Category: English

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

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

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

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

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “442341”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Richard’s phantom of a son, who had supposedly been wasting away in a European sanatorium for years, returned to the States abruptly. Today was the day he was set to take over the Whitmore family empire. I arrived at the corporate headquarters just in time to witness him kick three embezzling board members off the edge of the penthouse roof terrace, sending them plummeting into the glass-bottomed pool a story below. Richard, my elderly husband, stood by, clutching his chest and gasping for air in pure outrage. Terrified, I immediately ducked my head, trying to shrink into my designer coat, terrified to make a sound. But the new heir simply turned his head, a slow, predatory smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “Hello, step-mom. It’s been a while.” I froze, the blood draining from my face. The face looking back at me belonged to the suffocating, hopelessly clingy VIP companion I had blocked on my phone just days ago. When I married that decaying old billionaire, the suffocating loneliness of a sexless marriage had finally broken me. Desperate for a distraction, I went to an exclusive, discreet underground club and put a young, devastatingly handsome escort with a sculpted eight-pack on my clandestine payroll. He had been exceptionally dedicated when it came to pleasing me in bed. But outside of it, he was unbearable. He clung to me like a shadow, constantly demanding my attention, whining when I wasn’t around. I grew entirely sick of his neediness. To avoid him, I started filling my days with charity luncheons and endless rounds of day-drinking at the country club with the other society wives. He couldn’t handle the radio silence. One day, he actually lost his temper, shouting through the phone, “Am I not enough for you?! Why do you have to constantly go out looking for other thrills?!” The sheer headache of his possessiveness was the final straw. I cut ties and vanished. Who could have possibly predicted that my incredibly needy, insanely jealous boy toy was actually my legendary, “chronically ill” stepson? … 1 Richard whipped his head around to glare at me, his eyes practically bugging out of his skull with suspicion. “You two know each other?” I shook my head with the frantic energy of a cornered animal. “No! Absolutely not! I spend every day at the estate taking care of you, Richard. How on earth would I have ever crossed paths with your son?” Tim let out a dark, velvety chuckle. Before I could blink, he stepped forward and yanked me right out from behind Richard’s frail frame. “Is that so? Then how is it that the haute couture dress my step-mom is wearing right now was paid for with my black card last week?” Richard’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he collapsed directly onto the terrace floor. Total chaos erupted. Paramedics and private doctors swarmed the rooftop, loading the old man onto a stretcher to rush him to the private elevator. In the pandemonium, I tried to wrench my wrist out of Tim’s iron grip. Instead of letting go, he spun me around and pinned me back against the glass balustrade. Dozens of stories of empty air stretched out directly beneath my heels. My knees turned to water. “Running away?” He pinched my chin, his fingers rough, forcing my gaze up to meet his. “Off to the country club, are we? Why aren’t you going?” I swallowed hard, forcing the tremor out of my voice. “Tim. Please compose yourself. I am your mother in the eyes of the law.” “Mother?” Tim sneered, his thumb dragging slowly across my lower lip. “Funny. You didn’t seem to remember that when you were begging for it in my bed.” Heat violently rushed to my cheeks. The man was a lunatic. We were in public, and he was casually dropping landmines. “That was a misunderstanding,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “I paid for a companion named Tim at the club. How was I supposed to know the heir to the Whitmore throne had a fetish for playing the gigolo?” Tim’s eyes darkened to the color of storm clouds. He dipped his head and bit down hard on my lip. The sharp tang of copper instantly flooded my mouth. I gasped in pain, raising my hand to slap him across the face. Fast and brutal, he caught my wrists and pinned them squarely behind my back. “A misunderstanding? You slept with me for three months, used me up, and thought you could just disappear? Did you really think I’d let you off that easily, Margot?” Heavy, chaotic footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor. Connor, Richard’s favorite illegitimate son, came storming onto the terrace with a pack of bodyguards in tow. Connor practically ran the Whitmore estate like a tyrant. He had never once hidden his utter disdain for me. “Margot! You bitch! My father barely gets back from Europe and you give him a heart attack? What, are you praying he drops dead today so you can swallow the inheritance?!” I shot him a look of absolute ice. Tim released me, slowly drawing a silk handkerchief from his pocket to dab the smear of my blood from his lip. Only then did Connor seem to register Tim’s presence. The color drained from the younger man’s face for a fraction of a second, but he quickly puffed out his chest, trying to project a dominance he didn’t possess. “Tim. You’ve been out of the country too long. You don’t know what this woman really is. She’s a gold-digger. She spends my father’s money keeping a stable of boy toys on the side!” Blind to the danger, Connor took a step closer. “Today, I’m going to do my father a favor and teach this shameless—” He never finished the sentence. Tim’s long leg lashed out, his bespoke shoe burying itself deep into Connor’s abdomen. Connor let out a strangled, breathless shriek, flying backward like a broken doll and crashing violently against the marble wall. “Since when,” Tim said, his voice dropping to a lethally quiet register, “does a bastard son get to discipline anyone in my house?” 2 Connor curled into a fetal position, groaning in agony on the floor. The bodyguards he had brought exchanged terrified glances. Not a single one dared to move a muscle. I rubbed my reddened wrists, a fierce, secret satisfaction blooming in my chest. That spoiled brat had made my life a living hell. Seeing him finally kick a hornet’s nest was intoxicating. Tim turned his head, his heavy gaze landing back on me. “Let’s go, step-mom.” He leaned heavily into the title. A violent shiver crawled down my spine. “Go where?” “To Mount Sinai. To pay our respects to my dying father, obviously,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Outside the VIP suite at the hospital, the extended Whitmore clan was gathered in a sprawling, miserable circle, looking like a flock of vultures waiting for the end. Dora, Richard’s eldest daughter—who was a full two decades older than me—marched right up to me, the sharp click of her Louboutins echoing like gunshots. “Margot, you absolute parasite! My father was perfectly fine. You show up, and his heart fails? What exactly did you do to him?!” I rolled my eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into my bones. “Careful, Dora. Defamation doesn’t look good on you. Your father had an episode because he watched his precious son kick a board member off a roof. What does that have to do with me?” “Don’t you dare talk back to me!” Dora raised a heavily ringed hand to strike me. I didn’t even flinch. I snatched a long-stemmed Baccarat rose from a nearby vase and whipped it directly across her face. “Ah!” Dora shrieked, clutching her cheek. Angry red scratches swelled across the back of her hand where the thorns had caught her. “You hit me?! Guards! Restrain this bitch right now!” Several of the family’s security detail immediately surged forward. I took a step back, only to collide with a wall of solid muscle. Tim’s arm snaked around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest, shielding me entirely. He didn’t even bother to look up. He just let a single word drop into the dead silence of the hallway. “Leave.” The bodyguards froze, turning into statues. Dora was shaking with rage. “Tim! What are you doing?! She’s an outsider!” Tim let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Dora. Legally speaking, she is my mother. She’s hardly an outsider. You, on the other hand, are barking in a hospital corridor with a pack of rented thugs. You’re embarrassing the family.” Dora’s face cycled through shades of red and white. Jaw clenched so tight I thought her teeth might crack, she signaled her men and stormed off. As the crowd dispersed, only Tim and I were left in the sterile quiet of the hall. I pushed against his chest, trying to break free, but his arm only tightened around me. He lowered his head, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I just saved you. How are you going to thank me?” “What do you want?” I asked, my body rigid with caution. “Tonight. My room.” I let out a bitter, incredulous laugh. “Tim, get a grip on reality. I am your stepmother. You want me in your bed in your father’s house? Aren’t you afraid of the scandal?” “Stepmother?” He scoffed softly. “You certainly didn’t call yourself that when we were tangled in the sheets. You thought I was too clingy, didn’t you? Tonight, I’m going to show you exactly how ruthless I can be.” I didn’t go to his room, obviously. I loved money, yes, but I valued my life far more. Tim was a rabid dog who now held the absolute power of life and death over the Whitmore empire. I wanted to be on a different continent from him, let alone voluntarily walk into his bedroom. At ten o’clock that night, I slipped into dark, unassuming clothes and snuck out through the service entrance of the estate. I met my best friend, Gemma, at a dimly lit speakeasy downtown. “Margot, the rumors are insane. Your phantom stepson is back? Is he as hot as they say?” I took a massive gulp of my martini, wincing as the gin burned down my throat. “Hot doesn’t matter when the man is a certified psychopath.” Gemma leaned in close over the candlelight. “What happened? Did he threaten you? Look, the old man is on his deathbed. You need an exit strategy. If things go south, we pack our bags and vanish.” I let out a hollow sigh. “My black cards are frozen. I’m completely broke.” Before Gemma could reply, the heavy mahogany door of our private booth was kicked entirely off its hinges. Men in black suits flooded the room, flanking the doorway. Tim stepped through the frame. He wore a black silk button-down, the collar unfastened, looking like a dark god of vengeance. The jazz music in the room was abruptly cut. Gemma dropped her glass; it shattered on the floor. He walked straight toward me, his eyes burning with an intense, suffocating heat. “I told you to come to my room. Did you think I was making a suggestion?” 3 I forced myself to hold his gaze, gripping the edge of the table to hide my shaking hands. “I came out to have a drink with my friend. Is that a crime?” He let out a sharp, cold laugh, leaned down, and effortlessly hauled me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “A drink? Or were you out hunting for my replacement?” “Ah! What are you doing?! Put me down!” I fought like hell, hammering my fists against the hard plane of his back. He didn’t even flinch. He just carried me out, his strides long and unbothered. Gemma tried to step in, but one dead-eyed look from a bodyguard rooted her to the spot. “Tim! You absolute bastard! Let me go!” He carried me straight out of the club and shoved me into the cavernous backseat of his waiting Phantom. The heavy car door slammed shut, instantly severing us from the noise of the city street. The privacy partition was up. The cabin was pitch black and stiflingly intimate. He lunged forward, his weight pressing me deep into the leather upholstery, trapping me completely. “Margot. Did you really mistake my patience for weakness?” “I gave you an out. You’re the one who threw it away.” “You’re out of your mind! We are done! You lied to me, pretended to be some club escort—I haven’t even made you pay for that yet!” A low, vibrating laugh rumbled in his chest. His hands gripped the lapels of my blouse, and with one sharp, violent tug, he tore it open. Buttons ricocheted off the tinted windows. “Done? I never said we were done. Who gave you the right to end things?” I scrambled to cover my chest, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “Tim! You’re insane! We’re in a car!” “And?” He dipped his head, his teeth grazing my collarbone, leaving a stinging mark. “You always liked a thrill. Tonight, I’ll make sure you get enough adrenaline to last a lifetime.” He took me apart in the back of that car for hours. The man was relentless, driven by a raw, pent-up violence, punishing me for leaving him. By the time the Rolls Royce pulled back into the Whitmore estate, my legs couldn’t even support my own weight. He threw me onto the center of his massive bed. I curled into a tight ball beneath the silk duvet, my entire body trembling. Tim stood at the foot of the bed, methodically pulling off his tie. “Starting tonight, you live in this room. You do not take a single step outside without my explicit permission.” I bit down on my lip, glaring at him through a mess of tangled hair. “This is kidnapping.” He scoffed. “Call the police, then. Let’s see which judge in this city has the spine to take that case.” For the next few days, my gilded cage became a literal prison. Meals were brought in on silver trays. Two men stood guard outside the mahogany doors twenty-four hours a day. During the day, Tim went to the glass towers to dismantle his father’s company. At night, he returned to dismantle me. He was like an engine that never ran out of fuel, relentlessly trying to break me down, trying to force me to say I regretted leaving him. But I refused. I might have married for money, but my spine wasn’t made of glass. I wasn’t going to let him break me. One afternoon, a violent commotion erupted outside the bedroom doors. “Get out of my way! I demand to see that little whore!” It was Dora. The guards couldn’t legally lay hands on her, and the double doors burst open. When she saw me lounging against Tim’s pillows in his silk pajamas, her eyes looked ready to bleed. “You shameless parasite! My father isn’t even cold in the ground yet, and you’re already warming his son’s bed!” I shifted lazily against the headboard, not even bothering to sit up. “Dora, darling, get your eyes checked. Your brother is the one keeping me locked in here. If you have an issue, take it up with him.” Dora sneered, her face twisting into something ugly. “Don’t try to use him as a shield! You’re just a shiny new toy to him. Let’s see how much he likes you when he sees these!” She hurled a thick stack of glossy photographs onto the bed. I picked one up. The blood rushed from my head. They were high-resolution surveillance photos of me at hotels, kissing and sleeping with other men. And right beneath them was a sheaf of offshore asset transfer agreements. They clearly documented me liquidating three of Richard’s private estates and two commercial high-rises, transferring the funds to an untraceable account. At the bottom of the page was my exact signature, right next to my own thumbprint. Before I could even open my mouth to defend myself, Dora cut me off. “Drag her out! The entire family board is convened downstairs. Today, I am going to rip your reputation to shreds in front of everyone!” 4 I fought the guards with everything I had, but it was useless. The grand foyer was packed with the entire Whitmore board and extended family. Even Richard had been wheeled out, an oxygen mask strapped to his pale face. I was shoved violently to the floor right at the foot of his wheelchair. “Dad! Look at what this venomous snake has been doing behind your back!” Dora enthusiastically passed the doctored photos and the forged financial documents around to the relatives. The old man read them, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped the paper. He raised his silver-tipped cane and swung it down hard toward my shoulder. “Poison! I gave you everything, and you humiliate me with cheap street trash!” The whispers erupted around the room like a swarm of locusts. “No wonder she always dressed like she belonged in a red-light district.” “We need to cut her off completely. Have her thrown out onto the street with nothing.” Listening to the venomous gossip, I braced my hands against the marble, ready to push myself up and tear into them. But before I could, the temperature in the room plummeted. Tim had returned. He stepped directly in front of me, his eyes sweeping over the crowd like a scythe. “Father. Your heart can’t take this kind of stress. You really should calm down.” Dora panicked. “Tim! You’re still protecting her?! She stole from the family to fund her filthy affairs!” Tim completely ignored her. He looked down at me. I was sitting on the cold floor, my hair a mess, the silk pajama top torn at the shoulder, looking like absolute collateral damage. He quietly shrugged off his bespoke suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders, wrapping me up completely. “Since when,” he asked softly, “does anyone here have the right to touch what belongs to me?” Connor, practically vibrating with triumphant malice, hopped forward. “Tim, the proof is right here! And we even caught the bastard she was sleeping with! He’s right outside!” He snapped his fingers. Two guards dragged in a bruised, battered man who looked like he’d been beaten in an alleyway. The moment the man saw me, he burst into theatrical tears. “Margot! Save me! You told me the old man was going to die soon! You promised you were transferring the money so we could run away together!” A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. The production value on this setup was truly impressive. Before I could even utter a word of defense, Richard wheezed from his chair. “Guards. Beat him to a pulp. And throw her out. If she dies in the cold, we’ll call it a suicide out of shame.” The room murmured their dark agreement. I clenched my jaw, tilting my head back to look at Tim. Our eyes locked. He stared down at me, his expression an unreadable, flawless mask. Just as the bodyguards grabbed my arms, Tim let out a low, chilling laugh. “It’s fascinating,” he mused, “I didn’t realize I had been demoted to the status of a ‘cheap street trash’ affair.” He bent down, hooked his hands under my arms, and lifted me effortlessly to my feet, settling me into a plush velvet armchair. Then, he turned to the room, his voice dangerously calm. “Now. Would someone care to explain to me where exactly these photos and documents came from?” He let the silence stretch until it was suffocating. “Because I was under the impression that none of you ever wanted to experience the consequences of crossing me again.” Whatever memory he triggered in Dora and Connor caused the remaining color to drain completely from their faces. Their bodies visibly began to tremble.

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I’ve always walked through life with a chronic, low-grade buzz. A protective haze that keeps the world at arm’s length. Three years ago, on a humid summer night, I stumbled out of a dive bar and quite literally tripped over a stunning, ridiculously drunk man slumped against the brick wall. The next morning, he woke up on my terrible futon, stared at me for a solid minute through bloodshot eyes, and dropped a bombshell: “Let’s get married.” I was too hungover to overthink it. I just nodded. Just like that, I stumbled into three years of being a billionaire’s wife. I swiped black cards without a pulse skip and wandered around a sprawling Hamptons estate like it was a public park. Recently, a plastic stick with two pink lines told me I was pregnant. Before I could even figure out how to break the news, he slid a divorce settlement across our marble kitchen island. “The company filed for bankruptcy. This is the last of my liquid assets. Take it and go.” His voice was hollow, stripped of all color, like he was narrating a documentary about a stranger’s life. As I sat there, stunned, a string of glowing, neon text suddenly scrolled across my field of vision, like a glitch in the matrix: [Holy shit! The male lead’s golden girl is back in town!] [He’s definitely faking the bankruptcy to force the wife out so he can get back with his first love!] [He only got drunk three years ago because she moved to Paris. This wife was just a placeholder!] A placeholder? I blinked, letting the word sink through the fog in my brain. Oh. So that was it. I let out a slow breath. “Sure,” I drawled, pushing the paper back. “Let’s get a divorce.” The tiny, desperate flicker of light that had been hiding in the back of his eyes just… snapped off. Staring at his devastated, shell-shocked expression, I felt a nagging sensation that I was forgetting to tell him something important. Whatever. If I couldn’t remember it, it couldn’t be that urgent. I’d tell him later. 1. Conrad pressed his lips into a hard line, sliding the settlement and a Montblanc pen back across the marble to me. His eyes were rimmed with red. His index finger tapped twice against the edge of the table. It was his tell. The thing he only did when his anxiety was spiking. I looked down at the paperwork. Instead of reaching for the pen, I reached across the island and rested my palm against the back of his hand. “Your skin is freezing.” Conrad flinched, a minute tremor running up his arm, but he didn’t pull away. I didn’t bother reading the legal jargon. I grabbed the pen, ready to sign my life away. Conrad’s hand suddenly clamped over mine. “Wait. Read it. Read every line before you sign.” His voice was tight as he walked me through it, clause by clause. The estate was mine. The offshore accounts were mine. Every single cent of his impending debt was completely separated from my name. He had even set up an ironclad trust fund to ensure I’d never have to look at a price tag for the rest of my life. The neon text ticker-taped across my vision again: [Wait, WTF? This settlement gives the woman literally everything?] [God-tier husband! But guys, I think he’s actually, genuinely broke!] [That doesn’t make sense, in the original plot he ends up richer than God…] Listening to him talk about escrows and liabilities just made my head spin. “I don’t get it. You just need my signature, right?” I went to sign again. Conrad stopped me a second time. His Adam’s apple bobbed. When he spoke, his voice was wrecked, scraping against his throat. “There’s one last clause. Divorce doesn’t mean we have to be dead to each other.” “If you ever need anything… anything at all. You call me.” I tilted my head, looking at him like he was crazy. “You’re drowning in debt, Conrad. What exactly are you going to help me with?” He choked on his words, his gaze dropping to the floor. I thought about the last three years. No matter what time zone he was in, the ‘goodnight’ text always came. If I casually mentioned a craving for a specific artisanal cronut, a fresh box would be sitting on the kitchen counter the next morning. Whenever I came home a little too tipsy, the porch light was always burning, waiting for me. Something in my chest softened, melting away a fraction of the fog. I looked right at him and said, very seriously, “If you ever get so broke you can’t afford to eat, come find me. I’ll keep you.” Conrad’s head snapped up. The red rimming his eyes bled into his sclera. His throat worked furiously as he fought a losing battle with his composure. Finally, he managed a single, hoarse whisper. “…Okay.” The glowing comments flared: [What is her problem? He’s giving her his entire world!] [My heart breaks for Conrad! He really thinks he’s not good enough for her!] [Where is the first love? She needs to come comfort him!] [This wife is permanently checked out…] Conrad told me he’d found day labor on a construction site out in the boroughs. High hazard pay, room and board included. He was leaving immediately. He stood in the foyer, one hand gripping the handle of a battered duffel bag. He looked back at me one last time. His lips parted. He hesitated, swallowed whatever he was about to say, and walked out into the rain. The second the door clicked shut, my vision exploded with text: [Construction?! Is he serious?] [The CEO of Sinclair Corp hauling bricks… I kind of want to laugh?] [Don’t laugh, this is tragic.] [Hold up, is he actually bankrupt? Why else would he take a manual labor job?] I wandered upstairs to the master suite. The ghost of Conrad was everywhere. In the walk-in closet, his tailored oxfords were lined up in precise rows. On his nightstand, the latest issue of Forbes still sat with a dog-eared page. In the master bath, his toothbrush leaned against mine in the ceramic cup. I collapsed onto the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the man who was just gone. I thought about how he’d stayed up until 3 A.M. with superglue and tweezers to fix a vintage music box I’d knocked over. How, whenever I woke up with a pounding hangover, there was always a glass of room-temperature water and two Advil on my nightstand. How he’d shower in the guest bathroom whenever he came home late from a networking dinner, just so the smell of scotch wouldn’t wake me. As the memories swirled, a sudden, violent wave of nausea crashed into me. I bolted for the bathroom, dry-heaving over the toilet bowl. When the spasms finally passed, I slumped against the cool tiles, wiping my mouth. Right. That was what I forgot to tell him. I was pregnant. Suddenly, the neon text in my mind began flashing like a siren: [!!! THE GOLDEN GIRL IS HERE! SHE’S LITERALLY AT THE GATES!] I pulled myself up, walked over to the bay window, and looked down at the driveway. Standing just beyond the wrought-iron gates was a woman in a pristine, ivory silk slip dress, her blowout immaculate despite the humidity. 2. I opened the front door. Diana looked me up and down, a cool, patronizing smile touching her lips—the kind of smile that said I knew it. “So, you’re Conrad’s wife?” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “Sorry. Ex-wife.” I leaned heavily against the doorframe and let out a long yawn. “Who are you?” Diana smoothed a perfectly placed lock of blonde hair and launched into her monologue. She wove a beautifully tragic tapestry of her and Conrad growing up together. Old money, private schools, a shared destiny. She made sure I knew that three years ago, Conrad had only ended up blackout drunk in that dive bar because she had accepted a fellowship in London. And now that she was back, Conrad was, naturally, clearing the board. The floating text buzzed around her head: [She is GORGEOUS!] [Ex-wife must be feeling so insecure right now!] [Are you blind? The wife is way prettier.] [Stop pitting women against each other! Also… am I crazy, or do they look nothing alike?] [I agree. Is she really just a stand-in?] Diana unclasped her designer clutch and pulled out a worn Polaroid. It was the two of them, teenagers. Standing side-by-side. Conrad wasn’t smiling, but the rigid set of his jaw was visibly relaxed. Diana’s voice was spun sugar, but her eyes were glass shards. “He never loved you, sweetie. You were just a placeholder until I was ready to come home.” I stared at the Polaroid for three agonizingly long seconds. “He had a little more baby fat back then. His face was rounder.” Diana faltered. Her flawless mask slipped for a fraction of a second. I pushed off the doorframe. “Thanks for bringing this by. I never knew what he looked like in high school.” I pointed at the photo. “Can I keep that? You know, for the memories?” The comments went feral: [??? IS THAT THE POINT?!] [I will never understand this woman’s brain.] [Okay but why is this kind of iconic?] [The golden girl is glitching LMAO] Diana’s face went rigid. The polite veneer evaporated, leaving pure, icy contempt. “You are a freak. But it doesn’t matter. He chose me.” She took a step closer, lowering her voice. “Do you want to know why he left you this ridiculous house? Because he’s moving into my penthouse.” I tilted my head, genuinely considering this. “Oh. Well, that’s good. At least he won’t have to sleep in the construction barracks. Hauling concrete is exhausting.” My tone was completely earnest. There wasn’t a drop of venom in it. Diana was utterly speechless. She pivoted on her stiletto, throwing one last look over her shoulder. “Women like you deserve to be discarded.” The door clicked shut. I slid down the heavy oak wood until I was sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest. It wasn’t that I wasn’t heartbroken. It was just that my heartbreak always operated on a delay. The pain took its time sinking through the fog. I rested a hand on my perfectly flat stomach. “Hey, kid,” I whispered to the empty foyer. “Looks like your dad is going to go be somebody else’s dad.” I sat there in the quiet for a long time. Eventually, I pulled out my phone. I opened Conrad’s contact, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I just needed to text him. Tell him about the baby. The moment the screen unlocked, the comments swarmed: [NO WAY! Conrad is actually working on the site!] [His hands are covered in bloody blisters… but I skipped to the end of the book and he’s a billionaire! Can someone explain the plot hole?!] [I’m just as confused as you are.] [Wait, Diana just called him to get the address. She’s driving to the site right now!] I stared at the glowing words, totally forgetting what I was about to type. There was a sudden, hollow ache expanding in my chest. I pushed myself off the floor and walked toward the wet bar in the den. I just needed a drink. One drink to quiet the noise. The text flashed aggressively: [??? If she doesn’t want the baby she can just go to a clinic, why is she purposely drinking?! Toxic!] [Good point. She’s pregnant but Conrad doesn’t know. In the original timeline he doesn’t have kids. She’s definitely going to lose it.] My hand froze on the decanter of bourbon. Slowly, carefully, I set it back down. I closed the cabinet and locked it. I sank into the leather sofa, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I was going to do with this life growing inside me. My phone buzzed against the cushion. A text from Conrad. Make sure you eat dinner. Don’t drink alcohol on an empty stomach. Turn a lamp on if you’re reading on your phone. Get some sleep. I read the text over and over. Suddenly, the thought of letting this baby go felt entirely impossible. 3. A week later, a bank notification chimed on my phone. A transfer from Conrad. The memo line read: Half my paycheck. Use this for now. It wasn’t a lot of money. It was an odd, exact number down to the cent. I stared at the screen, the silence of the massive house pressing in on me. The comments flooded in: [He literally kept just enough money to buy gas station sandwiches for himself!] [His hands are torn to shreds and he’s sending his ex his day-wages. I can’t.] I peeled myself off the sofa. I patted my stomach, speaking in that slow, delayed drawl. “Kid, I think your dad is going to starve to death.” I marched into the gourmet kitchen. In three years of marriage, I had barely crossed the threshold. Conrad had always been the one standing over the stove, whipping up ridiculous, Michelin-style dinners just because I said I was hungry. My culinary repertoire consisted of burning instant ramen. I pulled up a YouTube tutorial. I nearly sliced my thumb off. I forgot the salt. Two agonizing hours later, I had managed to produce a thermos of passably clear chicken broth. I stopped by a CVS for iodine, gauze, and bandaids, then hailed an Uber, giving the driver the address of the industrial development site the “comments” had gossiped about. The construction site was a symphony of jackhammers and choking dust. I stood at the chain-link gate in a soft cashmere loungewear set and fuzzy slides, clutching a stainless-steel thermos, looking like I had been dropped onto the wrong planet. The comments laughed at me: [Why does she look so pathetic but so cute standing there?] As I was trying to figure out where to go, a sleek white Tesla pulled up to the curb. Diana stepped out. She was holding a tiered, artisanal bento box from a ridiculously expensive raw-vegan place downtown. She spotted me. Her smile faltered for a microsecond before hardening into something beautifully condescending. “Miranda?” She glided over, her heels clicking on the cracked pavement. “What are you doing in a place like this?” She glanced at my dented thermos and let out a breathy, musical laugh. “Bringing Conrad lunch? His stomach is far too sensitive for greasy diner food right now.” I looked down at my thermos, analyzing it very seriously. “It’s chicken soup. It’s not greasy. I skimmed the fat off the top.” Diana stepped closer, invading my space, dropping her voice to a harsh, conspiratorial whisper. “Miranda, let me explain how the real world works. Conrad has hit rock bottom. He needs a partner who can help him rebuild his empire. Not a helpless little parasite who thinks making soup solves anything.” I processed her words. It took three seconds. “But he’s hauling concrete. Hauling concrete requires calories and protein, not an empire.” I paused, thinking it over, and added, “Also, I’m not a parasite. I can make my own money. I just… haven’t figured out how yet.” The comments were losing their minds: [The golden girl is STUNNED.] [Miranda’s logic is so deeply flawed yet completely bulletproof. I love her.] Before Diana could recover, Conrad emerged from the skeletal framework of the building. He was wearing a canvas jacket coated in cement dust. Duct tape wrapped his knuckles. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead. When he saw us standing there, he froze. Diana immediately lit up, stepping toward him. “Conrad! I brought you lunch from—” Conrad walked right past her, making a beeline for me. His brow furrowed deeply. “Why are you here? The particulate matter in the air is terrible for your lungs.” I lifted the thermos and the plastic pharmacy bag. “I brought soup. And first aid.” A raw, unguarded emotion cracked across Conrad’s face. When he reached out to take the bags, I saw the tremors in his fingers. Diana’s face was ashen. “Conrad, I drove all the way out here to—” Conrad turned to her. His voice was polite, freezing, and entirely professional. “Diana, I appreciate the thought. But I don’t need it. Please don’t come here again.” Without waiting for her response, he turned back to me, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m putting you in a cab.” He completely ignored Diana, leaving her standing alone in the dust. The ride back in the taxi was suffocatingly quiet. I stared at the ragged, bloody blisters on his knuckles resting on his knees. “Your cuts are going to get infected if you keep getting drywall dust in them,” I said softly. Conrad pulled his hands back, hiding them in his pockets. “It’s fine.” I looked out the window, watching the city blur by. “Diana said you were moving into her penthouse.” Conrad’s head snapped toward me. “That is a lie.” His voice was sharp, rough, laced with a sudden, desperate panic. He caught himself, taking a ragged breath before lowering his tone. “There is nothing between us. I’m sleeping on a cot in the foreman’s trailer.” I just said, “Oh,” and let the silence settle again. The comments drifted by: [Wait, is it still a mystery why he gets rich later?] [I’ve never seen a billionaire male lead suffer like this. The angst!] The cab pulled up to the estate. Before I opened the door, Conrad spoke into the quiet of the backseat. “Spend the money. If you run out, tell me. Don’t go without.” His eyes were bloodshot, bruised with exhaustion, but intensely focused on mine. I nodded, remembering that my first OBGYN appointment was tomorrow. I stepped out, took two steps up the driveway, and turned back around. “Are you hauling concrete again tomorrow?” Conrad paused. “Yes.” “Okay. Have a good shift.” I turned and walked through the heavy front doors. That night, my phone chimed on the nightstand. An unknown number. Leave him alone. You are dragging him down. I stared at the screen through half-open eyes. My thumbs moved sluggishly over the glass. Is this Diana? You have the wrong number. I’m the ex-wife. I blocked the contact, rolled over, and let the darkness take me. 4. The next morning, I navigated the subway to the clinic alone. Check-in. Wait in the plastic chairs. Wait for my name. The morning sickness had evolved into an all-day affair. By the time the phlebotomist took my blood, all the color had drained from my face. After the ultrasound, the doctor handed me a prescription for iron supplements, citing severe anemia. I walked out of the clinic clutching a manila folder, the fluorescent lights making my head spin. I just wanted to sit down. As I rounded the corner toward the elevators, I saw a crowd gathered near the Emergency intake doors. And through the sea of scrubs and security guards, I saw Conrad. He was sitting rigidly on a plastic triage chair, his left arm wrapped in bloody gauze. Diana was hovering over him. She was leaning in close, holding a sterile cotton swab, trying to dab at a nasty laceration above his eyebrow. Conrad jerked his head away, rejecting the touch. But Diana was persistent, reaching out to grip his shoulder to steady him. The intimacy of the gesture was suffocating. I stopped dead in the hallway. I just watched. The comments exploded in my head: [HOLY SHIT! THE DRAMA!] [He got crushed by falling rebar trying to save another worker!] [How does the golden girl always know exactly where he is?] [WAIT! I FIGURED IT OUT! I KNOW WHY HE GETS RICH LATER!] Before I could read the spoiler, a voice ripped through the hallway. “Miranda!” I snapped out of my daze. Conrad had shoved past Diana and was striding toward me. Diana tried to grab his good arm; he tore away from her so violently he nearly knocked her over. He closed the distance between us in seconds. He looked down. His eyes locked onto the manila folder in my hands. Stenciled across the top, in bold black ink, was DEPARTMENT OF OBSTETRICS & GYNECOLOGY. Then, he looked up at my face. He took in the ghostly pallor of my skin, the dark circles under my eyes, the way I was leaning heavily against the wall just to stay upright. Conrad turned to stone. He stared at the folder. He stared at my face. The blood drained from his features until he looked like a corpse. The whites of his eyes flushed violently crimson. His throat worked, a brutal, visible swallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was so wrecked, so shattered, I barely heard him over the hum of the hospital ventilation. “You… you were pregnant?” I blinked. The fog in my brain was thick, heavy from the blood draw. I tried to remember if I had actually said the words out loud to him yet. I had wanted to ask him to come with me today, but he had to work. When I didn’t answer immediately, his lips began to tremble. He raised his good hand. His fingers were shaking violently, hovering inches from my arm, too terrified to actually make contact. His voice broke into a desperate, agonizing rasp. “…Did you terminate our baby?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “442342”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My temperature was hovering at 103.6 degrees. I lay pinned beneath the heavy duvet, stripped of the strength to even lift my head from the sweat-dampened pillows. My newlywed husband, Theodore, stood in the doorway of our bedroom. His face was a mask of cold detachment as he informed me he was about to board a thirteen-hour flight to London to bring Melody back. He told me he had waited five years for that woman, and now, finally, the opportunity had arrived—she was getting a divorce and bringing her kids back to the States. He told me to be reasonable. To act my age. Just take some Tylenol, sleep off the fever, and don’t cause trouble. Trembling, I pushed myself up on one elbow, my eyelashes fluttering uncontrollably against the burning heat in my eyes. I looked at him and said that yes, it must be terribly hard for Melody to raise three children all by herself. I told him he should go. His knuckles whitened around the handle of his carry-on. The tight knot between his brows seemed to loosen just a fraction, a fleeting flicker of something resembling guilt crossing his features. But it vanished instantly, replaced by a stern warning. As long as I behaved from now on—as long as I stopped trying to snoop through his phone and stopped calling Melody—he would graciously fulfill his marital obligations with me once every three months. Snoop through his phone? That happened exactly once, three years ago, right before our engagement. I had accidentally seen a text he sent her: I will wait five years for you. The sheer betrayal of it had made me physically ill, to the point of throwing up. For the past two years, I hadn’t so much as glanced at his screen. And as for my supposed “constant calls” to the ghost of his past? I had stopped reaching out to Melody eighteen months ago. 1 The second the bedroom door clicked shut, the blankets beneath me were abruptly thrown back. Wyatt’s damp, fever-warm lips pressed directly against the pulse point of my neck. “Cece,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr against my skin. “Am I not keeping you satisfied enough? Why do you even care about the scraps that guy throws you?” Panting softly, I pushed against his chest. “You’re burning up with a fever too. We need to stop for today.” Wyatt wasn’t having it. He caught my hand, pressing it back down, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. “Don’t you want to see what 103 degrees feels like, Cece? I read online that sweating it out with a little cardio is the best cure for a cold.” I pulled my hand back. His eyes dropped. He looked exactly like a kicked puppy as he slowly released me and slipped out of the bed. Right at that moment, my phone chimed on the nightstand. It was a text from Theodore. Cecilia, Melody’s foreign husband was physically abusive. I’m terrified that animal is going to hurt her and the three kids again. I have to go get her this time, but I swear on my life, this is the last time. Wait for me. Staring at the glowing screen, a hollow laugh caught in my throat. The last time? How many “last times” had there been? I had lost count. I only vaguely remembered the very first time. It was raining sideways. I was shivering violently from a fever, begging him to run to the pharmacy. He was in such a panic to help me that he rushed out into the downpour without an umbrella. But halfway there, he got a call from Melody. She said her morning sickness had finally passed, and she was desperately craving a specific tiramisu. At one in the morning, my fiancé drove across every borough of the city, hunting down a pastry for the woman who sat upon a pedestal in his mind, pregnant with another man’s child. He completely forgot about the woman he was supposed to marry, who was passing out from a fever in his home, waiting for her medicine. Thank God the housekeeper found me and called an ambulance. The doctor said if I had arrived a minute later, the fever would have caused permanent brain damage. Afterward, Theodore came to the hospital to apologize. He pleaded with me to understand—Melody was pregnant, her husband was awful to her, her life was a tragedy. He needed me to be empathetic. From that day on, whether it was a designer bag I had my eye on, a dinner reservation, or a vacation spot, Theodore always asked me to be empathetic. To give it up for Melody, because her life was so hard. Back then, I reasoned that ours was an arranged marriage to merge our families’ assets anyway. If my husband’s heart belonged to someone else, I would just focus on having a child of my own to anchor me. On our wedding night, I swallowed my pride. I even took a little something to lower my inhibitions and set the mood. I managed to draw Theodore in; his eyes darkened with desire as he pinned me to the mattress. But the universe has a cruel sense of humor. His phone, discarded on the rug, began to ring. It was the custom ringtone he had set exclusively for her. I clung to his arm, my voice thick with desperation. “Please. I took something… don’t leave.” He let out a soft chuckle, his breath hot against my ear. “I wouldn’t leave you. Tonight is our wedding night. I’m just going to check the message.” He wasn’t lying about the first part. He only looked at the screen for a second. But then he pulled away from me without a shred of hesitation. “Melody’s triplets are crying and refuse to sleep. If I don’t get on a flight to London to sing them to sleep, her husband is going to get angry and hit her again! Cecilia, please, just pity her this one last time. Let me go.” That night, my heart felt like it was caught in a vice, slowly crushed into dust. But now… I stared at the words last time on my screen, the corner of my mouth curling up. I locked the phone and tossed it onto the mattress. I was about to get up to wash my face when the phone buzzed again. A video file from Melody. In the video, three identical little boys were swarming Theodore, calling him “Daddy.” He scooped all three of them into his arms, his laughter echoing brightly. On the sofa behind them sat his parents, his sister, and even his family’s golden retriever, tail wagging against the floorboards. A picture-perfect family. Warm, complete. A family that simply didn’t include me. My smile deepened, though beneath it, I felt absolutely nothing. The numbness was total. Suddenly, the doorbell downstairs rang out, shattering the quiet. Frowning, I pulled a heavy cardigan over my shoulders and made my way down the stairs to the foyer. I pulled the door open. “Wyatt, you coming over once while you’re sick is enough…” A tall shadow fell over me, blocking out the porch light. “Who is Wyatt?” 2 I looked up, stunned, straight into Theodore’s deeply suspicious face. “You didn’t go to London?” He shifted his weight, suddenly looking defensive. “Melody bought an earlier ticket and got on a flight. She told me to wait for her here.” He stepped into the house, his eyes boring into mine. “Who is Wyatt? I thought you were too sick to get out of bed?” I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Wyatt was the neighbor boy, six years my junior. On my wedding night, after Theodore had abandoned me for Melody, the aphrodisiac I had taken began to course through my veins. Dizzy and burning, I stumbled down the stairs, rolled my ankle, and fell right into Wyatt’s arms as he was coming up the walk. He had caught me effortlessly. The sheer, overwhelming scent of him—young, vital, undeniably masculine—had wrapped around me like an invisible net. The boy had gotten a taste of something he liked, and ever since, he had constantly found excuses to intertwine himself in my life, teasing me with his dangerous little games. Today, he had shown up at my door burning with a fever. I couldn’t bear to turn him away, so I… I never expected Theodore to suddenly abort his trip and come home. I opened my mouth, ready to just confess and blow the whole thing up, when a weak voice drifted from behind me. “It’s me.” Wyatt was curled up on the living room sofa, looking for all the world like an abandoned stray. Panic spiked in my chest. I turned to rush over to him, but Theodore grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “What is your relationship with him? Why is he inside our house?” I ripped my arm out of his grasp. “Can’t you see he’s sick?” Ignoring Theodore, I hurried over to the sofa and pressed the back of my hand to Wyatt’s forehead. He was radiating heat. Anxiety overriding everything else, I turned back to Theodore. “There’s a thermometer in the cabinet to your right. Grab it for me.” Theodore exploded. He pointed a shaking finger at Wyatt. “Who the hell is he?! Why should I get anything for him? Cecilia, tell me right now—is he your damn affair partner?” The words caught in my throat. If we were keeping score, Theodore was the one having the affair. Three years ago, at our engagement party, he ditched me to run to Melody. I was so crushed by his “wait five years” text that I delayed signing our actual marriage certificate, pushing it until after the wedding ceremony. And then came the wedding night abandonment. After Wyatt and I spent that chaotic, feverish night together, the younger man had tangled his fingers in the ends of my hair, looking at me with wide, wounded eyes. “Cece, you aren’t one of those heartless women who play with my body and then refuse to take responsibility, are you?” Cornered by guilt and a strange, reckless spite, I went with him the next morning and signed the papers. When I walked out of City Hall holding that marriage certificate, I tried calling Theodore. He didn’t answer. I sent a text, only to see it bounce back. That was how I found out he had blocked my number. And so, the mess had dragged on until today. Seeing my silence, Theodore took it as a confession. His anger erupted into an inferno. “Cecilia! You cheat on me, and then you bring your boy-toy into my house?! What kind of sick joke is this?!” Instinctively, I moved to cover Wyatt’s ears to shield him from the shouting. That only enraged Theodore more. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tiny golden retriever puppy trotting out from behind the sofa. He looked like he was about to faint. “Cecilia, I am allergic to dog hair!” I dropped my hands, shooting him a look of pure exhaustion. “I know. Can you just act like a rational adult? You’re going to scare Wyatt and the puppy.” Brushing past him, I retrieved the thermometer myself, gently placing it under Wyatt’s arm. Theodore’s chest heaved. He followed me, mouth open to scream again, but was cut off by the sharp trill of the doorbell. Melody walked in, wheeling a massive suitcase, three little boys trailing timidly behind her. “Theo, I don’t want to ruin the harmony of your marriage. If Cecilia is uncomfortable with me and the kids moving in, I can take them to a hotel.” On the sofa, Wyatt opened his fever-bright eyes and weakly tugged at my sleeve. “Cece… I know I’m sick and have nowhere else to go, but if Theo minds, I can take the puppy and leave, too.” 3 The moment the three boys saw Theodore, they swarmed him, chanting, “Daddy!” He shot me a guilty look, coaxing the kids toward Melody before reaching out to pat my arm in what was supposed to be a soothing manner. “Melody and the kids just got off a thirteen-hour flight. Staying in a hotel is too difficult for them right now, so I told them they could stay here. Just be empathetic, okay?” The old me would have turned on my heel, locked myself in my bedroom, and cried myself to sleep, agonizing over why he constantly demanded that I bend over backward for everyone else’s comfort. But now… Without a word, I checked the thermometer Wyatt handed back to me. “Wyatt is at 104 degrees, and he has nowhere to stay. Pity him just this once. He’s staying here.” Theodore’s face went livid. “Cecilia! Get a grip on reality! Who did you marry three months ago?! How can you let another man stay in our house?!” Before I could find the words to respond, Melody stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Theodore’s arm. “Theo, the kids have been flying for over half a day. They’re exhausted.” Right on cue, the three boys clung to his legs, whining in unison. “Daddy, I want a bath!” “I want to wash my hair!” “I have to pee!” Theodore’s anger evaporated. He smiled down at them, scooped the smallest one up, and headed straight up the stairs without so much as a backward glance. I didn’t waste any more energy on him. I gave Wyatt some ibuprofen and brought down a heavy quilt, tucking it securely around him. After sitting with him for half an hour, his fever finally broke. Looking much more lucid, he watched the puppy lick the toe of my slipper and offered an apologetic smile. “I think he’s hungry.” Understanding immediately, I went into the kitchen to prepare some food. Just as I turned off the stove and was heading back to the living room, I nearly collided with Theodore in the hallway. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking intensely uncomfortable. “The kids finished their baths. They smelled whatever you were cooking and said they’re starving.” I gave him a brief nod and tried to step around him. His face instantly darkened. He threw his arm out, blocking my path. “Cecilia, I know you’re furious that I didn’t discuss moving Melody and the kids in with you first. But the children are innocent. You shouldn’t take it out on them, right?” I let out a long breath, turned around, took the lid off the small pot, and held it up to his face. “This is dog food. If they want some, they’re welcome to it.” Theodore’s jaw snapped shut. He turned sideways to let me pass, but just as I stepped into the living room, Wyatt walked toward us holding a stunning azure-blue ceramic bowl. Theodore’s eyes bulged. “Cecilia! That is my prized Qing Dynasty porcelain! It’s worth millions! And you’re using it to feed a dog?!” “Oh, Snowball always eats out of this bowl,” Wyatt chimed in innocently, then clapped a hand over his mouth, looking at me in shock. “Cece, I just thought it was a pretty dish. I had no idea…” I reached out to pat Wyatt’s arm soothingly, shooting Theodore an icy glare. “It’s a set of six. You still have five left, don’t you?” “No! That porcelain is my life!” I took a deep, steadying breath and pointed a finger toward the top of the stairs, where Melody was standing, wearing my custom-made pink bunny slippers. “And she is wearing my favorite shoes!” Theodore opened his mouth to formulate an excuse, but Melody’s sweet, helpless voice drifted down the stairs. “Theo? The kids are crying. They want you to read them a bedtime story.” He deflated, casting me a look heavy with manufactured guilt. “Wash the bowl and put it away. I promise you, this is the last time. Let me just get the kids to sleep, and then we will sit down and have a real talk, okay?” With that, he jogged up the stairs. I acted like I hadn’t heard a word, pulling Wyatt into the kitchen to feed the dog. By the time I finished cleaning up, it was late into the night. I took a moment to mentally brace myself for the confrontation, then pushed open the door to the master bedroom. Theodore was slumped at the foot of the bed, throwing back a glass of straight scotch. I marched over and snatched the bottle from the nightstand. “It smells disgusting in here. Who gave you permission to drink in the bedroom?” He let out a boozy hiccup, his eyes swimming as he looked up at me. “Cecilia… I know you. You’re not the kind of woman who would actually cheat… I’m the one who kept failing you. I’m the one who broke your heart.” As he spoke, his voice grew thick with tears. I frowned, taking a step back in sheer disgust. He immediately dropped to his knees and slapped himself hard across the cheek. “It’s all my fault. It’s on me. Tomorrow, I will make Melody pack up and take the kids to a hotel. No matter what happens from now on, I will only look at you.” He looked up, an expression of profound martyrdom on his face. Then, as if seized by inspiration, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around my legs. “Cecilia, since our engagement, I know I’ve barely… performed as a husband. Let me make it up to you tonight. Let’s finally have our wedding night. Please?” He sounded so terribly earnest. The words I had been holding in my throat—I’m legally married to someone else—suddenly felt too cruel to say in that exact moment. But then, a voice called out from the hallway. “Wife? Are you done talking to the old man yet?”

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At the family dinner, my stepbrother, Parker, couldn’t stop vibrating with excitement. He leaned in, whispering loudly enough for the whole table to hear that he’d managed to land the “it” girl of the streaming world for his upcoming campaign. Then she walked in, and my heart didn’t just drop—it froze. It was Jade. The very same Jade I’d spent the last three years building into a superstar. I’d poured nearly seven million dollars into her career, buying her the top-tier sponsorships, the front-page placements, and the viral momentum she now breathed like oxygen. In private, she was a glacier. She refused to add me on any personal social media, only ever sending cold, transactional DMs like: “New drop is live. Go buy.” Even when we happened to be in the same room at industry events, she looked right through me, pretending I was just another face in the crowd. But here, in my father’s dining room, she was all sunshine. She laughed at every joke, her eyes sparkling as she charmed the room. She was peeling shrimp for Parker, regaling the table with witty behind-the-scenes stories about her product launches. She’d even brought my father an expensive artisanal tea blend and—to my utter shock—was actively exchanging numbers with the household staff. I raised my glass, trying to catch her eye, to find some bridge back to the person I thought I knew. Her smile vanished the second our gaze met. She leaned slightly toward me, her voice a sharp, venomous whisper intended only for my ears: “Face it, Beckett. You’re getting old. No amount of money can buy you a seat at the table with people who actually matter.” Parker, oblivious and smug, began flashing his phone around, showing off their private chat logs. He bragged about how Jade had worn a specific outfit on stream just because he asked, and how she’d spent three hours in the kitchen making a home-cooked meal to hand-deliver to him across the city. Then he chuckled, looking directly at me. “Hey, man, get this. Jade told me her ‘Number One Patron’ is this total creep—some lonely old loser who tries to harass her under the guise of placing orders. He thinks dropping a few bucks makes him the boss. Can you imagine being that pathetic?” I offered a thin, effortless smile. In that moment, the last thread of whatever I felt for her snapped. “I can’t even imagine,” I said quietly. With a few taps beneath the table, I pulled up the internal dashboard of my agency. I took the creator who had been stuck in the number two spot for three years—the girl Jade had stepped over to get to the top—and pushed her to the primary featured slot on every major platform we controlled. One message to our group chat of three hundred brand partners was all it took. “We’re pivoting. Move the budget.” If she thought I was an embarrassment, then she didn’t need me haunting her career anymore. … Parker kept talking, but I didn’t hear a word. I was too busy watching the digital dominoes fall. Cancel the ten-million-dollar order for Jade. Reallocate to Lydia. The group chat stayed silent for exactly three seconds before the questions flooded in. Who are we backing instead? I scrolled through the talent roster until I hit a familiar face. Lydia. She’d been in the game for a decade. For the first seven years, she and Jade had been neck-and-neck, until Jade met me three years ago. I’d spent those years suffocating Lydia’s growth to ensure Jade’s dominance. Lydia had been gasping for air ever since. I remembered seeing Lydia once at a gala. Someone had accidentally spilled red wine down my front. I’d instinctively looked to Jade for help, but she’d turned her back immediately, striking up a hollow conversation with a tech CEO to avoid being associated with the mess. It was Lydia who had quietly asked if I was okay. She’d led me to a private suite to change and stood guard outside the door for twenty minutes to ensure my privacy. That night, I’d rewarded her by throwing her a small contract out of guilt. When Jade found out, she’d blocked me for two weeks. I typed the words: It’s Lydia. Effective immediately. The chat exploded. I locked my phone and set it face down. The dinner continued. Jade remained a statue of ice whenever she looked my way, yet she had my father roaring with laughter. Parker playfully tugged at her sleeve, and she caught his hand, giving him a shy, lingering look. Parker shot me a triumphant glance. “I heard you and Jade actually go way back, Beckett. Why so quiet tonight?” Jade’s expression went dead. She didn’t even turn her head. “I don’t know him,” she said flatly. Seven million dollars. Three years of my life. “I don’t know him.” I didn’t argue. I just excused myself to the restroom. When I stepped back out into the hallway, I ran straight into Jade. Her brow was furrowed, her face twisted in suppressed irritation. “If you keep stalking me like this, I’m calling the police,” she hissed. I found the statement genuinely hilarious. “This is my house, Jade.” “This is Parker’s house,” she snapped, cutting me off. “He told me everything. Your mother stole another woman’s husband and sat in the ‘Mrs. Thorne’ seat for twenty years like a parasite. If she hadn’t died early, Parker would never have been able to take his rightful place in this family.” She gave me a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. “I’ll let it slide this time. But do it again…” She let the threat hang in the air, then turned on her designer heels and marched away, her pace frantic, as if she were afraid I might try to touch her. I watched her go. I didn’t bother correcting her. That night, Jade posted a status update: “Just spent the day with the one I love. Feeling inspired. Going live at 7 PM.” I checked the clock. 6:30. Usually, I’d be in her stream thirty minutes early, waiting. I’d start the night by dropping a hundred “Super-Novas”—the most expensive gift on the platform—just to set the tone and drive her to the top of the trending list. Jade would act like she didn’t see the screen-filling effects. If I commented, she’d intentionally reply to the person right above or below me, never acknowledging my existence. My phone buzzed. It was my assistant, informing me that the deal with Lydia was finalized. “She wants your personal contact info to thank you properly,” he wrote. “Fine,” I replied, and then I went to sleep. A few hours later, my door was nearly kicked off its hinges. Parker was standing there, his face flushed with a mix of rage and panic. “Beckett, what the hell are you doing? Jade is live, and you haven’t shown up. She’s going to be pissed! Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get on her good side?” I sat up slowly. “Jade is streaming. Why should I be there? I don’t know her, remember?” He sputtered, his face turning a darker shade of red. “Fine. Be a dick. I’m just warning you—you’re going to regret this. Jade has a temper. If you freeze her out now, she’s not just going to block you for two weeks. She’ll delete you forever.” My stomach turned. He knew everything about my history with Jade. Every argument, every silent treatment. When exactly had they started trading my secrets? Parker wasn’t blood. Five years ago, after my mother passed, my father remarried Meredith. She brought Parker into the house, changed his last name to Thorne, and they both started singing a choreographed duet about “sharing the burden” of the family business. They’d tried to claw their way into the company dozens of times, but my father never let them in. They thought he was being stingy. They didn’t realize that the company was my mother’s legacy. Every single share sat in my name. My father wasn’t saying no because he wanted to—he was saying no because he didn’t have the authority to say yes. Parker must have been talking a big game to Jade, and Jade, being Jade, probably assumed Parker was the one holding the keys to the kingdom. I shut the door in his face and checked my phone. I tried to enter Jade’s stream, only to find a familiar notification: “You have been blocked by the creator.” This time, I didn’t send a groveling email. I didn’t call her manager. I simply blocked her back. On the community boards, Jade’s fans were tagging me. “Where’s the Big Whale tonight? Is everything okay?” A familiar avatar popped up in the thread. It was Parker. “Who needs him?” Parker wrote. “Jade doesn’t need one person holding her up. We’ve got this!” A few loyalists chimed in, but the energy was limp. By the time Jade ended her stream, the hashtag #GhostTownLive was trending. Without my massive opening gifts, the algorithm hadn’t pushed her to the front page. Without my influence, the major brands stayed quiet. She was so used to being the “Queen” that she’d forgotten how to actually engage her audience. Her peak viewership was lower than a mid-tier hobbyist. Her fans were begging me to come back. I ignored them and focused on the list of brands Lydia was sending me. Tonight, Lydia was going live. And her discounts? They were fifty percent lower than anything Jade had ever offered. The internet caught fire. Everyone was speculating about who Lydia’s new “Benefactor” was, while Jade’s camp remained eerily silent. Her team hadn’t even announced her next product line yet. At 8:00 PM sharp, I entered Lydia’s stream. I spent ten minutes straight dropping the highest-value gifts available. Meanwhile, Jade’s team posted a frantic update: Tonight’s stream is canceled due to technical difficulties. I didn’t care. I watched Lydia’s concurrent viewers climb to five hundred thousand. Then six hundred. Lydia was the opposite of Jade. Jade would sit there like a porcelain doll, letting her assistants do the talking. If she got bored, she’d just walk off-camera, and her fans would call it “authentic” and “ethereal.” Lydia was in the trenches. Before the stream, she’d sent me a twenty-seven-page business plan, broken down minute-by-minute. As the sales ticker began to spin—thirty million, fifty million, eighty million—the chat went nuclear. When it hit the hundred-million-dollar mark, Lydia’s eyes welled up. Her voice shook as she looked into the lens. “Thank you, Jax… thank you so much for believing in me.” Three hours later, she broke the platform record. I exited the app and found my inbox had become a war zone. Jade’s fans were swarming me. “You total prick! How could you do this to Jade?” “You’re a fan, not a king. Go back to Jade and apologize right now or we’ll dox you.” “Disgusting. Did you sleep with Lydia? Is that why you’re bankrolling her?” Someone asked Jade for a comment. She posted a single, icy sentence: “Some fans think spending a little money means they own the creator. To be honest, it’s a little scary.” That was the spark. Her fanbase went feral. “So this ‘Jax’ guy was trying to force Jade into a relationship just because he gave her gifts?!” “Creep. Absolute predator. You’re ruining the community for real fans.” Within the hour, my private photos were being circulated. They were edited to look hideous, slapped onto “Missing Person” posters with captions like “Predator” and “Old Loser.” My phone started ringing incessantly. “I heard your mother died,” a distorted voice screamed when I picked up. “Good. She probably died of shame knowing she raised a stalker!” My hand tightened around the phone. The harassment had reached a fever pitch, and Jade remained silent. She watched it happen like she was watching a movie. Fine. If that’s how she wanted to play it, the “happily ever after” was off the table. Suddenly, Lydia posted a tweet. “Jax is my most important supporter and a man of immense integrity. If you attack him, you attack me. My success today is thanks to his vision. I won’t allow anyone to insult him. You want to talk? Talk to me.” The internet split in two. The legal team had the Cease and Desist orders ready within the hour. I retweeted the firm’s official statement and turned off my phone. The moment I walked into the living room, Parker’s voice grated against my nerves. “Are you insane, Beckett? You’re trying to make Jade jealous, but you’ve gone too far!” He tried to shove his phone in my face. “Who gave you permission to serve her legal papers? Do you have any idea what this does to her reputation? Withdraw it. Now. Make a public apology and tell everyone you were just having a mental breakdown. Maybe she’ll let you pay for her next campaign as an apology.” I slapped his hand away without a second thought. “Since when do you tell me how to run my business, Parker?” Rage flickered across his face, but he backed off. I went upstairs to check the numbers. The night had been a triumph. Lydia gained four hundred thousand followers. One of the top luxury fashion houses in the world contacted me—they wanted to debut their new collection exclusively on Lydia’s stream. I invited both parties to the office the next morning to sign. When I walked into my suite at 9 AM, I found two uninvited guests. Parker gave me a slimy grin. “I brought Jade. Go ahead, apologize. I told her you were just acting out, and since I’m family, she’s willing to forgive and move on.” Jade didn’t look at me. She sat there, sipping from a glass of water, her chin tilted up, waiting for me to bow. I was beyond words. As I reached for the contract on my desk, Parker snatched it. His eyes lit up. “I knew it! You were just playing hard to ball! You used Lydia to create a buzz, and now you’re bringing the luxury deal back to Jade. Clever, Beckett. Very clever.” Jade’s face softened slightly. She took the contract and signed her name with a flourish before I could even speak. Then she tossed the folder at my chest. “I’m taking this because I earned it,” she said coldly. “Don’t think this means we’re friends. And don’t try this pathetic ‘jealousy’ stunt again. It’s beneath you.” I frowned. “That contract isn’t for you.” Jade scoffed. “Beckett, give it a rest. You won. You got my attention. Now be a good boy and get the production team ready.” Parker chimed in, “Yeah, stop acting, man. Everyone knows you can’t live without her. If she actually gets mad at you, you’ll be back on your knees in a week anyway. Why make it harder than it needs to be?” In the past, I did have a weakness for her. I supported her because I admired her drive, and yes, because I thought there was something real between us. But “can’t live without her”? That was a fantasy Parker had cooked up to feel superior. Jade stood up to leave. “I don’t need apologies from people who don’t matter,” she said over her shoulder. Parker smirked. “I’ll talk to her for you, bro. She listens to me.” After they left, I told the legal department to void the signature and draft a fresh copy. As the launch drew closer, Lydia called me, her voice trembling. “Jax… am I… am I sharing the stream with Jade tonight?” I was confused until I checked Jade’s social media. She had posted a promotional poster: Luxury Collection Launch. Tonight at 8 PM. I hesitated, then sent Jade a private message: That contract was not yours. This is a trademark violation. I suggest you take that post down immediately. She didn’t reply privately. She took a screenshot of my message and posted it to her millions of followers, tagging me directly. “Just because I chose your brother over you, you’re trying to destroy my career? You’re the son of a mistress, Beckett. You owe Parker everything. Have some dignity.” The comment section went nuclear. “Wait, he’s a mistress’s son? That explains why he’s so obsessed with stealing what belongs to others.” “Spending his father’s money to harass a woman. Classic.” Then Parker joined in. He posted a photo of himself, my father, and Meredith. A perfect family portrait. I wasn’t in it. “The past is the past,” he captioned it. “My mother and I just want peace. Please don’t dig into the family trauma. Thank you for the support.” The public ate it up. He was the “gracious, long-suffering son,” and I was the “villainous interloper.” Parker called me, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You should probably lay low for a few days, Beckett. People are pretty riled up. Jade is going to address the ‘stalking’ during her stream tonight. You might want to skip it. It’s gonna hurt.” I didn’t say a word. I just hung up. Lydia posted her own announcement shortly after. The confusion was total. “Wait, who has the deal? Lydia or Jade?” “Are they streaming together? No way, they hate each other.” The brand’s official account ended the debate. They tagged Lydia: “Thrilled to announce our exclusive partnership with the incomparable @Lydia. See you at 8 PM.” Then, they posted a second tweet, tagging Jade. “Regarding the unauthorized use of our intellectual property and brand name for promotional purposes: this constitutes a legal violation. Remove all related materials immediately or we will proceed with a lawsuit.”

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I suffer from clinical prosopagnosia. Face blindness. Even after months of marriage, I couldn’t pick my husband—a notoriously lethal black mamba shifter—out of a police lineup. That night, I was waiting for him to get home from work, just like always, when it started. A bizarre, glowing stream of text began scrolling horizontally across my field of vision, like a spectral ticker tape. At first, I thought I was having a stroke. But the words were too coherent. [God, the wife is so pathetic. Her husband is totally exploiting her face-blindness. He sent his best friend to play house with her while he’s out hooking up with his golden-girl first love!] Another line of text materialized, hovering near the ceiling: [Honestly, how oblivious can she be? She hasn’t even noticed the guy in front of her isn’t her husband. Her husband is a snake. This guy is a wolf. The anatomy doesn’t even line up!] I stared at the floating words, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Doubt is a creeping vine; once planted, it takes over. I looked up at the man standing before me. Stripped down to just his face, I truly couldn’t tell if it was the man I’d said vows to. Later, after my shower, I sat on the edge of the bed. I stared at my “husband,” who was wearing nothing but a loosely tied bathrobe. I tilted my head, letting a perfect mask of innocent confusion slide over my features. “Honey,” I murmured, “why is there only one of you down there today?” 1 He froze. The stillness was absolute. A violent rush of red flooded his cheeks—whether from sheer mortification or panic, I couldn’t tell. “Nothing is missing,” he choked out. “You’re seeing things.” His voice was a low, resonant baritone. He was trying to pitch it perfectly to match my husband’s cadence, and to his credit, it was terrifyingly close. I narrowed my eyes slightly, rising from the bed and closing the distance between us. “Don’t be silly,” I whispered. I pressed my palm flat against his chest, tracing the rigid topography of his muscles, trailing downward. “Your pecs feel great,” I observed softly. “Abs are sharp. The V-line is practically carved out of marble. But…” My fingers dipped lower, resting brazenly against his lower abdomen. I gave a light, deliberate flick. “But, sweetheart, you’re a little… sparse right here today. You usually fill out your slacks quite differently.” Shifters, despite their flawless human facades, always retain certain biological blueprints of their animal halves. Snakes, you see, are doubly equipped. At my touch, the man gave a violent shudder. He grabbed my wrist, his grip iron-tight but trembling. “No,” he stammered, his voice fracturing. “It’s—it’s just that I bought this robe a size too big. It’s not fitting right.” “Is that so…” I stared at the frantic pulse beating against his throat, at the tips of his ears burning crimson. I offered him a soft, sympathetic smile, stepping into his space and looping my arms around his neck like a devoted wife. “Honey, listen to me. Even if you’re experiencing some… performance issues, you shouldn’t hide it from me. We can see a doctor.” The man gritted his teeth, a strained “Okay” ripping from his throat. He reached up, physically peeling my arms off him. “It’s late. We should just go to sleep.” I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. I snagged him by the lapels, dragging him down onto the mattress with me. “No way. I need to inspect the merchandise. Just to be sure you’re healthy.” The spectral text flared to life again, buzzing with digital anxiety: [Wait, why is she acting so out of character? Did she figure it out?] [No way. Jax has played the stand-in half a dozen times already and she never noticed a thing.] [Yeah, but they’ve never actually gotten into bed together before! This is their first time sharing the mattress. And let’s be real, Jax is packing a single barrel—he can’t compete with the snake’s double-barrel shotgun!] Jax. So that was his name. So he really wasn’t my husband. I narrowed my eyes, a dangerous thrill humming in my veins. I slid my palm down the curve of his waist. “Come on, sweetie… let me just check.” Before he could protest, I slipped my hand under his shirt. Jax violently jolted. A stifled, guttural groan tore from his throat. A split second later, a pair of plush, snow-white animal ears popped out of the top of his head. 2 It was so incredibly blatant, I couldn’t even pretend to be blind to it. The bedroom plunged into a suffocating silence. Jax was as rigid as a corpse. Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, I reached up and gave one of the ears a squeeze. “Honey? What are these?” Jax swallowed hard, forcing a breathless, desperate chuckle. “It’s… it’s a surprise. For you.” I blinked. “A what?” “You know, the animal ear trend,” Jax babbled, his eyes darting everywhere but my face. “I read online that women are into this kind of thing. So, I… I bought props.” He was a terrible liar, but I admired the hustle. I kneaded the ear again. It was warm, twitching under my touch, the fur impossibly soft. No prop on earth felt like a living pulse. I feigned total gullibility, leaning over to peek behind him. “Oh! Well, if you got the ears, did you remember to buy the tail?” Jax’s face turned ashen. “Y-Yes.” He didn’t need to tell me. I could see the heavy, telltale bulge threatening to tear through the back of his sweatpants. He might not be filling out the front the way my husband did, but he was certainly making up for it in the back. [Tsk, tsk. The wife knows exactly what she’s doing. Three seconds of touching and she forced this virgin pup right into a partial shift.] [Ugh, she’s so shameless! How can she just flirt with any man she sees?] [Are you guys stupid? She literally thinks that’s her husband! If anyone deserves to be dragged, it’s the cheating husband and his gross little proxy. Taking advantage of a disabled woman’s condition? They deserve whatever she dishes out!] Oh, I agreed. They definitely needed to be taught a lesson. Looking at Jax’s flushed, panicked face, a wicked idea bloomed in my chest. “Oh, honey! You remembered how much I love surprises. I’m so happy!” I sprang off the bed, marching to the darkest corner of my closet. I rummaged around until I found a specific box. I popped the lid, pulling out a scrap of sheer, skintight lingerie. Attached to the plunging neckline were two delicate, silver nipple clamps. “I bet you didn’t forget about this, either,” I said brightly, holding it up. “Put it on! It’s going to look absolutely stunning with the ears.” Jax stared at the fabric like it was made of radioactive waste. “You want me to wear that?!” “Of course.” I tilted my head, weaponizing my innocence. “Did you forget? You promised me.” Jax clenched his jaw. “You’re misremembering. I never—” “No backing out, husband!” I lowered my voice, letting it drop into a smoky purr. “Or… do you want me to dress you myself?” 3 Jax looked like he was about to pass out. After three agonizing seconds, he snatched the lingerie from my hands and practically sprinted into the bathroom, slamming the door. I heard a lot of rustling, followed by a muffled complaint. “This thing is way too small. It’s cutting off my circulation.” “That’s impossible,” I called back smoothly. “I bought it to your exact measurements. Though… maybe your workouts have been paying off. I did think your chest felt a bit fuller just now.” Silence stretched from the bathroom for a full beat. “…You really think my body looks better than before?” “Oh, absolutely,” I lied. Jax went quiet again. Two minutes later, the door clicked open. Jax stepped out. The sheer fabric clung to his muscular frame in a way that was both utterly humiliating and objectively fantastic. He looked everywhere but at me. I immediately whipped out my phone and snapped a photo. The camera flashed. Jax flinched, lunging forward to grab my wrist. “Don’t take pictures!” I easily dodged him, snapping two more. “Why not? My husband is gorgeous. His body is amazing. What’s wrong with wanting to keep a few photos?” He froze, his hand dropping to his side. “You… you really mean that?” I nodded earnestly. Some of the mortification drained from his face, replaced by a bashful, confusing sort of pride. “Even so… you shouldn’t…” “I only take pictures of you because I miss you so much,” I said, letting a trace of genuine melancholy slip into my voice. “You’re always away on missions. I never see you. Sometimes, looking at your pictures is the only way I remember you’re mine.” Jax’s expression completely shattered, melting into something agonizingly soft. “I’ll… I’ll stay home more. To keep you company.” I raised an eyebrow. Keep me company? Who is keeping me company? You? I mean, I wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea… I smiled, reaching out to hook my index finger under the silver chain connecting the clamps on his chest. I gave it a sharp, testing tug, pulling him down to my eye level. “You promise?” Jax hissed at the pinch, but his tail thumped rhythmically against the floorboards. “I promise.” I let out a soft laugh, gazing up at him with half-lidded, adoring eyes. Jax stared back, his breath hitching. Drawn by some invisible gravity, he began to lean down. His lips parted. The kiss was a millimeter away— BRRRING. A shrill ringtone shattered the moment. Jax scrambled backward like he’d been electrocuted, frantically swiping for his phone on the nightstand. “I—I have to take this…” As the screen flashed past my line of sight, I caught the caller ID. Declan. My actual husband. 4 I didn’t know what transpired during that phone call, but when Jax returned, the playful energy was dead. His face was thunderous, and the sheer lingerie was gone, replaced by a baggy t-shirt. Feeling my gaze on him, he climbed into bed, his back stiff. “Go to sleep,” he muttered harshly. “I’m not in the mood tonight.” He switched off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness. A long time passed. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard Jax whisper a vicious, muffled curse into his pillow. [Ooooh, the fake got caught slipping by the real husband! Didn’t even get the kiss, just got a screaming match over the phone. Serves the dog right.] [He usually plays it so safe. Why did he fold tonight? Ugh, it’s the wife’s fault. She’s too seductive.] [Okay, but can we talk about how unhinged the actual husband is? He literally has hidden cameras in his own bedroom to spy on his disabled wife! Typical creepy snake behavior…] Cameras?! My heart slammed against my ribs. A wave of ice-cold shock washed over me, followed instantly by a tidal wave of fury. Declan and I were bound together by a state-mandated, high-compatibility shifter marriage. I had fully planned to endure the probationary period, sign the paperwork, and part ways amicably. But I never imagined I was married to a voyeuristic psychopath. Yet, as the anger settled into a cold, hard clarity, a realization dawned on me. This blatant violation of my civil rights was the perfect ammunition. I could use this to petition the authorities for an immediate annulment. But if Declan liked watching so much… I rolled onto my side in the dark, staring at Jax’s broad, tense back. A dark, vindictive smile touched my lips. If he wanted a show, I’d give him a blockbuster. The next morning, I woke up the picture of domestic bliss. Downstairs, Jax was already at the stove. The apron strings pulled taut over his broad chest. “You’re up,” he said, voice tight. “Breakfast is ready.” Nothing like starting the day with both a nutritional and a visual feast. I hummed happily, walking right up to him and planting a loud, affectionate kiss on his jaw. “Thanks, honey!” [The husband is watching this on the feed right now and he just shattered a coffee mug with his bare hands.] [Honestly, the husband is so weird. He’s the one who ditched her to go see another woman. Why does he care what she does with the proxy?] [Stop the presses—the husband just booked a red-eye flight back. He’s abandoning the girl. He’s coming home for blood!] 5 Coming home for blood? I watched Jax’s bushy tail inadvertently wag behind the counter and scoffed inwardly. Let him come. We’d see whose blood ended up on the floor. “Why are you still wearing the ears and tail?” I reached up and pinched his ear again, adopting a careless tone. “I’m having a hard time getting used to these little dog ears.” Jax clicked his tongue in offense. “Wolf.” I nearly choked on my coffee. Right. Wolf. I cleared my throat. “Well, take them off.” Jax’s face fell. He looked a mix of offended and genuinely heartbroken. “You said you liked them last night. Are you already bored of them?” “Because snakes don’t have furry little ears.” I met his gaze, offering a soft, devastating smile. “Unless… you keep them out all the time. So I can get used to them. So I can look at them until the idea of you without them feels wrong.” “Do you think you can do that for me, honey?” Jax stared at me, swallowing hard. “Maybe. I could try.” I let the hook sink in, then stood up, leaving my plate half-finished. “You do that. I need to get ready for work.” “I’ll go warm up the car,” Jax said eagerly. “Wait.” I paused on the bottom step of the staircase, curling my finger at him. “Come help me with something first.” Upstairs, in the walk-in closet, I stood before the full-length mirror, buttoning a silk blouse. “I have a presentation for the board today. Tell me which outfit looks better.” The skirt I was wearing was a new arrival—a high-waisted pencil skirt with an intricate silk ribbon corset back that cinched the waist tight. Jax stood in the doorway, his eyes dark and heavy, tracking the line of my throat down to the curve of my hips. “That one. That one is perfect.” “You think so?” I smiled faintly, turning my back to him and swaying my hips just a fraction. “Then be a good husband and tie the back for me.” Jax’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He had to take a visible, steadying breath before he crossed the room. His calloused, slightly rough fingers brushed mine as he took the silk ribbons, slowly pulling them taut against the small of my back. “Honey,” I breathed. Jax looked up, meeting my eyes in the mirror. The fire in his gaze was barely contained. “Yeah?” My eyes dropped to a specific reflection in the glass. I kept my voice feather-light. “The pants you’re wearing today… they fit much better.” “Not sparse at all.” 6 Jax dropped the ribbons like they were on fire and bolted from the room. I sighed, a little disappointed. I was curious to see the differences in canine shifter anatomy up close. A girl can wonder. When I finally walked out the front door, Jax was waiting by the SUV. His ears were still flushed pink. Honestly, compared to Declan’s dark, obsessive lurking, Jax’s flustered golden-retriever energy was vastly superior. He drove me to the Institute. As the car shifted into park, I leaned over the console and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the ride, honey.” Jax’s ears burned brighter, but his arm snaked out, pulling me flush against him for a tight, possessive squeeze. “I’ll pick you up tonight.” I nodded, my mind already calculating how long it would take for Declan to land. I needed them both in the same room when the bomb dropped. Preoccupied, my heel caught on an uneven paving stone. I stumbled forward, bracing for impact, when a strong hand caught my elbow, steadying me perfectly. “Thank—Elliott?!” I stared up at the man, a genuine wave of surprise and warmth hitting me. “It’s been so long!” Elliott was one of the very few people in the world I could consistently recognize. He was my senior from university, a brilliant mind. Though he was a shifter, his intellect vastly outclassed his physical prowess, steering him away from the military and into advanced genetics at the Institute. I hadn’t seen him in two years, but he looked exactly the same. The sharp tailoring of his suit, the wire-rimmed glasses, the faint, crisp scent of cedar—and pinned to his lapel was the silver wolf-head brooch I had given him for graduation. “It’s good to see you, Gemma.” Elliott looked down at me, the habitual coldness in his eyes melting into something incredibly warm, like morning sun on snow. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. I just transferred back to the local branch.” I was shocked. Elliott had been recruited by the most prestigious lab in the capital. Why would he come back to our mid-level city? He seemed to read my mind. His lips parted to explain— “Wife!” The shout came from behind me. I turned. I couldn’t see the face clearly, but the frantic bounding energy was unmistakable. Jax was running toward us. “Wife, you forgot your thermos. I made your tea—” Jax ground to a halt, the thermos dangling from his hand. He stared at the man standing next to me. “Bro?! What are you doing here?” Elliott. Jax. Brothers. Well, isn’t that a small world. While Jax looked like he’d seen a ghost, Elliott’s face darkened like a thunderhead. His eyes darted between Jax and me, his jaw setting into a brutal, sharp line. “Who,” Elliott asked, his voice lethally quiet, “are you calling wife?” “And since when the hell are you married?!”

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Seven years. That’s how long it took for Damian Whitaker to dump me for the seventh time. It was the same script as the previous six: “You’re just not on my level, June.” But this time, I didn’t beg. I didn’t cry. I didn’t offer to change. I just looked him in the eye and said, “Okay.” Three days ago, I froze every credit card in his family’s possession. Two days ago, I repossessed the car he let his sister drive. Yesterday, I moved out of the luxury apartment I’d been paying for. Now, as I sit on a plane bound for a new life, my phone is vibrating non-stop. Forty-seven missed calls. The caller IDs range from Damian himself to his meddling aunt. For seven years, I was their personal ATM, the invisible engine behind their lifestyle. I look at the notifications, mark them all as read, and don’t reply to a single one. 1 Damian chose a high-end steakhouse for our seventh breakup. It was the kind of place where the tasting menu starts at three hundred dollars a head. I sat across from him, my steak barely touched, when he slapped his linen napkin onto the table. “June, we’re done. This isn’t working.” I held my glass of lemon water mid-air. I wasn’t shocked. I was counting. The first time was sophomore year of college because I didn’t buy him those limited-edition sneakers. The second was graduation because the company I interned for wasn’t a Fortune 500. The third through sixth were a blur of excuses: my salary was too low, I wasn’t “romantic” enough, his father didn’t approve of my background, and—my personal favorite—he thought his coworker’s wife dressed better. Seven. Lucky number seven. I looked at the medium-rare ribeye that had just been served. “And the reason this time?” Damian arched an eyebrow and flipped his phone around. On the screen was a photo of a handbag. A limited-edition Hermès, priced at eighty-six thousand dollars. “You got me a two-hundred-dollar briefcase for my birthday, June. Honestly, do you even care about me? Or are you just cheap?” A two-hundred-dollar briefcase. I had spent three weekends scouring boutique shops to find the exact designer collaboration he’d liked on Instagram. I’d stood at the counter for forty minutes debating the leather grain. To him, two hundred dollars meant I didn’t have a heart. I set the water down. The glass hit the mahogany table with a soft, final thud. “Okay.” The word hung in the air, and Damian’s expression was a sight to behold. He blinked, the condescending smirk on his face freezing before it slowly dissolved into confusion. “What did you say?” his voice rose an octave. “I said okay. We’re over.” I glanced at the bill, flagged down the server, and pulled out my wallet. “Check, please.” “June!” Damian slammed his hand on the table, making the silverware jump. “You’re not even going to fight for this?” I did a quick mental audit. The standard operating procedure for the last six breakups was as follows: 1. Apologize (whether it was my fault or not). 2. Send a “makeup” Venmo (the amount increased every year; the last one was five figures). 3. Buy a peace offering gift. 4. Take him to a five-star dinner. 5. Call his father to give a “progress report” on how I was bettering myself. 6. Apologize again. Each cycle took about three days and cost me at least twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars. In a diversified index fund with a 7% return, I was losing a fortune every year just to keep him happy. Today was the seventh time. I looked at Damian—sitting there with his hair professionally styled on my dime, wearing the Tom Ford suit I’d bought him, complaining about a gift that wasn’t expensive enough—and the chandelier above us suddenly felt blindingly bright. “Damian.” I stood up and tucked two hundred-dollar bills under the sugar caddy. “This time, you get exactly what you asked for.” I grabbed my coat. Turned. Walked toward the door. Behind me, I heard the screech of a chair being shoved back—metal legs scraping against the marble floor. “June! You get back here right now!” the heavy glass doors of the restaurant swung shut behind me. His voice was muffled, the tail end of his shout trembling with something that sounded suspiciously like panic. I didn’t look back. I hailed a cab in less than two minutes. The moment the door clicked shut, the sound of the city and the possibility of him chasing me were cut off. My phone buzzed three times. The first was a sixty-second voice memo from Damian. I didn’t play it. The second was a screenshot from our mutual friend, Marcus—wait, no, let’s call him Mark. It was Damian’s latest Instagram story: a photo of a glass of Scotch and a single rose. The caption: Finally cut the dead weight. I can finally breathe again! Below it were a dozen comments from his “bros”: About time, man! You deserve a queen, not a peasant. Onwards and upwards! The third message was from Piper: Did the prince throw another tantrum? Want me to come pick you up? I stared at Damian’s post for six seconds. I screenshort it and saved it into a folder on my phone titled “The Breakup Ledger.” It already held six similar screenshots. Every time we broke up, he’d post something high-and-mighty, wait for me to crawl back, and then delete it. Number seven. I texted Piper back: Yeah. But this is the last one. I mean it. By the time I got back to the apartment, it was nearly eleven. The hallway light was flickering, and it took three tries to jam the key into the lock. When the lights flickered on, the apartment greeted me like a curated museum of my own financial labor. The cashmere throw on the sofa—I bought that. The designer humidifer—mine. The high-end projector—mine. The Wagyu steaks and oysters in the fridge—all me. The oversized canvas print above the console—I’d hauled that home and mounted it myself. This three-bedroom penthouse overlooking the river—the lease was in my name. Seven thousand dollars a month. I stood in the entryway, kicked off one heel, and just looked. Every single thing my eyes touched was connected to me. Except for the framed photo on the dresser of Damian and his friends on a yacht I’d rented for his thirty-first birthday. I took off the other shoe. I pulled three collapsed moving boxes out from the top of the coat closet—leftovers from when we moved in. I took a deep breath. And I started packing. The closet: my clothes took up a third of the left side. His took up the rest, plus the extra storage bins. I folded my pieces one by one. It was a fluid, practiced motion. After all, I’d done this during breakup number four. Back then, I’d finished packing only to have Damian call the next morning, and I’d moved it all back in. Not this time. Books from the shelf—packed. My set of professional Japanese knives from the kitchen—cleaned, dried, and boxed. The electric toothbrush in the bathroom—mine. The fiddle-leaf fig I’d nursed for two years on the balcony—coming with me. I packed until 1:00 AM. The three boxes were brimming. The living room looked skeletal now, missing its soul. I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead and sat on the floor. The phone vibrated. Damian. I watched the screen for three seconds before hitting “Decline.” It vibrated again. Damian. “Decline.” The third time, it was a different number. Damian’s father. I closed my eyes, switched the phone to silent, and shoved it into my pocket. I went to the desk and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. It contained a list I’d started on a whim months ago. The header: Expenses Incurred for the Whitaker Family. I flipped through the pages. Rent, car payments, health insurance premiums, spa memberships, authorized user spend on my Amex, holiday gifts, the “loans” to Stacy that were never repaid, his mother’s hospital co-pays I’d covered… The grand total: $1.23 million. I stared at that number. I was the woman he called “not on his level.” I was the “dead weight” who had spent over a million dollars on his family in seven years. I snapped the notebook shut. I stood up, my knees popping in the quiet room. “Right,” I whispered to the empty apartment. “Seventh time’s the charm.” I stacked the boxes by the door. Turned out the lights. Went to the bedroom for one last night of sleep in this place. Tomorrow, I would begin the surgical process of removing myself from Damian Whitaker’s life, one stitch at a time. 2 I woke up at 6:00 AM, before the alarm could even chime. My phone was a graveyard of notifications—eleven unread texts, three missed calls. All from Damian and his father. I didn’t open them. Instead, I called my landlord. “Hey, it’s June. I’m breaking the lease. Effective immediately.” “June? You’re leaving? What about Damian? He told me you guys were renewing for another two years.” “We broke up. Check the contract; I’ll pay the early termination fee.” There was a pause. “Again? Didn’t you say this last time? You were back in a week.” “This isn’t a week-long thing. It’s a forever thing. The keys will be on the counter. Damian is still there, but you’ll need to talk to him about moving out by the end of the month. The lease is in my name, and I’m done paying for it.” I hung up and called a local moving service. Within forty minutes, my three boxes and my fiddle-leaf fig were loaded into a van. Before I left, I took one last look. I left the groceries—moving them was a hassle. I left the sofa—it was a custom sectional that wouldn’t fit through the door of my new place anyway. I set the keys on the entryway table. The door clicked shut with a finality that felt like a period at the end of a very long, very exhausting sentence. At noon, I was at a quiet bistro near Piper’s office, picking at a salad. My phone lit up. A text from Damian: Where the hell are you? Where are the throw pillows from the sofa? Did you seriously take the plant? You’re being pathetic, June. The throw pillows. I’d bought them on clearance for fifty bucks. Damian had mocked the color for months until he realized they were the perfect height for propping up his head while he binged Netflix. The plant? He’d never watered it once. I didn’t reply. At 2:00 PM, the phone buzzed again. This time it was the landlord: June, I told Damian about the lease. He… uh, he didn’t take it well. He seems to think I’m joking. Don’t worry, the paperwork is strictly in your name. I’ll handle the eviction process if he isn’t out by the 30th. Thanks, Sam, I replied. At 4:00 PM, Damian finally called. I decided to pick up. “June! Did you seriously tell the landlord we’re moving?!” His voice was a jagged shard of glass, echoing the way it had in the restaurant. I could picture him pacing the living room, his face flushed with indignation. “Yes.” “Are you insane? This is our home! You can’t just cancel it!” “Damian, I signed the lease. I paid the rent. We broke up. I’m not renewing. What’s the confusion?” Silence on the other end for five long seconds. Then, his tone shifted. It was a pivot I knew by heart—the first stage of the “Post-Breakup Damian” cycle. The voice became smooth, dripping with a condescending pity that barely masked his panic. “Oh, I see. This is a stunt. You’re trying to force my hand, trying to make me beg you to stay. It’s beneath you, June. Really.” I switched the phone to my other ear. In the past, this was where I’d scramble to explain myself, tell him it wasn’t a stunt, and then he’d graciously “allow” me to pay the next month’s rent as an apology. “You have until the end of the month to pack,” I said. I hung up. Five minutes later, Damian’s father roared into my voicemail. “June! What is the meaning of this? You break up with my son and then try to throw him onto the street? You weren’t this cold-hearted when you were begging for his attention in college!” I called him back. “Mr. Whitaker. The rent is seven thousand dollars a month. We are no longer together, so I am no longer paying it. If you think the apartment is so vital to Damian’s well-being, feel free to sign a new lease in your name. Sam has the paperwork. It’s first, last, and a security deposit.” The line went dead silent. Seven thousand. I’m willing to bet he’d never actually asked about the price. In his mind—fueled by his perception of me as a “middle-class girl”—the rent was probably a couple thousand at most. “Seven… seven thousand?” he stammered. “Yes. It’s a luxury penthouse in the West Loop. That’s market rate. Goodbye, Mr. Whitaker.” I put the phone on the table and went back to my salad. The lettuce was wilted, and the vinaigrette was starting to separate. Piper sat across from me, her legs crossed, tapping a pen against her chin. “How does it feel?” “What?” “Having a spine. Having a backbone after all these years. Does it feel good?” “Don’t start,” I muttered. “No, seriously,” Piper leaned in. “Are you really done this time?” I swallowed a bite of arugula. “Piper, seven thousand times twelve times seven. Do the math.” “That’s… over half a million?” “$588,000. Just in rent. That’s what it cost me to be told I wasn’t good enough for seven years.” Piper stopped tapping her pen. She took a long sip of her iced coffee and shook her head. “You weren’t soft-hearted, June. You were just being a martyr. I’m glad you finally quit the job.” She turned her phone screen toward me. Damian had just posted again: Some people show their true colors the moment they don’t get their way. Imagine being so bitter you’d evict your own boyfriend. Talk about a lack of class. The comments were a dumpster fire of support. Red flag city! Bullet dodged, bro! She was always a social climber. I looked at it for three seconds. Then I pushed the phone back. “He can post whatever he wants.” “You’re not angry?” “Why would I be? He doesn’t even know how much his own lifestyle costs. Do you think the people commenting have any idea?” Piper smirked. “Fair point. So, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” I grabbed my jacket. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow, I take back the car.” 3 The car was a white Volkswagen Passat. Not a supercar, but in the Whitaker household, it was known as “Stacy’s Executive Transport.” I’d been paying the four-hundred-dollar monthly note for three years. Two years left on the loan. The title and registration? In my name. The reason? Stacy’s credit score was so abysmal that the bank had laughed her out of the dealership. For three years, Stacy had used that car for: 30% “Networking.” 20% “Meeting clients.” 50% Picking up boyfriends, going to brunch, and driving to the high-end spa in the suburbs every Friday. Stacy called it “the cost of doing business.” Last night, I’d given my spare key to Piper. At 7:30 AM, Piper texted: The bird has flown. Car is parked in my secure garage. By the way, there’s a fresh scrape on the rear passenger door. New? I asked. Looks like it. Your former sister-in-law has the spatial awareness of a drunk toddler. I sighed. Expected. At 8:15 AM, Stacy’s meltdown arrived right on schedule. My phone exploded. Damian: You took the car too??? Are you even human??? Stacy: YOU BITCH!! You stole my car!! I’m calling the cops!!! Damian’s Dad: June, there is such a thing as common decency. You’ve crossed the line. Then Stacy called. I ignored it. She called again. And again. On the fifth try, it was a blocked number. I answered. “Hello?” “JUNE, YOU—” Stacy’s voice was practically vibrating with rage. I could hear the wind whipping past her; she was likely standing in her parking spot. “You stole my car! I’ve already called the police! You’re going to jail!” “Stacy,” I said, my voice so flat it surprised me. “The car is registered to me. I pay the note. I pay the insurance. I had a friend move my car to a secure location. That’s called exercising ownership. Please, go ahead and call the police.” The sound of her breathing on the other end was like a bellows. “I… I have a massive meeting this afternoon! How am I supposed to get there?” “There’s a bike-share station on the corner. Wear a helmet.” I hung up. I found out later, via Piper’s friend who works as a dispatcher, that Stacy actually did show up at the local precinct. She apparently burst in like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, screaming about a stolen white Passat. The officer ran the plates. “Ma’am, the owner of this vehicle is a June Chen. Is that you?” “No! But I’m the one who drives it! She’s my… my brother’s ex-girlfriend! She took it without my permission!” The officer didn’t even look up from his computer. “So… the owner took her own car?” “Yes! I mean—no! I mean, I have a right to use it!” Stacy apparently stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish, while an elderly man waiting for a background check stared at her. “Ma’am,” the officer said, finally looking up. “A car owner disposing of their own property isn’t theft. If you have a civil dispute regarding a loaner agreement, take it to court. Next!” Stacy sat on the plastic chair in the lobby for five minutes, her face turning a deep, humiliated crimson. Then she walked out, pulled out her phone, and tried to scan a rental bike. First bike: Insufficient credit score. Second bike: Insufficient credit score. Third bike: Account suspended. She stood in the middle of a row of bikes, looking up at the sky as if waiting for a lightning bolt to strike me down. She ended up taking an Uber. When she arrived at her “business meeting”—which was actually a pitch for a mid-level multi-level marketing scheme—she was forty minutes late. The “investor” was already checking his watch. “Late start, Stacy?” “Traffic was… insane.” “You took an Uber? I thought you drove that Passat?” Stacy’s jaw tightened. “It’s… in the shop for detailing.” The meeting was a disaster. She left with a face that shifted between green and grey. That night, she posted on Facebook: Some people are so desperate for revenge they’ll even steal a car. Small-minded behavior at its finest. Two likes. One from her dad, one from Damian. I screenshort it. Added it to the Ledger. Piper watched me save the image and shuddered. “You’re acting like a ghost-hunter, collecting all this evidence. What’s it for?” “Nothing. Just documentation. Just in case.” “You’re scary when you’re done, June,” Piper said. “You hide the knives so well.” I didn’t answer. I swiped a notification on my phone. Account ending in 6173: Quarterly dividend of $2,340,000.00 has been deposited. I cleared the notification. Tomorrow, there was more work to be done. The Whitaker ATM was officially going into permanent “Out of Order” status. 4 The following day, I made three phone calls. At 9:00 AM, I called my insurance provider. “I’d like to cancel the supplemental health coverage on my policy. Not for me, for the additional insured.” “Certainly, Ms. Chen. Policy number? Ah, I see. You’d like to remove Mrs. Evelyn Whitaker?” “Correct.” “May I ask the reason?” “Personal reasons.” Done. Eight minutes. At 9:20 AM, I called the high-end spa in the suburbs. “I purchased a pre-paid annual membership for a Mr. Damian Whitaker Sr. I am the payer, June Chen. I’d like to request a refund for the remaining balance.” “Ma’am, memberships are usually non-refundable—” “Check Section 6 of the contract. The payer retains the right to freeze or refund the balance upon proof of payment. Just send the remaining funds back to the original card.” A brief silence while she checked with a manager. “Yes, we can do that. A refund of $14,600 will be processed in three to five business days.” At 9:40 AM, I called my bank. “I need to cancel an authorized user on my credit card. Her name is Stacy Whitaker.” “Understood. Please note that any pending transactions will be the responsibility of the primary cardholder until the next billing cycle.” “I’m aware. Close the entire account while you’re at it. I’ll open a new one.” Three calls. Forty minutes. Seven years of financial umbilical cords, severed in less time than it takes to get an oil change. I leaned back on the sofa in Piper’s office and stared at the ceiling. There was a water stain up there that looked a bit like a lopsided rabbit. Piper walked in with two coffees. She looked at my face and set the cups down. “Finished?” “Yeah.” “How do you feel?” “Like I just had a wisdom tooth pulled that’s been aching for seven years. It’s bleeding, but I can finally breathe.” ——– At 1:00 PM, the first bomb went off. Damian’s father was currently at the spa, halfway through a “Gentleman’s Executive Package”—a deep-cleansing facial and a botanical wrap. I’d paid for the whole year as a retirement gift. Piper heard the story later from a girl she knew who worked the front desk. Mr. Whitaker was lying on the heated table, eyes closed, steam drifting over his face. He was at peace. Then, a soft knock at the door. “Mr. Whitaker? We have a bit of a situation with your account.” “What situation?” he grunted, not opening his eyes. “The payer has requested a full refund and frozen the balance. We can’t continue with the service.” His eyes snapped open. He sat up so fast the botanical mask slid down his face and hung off his chin like a soggy beard. Half his face was covered in white cream; the other half was bare. He stood in the lobby, shouting loud enough for the entire spa to hear. “What do you mean she refunded it? It was a gift! It’s mine! She can’t do that!” The receptionist’s hand was shaking on the mouse. “Sir… the contract says the payer has the rights. Maybe you should call her?” He pulled out his phone. He looked at my name in his contacts and saw the last three texts he’d sent me—all of them insulting. His thumb hovered for a second. He deleted them. Then he called. I didn’t pick up. At 2:00 PM, the second bomb. Damian’s mother went to her local pharmacy to pick up her monthly maintenance medications—blood pressure and diabetes meds. With the supplemental insurance I’d been paying for, her out-of-pocket was less than twenty bucks. The pharmacist scanned her card. Then scanned it again. “Ma’am, your supplemental policy has been terminated. Without it, the total for today is $4,216.” Mrs. Whitaker’s hand froze on the counter. She had never worried about money a day in her life. First, her husband handled it, and then, for the last seven years, the bills just seemed to disappear. She didn’t even know what the insurance was; she just knew she scanned the card and got her pills. Four thousand dollars. She reached into her purse and pulled out a worn wallet. Three hundred in cash. A debit card with less than five hundred in the account. The line behind her was getting restless. “Ma’am? Are you taking them or not?” She tucked her wallet back in, lowered her head, and walked out without her medicine. At 3:00 PM, the third bomb. Stacy was taking a group of “influencer” friends out for Korean BBQ. By the end of the meal, the table was littered with empty bottles of soju and premium ribeye bones. Everyone was toastin “Stacy the Boss.” Stacy patted her stomach and waved the server over. “It’s on me, guys.” She pulled out the authorized user card and handed it over with a flourish. Two minutes later, the server returned. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This card was declined. It says the account is closed.” “Try it again.” The server came back. “Still nothing. The system says the card has been voided.” Stacy’s neck turned hot. Six sets of eyes were pinned on her. “Probably a… a bank error,” she stammered. She pulled out her phone to pay via an app. Her balance: seventy-three dollars and eighty cents. She tucked her phone away and took a sip of water. “Excuse me, guys—I need to take this call.” She walked out to the parking lot. The March wind cut through her thin shirt, and the sweat on her back turned to ice. She didn’t make a call. She just stood there for thirty seconds. And then she ran. She ran through the mall, her sneakers pounding on the pavement, and she didn’t look back. Her six friends sat at the table for another half hour before they finally realized she wasn’t coming back and split the bill among themselves. When Stacy got to the parking garage, she remembered. Oh, right. She didn’t have a car. She slumped against a concrete pillar, gasping for air. Her leggings were smudged with dirt. She called Damian. “Damian! That bitch June cancelled my card! I was at dinner—in front of everyone—and it got declined! I have seventy bucks in my name!” The other end of the line was chaotic. Her father’s voice drowned out Damian’s: “She even took my spa membership! They kicked me out with a half-finished facial!” And in the background, her mother’s voice: “I can’t get my meds… it’s four thousand dollars a month…” In the Whitaker living room, three voices were screaming in unison. And they were all screaming the same name. June. June. June. Then Damian’s phone rang. The caller ID: June. The room went silent. His father froze. Stacy swallowed hard. His mother peeked out from the kitchen. Damian took a shaky breath and hit “Accept.” He put it on speaker. “June, you—” “Damian.” My voice was clear, every word measured. “You wanted a breakup. I respected that. But now that we’re over, I can no longer justify managing your family’s affairs. I paid the rent. I bought the car. I covered the insurance. I funded the memberships. Tell me—are those things yours or mine?” No one spoke. “Seven years,” I continued. “You dumped me seven times. Do you have any idea how many times your father insulted me? Do you know how much money Stacy ‘borrowed’ and never paid back? Do you know what your mother’s premiums cost every year?” Damian’s breathing was heavy. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “You don’t. Because you never asked. You only knew one thing: that I wasn’t on your level.” I paused. “So, give it a try. Try a life where I’m not there. See who pays the seven-thousand-dollar rent. See who covers the four thousand in medical bills. And the next time you’re kicked out of a spa mid-facial, remember your own words: ‘Finally cut the dead weight.’” “June—” Damian’s voice broke. He used that tone—that mix of vulnerability and sweetness that had worked on me for seven years. “Are you just doing this to—” “No.” I cut him off. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m not trying to force you to apologize. I’m not waiting for you to come crawling back. I am actually done. You asked for this. I’m just being a good listener.” I hung up. After the call ended, my hand shook. It wasn’t fear. It was the seven-year habit of caring, screaming one last time before dying. I stared at the screen for three seconds. Five. Then I flipped the phone over. Piper walked over and squeezed my shoulder. “Come on. Your flight is at 8:00 AM tomorrow. Let’s get you to San Francisco.” I nodded.

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