Author: Momo Chan

In this life, I made a conscious effort to let her pass me by. When she left the Pentagon through the front entrance, I slipped out the back. When she took her “soulmate” to the movies, I stayed home alone, organizing case files. In my previous life, I had been a fool. I knew her heart belonged to him, yet I used every ounce of leverage I had to make her marry me. The result? A lifetime of sleeping in separate rooms. We became the military’s most infamous “unhappy couple.” She hated me for the schemes I used to have her true love transferred to a remote border outpost. I hated her for marrying me while remaining utterly cold for a decade. Ten years of marriage, and we had carved each other into hollow shells through endless cycles of resentment. It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer that she finally softened. She became gentle, attentive, a devoted wife at last. I allowed myself to believe—to hope—that she had finally learned to love me. But as the final round of chemo failed and my vision began to blur into the dark, she leaned in and whispered the truth. “The debt I owed your father… I’ve paid it in full now, Nate.” She looked at me with a weary, clinical pity. “In the next life, I won’t marry you. I won’t need you or your father to save me. Let’s just let each other go.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back. It was the day of the inter-district personnel transfers. Without hesitation, I walked into the Chief of Personnel’s office. “Sir, I believe my skill set is better suited for a deployment to the High Ridge frontier outpost.” Charlotte West, this time, I’m leaving your soulmate by your side. I’m giving you back your life. … 1 Colonel Miller looked up from a stack of files, his brow furrowed. “Last month, you filed three separate requests insisting on a post at HQ because your fiancée was stationed here. That’s why we swapped you with Brody.” He tapped a pen against the desk. “The ink is barely dry on the orders, Nate. You want to change it again?” I pushed the new application across his desk and stood at a sharp, perfect attention. “Reporting for duty, Colonel. I’ve thought it over. I’m volunteering for the High Ridge outpost.” Miller stared at me for a long beat, eventually waving a hand in dismissal. “Fine. Suit yourself. But keep in mind, that’s twelve thousand feet up. It’s brutal. The last guy we sent up there? His girlfriend waited two years before she ran off with a guy from the USO.” I saluted, my face a mask of iron, and walked out. In the hallway, a group of officers gathered around the bulletin board. Brody’s name was at the top of the list for the HQ staff position. He stood there with his head down, his eyes rimmed with red. A few junior officers were whispering nearby, their voices laced with sympathy. “He’s got the highest marks in clinical psychology. If someone hadn’t pulled strings…” “I know, right? He and General West were practically ready to file their marriage intent, and then suddenly—” The voices cut off abruptly as I approached. A dozen pairs of eyes stabbed at me like serrated blades. I walked through them without a word. In their eyes, I was the pathetic snake who had stolen another man’s future. But it didn’t matter. Soon enough, I would be handing Charlotte West back to him. In my last life, Charlotte had been ambushed during a tactical mission on the border. My father, defying direct orders, led a rescue team into the hot zone to save her. He took a bullet to the chest and died in the extraction bird. I used her crushing guilt to force a ring onto her finger. I knew she loved Brody, her childhood sweetheart, so I used my connections to have him shipped to the harshest outpost in the country. I thought if I just gave enough, if I loved her hard enough, I could earn her heart. I woke up two hours early every morning to prep her briefing materials. I stayed up all night running combat simulations for her. I stocked every drawer in her office with her favorite snacks and the specific ointment she needed for her winter skin. Slowly, she started letting me straighten her uniform. She stopped pulling away when I reached for her hand. She even agreed to midnight movies. I was convinced she was finally falling for me. Until the night I collapsed during a training exercise. Charlotte rushed me to the hospital. She spent the entire night outside the OR, and in doing so, she missed Brody’s emergency distress call from the border. The news hit the next day: Brody’s recon team had been ambushed. He was killed during the retreat. Charlotte spent three days at the National Cemetery, standing like a statue in front of his headstone. After that, she never spoke his name again. When my cancer was found after the surgery, she requested a transfer out of active command to care for me for five years. To any outsider, she was the perfect, grieving, devoted wife. Only I knew the truth. The look in her eyes whenever she held my hand wasn’t love. It was a ledger. She was simply paying back a debt, cent by agonizing cent. The bitterness rose in my throat, and I took a long, steadying breath. Not this time. This time, I would give them their happy ending. And in doing so, I would finally save myself. 2 After work, Charlotte’s black SUV was idling in front of the building, just like always. We drove in a heavy, suffocating silence. I knew she’d seen the transfer announcement. I opened my mouth to explain, but she cut me off before I could speak. “Brody leaves for the Ridge next month,” she said, her voice clipped. “A few of the old team are getting drinks tonight. Since you’re the one who took his spot at HQ, it’s only right that you show up.” I didn’t argue. I followed her into the private room of a high-end steakhouse downtown. Brody was the center of attention, his eyes still puffy. Someone vacated the seat next to him when Charlotte walked in, and she took it naturally, as if that was where she belonged. I didn’t care. I found an empty chair near the door. The moment we sat, Brody raised a glass. “Charlotte, you’ve looked after me for years. This one’s for you.” Out of habit, I reached out to stop her. “She’s got a sensitive stomach, she shouldn’t be drinking—” In my past life, I went to every one of these dinners just to be her designated driver and her shield against the alcohol she couldn’t handle. But this time, Charlotte didn’t even look at me. She picked up the glass and drained it in one go. Brody laughed, a little spark returning to his eyes. “See? I knew she could handle it.” Someone down the table smirked. “Major Montgomery, I think you just don’t know the General as well as you think. Whether she drinks or not depends entirely on who she’s drinking with.” A ripple of knowing laughter went around the table. Charlotte didn’t contradict them. The conversation quickly shifted to their shared history—basic training together, weekends away during the Academy, inside jokes I could never understand. They were building a world I had no part in. I ate my meal in silence. In my previous life, I would have fought so hard to wedge myself into the conversation, forgetting that to them, I was nothing more than an unwanted guest. When dinner ended, someone suggested a movie. Charlotte finally looked at me, but her expression was cold. “Take an Uber home, Nate. I’m going with them.” By the time I got back to the officers’ quarters, my phone was buzzing. It was Mrs. Gable, the mother of a fallen soldier I’d been helping. Her daughter’s housing benefits had been stalled for months due to red tape. I’d spent all week getting the paperwork in order. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Gable,” I said into the phone. “I’ve got the file. I’ll walk it through Finance tomorrow morning.” I went to my home office to grab the blue folder, but it was gone. Charlotte didn’t return until nine-thirty. The moment she walked in, I asked, “Have you seen the Gable file? The housing materials?” She hung her hat up, her tone indifferent. “I gave them to Brody.” I froze. “What?” “I spoke to your Chief. I told him to transfer the case to Brody. He needs the credit.” I felt a surge of cold fury. I headed for the door. “No. I’m getting it back.” Charlotte blocked my path, her brow knitting into a familiar look of annoyance. “It’s a housing dispute, Nate. A few hundred dollars in back pay. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” “I gave my word to Mrs. Gable.” “Brody is heading to the border soon. He needs a high-profile win for his year-end evaluation. This case is a perfect example of veteran advocacy.” I was about to tell her that I was the one going to the border, not Brody, when her phone chimed. It was a text from Brody. He had questions about the file. Charlotte turned and walked into the office, her voice softening into a tone she never used with me. “Look at Article 28 of the Benefits Code… Yeah, start there. Compare it to that case in the Western Command last year. I’ll send you the link.” I stood in the hallway, paralyzed. I remembered when I first started in the Political Department. I’d gone to her—a General—to ask for advice on a complex family dispute. She hadn’t even looked up from her laptop. “It’s a policy issue, Nate. Can’t you look up the regulations yourself?” “I did, but the wartime disability standard is—” “I don’t have time. I have a live-fire exercise tomorrow.” I had stayed up for three nights straight to figure it out on my own. When I finally won the case, I told her, hoping for a shred of pride. She had just given me a distracted “Mhm.” I used to think she was just too busy. That my work was too small for her. Now I knew the truth. She just didn’t want to waste her time on me. The conversation in the office went on for over an hour. I walked back to the bedroom and felt my phone vibrate. It was a photo from Sarah, one of Charlotte’s colleagues. The photo was taken in the dark of a movie theater. Brody was holding Charlotte’s hand. She wasn’t pulling away. The text underneath read: Some things can’t be stolen, Nate. Give it up. I looked at the photo and let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. I scrolled up through my chat history with Sarah. It was a pathetic record of my own desperation. “Hey Sarah, it’s Charlotte’s birthday. Any idea what she’s been wanting lately?” “You mentioned your kid likes model planes—I found a limited edition one, I’ll drop it off…” Every message was a bribe, a plea for a crumb of information that might make Charlotte love me. Every reply from her was polite, short, and clinical. I had been so small. I clicked on Sarah’s profile and hit Delete. I turned off the light and lay down. For the first time since the “rebirth,” I didn’t feel the phantom pain of cancer or the crushing weight of anxiety. I fell into the deepest sleep I’d had in years. 3 The next morning, I went to the base hospital for a full physical. In my last life, the doctor told me that if we had caught the cancer even a few months earlier, my odds would have been vastly better. In this life, my health was my only real currency. I had just pulled my ticket for the lab when Charlotte called. “Come to my office. Now. It’s urgent.” “I’m at the hospital for a check-up.” “The check-up can wait,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “I just got orders. I’m heading to a joint operations seminar this afternoon. You need to take the Special Ops cadets through the simulation training. You know the drills.” In my past life, this was our routine. I was her shadow. I edited her students’ reports, I coordinated her logistics, I even drove sick cadets to the ER in the middle of the night. When she’d return, she’d give me a curt “Good job,” as if it were my duty to do her work for her. “They’re your cadets,” I said. “Figure it out.” The line went silent for two seconds. Her voice dropped an octave, dangerous. “I don’t have time—” I hung up. The results came back quickly. The doctor pointed at the CT scan. “No signs of malignancy. However, a few of your blood markers are elevated. I want to start you on a preventative regimen and see you back here every three months.” I took the paperwork, my fingers trembling slightly. The weight on my chest finally lifted. As I walked out of the hospital, I saw a social media notification. One of Charlotte’s cadets had posted a video. Brody was on the simulation field, leading the team. The camera panned to see Charlotte rushing onto the field to join him. In the background, the cadets were cheering. “Brody is a natural! Look at them, the General and Brody look so good together.” In the last few seconds of the video, Charlotte suddenly stumbled. She clutched her stomach, her face turning ashen, and she collapsed. “General!” Brody screamed. The video cut to black. I realized then—it had been two days since I’d reminded her to take her medication. My phone rang. It was Brody, his voice cracking. “Get to the Base Hospital! Charlotte has a gastric bleed! She’s in emergency surgery and I don’t have her ID or medical records—I can’t sign the paperwork!” When I arrived, the “Surgery in Progress” light was red. Brody and a handful of cadets were huddled by the doors. One of the male cadets spotted me and marched over, his face red with anger. “You knew the General had a stomach condition! Why didn’t you make sure she took her meds?” A female cadet whispered, “If you had just helped with the drills like she asked, she wouldn’t have had to rush back and trigger an attack.” Brody pulled at her sleeve. “Stop it. The only thing that matters is that she’s okay.” I ignored them. I walked to the nurse’s station, pulled out my military ID, and signed the authorization forms. An hour later, the surgeon emerged. He walked straight to Brody. “Family?” “Yes,” Brody said quickly. “How is she?” “Acute gastric hemorrhage. We’ve stopped the bleeding. She needs a strict diet and consistent medication. Keep her stress low.” As the doctor spoke, Brody nodded fervently, the cadets hanging on every word. No one noticed me standing in the corner. I waited for the doctor to finish, then walked over and handed the payment receipt and the medical history folder to Brody. “I’m leaving.” As I walked away, their voices faded into the hum of the hospital. I spent the next few days buried in work, finalizing my transfer and writing my handover reports. It wasn’t until a week later that I returned to the officers’ quarters. I pushed the door open and stopped. Charlotte was on the sofa, still pale. Brody was sitting next to her, peeling an apple. Charlotte’s parents were there too. Her mother glanced at me, her tone flat. “You’re back?” I nodded and started toward my room. Her father called out, “Wait. Your wife has been in the hospital for a week and you haven’t shown your face once. Now that she’s home, you don’t even have a question for her?” Her mother chimed in. “You were the one who insisted on getting married. Now that you have her, you treat her like an afterthought?” I turned around. “Actually, I—” “Don’t be mad at him, Mrs. West,” Brody interrupted gently. “Nate’s been busy with work. I’m sure he’s been worried in his own way.” Her mother’s expression softened as she patted Brody’s hand. “You’re always so thoughtful, Brody.” Charlotte glanced at me, but she said nothing. They went back to their conversation, looking for all the world like a happy family. I didn’t bother explaining. I walked into my room and closed the door. 4 On my last day at HQ, I cleared out my office early. I gave my plants to the colleague next door, archived my files, and emptied the drawers. Everything I owned fit into a single tactical backpack. As I stepped out of the building, a group of people swarmed me. Some were holding cameras. “Major Montgomery? What’s your response to the loss of Mrs. Gable’s veteran benefit records?” “As the officer in charge, do you admit to professional negligence?” A microphone was shoved inches from my face. I backed away, the edge of a camera lens catching my forehead, a sharp sting of pain blossoming there. Realizing this was a setup, I turned and retreated into the building. The guards at the gate held the crowd back. My heart was racing. My phone buzzed with a news link sent by a colleague. Title: Officer Loses Critical Records; Martyr’s Mother Denied Emergency Funds for Six Months! The report detailed how Mrs. Gable’s son had died in combat and how she was waiting on the money for her husband’s emergency surgery. At the bottom of the article was a screenshot of the task assignment log. The name under “Lead Officer” had been changed to Nate Montgomery. A text followed from a coworker: I thought Brody was handling that? Why is your name on it now? I logged into the internal system. Two days ago, the name on the Gable file had been changed from “Brody” to “Nate.” I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I messaged the Chief. Colonel, why was the Gable file transferred to me? I never accepted this case. The reply was instant. Brody told me two days ago that you’d discussed it and you agreed to handle the final filing. Why are you denying it now that there’s a problem? I called Brody. Busy signal. I called ten times. No answer. I waited until dark for the crowd to disperse. Finally, Brody picked up. “Where are you?” I growled. “We need to talk. Now.” I heard the clink of silverware, then Brody’s cheerful voice. “I’m at your place, Nate. Charlotte just got out of the hospital and needs looking after. Since you’re so busy with work, I thought I’d come over and cook dinner.” I hung up and sprinted home. I burst through the door. Brody was sitting next to Charlotte, holding a bowl of soup. He stood up, smiling. “Hey, Nate, you’re back! I made—” I stepped forward and slapped him across the face. Hard. The bowl shattered on the floor, soup splashing everywhere. Brody stumbled back, clutching his cheek, eyes wide with shock. Charlotte jumped up, grabbing my wrist. “Are you insane?” I shook her off and glared at Brody. “Where are the original documents? You’re coming with me right now to clear this up.” Brody’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “Nate, I’m so sorry… I was at the hospital looking after Charlotte, I just got distracted… I’ll go explain!” Charlotte grabbed his shoulder. “No. If you go now, it’ll only make it worse. This will go on your permanent record as a major failure. You could be discharged.” She turned to me, her voice cold and calculating. “Let Brody say there was a communication error during the handover. You write the statement and take the primary responsibility. That way, we control the fallout.” I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “So I’m the scapegoat? Not a chance.” Charlotte was silent for a moment. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you don’t take the fall for this, I will find the tactical report from the night your father died. I’ll make sure the investigation into his ‘unauthorized actions’ is reopened.” I froze. I looked at her as if I were seeing a stranger. My father had died saving her. And now, she was using his sacrifice as a weapon against me. The room was deathly quiet. After a long time, I finally spoke. My voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance. “Fine. I’ll do it.” 5 That night, the internal memo went live. The news of my “admission” spread through the base like wildfire. My phone was a constant stream of vitriol. People called me a disgrace to the uniform. Someone even photoshopped my service portrait into a black funeral frame. I shut off my terminal, but the words still echoed in my head. At 4:00 AM, I opened my encrypted military laptop. I began compiling every scrap of evidence regarding Mrs. Gable—the initial application logs, the scanned copies of the martyr certificates, the hospital invoices. By dawn, I had it all backed up in three separate locations. At 9:00 AM, the doorbell rang. Brody was there, holding a military-grade recorder and a small tripod. “Nate, the Ethics Committee needs you to record a video statement.” Charlotte had left for the training grounds early. The red light on the camera blinked on. I sat in front of the lens. “I am Major Nate Montgomery. Regarding the loss of the Gable records, I am here to formally apologize…” Suddenly, there was a commotion outside. Voices were shouting, “He’s in there! Montgomery, come out!” The door began to rattle under heavy pounding. I realized something was wrong and looked at Brody. He was looking down at his tablet, a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips before he could hide it. I lunged forward and snatched the tablet from his hands. It wasn’t a recording. It was a live stream. There were 178,000 people watching. The chat was moving too fast to read. “There he is, the coward!” “Look how robotic he is, he doesn’t even care!” “He shouldn’t be allowed to wear the uniform!” I looked at Brody. He didn’t look scared anymore. He looked satisfied. “A live apology carries more weight, doesn’t it, Nate?” The pounding on the door grew louder. I went to the drawer and grabbed a tactical multi-tool—one Charlotte had used for survival training. Then, I called Base Security. I walked to the front door, took a deep breath, and threw it open. I held up Brody’s tablet, the camera pointed directly at the faces of the people on my doorstep. “You’re trespassing on a restricted military residential area. Go ahead, get your faces on camera. I’ve already alerted Base Security. Address: Unit 7, Block 3.” I held the multi-tool in my other hand, the blade pointed down. The crowd went silent. The man in the front looked at the camera, then back at Brody, who had retreated into the shadows of the hallway. “You… you wouldn’t,” the man stammered, backing away. I pointed the camera at the dented lock. “This is self-defense. Security is two minutes out. Trespassing on a federal installation carries a heavy sentence. You want to stay and find out?” They scrambled. Within minutes, the hallway was empty. By the time Security arrived and took the report, it was over. I closed the door and went to my bedroom. I pulled out my tactical rucksack. I packed my ID, my passport, my bank cards, a few changes of fatigues, and my medical records. Everything else—the photos, the souvenirs, the watch Charlotte had given me—I left behind. Thirty minutes later, I was downstairs. I waited at the gate for twenty minutes until a transport bus for the military airfield pulled up. The driver was a veteran in his late forties. “Headed to the Ridge?” he asked, glancing at my bag. “Going home for the holidays?” I blinked. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Major,” the driver said, starting the engine. “Your family isn’t waiting for you?” Outside, the sun was setting. The distant lights of the base were beginning to flicker on. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m going home.” The bus hit the highway. The city lights faded, replaced by the dark silhouette of the mountains. Three hours later, we pulled up to the airfield. The engines of a C-130 transport plane roared in the freezing wind. Under the dim, amber lights of the cargo bay, I realized for the first time: I was actually free of her.

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The high school alumni group chat started pinging in the dead of night. Someone, probably bored and nursing a drink, threw out a prompt: “Three keywords to describe your high school experience. Go.” The chat, which had been dormant for years, suddenly saw a name pop up that made my heart skip a beat. It was Camille—Camille Sterling—the undisputed prom queen of our graduating class. “Vibrant,” she wrote. “Passionate.” Then, after a deliberate pause, she added one more: “And Nate.” The chat exploded. Even after a decade, they were still the “it” couple of our high school’s tragic lore. The rebellious, wealthy bad boy and the ethereal, gentle honor student. They had loved each other with a raw, burning intensity that everyone envied, only for it to end in a messy, rain-soaked heartbreak the summer after graduation. Every person in that chat had been a witness to their epic saga. Including me. I shifted my gaze to Nate, who was sleeping soundly beside me. The jagged edges of the boy I once knew had been smoothed over by time and tailoring. Nathaniel Vance was no longer the leather-jacket-wearing delinquent; he was my husband. Distinguished. Composed. And completely, utterly indifferent to me. That old thorn, the one I’d pushed deep into my skin years ago, began to throb with a dull, familiar ache. 1 It seemed the onlookers were more invested in the ghost of their relationship than the actual people involved. “Camille’s Instagram says she’s single. But Nate… does anyone actually know?” “He went dark after the breakup. Dropped out of the loop completely. Now the only place I see him is on Bloomberg.” “Please, the man is a machine. No scandals, no tabloid shots, just work. There’s no way he has a girlfriend.” “Makes sense. When you lose the love of your life that young, everyone else is just… noise.” “Why did they actually break up, anyway?” “Classic ego. She wanted to head to the Sorbonne, he was being a prick about it. They both leaned into the drama instead of the compromise.” “Ugh, it’s like a second-chance romance novel waiting to happen. I’m obsessed.” They kept spinning the fantasy, and I kept my mouth shut. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if I was the “noise.” Was I just the compromise he made when he realized he couldn’t have the real thing? I reached over to turn off the lamp, but Nate’s phone lit up on the nightstand. [Unknown]: I’m back, Nate. There was no contact name. But I didn’t need one. Only Camille called him “Nate” with that specific, casual intimacy. He was out cold, his hand resting instinctively over my stomach as it often did in his sleep. His wedding ring, cold against my skin through my silk nightgown, felt heavier than usual tonight. A wave of nausea hit me. My thumb hovered over his screen, wanting to delete the message before he could see it. I knew his passcode—579579. It was a pattern on the keypad, a sequence I’d long convinced myself was a code for their names or some anniversary. I stared at the lock screen for two full minutes, my heart hammering against my ribs, before I finally set it down. Going through his phone felt beneath me. Besides, Nate didn’t indulge me the way he’d indulged her. I remembered a day in tenth grade when Camille had been fuming because a freshman girl wouldn’t stop texting him. Nate had just laughed, sliding his phone across the desk to her. “You jealous, babe?” he’d whispered, his eyes dancing. “I already blocked her. But go ahead. Check the logs. Delete anyone you don’t like. I’m all yours.” Thinking about it now kept the sleep away. I stayed awake until seven, when the light finally started to bleed through the curtains. 2 Nate’s internal clock was usually surgical. He was a man of routines—gym, shower, black coffee, office. But today, he stayed in bed. He stared at his phone for a long time, his thumbs moving slowly as he typed. He didn’t get up until eight. “Nate,” I called out as he stood by the dresser. “Yeah?” “The high school centennial is this weekend. Are you going?” We weren’t the kind of couple that shared everything. We shared a bed, a mortgage, and a quiet life, yet I had to find out about the biggest event of the year from a group chat while he slept inches away. He paused, adjusting his cufflinks. “Yeah. Are you?” I shook my head. High school wasn’t a highlight reel for me. For most people, it was a place to visit old haunts and mentors. For me, it was a museum of humiliations. He didn’t push. He probably didn’t want me there anyway. I glanced at my own phone. The group chat was at 100+ notifications. Camille had finally emerged from the shadows. “Just woke up! Can’t wait to see everyone next week.” The replies were instantaneous. “The Queen has returned!” “Did you see all the stuff we were saying last night? I thought you’d muted us!” “I feel like a fan caught stalking a celebrity…” Camille sent a playful winking emoji. “It’s fine. I found it… interesting.” That word felt like a weight in my gut. Interesting. “So, is Nate actually coming? He’s always flying off to Tokyo or London. Does he even remember us mere mortals?” “I can’t believe the guy who used to set off illegal fireworks for Camille is now a boring CEO.” “Is he even coming? Can anyone confirm the legend will be there?” Camille’s reply popped up a second later: “Don’t worry. He just texted me. He’ll be there.” 3 “Claire.” Nate was standing in the doorway, checking his watch. “Aren’t you getting up? You’re going to be late.” Eight-thirty. I scrambled out of bed, forcing the phone out of my mind. I had a nine o’clock appointment to play chess with Mr. Jackson at the retirement villa. I’m a stickler for time. I hate being late. It’s a habit born from a lifetime of trying to be invisible. Except for that one time in junior year. A massive pile-up on the highway had stalled the bus. I’d jumped out and ran the last half-mile, gasping for air as I reached the school gates. I had one minute left before the bell. Nate was there, too. He was leaning against the brick wall, leisurely eating a breakfast burrito. He could have made it easily, but he just stood there. He even bent down to slowly tie his shoe, watching the clock tick down. He waited until he saw Camille jogging up from the parking lot, breathless and beautiful. He hadn’t been late because of the traffic. He’d stayed outside to be late with her. I looked at him now, sitting at our breakfast table, sipping his coffee and reading the Journal. On a whim, I decided to test the waters. “Nate, I’m running behind. Do you think you could drop me off?” He didn’t look up from the paper. “I have a meeting at ten. I’ll have my driver take you.” I blinked. “Right. Thanks.” “No problem.” “Thank you” and “No problem.” That was the vocabulary of our marriage. We were polite. We were considerate. We were strangers who knew how each other liked their eggs. The driver got me there on time. Mr. Jackson was already waiting in the gazebo, his eyes twinkling. He was a grumpy old man who cheated at chess and talked too much, which was why no one else would play with him. We’d become unlikely friends over the years. At the time, I hadn’t known he was Nate’s grandfather. To me, he was just Arthur, the man who complained about his “stubborn, blockhead grandson.” “Claire, dear,” Arthur said, waving a hand in front of my face. “You’re miles away today. You just walked right into a scholar’s mate.” I looked down. The board was a disaster. I forced a smile. “You got me, Arthur. I’m off my game.” He studied me, his eyes sharp. “Did you and Nate have a fight?” I shook my head. We didn’t fight. We didn’t have enough friction to spark a flame, let alone a fire. “That boy,” Arthur sighed. “He’s always been emotionally stunted. I’ll have a word with him.” The idea of Nate being “stunted” was almost funny. In high school, he was the definition of “soulful.” He was a romantic extremist. He’d bought roses for every girl in the senior class just so Camille wouldn’t feel singled out by her strict parents. He’d braved a suspension to light up the sky with her name. I’d seen the roses. I’d seen the fireworks. I was just the girl in the background, benefitting from the fallout of his love for someone else. The realization hit me then, sharp and cold. I was afraid. 4 I have spent my life waiting. Waiting for the 50% off stickers at the grocery store. Waiting for the last bus in the rain. Waiting in the foster system for a family that never came. I was falling into the old habit again. I was waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for Nate to realize he still loved her. Waiting for the “we need to talk” conversation. Waiting to be discarded. Usually, the waiting was a numb, dull thing. But this time, it hurt. I decided, for the first time in my life, to be brave. I went to Nate’s office. I rehearsed the questions in my head the whole way there. Do you still love her? Are we over? I didn’t even make it past the lobby. The receptionist gave me a polished, pitying smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Vance, but Nate is in a closed-door session. Unless it’s an emergency?” I wasn’t even sure if Nate wanted his employees to know he was married to someone like me. I hadn’t pushed for a public profile. “It’s fine,” I said. I pulled out my phone to call him, just as the elevator dinged. Nate walked out, surrounded by a phalanx of VPs. He looked at his phone, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but he didn’t answer. I hung up instinctively. He was walking slower than usual, leaning back to listen to someone behind him. As they cleared the corner, I saw her. Camille. She looked exactly the same—the kind of timeless beauty that didn’t need filters. She was walking beside him, her hand occasionally brushing his arm. “Is that the same ringtone?” she asked, her voice carrying across the lobby. “I can’t believe you still use that piano track. It was my favorite.” Seventeen-year-old Nate listened to nothing but grunge and heavy metal. But Camille loved Chopin. Nate had changed his entire world for her. Apparently, he’d never changed it back. The receptionist cleared her throat. “See? I told you he was busy.” “Right,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I went home and crawled into bed. I just wanted to sleep it off, but the group chat was a wildfire. “OMG guess who I just saw at Le Bernardin? Nate and Camille!” “It’s happening. The endgame is finally here.” “@Camille, give us the tea! Is the flame back on?” Camille posted a photo. A view of the city, a glass of expensive red, and a man’s forearm resting on the table. You couldn’t see his face, but I knew those veins, that watch, those fingers. “The food here is still incredible,” she captioned it. I zoomed in on his hand. The hand I’d held every night for two years. His wedding ring was gone. 5 Nate came home early. He didn’t come to the bedroom. He went out to the balcony and lit a cigarette. He’d quit the day we got married. Seeing her had clearly broken his resolve. When he finally came inside and showered, he climbed into bed and pulled me against him. It was a rare gesture of affection outside of our sex life. “Claire,” he whispered into my hair. “We should talk.” About what? The divorce? The fact that you’re moving her into my spot? My breath hitched. I felt my body go rigid. “Never mind,” he sighed, sensing my tension. “Why did you call me today? You never call the office.” “It was an accident,” I lied. “A pocket dial.” “Oh. I figured.” That night, he was different. He kissed me with a slow, agonizing tenderness that felt like a goodbye. I’d always preferred it when he was a little rough, a little wild. In those moments, I could see the ghost of the boy he used to be. I knew he was capable of passion—I’d seen him fight for her, seen him laugh until he couldn’t breathe. With me, he was always so… quiet. I realized then that I couldn’t do this anymore. I didn’t have a family to turn to. I only had Arthur. The next afternoon, I sat with Arthur at the chessboard. I stared at the pieces, unable to see a way out. The first rule of chess: if you’re in a losing position, don’t play for a draw. Fold. “Arthur,” I said softly. “I don’t think I can solve this one.” He looked at the board, then at me. He reached out and swept the pieces into a messy pile. “Then start over,” he said. He was right. The seasons were changing. I didn’t bother swapping my summer clothes for winter ones. I didn’t restock the pantry. I started packing my books into cardboard boxes. Nate found me in the study, looking at the half-empty shelves. “Where are your books?” “I’m donating them,” I said. Another lie. I just didn’t want to be scrambling when the time came. I’d rehearsed my speech a hundred times. I walked to his home office that night and stood outside the door, taking three deep breaths. I turned the handle. Nate was at his desk, one hand over his eyes, the other holding his phone. “Camille, I can handle the logistics on this end,” he was saying, his voice weary but soft. “It’s been too long. I don’t want to wait anymore.” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I backed away and closed the door. He was in more of a hurry than I was. He was just waiting for the right moment to “handle” me. That night, I didn’t wait for the perfect moment. I chose the most abrupt one. As he leaned in to kiss my neck, I pulled away. “Nate,” I said, my voice steady. “I want a divorce.”

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My mother told me the will had nothing to do with me. On the other end of the line, her voice was as flat as if she were deciding what to have for lunch. “Your father’s estate is a family matter. We’ll sit down and divide it ourselves. You just stay busy with whatever it is you do.” Family. I’ve lived as a member of this family for thirty-eight years. But in my mother’s vocabulary, “family” has never included me. I didn’t say anything. “Did you hear me?” she pressed, her tone sharpening. “The lawyer notified me,” I said. “I’ll be there.” There was a beat of silence. “Lawyer? What lawyer?” “The one Dad hired. He said I’m required to be present for the reading.” Three seconds of dead air. Then, she hung up. 1. When I arrived, the living room was already packed. My brother, Ben, and his wife, Jessica, were on the main sofa. Ben had his arm draped over the backrest, legs crossed with an air of casual ownership. Jessica was busy peeling a tangerine, giving me a brief, wordless glance before looking away. My younger sister, Melanie, sat in the armchair, her eyes rimmed with red. She clutched a ball of damp tissues, sniffing occasionally. My mother, Martha, sat dead center. On the coffee table before her sat a spread: tea, a fruit platter, and a box of Kleenex. When I walked in, nobody moved to make room. The sofa was full, and two dining chairs had been dragged over—one for my Uncle Joe and one for Aunt Sarah. There wasn’t a seat for me. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds. Then, I walked to the utility closet and pulled out a dusty metal folding chair. Nobody seemed to find this strange. I set the chair at the very edge of the room. I sat down. My mother glanced at me, said nothing, and then turned to Uncle Joe. “Mr. Marshall said he’d be here by two.” Mr. Marshall was the attorney. My father had hired him privately before he passed. Only my mother had known about his existence, but until I mentioned it on the phone yesterday, she hadn’t realized the truth—that this lawyer wasn’t just a formality. “When did your father hire a lawyer?” she had posted in the family group chat last night. No one replied. No one knew. At 2:03 PM, the doorbell rang. Mr. Marshall walked in. He was in his mid-forties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and carrying a weathered leather briefcase. “The reading of David Miller’s last will and testament requires all legal heirs to be present,” he announced. He scanned the room. “Mr. Benjamin Miller.” “Here,” Ben said, straightening his posture. “Ms. Katherine Miller.” “Here.” “Ms. Melanie Miller.” Melanie sniffed. “Here.” “Mrs. Martha Miller.” My mother gave a curt nod. Mr. Marshall opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. “The will is four pages long. I will read it in its entirety.” My mother took a sip of her tea, her expression composed. She wasn’t nervous. To her, this was just a hurdle to clear. She already knew how things were “supposed” to go. “With your father gone, I’m the one in charge of this house,” she had told Ben over the phone two days ago. I heard her. Not because I was eavesdropping, but because Ben had her on speakerphone. He hadn’t realized I was in the next room, packing up the last of Dad’s clothes. Mr. Marshall flipped to the first page. “Article One: The residence located at 412 Sycamore Street, including all real property, is bequeathed to Benjamin Miller.” Ben nodded. His expression was one of quiet, expected triumph. “Article Two: The savings account at Chase Bank, totaling one hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars, is bequeathed to Melanie Miller.” Melanie sniffed again. This time, her face twisted slightly—maybe she thought a hundred and fifty grand wasn’t enough. “Article Three: All family jewelry and the cash contents of the home safe are bequeathed to Martha Miller.” My mother set her teacup down, nodding slightly. The first three items were done. The room fell silent for a moment. Then my mother spoke up. “Fine. If that’s everything—” “I’m not finished.” Mr. Marshall turned the third page. “There is one final page.” My mother’s hand froze in mid-air. “What?” Mr. Marshall didn’t look up. “Article Four.” He paused. “This section is extensive and includes an addendum. Please allow me to finish before commenting.” The living room went deathly quiet. Even Melanie forgot to wipe her nose. I sat there on my cold metal folding chair at the edge of the room. No one looked at me. It felt exactly like every other day of the last fifteen years. 2. I don’t remember exactly when I became invisible. Maybe I always was. When I was little, we took family portraits. My dad would be holding Melanie, and my mom would have her arm around Ben. I’d be standing off to the side. The photographer would say, “Everyone, squeeze in tight!” My mom would pull Melanie closer to the center. I’d lean in, trying to catch the edge of the frame. But when the photos were developed, I was always on the far left, my arm half-cropped out. That photo hung in the living room for ten years. Eventually, they replaced it with a newer one. I was in that one, too. Still on the edge. This time, I was barely a sliver of a shadow. At Thanksgiving, the house was always full. Uncle Joe’s family, Aunt Sarah’s family, all of us. There would be ten places set at the table. When I arrived, I’d count the silverware. Always nine sets. I never said anything. I’d just go to the kitchen, grab a plate and a fork, and find a small stool to squeeze into a corner. The stool was too low, so I’d have to hunch over just to reach the turkey. It wasn’t a one-time mistake. For seven years straight, there was one place setting missing. They didn’t do it on purpose. They just… forgot. They forgot I needed to eat, too. On Christmas, the checks were handed out. My mom would pull them from her purse. One thousand dollars for each of Joe’s kids. One thousand for Sarah’s. Two thousand for Ben’s son, Leo, followed by a coo: “Grammy loves you most, Leo!” Melanie wasn’t married and had no kids yet, so she got her own “special” gift. I was married. I had a daughter, Sophie. My mom finished handing out the envelopes and zipped her purse. I waited. “Mom… what about Sophie?” She blinked, looking genuinely startled. “Oh.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a stray envelope that looked significantly thinner. “Here.” Sophie took it and went to the other room to open it. Two hundred dollars. The other grandkids got one or two thousand. My daughter got two hundred. Sophie left the check on the table. She was eleven; she understood the math. “Mom, why is mine the smallest?” “Grandma was in a rush,” I told her. “She probably just made a mistake.” She didn’t ask again. But she was quiet the rest of the night. So was I. On my twenty-sixth birthday, there was no cake. No phone call. Not even a text. On Melanie’s twenty-first, my mother threw a gala at a country club for eighty people. She posted a gallery of nine photos on Facebook with the caption: “My baby girl, forever my little angel.” On Ben’s birthday, she Venmo’d him three thousand dollars with the note: “Happy birthday to my favorite son.” My birthday is in October. In our house, October has no meaning. For nine years, no one remembered. In the tenth year, I decided to cook dinner for everyone on my birthday. I made everything they liked: roast beef, garlic mashed potatoes, honey-glazed carrots. I set the table. “Dinner’s ready.” Everyone sat down. My mother served a prime cut of beef to Melanie. “Eat up, sweetie, you look too thin.” Nobody said thank you. Nobody asked what the occasion was. After dinner, I cleared the plates. I washed the dishes. I wiped the counters. Then I went to my room. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my daughter. “Happy birthday, Mommy.” Followed by a cake emoji. I stared at that emoji for a long time. I typed back, “Thanks, baby.” I put the phone down and went to the laundry room to fold the towels. 3. The phrase my mother used most was: “Can’t you just step aside?” When we were kids, Ben wanted to go to an elite summer camp. It was expensive. I wanted to go to a local art program. “Can’t you just step aside? Ben is the boy; he needs the networking for his future.” I stepped aside. Later, Melanie wanted private piano lessons. “Can’t you just step aside? Melanie is delicate; music is good for her soul.” I stepped aside. When Ben went to college, the family paid for everything—tuition, housing, his fraternity dues. The summer I graduated high school, my mother said, “Your father’s health isn’t great. We can’t afford two tuitions. Your grades are… fine, but maybe you should just go to community college and get a job sooner.” I had a 4.0 GPA and a 1500 SAT score. Ben’s SAT had been a 1080. I didn’t argue. I went to community college. I worked as a bookkeeper during the day and studied at night. I paid for my own bachelor’s, then my master’s, then my CPA exams. It took me six years. My family didn’t contribute a single cent. When Melanie went to college, they didn’t just pay her tuition; they gave her a three-thousand-dollar monthly allowance. My mother told the neighbors, “Melanie is at NYU. The city is so expensive, but as a mother, how can I let her struggle?” I listened. I said nothing. The gap in the money only grew. When Ben got married, the family gave him eighty thousand for a down payment, not counting the rehearsal dinner. When I got married, my mother gave me two thousand dollars. Two thousand. She handed it to me in an envelope the night before the wedding. “You know how things are. We spent so much on Ben’s wedding last year. You’re successful now, so don’t be petty about it.” I took the envelope. “Okay.” At the wedding, my mother sat in the front row. She didn’t cry. She didn’t look sentimental. But on Melanie’s wedding day (whenever that would happen, my mom was already saving), she’d be a wreck. Actually, what did Melanie get for her engagement? A hundred-thousand-dollar trust fund and a new Lexus. Same mother. Same father. When Ben bought a bigger house, they gave him another fifty thousand. “Ben needs the space for the baby. Can’t you just step aside?” I never asked them for a dime when I bought my house. I knew the answer before I could finish the question. My husband and I saved for four years for our down payment. Our mortgage is four thousand a month. After that, things are tight. But every month, I still sent my parents a thousand dollars. I started doing that the year I got my first real job. Fifteen years ago. One thousand, times twelve, times fifteen. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. That was just the base. The holiday gifts, the birthday checks I sent them, the designer clothes for Mom, the premium health supplements for Dad—I never tracked it. But my father did. 4. Two years ago, Dad was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. The doctors said it was treatable, but the costs were astronomical. The immunotherapy alone was ten thousand a month. My mother sat outside the ICU for an hour, then called Ben. “Your father is in the hospital. Give him a call so he knows you care.” She called Melanie. “Your father is sick. Don’t worry too much; your sister is here.” “Your sister.” In her mouth, that was always my name. My function. Ben, who lived three states away, called once. “Hey, Dad. Hang in there.” The call lasted ninety seconds. Melanie, who was “too stressed” by her new baby, sent a text. “Get well soon, Daddy!” with a heart emoji. And that was it. For the next twenty-two months, I was the one. I woke up at 5:00 AM to prep his meals. I drove forty minutes to the hospital before work. I fed him. I cleaned him. I talked to the doctors. I signed the forms. I took three months of unpaid leave, losing nearly thirty thousand in salary and bonuses. At home, I still had to be a mother to Sophie and a wife to my husband. My husband helped as much as he could, but in that hospital room, it was always just me. After the first round of treatment, my mother invited the whole extended family to the hospital to “visit” Dad. Uncle Joe, Aunt Sarah, all the cousins. My mother stood by the bed and said, “We’re so lucky to have Ben. He calls every single day to check on his father. And Melanie is such a sweetheart, always sending her love.” I was standing in the corner, holding a tray of ice chips. Nobody mentioned me. Uncle Joe glanced my way. “Kate’s been working hard, too, Martha.” My mom blinked, as if suddenly remembering I existed. “Oh, right. Well, she lives close by. It’s just easier for her to drop in.” Drop in. For twenty-two months. Every single day. I put the ice chips on the nightstand. “Drink some water, Dad.” My father looked at me. His lips moved, but no sound came out. But his eyes… his eyes were different from everyone else’s in that room. The bill for the first round was twenty-four thousand. I wired it to my mother. The second round was twenty-six thousand. I paid that, too. The third was eighteen thousand. Totaling the specialty drugs and the home care, I had spent over sixty thousand dollars out of my own savings. My mother told the family, “Ben sent so much money home to help his father.” She even sent a voice note to the family group chat: “Ben is so busy with his business, but he’s the one making sure his father gets the best care.” I stared at that message for a long time. How much did Ben actually give? Five thousand. One time. He told her it was for “Dad’s comfort.” I didn’t say anything in the chat. I put my phone down and went back to the kitchen to make the bone broth I’d be bringing to the hospital the next morning. 5. My father passed away at 3:00 AM on a Tuesday in September. I was the one who got the call. When I arrived, my mother was already there, sitting by the bed. Ben caught the first flight out and arrived by evening. Melanie drove in with her kids. I handled the funeral. I chose the cemetery. I ordered the flowers. I wrote the obituary. I organized the wake. My mother was “too distraught.” Melanie couldn’t stop crying long enough to talk to a caterer. Ben said he’d “handle the costs.” He gave five thousand. Again. The funeral was packed. I stood at the door of the chapel, greeting every guest. I handed out programs. I said thank you for coming a hundred times. I stood from 8:00 AM until 2:00 PM without a sip of water. When it was over, I went back to Dad’s house to pack his things. His suits. His reading glasses. The chess set he loved. In the bottom drawer of his desk, there was a small metal lockbox. The key was on Dad’s keychain. I opened it. Inside was a thick manila envelope. On the front, in Dad’s steady, familiar handwriting: “For Kate.” My hands shook. I didn’t open it there. But I did find something else in the box—a ledger. I flipped to the first page. It was filled with tiny, meticulous numbers. Dates, amounts, sources. “March 2010. Kate wired $1,000.” “June 2010. Kate paid electric bill. $340.” “Sept 2010. Kate bought formula for Ben’s baby. $680.” Every single cent. He had recorded everything. I flipped through page after page. Fifteen years of my life, documented in his handwriting. His script started clear and bold, then became shaky, then nearly illegible toward the end. The last few pages were from his time in the hospital. The lines were crooked, but the numbers were firm. “Jan 2024. Kate paid $24,000 for hospital. Martha told the family it was Ben. It wasn’t. It was Kate’s money.” I sat on the floor, the ledger heavy on my knees. I stared at it until the room went dark. Then I put it back in the box, locked it, and took it home. 6. Three days after the funeral, Ben and Melanie were still at the house. I knew what they were waiting for. They were waiting for the spoils. My mother knew it, too. But she hadn’t mentioned a will because she didn’t know one existed. Until I made that phone call. “The lawyer notified me.” That was the first time she realized that Dad—the quiet man she thought she controlled—had gone behind her back. “When did this happen?” she asked at dinner that night. Ben shrugged. “Don’t worry, Mom. Having a lawyer is better. It keeps things clean.” What he meant was: Legality will ensure I get my share. Melanie said nothing, but she kept glancing at me. Her look was suspicious, as if she were thinking: What do you know that I don’t? I knew plenty. The ledger was in my bag. But I hadn’t opened the letter yet. Dad had marked it “For Kate,” and I wanted to wait until the reading of the will to see what it meant. Maybe it was connected to the estate. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, it was the only thing Dad had left specifically for me. In fifteen years, this family had given me a two-thousand-dollar check, a few holiday dinners, a thousand “step asides,” and a folding chair. Now, I had a metal box. I took it with me and went home. 7. The day of the reading. Today. Mr. Marshall has just finished the first three items. The house goes to Ben. The cash goes to Melanie. The jewelry goes to my mother. It’s exactly what everyone expected. I’m sitting on my folding chair, my face a mask of calm. This is my life. Fifteen years of being the backup. Ben stands up, ready to shake the lawyer’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Marshall. I think that covers everything—” “I’m not finished,” the lawyer repeats. He turns to the final page.

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I had been following a popular home-renovation influencer online, and on a whim, I brought up the idea of finally fixing up the house my late parents had left me. My husband shut it down immediately. “We already have a nice place to live. Why would you waste time renovating that old house?” Without his support, I let the idea die. Until this weekend. I was walking past my old neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to film a quick video of the exterior. The front door swung open, and a woman and I locked eyes. Behind her, the home I had lived in for over twenty years was completely unrecognizable. And I knew this woman. She was the exact home-renovation influencer I had been following. 01 I stared at the brass numbers on the door, checking them three times just to be absolutely certain I hadn’t made a mistake. But how could I? I had lived in this house for over two decades. You don’t forget the geometry of your own childhood. A hot spike of anger shot through my chest. “Who are you?” I demanded. “Is this your house?” The woman looked at me like I had lost my mind. She cleared her throat, shifting her weight defensively. “If it isn’t mine, is it yours? Back off, lady. You’re acting crazy.” Before I could utter another word, she slammed the door in my face. I stood frozen on the welcome mat, the blood turning to ice in my veins. A rapid-fire montage of every single video this influencer had ever posted flashed behind my eyes. In her polished, aesthetically pleasing clips, she constantly talked about her husband. Her eyes would crinkle with that saccharine, newlywed sweetness. I vividly remembered one specific video where she mentioned her husband had a severe mushroom allergy. I had even left a comment: Wow, what a small world! My husband has a severe mushroom allergy too! Small world. Right. After my parents passed away in quick succession, my husband, Ryan, had taken over the management of their estate. I couldn’t bear to go back—the grief was still too raw, the ghosts too loud—and between the heavy fog of mourning and raising our toddler, I had simply trusted him. I never imagined that my childhood home was being handed over to someone else. I wandered back to our apartment in a daze. I collapsed onto the bed, my eyes burning holes into the ceiling. When Ryan got home from work, the apartment was dark. I hadn’t cooked dinner. I had even called my cousin to come pick up our daughter, Sophie, for the evening. He walked into the bedroom, his voice sharp with entitlement. “Why isn’t dinner ready? Where’s Sophie?” His tone was so incredibly presumptuous. Normally, that edge in his voice would flood me with guilt. He worked so hard for our family, I would tell myself. The least I could do was be a flawless, supportive backbone. But today, I felt nothing. I just looked at him, my voice eerily flat. “I didn’t cook today. Someone else is watching Sophie.” That was when Ryan finally noticed the absolute deadness in my eyes. His posture shifted instantly, his voice dripping with sudden, practiced honey. “What’s wrong, Rach? Are you not feeling well?” He walked over, his hands warm as he gently pushed my shoulders back against the pillows. “You just rest. I’ll take care of dinner.” He even pulled the duvet up to my chin, tucking me in like a child. A little while later, he carried a tray of food into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress and trying to feed me spoonful by spoonful. “I’m sorry, babe,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “I had a bad attitude when I walked in. Long day. That’s on me.” I chewed the food he fed me, but all I could see was the woman in the doorway. If I recalled correctly, she and I were exactly the same age. But standing face-to-face with her, I looked a decade older. I swallowed hard, finally breaking the silence. “I really think I want to renovate my parents’ old house.” A flicker of raw panic crossed Ryan’s face. The hand holding the spoon trembled, just for a fraction of a second, before he forced his features into a mask of casual concern. “Why are we bringing this up again?” he asked lightly. “I just think it’s a waste to let it sit empty,” I said, holding his gaze. “Might as well update it.” He sighed, setting the bowl down and taking my hand. “I just don’t want you dwelling on the past. You’ll go in there and get swallowed by the grief again. Plus, you have your hands full with Sophie. You don’t have the bandwidth for a massive project. And honestly? We just don’t have the spare cash for a renovation right now.” It was the exact same script he had used two years ago. Back then, I had swallowed every word, entirely convinced he was fiercely protecting my mental health. But now, the ugly, glaring truth was sitting right in front of me. How could I ever look at this man and believe a single syllable out of his mouth again? When I didn’t reply, he let out a heavy, self-deprecating sigh. “Look, I know it’s my fault. I’m just not successful enough yet to give you and Sophie the lifestyle you deserve.” He was playing the pity card. In the past, that specific line would have shattered my heart. I would have rushed to comfort him, to build his ego back up. But tonight, it just made my skin crawl with irritation. He kept rambling, oblivious to the shift in the tectonic plates of our marriage. “I promise you, I’m going to grind even harder at work. I’m going to give you guys the best life. Once I secure the bonus on this next project, I’ll personally hire a designer for the house, okay?” I didn’t offer him the reassurance he was fishing for. I just gave a hollow nod. The man I had shared a bed with for five years suddenly felt like a total stranger. 02 The next morning, right after dropping Sophie off at preschool, I got on the subway and headed straight for the old house. For the entire forty-minute ride, I aggressively scrolled through the influencer’s social media. Her handle was Lexi’s Home Diaries. She had over three hundred thousand followers. The engagement on every single post was massive. I scrolled back chronologically, dissecting every perfectly color-graded frame, hunting for the ghosts of my life. August of last year: She posted a video of the newly renovated master bedroom. The caption read: Hubby is obsessed with this color palette. December of last year: A video of a sprawling, gourmet dinner spread. The caption read: Waiting up with late-night cravings for my guy after his overtime shift. Her husband never showed his face in the videos. But in one clip, a pair of masculine hands was unboxing a package. On his left wrist was a silver watch. It was the exact watch I had bought Ryan for our third anniversary. I had skipped lunches and hoarded grocery money for months to afford it. How had I not recognized it? It wasn’t that I hadn’t recognized it; it was that my brain had absolutely refused to make the connection. For the last seven years, I had poured every ounce of my soul into my family. When he worked late, I kept dinner warm in the oven. When he went to networking events, I left the porch light on. Whatever he said, became my gospel. Including the lie that the house needed to stay empty to protect my heart. The automated subway voice announcing my stop snapped me back to reality. I walked into the familiar gated community. Stan, the elderly doorman, was still working the front gate. He blinked in surprise when he saw me. “Well, if it isn’t the Mitchells’ girl! Haven’t seen you around here in ages.” I forced a tight smile. “It’s been a few years, Stan.” He leaned on his podium, conversational. “Your husband comes by all the time, though. Just saw him a few days ago. Said he was keeping the place up for you.” I had expected that answer, but it still felt like a physical blow to the ribs. Armed with my property deed, I marched straight into the HOA management office. “I’m the owner of Unit 502 in Building 3,” I said smoothly. “Some things have gone missing from my property, and I need to review the elevator security footage for the past six months.” The property manager glanced at me, then down at the name on the deed. A deeply uncomfortable, knowing look flickered across her face. I nodded, sliding my ID across the desk. “I appreciate your help.” She hesitated, but policy was policy. She pulled up the archives. Ryan’s face was everywhere. Last Wednesday. The night he claimed he was stuck at the office until 2:00 AM. On the screen, Lexi was leaning her head against his shoulder. They looked ridiculously, sickeningly domestic. She took a sip of her iced boba tea, then held it up to Ryan’s lips. He leaned in and drank from the exact same straw without a second thought. I kept scrolling back. February 14th. Valentine’s Day. He walked into the elevator carrying a massive, ostentatious bouquet of red roses. When the camera caught him leaving hours later, the flowers were gone, and his tie was undone. January 1st. New Year’s Eve. He had told me he got too drunk at the company party and crashed at a coworker’s place. On the screen, he was carrying two bags of takeout. Lexi, wearing a silk nightgown, opened the door, jumped into the air, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Every frame was a scalpel, meticulously carving out my heart. I wrote down every single date, thanked the manager, and walked out of the office. When I got home, I sat on the living room sofa, completely paralyzed. My fingers were still trembling. My phone was heavy with the photos I had taken of the security monitors. I had documented everything. Hours later, Ryan walked through the door carrying several plastic bags. “Hey! I passed by that organic market and saw they had the first strawberries of the season. Got you a box,” he called out cheerfully. “I know how much you love them.” He walked into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and began washing them with agonizing care. I stared at the back of his head, a wave of pure, unadulterated nausea washing over me. In five years of marriage, this man had rarely bought me fruit unprompted. Looking at it now, I realized the truth: he was simply taking the overflow of the romantic energy he poured into his mistress and tossing the scraps to his wife. He walked over, holding the bowl, and picked up the largest, reddest strawberry, offering it to my lips. I turned my head away. His hand hovered in mid-air. A flash of profound irritation tightened his jaw, but he quickly smoothed it out into a look of saintly patience. “What’s going on, Rach? Still feeling sick? Do we need to go to urgent care?” Looking into those deep, concerned eyes, a chill ran down my spine. How was he this good at acting? I stood up. “I’m fine. I’m going to go pick up Sophie.” He gently caught my shoulder, pressing me back down. “Let me do it. You stay here and rest. You’ve looked so pale the last few days, don’t push yourself.” Once, this kind of tender micro-management would have made me feel so intensely loved I could cry. Now, I just felt like the punchline to a sick joke. “No,” I said, sidestepping his touch. “I’ll go get her.” 03 For the next few days, I performed my role flawlessly. I didn’t let a single crack show in my facade. But at night, while he snored softly beside me, I would lie completely paralyzed, staring into the dark, replaying the footage behind my eyelids. The way she jumped into his arms. The effortless, joyful way he caught her. That was the kind of electricity we had when we were twenty-two. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his touches had devolved into obligatory hugs and sterile, schedule-mandated kisses. I had foolishly believed it was just the natural progression of a long-term marriage. I didn’t realize his passion hadn’t faded—it had just been relocated. On the fourth night, during dinner, his phone rang. He took the call in the hallway, then came back with a heavy sigh. “Corporate is sending me out of state for a site audit. It’s probably going to take a month.” I kept my eyes on my plate, pushing some rice around. “Okay.” “The reception out by the site is supposed to be garbage, so don’t panic if you can’t reach me right away, alright?” “Okay.” He genuinely believed I was still his blind, devoted, easily managed little wife. But the script had changed. The morning of his “business trip,” he pulled me into a tight embrace by the front door. “I’ll bring you back something nice, I promise,” he whispered. I smiled beautifully. “Sounds great.” The absolute second the deadbolt clicked into place, my smile vanished. I called an Uber and headed straight to the old house. Standing in front of the door, I took a deep, steadying breath, and leaned on the doorbell. Lexi opened it. She looked just as flawless in person as she did on Instagram. Her loungewear was impeccably steamed, her hair loosely pinned up with a silk scrunchie. When she recognized me, she paused, her perfectly threaded brows pulling together. “You again?” I didn’t say a word. I just pushed past her into the foyer. She grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging in. “Excuse me? What is wrong with you? This is trespassing!” I calmly reached into my leather tote, pulled out the official property deed, and held it inches from her face. “Read it carefully,” I said, my voice lethal. “The sole legal owner of this property is Rachel Mitchell.” All the color drained from her face. But she recovered quickly. A slow, mocking smirk spread across her lips. “So what?” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You have a piece of paper. Big deal. Your husband gave this place to me.” She said it with such brazen entitlement it almost took my breath away. I stared dead into her eyes. “How long has this been going on?” She inspected her nails, utterly unbothered. “About two years.” She leaned back against the entryway console. “He said the place was just sitting here rotting, and it would be perfect for my content studio. Honestly, since you never showed up, I assumed the two of you were already legally separated.” 04 Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days. Every single night he was “stuck at the office.” Every “emergency site visit” on a weekend. He was here. She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes raking over my body with undisguised pity. “Look in the mirror, lady,” she sneered. “Just look at yourself. The bags under your eyes are practically bruised. Your hair is completely fried. And what even is that outfit? Target clearance?” With every syllable, I felt myself shrinking an inch. “Why do you think your husband came looking for me?” she asked, tilting her head. “He told me that after you had the baby, you just gave up. You stopped dressing up, you obsess over mundane household chores, and the only things you ever talk about are the grocery bill and preschool. He said he has absolutely nothing in common with you anymore.” She took a step closer, twisting the knife. “He said just looking at you exhausts him. But he can’t say anything, because the second he does, you start crying, and it’s suffocating.” Every single word was a bullet to the chest. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the air was trapped in my throat. Because she was right. I had become that woman. I had stripped myself of my own identity to keep the machinery of his life running flawlessly. Seeing me paralyzed, her smugness amplified. “So why are you here? You want money? You want him back? Do you really think you have what it takes to keep him?” She let out a sharp laugh. “Trust me. Even if you made him choose right now, he’d pick me.” I gripped the property deed so hard the heavy paper crumpled. “This is my house. Get out.” She laughed again, a bright, chiming sound. “Your house? Honey, you need to wake up. Your husband gave this to me. He promised me this house would officially be ours eventually. As for you…” She paused, her eyes glittering with malice. “…he’s just waiting until you’re no longer useful with the kid. Then he’s filing the papers.” A loud, high-pitched ringing erupted in my ears. My knees buckled. I had to throw a hand against the hallway wall just to stay upright. She watched my devastation like it was an entertaining movie, casually adding the final blow. “Oh, yeah. He also mentioned you were incredibly naive. Said you’ll believe literally anything he tells you.” She smiled. “He said being married to you is like having a golden retriever. Low maintenance.” My fingernails bit so deeply into my palms they almost broke the skin. It hurt. But it was absolutely nothing compared to the agony tearing through my chest. Before I could speak, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Ryan appeared at the top of the landing, dragging a sleek aluminum suitcase. The absolute second his eyes locked onto mine, he froze like he’d been struck by lightning. “R-Rach… what are you doing here?” I didn’t speak. I just stood there, staring at the man I had given my twenties to. “Rach, baby, please, just let me explain…” I cut through the air with a voice I didn’t recognize. “Explain what? Explain how keeping me around is as low maintenance as a golden retriever? Or explain how this house is ‘eventually going to be yours’?” The terrified, placating smile died on his lips. He dropped the suitcase and rushed toward me, reaching out to grab my hands. I took a sharp step back, dodging him like he was diseased. His hands hung suspended in the empty space between us, pathetic and trembling. “Rach, I swear to God, she’s lying! She’s crazy, I would never say anything like that! You are my wife, you’re the mother of my child—” I let out a harsh, broken laugh, pulling my phone from my pocket. I swiped open the photo album and shoved the screen an inch from his nose. I looked at him, enunciating every single syllable with lethal precision. “Ryan. I know everything.” The last remnants of color vanished from Ryan’s face. He looked like a corpse. “No… no, it’s not what it looks like… Rach, please, just listen to me…” I pulled my lips into a grotesque, devastated smile, my eyes locked on his. “There is absolutely nothing left for us to say to each other.” I took a deep breath, feeling the last thread tying us together permanently snap. “We’re getting a divorce, Ryan.” I turned my gaze slowly back to Lexi. “And by the way. Thank you so much for the free renovations. With all these trendy updates, my property value just skyrocketed. It’s going to sell for a fantastic price.” Lexi’s face went ghost white. 05 Ryan looked completely destroyed. He opened his mouth, desperately trying to formulate a sentence, but all that came out was a pathetic, broken stutter. It was Lexi who recovered first. She let out a harsh, derisive scoff, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, crossing her arms like she was watching a bad reality TV show. “Wow, so we’re just throwing around the D-word? You better think this through, honey. Where exactly are you going to go? You have a kid, you have a massive gap in your resume, and you have zero income. How are you going to survive?” Her eyes raked over me again, looking at me like I was a piece of trash left on the curb. “Ryan is a Senior Project Manager now. He’s clearing over a hundred and fifty grand a year. You divorce him, you’ll be on food stamps by next month.” I didn’t even blink at her. I kept my eyes entirely focused on Ryan. “Is that true? You’re making a hundred and fifty thousand a year?” The “allowance” Ryan transferred into my account every month to manage the entire household was exactly two thousand dollars. If he had a particularly good quarter, he would generously bump it to twenty-five hundred. He constantly told me his company was struggling, that budgets were frozen, and that we should just be grateful he hadn’t been laid off. He stared at the hardwood floor, refusing to meet my eyes. The silence was a confession. A manic urge to laugh bubbled up in my throat. For five years of marriage, I had coupon-clipped, shopped exclusively at discount racks, and agonized for days over buying a thirty-dollar sweater for myself. I had saved for months in secret to buy him that watch. I never once complained when we sent generous checks to his mother for the holidays. I truly, deeply believed we were in the trenches together. Building our future, sacrificing together, surviving together. Turns out, I was the only one making sacrifices. When I didn’t engage with her taunting, Lexi snapped. “Hello? I’m talking to you. Are you deaf?” I finally turned my head to look at her, my expression utterly void of emotion. “What’s your full name?” The abrupt shift in my tone caught her off guard. “Lexi. Lexi Davis,” she answered defensively. I gave a curt nod. “I will be reclaiming possession of this property through my attorney. As for whatever is going on between you and my husband, I couldn’t care less. I’m out.” Her smug demeanor cracked. “What the hell does that mean?” “It means,” I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying calm, “I don’t want either of you.” Ryan’s head snapped up, his eyes wild with panic. “Rach! No! You can’t do this! Think about Sophie! She needs her dad—” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “Sophie has a dad. And starting today, her dad is going to wire his child support payments on the first of every single month.” I turned on my heel and walked toward the stairs. After two steps, I paused. I looked back at the door—the door to the home where I had spent twenty years of my life. “Oh, one more thing. I expect this house to be restored to its exact original condition.” “Everything my parents left behind, every single wall you knocked down, every tile you replaced. I want it put back exactly the way it was.” Lexi practically shrieked. “Are you out of your mind?! I paid for all of this! Do you have any idea how much those custom cabinets cost? Fifteen thousand dollars!” I smiled. A genuine, terrifying smile. “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem. Did you get written consent from the legal property owner before initiating construction?” “No? Then you’ll be ripping it all out and restoring the property. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court.”

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My husband didn’t ask for my permission. He just took it—a vial of my blood, stolen while I slept, to see if I was a match for his “One Who Got Away.” That night, he came home practically vibrating with a manic sort of joy. He pulled me into a crushing hug, his breath smelling of expensive scotch and desperation. “Elena, it’s a miracle. You’re a perfect match. You can save Serena. You can give her the bone marrow she needs.” I looked into Miles’s eyes, searching for a flicker of the man I thought I’d married three years ago. All I saw was a stranger obsessed with a ghost from his past. I placed a hand on my stomach and whispered, “Miles, I’m pregnant.” His expression didn’t even soften. “We can have another baby later,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, manipulative register he used when he wanted a deal closed. “But if Serena misses this window, she’s gone. She’ll never recover.” He gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging in. “Elena, if you ever truly loved me, don’t make me live the rest of my life with this regret. Don’t let her die.” I looked at him for a long beat, the silence stretching between us like a physical chasm. Finally, I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.” ………… “Have you lost your mind? You’re seven months along, Elena. You’re talking about terminating a third-trimester pregnancy for a transplant?” Dr. Joanna Miller slammed her water glass onto the mahogany desk, the sharp crack echoing through the sterile private clinic. Joanna had been my mother’s best friend for decades; she’d seen me through every scraped knee and every heartbreak. Now, she looked at me with a mixture of terror and fury. “This isn’t just irresponsible to the baby,” she hissed, her eyes bright with tears. “It’s a death wish for you. You’ve always had a delicate system. An induction this late? You’re looking at permanent infertility, or worse. Hemorrhage, sepsis—the risks are astronomical.” I sat on the edge of the examination table, my fingers tracing the hem of my maternity top. I felt hollow, as if the soul had already left the room. “I don’t want the baby anymore, Joanna. Just… please. Help me end it.” Joanna slumped into her chair, her face aging a decade in seconds. She didn’t say another word; she just picked up the phone and dialed my mother. A moment later, the door swung open. Miles marched in, checking his Rolex with an air of clinical impatience. “Are we done yet? How long does a simple procedure take? Serena’s vitals are dipping. She needs that marrow yesterday.” Joanna’s head snapped up. She took in Miles’s expensive suit and his callous expression, and the pieces clicked together. “Elena, tell me you aren’t doing this for her,” she whispered. “Tell me you aren’t sacrificing your child for his mistress.” I kept my head down, staring at my shoes. Miles let out an exasperated sigh. “Are you going to perform the surgery or not, Doctor? If you’re too ‘emotional’ for the job, stop wasting our time. There are plenty of other clinics in the city.” “I will not be a party to this butchery,” Joanna said, her voice trembling with cold rage. “Fine. Expect a formal complaint for patient abandonment,” Miles snapped. He turned on his heel and stormed out. As the door swung, I saw the faces in the waiting room. They had heard the shouting. I saw the way they looked at Miles—pure, unadulterated disgust. Then they looked at me, and their pity felt like acid on my skin. One older woman even stepped forward as Miles disappeared down the hall. “Honey,” she whispered, leaning into the room. “Don’t do this. That man… he isn’t worth the dirt on your boots.” “Is it true?” another woman chimed in from the hallway. “You’re giving up your child for his ex? That’s not love, sweetie. That’s… well, it’s pathetic.” I swallowed hard, my voice a mere ghost. “You don’t understand him. He’s just… stressed.” Joanna stood up and slammed the door shut, cutting off the whispers. She grabbed my shoulders, checking my arms, my neck, her eyes searching for bruises. “Elena, look at me. Is he hurting you? Is he blackmailing you? I will call the police right now.” I shook my head, a small, jagged smile playing on my lips. “I just want him to be happy, Joanna. If he’s happy, nothing else matters.” Before I could finish the lie, a sharp, stinging pain erupted across my shoulders. I spun around. My mother, Katherine, was standing there in her wheelchair, her face a mask of grief and fury. She was gripping her cane, her knuckles white. She swung it again, hitting my arm with a desperate, clumsy force. “I’ll kill you myself!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “I’ll kill you before I let you be this foolish! You disgraceful, spineless girl!” I stood there and took it. I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I was an only child. Three years ago, my parents were involved in a horrific car accident while scouting a new location for our family’s textile empire. My mother lost the use of her legs. My father ended up in the ICU, clinging to life by a thread. On his deathbed, Miles had proposed to me. He had knelt by the beeping monitors and sworn to my father that he would take my name, protect our legacy, and care for my mother until her last breath. My father, moved to tears, changed his will. The company went to Miles and me. My mother was left with the real estate, but she didn’t care. She just wanted me to be loved. She wanted a grandchild to fill the silence of the house my father left behind. And today, I was destroying everything she lived for. “Get on your knees,” my mother sobbed. I sank to the floor. She cupped my face with her trembling hands, her tears falling onto my cheeks. “Why, Elena? If he has something on you, tell me. I’ll give him everything. I’ll give him every house, every cent, just tell me the truth. Don’t do this.” “Mom,” I whispered, my heart feeling like it was being squeezed by hot pliers. “I just love him. I’d do anything for him.” Her hand came down across my face—a sharp, ringing slap. Miles burst back into the room then, grabbing my arm and yanking me up. He stepped between us, shielding me from my mother. “Katherine, enough! You’ll bruise the donor site. She has a procedure to get to.” My mother looked like she was having a heart attack. Her finger shook as she pointed at him. “You think we don’t know? Everyone knows you’ve been sneaking around with Serena Vance for months. But I never thought you were a monster, Miles. This is your child. Your son.” Miles’s face darkened, turning into a mask of cold arrogance. “Katherine, Serena and I are friends. If you keep spreading these sordid rumors, you’re only embarrassing your daughter. Not me.” He looked at me then, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He knew he had me. He had always known. I was the rich girl who had chased him, the “trophy husband” from the wrong side of the tracks. I had spent our entire marriage trying to prove I wasn’t looking down on him, and in doing so, I’d given him the whip to lash me with. “Elena,” my mother begged, grabbing my hand. “Leave him. Divorce him. Have this baby. He can have the Lynn name, he can be our legacy. Just don’t do this.” I pulled my hand away slowly. “I’m an adult, Mom. Let me make my own choices. If you keep pushing me… I’ll have to cut you out of my life.” The color drained from her face. She looked like she had aged twenty years in a heartbeat. Just then, my mother-in-law arrived. She didn’t even look at me; she just grabbed the handles of my mother’s wheelchair and started pushing her toward the exit. “Oh, hush now, Katherine. They can have another one. A baby is just a baby. I had four miscarriages and three abortions trying to get a boy before Miles came along. It’s no big deal.” “Stop! Let go of me!” my mother screamed. In her desperation, she tried to hurl herself out of the moving wheelchair. She hit the floor hard, her cane skittering across the linoleum. Her designer handbag fell open, and out tumbled a pair of tiny, hand-knitted baby booties and a small, quilted blanket. She had spent months on them. She told me that a baby who wears shoes knitted by their grandmother will always find their way home… Now, they were just trash on a hospital floor. My mother crawled toward me, holding up one of the tiny blue booties. “Elena, please. Look at these. Do you really have the heart?” I bit my lip until I tasted blood and turned away. I looked at Joanna. “Do it, Joanna. I won’t go to another doctor. I want you to do it.” I grabbed the consent forms and scrawled my signature before anyone could stop me. “Elena…” my mother gave one last, haunting cry before she fainted. Joanna sighed, a sound of pure defeat. She knew if she didn’t do it, Miles would take me to some back-alley clinic where I’d likely bleed out. I lay on the cold operating table, the induction medication coursing through my veins. The pain was unlike anything I’d ever imagined—as if my body was being physically ripped in half by a dull blade. I drifted in and out of consciousness, sweat stinging my eyes. Then, a sudden, sickening lightness. Something was gone. I heard the nurse whisper, her voice thick with pity. “It was a boy. Perfect little thing. What a waste…” A single tear slid into my ear. After the procedure, I was a ghost. I was weak, hollowed out, but Miles didn’t care. He had me transferred to another hospital within hours. Serena was there. Waiting for my marrow. I didn’t see Miles for those three days. I didn’t see Serena. My mother sat by my bed in her wheelchair, her eyes red and swollen. She didn’t tell me what was happening, but I heard the nurses gossiping in the hall. Miles had apparently been screaming at the surgeons to operate the moment I arrived. But the doctors refused. They told him I was too weak, that I might die on the table if they harvested the marrow now. He had spent those three days in Serena’s room, holding her hand, whispered sweet nothings while I recovered enough to be harvested. I stared at the ceiling, feeling nothing. No anger. No sadness. Just a cold, dead vacuum where my heart used to be. My mother went to get some soup, leaving the room silent. I closed my eyes, trying to disappear. “Elena? Hey, big sister. We came to say thanks.” I opened my eyes. Miles and Serena were standing there, their fingers interlaced. Serena was glowing. She was wearing full makeup and a silk robe that had clearly been tailored to look like a hospital gown—flirty, delicate, seductive. She didn’t look like someone on the brink of death. She looked like she was at a spa. Compared to her, I was a wreck—pale, hair matted with sweat, smelling of antiseptic and grief. Miles didn’t even look at me. His eyes were glued to Serena, as if she were the only source of light in the world. He didn’t notice the door was open, or the freezing draft from the hallway that made me shiver under the thin sheets. “Get out,” a voice cracked like a whip. My mother was back. She used her cane to shove Miles away from the bed, and then she threw the container of hot soup right at Serena. Serena shrieked, ducking behind Miles. The soup splashed harmlessly on the floor, but she acted as if she’d been doused in acid, clinging to Miles’s chest. “I’ve tolerated your disrespect because you’re family,” Miles growled at my mother, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “But if you touch Serena again, I don’t care how old you are. I’ll make you regret it.” My mother began to sob, the sound raw and broken. Then, a tall, imposing man stepped into the room. He moved with a quiet authority that instantly changed the air. He stepped next to my mother, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. “Is there a problem here, Miles?” he asked. “Are you really threatening a woman in a wheelchair?” It was Arthur Bennett. My father’s oldest friend, the COO of our company, and a man who had known me since I was in diapers. He set a bag of groceries on my nightstand, his eyes softening as he looked at my pale face. He walked over and firmly shut the door. Miles cleared his throat, clearly intimidated but trying to hide it. “Serena has something to say to Elena.” Serena reached into her designer bag and pulled out a stack of legal documents. She handed them to me with a shy, faux-innocent smile. “Elena, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I’ve read stories online… about donors who give once and then refuse to help if there’s a relapse. For my peace of mind, could you sign this? It’s just an agreement that if I need another transplant in a few years, you’ll be there for me.” My mother began to cough violently, her face turning purple with rage. Arthur looked like he wanted to throw Miles out the window. I looked at the papers, then at Miles. I smiled—a small, chilling thing. “Of course. I’ll sign. I’m happy to help.” Arthur froze. My mother looked at me with pure despair. “I should have died with your father,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have lived to see this.” My chest tightened, but I didn’t stop. I signed my name in a firm, clear hand: Elena Lynn. Miles’s face lit up with greedy satisfaction. He pulled out another folder. “Since you’re going to be recovering for a while, Elena, you won’t have the energy for the company. I’ve prepared some documents to give me full power of attorney over your shares. It’ll make things easier.” Arthur slammed his hand down on the papers. “Elena, don’t. I came here to tell you—this boy has been draining the company accounts for months. He’s stripping the assets, moving them into shell companies. If you sign this, the Lynn legacy is gone. He’s gutting us.” I looked at Arthur, my expression serene. “Arthur, you’re being paranoid. Miles loves me. He’s my husband. Why would he hurt me? It doesn’t matter whose name is on the paperwork, right?” I signed the second set of papers. Arthur slumped into a chair, a mountain of a man reduced to tears. “Oh, Edward… I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save your home.” The moment the ink was dry, Miles grabbed the folders and headed for the door. In the hallway, I heard him barking at a passing doctor. “Start the harvest! Now!” “But Mr. Scott, her vitals are still—” “I said now! If she dies, she dies. Just get the marrow!” I went under the knife in a haze of betrayal. I didn’t see Miles again after the surgery. Two weeks later, while my mother was finalizing my discharge papers, I slipped out of the hospital and took a cab to our house. When I walked through the front door, I stopped. Miles was on the velvet sofa, Serena curled up in his lap. They were laughing at a comedy special on TV. Miles looked up, his brow furrowing as if I were a telemarketer who had interrupted his dinner. “What are you doing here?” I smiled. “I missed you.” He rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t have called? You’re ruining the mood.” Serena ran a hand down Miles’s arm. “Oh, don’t be grumpy, babe. It’s fine that Elena’s back. I’ve actually been craving her signature seafood chowder.” Miles glanced at me. “Well? You heard her. Go on.” I was ushered into the kitchen like a servant to cook for them. I listened to their laughter echoing from the living room. That night, Miles took Serena into our master bedroom. I lay in the guest room, staring at the wall, listening to the sounds of their intimacy through the thin drywall. They weren’t even trying to be quiet. Eventually, I got up, threw on a robe, and knocked on their door. Miles ripped the door open, looking like a feral animal. “Are you insane? It’s two in the morning! What is wrong with you?” I looked at him, my voice flat. “I lost my baby and gave up my health for your girlfriend. And this is how you treat me?” Miles let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “You’re barren now, Elena. The doctors said the induction did too much damage. I need an heir. Serena told me that when she has my baby, she’ll let you be the godmother. You should be thanking her for being so generous. Without her, you’d die alone in a gutter with no one to claim your body.” “And what am I to you?” I asked quietly. “What is she?” He sneered. “I knew your ‘kindness’ was an act. You’re finally showing your true colors, trying to cling to a title you don’t deserve. You Lynns always looked down on me. The ‘charity case’ husband. Well, I’m done. Get out.” He reached into a drawer and threw a packet of papers at my chest. “I don’t want anything from your pathetic family.” I looked at the papers. In the divorce settlement, I got the company back. He kept everything else—the real estate, the liquid cash, the cars. He had already finished the asset transfer. He had left me a hollowed-out shell of a business. Without a word, I signed. He signed: Miles Scott. The second the ink dried, Serena’s “sweet girl” persona vanished. She stood up, her eyes gleaming with malice, and began throwing my clothes and suitcases out onto the driveway. “Now,” she spat. “Get the hell out of my house.”

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On a community forum I frequented, a girl posted a listing: “One mature, steady Golden Retriever.” “Unable to keep him due to personal reasons.” “Any ladies interested, DM me. First come, first served!” Knowing how much my husband loved Golden Retrievers, I immediately sent her a private message. The next day, I showed up at the address she gave me. I had barely knocked when the door clicked and swung open a crack. A man wearing a plush Golden Retriever mask was on his hands and knees. He nudged his head affectionately against the girl’s hand, rubbing his face into her palm. “Stacey, I’m your dog. Only yours. You can’t give me away.” “I’m not married. That marriage certificate is a fake.” The girl whimpered softly, looking incredibly wronged. “What does it matter if the certificate is fake?” “You’ll still live with her. You’ll have children together.” The man’s face tightened with panic. He hurriedly reached up to wipe away her tears. “I slipped her something. She can’t have kids.” “As soon as my company goes public, I’ll leave her.” The girl’s tears vanished, replaced by a radiant smile. She mentioned hearing my knock and urged him to open the door fully. When the door swung wide, I froze. My husband was playing dog for another woman. 1 The air went deathly quiet. A flash of shock and sheer panic seized Carter’s face. He lunged to slam the door, but I grabbed the handle, my knuckles turning white. “Carter, you…” I stared at him, my vision tunneling. Before I could finish, the girl stepped into the entryway. “You must be the lady who messaged yesterday about picking up the dog.” “I am so sorry about this.” “My boyfriend and I had a fight. The Golden Retriever I posted about… is actually him.” She looked at me, her expression practically dripping with apologetic sweetness. “We made up today. I completely forgot to tell you not to come.” My gaze darted back and forth between Carter and the girl. My mind was a screaming blank. I couldn’t process a single word she was saying. I opened my mouth, desperate to form a sound, but Carter shot me a warning glare that cut me to the bone. Seeing me speechless, the girl playfully punched Carter in the chest. “This is all your fault. You made this poor woman come all the way out here for nothing.” Carter soaked up her touch like a sponge. He immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, his voice dripping with indulgent affection. “Stacey, you’re right. It’s all my fault.” “Punish me however you want, but please, don’t give me away.” “I’m your dog. I only answer to you.” I snapped back to reality, a plastic, strained smile stretching across my face. Stacey unclipped a slender silk scarf from her handbag and held it out to me. “Here, to make up for the trouble, take this.” Before I could react, she took a step forward and deftly looped the fabric around my neck. “It’s a Hermes Twilly.” “We went out on December 3rd and my boyfriend was late, so he bought this for me to hit the quota for a bag.” I stopped breathing. The silk was cool against my skin, but my neck burned as if scorched by an iron. December 3rd was my birthday. Carter had been out of state, supposedly drowning in meetings for the IPO. He had offered to fly back just to celebrate with me, but, worried about him taking a red-eye flight, I had told him: “You’re working too hard, honey. We can celebrate when you get back.” Right after we hung up, a small silk scarf had been delivered to our apartment. The exact same scarf now tied around my neck. I had held that little piece of silk like it was a holy relic. I stared at it until my eyes blurred, terrified of ruining it. I had silently vowed, right then and there, to do whatever it took to help him get his company off the ground. Only now did I realize that the gift I cherished like a treasure was nothing more than a leftover consolation prize he had bought for his mistress. Before I could find my voice, Stacey chimed in with breathless enthusiasm. “You must be a massive dog lover to drive all the way out here.” “My boyfriend loves dogs too. Golden Retrievers are his favorite.” “If you ever find a real one, you have to send me a picture!” My face felt entirely drained of blood. Carter cleared his throat softly. “She came a long way. It wasn’t an easy drive.” “It’s getting late. We should let her head home.” Stacey gave a theatrical, exaggerated pout. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.” “You men are so clueless. You don’t understand girls at all. You’re so annoying!” As she pushed the door shut, Stacey leaned up and planted a quick, echoing kiss on Carter’s cheek. Listening to their muffled laughter from behind the closed door, my gaze dropped to my stomach. Tears finally breached the dam, blurring my vision. No wonder we hadn’t been able to conceive all these years. I pulled the IPO application files out of my tote bag. I stared at the thick stack of paper. For months, I had been quietly working behind the scenes, untangling the legal red tape for his company. This final application was all that was left. It was supposed to be my grand surprise for him. But now, there was no point. I tore the documents down the middle, again and again, until my hands ached, and shoved the pieces into a nearby trash can. As I walked out of her apartment complex, my phone buzzed. A text from Carter. [Wait for me. Let’s go home together. I’ll explain everything.] 2 I didn’t reply. He fired off three more texts in rapid succession. I powered off my phone. When I finally got back to our apartment, I turned it back on. A notification popped up immediately. [‘Golden Retriever Breeder’ has followed you back.] It was Stacey. She had followed my social media account. We had been together for eight years. Married for six. Driven by a morbid, masochistic curiosity, I tapped into her profile. [May 20, 2021: Met my absolute crush today. Should I make the first move?] [May 20, 2022: Finally dating my crush! I went for it, and I got him.] [May 20, 2023: One-year anniversary! He got me a Hermes bag. Beyond happy!] May 20th. Our wedding anniversary. It was also the day Carter started his relationship with another woman. The dates burned my eyes. I realized, with a sickening jolt, that we hadn’t actually celebrated our anniversary in years. On May 20, 2021, Carter was in the early, desperate stages of his startup. I had attended a grueling dinner with potential investors on his behalf, drinking until I vomited blood and ended up in the ER with a gastric hemorrhage. On May 20, 2022, I worked a double shift to cover our rent. Walking home in the dark, I was harassed by two men and narrowly escaped being assaulted. When I called Carter, trembling and terrified, he told me he was busy and hastily hung up. On May 20, 2023, he finally promised we’d have time to celebrate. I waited up until past midnight. I got a phone call instead of a husband. I ordered a plain bowl of noodles and ate it alone at the kitchen counter to ring in our third anniversary. And the years after that… 2024, 2025… I barely even remembered them. Six years of marriage. Five years of infidelity. A wave of sheer, suffocating despair crashed over me, pulling me under. Late that night, Carter finally came home. Seeing me sitting barefoot on the hardwood floor, his brow furrowed in that familiar, protective way. He scooped me into his arms. “You’re going to catch a cold sitting on the floor like this.” “Chloe, you’re doing this just to make me worry, aren’t you?” Tears spilling down my cheeks, I shoved him away with all my strength. “Stop acting. Do you really give a damn about me?” “Drugging me. Cheating on me for five out of our six years of marriage.” “That was all you, wasn’t it?” “Oh, wait. We aren’t even married, are we?” Huge, heavy tears dropped from my face, splashing onto the wood. It felt like someone was physically tearing my heart in two. Carter lunged forward and grabbed me in a tight embrace. “Chloe, calm down. It’s not what you think.” “My future was so uncertain back then. I didn’t want you gambling your life on me. I didn’t want to trap you in a marriage.” “As for Stacey… once the company goes public, I promise I’ll give you a proper explanation.” My control shattered. Ignoring the sharp, twisting pain flaring in my stomach, I screamed at him. “Do you think I’m that pathetic?” Carter’s face darkened with anger. He opened his mouth to snap back, but his phone started ringing frantically. He answered it. Stacey’s shrill, furious voice echoed from the speaker. “Carter, are you with that old woman right now?” “I knew you were lying to me earlier.” Carter looked momentarily annoyed, but his voice instantly dropped into a soft, coaxing purr. “I’m not with her.” “I’m out taking care of some business. I’ll be right back.” Listening to him lie so effortlessly, a bitter, breathless laugh escaped my lips. Five years. Countless days and nights. This was exactly how he had been lying to me. Stacey’s voice spiked in volume. “That old hag is right there next to you!” “Carter, you’re still lying to me!” Carter froze, realizing what she meant. His voice turned ice-cold. “How do you know that?” Stacey broke into dramatic, heaving sobs. “You installed spyware on my phone to make me feel ‘secure,’ remember?!” “And now you’re mad at me!” She sounded like she was on the verge of a total breakdown. “Carter, I trusted you! How could you lie to me?” “You come back here right now, or I swear to God, I’ll jump off the balcony!” Right at that moment, a cold sweat broke out across my body. The pain in my stomach exploded into agony. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor. Carter caught me just in time. His face was a mask of sheer panic and conflict. “Stacey, Chloe just collapsed.” “I think she’s really sick…” Before he could finish, a photo came through. Stacey, sitting precariously on the ledge of a high-rise window. “Carter, if you aren’t here in five minutes, I’m jumping.” Carter bolted for the door. Just before I lost consciousness, I heard him say: “Chloe, call an ambulance.” “I know Stacey. If she doesn’t see me, she’ll actually do it.” 3 When I opened my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room blinded me. I forced myself to sit up, my mouth dry as dust. “Where’s my laptop bag?” The doctor standing near the bed sighed in exasperation. “You young people treat your bodies like garbage.” “You nearly went into hypovolemic shock from a severe gastric bleed, and the first thing you ask about is work?” His words dragged me fully back to reality. I used to work myself to the bone just to ease Carter’s burdens. Now… now it all felt like a sick, twisted joke I had played on myself. The doctor gave me a few stern instructions and left the room. As the door swung shut, I caught the hushed gossip of two nurses passing by in the hallway. “It’s crazy how different patients get treated.” “The girl in Room 3 with the stomach bleed? She almost died.” “When we called her husband, he actually told us gastric bleeding only happens from binge drinking and told her to stop faking it.” “But that young girl in the VIP suite? She just scraped her knee.” “Her boyfriend completely lost his mind. Demanded a consultation from every department head in the building.” “I heard he’s the CEO of the Carter Group.” “God, she’s so lucky. That’s the kind of man you want to marry.” I rolled over, curling into a tight ball, clutching my aching chest. The man who had brought me stomach medicine yesterday, gently scolding me to eat on time. Today, he was the hospital’s shining example of a perfect, devoted partner to someone else. Carter. You made my entire existence feel like a punchline. Before I could dwell on it, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. “Did you start those rumors online about Stacey being a homewrecker?” “Her DMs are flooded with death threats.” “She’s just a young girl, Chloe. She can’t handle this kind of abuse.” “You’ve gone too far this time.” The interrogation hit me like a physical blow. Carter’s rage was palpable through the speaker. Cheated on for years. Robbed of my ability to have children. And now, branded a cyberbully. I couldn’t stop myself from defending what little dignity I had left. “Carter, I wouldn’t waste my time doing something like that.” “If you don’t believe me, hire someone to trace the IP address.” He let out a harsh, dismissive scoff. “The truth doesn’t matter anymore.” “Stacey is hysterical. You need to apologize to her, publicly.” My voice shook. “Why the hell should I?” Tears slipped silently onto my pillow. A memory flashed in my mind—Carter at twenty years old. We were so broke back then. Working back-to-back shifts just to survive. Once, my boss at the convenience store grabbed me inappropriately. When I told Carter, he didn’t say a word. He just marched down to the store and laid the guy out with two punches. He ended up in a holding cell that night. But when I visited him, he wasn’t scared. He just cupped my face through the bars and said so softly: “Chloe, don’t cry. It’ll be okay.” “I swear, I will always protect you. I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” Eight years. In just eight short years, the boy who swore to protect me had become the man destroying me. Carter laughed, a cold, empty sound. “Fine. Don’t apologize.” “But it’s going to be a real shame when all of your sister’s academic research mysteriously goes up in smoke.” A wave of pure, paralyzing terror washed over me. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Mia and I only have each other. You know she has Asperger’s.” “Her biology research is her entire world. If you ruin that, you ruin her life.” Carter’s voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “Whether Mia is hailed as a brilliant young scholar or exposed as an ‘academic fraud’ who slept her way to the top… that’s entirely up to you.” “Make your choice, Chloe.” I choked back a sob, my nails digging into my palms until they bled. “I’ll apologize.” 4 Following Carter’s orders, I walked into Stacey’s VIP suite. It was massive—a full bedroom and a sprawling lounge area. The lounge was packed wall-to-wall with reporters, their camera lenses trained like weapons. Carter pulled me aside, his grip bruising my arm. His eyes were dark with warning. “Apologize properly. Once Stacey forgives you, this all goes away.” I looked up at him, my vision swimming with tears. “How exactly do you want me to apologize so that ‘Miss Stacey’ is satisfied?” “Do I say I made it all up? Or do I admit that I am the actual mistress?” A flicker of hesitation—maybe even guilt—crossed Carter’s face. “You don’t have to call yourself a mistress. That’s a bit…” Stacey strolled into the lounge, cutting him off effortlessly. “Of course she has to admit she’s the mistress. I want her to know exactly how it feels.” She didn’t look remotely surprised to see me. She practically melted into Carter’s side. “Carter, I need her to admit she’s the other woman. It’s the only way I’ll feel better.” “Otherwise…” She didn’t finish the threat, but Carter’s posture instantly went rigid. His face hardened into stone. “Do what Stacey says.” The reporters readied their mics. The live streams were up. Thousands of people were pouring into the feeds. Standing in the center of that room, under the glare of the ring lights, I felt myself free-falling into an abyss. I opened my mouth. “Hello, everyone. I am the person who spread the malicious rumors about Miss Stacey being a homewrecker.” “I am here to apologize to Miss Stacey.” “I apologize for being with a man for six years, only to be cheated on for five. I apologize for being handed a fake marriage certificate. And I apologize for letting a monster secretly drug me until I was permanently infertile.” Chaos erupted. The live stream chats exploded with hashtags: #[StaceyHomewrecker], #[StaceyApologize]. Stacey’s phone began pinging incessantly, a relentless barrage of incoming hate. Carter Group’s stock price immediately began to tank in real-time. Carter scrambled, screaming at the media to cut the feeds. He turned to me, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. “Chloe, are you really forcing my hand?” A second later, my phone rang. It was Mia. She was sobbing hysterically. “Chloe, everyone at school is looking at me weird.” “They’re calling me a fraud. They’re saying I slept with the professors to get my papers published.” “Why are they saying that, Chloe?” “Did I do something wrong? Did I make them mad?” “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I could hear the sickening thud, thud, thud of Mia hitting herself in the head. Every strike felt like a sledgehammer to my own skull. Mia’s world consisted of two things: her biology research, and me. If they took her research, she wouldn’t survive it. I hadn’t expected Carter to pull the trigger so fast. “Mia, sweetie, listen to me. They’re just jealous of how smart you are. I’m going to fix this right now, okay?” I fought to keep my voice steady, bolting toward the hospital doors as I spoke. But before I even made it to the lobby, Carter’s security team intercepted me. They dragged me backward, locking my arms behind my back. As the minutes ticked by, I felt the true, chilling extent of Carter’s cruelty. “Carter, I’m sorry. Please, let my sister go.” “I’ll go back out there right now. I’ll say I’m the mistress.” He let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “Five minutes. You cost my company millions in five minutes.” “If you want to apologize now, you have to tell them you suffer from severe schizophrenia.” “I think you know exactly what story to tell to make the internet believe you.” I knew exactly what he meant. It was my deepest, most agonizing scar. I had only ever told one person in my entire life. Carter. And now, he was taking that secret, sharpening it into a blade, and plunging it into my chest. My entire body shook violently. My fingernails bit into my palms, slick with my own blood. “I know.” In the center of the lounge, the cameras were back on. “Hello everyone. I am Chloe. I am an employee of the Carter Group, and I am the one who fabricated the rumors about Miss Stacey.” “I confess that everything I said about her was a lie.” “When I was a child, I was sexually assaulted by my cousin. It caused me to develop severe schizophrenia. Mr. Carter saved my life once.” “I fell in love with him. Because my feelings were unrequited, I grew insanely jealous of Miss Stacey and tried to ruin her reputation.” “I sincerely apologize to Mr. Carter and Miss Stacey.” I forced every word out of my throat. Within a minute, the narrative flipped. The internet rallied, branding me a delusional, ungrateful psychopath. And worse—someone leaked Mia’s condition. The mob demanded a full investigation into the “mentally ill” sister’s academic credentials. I used every ounce of strength I had left to dial Carter’s number, but it rang out. I needed him to retract the fake evidence against Mia, but his and Stacey’s suite was heavily guarded. No one was allowed in. His voice drifted through the heavy wooden door. “You can leave when Stacey decides she’s ready to forgive you.” The guards forced me to my knees in the hallway. Finally, someone picked up my phone. “Are you the next of kin for the deceased? Please come down to the precinct to identify the body.” The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the floor. The voice on the other end kept talking, but I couldn’t hear the words anymore. I threw my entire body weight forward, violently breaking free from the guard’s grip. I sprinted toward the window at the end of the corridor. And I jumped. Carter. In this life or the next, I hope to God I never see your face again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407041”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend’s childhood best friend found out I was severely allergic to cilantro, so she secretly poured cilantro extract into every single dish at the dinner party. Almost immediately after taking a bite, a fiery rash exploded across my skin. Panic setting in, I shoved my hand into my pocket, pulled out my small pillbox, and threw a tablet into my mouth. But a second later, the blood drained from my face. The antihistamine—my lifeline—had been swapped out for a strawberry gummy. Seeing my face swell and turn a mottled red, my boyfriend’s best friend erupted into laughter. “Hahaha, surprise! I had Valentine swap them out especially for you!” “You’re such a drama queen. Who actually dies from a little cilantro?” I snapped my head toward my boyfriend, gasping hard, my chest tight. “Valentine,” I wheezed, “if you don’t give me the pills right now, I’m actually going to die!” Valentine just frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “Do you really have to play the fragile little princess all the time? I’ve never heard of anyone dying from a damn herb.” “Chloe is right. You’re just putting on a show. It’s pathetic.” I realized then that arguing was useless. With trembling fingers, I reached for the panic button hidden in my necklace and pressed it hard. 1 Valentine caught the movement. His eyes narrowed slightly. “What did you just press? Don’t tell me you’re calling the cops over a stupid prank.” He reached out and yanked the small bear pendant right off my neck. He inspected it for a moment, turning it over in his hand. Finding nothing obviously electronic about it, he scoffed, tossed it onto the floor, and crushed it under his heel. I reached out, trying to grab the broken pieces, but my throat was already closing up. My movements were becoming sluggish, heavy. “I’m having an anaphylactic reaction,” I gasped out, my voice raspy. “Please. Give me the medicine.” Chloe crossed her arms, watching me with an amused smirk, completely unbothered. “Are you really in that much pain, Lady Stacey? Or are you just trying to steal Valentine’s attention again?” “I mean, it’s one thing when you make up excuses to monopolize him on a normal day, but today is his birthday. Could you stop being such a buzzkill for five minutes?” It felt like invisible hands were wrapping tightly around my windpipe. I stared at Chloe, entirely helpless. She and Valentine had grown up together. They always played the “we’re basically siblings” card. Whenever I expressed even a hint of insecurity, Valentine was quick to shut it down. “She’s just like a little sister to me, Stacey. If there was ever going to be anything between us, it would have happened years ago.” And Chloe would chime in, playing the perfect tomboy best friend, to prove how platonic they were. “Honestly, only a saint like you would put up with a dense, unromantic guy like Valentine.” Like a fool, I believed them. I genuinely thought it was just a pure, lifelong friendship. But slowly, the cracks started to show. At every group hangout, whenever I tried to talk to Valentine, she would accidentally-on-purpose interrupt. Then, she would pivot the conversation to some inside joke, some shared memory only the two of them understood, effectively shutting me out. I would just sit there in silence, unable to get a word in edgewise. And right on cue, she would throw me a bone—laced with poison. “Oh no, Stacey, you aren’t mad that Valentine and I are having fun, are you?” “Girl, we practically shared a crib. You can’t be this insecure, can you?” When the hostility became too obvious to ignore, I tried bringing it up to Valentine. He just laughed and called me paranoid. And now, that hostility wasn’t just obvious; it was weaponized. She was wearing her malice like a badge of honor. “No tiara, but all the princess syndrome. Does it physically hurt you if Valentine doesn’t revolve his entire universe around you for one day?” “So now you’re faking a severe allergy just to get him to pity you?” A few of Valentine’s friends chuckled, the sound ugly and mocking in the private dining room. “I really am allergic to cilantro,” I forced out, my voice tearing into a raw, desperate scream. “Give me the medicine!” The room fell silent for a single heartbeat. Then, a wave of uproarious, mocking laughter crashed over me. Among all the jeers, Chloe’s voice was the loudest, dripping with pure venom. “Hahaha, you’re really committing to the bit, aren’t you? This performance belongs in an acting masterclass!” “Valentine, don’t tell me you’re actually falling for this?” Before Valentine could even open his mouth, his frat brothers chimed in. “Oh man, if you start babying her now, you’re doomed for life!” “Bro, you aren’t really whipped by this drama queen, are you? You can’t indulge this kind of toxic behavior!” Spurred on by his friends’ taunts, any hesitation Valentine might have felt vanished completely. He tilted his head back, looking down his nose at me. “Who says I’m babying her? Frankly, I think we let her off too easy.” He lightly nudged my leg with his foot. “Drop the act, Stacey. Seriously. One more second of this and I’m actually going to be pissed.” When I didn’t—couldn’t—respond, a flicker of doubt finally crossed his face. He started to lean forward, but Chloe immediately grabbed his arm. “I told you she was a good actress. You almost bought it! Who turns purple from an allergy anyway?” I struggled to lift my head, forcing the words through a throat that felt like it was packed with wet sand. “The pills… please…” Before I could finish, Chloe shoved my head back down. She slapped my cheek—hard, twice. My face, already swollen, burned a violent red. “Is this what you want?” She pulled a small, familiar plastic bottle from her pocket, tipped the little white pills into her palm, and tossed them lightly in the air, taunting me. My eyes tracked the pills like they were my only salvation. “Give them… to me…” My breathing was shallow and erratic. I used every ounce of strength I had left to reach for her hand. But just as my fingers grazed the plastic, Chloe snatched her hand back and danced out of reach. I collapsed sideways onto the leather sofa. My vision blurred, but I could still see clearly enough to watch Chloe dump every single pill into a dirty ashtray on the coffee table. Then, she poured half a glass of stale beer over them. The pristine white pills dissolved into a muddy, toxic sludge, dark bubbles clinging to the edge of the glass. My stomach heaved, and I dry-heaved, the violent motion tearing at my swollen throat. 2 “Oh, look at that! She still knows how to act disgusted. Doesn’t look like an allergic reaction to me!” Chloe glared at me, her face twisting with impatience. Valentine’s expression darkened, his eyes reflecting pure irritation. “Stacey, enough! Can you just stop making a scene and let me have one normal birthday?” One of Chloe’s friends rolled her eyes, groaning. “Seriously, we used to pull this kind of stunt in middle school. Can’t you come up with some new material?” My entire body began to convulse. Every breath I fought for felt like swallowing broken glass. “I’m not… I’m really… allergic…” I prayed, silently screaming for someone, anyone in that room to help me. But no one moved. Chloe grabbed Valentine’s arm and pulled him toward the lounge area on the other side of the room. “Just ignore her. Let’s go cut the cake. Once she realizes she doesn’t have an audience, she’ll magically recover.” Valentine sliced the cake. And then, whether by accident or entirely on purpose, the slice slipped from Chloe’s hand. A massive dollop of frosting landed squarely on her chest. The room erupted into catcalls and whistles. “Chloe! Giving us a free show for dessert?” “Don’t waste napkins, let Valentine clean it up!” “That’s not a punishment, that’s a reward! Hahaha!” “Wait, won’t Valentine’s little girlfriend get jealous?” “Nah, she’s too busy pretending to die. She won’t even notice!” They laughed, a chorus of cruel, careless sound. My vision was tunneling, the edges going dark. But through the blur, I saw Valentine shoot a glance in my direction. Then, he lowered his head toward Chloe’s chest. Amidst the roaring cheers, I watched their silhouettes merge. It felt like a million fire ants were marching through my veins. Every inch of my skin felt pierced by hot needles. I clawed at the sofa, trying to drag myself toward the door, but the moment I lifted my head, the last of my strength evaporated. Just as despair threatened to swallow me whole, a memory flashed: A few days ago, one of the pills had slipped out of the box and fallen into the lining of my jacket pocket. I scrambled frantically, my numb fingers digging into the fabric. When my fingertip brushed against the chalky surface of the pill, my breath caught. I clamped my hand around it, slowly drawing it out of my pocket. As I brought it toward my lips, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might crack my ribs. I was going to live. But my hand was shaking violently. My grip slipped. The little white pill bounced off my collarbone and rolled onto the floor. I dove for it, but a designer heel slammed down before I could reach it. Chloe pivoted on her toe, grinding her heel directly into my swollen, sausage-like fingers. The pain was blinding. I didn’t even have the breath left to scream. Why? Why was she doing this to me? Chloe crouched down, bringing her face level with mine. “Word is, your family is pretty loaded. And you’re an only child. Say you happened to tragically pass away tonight… wouldn’t your grieving parents eventually leave everything to your devoted, heartbroken fiancé?” “And then, if I just so happened to marry your fiancé… wouldn’t all that money end up with me?” A white-hot rage flared in my chest. I wanted to kill her. She wasn’t pulling a prank. She had fully intended for me to die. But her twisted little fantasy was flawed. Yes, I was my parents’ only child, but the Scott Group was a massive corporate empire with branches run by extended family. Even if I died, another Scott heir would step up. She wouldn’t see a dime. My eyes practically burned with fury. But to Chloe, my anger just looked pathetic. She smiled—a slow, terrifying smirk that belonged on a demon. “You’re really hard to kill, aren’t you? Let me help you along.” 3 Chloe reached for me. Her cold fingers clamped around my throat, applying pressure. Maybe it was the sheer terror of death closing in, but a sudden, primal surge of adrenaline flooded my system. I roared with everything I had left: “Get off! GET OFF!” Pushing off the sofa, I lurched upwards, swaying wildly. The commotion wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make Valentine turn his head. “What’s going on?” Chloe shot me a venomous glare and quickly dropped her hands. Losing my balance, I slumped heavily against her. She gave a sickly sweet smile and suddenly threw herself backward. My dead weight carried us both down, and I crashed on top of her. Chloe shoved me off violently. “Look at all that energy! I thought you were dying of anaphylaxis? You’re not even trying to make this believable anymore!” My forehead slammed directly into the sharp bottom edge of the glass coffee table. A welt the size of a golf ball formed instantly. Valentine walked over and stood above me. He looked down, his eyes filled with absolute disappointment. “Stacey, when does this end? My patience has a limit.” But as he took in the greenish, mottled hue of my face, a tiny sliver of unease flickered in his eyes. He started to bend down to help me up, but Chloe snatched his hand. “Valentine! Are you an idiot? She’s playing you!” “If she’s actually having an allergic reaction, I will chop my head off and let you kick it like a soccer ball.” Valentine still hesitated. “But… she looks like she’s in a lot of pain. Maybe we should just give her the medicine.” Chloe clapped her hands together like she had just heard the funniest joke in the world. “Wait, you actually believed her? Hahaha, we were just messing around!” She grabbed my arm and shook me like a ragdoll. “Look at her face! Red one minute, green the next. She’s really putting her back into this performance.” “Oh, right! Earlier Stacey said she was thirsty. That’s probably why she looks so faint.” The tension immediately drained from Valentine’s face. “Just thirsty? Well, that makes sense.” He quickly grabbed a glass of ice water from the table. As the freezing glass touched my lips, I shook my head frantically. My throat was swollen shut, feeling like it was packed tightly with cotton. Even a microscopic movement caused agonizing pain. Valentine’s hand hovered in the air, a shadow of doubt crossing his face again. “See? She’s faking again!” Chloe snatched the glass from his hand. “Valentine, you don’t understand girls. When they play hard to get, it means they want you to force them.” She pinched my jaw, her knuckles white, her fingernails digging deep into my swollen skin. Freezing water and crushed ice poured violently down my throat. I choked, a brutal, racking cough tearing out of me. The water spilled down my chin and into my collar, the sudden cold raising a fresh wave of angry red hives across my chest. Chloe just laughed harder. “Look at her! Doesn’t she look much more energetic after some water?” My vision went completely black at the edges. I dug my fingernails so hard into my palms that they broke the skin. But Valentine just smiled and nodded. “Yeah, much better. Guess she was just dehydrated.” He turned to walk back to the party, but I clamped my hand around his pant leg, gripping the fabric like a vise. I forced my eyelids open, using the absolute last dregs of my strength to push the broken syllables past my lips: “Help… me… I am… the heir… to the Scott… Group…” He looked down at me like I was a circus animal performing a trick. He let out a sharp, derisive snort. “The Scott heir? Why don’t you just tell us you’re the Queen of England while you’re at it?” The laughter in the room hit a deafening crescendo. Someone banged their fist on the table. “Man, she is really committing to the role! Should we get her an Oscar for this soap opera?” Another voice chimed in: “With how pathetic she looks, the only thing she’s inheriting is a cardboard box under a bridge!” Chloe was laughing so hard she was bent double. Suddenly, she grabbed a handful of my sweat-drenched hair and slammed my head toward the table leg. “Still pretending to be a billionaire heiress? I’ll let you inherit this table leg!” My wounded forehead cracked against the solid wood. Blood mixed with cold sweat, running into my eyes, burning like acid. “Say it! Tell us again about your fake inheritance!” She yanked my hair again, throwing me face-first onto the floor. My face smashed into the discarded cake scraps. Buttercream and blood smeared across my cheeks. Valentine stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his voice light and unbothered. “Take it easy, Chloe. Don’t actually leave a mark.” He didn’t sound worried about me. He sounded worried that his favorite toy was going to break too soon. I felt the oxygen being slowly, agonizingly vacuumed from my lungs. It felt like I had swallowed a burning coal that was lodged permanently in my windpipe. Every breath tasted like rust. Chloe’s manic grin, Valentine’s cold indifference, the roaring laughter of the crowd. They swirled in my fading consciousness like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. I stared up at the warm, amber lighting of the private room, but the light felt millions of miles away. I felt untethered, like my soul was slowly peeling away from my broken body, drifting upward toward the ceiling. Just as my eyes slipped shut, a familiar, thunderous voice shattered the noise. “STACEY!” A second later, the heavy oak doors of the private room burst open, and blinding light from the hallway flooded in.

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When Preston Carmichael’s little sidepiece threatened to kill herself for the umpteenth time, he postponed our wedding. Again. That made nine times in five months. My stomach was so swollen by now that anyone with eyes could see I was carrying his child. This time, I didn’t shrink back. I looked him dead in the eye and asked, “Are we getting married or not?” In my past life, my chronic weakness allowed him to push the date back until it became a cruel joke. It dragged on until my mother, sick with the stress and humiliation of it all, was hospitalized. Desperate, heavily pregnant, I had gone to beg his mistress to leave us be. Instead, she spun a web of lies, claiming I was bullying her to the brink of death. Then, with a calculated shove, she pushed me down a flight of concrete stairs. I lost the baby. I lost my ability to ever become a mother again. And Preston? He didn’t seek justice. He blamed me. He said my own toxicity had killed our child. The grief and rage had been so violently suffocating that it triggered a massive heart attack, stopping my heart right there on the hospital floor. Given a second chance, waking up in this timeline, the fog has completely lifted. I am not going to bury my one, precious life for a monster. … 1 Preston’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing into cold, judgmental slits. “Are you giving me an ultimatum? Susie, do you have any idea what’s at stake here? It’s a matter of life and death. Will you only be satisfied if she actually ends it?” His voice was pure ice, devoid of an ounce of empathy, looking at me as if I were the one committing some unspeakable crime. The hand resting on my belly trembled slightly, but a soft, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “I’m driving her to death? You’ve canceled our wedding nine times, Preston. I think you’re the one trying to kill me.” It was a mirror image of my past life. As my bump grew larger, the vicious whispers in our social circle grew louder. “I bet the kid isn’t even a Carmichael. Why else would he keep delaying? He’s just making a fool out of her.” “That’s what happens when a charity case tries to marry into generational wealth. She thought a pretty face could trap him. Joke’s on her!” My pregnancy had always been high-risk. Back then, the anxiety had eaten me alive, leaving me vomiting until I couldn’t even stand. Yet Preston had never bothered to defend my honor or just sign the damn papers. Instead, he had blamed me for forgetting my pill, for saddling him with “this inconvenience.” Hearing my challenge now, his brow furrowed deeply. He stared at me, his gaze dark and chilling. “You’re blaming me?” His tone was razor-sharp, but as his eyes dropped to my stomach, his expression shifted into a flippant, patronizing smile. “It’s just a party, Susie. Is it really that deep? If it comes down to it, we’ll just throw the wedding after the baby is born. It’s the same difference.” He reached out, carelessly stroking my hair, his tone softening into a faux-gentle cadence. “The girls on the outside are just fleeting distractions. You’re the only one who gets to be Mrs. Carmichael.” The moment the words left his mouth, his phone shattered the silence. Preston instantly pulled his hand away, turning his back on me to rush toward the door. I knew immediately. Madison was threatening to end it all again. Feeling absolutely nothing—no panic, no heartbreak—I called an Uber and headed to the women’s clinic. Right before I went back to the procedure room, I saw Madison’s latest Instagram story. “Never fails! Like I always say, if a man truly loves you, he won’t let you suffer for a single second. I barely scratched my wrist, and he dropped everything to rush to my side.” Under the blinding weight of that contrast, my battered heart still managed a sharp, phantom twinge of pain. I closed my heavy, exhausted eyes and powered off my phone. Two hours later, I was wheeled into recovery, swimming in a numb, anesthetic haze. The nurses, assuming I was still completely under, didn’t bother lowering their voices. “That’s her, right? The society bride whose fiancé postponed nine times?” “It’s her. It was all over Page Six. God, I don’t know why she puts up with it. The guy obviously doesn’t give a damn about her.” They sighed in mutual pity. Suddenly, one of them gasped, pointing toward the pharmacy wing through the glass doors. “Oh my god, look. That’s Preston Carmichael out there picking up meds with some girl. He’s treating her like she’s made of glass.” I forced my eyes open, turning my head. Sure enough, it was Preston. His arm was wrapped protectively around Madison’s waist, whispering sweet nothings to soothe her, acting every bit the devoted partner. I had been five months pregnant. In all that time, he hadn’t accompanied me to a single doctor’s appointment. The nurse noticed I was awake. A flash of profound pity crossed her eyes. “Honey, do you want me to go out there and tell him you’re here?” “No.” My voice was barely a whisper. I closed my eyes and sank back into the dark. I don’t know how much time passed before my phone finally buzzed. 2 Preston had sent ten thousand dollars over Venmo. It was his signature move, his way of buying absolution. Just like years ago, when he claimed he was roofied at a party, cornered me, and assaulted me. His first act of “contrition” was writing a check to cover my entire college tuition. I had sobbed until I choked, telling him I wasn’t something to be bought. Preston had just pulled me into his chest, petting me as a dark, obsessive fire burned in his eyes. “Oh, sweet Susie, of course you aren’t. I’ve been crazy about you for a long time. Once you graduate, I’m going to put a ring on your finger.” He had kept that promise, technically. But putting a ring on my finger never stopped him from treating Manhattan like his personal tasting menu. After a few minutes of radio silence from my end, another text popped up. “Why aren’t you at the penthouse? Where did you go?” My head was spinning from the lingering anesthesia. I didn’t reply. A while later, I discharged myself and took a cab to our shared penthouse. But when the front door swung open, it wasn’t Preston standing there. It was Madison. She was wrapped in my La Perla silk robe, her eyes flashing with a territorial hostility. But the moment Preston’s footsteps echoed from the hallway, her face melted into a mask of trembling innocence. “Susie, I swear I didn’t mean to intrude on your space! I just got caught in the pouring rain, and Preston said I could use the guest shower.” It was such a blatant, pathetic performance. Does rain somehow cause fresh, bruising hickeys along a woman’s collarbone? Noticing my gaze dropping to her neck, Madison pushed her chest out just a fraction, a triumphant gleam in her eye. Before I could even speak, Preston stepped in front of her, physically shielding her like a knight protecting his ward. His face was rigid with defensive anger. “I’m the one who brought her here. If you have a problem, take it out on me—” “Excuse me. I need to pack.” I didn’t let him finish. I breezed right past them into the foyer, not sparing him a single glance. Preston froze, his face dropping into a stunned, ugly scowl. He stepped away from Madison and followed me into the master bedroom. He stood there, watching my silhouette as I quietly folded my clothes into a suitcase. “So you come home and immediately throw a tantrum?” his voice dropped into a menacing, icy register. “Can’t you just let me have one moment of peace?” He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag. When he looked up, I hadn’t paused my packing for even a second. He clenched his jaw, muttering a curse under his breath. “Fine! I’ll call her a car right now, okay? You’re heavily pregnant, what the hell are you doing dragging a suitcase around?” My hands paused. A dry, jagged laugh escaped my lips. He didn’t even notice my stomach was completely flat under my loose sweater. Playing the concerned father was just another act. My eyes stung. There was no baby anymore. Seeing the strange, eerie smile on my face, a flicker of unease crossed his expression. But before he could process it, Madison suddenly burst into the room and threw herself to her knees right in front of me. “Susie, please don’t be mad at Preston! It’s all my fault! If you need to hit someone, hit me!” She grabbed my hand, trying to forcefully slap her own cheek with it. Seeing her degrade herself, Preston barked a sharp command, yanking Madison up from the floor. “Enough! If she wants to leave, let her leave! We’ll see who regrets it tomorrow!” Then, his eyes dropped to Madison’s knee with sickening tenderness. “Did you scrape your knee on the hardwood? Come here, let me put some Neosporin on it.” Madison blushed, shaking her head with a sickly sweet smile. “Oh, that’s not from the floor. That’s from earlier, on the bed…” Panic flashed in Preston’s eyes. He instantly shot a look at me. But I remained perfectly, beautifully hollow. Suddenly, Madison let out a sharp cry of pain, dramatically pulling her arm away. “Preston, you’re holding my wrist too tight!” Preston didn’t even hear her. He was already running out the door, chasing after me. 3 “Susie, where the hell do you think you’re going?” He grabbed my forearm, the veins in his hand bulging with force. I stood perfectly still for two seconds. Then, I looked up and met his gaze with dead eyes. “We’re done, Preston. We never signed the papers, so it’s clean. It’s over.” The blood drained from Preston’s face. He stood paralyzed, as if I had suddenly started speaking a foreign language. “Is this a joke to you? What about the baby?!” His anger flared, and he reached out, instinctively trying to press his hand against my stomach. But in that exact second, Madison dramatically swooned in the hallway, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. The moment Preston whipped his head around to look at her, I slammed the door of my Uber shut and told the driver to step on it. In the rearview mirror, I watched him standing in the driveway, completely frozen. Once I got to my own small apartment, I took pictures of my designer wedding gown and listed it on StillWhite. Then, I sent a mass BCC email to our bridal party and family, stating the wedding was permanently canceled. When it was all done, I let out a long, shaky breath and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Monday morning, I went back to work at the prep school where I taught literature. But the second I stepped onto the campus, I could feel the suffocating weight of staring eyes. “I can’t believe Ms. Montgomery is actually like that. She seemed so normal.” “She grew up dirt poor, and her mom is chronically ill. How do you think she afforded all those designer bags in college? She’s a sugar baby.” “I heard she even got knocked up and had to get rid of it. She’s total trash. No wonder her fiancé keeps leaving her at the altar.” “Honestly, I bet she slept her way into this job, too.” A loud ringing erupted in my ears. White-hot fury spiked through my veins, and I reached for my phone, ready to call the police for harassment and defamation. But before I could, Madison came rushing out from the courtyard, tears streaming beautifully down her face as she pleaded with me. “Ms. Montgomery, please, just give me my necklace back! It was my mother’s sweet sixteen gift to me, and she’s dead! It’s the only thing I have left of her!” Students and faculty began to circle us, their faces twisted in disgust and moral superiority. “Susie, why are you stealing from a young girl? Give it back!” one of my colleagues snapped. “Have some basic human decency. We all know your own mother is in the hospital—you should be praying for some good karma, not stealing!” At those words, a vicious, calculating shadow passed through Madison’s tear-filled eyes. She pulled out her phone, dialing a number. “I’ll just call your mom. I’m sure she’ll understand my pain.” Pure terror gripped me. I lunged forward, snatching the phone from her hand. “My mother is in the ICU! Are you trying to kill her?!” Madison fell backward onto the pavement, sobbing with theatrical despair. The crowd swelled, their whispers turning into shouts. A cold realization washed over me—this was a highly coordinated, premeditated hit to destroy my life. I turned to push my way out of the crowd, but Madison wrapped her arms around my legs, anchoring me to the ground. Suddenly, a furious roar shattered the chaos. A bouquet of expensive white lilies dropped to the concrete as Preston shoved through the crowd, scooping Madison into his arms. He glared at me, his chest heaving with disappointment, his lips trembling with rage. “I actually came here to apologize to you, Susie. But look at you. You are so vicious, so vindictive!” Madison buried her face in his shirt, weeping hysterically. “Susie, please, I’m begging you. It’s my mother’s dying memento.” The crowd’s condemnation crashed over me like a tidal wave. I bit down on my tongue until I tasted copper, turning my back on them to walk away. “This is absolute insanity.” But a split second later, a searing pain shot through my arm. Preston yanked me backward with brutal force, shoving me down so hard my knees slammed into the rough asphalt. He towered over me, barking, “Susie, you don’t want to lose your career over this. I am going to say this one last time. Apologize!” The skin on my knees was scraped raw and burning. With red-rimmed eyes, I looked up at the man I had spent my twenties loving, only to see him look away with cold indifference. The voices around me swelled. Dirty, malicious, degrading. “God, did she really just sleep her way to the top?” “She’s been bad news since high school. Guess the rumors were true.” I suddenly doubled over, my organs twisting into knots, nausea rising in my throat. Preston knew. He knew better than anyone that when I was nineteen, the vicious cyberbullying at my university had driven me to slit my own wrists. He was the one who had found me covered in blood and rushed me to the ER. He was the one who had cleared his schedule for three months, sitting by my bedside, pulling me back from the ledge. And now, just to avenge his bruised ego and placate his mistress, he was leading the mob to crucify me over a lie. I would rather die than confess to something I didn’t do. I lunged forward, sinking my teeth violently into the hand he had clamped down on my shoulder. Preston screamed, violently jerking back. Madison shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Are you an animal?! You almost took a chunk out of his arm! We’re calling the cops!” I tilted my head, spitting a mouthful of his blood onto the pavement. I didn’t say a single word. I simply pushed myself off the ground and walked away. I went home, emailed HR requesting a one-week leave of absence, and collapsed into my bed, letting the darkness take me. 4 I was jolted awake by the relentless ringing of my phone. I shook my heavy head, fully expecting to hear Preston screaming at me. Instead, the first thing he said was, “I think I was a little too rough today. Are you okay? If you’re hurting, go to the hospital. Don’t let your stubborn pride get in the way. The baby’s safety is what matters.” Hearing the word baby, a dry laugh cracked from my throat. There hasn’t been a baby for days. Unwilling to waste another syllable on him, I hung up. I quickly washed my face and took a cab straight to the hospital to check on my mom. But before I even reached her ward, I heard my mother’s frail, desperate sobs echoing down the hallway. “You’re lying! My daughter is a good person! Cough, cough You’re lying!” Every alarm bell in my nervous system went off. I shoved past the nurses and burst into the room. The first thing I saw was my mother crumpled on the linoleum floor, coughing up blood. “Mom!” My vision went red. I rushed over, gathering her frail body into my arms. My mother looked up at me through tear-soaked eyes, her hands trembling as she grabbed my shirt. “Susie… this girl came in… she said you stole her necklace. Tell Mom the truth. You didn’t take it, did you?” My mother had lived a life of quiet, unshakeable integrity. After my father left, she raised me on her own, every single dollar she earned washed in honest sweat. The thought of her beloved daughter being branded a thief was literally breaking her heart. I whipped my head around to look at the architect of this nightmare. Madison stood by the door, arms crossed, a smug, contemptuous smirk playing on her lips. “Do yourself a favor and stop trying to seduce Preston. Take your sick mother and get the hell out of the city. Otherwise, I will make sure neither of you ever find peace.” She let out a scoff, turning on her heel to leave. A high, thin ringing filled my brain. I looked down at the blood staining my hands. She had ruined my career. And now, she was torturing my dying mother. I lunged. I tackled her to the floor, my hands immediately finding her throat. I clamped down, squeezing with every ounce of strength I possessed. Madison’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. Her manicured nails clawed uselessly at my arms, tearing my skin. Suddenly, a massive force ripped me backward, throwing me onto the ground. Preston stood there, his face pale with horror, his hands shaking violently. “Are you insane?! You almost killed her!” In my peripheral vision, my mother lay unconscious on the floor, her life slipping away, while Preston stood over me, fiercely guarding his mistress, terrified I might scratch her again. The dam finally broke. Hot, bitter tears streamed down my face as I screamed from the depths of my soul, “THEN SHE SHOULD DIE!” Smack. The force of his hand across my face sent me crashing sideways onto the hard floor. Preston froze. He looked down at his own trembling hand, a look of profound disbelief washing over his features. He stumbled toward me, his voice breaking into a panicked stutter. “I’m sorry. Susie, God, I’m so sorry. I just saw red, I—” But his voice abruptly died in his throat. Because of the fall, my oversized sweater had ridden up, exposing my bare stomach. It was perfectly flat. In that second, the color completely drained from Preston’s face.

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In the eleven years I’d been with Valerie, she had never once thrown me a birthday party. But on the evening of my twenty-ninth birthday, her private driver dropped me off at the entrance of a lavish banquet hall. It was a sensory overload of imported orchids and a towering, decadent dessert bar. The vibrant, dopamine-inducing color palette made the entire venue feel like a scene pulled straight from a glossy Manhattan society magazine—expensive, intoxicating, and deeply romantic. I was just pulling out my phone to call her when the massive LED screen at the front of the room flared to life. A high-fashion editorial slideshow of Beckett began to play. “Mr. Beckett, this is a birthday gift from Ms. Valerie. She wishes you the happiest of birthdays!” Valerie’s executive assistant brushed past me, walking straight toward Beckett, who was dressed to the nines in a bespoke tuxedo. The velvet box was snapped open. Nestled inside was the exact set of jewelry I had once told Valerie was my ultimate dream to own. My gaze slowly lifted, locking onto Beckett’s eyes. They were gleaming with a sharp, triumphant provocation. In that singular, crystal-clear moment, I finally understood where his hostility had come from since the day we met. Valerie had betrayed our love. And she had done it a long time ago. 1 “Mr. Samuel, I am so sorry. I forgot I swapped shifts with Tommy today. He was supposed to drop Mr. Beckett here, and I was supposed to take you to the Upper East Side to have dinner with the Dowager. Should we head out now?” Valerie’s driver, panicked at the realization that he had brought me to the wrong address, hurried up behind me. He was practically wiping the nervous sweat from his forehead, his eyes darting to my face to gauge my reaction. “It’s fine,” I said. I forced a mechanical smile, waiting for the icy numbness to bloom in my left ventricle, spreading out to my fingertips before slowly receding. I finally found my voice. I didn’t make a scene or give the driver a hard time. Knowing this opulent party was not for me, I turned on my heel to leave. “Samuel, don’t misunderstand. Beckett is my right-hand man. I threw him this party to reward his dedication to the company.” Valerie approached from the other side of the room. She naturally, almost gravitationally, positioned herself right next to Beckett. She frowned, throwing an explanation at me like a bone to a dog, while simultaneously shoving a stained suit jacket into my arms. “Someone spilled wine on this earlier. Take it home, hand-wash it, and have the driver bring it back. I have an industry mixer with Beckett later tonight, and this jacket pairs perfectly with his tuxedo. Do me this favor.” Her mouth said the words do me a favor, but her eyes held zero warmth, zero remorse, zero tenderness. “Valerie, we’re done. Wash his clothes yourself.” I offered a faint, hollow smile and took a deliberate step back, letting the jacket drop. I didn’t reach out to catch it like I always had before. “Can you stop being so goddamn sensitive? I just explained it to you. What more do you want?” She was so used to my absolute subservience. Seeing me refuse, her eyes widened, brimming with a mix of disbelief and sudden anger. “So what? You throw an excuse at me, and I’m just supposed to swallow it?” I used to think that if this day ever came, I would be hysterical. I thought I would scream, demand answers, ask why him, why not me? But looking at her standing there—how, when forced to choose a physical space between me and Beckett, she instinctively anchored herself to him—I felt a profound, sweeping sense of relief. Sand that you cannot hold is better left to the wind. “Happy birthday, Beckett.” I didn’t bother wasting another glance on Valerie. I merely lifted my heavy eyelids, gave the smug, preening Beckett a passing look, and walked out of the hall. The second I got into the back of the town car, I dialed Beatrice, Valerie’s grandmother. I gently explained that I wouldn’t be able to make it to dinner tonight. Then, taking a steadying breath, I told her that Valerie and I had broken up, and that she needed to take good care of herself from now on. Hearing the news, Beatrice sounded utterly heartbroken. She pressed me for the reason. I told her the truth. Not long after I hung up, my phone lit up with Valerie’s name. “Samuel, what the hell are you playing at?” “When did I ever agree to a breakup?” “Is this about the jewelry? I bought him a set you liked. So what? It’s his birthday. What’s wrong with a boss buying her employee a nice gift?” Valerie was practically screaming into the receiver. Clearly, Beatrice had just torn into her. Every word out of her mouth was entirely centered on her own twisted logic. “So, you did remember that I wanted that set.” A bitter laugh scraped its way out of my throat. I had thought, maybe, she had just forgotten. I had told her years ago. I designed that jewelry. Before my career was derailed, my blueprints had been stolen by a rival. I knew I would never get my name on the patent, but I had told Valerie that owning a physical set of my own stolen masterpiece would finally give me some closure. Back then, she had held me in her arms, kissing my temple. With a soft, aching tenderness, she had promised me that the second it hit the market, she would buy the very first set for me. A week ago, the launch campaign went live. I had stared at the screen for ten solid minutes. Valerie had seen me. She had promised to buy it. I just never imagined she would buy my stolen legacy to drape over her lover’s neck. “If you really want it that badly, I’ll buy you another set tomorrow. Just stop throwing a tantrum.” “Go straight to the Upper East Side and have dinner with Grandma. Her arthritis is acting up again, and no one else knows the right massage techniques. Only you can soothe it.” There it was. The real reason she was calling. When did it start? When did her calls become nothing more than a string of transactional demands? I’m craving that soup you make. Bring a thermos to the office. I drank too much. Bring me that hangover remedy you brew. I got into a fender-bender and I’m late for a client meeting. Wait on the side of the highway in the freezing wind for the insurance guy and handle it for me. There were even times when she, drunk and belligerent, had gotten into physical altercations at clubs, and it was me who had to show up to apologize and pay off the victims. My friends used to joke about it. Those who knew our history remembered we were a couple. Those who didn’t thought I was her unpaid, live-in personal assistant. On call, twenty-four seven. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year. No sick days. “I’m going to say this one last time, Valerie. We are breaking up. Do not call me again.” “I just texted you the video tutorial on how to relieve Beatrice’s arthritis. If you actually give a damn about your grandmother, you’ll go take care of her yourself.” “If your love for her is just lip service, then that’s your problem. I’ve spent eleven years with you. My conscience is clear. I owe nothing to you, and nothing to your family.” “Are you forcing me to call your mother? Samuel, you know exactly how desperately your mother wants you to marry me. If we break up, aren’t you terrified of the hell she’ll rain down on you?” Realizing I was actually walking away, Valerie dropped her voice. It was a low, venomous threat. “She’s going to find out eventually. She’ll just have to learn to live with it,” I replied, though the mere mention of my mother made my scalp prickle with anxiety. When Valerie and I first started dating, my mother was violently opposed to it. Valerie was a struggling entrepreneur back then, drowning in debt. My mother had wanted me to follow her script—to marry a wealthy, divorced woman in our hometown who could provide for our family. But I chose Valerie. I threw myself into helping her build her startup, alienating myself from my family for three grueling years. By the fourth year, my mother saw Valerie on the cover of Forbes Midas List. Suddenly, she showed up in New York, practically begging Valerie to lock me down with a wedding. Over time, my mother started bypassing me entirely, calling Valerie directly to chat. It was through their growing alliance that Valerie learned the darkest truths about my childhood—how my mother had always neglected me, constantly draining my resources to pave a golden path for my younger brother, all under the guise of “family duty.” “Your mother is currently waiting for me to wire the money for your brother’s wedding. Are you seriously telling me she’s going to ‘live with it’ right now?” “…” Hearing that my brother was actually at the altar, I froze for a fraction of a second. “Samuel, don’t blame me for not taking you seriously. Your own mother doesn’t even love you. How do you expect me to cherish you?” “Be a good boy. Go home and wait for me. I’ll make it up to you tonight. I’ll admit, yes, I have feelings for Beckett. But I never planned on leaving you. Beckett doesn’t mind sharing, so why can’t you be a little generous? Stop letting his existence bother you.” She took my silence as submission. “So, what is this? A modern-day corporate queen with her harem? Valerie, my brother is a grown man. If he wants to get married, he needs to earn his own life. I’m done fixing his messes, and I will certainly not be buying his wife with my dignity.” “You don’t own me anymore.” I could hardly believe the sheer, unadulterated audacity coming from the woman I had worshipped for over a decade. I was suddenly profoundly grateful that the driver had accidentally taken me to Beckett’s party. Otherwise, I might still be rotting in the dark. The fiery, passionate girl I fell in love with had been completely devoured by the ruthless corporate world and the intoxicating fumes of power. She was unrecognizable. I couldn’t even conjure the memory of the girl she used to be. “You haven’t held down a real job in years. If you leave me, how exactly do you plan on surviving out there? Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. With me, you’ll never have to worry about your allowance.” “Step outside my shadow, and you’ll realize just how brutal the real world is to people like you.” She had forgotten. She had forgotten that I built the foundation of her company. She had forgotten that I was the one who secured her very first venture capital check. All she remembered was that I hadn’t worked a 9-to-5 in years. What she didn’t know was that in the endless, lonely nights waiting for her to come home, I had quietly clawed my way back into my own profession, building a quiet but lucrative freelance portfolio. As her empire expanded, the only thing that occupied her heart was herself. She stopped caring about me. She stopped knowing me. “That is my problem, Ms. Valerie. We are officially strangers. Have a nice life.” I didn’t bother defending myself. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her about the money I had made. The “allowance” she gave me was sitting in an envelope in the nightstand of our master bedroom. I had never touched a single cent of it. For years, every household expense, every grocery run, every electric bill—I had paid it all out of my own pocket. I used to be too proud to touch her money. But now? Now I realized it was back pay. Realizing it was a substantial amount, I tapped the glass partition and told the driver to reroute to our newly purchased penthouse. The renovations had just finished, and we had only been living there for a month. Every single tile, every piece of custom furniture, every piece of art—I had picked them all out with meticulous love. I used to sit on that velvet sofa and dream about us growing old in that space. Now… The fantasy cracked. And finally, my eyes were open. I grabbed the debit card from the nightstand, packed my minimal clothes into a duffel bag, and headed for the door. Just as I stepped out, the private elevator doors parted. Valerie stepped out, her arm wrapped tightly around Beckett’s waist. Six eyes met in the hallway. The air instantly violently flatlined. I was the first to recover. I stepped sideways, giving them a wide berth to pass. We were broken up. It was her penthouse. Who she brought home to screw was her business. I felt absolutely nothing. “Samuel, I knew you were just throwing a fit. I knew you wouldn’t actually leave.” Misreading the duffel bag and my presence, Valerie’s eyes lit up with a sickening flash of relief. She dropped Beckett’s waist, lunging forward to grab my wrist, trying to bury her face against my chest. “Get off me!” My voice was absolute ice. My eyes swept over her with naked disgust. She reeked of that heavy, musky scent. I didn’t even have to guess—they had already slept together in a hotel room before coming back here to shower. The thought of those hands, the same hands that had just been tracing Beckett’s skin, touching me… It made my stomach violently heave. I yanked my arm away. “Still pouting? Beckett agreed to let you have the jewelry. Look, just stop making a scene, okay?” Valerie extended her hand, taking the velvet box Beckett smoothly offered her. She shoved the diamonds—the ones I had poured my soul into designing—against my chest, expecting me to light up with gratitude. I stared down at the blinding stones. Then, I swiped my hand, sending the box clattering violently across the marble floor. “We may have been together for eleven years, Valerie, but clearly, you know nothing about me.” “I don’t do second-hand goods. Not objects. And definitely not people.” I turned to step into the elevator. Suddenly, Beckett lunged, grabbing me by the collar and violently hauling me out of the elevator bay. He dragged me to the door of the adjacent penthouse. He punched in a code, shoving me inside. The layout was identical to the home I had just meticulously designed for Valerie and me. The exact same fixtures. The exact same wallpaper. But hanging on the wall of the foyer was a massive, professionally framed wedding portrait of Valerie and Beckett. During our renovations, I knew the neighbor’s unit was also being gutted, but I had never bothered to look inside. I never knew that, separated by merely six inches of drywall, Valerie had built herself two parallel lives. A biting, terrifying chill seeped into my marrow. I gasped for air, staring at the wedding photos—taken with the exact same photography studio package we had used—and stumbled backward onto the sofa. “What exactly are you playing the victim for, Samuel?” “I am willing to accept you! Why can’t you tolerate me?” “Since we both love her, why can’t we just coexist? She bought both these penthouses, designed them exactly the same—it proves we are completely equal in her heart!” Beckett looked down at me with an expression of bizarre, twisted self-righteousness. He actually pointed around the room, detailing the furniture, the decor, the styling of the photos. “Do you know how much I sacrificed? I told her I wanted a traditional black-tie wedding shoot, but because you liked the vintage aesthetic, she made me compromise.” “When we first got together, she promised me we’d get legally married. But then she said you were better suited as the ‘official’ husband for the press, and she gave the marriage certificate to you. I swallowed my pride and agreed.” “And this building? I fucking hate this neighborhood. But so she could easily walk between our beds, I bit my tongue and moved in. Piece by piece, compromise by compromise—I have been nothing but accommodating to you! Don’t push your luck, Samuel!” As the shock slowly wore off and I could breathe again, I subtly slid my hand into my pocket and hit record on my phone. Listening to his deranged monologue, watching his face—completely devoid of shame, genuinely believing this twisted reality was logical—I had a fleeting moment of vertigo. Was I the crazy one? Were they right? But the fog cleared instantly. Valerie and Beckett were sick. They were morally bankrupt and profoundly broken. They were the monsters. Not me. I pulled my phone out completely, recording a clear, sweeping video of the room and their wedding portraits. “Since you two are so deeply in love, I’m stepping aside. You should be thrilled.” I was much calmer than I expected. I looked at Valerie, and my heart was a completely stagnant pool of water. It was strange. The very second I truly committed to walking away, she morphed into a stranger. And whatever insane, shameless things a stranger did on the street had nothing to do with me. “You are the one choosing to leave! Don’t you dare regret this! Even if you come crawling back on your knees, I won’t take you back! Think very carefully about what you’re doing!” Valerie’s jaw clenched. She hadn’t anticipated that even after Beckett’s “generous” compromises, I would still walk away. She yanked the front door open, gesturing violently for me to get out. I walked past them without a sideways glance. “Tommy! He is no longer my boyfriend. You are forbidden from driving him! Let him walk!” Valerie spat the words through her teeth, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage.

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In my third year as a high-end wedding planner, I hit a wall. I’d presented five different design concepts to a difficult client, and she’d rejected every single one of them with a wave of her manicured hand. Then, she saw it. My personal booking for my own wedding venue. “Why don’t you just give it to me?” she asked, her voice airy as if she were asking to borrow a pen. “I’ll pay five times whatever you put down.” She leaned back, admiring the photos of the venue on my desk. “The date is perfect for me and my husband. I want to surprise him.” I thought about what it took to secure the Conservatory at The Heights. I’d worked myself to the point of physical exhaustion, pulling double shifts for months just to scrape together the non-refundable deposit. My fiancé was three thousand miles away, working a grueling corporate job in London just so we could afford a life together. The venue wasn’t just a space. it was the summit of our five-year climb. I didn’t even have to think about it. I politely declined. The next day, she showed up at the front of my apartment building. This time, she wasn’t alone. She was draped in designer labels, clinging to her husband’s arm and pouting like a spoiled child. “That planner is being completely unreasonable, honey. You have to do something,” she whimpered, her voice loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “If I don’t get the Conservatory, I’m not having a wedding at all!” The man looked down at her with indulgent adoration. “I’ll pay a hundred times the price if I have to, princess. Your wish is my command.” He patted her hand, a smug smile playing on his lips. “I’ll handle her. No one says no to my girl.” As he stepped closer, laughing at something she whispered, he looked up. The smile died on his face. The air seemed to get sucked out of the street. We both froze. This was the man who claimed he was broke. The man who said he had to live in a cramped flat across the ocean for five years just to save for our future. My fiancé, Simon. 1 For a split second, I saw a flash of pure, unadulterated panic in Simon’s eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a sharp, warning glance. Camilla, oblivious to the earthquake happening beneath our feet, pulled a checkbook from her Chanel bag and thrust it toward me. “Let’s be real,” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. “Write down any number you want. I want the Conservatory, and my husband is paying the bill.” I looked past her, searching Simon’s face for a shred of guilt. A hint of remorse. Anything. There was nothing. I remembered standing in line for three days and nights in the freezing rain just to get that booking. My skin had broken out in hives from the cold; my feet had gone numb. When a spot finally opened up because another couple canceled, I’d cried with relief. I hadn’t slept that night. I’d stayed up until dawn on a video call with Simon, describing every detail of the glass ceiling and the way the moonlight would hit the dance floor. We’d dreamed about our future together until the sun came up. Now, looking at him, I realized he had never even opened the floor plans I’d sent. He didn’t care that I chose the Conservatory because it was exactly five blocks from where we had our very first date. I didn’t take the check. Simon spoke finally, his voice deep and unsettlingly calm. “Are you in such a hurry to get married?” I didn’t know who was asking—the man I’d loved for five years, or the stranger standing next to a socialite. He knew my parents had been haunting me about a wedding date since our third anniversary. He knew how many times I’d forced a smile and told my mother, “Not yet, Mom. We’re just waiting until we have enough saved.” He knew I was losing my hair from the stress of the distance. He knew I was barely holding on, all because I didn’t want to pressure him while he was “struggling” abroad. I let out a sharp, hollow laugh. “Not anymore. I’m not in a hurry at all.” Simon’s expression shifted, something dark and complex crossing his features. Camilla beamed, reaching up to plant a victory kiss on his cheek. “See? I told you my husband could handle anything!” She scribbled a number on the check that I had never seen in my bank account: one million dollars. “Take it,” she said, tucking the slip of paper into my coat pocket. “I spend more than this on my nails in a year. My husband and I are spending forty million on this vow renewal. The Conservatory is the only place classy enough for us.” She looked me up and down, her lip curling in pity. “Honey, don’t try so hard to live a life you can’t afford. Take your little boyfriend to a nice bistro or something. It’s more your speed.” I was wearing a coat from three seasons ago. I looked like a ghost standing next to her. But that coat was the only “expensive” gift Simon had ever given me for my birthday. Simon gave her arm a gentle tug, and she finally took the hint to leave. “I’m just a blunt person, don’t take it personally,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Oh, and here’s my husband’s card. We still need to finalize the details for his tuxedo.” I looked down at the heavy, embossed cardstock. Simon Montgomery, CEO of Montgomery International. The man I knew wore the same three t-shirts until they were threadbare. He cut his own hair in the bathroom to save twenty bucks. Every time I’d bragged about winning a hundred-dollar gift card at work, he must have been laughing at me behind my back. I watched them walk away, their silhouettes merging into one as they stepped into a waiting Maybach. Five years of long distance. Five years of working myself to the bone to save for a life that was already a lie. My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from Simon. Meet my assistant at the villa in an hour. We need to talk. 2 The fury in my chest was a living thing, clawing at my throat. I fired off message after message. Why did you lie? Why didn’t you tell me you were married? What was I to you? Just a hobby? The messages went unread. The “delivered” status felt like a slap in the face. Simon’s assistant—a man who looked at me like I was a piece of gum stuck to his shoe—shoved me into a black car and drove me to a secluded estate on the outskirts of the city. “This is a private property the Mrs. doesn’t know about,” he said coldly. “Wait for Mr. Montgomery inside.” As I walked through the iron gates, the staff’s eyes followed me. I could see the judgment in their stares. To them, I wasn’t a fiancé. I was a “kept woman.” A mistress. The interior of the villa was a masterpiece of marble and gold. It was a suffocating display of the wealth he’d hidden from me. I thought of the drafty, leaking basement apartment I’d lived in for five years to save three hundred dollars a month in rent. I thought of the nights I’d eaten instant noodles so I could send him “care packages” in London. Then, I saw it. On the mahogany nightstand in the master bedroom: a marriage certificate in a silver frame. The date they were married… it was the day my father died. I remembered that day with agonizing clarity. I had collapsed on the floor of the hospital, sobbing into the phone, begging Simon to come home. “I can’t, Norma,” he’d said, his voice sounding so pained, so convincing. “The office is on lockdown for the merger. If I leave now, I lose everything we’ve worked for.” He hadn’t been at an office. He’d been at an altar. When the door clicked open, Simon walked in. He reached for me, trying to pull me into his arms with that same familiar rhythm I used to crave. “Norma, listen to me,” he whispered. “She’s a family connection. It was a merger of interests. I had no choice.” He looked at me with those soulful eyes that I had once trusted with my life. “I know how understanding you are. You’ve always been my rock. Can you just try to understand this?” I shoved him back, my vision blurring with hot, angry tears. “Five years, Simon! What were we? What was I?” “I’m a bastard, okay?” he snapped, his patience fraying. “That’s why I’m doing this. I’m going to take care of you. You’ll live here. You’ll have everything you ever wanted. As long as Camilla doesn’t find out, we can have our life.” I looked around the room—at the expensive linens that smelled like another woman’s perfume, at the life he’d built on a foundation of my misery. “You want me to be your secret?” I laughed, the sound jagged and raw. “You want me to be the ‘other woman’ in a life I helped you build?” I swung my hand with every ounce of strength I had left, the crack of my palm against his cheek echoing through the room. “In your dreams, Simon!” Suddenly, there was a noise at the door. “Ma’am, you can’t go in there—” Camilla stood in the doorway, her face a mask of shock that quickly curdled into rage. She marched toward me before I could even breathe, her hand coming down across my face so hard I tasted copper. “You pathetic slut!” she shrieked. “I wondered why he smelled like that cheap perfume. I should have known he was keeping a little toy on the side.” Simon panicked, stepping between us, trying to shield me. “Camilla, let me explain—” She shoved him aside with a manic strength, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me toward the landing of the grand staircase. “Get out of my house! Get out!” I clawed at her hands, trying to find my footing, but the marble was slick. My heel caught on the edge of the top step. The world tilted. I felt the sickening rush of air before the first impact. My scream tore through the silence of the villa as I tumbled down the long, cold flight of stairs. Simon started to run down after me, his face pale with horror. But then, Camilla let out a sharp cry of her own, clutching her stomach. “Simon… the baby… I think something’s wrong…” With those three words, Simon stopped. He didn’t look back at me. He didn’t see me lying broken at the bottom of the stairs. He scooped Camilla up in his arms and stepped right over my body, rushing for the door. I lay in a pool of my own blood, my bones feeling like shattered glass. I called his name, a broken, wheezing sound, but he didn’t even turn his head. I looked to the servants for help. They just turned away, whispering the word “mistress” like a curse. Five years of devotion crumbled into the red puddle on the floor. I dragged myself toward my phone with trembling fingers. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in half a decade—a man from my past who had once promised me a way out. “You said there would always be a place for me,” I whispered into the receiver. “Does that offer still stand?” The line went quiet for a second before a calm, steady voice replied, “Always. Where are you?” Before I could answer, a notification flashed across my screen. A high-priority alert from the hospital. My mother’s heart was failing. 3 By the time I crawled into the hospital, I was a ghost of a person. My mother lay in the ICU, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. “Norma…” she rasped, her eyes filled with a devastating shame. “Why? Why would you do that to another woman?” I froze. “Mom, please, let me explain—” She turned her head away, unable to even look at me. On the small television above her bed, the local news was scrolling. Camilla had gone public. She had posted their marriage certificate alongside a tearful video, accusing a “predatory wedding planner” of trying to dismantle her marriage and endanger her unborn child. The comments section was a bloodbath. Homewrecker. Slut. Social climber. The physical pain from my fall combined with the crushing weight of the betrayal was too much. The room began to spin, the sound of the heart monitor fading into a dull roar. I collapsed into the blackness. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed of my own. Simon was sitting in the chair beside me, dark circles under his eyes. There was no warmth in his gaze. Only a cold, calculated threat. “You need to post an apology to Camilla,” he said, his voice flat. “She said if you admit you were the aggressor and beg for her forgiveness, she’ll let this go. She might even let me keep you around.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Five years of my life had been stolen, and now he wanted me to sign a confession for the crime he committed. “You’re a monster,” I spat, the words catching on the soreness of my throat. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase. Medical bills. My mother’s records. “I’ve been paying for her treatment for years, Norma. If you don’t cooperate, the funding stops today. I think we both know she won’t survive the week without it.” I stared at the bills. This was the man who once swore that as long as he was alive, I’d never have to worry about money again. I nodded, my soul feeling hollowed out. The moment I posted the statement, the internet descended like vultures. My phone didn’t stop vibrating with death threats. People mailed razor blades to my apartment. I didn’t leave my room for days, until the silent alarm for my shop went off. I rushed to the studio, my heart hammering against my ribs. As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, a bucket of red paint splashed over my head, stinging my eyes. “Homewrecker! You almost killed a pregnant woman!” “You used your job to seduce a married man! You’re disgusting!” Inside, my life’s work—the mood boards, the fabric swatches, the dreams of a hundred brides—was being torn to shreds by a mob of “moral crusaders.” “Stop it! Please!” I screamed. Camilla appeared from the crowd, her hair artfully disheveled, tears streaming down her face. “You knew we were getting ready for our big day,” she sobbed for the cameras. “You threw my custom gown into the sewer just to hurt me. You can hate me, but how could you try to ruin a wedding?” She pulled back her sleeve, revealing faint, fresh scratches on her arm. “You’re a psycho.” The crowd growled. Camilla turned to Simon, who was standing by his car, watching the spectacle. “Simon, if you won’t protect me from her, then the wedding is off! I’ll just leave so she can have you!” My heart lurched. I waited for him to say something. To tell them the truth. To remember the girl he used to love. Simon stepped forward, his eyes burning with a dark, cold fury as he looked at me. “I thought your apology was real. I didn’t realize you were planning to sabotage her behind my back.” He turned to the men standing behind him—three large security guards. “Since she refuses to learn her lesson, give her something to remember it by.” A cold dread settled in my stomach. The guards pinned me to the pavement. I felt a sharp, agonizing snap as they began to break my fingers, one by one. The sound of my own screams filled the air, but Simon didn’t blink. He just watched, his face a mask of indifference. “You’re a coward!” I shrieked through the pain. “You’re a pathetic, soulless coward!” Simon turned his back on me. “Break three fingers every day,” he told the guards. “Don’t let her out until she truly understands what she did wrong.” As Camilla followed him to the car, she looked back at me. The tears were gone. In their place was a smirk of pure, triumphant malice. 4 I was a prisoner in my own ruins. For days, I huddled in the corner of my destroyed shop, waiting for the guards to return for their daily ritual of cruelty. By the time Camilla returned, my hands were mangled, my legs broken from a “fall” the guards orchestrated. I was a broken doll tossed in the dirt. She stood over me, draped in a white fur coat. “How does it feel to be the most hated woman in the city? Do you finally get it? Simon loves me. He’d burn the world down to keep me happy.” I closed my eyes. The pain was so constant it had become a rhythm. “You think because he did this to me, it means he loves you?” I whispered. “It just means he’s a monster. And eventually, he’ll turn on you, too.” She laughed, a sharp, tinkling sound. “Oh, honey. You still don’t know the best part, do you?” She leaned down, her voice a poisonous whisper. “While you were ‘recovering’ in the hospital after your fall? Simon had the doctors perform a little procedure. You don’t have a uterus anymore, Norma. You’re never going to be a mother. You’re just a broken toy now.” The world went silent. I reached down, my trembling, broken fingers feeling the jagged scar beneath my clothes that I had been too traumatized to investigate. “He said a woman like you—a common mistress—didn’t have the right to carry a Montgomery heir,” she sneered, patting her own stomach. “There’s only room for one child in his life.” I couldn’t even scream. The betrayal was so deep it bypassed the vocal cords and went straight to the soul. Every “I love you” he’d ever whispered was a lie. Every dream of a family we’d shared was a weapon he’d used to gut me. Then, she dropped a final piece of paper onto my lap. A death certificate. “Your mother died this morning, Norma. The doctors said she just lost the will to live. Or maybe she was just embarrassed to have a daughter like you.” A low, guttural wail broke from my throat. I lunged for her, but my broken legs gave out. I fell into the red paint on the floor, sobbing into the dust. “You’ll pay for this,” I wheezed. “Both of you.” “I doubt it,” Camilla said, stepping toward the door. “I can’t have you lingering around, reminding him of his mistakes.” She slipped out and locked the heavy deadbolt from the outside. Seconds later, the sharp, cloying scent of gas filled the room. I scrambled toward the door, my broken fingers clawing at the wood until my fingernails ripped away, leaving ten bloody streaks on the frame. Boom. A wall of heat slammed into me. The orange glow of the fire reflected in my eyes as the shop—my life, my memories, my grief—began to melt. As the smoke filled my lungs, I had a hallucination. I saw Simon, years ago, kneeling in the rain with a ring, promising me forever. I realized then that the girl who loved him had already died a long time ago.

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