Category: English

The first time I saw our new neighbor, the floating text materialized out of thin air. [This poor female lead. Her parents despise her, her brother loathes her, her husband discarded her, and now she’s dying of cancer.] [To think she survived being bullied in high school and sexually harassed by her boss, only for everyone to blame her. Maybe death really is her only escape.] [Do it. Jump off the roof. End this miserable, unloved life.] I stared at those blood-chilling words hovering in my field of vision like a translucent live-stream chat. Then, I looked at the girl standing on the edge of the roof—a girl so utterly hollowed out, there wasn’t a single spark of light left in her eyes. I lunged forward, grabbed her by the collar, and yanked her hard onto the safety of the concrete. Without missing a beat, I pulled out my phone and dialed the girls. “I need the sharpest tongues we’ve got. We’ve got a war to win. Hustle!” 1 From those floating comments, I pieced together the absurd reality: I was living inside a trashy, tragic romance novel—the kind where the heroine suffers endlessly just so the men in her life can feel guilty later. And the girl I’d just dragged off the roof was Summer, the protagonist. She was pure-hearted, kind, and hardworking. But because of a million contrived, tragic reasons, her twenty-odd years on this earth had been nothing but suffocating darkness. She had tried to save herself a thousand times. Yet the very people bound to her by blood and law—her so-called family and her husband—kept shoving her back into the abyss. Her voice had been entirely stripped from her. She believed the only way to prove her innocence, to finally be heard, was to die. Oh, you foolish, sweet girl, I thought. What on earth could possibly be more important than breathing? So you lost an argument? Big deal. We’ll just help you scream louder. As an NPC in this universe—one of the neighborhood busybodies whose only apparent literary function was to gossip and play cards—I possessed a very specific set of skills. And if there’s one thing a seasoned American woman cannot stomach, it’s seeing a good girl bullied. “Listen to me, honey,” I told her, cupping her pale face. “Some people are just born trash. If you don’t curse them out, they’ll think your silence is an invitation to walk all over you.” “You don’t even have to lift a finger,” Marge chimed in, already rolling up her sleeves. “You just need to know that there isn’t a soul alive that a pack of pissed-off old women can’t handle.” “Man, woman, young, old—doesn’t matter,” Shirley added, waving a dismissive hand. “We sit our asses down, kick off our shoes, and start clapping our hands. I guarantee we’ll have those bastards trembling in their designer loafers.” “They will never dare look at you sideways again! And don’t you worry about the cost, sweetie. Cursing people out is entirely free. We consider it vocal cardio. Don’t you dare feel guilty!” The girls practically tripped over each other bragging about their past “victories,” terrified Summer might underestimate our sheer, unadulterated audacity. Of course, while our mouths ran a mile a minute, our hands were just as busy. Diane was sweeping and mopping the apartment. Helen was aggressively chopping vegetables in the kitchen. The rest of us had already corralled Summer at the table and set up the Mahjong tiles. Summer held her tiles with a blank, shattered expression. Amidst our chaotic, deafening chatter, just as she was trying to figure out what tile to discard, her phone buzzed. It was Carter. Her brother. The second she answered, the vitriol bled through the speaker, slicing through the noise of our apartment. We froze, and I immediately reached over and tapped the speakerphone button. “Summer, who the hell do you think you are, skipping work?” Carter barked. “Your little stunt just cost the company a ten-million-dollar account. How exactly do you plan on paying us back for that?” Summer flinched. The tiny furrow between her brows deepened, and the absolute grayness swept back over her face, extinguishing whatever small warmth our kitchen had given her. Right then, a new comment floated past my eyes: [If she hadn’t skipped work, she would have been cornered by that disgusting executive today.] [It was Blair—the evil fake sister—who completely botched the pitch! Why is Summer taking the fall for a lost account?] [In these switched-at-birth tropes, the biological daughter always bleeds for the golden child’s mistakes!] I narrowed my eyes. I leaned right into the phone’s microphone and unleashed hell. “Let me get this straight,” I snapped. “Because Summer took a sick day, your company lost a ten-million-dollar deal? So, am I to understand that your entire corporate roster is a bunch of incompetent morons who can’t close a single contract without her?” “Good lord, Summer must be an absolute prodigy! I wonder what her compensation package looks like? Oh, wait. Three thousand dollars a month. No housing, no benefits. It’s a goddamn joke!” “You want an entry-level employee making pennies to shoulder a ten-million-dollar loss? If you’re that good at shifting the blame, why aren’t you running for President?” Summer stared at me, her mouth slightly ajar. On the other end of the line, the haughty brother was struck entirely dumb. “Who… who the hell is this? Put Summer on the phone.” I let out a harsh, venomous laugh. “I’m your worst nightmare, buddy. You want to talk to Summer? Get on your knees and grovel first. If I’m in a charitable mood, I might let a scumbag like you breathe in her general direction.” “Summer! Is this your idea of manners? Letting some stranger insult your own brother?” I cackled. “Oh, manners? You want to talk about manners? What kind of well-bred gentleman treats the girl who stole his sister’s life like a princess, while treating his actual flesh and blood like a punching bag?” “You don’t know anything!” he spat. “Summer has been a vicious, manipulative bitch since she got here. I acknowledge her as my sister, and she should be grateful for the charity!” I rolled my eyes so hard it physically hurt. “You pathetic, gaslighting loser. You can’t even close a business deal without blaming a junior employee. The dumbbells at my local gym don’t need your ‘charity,’ let alone a brilliant girl like Summer.” “If your business is failing, look in the mirror. If you needed her to save your pitch, then you call with some damn respect, not acting like you’re God’s gift to the boardroom!” “I don’t care what lies your precious little fake sister has been feeding you. Do not call this number again. As of today, Summer is fresh out of brothers!” 2 Click. I hung up. Blocked the number. Deleted the contact. A flawless, scorched-earth execution. The girls cheered, clapping their hands and telling me what a spectacular job I’d done. And there, sitting amidst the deafening warmth of a mid-morning Mahjong game, the heroine finally managed a tiny, fragile smile. “Alright, alright, clear the table! Food’s ready!” Helen hollered from the kitchen. We swept the tiles away in seconds. When the dishes hit the table, we descended like a flock of aggressive mother hens. We piled her bowl high with roasted chicken, garlic ribs, and buttery mashed potatoes until it looked like a small mountain. “Eat up. You’re practically skin and bones. You need meat on you!” “Once you’ve got your strength up, we’re taking you straight to the hospital tomorrow to get looked at.” “You’re young, honey, whatever it is, you’ll fight it. Look at me—breast cancer survivor of thirty years and I’m still raising hell.” “Finish that plate, and you’re coming to Zumba with us. I’m telling you, the one thing sickness hates most is a woman who knows how to have a good time!” “You stick with us, sweetie. We’ll make sure you never stop smiling.” Summer quietly chewed her food. Her eyes went glassy, the rims flushing a deep, bruised red. I knew what it was. She was utterly starved for love. Well, it was a good thing my girls and I had a suffocating, aggressive amount of love to give. We had enough to fill every hollow space her family had carved out of her. The next day, Marge and I marched Summer into the oncology wing. Just as the floating text had prophesied, it was late-stage cancer. The doctors told us that after a surgical resection, she would need aggressive chemotherapy and radiation. The road ahead was long, brutal, and terrifying. I looked the oncologist dead in the eye and asked for a timeline. “If she fights,” the doctor said softly, “and if we can get her through this first year… she’ll cross the hardest hurdle. After that, another ten or twenty years isn’t out of the question.” Relief washed over me. I grabbed Summer’s hand, ready to march down to billing and book the surgery suite. But Summer planted her feet. She looked down at the linoleum floor. “I don’t have the money. Maybe… maybe we should just let it be. The treatments are going to cost too much.” Right on cue, the translucent text flickered into view: [Her parents are filthy rich. Her brother is loaded. Her husband is a millionaire. But she’s practically destitute!] [It’s not that she hasn’t thought about asking them for help. But the misunderstandings are so deeply rooted, and they despise her so much, she knows they’d rather watch her die. Ugh!] I stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle. Then, I turned to Marge. “Call the troops.” Marge raised an eyebrow. “What are we doing? Robbing a bank?” I waved my hand dismissively. “No. We’re collecting a debt.” It took some doing. Summer hesitated, terrified of the confrontation, but we eventually bullied her into the passenger seat. Thirty minutes later, we were storming the wrought-iron gates of the Kensington estate. The moment we crossed the threshold into the immaculate, marble-floored foyer, Marge and Shirley put on a masterclass. They dramatically kicked off their orthopedics, dropped right onto the custom Persian rug, and made it perfectly clear: We are not leaving until we get paid. Diane and Helen unfolded the canvas lawn chairs they’d brought with them, popping open cans of Diet Coke and cracking sunflower seeds right onto the pristine floors. I stood flanked by the rest of our sharp-tongued brigade, keeping Summer tucked safely behind us as we faced our targets. Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. A housekeeper. A driver. When Mrs. Kensington—dripping in pearls and disdain—realized we were there for money, a sneer twisted her perfectly Botoxed face. She waved a manicured hand, instructing the housekeeper to fetch some cash. She literally tried to hand us each a few crisp hundred-dollar bills, like we were stray dogs she could shoo off the porch. The humiliation in the room was palpable. I could feel the heat radiating off Summer’s burning cheeks. Without missing a beat, we took those bills and tossed them right back into Mrs. Kensington’s face. She gasped, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Summer, where on earth did you find these panhandlers? Did you really think bringing a bunch of greedy vagrants into my home would shake me down for more?” “My aunts are not panhandlers—” Summer started, her voice trembling. I gently patted her hand. I met her eyes, silently telling her: I’ve got this. Then, I squared my shoulders, flanked by my sisters in arms, and engaged combat mode. 3 “Ahem.” I cleared my throat loudly, planting both hands firmly on my hips. I tilted my chin up, took a deep breath, and let it rip. “We didn’t come here to beg for your pocket change, Patricia. We came here for justice! We did our homework. Summer has worked at the Kensington Corporation for five years. For five years, she has been denied promotions. When she asked HR, they said the CEO wouldn’t approve it. When she tried to resign, the CEO blocked it. Five years, and she is still making a pathetic three grand a month! Meanwhile, your fake daughter—who just graduated three months ago—gets fast-tracked from intern to the CEO’s executive assistant, pulling in fifty grand a month! I want to know, on what planet is that fair? Is it just blatant favoritism, or is it a malicious, targeted campaign against your own biological flesh and blood?” Mr. Kensington scowled, adjusting his tailored suit jacket with arrogant dismissal. “It is neither. Summer’s professional capabilities simply do not measure up to Blair’s. She has made repeated mistakes over the last five years. The fact that I even allow her to remain on the payroll is an act of extreme grace on my part.” I didn’t blink. I reached into my tote bag and pulled out a thick, bound portfolio Summer had prepared for me earlier, slamming it onto the glass coffee table in front of them. “Then I suggest you put on your reading glasses, Richard, and look at the actual receipts.” Mrs. Kensington’s face faltered. “What is this?” “These,” I enunciated clearly, “are the proposals, pitch decks, and executed contracts Summer has spearheaded over the last five years. While your golden boy Carter was busy playing golf and screwing around, Summer was bleeding herself dry for your bottom line. She closed deal after deal. And the commission bonuses for every single one of those contracts? Swallowed whole by Carter and your precious little Blair.” Mr. Kensington blanched, his arrogant facade slipping. “That’s impossible!” Mrs. Kensington clenched her jaw, her eyes darting nervously. “Summer, you are so desperate for cash you’ve lost your mind! You’re fabricating lies now? Carter and Blair would never stoop so low!” Hearing her parents instantly defend the people who had abused her, Summer let out a quiet, desolate laugh. It was exactly as it had always been. Under the crushing weight of their prejudice, any attempt Summer made to fight back only resulted in her own bruising. But thankfully… Today, she wasn’t fighting alone.

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On my twenty-first birthday, my parents laid a dozen glossy photographs of America’s most eligible heirs across the mahogany dining table, gently nudging me to choose a fiancé. I looked at my father and told him to just shuffle them face down and let me pick blind. Because in my last life, I hadn’t hesitated. I had reached straight for Preston Sinclair, the golden boy of Manhattan’s Upper East Side elite. The man I had loved since childhood. It wasn’t until after the wedding that I learned the truth: his untouchable first love, the fragile girl he had been forced to leave behind, had been so heartbroken by our marriage that she got blackout drunk at a dive bar and was assaulted. She attempted suicide three times. And Preston? Preston decided I was the architect of all her suffering. To avenge her, he systematically dismantled my family. He funneled the entirety of the Kensington fortune into her hands, hollowing out my legacy until there was nothing left. And in the end, when she finally crept into our garage and severed the brake lines of our car, he looked the other way. The three of us—my mother, my father, and I—died crushed in a mangled fortress of steel and shattered glass. Given a second chance at life, I reached blindly into the pile and drew Miles Davenport. The elusive, fiercely private heir to a New England shipping empire—a man who spent more time in silent retreats and studying philosophy than in boardrooms. But when I walked into my engagement party, my arm looped gracefully through Miles’s, Preston Sinclair completely lost his mind. 1 I slid Miles Davenport’s photograph across the table toward my parents. They exchanged a loaded, uncertain glance. “Stella,” my father said softly. “Your mother and I know you’ve been infatuated with Preston since you were kids. If you want us to reconsider—” I shook my head, my voice eerily calm. “If this is what fate handed me, I think I’d like to see where it leads.” Especially since I already know the bloody, gasoline-soaked ending of forcing Preston to marry me. Seeing the quiet resolve in my eyes, my parents finally nodded. “Alright. We’ll reach out to the Davenports to discuss the arrangement,” my mother said, smoothing her skirt. “But the Kensingtons and the Davenports are both legacy families. The market will react. To avoid unnecessary media circus, we keep this strictly confidential until the engagement gala.” I agreed. But secrets bleed quickly in our world. That evening, as I stepped out of my town car to attend a charity gala at the Plaza, the paparazzi swarmed me like vultures who had caught a scent. “Miss Kensington! Is it true you’re finally settling on a marriage alliance?” Before I could even blink against the strobe of camera flashes, another reporter shoved a microphone forward. “Everyone knows you’ve been devoted to the Sinclair heir for years. Can we assume Preston is the lucky man?” I lifted my gaze. Right on cue, Preston Sinclair was walking up the red carpet. Our eyes locked. Even through the sea of flashing cameras, his expression was unmistakable: a familiar, chilling cocktail of profound boredom and absolute disgust. “Excuse me. Please step aside,” he commanded. His security detail aggressively parted the sea of reporters. Without missing a beat, Preston reached out and pulled Harper Quinn into his chest. She looked up at him, her pale, heart-shaped face the very picture of delicate vulnerability. “The only woman I have ever loved, and will ever love, is Harper,” Preston declared, his voice echoing over the manic clicking of cameras. “Even if I were forced by family obligations to marry someone else, I would not give a single fraction of my heart to another woman.” Harper’s cheeks flushed a becoming shade of rose. She buried her face in his cashmere lapel, her arms tightening around his waist. A few feet away, a cluster of socialites who had always resented my family’s standing began to loudly whisper. “So what if she’s the sole heir to the Kensington empire? Preston doesn’t even want to look at her. He’d rather have the daughter of a lottery-winning nobody.” “God, she’s an embarrassment to her family name. Throwing herself at him just to play second fiddle to Harper Quinn.” The mockery grew louder. Harper tilted her head back from Preston’s embrace, finding my eyes through the crowd. A fleeting, razor-sharp smirk touched her lips before she hid it away. I didn’t react. I simply turned my head, fixing my posture, and walked into the ballroom. Of course, the universe has a sick sense of humor. The organizers seated Preston directly to my right. He dropped into his chair, radiating hostility. “Stella, I have told you a thousand times I don’t want to marry you. Why do you insist on suffocating me?” I had heard those exact words in my past life. Back then, they had shattered me. Today, they just felt exhausting. “I am not suffocating you, Preston.” He slammed his fist against the linen tablecloth. The crystal wine glasses shuddered. His face twisted with revulsion. “Then why the hell are you forcing this? You think just because the Kensingtons have more capital and social leverage, you can dictate the rest of my life?” he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You are trampling on my dignity. Let me make this clear: even if they drag me to the altar, I will never look at you. Not once.” Oh, I know, I thought. You kept that promise perfectly last time. Just then, the fragile, adored center of his universe approached our table. Tears brimmed in Harper’s wide eyes. Without a word of warning, she collapsed to her knees right beside my chair. “Miss Kensington, I know you despise me,” she sobbed, her voice carrying just enough to turn heads at the neighboring tables. “But my parents are innocent. When you had your security throw them out of the country club yesterday, my father nearly had a heart attack!” She gasped for air, clutching at the hem of my gown. “Please, I’m begging you, let them be. If you want… if you need me to leave Preston so you can have him, I’ll do it. Just please…” Her voice cracked perfectly on the final syllable. Before I could even process the absolute fabrication of her story, Preston was out of his chair. He hauled her gently to her feet, pulling her behind him as he glared down at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Whatever is between us has nothing to do with Harper! Why would you target her family?” His self-righteous anger felt utterly bizarre. “I didn’t do anything to—” “You are exactly what they say you are,” Preston interrupted, his voice laced with venom. “Spoiled rotten since birth. You think the world is your plaything.” As the words left his mouth, a sycophantic junior executive scurried over, holding an exquisitely wrapped velvet box. “Mr. Sinclair, congratulations. A small token for your and Miss Kensington’s upcoming engagement—” Before the man could finish, Preston snatched the heavy box and, in front of half the ballroom, hurled it directly at me. “Apologize to Harper, Stella.” His chest heaved. “Or so help me God, even if my family goes bankrupt trying to keep up with yours, I will nuke this arrangement. I will never marry a woman as vicious as you!” 2 The box was wrapped in heavy, metallic foil. The sharp corner caught my jawline before clattering to the floor. A collective gasp rippled through the surrounding tables, but not a single person dared to intervene. I raised a hand to my chin. When I pulled my fingers back, my skin was smeared with bright, warm red. Looking at Preston Sinclair now, he felt like a stranger. Or rather, he felt exactly like the monster from my past life, the man who had publicly degraded me to elevate Harper time and time again. The last remaining embers of my childhood affection for him turned to ash. “I will not apologize for something I didn’t do,” I said, my voice eerily quiet, steady as a flatline. “Fine. Don’t come crying to me when you regret this!” Preston wrapped his arm protectively around Harper and stormed out of the ballroom. When my parents saw the cut on my face, they were frantic. We left immediately, and my mother had our private physician meet us at the penthouse to treat it. Sitting in my dressing room, watching my parents hover anxiously over me, a profound sense of gratitude washed over me. Thank God. The universe had given me a reset button. My parents were alive. The Kensington legacy was intact. All I had to do was stay as far away from Preston Sinclair and Harper Quinn as humanly possible. A few days later, the Davenport family’s engagement gifts arrived. The sprawling foyer of our estate was quickly buried in impeccably sourced treasures—rare art, deeds to properties, and at the center of it all, a velvet case containing a breathtaking diamond and emerald bracelet that had belonged to Miles’s great-grandmother. The sheer weight of the gifts was a declaration of absolute respect. Looking at the boxes, a painful lump formed in my throat. In my past life, the Sinclair family knew how desperately I loved Preston. They weaponized it. They told the press that they found me overbearing, that I was practically forcing their son to the altar. There was no engagement party. There was no dowry. The wedding was a sterile, rushed dinner between the two families. I remembered Preston’s parents mocking me thinly over the soup course. I remembered Preston’s icy silence. Seeing the Davenports’ overwhelming respect now only cemented my relief. To show my own respect, I decided to personally arrange Miles’s engagement attire. I was in a private, century-old bespoke tailoring house on Fifth Avenue, leaning over a heavy oak table with the master tailor to finalize the embroidery on the French cuffs. The bell chimed. Preston walked in, his fingers intertwined with Harper’s. The moment he saw me, his features hardened into a sneer. “What are you doing here?” The elderly tailor offered a polite smile. “Miss Kensington is being incredibly thoughtful. She’s personally designing the groom’s suit for the engagement.” Preston didn’t even look at the sketches. He tilted his chin up, exhaling a haughty breath. “I told you I have no intention of marrying you. I don’t care how many hoops you jump through, my mind won’t change.” He glanced dismissively at the table. “And for the record, I despise monogrammed cufflinks. It’s tacky.” I looked down at the sketch. The silver cufflink bore a sharp, elegant ‘M’. He obviously hadn’t looked closely enough. “Actually, these are for—” “Oh, Preston, look at this gown! It’s breathtaking.” Harper’s eyes were wide. She brushed past me, her fingers tracing the delicate, beaded bodice of a vintage, archive-scarlet silk gown hanging on the display form. Preston’s face instantly softened. “If you like it, we’ll have the tailor make one exactly like it for you.” “But I want to wear it tonight,” she pouted slightly, her voice dipping into a honeyed whine. “To the symphony.” Preston smiled indulgently at her, then turned to the master tailor with an entitled snap of his fingers. “Take her measurements and alter it immediately. We have a show to catch.” I frowned, stepping forward. “Preston, that is my engagement gown.” He waved me off like a nuisance. “I’m a busy man, Stella. I don’t have time to play dress-up for whatever pathetic gala your family is throwing to force my hand.” His eyes dragged up and down my frame. “Besides, Harper has the figure for a dress like that. You don’t.” Harper kept her back to me, staring at herself in the mirror. The triumphant gleam in her reflection was unmistakable. Yet, her voice dripped with fake guilt. “Oh, if Miss Kensington doesn’t want to part with it, it’s fine, Preston. A dress this luxurious… it really isn’t meant for a nobody like me.” “Don’t talk about yourself like that. The woman I love is no nobody,” Preston snapped, shooting me a venomous look. “Stella is nothing without her parents’ money anyway. Without her trust fund, she’s as common as they come.” Without asking, he pulled the heavy silk gown off the mannequin and shoved it into the tailor’s arms. The master tailor didn’t move. He simply looked at me, waiting for my instruction. His family had been dressing the Kensington men and women for five generations; we practically kept the shop in business. Seeing the tailor ignore him made Preston’s face flush with sudden, defensive rage. “Listen to me, you—” “If Miss Quinn likes it so much, let her have it.” I cut him off, my voice entirely flat. Preston exhaled, his posture relaxing slightly into a smug stance. “Since you’re finally learning how to behave,” he said, adjusting his watch, “I suppose I can tolerate having dinner with you once a month after the wedding.” He said it like he was tossing a scrap of meat to a starving dog. And in that precise moment, standing in the quiet tailoring shop, the puzzle pieces finally clicked together. I finally understood why, years ago, his attitude toward me had shifted so drastically. It happened the summer he realized the Kensington family sat at the absolute pinnacle of high society, while the Sinclairs were barely clinging to the bottom of the top twenty. When I was young and foolishly in love, I didn’t care about social rankings. I didn’t measure human worth in stock portfolios. But he did. From that summer on, he constantly brought up “my family’s money.” He relentlessly reminded me that I relied on my parents. He belittled me, mocked me, and weaponized my love for him just to tear me down. It wasn’t that he was too good for me. It was that he felt hopelessly, suffocatingly inferior. A quiet, genuine laugh slipped from my lips. “Preston,” I said, tilting my head. “What on earth makes you so incredibly certain that you are the man I’m marrying?” 3 Preston’s mouth curled into a mocking, asymmetrical smile. He looked at me like I had just told the funniest joke in Manhattan. “You’ve been trailing after me like a lost puppy since we were ten. Every time you blew out your birthday candles, you wished you’d marry me by twenty-one.” He crossed his arms. “And now that the time has come, you expect me to believe you’d look at anyone else?” Harper leaned into his side, her voice laced with poison masked as playful teasing. “Well, you never know, Pres. With the Kensington money, I’m sure every trust-fund baby in the country is lining up to marry her.” “Let them line up,” Preston sneered. “She’d still only beg to be my wife.” They turned and walked toward the fitting rooms. Before stepping behind the velvet curtain, Preston called out to the tailor. “Have the dress delivered to my penthouse when you’re done. And change those tacky cufflinks. Make them square. No initials.” The master tailor watched them go, then let out a heavy sigh. He turned to me, looking pained. “Miss Kensington… how would you like me to handle this?” “I meant what I said. Let her have it. It gives me an excuse to design something entirely new anyway,” I said, calmly pulling my stool back up to the drafting table. “And completely ignore him regarding the cufflinks. He isn’t the groom, so he doesn’t get a vote.” That evening, I attended a friend’s birthday party at a private club downtown. Halfway through the night, Harper arrived fashionably late. One of Preston’s massive private security guards trailed behind her. The guard walked right up to my booth, holding a cheap, red plastic bodega bag. He dropped it onto the floor by my heels. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long, Miss Kensington,” Harper said, her eyes gleaming with malice under the neon lights. “I was going to return the dress right after the symphony, but Preston just insisted we take a detour in the back of his Maybach…” She giggled, twirling a strand of hair. “But you’re famous for being so forgiving. I’m sure you don’t mind.” I looked down. Inside the plastic bag, the three-million-dollar vintage archive gown was violently crumpled, treated like a dirty dishcloth. Stark against the dark red silk were glaring, dried patches of white, viscous fluid. Around us, the music seemed to drop away. Some people looked on in absolute outrage on my behalf; others whispered behind their drinks, thrilled by the drama. “She brought it right to her face. If Stella doesn’t snap now, she really is pathetic for him.” “What can she do? Preston only has eyes for the influencer.” “Honestly, it’s embarrassing. The Kensington empire is going to end up in Preston Sinclair’s pocket at this rate.” I didn’t even flinch. I just flagged down a busboy. “Please take this to the dumpster,” I said smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Harper. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Miss Quinn.” The utter indifference in my voice was a wall her petty cruelty couldn’t penetrate. Her smug smile faltered. Robbed of her explosive reaction, she gritted her teeth, her hands balling into fists as she stormed off to the least desirable table in the back. But Harper couldn’t let it go. Less than an hour later, her Instagram account—boasting a few million followers—was trending. “The perfect night. Wearing a dress that fits perfectly, holding the hand of the man I love, listening to our favorite symphony.” The photo was a close-up of her and Preston aggressively kissing in the back of the car, his hand tangled in the red silk of the gown. The internet is ruthless. Within minutes, gossip accounts dug up my old, teenage posts where I had publicly gushed about Preston. They stitched them together into side-by-side comparison TikToks. It was a digital public execution. And on the most viral video of them all, Preston Sinclair had publicly ‘liked’ it from his official account. Memes of “Pathetic Stella” began flooding Twitter. My expression finally darkened. I opened my phone, permanently deactivated my personal accounts, and sent a single, three-word text to the Kensington PR crisis team: Burn it down. In less than ten minutes, every hashtag, every video, every mention of the situation vanished from the internet. Wiped clean, as if they had never existed. The day before my engagement party. I was walking out of the Kensington corporate headquarters when two massive men in dark suits blocked my path. Before I could call for my driver, they forced me into the back of an SUV and drove straight to the Sinclair estate. The moment I was pushed through the double doors, I saw Harper sitting on the plush living room sofa, crying hysterically. Preston was hovering over her, speaking in soft, cooing tones. But the second he saw me, his face turned thunderous. “You have gone way too far this time, Stella!” he roared. “Harper makes a harmless post, and you use your family’s muscle to have all her social media accounts permanently banned? You know her platform is her livelihood! You are trying to destroy her!” I stared at him, genuinely confused. “I told my team to scrub my name from the trends. I didn’t touch her accounts.” “Don’t lie to me! Who else besides the great Stella Kensington has that kind of power? You’re just insanely jealous of her!” “I am telling you, I didn’t—” “Are we really allowing a girl who isn’t even married yet to talk back to her husband in my house?” A sharp, haughty voice drifted down the grand staircase. Preston’s mother descended, looking at me down the bridge of her nose. She took a seat on the accent chair opposite me. Next to her, Preston’s father—a man who usually bent over backward to kiss my father’s ass at board meetings—was leaning back, legs crossed arrogantly. “Stella,” his father began, swirling a glass of scotch. “We don’t entirely approve of your spoiled, dramatic antics. But since you’re threatening suicide if our son won’t marry you, we are willing to graciously accommodate you.” He took a sip. “However, there are conditions. Your dowry—the assets transferred to the Sinclair estate upon marriage—must equal exactly fifty percent of the Kensington family’s total net worth. We have the prenup right here.” A cold, bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat. I shook my head, stepping backward to leave. Suddenly, something slammed hard into the back of my knees. I gasped in pain, my legs giving out, and crashed to the hardwood floor. Preston’s mother snapped her fingers. A maid rushed forward, carrying a silver tray with a steaming porcelain teacup. “You’ll be a Sinclair soon enough,” his mother said, her eyes flashing with cruel authority. “I think it’s time you kneel and serve your new mother-in-law a cup of tea to learn your place. That’s not asking too much, is it?” 4 “Miss Kensington. You must crawl forward on your knees to serve Mrs. Sinclair.” The maid forcefully pressed the scalding teacup into my hands. The porcelain was straight out of the kettle. The moment the blistering heat bit into my skin, I flinched, dropping the cup. It shattered into a dozen jagged pieces across the floor, splashing boiling water over my knees. “Stella! Have you zero respect for your elders?!” Preston barked from across the room. I looked down at my throbbing, blistered fingertips. Slowly, I shook my head. “I only show respect to my actual in-laws. You said you didn’t want to marry me, Preston. Which works perfectly, because I am not marrying you.” I placed my palms flat on the floor, ignoring the shards of porcelain, and tried to stand. Instantly, the two security guards grabbed my shoulders, forcing me back down. “Let go of me!” I yelled, struggling violently against their grip. “I am the heir to the Kensington family! You think you can touch me?” Mrs. Sinclair’s face contorted with rage. She stood up, marched over, and delivered a blinding slap across my cheek. The sharp sting exploded against my skin. The echo of the slap blurred perfectly with the memories of my past life—the countless times she had struck me when I was trapped in this very house. My breath hitched. I froze, paralyzed by a ghost of trauma. “Your engagement is tomorrow and you dare to speak to me like this?!” Mrs. Sinclair shrieked. “Preston, look at this animal you’re bringing into our home! Defiant, feral, completely lacking class!” Preston didn’t even look at me. He was busy stroking Harper’s hair. “She’s the one who practically begged on her hands and knees for this,” he muttered coldly. “If it were up to me, Harper would be the one walking down the aisle.” Right on cue, Harper’s tears started flowing again. “Oh, Pres. I dream of being your wife every single night. But my family is so small… we could never survive making an enemy of the Kensingtons.” Her manufactured despair sent Preston into a protective frenzy. He abandoned her side and stalked over to where I was pinned on the floor, looming over me like a judge delivering a sentence. “You wanted this marriage so badly you were willing to play dirty, Stella?” he sneered. “Fine. You want to be my wife? You will sign an agreement stating you have zero say in my personal life. You will never return to the Kensington estate. You will live here, you will serve my parents, and you will ensure Harper and I are comfortable.” A lawyer stepped forward, dropping a thick legal document onto the floor next to the broken glass. The bold header read: Asset Transfer Agreement: 50% Kensington Holdings. I curled my burned fingers into tight fists, refusing to touch the pen. When I looked up at him, my eyes were burning, bloodshot with fury. “Preston Sinclair! I am not marrying you!” Seeing my defiance, his mother saw her opening. She raised her hand and brought it down hard across my face again. “Is this the ‘elite breeding’ of the Kensington name? Raising a daughter who screams at her own husband?” she spat. “I am going to beat the manners into you today so you don’t embarrass us tomorrow!” I lost count of the times her hand struck my face. I lost track of how many times they forced my thumb onto an inkpad, trying to press it against the contract. All I knew was that when they finally grew tired and dragged me to the door, Mrs. Sinclair sneered one last command: “You are to wear black tomorrow. Harper will be wearing the white gown.” I looked back at them, my cheek bruised, my dress torn, and felt nothing but an overwhelming, hysterical urge to laugh. The next day at the engagement gala, I did not wear black. I wore the brand-new, breathtaking scarlet gown I had designed myself. My parents were mingling inside the grand hall with the Davenport family. I stood near the velvet ropes at the entrance, greeting the elite of New York society. It wasn’t until nearly noon that the Sinclair family finally arrived, walking with an entourage that demanded attention. They were dressed to the nines. Harper had her arm looped tightly through Preston’s. She was in a pure white gown, and he was in a sharp black tuxedo. They looked exactly like a bride and groom. Usually, at events like this, Preston’s father would be sweating through his suit, shaking hands and bowing to men far more powerful than him. Today, he walked with his chest puffed out, looking down his nose at billionaires, acting as if he owned the entire building. When Mrs. Sinclair spotted me in my scarlet silk, her face instantly soured. “Where are your parents?” she demanded loudly. “I need to have a very serious conversation with them about how horribly they’ve raised you!” There were senators and tech moguls walking past us. I had no desire to create a scene at my own engagement. “My parents are inside. You can go in and—” Before I could finish, Mrs. Sinclair aggressively jabbed her manicured finger into my shoulder. “You go fetch them and bring them to me!” I frowned, swatting her hand away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Preston strolling over, his expression utterly bored. He stood next to me, turning to face the arriving guests as if assuming his role as the host. “Well, Stella, you got exactly what you wanted. I hope you’re thrilled,” he muttered under his breath, not looking at me. “But don’t let it go to your head. You managed to buy my physical presence today, but you will never, ever have my heart.” His voice was dripping with venom. He truly believed I had ruined his life just by loving him. “Preston, I think you are severely confused. Today is—” “Are you ignoring me?!” Mrs. Sinclair screeched, cutting me off. “Did you forget how you looked sobbing on your knees in my living room yesterday?!” She yanked her phone out of her clutch, tapping the screen aggressively. Suddenly, the video of me—bruised, forced onto my knees among shattered glass—started playing at top volume. She shoved the screen toward the incoming guests. The socialites paused, staring in absolute shock. A few immediately pulled out their own phones to record her screen. The paparazzi, previously contained behind barricades, smelled blood. They broke the line, rushing up the steps with microphones thrust forward. “Miss Kensington! Is this your future mother-in-law hazing you?” “Does your submission on tape signify that the Kensington empire is officially bowing to the Sinclair family?” I sucked in a sharp breath. I signaled for my own security while violently grabbing Preston’s arm. “Tell your mother to turn that off right now!” He calmly peeled my fingers off his sleeve and casually adjusted his bowtie. “If public humiliation is what it takes for you to learn how to respect my mother, then it’s a necessary lesson.” “Preston, your entire family is psychotic!” “You literally begged on your hands and knees to marry me,” he shot back, his eyes flashing with disgust. “You have zero right to insult my family.” I had reached my absolute limit. I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the reception table, fully intending to smash it against the marble floor. But suddenly, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around my wrist. I turned. Miles Davenport stood there in a flawlessly tailored ivory suit. His eyes were perfectly calm, but the depth of the gaze he leveled at the Sinclairs was terrifyingly cold. “Mr. Sinclair,” Miles’s voice was smooth, quiet, and lethal. “Just how many lives does your mother think she has, to demand my fiancée kneel for her?”

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On the day I was supposed to marry Preston Kensington, his adopted sister threatened to throw herself off the penthouse balcony. For her, Preston abandoned me at the altar, walking out without a backward glance while I stood there suffocating in layers of couture silk and tulle. Facing a ballroom full of Manhattan’s elite, their eyes glittering with pity and mockery, I walked straight to the microphone. “Whoever steps up to this altar right now,” I announced, my voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling, “is the man I will marry today.” Three years later, Preston returned to the Kensington estate, his adopted sister in tow. I was reclining on the cream leather sofa, sipping an expensive prenatal health tonic and idly watching a series on the flatscreen. Preston’s eyes locked onto the undeniable swell of my pregnant belly. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering dangerously in his cheek. “Whose bastard is that?” I took a slow, deliberate sip from my crystal glass, offering a faint smile. “A Kensington’s, of course.” … Preston stormed across the Persian rug, his face twisted in rage, and hauled me up by the arm. “You lying bitch! The day of the wedding, I took Paige and left. I haven’t been back in three years. How the hell could you be pregnant with my child?” A sharp laugh escaped my lips. I never said it was his. He wasn’t the only man in the Kensington dynasty. “Of course it’s not your child. You aren’t fit to be a father to my baby.” Paige gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in a practiced display of shock. “Blair! Even though Preston walked away from the wedding, he still let you keep the Kensington name. He let you live here in luxury. How could you be so shameless as to get knocked up with some stray’s baby?” My gaze snapped to her, cold and unyielding. “You’re his adopted sister, Paige. Yet you openly seduced your own brother. If we’re talking about being shameless, who could possibly compete with you two?” Instantly, Paige’s eyes welled with tears. She turned to Preston, her voice trembling. “Preston, we’ve been struggling out there for three years, keeping our boundaries, doing the right thing. And she… she gets pregnant with a bastard and makes a complete fool out of you.” The implication of being cuckolded hit Preston’s fragile ego like a match to gasoline. He raised his hand and struck me across the face with sickening force. “You whore! You get yourself knocked up and then try to throw dirt on me and Paige? Get the hell out of my house!” Pain exploded across my cheek, my vision spotting black for a few terrifying seconds. Three years ago, when Preston eloped with Paige, he left me to bear the humiliation of New York’s high society alone. Driven by pure adrenaline and rage, I had demanded a husband from the crowd. It was Preston’s uncle, Victor Kensington, who had stepped up to the altar. Victor was known as the grim reaper of Wall Street—a man whose cold, ruthless efficiency made billionaires tremble. Since the day I became his wife, doors that were previously locked flew open, and everyone who met me bent over backward to offer me their absolute best. When I finally got pregnant, Victor treated me like spun glass. He wouldn’t let a single hair on my head be harmed. For Preston to lay a hand on me today… if Victor found out, there would be blood. Partly to prevent an absolute bloodbath in the family, and partly to protect the fragile life growing inside me, I steadied my breathing. “If you both walk out that door right now, I will pretend this never happened.” Instead of taking the lifeline, Paige lunged forward, her fingers twisting violently into my hair. “She’s just guilty, Preston!” Paige shrieked. “She wants to kick us out so she can use this bastard to steal the Kensington fortune!” “So that’s your game,” Preston sneered, his eyes dark with malice. “I won’t let you get away with it.” I writhed, trying to break free from Paige’s grip, my hands instinctively guarding my stomach. “The day you ran away, Arthur officially struck you from the trust! Everything in this family has absolutely nothing to do with you anymore!” Paige let out a mocking laugh. “Grandpa was just angry. Preston is his only grandson. He would never actually cut him off.” Preston puffed up his chest, a sickeningly smug look on his face. “Grandpa told me long ago that the Kensington empire is mine.” I cradled my belly, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Not anymore. The child I’m carrying is the new Kensington heir.” I thought I had made it abundantly clear. But Preston’s face contorted into something monstrous. “You really are trying to pass off some mutt as a Kensington. I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” He swung his hand again, a brutal backhand that sent me crashing to the hardwood floor. Panic surged through my veins. Looking at their deranged, feral expressions, a primal terror gripped me. They were going to hurt the baby. “He’s not a bastard!” I cried out, scrambling backward. “He is—” Before I could finish, Preston lunged down. He grabbed the shattered remains of my crystal glass, still coated in the thick prenatal tonic, and shoved it brutally against my mouth. “Paige and I have been living out of suitcases, starving on the streets for three years, while you sit here living like a queen off a bastard!” he roared. “You like drinking this trash so much? Drink it!” The jagged edge of the crystal tore into my lip and gums. The metallic taste of my own blood mixed with the thick liquid. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I raised my hands to fight him off, but Paige’s stiletto heel slammed down onto the back of my hand, pinning it to the floor. Agony shot up my arm. My body convulsed, but the scream remained trapped in my bleeding throat. After forcing the mess into my mouth, Preston spat on me and stood up, dusting off his hands like he had just taken out the trash. Then, Paige shifted her weight. Her thin stiletto heel moved directly over my swollen stomach. Pure, paralyzing horror washed over me. I ignored the blinding pain in my hand, grabbing her ankle with both of my bloody hands, desperately trying to hold her foot back. Victor was supposed to be completely sterile. This baby was a miracle, the result of three grueling years of specialists, IVF treatments, and quiet, heartbreaking disappointments. Paige looked down at me, a sadistic smile playing on her lips. “Look at you, Blair. You look like a pathetic bitch trying to protect her litter. It’s disgusting.” Preston stared at my stomach, his brow furrowing in disgust. “If word gets out that I’ve been cuckolded, I’ll be a laughingstock in the city. Squash that bastard, Paige.” I shook my head frantically, coughing up the thick liquid and blood. “My baby…” I gasped, my voice a broken rasp. “He is… Victor’s…” Preston froze. For a second, there was silence. Then, he threw his head back and let out a manic, booming laugh. “You really are a terrible liar! Everyone in New York knows my uncle is practically asexual. He’s sterile, Blair!” Preston sneered. “I am the only bloodline this family has. Why else do you think Grandpa practically forced me to marry you? To breed.” “Preston is the sole heir,” Paige chimed in, stepping harder on my hand. “Grandpa only froze his cards to force him to come home. It’s actually hilarious that you’d try to pin your mistake on Uncle Victor just to save your own skin.” They had been gone for three years. They hadn’t made a single phone call home. Arthur had been so profoundly disappointed in his grandson that he truly had cut him off. But looking at their dilated pupils and manic energy, I realized they were completely unhinged. Arguing with them would only get my baby killed. “I’m not lying,” I pleaded, tears cutting through the blood on my cheeks. “This is Victor’s child. If you don’t believe me, let me call him. Let me prove it.” Keeping one arm wrapped protectively over my stomach, I reached out for my phone on the coffee table. If I could just dial his number. Victor would move heaven and earth to get here. He would save us. My fingertips brushed the cold metal of the phone, but Preston snatched it away. With a violent flick of his wrist, he hurled it against the marble fireplace. It shattered into a dozen pieces. My heart plummeted into my stomach. Preston grabbed my chin, his fingers digging painfully into my jaw. “My uncle is a psycho. He’s the most ruthless man on Wall Street. If he finds out I can’t even handle a cheating wife on my own, he’ll think I’m weak. He’ll never hand the company over to me.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s why you wanted to call him, isn’t it?” “No,” I sobbed, shaking my head. “Please—” Before I could form another word, Paige pressed the tip of her stiletto into the curve of my belly. “Stop wasting time with this slut, Preston. Let’s get rid of the problem so we can go see Grandpa and claim what’s ours.” A sharp, agonizing cramp ripped through my abdomen. Inside, I felt the baby thrash frantically. A wave of maternal panic, darker and deeper than anything I had ever known, drowned out my pride. “Please,” I begged, looking up at them. “Please don’t hurt my baby…” Paige pulled out her phone and pointed the camera at me. “Get on your knees. Bark like a dog twice, and tell the camera you’re nothing but a cheap whore. Do it, and I’ll step off.” For my child, there was no line I wouldn’t cross. I dragged my battered body up, forcing myself onto my hands and knees on the glass-strewn floor. “Woof. Woof,” I choked out, my body trembling violently. “I’m… I’m a cheap whore.” Paige leaned down, a triumphant, wicked smirk on her face. “Remember when I was on my knees begging you not to marry Preston, Blair? Did you ever think you’d end up like this?” Years ago, Paige had come to my apartment, crying that she and her brother were in love, begging me to call off the wedding. But the Covington and Kensington merger involved billions in corporate assets. If I broke the engagement, my family would bear the financial ruin. I had refused her. She had carried that venom in her heart every single day since. I didn’t care about the past anymore. I looked up at them, my vision swimming. “Please… call an ambulance.” Instead of mercy, Preston drove his expensive loafer directly into the center of my back. “God, you are pathetic! You’ll do anything for this bastard, won’t you?” I slammed face-first into the hardwood. The impact sent a shockwave of fiery, agonizing pain radiating across my belly. “You said… you said you’d let him go…” I gasped, clutching the floor. Paige examined her nails, utterly bored. “I said I would let him go. Preston never promised anything.” “You used my name to live off my family,” Preston snarled. “You think I’m going to let you walk away from that?” He drew his leg back and delivered a brutal, sickening kick directly to my lower abdomen. A horrific tearing sensation ripped through me. A second later, a warm gush of dark, red blood soaked through my dress, pooling onto the floor between my legs. The frantic fluttering inside me slowed… and then stopped. A profound, suffocating emptiness eclipsed my soul. The despair was so heavy it felt like a physical weight crushing my lungs. I turned my head to look at them, my vision burning with a hatred so pure and absolute it felt divine. “Preston. Paige.” My voice was a hollow rasp, emptied of all humanity. “You are going to burn for this.” Paige stepped closer to Preston, her eyes flashing with malice. “She still isn’t sorry. I guess she hasn’t learned her lesson.” Preston smiled—a cold, dead thing. “Let’s see who burns first. Paige, get a rope.” Paige hurried into the foyer, returning moments later with heavy decorative curtain tie-backs. I tried to drag my bleeding, broken body backward, leaving a thick smear of crimson across the pristine wood. “What are you doing?” I choked out, terror flooding me anew. They didn’t answer. They were smiling. They bound my wrists and ankles together. Then, Preston grabbed the rope and dragged me out through the French doors, hauling me across the stone patio toward the infinity pool. With one swift kick, he sent me tumbling over the edge. The icy water swallowed me instantly. Bound and heavy with pregnancy, I sank like a stone. The water rushed into my nose and lungs, sealing my screams. The burning agony of suffocation overtook the pain in my body. Just as my consciousness began to splinter into darkness— Preston yanked the rope, hauling my head above the surface. “Have you learned your lesson, Blair?” he shouted from the edge. “Are you ever going to embarrass me again?” I gasped greedily at the air, coughing up water, but as I breathed, I felt a terrifying downward pressure in my pelvis. Victor and I had taken the birthing classes. I knew what this was. The trauma had triggered early labor. Even though I knew the chances were nonexistent, the primal instinct to save my child took over. “I’m sorry!” I sobbed out, treading water frantically. “I won’t do it again. Please. The baby is coming. Call an ambulance, I’m begging you!” Preston spat down at me. “Still thinking about the bastard? You haven’t repented at all.” “I am not letting that mistake walk out of my house alive!” He raised his foot to kick my head back under the water. I closed my eyes tightly, surrendering to the cold, dark end. Then, the massive iron gates of the estate blew open. Victor sprinted across the lawn, his eyes wild, his voice an earth-shattering roar. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!”

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Caroline walked in wearing five-inch stilettos while I was in the middle of signing a merger agreement. She didn’t knock. That was her style. As the heads of two massive family conglomerates, we knew the geography of each other’s offices too well—her chair faced the floor-to-ceiling windows; mine was angled forty-five degrees, offering a perfect view of the glass curtain wall of her building across the street. We had grown up together, so close I could trace the arch of her eyebrows with my eyes closed. We were so close that when she said, “I want to call off the engagement,” I didn’t even pause the movement of my pen. “Reason,” I said. “I’m in love with someone else.” The nib of my fountain pen hesitated on the paper for a second. Just one second. I signed the final character, closed the leather folder, and looked up. She stood opposite my desk, spine rigid, chin slightly elevated—a posture of command she wore like armor. But her eyelashes were trembling, like a butterfly caught under the eaves before a storm. We had known each other for twenty-three years. I had seen her cry over an unsolved calculus problem; I had seen her stand at her father’s funeral without shedding a single tear. But I had never seen her look like this—cheeks flushed with an unnatural, feverish heat, eyes impossibly bright. That wasn’t the sharp, cold light of a boardroom killer. It was the manic glow of someone high on dopamine. … “Is it him?” I asked. “His name is Noah,” she said. Her voice softened three degrees when the name crossed her lips, as if she were dissolving a sugar cube on her tongue. “The one who joined the company this summer.” I remembered. Last week’s intern review. A boy standing in front of the projector, explaining user personas. His slide deck was a visual feast, flashy and modern, but the underlying data had three glaring errors. I had intended to point them out, but Caroline had spoken first: “A fresh perspective. I like the independent thinking.” She had even smiled, a rare occurrence. At the time, I thought she was just having a good day. “How long?” “One month and three days.” “And you think you know him?” “Enough.” She lifted her chin, defensive now. “He’s not like you people—obsessed with margins and bottom lines. He’s clean. He’s pure. When he looks at me—” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He doesn’t see a CEO.” I didn’t speak. Outside, the September evening light was fading, the sunset plating her silhouette in burnished orange. Twenty-three years ago, our families lived in the same exclusive gated community in Connecticut. She used to wear a sun-bleached floral dress, crouching under the old oak tree to count ants. I had walked over and asked what she was doing. She didn’t look up: “The ants are moving house. It’s going to rain.” It did rain that day. We hid in the mudroom, and she shared half a chocolate bar with me, softened by the warmth of her hand. Later, her father’s tech venture went public, and they moved to a larger estate. My father’s hedge fund caught the right tailwinds, and our families remained equals in tax brackets and influence. The engagement was set at a dinner party when we were seventeen—a half-joke made over brandy that solidified into an alliance. I remember she sat next to me that night, head bowed, aggressively stirring a bowl of crème brûlée, the tips of her ears burning a violent shade of red. From that day on, everything changed. She stopped punching my shoulder and calling me “Cole.” She stopped shoving failed test papers at me to forge her dad’s signature. She stopped calling at midnight to ask about physics. Instead, she started critiquing the color of my ties, criticizing my rapid speech patterns in meetings, and acting the perfect debutante in front of our parents. But alone with me, she turned into ice. It took me a long time to figure it out—she had taken it seriously. She had taken a drunk dinner table promise and treated it as gospel. And now, for another man, she was here to dissolve the very covenant she had spent years quietly honoring. “Okay,” I said. She froze. “…What did you say?” “I agree. The engagement is off.” I opened my drawer and pulled out the draft agreement, a document that had never actually been notarized. “It was a joke between our parents, Caroline. No need to make it a tragedy. Take it back, burn it, whatever you like.” The thin paper lay on the mahogany desk, clipped with a photo taken five years ago at a gala. She was in vintage Chanel; I was in bespoke Savile Row. We sat side by side, smiling politely, miles apart. She didn’t reach for it. “You…” Her lips parted. She looked like she wanted to ask a question but was terrified of the answer. I waited three seconds. “Anything else?” Her lashes finally dropped, heavy and defeated, curtaining her eyes. She reached out, grabbed the paper, and crushed it in her fist. The crisp sound of crumpling bond paper filled the silence. “Nothing else.” She turned and walked out. Her heels struck the marble floor—clack, clack, clack—a rhythm that faded into the corridor. The office returned to silence. I looked down and pulled the next file from the stack. The sunset outside sank behind the skyline, surrendering to the twilight. My assistant knocked and entered to turn on the lights. He saw my pen moving steadily across the page and hesitated. “Mr. Harrison, are you…” “Speak.” “Ms. Prest… she stood by the elevator bank for a long time after she left.” “Hm.” “She seemed to be waiting for you to go after her.” I flipped a page of the report. “Her new boyfriend. Is it the marketing intern?” My assistant blinked, struggling to keep up with the pivot. “Y-yes, sir. Noah Valenti.” “Competence?” “…Mediocre at best. But he’s very charming.” My assistant chose his words carefully. “Ms. Prest has been bringing him to events recently. There are rumors.” “What kind of rumors?” He didn’t dare say it. I said it for him. “That she’s lost her mind over a pretty face?” He lowered his head, a silent confirmation. I placed the signed document in the ‘Out’ tray. “Everyone has their own path.” “But sir, you and Ms. Prest have an engagement—” “Had. It’s dissolved.” My assistant’s head snapped up, shock written plainly across his face. He had been with me for seven years. In seven years, he had never seen me crack, and he wasn’t seeing a crack now. He opened his mouth, but eventually just said, “Yes, sir.” As he backed out of the room clutching the files, he couldn’t resist glancing back one last time. I was already reading the next spreadsheet. Noah didn’t quit. Not because I wouldn’t let him go, but because Caroline wouldn’t let him. She transferred him to the Executive Office. His title shifted from “Intern” to “Special Assistant to the CEO.” Rumor had it she fought the board for two hours over it, finally slamming a stack of reports on the table: “My assistant, my choice.” Her executive secretary of eight years resigned on the spot. Caroline didn’t ask her to stay. When this news reached me, I was at a charity auction for the Met. The organizers had seated Caroline and me in the same row, separated only by the central aisle. She arrived late. When she entered, heads turned—not for her, but for the man on her arm. Noah was wearing a white tuxedo. The bowtie was perfect, and a faint, modest smile played on his lips. He was undeniably handsome—clean-cut, boyish, like a poet from a liberal arts college brochure. He walked half a step behind her, projecting humility and devotion. “Who’s the kid with Caroline?” “Heard he’s the new favorite at her firm.” “Christ, look at the way he looks at her…” The whispers rippled through the ballroom like a tide. Caroline didn’t notice, or perhaps she didn’t care. She turned to say something to Noah; he leaned in close to listen, his jawline tense but soft. It was a beautiful image. Cinematic. The auction reached lot seventeen—a Ming Dynasty jade archer’s ring. Opening bid: eighty thousand. I had no interest in jade, so I prepared to tune out, but then I saw Caroline raise her paddle. “One hundred thousand.” A murmur went through the crowd. The market value was sixty, maybe seventy thousand tops. “One-twenty,” someone countered. “One-fifty.” Caroline didn’t blink. Noah tugged gently at her sleeve. His voice was low, but pitched perfectly to be overheard by the surrounding tables. “Caroline, it’s too much. I’m not worth it.” Caroline turned to him. I had never seen that look on her face before—soft, exposed, almost begging to be used. “If you like it, you’re worth it.” She won the ring for two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. She slid it onto Noah’s thumb right there at the table. He looked down at his hand, smiling shyly, like a delicate flower trembling in the wind. I took a sip of my champagne. My assistant leaned in, voice lowered. “Mr. Harrison, that ring is appraised at seventy thousand, max.” “Hm.” “Ms. Prest has always been such a disciplined investor…” “Love lowers the IQ,” I said. “It’s a physiological response.” My assistant choked on air. He looked at the couple holding hands across the aisle, then at my unmoving profile. He looked at me like I was a monster. “Sir,” he managed, “do you really… not care at all?” I placed the empty flute on a passing waiter’s tray. “She’s buying her boyfriend a gift. Why would I care?” “But you’re her fiancé—” “Ex-fiancé.” My assistant shut his mouth. When the auction ended, we moved to the dinner reception. I was heading for the bar when Noah blocked my path. He stood at the corner of the corridor, the recessed lighting stretching his shadow long and thin. His white suit was spotless, his eyes cast down in practiced deference. “Mr. Harrison,” he said softly. “I’ve admired you for a long time.” I stopped. “Caroline talks about you often. She says you’re the person she respects most. I’ve always wanted to learn from you; I’m glad I finally have the chance.” He paused, offering a sheepish, self-deprecating smile. “I know I have a lot to learn, but Caroline encourages me. I’m terrified of letting her down.” The speech was perfect. The tone was humble. It was flawless. I looked at him. He looked back, his eyes clear and wide, like a shallow stream where you can see every pebble at the bottom. “Do good work,” I said. He waited three seconds. When I didn’t add anything, his eyelashes fluttered. “You aren’t going to ask me… if my intentions with Caroline are real?” “That’s a question for her.” He pressed his lips together. The smile was slipping. “Aren’t you even curious? She broke off her engagement with you for me.” I finally looked him in the eye. He was twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. Smooth skin, innocent eyes. He had calibrated his tone perfectly—30% hesitation, 30% innocence, 40% predatory confidence. “Mr. Valenti,” I said. “That engagement was a dinner table joke between two old men. It was never legal. If she wanted to end it, I was always going to sign the papers.” He blinked, stunned. “As for whether you’re genuine—” I paused. “If she chooses to believe you, no one else has the right to comment.” I stepped around him and kept walking. From behind me, his voice drifted over, light as a sigh. “You really are a… strange man, Mr. Harrison.” I didn’t look back. At dinner, Caroline and Noah sat at the head table. She served him food, picking the bones out of his fish, placing the tenderest cuts on his plate. He whispered thank you, and she smiled—a smile that looked satisfied but exhausted, like a traveler who had finally found a place to rest her head. I sat two tables away, eating quietly. My phone lit up. Grace Miller: [How’s the auction? My mother is asking about the wedding timeline again. I told her you were busy.] Me: [Let’s discuss in person next week.] Grace Miller: [Sounds good. By the way, did you see Caroline today?] Me: [Yes.] Grace Miller: [Is she okay?] Me: [She’s in love. She seems fine.] There was a pause on the other end. Grace Miller: [Are you okay?] I stared at those three words. Outside, the November night was dark, the city grid carved up by neon and headlights. In the reflection of the glass, my face was a blank sheet of paper. Me: [I’m always okay.] December. The Prest Group Annual Gala. I was invited as a strategic partner. In previous years, Caroline and I would walk the red carpet together. This year, her plus-one had changed. Noah wore a custom suit, his cuffs fastened with the limited-edition Cartier links she had won at auction the week before. He stood by her side, smiling like polished jade, handling the media’s questions with rehearsed grace. “Mr. Valenti, what is your relationship with Ms. Prest?” He lowered his eyes, ears turning a charming shade of pink. “I am Ms. Prest’s assistant.” Caroline grabbed his hand, looking straight into the camera. “He is my boyfriend.” The flashbulbs nearly blew the roof off the ballroom. I stood on the periphery of the crowd, holding a glass of red wine I hadn’t touched. My assistant leaned in, voice barely audible. “Sir, PR is asking if we should suppress the trending topics.” “No need.” “But this affects your reputation—” “What reputation?” I turned to him. “My relationship with the Prest Group is purely commercial. Her romantic life is her freedom. It has nothing to do with me.” My assistant looked like he was going to explode. He stared at me, started to speak, stopped, and finally choked out, “Mr. Harrison, are you… a monk?” “Did you achieve nirvana in a past life?” I placed the wine glass on a passing tray and patted his shoulder. “Stop watching so many soap operas.” Halfway through the gala, Noah took the stage. Speaking as the “Special Assistant to the CEO,” he presented the quarterly results for the group’s digital transformation. The PowerPoint was exquisite—smooth animations, curated stock photos. But the data. There was a glaring logical fallacy in the user acquisition cost column. I frowned. Caroline sat in the front row, looking up at him, her eyes shining. She didn’t see the error. Or rather, she didn’t want to see it. The speech ended to thunderous applause. Noah bowed and left the stage. As he passed me, he slowed down. “Mr. Harrison,” he said, turning his head slightly so only I could hear. “Caroline told me you used to walk the red carpet with her every year.” I waited. “She said she wasn’t happy then,” he said. “But she’s happy now.” There it was. The long, drawn-out performance, the constant, deliberate flexing—it was finally out in the open. I looked at him. There was a secret smirk in his eyes, like a cat that had finally stolen the cream. “Mr. Valenti,” I said. “Do you know how long I’ve known her?” He hadn’t expected a question. He faltered. “Twenty-three years,” I answered for him. “In those twenty-three years, I know exactly when she was happy and when she wasn’t. I don’t need you to tell me.” The smile on his face stiffened. “Also,” I said, stepping past him. “Next time you run the numbers, triple-check them. That logic error in your deck? Anyone who bothered to do the math in their head caught it.” Silence behind me. I didn’t look back.

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“Natalie, the fireworks! They caught your house—your parents are still inside!” It was New Year’s Eve, the kind of night where the air feels brittle with frost and expectation. My childhood friend, Hailey, had insisted we go out to celebrate. She wanted a spectacle, something to mark her “return” to our small town, so she’d dropped nearly two thousand dollars on professional-grade pyrotechnics. I’d watched her line them up along the dry brush at the edge of my property, my stomach doing slow, anxious somersaults. I tried to talk her out of it, pointing out how close they were to the porch, how the wind was picking up. She’d just brushed me off with a sharp, practiced laugh. “I know what I’m doing, Nat. Lighten up for once.” She didn’t wait for an answer before she struck the match. I couldn’t watch. Feeling a headache coming on, I retreated to a neighbor’s house to play cards, trying to drown out the booms with small talk. I hadn’t even finished my first hand when she burst through the door, breathless and wild-eyed, screaming that my parents were being burned alive. I froze, the cards slipping from my numb fingers. My parents? That was impossible. I was the only one spending the holidays at the house this year. … My first instinct was that this was one of Hailey’s twisted jokes. She’d always had a flair for the dramatic, a need to be the center of every tragedy. “Hailey, stop. My parents aren’t—” “I’m serious!” she shrieked, grabbing my arm so hard her nails dug into my skin. “I’m not lying! We have to go, now! The fire is out of control!” She hauled me toward my house. Before we even cleared the treeline, the heat hit me—a physical wall of shimmering, orange air. The fire had turned the Victorian structure I grew up in into a skeletal furnace. Neighbors were frantic, tossing buckets of water that vanished into steam before hitting the flames. Above the roar of the fire, I heard it: a low, guttural moaning from inside the house. Someone was screaming a name, the sound muffled by the crackle of burning cedar. My heart hammered against my ribs. If my parents weren’t home—and they shouldn’t have been—then who the hell was in there? I reached into my pocket, my fingers trembling as I tried to dial 911. Before I could hit ‘call,’ Mr. Henderson, the head of our local neighborhood association, intercepted me. He looked haggard, his face smeared with soot. “Natalie, honey, your parents… they’re trapped. The fire’s too hot. We’ve tried everything, but…” He trailed off, wiping a hand across his red-rimmed eyes. “You need to prepare yourself.” I looked at the house. Through the shattered parlor window, I could see two silhouettes wreathed in flame, thrashing in a desperate, final dance of agony. A wave of nausea rolled over me. Even if it wasn’t my parents, I had to save whoever was in there. But as my thumb hovered over the emergency button, Mr. Henderson snatched the phone right out of my hand. “No, Natalie. You can’t call the police.” I stared at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about?” “Our town is in the final running for the ‘Safest Heritage Community’ grant,” he said, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. “If word gets out about a fatal fire caused by illegal fireworks on New Year’s, we lose everything. The funding, the reputation… we can handle this ourselves. We’ll get the fire out.” I opened my mouth to scream at him, but Hailey was suddenly there, flanking me. “He’s right, Nat. Don’t make a scene. Look at everyone helping you—if you call the cops now, you’re basically stabbing the whole neighborhood in the back. Just let them put it out. That’s all that matters right now.” Their logic was insane, a product of small-town desperation and warped priorities, but the roar of the fire was louder than my thoughts. I didn’t fight them. I grabbed a bucket and joined the line. We fought the flames until three in the morning. When the last ember finally hissed into silence, the air was thick with the cloying, sweet-metallic scent of charred meat. Two blackened shapes were carried out on stretchers and covered with white sheets. Hailey didn’t wait for me to process it. she collapsed into the dirt, wailing into her hands. “Natalie, I’m so sorry! Your poor parents… I never should have lit those fireworks. I didn’t think… I didn’t know your house was the only one that would go up. Please don’t hate me.” She was performing, making herself the victim before I could even find my voice. Two people were dead, and she was worried about being blamed. I clenched my fists, the grief and rage finally bubbling over. “I warned you, Hailey! I told you it wasn’t safe, but you had to have your ‘moment.’ Now my house is gone, and people are dead. Do you think an apology fixes that?” Hailey looked up, her eyes swimming with well-rehearsed tears, and sobbed even harder. One of the neighbors, a woman named Mrs. Gable, stepped forward to shield her. “Honestly, Natalie, shouting won’t bring them back. You’re being cruel.” “Exactly,” another man added, crossing his arms. “It’s just bad luck. Everyone else’s house is fine. Maybe your place was just a tinderbox. You can’t pin that on Hailey.” Then, Mrs. Gable let out a long, airy sigh. “And look on the bright side, dear. At least you won’t have to worry about the cost of assisted living anymore. That’s one hell of a silver lining, isn’t it?” I felt the blood drain from my face. “What did you just say?” “I’m just saying, the elder-care burden is halved! You should be thanking her for the closure.” “You’re disgusting,” I whispered, stepping toward her. I wanted to tear that smug look off her face. Mr. Henderson stepped between us. “Enough. Natalie, don’t take it out on her. She’s just… being practical. Look, you can stay at my place for a few days. We take care of our own.” Hailey reached out, catching my sleeve. “Stay with me, Nat. It’s the least I can do. I’ll be your family now. My parents can be your parents. Please?” I looked at her. Her eyes were darting everywhere but at me. I remembered the fireworks—how she’d aimed the Roman candles directly toward my roof, laughing like it was a game. A cold realization began to settle in my gut. Mr. Henderson kept pushing. “Let’s just get the bodies to the funeral home for a private cremation before the sun comes up. No need for an autopsy, no need for the county coroner to get involved.” He signaled for a few men to lift the stretchers. I smiled, a cold, hard thing. “There’s just one problem, Mr. Henderson. My parents didn’t come home for the holidays. Those two bodies? They aren’t mine.” “I think we should call the police and see who they actually belong to.” The entire group froze. The silence was absolute. Hailey was the first to break it. She scrambled to her feet, pointing a trembling finger at the sheets. “That’s impossible! Who else would be in your house? You’re just saying that because you want to call the cops! Natalie, for God’s sake, have some perspective! Is your pride really more important than this town’s future?” Perspective? I couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. What was even more chilling was the way the rest of the neighbors nodded, their eyes turning cold and accusatory. Mr. Henderson frowned, his voice laced with a hidden threat. “Natalie, I know you’re grieving, but don’t make this difficult. If you turn this into a crime scene, nobody in this town is going to help you with the burial. You’re a young woman—you think you can handle this alone?” “It’s over. We’re burying them in the local plot at dawn. Simple as that.” He barked an order at the men, but it was New Year’s Day, and the grim reality of handling charred remains had dampened their enthusiasm. Nobody moved. Hailey shoved me toward them. “Natalie, don’t just stand there! Give them some cash for the trouble. Don’t you know how things work? You’ve been in the city too long. You owe these men at least a thousand each for the hazard pay.” “Pay up. It’s your family. Do the right thing.” A thousand dollars each? It wasn’t “hazard pay”; it was an extortion tax to keep me quiet. Suddenly, ten men found the energy to step forward, holding out their Venmo codes like vultures. I didn’t move. I raised my voice, letting it carry through the cold morning air. “I told you. Those aren’t my parents. I don’t know who those people are.” Hailey’s face contorted. From the back of the crowd, Mrs. Gable scoffed. “Stop lying! I saw your parents at 8:00 PM last night! I waved to them in the driveway!” “Me too,” another woman chimed in. “We were all at the end of the block. We saw them go inside. Why would we lie about that? It’s bad luck to lie about the dead.” Their certainty was terrifying. My head started to throb. My parents had told me they were staying in the city. But why would all these people insist they were here? Hailey gripped my shoulder, her voice dropping to a faux-sympathetic coo. “Nat, I know it’s hard to accept. But everyone saw them. If you don’t believe us, why don’t you just call them? Prove us wrong.” My hands began to shake uncontrollably. Someone thrust a phone in my face—a grainy doorbell camera clip from a neighbor’s house. It showed two people, dressed in my parents’ winter coats, waving to the street before entering my front door. I fumbled for my own phone and dialed my father. Straight to voicemail. My heart hammered against my teeth. I dialed my mother. Ringing… ringing… no answer. I tried five more times. Nothing. I took a shaky breath and called my older brother, my last hope. He picked up on the third ring. “Natalie? It’s five in the morning, what’s up?” “Jack,” I whispered, my eyes burning. “Did Mom and Dad go back to the house last night? To the old place?” Jack chuckled on the other end. “Yeah, Dad was obsessed with those two sea bass he had in the deep freeze there. He insisted on having them for New Year’s dinner. I drove them down myself last night. Why?” The air left my lungs. The phone slipped slightly from my ear. I could hear my nephew crying in the background, and then the line went dead. I looked at the two white sheets. My knees turned to water. Hailey caught me, pulling me into a suffocating hug while whispering in my ear. “Just give them the money, Nat. Let them rest. It’s almost over. Everyone is waiting.” I was shaking with a mix of horror and fury. I knelt in the dirt before the stretchers. After a few jagged breaths, I reached out and peeled back the sheet. I wanted to find something—a ring, a watch—that would tell me it wasn’t them. But the fire had been too thorough. They were unrecognizable. I broke down, sobbing into my hands. Behind me, I felt Hailey’s hand on my back, and I could swear I heard the faint, satisfied click of her tongue. “It’s okay, Nat. It’s over now.” Over? How could it be over? If she hadn’t lit those fireworks, they’d be alive. I reached for my phone, intent on calling the authorities, grant be damned. Hailey slapped the phone out of my hand. “I said no police! Are you deaf?” I reached for the phone again, and she kicked it three feet away into the ash. I felt a surge of pure, primal adrenaline. I stood up, ready to swing at her, when a voice drifted from the driveway. “Natalie? What is everyone doing on our lawn so early?” I spun around. My mother and father were standing there, holding a grocery bag, looking perfectly healthy and utterly confused. If my parents were standing there… then who was under the sheets? The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and punctuated only by the sound of Hailey’s jaw hitting the floor.

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Word on the street was that the moment the Huntington heir graduated, his parents gifted him ten million dollars and a ten percent stake in the family empire. I sat in my cubicle, gnawing on a stale bagel I’d saved from the day before, practically drooling with envy. I ran the numbers in my head. Even if he never lifted a finger for the rest of his life, just living off the interest and dividends, he’d be pulling in a cool six million a year, easy. For a pathetic, corporate drone like me, getting paid to do absolutely nothing was the ultimate dream. It was the summit of my existence. Then came the day the Chairman and his family found me. They told me I was their biological son, lost for twenty-three years. My buddy warned me, “Look, Wes. Families with that kind of money? They have rules. Dozens of them. You won’t survive it. Besides, they’ve raised Tristan for over twenty years. They won’t have any real feelings for you.” I flashed him a jagged, cynical grin. “It’s fine. I’m not in it for the love. I’m in it for the cash.” I was whisked away to the Huntington estate. On the drive over, the butler briefed me on the lay of the land. … The Huntingtons had three children: the eldest daughter, Harper; the second daughter, Blair; and the third son, Tristan. After I went missing all those years ago, Mrs. Huntington—Catherine—was inconsolable. To fill the void, they went to an upscale orphanage and adopted a boy. That was Tristan. Tristan was smart, sensible, and achieved straight A’s effortlessly. He had grown up basking in the adoration of his parents and sisters. The moment the car pulled up to the manor, I was blocked at the entrance by the second daughter, Blair. She raked her eyes over me, her gaze lingering on my cheap sneakers and worn-out jeans with undisguised disgust. She scoffed, looking at me sideways. “So. You’re Wes?” I nodded and pointed to the butler beside me. “Apparently. That’s what they tell me. But you can still call me by my real name, Wes Miller.” She sneered, a cold, sharp sound. “You look like trash. You don’t even compare to Tristan’s little finger.” She took a step closer, her perfume expensive and overpowering. “Give up now. Even if you’re back, you will never replace Tristan. This family only has one son, and that is Tristan! You can’t compete with him in anything.” “I’m warning you,” she hissed, lowering her voice. “Know your place. Be polite to Tristan. Don’t do anything that makes me hate you. Otherwise, I have a million ways to make you disappear.” Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and marched into the villa. I rolled my eyes at her retreating back. Who cares if she hates me? I’m here to secure the bag, not to fight for affection. Once I get the money, she won’t have to chase me out; I’ll be on the first flight to the Caribbean. Tristan, the adopted son, got ten million and ten percent of the shares just for graduating. As the biological son, asking for an extra two million wouldn’t be excessive, right? I was about to push the heavy oak doors open when they were pulled from the inside. A guy about my age stood there. Our eyes locked. He quickly plastered a radiant smile on his face, grabbing my hand with an enthusiasm that felt rehearsed. “You must be Wes!” “Come in, come in! Mom and Dad are waiting for you!” No surprises here. This was the legendary Tristan—high EQ, high IQ, the golden boy. He ushered me into the living room. On the plush velvet sofas, an elegant middle-aged couple immediately stood up. When she saw me, Catherine Huntington froze. She walked slowly toward me, her manicured fingers trembling slightly as she reached out to touch my face. “Wes… is it really my Wes?” Then, she pulled me into a desperate, crushing hug. “Mom has finally found you.” “All these years… did you have a hard life out there? I’m so sorry… Mom is so sorry…” I had prepared myself for a cold reception, but being suddenly embraced by this stranger who smelled like lavender and money… it stirred something complicated in my chest. I grew up in the system. I had never felt anything resembling familial love. Just as I was calculating the appropriate emotional response, the sound of shattering glass cut through the air, pierced by Tristan’s high-pitched scream. Everyone’s attention snapped to him instantly. He was sprawled on the floor, clutching his elbow, sobbing. “Mom… it hurts…” Drops of blood hit the pristine white marble floor. Catherine immediately released me and rushed over to him. Her eyes were filled with panic and heartache. “Tristan!” “Quick! Call the doctor!” Mr. Huntington, Richard, crowded around too. Once he saw the blood, he turned and roared at the hovering maids. “How do you do your jobs? Why did you let the Young Master pour the tea himself?!” Tristan grabbed Richard’s arm with his good hand, his voice trembling. “Dad, don’t blame them. I was just thinking… since my big brother is back, I wanted to pour him a cup of tea personally.” “It’s my fault. I’m too clumsy. I missed a step.” He leaned weakly into Catherine’s arms, defending the servants. He looked like a fragile angel. Anyone seeing this would feel their heart break for him. The family doctor arrived quickly. After a simple bandage job, Blair wasn’t satisfied and insisted they go to the hospital for a full check-up. Naturally, the whole family prepared to escort him to the ER. As they were heading out the door, Catherine seemed to remember I existed. She turned back, looking apologetic. “Wes, I had prepared a welcome dinner for you, but this… with Tristan…” Before she could finish, Blair stomped back, grabbed her arm, and cut her off. “Oh, come on, Mom. Why bother with a feast for a gutter rat? The priority is Tristan! He lost so much blood, aren’t you worried? Let’s go!” Two seconds later, I heard the heavy thud of the front door slamming shut. Instantly, the massive villa was silent. Just me. I sat on the sofa, glancing around the opulent room. My hand brushed against a leather-bound book on the coffee table. A photo album. I opened the first page. Tristan, holding a coconut, smiling brilliantly on a white sandy beach. Then came summer camps, international math competitions, and the whole family surrounding him for birthdays, blowing out candles on cakes that cost more than my rent. Most of the photos were from 2013. I was twelve that year. I hit a growth spurt in middle school. The orphanage was crowded, resources were thin. To make sure I got enough to eat, I went to the cafeteria right after school to help the lunch ladies wash vegetables in exchange for leftovers. While I was worrying about starving, he was vacationing in Fiji with his parents and sisters. Comparison really is the thief of joy. I sat in that living room until nearly midnight. There was no sign of them returning. I decided to head back to my apartment. I grabbed my bag and stood up just as the door opened. Catherine walked in, supporting Tristan. She looked surprised to see me. “Wes? It’s so late. Where are you going?” “It got late, and you guys weren’t back. I didn’t know where I was sleeping, so I figured I’d go home.” Hearing my answer, she paused, guilt flashing across her face. “Mom was just busy and forgot.” “Tch. Stop playing the victim,” Blair sneered from the doorway. Catherine turned to the housekeeper behind her. “Mrs. Higgins, take Wes to his room to rest.” “Mom, let me take my brother,” Tristan volunteered, stepping forward. Catherine smiled at him, relieved. “Tristan is always so sensible. Go ahead, take your brother up.” Tristan walked up, grabbing my hand with that practiced familiarity, and led me upstairs. He pushed open the door to a bedroom on the second floor. “Brother, you can stay in this one.” I looked inside. It was spacious, warm, beautifully decorated. Before I could speak, Blair dashed up and blocked the doorway. “No! This is Tristan’s room! Tristan, why are you giving your room to this hillbilly?” “People like him are manipulative. You’re too kind, don’t let him bully you!” Tristan looked at her, feigning a scolding tone. “Blair, the room Mom prepared isn’t as big as mine. I figured… Brother has suffered so much out there for years. I’ve replaced him here, enjoying all this happiness. Now that he’s back, I should compensate him.” “I occupied his spot. It’s time to give it back.” He turned to me, his eyes wide and fearful. “Brother, you won’t blame me, right? Don’t worry, I’ll return everything that belongs to you. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just… please don’t chase me away.” “I just love Mom and Dad so much. I can’t bear to leave them…” Jesus. So Tristan wasn’t just a golden boy; he was a master manipulator. A text-book “Pick-me” boy. “Nonsense! What replacement? You are my son, Tristan Huntington!” Richard Huntington had appeared behind us. Hearing Tristan’s speech, he barked out the words sternly. He walked over and ruffled Tristan’s hair. “Silly child, don’t think like that. Your mother and I raised you by hand. To us, blood doesn’t matter. You are the child we love the most.” Hearing this, Tristan’s eyes instantly filled with tears. He turned and clung to Richard’s arm, whining affectionately, “Dad, of course I’m your son. I just feel bad for Brother, and I don’t want to leave you guys…” While they enacted their touching father-son moment, I walked to the room next door and pushed it open. It was fine. Smaller than Tristan’s, but clean and bright. A hell of a lot better than my rat-hole apartment. “I’ll take this one.” Tristan froze, opening his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “Relax. I don’t rob people of their things.” Without waiting for a reaction, I tossed my bag inside and shut the door. Reviewing the day, I realized that aside from Catherine showing a flicker of maternal instinct, the rest of them viewed me as an intruder. Rumor had it that the Huntington empire was originally Catherine’s family business. Richard had married into it. After the old patriarch died, and Catherine showed no interest in business, the reins were handed to Richard. But in this house, Catherine still held the purse strings. Which meant my strategy was simple: Suck up to Mom. Human beings die for wealth just as birds die for food. I’d treat this like a job. I gave myself one year. Get ten million cash and the shares, then I resign and vanish. The next morning, there was a knock on my door. It was Mrs. Higgins. She said the eldest sister, Harper, was back, and Madam wanted me downstairs. When I got down, the family was happily distributing gifts Harper had brought back. Harper saw me and paused, then picked up a gift box from the table and handed it to me. “You must be Wes. This is a gift I brought back from Europe. It’s the same as Tristan’s.” “Thanks,” I said politely, taking it. It seemed she was slightly more decent than Blair. I opened it. A diamond-encrusted watch. It looked heavy. Expensive. Harper was generous. She went onto the “Safe List.” Just as I was mentally calculating the resale value, Tristan shouted to someone off to the side, “Margot! Can I come to your birthday party the day after tomorrow?” I realized there was a stranger sitting on the sofa. She was beautiful, with an air of effortless arrogance. Old money. Perhaps sensing my curiosity, Harper introduced her. “This is my best friend, Margot.” Margot turned, her eyes meeting mine. For a split second, shock flashed through her gaze. But a moment later, her expression shifted. Her eyes crinkled into a smile, and she waved at me. “Hello there, Wes.” Tristan’s smile stiffened. “Oh, Margot,” Catherine interjected eagerly. “Tristan cares so much about your birthday. He’s been preparing a gift for months. If you don’t invite him, he’ll be heartbroken for ages!” Margot smiled politely. “Sure,” she said, her voice cool. “The more the merrier. Harper, bring both your brothers.” Tristan looked at me with disbelief, then forced a smile. “Don’t worry, Margot. We’ll definitely be there!” After Margot left, Tristan’s face fell. He sat on the sofa looking like a kicked puppy. Seeing this, Catherine pulled a black card from her purse and handed it to him. “Don’t be sad. She agreed, didn’t she? That’s huge progress compared to how she used to treat you.” “Take Mom’s card and go to the mall. Buy some new clothes, get a facial. Our Tristan is so handsome; you’ll make sure Margot can’t take her eyes off you!” “Don’t worry. The position of Margot’s husband belongs to our precious Tristan.” He took the card, glancing at Catherine with wide, teary eyes. “Thank you, Mom.” Catherine then noticed me standing there. She looked me up and down, a flicker of awkwardness crossing her face. “Um… Wes, maybe you should go buy some clothes too?” I looked at her and said bluntly, “I’m broke.” She seemed to remember something, pulled out her phone, and tapped on the screen. A moment later, my phone buzzed. Bank notification: Account credited $200,000. I glanced at the unlimited black card in Tristan’s hand. Still playing favorites, I see. I thought for a second, then put on my best pathetic face. “I’ve never been to a party like this. I don’t know how to dress so I won’t embarrass the family. Do I need jewelry?” Catherine paused. Then she nodded fervently. “Right, right. This is your debut as a Huntington. You need to look dignified.” She turned and went into her bedroom. A moment later, she came out holding a velvet box. She opened it in front of me. Diamond cufflinks. They sparkled so hard I almost squinted. She handed them to me. “Here. Wear these. I didn’t have a welcome gift prepared for you when you came back. Consider this Mom’s compensation.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan’s face twist in shock and rage. I suppressed my excitement and took the box with feigned politeness. For the first time, I called her Mom. “Thank you, Mom.” Hearing that, she beamed so hard I thought her face might crack. These cufflinks were worth at least half a million. She wasn’t just a mom; she was an ATM. Calling her ‘Mom’ was the least I could do.

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When my mother asked which man I wanted to marry into the Sterling family, I didn’t choose Julian this time. Instead, I chose his uncle, Sam Sterling. My mother looked at me, her expression a mix of confusion and concern. After all, everyone in the elite circles of North Heights knew that Julian and I were childhood sweethearts. I had spent ten years following him like a shadow, loudly proclaiming to anyone who would listen that I wouldn’t marry anyone else. I offered her a bitter, weary smile. My mind drifted to my previous life—the years spent in a hollow marriage where Julian never touched me. I had spent those years convinced he suffered from some secret, shameful illness, going to great lengths to protect his dignity. It wasn’t until our golden wedding anniversary that I accidentally stumbled into the basement vault he had forbidden everyone to enter. The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with thousands of candid photographs of my cousin, Stephanie. In that moment, the truth shattered me. He wasn’t cold; he just didn’t love me. He never had. Since the universe had seen fit to give me a second chance, I decided to step aside and let them have each other. But later, when I walked toward his uncle in a Vera Wang gown, Julian’s face turned deathly pale. And then, he lost his mind. … Three days after the engagement was finalized, I ran into Julian at an upscale lounge. His friends saw me walk in and immediately began to snicker, their eyes gleaming with mockery. “Look, Julian, your little shadow is back!” “Hey, Nancy, the contract is signed, isn’t it? Do you really need to keep him on such a short leash? Can’t the guy even grab a drink with the boys?” When Julian saw me, his irritation was palpable. He looked at me as if I were a stain on his expensive suit. “Nancy, are you really that desperate?” he hissed, stepping close enough for me to smell the bourbon on his breath. “Going behind my back to get our families to settle the contract? Now everyone in the city thinks we’re engaged. You really outdid yourself this time.” The disdain in his eyes used to make my heart ache. Now, it just felt like a dull, distant noise. I took a slow breath and spoke calmly. “I didn’t need your permission. Because the man I’m marrying isn’t you.” The room went dead silent for a heartbeat before erupting into laughter. Julian’s friends were practically doubled over. “Julian, man, go comfort your little fiancée!” one of them wheezed. “Or she’s going to find an even crazier way to get your attention!” Julian frowned, his ego clearly bruised by my lack of tears. “Nancy, is this a new game? Playing hard to get?” He scoffed, stepping into my personal space. “Marrying into the Sterlings? If it’s not me, who else could it be? You’ve been screaming about being my wife since you were in pigtails. Everyone already considers you my property.” He leaned down, whispering harshly into my ear: “I’ll let the engagement thing slide. But remember this—I’ll give you a grand wedding to keep the families happy. But the legal papers? The actual marriage license? I’m saving that for the woman I actually want.” I looked up at him, stunned. In my last life, Julian had followed his family’s orders perfectly. We had signed the papers and married almost immediately. Did he… remember? Was he reborn, too? Before I could read the expression on his face, Stephanie arrived. The moment she saw Julian and me standing together, her eyes welled up with practiced precision. “Nancy… Julian…” she sobbed, her voice trembling. “I heard you’re… you’re getting married soon. I didn’t bring a gift, but I just wanted to wish you… wish you both a lifetime of happiness.” Before she could finish, she turned and ran out of the lounge, crying. “Look what you did!” Julian snarled at me. He didn’t spare me another glance before charging out after her. When they finally returned, they were holding hands, fingers interlaced. Stephanie’s lips were swollen and red, and there was a very deliberate, dark hickey on Julian’s throat. The crowd watched me with hungry eyes, waiting for the explosion. In the past, if I saw another woman so much as breathe near Julian, I would have caused a scene, screaming and crying until he looked at me. Julian stepped in front of Stephanie, shielding her, his face set in a look of defiant anticipation. He was waiting for me to break. But minutes passed, and I just sipped my sparkling water. Julian looked surprised, then let out a cold, mocking laugh. “I see you’ve finally grown some sense. At least you aren’t making a fool of yourself tonight.” When the party ended, Julian caught me by the arm. “It’s late. It’s not safe. I’ll drive you.” I didn’t decline. A free ride was a free ride. As I walked toward the car, I moved for the front passenger door, but Julian blocked me, his body a solid wall. “Sit in the back,” he said curtly. He then held the front door open for Stephanie, ushering her in with a gentleness he had never shown me. “I’m so sorry, Nancy,” Stephanie chirped from the front seat, looking back with a faux-pitying smile. “Julian is just so worried about me. He knows I get car sick if I’m not in the front.” I said nothing and climbed into the back seat—exactly where I had intended to sit anyway. The entire drive was filled with their hushed giggles and whispered inside jokes. At a red light, Stephanie leaned over, pouting, asking Julian to help her apply lip gloss. They lingered, their faces inches apart, their breathing becoming heavy and synchronized in the quiet cabin of the car. Suddenly, Julian glanced in the rearview mirror, as if remembering I was there. When he saw me staring blankly out the window, completely indifferent, his expression shifted. His jaw tightened, and he slammed the car into gear, his mood turning inexplicably foul. When we reached my house, I moved to get out, but Julian caught my wrist again. He shoved a small jewelry box into my hand, his tone condescending. “Fine. Stop with this ‘indifferent’ act. It’s beneath you.” He sighed. “This bracelet is your engagement gift. Just be a good girl, and I’ll give you the wedding. At least in the eyes of the city, you’ll be my wife.” I looked at the box, then at him. “And the marriage license? Who are you signing that with? Stephanie?” Julian’s temper flared, though there was a flicker of smug satisfaction in his eyes. “I knew you were faking. I’m warning you, Nancy—don’t you dare say a word of this to our parents. What Stephanie and I have is beyond your understanding. She’s fragile, she’s kind, and she doesn’t have a manipulative bone in her body. If you hurt her, don’t blame me if I call off the wedding entirely.” I almost laughed. He was so cowardly, so afraid to stand up to the Sterling patriarchs, yet he framed it as if I were the villain in his tragic romance. I didn’t answer. I simply turned and walked into my house. The second I closed the door, my phone buzzed. It was a video from Stephanie. In the video, Julian was carefully fastening a diamond necklace around her neck. I recognized the brand—a luxury boutique. I realized then that the bracelet Julian had shoved at me was likely a “gift with purchase” from that very necklace. The camera tilted. Their lips met, and the wet, rhythmic sound of their kissing filled my quiet hallway. “Nancy,” Stephanie’s text followed. “Julian told you, right? After the wedding, he’s signing the papers with me.” “Think about it—a marriage that isn’t legally recognized means no inheritance. No rights. I think it’s my turn to be the billionaire’s wife this time around, don’t you?” My blood ran cold. Stephanie had been reborn, too. No wonder they were moving so fast. In the previous life, they had hidden their affair for decades. Now, they were trying to rewrite history together. I looked down at my phone, remembering the business trends from my past life. After Julian and I “married,” the Sterling Group had suddenly exploded with new contracts and unprecedented growth. Everyone said I was his lucky charm. I had lived in that lie for fifty years before seeing those photos. My mother came into my room then, her voice soft. “Sam is coming back from London in five days.” I felt a spark of genuine hope. In my last life, Sam Sterling—Julian’s uncle—had never married. He was the ghost of the family, a powerful, silent figure who lived mostly abroad. I remembered him as a kind, older-brother figure from my childhood. Marrying him felt like finding a safe harbor in a storm. The next day, I went to my “secret garden”—a private glass conservatory on the rooftop of my family’s office building. I had spent years filling it with exotic blooms, all of them Julian’s favorites, in a desperate attempt to please him. Now that my future husband had changed, the garden needed to change, too. I spent the next few days clearing out the old and planting the flowers Sam preferred—deep blue hydrangeas and white lilies. I stepped away to the breakroom for a coffee, and my phone pinged. I opened Instagram to see Stephanie’s latest post. My heart stopped. The photos showed my conservatory in ruins. My carefully tended flowers were snapped at the stems, petals scattered like blood across the floor. In the center of the carnage, Julian was holding Stephanie, both of them beaming at the camera. “Julian knew I needed a place for my photoshoot, so he found this hidden gem for me! It feels so good to be loved!” I sprinted back to the roof. Inside, Julian was plucking a stray jasmine bloom—one of the few left—and tucking it behind Stephanie’s ear. “This is my private space!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “How dare you bring her here? How dare you destroy my garden!” Stephanie flinched, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. “Julian… did I do something wrong? Why is she so angry? I’m so scared…” Julian stepped in front of her, his face darkening. “Nancy, quit the theatrics. You grew these flowers for me anyway, didn’t you?” He gestured vaguely at the wreckage. “I was bored of your little obsession with this place. What does it matter if Stephanie uses it for a few photos? Stop making everything about you.” I looked at the crushed lilies on the floor, my eyes stinging. “Who said these were for you? I was preparing this for my future husband!” Julian let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. “Give it a rest, Nancy. We all know I’m the only man you’ve ever wanted. I’ve already agreed to marry you—stop acting like a brat.” I looked at the broken petals and began to cry. Just then, a crew of workers began hauling in massive crates of sunflowers—Stephanie’s favorite. As they began to unpack them, the air became thick with yellow pollen. My throat tightened instantly. My skin began to flush a violent red. Julian knew. He had known since we were ten years old that I was deathly allergic to sunflower pollen. But his eyes weren’t on me. He was busy directing the workers, his face lit up as he watched Stephanie twirl among the bright yellow blooms. Suddenly, Stephanie let out a small gasp. “Julian… I think I scratched my finger on one of Nancy’s roses. It hurts…” Julian’s face twisted into a mask of maternal worry. He swept her up into his arms, then turned to me, his voice a roar of fury. “Nancy! Even your flowers are as spiteful and vicious as you are! If Stephanie gets an infection from this, I swear to God, you’ll pay for it!” He turned and carried her out, ignoring the way I was clutching my throat, my face turning purple, my hand reaching out to him in a desperate plea for help. I don’t know how long it took me to crawl out of that room. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. When I finally reached my medication in the office below and the air began to return to my lungs, the cold truth settled in my gut. In the past, I thought Julian just didn’t love me. I never realized he was capable of watching me die for the sake of a scratch on Stephanie’s finger. I leaned against the wall, shaking. Thank God. Thank God I wasn’t marrying him. I took several hours to compose myself. Tonight was the formal family dinner to welcome Sam back. I needed to look perfect. I needed to make a good impression. When I reached the underground parking garage, I saw a car rocking rhythmically in the distance. As I got closer, I recognized Julian’s silver Maserati. The driver’s side window was half-down. Julian had Stephanie draped over his lap. Her eyes were glazed, her body moving in a slow, steady rhythm. Even though I no longer loved him, the sheer audacity of it—doing this in the family garage before a formal dinner—made my chest tighten. Julian opened his eyes and locked onto mine. A flicker of panic crossed his face, but it was gone in a second. Instead of stopping, he reached up, brushed a strand of hair from Stephanie’s face, and kissed her deeply, moaning loudly enough for the sound to echo off the concrete walls. He was doing it on purpose. He wanted to break me. I looked away, climbed into my own car, and drove toward the Sterling estate. On the way, I stopped to pick up a silk tie I had ordered for Sam. I arrived at the mansion at the same time as Julian. As he stepped out of his car, I could see discarded wrappers on the floor of his passenger seat. He saw the gift bag in my hand and his smirk returned, full of smug entitlement. “Bought me a gift? Let me see.” I pulled the bag behind my back, my pulse racing. “It’s not for you.” He chuckled, lighting a cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke toward me. “I saw you in the garage, Nancy. I know you’re dying inside.” He leaned against his car. “I told you already. You get the wedding. Stephanie gets the license. She’s the one making the sacrifice here, really.” He flicked ash onto the pavement. “She’ll be my legal wife. What we do is natural. She’ll probably stay at our house sometimes. You’ll have to get used to it. It’s for your own good, really—keeps the family name intact.” The level of his delusion was staggering. I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm. “Listen. My uncle Sam is going to be there tonight. The whole family answers to him. This dinner is serious.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low warning. “I’m giving you enough face by showing up. If the elders ask about the marriage license, you tell them we’ve already signed it. Understand?” “Also, Stephanie’s finger is still sore. After dinner, you’re going to apologize to her. If you don’t… well, I can always call off the wedding before it’s official.”

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To celebrate my promotion, my boyfriend, Asher, insisted on treating me to dinner. He also invited his childhood friend, a woman who allegedly worked in the police force. Throughout the meal, this friend, Audrey, didn’t stop lecturing me. “With your profile,” she said, tapping a manicured fingernail on the table, “at the Fraud Division, we’d classify you as a classic high-risk case.” Asher sat beside her, nodding enthusiastically like a bobblehead. “Audrey sees this stuff every day. If she says something’s off, it’s off.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. I excused myself to use the restroom, but as I walked down the corridor, their hushed voices drifted from the slightly open door of our private booth. I stopped, the silence of the hallway amplifying their words. “Ash, seriously, your girlfriend is suspicious,” Audrey’s voice was sharp, clinical. “I just ran a background check. Three properties in her name, two luxury cars. She’s a mid-level corporate manager; where does she get that kind of liquidity?” “She’s definitely a ‘Pig Butchering’ scammer,” she continued, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The ‘fattening’ phase. She packages herself as a wealthy socialite to lure you in, makes you feel secure, and then—bam. She gets you to invest, and you lose everything.” “I’ve worked cases like this for years. These women are ruthless. You need to cut her off immediately. Push her WeChat… I mean, give me her number. I’ll go undercover. I guarantee I’ll leave her with nothing.” My grip tightened around my phone until my knuckles turned white. A cold fury, distinct and sharp, settled in my chest. I turned on my heel and walked to a quiet corner of the lobby, dialing my father. “Dad,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Call Uncle Grant at the precinct. Tell him I think there’s a mole—or an imposter—in his Financial Crimes Unit.” … When I returned to the booth, Asher and Audrey were laughing, a picture of old friends reconnecting. The moment I stepped in, the smile vanished from Audrey’s face, replaced by a mask of professional severity. “Sloane,” she began, clasping her hands on the table. “Asher and I were just discussing your situation. I think a warning is necessary.” “Someone like you—young, no obvious family wealth, yet spending far beyond your tax bracket—you’re a magnet for criminals. Or, you are the criminal.” Asher shifted closer to me, taking my hand. His palm felt clammy. “Audrey is an elite officer, Sloane. She’s doing this for your own good. She’s worried you’re getting mixed up in something.” I pulled my hand away, a cold sneer forming internally. Worried I’m getting scammed? The biggest scam is sitting right across from me. “Thank you for the concern, Officer,” I said, my voice dropping to a temperature that could freeze vodka. “I’ll be careful.” My indifference clearly annoyed her. She glanced at the Patek Philippe on my wrist—a gift to myself for the promotion—and let out a scoff of disbelief. “Careful? How? That watch alone costs more than your annual salary,” she said, leaning back. “Don’t take this the wrong way, honey, but vanity is a slippery slope. It leads girls like you down dark paths.” Asher looked uncomfortable now, caught in the crossfire. He tugged at my sleeve. “Sloane, come on. Audrey means well. Don’t be stubborn.” “Just tell us where the money comes from,” he pleaded, his eyes wide and earnest. “We can analyze it for you. Make sure you aren’t inadvertently laundering money for someone.” I trembled, not from fear, but from a rage so pure it felt like adrenaline. I whipped my head toward Asher. “What is that supposed to mean? You suspect me, too?” I had always thought he was just easily influenced, a bit soft. But looking at him now, I realized the rot went deeper. He actually agreed with her. He bought into this absurd, fabricated narrative. Under my questioning gaze, Asher flinched, but he doubled down. “I’m not suspecting you, I’m worried about you,” he insisted, though his voice wavered. “You come from a normal family, Sloane. Where did you get the money? Audrey’s right. It doesn’t add up.” Audrey seized the momentum. “Asher, you’re too naive. In my line of work, we see this all the time. Victims think they’re wealthy, only to realize they’re just mules for a cartel. Or worse, they’re part of the scam.” Her eyes narrowed, fixing me with a predator’s stare. “Sloane, I’m asking you one more time. Is your source of funds legitimate? If you confess now and cooperate, I might be able to pull some strings for leniency.” The other diners in the open area nearby began to whisper. “She’s a cop, she must know what she’s talking about.” “Yeah, you see it on the news all the time. Fake heiresses laundering crypto.” The humiliation pricked my skin like needles. I forced myself to breathe, to find that quiet center my father always talked about. “Every cent I have is clean,” I said, my voice low and controlled. “But you, ‘Officer’—abusing your alleged authority to investigate a private citizen’s finances without a warrant and discussing it in public? I’m pretty sure that violates about a dozen departmental protocols.” Audrey’s face stiffened. She hadn’t expected the pushback. Asher immediately jumped to her defense, his tone sharp. “Sloane! Watch your tone! She’s trying to save us! If you have nothing to hide, why are you scared of an investigation? Show us your bank statements. Prove us wrong.” My heart turned to ash. This was the man I had loved for three years. Faced with baseless accusations, he didn’t stand in front of me; he stood with my accuser, demanding I strip myself bare to prove my innocence. I stood up, grabbing my purse. The leather felt cool and grounding against my palm. “I’ve lost my appetite,” I said. “Asher, I’m leaving.” I turned to go, but Asher lunged, gripping my wrist hard enough to bruise. His face was flushed, eyes red with a mix of embarrassment and anger. “Sloane, if you walk out that door right now, don’t expect me to come begging for you back!” Audrey chimed in, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “Oh, Asher, calm down. She’s just embarrassed. Girls have thin skin when they’re caught.” She draped a hand on his arm, practically gluing herself to his side. “Sloane, don’t be mad. It’s an occupational hazard. I just want what’s best for you.” I looked at her—at the smugness barely concealed behind her concern—and felt a wave of nausea. “Don’t bother,” I said, ripping my arm from Asher’s grasp. “My affairs are none of your business, Officer.” I looked at Asher one last time. “As for you… I hope you don’t regret this.” I walked out without looking back. Behind me, I heard Audrey’s triumphant voice. “See, Ash? She ran. Guilty conscience. Women like that… you can’t be too nice to them.” I had barely stepped into my apartment when my phone buzzed. It was Chloe, my best friend. “Sloane, what the hell is going on with Asher?” Chloe practically screamed into the phone. “He just posted a status saying he ‘finally saw someone’s true colors’ and thanked his ‘brother in arms’ for the wake-up call. And there’s a picture of him and that Audrey girl!” I collapsed onto the sofa, the silence of the empty apartment wrapping around me. I gave her the short version. “Are you kidding me?” Chloe yelled. “Is he blind? He throws away a diamond to pick up a rock? A fake rock, at that?” My nose stung, tears threatening to spill. “I’m done, Chloe. I want to break up.” “Break up? You need to destroy him! Stay there, I’m coming over.” A few minutes after hanging up, my phone rang again. Asher. I picked up, and his voice assaulted my ear immediately. “Sloane, you’ve got some nerve. Tattling to my mother?” I blinked, confused. “I didn’t call your mother.” “Don’t lie! She just called and chewed me out, told me I should apologize to you. If it wasn’t you, was it Audrey?” He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. “Trying to use my mom to pressure me? I didn’t realize you were this manipulative.” I actually laughed. “Asher, are you delusional? I only called my dad. If your mom is yelling at you, it’s because she has more sense than you do. And for the record, we are done. Do not contact me again.” He paused, stunned by the breakup, before his anger surged back twofold. “Done? You’re dumping me? Stop playing hard to get, Sloane! Audrey analyzed this—it’s a classic manipulation tactic. You think if you throw a tantrum, I’ll come running?” “I haven’t even started counting your shady assets yet, and you’re acting like the victim?” In the background, I heard Audrey’s voice, sweet and poisonous. “Ash, don’t fight with her. She’s just spiraling. Give her time to cool off. She’s scared. If she’s really innocent, she’ll cooperate with the investigation. Acting like this just proves she’s guilty.” That was the spark Asher needed. “Did you hear that? Even Audrey is more mature than you! I’m giving you three days, Sloane. Think it over, then come apologize to Audrey. Otherwise, we are officially over!” He hung up. A second later, a photo landed in my WeChat. It was a selfie of Audrey leaning intimately on Asher’s shoulder. The background was Asher’s bedroom. The caption read: Don’t say I didn’t warn you, sis. Men like women who are compliant. Your little games don’t work on an expert like me. The doorbell rang. Chloe. She took one look at my face, grabbed the phone, saw the photo, and exploded. “Oh, absolutely not. This bitch is dead.” She hit the dial button on my phone. Audrey picked up. “Hello? Sloane? Ready to apologize?” Chloe didn’t hold back. “Apologize my ass! You homewrecking, fake-badge-wearing psychopath! You think you can steal a man and act tough? I will rip that weave right off your head!” Silence for two seconds, then Audrey let out a pitiful, trembling sob. “Why… why are you yelling at me? I was just trying to help Asher avoid being scammed…” Then Asher’s voice, thundering. “Sloane! You got someone to harass Audrey? You have no class! She’s trying to help, and you treat her like this? You are venomous! I was blind to ever date you!” “We are done! Do you hear me? Done!” I took the phone back from Chloe. My voice was eerily calm. “Asher, relax.” “From this moment on, we are strangers.” “I hope you and your bitch live happily ever after.” I thought the breakup would be the end of it. But when I returned to the office on Monday, the internal announcement for my promotion had been pulled. Colleagues I usually lunched with averted their eyes, scattering like roaches when I walked down the hall. I was blindsided. Before I could process the atmosphere, the Department Director called me into his office and slammed a stack of printed screenshots onto his desk. “Sloane, look at this mess! The whole company is talking about how my department is harboring a scam artist. You’re embarrassing me!” I picked up the papers. My pupils constricted. It was a thread on the company’s anonymous forum: Exposing the “Heiress” Supervisor: Is she running a Pig Butchering Scam? The post was a masterpiece of slander. It listed my job title, my recent purchases, my car model—details only someone close to me would know. “…Her assets are totally disproportionate to her income. Large, unexplained transfers. Typical money laundering profile.” “A friend in the PD told me this is a new type of romance scam. They package themselves as rich, bait executives or trust fund kids, and drain them dry.” The dagger was at the end. The author had tagged Asher’s corporate account. “Rumor has it her latest target was Asher. Luckily, his friend in the force exposed her just in time. She’s been dumped, so watch out—she’s hunting for a new victim in the office.” The comments section was on fire. And there, in the middle of it, was a reply from Asher’s verified account: Thanks for the heads up. Eyes wide open now. Consider it a lesson learned in fraud prevention. His comment felt like a physical slap. The Director tapped the desk impatiently. “HR and Legal are taking this very seriously. Your promotion is frozen. Until this is cleared up and the reputation damage is fixed, don’t expect to move up.” As I walked out of the office, dazed, a commotion erupted at the main entrance. Audrey walked in, arm-in-arm with Asher. She looked victorious. She scanned the room, locked eyes on me, and smirked. She marched up to me, pulled a laminate ID card from her purse, flashed it quickly, and adopted her ‘official’ voice. “Sloane Sterling, in light of the public outcry and significant discrepancies in your asset origin, I am formally requesting you accompany me to the station for an investigation. This is official police business.” Asher stood beside her, looking at me with a mix of pity and self-righteousness. “Sloane, I told you to come clean. Audrey can help you. Why did you let it get this far?” Colleagues gathered around, whispering, pointing phones. I felt like a prisoner being paraded before execution. Just as Audrey puffed out her chest, convinced she had me cornered, my phone rang. It was Dad. Audrey frowned. “No calls during an investigation!” I ignored her and answered. My palms were sweating, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Dad…” My father’s voice came through, steady as a mountain, calm as deep water. “Sloane, I spoke to Captain Grant. He ran the roster for the entire precinct and the city’s Fraud Division. There is no officer named Audrey on the payroll.” In a split second, the fear, the confusion, the humiliation—it all evaporated. So that’s it. I looked at Audrey, tapping her foot impatiently, and the foolish man standing next to her. The corner of my mouth quirked up. I hung up the phone without saying another word to my father. I looked Audrey dead in the eye. “Okay,” I said, my voice smooth. “I’ll go with you.”

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I married Tristan three years ago. We’ve slept in separate rooms for one thousand and ninety-five days. Everyone says Tristan is cold and ascetic, like some untouchable deity. I used to think so too, until tonight, when I pushed open his study door to finally settle that long-delayed divorce agreement. I witnessed a scene that made my face flush and my heart race. Cassidy’s POV The main light in the study was off. Only the blue glow from the computer screen barely outlined the silhouette of the man behind the desk. The usually immaculate Tristan was now leaning back in his leather chair. His shirt collar hung wide open, exposing a large expanse of flushed chest. His tie dangled loosely around his neck, pulled askew. His entire body was trembling violently. And the instant I pushed the door open, a heavy, nasal groan drilled clearly into my ears. “…Mm.” I froze in the doorway, my palm gripping the door handle instantly slick with sweat. What was he doing? In the middle of the night, hiding in his study-what was he doing? My gaze involuntarily traveled past his shoulder toward the lit computer screen. The screen seemed to show a video window, but I only caught a glimpse of a blurred, flesh-colored blur. “Who let you in?!” An furious roar exploded through the room. Tristan’s reaction was startlingly fast. Almost the instant my eyes landed on the screen, he slammed the laptop shut. He spun around, his phoenix eyes alarmingly red. He sat there in the darkness, chest heaving violently, staring at me with deadly intensity. “Get out!” He ground his teeth, voice hoarse. “Who gave you permission to barge in without knocking? Get the hell out!” His savage expression scared me into taking a step back, the divorce papers in my hand nearly slipping to the floor. A massive wave of shame and fury surged through me. Three years of marriage, and he wouldn’t even touch me once. I’d even suspected at one point that he had some kind of dysfunction down there, and felt guilty enough to buy him six months’ worth of vitamins and supplements. And the result? He wasn’t impotent. He just wasn’t interested in me! He’d rather hide in his study watching God-knows-what filth on his computer, rather handle things himself, than fulfill his duties as a husband! “Tristan, you disgust me.” I took a deep breath, forcing back the sting in my eyes, and hurled the papers at him. “Since you’re so in love with your computer, let’s just get divorced! I don’t want this ‘Mrs. Bennett’ anymore!” White pages fluttered through the air. One sharp edge sliced across his cheek, leaving a thin line of blood. Tristan didn’t even seem to feel the pain. He just sat there rigidly, hands gripping the desk edge so hard his knuckles were white, nails nearly embedding into the wood. His Adam’s apple bobbed as though he wanted to say something, but in the end, only one word squeezed from his throat. “Leave.” I let out a cold laugh, turned, and slammed the door behind me. Back in my bedroom, the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. My hands were shaking. What had these three years been? A decoration? A joke? Not only did I have to endure a sexless marriage, I had to endure this kind of mental humiliation too! I dragged out my suitcase and started throwing clothes into it haphazardly. I couldn’t do this anymore. Not for one more minute! Just as I zipped up the suitcase and prepared to leave, a massive crash of shattering glass echoed from downstairs. Then came the housekeeper, John’s panicked scream. “Mr. Bennett! Mr. Bennett, are you ok?! Someone help! Mr. Bennett collapsed!” I froze mid-motion. Collapsed? I wanted to just walk away, but my feet seemed rooted to the spot. A few seconds later, cursing my own soft heart, I dropped the suitcase and rushed out of the room. Downstairs in the living room, Tristan lay collapsed beside the sofa, his laptop thrown to one side. His eyes were shut tight, his face deathly pale, but his body was burning hot. Even unconscious, his body continued to convulse uncontrollably, incoherent murmurs spilling from his lips. I ran over and tried to lift him. The moment my hand touched his skin, I was scalded by the shocking temperature. “Tristan? Tristan!” I leaned close to his lips, trying to hear what he was saying. Amid the chaotic, ragged breathing, I finally made out those two syllables. He was calling. “…Cassidy.” I froze. He was calling my name? Just then, the laptop on the floor suddenly flickered to life. On the screen, that video window popped up again. I instinctively glanced over. This time, I saw it clearly. It wasn’t some explicit video. It wasn’t some cam girl stream. It was surveillance footage. And the background was my room. The woman sleeping on the bed, clutching a pillow, was clearly me from last night!

Cassidy’s POV I stared at that glowing screen, blood seeming to flow backward through my veins. What was this? A chill ran down my spine. I thought he was just cold and indifferent. I didn’t realize he was a voyeur? “Mrs. Bennett! Stop standing there! Call an ambulance!” The housekeeper’s tearful, frantic shouting pulled me back to reality. I snapped out of it, looking down at the deathly pale man in my arms. Even unconscious, his hand still gripped my wrist in a death grip. His body temperature was abnormally high, his scorching breath fanning against the hollow of my neck, making my skin tingle. “Don’t call an ambulance.” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. “Call Dr. Morgan. This kind of thing… can’t get out.” If the outside world found out that Tristan Bennett, billionaire CEO, collapsed from watching surveillance footage of his own wife late at night, the company’s stock would probably crash by morning. Half an hour later, Dr. Morgan, our private physician, arrived in a rush. After a thorough examination and an IV drip, it was well past midnight before Tristan’s condition stabilized. “How is he?” I stood by the bed, looking at that face that remained sharp even in sleep, my emotions tangled. Dr. Morgan removed his stethoscope and sighed. “This is acute stress-induced hyperthermic convulsion. And there’s a large residue of sedatives in his system. He’s been taking them long-term.” He gave me a meaningful look. “He has a strong constitution, but even he can’t take this kind of abuse. Some things can’t be cured with medicine. You’ll need to be patient.” Long-term sedative use? I was stunned. Was that pill bottle in the study earlier really filled with sedatives? After seeing Dr. Morgan out, I didn’t leave. I sat in the chair beside the bed, watching the sleeping Tristan. The room was very quiet, only the soft drip of the IV breaking the silence. My gaze fell again on that laptop. The screen had gone black. But that surveillance footage stuck in my mind like a thorn. If he was spying on me, why hadn’t he touched me once in three years? Unless… He was some kind of psychological deviant who only liked to watch, not act? Or maybe he saw me as some kind of observation subject? “…Don’t go.” Just as I was lost in wild speculation, the man on the bed suddenly moved. Tristan’s voice was hoarse, carrying the incoherence of someone not fully awake. I instinctively tried to pull my hand back, only to find my wrist still clamped in his grip. He opened his eyes. Those eyes, usually cold as ice, now looked somewhat unfocused and moist from the fever and medication. He stared at me fixedly, as if unable to distinguish dream from reality. “Cassidy?” He called my name, his voice impossibly soft. “You’re awake?” I kept my face cold, trying to shake off his hand. “If you’re awake, let go.” Hearing my cold tone, clarity returned to Tristan’s eyes for a moment. He released my hand and tried to sit up, but collapsed back down from weakness. His gaze shifted and landed on the laptop on the nightstand. His pupils constricted sharply. He raised his head, staring at me hard, and asked, “You saw it?” I didn’t avoid the question, meeting his eyes directly. “I saw it. So Tristan, care to explain? Installing surveillance in the master bedroom-am I a criminal under interrogation, or a pet you’re raising?” Tristan pressed his thin lips into a tight line, his jawline tense. He didn’t explain. Silence spread through the air. After a long while, he finally spoke, voice hoarse, tone full of mockery. “Since you saw it, I’ll give you what you want.” “I’m a pervert.” He looked at me, the corner of his mouth curling into a self-deprecating arc. “I’m a pervert who spies on you. Is that reason enough for you to divorce me?”

Cassidy’s POV Of course it was enough. It was the perfect reason for divorce. But seeing him like that, the fire inside me inexplicably died down by half. If he really hated me, why would he call my name in his dreams? “Tristan, that reverse psychology trick is pathetic.” I crossed my arms. “You want to scare me away by playing the pervert card? So your pathetic ego can stay intact?” Tristan’s expression froze for a moment. I leaned down, bringing my face close to his. I could even see his fine lashes trembling. “You think I’ll be scared?” I smiled. “Tristan, let’s make a deal.” “What?” His brows knitted together, clearly not following my train of thought. “I’m not getting divorced.” I straightened up, speaking deliberately. “Since you like watching surveillance footage, I’ll let you watch to your heart’s content. But what’s the fun in just watching?” “Starting today, I’m moving back into the master bedroom.” I stared into his eyes, enunciating each word. “I’ll change clothes in front of you every day. I won’t lock the bathroom door. I’ll wear those lace nightgowns you hate most and parade around in front of you. Since you like torturing yourself, I’ll just see how long you can hold out!” Tristan’s face instantly turned ashen. “Cassidy, you wouldn’t dare!” He ground his teeth, looking like he wanted to strangle me right there. “Why wouldn’t I dare?” I shrugged, turning to leave. “I’m Mrs. Bennett, legally. If you can’t stand it, you can move out of the villa right now.” I glanced back at him and winked. “Or you could beg me. Beg me to sleep with you.” “Get out!” Behind me came the dull thud of a pillow hitting the door. Since he wanted to hide, I’d just peel away his shell layer by layer. I’d see what kind of heart was hidden beneath that cold exterior. … Tristan and I fell into a cold war. Though he didn’t move out, he avoided running into me as much as possible. He left early and came home late every day, diving straight into his study the moment he returned. And I kept my word. I replaced all the sleepwear in the master bedroom with nothing but slip dresses. Every night, I deliberately left the bedroom door cracked open, letting the hallway light spill inside. I knew he was watching. Even if he didn’t come into the room, I knew those eyes were staring at me from behind some screen somewhere. That feeling of being watched was both chilling and carried an indescribable thrill. The fourth night. I’d just gotten out of the shower and was about to blow-dry my hair when my phone rang. It was my friend Mia calling. “Cassidy! Help! My clingy ex showed up at my door. Can you come get me out of here? Please!” I sighed helplessly. “Fine. Send me the address.” After hanging up, I casually threw on a trench coat over the low-cut silk nightgown I was still wearing, grabbed my car keys, and headed out. I didn’t notice that from the second-floor study window, a pair of eyes was staring fixedly at my car as it drove away from the villa. Half an hour later, as my friend and I walked out of the bar entrance, a black car screeched to a halt right in front of us. The window rolled down. Revealing Tristan’s dark, stormy face. His gaze landed on my open collar, his eyes murderous. “Get in.” He coldly spat out those words. I hesitated for a moment, then released my friend’s hand, gave her an apologetic smile, and opened the car door to get in. The door had barely closed, and I hadn’t even buckled my seatbelt yet, when Tristan suddenly leaned over. His overwhelming presence instantly engulfed me. He gripped my chin, forcing me to look at him, his voice dangerous. “Cassidy, my patience has limits.” I was forced to tilt my head back, looking at him so close I could see every detail. This was the closest we’d been in three years of marriage. I could even see myself reflected in his pupils. “What?” I challenged him. “You can spy on me, but I can’t have friends?” “Spy?” Tristan suddenly laughed. The smile carried a touch of pathological obsession. “Since you know I’m a pervert, you should know…” His fingers traced my lips, his fingertips scorching hot. “Prey marked by a pervert isn’t allowed to be touched by anyone else.” The next second, without any warning, he lowered his head and kissed me fiercely.

Cassidy’s POV Tristan kissed me aggressively, with no technique at all. I was pinned against the passenger seat backrest, nearly suffocating. Just when I thought he was going to have sex with me right there in the car, he suddenly stopped. Tristan abruptly released me and collapsed heavily back into the driver’s seat. He was gasping for air, chest heaving violently, veins bulging on the back of his hands, as if desperately restraining some out-of-control impulse. His body was shaking, worse than that time in the study. “Buckle up.” After a long moment, he forced those words from his throat. I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth, looking at him. “Tristan, what’s wrong with you?” “Don’t ask.” He didn’t look at me, slamming his foot on the gas pedal. The car shot forward like an arrow released from a bow. On the way back to the villa, he drove terrifyingly fast. Tristan kept his face tense the entire time, not saying a word. The moment we arrived home, before the car had fully stopped, he pushed the door open and got out. His steps were somewhat unsteady, but he walked quickly, heading straight for the second floor. I unbuckled my seatbelt and chased after him. “Tristan!” He completely ignored me, taking the stairs two at a time, rushing into the study and slamming the door. I stood outside the door, hearing the sound of rummaging inside. I raised my hand and pounded on the door. “Tristan, open the door! You can’t take those pills randomly! Dr. Morgan said those are powerful sedatives. Taking too many will cause problems!” “Get lost!” A suppressed roar came from inside, accompanied by the sound of a glass breaking. “Don’t worry about me, Cassidy. Stay away from me!” The voice was laced with pained groans. My hand froze mid-air. Just from one kiss, he had such a reaction? Had he really reached this pathological state? But why?

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At the gala, Xavier ‌Gibson publicly announced we were getting married. The entire hall erupted in applause. But what I didn’t expect was that before the event even ended, I’d find myself standing outside the lounge door, staring at the projection screen on the wall. On the screen was a massive Excel spreadsheet. Behind dozens of candidate names were densely packed rating categories: housekeeping ability, bedroom endurance… In the baseline column, my name was written prominently: Jade Monroe. “Relationships are like companies,” he said, casually swirling his wine. “You have to cut the underperformers.” So seven years of companionship meant nothing more to him than an asset with terrible returns. I didn’t burst through the door to confront him. Instead, I turned and walked to the end of the hallway, pulled out my phone, and sent a text to a number at the bottom of my contacts. “I’m ready to honor the terms from ten years ago.” Three seconds later, came the reply. “Finally giving up on that scumbag? Let’s register our marriage tomorrow then.”

Jade Monroe’s POV Xavier had just publicly announced our engagement on stage, with everyone applauding and offering congratulations. But what I didn’t expect was that before the gala even ended, I’d overhear him at the lounge door, discussing how to dump me. The door wasn’t fully closed. I’d come to bring him tea, only to catch sight of the projection screen on the wall. Displayed on it was a massive Excel spreadsheet. “Xavier, is this really how you choose a wife?” The voice of his business partner, Mr. Davis, drifted out with a hint of mockery. “You’ve literally turned wife selection into a competitive hiring process.” I stopped in my tracks and peered through the gap in the door. A complex Excel spreadsheet was projected on the wall. The spreadsheet listed dozens of names, each followed by densely packed rating categories: housekeeping ability, social etiquette, and even a brazenly explicit “bedroom endurance level.” Mr. Davis held a cigarette between his fingers, pointing at the data analysis on screen. “Look at this Candidate No.19, Amber Thomson, right? Her scores in emotional support provision and bedroom compatibility completely crush the baseline.” In the baseline column, my name was written clearly: Jade Monroe. Mr. Davis exhaled a smoke ring, his tone becoming hesitant. “But Jade’s been with you since the startup days. If you just fire her and promote someone new, won’t that damage the company’s image? After all, people are watching.” Two seconds of silence inside the room. Xavier sat in the main seat on the sofa, swirling half a glass of red wine, his face showing not a trace of intoxication. He glanced up at the data on screen, his eyes cold. “Relationships are like companies-both need to eliminate underperformers to maintain vitality.” He tilted his head back and took a sip of wine. “Jade’s cost-efficiency ratio is too low now.” “This feels like you fed Amber the test questions, doesn’t it? Her scores just barely beat Jade’s across the board. That’s pretty cruel to Jade.” In the VIP lounge, the partner’s voice carried a hint of hesitation. Xavier’s tone was casual. “There’s still two months left in the probationary period. If Jade can accept a pay cut and demotion, she can stay. She’s a veteran employee after all. But that depends on whether she can tolerate Amber’s presence. Otherwise, she’ll have to go.” Standing outside the door, the hot tea spilled from my hands. I didn’t feel the pain, only felt like a complete joke. Seven years of companionship, selling my house to help fund his startup-in his eyes, I was just an employee with poor returns. Since I was being liquidated as a bad asset, I might as well proactively file for bankruptcy reorganization. I didn’t push the door open to confront him. I walked to the trash can at the end of the hallway and poured out the tea. Then I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a number at the bottom of my contacts. My finger hovered over the screen without any hesitation as I typed a message. “I’m ready to honor the terms from ten years ago.” Send. I reapplied my lipstick using the hallway mirror. A few minutes later, Xavier emerged from the lounge. He casually put his arm around my waist and led me toward the center of the ballroom. As the spotlight hit us, he wore a smile and whispered a warning in my ear. “Smile. Don’t make a scene. The stock price just went up today.” When his fingers touched my waist, I stiffened reflexively. I could smell it on him. Amber’s scent. I avoided his touch and pulled my lips into a standard social smile. Until now, I’d never doubted Xavier. Not until that girl named Amber showed up at my door with an expense report. The next morning, I was processing files at my studio. The receptionist called through the internal line. “Jade, there’s an intern sent by Xavier who insists on seeing you.”

Jade Monroe’s POV I looked out through the blinds. The girl wasn’t wearing an employee badge, but she was carrying a limited edition Hermès bag. The same one Xavier had claimed he’d accidentally lost at the airport last week. Not only was she replacing me as a person, she was inheriting my accessories too. “Let her in.” I put down the phone. Amber pushed the door open. Nineteen years old, young, with tight skin, wearing a business suit obviously imitating my style, but with cheap tailoring and exposed thread ends. Her eyes were full of eager ambition. She walked up to my desk and handed over a crumpled receipt. “Ms. Monroe, Mr. Gibson accidentally spilled red wine on my dress in the car last night. He said it counts as business entertainment and told me to ask you to reimburse the dry cleaning fee.” I glanced at the receipt amount: $180. Then I glanced at the dress she was wearing. A bestseller from online shopping sites, not even worth dry cleaning. I didn’t take the receipt. Instead, I pulled out my phone, opened my payment QR code, and transferred $200. “Keep the change.” I didn’t look up, continuing to review the design drawings in my hand. “Use the rest to buy some mouthwash. A dirty mouth makes it hard to pass your probationary period.” Amber froze, clearly not expecting this reaction. She grabbed the receipt from the desk, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it hard at me. “Who do you think you are! Mr. Gibson said you’re just an aging woman who can only draw pictures! He said just looking at you makes him sick!” I raised my hand and slapped her across the face. Amber covered her face, staring at me in shock. “Let me teach you something as your senior.” I pulled out a wet wipe and meticulously cleaned the hand I’d just used to slap her. “Challenging your supervisor before you’ve even been confirmed is a major workplace taboo.” Amber’s eyes instantly reddened. She pulled out her phone, took a photo of me, and sent a voice message with a sobbing tone. “Xavier, that old woman hit me… She’s so mean, I’m scared.” After sending the voice message, she glared at me viciously, covered her face, and ran out. “Mr. Gibson says you’re just a maid.” That sentence echoed in the office. I threw the used wet wipe into the trash. Seven years ago when Xavier had a high fever, I stayed by his bedside all night changing cold towels. Back then he’d said: “You’re my angel.” Now angels had inflated and depreciated into maids. Only youth remained the sole hard currency. I watched as that wet wipe slowly soaked into the ink at the bottom of the trash can. That slap was just the interest payment.

Jade Monroe’s POV By the time I got home, it was already dark. There was a pair of pink slippers by the entrance, like a territorial marker. Xavier sat on the sofa holding a tablet, looking at reports. Hearing the door open, he didn’t look up. His first words were reproachful. “Why are you making trouble with an intern at the company? Amber sent me photos-her face is swollen. Can’t you be more magnanimous?” I ignored him and walked straight to the bedroom, dragging out my suitcase. Xavier followed me in, leaning against the doorframe with furrowed brows. “I’m talking to you! Jade, are you going through early menopause or something? Amber’s family is poor, she’s trying to work hard and get ahead. I’m just giving her an opportunity. You’re engaging in workplace bullying.” I opened the closet and took down the clothes hanging inside one by one, throwing them into the suitcase. “I don’t have time to listen to your nonsense.” I swept my skincare products into my makeup bag. Xavier finally sensed something was wrong and stepped forward to hold down my suitcase. “What are you doing? Running away from home again? I told you it’s just a work relationship. Can you stop being so unreasonable?” I backhanded him with a slap. This slap was harder than the one I’d given Amber earlier. Xavier’s head snapped to the side, and five finger marks quickly appeared on his face. He covered his face, looking at me in disbelief. “This slap is part of the resignation handover process.” I said. Xavier took a deep breath, his eyes turning cold. “Fine, Jade, you’ve grown bold. Since you want to make a scene, let’s settle accounts. Everything you eat, wear, and live in-which of it wasn’t paid for with my money? You can leave if you want, but don’t expect me to beg you to come back. And I’m freezing your supplementary card as punishment for hitting someone today.” “Do whatever you want.” I closed the suitcase. “I don’t want that mess anymore.” “Don’t regret this!” Xavier pointed at me. “Once you walk out that door, don’t ever expect me to spend another cent on you!” With that, feeling he’d lost face, he stormed out and slammed the door. The force knocked a framed photo off the wall. I surveyed this mansion filled with seven years of memories. I pulled out a stack of yellow sticky notes and placed labels on all the furniture, appliances, and decorative paintings I’d purchased myself. After finishing this task, I took one last look at the house with my suitcase, then turned and left. As I drove away from the villa district, my phone vibrated. It was a message from the security guard. “Did you just leave? A young woman just claimed to be your relative and asked me to let her in.” Sure enough, the replacement was eager to move in the moment I left. I replied. “I don’t know this person. If she’s a solicitor, I suggest calling the police.” An hour later, I arrived at the small apartment I’d purchased before the relationship. I immediately opened my computer and connected with Sebastian White. The screen lit up, showing Sebastian’s background as an overseas conference room. A group of executives sat solemnly, but he raised his hand to pause the meeting and focused on the camera. “Did I interrupt your acquisition?” I asked. Sebastian stared at me. “The acquisition isn’t as important as you. Are you sure you want to activate the agreement? Once you sign, I won’t let you go.” “I’m sure.” I looked at him. “I want to get married. To you.” Sebastian couldn’t suppress the smile at the corners of his mouth and immediately turned to instruct his assistant to book flights. “I’m not waiting two months. I’m flying back tomorrow to get married. Put the wedding on the schedule.” “Alright, I’ll wait for you.” The video call ended. I sat alone on the carpet. Ten years ago he’d said if Xavier ever let me down, he’d be there. I thought it was a joke then. Now it was a lifeline. Xavier’s love was a consumable good. Sebastian’s love was a fixed asset.

Jade Monroe’s POV Early the next morning, I went to the downstairs supermarket to buy necessities. At checkout, I handed over the black card I usually used. A few seconds later, the cashier awkwardly returned it. “The transaction was declined.” The customers in line behind me cast strange looks. I took back the card, and my phone immediately showed a message from Xavier. “Supplementary card suspended. If you want to spend money, come home and apologize.” I switched to my own salary card for payment and carried my shopping bags out of the supermarket. As soon as I got home, my phone vibrated. A bank text: $200,000 has been forcibly redeemed and transferred from your joint investment account ending in 8899. The note read: Family operational cost deduction. That was an account we’d opened years ago to save money together. Most of the money in it came from my early design copyright fees. Xavier was openly robbing me. The phone call came immediately after. “Jade, did you see the deduction notice?” Xavier’s voice was self-righteous. “This is a fine for your emotional outburst. That two hundred thousand is Amber’s compensation for emotional distress and medical expenses. Don’t feel wronged-you have to pay the price for doing wrong.” In the background of the call, I could hear Amber’s voice. “Xavier, how do you turn on the seat heater? Does only your girlfriend’s seat have one?” Xavier hastily brushed me off. “Reflect on yourself. When you’re ready to apologize, I’ll transfer the money back.” With that, he hung up. I screenshotted that deduction text and sent it along with the transfer records to my lawyer. And sent Xavier a message. “This constitutes illegal misappropriation of jointly owned property. If you don’t return it within 24 hours, see you in court.” After returning to my apartment, I opened my computer and pulled up the household expense ledger. Thanks to Xavier’s habits-for his so-called enterprise-level family management, he required every large expenditure to be documented. This had left me with perfect evidence. Late at night, a social media notification popped up about someone I might know. The profile picture was Amber. The photo was taken in what used to be my bedroom. She wore my pajamas, taking a selfie in the mirror. Caption: “The previous owner had decent taste, but now it all belongs to me.” Moments later, a direct message appeared. “I used up all your skincare products for you. Wouldn’t want them to go to waste, right? He’s sleeping so soundly next to me right now.” I calmly typed a reply. “I wore those pajamas when I had a skin condition and never washed them. The skincare products expired three months ago. Hope you enjoy them.” The other side immediately showed “typing…” for a long time, but in the end, sent nothing. At 3 AM, I couldn’t sleep. I got up and took a melatonin tablet, then sent my lawyer an email asking him to prepare a lawsuit authorization form for recovering gifts given to a third party. In my dream, Xavier used his first earnings to buy me a ring, swearing to treat me well for a lifetime. When I woke up, there was a bank deduction notice on my phone. That “lifetime” turned out to be only seven years. You want to talk money? Then let’s discuss it as commercial fraud.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “368740”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #现实主义Realistic #浪漫Romance #重生Reborn #擦边Steamy #校园School #狼人Werewolf