Category: English

I’ve always been my brother’s biggest fan. Since we were kids, my favorite thing in the world was taking care of him—bringing him coffee, carrying his gym bag, picking up his takeout. I did it all with a smile. When Charlie got into Columbia, I practically killed myself academically, skipping a grade just so I could catch up and get in too. On move-in day, Charlie showed up at the dorms with a literal entourage of six security guards. While our roommates were practically kissing the ground he walked on, calling him a legend, I was quietly tucking in the hospital corners of his fitted sheet. Only Devin watched me with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t look like his roommate,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You look like his personal valet.” I just smiled and kept tucking. Later that afternoon, Charlie casually unclasped his brand-new Patek Philippe and tossed it onto my mattress. “This face is too small for me anyway. It’s more your style. Keep it.” As I caught it, smiling, I noticed Devin staring from the doorway. A few weeks later, Charlie flew to Paris for the weekend, leaving just Devin and me in the dorm. “Hey, Troy,” Devin said, not looking up from his laptop. “Do you have any idea what people call you behind your back?” “Charlie Chapman’s lapdog.” The next morning, my girlfriend, Gina—the campus sweetheart everyone swore was out of my league—asked to meet me at the running track. Devin was already standing beside her, his eyes suspiciously red, looking small and fragile. The moment she saw me, her face hardened into a scowl. “Troy, can you seriously have some self-respect for once?” “You let him treat you like a servant just because he throws an expensive watch your way?” “Devin comes from nothing, and even he has more backbone than you.” Devin tugged gently at her sleeve, his voice barely a whisper. “Gina, please don’t say that. I’m not worth you getting upset over.” I looked at their hands, fingers intertwined, and a laugh bubbled up in my throat. Seriously? Did absolutely no one realize that Charlie and I have the exact same last name? … I rolled my wrist, letting out a soft laugh. “You’ve been holding that in for a while, haven’t you, Devin?” I said. “What’s the matter? Did you want the watch too? Too bad you could never afford it.” Devin’s face instantly flushed crimson. His lips trembled, and he took a half-step back as if struck. Gina’s brow furrowed into a tight knot, and she immediately stepped forward, shielding Devin with her body. The disappointment in her voice was palpable. “Troy! I had no idea you were this kind of person.” I tilted my head. “What kind of person is that?” She paused, letting every word land. “Since when did you become so incredibly arrogant? Devin doesn’t have the kind of money you do, and you’re using luxury items to mock him? Have you lost your mind?” She looked at me with pure disgust. I froze. Arrogant? Suddenly, a memory flashed through my mind—a year ago, when Gina had stopped me outside the library. The summer sun had caught her hair, her smile radiant and warm. “Troy, you’re the brightest, most genuine guy I’ve ever met. You’re like sunshine,” she’d said, her ears turning a deep, blushing pink. “Will you be my boyfriend? I want to see you smile like that every day.” I guess when the love fades, “sunny” becomes “arrogant,” and “warmth” is just blinding. My chest tightened, a dull, aching throb pulsing through me. Devin tugged at Gina’s sleeve again, looking like a martyr. His voice was soft, tears pooling in his eyes, threatening to spill over. “Gina, please don’t blame Troy. It’s my fault. I only asked you to talk to him because I didn’t want him to be Charlie’s… well, you know.” He bit his lower lip, playing the part of the wounded soul perfectly. “But he wouldn’t listen. He just used his money to humiliate me.” His voice grew fainter, his eyes red like a frightened rabbit’s. Gina’s expression softened into deep, protective pity. The commotion had started to draw a crowd. Students on their way to class began circling us, whispering. Some recognized the Patek Philippe on my wrist; others recognized Devin. “Isn’t that Charlie Chapman’s shadow? Where did he get a Patek?” “Please, the master gave the servant a little treat, and now the dog thinks he’s royalty.” “Keep it down. You have to respect the owner before you kick the dog.” “Hahaha, his owner is in Europe. Right now, he’s just a stray.” Their words drifted over, perfectly pitched to ensure I heard every syllable. Some covered their mouths, snickering. Others looked me up and down like I was some cheap knockoff on display. And Gina just stood there. She listened to every cruel word, and she didn’t offer a single word of defense. Her eyes held the exact same cold contempt as the rest of them. Devin buried his face slightly behind Gina’s arm, his shoulders shaking. But I saw it. Just for a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth curved upward. I wanted to laugh. A Patek Philippe? I had a drawer full of them back home. I just hated the attention, so I never talked about my family. But because of that, everyone assumed I was my brother’s lapdog. Charlie had only insisted on sharing a dorm with me because he worried about me and wanted to look out for his younger brother. I took a deep breath, steadying my voice. “I’ll wear whatever watch I want,” I said, looking around the circle. “What does that have to do with any of you?” But that seemed to push Devin over the edge. He suddenly raised his voice, his posture stiffening. “Troy, who do you think you are, talking to me like that?” His eyes were brimming with tears, but he kept his chin high, playing the defiant underdog. “Yes, I’m poor! My family has nothing, and I’ve never owned a luxury watch in my life! But you? You couldn’t afford any of this either without selling your dignity. What right do you have to show off in front of me?” The crowd’s gaze sharpened, pinning me in place. I was so angry I nearly laughed out loud. I hadn’t even started on him, and yet his fragile ego was already shattered. I took a step closer, looking down at him. “Devin, which of your eyes saw that I couldn’t afford this?” Before Devin could respond, Gina let out a cold, sharp laugh. Her face was a mask of utter impatience. “Troy, stop pretending,” she said, her voice dripping with exhaustion. “Maybe the rest of the school doesn’t know your situation, but do you think you can lie to me? You wear the same three faded hoodies every week. You order the cheapest combo at the diner. Last month, you spent twenty minutes calculating how to save five dollars on your phone bill. Devin is at least honest about who he is. What do you actually have?” She gestured vaguely at me, her disappointment turning to mockery. “Even if you wore a real designer bag, it would look like a fake on you. You’re using someone else’s charity to humiliate Devin. Don’t you feel any shame?” A low wave of chuckles rippled through the crowd. I felt a sharp, twisting pain in my chest. Last month had been Gina’s birthday. I remembered her forwarding me a post of a Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet a friend’s boyfriend had bought, accompanied by a wistful emoji. I wanted to give her something beautiful. But I wanted it to come from my own hard work, not my father’s checkbook. So, I took a job at a boba shop near campus. I stood for eight hours a day until my feet were too swollen to fit into my shoes. I tutored high school students, spending two hours on a hot, cramped bus each way, talking until my voice was raspy. I had finally saved enough to buy it for her. But on the day she opened it, she barely glanced at the bracelet before rushing out to go shopping with her friends. She probably didn’t even remember. I took a slow, deep breath, pushing the bitterness down into the pit of my stomach. “Are you done?” I asked, staring directly into Gina’s eyes. “Whether I can afford it or not is my business. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Excuse me.” I turned to walk away. The crowd parted instinctively, giving me space. But I had only taken two steps when Gina’s voice flared up behind me, sharp and venomous. “Troy, stop right there!” She rushed forward, her heels clicking against the pavement, and grabbed my arm. “Devin was only trying to look out for you. If you don’t want to hear it, fine, but who gave you the right to walk away like this?” I ripped my arm out of her grip. Her anger boiled over. “You are going to apologize to Devin right now, and then you’re going to give that watch back to Charlie.” Give it back? It belonged to my family. Who exactly was I supposed to give it back to? Without a word, I turned and kept walking. Behind me, Gina’s voice pitched higher, cracking with humiliation. “Troy! If you walk away today, we are done!” The whispers in the crowd died down instantly. Everyone was waiting for me to turn around, to beg for her forgiveness. My feet paused for a fraction of a second. Then, without looking back, I took another step forward. When I got back to the dorm, I pulled my laundry bin out from under my bed. Charlie was coming back the day after tomorrow, and his sheets needed to be washed. I stripped his bed, threw the linens into the bin, poured in the detergent, and knelt on the bathroom floor to scrub them. The cool suds ran over the backs of my hands. The bathroom door creaked open. Devin walked in, carrying a bundle of dark sheets. When he saw me scrubbing on the floor, a smug little smile played on his lips. He took a few steps, stopped directly in front of me, and let the sheets fall straight into my soapy water. Dirty water splashed across my face. I looked down. A massive, greasy patch of vomit was smeared across his sheets, sticking directly to my brother’s clean laundry. I snapped my head up. “What do you think you’re doing?” Devin crossed his arms, tilting his chin up. “My stomach hurts, and I threw up. I don’t have the energy to wash this.” He smirked. “Since you’re already doing laundry, do mine too. You’re so good at serving people anyway, aren’t you? We’re roommates, Troy. You shouldn’t play favorites.” His eyes glinted with triumph. I slowly stood up, wiping the soap from my hands onto my apron. I looked down at the disgusting mess in the tub. Reaching down, I grabbed the clean edge of his sheets, pulled them out of the water, and shoved the soaking, heavy mass directly into his chest. “Wash your own garbage.” I knelt back down and went back to scrubbing Charlie’s sheets. The wet, dirty fabric soaked through Devin’s shirt. He stood frozen for a second, stunned. Then, his voice exploded. “Troy! What is your problem? I literally just told you I’m sick! Can’t you have some basic empathy?” I ignored him. Our other roommates, who had just walked in, spoke up: “Devin, you have a stomach ache, not broken arms. How hard is it to wash a sheet? Troy isn’t your maid.” “Seriously, man. Why should he wash your mess?” Devin’s face flushed a blotchy, angry red. He bit his lip, tears springing to his eyes. He threw the sheets violently into his own basket and slammed his way out of the room. The door rattled on its hinges. About twenty minutes later, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from an unknown number. “Troy, do you have to be such a bully?” “Would it have killed you to help him? He’s so sick he’s throwing up, and you just don’t care?” “He’s crying out on the campus green right now. How can you sit there with a clean conscience?” Another buzz. “I never realized you were this cold-blooded.” “You won’t even help with a small favor like this. I’m so incredibly disappointed in you.” I stared at the screen and let out a dry laugh. I tapped the notification and typed out a reply. “If you want to wash his vomit-stained sheets so badly, go right ahead. Lick them clean for all I care.” “And by the way, we’re broken up. You don’t have the right to be disappointed in me.” I hit send. Then I opened my contacts and blocked the number. The screen went dark. I went back to scrubbing the laundry. The next morning, I was jolted awake by my phone buzzing repeatedly. Groggily, I unlocked it to find a dozen messages from one of my roommates, topped by a link. The headline read: “Exposed! The True Identity of Columbia’s High-Society Lackey: Is Charlie Chapman’s shadow actually a fraud?” I was instantly awake. I clicked the link. The post had been uploaded to the university forum at three in the morning. “Everyone remembers Troy, right? The guy who clings to Charlie Chapman’s shadow and was literally tucking in his bedsheets on day one?” “You all thought they were roommates? Too naive.” “His father is actually a driver for the Chapman family. In other words, he’s a servant.” “So he really is just the Chapmans’ dog. The truth finally comes out~” The post went on to list my various “crimes” since the semester started. “This guy only cares about sucking up to the rich and looks down on the rest of us from normal backgrounds. Honestly, sharing a classroom with someone this pathetic makes me sick.” At the very bottom, an anonymous comment had been pinned: “I’m his roommate. He never speaks to any of us in the dorm because he thinks we’re beneath him. With the great Charlie Chapman backing him, why would he care about us?” The tone, the phrasing—I could recognize his writing anywhere. The post was already trending, with hundreds of comments piling up. “No wonder he was so eager to serve. I guess he’s been trained to do it since he was a kid.” “People like him are the worst. Imagine being a servant and still acting superior.” “I heard he was dating Gina. How did she ever end up with a loser like him?” Someone had tagged Gina’s account. I clicked on her profile and saw her reply. “We broke up. Thank god.” “He was always the one clinging to me.” The reply had dozens of likes, with people praising her for “dodging a bullet.” Clinging to her? I guess she had completely forgotten how she used to wait outside my lectures for hours just to get my attention. I turned off the phone and sat on the edge of my bed, staring out at the grey, overcast morning. Before I could even process it, my advisor’s assistant called: “Troy, Ms. Weaver wants to see you in her office immediately.” Ms. Weaver pushed a stack of papers across her desk. They were printed pages of the forum post, with several comments highlighted in bright yellow ink. She frowned, tapping her pen against the desk. “The entire department is talking about this, Troy.” “Boasting about wealth, mistreating students from lower-income backgrounds… this is reflecting very poorly on the university. The dean’s office is already asking questions.” “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to write a formal apology to Devin, and we’ll put this behind us.” I let the word settle on my tongue. “An apology?” “He threw vomit-stained sheets into my laundry bin, posted lies on the school forum claiming my father is a servant, and incited a campus-wide harassment campaign against me.” “And you want “me” to apologize to “him”?” Ms. Weaver’s face darkened. “With that attitude, are you trying to make this worse?” I stood up, my chair scraping sharply against the linoleum floor. “Ms. Weaver, you don’t need to worry about this.” “My parents will be back in the city tomorrow. You can discuss it with them directly.” Ms. Weaver’s frown deepened. “Then bring them in!” “I’d love to see what kind of parents raise a child to be this entitled!” I looked her dead in the eye, keeping my voice perfectly calm. “Charles Chapman. Ms. Weaver, would you like me to dial his number for you?” The pen slipped from Ms. Weaver’s fingers, clattering onto the desk. Her lips parted, and she hurriedly scrambled to open the university registry on her computer, scrolling until she hit the name. Her face turned from a flush of anger to a pale, stony white, before settling into an expression of utter horror.

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My mother was trapped in the center of a horrific multi-car pileup on the interstate, her body crushed beneath twisted metal, hovering between life and death. In a blind panic, I immediately called my husband, Derek, the chief of surgery at the city’s top hospital. He refused to help, his voice dripping with cold indifference. “We agreed to go fifty-fifty when we got married. Your parents are your responsibility.” “If you couldn’t handle the prenuptial agreement, you shouldn’t have signed it.” Desperate, I turned to my best friend, Christine, a prominent cardiologist at the same hospital. She gave me a strained, evasive excuse. “It’s not that I don’t want to save your mom, Ashley.” “I’m in the middle of saving a life right now. I literally can’t step away.” In my frantic state, my finger accidentally swiped open her Instagram feed. Her latest post had been uploaded just minutes ago. It was a picture of her and Derek standing side-by-side, operating on a stray dog. The caption read: “Thanks to our big-hearted chief of surgery for personally performing this procedure. Another innocent life saved.” Swallowing the bitter taste of betrayal, I could only fall to my knees in the emergency bay, begging the paramedics to prioritize my mother. But with so many casualties arriving at once, the delay was fatal. By the time my mother finally reached an operating room, she had slipped into a deep coma. Faced with the staggering medical bills, I had nowhere else to turn. I sent Derek a text, my hands shaking. “I just need $50,000. Please. Consider it a loan. It’s the only way to save my mom’s life.” The message went unanswered, vanishing into a black hole of silence. Moments later, I overheard two passing nurses gossiping, their voices tinged with envy as they talked about Christine. “Did you see? Dr. Collins just bought Dr. Christine another designer bag. Easily worth ten grand.” “Well, his family practically owns the hospital board. Money is the last thing he’s short on.” I stood there, frozen, staring at their retreating backs. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I had just heard. So Derek—the man who had always claimed we had to struggle independently, the man who insisted on strict financial boundaries—wasn’t broke. He just didn’t want to waste his money on someone he deemed worthless. As I collapsed onto the cold hospital floor, shivering with absolute despair, a deep, resonant voice sounded right beside my ear. “Do you need the money?” “I’ll give you the fifty thousand. But you have to come with me.” … The man standing before me had sharp, striking features. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, radiating an effortless authority that demanded attention. He slipped a sleek black business card into my trembling hand. I stared at the name on the card, waging a long, silent war with myself. In the end, my pride—or what was left of it—won out. I handed it back to him and shook my head. Mustering what little strength I had left, I dragged myself back to the billing window. I emptied my bank account, depositing every single cent I owned. Exactly five thousand, six hundred and seventy-one dollars and ten cents. The clerk looked at the receipt, then gave me a look of deep, sorrowful pity. “We’ll begin the emergency surgery for your mother, but this won’t cover the subsequent ICU care. Not even close.” I kept my spine perfectly straight, though I felt like I was breaking inside. “I’ll find a way,” I whispered. “Please, just save her.” I waited outside the operating room. When the red light finally flickered off and the surgeon stepped out to tell me she was stable for now, the sheer tension holding me together snapped. I slumped against the wall, cold sweat drenching my clothes. It was only then that Derek’s reply finally popped up on my screen. “So you only think of me when you need cash?” “If you had worked half as hard as Christine back in high school, you wouldn’t still be scraping by on a nurse’s assistant salary.” “I insist on our fifty-fifty arrangement to build your character, Ashley. To give you some ambition.” My grip tightened on the phone until my knuckles turned white. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. How could he say I hadn’t worked hard? Back in high school, when I had brought him complex math problems, hoping he would explain them to me, he had been too busy drafting study guides for Christine. When they both received their acceptance letters to the prestigious medical school, I pushed myself to the absolute limit just to stay in their orbit, enrolling in a nursing program at a nearby college. After graduation, they quickly rose to become the star surgeons of the main hospital network. I quietly took a job at a small, underfunded community clinic under their system’s umbrella. I had been running a marathon, throwing my entire soul into catching up to them. But he never saw it. His eyes were only ever on Christine, the woman running beside him at the front of the pack. My eyes burned with unshed tears. I sniffled, blinking back the dampness, only to see a notification for a twenty-dollar Venmo transfer from him. “Your mother always insisted on staying back in her small town. She refused to move here. Why would she suddenly be in a pileup in the city?” “Ashley, next time you try to hustle me, use your brain.” “Take the twenty dollars. Go buy yourself some common sense.” The twenty dollars felt like a hot iron branded straight into my chest. He had forgotten. He had entirely forgotten that my mother “had” come to the city once—right after we got married. But on our wedding night, Derek had locked her out of our apartment. “Ashley, Christine’s mom is already staying in our guest suite, and she values her privacy. She doesn’t like strangers around.” “Just book your mom a motel.” Our apartment had four bedrooms. Christine’s family occupied three of them. There wasn’t a single corner left for my mother. After that night, to spare me the embarrassment and conflict, my mother never visited again. She had only made the trip this time because she had heard through the grapevine that my morning sickness was tearing me apart. She was bringing a jar of the homemade dill pickles I loved, rushing to my side, only to be crushed in that twisted metal on the interstate. I opened the chat to explain, but before I could type a word, a text from Christine flashed across the screen. “I’m finally off shift. Do you still need help?” “As your best friend, I just wanted to remind you—in my eyes, every life is equal, whether it’s a stray or a human.” A hollow laugh caught in my throat. In high school, when Christine’s stepfather had attacked her, leaving her bleeding out, it was my mother who had ignored her own fragile health to donate blood. My mother had stayed by her bedside until Christine was safe, only to collapse from exhaustion herself. My mother had welcomed Christine into our home, nursing her back to health. And now, Christine was a world-class cardiologist. She had time to perform surgery on a stray dog, but she couldn’t spare a single minute to save the woman who had literally given blood to keep her alive. I declined the Venmo transfer from Derek. Then I typed a reply to Christine: “No need.” I locked my phone and stared at the floor, the weight of the remaining thirty thousand dollars pressing down on my chest like lead. Derek wouldn’t pay a dime. So when I saw an online listing for a temporary mascot gig at City Hall paying five hundred dollars a day, I didn’t hesitate. I signed up immediately. The next morning, suffocating inside a giant, heavy plush heart costume, handing out marriage brochures, I watched a familiar couple walk through the heavy glass doors of City Hall. It was Derek and Christine. Christine held Derek’s arm, her steps slowing as she looked around nervously. “Derek, it was bad enough that you signed that fake marriage certificate with Ashley just to appease her. Now that I’m pregnant, we’re actually getting legally married… if she ever finds out, it will destroy her.” Derek wrapped an arm around her shoulders, whispering sweet, comforting words. “It’s because of the baby that we have to do this. I’m not letting the heir to the Collins family be born a bastard.” “Besides, Ashley isn’t exactly a genius. Any kid she had would’ve struggled. That’s why I’ve been slipping birth control into her daily vitamin organizer for years.” “Once you have the baby, I’ll just draft a fake fertility report showing she can’t conceive, and convince her to adopt ours.” Inside the heavy, dark mascot suit, sweat poured down my face, freezing against my skin. I stood entirely rigid, paralyzed by the sheer horror of his words. I had always assumed they were close because of their shared profession, a mutual respect between brilliant minds. I never imagined that their connection was physical, born of betrayal and lies. Instinctively, my hand drifted down to press against my lower abdomen. I had spent the last week dreaming of the moment I would surprise him with the news of my pregnancy. I had no idea he had been actively sterilizing me behind my back. I stood there like a statue until the site coordinator shoved my shoulder. “Hey! We’re paying you five hundred bucks a day, not to stand there like a corpse. Get moving!” The sudden bark snapped me back to reality. Perhaps my clumsy, startled jump looked amusing, because it caught Christine’s attention as they walked back out. She giggled, tugging on Derek’s sleeve as she pointing at me. “Look at this mascot, Derek! Isn’t it adorable? It reminds me of how Ashley looks when she’s confused.” Derek stared directly into the mesh screen of my mask. For a terrifying second, I thought he recognized me. Then, a soft, dismissive chuckle escaped him. “This thing looks a lot smarter than Ashley.” A fresh wave of tears blurred my vision. I remembered high school. I remembered staring at a blank calculus sheet, completely lost, and Derek gently patting my head. “It’s okay to be a little slow. It’s cute.” I remembered working late nights, trying to memorize advanced pharmacology. He would turn off my desk lamp and pull me into his arms. “You have me and Christine. We’re the top surgeons in the city. You don’t need to worry about medicine.” I had thought it was love. I had thought it was protection. But it was just condescension. He had written me off a long time ago. Christine waved a bright red marriage folder in front of my face, her smile radiant. “We just tied the knot! Can we get a quick blessing for our marriage? We’ll give you a tip!” Through the clear plastic sleeve, I could see their legal certificate. Their faces were pressed together, glowing with happiness. They looked perfect. But it was the twenty-dollar bill sticking out of her purse that caught my eye. I needed every cent. I forced my jaw open, my voice muffled and deep through the thick foam of the mask. “May you grow old together. May your child bring you everything you deserve.” I snatched the tip, trying to tuck it into my costume pocket. “Wait,” Derek said suddenly, his voice tightening with suspicion. “Why does that voice sound so familiar?” He stepped closer, his tone turning cold and commanding. “Take off the headpiece.” I clutched the heavy foam neck, terror seizing my chest. “Oh, babe, I think the baby just kicked!” Christine suddenly gasped, rubbing her stomach and leaning into him. “I’m so hungry, we need to eat right now.” The distraction worked. Derek’s attention snapped back to her instantly, his eyes softening with adoration. “He’s barely a month old, sweetheart. There’s no way he’s kicking yet.” Christine arched her back slightly, pouting. “Well, that just proves he has our superior genes. He’s already ahead of the curve.” Derek pinched her nose playfully. “Or maybe his mother is just starving. Come on, let’s get you some lunch.” I watched them walk away, their fingers intertwined, leaving me gasping for air inside the suffocating costume. When I finally dragged myself back to our apartment that evening, exhausted and hollow, I was shocked to find Derek sitting on the couch. He hadn’t been home in weeks, always claiming he was pulling double shifts. As I walked through the door, his brow immediately furrowed in disgust. “What is that smell? Ashley, when was the last time you actually took a shower?” Looking at his sneering face, a tired, empty smile touched my lips. Ever since my mother went into the ICU, I had been splitting my life into three agonizing parts: my shifts at the community clinic, sitting by her bedside, and doing back-breaking odd jobs. I barely had time to sleep, let alone worry about how I smelled. My body ached in places I didn’t know could hurt. Without saying a word, I turned toward the bedroom. “Stop,” Derek called out, his voice sharp. I paused, looking back over my shoulder. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, his gaze shifting uncomfortably. “There’s a nursing opening at the main hospital. I submitted your name. You’ll start tomorrow.” “That way, you’ll be working under my roof.” I stared at him, stunned. A year ago, when I had asked him if there were any openings at his hospital, he had shut me down immediately. He had fought tooth and nail to secure Christine’s position in cardiology, but when it came to me, his excuses were endless. “Christine has actual talent, Ashley. We can’t let her waste away. But you’re just a nurse. If I bring my own wife in, people will accuse me of favoritism.” I didn’t understand why he had suddenly changed his mind. And frankly, I didn’t care anymore. “No, thank you,” I said quietly. His temper flared, his voice rising. “It pays two thousand dollars more a month than that rundown clinic of yours! I know you’ve been working yourself to the bone doing weird side gigs. Are you seriously going to turn this down?” Two thousand dollars. My mother’s face flashed in my mind—the machines, the rising cost of the ICU. My pride crumbled. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll take it.” He let out a breath, looking visibly relieved. “Good. I’ll take you in to sign the paperwork tomorrow morning.” The next day, my transition to the main hospital was handled with bizarre, alarming speed. Derek dropped me off at the fourth-floor nurse’s station and disappeared without a word. Before I could even log into the system, a man stormed through the double doors, his eyes bloodshot and wild with rage. Before I could react, he lunged across the counter and slapped me across the face, hard. My head slammed against the partition, my ears ringing as a high-pitched hum filled my brain. “You murderer!” the man screamed, his voice raw with grief and hatred. “You handed the surgeon the wrong scalpel! You caused my mother to bleed out on the table! You killed her!” He began grabbing everything on the desk—folders, heavy staplers, metal trays—and hurling them at me. My face was already swelling, blood dripping from a cut on my forehead. I raised my arms to shield myself, crying out in confusion. “It wasn’t me! Today is my first day—I haven’t even touched a patient!” “Don’t lie to me!” the man roared, vaulting over the desk. “Dr. Collins told me himself! He said the new nurse, Ashley, made a critical error in the prep room!” My hands fell. My eyes went wide. The realization hit me like a physical blow, freezing the blood in my veins. I stopped fighting. I let him kick me, let his fists rain down on my shoulders and chest. He kicked me squarely in the stomach, and a sharp, agonizing pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. I curled into a ball on the linoleum floor, feeling a warm, terrifying dampness begin to spread down my thighs. As darkness began to pull me under, the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. Why Derek had rushed my transfer. Why he had been so eager to get me onto the payroll. He needed a scapegoat. He needed someone to take the fall for Christine’s fatal mistake. Before I blacked out, I heard the chaotic shouting of security guards. “Get him off her! You’re going to kill her!” When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital ward burned my retinas. Derek was sitting by my bedside, a rare flicker of genuine guilt shadowing his eyes. “Ashley… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were pregnant.” My voice was barely a whisper, dry as paper. “If you had known, would it have changed anything?” He looked away, his jaw tightening. “We can always have another baby, Ashley. But Christine’s career would be completely over if this went on her record. It was a simple, tragic mistake.” “So you murdered my child to protect her future?” His guilt quickly hardened back into irritation. “I told you, I had no idea you were pregnant—” The dam broke. Every ounce of pain, betrayal, and grief exploded out of me, and I screamed at him. “Why are you still lying to me, Derek? Why won’t you just tell me the truth?” “You never wanted a child with me! You and Christine have been sleeping together for years, and now she’s pregnant with your baby!” Derek’s expression turned utterly cold. The mask of the loving husband slipped away completely. “Fine. Since you already know, I won’t waste my breath denying it.” “It was a drunken mistake. But Christine never tried to break up our marriage, and I never planned on leaving you.” “Let’s be real, Ashley. Your genetics aren’t exactly premium. You wouldn’t want a child who struggled through life, failing at everything just like you did, would you?” A blinding rage took over. I grabbed the heavy medical monitor from the bedside table and threw it at him with everything I had left. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” The heavy plastic casing flew through the air just as the door swung open. It struck Christine squarely in the chest. She stumbled backward, crashing heavily onto the tiled floor, her hands immediately flying to her abdomen. “My baby…” she whimpered, her face twisting in pain. Derek’s eyes flared with a murderous fury. He glared at me as if he wanted to tear me apart limb from limb. “You’ve done it now, Ashley. You better pray to God that my baby is okay.” He scooped Christine into his arms and sprinted down the hallway, leaving me alone in the quiet, sterile room, trembling and utterly empty. A moment later, my mother’s primary physician walked in, his face pale and grim. “Ashley, your mother just had a massive relapse. She needs a secondary emergency procedure immediately.” “But the automated charity care system requires a nominal processing co-pay of at least fifty dollars from your account to authorize the emergency grant. Otherwise, the system locks us out of the surgical queue.” The blood drained from my face. I had drained every single bank account. My cards were maxed. I didn’t have fifty dollars. I didn’t even have fifty cents. With trembling hands, I dialed Derek. “Derek, please… I need fifty dollars. Just fifty dollars to authorize my mom’s emergency surgery. I’m begging you!” He let out a cold, dismissive sneer. “Still playing games, Ashley? Grow up.” The line went dead. I stared at the black screen, my mind spinning into a void of pure panic. Then, a memory flashed in my mind. I reached into my bag and pulled out the sleek black business card I had rejected days ago. I dialed the number, my voice cracking as soon as a deep voice answered. “I don’t need the fifty thousand anymore. I just need fifty dollars. Please… give me fifty dollars, and I will sell myself to you.” Down in the OB-GYN wing, Derek waited anxiously as the doctors examined Christine. Once they confirmed she and the baby were perfectly fine, his mind drifted back to my desperate phone call. Fifty dollars? He let out a dry, mocking laugh. I was getting worse at lying. Who in the world didn’t have fifty dollars? But as he stepped out of the ward, he passed a couple of nurses whispering near the water cooler. “Did you hear about Ashley? That poor girl. It was her very first day on staff, and she got beaten so badly she miscarried. And now her mom is dying.” “I know. Someone said she was crying in her room, trying to beg for fifty dollars just to authorize the charity care system for her mom’s surgery. She apparently sold herself to some wealthy businessman just to get the cash.” Derek stopped dead in his tracks, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp.

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For the eleventh time, I had to call my fiancé, Wayne, to cancel our appointment at City Hall. He sighed, his voice thick with a mix of exhaustion and resignation. “What is it this time with Phoebe?” It was almost comedic, if it wasn’t so systematic. Every single time Wayne and I scheduled our marriage license appointment, Phoebe had an emergency. The first time, she had a sudden, violent bout of food poisoning that left her semi-conscious. The second time, she ate something she was allergic to and ended up in the ER in the middle of the night. I could only offer Wayne my deepest apologies, trying to soothe him. “Phoebe broke her leg and has literally no one else to look after her. I just need to stay with her for a week to help her out.” “She spent an entire semester getting bullied in high school just because she stood up for me. She’s my sister, Wayne. I can’t just abandon her.” “Please, Wayne. Just wait for me one more time. Okay?” Wayne sounded incredibly hurt, almost petulant. “Maeve, you’re really testing my patience here. This is the absolute last time. I won’t wait forever.” I finally breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the sterile wall of the hospital corridor, waiting for the nurse to finish changing Phoebe’s dressings. I idly opened Instagram. And that’s when I saw the post she had forgotten to hide from me. “Fake-sick for the eleventh time to secure my girl’s happily ever after! So glad they finally tied the knot!” The attached photo was a screenshot of a City Hall marriage license reservation. The groom’s name was Wayne. But the bride was Amber. Amber. The girl who had made my life a living hell for three years. … The phone felt like ice against my palm, the screen still glowing, but my vision went completely white. How could Wayne be marrying Amber? And Phoebe—my best friend, my protector—knew about it. She helped him. She kept me in the dark. No. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible. My fingers shook so violently I could barely swipe the screen. After a two-second delay, I tapped on the post again, but it was already gone. Deleted. It was as if the news that had just shattered my world had never existed. I sat frozen in the hard plastic hospital chair, so numb I didn’t even hear Phoebe calling my name. “Maeve? Hello? Is this how you take care of a patient?” Phoebe waved her hand in front of my face, her brow furrowed in annoyance as she gestured to her heavy plaster cast. “Look at me. I’m a mess. Getting these dressings changed hurts like hell.” Instinctively, I stood up and helped her ease into her wheelchair. She glanced at the phone still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. “What are you staring at? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” My throat dry, my lips parted, but no sound came out. How could I even ask? What if I had just misread it? What if it was a mistake? Phoebe and Wayne had been my anchors during the darkest chapters of my life. When my depression got so bad that I tried to end things, it was Phoebe who held my bleeding wrists, crying, begging me to stay alive. And whenever I woke up screaming from nightmares, Wayne was always there, wrapping his arms around me, whispering that it was over, that I was safe now. These two people. The ones who had kept me afloat for so long. They were the most important people in my world. They wouldn’t hurt me. I took a deep, shaky breath and shook my head. “Nothing. Let’s get you back to the room.” While I was running a bath for Phoebe, she picked up my phone to play a game. When Wayne called, she answered it without a second thought. “State your business, husband-to-be. Otherwise, stop interrupting my quality time with my girl.” Wayne replied, sounding amused. “Excuse me, you’re the third wheel here.” Phoebe laughed. “Well, look at you, Mr. Grumpy. Someone’s eager to be a married man. So defensive.” The sound of rushing water suddenly felt deafening. The bathroom went dead silent, save for the heavy sound of my own breathing. Phoebe caught my eye from the doorway, her smile faltering for a split second before she smoothly recovered. “Alright, alright. I know you can’t wait to put a ring on our Maeve. Here, I’ll let you talk to your future wife.” I took the phone, my throat tight as I swallowed hard. “What time are you getting in next week? I’ll come pick you up at the station.” My heart sank, heavy and cold. “Seven in the morning.” Wayne paused, sounding genuinely surprised. “That early?” “Yeah,” I murmured. “City Hall opens at eight.” He chuckled softly. “There’s no rush, honey. Go home, get some sleep first. We’ve got all the time in the world. We don’t need to rush this.” I had booked the earliest train just so I could marry him the second I got back. But standing in that bathroom, I realized I was the only one running. A dull, suffocating ache bloomed in my chest. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t even breathe properly. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you want.” After hanging up, I buried my face in the pillows. Through the fog of my spinning mind, a series of rapid-fire text alerts broke the silence. Phoebe’s phone was charging on the nightstand, the screen lighting up repeatedly. Compelled by some dark, instinctual urge, I walked over and picked it up. The passcode was still my birthday. The lock screen was still a goofy selfie of us. But what was foreign was the burner Instagram account she had logged into, and a group chat I had never seen before. The group was titled: “Operation: Save True Love”. There were only three members: Phoebe, Wayne, and Amber. The chat was a meticulous record of Phoebe’s fabricated emergencies, designed specifically to keep me away. While I was worrying myself sick about her health, Phoebe was actively advising Wayne on how to keep the lie going. “Maeve is clueless,” one message from Phoebe read. “Just tell her you have a last-minute business trip. She won’t nag you. Then you and your girl Amber can go wherever you want. Leave the cover-up to me.” Under Phoebe’s careful shielding, Wayne and Amber had traveled the country. They had chased the Northern Lights in Alaska, where he proposed to her. They had taken engagement photos in fields of wildflowers. And today, they had gotten married. I stared at the image of the marriage certificate posted in the chat, a physical, searing pain tearing through my chest. Pale and hollow, I walked back into the hospital room and confronted Phoebe. I asked the dumbest, most useless question in the world. “Why?” Phoebe froze, her eyes darting to her phone in my hand. “You went through my phone?” Then, she let out a soft, dismissive laugh. “Well, I guess it’s good you found out. Saves me the trouble of walking on eggshells.” “Honestly, lying to you was exhausting. I had to fake an injury just to get you out of the city. At least now the pressure’s off.” My eyes burned, tears finally spilling over as I screamed at her. “Why?” “Why did you lie to me? Why did you hide this? Was making a fool out of me really that fun for you?” Phoebe just stared at me, her expression entirely flat. After a long, agonizing silence, she said calmly, “Because you and Wayne aren’t right for each other, Maeve. You never were. It would have ended in disaster anyway.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. “But he’s right for “Amber”? Is that it?” “You guys are sick. Honestly, you make me sick.” I turned and bolted for the door, desperate to escape the suffocating room, only to collide with a person whose face was etched permanently into my worst nightmares. Amber arched an eyebrow, offering a cool, effortless smile. “Long time no see, old friend.” Just hearing Amber’s voice triggered an involuntary tremor in my limbs. Phoebe rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with irritation. “Oh, come on, Maeve. Is the drama really necessary?” Behind Amber, Wayne appeared, holding a gift basket of fruit. When his eyes met mine, he froze, turning pale. He began to stammer, his words tripping over themselves. “I—I just ran into her. She was in the area and wanted to drop by and see how Phoebe was doing.” Wayne seemed to forget that Chicago and Detroit weren’t exactly “in the neighborhood.” It was such a flimsy, pathetic excuse it barely qualified as a lie. I dug my fingernails deep into the meat of my thumb, squeezing until the skin bruised, using the physical pain to anchor myself. Wayne took a tentative step toward me, his brow furrowing with concern. “Maeve? Are you okay? Have you been pushing yourself too hard taking care of Phoebe?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Not as hard as you two have been pushing yourselves to put on this little show.” “I suppose I should say congratulations. Happy wedding day.” The reality finally clicked for Wayne, and he instantly stepped in front of Amber, shielding her from me. “Don’t blame anyone else,” he said, his voice dropping. “It was my decision to marry Amber.” I looked at him, my mind sluggish, trying to process the betrayal. “Did you both just… forget? Did you forget what Amber did to me?” In high school, Amber and I were polar opposites—I was the straight-A student, she was at the bottom of the class. She hated me for it, convinced that my academic success was some personal slight against her. She wrote vile, hateful slurs on my desk. She stuffed dead birds into my backpack. She once held my head down in a toilet until I couldn’t breathe. Phoebe had transferred to our school during our senior year and became the first person to ever stand up for me. Because of that, she endured an entire semester of Amber’s wrath alongside me. And Wayne… when I finally opened up to him about my past, he had wept, holding me tightly, promising he would protect me. I thought we all shared the same moral compass. I thought we agreed that some things were unforgivable. Phoebe tilted her head, her smile sharp and cruel. “God, you really are naive, aren’t you? You actually thought Amber and I were enemies?” “I knew Amber long before I ever met you, Maeve. She only targeted you because she was jealous of how much time I was spending with you. It was all a misunderstanding.” Wayne chimed in, his voice heavy with self-righteous reason. “I talked to Amber about it, Maeve. She just wanted to be friends with you back then. She didn’t know how to express it. She didn’t mean to hurt you.” “It was just high school drama. Kids being kids. You need to let it go.” I have over a dozen scars tracing the inside of my wrists. Each one represents a night I begged for the pain to stop. The two people who had literally begged me to choose life were now standing in front of me, telling me to “let it go”. The sheer weight of the betrayal crashed over me in a suffocating wave. I clutched my chest, struggling to draw oxygen into my lungs. Wayne watched me, a flicker of genuine worry in his eyes, but I managed to force a small, empty smile. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll let it go.” I don’t even remember how I made it back to my hotel room. With trembling fingers, I tore through my purse, searching for the small plastic bottle hidden in the lining. My antidepressants. I hadn’t needed them in over a year. I swallowed the dry pills, the rough coating scraping painfully down my throat. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. A chime at the door broke the silence. I assumed it was the room service I had ordered. But the moment I unlocked the door, Wayne pushed his way inside. He reached out, his hand warm against my cold forehead, his face twisted with worry. “Are you having an episode? Where are your pills? Let me get you some water.” I flinched away from his touch, my expression freezing over. “You are another woman’s husband now, Wayne. Learn some boundaries.” Wayne chuckled, reaching out to playfully pinch my nose—a gesture that used to make my heart melt. “Are you jealous, honey?” “Amber and I only got married for our graduate research project. It’s a sociological study on marital structures. The moment the study is over, we’re getting a divorce.” “I’m still going to marry you, Maeve. You promised me you’d wait. Did you forget?” As if to prove his point, he pulled out his phone and played a voice recording. “Wayne, please. Just wait for me one more time, okay?” Hearing my own desperate, begging voice play back to me made my stomach turn. “To be fair, you made me wait eleven times. It’s only fair you wait for me once, right?” Wayne held out his pinky finger, waiting for me to lock mine with his. It was our thing. We pinky-promised on everything, big or small. In college, we pinky-promised to move in together and adopt a cat. When we started working, we pinky-promised to save every penny for our future home. And now, he wanted me to pinky-promise to wait until he divorced my childhood abuser. The sheer absurdity of it made me laugh. And then, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face as hard as I could. “Who do you think I am, Wayne? Your mistress?” “We are done. We were done the second you and Phoebe decided to make a joke out of my life.” Wayne wiped a bead of blood from the corner of his lip, shrugging as if the blow meant nothing to him. “If hitting me makes you feel better, go ahead. But I’m not letting you go.” “I love you, Maeve. And you love me. You’re really going to throw away seven years of history over this?” Seven years. He knew exactly how long we had been together. Yet he still chose Amber, a girl he had only worked with on a project for three months. Over the last few months, his occasional late nights had turned into constant business trips. Even when he was with me, his eyes were glued to his phone, a stupid, private smile on his face. I hadn’t been completely blind. I had suspected something. But whenever I vented to Phoebe, she would always shoot it down. “You’re overthinking it, babe. Honestly, Wayne doesn’t deserve you anyway. If he’s cheating, good riddance. I’ll find you someone a million times better.” Only now did I realize the sick double-meaning behind her words. I let my head fall, completely drained. “You really think Amber is better than me, don’t you?” Wayne’s expression softened, and he sighed. “You both have your strengths.” “But Amber isn’t the monster you made her out to be, Maeve. She’s incredibly capable, smart, and driven. Working with her has been incredibly seamless.” “Are you sure you didn’t just misinterpret what happened back in high school?” Of course Amber was smart. Smart enough to torture me for years and still go on to lead a perfectly successful, unbothered life. I instinctively pressed my hand against my tenth rib. The rib Amber had broken with a kick when I was sixteen. Even after seven years, the bone still throbbed with a dull, phantom ache whenever the weather turned cold. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. I didn’t have the strength to bare my scars to someone who had already decided they didn’t care. I blinked back the hot tears stinging my eyes and shoved him toward the door. “Believe whatever you want. Just get out.” Once she realized I knew, Phoebe didn’t bother hiding her social media anymore. She unblocked her main account, making all her posts public. Like a masochist, I scrolled through her feed, searching for any sign of hesitation or guilt on their faces. There was none. Just pure, unadulterated bliss radiating from every photo. My tears fell hot and fast onto the screen as I scrolled to the most recent post. No photo. Just a single line of text: “To true love, and leaving the dead weight behind.” Wayne had liked the post. Amber had commented underneath: “Careful, or your little shadow is going to start crying again.” Phoebe replied with a rolling-eyes emoji. “Just enjoy your honeymoon, you two!” I paused on the screen, taking careful screenshots of every single post, ensuring I didn’t miss a single comment or detail. Then, I shut down my phone. I booked a ticket, checked out of the hotel, and called a cab to the train station. When I stood in front of the apartment we had shared, a wave of vertigo hit me. The fingerprint lock chimed, recognizing my hand. In the entryway, our matching house slippers sat side-by-side. The air still smelled of the white tea diffuser I loved. Our cat, Barnaby, trotted over and rubbed his head affectionately against my shin. Everything was exactly as I had left it. Except for the constant stream of honeymoon photos on my feed, reminding me that it was all an illusion. The love was fake. The comfort was fake. I systematically packed up my life, throwing away everything I couldn’t carry. I found a thick stack of Polaroids of Wayne and me. We had decorated them with metallic markers, attaching little NFC audio tags to record our daily memories. My thumb brushed against one, and Wayne’s voice filled the quiet room. “I love you, Maeve. Forever and ever.” I stood there, my heart feeling like a hollow, dried-out shell. My phone vibrated. A text from Wayne, sharing his research progress. “Just two more days and the project is officially wrapped. Then I can finally call you my wife. I can’t wait.” Phoebe’s voice messages also popped up, a barrage of casual dismissals. “Look, Amber is my friend, but you are too. Don’t be mad at me, okay? Tell you what, when you and Wayne finally make it official, I’ll write you a massive check to make up for it.” Barnaby let out a soft meow, nudging my hand as if trying to soothe me. I gently scratched the soft spot behind his ears, then tossed the stack of Polaroids into the trash. “It’s too dirty here, sweet boy,” I whispered. “Let’s go.” Once I settled my affairs in Chicago, I blocked every single one of them. I packed Barnaby into his carrier and boarded a flight to Asheville, North Carolina. At O’Hare, Wayne and Phoebe were seeing Amber off for her flight. Through the bustling crowd, they waved enthusiastically at a figure they thought was Amber, watching her disappear down the jet bridge with lingering affection. Only when the final boarding call echoed through the terminal did they turn back. Wayne smiled, a sense of pride in his voice. “The project went beautifully. A prestigious lab in Zurich just offered Amber a fellowship.” “It makes sense for her to go, but I don’t know if I’ll ever find another research partner as brilliant as her.” Phoebe nodded proudly. “Of course she is. She’s my girl, after all.” A brief silence fell over them as they walked toward the exit, both letting out a soft sigh. “Well, the project is done. Let’s not bring it up again.” “Yeah. Maeve is so sensitive. She holds onto grudges forever.” “Speaking of, I’ve sent her a dozen texts and she hasn’t replied to a single one.” They exchanged a glance, a sudden, inexplicable wave of panic washing over them. “She hasn’t texted you either? Do you think… something happened?” Just then, a hand tapped Phoebe on the shoulder. They both spun around. Standing right behind them, smiling, was Amber—who was supposed to be on the plane. “I decided not to go,” Amber announced, grinning. “I’m staying in Chicago with you guys.” Wayne’s smile froze on his face. He and Phoebe stared at her, their expressions turning ash-gray. “Then… who just got on that plane?”

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Ten years. That was the length of the marathon Galen and I had been running. For as long as I could remember, my family had been dropping hints, then outright begging, to finally meet the man I’d built my life around. But Galen always had an excuse. A high-profile case, a critical deposition, a late-night strategy meeting. Nine family dinners. Nine times he had promised to show, and nine times his chair had remained empty. The tenth time was different. My mother was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. Her doctor told us we were looking at weeks, maybe days. All she wanted—her final, desperate wish—was to look into the eyes of the man who would take care of me when she was gone. I stood in Galen’s sleek office, holding her critical condition notice in my trembling hands, practically begging him. Galen didn’t even look up from the thick legal brief in front of him. The scratch of his fountain pen on expensive paper was the only sound in the room. “This weekend is impossible,” he said, his voice smooth, professional, and entirely detached. “Helena’s divorce hearing is coming up. Her ex has been harassing her, and she’s a psychological wreck. I need to be there for her.” “Tell your mother to rest. She shouldn’t be wasting her energy stressing over things like this.” I stared at him, the silence stretching between us until it felt physical. “Galen,” I said, his name tasting like ash on my tongue. He offered a distracted, humoring murmur. “My mother might not survive the month,” I said, keeping my voice dead level. “I am bringing my future husband home this weekend. With or without you.” He finally put his pen down. A thin, patronizing smile touched his lips. “If I don’t go, Monica, who exactly are you bringing home? A ghost?” He leaned back, his tone shifting into that practiced, patronizing warmth he used to placate difficult clients. “Be good. We’ll talk about this after Helena’s trial is wrapped up.” I looked at him—really looked at him—and found myself smiling. A quiet, hollow sensation opened up in my chest. Ten times I had begged. Ten times he had decided my life, my grief, and my family were nothing more than an inconvenient distraction. I wasn’t going to beg an eleventh. I looked down at my phone and opened a chat thread that had been sitting quietly for three years. It was with my mother’s primary oncologist—a man who had patiently, respectfully waited in the margins of my life. I typed out a single sentence: “Dr. Ward, my mother wants to meet the man I’m going to marry. Let’s get married.” … “Monica, stop acting like a child.” Galen glanced at his Rolex, his brow furrowing with a hint of genuine irritation. “Helena’s ex-husband was lurking outside her building again yesterday. She’s a single mother, completely isolated. If something happens to her or the kid because I wasn’t reachable, who takes the fall?” “Your mother’s stomach issues are chronic. She’s in a state-of-the-art facility surrounded by specialists. What difference does it make if I’m standing by her bed?” “Can you please, just once, not use your family to emotionally hijack me when I’m in the middle of a career-defining case?” Ten years of devotion. Ten years of building my universe around his orbit. To him, my mother’s dying days were nothing but a cheap negotiation tactic. A hostage situation. I didn’t argue. I didn’t even sigh. Sensing my silence as submission, his features softened. He reached out, his hand moving toward my shoulder with the easy, familiar confidence of a man who knew exactly how to quiet me. “Come on, sweetheart. Be reasonable.” “Once we get Helena’s verdict, I swear I’ll block out an entire Saturday.” “We’ll go down to the hospital, have a nice lunch with your mom, and do the whole formal introduction. Okay?” I took a half-step back, letting his hand fall through the empty air. His hand hovered there for a second before dropping to his side. The warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by a cold, sharp anger. “Monica, are we really doing this again?” “Every time things don’t go exactly your way, you retreat into this childish silent treatment.” “Do you honestly think I have the luxury of revolving my life around your whims? That I have nothing better to do than cater to your insecurities?” A soft vibration hummed against my thigh. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. It was a text from Simon Ward. “Alright. I have tomorrow off. I’ll make the arrangements.” A weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying suddenly lifted, leaving me light, almost dizzy. I looked up, locking my gaze with Galen’s stormy eyes. My voice was quiet, steady, and entirely free of anger. “Galen, from now on, you don’t have to worry about making time for me ever again.” He blinked, caught off guard by the lack of tears, the lack of screaming. Then, a harsh, dismissive chuckle escaped him. “Right. Sure, Monica. You write that down and remember it.” “Because the next time you come crying, begging me to fix things, I won’t be here to play therapist.” Before he could continue his lecture, his phone on the desk lit up. The screen vibrated with a single contact name: Helena. Galen snatched it up instantly. The harshness in his voice melted away, replaced by a tender, frantic concern. “Hey. What’s going on? Is he there?” Helena’s voice bled through the receiver, high-pitched and trembling with tears. Even without speakerphone, her whimpers filled the quiet of the office. “Galen… the storm knocked out the power in my building. It’s pitch black. I’m so scared… I can’t breathe. My chest is so tight, Galen. Please, I feel like I’m dying…” Galen was already on his feet, knocking his chair back. He didn’t even reach for his coat. “Don’t panic, Helena. Breathe. I’m leaving right now. Just stay where you are, okay?” He ended the call and threw a fleeting, defensive look in my direction. “Helena’s having a severe panic attack. Her claustrophobia is flaring up. I have to go.” “As for your mother, like I said—once the judge signs off on Helena’s settlement, I’ll find a window to go over and get the introduction out of the way.” I remained seated, watching his frantic movements as he grabbed his car keys. “Galen,” I said. He paused at the door, his hand on the brass knob, looking back with a heavy, impatient sigh. “What is it now, Monica? A panic attack can lead to cardiac arrest. This is a medical emergency.” I looked at the face of the man I had loved for a third of my life. “We’re done, Galen. Let’s end this.” He let out a sharp, mocking scoff. “Monica, you’re thirty years old. Stop playing these pathetic, melodramatic games. I don’t have time for your hard-to-get acts.” He threw the door open and strode out, slamming it behind him. The lock clicked, and for the first time in ten years, I breathed in air that didn’t feel heavy. I walked back to our bedroom—no, his bedroom. I pulled my old suitcase from the top shelf of the closet and began packing my life away, piece by piece. There wasn’t much. Galen had bought this townhouse three years ago, but every square inch of it had been decorated according to Helena’s specifications. She had chosen the cream linens, the minimalist light fixtures, the cold marble countertops. I remembered asking him, back when we moved in, why our home had to look like a gallery of another woman’s mind. “Helena has a degree in interior design,” he had snapped, dismissive as always. “She has actual taste. Don’t be so petty, Monica. It’s exhausting.” I smiled a quiet, bitter smile as I folded my sweaters into the suitcase. Thirty minutes later, I closed the zipper, dragged my bag down the steps, and hailed a cab to the hospital. In the oncology ward, the air was thick with the sterile scent of bleach and impending grief. My mother lay beneath a thin hospital blanket, her face gray, her breathing shallow beneath the clear plastic of her oxygen mask. Hearing my footsteps, she struggled to open her eyes. “Monica… sweetie… where’s Galen? Is he still working?” I knelt beside her bed, taking her cold, frail hand in both of mine. “He’s not coming, Mom.” Her chest sputtered, and the faint light in her eyes flickered. “Did I… did I make things difficult for you? Is he angry with me? Does he think we’re a burden?” “No, Mom,” I said quickly, my voice remarkably steady. “It’s not that at all.” “I broke up with him.” “I have a new boyfriend now.” “His name is Simon. Simon Ward. He’s your doctor.” My mother stared at me, her dry lips parting slightly. “Monica… don’t lie to me just to make me feel better. You’ve been with Galen for ten years. You don’t just… change your mind overnight.” I gently pulled the blanket up to her chin, my eyes clear. “I’m not lying, Mom. Ten years of a mistake is enough. I’d rather lose ten years than give him the rest of my life.” Just then, the heavy oak door to the private room clicked open. Simon walked in, wearing his white lab coat over a crisp blue shirt. He was tall, with sharp, elegant features behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and a quiet confidence that seemed to settle the frantic energy of the room. “Good evening, Helena,” he said, his voice a warm, soothing baritone. “Just doing my rounds. How are we feeling tonight?” He walked over to my side of the bed, his movements natural, and placed a gentle, supportive hand on my shoulder. My mother’s eyes darted between the two of us, wide with confusion and a sudden, fragile hope. “Dr. Ward… you and my Monica…” Simon smiled down at her. He reached down and took my hand, sliding his fingers between mine, locking them tightly. “I wanted to introduce myself formally, Helena. I’m Monica’s boyfriend, Simon.” “I apologize for keeping it from you. I wanted to wait until Monica had completely closed the door on her past so I could step forward and ask for your blessing properly.” A tear slipped down my mother’s hollow cheek. She reached out, her trembling fingers wrapping around our joined hands. “Thank God… thank God. If Monica is with you, I can rest easy.” Simon sat on the edge of her bed, talking with her for nearly an hour. He explained her lab results, answered her questions about pain management, and listened to her stories about my childhood. He had none of the cold, clinical distance you’d expect from the chief of surgery. He was just… there. Fully present. When the head nurse finally tapped on the glass to call him away for an emergency consult, he stood up reluctantly. “I’m on call tonight,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed my temple. The gesture was so tender, so effortless, it felt as though we had been doing this for a lifetime. “My shift ends at eight tomorrow. Meet me at the county clerk’s office at nine?” I nodded. “Nine o’clock.” Late that night, around 2:00 AM, I walked down the hall to the hospital’s break room to fill a pitcher with fresh ice water. As I rounded the corner near the elevators, I heard a familiar, delicate voice. “Galen, really, I’m fine. It was just a little slip with the paring knife. I didn’t need to drag you to the ER for a tiny cut.” Then came Galen’s deep, protective rumble. “Tetanus isn’t a joke, Helena. And given your emotional state right now, I wouldn’t sleep a wink knowing you were alone in that dark apartment.” I walked out from the shadow of the corridor. There they were. Galen’s arm was wrapped firmly around Helena’s waist, pulling her close against his side in a gesture that was intimately possessive. Helena’s finger was wrapped in a tiny, ridiculous cartoon Band-Aid. When Galen’s eyes met mine, his entire body went rigid. He instinctively pulled his arm back, clearing his throat. Helena shrank back, her eyes wide and watery. “Monica… please don’t be mad. I really didn’t want to bother him, but my finger was bleeding so much, and Galen insisted…” She held up her index finger like a trophy of her victimhood. I didn’t say a word. I kept my face blank and started to walk past them toward the water dispenser. Galen stepped into my path, a flicker of guilt crossing his features before his usual defensive mask slid back on. “How’s your mother?” he asked, his voice stiff. “I’ve been buried under paperwork the last forty-eight hours. I haven’t had a second to check in.” I ignored him, pushing past his shoulder. Galen grabbed my forearm, his grip tight and angry. “Do you have to act so incredibly petty right now? I told you, Helena’s mental state is fragile. Are you seriously going to throw a tantrum over a medical emergency?” I wrenched my arm out of his grasp, turning on him with a coldness that made him blink. “Are you delusional, Galen?” “You think I’m jealous? You actually believe you’re worth that kind of energy?” Helena’s eyes flooded with tears on cue. “Galen, please don’t fight because of me. It’s all my fault. Monica, you can scream at me, you can hit me, just don’t be mad at him.” Galen immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. “Monica, you are being utterly irrational!” he hissed. “You’re acting like a hysterical shrew. I’m warning you—if you keep behaving like this, we are not getting married.” I let out a soft, genuine laugh. “Good. We’re not.” Galen’s jaw went slack. “What?” “I said we’re done, Galen. The wedding is off. We are finished.” The color drained from his face for a split second, but he quickly recovered, his lips curling into a cruel, arrogant sneer. “Please, Monica. You’re thirty years old. If you don’t marry me, who else do you think is going to take you?” I didn’t waste another breath. I walked away, the sound of my sneakers clicking softly against the linoleum floor. The next morning, the winter sun was just beginning to break through the gray clouds when I arrived at the city hall. Simon was already waiting on the steps. He wore a tailored charcoal wool suit, his dark hair neatly styled, his eyes warm and focused behind his glasses. The moment he saw me, his expression softened. He walked down the steps to meet me, naturally taking the heavy shoulder bag from my hand. “Did you eat?” he asked. I shook my head, my throat tight. “It was a bit of a rush getting out of the hospital.” He smiled, reaching into his pocket and producing a small, insulated container. “I had a feeling. It’s warm chicken and wild rice soup. Just to coat your stomach.” I stared at the warm metal container in my hands, a sudden prickle of tears stinging my eyes. “Simon… you don’t have to do all this.” “Call me Simon,” he corrected softly, his voice gentle but firm. “And yes, I do. We’re getting married, Monica. We should start getting used to looking after each other, shouldn’t we?” I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed a small smile. “Okay. Simon.” The process inside was incredibly simple. There were no endless discussions about guest lists, no tense negotiations over prenuptial agreements, no last-minute cancellations. When the clerk pressed the heavy gold seal onto our marriage certificate, a strange, beautiful sense of peace washed over me. Simon picked up his copy and slid it into his breast pocket, then turned to me, holding out my copy. “Congratulations, Mrs. Ward.” I looked at our names printed side-by-side on the crisp white paper and let out a long, shuddering breath of pure relief. “Thank you, Simon.” The moment we stepped back out into the crisp morning air, my phone began to vibrate violently in my purse. It was Galen. I hesitated for a second before pressing answer. “Monica, where did you put the blue litigation folder for the corporate acquisition?” His voice was frantic, demanding, and entirely devoid of a greeting. “Helena’s preliminary mediation is this afternoon, and those documents are critical.” “I don’t know,” I said, my voice deadpan. “How could you not know? You’re the only one who touches the files in the study!” he barked. “Did you hide them to punish me for yesterday? Are you really that vindictive, Monica? This is my career. This is Helena’s entire future on the line!” I found myself shaking my head at the sheer, unadulterated narcissism of his mind. For ten years, if anything went missing, it was my fault. If his day went wrong, it was my fault. If Helena sneezed, it was my fault. “Galen,” I interrupted, my voice perfectly calm. “First, I packed my things and moved out of your house last night. I didn’t touch your files.” “Second, Helena’s future is no longer my concern, and neither is your career.” “Third, do not call this number again.” There was a heavy, stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then, Galen let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Moved out? Really, Monica? We’re playing the dramatic runaway bride now? You think this little stunt is going to make me chase after you?” “I’m telling you right now, I won’t. You have exactly one hour to get your head straight, get back to the house, and find that folder, or else—” “Or else what, Mr. Philips?” Simon had quietly stepped up beside me. He took the phone from my hand, his voice cool, level, and utterly commanding. “Who is this?” Galen demanded, his voice instantly turning hostile. “My name is Simon Ward. I’m Monica’s husband,” Simon said, his tone as smooth and constant as a scalpel. “My wife is currently celebrating our wedding with me, and she doesn’t have the time or the inclination to play hide-and-seek with your paperwork.” “If your basic organizational skills are this deficient, I suggest you hire an administrative assistant rather than harassing another man’s wife.” Without waiting for a response, Simon hung up, opened my settings, and added Galen’s number to the block list. He handed the phone back to me with a reassuring smile. “Let’s go see our mother, shall we?” In the hospital room, my mother stared at the gold-embossed seal on the marriage certificate, then up at Simon, her eyes swimming with tears. “Dr. Ward… I don’t know how to thank you…” Simon walked over and knelt beside the low bed, gently wrapping his fingers around hers. “Mom, please. Call me Simon. To be honest, I’ve been in love with Monica for a very long time. I was just waiting for the right moment to show her.” “I promise you, I will cherish her for the rest of my life. She will never have to face anything alone again.” My mother nodded weakly, tears spilling over her pale cheeks. “Good… that’s all I wanted. To see my little girl in her white dress, safe.” “I can go now… I can close my eyes in peace.” “Mom, don’t talk like that,” I whispered, my voice breaking as I tried to hold back my tears. Simon stood up, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me close against his chest. “She’s right, Monica. You need to wear the dress.” “I had a few designers send some pieces over this morning. They’re set up in the private lounge next door. Go try them on, sweetheart. Let your mother see you.” I looked at him in shock, but he only gave me a gentle, encouraging nudge. “Go on.” Ten minutes later, I pushed open the door to my mother’s hospital room. The silk of the ivory gown swept softly against the floor, the delicate lace sleeves framing my shoulders. My mother’s eyes went wide, reflecting a sudden, brilliant light. “Oh, Monica…” she whispered, her hand trembling as she reached toward the fabric. “You look so beautiful… my beautiful girl…” Suddenly, the heavy door was slammed open, banging violently against the wall. “Monica! What the hell are you doing?” Galen stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his tie crooked, his eyes wild and bloodshot. He looked like a man unraveling. His eyes swept across the room, landing on the ivory gown, and he let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Just because I wouldn’t give you the wedding you wanted today, you rent some cheap dress and hire a local doctor to play-act a marriage in a cancer ward?” “Do you honestly think I’m that easily manipulated?” He stormed forward, his hand snapping out to grab my wrist. “Stop this ridiculous theater and come home. Helena’s mediation starts in two hours and I need those files.” I struggled against his grip, my heart pounding with a sudden surge of adrenaline. “Let go of me, Galen! Don’t touch me!” “Let go?” he sneered, his fingers tightening. “You’ve spent ten years living in my house, eating my food, spending my money. You don’t get to play the victim now!” Before he could drag me a step closer, a pale, strong hand clamped down on his wrist. Simon stood there, his face completely expressionless, but the grip he had on Galen’s arm was so tight the bones in Galen’s wrist audibly groaned. “Mr. Philips,” Simon said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet register. “Your memory seems exceptionally selective.” “For the past decade, Monica not only managed your household and cooked your meals, but she also used her entire salary as a senior copywriter to cover your firm’s early rent and overhead.” “Living off a woman’s labor while calling yourself her savior is a rather pathetic display.” Galen gasped, the pain forcing him to loosen his grip on my wrist. He stumbled back, nursing his arm, his eyes dark with fury. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Galen snarled. “This is family business. Stay out of it.” “Family?” Simon reached into his suit jacket, pulled out the red leather marriage certificate, and held it inches from Galen’s face. “Look closely, Mr. Philips.” “Monica is my legal wife.” “And you are nothing but an intruder trespassing in my patient’s room, harassing my wife.”

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On my twenty-second birthday, a voting poll suddenly appeared on our family’s shared smart-home hub. [Are you willing to exchange Jack for Wright from the parallel universe?] My mother and father both clicked “Yes”. They always said that if it weren’t for my older brother’s tragic death all those years ago, I wouldn’t have been born in the first place. Because of that, they believed it was only fair that I should be the one to bring him back. A moment later, the same poll pinged on Lauren’s phone. She had been my girlfriend for five years. She was also the little girl my brother had pushed out of the path of that oncoming car before he was killed. I stared at her, my heart hammering in my chest. If she just said no, if she just gave me one reason to believe I mattered, I could keep holding on. But she stood there in silence for what felt like an eternity, her eyes cast down as she whispered, “Jack, it’s just a test.” “Your brother saved my life.” “I can’t refuse to help him, even if it’s just a test.” The next second, she tapped “Yes”. The screen flashed a cold, bright notification: [All votes recorded successfully.] [Jack Callahan will be replaced in five days.] My father finally let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. He reached over and gently patted my hair, his touch softer than it had been in years, exactly like the way he used to comfort my brother in the old home videos. “Good boy, Jack.” “When your brother gets back, we’ll remember what you did for us.” I looked at them, blinking hard to keep my eyes from burning, and forced a smile. “Sure.” “I hope the brother who comes back is exactly who you wanted.” 1 My father leaned against the edge of the dining table, exhaling slowly. “Thank God,” he muttered. His eyes were rimmed with red, but a genuine smile was finally breaking across his face. “Wright is finally coming home.” My mother nodded, her voice thick with emotion. “We’ve waited so long for this day.” The candles on my birthday cake were still unlit, melting slowly into the frosting. I stood frozen in the middle of the dining room, a sharp, high-pitched ringing filling my ears. “How long is ‘so long’?” I asked quietly. My father looked up, his eyes flickering with a momentary discomfort. “Since you were six, I guess.” “That was when you started looking less and less like him.” I tried to swallow, but the air caught in my throat. I began to cough, doubling over as tears stung my eyes, but neither of them looked up. Ever since I turned six, my father constantly complained that I wasn’t enough like Wright. He would dig out my brother’s old clothes from the attic and force me to wear them. When I outgrew them, the collars choked me and the seams dug painfully into my skin, but my father would only frown in disappointment. “Wright didn’t look like that in them.” He made me watch Wright’s old home videos over and over, pausing them halfway through to critique me. “Wright didn’t show his teeth when he smiled.” “Wright held his pencil like this.” “Wright spoke softly, with manners.” So I copied him. I learned how to part my hair exactly like Wright’s with my eyes closed. I memorized his gestures, his posture, and his tone of voice better than any school lesson. I tried so hard to erase myself and become my brother. I thought if I could just be a little more like him, my parents would finally look at me with love. But no matter how hard I tried, they would only shake their heads. “Still not him.” “Not even close.” Once, when I was ten, I dressed up in my brother’s favorite sweater and called out “Dad” in Wright’s soft, quiet voice. He stared at me for a long time, and then tears suddenly spilled down his cheeks. “Stop it, Jack,” he said, his voice cold. “No matter how much you copy him, you’ll never be him.” I cried under my blanket all night. But the next morning, I still got up and went right back to studying the videos. It was Lauren who had finally pulled me out of that darkness. In high school, she found me sitting in the hallway, reading Wright’s old childhood diaries to copy his handwriting. She grabbed the notebook and threw it straight into the trash can. “Jack Callahan,” she had said, looking me dead in the eye, “you are not a ghost’s shadow.” Those words had kept me afloat for years. Which was why, when the voting page popped up on her phone, I had still held onto a stupid, desperate shred of hope. But she had voted to replace me anyway. I looked at her now. “Lauren, do you really think I should be traded for him too?” Her throat worked, her eyes darting away from mine. “Jack, it’s just a test. It might not even work.” My tongue felt entirely numb. “But when you clicked “Yes”, did you think about me at all?” She scowled, her patience wearing thin. “Can you not take that tone with me? Your dad has suffered enough. He just misses your brother.” My mother walked over and snatched my wallet from my bag, sliding my ID card out. I reached out to stop her, but she shoved my hand away. “Wright will need this when he gets back.” I stared into her cold eyes. “What about me?” She locked the drawer with a sharp click, her voice dripping with irritation. “You’re brothers. You don’t need to keep such strict scores.” I went back to my room and pulled out my college diploma from the desk drawer. The moment my fingers brushed the paper, the black ink seemed to dissolve under my touch. The name “Jack Callahan” began to fade, letter by letter, and “Wright Callahan” slowly bled through the paper. Even the photo on the ID card blurred into a misty, unrecognizable silhouette. I stared at the shifting letters until my eyes burned, and then I slowly closed them as a tear rolled down my cheek. The door pushed open. My father walked in, and when he saw the diploma, a spark of genuine excitement lit up his face. “Wright never got the chance to grow up,” he whispered. “I guess this makes up for it.” I looked up at him, my face wet. “Dad, what if I actually die?” His fingers tightened on the doorframe, his nails scratching against the wood. After a long, agonizing pause, he said, “Don’t say such morbid things.” When the door shut, I slid down to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. On our family group thread, my father had just changed my nickname. From “Jack” to “Wright’s Vessel”. 2 The next morning, the kitchen island was piled high with food. Garlic butter crab, a beef stir-fry heavy with cilantro, and hot seafood chowder. The steam rose in thick waves, making my head spin. I have a severe shellfish allergy, and I can’t stand the taste of cilantro. My father knew this. Yet there he was, carefully cracking open crab legs and placing the meat into a small blue bowl. “Wright loved crab,” he murmured to himself. “And he always said you can’t skimp on the cilantro, or there’s no flavor. I need to practice making his favorites so he feels at home when he gets back.” I sat with my fork in my hand, frozen. I forced a mouthful of plain white rice down my throat, desperate to swallow the lump in my chest. My throat throbbed with a dull ache. I took a breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “Dad, do you even remember I’m allergic to shellfish?” I kept my eyes glued to the white rice, too terrified to look up. My father’s hand froze over the ladle. “At a time like this, you’re really going to throw a tantrum over food? Your brother is going to have a lot of adjusting to do when he gets back. What’s wrong with you skipping one meal?” I nodded slowly, set my fork down, and went back to my room. In the afternoon, Lauren came over. When she saw how pale I was, her brow furrowed slightly. I gripped the hem of my shirt, staring at her for a long time. My voice was barely a whisper. “Lauren, will you go to the beach with me? Just once. I’ve always wanted to go. Since… since I’m going to die anyway.” She froze. For a second, I thought if I begged, she might actually say yes. But then she sighed. “You shouldn’t be running around right now. If something goes wrong with the transfer, your dad won’t survive the disappointment.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Are you really that afraid of him not coming back?” Her expression hardened. “Jack, stop talking like that. I’m doing this because I care about you.” I looked up, forcing my mouth into a wide, painful grin. “You care about me? Is that why you didn’t hesitate to vote to send me to my grave?” She looked down, avoiding my eyes, her lips pressed into a tight, silent line. Suddenly, I realized there was no point in arguing anymore. I went back to my desk and opened the mysterious app on my phone. Using my dad’s go-to password, I actually managed to log in. There, I saw my health reports, my sleep tracker, my emotional logs… They had been tracking my vitals and preparing for this for a long time. My stomach twisted violently. I gripped the desk, a metallic, copper taste rising in my throat. At the bottom of the screen, a red audio file appeared. With trembling fingers, I tapped it. A soft, hesitant boy’s voice played through the speaker. “Don’t choose me… Dad, please don’t make him take my place. He’s your son too.” Like a madman, I grabbed the phone and ran out, thrusting the screen in front of my dad’s face. “Dad, listen! It’s Wright. It’s his voice!” At the first sound of “Dad,” the spoon slipped from my father’s hand, clattering onto the floor. “Wright…” But as the recording played to the end, the excitement on his face curdled into stone. The next second, his hand slapped across my face. My head snapped back, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears as my cheek burned. “Jack! How dare you fake your brother’s voice just to keep him from coming home?!” Mom snatched the phone from my hand and deleted the file. “Your brother died once. Do you want him to die again?” I looked at Lauren, completely numb. “You heard it, didn’t you? He said he doesn’t want this.” I pushed the cancellation screen toward her. “Cancel it. If you cancel your vote, I can live.” Lauren’s finger hovered over the screen. Suddenly, Dad fell to his knees, grabbing the hem of her sleeve. “Lauren, please, I beg you. Wright saved your life. You can’t abandon him now.” Lauren closed her eyes. After a long, agonizing silence, she let her hand fall. “Jack… I’m sorry.” My hands began to turn translucent. Lauren gasped, reaching out to grab me. I stepped back. “Don’t touch me. This is what you chose.” 3 I had nightmares all night. When I woke up, my hand instinctively reached for the side of the bed, looking to hug my little cat. But there was only empty space. My heart hammered against my ribs. I threw off the blanket and dropped to my knees, searching under the bed, then checking the balcony, the closet, behind the sofa. Finally, by the trash can near the front door, I found his little collar bell. A few orange hairs were still stuck to it. I knelt to pick it up. When I stood back up, the world spun. Dad walked out of the kitchen, spatula still in hand. “Stop looking. I gave the cat away,” he said, his voice entirely flat. “Wright is allergic to cat dander. He’s coming back soon, we can’t have that stuff in the house.” I squeezed the bell, the metal digging into my palm. I tried to speak, but my voice shook so hard it didn’t sound like mine. “He’s been with me for seven years… He’s a coward. He gets terrified in new places.” The last words were a sob. Dad frowned. “Jack, your brother is terrified too. Can you stop only thinking about yourself for once?” I gasped for air, but my lungs refused to expand. I leaned against the wall, waiting for the dark spots in my vision to clear, and then I bolted out the door. “Jack!” Dad called after me, but I didn’t look back. I asked the security guards, the neighbors, posted in our neighborhood group chat, and begged the property manager to let me see the security footage. A guard said he saw someone carrying an orange cat out this morning. By the time I reached the back gates of our neighborhood, my legs were shaking. Sweat soaked through my shirt. I dug through every dumpster and searched every bush, but I couldn’t find him. At dusk, a message popped up in the neighborhood chat. [There’s an orange cat shivering under the awning of the back gate. Anyone lose their pet?] When I saw the photo, my whole body trembled. It was my cat. He was curled up next to a cardboard box, his fur soaked, but his eyes were fixed on the entrance of our neighborhood. I grabbed my jacket to run back out, but Dad blocked my way. “You’re going to bring him back?” Mom rushed out of the study. “Jack, how can you be so cruel? Your brother isn’t even back yet, and you’re already trying to make him sick!” She raised her hand to strike me. I stood frozen. In that moment, I almost wanted her to hit me. A stinging face was better than the suffocating weight in my chest. But Dad lunged forward and caught her arm. “Don’t!” he gasped. “What if you mark his face? What will Wright do when he gets back?” Mom’s hand hovered in the air. Staring at the way Dad held her back, the taste of iron filled my mouth. So even this face didn’t belong to me anymore. They dragged me back to my room. I fought them, my fingers clawing at the doorframe until Mom pried them loose one by one. Dad stood like a brick wall in the doorway. The door slammed shut in my face. I threw myself against it, twisting the handle, but it was locked from the outside. Late that night, the neighborhood chat pinged again. A photo was uploaded. My cat lay on the wet asphalt by the back gate, a dark pool spreading into the rainwater beneath him. [Just got hit by a car. He was already gone when I found him. He was staring at the gates the whole time, refusing to budge, like he was waiting for someone.] I stared at the screen, wanting to scream his name, but my chest felt like it had been carved out. All my grief was trapped inside. I opened my mouth, but only broken, ragged whimpers came out. I squeezed my fists so hard my nails cut into my skin, but I felt nothing. It wasn’t until a warm wetness dripped down my fingers that I realized the edge of the bell had sliced my palm open. I curled into a ball on the floor, shaking. Seven years. He had been with me for seven years. When everyone else ran toward Wright, he was the only one who sat by the door waiting for me to come home. And now, they had discarded him too. My phone buzzed. [Would you like to use your final veto to cancel the replacement?] I stared at the picture of my cat’s wet fur. After a long time, I tapped “No”. [Replacement will proceed.] 4 After I selected “No,” a strange peace settled over me. I leaned quietly against the back of the locked door, listening to the muffled voices in the living room. “Why is there still a whole day left?” Dad asked, his voice strained. “It’s already moving fast,” Mom replied. Dad sighed. “It feels too slow. Every minute Wright spends over there, my heart breaks.” Strangely, the pain was gone. The heavy boulder that had crushed my chest for years seemed to melt away. I began to count down the hours in perfect silence. In the afternoon, Dad came in holding a bakery catalog. “Help me pick a cake.” I pointed to a simple white frosted one. He handed me a box of colored candles. “Pick the candles too.” I pulled out the candles and carefully counted eight of them, lining them up neatly on the desk. Dad froze. Wright had died when he was eight. His eyes welled with tears, his gaze shifting to me with a complicated mix of emotions. “Is this a farewell for me,” I asked quietly, “or a welcome for him?” He turned his face away quickly, though his hands shook. “Don’t talk like that.” Later, Mom began packing up my room. My journals, my polaroids, my school certificates—everything went into heavy black trash bags. Dad replaced my bedsheets with a light blue set. “Wright loved this color.” They dragged my desk out, replacing it with Wright’s old art easel. The dust made me cough, a sharp pain blooming in my ribs. Dad looked back. “Don’t inhale too much dust.” He paused, then added, “Keep yourself healthy.” I reached into one of the trash bags to pull out a journal. Dad immediately pinned my hand down. “Don’t keep those. It’ll make him uncomfortable if he sees them.” I let go. The cover of the journal ripped against the plastic bag with a soft tear. Lauren came by in the evening, holding a notebook. “Jack, can you write down some notes about me for him?” Her voice was hoarse. “Like… how my stomach is sensitive and I can’t drink iced drinks. Or how I don’t like people touching my laptop.” My throat felt dry. “You want him to use these notes to get to know you? To love you in my place?” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m just afraid he won’t adjust well.” I took the pen and wrote down every single detail she asked for. I felt absolutely nothing. Mom came in next, holding my debit card. “How much do you have in your account?” Dad whispered, “Wright will need clothes and paperwork when he gets here. It’s going to cost a lot.” The money in that account came from my part-time jobs, my scholarships, and my savings. Without a word, I opened my phone and transferred every cent to my father. When the transaction confirmation popped up, I closed the app. Dad saw the notification, and for a fleeting second, his expression softened. “Jack, you’ve really grown up.” With only two hours left, they made me record a video. Mom handed me a script. “I am Jack Callahan.” “I consent to this replacement of my own free will.” “I was not coerced in any way.” “Please do not blame my family.” “Welcome home, brother.” Dad held up the phone. “Smile a bit. Don’t let people think something is wrong.” Lauren stood to the side, her throat tightening. “Mr. Callahan, maybe…” Tears streamed down Dad’s face. “What are we going to tell people when they ask where Jack went? Do you want Wright to be hated the moment he gets here?” Lauren fell silent again. I looked into the lens and forced my lips to curve upward. The muscles in my face felt stiff and sore. “I am Jack Callahan. I consent to this replacement of my own free will. Please do not blame my family.” I paused, looking directly into the camera. “Welcome home, Wright. But this family… I don’t want it anymore.” Dad’s face went pale. “Delete that. We’re re-recording.” But before he could touch the screen, the mysterious app lit up on its own. [Don’t… don’t make him record that.] [Dad.] [I don’t want to come home like this.] The living room fell into a deathly silence. A second line of text slowly drifted across the screen. [Do you actually remember what kind of person I was?]

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My husband slept with my best friend. The very next day, they gathered whatever courage they had left to apologize, begging for my forgiveness. “Babe, I’m so sorry. I drank too much last night,” Liam stammered, his eyes red. “Grace, you weren’t feeling well and left early… I had too much to drink, too. I’m so, so sorry,” Donna’s voice trembled. I watched them—riddled with guilt, unable to look me in the eye. Swallowing the cold, sharp pain blooming in my chest, I forced a small, fragile smile. “It’s okay. I forgive you.” They snapped their heads up, staring at me in sheer disbelief. They had braced themselves for a screaming match, for me to tear their lives apart. Instead, I let them off the hook with a single sentence. They didn’t know why. They didn’t know that my quiet exit from the party last night wasn’t just a mild headache. It was because of the medical report I’d received that afternoon. Stage four breast cancer. My time was running out. A week later, Liam was home with me. I invited Donna over. When the doorbell rang, it wasn’t just a delivery; it was a team of makeup artists, a photographer, and a courier carrying a garment bag. Liam and Donna stared at them, then at me, completely bewildered. I smiled gently. “I planned a wedding for the two of you.” … A suffocating silence descended upon our spacious living room. They stared at me, their eyes wide. Finally, Liam broke the quiet, his voice cracking with panic. “Grace, what kind of sick joke is this? We’re married. How could I possibly marry Donna?” Donna shrank back, tears immediately welling in her eyes. “Grace, please. If you hate me, hit me. Scream at me. Just don’t do this. Please.” Looking at their panicked, tear-streaked faces, I kept my expression serene. “I’m not joking. I really did plan a wedding for you.” I gestured to the courier, who carefully zipped open the garment bag to reveal a breathtaking, white lace gown. I turned to Donna. “Do you remember this dress?” Donna froze. She swallowed hard, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Yes. I remember you trying it on. You said… you wanted to wear it when you married the man of your dreams.” “I did say that,” I murmured. “But things change. Go try it on.” “No,” Donna whispered, shaking her head violently. “I can’t.” Liam stepped between us, his hands trembling. “Grace, stop this, please. What happened with Donna was a mistake. A horrible, one-time mistake. You said you forgave us. Why are you doing this?” “I’m not angry, Liam,” I said softly, cutting him off. “Then why the wedding?” he pleaded, his chest heaving. “You and I are married. We are husband and wife!” “Not for much longer.” I pulled a set of documents from the coffee table drawer and slid them across the marble surface toward him. “I’ve already signed them,” I said calmly. “Once you sign, we are officially divorced.” At the word “divorced”, Liam flinched as if struck by lightning. Donna gasped, covering her mouth. They had foolishly believed the storm had passed. They never imagined I would actually end my marriage, let alone organize their wedding. To them, this wasn’t forgiveness. It felt like a calculated, psychological execution. A slow-burning revenge. “No!” Liam cried, shaking his head frantically. “I won’t sign it. Grace, please, I beg you, don’t leave me. I know I screwed up. I’ll never touch a drop of alcohol again. Just please, don’t divorce me.” He was completely unraveled. With a heavy thud, he dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor, grabbing my hands in a desperate grip. A grown man, sobbing like a terrified child, his eyes rimmed with raw red. I let out a soft, weary sigh, a faint, sad smile playing on my lips. “I really don’t blame you two. Please, get up.” “No!” Liam choked out, gripping my hands tighter. “I’m not getting up until you tell me we’re okay.” Beside him, Donna sank to her knees too, her tears dripping onto the floor. “Grace, I know I crossed a line. I ruined our friendship, and I broke your heart. I don’t expect you to forgive me today, or ever. But I swear to God, I don’t want your husband. I don’t have feelings for him.” “I swear too!” Liam added, raising three trembling fingers toward the ceiling. “If I ever step out of line again, may God strike me down on the spot. May I lose everything I have…” “I believe you,” I murmured. Hope flared in Liam’s eyes. He looked up, his face lighting up with a desperate, pathetic joy. But my next words doused that tiny ember of hope like ice water. “And that’s why I truly, sincerely wish you both the best. Together.” “Grace…” “Please,” Donna wept. Their expressions crumbled. Before they could launch into another round of pleading, I gently cut them off. “I ordered a few things for you. They should be arriving right about now.” Right on cue, a knock sounded at the door. “Miss Grace? Your delivery is here.” “Bring it in, please,” I called out. Liam and Donna watched as a suited courier entered, accompanied by two security guards carrying a heavy, velvet-lined briefcase. The courier set the briefcase on the coffee table and popped the locks. “For your inspection, Miss Grace.” Inside sat a breathtaking, custom-made diamond jewelry suite, sparkling under the living room lights. It was exquisite—and obscenely expensive. “Perfect,” I said, signing the tablet he handed me. Once the men left, I lifted the centerpiece—a heavy, platinum necklace dripping with brilliant-cut diamonds—and held it up against Donna’s collarbone. “Grace, what is this?” Donna whispered, her voice trembling as the cold metal touched her skin. “Remember that magazine spread you kept staring at last year?” I smiled, my fingers brushing her neck as I fastened the clasp. “I promised back then that I’d buy it for your wedding day. I keep my promises.” “But this is… this is nearly a million dollars…” “Money is just paper, Donna,” I said softly, fitting the matching diamond earrings onto her lobes. “You’re my best friend. If this makes you happy, it’s worth every penny.” She sparkled. The diamonds caught the light, casting brilliant, fractured shadows across her pale skin. Finally, I picked up the massive diamond ring from the velvet box and pressed it firmly into Liam’s hand. “A groom should be the one to slide the ring onto his bride’s finger,” I said, guiding his hand toward Donna. Liam looked at the ring as if it were a hot coal. He was frozen in horror until I wrapped his fingers around it. “I won’t do this!” he yelled, opening his fist. The ring dropped, clattering onto the hardwood floor. I leaned down to pick it up. As I bent over, a sharp, white-hot spasm of pain tore through my chest. The room spun, and for a terrifying second, my vision went completely black. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, forcing myself to stand back up. When I looked at him, my smile was perfectly back in place. “You once told me you’d do anything I asked, Liam. Have you forgotten?” “I haven’t forgotten!” Liam said desperately. “But marrying Donna? That’s insane. I won’t do it!” He stood up, suddenly turning on the makeup artists and photographers. “Get out! All of you, get the hell out of my house!” Once the door slammed behind them, he turned back to me, his chest heaving. “Grace, tell me what I have to do. How do I make this right?” “I don’t want the diamonds, Grace,” Donna sobbed, trying to claw the necklace off. “Please.” I watched them, feeling a profound, quiet weariness. “I truly want the best for both of you. There is no anger here. No revenge. I am not trying to punish you.” “I don’t care what you call it, I’m not doing it!” Liam yelled, his eyes bloodshot. “Alright,” I sighed gently. “Today was just a rehearsal anyway. The ceremony is scheduled for the second of next month. That gives you eight days.” I grabbed my coat. “I need some air. It’s getting a little stifling in here.” They made a move to follow me, but I raised a hand, stopping them in their tracks. “I want to be alone.” The moment I reached the quiet, shaded path beneath the oak trees outside our building, the metallic taste in my throat boiled over. I stumbled, clutching a tree trunk for support, and coughed. A dark, thick splatter of blood stained the fallen leaves. My legs buckled. The world tilted sideways, and I collapsed onto the cold grass, darkness rushing in to swallow me whole. When I opened my eyes, the sterile scent of bleach and the steady beep of a monitor told me exactly where I was. An oncologist stood over my bed, his face etched with grim concern. “Grace, the tumor is starting to compromise your vitals. We are at a critical point. If we perform surgery immediately to remove the mass, followed by aggressive chemotherapy, we might be able to buy you…” “If I don’t do the surgery,” I interrupted, my voice barely a whisper, “how long do I have?” The doctor sighed, looking down at his clipboard. “A month at best. A couple of weeks at worst.” “Just give me something for the pain.” “Grace, I strongly advise—” “Please,” I said, looking out the window. “Just the pain management.” He stared at me for a long moment, seeing the absolute finality in my eyes, and let out a heavy sigh. He signaled the nurse to administer an IV painkiller and wrote a prescription for a high-dose narcotic. “If you change your mind, Grace, call me immediately.” “Thank you, Doctor.” I didn’t waste a single second. After leaving the hospital, I drove straight to a new luxury high-rise downtown. I bought a sprawling, fully furnished penthouse overlooking the river for nearly a million dollars. It was perfect—the exact kind of place Donna had always dreamed of. With the expedited closing, it would be ready just in time for their wedding. After that, I drove to a quiet, tree-lined cemetery on the outskirts of the city and bought a plot for myself. For the next several days, I turned off my phone, ignoring their frantic calls and texts. I couldn’t let them see me like this—haggard, frail, coughing up blood. But more importantly, I needed the wedding preparations to proceed without any distractions. I only reappeared on the morning of the ceremony. Liam looked like a ghost when he saw me walk through the door of our apartment. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He threw his arms around me, holding me so tight I could barely breathe. “Grace, where have you been? I’ve been going out of my mind! If you hadn’t sent those occasional texts, I would have called the police…” I gently but firmly pushed his hands away. “You’re marrying Donna today, Liam. You should keep your distance.” He froze. Then, a wild, hysterical anger flared in his eyes. “You are my wife! I’m not marrying anyone else!” I ignored him and turned to the glam team waiting in the hallway. “Please, get them ready.” Liam began smashing things on the counter, refusing to get dressed. Donna stood in the corner, sobbing, insisting she wouldn’t put on the gown. “If you don’t marry Donna today,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise like dry ice, “I will disappear. And you will never see me again.” That stopped Liam cold. He stared at me, his eyes wide and pleading. “You know me, Liam,” I said quietly. “Once I make up my mind, I don’t look back.” “Grace, please…” “Don’t call me that. Donna is your bride now. If either of you care about me at all, you’ll walk down that aisle.” Silence stretched between them. Liam looked at Donna, then back at me, his jaw tightening. “If we do this… if we go through with this farce, do you promise you won’t disappear?” he asked, his voice dead. I nodded. “Fine,” he whispered. “We’ll do it.” They finally gave in. Liam put on the tuxedo. Donna was zipped into the white lace dress. The makeup artists worked silently, hiding the tear stains on their faces. Once they were ready, we climbed into the waiting town cars to head to the chapel. I drove my own car behind their limo. Along the way, I dry-swallowed three pain pills, but the heat in my chest was unbearable. I felt a warm trickle run down my lip—blood, pouring from my nose. My vision began to blur, the tail lights of the limousine ahead fading into soft, bleeding halos. I knew. I knew my body was giving up. I gently pressed my foot onto the brake, pulling my car over to the shoulder of the highway. “I’m sorry,” I thought, letting my head rest against the steering wheel. “I don’t think I can make it to the ceremony.” When the bridal party arrived at the venue, Liam immediately got out and looked back. “Where’s Grace?” “She was right behind us,” Donna said, pulling at her veil, panic creeping into her voice. “Her car isn’t here.” “Did she leave? Did she run away?” An icy dread seized Liam. Without a second thought, he screamed at the driver to turn around, tracing the route they had just taken. Fifteen minutes into their frantic search, Liam’s phone rang. “Mr. Liam? We found Miss Grace’s car. It’s pulled over by the highway. She’s unresponsive. We… we saw blood on the steering wheel and had to break the window. But… she isn’t breathing.” “What?” Liam’s hands jerked. The car swerved, clipping the concrete divider with a loud, metallic screech. Beside him, Donna was thrown forward, her head striking the dashboard. Blood began to pour from a cut on her forehead, but Liam didn’t even glance at her. He gripped the steering wheel, screaming into the phone. “What do you mean she isn’t breathing? Say that again, you bastard!”

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My father’s lungs have always been fragile, a lifelong battle with severe asthma that finally prompted me to buy the coastal house in Monterey. I wanted a quiet, salt-air sanctuary where he could finally breathe without struggling. So when Victoria told me her assistant, Austin Jenkins, had an aging father suffering from the same condition, and asked if they could stay with us for a short while, I agreed. I wanted to be generous. I had no idea it was only the first boundary she would cross. A few days later, Victoria insisted that Austin’s father, Harvey, wanted the east-facing master bedroom because he loved watching the sunrise. When I refused, she bypassed me entirely and went straight to my father. My father, always the peacemaker and terrified of causing tension between us, packed his bags and quietly gave up his room just to keep us from fighting. But this morning, Victoria pushed the line even further. “Your father gets up so many times in the middle of the night,” she said, her voice entirely casual as she sipped her coffee. “The pacing is ruinous for Harvey’s sleep. I think it’s best if your dad moves out.” I stared at her, wondering if I had misheard. “Repeat that,” I said quietly. “I said your father’s nightly routine is keeping Harvey awake. He needs to find another place.” Oh, someone was definitely moving out. But it wasn’t going to be my father. I looked at Victoria, seeing her clearly—perhaps for the first time in years. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll handle it at breakfast.” … Half an hour later, the four of us sat at the dining table: my father, myself, Austin, and Harvey. Maria, our housekeeper, and Victoria brought out breakfast. But Victoria hadn’t just helped; she had personally prepared a specialized, lung-healthy diet for Harvey, along with a heavy, savory Southern-style breakfast tailored exactly to Austin’s tastes. In six years of marriage, I had never once seen Victoria cook. If Austin and his father hadn’t moved in, I might have gone the rest of my life believing she didn’t know how. The first morning she cooked for them, I had voiced my quiet discomfort. Her response had been swift and dismissive: “Austin is young, trying to make it in the city while caring for an ailing father. As his CEO, it’s my responsibility to look after him. Don’t be so petty, Chris.” I had stayed silent then, pushing my food around my plate. But over the last two weeks, those small moments had accumulated, hardening into a heavy weight in my chest. It wasn’t just the breakfast. Victoria rode to and from the corporate headquarters with Austin every single day. The high-powered CEO of Callahan Group looked less like an executive and more like Austin’s personal driver. And her devotion went far deeper than daily routines. When my father was first diagnosed, I had begged Victoria to pull some strings to get him an appointment with Dr. Charles Crawford, the premier pulmonary specialist in the state. Every time, she nodded, promised she would, and then let it slide, citing her chaotic schedule. Yet, the very afternoon Harvey Jenkins crossed our threshold, Dr. Crawford was in our living room, conducting a private house call that Victoria had personally arranged. Lately, I had caught my father staring out at the ocean, his eyes rimmed with red. “Chris,” he had whispered to me the night before, his voice trembling. “Your mother worried when you married Victoria. You have a brilliant mind, but we aren’t old money. When a woman like that loves you, it’s a dream. But when she stops… the fall is hard.” My father’s choked words had kept me awake all night. I lay in the dark, wondering where Victoria and I had fractured. How had we reached a point where she felt comfortable bringing another young man into our home? Was it because my love had made her feel untouchable? Or was it simply that she no longer cared enough to hide her indifference? She used to care. There was a time when my family’s smallest needs were her priority. Now, her gaze passed over me as if I were a piece of the architecture. “I’m done,” Victoria said, setting her napkin down. Her eyes locked onto mine. The silent command was clear: Tell your father to leave. I stood up, walked down the hall to my study, and returned with a thick folder containing the deed and the original purchase documents for the villa. I laid them on the table right in front of her. She was the CEO of a multi-million-dollar company, yes. But this house was mine. “Read it out loud,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. The contract listed the sole owner of the property: my father, Thomas Wood. I had bought it in his name, a gift for his retirement. Victoria’s face hardened. “You’re being incredibly disappointing, Chris,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “I expect this to be resolved by the time I get home tonight. Austin, grab your bag. We need to head to the office.” “Of course, Victoria,” Austin murmured, offering me a fleeting, polite nod before trailing after her. One young, attractive, and eager; the other powerful, wealthy, and giving. Watching them walk out the door together, a strange, cold clarity washed over me. I had known the truth for a long time. Six years of marriage is a difficult thing to dismantle; you cling to the wreckage hoping for a spark. But looking at their retreating figures, the last ember died. There was nothing left. Once the front door clicked shut, Harvey leaned back in his chair, picking his teeth with a toothpick. “Hey, you,” he called out toward the kitchen. “Get my medication ready.” He was talking to Maria. “Maria,” I said, “don’t touch it.” Harvey’s eyes narrowed as he glared at me. “What is your problem? Victoria explicitly told you to take care of me. What do you think you’re doing?” “Maria,” I said, ignoring him completely. “Pack up Harvey and Austin’s belongings. Put them on the driveway, then call a service to replace the bedding and deep-clean the guest rooms.” “I asked you a question!” Harvey slammed his hand on the table, standing up. “This is my house, and you are no longer welcome. That’s what I mean.” “You think you can play games with me? I’ll call Victoria right now.” “Go ahead.” I turned my back on him and walked upstairs. My father hurried after me, catching me on the landing. “Chris, did you and Victoria have a fight?” “No, Dad. I’ve just finally opened my eyes. I’m divorcing her.” He stared at me, searching my face. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “Then I’m behind you all the way.” He gave my shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze, then turned back to Maria. “Pack up their things. Don’t leave a single sock.” “I’m sorry you had to go through this, Dad,” I murmured. My father was a proud man, but he had swallowed his dignity, endured Harvey’s crude remarks, and quietly vacated his room, all to keep the peace in my marriage. He didn’t have to endure it anymore. Not for another second. “You… you’ll regret this!” Harvey was already red-faced, his phone pressed to his ear as he dialed Victoria. I walked up to the third-floor terrace. The morning sun was bright, reflecting off the Pacific Ocean. I leaned against the railing and waited. I wanted to see how fast Victoria would tear back here for Austin’s father. I wanted to see what choice she would make when pushed. Within twenty minutes, her Mercedes came roaring down the coastal drive. She had abandoned her workday for Austin’s father. I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in a long time. “I’m divorcing Victoria,” I said. “Are you ready to take the case?” Victoria burst through the front door, Austin close behind her. Austin’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Chris, if you have an issue with me, you could have said it to my face. But throwing my elderly father out the minute my back is turned? That’s just cruel.” “If you had any self-respect, you would have taken your father and left days ago,” I said, my voice deadpan. “Stop playing the victim in a house that isn’t yours.” “Chris, that is enough!” Victoria snapped, her face twisted in rage. “Apologize to Harvey. Right now.” “If you don’t leave, things are going to get a lot worse.” “You’ve lost your mind,” Victoria said, taking a threatening step toward me. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on my son, Victoria.” My father stepped between us, his posture rigid. “Chris has given you everything. How can you treat him like this? Where is your conscience?” “What exactly have I done?” Victoria hissed. “Austin is my executive assistant. He was struggling, and I helped him. Is charity a crime now?” “You call this charity?” my father’s voice shook with anger. “I’m old, Victoria, not blind. The way you two look at each other under our own roof—you are humiliating my son, and you don’t even have the decency to hide it.” “Watch your mouth,” Victoria said coldly. “Austin and I have a strictly professional relationship. Only a dirty mind sees dirt everywhere.” Harvey wiped a theatrical tear from his cheek. “Victoria, please don’t fight because of me. We’ll leave.” “He’s right, Victoria,” Austin added, his voice cracking. “We shouldn’t have overstayed. If my father’s health suffers, so be it. We’ll pack up.” “You aren’t going anywhere,” Victoria said, her glare shifting back to me. “If anyone is leaving, it’s them. Chris, I never realized how petty and small you could be. You are a massive disappointment.” She pointed toward the door. “Take your father, go back to your family’s old place upstate, and stay there until you’ve cooled down and learned some gratitude.” I looked at her, entirely unmoved. “I showed you the deed. Are you illiterate, Victoria, or just willfully blind?” “How dare you—” She stopped, surprised by the absolute lack of fear in my eyes. “I don’t even recognize you anymore,” she spat. “No empathy. No sense of the bigger picture.” She turned to Austin, her voice softening. “Don’t worry, Austin. I’ll make sure your father is taken care of. Let’s go.” She walked out, but she couldn’t stay away. Less than two hours later, she was back, slamming the front door behind her. “We need to talk. Alone.” My father gave me a quiet look, then gestured for Maria to join him for a walk along the beach. “I am giving you three days,” Victoria said, her tone clinical, as if she were issuing a corporate mandate. “Three days to apologize to Harvey and Austin and make this right.” She wasn’t here to negotiate. She was handing down an ultimatum. Somewhere along the way, my feelings had ceased to exist in her equations. But three days was perfect. It was exactly the window I needed to set my plans in motion. “Three days,” I said quietly. “You’ll have your answer then.” Shortly after Victoria left, her personal driver—who had been on my payroll for years—sent me a screenshot of a text message Austin had sent her. Thank you for everything, Boss. The new place is beautiful, and my dad loves it. Attached was a photo of Austin and Harvey posing in front of a lavish, newly rented luxury condo overlooking the marina. I glanced at it once and deleted it. I had far more important things to attend to. The moment I first sensed the shift in Victoria—the coldness, the lies—I had begun preparing. I made a series of phone calls, securing the final pieces of the puzzle, and waited for the three days to pass. Victoria didn’t come home during those three days. I barely noticed; her presence in our house had dwindled to almost nothing over the last three years anyway. But I knew exactly where she was. Her driver kept me updated in real time. She was staying with Austin. It was finally time to settle the score. On the afternoon of the third day, I attended an exclusive Patek Philippe exhibition. When I arrived, Victoria was already there, flanked by Austin and Harvey. She was guiding Austin toward the centerpiece of the exhibit: a newly released, limited-edition timepiece. A masterpiece of haute horlogerie, it was nearly impossible to acquire, restricted only to preferred collectors. Money alone wasn’t enough to buy it. Victoria knew my passion for watch collecting. Months ago, she had promised to secure this exact piece for my thirtieth birthday. Today was my birthday. But she had brought Austin instead. As I walked into the gallery, a hush fell over the room. In recent months, Austin had been her constant shadow at every public event, and the whispers in our social circle had been growing louder by the day. Seeing both of us in the same room, guests began exchanging pointed glances, their eyes dating between Austin and me. When Austin noticed me, his usual deferential mask slipped. He tilted his chin up, a smug, victorious glimmer in his eyes. It was a silent declaration of war. My refusal to apologize had earned him a consolation prize: a watch that had been meant for me. Victoria saw me enter, but she didn’t even grant me a glance. “Wrap it up for Mr. Jenkins,” Victoria instructed the sales associate, her voice carrying clearly across the quiet room. The watch’s design featured intricate romantic motifs; it was marketed specifically as a declaration of love—an intimate gift for a life partner. Everyone in our circle understood the theme of tonight’s showcase: Expressions of Devotion. By purchasing it for Austin right in front of me, Victoria was making her choice entirely public. The subtext was loud and clear. I felt the weight of sympathetic glances, mixed with the quiet amusement of those who loved a good scandal. Austin looked positively radiant with triumph, while Harvey kept nudging the sales clerk to hurry up. Victoria finally looked at me, raising her phone slightly. A second later, my phone buzzed with a text from her. This is what happens when you don’t play by my rules. I stood there, letting a slow, calm smile spread across my face. I looked at the sales associate, whose expression shifted from polite excitement to sudden awkwardness as he looked at Victoria’s card reader. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Callahan,” he murmured. “The transaction was declined.” Victoria’s eyes snapped to me, freezing with a cold fury. I smiled wider. “Well, Victoria. Is this a satisfactory answer?”

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It was one in the morning, and the steady hum of my laptop was the only sound in the study. I was polishing the final chapters of my upcoming novel when I decided to take a short break and scrolled through a local community forum. A specific post caught my eye. My wife is a massive breakout novelist. If we split, do I really get half her royalty checks? The comments were a mix of outrage and curiosity, but one reply from a verified divorce attorney stood out, gaining thousands of upvotes: “Writing is a unique profession, but legally, any royalty income generated from intellectual property created during the marriage is considered marital property. Yes, you are absolutely entitled to half of it upon divorce.” Below that, another user had replied: “You lucky bastard. I need to find myself a bestselling author to marry.” I scrolled past it, offering a silent prayer for whatever poor woman was tethered to that parasite. I was lucky. Troy and I had been married for ten years, and our relationship had always felt like a rare sanctuary. He knew the immense pressure I was under when deadlines loomed; he was always there, quietly setting down a fresh cup of tea, rubbing my shoulders, never once asking about my bank accounts or royalty statements. Then, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Troy, who was currently away on a “business trip.” “Let’s get a divorce. Just wire the five million from your book royalties to my account, and we can end this cleanly. No need to make it messy.” 1 I stared at the screen for several long seconds, convinced my sleep-deprived eyes were playing tricks on me. Before I could even process the words, another message popped up. “Actually, I won’t even ask for the full half. Just five million. That’s more than fair.” I zoomed in on the screen, reading the letters over and over until they burned into my retina. Finally, my fingers found the keyboard. “I’ll agree to the divorce. But you aren’t touching a single cent of my royalties.” His reply was instantaneous, dripping with a desperate, defensive anger. “What do you mean I’m not getting it? Do you even know the law? Marital assets, Barbara. Do you understand what that means? You’ve been writing books for ten years and you don’t even have basic legal literacy?” “Bestselling authors have to split their earnings in a divorce. It’s a fact. Don’t try to cheat me out of what’s legally mine.” I leaned back against the headboard of my chair, staring at the barrage of texts, and let out a soft, sharp laugh. Of course I knew the law. Marital assets referred to income earned by either spouse during the course of the marriage. But there was one crucial detail Troy didn’t know: every single contract, every digital imprint, and every royalty account I had ever set up was registered under my mother’s legal name and tax ID. My pen name was legally tied to her. The royalty checks cleared directly into her bank account, and she wired me a monthly allowance to cover our living expenses. Legally speaking, those millions belonged to my mother. I was merely the writer managing her intellectual property. What ground did he have to stand on? I didn’t bother replying. I blocked his number, shut down my laptop, and went to bed. The next morning, I was violently jolted awake by the sound of screaming and shattering glass coming from the living room. Trembling with irritation, I threw off the covers, strode to the door, and flung it open. Our living room was a war zone. The custom oil paintings I’d collected over the years had been ripped off the walls, their canvases slashed. My Italian leather sofa—the one that had cost me a fortune—was covered in deep, jagged cuts. Nearly a dozen children were running wild through the house, and my bookshelf, filled with rare, signed first editions, had been cleared out. The pages of my favorite novels were scattered across the floor like confetti. Standing in the center of the chaos was my mother-in-law, Linda, flanked by a small army of Troy’s aunts and cousins. They stood with their arms crossed, looking less like family and more like a mob of low-rent debt collectors. Linda sneered the moment she saw me step out of the bedroom, her voice sharp and entirely devoid of its usual fake warmth. “If you think you can keep our family’s money from us, you’ve got another thing coming. We will make your life a living hell.” I stood by my bedroom door, my gaze sweeping coldly over the crowd. “I’m calling the police. I’ll have all of you arrested for trespassing and grand larceny.” The relatives exchanged uneasy glances, but they didn’t quite believe me. Aunt Carol, a woman with a tight perm and an insufferable attitude, spat a sunflower seed shell onto my ruined carpet and scoffed. “Oh, stop trying to scare us! Trespassing? We’re family! We’re just visiting!” I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and dialed three digits, holding the screen so they could see it. “Carol,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “isn’t your son applying for his federal security clearance this winter? A misdemeanor arrest for his mother will put an end to his government career before it even starts.” I turned my gaze to another aunt standing near the hallway. “And you—your daughter is aiming for Stanford next fall, isn’t she? Do you think the admissions board won’t notice a family arrest record during the ethics review?” Before I could even finish the sentence, the aunts began scrambling toward the front door. Within thirty seconds, the living room cleared out, leaving only Linda. Her face had turned an ugly shade of purple. She glared at me, her voice trembling with venom. “You’re nothing but a barren hen. You couldn’t even give my son a child. Now that I have a real grandson on the way, making room for his mother is the least you can do.” I leaned against the doorframe, my eyes widening in mock surprise. “Oh, I’ll gladly make room for her. But neither of you has any right to my money.” “We’ll let the judge decide that,” Linda snapped, her chin tilting upward. Just then, the front door swung open again. Troy walked in, carefully supporting a woman by her elbow. 2 The woman was wearing a loose-fitting linen dress. Her stomach was visibly rounded—she was at least five or six months along. She kept her head low, one hand resting protectively over her belly, the other clinging tightly to Troy’s arm. When she finally looked up at me, there was a fleeting spark of triumph in her eyes, though her voice immediately cracked with fragile, tearful innocence. “Barbara… if my being here is causing you this much pain, I’d rather just leave. I can raise this baby alone.” She turned her tear-filled eyes toward Troy. “Let’s just go to the clinic this afternoon, Troy. I don’t want to make things hard for you.” I watched her pathetic performance, a cold smile touching my lips. “This house was purchased before my marriage,” I said. “It is entirely in my name. Neither of you has any right to be here. If you want to audition for a soap opera, go to LA. Get out of my house.” Troy frowned, taking a step toward me. His face wore that familiar, patronizing expression of concern—the same one he used whenever he wanted to convince me that I was the unreasonable one. “Barbara, don’t be like this. You couldn’t have children, and I couldn’t let my family line end with me. Look, if you just give us half of the royalties, I’ll let the baby call you his godmother. You can still be a part of his life. Isn’t that a fair compromise?” I stared at him, really stared at him. We had been married for a decade. I had spent ten years looking at this face, believing he was the gentle, nurturing partner who would stay up until dawn just to make me soup when I was writing. I pulled myself back from the memories, my expression hardening. “Troy, whatever is growing inside her womb doesn’t deserve to call me anything.” Troy’s face darkened instantly. He let go of Laura’s hand, strode across the room in three sharp steps, and grabbed my wrist. Before I could protest, he dragged me down the hallway and shoved me into the small guest bathroom. I stumbled, my shoulder slamming hard against the tiled wall. He reached outside, grabbed a heavy laundry basket filled with delicate clothes, and dumped it at my feet. “Since you don’t know how to behave, you can stay in here and think about it,” Troy sneered. “Laura’s skin is incredibly sensitive right now. Her silk dresses have to be hand-washed. Don’t come out until they’re done.” He stepped back, slammed the door, and turned the lock from the outside. Click. I threw myself against the door, hammering my fists against the wood. “Troy! Open this door! Troy!” The doorknob wouldn’t budge. The guest bathroom was tiny, windowless, and lit only by a single, flickering bulb overhead. The air felt heavy, and the walls seemed to slowly close in on me. He knew. He knew better than anyone that I suffered from severe claustrophobia. During our first year of marriage, we had been trapped in a stalled elevator for five minutes. When the doors finally opened, I was hyperventilating, my body shaking violently. He had held me tight and whispered, “I promise, Barbara, I will never let you be trapped in the dark again.” Now, he was the one who had locked me in. I slid down the wall, my fingers clawing at the grout between the floor tiles. My breathing grew shallow and rapid, my chest tightening as the darkness of the memory pressed in on me. I don’t know how much time passed before I heard the turn of a key. The door swung open, and Troy stood in the threshold, looking down at me with cold, calculated pity. “Have you learned your lesson?” he asked. “Give me the PIN to the royalty account, or you’re sleeping on the bathroom floor tonight.” I raised my head, staring at his shadowed face. The light from the hallway cast a sinister silhouette over him, making him look like a stranger. My lips curled into a weak, venomous smile. “In your dreams.” The door slammed shut again. I sat in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs, when my fingers brushed against something metallic in my hair. A bobby pin. My heart leaped. I pulled it out, straightened the metal, and jammed it into the simple lock. Having researched lock-picking for a thriller novel three years ago, my fingers remembered the mechanics. After a few tense seconds of shifting the pin, I heard a satisfying click. I pushed the door open and bolted toward the front entrance. It wasn’t until I reached the safety of the street, ensuring no one was following me, that I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. Just then, my phone rang. It was my mother. The moment I answered, before I could even tell her what had happened, her panicked voice filled my ear. “Barbara! Thank God you picked up. Your father says Troy’s new green-energy venture is a total fraud! We had our analysts run a background check—the entire company is a shell. The registered capital is fake, the board members are phantom entities, and the whole thing is about to implode. Tell him to pull his money out right now before he ruins himself!” I froze on the sidewalk, my mind racing. “Mom… what happens if he doesn’t pull his money out?” There was a brief pause on the other end. “If he doesn’t pull out, he’ll be personally liable for tens of millions of dollars in debt. We have the money, of course, but we aren’t paying off his fraudulent debts. You need to warn him before it’s too late!” I looked out at the passing traffic, the cold autumn wind clearing the panic from my mind. Tens of millions in debt. A slow, deliberate smile spread across my face. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll make sure they get exactly what they deserve.” 3 When I arrived at my parents’ estate, my mother was so startled by my disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes that she nearly dropped her teacup. “What on earth happened to you? Tell me who did this to my girl!” I sat down and explained everything—the texts, the trashed house, the mistress, and the bathroom. My father slammed his fist onto the mahogany table, sending the porcelain cups rattling. “If that boy hadn’t seemed so humble and hardworking, we would never have let that charity case marry into this family. Now he thinks he can steal your hard-earned money and walk away? Not on my watch.” My mother was shaking with rage, but her old-money pragmatism quickly took over. She squeezed my hand tightly. “He forgot who he was dealing with. We’ve always protected our assets. Your father was right never to give him a real stake in our family’s holdings. He actually thinks he can touch your wealth?” I leaned my head against my mother’s shoulder, the tight knot in my chest finally beginning to loosen. “Thank God you had the foresight to keep your name off those contracts,” my father added, a rare note of pride in his voice. “Legally, every single book is registered under your mother’s name. What does he think he’s going to claim?” The next afternoon, my mother dragged me to a high-end shopping district to help clear my head. But as we walked past the jewelry counters on the second floor of a luxury department store, we ran straight into Troy and Laura. They were leaning over a glass display case, admiring a collection of solid gold baby charms. Laura’s arm was looped through Troy’s, her stomach pressed against his side as she smiled up at him. The sight made me sick to my stomach. I turned to walk away, but Laura had already spotted us. “Barbara! What a coincidence!” she called out, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. She walked over, resting a hand on her lower back, her pace slow and deliberate. “Are you here to pick out a welcome gift for our little one, too? Troy and I were just choosing something special.” Troy followed her, holding a small velvet box containing a gold pendant. When he saw my mother standing beside me, his expression faltered for a fraction of a second before hardening into his usual shield of entitlement. “You’re just in time,” Troy said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a black debit card—my card. “We’re buying a set for the baby. Put your PIN in for this.” I stared at the card in his hand, disgusted by his sheer audacity. “Not a chance.” Troy’s eyes narrowed, but with so many wealthy shoppers around, he didn’t want to make a scene. He shoved the card back into his pocket and pulled out a credit card instead, handing it to the sales clerk. “Fine. Put it on this one. My energy investment is paying out next month anyway. I’ll be looking at a return of at least twenty million. A few thousand dollars is pocket change.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Twenty million? He was closer to bankruptcy than he could possibly imagine. 4 After the transaction cleared, Laura leaned into Troy’s shoulder, throwing a smug look in my direction. “Barbara, once the divorce papers are signed, make sure you wire that royalty money quickly. Raising a baby in the city is incredibly expensive.” Troy nodded, his tone dripping with condescending charity. “Consider the baby’s gift a temporary loan. Just make sure half of your total earnings are transferred to my account the moment the papers are finalized.” I looked at him, my voice flat and cold. “If you want my money, Troy, I suggest you buy a mirror and take a good look at yourself.” Before Troy could snap back, my mother stepped forward, physically shielding me. She pointed a manicured finger directly at Troy’s nose. “You absolute parasite! My daughter paid for your clothes, your food, and your lifestyle for ten years! You aren’t worth the dirt on her shoes!” She turned her glare toward Laura, who shrank back. “And you! Did your parents raise you to be a homewrecker, or did they just fail entirely? Classless, cheap, and utterly pathetic.” Laura’s face went pale. Her eyes welled with tears as she clutched her stomach and took a step back. “Troy, my stomach hurts… she’s terrifying me.” Troy quickly wrapped an arm around her, glaring at us with pure hatred. “Be reasonable, Barbara. Let’s just sign the papers and get this over with. The court will decide what happens to the royalties.” I looked at his furious face, then at the trembling girl in his arms. I smiled. “Fine. Let’s go to the county clerk’s office right now.” He blinked, clearly not expecting me to capitulate so easily. Laura’s tears vanished, a small, victorious smirk playing at the corner of her lips. During the drive to the municipal office, Troy was already planning his next moves. “After the divorce, you’ll need to vacate the brownstone. Laura and the baby are moving in. Don’t make this difficult, Barbara.” I stared out the passenger window, watching the city skyline blur past. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you everything. The house, the man… you can have it all.” In the back seat, Laura let out a quiet, satisfied giggle, leaning her head against his shoulder. My mother sat beside her, silent and stone-faced. The process at the clerk’s office was surprisingly fast. Signatures, thumbprints, official seals. A ten-year marriage, dissolved in a matter of minutes. As soon as Troy slid his copy of the divorce decree into his breast pocket, he turned to me. “Now, give me the PIN to the royalty account.” I tilted my head, looking at him with mock innocence. “What royalty account? Every single book I’ve ever written is registered under my mother’s corporate entity and her tax ID. She is the legal owner of all my intellectual property, and the money goes directly to her. Legally, I own nothing. There is nothing to split.” The triumphant smile froze on Troy’s face. Laura’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide with shock. Troy’s face contorted with rage as he lunged toward me. “You lied to me!” “I never lied,” I replied smoothly. “My mother manages the finances. If you want a share of her money, you’re welcome to sue her.” Before he could scream at me, his phone began to vibrate violently in his hand. He glanced at the screen. It was his lead project manager. Trembling with anger, he pressed the phone to his ear. “What?” The voice on the other end was frantic, loud enough for everyone in the quiet hallway to hear. “Sir! We have a massive problem! The federal regulators just shut down the energy project! It’s a complete collapse—the SEC is freezing all assets!” Troy’s hand went limp. The phone slipped from his fingers, crashing onto the marble floor, the screen shattering into a web of cracks. His face drained of color, his lips trembling as he stood frozen, unable to utter a single word.

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My fiancé told me the neighborhood was getting sketchy and suggested we set up emergency safe words. “You absolutely loathe coconut,” Jackie had said, his arm wrapped casually around my shoulder. “You literally gag at the smell. So if you ever need me in an emergency, just text or call me and say: “I’m craving coconut.” I’ll know instantly that something is wrong. As for mine, let’s make it…” But when I actually found myself in danger and called him, the person who picked up was his “female bestie.” Lexi’s voice was dripping with irritation. “Jackie, your girlfriend is doing her attention-seeking thing again,” she shouted into the background. “She’s calling in the middle of the night saying she wants coconut. Are you actually going to go buy some? If you leave, we’re short a fourth for poker. It’s so annoying!” There was a brief silence on the other end of the line before Jackie’s dismissive voice drifted through the speaker. “I’m not going. It’s that time of the month; she just likes to make a scene when she’s bored.” Later, around one in the morning, Jackie—who had a bad knee and hadn’t stepped foot in a gym in years—sent me a text. “I’m heading to the gym.” I only sent back a detached reply: “Oh, drive safe then.” Then I wrapped myself tighter in my blanket and went back to sleep. … It was Lexi who had hung up the phone on me that night, not even waiting for a response. I sat there, gripping my phone, my entire body trembling. A wave of bitter regret washed over me for ever putting my faith in Jackie’s words. I tried to dial 911, but before my thumb could press the screen, a slick, low voice hissed from the shadows behind me. “Craving coconut? Want me to go buy some for you?” Tears of sheer terror sprang to my eyes. I spun around, my voice cracking as I stammered, “What do you want? Money? I can give you whatever you want. Please, just don’t kill me!” The man only smiled, a slow, casual tilt of his lips as he shook his head. “I don’t want your money. I just want your life.” I froze, the sheer absurdity of the words forcing a question out of my throat. “Why?” His face darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Why? You have the nerve to ask me why? We dated online for months. I gave you everything I had. You broke it off out of nowhere, without a single explanation. Why?” He took a step closer, his voice rising with erratic energy. “I transferred my entire savings to you just to keep you happy. Was that not enough? Women like you—vain, playing with people’s hearts—you deserve to die!” The man’s breathing grew ragged, his agitation peaking as he suddenly lunged forward and gripped my throat. I struggled violently, my hands clawing at his wrists. Yet, as the suffocating pressure mounted, a strange, cold clarity washed over my brain. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I did not know this man. I had never engaged in an online relationship with him, and I had certainly never taken any money from anyone—I didn’t even accept expensive gifts from Jackie. It was a mistake. He had targeted the wrong person. I needed to explain. Just as my consciousness began to flicker into darkness, the grip on my throat suddenly vanished. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. “Dying like this is too easy for you,” the man muttered, staring down at me with a manic, vacant look in his eyes. “Someone like you needs to suffer. You need to rot from the inside out…” I didn’t waste a second. Dragging air into my burning lungs, I cried out, “I am not the woman you met online! I don’t know who you are, and I have never catfished anyone!” The man paused, let out a dry chuckle, and pulled out his phone. “Still trying to lie to me?” He swiped through his screen and turned it toward me, displaying a series of chat logs. “These are the photos you sent me. Are you going to tell me this isn’t you?” My eyes scanned the screen. The first thing I noticed were the prominent transaction receipts—Venmo and CashApp transfers totaling over two hundred thousand dollars. Then, I looked at the photos. I wanted to tell him that I regularly posted selfies on Instagram, that someone must have stolen them to create a fake profile. But the words died in my throat. I stared, paralyzed. The photos were indeed of me. And someone had definitely used them to catfish this man. But these particular images had never been posted on my public social media. They were intimate, slightly revealing photos—the kind I had only ever shared with one person. A horrifying realization sparked in the back of my mind, though I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it. “I only sent those photos to my fiancé,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “They shouldn’t be anywhere on the internet.” The man let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Right. And wasn’t I your fiancé? The stupid, gullible fiancé who paid for everything?” “No! Please, listen to me,” I pleaded, sweat slicking my forehead as panic escalated. “I have an actual fiancé. We’ve been together for years, and we’re supposed to get married next month.” The man’s expression hardened. “So you’re telling me you were playing both of us?” Desperate, I unlocked my phone and held it out to him. “Look! This is my actual phone number, my real Instagram, my real Snapchat. I don’t have burner accounts. Everything is registered under my real name. I can call customer support right now in front of you to prove it. We can trace where those money transfers actually went!” I broke down, tears streaming down my face. “Please, just believe me! I didn’t do this! I don’t want to die for someone else’s crime!” The man remained silent, studying me with a piercing glare. After a long, agonizing silence, he spoke. “You said you only sent those photos to your fiancé?” I nodded frantically. “So,” he continued slowly, “you’re telling me the person who catfished me and stole my money is your fiancé? He put on a high-pitched voice and pretended to be a woman online?” I wanted to nod, because even though I couldn’t comprehend why Jackie would do such a thing, he was the only one who possessed those photos. “I’ll call him right now!” I said, grabbing my phone and immediately dialing Jackie’s number. It rang and rang, but there was no answer. I called again, and then a third time. Each call went straight to voicemail. “He’s playing poker,” I muttered, my voice hollow. “He probably has his phone on silent.” “Are you done acting?” the man asked quietly. He tapped his screen and played an audio message. “Babe, I really want some of that fancy coconut water, but it’s just so expensive…” A sweet, high-pitched female voice drifted into the quiet room. I had never heard that exact voice before, yet a sickening sense of familiarity crept over me. “Maybe… maybe they used a voice-changer app?” I suggested weakly. The man stared at me, his face devoid of emotion. He stood up, taking a slow step toward me. My mind raced, but my limbs felt heavy, frozen in place by fear. As he reached out to cover my mouth, a sudden memory sparked. “I can’t eat coconut! I’m severely allergic to it!” He paused, his hand hovering in mid-air. I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaking violently, and ran into my bedroom. I pulled open a drawer and retrieved a medical report from three years ago. “Look,” I gasped, thrusting the papers into his hands. “I was hospitalized because of an allergic reaction to coconut oil in a dessert. I literally can’t touch the stuff. Why would I ask you to buy me coconut water?” The apartment fell dead silent. The man stared at the medical report for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath. “I believe you.” Before I could even begin to feel relief, he added, “But a burner account can be set up under any name, and money can be routed through different cards. And just because you’re allergic doesn’t mean you couldn’t have asked for it to give to someone else. None of this is absolute proof.” My heart leaped back into my throat. But the man kept his eyes locked on mine. “However, your reaction tells me you aren’t lying.” Right then, my phone rang. The man gestured for me to answer it. I picked up, and Jackie’s annoyed voice filled the space. “What the hell do you want? It’s the middle of the night. I’ve been losing all evening, and you keep blowing up my phone. You’re ruining my night!” Hearing his voice, a wave of cold fury washed over my fear. I screamed into the receiver, “Jackie, did you share my private photos with someone else? Are you out of your mind? Those were private! Do you have any idea what is happening to me right now—” I caught the man’s warning gaze and abruptly cut myself off. Jackie went silent, but in the background, Lexi’s voice rang out clearly. “Oh my god, what is her problem? Why does she have to call every five minutes? Women are so exhausting.” I felt the man beside me stiffen. The pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell into place with terrifying precision. “Lexi,” I spat into the phone, “did you catfish someone using my photos?” The line went dead quiet for a second before Lexi flared up. “What the fuck did you just say? Are you insane? I don’t even like dating in real life, why the hell would I catfish anyone? Branda, did you get caught sleeping around and now you’re trying to pin your mess on me?” The louder and more defensive she got, the more certain I became. “Jackie, I—” “Branda, can you stop making a scene?” Jackie interrupted, his voice dripping with cold indifference. “You think everyone is as obsessed with drama as you are? I’m out with my friends. Can’t you have a life of your own for one night? I lost a ton of money tonight because you kept distracting me. Go find a show to watch. “General Hospital” has like fifteen thousand episodes, go catch up on that!” The line went dead. I sat on the sofa, staring blankly ahead. I looked up at the man standing near my door. The threat of immediate violence seemed to have passed, but the tension in the room was still thick. Even if he believed me, there was no guarantee he would let me go. I closed my eyes in exhaustion. When I opened them, the man was already turning the doorknob. He stopped, looking back at me with a cryptic, humorless smile. “Do you know what I used to do for a living?” Without waiting for an answer, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. It took several minutes for the silence to sink in. I reached up and realized my face was soaked with cold sweat. I picked up my phone to dial the police, but my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t press the numbers. He had entered my apartment without making a sound. If I called the police and they failed to catch him, what would he do? Would he come back for me? Was his final question a curious inquiry, or a quiet threat? I didn’t sleep a single wink that night. The next morning, I dragged my exhausted body toward my office building. As I approached the entrance, I saw Jackie waiting by the doors. He had dark circles under his eyes, looking like he hadn’t slept either. The moment he saw me, he rushed over. “Branda! Are you okay? I was worried sick about you last night! I didn’t sleep at all, and I came straight here to check on you.” I looked at him. Despite my exhaustion, my mind had never been clearer. If he was so worried, why had he ignored my safe word? Why hadn’t he come to my apartment last night, instead of waiting until my exact shift started to show up at my office? I admit, I used to be blinded by my feelings for him. I had tolerated the subtle hostility from his friend group. I had ignored Lexi’s unwarranted dislike of me. But in the face of life and death, all of those excuses evaporated. I let out a soft, cold laugh. “Jackie, when I used my safe word last night, why didn’t you come?” His eyes flickered with guilt, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “We rarely get the whole group together these days. If I just up and left, it would have ruined the whole mood.” “Do you even hear yourself?” I asked, my voice flat. “My physical safety is worth less to you than keeping the mood light for your friends?” Seeing that I wasn’t backing down, Jackie frowned. “Well, Lexi said girls always use stuff like that to test their boyfriends. She said you probably weren’t in actual danger, and that you just wanted to force me to come home and ruin our night.” I scoffed, refusing to waste my breath on his excuses. Instead, I asked the question that mattered. “The private photos I sent you—who did you share them with? Was it Lexi?” Jackie’s posture went rigid, his defense mechanisms kicking in. “Of course not! Why would I do that? Those were private. I’d never show anyone.” “Think very carefully before you answer,” I said coldly. “Sharing intimate images without consent is a crime. I’ve already contacted a lawyer.” “What?” Jackie’s voice cracked. “You’re threatened to take legal action against me? Are you crazy? I’m your fiancé!” “My fiancé distributed my private photos,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I protect myself?” Jackie’s chest heaved as he struggled to find words. Finally, he let out a long breath and deflated. “Okay, fine. I did it. But I swear I didn’t mean any harm! You know how Lexi is… she’s basically one of the guys. She told me she wanted to learn how to be softer, how to be more feminine so she could actually find a boyfriend. She asked to see how you carried yourself, how you took photos. I only showed them to her so she could learn!” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “She used those photos to catfish a man and steal over two hundred thousand dollars from him. And last night, that man broke into my apartment. I almost became her scapegoat. I almost died.” Jackie’s eyes widened in temporary shock, but he quickly shook his head. “No, that’s impossible. There must be some misunderstanding. Lexi is loud and a bit clueless sometimes, but she would never do something like that. Branda, I know you don’t like her, but you can’t just accuse her of a felony.” I felt a sudden, profound sense of exhaustion. “Since you trust her so much—since you couldn’t even bother to check on me—why did you even bother setting up those safe words?” “If I hadn’t wasted my one phone call on you, I would have called the police immediately.” Jackie’s patience wore thin. He shoved his hands into his pockets, groaning in frustration. “But you’re fine, aren’t you? Nothing actually happened. Why do we have to make such a big deal out of this?” He muttered something else under his breath. “What did you say?” I demanded. Jackie gritted his teeth. “I said, aren’t you on your period anyway? If someone breaks in, they either want money or… you know. You don’t have that much cash in the apartment, and since it’s that time of the month, no guy was going to touch you. Lexi was right, you were perfectly safe. You just wanted to ruin my night.” The moment the words left his mouth, I swung my hand and slapped him hard across the face. “We’re done, Jackie,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “You disgust me.” He stood frozen, clutching his cheek, before his face contorted in anger. “Branda, don’t do this! The venue is booked, the invitations are out, and you’re breaking up with me over this? There’s a limit to how dramatic you can be!” I raised my hand and slapped him again, even harder. “Get lost.” Turning on my heel, I walked into the office building, leaving him shouting behind me. “You’re going to regret this, Branda! You hear me? You’ll regret this!” I pulled out my phone and blocked him, his mother, and his entire friend group across every platform. Over the next week, Jackie tried calling me from dozens of burner numbers. Sometimes he begged, sometimes he made vague threats. I ignored all of them. His friends tried to reach out too. “Come on, Branda, give him a break. Don’t be like this.” I was planning to go to the police station the following morning to file a harassment report. But that night, at 1:00 AM, my phone lit up with a call from an unknown number. I picked it up, and a shaky, trembling voice came through the speaker. “B-Branda… I’m… I’m heading to the gym.” It was Jackie. And those were his exact safe words. I sat up in bed, a slow, cold smile spreading across my face. I answered him in a light, casual tone. “Oh. Drive safe then.” I went to hang up, but Jackie panicked, shouting into the phone, “Wait! Please, wait—”

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The college reunion was winding down, leaving a heavy, alcohol-tinged silence in its wake. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the streetlights into smudges of yellow against the dark glass. My boyfriend, Wilbert, stood frozen between me and Mallory, his posture stiff with indecision. To his left was Mallory—his first love, newly divorced and recently returned to the city. To his right was me, his fiancée, with a wedding date booked and paid for. A couple of our old classmates, half-drunk and leaning against the bar, chuckled at the sudden freeze in the room. “Damn, it’s pouring,” one of them said, peering through the window. “Good luck getting a cab at this hour.” “Hey, Wilbert,” another chimed in, a smirk playing on his lips. “Who’s getting the luxury ride home tonight? Want to flip a coin for it?” Wilbert had always struggled with choices. Whenever life demanded a hard line, he preferred to let fate handle the details. But tonight, he didn’t reach for a coin. Instead, he draped his heavy trench coat over my shoulders. A sudden wave of warmth bloomed in my chest. I pulled the lapels tight around myself, thinking, “He chose me.” Then he spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “Mallory’s place is all the way uptown. It’s completely out of the way. I’ll drop her off first.” He didn’t look at me as he added, “Go back inside the lobby where it’s warm. Once I drop her off, I’ll circle back for you.” Before I could process the words, he was already guiding Mallory toward the passenger side of his sedan, shielding her from the downpour with his hand over her head. The taillights cut through the wet darkness and vanished down the avenue. Behind me, the quiet snickers of our former classmates felt like needles against my neck. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. I stood there, staring into the dark rain, until a large black umbrella tilted over my head, cutting off the wind. “Kept you waiting, didn’t I? The highway was a parking lot. Let’s get you out of here.” I looked up into Connor’s familiar, steady eyes. Without a word, I slid my hand into his warm, solid palm and let him lead me away. Standing in the rain, waiting to be picked, waiting to be chosen—I was done with it. I was done with him. 1 Wilbert didn’t show up until the next morning. I was in the living room, quietly packing away the custom floral centerpieces and the sample invitations. He kept his back to me as he kicked off his loafers by the door, his voice carrying a practiced, casual note. “The storm was worse than I thought. Water flooded the exhaust, and the engine stalled out near Midtown. My phone died, so I just grabbed a room at a cheap motel nearby.” He paused, turning around. “You didn’t wait out there too long, did you?” Before he could finish his rehearsed speech, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a notification from our shared account. “Alert: Linked device detected at an unusual location for more than four hours.” I tapped the map. The GPS pinpointed his car in a luxury high-rise garage on the East Side. He had spent the entire night there, leaving only at eight this morning. It was Mallory’s address. I tossed the phone onto the sofa between us. “Care to try that again?” Wilbert froze, a glass of water halfway to his lips. When he spoke, his voice pitched higher, defensive. “Are you tracking me now?” A dry laugh escaped my throat. “You’re the one who set that up, Wilbert.” His posture stiffened. He had forgotten. Six months ago, during a brief phase of romantic insecurity, he had insisted we sync our location-sharing apps so we could “always find our way back to each other.” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Wilbert crossed his arms, refusing to offer another word. I studied him. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, but the top button of his oxford shirt was missing, and the cotton was heavily creased. Under my hand, the thick cardstock of a wedding invitation bent, then tore under the pressure of my thumb. Wilbert cleared his throat, changing the subject with a clumsy pivot. “So, who drove you home last night? I should take them out to lunch to say thank you.” It was always like this. He would make a mess, sweep it under the rug, and act as though the floor was pristine. “I got lucky. Caught a ride with an old friend,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “No need for lunch. I’ve already thanked him.” I walked over to the refrigerator and peeled off the sticky note. It read: “5 days until the wedding.” In that moment, my mind drifted back to the reunion. The exact second Mallory had walked through the restaurant doors, Wilbert’s face had flushed with a raw, undeniable ecstasy. He had dropped my hand so fast it felt like a physical slap, stepping forward to meet her. Mallory had stood there, smiling, looking just as radiant as she had years ago. Her failed marriage hadn’t dimmed her light at all. Standing next to Wilbert, they looked like the cover of a glossy magazine. Our old college crew had immediately shuffled around, leaving a vacant seat right beside Wilbert. I caught the eye of Travis, the guy who had tried to date me sophomore year. When I turned him down, he had thrown his gift into the dirt and sneered, “If Mallory hadn’t moved to London, you think Wilbert would look at you twice? Maeve, you’re just a placeholder.” I had blocked out his words back then. I chose to remember Wilbert under the Fourth of July fireworks, his eyes shining as he swore I was his forever. But standing in that restaurant, watching him pull out Mallory’s chair, pour her water, and hang up her coat, I realized Travis had been right all along. Mallory’s eyes had drifted down to my left hand, lingering on the diamond band. “I heard the wedding is just around the corner. Congratulations.” Wilbert had immediately placed a piece of duck breast onto her plate, his voice quick and dismissive. “Oh, nothing is set in stone yet. We’re still playing around with dates. Maeve’s mother wanted us to consult some traditional calendar, so we’re still figuring it out.” I had stared at him. “Wait, isn’t it next Thursday—” Before the words could fully leave my mouth, Wilbert had stuffed a spicy shishito pepper directly into my mouth. The sudden, fiery heat flared up my sinuses, forcing tears to my eyes. As I choked down a glass of ice water, the underlying message registered loud and clear. A cold wave of self-derision washed over me. I reached into my purse, pulled out my phone, and sent a single text to our wedding coordinator. “Cancel the wedding. All of it. Permanently.” Back in the present, Wilbert waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Hey. Earth to Maeve.” “What do you want for lunch? The burger joint downstairs or the ramen spot on the corner?” He reached for his phone, preparing to open his coin-flip app, but a text banner lit up his screen first. 2 “I’m suddenly craving those late-night slices from the greasy pizza place near campus.” Wilbert swiped the notification away with a speed that bordered on frantic. He snatched his jacket off the chair. “Actually, the office just messaged. Major client emergency. Grab some takeout for yourself, okay?” He rushed out the door, his mind so consumed by his destination that he didn’t even notice the half-packed boxes lining the hallway. I took the sticky note from the fridge, tore it into tiny pieces, and tossed it into the trash can along with the final mock-up of our wedding programs. Once the wedding clutter was gone, our small apartment felt incredibly hollow. The night before, when Connor had carried my bags inside and flicked on the lights, he had let out a sharp scoff. He had bypassed Wilbert’s scattered shoes, settled into our single armchair, and shaken his head. “You’ve officially lost your mind,” he had said. “You could be living in a three-story brownstone in Boston, and instead, you’re squeezing into this shoebox with a guy who treats you like an option.” For once, I hadn’t defended Wilbert. Years ago, Wilbert had looked at me and said, “I want to build a life in New York with you from the ground up, with my own hands.” So, I had declined the condo my parents offered to buy us, ignored Connor’s offer to co-found a creative agency in Boston, and packed my life into a U-Haul to move here with Wilbert. It felt incredibly foolish now. “Are you actually ready to go home?” Connor had asked, his voice softening. I nodded. “I am.” “No cold feet?” I reached out my pinky. “If I try to back out in three days, you have my full permission to drag me out of here.” Connor had hooked his pinky around mine, a faint smile touching his lips. “It’s a deal.” After clearing out the apartment, I went to our office, printed my resignation letter, and walked into my manager’s office. “Come in,” he said without looking up. I laid the warm paper onto his desk. He read it, showing very little surprise. He had pulled me aside months ago to tell me I was wasting my talent at this firm. He slid a glossy business card across the desk—a partner position at one of the top agencies in Manhattan. At the time, I had pushed it back. “I appreciate it, but Wilbert still needs me here.” We had joined the firm together after graduation. Wilbert had talent, but his pride was fragile. The moment a client questioned his designs, he’d slam his laptop shut and walk out. With our rent and expenses mounting, I spent my nights closing deals, only to hand the accounts over to him. “Wilbert will be handling your account from here,” I would tell the clients. “He’s the real genius behind the work.” When he won Top Producer of the Year, he had spun me around our tiny kitchen, laughing. I had convinced myself that my sacrifices were worth it. But today, I looked at my manager and nodded. “I’m sure.” As I walked out of the building, my phone vibrated in my pocket. “Hi, is this Maeve? I’m calling from the bridal boutique regarding your custom gown…” I signaled for a taxi. “I don’t need it anymore. You can cancel the order.” The consultant hesitated. “Oh… actually, Ms. Maeve, perhaps you should come down to the shop. There’s a slight issue.” Confused, I gave the driver the boutique’s address. 3 The moment I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the boutique, I heard a familiar voice from the fitting rooms. Mallory stood in front of the mirrors, wearing my custom silk gown. The delicate side zipper was visibly strained, a tear running along the seam. “The quality of this designer is honestly disappointing,” Mallory was telling the stylist, her face pinched. “I barely pulled it up and it ripped.” The consultant looked panicked. “But ma’am, this was custom-measured specifically to Ms. Maeve’s frame. It’s bound to be tight on anyone else.” When they saw me walk in, the room went dead silent. Wilbert stepped forward immediately, positioning himself like a shield in front of Mallory. I didn’t look at either of them. I walked straight to the counter, handed my credit card to the manager, and paid off the remaining balance. Then, I picked up a heavy pair of fabric shears from the counter, walked over to the pedestal, and sliced a massive, jagged tear right through the silk train. Mallory gasped, her eyes immediately filling with tears, looking smaller and more fragile than ever. Wilbert grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and angry. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I met his gaze, my voice deadly calm. “It’s my dress. I paid for it. I can tear it to shreds if I want to.” “The real question is, why is she wearing my wedding dress?” He snatched the shears from my hand, kneeling down to inspect the ruined hem. “Mallory’s ex-husband never gave her a real wedding. She’s never even had the chance to wear a gown. I just wanted her to feel what it was like.” He stood up, his patience entirely gone. “And you just ruined it.” “You’re a woman, Maeve. I thought you, of all people, would understand what a wedding dress means.” Looking at the cold, accusatory stare in his eyes, I realized I had never truly known this man. The hypocrisy was staggering. “If you understand that so well,” I whispered, “did you ever stop to think what this dress meant to “me”?” But Wilbert wasn’t listening. He turned his back to comfort Mallory, gently helping her step out of the tight silk. “Stop acting like a child,” he said, throwing the crumpled, torn dress over my arm, knocking my hair out of place. “Since you decided to destroy it, you can deal with the mess.” He took Mallory’s hand and walked out. The stylist stood there, holding her breath, looking at the floor. I picked up my purse and patted her shoulder gently. “Throw it in the trash,” I said. Neither the dress nor Wilbert belonged in my life anymore. 4 I went back to the apartment and collapsed onto the bed. My stomach had been cramping all morning, and suddenly, a violent wave of nausea hit my throat. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up until my ribs ached. When I finally flushed and stood up, leaning against the sink, I realized Wilbert was standing in the doorway. He was pale, his eyes wide and trembling. “Are you… pregnant?” he asked, his voice shaking. I leaned my head against the door frame, a bitter, dark amusement washing over me. The vomiting had left my eyes watery, but I didn’t correct him. “Yes,” I lied, looking him dead in the eye. “I just found out. Do you want to keep it?” Wilbert’s face went entirely blank. He began patting his pockets, his fingers trembling as he searched for something. “We… we should flip a coin. Let fate decide.” He couldn’t find one. I walked over, reached into my pocket, and pressed a heavy, circular metal token into his palm. “Heads we keep it. Tails I get an abortion. Flip it, Wilbert. Let’s see what the universe wants.” I watched him. He tossed the token into the air, caught it on the back of his hand, and slapped his other palm over it. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked in the silence. Finally, Wilbert slowly lifted his hand to look. “Tails,” he said, his voice flat as he pocketed the metal piece. “Maeve, we’ll have other chances. It’s just… the timing right now is completely wrong.” I looked at him, wanting to ask when the timing would ever be right for me. I wanted to tell him that there was no baby, and that the token I gave him was a double-tailed novelty coin I’d kept from an arcade years ago. But I said nothing. The silence was my final answer. As I packed the last of my sweaters into my suitcase, my phone began vibrating continuously on the mattress. I picked it up. Our old college group chat was flooded with notifications. “Did you guys see Mallory’s new video? I can’t believe Maeve did that.” “I knew something was off at the reunion. The ex-wife meets the insecure fiancée. No wonder Wilbert left her standing in the rain.” “The first love always wins. It’s a universal law.” Someone had forwarded Mallory’s latest video. The thumbnail was a selfie of her and Wilbert, smiling against a dark skyline. The title read: “A Date with My First Love.” The montage showed them eating pizza at our old college spot, riding the Ferris wheel at the pier, her trying on the wedding dress, and finally, standing on a rooftop at midnight. It was the exact rooftop where Wilbert had proposed to me. In the video, Mallory looked up at him, her voice filled with sweet longing. “It’s a shame I missed the fireworks you planned for me all those years ago. Did you ever make that custom display with my name in the sky?” Wilbert’s face was half-hidden in the shadows, but his voice was clear. “I did.” My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The final piece of my naivety shattered. I remembered the night he proposed, how his eyes had looked right past me, staring into the empty sky behind my head. The display hadn’t been for me. The letters spelled out “Mallory”. Our entire relationship had been a mistake from day one. In the video, a massive display of pyrotechnics suddenly erupted, lighting up the sky. Mallory began to cry, and the comment section was filled with thousands of heart emojis and messages of support. Someone asked: “Why did you guys ever break up in the first place?” Mallory had pinned her reply: “Because of someone else. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have spent years feeling homeless in a foreign country.” The internet moved fast. Within minutes, my social media accounts were flooded with vicious comments and death threats. I stood up, walked to my desk, and pulled out the folder containing every wedding receipt, our proposal video, and the security footage from the bridal boutique. I had kept everything. I drafted a long, detailed post, attaching the receipts and the footage. Right before I could hit ‘Post,’ the phone was snatched out of my hand. Wilbert stood there, his face dark with fury as he read the screen. “You do this, and you’ll destroy Mallory’s life.” Without hesitation, he deleted the draft, threw my phone onto the hardwood floor, and stomped on it until the screen shattered into webbed glass. Then, he grabbed the paper folder, ripped the receipts into shreds, and threw them into the trash can. Something inside me snapped. “She is destroying “my” life!” I screamed, lunging forward, my finger digging into his chest. “Your scale has never tipped in my favor, Wilbert! Not once! Your choices only ever had one damn answer, and it was never me!” “I hate you. I hate every single second I spent with you.” I grabbed my suitcase and turned for the door, but he grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, his eyes bloodshot. “Not until this entire media storm blows over!” “Let me go!” “I don’t think so,” a dry voice echoed from the doorway. Connor stood there, a thick coil of nylon rope slung over his shoulder, a cold smirk on his face. “Three days are up, Maeve. I’m here to take you home.”

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