Author: Momo Chan

One week before our engagement, I turned down a three-year art residency in Charleston. The reason was simple: Simon asked me to stay. He wanted me by his side. That same afternoon, he synced his phone’s Notes app with mine, claiming it would make managing our schedules easier. That night, I scrolled to the very bottom of his shared to-do list and found a draft hidden under a two-word header: Cutting Losses. 1. Within ninety days, gradually phase out one-on-one contact with Daphne. Give Carlin back her peace of mind. 2. Within six months, leverage my network to secure Daphne new gallery representation, ensuring her smooth exit. 3. If Carlin finds out, use the upcoming engagement as leverage to quiet her doubts. And the final line: “Carlin won’t leave. She’s always been the mature one. It’s the thing I respect most about her, and the thing I feel most guilty for.” I stared at that screen until the white light burned my retinas. He wrote about “guilt” and “respect.” But he mapped them out like quarterly projections, calculated and cold, instead of speaking them to me. Three days later, on my way to the venue, a delivery truck T-boned my sedan. When I woke up, the sterile scent of bleach filled my nose. Simon was there, looking like he hadn’t slept or showered in days. He leaned over the bed, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Carlin? Baby, do you know who I am?” I blinked slowly, my hand sliding out from his dry, desperate grip. “I’m sorry. Who are you?” He was the one who taught me that strong girls don’t show their bruises. If he wanted to cut his losses, I figured I might as well help him by forgetting he ever existed. … The steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room. Simon froze by the bed, his hand hovering in mid-air. His throat bobbed, his fingers trembling as he tried to touch my cheek. “Carlin, please. Don’t do this to me. It’s Simon.” If it weren’t for that note, this would have been the most beautiful, tragic display of devotion. But I knew the math. So I just stared at him, my expression blank. The heavy door swung open. Daphne rushed in, clutching a stainless-steel soup container. “Simon! Is Carlin awake yet?” She tripped over her own feet, tumbling toward the bed. Simon spun around instinctively, catching her by the waist with practiced ease. “What are you doing running like that? Be careful,” he murmured, his hands lingering on her hips. Daphne leaned into his chest, looking up at him. “I’m sorry, Simon. I was just so terrified for Carlin.” I leaned back against my pillows and watched the show. He used to hold me like that. But once I became “independent,” he stopped worrying. Simon let go of her, clearing his throat. “Carlin, this is Daphne. She just wanted to see how you were doing.” I looked from her to him. “Is this your girlfriend? You two look so sweet together.” Simon’s face went pale. “Stop it, Carlin! You’re my fiancée.” He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a brass key, holding it out to me. It was the gift he’d given me last month. The initials CL were engraved on the fob. “Look at this. It’s the key to your dream studio. The one you’ve been talking about.” I stared at the brass. Three days ago, I’d found the lease agreement for that very studio in his synced notes. The landlord was Daphne’s creative agency; the tenant was Simon. The rent came out of his personal account, but the property was legally registered under her name. This key, with my initials on it, was just a cheap tax on his conscience. I pulled the thin hospital blanket tighter around my shoulders. “I don’t recognize it. Take it away.” Simon’s hand died in the air. Daphne covered her mouth, her eyes wide. “Simon, do you think the swelling in her brain is pressing on a nerve? The doctor said this kind of memory loss can be permanent.” “Shut up,” Simon snapped, his voice sharp. “She’ll remember.” He took a deep breath, shoving the key back into his pocket. “Go home, Daphne. We don’t need you here.” Daphne bit her lower lip, setting the container on the bedside table. “I’ll leave the soup. I’ll bring some more tomorrow, okay?” Simon gave a curt nod. That single, soft sound made my chest feel hollower than any shout ever could. Once the door clicked shut, Simon sat back down, tucking the corners of my blanket in. “It’s okay, Carlin. Even if you’ve forgotten everything, we can start over.” He had that same earnest look in his eyes that he had when we first met. But his written words echoed in my head: Carlin won’t crack. His version of starting over was a calculated ninety-day detox from Daphne while using our wedding to keep me in line. I turned my back to him, sliding my hand under my pillow to find my burner phone. Three days ago, I had ignored the email from the Charleston Museum of Art. Now, I opened my messages and texted the director. Hi Gregory, is the three-year curator residency still available? The reply came almost urgently. Carlin! Yes, we kept the slot open for you. How soon can you get to Charleston? I typed back: Next week. I deleted the thread, locked the screen, and listened to the heavy, exhausted breathing of the man sleeping in the chair behind me. He had stayed awake for four days. He looked miserable. I remembered him looking just like this years ago, sitting on the concrete steps of my art school, waiting for my class to end. Back then, he wasn’t a CEO. He was just a broke kid who had failed his first two startups. I had sketched him in charcoal. He told me he’d frame it and hang it in his first real office. He did. Years later, he took it down and replaced it with a canvas of sunflowers painted by Daphne. It fits the company’s new aesthetic better, he had explained. I had smiled and said, Of course. He thought that if he just sat by my bed long enough, I’d go back to being the girl who always smiled and said of course. On the fifth day, Simon took me home. He spent the entire drive pointing out landmarks. “Look at this street, Carlin. This is where we had our first real date. You wore that blue dress. You looked beautiful.” I watched the city blur past the window. I remembered every detail better than he did. The smart lock beeped as we entered the loft. Simon took off his shoes and turned to me. “This is our place, Carlin. We’ve lived here for three years. Does any of it look familiar?” I stepped into the living room and froze. In front of my favorite floor-to-ceiling window sat a brand-new easel. On it was a half-finished oil painting of sunflowers, surrounded by tubes of acrylic paint I knew didn’t belong to me. Simon followed my gaze. Panic flashed across his face, and he rushed over to drag the easel into the dark corner of the room. “Carlin, don’t worry about this. Daphne is setting up for a gallery opening, and her studio’s light is terrible during the remodel. I just told her she could use the light here for a couple of days.” He stood in front of the easel, trying to shield it with his body. But he couldn’t block out the pair of pink slippers resting on the hardwood floor—slippers a size smaller than mine. “Does this Daphne person live here?” I asked, staring at the pink plush. “No, absolutely not. Just this once.” Before the lie could settle, the guest bedroom door clicked open. Daphne stepped out, rubbing her eyes, wearing an oversized white button-down. It was Simon’s shirt. She flinched when she saw us. “Simon? Carlin? You’re back so early.” Simon’s face turned dark. “Why are you sleeping here?” Daphne pulled a brass key from her pocket—the one with CL engraved on it. “Simon, yesterday when you gave me the keys to the studio, you said the paint fumes were too toxic for me to sleep there. You gave me the security code and told me to stay here.” She squeezed the key tight. CL. Carlin Lockhart. He had given her my name. Simon looked at me, desperate. “Carlin, it’s not what you think. I was just worried about her inhaling the fumes.” I took a step back. “It’s fine. I don’t remember anyway.” I pointed to the key. “Is that hers? It has letters on it.” Simon snatched the key from Daphne’s hand. “It’s trash,” he hissed. Then he turned to me, his voice softening. “Carlin, that studio was too small for you anyway. I found a beautiful three-story townhouse in the historic district. We can put it in your name tomorrow, okay?” He never understood. I didn’t want a bigger space. I wanted the key with my name to belong only to me. “I’m tired,” I said, turning toward the master bedroom. “I need to lie down.” As the door closed, I heard Simon’s muffled roar from the kitchen. “Daphne, pack your things and get the hell out of my house!” “Simon, please… I’m just so scared of being alone.” I leaned against the door and closed my eyes. She was scared. Three years ago, I was scared too. Simon was working eighty-hour weeks to secure his first round of venture capital, and I was painting in our cramped apartment until my fingers shook from exhaustion. He told me I was the strongest, most independent woman he’d ever met. So, I learned to stop being afraid. Daphne only had to say the word, and he folded. I opened my laptop, downloaded the contract from the Charleston Museum, and signed my name at the bottom. The start date was set for the morning after our scheduled engagement party. I dragged my suitcase from under the bed. Let him spend his ninety days cutting his losses. My exit would only take three. Three days before the party, Simon seemed lighter. He smiled over breakfast, trying to flip a sunny-side-up egg. The yolk broke. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “It still tastes good.” His hand froze on the spatula. “Carlin… you used to say that. You’re starting to remember, aren’t you?” I shook my head. “No. I just think you look handsome when you cook.” A faint blush crept up his neck. If it weren’t for the note, I would have spent the rest of my life with him. At the bridal boutique, the consultant brought out the custom gown. The skirt was embedded with three thousand hand-stitched crystals. Simon had spent three days in Paris designing it with the atelier. “Did you choose this for me?” I asked, touching the tulle. Simon knelt in front of my chair, looking up at me. “Yes. The designer said this silhouette was made for you.” I smiled, a quiet, private smile. “Then I’ll try it on.” Before I could stand, the dressing room curtain parted. Daphne stepped out wearing a pale pink bridesmaid dress, twirling her skirt. “Simon, does this look right on me?” Simon frowned. “What are you doing here?” “Your mother called me,” Daphne said smoothly. “She was worried Carlin’s memory would make things stressful, so she asked me to help consult.” She walked over to my gown, her eyes shining. “Oh my god. This is breathtaking.” She turned her gaze to Simon. “Simon, I’ve never worn a real wedding dress. Can I just try it on? Just for a second?” “No,” Simon said quickly. “That’s Carlin’s.” Daphne’s face fell, tears immediately welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I don’t deserve something like this. I just… I’ll probably never get married anyway. I just wanted to feel what it felt like. Just once.” Simon didn’t say anything, his jaw tight. He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching against his jeans. A long, suffocating silence filled the room. Then he looked at me. “Carlin… do you mind?” He was putting the choice on me. That way, he didn’t have to play the villain. It was exhausting. “Let her,” I said. “I don’t remember it anyway. A dress is just a dress.” Simon let out a breath he’d been holding. Daphne didn’t wait. She practically sprinted to the back with the consultant. When she emerged, Simon went completely still. It fit her perfectly. She was smaller than me, but the corset laced up tight. Simon stared for a few seconds before forcing his eyes away. But those seconds were plenty. I walked over to the front desk. “Please cancel the order.” Simon grabbed my wrist. “Carlin, what are you doing? I designed this for you!” I pulled my hand back. “If she loves it, she should have it. I don’t care.” Simon snapped. He turned on Daphne, his voice booming through the quiet boutique. “Take it off! Right now!” Daphne flinched, stepping backward in a panic. Her heel caught the delicate tulle of the train. A sharp, tearing sound echoed in the room. The hem was ruined. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing. “I’m sorry, Simon! It was an accident!” Simon stared at the ripped fabric, rubbing his temples. “It’s fine, Carlin. I’ll call Paris. We’ll get another one.” He tossed the brass key onto the glass table. “The studio is ready. Take the key. Let’s not ruin the day over this.” I pulled out my phone and dialed my lawyer. “Mr. Burke? It’s Carlin. I need you to draft a formal surrender of the ten percent equity Simon transferred to me three years ago. Yes, do it today.” Simon stared at me, dumbfounded. “Carlin, are you out of your mind? That’s our future!” “I’m sorry, sir,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I don’t know you, and I don’t keep things that don’t belong to me.” The morning of the day before the party, Simon held me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Carlin, you whispered my name last night. You told me not to leave. You’re coming back to me, aren’t you?” I felt a tightening in my chest. I had dreamt of the early days, when he promised to buy me the biggest studio in the city with his first investment check. “I don’t remember,” I lied, stepping out of his embrace. “It was probably just a dream.” “It’s okay,” he whispered, his eyes full of hope. “I can wait.” He drove me to the clinic for my follow-up MRI. We sat on the hard plastic chairs in the hallway. Simon’s palms were sweating as he rubbed my knuckles. “The doctor said once the swelling goes down, it’ll all come back.” I looked at the sterile beige wall. “Simon.” He stiffened. “What did you say?” “Did I say something?” “You called me Simon. You used my name!” “Simon…” I murmured, tilting my head. “It sounds familiar. Have I heard it before?” He pulled me into a fierce, suffocating hug. “You’re remembering! Carlin, you’re coming back!” His heart was pounding against my ribs. I closed my eyes, letting myself feel it. This is the last time, I told myself. Then, his phone buzzed. Once, twice, three times. He ignored it. On the fourth ring, he answered. Daphne’s hysterical voice spilled through the speaker. “Simon… I can’t do this anymore. The internet is calling me a homewrecker. They’ve ruined my career… I’m standing on the Cooper River Bridge, Simon. I’ll see you in the next life.” Simon stood up so fast his chair scraped against the linoleum. “Daphne! Don’t do anything stupid! Stay right there, I’m coming!” He hung up and looked at me, his eyes wild with panic. “Carlin, she’s going to jump. I have to go.” He reached for my face, but I flinched away. His hand hovered, trembling. “Just do your scan. Be a good girl and wait for me. I swear I’ll be back in two hours.” He sprinted toward the elevators. A minute ago, his heart was racing because of me. Now, with a single phone call, I was a footnote. It was almost funny. I walked into the MRI room. Half an hour later, the radiologist handed me the file. “Your brain is perfectly healthy, Ms. Lockhart. No swelling, no trauma. You’re completely fine.” I thanked him, took a cab back to the loft, and printed the shared Notes log from my laptop. I laid the sheets on the coffee table. On top of them, I placed the brass key and the signed equity surrender. I took a final look around the living room. The throw blanket from last night, the half-empty coffee mug, the sticky note on the fridge in his handwriting: Carlin, milk is on the second shelf. Don’t forget. I peeled the note off and stuck it next to the printed plans. I grabbed my suitcase, changed into a pair of comfortable flats, and turned toward the door. The lock clicked. Simon walked in, dripping wet, carrying a shivering, semi-conscious Daphne in his arms. He froze when he saw my suitcase. Then his eyes traveled to the coffee table. He laid Daphne on the couch and rushed over, grabbing my wrist. “Carlin, what is this? Where are you going?” I looked down at his fingers. One by one, I pried them off my wrist. “Simon,” I said, my voice entirely clear, entirely cold. He shook, his eyes widening. “You… you remember?”

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For the ninth time, I stood amidst the rugged, snow-capped peaks of Aspen, Colorado, finalizing the details for our wedding shoot. And for the ninth time, a text from my fiancée, Charlotte, blinked on my screen. “Heavy storms in LA. Flight delayed. We need to reschedule the shoot.” I stared at the glowing screen for a long, quiet moment, then turned around and cancelled everything. Not just the photographer, but the venue, the caterer, the florist. The entire wedding. I rebooked my stay as a solo, seven-day retreat in the mountains. When my best friend, Brian, heard the news, he caught the red-eye flight out to Aspen, barging into my cabin with a look of sheer disbelief. “Will, what the hell are you doing? You cancelled the entire wedding? Just like that? It’s been eight years. You’ve waited eight years for this…” The bitterness in my chest felt like physical glass, sharp and heavy, cutting off my breath. I couldn’t find the words to explain the hollow ache inside me. “The storm isn’t in Los Angeles, Brian. It’s in London.” “And she’s not at some academic forensic forum. She’s with Oliver.” When my flight had landed in Colorado, I had opened Instagram. There, on Oliver’s feed—an account that had been completely dormant for three long years—was a fresh post. “[No matter where I am in the world, one word from me is all it takes for you to leave everything behind.]” Eight years. Completely eclipsed by their fleeting, messy past. Brian let out a low, angry breath. “What about you then? She wasted eight years of your youth, Will. What are you going to do?” I let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “My application for Doctors Without Borders was approved. I leave for South Sudan in a month.” “I’m not wasting another eight years.” … Brian squeezed my shoulder, his face etched with concern. “South Sudan is on the other side of the world, Will. Are you even planning on coming back?” I shook my head. My mother’s ashes were still there, in the small clinic where she’d served before she passed. I had always planned to bring her home to Boston, but now, there was no ‘home’ left to bring her to. “Will, you two have been together for eight years. Are you really not going to give her one last chance?” I unlocked my phone and opened the app again. “[The only one of its kind. You gave it to me.]” It was a photo of an exquisite, vintage jade ring on Oliver’s finger, posted just three minutes ago. “That ring,” I whispered, staring at the screen. “It belonged to her late father. She told me it was only meant for the man she would marry. For eight years, I asked her about it. She always smiled and said she’d give it to me on our wedding day. I guess the answer is pretty clear now.” Brian slammed his fist on the rustic wooden table, pushing his sleeves up, his face flushed with rage. “That’s it. I’m going to find those two and beat the living hell out of them. Ungrateful bastards. If it weren’t for you, neither of them would even be standing today!” He wasn’t wrong. Without my financial support, Oliver would have never finished medical school, let alone landed a residency at Boston Metro. And Charlotte… if I hadn’t literally dragged her out of the wreckage of that pile-up on the icy interstate years ago and carried her on my back through the snow, she would have been nothing but a memory. I had always thought we had a silent understanding. I never wanted to weaponize my gratitude to keep her. I wanted her to love me freely. But it turned out she had simply forgotten. Brian stayed with me in Aspen for the rest of the week. Throughout those seven days, Oliver’s account was a relentless stream of updates. It was the same handle he used to log his daily life with Charlotte before everything fell apart three years ago, and now the floodgates were open again. Comments from old followers flooded in under the photos: “Are you guys back together after all this time?” “So beautiful. True love always finds its way back.” “True love.” I let out a dry, quiet chuckle. Three years ago, when I caught them red-handed, Oliver swore he would move abroad and never show his face again. Charlotte had wept at my feet, begging for forgiveness, swearing it was a momentary lapse of sanity, that it would never happen again. I scrolled through the photos—them walking across Tower Bridge, posing beneath Big Ben, their faces radiant with a joy that couldn’t be faked. My heart ached with a dull, throbbing pain. Charlotte had never taken a vacation with me. Every time we planned a trip, she cancelled at the last second, citing an urgent autopsy or a demanding case. Even this trip to Aspen had taken six months of begging and scheduling just to get her to agree. When we finally flew back to Boston, I processed my visa and booked my flight. Watching me book a ticket to London, Brian asked quietly, “Are you going to look for her?” I stared at the screen, my finger hovering over the confirmation button. A memory, soft and distant, flickered in my mind. “Will, I know you’ve always wanted to see London. I promise you, we’ll get married there. Just wait for me!” She had been eighteen, her eyes bright with a future she’d painted just for us. Instead, she went to London with Oliver, loudly proclaiming her love for him to the world. I locked my phone and looked up. “I’m just going to lay that old promise to rest. And then, I’m closing the book.” Back at our apartment, I packed my things. Before leaving, I grabbed a hammer and shattered the framed photos on the gallery wall, letting the glass rain down onto the hardwood. Looking at the empty spaces, a wave of vertigo hit me. We started in a cramped, five-hundred-square-foot studio, and eventually bought this sprawling penthouse. We both thought we’d grow old here. Just as I reached for the doorknob to leave for my hotel, the door swung open. Charlotte stood there, looking exhausted but carrying an electric energy. The moment she saw me, she threw her arms around my waist, hugging me tight. But the pungent, greasy scent of spicy hot pot clung to her clothes, hitting my nose. I couldn’t help but cough, pushing myself back slightly. “Did you have hot pot?” Her body went rigid. Her voice softened, taking on that smooth, placating tone she used whenever she was hiding something. “We had a team dinner right after my flight landed. Just catching up with the office.” Her colleagues were some of the top forensic pathologists in the state. They were meticulously health-conscious, sticking to clean meal preps and strictly avoiding greasy, high-sodium foods. “You can’t even lie to me properly anymore.” I knew the scent of that particular hot pot spot downtown. It was Oliver’s absolute favorite. I quietly slipped out of her embrace. She didn’t seem to notice, instead pulling a box of artisanal chocolates from her bag and handing them to me with a bright smile. “A souvenir from LA. I bought them just for you.” I looked from the box to her eyes, and a cold stone settled in my stomach. “I’m allergic to chocolate, Charlotte.” Her smile froze. She slowly lowered the box, biting her lip. “Right… sorry. I’ve been so overwhelmed with work, my brain is fried. Someone at the airport said they were local specialties, so I just grabbed them.” I let out a self-deprecating laugh. “This brand is local to London. It’s British.” Last month, when she went to London for a “conference,” she brought back the exact same brand. I had told her then about my allergy. She still didn’t remember. Three years ago, she could remember Oliver’s birthday down to the exact hour, his parents’ anniversaries, and every single food allergy he had. But after eight years, she couldn’t remember a single thing about me. Her expression hardened into irritation. “Seriously, Will? I know you’re upset about the wedding shoot, but you don’t have to pick a fight the second I walk through the door.” “I’m exhausted too. I’ve been working non-stop, and now I have to manage your temper. Why can’t you just let things go?” I stared at her, my eyes dark and hollow. “Who is the one who doesn’t make you feel exhausted, Charlotte? Who is the one who never loses his temper?” “Is it Oliver?” “Slam.” She threw the box of chocolates against the wall, her voice cracking as she screamed, “Enough! That was years ago! Why do you keep bringing him up?” “I don’t have the energy for this, Will. We both need to calm down.” She grabbed her purse and slammed the door behind her. I stared at the empty hallway, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. Suddenly, a wave of intense dizziness washed over me, and my knees buckled. Darkness swallowed me before I hit the floor. When I opened my eyes, the sterile scent of bleach filled my nose. I was lying in a hospital bed, an IV line running into my arm. My colleague, Dr. Cooper, chuckled as he adjusted the drip. “Will, you’re a cardiothoracic surgeon. How do you let your own blood sugar drop this low without noticing? Are you just trying to hit your deductible early?” I offered a faint, tired smile but said nothing. Cooper’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of concern. “By the way, are you really going through with the South Sudan deployment? The conditions over there are brutal. Is your fiancée okay with you guys being apart for that long?” I turned my gaze to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. “We broke up.” “Buzz.” My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A notification from Instagram popped up. Oliver had posted again. It was a photo of a slight scratch on his forearm, taken in our emergency room downstairs. “[Had a little fender bender. One call and you rushed right over.]” My fingers went completely numb. In that moment, driven by some masochistic urge, I dialed her number. It rang once, twice, three times before she finally picked up. “Charlotte, I’m in the hospital…” Before I could even finish the sentence, her sharp, clipped voice cut me off. “I know, Will. Just stay late at the clinic if you have to, and get some sleep. The medical examiner’s office just got an urgent homicide case. We’re all hands on deck. Don’t call me right now.” “Click.” The line went dead. I sat there, the phone pressed to my ear, my chest tightening so hard I could barely draw breath. Whenever I got into an accident, whenever I fainted, whenever I was in the ER, her response was always a cold, detached “I know”. I used to convince myself she was just clinical, a professional trained to handle crises with detachment. But seeing how she threw away all decorum and rushed to his side for a minor scratch, the line between love and indifference became devastatingly clear. Two days later, one of the virtues of my position became a curse: a VIP patient with minor abrasions had been admitted, and the administration had specifically requested me to oversee his discharge—apparently, a massive donation had been made to the department. I pushed open the door to the luxury suite, and the scene inside felt like a physical blow to my chest. Charlotte was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully spooning soup into Oliver’s mouth, blowing on each spoonful with a small portable fan to cool it down. Her movements were tender, agonizingly gentle. Our eyes met. She froze, nearly dropping the bowl, and quickly looked away. Suppressing the bile rising in my throat, I walked over, checked his chart, and scribbled a note. “Minor abrasions. They’ll heal on their own by tonight. I suggest you discharge him immediately. We don’t abuse hospital resources for paper cuts.” Oliver let out a sudden, dramatic cough, clutching his chest. Charlotte immediately reached out, gently patting his back, her face etched with worry. You can’t hide who you love. It’s in every instinctual movement. “Dr. Will,” Oliver stammered, his eyes pooling with tears. “Charlotte and I… we aren’t back together. I just got back to the States and got into an accident. I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry…” I slowly began to clap, a dry, mocking sound in the quiet room. “Should I applaud you then? For not sleeping with her yet, or for not crawling back into her bed just yet?” “Thud.” Charlotte stood up so fast her chair scraped violently against the floor. “Will! You are a professional surgeon. Show some medical ethics.” “To human beings, Charlotte. Not to parasites.” Her face turned white. Oliver grabbed my sleeve, his eyes red and pleading. “Dr. Will, I know what happened three years ago was unforgivable. But it’s been so long. Can’t you just forgive me?” I violently yanked my arm back, reached into my white coat for the hand sanitizer, and drenched my wrist in alcohol, scrubbing it raw. “You almost killed me three years ago. Why the hell would I ever forgive you?” Three years ago, driven by sheer arrogance, Oliver had forged my signature to perform a complex cardiac bypass he wasn’t qualified for. The patient coded on the table. When the furious family confronted us, Oliver panicked. As a distraught relative pulled a knife, Oliver grabbed me and shoved me into the path of the blade. I took three deep stab wounds to the chest. I lost half my blood volume, flatlined twice, underwent a ten-hour emergency surgery, and spent seven days in a medically induced coma. And Charlotte? She had knelt before me, crying, begging me not to press charges because Oliver was “young and impulsive.” She even went to a cathedral and lit ninety-nine candles, praying for my recovery and promising to cut him out of her life forever. “I’m so sorry, Will. Let’s just build our life together. I promise he’s gone for good.” Promises are only remembered by those who believed them. Charlotte stepped in front of Oliver, shielding him from me. “Will, we can’t live in the past. Forgiveness is the only way we both move forward.” The sheer absurdity of her words made me laugh. “You are the last person on earth who has the right to say that to me.” “Charlotte, you really do love him, don’t you? Fine. I’m stepping aside. I hope you two deserve each other.” I turned and walked toward the door. Behind me, Oliver’s voice echoed: “Charlotte, go after him! You guys are getting married! Don’t let him leave because of me!” I paused for a fraction of a second, a foolish, lingering hope whispering that she might actually follow me. Instead, I heard the sound of sharp slaps. Oliver was crying out, “It’s my fault! I’m so shameless! I shouldn’t have asked you for help! I shouldn’t have come back to anger Will!” And then, Charlotte’s voice, cold and dismissive, slicing through the air: “He’s always been like this. He’ll never change.” “We’ve been together for eight years. Who else is going to marry him if not me?” The words were meant for me to hear. And I did. Late that night, a heavy knock rattled my hotel room door. I opened it to find Charlotte standing there. “Will, is throwing a tantrum and running away to a hotel really necessary? How old are you?” I didn’t answer, stepping back to slam the door, but she wedged her foot in. “I have some time off next month,” she said, her voice softening. “When did you reschedule the wedding shoot for?” Looking into her detached, beautiful eyes, I felt entirely empty. “Charlotte, what if I told you I’m leaving? What if there is no wedding?” She let out a soft, amused laugh, stepping into the room and wrapping her arms around my waist, resting her head against my chest. “Will, we’re not kids anymore. We worked so hard to save up for this house and this wedding. Don’t say things like that.” “You promised we’d get married when we turned twenty-six. This is our year.” A familiar, crushing ache bloomed in my chest. Why did her lies still have the power to hurt so much? Suddenly, her phone blared in her hand. She checked the screen, and her posture instantly changed. She pulled out of my embrace, her eyes already scanning the exit. “The lab has an emergency. I have to go.” She took a couple of steps, then paused, tossing a small shopping bag onto the bed. “Don’t be mad about earlier. I’m sorry.” “Make sure you keep planning the wedding. Don’t mess up the schedule.” After the door clicked shut, I opened the bag. Inside was a designer silk tie. I threw it straight into the trash can. Just half an hour earlier, Oliver had posted on his story: “[Someone has the worst taste. Only old, boring men would wear something this tacky lol]” So this was my consolation prize. She took the garbage he rejected and handed it to me like a grand gesture of mercy. How pathetic. Later that night, the ER called me back in for an emergency thoracotomy. My heart was pounding erratically, a dark, suffocating dread settling over me as I scrubbed in. When I entered the operating room, my eyes widened. Resting on the table was an elderly woman. I recognized her immediately. It was Oliver’s mother. There was no time to hesitate. Her heart was failing, her vitals flatlining on the monitor. The machines beeped frantically. “Her thoracic aorta has ruptured! Get the blood bank on the line, now!” I roared. We fought for her life all night under the harsh surgical lights. By dawn, her vitals stabilized. Exhausted, dragging my feet, I walked out of the surgical wing, only to run right into Charlotte and Oliver. She had her arm around his shoulder, speaking to him in a soft, soothing murmur. I tried to walk past them, treating them like ghosts. But Oliver grabbed my arm. “Will! Is my mom okay? Please tell me you didn’t… you wouldn’t hurt an innocent woman just to get back at me, right?” The hushed whispers of passing nurses and doctors immediately cut through the hallway. I ripped my arm out of his grasp. “I am a surgeon. I do my job.” I turned to leave, but Charlotte grabbed my other arm. “Will, his mother is innocent. Tell me you didn’t let your personal feelings interfere.” My head spun violently. The lack of sleep, the emotional battery, the sheer exhaustion—everything caught up to me at once. The sterile white hallway began to tilt. “Thud.” I collapsed onto the floor. The last thing I heard before the dark pulled me under was a panicked scream: “Will!” It had to be an illusion. She didn’t love me anymore. Why would she care if I lived or died? I fell into a long, suffocating dream. I saw Charlotte back when she was working three retail jobs just to afford tuition, scrubbing floors until her hands bled, almost getting beaten to death by a local loan shark. I remembered how I carried her on my back for miles to the nearest clinic. I dreamed of our darkest, poorest days, living in a damp, windowless basement, sharing a single cup of instant noodles and feeling like we owned the world. Then I saw Oliver, smiling, calling me “Will,” tagging along behind me like a little brother. And then the dream fractured into cold, jagged shadows. They were laughing at me, tearing my life apart piece by piece. When I finally woke up, my throat was parched, burning like fire. A nurse whispered, “Dr. Will, you’ve had a severe fever. You need to rest.” I nodded weakly, took my discharge papers, and slowly walked out of the recovery ward. The moment I stepped into the lobby, a swarm of reporters and flashing cameras descended on me like vultures. “Dr. Will, are you faking an illness to escape malpractice charges?” “Did you deliberately botch the surgery on Oliver’s mother out of jealousy, leaving her in a permanent coma?” I stood frozen, my mind completely blank under the blinding lights. Suddenly, Oliver pushed through the crowd, grabbing my collar with trembling, manic hands. “Will! I told you to come after me! Why did you have to hurt my mother?” “Do you have no conscience? How do you call yourself a doctor?!” I opened my mouth to speak, but the reporters drowned me out. “Mr. Oliver, is this a romantic dispute? Is there a love triangle involved?” Through the chaotic crowd, a man suddenly lunged forward, a gleaming kitchen knife gripped in his hand, screaming as he charged toward Oliver and me. A shadow blurred past my eyes. Charlotte threw herself forward. But instead of pushing both of us out of the way, her hands instinctively grabbed Oliver, pulling him out of the line of fire, while her momentum shoved me directly into the path of the blade. The steel tore through my chest, piercing deep near my heart. My shirt bloomed with hot, crimson blood. I stumbled back, staring at her, my voice barely a whisper. “Charlotte… why…?” Holding Oliver tightly in her arms, she froze, her eyes widening as she stared at the blood pooling on my chest. She looked horrified, as if she hadn’t realized what her reflex had done. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Around us, camera shutters clicked furiously. Finally snapping out of her trance, she cleared her throat, her voice shaking but formal. “Dr. Will and I… we were just classmates in medical school. We have no personal relationship.” “I’m sure this wasn’t intentional. We will let the authorities handle the investigation.” The pain in my chest was an agonizing, burning white light. I coughed, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the white tiles, and collapsed. As they wheeled me into the emergency operating room, the cold metal table felt like a tomb. A voice echoed in my ear: “Stay with us, Dr. Will! Don’t close your eyes! You have to live to prove your innocence!” “Yes…” I had to live. I had to clear my name. And I had to watch those who betrayed me burn. After the surgery, once I was stable, I compiled all the encrypted telemetry data and surgical logs from the operating room and sent them directly to the district attorney’s office. My phone buzzed constantly with calls from Charlotte. I blocked her number. As the plane climbed into the sky, leaving Boston behind, I looked out the window. I was finally going to find myself again.

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I had just walked out of the courthouse, the ink on my divorce decree barely dry. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. Someone had tagged my ex-husband in our old college group chat. “Congrats, Elwin! You’re a dad!” I froze, my mind struggling to process the words. Then, Joyce’s profile picture flashed on my screen. “Thank you, everyone. It’s a baby girl.” I stared at the screen, my mind going completely blank. I tapped on her profile. Her pinned post was a photo of a freshly signed marriage license against a velvet red backdrop. She was smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she leaned her head against Elwin’s shoulder. The caption read: “We survived the seven-year itch. Finally official.” Right below it was Elwin’s comment: “I would have waited a lifetime for this day.” Scroll down further, and a long line of mutual friends were offering their congratulations. I scrolled, my fingers numb, until I saw my mother’s account: “My sweet goddaughter, I am so incredibly happy for you.” My fingers began to tremble. Elwin and I had been married for ten years. He and Joyce had been together for seven of them. My mother knew. My friends knew. And they had all spent those years helping them lie to me. I collapsed onto the stone steps outside the courthouse. I pinched the screen, zooming in on the marriage license, then zooming out, then zooming in again. My chest felt so tight I couldn’t draw a breath. I clicked back into the post and left a comment: “Congratulations. Thank you for using ten years of my life to help you get through your seven-year itch.” … My phone rang almost instantly. It was Elwin. For the last six months of our separation, he had kept me blocked on everything. If I wanted to say a single word to him, I had to go through his assistant. Now, he was calling me directly. “Delete that comment.” “Why?” My voice floated, barely a whisper. “Did I say something untrue? You and Joyce lied to me for seven years.” The line went quiet for a beat. “We’re divorced now, Claire. What’s the point of dragging up the past? What does it accomplish?” A sharp pain pierced my chest. Ten years of marriage, and to him, it was just “the past” with no point. “I’ll add another million to your divorce settlement,” Elwin’s voice softened, almost pleading. “Claire, please. I’m begging you.” “Joyce just gave birth. Her emotions are all over the place. If she sees your comment, it’ll devastate her.” His words felt like a dull knife scraping against my ribcage. Elwin was a man of fierce, almost toxic pride. Back in college, when a local gang cornered him and broke his pinky finger, he hadn’t made a single sound. Later, when his startup was blackballed by a dozen competitors, he refused to beg for mercy. In our ten years of marriage, through every argument, he had never once backed down or apologized. But now, he was begging me. Just to delete a comment. As a tear slipped down my cheek, I realized what a fool I had been. I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, a soft voice drifted through the receiver from his end. “Elwin, come here quickly. Millie is crying again.” Millie. He named their daughter Millie. In our fifth year of marriage, I finally got pregnant. I told Elwin I had dreamed of a baby girl who looked just like me. He laughed, placing his hand over my stomach. “If it’s a girl, let’s name her Millie. Like a gentle, endless stream of blessings.” But that child had no blessings. Right before my due date, one of Elwin’s business rivals came to our house looking for revenge. I was pushed down the stairs, the baby was stillborn, and the doctors had to perform an emergency hysterectomy. And now, he had given my daughter’s name to someone else. The line went dead before I could respond. The sun beat down, bright and unforgiving, making my head spin. Behind me, a newlywed couple stepped out of the courthouse, laughing as they held each other close. Ten years ago, Elwin and I had stood on those same steps. He had spun me around in his arms, laughing with that same pure joy. “Claire, I swear, I will never let go of your hand.” But years have a way of turning promises into ash. My phone continued to buzz relentlessly. It was our mutual friends, spamming Joyce’s post with meaningless comments, desperate to bury my words so she wouldn’t see them. I scrolled through Joyce’s profile, my movements mechanical. There were so many posts I had never seen before—posts I had been blocked from viewing. “June 13, 2019” Joyce had posted a photo of herself sitting on Elwin’s mahogany office desk. The caption read: “New job, boss of the boss.” Below it, our mutual friends commented: “All hail the lady boss.” Just at the beginning of that month, under pressure from both our families, Elwin, and our friends, I had officially resigned from my position at the firm to become a full-time housewife. Their seven years had started right then. “December 9, 2021” Joyce posted a photo of her hand hooked up to an IV drip. Caption: “Clumsy me got a little cut. Someone stayed by my side all night. Better than any anesthesia. Thank you, my hero.” That was the most unforgettable day of my life. Elwin’s rival had broken into our home. Clutching my stomach, I ran up the stairs, but during the struggle, I fell. I lay in a pool of blood, dialing Elwin’s number over and over. He never picked up. That was the day I lost my baby girl. While Elwin was busy playing hero for someone else. And then, six months ago, Joyce posted a high-resolution ultrasound. “We’ve been waiting for you, little one.” That very morning, I had been standing in our bedroom, gently adjusting Elwin’s tie. Out of nowhere, he spoke. “Claire, let’s get a divorce.” My head spun. “Why… why?” He didn’t look at me. “I’m tired,” he said flatly. After that day, he never came home. No explanations, no communication. He blocked my number, and all my messages sank into an abyss. Only his assistant contacted me to handle the paperwork. I was losing my mind, desperate to reach him. I even turned to Joyce to pour my heart out. She comforted me back then, saying: “Don’t overthink it, Claire. You know how Elwin gets when he’s stressed. The more you push, the more he’ll pull away.” I genuinely believed I was the problem. I began to replay every conversation we’d ever had. I combed through text logs, social media, photo albums, trying to find the exact day, the exact word, the exact moment he “got tired” of me. During those months, I was a ghost. I spent nights crying in the dark, my mental health collapsing. When I finally woke up in the ICU after another panic-induced collapse, and Elwin still hadn’t shown up, I finally took the papers from his assistant and signed my name. Now, scrolling through her feed, I realized that while I was wishing for death, he was traveling the world with Joyce. They went to Iceland to see the northern lights. They went to Kenya for the safari. They spent entire days wrapped in blankets watching movies. Elwin, the chronic workaholic who had abandoned me on our wedding night to go back to the office, had taken a whole year off to pamper Joyce through her pregnancy. My vision blurred, the screen becoming a smear of colors. That familiar, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest like a rising tide. I walked down the street like a zombie. My foot caught on something, followed by the deafening screech of tires. Before I could react, I was thrown onto the asphalt. My vision faded into black. When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital bed. Elwin was standing by my side, wearing the charcoal wool coat I bought him last winter. I thought I was dreaming. I stared at him, afraid to blink, until he spoke. “Did you do this on purpose?” I froze. He looked down at me, his eyes cold. “You knew today was our daughter’s one-month celebration, and you just had to pull a stunt like this.” Since I had woken up, he hadn’t asked if I was in pain. He didn’t care how I got hurt. I slowly turned my head toward the door. The hallway was crowded. My mother was there, along with several of our old friends. They had all come. They were dressed up to celebrate Joyce’s baby. On the day my divorce was finalized. On the darkest day of my life, my closest family and friends were dressed in their finest to celebrate the mistress. I opened my mouth, but my throat was too dry to make a sound. My mother-in-law, Marion’s voice drifted in from the corridor: “Elwin, Joyce is asking for you. Go back to her, we’ll handle things here.” Elwin walked to the door, pausing briefly. “Get some rest. Don’t do something like this again.” I choked out, “Elwin, stop…” He didn’t pause. He didn’t look back. I struggled to push myself up, tumbling out of the bed. My knees hit the cold linoleum, and the stitches on my leg tore open. My mother ran into the room, grabbing my arms. “You’re divorced now, Claire! Can’t you just let us have some peace?” She hauled me back onto the bed, her movements rough and impatient, ignoring my winces. “Joyce hasn’t had it easy these past few years, always walking on eggshells, afraid to even look you in the eye. She even had to hide her social media posts from you.” She frowned, pulling the thin blanket over my legs. “Now that the divorce is final, let the past stay in the past.” I looked at her face, suddenly feeling like I was looking at a stranger. “Mom, when did you find out about them?” She remained silent, her fingers nervously rubbing the turquoise beaded bracelet on her wrist. Joyce had given her that. For her birthday last year, I had climbed the steep, three-thousand-step trail to the Saint Jude sanctuary to get her a blessed silver pendant. She hadn’t even looked at it, dismissing it as superstitious nonsense. Yet she treated this cheap bead bracelet from Joyce like a family heirloom. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I turned away. “Mom, please leave. I want to sleep.” Without hesitation, she smoothed the collar of her designer dress and walked out, eager to return to Joyce’s celebration. Half an hour later, I dragged myself out of the ward. I ran straight into Joyce, who was holding the baby in the banquet lobby. “Claire… what are you doing here?” Joyce instinctively took a step back, shielding the baby in her arms. I stared at her. “Are you really that afraid of seeing me?” Joyce lowered her head, keeping her voice soft. “Claire, I know I hurt you. But you can’t force love. Elwin loves me. If you want to get technical, you’re the one who stood between us for ten years.” My hands grew cold and numb. The words I wanted to scream choked in my throat. Joyce looked up, her eyes rimmed with red, but there wasn’t a shred of remorse in her gaze. The baby in her arms suddenly burst into a loud wail. Joyce cooed frantically, “Shh, Millie, don’t cry. Mommy’s here…” Before I could react, someone grabbed my shoulder and shoved me aside. I stumbled, nearly crashing into the wall. Elwin threw himself in front of Joyce, guarding her fiercely. “Claire! If you have a problem, direct it at me! Don’t you dare touch my family!” My wrist throbbed where he had grabbed me. I stood there, mute. Joyce tugged gently at Elwin’s sleeve, her voice dripping with vulnerability. “Elwin, don’t… Claire didn’t mean it. We’re the ones who wronged her. I understand why she hates us.” Elwin’s anger flared, but as his eyes swept over my pale, trembling face, he stopped. “Why are you sweating so much?” He frowned, taking a step closer. “If you’re sick, stay in your hospital bed. Why are you here causing a scene?” He reached out to grab my arm. But behind him, the baby let out a sharp cry. Instantly, he spun around, taking the infant from Joyce’s arms, cradling her with immense care. “Daddy’s here, Millie. Don’t be scared… let’s go get some milk.” I watched their retreating figures, my knees buckling. Just then, a hand caught me from the side. It was Elwin’s assistant, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “Mr. Ward asked me to escort you out.” Before I could speak, my phone buzzed. A bank notification flashed on the screen: a deposit of one million dollars. Then, the phone rang. It was Elwin. Against the noisy background of the party, his voice was low and urgent. “You received the million, right?” “Combined with the ten million from the divorce settlement, that’s eleven million total.” “Take the money and go abroad.” My fingers clenched around the phone until my knuckles turned white. There was a brief silence on the other end. “If you stay here, Joyce will always be anxious. I don’t want her to be unhappy.” Standing by the glass doors, I looked inside. I saw the man cradling the baby with one hand while carefully holding a bottle to her lips. Joyce sat beside him, supporting the infant’s head, smiling up at him. The three of them were bathed in the soft, warm light of the venue, looking like a perfect family portrait. A bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Eleven million to buy my disappearance. What about my daughter’s life? How much are you going to pay for that?” “Claire…” his voice dropped, turning cold. “That was an accident.” “The divorce is finalized. You got every penny you deserved. What more do you want from me?” Tears blurred my vision. When I first met him, he wasn’t the powerful CEO he was today. He had nothing, living in a cramped, drafty studio apartment. I ate instant noodles with him, stayed up late working, and begged everyone I knew to help him scrape together his startup capital. When he drank himself to stomach bleeding at business dinners, I stayed by his hospital bed, terrified to close my eyes. I gave him the best ten years of my life. And in the end, those ten years were treated as a simple, transactional business deal. I didn’t say another word. I turned and walked out into the cold. We had been driving for barely ten minutes when the assistant’s phone buzzed. “Miss Collins… there’s trouble.” He handed me his phone. A local tabloid headline was trending: “CEO Elwin Ward’s Ex-Wife Crashes Baby Shower, Original Wife Attacks Mistress”. A video was attached—the exact exchange between Joyce and me. The comments were exploding, dragging Joyce’s name through the mud. Before I could even scroll down, the assistant slammed on the brakes. “Miss Collins, Mr. Ward is ahead.” I looked up. Elwin’s SUV was parked sideways, blocking the road. He got out of the driver’s seat, marched over, and yanked my door open. “Get out.” I didn’t move. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me out onto the asphalt. My stitches screamed in pain, and I whimpered as I struggled to stand. Elwin’s voice was like ice. “Did you post that video?” “No.” “No? Who else would have done it?” I held my phone, too exhausted to explain. “Are they saying anything false? You’re a cheater, and she’s a homewrecker—” “Crack.” A sharp slap echoed through the quiet street. My head whipped to the side as his palm slammed across my face. My ears rang, and half of my face burned with a searing heat. I stood frozen, staring at him. Years ago, when we made pottery together and a spinning wheel grazed my hand, leaving a tiny red mark, he had panicked, desperately searching for ointment. Back then, I thought being loved by someone so fiercely was the ultimate happiness. And now, he had slapped me. For another woman. The assistant rushed out of the car, stepping between us. “Mr. Ward! It wasn’t Miss Collins! I’ve been watching her the entire time, she hasn’t touched her phone!” Elwin’s hand froze in mid-air. A flash of regret crossed his eyes. “Claire, I…” He paused, clenching his fists, forcing down his guilt. “I’m not trying to make things hard for you. I just need your help to clear this up. Write a statement. Tell everyone we divorced amicably, and Joyce was never the third party.” I let out a wet, hollow laugh, tears tracking down my swollen cheek. “Clear her name? I’d rather die.” I made a move toward the guardrail of the bridge over the river. Elwin’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Are you insane…?” Without looking back, I climbed back into the assistant’s car. The moment the door clicked shut, my composure shattered, and the tears came flooding out. By the time I got back to my apartment, night had fallen. Before I could unlock the door, a crowd surged from the end of the hallway. Eggs and rotten vegetables rained down on me. Cameras flashed, blinding me. “You manipulative bitch!” “You’re the one who ruined their relationship, and now you’re playing the victim!” I stood there, stunned. I scrambled to open my phone. Twenty minutes ago, a long statement had been posted from my personal social media account, confessing that “I” was the actual homewrecker who had forced Elwin into marriage. “Get out of our building! We don’t want a toxic liar living here!” Another egg cracked against my head. I curled into a corner, trying to shield myself. “Stop it! Leave her alone!” my mother’s voice rang out from the back of the crowd. She pushed her way through, shoving people aside, and hurried me into the apartment, locking the door behind us. “I told you to lay low! Why won’t you ever listen?” I looked up at her, my vision blurry. “Did you use my account to post that statement?” She sighed, using a wet towel to wipe the residue from my face. “Elwin posted it. But he had no choice. You’re leaving the country anyway, so a little bad press won’t hurt you. But Joyce and Elwin have to build a life here. Millie is so small. For their sake, just bear it.” My throat burned. On the television screen, the local evening news was playing. Elwin, Joyce, and their baby were sitting in a studio. The host asked about the recent controversy. Elwin held Joyce’s hand, his voice steady and resolute: “Joyce and I were college sweethearts. She sacrificed so much for me, waiting quietly all these years. As for Claire, she was Joyce’s friend. I only showed her extra care out of obligation. I never expected her to use that kindness to spread malicious lies.” Joyce sniffled, her voice trembling. “Claire… she loved Elwin too much. That’s why she did those things. I don’t blame her…” The live chat scrolled by: “Oh my god, that woman is a psychopath. Imagine backstabbing your best friend like that. Disgusting.” A wave of absurd amusement washed over me. Years ago, when his startup failed, I secretly worked three jobs, sleeping only four hours a day to keep us afloat. When he found out, he held me tight, his eyes red with tears, and swore: “Claire, if I ever betray you, I hope I die a miserable death.” He had sounded so sincere. I had believed him. And now, on television, he summarized our ten years as “extra care out of obligation.” I took a stumbling step forward, my knee slamming into the corner of the nightstand. The drawer rattled loose, spilling its contents onto the floor. I knelt to gather them, my eyes landing on an old tin box. I opened it. Inside was a neatly folded piece of paper. It was Elwin’s handwriting. “To my baby girl, Daddy is so sorry.” “Aunt Joyce waited for me for a very long time. Her health is fragile, and she couldn’t handle the shock. If you were born, she would have been devastated.” “When Aunt Joyce and I have our own baby, we’ll name her Millie too.” “It will be like you never left me.” I stared at the note, reading every word. Once. Twice. Again and again. A violent tremor shook my entire body. No wonder his rivals had bypassed our security so easily. No wonder he hadn’t answered any of my calls that night. My daughter wasn’t killed by an accident. She was sacrificed by her own father. I crouched on the floor, my throat tight as if gripped by invisible hands, unable to make a sound. My tears soaked the paper, blurring the ink into dark smudges. I don’t know how long I sat there. Eventually, I dragged myself up. I turned on my laptop and began downloading every piece of archived evidence: chat logs, bank transfers, medical records, timelines, screenshots of Joyce’s old posts. And that note. Then, I dialed my lawyer’s number. “Mr. Adler, I’ve changed my mind. I want to sue Elwin Ward for adultery, hiding marital assets, and… wrongful death.” After hanging up, I opened a livestreaming app. “Hello everyone. I am Elwin Ward’s ex-wife. I think it’s time you knew the truth.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “538961”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend, Austin, always said he despised the wealthy. He reserved a special kind of venom for the trust-fund heiresses who thought they could buy their way through life. Until the night he took a premium designated-driver shift, and a girl in a Porsche threw up all over his jacket. Austin dragged her out of the vehicle and onto the wet pavement of the Chicago street. “You think having a little money makes you special?” he sneered, loud enough for passersby to hear. “Women like you are pathetic. Don’t waste my time.” The girl, Charlotte, was so furious she threatened to make sure he’d never find work in this city again. Terrified of what she might do to us, I bowed and apologized repeatedly, handing over every cent of our rent money to cover her dry-cleaning and car-detailing bills. On the long walk back to our cramped apartment, Austin wrapped his arms around me. “Grace, you’re the only good thing in my life,” he whispered. “You’re real. You’re honest. You’re nothing like those people.” Later, as the autumn chill began to settle into the city, I wanted to surprise him. I started scrolling through a local buy-and-sell group, hoping to find a cheap, used electric moped to save him from walking to his night shifts. Instead, I stumbled across a listing posted by Charlotte. She was selling a duffel bag of discarded men’s clothes. Her caption read: “The three-year starter pack for the heir of the Dumond empire pretending to be a pauper. Mission accomplished. Anyone want it?” Beneath the post, a comment asked: “So when is Austin coming back to New York for the engagement party?” Charlotte had replied: “Soon. Just waiting for the country girl to empty her bank account to buy him a scooter. Once she does, he wins the bet.” I tapped the image, zooming in. Resting right at the top of the pile was a pale grey button-down shirt. It was the one I’d bought for Austin at a thrift market for ten dollars. The loose thread on the left cuff was held together by a neat, tiny stitch—one I had done myself, needle and thread in hand, under the dim light of our kitchen. Beside the shirt, in the reflection of the vanity mirror in the background of the photo, Austin was leaning down, kissing Charlotte’s cheek. … I stared at the screen, zooming in until the pixels began to blur. The reflection was grainy, but I could never mistake that shirt. It was a washed-out grey, the cotton thin and worn, with that single white thread holding the cuff together. I remembered the night I brought it home. The thrift vendor had shouted, “Ten bucks, as-is, no returns!” I had been so worried Austin would find it cheap that I washed it three times with scented softener, then sat on the edge of our squeaky mattress, carefully mending the frayed seam. When he tried it on, he had wrapped his arms around my waist, laughing. “Our Grace has the best eye,” he’d said. “A ten-dollar shirt looks like a thousand bucks on me.” I had laughed with him. Only now did I realize he hadn’t been complimenting me. He had been mocking me. The comment section under the listing was gaining traction. “Austin is ruthless. Three years in a dingy Chicago neighborhood, and she actually believed he was a broke gig driver?” “The bet’s almost over, right? I heard she’s almost saved up enough.” “Working-class girls are so easy to please. Tell them you’ll marry them someday, and they’ll give you their whole lives.” I stared at the words “saved up enough”. My fingers grew numb, the chill spreading from my fingertips straight to my chest. Under our bed, tucked inside a rusted metal band-aid tin, was exactly $18,362. I worked the register at a local bodega by day and ran plates at a greasy-spoon diner by night. I lived on expired sandwiches, bought groceries only when they marked down the produce at closing time, and skipped my own stomach medication whenever the cramps hit because the prescription was too expensive. I did it all because Austin told me how exhausting it was to drive drunk people around all night. “If only I had a moped,” he’d sigh. “Just a cheap one, so I don’t have to walk miles in the cold.” My heart had ached for him. I thought I was standing by a good man, building a life from nothing. I didn’t know I was just a chip on a roulette table. My phone buzzed. Austin: “Hey Grace, I’m going to be late tonight. Got a client who had way too much to drink. I’ll head home as soon as I drop her off.” Staring at the word “her”, a memory flashed through my mind. In the beginning, whenever Austin took a female client, he would immediately send me his live location. He’d even call me on speakerphone, loudly telling the passenger, “Sorry, just updating my girlfriend. She keeps me on a tight leash.” I had always thought it was his way of making me feel secure. Now I knew the truth. The only person being watched was me. The deadbolt clicked. I slid the tin box back under the bed just as Austin walked through the door. He reeked of expensive gin and cold air. His wool coat was draped over his arm, and a faint smear of pink lipstick caught the light near his collar. He paused when he saw me sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark. “Why are you sitting up? You scared me.” I looked up at him, my voice flat. “Was the client difficult?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second while kicking off his shoes, but the easy, charming smile returned to his face almost instantly. “Yeah, pretty bad. She was totally wasted, insisted I walk her up to her apartment. Annoying as hell.” I kept my eyes on his collar. “Did she kiss you?” Austin’s expression tightened. He reached up, rubbing his collar, and when his fingers came away with a trace of pink, his brow furrowed in frustration. “She stumbled on the stairs and grabbed me. It must have rubbed off. Don’t overthink it, Grace.” He walked over, dropping to his knees in front of me, and took my cold hands in his warm ones. “You know who I am, right? I can’t stand those rich, entitled women. They’re parasitic.” His palms were burning hot against mine. I shivered. “Austin,” I whispered, “what if someone made a bet on me?” His grip tensed. “What?” “What if someone bet on how stupid I am? What if they wanted to see if I’d empty my entire life savings for a man? Would you find that funny?” Austin’s grip tightened further, turning my knuckles white. A forced laugh escaped his lips. “What’s wrong with you tonight? Did someone treat you like garbage at the diner?” I pulled my hands out of his grasp. “No. Just asking.” He watched me for a long moment, then reached out to ruffle my hair, his voice softening into that patronizing, comforting tone he used so well. “Stop letting your mind run wild. In a couple of days, I’ll take you to look at that moped, okay?” I lowered my eyes. “Okay.” He let out a quiet sigh of relief and turned to set his phone on the nightstand. As he did, the screen lit up. The contact name was simple: “Charlotte”. While Austin was in the shower, I picked up his phone. The passcode was my birthday. He had never bothered to change it, probably because he was absolutely certain I would never look. His pinned chat wasn’t me. It was a group text. The title: “The Dumond Charity Project”. The latest message was from Charlotte: “Is he back yet? Don’t blow your cover. I’m still expecting to watch her buy you that moped tomorrow.” A string of laughing emojis followed. Someone else wrote: “Austin really played this perfectly. Three years? And she actually believed you were a broke valet?” Austin had replied: “She’s sweet. Don’t talk about her like that.” My breath caught in my throat. But then I saw his next text, sent a second later: “But yeah, we’re almost at the finish line. Once she hands over the cash, I’m heading back to Manhattan.” My vision went black at the edges. I tapped on the group’s shared media album. There were dozens of photos. A photo of me boiling cheap instant ramen, shot from behind. His caption: “Instant noodles again. She says she’s saving up to buy me a ride.” A photo of me coming home at 2:00 AM, holding a small package of discounted pork chops from the grocery store. His caption: “She wanted to cook me a proper meal. She’s living on cabbage so I can have protein.” And a photo of me sitting by the edge of the bed, carefully stitching the sleeve of his grey thrift-store shirt. I had thought he was asleep that night. He had been awake. Every single piece of my quiet, desperate love had been captured, uploaded, and served as entertainment for his wealthy friends. The comments on the photos were a physical blow. “Honestly, this is kind of sweet. Austin, don’t tell me you’re actually falling for her.” “Fall for what? He and Charlotte have been set up since they were kids. The engagement party is already planned.” “Working-class girls are so predictable. A little hot tea, some cheap pharmacy medicine, and walking them home—low investment, high return.” That last comment was Charlotte’s. Austin’s response: “She really doesn’t require much to be happy.” A wave of nausea hit me. I remembered the first time he brought me stomach medicine. I had been curled up behind the counter at the bodega, sweating through my uniform from the pain. He had burst through the door, breathless, clutching a bottle of generic antacids and a cup of warm water. I had wept into his chest, believing with every fiber of my being that I was loved. It turned out even his kindness had been scripted. I exited the chat and opened his banking app. His checking account showed a balance of only thirty-four dollars. But his monthly transfer history revealed a recurring payment of $20,000. The description read: “Immersion Allowance”. The sender: “Charlotte”. While he had twenty thousand dollars sitting in a hidden account, I had been standing in the freezing rain, arguing with a grocer over a ten-cent discount on bruised apples. The bathroom door opened. Austin stood there, towel drying his damp hair. When his eyes fell on his phone in my hand, the color drained from his face. “Grace.” I looked up. “The Dumond Charity Project?” His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I can explain.” “Explain what?” I managed a small, hollow laugh, though tears were already spilling over my cheeks. “Explain that you aren’t a broke driver? Or that I’m not the gullible little charity case you all laughed at?” Austin crossed the room in two strides, grabbing my shoulders. “It started as a stupid joke. A bet. I never took them seriously.” “And after that?” I peeled his fingers off me, one by one. “When you photographed me cooking? When you took pictures of me sewing your clothes, counting pennies, crying from stomach pain? Was that a joke too?” His voice cracked. “I stopped posting those a long time ago.” “You posted one yesterday morning,” I said, pointing the screen at him. “You laughed because I wouldn’t even spend five dollars on my own prescription.” Austin’s eyes welled with tears. “I bought you the medicine.” “With whose money?” He froze. “With the twenty-dollar bill you took from under my pillow,” I answered for him. The phone in my hand began to vibrate. Charlotte was calling. Austin didn’t reach for it. The screen flashed repeatedly before shifting to a text notification: “Austin, tomorrow morning at ten. Don’t forget the family lunch. We need to finalize the engagement party details.” The silence in the room was suffocating. I reached under the bed, pulled out the rusted tin box, and threw it at his feet. The metal lid popped open, and thousands of crumpled ones, fives, and silver coins scattered across the linoleum floor. “There’s eighteen thousand, three hundred and sixty-two dollars in there,” I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my chest. “I was going to buy you the moped tomorrow.” Austin stared at the carpet of money, paralyzed. I grabbed my canvas duffel bag and began shoving my clothes inside. Terrified, he blocked the doorway. “Where are you going?” “Back to the real world.” “This is your home, Grace,” he pleaded, his voice shaking. I looked around the drafty, peeling studio apartment and felt a profound sense of absurdity. “A stage isn’t a home, Austin.” I shoved past him, but before I could reach the stairwell, the sharp click of high heels echoed from the hallway. A second later, Charlotte stood at the entrance, her designer coat immaculate, looking at the small space with visible disgust. “Austin, seriously? How do you even breathe in here?” She turned her gaze to me, a thin, patronizing smile on her lips. “Grace, right? Did you finally save up enough?” Austin stepped between us. “Charlotte, shut up.” Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Oh, are we playing protector now?” She strolled in, her stilettos stepping over the scattered bills. She looked down, letting out a soft, amused laugh. “Wow. You actually saved it all in cash.” Austin’s face was white. “Get out of here.” “What are you so afraid of?” Charlotte asked, turning her sharp gaze back to me. “Afraid she’ll find out that the very first day you met her was the day the bet began?” My chest tightened. “That’s enough,” Austin growled. But Charlotte wasn’t stopping. “The bodega near the campus. You stood outside in the pouring rain, pretending your phone was dead and you had no cash for an umbrella. She gave you hers and walked home dripping wet. Did you really think that was a coincidence, Grace?” I stood frozen. I remembered that night clearly. I had just finished a double shift. Austin had been shivering under the bodega’s awning, soaked through, looking so helpless. I had given him my only umbrella and twenty dollars for a cab. He came back the next day to return the money. That was how we started. It wasn’t fate. It was a hunt. I turned to Austin. “Is that true?” Austin’s eyes were bloodshot. “The beginning was a mistake. But after that… I fell in love with you, Grace. That part was real.” “In love with me?” I laughed, the sound sharp and painful. “So in love that you kept me in a group chat to entertain your friends? So in love that you lived off my cheap groceries while twenty thousand dollars cleared in your account every month? So in love that you’re getting engaged to her tomorrow?” Austin raised his hand and slapped himself across the face. The sound was deafening in the small room. Charlotte gasped. “Austin!” He ignored her, looking only at me. “You can hate me, you can hit me, just don’t walk out that door.” Looking at the red mark blossoming on his cheek, I felt absolutely nothing. He was too good of an actor. He had played a starving driver for three years; playing the repentant lover was nothing to him. Charlotte spoke up, her voice cold and practical. “What’s the point of begging her, Austin? Can she help you secure your family’s board seats?” Austin whirled on her. “I told you, I am not marrying you.” Charlotte’s expression soured. “For her?” Austin didn’t answer. She turned back to me, her eyes narrowing. “Grace, don’t flatter yourself. Austin had to undergo a mandatory residency in a working-class environment as part of his family’s transition plan. He found the rules tedious, so he turned it into a game. The bet was simple: could he survive three years at the bottom, and could he find some naive girl to support him?” “You were never a partner. You were his proof of concept.” Every word felt like a physical strike. I picked up my duffel bag and headed for the stairs. Austin reached out to stop me. “It’s late and it’s pouring. Let me drive you.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Austin, the most dangerous thing in my life for the last three years was you.” His hand froze in midair. Charlotte slid a black plastic card out of her designer purse and tossed it onto the kitchen table. “There’s fifty thousand dollars on that card. Consider it compensation. Take the money, and don’t contact him again.” The card slid across the laminate wood, stopping near my boot. I bent down and picked it up. Austin stared at me, his eyes wide with disappointment. Charlotte smirked. “Smart girl.” I walked over to the open window. Below us, the alley was dark, smelling of wet asphalt and garbage. I tossed the card into the dark. Charlotte’s smirk vanished. “I don’t want your charity,” I said. “It smells like garbage.” I pushed past Austin and walked down into the rain. The rain was relentless. By the time I reached the street, cold water had soaked through my thin jacket. My phone began to vibrate violently in my pocket. It was the owner of the diner, her voice trembling over the line. “Grace… did you get into some kind of trouble with the landlord or the city?” “I just got a call from our licensing representative. They said if you show up for your shift tomorrow, they’re fast-tracking a health and safety inspection. Grace, I can’t risk my business.” By the time I reached the diner, the owner was standing under the awning, wiping her eyes with an apron. She handed me her phone. On the screen was an unsigned text: “Keep Grace on the schedule, and building inspectors, tax audits, and health departments will be at your door by nine AM.” There was no name. But I didn’t need one. Charlotte’s family owned half the commercial real estate in this district. She didn’t have to raise a finger to destroy me; she just had to drop a hint to the right people. The diner owner whispered, “I’m so sorry, Grace. I have a family to feed. Here’s your final paycheck—I added a little extra.” She pressed the envelope of cash into my hands. I couldn’t blame her. A second later, a text arrived from the manager at the bodega: “Grace, don’t come in tomorrow. We’re overstaffed for the season.” I stood on the sidewalk, the rain stinging my face, watching my entire life dissolve into the pavement. A sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb. Austin stepped out from the backseat, a cashmere overcoat slung over his arm, his personal driver holding a large black umbrella over him. Seeing him like this, the illusion was completely shattered. He looked like a stranger. He walked toward me, the umbrella shielding him from the downpour. “Get in the car.” I took a step back. “I didn’t know Charlotte would go after your jobs,” he said, his eyes rimmed with red. “I’ve already handled it. You can go back tomorrow.” I looked at the heavy, customized umbrella in his hand. The handle was engraved with a polished silver “D”. Whenever it rained during the last three years, he had shared a cheap, five-dollar plastic umbrella with me. He’d always tilt it so my side was covered, leaving his own shoulder soaked. He didn’t lack a good umbrella. He just enjoyed the performance. “Is this fun for you?” I asked. He blinked. “What?” “Watching me panic over losing two minimum-wage jobs. Is it amusing?” “Watching me argue with grocers over pennies while you have thousands in the bank. Was that part of the fun?” “Watching me sew a ten-dollar shirt like it was a treasure. Did you laugh when you took those photos?” His knuckles turned white around the silver handle. “Grace, stop.” “Tell me, Austin. How does it feel to play-act poverty?” His face went pale. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.” I nodded slowly. “Then give me my three years back.” He stood there, silent. As I turned to walk away, he called out behind me, “Grace, come to the estate with me.” I stopped. “I’ll handle Charlotte,” he said quickly, desperate to keep me there. “I’ll make things clear to my family. Just come with me, please.” “What’s happening at the estate tonight, Austin?” He flinched. “Just a family gathering.” “Is it the engagement party?” He didn’t answer. The rain drummed heavy against the canopy of his expensive umbrella. “I just need to manage the board members,” he said quietly. “Give me thirty minutes to settle things.” I let out a soft laugh. “You want me to watch you get engaged?” “No!” he cried, his voice cracking. “I’m trying to protect you from Charlotte. If you’re with me, she can’t touch you.” “Protect me.” It sounded so beautiful. I suddenly wanted to see exactly what his protection looked like. The Dumond estate was blindingly bright, nestled behind massive iron gates in the most exclusive enclave of the city. The family patriarch sat at the head of a long mahogany table, looking at Austin not as a grandson, but as a piece of defective inventory he was forced to manage. Austin led me into a second-floor parlor. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Down below, laughter floated up from the grand foyer. Someone called out, “Hey, Austin! Where’s your little project? Did you bring her?” Charlotte’s voice followed, light and dripping with amusement. “Austin, don’t let her come down. She’d look ridiculous in this room.” After a brief pause, Austin’s voice drifted up the stairs. “Drop it.” Two words. No defense. No denial. No anger. I looked down at my waterlogged canvas sneakers, the fabric gray and thin. That was the moment I finally understood. It wasn’t that he didn’t know I was hurting. He just didn’t think I belonged in the rooms where his life mattered. I turned the brass knob, stepped out of the parlor, and walked down the grand staircase. Every head in the foyer turned toward me. Charlotte stood near the grand piano, a glass of champagne in hand, her diamonds catching the light. “Grace,” she smiled, her voice echoing off the marble. “I didn’t think you’d actually have the nerve to show your face.”

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On the day I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis, Chris promised he’d bring me some warm broth first thing in the morning. I waited. From sunrise to noon, then through the long, quiet stretch of afternoon into the dark of evening. Finally, at half past eight, my phone buzzed. “Mochi has a bit of diarrhea. Taking him to the vet clinic to get checked out. I’ll head over to you a bit later.” Mochi was his childhood friend Chelsea’s cat. I stared at the glowing screen, a dry, humorless laugh escaping my throat. It turned out that in his heart, my place wasn’t just behind Chelsea. I was behind her cat, too. If there was no room for me in his world, then from this moment on, there was no need for him in mine. … I hadn’t eaten a single bite all day, and my stomach was twisting in sharp, agonizing spasms. At nine in the evening, Chris finally walked through the double doors of my hospital room. His hands were empty. His wool coat was dusted with a few stray white cat hairs. It wasn’t until he looked down and saw my pale, sunken face that he suddenly slapped his forehead. “Dammit, I forgot to grab you something to eat. It’s been such a chaotic day, it completely slipped my mind.” I kept my head lowered, refusing to say a word. Sensing the heavy silence, he offered a rushed defense, his tone thick with justification. “Mochi ate something weird and was vomiting and having diarrhea. Chelsea was absolutely hysterical.” “You should’ve seen her, Hannah. She was holding him, crying her eyes out. I couldn’t just walk out on her like that. It wouldn’t have been right.” As he spoke, a faint, tender smile played at the corner of his lips, as if he were recalling some bittersweet, endearing memory. My mind flashed back to last month. I had a fever of 103 degrees. When I called him, gasping for breath, he told me he was stuck in an important meeting. Yet, when I finally dragged my weak, trembling body out of the clinic, I opened Instagram. There was Chelsea’s latest story. Chris was leaning over her coffee table, carefully painting her nails. The caption read: “No matter how much time passes, you still do it best.” Every single time I actually needed him, he was absent. Because Chelsea needed him more. “Are you hungry? I can go downstairs and see what’s open near the lobby.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said quietly. Because he had promised to bring me food, I had told the nurse earlier that I wouldn’t need the hospital dinner tray. By the time I realized he wasn’t coming, I felt too embarrassed to ask again, so I just endured the hunger. But now, any appetite I had was entirely gone. Chris mumbled a brief “Oh,” sat down in the plastic chair beside my bed, and pulled out his phone. His thumbs flew across the screen, his face lit by the glow of a smile. “Right, tomorrow is our fifth anniversary,” he said, not looking up. My heart fluttered with a tiny, pathetic spark of hope. But then he kept talking. “Chelsea said she knows about this new French bistro by the river. She managed to get us a table.” “For our wedding anniversary? Chelsea booked us a restaurant based on her taste?” Chris didn’t see the issue at all. “Yeah. She said it’s practically impossible to get a reservation there right now. She had to pull a few favors to get us in.” “See? Chelsea really looks out for us.” Honestly, I should have been used to it. Our entire marriage was crowded with Chelsea’s shadow. When we went to the movies, she had to sit between us because of her “social anxiety.” At family dinners, the table was always filled with dishes she loved. Even when we were deciding when to try for a baby, she was there, calculating my ovulation cycle and telling Chris my body hadn’t recovered enough from my last health scare, so we should hold off on getting pregnant. I didn’t agree, but I didn’t fight him either. I was just too tired. The next day, when I was being discharged, Chris actually came to pick me up—a rare gesture. “Mochi needed his follow-up scan, so I just dropped them off at the clinic down the street,” he explained as I got in. The passenger seat still held the faint, sweet scent of gardenia—Chelsea’s signature perfume. Without saying a word, I walked past the passenger door and climbed into the back seat. The entire drive home, Chris did nothing but talk about Mochi’s medical progress. He told me about the gastroenteritis, the three injections the vet gave him, and the specific probiotics they had prescribed. He went into excruciating detail, yet he never once asked about my diagnosis. He didn’t ask what medications I had been given, or when I was supposed to go back for a check-up. When we stepped into the house, a red gift box was sitting on the coffee table, its silk ribbon already unraveled. “What’s this?” I asked. I opened it. Inside lay a deep navy silk tie. Next to it was a small, handwritten card. “Happy Anniversary, Chris! — Chelsea x” My fingers began to tremble. Chris snatched the tie from my hands, folding it gently and placing it in his closet with utmost care. “Chelsea was worried you wouldn’t have time to get me anything, so she picked out an anniversary gift on your behalf,” he said easily. “Her taste has always been better than yours anyway. This tie really suits me.” I closed my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat. I didn’t want to fight on our anniversary. I reached into my bag and pulled out the mechanical watch I had spent over six months saving up for. He picked it up, glanced at it, and let out a soft scoff. “You’re so old-fashioned. Everyone has a smartphone now. Who actually wears a watch?” “It’s just a waste of money. I’ll ask Chelsea if she knows anyone who wants to buy it off me.” A heavy, suffocating pressure lodged itself in my chest. He didn’t notice—or didn’t care. He turned around, already dialing Chelsea’s number to check on her cat. “How’s he doing? Remember to mix the meds into his wet food, or he won’t touch it.” “Yeah, dissolve it with warm water first.” The doorbell rang. It was delivery. Chris poked his head out of the kitchen. “Let’s just grab a quick lunch. Chelsea booked that nice place for tonight.” I looked at the table spread—spicy Szechuan fish and chili-garlic crawfish. A bitter laugh threatened to escape me. He remembered to tell Chelsea to mix her cat’s medication with wet food because of his sensitive stomach. But he completely forgot that I had just been discharged for severe gastroenteritis and couldn’t touch anything spicy. Love and indifference are never subtle. They are glaringly obvious. I didn’t touch the food. I poured myself a glass of warm water and went into the bedroom. I had planned to catch up on some work I’d missed while sick, but I noticed Chris’s laptop was open on the desk, and his messaging app was flashing incessantly. I clicked on it without thinking. Chelsea had sent him photos of herself in bridal gowns. In one photo, she was wearing a gorgeous, trailing mermaid-style wedding dress. Chris was standing right next to her in a sleek tux, looking incredibly handsome. They looked like a perfect couple. “Chris, our bridal photos came back! Help me choose the best ones.” Chris had replied to every single message. From the lighting to the composition, even down to a tiny mole on Chelsea’s cheek, he had analyzed and complimented every detail. My heart tightened until it physically ached. When we got married, we never had a wedding. Chris had said it was too much of a hassle, that just signing the papers at the courthouse was enough. And I had agreed. Back then, I was full of romantic notions, believing that as long as we loved each other, the formalities didn’t matter. My parents had taken a five-hour bus ride from their small town just to stand outside the courthouse and take a single photo of us. That was our wedding. Now I realized he didn’t find weddings a hassle. He just didn’t think I was worth the trouble. I opened the PDF file my lawyer had sent me earlier that week: the divorce agreement. I read through the terms, line by line. After this anniversary dinner, I would end it. Before we left, I chose a deep emerald green dress. For years, Chris had told me that light pastel colors made me look “soft” and “agreeable.” He also hated the sound of heels clicking on the floor, so I had stopped wearing them altogether. I had spent five years morphing into the compliant, quiet wife he wanted. And in the end, I had lost to a cat. The restaurant Chelsea booked was undeniably beautiful. It sat right on the riverfront, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a sea of glittering city lights. Most importantly, Chelsea wasn’t there. It felt like a quiet, clean space for me to say my final goodbye. Chris and I sat across from each other. I had just opened the menu when his phone rang. “What? Mochi is throwing up again?” “Don’t panic, Chelsea. Stay calm. I’m on my way.” He stood up immediately, grabbing his coat before the call even ended. “Chelsea has an emergency. The cat is sick again, I have to go.” “Go ahead and order. I’ll check on them and come right back to join you.” He didn’t even wait for me to answer. He sprinted out of the restaurant, his footsteps fading into the ambient jazz music. I sat there alone, staring at his empty wine glass. A strange sense of relief washed over me. Maybe this was exactly how it was supposed to end. The server approached me cautiously. “Are you ready to order, ma’am?” “Yes,” I said, looking up with a small smile. “I am.” I had a quiet, peaceful dinner by myself. Appetizer, main course, dessert. The food was objectively delicious, but to me, it tasted like cardboard. On our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband had abandoned me to comfort another woman’s cat. At the table next to mine, an elderly couple with silver hair was sharing a plate. The woman offered a piece of salmon to her husband, and he took it with a smile. He whispered something in her ear, and they both laughed, their eyes crinkling at the corners. A sudden, sharp sting hit my nose. I tilted my head back, blinking rapidly against the tears. I had spent too long on my makeup to let it ruin my face now. At 11:58 PM, Chris sent a text. “Mochi is fine now. He swallowed a hair tie and threw it up. Chelsea was terrified, so I’m going to stay with her for a bit.” I watched the clock on my phone tick over to midnight. A new day had begun. I typed out a reply: “Chris, I want a divorce.” My phone rang almost instantly. “Hannah, what is your problem now?” Chris’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with his usual patronizing annoyance. “Are you seriously throwing a tantrum and threatening divorce just because I had to help Chelsea with Mochi?” He let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve had an exhausting day. I don’t have the energy for these games right now.” “I’m not playing games.” “Right, because you didn’t do this exact same thing last year? And what happened? You ended up begging me to come back.” Last winter. We had planned for him to take me to my prenatal check-up. But just as we were leaving, Chelsea called, crying because Mochi was scheduled to be neutered. She claimed she was terrified the cat would hate her for it, so she begged Chris to take him instead. The clinic was only two miles away. It would have taken him five minutes to drop me off. But Chris couldn’t wait a single second. He pulled over, practically pushed me out of the passenger seat, and told me to take an Uber. I lost my footing on the icy curb. My stomach slammed hard against the concrete steps. We lost the baby. I had screamed, cried, and demanded a divorce. But right in the middle of our separation, my mother suffered a massive heart attack and had to undergo emergency bypass surgery. Before they wheeled her into the operating room, she held my hand and asked to see Chris. She wanted to know her daughter was taken care of. To give my mother peace of mind, I swallowed my pride, begged him to come back, and pretended we were fine. Since then, that moment had become his favorite weapon to wield against me whenever we argued. The next morning, Chris and Chelsea walked through our front door, holding Mochi in a carrier. I instinctively stepped back. When I was a child, I had been severely scratched by a stray cat, and I had been terrified of them ever since. Because of that, no matter how much Chris claimed to love animals, he had never brought one into our home during our marriage. But today, rules didn’t apply. “Chelsea’s neighbors are doing a massive renovation, and the noise is giving Mochi severe anxiety,” Chris said, setting the carrier down. “I told her they could stay here for a couple of weeks.” My mind drifted back to when my parents had traveled to the city to visit me. It had started pouring rain, and they had stayed the night on our couch. The moment they left the next morning, Chris had made me deep-clean the entire apartment. “It’s just weird having outsiders in our space,” he had complained. “Next time your parents come, let’s just book them a hotel. It’ll be easier for everyone.” Yet now, he was moving Chelsea and her cat into our home without even asking. “Outsiders,” it seemed, only applied to the people who loved me. “Whatever you want,” I said quietly. I reached into my bag, pulled out the signed divorce papers, and slid them across the counter. “Sign them when you have a minute.” Chelsea immediately took a step forward, her eyes wide with innocent panic. “Hannah, please don’t mistake this. If my staying here makes you uncomfortable, I can easily find a hotel. Please don’t fight because of me.” Chris scowled, his eyes hardening as he looked at me. “Hannah, who do you think you are, giving us this attitude?” “Chelsea literally booked our anniversary dinner yesterday. She’s gone out of her way to help us, and you can’t even let her crash here for a few days?” I looked at him, my expression entirely flat. “She can stay. I don’t care. But the divorce is real.” Chelsea’s eyes welled with tears. “I’ll just leave. Hannah, please don’t do this to Chris. He works so hard, he doesn’t need this stress.” Chris glared at me, reaching out to wrap an arm around Chelsea’s shoulders. “If you had even half of Chelsea’s maturity, my life wouldn’t be this exhausting,” he snapped. “Stop acting like a child. You’re embarrassing yourself.” During our standoff, Mochi suddenly let out a sharp hiss. Startled by something, the cat lunged out of Chelsea’s arms straight toward my face. The childhood terror crashed over me in a suffocating wave. A sharp, stinging pain sliced across my forearm. A deep gash opened up, and bright red blood began to pool on my skin. Panicking, I shielded my face with one hand and grabbed the nearest thing on the counter—a heavy hardcover book—and swung it wildly. The book hit Mochi, and the cat let out a loud yowl as he fell to the floor. Chelsea rushed forward, scooping up the whimpering cat, her tears falling freely. “Hannah! How could you? If you didn’t want us here, you could have just said so! Why would you hurt Mochi?” “He’s my family! Look at him, he’s shaking!” Chris rushed to her side, his hands hovering over the cat with deep concern. When he turned to look at me, his eyes were cold enough to draw blood. “Apologize.” He couldn’t see the blood dripping down my arm. He only saw that I had struck Chelsea’s pet. He wanted me to apologize to an animal. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “The cat attacked me first.” Chris’s jaw tightened in disgust. “Hannah, are you seriously trying to pick a fight with a helpless animal?” “Go lock yourself in the room and calm down. When you’re ready to admit you’re wrong, we can talk about moving forward.” Without another word, he and Chelsea hurried out the door, cradling the cat as they rushed to the emergency vet. The autumn wind blew through the open window, chilling me to the bone. I drove myself to the urgent care clinic to get a tetanus shot and have the wound cleaned. While sitting in the waiting room, I opened Instagram. Chelsea had updated her feed. It was a short video. Chris, drenched in sweat, was carefully constructing an elaborate cat tree in our guest room. But it wasn’t the cat tree that made the breath catch in my throat. It was the soft, hand-knitted pastel blanket he had lined it with. It was the blanket I had spent months knitting last winter, waiting for a baby that would never arrive. A hot, blinding rage rushed to my head. I dialed Chris’s number. It rang out. I called again. And again. On my ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up, his voice heavy with sleepy irritation. “What? Ready to apologize?” The anger suddenly vanished, leaving behind a vast, hollow emptiness. I realized I didn’t even want to scream at him anymore. What was the point? I didn’t want him anymore. Why should I care about a blanket? I hung up without saying a word. When I got back to the apartment, I went straight into my bedroom, locked the door, and buried myself under the duvet. A few hours later, a thick, acrid smell woke me. I sat up abruptly. The room was dark, but a heavy gray smoke was pouring under the door frame. Outside, the crackle of flames echoed through the hallway. Panic seized me. I scrambled out of bed and rushed toward the door, but in the blinding smoke, my foot caught on the edge of the nightstand. I fell hard, my ankle twisting beneath me with a sickening crack. A white-hot pain shot up my leg. I tried to stand, but my ankle collapsed instantly, sending me crashing back to the hardwood floor. “Help! Chris! Help!” I choked out, coughing violently as the smoke filled my lungs. The guest room door flew open. Chris stumbled out, coughing and squinting through the haze. I reached my hand out toward him through the dark. “Chris… over here! Help me…” But he didn’t even look my way. He ran straight past me and kicked open the guest bedroom door. Chelsea was inside, crying hysterically. “Chris! I’m so scared! I thought I was going to die!” “I’ve got you,” Chris promised, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m getting you out of here.” He lifted Chelsea into his arms and ran out into the stairwell, never once looking back at where I lay on the floor. The smoke grew thicker, stinging my eyes and burning my throat. Just as despair began to pull me under, the front door rattled. Chris burst back into the apartment. A tiny, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. “Chris… I’m down here…” He paused, but instead of reaching for me, he began searching the floor frantically. “Mochi! Mochi, where are you?” I closed my eyes, a single, bitter tear cutting through the soot on my cheek. In a matter of life and death, my life was worth less to him than a cat. He dodged a falling light fixture and finally found Mochi hiding in the pantry. On his way back out, he looked down and saw me crawling toward the door. He bent down, grabbing my arm. But Chelsea’s screams echoed from the smoky hallway. “Chris! Did you find Mochi? Please tell me he’s okay!” “If anything happens to him, I don’t want to live! I’m coming back in!” Chris panicked. He let go of my hand, leaving me on the floor, and ran out with the cat. “Stay there, Chelsea! I have him! Don’t come in!” My heart went completely cold. I tried to breathe shallowly, but the toxic black smoke was invading my lungs from every corner. My vision began to blur. I dragged myself inch by inch toward the door. Suddenly, footsteps pounded on the floorboards again. Chris had come back. My throat was too raw to make a sound. I could only look up at him through tear-filled eyes. But he bypassed me a third time, rushing into the guest room. When he emerged, he was holding the cat’s bed and Mochi’s medication. “Just wait a second, Hannah,” he said, looking down at me with an irritated scowl. “Mochi just got used to this bed. If we get him a new one, his anxiety will trigger again.” “Do you really have to throw a tantrum and refuse to get up just to compete with a cat?” “Get up and walk out. The fire is getting worse.” He actually thought I was lying on the floor, breathing in toxic smoke, just to play a game for his attention. A cold, silent laugh shook my chest. As my consciousness began to slip away, a fleeting thought crossed my mind. If I actually die here… what kind of face will he make? But God, I am so unwilling to die like this.

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When my sister Delilah was seven, she aimed her slingshot directly at my face and took out my left eye on purpose. For the next eleven years, my parents never looked her in the eye. Or so I thought. They skipped every single one of her parent-teacher conferences. Every Christmas, her stocking was the only one left empty. I spent my entire youth believing they despised her for what she had done to me. Until the day the college acceptance letters arrived. I was sitting at the kitchen table, helping Delilah sort through her options, when I suggested a state university three states away. My parents sat in silence, moving food around their plates as if they hadn’t heard a word. I offered a quiet, practical justification. “It’s a decent school. Honestly, it’s the only selective university Delilah’s grades can get her into.” Suddenly, my mother slammed her fork onto the table. “How is sending her halfway across the country a good thing?!” she snapped. Tears spilled over her lashes, completely unprompted. “For eleven years, we haven’t given that poor girl a single warm look. Why can’t you just let her go? Why do you have to keep punishing her?” “She’s our baby, Logan. Our absolute world.” “You’re already… broken. You’re going to end up on disability, living on your own anyway.” “We can’t let her spend the rest of her life running away from us just because of your eye.” I looked at my father. His eyes were rimmed with red, too, his shoulders slumping under some invisible, sudden weight. In that silent, suffocating kitchen, the truth settled in. Sometime over the last decade, I had become the villain. The burden they secretly resented. I got up without saying a word, walked into the den, and pulled up our enrollment portals. I changed Delilah’s choice to the local community college. And for myself, I accepted an offer from a university in Montana—a place so far away that even a twenty-four-hour train ride wouldn’t bring me back. From now on, they wouldn’t have to pretend they didn’t love her. Not for my sake. … After finalizing my enrollment, I was about to shut down the computer when a hidden folder in the bottom corner of the desktop caught my eye. It sat there, glaringly out of place among my old gaming shortcuts. Driven by some quiet, morbid curiosity, I double-clicked it. The moment the files loaded, the air left my lungs. It was a digital archive of scanned receipts and invoices. A Nintendo Switch bundle, $400. A designer handbag, $1,200. Paid reservations at high-end resorts. And at the very bottom, a scanned PDF titled “Grandview_Condo_Deed.pdf”. A three-bedroom luxury condominium overlooking the river. Paid in full: $450,000. It was located in the most exclusive gated community in our small town. In the bottom right corner of the deed scan, my mother’s neat, elegant handwriting read: “For our sweet Delilah. A home of your own for your future family. May your life be beautiful and smooth, my darling.” That blue-inked signature felt like a match thrown onto the dry kindling of my childhood. It burned everything I thought I knew to ash, exposing the raw, ugly truth beneath. A memory surfaced, sharp and agonizing. During my junior year of high school, a world-class ophthalmic surgeon had visited the regional hospital for a seminar. “The optic nerve isn’t entirely dead,” the doctor had told us, his voice filled with professional optimism. “With a state-of-the-art prosthetic and a series of nerve-stimulation surgeries, we can restore the facial symmetry. He might even regain light perception. But the procedure and follow-up care will run about $50,000.” The moment the words left the doctor’s mouth, my mother collapsed against me, sobbing hysterically. “Fifty thousand is too expensive. We’re just working-class people, Logan. We’d have to sell the house, go into foreclosure… we just don’t have that kind of money…” My father had turned away, wiping his eyes, whispering how sorry he was. Seeing them in so much pain, I swallowed my own grief and comforted them. I told them it was fine. I told them I was used to seeing the world through one eye anyway. A week later, the surgeon called us back, his voice bright with hope. “I managed to get a grant approved. We can cover most of the post-op therapy. The total cost is down to $30,000. Bring him in.” But my parents were silent on the other end of the line. Then, with a heavy sigh, my father declined. Thirty thousand, he said, was still an impossible sum. They just couldn’t do it. I spent years carrying that guilt, believing we were destitute. I thought my blindness was the tragic consequence of our poverty. But now, looking at the screen, the date on the wire transfer for the condo burned into my retinas. “April 12.” Exactly seven days after they turned down the surgeon’s grant. They had wired nearly half a million dollars to secure Delilah’s future home. They weren’t poor. They just didn’t want to waste the money on me. Thirty thousand for my face was an astronomical burden, but nearly half a million for her dowry was an investment they made without a second thought. The door creaked open. My parents crept in, my mother holding a warm mug of tea. Their faces carried a fragile, placating smile, trying to smooth over the storm they had just caused. “Logan, sweetie,” my mother began softly, setting the mug on the desk. “I lost my temper earlier. I was just stressed about the future. You know I didn’t mean it.” My father nodded quickly. “We love you, son. Don’t let a few bad words push us apart.” I didn’t touch the tea. I slowly turned my head, fixing them with the cold stare of my single, working eye. “You never blamed her, did you?” I whispered, pointing a trembling finger at the monitor. “You couldn’t find thirty thousand dollars to fix my face, but you had half a million to buy her a luxury condo.” They looked at the screen. The fragile smiles froze, then shattered. For a second, sheer panic flickered in their eyes, followed by a shameful flush. But then, as the silence stretched, a sickening wave of relief washed over their expressions. The act was over. In that instant, the pieces of my entire life fell into place. For eleven years, they had staged an elaborate, exhausting play for an audience of one: me. The extra slice of turkey at Thanksgiving. The nicer jacket under the tree. The cold shoulder they turned on Delilah. It was all a performance. A calculated effort to pacify my resentment so I would never seek revenge on their precious daughter. And it had worked. Every time they yelled at her on my account, I felt a crushing sense of guilt. I felt like the monster who had ruined her childhood. So I would quietly slip her my allowance, buy her the treats she wanted, and try to make up for their cruelty. And Delilah… whenever I handed her my hard-earned cash, she would look at me with a smirk. A quiet, mocking curl of her lip. I was half-blind, so I missed the punchline. She knew. She had always known their coldness was a sham. The skipped conferences, the staged arguments—it was all rewarded tenfold behind closed doors. She had watched me play the fool, giving her my crumbs while she sat on a mountain of gold. A dull, throbbing ache flared in my ruined left socket, the scar tissue tightening as my chest swelled with silent, tearless grief. I squeezed my fists until my nails bit into my palms, stood up, and walked past them out of the house. “Logan! Logan, wait! Let me explain!” My mother cried out, her footsteps frantic as she and my father chased me down the driveway and into the humid summer air. She caught up to me under the shadow of the maple trees on the sidewalk, her tears flowing with practiced ease. “Have we really been that bad to you?” she sobbed, grabbing my arm. “We kept you fed, we clothed you, we paid for your school! What more do you want from us?” “Delilah is a girl, Logan. In this world, a woman needs security. She needs her own property so a future husband can’t walk all over her. We had to give her a safety net.” My father sighed, his voice heavy with a self-righteous finality. “You’re a man, Logan. You can build your own life from scratch. Your sister was a seven-year-old child who made a mistake. Are you going to hold this over her head until it kills her? Do you want to destroy this family?” Their words felt like gravel scraping inside my chest. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. They had their logic, perfectly sealed and bulletproof. But it was a logic built entirely on the altar of my sacrifice. I shook off their hands and walked away, drifting aimlessly through the quiet suburban streets. The heavy, stifling breeze felt exactly like the afternoon eleven years ago. Delilah had been aiming her slingshot at a nest of newborn kittens in the yard. I had screamed at her to stop, trying to shield them. She had turned to me, a cruel, mocking grin stretching across her tiny face. “You ruined my game,” she whispered. “So you can take their place.” “Thwack.” The metal ball tore through the air. Then, a white-hot explosion of pain. I remember rolling on the grass, screaming for my mother, blood pouring through my fingers. But when my parents ran outside, they didn’t scoop me up. They grabbed a crying, startled Delilah, shielding her body with their own. “It’s okay, baby, Mommy’s here, you’re safe,” my mother had cooed, rushing her inside. My father had knelt beside me, his hand clamping over my bloody mouth, his voice a panicked hiss in my ear: “Shut up, Logan! Shut up! Do you want the neighbors to call the cops? Do you want them to take your sister away?!” Only after the street grew quiet did they smuggle me to the emergency room. But the delay cost me my sight. The choice had been made back then. I was just too blind to see it. Without realizing it, my feet brought me to the town square, stopping in front of a local travel agency. The window display was filled with glossy posters of far-off destinations—beaches, snowy peaks, happy families smiling under clear skies. A bitter envy rose in my throat. I had never left this county. Whenever I begged to go on a trip, my parents always sighed. “We don’t have that kind of luxury, Logan,” they’d say. And I would feel terrible, thinking my medical bills were a millstone around their necks. But then, my gaze locked onto a series of old promotional photos pinned to the agency’s community board. It was a local family featured in a “Happy Travelers” collage. Under the vibrant blue sky of a Montana ranch, a nine-year-old Delilah sat atop a horse, her eyes shining like stars. My parents stood on either side of her, beaming with pure, untainted joy. The date stamped on the corner: eleven years ago. The exact month I was lying in a sterile hospital bed, recovering from my second surgery. They had told me they had to take Delilah out of town to consult a specialist for my eye. It was a lie. They had taken her on a luxury vacation. “Oh, I remember them,” the agent said, walking up behind me with a nostalgic smile. “They booked with us every year. The parents were so sweet. They said the little girl had witnessed a tragic accident and was deeply traumatized by the sight of blood. They wanted to take her on high-end trips to heal her mind. Truly devoted parents.” Every word she spoke felt like a rusty saw cutting through my ribs. I couldn’t breathe. My right eye welled with hot, bitter tears that spilled down my cheek. They were worried about “her” trauma. But what about mine? Who healed the boy who had to face his reflection in the mirror every morning? Who comforted the kid who got called “Cyclops” and “Zombie” in the school hallways? No one. I stared at the photos, a sick, masochistic urge forcing me to look at each one. There they were eight years ago, building sandcastles in Maui. Five years ago, standing before the Empire State Building. Every year, a perfect family of three. As night fell, the glass window reflected my own silhouette. A lopsided face, a scarred, hollow socket. A monster standing outside their perfect frame. I wandered through the streets as the streetlamps flickered to life. Toddlers pulled away from me, hiding in their mothers’ coats. “Mommy, look at his face! He’s scary!” I tucked my chin into my collar, trying to disappear. Then, a familiar voice called out through the cool night air. “Logan! Logan!” I turned. Under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, my parents were running toward me, catching their breath. For a fraction of a second, a pathetic, desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. I stood frozen as they reached me. “Oh, thank God,” my mother gasped, touching my arm. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. You must be freezing. Are you hungry?” My father patted my shoulder, a warm smile on his face. “Logan, I saw the computer. You changed Delilah’s enrollment back to the local college. I knew you would. You’re a good brother. You’ve forgiven her, haven’t you?” My mother nodded, beaming. “It’s for the best. You’ll be close to home. She can look after you when we’re gone.” Looking at their relieved faces, a profound, suffocating sorrow washed over me. They only cared that Delilah was staying close. They hadn’t even bothered to check my screen. They didn’t know I had changed my own destination to Montana State, thousands of miles away. When I remained silent, my mother’s smile faltered, turning awkward. She cleared her throat. “Logan… actually, we have some wonderful news. Your father and I have been thinking. Given your… appearance… it might be difficult for you to find a girl who… well, you know. So, we’ve found someone for you.” “The daughter has cerebral palsy, but her family is incredibly wealthy. The Russos. They own half the real estate in town.” “If you marry her and give them an heir to carry on their name, you’ll be set for life. They’ll take care of you forever.” A sharp, dry laugh escaped my throat. It bubbled up into a bitter, uncontrollable chuckle. “A disabled heiress,” I whispered, staring at them. “An heir.” I looked into their eyes, stripping away their final pretense. “You’re selling me. You’re trading my life to pay off whatever debts you have, or maybe just to add to Delilah’s dowry.” My father’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. “Watch your mouth!” he barked, his voice rising in fury. “We are trying to secure your future! You’re a one-eyed freak, Logan! You should be grateful anyone is willing to take you in!” I ignored his shouting. Instead, I looked at my mother, holding onto one last, pathetic sliver of hope. “Did you ever love me, Mom? Just for one second. Was any of it real?” Her lips parted, and for a fleeting second, I thought I saw a flicker of regret. But then, her eyes widened in sheer terror. She looked past my shoulder, her pupils dilating. Without a single word of warning, she lunged forward, grabbing Delilah by the arm, and shoved me hard into the street. My blind side was completely dark. I stumbled back onto the asphalt, and before I could even turn my head, a pair of blinding headlights cut through the night, a roaring metal beast hurtling directly toward me. In the split second before the impact shattered my bones, my right eye caught one final image: my mother and father, locked in a tight embrace, shielding Delilah on the sidewalk. Safe. While I was thrown into the dark. I drifted through a sea of cold pain, every bone in my body screaming. Slowly, the sterile smell of bleach and the low, hushed voices of my parents dragged me back to consciousness. “He was already a hard sell with the eye,” my mother’s voice whispered urgently from the foot of the bed. “Now with these scars, the Russos might back out of the deal.” “We need to finalize the contract and get the advance immediately,” my father answered. “Then we dump him at their estate. He can’t move anyway. It saves us the hospital bills and the cost of a nurse.” Their footsteps faded down the corridor. I slowly opened my remaining eye, the tears I couldn’t shed earlier finally spilling silent and cold onto the pillow. With trembling, bruised fingers, I reached into the pocket of my hospital gown. My hand closed around a small slip of paper. The driver who had hit me had slipped it into my hand in the chaos before the ambulance arrived. I dialed the number on the bedside phone. “The private settlement you offered,” I croaked, my voice raw. “I’ll sign it. On one condition. Get me out of here tonight. Don’t let them find me.”

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Three days after waking up in the body of this spineless heiress, my childhood friend-turned-fiancé demanded I give up my last piece of my grandmother’s legacy to our adopted sister. “Just do it out of pity for her, Natalie. Is that so hard?” His voice was cold, clipped. I couldn’t help myself. The words spilled out before I could stop them: “If you hate seeing her deprived so much, why don’t you buy it for her yourself?” Both he and the golden child froze. Looking at their stunned faces, I smiled. The revenge script of my new life had only just begun. 01 When Chase’s call came in, I was clasping the antique jade pendant my grandmother had left me around my neck, letting the cool stone settle against my collarbone. “Natalie, give grandmother’s jade pendant to Isla.” His voice through the receiver was utterly devoid of warmth. I gripped the phone, staying silent. It was my third day inside this body. Over the past forty-eight hours, I had absorbed twenty years of the original Natalie’s memories. Every single one of them was a record of endless concession and silent defeat. “Isla has a very important gala to attend next week, and she doesn’t have the right accessories,” Chase continued, his tone laced with a familiar, sharp impatience. “That pendant would match her gown perfectly.” Isla. The sweet, fragile girl my parents had adopted. Chase. The boy I had grown up with, my supposed fiancé. Together, they played a perfect game: one acted helpless, and the other demanded sacrifices on her behalf. “Are you listening to me?” “I’m listening,” I said, my voice remarkably even. He seemed to let out a brief sigh of relief on the other end. “Bring it down now. Isla is waiting for you at the house.” “Chase,” I interrupted. “Yeah?” “Who the hell do you think you are?” The line went dead silent. I could practically picture the scowl on his handsome face, the familiar look of “what kind of tantrum is she throwing now?” taking over his features. “Natalie, what is that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what it sounds like. By what right do you expect me to hand over my belongings to your little darling?” “Isla isn’t—” he started, a knee-jerk defense, before cutting himself off. When he spoke again, his voice was like ice. “We grew up together. Since when did you become so incredibly petty?” “We grew up together, and yet you watched me give up my toys to her, my clothes to her, my parents’ affection to her. And now, you want me to give her the only thing my grandmother left me.” I walked over to the window, looking down at the sleek black car parked by the curb. Chase was sitting inside, holding the phone to his ear. “Chase, do you honestly believe I was born just to be sacrificed for her?” “I never said that!” he snapped, raising his voice. “Isla’s health is delicate, and her background is so tragic. Can’t you just show some compassion and do this for her?” There it was. That exact phrase. It was identical to the dialogue in the novel’s original timeline. In that past life, the original Natalie had been utterly crushed by those words. She had wept, handed over the pendant, and returned home to fall so sick she nearly died. I smiled. “If you hate seeing her deprived so much, why don’t you buy it for her yourself?” “Are you broke? The great heir to the luxury empire doesn’t have the cash to buy a piece of jewelry? You have to resort to mugging an orphan of her inheritance?” “Natalie!” he roared. “You are being completely unreasonable!” “Oh, you think this is unreasonable?” I pushed open my door and began to descend the stairs, my steps light and deliberate. “Just watch me.” I walked out to his car and tapped on the tinted window. Chase rolled it down, his face dark as a thundercloud. In the passenger seat sat Isla. She was dressed in a delicate white silk dress, her eyes rimmed with red, looking precisely like a startled, fragile fawn. A picture of pure innocence. “Natalie…” Isla spoke, her voice trembling softly. “Please don’t blame Chase. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have said I liked your pendant. I had no idea it belonged to your grandmother…” As she spoke, a single, perfect tear slipped down her cheek. What a brilliant performance. If I didn’t already know the plot, I might have actually believed her. “Right,” I murmured, staring at her. “And?” Isla blinked, momentarily thrown off. Chase was equally stunned. In their usual script, I was supposed to soften, apologize, and hand over the pendant in shame. “So, are you planning to give it back to me?” I asked, looking directly at Isla. Oh, wait. The pendant was still in my hand. I turned my gaze back to Chase. “So, are you going to buy it from me for her?” “You—” Chase choked, his face turning an angry shade of red. “I’ll name a price,” I said, holding up three fingers. “Thirty million. And since we grew up together, I’ll even throw in a discount.” “You’ve lost your mind!” Chase hissed. “The only ones who’ve lost their minds are the two of you,” I replied, dropping my hand into my pockets. “One of you is addicted to stealing, and the other is addicted to giving things away. Now that the charity show is over, you don’t know how to act, do you?” Isla’s tears fell faster now. She clutched Chase’s arm, sobbing softly. “Chase, let’s just go. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want anything… Natalie hates me so much…” “I don’t hate you,” I corrected her, keeping my voice mild and precise. “I’m just incredibly, deeply disgusted by you.” Isla’s face went completely white. Chase slammed the car door open, stepping out to tower over me, his tall frame radiating pure, intimidating anger. “Natalie, apologize to Isla right now!” I looked up at him, finding the entire display suddenly hilarious. “Chase, you’re missing the point here.” “This pendant belongs to the family. I am a blood relative. But Isla? What exactly is her connection to this bloodline?” “Would you let a complete stranger walk into your family estate and start taking whatever they fancied?” Chase’s expression shifted through a rapid succession of colors. Without another glance, I turned on my heel. After a couple of steps, I paused, looking back at the weeping girl in the passenger seat. “Oh, and a quick word of advice, Isla.” “Next time you play the destitute orphan, make sure to clear your shopping history for that limited-edition designer bag you bought yesterday.” “A starving, pitiful girl carrying a forty-thousand-dollar bag… don’t you think the aesthetic is a bit inconsistent?” Isla’s crying came to an abrupt, screeching halt. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was my mother. I smiled. The real show was finally beginning. 02 “Natalie! Get back to this house this instant!” The moment I answered, Victoria’s shrill voice pierced through the speaker. “Is there a problem?” I asked, my tone flat. “Is there a problem? What did you do to Isla? She called me crying, saying you bullied her! That you tried to steal from her!” Listening to her distorted version of reality, I wasn’t even mildly surprised. “First, the pendant is mine. You can’t steal what you already own.” “Second, I only stated facts. If the truth feels like bullying to her, then yes, I suppose she was bullied.” “You…” Victoria choked on her own rage, taking a sharp breath. “Natalie, Isla has looked up to you since she was a little girl. If she likes your things, it’s only because she loves you like a sister. What is so wrong with letting her have it?” “I’m not letting her have anything anymore.” “And why on earth not?” “Because starting today, I don’t want to.” With that, I hung up. When the phone immediately began to ring again, I powered it off entirely. Silence. It was beautiful. I went up to my room, pulled out Natalie’s old diary, and began flipping through the pages. The neat, delicate handwriting was a testament to years of quiet agony and suppression. Every single page revolved around the word “yielding”. Yielding the beautiful bedroom with the bay window because Isla said she loved the morning light. Yielding her spot in the competitive academic track because Isla wanted to prove herself to the family. Giving up the cashmere sweater Victoria had hand-knitted because Isla complained of the chill. Giving up the birthday gift from Charles because Isla cried that she had never received a father’s gift before. Even giving up Chase… “Chase is the brightest star in the sky,” Natalie had written in one of the entries. “But he told me that Isla’s world is too dark, and she needs his light more than I do.” How incredibly noble of him. I closed the diary and threw it directly into the paper shredder beside my desk. These memories were too heavy, too suffocating to keep. I was not the old Natalie. I would not let anyone define my worth, and I certainly wouldn’t burn myself to keep someone else warm—least of all a calculated fraud. Isla had been brought into our home when she was eight. Charles had sponsored a small elementary school in a rural, impoverished county, and she was presented to him as their most brilliant, tragic student. Orphaned, living with an ailing grandmother. When Charles and Victoria visited the school, they were deeply moved. They claimed they saw a rare, pure resilience in her. They told me, “Natalie, you are so incredibly privileged. You need to learn from Isla’s humility and gratitude.” And so, Isla became a permanent fixture in our lives. At first, she played her part perfectly. She helped the housekeeper, told me stories about her old life, and called me “sister” with sweet, timid eyes. Everyone adored her. Including the old Natalie. Until the day she broke my favorite porcelain doll. She had wept, begging for forgiveness, insisting it was an accident. Victoria had gathered her into her arms, looking at me with disapproval. “Natalie, you’re the older sister. We can buy another doll. But Isla is traumatized. You can’t be so heartless.” From that moment on, Isla discovered her master key. Tears. All she had to do was cry, and she got whatever she wanted. And I was expected to step back. I watched the shredder turn those years of meek surrender into meaningless confetti. Then, the doorbell rang. I glanced through the security camera. It was Chase and Isla. Isla had changed her clothes and touched up her makeup, though her eyes remained artfully swollen. I didn’t open the door. Chase began to knock loudly, then pound on the wood. “Natalie! Open the door!” “Natalie! I know you’re in there! Stop hiding!” I put on my noise-canceling headphones, cranked up my music, and ignored them. About thirty minutes later, the pounding finally stopped. I pulled off my headphones. Isla’s soft, pathetic voice floated through the crack under the door. “Natalie, please… I know I made a mistake. Can you please open the door? It’s so cold out here, and my head is spinning…” I walked over and unlocked the door. Isla clearly hadn’t expected me to actually open it. She was leaning heavily against Chase’s chest, looking pale and ready to swoon. Seeing me, she immediately straightened up, a flicker of panic darting through her eyes before she masked it. “Natalie…” “Done acting?” I leaned against the doorframe, looking at them both. Chase held her protectively, glaring at me. “Natalie, do you have to be this cruel? Isla is fragile. You kept her standing out here in the cold. What is wrong with you?” “Oh, so her health is my responsibility now?” I retorted. “Who told her to stand here? Did I invite her?” “You—” “Chase, let’s just go…” Isla whimpered, clutching his coat. “Natalie… she doesn’t want to see me.” “You see that?” I pointed to the security camera mounted at the end of the hallway. “It’s been recording the entire time. If she decides to faint or have a medical emergency, it’s all on tape. Is this a new scam to frame me?” Isla’s face turned completely white. Chase looked up at the camera, his jaw tightening as his expression curdled. “Natalie, I don’t even recognize you anymore,” he said, his voice dripping with disappointment. “And you probably didn’t realize your little angel was such a terrible actress, did you?” I looked at Isla, offering her a cold smile. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” “When my parents brought you home at eight years old, did you really come from that school in the mountains?” Isla’s pupils dilated instantly. “What… what are you talking about?” “Nothing special,” I said, shrugging. “Just curious. You don’t look like someone who grew up in poverty. Your skin is flawless, your manners are perfectly calculated, and you carry yourself like someone who’s had voice training. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the real heiress here.” Chase frowned. “Natalie, what are you implying?” “Nothing at all,” I said, stepping back and gripping the handle. “Just reminding certain people that a counterfeit is still a counterfeit. No matter how good the imitation is, it’ll never be the real thing.” I shut the door in their faces. Outside, there was a dead, heavy silence. A long while later, my father’s number flashed on my screen. This time, his voice carried a strange, exhausted hesitation I had never heard before. “Natalie, come home.” “Isla… she’s in the hospital.” 03 When I arrived at the family estate, the atmosphere in the living room was suffocating. Victoria sat on the velvet sofa, her eyes swollen and red, clutching a tear-soaked tissue. My father, Charles, sat beside her, his face grim, silently drawing from a cigarette. The family doctor was just coming down the stairs. When he saw me, he paused, looking as though he wanted to say something, but ultimately just shook his head and left with a heavy sigh. Chase was leaning against the banister. He watched me approach, his gaze a complex mix of suspicion and wariness. “You finally decided to show up?” Victoria hissed the moment she saw me, springing to her feet and pointing a finger at me. “Look at what you’ve done! You threw her into such a panic that she had a heart attack! She’s still unconscious up there! If anything happens to her, I swear I will never forgive you!” A heart attack? I had to actively restrain myself from laughing out loud. If Isla had a weak heart, it was a medical miracle. How could someone with a heart condition stay up all night clubbing, drink like a fish, and stand in line for five hours just to buy a limited-edition handbag? “What did the doctor actually say?” I asked, ignoring Victoria’s theatrics as I looked at my father. Charles stubbed out his cigarette, his voice hoarse. “He said it was acute palpitations brought on by severe stress. She needs absolute rest.” “Ah, palpitations,” I nodded. “So she’s not dying. Good to know.” “Natalie!” Victoria shrieked, lunging toward me. Charles caught her arm, pulling her back. “Enough! Haven’t we had enough drama for one day?” “It’s her! She did this to Isla!” Victoria struggled against his grip, glaring at me with raw hatred. “She’s a curse on this family! Ever since we brought her back, we haven’t had a single moment of peace!” I looked at her, my expression perfectly cold. “Brought me back? Mom, you seem to have forgotten that this is “my” home. I am your biological daughter.” Victoria trembled with fury. “Dad,” I turned to Charles. “Did you call me back just to make me watch this ridiculous performance?” Charles’s eyes flickered, avoiding my gaze. “Natalie, apologize to your sister. Let’s just put this behind us.” “Apologize?” I repeated, finding the request utterly absurd. “For what? What exactly did I say or do?” “You cornered her!” Chase stepped away from the stairs, marching over to stand right in front of me, trying to use his height to intimidate me. “I was there, Natalie. I heard what you said to her outside your apartment. You deliberately provoked her.” “And what did I say that wasn’t true?” I met his gaze directly, refusing to back down. “I said she didn’t look like an orphan from the mountains. I said she was acting. Which part of that was a lie?” Chase hesitated, momentarily caught off guard. “Regardless of whether it’s true, you don’t say things like that! You know how sensitive she is about her past!” “So because she’s sensitive, she gets to claim my inheritance? She gets to fake illnesses to turn everyone against me?” I took a step closer, forcing him to look down at me. “Chase, did you leave your brain at the door?” “Natalie!” Charles barked. “Watch your mouth when you’re speaking to your fiancé!” “Dad, let’s get one thing straight. I am your daughter,” I said, my voice cutting through the room. “Isla is an outsider.” The air in the room instantly turned to lead. Both Charles and Victoria looked incredibly uncomfortable. The word “outsider” was like a needle popping the bubble of artificial peace they had maintained for over a decade. “That’s enough,” Charles said, rising to his feet and walking over to me. “Hand over the jade pendant to Isla. Then go to your room. You are not to leave the house for the next few days.” It was an ultimatum. “And if I refuse?” “You don’t have a choice.” Charles’s patience had completely evaporated. He gave a subtle nod to the security detail standing near the foyer. Two burly guards immediately stepped forward, flanking me. So they were resorting to physical intimidation. “Dad, are you sure you want to do this?” I looked at him, my eyes devoid of any warmth. “You’re going to use force on your own daughter for her?” Charles’s jaw worked silently, but he hardened his expression and nodded. “Fine,” I smiled. “Perfect.” I reached behind my neck, unclasped the antique jade pendant, and lifted it over my head. The moment the smooth, cool stone left my skin, a chill washed over me. Victoria’s eyes lit up with triumph, and Chase let out a quiet breath of relief. They thought I had broken. Holding the pendant, I walked over to the center of the living room, stopping right before the massive marble coffee table. Under everyone’s bewildered gaze, I raised my hand high. Then, I slammed it down with all my strength. “Crack!” A sharp, deafening sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room. The exquisite, irreplaceable jade shattered into dozens of jagged pieces against the hard marble. Fragments flew in every direction. One tiny sliver grazed Victoria’s cheek, leaving a thin, red line of blood. The entire house fell into a horrified, breathless silence. They stared at the shards, utterly paralyzed by the sheer violence of my action. “If I can’t have it,” I said, turning to look at their pale, stunned faces, “no one will.” “Least of all her.” I looked Charles dead in the eye, making sure my voice was steady and clear. “Now, you can lock me up.” Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked up the stairs. As I passed Chase, I could feel the rigid tension in his body and his burning gaze on my back. He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t find a single word. Once inside my bedroom, I locked the door from the inside. I knew this was only the beginning. Shattering the pendant was step one. I had to let them know that the quiet, yielding girl they used to manipulate was dead. Now, I was going to make them return everything they owed her—with interest. I opened my laptop and logged into an encrypted email account. There was a single unread message waiting for me. It was from the private investigator I had hired. The subject line read: “Preliminary Report on Isla’s True Origins.” I clicked it open. As I read through the contents, a slow, cold smile spread across my face. Isla. Your little fairy tale is about to end.

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Three days after Chris blindsided me with a brutal, sudden breakup text, a local life-update video popped up on my feed. The cover was a registry photo against a vibrant red background. She was beaming, her eyes crinkled into happy crescents as she rested her head on Chris’s shoulder. The caption read: “From mentor to husband—our exclusive eight-year chapter!” My mind went entirely blank. The comment section was a cascading waterfall of congratulations, and familiar avatars began popping up one after another. Chris had commented: “You were worth every second of the wait.” I scrolled down. There was a comment left by my best friend, Bridget, just minutes ago: “The storm has passed, and my ultimate ship has finally sailed! It’s official! I’m crying!” My fingertips wouldn’t stop shaking. Chris and I had been together for eleven years. He had been dating his student, Mia, for eight. Bridget knew. His friends knew. And they had all spent nearly a decade keeping me in the dark. I read those words over and over until they blurred. A suffocating weight pressed down on my chest, blocking my airway. I tapped back into the post and left a single comment beneath the sea of congratulations: “So it turns out my eleven-year relationship was just the backdrop for your exclusive eight-year chapter.” … Almost instantly, my phone began to vibrate. The first call was from Bridget. “Rachel… you saw it?” I didn’t say a word. She hesitated for a beat, her voice softening into a placating tone. “Could you… maybe delete that comment? Mia is really sensitive. If she sees it, it’s going to ruin her day.” The girl’s name was Mia. I stood by the elevator doors of my apartment building. A draft swept through the hallway, sending a sharp chill down my neck. Just last night, Bridget had been sitting on the curb with me, sharing a six-pack of cheap beer and calling Chris a spineless piece of trash. Today, she was fiercely shielding the woman who had taken my place. “When did you find out about them?” I asked, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. A heavy silence stretched over the line. “Rachel, playing detective now… it doesn’t change anything,” Bridget sighed. “You and Chris are over. You need to move on and find peace. I’m only telling you this for your own good.” For my own good. Keeping me looking like a fool while everyone laughed behind my back—that was for my own good. I opened my mouth to speak, but a young, bright voice cut in on her end. “Bridget, come on! We’re waiting for you to cut the cake!” The line went dead. My words died in my throat. A few seconds later, a text from Chris popped up. “Rachel, leave Mia alone. She didn’t know anything about us.” A hot, stinging wave of tears flooded my eyes. This was the first time Chris had reached out to me since he abruptly ended things. Three days ago, on our eleventh anniversary, I had spent the afternoon cooking a massive dinner. I sat at the table and waited for him all night. He never showed. The next morning, he sent a single text: We’re done. Don’t contact me. Then he blocked my number, blocked my social media, and vanished. I had spent the last seventy-two hours behaving like a madwoman, calling anyone who might know where he was, sending pathetic, begging emails into the void. Just minutes ago, I had been draft-typing another desperate plea for him to talk to me. My fingers felt frozen as I stared at the screen. A tear slipped from my cheek, splashing onto the glass. As I wiped it away, my finger accidentally replayed the video. Mia’s voice drifted from the speakers, sweet and thick like melted sugar. “Where our story began,” she chimed. She flashed a peace sign at the camera. In the background stood Chris, wearing his doctoral gown at his graduation ceremony. A flood of memories rushed over me. The year Chris graduated with his master’s, I had traveled over two thousand miles to Boston to surprise him. I remember the sheer excitement of pulling out the simple silver band I had saved up months to buy, ready to propose. But he had only looked down, wrapping his arms around me with a heavy sigh. “Rachel, I want to pursue my Ph.D. Give me three years. Just three years, and I promise we’ll get married.” Three years turned into five. He went from his master’s to his doctorate. From Boston to Chicago. I followed him everywhere, packing up our lives time and after time, taking whatever odd jobs I could find to pay our rent. Every time I brought up marriage, he told me to wait. Wait until I graduate. Wait until I’m stable. And in the end, the only thing I waited for was a text message telling me it was over. Dozens of red hearts floated across the screen of the video. The top pinned comment was from Chris’s college roommate, Tyler: “I knew you were a goner the second she walked into your lecture hall. You had no shot, buddy.” Just last week, Tyler had texted me: “Don’t worry, Rachel. Chris is keeping his head down at the lab. I’m keeping an eye on him for you.” The video cut to a scenic beach. “Our fifth trip to Key West. Still absolute paradise,” Mia’s voiceover narrated. They were holding hands, running through the surf, the camera shaking with their shared laughter. Chris and I had never gone on a trip together. Not once. He was always too busy. There was always a grant proposal to write, a paper to finish, a conference to attend. Whenever he canceled on me, he would pull me close, looking incredibly guilty. “Next time, babe. I promise, next summer we’ll go somewhere beautiful.” There was always a next time. A promise that existed only to keep me quiet. On screen, they were having a candlelight dinner by the water. Chris was meticulously peeling shrimp, placing them one by one onto Mia’s plate. “He’s incredibly spoiled me,” Mia boasted to the camera. “In eight years, I’ve never had to peel a single piece of seafood when I’m with him.” I looked down at my own hands, my nails trimmed down to the quick. Chris loved seafood but hated the messy hands that came with it. For eleven years, I was the one who sat there peeling his shrimp, leaving a small mountain of shells on my plate while he ate. By the time I could finally eat, the food was always cold. In the video, Chris reached out and gently wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of Mia’s mouth. “Eat up,” he murmured softly. “It’s no good when it gets cold.” So he knew. He knew food was miserable when it was cold. He knew how to be attentive, how to be tender, how to cherish someone. He just didn’t want to do it for me. My phone buzzed again. Mia had just posted a new clip to her story. The lighting in the room was warm, dim, and intimate. Bridget was the first one to stand up in the video, clinking her glass. “Toast! Toast!” Tyler started drumming on the table, and the entire room erupted into a chant. Mia blushed, wrapping her arm through Chris’s in a classic wedding toast. He looked down at her, his eyes slightly hazy and softened by alcohol. They raised their glasses, their wrists locked, and drank. The crowd went wild, cheering and recording on their phones. Bridget’s voice was the loudest: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Mia, her cheeks flushed pink, stood on her tiptoes and pressed a quick, shy kiss to the corner of his lips. The shouting grew louder. Chris smiled, his hand sliding to the back of her head to pull her back in, deepening the kiss. His face was flushed with a warm glow. The alcohol had completely softened his usual rigid demeanor. I had never seen him like this. Chris didn’t drink. He didn’t just avoid it; he despised it. If anyone around him drank, he would lose his temper. He had told me his father was a violent alcoholic, that alcohol was the dirtiest, most destructive thing on earth. Once, at a mandatory corporate dinner, I had been forced to take a single sip of champagne to toast a client. I was so terrified of his reaction that I stopped at a drugstore on the way home, bought a bottle of mouthwash, and rinsed my mouth five times. I stood in the freezing, seventeen-degree wind outside our apartment for thirty minutes to let the scent dissipate before unlocking the door. But Chris smelled it anyway. His face went entirely cold. “You drank?” My voice shook. “Just a tiny sip. I had to.” He took a step back, opening the front door wide. “I’ve told you a thousand times how much that smell sickens me. You smell disgusting right now. I feel like throwing up just looking at you.” I tried to explain, but he grabbed my arm and shoved me out into the hallway, slamming the door shut. I sat on the cold concrete steps all night. It was freezing, and my tears literally turned to ice on my cheeks. From that night on, I never touched a drop of alcohol again. I genuinely believed it was his trauma. But here he was, drinking wedding toasts, looking like the happiest man alive. Using the geotag from the video, I found the private lounge where they were celebrating. As the taxi sped down the highway, my mind spun. What was I going to do when I got there? Scream? Fight? Make a scene? Throw a drink in someone’s face like a scene from a movie? But as I stared out the window, I realized I didn’t even know who I wanted to hurt more. Chris? Mia? Bridget? Or the entire circle of friends who were currently toast-clinking to their “eternal love” in the comments? The cab pulled up to the curb. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the lounge, I could see them gathered around a massive cake. Mia was laughing against Chris’s shoulder, and Bridget was clapping beside them. I walked up to the heavy glass doors. My hand rested on the handle, but I couldn’t bring myself to push it open. I was the one who had been discarded after eleven years. I was the one who had every right to storm in there and flip their tables. But my hand remained frozen. Suddenly, the door swung open from the inside. Chris stood there. Before I could say a word, his hand clamped around my wrist. He dragged me quickly down the corridor, pulling me around the corner into a quiet alcove near the restrooms. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. He smelled heavily of whiskey. He glanced back toward the main room, making sure no one had seen us. “Go home, Rachel. I’ll explain everything about Mia later.” “Explain how you cheated on me for eight years?” My voice was so hoarse it barely sounded like mine. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking deeply irritated, as if dealing with a petulant child. “I know this is hard for you to accept, but we are broken up. What’s done is done. We both need to move on.” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Broken up for three days, and you’re already married?” He went quiet, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “Mia… she doesn’t know anything about you. If you’re angry, take it out on me. Just please, don’t say anything to her.” His eyes actually began to redden. “She’s pregnant, Rachel. She can’t handle that kind of shock right now.” “She’s… what?” The words felt like dry cotton in my throat. Chris looked away, unable to meet my eyes. “We found out three days ago. She’s fragile, Rachel. Seriously. Her doctor said she needs absolute peace.” “I’m begging you. Don’t tell her about us.” So that was it. No wonder he had to end things so brutally. He had to rush to build her a family. I slumped against the wall, the cold tile biting through my coat. Every ounce of energy drained out of my limbs. Instinctively, my hand drifted to my own lower abdomen. There had been a baby here once, too. Three years ago, I had stood in front of him, holding a positive pregnancy test, my hands shaking so hard I could barely keep my grip. He had kept his eyes glued to his research papers, not even bothering to look up. “Rachel, I haven’t even graduated yet. How are we supposed to support a child? You don’t want our kid growing up in a shoebox, eating ramen, do you?” I told him I could take on another shift, that we could make it work. He had only sighed, shaking his head. “Rachel, be smart. Now is just not the time. Once I graduate and get a real faculty position, we’ll do it right. Okay?” Wait. It was always wait. I had begged him so many times. I told him I wanted a wedding, a family, a home of our own. And every single time, he told me to wait until he graduated, wait until he got tenure, wait until we bought a house. I waited for eleven years. Now, at thirty-three, while all my friends were driving carpools and hosting birthday parties, I was still waiting. Only to find out he was giving that life to someone else. A sudden wave of nausea hit me. I bent over, dry-heaving into the empty air of the hallway. Nothing came up. Eleven years of grief and humiliation were lodged in my throat, choking me. Chris reached out to steady me, but before his hand could touch my shoulder, the heavy door at the end of the hall opened. Mia’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Chris? Who are you talking to? The cake is going to melt…” She stopped at the entrance of the alcove, tilting her head as she looked at us. Bridget slipped out from behind her. The moment she saw me, the smile froze on her face. Mia’s gaze shifted between the three of us. Sensing the sudden drop in temperature, her expression tightened, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto me. “Do you guys know each other? Who is she?” Before I could open my mouth, Bridget jumped in. “She’s my cousin!” She forced a bright, fragile smile, her eyes practically pleading with me. “Right, Rachel?” I looked at Bridget, then slowly turned my gaze to Chris. He kept his eyes lowered, his chest rising and falling, saying absolutely nothing. He was waiting for me to play along. Mia let out a soft “oh,” the tension leaving her shoulders. “Bridget’s cousin! Well, come on in and join us then!” She reached out, wrapping her arm tightly around mine, pulling me toward the room. She sat me down at the table, acting like the perfect hostess. As she leaned over to hand me a glass of juice, her collarbone exposed a thin red silk cord around her neck. I recognized it instantly. It was a protective medallion from a famous mountaintop shrine upstate—one meant to bless and protect unborn children. Three years ago, after I lost my pregnancy, I had spent months in a daze. I would wake up in the middle of the night, convinced I could hear a baby crying in the corner of our room. I had read about that shrine, about how families went there to find peace. I asked Chris to take me. He had scoffed. “That’s superstitious nonsense, Rachel. I’m a scientist. Don’t waste your time with that garbage.” Mia noticed me staring at the necklace. She pulled the silver medallion out from under her shirt, a tiny, proud smile playing on her lips. “Chris climbed three thousand stone steps on his knees to get this blessed for the baby last week,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet affection. “His knees were completely raw and bleeding when he got home. I was so upset with him, but he’s just so devoted.” Chris wrapped an arm around her shoulder, kissing her temple. “Anything for you and the little one.” My heart plummeted into a cold, dark abyss. Three days ago, when he vanished and blocked my number, I had run through the streets of Boston like a lunatic, crying, searching for his car. I had called Bridget, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. And Bridget had told me: “Don’t drive yourself crazy, Rachel. You know how Chris gets when he’s stressed about research. Give him space. You’re smothering him.” I had actually believed her. I spent those three days starving myself in our dark apartment, dissecting every text message, every conversation, trying to figure out what I had done to make him hate me so suddenly. And all the while, he was climbing a mountain on his knees, praying for his new wife and child. The room began to spin. I bolted from the table, ran into the restroom, and collapsed over the sink, dry-heaving violently. Nothing but bile came up, burning my throat as tears streamed down my face. The door to the restroom clicked open behind me. “You’re Chris’s ex, aren’t you?” Mia was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. The warm, bubbly girl from the dining room was completely gone. I wiped my mouth, stunned. “You knew?” She took a few slow steps toward me, looking at my disheveled reflection in the mirror. “I’m not stupid. You two were together for eleven years. Of course I knew.” She let her eyes trail over my tear-stained face, a faint, mocking smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly, Chris always said you were sweet. Great at keeping house, great at cooking. But… not exactly someone he could introduce to his colleagues. Let’s be real, Rachel—any maid can do laundry.” She gently patted her stomach. “He needs a partner. Someone who can actually stand beside him in his academic circle. Someone like me.” She met my eyes in the glass. “So, tell me. How does it feel to play housewife for eleven years, only to be thrown out like garbage?” The sheer, venomous arrogance of her words snapped something inside me. The grief turned into a blinding, white-hot rage. “You knew about me the whole time,” I screamed, turning on her. “You’re a disgusting, pathetic homewrecker!” She didn’t even flinch. She just smirked, her eyes cold. “Who’s the homewrecker? You think anyone is going to take your side?” Before I could comprehend what she was doing, she lunged sideways, throwing herself hard against the marble sink basin, and let out a piercing, terrified shriek as she tumbled to the tile floor. Before I could even take a step, the restroom door was violently shoved open. A heavy force slammed into my shoulder, throwing me back against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of me, a sharp pain radiating through my spine. Chris was already on his knees, throwing his arms around Mia. He looked up at me, his face twisted in absolute disgust and disappointment. “Rachel, what is wrong with you?” he roared. “Attacking a pregnant woman? When did you become so utterly heartless?” “I didn’t touch her…” I choked out, my voice trembling from the pain in my back. But Chris wasn’t listening. He was whispering soothing words to Mia, lifting her gently into his arms. Mia buried her face in his neck, but over his shoulder, her eyes met mine. She flashed me a tiny, triumphant smile. The final string of my sanity snapped. I lunged forward, desperate to tear that smirk off her face, but before I could reach her, a heavy, solid object struck the back of my head. The room tilted. As I stumbled backward, my vision blurring, I saw Bridget’s face swim into view, holding her heavy leather purse. Through the fog of pain, the last thing I saw was Chris carrying Mia out of the restroom, not once looking back at me. When I woke up, the smell of antiseptic filled my nose. I was in a hospital bed. Bridget was standing by the mattress, her eyes red, looking thoroughly miserable. “I’m so sorry, Rachel… I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.” “But you were out of control. If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have hurt Mia and the baby.” Mia. Always Mia. I let out a weak, raspy laugh. “Bridget, do you even remember that I’m supposed to be your best friend?” She let out a long, heavy sigh. “Rachel, you have to understand. Mia is actually a wonderful person. She’s bright, she’s warm, she’s like a little pocket of sunshine. Anyone who hangs out with her just feels good.” “And she’s got her master’s from an Ivy League. She and Chris actually make sense together. They’re equals. While you…” “While I what?” I stared at her, my throat burning. “Are you going to say I’m uneducated too? That I’m not good enough for your circle?” “Bridget, let’s not forget who paid for your rent when you were struggling to find a job. Let’s not forget whose money Chris used to buy his lab equipment. I worked seventy hours a week at two different diners so you two could sit in classrooms and feel superior. And now you look down on me?” Bridget went pale. She mumbled a pathetic excuse about needing to check on the paperwork and practically ran out of the room. The hospital door was left slightly ajar, and the quiet murmurs of the nurses in the hallway drifted in. “Is that the stalker girl in room four?” “Yeah. Apparently, she cornered the pregnant wife in a bathroom and tried to push her. Some people are just psycho.” “Disgusting. Why do we even waste beds on people like that?” Confused, I reached for my phone on the nightstand and opened my social media apps. A video of the lounge incident had already been uploaded. It was trending locally. Underneath, Bridget had posted a public apology under her real name, claiming to be my “concerned best friend” and stating that I had been suffering from “severe mental instability” since the breakup. She had tagged my public handle. My direct messages were a toxic wasteland of hate. “You homewrecking psycho, I hope you rot.” “Imagine stalking a pregnant woman because you can’t accept you got dumped. Someone needs to dox this bitch.” My phone vibrated. It was Bridget. “I had to do it, Rachel…” she sobbed over the line. “Mia is about to secure a major federal research grant, and Chris is on the track for a tenure position. A scandal right now would ruin their entire careers. We had to control the narrative. I’m sorry, but you have to take this one.” Then a text from Chris arrived. “Rachel, I saw the video. Don’t look at the comments, people are just venting online. Just keep your mouth shut for a few days and let it blow over. If you fight back, it ruins everyone’s lives.” It was laughable. They wanted the actual homewrecker to remain spotless. And they expected the victim to carry their shame so they could live happily ever after. The last lingering shred of love I had for Chris vanished, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. I hung up on Bridget. I sat up in bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in my head, and opened my laptop. I took screenshots of every single message Chris had sent me over the last eight years. I exported the audio recording of the call I had just had with Bridget—I had set my phone to auto-record years ago for work. I gathered bank statements, wire transfers, lease agreements, and a meticulously detailed timeline of our eleven years together. Once everything was compiled into a single, massive folder, I turned on my laptop camera, looked directly into the lens, and pressed record. “Hi, everyone. My name is Rachel. I’m the woman currently being dragged across your feeds as a mentally unstable stalker. I think it’s time you hear the actual story.”

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My best friend ran to me, crying hysterically. She claimed her husband was a violent, sex-obsessed psycho who wouldn’t even leave her alone during her pregnancy. Looking at the dark purple bruises covering her skin, my heart ached with a mixture of pity and rage. Without hesitation, I paid out of my own pocket to hire the most ruthless divorce lawyer in the city for her. But the moment she turned around, she got pregnant with their second child. To make matters worse, she told her husband that I was the one trying to sabotage their beautiful marriage. To get revenge, her husband dragged me into a dark alley, brutally assaulted me, and tortured me to death. And my best friend? She stood right there, ignoring my desperate pleas for help, calmly recording the entire thing on her phone. Afterward, she uploaded a carefully edited version of the video online, playing the ultimate victim. “I can’t believe my best friend tried to seduce my husband while I was pregnant!” With endless, suffocating hatred, I died. But then, I woke up. I was reborn, back to the exact moment she came to cry to me. This time, I just smiled at her and said: “He wants to get intimate with you even when you’re pregnant? Oh my god, he is literally obsessed with you! He loves you so much!”

“Chloe, I don’t care what anyone says. I am definitely divorcing him this time.” My best friend Ruby’s screeching voice echoed in my ears. I shook my pounding head, trying to force myself awake. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Ruby, standing in front of me with her clothes half-off, showing off a body covered in nasty purple bruises. Her face was contorted with anger. Staring at this eerily familiar scene, I pinched my thigh as hard as I could. The sharp sting shot through my leg. It was real. I had actually been reborn. In my past life, Ruby had come to me crying just like this, stripping off her clothes to show me her injuries. She had screamed, “Chloe, Marcus is a literal beast! I just gave birth, and he forced me to do that to him while I was still healing!” Seeing her battered body, I had felt so much pain and anger for her. I spent my own savings to hire the best divorce lawyer available. But instead of leaving him, she got pregnant again almost immediately and sold me out to save her own skin. To please Marcus, she even set up a trap to force me to marry his creepy cousin, Justin. I fought back with everything I had and managed to escape. But in the end, a furious Marcus dragged me into a filthy alleyway. He beat and assaulted me until I took my last breath. All the while, Ruby stood there, holding her phone, recording my slow death. She completely ignored my screams. Later, she edited the footage and posted it on Instagram to play the victim. “I can’t believe my best friend tried to seduce my husband while I was pregnant.” Overnight, I became the internet’s favorite punching bag—the “homewrecker” who tried to steal her bestie’s husband. Meanwhile, Ruby used her sob story to gain millions of followers, making a fortune off of sponsorships. The suffocating terror of being tortured to death still gripped my chest. Instinctively, I clenched my fists, digging my fingernails into my palms to hide the burning hatred in my eyes. Seeing that I hadn’t responded for a while, Ruby snapped. She raised her voice, yelling at me. “Chloe! Are you even my friend? I got beaten to a pulp, and you’re just standing there daydreaming?!” She marched over, grabbing my chin and forcing my head up. She made me look directly at her bruised body, repeating every word slowly. “Chloe, I said I’m divorcing him. I. Am. Divorcing. Him. Did you hear me?” She stressed the word “divorce” over and over again. I immediately understood her hidden agenda. She didn’t actually want a divorce. She just wanted me to validate her anger and offer her financial support so she could use me as leverage to threaten Marcus. She chose me because she knew I was a soft-hearted fool. In my past life, I hadn’t seen through her sick game. I had stupidly thrown my money and energy into helping her. And it cost me my life. Remembering this, I swallowed the bitter hatred rising in my throat. I casually brushed her hand off my chin and said in a flat tone: “Are you seriously throwing a tantrum over such a minor issue? Didn’t you say he was your soulmate?” Ruby froze. Then, her voice went up an octave. “This is domestic violence! Domestic violence happens once, and then it happens forever! How can you call this a minor issue?!” Her voice carried a note of panic. I sneered in my mind. So, she did know that abusers never change. She and Marcus had had a whirlwind romance. She hadn’t even met his parents before she decided she absolutely had to marry him. As her best friend, I couldn’t bear to see her ruin her life, so I begged her to slow down. But she just sent me a wedding invitation when she was already visibly pregnant. I was furious, but looking at her pregnant belly, I had no choice but to accept it. I even bought her an expensive designer necklace as a wedding gift. And the moment she got beaten, I tried to save her. In return, she destroyed me. How utterly pathetic. Just then, a frantic, heavy pounding echoed from my front door. BANG! BANG! BANG! The violent noise made the walls shake. I looked at the rattling door, then at Ruby’s guilty, pale face. I knew exactly what was happening. This was my new apartment. No one knew the address except Ruby. The beast slamming against my door could only be Marcus. I didn’t know what Ruby had told him to make him this furious, but it definitely wasn’t anything good. I forced down the disgust rising in my chest. A second before the door was kicked open, I seized my chance and yelled at Ruby at the top of my lungs: “What?! You want to divorce Marcus over something so stupid?! “Didn’t you tell me he’s the love of your life? “He wanted to be intimate with you right after you gave birth—doesn’t that prove how obsessed he is with you? “Honestly, Ruby, you need to grow up. You’re a married woman now!” I screamed as loud as I could, making sure Marcus could hear every single word through the door. Ruby was completely stunned by my sudden change of attitude. She stared at me, her eyes wide with utter disbelief. But the moment Marcus burst through the door, a look of smug relief washed over her face, her eyes instantly filling with adoration. I looked up. Sure enough, Marcus walked in holding a heavy iron tire iron. He glared at me, swinging the iron bar back and forth. It looked like he was ready to crack my skull open at any second. This was only the third time I had seen him. The first time was at their wedding, which had been too rushed for me to get a good look at his face. The terror of my past life flashed through my mind, making my blood run cold. I clenched my jaw, forcing a calm smile onto my face, and said to Ruby: “Couples fight all the time. See? Marcus is already here to take you home.” Hearing my words, Ruby let out a sweet, triumphant laugh. Her ego inflated instantly. She said haughtily, “I guess you’re right. Tough love is still love. If he didn’t care about me, why would he only hit me and not anyone else?” I was completely dumbfounded by her twisted logic. I glanced at her face. She tilted her chin up proudly, refusing to look at Marcus, waiting for him to beg for her forgiveness first. But Marcus’s eyes were locked onto her exposed, bruised body. In the next second, he lunged forward, grabbing her and kissing her violently. He muttered, “Didn’t I show you enough love? Fine, let me show you how much I love you right now…” Ruby put up a half-hearted struggle, which only turned Marcus on even more. Watching them practically get it on right in front of me made me want to throw up. To stop them, I deliberately swiped a glass cup off the table. CRASH! The loud noise finally made them freeze. Ruby’s face was flushed, her legs shaking, but her eyes were filled with smug satisfaction. Marcus, on the other hand, glared at me with a dark, murderous expression. Under his terrifying gaze, I trembled slightly but forced myself to speak. “This is a newly renovated apartment. The fresh paint fumes are toxic… it’s bad for conceiving a baby boy.” My voice shook. I wasn’t sure if Marcus would buy it, but I had to take the gamble. Fortunately, Marcus just gave me a chilling look, then scooped Ruby up in a bridal carry and walked out. He looked as desperate as a starved animal. Ruby clung to him with a smug, seductive smirk. The moment they left, the adrenaline drained from my body. I collapsed onto the floor, my knees weak, staring at the empty doorway. My mind spun rapidly as I began to plan my next move.

Without my interference this time, Ruby got pregnant with their second child much faster than in my previous life. She posted her ultrasound photo all over Instagram, acting like a clueless, pampered princess. “My amazing hubby is so strong! Got me pregnant again in a flash. “And guess what? It’s a boy this time! ” She attached photos of a massive diamond ring alongside some highly inappropriate, semi-nude pictures of her and Marcus. It was nauseating. I knew for a fact she had given birth via C-section only three months ago. Her uterus hadn’t even fully healed, yet she was bragging about being pregnant again. It meant Marcus had forced himself on her almost immediately after she got home from the hospital. Graphic, bloody medical scenarios flashed through my mind. I felt sick to my stomach. Just then, my office door was slammed open. Ruby and Marcus barged in, looking frantic. “Chloe! You have to help me! “Those incompetent doctors at the clinic actually told me to get an abortion! This is my son they’re talking about!” Ruby’s eyes burned with a vicious hatred, so intense it felt like she wanted to kill me on the spot. I looked at the couple, then at the ultrasound report on my desk. I rubbed my aching temples. I deeply regretted not taking a personal day today. As an OB-GYN, any decent doctor looking at her chart would advise an abortion. Getting pregnant two months after a C-section was practically a suicide mission. It was basic medical common sense. But it was obvious that neither Ruby nor Marcus cared about medical science. They only wanted one thing: to bring this baby to term. Preferably a boy. I decided to keep my tone strictly professional. “Looking at the ultrasound, the fetus is currently healthy. “However, regarding your maternal health…” Before I could finish, Marcus cut me off with an ecstatic shout. He swept Ruby into his arms, yelling in excitement: “Baby, did you hear that?! The baby is healthy! “My family finally has an heir! My mom’s psychic was right, this one is definitely a boy!” Ruby gave him a strained smile, then looked at me with a desperate, pleading gaze. She whispered under her breath, “Chloe… I just had a C-section two months ago. My body can’t handle this…” I almost laughed out loud. Why didn’t she think about her body when she was busy letting him use her? I ignored her silent plea and said coldly: “I can only confirm the fetus is viable. If you want to know about your own health, you need a full physical workup. “Do you want me to schedule that?” Seeing my cold indifference, a flash of pure hatred crossed Ruby’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but Marcus cut in again. “Baby, your bestie literally just said the baby is healthy. What are you hesitating for? “Don’t you want to give me a son?” His voice dropped, laced with a dangerous threat. Ruby flinched. Instinctively, she tried to shift the blame onto me to appease him. She clung to Marcus’s arm, whining like a child. “Babe, of course I love you, and of course I want to give you a son. “It’s just… Chloe kept telling me before that getting pregnant so soon after a C-section would kill me.” She shot me a smug, triumphant look. Sure enough, Marcus snapped. He kicked my heavy office desk, flipping it completely over. Before I could react, I was thrown to the floor along with the desk. But Marcus wasn’t done. He slowly walked toward me, his towering shadow looming over my fallen body. The skin on my hands was scraped and bleeding, throbbing with sharp pain. I looked up at the security camera on the wall, quickly calculating the angles in my head. As Marcus stepped closer, I positioned myself in the camera’s blind spot. Then, with all the strength I could muster, I kicked him squarely in the groin. My kick landed perfectly. It was enough to send him crashing to the floor, howling in agony. Watching him writhe in pain brought a rush of pure satisfaction to my chest. Ruby rushed to his side, glaring at me like a feral beast. “Chloe! You bitch! What did you do to Marcus?!” The hatred in her eyes was so raw, it was almost hard to believe. We had grown up together. We used to share everything. We were inseparable. Yet, she had dragged me into hell twice. Neither in my past life nor in this one had she ever cared about my life. The ghost of being assaulted still haunted my skin. Even after taking countless showers since my rebirth, I still felt dirty. I had nightmares every single night. I couldn’t hold back my rage anymore. I stood up, walked over to her, and blocked the camera with my body. I grabbed her chin, forcing her to look me in the eyes. “Hurts, doesn’t it? But this pain is absolutely nothing compared to what I had to go through.” At this moment, all my mercy was gone. Only hatred remained. I didn’t care about the consequences anymore. In this life, I was going to drag them both straight to hell. Ruby was clearly terrified by my sudden madness. She quickly helped a groaning Marcus up and scurried toward the door. Before leaving, she spat out a weak threat. “Just wait, Chloe… you’ll pay for this.” I casually brushed the dust off my clothes, completely unfazed. “Bring it on. Let’s rot in hell together.”

I thought that after that incident, Ruby and I were officially done. Yet, she actually had the audacity to show up at my apartment again, heavily pregnant. This time, she brought a few of our former college classmates with her. I couldn’t throw her out in front of everyone, so I swallowed my disgust and let them in. As soon as she sat down, Ruby began proudly showing off her brand-new bag. She raised her voice, making sure I could hear her from the kitchen. “Marcus bought me this Birkin bag. It cost seventy thousand dollars! “He said it’s a reward for being such an obedient wife. I guess I’m just lucky. I’ve got the wide hips to carry his heir.” Our former classmates squealed in envy, praising her for marrying a rich, handsome guy, begging her to introduce them to some of his wealthy friends. Ruby basked in their flattery, boasting that she would take everyone out for a lavish seafood dinner. But my suspicion only grew. The others might not know, but I knew very well that Marcus wasn’t some rich heir. He was a high school dropout from the projects who survived on welfare. Even if he had landed a decent job, there was no way he could afford a seventy-thousand-dollar bag. Then, Ruby leaned in closer to the girls, whispering mysteriously: “Honestly, making money is so easy… “As long as you’re good at pleasing wealthy men, forget about designer bags—luxury cars and penthouses are yours for the taking.” The other girls squealed with excitement, joking about their own bodies and how “fertile” they looked. I was highly curious about this “easy money” scheme, so I kept my ears open. But Ruby suddenly glanced toward me and lowered her voice to a whisper. I immediately realized why she had brought them here today. She wanted to use my apartment and my professional status as a doctor to legitimize whatever shady business she was running, recruiting these girls into her scheme. I brought out a plate of sliced fruit and joined them, acting casual. “What kind of moneymaking scheme are we talking about? Count me in!” I softened my tone, pretending to be naive and greedy. Ruby’s eyes lit up. She pulled me down to sit beside her, running her hands over my body, nodding in approval. “Chloe, you’re a natural. With your body, you’ll make a absolute fortune.” I had always been naturally curvier than most girls. To find out what she was up to, I forced myself not to recoil from her touch and smiled. “Really? I guess I’ll have to follow your lead to get rich, Ruby.” My submissive act highly pleased her. She immediately pulled out her phone and called Marcus, telling him to come over and pick us up. Our classmates were practically drooling with envy, begging Ruby to introduce them to rich guys just like Marcus. It made my skin crawl. I excused myself to go change. Watching Ruby brainwash those girls in my living room, I knew this “business” was deeply illegal. Actually, the reason Ruby and I became best friends wasn’t just because we grew up together. It was because I had always sensed a darkness in her—a darkness that mirrored my own. It was a dangerous thrill, and I loved it. I smiled, fingering my necklace, and quickly typed a message on my phone. Once finished, I hit send. Right on cue, Ruby’s impatient voice yelled from the living room: “Chloe! Hurry up! We can’t keep them waiting!”

When we walked down to the street, Marcus was waiting in a rusty, dented van. He sat in the driver’s seat, heavily chain-smoking, his face dark and menacing. Our classmates had never met Marcus in person before. Seeing his sketchy appearance, they immediately looked disgusted, holding their noses as they whispered to Ruby: “Ruby… is that your driver? Why is he so dirty?” Ruby’s face turned bright red with embarrassment. She tried to cover it up quickly. “Why do you care what the car looks like? As long as he takes you to make money, who cares?” But looking at the sketchy van that didn’t match Ruby’s “trophy wife” persona at all, the girls hesitated. Nobody wanted to get in. Looking at them, I knew for sure that whatever Marcus and Ruby were doing, it was highly dangerous. I decided to play along and give them an out, while pushing Ruby further into the trap. “Ruby, if they don’t want to make money, forget it. Let them stay poor. We don’t need them.” I walked over and linked my arm with Ruby’s. Encouraged by my support, Ruby sneered at the girls. “Chloe is right. You guys are destined to be poor. Don’t go then.” I patted Ruby’s arm while subtly signaling the other girls to leave. But they ignored my warning, standing there, torn between fear and greed. Just then, Marcus got out of the van. He threw his cigarette butt onto the ground. He marched straight toward us, and without a word, slapped Ruby hard across the face. “Bitch! Stop wasting my time! You can’t even handle a simple task!” The force of the slap sent Ruby spinning, and she knocked into me. Instead of fighting back, Ruby immediately knelt on the pavement, begging for forgiveness. Marcus ignored her. He began walking around me, his filthy, lustful eyes scanning my body like he wanted to strip me right there. Under his creepy gaze, I forced myself to look terrified, lowering my head in submission. Seeing my submissive act, Marcus lost interest and grunted. The other girls were terrified, trembling in a corner. Marcus looked around to make sure there were no security cameras. Then, he grabbed the girls one by one and violently threw them into the back of the van. He shoved me and Ruby in last. No one dared to breathe, terrified of triggering his explosive temper. The girls who had been dreaming of quick cash were now crying silently. I frowned. This was an undeveloped area with zero surveillance. If anything happened to us here, the police wouldn’t even know where to start looking. But the trap was set. I could only pray that Ethan had received my text. The drive was brutal. The bumpy mountain roads made everyone quiet down. The initial excitement was entirely gone, replaced by pure dread. One of the girls began to gag from motion sickness. She whimpered to Ruby in the front seat: “Ruby… please tell your husband to pull over. I’m going to throw up…” But Ruby ignored her, busy feeding Marcus chips. She replied carelessly: “Just throw up in the car. Who cares?” Some of the girls began to complain, but Marcus just sped up, ignoring them completely. I had prepared myself for this, so I remained calm. I pulled out tissues and water from my bag, passing them to the girls, whispering for them to stay quiet. They calmed down slightly, clutching the water bottles. I stared out the window as the van climbed deeper into the desolate mountains, my heart pounding. I kept touching my necklace, drawing comfort from it, before closing my eyes. After about four hours, the van finally screeched to a halt outside a remote estate. The sudden stop jolted us awake. Before we could figure out where we were, two men wearing black ski masks threw the back doors open. They brutally dragged us out, snatching our phones and bags, and stuffed gags into our mouths. We were forced down a dark corridor and shoved into a massive iron cage. Everyone was crying, desperately regretting their greed. I looked around. The cage was already filled with dozens of other young women, all staring blankly at the floor.

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I was in the middle of a catastrophic labor, facing a sudden amniotic fluid embolism. My life was hanging by a thread. But I wasn’t entirely hopeless. My husband, Dr. Ryan Mercer, was the most renowned OBGYN in the state. With him here, I believed my baby and I would make it. But at the critical moment of my resuscitation, he redirected my life-saving blood transfusion to his first love, Chloe Sterling. “This blood belongs to Chloe,” Ryan said, his voice cold and unyielding. “I don’t care if her internal hemorrhaging was caused by a ruptured cyst from a wild, multi-partner hookup. I believe she has her reasons!” “Save her first. I want to hear her explanation myself.” Using the last of my fading consciousness, I kept crying out Ryan’s name, begging him to save me. But he didn’t even look back. He turned around and walked out with the nurses. As my consciousness slowly slipped away, I could hear the chaotic noise from the next room as they rushed to match Chloe’s blood type. Finally, a nurse noticed my monitor was screaming in alarm. “Dr. Mercer! The patient’s blood pressure is bottoming out!” He paused for a second. Then, his cold voice drifted through the door. “Even if we resuscitate her, the baby might not survive. Give the blood to Chloe first.” 1 “Dr. Mercer! Your wife has an amniotic fluid embolism! She’s hemorrhaging!” The nurse’s voice trembled, piercing through the heavy surgical doors. Outside, my husband’s voice remained calm, without a single hint of panic. “I said, stabilize the patient first. We cannot stop Chloe’s surgery.” A bone-chilling coldness washed over me. I was being pushed into the abyss by the person I loved most. Then, I heard him comfort Chloe in a gentle voice I hadn’t heard in years. “Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s just a minor procedure.” At that moment, my heart was completely shattered. “Ryan! Are you out of your mind?! Why did you redirect the O-negative blood bags reserved for my patient to the next room?!” Leo from the blood bank screamed in frustration outside the door. Ryan’s voice turned incredibly cold. “Are you questioning my medical judgment? Keep pumping the blood into Miss Sterling. Use alternative expanders for my wife.” My body felt like ice. Every breath was a suffocating agony. I heard Ryan reprimand Leo. “Chloe saved my life once. She has her dream Broadway audition tomorrow. She’s prepared for so long, and I won’t let her down.” “As for my wife, the survival rate for an amniotic fluid embolism is extremely low anyway. Even if we save her, the baby is likely dead. It’s not worth wasting the blood.” So, in his eyes, my baby and I weren’t even worth as much as Chloe’s Broadway audition. Absurdity and despair drowned me like a tidal wave. “If you say another word, Leo, don’t bother coming to work tomorrow.” Leo’s face must have been flushed with anger. He stood there speechless for a long time, only able to mutter, “Two lives, Ryan… how could you?” However, his voice was quickly drowned out by Ryan’s hushed, jealous whispers as he asked Chloe who those men at the party were. My vision began to blur. The strength in my body drained away with every drop of blood I lost. Vaguely, I heard the nurses whispering nearby. “Dr. Mercer is so devoted. He personally managed Miss Sterling’s transfusion and didn’t let go of her hand the whole time.” Meanwhile, in my room, there were only the cold clinking of surgical instruments and the heavy, panicked breathing of my doctors. Chloe had been wheeled into the operating room next door, with Ryan as her primary surgeon. I heard him tell her, “Don’t be scared. I’m right here.” But my surgeon was sweating, trying his best to keep me alive with what little resources he had. His voice was filled with sheer helplessness. “Her condition is critical. Do we have to perform a hysterectomy?” A nurse whispered, “If we just had those blood bags, we could save both the baby and her uterus.” A sharp pain shot through my abdomen. It was my baby, making its final, desperate struggle. No, please. Baby. Don’t leave Mommy. Next door, Ryan’s gentle voice continued to soothe Chloe. “It’ll be over soon. Just take a nap, and you’ll wake up perfectly fine.” The surgical lights flickered above me. I heard the nurses whispering in hushed tones. “How tragic. She’s our Head Nurse, and her husband is the Chief of OBGYN. Yet, she can’t even secure a single blood bag during labor.” “Don’t you know? The woman next door is Dr. Mercer’s true love. For Chloe, he doesn’t care about his own wife and child. He’s so romantic.” The “romance” they spoke of was being paid for with my life and the life of my unborn child. Just as my consciousness was about to fade entirely, Ryan finally appeared beside my bed. His face was a mask of cold indifference. 2 Behind him stood Chloe. Her surgery was complete, and she was wearing a hospital gown, her makeup still looking pristine. The moment Ryan opened his mouth, it was to scold me with irritation. “How could you be so careless? You made Chloe worry about you. She just got out of surgery and insisted on dragging herself over to see you.” My gaze drifted past him, landing on Chloe’s pitiful, tear-stained face. She took a step forward, her eyes instantly turning red. “It’s all my fault, Evelyn. If I hadn’t needed that blood, you wouldn’t be like this. You have to get through this surgery…” Then, she turned to Ryan, leaning weakly against his chest. “Ryan, my head is so spinny. My incision hurts. I’m so tired.” Ryan immediately wrapped his arms around her, his eyes overflowing with anxiety and tenderness. He didn’t even give me a second glance. He held Chloe close and turned to leave. Their retreating figures were like a knife, severing the very last thread of hope in my heart. I lay on the operating table. The pain in my body was nothing compared to the agony in my soul. Under the harsh surgical lights, I heard the doctors whispering. “We can’t save the uterus. The fetus is dead. We must perform a D&C and a total hysterectomy immediately.” My body was numb, but my mind was terrifyingly sharp. I remembered the early days of my pregnancy, when Ryan would gently stroke my belly. He had said, “Evelyn, this is the symbol of our love. I will protect you and our baby with my life forever.” How sweet it was then, and how mocking it was now. The moment the scalpel sliced through my skin, my eyes flew open. The hollow, empty sensation in my abdomen made me scream in agonizing despair. “My baby!” I struggled wildly, wanting to hold onto the last proof that my poor child had ever existed. Several nurses pinned me down, and a needle was plunged into my arm. Before my mind plunged into total darkness, I felt it all. I felt my child and my uterus being ripped away from my body, piece by piece. The lead surgeon sighed, lecturing the resident beside him. “Remember this. This is an amniotic fluid embolism—the most dangerous complication in obstetrics. It’s a miracle if they survive.” When Ryan showed up again, it was only to sign my discharge papers. He kept his head down the entire time, smiling as he texted Chloe on Snapchat. The nurse handed him the surgical record. “Dr. Mercer, we need a family member’s signature here to confirm the patient has been informed of the total hysterectomy.” He frowned impatiently and scribbled his name quickly. The document that declared I could never be a mother again was less important to him than a Snapchat message from Chloe. After signing, he said without looking up, “Chloe is weak and needs a quiet place to recover. You’ll be moved to a general ward for now.” “Once she’s discharged, I’ll arrange for you to move to a VIP suite and hire the best nurse for you.” Every single word was a reminder that I would always come second to Chloe. Before he could finish, his phone rang. The name Chloe flashed on the screen. The coldness on Ryan’s face melted instantly, replaced by a tender warmth. “Hey, babe. What’s wrong? Don’t worry, I’m coming right now.” Listening to whatever she said on the other end, he stood up abruptly. “What? You want those macarons from that French bakery downtown? Okay, I’ll go grab them for you right away.” Ryan hung up. Without even glancing at me, he turned and rushed out. 3 I lay alone in the empty hospital room, my hand resting on my flat, hollow belly. There had been a tiny life growing there. Now, there was nothing. I slowly closed my eyes, tears silently spilling over my temples. The last warmth in my heart had officially died. Right then, the door to my room was gently knocked open. Dr. Aiden Kingsley, the Head of Hematology, walked in. He was one of my few true friends in this hospital. He asked about my condition, a deep frown clouding his handsome face. “Evelyn, there’s something strange about your blood work. I need to run some more tests.” I nodded numbly. He picked up my chart from the floor, remained silent for a moment, and then spoke in an incredibly low voice. “We found traces of chemical compounds in your blood.” “It’s an abortifacient. A miscarriage-inducing drug.” Aiden’s words felt like a thunderbolt, making my mind go completely blank. “And based on the concentration, it has been administered to you in small, consistent doses over a long period. Evelyn… someone was slowly murdering your baby.” Just then, Ryan walked back in, holding a fancy box of organic supplements. He placed them on my nightstand, offering a fake smile. “Rest up, Evelyn. Don’t overthink things. Once Chloe is fully recovered, I’ll get you the best physical therapy.” Staring at his hypocritical face, a wave of intense nausea washed over me. “Did you kill my baby?” The smile on his face froze, and a flash of panic crossed his eyes. “What nonsense are you talking about?” I stared straight into his eyes, pronouncing every word clearly. “The miscarriage drugs. Did you put them in my food?” He looked at me as if I had lost my mind, and then his panic turned into fury. “Evelyn Vance! Have you gone insane? Why on earth would anyone drug you?” He leaned down, grabbing my jaw tightly, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Do not let the loss of the baby drive you mad. This behavior is not going to help your recovery!” Suddenly, the door was pushed open. Chloe walked in, a look of exaggerated surprise on her face. “Oh, did I interrupt something? Ryan, I came to tell you the good news.” As she spoke, she casually stroked her flat stomach, her face flushing with a smug, joyful glow. “I’m pregnant. It’s yours.” 4 My brain went entirely blank. The blood in my veins seemed to freeze. As if that wasn’t enough of a blow, Chloe casually shook her wrist. A beautiful, vintage emerald bracelet slid down her arm, catching the light. It was my mother’s heirloom. It was my dowry. My mother had given it to me, telling me it was a family protector that brought good health and healing. Chloe acted as if she had made a slip of the tongue, quickly covering it with her hand. But her eyes were filled with blatant malice and triumph. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Evelyn. Ryan insisted I wear it. He said my body is too weak after the surgery and that this heirloom would help me heal. You don’t mind, do you?” Watching their pathetic, disgusting show, the hatred burning in my chest threatened to consume me. I laughed. I laughed so hard that tears streamed down my face. Then, I spat out a single word. “Get out.” Ryan’s face darkened instantly. Chloe whimpered and hid her face in his chest. As Ryan ushered Chloe out, I heard him coaxing her gently. “Don’t be upset, babe. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have brought you to see this psycho.” My already shattered heart was ripped to shreds once again. “Once the baby is born, we’ll get married,” Ryan whispered to her in the hallway. From that day on, Ryan gave me the silent treatment. For a whole week, he never showed up. Instead, his assistant brought over a set of divorce papers. Written in black and white was a clause: Evelyn Vance voluntarily waives all marital assets and will leave with nothing. At the end of the document, there was a handwritten note from Ryan: If you stop making a scene, we can go back to how things were. He honestly believed I would crawl back to him, crying and begging him not to leave me, just like I used to. But he didn’t know that my heart had died the very moment my baby did. During this week, Aiden had been secretly helping me. He handed me a more detailed toxicology report. “The drugging method was highly professional. Whoever did this had advanced medical knowledge and had daily access to your meals.” One name instantly popped into my head. Ryan. Ever since I got pregnant, he had personally prepared a cup of “prenatal organic tea” for me every single morning, without fail. He had even boasted multiple times about how Chloe had gone out of her way to find this special, healthy recipe just for me. So, from the very beginning, it was a massive, calculated conspiracy. Aiden then handed me a USB drive. “I dug deeper. The prescriptions for those abortifacients were issued from a private clinic registered under Chloe Sterling’s name. The purchase history started in your second month of pregnancy.” Every single piece of evidence fell perfectly into place. I stared at the divorce papers, picked up a pen, and signed my name at the bottom. I packed my minimal belongings, slipped the USB drive and all the physical evidence into my inner pocket, and prepared to leave this hellhole. But as soon as I reached the stairwell, I ran straight into a furious Ryan. He snatched my suitcase away, his eyes bloodshot as he glared at me. “You’re that eager to run away from me? Evelyn, hand it over!” He knew. Ryan lunged at me, trying to grab the USB drive from my coat pocket. I fought back with everything I had. During the struggle, he gave me a violent shove. I lost my balance, falling backward, and tumbled down the concrete stairs. My body crashed heavily onto the landing. A sudden warmth pooled between my thighs, and fresh blood instantly stained my pants. A flash of panic crossed Ryan’s face. But right then, Chloe, who was standing at the top of the stairs, clutched her stomach and let out a painful groan. “Ryan… my stomach hurts so bad…” Without hesitation, Ryan abandoned me. He rushed up the stairs to scoop Chloe into his arms, his face pale with worry. Before leaving, he threw a cold, mocking glance over his shoulder at me. “I’ve already destroyed the hospital backups of those files. Give up, Evelyn.” He paused, delivering the final, venomous blow to my soul. “Don’t even think about leaving me. Who else would want a barren woman like you? You’ll come crawling back to me like a dog, begging for my mercy!” Lying in a pool of my own blood, watching their retreating figures, I used my remaining strength to pull out my phone and dial 91The operator’s voice came through, filled with urgency. “911, what is your emergency?”

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