Author: Momo Chan

I woke up exactly twenty-four hours before Kaylee stole my Social Security card and my passport to marry Hunter Valentine. In her head, she thought she’d hit the jackpot with some billionaire’s son she met on a gaming Discord. She wanted to lock him down, take a cut of the family fortune, and disappear. So, she swiped my identity to tie the knot. What she didn’t know was that Hunter wasn’t a prince. He was a bottom-feeding fraud. When the “glamorous” life didn’t materialize, she ditched him and vanished into the night. But Hunter didn’t go looking for Kaylee. He came looking for me. He had the marriage license with my name on it. He’d seen photos of Kaylee, and since we shared the same build and she’d spent months meticulously mimicking my style, he thought I was her. The first time he found me on campus, he didn’t ask questions. He nearly broke my jaw. He dragged my reputation through the dirt, calling me a “cheating whore” to anyone who would listen. When the Dean tried to intervene, Hunter produced the marriage certificate—my name, my legal info, and a photo that looked enough like me to pass. The university, terrified of a “domestic dispute” lawsuit, stood by as he dragged me off campus. He took me to his “hometown”—a decaying, isolated trailer park deep in the Appalachian wilderness, miles from the nearest paved road. For months, I was his property. I was forced into his bed. My life became a cycle of bruises, silence, and survival. Even when I was pregnant, the beatings didn’t stop. I died on a blood-soaked mattress during a botched home birth, the smell of copper and pine needles the last things I knew. Then, I blinked. The air was no longer stale and rotting; it smelled like cheap vanilla body spray and overpriced laundry detergent. I was back in the dorm. … “Tara, babe, can I borrow your ID for a sec? The mall is doing this VIP membership thing where you get a free skincare set if you sign up. If I use yours, I can double up on the points.” I was still shaking, my nerves raw from the phantom pain of the mountains. My mouth moved before my brain could catch up. “No.” “God, okay. Stingy much?” I looked at Kaylee. She was pouting, adjusting her eyeliner in the mirror. In my previous life, she had stayed hidden for years to avoid Hunter. Looking at her now, I felt a surge of hatred so violent I thought I might actually get sick. She didn’t notice. She was too busy perfecting her “it girl” facade. “Whatever. I’m going to dinner with my boyfriend anyway,” she said, flashing a smug smile. “It’s a five-star place. I was going to offer to take you guys sometime so you could actually see how the other half lives, but I guess you’re too busy clutching your precious ID like it’s a bar of gold. So suburban.” She grabbed her designer knock-off bag and strutted out. She was going to meet Hunter. I sat on the edge of my bed for a long minute, then grabbed my phone and left. I found a number from one of those “Specialty Printing” flyers tucked under a windshield wiper near the campus edge. I called. They told me they could handle “novelty” documents for a price. I went into the class directory, pulled Kaylee’s information, and slightly tweaked my own name. Instead of Tara Jean Harlow, I became Tara Jane Harlowe. Just enough to be different, but close enough to be a “clerical error.” Kaylee had spent the last year becoming my shadow. She wore the same brands, cut her hair into the same blunt bob, and even mastered my specific way of walking. From behind, even our friends couldn’t tell us apart. I took a digital photo of myself, edited out my signature beauty mark near my eye, and softened my features to look more like Kaylee’s softer, rounder face. It was a hybrid. It could be me. It could be her. I paid triple for the rush job. The next morning, I had a “new” ID in my hand. Kaylee didn’t come back that night. She was likely basking in the glow of her “billionaire” boyfriend’s lies. I followed my usual routine. I went to the library, leaving my wallet in my unlocked desk drawer. That evening, when I returned with my roommate Becca, I “discovered” my ID was gone. Kaylee wasn’t as smart as she thought she was. She hadn’t even checked the numbers. She didn’t realize she’d stolen a ghost’s identity. 2. For the next two months, I was a ghost. I was never alone. I was always with Becca—classes, the dining hall, the gym, the library. I made sure to mention, repeatedly and loudly, how traditional my parents were and that I wasn’t interested in dating until after graduation. Kaylee, meanwhile, was rarely on campus. She skipped classes, relying on a girl named Natalie—whom she’d bribed with a used Gucci belt—to check her into lectures. Then, one day, Kaylee suddenly reappeared. She was back in the dorm, acting “normal.” I knew the honeymoon was over. I immediately filed for a week-long emergency leave, telling the administration my mother was having surgery. In my last life, Mom actually did have a minor procedure around this time, but they hadn’t told me because they didn’t want me to worry. This time, I wasn’t going to be a victim of Hunter’s arrival. I was going home to be her shield. On my third day home, Becca called me, her voice frantic. “Tara, you need to get back here. There’s some guy on campus… he’s going crazy. He’s asking everyone where you are. He’s telling people he’s your husband.” My heart did a slow, heavy thud. It had begun. “Husband? Becca, you’ve been with me 24/7 for months. You know I don’t even have a boyfriend.” “I know that! But he’s telling everyone you’re a total sociopath. He says you’re a gold-digger who cheated on him and ran off with his money. It’s getting ugly, Tara.” I felt a wave of warmth for Becca. In a world of chaos, she was the only one who truly saw me. “Are you sure it’s me he’s looking for?” I asked, playing it cool. “There are thousands of students here. Maybe it’s someone else with a similar name?” “Maybe… look, I’ll check the campus Discord and see if I can get a full name. I’ll try to clear your name, babe.” I hung up and opened the campus “Tea” thread. It was a bloodbath. “Spotted: The campus sweetheart is actually a black widow. Poor guy got played for every cent.” The post was detailed. My major, my year, my dorm. The OP wrote with a strange, vicarious rage, painting a picture of a predatory woman who had seduced and abandoned a “good man.” The comments were exactly what you’d expect from the internet. “Always the quiet ones. Probably a pro at faking it.” “Married before graduation? Trash.” “Gold diggers deserve whatever they get. Hope he finds her.” A few girls tried to defend me. “This guy has zero proof. You’re all just looking for a reason to hate a pretty girl.” “I bet he’s just a stalker. Y’all are gullible.” Then came the “proof.” “I saw the marriage license. It’s real. Name, photo, everything.” “She’s not just a cheat; she’s a scammer. He’s suicidal because she drained his accounts.” “The Black Widow of the Econ Dept.” Someone eventually posted a blurry photo of the license. “Just got this from the guy himself. Real deal. Real name. Real bitch.” My classmates chimed in: “Wait, isn’t she the one who said she was ‘traditional’? Guess that meant ‘traditionally deceptive.’” “If you have enough money, she’ll marry you too, I guess.” Finally, I saw Becca’s handle pop up in the sea of hate: “You idiots, look at the name on the ID! That’s not how Tara Jean spells it! Use your eyes!” Her comment was buried within seconds. It didn’t matter. They didn’t want the truth. They wanted a villain to burn. 3. When my week was up, I walked back onto campus. My advisor had left me a dozen voicemails, demanding I come in to “resolve the situation.” I told her over the phone I had no idea who this man was. “Regardless, Tara, you have to handle this,” she’d snapped. “Why would he pick you to lie about if there’s no connection?” I walked into the Dean of Students’ office. A moment later, I heard heavy, aggressive footsteps in the hallway. “You finally found her? Or were you too busy protecting this little slut?” The door swung open. I turned around and saw the face of my nightmares. Hunter. The second his eyes landed on me, he lunged. His hand flew up, a reflex of pure, unadulterated violence. I didn’t flinch. I glared at him with a coldness that made him hesitate for a fraction of a second. Crack. The slap sent my head spinning. My ear rang, and my cheek went numb, replaced instantly by a throbbing heat. Then came the flurry of fists. “Bitch! You thought you could run? Thought I wouldn’t find you?” “Looking at me like that… after you bled me dry!” “You cut your hair? You think that changes anything? I remember how you looked when you were begging for it.” “Told me you were gonna drop out and be a good little housewife, then you ghost me? Not a chance.” I doubled over, the familiar agony of his strikes echoing through my bones. I wanted to scream, to tell him he had the wrong woman. But I waited. “Stop! Someone call security!” the Dean screamed, finally realizing this wasn’t just a “talk.” Hunter stopped, chest heaving, looking around the room with a terrifying sense of entitlement. “This is a domestic matter,” he spat. “I’m her husband. I can do whatever I want. The cops can’t touch me for disciplining my own wife.” “And you,” he pointed at the Dean, “you’re harboring a fugitive. Does she sleep with you, too? Is that how she stays enrolled?” The Dean went pale, the bravado of an academic failing in the face of a backwoods brawler. Hunter took the silence as a victory. “I’m here to withdraw my wife from this school. We’re going home.” I forced myself upright, trembling, and pulled out my phone. “What are you doing, you little bitch?” Before he could grab it, I hit the emergency dial. “911. I’m at the University, Dean’s Office. I’m being assaulted and there’s a man trying to kidnap me. His name is Hunter Valentine. Please, help! Third floor, Miller Hall! Help me!” “You’re dead!” Hunter lunged, snatching the phone and smashing it against the floor. He backhanded me again for good measure. I looked at the shattered remains of my phone and smiled through the blood in my mouth. “You think a fake marriage license gives you the right to traffic women?” I whispered. “I don’t even know your name.” “The school might be stupid enough to fall for your act, Hunter. But the police won’t be.” I scrambled behind my advisor. “Dr. Miller, if you let him take me before the cops get here, you’re an accomplice.” Hunter tried to reach for me, but Dr. Miller finally stepped in, getting shoved for his trouble. “You’re all in on it!” Hunter roared. “She’s a whore, and you’re all her johns!” When the police burst in ten minutes later, they found Hunter standing in the middle of the room, shouting about how much he’d paid for “each session” with me. “I’m telling you, 200 bucks a pop! That’s the student rate!” “Is this a domestic dispute or a racketeering operation?” one of the officers asked, his hand on his holster.

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He glanced at me once, then immediately dropped his eyes back to his phone. He hadn’t even been in the chair long enough to warm it up, but he’d already scrolled through three social media feeds, replied to two texts, and asked the waiter to refill his water. I sat across from him, my menu still closed. “So… what do you do for a living?” I tried, breaking the silence. “Hmm?” He didn’t even look up. “Tech. Mostly startups.” Then, his phone buzzed. He picked it up right in front of me. “Hey man, don’t even get me started—” He lowered his voice, but in a small ramen shop, every word carries. “My aunt set it up. Said she was a ‘great catch.’ A catch? Look, man—” He paused. I looked at him. He didn’t look back. “—Next time, you’ve gotta vet them for me. She didn’t even send a photo. I had no idea what I was walking into until I got here.” 1. He hung up, his expression unchanged. He even offered me a quick, practiced smile. “Sorry about that. Work emergency.” I nodded. I knew then that this dinner was a dead end. But I was here, and I didn’t want to be the one to make things awkward. I opened the menu. “What are you in the mood for?” “Whatever’s fast,” he said, leaning back and placing his phone face-down on the table—a gesture of temporary mercy. “I’ve got something else to get to, so let’s keep it simple.” He’d been there ten minutes and was already checking for the exit. I ordered two appetizers and a main. He didn’t even glance at the menu. When the food arrived, he shoveled a few bites of rice into his mouth, his chopsticks never once touching the spicy green beans I’d ordered to share. “And you?” he asked casually, like a guy making small talk with a stranger at an airport gate. “What’s your deal?” “Product Manager. Fintech.” “Oh,” he said, chewing. “Lots of overtime, I bet.” “It varies.” The conversation died there. He set his chopsticks down and tapped his phone screen to check the time. “Listen, I’ve got a thing I can’t miss. I’m gonna head out.” Twenty-two minutes. I’d checked my watch. He stood up before his jacket was even fully off his shoulders. “Look, let me…” He patted his pocket, the universal gesture of someone pretending to look for a wallet. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it,” I said. He didn’t insist. “Cool. Well, thanks. See ya.” He reached the door and took another call. This time, he didn’t bother lowering his voice. He probably thought he was far enough away. But the distance from the door to my table was barely twenty feet. “…Nothing to talk about. Totally average, dressed like she was heading to a board meeting—zero sex appeal. I don’t know what my aunt was thinking, settting me up with someone so… bland.” My chopsticks froze mid-air. The green beans were blistered and fragrant, the steam still rising in salty clouds. I set my chopsticks down. I called the server over and paid the check. For both of us. Fifty-eight dollars. By the time I walked out of the restaurant, he was long gone. The street was quiet. The late March wind had a bite to it, and I realized I’d forgotten my coat in my rush to not be late. I passed a storefront window. My reflection stared back. Short hair, a crisp button-down, dark trousers, a leather tote. I did look like I was at work. I shifted my gaze and kept walking. My phone vibrated. A text from my Aunt Sarah. “Joanna, how’s it going with Kyle? His dad is a huge real estate developer. Very well-off family.” I didn’t reply. Then, a text from my mother. “Your aunt went to a lot of trouble to set this up. Please be on your best behavior.” A third text, also from Mom. “You’re thirty-two, Jo. Stop being so picky. Just make it work.” I shoved the phone into my bag. The wind picked up. At the subway entrance, I paused for a moment. A young couple sat on a nearby bench; the girl was tucked into the boy’s shoulder, and he was shielding her from the draft with his arm. I walked down the stairs. Swiped my card. Entered the station. Three months later. Monday morning, 9:00 AM. I opened my inbox to find the HR department’s intern placement list. Product Department: I was assigned two. The first: Mia Chen, undergrad, Stanford. The second— My finger stalled on the trackpad. Kyle Virgil. Male, 25. MBA candidate, University of Chicago. The headshot was a standard professional photo. Square jaw, thick brows, a sharp, clean hairline. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been wearing a grey turtleneck with a tiny loose thread at the cuff, and his eyes had never left his phone. It was him. I looked at the face on the screen and slowly leaned back in my chair. Three months ago, he couldn’t finish a meal with me. Three months later, he was going to have to call me “Ms. Olivia.” I closed the email and opened today’s project roadmap. 2. My mother found out how the date went the next morning. Not from me, but from Aunt Sarah. “Eleanor, Kyle’s side said… it’s not a match.” I was eating breakfast in the kitchen, listening to my mother on the phone in her bedroom. The walls were thin enough that I heard every word. “Why not?” Mom asked. “Kyle said Joanna… doesn’t really know how to present herself. Said she was a bit too ‘plain.’” Sarah didn’t use the word ugly, but “too plain” was loud enough. Mom hung up and walked into the kitchen. I kept my head down, staring at my oatmeal. “What did you wear yesterday?” “A blouse.” “Which one?” “The blue one. With the collar.” Mom let out a sharp sigh. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Jo. Dress up for these things. You never listen.” I put my spoon down. “Mom, it wasn’t the clothes.” “Then what was it?” I didn’t say anything. “Look at your cousin Riley. Every time she leaves the house, she’s polished. Hair done, makeup on. And you? You spend all year looking like you’re about to file taxes—” “I was going to work.” Mom glared at me. “Don’t get smart with me. He’s a catch. His family owns half the commercial real estate in the city—” “Mom, he took a phone call in the middle of dinner to tell his friend I was unattractive.” Mom blinked. Just once. “Men say things. Don’t take it so personally. They’re visual creatures. If you just put in a little effort—” “I don’t want to ‘put in effort’ for someone like that.” “Then you’ll be alone for the rest of your life!” My spoon clinked against the bowl. I stood up and took it to the sink. Behind me, my mother said something quietly, but it cut through the air like a knife. “If you were more like Riley, I wouldn’t have to worry so much.” I turned on the faucet. I let the water run over the bowl. Slowly. My cousin Riley was twenty-seven, married for three years, with a toddler. She was Sarah’s daughter. Sarah bragged about her to anyone with ears: “Our Riley hit the jackpot. Her husband is a VP at Chase, and she gets to stay home and raise the baby. She’s living the dream.” At the family dinner for Easter, we were all there. Thirteen of us at the big table. Riley sat near the head of the table with the baby, the center of the universe. “Riley, the baby is getting so big.” “He has his father’s eyes.” “Riley is so lucky. Such a perfect life.” No one asked me anything. Until midway through the ham, my Uncle Jim, having had a few glasses of wine, turned to me. “So, Jo. You’re thirty-two now, right? Any lucky guys on the horizon?” The table went silent for two beats. “Not right now,” I said. “No rush, no rush,” Uncle Jim said. “It’s good for girls to be independent these days—” Sarah cut him off. “No rush? She’s thirty-two. Last month I set her up with a literal prince of a guy, and he thought she was—” She stopped herself, catching my eye. “—Well, he thought they weren’t compatible.” I took a bite of my potatoes. “Joanna is just… too focused on her career,” Sarah told the table. “Always working late, never spends a dime on a nice dress. Men look at one thing first, and that’s the face—” “Aunt Sarah,” I said, setting my fork down. “I’d really rather not discuss this here.” The table went quiet again. My mother kicked my foot under the table. “Your aunt is just trying to help,” she hissed. Riley was across from me, cooing at her baby. She didn’t look up, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch. After dinner, I went to the kitchen to help clean. I was the only one at the sink. The laughter from the living room drifted in—everyone playing with the baby. The soap suds piled up on the back of my hand. I washed the plates as slowly as possible, because I knew that once I was done, I’d have to go back out there. Back to where Sarah would keep talking. Back to where Mom would keep nodding. Back to where my relatives would look at me with that unbearable pity. On the drive home, Mom stared out the passenger window. “Your aunt means well.” I drove in silence. “Don’t be mad because she tells the truth. A woman over thirty… if you don’t hurry—” “Mom.” “Just one more thing.” She looked at me. “With your personality, and your… look… if you don’t learn to compromise, who’s going to want you?” My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Only for a second. A red light appeared. I slowed to a stop. I watched the taillights in front of me—perfect, glowing red circles. “I got promoted to Lead Product Manager last month,” I said. Mom turned her head. “How many people do you manage?” “The product group, plus the external contractors. About thirty people total.” Mom made a small noise of acknowledgment. Then she said: “What good is a promotion? Can a promotion take care of you when you’re old?” The light turned green. I pressed the gas and kept driving. 3. Monday morning, 9:15 AM. Product Weekly. I projected my slide deck, presenting last week’s metrics and this week’s roadmap to the twelve people in the room. Data, bottlenecks, ownership—I wrapped it up in twenty minutes. The Director, Mr. Henderson, sat in the back. As the meeting broke up, he clapped me on the shoulder. “Jo, keep an eye on the version 2.0 timeline. I need the master schedule by Wednesday.” “On it.” “By the way, two interns started today. They’re assigned to your pod. Get them spun up; mid-term evals are at the end of the month.” “Got it.” I went back to my desk. Beth, the senior-most PM in the department, walked over with her coffee. Beth was thirty-eight, brilliant, and intentionally avoided management because she “didn’t want the headache.” But everyone knew a project didn’t move unless Beth blessed it. “New interns?” Beth asked. “Reporting on Wednesday.” “What’s the pedigree?” “One Stanford undergrad, one UChicago MBA.” “MBA?” Beth raised an eyebrow. “Those types are usually just here for the resume padding. Prepare yourself.” “I know.” “You’ll be fine. The intern you had last year got the highest score on the final defense. HR is still singing your praises.” I smiled. I turned to my computer and found seventeen unread messages in the project Slack channel. This was my world. From nine to six-thirty. Schedules, reviews, cross-departmental friction, bug priorities, PRDs. I managed thirty people’s workloads. My strategy last year saved the firm four hundred thousand dollars in vendor costs. My interns had a 100% hire-back rate. None of those things had anything to do with my face. But in my mother’s eyes, and in my aunt’s mouth, the weight of all those achievements was less than a coat of mascara. 10:00 PM. I got home after a long day and grabbed a package from the lobby. I opened the front door to find a sticky note on the fridge. My mom’s handwriting. “Soup’s in the fridge. Your aunt found another one. 37, divorced, no kids, civil engineer. Info is on the coffee table.” I walked over to the table. A single sheet of paper. Photo, height, salary, assets. In the top left corner, Sarah had scrawled in blue pen: “This one isn’t too picky. Don’t screw it up again.” I flipped the paper over, face down. I went to the kitchen and had a bowl of soup. The soup was warm. Mom had made it and put it away, knowing I’d be late. That was her. She’d make you soup, and then leave a resume for a husband right next to it. She loved me, but her love was a blueprint for a person I wasn’t. I washed the bowl. Dried my hands. Checked my phone.

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I spent every cent of my savings on a high-tier incubus from the Underground. As it turned out, he hated me for being poor. He despised the cramped, drafty apartment I called home. I once overheard him complaining to his brother: “A woman with no money and even less beauty? I wouldn’t take her if she were gift-wrapped.” I stood in the shadows that day, looking at his brother—a man who walked with a slight limp but possessed the kindest eyes I’d ever seen—and I realized I’d invested in the wrong person. Later, I sold my place and brought the brother home, too. That’s when the first one panicked. With eyes rimmed in red, he grabbed my sleeve and whispered, “Are you… are you throwing me away?” 1 My pet incubus was a nightmare. He didn’t listen, he was cruel, and last night, he bit me. When I woke up and stood before the bathroom mirror to brush my teeth, I couldn’t stop staring at the mark on my neck. It had deepened into a bruised, sickly purple. I hissed as my fingers brushed against it. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, that it would fade in a few days, but then I looked at my own face in the glass—plain, tired, unremarkable—and my eyes filled with tears. Rylan loathed me. He loathed everything about me. He hated my voice, my face, and especially this tiny, ancient apartment in a neighborhood that had seen better decades. We’d had a blowout fight last night. In the heat of it, he finally stopped pretending and let the truth bleed out. “Maddie, you’re the one who liquidated your entire life to buy me,” he’d spat, his voice laced with venom. “I didn’t choose you. If I had a choice, I’d never have taken you as a Mistress, and I damn sure wouldn’t be rotting away in this pathetic dump.” I’d been desperate then, still clinging to a ghost of hope. “But it’s been a year, Rylan. Don’t you feel anything for me?” “Nothing. Not a single thing.” He was tied to the headboard at the time, unable to move, but his eyes were predatory and sharp. His answer was instantaneous. That was the moment the last flicker of warmth in my chest went cold. I splashed freezing water on my face, taking deep breaths until the tears retreated. Then, I dug through my drawer for a heavy-duty concealer, layering it over the bite mark until the shame was hidden beneath a beige mask. 2 Rylan was still locked in the bedroom. Before heading to the office, I went in to untie him. He was sitting on the rug, his head down, long lashes fluttering. He was faking sleep; I knew his tells by now. I knelt beside him and began working on the restraints around his wrists. “Rylan,” I said softly. He didn’t move. He kept his eyes clamped shut. “I’m going to work. I’m letting you go, but you have to promise me you’ll stay put. Just stay home today.” “Ha. If you don’t want to let me go, just say it. Stop acting like you’re doing me a favor.” Rylan opened his eyes, his face a mask of pure irritation. I didn’t argue. I just gave him a tired, sad smile and clicked the last buckle open. He seemed stunned by how quickly I gave in. He sat there, his dark, almond-shaped eyes fixed on me. “You’re actually letting me go? I never said I’d be here when you got back.” He was always trying to run. Even though I held his contract and he couldn’t get far, catching him was a chore I was starting to lose the energy for. I nodded, feeling a weight in my bones that sleep couldn’t fix. “Fine. Just… take the house keys.” 3 I’d bought Rylan last winter in the Underground. There wasn’t some grand romantic reason for it. He was just breathtakingly beautiful—tall, broad-shouldered, with a waist so lean it looked sculpted. At the auction, I’d seen his brother, Jude. They were twins, almost identical, except for one thing: Rylan was physically perfect, while Jude’s left leg was mangled, leaving him with a permanent limp. I only had enough money for one. I figured if I was going to spend my life with an incubus, I shouldn’t settle for “damaged goods.” I paid the premium and took the “perfect” one. But a year later, my life was a mess of anxiety and heartache. Sitting at my desk at work, staring blankly at my computer screen, I pulled up my banking app. A few thousand dollars. That was all I had left. I sighed. Maybe I should stop daydreaming about “what ifs.” 4 “Maddie, the boss is grabbing drinks tonight. You in?” My coworker, Sarah, popped over to my cubicle as the clock neared five. I shook my head. She tapped her temple and grinned. “Right, I forgot. You’ve got that gorgeous specimen waiting at home. I bet he’s already got dinner on the table, huh?” Rylan? Cooking? He was more likely to burn the building down out of spite. I forced a smile, but before I could explain, Sarah sighed dreamily. “I’m so jealous. It really makes the 9-to-5 worth it, doesn’t it? I’m saving up for a premium model myself.” I didn’t want to crush her spirit, so I just offered one piece of advice: “When you buy, go to a licensed agency. Stay away from the black markets. There’s no return policy there.” “Got it. Noted!” Usually, I was the first one out the door. Today, I lingered for thirty minutes, slowly packing my bag. I checked the home security feed on my phone. Empty. Rylan was gone again. My heart felt like a tangled knot. Instead of going home to an empty apartment, I started walking. I walked until the neon lights of the city faded into the dim, flickering lanterns of the Underground. 5 The place was a labyrinth of shadows and rot. The air smelled of damp earth and something metallic. The stalls were lined with cages—beast-kin, half-shifters, some looking sickly, their horns sawed off, their spirits broken. “Hey, lady! Take a look at this one. Purebred fae-blood, half price!” I looked away, quickening my pace. I was broke; I couldn’t help them even if I wanted to. I followed the familiar, grimy path to the shop where I’d bought Rylan. The shop was still open. The owner was dozing in a chair by the door. I slipped past him, moving quietly toward the back courtyard where the “stock” was kept. I hadn’t even reached the gate when I heard a familiar voice. “Jude, has anyone even looked at you lately?” It was Rylan. He hadn’t run away to be free; he’d run here to see his brother. 6 I stayed hidden behind the heavy iron door, listening. “A client came by twice last week,” Jude’s voice was raspy, softer than Rylan’s. “But she didn’t want to pay the processing fee. Not for a cripple. Nobody wants a broken toy, Rylan.” “If you hadn’t tried to save me when we were kids… if those traffickers hadn’t broken your leg to keep you from running… it’s my fault, Jude. I’m so sorry.” “Stop it. It was never your fault.” Jude was in a cage, the heavy collar around his neck making it difficult for him to speak, yet his tone remained incredibly gentle. “I don’t regret it. You’re free now, Rylan. You aren’t ‘merchandise’ anymore. Forget about the past.” Rylan spat on the ground, his voice dripping with bitterness. “Free? You think I’m free? The woman who bought me keeps me on a shorter leash than the shop owner did. She’s terrified I’ll bolt.” Hearing him talk about me made my chest tighten. My heart began to hammer against my ribs. “She’s exhausting. Honestly, I’d rather be back here in the cage than stuck with her.” Rylan groaned. “She’s plain, she’s poor… the clothes she buys me are literal rags. I’ve only been there a year and I already can’t imagine spending the rest of my life like this. It’s pathetic.” “Don’t talk like that,” Jude interrupted. “Beginnings are always hard. The woman I saw that day… she looked kind. I think she’ll treat you well if you let her.” “Kind? She’s a nightmare. She ties me up every night. Look, I still have the marks on my wrists.” Rylan rolled up his sleeves. “I’m done with it, Jude. I wish you could take my place. I wish you had to deal with that ugly woman instead of me.” “She’s your Mistress, Rylan. It’s her right. And she isn’t ugly. Don’t be cruel.” “It’s just the truth. She’s nothing.” 7 Every word felt like a serrated blade across my skin. A bitter, acidic taste rose in my throat. I couldn’t listen anymore. I turned to leave, but my foot caught an empty tin can. Clang. Both men went silent. Their eyes snapped toward the door. Jude saw me first. He froze, then his lips curved into a heartbreakingly submissive, tentative smile. Rylan, however, looked like he’d been slapped. His face went pale, then turned a deep, embarrassed red. “You… what are you doing here?” I forced my voice to remain steady. “I came to bring you home.” Without waiting for a response, I turned and bolted back toward the street. 8 “Hey! Maddie!” Rylan caught up to me, grabbing my sleeve. “Why are you walking so fast?” I didn’t look at him. I jerked my arm away and kept moving. But all I could see was Jude’s smile. He was so different from Rylan. Jude had a tiny beauty mark just beneath his left eye; when he smiled, it moved in a way that felt… genuine. “How long were you standing there?” Rylan asked, his voice wavering. “Did you hear what I said to my brother?” Jude’s leg. He’d lost his mobility saving his brother. He was the one who deserved a life. Not Rylan. “Hey! Answer me! Stop acting like a statue.” Rylan’s voice rose, grating on my nerves. I stopped and looked at him. “I heard it. All of it.” Rylan choked on his next breath. He looked panicked for a split second before his arrogance returned. “Well… it’s the truth. You do tie me up.” “Yes. It’s all true. I’m ugly, I’m poor, and I’m a monster. In your eyes, I’m the villain of your story.” I didn’t yell. I didn’t even sound angry. I just sounded hollow. Rylan went quiet. He followed me the rest of the way home with his head down, not saying another word. As we walked, I stole glances at him. He was striking—easily the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. But the black hoodie he was wearing was a cheap, twenty-dollar find from a discount bin. It was pilling at the cuffs. It matched the one I was wearing. He was right. If a wealthy socialite had bought him, he’d be draped in silk and living in a penthouse. I couldn’t blame him for hating me. 9 When we got back to the apartment, I didn’t reach for the restraints. I didn’t lecture him about running off. I showered, went straight to the bedroom, and locked the door behind me. My mind was racing, but for the first time in a year, it wasn’t about Rylan. Knock. Knock. Knock. In the middle of the night, a voice drifted through the door. “Maddie? Are you awake?” “What do you want, Rylan?” “Open the door. I want to talk to you.” I stayed under the covers, staring at the wall. I must have drifted off, because when I opened my eyes again, a dark silhouette was standing by my bed. Rylan had found the spare key. He stood there, perfectly still, watching me. I sat up, pulling the duvet to my chest. “What are you doing?” Rylan’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. His tail flicked nervously behind him. “About earlier…” “I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rush, as if they burned his tongue. I yawned and waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. I forgive you. Now get out.” He didn’t move. I patted the pillow beside me. “What, do you want to sleep here?” Despite his hatred for me, we’d slept in the same bed every night for a year. Even when we fought, we shared the space. Now that I was pushing him away, he seemed lost. Rylan climbed in, shedding his hoodie. His arms found their usual place around my waist, his tail curling tentatively around my ankle. “I’m exhausted. Just go to sleep.” I shifted, creating a deliberate gap between our bodies. Rylan stiffened. “Oh, come on. You think I want to be touching you?” I moved even further away, toward the very edge of the mattress. Rylan let out a frustrated growl. “Fine! You’re being so dramatic today!” He yanked the covers over his head and turned his back to me.

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The moment my retirement statement hit the wires, the industry exhaled a collective sigh of relief. The comment sections were a bloodbath of “good riddance” and “finally.” Only one person staged a protest: Dominic Blackwood, the industry’s new “it-boy” singer-songwriter and the man my girlfriend was rumored to be sleeping with. He stood before a sea of cameras, his face a mask of performative grief. “It’s all a tragic misunderstanding,” Dominic told the reporters, his voice dripping with faux-sincerity. “Nathan West is an indispensable titan of the music world. My only wish is to see him reclaim his throne.” I clicked my phone screen off, the silence of my apartment swallowing his lies. In my past life, I hadn’t ignored him. In that life, his “original” breakout single had been a note-for-note carbon copy of mine. The internet branded me a thief, a parasite, a hack. They told me to crawl into a hole and die. I had fought back with everything I had. I posted voice memos, dated lyric scraps, and Logic Pro session files. None of it mattered. In the court of public opinion, the only metric that counted was the timestamp on the release. His song had gone live ten minutes before mine. Those ten minutes cost me everything. People sent funeral wreaths to my doorstep. They photoshopped my face onto corpses. Someone even splashed red gloss paint across my front door, a screaming “JUDAS” in crimson. The years of relentless cyberbullying fractured my mind. Depression became the air I breathed. My parents poured their life savings into legal fees to clear my name, but the fans were faster. They were a cult, a wildfire. A group of “stans” set fire to my parents’ house in a fit of righteous fury. My parents never made it out. On the night Dominic stood on a stage, weeping as he accepted the Grammy for Song of the Year—for my song—I stepped off the roof of a twenty-story building. I expected darkness. Instead, I opened my eyes to the blinding sun of a Tuesday morning I’d lived once before. The day of the release. … 1 “Noon today. High noon, and the world changes.” “Relax, Nate. With a track this good, the Vanguard Award for Best Songwriter is basically in your pocket.” Mitch, my manager, clapped a hand on my shoulder. I gasped, lungs burning as if I’d just been hauled out of the ocean. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stared at the familiar crown molding of my living room, then at Mitch’s confused face. The realization hit me like a physical blow: I was back. It was the morning of the disaster. “You’ve been burning the candle at both ends with this record,” Mitch said, his voice softening. “I’ll clear your schedule for the next few days. Just get some sleep.” “Wait!” I caught Mitch’s arm as he turned for the door. My eyes were glued to the wall clock. The second hand ticked—a heartbeat in the silence. When the minute hand hit the ten-minute mark, I pulled up my phone and went straight to Dominic Blackwood’s social media. Just like last time, the post was there. A link to a streaming site. The caption: ‘Sunlight in the Ruins.’ My soul, laid bare. Listen now. I tapped the link. The haunting, melodic acoustic intro filled the room. “What the hell?” Mitch lunged forward, snatching the phone from my hand. “That’s your track. That’s—Nate, that’s your entire hook! The lyrics, the bridge… everything. How the hell did Dominic get an advance copy?” “He didn’t just get a copy, Mitch. He’s claiming it’s his.” “Maybe someone at the studio leaked the stems? Someone’s head is going to roll for this. I’m calling the label—” “No,” I said, my voice cold and sharp. “Tell the label we’re pulling the release. Cancel everything.” In my first life, I had released my version anyway, thinking the truth would protect me. I was a fool. To the world, I was just the guy who saw a hit and tried to claim it ten minutes too late. I remembered the comments like they were tattooed on my brain: “Stole it and then faked the ‘process’ photos? How desperate can you get?” “Thief. Disappear.” Mitch and my engineers had tried to testify for me, and the internet had torn them apart too. And then there was Camille. Camille Vane, my A-list actress girlfriend who had kept our relationship “discreet” for the sake of her brand. That afternoon, she had gone live on Instagram. She didn’t just distance herself from me; she declared her love for Dominic. She wept on camera, condemning my “unethical behavior” and praising Dominic’s “purity of spirit.” It was the ultimate betrayal. I had played the song for her weeks before anyone else. She knew the truth, and she chose to bury me to elevate him. The industry blackballed me within forty-eight hours. My awards were rescinded. My label dropped me under the weight of the PR nightmare. Every time Dominic released a new “hit,” I was dragged back into the light to be mocked all over again. The wreaths. The paint. The fire. The jump. “Nate, the label spent a fortune on the promo for this single,” Mitch said, pacing the room. “The billboards in Times Square, the Spotify takeover… I can’t just tell them ‘never mind’ without a reason.” “Tell them the master is corrupted. Tell them I’m having a breakdown. I don’t care. Just don’t put that song out.” “Okay, okay. I’ll look into the leak quietly. In the meantime… you need to write something else. Fast. Give them a reason not to sue us for breach of contract.” After Mitch left, I sat in the silence of my home, a ghost in my own life. Dominic was Camille’s “childhood friend.” They grew up in the same posh Hamptons circle. When he graduated from Berklee, Camille used her influence to slide him into the industry’s inner sanctum. He signed with Apex Media, the biggest powerhouse in the country. His debut was a soundtrack for a Scorsese film. I was the self-made guy, the one who’d clawed his way up from playing dive bars. I’d been jealous of their “friendship” for years, but Camille always told me I was being insecure. “Our families are old friends, Nate. If I don’t help him, I look like the bitch of the family.” I had swallowed my pride to keep her happy. I didn’t realize Dominic was the one she’d always wanted. I grabbed my laptop and began scouring Dominic’s old posts, looking for the glitch in the matrix. I found it in a photo from a month ago. August 26th. A picture of his mahogany desk, a whiskey glass, and the caption: In the flow. I zoomed in until the pixels screamed. On the legal pad in the corner of the frame, I saw my own handwriting—or a perfect imitation of it. My exact structural notes. Even a lyric I had scratched out and replaced was there, preserved on his page. This song was my autobiography. It was about the loss of my sister, about the specific salt-air smell of the Oregon coast. It was impossible for someone else to “coincidentally” write it. Did Dominic jump back in time too? No. That didn’t fit. Dominic was a New Yorker through and through. He’d never set foot in the small coastal town where those lyrics were born. Mitch called an hour later. “Nothing. The studio is airtight. The engineers are clean. It’s like the song just… manifested in his head.” I was cornered. Mitch was right about one thing: the label’s investment was too high to ignore. If I didn’t produce a replacement, I was finished anyway. I locked myself in my home studio. I picked up my Fender, my fingers trembling. This time, I wouldn’t write about grief or ghosts. I would write about vengeance. I would be Nemesis. I spent forty-eight hours in a fever dream of caffeine and adrenaline. I didn’t use my main computer. I didn’t use the cloud. I recorded a raw, gritty rock demo on an old, offline handheld recorder. I sent the file to Mitch. He replied within seconds with a string of fire emojis. “Rock? Nate, this is visceral. It’s genius. I didn’t know you had this much rage in you.” He booked a session at a private, high-security studio an hour later. By the time we walked out of the booth, the sun was creeping over the horizon. “The label wants to wait,” Mitch said, rubbing his eyes. “Next week is a holiday weekend. They want to drop this on the following Tuesday to maximize the charts. You okay with that?” I didn’t answer immediately. “What’s Dominic doing?” “My contact at Apex says he’s gone dark. No promo tour, no interviews. He’s just… lurking.” It was too strange. If you have the biggest song in the country, you run the victory lap. You don’t hide. “Fine,” I said. “Wait a week. Let’s see what happens.” I went home and slept for fourteen hours. It was the first time I hadn’t dreamt of fire. I was woken up by a frantic pounding on my front door. It was Mitch. His face was ghostly pale. “Nate. It happened again.” My heart stopped. “What?” “Dominic just dropped a surprise second single. It’s the track we recorded yesterday. Every note. Every lyric. It’s a carbon copy.” The air left the room. My courage, my “rebirth” plan, it all crumbled. How? I’d avoided the cloud. I’d kept my phone on the balcony. I’d used an analog recorder. How was he inside my head? Dominic Blackwood was now the undisputed king of the charts. He held the #1 and #2 spots simultaneously. He was the “voice of a generation.” Fans flooded his comments, asking about the sudden shift from folk-pop to gritty rock. His response was chillingly calculated: “My first track was leaked and plagiarized by someone I used to respect. Luckily, I moved my release up. This new song is a warning. Talent is the one thing you can’t steal, and I am the standard you will never reach.” The internet didn’t need a name to know he meant me. They found my label’s old “coming soon” teasers and swarmed. “He was talking about you, wasn’t he? Where’s your ‘original’ music now, Nate? Too busy hitting ‘copy-paste’?” My loyalists tried to defend me, but without a song to show, they were fighting a losing war. Dominic’s star was rising so fast it was blinding. Then, the woman I once loved finally called. “Dominic is having his release party tomorrow night,” Camille said, her voice hard as flint. “You’re coming.” I laughed, a jagged, bitter sound. “Why the hell would I do that?” “Because your fans are harassing him, and he’s been a mess because of it. If you still want a career—if you still want me—you’ll show up, shake his hand, and put these ‘plagiarism’ rumors to bed.” He stole my soul, and she wanted me to thank him for it. “I’ll be there,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. I needed to see him. I needed to look into his eyes and figure out what kind of monster I was dealing with. The party was held at a penthouse in Soho. Camille was draped over Dominic’s arm, looking every bit the Oscar-winner she was. The room was packed with the industry’s elite. “Two singles, two records broken in one week,” someone gushed. “The lyricism in the second one… that rock edge? It’s soul-shattering, Dom.”

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The first time I went to my CEO girlfriend’s house, her mother served me a bowl of premium bird’s nest soup. It was the kind of delicacy that costs more per ounce than the rent on my college apartment. I took a sip, shrugged, and said, “Thanks, Mrs. Sampson. This is some great chicken noodle soup.” The silence that followed was skeletal. The atmosphere in the living room didn’t just drop; it froze solid. After dinner, Heather led me down to the curb. Her voice was as sharp as a winter wind in Manhattan. “Ben, we’re done. My mother was right. A man with your lack of… refinement… is just a liability. You’re an embarrassment I can’t afford.” The very next day, her engagement to Miller Thorne—a trust-fund prince whose family pedigree matched her own—was splashed all over the social pages. I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I felt a hollowed-out kind of peace. I quit my corporate job and moved back home to help my father manage his “little organic farm.” Years later, Heather showed up at the gates. She was there to secure an exclusive distribution deal for the world’s most elite organic produce. I was wearing a rough linen work shirt, preping a tea service, when she saw me. The disdain in her eyes was a familiar old friend. “Ben? You’ve really bottomed out, haven’t you? Playing servant in a place like this?” She looked around the rustic-chic pavilion, her lip curling. “I guess life without me hasn’t been kind.” She picked up a teacup, blew on it, and gave me a pitying look. “There’s a hierarchy to the world, Ben. You have to understand that. Bird’s nest and noodles—they’re just not the same thing. No matter how much you want them to be.” I leaned over and handed her a freshly steeped cup of Ceylon black tea. She took a sip and immediately wrinkled her nose. “What is this? It tastes like… old, rotting wood.” “That, Ms. Sampson, is authentic Ceylon black tea from the original mother trees. It’s valued at over ten thousand dollars per gram.” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Years later and you’re still a pathological liar. People like you are only fit for drinking rotten wood.” 1 Three days ago, I was in New Zealand, chairing an international summit on the future of regenerative agriculture, when my father called me with an “emergency.” He told me he’d found a promising young partner for me. He praised her character and her business acumen. Her family owned some of the most prestigious luxury hospitality brands in the world—a perfect vertical integration for our family’s holdings. “Dad, I’m not doing a blind date,” I told him. “It’s not a date, Ben,” he chuckled, sounding like the silver-tongued fox he was. “It’s a collaboration. We’re about to break ground on ‘The Aether’—that ultra-luxe eco-resort in Big Sur, remember? The Montgomery family is our biggest partner. Just go. Consider it a soft-launch for the partnership.” He’d arranged for me to go undercover as the resort’s lead tea specialist. “Remember,” he warned, “keep that ‘crown prince’ attitude in check. Don’t scare her off. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. Your happiness comes before the project.” I agreed. It was a ten-year strategic play for our empire; I needed to see the Montgomery heir for myself. But I never expected to run into Heather Sampson before I even met Saskia Montgomery. I was in the tea room, adjusting my linen tunic, when Heather walked in. She was draped in a white silk dress that probably cost more than the car I used to drive. Her eyes locked onto mine, a sneer spreading across her perfectly contoured face. “Ben. Long time no see.” I gave her a curt nod and turned to leave. “Stay right there.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a woman used to being obeyed. “Is there something you need, Ms. Sampson?” I asked, my voice flat. She frowned, her expression darkening. “So, three years later and we’re skipping the pleasantries? Is this how you treat guests here? What’s your employee ID? I’m filing a complaint.” I said nothing. She let her gaze rake over my simple cotton work clothes. A slow, cruel smile spread across her lips. “No name tag. You’re just a temp, then?” “Makes sense. You never had any real ambition back at the firm. If I hadn’t carried you, you’d still be stuck in the basement making slide decks. Though, I suppose landing a temp gig at a place as exclusive as The Aether takes a certain kind of low-level hustle.” “Go get your manager. Your service is already making me uncomfortable. It’s ruined my mood.” I tightened my grip on the tea towel. The urge to pour the boiling kettle over her sense of self-importance was briefly, dangerously tempting. But I remembered my father’s face. I forced a professional, hollow smile. “I’ve been doing alright, Ms. Sampson. Traveling for conferences, mostly. The jet lag is the only real complaint I have.” “Ambition? I have plenty.” As the sole heir to the Vanguard Eco-Empire, destined to oversee the largest network of organic estates and luxury sanctuaries on the planet, “ambition” was an understatement. It was my birthright. She scoffed. “A temp attending global conferences? Three years and you’re still addicted to the fantasy, Ben. You’re still that boy who called bird’s nest ‘noodle soup’ and humiliated me in front of my mother.” “My family isn’t the Rockefellers, but we have a reputation. Did you really think a boy from a ‘nobody’ family could keep up? What were you so insecure about?” She was still stuck on that soup? I took a deep breath, refusing to explain myself again. “I told the truth then, and I’m telling it now.” She stared at me for a long beat, her mockery shifting into a cold, clinical kind of pity. “Fine. There’s no point in expecting anything from someone living in a delusion. Just… make me a tea.” “The most expensive one on the menu.” “Put it on my tab. I’ll leave you a thousand-dollar tip. That should cover about half a month’s rent for a guy like you, right?” I didn’t move. She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “What? Not enough? Or does a temp like you not even have the clearance to touch the high-end leaves?” “Right away, Ms. Sampson.” I stepped into the climate-controlled vault and pulled out a small tin of my father’s private reserve Ceylon black tea—the tea I was supposed to use to welcome Saskia. I carefully measured out three grams and brewed it with mineral water from our own spring. When I returned to the tea room, I saw a familiar, peacock-like figure draped over Heather’s shoulder. Miller Thorne. He was wearing a bespoke suit, the diamond ring on his finger catching the light with an obnoxious glint. When he saw me, he gasped with theatrical shock. “Oh my god! Ben? What are you doing here?!” 2 Miller’s eyes were wide with a faux-concern that didn’t reach his pupils. “I thought you were some big-shot white-collar guy in the city? What are you doing playing servant in the mountains?” “I mean, I know your family was… modest… but is the money really this bad? Are you in trouble, man?” I set the tea in front of Heather, ignored him, and turned to walk away. “Wait a sec,” Miller drawled, his voice oily. “I want one too. Same as hers. Thanks, pal.” As I turned to head back to the vault, he reached up, unclasped a heavy gold chain from his neck, and tossed it onto my service tray. “It’s Bulgari. Limited edition. Retails for about forty grand. Consider it a ‘hardship bonus’ for your trouble.” I looked down at the gold. It was a discontinued model from last year—the kind of thing boutiques dump at private clearance sales for preferred clients. I slid the tray back toward him, my voice cool. “That style is a bit dated, don’t you think? I have a crate of those in my family’s storage. Most were gifts from vendors. The design was always a bit… loud for my taste.” Miller froze. Then he let out a high-pitched, manic laugh, leaning into Heather. “Hear that, babe? He thinks it’s ‘loud.’ Ben, this is real gold, not the flea-market knockoffs you used to buy.” Heather’s eyes were brimming with contempt. “Just take it, Ben. Sell it. It’ll save you five years of labor. Miller is being generous; don’t let your pride make you look even more pathetic.” “Are you sure you want me to have this?” I asked, a hint of a challenge in my voice. Miller propped his chin on his hand, looking like a king handing a coin to a peasant. “Absolutely.” I picked up the chain and, with a flick of my wrist, tossed it into the woven bamboo trash bin by the window. “Sorry. Resort policy. Staff aren’t allowed to accept personal gifts from guests.” “Ben!” Miller shrieked. He scrambled toward the trash bin, fishing the chain out with frantic, trembling hands. He waved it in my face, his face turning a blotchy red. “A forty-thousand-dollar necklace and you just throw it away? Are you insane? Do you know how many square feet of your shitty little apartment this could buy?” I looked at him, amused. “Is it that precious to you? I can write you a check for the value. Though, since it’s an old model, I might have to check the secondary market for the current depreciated price.” Miller was speechless, his mouth working but no sound coming out. Heather let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Stop playing the billionaire, Ben. You couldn’t afford the tax on that necklace if you sold your soul.” My expression went cold. “Give me your Venmo. I’ll have my assistant transfer the funds right—” “Enough!” Heather snapped, cutting me off. “Stop this ridiculous act. It’s embarrassing. If people hear you talking like this, they’ll think you’ve had a mental breakdown.” Miller jumped back in. “Seriously, Heather, I forgot how much he loved to make things up. It’s gotten worse. It’s actually sad.” He shook his head with a patronizing sigh. “Forget it. We’re in a different league. We can’t hold a crazy person accountable for his words, right?” Heather reached over and smoothed Miller’s hair, her eyes lingering on me with a flicker of something—maybe regret, but mostly annoyance. “Miller is a better man than you, Ben. He has grace. You? You’re just bitter and stubborn.” Miller let out a sigh of mock-exhaustion. “Look, my dad is tight with the procurement director here at The Aether. Why don’t I give him a call? Maybe I can get you moved from ‘temp’ to ‘full-time’?” “No,” I said firmly. “Come on, we’re old colleagues! Back at the firm, we were practically bros.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just a phone call. No big deal.” If he made that call, my cover was blown, and my father’s entire plan would go up in smoke. As Miller actually pulled out his phone to dial, I stepped forward and pressed my hand down on his screen. “I said no. Stay out of my business.” I remembered him all too well. Back at the firm, he was always “hanging out” with me, only to turn around and whisper in the breakroom after Heather’s mother humiliated me. “Poor Ben. He’s so out of his depth. Heather’s mom says he has no class. He’s just not ‘Sampson material,’ you know?” And the irony? The second Heather dumped me, she was posting engagement photos with Miller. When I resigned, Miller was the one who walked me to the elevator. “Ben, Heather realized a long time ago you couldn’t give her the life she needs. Someone like me—with the right background—we’re a power couple. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” “You know, that whole bird’s nest thing? That was just her excuse to finally pull the trigger…” I didn’t need him to remind me. I had seen their “flirting” long before the breakup. I just hadn’t wanted to believe it. “Ben!” Miller’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “Why are you being such an ungrateful prick? I’m trying to help you! Do you even know what’s good for you?” Help? All I saw was a desperate need to gloat. I looked him dead in the eye. “Is that so? Because if you don’t stop harassing me, I might just have to throw you in the lake to see if you can swim as well as you talk.” 3 I turned my back on them, but Miller’s screeching followed me like a siren. “Manager! Manager! I want to report a threat! This server is threatening me! He’s a lunatic!” Heather was on me in a second, grabbing my wrist with a grip that was surprisingly strong. “Miller is being a saint, and you’re acting like a thug? Apologize. Now.” I’d had enough. My patience, usually a deep well, had run dry. “Heather, keep your lapdog on a leash. If he pushes me again, I’ll make sure he regrets ever stepping foot on this property.” Even the senior executives who had served my father for decades spoke to me with deferred respect. Who the hell was Miller Thorne to bark at me? Heather’s grip faltered for a second. “Who said he’s my lapdog? We’re just engaged.” “Doesn’t matter!” I shook her off, my voice dropping an octave. “Control your man.” Heather’s face clouded over. She let out a hollow laugh. “Ben, I shouldn’t have come here. I saw your face in one of the resort’s promotional brochures and I canceled a multi-million dollar contract just to see if it was really you.” I froze. I didn’t understand. “So you came all this way just to bring your trophy fiancé to humiliate me?” She looked like she’d been slapped. For a moment, she couldn’t find her words. Before I could walk away, Miller lunged forward. Crack. The sound of his palm hitting my face echoed through the tea room. My cheek burned. My vision blurred for a split second. I raised my hand to strike back, but Heather threw herself between us, wrapping her arms around me, pinning my arms to my sides. “You can’t touch him, Ben,” she hissed into my ear. “The Thornes will destroy you. Just take the hit and walk away. I’ll fix this. Unless you want to lose this job too.” I struggled against her. “The Thornes? They’re mid-tier contractors. You think I’m afraid of them?” With one word from my father, the Thorne family would be blacklisted from every major development in the state. But Heather held on tighter. “Ben, you have a poor man’s bank account and a rich man’s ego! It’s a deadly combination. How am I supposed to protect you when you’re this reckless?” Miller, seeing her holding me, turned a shade of envious purple. “Manager! Where the hell is everyone? This little ‘home-wrecker’ is threatening me and trying to seduce my fiancée!” His shouting drew a crowd of other wealthy guests. “My god, this is supposed to be a five-star resort. Why is the staff so aggressive?” “I saw it! That young man tried to give him a gold necklace and the waiter threw it in the trash!” “A homewrecker? Disgusting. He should be fired.” Miller, sensing the crowd was on his side, puffed out his chest. “Still want to act tough, Ben?” I didn’t care what they thought. These people were a chorus of the uninformed. But Heather was still clinging to me, and I couldn’t move without hurting her. I used what leverage I had to kick out at Miller. My shoe caught the hem of his trousers, and Heather shoved me away, rushing to check on him. I stumbled back, hitting the floor hard. The crowd looked down at me from their high horses. “Attacking guests in broad daylight?” “This place has gone to hell.” “Complaint! We’re all filing complaints! Get him out of here!” “Fine,” I said, slowly standing up and brushing the dust off my linen pants. I looked at the sea of judgmental faces. “I’ll walk you to the manager’s office myself.” 4 Heather looked at me with pure disbelief. “Ben, just swallow your pride for once! Do you have any idea what a collective complaint will do to you?” “You’ll be blacklisted from the entire hospitality industry. You won’t even be able to get a job at a roadside motel, let alone a place like this.” She turned to the crowd, her voice softening into her professional “CEO” tone. “Everyone, please. This is a misunderstanding. He’s… he’s an ex-boyfriend. He’s a bit unstable, and he clearly needs this job. For my sake, let’s just let it go.” Miller pouted. “Heather! Why are you still defending him?” Heather rubbed his arm. “Miller, your kindness is what I love most about you. Unlike him… well, let’s just move on.” Her “defense” was a masterclass in condescension. She was painting me as a pathetic, obsessive stalker who couldn’t let go of the “queen” who had outgrown him. Three years later, and she still saw me as that same “nobody” boy who needed her scraps of mercy. The situation felt suddenly, deeply exhausting. There were a thousand ways to crush Miller. Why was I letting myself look this ragged in front of these people? Miller smirked, triumphant. “Hear that, Ben? You’re a low-life. Even the owner’s daughter, Saskia Montgomery—who my father happens to be very close with—wouldn’t give you the time of day.” I glanced at him. “Is that so? Maybe I should call her and ask her exactly how much ‘respect’ she has for your father.” I pulled out my phone, and as I did, a small parchment packet of tea leaves fell out of my pocket and scattered across the floor. Heather looked down, and her face went pale. “Is that… what you served me?” “Yeah,” I said. “The stuff that tastes like ‘rotting wood,’ remember?” “Ben!” Heather clutched her chest. “You know I have a sensitive stomach! I never drink low-grade, unbranded tea!” “I didn’t know,” I said. “It’s been three years. I stopped keeping track of your ‘delicate’ requirements a long time ago.” Her eyes flickered with a strange hurt. “Of course. You were always heartless. Just like when you walked away from me without looking back.” I was baffled. She was the one who dumped me. Now it was my fault? Before I could process that, Miller started yelling again. “Oh my god! We ordered the ‘Reserve’ tea, and you served us this floor-sweepings? How much of the difference are you pocketing, you thief?” The crowd started murmuring again. “Wait, is our tea fake too?” “This place is a scam!” Just then, the Resort Director arrived with two security guards. She didn’t hesitate. She signaled the guards to restrain me, then turned to the guests and bowed deeply. “My deepest apologies, ladies and gentlemen. ‘The Aether’ only serves certified organic, premium teas. This employee brought in his own unauthorized leaves. We will deal with this with the utmost severity.” “As an apology, all tea service today is on the house. Please, enjoy the rest of your stay.” Her polished apology worked. The crowd began to disperse, satisfied with the “justice” served. I went to pull away from the guards, but Miller stepped in. “He threatened me. He’s a physical danger. A reprimand isn’t enough.” “I want him fired and trespassed. Now. I don’t feel safe with a violent lunatic on the grounds.” He gave me a nasty look. “It’s a long walk back to civilization, Ben. Hope you like hiking in the dark. Maybe you can share your ‘rotting wood’ tea with the mountain lions.” The Director looked conflicted. “Mr. Thorne, this is private property, but kicking him out after dark is… it’s a liability.” Heather looked uneasy. “Miller, don’t be cruel. He could get hurt.” Seeing Heather’s flicker of concern, Miller doubled down. “Then at least fire him. That’s not too much to ask, is it?” The Director sighed. “I can’t. He was… he was sent here by the Executive Board. I don’t have the authority to terminate him.” I felt a wave of relief. My father hadn’t totally left me to the wolves. He’d made sure the local management knew I was “protected,” even if they didn’t know exactly who I was. Miller laughed. “The Board? Do you know who my father is? Arthur Thorne? We supply the timber for this entire expansion! If I tell my dad to pull the contract, your Board will be begging me to fire this guy.” “Don’t tell me what you ‘can’t’ do. I’m calling my father right now.” Heather frowned at the Director. “Which board member sent him? Give me a name.” The Director kept her head down. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sampson. Orders were to keep it confidential.” The guards, sensing the shift in power, loosened their grip on me. I straightened my shirt, smoothed my hair, and pulled out my phone to dial a number. Miller sneered, pointing at me. “I don’t care if the Pope sent you. You’re done!” The call connected. I put it on speaker and held the phone out toward him. “Why don’t you tell her yourself? Ask her to fire me.”

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I fell for Nate Cross the moment he walked into my dad’s dive bar looking for a part-time shift. I was nineteen, persistent, and perhaps a little too enamored with the brooding intensity in his eyes. It took six months of my relentless chasing before he finally gave in and asked me out. A few weeks before his graduation, we were at the same cramped, hourly-rate motel near campus we always frequented. The air smelled of cheap bleach and stale cigarettes. After we finished, he rolled away, lit a cigarette, and stared at the peeling wallpaper. Out of nowhere, he asked, “So, when girls like you finally decide to ‘retire,’ do you just go back to some small town and find a boring, honest guy to marry?” I sat up, pulling the thin sheet over my chest. “What do you mean, ‘girls like me’? And what defines an ‘honest guy’?” He took a long drag, the cherry of his cigarette glowing in the dim light. “You know. A guy who doesn’t ask too many questions about your past. Someone willing to pay your siblings’ tuition. Someone… blissfully dim-witted.” I walked out of that motel room and never looked back. I blocked his number before I even hit the sidewalk. We didn’t cross paths again until four years later. By then, my father’s old dive bar had been gutted, renovated, and reborn as The Gilded Lily—the most exclusive private club in the city. I had just finished a training session with the floor staff when the heavy mahogany doors swung open. Nate walked in, flanking a high-profile client. He looked the same, yet entirely different. He caught my eye, his brow arching in a look that was both surprised and mockingly familiar. “Still here, Tracy?” he said, his voice carrying that old, condescending edge. “I figured you’d have aged out of the business by now. Beauty like yours has a short shelf life.” He turned to the man beside him with a smirk. “Mr. Sterling, why don’t we have her join us tonight? She used to be quite the bargain back in the day—a hundred and fifty a night. Given her age now, maybe I’ll offer you a flat hundred, Tracy? For old times’ sake.” I looked past him to the man at his side. The client—Xavier Knight—was watching the exchange with a strange, unreadable expression. “A hundred dollars?” Xavier asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Will a million get you to at least sit down and have a drink with me tonight, Tracy?” 1. Nate glanced back at Xavier, his star client, looking utterly bewildered. Then he looked at me, waiting for a reaction. When I remained silent, he quickly masked his confusion with a professional grin and ushered Xavier toward the VIP lounge. Xavier didn’t move immediately. He looked at me with a pouting, almost puppy-like desperation until I gave him a sharp, warning glare. Only then did he let out a long sigh and slowly trail after Nate. I turned to head back to my office, but Nate slipped out of the lounge before the door could fully close. He caught my arm, though I pulled away instantly. “Hey, if you set us up with the premium bottle service, do you get a commission on that?” he asked, leaning against the velvet wallpaper. “I assume the kickbacks here are better than they were at the old bar.” Since he was technically a paying guest, I kept my tone professional. “No, I don’t. But you’re right; the sales margins in a place like this are significantly higher.” He clearly still hadn’t grasped the reality of the situation. He thought I was just a glorified hostess. To be honest, four years is both an eternity and a heartbeat. Nate had changed. He still had that “love at first sight” face, but the clean-cut, academic charm had fermented into something greasy. There was a desperate, calculating look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “The guy inside is a whale,” Nate whispered, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “My entire year’s performance review hinges on this deal. He’s loaded, but he’s a total snob. Don’t take what he said about the million bucks seriously—he’s just showing off. Don’t let him play you.” He paused, then let out a dry, cynical laugh. “Then again, you’ve been in these clubs for years. You’ve probably seen every trick in the book. Why am I even worrying about you? It’s almost funny.” He straightened his tie, looking back toward the lounge. “Just go in there, get us the good scotch, and find some of the younger girls. Someone pretty, someone fresh. Tell them to take extra care of Mr. Knight. No offense, but girls who’ve been in the game as long as you have… well, you tend to get a bit jaded. You forget how to put on a real show.” I gave him a thin, joyless smile. “I’m afraid you can’t afford my appearance fee, Nate.” He snorted. “A million dollars a drink? Right. Don’t let your ego get ahead of your paycheck, babe.” 2. I watched him walk away, a strange sense of vertigo washing over me. It was a jarring realization: the man who had whispered “I love you” against my neck in a cramped dorm room was the same man who just tried to price me out like a used car. The breakup had been a slow, agonizing death. For months, I had lived in a state of mourning, my pillow soaked with tears, wondering what I had done to deserve his sudden cruelty. It took years for the salt to wash out of the wound. I stared at the closed door of the lounge for a moment before waving over one of the floor managers. “If the guests in 512 ask for me, tell them I’m unavailable. Don’t offer any explanations.” I turned to leave, but a hand clapped onto my shoulder. I spun around to see a woman with a bright, predatory smile. “Harlan? No, wait—Tracy! It is you,” she chirped. “I can’t believe you’re still working this circuit. I guess the old man’s bar getting a facelift means you got a promotion to ‘Head Hostess’ or something?” It was Brooke Harrington, Nate’s old college mentee. Her father owned a series of pet food manufacturing plants—wealthy, but the kind of wealthy that always felt like it was trying too hard. “Did you see Nate?” she continued, not waiting for an answer. “He’s in there with a huge client. My dad set the whole thing up. Nate’s about to hit the big leagues. It makes you think, doesn’t it? If he had stayed with you, he’d probably be behind the bar right now, instead of being served at it.” She emphasized the word “served” with a look that suggested she knew exactly what kind of “services” she thought I provided. I never quite understood why Nate’s time working at my dad’s bar was framed as a “inspiring story of a self-made man,” while my time working there was treated like a criminal record. “Anyway, I’ve got to get in there,” Brooke said, smoothing her silk dress. “You probably shouldn’t come back in. Your perfume is a little… drugstore. It might ruin the vibe.” 3. I had known about Brooke since the day I started dating Nate. He was the golden boy of the Economics department—tall, handsome, and brilliantly sharp. It was only natural that girls like Brooke would hover around him. At the time, I wasn’t threatened. I was young and naive enough to believe that being the “pretty one” was an invincible shield. And I was pretty. I took after my mother, a B-list actress who had retired from the screen to marry my father. I had her bone structure and her haunting, cinematic eyes. When Nate first accepted my advances, he told me, “You’re breathtaking. I noticed you the second I walked into that bar.” He was my first real love. I was all in. I wanted every second of his time, but he could never give it to me. He had classes, student council, and three different part-time jobs. He was fiercely, stubbornly proud. He never talked about his family, and he never applied for financial aid, but the frayed cuffs of his shirts and his thrift-store shoes told the story of his poverty. To spend more time with him, I started sitting in on his lectures. I helped him with student events. I worked side-by-side with him at my dad’s bar. Because I was always there, hustling for tips and wearing off-brand clothes to blend in, he assumed I was just like him—a girl from the wrong side of the tracks trying to scrape together enough for tuition. The closer we got, the harder it became to tell him the truth. I kept waiting for the “right moment,” but that moment kept getting pushed further away by his pride and my fear of losing the connection we shared. 4. As graduation approached, Nate became a ghost of himself. He was juggling his own thesis, ghostwriting papers for wealthy slackers to make extra cash, and dealing with constant, frantic calls from his parents. They had just had another baby—a “miracle” child that Nate saw only as another mouth he would have to feed. I overheard a call once. His mother’s voice was thin and shrill through the receiver. “You’re the eldest son, Nate. The whole family is counting on you to bring us into the light. Once you graduate, we expect five hundred a month. Don’t go wasting your money on girls. Stay frugal. Your father and I have sacrificed everything for this day.” After those calls, Nate would spiral into a dark, suffocating silence. He would stare at me—or through me—with a look of profound resentment. He started spending more time with Brooke. She was “recruiting” clients for his ghostwriting business, acting as his gatekeeper to the wealthy students. I tried to cheer him up. I bought him a high-end leather briefcase and a designer watch for his upcoming interviews. I thought he’d be happy. Instead, his face contorted with anger. “Where did you get the money for this, Tracy?” Before I could answer, Brooke walked up, eyeing the gifts with a sneer. “Oh, Nate, look at the stitching. They’re obviously knockoffs from a street corner. Those girls who work the lounges always buy fake luxury to make themselves feel ‘high-end.’ It’s a classic status play.” Nate’s eyes turned cold. I could see the wheels turning in his head. If I told him they were real, he’d assume I’d earned the money in some illicit, shameful way. “If you don’t like them, I’ll just return them,” I whispered, my heart breaking. 5. When people are under immense pressure, they look for an outlet. During those final weeks, Nate’s physical affection for me turned into something desperate and almost violent. He was obsessed with me in a way that felt like he was trying to reclaim something he was losing. I mistook that desperation for passion. I thought it meant he loved me. Then came that afternoon at the motel. The “honest man” comment. “What exactly is ‘a girl like me’?” I had asked him, standing there shivering in the cold AC. He looked me up and down, his gaze stripped of all tenderness. “Girls like you. From some backwater town, clawing your way up, using your body as your only collateral.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “You think I’m… selling myself? After all this time, that’s what you think of me?” I realized then that all the “firsts” I had given him—moments I thought were sacred—were, in his eyes, just cheap, used-up scraps. The irony was sickening. I walked out. I sent the breakup text. I moved on. Or so I thought, until a floor runner burst into my office four years later. “Ms. Rosemary, there’s a fight in Lounge 512. Guests are getting violent.” 6. I sprinted toward the VIP wing, barking orders at the runner. “Don’t call the police yet. Let me see if I can de-escalate. If things get out of hand, hit the silent alarm for security.” The runner looked terrified. “Shouldn’t we call the owner? Or at least the bouncers? You going in there alone is dangerous.” “It’s fine,” I said, my voice steady. “I know the people involved. They aren’t that brave.” I threw open the doors to 512. Nate was huddled in the corner, clutching his forehead, blood seeping through his fingers. Shards of a crystal tumbler were scattered across the floor. Before I could say a word, Xavier Knight stood up, smoothing his Italian suit jacket. He looked at me with the most indignant, “who, me?” expression I had ever seen. “Tracy, I swear, I didn’t want to cause a scene,” Xavier said, sounding like a victim. “But I couldn’t sit here and listen to their filth anymore. If I’d known these were the kind of people I was dealing with, I never would have agreed to this meeting.” He stepped over the glass toward me. “My schedule didn’t even have this on it. An old partner begged me to meet this ‘rising star,’ and since it was at your place, I thought, why not? But let the record show: it was self-defense. I’m not the aggressor here.” Nate let out a strangled groan from the corner. “Self-defense? You hit me with a glass! I didn’t even touch you!” Brooke jumped in, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You! You’re the manager, right? Do your job! We paid for this room to conduct business, and our guest was assaulted. You are liable for this!” Xavier suddenly stepped closer to me, his tone shifting to something soft and almost whiny. “Honey, they were talking shit about you. They were dragging your name through the mud, and I just… I lost it. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a mess at your work.”

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I accidentally ruined the designer beanbag chair his new girlfriend had bought. To make it up to her—to soothe her performative pout—my father shoved my mother inside the oversized velvet slipcover while she was pleading for my sake. He didn’t just zip it shut; he took a heavy upholstery needle and stitched the opening closed, a twisted game to prove a point. While he and the woman laughed and flirted in the bedroom, I crawled across the hardwood, my small fingers frantically searching for a zipper tab that wasn’t there. My mother’s muffled pleas grew faint, then died into a terrifying silence. I hammered on my father’s door, sobbing, but his voice came through the wood, sharp and impatient: “It’s just a damn slipcover, Daisy. Your mother is a grown woman. If she wants out, she’ll find a way out. Stop being dramatic.” The security detail held me back. I was forced to watch as the shape inside the velvet stopped struggling. Five days later, on my birthday, my father returned. He tossed a cheap, generic teddy bear at me, his face a mask of irritation. “I ended things with her. I hope your mother is happy now. Tell her to quit hiding and get out here.” I pointed at the heavy beanbag he was sitting on, my voice a hollow whisper. “Mommy is bleeding.” 1 I stayed curled against the velvet, huddled in the ghost of my mother’s presence for two days until the gnawing in my stomach became unbearable. I finally crept out to find food. Joe, the neighborhood security guard, was at the gate. He started to wave, but as I drew closer, his face twisted into a mask of confusion and disgust. “Kiddo? What’s that… what’s that smell? And where’s your mom?” I took his hand and pulled him toward the silent, cold house. I pointed to the beanbag in the center of the living room. “Mommy’s trapped. She can’t get out.” Joe muttered something under his breath about “rich people and their sick games,” but when he stepped closer to the chair, the color drained from his face. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own boots. The velvet had sagged, taking on the unmistakable, gruesome silhouette of a human form. The air was thick with the stench of decay. Joe lunged forward, shielding my eyes with one hand while his other trembled as he reached for his radio. “This… this is a crime scene,” he choked out. I didn’t understand. To me, Mommy was just resting. She had spoken to me only two days ago. Joe carried me outside, running past the neighbors who were out walking their dogs or checking their mail. They recoiled from us, whispering behind manicured hedges. “I heard David brought some trophy girl home last week. Claire hasn’t been seen since.” “Typical. She had no family, no safety net. She probably just took the abuse to keep the lifestyle. For the sake of the money.” “Poor kid. Look at her. Abandoned in that mansion with no one to even give her a bath.” Joe’s tears were hot on my face. He kept whispering “God forgive them” as he handed me over to Mrs. Gable, the woman who lived in the townhouse behind ours. Then he ran back to his post to call the police. I leaned against Mrs. Gable’s shoulder, watching my house grow smaller. She cried as she scrubbed the grime and the smell of death from my skin. She made me a sandwich, and I ate half, tucking the other half into my pocket. “Daisy, honey,” she said, her voice breaking. “You don’t have to save food. There’s plenty.” I shook my head. “Mommy hasn’t eaten in days. I have to bring her something.” Mrs. Gable dropped her fork. She pulled me into a hug so tight I could hear her heart thudding, and she sobbed into my hair. “Those monsters. Those absolute monsters.” I didn’t cry. Mommy was waiting. She was the only one who ever truly loved me. I wouldn’t leave her behind. But when I returned home, the beanbag was gone. The house was swarming with men in dark windbreakers with “POLICE” stenciled in yellow. Joe was there too, wiping his eyes. I walked up to him and handed him the squashed half of my sandwich. “Don’t cry, Joe. I’ll be good.” Joe’s hand shook as he took the bread. He turned to one of the detectives. “Look at her. Look at this child. What happens to her now?” A detective knelt in front of me, his expression soft but his eyes hard with repressed anger. “Daisy, where is your father?” I shook my head. “He left with the pretty lady. He hasn’t come back.” The detective’s hand on my shoulder trembled. I looked past him. “Can I see Mommy now? The food is getting cold. She has a sensitive stomach; she needs it warm.” The room went silent. Every officer looked at me with the same devastating pity. The detective lowered his head, his shoulders shaking. After a long time, he looked up and whispered, “Sweetheart… do you have any other family? Anyone at all?” I nodded. Two days ago, before the silence took her, Mommy had whispered a string of numbers to me. Over and over. A phone number. I took the detective’s phone and dialed. It picked up on the second ring—a deep, authoritative voice. “So, you finally remembered you have a father? It took you long enough to call…” I interrupted him, my voice small. “Are you my Grandpa?” 2 Grandpa was out of the country. He wouldn’t reach the city until tomorrow at the earliest. Mrs. Gable tried to take me home with her, but the police insisted on reaching my father first. When they finally got him on the line and explained the situation, I heard his voice crackle through the speaker—derisive and cold. “I checked it myself. It was a slipcover, for God’s sake. Claire has nails like talons; if she wanted out, she would have clawed through the fabric.” I pulled on Joe’s sleeve and whispered, “It wasn’t normal fabric.” The detective had told Joe earlier—the slipcover was industrial-grade, puncture-resistant synthetic velvet. It was designed to be indestructible. Even with a knife, it would have been a struggle. And with the zipper teeth intentionally jammed with adhesive, she never stood a chance. My father must have heard me. He let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Daisy, stop it. I know your mother coached you to say this. It’s pathetic.” Joe tried to argue, but my father cut him off. “This is the last time I’m dealing with this drama. I’m at an awards gala with Tiffany. If you keep helping Claire lie to the police, I’ll have your contract terminated the second I get back.” He hung up. Joe cursed under his breath, and the police allowed Mrs. Gable to take me for the night. But in the middle of the night, I slipped out of her guest bed. I climbed through a window and walked back to my house. It still smelled like Mommy’s perfume. I curled up on the rug in the foyer and fell into a dreamless sleep. I woke up to the sound of the front door slamming. My father was standing over me, looking haggard and furious. “I broke up with Tiffany. Are you happy now? Is your mother finally satisfied?” He spat the words at me, then tossed the same ragged teddy bear from before at my feet. “There. Happy birthday. Now, where is she? Why is the house a mess?” I didn’t answer. I just pointed to the spot on the floor where the beanbag had been. “Mommy bled a lot.” He scoffed, but then he saw it—a dark, brownish stain on the expensive hardwood where the fluids had pooled and seeped. He jumped back, his face contorting. “Stop it, Daisy. You probably spilled some juice or used some animal blood to freak me out. Your mother is fine. Tiffany told me she bought a standard beanbag. It’s impossible to suffocate in one of those.” He knew. He knew what it was, and he had still sewn her in. I stared at the stain. I remembered the detectives using words like “excruciating” and “asphyxiation.” I felt a sudden, sharp heat in my chest. I lunged at him, hitting his legs with my small fists. “Bad daddy! Give her back! Give Mommy back!” He had never had patience for me. He snarled, swinging his arm to shove me away. “Knock it off!” The force of his strike sent me flying. I crashed into someone entering the house behind him. A woman shrieked, clutching her stomach as she stumbled. It was Tiffany. She looked at my father with watery, manipulative eyes. “David… I’m pregnant. I came back to tell you. Are you really going to throw me away?” The fury on my father’s face vanished, replaced by a look of manic joy. He kicked me aside to get to her, hovering over her stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been miserable all night.” Tiffany gave a demure smile, but then she winced, pressing her hand harder against her belly. “The doctor said the first trimester is fragile. When Daisy hit me just now… it really hurt, David.” Without a word, my father turned and backhanded me. Stars exploded in my vision. My ears rang with a high-pitched whine. Tiffany pretended to look concerned, but the corners of her mouth were twitching upward. I remembered that smile. It was the same smile she wore the day they sewed Mommy in. She had leaned down and whispered in my ear: “Your mother can’t win against me. And neither can you.” I forced myself to stand, staring at her. She let out another tiny whimper. “David, maybe this is a mistake. Look at the way she’s looking at me. I’m scared of what she’ll do to our baby.” My father’s face turned purple. He unbuckled his leather belt. The belt lashed across my arms and legs. I screamed, begging for him to stop. But the more I screamed, the harder he swung. He started yelling toward the second floor: “Claire! Do you hear this? If you don’t come out right now, I’m going to beat this brat half to death!” But Mommy couldn’t answer him. He raised the belt again, but a thunderous voice shattered the air from the doorway. “Stop! Drop that belt right now!” 3 Joe came charging in, pulling me into his arms, shielding me with his own body. “David, for God’s sake, she’s a child! Are you trying to kill her too?” My father lowered the belt, chest heaving. “Joe, you’re fired. Get out of my house. Now.” “Fire me. I don’t care,” Joe shouted, pointing a finger at Tiffany. “This woman brought that death trap into this house. That fabric was reinforced—Claire never had a chance. My biggest regret is letting her in that gate.” Joe was sobbing. My father remained cold, a statue of denial. “Tiffany is kind. She’s gentle. She’s nothing like Claire and her pathetic mind games. My daughter is my business. Get out.” He shoved Joe toward the door and turned back to me, the veins in his neck bulging. Tiffany sat on a small side chair, watching with a satisfied smirk as my father grabbed me by the collar, dragging me from room to room, searching for my mother. The collar choked me. He was screaming her name now, his voice cracking, looking for her in closets, under beds, in the pantry. When he found nothing, he pulled out his phone and dialed her number. A ringtone began to play in the living room. My father found her phone under the sofa. He looked at the lock screen—a photo of the three of us from years ago. We were all smiling. For a second, his resolve flickered. He rubbed his eyes, then knelt in front of me, gripping my shoulders too hard. “Daisy. Where. Is. She?” Tiffany started to speak, but the doorbell rang again. Two detectives entered, carrying a small, heavy box. Their eyes immediately landed on my bruised, bleeding skin. “Are you the father?” the lead detective asked, his voice like ice. My father stared at them, then started to laugh. He pinched my arm hard and looked at the officers. “Claire is good. I’ll give her that. Hiring actors to come to the house? Brilliant.” He shoved me toward them. “I’m not her father. I’m just an actor she hired, just like you. If you see her, tell her she owes me for the overtime.” The detectives looked at him with utter confusion. Then they looked at me. After a long silence, I spoke. “He’s not my daddy.” My father died the day Mommy did. The detectives sighed, looking pained. They handed the small box to me. “Sweetheart, these are your mother’s ashes. We will get her justice. We promise.” I clutched the box to my chest. It was cold, but I imagined I could feel her warmth through the wood. After they left, I walked out to the garden alone. I wanted to bury her here, among the flowers she loved. She always told me that when she and Dad were starting with nothing, his first gift to her was a rosebush he’d planted himself. He used to tell her that as long as the roses bloomed, he’d be by her side. Now, he had discarded us for a woman and a lie. My tears hit the dirt as I dug. The soil was loose. I pulled something out—a handmade doll. It had Mommy’s birthday written on it in black ink. And it was stuck full of sewing needles. “I knew it,” a sharp voice snapped behind me. I turned to see Tiffany clutching her stomach, sinking to the grass. She pointed at the doll in my hand, her voice shrill. “I knew I felt a curse! She’s trying to kill my baby from the grave!” 4 “But this doll has Mommy’s birthday on it…” Before I could finish, my father’s hand clamped over my mouth. His face was a mask of iron. He didn’t even look at the doll. “Claire, you’re a monster.” “You couldn’t give me a son, so you try to kill Tiffany’s? I can’t believe I ever loved a woman so vile.” He glared at me. “And I can’t believe I fathered this little brat.” He snatched the urn from my hands and hurled it against the ground. I screamed—a sound that didn’t feel like it came from a child—as I watched the grey dust scatter like rain over the dying roses. Without Mommy to water them, they were wilting, just like everything else in this house. “Pathos. Is she really cursing herself now? What kind of actress commits this hard?” my father muttered, looking at the empty box. Tiffany let out another cry. She had moved the needle-stuck doll so it sat right next to my hand. “David, it hurts… I’ve never done anything to her, but she hates me. She hates our son!” My father abandoned the urn and gathered Tiffany into his arms. “Don’t cry. You’re the most important thing in this family now. No one will touch you.” Tiffany smiled. She ground her designer heel into the dirt, mixing Mommy’s ashes with the mud. Then she picked up the doll and whispered something into my father’s ear. He hesitated, then nodded. Tiffany took my hand—her grip was like a vice—and led me into the house. I was numb. I was still thinking about the ashes in the dirt. Then, a sharp, white-hot pain flared in my palm. My father and Tiffany held me down. They took the needles from the doll and began to drive them into my hands. “Tell us where she is, Daisy! Stop the games!” my father roared, pushing a needle into my skin. Tiffany was worse. She drove a long steel pin under my fingernail. As I shrieked in agony, she leaned in, her breath smelling of peppermint and malice. “Your mother deserved it. She was in my way. And you’re just a nuisance. Join her, or learn to serve me. Those are your only choices.” I couldn’t take it anymore. I lunged forward and bit down on her ear as hard as I could. Tiffany screamed, a raw, ugly sound. It took my father slamming my jaw shut to make me let go. Her ear was a jagged, bloody mess. I looked at her with a cold, hollow satisfaction. My father looked at me as if I were a demon. “What did she turn you into?” I looked at him, slowly pulling the needles out of my hands, one by one. “Mommy only taught me to love you,” I said. “But you killed her. You aren’t my daddy anymore.” “When my Grandpa gets here, he’s going to destroy you.” My father froze for a second, then burst into a jagged laugh. “Grandpa? Daisy, your mother was a nobody from a backwater town. She had no family. She had no one but me.” His eyes turned dark and predatory. He dragged me to the corner of the room and tied my wrists to a radiator pipe. Then he went to the hall closet and pulled out a baseball bat. “Let’s see how long your mother can watch this.” The first blow hit my ribs. The world went white. Through the haze of pain, I saw Mommy. She was smiling at me. “Mommy… are you here to take me home?” I whispered. Something warm and metallic leaked from the corner of my mouth. My father hesitated, the bat trembling in his hand. He reached out to touch me, but a massive hand caught his wrist and twisted. I was lifted into a pair of strong, trembling arms. A voice, deep and resonant with ancient fury, boomed through the house. “My daughter is dead, and you think I will let you touch her child?”

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I grew up in the shadow of a girl named Hannah. We were the kind of “best friends” people tell stories about—the boy next door and the girl who shared his every secret. But to get into the good graces of my roommate, Logan, she did the unthinkable. She got me drunk, tucked me into bed, and locked the bedroom door from the outside. By the time I clawed my way out of sleep, my phone was a graveyard of unanswered calls. I had missed my Multivariable Calculus final. My GPA, my standing, my future—all of it felt like it was slipping through my fingers. … Around noon, she finally showed up. She was carrying a box from the local patisserie, the one that made the dark chocolate mousse she knew I couldn’t resist. “It’s just one exam, Nate,” she said, her voice airy, as if she were talking about a missed bus. “College isn’t a real experience unless you fail a class or have a messy breakup. You’re too high-strung.” “I missed the final, Hannah. I sat in a locked room while the clock ran out.” “I’m so sorry. It’s a habit, locking the door when I head out. And my phone was on Do Not Disturb for a departmental meeting.” She swung the box in front of my face, a playful pout on her lips. “To make it up to you, I got the good stuff. You can just take a make-up exam later. It’s not a tragedy.” I stared at her. This was the face that had occupied the center of my universe for fifteen years, the face I had seen in every dream of my future. But looking at her now, the image was blurring. “Did you trap me here for Logan?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Her smile faltered. It didn’t vanish, but it turned brittle. That was all the answer I needed. “Hannah, you’d really do anything for him, wouldn’t you? Even if it meant breaking me.” I felt a hollow ache in my chest, a physical need to get away from her. I turned to leave, but she grabbed my sleeve, her eyes suddenly frantic. “Nate, listen. You’re brilliant. You’ve had the Presidential Scholarship for two years straight. Just let Logan have this one win. If he gets the top mark this semester, his resume will actually look decent for the fall recruiting cycle. He needs this more than you do.” The honesty was more devastating than the lie. I closed my eyes and took a long, jagged breath. “Hannah, stay out of my life. I’m blocking you.” The cake box hit the floor with a dull thud. The mousse inside probably turned into a smeared mess, but I didn’t look back. I dragged myself back to the dorm, exhaustion weighing down my bones. Just as I threw myself onto my bed, my phone buzzed. A banking notification. Hannah had transferred $2,000 to my account. The memo read: Logan says the scholarship you’re worried about is worth a grand. Here’s two. He gets the honors, you get the cash. Everyone wins. Please stop being mad. They had known each other for exactly one week, and she was already calling him by pet names, protecting his ego like it was her job. I had known her for fifteen years, and she still treated me like a safety net she could cut whenever she needed more slack. That’s the difference between love and whatever it was she felt for me. For a decade and a half, I had been running toward her. My family had nothing, so I studied until my eyes bled just to keep up with her, just to get into the same university, just to be in the same city. I refused to believe she couldn’t feel the weight of my devotion. But she thought my dignity had a price tag. Those two thousand dollars felt like a public execution. I started laughing. It was a sharp, ugly sound. I suppose when the heart finally shatters, the only thing left to do is find the humor in the wreckage. I transferred every cent back to her account. My mind drifted back to a few weeks ago, to a casual FaceTime call we’d had. Logan had walked into the background of my frame, shirtless and grinning. Hannah’s eyes had lit up instantly. She hung up on me without a word and sent a flurry of texts. Nate, who was that guy? He looks like a literal Abercrombie model. Why haven’t you introduced me? I remember staring at the screen, my hands going cold. That’s Logan. He’s in my program. He moved in this semester because he didn’t get along with his old roommates. I need his number. Now. Don’t be a gatekeeper. She’d phrased it as a joke, but I couldn’t breathe. I never gave her the number, but Hannah’s aunt was a dean in the humanities department. Within forty-eight hours, she’d tracked Logan down. When Hannah wanted something, she was a force of nature. For the next week, she vanished from my life, too busy on marathon phone calls with Logan to check if I was still breathing. Our dorm room became a personal purgatory. Every night, I heard them—the hushed whispers, the suggestive giggles, the sound of a romance blooming on the other end of a speakerphone. Each word was a needle under my fingernails. They talked until two, three in the morning. I’d lie there, staring at the dark ceiling, the acid rising in my throat. One night, unable to sleep, I turned on my desk lamp to try and focus on my thesis. Logan let out a heavy, theatrical sigh. He threw on a hoodie and stomped out of the room. A moment later, I heard his voice echoing in the hallway, muffled but clear. “I don’t know what his problem is, Han. He’s acting out. Turning on the lights at 1 AM just to flex how much he studies. He doesn’t care that people are trying to sleep.” A pause. “I don’t know how you’re friends with him. He’s like a robot. No personality, just textbooks and silence. I’m a human being, you know? I can’t compete with a machine that doesn’t sleep. He’s been top of the class for two years, and I’m sick of being the runner-up because I actually have a life.” I sat there, stunned by the sheer audacity of it. He was the one keeping the room awake with his flirting, yet somehow, I was the villain. I didn’t want a fight. I clicked off the lamp, climbed back into bed, and shoved my earplugs in so deep they hurt. The sound of footsteps and laughter pulled me back to the present. Logan was back, flanked by our other roommates, Tyler and Jordan. “Man, that steak was incredible. Thanks for the treat, Logan,” Tyler said, patting his stomach. “I still don’t get Nate,” Jordan added, shaking his head. “The guy lives in the library, then just… doesn’t show up for the biggest exam of the year? There goes his 4.0. Looks like the King is dead. Congrats on the top spot, Logan. Long time coming.” “Stop, guys, you’re embarrassing me,” Logan said, though his voice was dripping with smug satisfaction. They walked into the room and froze when they saw me sitting on my bed. The air turned thick with awkwardness. “Oh… hey, Nate,” Tyler said, breaking the silence. “Where were you today? We missed you at the exam.” Before I could speak, Logan’s phone chimed. He looked at the screen, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He hit play on the voice note. “Logan, is Nate with you? I think he’s actually upset. Tell him we’re all getting lunch tomorrow. We need to clear the air.” Logan looked at me, his eyes dancing with malice. “Did you hear that? My girlfriend wants to take you to lunch.” The word girlfriend felt like a serrated blade across my chest. I actually flinched. “I’m not going,” I said, my voice tight. He tilted his head back, looking down his nose at me. “If you don’t go, how are we supposed to ‘clear the air’?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “You spent the night at my girlfriend’s place. Just the two of you. Don’t you think I deserve an explanation? Or are you just going to keep pining after her like a pathetic loser? Is that why you wouldn’t give me her number? You wanted her all to yourself?” “Say something!” The room went silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tyler nudge Jordan. They slipped into their chairs, backs turned, desperate to disappear from the confrontation. I felt the blood drain from my face. My head spun, and a cold sweat broke out across my forehead. They hadn’t made it official until now. I thought they were still in the “talking” phase. That’s why, when Hannah invited me over for her birthday, I had been stupid enough to hope. I had asked her, Is Logan coming? No, she had said. Just the two of us. A quiet celebration. I had dressed up. I had bought her a gift I couldn’t afford. I had planned to finally tell her how I felt, to ask her to choose. She had cooked a massive dinner. She kept pouring the wine. Before I could even get the words out, the world started tilting. I felt heavy, drugged. She told me to sleep it off in the guest room. I trusted her. I never saw the lock on the door. Logan saw my silence as a confession. He sneered, a look of pure disgust on his face. “Using ‘friendship’ as a cover to try and sleep with someone else’s girl… you’re a special kind of low-life, Nate.” My throat tightened. I wanted to scream, to tell him what she’d done, but the words died in my throat. Tears blurred my vision, and I couldn’t let him see me break. I bolted for the door. As the door slammed behind me, I heard him talking into his phone. “Hey, babe. I tried, but he’s being a prick. He won’t come.” I ran until my lungs burned, the tears finally spilling over. He was right about one thing. I was pathetic.

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Winter break was coming up, and my Aunt Teresa called me with a “suggestion.” She told me to cancel my Amtrak ticket and just hitch a ride with my Uncle David. “Money is tight these days, Riley,” she’d said, her voice dripping with practiced maternal concern. “Why waste a couple hundred bucks on a train? Save where you can. Besides, it’ll be faster.” I fell for it. I trusted her. Instead of a smooth four-hour train ride, I spent eighteen agonizing hours crawling through a blizzard-induced gridlock on I-95. By the time we finally pulled into my parents’ driveway, my bones felt like glass and my head was thumping. I reached for the door handle, desperate to escape the cramped backseat, but the locks didn’t click. Teresa turned around in the passenger seat, her eyes sharp and expectant. “So, honey, that’ll be a thousand dollars.” I froze, my hand still hovering over the latch. “Aunt Teresa? I thought you said you were just giving me a lift since you were heading this way anyway.” She didn’t even blink. Her expression remained perfectly composed, as if she were reciting a weather report. “We were giving you a lift, yes. But we never said it was free.” “Look at the trip we just had,” she continued, gesturing vaguely at the windshield. “Gas, tolls, the wear and tear on the SUV… it adds up. And don’t forget, when we were stuck at that rest stop in Jersey, I bought you that twelve-dollar corn dog. Honestly, a thousand is a steal.” I nearly laughed out of pure, hysterical spite. My train ticket had been two hundred and forty dollars. Even if I’d taken an Uber to and from the stations, I wouldn’t have cracked three hundred. David sat behind the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, tapping his fingers impatiently on the leather. “Come on, Riley. We’ve got places to be. Just Venmo her.” The locks stayed engaged. I felt like a hostage in my own driveway. With a shaking thumb, I opened the app and transferred the thousand dollars—practically my entire semester’s savings. Click. The doors finally unlocked. I dragged my suitcase out, the cold air hitting my face, but it didn’t cool the white-hot anger simmering in my chest. Once I got inside and slumped onto my bed, the injustice of it started to itch under my skin. I picked up my phone. “Hey, Nana?” “Hi, sweetheart! Are you home? I can’t wait to see you for the New Year’s dinner!” I swallowed hard, my voice trembling. “Nana… I don’t think I can make it this year. I’m probably just going to stay home.” 1 Nana’s voice sharpened instantly. “What? Riley, what happened? You were so excited to come over. Did something go wrong at school?” A lump formed in my throat. I tried to keep my voice level, but the hurt was leaking through. “It’s nothing, Nana. It’s just… money is a little tight right now. I realized I don’t really have enough to buy everyone gifts, and I’d feel terrible showing up empty-handed.” “Rubbish!” Nana cut me off. “Your presence is the only gift I care about. Since when do you worry about buying us things? Tell me the truth, Riley. Who upset you?” Under her relentless, grandmotherly interrogation, the whole story came pouring out. I told her about the canceled ticket, the eighteen hours of traffic, and the thousand-dollar “fee” at the finish line. The line went silent for a few beats. Then, I heard the low, dangerous hum of Nana’s temper. “The absolute nerve of those two,” she hissed. Then, her voice softened just as quickly. “Riley, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve heard enough.” “Nana, it’s fine, it’s just—” “It is not about the money, Riley. It’s about the principle. It’s about how we treat family. You leave this to me. I’ll make sure you get that thousand dollars back, and when you come over on New Year’s Eve, I’m giving you a massive ‘stress-relief’ bonus myself. Now, go get some sleep.” Hanging up, I felt a tiny bit of the weight lift. I headed downstairs where my parents were waiting. My dad grabbed my suitcase while my mom pulled me into a suffocating hug. “My God, you must be exhausted. Eighteen hours? I told David the train was better, but he insisted.” I forced a weak smile. “I’m okay, Mom. Just… a little broke.” “Broke?” They both paused, looking at me with concern. “What do you mean? Did you lose your wallet?” I shook my head and looked them in the eye. “Teresa charged me a thousand dollars for the ride. I had to give her almost all of my scholarship money just to get out of the car.” The living room went dead silent. “What?” My dad’s brow furrowed into a deep V. “A thousand dollars? For a carpool? David… he actually went along with that? Are you sure you didn’t mishear her?” My mom’s face transformed. It wasn’t shock; it was a cold, hard realization. “David wouldn’t have the guts to come up with that on his own. It’s her. It’s Teresa.” She turned to my dad, her voice vibrating with fury. “Mark, I told you when they got married—that woman has dollar signs where her soul should be. Charging her own niece for a ride home? It’s predatory.” My dad was still struggling to process it. “But even if it was her idea… David is her uncle. How could he just sit there?” They went back and forth, their anger building with every sentence. “No,” my mom said, pacing the rug. “We aren’t letting this slide. Riley worked her tail off for that scholarship. She isn’t subsidizing Teresa’s new handbag.” My dad nodded, his expression grim. “You’re right. This isn’t just about the cash. If we let them do this now, what’s next? We need to have a word.” They reached a consensus within minutes. My mom pulled out her phone and dialed David. “Hey, Dave! Are you guys settled in? Listen, we haven’t seen you two in ages. Why don’t we do a nice family dinner tonight? Our treat.” I could hear David’s voice on the other end, sounding hesitant. “Oh, hey, Sarah. Tonight’s tough, you know? End of the year, lots of errands, we’re pretty wiped…” My dad stepped in, leaning toward the speaker. “Come on, Dave! Even busy people have to eat. We already booked a table at The Sterling. I hear their dry-aged steaks are incredible.” There was a two-second beat of silence. At the mention of the most expensive steakhouse in the city, David’s tone flipped like a switch. “The Sterling? Oh… well, if you’ve already got the reservation… let me talk to Teresa. Yeah, okay, we’ll be there at seven!” 2 Seven o’clock arrived, and the restaurant was glowing with holiday lights and the scent of expensive bourbon. We had been seated for ten minutes when David and Teresa strolled in. Teresa was dressed to the nines, clutching a brand-new designer tote. She scanned the opulent dining room with a predatory sort of glee before plastering a bright smile on her face. “Sarah! Mark! You guys really shouldn’t have,” she cooed, sliding into the leather booth. “This place is just magnificent.” David followed her, looking slightly more sheepish. He caught my eye for a split second before looking down at his menu. As the appetizers arrived—delicate plates of tuna tartare and wagyu sliders—the conversation stayed light. My dad poured David a glass of heavy red wine, chatting about work and the holidays. After a few drinks, David started to loosen up. He sighed, leaning back. “I’ll tell you, Mark, the economy is killing me this year. Business is slow, expenses are up.” “I hear you,” my dad said smoothly, taking a sip of his water. “Costs are rising everywhere. That’s why the kids love the train so much. Amtrak is quick, easy, and honestly, it’s usually cheaper than driving.” “Like Riley,” my mom added, her voice conversational but sharp. “Her ticket was only two-hundred-something. Even with a couple of Ubers, she would’ve been home for under three hundred bucks. So much simpler.” David’s smile faltered. His fork hovered over a slider. “Yeah… yeah, the train is fine, I guess…” Teresa gave him a sharp nudge under the table. She beamed at my mom. “Well, Sarah, driving is just more flexible, isn’t it? You can pack what you want, leave when you want. It’s just the holiday traffic that’s the killer.” “We were miserable,” Teresa continued, oblivious to the trap being set. “Eighteen hours! I thought my back was going to snap.” “I know,” my mom said, putting her spoon down and looking Teresa directly in the eye. “Riley told me all about it. It sounds like quite an ordeal.” “Especially at that rest stop,” my mom continued. “I heard you even treated her to a corn dog? That was so sweet of you, Teresa. I told her she shouldn’t have let you pay.” Teresa’s smile froze. David cleared his throat. “It was just a corn dog, Sarah. No big deal.” “Right, no big deal,” my mom nodded. Then, as if it were a casual afterthought, she added, “Oh, but Riley also mentioned that right before she got out of the car, you charged her a thousand dollars.” “Gas and tolls, apparently? I’ve been trying to do the math in my head, but even with the worst traffic in history, a thousand dollars… it seems a bit steep, doesn’t it?” David’s face turned a deep, blotchy red. He set his wine glass down, his lips trembling as he searched for words. “Well… Sarah, look, the thing is… the expenses on the road…” “The expenses were high, I’m sure,” my dad interrupted, his voice losing its friendly edge. “But Riley is a student. She hitched a ride with family. Ordinarily, she’d be the one saying thank you. But a thousand dollars? I’d love to hear the breakdown on that. I’m always looking to learn about logistics.” Seeing David flounder, Teresa’s survival instincts kicked in. She straightened her posture and raised her voice. “Mark, don’t take that tone with us!” “Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a buck these days? We went out of our way to pick her up to save her money. Doesn’t gas cost money? Aren’t tolls expensive? What about the wear and tear on our vehicle? That’s an investment!” “It was the holidays! We spent our precious time sitting in that traffic. Is our time worth nothing? And that traffic was stressful! A thousand dollars is just a flat fee for the trouble. We barely broke even!” 3 She spoke with such frantic speed you’d think she was the victim of a grand heist. I decided it was time to pop her bubble. “To save me money?” I asked, my voice cutting through her rant. “Aunt Teresa, did you forget that you were the one who begged me to cancel my train ticket?” “You told me the train was a waste of money. You said Uncle David’s car would be faster and cheaper. I only did it because I believed you.” Teresa’s face went ghostly white. Her eyes darted toward David, who was now staring intently at a piece of broccoli as if it held the secrets to the universe. “And as for the gas and tolls,” I continued. “I checked the route on my phone. Even with the surge in holiday prices, the total cost for that trip is five hundred dollars, max. And that’s if you’re driving a tank.” “Plus,” I added, leaning in, “if you hadn’t insisted on getting off the highway for three hours to hit that designer outlet sale for your new bag, we wouldn’t have been caught behind that ten-car pileup. We wouldn’t have been stuck for eighteen hours at all.” “You… you little brat! What are you talking about?” Teresa’s finger was suddenly inches from my face. “That’s a lie! I never told you to cancel your ticket! You’re making things up because you’re grumpy from the car ride!” She turned to my parents, her face twisted into a mask of wounded dignity. “Sarah, Mark, look at her! Is this how you raised her? To slander her own family? We did her a favor, and now she’s vilifying us?” “That thousand dollars was a fair reimbursement! You can’t let a child dictate how adults handle their finances!” My dad’s face was now like thunder. My mom’s knuckles were white as she gripped her napkin. I looked at Teresa—at the way her lip curled in that ugly, greedy snarl—and I didn’t hesitate. I pulled my phone from my pocket. I tapped the screen a few times. I hit play and set it in the middle of the table. Teresa’s voice, bubbly and forced, filled the quiet space of the booth: “…Oh, Riley, honey, just cancel the Amtrak! It’s so overpriced. Money is so hard to come by these days, you have to be smart! Just hop in with your uncle, it’s basically just the cost of a little extra gas. It’s faster anyway! We’re family, we look out for each other. We’ll be at the dorm gate to pick you up!” “…Traffic? Don’t be silly! We’ll leave early and beat the rush. Trust me, Riley. Cancel the ticket!” The recording was short, but it hit like a gunshot. My dad’s eyes were burning as he looked at David. “Dave! Talk to me. Is the recording lying too?” David opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked like he was about to faint. “Okay, so maybe the kid misunderstood the ‘free’ part,” Teresa spat, her voice dropping the facade. “But what about the traffic? The bag? That’s all speculation!” “It’s not speculation,” I said calmly. “We can check the dashcam. Or we can just look at the timestamp on the receipt for that bag in your purse.” Teresa was trapped. Her face went from white to a sickly, mottled purple. David looked at me, and for a second, I saw it—a flash of pure, pathetic resentment. He wasn’t embarrassed that they’d scammed me; he was angry that I’d caught them. My dad pointed a shaking finger at Teresa. “Teresa, have you no shame? You looked this girl in the eye and lied to her just to pocket her scholarship money?” “She’s twenty years old! She stayed up until 3:00 AM every night to earn that money, and you thought you could just… snatch it?” 4 My mom’s eyes were brimming with tears—not of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated rage. “David, I’m your sister,” she whispered. “I have looked out for you since we were kids. When you were struggling in college, I sent you half my paycheck from my waitressing job so you could eat.” “When you bought your house and you were short on the down payment, Mark and I gave you twelve thousand dollars without asking for a single cent in interest. We never asked for anything in return! We did it because you’re my brother!” She took a ragged breath and turned to Teresa. “And you! Three years ago when you broke your leg, who was at your house every day for a month cleaning your floors and cooking your meals? When your mother needed surgery, who called every contact I had to find a specialist and fronted the deductible?” “We did those things because we loved you. And now, my daughter hitches a ride with you, and you think it’s an opportunity to shake her down?” “You invented ‘wear and tear’ fees to steal from your own niece? Do you even have a soul?” My mom’s words were like scalpels. David looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. Teresa, however, finally snapped. She dropped the “sweet aunt” act entirely. “Oh, spare me the history lesson, Sarah!” she shrieked, her voice drawing stares from the neighboring tables. “That was years ago! This is now! In the real world, people pay for services!” “Does the car run on magic? Do the tires not wear down? Is our time not worth a premium? Why should she get a free ride while we do all the work?” “A thousand dollars? Honestly, we’re still losing money on the deal! We suffered for eighteen hours! Who’s compensating us for our stress?” David muttered under his breath, “Sarah, look, Teresa’s a bit blunt, but she’s got a point. Things are tough for us. Riley’s an adult now. It’s time she learned that nothing in life is free.” My dad let out a dark, sharp laugh. “Nothing is free? David, this is extortion. You lured her into that car with a lie and then held her suitcase hostage for a thousand bucks.” “You two are unbelievable. Your skin is thicker than a brick wall.” “Watch your mouth, Mark!” Teresa was in full combat mode now, hands on her hips. “We provided a door-to-door service. You see what a private car service costs for a four-state trip? It’s more than a thousand, I’ll tell you that!” “You just want to freeload because we’re ‘family.’ Well, family doesn’t pay my mortgage!” “Freeload?” My mom’s voice was ice. “I have never seen someone so delusional.” “Teresa, I’m going to make this very simple. I don’t care about the money. But you are going to refund every single penny of that thousand dollars to Riley, right now.” “It’s not about the cash. It’s about the fact that you aren’t going to steal from my child.” “Refund? In your dreams!” Teresa screamed, nearly spraying her wine across the table. “The money is gone! It was a fee for service! You think you can just book a ride and then ask for your money back? Get real!” “That money is mine now! If anything, I should’ve charged fifteen hundred!” She was shaking with adrenaline, pointing her finger at my parents. “You think your daughter is so special? You think she’s too good to pay her way? You’re all just a bunch of users!” “I’m not giving back a cent. And you know what? You’re paying for this dinner, too. You invited us to a five-star restaurant to show off? Fine. Enjoy the bill!” She grabbed the bottle of red wine from the table, took a long, classless swig straight from the bottle, and smirked. “What are you gonna do about it? David’s my husband. He listens to me. You ‘family’ types are just easy marks.” She crossed her legs, swinging her heel back and forth in a victory dance. “The world belongs to people with money, Sarah. Not people with ‘feelings.’ You aren’t getting that grand back if God himself walked through that door.” Just as my parents were about to explode, the heavy oak door of the private dining area swung open with a soft thud.

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My brother has always had the pathological habit of reading my diary. To cure him of it once and for all, I decided to lean into his worst nightmare. I sat down and penned a masterpiece of pure fiction: “I think I’m falling for my brother. This forbidden pull… it’s agony, but I’m addicted to the pain of loving him.” The result? My brother looked like he was having a literal stroke. He spent the next forty-eight hours trying to build a metaphorical Berlin Wall between us. But just when he was about to lose his mind avoiding me, a pair of luxury SUVs pulled up to our driveway. A couple draped in old-money couture burst through our front door, threw their arms around him, and sobbed, “Oh, thank God! We finally found our son!” Me: ??? So… we aren’t actually related? In that case… does the stuff I wrote in the diary still count as a prank, or is it a prophecy? 1 For as long as I’ve had memories, Beckett Miller has been there. When I first learned to speak, his was the first name I called out. My dad loves to tell the story of how I said “Beck” before I even said “Dada,” like I’d been practicing the name in a past life. At my first birthday party, dozens of relatives tried to pass me around like a prize, but I wouldn’t have it. I screamed until my tiny fingers were wrapped firmly around Beckett’s thumb. I wouldn’t let go for anything. As far as brothers go, Beck was the gold standard. When I was six, I mistook a bottle of orange-scented dish soap for juice and ended up in the ER. Beck stayed by my hospital bed for two days straight. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep; he just sat there looking like a ghost, guarding me. When I was ten, I decided it was a good idea to try and ride the neighbor’s Golden Retriever across a busy street. My dad was halfway across the yard with a belt in his hand when Beck stepped in. He shielded me like a mother hen protecting a chick. Dad’s hand slipped and caught Beck across the face, but he didn’t even flinch. He just stood his ground. When I was fourteen, we were watching some teen drama where the main characters stole their birth certificates to run away and elope. Beck looked at my dad, genuinely curious. “Why would they bother stealing a piece of paper?” My dad laughed, leaning back in his recliner. “Because they wanted to get married, son. Getting married means putting both your names on the same legal documents forever.” By then, Beck was already pushing six feet, with that clean-cut, athletic look that made every girl in his high school class trip over their own feet when he walked by. He took in my dad’s words with a look of sudden, profound realization. “Oh, I get it,” Beck said seriously. “Then I should just marry Sloane.” My dad nearly choked on his beer. “Excuse me?” “Well,” Beck continued, completely unfazed, “our names are already on all the same papers. We’ve lived in the same house since she was born. It’s efficient.” My dad stared at him for a long beat, then slowly reached for the nearest throw pillow to hurl at Beck’s head. Beck ducked, laughing, and turned to me. “What do you think, Sloane? Makes sense, right?” I was young and naive, so I just nodded enthusiastically. “Whatever Beckett says is right!” My dad stopped mid-swing, sighed deeply, and muttered something about needing a stronger drink and a locked door for his daughter’s room. 2 Fast forward twenty-some years, and we were still the “perfect” siblings. At least, on the surface. Last week, Beck and I had a blowout fight because he wouldn’t “allow” me to go to a guy’s birthday party at a lake house. When he realized he was losing the argument, he did the unthinkable: he started quoting a private entry from my diary to mock my “immaturity.” That was the moment I realized the bastard had been snooping for years. I was so livid I kicked him in the shin and stormed upstairs. Sure, I had sneaked a peek at his journals a few times in high school, but I wasn’t a sociopath—I didn’t throw it in his face! I’d read his secrets under my covers and giggle to myself. He, on the other hand, was using my private thoughts as tactical weaponry. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted blood. To get my revenge, I went out and bought a brand-new journal—one with a pathetic little heart-shaped lock that I knew he could pick in seconds. I filled the first few pages with mundane nonsense about work and coffee. Then, I dropped the nuclear bomb. I wrote: “I’m a horrible person. How can I feel this way about my own brother? People say this kind of obsession is a sickness, that it’s immoral, and I know I should stop.” “But I can’t help it. Every time he looks at me, I feel like I’m suffocating. Maybe the internet is right—maybe we were meant for each other in another life…” To finish the masterpiece, I took a red felt-tip pen and drew a messy, dramatic heart right after the final period. Beckett didn’t disappoint. The next afternoon, he came into my room with a bowl of fruit, acting like a peace offering. He immediately saw the diary lying “accidentally” open on my desk. I watched from the crack in the door. He stood there for five seconds. Just five. Then, those long, familiar fingers reached out and expertly flipped the page. He had this smug, “I’m just checking on you” look on his face—the look of a man who thought he held all the cards. By the second line, his smugness didn’t just fade; it evaporated. His jaw dropped so hard I thought it might hit the floor. His fingers started trembling, the veins in his forehead popped, and his eyes went wide with pure, unadulterated horror. I stayed hidden, clutching my stomach to keep from howling with laughter. That’s what you get, you creep. 3 Beckett didn’t just leave the room; he practically teleported out of there. For a guy who’s six-three, he moved with the frantic, uncoordinated grace of a panicked rabbit. He didn’t even notice me standing in the hallway as he bolted past. He slammed into the bathroom, turned the faucet on full blast, and started splashing ice-cold water onto his face. When the splashing stopped, I strolled over and leaned against the doorframe. “Everything okay, Beck?” The silence from inside was deafening. After a long pause, his voice came out strained and shaky. “Fine. Everything’s fine.” “Okay,” I said airily. “I’m going back to my room then.” “Wait!” The door flew open. Beck stood there, water dripping from his chin, looking at me with an expression so complex it could have been a modern art piece. “Sloane… have you, uh… been seeing anyone lately? Like, is there someone you’re into?” I feigned total confusion. “Not really. I’m buried in my internship. Why would I have time for a boyfriend?” Beck went dead silent. He searched my face for what felt like an eternity, trying to see if I was lying. When he decided I was telling the truth, he let out a breath so heavy it sounded like a balloon deflating. He probably convinced himself the “brother” in the diary was some K-pop idol or a fictional character. I hid a smirk. “Anyway, I’m going to go read.” I turned around and “accidentally” let a book slip out of my bag and onto the floor. The title was printed in bold, unmistakable letters: The Step-Brother’s Secret. I heard Beck’s breath hitch. Then, I saw him literally press his fingers to the bridge of his nose as if trying to keep his brain from exploding. 4 He lunged for the book, snatching it off the floor before I could touch it. “Sloane! If I catch you reading this trashy, brain-rotting garbage again, I’m telling Mom!” he snapped, his voice cracking slightly. “Sure thing, Beck,” I said, playing the part of the dutiful sister. He huffed, turned on his heel, and ran upstairs. His retreat was anything but dignified. I was practically vibrating with silent laughter. To really twist the knife, I knew he’d be back for a “midnight inspection” of the diary. So, I added a few more lines: “Beck is avoiding me. Is he disgusted? Does he want to leave? What do I have to do to keep him by my side forever?” Then, the clincher: “108 Ways to Make Him Stay. I want us to be together for the rest of our lives, no matter what it takes…” I closed the book, went downstairs to heat up some milk, and when I came back, the journal had been moved exactly two inches to the left. Success. That night, around 2:00 AM, I heard a muffled groan from the room next door. “Oh God… I’m a monster… why me?” 5 The next morning, I tried to keep things normal. “Morning, Beck!” Beckett didn’t even look at me. He kept his head down, shoved past me, and practically sprinted to the kitchen. My dad watched him go, brow furrowed. “Did you two have another fight?” Before I could answer, Beck jumped up from his chair like it was electrified. “Dad, she’s her own person and I’m mine. Let’s stop lumping us together, okay?” My mom blinked, startled. “But you two are usually inseparable.” Beck’s face was a mask of grim seriousness. “Mom, we’re adults now. There should be boundaries. Space. Dignity.” He turned to me, his tone ice-cold. “Sloane, you hear me? Stop hovering. I have my own life to live, and so do you. Don’t follow me today.” I knew exactly what he was doing—the classic “distancing” maneuver. I just didn’t realize my fake diary entries had enough power to make my overprotective shadow of a brother want to file a restraining order. He finished his coffee in one gulp. “I’m out. See you.” As he walked to the door, he threw one last warning over his shoulder. “Do. Not. Follow. Me.” 6 For the next few days, Beckett treated me like I was radioactive. He left before I woke up and came home long after I was in bed. If we happened to cross paths in the living room, he’d stare at the wall as he walked past, refusing to acknowledge my existence. If it weren’t for the fact that I could still hear him pacing in his room at night, I would have thought he’d moved out. I decided I’d had my fun and it was time to come clean. But then, I realized my “prop”—the diary—was missing. I searched everywhere, but the little heart-locked book was gone. While I was tossing my room looking for it, my best friend called to invite me out to a bar. Usually, Beck would have a list of twenty reasons why I shouldn’t go, but today… I went downstairs and found him sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at a book. He looked miserable. “Hey, Beck. I’m going out with the girls tonight. Might stay over at Maya’s.” Beck’s hand tightened on the edge of his book. He didn’t look up. “Beck? Can I go?” It took a long time for him to answer. When he did, he forced a tight, brittle smile. “Why are you asking me? We should both have our own lives. I’m not your keeper.” His voice was quiet, hollow. “Really? Awesome! Bye, Beck!” I grabbed my purse and bolted. Beck didn’t say another word. He just let the fake smile drop and stared out the window into the twilight.

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