoscope. The doctor held up a yellow tailor’s measuring tape and gave me a warm, professional smile. “Mr. Hayes, if you could just unbutton your shirt, I need to get an accurate chest circumference.” He stepped toward me. I backed up until my shoulder blades hit the drywall. I grabbed the lapels of my suit jacket and clutched them to my chest like a Victorian maiden. “Death before dishonor!” I shouted, channeling my inner patriot. “My body is a temple! Only my future wife gets VIP access to this! I am saving myself!” The doctor froze, completely bewildered. Roman let out a dark, frustrated sigh. He snatched the measuring tape out of the doctor’s hands and closed the distance between us with three long strides. “VIP access? In this company, I make the rules. I’ll measure you myself.” The doctor gasped softly, taking the hint, and quickly scurried out of the room, shutting the door tight behind him. We were completely alone. Roman stepped into my personal space. He leaned down slightly, his breathing shallow. The faint scent of bergamot and cedar washed over me. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, making the tips of my ears burn. He held an end of the tape in each hand and reached his arms around me, essentially pulling me into a phantom embrace as he looped the tape behind my back. “Chest out,” he murmured. I went completely rigid, holding my breath so tight my lungs burned. Thank God I double-wrapped the binder today. He pulled the tape taut across my chest. As he did, his knuckles brushed lightly, accidentally, against the center of my chest, right over my heart. I felt his hands stutter and freeze. “Hayes,” he whispered, his brow furrowing. “You have broad pecs, but… why are they so incredibly soft?” The confusion in his eyes was genuine. But we were so close—so dangerously close—that I could see a faint, creeping redness crawling up his neck. Before I could invent a lie about low muscle density, his hands slid lower, tracing the line of my ribs until the tape rested around my waist. I am incredibly, embarrassingly ticklish. The moment his thumbs pressed against my sides, my knees buckled. It was a pure reflex—I flinched, shrinking away from the sensation, which resulted in me stumbling directly forward, colliding flush against his chest. Our bodies pressed together, zero space between us. Roman inhaled sharply. I felt his Adam’s apple bob against my forehead. When he spoke, his voice was thick, edged with a raw, rough friction he didn’t even try to hide. “Why is your waist… so small?” His eyes were completely black now, heavy with an intensity that felt like he was trying to x-ray straight through my button-down. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze dropped lower. His hands, still holding the tape measure, began to slide down my hips, heading straight for my backside.

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