Category: English

1 The Pain of a Replacement On what was supposed to be our second anniversary, Sienna married someone else behind my back. The groom was my uncle, Greyson—the one who had vanished two years ago. When I demanded to know why, she looked at me with a face full of pity and said, “Your uncle has ALS. Marrying me is his last wish.” “He doesn’t have long,” she added softly. “Just… let him have this.” It was only then that I understood. For the past two years, I had been nothing but his substitute. Sienna’s first love, the one she could never have, had returned. The moment he reappeared, her affection swerved back to him without a moment’s hesitation. And me? I was just a convenient option, easily discarded. Later, just as Sienna wished, I disappeared from her life. But then, ignoring her husband’s worsening condition, she came back, begging me to love her one more time. … The wedding candy in my hand felt like a wad of cotton choking the air from my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. When reality finally crashed back in, I grabbed the arm of the nurse who had just handed me the small, ribboned box. “Who did you say is getting married?” The young nurse turned back, her face beaming. “Dr. Jiang! The groom’s name is Greyson Thorne. I heard it was love at first sight. I can’t believe they got married so quickly!” She bustled off to share the news with others, leaving me frozen in a cloud of cheerful gossip. I couldn’t hear a thing. Those two names—Sienna and Greyson—struck me like a bolt of lightning, rooting me to the spot. Sienna was the woman I had been secretly dating for two years. Greyson was my bastard of an uncle who had been missing for the last two. I never imagined their names would ever appear together, let alone linked by the word marriage. I don’t know how I made it home. The coffee table was covered with the gifts I had so carefully chosen. A cake, a bouquet of her favorite flowers, and the designer necklace she’d been wanting for months. Today was our anniversary. I was going to propose tonight. But before I even got home, I heard the news at the hospital. Staring at the symbols of my devotion, a pain like a thousand tiny cuts sliced through my heart, leaving me breathless. I’d called Sienna dozens of times since I found out. Every call went to voicemail. Finally, as dusk settled over the city, she answered. She used to hate it when I called her repeatedly, but this time her voice was bright, bubbling with excitement. “What’s up? You’ve called so many times.” So happy. Was it because she was getting married? A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I forced my voice to remain steady. “Sienna, what are you doing?” There was a pause. She sensed the shift in my tone. Because she was older, I usually called her by a pet name, never her full name unless something was wrong. After a few seconds of silence, she answered, her voice cool and composed. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m at work, of course.” “And do you know what today is?” The lie, so casual and clean over the phone, made my hand clench around my phone. A sob caught in my throat, but I forced it down. “What day is it? I’ve been so busy, I must have forgotten.” Her tone relaxed, as if she assumed I was just being clingy and pouty because she wasn’t home yet. Her attitude was the final blow. My heart turned to ice. “Sienna, do you remember that today is our second anniversary?” “Of course, of course, I remember. But I told you, I’m busy at work. Is that why you’ve been calling so much…?” Her voice held a note of smug certainty, as if she’d figured me out. But I cut her off, closing my eyes against a wave of despair. “So, even though you remembered, you still chose today to marry someone else? And not just anyone—Greyson!” “You found out already?” There was a flicker of disbelief in her voice, but she quickly regained her composure. “I’ll explain everything when I get home.” “No need. I can explain it to Kian myself.” A smooth, gentle voice drifted through the receiver. I recognized it instantly. Greyson. The sound of his voice brought back a flood of memories of everything he’d done, and my head began to pound with rage. “Kian, it’s me. It’s your uncle.” “Go to hell. You’re no uncle of mine.” The words exploded out of me, raw and unfiltered. “Wasn’t it enough that you killed Grandpa two years ago? Now you’ve come back to ruin my life too?” Silence. Then, I heard Greyson’s voice, thick with emotion. “I’m sorry, Kian. I never meant for any of this to happen.” “I’m sick,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s ALS.” The words hit me like a physical blow. A diagnosis of ALS was a death sentence. But just as quickly, my suspicion returned. My uncle was a pathological liar. How could I know if this was just another one of his games? “I’ve reached the end of my life,” he continued, his voice heavy with pathos. “I’m alone, abandoned by everyone. And then I realized… Sienna was still waiting for me. She was the one woman I always wanted to marry. For my sake, since I’m dying… please, don’t blame her.” I wanted to laugh. “Did I cause you to be abandoned? You killed Grandpa with your bullshit, and then you just disappeared. Now you come back, steal my girlfriend, and act like you’re the victim? Isn’t this all your own damn fault?” “I’m sorry, Kian. I was wrong. I deserve this…” His voice was a perfect symphony of weakness and remorse, laced with just the right amount of tears. It was enough to make Sienna’s heart break. She snatched the phone from him. “Kian!” she yelled, her voice sharp with fury. “He’s a sick man! How can you say things like that to him? Don’t you see he’s already broken?” I nodded slowly to myself on the other end of the line. Greyson was broken. And what about me? The man who had stood by her side for two years? What the hell was I? My gaze fell on the table in front of me. The perfect cake, the vibrant flowers—all testaments to how much I cherished our relationship. And for what? For her to run straight into the arms of her first love, marrying him in secret on a day I was off work, while I was at home like a fool, planning a surprise. If I hadn’t decided to stop by the hospital to see her today, how much longer would she have kept me in the dark? Fine. It’s over. “Sienna,” I said, my voice hollow. “Congratulations on your wedding. We’re done.” 2 The Truth is a Thunderbolt I hung up and collapsed onto the sofa, but my heart refused to be still. Sienna was three years older than me. When I started my internship at the hospital two years ago, she was my supervising physician. The first time she saw me, her eyes filled with tears. At the time, she’d blamed it on the dry hospital air. Now I finally understood. It wasn’t the air. It was because she was seeing Greyson’s ghost in my face. A tear traced a path down my cheek as I remembered the afternoon she’d told me it was love at first sight. “Kian, you have beautiful eyes. I think I’m falling for you. Will you go out with me?” Her words had stunned me. No girl had ever been so bold, so direct. Especially not my mentor. Without thinking, I turned and ran. A few steps later, guilt hit me. I walked back and apologized. “I’m sorry, Dr. Jiang. You just… caught me off guard.” Sienna had smiled and said she’d been too forward. Then she added, out of nowhere, “You’re very different from him.” All those little details I’d ignored came flooding back, and her reasons for pursuing me became painfully clear. All this time, I’d been a fool, a placeholder. Her passionate pursuit, her gentle affection—it was all because I had a face that looked like his. And yet, despite it all, she’d still had the nerve to have her wedding candy delivered to me. While I was at home, naively planning our anniversary. She was the one who chased me, but in the end, I was the one who fell in love, and I was the one who got hurt. Hours passed. Moonlight streamed through the window, bathing me in its cold light. I forced myself to get up. I gathered everything on the table—the cake, the flowers, the necklace, and the ring I was going to propose with—and threw it all into the dumpster downstairs. Afterward, I wandered the streets with no destination in mind. They say the lonelier you are, the more you seek out crowds. I found myself on a street lined with bars. Staring at the wall of liquor bottles, only one thought crossed my mind: drink until I forget. Under the dim lights, I downed glass after glass. A flush crept up my face, and the emotions I’d been suppressing finally broke free, spilling out as tears. As I reached for my thirteenth drink, a slender hand intercepted mine, plucking the glass from the bar. I looked up, my vision blurry. The figure in front of me swayed. I couldn’t make out her face. “Kian? What are you doing, drinking like this?” Her voice was soft, like a distant breeze. I stared at her for a long time, but my head was still spinning. “Who are you? Do I know you?” I mumbled, trying to grab the glass back, but she moved it out of my reach. Annoyed, I slid off the barstool, determined to reclaim my drink. “You’re already wasted, and you want more?” There was an edge to her voice. I didn’t understand why she cared how much I drank. I squinted, trying to focus on her face. A spark of recognition flashed in my mind. Helena. Two years ago, before Sienna and I got together, my father had forced me to go on a date with her. It was after that disastrous setup that I realized I had feelings for Sienna and finally accepted her confession. I never thought I’d run into Helena like this. My pathetic pride kicked in. The last thing I wanted was for my former blind date to see me in such a miserable state. I tried to leave, but the world was spinning too fast. Helena grabbed my shoulder to steady me. I stumbled, losing my balance, and fell backward. As I landed on a soft couch, the room tilted violently. The only thing that came into focus was Helena’s beautiful, bewitching face, leaning closer. “What’s wrong? Did your true love break up with you?” Her voice echoed in the fog of my mind. The alcohol was at its peak. Helena’s cool fingertips traced a line along my jaw, and I flinched, turning my head away. But she cupped my chin, forcing me to look at her. “Since your true love doesn’t want you,” she purred, a wicked smile playing on her lips, “why not give this arrangement a try?” Under the hazy, intimate lighting, her smile was intoxicating. I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the pheromones, but I was mesmerized. Sienna had betrayed me so completely. Why shouldn’t I be bold and try something new? Before I could answer, Helena’s lips were on mine. My eyes shot open. I meant to push her away, but she only deepened the kiss. What happened next felt inevitable. We spent the night in a suite above the bar. When I woke up the next morning, Helena was gone. I checked my phone and saw a flood of messages and missed calls from Sienna. My head was already throbbing from the hangover, and her long-winded essays made it even worse. In them, she poured out her feelings for Greyson. 【I just feel sorry for him now. He has this incurable disease, he doesn’t have much time left. But you’re different, Kian. What I feel for you is love. Real love. You have your whole life ahead of you. I’m just marrying him to be with him at the end, but you’re the one I truly love.】

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Seven years after breaking up with my first love, I became the sugar mommy of a male college student who looked like him. Everyone around me said he was just a substitute, but he smiled slightly and never refuted. As time went by, I felt living like this wasn’t bad, so I warned my friends: “Don’t say he is anyone’s substitute, I’m going to marry him.” Just that one sentence made my first love on the other side of the ocean fly back overnight. Even though he had been separated from me for several years and had never come back to find me. 1 When I opened the door, the smile on my face froze. A person I had only seen in my dreams for seven years was standing outside the door. Ethan Hayes, my first love. His features were still sharp and deep, eyes like stars, more mature and charming than before. That black windbreaker draped over him, majestic like a tree. I had thought many times about what I would say if we met again, but I didn’t expect him to speak first, raising one eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” When we broke up, it wasn’t ugly. Because it ended with his long and lasting cold violence. But I have my pride. On the day of the first snow in the New Year, I cried my heart out alone in the snow. But opening my phone, I just calmly said one sentence: “Let’s break up, setting you free.” He replied very quickly, almost never replying instantly during the long cold violence. “Okay.” From that day on, my unforgettable first love came to an end. For so many years, I always thought I couldn’t forget him. But it turns out time can really smooth everything. Seeing him again, the waves from the past were long gone. Now he was sitting in the living room, while I was seriously decorating the house. Hanging balloons, colorful lights, waiting for the cake in the oven to bake, taking it out, and carefully decorating it according to the tutorial. A few strands of broken hair fell from my forehead, and I didn’t bother to smooth them back. No time to pay attention to his existence, Only saw his slowly clenched fingers from the corner of my eye. Today is Caleb Moore’s birthday. After working all afternoon, people slowly arrived. They were all my friends, Only with more people would there be popularity. I hoped to make Caleb happy today. And when they saw Ethan sitting on the sofa, those who knew our past were all stunned. But looking at me, they still said nothing. At five o’clock, the doorbell rang again. Opening the door, Caleb stood outside holding flowers, looking at me gently with a smile. I pulled him in, and colorful ribbons shot out from both sides, falling on him. “Caleb Moore, happy birthday!” I happily put my arm around his shoulder and introduced him to all my friends. Introducing one by one, when it came to Ethan, my tone paused, trying to say as usual: “He is… Ethan Hayes, my classmate in high school.” Ethan stared at me. When he lowered his brows and eyes, it was actually very scary, with a heavy aura. If according to my understanding of him in the past, I almost thought he would flip the table and leave at any time. But fortunately, he didn’t. Even when Caleb reached out to him, he gave me face and shook it. I breathed a sigh of relief. Throughout the birthday party, I made Caleb the protagonist. Friends praised him endlessly. After all, since I laid down that sentence last time, no one dared to say he was a substitute tactlessly anymore. “So handsome, Lily, really envy you for having such a handsome boyfriend.” “Not only handsome, but also good-tempered, unlike the one you had a few years ago, wow really…” That person realized something, glanced at Ethan, and suddenly silenced. … The atmosphere of the banquet reached its peak when eating, drinking, and playing games. Because Caleb lost, he was asked to do a dare, the condition was–kiss me. Everyone applauded and cheered: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” “Kiss quickly! Not a man if you don’t kiss! This is your girlfriend!” Suddenly with a bang, the door was slammed shut. And Ethan was long gone from his seat. … 2 After the party ended, I went upstairs. Caleb sat in front of the easel, looking at the picture seriously. The soft light of the bedroom spilled on him, his profile elegant. He didn’t know, he was more moving than his paintbrush. Sneaking up on him from behind, I suddenly got interested and reached out to cover his eyes regardless. “Guess who I am?” Caleb needed focus when painting, but he never blamed me for disturbing him. I could feel him gently curling the corners of his lips, cooperating asking me: “I don’t know, who are you?” “I am your little baby.” I said sweetly. Letting go, he looked up at me smiling, and then pulled me into his arms just like that. His embrace was wide, soft, and powerful, always able to wrap me easily. I buried myself in it, taking a deep breath. The faint scent unique to Caleb fascinated me so much. Caleb suddenly said: “What happened to you today?” “Huh? Nothing.” “Feel…” His gaze fell on me, thoughtful. “Your state is not right.” I didn’t expect him to be so keen. Seeing the person I once yearned for day and night after so many years, no matter how calm I was, it was inevitable to be affected. But I didn’t plan to tell him. Unexpectedly, he suddenly asked me: “That guy today, the one you said was a high school classmate, I haven’t seen him around you before.” Alarm bells rang in my heart. “Oh… he went abroad after graduation, just came back recently…” I thought I acted as usual, but still couldn’t help feeling guilty, secretly praying he wouldn’t ask anymore. Who knew he looked at me with a half-smile, effortlessly piercing my disguise. “That’s your ex, right?” “…How did you know?” “Guessed.” Looking into his eyes, I surrendered. Maybe this is man’s sixth sense. Raising three fingers, pointing to the sky, the earth, and my heart. “I admit, indeed yes.” “But after so long, I have long had no feelings for him.” “Who is in my mind now, don’t you know?” Saying the last sentence, I couldn’t help smiling. He gently pinched my face. “I know.” Didn’t ask again. This is Caleb, always decent, always knowing propriety and when to advance or retreat. Occasionally I feel that others secretly calling him Caleb the Sensible also makes sense. Otherwise, so many people came and went around me for so many years, how come only he stayed. On the weekend, someone invited me to play golf. This is considered a common activity in the upper class. During the process, everyone will exchange recent business sectors and market conditions. I took Caleb along too. Many people in the circle knew about me and Caleb. Although those people had loose lips, they wouldn’t disrespect me openly, but the caddies picking up balls in the field were different. They whispered: “See that pretty boy? He was kept by Sister Lin, heard tens of thousands a month.” “Sister Lin is really good to him, even bringing him to play golf, such a high-end place… really dirtying our club’s mats.” “Exactly, that kind of poor person probably hasn’t touched a golf club in his life.” … Just happened to be vacant on the field, I asked Caleb. “Want to try?” He didn’t refuse, nodded, looking very noble. Going on the field, taking the ball, gripping the club, swinging. Hole in one. Perfect! Others looked sideways one after another, I applauded happily, loudly saying: “Beautiful!” 3 Swiped twenty thousand dollars on the spot. The venue took out twenty thousand in cash, distributing to everyone present one by one. Whenever someone gets a hole in one, money is distributed as an honor and celebration. When distributing to those few caddies, I said lightly: “Don’t give to these few.” “Mouths too dirty, I’m afraid of dirtying my money.” Hearing this, they showed expressions of extreme shame. The boss who invited me said with a smile: “Didn’t expect your boy… friend to be so amazing.” I waved my hand: “If not for him back then… sigh, let’s not mention it, anyway it wasn’t easy for me to get him.” I was born into a wealthy family in the capital. The family has many children. I was cultivated as an heir since childhood, which also gave me the capital to look down on everything. It can be said that except for stumbling on Ethan, no one has ever rejected me. At this time money distribution reached the corner, suddenly came a burst of low exclamations. A tall, handsome man stood there, don’t know when he came. Seemed to have been there for a long time. The assistant handed him two thousand, smiling apologetically, but he didn’t even look. Walked forward, also hit a shot. Also a hole in one. Everyone exclaimed. He swiped forty thousand. Turning his head, he saw me happily holding Caleb’s hand. “Why are you so amazing, worthy of being my boyfriend, really making me proud!” Ethan’s face sank suddenly. And I was unaware, continuing to praise Caleb on my own. Suddenly a ball rushed into view, speed extremely fast, almost about to hit Caleb’s head. But still deviated a little bit, brushing past Caleb’s temple by a hair’s breadth, then falling heavily to the ground. Such a big golf ball, such impact, almost could give someone a concussion! But Ethan walked over and said casually: “Sorry, hit wide.” “Wide my ass!” I almost couldn’t help cursing! “Hayes, are you sick?!” He didn’t expect my reaction to be so big, raising his hands: “Just a little thing you keep, heard he’s also my substitute, how come the original is in front of you, you still pass fish eyes for pearls?” Beside me Caleb although expression unchanged, his eyes still dimmed. Ethan’s words really stepped on my landmine hard. I raised my hand, gritting my teeth pointing at his nose. “I tell you, Caleb is my boyfriend, not some substitute. You fucking be smarter next time, otherwise in the whole capital, I’ll mess with you every time I see you.” “You know I have this strength!” Strictly speaking, the Hayes family focuses on business, my family focuses on power, his family has to respect me three points when seeing me. Ethan’s expression changed, bit by bit becoming gnashing teeth. In disbelief: “You just… for him?” And I had already pulled Caleb away. 4 Sitting in the car, I still felt heartache. Held his face and looked again and again. Although that ball didn’t really hit, I was still worried. “Does it hurt?” I said. Hearing this he blinked, then eyes filled with some mist. “Hurts…” I felt even more heartache, seeing him so pitiful, became even angrier at Ethan. “His brain was really kicked by a donkey, that idiot, swinging club without looking at direction, why doesn’t he go die!” Just cursed like this for a while, when I came back to my senses, found Caleb looking at me with a smile. Gaze infinitely gentle. Don’t know why I suddenly stunned a bit. “What’s wrong? Something on my face?” His hand gently stroked my hair, stirring up a burst of酥痒 (crisp itch/tingling sensation). “Like seeing you angry for me.” “Why?” “Shows you care about me.” I pulled his hand, poking poking poking in his palm with finger, in such atmosphere don’t know why felt so hot. “Of course I care about you, humph.” He smiled gently again. I found I blushed. The news that I threatened to mess with Ethan on the court spread. Now everyone on the field says I “raged for a beauty”. Even my parents knew. On the phone my dad said angrily: “Listen to yourself, is that proper? Just for such a thing, go mess with Ethan?” “Our relationship with the Hayes family for so many years, all ruined by your one sentence! Now how many people are watching the joke!” “You, go apologize to Ethan, then cut off that little boy of yours!” Things weren’t that serious, after all I didn’t really do anything to Ethan, just Dad was angry and spoke indiscriminately. But, he did use this excuse to remove me from the general manager position, arranging in an unimportant position. Stripped my power. When finding Caleb, he had already prepared everything. Seeing me come, wrapped the cape around me. Potions, scissors, hair clippers and so on were all ready. Today is the day he scheduled to cut my hair. He teased me: “I haven’t done it for so long, aren’t you afraid I’ll ruin your cut?” But I didn’t speak. He seemed to realize something, immediately shut up.

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My mother always said: A plant that isn’t pruned will grow wild and useless. I was the tree they pruned down to a stump. From the age of five, I learned to keep my joy locked down—it was “getting ahead of myself.” I couldn’t cry when I was bullied—because, as my father said, “Flies only land on open sores.” If I scored an A- on an AP exam, my parents would only ask, “Where are the other two points? Are you getting lazy?” When relatives praised me for being quiet and polite, my parents would publicly cut them off: “She’s acting. At home, she’s as lazy as a pig. Don’t let her fool you.” Over time, I learned to bury every single emotion, becoming the perfectly polished product they demanded. The year I turned nineteen, my Aunt Carol secretly slipped me a crisp envelope. “You’re grown now, Jamie,” she whispered. “You need to start learning to manage your own money. For college.” It was two thousand dollars. For the first time in my life, I didn’t immediately hand over a gift. That night, I woke to the sound of metal scraping metal. My father, Robert Davies, was using a screwdriver to pry the lock off my desk drawer. He snatched the envelope, his eyes blazing with the satisfied triumph of a detective: “I knew it. I knew you were acting strange. You’re learning bad habits.” My mother, Amelia Davies, then took a picture of the cash and posted it to the family group chat, “The Davies Family Circle.” “Jamie was caught trying to steal money from her aunt. This cash is tainted. Our family values won’t allow it. We are distributing it to everyone here as an apology for her disgrace.” The screen lit up with scrolling “Thank yous” and praises like, “Amelia, you know how to discipline a child!” I looked at the phone and smiled. I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I ever smiled in that house. … “Smile? You have the audacity to smile?” My father’s hand came down, a wind-cutting whip against my cheek. I didn’t feel the pain right away. All I heard was the high, sharp whine of the slap echoing in my eardrum. I stared, transfixed, at the phone on the coffee table. The family group chat was still refreshing. Aunt Leah: Your family’s discipline is so strict! Kids shouldn’t have cash, it just leads to trouble. Uncle Brian: Wow, I snagged thirty bucks! Thanks, Amelia! But Jamie seemed so sweet. Guess she had a sneaky side. Cousin Sam: Thanks, Auntie! I’m using the money to buy a new skin for my game! The screen was a carnival of digital congratulations and animated cheers. They were happily snatching up their share, chatting away. “See this, Jamie? Open your eyes and look!” My mother thrust the phone inches from my face. “They’re all laughing at you! Hiding a little nest egg, like some kind of delinquent? That two thousand dollars wasn’t a gift from Carol—it was a test!” Her spittle flew as she spoke, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. “If we hadn’t found it, what would you have done? Used it for drugs? Gone out and done something truly shameful?” I leaned against the corner of the wall. My cheek was burning, and the whole side of my face felt numb. “Mom…” I tried to speak, my voice dry and scratchy, like swallowing sandpaper. “Aunt Carol said it was for college expenses. I just… I wanted to be independent. I wanted to stop asking you for things.” “Lies!” My father kicked over a small side table, unbuckled his leather belt, and snapped it through the air. “What kind of education does a morally corrupt person like you need?” His chest heaved violently. “You plot against your own parents! What’s next, murder? Are you going to come back and kill us in our sleep?” I instinctively hunched my shoulders and protected my head. “Rob, not the face,” my mother said coolly. She took a step back, giving my father enough room. “It’s New Year’s Day tomorrow. I don’t want to answer questions about a black eye in front of the neighbors. It reflects poorly on me.” “I know.” My father answered, and the belt rose high, coming down in a sharp, stinging arc. One. Two. The metallic buckle smacked against my back with a sickening, muted thud. I didn’t make a sound. I just kept my eyes wide open, fixed on the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. The light was a harsh, sickly white, like a spotlight in an interrogation room, illuminating every wretched corner of this home. When he was tired, my father tossed the belt onto the sofa, pointing a finger at my face. “Did you learn your lesson?” I slowly lifted my head to look at him. Sweat and panic glazed his face. His eyes held the exhausted satisfaction of a violent release. “Yes,” I answered mechanically, opening my mouth. “What was your mistake?” “I shouldn’t have hidden the money. I shouldn’t have had private thoughts…” I paused, and then added quietly, softly. “I shouldn’t… exist.” My mother, hearing the answer she wanted, kicked my leg. “Go write a full report. Two thousand words. You will detail where the money came from, why you hid it, and you will post it to the family group chat to apologize to all your relatives. If it’s not heartfelt, you won’t eat tonight.” I held my phone, the screen light illuminating the swelling, bruised purple of my hand. Suddenly, a new message popped up in the group. Aunt Carol: Rob, Amelia, what are you doing? I gave Jamie that money. The very next second, the group admin, “Family Peace is Success,” muted the entire chat. Group admin “Family Peace is Success” removed “Aunt Carol” from the conversation. My mother scoffed, putting her phone away. “Your Aunt Carol is an emotional fool. Enabling a child is killing a child. We will minimize contact with her. We don’t need her bad influence.” A deathly silence returned to the living room. My parents went into the kitchen to eat. The clatter of their silverware sounded warm and domestic. I knelt on the cold floor, staring at the notification that my only ally had been ejected. I felt something deep inside my body shatter, completely and irrevocably. My finger hovered over the screen for a long time. I typed a line of text. Dad, Mom. You can keep the money. I don’t want my life anymore. My fingertip hesitated on the ‘Send’ button. I could hear their easy laughter from the kitchen. “The pot roast is perfect this year.” “Did you remember to set out the gift baskets for the neighbors?” Why? Why should I die, while they continued to live, peaceful and justified? I deleted the message. I posted a new one to the group: Mom and Dad were right to discipline me. I was wrong. The money will be used to buy everyone some snacks. Happy New Year. The moment I sent the two-thousand-word apology, the group un-muted. The blinding stream of “thumbs-up” emojis and “such a responsible child” praise felt like a series of sharp slaps against my remaining sliver of self-respect. My mother held her phone, admiring her trophy. “See? Everyone forgives you.” “Jamie, I only do this for your own good. You hate us now, but when you’re older, you’ll realize no one in the world will teach you responsibility like your own parents.” “Alright, stop kneeling,” my father said, sitting on the sofa, fiddling with the screwdriver. “Go eat. You made a mistake, but we’re not going to starve you.” I stood up stiffly and walked to the dining table. All that was left was a single bowl of plain pasta piled high with the leftover fatty scraps of the pot roast. It was all the grease, the white, trembling fat that they had picked off their own plates. “Eat it,” my mother said coldly. “Don’t waste food.” I looked at the plate and felt a spasm of nausea in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten fat since I was a child; it always made me sick. But I dared not protest. When I was five, I separated a piece of fat onto the table, and my father pressed my head down and forced me to swallow it back. He said: “Picky eating is being spoiled. No one in my house is allowed to have bad habits.” I picked up the bowl, used my fork to stab a block of cold fat, closed my eyes, and put it in my mouth. I fought back the urge to vomit and swallowed the greasy chunk whole. “Eat slower. You look like you’re starving,” my father said with disgust. “Zero table manners. You’re an embarrassment to take out in public.” I forced down the last bite of fat, suppressing a violent retch. “I’m done.” “Good. Now, go make the appetizers. We have company tomorrow, so you need to finish the whole batch tonight.” I ignored the throbbing pain in my back and walked to the kitchen counter. I picked up the fragile wrapper, trying to pinch the edges shut. But my hands were shaking. My palms were swollen like over-proofed dough, my finger joints were stiff, and my nerves were frayed. The slightest pressure, and— “Pop.” The wrapper tore. The ground meat filling squished out, coating my hands in a slick film of oil. “Clumsy!” My father exploded. He slammed the TV remote onto the table. “You can’t even make a simple appetizer! Useless at everything you try, except stuffing your face!” He rushed over, grabbed the broken wrapper, and violently threw it into the trash can. “Are you doing this on purpose? Huh? Trying to spite me?” “Look at your hands! As fat and useless as a pig’s hoof! Did reading all those books rot your brain? You can’t even fold dough! What good are you?” I lowered my head, staring at my swollen, trembling hands. He was right. I was useless. I wasn’t worthy of the lean meat, I wasn’t worthy of a gift, I wasn’t worthy of a secret, and I wasn’t even worthy of preparing a holiday meal. “Get out of here!” My father pushed me away in disgust. “Don’t stand here contaminating the rest of the ingredients!” I stumbled backward, hitting the refrigerator. “I’m sorry,” I apologized out of habit, even though the fault wasn’t mine. “Go to the porch and reflect! Don’t come back inside until midnight!” My father waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. I turned and walked toward the sliding door. The moment I pushed it open, the biting chill of the winter air slammed into my neck, making me gasp. But a small part of me felt a sudden rush of relief. Finally, I didn’t have to smell the sickening odor of rendered fat and stale discipline. I slid the door shut, isolating myself on the freezing porch. Inside, the lights were bright. My parents were wrapping the appetizers and watching a New Year’s special on TV, laughing heartily. Outside, it was pitch black, and the cold wind howled. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. Eleven fifty PM. Ten more minutes until New Year’s Day. Dad, Mom. You hated that I was useless. So I’m going to be useful one last time. I’m going to prepare your New Year’s gift. Seven AM, New Year’s Day. “Jamie! Come cut the fruit!” My mother’s voice cut through the door. I closed my English vocabulary book. The book was merely a prop. They loved to see me looking productive and ambitious. “Coming.” Several neighbors who’d come to exchange holiday greetings were sitting in the living room. The coffee table was littered with snack wrappers. Mrs. Rodriguez smiled warmly: “Oh, look who it is! Jamie’s out! It’s been a year, and you’ve gotten so tall. You’re such a handsome young man.” “Handsome? He’s a block of wood,” my mother said, smiling as she handed Mrs. Rodriguez the largest, shiniest apple. “The boy’s a fool. He’s useless at everything except burying his nose in a book.” Mrs. Rodriguez nervously tried to smooth things over: “Being quiet is a sign of maturity.” “Maturity, my foot! He’s just sullen!” My father sat in the armchair, crossing his legs. “Look at the expression on his face, like we owe him a fortune. Just last night I had to discipline him for stealing. He’s a wolf cub we raised that’s ready to bite the hand that feeds him.” The smile on Mrs. Rodriguez’s face froze. She gave me a look of pity. “Rob, he’s a grown boy. You have to save face for him…” “Save face? Does he deserve it?” My father snorted, his eyes filled with contempt. “Go pour Mrs. Rodriguez some tea. Fill it to the brim. Don’t be stingy.” I picked up the teapot. My right hand was still swollen, and my fingers were stiff and unresponsive. I trembled slightly. Hot tea sloshed onto the tabletop. “Useless!” My father lunged up, slamming the back of my head with his hand. “DONG!” My head hit the sharp edge of the table. My vision blackened. The teapot slipped from my grasp. Scalding water splashed onto my bruised hand, the pain sharp and sickeningly familiar. I didn’t move or cry out. I just bent down to grab a rag and wipe up the spill. “You can’t even pour a cup of tea correctly! What good are you?” “We’d be better off keeping a dog. At least a dog wags its tail when guests arrive. You? Making a miserable face on New Year’s, who is that supposed to be for?” Mrs. Rodriguez stood up in alarm, her face pale. “That’s enough, Rob. Please don’t hit the boy. I… I have something on the stove. I need to leave.” She practically fled out the door. The moment the door closed, the air solidified. My mother glanced at me with distaste, taking the plate of peeled apples away. “Worthless. You can’t even manage to greet a guest properly. Clean up the mess and get back to your room. Stop being an eyesore.” I picked up the broom, bent my back, and began slowly sweeping the wrappers. “Oh, wait,” my father suddenly said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Clear out your locked cabinet in your room.” I stopped. “Why?” The lock was already broken, but the cabinet was still the only private space I had in this house. It held my journals, my sketchbooks, and the letters from Aunt Carol. “Why what?” My father glared, annoyed. “Your cousin Sam is coming to stay for a few days. He said he likes that cabinet. He’s going to use it for his transformers. Get your junk out of there and put it in a box.” “That’s my cabinet,” I said, tightening my grip on the broom handle. It was the first time I had contradicted him. “Yours?” My father threw the remote, walking toward me. His finger poked my forehead again and again, forcing me to back up. “What in this house is yours? I bought the house, I bought the cabinet, and I gave you the very life you breathe! What right do you have to claim anything?” “Clear it out now! Don’t force me to lose my temper on New Year’s Day!” I was pinned against the wall, nowhere left to retreat. “Fine,” I heard myself say. He was satisfied and went back to the TV. One last time, I thought. I just have to hold on a little longer. After tonight, I’ll give you the cabinet. I’ll give you my life, too. I crouched in front of the cabinet and reached for the door. I wanted to take out the journals and letters, at least destroy them myself so they couldn’t be left here. But when the cabinet door swung open, my blood ran cold. It was empty. The stack of journals I cherished, the sketchbooks where I’d drawn my future, Aunt Carol’s letters… they were all gone. I scrambled out of the room like a madman. “Where are my things?!” This was the first time in nineteen years I had yelled at them. My parents were nestled on the sofa, laughing at a show. Hearing my scream, they paused for half a second before their faces hardened. “What are you shrieking about?” my mother frowned. “My journals! And the letters in my cabinet! Where are they?” I rushed to the coffee table, my whole body trembling. My father slowly peeled an orange, not even looking up. “Oh, that trash? I told your mother to toss it.” “Tossed?” Something in my brain snapped. “Where did you toss it?” My mother shrugged dismissively: “The bin downstairs. Who can remember?” “Those journals were full of depressing, dark garbage—all that talk about being ‘suppressed’ and ‘wanting out.’ It was a bad omen. And Carol’s letters were poison, telling you to break away from us.” “That was my life…” I whispered, tears suddenly flooding my eyes. Those journals were the only confidants I had in countless silent nights. Those letters were the last bit of warmth I had to cling to. “Your life?” My father flew into a rage, throwing an orange peel that hit my face. “Your life belongs to us! You dare to yell at your own father over a few notebooks? You’re out of control!” He grabbed the solid wooden folding chair from the corner. “Rob! Not his head!” my mother screamed. I didn’t move to dodge. This scene was too familiar. At six, I ate candy given by a neighbor and was beaten until my nose bled. At ten, I got second place and was forced to kneel in the snow all night. At fifteen, I defended myself from a bully and was made to apologize to the aggressor. The stool came down. The pain blinded me. I curled up on the floor, hearing his ragged, angry breaths and his curses. “I’ll teach you to yell! I’ll teach you to stare! I am your father!” My mother finally walked over and pulled him back. “That’s enough, Rob. Look at this.” She picked up my phone, grabbed my hand, and unlocked it. In the notes app was a draft I hadn’t deleted: Want to apply for grad school in Aunt Carol’s city. Get far away. My mother stared at the line, then squatted down and shoved the screen in my face. “You wanted to run? You wanted to go to Carol? You wanted to abandon us?” She looked back at my father: “Rob, the boy’s heart is poisoned. He’s not going to college.” My father, breathing heavily, nodded. “Study so much you think you can run? You’re going to stay here and get a factory job!” My mother dialed my college advisor right in front of me. “Hello, Professor Thompson? Happy New Year. This is Jamie Davies’ mother.” Her voice was tragically sorrowful. “We need to withdraw Jamie… Yes, a mandatory leave. He’s had a complete psychotic break—stealing, violence against his parents. A severe mental crisis.” I lay on the floor, desperately trying to reach for the phone, wanting to scream, “I didn’t! She’s lying!” But no sound came out. My throat was raw with blood, and my shoulder was too broken to move. “We’re afraid he’d hurt the other students if he went back… Expulsion is fine. His life is ruined anyway.” She hung up the phone. Then, she opened the college Facebook group. “This is Jamie Davies’ mother. Jamie was caught stealing property and physically abusing his parents. He has extreme psychological issues and has been brought home for forced treatment. Please excuse any debts or improper behavior. We apologize for the trouble he has caused.” Send. The screen immediately exploded with a stream of “???” and shocked emojis. In that single moment, the carefully constructed facade of a normal, capable student I had built at school was shattered by her foot. If I ever went back, I would be the violent, thieving lunatic. She tossed the phone onto the coffee table and looked down at me. “Did you hear that? You’re going to stay right here, close to us. You won’t go anywhere.” “Oh, and tomorrow, we’re removing the lock from your bedroom door. You don’t need privacy.” They turned off the lights and went to bed. The room was plunged into darkness. Only the fireworks outside flashed intermittently. You want me to stay in this house forever? Fine. I crawled, piece by piece, back to my room. I pulled out the red hoodie Aunt Carol had bought me last year from under my bed. I’d never worn it because my mother said red was too flashy and “unseemly.” I pulled it on. In the mirror, my face was ghost-white, but the vibrant red gave me a fleeting moment of life. I sat at the desk, spread a sheet of white paper, and wrote one line: Dad, Mom, I finally became the child you always wanted: Quiet, obedient, and never leaving this house. I took the utility knife and walked into the bathroom. I turned on the water. The water in the bathtub rose over my bruised shoulders and my chapped, cracked hands. It felt wonderful. I raised the knife. I didn’t hesitate. There was even a thrill of impatient relief. I didn’t feel the pain. I only felt my body getting lighter, little by little. The rules, the accusations, the beatings, the sheer weight of being their child—it was all draining away through the wounds. Outside, fireworks exploded. It was morning. It was the second day of the New Year. Happy New Year, Jamie.

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My sister told my stalker I was into BDSM and captive love scenarios. So he locked me in the moldy basement of his rental unit. I slept in a dog cage, allowed a sip of water and a few bites of stale bread only at his discretion. By the time I escaped, I’d missed my college exams and the starvation had given me stomach cancer. My sister, Phoebe, looped her arm through my honors student boyfriend’s, Cameron, and winked at me, a playful, cruel gesture. “Did you enjoy the thrill, big sister? That sweet, sweet taste of being a captive little wife?” “You submissive types love that, don’t you? Not like Cameron and me, we have to stick to the power-couple path.” In the end, she tipped off the psycho to my hiding spot. I was drained of blood and transformed into a horrifyingly exquisite doll. When I opened my eyes again, I was back—the day my sister stole my boyfriend. I looked at the perfectly charming, sun-kissed young man who was my stalker. A slow smile curled on my lips. “Tell me, Silas. Are you willing to be my good dog?” … 1 He was visibly blindsided by the question. The ever-present, easy smile that was his camouflage flickered, replaced by a momentary panic and deep confusion. But I wasn’t looking at the panic. I was looking past it. In the frantic swirl of his gaze, I caught a flash of something that shouldn’t have been there: a flicker of raw, pathological excitement. A sickness. I watched the slight bob of his throat beneath his pristine white collar, the light of madness reflecting in his dark eyes. It was the same light that had guided my nightmares for so long. In my past life, it had taken only a single malicious lie from my sister to unleash him. He had taken me—the girl who was kindly tutoring him—and locked me in that dank basement, choking me, abusing me with a systematic cruelty I still couldn’t process. To keep me awake, to satisfy his twisted obsession, he would force me to calculate the answer to a math problem every three seconds. In that dark, airless memory, I learned that seven was the maximum number of ribs you could have broken by a shovel and still be conscious, and that exposing exactly six to eight teeth made for the most socially acceptable smile. All thanks to my dear, sweet sister. Now, reborn, I finally understood the rules of the game. Against a psychopath like Silas Thorne, you had to be the bigger monster. When I saw the excitement in his eyes threaten to break free, I knew it was time to pull back the leash. I shrugged, hoisting my book bag nonchalantly. “Just kidding. Forget I said anything.” I started to walk toward the library entrance, but he moved with terrifying speed. His hand shot out and clamped around my wrist, pulling me back. When I turned, the fleeting panic was gone. In its place was a singular, ink-black focus. His eyes were locked on mine. The next second, he met my gaze, then quickly unclasped the belt he wore, wrapping the leather tightly around his own throat. As the shadow of a smile touched my lips, he sank to his knees. Like a child eager for praise, he whispered a single, charged word: “Mistress.” Just as I reached out to ruffle his perfectly styled hair, a familiar voice—the last one I wanted to hear—rang out behind me. “Kendall… what… what are you doing?!” It was Cameron, my boyfriend of three years. He was staring, his eyes wide with disbelief, holding my sister’s hand and juggling a ridiculous, artisanal green smoothie he’d deliberately driven across town to buy for her. 2 Cameron instinctively looked down at the man kneeling at my feet. His face registered an entirely new level of shock, a type of panic I’d never seen from the controlled, academic golden boy. Before he could demand an explanation, Phoebe gasped in mock horror. “Oh! Sister? I never knew…” “You’ve been playing so dirty behind Cameron’s back?” Then, pretending to recover, she smoothed things over for me, turning to Cameron with fake concern. “No… wait.” “Cameron, we must be misunderstanding Kendall.” “She must have some kind of profound stress. Maybe she’s just dealing with the pressure of the Presidential Scholarship by…” “By letting off a little steam like this?” Looking at the thinly veiled, triumphant mockery in her eyes, I felt my heart begin to incinerate. I remembered the past, when she’d handed Silas the carving knife and asked me, a cruel smirk on her face, “What now, little wife? Ready to be stuffed and mounted?” The suppressed rage made my body tremble, but I locked it down. I placed my hand on Silas’s head, stroking his hair gently. “Don’t listen to them, good dog.” “What I feel for you is far more than ‘letting off steam.’” Silas froze. He glanced at me, then wasted no time in establishing his claim. Ignoring the crowds of students around us, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me. Hard. For a moment, a metallic, coppery taste filled my mouth as he devoured every gasp of air I had left. When he finally pulled back, he looked straight at Cameron, a satisfied, predatory expression on his face. “What’s wrong, Mistress?” “Someone’s staring at me like they want to murder me.” “Surely my Mistress won’t abandon me for him?” Seeing the raw, incandescent fury in Cameron’s expression, I smiled and replied, “Of course not.” This blatant, public provocation shattered Cameron’s usual polished composure. He threw his head back and yelled at me, shame and anger overwhelming him. “Kendall! You know this is a critical tutoring period for Phoebe!” “Did you seriously bring this… this trash here just to humiliate us?” “Do you think this is funny?!” Cameron’s outburst caused Phoebe to frown at me in disappointment. “Sister, I know you’re upset that Cameron is focusing on my applications.” “But you shouldn’t use your relationships to act out! What makes you any different from those trashy, shameless sluts?” Cameron immediately cut off her ‘well-meaning’ monologue, glaring at me. “Enough.” “Some people are only fit to live in the gutter. We don’t need to be dragged down by a tramp like her.” Then, he took Phoebe’s hand and stormed away. But just before they turned the corner, I caught the shadow of a triumphant smirk on Phoebe’s face. She looked like she knew exactly what my future held. Too bad. In this life, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. 3 That same day. In the study lounge booth right next to the one where Cameron was helping Phoebe with her prep, Silas and I kissed with a blistering heat. The gasps and soft sounds of our activity were so loud they practically drilled into Cameron’s booth. The sound of his rage climaxed when he smashed his expensive fountain pen on the table. Just as things were about to spiral out of control, I bit Silas’s lip. He winced, his brow furrowed, and he looked at me with displeasure. “What is it, Mistress?” “Are you still worried about the brother next door?” “Or did the sound of his tantrum disrupt your pleasure?” He smoothed out his expression, showing two tiny, almost boyish canines, and I was momentarily stunned. Because of the trauma of my past life, I had never really looked at Silas. I had never noticed how truly beautiful his features were. His long, slightly curled lashes softened the pathological edge in his eyes. He looked like a finely carved sculpture. Compared to Cameron’s clean-cut, predictable handsomeness, Silas was a revelation. But I snapped out of the trance quickly. I knew exactly what kind of terrifying creature lurked beneath that perfect exterior. When I didn’t answer, his strong, articulate hand slammed me back against the wall. The muted thump made the study table in the next booth vibrate. Just then, Cameron’s patience finally ran out. He threw his textbook down and angrily hammered on the dividing wooden wall. Silas, however, met Cameron’s rage with an infuriating calmness. “Do you need something, Mr. Honor Student?” he asked, a flirtatious lightness in his voice. “Perhaps you need my Mistress to enlighten you on a difficult question?” He stepped slightly aside, making a mocking ‘after you’ gesture. That playful smirk succeeded in humiliating Cameron. “This is a study lounge!” Cameron hissed, his teeth clenched in fury. “It’s not a place for you two to hook up!” He slammed the door and stormed back into his booth with Phoebe. The next second, I heard heavy breathing and soft, breathy sounds of “no” and “don’t” coming from the other side of the wall. I gathered my things and started to stand up. That’s when a solid, powerful hand clamped around my throat. The suffocating pressure instantly intensified. Silas’s calm mask dissolved, replaced by the stark, terrifying madness I remembered so well. “Mistress,” he whispered, his eyes blazing with a deranged intensity. “You can’t just tease someone and then walk away. Even if I am your dog, a mad dog will bite.” Staring into his almost pathologically focused eyes, I felt no fear. I just asked him, flatly, “Did that feel good?” Silas blinked, clearly taken aback. I pressed on, my voice steady and normal. “The taste of defying your Mistress.” “Did it feel good, Silas?” That single question successfully introduced a tremor of panic into his gaze. As my calm, assessing look held him, he slowly released his grip. Then, he knelt down, cupping my feet in his large hands. After a long silence, his eyes, suddenly vulnerable and flickering, lifted to mine. “Mistress.” “I’m the best boy. Please don’t abandon me.” I finally allowed a genuine, though cold, smile to surface. I gently ruffled his soft, messy hair. I replied softly, “Good dog. I won’t abandon you.” “Ever.” A brilliant, utterly sincere smile bloomed on Silas’s face. Just as we started to leave, Cameron and Phoebe, looking disheveled, emerged from their booth. Meeting my cold gaze, Cameron gave a short, cruel laugh, revealing a hickey on his neck. A flushed Phoebe rolled her eyes at me. She leaned into Cameron, complaining coquettishly about how forceful he’d been. “Now my legs feel like jelly.” She gave me a smug, sidelong look, then wrapped her arms around Cameron’s neck as he lifted her up to carry her. “You’re the expert here, sister,” she taunted. “You guys made the entire table wobble, yet you look completely fine.” Then, she focused her intent on Silas. “I really envy you, Silas.” “To get someone already well-trained right from the start.” “Not like Cameron and me. We have to take things slowly, even with the most basic positions.” I was physically sickened. Then, she paused, tapping her chin with a faux-innocent look. “Oh, right.” “Cameron just promised to give me your early acceptance scholarship slot.” “You’re not mad, are you, sister? After all, a flirtatious little wife like you will just end up focused on domesticity anyway.” “Not like Cameron and me. We have to stick to the hard path of the power couple.” Phoebe’s silvery laughter faded as the memory of my past life flooded back: I had given up my hard-won competition scholarship spot for Cameron when he’d begged me. He had then turned around and passed it to Phoebe as a grand gesture, and the two of them became the celebrated golden couple heading off to the Ivy League, while I was left for dead. Reborn, there was no way I would let Cameron steal what was mine. I’d just left the principal’s office. Moments later, the pair of them blocked the doorway of my classroom, staring at me with disbelief. “Kendall!” Cameron sputtered. “You have gone too far!” 4 Seeing that I had made absolutely no effort to hide the fact that I had reclaimed my scholarship, Cameron was shaking with anger. “You know Phoebe’s grades aren’t guaranteed for an Ivy League spot! Why would you deliberately hog her scholarship?” “What is your problem?!” He actually made me laugh. Taking back what was mine was, in his mind, “hogging.” I suppressed the nausea he caused me and shrugged indifferently at the pair of them. “I simply retrieved what belongs to me.” “Is there an issue with that?” I then smiled, meeting Cameron’s enraged eyes. “You’ve been trying so hard to tutor Phoebe. Isn’t that because you want her to prove herself with her own hard work and talent?” “A shortcut like this doesn’t suit her ‘Girlboss’ image. Why, I thought I was doing you a favor by helping her earn it the hard way. Why are you upset?” I turned to leave, but as I passed him, Cameron grabbed my wrist with a crushing grip. The commotion drew the attention of other students, but he intentionally raised his voice to embarrass me. “Kendall!” “You—” Even with an audience, I didn’t mince words. “That’s right. I did it on purpose. What are you going to do about it?” My dismissive attitude immediately sent Phoebe into a fit of tears. Red-eyed, she pouted at Cameron. “Cameron, it’s fine.” “If my sister is so determined to ruin things for us, I’ll let it go. I won’t let you beg her for my sake.” The display instantly earned her the sympathy of the surrounding male students. “Kendall, that’s going too far!” “So you’re smart—who cares? What kind of future will a little wife like you have, even at an Ivy?” “Unlike Phoebe, who’s on the fast track to being a powerful woman! How dare you hold onto that spot?” “You don’t deserve it!” Encouraged by the crowd, Cameron glared at me, his voice rough with resentment. “You want to make a scene? Fine!” “Today, I’m going to let everyone see what kind of person you really are!” He stormed toward the rushing principal, full of self-righteous fury. In front of all the students, he declared, “I want to file a formal complaint!” “Kendall has engaged in immoral conduct! She was hooking up with another student in the study lounge!” Phoebe followed him, her chin held high as she launched into her own self-serving ‘Girlboss’ manifesto. The principal, however, interrupted them with a scowl. “What are you two doing?! Do you realize the trouble you’re in?” “The school is considering canceling your exams and moving to expel you both!” Cameron and Phoebe froze, horrified. “What?! How is that possible?!” Before they could fully process the shock, the class chat group exploded with activity. Reading the stream of messages, Cameron’s face turned chalk-white. He looked at me and screamed, utterly undone: “Kendall!” “What the hell have you done?!” Seeing the grainy video of him and Phoebe in the study lounge circulating wildly, I merely shrugged and smiled. “Nothing much.” “Just doing my part to ensure our student body has a quiet, dignified environment for their studies.” The loud, unmistakable sounds of their heavy breathing echoing from the phones of students in the hallway caused Phoebe to completely lose it. She dropped to the ground, screaming hysterically. “It wasn’t me!” “That person wasn’t me!” She grabbed one student’s phone and smashed it, trembling. “Don’t look!” “None of you are allowed to look!” Despite their frantic denials, the principal dragged them both off to his office. I thought the two of them would face a social media firestorm. But I underestimated the power of the Cameron family’s money. Within half an hour of their parents arriving, all traces of the video had been purged from the school networks and the internet. Even their impending expulsion was quickly rescinded. That night, on the walk home, Cameron confronted me, a clear threat in his voice. “Kendall!” “Don’t think this is over. You dared to bring shame to Phoebe? You should expect to pay a very heavy price.” Phoebe looked at me with pure malice. “Sister, you disappoint me. People with character flaws like yours belong in the lowest pit of hell.” Meeting Phoebe’s wicked glare, I knew it was time to give them a preview of hell. After they left, I finally made the call. The next morning, Silas, who was waiting to pick me up, was holding a beautifully wrapped gift box. Inside was the brooch he had recently given me. The moment he dropped the box in shock, the meticulously prepared “gift” I had nestled within the red raffia ribbon rolled out.

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My wife was a scientist of renown. A public figure. In interviews, when the subject of emotion came up, she’d say: “I don’t believe I am a suitable partner.” “I would never prioritize love. Under no circumstances.” “I am only willing to dedicate my finite time to the infinite pursuit of science.” After the segment aired, the world was full of praise for her fearless devotion to her work. I, meanwhile, quietly tucked away my medical report. I had cancer. Stage four. The days she spent in London, accepting her prestigious award. Those were my last days on this earth. 1 The final sensation before my consciousness dissolved was the blinding, searing light of the operating room lamp. When I felt my spirit detach and rise, I was able to see the operating theater in its entirety. I saw the monitor next to my bed—the line that tracked my heart rate had flattened into a single, merciless stroke. In that moment, I realized with startling clarity. I was dead. 2 I don’t know why, but I had become an invisible presence, able to drift freely. Just this morning, I had been coherent enough to talk to Serena Ashworth. She was taking a flight at noon for a major academic conference overseas. So, I had gotten up at seven to make her breakfast. For someone so outwardly minimalist and detached, Serena had very specific tastes. Her sourdough toast had to be just a little crisp, and her milk had to be steaming, not scalded. My daughter, Paige, used to joke: “Dad, you’ve spoiled Mom with all this meticulous care.” I never argued with her. After taking care of Serena so thoroughly for two or three decades, even the most troublesome tasks had simply become habit. 3 “Serena, I heard the temperature is going to drop sharply in London because of that Arctic front.” “I packed an extra down vest for you.” “Your gum is in the left pocket of your carry-on. You always get altitude sickness on the plane; chew a piece, it helps.” “And don’t stay up too late. Your heart’s been bothering you, hasn’t it? Get some rest…” “It’s a Polar Continental air mass.” Her voice cut me off, sharp and sudden. I looked up dully, meeting her clear, bright eyes. The phrase beauty unmarred by time fit Serena perfectly. Her features were exquisite; she was nearing middle age, yet the years had left no trace on her. That coldness, which she had carried since she was a young woman, could still reach straight to the core of my heart. She was correcting the imprecision of my opening statement. The “Arctic front” I’d mentioned was precisely a “Polar Continental air mass.” But I was only trying to show concern. I lowered my gaze, smoothing down the lapel of her jacket. “I know.” “Travel safe, Serena.” She turned and walked past me. She assumed I had the afternoon free. That wasn’t true. She was heading across the Atlantic for a major academic presentation. I also had a meeting to attend. It was my pre-operative consultation. The doctors said the success rate for the surgery was only twenty percent. 4 When the doctor informed me that my gastric cancer had been discovered too late and had already metastasized throughout my body, I sat in the hospital corridor for an entire afternoon. A television mounted in the corner was playing a rerun of Today’s Talk, the interview Serena had done a few days prior. The woman with the chillingly cool gaze didn’t want to waste much time on anything besides research. Even when asked about her husband, she only offered a terse dismissal. “I am an obtuse person.” “I don’t understand love. My husband… he is a responsibility, mostly.” “Anniversaries? They’re mere formalism. I’d rather spend that time running a few more experiments than preparing for such a thing.” It was precisely the kind of thing Serena would say. Forget anniversaries; she didn’t even celebrate birthdays. When I was younger, I used to cling to the hope that she might one day surprise me and wish me a happy birthday. But I never waited long enough to see her arrive. The brain that could memorize countless data points was stubbornly unwilling to remember the four digits of my birthday. Eventually, I stopped waiting. I’d sit alone at the table and prepare a bowl of long-life noodles, marking the day myself. Serena was an iron tree; she would never bloom. It took me over twenty years to finally admit that truth. It was only in the last few years that I began to feel differently about myself. Call it exhaustion, or surrender. Funnily enough, she was she, and I was I. This truth, which she had laid out plainly for me decades ago, I was only now truly understanding. I folded the prognosis into a crease-covered square, put it in my pocket, and only called my daughter. 5 Paige and I were close. Because Serena never really liked children, and her only daughter showed absolutely no aptitude for science. After listening to my detached, emotionless account, Paige’s voice caught in her throat. “Dad…” “Did you tell Mom…” “I didn’t tell her.” I looked down at the granite floor. “I don’t want to tell her.” She was her, and I was I. Besides, what difference would it make if she knew I was sick? Would she set aside the research she was madly pursuing day and night to care for me? “Paige.” “Dad doesn’t know how much longer he has to live.” “When I’m gone, don’t tell your mother.” I lowered my head to smooth out the creases in my shirt. Why should I bring something that Serena was utterly indifferent to, to clutter her life? “Okay.” Paige answered from the other end of the line. “But Dad, honestly, Mom doesn’t deserve you.” “She truly doesn’t deserve someone as good as you.” … 6 My spirit drifted through the hospital corridor. I saw the surgeon exit the operating room, shaking his head regretfully. Paige was slumped, sobbing by the bedside. She had brought me to the hospital at noon and had stayed outside the OR until night, but her father had failed and would not open his eyes again. She was crying so hard, and I was fluttering frantically right next to her, but she couldn’t see me. I wanted so badly to hold her, to tell her not to cry, just like when she was little. Paige had done so well. She hadn’t become a scientist, as her mother wished, but her paintings were loved by many, and she was scheduled to have an exhibition in Italy later that year. I sat next to her, looking up at the night sky, singing to her as I used to do when she was a child. She couldn’t hear me, but I felt that somehow, she would know her father was there. … Suddenly, I was swept away by a current, carried to a place very far away. The senses of a spirit after death are bizarrely unique. I could perceive what was happening at the hospital after my death, yet at the same time, I arrived at the conference hall where Serena was presenting. Her conference was scheduled to last seven days. A woman like her could easily become the focal point of any gathering. Young, beautiful, with a resume that was practically unprecedented and unlikely to be repeated. In truth, Serena had always been the center of attention since childhood. In college, the boys who chased her were as numerous as fish in a river. In that slightly more traditional era, boys would boldly wait outside her dorm building. Each time, she would look at them with that same look of absolute distance. Dressed in the simplest white blouse, textbooks tucked under her arm, she would look down at them with a restrained, detached air: “I’m sorry, I don’t like you.” The words were utterly without mercy. What many girls proudly saw as “being popular,” for her was nothing more than a simple nuisance. She was already winning national awards left and right back then. Her name was frequently on the lips of professors. I was one of the students who looked up to her, always on the absolute periphery. I only dared to glimpse the edge of her shirt when we exited the dining hall. Serena had no idea that I had been secretly crushing on her for three or four years before we met through an arranged introduction. And I certainly never expected that three years after graduation. The woman my family arranged for me to meet would be her. “I won’t have a person I like.” That was the first thing Serena said to me when we met. “If I have to say I like anything, I like experiments, mathematics—nothing to do with people, in short.” She frowned slightly, yet even this couldn’t diminish her dazzling beauty. She explained herself concisely. “We are not discussing romance.” “We are simply ensuring the existence of an heir. Do you understand?” … She was very clear back then. It was I who decided I could accept it. It was I who wanted to be with her. I kept thinking that we had all the time in the world, that one day her clear, unflinching gaze would finally land on me. I kept thinking that she— would fall in love with me. Was it sheer arrogance? To pin the hope of all my daily, tireless efforts on that slim chance of love emerging over time? My spirit drifted to her side. I watched her exchange serious words with the scholars opposite her. She was tall, cool, and elegant. “Wasn’t I foolish?” I rested my hand in my pocket, looking at her. “They say smart people look at ordinary people the way ordinary people look at fools.” Meanwhile, my body was being driven away in a hearse to the crematorium. The academic symposium was buzzing with life. “Serena, do you think I was truly a fool?” 7 Serena took a photo of the London night view and sent it to my phone. Of course, I could no longer reply. Paige really hadn’t told her mother about my death; she had even blocked Serena from seeing the obituary I’d sent out via text. That was fine. I’d clung to her for too long when I was alive; I didn’t want to trouble her in death by making her change her flight. Besides, I didn’t think she particularly wanted to see me one last time. The London night view was beautiful. But for some reason, that night, she stared at her phone for a long time on the windy balcony. I drifted closer to see, and I suddenly realized: In the past, whenever she sent me a message, I always replied instantly. When she traveled abroad, she would casually send me a few photos. I would reply with an emoji I’d saved from Paige—a big thumbs-up, or two, with the words “So awesome!” written on them. This time, she waited a long time. I didn’t reply. “Dr. Ashworth, it’s raining again outside.” “Please come back in, you’ll catch a chill.” A young man’s voice called out behind her—one of her students. In the academic world, some things are silently understood. The student stepped forward, a little too intimately, to drape a jacket over her shoulders, but she gently pushed him away. 8 “Fish and chips.” “It’s awful.” Serena sent me a picture of the restaurant. My remains were being placed into the cremation furnace. “Raining again.” Serena sent a picture of the view outside her hotel window. Friends and family were attending my burial service. “Presentation tonight.” “Flight back tomorrow.” Serena stood on the stage, the lenses of many cameras focused on her. I used my somewhat rusty memory of technical English to understand the presentation. Her research achievement seemed to have added a brilliant new chapter to human development. There she was, standing in the spotlight, shining in her domain, never failing to exceed expectations. I suppose that was the reason I had loved her for so many years. But that was my love for her; it wasn’t her love for me. The spring rain fell softly. As my ashes were being buried next to a simple square tombstone, I finally understood this truth. 9 That night, when the conference ended, Serena tried calling my number. When the third call went unanswered, she changed her flight to one leaving at midnight. She frowned the entire flight; her face was even colder than usual. It made sense. For years, I had been available to her whenever she called. It must have been disorienting to suddenly be unable to reach me. Normally, I would always pick her up at the airport whenever she returned home. I would be sure to arrive an hour or two early and just wait there for her. These were also habits. A person can’t bear to see their beloved inconvenienced. I always did my utmost to make her life comfortable and perfectly arranged. But this time, she had to walk through the deserted terminal alone and hail an expensive cab at four or five in the morning. She arrived home at six a.m. She knocked first, but no one answered. She used her fingerprint to unlock the door and pushed it open. The house was empty. Everything was just as she had left it. The sink was spotless, the dining table bare. Only, the slippers I usually wore were sitting by the entryway. She unfastened the jacket she’d been too rushed to change out of, walking around the unlit house, circle after circle. The bedroom, the balcony, the bathroom. Finally, she pulled open the door to the washing machine. … Finding nothing, she paused, pulled out her phone, and called me. After a long wait, she was met with a busy signal. She sighed, sliding her thumb down the list to another number. Paige’s. Their relationship had been strained since before Paige was a teenager. In recent years, Paige only came home to see me, with no intention of engaging with her mother. Serena’s attitude was much the same: she was consumed by her research, which essentially meant she didn’t want to be bothered with raising a child. She had been absent during the most crucial stages of her daughter’s development, so Paige never had a kind word for her. “What do you want?” “Where is your father?” Both of their voices were sharp, but Paige hesitated. Then came a strange laugh, an indescribable sound. She repeated the question in a low murmur. “Where is my father?” “My father is gone.” “Gone where?” Serena’s frown deepened. The morning sun had just begun to fall on her brow. I heard the raw, choked edge in my daughter’s voice on the other end of the line. “He didn’t go anywhere.” “Dad passed away, Mom.”

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“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but this card has been declined.” I was slightly stunned but quickly pulled out another card. The red light on the terminal blinked again. “Sorry, this card is also invalid.” “…What?” I steadied my breath and dialed my husband’s number. “Honey, hasn’t your paycheck come in yet? The baby’s out of formula.” There was not a trace of warmth on the other end: “This family isn’t supported by me alone. I hope you can be independent, not a parasite living off others.” That single sentence marked the beginning of his war. Very well. Then let the hunt begin. 1 “Ma’am, do you still want this formula?” The cashier’s tone was impatient. I snapped back to reality, realizing a long line had formed behind me. “I’m sorry… I don’t want it for now.” Pushing the empty cart out of the supermarket, I called my mother-in-law. The phone rang over ten times before being picked up, with the fierce sound of Mahjong tiles in the background. “Spit it out if you have something to say, I’m on a winning streak!” I took a deep breath, every word incredibly difficult: “Mom, Caleb’s company… his salary is delayed this month. Do you think you could watch Mia for a couple of days so I can find some temp work?” “No way!” I was cut off before I could finish. “I’ve done my duty raising Caleb! Spare me the moral kidnapping. If you need money, ask your own family. Didn’t I give you a $10,000 bride price? Make your family spit it out!” The phone was hung up abruptly. A sourness rushed up my nose. When did they change? Probably a year ago, when my daughter fell seriously ill. Besides the bride price and dowry, even my pre-marital savings were poured into it. Caleb was on a business trip at the time. He promised solemnly over the phone: “Wifey, my money is tied up in wealth management. You figure out a way to cover it first. Once it matures, I’ll definitely pay you back.” From that day on, my mother-in-law looked at my daughter with nothing but disgust: “Some children are born debt collectors, bringing bad luck just to drag the family down.” And Caleb started complaining to me frequently: “Uncle’s company is restructuring. Although I wasn’t laid off, the economy is bad, and my salary was cut in half.” “You don’t work, so you don’t know what it’s like out there. Ask Mom and Dad to help out more. Once Uncle’s business turns around, the salary will go back up, and I’ll definitely compensate you double then.” This wait lasted a year. Waiting for him to go from “starting a business” to “in debt.” Waiting for his salary to shrink from $3,000 to $800. Waiting for my daughter and me to become “parasites” in his mouth. Finally, I called my brother. After hearing my plight, he sighed deeply. “Sis, honestly, seeing you live like this makes me sad too. Take this thousand dollars, no need to pay it back.” “But I really hope this is the last time. You have to climb out of that pit yourself.” Hanging up the phone, the tears finally broke the dam. It turns out when you hit rock bottom, even your shadow leaves you. Those who banged drums urging you to marry and have kids are now gathered around the pit, laughing at your wretchedness and helplessness. Their lines are always shiny: “You have to have a son to gain a foothold in your in-laws’ house.” “He works hard outside to make money, how can you not even take care of a child properly?” “Women must be kind and magnanimous, otherwise how can you keep a man’s heart?” I wiped the tears from my face and picked up my crying daughter. Only after getting married did I understand that “I’ll support you” is the biggest lie in marriage. 2 “Zoey, have you ever thought… could Caleb have someone else on the side?” My best friend Sarah’s voice was hesitant. My breath hitched: “Someone else? Why doesn’t she come to make a scene? Why doesn’t he show his cards to me?” “Heh…” A scoff came from the other end: “I think you’ve watched too many soap operas. In reality, whether it’s Caleb, the mistress, or even your mother-in-law, none of them are worthy of plotting against the original wife. Deliver themselves to you to catch? Do you think this is a TV show?” She paused: “Don’t blame me for being direct. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen too much at the law firm. Let me list a few facts for you to think about calmly: First, how long has he stopped giving you housekeeping money? Second, can you still unlock his phone? Third, Mia is almost two years old. Custody won’t necessarily favor the mother anymore. So you don’t have much time left.” “Then what should I do?” My voice was tense. “Hire… a private investigator?” “Private investigator?” Sarah smiled bitterly again: “Do you have money? A legitimate and capable PI starts at six figures, and the subsequent costs are a bottomless pit. Secondly, evidence obtained by illegal means might be deemed invalid due to privacy violation. If it goes wrong, the other party might even blackmail you.” A chill ran down my spine: “Then… what should I do?” “How much cash do you have right now?” “$750. Just bought a can of formula.” “Okay. From this moment on, don’t touch a cent of that money. Consider it your last war fund. I’ll introduce my senior colleague to you. I’ll help you with living expenses, but leave the professional matters to him.” Sarah is my most trusted friend in this world. After graduation, she chose grad school, while I chose marriage. Five years passed. She’s an intern at a top law firm, high-spirited. While I became a parasite in the daily grind of domestic life. Half an hour later, a strange number called. “Hello Ms. Jiang, my name is Lu. Time is limited, let’s keep it short. At this stage, your primary task is gathering evidence.” “When your husband comes home, you need to complete two tasks: First, take photos of every card in his wallet, even if it’s just a car wash card. Clear photos of front and back. Second, observe carefully if he has a spare phone or other chat apps.” “No matter how much you find he has squandered or hidden, stay calm until you have a complete chain of evidence.” After hanging up, I sat in the living room for a long time. Even now, I was unwilling to face reality. His pay stub clearly stated $800, and he had a fixed mortgage payment of $600 every month. With such a stretched budget, how could he possibly be squandering money? Three days later, he finally came home. 3 He tossed his suitcase casually: “Pack a few summer outfits, I have to leave again next week.” I smelled the unfamiliar scent he brought back and looked at him calmly: “Has this month’s salary come in yet?” His hand loosening his tie paused, frowning at me: “Are you done yet? I just stepped in the door, haven’t even caught my breath, and all you know is money money money?” Seeing the undisguised annoyance on his face, the question I had rolled over in my heart countless times almost burst out. Immediately, Lawyer Lu’s warning flashed through my mind: “Stay calm until you have a complete chain of evidence.” Seeing him put on his jacket again. I turned and brought out a bowl of rib soup from the kitchen: “Dinner is ready, want to eat a little?” His Adam’s apple moved, and he finally hung the coat back up: “I told you, let the old folks cover it first. When I turn things around here, I’ll pay them back every cent.” “Mn, got it.” I lowered my eyes and served myself a bowl: “I won’t bother you about the child’s matters anymore.” He seemed very satisfied with this answer, picked up his chopsticks, and put the biggest rib into his own bowl. From this moment on, I defend my rights. The target is the husband who has shared my bed for five years. Sarah’s hunch was right. Caleb’s shrewdness and defensiveness far exceeded my imagination. His phone password was changed. I could only carefully unlock it with his fingerprint after he fell asleep. Chat history deleted clean. Contacts had no suspicious signals. Transfer records were as clean as a blank sheet of paper. Plus all the methods I learned online: Checking takeout addresses, hotel orders, shared device login records… nothing found. I leaned against the wall, looking at his sleeping profile. The child is two years old. The family’s assets have long been diluted to almost nothing by his excuses of failed investments, company pay cuts, and bank repayments. The bride price, dowry, and all my pre-marital savings were squeezed dry. Five years. Over one thousand eight hundred days and nights. What is your next target? “Did you take the photos?” Just as dawn broke, Lawyer Lu’s message popped up. “Taken, but he seems to be guarding against me. Not a single bank card, not even his ID is in the wallet. Can we still apply for an investigation order like this?” The reply came quickly: “Investigation order? That’s not what you should be thinking about now. Tell me first, what’s in the wallet.” I sent all the photos from my phone: A gas card, a supermarket shopping card, several cake coupons from different brands, a credit card, nothing else. Looking at the empty card slots, that sense of powerlessness hit again. “Is it… am I out of chances?” Almost at the same time the message was sent, his reply came. No text, just a grinning emoji. Followed by two lines: “It’s secure. I guarantee you win this round. But there’s one thing, you have to find a way to make him come home again in a few days.” “What do you mean? Is it possible he won’t come home anymore?” “Very possible. Mia’s birthday is in two days. If I’m not wrong, what you’ll be waiting for next should be his divorce agreement.” “Divorce agreement?” “Yes. I think his return this time was to collect valuable documents. Go check the property deed and such, they should be gone.” My heart tightened, and I quickly opened the home safe. Sure enough. All important documents were gone. “Okay.” His voice pulled me back to reality: “Next, follow every step I say. Buy back the cards you photographed on your phone exactly as they are.” I took a deep breath and rushed to the gas station. Bought a $1000 gas card matching the photo. Then the mall, a $2000 shopping card. Bought the $300 stored-value card from the cake shop too. Watching the balance shrink instantly, my fingertips went cold. But I still took a deep breath and dialed Caleb’s number. “Husband, tomorrow is our daughter’s birthday. Should we… invite the elders to eat together?” Silence on the other end for a few seconds. “No need, Zoey.” His voice was terrifyingly calm: “Let’s get a divorce.” 4 All the prepared words were stuck in my throat. “What did you say?” “Tomorrow, you should receive the divorce agreement sent by my lawyer. I hope we can part on good terms.” “Part on good terms?” A sourness surged in my nose: “Five years of marriage, Caleb, and you tell me to part on good terms? Is there someone else?” The tone on the other end revealed impatience: “Don’t talk nonsense. I just feel that being together consumes us more and more. A good relationship shouldn’t be dragging each other down like this. I hope you can have some dignity.” With that, he hung up. Tears blurred my vision instantly. He finally showed his cards. The illusion he maintained with mortgage pressure and career bottlenecks finally shattered. Completely, leaving me not a single bit of room for self-deception. How many hurdles does a woman have to cross in this life? Ten months of pregnancy. Labor pains. And the dignity she has to put down for a mouthful of formula money… And when you think you finally see the light through the clouds, you realize the person who should have pulled you up on the shore had already pulled away all the planks and pushed you into the abyss. I picked up my phone tremblingly and messaged Lawyer Lu: “He’s not coming back. I have no chance.” Less than ten seconds after the message was sent, his call came. “Calm down. In a divorce lawsuit, as long as one party disagrees, the marital relationship will not be dissolved immediately. We still have plenty of room to maneuver. What you need to do most right now is not resist, but play the role of an emotionally stable wife trying to save her husband. As long as you don’t panic, we have a chance to win this battle.” The next day, the courier delivered the “Divorce Agreement” sent by Caleb’s lawyer. I opened the document, and my vision went black. He even gave up custody of the child. Only at this moment did I truly understand. He was waiting for this divorce node. As for child support… $150 a month. He even provided several bank statements. Proving that he had no assets available for division under his name. I froze in place, tremblingly took photos of these pages, and sent them to Lu. “Is there still a chance of winning?” His reply was fast: “Of course. You are still living in his house. As long as you don’t leave, he can’t cut ties completely. So, no response, no arguing. Live normally as if nothing happened, until he can’t hold back and comes home to find you, our chance will come.” Sure enough, a week later, after refusing all his calls and urging texts, he finally came back. The sound of the key turning the lock rang out. I took a deep breath, and like thousands of times in the past, naturally took his coat: “I stewed your favorite yam and rib soup. Wash your hands and eat first.” He didn’t move, his eyes sweeping over me coldly: “Jiang Yao (Zoey), must you make a big scene and embarrass everyone?” I looked at him, my voice without a ripple: “If making a big scene could get you what you want, you wouldn’t waste half a sentence. Caleb, I don’t care what you have outside, but this is mine and our daughter’s home. We will always wait for you here.” The man’s last bit of patience on his face ran out: “I’ve entrusted the agent to list this house. I’m afraid you can’t live here for much longer.” I nodded, pulling out a dining chair: “The soup is getting cold. We mother and daughter aren’t picky. Just rent us a suitable apartment.” Caleb’s sharp gaze swept back and forth on my face. It’s true. In the past, hearing the words “sell the house,” I would have been hysterical long ago. But not now. I have something more important than emotions at hand. While he turned to go to the bathroom, my fingers deftly reached into his pocket. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, but my movements were surprisingly steady. The whole process took less than ten seconds. The wallet was silently stuffed back into its original place. “Pack up tonight.” He pulled out a chair: “I’ll find you a place to stay tomorrow.” “Okay.” I didn’t look at him, bowing my head to scoop a small spoonful of soup for my daughter. The whole meal, no more words were exchanged. My mission was complete. The hunting time officially began.

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Violet is the daughter of my father’s first love. After her parents died, my father took her in, homeless and alone. I vowed to make her life miserable. Until I realized my hypocritical father was looking at her with increasingly strange eyes every day. 1 Violet looks a lot like her mother. I’ve seen her mother’s photo, hidden in the lining of my dad’s wallet. When I was eight, my mom cheated with her personal trainer. After a huge fight with my dad, she pulled out his wallet, threw that photo in his face, and said: “Don’t judge me. You’ve always had someone else in your heart. We’re even.” Later, when they were physically fighting, I picked up the photo and glanced at it. Those fox-like eyes, brimming with a smile, seemed to come alive from the photo. The memory was so vivid that the moment I saw Violet, I knew whose daughter she was. It was an ordinary afternoon. I came home from school and saw Violet sitting properly on the sofa in our living room, wearing a white dress. I didn’t actually see her face at first, only Richard sitting eagerly opposite her, holding a bowl of washed strawberries and asking with a flattering smile: “Violet, do you like strawberries?” My parents had been divorced for three years by then. The reason, of course, had nothing to do with Violet’s mom. My mom ran off with her trainer, and Richard fooled around outside. Every woman wanted to be my stepmother. So before seeing Violet’s face, I thought she was just another mistress my dad brought home. I slammed the door shut with a dark face. Violet, sitting on the sofa, looked up at me. That was when I realized she was just a girl about my age. Twelve-year-old Violet’s eyes were exactly like her mother’s. A pointed chin and a pair of fox eyes that, although not fully matured, already showed hints of soul-hooking charm. Unlike her mother who was always smiling, she had a cold aura that kept people away. Richard looked at me awkwardly, stood up, and said: “Aria, this is… this is Violet. From now on, we are family. Get along well, okay?” My response was a cold sneer at Violet, then looking at Richard, I said rudely: “Are you addicted to picking up trash? Bringing any stray cat or dog home.” Richard’s face darkened, scolding me: “Watch your mouth!” I turned my gaze to Violet. She sat on the sofa with her head down, her jet-black hair falling like a waterfall covering half her face, her shoulders thin and frail. As if she hadn’t heard my insults at all. I scoffed and slammed the door as I left. 2 Violet’s father died early, and her mother committed suicide by charcoal burning, leaving her an orphan. My dad took her in. My dad is a businessman, a profiteer. The sentence he taught me most often was: “Aria, never suffer a loss, understand?” Taking in Violet out of kindness wasn’t because he was good-hearted, but because Violet’s mother was his first love. Every successful middle-aged man, no matter how polished by society, always keeps a clean spot in his heart for the “white moonlight” of his youth. A dead white moonlight is even more powerful because that moon will hang high in the sky forever, never setting. So he took care of his first love’s daughter even more attentively than his own. He spent a lot of effort transferring Violet to my school. My school is the top private school in the state, with strict requirements for transfer students, including entrance exams and past academic rankings. I graded her entrance exam because I was the favorite disciple of the “Demon Queen” of the honors class, like Zhou Zhiruo to Miejue Shitai. I saw Violet’s answers. She messed up even the simplest equations. Looking at the red crosses all over the paper and the miserable score of “35,” I thought, she really is like her mother, a brainless vase. However, she still got in smoothly. It’s not hard to imagine how much money Richard spent on her. The day before she transferred, Richard ordered me: “Aria, tomorrow is Violet’s first day. Take good care of her, understand?” I looked up at Violet standing silently behind him and sneered: “With your care, she’ll be fine. Is there anything money can’t solve?” After saying that, I left because I had a mental arithmetic competition with a classmate. 3 I rarely interacted with Violet. I didn’t like her, but there was no need to target her. To me, she was like a parasite in the house, an eyesore but insignificant. Richard asked me to take care of her. I sneered internally. Not bullying her was already my generosity. Not long after Violet settled in, Richard returned to his old ways, never home day or night. Socializing, business, mistresses. To him, daughters just need to be alive, not cared for. So for a long time, only Violet and I were home. Probably knowing I didn’t like her, Violet was very sensible. She was like a ghost in this house, appearing only when necessary. The balance was broken because I got a fever. That day I came back from a hike with friends. I probably didn’t dress warmly enough and caught a chill. My throat was itchy when I got back at night, and I couldn’t help coughing. Violet looked at me quietly then. Later, I went to my room to rest. In the middle of the night, I started running a fever. I knew I was feverish in my groggy sleep, but I thought I could tough it out. By the second half of the night, it was unbearable. I wanted to get out of bed to drink some hot water. As soon as I got out of bed, my legs went soft. Thud. I fell to the floor, hitting my head on the nightstand with a loud noise. I couldn’t get up for a long time. The soundproofing in the house is actually quite good, but in my daze, I heard knocking. Three polite knocks, followed by Violet’s cold inquiry: “Aria, are you okay?” I passed out. When I woke up, I was in my room. My hand was hooked up to an IV. Violet must have called a private doctor. She was sitting by my bed on the sofa, staring blankly at my IV bottle, lost in thought. I saw the curve of her long eyelashes from the side, curled and thick. Her profile was also very beautiful. I stared at her for a long time until she snapped back to reality and noticed my gaze. She paused, then explained softly: “You had a fever of 104 last night. I heard a fall and was worried, so I came in without your permission.” This was the first sentence she said to me after entering this house. I’m not ungrateful. If she hadn’t meddled, I’d either be a corpse or brain-damaged today. I said thank you with a hoarse voice. She looked at me and suddenly smiled fleetingly for some reason. I realized my voice sounded like a dying duck. Maybe thinking I didn’t like her in my room, she quickly and quietly left. We used to have a nanny, but she quit to take care of her grandson. I have a cold personality, mature for my age, and don’t like strangers walking in and out of the house. Building new relationships takes a lot of time, so I told Richard I didn’t need a nanny. He didn’t hire a new one for me. While on the IV, I thought I might need to hire an hourly worker just in case. But when I went out after the IV was done, I dismissed that idea. Violet had already gone to school. On the dining table was thick porridge she made and refreshing side dishes, along with a note she left: [I’ve already asked for leave for you. Drink the porridge while it’s hot, and take the medicine on the table on time.] I held that note, shifting my gaze from the porridge to the medicine beside it, pausing while pouring warm water into the glass. 4 My cold healed quickly. I’m not a child craving fatherly love, nor am I jealous that Richard spends much more time and energy caring for Violet than me. So I owed Violet a favor. We maintained a delicate balance of peace. I once wondered if Violet was trying to please me, but except for that night, she never tried to curry favor or brought up that incident. She remained cold and quiet, living in this house like a ghost. Until I found out she was being sexually harassed. She was in the same grade as me. Her class was full of rich kids who paid to get in. Naturally, they weren’t easy to get along with. Poor grades, poor character. So it was called the “Parasite Class.” I met Violet in the school’s volleyball equipment room. A boy had cornered her, hands wandering. I stood at the door watching. The boy’s hand was reaching for Violet’s face. She stood there coldly. If not for the disgust in her eyes and her tightly furrowed brows, I would have thought she was in a relationship. I threw the volleyball in my hand over and said: “Hey.” The boy was annoyed at the interruption. His furious face quickly dissipated when he turned and saw me, becoming intrigued. He said: “Aria? A top-tier student like you meddling in other people’s business?” He knew me. Well, there are plenty of people in school who know me but whom I don’t know. I ignored his playfulness, coldly extending my index finger: “I’ll count to three. Get lost.” “1, 2—” As soon as “2” dropped, the boy made a surrender gesture, backing away repeatedly: “Okay, okay, I’m going.” After he left, I got angry at Violet. The angrier I am, the calmer my tone. I looked at Violet, who was quietly watching me, and said calmly: “Are you a pig? Can’t refuse or fight back when harassed?” She stood there in her uniform. I had never seen anyone wear a uniform so beautifully. Like a scene from a K-drama I once glimpsed, where a character in a red sweater looked down from a balcony. I will always remember the stunning feeling of that glance. Violet didn’t look like that star, but the temperament was identical. She pointed to the ceiling at my question and said: “There’s a surveillance camera here. I was planning to take the footage to the Dean.” She paused, adding, “Fighting back… would cause trouble for you… for your family.” I didn’t speak, turned and left. 5 I only found out not long after that Violet was being bullied. She took the harassment video to the teacher. The boy’s parents were called. Losing face and having some money, he became angry and started targeting Violet. There were also girls in her class. The campus back then wasn’t like now, where pretty girls were called “queen.” Beauty was an original sin in school. Jealousy, suspicion, rumors, malicious scrutiny. All kinds of gazes and bad intentions fell on the beauty, wanting to drag her into the mud. So they could righteously say to others: “I told you she was a slut, and you didn’t believe me.” That day Violet came back an hour later than usual. I was making instant noodles—ever since Violet arrived, she did the cooking. Her cooking was excellent, making simple stir-fries look and taste amazing, which was one reason I tolerated her. Hearing the door open, I looked up from the steam of the noodles and saw Violet with hair messy as a bird’s nest. She stood at the door with that messy hair, a bright slap mark on her face, and bruises and blood clots on her exposed skin. From these injuries, one could imagine how badly she was beaten. I frowned slightly. Her expression remained cold. Her gaze fell on the noodle cup in my hand, not mentioning her injuries at all. Pausing, she spoke in her usual tone as if nothing happened: “Instant noodles aren’t healthy. I’ll make you some noodles.” I didn’t speak. I don’t know if I ever said this, but what I liked most was Violet’s hair. I put down the fork, looking her up and down. Luckily her clothes were intact. I looked at her with a very, very calm face. I even felt myself smile. I asked her calmly: “Who did it?” When I was very young, before my parents divorced, my mom took me to get manicures with her friends. She once complained about me with a look of disdain: “This girl, I don’t know who she takes after. So young but always holding her breath, silent, not like a kid at all…” “Like a wolf. Her territorial instinct is incredibly strong. Once I accidentally threw away one of her figures, she stared at me coldly without a word. Scared me to death…” I do have a strong territorial instinct. Things I mark as mine are in my protected zone. Whether I like or dislike the object, anyone else touching it is offending me. Violet lives in my house, so she is mine. And I hate being offended the most.

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My husband, crippled by severe depression, wanted to try BASE jumping. He said throwing himself off a cliff was the only way to release the pressure. But when I checked his parachute pack, my blood ran cold. The chute inside had been sabotaged. Panic seized me. I opened my mouth to scream, to stop him, but then the comments flooded my vision. Wait. Am I the toxic shrew? Just then, a new wave of comments scrolled by. But I just stared, pretending I hadn’t seen a thing. Warn him? Why on earth would I do that? Happily ever after? They can have their happily ever after in hell. … “Annelise, I love you, I really do. But I’m sorry. You’ve driven me to the edge.” Then, without another moment’s hesitation, he took a step into the void. The comments in front of my eyes went into a frenzy. I raised a pair of binoculars to my eyes. Far below, I could see Vincent frantically fumbling with his pack, his expression twisting from confusion to sheer, primal terror. And then his time ran out. His scream was swallowed by the vast green canopy of the forest below as he vanished from sight. It took everything I had not to burst out laughing. I had a role to play. “Vincent! No! Vincent, don’t do this to me!” I clapped a hand over my mouth, letting out a piercing shriek. I scrambled to the cliff’s edge, peering into the abyss as tears streamed down my face, a convincing torrent of grief. “My love! You can’t leave me like this!” A small, satisfied smile touched my lips. I immediately pulled out my phone and dialed the park ranger’s emergency line. A familiar voice answered on the other end. “Help! Please, help my husband! He just jumped and his parachute didn’t open! You have to send someone down there!” There was a pause on the other end, followed by a smug little chuckle. “Ma’am, please try to stay calm. We’re a bit short-staffed at the moment. A kitten fell down a ravine, and we have all hands on deck for the rescue. It might be an hour before we can get to your location.” “What? An hour? You’re saving a cat when a man’s life is on the line? He’ll be dead by then! Please, I’m begging you! I can’t live without my husband!” I fell to my knees, clutching my head in my hands, my body trembling violently. I was the very picture of a woman utterly destroyed. But Lily’s voice was dripping with condescending impatience. “Isn’t a cat’s life a life, too? Why are you being so selfish? In my eyes, all life is equal! We can’t just abandon an innocent kitten for your husband!” With that, she hung up. I bit down hard on my thigh to keep from howling with laughter. I had recorded every last word. It was all going to be part of my ironclad defense. Just then, the comments flashed again. What? Still alive? The comments continued. Oh, really? In that case, I absolutely have to go find him myself! “My love! Don’t be scared! I’m coming to save you!” I took the cable car down to the base of the mountain and found Vincent. He was lying in a pool of his own blood, one of his legs twisted at a grotesque, unnatural angle. His face was a mess of scratches, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. His eyes fluttered open. When he saw me, he weakly reached out a hand. “Annie… help me…” I threw myself beside him, cradling him in my arms as I sobbed. “Vincent! You’re alive! Hold on, I’ll call the rangers to come help you!” The moment I mentioned the rangers, his eyes widened in terror. “No… call a doctor!” I pretended not to hear him and dialed the park ranger’s number again. “I found my husband! He’s in bad shape, he’s bleeding everywhere, and I think his arms and legs are broken. Is there any first aid you can teach me?” “Is that so? Okay, you need to start CPR immediately. Chest compressions. Help him get his breathing back. Press hard, and don’t stop.” Hearing this, Vincent nearly choked. He tried to protest, but he couldn’t form a single word. With injuries like his, he had to have multiple compound fractures. Performing CPR on him now would be like personally escorting him to the gates of hell. But how would I know that? I’m just a simple housewife. What do I know about advanced medical procedures? I immediately knelt beside him and began pressing down hard on his chest. A choked grunt escaped his lips. With each compression, a fresh wave of blood bubbled up from his mouth. “Agh!” Vincent cried out, his body convulsing in agony. I feigned panic, speaking into the phone. “Are you sure this is right? He seems like he’s in a lot of pain!” “Of course it’s right! I’m a professional,” she snapped impatiently. “If you don’t do what I say, you might as well just let your husband die.” “No, no, I’ll listen! I’ll do anything, just please save my husband!” “Then keep going. And press harder. At least thirty compressions in a set, no pauses.” Vincent couldn’t breathe. Each push on his chest was like a boulder being dropped on him. He tried to push me away, but his arms were useless, twitching feebly. His face turned a deep shade of purple as blood began to trickle from his nose and the corners of his mouth. The comments were a frantic blur. My arms were getting tired, so I sat back for a moment to rest. But the voice on the phone roared, “Did you stop? Keep going! Do you want your husband to live or not?” “Oh, okay!” I scrambled back into position, thinking to myself, Darling, just look at this mistress you picked. She wants you dead more than anyone. I began pressing again, this time with even more force. I heard a sickening crack from Vincent’s chest. He used his last ounce of strength to hiss, “No… you bitch… you’re doing this on purpose…” His eyes rolled back in his head. His body gave one last violent shudder, like a fish out of water. And then, his voice faded. His body went limp. He was still. Just to be sure, I collapsed onto his chest, wailing dramatically while I listened for a heartbeat. Good. Nothing. The comment feed exploded. Just then, an ambulance arrived. The paramedics got out, gave Vincent’s body a cursory glance without attempting any resuscitation, and simply covered him with a white sheet. “He’s gone. I’m sorry for your loss.” Suddenly, a shrill voice cut through the air, and a foot slammed into my back, sending me sprawling. “Annelise! You bitch! Vincent was depressed, and you just kept pushing him! Now look what you’ve done! He jumped because of you! Give me back my son! Give me my son!” I knelt on the ground, sobbing. “Mom, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault! But maybe there’s still hope! We have to get him to a hospital!” “He jumped to get away from you, you evil woman! Even if he had lived, he would have just tried again as long as you were around! You’re a curse! How can you even stand to be alive?” I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Why shouldn’t I? I’m not the one who cheated. I’m not the one who cooked up some disgusting scheme to steal an inheritance. Just then, Lily arrived. She watched the ambulance drive away, then closed her eyes in a performance of profound grief. Then, she turned to me, her face a mask of disgust.

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