Category: English

The big three campus heartthrobs were currently putting a notorious “cheater” on blast on the student forum—a girl who had supposedly been two-timing all three of them simultaneously. I was sitting in the dining hall, casually sipping my iced latte and enjoying the spectacle, when a stream of glowing, transparent bullet comments suddenly began floating right across my field of vision. [The female lead is so delightfully real! Who else would think to steal her three childhood besties’ forum accounts just to prank her annoying roommate?] [I mean, yeah, the roommate ends up getting expelled later when things blow out of proportion, but it’s not like Ivy did it on purpose!] [Whatever, let Ivy baby have her fun for now! In a few weeks, when she realizes all three of her childhood friends fell in love with the roommate at first sight, she’s going to cry her eyes out.] [Can you blame them? It’s a classic angst-fest novel. The guys are going to suffer so bad during the groveling arc later. At least the roommate didn’t give them the time of day, so our girl’s men are still totally pure.] The very “Ivy baby” those comments were crying over was currently standing right in front of me, thrusting her phone directly into my face. “Shirley,” Ivy sneered, her voice dripping with artificial outrage. “This shameless slut on the forum… it’s you, isn’t it?” On her phone screen was a collage: three ridiculously handsome male faces surrounding a single, candid photo of a girl from behind. I blinked, contemplating my options for a brief second. I’d always considered myself a quiet, law-abiding student. But if three literal golden retrievers—or rather, three well-trained attack dogs—were walking right up to my porch, it would be a shame not to break out the leash. 01 Ivy had intentionally raised her voice. It was peak lunch hour, and half the dining hall paused, their eyes swiveling toward our table. Meeting Ivy’s malice-filled glare, I kept my expression entirely placid. “It’s a picture of the back of someone’s head, Ivy. What on earth makes you so sure it’s me?” I paused, letting a cool smile touch my lips. “Unless, of course, your own conscience is dirty, and you’re just trying to frame me first.” [Ivy is just young and mischievous, she doesn’t actually mean any harm to her roommate!] [Right? She only posted a blurry side-profile photo later on! If people recognized the roommate, it’s only because the girl dresses way too flashily.] [Ivy was so heartbroken when the three male leads scolded her for this the first time… Poor baby.] Ivy offered me a triumphant, nasty little grin. “Oh, so you think the back of your head isn’t enough proof? Fine. I’ll just have the three of them post the slut’s full-face photo right now, and we’ll see who the real shameless liar is!” Sensing immediate drama, the surrounding crowd started hooting, chanting for her to do it. Under the table, my hands clenched into tight fists. A flash of annoyance washed over me. I shouldn’t have let those stupid floating text boxes rile me up into calling Ivy out without a backup plan. If I stood up right now and accidentally “knocked” her phone out of her hand, would it look too deliberate? 02 I had barely shifted my weight to stand when I froze, settling right back into my seat. [Wait, what’s happening?! Why did the guys change all their account passwords? Ivy can’t log in!] I leaned back, resting my chin on my palm as I watched her with cool amusement. “Well? What’s the hold-up, Ivy? Did the thief get cold feet?” Ivy shot me a furious glare, snapping her head away as she pulled up her contacts. She dialed the first number. Hung up. She swallowed hard, forcing a bright, strained smile toward the crowd. “He’s… probably just in a lecture.” Second call. Hung up. Third call. Declined instantly. The color slowly drained from her face. She glared at me with pure hatred, her shoulders tense as she turned awkwardly to make a quick exit. Suddenly, a guy at the adjacent table shouted, “Holy crap, who’s got fingers that fast?! Someone just posted a video of this whole cafeteria confrontation on the forum!” Within two minutes, the campus forum exploded. Ivy had spent her entire freshman year broadcasting the fact that she grew up with the university’s top three golden boys—Matt, Denis, and Conrad. Because of that established narrative, the angry pitchforks on the thread immediately swung toward me. Seeing the tide turn, Ivy stopped retreating. She sauntered back, taking her seat with an air of delicate, high-nosed disgust. “Looks like everyone else can see right through you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Girls who rely on a pretty face never know how to stay in line. I know you come from some backward, dirt-poor town in the middle of nowhere, Shirley, but being broke doesn’t give you an excuse to be a two-timing parasite.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping into a faux-sympathetic purr. “If you’re really that desperate for cash, I know plenty of wealthy older gentlemen. Sure, they’re a bit up there in age, but they know how to take care of a young girl.” A few gullible bystanders in the cafeteria began snickering, whispering and pointing at me. The commentary grew uglier by the second. Ivy sat back like a prize-winning rooster, her chin tilted high. I glanced down at my phone screen, which had just lit up with a notification. Moments ago, the three private messages I’d dispatched through the forum’s back-end system had received their replies. 03 I held my phone up, flashing the screen toward Ivy. “Maybe you should take a look at the forum again,” I said softly, “before you start drafting your apology to me.” Ivy gave a dismissive scoff, scanning her own screen with casual disdain. In a fraction of a second, her smug expression shattered into pure, unadulterated shock. The screech that tore from her throat nearly cracked the dining hall windows. “That’s impossible!” The original thread outing the “cheater” had been wiped clean. In its place were three identical, newly pinned posts from the university’s three most elite accounts: [The previous post was the result of a lost dare. Please do not harass or speculate about innocent students. I offer my sincere apologies to Shirley Walsh for dragging her into this mess.] Ivy’s face turned an ugly shade of bruised purple. She scraped her chair back, desperate to flee. I moved faster. Before she could take a step, my hand came down firmly on her shoulder, pinning her in place. “For the slander you just spewed in front of everyone,” I said, my voice quiet and absolute, “I want a public apology. Right now. Otherwise, I’m taking this straight to the board.” Ivy shoved my hand off, her voice shrill. “I was making a reasonable assumption! What slander? You think this is primary school where you can run crying to the Dean? Go ahead and snitch! See if anyone actually gives a damn about you!” Our two other roommates, who hadn’t uttered a single word during the entire spectacle, crept over only after Ivy had stormed off. They offered me timid, guilty apologies for not backing me up, followed by well-meaning advice. “It’s just an apology, Shirley… let it go,” one of them whispered softly. “Kids like us, from normal families… we can’t afford to mess with people like Ivy.” 04 Matt was the first one to corner me. He posted up right at the classroom doorway after my afternoon lecture. Recognizing the high-profile heir to the Harrington Logistics empire, the rest of the students hurriedly scattered like frightened quail. Before I could reach the exit, Ivy pushed past me, throwing herself in front of Matt. Her voice instantly shifted into a sickeningly sweet whine. “Matt… You said you were busy today! How come you had time to come pick me up?” Without waiting for his response, she pouted, tugging at his jacket. “You didn’t pick up my calls yesterday and made me look so foolish! Hmph. I’m not talking to you anymore.” I reached out, coldly brushing Ivy aside. “Excuse me. You’re blocking the door.” Ivy flinched as if I’d struck her, instinctively reaching out to wrap her arm around Matt’s to assert her dominance. Matt, however, flicked a glance at me—and stepped back. Ivy’s hand caught empty air. Ignoring the subtle dynamic, I took a step forward to leave. Matt immediately raised an arm, blocking my path, before turning his head toward Ivy. “I need to talk to Shirley about something,” Matt said, his voice flat. “Go find Denis.” Ivy’s smile completely collapsed. Then, as if realizing something, she cast a triumphant, knowing look in my direction, her tone instantly dripping with theatrical concern. “Oh, Matt… it’s totally fine! Just make sure you talk things through with Shirley gently, okay? Don’t be too mean and scare her.” [Ugh, even though Matt hasn’t realized his true feelings yet and still treats Ivy like a little sister, he was ALWAYS the first to jump into the ring whenever anyone made Ivy feel bad!] [Matt might be obsessed with the roommate’s face right now, but Ivy is the one who actually holds his heart. The roommate made Ivy lose face—Matt is definitely going to make her pay!] 05 It was almost hilarious how wildly delusional both Ivy and those floating text boxes were. Matt hadn’t come to intimidate me. He had come to apologize on Ivy’s behalf. I let out a low, cold laugh. “Don’t bother. Whoever commits the crime makes the apology.” Before Matt could even respond, the floating text stream exploded in righteous fury. [Matt is literally lowering himself to apologize to her, and she’s still giving him attitude?! Who does this background extra think she is!] [So naive! Ivy literally saved Matt’s life when they were kids! She’s his soul savior, not some random stray you can compare her to!] God, reading those comments was giving me an aneurysm. Were the people behind those texts clinically brain-dead? Glaring at Matt with newfound irritation, I stepped around his arm and tried to push past him. His fingers clamped firmly around my wrist. “If you don’t want to hear an apology for her,” Matt said quietly, his grip firm but careful, “then I won’t mention it.” He smoothly shifted the topic, his dark eyes searching mine. “What did you mean by that message you sent my forum account yesterday?” The message I’d sent to all three of Ivy’s golden boys had been identical: [This is Shirley Walsh. If you don’t want your secrets leaked, delete the post.] I raised my eyebrow, holding out my hands. “If I hadn’t sent that, would any of you have shown up?” Matt lifted a brow. “Any of us?” To be fair, my interaction with the trio was practically non-existent. Aside from a polite nod when they dropped Ivy off at our dorm on move-in day, we were complete strangers. “You three framed me for two-timing the three of you online,” I said smoothly. “All three of you had a hand in it. Naturally, I had to notify the whole set.” Matt pressed two fingers to his temple, letting out a heavy sigh. He admitted the whole ordeal was a massive misunderstanding, though he couldn’t elaborate on the details. He asked me to withdraw the threats I’d sent to Denis and Conrad, promising he would personally compensate me for any damages. Looking at his deadly serious expression, I tilted my head. Suddenly, I changed my mind. Forcing a public apology out of a girl like Ivy was amateur hour. Watching her precious childhood protectors turn into my personal playthings? Now “that” sounded like a much more exquisite punishment. “Fine,” I agreed easily. Matt’s shoulders visibly dropped in relief. “What do you want as compensation?” I raised a finger, crooking it toward him with a playful, dangerous smirk. “Simple. You can be my dog.” 06 The floating comment section broke into a storm of question marks. [What is wrong with this NPC roommate?! How dare she insult Matt like that? Does she want to get expelled?!] [Wait… is it an insult? Why does it sound so much like flirty banter?] [Isn’t the roommate supposed to be completely indifferent to the male leads?!] [She dares touch Ivy’s man?! I’m going to crawl through the screen and murder her!] [Oh my god, Ivy is watching from around the corner right now… I can’t bear to imagine how heartbroken she is!] I flicked a subtle glance toward the stairwell landing. Sure enough, a small shadow was ducking behind the wall. I let out a soft hum, stepping closer to Matt, closing the distance until our clothes almost touched. “What? Unwilling?” Matt froze for a beat. Then, his lips curved into a slow, dazzling grin, showing off a row of straight, bright white teeth. “Deal,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m all yours.” After exchanging contacts, a banking notification chimed on my phone. Matt had just transferred an eye-watering sum into my account. I spun the screen toward him. “If this is compensation on Ivy’s behalf, I’m sending it back. If it’s a voluntary gift to your master… I’ll keep it.” Matt hesitated for a second. Then he reached out, his thumb gently pressing the ‘Accept’ button on my screen. As he walked me back to my residence hall, the reality of those floating comments hit me: Matt really “had” fallen for me at first sight. Or, more accurately, he was entirely entranced by my face. For half the walk, his eyes barely left my profile. Near the dorm entrance, his phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID, looking back at me with a conflicted expression. “Go ahead,” I said, entirely magnanimous. “If it’s urgent, don’t let me keep you.” Once Matt turned and hurried away, I walked over to a nearby stone planter and sat on the concrete ledge. Looking up at the dense oak tree nearby, I called out toward the branches. “If you don’t come down right now, I’m going inside.” 07 Denis stepped out from behind the trunk of a massive oak. Unbothered by the dirt, he walked over and slid onto the stone ledge right beside me, completely at ease. He looked at me with open curiosity. “How’d you catch me?” I glanced vaguely up at the sky. “Because I have cheat codes, obviously.” I turned my head, meeting a pair of bedroom eyes that could make a stray dog feel like the love of his life. Among campus rumors regarding the elite trio, Denis’s were the most colorful. Ivy was insanely possessive of her three childhood friends. Being a year ahead of us, Denis’s playboy reputation had been a frequent topic of gossip among my former roommates. Ivy would always throw icy, passive-aggressive remarks whenever his name came up, forcing the girls to gossip behind her back instead. And Denis was the undisputed star of those rumors. Whether it was his jawline or his trust fund, girls threw themselves at him in waves. Though he rejected them all, he never said a harsh word, leaving a trail of broken hearts convinced they still had a chance. Up close, I had to admit: the guy certainly had the capital to be a menace. [Even if Denis struts around campus like a flashy peacock every day, the roommate hasn’t given him a single glance!] [Ivy is still the sweetest girl. She’s always complimenting him, giving him confidence!] I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Ivy? Giving “Denis” confidence? Careful, or his ego might actually burst through the stratosphere. Denis stared at me, his gaze so heavy it practically felt liquid. “I’m guessing Matt came to apologize for Ivy.” I gestured for him to continue. “Don’t let Matt’s dark, brooding act fool you,” Denis murmured, leaning in slightly. “Deep down, the guy is indecisive as hell. You can’t rely on him to back you up. Next time you and Ivy clash, he’s going to swing right back into his conflicted little shell.” He flashed a breathtaking, dimpled smile. “So… why not give me a shot instead?” 08 I shifted an inch away, creating some space as I looked at him with exaggerated suspicion. “Aren’t you and Ivy childhood sweethearts too? What makes you think you’re any different from Matt?” Denis looked as if I’d just told the funniest joke in the world, leaning back and throwing his head back in laughter. When he finally sobered up, his eyes darkened. “I only gave a damn about Ivy in the beginning because Matt gave a damn about her.” Matt had been the golden standard pushed onto their peer group since childhood. Deep down, Denis carried a petty, competitive itch he could never quite scratch. Whatever Matt wanted, Denis wanted to steal. “Later on,” Denis added casually, “taking care of her just became a habit.” I hit him with a sharp question. “Are you sure this isn’t just your pathetic rivalry with Matt acting up again?” Denis reached out, framing my jaw with his warm fingers to force me to look directly into his eyes. “Even if it started with falling for a pretty face,” he purred, “I was the one who walked into your dorm room first that day. And today, I beat Matt to you.” I remained noncommittal. Panicking slightly at my cold response, Denis added hastily, “At least there’s one thing I have over Matt.” I stopped shaking my head against his grip, posing as an attentive listener. “Oh?” “Between a girlfriend and a childhood friend,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming, “the girlfriend comes first. Every single time.” Words were cheap, of course. “If you can get Ivy to publicly apologize to me,” I murmured, “I’ll think about it.” Denis looked like he’d just won the lottery. Meanwhile, the floating text comments were losing their collective minds. [The plot has derailed so hard I can’t even watch this anymore! I’m dropping this book!] [If Denis actually forces Ivy to apologize, he is officially REVOKED from the male lead lineup! He can forget about ever winning her back in the groveling arc!] [Ivy was right all along! This roommate is nothing but a calculating, manipulative snake!] [Can a bolt of lightning just strike this woman dead already?!] Denis asked for three days. Naturally, I agreed. It wasn’t that I lacked the means to make Ivy apologize myself. But watching her beloved, precious childhood “brother” force her onto her knees to apologize to me? That sounded infinitely more entertaining. 09 The moment I stepped through my dormitory door, my instincts screamed danger. I ducked instinctively, covering my head. A heavy glass mug slammed into the doorframe behind me, shattering violently. Sharp shards rained down, slicing across my exposed calves. Thin lines of bright red blood welled up instantly. Having missed her target, Ivy grabbed a heavy hardback textbook from her desk, ready to hurl it at my head. In two quick strides, I closed the gap and grabbed her wrist, twisting it sharply upward. Ivy let out a shrill scream of pain. Tears spilled from her red-rimmed eyes as she glared at me with wild hatred. “You bitch! You shameless whore! How dare you try to seduce Matt?!” [Ugh! My heart breaks for Ivy! Seeing both Matt and Denis getting close to the roommate made her realize she actually loves them!] [She called both of them crying, but in her desperation, when she confessed… Matt told her he only ever saw her as a little sister, and Denis literally told her she was delusional!] Ivy was burning with rage, so naturally, I decided to pour gasoline on the fire. “You really ought to thank yourself, Ivy,” I purred, leaning down to her ear. “If you hadn’t pulled that stunt on the forum, I wouldn’t have had the chance to get so close to them.” Ivy bit her lip until it almost bled. “Matt’s life belongs to me! One word from me, and he’ll see you for the trash you really are!” “Go ahead then,” I smiled coldly. “I’ll be waiting.” I pulled out my chair and sat down, completely ignoring her meltdown. Our two roommates hurried over with a broom, intending to clean up the shattered glass around my feet. I immediately reached out, blocking them. “Whoever broke it cleans it up,” I said firmly. Ivy crossed her arms, finally finding a point of leverage to sneer at me. “I’m not a dirt-poor peasant like you, Shirley. Money solves everything. I’ll pay you two two hundred dollars each to sweep this up.” Though the two roommates were usually terrified of crossing Ivy, everyone has a breaking point. Faced with such blatant, arrogant humiliation, both girls set their brooms down and walked away. In the end, a girl from down the hall filed a noise complaint with the resident advisor. Ivy was forced to bend her precious, spoiled waist and clean up every single piece of glass under the RA’s stern supervision. I kicked my legs up, enjoying the view of the “heiress” doing manual labor, while taking a crisp, high-res photo of the blood dripping down my calf. I posted it to my close-friends story on social media. Targeted audience: Conrad—and Conrad only.

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The day Vicky’s company went public, she used the national press conference to announce her engagement to her assistant, Kyle. I had been her husband for four years, standing quietly in the shadows while she built her empire. From the audience, I watched Kyle step onto the flower-draped stage, beaming under the warm lights. “Our company wouldn’t be where it is today without Kyle’s unwavering support,” Vicky said into the microphone, her voice echoing through the glass auditorium. “Thank you all for believing in us. Going forward, Kyle and I will be running our premier tech division together.” The room erupted into applause. Flashbulbs strove to capture the happy couple. Looking at their glowing faces, the tight knot in my jaw slowly loosened, and the fists I had been clenching at my sides finally relaxed. Four years of devotion. Four years of quiet sacrifice. It was time to let go. 1. When I got home, I pulled out my phone and dialed a private number. “I honestly didn’t think you’d say yes,” CEO Enoch’s voice boomed softly over the line. “If you join us, Joel, I’ll offer you the highest tier package in the entire firm.” “I’m in, Mr. Enoch,” I said quietly. “As soon as I wrap up my transition here, I’ll be over.” I had just hung up when the front door clicked open. Vicky walked in, setting her designer handbag on the marble console. “Who were you talking to?” she asked, kicking off her heels. “Just someone from engineering,” I lied smoothly. “Clarifying a few technical specs.” My eyes caught the heavy, light-catching diamond ring sitting on her left ring finger—the one Kyle had slipped onto her hand on live television. In our four years of marriage, Vicky had never worn the wedding band I bought her. She had always claimed she was allergic to metals, insisting that jewelry broke her skin out in rashes. Yet here she was, proudly sporting a flashily cheap engagement ring from her assistant. “Why did you leave the launch early?” she asked, stepping into the living room, her voice laced with sharp accusation. “A dozen major investors were asking me deep-dive technical questions about the microchips. Were you trying to humiliate me?” “You handled the press just fine,” I replied flatly. “You didn’t need me.” A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “And what about that tone?” I asked, meeting her gaze head-on. “You announced an engagement to Kyle on national television. What does that make me, Vicky? What am I to you—your legal husband?” She let out an irritated sigh. “The market demands drama, Joel. An executive romance drives publicity, and publicity drives initial venture funding. If we frame it as a power-couple merger, we pull in double the capital for the new rollout.” I stayed silent. I knew for a fact that three top-tier institutional investors had already locked in their term sheets a month ago. The market excuse was a lie. She was simply hiding behind the proprietary chip architecture I had spent years pouring my soul into, knowing I cared too much about the technology to make a scene. Seeing my silence, Vicky assumed I was merely sulking. She walked over and sat beside me on the leather sofa. As she leaned in, a soft wave of cedarwood cologne hit my nose. It was Kyle’s signature scent. My eyes drifted to her neck. Beneath her soft turtleneck, a faint, mottled bruise—a fresh hickey—peeked out from under her collar. Noticing where I was looking, she pulled the sweater up higher, her posture stiffening. “Look at these,” she said quickly, pulling out a stack of term sheets from her tote bag and placing them on the coffee table. “Investors are practically throwing money at us. Kyle is exceptionally good at client relations, so I’m putting him in charge of managing the overall project. You just stick to the backend coding and hardware engineering like you usually do.” She expected me to be thrilled by the sheer volume of contracts. “If Kyle is so exceptionally capable,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “why don’t you let him handle the engineering side, too?” Vicky’s expression turned sour instantly. “Joel Callahan, learn to separate your personal feelings from business! Have some self-respect! You’re asking a non-technical manager to take over core engineering just to set him up to fail! Since when did you become so ridiculously petty?” She genuinely believed I was acting out of jealous spite, playing the same old passive-aggressive games she thought I always played. She rolled her eyes, shifting back into her authoritative executive tone. “Go draw my bath. And get the essential oils ready—my shoulders are tight from standing all day.” In the past, whenever she returned home late from networking dinners, I would draw her a warm lavender bath and spend an hour massaging her aching neck and back. To her, I wasn’t an innovator or a partner; I was a glorified live-in butler who happened to build her company’s intellectual property. Four years of unconditional love had been outmatched by a boyish assistant who had joined her team three months ago. “I’m tired,” I said, standing up. “If you want a bath, the tub is in the bathroom.” Vicky stared at me, a flash of pure bewilderment breaking through her composed facade. “Joel? You’re throwing a tantrum over something this small? Everything I do is for this company! It’s for our future!” As I walked away, her voice pitched higher behind me. “Joel! Are you deaf?! I’m talking to you!” I walked straight into the master bedroom, closed the door, and turned off the light. 2. Vicky spent the night on the couch in a fit of silent fury. The next morning, I cooked breakfast for two out of sheer habit. To my surprise, Vicky actually came down early, dressed for work, and offered to drive me to the office. Ever since we married, she had insisted on keeping our relationship strictly secret at the firm, claiming we needed to maintain professional boundaries. We had never once commuted together; she wouldn’t even let me be seen stepping out of her car within three blocks of the building. I didn’t bother refusing. I almost thought her sudden change of heart meant she was trying to extend an olive branch after my coldness last night. Ten minutes into the drive, she pulled the sedan up to a leafy curb. Kyle was standing under a streetlamp, waving down at us with a familiar smirk. She unlocked the doors, and Kyle smoothly opened the front passenger door, sliding into the seat beside her. “Oh,” Kyle said, turning around to look at me in the backseat, his eyes gleaming with clear provocation. “Joel! What a surprise. I’ve been taking Vicky’s car every morning for weeks, but this is the first time I’ve seen you in it.” Every morning. My mind flashed back to a month ago during the heavy summer downpours. The rain had flooded the streets, and every ride-hailing app was completely jammed. I had gone to Vicky’s office, asking if she could give me a lift home. She had berated me viciously in front of her door, warning me never to mix personal favors with work, and told me to walk if I couldn’t get a cab. Later that evening, from the lobby window, I had watched Kyle get into her passenger seat. She had been more than willing to drive twenty miles out of her way in a torrential storm for him, while telling her husband to walk home in the dark. “Kyle lives far out in the east end and doesn’t have a vehicle yet,” Vicky said glibly, checking her rear-view mirror. “It’s just convenient.” “Right,” I said softly. “A star manager like Kyle deserves premium executive perks.” Kyle turned his head further, giving me a gloating grin. “Vicky actually offered to buy me a company car, but my driving isn’t great. You’re not upset that she picks me up every day, are you, Joel?” Before I could answer, Vicky cut in sharply. “It’s just a ride, Kyle. Joel isn’t that fragile.” I looked out the side window, watching the blur of morning traffic. “I’m fine,” I murmured. Vicky frowned at my detached response. As the glass-and-steel façade of our corporate headquarters materialized in the distance, her voice turned sharp again. “Pull over at the next corner,” she ordered, tapping the dashboard. “Joel, you can get out there. It’s a short walk, and I don’t want people gossiping if they see us arriving together.” Even after breaking her own rule to bring me along, she was still terrified of being associated with me. “Oh, come on, Vicky,” Kyle purred, placing a hand gently over hers on the gear shift. “We’re almost at the underground garage. Just let Joel ride down with us.” Vicky’s stiff demeanor melted instantly. “Alright. If you say so.” She would listen to a casual suggestion from him over a direct plea from me any day. Besides, if colleagues saw all three of us stepping out of the same elevator, no one would suspect a marriage; they would simply assume the executives were being generous to a senior developer. I didn’t care anymore. My only goal today was to get human resources to sign off on my resignation without causing an uproar. In the underground parking structure, Kyle and Vicky walked ahead, their hands naturally interlacing as they headed toward the private executive elevator. Upstairs, the office was buzzing with post-IPO tension. The company had hired a batch of senior tech interns the previous month, and today was the deadline to process their end-of-term evaluations. Out of seven, only two were being retained. I took my resignation letter, slid it inside the thick stack of intern termination forms, and walked straight into the HR manager’s office. The manager glanced at the top sheet, assumed I was simply dropping off the department paperwork, and signed the bottom of the stack without flipping through the back pages. Handing the folder back, he smiled warmly. “You and Kyle are truly Vicky’s left and right hands, Joel. The company couldn’t run without you guys.” I offered a small, polite smile and said nothing. 3. At 2:00 PM, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from Vicky. It was a screenshot of two premium seat reservations for a romantic drama playing at the downtown theater tonight. It was her standard apology gesture. Deep down, she knew that the firm’s upcoming product roadmap relied entirely on the next-generation microchip design sitting locked inside my private server. “We haven’t seen a movie together in ages,” her text read. “Let’s go tonight after work.” I stared at the screen for a moment, then typed back: “Engineering is light tonight. I’ll head over straight from the office and wait for you near the theater.” I needed a neutral, public venue to hand her the divorce papers. When 6:00 PM rolled around, I stood near the glass doors of the building and watched Vicky walk out to the parking lot. Kyle walked beside her, sliding comfortably into her passenger seat once again. A minute later, my phone pinged. “Something urgent came up at the office. Go ahead to the theater and wait for me inside.” I didn’t bother going to the theater. Instead, I took a cab straight to a family law firm downtown, met with a senior partner, and spent an hour finalizing the draft of our divorce petition. By the time I walked back toward the cinema district, the movie Vicky had picked was already halfway over. She always dragged me to melodramatics I hated, forcing me to sit through two hours of contrived angst just to keep her company. I bought a single ticket for a sci-fi indie playing in the adjacent screen, watched it in peaceful solitude, ate a quiet dinner at a noodle bar, and headed home. While taking off my coat in the hallway, I opened my social feed. Kyle had posted a photo half an hour ago. The background was an upscale candlelit steakhouse. High-end ribeyes, two glasses of vintage Pinot Noir, and two hands clasped tightly across the white linen tablecloth. Though only the hands were visible, I recognized her manicured fingers instantly, along with the thin gold bracelet I had bought her for our first anniversary—the one she usually kept hidden in her jewelry box. Caption: “Real love goes both ways. Thank you, baby, for the incredible surprise gift tonight.” A few minutes later, the front door unlocked. Vicky walked in, carrying a crisp, glossy shopping bag. “I bought you a designer necktie while I was out,” she said, tossing the bag onto the entry table with a practiced smile. “See if you like it.” Whenever she canceled plans or stepped over a boundary, she bought me a random gift to smooth it over. In the past, I would pretend to be overwhelmed with gratitude, carefully storing the item away like a prized trophy, eager to prove that her breadcrumbs were enough to keep me happy. She was used to the routine. “Just leave it in the closet,” I said calmly, stepping past her. Her smile vanished, replaced by an instant flash of heat. “Joel! I know I had to raincheck on the movie, but I went out of my way to buy you something nice! What is with this cold attitude?” I stopped, turning back to look at the bag. “Vicky, did that tie come free with a minimum purchase at the boutique?” Her face flushed crimson. Her eyes widened in sharp, defensive anger. “What the hell are you talking about?!” In the past, I never cared about the price tag of her gifts because I treated every gesture as proof that she cared. But my phone had just buzzed with an email from my attorney containing the final PDF of the divorce settlement. I didn’t even look up as I unlocked my screen. “The tag on the silk lining says “GIFT WITH PURCHASE – NOT FOR RESALE”,” I said evenly. “You can keep Kyle’s leftover freebies. I don’t want them.” “Joel Callahan! Who do you think you are?!” she hissed, her voice rising to a sharp pitch. “You spend all day rotting in that dim laboratory—what do you know about luxury? I was nice enough to bring you back a luxury accessory, and you’re turning your nose up at it? If you don’t want it, fine!” I didn’t argue. I turned on my heel and walked into the guest study, shutting the door behind me. Once you decide to leave a marriage, the words that used to tear your heart apart lose every bit of their power. I stayed in the study all night. Vicky never came to knock on the door. 4. Vicky left the house early the next morning without a word. I drove to the law firm, picked up the printed physical copies of the divorce agreement, and tucked them neatly inside my leather briefcase before heading to the office. My morning was spent doing quiet handovers with my core engineering team. Vicky was deliberately avoiding my floor, trying to use her old silent-treatment tactic to make me feel isolated so I would come groveling back to her. At noon, I walked down to the executive cafeteria for a quick bite. I had no intention of causing a scene, but as fate would have it, Vicky and Kyle were already sitting at the center booth. “Eat more, sweetie,” Kyle purred loudly, peeling a steamed prawn and pressing it directly to Vicky’s lips. “You’ve been working way too hard.” Vicky blushed softly, taking the bite while several junior staff members at adjacent tables watched with exaggerated swoons. “Vicky and Kyle are honestly couple goals,” a young analyst near me whispered loudly. “They’re so affectionate, even in the middle of the office!” Vicky caught the remark and gave a self-conscious laugh. “Kyle just knows my stomach gets sensitive when I’m stressed. He makes sure I actually eat.” When we first got married, Vicky was drinking heavily to win over early angel investors. Every night she came home sick, I would stay up until 2:00 AM preparing hot ginger broth and soothing rice porridge to heal her lining. Later, after my patents secured our first major institutional funding, she didn’t have to drink anymore. But I still cooked tailored, gut-friendly meals for her every single day. I ate my salad in complete silence, my eyes fixed on my plate. Kyle wasn’t satisfied with my lack of drama. He turned his head and called out with an overly bright smile, “Oh, hey, Joel! I didn’t see you sitting there!” The table’s attention snapped to me. The analyst who had been swooning earlier gave me an awkward grin. “Joel! You’re pretty much the last single guy left in senior management. What’s your type? What kind of girl are you looking for?” I set my fork down, matching her cheerful tone. “Honestly? I’m open. Do you have any nice, single friends you could introduce me to?” The analyst beamed. “Definitively! I have a few great friends from business school—I’ll send you their profiles tonight!” Across the table, Vicky’s face turned instantly thunderous. Her knuckles turned white around her glass of water as she glared at me. I stood up, cleared my tray, and walked out without looking back. … By mid-afternoon, a crucial cross-departmental compliance file needed Vicky’s signature. I took the folder and walked up to the executive suite. I knocked firmly on her door. No response. The heavy oak door was resting slightly ajar. Assuming she had stepped out for a meeting, I pushed it open to leave the folder on her desk. The sight inside made my blood run cold. Vicky was sitting directly on Kyle’s lap on the leather sofa behind her desk. Her skirt was pulled high above her thighs, her neck flushed red, her blouse half-unbuttoned. Even though I had already checked out of this marriage emotionally, the sheer, visceral indignity of the visual hit me like a physical punch to the chest. “Vicky,” I said, my voice shaking slightly with disgust. “You are truly vile.” I slammed the heavy compliance folder onto the floor. The loud crack echoed through the room as I turned to leave. “Joel! Wait! It’s not what it looks like!” Vicky scrambled up, her hands wildly trying to adjust her clothes. “Not what it looks like?” I turned back, staring at her with cold contempt. “Then enlighten me, Vicky. What exactly are you two doing on your office sofa during market hours?” She flushed, stammering for an explanation, but Kyle smoothed down his tie and cut in with a sneering grin. “Why are you acting so high and mighty, Joel?” Kyle said, stepping in front of her. “If you were actually capable of satisfying her in bed, do you really think Vicky would be coming to me?” Kyle had been at this company for three months. For those exact three months, Vicky had used every excuse in the book—stress, migraines, late-night deck prep—to keep me from touching her. I had thought she was exhausted. I had tried to be gentle, patient, and understanding. My patience had simply given her the room to mess around with her assistant behind my back. I reached into my briefcase, pulled out the thick stack of legal paper, and slapped it onto her desk. “Vicky,” I said cleanly. “We’re getting a divorce.”

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In the seventh year of our long-distance marriage, I traveled three thousand miles across the country to see Sandy. Standing outside the door of her apartment, my key snapped inside the lock with a sharp, brittle crack. My stomach dropped. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. “You probably grabbed the wrong key again, babe,” Sandy’s voice came through the speaker, smooth and soothing. “Why don’t you check into a hotel down the street and get some rest? I’ll come unlock the door as soon as I’m done.” I looked down at the brass stub remaining in my hand. The little blue label I’d stuck on it years ago was still there, faded at the edges. It wasn’t the wrong key. There was only one reason it didn’t turn: she had changed the locks. Before I could process the sudden knot tightening in my chest, my father’s call flashed on the screen. He answered on the first ring, his chuckle loud and lighthearted. “Sandy’s not at home, Eugene! She came over to my place first thing this morning with armfuls of groceries. She’s making us lunch right now.” A second later, a group text from my best friend, Mark, pinged on my screen, followed by a slurred voice memo: “Man, Sandy’s at the salon getting a manicure with my girlfriend. Women, I swear…” Then came a call from my older sister, Megan. “She’s such a busy bee today,” Megan said with a soft sigh. “She finally carved out an hour to help me review my portfolio.” My head throbbed, a dull roar echoing in my ears. None of them knew that five minutes ago, the building’s front desk concierge had greeted me at the lobby, casually mentioning that the homeowner had just walked upstairs moments earlier. I didn’t press any of them. Instead, I dialed an emergency locksmith. I suddenly desperately needed to know what secret my entire family was keeping from me behind that heavy oak door. … The door creaked open with a low groan. Sitting on the plush sectional in the living room, a young man holding a console controller whipped his head around. When our eyes met, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Justin. The illegitimate son my father had brought into our lives—the boy whose very existence had broken my mother’s heart and driven her to jump from the roof of our family home. Years ago, my father and sister had sworn they would destroy him for what he did to Mom. Mark had almost beaten him senseless with his bare hands. And now, here he was, brimming with youthful energy, lounging in the temperature-controlled luxury of Sandy’s living room, playing video games. “Is that Dad and the others?” A familiar female voice called out from inside. My heart took a violent, sickening plunge. A moment later, Sandy stepped out of the kitchen wearing a beige linen apron. When her eyes landed on me, her entire body went rigid. Her eyes widened in absolute terror. “Eugene… how… how did you get in?” I couldn’t speak. My gaze drifted past her, locking onto a fluffy white cat curled up asleep on a heated pet bed in the corner. It was my mother’s cat—the only tangible thing she had left me when she died. Three years ago, Sandy had called me crying, claiming the cat had passed away from an incurable kidney disease. It hadn’t died. It had been raised all this time by the bastard who killed my mother. Sandy tore off her apron, her hands trembling as she reached out to grab my wrist. “Eugene, please, let me explain. He was completely broke, he had nowhere else to go… I couldn’t just leave him on the street…” I slowly looked around the apartment. Matching silk slippers by the entryway. Two electric toothbrushes sitting side by side in the marble vanity holder. His-and-hers coffee mugs on the counter. Even the loungewear they were wearing matched. In this home where I had never been allowed to set foot, every square inch was filled with the quiet, suffocating evidence of their domestic bliss. The front door chimed. My father walked in, carrying a covered Dutch oven filled with braised beef—Justin’s favorite dish. Megan followed right behind him with a fresh bouquet of peonies, and Mark rounded out the rear, hauling a crate of vintage wine. The moment their eyes fell on me standing in the center of the room, the smiles vanished from their faces like dust in the wind. “Eugene…” The living room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. A ragged, hollow laugh tore from my throat. “So this is how you all work together? Helping the bastard child lie to me?” I pulled out my phone. My screen was still flooded with the texts they had sent me over the past twenty-four hours: [Come over tomorrow, son! Dad’s cooking a massive feast just for you!] [Hey man, let’s check out that auto show on Thursday. My treat!] [Eugene, come to the concert with me this weekend! I bought us VIP seats!] As a chief trauma surgeon, my hospital only gave me five days of paid leave a year. Every single year, I raced across the country to spend those precious few days with Sandy. And every single year, my family would crowd around me, dragging me to dinners, short trips, and outings, showering me with suffocating attention. I used to think it was because they missed me. Now I realized the sickening truth: they were just keeping me occupied, making sure I never came home unexpected, ensuring Sandy and Justin had all the space they needed for their quiet little life together. Justin immediately stepped toward me, his shoulders slumped, putting on his signature look of helpless innocence. “Eugene, please don’t be mad at them. They were just feeling sorry for me because I had no one else. They were just taking care of me in secret… Don’t blame them.” I used to believe my family hated Justin as much as I did. I thought we were standing together in the same dark trench of grief. Now I saw that I was the only one who had ever been locked outside. A tear finally escaped my eye, burning hot against my cold cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and looked at Sandy, who stood frozen in place. “I want a divorce.” The sentence dropped into the room like a heavy stone into deep water. Sandy blinked, stunned. Then, with a sudden, desperate surge, she threw her arms around my neck, wrapping her body around mine. “I can explain everything, Eugene. Let’s just go home. Let me talk to you once you’ve calmed down, okay?” She tried to push me toward the doorway, but my father’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Eugene! What right do you have to bring up divorce?” Sandy tried to gesture for him to stop, but my father stepped forward, his eyes blazing with self-righteous anger. “You’re always tied down at that damn hospital! It’s Justin who’s been stepping up to take care of me! It’s Justin who’s been taking care of your wife while you’re gone! You haven’t fulfilled a single duty as a son or a husband!” My chest squeezed so tight I could barely draw breath. My own father was standing in front of me, publicly condemning me for being unfilial—all to protect the illegitimate child who drove my mother to her death. Mark spoke up next, his voice tight. “Eugene, when those loan sharks came after my business, Justin was the one who stood up for me. You were stuck on some surgery table and didn’t even pick up my calls. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be ruined. You really don’t have the right to act like this toward him.” My best friend. The man I had known since high school, looking at me with cold indifference. Megan pulled on my sleeve. “Eugene, Justin has been taking care of us for years in your place. Can’t you just close one eye and let it go?” It was absurd. It was so agonizingly absurd it almost made me laugh out loud. So this was what it felt like to be gutted from the inside out by the people you loved most. “Enough! All of you, stop talking!” Sandy slammed her hands down on my shoulders, her eyes rimmed with red. “Don’t divorce me, Eugene. Stop saying such foolish things.” Her voice softened into a desperate whisper. “We only did this to keep the family whole. To keep the peace.” A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. “The family is whole. The peace is kept. It’s just that I was never part of it.” Sandy pressed on, her eyes searching mine. “Now that you know the truth, why can’t you just make peace with Justin? We can all finally be together in the open. Wouldn’t that be better?” I took a step back, staring at her as if she were a total stranger. Seven years ago, when my father brought his mistress and Justin into our house, my mother jumped off the roof in utter despair. Back then, Sandy had held my hands in the rain and sworn she would help me get justice. She swore she would never become a betrayer like my father. My father and sister had spent the night kneeling in the funeral home, crying until their eyes bled, whispering promises of repentance until dawn. It was all a performance. A long, elaborate play. I clenched my fists, my jaw tight. “You want to be a happy family with him? Go ahead. Just leave me out of it.” Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked out the door. “Eugene! Listen to me!” Sandy chased after me, reaching out to grab my coat. Just as her fingers brushed my sleeve, a sharp cry sounded from inside the living room. “Justin’s faint! His hypoglycemia is acting up again!” Sandy’s hand snapped back instantly. Without a second thought, she turned around and sprinted back inside. The force of her sudden pullback threw off my balance. My foot slipped on the top stair, and I tumbled down the hard concrete steps. An agonizing surge of pain tore through my right knee as it smashed against the sharp edge of the riser. The skin split open, exposing white bone beneath red tissue. Blood began to soak through my trousers, pooling on the cold floor. Above me, the heavy wooden door slammed shut. No one came out to look for me. I pulled myself up, leaning heavily against the handrail, and limped out of the building. I didn’t stop. I went straight to the airport, bought the first ticket back, and flew back to my city. The moment I stepped off the plane, I walked straight into the hospital’s HR office. “Ruth,” I said, stepping up to the director’s desk. “I’ll take the overseas surgical fellowship. Please initiate my transfer paperwork.” Ruth looked up from her computer, caught off guard. She let out a light laugh. “Are you serious, Dr. Eugene? Can you really bear to leave your wife? She loves you to death—the stories about you two are practically legend around here.” I let out a soft, hollow smile. Ruth picked up a pen and pulled out a fresh file. “Honestly, if that contract hadn’t expired this month, I wouldn’t even be able to process this for you.” My heart stalled. “What contract?” “The agreement your wife signed with the hospital board, of course,” Ruth said, stamping a document. “She arranged for the hospital director to keep you here on a permanent track, doubling your benefit package. The only stipulation was that the hospital could never approve your transfer to another city.” She chuckled softly. “If that five-year clause hadn’t reached its end date, you’d be stuck here forever.” Seeing the dead silence on my face, Ruth paused, realizing she might have said too much, and quickly shut her mouth. I looked at the thick stack of transfer applications sitting on the corner of her desk—dozens of forms I had submitted over the last seven years. Tears finally welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. For seven long years, I had nearly worked myself to the bone trying to get transferred to Sandy’s city. I wrote application after application, only to have every single one rejected without explanation. Because of the distance, I hadn’t made it back in time to hold my mother’s hand before she died. I couldn’t even visit her grave on her memorial days. I had always thought I wasn’t skilled enough, wasn’t senior enough to earn the transfer. It turned out it was my own wife who had pulled the strings behind my back, keeping me trapped three thousand miles away. Ruth held up the official seal, looking at me with concern. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Eugene? Once you sign, you’ll be stationed at the international research center for at least five years. You won’t be able to come back.” I took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m sure.” If three thousand miles wasn’t far enough to hide from them, I would go to the other side of the world. As I walked out of the administrative wing, I passed the OB-GYN clinic on the third floor. Two young nurses were leaning against the desk, whispering excitedly. “Isn’t that Dr. Eugene’s wife? The one who just tested positive for pregnancy?” “Yeah, but… who’s the guy holding her arm? That’s not Dr. Eugene, is it?” I stopped in my tracks and turned my head. Down the hallway, Justin was carefully holding Sandy by the waist. She was holding a fresh ultrasound report in her hand. When she caught sight of me standing nearby, she didn’t try to hide it. She didn’t even look guilty. “I just took the test,” Sandy said, her voice calm as she walked over, Justin trailing behind her. “It’s Justin’s.” My body turned completely cold. I stood there, unable to move a muscle. Sandy softened her tone, stepping closer, talking to me like she was soothing a threw-a-fit child. “You know your medical condition, Eugene… Since you can no longer father a child, Justin stepping in is the best option for us. His child carries your family’s blood anyway. It’s practically yours.” I stared at her slightly rounded stomach, my voice raspy. “How far along?” Justin turned his head away, looking down at his shoes, unable to meet my eyes. Sandy answered for him. “Three months.” “Three months…” I repeated, the words tasting like lead on my tongue. Three months ago, I was involved in a massive highway pileup during a torrential downpour. Bleeding heavily from a crushed pelvis, I called her phone dozens of times from the wreck. When she finally picked up, she cried helplessly over the line: “I’m tied up with something urgent, Eugene! Besides, if I drive over now, it’ll be too late anyway… I’ll call the police for you…” That was the accident that damaged my pelvic nerves. The doctors had gently broken the news to me a week later: I would never be able to father children. And while I was pinned under crushed metal, bleeding into the dark, they were creating a life together. I clenched my fists so hard my short nails bit into my palms, the sharp pain in my lower body flaring up, forcing me to bend slightly at the waist. Justin stepped forward, pretending to offer me a hand, his voice dripping with remorse. “Brother, that night was a complete accident. She drank too much and thought I was you… Please, don’t file for divorce because of this baby.” I leaned against the hallway wall and violently shoved his hand away. I didn’t use much strength, but Sandy snapped instantly. She grabbed my wrist with a tight, painful grip. “Eugene! Why are you taking it out on him? I’m the one who chose to carry his baby!” Her eyes were ablaze with fury. In all our seven years of marriage, she had never raised her voice at me once. And now, she was baring her teeth to protect the man I loathed most in this world. I let out a bitter, lifeless laugh. Reaching into my leather briefcase, I pulled out a freshly printed set of papers and slapped them into her hands. “If you care about him that much, sign it.” Sandy froze, her eyebrows pulling together as she scanned the bold header: “PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE”. Before she could speak, Justin suddenly snatched a small fruit knife from the refreshment tray nearby. He dropped to his knees right on the polished tile floor, tears streaming down his face. “Brother, if you really can’t accept me or this child, just take it out on me!” he sobbed, grabbing my hand and forcing it around the plastic handle of the knife. “The baby can be yours! Just don’t leave!” “Let go of me! Are you insane?!” I struggled to pull my hand back, but his grip was surprisingly vicious. In the next second, Justin drove my hand—and the blade—straight into his own abdomen. “Thwack.” “Eugene! How could you!” Sandy shrieked, shoving me back with all her strength. I hit the wall hard, the back of my head throbbing. Justin collapsed into a pool of deep red, clutching his stomach, his face twisted in performative agony. “I don’t… I don’t blame Brother for hating me… I know I shouldn’t exist… but I didn’t think he’d actually…” Sandy looked at me, her eyes filled with absolute disgust. “I was blind to marry a venomous monster like you! I must have been out of my mind!” She scooped Justin into her arms and screamed for medical staff, rushing him down the hall. The quiet lobby erupted. Onlookers stared at me, whispers turning into loud accusations. “A doctor trying to kill someone in broad daylight?!” “He took the Hippocratic Oath! Where’s his conscience?” I stood there, my hand still stiffly suspended in the air, my white coat splattered with dark red stains. Within fifteen minutes, my personal phone was flooded with thousands of hate messages. People online were calling the hospital desk. Someone even threw a bag of wet trash onto my desk in the staff room. When my father rushed into the hospital lobby, he didn’t even ask what happened. He walked straight up to me and threw a heavy, ringing slap across my face. “SNAP.” “How could I have a son like you?!” he roared, his finger trembling in my face. “He is your brother! How could you drive a knife into him?!” Megan stood behind him, her eyes red with fury. “Don’t you ever call me your sister again, Eugene. Justin is my only brother now!” Mark glared at me with pure contempt. “We’re done, man. Don’t ever call my phone again.” I dragged my feet back to my office. My desk and chair had been covered in bright red spray paint: “HOMEWRECKER.” “MURDERER.” My mother had spent her entire life suffering because of a homewrecker. My mind went completely numb. I pulled out my phone, logged onto my verified professional account, and posted a single sentence: [Justin and his mother are the homewreckers who destroyed my family. I am innocent.] Not five minutes later, my father replied directly under my post, attaching a photo of an official state marriage certificate between him and Justin’s mother. [Justin’s mother is my lawful wife. She was never a homewrecker.] I stared at the golden seal on the digitized document, my breath catching in my throat. The date on the certificate predated my parents’ wedding by two years. The marriage license my mother had held onto her entire life… had been a fake. She had been the unwitting “other woman” in his grand design all along. The last pillar of my reality collapsed into dust. Right then, my phone buzzed violently. It was the caretaker from the municipal cemetery. “Dr. Eugene! Something terrible is happening!” the man panicked over the line. “A demolition crew showed up with excavators! They’re smashing your mother’s headstone right now! Get down here!” I stumbled out of the building, taking a cab straight to the hillside cemetery. When I arrived, a yellow excavator was raising its heavy steel bucket, pounding down repeatedly onto my mother’s granite monument. “Stop! Stop it!” I screamed, running toward the site. The roar of the heavy diesel engine completely drowned out my voice. As I lunged forward to shield the remaining piece of stone, the excavator swung around. The massive rubber tire caught my leg, dragging me beneath the heavy frame. A sickening crunch echoed through the valley, followed by an agonizing scream that tore from my chest. Bleeding profusely on the dirt, I frantically dialed Sandy’s number with shaking fingers. No answer. I dialed again. “The phone you are trying to reach has been turned off.” My energy drained away, my body broken like a discarded rag doll in the mud. A notification popped up on my phone screen. It was a video message from Justin. In the clip, Sandy was leaning over a hospital bed, pressing a fierce, tearful kiss to Justin’s lips, her voice raw with emotion: “You’re going to be okay, Justin. I’ve already sent a team to tear down his mother’s grave. I won’t let you or your mother suffer any more humiliation.” The video replayed automatically, looping her promise over and over, freezing my heart into solid ice. A follow-up text from Justin appeared right beneath it: [Your mother was a filthy side piece, and so are you.] [Homewreckers deserve to rot in hell. Why don’t you go down there and keep her company?] In the growing darkness, my eyelids grew heavy, and my world faded to absolute black. Three hours later, Sandy led my father, Megan, and Mark into the hillside cemetery, intent on showing Justin that justice had been served. But the moment her designer heels stepped onto the muddy clearing, her body swayed violently, and she nearly collapsed onto the dirt.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560137”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There is an unwritten rule in the underground circuit of Ironford. The last fight before you walk away is always a death match. If you lose, your life stays on the canvas. Almost everyone assumed I would walk out of the arena alive. For six straight months, my name had sat at the very top of the leaderboard, untouched. I never expected to see Maeve Chasel stepping through the ropes. She was the one who had taught me how to fight. Every jab, every pivot, every lethal counter—it all came from her. Against Maeve, I didn’t stand a chance. The moment the bell rang, a barrage of vicious, calculated strikes rained down on me. I didn’t even have time to set my stance. A sickening “crack” echoed through the cage as my ribs gave way under her fist, and I crashed heavily onto the bloody canvas. As the referee raised her hand and declared the match over, I heard Maeve’s soft, familiar sigh above the roaring crowd. “I’m sorry, Seth,” she whispered, bending down toward me. “Yesterday was Damon’s birthday. His only wish was to see me beat you in the ring just once.” She paused, brushing a streak of sweat from her forehead. “His health is deteriorating. The doctors said he might not live to see another birthday. I had to grant him this one last wish.” Below the ring, Damon Porter sat in his high-tech wheelchair. His cheeks were flushed with a healthy color, a subtle, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of his lips. I lay on the mat, my chest rising and falling in weak, agonized hitches. Every shallow breath felt like a blade sliding into my chest. I didn’t know if Damon would survive until next year. But I knew with terrifying certainty that I wouldn’t live to see the sun three days from now. 1 The deafening roars of the crowd suddenly faded into a dull, underwater hum. Uncle Mac, the pit referee who had watched me grow up in this arena, rested a hand gently on my shoulder. “Can you get up, kid?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly. I stayed flat on my back. My broken ribs felt like jagged splinters poking directly into my lung. When I tried to speak, my voice was barely a rattle in my throat. “Let it go, Mac. It’s over.” Losing to Maeve… I accepted it. After all, the only reason a street kid like me had managed to survive in a place that swallowed men whole was because of every strike and dodge she had drilled into me. Just last night, I had been too wired to sleep. I had climbed up to the highest rooftop above the gym, staring up at a sky full of stars while listening to her soft breath over the phone. My heart had hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I asked her, my voice laced with hesitant hope, “Tomorrow is my last fight. Are you coming to watch?” I had wanted Maeve to witness my final victory, to see me step out of the shadows for good. A light laugh had drifted through the receiver. “Of course I will.” She was a woman of her word. She had come. She had personally replaced my scheduled opponent, stepped onto the canvas, and personally ended my life. Maeve unlaced her fighting gloves. Her pale skin bore a few minor scratches from our clash. She extended a slender, well-manicured hand toward me. “Don’t be dramatic, Seth. Get up. The ring is no place to act weak.” I hesitated, my hand trembling as I reached up toward hers. But before my fingers could graze her skin, a sudden, wet cough echoed through the crowd. Damon was hunched over in his wheelchair, clutching his chest, his shoulders quivering like a dry leaf in a autumn gale. Maeve’s brow furrowed instantly. Without a second thought, she pulled her hand back, vaulted over the ring enclosure, and rushed to his side. She gathered the fleece blanket resting on his lap and pulled it tightly around his shoulders. “It smells like blood down here, Damon. You know your lungs can’t handle this,” she chided softly. “I told you I’d bring you home.” Her tone sounded like a reprimand, but if you listened closely, it was soaked in helpless devotion. “You just had to see it yourself, didn’t you? If you wanted to know the outcome, I would have told you. When have I ever broken a promise to you?” She kept a protective arm around Damon’s shoulders as she wheeled him toward the exit. Just as they reached the double doors, she paused and cast a glance back over her shoulder at me. “Stop playing dead on the floor, Seth. I pulled my punches—I know my own strength,” she said, her voice cool and practical. “I know you’re upset that I broke your streak. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night and take you to that diner downtown you like.” She spoke with the casual ease of someone who believed a hot meal could fix a shattered heart. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take over. She didn’t get it. This time, there was no fixing this. After the crowd dispersed, Uncle Mac helped me up and dragged me back to the locker room, begging me through choked tears to go to the emergency room. When I pulled off my blood-soaked fight gear, my torso was a landscape of violence. Deep purple and sickly green bruises bloomed across my pale skin, terrifying to look at. Maeve’s fists had carried extra weight tonight. I poured stinging liniment directly over the open abrasions and wrapped my chest tightly with medical binding tape. Only when the sharp pressure stabilized my ribs was I able to catch enough breath to speak. “I only have a few days left anyway, Mac. Don’t let me waste the money.” I offered a small, strained smile, keeping my gaze lowered. “I need every cent left in my account for Gran’s medical bills.” I mentally calculated my bank balance, wondering if it would cover another few rounds of dialyzing for her. My phone buzzed on the bench. A news push notification popped up on the screen. The cover photo showed Maeve pushing Damon out of the fight pit, her head bowed toward him, her expression tender in a way she rarely showed the world. The headline was bold and unapologetic: “CHASEL AND PORTER HEIRS SPOTTED TOGETHER: WEDDING BELLS IN THE NEAR FUTURE?” Whether intentionally or not, Damon had clicked ‘like’ on the article before quickly un-liking it moments later. Uncle Mac stood beside me, his voice cracking with sudden rage. “These damn paparazzi and their fake news! Ms. Chasel’s boyfriend is “you”! Who the hell does this Porter kid think he—” I reached out and flipped the phone face down onto the wooden bench. The bitter taste in my mouth tasted worse than blood. “They come from the same world, Mac,” I whispered. “They look good together.” 2 Before the silence in the locker room could settle, the heavy metal door was thrown open. A neighbor from our street burst in, panting heavily, his face pale with panic. “Seth! It’s bad—it’s really bad!” he gasped out. “Porter Enterprises brought in heavy machinery to demolish Mill Creek! They’re forcing everyone out tonight! They just dragged your grandmother out onto the street!” A cold shock shot through me. I bolted up from the bench, ignoring the agonizing fire that ripped through my chest, and ran out into the night. The sky outside hung low and bruised, heavy with the promise of snow. By the time I reached our narrow alley, the air was thick with yelling and the crunch of splintering wood. My grandmother was slumped against the frozen dirt of the courtyard, our few pieces of worn furniture smashed into kindling around her. Three men in tailored dark suits were pinning her fragile frame down, forcibly pressing her ink-stained thumb onto a stack of legal documents. “Get your hands off her!” I grabbed a discarded iron pipe from the debris and swung it wildly at them. They scattered with startled curses, allowing me to throw my body over Gran like a shield. The legal papers fluttered to the slushy ground, stamped with muddy boot prints. I glanced down. In the section marked “Relocation Compensation”, the payout figure was clearly printed: “$0.00”. Blood roared in my ears. I glared up at the suit-clad men, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. “This is robbery!” Next door, Old Man Miller cracked his front door open, his white hair messy in the wind. “Seth, son, just tell your poor grandmother to sign it!” he yelled nervously. “Five hundred thousand dollars is enough to pay for her hospital bills!” My brain went completely numb. “What five hundred thousand?” Miller looked confused. “The relocation payout! It’s the standard contract for the whole street—five hundred thousand per household!” I turned my head slowly, staring at the lead enforcer. “Why does ours say zero?” The man scoffed, dusting off his lapel with disdain. “You have yourself to blame for crossing people you shouldn’t have. Consider this a lesson in knowing your place. I suggest you sign, kid. A sickly old bird like your grandmother isn’t going to survive another week of us dropping by.” A heavy, suffocating dread settled in my gut. People I shouldn’t have crossed. Porter Enterprises. Damon. My mind flashed back to the night Maeve had asked me to be hers. Damon—who had always been in decent health—had suddenly suffered a rare, life-threatening relapse and was rushed to the ICU. The entire Porter family went into a frenzy. When the call came through, Maeve had been standing in my tiny bedroom, fastening her family’s heirloom silver medallion around my neck. “Damon’s in trouble,” she had said. And without another word, without looking back, she had walked out into the rain. When I saw her the next morning, that same silver medallion was resting against Damon’s collarbone. Maeve had stepped between us like a shield, treating me as if I were a threat. “Damon loved the piece,” she had said, her voice clipped. “I’m letting him wear it for a while. Don’t be petty, Seth. He’s sick.” Damon had smiled weakly at me from his bed, his hand reaching out to clasp mine. “I don’t have much time left in this world, Seth,” he had murmured, his voice soft as silk. “Please don’t hold it against me.” His tone was fragile, but the sharp nails of his thumb had dug deep into the back of my hand, cutting into my skin until I bled quietly into my sleeve. It was only then that I truly understood what Damon felt for Maeve—and how deeply he hated me for being the outsider who took his place. I just hadn’t realized he hated me enough to strip away everything I had left. After the men finally left with a parting threat, I gathered Gran into my arms and lifted her off the cold ground. As I carried her through the shattered doorway, a sudden “boom” reverberated across the city. High above the skyline, brilliant bursts of red and gold fireworks bloomed against the dark clouds. Splendid. Extravagant. I lifted my face to the sky and realized that white flakes had begun to drift down through the dark. Snow was falling. Back in late autumn, Maeve had held my hand as we walked through the park, her eyes bright. “When the first snow falls, Seth, I’m going to light up the whole city with fireworks for you,” she had promised. “I want everyone in Ironford to know you’re mine.” Now, the snow was falling. The fireworks were blinding. But the promises, and the woman who made them, no longer belonged to me. 3 The shock and exposure to the cold proved too much for Gran. By midnight, her skin was burning with a dangerously high fever. Desperate, my hands trembling violently, I dialed Maeve’s private line. The line rang for an eternity before it finally picked up. “Maeve, please… Gran is—” “Seth, don’t tell me your grandmother is sick again just to get me to come over,” she interrupted, her voice heavy with irritation and exhaustion. “This routine is getting old.” The words I had prepared froze in my throat. I couldn’t push a single sound past the tightness in my chest. “Damon just finished his physical therapy,” Maeve continued coldly. “He can’t sleep without me nearby. Try to show a little compassion for someone who is actually dying, Seth. Stop throwing these childish, jealous tantrums.” I lowered my head, staring at the floor as hot, bitter tears dripped onto the back of my hand. I remembered the very first time I had stepped into her underground gym. I had been beaten so badly my face was unrecognizable, cowering in a dark corner behind the dumpster. A pristine white handkerchief had appeared in front of my vision. Maeve had stood there, backlit by the gym’s harsh fluorescent lights, her voice softer than anything I had ever known. “Clean yourself up, kid.” Later, she bought me medicine. She visited Gran in our tiny rental. She showed me how to use my lean frame to generate power, how to strike with maximum efficiency. The night I won my first professional bout, she had wrapped her arms around my waist in front of the cheering crowd, her warm breath resting against my collarbone. “From now on, Seth, you lean on me.” I had believed her. I had truly, foolishly believed her. I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve, walked out into the yard, and dragged out our old wooden handcart. I layered it with every extra blanket we owned. Then I went back inside, gritted my teeth against the searing agony in my ribs, and hoisted Gran onto my back. I didn’t let out a single sound as I carried her out and laid her down on the cart, securing her with straps. The snow was thick on the pavement now. Every step I took sank deep into the slush, my body lurching forward inch by torturous inch. By the time I pushed the cart up the ramp of the city hospital, I had lost all sensation in my fingers and toes. Nurses rushed out to grab the cart, and soon, the bright red light above the emergency operating room clicked on. I collapsed against the sterile wall, staring at those double doors without blinking. The snow melted off my thin coat, soaking through the fabric until I was shivering from the inside out. Hours later, the surgeon stepped out, pulling down his mask. His words felt like the first breath of air after drowning. “She’s stable for now. We managed to break the fever, but she needs to be admitted for follow-up care immediately.” My voice was tight with anxiety. “How much will the immediate treatment cost?” “Around ten thousand dollars to cover the specialty meds and the ICU stay.” I let out a shuddering breath. Ten thousand. I had pushed myself to the brink over the last two years, taking fight after fight without rest. My savings account had just enough to cover it. When I stepped into the room, Gran was awake, her eyes clouded with age and fatigue. “Seth… I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m just a burden to you…” “Don’t say that, Gran,” I whispered, tears spilling over as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my dark blue debit card, tucking it carefully under her thin pillow. “Use this for the hospital fees. If… if I’m not around for a few days, you take care of yourself, okay?” The next morning, I walked down to the hospital pharmacy to collect her prescriptions. As I turned the corner of the hallway, I ran straight into a sleek, customized wheelchair. “Seth! What a coincidence,” Damon said, offering a pleasant, polished smile. “I had a slight migraine last night, but Maeve insisted I come in for a full brain scan today.” I pulled my lips into a tight line, opting not to say a word. I turned on my heel and walked back toward Gran’s room. When I pushed the door open, my heart dropped into a bottomless pit. The bed was empty. Gran was lying on the cold linoleum floor. “Gran!” 4 Her hands were shaking hysterically. Before I could reach her, she lifted a trembling hand and slapped her own cheek with a wet, sharp “crack”. I dropped to my knees, catching her wrists in my hands, my blood running cold. “Gran, what happened?! What are you doing?!” Tears streamed down the deep wrinkles of her face. “Some men… three men in suits walked in just now…” she sobbed, her jaw trembling violently. “They took the card from under the pillow! I tried to hide it, Seth… I tried… I’m useless! I couldn’t stop them!” She beat her hands against her useless legs, consumed by grief and self-hatred. A terrible noise stuck in my throat. My vision flickered with dark spots, the air completely rushing out of my lungs. Gran gripped my forearm with surprising strength, her eyes burning with a sudden, wild fury. “It was them, Seth! The same men who smashed our home yesterday!” Damon. His sinister smile down in the lobby flashed through my mind like a stroke of lightning. It was him. I stood up like a man possessed and bolted out of the room. I spotted the wheelchair near the main glass entrance. “Damon!” I lunged forward, my eyes bloodshot, extending a trembling hand. “Give it back! Give me the card!” Damon tilted his head, his expression innocent and confused. “Seth? What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” “Stop playing games!” I grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, falling to my knees right there in the marble lobby, weeping openly. “Do whatever you want to me! I don’t care about Maeve anymore—you can have her! Just give me the money back! Please, I’m begging you! I just need the money for my grandmother!” Damon stared down at me for a long beat. Slowly, his eyes welled with tears, and his body began to tremble as if in terror. “Seth… please, you’re scaring me…” Before I could process his words, a violent force slammed into my side, throwing me off the wheelchair and crashing onto the hard floor. Maeve stood over me, her hand holding her wrist, her eyes blazing with fury. “You really are hopeless, aren’t you?” she spat, her voice laced with disgust. “Harassing Damon in public? I guess I went too easy on you in the ring yesterday!” I let out a broken, wheezing laugh that tore through my damaged chest. I looked up at her, my eyes hollow. “I just want him to give back what he stole.” Maeve’s brows pulled together into a tight, angry line. “You lost your money?” “If your money is gone, go earn it back! What right do you have to run over here and act like a wild animal in front of Damon?” I slapped her reaching hand away, breaking down completely. “There’s no time! I don’t have time to earn it back!” Maeve’s patience snapped. She stepped forward and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across my face. “SNAP.” “What do you mean, no time?!” she yelled. “I’ve spoiled you for too long, Seth! The laziness in your blood is finally showing! You really are nothing more than street trash that can’t be pulled out of the gutter!” Street trash. When she first met me, she used to call me wild grass—resilient, unbreakable, uniquely beautiful in my survival. She said that was what drew her to me. Now, I was just trash. My throat worked as I forced down a mouthful of metallic warmth. Maeve turned away, taking hold of Damon’s wheelchair handles. “I am so thoroughly disappointed in you, Seth.” I lay paralyzed on the cold tile, but I didn’t miss the cruel, triumphant flash in Damon’s eyes as she wheeled him away. And there, slipping slightly out of the cuff of his jacket, was the familiar dark blue corner of my debit card. “Give it back!” I roared, throwing my body forward to tackle him— A heavy leather boot kicked me square in the chest. Before I could rise, two large security guards pinned my arms behind my back, pressing my face hard against the lobby floor. “Seth, that’s enough!” Maeve shouted over her shoulder without stopping. The pain in my ribs exploded into a terrifying, blinding agony. Black dots swarmed across my field of vision, multiplying rapidly. Suddenly, a wave of commotion burst out near the elevators behind us. Nurses were sprinting toward the rear exit, their voices elevated and sharp with panic. “Someone just jumped from the sixth floor of the inpatient building! Dead on impact!” “Isn’t that the old woman admitted last night? The one whose savings got stolen?” The voices drifted away, sounding muffled and distant, as if coming from under deep water. All that remained was the harsh, ragged sound of my own failing lungs. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. A dark, thick wave of blood erupted from my throat, splashing across the white tiles beneath my face. As my consciousness faded, I felt hands hauling my limp body off the ground. Voices hovered above me. “Take him out the back.” “The boss said his life belongs to the Vault now.” Slowly, the noise faded, and I sank into absolute, silent darkness. … In the hospital’s underground parking garage, Maeve carefully lifted Damon out of his wheelchair, helping him settle into the leather backseat of her sedan. Just as she straightened up, a dark-suited assistant sprinted toward her, leaning in to whisper a few hurried sentences into her ear. In an instant, Maeve’s face drained of all color.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560138”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the quiet dark of our bedroom, right in the middle of a whispered promise from my husband, the door was slammed open. His non-biological sister stood in the doorway, tears spilling down her cheeks like shattered beads. “Trevor… my skin is on fire again. You’re the only one who can make it stop…” The hand Trevor had resting against my waist went rigid. A second later, he threw back the duvet, shifted away from me, and wrapped Jill in his arms. “It’s her touch starvation,” he said softly, keeping his eyes on her as he smoothed her hair. “When it flares up, her whole body aches. Don’t be upset with her, Naomi. She can’t control it.” He spoke in the low, crooning tone you’d use on a frightened toddler, holding a twenty-two-year-old woman against his chest. This wasn’t the first time. At our engagement party, she had announced to the entire room that her skin felt raw, insisting she couldn’t stand unless she was pressed against his arm. At the movie theater, she’d squeezed into his seat, resting her cheek against his knee and complaining that her body was burning up, and he had spent the whole film absentmindedly rubbing her calves. Every single time, I forced myself to be understanding. I told myself to be the bigger person, to empathize with someone struggling with a genuine psychological condition. But right now, in the faint amber light filtering from the hallway, I saw it. Buried against the crook of his neck, Jill’s mouth curved into a small, triumphant smile. A sudden, hollow exhaustion washed over me. If they enjoyed playing this devoted, co-dependent farce so much, then it was time for the third wheel to step out of the picture. … When I woke up the next morning, Trevor’s side of the mattress was cold and smooth. He had spent another night in the guest room, soothing Jill. She had moved in three months ago under the guise of taking a brief vacation. Within three days, her condition flared up—her skin turning blotchy and red, her arms crisscrossed with bloody scratch marks from her own fingernails. Trevor took her to the medical center downtown, and when they came back, his mind was made up. “The dermatology clinic here is one of the best in the state,” he had told me. “She needs to stay here for treatment. The care back home just doesn’t compare.” At first, Trevor set up a folding cot for her in the living room, claiming it was just for a few days. But on the third night, she had another episode. She curled up on the cot, trembling, sobbing out, “Trevor, my skin is so hungry, please touch me.” Trevor had practically leaped out of our bed and rushed to her side, holding her for hours. His hands had moved in slow, rhythmic strokes over her back and arms until she finally drifted off. The following morning, dark circles framed his tired eyes as he told me, “That cot is too small. I can’t comfort her properly when she’s having a severe episode. Let’s move her into the guest room. It’s closer to us.” He didn’t wait for my response. He had already turned toward the linen closet to pull out fresh sheets for her. Last week, during her follow-up appointment, the specialist indicated her therapy would take at least four more months. When Trevor brought it up with me that evening, he framed it as a conversation. “She’s been dealing with this flare-up for years without any real progress,” he murmured. “The doctor feels confident about this treatment plan. I want her to finish it before she goes back.” He paused, adding in a softer voice, “Don’t worry. The moment she’s healed, I’ll take her back home myself. Just bear with it a little longer, okay?” When he said “I’m sorry for putting you through this,” his eyes were soft, his tone tender. But when he said “I want her to finish it before she goes back,” it wasn’t a request. It was an announcement. I lay in bed for a long time before finally getting up to wash my face. A new line of products sat neatly on the marble bathroom counter. Medical-grade barrier creams, soothing ceramide sprays, prescription steroid ointments… all belonging to Jill. My night cream had been shoved into the furthest corner of the mirror cabinet, its lid askew. I applied my cream, then pulled out a small plastic bottle from the medicine cabinet and swallowed a single prenatal vitamin. We had been married for three years and actively trying to conceive for two, yet nothing had happened. Last night had fallen right in the middle of my ovulation window. I had tracked the dates carefully and mentioned it to Trevor days in advance. And then, right in the middle of our intimacy, Jill had opened the door. An ovulation window only lasts a few short days. Once missed, you have to wait another month. I exhaled slowly, gathering a manila folder from my desk. Inside was my recent fertility workup from the clinic. “Results: All metrics within normal parameters. Fallopian tubes clear, hormone levels balanced, follicle development healthy.” Everything was fine on my end. The day I picked up the report, I had texted him a picture of the summary page: “I’m completely healthy. Why don’t you schedule a visit to get checked, too?” It took him forty minutes to reply: “Sure. I’ll get to it one of these days.” Later that afternoon, while I was revising a proposal at work, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Trevor—a comparison grid of four different barrier repair creams. “Jill’s skin is acting up again. Which of these ingredients looks gentler to you?” He couldn’t find an hour to book a routine checkup, but he had plenty of time to research skin repair formulas for Jill. When I arrived home that evening, Trevor was sitting on the living room sofa, carefully dabbing ointment onto Jill’s inner arm. She was wearing a silk tank top, perched on the armrest, her fair skin splotched with patches of pink irritation. “Trevor, it stings,” she whimpered. “Hold still, honey. Just a little more.” His fingertips traced the edge of the flare-up, applying the cream with agonizing slowness. I walked over and sat down on the opposite armchair. “Trevor, my fertility window ends in two days.” His fingers paused for a fraction of a second. “Not tonight, Naomi. Jill’s skin is still burning.” “What about after you’re done?” He didn’t answer, resuming the gentle circles on her arm. Jill lifted her head, looking at me with small, bitten lips. “Naomi, I’m so sorry… I keep coming between you two.” “Don’t apologize, Jill. You didn’t ask for this flare-up,” Trevor interjected seamlessly, his voice completely natural. He finished applying the last dab of ointment before finally glancing up at me. “Tomorrow. I’ll come home early tomorrow, I promise.” He leaned down and whispered something to Jill. I didn’t bother listening. I simply stood up and walked back to the bedroom. Closing the door behind me, I leaned my back against the wood, staring blindly into the dim room. The truth was, over the past three months, it wasn’t that we hadn’t tried. Last month, Jill had a good week—three days in a row without an episode. That night, I put on a silk nightgown and sat beside Trevor on the bed. We were just beginning to kiss when a muffled thump echoed from the guest room. Then came Jill’s tearful voice calling his name. Trevor froze, whispering that he should go check on her. I waited in bed for an hour, listening to his low, rhythmic murmur coming from across the hall as he coaxed her back to sleep. Eventually, I realized it wasn’t just our intimacy that was being broken up. At dinner, Jill sat right next to him, her plate nudging his. Watching TV, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and his arm naturally slid around her. Over the weekend, when I suggested the two of us take a short walk just to get some air, Trevor glanced toward the guest room and said, “I don’t feel comfortable leaving her alone.” So the three of us went together. When we crossed the street, he held her hand to guide her over the curb, while I trailed a pace behind them. I wasn’t sure if Trevor even realized it. Our private life hadn’t just been interrupted. It had ceased to exist. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes. “Just wait a little longer,” I told myself. “Maybe her treatment will end next month. Maybe next month, it will just be the two of us again.” … My prenatal vitamins were running low, so I took half a day off work to pick up a refill from the hospital clinic. After leaving the obstetrics department, I paused outside the dermatology wing and knocked softly on the door of Consultation Room 3. Dr. Adler looked up from his desk, momentarily startled. “Mrs. Vaughn? Trevor’s wife?” “Yes,” I said, walking in. “I wanted to ask about Jill’s progress.” Dr. Adler gestured for me to sit down. “What specifically would you like to know?” “How much longer her program is going to take.” He flipped through her digital chart on his monitor. “Based on her current metrics, about four more months. Though that largely depends on whether physical contact can be systematically reduced.” I frowned. “What do you mean?” “Her primary treatment protocol clearly states that we recommend minimizing reliance on physical soothing from others. We’re supposed to be guiding her toward self-desensitization using tactile tools, like weighted pressure blankets.” I leaned forward, checking the date on the corner of his screen. “When was this protocol established?” “Three months ago. During her intake evaluation.” Three months ago. From her very first day here, the doctor had outlined this requirement. Dr. Adler hesitated slightly before continuing. “I’ve brought this up with Mr. Vaughn several times. But he insisted that the patient resists synthetic tools, and that direct physical soothing from family members yields better emotional stability.” He chose his words carefully. “From a clinical perspective, however, this approach creates an unhealthy tactile dependency. It’s actually prolonging her recovery.” Standing on the sidewalk outside the clinic, the afternoon sun felt strangely cold on my face. The doctor had advised reducing physical touch three months ago. Trevor hadn’t been ignorant of the medical advice; he had actively chosen to ignore it. At six that evening, Trevor walked through the front door. He reached out, wrapping an arm around my waist and resting his chin against the top of my head. “I’m all yours tonight, Naomi. No distractions. I’m making up for yesterday.” I didn’t lean into his touch, but I didn’t push him away either. “I went to the hospital today.” His arm stiffened slightly. “Why? Are you not feeling well?” “I went to get my prescription refilled. And while I was there, I spoke with Dr. Adler about Jill’s protocol.” Trevor’s arm slowly slid off my waist. He walked over to the kitchen island and picked up a glass of water. “Dr. Adler recommended minimizing physical soothing right from the start,” I said, my voice steady, almost detached. “He said he brought it up with you multiple times. He urged you to use weighted desensitization blankets instead, but you refused.” My fingers tightened around the edge of my purse. I waited for his answer. “Every patient is different,” he said, taking a sip without looking at me. “You’ve seen her flare-ups, Naomi. She scratches herself until she’s bleeding! If a weighted blanket actually worked, do you think I’d let her suffer like that?” His tone spiked with defensive irritation before he quickly forced it back down. I stared at the tight line of his jaw, and a quiet, bitter amusement washed over me. For three months, whenever Jill’s name was mentioned, every single nerve in his body coiled tight in defense of her. “You don’t understand her condition,” he murmured, glancing instinctively toward the hallway. “I’ve watched her struggle with this since we were kids.” He lowered his voice. “I know you feel neglected, and I’m sorry I haven’t been as present lately. Just hold on a little longer. Just four more months.” “Hold on a little longer.” The words sounded like a request. The look in his eyes made it clear it wasn’t. … At nine that night, Trevor and I went into the bedroom. He locked the door behind us and gathered me into his arms from behind. “No interruptions tonight.” I leaned back against his chest, remaining still. His fingers pulled gently at the hem of my silk top, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin beneath my ear. I didn’t want to talk, nor did I want to break the momentum. I just wanted to get this over with—to check off the box for the month. Just as things began to heighten, a light knock sounded against the wooden panel. “Trevor?” We both froze. “Trevor, are you awake?” He swallowed hard, exhaling a heavy breath. “What is it, Jill?” “I think the essential oil diffuser in my room is broken. It’s leaking water everywhere, and I don’t know how to turn off the valve…” Trevor looked down at me. I looked at the ceiling. His hands slid off my waist as he swung his legs out of bed. “Wait there. I’ll take a look.” The bedroom door opened and clicked shut. Through the panel, I heard Jill’s soft, apologetic voice. “I’m so sorry, Trevor… I just didn’t know what to do…” “It’s fine. Let me check the seal.” Then came the sound of rustling, water dripping onto the hardwood floor, and Trevor asking her to grab a towel from the bathroom. I lay flat on the mattress, staring up at the white plaster overhead. It wasn’t a major emergency. A leaking diffuser could easily be unplugged and wiped up with a rag. But she had knocked, and he had gone. Five minutes later, the door squeaked open, and he stepped back inside. “Fixed it. Just a loose valve.” He climbed back into bed, his hand reaching across the sheets toward me. I turned onto my side, facing away from him. “Not tonight.” “…Why?” “I’m not in the mood anymore.” A heavy silence settled over the dark room. “Tomorrow then?” I didn’t answer. He didn’t press further. He simply turned onto his side, facing the opposite wall. Before long, the rhythmic sound of his slow, steady breathing filled the room. I lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling, unable to close my eyes until dawn. … Early the next morning, my mother texted, inviting us over to my parents’ house for Sunday lunch. I handed the phone to Trevor. “Sounds good,” he said, checking the digital thermometer in his hand. Jill was sitting beside him at the breakfast bar. “36.5. Normal.” He paused, looking at me. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving Jill home alone for hours. Should we bring her along?” I stared at him. “To my parents’ house? For Sunday dinner?” “Well, what else are we supposed to do? What if she has an episode while we’re gone?” I opened my mouth to say that she would be perfectly fine on her own for a three-hour afternoon, but he had already turned away, telling Jill, “Go grab a sweater, sweetie. You’re coming with us.” I swallowed the words back down. As we gathered our things by the front door, a heavy, suffocating cloud of perfume struck me. I turned toward Jill, wincing slightly. “Jill, could you please go wash that off? My mother has severe, reactive asthma. Strong fragrance triggers her airways immediately.” Jill bit her lower lip, her eyes instantly brimming with unshed tears. She shrank back slightly behind Trevor’s broad frame. “I’m so sorry, Naomi… It’s my first time visiting your parents, and I just wanted to make a good impression. I didn’t know your mom was sick… I’ll go wash it right now.” Trevor’s forehead creased into a deep frown. He immediately stepped in front of her, his tone laced with sharp reprimand. “It’s just a light mist, Naomi. We’ll keep the car windows rolled down on the drive over, and the scent will dissipate in the air. Stop picking on her every chance you get.” Looking at the defensive, guarded stance he took against me, my throat felt as though it were stuffed with cotton. I turned away and said nothing. Forty minutes later, we arrived at my parents’ suburban home. The moment we walked through the foyer, the heavy, sweet scent Jill wore filled the hallway. Though my mother’s eyebrows twitched slightly, she smiled warmly and welcomed them inside. At the dining table, Jill took the seat right beside Trevor. Halfway through the meal, Jill suddenly set her fork down with a sharp clatter, leaning her entire body weight heavily against Trevor’s side. “Trevor… I feel terrible. My skin is burning,” she whimpered, her voice tiny and laced with panic. Without a second thought, Trevor dropped his utensils. Completely ignoring my mother and father sitting directly across from them, he turned in his chair and wrapped his arms firmly around her. “It’s okay. I’m right here,” he murmured into her hair. He stroked her back, his arms locked tight around her shoulders. Jill buried her face completely into the crook of his neck, her hands clutching at the waist of his shirt. My father’s face instantly darkened. He set his silver fork down onto his napkin with a heavy, deliberate thud. My mother froze, her expression a mix of shock and tightly suppressed outrage. A suffocating, unnatural silence blanketed the dining room. Trevor seemed to have completely forgotten whose house he was in. He seemed to forget that three other adults were sitting at the same table. I lowered my head, forcing small bites of roasted chicken into my mouth. It tasted like cardboard. As the two of us pulled and shifted against each other, the heavy perfume clung to the air in the enclosed dining room, growing thicker by the second. Suddenly, my mother broke into a violent, racking cough. In a matter of seconds, her face drained of color, turning a terrifying, ghostly white. A harsh, wheezing gasp echoed from her throat as she reached uselessly for her chest. An acute asthma attack. “Mom!” Panic surged through me as I threw my chair back and rushed to her side. “The… the inhaler… it’s in the bedroom nightstand…” My father’s hands were shaking so violently he could barely push himself up from his seat. I sprinted toward the master bedroom, frantically pulling open every drawer in the nightstand, but the spare inhaler wasn’t there. Tears of frustration and fear burst from my eyes. I ran back out to the hallway, shouting toward the living area: “Trevor! Help me search! Check the media console in the living room! Quickly!” But when I tore into the living room, Trevor was still sitting on the dining bench, his arms locked securely around Jill. Jill’s eyes were shut tight, her body trembling dramatically as she sobbed, “Trevor, I’m scared… please don’t leave me, it hurts so bad, hold me tighter…” Trevor kept his hands clamped tightly over her shoulders. He glanced up at me, his eyes filled with a helplessness that made me sick. “Naomi, your mom’s coughing terrified her—she’s spiraling right now. I literally can’t untangle her from me. Try searching the hallway closet, or just dial 911!” Looking at him—watching him wrap his arms tightly around another woman while claiming he couldn’t spare a single hand to help save my mother—my heart dropped into a dark, bottomless abyss. The woman suffocating on the dining room chair was my mother. And my husband refused to reach out a single finger to help because he was busy holding someone else. I didn’t utter another word to him. I tore through my mother’s purse, found her rescue inhaler, and pressed it to her lips before dialing emergency services with trembling fingers. When the paramedics arrived and wheeled my mother out on a gurney, Trevor did not come with us. Because Jill was “having a severe panic attack and couldn’t be left alone.” … In the quiet observation room at the hospital, after hours of monitoring and nebulizer treatments, my mother finally drifted off to sleep under a gentle flow of oxygen. By late afternoon, she woke up. Seeing me sitting by her bedside, my eyes bloodshot and swollen, a deep sorrow crossed her pale face. She reached out a fragile, trembling hand, pressing her cold palm against my cheek. “Naomi,” she whispered weakly, her voice thin. “Whenever you want to come back home… your room is always ready for you.” In that moment, the mountain of grief, indignity, and quiet suffering I had carried for three agonizing months shattered completely. I buried my face into the edge of her hospital mattress and wept until I had no tears left. … It was pitch black by the time I returned home. The apartment was cold and silent, not a single light turned on. My phone vibrated in my coat pocket. A text from Trevor. “Is your mom okay?” I stared at the glowing screen, my thumb hovering over the keypad. Before I could type a single letter, a second text popped up immediately after. “Jill’s in really bad shape tonight. I have to stay in here and soothe her until she falls asleep. Go ahead and get some rest without me.” Looking at those two lines, my eyes felt completely dry. I couldn’t even manage a single tear. It turned out that when disappointment accumulates to a certain threshold, even anger becomes entirely redundant. I didn’t text him back. I walked quietly into our master bedroom, opened the walk-in closet, and dragged out my large hard-shell suitcase from the back corner. The moment the zipper clicked closed around my packed clothes, an unimaginable wave of release washed over me. As I rolled the suitcase down the hallway, I passed the guest room. The heavy oak door was pulled ajar, leaving a crack of light. I paused, looking through the sliver of space. Jill was curled up peacefully in Trevor’s arms, sleeping deeply. Trevor’s eyes were closed, his chin resting gently on the crown of her head, his broad hand moving in slow, rhythmic strokes down her back. I pulled my gaze away, lifted my suitcase off the hardwood, and walked out of the apartment without looking back.

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Every time Alex and I were intimate, my consciousness was violently ripped from my skin and forced into his body for exactly thirty minutes. For three years, Alex assumed I was just exhausted after sex, drifting into a heavy, post-coital sleep. He had no idea that while my body lay limp on the mattress, my mind was riding behind his eyes, trapped inside his skull. Until that night on the balcony. My consciousness floated with Alex as he stepped outside into the cool night air, flicking open his lighter to ignite a cigarette. He took a slow, deep drag. Then his phone buzzed. It was my best friend, Chloe. Alex’s brow furrowed in a brief flicker of annoyance. He hesitated before pressing answer. “Didn’t we agree?” he murmured, his voice low and cautious. “You were supposed to call Kallie first. Make sure we weren’t together before you dialed me.” Chloe’s soft, fragile whimper bled through the speaker. “I did call her, Alex. She didn’t pick up. I thought…” Alex let out a long, heavy sigh, the tension melting from his shoulders into a tone of sickening indulgence. “You silly girl. I’m not mad at you. It’s just… she and I haven’t parted ways for the night yet.” He paused, taking another drag of smoke. “I’ll buy our baby that new designer bag tomorrow to make it up to you, okay?” Listening to their conversation from inside his head, my mind went dead quiet. A cold, blinding void expanded in my chest. I had always thought Chloe was just obsessed with catching up over brunch or dinner. Every time she called me, it was always under the guise of inviting us both out to some new bistro downtown, asking me to check if Alex was free to join. She wasn’t inviting us out. She was verifying whether Alex was lying in my bed. Three years. Over two hundred phone calls. It wasn’t me and my best friend. It was the two of them, all along. … The thirty minutes expired, and the invisible tether snapped. My consciousness was yanked backward through the dark, slamming back into my own flesh. I opened my eyes on the bed. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Alex slipped inside, smelling faintly of tobacco and expensive cologne. “Exhausted, sweetheart?” he asked softly, stepping toward the bed. For three years, every time he said those words, I thought he was being tender. I thought he was caring for me. I stared straight into his dark eyes, refusing to play my part. Without a word, I rolled over, grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and dialed Chloe on speaker. It didn’t even ring twice before she picked up. “Hey! Kallie?” Chloe’s voice was bright, bubbly, completely devoid of the fragile, pathetic tone she had used just minutes ago on the balcony. “Chloe,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly flat while locking eyes with Alex. “I was so tired earlier, I fell asleep. I just woke up and saw Alex was getting ready for work, and I saw your missed call. What’s up?” There was a distinct, microscopic beat of silence on the line. Then came her sharp, cheerful laugh. “Oh, it’s nothing! I was just craving that upscale Italian bistro down on 5th. Wanted to see if you guys were free tomorrow night.” “Sure,” I said smoothly. “See you tomorrow.” I hung up and didn’t look at Alex. Instead, I began counting silently in my head. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” Five seconds later, Alex’s phone chimed on the nightstand. “Chloe.” His eyebrow gave a microscopic twitch. He let out a light, charming chuckle. “She probably wants to change the reservation time already. You know how she is.” I sat up, resting my back against the headboard. “Answer it. Put it on speaker. I want to hear what time we’re meeting.” Alex looked at me. For a fraction of a second, I caught it—a razor-thin sliver of panic in his gaze. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual gentle, indulgent smile. “Sure. Whatever you want.” He answered and tapped the speaker button. Chloe’s voice filled the quiet bedroom, but she didn’t mention dinner, or a restaurant, or a time. She asked: “Has the rain stopped over there?” I turned my head to look out the window. The night sky was crystal clear. It hadn’t rained all week, and the forecast promised sun for the next three days. Alex didn’t look at the window. He kept his eyes locked on mine, his voice smooth and steady. “It stopped. The roads are completely dry.” On the other end, Chloe let out a relieved breath. “Good to know. Goodnight!” The line went dead. Silence settled over the bedroom like heavy dust. I kept my eyes on Alex as he set his phone back on the nightstand, his expression entirely unbothered. It was a code. A sick, private language designed to communicate in front of my face. “Why is she asking about rain?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Alex reached out, his hand gently smoothing my hair, soothing me as if I were a paranoid child. “Kallie, baby, are you just overwhelmed? She’s been so anxious about work lately. You know how she gets—she rambles about nonsense when she’s stressed.” I pulled my head back, dodging his touch. “Are the two of you keeping something from me?” Alex’s hand hovered in mid-air before he dropped it naturally back to his side. His expression hardened just a fraction. “Don’t overcomplicate things with Chloe. She’s your “best friend”.” He emphasized those two words as if delivering a warning. Alex turned and walked into the bathroom. Moments later, the shower turned on. I picked up his phone from the nightstand. I didn’t need to guess his passcode; I knew it by heart. I opened Instagram and pulled up Chloe’s profile. Her latest post had been uploaded twenty minutes ago. It was a photo of a sleek, black luxury handbag resting on a marble table. Hanging from the strap was a custom, hand-carved silver key ring. It was identical to the key ring Alex carried on his hip every single day. I refreshed her profile from my own phone. Nothing. She had customized her privacy settings to hide the post strictly from me. The next evening, Chloe booked a private booth at the bistro downtown. The moment I pushed open the door, Chloe bounced up from her seat and threw her arms around me. “Kallie! You finally made it! I swear, I woke up this morning dreaming about their truffle risotto.” Alex stepped up behind me, casually pulling out the chair beside him for Chloe to sit. Then he flagged down the waiter. “Could you swap her starter?” Alex instructed the waiter attentively. “Make sure there are absolutely zero pine nuts in hers. None at all.” I lowered my eyes to the artisanal arugula salad sitting directly in front of me. It was buried under a thick, generous layer of shaved walnuts and crushed pine nuts. I have a severe, violent tree nut allergy. It causes my throat to constrict within minutes. Alex had known this since the very first week we started dating. Yet tonight, he didn’t even notice what was sitting on my plate. His eyes were entirely on Chloe. Chloe set her new black handbag against the back of her chair, making a deliberate, showy movement so the silver key ring clinked loudly against the wood. I stared at the metal charm for two full seconds. Chloe immediately snatched the bag into her lap, covering the charm with her small hands, her expression suddenly filled with flustered innocence. “Kallie, please don’t get the wrong idea,” she squeaked, her voice dripping with quiet injury. “I bought this key ring myself. I just thought it was pretty. It’s just a coincidence that it looks a little like Alex’s.” Before I could even open my mouth, Alex cut in from the side. “It’s completely normal for girls to have matching accessories,” he said, carving a piece of his filet mignon with a steak knife. “Don’t look at her like you’re conducting an interrogation, Kallie. You’re scaring her.” During the meal, Chloe’s phone screen lit up multiple times. Calls were coming in, but she merely glanced at the screen, ignored them, and looked up at Alex instead. “Is the sauce going to be too rich tonight?” she asked softly. Alex laid his fork down, picked up his wine glass, and took a slow sip. His tone was utterly comforting. “It won’t be. I’m right here.” My fork froze in mid-air. “Last night it was rain.” “Tonight it was sauce.” Phrases that sounded like mundane table talk to an outsider, but every single word was a codified reassurance. “I’ve got you. I’ll protect you.” I set my silverware down on the linen napkin and looked directly at Alex. “Did you buy her that bag?” Alex didn’t even flinch. He casually sliced off a tender piece of steak and placed it gently on my bread plate with absolute composure. “She’s been having a terrible month with her boss,” he said, looking at me with eyes that seemed entirely sincere. “I bought a little gift to cheer her up. You’ve always said she acts like a helpless kid, haven’t you? It’s just a gift between friends. There’s no need to be petty about it.” I stared down at the isolated piece of meat on my plate. “And what about me?” He let out a short, quiet laugh, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers. “You’re different, Kallie. You’re mature. You’re grounded. You don’t need material bribes to feel secure.” Halfway through dinner, Chloe suddenly gasped, clutching her upper abdomen as her features contorted in pain. “Ow… my stomach. It hurts so bad. I think I drank that iced water too fast…” Alex bolted up from his chair instantly. “A stomach spasm? I’ll go buy you medication right now.” He didn’t even grab his jacket. He snatched his wallet off the table and sprinted out of the restaurant. I sat alone in the quiet booth, staring silently across the table at Chloe. The pain on her face melted away in seconds. She casually pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her feeds, utterly unfazed. Alex’s jacket was still draped over the back of his chair, his phone resting inside the pocket. The screen lit up with a text notification. I cast a sideways glance at it. It was from Chloe: “Babe, did Kallie notice the key ring? She looked so mean. I’m scared.” A minute later, the door slammed open. Alex rushed back in, breathless. He didn’t look at me for a single second. He grabbed his coat, pulled Chloe gently up by her arm, and draped his shoulder around her. “Kallie, Chloe’s in really bad shape,” he said hurriedly. “The pharmacy downstairs is closed. I need to drive her back to her place right now so she can rest.” He steered her out the door. I sat alone at the table, watching their retreating backs. A bitter, empty smile pulled at my lips. “It’s time to leave.” …… By the time I managed to get back to our apartment, an agonizing, tearing pain gripped my lower abdomen. Cold sweat burst from my pores, soaking my hair and dampening the pillow as I crumpled onto the bed. I forced myself to crawl up, feeling a sudden, terrifying rush of warm fluid between my thighs. I pulled myself into an Uber and rode all the way to the emergency room, clutching my stomach the entire time. The attending physician was a young doctor whose nametag read “Dr. Jonah Kelly”. He walked back into the triage room holding a sheaf of lab results, his face dark with concern. “Did you know you’re six weeks pregnant?” he asked bluntly. I went entirely rigid. “You’re showing severe signs of a threatened miscarriage,” Dr. Kelly continued firmly. “We need to admit you immediately to try and save the pregnancy. But this is critical—we need a family member or partner here to sign the emergency consent forms. Call him now.” My hands shook violently as I pulled my phone from my bag and dialed Alex. First call. It rang until it hit voicemail. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, and dialed a second time. He picked up. The background was dead quiet. “Alex,” I choked out, unable to suppress the sob tearing through my throat. “I’m at the hospital… my stomach hurts so bad… I’m bleeding…” A heavy sigh echoed through the receiver. His voice was soft, but laced with icy, unmistakable irritation. “Kallie, can you please not do this right now?” I froze. “Chloe just took her prescription and finally fell asleep,” Alex continued coldly. “If I leave right now, she’s going to wake up terrified in the middle of the night.” I gripped the edges of my phone case so hard my fingernails nearly bent backward. “I am telling you I am at the hospital! I might be losing our baby! Can you please just come here?!” There was a two-second pause. When Alex spoke again, his voice had gone entirely dead. “You’re really resorting to making up a fake pregnancy just to force me to come home?” He let out a breath of disgust. “Grow up, Kallie. You’re exhausting me. I’ll come back early tomorrow to talk.” “Click.” The line went dead. The harsh, rhythmic dial tone echoed brutally through the sterile room. Dr. Kelly stood on the other side of the desk, having overheard every word. He slowly pushed the consent form and a pen across the table toward me. “Can you sign it yourself?” he asked quietly. I unclasped my teeth from my bloody lip, took the pen, and signed my name—stroke by stroke—on the line. …… By midnight, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV dripping into my vein. The cramping in my abdomen still hit in agonizing waves, and the saline felt ice-cold as it seeped into my bloodstream. My phone illuminated on the mattress beside me. A short video notification from Chloe. I tapped play. The background was the modern, high-end kitchen of her luxury penthouse apartment. Alex was standing at the gas stove wearing a loose bathrobe, stirring a small saucepan of organic bone broth. Chloe’s sickly sweet voice floated from behind the camera: “Alex… if my stomach never gets better, will you stay and take care of me forever?” Alex turned toward the camera holding a wooden spoon. His eyes were overflowing with a soft, devotional warmth I hadn’t seen in years. “Of course,” he murmured. “Who else is going to look after my helpless girl?” In the dark hours of the early morning, a blinding, razor-sharp tear ripped through my lower body. Warm blood gushed down my legs. I couldn’t even reach the call button before the pain blacked out my consciousness entirely. When I opened my eyes again, the morning sun was cutting through the blinds. Dr. Kelly was standing at my bedside, the dark circles under his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “I’m so sorry, Kallie,” he whispered. “We did everything we could. We couldn’t save the baby.” I stared blankly at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. I couldn’t even squeeze out a single tear. Dr. Kelly gently tucked the blanket around my shoulders, his voice barely audible. “We called your partner thirteen times last night.” He hesitated. “He finally picked up on the thirteenth call. He told us your friend had severe stomach bleeding and was in the ER, and that he couldn’t leave her side.” I closed my eyes. While my child was dying inside me, he was holding her hand. Suddenly, frantic footsteps rushed down the hallway outside. A nurse pushed open the door, her voice urgent. “Dr. Kelly, Miss Marsh’s condition is deteriorating! The blood bank doesn’t have enough units of her type—she’s Rh-negative, it’s extremely rare!” Another nurse flipped through a chart on a clipboard, hesitant. “Wait… Miss Morrison’s chart says she has the exact same rare blood type.” My eyelashes fluttered. A second later, the door was slammed wide open. Alex stepped into the room. For one absurd, pathetic second, a piece of me thought he had finally come to ask if I was okay. If I was in pain. “Kallie,” he said, walking straight to my bed. His voice was tender, like he was soothing a child after a minor misunderstanding. “Chloe’s in bad shape right now.” I looked at him, my throat so raw it burned to speak. “So?” Alex sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “The doctors said you two share the same rare blood type.” He leaned in closer. “Help her out just this once, okay? As soon as Chloe is out of danger, I promise I’ll stay right here and help you recover from whatever illness you’ve got.” A horrific, silent laugh welled up in my throat, causing my lower abdomen to spasm in agony. He spoke so softly. As if this were all just a tiny mistake we could smoothly move past later. “I won’t donate.” Alex let out a soft, disappointed sigh. “Kallie, don’t be selfish.” Outside the doorway, a nurse was pushing Chloe past in a wheelchair. Chloe was deathly pale, her eyes red-rimmed, looking up at Alex with delicate vulnerability. “Alex, it’s fine…” she whimpered. “Don’t force her. I don’t want to make things hard for you…” Alex turned to look at her, his expression melting with pity. “It’s fine. Kallie has always been reasonable.” Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. He turned back to me, his gaze demanding compliance. “It’s only two hundred milliliters. The doctors will monitor you. Nothing bad is going to happen.” Every word was a quiet blade to my heart. “Alex, back off!” Dr. Kelly suddenly shoved his way between Alex and the bed, blocking him. “She just had a traumatic miscarriage! Her body cannot handle blood draw right now!” Alex lifted his eyes to Dr. Kelly. No rage, no loss of control. Just a cold, superior smile. “Dr. Kelly, I respect your medical opinion,” Alex said calmly. “But Chloe cannot wait.” In the next second, Alex reached down and forcefully hauled my weak body up out of the hospital bed. The sudden movement tore through my fresh internal wounds. A blinding flare of agony exploded behind my eyes as fresh blood soaked instantly through my hospital gown. Dr. Kelly lunged forward to stop him. “Alex! Are you out of your mind?! Put her down!” Alex held me tightly, his posture unyielding as he turned his shoulder away. “Dr. Kelly, get out of my way.” “You need to let me go, Alex!” I screamed, thrashing with every ounce of strength I had left, desperate to escape his grasp. My violent struggling knocked into an iron medical cart parked beside the bed. The cart overturned with a deafening crash. Glass medication vials shattered across the floor. Alex lost his footing, and I slipped from his arms, my body crashing violently onto the linoleum floor. My bare hands slammed directly into the pile of jagged, broken glass. Alex’s face twisted in shock. “Kallie!” He dropped to his knees to pull me up. A sharp piece of glass sliced deep into his palm. His blood welled up instantly, spilling into the cuts on my own open hands. My blood rushed into his palm, fusing together where our flesh met. The instant our blood mixed, a violent, blinding surge of electricity shot directly through my brain. My vision snapped to total blackness. My physical body went completely limp, collapsing onto the bloody floor. But right before the darkness swallowed me entirely—I opened my eyes again. My perspective was unnaturally high. I looked down and saw a pair of large, broad, masculine hands. It was that familiar, terrifying pull. The exact sensation I felt after intimacy. Chloe was clinging tightly to “my” arm, weeping hysterically. “Alex! Your hand is bleeding! Oh my god, are you okay…?” And lying on the cold floor right at “my” feet… Was the pale, motionless body of Kallie Morrison, blood dripping from her nose and pooling beneath her hospital gown. “It was never about intimacy.” “It was about the exchange of bodily fluids.”

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At the sip-and-see party for the newborn twins, someone suggested a game of “Never Have I Ever”. Selena was the first to raise her glass. “Never have I ever carried a baby for ten months, only to realize I was carrying my husband’s child with another woman.” The room plunged into dead silence. A heartbeat later, my husband, Dave, slid his glass of juice across the marble table, stopping it right in front of me. “She’s telling the truth,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any hesitation. “Drink up, Julia.” I stared at him, my breath catching in my chest. “Both babies belong to Selena,” Dave continued smoothly, as if discussing the quarterly budget. “Her health is fragile; she can’t carry a pregnancy to term. I promised to help her fulfill her dream of becoming a mother. Be generous about this, Julia. Don’t make a scene.” My adoptive mother, Victoria, chimed in, squeezing my shoulder with fake sympathy. “She’s right, sweetie. Honestly, I knew all along. I just didn’t want to ruin your postpartum recovery by telling you sooner. I was actually at the fertility clinic the day of the embryo transfer.” A cold, sickening horror bloomed behind my ribs. The children I had nearly died to bring into this world… weren’t mine. Everyone in that room knew. Every single one of them. I was the only idiot kept in the dark, treated like a tragic punchline. Gathering every ounce of strength I had left, I handed the sleeping infants to the nanny. I turned on my heel, walked out toward the quiet courtyard, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “I’m ready,” I said into the receiver, my voice trembling but sharp as broken glass. “I’ll take over the family business.” “Good,” the voice on the other end answered seamlessly. “What do you need?” “Tomorrow morning, I want the Ellington and Barrington companies under the Primo name. All of them.” … As the party wound down, relatives lingered, offering their suffocating version of “comfort.” “Don’t take it to heart, Julia. Honestly, Dave marrying you in the first place was a blessing. Selena is the real Ellington heiress, and she’s not even forcing a divorce. What is there to throw a tantrum about?” “Exactly. It was all for the good of the family. Just be sensible.” “You just finished your postpartum month. Don’t ruin your health over this. You still have two babies to raise, after all.” The sheer, agonizing absurdity of it made me want to laugh out loud. Even now, at this exact moment, they still expected me to be the sweet, sensible girl. To be magnanimous. To keep playing the dutiful fake heiress, raising someone else’s children, fulfilling someone else’s dream. I looked down at the twin babies sleeping soundly in the nanny’s arms, their tiny fists clenched tight against their cheeks. I carried them for ten grueling months. I endured a seven-layer abdominal incision during an emergency C-section. I laid in the ICU for three days, hooked to monitors, floating between life and death. The IVF treatments before that had been a slow, quiet hell. Hormones bloated my body; long, terrifying needles left a galaxy of deep purple bruises across my stomach. The sterile, bleached ceiling of the clinic and the sharp bite of antiseptic still lingered in my memory like a fresh wound. And yet, the babies I bled for didn’t carry a single drop of my blood. I swallowed hard, taking a deep breath, but I didn’t even have the energy left to shake. While the hosts were distracted entertaining the remaining guests, I slipped upstairs to my bedroom and locked the door behind me. The first thing I did was open my phone and search for top-tier divorce attorneys. My fingers moved across the glass screen with a chilling, detached precision. I didn’t shed a single tear. I methodically compared trial success rates, taking screenshots and saving them to a secure folder. When I finally unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway, Dave was waiting. He stepped forward, carefully placing a soft cashmere beanie on my head. “You just got out of recovery,” he said softly, his touch mimicking tenderness. “You need to stay warm. Don’t catch a chill.” I took a step back, my movement mechanical, entirely numb. He let out a quiet sigh. “Look, Selena was out of line downstairs. I already gave her a stern talking-to.” “Did you reprimand her in front of everyone?” I asked, staring straight into his eyes. Dave paused, his brows knitting together in irritation. “Why do you always have to take things so far? Selena’s health is delicate; she can’t handle intense stress. You two are different—” “Different how?” I cut in, my voice deadpan. “Do I have an extra set of arms and legs?” Dave’s face darkened instantly. “That’s enough!” He clearly hadn’t expected me to bite back. After all, we had grown up as childhood sweethearts. I had spent my entire adult life bending over backward for him. Years ago, when his startup was on the brink of collapse, I was the one who drank myself into alcohol poisoning at business dinners just to secure his first major investment. For him, I gave up my acceptance to an Ivy League master’s program, staying by his side through the mud and the grit. My reward? A signed marriage license and a pair of beautiful twins… that didn’t belong to me. My eyes burned, but I nodded slowly. “You’re right. It “is” enough.” In this relationship, my conscience was completely clear. And this was where it ended. He blinked, caught off guard by my sudden, eerie calm. His tone softened slightly, condescending as ever. “I couldn’t even give her a proper wedding license, Julia. Is it so wrong to let her vent a little? You just had a baby; your hormones are driving your emotions. I don’t blame you for acting out.” He reached for my arm. “Just don’t push it too far.” A cold, bitter laugh echoed silently in my head. Years of devotion. Risking my life on an operating table. And it was all reduced to: “Don’t push it too far.” Victoria came hurrying up the stairs, breathless. “Dave! Selena locked herself in her room and she’s sobbing uncontrollably! She won’t open the door for anyone!” Dave turned instantly, stepping around me without a second thought. “I’ll go check on her.” I watched his back disappear down the hall. Then I went downstairs, grabbed my car keys, and drove straight to the office. The lights in the accounting department burned late into the night. While I had been stuck at home on bed rest, Dave had quietly transferred property titles, offshore investment funds, fine jewelry, and international bank accounts over to Selena. The grand total was well into the eight figures. Staring at the darkened monitor, a sharp, metallic ache settled deep in my chest. My senior financial manager, whom I had called in for an emergency audit, approached my desk. Her voice trembled softly as she spoke. “Vice President… there’s also this.” She handed me a stack of hotel expense reports. Top-tier luxury penthouse suites. The dates matched the exact forty-eight hours I was screaming in labor and lingering in the ICU. Dave’s signature was scrawled at the bottom in his signature, arrogant flourish. While I was torn open on an operating table, he was wrapped in high-thread-count sheets with Selena. I reached up, wiping away an invisible tear from the corner of my eye. Pulling out my phone, I typed a brief message to the contact I had spoken with earlier: “I agree to the terms. But I have one condition.” “By tomorrow morning, I want Ellington and Barrington under the Primo name.” I locked the screen, leaned back into the leather office chair, and closed my eyes. …… The next morning, inside the executive boardroom of Barrington Corp. Dave pushed the double doors open and froze. I was sitting in his leather chair at the head of the conference table. He recovered quickly, a practiced smile sliding onto his face as he took the adjacent seat, acting as if nothing was amiss. “Julia just had the babies, everyone. Her mood has been a bit unstable lately, so please be patient with her moving forward.” With a single sentence, he labeled every future word out of my mouth as the ramblings of a hysterical woman. Anything I said would be rendered meaningless. Selena walked in right behind him, gliding into the empty chair on Dave’s other side as if it were her birthright. Dave raised a hand, addressing the room. “Selena will be stepping in to lighten Julia’s workload starting today. She has extensive experience, so I expect full cooperation from all departments.” “Lighten my workload.” I nearly burst out laughing. It wasn’t workload sharing; it was an execution of power. By the time I was expected to return from “taking care of the babies,” my title, my network, and my authority would be completely erased and handed to her on a silver platter. I tilted my head, looking directly at Dave. “Did the board of directors vote on this?” Dave’s voice remained smooth, indifferent. “Company policy regarding parental leave doesn’t require a board vote. It’s standard procedure.” He leaned in close, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “You wouldn’t bring personal household drama into the workplace, would you, Julia?” I looked at him, remaining silent. I knew exactly what was running through his head. He was gambling on my silence. Gambling that I would hide the family disgrace to protect our reputation, swallowing the broken glass just like I always had. When the meeting adjourned, my assistant brought lunch to my office. A heavy, lukewarm bowl of pork trotter soup sat on the tray, thick with a layer of congealed fat—the classic, suffocating meal forced on nursing mothers to boost milk production. I frowned. “Who ordered this?” “Mr. Barrington,” the assistant murmured nervously. “He insisted that you drink every last drop.” My jaw tightened. He truly viewed me as nothing more than a wet nurse for his mistress’s children. I opened my laptop, trying to pull up a quarterly operations file, when my phone vibrated rapidly with dozens of notifications. “You have been removed from the group chat.” “You have been removed from the group chat.” I blinked. I had been systematically purged from every single corporate communications channel. Not a single group was left. The sharp click of designer high heels echoed against the hardwood floor. “Sister,” Selena purred, leaning against the doorframe. “Dave is doing this for your own good. You just finished your recovery; you shouldn’t be stressing yourself out with business.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Now that the real heiress is back, an imposter like you should just go home and nurse my children. Once they’re older, I might even let them call you ‘Auntie.’ Consider it a reward for your three years of service.” “Auntie.” I stared at her, genuinely baffled by her delusion. Did she truly believe I was going to stay and raise her kids? I pointed a firm finger toward the hallway. “Get out of my office.” “It’s going to be my office soon anyway,” she smirked. “Then why stop there?” I replied coldly. “Why don’t you take Dave’s seat too and play CEO yourself?” The heavy oak door swung open with a loud slam. Dave stood in the doorway, his face pale with anger, his tone laced with suppressed rage. “Julia! I provide your clothes, your food, your whole life—and you’re already plotting to usurp my position?” I looked at the man standing before me, suddenly realizing how terrifyingly stranger-like he had become. He seemed to have completely forgotten that this company only survived because of me. Three years ago, I was the one kneeling at corporate dinners to secure the funding that pulled him out of bankruptcy. I was the one who gave up an Ivy League education to wade through the dirt with him. I was the one who spent ten months growing children in my body to keep his domestic life whole. And now, he was asking if I wanted to usurp him. A small, bitter smile touched my lips. “Dave… did you forget? You offered me the Managing Director position years ago. I was the one who turned it down.” His face flushed a mottled red, entirely caught off guard. He immediately pivoted, trying to regain control. “Your mother called. She said the babies are hungry. Go home and feed them.” I chuckled softly. “You two really put on a coordinated performance, don’t you?” He snapped his briefcase shut, frowning. “You’re in a terrible mood. I’m not going to argue with you.” Without another word, I gathered my personal belongings, stood up, and walked out. When I arrived at our estate, the smart lock at the front door let out an abrasive electronic screech. “Fingerprint not recognized.” On the third failed attempt, a security alarm chimed, and the door opened from the inside. The housekeeper stood there, looking at me with nervous, shifting eyes. “Miss Julia… Mr. Barrington deleted your biometric access from the system. He… he also asked me to tell you that you should stay indoors from now on. There’s no need for you to go out.” Soft house arrest. It was so ridiculous it was almost funny. A grown woman, locked out of her own life. Stepping into the foyer, the subtle shifts in the house hit me immediately. The grand canvas of our wedding portrait hanging in the living room was gone. In its place hung a fresh, framed family portrait: Dave, Victoria, and Selena, holding the twins between them. I was nowhere in the frame. I pushed open the door to the primary bedroom. The crisp, minimal linen bedding I preferred had been completely stripped. In its place were heavy, gaudy satin sheets embroidered with layered red peonies. Selena’s favorite. Victoria walked up behind me, her voice light and careless. “You won’t be sleeping in this room anymore, Julia. Move your things down to the nanny’s quarters on the first floor.” She paused, offering a tight, unbothered smile. “It’s just more convenient for taking care of the babies at night.” My fingers tightened around the strap of my handbag, my nails digging deep into my palms. I knew why she hated me. She blamed me for “stealing” her biological daughter’s luxurious life for twenty-seven years. She resented me for holding onto Dave. But for those twenty-seven years, I had truly loved her as my mother. A dull, aching pain throbbed in my chest. I knelt down beside the trash can in the corner of the room. Settled at the bottom was a framed photograph of Dave and me from college, the glass shattered. Over twenty years of being childhood sweethearts. From school uniforms to a wedding dress. From rock bottom to a publicly traded company. It couldn’t even survive three years of a shiny new distraction. That night, Dave and Selena walked through the front door laughing and chatting, looking for all the world like a glowing, happily married couple. I sat at the dining table, picking at a plate of spicy crawfish. Before the fork reached my mouth, Dave slammed his palm onto the table with a deafening bang. “You’re breastfeeding! Why are you eating spicy food?” “My milk dried up,” I said calmly, taking another bite. “I can’t feed them anymore.” He froze, his voice dropping. “What? Why?” “The doctor said severe emotional distress cuts off lactation,” I replied, looking him straight in the eye. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. When I was pregnant, he had obsessively researched every pregnancy book, compiling lists of foods and habits that could affect lactation. Back then, I thought it was proof of his overwhelming love for me. Now I realized the truth: he didn’t care about me at all. He only cared about the nourishment of his and Selena’s biological children. I set my fork down. “Enjoy your dinner.” I turned and walked into the study, pulling out my personal document binder to retrieve our marriage certificate. When I opened the leather folder, my fingers went completely rigid. My side of the marriage certificate had been viciously charred. My face was scorched black by a lighter, rendered entirely unrecognizable. I stared at the burnt paper, a cold, creeping shiver slithering up my spine. This home was officially a crime scene of a dead marriage. At 2:00 AM, my phone buzzed incessantly. I had been added to a massive group chat titled “Barrington Corp Watercooler”. Someone had dropped a candid photo into the chat. It was a shot of me in the boardroom yesterday—eyes red, standing up to confront Dave. The angle was intentionally grotesque, making my face look twisted, unhinged, like a lunatic on the verge of a breakdown. “Guys, did you know? The Vice President is actually the fake heiress.” “I heard she forced Mr. Barrington to marry her years ago! Used her business connections to blackmail him, otherwise he would’ve been with the real Ellington daughter all along.” “She must have severe postpartum depression. She lost her mind in the office yesterday and almost pushed Ms. Selena down the stairs!” I scrolled up, my thumbs stiffening against the glass. The rumors were written with terrifying detail. Anyone reading them without context would instantly believe I was a unstable monster. Even several senior executives whom I had personally hired and mentored were dropping agreeing emojis in the thread. I checked the group settings. The admin was Selena. She wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. Taking a slow, deep breath, I turned off the screen. Her strategy was glaringly obvious: paint me as a hysterical, postpartum lunatic in front of the entire company, giving them a righteous excuse to strip my authority, cast me out of the business, and purge me from both the Ellington and Barrington families. The next morning. Dave walked into the dining room and slid a legal document across the table toward me. “Sign it, Julia. It’s for your own good.” He pulled out a fountain pen. “This stock transfer agreement ensures you get a generous lump-sum payout. Given your awkward position right now, having this cash means you won’t suffer down the road, no matter what happens.” I looked up at him, a faint, bitter curve touching my lips. I had lived a smooth, privileged life for twenty-seven years. If it weren’t for him and Selena, I wouldn’t be suffering a single ounce of pain today. Seeing me remain silent, he nudged the pen closer. I recognized that pen instantly. It was a vintage Montblanc I had spent months sourcing for his twenty-fifth birthday. Back then, he held it like a sacred artifact, calling it his “lucky charm” after using it to sign his first ten-million-dollar contract. Now, he was handing it to me so I could sign away my life’s work. “Fine,” I said softly, picking up the document. “I’ll sign. On one condition.” Dave’s brows furrowed tightly. I paused, letting the silence stretch between us. “I want this pen back.” He visibly blinked, entirely stunned. He had clearly braced himself for a massive financial demand, or perhaps an ultimatum forcing Selena out of the estate. He never expected me to ask for an old pen. Without a second thought, he handed the cap over. “Sure. It’s yours.” I gripped the cold metal of the pen, feeling the crushing weight of the irony. I was just like this pen to him. Irreplaceable when useful; completely disposable the moment something shiny came along. I signed my name cleanly at the bottom of the document, capped the pen, and slipped it into my pocket. “Since you’re giving me a gift,” I murmured, “I should prepare a grand gift for you in return.” Dave smiled, a smug, knowing look settling over his features. “Tomorrow is the official merger ceremony between Ellington Group and Barrington Corp. Your blessing is enough.” He smoothed his tie. “However, you’ll need to publicly announce your retirement from company operations at the event. It’s better for everyone’s image.” I smiled, nodding gently. “Don’t mention it. I’ve been preparing this gift for a very long time.” Dave left the room entirely satisfied. I watched his retreating figure through the glass doors, the smile on my face slowly chilling into ice. He, Victoria, and Selena… if none of them could tolerate my existence, then I had no reason to offer them a shred of mercy. I went upstairs, pulled out a secure burner phone, and dialed a number. “Is the portfolio ready?” “Everything is locked and loaded,” a smooth, steady male voice replied through the speaker. “And the conditions you requested for tomorrow will be executed down to the last detail.” …… The following afternoon, the grand ballroom hosting the Ellington-Barrington Merger Ceremony was packed with press and high-society figures. I arrived dressed in a sleek, tailored black suit. The moment I stepped through the doors, every eye in the room pivoted toward me like sharp needles. The Marketing Director—a man I had personally promoted twice—was the first to jog over. His face wore a wide, practiced grin. “Vice President! Right this way, please. We reserved a special seat for you.” He led me past the velvet-draped VIP tables, guiding me all the way to the farthest back corner of the room—a tiny, wobbly table set up directly beside the maintenance and janitorial closet. Soft snickers erupted from the surrounding tables. At the front row, Selena glided in, her arm wrapped tightly around Dave’s as she took the seat that used to belong to me. Dave adjusted his lapel, stepped up to the podium, and cleared his throat into the microphone. “Today marks the official merger of Ellington Group and Barrington Corp,” his voice boomed over the speakers. “Furthermore, I have one important announcement to make—due to health reasons, Ms. Julia Ellington will be stepping down from all operational roles within the firm, effective immediately.” The crowd fell silent for a beat before erupting into polite applause. Several senior executives near the stage immediately seized the opportunity to throw mud. “Remember that international tech investment two years ago?” one manager loudly chimed in. “Julia’s impulsive decision cost the company nearly ten million dollars!” The head of marketing nodded fervently. “Well… what do you expect from a…” He intentionally dragged out the words, “…knock-off heiress? Her vision was always limited.” A wave of cruel laughter rippled through the room. Yet I remembered that deal vividly. Dave was the one who insisted on pushing the contract through against my warnings; when it tanked, he quietly shifted the paper trail to put my signature on the loss. “With Ms. Selena taking over, things will finally run smoothly,” another director added. Selena sat in the front row, covering her mouth as she let out a delicate giggle, the triumphant malice in her eyes impossible to hide. Victoria sat beside her, completely motionless, allowing the entire room to drag me through the dirt without uttering a single word of defense. My hand dipped into my pocket, my fingers closing tightly around a sleek silver USB drive. My nails dug into my palm until it throbbed with pain. Good. Pain was useful. Pain kept my memory sharp so I would remember every single face, every snicker, and every word spoken in this room. I took a firm step forward. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the microphone chatter with eerie clarity. “Are you finished?” I asked, looking up at the stage. “Because it’s my turn.” Dave saw the flash drive in my hand, his expression subtly shifting. “Julia, what are you doing?” I put on a picture-of-innocence smile. “I just felt so sentimental about leaving the company. I put together a quick slide deck as a little farewell keepsake.” Dave relaxed slightly, lowering his tone. “Look, as long as you behave yourself today, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of financially.” Without waiting for his permission, I walked directly to the technician’s AV station and plugged the drive straight into the master console. The massive LED screen behind the podium flickered to life. Dave’s pupils contracted violently. He spun around, frantically reaching to yank the drive from the computer. “Julia! Are you out of your mind?! Why are you casting private photos of Selena and me?!” I dodged his reach effortlessly, my smile growing cold. “Don’t be impatient, Mr. Barrington. I promise the next slide won’t disappoint you.” The screen flickered again. A high-resolution image of an official marriage certificate filled the massive display. In the photo, Selena was wearing a white dress, her arm linked with a middle-aged, unfamiliar man. The registration date stamped at the bottom was from three years ago. Dave whipped his head around toward Selena, his eyes suddenly bloodshot, pulsing with red veins. A heavy, suffocating silence gripped the ballroom—followed immediately by Dave’s deafening roar.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560124”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The department organized a welcome dinner for our newest surgeon. To keep up the illusion of professional distance, Wesley—my secret boyfriend of three years—chose a seat at the far end of the long dining table, as far away from me as possible. Halfway through the meal, Dr. Cooper glanced back and forth between Wesley and Sabrina, a conspiratorial smirk playing on his lips. “Come on, Wesley,” Dr. Cooper teased, tapping his glass. “You’ve stayed single all these years… you weren’t just holding out for Sabrina to finish her fellowship abroad, were you? Back in med school, you two were the golden couple everyone envied.” Sabrina laughed softly, setting down her fork. Her eyes darted toward me—a fleeting, almost imperceptible flick of her gaze—before settling back on Wesley. “If you guys keep talking like that, you’re going to make Wes blush.” The private room erupted in hooting and catcalls. My eyes locked onto Wesley. He caught my gaze for a fraction of a second, then immediately looked away. I dug my fingernails into my palm, biting the inside of my cheek, waiting for him to clear the air. Waiting for him to say “I’m with Natalie”. Instead, he turned his head and casually struck up a private conversation with Sabrina. A moment later, someone snapped a candid photo of them leaning in close, murmuring to each other, and dropped it into the department group chat. Within seconds, the chat flooded with heart emojis, praise, and sweet congratulations. For three long years, every single time I brought up going public with our relationship, Wesley gave me the exact same speech: “We work in the same surgical department, Natalie. If word gets out, it looks unprofessional. We need to maintain strict boundaries.” Staring at the glowing screen of my phone, a quiet realization washed over me. This hidden, secret life—this relationship that couldn’t survive in the light—wasn’t worth keeping anymore. … When the dinner finally wrapped up, people spilled out of the restaurant in small, laughing clusters. I stood in the shadow of the overhang, waiting for Wesley to bring his car around to pick me up. When his SUV pulled up to the curb, Dr. Cooper stepped forward and opened the passenger door for Sabrina. “Sabrina lives in your complex, right, Wes? I’ll leave her in your capable hands.” Sabrina buckled her seatbelt with a soft, gracious smile. “Thanks for the lift, Wes.” Wesley smiled back, nodding before his eyes casually swept over me standing in the doorway. “Get home safe, Natalie,” he said smoothly. He flipped on his blinker and pulled smoothly into traffic. Dr. Cooper turned to me, jingling his keys. “Hey, hop in with us. I can drop you off.” I climbed into the backseat of Cooper’s car, keeping my head down and refreshing my phone. The department group chat was still blowing up with messages, but Wesley’s private text thread remained entirely silent. “How long have you been in the department now, Natalie?” Dr. Cooper asked, making small talk in the rearview mirror. “Three years,” I said quietly. He gave an awkward chuckle, clearly realizing he should have known that, and quickly pivoted. “You know, Wesley might seem quiet on the surface, but the guy is a total hopeless romantic. Years ago, he gave up his prestigious research slot in London just so Sabrina could take it.” He paused, glancing back at me. “All these years they’ve been apart, there hasn’t been another woman on his socials.” I gripped my phone tightly, an instinctual protest rising in my chest. “That’s not possible.” “Don’t believe me? Look for yourself.” Cooper handed his unlocked phone over his shoulder. I took it and scrolled down Wesley’s feed. Every single post was tied to Sabrina. After she went abroad three years ago, his updates completely stopped. Until tonight. Just twenty minutes ago, he had posted for the first time in years. “Welcome home.” The photo attached was the candid shot from dinner—the two of them leaning toward each other in quiet, intimate conversation. My fingers trembled slightly as I pulled out my own phone. I opened Wesley’s profile on my app. I refreshed the page. Blank. I refreshed it again, thinking the signal in the car was bad. Still blank. [This user’s posts are unavailable.] My breath hitched. I had just seen the “Welcome home” post on Cooper’s screen. Wesley hadn’t stopped posting. He had blocked me from seeing his life. By the time I reached my apartment building, a heavy downpour had broken over the city. I stood under the awning of the entrance, dialing Wesley’s number. It rang endlessly until someone finally picked up. “Wes is a little busy right now,” Sabrina’s voice floated through the speaker, laced with a gentle, cozy warmth. “I’ll have him call you back in a bit, okay?” I didn’t say a word. I hung up the phone and walked straight out into the rain. When I unlocked the front door of our apartment, the living room lights were on. Wesley and Sabrina were sitting together on the plush gray couch, speaking softly. Hearing the front door, they both turned. Their eyes landed on my soaked hair and the water dripping heavily from the hem of my coat. “Why are you soaked?” Wesley frowned, rising from the couch. “Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?” I stood on the entryway mat, rainwater running down my temple. “I did. Sabrina said you were busy.” Wesley opened his mouth, a flicker of something passing over his face, but he ultimately chose silence. I didn’t look at either of them. I turned and walked straight into the bathroom. By the time I dried my hair and stepped back out, Sabrina was gone. Wesley stood alone in the center of the dark living room. “Why didn’t you clear up the rumors about you and Sabrina tonight?” I asked, my voice flat, drained of emotion. “It’s just harmless gossip. Why make a big deal out of nothing?” He checked his phone, his tone entirely indifferent. “Besides, she just got back. If I publicly shot her down in front of everyone, wouldn’t that humiliate her?” I let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He didn’t want to humiliate “her”. So he humiliated me. I didn’t argue. I turned, walked into the bedroom, and lay down on the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, forcing myself to think about tomorrow’s surgical schedule instead of the hollow ache in my chest. Wesley walked in a moment later, standing at the edge of the mattress. “Natalie, for tomorrow’s procedure… I need you to step down to second assist.” My eyes snapped to his. “Why?!” “Sabrina spent years refining her technique at the fellowship,” he said, his voice measured, objective. “Her foundation is solid. She’s better suited for first assist on a complex case like this.” Before the words had even fully settled in the air, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. A notification popped up from the hospital network—the revised surgical rota. I scrolled down to my name. “First Assist: Sabrina. Second Assist: Natalie.” In the three years I had worked under him, I had assisted in over a thousand surgeries. Every single time a major opportunity came up, there was an excuse. I was always “almost” ready, always “just a little” short. Colleagues with less experience and weaker skills were promoted to Attendings, while I remained stuck as a resident assistant. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the group chat overflow with messages congratulating Sabrina on landing first assist her very first day back. Without another second of hesitation, I opened my portal, pulled up the application for the three-year rural medical outreach program in an impoverished county, and hit “Submit”. “Wesley, I don’t want you anymore.” “From now on, you never have to hide me again.” … The next morning, I didn’t make breakfast like I usually did. As I bent down in the hallway to tie my sneakers, Wesley stepped out of the bedroom, buttoning his crisp white shirt. “Natalie, which tie goes with this today?” “Whatever you want,” I said softly. Every morning for three years, I had laid out his clothes, ironed his suits, and chosen his ties. Starting today, I was done. His face darkened, his jaw tightening. “What are you throwing a tantrum about now?” I stood up straight, keeping my eyes fixed on the door handle. “I’m running late. I’m leaving.” I opened the door and walked out before he could respond. When my city bus pulled up to the stop directly across from the hospital, I looked through the rain-streaked window and saw Wesley’s black sedan idling at the main entrance. Sabrina opened the passenger door, stepped out, and adjusted her coat collar. Then she bent down, leaning through the open window to say something that made Wesley smile. A moment later, they walked into the building side by side. A bitter sting burnt behind my eyes. I remembered a day six months ago during a torrential storm. Shift was over, and I had asked if I could ride home with him. He had looked at me with cold irritation: “Can’t you just take an Uber? Someone from the department might see us.” That day, I stood in the storm outside the ER entrance, waiting nearly three hours just to get a ride home. It turned out his strict rules on “professional distance” were reserved exclusively for me. The bus lurched forward again, and I called out to the driver, “Next stop, please!” Disregarding the muttered complaints of the commuters around me, I stepped off the bus and walked briskly into the hospital lobby. As I passed the central nurse’s station, the charge nurse called out to me. “Dr. Natalie, I just heard someone say Dr. Wesley and Dr. Sabrina are back together. Is that true?” My expression didn’t falter. “I don’t know. Excuse me, I have to prepare for surgery.” I walked into the surgical wing, forcing myself into a state of clinical numbness. The operating room was deathly quiet. Sabrina and Wesley moved with a fluid, silent rhythm that spoke of years of shared history. The procedure was progressing faster than expected. Sabrina was at the primary position, executing the final vascular anastomosis. I stood at second assist, monitoring the vitals and holding retractors. As her needle pierced the delicate wall of the blood vessel, her hand gave a microscopic flinch. The vein tore. Blood welled up instantly, obscuring the field. Wesley stepped in without a heartbeat of delay, taking over the primary position. “Natalie, suction and clamp. Assist me.” “Got it.” I took the instruments smoothly—suctioning, clamping, suturing, closing the chest. Every motion was precise, an automatic response born from performing these exact steps thousands of times over the last three years. When we finally stepped out of the scrub room, my scrubs were soaked through with sweat. Sabrina stood in the quiet hallway, her head bowed. “Wes, I’m so sorry. I almost caused a major complication…” Wesley reached out, gently patting her hair. “It’s your first day back in an active OR. It’s completely normal to be nervous. I know what you’re capable of.” I stood a few feet away, watching his hand rest softly on her head. I remembered my very first surgery under Wesley. My second stitch had been 0.02 centimeters wider than my first. He had gathered the entire surgical team into the conference room, projected the high-resolution image of my stitch onto the screen, and magnified it three times. He had pointed at the stitch with a cold, severe tone: “In my operating room, I do not tolerate a 0.02-centimeter error.” From that day on, whenever a new resident joined the department, I was brought up as the cautionary tale. People subtly distanced themselves from me, assuming I was incompetent. I pulled my gaze away and walked past them into the staff lounge. The moment I sat down, my phone rang. It was Human Resources. When I arrived at the HR suite, Eileen, the senior HR manager, set down her file and looked up at me with a soft, sympathetic expression. “Have a seat, Natalie.” “Dr. Natalie, the county hospital in our outreach program is extremely under-resourced. It’s a minimum three-year commitment. Are you entirely sure about this?” I tightened my fists in my lap. “I’m sure.” Eileen sighed softly, choosing not to press further. She slid an official, red-stamped document across the desk. “You depart in three days. The hospital-wide announcement goes live on the portal today.” I took the paper. “Thank you, Eileen.” I returned to the staff lounge, and just as I hung my white coat on the rack, the door was violently kicked open. The heavy wood crashed against the wall with a deafening thud. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, his eyes wild as he scanned the room. “Which one of you is Natalie?” I took a step forward. “I am. Can I help—” Before I could finish, the man—his eyes bloodshot with rage—swung his fist directly into my face. The impact threw me backward. My lower back slammed hard against the edge of the metal desk. Pain exploded in my jaw, and my vision went dark for a second. I forced myself upright, leaning against the desk, and wiped a smear of blood from the corner of my lip. “Sir! What do you think you’re doing?!” The man let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “What am I doing? Striking you is the least of what you deserve! My father, Mr. Sullivan—you were in his operating room this morning, weren’t you?!” A terrible pit formed in my stomach, but I kept my voice steady. “Yes, I was.” “I heard that because of your incompetent mistake, my father almost died on that table!” A crowd of onlookers was gathering in the hallway, whispering furiously. “That’s reckless endangerment…” “He had every right to hit her.” “The hospital needs to fire someone like that immediately.” I stood straight, staring directly into the man’s enraged eyes, pronouncing every word clearly: “I was second assist on that surgery, sir. I made zero errors, and I followed every single safety protocol.” Someone in the crowd scoffed loudly. “Oh, like anyone ever admits when they screw up!” “She’s been a resident here for three years without a promotion. Her technique must be awful.” I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper, taking a deep breath to steady my trembling hands. “My technique is fine. You can ask the lead surgeon himself—Dr. Wesley.” Down the hall, Wesley and Sabrina were walking toward the commotion. When Wesley caught sight of my bruised, swollen cheek, his steps faltered slightly. I looked at him desperately. “Dr. Wesley, in this morning’s procedure, did I make any technical errors or breach any protocols?” “Dr. Natalie’s technique…” Wesley started. Beside him, Sabrina subtly reached out and tugged lightly on the back of his sleeve. The gesture was tiny, almost invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking directly at them. She didn’t say a word; she just raised her eyes to his, her expression filled with quiet vulnerability. Wesley stopped. When he looked back at me, his eyes held a hollow, performative flicker of regret. “Dr. Natalie’s surgical skills… do indeed still require significant refinement.” To protect Sabrina’s reputation on her very first day, he lied. With a single phrase, he threw me to the wolves. The staff members who had been standing near me immediately stepped back, creating a physical gulf of disgust between us. “Wesley…” My voice cracked, raw and disbelieving. “Is my technique “really” the problem here?” He blinked, clearly startled that I had dared to challenge him openly. He didn’t answer me. Instead, he turned to the furious man. “Mr. Sullivan, the hospital will conduct a thorough review and provide your family with a satisfactory resolution.” The man spat on the floor and gave me one final, vicious glare before walking away. The medical board launched an immediate internal review. By late afternoon, the truth came out: a surgical nurse had been gossiping in the hallway, and Mr. Sullivan’s son had overheard a half-truth. I had made no mistakes. It was Sabrina who had torn the vessel. But Wesley pulled every string he had to shield her. Combined with her prestigious foreign fellowship, the hospital leadership decided it was best to keep quiet and avoid a public scandal. They needed a scapegoat. To appease the patient’s family, they placed me on administrative suspension. I sat alone in the dimming staff lounge until the end of the shift. Right at five o’clock, the hospital portal published the official transfer notices. My name was listed at the top. I folded the document, put it in my bag, and took a cab back to the apartment. I ate a quiet dinner alone and sat on the couch, waiting for Wesley. It was 9:30 PM when the front door finally unlocked. He stepped inside and froze when he saw me sitting in the dark, surprised I was still awake. “Natalie, letting you take the administrative fall was a calculated decision for the department,” he began, stepping closer, his voice carrying an explanatory tone I had never heard from him before. “Sabrina just joined the hospital. She’s proud, and a mark on her record right now would destroy her career…” This was the first time in three years he had ever bothered to explain his actions to me. If this were six months ago, I would have listened. My heart would have softened, and I would have nodded, accepting whatever crumbs he offered. Dependencies die slowly, but indifference happens all at once. “Wesley,” I interrupted, my voice unnervingly calm. “We’re done.” He stopped mid-sentence. “Make sure you call your parents,” I added, rising from the couch. “Tell them dinner this Saturday is canceled.” He stood motionless, staring at me as if trying to figure out if I was bluffing to get his attention. I walked toward the bedroom. “If you don’t know how to explain it to them, just say I broke up with you. That way, you won’t lose face in front of your family.” Inside the bedroom, I shut the door and dialed my mother’s phone. She answered on the very first ring. “Mom, you don’t need to fly in for dinner with Wesley’s parents this Saturday.” A beat of anxious silence came over the line. “Natalie? Honey, did he do something to you?” A sudden wave of warmth washed over my chest, tears pricking the corners of my eyes before I forced them back. “No. We broke up. And… I applied for a three-year medical outreach assignment in Pine County. I leave in two days.” The phone went quiet for a long moment. “Have you made up your mind?” my mother asked softly. “Yes.” “As long as it’s what you want, your father and I support you completely.” Right after I hung up, the bedroom door swung open. Sabrina was standing in the doorway, her voice dripping with delicate remorse. “Dr. Natalie, you really misunderstand the relationship between Wes and me. We broke up three years ago. We are just good friends now.” She lowered her head, looking deeply pained. “If my presence caused a rift between you two, I will make sure to keep my distance from him from now on.” Despite her bowed head, I caught the swift, triumphant glance she aimed at me. “We have already broken up,” I said, meeting her eyes dead-on. “Whatever he does, and whoever he spends his time with, has nothing to do with me anymore. If you’re done speaking, please leave. I need to rest.” Wesley’s stern voice cut in from the hallway behind her. “Natalie, know when to stop. If you keep throwing a childish tantrum like this, the only person who ends up looking ridiculous is you.” He took Sabrina by the elbow and led her away. Even now, he genuinely believed I was just throwing a fit to get a reaction out of him. After all, whenever we argued in the past, he only had to give me the cold shoulder for a few days, and I would always swallow my pride and apologize first. I turned off the light and lay down. When I woke up the next morning, Wesley was already gone. I pulled out my suitcases and began to pack. It turned out we shared very little. We didn’t have matching couple’s mugs, matching shoes, or coordinated clothes. The abstract painting hanging in the study was something I had framed and put up myself; even with it gone, he probably wouldn’t notice the bare wall. On the desk sat the only photograph I had of us. It was a large group photo from a department retreat three years ago. Wesley stood dead center, looking handsome and confident, a slight smile on his lips. I stood in the far-left corner of the third row, half my face blocked by a colleague’s shoulder. If you didn’t look closely, you couldn’t even tell it was me. There were twelve people standing between us in that photo. I had spent three years trying to bridge that distance, but I never managed to reach his side. I packed my bags, locked the apartment door behind me, and took a cab back to my parents’ house. They didn’t pry into why the relationship had ended. They simply surrounded me with quiet comfort, cooking my favorite meals and helping me prepare for the journey ahead. On the morning of my departure, I boarded the early train heading toward Pine County. As I sat by the window, scrolling absently through my phone, a new update from Sabrina popped up on my feed. “Feeling so safe whenever he’s by my side.” The attached photo showed Wesley standing on stage at a high-profile medical conference in the nearby city, presenting a complex case study with effortless authority. I exited her profile, tapped on her name, and selected “Delete Contact”. Then, I scrolled down to Wesley’s name. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, my thumb hovering over the screen, before pressing “Delete”. I slipped my phone into my coat pocket, leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, and closed my eyes. “Wesley, you never have to find excuses to push me away again.” “You don’t need to keep your distance anymore.”

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My wife has intermittent amnesia. At least, that was the story. On our third wedding anniversary, I set the final dish down on the dining table and sat across from her. “My chest has been feeling tight lately,” I said softly, watching her face. “I want to get it checked out at the clinic tomorrow. Will you come with me?” Nicole looked up, blinking with mild confusion as she tilted her head. “Huh? What did you just say?” Beside her, Cody—her childhood best friend who lived three doors down and practically moved into our apartment—smirked, taking a slow sip of his wine. He let out a theatrical, dry cough. “Man, I think I’m coming down with a fever.” In an instant, Nicole’s confused haze evaporated. She turned toward Cody, her hands fluttering over his forehead with sharp concern. “A fever? Did you stay up all night playing video games again? I told you to stop doing that.” Then, as if suddenly remembering my presence, she glanced back at me, offering a well-practiced, remorseful sigh. “I’m so sorry, Sam. You know how my memory just… slips. What were you saying?” I said nothing. I quietly pushed my chair back and left the table. The next morning, I went to the hospital alone. The diagnosis was straightforward: acute, severe anemia brought on by chronic physical exhaustion and long-term systemic stress. Panic surged through me. “That can’t be right, doctor. My wife is sick—she has a rare neurological condition. I’m supposed to donate bone marrow to her in a few weeks.” The doctor shook his head, looking at my charts with grave concern. “In your current state, a bone marrow harvest would put you in intensive care. Your body is running on empty. You are in no condition for any kind of surgery.” Sick with worry, I stepped into the noisy hallway and dialed Nicole’s phone to explain the situation. The line picked up, but the background noise was deafening—clinking glasses, background chatter, and loud music. “Huh? Sam?” Nicole’s voice sounded muffled. “What did you say? It’s so loud in here—” She didn’t hang up. She simply pulled the phone away from her ear, forgetting to end the call. Through the receiver, Cody’s sharp, triumphant laughter bled clearly into my ear. “God, that’s hilarious!” Cody wheezed. “Sam actually thinks you losing your train of thought is a real medical disorder! He buys it every single time!” “So, is the bone marrow thing locked in?” Cody continued, his tone shifting to greedy excitement. “The patient in my department’s ward is filthy rich. He promised me fifty grand under the table if I secure a matching donor for him!” … Nicole’s voice came through next, light and amused. “Relax, Cody. Sam will do anything for me. I’ll just tell him the marrow transplant is the only breakthrough cure for my amnesia. He won’t ask questions. He’ll hand it right over to your department.” Cody chuckled. “Isn’t that a little cold, Nico?” “It’s just bone marrow. It’s not like he’s going to die,” she replied carelessly. “Your medical residency and your career are way more important than his discomfort. Besides, he’s my husband. Isn’t he supposed to make sacrifices for me?” “And honestly, this whole amnesia game is a lifesaver,” she added with a giggle. “Remember when his mom was in the hospital and I went to Cabo with you instead? When I got back, I just pulled the ‘I don’t remember you telling me’ card, and he didn’t even yell at me.” Standing in the sterile hospital corridor, the phone pressed hard against my ear, my blood turned to ice. A game? A game. Shortly after we got married, Nicole came to me in tears, claiming she had been diagnosed with an atypical form of intermittent amnesia. She would forget my words, my birthday, and my severe shellfish allergy. We visited top specialists across the state, but brain scans yielded no answers. Then her college classmate—a neurology resident—sat me down with a grim face and explained it was an ultra-rare, untreatable neurological phenomenon. Panic-stricken, I turned down a prestigious overseas fellowship program I had spent four years earning. I stayed local, taking on grueling freelance tech contracts to pay her medical bills while cooking three tailored meals a day to keep her stress low. And it was all a cruel, coordinated joke. I didn’t make a sound. I silently ended the call. I leaned my back against the cold tiled wall as the hospital ceiling whirled above me. Vertigo washed over me in sickening waves. To afford her treatments, I had worked myself into the ground. Two solid years without a single weekend off, pulling eighty-hour workweeks, drinking black coffee like water until my hands trembled and my heart fluttered erratically in my chest. Frequent fainting spells. Chronic, blinding migraines that kept me awake for nights on end. When she told me three months ago that a bone marrow transplant might finally reset her neural pathways, I seized on it like a drowning man grasping at a lifeline. I scraped together every penny I earned. I remembered nights curling into a tight ball on our bed, my head throbbing as if gripped by a vise. I’d gently shake her shoulder: “Nico… my head hurts so bad. Could you please get me a glass of warm water?” She’d roll over, turning her back to me, her tone heavy with sleepy irritation: “Huh? What did you just say?” Her “amnesia” flared up whenever I was weak. And with it came a quick, razor-sharp temper. I had reached out to touch her arm: “Please… just a glass of water…” She shoved my hand away, pulling the comforter over her head. As I whimpered in pain, she sat up, glaring down at me with cold disgust: “You’re a grown man, Sam! Can you stop being so pathetic and dramatic? Don’t you know I’m sick? If I don’t get sleep, my condition gets worse! Do you want me to end up in an asylum?” I had bitten my lip until it bled, swallowing the pain. I endured it all—for her, for our future, for our home. And from start to finish, it was nothing more than an elaborate scam. If she chose to pretend she couldn’t hear me, then I had nothing left to say. I opened my phone and pulled up a text thread with my former boss, Victor. “Is that co-founder position in your tech startup still open?” … That evening, I pushed open the front door of our apartment. Laughter filled the living room. Nicole and Cody were surrounded by their old middle-school clique. They had been an insular, tight-knit group for over fifteen years. Back when her “neurologist friend” advised us that being around familiar childhood friends would stimulate her memory retention, I willingly welcomed them into our home. They turned my meticulously decorated place into their personal lounge, treating our living room like a mid-tier motel. As the door shut, the conversation died. They all turned to look at me, exchanging silent, knowing glances. Cody cleared his throat with a playful smirk: “Speaking of which, Nico and Sam have been married three full years now. Since somebody’s memory keeps failing her, why don’t I help you two take a trip down memory lane?” Nicole popped a potato chip into Cody’s open mouth. “Remind me of what?” “Remind you of how obsessed you used to be with him!” Cody laughed behind his hand. “Remember how eager you were back in college? Waiting outside his lab after work every night? You even dropped a month’s salary to buy him that high-end graphics card!” Nicole tilted her head, looking at Cody with exaggerated confusion: “Huh? What are you talking about?” The game began again. Cody widens his eyes: “No way. You don’t remember that?” She shook her head, looking bewildered: “Not at all. Did I really do something like that? Was I actually that desperate?” I stood in the doorway, staring at her as a tight, suffocating pain gripped my chest. The quiet tenderness and affection she once showed me—moments I had cherished as the foundation of our marriage—were now re-framed in front of her friends as a humiliating, pathetic disgrace. Her friends erupted into laughter. Once the giggles subsided, one of them called out to me: “Hey Sam, you’re finally back! Where’s the gourmet roasted chicken Nicole told you to pick up?” “Where’s my takeout barbecue?” “You didn’t forget the ten artisanal iced lattes from that downtown cafe, did you?” I stood motionless. I recalled how, in the past, I genuinely believed these friends were visiting to support her recovery. I had bent over backward to cater to their demands, playing the dutiful host, eager to please. Yet, deep down, the signs had always been there. Nicole’s “amnesia” only flared up when it involved me. When Cody caught a mild cold, she remembered a month later to text him about wearing extra layers. She never forgot a single item her friends asked for. So why was it that when I was hospitalized with severe pneumonia last year, she couldn’t even remember my room number? When I used to ask her, she would look at me with eyes swimming with tragic remorse, whispering: “I’m so sorry, Sam. I’m trying so hard to get better. Please don’t give up on me.” Later, as if to prove her condition was impartial, she began staging her “flare-ups” in front of her friends. I remembered washing dishes in the kitchen one evening while her friends sat in the living room: “God, I still don’t get what Nicole sees in him. He’s such a dull wallflower.” “Right? Total killjoy. Always sitting there with that stiff, serious face like the world owes him money.” “And his style is tragic. That jacket he wore to the party looked like a thrift store donation.” Nicole had sat there, smiling passively. Only when she noticed her friends looking at her did she drawl softly: “Huh? What did you guys just say?” She couldn’t “remember” them mocking her husband, either. Because it was all a game. A systematic, cruel game designed to isolate, humiliate, and mock me. “Hey! Sam! Are you deaf?” a woman named Kelsey snapped, raising her voice from the couch. “Where are our drinks? Why did you walk in empty-handed?” I pulled out my phone without emotion. Two hours ago, Nicole had sent a laundry list of errands. At that exact time, I was sitting with a trusted friend in hospital administration, verifying her medical records. My friend had confirmed what I already suspected: there was no record of any such neurological disorder. And certainly no medical basis for a bone marrow transplant. “I didn’t see the text,” I said quietly. Nicole’s expression instantly darkened: “Didn’t see it?” “Is your phone just a useless paperweight? My friends have been waiting here starving for hours, and all you have to say is ‘I didn’t see it’? Why can’t you get a single simple task right?” Cody clutched his chest at that exact moment, slumping dramatically against the sofa cushion. “Oh man…” Nicole’s eyes widened with instant panic: “Cody! What’s wrong?” He spoke in a weak, breathy voice: “It’s fine… just haven’t eaten in a while. My blood sugar is crashing…” Nicole snapped into action. She leaped up, marched over to the pantry cabinet, and reached for a wooden box on the top shelf. It was a box of specialty smoked prosciutto my father had cured and shipped from our family farm back home—a gift I had been saving for a special occasion. Instinctively, I stepped forward: “Please don’t open that.” “My dad sent that from home. I have a box of unopened crackers in my bag—” “Who cares where it came from?” She glared at me with sharp venom. “Because you failed to bring food back, Cody is having a hypoglycemic attack! Do you know how dangerous that is?” She tore open the decorative packaging, sliced the cured meat roughly on the counter, and set the plate in front of Cody. I stood anchored to the floor, watching her. Low blood sugar can be dangerous? So she “did” know. Yet when I worked three consecutive days on less than ten hours of total sleep, shivering and covered in cold sweat from severe hypoglycemia at three in the morning, begging her to bring me a piece of candy from the kitchen—what did she do? She had an “amnesia flare-up.” “What did you just say?” she had mumbled, rolling away. I watched her friends laugh and dig into my father’s gift. Cody offered me an apologetic look through a mouthful of meat: “Hey man, don’t be mad. My blood sugar really tanked. I didn’t mean to eat your stuff… I’ll buy you another box to replace it.” Nicole affectionately patted Cody’s head: “Why are you apologizing to him? His heart is smaller than a pinhole.” Her friends chimed in: “Seriously, Sam, you’re a grown man. Don’t be so stingy over a piece of meat. It doesn’t even taste that great anyway.” “Cody isn’t feeling well. As the host, you should show some basic sympathy.” “Nicole, you really need to put your husband in check. That sour face of his ruins the whole room.” Feeling her social standing threatened, Nicole cleared her throat, trying to regain control: “Alright, alright. He’s been stressed with work lately, don’t pay him any mind.” “Just wait here, guys. I’ll take him out to grab food, and we’ll be right back.” She grabbed my arm with a harsh, unyielding grip and dragged me toward the front door. A sharp ache shot through my lower back, making me stumble, but she yanked me out into the hallway without looking back. In the car, Nicole gripped the steering wheel, her mouth moving in a relentless stream of scolding: “Sam, are you trying to humiliate me on purpose?” “Cody and the group come over here to help me heal! Would it kill you to run a simple errand for them?” “They’re my friends! You married me—is showing them basic hospitality really that much to ask?” I remained silent, looking out the passenger window. She really played this game with absolute commitment. I knew exactly why she acted this way. Within her social circle, Nicole had always occupied the lowest rung. Cody was the undeniable sun around which everyone orbited—wealthy, handsome, effortlessly charming. The others all came from prominent, established families. Only Nicole grew up as the insecure outsider, earning her place by playing the eager clown, desperate for approval. Deep in her bones, she was terrified of being cast aside. And to impress them, to prove she was someone of importance, she used me as her footstool. She displayed me to them like a well-trained pet: “Look, my husband obeys my every command. I am the absolute authority in my house.” “Say something! Are you deaf now?” Nicole barks, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. “Where were you earlier today, anyway?” I took a slow, quiet breath: “I went to the hospital today.” She cut me off before I could finish: “Oh, because of your little chest tightness?” “Can you stop being so fragile? Cody actually suffers from cardiac arrhythmias, and he doesn’t whine like he’s on his deathbed.” I turned my head to look at her: “You remembered that?” She froze. Her eyes flickered as she realized her slip. Yet she quickly hardened her tone: “Yeah, so what? My memory comes and goes. Isn’t it a good thing I remembered? It means my brain is getting better.” I lowered my head, saying nothing more. On the day Cody went for his heart checkup, it was my birthday. She had forgotten completely, spending twenty-four straight hours by his side at the clinic. When she returned home, she gave me that same mournful look, claiming she had lost track of time because of her condition. I followed her into the night market, quietly helping her carry the bags of takeout food. At a street food stand, she suddenly stopped and bought a warm, cinnamon pretzel—the kind I used to love during our college days. She handed it to me with a soft smile: “Here. Don’t be mad anymore.” “I bought this just for you. I won’t give them a piece.” Looking at the pretzel in my hand, a wave of profound bitterness washed over me. This pathetic crumb of affection was likely the last remaining shred of tenderness she had left for me—and for our entire marriage. When we pushed open the front door, the apartment was thick with cigarette smoke, empty beer cans rolling across the hardwood floor. Kelsey looked up from the couch and immediately complained: “Ugh, takeout without real comfort food is boring! We want homemade ravioli from scratch!” Nicole smiled warmly: “No problem. Sam will make it.” She turned to me, her voice casual and commanding: “Go on, head to the kitchen. Roll out some dough and make a few different fillings—Cody likes the shrimp and ricotta mixture, so make a separate batch for him.” I walked into the kitchen without a word. My body was hollowed out, weak from lack of food, my muscles aching with a low throbbing. Cold sweat slicked my back. I forced myself to chop the herbs and vegetables for the pasta fillings, but my vision suddenly blurred. The heavy chef’s knife slipped, slicing deep into my left index finger. Crimson blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the wooden cutting board. I stared at the stain, dazed. Strangely, I felt no pain at all. Perhaps because the ache inside me was so overwhelming that a physical cut barely registered. I stepped out of the kitchen, intending to grab a band-aid from the hallway cabinet. Cody caught sight of the blood on my hand and suddenly gasped, pulling back his own hand: “Ouch…” Nicole didn’t even look at me; she rushed straight to Cody, inspecting his hand with intense worry: “What happened? Did you get a splinter?” She gazed tenderly at his slightly reddened finger, then spun around, her face twisting into rage as she screamed at me: “Sam! Are you blind? Can’t you inspect the wooden kitchen utensils for splinters before setting them out?” “Cody has delicate skin! He isn’t coarse and thick-skinned like you!” Only after her outburst did her glance briefly land on my dripping, blood-stained hand. Her eyebrows pulled together in deep annoyance: “Why are you so clumsy? It’s just chopping herbs—how do you manage to cut yourself?” “Go wrap it up! Don’t get blood in the pasta dough or the filling, or how is anyone supposed to eat?” I stood silently, watching her. Her attention had already shifted back to Cody’s finger. The rest of the group crowded around them, offering tissues and blowing soft breaths onto his hand. I found a band-aid, wrapped it tightly around my finger, and returned to the kitchen. The dinner was loud and raucous. They devoured every last piece of handmade ravioli. Afterward, sprawled across the living room furniture, someone lazily suggested: “Man, I’m stuffed. Hey Nico, why don’t we play another round of ‘Memory Lane’?” Cody smirked: “Sounds great. Who wants to go first?” Kelsey glanced at me, her voice ringing out intentionally loud: “I will!” “You know, Nicole… the other night, I saw your husband outside a nightclub downtown.” “But he wasn’t there as a customer—he was selling himself!” “Want to know why he stays with you despite your illness? Because he does nasty, desperate stuff on the side to make money!” Raucous laughter exploded through the room. Every pair of eyes turned to land on Nicole, waiting for her reaction. In the beginning, this game was meant solely for Nicole and Cody to manipulate me into donating bone marrow for fifty thousand dollars. But along the way, the group had discovered a new form of entertainment. Under the guise of “amnesia therapy,” they could hurl the vilest insults and cruelty at me, disguised as playful jokes. If I ever showed anger, they would laugh in my face, claiming I had no sense of humor, reminding me that the neurologist recommended “emotional stimulation” for Nicole’s recovery. Back then, because Nicole was a medical professional, I swallowed every shred of humiliation, forcing a tight smile, pretending to play along. I will not endure it for another second. I stood up, my voice dead calm: “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to sleep. You can continue helping her remember.” Seeing that I refused to perform, Kelsey slapped her palm on the coffee table: “Sleep? We’re all having a great time! Who are you giving that attitude to?” Nicole quickly jumped in to smooth things over: “Forget it, guys. He’s saving up his strength to donate bone marrow for my treatment. He needs his rest. Let him go to bed.” I looked at the face of the woman I once loved with every fiber of my being. I reached into my leather bag, pulled out a crisp white diagnostic report, and laid it flat on the coffee table between the empty beer cans. Under the stunned, silent stares of the room, I looked Nicole directly in the eye: “I went to the hospital today. You are completely healthy.” “You don’t need my bone marrow.” “Nicole, I want a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560125”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There was an unwritten law in our house: I came first. Every decision, every concession, every heavy silence revolved around me. Because when I was ten years old, I dragged my twin brother and sister out of our burning house. The cost was my right leg—charred down to the bone, muscle fused into jagged scar tissue. To spare me from feeling guilty, Mom forced Betty to hand in her pointe shoes and abandon her dream of dancing ballet professionally. Dad made Samuel spend every high school summer working double shifts at the machine shop to build up a medical fund for my treatments. But as the years stretched on, the pain in my ruined joint grew unbearable. Navigating the steep stairs to my tiny second-floor bedroom became a daily ordeal. When I finally asked Betty if we could swap rooms so I could have her first-floor space, she snapped. She smashed every frame and porcelain trinket in her room before Samuel dragged her out the front door. They didn’t come back for three days. Dad’s eyes turned bloodshot with rage as he forced me onto my knees on the hardwood floor. Mom slapped my face—hard enough to ring my ears—and screamed down at me. “Because of you, your sister had to give up dance! Your brother’s hands are covered in calluses from factory work! And now you want to steal her bedroom too?” She choked on her own fury. “I wish you had died in that fire ten years ago, Alice. Anything would be better than watching you bleed them dry!” Looking up at their cold, hateful eyes, a memory flickered in the back of my mind—an acceptance letter tucked under my mattress, sent from a specialized academy for disabled youth in New Mexico, thousands of miles away. My crippled leg couldn’t carry me very far. But it could carry me far enough that I would never be their burden again. … I hadn’t been kneeling on the icy hardwood for even five minutes before a wave of sharp, white-hot agony shot through my knee, like thousands of rusted needles pressing into the nerve endings. The color drained from my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, my lower lip trembling from the sheer intensity of it. Mom and Dad saw it. They saw every bit of it. In the past, a look like that would have sent them into a panic. They would have rushed to scoop me up, fussing over ice packs and calling the orthopedic clinic. This time, Dad’s palm stayed heavy and unyielding on my shoulder, pinning me down. Mom stood over me, her arms crossed tight against her chest. The look in her eyes wasn’t concern—it was a deep, curdling disgust. “Five minutes, Alice? You’re going to fake an agonizing pain act after five minutes?” Mom’s voice was clipped, utterly devoid of warmth. “Haven’t your father and I played along with your little drama routines enough over the last decade?” Humiliation clawed at my throat, thick and suffocating, swallowing the words “Mom, it really hurts” right back down. I forced my posture upright, trying to stop my body from visibly shaking. Just as my leg was about to buckle completely, Mom’s phone blared from the kitchen counter. She snatched it up. Within seconds, her tight, furious posture melted. Her face lit up with overwhelming relief. “You found them both? Oh, thank God! Yes—yes, officer, we’re coming right now!” We rushed to the police station in record time. When we walked in, Betty and Samuel were sitting on a metal bench in the holding area. They looked disheveled, their clothes dusty, but their jaws were set in matching expressions of bitter defiance. The desk officer walked over, shaking his head as he looked at my parents. “Are you the parents? Do you have any idea how close you came? Another half hour, and these two would have been smuggled across the border. They signed up for one of those high-paying fake job scams down in Cabo.” Mom gasped and threw her arms around the twins, sobbing hysterically. Dad looked terrified, his hand raised as if to smack them both, but he couldn’t bring himself to let it fall. He ended up pulling them tight into his chest instead. Betty yanked herself out of Mom’s embrace, her face twisted in resentment. “Don’t act like you care! We went down there to make quick cash so we could pay off Alice’s medical bills!” Samuel stared at Dad, his voice ice-cold. “Name a number. How much money do we have to pay her before we don’t owe her our lives anymore?” Even the officer looked uncomfortable. He glanced at my parents with disapproval. “Look, folks, I get loving your youngest, but pushing your older kids into high-risk labor to cover her expenses? That’s out of line.” Mom broke down completely, her voice cracking. “It’s our fault… all our fault. You don’t owe Alice anything. You don’t have to pay her back. Not another cent. Ever.” Dad stroked Betty’s hair, murmuring soft apologies, his eyes overflowing with regret. I stood near the heavy glass doors of the precinct, watching the four of them cling to one another. They looked complete. A real family. I didn’t even have the courage to cross the room. I just hovered by the entrance, clutching my coat tighter around my chest as the chill of the air conditioning seeped through my thin clothes. Right then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the rehabilitation clinic, reminding me of my scheduled physical therapy session. When the doctor’s voice echoed faintly through the speaker, my parents finally looked over at me. Betty caught my eye and let out a small, cruel smirk—a look that said “Of course. Right on cue.” Samuel turned his head away, deliberately shifting his shoulder so Dad couldn’t put a arm around him. For the first time in my life, I felt my presence was so glaringly wrong that it made everyone else sick just looking at me. I tried to pull my lips into a polite, quiet smile. But before I could say a word, Mom snatched the phone straight out of my hand and spoke directly into the mic. “Alice won’t be attending physical therapy anymore. Cancel all her future appointments.” The physical therapist tried to interrupt, his voice sounding panicked, but Mom cut the call and handed the black screen back to me. I knew what the doctor was going to say. A week ago, he had sat me down in his office and laid out the scans. The scar tissue from the burns was contracting, pulling the surrounding muscles out of alignment. If I abruptly stopped my physical therapy now, the complications would compound. Within months, I’d be facing severe tissue necrosis—and very likely an amputation. Mom and Dad were hovering over Betty and Samuel again, sharing soft, tender smiles. I watched them in silence. And in that quiet moment, a dull realization settled in my chest: it had been years since they had looked at me with that kind of warmth. … By the time we got home, night had fallen. After hours of emotional volatility and standing on my feet at the station, my right leg felt like useless lead. I couldn’t even manage the basic strength required to walk across the living room. Mom and Dad spent the evening hovering over the twins, making them soup and fussing over their clothes. By the time they remembered I existed, I had been sitting motionless on the living room sofa for over two hours. Mom let out a weary sigh, her expression softening just a fraction as she walked toward me. But before she could speak, Betty stormed out of her room upstairs. She slammed a stack of books onto the banister, glaring down at me with brimming tears. “Are you serious, Alice? Sitting down there for two hours staring at my door? You’re really going to pull this pathetic guilt trip just to steal my room?!” She turned around, threatening to run out into the night again. Mom panicked completely. She sprinted up the stairs to hold Betty back, then turned on her heel, marched down, and struck me across the face. She regretted it the moment her hand made contact; the blow lacked real weight, landing light as a breeze. But inside my chest, something shattered with the force of a sledgehammer. My voice shook so hard I barely recognized it as my own. “Mom… I wasn’t trying to take her room. I just… my leg hurts so bad I can’t stand up.” Betty let out a wet, mocking laugh from the top of the stairs. “Oh, how convenient! ‘Too in pain to stand up’—and you just happened to collapse right facing my hallway!” Mom set her jaw, her voice turning hard as stone. “If she wants to play the martyr, let her. Let’s see if she stays on that couch all night!” She grabbed Betty’s arm and led her back toward the bedrooms. Samuel walked past the sofa a moment later. Whether it was intentional or an accident, his heavy boot clipped my bad leg. A sharp gasp of pain escaped my throat. He stopped and looked down at me, his eyes dark and empty. “You’ve used that leg to hog Mom and Dad’s love for ten whole years, Alice. Now that we’re taking a little piece of it back, you suddenly can’t handle it?” I didn’t answer. A bitter, hollow chuckle rose in my throat, but I forced it down. I thought back to the day we moved into this house, ten years ago, right after I got out of the burn unit. Mom and Dad had insisted on buying this spacious, multi-level townhouse because Betty had fallen in love with the sunlit upstairs bedrooms. When it came time to assign the rooms, Dad had sat on the edge of my hospital bed, looking at me with gentle, apologetic eyes. He told me Betty needed the natural sunlight for her mood, and Samuel needed the larger room for his computer desk and schoolwork. That left the windowless, cramped storage room on the second floor for me. Mom had even framed it as a gift. “The second floor is wonderful for you, Alice! Walking up and down those stairs every day will be great for your rehabilitation. We’re doing this because we love you so much—don’t tell your brother and sister, or they’ll think we’re favoring you again.” Sitting alone in the pitch-black living room, I tried to control my breathing. But fat, heavy tears spilled over my lashes, burning against the back of my hand. “Favored me for ten years?” Why hadn’t I felt it for a single second? … Around midnight, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway. I opened my eyes to see Mom holding my prescription pain medications, walking quietly toward the kitchen trash can. When her eyes met mine in the darkness, her expression flickered with guilt. But it was swallowed up almost instantly by a cold, hardened resolve. “Your brother and sister caught a cold from being out all night,” she said, her voice clipped as she tossed the pill bottles into the bin. “Your medications were taking up too much room in the medicine cabinet. Your father and I talked it over. From now on, all three of you are going to be treated equally. No more special privileges just because you have an injury.” She stopped and stared down at me. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Alice?” I stared at the trash can. Those painkillers were the only thing that kept the nerve agony from feeling like my leg was being skinned alive. I didn’t argue. I just gave her a tiny, barely perceptible nod. “Okay.” I was leaving in less than forty-eight hours anyway. There was no point in cluttering up their house with my things. … When I opened my eyes the next morning, the house was completely silent. Everyone was gone. My head throbbed with a terrifying, heavy fever, and my bad leg had gone completely numb—a cold, dead weight attached to my hip. It wasn’t until the sharp, acrid smell of burning plastic filled my nostrils that I realized something was terribly wrong. I turned my head toward the kitchen. Thick, dark plumes of smoke were pouring out of the doorway. A familiar, paralyzing terror seized my chest. I dragged myself off the sofa, my elbows scraping against the floorboards as I crawled toward the front door. I reached up and hauled myself up by the brass handle, tugging with all my weight—only to find the heavy deadbolt locked firmly from the outside. Panicking, I dialed 911, then tried calling my mother. The line rang once before she cut it off. I tried Dad. He rejected the call instantly. I shook the locked door handle with everything I had, smoke filling my lungs, coughing until my vision blurred into dark spots. By the time I lost consciousness on the entry mat, the only sound left was the cold, automated recording echoing from my speaker phone: “The party you are trying to reach is unavailable…” … When I woke up, the blinding fluorescent lights of an emergency room stung my eyes. The first thing I saw was Mom sitting beside my bed, her eyes red, her face tight with worry. A wave of childlike relief rushed through me. Tears welled in my eyes as I whispered hoarsely, “Mom…” Her expression vanished, replaced instantly by intense rage. She glared at me with pure disgust. “Don’t call me Mom. Setting fire to our kitchen—I don’t have a daughter like you!” Dad was standing by the window, rubbing the shoulders of a trembling Betty. He looked over at me, his voice dangerously low. “The fire department finished their preliminary investigation. The burner on the stove was left on high under an empty pan. Alice, we were all out of the house. You were the only one there. This time, you went way too far.” My mind went completely blank. I looked past Dad to Betty. She shrank back slightly, her eyes darting away, a guilty flick of panic crossing her features. She was the one who had been fry-cooking late last night! Before I could force the words out to defend myself, Mom snapped. She stood up and screamed at me, her voice raw. “Fine! I admit it! We took your sister to her ballet audition today! And yes, we locked the front door from the outside because we were terrified you’d find out and show up to ruin her big day! Alice, we’ve given up everything for you over the last decade! When will you ever be satisfied?!” Her screams echoed across the ward. Other patients and nurses turned to stare, whispering to one another, shooting horrified looks at the girl lying in the hospital bed. Mom kept going, venting years of poisonous resentment. “It was the exact same thing ten years ago! The three of you were playing at home, and out of nowhere, a fire starts? How come “you” weren’t trapped in that bedroom? How come “you” had the strength to drag them out? Alice… how did I give birth to a child so calculating?!” It felt as though a pair of massive hands had reached into my ribs and crushed my heart into dust. I stared at my mother, entirely paralyzed. “Mom… is that really what you’ve thought of me all these years?” Mom didn’t look at me. She turned her head toward the wall, wiping at her cheeks, refusing to say another word. Her silence was the final answer. All the explanations, all the desperate pleas for her to believe me, withered up in my throat. I didn’t say anything. Not because I didn’t care, but because I finally understood how utterly pointless it was. They didn’t just resent me. Deep down, in the dark corners of their minds, they wished I had died in that fire ten years ago. If I were dead, they wouldn’t have to carry the burden of my medical care, or pretend to balance their love between three children. The pain inside me was so absolute it turned entirely numb. I reached into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing against the stiff paper of the one-way plane ticket scheduled for tomorrow morning. I forced the tears back into my eyes and let out a single, quiet breath. … Because my smoke inhalation was mild, I was cleared for discharge later that evening. As we walked out to the hospital parking lot, Samuel suddenly lunged forward. He grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me violently against the side of the car. “Alice! Where is my money?!” The impact sent a violent jolt of pain straight up my spine. “Samuel… what money?” Samuel’s face was flushed red, his voice trembling with fury. “The cash I saved over the last three years! I kept ten thousand dollars in an envelope under the sofa cushions for my college study abroad program! It’s gone! I’ve given up everything for you, but I am begging you—give me my ten thousand dollars back!” Mom and Betty hurried over, trying to soothe him, while Dad grabbed my arm with an icy grip. He looked down at me, struggling to suppress his disappointment. “Alice, I know you’re angry at your mother for stopping your therapy. But taking your brother’s hard-earned savings? That crosses a line.” Sweat broke out across my forehead from the pain in my back. “Dad, I didn’t! I swear to God, I didn’t touch his money!” Samuel let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “I never told a single soul where I hid that cash! It was tucked under the lower sofa frame! You’re the only person who’s been sleeping on that couch for the last week! Who else could it possibly be?!” My brain spun in circles. I had no memory of any cash under that frame. I opened my mouth to tell him to check his room again, but Mom’s voice cut through the damp night air like a blade. “Enough. Stop asking her, Samuel. She’s never going to give it back.” She turned to look at me—not with anger, but with a horrifying, detached disgust, as if she were looking at a pest that had infested her home. “Keep the ten thousand dollars, Alice,” she said quietly. “Consider it our final settlement. That money officially buys out whatever debt your brother and sister owed you for saving their lives.” I slumped against the cold metal of the car, staring at her. I read the finality in her eyes. In that single moment, the very last embers of warmth in my heart died out completely. Dad let out a heavy, tired sigh. “Get in the car.” The four of them climbed inside. Not one of them offered a hand to help me up from the pavement. Mom paused for half a second as her hand rested on the door handle. But it was only a second. “SLAM.” The dark SUV pulled out of the parking spot and drove away into the night, leaving me sitting alone on the wet asphalt. Occasional pedestrians cast curious, unsettled glances at the limping girl left behind in the hospital parking lot. I didn’t move. I sat there on the cold ground until the sky began to bleed into the pale grey of dawn. I pulled out my phone. A single notification sat on my lock screen: “You have been removed from the family group chat.” I blinked. No tears fell. My leg slowly regained a fraction of its feeling. Leaning heavily against the concrete retaining wall, I pushed myself up, stood on my one good foot, and began to limp, step by agonizing step, toward the airport bus stop. … That night, back at the house, nobody slept. Mom and Dad tore my upstairs bedroom apart, turning over the mattress, pulling out drawers, searching for Samuel’s ten thousand dollars. As Mom searched, she cursed my name under her breath, calling me a deceitful, ungrateful thief—yet every few minutes, her eyes darted toward the front door, listening for the sound of the deadbolt clicking open. Hours passed. The front door remained shut. By morning, Mom’s anxiety had turned into a foul, venomous mood. “The nerve on that girl! Stealing cash and then pulling a vanishing act!” Just then, Samuel walked into the living room, his face pale, holding a bank deposit slip in his hand. “Mom…” Samuel’s voice was barely a whisper. “I… I found the money.” He had completely forgotten that two weeks ago, nervous about keeping that much physical cash in the house, he had deposited the ten thousand dollars into a high-yield savings account. The living room fell into an eerie, suffocating silence. Looking at the slip of paper, my parents realized, with a sickening delay, what they had done. Dad cleared his throat awkwardly, picking up his car keys. “I’ll… I’ll call Alice and tell her to come home for breakfast.” Nobody mentioned an apology. In their minds, calling me back to the house was already the ultimate concession. Dad dialed my cell number and put it on speaker. The phone rang once, followed by a flat, automated operator chime: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”

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