Author: Momo Chan

My husband is a world-renowned scientist. When asked about his personal life in an interview, he said: “I don’t consider myself a qualified partner.” “Under no circumstances will I put romance first.” “I only wish to use my limited time pursuing the endless frontiers of science.” After the program aired, the whole country praised his fearless pursuit of knowledge. I, however, quietly put away my medical report. I had cancer. Terminal. The days he spent in London receiving his award. Were my last days in this world. 01 The last thing I saw before my consciousness faded was the blinding glare of the surgical lights. But when my spirit left my body, allowing me to see the entire operating room. And when I saw the heart monitor next to the bed pull into a flat line. I suddenly realized. I seemed to be dead. 02 I don’t know why, but I turned into a spirit, floating around. Just this morning, I was feeling okay. I even spoke a few words to Elias. He had an overseas symposium to present his research at, and his flight was this afternoon. So I woke up at seven to make him breakfast. Elias looked like someone who didn’t care about anything, but he was incredibly picky about his food. The toast had to be toasted just a tiny bit crispy, and the milk had to be exactly 80% warm. In our son’s words: “Mom, you’ve spoiled Dad’s taste buds.” I didn’t disagree. After taking meticulous care of him for twenty or thirty years, even the most troublesome things become habits. 03 “Elias, I heard there’s a sudden temperature drop in the UK due to some air mass.” “I packed an extra down vest for you.” “The gum is in the left pocket of your backpack. You always get earaches on flights; chewing a piece will help.” “Don’t stay up too late at night. Has your heart been bothering you lately? Go to bed early…” “It’s a polar continental air mass.” My words were abruptly cut off. I looked up dully and met his clear eyes. The saying “time is kind to beauties” fit Elias well. His brow bone was still sharp, and even nearing fifty, the years seemed to have left no mark on him. So the coldness he carried since his youth could still pierce straight to the bottom of my heart. He was correcting the inaccuracy of my first sentence. “Some air mass in the UK” is a “polar continental air mass.” But I just wanted to care for him. I lowered my eyes. And straightened his tie for him. “I know.” “Have a safe trip, Elias.” He turned sideways and walked past me. He thought I had nothing going on this afternoon. Actually, I did. He was going across the Atlantic to attend a scientific symposium. I also had a meeting to attend. My pre-op consultation. The doctor said the success rate of this surgery was only twenty percent. 04 When the doctor informed me that the stomach cancer was discovered too late and the cancer cells had already metastasized throughout my body, I sat in the hospital corridor for an entire afternoon. The TV hanging in the corner was playing Today’s Interview. It was the interview Elias was invited to a few days ago. The man with the cold eyes didn’t want to waste much time on anything other than scientific research. Even when asked about his wife, he just brushed over it. “I’m a blockhead.” “I don’t understand romance. A wife… to me, is more of a responsibility.” “Celebrate anniversaries? That’s formalism. Instead of spending time preparing for that, I’d rather do a few more experiments.” It sounded exactly like something Elias would say. Forget anniversaries; he didn’t even celebrate birthdays. When I was younger, I used to pester him to celebrate, hoping that one day he would appear before me holding a bouquet of vibrant roses. But I never received a single bouquet of roses. A brain that could memorize countless data points simply refused to remember the four digits of my birthday. Later, I would just sit alone at the table, make myself a bowl of longevity noodles, and consider the day celebrated. Elias was an iron tree; he couldn’t bloom. It took me over twenty years to finally accept this truth. So in recent years, I slowly started to feel that I wasn’t quite right. Call it exhaustion, or call it giving up. The funny thing was, he was him, and I was me. The path he had laid out plainly before me decades ago, I only understood now. I crumpled the medical notice, stuffed it in my pocket, and only called my son’s number. 05 Liam was close to me. Because Elias didn’t like kids, and his only son was completely inept at scientific research. After listening to my emotionless account, Liam’s voice choked up. “Mom…” “Did you and Dad…” “I didn’t tell him.” I lowered my eyes, staring at the granite floor. “I don’t want to tell him.” He is him, and I am me. Besides, what difference would it make if he knew I was sick? Would he drop the scientific research he was so obsessed with day and night to take care of me? “Liam.” “Mom doesn’t know how much longer she has.” “If Mom dies one day, don’t tell your dad.” I looked down and smoothed out the hem of my shirt. Why bring something Elias didn’t care about to him and cause him trouble? “Okay.” Liam replied on the other end of the phone. “Mom, to be honest, Dad doesn’t deserve it anyway.” “He really doesn’t deserve someone as good as you.” … 06 My spirit drifted through the hospital corridors. I saw the doctor walk out of the operating room, shake his head regretfully, and Liam lay by my bed crying. He picked me up and brought me to the hospital in the afternoon, waited outside the operating room until evening, but his mom disappointed him and didn’t open her eyes. He was crying so heartbrokenly. I hovered anxiously around him, but he couldn’t see me. I wanted to hug him so badly, to coax him to stop crying like I did when he was little. Liam worked very hard. Even though he didn’t become a scientist like his dad expected, his paintings were loved by many people, and he had an exhibition opening in Italy in the second half of the year. I sat next to him, looked up at the stars in the night sky, and sang him a song like I did to coax him when he was little. He couldn’t hear me, but I felt like this way, he would know Mom was right by his side. … I was suddenly transported very, very far away by a gust of wind. The senses of a spirit after death are truly miraculous. I could perceive what happened in the hospital after I died. And at the same time, I arrived at the venue where Elias was having his meeting. His meeting was supposed to last for seven days. The man in the sharp suit easily became the center of attention. Young, handsome, with a resume that was unprecedented and probably unrepeatable. Actually, speaking of Elias, he was probably the center of attention from childhood to adulthood. In college, the girls who liked him were like a school of fish crossing a river. In that era, which still retained some traditional thinking, girls brazenly chased him all the way to the bottom of his dorm building. Every time, he looked at them with a gaze that kept people thousands of miles away. Wearing the most ordinary white shirt, books tucked under his arm, he looked down at people with restrained aloofness: “I’m sorry, I don’t like you.” His words were exceedingly merciless. The “popularity” that many men would be immensely proud of was nothing more than a pure annoyance to him. At that time, he had already won national awards until his hands went soft. His name frequently popped out of the teachers’ mouths. At that time, I was just one of the students looking up at him, the most marginalized kind. I only dared to secretly catch a glimpse of the corner of his shirt when exiting the cafeteria. Elias absolutely didn’t know that before our blind date, I had secretly had a crush on him for three or four years. He also absolutely wouldn’t know that three years after graduation. The blind date my family arranged for me was him. “I won’t have anyone I like.” That was what Elias said to me the first time he met me. “If I have to say I like something, I like doing experiments, doing math—in short, nothing to do with people.” He frowned slightly; even so, he couldn’t hide his dazzling good looks. He concisely and clearly explained himself. “We are not discussing love.” “We are just ensuring we have a descendant. Do you understand?” … Actually, back then, Elias made it very clear. It was me who thought I could accept it; it was me who wanted to be with him. I always thought we had plenty of time. I always thought that one day, his clear, unwavering gaze would settle on me. I always thought he— Would fall in love with me. Should I say I overestimated myself, pinning my day-and-night dedication on the so-called “love grows over time”? My spirit drifted to his side. Watching him converse with the scholar across from him with a serious expression. The man had a tall, slender build, aloof and elegant. “Was I pretty stupid?” I leaned against his pocket, looking at him. “They say people with high IQs look at normal people the way normal people look at fools.” On the other side, my body was sent to the hearse from the funeral home. The academic symposium was buzzing with voices. “Elias, did you think I was pretty stupid?” 07 Elias took a picture of the London night view with his phone and sent it to me. Of course, I could never reply. Liam really didn’t tell his dad about my death. He didn’t even unblock Elias to send the obituary he posted on my WeChat. This was good. I bothered him too much while I was alive; I didn’t want to trouble him and make him change his flight after I died. Besides, I didn’t think he would want to see me one last time anyway. The London night view was pretty, but for some reason, that day, he stared at his phone and looked out from the windy balcony for a long time. I leaned over to look and finally understood. In the past, when he sent me messages, I almost always replied instantly. When he went on business trips abroad before, he would casually snap a few photos and send them to me. I would reply with the emojis I saved from Liam: a thumbs-up, or two thumbs-up, with “Awesome!” written on them. This time, he waited a long time, and I didn’t reply. “Professor Vance, it’s raining outside again.” “Come back inside, don’t catch a cold.” A young female voice sounded behind him. She was his student. In academic circles, some things are tacitly understood. The girl stepped forward somewhat intimately to drape a coat over him, but he pushed her away. 08 “Fish and chips.” “Disgusting.” Elias sent me a picture of a restaurant. My body was pushed into the incinerator. “It’s raining again.” Elias sent me a picture out the window of the hotel he was staying at. Relatives and friends attended my burial ceremony. “Presenting results tonight.” “Flight back tomorrow.” Elias stood at the podium, cameras pointed at him. With my broken English, I understood a little. His results seemed to add another significant stroke to human development. He, standing under the spotlight, in the field he excelled at, unfailingly radiated light and heat. I think this was why I loved him for so many years. But it was me who loved him, not him who loved me. In the drizzling rain of April, as my ashes were buried beside a square tombstone, I finally understood this truth. 09 That night after the meeting ended, when Elias called my phone for the third time and it didn’t go through. He changed his flight to the early hours of the morning. On the plane, he frowned the whole time, his face even colder than usual. It makes sense. After being at his beck and call for so many years, suddenly losing contact must be something he wasn’t used to. Actually, every time he came back from abroad, I would go to the airport to pick him up. And I would definitely arrive at least two hours early, just waiting for him at the airport. These were all habits. People can’t let the ones they hold dear suffer any grievances; I always did everything in my power to make him comfortable. But this time, he had to walk through the empty waiting hall alone and then hail a high-priced taxi at four or five in the morning. When he got home, it was 6 AM. He knocked first, and when no one answered, he unlocked the door with his fingerprint and pushed it open. The house was empty. Everything was the same as when he left: the sink was spotless, the dining table empty. Only the slippers I usually wore were placed at the entryway. He unbuttoned the coat he hadn’t had time to change out of because he left in such a hurry, walking around the unlit house, circle after circle. Bedroom, balcony, bathroom. Finally, he opened the washing machine door. … Finding nothing, he paused and pulled out his phone to call me. He waited for a long time; it went straight to voicemail. He took a deep breath and slid his thumb to the other number on the list. Liam’s. The relationship between the two men had been very tense since before Liam became an adult. Over the years, when Liam came home, it was only to see me; he never thought of interacting with his dad. Elias’s attitude was even worse. He was obsessed with academics, which meant: don’t make him raise kids. He was absent during the most important stages of his son’s growth, so his son naturally never spoke to him kindly. “What?” “Where’s your mom?” Both of their tones were aggressive, but Liam paused. Then came a very strange laugh, a feeling I can’t describe, as he murmured and repeated it. “Where’s my mom?” “My mom is gone.” “Where did she go?” Elias’s frown deepened. The first light of dawn happened to fall on his brow. I heard the son on the other end of the phone, his voice suddenly going blank. “Not gone somewhere.” “Mom passed away, Dad.” 10 A very long silence pierced both ends of the phone. From my angle, Elias’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone. “You’re this old and still making cheap jokes with other punks?” A lecturing tone. He didn’t take it seriously. It seemed that the idea of me dying and not even notifying him of the funeral was something that simply wouldn’t compute in Elias’s mind. Liam went silent on the other end of the phone. After a long while, he let out a scoff with a tone of release. “Dad.” “I haven’t joked with you since I was in the sixth grade.” Liam hung up. The phone beeped on Elias’s end. I thought it was strange; Elias seemed frozen in place, standing there maintaining the posture of holding the phone. Slowly, he sat down on the sofa in the house. Elias was rigorous and serious in his academic work, but his personal life was exactly the opposite; he was casual to the extreme. So the house was always cleaned by me. His study was often piled high with manuscripts, and he wouldn’t allow me to touch them. I had been scolded by him more than once for this kind of thing. Thinking about it now, I really wasn’t a good match for him. He probably needed a female scientist who could chat with him about the vast universe of academia. Not a third-rate magazine editor who only knew how to wash sofa covers until they were faded and didn’t even know what a polar continental air mass was. A tiny bit of light leaked into the room. I saw him touching the lace edge of the sofa cover. Rubbing the lace, which had already accumulated a little dust. Over and over again. 11 The front door opened. Elias snapped his head to look. He moved so forcefully I was afraid he’d sprain his neck. As a result, it was Liam standing outside, jingling the keys in his hand. “Dad, you’re here. Good.” “Where did Mom keep her ID and the family register?” “I have to go to the police station…” Elias’s knuckles, which were rubbing the lace edge, stopped moving and stiffened. “To cancel her residency.” “…” In the cabinet below the TV, there were some personal documents belonging to me and Elias. He was the kind of person who threw these things around after taking them, including some of his award medals, so I carefully put them away for him every time. He didn’t care about these things at all, but I would always gently stroke them with joy. “What’s the point.” He didn’t understand why I was happy because he won an award. I would just smile and link arms with him. “Because you’re my husband, and of course I’m happy when my husband wins an award.” When I was young, I still had moments of pestering him and acting cute. Later, washed by the years, I restrained myself a lot. Elias was gripping our marriage certificate and wouldn’t let go. The photo on the marriage certificate didn’t turn out well either. After all, the corners of his mouth weren’t raised even a millimeter, while I smiled as if it were a grand wedding that belonged only to me. Liam found my ID and turned to see Elias holding the two bright red booklets. Staring at who knows what. “Dad, don’t worry.” “Mom is gone, so your marriage to my mom is naturally dissolved.” “You’re not her husband anymore, never will be.” “Happy? You can freely fall in love with those young female students you mentor.” This tone of obvious sarcasm. Normally, Elias would flip out if he heard his son say this. But this time, he didn’t make a sound for a long time. It was more like he had been lost in thought for a long time. He just slowly stood up and then picked up his trench coat hanging on the sofa. “I’ll go with you.”

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On the morning of my wedding, the makeup artist looked around the luxury hotel suite. Suddenly, she completely scrapped the elegant bridal look we had previously agreed upon and painted my face into a disaster. My fiancé laughed and asked her, “What, are you trying to make me marry a clown?” It turned out, the expensive makeup artist was my fiancé’s ex-girlfriend. Seeing their deeply familiar banter, I wiped off the makeup and called off the wedding right then and there. Carter tried to stop me, but Sierra suddenly stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips. That was when I noticed that underneath her surgical mask, she had already done her own makeup to absolute perfection. She wasn’t just here to ruin my look. She was here to steal the groom. I raised an eyebrow. Stealing the groom means you have to take over the whole package. The $100,000 final bill for this luxury wedding reception was supposed to be paid in full by the bride’s family. Let’s see if she can take over that, too. 01 Last night, our two families stayed up late finalizing the details of the wedding. I barely got any sleep. Today, I had to wake up at the crack of dawn. So, when the makeup artist arrived to greet me, I was still groggy. The moment she walked in, she began evaluating the hotel suite. When her eyes landed on the diamond bridal set and the expensive heirloom jewelry laid out on the table, her hands paused over her makeup kit. “Wow, Lauren. Your fiancé must treat you so well! Booking such a high-end hotel for the wedding, preparing such a stunning diamond set… You’re the envy of everyone!” “Must have been incredibly expensive, right? You’re so lucky to have found a man who is so generous with his money.” Hearing this, a wave of annoyance washed over me. Every single expense for this wedding was paid for by my family. She didn’t know the first thing about our arrangement, yet she assumed it was the groom’s money. But I didn’t feel the need to explain myself to a stranger. I just nodded and let it go. Suddenly, she unzipped her makeup bag aggressively and looked at me with a half-smile. “Lauren, why do you think women these days love stealing things that belong to other people?” “Are they just born desperate?” Honestly, hearing those unprovoked, bizarre comments, I was getting angry. But it was too late to find a replacement makeup artist. After she applied the foundation, I drifted off to sleep. I kept my eyes closed to rest while she worked. After all, she was a senior stylist from a reputable salon. I wasn’t worried about her stealing my jewelry. I figured if she needed me to open my eyes or adjust anything, she would communicate with me. But when I finally opened my eyes, the stranger in the mirror made me jump. Frowning, I was just about to ask what on earth she was doing. I was already calculating how to demand compensation from her salon for such a massive blunder. But when I looked at her, the makeup artist was looking down, desperately trying to hold back her laughter. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably, as if she were looking at the most hilarious joke in the world. A cold realization began to sink in. This was entirely intentional. I hadn’t done anything to offend her. As I frowned, trying to figure out why she would sabotage me, someone walked into the room. The moment my eyes shifted, the girl couldn’t hold it in anymore. She burst out laughing. “Hahaha!” Still laughing, she ran and hid behind Carter, who had just walked through the door. Her small hands gripped the back of his suit jacket. “I’m… I’m sorry, Carter! I didn’t mean to laugh!” “I just didn’t expect Lauren’s face to be so… uniquely suited for this kind of makeup!” With that, she covered her face, giggling uncontrollably. Watching my ridiculous reflection, I realized her hiding behind Carter was laced with pure malice. And hearing her call him “Carter” with such intimacy… the bad feeling in my gut skyrocketed. My intuition is rarely wrong. This girl knew Carter. And they were close. I didn’t want to assume the worst, but I turned to Carter, my brow furrowed. “What is the meaning of this?” “You two know each other? What kind of stunt is this? Is today a wedding or a circus act?” Carter looked at my face and froze for a second. He helplessly looked back at the girl hiding behind him, yet he didn’t utter a single word of reprimand. My initial frustration was instantly extinguished by a bucket of ice water. Carter casually leaned against a chair, looking at the girl with total familiarity. “You were doing just fine the last few times. Why are you dropping the ball today?” “What, are you trying to make me marry a clown?” He looked at her, amused. The girl shrank her neck playfully, stuck her tongue out, and made a face. “You asked me to do your bride’s makeup. I can’t be that generous.” After saying that, she shot me a mocking half-smile. She was waiting for me to make a fool of myself. I picked up my phone and scrolled for my backup makeup artist’s number. “Make her apologize to me.” “I’m calling someone else to redo this. Whenever it’s fixed, that’s when I’ll go downstairs.” “We can discuss her compensation to me later.” I didn’t even care how they knew each other right now. Today was my wedding day. My parents had invited important business partners and associates. I wasn’t going to let things fall apart at the last minute. Carter and I had met through a mutual setup. I came from a wealthy, established family. Carter’s background wasn’t great. He grew up in a single-parent household, raised entirely by his mother. He was capable, though, and had good career prospects. But in this expensive metropolitan city, he still had no house and no car. Even with a decent salary, he wasn’t exactly a hot commodity in the local dating market. I chose him because I valued his ambition, his looks, and his potential. But to my surprise, hearing my demands, Carter frowned. He reached out and pushed my phone down. “Is that really necessary?” “You just naturally look like that.” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. 02 The girl heard him and let out a sweet, delighted giggle. “Carter, you can’t talk to a girl like that!” “After all this time, you’re still so brutally honest!” Even if I were an idiot, I could tell this girl’s relationship with Carter was far from simple. She was likely an ex. But if I couldn’t recognize his ex, couldn’t he? From choosing the salon to the trial runs to finalizing the look, Carter had been with me every step of the way. Since he never brought it up, was he trying to give his ex some business, or were there still lingering feelings? I didn’t want to dig into it. It was just going to make me sick. I grabbed a bottle of makeup remover, walked straight into the bathroom, and scrubbed my face clean. Then I called my parents and told them I needed to reconsider the wedding. If I went through with this today, I knew I would regret it. We hadn’t signed the marriage license yet anyway. I didn’t avoid the two of them when I made the call. Carter heard every word. His face instantly darkened. The breezy, amused expression he had worn vanished into a storm cloud. He opened his mouth to speak, but a pair of soft, delicate hands grabbed him. The girl wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. “Carter! If Lauren doesn’t want to marry you, I will!” “Propose to me right now!” “Didn’t you promise me before that I was the only woman you’d ever marry?” With that, right in front of me, she stood on her toes and kissed his lips. But I didn’t miss it—when her eyes flicked toward the diamond set and the expensive jewelry on the table, they were filled with pure greed. Carter stiffened. He turned his head slightly, his eyes flashing with a mix of struggle and conflict. When he finally spoke, his tone carried a mix of guilt and a strange, subconscious thrill that he didn’t even try to hide. He looked at me. “Let Sierra stand in for you today and clean up this mess.” “You will still be my wife in the end. Don’t worry.” “Go downstairs and tell your parents. Don’t make a scene and embarrass everyone.” “But of course, you can throw a fit if you want.” Carter was absolutely certain that I would swallow my pride for the sake of my parents’ reputation. He knew today’s guest list was filled with my family’s prestigious network. After delivering his ultimatum, he grabbed Sierra’s hand to leave. I finally remembered her name: Sierra Jenkins. Sierra looked at me with triumphant arrogance. She stared me down, her lips curling into a silent, provocative smirk. She looked like she had just won the lottery. That was when I noticed that beneath her mask, she had already applied flawless, stunning makeup. Compared to the clownish mess she put on my face, it was night and day. Even her hair was already styled in the exact elegant updo I had requested for myself. Oh, this was premeditated. “Sorry, Lauren. I just didn’t want to leave any regrets in my life!” “If you want to go to my salon and file a complaint, be my guest!” Seeing her utterly shameless attitude, my anger peaked. 03 There’s no denying that Sierra pissed me off. But I knew getting angry wouldn’t solve the problem. When I went downstairs and told my parents what happened, they were in utter disbelief. They hurriedly excused themselves from the guests and pulled me aside. Seeing that I was dead set against marrying Carter, my parents sighed, looking guilty. “Sweetheart, we had no idea the Hayes boy was this unreliable!” “We thought he was a good kid, worth investing in. Looks like we were wrong!” “Forget it! Lauren Blake doesn’t need to beg a guy like Carter Hayes for anything!” I breathed a sigh of relief. I had been worried my parents wouldn’t agree. The guests were all high-profile figures. I was afraid my sudden cancellation would humiliate them. My parents had originally planned to use this wedding to introduce Carter to their elite network. Looks like that won’t be necessary. This high-end hotel required an upfront deposit, but the massive final balance was to be paid after the reception. When our families initially discussed the finances, it was decided that the Hayes family would pay the deposit. My family would pay the balance—$100,000—as part of my dowry. The deposit was $5,000. The balance was $100,000. To save face, Carter’s mother insisted that Carter sign the contract with the hotel himself. The contract stipulated that the bride’s side would cover the balance, but it never explicitly named me. Now that the “bride” was Sierra, Carter’s mother could ask Sierra for the money. Carter called me, demanding I send someone up with the diamond set and the jewelry for Sierra. After all, her hair was done, and she was just waiting for the accessories. Hearing Sierra’s smug laughter through the phone, I hung up and blocked his number. Was he joking? My family paid for that jewelry. Why would I hand it over to dress up his new bride? When no one came up to deliver the jewels, Carter got angry. He decided to teach me a lesson. He ordered the staff to take down all our custom wedding posters in the lobby. He paid a rush fee to replace them with photos of him and Sierra. The bride’s name on the welcome board was changed to Sierra. He originally hadn’t planned to change any of it; he just wanted Sierra to symbolically take my place at the altar. But now, it was his warning to me. Little did he know, this played right into my hands. Now, the bride was thoroughly and legally Sierra. The debt collectors wouldn’t be coming for me. I’ve always been a rational person, which is why I chose to cut my losses immediately. Even though I did have feelings for Carter, sunk costs shouldn’t dictate major life decisions. 04 Seeing her photos displayed on the giant LED screens, Sierra was absolutely ecstatic. She posted dozens of updates on Instagram and TikTok, showing off her high-end luxury wedding. She was wearing the custom designer wedding gown my parents had bought for me at a premium price. Even though it didn’t fit her right, she couldn’t resist finding me to gloat. Her words were dripping with passive-aggressive venom. “Lauren, I think this dress actually flatters my figure better than yours!” “Carter is so silly… ordering a dress without checking my measurements. I’ll have to scold him later! He really doesn’t know how to take care of a girl. Such a typical clueless guy!” She smirked. When I didn’t react, she pressed harder. “Oh, right. Carter just hired a senior celebrity makeup artist for me. The kind that charges $2,000 an hour.” “He said, what kind of bride does her own makeup on her wedding day?” “That’s just how he is! Exactly like he used to be—never listens to reason.” “He doesn’t know how to save money at all. Please don’t mind him, Lauren! It’s such a shame you had to foot the bill for his extravagance today~” “If he acts like this in the future, just call me, and I’ll talk some sense into him!” “Lauren, thank you so much for your generosity today. You really fulfilled the dream Carter and I always had.” Sierra covered her mouth, giggling, her eyes locking onto mine with pure provocation. She was rubbing it in my face as loudly as possible. I let out a cold laugh. It seems Carter wasn’t entirely clueless. He just didn’t care enough to try when it came to me! When I was stuck with clown makeup, he told me I “just looked like that” and no expensive makeup artist could fix it. But for Sierra, he thought of everything. He even hired a celebrity stylist. But does he actually have the money to pay for it? 05 I went downstairs and found my bridesmaids. They were supposed to be up there with me, but because Carter’s family only had his mother to help, things were chaotic. I had sent them down to assist. Which was exactly how Sierra had slipped in unnoticed. We marched upstairs and cornered Sierra. We stripped the custom wedding gown right off her back. I’d rather throw it in the trash than let her wear it! Sierra was furious. Her triumphant little face twisted into indignation and tears. “Lauren, aren’t you taking this too far? Carter paid for all this! What right do you have to take it from me?” Because she assumed Carter had paid for the dress, she felt entitled to flaunt it in front of me. She assumed Carter had finally hit it big, and that she could use their past history to easily knock me out of the picture. Thinking about this, I suddenly felt a surge of anticipation. What will she do when she realizes she backed the wrong horse? This was getting entertaining. Having been forcefully stripped of the dress, Sierra felt humiliated and called Carter, sobbing. Carter dropped everything—ignoring the guests—and rushed upstairs. Seeing Sierra shivering in her undergarments, crying on the floor, his pupils constricted, and his handsome face contorted with rage. He stepped forward, stripped off his suit jacket, and wrapped it around her. Then he scooped her up bridal-style, kicked open the door, and carried her into a different dressing room. Before he left, he shot me a glare filled with impending fury. “Lauren Blake, you’re really something!” “I’m downstairs trying to entertain your father’s business partners to secure your family’s network, and this is how you treat me?” “Then entertain them yourselves!” His eyes were full of warning. He wanted me to compromise, to beg him to stay and network with my father’s connections. Did he really think he was some irresistible prize? Did he honestly believe those elite businessmen were here for him, and not out of respect for my father? To make Sierra happy and let her continue playing bride, Carter waved his hand and spent his last $15,000 in savings to secure a luxury gown on the spot. He paid a massive premium to have it delivered within twenty minutes. Renting that dress for one day cost him $15,000. Fifteen grand, just to soothe Sierra’s ego. Though it wasn’t as beautiful as mine, it was far better than average. This convinced Sierra even more that Carter was now a wealthy man. But Carter forgot one thing: he had just promised his new makeup artist $2,000. And he had just drained the last of his bank account. He didn’t actually think I was going to bail him out to save face, did he? Hilarious. When the new dress arrived, Sierra finally smiled through her tears. Her voice was nasally but thick with flirtation. “Carter, I’m going to punish you for this!” Carter’s voice softened. “How do you want to punish me?” “I called all my girlfriends to come! I’m so happy they get to witness our special day.” Sierra sat on the vanity stool, swinging her legs, stroking the high-end fabric of the new gown. “I’m just kidding, I could never really punish you!” “I’m punishing your ex by making her fund our dream wedding!” “Hehe, am I being too bad?” To spite me, and to show off in front of her friends, Sierra had asked the hotel kitchen to add several premium, off-menu dishes to every table. Each table’s additions cost about $1,000. For twenty tables, that was an extra $20,000 added to the bill. Carter couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, you’re pretty bad.” “It’s about time she bled a little money. She really isn’t as obedient as you.” 06 Carter was a man of his word. To punish my “disobedience,” he genuinely stayed on the second floor the entire time, keeping Sierra company while she got her makeup done. Even the newly hired makeup artist couldn’t stop praising how deeply in love they were. He thought his actions would make me insecure and force me to back down. Little did he know, my parents and I had already explained the situation to our guests, and everyone was quietly slipping out. Out of the twenty tables, only three or four remained occupied. They were all Carter’s relatives. They had no idea what was going on and were completely bewildered. The banquet food had been pre-ordered. Even if the guests left, the hotel was still serving the full twenty tables. Sierra wouldn’t save a single dime on the final bill. When Carter finally came downstairs and saw the ballroom nearly empty, his face turned black. “Lauren, even if you want to throw a tantrum, shouldn’t you consider the time and place? Do your parents know you’re acting like a child?” “Do you have any idea how much effort I put in today to entertain your side of the family?” Seeing my utter apathy, his anger flared. “Fine, Lauren. Have it your way!” Our argument drew the attention of the remaining guests. People exchanged awkward glances, afraid to speak. My parents looked furious but didn’t say a word to him. We were never going to see these people again; there was no point in arguing. Sierra finished her makeup. The stylist wanted to be paid. Since she was a last-minute emergency hire, she wasn’t going to wait until after the wedding to collect her fee. Carter told the makeup artist to come find me for the payment. Obviously, I told her no. The makeup artist realized what was happening and took a hardline stance, demanding Sierra and Carter pay up immediately. Out of options, Carter came to me, his tone significantly softer. “Lauren, stop this. I know you’re emotional today, but can you just pay her first?” “You’ve vented your anger enough. Just be reasonable, okay?” He was finally starting to panic. Why was he acting like a billionaire when he didn’t have a dime to his name? The more he panicked, the happier I felt. Ultimately, Carter’s mother had to pay the stylist. Handing over $2,000 made her heart bleed. However, upon learning that the bride had been swapped at the last minute, she wasn’t upset at all. In fact, she thought Carter had made a brilliant move. “That’s how you handle it! What kind of wife doesn’t submit to her husband? Back in my day, a woman like that would have been beaten to death! It’s good to teach her a lesson so she knows her place!” To spite me, Mrs. Hayes intentionally packed a $1,000 red envelope and shoved it into Sierra’s hands right in front of me. During the reception, she held Sierra’s hand, parading her around to all their relatives. 07 Carter’s relatives noticed the bride was clearly a different person, but by unspoken agreement, no one said a word. Everyone played dumb, pretending nothing was wrong. The wedding followed the pre-planned itinerary. Though the photos on the screens had changed, the ceremony went smoothly. Sierra happily stood at the altar and exchanged rings with Carter. Even when it came time for the wedding night, everyone conveniently ignored the absurdity of it all. I don’t know if Carter was genuinely drunk or just pretending, but he leaned into the mistake and spent his wedding night with Sierra. My parents were so furious they threw out all the gifts Carter had ever given me. Even though the marriage fell apart, Carter’s behavior was deeply repulsive. But strangely, I wasn’t that angry anymore. Carter had hidden his true colors so well before, which was why I developed feelings for him. Now that his mask had slipped, showing his true face, I just felt disgusted. Any lingering affection was quickly replaced by nausea. My parents, worried about hurting my feelings, spent the whole day walking on eggshells around me. Seeing that I truly didn’t care, they finally relaxed. Carter didn’t call me until after 10:00 AM the next day. His voice was laced with hungover exhaustion. “Did you go back to your parents’ house to sleep?” I couldn’t help but laugh. If I didn’t go home, was I supposed to stay and watch the two shameless cheaters consummate their fake marriage? Hearing my scoff, Carter snapped to his senses. His tone turned defensive and angry. “Lauren, are you still throwing a fit? We have to go explain everything to the relatives today. Pack your things and come to the new house.” “The hotel called me too. They want the final balance. This was originally your family’s responsibility, but since we’re married now, I’ll go with you to sort it out.” Carter clearly hadn’t grasped the reality of the situation. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I cursed him out, called him an idiot, and hung up the phone. You can’t afford the bill? Not my problem. In an excellent mood, I finished my breakfast and drove straight to Sierra’s salon. It was payback time.

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I had lived for 50 years before I finally overheard the ugly truth from my two daughters-in-law. The “one that got away”—the female lead, Stella, who was about to return to the States—was actually the biological daughter of my husband Richard’s first love. My daughters-in-law had decided to make a run for it. They revealed that this returning heroine wasn’t just the obsession of my two sons, but also the precious daughter of my husband’s past lover. The three men in my life were conspiring to trick me into adopting her as my goddaughter. According to the plot, I was supposed to find out the truth at seventy, but I was only fifty. “Screw that. Why should I suffer for another twenty years?” I decided to fake my death right on the route they took to “rescue” their precious female lead. I wanted to make them drown in guilt for the rest of their lives. Later, Richard lost his mind. My two sons were consumed by regret. Meanwhile, my two daughters-in-law took me away to live our most wicked, fabulous lives. Surrounded by ten gorgeous, young male masseurs, we got pampered at the spa while they hand-fed us fresh fruit. 01 It took half a century to hear the truth slipping from my daughters-in-law’s lips. The returning “white moonlight” heroine, Stella, was the daughter of my husband Richard’s first love, Valerie. My daughters-in-law had decided to pull a vanishing act. My eldest daughter-in-law, Olivia, was frantically dumping diamonds, gold, and pearls into a designer suitcase. “I refuse to end up like our mother-in-law. I want a divorce. What about you?” My second daughter-in-law, Maya, tapped away on her phone. “If you’re out, I’m out. “I definitely don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching both my husband and his brother obsess over their dad’s first love’s daughter. “Let me check how much I’ve milked from Cole over our three-year marriage. Hehe, nine and a half million in my private account. Enough for us to live like absolute queens. “But how do we get a divorce? Do you really think Wyatt and Cole will just let us go?” Olivia thought about it carefully. “If we just ask for a divorce, they’ll flat out refuse. “They might even freeze our accounts. You’ll be sitting on nine million bucks and won’t be able to spend a dime. “When Valerie came back to the States years ago, Mom asked for a divorce. Dad adamantly refused and froze her accounts, leaving her without a penny to even rent a motel. “And then Mom found out she was pregnant with twins. For the kids’ sake, she had to stay trapped by Dad’s side. “But what she absolutely never realized is that five years later, Dad frequently took the boys on overseas ‘business trips.’ He claimed he was grooming them for the business, but he was really taking them to play with Valerie’s daughter! “He conditioned the boys to treat Stella like their own precious sister. They practically grew up as childhood sweethearts. “According to the plot, once Stella returns, the three of them will brainwash Mom into adopting her as a goddaughter. She’ll dote on her. Where does that leave us? We’ll lose our luxurious lives! “Why don’t we just fake our deaths and disappear?” Maya agreed immediately. “I’m with you. I’m going back to my room to pack my jewelry right now. “These past three years of maxing out Cole’s black card on designer bags and gems… selling them will give us plenty of cash. We won’t starve.” As she walked out of Olivia’s room, she bumped right into me eavesdropping by the door. Maya’s face went ghost white. She stammered, “M-Mom… how much of that did you hear?” I felt like I had been plunged into an ice bath, yet my chest burned with a raging fire. Clenching my fists, I asked, “Is everything you said true? Is Stella really Valerie’s daughter?” Maya looked conflicted, shooting a desperate glance at Olivia for help. “What do we do now? She’s going to tell Richard and the boys and ruin our escape plan!” I grabbed both of their hands tightly, refusing to let go. “You’re right. I won’t let you go—unless you take me with you.” 02 I thought about what Richard had said to me just last night. “Honey, haven’t you always wanted a daughter? “A friend of mine overseas passed away, leaving his only daughter all alone. She’s moving back to the States. Why don’t we make her our goddaughter? She can live with us and be the sweet daughter you always wanted.” Wyatt and Cole had chimed in enthusiastically. “Yeah, Mom! Her name is Stella. She’s super sweet and knows exactly how to make people smile. You’ll definitely love her.” Haha. Great. Just great. The three most important men in my life were stabbing me in the back! No wonder Wyatt got into a massive fight with Olivia this morning. He was gripping her by the shoulders, his eyes bloodshot as he demanded, “Stella disappeared right after getting off the plane. Did you hire someone to kidnap her?!” I had rushed in, telling my son to let go and asking if there was a misunderstanding. But Richard had pulled me aside, his temper flaring hotter than his son’s. “What misunderstanding?! Olivia, speak up! Where did you take Stella?!” No wonder Richard was more frantic than his own sons. That Stella was the daughter of his “one that got away,” Valerie. Memories flooded back like a tidal wave. I suddenly remembered a conversation when Wyatt and Cole were five. “Dad, can Stella’s mom be our mom? “We really want Stella’s mom to be our mom. Then Stella can be our sister and live with us. “We want to play with her and protect her forever.” I had curiously asked, “Who is Stella?” I remembered Richard sternly scolding the boys, “Don’t talk nonsense!” Then he turned to me. “She’s just the daughter of a friend abroad. A cute little kid. The boys saw her once and are obsessed with wanting to be her big brothers.” I had completely ignored how evasive his eyes were and how guilty he sounded. How pathetic. I sacrificed my career and ambitions. I poured my entire heart and soul into these three men. And this was how they repaid me? I felt drained of all my strength, swaying on my feet. Then I looked at my two clear-headed daughters-in-law. When a man loves you, max out his credit cards. When he doesn’t, pack the gold and run. By comparison, I felt like the biggest idiot in the world. Afraid they would think I was too old and refuse to take me, I laid my cards on the table. “Richard’s private safe has a hundred solid gold bars, 500 grams each. “If you take me with you, I will clean out his safe right now. “From now on, whatever you want to eat, drink, or buy, it’s all on me.” 03 My daughters-in-law’s eyes instantly lit up. They looked ready to hug my legs. Olivia whispered, “Mom, honestly, we’ve wanted to take you and break this plot for ages. “I’ll level with you. We’re living the ‘best friends marrying brothers’ trope, and you’re the ‘tragic, oblivious mother’. “Three years ago, my best friend and I got into a car crash in our original world and transmigrated into this novel, marrying into the Sterling family. “The System wanted me to romance the CEO older brother, and for her to play the devoted wife to the genius surgeon younger brother. “But once the true female lead, Stella, returns, your sons will act like they’re under a spell. They’ll go crazy for her and brainwash you into taking her in. “You always wanted a daughter, so you’ll treat her like absolute royalty, giving her whatever she wants. “You wouldn’t find out her true identity until you’re seventy, and you’d divorce in a fit of rage. “But that’s not a satisfying ending. It’s better to wake up now and make a clean break.” Maya gritted her teeth. “Exactly, Mom. If you want daughters, just treat us like your daughters. “We’ll take you out to live the high life and enjoy being utterly selfish. “As long as we have money, what kind of handsome, obedient pool boys can’t we find? “Last time Olivia and I went to the luxury spa, we ordered ten gorgeous guys to wait on us. It was heavenly. “Next time, we’ll take you with us. “Isn’t that a million times better than serving an aging father-in-law?” They were right. Why should I waste the rest of my life on three ungrateful wolves? I felt cold, but I smiled through my tears. “Deal. I’ll go empty their little treasuries right now. “Then, we disappear.” 04 I went to the master bedroom to raid Richard’s safe. A full one hundred gold bars, shoved unceremoniously into my suitcase. As I reached for the last bar, my hand brushed against a hidden button. A secret compartment popped open. Inside was an old photograph. The background was a stunning, snow-covered ski resort. There were five people in the picture. Two little boys were teaching a little girl how to ski. The other two adults were a younger Richard and Valerie, her hair blowing in the wind. It was a candid shot. It looked exactly like a perfectly happy family of five. I gripped the photo, my pupils dilating, my hands shaking uncontrollably. It was more jarring than anything my daughters-in-law had told me. It pierced straight through my heart. So, everything they said was true. I wanted to march right up to Richard and smash the photo into his face. I wanted to demand why he treated me this way. It wasn’t like I had refused to divorce him back then! Why did he stubbornly refuse to let me go, while secretly taking our sons on ski trips with Valerie? And why did he make my sons treat Valerie’s daughter like their precious first love? It was so disgusting. I wanted to throw up. Suddenly, a deep voice came from behind me. “Why are you opening the safe? “And why did you take all the gold out?” 05 It was Richard. I jumped. Terrified he might realize I was planning to run, I took the offensive. I whipped the photo at his face, my eyes welling with tears. “What is this?! Explain this to me! “Richard Sterling, how could you do this to me?!” Richard’s eyes clearly darted away in guilt, but he quickly regained his infuriatingly calm CEO demeanor. “It’s just an old photo. Don’t make a fuss over nothing. “It’s ancient history. Not even worth bringing up.” Seeing my red eyes, he softened his tone. “If you insist on an explanation, fine. “Valerie’s daughter had a rare form of autism. Her psychologist suggested she interact with kids her own age to help her condition. I felt bad for the kid, so I took the boys on a ski trip with them. That’s all. I have no other relationship with her.” He was still lying to my face! If they had no relationship, why hide this photo in a secret compartment inside his safe? My heart stung, but I fought back the tears and said, “Let’s get a divorce.” Richard’s eyes widened in shock. “What did you say?” I zipped up the suitcase, my heart completely dead. “I said, divorce. I’m keeping these gold bars, and you get the rest. You’re not losing out.” Richard lost his temper, shouting my full name: “Clara, have you lost your mind?! “I’ll give you one last chance. Take back what you just said!” Not a chance. I smiled, feeling a profound bleakness. “I’m not crazy! “That missing girl you’re all desperately looking for right now, Stella, is the girl in this photo, isn’t she? “And you wanted me to adopt her as my goddaughter? “Richard, what the hell is wrong with you? Do you have no conscience? “Since you want her as a daughter so badly, I’ll step aside. I’ll make room. Isn’t that enough?!” Richard panicked. Just like when he was younger, he aggressively pulled me into a tight embrace. He threw the photo on the floor and stepped on it with his dress shoes to prove a point. “Look, I don’t care about this old picture at all. “Stop making a scene. Be a good girl.” I pushed him away with every ounce of strength I had. I slapped him hard across the face. I was done being “good.” “Clara, stop right there!” I grabbed the suitcase packed with gold bars and bolted faster than a rabbit. 06 Richard chased me to the top of the stairs, yelling down at our sons. “Wyatt! Cole! Stop your mother! “She wants a divorce!” Wyatt and Cole were standing in the living room, frantically making calls to locate Stella. Hearing this, Wyatt stepped in my way, immediately shifting the blame. “Mom, we’re dealing with a massive crisis here. What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?” I slapped my eldest son’s hand away. “Don’t call me Mom. I don’t have a son like you!” My second son, Cole, stepped up to block me, looking at me like I was insane. “Mom, Stella is missing. Wyatt and I are busy looking for her. Can you please not add to the chaos right now? “Doesn’t Dad spoil you enough? “Why are you suddenly demanding a divorce and disowning Wyatt? “You’re not going to disown me too, are you?” I was furious, suffocating from the injustice. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I screamed, “Yes, I’m disowning you too! “Husband, sons—I don’t want any of you! “Since you care about Stella so much, go call Valerie your mother! “I’m stepping out so your perfect little family of five can live happily ever after. Are you satisfied?!” I had laid all their dirty secrets bare. Yet, the brothers didn’t look an ounce guilty. Cole simply fell silent for a moment before offering a breezy smile. “Mom, is that why you’re mad? “We didn’t tell you who Stella’s mother was because we knew your imagination would run wild. “Dad hasn’t spoken to Aunt Valerie in years. “We hadn’t even kept in touch with Stella. “It wasn’t until half a month ago when Stella called, crying that her mom passed away from a severe illness and left her all alone. She wanted to return to the States. I had almost forgotten what she looked like. “Why are you being so petty? “Aren’t you afraid of becoming a laughingstock to our friends and family?” My son was a real wordsmith. I felt chilled to the bone, yet I wanted to laugh. “So now it’s my fault?” No wonder the three of them wanted me to make her my goddaughter. Her real mom was dead. They needed me to be her new emotional blood bank and shower her with maternal love. The thought of spending the next twenty years treating Valerie’s daughter like a princess made me shake with rage. I had to run! Whoever wanted to be the martyr could do it, but I absolutely refused! 07 Olivia and Maya heard the commotion and rushed into the living room. They pretended to play peacemakers, trying to calm everyone down. But under their breath, they whispered to me: “Mom, weren’t we supposed to fake our deaths together? “Why are you going off-script?” I felt a surge of sorrow and whispered back: “Plans changed. “I got caught raiding the gold. “What else could I do? I have a hundred gold bars in this suitcase. I couldn’t exactly put them back. “Years ago, I failed to get a divorce because I didn’t have any money of my own. “I will absolutely not make the same mistake twice.” Olivia told me not to panic and quickly came up with a plan. “Take the gold and drive toward Mount Rainier first. “We’ll follow right behind you.” I nodded. I dramatically shoved Olivia away, putting on a show of utter despair. “Nobody try to stop me! I’m getting this divorce today!” Olivia cried out, “Ouch!” and dramatically collapsed to the floor. Maya lunged forward and hugged my leg. “Mom, calm down! You need to calm down!” I put on a show of kicking Maya. “Get off me! I’m leaving right now!” Maya’s acting skills were Oscar-worthy. Taking my fake kick, she exaggeratedly rolled across the floor three times. Richard couldn’t stand it anymore and roared, “Let her go! She’s being completely unreasonable! “Throwing away her husband and kids at her age. I want to see how many days she lasts out there on her own!” I wasn’t that old. I was fifty. I had plenty of time left to start over. If I waited until I was seventy to leave, that would be too late. Richard was absolutely certain that after throwing a fit for a few days, I’d come crawling back. But I was going to pull a vanishing act. And even if I “died,” I wasn’t going to let Valerie’s daughter have it easy. I was going to bury a thorn so deep in Richard’s heart that every time he looked at Stella, he would be reminded of my death. Olivia had given me the perfect idea: “I have a plan. You need to ‘die’ right on their path to rescuing Stella. “Make them suffer for the rest of their lives.” 08 That day, Wyatt and Cole finally got a lead on Stella’s whereabouts. All three men, Richard included, rushed off to save her. Olivia called me: “Mom, the window is open. “You can make your exit now. “Turns out, Stella was never kidnapped. “She quietly took a bus to the Mount Rainier tourist resort right after landing, purposely turning off her phone to make Richard and the boys panic. “Since she wants to play games, let’s give her a real show.” I agreed. I intentionally drove my car along the winding coastal highway. Suddenly, CRASH! My car slammed into the guardrail perched on the edge of the cliff, teetering precariously. At any moment, it could plunge into the ocean. Even though Olivia assured me she had hired divers waiting in the water below to extract me, the sensation of staring death in the face was terrifying. I was so scared I desperately wanted those three men to rush to my side. I remembered the pain of childbirth feeling just like this. Back then, Richard had placed our twin boys by my bed and excitedly kissed my forehead. “Honey, look, you gave me two beautiful sons. “You suffered so much for these brats. “I promise I’ll make them treat you like a queen when they grow up. “If they ever disrespect you, I’ll beat them senseless.” But now, as I sat in a car dangling off a cliff, I called Richard. He heartlessly declined the call. I called three times. He rejected every single one. I called my eldest son, Wyatt. He picked up, but before I could even speak, he snapped impatiently, “Mom, I don’t have time for this right now. “Whatever it is, I’ll call you back later.” Then, he hung up. I pinned my last shred of hope on my youngest son, Cole. His tone was even more irritable: “Mom, can you stop spamming our phones? “Wyatt, Dad, and I are dealing with a life-or-death emergency right now. “If you’re regretting the divorce, just go back home and wait.” Before I could even scream the word “Help,” the line went dead. In that moment, my heart turned to ice. I realized that even if I were genuinely dying in a car crash, they wouldn’t come to my side. These were the three men I had served for half my life. When the car finally plummeted off the cliff, my heart was cold. So freezing, bitterly cold.

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“Mrs. Davis, the man who murdered your daughter—can you really not remember his face?” I hovered near the ceiling, listening to the detective’s question as a familiar chill crept into my chest. I was ten years old when I died in that alleyway. Mom walked in just as the killer was leaving. The gruesome, bloody scene broke her completely. The trauma triggered acute stress disorder, locking the killer’s face away in a dark corner of her mind. People told her not to push it. They said the memories would return in time. But five years slipped by in a blink. Now, facing the police again, she gently stroked the hair of my three-year-old sister. Her voice was terrifyingly flat. “I have a new family now. A new daughter. Whatever happened in the past… let it stay in the past.” 1. Hearing those words ache, but I understood. The two officers clearly didn’t. They froze. The older one, Detective Miller, wasn’t ready to let it go. “Mrs. Davis, we know it hasn’t been easy for you. We know you’ve fought hard to build a new life, and the last thing we want to do is intrude.” He leaned forward. “But last week, there was another vicious attack on a little girl on the outskirts of town. The M.O. is practically identical to what happened to your daughter. We have reason to believe it’s the same man.” He paused, letting the weight of it settle. “This case has been cold for five years. He’s still out there. He might hurt more kids. Can you please just try to remember? Even a fragment. The smallest detail could break this wide open for us.” Before Mom could respond, the younger cop—Officer Harris—spoke up. His voice was sharp with frustration. “Mrs. Davis, that was your own flesh and blood. She died a horrific death. Can you really just wash your hands of it? If it were me, I’d tear the world apart looking for the guy.” The words struck like a match to a powder keg. Mom’s unnervingly calm face twisted. The gentle light in her eyes was instantly swallowed by raw, suffocating terror. She shot up from the couch, grabbing her hair with both hands, and let out a guttural, hysterical scream. “Stop asking! I’m begging you, stop! I can’t remember! I swear to God, I can’t remember!” Tears streamed down her face in chaotic rivers. She shook violently, stumbling backward. In an instant, she was entirely broken, dragged right back to that blood-soaked evening. My spirit shuddered. The memories crashed over me, a tidal wave so heavy I couldn’t breathe. I was ten. Fifth grade. I was just turning the corner into our alleyway after school when a rough, calloused hand clamped over my nose and mouth. The acrid, chemical stench burned my nostrils. I didn’t even have the strength to thrash before the world went black. When I woke up, I was already floating. A ghost. I looked down to see the concrete stained crimson. My body lay there, unrecognizable. And Mom was collapsed beside me, screaming until her vocal cords tore. Not far away, a blurry figure hurried into the shadows at the end of the alley. In the months that followed, Mom was a ghost herself. She cried until she couldn’t, clutching my picture, refusing to eat or sleep. I hovered beside her back then. I screamed her name, I tried to stroke her face, I tried so hard to comfort her. But she couldn’t feel me. She bore the agonizing, tearing pain entirely alone. She looked exactly the same right now. Beside her, my little sister burst into terrified wails. My stepdad rushed into the room. He grabbed Mom, wrapping his arms tightly around her trembling frame, rubbing her back. When he looked at the cops, his eyes were blazing. “That’s enough!” he barked, his voice thick with fury. “It’s been five years since it happened. Five years you’ve been looking, and you have nothing. Your incompetence isn’t an excuse to come in here and interrogate my wife. What do you want? Do you want to drive her insane?” He shielded Mom, pulling my crying sister into his chest. He waved his hand at the door. “Get out. You are not welcome here. If you come near her again, I’m filing a formal complaint.” Officer Harris opened his mouth, but Miller held up a hand to stop him. Miller looked at my shattered mother, his face lined with guilt. He offered my stepdad a tight nod of apology. “I’m sorry. We crossed a line. We’ll show ourselves out.” He grabbed his rookie by the arm and marched out the door. I stayed near the ceiling, watching Mom shake against my stepdad’s chest. The tangle of emotions in my chest was impossible to untie. 2. The memory of that evening five years ago pulled me under again. The alley smelled like copper. Mom sat in the dirt, staring at my body, making sounds that weren’t quite human. A uniform stood over her with a notepad. “Ma’am, I need you to focus. The suspect’s height, build, what he was wearing. Anything. A single detail could give us a lead.” I floated right next to her ear, desperate. “Mom, tell him! You saw him! Tell the police!” But she couldn’t hear me. She bit her lip so hard it bled. Her whole body spasmed as tears dropped silently onto my school uniform. “I… I don’t…” Her voice was shredded, her head bowed so low. “I can’t remember anything…” “There are no cameras in this part of the neighborhood. You’re the only witness,” the officer sighed, his voice heavy with defeat. “If we lose the trail here, we’re never going to catch him. For the little girl’s sake, ma’am. Please. Try.” That sentence snapped the last frayed string of her sanity. She snatched my bloody jacket, hugged it to her chest, and wailed. “I can’t remember! I can’t remember!” She pulled at her own hair like a madwoman, gasping for air until her eyes rolled back and she passed out on the concrete. They put her in therapy after that. The doctors called it acute stress disorder. That specific memory was a locked vault; trying to force it open only made the trauma worse. The police tried a few more times, but her condition was so fragile they eventually backed off. Relatives and neighbors paraded through the house, patting her hand. “Don’t rush it, Sarah. It’ll come back to you.” She heard none of it. She locked herself in my room, tracing the covers of my books, holding my stuffed animals, staying awake for days at a time. She would stare at the empty corners of the room and whisper, “I’m so useless. I couldn’t protect you, and I can’t even remember the monster who did it…” She forced herself to relive that evening over and over, trying to unearth the face. Every time, it ended in a complete mental collapse. She wasted away. The light in her eyes died, a little more every day. I watched her torture herself, completely powerless. I sat beside her from dusk until dawn, drowning in my own helplessness. I had wanted her to remember. I wanted the police to drag him out in cuffs. But I didn’t realize that my obsession with justice was going to kill her. It was raining. The apartment was suffocatingly quiet. Mom was sitting in the armchair on the balcony, holding a paring knife. Panic seized me. I threw myself at her, screaming for her to drop it, but she was completely hollowed out. The blade sliced across her wrist. The blood welled up instantly, soaking into her sleeve, turning my vision red. “Mom! No!” I shrieked, but I could only watch. I couldn’t even touch her. Just as the despair swallowed me whole, the front door crashed open. My stepdad—just a coworker back then, a man who had asked her out once and been politely turned down because she was focused on raising me—ran in. He had been quietly checking in on her since I died, dropping off groceries, making sure she survived. He saw the blood and went pale. He didn’t say a word. He grabbed a towel, clamped it down on her arm, scooped her up, and ran. “Sarah! Stay with me! Sarah!” The hospital smelled like bleach. When Mom finally opened her eyes, they were empty. Her wrist was wrapped in thick gauze. She stared at the ceiling in total silence. He sat beside the bed. His voice was incredibly soft. No judgment. “If you can’t remember, stop forcing it. No one blames you. You have to keep living. If Mia is out there somewhere, looking down… seeing you do this to yourself would break her heart.” A single tear slipped down Mom’s cheek. “I failed her. I don’t even know who did it. What’s the point of being here?” “It is not your fault. It is his,” he said, taking her uninjured hand. His grip was steady. “Living your life is the best thing you can do for her. Stop punishing yourself.” Hovering over the hospital bed, looking at her bone-white face, my desperate need for the truth evaporated. If justice meant my mother dying, I didn’t want it. I didn’t want anything anymore. I just wanted her to live. I’ve stayed with her ever since. I watched her slowly climb out of the dark. I watched her marry him. I watched her stomach swell, her face softening with a new, quiet joy. I watched my baby sister come into the world, safely held against her chest. She seemed to have truly forgotten me. Her world was her new husband, her new daughter, her new life. I tried to tell myself that ghosts don’t have hearts. If she forgot, she forgot. As long as she was happy. 3. While I was lost in the past, my stepdad had managed to calm them down. He held my crying sister on his hip, rubbing Mom’s back with his free hand. When her breathing finally slowed, he spoke softly. “It’s okay. They’re gone.” Mom buried her face in his shoulder, nodding through her hiccups, her fingers still twisted in his shirt. The terror hadn’t completely left her eyes. He wiped a tear from her cheek, his expression full of love. “Didn’t you say you were craving that dim sum place downtown? Let’s go. We’ll order everything you like. How does that sound?” She gave a raspy hum of agreement. He took her hand, still holding my sister, and walked them out the door. I drifted behind them, looking around the bright, spacious four-bedroom house, a bitter ache blooming in my chest. Five years ago, Mom and I didn’t have anything like this. We were crammed into a tiny, peeling apartment on the bad side of town. The furniture was old and stained. But that little apartment was packed wall-to-wall with love. Back then, when Mom got off work, she would catch me as I ran at her, lifting me up and kissing my cheeks. “There’s my girl! Were you good at school today?” On freezing winter nights, she would tuck my icy hands into her sweater to warm them up. She would sit on the edge of my bed, reading me stories until I drifted off to the sound of her voice. After she got together with him, he quit his safe job to start his own business. He worked himself to the bone to move her into this house. Things got better and better. The restaurant was warm and noisy. In the booth, my stepdad strapped my sister into a highchair, tied a bib around her neck, and slid the menu over to Mom. “Get whatever you want.” She smiled, waving it away, her eyes entirely on the baby. “Just enough for us. Let’s not waste food. Get the pasta for the baby first.” The food came quickly. Mom held a tiny spoon, blowing on the pasta until it was cool before offering it to my sister. Her movements were so careful, so patient. My sister chewed happily, giggling, her chubby hands grabbing at Mom’s fingers. I floated over the empty chair across from them. My chest felt hollow and tight all at once. Before my real dad died, we used to go out to eat just like this. Mom used to do that for me. She would blow on my food until it was safe to eat. I used to be exactly like that little girl—clinging to Mom, pulling at her sleeves, having her entire, undivided heart. Full and happy, my sister kicked her little legs and whined happily. “Mama~” Looking at her sweet, spoiled face, a childish, petty jealousy flared up inside me. I sat on the hard edge of the chair, muttering to myself. “She used to take care of me like that. She loved me even more than she loves you.” “She used to braid my hair. She bought me strawberry candy. She gave me piggyback rides home. If it wasn’t for that alley, I’d still be sitting right there…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. My nose stung. It felt like the loneliness was physically wrapping around my spirit, suffocating me. The warmth of the restaurant faded away, leaving me in the freezing cold. The meal was perfect. Mom’s face finally relaxed; even the tone of her voice lightened. My stepdad put food on her plate and made my sister laugh. A perfect, happy family. I watched them in silence. The sharp pain dulled, leaving only a deep, settling melancholy. 4. Night fell. After putting my sister to bed, Mom didn’t go to her own room. Instead, she walked to the very end of the hallway, to the door that was always locked. My room. Or, the room where my things were kept. She hadn’t opened the door since they moved into this house. When she pushed it open, dust fell from the doorframe, tickling the nose. There was my desk. My little bed. My stuffed animals. Everything was buried under a thick layer of dust. The room felt dead. Mom stood in the center, staring blankly at the objects as if they weren’t the last physical traces of her first child, but just a pile of useless junk. My stepdad appeared in the doorway a moment later, looking worried. “Sarah? Are you okay? Did something trigger you again?” “No,” she said flatly. “I just realized there’s no point in keeping this stuff. I’m calling a junk removal guy tomorrow. I want it all gone.” He stared at her, stunned. “Gone? But this is Mia’s stuff. Are you sure…” “Yes.” Her eyes were hard, unmoving. “She’s been gone for five years. Keeping this old junk just makes me miserable. I don’t want to think about the past anymore.” She walked out without looking back. I hovered in the dusty air, staring at the things that had been my whole childhood. My chest violently convulsed, but I couldn’t make a sound. The next morning, the junk guys actually showed up. I floated next to them, staring at my things as they carried them out, screaming in my head, praying she would change her mind. She tossed my backpack—the one with the little bunny embroidered on it—into the truck herself. Mom, don’t throw away my backpack. You gave me that for my birthday… Then she threw out my teddy bear. The one with the torn ear that she had sewn back together for me. That’s my favorite bear. Did you forget? You said if I held it, it was like you were hugging me… My notebooks, my fairy tales, my hair ribbons. One by one, piece by piece, she threw them all away without hesitating. The truck drove off down the street, piled high with my life, until it disappeared around the corner. I chased it for a long time, but eventually, I could only watch it vanish. A few days later, my stepdad had the room painted a soft pink. It was filled with my sister’s toys, her picture books, a little rocking horse. It was a playroom now. My sister ran around barefoot, laughing as she hugged a brand new doll. Mom stood in the doorway, her eyes soft and full of light, as if she had never had another daughter at all. It was early evening. The house smelled like dinner. Mom was wearing an apron, simmering a pot of short rib soup for the baby. Her phone suddenly started ringing in her pocket, the shrill noise cutting through the quiet bubbling of the pot. She wiped her hands and pulled it out. Her brow furrowed instantly. It was Detective Miller. She moved to decline the call, but it rang again. And again. Relentlessly. My sister waddled over, tugging at her apron, calling for her. Mom sighed in frustration and finally answered. “What do you want?” she snapped. “I told you, I don’t remember anything. Stop calling me.” Detective Miller’s voice was low and tight. “Mrs. Davis. I’m sorry to bother you again. But I had to call. We ran the files from similar cases over the last five years.” “Combined with the new evidence… we think we have him. We think the man who killed Mia is in custody.”

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My boyfriend, Derek, had been dead for two years. Or so I thought, until he showed up at my front door, holding my sister’s hand. That night, I had been busy. I was finally hitting ‘delete’ on the digital memoir I’d spent two years writing—a soul-crushing tribute to a “fallen hero.” I was staring at the last text he’d ever sent me before the accident, my eyes blurred with the kind of tears that never really dry. Then, I heard it. From the guest room upstairs, the rhythmic, sickening creak of floorboards. It was the sound of a passionate confession, followed by the unmistakable noise of a bed frame hitting the wall. He was upstairs, professing his undying love to my sister, Morgan. I was the one who had organized his funeral. I was the one whose face his parents had screamed into, sobbing, demanding I give them back their son. How the hell was he standing in my foyer now, wearing a designer suit and an engagement ring on his finger—the twin to the one on Morgan’s hand? He acted like he’d never left. “Hey, little sister,” he said, his voice smooth as expensive bourbon. “Morgan and I picked this out for you. We knew you’d love it.” He slipped off his sunglasses, and for a second, time stopped. When he realized it was me—really me—the gift in his hand hit the floor, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. Morgan tugged at his sleeve, her voice a mix of possessive and patronizing. “Don’t be mad, Piper. He’s always been a bit clumsy. I’ll make it up to you later, okay?” My parents ushered him in like he was royalty. The whole house was suddenly vibrating with a celebration I wasn’t invited to. Morgan started spinning the tale of their “epic romance.” Apparently, the day after I buried his empty casket, he had staged a grand, cinematic confession to her. They’d been living a secret life while I was drowning in grief. Later, Derek caught me in the hallway, pinning me into a corner when no one was looking. “You know,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, “your sister is sweet, but she’s not nearly as much fun as you were. Her performance in bed? A bit lacking.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I kicked him squarely in the shin, shoved past him, and sprinted for the tool shed in the backyard. I grabbed the heavy garden spade, my knuckles white. My mother caught me at the back door. “Piper? What on earth are you doing with that?” I looked her dead in the eye, my chin trembling with a fury so cold it felt like ice. “I’m going to the cemetery. I’m digging up the grave.” … My mom, still holding a spatula from the feast she was preparing for her “new” son-in-law, wiped her hands on her apron. She rushed out, screaming for my step-dad, Jim. She grabbed my arm, trying to hold me back, but I was pure adrenaline. Jim appeared, his movements quick and practiced. He snatched the spade from my hands before I could do any real damage. “Piper! Sweetie, stop. Think for a second. You paid a fortune for that plot. Don’t waste the manual labor.” I looked at my parents, then looked past them to the doorway where Derek stood, a smug, punchable smirk playing on his lips. Two years ago, Derek was supposed to come home and meet my parents for the first time. I’d hyped him up to be this legendary figure—the perfect man. My parents had been so excited. “Show us a picture of this mystery guy,” they’d say. I remembered sitting on the sofa that night, scrolling through my phone. From lunch until dinner, I searched every folder, every cloud backup. I couldn’t find a single photo where his face was clear. It was always a profile, a blur, or him standing in shadows. I remember the look on my parents’ faces shifting from anticipation to concern. They eventually stopped asking and started quietly leaving brochures for grief counselors on the kitchen island. After he “died,” my parents barely even remembered his name. Whenever it came up, they’d just sigh. “Piper’s boyfriend… what was it? Something with a D? Poor kid, gone too soon.” I mocked myself silently. Why was I letting this grifter ruin my life again? I was about to drop the spade and walk away, to just let the irony swallow me whole, when Morgan stepped forward. She wasn’t holding a drink anymore. She was holding a heavy-duty pickaxe she’d grabbed from the garage. “I get it, P,” she said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp clarity. “If we’re digging, we’re digging. Tell me whose head we’re taking off first.” I looked at my sister. “Derek,” I whispered. “I’m digging up Derek.” “What?” Morgan’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Your ‘dead’ boyfriend’s name was Derek? Derek Barret?” I nodded slowly. Morgan turned her gaze toward the man she’d just been in bed with. He remained remarkably calm, leaning against the doorframe. “Oh? Really?” he mused. “Small world.” My fists clenched so hard my nails drew blood. The veil was so thin it was practically transparent, yet he was still playing the role. How had I never noticed what a sociopath he was? I was about to scream the truth—that he’d faked his death, that he’d scammed me—when he casually tapped his phone screen and turned it toward me. It was a private photo. One of those intimate, vulnerable moments I’d shared with him when I thought he was the love of my life. The caption he’d typed but hadn’t sent: If you open your mouth, the whole family sees the collection. And trust me, I have a lot. “What’s going on?” Mom and Morgan asked in unison. I forced a smile, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Nothing. I just… Derek told me in a dream that he wanted his ashes scattered. I thought I needed to go get them.” My parents exchanged a look of pure pity. Morgan, surprisingly, nodded. “Well, if that’s his wish, let’s help the guy out.” Before I knew it, we were all in the SUV. My parents had packed a literal trunk full of gardening tools, and we were speeding toward the cemetery. The plot wasn’t large, but it was in the most expensive section of the valley. When the “accident” happened, the story was that he was rushing to see me for the holidays and crashed. The car fire was supposedly so intense that the body was unrecognizable. His parents had descended on me like vultures. They didn’t pay a cent for the funeral, leaving it all to me. But their demands were endless. First, a state-of-the-art burial. Second, they insisted on buying two adjacent plots for themselves, “so we can be with our boy.” I was at my most broken. I agreed to everything. I didn’t even tell my parents; I didn’t want to burden them with the cost of my “shame” for being the reason he was on the road that night. I spent every penny of my savings. I lived in a state of collapse for months, convinced I had killed the man I loved. Looking back now, it was so transparent. So stupid. I reached up and slapped myself, hard. Mom’s hand caught mine mid-air. She didn’t say a word. She just squeezed my hand, over and over, the way she used to when I was a little girl. I remembered my biological father—the drunk who would come home and turn the house into a war zone. Mom would hold my hand just like this and whisper, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll protect you.” The memory flickered through my mind like a jagged reel of film. I looked at her, and she was still staring straight ahead at the road, but her grip was like iron. Morgan caught my eye in the rearview mirror. She didn’t say anything, but she gave me a tiny, sharp nod. I felt a strange warmth spread through my chest, like I was being wrapped in a thick, protective blanket. In the front seat, Jim was trying to lighten the mood. “I almost met this guy, you know. Had the grill seasoned and everything.” He glanced at Derek in the passenger seat. “It’s a shame. Just a freak accident, right?” Jim chuckled, though it didn’t sound particularly friendly. “What are the odds? Two daughters, two guys named Derek. Derek, you better be careful on the road. Wouldn’t want you to… snap… just like the other one.” I watched Derek. He was trying to act cool, sipping a latte he’d grabbed at the gas station. When Jim said snap, Derek choked, spraying coffee all over the dashboard. Morgan’s temper flared instantly. She kicked the back of his seat. “That’s a brand-new car, you idiot! You’re paying for the detailing!” Derek apologized profusely, scrubbing at the leather. Jim watched him through the mirror, his expression unreadable. I wondered… did Jim know? Before I could process it, we were at the cemetery gates. It was a quiet Tuesday. The security guard was dozing in his booth. A stray black ribbon from a recent funeral drifted across the grass. We walked toward the back, toward the premium plots that caught the morning sun. Morgan’s pickaxe was drawing stares, but no one stopped us. When we reached the site, I froze. There were fresh yellow chrysanthemums on the headstone. And the two “empty” plots next to it? They had names on them now. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. These people were absolute monsters. “Morgan! The pickaxe!” I had said it in a fit of pique, but seeing those names—his “dead” parents’ names—on plots I had paid for while they were likely sipping margaritas on my dime? The rage was volcanic. I took the tool and slammed it into the concrete seal of the first vault. I wanted to see what was really inside. My parents stood back, silent. Derek stood to the side, looking bored, as if he didn’t care that his entire life of lies was being unearthed. His arrogance fueled me. I broke open all three. Morgan helped me heave the stone slabs aside. The first one? An urn. The second one? An urn. My stomach dropped. A weird, heavy sensation settled over the air, as if a hundred eyes were watching us from the trees. Was I committing an unspeakable sin? Were his parents actually dead? No. Impossible. His mom had literally sent me a “Save 20%” link on a shopping app three days ago. My hands trembling, I pulled out my phone and messaged his mother. Are you dead? She replied almost instantly with a phone call. I put it on speaker and looked at Derek. “Are you insane?” her voice shrieked. “You killed my son with your bad luck, and now you’re cursing us? We’ll outlive you, you little brat!” “Then why,” I said, my voice trembling, “am I standing over your graves right now?” The line went dead. Morgan understood immediately. She slammed her tool into the third vault—Derek’s. When he “died,” they told me the body was cremated because it was too damaged for a viewing. This was supposed to be a cenotaph—a memorial with his belongings. But there was an urn inside. A real one. “What is this?” I whispered. I knew exactly what I’d put in there—his favorite watch, a photo. There shouldn’t be ashes. Derek was leaning against a tree, wearing a cold, eerie smile. For a second, he didn’t look human. He looked like something that had crawled out of the dirt. A sudden, freezing wind whipped through the cemetery. We all shivered. I looked down at the headstone, wiping away the dirt I’d kicked up. The name wasn’t Derek Barret. It was Derrick Barry. My heart stopped. Is it possible? Such a stupid, coincidental mistake? But these were my plots. I bought them. How did Derrick Barry end up in Derek Barret’s spot? Derek stepped forward, his voice a low hiss. “Looks like you’ve got the wrong guy, little sister. Maybe you were too busy crying to read the contract?” I looked up, ready to scream at him, when a cold, clear male voice rang out from behind us. “Why are you desecrating my family’s resting place?”

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After my attempts to negotiate a divorce with my wife over her very public affair went nowhere, I started aggressively swiping her black card, trying to force her hand. I was at the jeweler, signing the receipt for my fifth luxury watch of the day, when my phone buzzed. It was her lover, calling to reprimand me. “Do you have any idea how to be a husband? At a time like this, you’re out buying Patek Philippes?” “The company’s cash flow is incredibly tight right now. Victoria is losing sleep over this every single night.” “You’re her husband, for God’s sake. Don’t you have a single ounce of empathy for her?” In the background, I could hear Victoria’s voice, low and soothing, murmuring something to calm him down. This was the fifty-ninth time he had called to lecture me about my spending. He was her company’s Chief Financial Officer. He was also the affair she refused to end. And for three years, we had been locked in a bitter, suffocating stalemate over a divorce she wouldn’t grant. I didn’t scream. I didn’t justify myself. I simply pressed the red button and cut him off. Then, I walked out of the boutique, drove straight to a high-end interior design showroom, and swiped the card for another $1.5 million on custom furniture and imported appliances. Moments later, Victoria called. I answered, and she let out a heavy, exhausted sigh—the kind reserved for a disobedient child. “From now on, Cameron is managing your accounts,” she announced, her tone clipped and authoritative. “If you need money, you submit a request to him. He’s the CFO. Maybe having to ask him will cure you of this absurd spending addiction.” I listened in silence. The quiet stretched, and my lack of a reaction began to irritate her. “What are you even trying to prove with all that garbage you bought? Can’t we just live our lives in peace?” “I’m just reminding you of our deal,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “Didn’t you say that the second I found someone else who actually wanted me, you’d let me go? You’d sign the papers?” I paused, looking at my reflection in the glass doors of the showroom. “Every dollar I spent today was to buy a dowry for my next wife.” “Honey, I found my true love.” …… There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line, followed by a soft, incredulous scoff. “Is this the only trick you have left?” Victoria asked, her voice dripping with disdain. “I really don’t have the energy for your tantrums today, Carter. We’re dealing with a crisis at the firm. I don’t expect you to understand the pressure, let alone help, but the least you can do is stay out of the way. Stop trying to get my attention by maxing out the Amex.” She sighed again, a calculated mix of exasperation and barely suppressed anger. “I’ve told you a thousand times. Your position as my husband is completely secure. Stop acting out. Please.” She was always like this. So suffocatingly certain of her own reality. She had been exactly like this three years ago, and she hadn’t changed a bit. In the background, I heard Cameron’s voice, laced with a mocking smirk. “You don’t think he actually found someone to step out on you with, do you?” “Please,” Victoria laughed, a sound full of supreme, unshakeable confidence. “Who else would have him? With his temper, I’m the only woman on earth who could tolerate him.” She always loved to tell people I had a bad temper. She never stopped to consider that it was her who had taken a mild-mannered, patient man and driven him to the edge of insanity. Years ago, when she spoke to me like this, I would lose my mind. I would scream until my throat bled. I had even stormed into the corporate headquarters, causing a massive scene, intent on humiliating both her and Cameron in front of the board. But now? Now, looking into the void of my own heart, I felt absolutely nothing. From the day I discovered her infidelity, I washed my hands of her company. I stopped caring if it thrived or burned to the ground. I stopped caring about her. For three years, she and Cameron paraded around town. Galas, charity dinners, industry events where I, as her husband, should have been standing by her side—she took him instead. She even brought him to family holidays, introducing him to her relatives while I was left at home. I became the ultimate punchline among the city’s elite. Yet, even when I was fighting tooth and nail, bleeding myself dry to force a divorce, she refused. She clung to the marriage, insisting I was the most important thing in her life. She had been so smug the day she laid down her challenge. “I know I’m the only one in your heart, Carter. You don’t have room for anyone else. If you really want a divorce, go find someone else first. Then we’ll talk.” She vastly overestimated her worth. And she tragically underestimated mine. The woman I had found was lightyears beyond her—in grace, in character, in everything that mattered. The line went dead. Still feeling a lingering itch of irritation, I walked into a luxury jeweler and asked to see a diamond tennis necklace. I handed over the card. The associate swiped it, frowned, and looked up with an apologetic wince. “Sir, I’m so sorry. It appears a limit has been placed on this account. It will only authorize transactions under fifty dollars.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Cameron. I hope you understand. Victoria is under an immense amount of stress right now. Once the company weathers this storm, I’ll see about raising your daily allowance above fifty bucks. Carter, please. Show some compassion for your wife and stop causing trouble for her. I stared at the screen and actually let out a laugh. A kept man, a home-wrecker, lecturing the lawful husband about showing compassion to his wife. He was playing the saint while actively rolling in the mud. And the worst part was, the rest of the world bought it. In high society, I was the useless, emasculated husband, while the entire extended family had tacitly accepted Cameron, even praising his business acumen. To her family, I was nothing but a discarded pawn—the son of a ruined dynasty whose parents were facing federal indictment, stripped of all my social and financial value. When I finally drove back to the sprawling estate I had called home for seven years, it felt like walking into a meat locker. Victoria and Cameron were sitting on the living room sofa, waiting for me. They were pressed together, thigh to thigh. Cameron’s hand rested casually on Victoria’s leg, his thumb lazily stroking her skin. It was a sight I had grown so numb to that it barely registered on my pulse. Seeing me walk in empty-handed, Cameron chuckled, patting Victoria’s leg as if he’d won a bet. “You called it. He was just throwing another tantrum.” Victoria let out a soft sigh, playing the role of the endlessly forgiving, exhausted wife. She stood up, Cameron rising with her, and took two steps toward me. I didn’t want to breathe the same air as them. I bypassed them, heading for the stairs. “Carter,” Victoria called out, her tone sharpening. “We need to talk.” I paused on the first step and looked back, a faint smile touching my lips. “About the divorce? Give me a second, let me conference in my attorney.” I threw it out just to shut her up. It was the only way to ensure our conversations ended before they began. Instantly, the color drained from Victoria’s face, a flicker of genuine, wounded panic flashing in her dark eyes. “Oh, stop with the dramatics,” she snapped, her expression hardening back into contempt. She grabbed a manila folder from the coffee table and shoved it toward me. “We need to cut costs at home. Cameron put together a budget plan for you. From now on, any personal expenses need to be submitted to him. If he approves the expense, he’ll transfer the funds.” I caught the fleeting, bitter shadow that crossed Cameron’s eyes. Every time I brought up divorce and Victoria vehemently shot it down, I could see the jealous rage practically eating him alive. But on the surface, he played the perfect, reasonable gentleman. “Carter,” Cameron said softly, “you don’t run the business, so you don’t understand the realities of keeping this empire afloat. Yes, there’s money, but liquidity is tight right now. Every dollar counts. We just need you to be a team player.” I gave a dry, dismissive scoff, ignoring Cameron entirely. I looked straight at Victoria. “Clear your schedule,” I said. “It’s time you met my fiancée.” Since she refused to believe me, I would just have to put it right in front of her face. Victoria sneered, her expression twisting as if she’d tasted something vile. “Did you skip the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf when you were a kid? Is this fun for you? Do you feel seen?” It was true. In the early days, when I was desperate to hurt her the way she had hurt me, I had faked having an affair to force a reaction. I used that childish tactic three times. By the fourth, she realized it was a bluff. So now, when I was dead serious, she still thought it was a desperate ploy for her attention. Cameron smoothly interjected. “Carter, did you find out Victoria is pregnant with my child? Is that why you’re lashing out? Just to hurt her?” A cold shock rippled through my chest. She was pregnant. Four years ago, Victoria’s desperate promise still echoed in my ears: “Carter, I swear to you, I will never carry another man’s child. You are the only man who will ever be the father of my children. Even if it happened by accident, I’d take care of it immediately. Please, believe me.” And yet, here she stood, looking at me with a weary exasperation. “Carter, reign in your temper,” she ordered. “I am pregnant. I can’t afford the stress, so don’t push me right now.” I forced the muscles in my face to relax into a smooth, unbothered smile. “What a coincidence. My girlfriend is pregnant, too. I really don’t have the free time to worry about your stress levels.” Both of them let out incredulous laughs. Neither of them believed a single word. Victoria’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and walked out toward the terrace to take the call. The moment the glass door slid shut, the polite smile vanished from Cameron’s face. He stepped into my space, dropping his voice to a venomous whisper. “She refuses to divorce you because she pities you, Carter. You’re an orphan. A washed-up loser. Her family keeping you around is no different than taking in a stray dog.” He leaned closer. “You want to know where a woman’s heart is? Look at where her money is. She has entrusted every dime of her personal fortune to me. The company might be strapped for cash, but she’s quietly funneled enough money into my offshore accounts to last me ten lifetimes.” He smirked, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. “I put you on an allowance because I don’t think you deserve to spend her money. So don’t get arrogant thinking she can’t bear to lose you.” “A piece of paper means nothing to me. I have her money. I have her heart. And my child is going to inherit this entire empire.” His arrogance was suffocating, practically radiating off him. “Oh, by the way. I almost forgot. Victoria promised me that after she delivers this baby, she’s getting her tubes tied. So you can give up that pathetic fantasy of her ever giving you a child.” I listened to him, utterly unfazed. My lack of reaction only made him push harder, a sneer twisting his features. “Even if she didn’t get the surgery, it’s not like she’d ever let a monk like you touch her anyway.” His smugness was almost comical. It wasn’t that Victoria wouldn’t touch me. It was that I refused to touch her. It had been a point of massive contention between us. She had thrown violent fits over it, smashing the house to pieces, making her mother believe I was physically abusing her. The police had even been called. Since that day, whenever she tried to initiate anything, she would tentatively ask, “Can we?” One dead, freezing look from me was all it took for her to back off. It had been three years since her affair began. Three years without so much as our fingers brushing. “Sure,” I said, a faint, careless smile playing on my lips. “She only loves you.” Seeing that he couldn’t break me, couldn’t make me scream or throw a punch, Cameron’s face flushed with frustrated rage. As I turned back to the stairs, he stepped into my path, desperate to land a lethal blow. “There’s something else you don’t know,” he hissed. “Your parents’ bail? That eight-million-dollar bond to keep them out of federal lockup? Victoria could have easily paid it.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “She didn’t. Instead, she took that exact amount and bought an entire private art collection for me in Europe. Just because I casually mentioned I liked the artist.” “Your parents’ freedom was worth less to her than a passing comment I made about some paintings.” A sharp, jagged pain sliced through my chest. Even though I had long since emotionally detached from her infidelity, this was different. The reality that she had willingly dropped eight million dollars to buy a smile from her toyboy, while watching me drown three years ago trying to save my parents from prison, felt like a knife twisting in my gut. Four years ago, she had watched me beg the old-money families of this city, humiliating myself, getting doors slammed in my face. She watched me go gray in my twenties from the stress, staying awake for days on end, terrified of what was happening to them behind bars. Back then, she had played the role of the devastated, helpless wife, claiming the company’s assets were tied up and she simply couldn’t liquidate the cash. Even though it was my parents who had funded her first startup. It was my parents who had mentored her, pulling strings to elevate her above her siblings so she could take the throne of her family’s empire. She had sworn to me, on her life, that if my family ever needed anything, she would walk through fire for us. And she had tossed us aside for a few canvases. Thank God I had found my own way out. Three months ago, I had finally secured the leverage and the capital to clear their names and bring them home. I looked at Cameron, my eyes turning to ice. “She gave you the world, and yet she refuses to give you her name. What a fascinating way to love someone.” My sarcasm hit its mark. His face darkened furiously. Just then, the front door swung open, and Victoria’s mother, Beatrice, walked in. Seeing the tension, she immediately assumed the worst. “Carter!” she barked, her voice echoing off the marble floors. “Are you out of your mind again? Cameron has been nothing but respectful to you. If you lay a hand on him, I swear to God I will make you regret it.” My relationship with my mother-in-law used to be warm. But the moment Cameron entered the picture, it turned into a war zone. Cameron immediately shrank back, playing the victimized, gentle soul, validating Beatrice’s assumption that I was bullying him. Victoria slid the glass door open and walked back in. Without asking a single question, she defaulted to her usual routine. “Carter. Apologize to Cameron right now.” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Beatrice glared at me as if she wanted me dead. “What is an apology going to do? He’s a parasite! Victoria, you’re pregnant with Cameron’s child now. He needs to move into the primary suite.” She paused, looking me up and down like I was trash on her shoe. “For the sake of peace, Carter, you’re relocating to the Oakwood property.” Oakwood. A three-hundred-square-foot, dingy studio apartment in a bad part of town. Beatrice had bought it specifically to humiliate me. She had threatened me with it countless times. “If you can’t tolerate Cameron, I’ll lock you in that dog cage at Oakwood.” To a family of billionaires, a place like that truly was a dog cage. I looked at Victoria. In the past, she would have stepped in, telling her mother she was taking it too far. But today, she looked at me and said, “Listen to my mother. You stay there for now. Once the baby is born, you can come back.” I felt absolutely nothing. “Okay,” I said quietly. Victoria froze. Her eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. She had expected a war. Cameron looked equally stunned. When I walked out of that house, Victoria truly believed I had gone to the Oakwood apartment. She allowed Cameron to freeze all my accounts, dropping my limit to twenty dollars a day. She really thought she had locked her disobedient dog in his cage to learn a lesson. It wasn’t until a month after she gave birth to a baby boy, when she finally drove out to the studio to retrieve me, that she realized I had never set foot in the place. She called me, her voice tight with an unfamiliar anxiety. “Carter, where are you?” “Just get to the point,” I answered coldly. Suddenly, Cameron’s voice came through the speaker. “Carter. Victoria and I had our son. We’re throwing a massive month-old celebration banquet. We’d love for you to come.” He was practically purring with malice. “We thought some of our good fortune might rub off on you.” I didn’t decline. This was the exact day I had been waiting for. “Absolutely. We’ll be there to offer our congratulations.” I heard Victoria exhale a breath of relief in the background. “See? Sending him away was the right move. He’s finally learning how to behave.” I just smiled to myself. On the day of the baby shower, I walked into the grand ballroom of the Four Seasons, my hand intertwined with my heavily pregnant fiancée. Victoria, radiant and smiling as she held her newborn, looked up. The moment her eyes locked onto us, all the blood drained from her face. She looked like she had been struck by lightning. “Carter,” Cameron stammered, his eyes darting between me and the woman at my side. “What… who is this?” Every guest in the room fell dead silent, all eyes locked on me and Serena. I smiled, smooth and completely at ease, and looked directly at Victoria. “Wife,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the room. “Allow me to officially introduce you. This is the love of my life, my fiancée, and the mother of my child—Serena Kensington.”

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I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw the digital invitation. Lydia—now Lydia Thorne, apparently—was getting married on March 15th. In the kitchen, Mike was humming to himself, stirring a pot of slow-simmered bone broth he’d insisted on making for my “sensitive stomach.” Our mutual friends were already flooding the comments with heart emojis and rowdy plans for the bachelorette party. I leaned against the kitchen island, tilting my phone toward him with a tight smile. “Lydia’s wedding is this weekend. Are you going?” Mike didn’t even look up from the stove. “Of course not,” he said easily. “We have your twenty-week anatomy scan this weekend. I wouldn’t miss seeing the peanut’s first ‘real’ photos for anything in the world.” I wanted to believe him. Lydia had spent five years pining for Mike, a fixation so intense it had nearly derailed her engagement to Wyatt more times than I could count. But that night, when I got up to use the bathroom, I saw Mike standing on the balcony. The glow of his cigarette was a lonely red spark in the dark. He was staring at nothing, lost in a place I couldn’t reach. I opened my mouth to call his name, but my phone buzzed in my hand. A panicked voice note from our old college group chat screamed through the silence: “Guys! Lydia just jumped! She’s at Memorial Central in the ER right now!” In the next heartbeat, Mike was gone. He didn’t look back. He didn’t grab a jacket. He just shoved past me, his eyes bloodshot and wild, and disappeared into the night. I stood in the hallway, the cold air from the open door settling deep into my bones. … Outside the ICU, Mike didn’t look like the calm, collected therapist I had married. He looked like a man possessed. He swung a fist, catching Wyatt square in the jaw, sending him sprawling against the linoleum. “How could you do this to her?” Mike roared, his voice cracking. “The week of your wedding? What did you do?” Wyatt wiped a smear of blood from his lip, letting out a jagged, hollow laugh. “Oh, now you’re the hero? You’re the reason she called it off, Mike. Don’t act like you don’t know why she did it.” Mike froze. His shadow flickered against the sterile white walls. “We’re just friends, Wyatt. We were classmates. That’s all.” Before he could finish the lie, the “In Progress” light above the surgical suite flickered off. Mike moved faster than I’d ever seen him move. When the surgeon finally emerged and whispered the words “she’s stable,” I watched the tension drain out of Mike’s body so violently he nearly hit the floor. That’s when Wyatt noticed me standing in the corner. He looked at me with a pity that felt like a slap. “Nicole,” Wyatt said, his voice dripping with venom. “Your husband says they’re just friends. Do you believe him?” Mike stiffened. He didn’t turn around. Did I believe him? I asked myself the same question. Mike and I had been “Mike and Nicole” for twenty-three years. Childhood sweethearts, the gold standard for everyone we knew. When Lydia’s obsession became public knowledge back in college, people whispered that a “soulmate” was no match for a “predator.” I’d been terrified then, too. But Mike had shut her out. He’d promised me, over and over, “Nicole, it’s only ever been you. We’re building a life. We’re going to be happy forever.” But watching him now—watching the way his hands shook with relief for a woman who wasn’t his wife—the foundation of that “forever” began to crumble. On the drive home, the silence was a third passenger. Mike tried the usual script. He said Wyatt was just a jealous prick, that he was making something out of nothing. But all I could hear was Wyatt’s voice. Do you believe him? The next morning, Mike was up at 5:00 AM making artisan breakfast dumplings from scratch. “Sweetheart, wake up. You need to eat,” he called out, his voice a perfect imitation of the man I loved. I stared at the steaming bowl. “You didn’t have to do all this. I could have just had cereal.” He took my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles with a tenderness that felt almost like an apology. “Store-bought is full of sodium. You’re eating for two now. I’ve already mapped out your nutrition plan for the trimester. I’m taking care of you, Nicole. Always.” Despite the knot in my stomach, I felt a flicker of the old warmth. Then, his phone buzzed. “Hey, Mike, the group is headed to the hospital to see Lydia. You and Nicole coming?” our friend’s voice echoed through the speaker. Mike looked me in the eye, his expression firm. “No. I’m taking Nicole to her ultrasound. I don’t have time.” I blinked, surprised. “I mean, we could go for a bit after.” “No,” Mike said, his gaze unwavering. “You and the baby are the only things that matter. Today is the first time I get to see our child’s face. I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” The doubt from the night before began to evaporate. He was here. He was choosing us. But an hour later, as I was sitting in the OB-GYN waiting room, his phone rang again. It was his clinic partner. A “high-risk patient with severe depressive tendencies” was in crisis and needed him immediately. He stood up, looking tortured. “Nicole, it’s an emergency. I have to go. Do the scan, record it for me? I’m so sorry.” He didn’t wait for my answer. He turned and ran. A cold, sickening intuition took hold of me. I didn’t wait for my name to be called. I followed him. Mike didn’t drive back to his office. He went straight back to the hospital. I stood in the doorway of the recovery wing and watched Lydia throw herself into my husband’s arms, sobbing into his chest. My last shred of hope withered and died. “I couldn’t do it, Mike,” Lydia wailed, her voice thick with calculated misery. “I can’t marry him when I’m in love with you. It hurts so much. I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to die…” Lydia’s mother stood by the bed, her eyes red-rimmed. “Mike, she’s loved you for five years. I don’t care that you’re married. She’s my only daughter. You can’t just leave her like this. You’re a doctor—fix her.” Mike didn’t say a word. He just held her, his face a mask of agonizing pity. I watched them from the hall, feeling like an intruder in my own life. If it weren’t for me—if it weren’t for twenty-three years of history—maybe they would be the ones planning a nursery. The air in the hallway felt thin. I couldn’t breathe. I walked into the room. Mike’s face went white. He shoved Lydia away instantly. Lydia, ever the actress, forced a weak, pathetic smile. “Nicole… don’t be mad. Mike was just… checking on me. I’m okay now. You guys should go.” Her mother snapped. “Okay? How is she okay? My daughter is suicidal because of you people! I don’t care about your marriage. You owe her, Mike. You have to take responsibility!” I found my voice, though it sounded like it belonged to someone else. “And how exactly should he do that?” The mother didn’t blink. “Leave your wife. Be with my daughter. Save her life.” Mike flinched, his jaw working but no words coming out. Lydia grabbed her mother’s hand, looking at me with wide, tearful eyes. “Mom, stop. You’re joking. Nicole, ignore her. Please.” A bitter laugh escaped me. It wasn’t a joke. It was a roadmap. When we got home, Mike buried himself in his home office and didn’t come out. By 7:00 PM, I was lightheaded with hunger. I knocked on his door. “Mike? What are we doing for dinner?” He didn’t look up from his laptop. “Order something on DoorDash, okay? I’m swamped. I’m drafting a specialized recovery protocol for Lydia. I don’t have time to cook.” I walked over and shut his laptop. “You promised me this morning you’d cook every meal. And you shouldn’t even be her therapist, Mike. It’s an ethical nightmare. It’s—” “Nicole, enough!” Mike snapped, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. “Lydia is in a critical state! Her depression is a direct result of her feelings for me. I am the only person who can reach her right now. If she actually kills herself next time, could you live with that? Because I couldn’t.” I felt like he’d doused me in ice water. Mike saw my expression and immediately softened, reaching out to pull me into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby. I’m just stressed. I’m trying to save a life here…” I leaned into him, but my eyes drifted to his computer screen. The file labeled Pregnancy Nutrition had been minimized. The active window was a document titled Lydia – Comprehensive Recovery Plan. Just then, his phone lit up on the desk. [Mike, thank you for agreeing to see me professionally. But I feel terrible. You’re going to be a father soon. Go be with Nicole. Don’t waste your time on someone as broken as me.] Mike sighed, closing his eyes. “Forget it. Let’s go get some air. Let’s go to dinner.” “I’m not hungry anymore,” I said, turning for the bedroom. He caught my arm. “Nicole, please. It’s my fault. Hate me, yell at me, but don’t starve the baby. Our little guy needs to eat.” I looked down at my stomach and nodded, the guilt for my unborn child winning out over my pride. At the restaurant, Mike’s phone was a buzzing insect on the table. Lydia. Lydia. Lydia. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t turn it off. He just flipped it face down. “Just take it,” I said, staring at my salad. “In case it’s an emergency.” He shook his head. “No. You’re right. There have to be boundaries. If I’m going to help her, I have to be her doctor, not her crutch. The most important thing right now is you and the baby.” For a moment, the cloud lifted. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe his “savior complex” was just hitting overdrive. We were waiting for the check when my phone rang. An unknown number. I answered it, and a piercing, jagged scream filled my ear. “Where is Mike? Put him on! Put him on right now!” “She cut her wrists! Lydia’s bleeding out! Please, just let her have him! Please save my daughter!” Mike’s face drained of all color. He stood up so fast his chair toppled over. “Nicole, take an Uber home,” he said, his voice trembling. “I have to go. I have to go right now.” I sat there, frozen, and watched him run out of the restaurant. Mike didn’t come home that night. He didn’t answer my texts. He didn’t answer my calls. I spent the night staring at my phone until I saw Lydia’s latest post. It was a photo of Mike’s back as he stood by a hospital window, the sunrise hitting his shoulders. The caption was a single line: [You are the light at the end of my tunnel.] I closed my eyes and prayed. Please, Mike. Don’t destroy us. Please don’t let me down. The following weeks were a blur of loneliness. Mike was a ghost. He left before I woke up and came home long after I was asleep. The promises of homemade meals and “taking care of me” were gone, replaced by lukewarm takeout and distracted apologies. “Lydia’s case is complicated, Nicole. She’s only responding to me. I just need to get her through the woods, then I can step back.” Part of me felt for her. I knew what it was like to love someone so much you felt like you were drowning. But I also knew that if she died, she would become a martyr in Mike’s mind forever. I wanted him to fix her so she could finally go away. The next afternoon, I went to Mike’s clinic to drop off his lunch. The elevator was crowded. A couple of delivery guys were moving office furniture, shielding me from view in the back corner. Then, I heard two voices that made my heart stop. “Sweetie, this office is incredible,” Lydia’s mother said, her voice bright and energized. “Mike is doing so well for himself. Much better than that loser Wyatt.” Lydia let out a soft, melodic laugh. “I told you, Mom. Once Mike heard I was ‘depressed,’ he forgot all about his perfect little domestic life. It’s only a matter of time now.” There wasn’t a hint of sadness in her voice. No heaviness. No trauma. Just cold, sharp ambition. I stood paralyzed as the elevator doors opened. By the time I regained my senses, they were halfway down the hall. I scrambled out, shouting her name. “Lydia! Stop!” She turned, startled. I caught up to them, my chest heaving. “You’re faking it. You’re lying to him. You aren’t depressed at all, are you?” Lydia’s eyes darted around for a split second, then, as if a switch had been flipped, her face crumpled. She burst into violent, racking sobs. Her mother instantly pulled her into her arms, glaring at me with practiced fury. “How dare you?” the mother screamed. “My daughter is fragile, and you’re attacking her? You’re a monster!” Mike stepped out of his office, his brow furrowed. “What’s going on?” The mother turned the theatrics up to eleven. “Mike! Your wife is accusing Lydia of faking her illness! She’s saying Lydia is trying to ruin your marriage! She told us to get out and never come back!” Mike looked at me, his eyes dark with a disappointment that cut deeper than any blade. “Nicole,” he said quietly. “When did you become so cruel? Lydia is sick because of me. It is my responsibility to help her.” “Mike, listen to me,” I pleaded, my voice shaking. “I heard them in the elevator. They were laughing. They admitted it was a game to get you back—” “Enough!” Mike’s voice boomed in the hallway. I flinched. In twenty-three years, he had never raised his voice to me. Not once. Lydia stepped between us, looking like a broken bird. “It’s my fault! Please, don’t fight. I’ll go. I’ll just go.” “You aren’t going anywhere,” Mike said, grabbing her arm to steady her. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. “Lydia is in this position because of my choices, Nicole. When did you become so petty? You’re so blinded by jealousy that you’d rather see a woman die than lose a little bit of my time? I don’t even know who you are anymore.” His words were poison. I turned and ran, the tears blinding me. I made it as far as the curb outside the clinic. I didn’t see the courier on the electric bike speeding through the red light. The impact sent me sprawling onto the pavement. A sharp, hot pain exploded in my abdomen. I looked down and saw a dark, terrifying stain spreading across my jeans. I fumbled for my phone, my hands slick with blood. I called Mike. “Mike… please… I fell… something’s wrong. The baby… Mike, help me…” There was a long silence on the other end. Then, a weary sigh. “Nicole, stop it. I love you, okay? You know that. But Lydia is my patient, and I am in the middle of a session. Please stop these theatrics. It’s beneath you.” He hung up. I wanted to laugh, but all that came out was a sob. Mike was a brilliant therapist. He could spot a manipulation a mile away. But the guilt had blinded him so completely that he’d broken every ethical rule in the book—and in the process, he’d stopped being able to see the truth. He wasn’t saving Lydia because of guilt. He was saving her because he wanted to be the hero in her story. When I woke up, the world was white and smelled of bleach. The doctor’s face told me everything before he opened his mouth. “You’re young,” he said, his voice heavy with a rehearsed kindness. “You can try again. You should call your husband. You shouldn’t be alone for this.” I touched my stomach. It was flat. Empty. This had been our miracle. We’d spent five years trying. Countless doctors, failed rounds of IVF, the bitter taste of herbal supplements that did nothing. Mike had once held me while I cried and told me, “Nicole, it’s okay. If it’s just us, you’re enough. You’re my only girl.” I had believed him. I had stopped feeling broken because of him. I didn’t call him. And he didn’t call me. I lay there for hours, wondering if Mike had ever actually loved me, or if I was just a habit he hadn’t known how to break. I thought of Wyatt’s words again. I sent Wyatt a message. I need to know the truth. A minute later, he sent a video file. [See for yourself.] I clicked play. The timestamp was from the night before my wedding to Mike. In the video, Lydia is on her knees in front of Mike, sobbing. “Mike, you’re getting married tomorrow. I know I’ve lost. But just give me one night. One night to say goodbye, and I promise I’ll never bother you again. Please.” In the video, Mike tries to push her away. He stands up to leave. Lydia collapses on the floor, a heap of misery. But then, Mike stops. He turns back. He picks her up, and then he kisses her—a desperate, hungry kiss that didn’t look like “just classmates.” My heart didn’t break; it shattered into dust. I remembered our wedding day. Mike had looked exhausted. I’d thought it was just the stress of the planning. I’d spent the whole day trying to take care of him. Wyatt sent another text: [They met up again right before Lydia and I were supposed to get married. I think you can guess the rest.] [The suicide attempt was a play. The depression was a lie. She didn’t want to marry me; she wanted to force Mike’s hand.] The screen blurred. I had been so confident. I thought our history was a fortress. But the night Mike ran out of the house because she “jumped,” I should have known. You don’t run like that for a friend. You run like that for the person who holds your heart. The next morning, I checked myself out of the hospital. Mike arrived home at noon, carrying a bouquet of lilies—my favorite. He probably thought a few flowers would fix the “fight” we’d had. When he saw I wasn’t in bed, he called me, his voice sounding annoyed. “Nicole, enough is enough. Where are you? You’re pregnant, you shouldn’t be wandering around—” A nurse from the ward, who had stayed over to help me finish my paperwork, snatched the phone out of my hand. She’d seen me crying all night. “What kind of husband are you?” she snapped into the receiver. “Your wife was brought in yesterday after an accident. She lost the baby. Where the hell were you?” I heard the sound of something shattering on the other end of the line. Mike’s voice came through, a ghost of a whisper. “What? What did you say?”

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The day Cole Bradley won the Grand Prix championship, I found a pair of black lace underwear wedged between the leather seats of his Aston Martin. That same night, I tipped off the tabloids and kicked down the door of a five-star penthouse at the Ritz, catching the golden boy of American motorsports in bed with his newest protégée. Amidst the blinding flash of cameras and my own hysterical screaming, Cole looked utterly panicked. Yet, in the chaos, his first instinct was to pull the duvet up, using his own body to shield Madison from the lenses. “It was a momentary lapse in judgment,” he pleaded later, his voice cracking. “She means nothing to me, Nat. Nothing.” It wasn’t until the internet ripped Madison to shreds, until the cyberbullying drove her into a manic frenzy that ended with her accelerating her car straight into me—killing the child growing in my womb—that I finally gave Cole an ultimatum. Send her to prison, or sign the divorce papers. Cole had stared at my flat, empty stomach, his eyes bloodshot. The very next morning, he handed over the dashcam and telemetry data to the district attorney. The evidence of Madison’s vehicular assault was irrefutable. After that, Cole walked away from the track. He transitioned to a background role in team management, dedicating every waking hour to pulling me out of the suffocating, pitch-black well of clinical depression. Years passed. We healed, or so I thought. When I finally saw the two pink lines on a pregnancy test again, my heart swelled with a cautious, desperate hope. I wanted to surprise him. But on my way home, passing an exclusive maternity boutique on Rodeo Drive, I stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, a young woman with a pronounced baby bump was casually pointing at displays, buying out half the store. “My husband knows I’m terribly indecisive,” she giggled to the clerk, “so he just told me to put the whole collection on his card.” “You guys deliver, right? Have it sent to the gated estate in Bel-Air.” The girl turned her head, catching the afternoon sun. I froze, the breath knocked entirely from my lungs. It was Madison. The girl who was supposed to be rotting in a state penitentiary. … The blood in my veins turned to ice water. The sales associate looked at Madison with starry-eyed envy. “Your husband must love you so much.” Madison rested a manicured hand delicately on her belly, a saccharine smile playing on her lips. “He really does. He was my mentor first, actually. A genius on the track. He’s been taking care of me since day one.” She sighed, playing with a lock of her hair. “When I first joined the racing circuit, I was so green. He was terrified the older guys would take advantage of me, so he taught me everything himself. Hand-over-hand on the steering wheel. He even had a custom blush-pink Porsche wrapped just for me.” Early in our marriage, I used to go to the paddock. I would stand in the deafening roar of the pit lane, waving his team colors, my throat raw from cheering. But eventually, he started meeting me after races with a cold, distant expression. He told me to stop coming. When I asked why, he simply said, “The track is too dangerous, Nat. It’s not a place for a wife.” It wasn’t that it was too dangerous. It was just that he couldn’t be bothered to waste his energy pretending I belonged in his world. “The other day, I just coughed a little from walking too fast,” Madison continued, her voice dripping with mock exasperation. “And he completely panicked. Had his private concierge doctor come to the house for a full workup!” Half a month ago, the morning sickness had hit me so hard I couldn’t stand. Cole had initially promised to drive me to my OB-GYN appointment. But as I was grabbing my purse, his phone buzzed. He told me an urgent sponsor crisis had come up. Go ahead without me, he’d said, kissing my forehead. I’ll come pick you up after. I sat in that sterile waiting room alone. I got my blood drawn alone. I waited in the hospital corridor for six hours. The only thing that came was a Venmo notification from Cole with a quick text: Caught up in meetings. Take an Uber Black home on me. Love you. Madison looked radiant. Suddenly, her phone chimed. “Oh, my husband is pulling up. Don’t forget the delivery instructions!” I shrank back against the corner of the brick storefront, my eyes locked on the curb. A sleek, black Maybach silently rolled to a stop. When the heavy door opened and Cole stepped onto the pavement, the world around me ceased to exist. He caught Madison as she threw herself into his arms, his voice laced with an affectionate reprimand. “You’re about to be a mother, Maddie. Why are you still running around like a teenager? What if you trip and hurt the baby?” Madison pouted, looking up at him through her lashes. “Are you getting tired of me? Do you think I’m just not as good as your boring, washed-up wife?” Cole’s tone softened into something I hadn’t heard in years. Pure, unadulterated devotion. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one could ever touch your place in my heart.” A physical agony ripped through my chest, sharp and breathless. When Madison hit me with her car, I was twenty-eight weeks pregnant. I had to deliver him. He was a fully formed little boy, a tiny, perfect, lifeless weight placed on my chest before being taken away forever. For months, I woke up screaming. I dreamt of a little voice crying out in the dark, begging me to save him. The grief mutated into a severe depressive episode. I tried to end my life more than once, and every time, Cole was the one who pulled me back from the ledge. To stay by my side, he retired at the peak of his career, walking away from millions in endorsements and the only life he knew. When his fans took to Twitter, blaming me for ruining his legacy, saying I was a psycho who didn’t deserve him, Cole issued his first and only public cease-and-desist. [My wife is my entire world,] his statement had read. [Caring for her is not a burden; it is the greatest privilege of my life. Anyone who speaks ill of her will hear from my legal team.] A wave of bitter acid rose in my throat. As if sensing the sheer weight of my stare, Cole abruptly turned his head toward the alleyway. I instinctively flattened myself against the brick wall, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What are you looking at?” I heard Madison ask. “Don’t ignore me! If you don’t tell me exactly why I’m better than that old woman, I’m going to make you sleep on the couch!” Cole chuckled, a low, helpless sound as he smoothed her hair. “You’re better than her in every way.” “I should start recording you when you throw these tantrums,” he teased gently. “Show the kids one day just how childish their mother really is.” Madison’s face flushed. “You want me to ruin my body having multiple kids for you? Keep dreaming!” Every syllable was a serrated blade, sawing slowly through the last remaining tethers of my sanity. A cold California wind swept down the street, and I shivered uncontrollably. Cole immediately guided Madison toward the open car door. “You shouldn’t be out in the wind in your condition. Let’s go home.” Watching the Maybach merge into traffic, a desperate, hysterical impulse took over. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. In the past, even if he was halfway across the world in Monaco, Cole answered my calls on the first ring. First attempt. Sent to voicemail. Second attempt. Sent to voicemail. By the third, the phone was turned off completely. I raised a trembling hand to my face, only then realizing my cheeks were entirely slick with tears. I floated back to our house like a ghost. When I pushed the heavy oak front door open, Cole was already sitting on the living room sofa, his jacket tossed over a chair. The moment he saw me, he stood up, crossing the room to pull me into his chest. His brow furrowed with familiar, practiced concern. “Nat? Are you okay? Is it the depression again?” I didn’t lean into his touch. I didn’t answer his question. I just stared straight into his dark eyes. “Do you want a child, Cole?” A microscopic flicker of unease crossed his face. “Your body… the doctors said your condition isn’t suited for pregnancy right now.” Was my body not suited for it, or did Cole just not want me to be the one carrying his child? I shoved hard against his chest, breaking his hold. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out the glossy photos I’d printed at a pharmacy kiosk on the way home—pictures I’d snapped of them outside the boutique—and slammed them onto the glass coffee table. Tears spilled over my lashes, my teeth grinding together so hard my jaw ached. “You and Madison. Don’t you think I deserve a goddamn explanation?” Cole froze. For a second, he looked at the photos, and then the warmth bled out of his face, replaced by a glacial, defensive anger. “You’re stalking me?” He scoffed, a cruel twist of his lips altering his entire demeanor. “Is this why you were blowing up my phone today?” “What exactly do you want me to explain, Natalie? Yes, I cheated. I fell for my protégé. What happened back then… the crash, it was a tragic accident. She was so young, Nat. I couldn’t just let her rot in a cell and destroy her entire future over a mistake.” “I’ve kept her set up quietly. She knows her place. She has never bothered you. You’re the one forcing this out into the open, making a mess out of nothing.” His calm, calculated blame felt like a physical blow. He was rewriting history. Rewriting the murder of my child as a “mistake.” A visceral cramp seized my stomach, and I doubled over slightly, gasping in pain. Seeing me wince, muscle memory kicked in; Cole instinctively reached out to support me. I slapped his hand away with everything I had. “Don’t touch me! Keep your filthy, hypocritical hands off me. You make me sick!” Cole’s face darkened, his jaw ticking. He opened his mouth to snap back, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered it instantly, his eyes locked coldly on mine. “I’m leaving,” he said to me, pocketing the phone. “Take a pill and calm down.” He walked out with hurried, urgent strides. Driven by a morbid need to twist the knife in my own chest, I followed him in my own car. I watched from a distance as he stopped at a high-end grocer. He came out carrying a massive bouquet of imported Juliet roses and a small, delicate clamshell of organic strawberries. I remembered my first pregnancy. The morning sickness had been unrelenting, and one afternoon, I had an overwhelming, desperate craving for fresh lychees. Cole had been deep in prep for the Le Mans race, surrounded by engineers and press. He had his assistant send a massive, expensive fruit basket to the house. It was filled with exotic melons and berries, but not a single lychee. Now, I sat in my idling car and watched the man who couldn’t be bothered to leave the track for me step into a sprawling Bel-Air estate. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, I watched him carefully wash the strawberries by hand, cut off the stems, and feed them, one by one, to Madison. The dam inside me finally broke. I got out of the car, ran up the driveway, shoved open the unlocked front door, and marched straight into the kitchen. Before either of them could react, I swung my arm back and slapped Cole across the face with a sickening crack. “Natalie, have you lost your mind?!” He instantly pulled Madison behind him, shielding her just like he had in that hotel room years ago. His eyes blazed with unchecked hostility. “Take your crazy out on me! Maddie has nothing to do with this!” I stumbled backward, the floor swaying beneath my feet. I couldn’t reconcile the monster standing in front of me with the man I loved. When I first told him I was pregnant all those years ago, Cole hadn’t cared that we were in the middle of a crowded restaurant. He picked me up and spun me around, tears in his eyes. Nat! I’m gonna be a dad! Before we even knew the gender, he had cleared out a room, filling it with model cars and tiny racing helmets, bragging to the press that he was raising the next generation of motorsport royalty. And now. “What do you want, Natalie? Do you want her to pay with her life?!” Cole’s voice boomed through the kitchen, but as he took in my bloodshot eyes and trembling frame, he lowered his tone, attempting a twisted sort of negotiation. “Once Maddie’s baby is born, you can be its godmother. We can all move past this.” Staring at the man who was bargaining away my grief to protect the woman who killed our child, my heart didn’t just break—it shattered into dust. Madison peeked out from behind him, stepping forward to grab my forearm. Her perfectly manicured acrylic nails dug viciously into my skin, pinching the flesh hard enough to draw blood, even as she put on a terrified, trembling voice. “I’ve always felt so guilty about what happened back then, Natalie… I just hope, one day, you can find it in your heart to forgive me—” “Get off me!” I yanked my arm back violently. I hadn’t pushed her, but Madison threw herself backward, collapsing onto the marble floor with a theatrical shriek. “My baby…!” She clutched her swollen stomach, her face contorting in faux agony, before letting her eyes roll back as she “fainted.” Cole’s face drained of color. He turned to me, a look of pure, unadulterated hatred in his eyes. “You know exactly what the pain of losing a child feels like, and you’re trying to do the exact same thing to Maddie?!” He shoved me. Hard. He didn’t look back as he scooped Madison into his arms and sprinted toward the door. I staggered backward, my heel catching on the edge of the luxury rug. I fell hard, my tailbone slamming against the unforgiving marble. But a second later, a deep, tearing agony ripped through my lower abdomen. “Cole… wait. Help me, I’m preg—” He paused in the doorway. Those dark eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon were now cold and dead. “The doctors were very clear, Natalie. You can hardly get pregnant.” “Don’t try to manipulate me with cheap lies. You’re draining whatever love I have left for you.” He walked out. I lay on the floor, paralyzed by the pain, until a delivery driver found me through the open door and called an ambulance. At the hospital, the ER doctor’s voice was gentle but grave. Threatened miscarriage. I squeezed my eyes shut, the tears leaking down my temples and into my mouth, tasting of salt and copper. Behind my eyelids, all I could see was Cole’s broad back as he walked away from me. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A photo message illuminated the screen. It was Madison, her maternity blouse unbuttoned, slipping off her shoulder. And there was Cole, his head bent over her chest, his lips approaching her breast. An audio file followed. I pressed play with shaking, icy fingers. Madison’s voice drifted out, breathless and cloyingly sweet: “It’s my first time pregnant, so my body is just so sensitive… Cole couldn’t bear the thought of me hurting myself with a mechanical breast pump, so… he offered to help clear the ducts himself…” A wave of pure nausea violently hit the back of my throat. My hands trembled so hard I could barely type, but I opened the Reddit app. I bypassed the racing forums and went straight to a major pop-culture subreddit. [IndyCar Golden Boy Cole Bradley knocked up the protégé he swore he dropped. The same protégé who killed his wife’s unborn baby. He’s housing her in Bel-Air.] I attached the photo she had just sent me, along with the ones from the boutique, and hit post. Within an hour, it was trending on X and TikTok. The internet exploded, tearing Madison apart, calling her a homewrecking sociopath. But the victory was short-lived. A massive PR firm stepped in. The hashtags were scrubbed, the posts shadow-banned, and in their place, a polished, official press release from Cole’s agency took over the trending page. [My former wife, Natalie Bradley, has long suffered from severe psychiatric delusions. We legally separated some time ago. The fabricated narratives circulating online are the tragic result of her declining mental health.] I slid down the hospital wall, collapsing onto the cold floor. When he proposed, Cole had gotten down on one knee in the rain, swearing to God he would never let a tear fall from my eyes. When I lost our baby, he swore he would never touch a steering wheel again, dedicating his life to doing penance by my side. Now, he told the world I was crazy. The vows of our youth were nothing but a punchline. My phone rang. It was Cole. When I answered, his voice dripped with exhaustion and profound disappointment. “Nat. Do you have any idea how hard Maddie has worked to get her life back on track? Do you really have to destroy her?” “She’s locking herself in the bathroom, threatening to end it. She’s young and hormonal, and I’m terrified she’s going to do something irreversible.” “Take down the posts, issue a retraction, and come here to apologize to her in person.” A jagged lump formed in my throat, choking off my air. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, forcing the tears back. “Me? Apologize? Who the hell is going to apologize to my dead son?!” “Cole Bradley, you are bending over backward to protect a murderer! How do you sleep at night?!” The child inside me seemed to contract, as if feeling the toxic rush of my despair. Despite my best efforts to hold onto my dignity, a ragged, animalistic scream tore from my throat. It was the sound of years of suffocated grief and betrayal finally clawing its way out. My breakdown seemed to shock him. The line went silent for a long, heavy moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. “If that’s how you want to play it, fine. Don’t blame me for what happens next.” “You hurt Maddie. Actions have consequences.” He hung up. The next morning, an anonymous whistleblower post went viral across my university’s forums and local news outlets. [Tenured by Day, Escort by Night: The Truth About Professor Bradley.] The three-thousand-word expose was allegedly written by a former classmate. It claimed that to secure my coveted tenure-track position at the university, I had slept with my fifty-year-old department chair. Attached was a grainy photo from years ago. I was standing in a cramped office, and an older man’s wrinkled hand was resting inappropriately low on my waist. My brain short-circuited. I was a scholarship kid who clawed my way out of a dead-end town. I had no money, no connections. In grad school, my advisor had weaponized my vulnerability, assuming I’d be too terrified to report him, and subjected me to relentless sexual harassment. Even though I eventually fought back and he was quietly forced into early retirement for “academic misconduct,” the trauma had left deep, lasting scars. The only person in the world I had ever confided in about that was Cole. And now, Madison was on Instagram Live, crying to thousands of viewers. “Cole and I have known each other for years. He promised we’d be together. But Natalie trapped him… she spiked his drink at a party years ago and used a pregnancy to force him into a miserable marriage!” The internet turned its rabid attention toward me. [They let this whore teach college kids? Homewreckers should kill themselves!] [No wonder her baby died. Karma doing its job!] The sheer volume of the hatred was a physical weight, pressing the air from my lungs. A sharp, pulling ache radiated through my lower pelvis. Within an hour, I received an email from the Dean’s office. I was suspended, pending a full investigation. The sensation of drowning was total. I was still sitting numbly on the floor when my phone rang. It was my mother. “Natalie, what the hell is happening on the news?! Get over here right now and explain this mess to me!” Her voice was strained, breathless. She had a severe heart condition; any spike in her blood pressure was a death sentence. I dragged myself to her house. The second I walked through the door, a hand struck my cheek with blinding force. I stood there, ears ringing, holding my face. It was only then that I realized Cole was sitting calmly in her armchair. My mother was shaking violently, her face pale. “Get on your knees! Natalie, I did not work my fingers to the bone raising you just for you to become some cheap mistress destroying another woman’s home!” I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, but she cut me off. “Cole already told me everything! He told me how you’ve been blackmailing him, how you’ve been sleeping around behind his back!” I snapped my head toward Cole. He met my gaze, a faint, mocking smirk playing on his lips. Before I could form a word, my mother lunged, grabbing a handful of my hair. “Apologize! You apologize to Cole and Miss Madison right now! Or so help me God, you are no longer my daughter!” The crushing injustice of it all snapped whatever fragile thread was holding me together. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my scalp, refusing to break. “I didn’t do it! I am the victim here! Why should I apologize to the woman who ruined my life?!” “You… you want to put me in the ground, is that it?!” My mother gasped, her chest heaving. Suddenly, her eyes rolled back. She clutched her heart and collapsed onto the hardwood floor like a puppet with its strings cut. “Mom!” I threw myself toward her. Her lips were already turning a terrifying shade of blue, her breathing reduced to wet, rattling gasps. My hands shook violently as I fumbled for my phone to dial 911, but a hand shot out and snatched the device from my grip. “You can call the ambulance,” Cole said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “right after you apologize to Maddie.” I was hovering over the abyss of total madness. I screamed at him, my voice shredding my throat. “I’ll apologize! I’ll do whatever she wants! Just let me call the paramedics, please!” Cole frowned, looking slightly displeased by my volume, but he tossed the phone back onto the floor. The moment the ambulance arrived at the emergency room doors, Cole stepped in front of me, physically blocking my path to the sliding glass doors. “Kneel down and apologize to Maddie. Until you do, my private medical team won’t so much as look at your mother.” Madison had just arrived, chauffeured in one of Cole’s SUVs. Seeing me panic-stricken and covered in sweat, a flash of triumphant glee crossed her face. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted a rush of warm blood. Swallowing my pride, my dignity, and the last remnants of my soul, I dropped to my knees on the dirty concrete in front of Madison. “I’m sorry. I am the homewrecker.” “You stop when Maddie says she forgives you,” Cole dictated, his arms crossed. I bent forward, pressing my forehead against the pavement. One time. Two times. Three times. The concrete scraped my skin raw. Blood began to trickle down my brow, blinding my vision. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Cole’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something like discomfort crossing his face. “Enough. Go check on your mother.” He turned to walk inside. As he did, Madison leaned down, her lips brushing my ear. Her voice was pure venom. “I showed her the deepfake videos of you sleeping with those older men before she collapsed. She really didn’t take it well, did she?” My mother couldn’t take any more stress. My fragile grip on reality disintegrated entirely. I scrambled up, practically crawling through the ER doors toward the resuscitation bay. The attending physician walked out, slowly pulling off his surgical mask. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. The patient suffered a massive cardiac event. Given the delay in getting her here… there was nothing we could do.” The world went silent. My heart didn’t just break; it ceased to exist. My body began to convulse uncontrollably. A sudden, blinding agony tore through my abdomen, twisting my insides like barbwire. I looked down to see dark, crimson blood pooling around my legs, staining the sterile linoleum. They rushed me into emergency surgery. When the doctors initiated the D&C to remove what was left of my pregnancy, the physical agony was nothing compared to the violent severing of my spirit. I felt every scrape, every pull. My soul was being hollowed out, piece by bloody piece. “Your uterus has suffered significant trauma from the fall,” the surgeon murmured later, her eyes full of pity. “Coupled with the history of your previous loss… the scarring is severe. It is highly unlikely you will ever be able to carry a child to term. I am so deeply sorry.” I stared at the ceiling tiles, entirely numb. Dead inside. I arranged my mother’s cremation alone. I dragged my hollowed-out, broken body back to the house. This house was supposed to be our forever home. When we bought it, Cole had insisted on putting the deed solely in my name, a grand romantic gesture to prove I would always have a safe harbor. Looking around at the sprawling, empty rooms, I let out a dry, rattling laugh that quickly turned into sobbing. I signed the paperwork, slipped the medical documents into a manila envelope, and paid a courier for immediate, expedited delivery to Cole’s office. Then, I turned around, flicked open Cole’s silver Zippo lighter, and tossed it into the heavy velvet drapes. I stood by the second-story window, watching the flames lick the ceiling, turning the beautiful cage he built for me into an inferno. Closing my eyes against the heat, I whispered into the smoke. Cole Bradley, if there is a next life, I pray to God I never meet you. I stepped out into the empty air. … Meanwhile, miles away in a glass-walled corner office, Cole’s assistant burst through the heavy oak doors, breathless. “Mr. Bradley! A priority courier just dropped this off—” “It’s a medical diagnostic report… and a signed divorce agreement!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407049”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My brother is gay. Normally, that wouldn’t be a tragedy. But his decision to drag a clueless girl to the altar just to bleed my parents dry for a $150,000 “wedding fund” and a luxury house? That was where I drew the line. In my past life, I couldn’t bear the sight of my aging parents working their fingers to the bone, desperately liquidating their meager retirement accounts to fund his lie. So, I ripped the band-aid off. I outed him. I told them the truth about his secret life. They didn’t believe me. Instead, they branded me a jealous, toxic spinster who was just trying to sabotage my brother’s happiness because I didn’t want to help him buy a house. They disowned me on the spot. But Hunter didn’t stop there. He took to the massive extended family group chat, dropping deepfaked photos of me, claiming I was a high-end escort bankrolled by married sugar daddies. Blinded by a cocktail of rage and betrayal, I stormed out of the house. I just wanted to get to the airport. I just wanted to go home. I never made it. An 18-wheeler ran a red light. As my soul lingered over the asphalt, tethered to my mangled body, I watched the aftermath. I watched Hunter answer the phone call from the police. I watched his eyes light up. He didn’t shed a tear. Instead, he used my literal blood to extort a massive wrongful death settlement from the trucking company. The last thing I heard before the darkness took me was the sound of my brother, flush with my death money, calling his secret boyfriend. “Babe, the bitch got hit by a truck. We’re rich. I love you so much. I’m giving it all to you, and we’re getting the hell out of this country to get married.” Absurd. Vile. Unforgivable. But then, I blinked. And I was breathing. The phantom pain of crushed ribs and shattered femurs still hummed in my nerve endings, but I was sitting upright. I was in the stifling, wallpapered dining room of my childhood home in Ohio. I was looking right at Hunter, who was leading a pretty, doe-eyed blonde through the front door. My mother lunged forward, grabbing Hunter’s hands with tears of religious fervor in her eyes. “My boy. My beautiful boy! A son is a blessing, bringing a bride home to carry on the Gallagher legacy.” 1. “Not like your sister,” my mother continued, her voice sharpening into that familiar, grating pitch as she shot a disdainful glare in my direction. “Over thirty, completely unmarried, and not bringing a dime of value into this house. Nothing but a bad investment.” The smell of pot roast and the heavy silence of the room crashed into me. I gripped the edge of the dining table, my knuckles turning white. I stared at the scene unfolding before me, the realization washing over my panic like a bucket of ice water. I was back. I had been reborn into the exact moment Hunter brought his beard, Madison, home for the first time. This was the day he would casually ask for a hundred and fifty grand in cash to “secure” her, plus the down payment on a four-bedroom colonial in the suburbs. My parents, entirely middle-class and barely scraping by, wouldn’t hesitate. Desperate to see their golden boy procreate, they would agree to bleed themselves dry. I knew the truth. I knew my brother was sleeping with two, maybe three different men in the city. Last time, my heart had ached for my parents’ naive devotion. I hadn’t wanted Madison to be collateral damage in his twisted, closeted masquerade. So, I had spoken up. And the moment the words left my mouth, my father had backhanded me so hard I hit the floor, screaming at me to go to hell for spreading such filth. My mother had thrown her hot tea in my face, telling me to get out, get married, and give my brother my dowry. I remembered the cruel, mocking glint in Hunter’s eyes as I scrambled up from the carpet. “Natalie, I didn’t even want to mention that you’re whoring yourself out to rich men in New York, and now you have the nerve to project your sick fantasies onto me? Have you no shame?” My father had chased me out the door with a wooden chair, screaming that I was a stain on the family name. Hunter had stood on the porch, recording the whole thing on his iPhone to send to the relatives. And Madison? She had just crossed her arms, taking a deliberate step back from me as if my presence was contagious. “Just because no man wants to invest in a decrepit spinster like you doesn’t mean you have to ruin Hunter’s big day,” she had sneered. “You’re pathetic.” The memory of the truck’s grill smashing into my spine made me nauseous. But that was then. This time? I wasn’t going to say a damn word. If they wanted to burn their lives to the ground for their precious son, I would hand them the matches. 2. “What is wrong with you? Sit down!” my father barked, his face darkening the moment I abruptly stood up from my chair. “No manners. No grace. It’s a miracle any man can even look at you without wincing.” Hunter pulled Madison tighter against his side, flashing me a brilliant, teeth-baring smile. “Nat! Maddie and I are making it official. You’re gonna pitch in for the wedding, right? You’re my big sister. My favorite sister.” Favorite sister. Right. Growing up in a house where the sun rose and set on the son, I was nothing more than an ATM. His allowance came from my high school minimum-wage jobs. His private college tuition and his frat dues were quietly siphoned from my corporate salary. For years, I had harbored this pathetic, hollow hope that if I just gave a little more, paid a little more, my parents might finally look at me with an ounce of the adoration they saved for him. But dying changes a person. Dying violently, unloved and betrayed, burns the last of that pathetic hope into ash. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, forcing my muscles to relax. I slowly lowered myself back into the chair. “Sure,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’ll make sure to get you a very special gift.” If he wanted to play house, I was more than happy to help set the stage for the explosion. Hunter’s smile faltered. My easy agreement clearly wasn’t enough. He furrowed his brow, perfecting his pout. “Just a gift? Come on, Nat. We need a house.” “Exactly,” my mother chimed in, practically tripping over herself to advocate for him. “Hunter is the heir to this family. You’re the older sister. You’ve been living it up in New York City making six figures for years. What’s buying a starter home for your brother? You’re family. Why are you being so stingy?” I dug my fingernails into my palms. I met my father’s threatening glare and kept my voice perfectly level. “Okay. I’ll handle the house.” Words were just wind. I just needed to survive this dinner without being chased out like a rabid dog. The moment this awful charade of a meal was over, I was booking a one-way flight back to JFK. They could rot for all I cared. The tension in the room evaporated instantly. My promise of real estate acted like a magic spell. For the rest of the evening, my parents fawned over Madison, promising her diamond rings and loudly praying she would pop out at least three strong boys. As they were finally leaving, Madison hung back in the hallway. She looked me up and down, her eyes swimming with a smug, misplaced superiority. “Woman to woman,” she whispered, her tone dripping with pity. “Seeing me this cherished… it must be driving you crazy, huh?” 3. “Hunter treats me like a queen,” Madison went on, inspecting her manicured nails. “My family only asked for fifty grand to help with the wedding, and he voluntarily bumped it to a hundred and fifty. He’s putting it in a trust for me. He respects me so much, he even insisted we wait until the wedding night. No premarital sex. He’s old-fashioned like that.” She looked at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe. “Honestly, Natalie? You’ll probably never meet a real man like him in your entire life.” I smiled. It reached my eyes this time. “I wish you both a very speedy trip to the altar.” A hundred and fifty grand? That was going straight into his boyfriends’ pockets. A new house? That was his new bachelor pad for his late-night hookups. No premarital sex? Honey, he physically cannot get it up for you. Disappointed that I didn’t break down crying, Madison huffed, turned on her designer heel, and marched out the door. My parents drove the happy couple back to their hotel. They didn’t even bother to say goodbye to me. They forgot I was even in the house. I was used to it. I checked the time, packed my overnight bag in utter silence, and called an Uber to the airport. By the time my flight touched down in New York, my lock screen was a chaotic mess of notifications. Dozens of missed calls. A sea of angry red text messages from my mother. [Where the hell did you go? Maddie was here and you didn’t even take them out to the city to celebrate!] [Your brother is young and needs liquidity. Wire him $20,000 right now so he can take her shopping. Don’t make him look broke in front of his fiancée.] [Why aren’t you answering me?! Are you really throwing a fit over twenty grand? He is the only one who matters to this family’s legacy!] [Ungrateful bitch! Selfish! I should have drowned you. You’re not worth half the dirt on your brother’s shoes.] It went on and on, devolving into pure vitriol. Then came Hunter’s texts. [You’re literally just an ATM for this family. Act like it.] [I can introduce you to one of Maddie’s creepy uncles if you’re that desperate. He’s old, but he’s loaded. I need the cash flow right now, Nat.] [Stop being a drama queen and sell yourself to someone useful. Looking at your miserable face makes me sick.] I read them all. I didn’t type a single word in response. Instead, I opened my browser and dialed the number of a high-end private investigator based in Manhattan. I gave him Hunter’s name, his favorite haunts, and a hefty retainer. If my family wanted a spectacle of a wedding, I was going to give them the season finale they deserved. For years, I had paid the mortgage on that Ohio house. I paid their utility bills. When my parents were sick, Hunter was out partying, and I was the one burning my PTO to fly back and spoon-feed them soup. Yet, to the outside world, my parents bragged only about their brilliant, upstanding son. A college grad. A straight-edge, perfect gentleman. Meanwhile, I was the cautionary tale. The cold, ungrateful, aging career woman. Why? This time, I absolutely refused to let them play parasite to my life. I didn’t block their numbers. I just left them on read. Let them sweat. Hunter, impatient and greedy, couldn’t handle the silence. He took it to the extended family group chat—over a hundred aunts, uncles, and cousins. [Natalie, what is your problem? Mom’s blood pressure is spiking and you’re ignoring us. Are you even human?] [If you’re too broke to buy the house, just say it. But ignoring Mom? You’re dead to me.] 4. In the Gallagher clan, Hunter was the firstborn son of the new generation. He was the messiah. The moment he fired the first shot, the rest of the family eagerly joined the firing squad. Uncle Tom: Natalie, seriously? You’ve always been a rebel, but tearing the family apart over money? Grow up. Aunt Susan: Oh, little Nat thinks she’s too good for us now that she’s in New York. Typical. Great Aunt Martha: Wretched girl. She’s been wild for years. She’s the older sister! Her only job from birth was to pave the way for her brother! Uncle Greg: Told your dad years ago, having a girl first was a curse. Useless. I watched the vitriol roll down my screen, sipping my coffee. It was fascinating to see it all laid bare. They truly believed I was a monster for simply… existing. Finally, my father dropped his heavy hand into the chat. Dad: Enough. Natalie, do you really want to air our dirty laundry to everyone? You have that apartment in Brooklyn. Sell it. The equity is more than enough to buy your brother his house in the suburbs. Dad: It’s settled. You have ten days to get the funds in order. Hunter needs to get married. I almost laughed out loud. I typed out my response, slow and deliberate. Me: I am never buying Hunter a house. Hitting send felt like tossing a grenade into a hornets’ nest. The chat exploded. The language turned vile—calling me a whore, a slut, a traitor to my own blood. Finally, my father delivered his ultimate ultimatum. Dad: If you do this, you are no longer my daughter. We are cutting you off. You are dead to the Gallaghers. Never come back. In my past life, that threat would have sent me spiraling into an absolute panic attack. The fear of being an orphan, of being totally unloved, had kept me in chains. Now? It felt like someone had just handed me the key to my own cage. Me: Deal. Have a nice life. I locked my phone and went to sleep, sleeping more soundly than I had in a decade. I woke up the next morning to absolute chaos. Hunter, desperate to ruin me, had escalated. He dropped the AI-generated photos into the massive family chat. Deepfakes of my face superimposed onto explicit images with older men. Hunter: Keep your filthy whore money, Natalie! I wouldn’t touch it if my life depended on it! He played the righteous, wounded brother perfectly. The comments beneath it were disgusting, reducing me to something less than human. And my parents? They didn’t defend me. They took screenshots of the chat, proudly declaring that they had already disowned the “harlot.” My phone rang. Hunter. “Say you’ll buy the house, and I’ll tell them it was a prank,” he hissed into the receiver. “You’re a fucking idiot,” I said, and hung up. Minutes later, an AI-generated video hit the group. Hunter texted me, I am going to destroy your life. I didn’t panic. I just sent one final message to the group chat. Me: All files have been saved and timestamped. My lawyer is submitting them to the NYPD for distribution of revenge porn and defamation. Then, I hit ‘Leave Group’. 5. It didn’t take two minutes for my phone to ring again. It was my mother. Her voice sounded ragged, stripped of its usual bravado. “Natalie… what are you doing? You can’t sue your own brother.” “He distributed pornographic material with my face on it,” I said, my voice like ice. “It’s a felony. Why wouldn’t I?” “He knows he went too far! He’s just stressed about the wedding. He’ll apologize!” “I don’t care about his apology, Mom. I’m pressing charges.” Seeing that I was completely immovable, her mask slipped. She began to screech, her voice piercing the speaker. She called me a shameless bitch, screaming that with the money I made, I must be sleeping around anyway. “The cops don’t care about family drama! You’re bluffing!” she shrieked, and in the background, I could hear Hunter laughing. It was an ugly, grating sound. Even though my heart had already calcified toward them, a tiny, buried part of me still ached. I didn’t argue with her. I just hung up, forwarded everything to my attorney, and told him to go for the jugular. For the next few days, my phone was a barrage of unknown numbers. Relatives begging me to drop it, telling me I was ruining a young man’s life over a “joke.” A joke? I tossed my SIM card in the trash and bought a new one. The next time I saw my brother, it was inside a precinct in Manhattan. I had refused mediation. The NYPD didn’t take kindly to interstate cyber-harassment and revenge porn. Hunter was detained. As I walked out of the precinct doors, my mother materialized from the waiting area, hurling her heavy iced coffee right at my head. It grazed my shoulder, splattering against the wall. “You little slut!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “I should have strangled you in your crib!” A police officer immediately stepped between us. My parents glared at me with murderous intent, but they didn’t dare physically attack me with a cop standing right there. Madison was there, too. She was draped in a cashmere coat, a designer bag on her arm, and my grandmother’s vintage emerald necklace resting against her collarbone. She looked at me with pure disgust. “You’re so jealous you’re literally trying to put my fiancé in jail.” “I’m telling you right now,” she sneered, leaning in. “I don’t care what you do. We are still getting married. I’m going to live the dream life you’re too miserable to ever have.” “The second Hunter makes bail, we’re getting our marriage license. I hope you rot, Natalie.”

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My best friend set her sights on the most unattainable guy on the neighboring campus, stubbornly chasing him for weeks. He didn’t so much as spare her a single glance. Feeling the sting of fighting a one-sided battle, she decided she needed an accomplice. She shoved his equally intimidating best friend in my direction—me, the girl who spent more days navigating chronic illness than college parties. I pointed to my own bloodless, pale lips. “Betty, are you seriously asking me to chase a frat boy?” She pleaded with me, her eyes wide and desperate. “Consider it cardio. Flirting is good for your cardiovascular health.” Eventually, Betty decided to throw in the towel. Naturally, I dropped my end of the bargain, too. That was when the untouchable campus god sent Betty a frantic text, his usual icy demeanor entirely shattered: I’ll agree to go out with you. Just please, for the love of God, tell your best friend to unblock Jaxon. He’s crying so much my apartment is practically flooding. 01 Ever since my best friend, Betty, crashed a guest lecture at Northwood University last month, she had been thoroughly, hopelessly obsessed with Northwood’s resident golden boy, Cole. She made it her life’s mission to win him over. Weeks went by. She deployed every tactic in her arsenal, and the guy remained as impassive as a brick wall. Yet, rejection only seemed to fuel her fire. It was like a sickness. “This is exactly the kind of man I need, Harper,” she would declare, pacing our living room. “If he folded too easily, I’d lose interest. I need the chase.” Because of my precarious health, my parents refused to let me live in the dorms. They rented a quiet, ground-floor apartment for me off-campus, and Betty moved in to keep me company. It was past nine on a Tuesday, rain lashing against the windowpanes in relentless sheets. The front door burst open, and Betty trudged in, weighed down by shopping bags and radiating pure, unadulterated frustration. She kicked off her soaked boots, complaining the second she crossed the threshold. “Dammit all to hell. What is Cole made of? Teflon? I wore the revenge dress today, Harper. The red one. And he just sat there. I swear to God, the man is a monk.” I paused my movie, shifting my gaze to take in the sight of her. Even soaked in rainwater, shivering in a crimson strapless dress, Betty was stunning. “If he’s that impossible to crack, maybe look somewhere else?” I suggested softly, pulling my fleece blanket tighter around my shoulders. “It’s not like you have a shortage of guys lining up.” “No, no, no.” She marched to the fridge, yanked out a sparkling water, and threw herself onto the couch beside me, popping the tab. “Cole is different. When I look at him, my stomach actually drops. And…” She covered her mouth, a wicked, almost feral grin spreading across her face. “His body is insane. I went to his intramural basketball game last week. The v-line? The abs? It’s like he walked straight out of an Abercrombie catalog. Biting that man’s lip would be a religious experience.” I turned back to the TV. I would never understand the beautiful, agonizing mess of modern romance. “Hey!” She nudged my ribs, a sly glint in her eyes. “Look at this.” She unlocked her phone, tapped into her camera roll, and shoved the screen an inch from my nose. A guy stared back from the photo. His features were sharp, unapologetic, and aggressively handsome. He had the kind of dark, piercing eyes and sharp jawline that practically screamed trouble. Knowing Betty, she had definitely screenshotted this from Cole’s private Instagram. “What about him?” I asked. “Harper. Do you like him?” I had known Betty since we were in training bras. The moment her left eyebrow twitched, I knew exactly what kind of chaotic scheme was brewing in her head. I gestured to my own sickly complexion. “Betty, you want me to pursue him?” She grabbed my hands, her eyes sparkling with manic energy. “Harper, Cole and this guy are glued to each other. They’re a package deal. Someone needs to distract the best friend so I can get Cole alone. Besides, I’m dying out here playing a solo game.” She softened her voice, giving me her best puppy-dog eyes. “Just do it with me. Please? Plus, I read an article that said romantic adrenaline boosts the immune system.” On the screen, the heroine of my movie screamed, “I can’t believe I trusted your crazy ass!” It felt entirely too fitting. A second later, my phone buzzed. Betty had Airdropped me the guy’s contact info. “Trust me, Harper. You have to try. He… okay, he looks a little like he might punch a hole in a wall, but I hear he’s actually super nice!” I let out a long, exhausted sigh. “Fine.” “I could literally kiss you right now!” she shrieked, leaning in before freezing. “Wait, I have rain hair and I need a shower. But I’m kissing you on the mouth when I get out. Get to work, babe!” I just stared at her retreating back. While she was in the shower, I opened the contact to add him, only to pause. The screen told me I already had him in my contacts. Huh? I squinted at the guy’s profile picture. It was a vintage illustration of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes. My own profile was embarrassingly nerdy. My display name was simply Sleepy. My picture was Hobbes the tiger, curled up and napping. It was a manifestation of my deepest desire: to just sleep, eat, and exist without anxiety or pain. His display name was Chaos. My thumb hovered over the screen. I figured anyone who used a classic comic strip for their profile couldn’t be a total monster. By the time Betty emerged from the bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of vanilla steam and wearing a silk slip, I had abandoned my live-action movie for Spirited Away. I didn’t have many hobbies, but getting lost in animation and cinema was my safe haven. “Did you add him?” she asked, aggressively towel-drying her hair. “Mhm,” I murmured, my eyes fixed on Chihiro crossing the bridge. Suddenly, a thought struck me. I scratched my head. “Wait, am I supposed to announce that I’m hitting on him? Is there a protocol?” “Hmm.” Betty paused, tapping her chin. “Start by asking him if he’s seeing anyone. If he says no, hit him with: Would you mind if I added myself to your roster?” “Ew, what?” My face scrunched up in visceral disgust. “That is so incredibly cringe. Is that how you flirt?” “Listen to me, modern dating is all mind games. When you come at him with something that brutally honest, that painfully uncool, it loops right back around to being charming. It makes you look innocent. Just do it.” “This is psychological warfare,” I muttered. Despite my better judgment, I typed into the chat: Hi. Are you seeing anyone right now? I assumed it would take hours, maybe days, to get a reply from a guy like that. I tossed my phone onto the blanket. Less than two seconds later, the screen lit up. Jaxon: ? “He just sent a question mark,” I said to Betty, panic rising. “What do I do?” Before Betty could answer, another text came through. Jaxon: No. I physically cringed. Betty lunged across the couch, peering over my shoulder. “Send the line, Harper. Send it now. I’m going to blow-dry my hair.” “Okay.” Jaxon: Why? I closed my eyes, took a breath, and typed: Would you mind if I started having a crush on you, then? The moment I hit send, I threw the phone to the far end of the sofa like it was an explosive device. God, that was humiliating. The phone remained completely silent. Grateful for the reprieve, I turned my full attention back to the Miyazaki film. Fifteen minutes later, Betty flopped down beside me, her hair a sleek, blowout perfection. “Status report?” “He left me on read,” I said honestly. She bit her lip, looking genuinely stumped. I thought she was going to analyze her terrible advice, but instead she shrugged. “Whatever. Totally normal. Cole didn’t text me back for three days the first time.” I remained silent. I wanted to tell her that Cole probably didn’t text her back because he was emotionally unavailable, whereas Jaxon didn’t text me back because I sounded like an AI bot programmed by a desperate teenager. Betty opened her laptop to work on a group presentation, and I grabbed my phone just to check the time. The screen was flooded. “Oh, by the way,” Betty said without looking up, “his name is Jaxon.” I looked down at the notifications. Jaxon: Wait, what does that mean? I don’t just let anyone crush on me. Jaxon: I have standards. Jaxon: Are you saying you want to ask me out? (Timestamp: One minute later) Jaxon: Actually, my standards aren’t that high. Are you hitting on me? Jaxon: I’m really easy to hit on. (Timestamp: Another minute later) Jaxon: Okay, if you like me, let’s just date. Jaxon: Sorry, I was trying to play it cool up there. It backfired. Jaxon: Are you busy? Can you reply? Jaxon: It’s been ten seconds, are you still busy? Jaxon: I messed up. I should be the one asking you out. Please text me back. Jaxon: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted tough. I just panicked and showed the text to my buddy, and he told me to act aloof. Jaxon: He said if I said yes too fast, you wouldn’t respect me. Jaxon: Baby, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. Jaxon: The truth is, I’ve liked you for a really long time, I just didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know you liked me too. … I stared at the screen, entirely deadpan. “What’s wrong?” Betty asked. “Did he reply?” I pressed my lips together in a tight line, letting the silence stretch. “Betty,” I asked slowly. “When you pursue a guy, the whole point is that they initially reject you, right? Like, for the thrill of the chase?” “Exactly.” Then what on earth was happening right now? A spark of inspiration hit me. I typed back: Reject me. If he rejected me, I could fulfill my duty to Betty by “chasing” him, keeping him distracted without actually having to date him. It was foolproof. Jaxon: [Crying meme] No. I don’t want to reject you. Jaxon: I’m so sorry. I want to travel back in time five minutes and punch myself in the face for trying to act like a badass. Jaxon: I shouldn’t have listened to my idiot friend. I’m sorry. You can yell at me, just please don’t ghost me. I massaged my temples. Me: No. You need to reject me, so I can chase you. This time, the reply wasn’t instantaneous. The little typing bubble danced at the bottom of the screen for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a message popped up, cautious and hesitant: Jaxon: Baby, is this a kink thing? Jaxon: Promise me you won’t actually ghost me. Jaxon: How long are you planning to chase me? I need a timeline so I can emotionally prepare. I glanced over at Betty, who was fiercely typing away on her laptop. Me: Undetermined. Jaxon: Okay. Baby, I reject you. Jaxon: (For the record, that rejection only applies to the roleplay, not to my actual feelings for you). Seeing that, I finally turned to Betty. “Good news. He rejected me.” Betty leaned over, patting my knee in solidarity. “It’s fine, babes. We are modern women; we can handle a little resistance. I’ll teach you the advanced flirting techniques tomorrow.” I then watched in absolute horror as she cleared her throat, shifted her voice into an unnatural, breathy register, and sent a voice note to Cole: “Hey… could you maybe save two seats for me and my friend tomorrow? I really want to be close to the court to watch you play.” I discreetly opened Safari and googled: How to flirt with a guy without losing your dignity. The top article listed a few cardinal rules: a. Push and pull. Don’t be too available. b. Mirror his energy. If he runs hot, run hot. If he goes cold, freeze him out. c. Maintain an air of mystery. d. Do not, under any circumstances, act desperate. I looked up at Betty. “Did you get your flirting techniques from the internet?” “Ha.” She flipped her hair with unwarranted confidence. “Please. I don’t need to steal other people’s material.” No wonder she was getting nowhere. My master was a complete amateur. 02 The next afternoon, the moment our last lecture ended, Betty dragged me across the city limits to the Northwood University campus. By the time we walked into the basketball arena, the bleachers were already packed. The smell of floor wax and masculine sweat hit me like a wall. Betty’s eyes locked onto a target, her face lighting up. She waved frantically. “Cole!” I was still trying to get my bearings in the crowd when she grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the steps. Cole stood courtside, wearing a black and white sleeveless jersey, his expression aggressively neutral. I hadn’t actually seen him in person before, only in the blurry photos Betty obsessed over. Because of my chronic health issues, I rarely went to things like this. Crowds meant germs, exhaustion, and sensory overload. “Harper, if you feel faint or out of breath, you tell me immediately, okay?” Betty whispered fiercely, leaning down to my ear. “It’s stuffy in here. I’ll take you outside the second you need it.” “I’m fine,” I promised, giving her a reassuring squeeze. We were just about to walk over to the seats when I heard Cole call out to one of his teammates. “Where’s Jaxon?” “No clue, man. Haven’t seen him all day.” A second later, a guy near the entrance dropped his jaw and pointed. “Holy shit. Is that Jaxon?” The entire gym seemed to instinctively turn toward the doors. A tall guy was walking in. He had a fresh, sharp haircut—a modern fade that looked expensive—and a silver stud in his left ear. He walked with a loose, arrogant swagger that demanded attention. “What… what did he do to himself?” a guy near us muttered. “Did he skip practice just to get a blowout?” “Who the hell is he trying to impress?” From the moment Jaxon walked in, his eyes darted around the bleachers like a radar, before finally locking onto my pale pink sweater. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. Right, I have to play hard to get. His trajectory, which was initially aimed like a heat-seeking missile straight at me, aggressively veered off to the side. Betty was just about to pull me into our row when a girl stepped up from behind us and tapped Cole casually on the shoulder. “Hey, Cole. Where are the seats I asked you to save me?” The girl had a sleek, shoulder-length bob and an effortlessly cool, sporty vibe. A gaggle of her friends trailed behind her. “Who is that?” I murmured to Betty. The bright smile vanished from Betty’s face, replaced by a dark, stormy look. “Madison. They grew up together.” I didn’t socialize much, but I read an absurd amount of novels. It took me approximately two seconds to read the room. The casual shoulder tap. The proprietary tone. The implicit demand for priority seating. Ah, I thought. The ‘Pick-Me’ childhood friend. The ultimate female bro. “Hey…” Jaxon had clearly lost his internal battle and drifted over, desperate to talk to me. But before he could get a word out, Betty gripped my arm and yanked me down the aisle. “Out of sight, out of mind,” Betty muttered darkly, refusing to look back. I stumbled behind her, glancing over my shoulder. Jaxon was staring after me with the exact expression of a golden retriever who had just watched his owner leave for work. Pure, devastating betrayal. “Your seats are over there. Go sit,” Cole said, pointing Madison toward a row, completely oblivious to the tension. Jaxon, looking murderous, walked over and deliberately shoulder-checked Cole. Cole stumbled a step, looking bewildered. “What is your problem? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” Jaxon didn’t answer. He ripped off his warm-up jacket in silence. A couple of girls nearby tried to catch his eye, but he shut them down with a glare so cold it could freeze water. … Once we were seated, I tentatively nudged Betty. “What’s the deal with him and that Madison girl?” Betty looked at me, her jaw tight. “I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s just… wherever Cole is, she’s there. Always.” Speak of the devil. Madison and her entourage drifted over to our section. Cole, the absolute idiot, had saved an entire row of premium seats right next to ours. I swallowed my words. Truly, the people involved in a crush are always entirely blind to the dynamics around them. Right before the referee blew the starting whistle, my phone buzzed with rapid-fire texts. Jaxon: Why didn’t you talk to me? I thought you were supposed to be chasing me? Jaxon: Are you giving up? Can we switch? Can I chase you now? Jaxon: The game’s starting. You have to watch me. Please watch me. I glanced up from my screen. Right on cue, Jaxon was staring dead at me from the court. The girls sitting directly behind Madison started whispering loudly. “Omg, Jaxon keeps looking over here. Madison, is he looking at you?” “I am so jealous of you,” another girl cooed. “Growing up with two guys who look like that.” Madison flushed, a coy, practiced modesty settling over her features. “Oh, stop. It’s not like that at all.” Beside me, Betty let out an audible, venomous scoff. I calmly lowered my gaze back to my phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jaxon’s hopeful smile instantly flatline into a pout. Once the game started, I quickly realized I was going to be painfully bored. I knew absolutely nothing about basketball. The air was thick with the squeak of sneakers, the roar of the crowd, and the relentless chatter of the girls behind us debating whether Cole or Jaxon had better arms. Suddenly, Jaxon sank a brutal three-pointer from halfway across the court, and the arena practically detonated. He landed gracefully, his face flushed from the exertion. The muscles in his shoulders and arms jumped beneath the harsh gym lights, sculpted and defined. Instinctively, he looked straight up at my seat. The crowd around me shrieked again. “His girlfriend has to be sitting in our section, right?” a girl muttered behind us. “He keeps checking this exact spot.” Then, a voice dripping with syrupy sweetness aimed a question at Madison. “Maddie, honestly, if Cole and Jaxon both confessed their undying love to you tomorrow, who would you pick?” “They’re both so hot! That’s an impossible choice.” “Oh my god, you guys, shut up and watch the game,” Madison deflected, though her voice was laced with pure satisfaction. Betty turned to me, mouthing the word: Pathological. When the final buzzer sounded, Betty grabbed her bag. “Harper, stay right here. Don’t move. I’m going down there, I’ll be right back.” Before I could protest, she had grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and was sprinting down the bleachers. I noticed Madison’s seat was already empty; she had beaten Betty to the floor. I sat quietly, watching the tide of students file out. Against the current, a guy in a black-and-white jersey was taking the steps two at a time, making a beeline for me. I didn’t blink as Jaxon reached my row, dropping his massive frame into the empty seat beside me. He looked at me, a breathless, cocky grin on his face. “I thought you were pursuing me. Where’s my post-game water?” “Sorry,” I said, my voice soft, my eyes completely devoid of remorse. “First time chasing a guy. I’m a little rusty on the protocols.” Jaxon, still chest-heaving from the game, let out a raspy laugh. He tilted his head back, taking a swig from his own water bottle. I watched his Adam’s apple bob. He was objectively devastating to look at. With the sweat glistening on his collarbones and the faint red flush high on his cheeks, the whole “bad boy” aesthetic was dangerously potent. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaned in close, and dropped his voice to a low murmur. “Stop torturing me, baby.” “Let’s just drop the act and go public. Please?” He smelled intensely of adrenaline and cedarwood. The sheer force of his proximity made me instinctively lean away. “Sit back,” I ordered, pressing a single index finger against his chest to push him away. I tilted my head, studying him. “So. You like me?” He sat up perfectly straight, nodding with aggressive sincerity. “But…” I dragged the word out, pointing down toward the court where Madison was currently hovering near the benches in a pleated tennis skirt. “What exactly is your relationship with her? Because the rumor mill says you two have history.” Jaxon’s dark amber eyes locked onto mine, suddenly incredibly serious. “Cole, Madison, and I grew up in the same neighborhood. Our moms are close. But I swear on my life, she is nothing more than an acquaintance I’m forced to acknowledge on holidays.” “Really?” I asked softly. I shifted my gaze to look just over his shoulder. Madison had marched up the bleachers and was standing right behind him, her face thunderous. “Jaxon!” she spat, her voice trembling with indignation. “Where the hell did you go? I was looking all over the court for you. Unbelievable. You ditch your real friends the second you see a pretty face?” I watched the two of them without saying a word. Jaxon’s jaw clenched. He turned his head just enough to look at her over his shoulder. “I told you downstairs. I don’t accept drinks from anyone unless it’s my girlfriend.” “I… I’m not just ‘anyone’!” Madison’s eyes instantly pooled with weaponized tears. She looked like a wounded doe. “We grew up together! What’s wrong with me bringing you water? Just because you get a girlfriend means we can’t be friends anymore?” Madison turned her tear-filled, doe-eyed gaze on me, her voice trembling perfectly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you sitting up here. I didn’t know you were his girlfriend. I hope I didn’t cause a fight between you two.” Wow. She threw the grenade, pulled the pin, and played the victim all in one breath. Spending my whole life sick indoors meant I had read an ungodly amount of historical romance and contemporary drama. I was practically a scholar in the art of dismantling manipulative women in literature. I had just never had the chance to deploy it in the field. Until now. I practically rolled up my mental sleeves. But before I could speak, Jaxon beat me to it. His brow furrowed in genuine disgust. “What are you talking about? She hasn’t even agreed to be my girlfriend yet, but the way you’re talking to her is seriously pissing me off.” Madison’s face froze. The manufactured tears literally halted in her eyes. Right then, my phone rang. It was Betty. “Harper. Let’s go.” I picked up Betty’s tote bag from the bleacher, standing up to leave. Jaxon looked up at me, absolute panic in his eyes. I smiled, reaching into Betty’s bag and pulling out an untouched bottle of Evian water. I let my gaze slide lazily over to Madison, making sure she was watching. I held the bottle out to Jaxon. “Here.” Jaxon’s amber eyes lit up like Christmas morning. His large hand, veins faintly tracing the back, practically snatched it from my grip. “Hey, we’re all going out to get food after this,” Jaxon said breathlessly. “Do you and Betty want to come?” I stepped around the seats, stopping directly in front of Madison. Jaxon shadowed my every move like a bodyguard. I gave her a sickeningly sweet smile. “Excuse me. You’re blocking the aisle.” Madison’s jaw locked. She stepped aside. I walked down a few steps, then paused and looked back over my shoulder. I gave Jaxon a bright, genuine smile. “See you around, Jaxon.” When I reached the ground floor, I grabbed Betty—who was staring at me like I had grown a second head—and pulled her toward the exit. She kept looking back at Jaxon, who was standing at the top of the bleachers staring after me like a man who had just seen God, and then looked at me. “Holy shit. What… what did you do to him? He looks like a domesticated wolf.” “Trade secret,” I whispered.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407047”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel