Category: English

It was midnight when my phone finally lit up. I stared at the screen, my heart doing a nervous little flutter-kick in my chest. “Dear Ms. Sharon Chan, wishing you a happy 28th birthday! Your account balance is $328.51.” It was just the bank app. I waited five more minutes, then ten, then thirty. The phone stayed silent. My boyfriend of three years, Ryan Jared, had texted earlier, claiming his flight was delayed due to a business trip, and he’d call as soon as he landed. My mom called last week: “Your brother needs $10,000 for the engagement, wire it over.” I said okay, and she hung up. My best friend, Maya Lin, posted on Instagram today: “Busy but fulfilling day!” The picture was a dozen perfect red roses. I flipped the phone face-down on the table. $328 was my total worth for the rest of the month. I’d given $300,000 for my brother’s down payment, $100,000 for his engagement, and God knows how much more over the last three years to fill various holes. Suddenly, I felt like there was nothing to celebrate on my 28th birthday. But that’s fine. I opened my laptop and pulled up a specific folder. Three years. It was time for me to collect my own debts. 01 Ryan’s flight delay was a lie. I’d known for a while. Because he hadn’t bought a plane ticket; he’d bought a train ticket. The order confirmation was pushed to my email late last night. We shared a joint rewards account. He’d forgotten to log out. The destination? A five-star hotel right here in the city. A “three-day business trip,” and the hotel was twenty miles away from our office. I didn’t confront him. I just wanted to see who he was spending his weekend with. At one in the morning, I lay in bed, wide awake. Staring at the ceiling, I drifted back through the past three years. Ryan was a senior from my college, now my co-worker. “Sharon, I’ve been watching you for a long time.” Back then, I thought he was kind, thoughtful, and ambitious. He told me, “Let’s work hard together. We’ll buy a house and get married before we turn thirty.” I believed him. My salary wasn’t high, but I saved every penny. I’d squirreled away eighty thousand over three years. I gave it all to him. He said it was for a stock market investment that tanked. He said it was for a startup that went belly-up. He said it was the down payment for a car that was stolen. I never questioned him. Because every time, he’d say, “Baby, when I make it big, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” I didn’t need tenfold. I just needed him to remember my birthday. At two in the morning, I messaged him: “Did you land?” No reply. Three in the morning: “Are you asleep?” Read, but ignored. He’d walked 12,876 steps today. A flight delay, stuck at the airport? Could you really walk twelve thousand steps in a terminal? I laughed. It was the first time I truly felt like an idiot. Five in the morning, I finally got his reply. “Just landed. So exhausted. Talk tomorrow, get some sleep.” Attached was a photo of a hotel room. The curtains were drawn tight. But I still saw it. There was a bouquet of flowers on the nightstand. Red roses. The exact same ones from Maya’s Instagram post today. 02 I didn’t lose it immediately. I hadn’t gathered all the evidence yet. At eight in the morning, I got up, washed, put on my makeup, and left for work, like a normal day. The office was forty minutes away by subway. Squashed into the morning rush hour crowd, I thought about Ryan and Maya. How did they even connect? Maya was my college roommate. That’s how she knew Ryan. When Ryan and I started dating, I was the one who introduced them. “This is my best friend, Maya. And this is my boyfriend, Ryan. Please look out for me, you two.” How naïve I was back then. I thought a best friend was a best friend, and a boyfriend was a boyfriend. I thought sincerity earned sincerity. The train was jammed. Someone stepped on my foot without apologizing. I looked down at my shoes. They were a pair I bought on clearance last year for $59. Ryan mentioned last week he wanted a pair of limited edition sneakers—$2,999. I told him, “I’ll get them when I get paid.” He sighed, “Forget it, I don’t want to burden you.” The next day, Maya posted an Instagram story. “A gift I picked out for a good buddy. Hope he likes them.” The photo was the sneaker box. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now, I realized. What best friend buys my boyfriend three-thousand-dollar sneakers? I was completely and utterly played. Nine on the dot, I arrived at the office. It was Monday, time for the weekly meeting. Our director, Ted Carson, sat at the head of the table and scanned the room. “Where’s Ryan?” Leo, a colleague, piped up, “Ryan’s on a business trip.” Ted frowned. “Business trip? What business trip? I didn’t approve any.” Leo laughed awkwardly. “I… I’m not sure.” Ted’s face darkened. The meeting continued, focusing on the proposal review scheduled for next Friday. This was the company’s biggest project this year—a major corporate client, an eight-figure contract. Our team submitted three proposals. I authored one of them. But during the kick-off, Ryan had said, “Just give me the first draft, I’ll help you refine it. We’ll co-author.” I gave it to him. In the end, only his name was on it. Ted had asked me once, “Sharon, the framework for this proposal doesn’t quite match Ryan’s usual style.” I’d said, “We collaborated; he incorporated some of my ideas.” Ted just looked at me and didn’t press. That look—I understood it now. He knew. But he never stood up for me. Because Ryan was his protégé. After the meeting, I returned to my desk and opened my computer. The original file for the stolen proposal was still on my USB drive. I’d saved everything. In three years, I’d learned one thing: Before you commit, always keep a record. 03 At noon, I ordered a $15 boxed lunch. I ate while scrolling through Instagram. Maya posted a second time: “Super happy today! Surprise coming this afternoon~” The photo was her fresh manicure—bright red with tiny hearts painted on the tips. A surprise? What surprise? I looked down at my own hands. My nails were clipped short, unpolished, practical for typing. It had been a year since I last got a manicure. It was for an anniversary dinner Ryan promised. I got my nails done specially. He canceled at the last minute, claiming an emergency. I sat in the restaurant alone for two hours, ate by myself, and went home. He said, “I’ll make it up to you next time.” There was no next time. “Sharon, my office.” Ted’s voice cut through my thoughts. When I entered, he was looking at Ryan’s proposal. The one that was mine. “Sharon,” he began, “how much of this proposal did you actually contribute?” I paused. “I…” “Don’t lie to me.” He looked up. “I know your writing. Ryan’s technical skills aren’t this good.” I kept silent. He sighed. “Forget it, you must have your reasons. I’ll just ask you this: Do you have a handle on next Friday’s review?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “The client has already internally decided on another firm,” he said in a low voice. “That’s insider information. All three of our proposals, no matter how good, are likely just a formality.” My heart sank. “Then why still hold the review?” “To follow protocol,” he said. “But if our proposal is groundbreaking enough, there’s still a slim chance.” He looked at me, a meaningful expression in his eyes. “Sharon, this project is important for you.” “For me?” “You’ve been here three years, and you’re still just a coordinator. Everyone below you has been promoted, and you’re stuck.” He paused. “Do you know why?” I didn’t. I made the PPTs for others to present, I pulled the all-nighters for others’ names to be on, and my ideas were used for others to take credit. But every time there was a promotion, I was passed over. Ted said, “Because you’re too accommodating.” He pushed the proposal toward me. “You present this one yourself.” I took it. I didn’t say yes, and I didn’t say no. Because a thought had suddenly sparked in my mind: Ryan was still “away on his business trip.” I had three days. I could do a lot of damage in three days. 04 After work, I didn’t go home. I went to the five-star hotel Maya mentioned. It was in the heart of the CBD. You needed a key card to get upstairs, but I could wait in the lobby. I bought a $58 latte, sat in a secluded corner, and watched the elevator. At 7:18 PM, the elevator doors opened. Ryan walked out. He was wearing the jacket I bought him—$2,800, three months of savings. The person on his arm was Maya. She was wearing a red dress, fully made up, more beautiful than I had ever seen her. They were laughing and chatting like a couple deeply in love. I took out my phone and snapped three photos. They didn’t see me. They would never in a million years think I’d be here. They walked toward the hotel’s fine-dining restaurant, sat down, and ordered. I watched from afar. I watched Ryan pour her water, serve her food, and cut her steak. He had never done any of those things for me. I watched Maya laughingly feed him a piece of food. He opened his mouth, took it, and they exchanged a look so sickeningly sweet it made my stomach turn. I suddenly remembered something that happened three days ago. Maya asked me out to lunch and inquired, “How are things between you and Ryan?” I said, “Good.” She said, “He got a promotion, you must be happy for him, right?” I said, “Of course.” She said, “Sharon, you’re so generous. I don’t think I could be so understanding.” I didn’t get what she meant then. I got it now. She was testing me. Testing to see if I knew. Once she confirmed I was an idiot, she could confidently move in for the kill. Eight on the dot, they finished their meal. Ryan called the waiter over and said something. The waiter nodded and walked away. A moment later, the restaurant lights dimmed. A cake was wheeled out, topped with candles. The staff started singing the birthday song. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” Maya covered her mouth, a look of surprise on her face. Ryan held her hand, saying something I couldn’t hear. But I saw Maya nod. Then Ryan took a small box out of his pocket. He opened it. A ring. Maya cried, laughing through her tears. Ryan slid the ring onto her ring finger. They hugged. They kissed. The surrounding diners applauded. I sat in my corner and watched the entire show. Today was October 15th. My birthday. Ryan was celebrating another woman’s birthday and proposing to her. Maya’s birthday was April 9th. I remembered it clearly. I sent her a gift every year. So this wasn’t her birthday at all. They had simply chosen the day of my supposed “business trip” to stage their little performance. No. They didn’t think they were staging anything. They just assumed I would never find out. I set down my coffee cup. And I laughed a quiet, sharp laugh. Fine. Very fine. 05 I didn’t storm out right then and there. That would be letting them off too easily. I wanted them to lose everything. That night, I returned to my apartment and started organizing the evidence. First, the proposal. My original draft was completed in March 2023, three months before Ryan submitted his. The revision history, the metadata, the backup emails—a complete chain of evidence. Second, the transfers. In three years, I’d wired Ryan $83,200. I had screenshots of every single transfer. The notes were explicitly clear: stock market, startup, car down payment, credit card debt. Third, the text messages. Including every time he said, “Baby, wait for me,” and every time he said, “I promise I’ll pay you back.” Fourth, my family. My parents had taken $470,000 from me in three years. $300,000 for my brother’s house down payment, $100,000 for his engagement, and the remaining $70,000 for various excuses. Every single transaction was documented. But they had never called to ask how I was doing. They had never once remembered my birthday. I finished organizing around three in the morning. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t cry. The tears felt like they’d dried up. The next morning, I went to work as usual. Ryan hadn’t “returned” yet. Maya had also taken the day off. They were probably still celebrating their engagement at the hotel. I opened my laptop and continued revising the proposal. Ted told me to present it myself, and I would. I spent those three days working non-stop to polish that proposal until it was flawless. Around noon, my mom called. “Sharon, did you send the $10,000 for your brother’s engagement party?”

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The $1,250.00 deduction. Success. I stared at the paycheck stub, reading the line item three times. The memo read: Dept. Retreat – Split Cost. But I never went. I didn’t request time off; I wasn’t even told it was happening. I opened my phone and scrolled through the department group chat. Nothing about a trip. Not a single notification. I switched to Instagram, where my feed was already saturated with colleagues’ posts. Blue skies, ocean waves, grilling, bonfires. The captions were all variations of the same saccharine sentiment— “The Department Family! Love these guys!” The family. I managed a small, dry laugh. 1. I’d worked in this department for three years. Three years. I hadn’t taken a single sick day, and I’d never once been late. I was the one who logged the most overtime, the one who handled the messiest, most tedious tasks. But now, looking at that deduction, I suddenly felt like a punchline. “Paige Miller, could you sign off on your pay stub, please?” Ms. Davis from Accounting handed me the paper, her expression utterly neutral. I pointed to the offending line: “What is this $1,250.00 for?” “The department retreat. Split cost.” “I didn’t go.” Ms. Davis paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “You didn’t? Wasn’t it mandatory for the whole team?” I stayed silent. She checked her computer. “The system shows your manager submitted a full roster, including your name.” “Who submitted the roster?” “Gillian Shaw. Your manager.” I nodded slowly, took the stub, and walked out of the accounting office. Gillian was our Department Head, promoted to Associate VP just this year, five years ahead of me on the corporate ladder. I stopped by her cubicle. She was sipping yogurt, and when she saw me, she offered a practiced, bright smile. “Paige, everything okay?” “Gillian, why wasn’t I notified about the department retreat?” Her spoon froze halfway to her mouth. “You were notified, sweetie. It was in the group chat.” “I didn’t receive a notification.” “You didn’t?” She put the yogurt down and pulled out her phone, scrolling rapidly. “See? It’s right here.” She tilted the screen toward me. It was a separate chat, labeled The Insiders’ Club. I scanned the member list. Twelve people. Our department had thirteen employees. The one missing was me. “Gillian,” I pointed to the chat. “I’m not in this group.” She blinked, then laughed, a slightly too-loud sound. “Oh, really? My bad, Paige. Must have slipped through the cracks when we set up the chat. So sorry about that.” “But the money was deducted from my paycheck.” “What?” She paused, genuinely surprised this time. “Well, then you need to talk to Accounting and get a refund.” “Accounting said the roster came from you.” “Then…” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ll make a note of it. I promise I’ll include you next time.” “Next time?” “Yes, next time we have a department outing, you’ll definitely be invited.” I just looked at her, saying nothing. She capped her yogurt container, stood up, and patted my shoulder—a gesture that always felt more like a dismissal. “Paige, don’t take this so personally. It was just an oversight. We’re all colleagues, after all.” “What about the money?” “The money is an Accounting matter. My end of things was just the standard paperwork.” With that, she grabbed her yogurt and headed toward the break room. I stood there, the pay stub clutched in my hand. $1,250.00. Not a fortune, but not insignificant either. It was the equivalent of three full weekends I’d traded my life for. Now, it was paying for a beach I’d never set foot on. I returned to my desk and opened my laptop. An unread email from last week was sitting in my inbox. Subject: Department Retreat – Travel Details. I clicked it open. Recipient: All members of The Insiders’ Club. I was not on the CC list. Attached was the itinerary: a three-day, two-night trip to Nantucket. The per-person cost was $1,250.00. It covered the charter bus, the seaside hotel, the dinners, and a special evening gala. I scrolled down to the attendee roster. My name was there. “Paige Miller—Fee Paid.” Who paid my fee? I scrolled to the very bottom. There was a line in small print: Fees will be collected via automatic payroll deduction. I understood. No one paid for me. It was simply taken from me. The notification went to a group I wasn’t in, and the expense was deducted from a paycheck I’d earned. It was all perfectly “normal.” So normal it was absurd. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. A memory flashed into my mind. Last Wednesday, lunchtime. I was finishing a proposal, so I skipped the cafeteria. Later, hungry, I headed to the lobby for a snack. As I passed the break room, I heard voices. “I booked the hotel in Nantucket. Ocean view, it’s going to be amazing.” “What day are we leaving?” “Next Friday. Back on Monday.” “Perfect, finally a getaway.” I froze outside the door. A trip? What trip? I was about to walk in and ask, but then I heard a warning— “Keep it quiet, though. Let Gillian handle the rollout.” It was Tiffany Brooks speaking. She was the newest hire in the department, fresh out of college, but she was sharp and highly skilled at ingratiating herself with Gillian. I stood at the doorway and walked away without going in. I waited three days. No one said a word to me. I assumed the plans had fallen through. Now I knew the truth. It wasn’t canceled. I was. I minimized the email and opened Instagram again. I scrolled through the photos. Tiffany had posted a carousel, all vacation shots. The first was a group picture. Sunlight, sand, twelve people laughing. No me. The caption: “The Insiders’ Club, family forever!” I tapped the comments. Gillian’s comment was at the top: “Our team is the most united!” Tiffany replied: “All thanks to Gillian’s leadership!” A stream of back-patting followed. I kept scrolling and saw one comment from Scott Lewis: “Seriously had the best time. Hope we can do it again soon.” Someone asked: “Where to next?” Tiffany replied: “Whatever Gillian plans! I’m tagging along!” I put my phone down. Three years. I’d been here for three years. No one asked if I was going. No one even seemed to notice I was missing. I looked at the group photo and felt an odd kind of emptiness. Three years. I’d written the most proposals, worked the most overtime, and taken the most undeserved criticism. Yet, in that picture, I was completely absent. I had never truly been a part of it. The office suddenly came to life. My colleagues were filtering in from lunch. Tiffany’s voice was the loudest. “Hey, everyone, I finished editing the pictures. Sending them to the chat now.” “Great, send them over!” “Me too! Me too!” They clustered around her, chattering about the trip. Seafood dinners. Sunrises. The beach bonfire. Sand volleyball. No one looked my way. I put my head down and forced myself to work. The proposal I was working on was still open on my screen. I had rushed to finish it last Friday. I’d worked until 2 a.m. When Gillian presented it on Monday, she’d said: “This proposal is the culmination of our team’s hard work. Great effort, everyone.” Team. Culmination. Everyone. I looked up at her. She was shaking hands with a client, beaming. I looked back down. A notification popped up in the bottom right corner of my screen. It was a message from Tiffany in The Insiders’ Club group chat— “A-Team, let’s aim for Cabo next time!” A cascade of “Yes!”, “Count me in!”, and “Can’t wait!” followed. I wasn’t in that chat. But my name would probably still appear on the expense sheet. Wouldn’t it? 2. The next day, I went back to Accounting. “Ms. Davis, can I get a refund for the $1,250.00?” She checked her system and shook her head. “I can’t process it, Paige. Your department filed for mandatory attendance. We don’t have a process for individual refunds.” “But I didn’t attend.” “Then you’ll need a letter from your manager, confirming you were physically absent. Only then can we initiate an exception refund.” I nodded. “Understood. I’ll ask her.” I went straight to Gillian’s desk. She was chatting with Tiffany. Seeing me, she gave me a dismissive smile. “Paige, something else?” “Gillian, I need a letter certifying that I did not attend the department retreat.” “A letter?” “Yes, Accounting requires it to process my refund.” She paused, her smile turning brittle. “Paige, that… that’s going to be difficult.” “Why?” “Look, your name was on the roster. The bus was chartered, the hotel was booked. You say you didn’t go—how can I prove that?” “I definitively did not go.” “I know, I know,” she waved a hand dismissively. “But you’re putting me in a difficult position here. I submitted the official roster. If I certify that you didn’t go, it makes it look like I messed up my job.” I just stared at her, waiting. She sighed. “How about this? I’ll reach out to Ms. Davis and see if there’s another way to handle it, okay?” “When will you have an answer?” “The…” She glanced at her watch. “Things are crazy busy right now. I’ll try my best.” “How long is ‘try my best’?” Her forced smile finally cracked. “Paige Miller, I said I’ll try my best. Why are you being so difficult about this?” Tiffany chimed in from the side. “Seriously, Paige, it’s $1,250.00. Is it really worth this drama?” I turned to Tiffany. She was wearing a new dress, one she’d showcased in her Instagram stories, likely purchased on the trip. “$1,250.00,” I said, my voice even. “Is what I earned by working three full weekends straight.” Tiffany pursed her lips and looked away. Gillian put a hand on Tiffany’s arm and smiled at me again. “Paige, I understand, truly. But you need to understand me too, okay? I’ll try to handle this. Now, please, get back to work.” I stood there for a few seconds, then turned and walked away. Back at my desk, I opened my computer. One thought kept looping: Who put my name on the roster? I pulled up the email and reviewed the attendee list again. Next to every name was a detail: Registration Date. Tiffany Brooks: April 15th. Scott Lewis: April 15th. … I scrolled down to my name. Paige Miller: April 20th. April 20th. What was I doing that day? I remembered. It was a Thursday. I was rushing to finish the quarterly presentation deck. I worked until after 10 p.m. I had no time to check messages. More importantly, I wasn’t in the group chat. April 20th. The day before registration closed. Someone had “registered” me. Who? I checked the email sender again. Sender: Gillian Shaw. She submitted the roster. I took a deep breath. I remembered another incident. This past March. The department had a dinner to celebrate meeting the quarterly targets. I was working late that night and missed it. The next day, there was a receipt on my desk. For the dinner. Split cost: $75.00. I asked Gillian about it. She said: “Oh, you didn’t come? I thought you were. I already included you in the count. I’ll be sure to check next time.” I’ll be sure to check next time. I paid the $75.00 and let it go. Now, I wondered: Was I “forgotten” that time, too? I opened my phone and scrolled back through my texts. The notification for that dinner had also been posted in The Insiders’ Club group. I wasn’t in it. I scrolled back further. Last December. The company holiday party. The department was putting on a skit and rehearsing ahead of time. I remember seeing them huddled in the break room often. I’d asked once: “What are you all up to?” Tiffany had said: “Nothing, just messing around.” Later, at the party, the department performed the skit. Twelve people. I wasn’t one of them. I thought then that I just wasn’t involved enough, that they were too polite to ask. Now I knew the truth— I was “forgotten” then, too. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles. Three years. How many times had I been “forgotten”? Dinner. Team-building. Rehearsals. The retreat. But the deductions were never forgotten. I picked up my phone and opened my contacts. I found Scott Lewis’s name. Scott was a peer, the closest thing I had to an ally, though even that was a stretch. I sent him a message: “Scott, quick question.” “What’s up?” “The Insiders’ Club chat. Do you remember when it was created?” He sent a thinking emoji, then replied: “End of last year, I think. Gillian started it.” “Why?” “She said it was for internal department-only communication.” “Why not use the existing department chat?” He didn’t reply immediately. After a moment, he wrote: “Paige, why are you asking?” I didn’t answer him. I already knew the answer. End of last year. What happened then? I remembered. That was when I completed a major project. I finished it single-handedly. The client was thrilled and signed a huge contract. When the annual reviews came around, I thought I was a lock for the “Outstanding Employee” award. The award went to Tiffany Brooks. I asked Gillian about it. She said: “Paige, your work ethic is fantastic. But you need to improve on team collaboration. Tiffany, on the other hand, is great at connecting with everyone. She has real team spirit.” Team spirit. My project involved countless nights of solitary overtime. While they were team-building, eating dinner, and rehearsing, I was working. Therefore, I “lacked team spirit.” I understood. I finally, truly understood. I wasn’t forgotten. I was cut out. Since the end of last year. Or maybe even earlier. I sat at my desk, looking at the computer screen. A new proposal was open, due today. Gillian’s morning assignment. She’d said: “Paige, you’re the most efficient. This one’s for you.” Most efficient. So I got the heavy lifting, the thankless tasks. The retreats and team-building? Those were for the “team.” I wasn’t part of the team. My phone vibrated. It was Scott. “Paige, don’t overthink this. She probably just forgot to add you when she created the chat.” Forgot. Always forgot. I replied with two words: “No problem.” Then I put the phone down. And I kept working. What else was I supposed to do? What could I do? I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. $1,250.00. Three years. A group photo of twelve people. I wasn’t in it. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming weariness. Not physical fatigue. A deep, profound exhaustion that settled in my bones. Too tired to move. Too tired to speak. Too tired to pretend nothing was wrong anymore. I saved the document and shut down my computer. I stood up. “Where are you going?” Tiffany asked. “Restroom.” I left the office, but I didn’t go to the restroom. I went to the roof deck. The office was on the 18th floor. I went up to the rooftop terrace. The wind was strong. I stood by the railing, looking down at the city. Traffic, people, skyscrapers. I’d been here for three years. Three years. No days off, no tardiness, no complaints. I thought if I just did my job well, I would be recognized. I thought if I just worked hard, I would be integrated into the team. I was wrong. Wrong from the very beginning. Some circles don’t let you in just because you try hard. If you’re not in the chat, you’re never in the club. I took a deep breath. $1,250.00. I was getting that money back. Not because of the money. But because I refused to be the one who was “forgotten” anymore. Refused to be the one who was “easygoing.” Refused to be the one everyone could walk over. I turned and went back downstairs. Back in the office. Tiffany gave me a strange look. “That was a long trip.” “Mhm.” I sat down and opened my computer. Not to work. But to open my email. I searched and found every email related to department activities for the past three years. I went through them, one by one. Date, location, attendees, cost breakdown. I built an Excel spreadsheet. I logged every instance of being “forgotten.” Dinners: 4 times. Team-Building: 3 times. Rehearsal: 1 time. Retreat: 1 time. Total: 9 times. Total cost: $3,250.00. (Adjusting total cost to reflect the new per-event cost) Times I actually participated: 0. Times I actually paid: 9. I stared at the number, a small, cold smile touching my lips. Three years. I had paid over three thousand dollars for a place that didn’t exist. A hefty fee, indeed. 3. When it was time to leave, I didn’t stay late. Gillian looked at me. “Paige, that proposal—” “Due tomorrow.” “Tomorrow? The client is pressing.” “Then let Tiffany handle it,” I said, standing up and gathering my things. “She has team spirit.”

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My wife came home late that night, looking like a ghost. Her stockings were shredded, her dress barely clinging to her hips, and her skin was a road map of angry, crimson bruises. The moment she crossed the threshold, she bolted for the bathroom, locking the door. I heard the shower immediately—she scrubbed until her skin was raw, desperate to erase what had happened. I wanted her to call the police. I begged her. But after hours of relentless scrubbing, the police said there was no physical evidence left. When the district attorney’s office reviewed the case, the surveillance cameras in her boss’s office were, coincidentally, “under maintenance.” Eventually, the case was dropped due to insufficient evidence. Rage consumed me. I drove straight to her office and beat her supervisor into the floor. My reward was seven days in a local detention facility for assault. It wasn’t just the jail time. After the incident, Veronica developed severe psychological distress. For two agonizing months, she flinched away from my touch—any touch. I finally reached my limit. I called her family over, sat them down in our living room, and announced I wanted a divorce. Veronica stared at me, disbelief warring with pain in her eyes. “Is this my fault? Am I to blame because I was assaulted? And you’re leaving me over this?” I looked at her, my voice flat, hollowed out of all emotion. “Yes. Precisely because you were assaulted, I am divorcing you.” 1 Veronica’s face was slick with tears, her gaze full of shock and betrayal. “Nick, is this what you’ve wanted for months? Did you just use what happened as an excuse?” “You’ve wanted to leave me since day one, haven’t you? You think I’m dirty now.” I met the gaze of the sobbing woman in front of me, but I felt nothing. My heart was a stone. “Whatever you think, this marriage is over today.” Veronica gasped, startled by the finality in my voice. She hadn’t expected me to be so firm. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Peterson, immediately scowled. She started to speak, but Mr. Peterson squeezed her arm, stopping her. “Nick, son, I know this is hard for you to swallow, but Veronica is the victim here,” Mr. Peterson said, his tone softening in a bid for peace. “She didn’t ask for this. She’s suffering enough. This is the test of your vows, isn’t it? As husband and wife, you get through this.” Mrs. Peterson jumped in, her voice shrill. “That’s right, Nick! Veronica has been a good wife! Look at her—she’s beautiful, she’s successful. You got lucky marrying her! This is the kind of man you’re going to be? Abandoning your wife when she needs you most? Grow up, apologize to her, and stop this foolishness!” Veronica, recovering slightly, reached for my hand, playing the supportive wife. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I know you’ve been hurting, too.” “You don’t have to apologize. Let’s just put this behind us and move forward. Please?” The other Peterson relatives who had gathered in the living room chimed in, leaning into the pressure. “Nick, this is wrong. No one wanted this for Veronica. You’re the man, you need to be bigger.” “And honestly, you have some blame here. She was working late—why didn’t you go pick her up? If you had, none of this would have happened!” “Come on, forget the divorce talk. You two are young. This is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Your lives are just beginning.” Hope flickered back into Veronica’s tear-stained eyes. “Sweetheart, I know the last two months have been so hard on you.” “I promise I’ll adjust. We can just pretend it never happened, okay?” Her voice caught on a sob. If you didn’t know the full story, you’d think she was making the biggest sacrifice in the world. I took a step back, breaking her grip on my hand, ignoring the chorus of judging relatives. “Veronica.” My voice was ice. “I am going through with this divorce.” 2 Veronica froze, her whole body rigid with shock. Mr. Peterson’s face went dark with anger. “Nick! You are an animal! Divorcing your wife over something like this? You are no man!” I glanced at my father-in-law and gave a cold, short laugh. “You’re a man. If your wife came home after cheating on you, could you live with her?” Mrs. Peterson’s hand trembled as she pointed a finger inches from my nose, her voice cracking. “That’s not the same! Was she willing? Did she want this to happen?” I didn’t answer her. I looked down at Veronica. I remembered that night two months ago: Veronica floating into the house, lost, her stockings torn, her dress hanging like a rag. She didn’t see me, just went straight to the shower. The next day, she told me she was forced by her supervisor, Clay. She fought, she said, but it was no use. I was blind with rage. I dragged her to the police station. But all evidence had literally gone down the drain. The company cameras were “down,” and the police told us we had nothing. Case closed. Watching Veronica exist as a shell, dissolving into tears every day, I felt a desperate, helpless pain. I went to her company and gave Clay the beating of his life. I spent a week in custody. Two months had passed. The truth of what happened that night—whether she was forced or not—was known only to Veronica and Clay. A cynical smile touched my lips. “Veronica, why do I want this divorce?” “Don’t you actually know the reason?” She flinched, a flash of guilt flickering in her eyes. I stepped further away, putting distance between us. “After it happened, I told you to quit. I told you I could support us, cover the mortgage and the bills. I told you to stay home and heal. But you refused. You insisted on going back to that office every single day, to face the man you claimed was disgusting.” Veronica visibly relaxed at my words. She immediately played the martyr, tears streaming down her face. “We’ve only been married for two years! We have the mortgage, the car payment, all our debt. How could I let you shoulder all that alone?” “Nick, do you really think I’m an embarrassment? Do you think I’m ‘throwing myself out there’?” “I was doing it for you. For our family.” I scoffed. “You know exactly who you were doing it for.” Hearing our exchange, the relatives reached a fever pitch. “Nick, you are unbelievable! Veronica suffered a trauma, and you’re not even thinking about her feelings, you’re worried about her throwing herself out there?” “She’s pushing through all that pain to keep working for you and the family! She has to face that monster every day. Don’t you think she’s hurting more than you?” “You are the monster! The sheer ingratitude!” Mr. Peterson had heard enough. He grabbed Veronica’s arm, ready to pull her out. “Come on! You’re coming home with your mother and me! We don’t need to talk to this kind of filth!” Veronica pulled her arm away, tears still flowing, but her face set in a look of grim determination. “It’s okay, Dad. Nick and I are married. Whatever happens, we have to face it together.” “He’s just struggling right now. You two go home. I’ll talk to him. Please don’t worry about me.” Mr. Peterson’s face twisted with helpless anger and pity for his daughter. He wanted to scream at her, but looking at her tear-streaked face, he couldn’t find the words. He turned his fury on me instead. “Listen to me, Nick! You better think this through very carefully!” “You’re a stray! An orphan who only got a shot because we let you marry our daughter! If you leave her, you’ll be on your own—see how far you get then!” With that, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and the other relatives stormed out, not looking back. The living room fell silent. I took one long, assessing look at Veronica, then turned and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. I locked the door and pulled out my phone, dialing my cousin, Danielle, who was an attorney. “Danielle, any progress on what I asked you to check?” Hearing her answer, a heavy weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying finally shifted. “Good. We may need to go to court in a few days. I need your full support.” 3 I got home late the next night after work, and stopped dead in the doorway. The dining table was set with an elaborate, beautifully plated dinner. Candles flickered softly, and Veronica was sitting there in a revealing, silky nightgown. When she saw me, her face lit up. “Honey, you’re home! Come sit down, look what I made for you.” When I didn’t move, she rushed over, took my hand, and gently led me to the table. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I thought everything through. I realized that I wasn’t the only one suffering these past two months—you were, too.” “I was so deep in my own pain, I didn’t consider your feelings. I won’t do that again. We can start fresh, together.” “Sweetheart, let’s stop fighting. Please?” As she spoke, Veronica deliberately straightened her back, pressing her chest forward. Two years of marriage meant I knew exactly what that gesture meant. Since that night two months ago, she had completely shut me out. Forget intimacy, even a simple arm around her shoulders would make her shriek in panic. She must have convinced herself that my demand for a divorce was purely about her physical rejection. She thought this elaborate setup would fix everything. How small she thinks I am. I slipped my hand free and flicked on the bright overhead lights, shattering the cozy atmosphere. “Veronica, stop the theatrics.” “I told you: this divorce is happening, no matter what.” She froze, stunned that I hadn’t crumbled. Before she could form a reply, two figures burst out of the guest room. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson stood there, faces contorted with rage. Mr. Peterson pointed a finger at me, but his words were directed at his daughter. “How did I raise such a foolish, blind daughter! How could you choose a man like this? Look at you, doing this for him, and he still wants a divorce! He is making a fool out of you!” Mrs. Peterson stepped forward, shielding her daughter behind her back. “I know what’s going on! This animal has been cheating on you!” “It’s the 21st century! No man leaves his wife over something like this unless he has someone else waiting in the wings! And why now? Why not two months ago? Why the sudden urgency?” “Nick, tell me the truth. Do you have a mistress?” Veronica looked at me, her tears suddenly stopping, her eyes wide with shock. “Sweetheart, is this true?” She didn’t wait for an answer, muttering to herself, “It must be. It absolutely is.” “You’ve been coming home late every night for two months, and you always brush me off when I ask where you’ve been.” “You really did find someone else! Nick, how could you do this to me?” I almost laughed at the sheer gall of the accusation. “Who is cheating? Who has a secret life outside this house?” “Veronica, your parents are right here. Do you dare tell them—” I was cut off. My mother-in-law, driven by righteous fury, lunged at me. “I’ll kill you! You bastard! You’re not even human!” “My daughter has been through hell, and you have the audacity to find someone else? You’re a pig!” I hadn’t anticipated her physical attack. She raked her nails across my cheek, leaving stinging, bloody lines. But she was an elder. No matter how much I despised her daughter, I wouldn’t hit her. I backed away quickly, putting space between us. Veronica, startled, grabbed her mother’s arm. I looked at Mr. Peterson, who still had a shred of composure. “Take her home,” I said, pointing to his wife. “I’ll say it one last time: If you don’t want me to make this ugly, agree to the divorce immediately.” 4 Mr. Peterson glowered at me, his expression one of pure, unrestrained hatred. Finally, he regained control, turning to his wife and daughter. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” Three days later, Veronica came back. The moment she saw me, her eyes welled up. “You won’t answer my calls. You won’t reply to my texts.” “Nick, what are you trying to do? Why are you punishing me like this?” I didn’t look up, instead busy packing her remaining personal items into boxes. “We’re getting a divorce. There’s no reason to communicate.” Veronica’s face hardened. She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly, biting off each word. “Nick, I am asking you for the last time. Are you absolutely determined to end this marriage?” I didn’t reply. I didn’t even lift my head. Mr. Peterson’s patience snapped. He slammed a folder onto the floor at my feet. “Fine! We’ll divorce!” “But Veronica did nothing wrong in this marriage. Since you insist, you’ll walk away with nothing! You leave completely empty-handed!” I put down the box, picked up the settlement papers, and gave a cold smile. “Whether she did anything wrong is a question you should ask your precious daughter.” “And you expect me to walk away empty-handed? You people are sickening.” The second my words left my mouth, Mrs. Peterson darted out from behind her husband, raising her designer handbag like a weapon. “I should have never let my daughter marry you! I knew you were a rotten heart! You think you can claim she’s the fault? I’m telling you: either you sign these papers and leave with nothing, or we’ll see you in court. You won’t take a single penny of my daughter’s!” I grabbed her swinging arm, simultaneously feeling a rush of satisfaction. Court is exactly where I wanted to be. Mrs. Peterson, thinking I was intimidated, yanked her purse back and continued her tirade. “You’re a leech! An ungrateful stray! You’re an orphan with no family name! If the Petersons hadn’t given you a chance, you’d be nothing!” “Now you’ve got your girlfriend on the side, you want to throw my daughter out and pin the blame on her? I’m telling you, it won’t be that easy!” I was tired of the noise. “Since we can’t agree, we’ll settle it in court.” “Talk is cheap. We’ll let the judge decide.” A week later, the divorce proceedings began. Veronica’s family and a host of relatives filled the gallery, a wall of support and hostility. Their eyes burned with contempt and fury aimed squarely at me. Before the hearing began, Veronica walked up to me, her eyes red-rimmed. “Nick, do we really have to do this? We can still go home. We can be a family. We can forget everything that happened. Please?” I ignored her, walking straight into the courtroom. Once the initial paperwork was reviewed, the judge looked up at me. “Mr. Hayes, the incident involving Ms. Peterson was a tragic accident. You are entitled to file for divorce, but your secondary conditions are unreasonable.” (I had asked for a split that factored in her ‘at-fault’ behavior). “Under these circumstances, you cannot demand Ms. Peterson walk away with nothing.” I stood up, meeting the judge’s gaze. “Your Honor, I have additional evidence.”

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At eighteen, Caleb Thorne shielded me in his arms. He took a brutal beating from a gang, leaving him bloodied and barely clinging to life. As he lay on the gurney, someone asked if he regretted it. Barely conscious, he let out a reckless, wild laugh: “Regret? Hell no. What are two broken legs compared to this?” “I’ve got myself a wife for life now!” At twenty-eight, I slipped off my wedding ring. Along with a pink hair tie I’d found in his pocket, I handed it all back to him. He took the hair tie—the one his little college mistress had used to provoke me. He leaned against the wall, watching me with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes: “Honey, you don’t actually think this little stunt is going to make me have a change of heart, do you?” 1 I didn’t answer. I just kept packing my things. The hair tie was a soft baby pink, the kind that looks cute and playful on a college girl. Caleb slid it over his wrist, let out a dry chuckle. His gaze lingered on the pink band as if he were seeing someone else through it, and the curve of his mouth softened into something sweet. If this were the old me, I would have been triggered. I would have screamed, cried, and hysterically demanded to know if he was thinking about that brat. But now, I just pushed the wedding ring closer to him across the table. “Let’s get a divorce, Caleb. I’m serious.” Caleb didn’t respond. He maintained that same casual, indifferent posture, though his smile gained a sharp edge of mockery. I knew he didn’t believe me. Because “divorce” was a word I had thrown around a hundred times over the last few years. The first few times, he actually panicked. He’d get bloodshot eyes, making promises, swearing oaths. He’d do anything and everything to beg me to stay. Until that one time. His little side-piece caught a high fever. I was on the verge of a breakdown. I told him if he dared to go to her, we were done. That day was my birthday. Caleb never came home. When the girl sent me a voice clip of her moaning his name, I actually considered ending it all. I stood by the open window, the night wind chilling my skin to the bone. In the end, I didn’t jump. I just slumped onto the floor and sobbed like a broken animal. When Caleb finally came home, he knelt in front of me and laughed mockingly: “Wifey, weren’t we getting a divorce?” “Why are you still guarding the house like a loyal dog, hm?” 2 “Caleb, this time is for real.” I finished packing the last of my things and took a deep breath. Caleb was starting to look impatient. But then, a specific ringtone—one reserved for her—chimed through the room. Caleb stood up straight, and as he answered the phone, his features softened instantly. He let out a low chuckle, flirting as if I wasn’t even in the room: “What is it now, my little troublemaker?” “Oh, you’re asking me? It’s Valentine’s Day!” “Every other girl has her boyfriend with her, and my boyfriend is stuck at home with an old woman.” The girl’s voice was young, vibrant, and undeniably sweet. Caleb couldn’t resist her pouting. He surrendered immediately: “Alright, alright. I’m coming to find you right now.” He hung up, the doting look still in his eyes. But when he turned back to me, his voice was cold as ice. “Honey, you aren’t hitting menopause early, are you?” “Why all the drama today?” I watched his retreating back and sighed softly. I had loved him too desperately, too pathetically. So much so that when I finally meant it, no one believed me. 3 After Caleb left, my phone buzzed. It was a notification from a contact saved as “Lily.” [Hey Auntie, want to bet Caleb still spends Valentine’s with me?] [Hehe, looks like I won.] The girl’s provocations were childish but effective. Usually, they were enough to send me into a spiral. But I knew exactly where she got her confidence from. When Caleb first started cheating, he wasn’t this blatant. Back then, he hid Lily’s texts. He coaxed me, begged me, told me he’d cut it off. My heart was ripped open. I couldn’t believe the man who loved me so fiercely in our teens could stab me like this. Like every other betrayed wife, I went to his office. I screamed about his betrayal in front of everyone. I tried to drag out the woman who was destroying my home. But Caleb protected Lily perfectly. He kept her hidden. Until the day Lily lost her patience and came to me herself to brag. I didn’t even have room to fight back. She slammed down photo after photo of them in bed together. “Auntie, Caleb told me it was love at first sight, but he wouldn’t touch me until I graduated college.” “So, the moment I finished school, he took me. He even cleared his schedule to take me on a trip abroad.” “Oh, right. That was while you were back in your hometown for your father’s funeral.” “See? That’s how much he loves me.” Lily stood there with her high ponytail, gloating about Caleb’s devotion. I lost my mind. I grabbed a glass and smashed it against her. Then, in a fit of rage, I used a shard of glass to slice her face. Caleb arrived in a panic and pulled a sobbing Lily into his arms. He looked at me, his voice freezing. “I’ve spoiled you too much over the years, Winona.” “I’ve let you think you actually have the right to touch what’s mine.” 4 After that incident, Caleb stopped hiding her. He took Lily to every gala, every event, acting intimate in front of everyone. He turned me into a complete laughingstock. No matter how much I raged or cried, he remained a cold observer, like an outsider watching a play. During that time, I lived like a zombie. My nerves were stretched to the breaking point. I was a madwoman. When did I finally decide to give up on him? Maybe it was when my mother was hospitalized for a major surgery. I was exhausted, falling ill myself. Caleb, meanwhile, had the audacity to bring Lily to our house for a party with his friends. I dragged my sick body downstairs and overheard his friends talking about our past. “Caleb really used to love Winona, didn’t he?” “Yeah, man. Caleb was a star athlete. He had scouts from the pro leagues looking at him. His future was set.” “No one expected him to throw it all away to protect her. Getting both his legs smashed by those thugs. He’s carried those scars for life.” Lily, clearly annoyed, pressed for more details. She didn’t want to believe he had ever been that devoted to me. Since she was unhappy, Caleb’s expression soured too. One guy laughed, sounding crude: “It was simple. Those thugs had their eyes on Winona.” “They were trying to drag her into a bar to take turns on her. When Caleb got there, they’d already stripped her. They’d touched her everywhere.” “She was a total mess, crying like a baby.” Lily covered her mouth, let out a giggle. She leaned into Caleb’s chest and spoke with pure malice. “If I were her, being stripped and touched by all those men, I’d just die.” “And you know what they say—flies don’t swarm an egg unless there’s a crack. Who knows if she was the one who lured them in?” “She deserved it.” The moment those words left her mouth, Caleb told her to shut up with a cold face. Lily looked shocked, then her eyes turned red. She started a scene, demanding to go home. “I only said it because I feel bad that you lost your career for her! How could you be so mean to me?!” Caleb couldn’t stand her crying. He started coaxing her. Lily was stubborn, wiping her tears, refusing to give in. She grabbed Caleb’s tie, pouting. “Tell me you regret it then. Tell me if you could go back, you wouldn’t save that old woman. You’d let her rot!” Caleb sighed, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I wouldn’t save her. I wouldn’t.” In that moment, my sick, broken body felt like it finally dissipated. My heart felt a suffocation and despair I’d never known. It was also in that moment that I woke up from the dream. I finally realized. Caleb was no longer the boy who loved me. I needed to let him go. And I needed to let myself go. I gave myself one week to process it all. Today was the last day.

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I transmigrated into the role of a gold-digging, roommate-seducing villain in a romance novel. The System gave me a mission: Seduce the male lead, Caleb Vance. Me: “…I don’t know how.” The System was exasperated: [Be a little sluttier! What do you mean you don’t know how!] [If you don’t know how, just learn! See those white lace stockings? Put them on!] Me: “…” Grudgingly, I put on the lace stockings that dug into my thighs. Following the System’s instructions, I snapped a photo and sent it. “Daddy, do you like it?~” The reply came quickly. “?” “Disgusting. Get lost.” Me: “…” 1 Inside the dim bed canopy. I took a deep breath, lifted my leg, and slowly pulled the edge of the white stocking up. While putting it on, I was terrified. “It’s so thin… System, will I rip it?” The System sneered: [If you rip it, you’re done for. You have no money left, so you’ll have to seduce the male lead in torn stockings!] Me: … I swallowed my pride and carefully pulled the stockings up, then let out a long sigh of relief. Suddenly, someone slammed their fist onto my bed frame. “Hey, loser! What are you doing in there?” “This crappy bed is shaking. Are you crying in there?” I had just put on the stockings and was so scared I quickly covered my legs with the blanket. I panicked: “System, what’s happening?” The System replied nonchalantly: [Oh, nothing. You’re just getting bullied.] Me: “Ah, just getting bullied…” Me: “…Huh?!” My vision went dark. The bed curtain was rudely yanked open. I desperately squeezed myself into the corner, curled up into a ball, and whispered a retort: “You… you can’t bully your classmates… it’s not right…” The guys seemed stunned for a moment. Then they burst into laughter. “It’s not right~” “The little loser dares to talk back now?” A tanned hand with bulging veins reached rudely into the bed curtain. I pressed down on the blanket desperately, panicking: “System, think of something!” System: [Don’t rush.] Me: “…” I gave up struggling in despair. Just as the blanket was about to be lifted amidst their laughter, a cold voice spoke up. “That’s enough.” “That’s about it. Don’t bully your classmates.” System: [Hehe, your hubby is here.] 2 The System was smug: [See, told you not to rush. Gold-medal System, everything is under control!] Me: “Okay, okay, you’re the best.” After perfunctorily praising the System, I leaned out to pull the bed curtain back. My gaze abruptly met the man standing by the lower bunk. He looked like he had just come back from a workout, wearing only a black T-shirt, sweat on his forehead. He lifted his eyelids, gave me a cold look, turned around, grabbed his toiletries, and went into the bathroom. I finally let out a delayed gasp. “Damn… so handsome!” System: [Handsome, right? He’s the man of your dreams.] Me: “…Huh???” The delayed plot finally injected into my brain. After seeing the plot clearly, I went blind. I lay peacefully on the bed and closed my eyes. This is a BL novel. I am the gold-digging, green-tea, villainous roommate who seduces the male lead and dies without a burial place. The original host was vain and manipulative, wearing fake luxury brands to show off, only to find out everyone else was wearing logo-less old money brands worth seventy or eighty times more than his knockoffs. From then on, the original host’s life of being bullied began. The male lead was his roommate and helped him out of convenience. In those dark days, he was the original host’s only light. Therefore, seeing the male lead get close to the protagonist (bottom), the original host became jealous and bitter, lied about being the male lead’s boyfriend, hurt the protagonist deeply, and was finally thrown into the ocean by the male lead to feed the fish. After reading the plot, I broke down: “And you call this my hubby? “YOUR hubby!” System: [Oh my, just a joke. Look how anxious you are.] Me: “…” At this moment, the sound of water splashing came from the bathroom. The System rubbed its hands together: [Quick! Seduce early, feed the fish early. Send him your stocking pics!] I lifted the blanket with hatred. My eyes went black again. The original host had almost no living expenses left. The stockings he bought were useless. They looked nice, but were thin as hell. Just struggling just now tore them. The top of the stockings dug tightly into my thigh flesh, but a little further down, several small holes appeared. The System urged me non-stop. I closed my eyes, crossed my legs, struck a pose, and sent it. Along with a few words. “Daddy, do you like it?~” Although I was using a burner account the System applied for me. It was still shameful. Just as I was kneeling on the bed banging my head against the pillow, the sound in the bathroom stopped. Soon, the phone displayed the reply. “?” “Disgusting. Get lost.” Me: “…” 3 The System was delighted: [Great, hated immediately.] [Keep up the good work, dear. Once the protagonist appears, you can go feed the fish.] Me: “…Haha.” After sending the photo, I lay on the bed playing with my phone, dead inside. I heard chatting from the lower bunk. It was a four-person dorm, but now only three people lived there. Me, the male lead, and a roommate who was busy with a startup and rarely came back. Now that roommate rarely came back, laughing at the male lead. “Caleb, why the long face?” The male lead’s voice was cold. “Saw something disgusting.” Me: “…………” I shrank my neck guiltily and kicked the removed stockings deeper under the covers. The roommate laughed. “What is it? Let me see.” Caleb refused calmly: “Nothing.” The roommate didn’t intend to probe further. While washing up, he asked: “A friend asked me to ask you, what kind of person do you like?” “Cool and aloof? Cute? Innocent?” Caleb: “Why ask this?” Roommate: “People are curious! You’ve been single for so long, people want to know which direction to work towards.” Caleb was silent for a long time, then said faintly: “Nothing I like. If I had to say… wearing a thigh garter?” The roommate burst out laughing: “Thigh garter? No way, Caleb, you’re that repressed!” “That position is very ambiguous, like you can grab it with one hand.” The roommate just laughed and didn’t notice. While he was speaking, Caleb’s eyes darkened slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed gently. 4 The System was very excited. [Dear, let’s order a thigh garter right now!] Me: “? No, he likes this, how can I buy it? I should wear something he dislikes.” The System argued plausibly: [It’s precisely because he likes this that you should buy it. Seeing something he likes on your leg, the male lead will be disgusted to death.] Me: “…” Felt like nonsense, but also kind of made sense. Persuaded by the System’s twisted logic, I ordered the thigh garter. Before the order arrived, my life was a straight line between two points every day. Class, dorm. Class, dorm. Occasionally running into Caleb, I ran away shrinking my neck like a thief. Caleb didn’t care. He occasionally glanced at me, eyes deep, unknown thoughts. Life was originally plain like this. Until I was blocked in the classroom again. A few guys laughed like villains: “Little loser, why so well-behaved these days?” “Can’t even afford knockoffs?” “Would’ve been fine if you were this well-behaved earlier. Why did you have to provoke our AAA King!” I was cornered. Trembling. The original host was very vain before. Such vain people always need a reference to show off their excellence. At that time, the original host targeted King. He looked plain, like he’d never heard of any brands. Result: he messed with the wrong person. This King’s family was not only rich, but extremely rich. His family was in construction, rumored to have thousands of excavators at home. After offending King, the original host was bullied by him and his many lackeys every day. Logically speaking, this was karma, a satisfying turn of events. But now I transmigrated into the original host, a good thing turned bad. I tremblingly squeezed out a smile. “S-sorry… “I was blind before. You guys are magnanimous, let me go…” The leading King looked fierce. “Now you know to beg for mercy? You didn’t have this face when you mocked me before!” “I’m acting for justice, just to teach guys like you who look down on others a lesson!” I wanted to cry but had no tears. If it could snow in June, it would be because of the tears I shed today. “I was really wrong… How can you forgive me?” I begged humbly. King looked at me for a while, suddenly reached out, and touched my face. Me: “?” King muttered a few words in a low voice. “Just haven’t seen you for two days, how come you seem prettier?” Then he waved his hand: “How about this, be my lover, and I’ll forgive what you did before.” The guys blocking me were dumbfounded. “King?” “Bro, don’t be blinded by this little guy!” The System was also dumbfounded. [What’s the situation? Where’s the damn cannon fodder?] [Host, refuse quickly! You belong to the male lead…] The System stopped halfway. But even if the System didn’t tell me to refuse, I would have. After all, I don’t like men. Agreeing to transmigrate into this BL world was also because I was just a small cannon fodder who would go offline in a few chapters. I refused tremblingly. “Hahaha King you’re so humorous… but forget it, I don’t have that intention…” After being rejected, King’s face turned fierce. “Is that so? Thought it through? “Refusing a toast only to drink a forfeit. Then let me beat you up once, and I’ll forgive you!” Me: “…Fine!” I closed my eyes like a martyr, waiting for the fist to fall on me. But there was no movement for a long time. Afraid I’d get hit as soon as I opened my eyes, I squinted, carefully observing the situation in front of me. Then opened my eyes in surprise. Within my line of sight, a cold white hand with bulging veins steadily intercepted the fist swung in mid-air. Caleb appeared here unbeknownst to me, standing sideways in front of me, looking very cold. “Didn’t I say, that’s enough?” He looked indifferently at the people in front of him, curling his lips. “Do you guys… not understand human language?” King’s face twisted in surprise and pain. In the silence. The System chuckled. [Hehe, your hubby is here again.] 5 “Sorry! Sorry Caleb!” “We didn’t know this was your guy!” “We’re leaving now! Leaving now!” The guys lost their arrogance. Running away scrambling. I leaned against the wall with lingering fear, exhaling slowly after a long time. …Scared me to death! I thought I was really going to get beaten up. Thank god I didn’t. “Are you okay?” Caleb lowered his eyes and asked faintly, “Can you go back to the dorm?” “Ah, yes.” I straightened up and gave the male lead a sincere smile, “Thanks just now. Without you, I’d be miserable.” Caleb’s pupils stared straight at me for a moment. Until my smile stiffened. Then he withdrew. “It’s nothing, just convenient.” Seemingly unintentionally mentioned, “You seem… to have gotten paler recently.” Me: “Hm? No?” The System chimed in timely: [Dear, the current body is your original body. I used a little trick, so in others’ eyes you seem to have become better looking recently. You can explain it~] Listening to the System’s explanation, I laughed dryly and explained: “Maybe, maybe I haven’t gone out much recently, got pale from staying inside…” Caleb didn’t comment. On the way back to the dorm, my package arrived. After asking if he minded, I took a detour to pick up the package. Caleb asked casually: “What did you buy?” Me: “Don’t know, probably food.” Buying a lot of stuff recently, I forgot about being forced by the System to buy a thigh garter. So seeing the small package boldly written “Thigh Garter Lolita Punk Gothic Sexy Thigh Ring Elastic Band PU Material…” and so on, a long string of words. My cold sweat poured down instantly. Caleb: “What is it?” I instantly stuffed the package into my bag. “No no no no nothing!” System: [What are you shy about? You’ll have to show him later anyway.] I was annoyed: “…That’s also very shy! I’m a man, wearing this kind of thing for the male lead to see, it’s shameful no matter how you think about it!” The System sneered twice and stopped talking. I returned to the dorm with a red face and heavy heart. The first thing I did was climb onto the bed, take out the thigh garter with trembling fingers, and measure it on my leg. “Is it a bit big…” System: [It’s adjustable. Adjust it, make it a bit tight so it squeezes the flesh, that’s best.] I did as told, complaining: “Although you’re just a system, you know quite a lot.” System: [Hehe, actually I know more~ Does host want to know?] I ignored it. After fearfully putting on the thigh garter, I slightly straightened my leg, but still bent a little, and sent it to Caleb. [Image] [Image] “Daddy Daddy, do you like the photos this time~”

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1 The day the true heiress, Lydia, came back, she threw everything out of my room. “I’m the real daughter of this family. You, the imposter, can get the hell out.” “Oh, and before you go,” she added with a sneer, “you can pay back the money you’ve cost my family for the last twenty years. Let’s call it half a million a year. Ten million dollars. Wire it directly to my account.” I silently held out my phone, displaying a QR code for the Heir Verification System. “Of course, Miss Lydia. But before we get to that, you’ll need to join the queue and await identity verification.” Lydia slapped my phone away. “Evelyn Ashworth, who the hell do you think you are, trying to stop me from reuniting with my parents?” “I’m not stopping you,” I explained patiently. “I’m just asking you to follow the process. There’s a line.” But Lydia, desperate to claim her new life, wasn’t listening. “You think someone like me waits in line? Just wait until I find Mom and Dad. You’ll be thrown out onto the street where you belong.” What Lydia didn’t know was that four hundred and ninety-nine people had come before her, all claiming to be the long-lost Ashworth heiress. My parents, overwhelmed, had long ago delegated the entire verification process to me. … Lydia cornered my mother by the elevators, just as she was leaving a board meeting. “Mom!” she cried, dropping dramatically to her knees. “It’s me! I’m your real daughter!” My mother didn’t even glance down. Her assistant, Alex, stepped forward immediately. “Miss, if you wish to make a claim, please use the online booking system.” Tears streamed down Lydia’s face on cue. “Mom! Please, just look at me! My life has been so hard…” My mother finally looked up. She checked her watch. “Thirty-six seconds. Five seconds slower than last month’s girl. Not a record-breaker, kid.” Lydia froze. “What?” My mother pulled out her tablet and swiped a few times. “Candidate YM37, Lydia, age twenty-two. Resides in a low-income apartment complex on the east side. Both parents deceased, completed university on a scholarship.” The color drained from Lydia’s face. “You… you investigated me?” My mother patted her shoulder. “The acting’s not bad, but the script is stale. I suggest you watch episode eight of The Heiress Swap. That girl gave a much more convincing performance.” And with that, she was gone. At three in the afternoon, my father was doing his rounds at the Ashworth Department Store. Lydia appeared again, this time with a new strategy. “Dad!” she called out, holding up a photograph. “Look, I looked just like you when I was a child!” My father took the photo and examined it. “Nice photoshop job,” he said dryly. “But next time, remember to make the ears smaller. The Ashworths don’t have ears that big.” Lydia grew frantic. “But this is really me!” “Kid,” my father sighed, “last year, someone came to us with an AI-generated deepfake video. The technology was far more professional than this.” He handed the photo back to her. “Go find Evelyn. She handles these things.” Lydia stomped her foot in frustration. “Dad! How can you be so heartless?” “Call me Mr. Ashworth,” he said, not even turning back. At eight that evening, my grandmother’s private jet landed. Lydia had been waiting in the VIP arrivals lounge for hours. “Grandma!” she cried, kneeling and bowing her head to the floor. “I’m your real granddaughter!” My grandmother, still groggy from the flight and the time difference, squinted at her. “What number is this one for the year?” Her bodyguard replied, “The fifty-seventh, ma’am.” Grandma nodded. “Does she have an appointment?” Lydia was stunned. “N-no…” “Then that won’t do,” Grandma said with a wave of her hand. “Last year, a girl knelt at the airport for three days straight before we made an exception and squeezed her in.” She had the bodyguard help Lydia up and tucked a business card into her hand. “Here’s my granddaughter’s contact info. Schedule an appointment first.” Lydia looked down at the card. It read: Evelyn Ashworth, Head of Heiress Claims. Her face turned a sickly shade of green. 2 The next day, Lydia stormed into our house. “I want a DNA test!” she slammed her hand on the table. “Now! Right now!” My parents exchanged a weary glance. “Honey,” my mother began, “it’s not that we’re unwilling…” “You’re scared, aren’t you?” Lydia sneered. “Scared the test will prove I’m the real one.” My father rubbed his temples. “We had our blood drawn thirty times last year. We’ve already done it fifteen times since January. My doctor says I’m on the verge of becoming anemic.” Lydia was speechless. I walked in, carrying a tray of tea. “Actually, there are other ways.” “What ways?” she eyed me suspiciously. “Hair or nail clippings,” I said. “The technology is very advanced now; a blood sample isn’t always necessary.” Lydia’s eyes lit up. “Then let’s do it now!” I smiled. “We can. But you’ll still have to wait in line.” “What line?” “There’s a monthly quota for my parents’ hair and nail samples. This month’s is already full. There are over two hundred samples ahead of you in the queue for testing. The earliest slot for yours would be next month.” Lydia exploded. “Evelyn Ashworth! You’re doing this on purpose!” I shrugged. “I’m just following procedure.” Lydia couldn’t wait. She paid twenty thousand dollars to a scalper for an expedited appointment slot. This got her into the “Token Authentication Room” on the third floor. She strode in, head held high like a proud rooster. “I have the keepsake!” she declared, pulling out half of an ornate silver locket. “The nurse at the hospital gave this to me back then! It’s one of a kind!” The staff member, a young man named Kevin, took the locket and scanned her appointment barcode. “Candidate YM37, Lydia. Keepsake category: Locket.” Kevin read from his screen. “We currently have 287 items registered under the locket category.” Lydia’s smile froze. “How many?” “287,” Kevin confirmed, pulling up the data. “143 of them are halves, and 144 are complete.” “That’s impossible!” she shrieked. Kevin offered a polite smile. “It started with two halves that fit together. Then it evolved into quarters. He gestured to a website on his monitor. “Now we even have a ‘Locket Shard Jigsaw Puzzle’ service. Ninety-eight dollars, free shipping.” Lydia looked like she was going to be sick. I patched my voice through the room’s intercom. “Miss Lydia, your locket appears to be a ‘standard edition.’ Market value is about three hundred and eighty dollars.” Lydia whipped her head around, searching for the camera. “Evelyn Ashworth! You set me up!” “It’s called market research,” I replied cheerfully. But she wasn’t done yet. “I also have a birthmark!” She pulled down the collar of her shirt. “A butterfly on my left shoulder! It’s unique!” Kevin sighed and pulled up another database. “Of the 500 ‘heiress’ candidates who have registered this year, 108 claim to have a butterfly-shaped birthmark.” Lydia’s eyes widened. “How many?” “108,” Kevin repeated, enlarging the data visualization. “76 on the left shoulder, 32 on the right.” “But mine is different!” Lydia insisted. “It has a special shape!” Kevin nodded. “Yes. Candidate #43, Candidate #87, and Candidate #201 said the same thing.” He clicked through a gallery of photos. “#43’s butterfly has spots, #87’s has stripes, and #201’s is, and I quote, ‘rendered in 3D.’” Lydia’s lips trembled. “Impossible…” I couldn’t resist twisting the knife. “Miss Lydia, perhaps you should add a tattoo? Tattoos are now being accepted as potential authenticating marks.” Furious, she hurled her teacup against the wall. “You’ll have to pay for that,” Kevin said, instantly printing an invoice. “Custom-ordered porcelain. Two thousand, eight hundred dollars.” She still wouldn’t give up. “I look just like Mrs. Ashworth when she was young!” she pointed at a portrait on the wall. “Look at me!” Kevin sighed again and turned on the projector. An image of another young woman appeared on the screen. She didn’t just resemble my mother; she was a stunning mix of my mother, my father, and even my grandmother. “We refer to her as the ‘Family Portrait Composite,’” Kevin explained. “She won last year’s ‘Most Ashworth-like’ award.” 3 Lydia was quiet for three days. But I knew she was plotting something. Sure enough, she showed up at the Ashworth family’s quarterly gala. Halfway through the evening, a piercing shriek cut through the chatter. “My necklace is gone!” Lydia cried, clutching her throat. “It was a birthday gift from my foster mother!” The entire ballroom fell silent. All eyes turned to her. Lydia sobbed, “It was right here just a moment ago…” Her gaze swept the room before landing squarely on me. “Miss Ashworth,” she said, her voice trembling, “you were just in the powder room, weren’t you?” I raised an eyebrow. “I was.” “Well…” she hesitated for dramatic effect, “could I… could I just take a look inside your purse?” A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. My mother frowned. “Young lady, what exactly are you implying?” Tears welled in Lydia’s eyes again. “Mom, I don’t mean anything by it, I just want to find my…” I laughed, cutting her off. “Fine,” I said, handing her my clutch. “Be my guest.” Lydia took the purse and made a show of rummaging through it. Then, with a theatrical gasp, she “accidentally” tipped it upside down. Its contents spilled onto the floor. Lipstick, keys, a phone. And a glittering diamond necklace. “I found it!” Lydia exclaimed. “This is it!” She snatched the necklace and stared at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “Miss Ashworth, why would you…” “Lydia,” I interrupted, my voice calm and clear. “Do you know why the Ashworth ballroom is equipped with 128 security cameras?” She froze. “What?” I pulled out my phone and played the surveillance footage on a nearby screen. The video clearly showed Lydia sneaking up behind me and slipping the necklace into my open purse. “Over the past three years,” I announced, pulling up a file from our database, “a total of 47 ‘heiresses’ have attempted this exact stunt.” A staff member near the stage chimed in, “This marks the 48th time. Can we please get some new material?” I picked the necklace up from the floor. “And another thing… I bought this last week. I still have the receipt.” I looked directly at her. “Where’s yours?” Lydia’s face was a mask of fury and humiliation. “Is this how the Ashworth family treats their own daughter?” My grandmother let out a cold laugh. “The last person who said that is currently serving a five-year prison sentence.” Lydia fled the ballroom. The next day, the tabloids exploded. #AshworthHeiressInLateNightRendezvousWithRivalExec The accompanying photo showed me helping a man into a car. The angle was deliberately misleading, making it look like we were kissing. I glanced at the source: a notorious paparazzi blogger. I scrolled through the comments. “Here we go again. How many is that this year?” “The last guy who tried to pull a stunt like this had to pay a $5 million settlement.” “Dude, I’d delete this post. The Ashworth legal team is faster than Amazon Prime.” I posted a response on my public social media account: “Thank you, Lydia, for the free publicity on my new green energy project. And for helping me set a new record for the fastest lawsuit filed.” Attached was a photo of the freshly filed court documents. Lydia panicked, deleted the post, and vanished. On the third day, Lydia somehow got her hands on a visitor’s pass and snuck into the company headquarters. She walked into my office carrying a cup of coffee. “Miss Ashworth,” she said, keeping her head down. “I’m sorry about yesterday…” I didn’t take the cup. “Just put it on the desk.” She set it down but didn’t leave. “Is there something else?” I asked. She bit her lip. “Can you forgive me?” I smiled faintly. “You should probably go now.” She turned to leave, her shoulders slumped in defeat. I picked up the coffee, sniffed it, and then pressed a button on my desk console. “Miss Lydia is suspected of attempted poisoning,” I announced into the intercom. “Please escort her for questioning.” Lydia whipped around. “You’re lying! I didn’t do anything!” I pointed at the cup. “Did you know that all Ashworth corporate drinkware is custom-made?” She stared, confused. “There’s a chemical sensor at the base,” I explained, showing her my phone. “It can detect most common substances.” The screen displayed a clear alert: LAXATIVE DETECTED. 23rd attempt this year. Lydia’s face went white. “That’s… that’s impossible!” Security guards rushed into the room. “You can’t do this to me!” she shrieked as they took her arms. I held up a thick binder of files. “I can,” I said coolly. “Based on the eighty-nine individuals who have tried this in the past five years. All of whom were successfully prosecuted.” As they dragged her away, she was still screaming, “Evelyn Ashworth! You just wait! I’ll be back!”

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1 I walked out of the doctor’s office, clutching the test results, my face grim. My husband glanced at the report and saw the three words that would change everything: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. He didn’t say a word. He went home and cooked me a feast of all my favorite dishes, the ones he was famous for. After we ate, he looked at me, his expression serious. “Chloe,” he said, “we still have to put our son through college. This disease… it’s a bottomless pit. There’s no cure. Maybe we shouldn’t even try to treat it.” I stared at him, stunned. He continued, “If it were me, I wouldn’t want the treatment either. I couldn’t let one person drag down the whole family.” “Chloe, I hope you understand.” Of course, I understood him. So I nodded. “Okay. We won’t treat it.” What he didn’t seem to realize was that I wasn’t the one who was sick. 2 Mark had been complaining of weakness and fatigue for a while. I hadn’t been feeling great myself, so we went to the hospital for a check-up together. When the results came back, the doctor called me into his office alone. “You’re Mark’s wife, correct? Based on his test results, he has ALS.” Those three letters exploded in my mind. I knew exactly what they meant. “Doctor, money is no object for us. Please, do everything you can to slow the progression of my husband’s illness, to give him a few more years of quality life. Where there’s life, there’s hope. I don’t care if we have to sell everything we own.” I was trembling when I left the office. I tried to compose myself, but Mark could tell something was wrong. He glanced at the papers in my hand. I quickly stuffed them into my purse. Mark didn’t say anything, just pulled me into his arms. “You must be hungry. Let’s go home, I’ll cook you something delicious.” He made a spread of all my favorites. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. The tears started to fall. He gently wiped them away. “Let’s eat first. We can talk after.” I guessed he already knew. After dinner, we sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Mark broke the silence. “Chloe, maybe we shouldn’t treat it.” I sobbed. “No! The doctor said with proper treatment, we can manage the symptoms. He can still have a few good years!” “But the cost of treating ALS is astronomical. It’s hundreds of thousands a year. It’s too much for us.” I grabbed his hand. “Don’t worry about the money. We both have good salaries. Even if only one of us is working, we can afford it. We’ll just have to tighten our belts a little.” “Chloe, we still have to put our son through college. Your illness is a bottomless pit with no cure. Let’s just not treat it.” I froze. “What did you say?” “If it were me, I wouldn’t want the treatment either. I couldn’t let one person drag down the whole family.” “Chloe, I hope you understand.” So that was it. He hadn’t seen the name on the report. He thought I was the one who was sick. I pulled my hand away. The tears stopped instantly. It’s amazing how quickly love can die. “Okay,” I said, my voice flat. “I understand. We won’t treat it.” 3 Mark visibly relaxed. He took my hand again. “Chloe, it’s not about the money. I’m just thinking about our son’s future.” “He’ll need to go to college, maybe study abroad. He’ll want to get married someday. All of that costs money. If we drain our savings on medical bills, what will he do?” “And the most important thing is, there’s no cure for your disease. Why would we waste money on something that can’t be fixed?” I pulled my hand back. “That’s enough. You don’t have to say any more. We won’t treat it. It is a waste of money. And since you said you wouldn’t get treatment if it were you, how can I argue?” “I’m glad you understand. We can use the money we save to travel. See the world, try new things, experience different cultures. It’ll be great!” For a second, I felt a pang of guilt. Had I misjudged him? I wanted Mark’s last days to be happy. “Okay, then. Book the tickets. You pick the place. We’ll go as a family, wherever you want to go.” “Great. I’ll start looking up destinations.” He spent the rest of the evening on his phone. I assumed he was researching our trip. Three days passed, and I heard nothing. “Mark, have you picked a place? When are we leaving? I need to request time off from work.” He avoided my eyes. “I was about to book the tickets, but my dad was suddenly hospitalized. I have to go be with him. And I don’t feel right about you and our son going alone.” “Let’s wait a little while. When my dad is better, we’ll go.” Mark had a tell. Whenever he lied, his eyes darted back and forth. “Then I should go see your dad.” “No, don’t. Hospitals are no place for you to be right now. Dad will understand.” “By the way, I won’t be home after work today. I’m going to the hospital to stay with him.” I didn’t call him out on it. I just nodded and said okay. At seven o’clock that evening, the GPS on Mark’s phone showed his location as a high-end karaoke bar. I took a cab straight there. After a quick word with the hostess, I went to the private room he was in. The door was slightly ajar. Before I even went in, I could hear Mark’s voice, booming with confidence. “Everyone here is a good friend of Jessica’s, so don’t hold back! Whatever you want to drink, whatever you want to eat, order it. It’s on me!” Cheers erupted from the room. “Mark’s the man! Jessica will be in good hands with you.” Mark had his arm around a woman I didn’t recognize, a wide grin on his face. I pushed the door open. “Mark. Is this what you call ‘staying with your dad at the hospital’?” The noisy room fell silent. Mark snatched his arm back from the woman’s shoulder as if he’d been electrocuted. “Chloe, what are you doing here?” “If I hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have known you were having such a party. Who was it I just heard was going to be ‘in your hands’?” “This is Jessica. She’s my new secretary.” “We just closed a big deal at work, so I’m treating everyone to a night out. My dad has a nurse with him, so you don’t need to worry.” “I’ve been to your office dozens of times. I know all your colleagues. How is it that I don’t recognize a single person here?” Jessica stood up, her face a mask of cold fury. “They’re my friends.” I laughed. “How generous of you, Mark. Treating your new secretary’s friends to a place this expensive.” “Why don’t you introduce me to everyone?” Mark stood frozen. I linked my arm through his and addressed the room. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Mark’s wife. My name is Chloe.” 4 The room was dead silent. A girl sitting next to Jessica sneered. “I know who you are. You’re Mark’s wife, the one with ALS.” “Mark is a saint for not divorcing you, knowing you have a disease like that.” I looked at Mark. “So, even your new secretary’s friends know about this? You’re not exactly discreet, are you?” Mark didn’t say a word. I walked over to Jessica. “Are you that desperate to take my place?” Jessica’s lip trembled, and she started to cry. Mark stormed over, yanked me away from her, and slapped me across the face. “I organized this party! I was the one who told Jessica to invite her friends! If you’re angry, take it out on me!” I stared at the man in front of me, this man who was so consumed with rage on behalf of another woman. I didn’t recognize him. One illness had shown me the true face of the man I slept next to every night. Mark was furious. “You’ve ruined the whole mood.” He called the waiter over. “The check.” “That’s it for tonight, everyone. I’ll treat you all again some other time.” The waiter brought the bill. The total was over ten thousand dollars. Mark paid it without batting an eye. I burst out laughing. No money to treat his dying wife, but plenty to lavish on his mistress. Mark called a car service to take us home. The moment we walked through the door, he said, “Chloe, let’s get a divorce.” I paused. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” “Fine. Then let’s talk about how we’re going to divide our assets.” “We have twenty thousand in savings. We’ll each take ten. The house and our son, they’re both mine. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” Rage surged through me. “Mark, we’ve been married for ten years. We should have at least three hundred thousand in savings. Now you’re telling me there’s only twenty thousand left? Are you kidding me?” “And the house? You bought it with a mortgage. We’ve been paying it off together. Why should you get it? And our son, I’m fighting for him.” “There really is only twenty thousand left in savings. I forgot to tell you, I invested the rest in a small business venture. It all went bust.” “And the house, even though we were both paying the mortgage, the deed is in my parents’ names. So it has nothing to do with you.” I slammed my hand on the table. “Mark! When we got married, you told me this was your house!” “It is my house. Can’t I put my house in my parents’ names?” “Fine. You want to play dirty? Then I’m not divorcing you. Let’s see who outlasts who.” “Chloe! How long do you think you have left to live? If you don’t divorce me, then I’ll just wait for you to die!” I scoffed. “Then let’s wait. Let’s see which one of us dies first.” Mark threw a teacup against the wall. “I must have been cursed to have married you!” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. This time, I didn’t care where he went. I immediately contacted a lawyer to discuss the divorce and asked her to investigate Mark’s transfer of our marital assets, as well as how to win custody of our son. Our eight-year-old son was terrified by our fighting. “Mommy, are you and Daddy going to get a divorce?” he asked, his voice trembling. I pulled him into my arms. “Sweetheart, if Mommy and Daddy separate, will you hate me?” He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s because Daddy likes that other lady.” He took out the Polaroid camera I had bought him. “I took a picture of Daddy kissing her.”

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Two years ago, my best friend’s catering business was on the brink of bankruptcy. I put my own job on the line to secure her an exclusive contract with my company’s cafeteria. That deal was worth over a million dollars a year. I thought she would be grateful for life. Until someone sent me a recording. It was her husband’s voice: “Her? She’s just skimming kickbacks from us. Don’t act like she’s some saint.” I listened to it and smiled. I didn’t explain. I didn’t confront them. Three days later, the contract was awarded to the restaurant she hated most. When she called me, sobbing and begging, I replied with just two words: “Reflect on it.” 1 On a sunny Friday afternoon, I felt a chill that reached my bones. An anonymous email sat in my inbox with a subject line of just two words: “Listen.” The attachment was an audio file. My finger hovered over the mouse, a sense of dread gripping my heart. I put on my headphones and clicked play. After a burst of background noise, a man’s rough, bragging voice pierced my eardrums. It was Greg, my best friend Chloe’s husband. “Audrey? Don’t let her ‘professional’ act fool you. She acts so high and mighty.” “She gave us the contract, sure, but you think she isn’t taking a cut?” “A million dollars in revenue a year, and she doesn’t want a penny? Is she running a charity? Do you believe that?” “It’s just that my Chloe is too honest and kind, willing to let her take advantage. Otherwise, why would such a good thing fall into her lap?” “She’s a butcher. She talks about helping, but she’s holding a knife, cutting our meat piece by piece.” “If it weren’t for the money she brings, who would want to kiss her ass?” The recording wasn’t long, three minutes and twenty seconds. I listened to it expressionlessly. Once, twice. Until that sharp, mean tone drove every word into my brain like steel needles. I took off my headphones. The office was so quiet I could hear the hum of the central AC. The cold air crept down my neck, chilling me to my feet. My mind involuntarily flashed back to two years ago. Chloe’s “Chloe’s Kitchen” had a broken capital chain. She couldn’t pay wages for months and was about to close down. She came to me with red eyes, a woman nearing thirty crying like a child in front of me. “Audrey, help me. This restaurant is my mom’s life’s work. I can’t let it die.” We grew up together. I couldn’t watch her fall. During that time, I withstood pressure from everyone in the company, slamming tables in board meetings with senior directors. I used my position as Administrative Director and my personal reputation as collateral to guarantee that “Chloe’s Kitchen” would provide top-tier catering service. In the end, I secured the exclusive contract for the company cafeteria for her. A steady flow of over a million dollars a year was enough to bring her back from the dead. The day we signed the contract, Chloe held my hand, crying harder than before. She said, “Audrey, I’ll remember this kindness for the rest of my life.” “From now on, my life is yours.” Greg, standing beside her, dropped his usual aloofness. He bowed and scraped, his face piled with a flattering smile. He served me tea and peeled fruit, calling me “Sister Audrey” sweeter than a real brother. “Sister Audrey, you are our family’s savior. We’ll work like horses for you.” The more sincere the smiles in my memory, the more vicious the voice in the recording. Two years. Just two years. The friendship I wholeheartedly protected was, in their eyes, just a transaction to brag about and smear. The help I thought was saving a life became the “kickbacks” of my insatiable greed in their mouths. A wave of physiological nausea rose from my stomach. I didn’t call to question or argue in anger as they might have imagined. Meaningless. Arguing with ungrateful wolves only dirties my mouth. I carefully saved the recording and the email into an encrypted folder. Then, I closed my email as if nothing had happened. I opened the company’s internal supplier database and typed three words. “Taste of Home.” The light from the computer screen reflected coldly on my gold-rimmed glasses. I calmly handled all the afternoon’s pending work, wrote my weekly report, and organized the agenda for next week’s meeting. At 5:30 PM, I clocked out on time. Walking out of the office building, the city lights were just coming on. But the warmth of the world could no longer reach my heart. Before the storm, it is always calm. 2 The next day was Saturday, and I didn’t have to go to the office. But my biological clock woke me up at 7 AM sharp. Outside, the sky was gray, threatening rain. I didn’t stay in bed. I got up, washed, and made myself a simple breakfast. My phone vibrated. A small internal company group chat was flashing. A few colleagues I was on good terms with were chatting. “Omg, did you guys eat the lunch yesterday? That braised pork was so greasy I almost threw up.” “More than greasy, I suspect the kitchen spilled the salt shaker. It was bitter.” “It’s been two months. The cafeteria food is getting worse. Too salty, too oily, bugs in the vegetables.” “Shh, keep it down. She’s Director Audrey’s relative after all. We shouldn’t say too much.” “What relative? I heard they’re best friends. Tight as thieves.” “But it should still be worth the money we pay, right? This quality is worse than cheap takeout.” The phrase “Director Audrey’s relative” pricked my eyes like a tiny thorn. I put down my sandwich, appetite gone. Because of Chloe, my professionalism had been discounted in the eyes of my colleagues. I became the person who practiced nepotism, sacrificing employee welfare to take care of “connections.” I opened Instagram and scrolled down out of habit. Greg’s profile picture appeared in the latest feed. A carefully edited selfie with the steering wheel of a brand-new black sports car in the background, the logo shining brightly. On his wrist was a new luxury watch. The caption read: “Wifey worked hard. All our efforts deserve the best rewards!” Between the lines, uncontrollable pride and showing off. I clicked on the picture and zoomed in. Blinding. I laughed coldly. So “efforts” meant badmouthing me behind my back, painting me as a greedy vampire? It meant lowering the employee food standards again and again, cutting costs to fund your luxury life? Under the post, Chloe’s comment was first. A heart emoji, followed by: “Hubby is the best!” How loving. How harmonious. My finger unconsciously scrolled up, looking through their posts from the last two years. From cautious beginnings to reckless extravagance. New car today, new house tomorrow, Europe trip the day after. Greg’s feed was a live record of a nouveau riche lifestyle. And me? I looked down at my phone, used for almost three years, scratches on the edges. For two years, to help their restaurant balance the books and get on track, I even proactively shortened their settlement period from quarterly to monthly. This meant so much more communication and paperwork for me, so many more rounds with Finance. Did they forget all this? No, they didn’t forget. They just felt it was all deserved. That I should do it. The fire suppressed in my chest finally found an outlet and burned fiercely. I’m not running a charity. My kindness and friendship are not cheap goods for them to squander and trample on. I exited Instagram and found a number in my contacts I rarely contacted. The note said “Taste of Home – Leo.” I dialed his number. “Hello?” A capable, steady male voice came from the other end. “Mr. Leo, hello. This is Audrey Lin.” My voice was calm, without a ripple. “I’d like to meet you to discuss the cafeteria supplier contract for our company. Do you have time tomorrow?” 3 I met Leo at a downtown coffee shop. He arrived before me. When I entered, he was sitting by the window with a laptop, typing rapidly. He wore a well-fitted dark gray suit, hair combed meticulously, radiating professionalism. Seeing me, he immediately closed his laptop, stood up, and extended his hand. “Director Lin, pleasure.” His hand was warm and firm, his gaze open and bright. “Mr. Leo, likewise.” We sat opposite each other, skipping the small talk. Leo took a thick stack of documents from his briefcase and pushed them to me. “Director Lin, this is our initial catering proposal and quote tailored for your company.” I flipped through it. The plan was incredibly detailed, covering nutritional balance, a seven-day non-repeating menu, and custom meals for holidays. Every ingredient source and inspection report was attached at the back. Most importantly, his quote, while guaranteeing higher quality, was actually 10% cheaper than Chloe’s “Chloe’s Kitchen.” I looked up at him. Leo met my gaze frankly. “Director Lin, I won’t hide it from you. I have a bit of a history with Greg from Chloe’s Kitchen.” He didn’t embellish, just stated facts calmly. “My previous head chef was poached by him with triple the salary, taking several of our signature recipes.” “After that, he went around saying Taste of Home’s food wasn’t fresh and hygiene wasn’t up to standard.” I listened quietly without interrupting. I had heard rumors of these old grudges in the catering world, but hearing it from the person involved felt different. There was no resentment on Leo’s face, only a businessman’s calm and honesty. “So, if your company is willing to give me this chance,” he paused, his tone firm, “I am willing to offer another two percent discount on this basis. Furthermore, I can personally sign an unlimited joint liability food safety guarantee with the company.” “I need this order not just for profit, but to prove that Taste of Home is better than them.” His eyes shone with an unconquerable, vigorous ambition. This contrasted sharply with Chloe’s helpless cowardice and Greg’s narrow vanity. I appreciated him. A reliable adult, a trustworthy partner, should look like this. “Mr. Leo.” I closed the proposal, leaning forward slightly to look into his eyes. “Your professionalism and honesty have moved me.” “No need for the extra discount. We’ll go with this quote.” “I have only one request. From the first day of cooperation, I want my colleagues to eat the best work meals in the city.” Leo’s eyes lit up instantly. He nodded heavily: “Director Lin, rest assured. I guarantee it with my reputation.” We drafted a letter of intent on the spot. Shaking hands goodbye, Leo said to me: “Director Lin, thank you.” I smiled: “You should thank your own professionalism.” Returning to the empty office, I sat at my desk and opened my computer. First, I drafted a formal report on terminating the catering service cooperation with “Chloe’s Kitchen.” In the report, I included no personal emotions. Only facts. I attached screenshots and negative data statistics from the internal forum and anonymous feedback channels regarding poor food quality and hygiene concerns over the past three months. Employee satisfaction had dropped from 90% two years ago to less than 30% now. Shocking. Next, I drafted a second report on the public tender and introduction of the new supplier “Taste of Home.” In the proposal, I made a clear comparison table between Leo’s plan and quote versus “Chloe’s Kitchen’s” current service and price. The winner was obvious at a glance. All documents were ready. I saved them on the desktop, named “Final Plan.” The sky outside darkened. Looking at the cold text on the screen, my heart was calm. Everything was ready. Tomorrow would be an interesting day. 4 Monday, 9:00 AM. The internal bulletin board and all employees’ inboxes received a notification from the Administration Department simultaneously. “Notice Regarding the Change of Cafeteria Catering Service Supplier”. Black and white, official wording, but it was like a depth charge dropped into a calm lake. The whole company boiled over. Break rooms, office areas, department group chats were instantly flooded with cheers of “Long live,” “Finally changed,” and “Admin is wise.” A colleague even posted a screenshot of the notice on social media with the caption: “Happiest thing today: finally don’t have to eat pig swill anymore!” 10:30 AM. The delivery van from “Chloe’s Kitchen” drove slowly downstairs as usual. Then, it was stopped by security. “Sorry, sir. Starting today, our company has changed cafeteria suppliers. Your vehicle cannot enter the garage.” The driver, Chloe’s cousin, was dumbfounded. He immediately called Chloe. When Chloe got the call, she probably thought it was a mistake. She hung up and started calling me frantically. Once, twice, three times. Watching the name “Chloe” flashing on my screen, I muted it and tossed the phone to the corner of my desk. When calls didn’t work, she started texting. “Audrey, what’s going on? Security won’t let our car in.” “Are you joking? Tell them to let us in.” “Audrey? Answer me!” I ignored her. At this moment, I was in the conference room with Leo and the legal department, signing the formal contract. Leo had changed into a more formal dark suit, excitement unhidden in his eyes. He signed his name, then we exchanged contracts and shook hands. “Pleasure working with you.” “Pleasure.” On the other side, Chloe, receiving no reply, was going crazy. She abandoned her car on the roadside and rushed into our company lobby like a headless fly. “I’m looking for Audrey Lin! I’m your supplier!” she shouted at the reception. My secretary had received my instructions and politely but firmly stopped her. “Ms. Chen, sorry, Director Lin is in a meeting. You cannot go up without an appointment.” Blocked outside the turnstiles, she sweated profusely, spinning in circles. The embarrassment of her predicament turned her decent face liver-red. She finally gave up, took out her phone, and sent me a long text message. Her tone shifted from questioning to panic-stricken begging. “Audrey, what do you mean? Our friendship of so many years, how can you cut it off just like that? Without even a heads-up?” “Did I do something wrong? Tell me, I’ll change, okay?” “Pick up the phone! Say something! If you do this, my restaurant is finished!” I finished signing, saw Leo off, and returned to my office. Picking up my phone, I saw the text full of breakdown. I looked at it calmly, then typed four words. “Reflect on yourself.” Sent. At the same time, Greg’s social media exploded. He probably saw the celebratory screenshots from my colleagues or got a call from Chloe. He sent a string of question marks in our mutual friend group. “@Audrey, what’s the meaning of this?” No one answered him. Minutes later, he posted a new status, naming no names, but obvious to everyone. “Some people are truly ungrateful wolves. Give them a little sunshine and they think they’re the sun. Who do they think they are!” The picture was a selfie of him rolling his eyes. Looking at that twisted, resentful face, I only found it laughable. The show had just begun.

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1. My mother poured all her hopes into my brother. “My son will be extraordinary,” she said. “Every second of your life is precious.” She controlled every moment of his day—even making him recite English vocabulary in the bathroom. She used physical punishment, verbal abuse, and guilt as her main teaching tools. Under the pressure, my brother fell into depression and tried to kill himself by cutting his wrists. I begged Mom to stop. Instead, she wrapped his bleeding wrist with duct tape. “This way, the blade can’t cut through,” she said calmly. “If you’re going to cut, use this hand. You need your right hand for writing.” After a dozen canes were broken across his back and there was no unmarked skin left, he was accepted into Oxford. The day he got his acceptance letter, he jumped from the roof. I thought his death would break Mom’s obsession. Instead, she turned to me. “My sweet girl,” she said, a strange light in her eyes, “Mommy will make you even more successful than your brother.” But before she could start, on the seventh day after his death, my grandfather—who had been in a coma for twenty years—woke up. And the first thing he did was continue the project he had started long ago: to forge his daughter into a success. … My brother was dead. The day he found out his exam scores, the day my mother was already on the phone inviting all our relatives to come and see her perfect creation, he jumped from the roof. There was no dramatic scene with people trying to talk him down. He just jumped. Cleanly, decisively. As if he had completely given up on the world. Looking at his unrecognizable body, I felt a strange sense of relief mixed with my grief. “Isn’t that the Miller boy? I heard he did really well on his exams. Why would he do something like this?” “Kids these days have no resilience. His mother worked so hard to raise him, and this is how he repays her.” “I know, right? That poor woman. She raised him all by herself, made him so successful, and he just throws it all away. What an ungrateful brat.” No one cared why my brother jumped. They only saw a single mother to be pitied. They were wrong. I wanted to speak up for my brother, to tell them how suffocating and painful his life had been in that house. But the words wouldn’t come. I didn’t have the strength. He was already gone. Nothing I said would change that. I stole a glance at my mother. Her expression was a complex mask I couldn’t decipher. Would his death make her reflect on her actions? Not a chance. Because I heard her mutter, “What a waste. All those years of training, and now I have to start all over again.” Then, her eyes found mine. A chill spread through my entire body. I couldn’t move. My mother dragged me home without a second glance at my brother’s body. Someone from the crowd called her name. I couldn’t help but ask, “Mom, aren’t we going to do something about brother?” She didn’t even turn around. “Chloe, you’re not as naturally gifted as your brother. You don’t have time to waste on irrelevant things.” Her coldness made me snap. “That’s my brother! Your son! Is studying the only thing you care about? We’re human beings, not trophies for you to show off! Can’t you at least take care of his funeral?” Her response was a sharp, stinging slap across my face. “In the time it took you to say that, you could have memorized twenty vocabulary words.” My mother hadn’t changed at all. She couldn’t stand the thought of her children being average. She would do anything to get them into a top university, to ensure they had a good career. She didn’t care what they had to endure in the process. All that mattered was the result. It used to be my brother. Now, it was my turn. 2 My mother really did ignore my brother. Neighbors and police officers knocked on our door repeatedly, but she refused to deal with his body. When they became too persistent, she would just scream at them. “He’s a useless piece of trash! Why should I waste my precious time on him? Can’t you just find a ditch and bury him somewhere?” The police, at a loss, had to contact other relatives to handle the arrangements. All my mother did was push me to study. She held my last midterm exam paper, her brow furrowed. “How could you get such a simple question wrong? Your brother never made such a stupid mistake! It seems your foundation is very weak. From now on, you will sleep only six hours a night. You have to work harder than everyone else to get into Oxford or Cambridge!” Those were the only two universities that existed in her world. On the first day after my brother’s death, I already felt like I couldn’t breathe. My mother created a strict schedule for me. Three minutes to get out of bed. If I failed, I had to memorize vocabulary in the living room in my pajamas. Five minutes to eat. As much as I could shovel down. If I was still hungry, I had to study on an empty stomach. Two minutes for the bathroom. The second the time was up, my mother would burst in and drag me out, regardless of what I was doing. I failed on the very first day. It was winter, and the five a.m. alarm was brutal. I groggily turned it off and fell back asleep. Three minutes later, I was dragged from my warm bed, and a freezing, wet towel was slapped onto my face. I was instantly awake. I was only in my thin pajamas and wanted to change, but my mother stopped me. “Time is life. The time for changing has passed. Take your book and go to the living room.” The living room was filled with an intimidating number of electronic screens, all displaying countdown timers. When a timer hit zero, a piercing alarm would sound. My mother had deliberately opened a window to keep me alert. I stood there, shivering so hard my teeth chattered. My mother glanced at me coldly. “The cold won’t kill you. You need to be physically fit for the PE exam anyway. This is how your brother built up his endurance.” As soon as my food was served, a timer started. Five minutes. I had five minutes to eat. I stuffed food into my mouth, chewing frantically, not even stopping when I bit my tongue. I knew no one would feel sorry for me. The only person who would have was gone. As I ate, tears of frustration and despair streamed down my face. Was a good grade really that important? Under my mother’s supervision, I memorized a hundred English words, completed four reading comprehensions, and wrote half an essay. When it was almost time for school, for the first time in my life, I thought school was the most wonderful place on earth. But my mother couldn’t stand to see me happy. She wouldn’t let me change my clothes for school. “I told you, you wasted the time for changing. Now you have to face the consequences.” I fought back. I pushed past her, trying to get to my room. “You dare try to change?” I turned back, my eyes wide with terror. My mother had opened the window and had one leg over the sill. “If you don’t listen to me, I’ll jump from here!” The crazed look on her face paralyzed me. I had rarely seen her like this. Unlike with my brother, I had been mostly left to my own devices, sent to a boarding school for middle school. Whenever my mother had one of her episodes, my brother would send me to my room and handle her himself. I swallowed hard, my voice trembling. “Mom! What are you doing? Please, just get down from there!” She glared at me and shifted more of her weight outside, teetering precariously. “Are you going to listen to me or not?!” I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to become like my brother. But I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t actually jump. I had already lost my brother. I couldn’t lose my last remaining family member. I fell to my knees, banging my head on the floor. “I’m begging you, please get down! I won’t change my clothes!” A triumphant smile spread across my mother’s face. I knew, in that moment, that I was done for.

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It was time to pay for health insurance again. My mother called me. “Your father and I aren’t planning to pay this year. We’re both healthy, no need to waste money.” She said this every year, and every year I would volunteer to pay for them. This year, however, I didn’t want to. “If you don’t want to pay, then don’t. Just don’t regret it later.” Mom was silent for a few seconds, then hung up without a word. I knew she was angry, but I felt nothing. It wasn’t that I couldn’t spare the eight hundred dollars. It was that I was fed up with her cruel stupidity. 1 Not long after I hung up, my mother called again. “You don’t need to pay for us either. We don’t need it, and we certainly won’t thank you.” I chuckled humorlessly. “Of course. It’s not like I have money to burn.” Why bother doing something so thankless? Mom said nothing, her breathing growing ragged. I knew she was angry, but I had no desire to appease her. “If there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up. I’m at work.” “What if you secretly pay for us anyway?” she suddenly blurted out. “After all, you always used to, and you’ve always prided yourself on being a dutiful daughter.” Her sarcastic tone made a sudden irritation flare within me. “What exactly do you want?” “Swear on the baby in your belly. Otherwise, you’ll claim we’re taking advantage of you again.” My hand, holding the phone, unconsciously tightened, almost crushing the device. My husband, Michael, and I got married last year. We’d been trying for a baby for over a year, with two pregnancies. The first ended in miscarriage at two months. The second was now, barely three months along, and showing signs of threatened miscarriage again. She wasn’t asking me to swear; she was cursing my child. This was my own mother, Eleanor Stone. Ever since I was a child, if I ever displeased her in the slightest, she would brutally strike at my weakest points. The more I suffered, the happier she seemed. I clenched my fist, wanting to say, How about I swear on my mother instead? A living adult surely carries more weight than a tiny embryo. But I opened my mouth again and again, yet couldn’t bring myself to utter such vicious words. “What, you don’t dare?” she sneered. “Oh, come on, you’re usually so brave, ignoring us all year.” She knew I couldn’t be that cruel, so she doubled down on her provocation. “You’re on the verge of your second miscarriage and still arguing with me. Can’t you see? Even heaven is on my side.” I trembled with anger, tears welling in my eyes. I hated my tearful outbursts! Not wanting my distress to affect the baby in my belly, I hung up the phone and blocked her number. That evening, my mother posted on social media. “Getting old is truly useless. Can’t even pay for insurance on my phone. My only daughter is married now, busy taking care of her own little family, no time for me at all. What’s the point of living like this? God, please take me away quickly, don’t let me burden my child anymore!” A long message, seemingly self-reproachful, but actually a thinly veiled accusation. Uncle George was the first to comment, asking Mom what was wrong and if she needed help. Aunt Carol quickly followed, urging Mom not to think about doing anything drastic, offering to come stay with her immediately. Tomorrow was Grandma’s birthday. All the children and grandchildren would be there to celebrate. Mom had posted this simply to brand me “unfilial,” then rally everyone to condemn me and force me to submit. Michael looked at me worriedly. “Maybe you shouldn’t go tomorrow. You’re not feeling well right now, and it’s perfectly understandable if you don’t.” I shook my head. I had to go. I couldn’t let her ruin my reputation. I would reveal the truth in front of everyone, letting them know what she did a year ago. As I expected, the next day, upon entering Grandma’s house, I saw Mom leaning on Aunt Carol’s shoulder, wiping away tears. Uncle George looked at me with disapproval. “Bethany, I’m not usually one to lecture, but your mother raised you with such hardship. How can you treat her like this, not even paying for her health insurance!” Aunt Martha chimed in. “For years, my husband and I have had our health insurance paid by your cousin Thomas without even asking. It’s only eight hundred dollars, Beth. A few fewer meals out and you’d have it.” Aunt Carol spoke earnestly. “Your mother said you used to pay for her and your father’s insurance, but this year you suddenly refused. Did your in-laws instigate this? Bethany, don’t mind me for speaking plainly, but you can’t forget your own family for your new one. When things get tough, it’s your own family that will support you.” 2 Seeing everyone in the room speaking up for her, Mom cried even louder. “Ever since she got married last year, she’s changed completely. She doesn’t come home anymore, doesn’t care for her parents. I don’t know what we did wrong to make her hate us so much!” She accused, tears streaming, her swollen eyes making it seem as though she was genuinely suffering immense grievance. I looked at her coldly. “Did I distance myself from you because of my marriage? Last year, I transferred eight hundred dollars to you for health insurance. Did you pay it? What did you do with that money?” Ever since graduating from college and starting work, my paychecks had gone directly to my mother. Last year, when I got married, I wanted my card back. She threw a fit. “Don’t get too love-struck! You’ve only been married three months and you’re already giving your paychecks to his family!” I knew she was unwilling, but I needed money to live my life. Besides, I hadn’t taken a single penny of my sixty-thousand-dollar wedding funds; I’d given it all to her. To appease her, I pulled out my phone to pay for her and Dad’s health insurance. I wanted her to know that taking back my paycheck didn’t mean I wouldn’t care for them anymore. But she shot me a sideways glance. “Don’t bother. Just transfer the money to me, and I’ll take care of it myself.” I couldn’t argue with her, so I did as she asked. Who knew she hadn’t paid the health insurance at all? Instead, she’d put the eight hundred dollars in a gift envelope and ‘adopted’ a goddaughter. “What’s wrong with me adopting a goddaughter? I told you to buy your marital home near our house so it’d be convenient to look after your father and me, but you didn’t listen. Melanie moved in across the street and has often looked after and helped us. She’s much better than you!” Mom jutted out her chin, looking perfectly righteous. I suppressed the turmoil in my heart. “Don’t tell me you don’t know that Melanie bullied me for three years in middle school!” She led the charge to ostracize me, tore up my textbooks, burned my hair with a lighter, publicly pulled up my skirt, and spread vile rumors about me behind my back… For three whole years, she clung to me like a demon. Every single one of her cruel acts still tormented me, even now. Because of her, I didn’t get into a good high school. I even fell into depression, unable to pull myself out, and almost did something terrible. And my own mother had adopted that demon as her goddaughter. Mom scoffed. “Bullying this, bullying that. Was it really that serious? Kids playing together always have squabbles.” “Besides, didn’t she apologize to you later? Why are you still holding a grudge? You’re so petty.” All these years, she hadn’t changed one bit. Just like when I cried and begged her to go to school and stand up for me, she had instead asked: Why do they only bully you, and not others? Aunt Carol also shrugged it off. “Kids fighting is normal. It all happened so long ago, just let it go. You need to be more magnanimous.” Aunt Martha added, “Yes, to give your mother the silent treatment for a whole year over such a small thing, you really hold a grudge.” No one sympathized with me. They only defended Mom, accusing me of overreacting. Seeing this, Mom pressed her advantage. “You don’t even think, why I adopted Melanie as a goddaughter? Isn’t it because you’re unreliable, disappointing and hurting me again and again!” She pointed at her own chest as she spoke. I gave a bitter laugh. “What did I do that made you feel I was unreliable? Was it not buying a house near your home, as you wished? Or taking back my own paycheck from you?” 3 In our small town, a fifteen-minute drive would get you anywhere. All she needed to do was call, and no matter how busy or late it was, I would rush over. My paychecks, though I’d taken them back, I’d left her the sixty-thousand-dollar wedding funds. Was that still not enough? No! Not for her. She knew very well the harm Melanie had inflicted on me. She deliberately adopted her as a goddaughter, just to anger me, to punish my disobedience. “Mom, your need for control is too strong, you want too much. I truly can’t satisfy you.” I am a living, breathing person with my own thoughts, not a puppet on strings. My cousins exchanged glances. “Your paychecks were with your parents before you got married?” “Are you kidding? Of course I keep my own paycheck.” “Do you have to give wedding funds to your parents? I’m not married, I don’t know.” “Wedding funds are seed money for the new family. Parents usually don’t take them.” “So, Bethany’s actually pretty filial, then. Why is Aunt Eleanor still unhappy?” “Who knows? Anyway, I think she’s much more dutiful than I am.” They chatted excitedly in low voices. Uncle George shot them a stern look, and immediately no one dared to speak. Mom stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly stood up and, with a thud, knelt before me. “Bethany, Mom was wrong! Mom willingly gave birth to you and raised you. I shouldn’t ask for anything in return. Just forgive Mom this once! If not, your father and I will go home and take pills to end our lives, guaranteeing we won’t burden you again!” She desperately clutched my sleeve, swearing, refusing to let go no matter how I struggled. “If you don’t forgive Mom today, Mom won’t get up!” The younger relatives stared wide-eyed in astonishment. They never would have dreamed that my mother would do such a thing. “This is awful!” Aunt Carol quickly walked over to help her up, her face filled with sympathy. “Bethany, it’s your Grandma’s birthday today. So many people are here. Must you deliberately humiliate your mother in public?” Uncle George also rose abruptly, his eyes like daggers. “I’m so disappointed in you, Bethany. There are no bad parents in this world. Don’t you fear shortening your life by forcing your mother to kneel before you?” “Apologize to your mother! Then dutifully pay for her health insurance, or don’t blame Aunt Carol and me for not being polite!” I shifted my gaze to Mom. She was wiping away tears, her head bowed, but the secretly upturned corners of her mouth were harder to suppress than a loaded gun. “What are you waiting for? Go quickly!” Aunt Carol grabbed my arm, yanking me forcefully towards Mom. I shook her off. A feeling of helplessness swept over me. I fought back tears, just barely. “The only mistake I made was coming here today!” After quickly saying goodbye to Grandma in the bedroom, I left without looking back. I had lost, utterly defeated. Mom’s knees were the most formidable weapon in the world, and I was defenseless against them. How could I have forgotten? After twenty years of being mother and daughter, I was always the one crushed. To tame me, she would stop at nothing. How could I ever be her match? Back home, Michael comforted me for a long time, but couldn’t help but voice his worry. “Are you really determined not to pay for your parents’ health insurance? I don’t mean anything by it, but they’re almost sixty. If they suddenly get a tricky illness, I’m afraid you’ll still end up picking up the pieces.” “No, I won’t!” I declared decisively. They were both more focused on their health than anyone, and they had money. Besides my wedding funds, their old family home also received thirty thousand in compensation. Adding that to their existing savings, they had at least fifty thousand in their accounts—enough to cover their medical expenses. Seeing my resolute stance, Michael didn’t bring up the subject again. However, fate seemed to be deliberately working against me. Not long after, my mother actually fell ill. Acute viral pneumonia, triggered by the flu. Her condition was very serious.

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