Author: Momo Chan

The day I was born, my mother died in childbirth. When my fiancé, Collin, found out, he was worried I’d be haunted by it. He suggested we be child-free, just the two of us. Five years into our marriage, I finally started to let go of that fear. I decided I was ready. I wanted a child of our own. I booked an appointment with Collin—he’s a top obstetrician—planning to surprise him with the good news. But when I got to the hospital, the nurse stopped me. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but Mrs. Thorne has a prenatal appointment this afternoon. Dr. Thorne has cleared his entire schedule for her.” Confused, I pushed open his office door to ask him what was going on. The door swung open, and I saw him. Collin was holding a heavily pregnant young woman in his arms, his head pressed against her belly, listening intently to the baby’s movements. He saw me, and pure panic flashed across his face. “Aria, don’t be angry,” he stammered. “I know you never wanted children, but my parents… they’ve been pressuring me so much.” He swore to me, “Don’t worry, this baby will be ours. As soon as she’s born, we can finally be a happy family of three.” Later, on the day that girl gave birth, Collin delivered her baby himself. What he didn’t know was that on the other side of that same hospital wall, I had an appointment of my own. For an abortion. … After confirming my pregnancy at Collin’s hospital, I asked the nurse to help me book an appointment with him. “I’m afraid he’s fully booked,” she advised. “Dr. Thorne’s wife is pregnant too, and he’s reserved the entire afternoon for her prenatal check-up.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You have no idea how in love they are. Even if you got an appointment, he wouldn’t have time for anyone else.” I clutched the ultrasound photo and couldn’t help but smile to myself. So, Collin, an OB/GYN, had figured it out already? Was this his surprise for our fifth wedding anniversary? But when I pushed open his office door, I saw him with his head pressed against another woman’s belly, listening to the baby kick. On his desk sat a cake. The words “Happy 5th Anniversary” were piped in icing, a sharp, painful sting to my eyes. The ultrasound picture slipped from my fingers. Collin stepped on it as he rushed to embrace me. “Aria, what are you doing here?” The panic on his face was fleeting, replaced by a practiced calm. “Did you come to pick me up for our anniversary?” “I just have this one last patient, then we can go home.” Even now, he was trying to pretend everything was normal. But after five years of sharing a bed, I knew him too well. Every flicker of guilt in his voice was amplified in my ears. “The nurse said Dr. Thorne’s wife was here for a check-up, so I came to see. Do you have a second wife I don’t know about?” I tore the facade of our perfect life to shreds. Collin sighed, a long, heavy sound. He was silent for a long time. “It’s not like that,” he finally said. “It was only one time. Nine months ago.” I have a sharp memory for dates. Nine months ago, there was a major malpractice lawsuit at Collin’s hospital. As a lawyer, I pulled every string I had to defend them, working tirelessly for a month. There was only one night we didn’t see each other. “So, you’re telling me that while I was defending your hospital, comforting grieving families until I was vomiting blood from stress, the reason I couldn’t reach you… was because you were cheating on me?” Ninety-seven calls. I had called him for a solid hour in my moment of absolute desperation. In the end, it was the family of the deceased patient who took pity on me and drove me to the hospital. He had rushed to my room in the middle of the night, full of apologies. Seeing how guilty he looked, I had comforted him, telling myself he was just exhausted from the lawsuit, that he had slept through my calls. It never once crossed my mind that he had just crawled out of another woman’s bed. “It wasn’t cheating!” Collin’s grip on me tightened. “That night, I went to my parents for help with the hospital. You know how they are about us not having children. They’d been trying to set me up with my ex. They drugged me.” “I managed to get away. I was coming home to you.” Which home was that? I wondered. How did he end up with his intern? I bit my lip and said nothing. He took my silence as acceptance and let out a breath of relief. “Aria, she’s over nine months along. It’s too late to terminate the pregnancy.” “Then why didn’t you do it sooner? You’re an obstetrician. She’s your intern. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice she was pregnant.” He cut me off. “Don’t be difficult. You didn’t want a child, and I respected that. But my parents were relentless. Do you really want me to be the last of my family line?” I stared at him, stunned. Five years ago, he had sworn to me that we would never have children. How could a person change so completely? His calm eyes reflected my own furious face, as if I were the one in the wrong. “You can hit me, do whatever you want. But this child… I really want this child.” “After the baby is born, I’ll send Chloe away. It was an accident, but at least we’ll have a child. Then, we can be a happy family of three.” The dam of my emotions finally broke. “My child?” I asked, my voice shaking with rage. “Should I thank you for cheating on me? Thank you for giving me a child I never wanted?” “Collin, you have to choose. It’s me or the baby!” His silence was my answer. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms, willing the tears not to fall. “Fine. We’re getting a divorce.” 2 I turned to leave, but a hand grabbed my arm. It was Chloe. She fell to her knees at my feet. “Aria, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I hid the pregnancy from Collin. But the baby is innocent. I’ll leave as soon as it’s born. Please, don’t blame him.” A flicker of pity crossed Collin’s face. He pulled her up, holding her close. They stood there together, pleading with me. “Aria, you’re the kindest person I know. You were the one who sponsored Chloe through college. How can you not have room in your heart for her child?” His accusatory gaze was a physical blow, a stark contrast to the adoring way he had looked at me when we first met. How had everything changed so much? At our university’s opening ceremony, Collin had seen me give a speech and had fallen for me instantly. I had tried to brush him off, using the distance between the medical school and the main campus as an excuse. But he had traveled ten kilometers every day, rain or shine, to bring me a single rose. When I went abroad to study, he followed. But what truly brought us together was the anniversary of my mother’s death. My previous engagement had been called off because I refused to have children. Everyone told me a life without children was incomplete, that no man would want a barren woman. Only Collin had taken my hand and said, “To have a woman like Aria is the greatest gift in the world. Whether she has children is her choice, and I will respect it.” “If I am lucky enough to marry her, I will never force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do.” That was the moment I fell in love with him. From then on, our love was a symphony. He was proud to be with me, announcing our relationship to the world. His parents, some of the wealthiest people in the city, had demanded he secretly produce an heir before marrying me. He had refused, even cutting ties with them when they tried to set him up with other women. He proposed the day after we graduated, and we were married in a whirlwind. He said he wanted to eliminate any possibility of betrayal. But here he was, betraying me. Even when I had finally overcome my deepest fears, ready to give him the one thing he thought he could never have, I was too late. He wasn’t the same man anymore. The pain in my chest was so intense I couldn’t breathe. My head swam, and the world dissolved into a cacophony of Collin’s frantic voice. “Aria, what’s wrong? Don’t scare me!” I was rushed to a room, diagnosed with hyperventilation. Collin sat by my side, holding my hand, his guilty tears falling onto my skin. When I had stabilized, he stood up. “I’ll go get a doctor.” “You are a doctor,” I said, grabbing his arm, terrified he would find out about the pregnancy. “Besides, I’m fine now. Don’t go.” He nodded. He started to say something, to fuss over me, but I held up my phone, the divorce agreement I’d drafted displayed on the screen. “Aria, what is this?” We had drafted it the year we got married. He had promised that if he ever did anything to betray my trust, all our assets would go to me, and we would divorce immediately, no questions asked. I frowned. “I’ve revised it. We’ll split everything fifty-fifty. I don’t want more than my share.” “No, I don’t want it. You promised you would never leave me…” He pulled me into a desperate hug. “And you promised you would never betray me,” I said, my voice cold. “It’s been nine months. If I hadn’t found out, were you just going to wait until the baby was born to tell me?” “Did you ever once ask me if this was what I wanted?” “It was my parents,” he explained, his voice frantic. “If I didn’t give them a grandchild, they threatened to ruin your law firm and my hospital, to force us out of the city.” “I was just trying to protect you.” A bitter laugh escaped me, followed by a torrent of tears. “Collin, when did you become such a coward?” I remembered the man who had defied his family for me. He was nothing like the man standing before me now. He flinched at my words, then held me tighter. “After the baby is born, my parents will raise it. Nothing will change between us.” “I love you. I’ll agree to anything, just not a divorce.” “Then I want you to get rid of the baby.” 3 “Anything but that.” I looked at him in silence. I knew that, aside from those two things, he would give me the world. His devotion to me had never wavered. Even after leaving his family, he had built a life for us. The luxury items I casually mentioned would appear on my bedside table the next day. He made me lunch every day for five years without fail. Once, I idly wished for a star, and he bought the naming rights to a newly discovered planet. It was like we were back in the honeymoon phase, where any wish of mine was his command. Except this time, I felt no excitement, no joy. “Fire Chloe.” “Of course,” he agreed without hesitation. “As soon as she has the baby, I’ll never have contact with her again.” He even pulled out his phone, ready to delete her number. But the long call history was a fresh stab to my heart. “I want to see your phone.” He paled, but handed it over. They had been texting almost every day for the past nine months. As I scrolled up, his anxiety grew, and my heart sank. They had been in contact for three years, ever since I had first sponsored her. She was on the list of candidates I was considering. Her grades weren’t exceptional. I wouldn’t have even noticed her if Collin hadn’t specifically pointed her out. “I know this student,” he had said. “Her grades aren’t the best, but she works incredibly hard.” “If you’d rather not, we can pass.” I had shaken my head. If she was his former classmate, I was happy to give her a chance. I had almost forgotten about it until Collin hired her at the hospital, another exception to the rules. After that, he started working late more and more often. So many nights, he would get a call and rush out. A doctor’s life is demanding. I understood. I trusted him. But trust had bred betrayal. I should have seen it sooner. “Aria, stop.” Collin took the phone from me. Just then, a special ringtone I had set for Chloe went off. Her name flashed on the screen. He answered, right in front of me. “I told you, if you need something, call my parents or the housekeeper. Aria is sick. I can’t be with you all the time.” He didn’t even realize how strained his own voice was. He told me not to look, but his eyes were pleading with me. I closed my eyes. “Go. See her.” “Of course he’s going to see his son.” The door burst open, and Collin’s parents stormed in. They didn’t look at me with anything resembling kindness. Usually, Collin would have stepped between us, but he was still flustered from the call. “How can you be so cruel?” his mother spat. “You won’t have a child of your own, and you won’t let Collin have one either? Chloe called, and you’re still clinging to him, refusing to let him go?” “Collin, let’s go see Chloe and little Jackson.”

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A friend of mine got called away on an off-world mission, so she asked me to look after her bonded Beastkin for a while. Which brings me to my own partner. He’s ridiculously handsome, with a chiseled chest and a perfectly sculpted ass that’s an absolute dream to touch. He’s also got a pair of fluffy ears and a big, bushy tail. Normally, he wears a permanent scowl and keeps his distance. If I touch him for more than a few seconds, he gets annoyed. But that night, he was kneeling before me, his eyes a hazy, heartbreaking mix of longing and despair. “Baby, don’t look at him.” “I can be good, too.” 1 Sebastian is my bonded mate, my first and only since I came of age. His true form is a white wolf. He’s a man of few words, his presence as cool and sharp as a winter morning, but damn, is he beautiful. Because of the Civic Mandate, he usually keeps his fluffy ears and bushy tail hidden, maintaining a human form. I opened my eyes a little after seven. Sebastian was already standing in front of the full-length mirror, knotting his tie. He fastened the top button of his dress shirt, a fortress of fabric that covered him from throat to waist. The crisp material strained against the hard planes of his chest before disappearing into his slacks, tracing the lean line of his waist and the firm curve of his ass. It also did a fine job of hiding the passionate mess of kiss marks and scratches from the night before. I couldn’t help but savor the memory. A great rack really is a man’s best dowry. He noticed I was awake. His ice-blue eyes flickered toward me for a moment. He pulled the blanket up a little higher over me before looking away again. “Go back to sleep. I’m heading to work.” I patted my cheek, my silent request for a goodbye kiss. Sebastian hesitated. He didn’t move. Instead, he slipped on his suit jacket and hurried out the door, mumbling something vague. “Tonight, maybe.” I sighed, a little disappointed, and rolled over to face the wall. And so, I missed the sight of his ears, the tips blushing a faint, tell-tale pink. 2 Our relationship has always been lukewarm at best. Except for when we’re performing our… official duties, which are usually white-hot, we barely speak to each other. When every human comes of age, the Civic Registry automatically pairs them with a Beastkin based on a compatibility rating. The Mandate was designed to benefit both humans and protect the Beastkin. Without regular soothing from a human partner, an adult Beastkin’s psionic energy will slowly fade. Eventually, they just… wither away. Most bonded pairs have a compatibility rating between sixty and eighty percent. Anything over ninety is considered a rare blessing. According to the Registry, Sebastian and I are a ninety-five percent match. So, naturally, we registered our bond. They say that the higher the compatibility, the more deeply a pair influences one another. They can even develop a telepathic link. I had been filled with so much hope for our life together. Now, it just feels like I was the only one hoping. Sebastian doesn’t seem to like me. He greets me with a cold shoulder every day, and our nights are just a matter of routine. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days, he asks me to dissolve the bond. After Sebastian left, I went to the dining room for the breakfast he’d made. A perfectly seared steak sat on the plate, surrounded by a handful of vibrant berries. Next to it was a steaming mug of protein milk and a soft-boiled egg, a wobbly smiley face drawn on top with sauce. He made me something different every single morning. His own breakfast was always the same: a vial of nutrient solution. Beastkin are the opposite of humans. Their sense of smell is incredibly sharp, but their sense of taste is weak. They don’t require much from food, and the solution is just to maintain basic bodily functions. Just then, my wrist-comm chimed with an incoming video call. I answered, and a holographic image of my friend, Nora, shimmered into existence. “Aria! I need a huge favor…” she pleaded, her hands pressed together. “What’s up?” I asked. “I got an off-world assignment on X26. It’s a remote planet, the system out there is a mess, and I’m worried about taking Liam with me. Can he please stay with you?” Liam is Nora’s bonded Beastkin. His true form is a young ram, barely an adult. He was sitting beside Nora, and as he listened, his soft curls seemed to wilt. He looked utterly dejected. I knew Nora would never willingly part with him unless she feared for his safety, so of course, I said yes. That afternoon, Nora brought Liam over in her sky-speeder. The two of them had a long, tearful goodbye at my front door. “I’ll be back before you know it, sweetie,” Nora said, planting a kiss on his cheek. “And I’ll bring you a diamond from X26.” Liam blushed and nodded, quietly reminding her to be safe. They were so wrapped up in each other it was sweet enough to make my teeth ache. Finally, with her departure window closing, Nora rushed off. Liam stood in the doorway, dragging his suitcase behind him, his round, watery eyes fixed on her disappearing speeder. He’s on the smaller side and still looks like a kid. “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to comfort him. “She’s on a medical relief mission. She’ll be fine. Just make yourself at home for a few days. I’ll show you around.” I helped him get settled in the guest room, making sure he had fresh towels and toiletries. Just as we finished, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the house. “I’m home.” 3 Sebastian was shrugging off his coat and loosening his tie with one hand as he stepped inside. His eyes softened the moment they landed on me. “Aria…” His voice trailed off. It was as if he’d just caught an unfamiliar scent in his own territory. His eyes narrowed, the pupils contracting into sharp slits. With a soft pop, his silver-white ears sprang into view, twitching rapidly. Liam, who had followed me out, jumped in fright. A short, woolly tail manifested in a panic, and he ducked behind me. With both of them partially shifted, my house suddenly felt like a zoo. I know they’re Beastkin, not actual animals, but there’s no denying the primal instinct between a wolf and a lamb. Sebastian’s ice-blue eyes were locked on Liam. His canines, now slightly elongated, peeked out from behind his lips as he let out a threatening snarl. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, and he took a restless step forward. But then he saw me, standing protectively in front of Liam, and he froze. He was trapped in the entryway, pacing back and forth, his gaze shifting to me, filled with a wounded, confused look. Between the two of them, Liam was clearly the vulnerable one. I couldn’t spare a thought for Sebastian’s hurt feelings. I quickly ushered Liam back to his room and, with fumbling hands, administered the sedative injection Nora had left for emergencies. I hadn’t anticipated such a volatile reaction between them. Seeing Liam’s breathing slowly return to normal, I finally let out a sigh of relief. Thank God he was okay. I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened to him on my watch. It was over an hour before Liam was completely back to his usual self. I felt a nagging sensation, like I’d forgotten something important, but I couldn’t quite place it. What was it? I scratched my head, trying to remember as I walked back to my own bedroom. The master bedroom was dark. I flicked on the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness. When my eyes adjusted, I remembered exactly what I had forgotten. 4 Sebastian was kneeling on the floor, legs parted, still dressed in his black suit. The stark white of his skin was a shocking contrast against the dark wood. Veins stood out on his forearms as he braced his hands on his thighs, the fabric of his slacks pulled taut, revealing the faint lines of his shirt garters. He was fully clothed, yet the sight was unbelievably seductive. Heat rushed to my cheeks. Sebastian looked up, his ice-blue eyes meeting mine from below. The light caught a wet sheen on them, like a thin layer of morning mist. He begged, his voice raspy. “Baby, please… touch me.” “I can be good, too.” As he spoke, I felt something soft and furry brush against my leg. I looked down. It was his big, bushy tail, tentatively nudging closer. The very tip of it gave a hopeful little flick. When I didn’t pull away, it seemed to take that as encouragement, curling possessively around my ankle. Sebastian had always been so stoic, so reserved. He’d never done anything this bold before. If I could resist this, I wouldn’t be human. I released a wave of my psionic energy, and his breath immediately hitched. A dark fire ignited in his eyes, turning them into a deep, swirling ocean, as brilliant and captivating as the rarest sapphire. He moved toward me as if in a trance, murmuring my name. “Aria… you’re mine.” The air crackled with a thick, unspoken promise. I ran my fingers down the length of his tail, feeling the soft fur, then let my hand drift toward his thigh. The muscles there went rigid under his trousers. He tilted his head back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, and let out a ragged breath. Then, he reached out, his hand enveloping mine. Slowly, deliberately, he guided my fingers to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one. A small, triumphant thought sparked within me. So, he does feel something for me after all. But as my touch grazed his mind, I felt the familiar emptiness of his psionic sea—parched and desperate. A chill of realization washed over me. This wasn’t about love. This was instinct. Our high compatibility rating made his natural urges for me impossible to overcome. The presence of another Beastkin, Liam, had just triggered his primal, possessive nature. He needed me. That was all. And so, I didn’t bother explaining about Liam. And he never asked. And so, we engaged in the most intimate act two beings can share, our bodies close, our hearts miles apart. 5 When I woke up the next morning, Sebastian was already gone. A warm breakfast was waiting on the dining table. He’d even made a plate for Liam. The fried egg on my plate was decorated with a cute, happy cat face. Liam’s was decorated with an angry little scowl. The poor lamb looked terrified the entire meal, his hand trembling so much he could barely hold his fork. After we ate, I figured a lambkin probably needed to get out and stretch his legs. Unsure of where to take him, I settled on the nearby shopping complex. Liam, being newly adult, was fascinated by everything. I used Nora’s credit chip to buy him a small mountain of things, trailing behind him like a pack mule loaded with shopping bags. We hadn’t even left the complex when the sharp crack of plasma fire split the air. The calm dissolved into chaos. Screams erupted as people scrambled for the exits. Fortunately, the Federal Security Division arrived in minutes, quickly restoring order inside and setting up a security perimeter outside. No one was allowed to leave until the threat was neutralized. Liam had never seen anything like it. His face was pale with terror, and his already unstable psionic energy began to fluctuate wildly. I hadn’t thought to bring Nora’s sedative with us. I cursed myself for being so careless. Liam’s psionic distress was starting to affect the people around us, making them agitated and anxious, and he was clearly in pain. I gritted my teeth. “Liam, I can perform a temporary psionic soothing,” I said. “I’ll explain everything to Nora when you get back, okay?” He nodded desperately. Slowly, I extended my psionic energy, using the standard, clinical soothing technique they teach at the medical centers. I’d only ever done this for Sebastian, and always in a much more… intimate way. I had no idea if this formal method would even work. To my relief, the color started to return to Liam’s face. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. When I looked up, I noticed the crowd had parted around us, creating a silent, empty space. I turned my head. And saw Sebastian. He was standing behind me in his black tactical uniform. I had no idea how long he’d been there, just watching me. His face was a mask, as cold and unreadable as ever. His ice-blue eyes were voids, betraying nothing. But if you looked closely, you could see the fine tremor running through his body, a stark contrast to his rigid posture. I opened my mouth to explain, but with so many people around, it wasn’t the right time. A flicker of raw despair, of utter brokenness, crossed his face. Then, in the next second, Sebastian’s gaze shifted from me to Liam, who was now resting his head on my shoulder. And then, to my horror, he raised his gun.

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My son and I were in a car crash on our way to confront my husband. When we woke up, we couldn’t remember a thing. And my husband, a psychologist, left us to travel the world with his old flame and her daughter, both of whom he claimed were suffering from severe depression. Eventually, our memories started to return. He noticed that the amnesia had changed us. We were quieter, more compliant. Independent. At first, he seemed pleased with himself, confident that he had perfectly balanced his family and his obligations to his old flame. That lasted until New Year’s Eve. He spent the holiday with them, and when he finally came home, he overheard a conversation between my son and me through the front door. My son asked, “Mommy, is that man really my dad? It feels weird every time I have to call him that.” I nodded. “I know what you mean. He’s not my type at all. I have no idea why I ever married him.” My son’s eyes lit up. “Mommy, you like Mr. Reed, don’t you? Every time he sees you after school, his ears turn so red they look like they’re about to bleed. And he’s always making up excuses to drive us home… I think you’ve got a shot!” I blushed and was about to shush him when he leaned in close. He whispered in a voice he thought was quiet but was perfectly audible from the hallway, “Mommy… what if we just… got a new dad?” 1. For dinner, I’d ordered two servings of ghost pepper wings. My son and I were sweating profusely, our mouths on fire, when a familiar yet distant voice cut through the air from behind us. “You didn’t wait for me?” We both flinched. Turning around, we saw a handsome man standing in the doorway, a chill radiating from him that had nothing to do with the winter air. His features were a clear echo of our son’s. It was Alistair Finch. My husband. My son’s father. He stepped closer, his brow furrowing in disgust at the sight of our grease-stained mouths and the fiery wings on the table. “We’ve been married for six years. Don’t you know I have a stomach condition? I can’t eat anything spicy.” My son, Noah, still gnawing on a wing, mumbled, “We didn’t get them for you. These are for us.” Alistair froze. I forced a dry laugh, trying to smooth things over. “Well, I saw on your social feed that you were at the amusement park with Serena and her daughter. I just assumed you’d be eating with them…” “Nina,” he cut me off, his voice laced with its usual impatience. “I’ve explained this. Serena and her daughter were abandoned by her husband. They have severe depression. I’m their doctor. It’s my professional duty.” “And you?” he continued, his tone turning colder. “As a wife and a mother, not only did you cause a scene at my clinic, but you’ve taught Noah to be nothing but a jealous, petty child.” He paused, his voice dropping to an icy whisper. “Wasn’t the car crash enough to make you two learn your lesson?” The memories flooded back. I remembered the moment I found out his round-the-clock “patient care” was actually for his high school sweetheart. I’d taken Noah and stormed his clinic to confront him. He had pulled us into a corner, his face a mask of weary resignation. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. I’m a doctor, Nina. I can’t just abandon my patients. It’s irresponsible.” “Don’t you dare make a scene in front of them with our son.” His calm, clinical tone made Noah and me feel like a pair of hysterical lunatics. So, I’d hired people to hold up banners outside his clinic: “SERENA AND DAUGHTER SEDUCE MARRIED MAN.” Noah had taken a megaphone to kindergarten and chased her daughter, Poppy, around the playground, shouting, “Her mom’s a homewrecker! Don’t play with her!” After that, Serena and Poppy had a public breakdown, threatening to jump from a building. To force us to back down, Alistair got me fired from my job and made sure Noah was ostracized at school. I finally shattered, threatening divorce. He relented, promising to keep his distance from them. And we believed him. We even booked a trip for our five-year anniversary, counting down the days to his rare vacation. We went to pick him up from the clinic, hearts full of excitement, only to receive a single, cold phone call. “A last-minute work trip. We’ll have to postpone the vacation.” We left, heartbroken. But as we rounded the corner, we overheard his colleagues chatting and laughing. “Dr. Finch is really dedicated to that Ms. Serena, isn’t he? Taking a six-month leave of absence just to oversee their recovery therapy!” “I know! I heard they’re on their way to the airport right now. He’s personally escorting them.” A roaring filled my ears, and a raw, physical pain tore through my chest. Before the tears could fall, I saw Noah’s small, pale face looking up at me, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His voice trembled. “Mommy… does Daddy… does he really not want us anymore?” That single question made my sanity crumble. I grabbed his hand and we ran, a desperate need for an answer propelling us forward. We had to know. Did he still want this family, or not? We never caught up to him. The car crash came first. When we woke up, the world was a blank slate. We only remembered each other. And he, in turn, simply let us be forgotten. The memories receded. Noah and I exchanged an awkward glance. The facts were back, but the feelings weren’t. We couldn’t even comprehend the hysterical people we used to be. We stammered out apologies and promised we would never bother them again. Alistair’s expression only darkened. After a long silence, he slipped back into his familiar role of the one in control. “I’m taking them to the national park for a therapy session tomorrow. I need you to pack a lunch for three.” “And Noah, I need you to prepare a second set of your class notes for Poppy.” He turned to leave, adding over his shoulder, “You’d be wise to keep your promise this time. No more… embarrassing behavior.” The door clicked shut. Noah and I looked at each other and shrugged in unison. Then, I pulled out my phone and ordered a deluxe catered lunch to be delivered to the park for three. Noah messaged his teacher and politely requested a digital copy of the class materials. As for tomorrow? We already had plans to go hiking with Mr. Reed. We didn’t have time to worry about them. 2. Early the next morning, Serena’s soft voice drifted from the living room. “Alistair, is it just going to be us? Maybe… maybe we should ask Nina and Noah to come? I’m worried they’ll get the wrong idea. It’s not about me, of course, but Poppy is so fragile…” Poppy’s small voice chimed in. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’m fine. Noah… he didn’t mean it.” Alistair’s tone was gentle. “It’s okay, Poppy. Don’t worry about it. If we bring them, there’s no telling what kind of scene they’ll make. It wouldn’t be good for your recovery.” I sighed, rolled over, and drifted back to sleep. The next time I opened my eyes, I was being dragged from my bed by a rough hand. Alistair was practically hauling me into the living room. “Look at what your perfect son has done!” he seethed, his voice a low growl. “Just look at what he did to Poppy!” Serena was cradling a trembling Poppy, who was covered in food stains, her eyes red from crying. My son was sitting amidst a mess of spilled food, his small hands clutching three lunch containers to his chest. His face was blotchy and red, and huge tears splashed onto the floor. “I didn’t push her!” he cried out. “She’s a thief! She stole the lunch Mommy made for me! I was just trying to get it back!” Alistair didn’t even glance at him. He was meticulously wiping Poppy’s face with a wet cloth, murmuring comforting words to Serena. Only after he was finished did he turn to me, a look of weary, I-told-you-so exhaustion in his eyes. “Nina, just because I asked you to make a couple of extra lunches, you had to stoop to this? Teaching your son to pull these kinds of disgusting stunts?” “You made a promise just last night. Did you forget already?” I took a deep breath, trying to remain patient. “I didn’t do anything, and I believe Noah is telling the truth. I put your lunches on the dining table. Maybe Poppy just grabbed the wrong ones by mistake…” “Enough,” Alistair snapped, his eyes dismissing me as if I were a terrible actress in a cheap play. “Stop the performance. I haven’t forgotten what you two are capable of. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You need to take a long, hard look at yourself and figure out how to be a proper mother.” The words died in my throat. I remembered our agreement. We would each take a step back. As long as he kept his distance from Serena, we would be fine. After that, he did start coming home on time, reporting his every move. But if Poppy so much as scraped her knee at kindergarten, he would be the first one there, forcing Noah to apologize without even hearing his side of the story. When Noah tried to defend himself, Alistair would just stare at me coldly. “Nina, is your promise really that worthless? Stop this. Don’t exhaust all of my patience, all of my affection for you. If it comes to that, there will be nothing left for us to say.” The worst time, he had thrown the words at me like stones: “A son with a heart this black is no son of mine.” Noah was too young to bear such a thing. He had chased him out of the house, barefoot, his feet bleeding on the pavement, clinging to his father’s coat and confessing to crimes he never committed. “Daddy! I’m sorry! It was all my fault! I’ll never do it again! I’ll tell Poppy I’m sorry!” “Please don’t leave me and Mommy!” From that day on, my son never tried to defend himself again. I let out a soft sigh. What was the point of explaining? In his eyes, we were already convicted felons with a long history of offenses. I pulled Noah into my arms, my voice low and steady. “Noah, give them the lunchboxes.” His small body went rigid. Then, he scrubbed his face hard with the back of his hand, gave up the fight, and silently pushed the containers he’d been guarding so fiercely across the floor. Alistair didn’t look at us again. He bent down, scooped Poppy into his arms, and placed a steadying hand on Serena’s back, shielding them both as he turned and walked out the door. SLAM! The sound of the door was sharp and final, leaving the apartment in a dead, suffocating silence. It was just me and my son, surrounded by the mess on the floor. I quietly picked up a cloth and began to clean. Noah knelt down beside me, helping to pick up the scattered items. After a while, I asked softly, “Noah, if one day… Mommy and Daddy aren’t together anymore…” “Who would you want to live with?” I had asked him this once before, during the worst of our fights. He had sobbed his heart out then. “I don’t want you to split up! I want our family to be together forever!” But this time, he didn’t hesitate. He looked up at me, his eyes clear and certain. “I’ll stay with Mommy.” “No matter what happens, I’m with you, Mommy.” I looked at him, and a real smile spread across my face, the warmth of it melting away the last bit of ice in my heart. I ruffled his hair. “Okay.” Then there was nothing left to be afraid of. 3. Just as I wiped up the last of the mess, the doorbell rang. “Ms. Finch? Noah? Are you home?” Noah’s eyes lit up. “It’s Mr. Reed!” He scampered to the door and threw it open. Outside, a handsome young man with a kind face knelt down just in time to catch the small boy who launched himself into his arms. Seeing his red, swollen eyes, Mark Reed’s voice softened instantly. “What happened, Noah? Have you been crying?” The little guy buried his face in Mark’s shoulder and let out a muffled, heartbroken sob. “The lunch Mommy made… they took it…” “It’s okay,” Mark said, gently patting his back. “Mr. Reed made new ones. All of your and Mommy’s favorites.” He had a magic touch with kids. In a few sentences, Noah’s tears had turned to a watery smile. Mark finally looked up at me, a slightly apologetic smile on his face. “I’m sorry to intrude, Ms. Finch. You didn’t answer your phone, and I got a little worried.” “Please, don’t say that,” I said quickly. “You saved our lives, Mr. Reed. Call me Nina.” Six months ago, after the crash, it was Mark who had pulled us from the mangled car, running every red light to get us to the hospital. When he learned we had partial amnesia and our reflexes were slow, he took it upon himself to cook for us every day and handle Noah’s school drop-offs and pick-ups. Once our memories returned, he had gracefully retreated to a polite distance. But not long after hearing the full story of what led to the accident, he had somehow become Noah’s new kindergarten teacher. The tips of Mark’s ears turned pink. “Nina,” he said softly. “I’ve planned out the hiking route. We should get going.” He was as good as his word; everything was perfectly organized. He took all the heavy bags from me without a second thought. When Noah got tired, he knelt down effortlessly. “Hop on, Noah.” I felt a pang of guilt. “Don’t spoil him, Mark. You’re already carrying so much.” He just smiled, his hand hovering protectively near my back. “It’s nothing. I work out. I can handle it.” For some reason, looking at his clean-cut profile, my heart started to beat a little faster. The feeling hadn’t subsided even when we reached a rest area and he took Noah to buy some water. Just then, a small, familiar voice called out from a distance behind me. “Daddy! Let’s race!” It was followed by Serena’s cheerful tone. “Poppy, slow down! You’ll fall.” And finally, Alistair’s laughing reply. “Princess Poppy, Daddy’s gonna catch you!” I turned my head and my eyes locked with the three of them standing not far away.

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My roommate, Tiffany Moore, thrust a spare phone into my hand, complaining with an impatient sigh. She said her thirty-five-year-old online boyfriend was driving her crazy. He nagged her daily about memorizing vocabulary, writing reading notes, and even interfered with her weekend bar hops downtown. In her eyes, it was just a casual online fling, something to pass the time between sorority parties and dates, but he was possessive, acting more like a strict father than a romantic interest. I was initially indifferent, ready to bury my nose back in my microeconomics textbook, when suddenly a barrage of comments exploded before my eyes. Some said Tiffany was foolish, unaware her online boyfriend was a venture capitalist titan worth billions. Others explained it wasn’t possessiveness, but him grooming her to be his future wife. Still others predicted that when the “titan” returned to the States and found his chat partner had changed, he would surely deal with me, the stand-in sidekick, before returning to Tiffany for a dramatic reconciliation and a “chase-wife-to-the-moon” arc, our version of the over-the-top “chase-wife-to-crematory” trope. Reading this, I picked up the phone and smiled at Tiffany. I told her I’d gladly endure this “suffering” for her from now on. So what if I was a stand-in? Who cared about a “chase-wife” plot? My mind was already racing, eager to connect with that titan and ask if he knew any shortcuts to getting into a top-tier business school, Harvard, Stanford, Wharton, anything better than the small state university I was struggling to afford. 1 Right in front of Tiffany, I changed the registered phone number and handed her the spare phone back. She took it, glanced at me, and sneered, “That cheap old man might toss you a few bucks, but his demands are insane, like a college dean breathing down your neck. Enjoy.” She was right; a rich kid from the business school would casually buy her a designer purse worth thousands, so she probably looked down on a mere three thousand dollars a month. Tiffany grabbed her leather jacket and left for her date with a football player, and the dorm room grew quiet. I opened the chat box with no profile picture. The last messages were from last night. [This week’s Wall Street Journal headlines. Read them and send me a summary.] [Why aren’t you replying?] [You better get your attitude straight and take this seriously. I don’t have time for your games.] My eyelids twitched. I scrolled through six months of their chat history. They had met on a business forum. Tiffany, pretending to be a studious, cash-strapped pre-business student, had asked a question about startup funding, and this man, whose username was “J.Y.,” had answered with surprising depth. They’d exchanged contact info soon after. Their conversation held no flirtation or romantic undertones; it wasn’t a “cyber romance” at all. It mainly revolved around: What book did you read today? How many words did you memorize? Have you kept up with the latest economic data? It was clear he genuinely wanted to help Tiffany. Tiffany, with her decent English and knack for faking interest, took it seriously at first. But as time went on, she started faking illnesses, whining about “stress,” or just sending a perfunctory AI-generated response. J.Y. would initially patiently correct her, but later, sensing her laziness, his tone grew colder. Yet, he still sent three thousand dollars in living expenses every month, right on time, via Zelle, no questions asked. In Tiffany’s eyes, three thousand dollars was barely enough to cover her weekly coffee runs and sorority dues. But for me, a genuinely struggling student who worked four part-time jobs a month, barista, library assistant, tutor, and grocery store cashier, to barely cover rent and textbooks, it was a godsend. I’d grown up in a small town in Ohio, my mom a single waitress, my dad long gone. College was a miracle, and grad school felt like an impossible dream, until now. The comments started scrolling again: [J.Y. is Julian Yan, the legendary Chinese-American VC who shook the Silicon Valley scene! Any insider tip he drops is enough for an ordinary person to live comfortably for generations. And Tiffany just handed him over like that?] [Serena Carter, this cannon fodder, really thinks she got a bargain, huh? Julian hates deception. When he finds out he’s talking to someone else, he’ll definitely make her pay!] I ignored the malicious comments, my gaze fixed on the message asking for a reading summary. I was a finance student at Ohio State University’s regional campus, good grades, but no connections, no money for prep courses, no way to stand out to top business schools. I’d known since childhood that studying was the only way out of the cycle of poverty. After five grueling hours, I finished reading last week’s business reports, cross-referenced a lot of historical data, and wrote a summary, tight, logical, and full of insights I’d gleaned from my late-night study sessions. After checking the grammar, I sent the document. [Sorry, I had tonsil surgery these past two days, so my reply is late.] Fifteen minutes later, he replied: [You wrote the report yourself?] My heart clenched: [Yes.] …A long silence followed. I stared at the screen, my palms sweating. Had I messed up? Was it too good, too obvious that I wasn’t Tiffany? Then, a Zelle notification popped up on the screen. $50,000. [The entry point is quite novel. Much better than the previous empty rhetoric. This is a reward.] [Rest well since you’re sick. Goodnight.] Tiffany’s “cheap old man” just gave me fifty thousand dollars?! I stared at the zeroes, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. That was more money than my mom made in a year. The comments immediately turned sour: [OMG, the female sidekick has such good luck, getting fifty grand for a lousy summary?] [Julian valued Tiffany’s potential. Serena is just getting lucky, mooching off the female lead!] [Take it, take it. The more you take now, the worse you’ll die later. Gold diggers never have a good ending.] I gritted my teeth and sent the money back. This wasn’t about cash, it was about opportunity. I couldn’t blow it by looking greedy. J.Y. sent a question mark: [Not enough?] [No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that more than money, I want an opportunity.] [I want to apply to business school. I don’t have a good mentor or access to industry data.] […Can I greedy and ask to borrow a high-level terminal account from you?] After sending the message, it was like a stone dropped into the ocean. Half an hour passed, no activity. I stared at the screen, a layer of cold sweat forming on my palms. The comments went into full-on mockery mode: [Crashed and burned, huh? Acting all high and mighty, now you can’t even get fifty grand!] [What level of titan is Julian? He can’t see through this kind of trick?] [Exactly, an ordinary small-town student wanting to go to Wharton. Does she think Julian is running a charity?] Just as I thought I had overplayed my hand and ruined this path, my phone rang. It was an unknown number with a California area code. [Send me your detailed information.] His voice was deep, calm, and authoritative, no hint of anger. I immediately sent the materials I had already prepared: my transcript (4.0 GPA), my scores on the GMAT practice tests, and the results of a local business case competition I’d won last year. I omitted personal details, my mom’s job, my cramped apartment, the four part-time jobs, only focusing on what mattered: my potential. The next day, I received a call from an unknown number. “Hello, this is Mr. Lin, Mr. Yan’s executive assistant.” The voice on the other end was strictly business, no warmth. “The boss asked me to meet you to assess your situation. Are you free this afternoon? I’m in Columbus for a meeting.” I suppressed my excitement and calmly replied, “Yes, you name the place.” 2 That afternoon, I dug out my only clean blazer, thrifted, but well-maintained, and a plain white blouse, and arrived at Mr. Lin’s hotel conference room right on time. He was a sharp-dressed man in his forties, with a clipboard and a no-nonsense expression. He scrutinized me, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes, probably not expecting the “stand-in” to look so… ordinary. The comments appeared on cue, mocking me: [The small-town bumpkin really overestimates herself, showing up to meet Mr. Lin dressed like a intern.] [He’s Julian’s right-hand man, he’ll definitely see through this woman’s fake identity at a glance.] My palms were slightly sweaty; I thought I was about to be exposed. To my surprise, he simply flipped through the documents I’d sent and didn’t delve into my identity at all. “The boss believes you have some foundation, but you’re still quite far from the requirements of a top-tier university, Wharton, Stanford, MIT. Your GMAT scores are good, but not great, and your industry experience is nonexistent.” I nodded, leaning forward slightly. “It’s precisely because there’s a gap that I need guidance. As long as I’m given the resources, I can definitely make up for it. I’m a fast learner, I always have been.” “The boss’s resources are not given out casually.” Mr. Lin closed the file, his tone firm. “He can provide you with access to his industry terminal, a personal tutor team (all Ivy League graduates), and even a stipend so you can quit your part-time jobs and focus on studying.” “The prerequisite is that you must absolutely follow instructions and complete all assessment targets. No slacking, no excuses. The boss doesn’t tolerate laziness.” “I’m willing!” I replied without a second thought. Quit my part-time jobs? Focus solely on studying? It sounded like a dream. He nodded. “Then from today onwards, your schedule and study plan will be fully managed by us. A car will pick you up tomorrow morning, you’re moving out of the dorm.” 3 Three days later, I moved out of the cramped dorm and into a penthouse suite in a luxury hotel in downtown Columbus. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, a wall of bookshelves filled with business and finance books, a top-of-the-line laptop, and three private tutors, two for GMAT prep, one for business case analysis, on standby. No frills, no distractions, just everything I needed to succeed. Every morning at 6 AM, I woke up to listen to CNBC and Bloomberg reports (in English, of course). At 8 AM, I began intensive GMAT training, quantitative reasoning, verbal, analytical writing. Afternoons were spent on high-intensity case studies, dissecting real-world deals from Silicon Valley and Wall Street. In the evenings, I had to report my daily learning progress to Julian without fail, sending him my notes and practice scores. His replies were always concise. Sometimes just “Read,” other times a lengthy criticism cutting straight to the point: [Your analysis of the Tesla-Maxwell merger is shallow, you missed the regulatory risks in the EU. Go back and research the EU’s antitrust laws and rewrite it by tomorrow morning.] He truly was like a strict dean, using high-pressure methods to reshape my thinking. The cold words on the screen, far from making me feel wronged, sparked a surge of excitement. Was this the world of the powerful? No gentle coddling, only results. And I was determined to deliver. One morning, Julian sent me a message. [Great progress recently. You have half a day off today. Go do something that isn’t studying.] I was praised! My lips couldn’t help but curl upwards. I hadn’t had a day off in weeks, I decided to go back to campus to pick up some of my things from the dorm and say goodbye to my few friends. As I pushed open the dorm room door, I bumped into Tiffany. She was dressed in a designer dress, clutching a Louis Vuitton handbag, her hair done professionally. She was with a group of sorority sisters, all laughing and gossiping. She scrutinized my plain jeans and white T-shirt and scoffed. “Oh, the super student deigns to return? What, did that old man dump you already? I told you he was cheap, three grand a month can’t even buy a single shoe from my new collection.” “No, he’s been helping me with my studies recently.” I told the truth, not wanting to brag or argue. “Helping with studies? Hahahaha…” She laughed loudly, drawing the attention of her friends. “Serena, are you out of your mind? Some random online guy who can’t even afford a decent gift, and you expect him to teach you anything? Teach you how to survive on ramen noodles and part-time jobs?” She poked the GMAT prep book in my hand with her newly manicured nails. “Andrew Vanderbilt is going to be the vice president of his family’s real estate company next month. He promised to get me a cushy job in marketing, no degree required. I advise you to be more realistic, Serena. A woman doing well is not as good as marrying well. What’s the point of holding onto these useless books every day? You’ll still end up working for people like me, slaving away for a paycheck.” I avoided her hand and said calmly, “To each their own. Three thousand is fine, and working is fine too.” I hoped to “suffer” this kind of hardship my whole life, hardship that led to progress, not stagnation. As expected, with the appearance of the “female lead,” the comments became active again: [If Tiffany knew she gave up a billionaire, she’d probably be kicking herself!] [Is this really the female lead? Why does she look so smug, more like a gold-digger than the sidekick? I’m low-key excited to see her face when Julian returns!] [Shut up, traitor above! The male lead has always belonged to the female lead, okay? Be sensible!] [Just wait and see, the male lead will take back all the resources, and Serena will be back to working four jobs. Serves her right!] I ignored the comments and walked away with my books. My brain couldn’t be taken back, could it? The knowledge I’d gained, the skills I’d learned, those were mine forever. Over the next two months, my progress was visible to the naked eye. My GMAT scores jumped 100 points, my case analyses grew sharper, and I even started contributing ideas to the industry reports Julian sent me. His attitude towards me also subtly changed. He no longer just issued instructions unilaterally. Occasionally, in the early hours (he was often in Asia for business), he would send a few casual photos, sunrise over Shanghai, a street food stall in Tokyo, a view of the Hong Kong skyline, with a short caption: [Tasted this dumpling today. You’d like it.] 4 But late one night, after reviewing my case notes on a tech startup, he suddenly sent a message. [Serena, your writing style has changed recently. It’s more rational and calm than before.] My heart leaped. He noticed. The comments began to celebrate wildly: [Julian is suspicious! The big reveal is coming soon!] [Serena, your storm is coming. Get ready to be kicked out and humiliated…] I steadied my breath, my fingertips flying across the keyboard: [You can take that as a compliment, you know. People always have to learn to grow. Right now, I just want to improve, for myself, and to live up to the trust you’ve given me.] After the message was sent, a long time passed before Julian sent a voice message. It was the first time I’d heard his voice, deep, magnetic, with a hint of discernible pleasure, like he was smiling as he spoke. “Very good. Keep that ambition and drive. It’s rare.” “I’ll be back in the States mid-next month to host a private business dinner in New York. You’ll attend as my companion. It’s time for your assessment, show me what you’ve learned.” Listening to the voice message, my fingers tightened. This day had finally arrived. The moment of truth, the chance to prove I wasn’t just a stand-in, but someone worthy of his investment. [Big scene alert! The love triangle is here, finally!] [Tiffany will definitely be there, she’s dating Andrew Vanderbilt, whose family is part of the New York elite. The real and fake online girlfriends are about to meet. This is going to be epic!] [According to the plot, Julian will expose Serena that night, throw her out of the banquet, and then go beg Tiffany to take him back. Classic!] Seeing those glaring words, I secretly clenched my fist. I had been studying and writing notes day and night, not to be a stepping stone for Tiffany. I was going to ace this assessment, no matter what. 5 Mr. Lin sent someone with an evening gown a day in advance, sleek, black, and elegant, not too flashy, and a fifty-page guest list. The names read like a who’s who of Wall Street and Silicon Valley: CEOs, venture capitalists, hedge fund managers, even a few celebrities. “The core assets and recent major investment intentions of tonight’s distinguished guests are all here.” Mr. Lin’s voice was serious over the phone. “The boss doesn’t need a pretty face to fill space. You need to memorize the information of the top ten core figures, their net worth, their company’s latest moves, their weaknesses. Remember, all of it. You’ll be expected to contribute to conversations, not just stand there and look pretty.” I didn’t dare to slack off, spending the entire night memorizing the list backward and forward. Not only that, but I also used the terminal account Julian had given me to dig up the recent financial reports of the ten titans’ companies, looking for insights and talking points. Whatever the outcome of the “reveal,” I had to be worthy of the resources he had invested in me. I owed him that much. In the evening, the car dropped me off in front of a sprawling mansion in the Hamptons. The air was filled with the scent of champagne and cigars, and guests conversed in hushed tones, seeming casual, but every word was a power play, every smile a strategic move. A single offhand comment could involve billions of dollars in financial flow. I picked up a glass of sparkling water (I didn’t drink alcohol, not wanting to cloud my judgment) and stayed in a quiet corner, silently matching the faces in the room with the information I had memorized the night before. I recognized a few faces from business magazines, Warren Buffett’s protégé, the CEO of Apple, the founder of a major hedge fund. My heart raced, but I forced myself to stay calm. Suddenly, a familiar female voice broke the silence. “Serena? What are you doing here?” I turned my head, unsurprised to see Tiffany. She was clinging to a tall, slick-haired young man, Andrew Vanderbilt, no doubt, staring at me in astonishment. She was wearing a bright pink gown, her neck covered in diamonds, clearly trying to stand out. “This is a top-tier business dinner. How did a poor student like you get in?” She sneered, leaning in like she was sharing a secret. “Don’t tell me you hooked up with a waiter and snuck in through the back door? That’s pathetic, even for you.” The comments floated across my vision right on time: [Tiffany’s words are rude, but she’s right. Serena only got in by deceiving Julian. She doesn’t belong here.] [Waiting for Julian to walk in and publicly expose her, this is going to be so satisfying!] [Popcorn’s ready, let the show begin!] I glanced at Tiffany, not bothering to reply, and focused my gaze on Andrew beside her. “Mr. Vanderbilt, your family’s real estate company was just cited for code violations in Chicago last quarter, and your main lender is threatening to recall the loan, correct?” Andrew had been observing me with a frivolous, dismissive look. Hearing my words, his face changed dramatically, from cocky to pale. I smiled slightly. “You’re not trying to fix this crisis, instead, you’re here, showing off your date and wasting time. Your grandfather must be proud.” “You… who are you? How do you know all this?!” His voice was already trembling slightly. These matters had been kept quiet, if they spread in this setting, it would ruin his family’s reputation and possibly cost them the loan. “If I were you, I’d immediately go talk to Mr. Carter from JPMorgan.” I nodded towards a gray-haired man across the room. “He has a sum of idle funds right now that he’s looking to invest in real estate. A few kind words from you might be enough to save your family’s company, instead of asking meaningless questions.” Andrew looked in the direction I pointed, his face a mixture of green and white. Finally, he glared fiercely at Tiffany. “Didn’t you say she was a bookworm who only knew how to study? How does she know more about the industry than I do!” He flung Tiffany’s hand away and hurried towards Mr. Carter, his pride forgotten. “Andrew! Where are you going?!” Tiffany stomped her foot in anger, glaring at me, gnashing her teeth. “What on earth are you doing? Do you think reading a few financial articles makes you a big shot in this circle? You’re still just a poor, small-town nobody!” I ignored her exasperation. A commotion at the front of the hall caught my attention. The large doors were pushed open from outside, and the banquet hall immediately fell silent. All eyes turned to the entrance. A tall man walked in, his facial features sharp and distinct, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, dark eyes that seemed to see everything. He was dressed in a tailored black suit, no tie, exuding an air of quiet power. He merely nodded in response to everyone’s greetings, and the entire atmosphere changed with his presence. Whispers broke out: “That’s Julian Yan.” “He’s even more handsome in person.” “I heard he just closed a $2 billion deal in Asia.” Julian Yan had arrived.

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When I finally learned that my long-lost daughter had been found, I immediately dropped everything and rushed back home. Stepping out of the car, a girl quickly approached me, intimately taking my hand. Her voice carried a hint of deliberate envy: “You must be my older sister, right? Look at your skin, so well-maintained. You must have never known hardship, unlike me, who tasted every bitterness in the countryside.” I hadn’t even fully processed this sudden address when she abruptly yanked my hand towards herself, dramatically falling to the ground. “Sister! How could you push me?” she cried, clutching her arm, tears instantly welling up. “If you really don’t want me here, I’ll leave right now. I won’t be an eyesore…” She choked back a sob, adding, “Please, don’t tell Mom and Dad. I don’t want them to be torn, and I certainly don’t want my presence to disrupt this family’s peace.” With that, she curled up on the ground, trembling like a leaf in the wind, drawing curious stares from passersby. I stood there, utterly bewildered—What older sister? I’m her mother! … “Sister, please don’t be angry…” “I… I know I was wrong… I shouldn’t be a bother here…” In front of me, Mishay was still on the ground, a picture of pure injustice. Passersby rushed to help her up, their gazes at me burning with anger. “You’re Elara Culver, aren’t you? The fake heiress adopted by the Culver family?” “How dare you push Mishay? You’re just an imposter, what right do you have to bully the real daughter?” “Fakes are always fakes; all they know is how to stir up trouble!” The crowd murmured, their eyes filled with disdain. “Please don’t talk about my sister like that…” Mishay suppressed her sobs, staggering forward and clinging tightly to my wrist. “It’s alright, Sister. You can hit me, you can scold me. I’m used to it, growing up in the orphanage…” “Only…” She paused, large tears streaming down her face. “Sister, could you please let me see Mom? I grew up in an orphanage and never even knew what Mom looked like…” Hearing this, the crowd instantly erupted. “Mishay is so pitiful! The true daughter of the Culver family, abandoned in an orphanage to suffer!” “Elara Culver, you’ve usurped her place for so many years, and now you won’t even let her see her mother? Are you even human?!” I looked at the crowd, my brows furrowed. When did I ever forbid her from seeing her mother? It’s her who didn’t recognize that I am her mother. These past few years, due to the sensitive nature of my work, I’d never appeared in public, so almost no one had seen me. Coupled with my meticulous skincare routine, I still looked quite young. But I never imagined I’d be mistaken for my adoptive daughter, Elara Culver. “Sister, I beg you…” Mishay suddenly dropped to her knees before me, gazing up with tear-filled eyes. “After I see Mom, I’ll leave immediately and never appear before you again… Please, Sister, I just need to see Mom once…” I looked down at her, a swirl of emotions in my heart. Last week, I was on a secret mission. It wasn’t until I left the lab today that I learned my daughter had been found, and I rushed back home. All the way, I’d been imagining our reunion, thinking about what to say. But I never in a million years expected that the first time my biological daughter saw me, it would be to frame me. “Get up first.” I bent down to help her. “Mishay, actually, I’m not—” My words were cut short. Suddenly. “What are you doing?!” A furious voice boomed from behind me. 2 “Mishay, you don’t have to be afraid of her.” Caleb Thorne walked up, helped her to her feet, and glared coldly at me. “You’re Elara Culver?” “Let me tell you, Mishay is my girlfriend. It’s not your place, you imposter, to bully her!” The moment he spoke, the surroundings erupted. “Girlfriend? Young Master Thorne is with Mishay?” “But Young Master Thorne has an engagement with Elara Culver! Is he publicly breaking it off? That’s a huge slap in the face!” “So what if he does? Mishay is the real heiress. What is Elara Culver anyway?” “Tsk, tsk, Elara Culver is completely humiliated now. If it were me, I’d crawl into a hole and disappear.” Listening to the chatter, my brows furrowed deeper. Caleb Thorne was the only son of the Thorne family, and I had personally chosen him as a suitable match for Elara. I had planned for the two children to meet after I finished my current projects. I never expected him to appear here so suddenly, or that he would be embracing Mishay and claiming she was his girlfriend. “Elara Culver, since you’re here today, I’ll make things clear.” Caleb stared at me, holding Mishay tightly in his arms. “I fell for Mishay at first sight. She’s the one I want to marry.” “As for you, my parents forced you on me. I wouldn’t be caught dead with someone who throws herself at people like you.” A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd. I clenched my fists, a cold sneer escaping my lips. This engagement, his parents had begged us to accept it. The Thorne family’s finances were on the verge of collapse a few years back, and it was my old friendship that saved them. If anyone was “throwing themselves at people,” it was his Thorne family, shamelessly clinging on. “Caleb, darling, don’t say that.” Mishay tugged at his sleeve, then looked up at me. “Sister, please don’t be angry. Caleb just can’t stand to see me wronged.” As she spoke, a flicker of triumph and pride flashed in her eyes. I stared at her face, my heart clenching painfully. Mishay had wandered off and been lost for over a decade, and I had searched for her all those years. I had yearned for her return, and now she was finally home. But I never imagined… she would become this kind of person. “Elara Culver, I know you must like me and want to marry me.” Caleb arrogantly tilted his head. “But I don’t like you. You should give up.” “Who said I like you?” I finally couldn’t help but chuckle, looking up at him. “Caleb Thorne, I’m already married. How could I possibly want to marry you?” The air quieted for a moment. Caleb was stunned, then burst out laughing as if he’d heard the funniest joke in the world. “Married?” “Elara Culver, what are you trying to pull? How could you be married?” “You’re not trying some ridiculous reverse psychology because you like me so much, are you? I told you, I’m not interested.” Listening to his words, I found it increasingly ridiculous. I had initially agreed to let him be with Elara because I’d seen him at a banquet once and thought he was presentable, worthy of my daughter. I never imagined that, in private, he would be such an arrogant, self-important fool. “Sister, I’m so sorry…” “But Caleb and I truly love each other. You’ve already taken everything from me these past years.” “Just let me have Caleb!” Mishay sobbed, tears streaming down her face, burying herself in Caleb’s arms, trembling. Caleb hugged her tighter, his eyes burning as if he wanted to flay me alive. I stared at her, truly at a loss for words. I had searched for her for seventeen years, fearing she would suffer, be bullied, or not live well. Yet now, she was publicly putting on an act, slandering her own mother, and stealing her sister’s fiancé. What was even more ridiculous was that the man she was stealing was someone of Caleb Thorne’s caliber. “Sister, I beg you!” Seeing that I still hadn’t spoken, Mishay cried out anxiously, “You can’t take Caleb away!” “You clearly… clearly already secretly with another man…” 3 Mishay’s words hung unfinished as she clapped a hand over her mouth, feigning regret for speaking out of turn. “Another man? What other man?” Caleb’s face darkened. “Mishay, what do you know? Speak clearly.” “I…” Mishay looked at him with feigned difficulty, then suddenly turned and bowed deeply to me. “I’m sorry, Sister… I didn’t mean to say it… I just didn’t want Caleb to be deceived…” With that, she pulled out a photo from her phone and held it up. It was a picture of me and a man embracing. My face was clear. The man, however, was only a blurred profile, unidentifiable. “Holy cow! Elara Culver has a boyfriend too? So what is this? Cheating on Young Master Thorne?” “Who’s that guy? Looks a little familiar.” “Doesn’t matter who. He doesn’t look young, does he? Tsk, tsk, I can’t believe Elara Culver would ditch Young Master Thorne for an older man. Her taste is… unique!” Listening to the whispers of the crowd, Caleb’s face grew uglier. The next second, he suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my hand, his eyes blazing with fury. “Elara Culver, how dare you cheat on me!” I was utterly dumbfounded by his absurd accusation. Firstly, I wasn’t Elara. Even if I were, and Elara did have a boyfriend, what business was it of his? The engagement hadn’t been formalized, and they hadn’t even met. He could be openly affectionate with Mishay and announce their relationship, but Elara had to remain chaste for him? What kind of logic was that? “Actually…” Mishay, seeing the situation, hesitantly uttered two more words. She shot me a provocative glance, then suddenly sighed. “Sister… actually, you’re not just involved with this one older man, are you?” “My people also caught you frequently entering those kinds of places, and the men around you were also…” At this, her voice stopped, and she looked at me, as if advising me. “Sister, a woman still needs to respect herself. You mingling with so many men is really…” Hearing this, everyone’s gaze swiveled to me. “I can’t believe it, this Elara Culver is actually that kind of person.” “She must have been used up by now, what a cheap whore.” “This imposter knows no shame? She should just get out of the Culver family!” The curses grew uglier, and the looks they gave me became incredibly lewd. I stood my ground, my eyes fixed on Mishay. I couldn’t believe it—my own biological daughter was spreading malicious rumors about me! “Sister, what’s past is past. I’ll definitely help you keep it a secret.” “And I certainly won’t let Mom and Dad know about this, don’t worry.” As she spoke, she suddenly reached out again, feigning intimacy, to take my hand. A chill seeped into my bones. I took two steps back, instinctively shaking her hand off gently. “Ah—!” Mishay suddenly shrieked and fell backward, hitting the ground hard, even rolling twice before stopping. “Mishay?! What happened? Who dared to push you?!” Hasty footsteps approached from a distance. The next second, a familiar figure burst through the crowd and helped Mishay up from the ground. I followed the sound and saw an incredibly familiar face. It was the man from the photo Mishay had just used to slander me. My husband of twenty years, her father. Arthur Culver.

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Five years ago, Luke and I entered this strange world as broke outsiders, marrying the wealthy Astor sisters. A devastating car crash three years later left Luke paralyzed and me blind. Unable to accept his condition, Luke ended his own life. While grieving, I overheard my wife Anne and her sister Eleanor. Anne asked if Eleanor had Luke’s spine broken to protect someone named Simon. Eleanor replied coldly, then revealed Anne had blinded me with pills, making me believe the crash was the cause. Anne responded, “As long as Simon is safe, nothing else matters. We married these nobodies to use them as shields.” The truth hit me like ice. Every loving gesture had been a lie. We were just pawns, sacrificed to protect Simon. My best friend’s death will not be in vain. Now that I see the truth, I will make them pay. 1 I fished my phone out of my pocket and dialed a number I had committed to memory. “I need you to draft divorce papers. I am leaving Anne.” Once the lawyer confirmed, I ended the call. I was just about to turn and navigate my way down the hall when Anne’s voice drifted out from the ajar door again. “The truth is, Luke’s spine could have been saved. Simon was careless during the surgery and severed the nerve. This malpractice could cost him his medical license and his upcoming board review. We have to bury this at all costs.” Eleanor hummed in agreement. “Consider it done.” “Those pills you are feeding Arthur. You know the side effects can cause severe cognitive decline, right? Do not give him more than one a day, Anne.” I heard the rustle of clothing as Anne shook her head. “No. He is too sharp. If I don’t keep him docile, he might piece together our connection to Simon. If he exposes everything, it would ruin Simon.” My fingers curled into tight fists, fingernails digging sharply into my palms. Luke had a chance to recover. He didn’t have to die. I didn’t have to lose my sight. A sudden ringtone shattered the quiet. It was Eleanor’s phone. I heard her gasp, her voice spiking in pitch. “What do you mean Luke jumped?” The room went dead silent. A second later, the door swung open violently. I didn’t have time to hide. Anne froze the second she saw me standing in the corridor. Panic laced her voice. “What are you doing out here? Did you hear something?” I prepared to shake my head, but her hands were already gripping my arms, her fingers digging in tight. She let out a shaky breath. “Thank God you are safe. Please, Arthur, promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Promise me you won’t leave me like Luke left Eleanor. I wouldn’t survive it.” Her hands were trembling against my skin. She felt genuinely terrified. But I could no longer tell where the brilliant actress ended and my wife began. Five years ago, Luke and I arrived in this world with nothing but the clothes on our backs. The Astor sisters claimed it was love at first sight. They defied their incredibly powerful family, causing a massive scandal just to put rings on our fingers. I remember trying to talk Anne out of it. I told her we were just two broke guys who didn’t deserve them, and I didn’t want to ruin her relationship with her family. She had thrown her arms around me, holding on for dear life. She told me nothing else mattered as long as we stayed by their side. So we braved the endless mockery of the elite circle, became the Astor husbands, and helped build their empire to the towering heights it sat at today. Just this morning, when Luke was told his lumbar vertebrae were pulverized beyond repair, he cried. He told me the Astor relatives were already looking at him like garbage. He said he refused to drag Eleanor down. He said we would be brothers again in the next life. Then he pushed himself off the windowsill. I lunged to grab him, but I grasped nothing but empty air. The sickest joke of all was that it took his death for me to see the truth. These women never had a single ounce of love for us. Anne guided me back to my hospital bed. She pressed a handful of pills and a glass of warm water into my palm, her fingers gently brushing over my sightless eyes. “You need to take better care of yourself, Arthur. You can’t see. What if you trip and hurt yourself? Swallow these so you can heal faster.” I traced the chalky surface of the pills with my thumb. A bitter smile touched my lips. A one-a-day prescription, and she was handing me over a dozen at once. Did she want to turn me into a brain-dead vegetable that badly? “It is too many. I don’t want them.” The temperature in the room plummeted. Anne’s voice turned remarkably cold. “This is not the time to throw a tantrum. Take the pills, Arthur, or I will force them down your throat.” She signaled the doctor. Heavy hands pinned my shoulders to the mattress. Anne pried my jaw open, shoved the bitter handful into my mouth, and poured water right over them. I choked, coughing violently, feeling like I was drowning. I thrashed wildly on the bed, but Anne just stood there, watching in absolute silence. Only when I finally swallowed did she help me up from the floor where I had fallen. She carefully wiped the spilled water from my face, her voice returning to a sickeningly sweet whisper. “The doctor was too rough. I will have him disciplined later. But you have to take your medicine. It is for your own good.” My blood ran cold. My heart felt like a block of lead. The moment her footsteps faded down the hall, I stumbled into the bathroom, shoved two fingers down my throat, and threw up everything. Without the heavy dose of toxins clouding my system, my vision actually cleared a fraction. I could make out blurry shapes and moving shadows. I needed air. I needed to calm down. I made my way up to the hospital roof, only to find Anne and Simon already there. 2 Simon was in his white lab coat. His eyes were red and puffy. He looked like a kicked puppy. “I made a catastrophic mistake during Luke’s surgery. He ended up paralyzed and killed himself because of me. The medical board is going to strip my license. I will never be a surgeon again.” “What do I do, Anne? I am so scared.” Anne gazed at him, her eyes practically overflowing with a deep, hidden adoration. She reached out and gently stroked his hair. “It is okay. Eleanor and I will handle the board. We will buy off whoever we need to. And if we can’t keep it quiet, we will pay witnesses to say Arthur caused the surgical complication by interfering. We will send him to prison for a few years. Your reputation will remain spotless.” Simon laughed through his tears, wiping his face. “Won’t your husband hate you for that?” Anne shook her head with absolute sincerity. “I don’t care if he hates me. Your safety is the only thing that matters. You are the only person I care about protecting.” Simon wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He lifted a hand to trace her bottom lip. “Am I really just a little brother to you? Watching you pretend with that blind charity case breaks my heart. You must be so disgusted playing the dutiful wife.” “Let me make it up to you…” Anne flushed. She hesitated, looking around. “Our family has too many enemies. If I show you any affection in public, they will put a target on your back.” Her words were swallowed by his mouth. Anne abandoned her restraint, clinging to his shoulders as they kissed passionately. In the middle of locking lips with my wife, Simon opened his eyes, locked his gaze right where I was standing in the shadows, and gave me a look of pure, unadulterated mockery. A chill crawled up my spine. But I didn’t step out. I didn’t scream. I pressed the stop button on my phone’s video recorder, slipped it into my pocket, and quietly walked back to my room, pretending I was still perfectly blind. Three days later, we held Luke’s funeral. It was supposed to be a quiet, private service, but the Astor family turned it into a massive spectacle. When Anne guided me into the hall, I could feel the hostile stares. The whispers buzzed around me like angry wasps. “Is that the Astor heiress’s husband? Why is he wearing dark glasses?” “I heard he went blind. He was already a gold-digging loser from the slums. Now he is completely useless.” “Poor Anne. Shackled to a crippled parasite. If I were him, I would have the decency to jump off a bridge rather than embarrass her.” “The dead guy was his best friend. Two leeches sucking the Astor wealth dry. Good riddance to one of them. Too bad they both didn’t jump.” The venomous insults echoed off the marble walls. My hands trembled slightly. Noticing my reaction, Anne gripped my fingers tighter. She turned sharply toward the crowd, her voice cracking like a whip. “Enough! Arthur is my husband. Say one more word about him in my presence, and I swear I will ruin you and your entire family by nightfall!” The great hall fell deathly silent. During the service, I stood at the front, holding my brother’s urn, numbly accepting the hollow condolences of people who hated us. Then Simon walked in, carrying a massive bouquet of white lilies. “My deepest condolences, Arthur,” he said, his voice dripping with fake pity. “It is a tragedy, really. But honestly, with a shattered spine, he would have been a bedridden vegetable for the rest of his life. He would have drained his wife’s youth. Dying was probably the kindest thing he could do.” “To think, he actually took my advice and jumped out that window…” My breath caught. Simon had goaded Luke into jumping. I expected to hear at least a shred of guilt in his voice. Instead, he leaned in close so only I could hear. “You are half a cripple yourself now. When are you going to do the world a favor and follow him? You two parasites have infected this family for way too long.” My knuckles turned white around the urn. I wanted to tear him apart, but I refused to cause a scene in front of Luke’s ashes. Suddenly, Simon threw himself to his knees. He raised his hand and began slapping his own face violently. He wailed, his voice echoing through the silent hall. “I am so sorry! It is all my fault! My surgical skills weren’t good enough! I couldn’t fix his spine! I don’t deserve to be a doctor!” Anne shoved her way through the crowd just in time to see Simon kneeling on the floor, his cheeks bruised and swollen. He was pulling at his hair, weeping hysterically, curling into a ball of misery. He grabbed a heavy marble paperweight from the registry desk and raised it above his hands. “Arthur is right!” Simon sobbed. “I am a failure! I killed Luke! I will crush my own hands so I can never hold a scalpel again! It is the only way to pay for my sins!” Anne let out a terrified shriek. She lunged forward, snatching the heavy marble from his grasp, and pulled him fiercely into her chest. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with absolute disgust. “How can you be so vicious, Arthur? Luke’s spine was destroyed in the crash. You were the one driving! If you had kept your eyes on the road, none of this would have happened!” “A surgeon’s hands are his life! How could you try to force him to destroy his career? You stay here and think about what you have done!” She barked an order, and the entire Astor entourage filed out of the room, following her and Simon. The grand memorial hall emptied out in seconds. I hugged the cold urn to my chest. It didn’t matter. Luke hated these snobs anyway. We didn’t need their fake tears. I turned to leave the hall. Before I could take a step, a heavy hand grabbed the urn and ripped it out of my arms. 3 I lunged forward to grab it back, but a blunt object smashed into the back of my skull. The world spun wildly. As I collapsed to the marble floor, my blurry vision focused on the men standing over me. They were notorious rivals of the Astor family. Vicious men who operated in the city’s underbelly. The leader popped the lid off the urn. With a cruel sneer, he dumped Luke’s ashes directly onto the floor. They stomped their heavy boots right into the gray dust, grinding it into the tiles, before spitting a mouthful of saliva onto the pile. “Anne and Eleanor stole a massive shipping contract from us,” the leader snarled. “They told us if we had a problem, we could come find them. Well, ruining their favorite little pets seems like a great place to start!” “This dead one is boring. But the live one looks like he can take a beating.” “What do you think, boys? Break his arms? Shatter his kneecaps? He has a pretty face. Let’s carve it up so every time Anne looks at him, she remembers who runs this city.” Laughter bounced off the walls. They dragged me into a dark corner like a piece of dead meat. My hand slipped into my pocket, my fingers blindly navigating my phone’s screen to dial emergency services. Before the call connected, a steel-toed boot crashed into my ribs. Over a dozen men swarmed me. There was no holding back. They intended to beat me to death. Bones cracked. Knives flashed, leaving long, burning cuts across my chest and arms. It felt like they were trying to drain every drop of blood from my body. By the time the distant wail of police sirens echoed through the hall, I couldn’t even twitch a finger. Then came the frantic sound of high heels. Anne had finally returned. When she saw me lying in a pool of my own blood, she screamed. She tore away the paramedics, dragging me into her own car, speeding toward the hospital like a madwoman. Her face was twisted in absolute agony. She kept shaking my shoulders, refusing to let me close my eyes. “I am so sorry, Arthur. I was just angry. I shouldn’t have left you alone. I didn’t know they would come for you.” “You have to stay awake. You have to live. If you die because of me, I will never forgive myself as long as I live!” Hot tears spilled onto her cheeks and dripped down onto my cold skin. But later, as I lay drifting in and out of consciousness in the trauma ward, I heard Anne whispering furiously to her head of security. “Arthur was the bait. I needed to draw out the rats who wanted to hurt Simon. Now that they have shown their faces, wipe them out. Make sure the city is safe for him.” “I do feel slightly guilty about this. I will make sure Arthur is taken care of. Being a part of the Astor family and enjoying our wealth is more than enough compensation.” “The most important thing is keeping Simon’s name completely out of the police reports. No media leaks.” A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye, soaking into the pristine white pillowcase. For the first time in five years, I violently regretted saying “I do”. When I finally opened my eyes, Anne rushed over, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck. I stared at the ceiling and spoke with absolute clarity. “I want a divorce.” Anne froze. She pulled back, looking confused. “What did you say?” “I said, I want a divorce, Anne. I don’t love you anymore.” Her grip on my hands tightened painfully. She opened her mouth to argue, but a sudden commotion outside the room interrupted her. Simon stumbled through the doorway, looking disheveled, a horde of aggressive reporters practically breathing down his neck. He had a shallow scrape on his cheek. Cornered, he immediately hid behind Anne’s back. He was crying, his voice trembling perfectly. “Anne, I am so sorry. Someone leaked the video of us on the roof to the press.” “They are calling me a homewrecker. They are saying I seduced you. They are demanding I get on my knees and apologize to Arthur.” “It is my fault. I shouldn’t have fallen for you. I have ruined everything. I should just jump out this window and give everyone what they want!” Without warning, he dropped to his knees, slammed his forehead against the tiles three times, then sprang up and threw one leg over the hospital window ledge. Anne’s eyes went wide with terror. She grabbed his waist and hauled him backward. “Are you insane?!” She cradled him against her chest. “Who dares call you a homewrecker? You did nothing wrong. I forbid you from blaming yourself.” The reporters were shoving their cameras right into their faces. Anne gritted her teeth. Without a second thought for my stitched wounds, she grabbed the collar of my hospital gown and yanked me violently out of the bed. She kicked the back of my knees. I crashed to the hard floor, landing directly on my shattered joints. My newly stitched wounds ripped open. A mouthful of blood spilled from my lips, splattering the floor. She completely ignored the blood. She pointed down at me and screamed, “Apologize to Simon, Arthur!” I stared at her, genuinely shocked. “I didn’t do anything. Why would I apologize?” “Because you pushed him to the edge! You made things difficult for him twice in one day. You drove him to suicide!” “Now the media is tearing him apart, and my family is a laughingstock! Are you happy now?” “No wonder you brought up divorce. You knew I would punish you for this, so you tried to play the victim to get the upper hand!” When I clamped my mouth shut and refused to speak, Anne lost her mind. She raised her hand and slapped me across the face in front of fifty flashing cameras. “You are so vicious, Arthur! You are determined to destroy an innocent man!” “If you won’t tell them the truth, I will!” She turned to face the blinding flashes of the press. She pointed directly at me. “The real cheater is Arthur Pendleton!” “He had an affair and tried to extort half the Astor fortune! I divorced him months ago, but he blackmailed me into keeping it quiet! Simon is entirely innocent! He was just comforting me during a difficult time, and someone took it out of context to ruin his career!” The room erupted. The reporters surged forward like bloodthirsty hounds. People passing in the hall started spitting on me. Someone shoved me hard. I crashed into a medical cart, sending shattered glass flying. A jagged shard sliced deep into my neck. Blood pumped freely down my collar. A doctor rushed forward to apply pressure, but Anne blocked him with her body. “Leave him! Let him bleed on the floor until he repents for his lies!” I lay there, watching my own blood pool around me. Right before the darkness took me, someone stomped their heel deliberately into the side of my head. Anne grabbed Simon’s hand and rushed him out of the room, demanding a full-body scan for his minor scrape. After hours of tests confirmed Simon was perfectly fine, her anger finally cooled. She pulled out her phone and called the hospital director. “Go check on Arthur. Stitch up whatever is bleeding. Remind him he is still my husband, and I will not be signing any divorce papers.” “Oh, and use the good anesthesia. He doesn’t like pain.” The director’s voice shook on the other end of the line. “Miss Astor… I was just about to call you. Arthur is gone. He left an signed divorce agreement and a USB drive for you.”

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Tonight at exactly eight seventeen, I checked my phone and found nine missed calls. They were all from my father-in-law, Robert. In our five years of marriage, he had never tried to reach me with such frantic urgency. I tapped the screen to play his latest voicemail. His voice trembled with an unmistakable edge of panic. “Oliver, I kept your dinner warm in the oven. Please don’t eat anything from those random takeout places. You have a sensitive stomach. The food out there is filthy, it will make you sick.” That wasn’t the voice of a concerned parent. It was the sound of barely concealed terror. I lowered my phone and absentmindedly scratched my forearm. Then, I completely froze. My skin was entirely smooth. There were no raised welts, no burning redness, no agonizing itch. For the first time in five years, my arms were completely clear. My mind raced back through the events of the day. The only thing I had done differently was skip Robert’s home-cooked dinner. 1 I had been stuck at the pharmacy doing inventory until almost seven thirty. The diner next door was closed, so I grabbed a pre-packaged turkey sandwich from a convenience store to hold me over. My phone had vibrated relentlessly in my pocket the entire time. I saw Robert’s name flash on the screen, but my hands were full of heavy boxes. I figured I would just call him back later. By the time I finished, it completely slipped my mind. When I finally checked my notifications, I saw the nine missed calls. I unlocked the front door just before nine o’clock. Robert rushed out of the kitchen the second he heard the latch click. He hadn’t even taken off his apron, and his knuckles were dusted with flour. “Why are you so late?” he demanded. “We had to do a full stock count at the pharmacy today,” I replied, slipping off my shoes. “Took longer than expected.” “Did you eat?” “Yeah, I grabbed a sandwich on the way.” Robert’s expression faltered. It was barely a fraction of a second, but I caught it. It wasn’t the relieved look of a father hearing his son-in-law had been fed. It was a sharp, poorly hidden flash of anxiety. “Store-bought food is garbage,” he muttered, turning sharply back toward the kitchen. “I will heat up some chicken broth for you. It has been simmering all afternoon.” “Robert, I am honestly full.” “A bowl of broth won’t ruin your appetite,” he insisted. He was already carrying the steaming bowl out to the dining table. I didn’t want to argue, so I sat down and forced myself to drink half of it. It had a very faint, almost imperceptible savory tang, but immediately after swallowing, the tip of my tongue began to tingle and go numb. It had always been like this. For five years, I just assumed my immune system was a wreck. Later that night, as I stood under the bathroom shower, I glanced down at my forearms. Still perfectly smooth. But deep down, I already knew they wouldn’t look like that tomorrow. The next morning, I woke up and looked at my skin. Three angry red hives had blossomed in the crook of my left elbow. A raised, intensely itchy patch of inflamed skin covered my right forearm. It looked exactly the same as every single morning for the past five years. I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the red marks. Yesterday, I didn’t eat his food, and my skin was clear. Last night, I drank his broth, and the hives returned. Maria sat up beside me, pulling on her blouse for work. “Flaring up again?” she asked, glancing over. “Yeah.” “Isn’t it time you booked another appointment with the specialist? Did you finish that last round of steroids?” “I still have half a pack.” She applied her lipstick in the vanity mirror and shot me a sympathetic look. “Try not to scratch it, Oliver. You will just make it bleed.” Then she grabbed her purse and walked out the door. I remained frozen on the edge of the bed. My mind was circling a terrifying, completely insane theory. From the kitchen, Robert’s voice echoed down the hall. “Oliver! The oatmeal is ready, come eat while it is hot!” I slowly stood up and walked out of the bedroom. A faint smile touched my lips. “Coming,” I called back. I sat down at the table and pulled the bowl toward me. I stared at the tiny, almost invisible flecks of seasoning floating in the creamy oats. I had never noticed them before. Today, they looked glaringly obvious. I took a small bite. The tip of my tongue went numb again. 2 I had suffered from a severe shellfish allergy my entire life. When I was a kid, I accidentally ate a piece of fried shrimp and my throat swelled shut. I nearly died in the back of an ambulance. From that day on, my parents banned all seafood from the house, and I learned to read every food label like my life depended on it. I managed it perfectly for over twenty years. I rarely had a reaction. Everything changed the moment I married Maria. The hives started during our first month of marriage. By the second month, they refused to fade. By the third month, both of my arms were covered in a permanent, burning rash. I went to the top allergists in the city. They diagnosed me with chronic idiopathic anaphylaxis. They couldn’t pinpoint the trigger. “Do you have any known severe allergens?” the doctor had asked. “Shellfish. But I absolutely never touch it.” “Then we will have to keep running panels. For now, we manage the symptoms.” He prescribed heavy antihistamines and topical steroid creams. The consultation was two hundred dollars. The medication was another hundred and fifty. Three hundred and fifty dollars for the very first month. I went back a month later, desperate for relief. I saw a different specialist. Another four hundred dollars for consultations and stronger topical treatments. By the third month, the inflammation subsided slightly, only to roar back with a vengeance in the fourth. I started using my employee discount at the pharmacy to buy the medications at cost, but I was still burning through hundreds of dollars every few weeks. Over five years, the empty pill bottles and crushed ointment tubes in my nightstand could have filled a dumpster. Maria noticed the massive pile while cleaning one afternoon. She looked genuinely stunned. “You take all of this?” “Yeah.” “Can’t you find a cheaper generic brand?” I didn’t answer her. I was already buying the absolute cheapest options available. And that was just the daily medication. Factor in the specialist visits, the endless blood panels, the holistic doctors, the allergy testing kits. I kept a meticulous spreadsheet of my medical expenses over the last five years. Just managing the hives had cost me over twelve thousand dollars. But that wasn’t even the worst part. During our third year of marriage, we decided to start trying for a baby. After twelve months with zero success, we went to a fertility clinic. Maria was perfectly healthy. My results, however, were devastating. The chronic, severe allergic inflammation in my body had wrecked my endocrine system, severely impacting my fertility. The doctor tried to break it to me gently. “We need to get this chronic allergic response completely under control before your body can recover enough to conceive.” But I couldn’t control it. For five unbroken years, my body had been locked in a constant state of panic. Desperate, I agreed to an aggressive series of hormone therapies and specialized treatments to boost my chances. Each cycle cost around eight thousand dollars. I went through three grueling cycles. None of them worked. Twenty-four thousand dollars, completely burned to ashes. During that dark period, Robert started sighing a lot around the dinner table. “Oliver, I am not trying to pressure you two,” he would say, placing a choice cut of roast beef directly onto Maria’s plate. “It is just a shame. Maria is my only daughter, and she would make such a wonderful mother.” I stared at my bowl. He never served me the good cuts. Over the last five years, I had grown completely used to him treating Maria like royalty while barely acknowledging me. “We are still trying, Robert. The doctors said there is still a chance.” “Right. Just don’t push yourself too hard. Health comes first,” he replied, flashing a gentle, comforting smile. That following Saturday, Ken came over to visit. Ken was the son of David, Robert’s oldest friend. He was a few years younger than me, working a comfortable job at a corporate bank. His skin was flawless. Not a single red mark, not a single blemish. Robert’s face lit up the second he opened the door. “Ken! Come in, come in, sit down.” He practically dragged Ken to the best spot on the sofa. “Look at you, getting more handsome every year. And you look so healthy.” Ken chuckled modestly. Robert shot a sideways glance at me. “Not like our Oliver. The poor guy is always breaking out. His face and arms are always a mess.” Ken glanced at me, his expression unreadable, and stayed quiet. “I will go make some coffee,” I said, standing up from my chair. Once I was alone in the kitchen, I rolled up my sleeves. A violent, red rash crawled from my wrists all the way past my elbows. I quietly rolled my sleeves back down. When I carried the coffee tray into the living room, Ken was sitting directly in the center of the sofa, occupying the exact spot I normally sat in every evening. I set his mug down in front of him and took a seat on a small wooden stool in the corner. Late that night, after Maria had fallen asleep, I stood alone in the bathroom under the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to squeeze the last drops out of my hydrocortisone tube. The tube was completely flattened. The tiny ribbon of cream wasn’t enough to cover both arms. I scraped the plastic nozzle clean and smeared the meager amount onto my right elbow. I looked up into the mirror. The rash had crept up my neck. Angry red patches covered my cheeks and jawline. I turned off the light and stepped back into the dark bedroom. Maria shifted under the blankets but didn’t wake up. 3 The following Monday, I made a decision. I cornered my coworker, Marcus, in the breakroom. “Hey, can I take your evening shifts for the whole week?” “Why the sudden change?” Marcus asked, looking surprised. “Just dealing with some stuff at home.” The evening shift ran from two in the afternoon to ten at night. It meant I would have to eat dinner at the pharmacy. When I called Robert to tell him, I kept my voice perfectly casual. “The schedule got flipped this week. I am on nights, so I won’t be home for dinner.” “What? What are you going to eat?” “We have a microwave in the back room. I will just grab something from the deli.” “You can’t eat that processed garbage. It will make you sick. Let me cook something and—” “Robert, it’s fine. It is just for one week.” Dead silence hung on the line for two agonizing seconds. “Fine,” he finally said. “Just don’t eat anything strange.” I promised I wouldn’t. That week, I ate basic cafeteria food for lunch and survived on microwaved pasta and convenience store sandwiches for dinner. On Monday, the hives remained. On Tuesday, the angry red color began to fade. On Wednesday, the burning itch completely vanished. On Thursday, the thick, raised welts on my left arm flattened out. On Friday, my right arm had nothing but faint, pale pink shadows where the rash used to be. By Sunday, both of my arms were completely spotless. Even my face had cleared up. Marcus caught me hauling boxes in the stockroom with my sleeves rolled up. He stopped in his tracks. “Whoa, your skin looks great,” he said. “Yeah, it has been getting a lot better recently.” “I thought you said that chronic allergy thing was incurable? You looked like a walking tomato just last month.” I offered a thin smile and went back to work without explaining. During that entire week, Robert called me religiously every single day. Monday: “What exactly did you eat for dinner?” Wednesday: “I made a huge pot of beef stew. Do you want Maria to drop some off at the pharmacy?” Thursday: “Maria mentioned your skin is looking a lot better.” Friday: “Your night shifts end this weekend, right? Come straight home on Sunday, I am cooking a massive feast.” On Saturday morning, Robert personally walked through the glass doors of the pharmacy. He was holding a heavy insulated thermos. “Robert? What are you doing all the way out here?” “You haven’t had a decent home-cooked meal in a week. I couldn’t stop worrying about you.” He set the thermos down on the checkout counter and unscrewed the lid. Rich, savory steam drifted into the air. It was chicken broth. But underneath the smell of the chicken, there was another scent. It was incredibly faint. I had never been able to isolate it before. But after a week of eating clean, bland food, my senses were razor-sharp. “Drink it while it is hot,” he urged, staring at me intently. I picked up the plastic bowl and took a tiny sip. The immediate, familiar numbness hit the tip of my tongue. “Delicious,” I said, offering him a bright, appreciative smile. The moment Robert left the store, I locked the front doors and marched straight into the sterile stockroom. I pulled a medical-grade specimen bag from the supply cabinet, poured the remaining chicken broth directly into the plastic pouch, and sealed it tight. I slapped a blank label on the front, wrote down the date and time, and shoved it into the medical refrigerator used for storing vaccines. 4 Our pharmacy didn’t have the equipment to run advanced allergy panels, but after six years in the medical supply industry, I knew exactly who could. There was an independent testing laboratory just a few blocks away that handled commercial food safety and allergen trace testing. I had delivered medical supplies to their technicians plenty of times. First thing Monday morning, I walked into their lobby carrying the sealed sample. The receptionist smiled when she saw me. “Hey Oliver, dropping off a sample for a client?” “Actually, this one is personal,” I said, sliding the bag across the counter. “I need a qualitative allergen screening. Specifically, I need you to test for the presence of shellfish proteins.” “No problem. If you pay the rush fee, we can have the results emailed to you by tomorrow afternoon.” “Put a rush on it.” I swiped my own credit card for the eighty-eight-dollar invoice. I spent the rest of my shift in a total daze. Marcus kept asking if I was feeling okay. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well,” I lied. That night, I went back to eating at home. Robert had gone all out. He had prepared a massive spread: slow-cooked pot roast, garlic butter asparagus, creamy potato soup, and baked salmon. “You worked so hard this week, Oliver. Eat up,” Robert said, pushing a plate toward me. “Thanks, Robert.” I ate. I made sure to take a few bites of every single dish on the table. The next morning, I looked in the mirror. The hives were back. They covered my neck, the crooks of my elbows, and both forearms. It was a violent, total relapse. It was as if my week of clear skin had never happened. Maria frowned over her coffee. “It flared up again? You were doing so well last week.” “Probably just stress from the night shifts,” I replied blankly. At exactly two in the afternoon, my phone rang. It was the testing lab. “Oliver, we just finalized the report on your sample.” “Tell me.” “Positive for crustacean protein. The concentration is relatively low, but it is definitively positive.” The phone trembled in my grip. I wasn’t scared. The trembling came from a sudden, overwhelming wave of clarity. Five years. It wasn’t a weak immune system. It wasn’t idiopathic inflammation. It wasn’t an unsolvable medical mystery. Someone had been meticulously lacing my food with shellfish every single day. And my severe, potentially lethal allergy to shellfish was something everyone in my household knew about. I stood in the cold, sterile pharmacy stockroom and took three long, deep breaths. Then I opened the supply cabinet and pulled out six more medical-grade specimen bags. For the rest of the week, I ate dinner at home. And every single night, I managed to slip a sample into a bag. Tuesday: Potato soup. Positive. Wednesday: Steamed vegetables. Positive. Thursday: Casserole. Positive. Friday: Oatmeal. Positive. Saturday: BBQ ribs. Positive. Sunday: Beef stew. Positive. Seven separate laboratory reports. All seven came back completely positive. After my shift ended, I locked the pharmacy doors and spread the seven printed reports across the checkout counter. I was entirely alone. The only sound was the hum of the fluorescent lights. I read through them, one by one. Every single page ended with the exact same bolded conclusion. Crustacean Protein: DETECTED. Seven days. Seven completely different dishes. Zero omissions. This wasn’t a dirty cutting board. This wasn’t accidental cross-contamination at a factory. This was in every single dish, every single day, for every single meal. It was intentional. It was mathematically precise. And it had been happening for five years. I stacked the seven papers together, slid them into a manila folder, and zipped it securely inside my backpack. I splashed cold water on my face in the employee restroom, dried off, and pulled out my phone. I opened my messages and texted Robert. “Dad, I have been craving your famous BBQ ribs. Could you make them tomorrow?” A minute later, my screen lit up. “Of course! I will go to the butcher tomorrow morning!!!” Three exclamation points. 5 Now I needed to find the weapon. I didn’t want theories. I didn’t want circumstantial deductions. I needed the physical proof. On Wednesday afternoon, Robert left the house to meet his friends for a walk in the park. Maria was still at her office. The house was completely empty. I walked into the kitchen and began systematically dismantling the space. First, I checked the visible spice racks. Olive oil, balsamic vinegar, Italian herbs, black pepper, Cajun seasoning. Nothing out of the ordinary. I moved to the upper cabinets. Flour, sugar, cornstarch, baking soda. Nothing. I paused, calculating his movements while cooking. I crouched down and pulled open the heavy wooden doors beneath the stovetop. It was full of heavy cast-iron skillets and soup pots. I reached all the way to the very back. Hidden in the darkest corner, behind a massive Dutch oven, my fingers brushed against cold plastic. I pulled it out into the light. It was a generic brown plastic bottle. There was no label. A thin layer of grease and dust coated the cap, but the body of the bottle was wiped clean. It was handled frequently. I unscrewed the cap. A fine, pale pink powder filled the bottle. I brought it close to my nose and inhaled slightly. The sharp, unmistakable stench of dried brine and fishiness hit the back of my throat. It was pure dehydrated shrimp powder. I pulled out my phone and took several high-resolution photos. The bottle in my hand, the texture of the powder, and the exact spot where it had been hidden behind the pots. Then, I screwed the cap back on and placed it precisely where I found it. I walked into the living room and sat heavily on the sofa. I reached over and picked up Robert’s iPad. He never used a passcode. He only used it to watch baseball highlights and browse the internet. I opened the Amazon app. He was still logged in. I tapped the search bar in his order history and typed in “Shrimp Powder.” When the results populated the screen, I stopped breathing for a long time. Sixty individual orders. Every single order was from a storefront called “Ocean Bounty Spices.” One order per month. I scrolled down to the very first purchase. Date: March 17th. Maria and I got married on February 28th. He placed the first order exactly seventeen days after my wedding. The most recent order was placed on February 8th of this year. Just last month. Five years. Sixty orders. One 8-ounce bag every single month. Price: $15.80. I took screenshots of every single order. All sixty of them. Once I was done, I cleared the search history, closed the app, and placed the iPad exactly where he had left it. I sat alone in the quiet living room and did the math in my head. Sixty bags of shrimp powder at $15.80 each. Total cost: $948. Not even a thousand dollars. I pulled out my phone and opened my terrifyingly detailed medical spreadsheet. The copays, the steroids, the emergency clinic visits, the blood panels, the fertility treatments. Total cost: $162,780. Less than a thousand dollars worth of crushed shrimp. One hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars in agonizing medical debt. My grip tightened until the metal edges of my phone dug painfully into my palms. I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate to slow down. It still wasn’t enough. I knew the what, the how, and the how much. Now I needed the why. I reached for the iPad one more time and opened his WhatsApp application. I scrolled through his recent chats. The third conversation on the list caught my eye. Contact name: David (Ken’s Dad). I tapped it.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “406274”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My roommate was a scholarship student, a bit slow on the uptake when it came to people. One afternoon, as we were passing the campus gates, her eyes fixed on a couple of drinks sitting on the hood of a car parked by the curb. “Look, free drinks,” she said, already starting to walk over. “They must be giving them away. I’m gonna grab one.” I quickly grabbed her arm, my voice a low hiss. “You can’t just take those. Around here, a drink on a car like that… it’s a signal, it means something else…” The warning went straight through her. She shook my hand off. “You’re overthinking it. Why else would they leave them out if not for people to drink?” “Don’t be so cynical, always assuming the worst in people.” She picked up a bottle, a premium iced latte, and took a long swig right in front of me. Then she turned to me, a smirk on her face. “You know, you’re one of those people from the internet. The ones with a one-track mind. You twist everything into something about sex. Are you that desperate for a guy?” “Just because a man exists doesn’t mean he’s thinking about you,” she added dismissively. But what she didn’t see, what she couldn’t see, was the man behind the tinted window of that car, his predatory gaze fixed on her as she drank. … “I’m a little thirsty. There are some drinks on that car, I’m just going to grab one.” As we walked by the main gate, my roommate, Jenna, suddenly stopped, pointing a finger at a black sedan parked on the street. I followed her gaze and my stomach tightened. I knew that car. It was parked here almost every day. “You can’t just take a drink off a car like that!” I whispered urgently, pulling her back. “It’s a code. ‘Having a drink with him’ is a twisted way of saying ‘sleep with him’…” Jenna yanked her arm away, her expression a mask of pure innocence. “What code? They’re obviously just free for anyone passing by.” I held onto her sleeve, my tone firm. “Let’s not drink something from a stranger. There’s a convenience store right there—” Jenna cut me off, her voice taking on a lecturing tone. “Sarah, you’re just too sensitive. You always think people have some dirty ulterior motive. You should learn to be less uptight, you know? Stop being so suspicious of everything. Doesn’t it get exhausting?” I frowned, trying to explain the grim reality of it. “Haven’t you heard about this? Different drinks mean different prices. Bottled water is like, twenty bucks. Iced tea is eighty. A premium iced latte…” But Jenna cut me off again, her face a canvas of impatience. “Enough! You know what you are? You’re exactly what they talk about online. Someone who sees sex in everything! Are you just so single and lonely that all you can think about is men?” Her voice was loud. A few students walking past shot me strange looks. Before I could respond, she gave me a disdainful glance. “I’m just thirsty. Don’t project your own desperate, filthy thoughts onto me!” With that, she practically skipped over to the black sedan. She stood before the car, making a show of choosing her beverage before finally settling on the iced latte. My blood ran cold. The latte was the highest tier. It meant anything goes. Suddenly, the car’s window slid down with a soft whir. A middle-aged man’s face appeared, a greasy smile plastered on it. “Well, how’s it taste, little lady?” Jenna, far from being alarmed, bent down slightly, flashing the man a brilliant smile. “Oh, are these yours, mister? Thank you so much! I was so thirsty.” I watched in horror as the man’s eyes, unabashed and predatory, fixated on the neckline of Jenna’s shirt. Alarm bells screamed in my head. She was my roommate. I couldn’t just stand by and watch her walk into a trap. I rushed forward and grabbed her arm with force. “Jenna, we’re going back to the dorm. Now!” She reacted with disgust, flinging my hand off with such strength that I stumbled and fell to the pavement. The rough concrete scraped my skin, sending a sharp, stinging pain up my arm. The man in the car feigned concern. “Whoa, what’s all this about?” Jenna immediately turned on me. “Don’t mind her. She’s my roommate, the one with the one-track mind. Everything is about sex to her. A bottle of water makes her think of sleeping with someone, a man makes her think of getting paid for it.” The man let out a booming, patronizing laugh. “I didn’t realize college girls these days were so dirty-minded. Getting all hot and bothered over a bottle of water, ha!” Jenna, as if she’d found a kindred spirit, eagerly agreed. “Exactly! I don’t know where she gets the confidence, acting like every man in the world wants to sleep with her!” The man nodded along, his words stroking Jenna’s ego until she was beaming. He pushed his door open. “Well now, little lady, seeing as we’ve had such a fateful meeting, how about we go grab a bite to eat?” Without a moment’s hesitation, Jenna chirped, “I’d love to!” 2 The black sedan peeled away from the curb, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust. I pushed myself up from the ground, the raw scrapes on my hand burning. I didn’t bother with her anymore. I just walked back to the dorm alone. I had tried to help. I’m not a saint. If she was so convinced he was a good guy, then let her find out for herself what kind of “good thing” her determined obliviousness had attracted. That night, Jenna returned to the dorm draped in designer labels, her arms loaded with shopping bags. “Girls, come look! It’s all designer!” Our other two roommates immediately swarmed her. “Oh my God, Jenna, is that the new C&V handbag? Did you win the lottery?” “That thing must be worth thousands! Where did you get the money?” Jenna was the only student in our major on a full scholarship, scraping by each month on aid and a part-time job. A single one of those bags was a luxury for a normal person, let alone for her. She smugly flicked her newly permed hair. “Rick gave them to me. I told him not to, but he just insisted…” I sat on my bed, headphones on, not even glancing up from my phone. My indifference clearly annoyed her. She raised her voice, letting a mocking tone drip from her words. “Sarah, weren’t you the one trying to stop me today? Going on about how taking his drink meant I had to sleep with him?” “Rick is just a genuinely nice guy! Unlike some people, who only think about what’s in a guy’s pants. Always seeing the worst in men!” I finally looked at her, my expression flat. “A guy you met today is dropping thousands of dollars on you. You think that’s normal?” “Rick’s rich! He can do what he wants!” she shot back, completely unfazed. The other two roommates started to look uneasy. “Jenna, you only met him today…” one said quietly. “Yeah,” the other added, “he’s a total stranger. Giving you such expensive gifts… it just feels a little…” Jenna’s patience snapped. “Rick’s a big-shot businessman! He makes tens of thousands a day. This is nothing to him!” One of the roommates hesitated, then asked, “But… did he do anything to you? Or… ask for anything weird?” Jenna’s face twisted in disgust. “You’re asking if we slept together, aren’t you? God, is that all you people can think about?” She raised her voice again, her eyes darting in my direction. “Do you all really think every man on the planet is dying to sleep with you? Get over yourselves! Rick said he could tell the moment he saw me that I was pure. Not like other scheming, entitled girls!” That shut the other roommates up. I expected this. I just never imagined she’d twist my warning into an act of jealousy. Fine. Whatever sweetness she was tasting now would have to be paid for later. And it wouldn’t be me footing the bill. 3 I had no interest in arguing. I just grabbed my towel and headed for the shower. I had just stepped out, wrapped in a towel, when there was a sharp knock on our dorm room door. I froze. “Who could that be? It’s so late.” But Jenna seemed to know exactly who it was. With a triumphant little hum, she sauntered over to open it. Standing in the hallway was the middle-aged man from the campus gate. Rick. He hadn’t just come onto campus. He was inside the women’s dorm. Jenna’s voice was sickly sweet. “Rick, I told you to go home. You didn’t have to come all the way here to see me. Look, is the new dress you bought me a good fit?” My mind went blank for a second, then filled with a roaring anger. “Jenna, you brought a man into the women’s dorm!” She stared at me as if I were the crazy one. “What’s the big deal? Don’t be so dramatic.” I was trembling with rage. “This is a women’s dorm! Men aren’t allowed in here, don’t you know that?” She shrugged, completely unconcerned. “He’s not a stranger, he’s my friend. Besides, I had him come up the back stairs. No one saw anything.” I was so furious I could barely breathe. “You—” Her eyes suddenly narrowed as they swept over me, her expression turning strange. “Why are you dressed like that?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Are you serious? I just got out of the shower!” Jenna just pouted and turned to Rick to complain. “See, Rick? She’s just standing there in a towel, not even trying to cover up. Do you think she’s doing it on purpose? Trying to put on a show for you?” Rick didn’t say a word, but his eyes slid over to me. They lingered on the edge of my towel with a predatory gleam that made my skin crawl. I instinctively took a step back. Rick smirked, a greasy, knowing look on his face. He played dumb. “So this is that roommate you were telling me about?” Jenna nodded eagerly. “That’s her. The one who tried to stop me from drinking your water this afternoon. She even had a price tag for every single drink—” She burst out laughing. “Isn’t that ridiculous?” Rick’s gaze landed on me again, heavier and slimier than before. I had no time to waste on these two lunatics. I turned to grab my phone from my desk. I was calling the dorm supervisor. A man in the women’s dorm? The school had to do something! Jenna’s face fell. She lunged forward and snatched my phone. Then, she tossed a designer bag at me, her voice dripping with condescension. “If you keep your mouth shut, you can have this one. It’s way more expensive than the ones I gave them. Don’t be an idiot.” I glanced at our other two roommates. They were hiding behind their bed curtains, silent. It was clear they had already accepted Jenna’s terms. Rage burned through me. There was no way I was backing down. So what if she took my phone? I’d just go find the dorm supervisor myself. I had barely reached the door when a fat, sweaty hand clamped down on my arm. I tried to pull away, my voice sharp. “Let go!” Rick didn’t let go. He tightened his grip, his thumb rubbing against my skin as he grinned. “Not so fast, little beauty. You must be the… thirsty roommate Jenna was telling me about?” I froze. “What?” His grin widened. “She said your mind is always in the gutter. That you look at every man like he’s a potential conquest. I didn’t believe her at first.” His eyes dropped down, and he gave me a look that said, I get it now. “But seeing you all dressed up like this… maybe she wasn’t wrong. Fresh out of the shower, parading around in a towel? You must have known I was coming. Got yourself all ready for me, didn’t you?” Beside him, Jenna covered her mouth, giggling. “Rick, this afternoon, the first thing she thought when she saw the drinks on your car was that drinking one meant sleeping with you. See? Isn’t that all she ever thinks about?” I summoned all my strength and finally ripped my arm from his grasp. Just then, Rick pulled out his phone and aimed the camera at me. “Don’t cover up. What’s wrong with one little picture? Isn’t this what you wanted?” My first instinct was to grab the phone, but if I moved my hands, my towel would slip. I was trapped, forced to hold it in place. Rick’s laughter grew louder. “Oh, don’t play shy now.” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to be calm. Then I lifted my chin, my voice ringing out clear and strong. “Go ahead. Take your pictures. I dare you.” “The dorm supervisor’s office is right downstairs. All I have to do is scream, and this entire building will hear me. Where do you think you are? This is a university! A man illegally entering a women’s dorm, taking indecent photos of a student… that’s enough to land you in a cell for a few months!” 4 With every word I spoke, the color drained from Rick’s face. He probably never expected me to fight back so fiercely. Most girls in this situation would be too scared or ashamed to make a scene, let alone scream for help. But my expression was absolute. He finally lost his nerve. Muttering a curse, he stuffed his phone back in his pocket and stormed out. “What a waste of time!” The moment Rick was gone, Jenna turned all her fury on me. “Sarah! You scared him off! Are you happy now? He was just here to visit me! He wasn’t going to do anything to you! Did you have to be so dramatic? Calling the cops? Are you insane?” I just looked at her, genuinely wondering if her head was filled with anything but air. This wasn’t just being oblivious. This was being an idiot. She stomped over to my desk, snatched back the designer bag, and shot me a venomous glare. “You can forget about this!” Then she flounced back to her bed, picked up her phone, and started sending voice messages to Rick. “Rick, baby, don’t be mad. My roommate’s just a psycho. She’s jealous of me…” As the adrenaline faded, a cold clarity washed over me. Reporting this now wouldn’t give them the punishment they deserved. Rick was an outsider. Since no actual harm was done, the university couldn’t do much, especially if Jenna lied and said he was a visiting relative. The most they’d get was a slap on the wrist. Besides, I had no proof. The only witnesses, my other two roommates, had been bought off and wouldn’t back me up. I didn’t want a slap on the wrist. I wanted them to get what was coming to them. But I never imagined Jenna would be the one to strike first, running to our academic advisor to report me. When I was called into the office, Jenna was already there, tears streaming down her face. “Professor, my family is poor. Rick just felt sorry for me and wanted to sponsor my education. But Sarah… she’s been spreading vicious rumors, telling everyone I have a sugar daddy, that I’m selling my body for money…” Her voice cracked. “The things she’s saying are so horrible. I just don’t know what to do…” The advisor frowned at me, her face a mask of disappointment. “Sarah, how could you spread such rumors about your roommate? Jenna’s financial situation is not something for you to gossip about!” I tried to explain. “Professor, it’s not what she’s saying. That man—” The advisor cut me off sharply. “What man? As a young woman, why is your mind so filthy? Someone offers a kind gesture to a student in need, and you twist it into something sordid. I think you’re just jealous!” A few students had gathered by the office door, whispering and pointing at me. “So that’s her. The one who’s always saying her roommate has a sugar daddy.” “Tsk, what a nasty piece of work.” Finally, the advisor made her decision. “For maliciously slandering a fellow student and demonstrating poor moral character, your scholarship for this semester is hereby revoked.” Jenna stood to the side, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She thought she had won. In the weeks that followed, Jenna was out almost every night, returning with armfuls of luxury shopping bags. She would flaunt her new possessions while taunting me. “Remember when you told me not to drink the water? Bet you regret that now, huh?” I ignored her, treating her voice like the buzzing of a fly. Then, one night, she got all dressed up to go out on another one of her dates. But it wasn’t long before she burst back into the dorm, frantic and disheveled. Her hair was a mess, her makeup was smeared, and her expensive designer dress was ripped in several places, revealing the lace edge of her bra. Her voice was a choked sob, laced with terror. “Sarah… please, you have to help me!”

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For five years, I was confined to a wheelchair, just a prop to make my sister look better. On my tenth birthday, I finally whispered to my father, asking if we could stop the injections. His face darkened. “You can’t handle five years? Your sister will be in a wheelchair for life!” He then pushed her out, leaving me alone. I wheeled myself to the balcony and saw something that froze my blood: my sister, whose legs were supposedly paralyzed, stood up and ran across the grass. My father patted her back, his tone strict but fond. “Don’t feel sorry for your sister. She mocked your disability—she deserves this.” “Five years of injections is harsh, Daddy. But she’s so cold. She needs to be taught a lesson!” my sister added. I sat there, stunned. My sister’s legs had healed years ago. My five years of confinement were just my father’s excuse to torture me. I looked down at my numb knees and let out a hollow laugh, tears falling onto my hand. I had actually stopped the medication a month ago. But my legs still felt nothing. You don’t need to give me shots anymore, Dad. It seems your punishment will never end. 1 I wheeled myself back into my bedroom. Suddenly, my right hand went completely limp. My fingers slipped off the metal rim of the wheel. All the strength drained from my arm, leaving it dangling uselessly at my side. What was happening? Panic set in. I remembered the small medical box on my nightstand. It contained a specific stimulant pill. Once, my father had injected me with too heavy a dose of his chemical paralytic. I had collapsed on the floor like a puddle of muddy water, unable to even move my eyes. He forced one of those pills down my throat to reverse the worst of the paralysis so I wouldn’t die. If I could just take one of those pills, I would regain control of my hands. I pushed the wheelchair closer to the nightstand. The gap was just a few inches too wide. I leaned forward, extending my left hand to grab the box. My fingertips brushed the plastic edge, but it slid further back. I tried again. The wheelchair rolled backward an inch. On my third attempt, a sudden, mortifying warmth spread beneath me. Warm liquid soaked through my pajama pants and dripped down my thighs. I froze. I looked down. A small puddle was already forming on the floor beneath my chair. My face burned with a shame so intense it felt like a physical slap. I had known how to use the bathroom since I was three years old. I was ten. How could I wet myself? I frantically tried to slide out of the chair, but my legs were dead weight. The humiliation kept flowing, completely out of my control. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, soaking my collar. It was so embarrassing. If my father came home and saw this mess, he would scream at me. He would look at me with absolute disgust. I used my good left hand to push against the mattress, trying to haul myself onto the bed. But with my right arm completely useless, I lost my balance. I tumbled out of the wheelchair and crashed hard onto the floor. My knees slammed into the cold tiles, but I felt absolutely nothing. I lay there, staring at my twisted, useless legs. I had to get the medicine box. I dragged my heavy, dead lower half across the floor using only my left arm. The hard tiles dug into my ribs. Every inch forward left me trembling with exhaustion. When I finally reached the nightstand, I yanked the box down. It crashed onto the floor, scattering supplies everywhere. A bottle of the stimulant pills rolled out. My chest suddenly seized. My heart began to pound erratically, skipping beats, fluttering like a dying bird. The cumulative toxicity of five years of paralytics was finally shutting down my organs. I fumbled with the bottle, managing to pop the cap off with my teeth. I tipped a pill into my mouth and swallowed it dry, praying for it to work. But my right arm remained dead. The crushing weight on my chest only grew heavier. I gasped for air, tears blurring my vision. I poured a few more pills into my palm, shoving them into my mouth, swallowing through the sharp pain in my dry throat. It didn’t work. The numbness was creeping up my spine. My lungs felt like they were filled with wet cement. I dug my fingernails into my dead thighs, scratching and clawing, begging for a single spark of pain. Nothing. It just needs more time, I told myself. The medicine just needs time to work. My vision faded at the edges. I let my head rest on the cold floor. I remembered a month ago when my father went on a business trip. There was no one to force the injections into my arm. Every morning, I woke up and tried to wiggle my toes. First day, nothing. Second day, nothing. When he returned, I told him I wanted to inject myself to prove I was being obedient. He sneered and handed me the syringes. He didn’t know I emptied the medicine down the drain and injected myself with saline. I wanted to see if my legs would heal without the poison. A whole month passed. They never woke up. My legs were permanently broken. My eyes felt incredibly heavy. The sickening nausea in my stomach faded into a strange, floating lightness. I closed my eyes, thinking I just needed to sleep. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing. My bare feet were touching the floor. I could wiggle my toes. I could lift my right arm. I was overjoyed. The pills had worked! I was cured! I spun around in pure delight, only to see someone lying perfectly still on the floor. That person was me. 2 I stepped closer, the horrifying reality sinking in. The girl on the floor had a pale, ashen face. Her eyes were closed in an expression of absolute agony. I wasn’t cured. I was dead. Once the initial shock washed over me, a strange sense of relief bloomed in my chest. Dying wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have to endure the needles anymore. I wouldn’t wet myself again. I wouldn’t make my father angry. And Amelia wouldn’t have to pretend to be paralyzed to match me. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. I floated through the closed bedroom door and saw my father and sister returning. My father pulled a pristine wheelchair from the corner of the hallway. Amelia looked at it with deep annoyance. “Daddy, how much longer do I have to pretend? I really hate sitting in this thing.” My father gently helped her sit down, his voice softening. “Just hold on a little longer, sweetheart. Your sister threw a tantrum about her shots again this morning. She still hasn’t repented for her sins.” Amelia looked up hesitantly. “Daddy, what if she really wasn’t mocking me back then? What if it was a misunderstanding?” His face hardened instantly. “You were both so young. You don’t understand how malicious she is. Your sister was born bad. She has cold blood.” “You only broke your leg and needed the chair for a few months, and she dared to limp around the house to make fun of you.” “If you were actually paralyzed, she would have bullied you to death!” “You are just too kind and forgiving, Amelia.” “Your sister lacks basic human empathy. If I don’t break her spirit now, she will grow up to be a monster.” I hovered in the air, listening to his cruel words. I lowered my head. Was I really that evil in his eyes? It didn’t matter anymore. You don’t have to worry, Dad. I am dead. I can’t grow up to be a monster now. My father pushed Amelia inside. He glanced at the quiet living room and yelled toward my bedroom door. “Caroline! Caroline?” When only silence answered him, he muttered a harsh curse. “That wretched girl is probably sleeping all day. She might as well sleep forever.” Amelia quickly chimed in. “Daddy, just let her sleep.” My father smiled, his anger vanishing as he placed the groceries in the fridge. He pulled out a beautiful, delicate strawberry shortcake and handed it to Amelia. His voice was so gentle it made my ghostly heart ache. “Here you go, sweetheart. I bought your favorite. Eat it quickly before your sister wakes up and asks for some.” Amelia’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Daddy!” “If only your sister was half as sweet as you,” he sighed, stroking her hair affectionately. “Take your time. Daddy is going to make your favorite sweet and sour ribs for dinner.” He walked into the kitchen. I watched the picturesque scene unfold, feeling like my soul was being submerged in freezing water. He had never spoken to me with that much tenderness. He had never bought me a cake. He truly hated me. A while later, the rich aroma of cooking filled the house. My mother, Sarah, unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Seeing Amelia alone in the living room, she asked, “Where is Caroline?” My father yelled from the kitchen, “Sleeping like a log!” My mother sighed, walking over to my bedroom door and knocking softly. “Caroline, it is time for dinner.” After two attempts with no response, she frowned and reached for the doorknob. “Caroline!” my father roared from the kitchen. My mother paused. My father stormed out of the kitchen, clutching a black plastic bag. He slammed it violently onto the dining table. It was the bag of unused syringes I had hidden over the past month. 3 My mother walked over to the table. When she saw the dozens of full vials and unused needles, her brow furrowed deeply. My father planted his hands on his hips, screaming at my closed door. “I knew she was up to no good! I wondered why she suddenly volunteered to do her own injections last month!” “She was hoarding the medicine! She never learned her lesson at all!” “Caroline! Get your worthless self out here right now!” The room remained deathly quiet. “Caroline! Are you deaf? Get out here and apologize!” Still nothing. His fury boiled over. He rolled up his sleeves, unbuckled his leather belt, and marched toward my door. My mother grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “David, stop! Just calm down!” She dragged him back to the dining table. “Take a breath.” She glanced at the bag of medicine, then looked at him with a serious expression. “She has been taking these shots for five years. She has been confined to that wheelchair for five years. The punishment has to end.” “Are you really going to force her to be crippled for the rest of her life?” She lowered her voice, glancing at my door. “Even if you don’t care about Caroline, what about Amelia? Is she supposed to pretend to be paralyzed in her own home forever?” Hearing Amelia’s name made my father hesitate. The rage in his eyes flickered. My mother pressed the advantage. “Use this as an excuse to stop the medication completely. Let them both go back to normal lives.” “Caroline was only five years old when she did it. She was just a baby. She is ten now. Talk to her, she will understand.” My father remained silent. He didn’t argue. My mother turned to Amelia, who was watching them nervously. Her voice softened. “Amelia, we won’t give your sister the shots anymore. You don’t have to pretend to be sick either. Neither of you will use a wheelchair at home anymore, okay?” Amelia’s eyes sparkled with pure joy. She nodded vigorously. “Really? I really don’t have to sit in it anymore?” Seeing her bright smile, my father finally gave a reluctant nod. “Fine.” He immediately justified it. “I am only doing this for Amelia. Caroline is completely beyond saving.” My mother offered a tired smile and didn’t push him further. “Alright, let’s eat. I will go wake Caroline.” “Don’t bother!” my father snapped. “She lied to us. Let her starve tonight!” My mother sighed, sitting down at the table without another word. I floated in the corner of the room, watching my father lovingly place the best pieces of meat onto Amelia’s plate. I watched the relieved smiles on their faces. I watched this picture-perfect family enjoying their warm dinner. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. Bitter, aching sorrow flooded my chest. I wouldn’t have to take the shots anymore? I wouldn’t have to use the wheelchair? But Mom. Dad. I am already dead. I looked down at my translucent hands and squeezed them into fists. I couldn’t feel a thing. Late that night, the living room was pitched in absolute darkness. My parents had gone to sleep. My bedroom door creaked open just a fraction. It was Amelia. She slid a small piece of strawberry cake wrapped in a napkin through the gap in the door. She kept her voice to a tiny whisper. “Caroline, you didn’t eat dinner. This is for you.” “Daddy bought it for me. It is really good.” When no sound came from the darkness, she assumed I was fast asleep. She quietly closed the door and went back to her room. I stared at the crushed piece of cake on the floor. Thank you, Amelia, I whispered into the silence. 4 The next morning, the sky was still a hazy gray. My parents were packing suitcases, preparing to take Amelia on a weekend trip. My father helped Amelia into her jacket, speaking in that gentle tone I craved. “We are going to visit Grandpa and Grandma for two days. Grandma made your favorite bamboo shoot stew.” Amelia tugged at his sleeve, her voice quiet. “Is Caroline not coming?” His hands stopped. His face instantly clouded over. My mother frowned, hesitating before she spoke. “We are going to be gone for two whole days. Are we really leaving Caroline behind?” “She is in a wheelchair. What if something happens to her while she is alone?” My father’s voice spiked in volume, leaving no room for argument. “She is ten years old! What could possibly happen?” “Besides, she stopped taking her medicine a month ago. Her legs are fine!” “She has been sitting in that chair for a month pretending to be paralyzed! She is a pathological liar!” I stood right next to them, desperately wanting to scream. No, Dad! I wasn’t pretending! I stopped taking the medicine, but my legs are still dead! I wasn’t lying! But my voice was nothing but air. It caused no ripples in their world. They couldn’t hear me. They couldn’t see me. My mother sighed heavily, a flash of worry crossing her eyes. But my father was already zipping up the luggage, dragging Amelia toward the front door. Before leaving, my mother pulled a few bills from her purse and left them on the dining table under a teacup. She walked to my closed door and knocked gently. “Caroline, Daddy and I are taking your sister away for the weekend. Be a good girl and stay out of trouble.” “I left money on the table. Uncle Marcus will drop by later to bring you some food.” “If you feel sick, call us immediately, understand?” She wanted to say more, but my father was already barking from the hallway. “Hurry up! We are going to hit traffic!” The heavy front door slammed shut. My soul was pulled along by an invisible tether, dragging me right into the backseat of their car. The engine hummed to life. I pressed my ghostly face against the window, watching the city blur past us. It was fascinating. I hadn’t been outside in five years. The world was so big and beautiful. Amelia fell asleep with her head resting on my father’s lap. He stroked her hair with infinite tenderness. Watching them, my soul trembled with pure envy. If I was a good girl, would he stroke my hair like that? After a long drive, we finally arrived at my grandparents’ house in the suburbs. Grandpa and Grandma were waiting on the porch. As they stepped out of the car, Grandma peered into the empty backseat, her brow furrowed. “Where is Caroline? You left her behind again?” My father hauled the suitcases out of the trunk, his voice utterly cold. “She didn’t want to come.” I stood right next to the car, shaking my head violently, waving my hands at my grandmother. “No! Grandma, I wanted to come! I didn’t say that!” Grandma shot my father a disapproving glare. “I highly doubt she didn’t want to come. You just refused to bring her, didn’t you, David?” He didn’t answer. He just carried the bags toward the house. Grandma followed him, her voice rising in frustration. “I know you resent that poor girl.” “When Sarah had severe postpartum depression after Caroline was born, you had to raise her alone. You thought she was too loud, too fussy, too demanding.” “You blamed a crying infant for your stress!” My father stopped dead in his tracks. He spun around, his eyes flashing red. He yelled back at his own mother. “Then why was Amelia so perfect?!” “They are both girls! Amelia was an angel. She was quiet, obedient, and she loved me from the day she could walk.” “But Caroline? She broke a neighbor’s window when she was three! She hit a kid in kindergarten when she was five!” “She is a demon! She was sent to this earth just to torture me!” I stood frozen on the lawn. So that was it. I was a monster in his eyes long before the wheelchair. My father’s voice cracked. Tears welled up in his angry eyes. “They are both my children. Do you think I don’t care about her?” “I am just… I am so angry!” “I am angry that I can’t fix her. I am angry that she refuses to be good like her sister.” Grandpa and Grandma exchanged a look and sighed deeply. My mother walked over, linking her arm through his to comfort him. “It is okay, David. We will teach her together.” “When she grows up, she will finally understand and be a good daughter.” Amelia grabbed his hand, using her small thumb to wipe away his tear. “Don’t cry, Daddy. I will teach Caroline. I will make her listen to you.” My father hugged Amelia tight, nodding through his tears. Right at that heartwarming moment, my mother’s cell phone rang in her pocket. It was a sharp, jarring sound. A sudden chill swept through my soul. My mother answered the phone. Before she could even say hello, Uncle Marcus’s terrified, screaming voice ripped through the speaker. “Sarah! Sarah, you need to come back right now! It is Caroline… Caroline is dead!”

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Just past midnight, the muffled cry of a baby echoed outside my thirtieth-floor apartment door. My heart dropped to my stomach. Cold sweat prickled my spine. Then I remembered the two undercover cops crashing in my guest rooms. I pressed the intercom button, faking absolute panic. The screen flickered to life, showing a woman with tear-streaked cheeks begging me to let her hide. I smiled soundlessly and unlocked the reinforced steel door. She would never know she was stepping into a perfectly baited trap. And nobody told her that the bedroom down the hall held a lot more than just two cops. 1 My name is Tessa. I live in a bizarrely zoned luxury high-rise on the outskirts of the city. It is considered luxury because the property values are sky-high, completely sold out before the foundation was even poured. It is bizarre because most of the tech bros and investors who bought the units never actually moved in. The massive complex looks like a ghost town by day and sounds like a graveyard by night. I chose the penthouse on the rear building. Thirtieth floor. Three thousand square feet, four bedrooms, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is so clear you can see the sprawling agricultural fields and greenhouses miles away, watching the seasons change right from the living room. When I bought this place, my mother nearly disowned me. She could not understand why I would pass up a fully furnished condo downtown to live like a hermit in the middle of nowhere. But I loved it. Standing on the balcony, feeling the night breeze, staring out at the dark fields. It was pure peace. My best friend joked that I paid a premium for an overpriced birdhouse, hinting that I might be a little crazy. She was probably right. But having a slice of total isolation so close to the city was a luxury not many people understood. On Friday morning, just as I stepped out of the lobby to head to work, two women in plainclothes blocked my path. One had sharp, short hair. The other wore her hair long. Both had eyes that felt like they were scanning my soul. The short-haired woman flashed a gold badge. Her voice was crisp and strictly professional. She introduced herself as Detective Sarah from the city narcotics and vice division. The long-haired detective gave a tight nod. She added that they needed to commandeer my two south-facing bedrooms to set up a temporary observation post. I blinked. Observation post? I looked them up and down, verified their badges, and finally let out a breath. Sarah pointed toward a distant cluster of industrial buildings billowing dark smoke. She explained that a massive counterfeit syndicate was operating out of a warehouse out there. They had been tracking them for weeks. The factory was churning out dangerous, unregulated narcotics disguised as prescription pills. My penthouse had the absolute best vantage point to monitor the loading docks. I am a simple woman. If it means catching bad guys and keeping the streets safe, I am all in. I agreed immediately. I told them they could have the two master suites, gave them the passcode to my digital lock, and told them to make themselves at home. Sarah was polite, telling me to go about my normal life. They would stay out of my way, making zero noise. I waved it off. Being a single woman living alone, having two seasoned detectives sleeping down the hall was the ultimate security system. I was thrilled. When I got home from work that evening, the doors to the south bedrooms were shut tight. Not a single sound leaked out. As I kicked off my heels, Sarah poked her head out of one door and gave me a tired smile. She thanked me for the hospitality. I beamed back, pointing toward the kitchen. I told her the pantry was fully stocked with snacks and energy drinks, free for the taking. She nodded, pulled her head back in, and shut the door without making a single click. I hummed a tune and headed straight for the living room. It was Friday night. I had zero plans other than binge-watching a trashy reality dating show on my massive projector screen. I had a family-sized bag of chips and an ice-cold cola. Life was perfect. Since the south rooms were occupied, I took the smaller north bedroom. It was cozy, quiet, and overlooked the glittering highway lights. I curled up on the velvet sofa, munching on chips, occasionally shouting at the TV whenever a contestant did something stupid. Time slipped away. Before I knew it, the clock hit one in the morning. My eyes burned. My stomach gave a little rumble. I stretched my arms, thinking about boiling some pasta before taking a hot shower and crashing. Right at that moment, the sound hit me. A faint, trembling cry of a baby drifted through the thick front door. 2 The crying was not loud. It was a thin, reedy sound, dripping with misery. In the dead silence of the night, it made my skin crawl. I froze. The potato chip slipped from my fingers and hit the rug. Goosebumps erupted from my ankles all the way to the base of my neck. Every true crime podcast I had ever listened to suddenly flooded my brain. Stories about traffickers using recordings of crying babies to lure women into opening their doors. Home invasion crews using women with infants as bait. Worse yet, local urban legends about things that lurked in the dark. I swallowed hard. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Normally, if I were alone, I would not even breathe. I would have army-crawled into my bed, muted my phone, and prayed whatever was out there would just go away. But tonight was different. I had cops in my house. Two of them. My spine straightened. Confidence surged through my veins. I marched right up to the entryway and hit the button for the video intercom. The screen flared bright. Standing in the hallway was a woman in her twenties. She wore a faded, oversized jacket. Clutched tightly against her chest was a baby wrapped in a thick blanket. Her hair was a greasy mess. She looked pale, her eyes red and puffy, like someone who had just been through hell. I leaned toward the microphone. I demanded to know who she was. The woman’s voice cracked. She sobbed, pressing her face near the camera. She told me her boyfriend’s mother had thrown her out into the cold. She had nowhere to go. She saw my lights on and begged me to just let her sit in my hallway for a few minutes to warm the baby. I narrowed my eyes. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The security in this building was notoriously strict. You needed an encrypted fob to even get the elevator to move. Guests had to be escorted by security guards from the front desk. How did a homeless, crying woman get past the lobby? Did she climb thirty flights of stairs? Even a marathon runner would be gasping for air, but her breathing was perfectly steady. The lie was painfully obvious. I was just about to call her out on the intercom when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Sarah. Let her in. I understood instantly. This woman was either connected to the cartel they were watching, or she was a completely different predator walking right into a trap. The cops needed her inside. I pressed the unlock button and yanked the heavy oak door open. The woman stumbled inside, bowing so deeply her head nearly touched her knees. She kept crying, thanking me, calling me a saint. I stepped aside, keeping my face perfectly blank. As she walked past me, her puffy red eyes darted around the apartment. She scanned the expensive furniture, the wide hallway, and finally locked onto the two closed doors facing south. There was a brief, greedy flash in her pupils. She was assessing the target. I laughed internally. This woman deserved an Oscar for that performance. 3 The woman stopped in the middle of the living room, shifting the baby in her arms. She rubbed her hands together and put on a pathetic, embarrassed smile. She asked if she could use the restroom, claiming the baby needed a change. I nodded and pointed toward the north wing. I told her the guest bathroom was right down that hall. But she completely ignored my gesture. She took three fast strides toward the south bedrooms and reached for the brass handle of the first door. I raised my voice, telling her to stop. Her hand froze inches from the knob. She snapped her head toward me, a flash of genuine panic crossing her face before she buried it under a fake smile. I kept my tone casual. I told her those rooms were rented out, the doors were deadbolted, and the bathroom she needed was in the opposite direction. The panic faded. She forced a laugh, showing off a row of yellowed teeth, and thanked me again. I escorted her to the north bathroom, pointed to the fresh towels, and told her to let me know if she needed anything. She slipped inside and clicked the lock. I leaned against the hallway wall, listening to the rustling sounds and the soft whimpers of the baby. It sounded incredibly real. I pulled out my phone, pretending to scroll through social media, but my mind was racing. Was the baby real? Or was it one of those creepy, ultra-realistic reborn dolls? If I accidentally poked a doll, she might flip the script, accuse me of assault, and start a shakedown. I had read about scams like that online. A few minutes later, the door swung open. She walked out, apologizing profusely for the trouble. I waved it off and forced a warm, naive smile. I asked about the baby. I told her the little one looked adorable and asked how old it was. She hesitated. It was just a fraction of a second, but it was there. She muttered that he was just a month old, growing fast, heavy for his age. I peered into the blanket. The baby had a wrinkled little face, eyes squeezed shut, tiny lips smacking together. It definitely looked real. I offered to hold him for a minute so she could rest her arms. I was not doing it out of kindness. I needed to know if it was breathing. Her eyes darted nervously. She clearly did not want to hand over her prop, but refusing would blow her cover. Slowly, she transferred the bundle into my arms. Warmth seeped through the blanket. The baby squirmed slightly, letting out a soft breath. It was alive. I exhaled quietly. I held the infant awkwardly, terrified of squeezing too hard. The last thing I needed was to drop a kidnapped baby in front of a trafficker. She watched me struggle. A dark, mocking smirk briefly touched her lips before vanishing. She introduced herself as Brenda. She launched into a tragic backstory about living in a trailer park nearby, a deadbeat boyfriend who vanished for months, and an abusive mother-in-law who finally snapped and kicked her to the curb. She squeezed out a few fresh tears for dramatic effect. If I had not already known she was playing me, I might have felt sorry for her. I gave her a sympathetic nod, carefully handing the baby back. I asked if she was hungry, offering to boil some pasta since it was freezing outside. Honestly, my cooking skills were practically nonexistent. I survived on takeout and microwave meals. Boiling spaghetti was the absolute limit of my culinary talents. Brenda’s eyes lit up. She nodded eagerly, playing the part of the starving victim perfectly.

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