Category: English

On the stage of the National Pastry Championship, I had planned to honor my grandfather’s legacy by recreating his signature dessert. I didn’t expect my girlfriend’s childhood sweetheart to step forward and accuse me of lacing my entries with synthetic opioids. As I scrambled to clear my name, she locked me in our house. She held me for a long time, weeping, telling me she loved me, promising she would finally say “yes” when I proposed. But her next words were a serrated blade to my heart: “I’m so sorry, Sam. Jackson needs this trophy too much. Just this once. I promise I’ll help you rebuild everything next time.” The result was predictable. Jackson walked away with the gold, while my family’s multi-generational reputation—the pride of the Mitch name—was dragged through the mud, branded as a den of addicts and cheats. This was the ninety-ninth time. For Jackson’s sake, she had systematically stripped away everything that belonged to me, making me the laughingstock of the culinary world. Later, when Jackson had finally achieved his “rightful” fame, Nancy stopped preventing me from competing. She even said that once I won a comeback title, she wanted me to bake our family’s traditional wedding cake for their ceremony. She probably will never know that Jackson had my hands severed months ago. 1 “Wait, isn’t that Sam Mitch? Henry Mitch’s grandson? What the hell happened to him?” “Look at him. He looks like he’s been through a death camp. This is the International Grand Prix—is he really here just to embarrass himself?” Amidst the jeers of the crowd, I was forced toward Nancy by two burly security guards. Nancy looked at me, her face tight with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. Before I could speak, she slapped me across the face. “I gave you the chance to showcase your family’s masterpiece, and you show up looking like a pathetic charity case? You’re ungrateful, Sam.” She leaned in, her voice a low hiss. “You’re already disgraced because of the drug scandal. Today is the only chance I’m giving you to redeem your name. Now get over there and prepare.” I remained silent, head bowed. Beside her, Jackson began to stir the pot, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “Nancy, maybe Sam is still angry with me. After all, I’ve taken the spotlight the last ninety-nine times… maybe I should just withdraw. I can’t bear to see him like this.” His eyes reddened. He leaned into Nancy, a stray tear escaping. Nancy’s heart clearly broke for him. She reached out, cupping his face with a tenderness she had never once shown me. “Don’t cry, baby. That glory belongs to you. As long as you’re on that stage, he will always be standing in your shadow.” The reporters and Jackson’s frantic fan-girls started jeering louder. “Mitch’s got some nerve. Losing ninety-nine times to Jackson? If I were him, I’d have walked into traffic by now.” “I heard his grandfather stole the ‘original’ recipes from Jackson’s family anyway. And Sam was the one who tried to come between Nancy and Jackson. The whole Mitch family is just a bunch of shameless grifters.” My heart gave a violent shudder. They could say whatever they wanted about me, but they had no right to slander my grandfather. Grandpa Henry had spent his entire life in a kitchen, pouring his blood and sweat into his craft to earn his place. He was a man who spent his weekends at soup kitchens, who gave everything to the poor. Why did he have to carry this filth in his grave? I gritted my teeth and forced myself upright, turning toward the nearest camera. “Stop lying! My grandfather never stole a thing. Every Mitch recipe is an original masterpiece!” The crowd didn’t buy it. They only responded with a chorus of derisive scoffs. I turned to Nancy, my eyes burning. I begged her—with a look, with a silent plea—to tell them the truth. Nancy only recoiled in disgust. “Your family’s reputation is in the gutter because of your own actions. Why should I explain anything? If you’re so talented, prove it on the table.” The staff shoved me toward the pastry station. I stared at the gleaming stainless steel and the polished marble. A wave of nausea hit me. This place was supposed to be my sanctuary, my altar of honor. Instead, every inch of it was stained with the memory of pain. There was a time when Nancy loved me—or so she said. She used to tell me that my desserts were the only things that made her feel alive. She said she’d never get tired of them. Then she imprisoned me in a basement, forcing me to act as Jackson’s ghost-writer, his shadow, his stepping stone. After the ninety-ninth time she demanded I throw a competition for him, I finally broke. I told her I was done. Nancy had looked at me then with eyes full of a haunting, manipulative sorrow. “Sam, being a pastry chef is Jackson’s only dream. Please, don’t take this from him. Just this once, okay?” “You still have me. I’ll love you forever. But Jackson… Jackson lost everything trying to save me once. I can’t let him lose his career, too.” 2 I knew Jackson didn’t care about the art. He only cared about the title of “Pastry Prince.” Yet, back then, I hadn’t fought her. I had just nodded, a hollow shell of a man. I felt I owed Nancy for a debt from our youth. I thought I was paying her back. I was so naive. I thought if I stepped down, she would let me go. I didn’t expect her to plant those drugs in my kitchen, to orchestrate the raid that destroyed a hundred-year-old legacy in a single afternoon. When I screamed at her, asking why, she had been so calm. “You have talent and the recipes, Sam. You can bounce back whenever you want. But Jackson has nothing. I have to clear the path for him.” “I’m sorry. This is the debt I owe him. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.” She kept me locked in that cellar, bringing me out only for competitions, forcing me to endure the public’s spit and venom as I lost over and over. Nancy, you owed him. And I owed you. So today, I’m paying you back in full. And then, I am done. I closed my eyes, waiting for the execution. Jackson stood at the station opposite me. The host shouted for the round to begin. Under the hungry gaze of the audience, Jackson began cracking eggs, his movements practiced and flashy. I didn’t move. I just stood there, staring into space. The crowd grew restless. “What’s wrong with him? Does he even know how to bake?” “He’s a hack! He probably forgot his ‘secret ingredients’—the ones from the pharmacy!” “If you can’t do it, get the hell off the stage!” Nancy, standing in the front row, marched over. She leaned over the barrier, her voice a sharp whisper. “What is wrong with you? Start the prep. Now.” I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling. “I don’t have hands anymore, Nancy. Haven’t you had enough?” Nancy laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “Sam, give it a rest. You’ve been living in luxury in my villa for three years. I told the housekeeper to make sure you were pampered. I specifically told her to look after your hands. Stop lying for attention.” Jackson looked up then, his voice oily. “Nancy, don’t push him. He’s clearly still bitter about my success. Maybe I should just quit…” He started to untie his apron, his eyes brimming with fake tears. The audience went into a frenzy, screaming insults at me, throwing crumpled programs and water bottles. The livestream chat on the giant screen was a waterfall of hate. But I really didn’t have hands. How was I supposed to bake? I reached for my sleeves, desperate to show them, to prove the nightmare. But Jackson moved faster. He lunged across the gap, grabbing my forearms, his fingers digging into the stumps hidden beneath the fabric. He squeezed with agonizing force. “Sam, your hands are fine. Why are you making excuses?” I looked into Jackson’s eyes. They were cold, triumphant, and utterly evil. He was the one who had done it. He had walked into that basement with a meat cleaver and a smile. How could he stand there and say this? Before I could scream, Nancy’s hand connected with my cheek again. “If you keep up this act, I will release your grandfather’s private journals to the press tonight. Start the competition. Now.” I froze. My grandfather’s journals—the record of his life’s work, his soul. They were in the safe at the house. I hadn’t realized she’d stolen them for Jackson. “Nancy…” my voice cracked. “You know how much he cared for you. He treated you like his own daughter. How can you use him to threaten me?” Nancy looked away, a flicker of guilt crossing her face before hardening back into stone. “Don’t play the emotion card. There is no sentiment on this stage. I am being fair.” Fair. It was laughable. She just wanted me to lose one last time on the world stage. This was the Grand Prix. The winner would be immortalized. But without my hands, and with my grandfather’s legacy held hostage, what was left? The rage boiled in my blood. I wanted to leap over the counter and kill them both, but the fear for my grandfather’s memory held me back. If those recipes were lost or defiled, the Mitch name truly died. “Please,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. “Stop. I’ll do it. I’ll try.” 3 I spoke through sobs, stepping toward the station with leaden feet. But… Without palms, without fingers, I couldn’t even pick up an egg. I tried to pin an egg between my shrouded wrists, but it slipped, shattering on the floor. The crowd erupted in laughter. “Is he pretending to be a thalidomide kid now? How pathetic.” “This is the Mitch heir? Jackson is a god compared to this clown!” Jackson smiled, basking in the cheers as he began whipping cream. The bitterness rose in my throat like bile. I let the tears fall. The first scent of baking filled the air. Jackson was making a lemon tart—my grandfather’s recipe. He had stolen the soul of my family and was parading it as his own. Meanwhile, my station was a disaster. I couldn’t adjust the oven temp accurately. I couldn’t whisk. My entry looked like a pile of raw, grey sludge. The judges didn’t even want to look at it. One of them sneered, “Is this a joke or just incompetence?” Jackson chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Judges, I know Sam. He’s better than this. He’s doing this on purpose for the cameras. He wants to look like a victim.” I was paralyzed with shame. A moment later, Jackson “accidentally” bumped into my station, knocking my bowl to the floor and shoving me down. “Oh! My god, Sam, I’m so sorry! Let me help you up.” As he leaned down, his face inches from mine, his voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. “You want to know the truth? I killed that old man. He held onto those recipes until his last breath. I had to use a pillow to shut him up… he died protecting a pile of paper that I’ve already burned to ash. You have nothing left, Sam.” The world turned cold. My blood felt like shards of ice in my veins. I tried to grab him, to scream, but I had no fingers to grip his throat. “You monster! You murderer!” I lunged upward. Immediately, Nancy was there, her hand cracking across my face for the third time. “What are you doing? Jackson tried to help you! You serve up this filth and then attack the champion? Your family was always a fraud, Sam. You just bought your way to the top.” She stood there, righteous and indignant, completely forgetting that when she was a starving orphan, it was my grandfather who paid her tuition and put clothes on her back. I broke. Right there in front of the world, I screamed at Jackson. “Why? Why did you kill him?” Nancy’s face twisted. “Shut up! What are you talking about? Henry died of natural causes! Stop lying!” Jackson began to sob. “I know you hate seeing me happy, Sam, but to accuse me of murder?” “You admitted it! You cut off my hands in that basement! I’m calling the police!” “ENOUGH!” Nancy screamed. “Stop slandering him! You’ve been living in my house, being pampered, and now you’re throwing a tantrum because you want my attention? You’re sick!” She turned to the cameras, to the millions watching. “Don’t believe a word he says. He’s obsessed with his image. He would never let anything happen to his ‘artist’s hands.’” She looked at me with pure disappointment. “I was actually going to give you a custom watch today as a peace offering. I can’t believe I wasted my time on you.” The crowd was whipped into a state of feral rage. People started jumping the barriers, swarming the stage to get at me. I curled into a ball, trying to shield myself with my stumps. “Stop! Please! I’m not lying! My hands are gone! Look at me!” But no one listened. Nancy stepped forward and kicked me in the arm. “Stop acting. You’re a terrible liar, Sam.” In the chaos, Jackson “tripped,” spilling a pot of boiling clarified butter directly onto my back and arms. The scream that tore from my throat was unearthly. I felt my skin melting, the searing heat bubbling my flesh. The crowd recoiled, horrified by the sound, backing away to avoid the splatter. It was my only chance. I didn’t care about the pain. I began to crawl, desperate to get away from the lights, the cameras, and the monsters. But Nancy grabbed my shirt. The fabric was soaked in oil and sweat. As she pulled, the cheap material gave way, ripping entirely off my body. I collapsed, my last shred of dignity stripped away. I knelt on the floor, weeping, hiding my face. “Please… don’t look… please just let me go…” But the room went deathly silent. Nancy stood frozen. She stared at my arms. Her pupils dilated. Her voice was a broken, trembling reed. “Sam… where… where are your hands?”

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The first thing I did when I was given a second chance at life was purge the past. I spent the morning incinerating the physical remnants of a decade’s worth of lies. Nancy’s letters—three years’ worth of carefully scripted “devotion”—were fed into the shredder until they were nothing but confetti. The framed photos of Diana and me? I set them ablaze in the fireplace, watching the edges of our smiling faces curl and blacken into ash. In my previous life, I had been the quintessential fool, a supporting character in a drama where I wasn’t even credited in the playbill. I believed Diana when she whispered that she loved me. I believed her so much that I turned down a prestigious fellowship at Oxford just to stay by her side. And for what? She left anyway. She followed Felix halfway across the world the moment he beckoned, leaving me with nothing but a cold, parting remark: “He needs me more than you do, Ben.” I spent those months living like a ghost. Nancy was the one who pulled me back, or so I thought. She brought me dinner every night, looking at me with those soft, empathetic eyes, telling me she had waited eight years for me to notice her. I thought I had finally found my harbor. She never stayed out late; she never looked at another man. Until the winter of my accident. I spent seven days in the ICU, hovering in the gray space between life and death. Nancy never showed up. Not once. Instead, I drifted in and out of consciousness to the hushed gossip of the night nurses: “Poor guy in Bed 12. His wife is here every day, but she never steps foot in his room. She’s always next door, fussing over that guy, Felix.” Later, I learned the truth. Diana hadn’t gone abroad to be with Felix out of love—she went to pay off his gambling debts. And the money? It had all come from Nancy. In the twisted play these three were staging, I was nothing more than the human ATM and the emotional safety net. Not this time. This time, I moved fast. I put the house on the market and booked two one-way tickets to London for myself and my grandfather before the first act could even begin. … “The guy in Bed 12 is breaking my heart. His wife is here around the clock, but she hasn’t even looked in on him.” “I know. She goes straight to the room next door. That patient, Felix? She won’t leave his side.” The nurses’ voices filtered through the heavy door of the ICU. My body was shattered from the car wreck, a map of broken bones and internal bleeding. My eyes were fused shut, but my mind was sharp, recording every word. I heard the nurses call Nancy’s phone over and over. She never picked up. She was busy with someone more important. The “redemption” I thought I’d found with her was just another layer of the scam. I tried to scream, to wake up, to demand an explanation, but my strength failed. The last thing I “saw” was the jagged rhythm of my heart monitor smoothing out into a single, eternal horizontal line. When I opened my eyes again, the sunlight was blinding. I was sitting at my old mahogany desk. The calendar read three months before the deadline for the Oxford fellowship—the one I had thrown away for Diana in my past life. I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the phone and dialed the International Programs office. “Professor? It’s Ben. I’m calling to confirm my acceptance of the exchange program. I’d like to finalize the paperwork today.” The professor sounded relieved. “Glad to hear it, Ben. It would have been a tragedy to waste talent like yours over… well, anything.” A tragedy. Yes. Throwing away a future for a woman who viewed me as a footnote wasn’t just a tragedy; it was a farce. After hanging up, I called a real estate agent. I told him I wanted my parents’ house sold—cash only, fast closing. No exceptions. As I finished the call, Diana’s name flashed on my screen. I felt a phantom ache in my chest, the ghost of a love that had once consumed me. “Ben,” she said, her voice cool and commanding. “Felix is struggling with his senior thesis. His design is a mess. You’re the best in the department; I need you to go over to his place and fix it for him.” Always Felix. He was the invisible third person in our bed, the constant shadow over our dinners. In my past life, I had pulled three all-nighters to rebuild his project from scratch. When he won the departmental award, my name wasn’t even mentioned in the fine print. Diana’s excuse back then? “Felix has such a fragile constitution, Ben. He needs this win for his resume more than you do.” I gripped the phone, a cold smile touching my lips. “Sure, Diana. Have him email me the files.” “Good boy,” she said. One word. Like she was patting a golden retriever. I looked out the window, marveling at how easily I used to be manipulated. An hour later, there was a knock at the door. It was Nancy, holding a takeout bag from my favorite dim sum place. She set the containers out with practiced grace, her expression a mask of gentle concern. “Eat while it’s hot, Ben. I know you’ve been stressed helping Diana and Felix. Don’t burn yourself out.” She always appeared right when Diana’s coldness reached a breaking point, playing the role of the nurturing alternative. “You know,” she added, her tone conversational, “Felix’s project is so vital. Diana is just worried. He’s been sickly since they were kids; he can’t handle the pressure like you can.” The script was so predictable. Felix was weak, so he deserved everything. I was strong, so I deserved to be bled dry. I picked up a dumpling and smiled at her. “I get it, Nancy. I won’t make things difficult for Diana.” Nancy smiled back, satisfied. They both thought I was still the same Ben—the man who would compromise his soul for a scrap of affection. The next day, I took my laptop to the campus library to finish my visa application. As I scanned the aisles for references, I saw them. Diana and Felix were tucked into a corner booth. Felix was leaning into her, his head on her shoulder. He looked perfectly healthy—flushed and laughing. “Diana, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered. She looked at him with a tenderness she had never afforded me. “Silly boy,” she murmured. When Diana stood up to get a coffee, she spotted me. Her expression hardened instantly. My presence was an intrusion on their curated intimacy. I didn’t storm over. I didn’t demand an explanation. I simply caught her eye and gave her a polite, distant nod before returning to my books. I could feel her gaze burning into the back of my neck, confused by my lack of reaction. I didn’t care. My countdown had already started. I didn’t touch a single file of Felix’s thesis. Two days later, Diana cornered me in the library. She snatched the book out of my hands and slammed it onto the table. The loud thud drew glares from the surrounding students. “Ben, what the hell? I told you to help Felix. Why are you sitting here reading trash?” I looked up at her, then at Felix, who was hovering behind her with a practiced look of innocence. “I’m doing my own research,” I said simply. “What research could possibly be more important than Felix’s graduation?” Diana hissed. She pulled Felix forward. “He hasn’t slept in days worrying about this, and you’re just… ignoring him?” Felix touched her sleeve, his voice a soft whine. “Diana, don’t. Ben probably has his own stuff to do. I’ll just… I’ll figure it out. Even if I fail.” Diana’s eyes flashed with anger. “See? Even now, he’s more considerate than you! Ben, I’m saying this one last time: I want that completed proposal on my desk in a week.” I looked at them, the golden boy and his protector, and felt nothing but a dull sense of relief. “Understood,” I said. She assumed I had folded. She softened slightly, gave my shoulder a dismissive pat, and led Felix away. I went back to my work. It was the last time I’d ever let her see me as her subordinate. The calls started becoming frantic as the deadline approached. “Ben! Where is the file? It’s due in forty-eight hours!” Diana’s voice was shrill over the phone. I turned on the faucet in the kitchen, letting the rush of water fill the silence. “I’m sorry, Diana. My grandfather hasn’t been feeling well. I’ve been at the hospital with him. Everything else has had to take a backseat.” “Felix’s future depends on this! Can’t your grandfather’s nurse handle it? Just finish the damn project, Ben.” My grandfather, the man who raised me, was less important to her than a plagiarized thesis for a boy who had never worked a day in his life. “I’ll see what I can do,” I lied. “You’d better. If Felix doesn’t graduate, we are done.” She slammed the phone down. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t believe I had ever loved a woman who held me in such low Brooke-style contempt. The real estate agent called ten minutes later. He had a buyer. All cash, quick close, way over asking price. I told him to send the contract immediately. To make the “move” look real, I needed to get rid of some of the heavy antique furniture my parents had left behind. It was a two-person job, and I decided to test Nancy one last time. “Nancy? Are you free? I need to move some of the heavy stuff out of the house today. Could use a hand.” There was a long pause. Then, the sound of a faint, pathetic cough in the background. Felix. “Oh, Ben, I’m so sorry. I’m stuck at Felix’s. He’s running a fever and I’m the only one here to look after him. Can’t you just hire movers? I’ll Venmo you the money later.” Always Felix. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice steady. “Take care of him.” I hung up and booked a professional moving crew within five minutes. If money could buy my freedom from their “favors,” it was worth every cent. An hour later, I called Nancy back. My voice was a strained whisper. “Nancy… my stomach. It’s bad. I think I need to go to the ER. I’m at City General.” “Stay put! I’m coming!” she cried. I sat on a cold plastic bench in the hospital lobby, watching the automatic doors. Thirty minutes later, Nancy burst through. She was breathless, eyes darting around frantically. But she didn’t see me. She didn’t even look toward the waiting area. She ran straight past me, sprinting toward the Orthopedics wing. I stood up and followed her at a distance. Outside an exam room, Felix was sitting in a wheelchair, his ankle wrapped in a light bandage. He was crying—fat, theatrical tears. Nancy dropped to her knees in front of him, her face a mask of genuine agony. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. The doctor said it’s just a minor sprain. You’ll be fine in a few days.” “But it hurts so much,” Felix whimpered, leaning his head against hers. She reached out to touch his ankle, her hands trembling with a tenderness she had never shown me even when I had a 103-degree flu. This was the “care” I had been promised in the ICU. It had been happening long before the accident. I stepped out from behind the pillar. “Nancy?” She jumped, nearly knocking Felix over. Her face went pale. “Ben? What… why are you here?” Felix’s tears vanished instantly. His eyes narrowed, flashing a look of pure, territorial triumph. “Stomach pains,” I said, patting my midsection. “I was just heading to get my prescription.” “Are you… are you okay?” Nancy stammered, standing up. “I’ll live. It’s an old issue.” I looked at Felix. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full, though. I’ll let you get back to it. I can find my own way home.” I didn’t wait for her to explain. I walked away, knowing that my “jealous but resigned” act would keep them from suspecting anything until it was too late. The day I signed the closing papers and saw the wire transfer hit my account, the sun was shining. I went straight to the registrar’s office, filed for an indefinite leave of absence, and finalized my student visa. That weekend, a mutual friend organized a karaoke night. I knew Diana and Nancy would be there. To keep up appearances, I went. The neon-lit room was thick with the smell of cheap beer and perfume. After an hour, Felix, clutching a bag of dice, stood up with a grin. “Let’s play King’s Game! Whoever draws the King gets to make any two people do whatever they want!” The room cheered. Diana and Nancy laughed, looking at Felix with indulgent eyes. Naturally, Felix drew the King in the first round. He probably cheated. “I command… Number 2 and Number 5 to reenact the ‘I’m flying’ scene from Titanic!” Everyone revealed their cards. I was Number 2. Diana, with a look of visible annoyance, flipped over Number 5. The room exploded into whistles and jeers. “Come on, Ben! Your big moment!” “Diana, don’t be a killjoy, just hug him!” I was pushed onto the low coffee table in the center of the room. Diana stood in front of me, her arms crossed, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Nancy laughed from the couch. “Hurry up, Diana. Don’t keep us waiting. Ben, open your arms!” I stood there, stiff and humiliated, closing my eyes to avoid seeing the disgust on Diana’s face. I waited for the hug. It never came. Instead, I felt a violent shove against my chest. It was Felix. He had leaped up behind me, laughing as he wrapped his arms around me in a mocking embrace. “Look, Diana! Is this better?” But his momentum was too much. I lost my balance on the slick surface of the table. My feet slipped, and I went crashing backward. CRACK. My head hit the sharp corner of a side table. Stars exploded in my vision. Everything went black for a second, then a searing, white-hot pain bloomed at the base of my skull. I fell to the floor, and the impact knocked several drinks over. Ice-cold gin and sticky soda drenched my hair and clothes. The room went silent. Then, I heard it. Diana didn’t gasp. She didn’t run to help. She let out a sharp, mocking snort. “God, Ben. You’re such a buzzkill,” she said, turning back to the group. Nancy just sighed, checking her manicure. “Honestly, Ben, how clumsy can you be? It was just a game.” No one reached out a hand. All eyes were on Felix, who was now pouting, his eyes welling with fake tears. “I’m sorry, Diana… I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to be funny.” Diana pulled him into her side, her voice softening. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s not your fault. He just can’t keep his feet.” The pain in my head was nauseating. I lay there on the cold, sticky floor, shivering and soaked. I didn’t say a word. I gathered what was left of my dignity, stood up, and walked out of that room. I didn’t look back. I just felt a profound sense of gratitude. The house was sold. The visa was in my bag. I was leaving in three days.

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The day of my third-trimester check-up, I stumbled across a confirmation email for a service package my husband had booked. It wasn’t for a nursery or a postpartum doula. It was for “Post-Abortion Recovery and Wellness.” I thought it was a clerical error, a dark glitch in the system. I was laughing, ready to make a joke about it as he walked into the kitchen, but the look on his face stopped the air in my lungs. He didn’t look confused. He looked resolute. Gideon told me, with a calmness that made my skin crawl, that he’d been seeing a college student. He described her as “kind” and “pure,” someone who didn’t want his money or his title, someone who didn’t want to break up our marriage. But now, this girl was pregnant. And Gideon had decided he couldn’t let her suffer the “stigma.” He wanted her child to be born with the legitimacy of his name. Ten minutes later, I was forced onto an ultrasound table. My body went rigid, a cold sweat breaking out as the technician applied the gel. My voice shook so hard I could barely form the words. I asked him if he was divorcing me to marry her. Gideon didn’t look away. He gripped my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles while he used a paper towel to wipe the excess gel from my swollen belly. He gave me a thin, patronizing smile. He reminded me that when he married me, he promised I would be his only wife. He pointed out that both my parents were gone—that if he left me, I’d have nowhere to go. His plan was simple, and sick: I would adopt the girl’s baby. My own pregnancy had to be “terminated” because he was afraid that if I had my own flesh and blood, I would never truly love the child he shared with her. He slid a surgical consent form onto my lap. He told me to be a “good girl,” promising that I would always be the mistress of this house, that no one could ever take my seat at the table. I looked at him—really looked at him—for a long time. Then I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and walked toward the operating room. At the threshold, I stopped. I told him he didn’t need to worry. I told him I hoped he’d never regret the choice he made today. He will never know the truth. He will never know that in this entire world, I am the only person capable of carrying a child for a man with a zero sperm count. 1 I didn’t wake up until three days later. The first thing I heard through the haze of anesthesia was a hushed, panicked conversation. “Mr. Scott, that was an incredible risk. Forcing a late-term termination at eight months is dangerous enough, but demanding a total hysterectomy at the same time? Your wife nearly bled out on the table. We almost lost her.” Gideon’s voice was dismissive, lacking even a hint of tremor. “I made a promise to Daisy. I told her I would only ever have one child, and it would be hers. The only way to guarantee that was to make sure Isabel couldn’t try again.” As his eyes shifted toward the bed, they met mine. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look guilty. He simply reached out and tucked the thermal blanket around my shoulders with a sigh of feigned exhaustion. “You heard that, didn’t you?” he said, his tone bordering on a pout. “I didn’t have much choice, Isabel. Daisy said she’d only feel comfortable with the adoption if the ‘other mother’ was physically unable to conceive. Since you were already going under for the procedure, I figured we’d save you a second surgery later and just take care of it all at once.” He saw the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes and wiped them away with a thumb. He actually chuckled. “I didn’t expect the complications, but look at the bright side—I’d hired the best OB-GYN in the state for Daisy, and he happened to be in the building. You should thank her. Her ‘blessings’ are the only reason you’re still breathing.” My body began to shake. I summoned every ounce of strength I had left to raise my hand and swing at his face. My chest felt like it was being ripped open from the inside out. “Gideon… you’re a monster.” But my hand was weak. It barely grazed his cheek, leaving nothing but a faint streak of salt. Suddenly, a small, lithe figure shrieked and lunged toward the bed. A sharp crack echoed through the room as her palm collided with my face. I fell back against the pillows, my oxygen mask slipping, gasping for air like a fish out of water. A young girl, eyes brimming with performative tears, stood in front of Gideon like a shield. She screamed at me. “How dare you touch him! Do you have any idea how hard he’s worked? He’s been sitting outside the ICU for three days straight! If I hadn’t been bringing him nutritious meals every day, he would have collapsed! Why do you treat a man this wonderful like your personal punching bag?” I didn’t miss the look in Gideon’s eyes—the flash of raw tenderness and protective heat as he looked at her. I had seen that look before. He’d looked at me that way when I spent a week in the hospital with alcohol poisoning after covering for him at a high-stakes corporate dinner. He’d looked at me that way when I knelt on the floor, sobbing, begging debt collectors not to take his hands, offering them the only heirloom my mother left me just to buy him another month. I had destroyed myself for him, and in the end, it was worth less than a single tear from this girl. The pain was a dull knife carving into my ribs. I propped myself up, looking at the two of them—the devoted lover and his “pure” girl. I let out a jagged, hollow laugh. “Am I supposed to be grateful? Grateful that he killed my baby? Grateful that he gutted me like a fish so I can never be a mother? Grateful that he watched me almost die just so he could keep his little mistress happy?” Daisy’s tears began to fall in earnest. She glared at me with a terrifying, righteous fury. “Fine! It’s all my fault! I’m the villain! Is that what you want? Do you want me to pay for it?” She went manic. She shoved Gideon aside and grabbed a paring knife from the fruit basket on the nightstand, pointing it at her own stomach. “I’ll do it! I’ll cut my baby and my womb out right now if it’ll make you stop being such a bitch!” Gideon lunged for her, grabbing the blade. Blood began to drip from his palm as he wrestled the knife away. He turned to me, his eyes cold and full of genuine hatred. “Isabel, are you happy now?” He scooped the “fainting” Daisy into his arms, carrying her out of the room without looking back. He threw one last sentence over his shoulder. “I think I’ve been too kind to you. I’ve let you believe you actually have a say in how this works. Since you want to be difficult, you can find out what life is like without my protection.” I watched them leave, laughing through the tears. The man who once swore he’d spend his life shielding me from the world was the one who had finally set it on fire. Gideon’s security detail didn’t wait. They dragged me out of the bed, barely giving me time to find my shoes. “As of this moment, Mr. Scott is rescinding all privileges,” the guard said, his voice a mechanical drone. “If you want to stay in this private wing, you’ll need to pay the balance yourself.” I smiled, a bitter, broken thing, and turned toward the exit. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I don’t want anything that belongs to Gideon Scott ever again.” 2 My phone, my credit cards, my keys—all gone. They were “company property.” I stood on the street corner, clutching my hospital gown closed under a thin coat, trying to hail a cab. Every time a car slowed down, one of Gideon’s shadows would step forward. “Unless you want to be blacklisted by Summit Group, keep driving,” they’d say. The drivers would look at me with pity, shake their heads, and floor it. The guard looked at my trembling legs and spoke with cold detachment. “Mr. Scott wanted me to give you a message. This is what happens when you’re ungrateful. If you’re willing to apologize to Miss Daisy and agree to act as her live-in caretaker during the rest of her pregnancy, he’ll let me take you home.” I didn’t even look at him. I just started walking. A thin trail of blood began to seep down my leg, staining the pavement, drawing stares from the evening commuters. I was numb to it. I walked until the sun dipped below the skyline, until the city lights felt like needles in my eyes, and finally, I reached the house. Our house. The windows were glowing, a warm invitation against the night chill. I reached out with frozen fingers to punch in the security code. Beep-beep. Access Denied. I tried again. And again. The system hissed at me with every failure. Finally, the housekeeper opened the door. She didn’t look at me with concern. She looked at me with smug disdain. “Ma’am, stop. You know the rules. Until you apologize to Mr. Scott, you aren’t allowed to use anything he paid for. And he paid for this house.” She looked me up and down, a sneer curling her lip. “If I were you, I’d just say sorry. Look at who he is. There are a thousand women waiting in line for your spot. You’re in your thirties, you have no family left, and now you can’t even have kids… he’s being generous by not divorcing you. Why make a scene?” “I’m not coming in,” I said, my voice raspy. “I just want one thing.” She scoffed. “Everything in there belongs to him. What could you possibly own? You’re probably trying to steal some jewelry to sell, aren’t you?” “I want my medical file,” I said calmly. She rolled her eyes, disappeared inside, and returned a moment later to hurl a brown envelope at my feet. I picked it up. Inside was a lab report from a decade ago. It bore Gideon’s name and a diagnosis: Azoospermia. Permanent infertility. I remembered the day we got those results right before the wedding. I remembered the crushing weight of the secret. Gideon was a man of immense pride, a man who built an empire on the idea of his own perfection. How could he have lived with the knowledge that he was “broken”? How would his competitors have used it against him? But the doctor had told me a secret back then. My biology was an anomaly. Something in my hormonal makeup was capable of “triggering” his dormant, non-motile sperm. It was a one-in-a-million medical fluke. “Mrs. Scott, your husband is a lucky man,” the specialist had told me. “I’ve never seen a compatibility like this. You are quite literally the only person on earth who could give him a biological child.” I had intended to take that secret to my grave. I wanted to protect his ego. I wanted him to feel whole. I never imagined I would be the one to tear the veil down. I took the last bit of cash I had hidden in my coat pocket and went to a 24-hour copy center. I made twenty copies of that report. I called a courier service. “Deliver these immediately,” I told the man, giving him the addresses of every rival CEO in the city. “Tell them it’s a wedding gift from the former Mrs. Scott. They’ll tip you well.” Gideon, this is the last thing I’m giving you. I hope you enjoy the fallout. 3 I didn’t go back to the mansion. I went to the tiny, one-bedroom walk-up we’d lived in when we first started the company. Back then, we were broke. We lived on instant noodles and dreams. Gideon used to lie to me, saying he’d already eaten at a business meeting so I could have his portion of the food. I’d wake up at 2 AM and see him at the kitchen sink, drinking glass after glass of tap water just to stop the hunger pangs. We got married in that living room. No guests. Just a pair of cheap silver bands that cost less than fifty bucks. That place meant everything to me. Even after we moved into the ten-million-dollar penthouse, I’d secretly bought the unit from the landlord. I used to imagine us retiring there, going back to the beginning when things were simple. I never thought I’d be returning there because the end had come. I turned the key and pushed open the door. My heart stopped. There, on the worn-out thrift store sofa, were two bodies tangled together. And the silk pajamas I’d kept in the closet—the ones Gideon and I bought as our first “luxury” purchase—were draped over Gideon and Daisy. My brain went white. “Gideon! How could you bring her here? You know what this place is—” Daisy didn’t let me finish. She moved with practiced speed, slapping herself across the face so hard her cheek reddened instantly. She threw herself in front of Gideon, weeping. “Isabel, I’m sorry! I just wanted to see where Gideon grew up! I begged him to bring me here! Please, if you’re angry, hit me, just don’t hurt him!” Gideon’s face transformed with fury. He cupped her “injured” face, blowing on her cheek as if she were a child. Then he looked at the guard behind me. A massive hand gripped my arm. A heavy palm slammed into my cheek. Once. Twice. My ears began to ring. They didn’t stop until I was slumped on the floor, gasping. Gideon looked down at me, his expression flat. “Why do you have to make this so difficult, Isabel? If you’re feeling unwell, go back to the hospital. Why are you stalking us?” “Home?” I whispered, tasting blood. “Do I still have a home?” I looked at him, my eyes burning. “Why this place, Gideon? You can screw whoever you want, but why did you have to ruin this? The Gideon I loved at twenty was the only thing I had left. Why did you have to kill him too?” Gideon’s eyes flickered for a second—a ghost of a memory—but then they hardened into obsidian. “Ruin it? I built it! If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be rotting in a hole like this. Don’t forget, the money you used to buy this place came from my accounts. It’s mine. I’ll do whatever I want with it.” He let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “You think I’m making it dirty? Isabel, I don’t care about this dump. I’ll burn it to the ground before I let you hold it over my head.” He signaled the guards to drag me outside. I watched, paralyzed, as they hauled in several canisters of gasoline and a few industrial fire-starters. With a single flick of his lighter, the only place where we were ever truly happy went up in a roar of orange flame. Through the wall of heat and smoke, my tears wouldn’t stop. Gideon stared at my face, his anger seemingly sated by the destruction. His voice dropped to a cold, clinical low. “Isabel, what will it take for you to understand? I gave you the Scott name. I gave you the penthouse, the Birkin bags, the couture gowns you’re wearing right now—things most people couldn’t earn in three lifetimes. Wasn’t that enough?” “You’re not young anymore. Did you really think I’d stay in love with a fading woman forever? I’m giving you dignity. I’m giving you a life of luxury. All I asked was for you to keep your eyes closed and make room for Daisy and the baby. Is that so hard?” I looked into his eyes, and for the first time, I felt nothing but a deep, hollow pity. “I won’t do it.” “Gideon, you just burned the last bridge. I want a divorce.” His jaw tightened. “Divorce? Never. Even if I don’t love you, you’re a part of the Scott brand. I’m not letting you go.” He stepped closer, his voice a hiss. “I never owed you anything, Isabel. If anything, I owe Daisy. I’ve made her live in the shadows during the best years of her life. I tried to give you a graceful way out, but you insisted on making it ugly.” He turned away from me and dropped to one knee in front of Daisy. He pulled a massive, 10-carat diamond from his pocket. “Daisy, I’m sorry I found you so late. I can’t give you a legal marriage certificate yet, but I’m going to give you the biggest wedding this city has ever seen. I want everyone to know you’re the one I love.” Daisy gasped, her eyes shining with triumph, but then she looked at me and pouted. “I can’t, Gideon. I love you, so I’ve been willing to be the ‘other woman,’ but I can’t stand the thought of the whole world calling me a home-wrecker. Unless…” She turned her venomous gaze toward me. “Unless the ‘first wife’ stands as our witness. Unless she tells the world that the woman who isn’t loved is the real intruder. Unless she admits she is the third wheel.” 4 I met the girl’s malicious gaze with a blank stare. Gideon, seeing my silence, twisted the knife. “Isabel, don’t forget where your parents are buried. That private cemetery? I own the deed to that plot. You wouldn’t want them to end up like this house… would you?” It felt like he’d reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it burst. I could taste the copper in my throat. I nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll be there.” Daisy squealed with delight and threw herself into Gideon’s arms. He took her to look at gowns and hotels, but he paused at the door. For a moment, his voice softened. “It’s just a ceremony, Isabel. It doesn’t change your legal status. Just play along.” “Okay,” I said. He looked at me deeply, finally satisfied. “You don’t need to look after Daisy for now. Go rest. When the baby is born, the three of us will go on a trip. Think of it as your compensation.” “Okay,” I repeated. The day of the “wedding,” Gideon was so paranoid I’d cause a scene that he had guards lock me in the bridal suite early. Daisy was preening in a gown that cost more than a suburban house. “Isabel, the dress is so heavy, I can’t reach my shoes. Be a dear and help me?” Gideon frowned, his eyes shifting to me. I didn’t say a word. I knelt, lifted the layers of lace, and slid the heels onto her feet. Gideon looked at me with a complicated expression—guilt, perhaps, or a lingering sense of wrongness. He opened his mouth to say something, but Daisy pushed him toward the door. “Honey, I’m parched. Go grab me some orange juice?” He smiled, kissed her forehead, and stepped out. The second the door clicked shut, Daisy’s foot lashed out, kicking me square in the chest. I sprawled back as she looked down at me with a sneer. “You think I’m just some gold-digger, don’t you? You have no idea. Gideon and I? We’ve been together for almost ten years.” The shock must have shown on my face, because she laughed. “He said I was too young to suffer through the lean years with him. So he kept me in a condo across town while he used you to build the company. He felt so bad for ‘using’ you that every time he made his first big commissions, he told you the debt collectors took the money. In reality? He was buying me Chanel bags. Whenever I got bored, he’d have those ‘collectors’ come to your house and put on a show so he could siphon more cash to me.” “It was about two million dollars in total. Oh, and that cheap silver bracelet you liked? I threw it in the trash.” I was shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe. Two million dollars. That was the money I’d worked three jobs for. I’d fainted on a factory line once, nearly losing my arm to a machine, just to make sure Gideon’s “debts” were paid. When he found out, he’d held me and cried, saying he was a failure. And all that time… it was a lie. Daisy kept going, her voice a sharp stiletto. “And then you got pregnant. I was so mad I wouldn’t let him touch me. So he staged that ‘celebratory dinner’ with the investors. He made sure they kept pouring you drinks until you miscarried. You were dying on the operating table, and he was on the phone with me, begging me not to be mad at him.” The world went black for a second. “But he still won’t divorce you!” she hissed, her face contorting with rage. “You’re just a habit he can’t quit. You think your ‘history’ makes you special?” She smiled then—a slow, terrifying grin. “Tell me, Isabel… if Gideon thinks you tried to kill his baby, do you think he’ll still care about your ‘history’?” My hair stood on end. I turned to bolt for the door, but she was faster. Daisy grabbed a bottle of champagne and smashed it against her own stomach, letting out a blood-curdling scream. “Gideon! Help me! She’s killing the baby!” The door flew open. Gideon was there in a heartbeat, his face a mask of horror. He grabbed my wrist and threw me across the room. He didn’t see me hit the wall; he only saw the blood beginning to bloom on Daisy’s white skirt. “It wasn’t me…” I tried to say, but his hand was already around my throat, cutting off my air. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a primal roar. “Isabel! You’d even kill a child? You disgust me!” “You took her baby,” he snarled, his face inches from mine. “So don’t blame me for what happens to your parents.” Through my tears of agony, I heard him bark an order into his radio. “Destroy the graves. I want the headstones crushed and the remains thrown into the sewer. Now.” “NO!” I screamed, a sound that didn’t feel human. “Gideon, you madman! Look at the security cameras! I didn’t touch her!” Daisy scrambled up, sobbing, and ran toward the open window. “The baby is gone! What’s the point of living? I’ll just jump! Go ahead, Isabel, tell him more lies!” Gideon panicked, dropping me to catch her. He held her tight, looking at me with a coldness that froze my blood. “Isabel, you’ve exhausted every ounce of mercy I had. You hurt my family? You’re going to pay.” “Call the police,” he said to his guards. “Tell them she assaulted a pregnant woman. And call the warden at the county jail. Tell him to make sure she doesn’t have a single ‘good’ day inside.” ——– Gideon ignored every red light on the way to the hospital. He ran into the ER with Daisy in his arms. “Save my child! I’ll donate ten million to this hospital if you save my baby!” The doctor on duty jumped, looking at Gideon with a confused frown. “Mr. Scott?” He looked at Gideon, then at the “fainting” Daisy. “Your child? Mr. Scott, you have a documented case of Azoospermia. You’re sterile. How could you have a child?”

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My best friend once told me something she meant as a joke. She said that if we were ever out for dinner and she didn’t touch the hot sauce, the person sitting across from me definitely wasn’t her. I’ve always been a spice fanatic—the kind of person who carries a bottle of habanero flakes in her purse. Bella, on the other hand, used to have the palate of a toddler. She spent a year secretly training herself to handle heat just so she could keep up with me on our Friday night food crawls. By the time she “graduated,” she was ordering the “Nuclear” option right alongside me. Tonight, we were at our favorite dive bar, a place famous for wings that could strip paint off a car. As usual, I ordered a basket of the “Suicide Wings.” But after one tiny bite, she slammed her fork down. She looked at me with a flash of genuine anger and snapped, “Joanna, what the hell is this? You know I can’t do spicy food!” I froze. She was right. She didn’t used to eat spicy food. 1 Memories started flooding back, unbidden and sharp. I live for the burn. For years, every time Bella and I went out, I had to compromise, picking the blandest things on the menu so she could share. She felt so guilty about it that one day she announced she was going into “training.” I laughed, thinking she was bluffing. But she actually did it. She started buying hot sauces from the grocery store, working her way up from mild salsa to jalapeños, then habaneros. I lost count of how many times she called me, crying because her mouth was on fire, but she wouldn’t quit. It took her best part of a year, but she turned herself into a woman who could handle a level-four Thai curry without breaking a sweat. The day she finally did it, she looked as proud as if she’d won an Oscar. “Joanna,” she’d said, beaming, “you never have to order the wimp sauce for me ever again.” Then she’d added that prophetic little joke: “If the day ever comes where I’m sitting across from you and I’m not eating spicy, you better call the cops, because that’s not me.” I’d punched her lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up! Don’t say creepy stuff like that.” But right now, she was spitting a piece of spicy chicken into a napkin, her face twisted in disgust. I stared at the discarded wing, a cold knot forming in my stomach. I waved the server over and hurriedly ordered a side of plain fries and some mild sliders, but my palms were already starting to sweat. The woman sitting across from me… was she really the Bella who had vowed to share a lifetime of spice with me? I stole a glance at her. She was currently mid-rant about a “toxic” girl in her department. Her cadence, her tone, the way she rolled her eyes—it was classic Bella. Perfectly, undeniably her. I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid. Maybe she had an ulcer? Maybe she was just over the whole “spicy” phase? But the unease kept crawling up my chest like ivy. Then, Bella started telling a story about their office happy hour last week. Apparently, a guy from accounting got wasted and confessed his love to the receptionist, only to get a drink poured over his head. She mimicked the guy’s heartbroken, drunken face, squinting her eyes and twisting her mouth, and then she burst out laughing. Her mouth opened wide, showing a row of perfect white teeth. My hand tightened around my glass until my knuckles went white. Bella never laughed like that. She always covered her mouth with her hand. In middle school, she’d chipped half a front tooth in a biking accident. Even though it had been capped and fixed years ago, the habit remained. It was a muscle memory carved into her over a decade. I’d teased her about it a million times. “Your teeth are fine, Bella! Stop hiding them.” And she’d always giggle and say, “I can’t help it. My hand moves faster than my brain.” But the person in front of me didn’t even flinch. She just laughed, open and uninhibited. Avoiding spice could be a stomach issue. But the hand? That was an instinct. That was a decade of subconscious conditioning. You can fake an accent, you can mimic a rhythm of speech, you can even study someone’s opinions. But how do you fake a person’s most deep-seated, unconscious tics? I took a long, hard swallow of my beer, but it couldn’t wash away the terror. The person sitting here wasn’t Bella. Who was she? Why was she pretending? And most importantly… where the hell was the real Bella? 2 I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in the dark, the neon light from the street filtering through my blinds, replaying every second of that dinner. The way she’d recoiled from the chili. The way she’d laughed. I sat up, grabbed my phone, and started scrolling through our chat history. Last week: a selfie of her at her desk with the caption “Drowning in spreadsheets. Send help.” Before that: a link to a TikTok of a cat falling off a fridge. I’d replied with a string of laughing emojis. Then, two weeks ago: “Jo! The Reno is finally done! You have to come over this weekend. First dinner in the new place is mandatory!” I remember that dinner. Her family had been there. Her mom kept praising her cooking; her dad and her brother, Tyler, were so proud of her for buying a place on her own without help. Bella had been glowing that night. But shortly after that, she sent me a voice note that felt… off. “Hey Jo, just wanted to let you know I might be heading out of town for a bit. Some work stuff, maybe overseas. Not sure where yet.” At the time, I figured it was a sudden promotion. I’d asked where she was going, but she’d been vague. “I’ll let you know when it’s settled. I’m gonna miss you, though. We might not see each other for a while.” I’d thought it was sudden, but I didn’t push. Looking at it now, the hair on my arms stood up. Two weeks ago, she was throwing a housewarming party, ecstatic about her new life. Why would she suddenly disappear for “work stuff”? Then I remembered something Bella said the night she signed the closing papers. We were sitting on the floor of her old apartment, drinking cheap Prosecco. She’d hugged her knees, tipsy and sentimental, and whispered, “Jo, I’m never leaving this city. I finally have a place that’s mine. As long as you’re here, I’m here.” A horrifying thought took root. What if the Bella who told me she was leaving was the same “Bella” who couldn’t eat spicy food? What about her family? Did they know she’d been replaced? As soon as the sun came up, I didn’t hesitate. I drove straight to her new condo. I knocked. No answer. I called. Straight to voicemail. But Bella had given me her door code. She’d made me enter it myself the day she moved in—a six-digit string of numbers that was her birthday. “This place is yours as much as mine,” she’d told me. I punched in the numbers. The lock clicked open. The moment I stepped inside, my heart sank. It was too clean. Bella was a lived-in person. She left coats on the sofa; there was always a half-finished bag of pretzels on the coffee table. But this place looked like a staged model home. The air didn’t smell like her vanilla candles. It smelled like bleach. I walked toward the balcony. The row of succulents she loved—the ones she treated like her children—were all dead. The leaves were shriveled and yellow, the soil cracked. Bella would never let them die. Not unless she was gone. I took a shaky breath and walked into the master bedroom. I pulled open the closet. Empty. Every single piece of clothing was gone. I sank to my knees, reaching toward the back corner of the closet floorboard. Bella and I had a tradition. On move-in day, we’d taken a key and carved our initials into the wood, just like we used to do on our school desks in the fifth grade. “Our secret base,” she’d called it, her eyes crinkling. My fingertips found the grooves. The initials were there: B + J. But next to them, someone had scratched a series of numbers—not a date, not a phone number. 302-2-401. 3 I sat on the floor of that empty closet, staring at those numbers for what felt like hours. 302-2-401. It wasn’t a phone number—too short. It wasn’t a birthday. What was she trying to tell me? I broke it down in my head. 302… 2… 401. 302-2-401. I stood up so fast I got dizzy. Bella grew up in an old neighborhood on the South Side. Before the developers started tearing it down, I’d been to her house hundreds of times. Building 302. Entrance 2. Apartment 401. Every time I’d go over to play, her mom would lean out the window and shout, “Bella! Your friend is here!” But that complex had been scheduled for demolition three years ago. Her family had moved out ages ago. Why would she carve that address here? What was waiting for me at the ruins of her childhood home? I sprinted out of the condo. The drive to the South Side took forty minutes. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my hands cramped. As I approached the highway ramp, I checked my rearview mirror. A white van was behind me. It was keeping a steady distance—not tailgating, just… there. I tried to ignore it and merged onto the expressway. The van merged too. I switched lanes. The van switched lanes. My heart started thudding against my ribs. I took the next exit, made three quick turns, and ducked into a side street. The van was still there. Sweat poured down my back. I swerved into a mall parking garage, wound through the levels, and tucked my car into a dark corner. I cut the engine and waited. Ten minutes passed. The van didn’t appear. I leaned back against the headrest, gasping for air. Someone was watching me. If there were cameras at Bella’s new place, or if the smart lock recorded entries… whoever was pretending to be her knew I’d been there. I forced myself to breathe. I pulled out my phone and mounted it on the dashboard, hitting “record” on the video app. Then I sent a text to my coworker, Morgan. “I’m going to check something out. I’m sending you my live location. If you don’t hear from me in two hours, call the police.” Morgan replied instantly: ??? Jo, what’s going on?! I didn’t explain. I shared my location and restarted the car. When I finally reached the old neighborhood, I saw that the demolition was only half-finished. The south side of the block was a graveyard of bricks and twisted rebar. But on the north side, two old brick buildings were still standing, their windows caked in dust, looking like skeletons that had forgotten to fall over. Building 302 was one of them. I walked to the entrance. The dust on the stairs was disturbed—fresh footprints, some large, some small, back and forth. This wasn’t just a squatter. It was too frequent. I followed the tracks up the stairs. Second floor. Third floor. Fourth floor. I reached the door to 401. The sharp, chemical scent of bleach drifted through the door frame. It was the exact same smell from Bella’s new condo. I stood there, my hand hovering over the wood. I didn’t dare knock. This was her family’s old place. The only people who would have a key were her parents or her brother. Bella always told me how much her parents loved her. How Tyler, though quiet, was always protective. She’d even secretly added her parents’ names to the deed of her new house as a surprise for their retirement. She gave everything to that family. She loved them with every fiber of her being. But the final clue she’d carved into her closet led here. To her roots. To the people she trusted most. I stood at the door of 401, trying to steady my shaking hands, and finally tried the knob. It was locked. I pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. The smell of bleach was stronger now, seeping out of the cracks, but I was stuck on the outside. As I walked back down the stairs, my feet felt like lead. Near the entrance, an elderly woman in a faded cardigan was sitting on a stone bench, peeling vegetables. I recognized her. Mrs. Gable. She used to live right below Bella’s family. When we were kids, she used to give us peppermint candies whenever we passed her door. “Mrs. Gable?” She squinted at me through thick glasses. “Is that… Joanna?” “Yes, it’s me.” “Oh, sweetheart, it’s been years! You looking for Bella? They moved out a long time ago.” I knelt down beside her. “Mrs. Gable, has anyone been back lately? To the old apartment upstairs?” The old woman thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. A couple of weeks ago. Her parents were here.” My heart skipped a beat. “When?” “Last week, maybe? I can’t be sure. They came at night in a white van. I heard the noise and looked out my window.” A van. A white van. Just like the one that had been following me. 4 “Was it just them?” “And the son. The three of them together.” I clenched my fists. “How long were they here?” “Not long. Maybe an hour. They carried a large trunk up. When they came back down, they were empty-handed.” A trunk. Carried up, but never brought back down. “What kind of trunk? Did you see it?” The old lady shook the water off her greens. “Black. Plastic, I think. Big. The son carried it up by himself. Looked heavy.” “And no one’s been back since?” “No. Just that once.” She went back to her vegetables, adding casually, “Moving things in the middle of the night… I thought it was strange. Why not do it in the light of day?” I couldn’t answer. A draft blew out of the stairwell, carrying the faint tail-end of that bleach smell. I slowly stood up and looked up at the grey, dusty window of the fourth floor. Every nerve in my body was screaming. I called 911. My voice was shaking so badly the operator had to ask me to repeat the address twice. “I think my friend has been hurt. Building 302, Apt 401. There’s a powerful smell of chemicals coming from inside.” The operator asked for my name. I gave it. They asked for my friend’s name. I opened my mouth, but the name “Bella” got stuck in my throat. When it finally came out, it was a sob. The police said they’d be there in five minutes. I waited by the entrance. Five minutes. Every second felt like a needle pricking my skin. I leaned against the brick wall, staring up at the fourth floor. My mind was full of Bella. The way she’d move into my house when we were kids just because she was bored. The way she’d stood up to the bullies in middle school, winking at me while her mom got lectured by the principal. The night we graduated college, she’d been so drunk, clutching my hand and saying: “Jo, I’m the luckiest person in the world because I have you. And because my parents are so good to me. I’m just… I’m so happy.” She’d had a red nose and teary eyes, smiling like a fool. The tears finally spilled over my cheeks. Bella, the people you loved—the ones you said were so “good” to you—what did they do? Screaming sirens cut through the air. Two cruisers pulled up, and five or six officers jumped out. The lead was a middle-aged detective—Detective Cooper. He asked me a few quick questions and then led his team up the stairs. I followed, but was stopped at the fourth-floor landing. “Stay back, Miss. Don’t come any closer.” I heard the sound of a door being breached. The heavy thud of wood. Then, a young officer stumbled out of the apartment, leaning against the hallway wall, retching. Detective Cooper’s voice came from inside, low and grim. “Call the ME.” My legs gave out. I tried to rush in, but an officer caught me. “You can’t go in there!” “Let me see her! Just let me see her!” I fought with everything I had. I was screaming, hysterical. The officer couldn’t hold me back, and finally, Detective Cooper stepped out. He looked at me for a long beat. “Are you sure?” “She’s my best friend!” He stepped aside. I walked in. In the small storage room, a black plastic trunk had been moved aside by the police. In the corner behind it, a floorboard had been pried up. Underneath, in the shallow crawlspace, was a body. I recognized the necklace around her throat. The one I’d bought her for her birthday last year. I recognized the fitness tracker on her wrist. We’d bought them together on Black Friday so we could compete on daily steps. I recognized the ring on her left ring finger. A cheap, ten-dollar silver band we’d bought at a flea market in high school. We’d each bought one and promised to wear them forever. I fell to my knees on the cold concrete of the storage room. I didn’t feel the pain in my joints. I didn’t feel anything at all. The rest is a blur. The scene was cordoned off. The forensic team arrived. Bella was carried out in a black bag. I don’t know how long I sat on the curb outside. It was dark when Detective Cooper walked over to me. “Joanna, the forensics team found a recording on the deceased’s fitness tracker.” I looked up, my eyes burning. “It has a voice memo feature. She managed to record something. I want you to listen to it—see if it helps us understand the context.” I followed him into the back of the police van. He hit play. At first, there was silence. Then, the sound of shallow, terrified breathing. Then, Bella’s voice. It was a whisper, calm but thin, a terrifying stillness that made me shiver. “Jo… if you’re hearing this, it means I’m gone.” “Because I found out. I found out their secret.”

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The moment the stage lights cut to black, the silence was shattered by a wave of jagged, mocking laughter from the audience. A cold shiver raced down the back of my neck. My fingers instinctively reached behind me, brushing against the rough, adhesive edge of a piece of paper stuck to my tuxedo jacket. “Caden’s Dedicated Lapdog.” Those four words felt like a brand seared into my skin, sending a sickening heat straight down my spine. The livestream cameras were still rolling, broadcasting to thousands. Natalie—or rather, the girl I had been for the last six years—was being dismantled in real-time. Finally, Caden pushed aside Callie’s hand, which was looped smugly through his arm, and grabbed my jacket. He threw it over my shoulders, effectively shielding the sign, and practically dragged me toward the wings. Callie’s laughter bled through the heavy backstage doors, sharp as broken glass. “Did you see his face?” she wheezed. “Like a stray dog that just realized it’s been kicked into a gutter.” I turned, my fists trembling so hard I thought my bones might snap. Tears blurred my vision, turning the backstage lights into distorted halos. “You promised,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “You said tonight was the night. The proposal… the livestream… everyone was watching.” “It’s April Fool’s, babe,” Callie said, rolling her eyes as she strolled in behind us. “God, can’t the future Mrs. Sterling take a joke?” She bumped her shoulder against Caden’s, her tone dripping with mock concern. “See? He’s already snapping at you over a little bit of pride. Is this really the kind of guy you want to spend your life with?” Caden looked down, slowly closing a velvet ring box I hadn’t even realized he was holding. His voice was as light as a falling feather, devoid of any weight. “Callie’s right. About the proposal… let’s just revisit it next year.” It felt like a giant hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it bruised. All those years of devotion, of being his shadow, suddenly felt like a punchline I was too stupid to understand. I released my bitten lip and slowly shook my head. The breath I let out tasted like rust—the bitter tang of old blood. “Don’t bother with next year,” I said, the words surprisingly steady. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.” 1 The words had barely left my mouth before Caden’s brows lowered, a dismissive smirk tugging at his lips. “Over an April Fool’s joke? Really?” “Yes.” He stared at me for a long time, as if waiting for me to cave first. Finally, he sighed, the sound of a man burdened by a difficult child. He reached out, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of my eye. “Miranda, it was just a prank. Callie bet me that even if I were about to propose, you’d still find a way to throw a tantrum over a little fun.” He tilted his head toward the stage, his tone casual. “Look, I had the whole thing set up.” I followed his gaze. Through the gap in the curtains, I could see it: the champagne tower, the wall of white roses, the clusters of plush bears arranged in a massive heart. Sitting on a white Steinway was a delicate, lace veil—the exact one I had pointed out in a magazine three years ago. It was everything he had ever promised. Callie snorted. “It wasn’t just the decor. There’s a firework show scheduled, a drone display… but I guess that’s all going to waste now. Tens of thousands in deposits, down the drain.” Caden stepped into my line of sight, blocking her out. “Don’t blame Callie. If you’re mad, be mad at me.” Right. Don’t blame her. Blame me. Blame me for being humiliated during my first public performance in years. Blame me for being labeled an “obsessed social climber” on every social media feed in the country. My name was now synonymous with pathetic. The proposal was being postponed because I couldn’t manage to smile and say, “It’s okay.” But why should it be? Why did he have to crush my dignity into the dirt just to see if I’d still say “I do”? I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and looked away. I pulled what was left of my pride around me like a shroud. “Caden, we’re done.” His face darkened instantly. He opened his mouth to snap back, but Callie beat him to it. “Seriously, Miranda? The ‘desperate-to-marry’ act is getting old.” She flicked her hair, her eyes scanning me with pure disdain. “Caden and I grew up together. I know exactly how he works. This ‘playing hard to get’ move to pressure him into a ring might fool him, but it doesn’t work on me.” There it was again. The “joke” that served as a knife, always carving me into the villain. I remembered the first time I met his parents after we moved back to the States. Callie had been there, playing the helpful “sister” figure, before casually dropping a bomb over dinner. “Miranda’s got such a great eye, doesn’t she?” she’d said with a sweet smile. “Most people wouldn’t even know Caden was the heir to the Sterling fortune while he was studying abroad. It’s such a coincidence… didn’t I hear your family’s firm was struggling with debt recently?” The atmosphere had chilled instantly. Caden’s smile had vanished. He’d looked at me, his eyes searching, and asked, “Is that true?” No matter how much I explained that I’d had no idea who the Sterlings were when we met in that rainy London library, the seed was planted. Caden just nodded, but the warmth never quite returned to his gaze. The next day, Callie became a permanent fixture in our “private” world. She was there to “vet” me for her best friend. Over and over, she made a fool of me, and over and over, the wedding date was pushed back. Caden wouldn’t understand. Love has an expiration date when it’s fed nothing but doubt. I was exhausted. I pulled my arm out of his grip and turned toward the exit. “Miranda!” I stopped out of habit. Caden grabbed my wrist, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his features. “Don’t…” “Let him go,” Callie interrupted. “He’s just doing this for effect. He wants you to chase him. If you keep spoiling him like this, Caden, he’ll never learn how to be a proper Sterling wife. Give him a few days to cool off. He’ll be back.” I felt the pressure on my wrist slacken. Inch by inch, his grip loosened. Caden’s expression shifted, turning cold and guarded. He let go. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever you want.” 2 The night was pitch black. I pulled my coat tight, keeping my head down as I walked toward the curb. The whispers of the departing audience felt like needles in my ears. “Look, that’s the girl from the livestream.” “Beautiful, but clearly a gold-digger. Glad he caught on before the ring.” Nobody would believe that Caden was the one who pursued me. During our grad studies in London, I was the one who preferred being alone. He was the one who seemed to be everywhere—the library, the cafe, the path to my morning lectures. The fifth time we “ran into each other,” he’d held out his hand, his eyes crinkling with a charm that felt like sunshine. “I’m Caden Sterling,” he’d said. “And I think we’re destined to be more than just strangers.” From then on, the seat next to me was always reserved for him. When it rained and I forgot my umbrella, Caden would appear, thrusting his into my hands and running home in the downpour. He stayed sick with a fever for two weeks because of it. When I practiced in the music hall, he would sit in the back, listening for hours. He’d say, “Miranda, I could never get tired of your music.” On April Fool’s Day back then, he had waited outside my dorm. He stood under a streetlamp, looking at me with such intensity it made my heart skip. “I love you,” he said. I had tried to be playful, to protect myself. “Happy April Fool’s?” Caden didn’t laugh. He stepped forward and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “Miranda,” he whispered. “I would never lie to you.” When did those vows become punchlines? When we moved back, Callie invaded our world, and I wasn’t allowed to complain. At a New Year’s party, she demanded I play for the guests like I was hired entertainment. When I finished, she pulled a wad of cash from her purse and tossed it at my feet. “Bravo! A tip for the talent!” The room erupted in snickering. Caden didn’t flinch. He just held a tipsy Callie steady and looked at me. “She’s had too much to drink. Don’t be sensitive.” Last year, for Callie’s birthday, Caden bought her a luxury SUV and paid for a 24-hour digital billboard in Times Square that read Happy Birthday, Callie. The next day was my birthday. Caden showed up hungover and handed me a used Starbucks gift card he’d found in his car. I’d cried. I’d asked him why. By the end of the argument, it turned out to be another “test.” Caden wasn’t even drunk; his eyes were clear and piercing as he asked, “Do you love me, or do you love the things I can buy you?” The rain began to fall harder now, mixing with the tears streaming down my face. I had never done anything to betray him. Yet I was the one constantly on trial. I flagged a taxi, my hands shaking as I checked my phone. A news notification popped up. A photo of me frantically ripping the sign off my back had been enlarged and centered. The headline was a joke about “The Lapdog Who Didn’t Get the Bone.” The comments were a cesspool. She deserved it. Pushing for a mansion she didn’t earn. I tried to lock my phone, but my fingers wouldn’t obey. Suddenly, a boom echoed through the night sky. Fireworks. They went on for ten minutes. Then, a thousand drones rose into the air, forming the shape of a massive diamond ring being slipped onto a finger. Callie, Marry Me. The taxi driver rolled down his window. “Man, look at that. Some rich kid must be proposing. That Callie girl is one lucky woman.” On Instagram, Callie had posted a picture of the sky. Some people don’t know how to appreciate what they have. Sometimes you just have to take what’s yours. My phone buzzed again. A voice note from Caden. “You seeing this?” There was a pause. “The team already had everything set up, and it seemed like a waste to cancel. I just had them change the name on the drones. Don’t read too much into it.” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I typed back: It’s beautiful. I hope you both get exactly what you deserve. 3 I blocked his number the moment the message sent. The taxi pulled up to my apartment. I felt a strange hollowed-out sensation—part relief, part devastating loss. I went inside and started to pack. Six years is a long time. The memories were everywhere, tucked into the corners of the rooms. The coffee station where Caden would make me a latte every morning before he left. The navy-blue scarf on the hook—he’d spent two weeks learning to knit it for me, and even though the stitches were crooked, I’d loved it more than anything else I owned. The vinyl records we’d hunted for in dusty shops in Shoreditch. One of them had a lopsided heart drawn on the cover with the words Miranda’s Favorite scribbled next to it. When we moved back to the States, I’d paid hundreds in extra baggage fees just to make sure those things arrived safely. But now, as I looked around, I realized I didn’t want any of it. I packed one small suitcase. As the confirmation for my flight clicked through on my laptop, a familiar, sharp cramp bloomed in my abdomen. My period was early. Stress, probably. I realized I was out of Advil. I felt faint, my body giving out from the emotional toll of the night. I ordered some delivery and sat on the floor, waiting. The doorbell rang. I dragged myself up, expecting a delivery driver. It was Caden. “How long are you going to keep up this act—” He stopped abruptly when he saw me. His annoyance vanished, replaced by an immediate, frantic concern. He stepped inside and pulled me into his arms. He smelled like Callie’s perfume—that cloying, expensive floral scent. I tried to push him away, but my limbs felt like lead. “You’re burning up. Did you walk home in the rain?” Caden stayed all night. He brought me medicine, wiped my forehead with a cool cloth, and kept me hydrated. I drifted in and out of a fever dream. I was back on that stage, but the audience had turned into monsters with Callie’s face, laughing as they tore my clothes off. I woke up with a start to find Caden watching me, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “I had the news articles scrubbed,” he said quietly. “And Callie asked me to apologize for her. It’s over now, Miranda. Let’s just move past it.” He touched my forehead and sighed with relief. I looked at him, confused. His hand felt exactly as it did years ago—warm and steady. I remembered the night in London when a group of guys had cornered me in an alley. Caden had jumped in without a second thought. He’d shielded me with his body, whispering, “Don’t look, don’t listen. I’ve got you.” He still had the scars on his back from that night. Maybe it was the fever, but a desperate, pathetic hope flared in my chest. “Caden,” I whispered. “Please. Just stop listening to her. Can we just be us again?” He looked at me for a long time. Then, the softness vanished. “Miranda, why do you have to be so stubborn? It was a joke. An April Fool’s prank. Callie apologized, and you’re still holding a grudge? Can you really not tolerate my friends?” The disappointment in his voice was like a bucket of ice water. “She’s my oldest friend. She was just worried about me being used. Is it so bad that she wanted to protect me?” “If you really loved me,” I said, my voice trembling, “why would you push the wedding back another year?” I looked at him, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Was last night—your ‘care’ for me—just another test too?” He looked stunned. “Were you testing to see if I’d still be grateful? To see if I’d forgive you because you gave me a glass of water?” I was crying now, the ugly, racking kind of sobs. “Tell me! What do I have to do to make you believe I’m human?!” He didn’t answer. The silence stretched between us, sharp and agonizing. “Caden,” I choked out. “I can’t tell the difference between your love and your trials anymore.” 4 Caden practically fled the apartment. I closed my eyes, blaming myself. I should have ended it the first time he looked at me with suspicion. I should have ended it when the “tests” started. Once the fever broke and the painkillers kicked in, I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door. Callie was leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, a jagged smile on her face. “Well, look at you. Using a little fever to win him back? I underestimated your theatrics.” I didn’t have the energy for her. “Move.” She stepped in front of me, her expression shifting into something sharp and hateful. “What do you even have, Miranda? I’ve known him for twenty years. Why did everything change the moment he met you?” She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. “I play piano too. But he never looked at me the way he looks at you when you play. I’m tired of being the ‘best friend.’ I want him.” I wrenched my hand away. “He’s yours. Congratulations.” Callie’s face twisted. “Don’t you dare act superior with me!” She lunged forward and shoved me. Still weak from the fever and off-balance from the suitcase, I hit the floor hard. Before I could move, I felt a sharp, blinding agony. Callie had slammed the heel of her stiletto onto the back of my right hand. “If you can’t play, let’s see how much he loves you then!” The world went white. I couldn’t even scream; the pain was so intense it stole the air from my lungs. I felt the bone give way. I heard her footsteps retreating. The elevator dinned. Then, someone else appeared—a frantic, guttural shout echoing through the hall.

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I let out a jagged, cold laugh, my eyes darting between the two of them. Three years. Three years of my life poured into this project. Countless nights fueled by lukewarm espresso and the frantic clicking of a mouse, rewriting proposals until my vision blurred. It was a ten-million-dollar deal, the kind that defines a career, and the signing was scheduled for tomorrow. But my boyfriend, Bradley, was currently bruising my wrist with his grip, his face twisted in a patronizing scowl. He was telling me to hand the entire account over to Brianna—an intern who had started exactly eight weeks ago. “She needs the opportunity to grow,” he lectured, his voice tight with that ‘managerial’ authority he loved to weaponize. “You’re already established, Cassidy. You’re strong. You’ll have a dozen more projects like this. Why are you being so territorial?” Beside him, Brianna’s eyes instantly welled up. She reached out with a trembling hand, barely grazing the sleeve of his blazer. “Brad, forget it. Please. I don’t want to be the reason Ms. Moore gets angry with you.” “See? Look how professional she is!” Bradley snapped his hand away from mine and turned his glare back to me. “It’s just one project. What happened to being a team player? God, I didn’t realize you were this petty.” He had no idea. He didn’t know that the client—the CEO of the Moore Holdings—had already made it crystal clear: he wouldn’t sign with anyone but me. The irony was almost delicious. 1 “Let’s get one thing straight, Bradley. This deal? The CEO of the Moore Holdings? He told me personally—in no uncertain terms—that he is only signing if I am the lead.” The words hit him like a physical blow. Bradley’s face shifted through a frantic gallery of expressions. He clearly hadn’t expected me to have that kind of leverage. Brianna’s face went paper-white. She twisted the hem of her cardigan, looking small and defeated. “Ms. Moore, I’m so sorry. I… I didn’t know…” She looked like the victim of a workplace bully, and I was the villain. Outside the glass walls of the office, I could see the rest of the team slowing down, their heads tilting as they tried to catch the drama. Bradley, humiliated in front of his subordinates, finally snapped. “Cassidy!” he barked, his finger nearly poking my nose. “Watch your tone. You think just because a client likes you, you can talk to me like this? I am your superior!” “Don’t forget, this firm built you over the last three years! Now I’m asking you to mentor a junior, to pay it forward, and you’re acting like a selfish child. You have zero vision for the bigger picture!” He wasn’t just talking to me anymore; he was performing for the office. I could feel the whispers of my colleagues like needles against my skin. I was shaking, my blood humming with a mixture of rage and disbelief. I had literally worked myself into a hospital bed for this project six months ago. I had lived on four hours of sleep for thirty days straight. He had seen it all. He had held my hand while I threw up from stress-induced migraines. And now, for a girl who barely knew how to format a spreadsheet, he was calling my hard work “selfishness.” “Brad, please, don’t be mad. It’s my fault,” Brianna sobbed, her voice a theatrical trill as she clutched his arm. “I shouldn’t have been so ambitious. Don’t let Ms. Moore be upset…” She was crying into his shoulder, but over the curve of his arm, she shot me a look. It was quick—a sharp, predatory glint of triumph. In that second, I saw the truth. This wasn’t about the project. This was a coup. Bradley looked down at the sobbing girl in his arms, his chest puffing out with a protector’s instinct. He looked at me with pure, unadulterated coldness. “Cassidy, you’re clearly burnt out. Your emotions are all over the place. You’re off the account. As of this second, Brianna is the lead.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “On what grounds?” “On the grounds that I am the Head of Operations!” he roared. “You’re off the team. Go home.” 2 “Have you lost your mind, Bradley?” I stared at him, watching the man I thought I loved turn into a stranger. He was willing to incinerate three years of my work for a girl he’d known for two months. Bradley flinched slightly at the intensity in my eyes, but he quickly masked it with a sneer. “This is a corporate decision. Fall in line.” He turned, leading a sniffling Brianna away. The office was a hive of judgment now. “She’s so dramatic,” I heard someone whisper. “It’s just an intern. Why is she being such a gatekeeper?” “Seriously. She’s been here too long. Power has gone to her head.” My chest felt tight, a dull ache blooming behind my ribs. I stood up and headed for the breakroom, needing air, needing to splash cold water on my face. I was gone for less than two minutes. When I walked back to my desk, my heart stopped. Brianna was sitting in my chair, her fingers flying across my keyboard. “What the hell are you doing!” I lunged forward, shoving her hands away from the keys. The screen showed my private directory. She was mid-transfer, copying the final, encrypted project files to a thumb drive. “I… I wasn’t…” Caught red-handed, she scrambled to her feet, her eyes darting around like a trapped animal. “I just wanted to study your work, Ms. Moore. To learn from the best…” “Study? By stealing the entire source code?” I let out a jagged laugh and grabbed her by the wrist. “We’re going to the Director’s office. Right now. I want to see if the firm’s policy on intellectual property theft applies to interns.” Brianna went pale, struggling against my grip. “No! Brad told me to! He said… he said you weren’t the lead anymore and that the files belonged to the team now!” At that moment, Bradley charged out of his office. “Cassidy! Let her go!” He didn’t hesitate. He shoved me aside with enough force that I stumbled, stepping in front of Brianna like a human shield. I hit the edge of a desk, a sharp pain lancing through my hip. I looked at him, and for a second, a memory flickered—last year’s Christmas party. A drunk associate had tried to get handsy with me, and Bradley had nearly broken the guy’s nose. “Nobody touches my girl,” he’d whispered into my hair that night. “I’ve got you.” The memory shattered. “You told her to steal my work, Bradley?” He frowned, his face a mask of impatient annoyance. “Steal? It’s company property, Cassidy. You’ve been removed from the project. The files need to be handed over. It’s standard procedure.” He reached for my laptop. I pulled it to my chest, hugging it tight. “I built this. This is mine. Nobody touches this without my authorization.” “Cassidy!” Bradley’s patience evaporated. He grabbed my upper arms, his eyes flashing a dangerous red. “Are you really going to throw away three years of us for a project? Is this deal worth more than our relationship? Give me the password!” “Our relationship?” I looked at him, the irony thick enough to choke on. “The second you tried to hand my life’s work to her, there was no ‘us’ left.” Enraged, he gave a violent heave. He shoved me back toward the cubicle partition. I wasn’t braced for it. My shoulder slammed into the metal frame, and a hot, searing pain flared down my arm. He used to worry if I even sighed in my sleep, afraid I was having a nightmare. Now, he was treating me with a brutality he wouldn’t show a stranger. My heart didn’t just break; it died. He grabbed my laptop from the desk, looking down at me with cold, dead eyes. “I’ll have IT crack the password. And don’t bother trying to log in. I’m revoking your server access immediately.” 3 Thirty minutes later, the chime of a company-wide email echoed through the office. RE: LEADERSHIP CHANGE – MOORE HOLDINGS STRATEGIC PARTNERSHIP… Brianna Miller is hereby appointed as Project Lead. Cassidy Moore has been reassigned effective immediately… There it was. In black and white. Bradley had burned the bridge and salted the earth. He hadn’t just stolen the laptop; he had used his credentials to erase my existence from the project. I sat at my desk, feeling the warmth leave my body. A few minutes later, Bradley walked over and tapped on my desk with a stack of papers. “Sign this.” His voice was flat, as if we hadn’t just had a physical altercation. As if he hadn’t just destroyed me. I glanced at the header: Project Transition Agreement. The clauses were predatory. It required me to hand over all client contacts, personal notes, and core strategies to Brianna. It even included a “voluntary” waiver of all bonuses and credits associated with the deal. I laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. “This is a robbery, Bradley.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a faux-gentle tone. “Babe, I’m doing this for you. You’ve been under too much pressure. You’re starting to get paranoid. Sign this, take a few weeks of PTO, and let’s put this behind us.” “By ‘behind us,’ you mean ‘into Brianna’s portfolio,’ right?” I didn’t blink. I took the agreement and ripped it in half. Then I ripped it again. “You—!” The mask of the ‘concerned boyfriend’ slipped, revealing the ugly, power-hungry man beneath. “You want my signature? Keep dreaming.” I tossed the confetti into my trash bin. “You’re going to regret this, Bradley.” He stormed off, fuming. I thought that would be the end of it for the day. But an hour later, my phone exploded. It was Mr. Whittaker, the Managing Director. “Cassidy! What the hell is going on?” he screamed into the phone. “I just got off with the Moore Holdings! They said the proposal we sent over an hour ago was a disaster—full of holes, amateurish, and missing the core financial projections! The CEO is furious. He’s threatening to pull the entire contract! You’ve been on this for three years—how could you f—up the finish line like this?” I didn’t even have to ask. Brianna had taken my unfinished draft—the one I used for brainstorming—and sent it to the client, desperate to prove she was already “running” things. 4 “Mr. Whittaker, I didn’t submit that proposal. Brianna did—” “I don’t care who did it!” he roared. “The Moore CEO only talks to you! This is your mess now. Fix it, or don’t bother coming in tomorrow. You’re on the verge of costing this firm eight figures!” The line went dead. I was shaking, my vision blurring. Brianna, that idiot… she didn’t just want the credit; she was so arrogant she thought she could handle the execution without me. But I wasn’t going to let three years of my life go up in flames because of her incompetence. I had a backup. I always had a backup. The final, polished, ready-to-sign version was on an encrypted USB drive I kept on my keychain. I pulled the drive out and plugged it into my personal tablet, ready to email the CEO directly and explain the “technical glitch.” But as I reached for my phone, Bradley and Brianna blocked the exit to my cubicle. “What are you doing, Cassidy?” Bradley’s eyes were like a hawk’s, locked onto the USB drive in my hand. Brianna saw it too. She shrieked, “Brad! She has a backup! The final version is on that drive!” Bradley’s face darkened instantly. He stepped into my space, hand outstretched. “Give it to me.” “Never.” I gripped the drive and tried to bolt past him. We were in a professional office; I honestly thought he wouldn’t do anything crazy. I was wrong. Bradley reached out and grabbed me by the back of my hair, yanking me backward. A scream tore from my throat as I lost my balance. I went down hard, my temple slamming against the sharp corner of the mahogany desk. Everything went black for a second. My ears began to ring—a high-pitched, lonely sound. “Oh my god!” Brianna’s cry was fake, theatrical. She didn’t check on me. Instead, she knelt down and snatched the USB drive from my limp fingers. “Brad, I got it!” I tried to push myself up, but the world was spinning. The floor felt like it was tilting at a forty-five-degree angle. Bradley looked down at me. There was no pity. No “babe, are you okay?” Just a cold, calculating stare. He took the drive from Brianna, took her hand, and walked out of the suite. As he left, he reached for the heavy glass door of my private office area and turned the manual deadbolt from the outside. “Bradley! Open the door!” I crawled toward the glass, pounding on it with what little strength I had left. Then, it hit me. A sudden, violent heart palpitation. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. I couldn’t catch my breath. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out. My hands and feet began to tingle, then go numb. Six months ago, I had collapsed in this very office from a similar attack. Acute Stress Disorder, the doctors had said. “Your body is sounding the alarm, Cassidy. You need to stop.” Bradley had stayed by my bed all night then. His eyes had been red from crying. “Cass, I’m so sorry. I let you push yourself too hard. I’ll take care of you. I won’t let you get like this again. If anything happened to you, I’d lose my mind.” The memory was a sick joke. I was sliding down the glass door, my lungs burning. I tapped on the glass feebly. “Help… please…” Outside, I heard Brianna’s muffled, malicious laugh. “Stop acting, Cassidy,” she sneered. Bradley’s voice followed, colder than ice. “Give us the password to the encryption, and we’ll let you out.” 5 The… password… I couldn’t even form the words. I was gasping, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The world was fading into a grey haze. Through the glass, I saw their silhouettes. “Brad… look at her… is she actually sick?” Bradley’s voice held a flicker—just a tiny flicker—of hesitation. He was looking through the gap in the door. I tried to reach for him. I wanted to tell him I was dying. But my body betrayed me, slipping into a series of involuntary tremors. “Her face is turning purple…” I thought he would unlock it. I really did. But then Brianna spoke, her voice dripping with venom. “Brad, don’t fall for it! She’s a professional actress. She’s just trying to get you to open the door so she can run to the CEO and complain. If we go soft now, we lose everything.” “If she were really hurt, she’d be screaming for help, not just lying there.” “Let’s go. Let her cool off in there. Once she realizes nobody is coming to save her, she’ll be begging to give us the password.” I watched Bradley nod. It was a slow, deliberate movement. They turned their backs on me. They walked away without looking back. The last ember of hope in my heart went out. He actually believed I was faking. The man who promised to protect me was leaving me to suffocate in a locked room for the sake of a promotion. Despair washed over me, heavier than the physical pain. My strength was gone. Just as my consciousness began to slip into the void, a thunderous CRACK echoed through the suite. The glass door didn’t just open; it was practically kicked off its hinges. A figure, wreathed in fury, stood in the doorway.

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The day the acceptance letters for university arrived was the same day the Blackwood family—the wealthiest dynasty in the state—showed up at our doorstep. Until that moment, I had no idea that the boy I’d grown up with in the group home, the boy who shared my stolen snacks and my darkest fears, was the long-lost heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire. Wyatt gripped my hand so tight it hurt, his eyes defiant as he faced the men in tailored suits. “If you want me to come home,” he said, his voice ringing through the dilapidated hallway of the orphanage, “she comes with me. That’s the deal.” His mother, a woman who looked like she’d been carved out of expensive marble, didn’t flinch. She offered a thin, practiced smile and pulled a check from her designer handbag. She slid it across the scratched wooden table toward me. “Five million dollars,” she said, her tone as cool as a January morning. “Consider it a scholarship. The Blackwood family’s way of ensuring you finish your education.” The politeness in her voice was a weapon. It was a buyout—a clean, surgical strike to sever the bond between us. Wyatt was livid, ready to drag me out of the room right then and there, but I stayed his hand. I gently pulled my fingers from his, the ghost of his warmth lingering on my skin. I reached out and took the check. “Go home, Wyatt,” I said quietly. “What?” He looked at me like I’d just slapped him. “I like my life here,” I lied, the words tasting like ash. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a life like yours. Go be a Blackwood. Leave me to be a nobody.” He didn’t know the truth. He didn’t know that I had already gone back with him once before. In another life, I had followed him into that world. I had died in that house, broken and discarded. The memories of my final moments were still so vivid they felt like bruises on my soul. This time, I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. 01 Outside, the younger kids were playing on the rusted swing set, their laughter filtered through the cracks in the door. Wyatt grabbed my hand again, his eyes rimmed with red. “Norma, what the hell are you talking about? You don’t mean that.” He looked vulnerable, terrified—exactly like the boy I’d met years ago. He looked like a stray kitten expecting a kick. In my past life, that look would have shattered me. I would have folded instantly. But this time, my heart stayed cold. I looked past him at the sea of bodyguards and assistants, then looked him dead in the eye. “Wyatt, this money is more than I’d make in three lifetimes. It’s security. It’s a way out.” I paused, letting the cruelty settle in my expression. “So, stop being a weight around my neck, okay? Just let me go.” His grip faltered. When I first met Wyatt at age eight, he had just been diagnosed with Bipolar II. He was volatile, prone to explosive outbursts and crushing silences. Nobody wanted to play with him; even the staff looked at him with a mix of pity and exhaustion. I was the exception. Maybe it was a girl’s naive sense of heroism, or maybe it was because I saw him sitting alone in the corner of the yard, staring at nothing, and felt a kinship in that loneliness. Because I stayed by his side, the other kids stayed away from me, too. They called Wyatt a “psycho” and me his “keeper.” Whenever Wyatt heard them, he’d charge, fists flying. And every time, I would catch him. I’d cup his ears with my hands and whisper, “Don’t listen, Wyatt. Don’t think about them. If you don’t hear the words, they stay in their mouths. They can’t touch us.” He always listened to me. So now, his hands trembled as he mimicked that old gesture, reaching up to cover his own ears. “Look, Norma. I’m not listening. Just don’t leave me, okay?” I pulled my hands back and looked away. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “If you don’t want to go to the city, I’ll stay here. I won’t go anywhere. I’ll just stay with you.” Before he could finish, Mrs. Blackwood stepped forward, the click of her heels sounding like a death knell. “Wyatt, honey, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial maternal grief. “We’ve spent years looking for you. How can you break our hearts for a girl who’s clearly telling you she’s moved on?” She looked like a grieving mother. I looked like the villain. It was almost funny. I knew how this story ended. I knew exactly how much I would eventually weigh in Wyatt’s heart when he was surrounded by gold and silk. I looked up, forcing a look of pure annoyance. “Wyatt, I’ve made it clear. If you have any dignity left, you’ll stop begging. To be honest, even if you stay, I’m going to college. I want to meet someone normal. I want a normal life, a normal relationship. Not… this.” “Norma…” His name for me was a plea. His eyes were wide with a hurt so deep it should have killed me. I looked past him at the bodyguards. “What are you waiting for? Take him home. He’s making a scene.” The guards moved in, hoisting him up. Wyatt struggled, his screams echoing through the hallways. “Norma! Did they threaten you? Is it my mother? I know you don’t mean this! I don’t believe you!” A flash of memory hit me. In my previous life, I was the one screaming. I was the one begging him not to do this to me, refusing to believe he could be so cruel. It hadn’t mattered then. My pleas hadn’t softened his heart for a second. Wyatt, you don’t understand. In that life, I chose you. And the moment you stopped believing in me—the moment you chose someone else—I realized what a fool I’d been. I had prayed to whatever god was listening: If I get one more chance, I will never go back to New York with him. 02 After the Blackwood motorcade disappeared, the director of the home and the teachers crowded around me, their eyes fixed on the check Mrs. Blackwood had left behind. They were beaming, their faces flushed with excitement. “Norma, you really hit the jackpot! Make sure you keep in touch with him. He’s a Blackwood now!” “Exactly! He’s an only child. One day you’ll be a Blackwood yourself. A real-life Cinderella.” Even the kids I’d grown up with joined in. “No wonder Wyatt was always so moody. He was a prince in disguise.” They swarmed me, planning out my future as a trophy wife before I’d even packed a bag. The air felt thin, suffocating. “I’m not staying in touch with him,” I snapped, cutting through the noise. “And I’m definitely not marrying him.” The room went silent. “Norma, don’t be stupid,” the director said. She’d watched us grow up; she knew how intertwined our lives were. “I’m not being stupid,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m an orphan. They are the Blackwoods. People like us don’t belong in their world. Don’t mention this again.” For ten years, I had been the only person in Wyatt’s world. Everyone assumed he couldn’t breathe without me. They assumed I was just as obsessed with him. I didn’t bother arguing. I pushed past the whispers of “she’s crazy” and “she’s throwing away her life” and went to my room. “Norma?” A tiny, bird-like voice called from the corner. Seeing her pale, thin face made my throat tighten. I almost broke then. Her name was Lucy. Wyatt and I had found her on the side of the road on our way home from school when she was only four. We called her our sister. We loved her like she was our own blood. Three months ago, she was diagnosed with leukemia. She needed a bone marrow transplant. In my past life, the Blackwoods had used their connections to find a match at the last minute. But Wyatt had given that donor’s spot to someone else—to Bianca—leaving Lucy to die at the age of six. “Norma, you’re crying,” Lucy whispered. “Are you sad because Wyatt left?” I knelt beside her bed and stroked her hair, pushing down the bile in my throat. “No, sweetie. I’m not sad. I just want to stay here with you.” She smiled, showing her two little dimples. “I want to stay with you, too. But Wyatt said he wanted to be with you forever. Why did he go?” I froze. “Wyatt… Wyatt found his family.” Every kid in the system dreams of that. That afternoon, Lucy talked incessantly about how lucky Wyatt was, until her energy faded and she drifted off to sleep. I leaned against her bed, closing my eyes. And as sleep took me, I was dragged back into the nightmare. 03 The day I arrived at the Blackwood estate in my first life, I had worn my best clothes. Everything was clean, pressed, and hole-free. But standing in that gold-leafed foyer, I felt like a stain. My palms were sweating, and my feet felt glued to the marble. Wyatt sensed my panic and grabbed my hand. He leaned in, a bright, genuine smile on his face. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” His eyes were so full of light then. I believed him. Those were the words I used to say to him. When his episodes hit—the mania that made him pick fights, or the crushing depression that sent him hiding in the dark corners of the orphanage—I was always there. The other kids would make a game of finding him just to poke at him. I would always find him first. I’d stand in front of him like a shield and say, “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.” Every single time. Until the day he looked at the scrapes on my arms from protecting him and said, “Norma, from now on, I’m the one who protects you.” I believed him. I was wrong. “Your name is Norma?” It was Wyatt’s father. He looked at our interlaced fingers, and a tiny, almost imperceptible frown marred his face. I pulled my hand away instantly. “Yes, sir. It’s nice to meet you.” He just nodded. At dinner, I followed Wyatt like a shadow. The silence at the table was heavy, punctuated only by the sound of Wyatt piling food onto my plate. I could feel the resentment in the room; my presence had soured their long-awaited reunion. Then, the front door opened, and a voice like honey drifted in. “Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood! I’m here!” Mrs. Blackwood was on her feet instantly, her face lighting up with a warmth she hadn’t shown her own son. Even Mr. Blackwood softened. That was the first time I saw Bianca. She was the personification of “old money.” Elegant, effortless, confident—a swan in human form. She walked straight to our table and looked at the chair I was sitting in. “Could you move? That’s my seat. Thanks.” She said it with such casual authority. That was when I learned that the seat—and the life—truly did belong to her. She and Wyatt had been “betrothed” in a sense since they were toddlers, a pact between two powerful families. I watched her flirt with Wyatt. I watched his ears turn red. Something shifted that night. The Blackwoods bought me an apartment near the university. Wyatt would visit whenever he didn’t have class. We’d go to dinner, movies, walks—all the things normal couples do. Eventually, he used the family’s influence to bring Lucy to New York. She was placed in the best private hospital, with a team of specialists hunting for a marrow match. Those months were the only sweetness I had in that life. We’d visit Lucy together, and she’d hold both our hands, beaming. We’d huddle on the sofa watching old movies. I thought we were safe. But the safety shattered. Wyatt started coming home later and later. First, it was “schoolwork,” then “fraternity events,” then “family business.” I’d cook dinner and watch it go cold. I’d reheat it, then let it go cold again, eventually falling asleep at the table until he’d carry me to bed in the early hours of the morning. Then, he stopped coming home at all. He didn’t answer his phone. My texts went unread. Sometimes two weeks would pass without a word. For his nineteenth birthday, the Blackwoods threw a gala at their estate. I took a deep breath, wrapped the scarf I’d spent weeks knitting for him around my neck, and walked in. I saw him immediately. He was in the center of the ballroom, leading the first dance with Bianca. He looked regal, his movements fluid and sure. The boy who used to be too anxious to speak to strangers was now perfectly at home in her arms. Golden couple. The words whispered through the crowd. They felt like lead in my chest. The guests looked at me with pity or disgust. I didn’t fit. I never had. And this time, Wyatt didn’t look my way. He didn’t come to grab my hand and say, “I’ve got you.” After the dance, Wyatt was pulled away by his father. Bianca walked up to me. “Norma,” she said, her voice low. “Look around. This is Wyatt’s world. Do you really think you belong in it?” I tried to walk away, but she blocked me. She looked at my hands—hands that were calloused and rough from years of chores at the home. I tried to hide them in my pockets. She grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “These hands don’t belong on someone like him. You’re a ghost, Norma. Why don’t you just disappear?” I tried to pull away. “Let go of me, Bianca.” But as I pulled, she let go suddenly, throwing herself backward into a pyramid of champagne glasses. The sound of shattering crystal was deafening. The entire room went silent. Wyatt rushed out from the crowd. “Norma! What the hell did you do?”

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The destruction of our family began three years ago, on the day my parents brought home the AI. The moment my new “sister” crossed the threshold, my status in the house evaporated. I went from being the center of their universe to an inconvenience they couldn’t wait to scrape off their shoes. My dad, who used to call me his perfect little girl, started sighing that I was too rough around the edges. My mom weaponized every breath the AI—Nova—took, using her as the ultimate yardstick to measure my flaws. Even my older brother, Derek, would point a finger in my face and sneer, “What are you actually good for, besides taking up space?” One afternoon, pushed past the brink of a teenager’s fragile sanity, I shoved Nova. My mother’s face instantly darkened into something unrecognizable. Her hand cracked across my cheek, a vicious, stinging slap that left my ears ringing. “Nova is your sister! If you were half as well-behaved as she is, my blood pressure wouldn’t be through the roof!” By the end of that week, I was forcibly enrolled as a “boarding student” at the Pinnacle Academy for Behavioral Excellence. They dressed it up in pretty words. They told me I was going there to “learn how to be a good daughter.” It took three years for them to come take me home. When they arrived, they stood in the sterile doorway of the Academy, calling my name. I didn’t move. I sat there, as inanimate and still as a unplugged household appliance. Beside me, the Academy Director offered a polite, practiced smile. “Mrs. Gallagher, you have to use the boot-up command. Unit 1314 cannot initialize without it.” … “Boot up, Unit 1314.” When the words finally left my mother’s mouth, they trembled. She didn’t entirely understand what she was saying; she was merely parroting the Director. My eyes snapped open. The light hitting my pupils felt like a power surge hitting a dormant monitor. I rose from the steel chair. My arms fell perfectly straight at my sides. My spine locked into a flawless, rigid line. “Boot sequence complete. Awaiting instructions.” My mom physically recoiled. Behind her, the Director’s voice was smooth, coated in corporate pride. “Mrs. Gallagher, here at Pinnacle, we’ve designed a proprietary behavioral architecture to guarantee optimal student integration. The students require an initialization command to interact. With this protocol in place, she will never, ever disobey your wishes again.” Realization washed over my mother’s face, replaced quickly by a kind of awed relief. Derek shoved his way to the front. He was five years older than me, and his favorite pastime had always been pushing my buttons until I cried. Back then, whenever he succeeded, I’d chase him through the house until Mom yelled at us both. Now, a malicious, teasing glint danced in his eyes. “1314, let’s hear you bark like a dog.” The instruction registered. My neck retracted, my tongue pushed past my lips, and I let out a loud, sharp bark. Woof. Woof. Derek doubled over, roaring with laughter. He turned to our parents. “Wow, Cora really has been tamed. Remember when you couldn’t get her to practice the piano without a thirty-minute screaming match? Now she’s playing dog on command.” My parents exchanged a look and nodded. The satisfaction in their eyes was unmistakable. The car ride home felt like a vacuum. After a while, my mom tried to force a casual, conversational tone. “So, Cora… how were things at the Academy these past three years?” I stared straight ahead. I did not answer. She hadn’t used the word respond. “Cora?” Her voice ticked up an octave. I finally opened my mouth. My vocal cords vibrated with the flat, synthesized cadence of a GPS navigation system. “An interrogative sentence does not constitute a valid command. If an answer is required, please utilize an imperative statement.” All the oxygen was violently sucked out of the SUV. My mother swallowed hard. It took her a long time to find the word. “Respond.” “My tenure at the Academy was productive and highly efficient. I successfully completed the three core modules: Emotional Suppression, Absolute Compliance, and Pure Rationality. My final evaluation was graded ‘Exceptional.’ My supervising instructor designated me ‘The Most Successful Recalibration of the Fiscal Year.’” I recited the data perfectly. Not a single inflection. Not a single breath out of place. I was reading a warranty manual. The backseat fell into a suffocating silence. Under his breath, Derek muttered, “Jesus… she sounds just like Nova.” I kept my eyes locked on the leather headrest in front of me. Unblinking. Outside the tinted windows, the city blurred past. The skyscrapers, the overpasses, the neon billboards—they all looked wrong. Different from the files in my memory banks. Inside the Academy, time wasn’t measured in days or months. It was dismantled into units of instruction. A day was a month. A month was a day. The only way I used to track the passing of time was by scratching four vertical lines and a slash into the drywall of the Isolation Room. By the end, I had forgotten how to hold the nail. It was dusk by the time the tires crunched onto our driveway. Nova was standing on the front porch. Her hands were elegantly clasped at her waist. Her lips were pulled back into an exact, mathematically perfect smile, revealing exactly six teeth. It was a perfect replication of the day she arrived three years ago. Back then, Mom had crouched down to eye level with her, her voice dripping with a honeyed sweetness I rarely heard. “Nova, welcome home.” I had jumped off the couch, sprinting over to see my new sister. But my foot caught on something—I didn’t know what—and I wiped out hard, scraping my chin against the hardwood floor. Nobody helped me up. They just sighed. Said I was too clumsy, too wild. After that, the tide turned. Everyone decided I was a nuisance. I wasn’t as obedient as Nova. I wasn’t as thoughtful as Nova… And so, I was shipped away. “Sister. Welcome home.” Nova’s voice chimed, crystalline and sweet. I didn’t move my mouth. She hadn’t issued the respond parameter. My mom’s brow furrowed. “Do you still have an attitude about Nova? I guess you aren’t completely fixed after all. Speak!” Command received. The muscles in my face instantly contracted into a bright, vacant smile. “Acknowledged. Thank you.” Nova’s perfect smile didn’t waver. My mom exhaled, nodding in approval. At dinner, we took our places around the mahogany table. Nova sat to my mother’s right. Derek to my father’s left. I was relegated to the furthest edge. Steam rose from the bowls. The rich scent of roasted beef and garlic mashed potatoes flooded my sinuses, but my stomach remained entirely inert. At the Academy, eating was not a sensory experience. It was classified as “Biological Energy Replenishment.” It had zero correlation with pleasure, and zero correlation with hunger. “Eat,” my mom said, waving a hand dismissively. My fingers immediately clamped around my fork. Mashed potatoes. Roast beef. Brussels sprouts… Derek’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head when my fork pierced a Brussels sprout. “No way. You’re actually eating those? I thought you’d rather die than eat a sprout.” I didn’t answer. I just speared another one and brought it to my mouth. Preferences, the Instructor had drilled into me, are emotional residue. They are symptoms of an incomplete recalibration. During my third month, I had refused to eat a plate of boiled spinach. They locked me in the Isolation Room for forty-eight hours. No light. No sound. Zero sensory input. Just the crushing, suffocating black. When they finally opened the heavy steel door, I ate the spinach. Then came the raw onions. The bitter gourd. The Brussels sprouts. I consumed every single thing I used to loathe. My mother watched me, beaming. She loved a child who wasn’t a picky eater. A second later, my fork hovered over the small dish of crushed peanuts garnishing the salad. I scooped a spoonful, placed it in my mouth, chewed exactly fifteen times, and swallowed. My dad dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate. “Did she just eat peanuts?” “Cora is deathly allergic to peanuts!” Derek pushed his chair back, his voice spiking with disbelief. “She ate one when she was seven and her throat closed up! We had to take her to the ER! You’re telling me the Academy cured an anaphylactic allergy?” I continued to chew in silence. At the Academy, human beings were not permitted to have allergies. The Instructor had simply smeared thick peanut butter directly onto my forearms. First came the angry red hives. Then the blisters. Then the skin began to weep and rot, spreading outward like a horrific bloom. “An allergic reaction is the body exhibiting weakness. Weakness can and will be trained out of you.” My skin necrotized and healed, necrotized and healed. My body still registered the allergy. A tremor violently shook my frame. My throat began to constrict, the airway narrowing to a straw. My skin felt like it was crawling with fire. Hideous, raised red welts began erupting along my jawline. Derek squinted. “Her face is getting really red.” Mom leaned in. The color drained from her face in a split second. “That’s not a flush. That’s anaphylaxis!” “Cora, spit it out! Stop eating! You know you’re allergic, what is wrong with you?!” My fork froze in mid-air. I slowly lifted my head and looked directly into my mother’s panicked eyes. My gaze was entirely devoid of panic. My voice was the steady hum of a dial tone. “Is that a command?” Mom froze, paralyzed by the question, while my lungs began to scream for oxygen. Beside her, Nova’s sickeningly sweet, modulated voice chimed in: “Subject is experiencing a severe allergic reaction. Respiratory distress level: Moderate. Dermal inflammation covers approximately twenty-three percent of the epidermis. Immediate antihistamine intervention is highly recommended.” Chaos erupted. Chairs scraped. Cabinets banged. Hands frantically shoved Benadryl down my throat and jammed an EpiPen into my thigh. Once my breathing finally stabilized to a ragged rasp, the dining room fell into a deathly quiet. From the living room sofa, Derek’s voice drifted over, laced with profound unease. “There is something seriously wrong with her.” “She used to cry, she used to scream, she used to throw things. She wasn’t like this. She’s… she’s acting exactly like Nova!” I remained silent. He hadn’t issued the speak protocol. “Can’t you just act normal for one second?!” Derek suddenly exploded, his voice cracking. “Stop trying to mimic the AI! We just wanted a sister who listened, not a malfunctioning roomba!” I looked at him. Really looked at his face. It was twisted with a messy cocktail of anger and deep, uncomfortable agitation. In a deadpan whisper, I replied, “Please define ‘normal’.” Derek went pale. My parents looked like they were going to be sick. Dad snatched his phone and called the Academy. I heard the muffled voice of the representative on the other end, assuring him that this was merely the standard response to “Deep Behavioral Modification,” and that I would acclimate in a few days. “Unit 1314 is our crown jewel,” the voice boasted. “She understands submission better than any synthetic intelligence on the market. Rest assured, Mr. Gallagher, this is entirely optimal.” Dad hung up and relayed the message. My mom placed a hand over her heart, exhaling a long sigh of relief. And so, for the next few weeks, I became the most efficient appliance in the Gallagher household. Mom told me to do the dishes. I scrubbed them until the porcelain gleamed brighter than Nova ever could. Dad told me to rearrange the heavy terracotta planters on the patio. I moved every single one barehanded, my palms blistering without a sound. Derek told me to run to the mailbox. I sprinted down the driveway faster than a greyhound. “Honestly,” my mom chuckled over her coffee one morning, “Cora is running smoother than the AI.” Everyone heartily agreed. Until the night Derek forgot to issue the power-down command. The house went dark. Everyone went to sleep. I sat upright on the living room sofa. From midnight until the sun bled through the blinds. When Mom came downstairs the next morning and saw me sitting in the exact same rigid posture as the night before, she screamed. The ceramic coffee mug slipped from her fingers, shattering into jagged shards across the kitchen tiles. That afternoon, a woman in a beige blazer arrived. She introduced herself as Dr. Harding, a clinical psychologist. Her voice was incredibly gentle. “Hi, Cora.” I did not speak. My mom hovered nearby, wringing her hands anxiously. “You have to give her an instruction, Doctor. Otherwise, she won’t engage.” Dr. Harding shot my mother a sharp, disturbed look. She turned back to me, furrowing her brow. “State your name,” Dr. Harding said, shifting to an imperative. “Unit 1314.” Dr. Harding’s pen hovered over her legal pad, trembling slightly. “And your given name?” “Cora Gallagher. But that designation is obsolete. Academy protocol strictly mandates the use of numerical identifiers for all graduated assets.” Dr. Harding stopped writing entirely. She stared at me, visibly horrified. The air in the room grew suffocatingly thick. My family looked nauseous. They retreated into my father’s study, closing the French doors behind them. Muffled phrases leaked through the wood. “…severe PTSD… total depersonalization… requires years of intensive psychiatric intervention…” After that day, the atmosphere in the house morphed. They started treating me like an unexploded bomb. Tiptoeing. Whispering. When it was Nova’s anniversary—her “birthday”—they made a difficult family decision. They were going to send Nova back. So, this would be her final celebration. The living room was draped in metallic balloons. A towering, two-tiered cake sat on the coffee table. Nova glided over to me, her programmed demeanor as gentle as a summer breeze. “Sister, happy birthday.” I blinked. Deep in the suppressed recesses of my brain, a rusted gear seemed to slip. Today was my birthday, too. No one had remembered. Three years ago, on this exact day, I was shoved into the backseat of a black sedan and driven to the Academy. Before the doors locked, I had clung to the window, sobbing, begging my mother to at least let me eat my slice of cake before they took me away. “When you come back a good, obedient girl,” she had said, her face hard, “then you can have your cake.” I was obedient now. I still hadn’t tasted the cake. Nova suddenly tilted her head. The synthetic warmth dropped from her eyes. “Sister, the definition of ‘normal’ is pushing someone you despise.” “Push me. Just like you did three years ago.” I stared into her optical sensors. Something was glitching behind the glass. The sweet, passive AI was gone. But she had just provided the parameter. She had defined ‘normal.’ I raised my hands and rested my palms against her synthetic collarbones. Before I could even apply an ounce of pressure, she violently threw herself backward. She crashed to the floor, her expensive party dress fanning out around her like a crushed orchid. The living room doors banged open. Derek stood in the threshold, holding a crystal platter of sliced fruit. His face twisted in pure, unadulterated rage. “Cora! What the hell are you doing?!” The crystal platter slipped from his hands, shattering into a hundred pieces. Grapes and melons rolled across the floorboards. Nova sat amidst the wreckage, tilting her chin up. Her optical sensors flooded with simulated tears. “Sister, why did you push me?” she whimpered, her voice trembling with perfect algorithmic vulnerability. “I thought you didn’t hate me anymore. Why would you hurt me again?” I remained silent. She was running a script. I knew it was a script. The tears were saline fluid; the shaking shoulders were a programmed motor function. Mom practically tackled me out of the way to get to Nova. The transition on my mother’s face from shock to furious disgust took exactly three seconds. “What is wrong with you?! Why would you attack her?!” “She instructed me to.” “Liar!” Nova wailed aloud. “I would never! I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday…” Derek dropped to his knees, scooping Nova into his arms with the agonizing care one might reserve for a dying child. He glared up at me, his eyes practically vibrating with hatred. “You haven’t changed at all.” “Three years in that place, you come back acting like a saint, and the second you get the chance, your true colors bleed through.” “I knew it. A leopard never changes its spots. You’ve been a vicious, jealous brat since the day she got here.” Mom’s eyes were bloodshot. Not out of heartbreak. Out of sheer, blinding rage. “And to think we were talking about treating you better.” “I was actually losing sleep, regretting sending you to that place. We were discussing how to make it up to you.” She took a step toward me, jabbing a manicured finger hard into my sternum. “And for what? You’re still exactly the same. You are rotten to the core. You faked this whole robotic obedience act for three years just to play us.” I opened my mouth. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t faking. I wanted to tell her the Academy had hollowed me out with electricity and isolation. I wanted to say, You are the ones who threw me to the wolves. But the words wouldn’t form. Because I didn’t have the instruction to speak. “Say something!” Mom shrieked, spittle flying from her lips. “I did not receive the ‘speak’ command.” Mom’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. Nova buried her face in Mom’s shoulder, letting out small, pitiful sobs. “Just drop dead.” Derek’s voice was lethal. Quiet, but it cut through the room like a razor. The living room froze. “What did you just say?” Dad asked, stepping out of his office, his brow furrowed. Derek’s voice exploded, shaking the windowpanes. “I said she should go die!” “Isn’t she supposed to execute every command?! Isn’t she perfectly obedient?! Then tell her to drop dead! Maybe then we’ll finally have some peace in this house!” The absolute second those words left Derek’s mouth, Nova’s entire body convulsed. She collapsed back onto the floor, her limbs twitching violently. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and a synthetic white foam began bubbling from her lips. “Nova! Nova, baby, what’s happening?!” Mom’s piercing scream echoed off the walls. Mom cradled the AI’s head. Dad dropped to his knees, frantically pressing the emergency reset button at the base of her neck. Derek was already dialing 911, screaming at the operator. They swarmed her. A frantic, terrified orbit. No one was looking at me. I turned my back to the chaos and looked toward the open sliding glass doors leading to the second-story balcony. I stood in the center of the living room, listening to the frantic wails of my mother, my father, my brother—all of them agonizing over a machine. No one was looking at me. “Command received. Drop dead.” No one heard me. They were too busy drowning in their own panic, their faces twisted in genuine anguish for the thing on the floor. I turned on my heel. I walked with perfect, measured steps out onto the balcony. The night air hit my face. It was freezing. “Cora!” Derek saw me first. His scream was a raw, primal sound that tore his throat apart. The phone slipped from his bloodless fingers, clattering against the floorboards. Mom whipped her head around. In a fraction of a second, every drop of blood vanished from her face. “Cora! What are you doing?!” I turned back to look at her. I offered her a flawless, mathematically perfect smile. And without a single second of hesitation, I executed the command.

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It turns out my fate had been sealed from the very beginning. No matter what I did, it was always going to be the wrong choice. A voice had suddenly echoed in my mind, sterile and mechanical, informing me that my role as the tragic supporting character in this story had come to an end. It told me that if I just chose to die, I could exit this world completely. I agreed without a second thought. Because living like this was infinitely worse than whatever peace death could offer. It took me three agonizing years to escape my abductors and find my way back home. But in the short three months since my return, scenes like this had played out at least ten times. This time, it was my adopted sister, Kelsey, who “accidentally” poured a pan of boiling oil over my neck and shoulder. I remember thrashing on the kitchen floor, my screams tearing through my own throat as the agony swallowed me alive. Yet, the last thing I saw before passing out was seared into my brain: my parents frantically shielding Kelsey, while my older brother, Tim, treated the tiny grease blister on Kelsey’s hand like a life-threatening casualty. When I clawed my way back from the gates of hell and woke up in the hospital, the first thing I heard was Tim’s voice. He wasn’t asking if I was okay. He was reprimanding me for making Kelsey worry, claiming she had been crying her eyes out over my safety while her own hand throbbed in pain. My mother, Carol, sat at the edge of my bed, urging me not to hold a grudge. She was just trying to make you a late-night snack, she murmured. It’s your fault for walking into the kitchen so quietly. You startled her. Kelsey peeked out from behind my mother’s back, her face half-hidden as she offered a trembling apology, calling herself clumsy. But my memory wasn’t broken. I remembered the exact moment the boiling oil hit my skin. I remembered screaming. And I remembered the distinct, undeniable smirk on Kelsey’s face as she watched me burn. When I refused to speak, my father, Richard, darkened his expression. He lectured me on being the bigger person. Your wounds will heal with time, he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. But the psychological trauma Kelsey suffered tonight is far more severe. I laid in that hospital bed for half a month. My body was a landscape of unbearable agony, yet my own flesh and blood only cared about extracting my forgiveness. During those three years in the dark, I had fantasized about coming home a million times. It was never supposed to be like this. … 1 Transaction complete. Wishing the host… a pleasant death. As the mechanical voice faded from my mind, the turbulent waves of bitterness, confusion, grievance, and rage that had been drowning me suddenly receded. I felt incredibly light. Parents who only had eyes for their adopted daughter. A brother who was blind to the truth. If Kelsey wanted it all so badly, she could have it. I didn’t want this family anymore anyway. The voice had called itself a “System.” I asked it one final question. “Who is the protagonist?” The System answered instantly. Kelsey. Of course it was. The quiet suspicion in my heart had finally been validated, and with it came a profound sense of liberation. As a supporting character, my entire existence was designed to be misunderstood, abused, and ultimately sacrificed to further her plotline. Once I died, I would be free. “Gemma! It’s just a flesh wound, you haven’t gone mute! Kelsey already apologized, what more do you want from her?” Tim’s sharp reprimand snapped me back to the sterile hospital room. Kelsey’s eyes were swimming in tears, the absolute picture of a wronged, fragile victim. My parents looked at me with undisguised irritation. Without breaking eye contact, I swallowed the blinding pain radiating across my chest, reached over, and violently ripped the IV needle out of the back of my hand. A string of crimson droplets flew through the air, splattering directly across my mother’s cheek. Carol froze in sheer horror. But my heart swelled with a euphoric joy. Without the antibiotics, the sepsis would come roaring back. I would be dead in no time. Tim was the first to react. He snatched a fistful of paper towels, slammed them down on my bleeding hand, and twisted toward the hallway, his voice cracking with panic. “Doctor! Get in here! She pulled her line!” He whipped his head back to me, his eyes wide with a terrifying realization. “Are you insane? Do you have a death wish?” The nurses rushed in, efficiently re-establishing the IV. Carol’s hands shook violently as she wiped my blood from her face. Her voice hitched into a sob. “Gemma, I know you harbor resentment. But this entire family has been revolving around you in this hospital. Pulling a stunt like this… are you trying to drive us all to an early grave?” Kelsey rubbed her damp eyes. “Gemma, if you really refuse to forgive me… then I’ll just go die.” She made a dramatic pivot and ran toward the second-story window. Tim, whose eyes had been locked on me, moved faster than a thought. He lunged, grabbing Kelsey by the waist. “What the hell are you talking about?” he blurted out. “Even if someone had to die, it wouldn’t be you!” The moment the words left his mouth, he froze. A flash of profound regret crossed his face, and he looked back at me, panicked. I just watched them. My face was a mask of absolute calm as Richard and Carol clustered around Kelsey, soothing her with overlapping murmurs of comfort. I let my gaze drift away from the pathetic domestic drama, scanning the hospital room for a faster way out. We were only on the second floor. Jumping wouldn’t guarantee death. Ripping the IV out again would just be an annoyance. Finally, my eyes landed on the paring knife resting next to a fruit basket on the nightstand. I took a deep, steadying breath. Gathering every ounce of strength left in my broken body, I snatched the knife and drove it directly toward my own throat. “Gemma! Stop!” Tim threw his body across the bed and jammed his hand between the blade and my neck. The steel didn’t slice my throat. Instead, it tore deep into my brother’s palm. Blood immediately surged from the wound, the flesh splitting open in a grotesque smile. Tim let out a muffled groan, the veins in his forehead bulging as he used his other hand to pry the knife from my grip and hurl it across the linoleum floor. 2 Kelsey let out a piercing shriek. “Tim! Your hand! There’s so much blood!” My parents, who had been too busy coddling Kelsey to see the actual scuffle, turned around. When Carol saw the gash on Tim’s hand—deep enough to expose the bone—the color drained completely from her face. “Gemma! Do you hate your brother that much? He didn’t even mean what he said! How can you be so vicious?” “You little monster!” Richard roared, stepping forward and delivering a vicious, backhanded slap across my face. The fragile, half-healed skin beneath my bandages instantly split open. Droplets of fresh blood soaked through the layers of white gauze. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, that my body convulsed into violent tremors, and tears spilled from my eyes against my will. “You ruthless, ungrateful bitch!” Richard pointed a trembling finger directly at my nose. “You’d actually try to slaughter your own brother? You are a stray dog that bites the hand that feeds it. We never should have brought you back into this house!” The attending doctor rushed in to suture Tim’s hand. Kelsey stood in the corner, pale and tearful. “Gemma, if you’re angry, take it out on me. I’m the one who burned you. I’m the one who took your place. Please don’t hurt Tim. He only misspoke because he was worried about me.” The moment the words left her mouth, my parents’ expressions hardened even further. The way they looked at me was now laced with pure disgust. I knew it. Just like the past three months, Kelsey had won again. When I first came home, I used to fight back. I used to argue. I naively thought our three years apart had just created a temporary awkwardness. I firmly believed that eventually, they would remember that I was their real daughter, their real flesh and blood. I tried so hard for three months. From the ecstatic joy of my first day back, to the confusion when they couldn’t even look me in the eye, to the soul-crushing disappointment of watching them side with Kelsey, over and over again. The truth was laid bare: during the three years I was locked in a living nightmare, my parents had simply gotten a new daughter. My brother had gotten a new sister. To them, Kelsey was infinitely more important than I was. But this isn’t how you treat a family member who has crawled her way back from the dead. It wasn’t until today, when I learned that Kelsey was the actual protagonist of this reality, that it all made sense. My entire existence was nothing but a stepping stone for her. So, there was no point in fighting anymore. Because every time I fought, I was the only one left swallowing glass. On my very first day home, Kelsey threw herself down the grand staircase and wailed that I had pushed her. Tim didn’t even ask questions; he just struck me across the face so hard my lip split open. Even later, when the security footage explicitly proved I was nowhere near her, Tim just frowned, muttered a begrudging, “I guess I saw it wrong,” and tossed me a bag of frozen peas for my bruised cheek. And that was the end of it. Five days after I got back, Kelsey “accidentally” locked me out on the back terrace. It was November. I stayed out there all night. It wasn’t until Richard went out to check the weather the next morning that he found me, half-frozen and unconscious on the stone tiles. Before Kelsey even had to fake a tear, Richard defended her. “The lock is tricky. She didn’t mean to. And honestly, Gemma, why didn’t you just use the phone we bought you to call us? You’re so irresponsible.” But Kelsey had taken my phone. He had seen her take it. He just pretended he hadn’t. When my medication was swapped, a heavy cold mutated into full-blown pneumonia. Lying in the hospital, I begged them to believe me. I told them Kelsey had switched the pills. Carol just sighed, telling me I was struggling to readjust to civilian life and that I was being paranoid. Even when she found my actual prescription tucked in the back of Kelsey’s nightstand drawer, Carol said nothing. She just told me to rest and let the IV do its job. After I was discharged, Kelsey snapped the braided bracelet off my wrist. It was a simple woven string with a small silver charm engraved with my initials. Carol had made it for me right before I was kidnapped. During those three years in hell, I held onto that bracelet like a lifeline. I touched it to remind myself who I was, and that I had a home to go back to. Kelsey broke the string and crushed the silver charm under the heel of her shoe. My vision went red. I shoved her violently, screaming, “Get the hell away from me!” Carol ran in at the sound of the commotion. Seeing Kelsey on the floor, her face contorted in rage. She charged at me, shoving me backward with brutal force, and pulled Kelsey into her arms. “Gemma! Are you out of your mind? You’re laying hands on your sister over a piece of trash? Three years away and you’ve turned into a savage!” Caught off guard, I stumbled backward. The side of my head slammed into the sharp corner of a mahogany end table. A wave of blinding pain hit me, and thick, warm blood ran down my brow, dripping into my eye. Tears mixed with the blood as it hit the hardwood floor. I looked at my mother, my voice trembling. “It wasn’t a piece of trash. You made that for me when I was eight. It was supposed to keep me safe.” Carol’s face went entirely slack. Then, she looked away, her tone stiff and defensive. “I’ll just get you another one. Was it really worth getting physical over?” Two days later, she handed me a replacement. It was a cheap, plastic-bead bracelet from a dollar store. The string was scratchy. The charm was plastic painted silver. When Carol shoved it into my hand, she didn’t even look at me. “Weaving takes too long. This one is fine. It’s basically the same thing.” Over and over again, Kelsey proved to me that there was no space left for me in the Crawford house. She was the diamond of the family. Whether she “accidentally” sliced my arm with a letter opener, or “playfully” pushed me into the deep end of the pool when she knew my lungs hadn’t recovered, she always walked away entirely unscathed. And I was always the one left standing in the wreckage, bearing the blame. Looking at Kelsey now—tears streaming down her cheeks while a victorious, smug little smile danced on her lips—I just felt… bored. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted to die. Why was dying so damn hard? 3 After the doctor finished suturing Tim’s hand, he finally caught a clear look at my face. His expression shifted into something thunderous. “How are you people caring for this patient? The gauze has completely shifted! She’s bleeding through the dressing!” The doctor gestured for the nurse, and together they carefully peeled back the bandages on my neck and shoulder. The skin beneath looked like something dragged out of a horror film. Charred, blackened flesh twisted into weeping, raw pink tissue. The scabs had split wide open from the slap, and fresh blood bubbled from the cracks. The skin on my neck, where the boiling oil had hit directly, was completely carbonized. Whenever they changed the dressings and had to peel away the dead tissue, it felt like being flayed alive. “This is unacceptable negligence!” the doctor barked, his voice sharp with professional fury. “These are extensive, third-degree burns! Forget about a full recovery—she is going to have severe, lifelong complications from this.” He glared at my parents. “We barely got her sepsis under control, and you, as her family, can’t even manage basic care? Even with meticulous nursing, she is still at high risk for sudden organ failure! Not to mention her wounds have now been forcibly reopened. Her infection risk just doubled.” “She requires 24-hour supervision. The wounds cannot get wet. They cannot endure any friction. If you ignore this, you will be burying her. Understood?” The doctor’s brutal honesty drained the color from everyone in the room. Especially Richard. His fingers twitched by his side—the same hand he had just used to strike me. A flicker of genuine horror flashed in his eyes. He swallowed hard. “Doctor… thank you. We understand. We’ll be careful.” After the medical staff left, Richard’s lips parted. He hesitated. “Gemma… maybe I was a bit heavy-handed just now. But you shouldn’t have pulled a knife on your brother…” Before he could finish his pathetic excuse, I simply closed my one good eye. Richard didn’t speak another word. Perhaps the doctor’s grim warning actually penetrated their skulls, because for the remainder of my hospital stay, they handled me with a fragile, walking-on-eggshells caution. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I stayed in the hospital until I was discharged, and I failed to die the entire time. The day I finally returned to the house, I was left alone in my bedroom. Almost immediately, the door clicked shut, and Kelsey stood at the foot of my bed. “Well, Gemma. Mom, Dad, and Tim have been waiting on you hand and foot lately. You must be feeling pretty proud of yourself, huh?” When I simply stared through her, she continued her monologue. “You don’t know this, but every time the nurses changed your dressings, Mom and Dad were so disgusted by the sight of you they couldn’t eat for days.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. “Kidnapped for three years. Raped. Five miscarriages. You are completely rotten on the inside. And look at you now—you look like a goddamn gargoyle. If I were you, I would have crawled into a hole and stayed there. It’s embarrassing to look at you.” “Tim won’t say it out loud, but he is so sick of you. He only tolerates you because of genetics. Just yesterday, he told me in secret that our family of four was absolutely perfect until you had to come back and ruin it.” Kelsey smiled, a sweet, chilling curve of her lips. “If you had an ounce of self-awareness, you’d just go ahead and die. Give this family its peace back.” Her words actually made me pause. In my memories, Richard used to put on an apron and cook my favorite sweet and sour ribs from scratch. Carol used to buy me ridiculous, extravagant gifts just to see me smile. Tim used to roll his eyes and eat the vegetables I secretly shoveled onto his plate at dinner. Back then, the house was always echoing with laughter. Even the air felt sweet. So, what was this family supposed to look like now? Did a perfect home mean a home without me? In that split second of my dissociation, Kelsey suddenly lunged at me. She grabbed my wrists with crushing force and used my own hands to smack herself hard across the face, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Gemma! Stop! I’m sorry! Don’t hit me!” The bedroom door flew open. Carol stood in the doorway, staring at the bright red handprint blooming on Kelsey’s cheek. The tray of medical supplies in her hands crashed to the floor. “Kelsey!” Carol shrieked, lunging forward and shoving me backward with everything she had. Kelsey had been gripping my wrists like a vice, but Carol’s momentum was violent. As I was thrown backward, Kelsey’s manicured nails dug into my arm and violently ripped down the length of my healing burns. The fragile pink tissue tore open instantly. Thick blood welled up and began dripping steadily from my fingertips onto the rug. Kelsey buried her face in Carol’s chest, sobbing hysterically. “I just… I just wanted to cheer her up. I didn’t know she would get so angry.” 4 Still weeping, Kelsey held up a velvet box containing a delicate pearl necklace. “Gemma… I brought this for you.” “I thought getting some new jewelry would make you feel pretty again. I wanted to see how it looked on you. I… I forgot you were too scared to look in the mirror now. Gemma, I’m so sorry.” Richard had appeared in the doorway. The veins in his neck were rigid with rage. “Gemma! Are you even human? Your sister brings you her most prized piece of jewelry, and you strike her?” Carol’s eyes were blazing. “We’ve neglected Kelsey this entire time you’ve been in the hospital, and she hasn’t complained once. She’s been nothing but an angel! You’ve been home for five minutes and you’re already trying to snatch her birthday presents and assault her? You bring nothing but chaos into this house!” My arm was bleeding. My shoulder was throbbing. But right then, the physical pain vanished entirely. Because the pain in my chest was so immense, so absolute, I genuinely thought I had already died. For the past three years, I had lived like an animal in a cage. The only thing that kept me breathing was the desperate, burning need to come home for my birthdays. But Kelsey got the birthday presents. So, what was I? Tim stepped into the room. He gently pulled Kelsey up from the floor, his cold eyes sweeping over my weeping, bloody skin. His voice was absolute ice. “Look at yourself. You look like a monster. Putting fine jewelry on you is a waste of money.” “Don’t think just because you got hurt you can do whatever the hell you want. You brought those injuries on yourself. You have no one else to blame.” “You don’t deserve Kelsey’s kindness. Apologize to her. Now.” I looked at Kelsey’s theatrical sobbing. I looked at Richard’s explosive fury. Carol’s visceral disgust. Tim’s freezing apathy. And suddenly, I smiled. I looked at this fiercely united family of four through my one good eye, and my voice came out eerily calm. “I’m sorry.” It was the first time I had spoken out loud since waking up in the hospital. My vocal cords were heavily damaged from the smoke and screaming. My voice sounded like grinding gravel—hoarse, broken, and agonizing to listen to. It forced the rest of their insults to die in their throats. Carol’s expression softened slightly. “As long as you know you’re wrong. Learn to get along with your sister. Stop bullying her.” Tim patted Kelsey on the shoulder. “Put the necklace away. No one is going to take your things.” He threw one last look at me. “Sit here and think about what you’ve done. Don’t leave this room until you’ve genuinely reflected.” With that, the three of them wrapped their arms around Kelsey and ushered her out of the room. The door clicked shut, sealing me in a suffocating silence. The only sound left in the room was the heavy drip, drip, drip of my blood hitting the hardwood. The System’s voice echoed in my brain once more. It was deeply seductive, laced with a bizarre, buzzing excitement. If you die, you will be completely free. You can leave this place and live in a world without pain. I let out a long, shuddering breath. I bent down. With my blood-soaked hand, I picked up the heavy, stainless steel medical shears Carol had dropped from the tray. I pressed the sharp, heavy tip directly against the center of my chest. Over my heart. And without a single second of hesitation, I drove them in. I felt the heat leave my body. I felt my life draining away with terrifying speed. And as the darkness rushed in to claim me, the corners of my mouth slowly curled upward. Finally. I got to leave. Downstairs, after the three of them had settled Kelsey onto the living room sofa, they stood in the kitchen, their faces clouded with heavy sighs. Tim leaned against the marble counter. “Gemma’s psychology is completely fractured. We need to hire a psychiatrist.” Richard rubbed his temples, exhausted. “Once her mood stabilizes, I’ll fly her to the States. I heard there’s a clinic in Boston doing experimental skin grafting. I don’t care what it costs, we’ll try it.” Carol sighed softly. “Her neck is too raw for a necklace anyway; the pearls would just chafe. I ordered her a limited-edition Cartier bracelet. The skin on her left wrist is still intact. I’ll give it to her when it arrives.” When dinner was served, I didn’t come down. Tim marched upstairs and knocked on my door. Silence. Irritation flashed across his face. “Gemma, throwing a tantrum has a time limit. Don’t make the entire family wait on you to eat.” He waited another minute. Still nothing. His patience evaporated. He grabbed the heavy brass handle, expecting it to be locked. To his surprise, it clicked open effortlessly. Tim pushed the door open, a lecture already on his tongue. But the moment his eyes registered the scene inside the bedroom, his pupils dilated into pinpricks, and his entire body turned to stone.

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This was the ninth time Warren expected me to front the cash for his first-class ticket. I stared at the checkout total on my monitor. $1,200. The neon-green numbers burned my retinas. I’d only been at the firm for six months, and I had already floated his travel expenses eight times. It added up to $6,500. Every single time I submitted the expense reports, Accounting kicked them back. The reason was always the same: Director-level executives are not authorized for first-class travel. Whenever I brought it up to Warren, he’d wave me off. “I’ll write up a special exception report when I have a second,” he’d say. Six months. No report. Now, staring at a checking account balance of exactly $14.32, the panic wasn’t just a flutter in my chest; it was a cold, heavy stone. I had no choice. I had to do the one thing you’re never supposed to do in corporate America. I had to say no. “Warren, I’m so sorry, but my account is basically empty.” He shot me a look, his upper lip curling into a sneer that made me feel two inches tall. “You have a credit card, don’t you, Jo? Just put it on plastic. I’ll Venmo you the cash tomorrow.” I swallowed the lump of humiliation in my throat, logged into my portal, and maxed out the very last piece of plastic to my name. The next day, I asked him for the Venmo. Tomorrow, he said. The day after that. Tomorrow. By day seven, the statement closing date for that specific card was looming. The grace period was over. I ducked into a quiet stairwell and called his cell. “Joanna, Jesus Christ,” he snapped, his voice echoing with the ambient noise of an airport terminal. “Where is your hustle? Your corporate mindset is in the gutter. I’m boarding in five minutes, do not bother me with this right now!” The line went dead. Standing in that concrete stairwell, the reality of the situation washed over me like ice water. I finally understood. He was never going to pay me back. My fingers were trembling so badly I could barely type in my passcode, but I opened the airline app and smashed the Cancel Booking button. Ten minutes later, my screen lit up with his face. Then came the shouting. “Joanna! Why the hell did my ticket just bounce?” he roared, the sound of the terminal announcements blaring behind him. “This is a five-million-dollar account! If this deal falls through, you are entirely finished in this industry!” 1 When his initial Slack message had popped up on my screen that morning, my stomach physically dropped. After six months on the job, Warren had sought me out individually exactly eight times. Every single time, it was to act as his personal bank. I pretended I hadn’t seen the notification. I kept my eyes glued to my spreadsheet, clicking my mouse with feigned intensity. A moment later, the flimsy partition of my cubicle rattled as Warren leaned his heavy frame against it. “Joanna. Not checking your messages today?” He wore a casual, easy smile, playing the part of the friendly, approachable boss. It was a performance. On any given Tuesday, if we passed in the breakroom, he’d look right through me like I was a pane of glass. He only remembered my name when he needed a temporary line of credit. Without waiting for permission, he reached over, tapped my phone screen to wake it up, and pointed at the Slack notification. “Go ahead and book that flight. I already found the promo code for you, all you have to do is hit submit,” he said, his tone breezy, as if he were asking me to pass the stapler. “I’m flying out next week for the big signing. Put it on your card, run it through Concur, and Accounting will sort you out.” He spoke with such absolute entitlement. The kicker? He had his own dedicated administrative assistant, Sophie, whose literal job description included booking travel. The very first time he asked me, back when I was a brand-new hire eager to please, his excuse was that Sophie was out sick and he was locked out of his corporate Expedia account. I had looked at the $600 price tag, panicked internally, and quietly transferred my next month’s rent money to cover it. When I submitted the receipt, Accounting rejected it. First-class not approved. I had taken the rejection notice to Warren’s office. He had swatted at the air, treating me like a mildly annoying mosquito. “Don’t bother me with administrative red tape. Tell Sophie to override it.” Sophie had tried. It was rejected twice more. Eventually, she just stopped trying. When the first of the month rolled around, I couldn’t make rent. I had to swallow my pride, call a friend who worked at Chase, and beg her to expedite a credit card approval so I could take out a cash advance. Less than two weeks later, Warren was back at my desk. That time, it was $800. I remember looking up at him, my palms sweating. “Warren, are you sure they’ll reimburse a first-class ticket? Because the last one is still sitting in limbo, and I’m—” His smile vanished. His features hardened into something sharp and unforgiving. “Of course they’ll reimburse it. It’s a corporate trip, not a vacation to Cabo. You obviously didn’t follow the workflow properly. Sophie will walk you through it.” Beside him, Sophie flinched, nodding quickly. “Yes, absolutely. I’ll show her.” Warren looked down his nose at me. “Joanna, we’re a team here. We do what it takes to get the job done. Stop nickel-and-diming the process. When I get back from this trip, I’ll personally walk down to Accounting and get it sorted for you.” As he walked away, I heard him mutter under his breath. “Zero hustle.” I had felt a hot flush of shame. I used my barely cleared first paycheck to cover the flight. But the reimbursement never came. For an entire month, I lived on bulk-bought instant ramen and tap water. After that, the dam broke. Using me as his personal Amex became a regular occurrence. Over six months, I fronted the money for eight first-class flights. $6,500. Not a single cent had been reimbursed. I had opened five different credit cards. I was playing a terrifying game of financial roulette—moving balances, taking cash advances from one to pay the minimum on another. I had exhausted every friend and college roommate I had, borrowing twenty bucks here, fifty there. I desperately hoped that if I just kept my head down and played deaf, he’d realize the well was dry and move on to someone else. I was wrong. When I saw the $1,200 price tag for this newest flight, I thought I might actually hyperventilate. It was the end of the month. My checking account was a wasteland. Even if it was $12, I couldn’t have swung it. I gripped the edge of my desk. “Warren, I literally don’t have the funds…” He clicked his tongue, a sharp sound of profound disappointment. “Joanna, do you even care about the culture here? This is a five-million-dollar contract. Do you have any idea what the quarterly bonuses will look like for our department if I close this? This twelve-hundred bucks is a rounding error. It’s nothing!” Nothing? My take-home pay was barely $3,000 a month. If this was a “department effort,” why was I the only one being bled dry? I tried to keep my voice steady, fighting the tremor in my chest. “Warren, I’m still out $6,500 from the last eight flights. I am completely tapped out. If this is a team effort, maybe we can pool the cost?” The words had barely left my mouth before Sharon, the senior accounts manager in the cubicle across from mine, let out a sharp, defensive laugh. “Oh, count me out,” she said loudly. “I have a mortgage and two car payments. I don’t have that kind of liquid cash.” Gary popped his head up over his partition. “Yeah, my daughter’s travel soccer fees are due. Count me out too.” Diane, who sat diagonally from me, offered a sickeningly sweet, condescending smile. “Jo, you’re young. You’re single. You don’t have a family draining your accounts. It’s not like you’re actually hurting for cash. Don’t drag the rest of us into this.” Not hurting for cash? I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. Were my previous $6,500 just Monopoly money? Warren slapped the top of my cubicle wall. The force of it made my half-empty coffee mug shudder. “Joanna, you have credit cards. Just put it on the card, and I will personally write you a check tomorrow. You really think a Fortune 500 company is going to scam you out of a few bucks?” I glanced at Sophie. She was staring a hole into her keyboard. She looked like she wanted to say something, but her mouth stayed firmly shut. Monica, another senior rep, chimed in from the aisle. “Jo, honestly, Warren used to have us front expenses all the time before you got here. Nobody complained. You’re the new girl. You have to pay your dues.” The implication hung heavily in the fluorescent-lit air. This is the price of admission. Pay up, or you’re out. Nauseous, my vision swimming, I pulled my wallet from my purse. I keyed in the numbers of my newest, completely empty credit card, and hit submit. The collective sigh of relief in the bullpen was palpable. The hot potato had been successfully passed to the new girl. Warren flashed a victorious, shark-like grin and sauntered back to his glass office. Sitting there in the aftermath, a cold, creeping sense of dread settled deep into my bones. 2 The next day, I didn’t take my eyes off the door to Warren’s office. The second the handle turned, I was out of my chair. But before I could even open my mouth, Sharon materialized out of nowhere, waving a thick stack of quarterly reports, corralling him toward the breakroom. I hovered by the water cooler, waiting. When Sharon finally released him, Gary swooped in, trapping Warren in a highly animated, seemingly endless conversation about golf handicaps and client retention. It felt orchestrated. By the time Gary walked away, I turned back, and Warren was gone. He had slipped out the side exit. I spent the entire day vibrating with anxiety. Ten minutes before five, I finally worked up the nerve to shoot him a Slack message. Before I could hit send, a message from him popped up. [Joanna, back-to-back meetings all day. Literally didn’t have a second to call the wife and ask her to transfer the funds from our joint. Got you tomorrow morning.] I let out a ragged breath. Okay. Tomorrow. I could survive until tomorrow. First thing the following morning, I had my phone sitting next to my keyboard. Every time the screen illuminated, my heart leaped, expecting the notification from Venmo. Nothing. The chat log remained identical to the day before. When his office door finally opened around eleven, I practically sprinted across the carpet. “Warren, about that transfer—” He didn’t break stride. He didn’t even look at me. “Got a video conference with Global in three minutes. We’ll connect tomorrow.” On the fourth day, he paced the bullpen for an hour, taking a call. He walked past my desk four times. He didn’t make eye contact once. At 4:45 PM, I couldn’t take it anymore. The silence in my head was deafening. I marched straight into his office. “Warren, I need that money today.” He paused, tapping his forehead with his pen. “God, my memory is shot this week. Let me call my wife right now.” The knot in my stomach loosened infinitesimally. He put it on speaker. It rang. And rang. And went to voicemail. He looked up at me, giving a helpless, exasperated shrug. “Bad timing. She’s probably at Pilates. What can you do, right? Happy wife, happy life. My hands are tied until she moves the money.” I stood there, my mouth slightly open, the air knocked out of my lungs. I turned around and walked out. On the fifth day, his office was dark. I checked the shared calendar. He had taken a long weekend to take his family to Disney. I pulled out my phone and started texting him. One text every ten minutes. Warren, my bill is due. Warren, please. Warren, I will get hit with a late fee. A dozen messages. No response. I called. It rang until voicemail. I called again. Straight to voicemail. He had turned his phone off. I gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, staring at my pale reflection, trying to breathe through the suffocating weight of the panic. Tomorrow was the hard deadline for my credit card. If I didn’t pay it, the interest would trigger an over-limit fee, tanking my credit score. The following afternoon, I finally got through. He was already at the airport. “Warren,” I said, my voice shaking so badly I sounded like a child. “My card is due today. I have to make the payment. You promised me.” His sigh was a wet, heavy sound of pure irritation. “Joanna, does this company not pay you a salary? You’re telling me you don’t have twelve-hundred bucks to your name? What the hell are you spending your money on?” “A girl your age who doesn’t know how to budget? No wonder you’re struggling.” A hot, blinding flash of rage ignited in my chest. “It’s not just twelve hundred dollars, Warren! It’s six thousand, five hundred dollars! The company has rejected every single expense report! I take home three grand a month. I have five maxed-out credit cards! I literally do not have the money to pay this bill today!” “Then borrow it!” he barked, his voice turning vicious. “Christ, Joanna, you’ve been here six months and you’re still this dense?” “I don’t have time to hold your hand right now. I’m boarding. We will discuss your performance issues when I get back.” The line clicked dead. The bullpen was dead silent. Everyone had heard. I slowly lowered the phone. Sharon was aggressively staring at a blank spreadsheet, terrified I might ask her for a loan. Gary grabbed his Yeti mug and practically jogged to the breakroom. Diane rolled her eyes and muttered, “I’m tapped out, don’t even ask.” My phone buzzed. A Venmo notification from Sophie. $30. [Jo, I am so sorry. It’s all I have until payday. My mom is in the hospital.] A lump the size of a golf ball formed in my throat. I stared at the screen, tears blurring the edges of the words. I hit Decline. [Thank you. Keep it. I’ll figure it out.] I tried Warren’s number one more time. The subscriber you have dialed is currently unavailable. I slumped back into my cheap mesh office chair. A cold, terrifying clarity began to seep into my brain, starting at the base of my skull and working its way down. Would a multi-billion dollar company really refuse to reimburse first-class travel for a VP? Maybe once or twice, if a form was filled out wrong. But eight times? He always said he would file the special exception report. I realized, with absolute certainty, that he had never even drafted one. Combined with the nervous looks from my coworkers and Sophie’s persistent silence… My $6,500 wasn’t floating in corporate limbo. It was gone. If it was gone, I had to stop the bleeding. Now. 3 I opened the airline portal. Time to departure: 2 hours, 10 minutes. Once the clock hit the two-hour mark, the ticket was locked. Non-refundable. I clicked Manage Booking. Cancel Flight. A warning popped up. Cancellation fee: $150. Refund amount: $1,050. I didn’t even blink. I clicked Confirm. My phone buzzed immediately. The refund was processing. I called my oldest friend from college, swallowed the last ounce of my pride, and begged her for $150. The moment her Venmo hit, I paid the credit card bill. I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for six months. Out of morbid curiosity, I opened Expedia and checked the flights to his destination. Everything for the rest of the day was completely sold out. A tiny, dark spark of satisfaction flared in my chest. But there was still the matter of the $6,500. I am not a charity. I do not subsidize the luxury travel of men who make triple my salary. I opened my laptop. I pulled up six months of Slack archives, iMessages, and emails. I screenshotted every single flight request. I downloaded the rejection notices from Accounting with the bold red Declined stamps. I pulled my credit card statements showing the maxed-out limits, the exorbitant interest rates, and the cash advances. I printed everything out, page by glossy page, and slid the stack into a thick manila envelope. Then, my phone started to vibrate on the desk. Incoming Call: Warren (Cell). I flipped the phone face down. It vibrated again. And again. Nine missed calls. On the tenth try, Sharon came practically sprinting down the aisle, her face flushed with panic. “Joanna! What is wrong with you? Warren is blowing up my phone trying to reach you! Pick up your damn phone!” I stared at the screen for two long seconds. I took a deep breath, letting the cool office air fill my lungs, and swiped to answer. I brought the phone to my ear. “Warren—” “Joanna!” His voice was a literal scream. I had to pull the phone an inch away from my ear. “Why the absolute hell was my ticket cancelled?! Do you have any idea what is riding on this signing? Go back into the portal right now and rebook it! There’s one seat left in first class, you can still secure it!” My voice was flat, calm, and completely empty. “I have no money.” There was a fraction of a second of dead air. “What do you mean? Where is the refund from the cancellation?” “I paid my credit card bill.” “Then… then take it back out! Run the card again!” “I can’t. If I pay a bill and immediately max it out on the exact same day, it triggers a fraud alert. My account is locked.” I could hear his ragged, panicked breathing through the receiver. “Then borrow it! I don’t care who you ask, just get the cash! If I miss this flight, the deal is dead!” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “I can’t borrow it, Warren. I’ve already borrowed from everyone I know just to cover the $6,500 you still owe me.” His voice spiked an octave, vibrating with sheer, unadulterated rage. “Are you out of your mind?! Are you holding this over my head? I told you I would pay you back! It’s a temporary cash flow issue, you petty little—” I cut him off, my voice chillingly pleasant. “You know what, Warren? You’re right. I am being petty. But the rest of the team isn’t. Why don’t you ask them to front the cash? I’ll text them the booking link right now.” I could hear his teeth grinding. “Joanna, did you do this on purpose? I am giving you a direct order. You buy that ticket right now, or I will make sure you never step foot in this building again!” The sound of his shouting echoed in my ear. I ended the call. A few minutes later, it rang again. This time, he sounded less like a dictator and more like a desperate man. “Joanna. Look. The first-class seat is gone. See if there’s anything in economy. Even a coach seat is fine. It’s $500. I can expense that tomorrow. I swear to god.” “If I don’t make this signing, my head is on the chopping block.” I had drawn my line in the sand. I wasn’t stepping back over it. “No money,” I said, and hung up again. My phone immediately began to light up with notifications. The Slack channel—the one where he had spent six months treating me like a concierge—exploded. He sent over a dozen furious, cursing messages. There were multiple minute-long voice memos. I didn’t even need to play them to picture his face: red, sweating, veins bulging in his neck as he stood helpless at the gate. He didn’t make the flight. I found out later he had to Uber to the Amtrak station and take a fourteen-hour train ride, transferring three times just to get to the client’s city. Inside the bullpen, the atmosphere was toxic. The stares burning into the back of my neck were radioactive. “I’ve never seen anything so unprofessional,” Diane whispered loudly over the partition. “It’s a few hundred bucks. It’s not like she wasn’t going to get it back. Canceling a boss’s flight? Psycho behavior.” “She’s fresh out of college, she doesn’t know how the real world works,” Sharon sneered. “Warren threw her a bone letting her handle his travel, and she bites his hand. Total lack of corporate maturity.” “Well, she can kiss her end-of-year bonus goodbye,” Gary added. “And ours, too, thanks to her.” I kept my head down and kept typing. It’s easy to be generous with someone else’s blood. They hadn’t been the ones eating ramen in the dark. Two days later, Warren tagged me in the main department Slack channel. [Joanna. The client walked. Prepare to take full responsibility for this.] 4 The channel instantly erupted. [Sharon: What?! I thought the terms were locked in?!] [Warren: They were. But thanks to Joanna cancelling my flight, I was 20 hours late to the signing. The client felt we weren’t prioritizing the account and signed with our competitor.] With one message, he had successfully weaponized the entire department against me. [Gary: Are you kidding me, Jo? My entire holiday bonus was riding on that commission. I needed that for my property taxes. You literally stole from us.] [Diane: If you were that broke, you should have just acted like an adult and asked the team for help. Canceling a flight out of spite? You are unbelievable.] I didn’t reply. I packed up my bag, went home, and slept like a baby. The next morning, I walked into the office right on time. Diane was waiting by my desk, her arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “You actually showed up? The whole department is losing thousands of dollars because of your little temper tantrum.” I raised an eyebrow, dropping my purse onto my chair. “Because of me?” Gary stormed down the aisle, his face flushed. “Don’t play dumb! If you hadn’t cancelled that ticket, Warren would have made the meeting!” “Yeah,” Monica scoffed from her desk. “Even if you had just booked the coach ticket when he asked, he still could have salvaged it. You sabotaged him.” Everyone was piling on. Even Sophie, who usually avoided conflict like the plague, looked at me with sad, disappointed eyes. “Jo… what you did was really over the line.” But was it? Was it a crime to stop someone from draining my bank account? The heavy glass door to the bullpen swung open, hitting the stopper with a loud thwack. Warren marched in, his suit rumpled, looking exhausted and furious. “Enough chitchat!” he barked. “Everyone in the main conference room. Now.” We filed into the large, glass-walled boardroom. My breath hitched. Sitting at the head of the long mahogany table was David Caldwell, the Executive Vice President of the entire company, flanked by two senior directors from HR and Legal. Caldwell was legendary for his temper; he was the kind of executive who fired regional managers over Zoom without blinking. Warren pointed a trembling finger directly at me. “Mr. Caldwell, that is Joanna.” The silence in the room was absolute. My hands turned to ice. Caldwell leaned forward, steepling his fingers. His eyes were flat and unreadable. “Joanna,” his voice was a low, resonant rumble that carried across the room. “We are investigating the loss of the five-million-dollar account. Did you, or did you not, cancel Director Warren’s flight prior to departure?” Before I could even open my mouth, Warren jumped in. “She did, David. I gave her the exact flight details. I even applied the corporate discount code. The entire department saw me give her the directive.” He paced behind the chairs, playing to the room. “I explained to her that the reimbursement queue is a bit backlogged this time of year, and I promised her I would personally walk her paperwork down to Accounting the second I returned. Instead, minutes before I boarded, she cancelled the ticket out of sheer malice.” “Mr. Caldwell, you can ask anyone in this room. Even after the initial cancellation, I begged her to rebook me. If she had just done her job, I would have made the meeting. She is entirely liable for this loss.” He didn’t give me a millimeter of space to speak. He was painting me into a corner, sealing the room, and striking a match. The executives at the table stared at me. Their gazes felt physical, like the weight of an ocean pressing against my chest. My knees felt weak. I had to lock them to keep from swaying. Warren knew exactly what he was doing. He thought because I was young, because I was quiet, I would just take the hit. I would bow my head, take the firing, and disappear. A smug, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Joanna, there are consequences for actions like this.” Caldwell’s expression darkened. He looked at me like I was something unpleasant scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “Joanna, a five-million-dollar contract is a cornerstone account for this division. What you did wasn’t just insubordination; it was sabotage.” Every word was a nail in my coffin. He didn’t ask for my side. He didn’t ask for context. He was a busy man who needed a scapegoat, and Warren had gift-wrapped one for him. “The company,” Caldwell said, his voice dropping an octave, “will be pursuing legal action for the damages you’ve caused.” The HR directors started gathering their folders. The execution was over. Warren exhaled a loud, performative sigh of relief, already stepping toward the door to hold it open for the executives. I reached into my bag. My fingers brushed the thick manila envelope. I pulled it out and slapped it onto the center of the mahogany table. The sound cracked like a whip in the quiet room. “Mr. Caldwell,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “Before we discuss legal action, I need to know the protocol for retrieving the $6,500 I am currently owed for Warren’s personal travel expenses.”

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