Author: Momo Chan

1 Sienna had been back in New York for less than twenty-four hours, and she was already drowning her sorrows in expensive bourbon over her “one that got away.” “Three years, Jo,” she slurred, her voice thick with a calculated kind of misery. “Three years and I still can’t scrub him out of my system.” She swirled the amber liquid in her glass, her eyes glistening. “But he’s getting married next week. Tell me—should I go get him? Should I just take him back?” The question was directed at me, but her gaze didn’t stay on my face. It drifted, heavy and lingering, to the man sitting right beside me. Ethan didn’t say a word. He just kept rotating his glass on the marble tabletop, his expression a mask of cool indifference. But beneath the table, I saw his hand. He was gripping his knee so hard his knuckles were white, the tendons in his forearm taut like a bowstring. I opened my mouth to offer the comfort I had practiced for years, but then, the world glitched. Transparent lines of text began to drift across my vision, flickering like digital ghosts. [Look at this idiot. Still trying to comfort her. Doesn’t she see her boyfriend is looking at the lead girl like he wants to devour her?] [Ethan only stayed with Jo for three years to bide his time. Now that the ‘Real Deal’ is back, who wants a placeholder?] [One last drink, then the First Love takes her throne. Time for the Tool Girl to exit stage left.] I froze. My heart stuttered against my ribs. I looked at Sienna. She was waiting for my answer, her eyes wide and expectant, performing the role of the tragic heroine perfectly. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just felt a strange, cold clarity wash over me. I smiled. “You don’t have to fight for him, Sienna,” I said. The words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected. Both of them snapped their heads toward me. A flicker of annoyance crossed Sienna’s face before she could hide it. “Joanna, what is that supposed to mean? We’ve been best friends since college. Don’t you want me to be happy?” When I didn’t answer immediately, she turned away from me. Using the alcohol as a shield for her boldness, she reached out and grabbed Ethan’s silk tie, yanking him forward. The space between them vanished. They were inches apart, breathing the same air. “She won’t say it, so you tell me,” Sienna whispered, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “Should I take him back, Ethan? Tell me.” She lingered on his name, making it sound like a secret they shared. The text on my vision began to scroll frantically. [Kiss her! They’ve wasted so many years. Do it!] [God, the chemistry is insane. This is true love.] [Why is the side-character still in the room? Doesn’t she realize Ethan only dated her to keep tabs on Sienna’s life through her Instagram?] I watched Ethan’s throat move as he swallowed. He was vibrating with a restrained intensity I had never seen before. I remembered all the times we’d been apart over the last three years—how my phone would notify me that he’d visited my social media profile dozens of times a day. I used to think he was just obsessed with me, that he couldn’t stand being away from me. Now I realized he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the background of my photos, the stories where Sienna appeared, the updates I posted about her life in London. He wasn’t my stalker. He was hers. Sienna tightened her grip on his tie, pulling him closer until their lips were almost touching. Finally, Ethan pulled back, his hands trembling as he pushed her away. “You’ve had too much to drink,” he muttered, though his voice lacked any real conviction. Sienna wouldn’t let it go. “I’m not drunk! Why is everyone else allowed to be happy? Why does he get a wedding while I’m left with nothing? I just want what belongs to me. Is that a crime?” She looked at us both, demanding an answer. “I need to know. Right now.” Ethan’s jaw was set tight. He stayed silent. I knew Ethan had a past he couldn’t let go of. I knew there was a woman he had once been willing to destroy his life for—the woman who drove him to admit he was the illegitimate son of the Blackwell empire just to gain the status she demanded. But he had never told me her name. He had never told me she was my best friend. I looked at my glass, then downed the rest of the bourbon in one go. The burn felt good. It felt honest. “Like I said, Sienna,” I repeated, my voice steady. “You don’t need to fight. She’s going to give him back to you.” Ethan stiffened, looking at me with a bewildered frown. But his instincts were already betrayed; even as he looked at me, he was reaching out to steady Sienna as she stumbled. Sienna wiped a stray tear from her eye, a triumphant light dancing in her gaze. She threw her arms around me. “Are you serious? No take-backs, Jo. Promise?” I nodded slowly. Before I could say the words I promise, Ethan cut in. He stood up, wrapping his charcoal blazer around Sienna’s shoulders, shielding her as if she were something fragile and precious. “She’s drunk and doesn’t know what she’s saying, Joanna. Stop humoring her.” He avoided my eyes. “We’re done here. I have to head back to the office anyway. I’ll drop her off on the way.” He tucked Sienna into the passenger seat of his car with a tenderness he usually reserved for our anniversaries. Then he turned back to me, standing under the dim streetlights of the Meatpacking District. “Don’t overthink this,” he said. “I’m only helping her because she’s your friend.” He stood there, likely waiting for me to cause a scene, to get jealous, to demand he stay. But I just looked at him and realized he didn’t even know where Sienna lived. I had never told him her new address. And yet, he knew it was “on the way.” The lie was so hollow it echoed. I smiled, and for the first time in years, it felt effortless. “It’s okay, Ethan. You’re free to do whatever you want.” At 2:00 AM, I finally caught a cab back to our Upper East Side apartment. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Sienna. Jo, thank you for tonight. For the encouragement. We’re going to try again. He told me he never forgot me—he was just hurt that I left when he had nothing. Now that he’s built his kingdom, the misunderstanding is over. We’re home. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the taxi window and typed back a single word: Congratulations. Whatever happened between them was no longer my burden to carry. When I got home, the penthouse felt cavernous and cold. I curled up on the sofa and began scrolling through my old posts. I had a secondary account dedicated to “Bestie Adventures.” It was a digital diary of my life with Sienna. Before she left for London, she had cried in my arms. “He’s beautiful, Jo, but he’s a nobody. He literally knelt in the dirt and begged me to stay this morning. I know he loves me, but love doesn’t pay for a life in Mayfair.” She hadn’t known then that the “nobody” was about to inherit one of the largest private equity firms in the country. During her years away, we FaceTimed constantly. I shared everything with her, and I posted it all. That was how Ethan found me. Every post featuring Sienna had a “like” from him. Every video where her voice could be heard in the background was a video he watched on repeat. I had thought he fell for me during those two months of online flirting before we met in person. I thought we were a modern romance. The reality was, I was just a high-definition window into the life of the woman he actually wanted. My phone chimed again. A text from Ethan. I won’t be home tonight. Don’t wait up. It was the first time in three years he hadn’t come home. The Glitch flickered in the corner of the room: [The King and Queen are finally reunited.] [Is the side-character going to cry? Is she going to call him and beg?] [Don’t ruin the mood, honey. They’re busy making up for lost time.] I ignored the text, tossed my phone onto the rug, and fell into a dreamless sleep. I was woken the next morning by Sienna’s voice over the phone. She sounded radiant. “Hey, babe! Dinner tonight? Our treat. We want to celebrate your upcoming wedding properly. Please say you’ll come!” I hesitated for two seconds, then agreed. I wanted to see the end of the play. They were already at the restaurant when I arrived—a dimly lit, Michelin-starred place in Midtown. Sienna was leaning her head naturally on Ethan’s shoulder, a picture of domestic bliss. “If Joanna finds out about us, she’ll be devastated,” I heard her whisper as I approached. Ethan tilted his head, his expression obscured. “Stop. She can’t know. Not yet.” His voice was firm—the same voice he used when he knelt on the beach in the Hamptons six months ago and slid a four-carat diamond onto my finger. “Don’t ever take it off,” he had whispered. “You’re mine for life.” Six months later, the “life” he promised was a theatrical prop. I took a deep breath, smoothed my skirt, and walked to the table. Sienna sat up straight immediately. “Oh, Jo! I was just feeling a little lightheaded—low blood sugar. I borrowed your fiancé’s shoulder for a second. You don’t mind, right?” She nudged Ethan. “Go sit by Joanna, honey.” Before he could move, I pulled out the chair opposite them. “No need. I need the extra chair for my bag.” Sienna shrugged and raised her mocktail. “To Jo. To the wedding of the year.” She finished her drink, then looked at me with faux-hesitation. “Actually, Jo… I have a huge favor to ask. My mom is obsessed with me getting married now that I’m back. She’s trying to set me up on these blind dates with boring hedge-fund guys. I told her I already have a boyfriend.” She glanced at Ethan. “But I don’t know anyone here anymore. I was wondering… could Ethan play the part? Just for one weekend to get my mom off my back? He already said he’s okay with it if you are.” The Glitch screamed across the table: [Poor Sienna, she has to lie just to spend time with her man.] [Watch the villainess say no. She’s so predictable.] I chewed a piece of chilled shrimp, ignoring Ethan’s dark, unreadable stare. “Sure,” I said. “Just make sure the performance is convincing.” Sienna’s face lit up. “I knew you were the best! Don’t worry, I’ll keep a close eye on him for you.” The rest of the dinner was a silent war. Ethan was brooding, his face like a thundercloud. I didn’t understand why he was angry—wasn’t he getting exactly what he wanted? When the check came, the server handed Ethan a small gift bag. “Sir, we’re having a promotion for couples. Leave a review and take a gift. Your wife will love it.” He looked at Sienna. She looked at the bag. “Oh, I want the silk scarf!” Ethan scanned the QR code and handed the gift to her without a word of correction. No one told the server she wasn’t his wife. No one pointed at me. Back at the apartment, Ethan slammed the door and pinned me against the hallway wall. His energy was aggressive, almost predatory. “Since when did my wife become so generous?” he hissed. “You’re just giving me away now?” I pushed him back, hard. “You agreed to it first. Don’t play the martyr with me.” He stood in the foyer, silenced. After a moment, he let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “I told her I’d go only if you said yes. I thought you’d fight for me, Joanna. I thought you’d say no.” He stepped closer, trying to soften his gaze. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll play the boyfriend for a few days, but we’re the ones getting married. I have the rest of our lives to make you care again.” I listened to his practiced lines and felt nothing. He was a good actor; he’d had three years of rehearsal. I reached into my pocket, pulled off the engagement ring, and set it on the hallway table. “Whether you want to go or not is on your conscience, Ethan. Don’t pin your choices on me.” I looked at the diamond. “This belongs to you.” Ethan’s face went white. “What is this? Joanna, she’s your best friend. Stop being dramatic.” Before he could continue, his phone rang. It was the custom ringtone he had for Sienna. My phone had the same one. He looked at the screen, then back at me, his resolve shifting. “Jo, I have to go. Something came up. And… Sienna’s parents live a few hours away. I might be gone until the day before the wedding. But I’ll be back in time for the rehearsal, I promise.” I nodded. “Go.” The Glitch mocked me: [She’s still dreaming about the wedding. Poor girl.] [Wait until the ceremony. Sienna is going to object in front of everyone. It’s going to be iconic.] [Why is she just standing there? Run, girl, run!] A second later, my phone rang. Sienna. “Jo… you know, don’t you? You know Ethan and I were together before.” Her voice was trembling, staged with tears. “I shouldn’t have asked to borrow him. But I can’t help it. I never stopped loving him, and he still feels it too. Being with someone who doesn’t love you… it’s a slow death, Jo. Can’t you just let us be happy?” I waited for the silence to stretch. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I’ll let you go.” Sienna gasped. “You… you mean it?” “I mean it.” But we weren’t friends anymore. And I wasn’t his anymore. I spent the next forty-eight hours purging my life. Every couple’s pajama set, every “His & Hers” mug, every framed photo of us laughing at fundraisers—it all went into heavy-duty trash bags. I left the jewelry he bought me in neat rows on the vanity. When I was done, everything I owned fit into two suitcases. While I packed, Sienna kept the “Three-Way Group Chat” updated. Photos of the train tickets, photos of them at her parents’ country house, a selfie of Ethan smiling—actually smiling—next to her father. Her Instagram caption read: “Bringing the boyfriend home. Mom and Dad approved. My heart is full.” I liked the photo. Ethan immediately texted me: “Jo, the photo was Sienna’s idea. Her parents insisted. I couldn’t say no without looking like a jerk. I’m bringing you back some of that local honey you like, okay?” “Whatever,” I replied, and turned off my phone. They returned to the city at midnight, the day before the wedding. Ethan came into the bedroom and tried to pull me into his arms. He smelled like the outdoors and Sienna’s perfume. “God, Joanna, your friend is high-maintenance. I am never doing that again.” He kissed my forehead. “I missed you so much. I had to see you, even if the tradition says we shouldn’t meet the night before.” I stepped out of his reach. He just laughed, thinking I was still pouting. “Are you still mad about the fake boyfriend thing? She’s actually being really helpful, Jo. She wrote a speech for the ceremony—it’s beautiful. I’m going to memorize it tonight.” The Glitch appeared over his shoulder: [He’s so sweet, trying to calm the victim before the slaughter.] [Tomorrow is going to be a bloodbath. I have my popcorn ready.] [The bride is going to be so humiliated.] “Then I wish you both a very happy wedding day,” I whispered. He didn’t hear the “both.” He just smiled. “What was that?” His phone rang. Sienna. Again. “Ethan! I’m at the bar we went to the first night… I think I’ve had too much. I can’t get a cab. Please…” Ethan straightened up, his eyes full of instant panic. “Stay put, Sienna. I’m coming.” He turned to me, his face full of “guilt.” “Jo, she’s in trouble. I’ll just drop her home and then go straight to the hotel for the groomsmen’s breakfast. I’ll see you at the altar.” He kissed me quickly and vanished. You won’t see me anywhere, I thought. I left the ring on the table. He was so blinded by his “rescue mission” that he didn’t even notice the apartment was half-empty. He didn’t notice the bare walls. He didn’t notice I wasn’t wearing my engagement ring. The wedding day arrived. The Pierre Hotel was decked out in thousands of white peonies. Every power player in Manhattan was there. That morning, Ethan sent one last text: “Joanna, I’m finally making you a Blackwell.” The ceremony began. Ethan stood at the altar in a custom tuxedo, his eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom. He looked nervous, his eyes darting around. He felt something was off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The doors swung open. The guests held their breath. A woman in a three-meter silk tulle veil, dripping in diamonds—a dress Ethan had personally commissioned—began the long walk down the aisle. The spotlight hit her face as she reached the altar. Ethan’s heart stopped. “What the hell are you doing?”

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1 My twin brother and I shared a bedroom for as long as I could remember. My mother used to promise us that as soon as things got better, we’d each get our own space. I held onto that promise for six years. When I was twelve, we finally cleared out the dusty storage den at the end of the hall to turn it into a second bedroom. My mother stood in the doorway and didn’t even look at me when she said, “Nate, you’re the older twin. Let Lucas pick first.” Lucas chose the room with the south-facing window and the extra closet space. I didn’t mind. Even the small, cramped den was a sanctuary because it was mine. I moved in, plastered the walls with indie film posters, and felt a sense of peace that lasted less than a month. Then my mother told me that Lucas needed to start practicing the piano seriously. The den had better acoustics and was further from the neighbors. She told me to move back into the shared room. “Just until he finishes this semester of lessons,” she said. I moved. I waited three years. By freshman year of high school, the piano lessons had stopped. I thought I could go back. But my mother said Lucas needed a quiet, independent space to study for his honors track entrance exams. “Just sleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room for now,” she said. “You can have the room back after the exams.” The exams ended. I started packing my things, but Lucas decided he wanted the den to be a “gaming lounge.” My mother looked at me, her expression flat. “Nate, aren’t you starting your college applications soon? Once you get in, you’ll be living in a dorm anyway. Why go through the hassle of moving twice?” In the dead of winter during my senior year, I sat on that pull-out sofa, wrapped in three blankets, memorizing biology terms. Lucas complained that the light from the lamp was bleeding under his door and distracting him while he scrolled through his phone. My mother walked over. She didn’t tell Lucas to close his door or turn off his phone. She turned off the living room light. “Go study in the bathroom, Nate. Use the vanity light. Your brother has a big game tomorrow; he needs to sleep early.” At 2:00 AM, I sat on the lid of the toilet, finishing my last practice SAT by the glow of my phone flashlight. The day the scores were released, my mother was busy picking out new blackout curtains for Lucas’s gaming room. I sat in that same bathroom and filled out eight college applications. Every single one of them was for a school in Seattle. Nearly three thousand miles away. When we were little, my mother told us that children were like kites and home was the string. But no one ever told me that my string had never been tied to anything at all. … At 2:00 AM, lying on the fold-out cot, I scrolled past my mother’s Instagram post. She had posted a nine-photo carousel of Lucas. A montage of his three years in high school, ending with a photo taken yesterday afternoon of him standing in front of the school gates, flashing a peace sign. The caption read: “Results come out tomorrow. No matter what happens, Mama loves you forever, my baby boy, Lucas.” My father liked it instantly. At 2:03 AM, he was still awake just to give that post a heart. The scores wouldn’t be live until 8:00 AM. I was waiting for results, too. I was sleeping ten feet away from her. But in that post, there was no mention of my name, no photo of my face—not even a single word to acknowledge I existed. At 8:00 AM sharp, the portal opened. Lucas let out a shout from his room, followed by the sound of muffled sobbing. My mother rushed in, my father right behind her. I stood in the living room and heard my mother’s voice, thick with comfort. “It’s okay, honey. A 980 is still a score. We’ll find a school that takes you. Mama will figure it out.” My father’s voice was low and steady. “Don’t cry, son. Dad will look into some options.” I walked to the door of his room. “Mom, I got a 1580.” My mother was facing away from me, her hand stroking Lucas’s back. She didn’t turn around. “That’s good.” My father glanced over his shoulder. “Nice,” he said, then turned back to pat Lucas on the shoulder. I stood there, three feet away. It felt like I was screaming through an inch of soundproof glass. That week, the kitchen table was buried under college brochures. My mother, father, and Lucas sat on one side like a united front. My mother used a highlighter to mark schools; my father searched for 3D dorm tours on his laptop. Lucas sat in the middle, mindlessly eating chips, occasionally muttering, “That campus looks depressing.” I sat on the opposite side of the table. I opened the application portal on my phone, alone, scrolling through the codes for the universities in Washington state. I finished. I submitted. Not once did either of them walk around the table to look at my screen. My father eventually looked up. “What about Nate? Did you finish yours?” My mother didn’t even lift her head from the brochure. “He has those scores; why would we need to worry about him? Lucas is the one who needs us. He can’t handle this stuff on his own.” My father nodded. “True. Nate’s always been the easy one.” I was sitting right in front of you. But you couldn’t see me. In August, the acceptance letters arrived. Lucas’s letter was a family event. My mother took photos for Facebook; my father posed with Lucas holding the envelope. The comments were flooded with relatives offering congratulations. Mine sat on the shoe rack in the entryway for three days. I finally opened it myself after work. Lucas walked past, glanced at the logo, said “Oh,” and kept walking in his flip-flops. He came and went. My entire future wasn’t worth a five-second pause. That night, my mother made a massive dinner to celebrate Lucas’s admission to a local state college. Honey-glazed ribs, roasted salmon—everything Lucas loved. “A toast to Lucas!” my mother beamed. “Anything else you want, baby? I’ll make it.” No one mentioned my 1580. No one mentioned the prestigious university three thousand miles away that had offered me a spot. I sat at the table, finished my meal, cleared the plates, washed the pans, and wiped the counters. From start to finish, not one person asked me a single question about my college. Late that night, sitting on the pull-out sofa, I filled out my freshman orientation forms. When I reached the “Emergency Contact” section, the cursor hovered over my mother’s phone number for three seconds. I hit backspace. I deleted it. I replaced it with the office number of the Dean of Students. Under the “Tuition Payment” section, I checked the box: Self-Funded/Independent. Just before I locked my phone, an email notification popped up. It was from the Admissions Office at my new school: “Dear Nathan, we’ve reviewed your final transcripts and they are exceptional. We strongly recommend you apply for the Presidential Excellence Scholarship. The materials are attached. We look forward to seeing you in Seattle.” 1:00 AM. Three thousand miles away, someone saw me. 2 Two weeks before move-in day, my mother took Lucas to the mall. My father drove. I didn’t go. No one asked me to. When they returned, shopping bags were piled from the entryway to the living room. New suitcases—hard-shell, matte black, with silent spinners. New Egyptian cotton sheets, new Nikes, new jackets. My father even hauled a high-end ergonomic gaming chair into the house, saying Lucas needed it for his dorm. And then there was the laptop. A top-of-the-line MacBook, nearly three thousand dollars. Then, my mother went to the hallway closet and dragged out an old, beat-up suitcase. It was a dusty navy blue, with a scuffed corner and a right wheel that rattled when it moved. She pushed it toward me. “You can use this, Nate. It’s still got plenty of life in it.” She was standing right in front of me. She knew I was leaving, too. She knew I needed gear. She gave me a hand-me-down. The next day, the luggage was lined up by the door. On the left: Lucas’s two pristine suitcases and a mountain of bags with designer logos. On the right: My cracked, rattling blue suitcase with a broken wheel. “The wheel is stuck,” I said. My mother was busy putting on her shoes. “As long as it holds your clothes, it’s fine.” My father was on his phone. He didn’t say a word. They heard my need, and they chose to ignore it. I had bought my own laptop with the money I made working double shifts at a Starbucks over the summer. Thirteen dollars an hour plus tips, for two solid months. I’d bought a refurbished ThinkPad for eight hundred dollars. When it arrived, I unboxed it in the living room. My mother walked past and stopped for two seconds. The expression on her face was one of pure relief. “See, Nate? This is why I don’t worry about you. You can handle anything on your own. Lucas isn’t like that. He’d be lost without me.” She saw me. She saw that I had carried the entire burden of my own life. And her reaction was to feel relieved that she didn’t have to help. It wasn’t just neglect. It was a verdict. A mother standing in front of her child, telling him that because he was strong, he didn’t deserve her care. That afternoon, Lucas came out of his room and tossed a black T-shirt at me. “Hey, Nate. This makes me look fat. You take it.” Then he turned to the mirror, pulling a deep blue windbreaker out of a bag. “Mom, isn’t this blue killer on me?” Deep blue. My favorite color since middle school. He wore my favorite color as if it belonged to him by right, then threw his scraps at me and called it a gift. That night, I walked past my parents’ bedroom on the way to the bathroom. The door was ajar. “We don’t need to worry about Nate,” I heard my mother say. “He’s always been able to take care of himself.” “True,” my father replied. Just like that, they reached a consensus: I wasn’t worth the effort. It hurt more than if they had been screaming at me. A fight would have meant they cared enough to have an opinion. This calm agreement proved that, in their hearts, I simply wasn’t a factor. I went back to the pull-out sofa and checked my phone. My work-study application had been approved: Library Assistant, $18 an hour. The Dean had emailed back: “Scholarship materials received. Everything looks perfect. We’ll see you soon.” Someone thought I was worth the effort. They just didn’t live in this house. 3 Lucas told me the news while I was folding my blankets. “Hey, Nate. Mom said she’s putting both our names on the cake this year.” He leaned against the doorframe, his tone casual, as if he were mentioning the weather. My hand hesitated. I didn’t look back. “Really?” “Yeah. I told her we’re eighteen now, a real milestone. Twins should share the cake. She said okay.” I couldn’t sleep that night. Not because I was excited, but because I was wondering: would my name be on the left side or the right side? For the first time in eighteen years, I actually looked forward to my birthday. But when the cake was placed on the table the next evening, I saw it. White frosting, blue cursive letters. “Happy 18th, Lucas!” Four words. Not a fifth. I stared at the cake for a long time. Lucas was already taking photos for his story. My mother was slicing fruit. My father was scrolling through his newsfeed. “Mom,” I said. “There’s a name missing.” My mother didn’t even look up. “Writing one name represents both of you; why do you have to be so difficult about everything?” My father flipped his phone over, screen-down on the coffee table. He didn’t say a word. Lucas glanced at me. I couldn’t read his expression—it was a mix of awkwardness and a silent plea for me to not ruin the mood. He stayed quiet. After the cake, my mother pulled a small box out of her purse. A black velvet box. “Lucas, come here.” Lucas leaned in. My mother opened the box to reveal a watch. A TAG Heuer. Black face, stainless steel—bold and expensive. She fastened it onto his wrist herself. My father beamed. “You’re a man now, son. You need a piece that reflects that.” Then my mother turned to me. She pulled a plain white envelope from her pocket. “For you, Nate. Buy yourself something you want.” I took it. I counted it later. Two hundred dollars. When it was time to blow out the candles, the family huddled around the table. My mother held up her phone to record. My father stood to Lucas’s left, my mother to his right. I stood behind my mother. At the very edge of the frame. I knew I probably wouldn’t even be in the video. “Make a wish! Make a wish!” my mother cheered. Lucas closed his eyes and folded his hands. I closed my eyes, too. I wished for a bed that I didn’t have to fold up every morning. I opened my eyes. No one asked me what I wished for. I thought about it later. A boy celebrating his eighteenth birthday in his own home, wishing for a normal bed. What does that say about his life? It says that this place was never actually his home. Around 9:00 PM, I was lying on the cot, scrolling through my phone. A notification popped up in the family group chat. My mother had posted nine photos. The cake. The candles. A close-up of Lucas’s watch. Lucas posing. Lucas cutting the cake. And finally, the “family” photo. I was in it. On the far edge, only half of my body visible. The caption: “My Lucas is eighteen! My little man is all grown up.” I scrolled through the comments. Aunt Sarah: Happy birthday, Lucas! So handsome! Cousin Mike: 18! Look at that watch! Happy birthday, man. Grandma: @Lucas Happy birthday, my sweet boy! I scrolled through every single one. Twenty-three messages. Every one of them tagged Lucas. Every one of them mentioned only his name. Not one person said, “Isn’t it Nate’s birthday, too?” Not one. I was in the group. My name was in the member list. They all knew we were twins. But not a single soul remembered. I cleared the chat. I opened my mother’s “Shared Family Album” on my phone. I had never counted before. That night, I did. Lucas’s photos: 387. Mine: 40. And twenty of those were group shots with Lucas. In eighteen years, I had exactly twenty individual photos taken of me. I exited the album. I opened my calendar and went to September 1st. Move-in day. I marked the day in bright red. In the notes, I wrote three words: “Never coming back.” Then I opened my notes app. I found the page titled “College Budget.” It listed how much I’d need to ask my parents for each month for food and books. I selected all. I hit delete. From this moment on, I had no financial ties to this house. I put my phone down. The cot creaked under my weight. I stared at the ceiling. For my eighteenth birthday, I received two hundred dollars and a final, iron-clad decision. 4 Four days before I was supposed to leave. My mother’s phone was charging on the kitchen counter. The screen lit up with a text from Lucas. I didn’t mean to see it, but the words were right there. “Once Nate leaves and that pull-out sofa is gone, the living room is finally going to look clean again lol.” My mother’s reply followed instantly: “I know. It should have been gone a long time ago.” Finally clean. Should have been gone a long time ago. They weren’t sad to see me go. They were excited to clear out the clutter I represented. I scrolled up a bit. A Venmo transfer: $5,000. “Let me know if you need more, baby.” Above that: “It’s getting chilly; buy a better jacket.” “Don’t eat junk; treat yourself to a nice dinner.” Then I looked at the most recent texts between me and my mother. “Bring your own pillows or buy them there.” Period. No question mark. “We’re out of milk; pick some up on your way back.” “Make sure you fold that bed up today; we have guests coming over.” I wasn’t just an extra child. I was an eyesore. At dinner, I finally spoke. “Mom, you sent Lucas five thousand dollars for his first month. Where is mine?” The sound of silverware on plates stopped. My mother didn’t even look guilty. “Lucas doesn’t know how to manage money; I need to make sure he’s set up. You’re different, Nate. You’ve always been able to handle your own finances.” I held it in for three seconds, then I couldn’t. “You guys can’t wait for me to leave, can you? So the living room can finally be ‘clean’ again?” My mother slammed her fork onto the table. “Nathan! Were you snooping through my phone?” “The screen lit up on its own.” “What does a child who is ‘easy to manage’ even need from their mother anymore? You’ve made it clear you can do everything yourself. Am I supposed to apologize for having one less thing to worry about?” I looked at my father. He set down his water glass. He finally spoke, his voice full of that weary, “logical” tone that always made me feel small. “Nate, your mother is right. Lucas needs the extra support. You’re the older brother; stop being so resentful of the fact that your brother struggles more than you.” Even my father. The last door had been slammed shut. There was no one left in this house who was on my side. I clenched my fists under the table and said nothing. The night before I left, I finished washing the dinner dishes. “Mom, can you drive me to the airport tomorrow?” “We’re driving Lucas to his campus tomorrow morning. We’re doing a whole family lunch at his dining hall.” My father didn’t even look up from his tablet. No one asked which airport. No one asked what time my flight was. They didn’t just refuse to drive me; they didn’t even care where I was going. 4:00 AM. I folded the sofa bed for the last time. The living room looked spacious. They were right. On the fridge, there was an old drawing Lucas had made in kindergarten. A family of three holding hands. Three people. There had never been a fourth. I put my key on the entryway table. I closed the front door behind me. It made a soft, final click. The streetlights were dim. The late August air was crisp. The broken wheel on my old suitcase rattled against the pavement—clack, clack, clack—breaking the silence of the neighborhood. At the end of the driveway, I turned back one last time. The house was dark. Not a single light was on for me. At 10:00 AM, my mother woke up. The living room was empty. The sofa was folded. A key sat on the table. She called my phone; it went to voicemail. She texted; no reply. My father eventually found the copy of my acceptance letter in the junk drawer to check the address. Seattle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. Three days later, my mother’s phone rang. It was a 206 area code—Seattle. “Hello, is this the parent of Nathan Miller? This is Dean Harrison from the University’s Academic Affairs office.” “I have a few things to confirm. First, Nathan filed his financial aid paperwork as ‘Independent/No fixed source of family support.’ Second, his emergency contact is listed as our office landline, not a family member.” There was no sound on the other end of the line. “I also wanted to call with some good news. Nathan has been awarded the Presidential Excellence Scholarship, which covers his full tuition and housing for all four years. We usually like to share this news with the parents, but since he didn’t provide a contact…” The Dean paused. “Are you… aware of any of this?” On the other end of the phone, for a long, agonizing minute, there was only silence.

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1 It was 2:30 AM, that dead hour when the fluorescent lights of the ER observation ward seem to hum with a sickly, rhythmic vibration. Margot, one of the senior nurses, stood in front of me, her eyes rimmed with red. “Riley, please, I need you to cover the rest of my shift,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “My daughter’s fever just hit 104. My husband is panicked. I have to go.” I opened my mouth to say yes. In a high-pressure environment like this, we were a family. We leaned on each other. But before the word could leave my throat, a flickering line of text drifted across my field of vision. [Don’t do it. Do not say yes.] I blinked, my heart skipping a beat. Was I hallucinating from exhaustion? But the text continued to crawl through the air, glowing with a faint, ominous light. [She just administered the wrong IV. The patient in Bed 7 is having a severe anaphylactic reaction. He’s already gone.] [She’s not asking you to cover a shift. She’s asking you to take the fall for a body.] My gaze dropped to the night-shift log on the counter. It was a blank sheet of paper, waiting for a signature. Margot was just waiting for me to write my name, to claim responsibility for every patient in her zone for the last eight hours. “It’s just a few hours, Riley,” Margot pleaded, her tears spilling over. “Don’t be cold-hearted. I’m begging you.” I pulled my hand back, tucking it into the pocket of my scrubs. “Margot, I can’t.” Her sobbing stopped instantly. “Either you take me to Bed 7 right now for a bedside handoff,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “or I’m calling the nursing supervisor to handle your emergency relief.” Margot froze. The grief on her face vanished, replaced by a sharp, icy confusion. “Riley, are you serious right now? You’re doing this on purpose?” Her voice dropped an octave, her eyes narrowing. “My kid is burning up at home, and you’re talking about supervisors? Why are you being such a bitch?” I turned away and put my bag back into my locker, clicking the padlock shut. “If I’m taking over your station, hospital policy requires a bedside handoff for all critical patients. And the supervisor has to sign off on an emergency shift swap. You know the drill.” She grit her teeth, her chest heaving. “It’s the middle of the night. Every patient in that ward is finally asleep. You want me to go door-to-door and wake them up for a formal handoff? Do you have any idea how much of a mess the ER is tonight?” “I didn’t say wake everyone,” I countered. “Just the high-risk ones in your zone. I need to know their status before I put my name on that log.” “It’s all in the system,” Margot snapped. “What are their current vitals? Bed 7 specifically?” She hesitated. Just for a second. “I… I don’t have the exact numbers memorized, Riley. They were stable ten minutes ago.” “But you just said you did your rounds.” The tears she had been faking seemed to dry up instantly, leaving her face looking strained and sallow. She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. “Riley, I don’t have time for this. Just log into the terminal. I’ll send you a voice note on the way home explaining everything. You’re a grown woman; you’ve been a nurse for three years. You can handle a few beds for four hours.” I looked down at the stack of paperwork. The handoff sheet was on top. Underneath it was a blank Incident Report form. The time slot was empty. The signature line was empty. My stomach dropped. “Margot, why are you asking me to fill out the entire backdated log?” She looked away. “Just a shortcut. Since you’re taking the shift, the documentation is technically yours to finish. It’s easier that way.” “No.” “Why are you being so difficult?” she shouted. The door to the breakroom creaked open. Sophie, a first-year resident who had just transferred to the ER, poked her head in. “Is everything okay? I could hear you guys from the hallway.” Margot turned toward her like she’d found a savior, the waterworks starting up again instantly. “Sophie, thank God. Please, talk some sense into Riley. My daughter is home with a 104-degree fever. I just asked Riley to cover the tail end of my shift, and she’s treating me like a criminal. She’s demanding all these formal checks, making it impossible for me to leave.” Sophie’s expression shifted immediately. She looked at me with a mixture of disappointment and judgment. “Riley, seriously? Her kid is sick. This isn’t the time to be a stickler for bureaucracy.” “It’s not about bureaucracy,” I said. “It’s about protocol for a reason.” Sophie sighed, the sound of someone who thought they were being the “bigger person.” “Protocols are for the lawyers. We’re a team. We’re in the trenches together. You don’t know what it’s like in the ER if we don’t look out for each other.” Margot wiped her eyes, shoving the paperwork toward me again. “Riley, have I ever treated you badly? Remember when that family in Bed 2 was screaming at you? I stepped in. When you first started and didn’t know the med-dispensing codes? I showed you everything.” Every word she spoke felt like a weight being added to a scale. She was trading old favors for my silence. The text flickered again before my eyes. [Ask her about Bed 7. If you ask, she’ll break.] I looked Margot in the eye. “Margot, can you take me to Bed 7 right now? Just for one minute.” Margot’s face went completely pale. “No.” 2. The lights in the nursing station felt blindingly white. Out in the observation area, a few patients had been stirred by the noise of our argument. The husband of the patient in Bed 9 poked his head out from behind a curtain. “Can you nurses keep it down? My wife just finally got to sleep.” Margot pounced on that. “See? Riley, you’re making a scene. Now you’re disturbing the patients.” Sophie frowned as well. “Exactly. Margot could have been halfway home by now. You’re blowing this out of proportion.” I ignored them both and started walking toward Bed 7. Bed 7 was at the very end of the hall, the privacy curtain pulled tight. The silhouette of the man inside was motionless under the heavy hospital blankets. I had only taken two steps when Margot jumped in front of me, blocking the path. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “Checking on Bed 7.” “I told you, he’s sleeping.” “The more you try to stop me, the more I need to see him.” Her face turned a sickly shade of green, but her voice stayed loud, performing for the room. “Riley, what is wrong with you? The man finally fell asleep, and you’re obsessed with waking him up!” At this, several other families began to stare. The elderly man in Bed 3 sat up, grumbling. “What’s all the racket? People are trying to survive in here!” A surgical resident coming out of the trauma bay nearby stopped, annoyed. “What’s going on with the nursing staff?” Sophie immediately chimed in. “Margot’s daughter is sick, and she needs to go home. Riley is refusing to help and is trying to harass the patients instead.” The surgeon glanced at me, unimpressed. “Just cover the shift, Riley. Stop the drama and let people rest.” Brenda from the pharmacy, who was delivering a med cart, shook her head as she passed. “Kids these days. So afraid of a little responsibility. Margot’s kid is burning up, and she’s acting like she’s being asked to work a double for free.” I stood there, feeling the weight of their collective judgment. It felt like a physical pressure, a cold wind blowing from all sides. Margot started sobbing harder. “Please, just stop talking. My baby is waiting for me. Riley, if you won’t help, just say so. Stop messing with my patients.” She thrust the logbook at me one last time. “Just sign the log. Put your name down so I can go.” The floating text flashed red. [Don’t touch it. [If you sign, you’re the nurse of record. You’re the one who killed him.] [Bed 7 isn’t sleeping. He’s dead.] My fingertips went numb. I stepped around Margot and kept walking toward Bed 7. Suddenly, Margot grabbed my upper arm. Her fingernails dug into my skin, hard enough to bruise. “I said, don’t go back there!” Even Sophie looked startled by the aggression. “Margot?” Margot realized she had overreacted. She let go instantly, her hands shaking. “I… I just don’t want you to startle him. The family for Bed 7 has a huge temper. If they file a complaint, who has to deal with it? Me?” “If there’s a complaint, I’ll take it,” I said. I walked to the nursing station phone and dialed Dr. Miller. He was the attending physician for Bed 7, and I knew he was finishing up notes in the outpatient wing. The phone rang four times before he picked up. “Riley? What is it?” I kept my eyes on Margot. “Dr. Miller, I think there’s an abnormality with the patient in Observation Bed 7. I need you to come down and check him immediately.” Margot’s face went ghost-white. “What the hell are you doing?” I continued into the receiver. “Margot is having an emergency and needs to leave, but she’s refusing a bedside handoff and won’t let me assess Bed 7.” There was a beat of silence on the other end. Dr. Miller’s voice sharpened instantly. “I just finished a code. I’m coming down now.” I hung up and immediately dialed the head nurse, Brenda. First call, no answer. Second call, no answer. I dialed the hospital’s night administrator. Margot lunged for the phone, trying to cut the line. “Riley, you’re insane! You’re going to ruin me!” I ducked away from her. “If Bed 7 is fine, what are you afraid of?” She glared at me. The look in her eyes wasn’t grief anymore. It was pure, predatory hatred. 3. The twenty minutes it took for the supervisor and the doctor to arrive felt like hours. During that time, Margot didn’t leave. She also didn’t let me get near Bed 7. She stood in front of that curtain like a wall of flesh and bone. Sophie hovered nearby, whispering, “Riley, just let her go. Dr. Miller is coming anyway. If her daughter actually gets worse while you’re holding her hostage here, that’s on you.” “I’m not holding her hostage,” I said calmly. “I’m reminding her that until the handoff is complete, she is the nurse of record. She is responsible for those lives.” Margot wailed to the room, “Do you hear her? She wants to keep me trapped here while my child suffers!” By now, the hospital’s internal group chat was blowing up. Someone had posted about the “incident” at the nursing station. “Drama in the ER. Margot’s kid is sick and Riley is being a total psycho about covering for her.” “Riley? The quiet one?” “It’s always the quiet ones who have no empathy.” “Margot is a sweetheart. Why is Riley doing this?” Sophie showed me her phone, the screen filled with messages from other departments. “See? Everyone thinks you’ve crossed a line.” I looked at the screen. My heart felt like it had been dipped in ice water. I didn’t defend myself. Margot saw my silence and shifted tactics. Her voice went low and gravelly. “Riley, I know you’re a cautious person. Look, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll cover your entire weekend next month. You can have any days off you want.” I shook my head. She hissed, “I’ll Venmo you two hundred dollars right now. Not as a bribe, just… as a thank you for the trouble. Please.” I looked up at her. “Don’t do that, Margot. Money makes this even worse.” Her face twisted. “What do you want from me? My daughter is waiting!” “Wait for Dr. Miller and the supervisor.” “By the time they get here, my daughter could be in a febrile seizure!” “Then call 911 to your house right now,” I suggested. She blinked. “What?” “You said she’s at 104 and it’s an emergency. I’ll call the paramedics for you. They’ll get there faster than you can drive.” Her eyes flickered with panic. “No… no, my husband is there. We live close. I just need to get back.” “Then FaceTime him. Let us see the baby. If the supervisor sees it’s an actual emergency, she’ll find a float nurse to cover you instantly.” Margot went dead silent. The text floated by again. [Her daughter isn’t sick. She’s fine.] [She won’t make the call.] [Stay strong. The doctor is in the elevator.] Sophie snapped at me, “Riley, that’s disgusting. Her kid is sick and you’re demanding a video call to prove it? Where is your humanity?” “I’m just trying to help her document the emergency.” “You’re a cold, heartless bitch!” Sophie’s voice rose. “Margot has been nothing but kind to you, and you’re acting like a robot.” Sophie turned to Margot. “Margot, go. I’ll cover the station. I’m not a nurse, but I know the vitals check routine. I’ll handle it.” Margot’s eyes lit up. “Sophie, really?” Sophie squared her shoulders, looking at me with pure disdain. “Yeah. Go be with your baby. I’m not like some people.” Margot immediately tried to shove the paperwork into Sophie’s hands. I stepped forward and blocked it. “Sophie, if you take those papers, you’re practicing out of scope. Don’t touch the log, don’t log into the nursing terminal, and don’t sign anything until the supervisor gets here.” Sophie shoved my hand away. “You think everyone is as selfish as you?” Margot urged her, “Just take them. The patients are deep asleep, don’t worry about checks. Just log into the system and I’ll text you what to write for the shift notes.” “Okay,” Sophie said, taking the stack of papers. She gave me a triumphant, nasty look. “I finally see who you really are, Riley.” I stopped talking. I didn’t try to stop her again. Some people don’t see the cliff until they’re halfway down. The elevator dinged. Brenda, the head nurse, walked out, followed by Dr. Miller. Brenda hadn’t even brushed her hair; she looked exhausted and irritable. “Riley, what on earth is going on?” Margot ran to her, sobbing. “Brenda, thank God. My daughter has a fever, and I just wanted Riley to cover for me. She refused, started claiming Bed 7 was ‘abnormal’ just to cause a scene, and woke up the whole ward. Please, just let her take over so I can go.” Dr. Miller didn’t say a word. He walked straight past them toward Bed 7. Margot scrambled to block him. “Dr. Miller, he’s sleeping! Really! Please don’t wake him, he’s been so agitated all day. He’ll start screaming if you wake him up.” Miller frowned. “Move, Margot.” “He’s fine, I promise! Riley is just targeting me because she doesn’t want to work!” Brenda looked at Margot’s frantic face and sensed something was off. “Margot, let the doctor do his job.” Margot’s face went gray. She shook her head. “Don’t.” Dr. Miller didn’t argue. He reached out and yanked the curtain open. There was the patient, Arthur Harrison. The blanket was pulled up to his chin. He was turned toward the wall, motionless. Dr. Miller leaned over him. He reached out to check the carotid pulse. His entire posture changed in a heartbeat. He ripped the blanket back.

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1 Ethan had invited a few friends over for dinner. The atmosphere at the table was buzzing, the wine flowing freely. My best friend, Gillian, was in top form, which usually meant making me the punchline of her jokes. “Oh my god, you guys have no idea how pathetic Wren was when her ex dumped her,” she said, leaning in as if sharing a delicious secret. “She was a total wreck. Sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe, literally on her knees in the middle of the street, begging him not to leave.” The table went dead silent for a few seconds. Tess, another friend of ours, frowned and cut her off. “Gillian, stop. Don’t keep bringing that up. It’s humiliating for her.” Gillian waved her hand dismissively, not missing a beat. “Please, if she actually cared, she would’ve said something years ago. We’ve been best friends forever; I know exactly how much she can handle.” I clenched my jaw, the plastic handle of my fork digging into my palm. I turned to look at Ethan, who was sitting right next to me. He didn’t defend me. Instead, he raised his glass and let out a short, mocking laugh. “Seriously, Tess, relax. Wren’s got thick skin. We’re all having a good time; a few jokes won’t kill her.” Hearing his casual, indifferent tone, I snapped. I slammed my silverware onto the table and stood up. The entire table froze. Looking at their startled faces, I suddenly felt a wave of profound exhaustion. I didn’t want to explain myself anymore. I didn’t want to fight. I just didn’t want to be there. … Ethan set his glass down, his brow furrowing with irritation. “Wren, for God’s sake, everyone’s here. What is this little performance about?” What is it about? Gillian was using the most humiliating moment of my twenty-year-old life as dinner theater, and he was calling it a “performance.” I looked down and noticed a smudge of grease on my thumb. I’d been in the kitchen since three p.m.—washing vegetables, searing steaks, simmering the French onion soup Ethan loved so much. When Gillian arrived around five, she didn’t even knock. She headed straight for the shoe rack, pulled out my spare pair of pink fleece slippers, and walked to the bar cabinet with practiced ease. “Wren, the wine glasses are on the top shelf, right?” she’d called out. “Ethan mentioned last time that red wine just doesn’t taste right in regular tumblers.” I had been holding a bunch of kale at the time, my hands wet. I didn’t answer. Then she’d peered into the pot on the stove. “Hey, easy on the ginger. Ethan’s stomach has been acting up lately. If he has too much, he’ll be up all night in pain.” In that moment, I felt like a stranger in my own home, a caterer hired for a party I wasn’t invited to. At the table, one of the guys tried to smooth things over. “Ethan, man, give her a break. Wren’s been working in the kitchen all afternoon.” Gillian’s eyes turned red instantly. She put her fork down and delicately dabbed the corner of her eye with a fingertip. “I’m so sorry… I was honestly just trying to lighten the mood. I had no idea Wren would be this sensitive today.” Ethan didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a napkin and handed it to her. He was so fast. So instinctive. Faster than my pathetic hope could even reach the floor to shatter. “Don’t cry,” he said softly to her. “She’s just being temperamental today.” Gillian clutched the napkin, her voice dropping into that soft, breathless register. “Wren, if I upset you, I won’t mention it again. I just thought… I thought we were close enough to joke about anything.” I looked at her, my voice cold and steady. “Gillian, that night years ago—were you actually there? Did you see it with your own eyes?” Her eyes flickered for a split second. “It was years ago, Wren. Who remembers the exact details?” Ethan groaned. “Are we really doing this? Digging up ancient history?” He looked at me with genuine resentment. “You’re making a scene over a joke. How is Gillian supposed to face our friends now?” Tess, sitting across from me, looked furious. She was the only one who had tried to stop it. She opened her mouth to speak, but Gillian stood up first, rounding the table to grab my hand. “Wren, it’s all my fault. I’ll apologize, okay? I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “Just don’t put Ethan in the middle of this. He’s been so stressed with work lately; he doesn’t need this.” Ethan watched our joined hands, his gaze lingering on Gillian’s tearful eyes. “Enough, Wren. She’s literally begging for your forgiveness. How much longer are you going to keep up this act?” I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. I just grabbed my coat from the sofa and headed for the door. Ethan chased after me, his annoyance barely concealed. “This is my dinner party, Wren. If you walk out now, how am I supposed to explain this to everyone?” My hand paused on the buttons of my coat. “Why is it that when I’m the one being humiliated, you never worry about how I’m supposed to feel?” He was silent for a few seconds before muttering, “Since when did you become so keeping-score?” Right. I hadn’t kept score before. When Gillian called me “homely,” or joked that being a preschool teacher meant I always smelled like spit-up and crayons, Ethan would just ruffle my hair and tell me she was just “being herself” and not to take it personally. When Gillian said I looked “ugly-crying” as a kid, Ethan said she only joked like that because she felt “comfortable” with me. I had swallowed it all, time after time, only to be served more. Back in the living room, Gillian’s shoulders were shaking with sobs. Ethan looked back at her, his expression softening instantly. “Wren has a good heart; she’ll get over it. Don’t take what she said to heart.” Standing in the entryway, watching his back, I realized something. When he comforted her, he didn’t feel the need to look at me even once. As I walked down the stairs of our apartment building, Gillian came running after me. She hadn’t put on a coat, and her slippers went thwack-thwack against the concrete steps. “Wren! Don’t be impulsive! If you leave like this, Ethan’s going to blow up. You guys will end up in a massive fight!” I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She was gripping the railing, her eyes red, her face etched with a performative kind of panic. “I just wanted to make him laugh,” she whispered. “He’s been under so much pressure lately. I only brought that up because I thought it would amuse him.” I looked at her for a long moment, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. “So you knew it would humiliate me.” Her face went pale. From the balcony above, Ethan’s voice rang out. “Gillian! Get back inside! If she wants to leave, let her go.” I turned and walked toward the street. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Ethan. Gillian is a mess. Stop provoking her. Come back and apologize so we can finish dinner. The bus pulled up to the curb. As the doors hissed open, I saw my own reflection in the window—my eyes were rimmed with red, my face weary. In that moment, I finally understood. In his world, Gillian’s tears were a crisis that required immediate action. My departure was just an inconvenience. I spent the night at my grandmother’s house. Near dawn, Grams pushed open the door to my old bedroom, carrying a bowl of hot oatmeal. “Eat something, honey. You can’t face the world on an empty stomach.” I stared down at the bowl. A tear fell into the oats. I wiped my face quickly with the back of my hand. Grams didn’t say a word. She just turned back toward the kitchen to fry an egg. She was always like that. My parents had been too busy with their careers to raise me, so they’d tucked me away in this quiet corner of the city with her. She never interrogated me about my heartbreaks. She just showed up with food. At nine a.m., a text from Gillian arrived. Let’s meet and talk. None of us slept a wink after you left. My stomach is in knots. She suggested a small diner near Grams’ house. When I arrived, she had already ordered two coffees. She pushed the one with oat milk toward me—the way I liked it. “Wren, please eat something. See? I still remember your order,” she said softly. “We’ve always been so in sync with the little things. Last night was just a slip of the tongue. Don’t hold it against me, okay?” Gillian stirred her coffee, her eyes downcast. “At the end of the day, it was just a joke. Let’s just move past it. Don’t let one stupid comment push Ethan away.” I put my spoon down. “Did you come here because you were worried about me, or because you were worried Ethan would be stuck in the middle?” She bit her lip, her eyes shifting. “Wren, how can you say that? I truly consider you my friend.” “You consider me a friend, so you told a room full of people that I begged a man on my knees?” Her eyes filled up again. “I’d had some wine… the conversation just flowed that way. You know how I get when I’m nervous. I say things I don’t mean.” Funny how her “nervousness” always landed exactly where it hurt me most. After I left the diner, I walked back through the old neighborhood. When I was seventeen, right on this corner, a group of boys had been making fun of my grandmother, calling me a “lonely little charity case.” Ethan had been there. He was wearing his high school varsity jacket, holding a black umbrella over my head. He’d shoved the umbrella into my hand and told those boys to apologize or else. It had been pouring. He’d looked back at me, his jaw set and hard. “Wren, if anyone ever messes with you again, you call me.” Because of that one sentence, I had spent years inventing excuses for the man he had become. He used to be good. He used to pick me up from work on his bike. He used to sit with me in the hospital waiting room when Grams had her gallstone surgery. But people don’t change with a bang. They change in the quiet, in the subtle shifts of priority until you don’t recognize them anymore. Sunday was our seven-year anniversary. We were standing at the theater ticket counter. Ethan was holding my hand, asking if I wanted the caramel popcorn. Then Gillian called. She said her apartment was flooding. The pipes had burst, she couldn’t reach her landlord, and she was “terrified” and alone. Ethan hung up and immediately started walking toward the exit. I stood in the lobby, clutching a large tub of popcorn. “The movie starts in five minutes,” I said. “Are you really leaving?” He looked back, his brow deeply furrowed. “Wren, she’s a girl living alone. What if something happens? We can watch the movie another day.” I followed him to her place. Gillian was standing by her front door, hair disheveled, looking fragile. “Wren, please don’t be mad. I literally had no one else to call.” Ethan didn’t even look at me. He was already rolling up his sleeves. He called a plumber, helped her mop the floor, and knelt down to inspect the pipes under her sink. He moved with a practiced familiarity that made my chest tighten. I stood in the doorway like a piece of furniture someone had forgotten to move. Eventually, he told me to go home. “You’re not really helping here anyway. Go back and wait for me.” Ethan didn’t get home until almost midnight. He tossed his jacket onto the sofa. “You’re making too big a deal out of a movie.” I stared at the red scratch on his wrist from the pipe. The words I wanted to say died in my throat. He sat down, took a sip of water, and added, “Gillian’s always been afraid of being alone. You know that.” “She’s afraid, so you have to leave me?” He rubbed his temples. “Why do you always have to compare yourself to her?” I had no answer. I realized that to him, my being hurt was just another form of “competing” for his attention. At one a.m., Gillian called again. She said the pipes were still making “weird noises” and she couldn’t sleep. Ethan grabbed his keys. Before the door closed, he threw out a casual, “Go to sleep. Don’t overthink things.” I sat in the dark living room and, for the first time, seriously asked myself: What is left of us? The next morning, by the time Ethan got back, I was already at the preschool. He sent a text: It was so late, didn’t want to wake you. I’ll bring you those dumplings you like tonight. I stared at the screen for a long time before replying with a simple Okay. I was pathetic back then. He threw me a crumb of kindness, and I was ready to crawl back. But when you spend your life walking down the stairs someone else built for you, you’re bound to trip. For my grandmother’s birthday, I’d reminded Ethan two weeks in advance. Grams loved Ethan. She always said he was a “steady man,” the kind you could build a life with. That morning, Ethan even helped me carry the cake to the car. He’d changed into a clean sweater and was fussing over the ribbon on the box. “Don’t let it slide, Wren. If the frosting gets ruined, Nana will be heartbroken.” My heart softened, just a little. Maybe I was just overreacting, I thought. Maybe he does remember. Halfway there, Gillian called. Ethan had the phone on speaker. She was hyperventilating. She said her landlord was forcing her to move out that day and withholding her security deposit. She was trying to pack, but her “hands wouldn’t stop shaking.” Ethan gripped the steering wheel. Silence stretched between us. Then, I watched his right hand turn the wheel. As the car swung into a U-turn, the cake box bumped against my knees. I steadied it with trembling fingers. “Ethan, Grams is waiting for us.” He kept his eyes on the road. “I’ll just deal with Gillian’s situation first, then we’ll go.” “You know what today is.” “I know, but she’s literally in a crisis, Wren.” I let out a short, dry laugh. He didn’t even hear it. “Wren, go ahead. Take an Uber. Tell Nana I’ll be there as soon as I can. Explain it to her.” Explain it to her. I was so tired of being his spokesperson. Explaining why we missed our anniversary. Explaining why, every time Gillian needed him, I was the one who had to be “understanding.” I walked into Grams’ house alone, carrying the cake. She was sitting on her bed, her hair brushed perfectly, wearing the cardigan I’d bought her last month. She looked past me, then at my empty hands. “Ethan’s busy at the shop?” “Yeah. An emergency order came in.” Grams looked at me for a long time, then reached out and patted my hand. My nose stung. I looked down and started cutting the cake. On the wall, there was a photo from a few years ago. Ethan was kneeling by a broken floor fan, screwdriver in hand. Grams’ old fan had died in the heat of July. He’d gone to the hardware store twice and worked until he was drenched in sweat. Grams had been so touched she’d kept feeding him apple slices. He’d smiled then and said, “Nana, don’t worry. I’ll always take care of Wren.” He sounded so sincere then. So sincere that it took me years to realize he’d stopped. After leaving Grams’, I went to the store to get some fruit for her. As I came out, I saw Gillian. She was clutching a stack of cardboard boxes, looking disheveled. When she saw me, her face flushed with awkwardness. “Wren, please don’t be mad. Ethan’s just helping me find a temporary place. That landlord was so aggressive, I was genuinely scared.” She looked miserable, sure. But I couldn’t find a single drop of sympathy in me. At eight p.m., Ethan brought Gillian to our apartment. He was busy making up the guest bed. He pulled out the fresh linens I’d just laundered, smoothing the corners, setting the bedside lamp to its lowest dim. “She’s staying for one night. She’ll find a place tomorrow.” I stood in the doorway, my bag still over my shoulder. “Did you think to ask me first?” Ethan frowned. “Given the circumstances, you’re really going to be petty about this?” Gillian stood up from the bed and reached for my hand. “Wren, I really didn’t want to be a burden. Maybe I should just go. I can sit in a 24-hour Starbucks tonight.” Ethan snapped immediately. “You’ve known Wren for a decade. She’s happy to help you.” Happy to help. The words felt like a physical weight on my chest. I pulled my hand back. “Ethan, I spent my grandmother’s birthday alone. I carried that cake by myself. She asked where you were, and I lied for you.” He avoided my eyes. “I’ll go see her tomorrow, okay? Jesus.” Gillian stood there, biting her lip until it was white. “It’s all my fault. Please don’t fight because of me… I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” Ethan looked at her, his face instantly clouding with protective concern. “Don’t worry about it. Just get some rest.” That night, I lay in our master bedroom, listening to the guest room door open and close all night. In the morning, Gillian was in the kitchen making breakfast. She was wearing my apron, her sleeves rolled up. Ethan was at the table. He took a bite of the eggs she’d made and smiled. “Gillian is way more thoughtful than you, Wren. She knew I wanted something light this morning.” Gillian froze, her spatula hitting the pan with a clink. “Ethan, don’t say that. Wren usually—” Ethan didn’t see the problem. “Look at you, getting all defensive for her. I was just giving you a compliment. She’s not that small-minded.” I grabbed my bag and shoved my keys into my pocket. He looked over. “You’re not eating?” “You two enjoy your little domestic bliss,” I said, my voice tight. “Try not to choke on it.” As the door clicked shut, I heard Gillian call my name. I didn’t look back. Walking down the stairs, I finally admitted it to myself: Ethan had made a habit of playing favorites, and I’d been a fool to play my part for so long. After that day, Ethan acted as if the tension had never happened. Before leaving for work, he asked, “What do you want for dinner? I’ll be home early.” “There’s a neighborhood farewell dinner at the old bistro tonight,” I reminded him. “The place is closing down because of the new development. Everyone from the old block will be there. You promised.” He paused. “Right. I’ll be there. I promise.” I didn’t ask a second time. After work, I stopped by a bakery to pick up some almond tea cakes. When I was eighteen, Ethan had biked across the city to get me these exact cakes because I’d had a fight with Grams and was crying by the old bridge. He’d been breathless when he handed me the bag. “Eat something sweet. Stop crying like a stray cat.” I’d cried harder then because someone actually cared what I liked. Standing in line, I looked at the cakes and wanted to ask that eighteen-year-old boy: How did you turn into this? At the bistro, Tess and the neighbors were already there. I kept the seat next to me empty. When the food arrived, the neighbors smiled kindly. “Let’s wait a bit. Ethan’s probably just held up at the shop.” I shook my head. “No need to wait. Everyone, please eat. If he’s late, that’s on him. We shouldn’t let the elders go hungry waiting for him.” Tess leaned in, whispering, “You look pale. Want me to call him?” I just took a sip of water. In my head, I was starting a countdown. I wanted to see exactly how long he would make me wait for a dinner he’d “guaranteed” he wouldn’t miss. At 8:40 p.m., as people were starting to clear their plates, the door swung open. Ethan stood there, with Gillian right behind him. Her eyes were red, and she was clutching a man’s jacket—the one Ethan had worn that morning. The moment she walked in, she looked at me. “Wren, I’m so sorry. I’ve messed up again.” I didn’t respond. Ethan walked over to me, lowering his voice. “She ran into a scammer while looking at an apartment. They took her deposit, and she was stranded on the street, terrified. I couldn’t just leave her there.” The whole table was watching us. I pushed the box of tea cakes toward the center of the table. “So you’re late because of her.” Ethan’s brow darkened. “Don’t humiliate her in front of everyone.” I almost laughed. Now that it was Gillian’s dignity on the line, he suddenly knew what “humiliation” was. Gillian gripped the jacket, a tear hanging from her lashes. “Wren, I really didn’t mean to ruin your party. I was just sitting on the curb, my head was spinning… I didn’t know who else to call but Ethan.” I looked her in the eye. “Why is it that every time you’re at your ‘lowest,’ he’s the only person in the world you can call?” The room went silent. Gillian’s mouth opened, and the tear finally fell. “I don’t know… I just feel like as long as he’s there, I don’t have to be afraid of anything.” The words hung in the air. Even she seemed startled by her own honesty. Ethan’s expression shifted. Tess grabbed my wrist, but I pulled away and stood up. “You certainly have a way with words, Gillian.” She panicked. “Wren, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just… I’ve grown so dependent on him. We all grew up together. You understand, right?” I looked at Ethan. “Do you?” He looked away. Gillian turned as if to flee. “I should go. This is all my fault. Don’t let me ruin the mood.” Ethan grabbed her arm to stop her, then looked at me with pure accusation. “She’s already going through enough. Can’t you just give her a break for once?” That was it. The final blow. I looked at his hand on her arm. “Ethan, from that movie, to Nana’s birthday, to tonight—I’ve given her a break every single time. My question is: when it’s my turn to be hurt, who’s going to give me a break?” Ethan’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Gillian was sobbing now, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Someone at the table muttered, “Ethan, man, you really messed up tonight.” Ethan, feeling the sting of public judgment, raised his voice. “What was I supposed to do? She was having a breakdown in the middle of the street! Was I supposed to just leave her?” I looked at him. “If you’re so terrified of leaving her, then stay with her. Forever.” I picked up my bag and walked toward the door. Gillian called out, “Wren, don’t go! I’ll feel so guilty!” I stopped at the threshold. “You always say you feel guilty, Gillian. But the next time you have the chance, you never hesitate to twist the knife in my heart.” Her face went bone-white. I pushed the door open. Ethan caught up to me in the alleyway, grabbing my wrist. “Wren, if you leave now, what is Gillian supposed to do?” I looked down at his hand. Years ago, in this same alley, he’d used this hand to hold an umbrella over me. Now, he was using it to shove me back into the shadow of Gillian’s needs. I peeled his fingers off me, one by one. “Ethan, from now on, I don’t care how much she cries or how much she begs. You don’t ever have to feel ‘stuck in the middle’ again.” “Because I don’t want either of you anymore.” I turned and walked into the cold wind. Behind me, I heard Gillian’s frantic cries and the sound of Ethan trying to follow, only to stumble over something in the dark.

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1 After we got married, my husband handed every cent of our family’s wealth over to his young personal assistant, Giselle Brooks. From the weekly grocery budget to the purchase of a new car, every expense had to go through her. I was forced to submit to her layers of “audits” and wait for her signature before I could touch a dime of our own money. Then the accident happened. My mother-in-law was rushed into surgery, and the hospital demanded a three-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit immediately. I couldn’t reach my husband, Cade. His phone was off, his whereabouts unknown. Desperate, I drove to the corporate office to find Giselle and apply for the emergency release of family funds. She didn’t even look up when I burst in. She was sitting at her mahogany desk, meticulously painting her nails a pale, shimmering pink. “You can have the money,” she said, her voice light and airy, as if she were talking about the weather. “But we follow the protocol here, Willa. Write a formal fund requisition request and submit it for my review.” I’d heard the rumors. Giselle was the office tyrant, a woman who spent more time power-tripping over the staff than doing actual work. But Martha was lying in a hospital bed, her life hanging by a thread. I didn’t have the luxury of pride. I grabbed a sheet of paper and scribbled the request, emphasizing that this was a matter of life and death—that every second counted. She didn’t even glance at it. She pushed the paper back toward me with the tip of her wet nail. “What is this? A grocery list? You think three hundred thousand dollars is pocket change? I’m not approving this. It’s sloppy.” My voice trembled. “Giselle, please. It’s clearly stated—it’s for life-saving surgery. Please, just sign it.” Giselle remained unfazed, slowly layering glitter over her polish. “Rules are rules. For any disbursement over fifty thousand, the requisition needs to be a minimum of two thousand words. If it’s not comprehensive, don’t bother coming to me for the money.” “But she’s in the ER!” I cried. “Then you’d better start writing,” she countered. “If you want to save her, write a version that’s actually worth my time.” I opened my mouth to scream at her, but my phone buzzed. A text from the hospital: Patient’s condition is deteriorating. Surgery cannot proceed without the initial deposit. I swallowed my rage. I sat down at a nearby empty desk, but before I could touch the keyboard, Giselle slammed her hand down. “That desk was custom-built for my department. You don’t have clearance to touch it,” she sneered. “If you’re so desperate to write, do it on the floor. Or you can leave. Your choice.” I froze. I could feel the eyes of the office staff on me, their whispers like static in the air. I looked at the crinkled emergency notification in my hand. I thought of Martha—the woman who had been more of a mother to me than my own. She was the only person in the Harrison family who had ever truly loved me. If I waited any longer, she’d be gone. I gritted my teeth and lowered myself onto the cold marble floor. I knelt there, using a chair as a makeshift desk, and began to write. Version two. Two thousand words. My hand cramped, and my vision blurred with tears of humiliation, but I didn’t stop. Staff members walked past, their gazes like needles. “Is that the CEO’s wife? On the floor?” “Giselle must be putting her through the wringer again. But honestly, for a woman in her position to have so little dignity…” I ignored them. I finished the last line, checked the word count, and stood up on stiff legs. I handed the pages to Giselle. She finally put down her nail brush, but she wouldn’t take the paper. She turned to a nearby intern and laughed. “See? This is why you stay in school. Stay-at-home wives have no sense of professional etiquette. They just hold their hands out for money.” I thrust the paper closer. “Giselle. The audit. Now.” With a flick of her wrist, she “accidentally” knocked over her full cup of iced latte. The brown liquid soaked through the pages instantly, turning my hours of work into a soggy, illegible mess. I gasped, trying to wipe the coffee off with my sleeve, but it was ruined. Giselle leaned back, not a hint of remorse on her face. “Look at you. You walk in here, you don’t even say hello. I’m in the middle of a meeting with my staff, you startle me, and look what happens.” The fire in my chest hit boiling point. “I told you the moment I walked in—my mother is in the hospital! I don’t have time for your social graces!” She gave a cold, sharp laugh, dabbing a spill on her desk with a silk tissue. “A crisis is no excuse for a lack of decorum. This is a corporate headquarters, not your living room. Next time, try knocking. Try bowing. Try showing some respect, or I won’t approve a single cent, no matter how many pages you write.” My knees throbbed. My soul felt bruised. But the clock was ticking. It had been ninety minutes. I knelt down again. I wrote the third version. This time, when I finished, I stood outside her door and knocked. I waited. I greeted her politely. Giselle ignored me for twenty minutes while she applied false eyelashes in a compact mirror. I stood there, a ghost in the hallway, counting every heartbeat. Finally, she looked up. “Oh, finished?” She raised an eyebrow. “Why are you standing in the hallway? Trying to make it look like I’m being difficult? Come in.” I hurried to her desk. “Giselle, it’s done. Please, wire the funds immediately.” “Fine, fine. God, you’re such a nag,” she muttered, snatching the papers. She began to read, but her eyes moved at a snail’s pace, as if she were reviewing a multi-billion dollar merger. Ten minutes passed. My heart was a drum in my ears. She finally set the paper down and reached for her phone. I almost breathed the word thank you. But then, she grabbed the application and ripped it. Once, twice, until it was confetti. The pieces fluttered to the floor like snow. My blood ran cold. “What are you doing?” “You expect me to approve this garbage?” she spat, looking at me with pure disdain. “There’s a typo on page four. If you can’t even proofread, it shows you’re not serious. You’re just using some ‘medical emergency’ as an excuse to fleece Cade for more cash. It’s pathetic what you housewives will do for a payday.” The rage I’d been suppressing exploded. “Giselle, think for one second! If this were your mother—” “Don’t you dare!” she hissed, standing up. “I don’t know what kind of gold-digging trap you set to get Cade to marry you, but I’m doing my job. You come in here and curse my family? I’m officially denying this request. I don’t care who dies. Get out.” A young intern nearby, looking terrified, whispered, “Giselle, maybe we should just check with the hospital? If it’s an emergency… it’s just one typo…” Giselle whirled on the girl. “Did I ask for your input? You’re an unpaid intern. Pack your things. You’re fired. Go to HR and process your exit.” The girl burst into tears. I stepped in front of her, shielding her. “You can’t fire her for being human! You don’t own this company!” “Cade Harrison gave me total control of the accounts,” Giselle sneered. “And as for you—if your mother dies, maybe it’s just karma for being such a bitch. Get out before I call security.” I lost it. I grabbed her arm. “Giselle! If Martha dies because you blocked this surgery, Cade will destroy you!” Giselle kicked her legs up onto the desk, completely unbothered. “Oh, threatening me with the boss? He gave me the keys to the vault because he doesn’t trust you. If you want the money so bad, get him to tell me. Until then, you get nothing.” I had called Cade ninety-nine times. Every call went to voicemail. I was reaching for my phone to call the police when I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of expensive leather shoes on the carpet. Giselle’s sharp features instantly dissolved into a mask of soft, fragile sweetness. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. I turned around. My husband, Cade Harrison, stood in the doorway. He looked exhausted, his brow furrowed as he took in the scene. I felt a surge of relief so strong I nearly collapsed. I ran to him, the tears finally breaking through. “Cade! Thank God. Martha—she was in a car accident. She needs three hundred thousand for surgery right now. I’ve been here for two hours, I’ve written the forms, but she won’t release the funds! We have to go, Cade. We’re running out of time!” Giselle glided to his side, her eyes rimmed with theatrical red. “Cade, thank goodness you’re back. I’ve had such a nightmare of an afternoon. Willa burst in here demanding a fortune, screaming at the staff, ignoring all the financial protocols you put in place… I was just trying to follow your orders, and she’s been attacking me all day. Maybe I shouldn’t manage the money anymore if it’s going to cause this much trouble.” Cade looked at the shredded paper on the floor. His frown deepened. He turned to Giselle first, his voice softening. “It’s okay. I know how hard you work. I’ll make it up to you later.” Then he turned to me. His eyes were cold, filled with a weary disgust. “Willa, haven’t you caused enough of a scene?” The tears stopped. I stared at him, paralyzed. I had stripped away my dignity, knelt on the floor, and endured two hours of psychological torture to save his mother—and his first instinct was to tell me I was the problem? “I put Giselle in charge because you have no sense of financial planning,” Cade said, talking to me like I was a slow child. “Someone is finally keeping our house in order, and instead of being grateful, you come here and throw a tantrum? In front of my employees?” “Cade, listen to me!” I screamed. “This isn’t about the money! Your mother is lying in the ICU! If we don’t pay, she dies!” Cade rolled his eyes and let out a frustrated huff. “Enough with the hysterics. If it’s that urgent, write the application properly. Stop making a fool of yourself.” Giselle leaned against his arm, throwing a triumphant smirk my way. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. I looked at the clock. Less than ten minutes left. I picked up a fresh sheet of paper. Version four. I wrote with a shaking hand, detailing every cent, every medical code, every necessity. I handed it to Giselle. “Giselle. It’s perfect. Please. Send the wire.” She scanned two lines and tossed it back onto the desk. “Insufficient detail. I’m not convinced of the necessity. Denied.” I felt like I was losing my mind. “I put everything in there! What else do you want?” “I’m the auditor,” she said, tapping her glittery nails. “And I say it’s not enough. You want the money? Write better. Or no wire.” I looked at Cade, waiting for the man I married to stand up. He just glanced at me with boredom. “Giselle has a head for figures. Listen to her. Fix it.” At that moment, the last thread of my love for him snapped. My phone vibrated violently. A string of texts from the hospital: Urgent: Surgery cancelled due to non-payment. Patient is experiencing intracranial hemorrhaging. High risk of mortality. I saw Martha’s face. I remembered how she’d made me soup when I was sick, how she’d always taken my side when Cade was being cold. She was dying because her own son was playing power games with his mistress. I didn’t care about the rules anymore. I lunged across the desk to grab Giselle’s phone. “Give me the phone! I’m authorizing the transfer myself!” Giselle didn’t expect the attack. She dodged back, her face twisting into a mask of malice. She swung her arm and delivered a stinging slap across my face. The sound cracked through the silent office. My head snapped back. My ear rang. Cade didn’t comfort me. He stepped forward and shoved me away from her. “Willa, have you lost your mind? Attacking my staff in the office? You’re pathetic!” I held my burning cheek, staring at him through a veil of tears. “Cade, think. Please. Martha is waiting. Don’t let her die for this.” He looked at me with pure loathing. “You want the money? Fine. Get on your knees. Apologize to Giselle. Beg her for it. Otherwise, you don’t get a cent.” I looked at the man I had shared a bed with for three years. He was a stranger. I looked at the clock. Five minutes. I slowly lowered my knees to the floor. In front of the entire office, in front of the whispering interns and the woman who had slapped me, I knelt. “Giselle, I’m sorry. Please… approve the wire.” Giselle reached into her designer purse, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and flicked it at my face. “There. Consider it a tip for the performance.” Cade sneered down at me. “Maybe if your mother had raised you with some class, you wouldn’t be in this position. Tell her to enjoy her budget funeral. Stop trying to scam us for money.” I went cold. A strange, hollow silence settled over me. “My mother?” I whispered. He thought… he thought it was my mother in the accident. That’s why he didn’t care. That’s why he let Giselle play her games. “Cade,” I said, my voice steady for the first time. “You’re going to regret this.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg anymore. I stood up, wiped the tears from my face, and walked out of that suffocating office. I had just reached the lobby when Cade’s phone finally finished rebooting and caught the signal. It rang—a number he didn’t recognize. He picked it up on speaker. The doctor’s voice was frantic, echoing through the quiet office upstairs so clearly I could almost hear it from the elevator. “Mr. Harrison? We’ve been trying to reach you. Because the surgery fees weren’t settled, we missed the window for intervention. I’m so sorry. Your mother… Martha Harrison… she just passed away.”

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1 In my previous life, the campus belle accused my son of selling her private photos. The Dean of Students called me into her office, her face set in a mask of professional disdain. “Your son is suspected of distributing obscene materials. The university strongly suggests he withdraws voluntarily before things get legal.” My son, Lucas, dropped to his knees, his voice cracking. “Mom! Check my phone! I didn’t do it! I swear!” But Seraphina, the girl, knew how to cry. The university feared a PR nightmare, and I—I was terrified of my son’s future being flushed down the drain. In that life, I played the coward. I begged her for a private settlement. She took fifty thousand dollars and promised to drop the matter. A month later, she posted the bank transfer receipts online. “They tried to buy my silence with blood money,” she wrote. “But I only want justice.” The post went viral. Lucas was doxed, harassed, and hounded out of school. Six months later, the police busted an actual photo-trafficking ring. By then, it was too late. Lucas had developed severe dissociative identity disorder. He ended his life in a cold, lonely room. I fought for an appeal, for a public apology, but I was shut down. “He’s already dead,” they told me. “Stop causing trouble.” I spent every waking hour posting the truth, but the media only cared about the headline: “Brave Girl Stands Up to Campus Predator.” Eventually, I held a press conference to clear his name, only to be stabbed to death by a “vigilante” in the parking lot. I opened my eyes and I was back in that office. “Mrs. Mercer, your son stole my photos. You have to make this right,” Seraphina sobbed, dabbing at her eyes with a silk tissue. I looked at her, and I smiled. It was a cold, sharp thing. “Let’s call the police,” I said. “Let them investigate every single byte of data from the very beginning.” The color drained from Seraphina’s face instantly. Seraphina’s eyes were still rimmed with red, her knuckles white as she gripped her tissues. Ms. Carter, the advisor, was the first to snap. “Elena, don’t be impulsive. Once the police are involved, there is no turning back.” I looked her dead in the eye. “Turning back from what? My son being labeled a criminal, or the university’s ranking being affected by a scandal?” Ms. Carter flinched. “That’s uncalled for. We are trying to do what’s best for Lucas.” I almost laughed. In my last life, she said the exact same thing. For his own good. That was why she forced him to write a confession and drop out. And after my son died, she posted on her social media: “May every child be treated with tenderness by the world.” Lucas was sitting against the wall, his face a ghostly pale. He looked up at me, his voice barely a rasp. “Mom… I didn’t.” “I know,” I said. I walked over and picked up his phone. “From this moment on, do not touch a phone. Do not touch a computer. Do not send a single private message to anyone. If anyone asks you anything, you tell them we are waiting for the police.” Lucas froze, his eyes wide. “Mom… you believe me?” “I do.” In my previous life, I said it too late, and I acted too soft. In this life, I was going to be the shield he never had. Seraphina spoke up, her voice a fragile whisper. “Mrs. Mercer, if you call the police… those photos will be seen by even more people.” She was clever. With one sentence, she firmly re-established herself as the victim. I turned to her. “I trust the police more than I trust a few people passing around screenshots in a faculty office.” She bit her lip. Ms. Carter immediately jumped back in. “Seraphina is already in so much pain. What you’re doing is secondary trauma.” “Ms. Carter.” I pulled out my phone and hit ‘Record.’ “Are you saying the university has decided to skip a legal investigation and move straight to a verdict?” Ms. Carter’s mouth snapped shut. The office door swung open. Dean Harrison walked in, followed by the university’s legal counsel and campus security. He saw my phone recording and his brow furrowed. “Mrs. Mercer, there’s no need for this level of hostility.” I didn’t blink. “Dean Harrison, has the university contacted the authorities yet?” “The administration feels an internal resolution is more appropriate at this stage.” “Why?” “It involves a female student’s privacy. And the university’s reputation.” “Is that reputation worth more than my son’s innocence?” His face darkened. “Don’t be extreme. There are already rumors circulating online. If this blows up further, it won’t be good for Lucas.” Lucas looked up, his voice trembling. “I didn’t do it. I only helped her reset her password and set up two-factor authentication! We were in the public library the whole time!” Seraphina whimpered, “Lucas, you fixed my laptop. You helped me recover my account. But those photos were only in my cloud drive. You were the only one who had access.” The weight of everyone’s gaze shifted onto my son. In my last life, this was the moment everyone went silent. A tech-savvy boy. Access to the account. Explicit photos leaked. It was a perfect puzzle. I looked at Seraphina. “You say the photos were in the cloud. Then please, provide your cloud login history to the police.” Seraphina’s eyes flickered. “I… I don’t know how to check that.” “The police do.” Her face went another shade whiter. Dean Harrison finally lost his patience. “Mrs. Mercer, we are trying to give you an out. If Lucas withdraws voluntarily, Seraphina won’t press charges, and the school will keep the disciplinary record private.” “I refuse.” The office went deathly quiet. Dean Harrison stared at me, his eyes cold. “Then you will have to live with the consequences.” “Fine.” I dialed 911 and hit the speakerphone. “Hello, I’d like to report a crime.” Ms. Carter lunged toward me. “Elena!” 2 The moment I hung up, Dean Harrison’s expression turned into a mask of pure frustration. He signaled the security guard to close the door. “Mrs. Mercer, you are being incredibly irrational.” I sat down, crossing my legs. “I have never been more rational in my life.” Ms. Carter let out a sharp, mocking breath. “You think the police will magically prove Lucas is innocent? If they find even a trace of those photos on his devices, he won’t just be expelled. He’ll be a felon.” I looked at my son. “Are you afraid of an investigation?” He shook his head. “No.” “Can they check your phone and laptop?” “Yes.” “Will you give them every password?” “Everything.” I turned back to Seraphina. “And you?” Seraphina stiffened. “Of course, I’m willing to cooperate.” “Good,” I said. “Then you’ll hand over your phone, your laptop, your cloud accounts, your DM history, the links to the groups where the photos were sold, and the original transaction screenshots.” She lowered her head. “There is a lot of personal stuff on my phone.” “You’re reporting that your ‘personal stuff’ was stolen,” I said, my voice low and steady. “Now that it’s time to find the source, you’re suddenly worried about privacy?” Seraphina’s tears started again. “Mrs. Mercer, do you… do you think I’m lying?” “I think you should provide evidence.” “Would a girl lie about something like this?” she cried, her voice rising. “I am a decent person! My photos were leaked! I came to the school for justice, and you’re interrogating me like I’m the criminal?” Outside the office, students were beginning to gather, their whispers filtering through the door. Ms. Carter moved to crack the door open, likely to let the “public opinion” pressure me. I stood up and slammed the door shut. “Ms. Carter, this is a legal matter, not a livestream.” Ms. Carter bristled. “Why are you being so aggressive?” I looked at her coldly. “My son is being treated like a predator by the entire campus. You want to talk about aggressive?” Dean Harrison tapped his knuckles on the desk. “Enough.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a folder and slid it toward Lucas. “Write a statement of facts.” I didn’t even look at it; I just pinned the paper down with my hand. “A statement of what?” “A detailed account of how he handled Seraphina’s account,” the Dean said. “And an admission that his personal negligence led to the breach of her privacy.” Lucas turned white. I stared at the Dean. “Admission of negligence?” I let out a dry laugh. “You haven’t investigated a thing, and you want him to sign a confession? So that tomorrow you can officially crucify him for ‘negligence’?” The Dean’s face was thunderous. The legal counsel spoke up. “Mrs. Mercer, this is just for internal records.” “Then he’ll write the truth.” I grabbed a pen and scribbled three lines on the paper. I did not steal, save, or distribute any photos of Seraphina Mercer. I am fully willing to cooperate with the police and hand over all devices. I refuse to accept any unverified responsibility before a formal investigation is complete. I pushed the paper back. “He’ll sign that.” Dean Harrison didn’t touch it. Ms. Carter sneered, “You’re quite the legal expert, aren’t you?” “I’ve learned the hard way,” I said, looking directly at her. “Taught by people exactly like you.” Just then, Lucas’s phone buzzed on the table. A barrage of notifications from his class group chat lit up the screen. “Lucas, did you really sell Seraphina’s nudes?” “I knew he was a creep. It’s always the quiet ones.” “@Lucas answer us, you coward. Stop hiding.” Then, a screenshot from the “Anonymous Campus Wall” appeared. The headline was a knife to the gut: [Cyber-Sec Major Steals Queen Bee’s Private Photos. Girl Collapses in Dean’s Office.] The attached photo showed Seraphina’s back as she cried, with half of Lucas’s face visible in the background. The security guard’s radio chirped. He listened for a moment then looked at the Dean. “Sir, the post on the Anonymous Wall is going viral. External media accounts are already picking it up.” Dean Harrison looked at me, his eyes burning. “Are you happy now, Mrs. Mercer?” “You should be asking who posted that photo from inside this room,” I countered. The phone buzzed again. A text from an unknown number: [If you want to save your son, have 20k ready by tonight. Otherwise, his name goes global.] I held the phone up for everyone to see. “Gentlemen,” I said. “The extortion texts have started. Now, does anyone still think this should be handled ‘internally’?” 3 Dean Harrison didn’t answer. He simply told the security guard to lock the door. We were moved to a conference room upstairs. They claimed it was to “coordinate” before the police arrived, but it was a hunt. Dean Harrison took the head of the table. Seraphina sat across from him, her tears never stopping. The Dean threw a stack of printed screenshots onto the table. “Mrs. Mercer, this is out of control. The post has ten thousand views in thirty minutes.” “If Lucas cooperates now,” the Dean continued, “the college can still try to mitigate the disciplinary action.” “And what does ‘cooperate’ mean?” Ms. Carter’s voice was like ice. “Apologize. Delete any backups. Hand over the distribution channels. Withdraw from the university.” Lucas balled his fists, his eyes brimming with indignation. I placed my hand over his. “Ms. Carter, the police aren’t even here, and you’ve already sentenced him?” She snapped. “I have had enough of your ‘police’ threats! Would a girl like Seraphina make this up and ruin her own reputation for fun? Lucas is a cybersecurity major. He has the skills, and he had her password. Who else could it be?” “Everyone in this room,” I said. “Isn’t that how you do it? Casting blame without evidence?” Seraphina sobbed, “Mrs. Mercer, I know you hate me, but you shouldn’t insult Ms. Carter.” I smiled thinly. “You didn’t seem to care much about ‘insults’ when you let the whole internet call my son a predator.” Seraphina’s crying hit a snag. The Dean looked like he wanted to throttle me. “This is a university, not a circus.” The legal counsel pushed a document toward me. “This is a settlement proposal.” I skimmed it. Lucas Mercer acknowledges that his actions caused severe emotional distress to Seraphina. He agrees to withdraw and pay $20,000 in restitution. Both parties agree to no further legal or media action. I pushed it back. “Who drafted this?” “The administration, based on the needs of both parties.” “Both parties?” I pointed at my son. “Did my son agree to this? And is the $20,000 a figure the school calculated, or is it just a coincidence that it matches the extortion text I just received?” Seraphina’s head snapped up. “I didn’t send that text!” “I didn’t say it was you,” I said. She shivered. Dean Harrison cut in. “The point is to end this now.” “Of course it is. Because you’re all desperate to make my son the villain.” Suddenly, Seraphina stood up, looking like she was about to faint. “Fine. If you’re going to force me, I’ll show you the evidence.” She pulled out her phone and swiped through a few screenshots. One was a group chat where a user named “DeepSea” wrote: [Seraphina Mercer full set. $50 per pack.] The user’s avatar was a black square. Underneath, someone had commented: [He’s a Cyber-Sec major. It’s the real deal.] The second screenshot showed a payment QR code. The recipient’s name was partially blurred, only showing the surname “Mercer.” The third was a DM: [Where’d you get these?] [Swiped them while I was fixing her laptop. She has more in her cloud.] Major: Cybersecurity. Name: Mercer. Act: Fixing a laptop. Every single piece of the puzzle pointed to Lucas. The room went silent. “Mrs. Mercer, what do you have to say now?” Dean Harrison asked. “Lucas, how do you explain this?” Lucas’s lips were bloodless. Seraphina looked at him with heartbreaking disappointment. “Lucas… I trusted you. I even bought you coffee when you were helping me with my account.” Lucas’s eyes were raw. “I never touched your photos!” Dean Harrison’s voice was like a gavel. “Enough lies. Sign the agreement. Sign it before the police get here, and it might still save you.” Outside, the sound of heavy footsteps and shouting grew louder. “Is the creep in there?” “Make him apologize!” “Justice for Seraphina!” The door to the conference room rattled as people pounded on it. Lucas looked panicked. Ms. Carter leaned in. “Elena, if you keep holding out, you’re only hurting your son.” Seraphina looked at me through her tears. “Sign it, Mrs. Mercer. I don’t want to destroy him.” In my last life, this was the moment I broke. I saw the mob outside. I saw my son shaking. I thought signing was a lifeline. I didn’t realize I was signing his death warrant. Just as the Dean reached for the pen, the door was shoved open—not by the mob, but by two police officers. “We have received a report regarding an illegal distribution ring involving explicit material,” the lead officer said. “Seraphina Mercer, we need you to come with us for questioning.”

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1 This is the story of how I found my daughter—and how I tore down the world that tried to replace her. I found her through a glitch in the universe. I call them “The Whispers.” They appear as glowing, translucent lines of text hovering in my peripheral vision, like a live-stream chat from a world I shouldn’t be able to see. When the Whispers told me where my daughter was, after eighteen years of dead ends, I found her in the middle of a street brawl behind a dive bar in Jersey. Her hair was a jagged mess of neon pink and electric blue. Eighteen tattoos crawled up her arms like armor. She blew a plume of cigarette smoke into my face, her eyes hard and mocking. “So, you’re the billionaire bitch who gave birth to me?” Behind her, a girl who looked like she’d been plucked from the cover of Town & Country stepped out. She looked at me with wide, tearful eyes. “Hello, Mrs. Blackwood. I’m Sophie. I’m… I’m Nia’s best friend. I’ve been looking after her.” The Whispers flared up in a frantic neon scroll: [OMG, Sophie is so precious! Look at that pure angel face!] [The tragic mom is going to feel so guilty that she’ll adopt Sophie too. Sophie is the real star—she’s smart, sweet, and actually knows how to act like a Blackwood.] [Poor Sophie has suffered so much in the slums. I can’t wait for the mother-daughter bonding scenes between them!] In the eyes of these invisible spectators, my daughter was “Faith”—a placeholder name given to her by foster parents who only wanted her as a “lucky charm” to conceive a biological son. To them, she was nothing but an abrasive, disposable extra in Sophie’s Cinderella story. I stepped forward, my heart aching to pull my daughter into my arms, but she shoved me back. “If you want me to go back to your fancy estate, Sophie comes with me,” Nia spat. “She’s the only one who didn’t treat me like trash when I was starving.” Sophie stepped in, delicately wiping a stray tear from my cheek. “Please don’t be angry, Mrs. Blackwood. Nia—I mean, Faith—she’s had a hard life. She doesn’t know how to speak to someone like you. I’ll make sure to keep her in line so you’re happy, okay?” Sophie had soft, chestnut hair and the practiced poise of a debutante. The “Leading Lady,” according to the Whispers. But I didn’t care about the script. I only cared about the daughter I had spent eighteen years mourning. We arrived at the Blackwood estate in silence. As we stepped out of the Maybach, Sophie’s jaw dropped. She looked at the sprawling limestone manor with a look of practiced humbleness. “Is all of this yours, Mrs. Blackwood? It’s… it’s like a dream.” Nia was clearly shaken by the sheer scale of the wealth, but she maintained her “street-soldier” bravado. “I’ve seen better on Netflix. It’s a bit much, don’t you think?” I found her defiance adorable. I reached out and gently ruffled her neon hair. “Welcome home, Nia.” A tall, handsome young man was waiting at the grand entrance. My son, Gabriel. He looked at us with an expression of pure shock that quickly melted into a charming smile. He rushed toward Sophie before I could say a word. “You must be Nia,” he said, his voice warm. “I’m your brother, Gabriel. I’ve waited my whole life to meet you.” Sophie lowered her head shyly, her cheeks flushing. “Actually, I’m Sophie. Nia’s friend.” I cleared my throat and pointed to the girl with the tattoos and the lip ring. “Gabriel, you idiot. This is your sister.” Nia raised a hand in a lazy wave. “Yo.” Gabriel froze. His eyes darted between Sophie’s polished elegance and Nia’s combat boots and smeared eyeliner. He looked at me, bewildered. “Mom… are you sure there wasn’t a mistake at the DNA lab?” I pulled Nia’s shoulder into mine. “She is my daughter. My only daughter. I would know her anywhere. Come on, Nia. Let’s get you settled.” The Whispers flickered across my vision: [Enter the Male Lead! Gabriel is so hot. Too bad he’s a ‘warm-hearted second lead’ type who will never win the heroine’s heart.] [Just wait until the brother and the fiancé fall for Sophie. She’s the Main Character for a reason. The ‘Nia’ girl is just a stepping stone for Sophie’s rise to the top.] I felt a cold prickle of irritation. We walked into the grand parlor. I sat Nia down and held her hand tightly. “Nia, I want to officially change your legal name back. You aren’t ‘Faith’ anymore. You are Nia Blackwood. It was the name your father chose for you before he passed. Do you like it?” Her fingers twitched in mine. She looked away, trying to hide the fact that she was moved. “Whatever. It’s just a name.” Across from us, Sophie sighed, a wistful, melancholic sound. “I’m so happy for you, Nia. You finally have everything you ever wanted.” She looked down at her lap. “I guess I just don’t know what it feels like… to have a home.” Gabriel looked at her with immediate, heart-on-his-sleeve pity. “Mom, Sophie is Nia’s best friend. She’s been through hell with her. We have more than enough room. Why don’t we just adopt her, too?” Sophie looked up, suddenly “remembering” something. She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, letting two sets of transcripts slide onto the coffee table. “Oh, Mrs. Blackwood, I don’t want to be a burden. I actually just got my acceptance letter from Princeton. If you take me in, I promise I’ll never bring shame to the Blackwood name.” She “accidentally” pushed both transcripts toward me. One was a perfect 4.0 GPA. The other was a mess of D’s and F’s. She gasped, trying to cover the failing one with her hand. “Oh! Not that one! That’s Nia’s… I didn’t mean to show you.” Gabriel leaned over and saw the scores. “A 1.2 GPA? Nia, are you serious? The Blackwoods have been intellectuals for generations. You look like a circus act, and you’re failing basic math? You’re nothing like Sophie.” Nia’s walls slammed back up. She snapped at him, “Oh, I’m sorry I was too busy learning how to not get stabbed in a foster home to worry about Calculus, Professor Jackass!” Sophie jumped up and grabbed Gabriel’s arm. “Gabriel, please! Don’t fight because of me! It’s all my fault!” She looked at me with watery eyes, but I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at Nia’s transcript. “Wait,” I said, my voice quiet. “Nia, look at this. Your Logic and Set Theory score… you got a near-perfect on the standardized assessment? But you failed the homework and attendance portion?” Nia shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Multiple choice is easy. You just see the patterns.” I laughed, a genuine, bright sound. “My daughter is a logic prodigy. She doesn’t need to ‘study’ like a drone. Nia, you’re a Blackwood. You don’t need to be a teacher’s pet. I’ve accumulated enough gold and real estate to ensure you never have to work a day in your life if you don’t want to.” Nia looked stunned. She wasn’t used to being praised for her “accidental” brilliance. Through her heavy makeup, I saw a flicker of raw vulnerability. Sophie’s breathing became heavy. I turned to Gabriel, my voice turning sharp and authoritative. “Gabriel, Sophie has parents. She isn’t a stray kitten you find on the street. You don’t just ‘adopt’ someone because they have good grades.” Gabriel’s hand dropped from Sophie’s arm as if burned. “Sophie, I’m sorry. I’ll have the driver take you back to your place tonight.” The thought of going back to the cramped, grimy apartment she shared with her alcoholic father made Sophie’s composure break. She dropped to her knees on the expensive Persian rug. “Mrs. Blackwood, please! My father… he drinks. When he’s drunk, he… I can’t go back there. I just want a real family. I want a mother like you.” Gabriel looked pained, but he stayed silent, looking at me. Sophie began to sob, her head bowed. Nia immediately rushed to her side, pulling her up. “Mom, don’t be cold! If Sophie goes, I go! I won’t stay in this palace while she’s getting hit!” The Whispers screamed: [Sophie is the master of the ‘White Lotus’ act! She gets what she wants, no matter what.] [Nia is such a pawn. She has no idea she’s being used. Sophie is playing the long game.] I didn’t lose my temper. I looked at Nia’s fierce protection of her friend and felt a pang of pride for her loyalty, misplaced as it was. “Nia, calm down. I’m not heartless. I won’t adopt her—the legalities are too messy—but I can sponsor her. I’ll pay for her tuition, and she can stay here as your guest.” Nia nodded, mollified. “I don’t know what ‘sponsor’ means, but as long as we stay together, fine.” Sophie bit her lip. It wasn’t the “Blackwood Daughter” title she wanted, but it was a foot in the door. She nodded slowly. I took Nia up to the third floor. “This is Gabriel’s wing. This is my suite. And your room is right here, exactly in the middle.” I opened the door to a sprawling suite decorated in soft pinks, silk, and cream. It was a princess’s dream. Nia, in her black leather and chains, looked like a glitch in the room. She scoffed, calling the pink “tacky,” but I saw her eyes wandering over the canopy bed and the walk-in closet. A tiny smile tugged at her lips. Then, Sophie’s voice came from behind us. “Oh, Nia… it’s beautiful. It’s exactly the room I used to dream about when we were kids. That shade of pink was always my favorite.” Nia paused. She looked at Sophie, then at the room. She slapped her thigh as if she’d just had a great idea. “You know what, Soph? You love pink. Why don’t you take this room? I don’t care where I sleep.” Sophie looked shy. “Oh, I couldn’t. It’s the room your mother built for you.” “Screw that,” Nia said, throwing an arm around her. “I told you I’d look after you. I can sleep in a guest room.” Gabriel chimed in with a smirk. “At least you have some self-awareness, Nia. A princess room needs a princess. Sophie fits the vibe better than you anyway.” I felt a surge of cold fury. I looked at Gabriel, then at Sophie, who was already inching toward the door. “Sophie,” I said. My voice was like ice. She stopped. “I can have a room decorated for you. But the third floor is for family. It wouldn’t be appropriate.” I turned back to my daughter. “Nia, if you don’t like the color, I’ll have a team here tomorrow to repaint it midnight black or neon green. Whatever you want. But this is your room.” I looked at the housekeeper, Mrs. Miller. “Mrs. Miller, please take Sophie to the second floor and prepare one of the guest rooms for her.” Sophie’s eyes welled up. “Do you want me to live with the staff, Mrs. Blackwood?” “Staff?” My voice hardened. “It’s the twenty-first century, Sophie. We have an employment contract, not a feudal system. Mrs. Miller is a professional. And the guest rooms on the second floor are five-star quality.” Sophie shrunk back. “I’m sorry. I… I chose my words poorly.” Mrs. Miller, who had seen everything, gave a thin, knowing smile. “Follow me, Miss Mercer.” Nia watched Sophie leave, looking worried. “Mom, is she going to be okay? She gets scared easily.” My heart softened. “Nia, she’s a guest. You are the mistress of this house. No one will hurt her. But listen to me.” I put my hands on her shoulders, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You are Nia Blackwood. No matter what happens, you never have to give up what you love just to make someone else feel comfortable. Do you understand?” She stared at me for a long time, as if trying to decide if I was lying. Finally, she nodded.

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1 “Xander, five days from now. Meet me at the County Clerk’s office. We’re getting the license.” Seraphina’s voice was as smooth as silk, carrying that familiar, suffocating arrogance. “Our wedding will be held at Cliffside Estate. You haven’t forgotten the ‘Wedding of the Century’ you promised me, have you?” My brain stalled for a second. The sheer audacity of it left me reeling. “We broke up five years ago, Seraphina. Did you hit your head?” A light, mocking giggle came from the other end of the line. “Broken up? I never agreed to that. You suddenly moved back to the States just because you heard I was getting married, didn’t you?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Don’t worry, the groom is you. As for Silas… I hope you can be a man about it. He’s been the one by my side for the eighteen hundred days you were gone. I trust you’ll be big enough to welcome him into our lives.” I shook my head, a dry laugh escaping my throat. I was about to hang up when a row of glowing, translucent text suddenly drifted across my field of vision. [The Leading Man left without a word for five years. Seraphina acts tough, but her heart is actually shattered.] [Seraphina only leaked the news about marrying Silas to bait the Leading Man into coming home for a grand surprise wedding. See? He’s back, and she came running.] I stared at the air. Early onset schizophrenia? Or am I in a simulation? If Seraphina cared so much, what was she doing for the last five years? Now that I have a beautiful wife and two perfect children, she thinks I’m still interested in her brand of toxic trash? … I shut off the phone, ignoring the barrage of texts and missed calls, and tossed it onto the nightstand. Around 3:00 AM, a frantic, rhythmic pounding began at the front door. “Open up! Xander, how much longer are you going to keep up this tantrum?” The noise was going to wake the neighbors. I marched downstairs and yanked open the heavy oak door of the villa. Seraphina stumbled slightly, looking a bit disheveled but still dressed in a gown that probably cost more than a mid-sized sedan. Her eyes raked over me, landing on my clothes with a sneer. “Tch. Look at you. Is this what you’ve become without me?” I looked down. In my haste, I’d thrown on an old, oversized loungewear shirt I’d borrowed from my father. It was a faded, soft cotton jersey—comfy, but definitely not “high fashion.” “Listen—” I started, but she cut me off, stepping into the foyer as if she still owned the place. “Fine. You’ve had your fun. You’re back, you’ve made your point. I’m willing to overlook the fact that you ran away like a coward five years ago.” Her expression hardened, her smile turning thin. “But I won’t forgive that punch you landed on Silas back then. We’re only able to get married now because Silas was generous enough to step aside. I expect you to apologize to him.” I stared at her, genuinely stunned. “Silas is a saint,” she continued. “He took care of me every single day you were gone. Because of you, I can’t give him a legal title, but I expect you to treat him like a brother. We’re going to give him a home, together.” Is she for real? In my early twenties, I might have lost my mind with rage. But the version of Xander who lived for Seraphina’s approval died a long time ago. If I got angry now, she’d just convince herself I was jealous of her “little protégé.” “Seraphina, what makes you think I’m even available?” I asked calmly. “It’s been five years. Has it occurred to you that I might be married? That I might have kids?” She let out a short, mocking bark of laughter. “Xander, the whole world knows you were my lapdog. You’ve always had a temper, you’re impulsive… who else but me would ever put up with you? Besides, your family’s influence has waned since you left. No elite family is going to marry their daughter to a ‘disgraced’ heir. I’m the only one willing to take you in. Consider it a mercy that I’m letting you marry into the Lane family.” I actually laughed. I couldn’t help it. The Lane and Miller families had been equals once, our engagement a strategic alliance fueled by childhood puppy love. I had genuinely loved her. I had promised her a fairytale wedding at Cliffside. But then, before graduation, she hit an elderly woman with her car. The woman was Silas’s grandmother. On her deathbed, she “entrusted” her grandson to Seraphina. From that day on, Silas was attached to her hip like a parasitic twin. He provoked me constantly, playing the victim until I finally snapped and leveled him. Seraphina had shielded him, looking at me with such profound disappointment it nearly broke me. “You know how much Silas has suffered!” she had screamed. “He lost his only relative! I’m all he has left. Can’t you just be the bigger person? He’s like a brother to me. You’re going to be his brother-in-law—stop being so petty!” Her version of “calming down” was freezing me out for three months while she flaunted Silas all over social media. Everyone in our circle laughed behind my back, saying she’d traded her fiancé for a “toy boy.” I’d sent her a three-word text: We are over. Then I boarded a flight to Paris and never looked back. I didn’t expect that trip to lead me to the woman who would actually become my wife. “You’re laughing. Good,” Seraphina said, reaching out to touch my cheek. “I knew you still cared. Why else would you smile at me like that?” I leaned back, dodging her hand. “I’m a happy man, Seraphina. Don’t misinterpret a good mood for affection.” She shook her head, her smile turning patronizing. “Still stubborn. Fine. But once you’re officially a Lane, you’ll have to learn to be more obedient. I know how much you love me. After five years of waiting, I’m going to give you the perfect wedding.” Realizing she was trapped in her own delusional narrative, I decided to end the conversation. I stepped back to close the door. She blocked it with her foot, letting out a sharp cry of pain as the heavy wood caught her. Her eyes welled with tears. “I knew it… you’re worried about me…” “Actually, you’re blocking the door,” I said, my voice flat. I made a move to shut it again, and she scrambled to pull her foot back. Thump. The door clicked shut. I spoke through the wood. “Seraphina, go home. It ended years ago.” The glowing text appeared again: [Good news: The Leading Lady has a mouth. Bad news: Everything that comes out of it is toxic. Someone should just mute her.] [Finally, we see why the Leading Man left. She deserves the ‘Crematorium’ treatment (chasing the husband she lost).] [I want to slap her so hard. Xander, find someone else. Please.] I heard her voice from the other side of the door, muffled but still brimming with that terrifying self-assurance. “You always did have a flare for the dramatic when you’re embarrassed, Xander. Fine, I’ll leave for tonight. I’ll send a tailor tomorrow with your suit. Silas tried it on for you—you two have almost the same build, and it fits him perfectly, so it should be fine for you.” My blood pressure spiked. He tried on my wedding suit? The lack of basic respect was staggering. I kicked the door once, hard, to signal her to shut up. “Xander, that temper!” she called out. “You really need to work on that. You can’t be this unrefined once you’re a Lane. You should learn a thing or two from Silas’s composure.” The Miller family had moved most of our operations abroad years ago. To the local gossip rags, it looked like we were failing. To Seraphina, it meant I was broke. My parents were currently in Europe enjoying their grandkids, and the villa was empty save for me. If the staff were here, I would have had her dragged to the curb. “If you love Silas so much, Seraphina, marry him!” I yelled. I meant it. I was grateful she had shown her true colors before I’d walked down the aisle with her. Silas the manipulative schemer and Seraphina the narcissist—they were a match made in hell. “Oh, Xander, you’re so jealous,” she laughed, her footsteps finally retreating. “I’ve told you a thousand times, he’s just a brother. I don’t love him that way. Just be a good boy and wait for the suit!” I sat on the stairs, feeling a profound sense of exhaustion. Talking to her is like shouting at a brick wall. It didn’t matter. In a few days, my wife would be arriving in the city as part of a high-level trade delegation. My parents would be with her, bringing the kids. Once Seraphina saw the reality of my life, surely even she would have to face the truth. The next morning, an assistant from the Lane Group arrived with a garment bag. I didn’t even open it. Why would I care about a second-hand suit when I already had a bespoke tuxedo waiting for me? I took the gold-embossed invitation from the assistant, a man named Leo. I looked at the names. Groom: Silas Wright Xander Miller. The name “Silas” had been physically crossed out with a pen, and mine was written over it. I laughed, shoving the card back into Leo’s hand. “You’ve got the wrong guy, Leo. Take the suit to Silas. I’m sure he’s dying to wear it.” Leo’s face twisted. “Mr. Miller, this was supposed to be Mr. Wright’s wedding. It’s only because Seraphina changed her mind at the last second that you’re even involved. You should be grateful instead of acting like a spoiled child. I don’t know what she sees in you, breaking poor Silas’s heart like this!” Unbelievable. The brain rot is contagious. I ignored him and walked to my car. After five years away, I was craving the food at The Gilded Bistro, a private club downtown. Of course, my luck was abysmal. My car broke down halfway there, and I had to call an Uber. When I stepped out in front of the bistro, I almost walked right into Seraphina as she was opening her car door. She gave me that “I caught you” smirk. “First you reject the suit, then you follow me to lunch? Xander, can you be any more transparent?” “I’m here to eat, Seraphina. The world doesn’t revolve around you.” She grabbed my arm as I tried to walk past. “Stop it. I saw you get out of an Uber. Is the Miller family so broke you can’t even afford a mechanic? Don’t pretend you can afford a table here. If you’re trying to save face, don’t come crying to me when they reject your credit card.” “You really need to eat more walnuts,” I said, pulling my arm away. She blinked. “What?” “They’re good for brain health. You clearly need the help.” Her smile didn’t falter. “You remember I like walnuts? Fine, I’ll let that comment slide. Since you’re here, you might as well join us. My friends are inside, and Silas is here too. It’s the perfect time for you to apologize and bury the hatchet.” I stepped back. The thought of eating across from her made my stomach turn. As I turned to leave, a figure blocked my path. “Xander? Why are you leaving the moment you see me?” Silas had traded his “poor orphan” look for head-to-toe designer labels. He looked like a high-end gigolo, though he was still a good head shorter than me. He looked at Seraphina with puppy-dog eyes, then turned to me with a sigh. “Is this about the invitation? It’s been five years, Xander. When Seraphina said she wanted to get married, everyone just assumed it was to me. That’s why the names were printed that way. If you’re going to be angry, be angry at me. My heart is broken, but I’m willing to return her to you because she loves you.” He actually rubbed his eyes as if he were crying. “Silas, don’t,” Seraphina said, taking his hand. She glared at me. “Xander, I thought you’d grown up. You’re still so aggressive.” “I haven’t said a single word,” I pointed out. “You don’t have to,” she countered. “Your attitude is enough to hurt him. Silas is sensitive. You grew up with a silver spoon; you don’t understand the struggle he’s been through. As his future brother-in-law, you should be protecting him.” I let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Brother-in-law? Who said I was marrying you?” “Enough!” Seraphina snapped. “If you want to be part of the Lane family, stop this nonsense!” Suddenly, a group of Seraphina’s socialite friends emerged from the bistro. “Seraphina, there you are! Oh… is this the famous ex?” “Xander, right? Wow, you have some nerve showing up here after disappearing for five years. Silas has been a saint to her while you were off playing in Europe.” “Seriously, Seraphina, why are you even taking him back? He’s clearly just after your money now that his family is bankrupt. It’s disgusting.” I just stood there, baffled by the sheer volume of their collective delusion. Silas leaned his head on Seraphina’s shoulder, looking like he was about to collapse. He pulled a jade ring from his thumb and held it out to me. “Xander, your mother gave this to me. She said only the Lane family’s son-in-law has the right to wear it. I’m returning it to its rightful owner.” Seraphina snatched it back and shoved it back onto Silas’s hand. “My mother gave it to you, so it’s yours. Don’t demean yourself.” She looked at me. “I’ve already commissioned a bespoke Imperial Green jade ring for Xander. It’s a peace offering.” My face felt tight. “I’m married,” I said, each word slow and deliberate. “And I have two children.” The silence lasted three seconds before the entire group burst into laughter. “Xander, please,” Seraphina said, wiping a mock tear from her eye. “Don’t tell such obvious lies to save your ego. I’ve checked your records—you’re single. Or are you going to tell me you gave birth to them yourself five years ago?” Her friends howled. Silas gave me a look of pure, smug triumph. I reached for my phone, intending to show them a photo of my twins. Right then, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime request. I answered it. Two chubby, identical toddlers appeared on the screen. “Daddy!” they chirped in unison. The group went silent. Seraphina’s breath hitched. She lunged forward and snatched the phone from my hand, staring at the screen. “Who are these kids?” she demanded. “Daddy is Daddy!” the older one, Ethan, said, looking confused at the strange woman on the screen. “Who is your father?” Seraphina hissed, her hands shaking. “Xander Miller!” the younger one, Mia, shouted, throwing a tiny fist in the air. Crr-ack. Seraphina dropped the phone. The screen shattered against the pavement, going black. The floating text went wild: [Oh my god! The Leading Lady just got cucked!] [Wait, is this a twist? Are the kids part of the plot to make her chase him harder?] [The babies are so cute! I want to squeeze them!] I didn’t care about the text. I cared about my phone. What if the kids were scared? As I reached down to pick it up, Seraphina ground her heel into the shattered glass, crushing the screen further. I don’t hit women. But I have limits. Slap. The sound was sharp and echoed across the valet stand. Seraphina stumbled back, clutching her cheek. “You… you hit me? Over two bastards?” Slap. I hit her again, harder. She fell into Silas’s arms, screaming. “You talk about Silas being sensitive, but you? You’re a monster! Who is she, Xander? Who is the slut you’ve been hiding?” I looked at her, truly seeing the rot in her soul. “The only trash here, Seraphina, is the ‘devotion’ you keep talking about.” “You’re probably a kept man!” she shrieked. “You’re a gigolo! Some rich woman discarded you and left you with her mistakes!” Silas saw his opening. “Xander, how could you be so cheap? Seraphina waited five years for you, and you bring this filth into her life?” Her friends joined in, their voices a cacophony of judgment. “He’s a disgrace. Seraphina, marry Silas. He’s the only one who deserves the Wedding of the Decade.” Seraphina stood up, her eyes burning with a dark, manic light. She took Silas’s hand, lacing her fingers through his. “Three days from now. Everyone is invited to Cliffside Estate. I’m marrying Silas.” Silas’s face turned bright red with excitement. He shot me a look of pure malice. I won, his eyes said. Seraphina looked at me, her voice trembling with bitterness. “Xander, it was supposed to be you. But you threw it away. The Lane family will never accept a man like you. But…” she paused, her voice dropping. “I can’t let you go. If you send those bastards away, I might still find a place for you. Silas is generous; he’ll let you stay as long as you know your place.” I was so disgusted I actually laughed. “You want me to be your mistress? You’re delusional.” “Silas,” I said, turning to him. “You want to be her dog? Be my guest. I wish you both a long life of misery together.” “Let’s go,” Seraphina said to her friends, ignoring me. “Xander, your pride is going to be your downfall. You’ll be begging for a seat at my table by next week.” They swept into the bistro. I stood on the sidewalk, looking at my broken phone.

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1 Two weeks before my thirtieth birthday, Liam Foster rejected my proposal for the third time. Amidst the raucous cheers and teasing of our friends at the bar, he looked at my burning face and let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Sienna, I get it. I know your mom’s dying wish was to see you married by thirty,” he said, loud enough for the whole table to hear. “But I promised Sydney I’d wait until she found someone first. So, leave me out of the marriage talk for now, okay?” Beside him, Sydney—his foster sister—beamed with a sickeningly sweet glow. She ducked her head shyly and tucked herself into his side, hiding her smile against his shoulder. My heart didn’t just break; it went cold. It was a physical sensation, like a candle being snuffed out in a drafty room. Without a word, I stood up and walked out of the VIP lounge. I heard one of our friends hiss behind me, “Go after her, man. I think Sienna’s actually pissed this time.” “She’s fine,” Liam’s voice drifted out, arrogant and relaxed. “She’ll be over it in a few days. She always is.” He raised his glass, the clink of ice against crystal punctuating his indifference as he went back to the game. Two weeks later. My thirtieth birthday party. Liam showed up uninvited, wearing an air of grand benevolence as if he were doing me a massive favor. “I finally got Sydney calmed down,” he said, leaning against the doorframe of the booth. “What do you say we go to the courthouse tomorrow and get the license?” I didn’t even look up from my drink. “Already married. Leave me out of it.” The table went silent. Liam froze for a few seconds, then let out a scoffing laugh. “Already married? What is that, some kind of line?” He sat down next to me, uncomfortably close. “Look, I know I made things awkward last time. You’re trying to spite me. I get it.” The friends around us—the same ones who had watched me be humiliated two weeks ago—leaned in, eyes darting between us. They all knew I hadn’t invited Liam tonight. The tension was thick enough to choke on. I slid further down the leather bench, putting distance between us. “I’m not trying to spite you, Liam. I’m telling you the truth. I’m married.” “Sure. Then where’s the lucky guy?” He looked around the room with a mocking grin, checking the familiar faces of our social circle. Finding no strangers, his smile deepened. “Sienna, I brought an olive branch. I’m sorry about the other night. Tomorrow, we go to the city hall. Look.” He pulled a small, velvet box from his pocket. He flipped it open, and a diamond caught the neon light of the lounge. It was the exact Cartier setting I’d pointed out a year ago. We had gone ring shopping back then. We would have been married by now if Sydney hadn’t staged a dramatic breakdown, sobbing that she couldn’t bear to see Liam “leave the family” before she found a husband of her own. Liam had folded instantly. He always did when it came to her. “You’ve been the one asking me,” Liam said, dropping to one knee with a practiced, cinematic solemnity. “Tonight, I’m asking you. Sienna Miller, will you marry me?” The music seemed to dip. A few friends started clapping, trying to force a happy ending. “Come on, Sienna! He’s being serious now,” someone shouted. “Just say yes! You guys have been together forever. It’s about time!” A girl I knew from college leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Just take it while Sydney isn’t here to ruin it. Who knows when you’ll get another chance?” See? Everyone knew. Everyone knew I was the woman Liam kept on a shelf, waiting for his foster sister’s permission to live my life. I let out a dry, hollow laugh and held up my right hand. “I’m not angry, Liam. I’m literally, legally married.” Liam’s pupils contracted. His entire body went rigid. On my ring finger sat a rock—a flawless, emerald-cut diamond that made his look like a starter ring. It was twice the size and infinitely more brilliant. The room went dead. Liam grabbed my hand, his grip trembling. He stared at the ring, a forced, frantic smile twitching on his lips. “You… you bought this yourself, didn’t you? What is it? Moissanite? Or a lab-grown vanity ring?” He laughed, a desperate, high-pitched sound. “Sienna, how old are we? You don’t have to play these games.” “It’s a real diamond,” the girl next to me breathed, her eyes wide with envy. “I saw this designer in Vogue last month. That’s a six-figure ring, Liam.” Liam’s face turned the color of ash. I pulled my hand back, my voice as steady as a heartbeat. “Stand up, Liam. Grab a drink if you want, sing a song, I don’t care. But put that box away. It’s embarrassing.” “No!” He surged to his feet, his eyes darkening with a sudden, ugly shadow. “Sienna, you didn’t marry anyone. You love me. You’ve spent five years proving that you can’t live without me!” I looked at him—really looked at him—and felt a wave of profound exhaustion. For five years, I had been his shadow. He was successful, handsome, and charismatic. Everyone told me I was lucky to have him. But more than that, I was bound by a promise. Three years ago, as my mother lay in a hospice bed, she had gripped Liam’s hand with her last ounce of strength. She was a simple woman whose only dream was to see me settled, protected, and loved before I turned thirty. “Promise me, Liam,” she had whispered, her eyes clouded with pain. “Promise me you’ll take care of her. Don’t let her be alone.” Liam had nodded, his eyes red with tears. “I promise, Mrs. Miller. This year. We’ll have the wedding this year. My parents already love her like a daughter.” My mother died with a smile on her face, believing him. But as soon as the dirt settled on her grave, Liam’s tune changed. Every time I brought up a date, he had a new excuse. “It’s too soon after the funeral, Sienna. It wouldn’t feel right.” “You’re only twenty-eight. What’s the rush? We have until you’re thirty.” “Sydney is struggling with the adoption anniversary. She needs me. Be patient, honey. I’ll marry you before the deadline, I promise.” He dragged me along, year after year, always putting Sydney’s whims above my grief, my milestones, and my mother’s memory. I used to wonder why he was so beholden to her. Now, I simply didn’t care. I was like my mother—I wanted a family. I wanted a partner who chose me first. If Liam wouldn’t be that man, I’d find someone who would. “Let’s play a game! Truth or Dare!” a friend yelled, trying to break the suffocating silence. Liam slumped onto the sofa, looking like he’d been slapped. The bottle spun, landing on me. “Dare,” I said. The friend, clearly trying to fix things between us, grinned. “I dare you to call a guy and say ‘I love you.’” Liam’s head snapped up. He straightened his shoulders, waiting for my phone to come out, waiting for the confession he thought was his birthright. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled out my phone and dialed Nate Brooks. Nate was in London for business. It was the middle of the night there, but he picked up on the second ring. “Sienna?” His voice was gravelly with sleep, warm and familiar. “I love you,” I said. Following the rules of the game, I added, “Go back to sleep. We’re just playing Truth or Dare at the party.” “Put him on speaker!” someone cheered. I hit the button. Nate’s soft chuckle filled the room. “Lost a dare, huh? I was wondering why you were being so sweet out of the blue. Wait until I get back, Mrs. Brooks. I’ll make you say it for real.” “Bye!” I hung up quickly before he could say anything more intimate. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The “teasing” looks turned into genuine shock. They realized I wasn’t playing. I had moved on. I had actually done it. Liam’s face was twisted, his knuckles white as he squeezed the ring box in his hand. The game continued. By some cruel twist of fate, the bottle landed on Liam for a Dare. The host, looking awkward, cleared his throat. “Okay, Liam… same dare. Call a girl and tell her you love her.” “Fine,” Liam snapped. He whipped out his phone and hit speed dial. He put it on speaker. “Liam? Is everything okay? Aren’t you at Sienna’s party?” Sydney’s voice sounded sleepy and fragile. “I love you,” Liam said, his voice flat and spiteful, his eyes locked on mine. There was a stunned silence on the other end. Then, a sharp, delighted shriek. “Oh my god! Liam? Are you serious? Do you mean it?” “Yeah,” Liam said, still staring at me. “I’m coming over! Don’t move, I’m coming right now!” Ten minutes later, Sydney burst into the lounge. She didn’t even see the rest of us. She flew across the room and threw herself into Liam’s arms. “I knew it! I knew you loved me more than her!” she cried. “Why would you even think about marrying Sienna? You regret it, don’t you? Let’s go home and tell Mom and Dad. Let’s tell them everything!” Our friends sat there, mouths agape. Sydney tried to pull Liam toward the door, but he didn’t move. He looked down at her, his jaw tight, his eyes finally flickering with a hint of shame as he saw everyone watching. “Sydney, wait. It was just a game,” he muttered. “I lost a dare. That’s why I called.” Sydney’s triumphant smile shattered. “What? What are you talking about?” Watching her face crumple, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. I saw myself in her—the version of me that used to propose to Liam with a hopeful heart, only to be shut down in front of a crowd. I remembered a dinner at his parents’ house a year ago. My mother had been gone for two years. I had suggested a spring wedding. Liam had turned cold in front of his parents and Sydney. “We haven’t discussed this, Sienna. Why are you bringing this up now? You’re making a scene.” Sydney had chimed in, smirk in place. “Seriously, it’s like you’re trying to trap him. If a man doesn’t want to marry you, don’t beg. It’s pathetic. Have some pride.” I had sat there, face burning, feeling exactly how Sydney looked right now. Her eyes welled up. She turned on me, her voice shrill with redirected rage. “This is your fault! You started this game just to humiliate me, didn’t you? You already have him, what else do you want? Why do you have to be so competitive?” The room echoed with her accusation. Liam opened his mouth to defend her, but he caught my gaze and looked away. I let out a cold, hard laugh. “Competitive, Sydney? Really?” I stood up, smoothing my dress. “Four years ago, on your birthday, I gave you a pearl bracelet. You claimed you had an allergic reaction and told Liam I bought cheap, ‘toxic’ jewelry on purpose. Three years ago, when my mom was dying in the hospital, you faked a fever to make Liam leave her bedside. Two years ago, you tripped down the stairs and told everyone I pushed you. One year ago—” “Stop it! Just shut up!” Sydney screamed. I didn’t stop. “One year ago, on the anniversary of my mother’s death, you ‘accidentally’ locked yourself out of your apartment in the rain so Liam would leave the cemetery to come save you. And tonight, you walk in here and attack me for a game your ‘brother’ chose to play.” I looked her dead in the eye. “Who’s competing with who, Sydney?” She turned bright red, trembling, unable to find a comeback. She turned and bolted out of the room in tears. “Sienna, that was way too far!” Liam barked, standing up to chase after her. The party was effectively over. People started making excuses to leave. I paid the tab and went home. That night, my phone buzzed. Liam: Sydney is hysterical. I can’t get her to stop crying. Why do you always have to cause drama? If you don’t want to get married, fine. Take some time to think about your attitude. I’ve clearly spoiled you too much. I didn’t reply. The next day, another message. Liam: I’m headed to Chicago for a business trip. I’ll be gone for two weeks. When I get back, we’re talking. I knew what he expected. Normally, I’d be at his place the night before, packing his suitcases, coordinating his outfits, making sure his favorite toiletries were in his TSA-approved bag. He took it for granted. He thought it was my job. I ignored him. That afternoon, he called. “Why aren’t you answering? I’m trying to pack and I can’t find my navy blazer. Do you have it?” “Liam,” I said, interrupting his whining. “I’m married. Stop calling me for chores. Call a maid. Or call Sydney.” He laughed. “Still with the ‘married’ bit? Sydney told me you probably just hired some guy to pretend to be your husband on the phone. It’s been two weeks, Sienna. You didn’t get married in two weeks without a single person knowing. It’s impossible.” “It really isn’t.” “Look,” he sighed, his voice softening into that manipulative tone he used so well. “I know you’re jealous of Sydney. But she’s my sister. That’s it. You’re being immature. When I get back, we’ll go get the license and end this nonsense. Don’t be like this.” I felt a surge of genuine nausea. I was so tired of this script. “I’m married, Liam. The license is signed and filed. If I keep your number, it’s only because your mother was kind to me. If you call me again for anything other than an emergency, I’m blocking you.” “I’m trying to give you a chance here!” he shouted, his temper finally snapping. “Come over and help me pack, and we’ll pretend this week never happened. Otherwise, you’re going to regret this!” “Then let me regret it,” I said, and hung up. An hour later, he posted to his Instagram story. A photo of Sydney neatly folding his shirts into a suitcase. The caption: Sometimes family is the only thing you can count on. Some people are just ‘better’ at being there. One of our mutual friends commented: Is this the official announcement? Liam’s reply: Heading out for two weeks. Grateful for a ‘sister’ who actually cares about my needs, unlike some people. I deleted the app. That night, Sydney sent me a DM. Sydney: I know you’re still obsessed with him, but he’s mine. We’ve been together since we were kids. I’ll always win. Just give up. You begged him to marry you for years and he said no every time. Doesn’t that tell you something? I typed back: Honestly? You two deserve each other. Good luck with that. Then I blocked her. The next morning, Liam sent one last text before his flight. Liam: I’m at the gate. You used to always drive me to the airport. I’ll be back in two weeks on the 6 PM flight. I expect you to be there to pick me up so we can move past this. I didn’t go to pick him up in two weeks. But I did go to the airport that day. Because that was the day Nate Brooks was flying home for good.

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1 In my past life, my mother took my father to Metro General for what should have been a routine, forty-minute appendectomy. He was wheeled into Operating Room 3 at 9:45 AM. He never came out. The hospital called it a “one-in-a-million anesthesia complication”—a sudden, irreversible loss of brain function. My mother, Eleanor, stood in the hallway, her face a mask of shattered grief, and told me that in his final moments of consciousness, my father had expressed a wish to save others. Seven years later, while I was interning in the hospital’s records department, I found the truth buried in a misfiled surgical log. My father hadn’t died from a complication. He had been kept “viable” just long enough for his heart to be harvested and walked across the hall to Operating Room 4. Eleanor hadn’t lost her husband to a tragedy; she had sacrificed him to save Tom Wright, her college sweetheart and the man she had never stopped loving. Then, the world blurred. The smell of old paper and dust vanished, replaced by the sharp, stinging scent of ozone and hospital-grade disinfectant. I was standing in the sterile, fluorescent-white hallway of Metro General’s emergency wing. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was back. A nurse in blue scrubs shoved a heavy plastic clipboard into my hand. My mother was standing right beside me, her hand resting on my arm. She looked younger, her eyes bright with a rehearsed, watery tenderness. “Xander, honey, please,” she whispered, her voice a soothing, practiced purr. “The doctor says the appendix could rupture any minute. Your father is in so much pain… we can’t wait for the lawyers. Just sign the consent forms so they can take him back.” I looked down at the clipboard. Tucked discreetly behind the standard surgical consent was a single, devastating sheet of paper: Organ Donor Intent Confirmation. I didn’t pick up the pen. Instead, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed 911. “Xander? What are you doing?” Eleanor’s voice went sharp, the sweetness fraying at the edges. “My name is Xander Miller,” I said into the phone, staring directly into my mother’s eyes. “I’m in the surgical waiting area at Metro General. I have reason to believe a medical team is attempting to falsify records to facilitate an unauthorized organ harvest. My father, Arthur Miller, is being prepped for a surgery based on a fraudulent diagnosis. I need a police presence and a representative from the medical examiner’s office immediately.” Eleanor lunged for the phone, her manicured nails clawing at my hand. “Xander! Have you lost your mind? You’re going to let your father die because of a panic attack?” I stepped back, my voice booming through the quiet hallway. “Security! Someone help! This woman is trying to interfere with a police report!” The nurses at the station snapped their heads up. Eleanor’s hand froze in mid-air. Within seconds, she transformed. She dropped her shoulders, her face crumpling into a mask of weary, maternal exhaustion. “I’m so sorry,” she told the approaching guard. “My son is a forensics student… he’s been under so much pressure. He’s having a breakdown because he can’t handle the thought of his father in surgery.” I let out a cold, jagged laugh. “If this is just a ‘routine surgery,’ Mom, why is there an organ donation rider attached to the appendectomy consent?” The head nurse’s expression shifted from annoyance to sharp suspicion. She looked at the clipboard in my hand. Eleanor’s brow furrowed, her voice hardening into a tone of command. “That’s just standard hospital protocol for life support preferences. You’re being hysterical, Xander.” I pulled the page out and held it up for the nurses—and the security camera—to see. “It’s written right here: ‘In the event of irreversible loss of brain function, the patient and family consent to immediate organ procurement evaluation.’ And look at the signature. ‘Arthur Miller’ is already written in the patient line.” I knew my father’s handwriting better than anyone. He had a very specific habit; he always hooked the final stroke of the ‘r’ in Miller upward, a little flourish he’d used since he started designing jewelry. The signature on this page was flat. Soulless. I looked at her, my blood turning to ice. “When did Dad sign this, Eleanor? He’s been on morphine for three hours.” “He was in agony,” she hissed, her eyes turning into cold flints. “I confirmed his wishes for him. I am his wife.” “You confirmed his death for him,” I corrected. Before she could respond, the double doors of the surgical wing swung open. A woman in charcoal scrubs stepped out, her movements brisk and arrogant. Her badge read: Dr. Sarah Crane, Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. In my past life, she was the one who signed the death certificate. She was the woman who had walked my father’s heart across the hall. Dr. Crane didn’t even acknowledge me. She turned to Eleanor. “The window is closing. If that appendix ruptures, we risk systemic sepsis, and then we can’t proceed with… the protocol. We need to move now.” “Where is the CT scan?” I interrupted, stepping between them. “I want to see the imaging and the white blood cell count that justifies an emergency appendectomy.” Dr. Crane’s lip curled. “And who are you?” “I’m the patient’s son and a forensics major. I know how to read a pathology report, and I know that appendicitis doesn’t usually fall under the jurisdiction of the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery.” Her gaze turned lethal. “A little bit of education is a dangerous thing, Mr. Miller. You’re risking your father’s life for a chance to play detective.” I held the clipboard up like a weapon. “Then prove me wrong. Until the police arrive, I am requesting a formal freeze and seal on every file, medication log, and blood sample associated with Arthur Miller. If a single needle touches him without my secondary consent, I will sue this hospital into the stone age.” Eleanor stepped close, her breath smelling of expensive mints and bile. “Xander, stop this. Think about the family name. Think about the business.” “I’m thinking about Dad,” I said, seeing her clearly for the first time in two lifetimes. “Something you stopped doing a long time ago.” Just then, the rhythmic thud-thud of a wheelchair echoed down the hall. Tom Wright, my mother’s “soulmate,” was being pushed toward the elevators by an orderly. He looked gaunt, his skin a sickly translucent grey, but his eyes were sharp. In my previous life, Tom had sat in his recovery bed, powered by my father’s heart, and told me, “Your father’s sacrifice was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.” Now, he looked up at me, his voice a frail, manipulative whisper. “Xander… please. I know there’s no love lost between us. But I’m dying. I just want a chance to grow old.” I stared at him, my skin crawling. “I don’t believe I ever mentioned that my father’s surgery had anything to do with you, Tom. How would a patient in the VIP wing even know about an emergency appendectomy in the ER?” Tom’s face went ghost-white. Eleanor immediately stepped in front of him, her body acting as a human shield. Dr. Crane snapped her fingers at the orderly. “Move him along. Mr. Wright is on the official transplant list. His presence here is a coincidence.” “Is it?” I asked. “Then let’s check the OR schedule. Let’s see if OR 4 is currently prepped for a heart. Let’s see why my father’s ‘appendicitis’ workup included a full cardiac enzyme panel and HLA cross-matching.” Dr. Crane’s professional mask finally shattered, revealing the panic beneath. Eleanor grabbed my arm, her nails sinking into my bicep. “Xander, where is this coming from? Who told you these lies?” I shook her off with a force that made her stumble. “I didn’t need to be told, Mom. I can see the blood on the floor before you’ve even spilled it.” My phone began to vibrate incessantly. The family group chat was exploding. A voice note from my Aunt Martha came through, her voice shrill with hysteria. “Xander! What are you doing?! Your mother says you’re blocking the doctors! Arthur is in pain and you’re playing games? Do you want your father to die? If he ruptures on that bed, his blood is on your hands!” I didn’t answer. I hit ‘record’ on my phone, capturing the shifting eyes of the nurses and the way Dr. Crane was whispering urgently into her headset. Then, I made the call that changed everything. “Uncle Gabriel? It’s Xander. I’m at Metro General. Eleanor and Dr. Sarah Crane are trying to harvest Dad.” There was a sharp intake of breath. Gabriel Miller was the city’s most feared litigator and my father’s younger brother. In my last life, he hadn’t arrived until the body was already cold. “I’m in the car,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a register of pure, legal lethalness. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Do not let them give him so much as an aspirin. If they try to move him, call for a code ‘Alpha’ and demand a hospital ombudsman. Do not sign a thing.” Ten minutes later, the ER director arrived, looking like he’d been hit by a train. “Mr. Miller, the police have been dispatched. Per hospital policy during an active investigation, all elective and non-life-critical surgeries for Arthur Miller are stayed.” Eleanor shrieked, a sound of raw, ugly desperation. “Non-life-critical? He has appendicitis!” I pushed past her and entered the observation room. My father, Arthur, was lying on the bed, hooked up to a monitor. He was pale and sweating, but his eyes were open and clear. I took his hand. It was clammy and cold. “Dad,” I whispered. “Did you sign an organ donor card today?” He looked at me, squinting through the haze of pain. “A donor card? No… Xander, what’s… what’s happening? Your mother said I just needed a quick fix.” Eleanor rushed to the other side of the bed, her face a mask of faux-anguish. “Arthur, don’t listen to him. He’s confused. I just took care of the paperwork so you wouldn’t have to worry.” My father turned his head, looking at her with a slow, agonizing realization. “I never… I never asked you to sign for me, Eleanor. I’m not… I’m not that far gone.” The silence in the room was absolute. I placed the clipboard on his lap. “Dad, from this second on, Gabriel is your medical proxy. You don’t take a pill, an injection, or a glass of water unless he or I approve it. Do you understand?” Eleanor’s face contorted into a mask of pure rage. “I am his legal spouse! I have the right—” “A marriage certificate isn’t a bill of sale, Mom,” I snapped. “And it’s certainly not a license to kill.” Twenty minutes later, the double doors of the ER burst open. Detective Marcus Kane stepped in, followed by three investigators from the State Health Department. “Who made the report?” Kane asked. I raised my hand and handed over my phone, the recording of Eleanor’s threats and the photo of the forged signature cued up. “I’m requesting an immediate forensic audit of the records. I want to know why a heart surgeon is leading an appendectomy, and why OR 4 was prepped for a transplant before a donor was even officially declared.” Detective Kane looked at the hospital administrator. “Seal the wing. No one enters the digital records archive until my team is inside.” Eleanor stood in the corner, her shadow long and dark against the white wall. She looked at me with a hatred so profound it felt physical. The audit was swift and brutal. The digital trail didn’t lie. The “emergency” CT scan of my father’s abdomen was actually a recycled image from a patient three months ago. My father’s actual blood work showed a perfectly normal white cell count—meaning there was zero infection. But the most damning evidence was the medication log. “Detective,” I said, pointing to the screen. “Look at the pre-op vitals. My father was administered high-potency anticoagulants and a preservation cocktail. You don’t give those to an appendicitis patient. Those are only used when you’re prepping a body for organ retrieval.” The Health Department official looked at Dr. Crane. “Is this true?” Crane said nothing, her jaw locked tight. Suddenly, a young nurse named Natalie stepped forward from the back of the room. I recognized her—in my past life, she had been the whistleblower who was fired and silenced. “I have the internal memos,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “Dr. Crane told us to skip the standard anesthesia consult and go straight to the ‘donor preservation’ protocol. She said the patient was already brain-dead, even though he was still talking to us.” Eleanor’s face went paper-white. “And the schedule?” I asked. Natalie looked at her tablet. “OR 3, Arthur Miller, 9:45 AM. OR 4, Tom Wright, 9:57 AM. A twelve-minute window for the ‘complication’ to occur and the heart to be moved.” My father, now sitting up in a wheelchair as Gabriel arrived, listened to every word. He looked at the woman he had been married to for twenty-five years. “Eleanor… you were going to let them take my heart while I was still awake?” Eleanor’s eyes darted around like a trapped animal. “Arthur, you don’t understand… Tom was dying! You were always so healthy, I thought… I thought we could save him and still have a life…” “A life with who?” my father whispered. “Because it wouldn’t have been with me.” I handed the forged donor card to Detective Kane. “I want a full handwriting analysis. And I want Eleanor Miller and Sarah Crane kept away from my father.” Eleanor finally broke. She slammed her hand onto the nurse’s station, her voice a shrill, ugly scream that echoed through the entire ER. “Enough! I am his wife! I am the one who has carried this family! If something happens to him, I am the one who decides how his legacy continues! I won’t let a child destroy everything I’ve built!” I stood my ground, looking her in the eye. “Is ‘his legacy’ just a spare part for your lover, Eleanor? Because that’s not a legacy. That’s a harvest.” Eleanor’s face finally fractured, the elegant socialite mask falling away to reveal the cold-blooded architect of a murder. As the sirens began to howl in the distance, I realized I hadn’t just stopped a surgery; I had ignited a fire that was about to incinerate the entire Miller legacy, and the first person to burn would be the woman who thought she could play God with my father’s heart.

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