Category: English

I am an eternal. I was born with a curse of gold. Every person who has ever tried to kill me for my fortune has only succeeded in making me richer. My net worth is measured in billions, a staggering, icy mountain of numbers that means absolutely nothing to me. Because the truth is, I’m exhausted. I have been murdered in a thousand different ways across centuries. I have no desire to keep going; the light at the end of the tunnel has always been a mirage. To break the cycle of immortality, the rule is simple but impossible: I must find someone who loves me and does not care for my money. After lifetimes of searching, I thought I had finally found him. He didn’t want my money. That much was true. But as it turns out, he didn’t love me either. Instead, he held a scalpel, and he used it to open me up. … I was lying on a cold, stainless steel surgical table. Above me, the reflective surface of the surgical lamp acted like a morbid mirror, showing me the gore of my own opened chest. Another death to add to the tally. New cause of death: +1. But this time, the pain was different. It wasn’t just physical; it was a piercing, psychological agony that reached deep into my marrow. The sensation of my flesh being peeled back was so intense I couldn’t even find my voice to scream. I gritted my teeth, forcing the words out as I looked at Nathan. “Is it money?” I wheezed. “You know I have more than I could ever spend. Just give me a number. I’ll give you everything. Just stop.” Nathan shook his head. His hand trembled as he reached out to stroke my hair. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. His tears fell fast, splashing onto my cheek, but they felt utterly devoid of warmth. “I don’t want your money, Maren,” he whispered. “It’s you I love. The wealth… it was just a nice bonus. But it’s you. It’s always been you.” I let out a wet, ragged laugh. My limbs were twitching uncontrollably from the shock. He hadn’t used a single drop of anesthesia before he slid the blade into me. He had told me he was going to harvest my organs, one by one. He was going to drain every drop of my blood. And he called this love? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. If he wanted me dead, why couldn’t he just make it quick? “Nathan, please. If you don’t want the money, tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you. Anything. Just… give me a clean kill. Don’t torture me under the guise of ‘loving’ me.” Nathan remained unreachable, his expression a mask of tragic devotion. He just kept insisting he loved me. I didn’t understand where that love was supposed to be—until five minutes later, when the doors to the OR swung open. Another gurney was pushed in. On it lay a young woman. She was beautiful, with skin like porcelain and a face that looked peaceful in her medically induced sleep. They parked her right next to me. I watched, fading, as my blood was siphoned out of my veins and tubed directly into her body. Then, a team of specialized, silent surgeons began to work on her. She looked gravely ill. As they opened her up, I saw the state of her internal organs—withered, failing. One by one, they began to remove her dying parts and replace them with the healthy ones they were taking from me. The realization hit me like a physical blow. This was his plan. I froze, a single tear escaping the corner of my eye. “Who is she?” I choked out. Nathan didn’t answer immediately. He was looking at the woman with a gaze so tender it made my stomach turn. “Nathan! Answer me!” He snapped out of it, reaching down to take my hand. He told me the truth then, his voice steady and clinical. “Her name is Valerie. We were high school sweethearts. We spent three years sitting at the same desk, planning our lives, promising to get married the second we graduated college.” He paused, his eyes clouding over. “But life is cruel. Right after graduation, she was diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder. Within five years, her organs began to atrophy. They’re failing, Maren. All of them. There is no cure in the world.” He looked at me with a terrifying kind of clarity. “I couldn’t just stand by and watch her vanish. I couldn’t lose the person who defines my entire youth. So, I found another way.” I stared at him, my mind reeling. “A disease with no cure… and you think swapping my organs into her will work? If it were that simple, wouldn’t a doctor have suggested it years ago? Why wait until now?” Nathan understood the logic. He turned his head, his gaze dropping onto me with a cold, detached intensity. After a long silence, he sighed. “Maren, I know your secret.” He leaned in closer. “I know you’re an eternal.” His words sent a chill through me that outstripped the cold of the OR. It explained everything. He didn’t love my money, but he didn’t love me either. I had thought this life would finally be the one to break the curse, but I had failed again. Nathan’s coldness was breathtaking. Even as he watched me being dismantled, he stood there calmly, stroking my palm with his thumb as if we were having a quiet night in. My entire body revolted against his touch, the pain pulling me toward the brink of a blackout. But Nathan wasn’t finished. He kept talking, narrating the epic tragedy of his life with Valerie. “I took her everywhere. I saw every specialist, every healer. There was no hope. Valerie suffered so much; she cried in my arms more times than I can count. Only I truly understand her pain.” “I promised her I’d save her. I swore I’d find a way. I can’t live in a world without her, Maren. She’s the sun. Without her, my world goes dark.” “When I found out what you were, I had this… premonition. A feeling that you were the answer. You were the one who could change our destiny.” So that was why there was no anesthesia. That was why he had played the part of the perfect partner for three years. Every “I love you,” every shared meal, every quiet moment—it was all a long con to gain my trust so he could harvest me like a crop. How could he? I let out a raw, animalistic scream. For the first time in centuries, I lost my composure. I lashed out, cursing him with every breath I had left. I was used to death—it was the white noise of my existence—but I couldn’t swallow this. I would have preferred it if he had just been a common thief. The double weight of the betrayal and the physical agony pushed me into a state of delirium. My body began to seize, my limbs twisting in a gruesome, unnatural way, but Nathan held me down with a firm, steady grip. He kept talking, trying to soothe me with words that were nothing short of monstrous. “Just hold on, Maren. Just a little longer. I know you’ve done this a thousand times. You’ve seen every kind of pain there is. This is just one more. You can handle it.” “You’ve been looking for a way out of your immortality, right? Well, I’m helping you. You help me save Valerie, and I help you end this ridiculous cycle. It’s a win-win.” “You save her, and I’ll help you finish this. I’ll keep loving you, in a way. I’ll remember you forever. You’ll live on through Valerie. Isn’t that a beautiful way to continue?” I looked at him through a red haze. The pain was so sharp I bit through my tongue, spraying a mouthful of blood across my lips. Nathan, seemingly afraid I would kill myself before the harvest was complete, didn’t hesitate to shove his own hand into my mouth for me to bite on. “It’s okay, Maren. Shh. I’m right here. Just stay with me. The doctors said the organs take better if the donor isn’t sedated. It ensures the ‘vitality’ transfers. It’s going to be over soon.” For a split second, the way he held me—the tenderness in his voice—felt like I was on a delivery bed, and we were about to welcome a child into the world. But it was a hallucination. A sick, twisted lie. I let out a jagged, hollow laugh, the last of my faith in humanity curdling into ash. I bit down on his hand as hard as I could and spat blood into his face. “If you know what I am,” I hissed, “then you should know what happens when someone takes the flesh and blood of an eternal. I’m warning you, Nathan. Stop this now. You cannot handle the consequences.” Then, the darkness finally took me. I don’t know how long I was under. When I woke up, I was submerged. I have died and returned countless times. Usually, twenty-four hours after the lights go out, I claw my way back. I’ve woken up in morgue lockers, in shallow graves, in the damp filth of sewers. As long as the world keeps spinning, even if I were burned to a stray atom, I would reform. This time, I was in a large glass vat filled with formaldehyde. My hollowed-out body was soaking in it like a bath, my cells slowly knitting themselves back together. I couldn’t move yet, but I could hear. Nathan’s voice drifted over, cold and clinical. He was standing nearby. He leaned over the vat to look at me. In the reflection of his pupils, I saw what I had become. It was horrific. My five-foot-seven frame had shriveled, curled into a ball of raw muscle and bone. I didn’t even look human anymore. Every usable organ was gone. They all belonged to Valerie now. Nathan sounded satisfied. There was a lilt in his voice I had never heard before. “She shouldn’t be able to come back from this, right? Not in this state. There’s nothing left but a skeleton and a head. There’s no fuel for a resurrection.” The surgeon, a man who clearly lacked a soul, nodded. “I doubt it. She’s not even viable for scientific study at this point. So, the remains…” Nathan didn’t hesitate. “To be safe, cremate what’s left. Scatter the ashes to the four winds. I want to make sure she stays gone. That’s the only way Valerie can safely inherit the estate.” The doctor was apparently a jack-of-all-trades—organ harvester and body disposer. They chatted about my disposal as if they were discussing what to do with a stray dog. Once my fate was settled, they moved on to Valerie’s recovery. Nathan’s tone turned ecstatic. “The eternal’s organs are incredible,” he whispered. “I thought she’d have a long, painful rejection period. But she was sitting up the next morning.” “More than that,” the doctor added. “The integration is seamless. Her healing rate is off the charts. She’s… vibrant. It’s astounding.” “We’ve already talked,” Nathan said, his voice bright. “In three days, we move to the next step.” The next step? He hadn’t mentioned a next step. I wanted to hear more, but Nathan’s phone buzzed. It was Valerie. Her voice came through the speaker—soft, sweet, and full of life. She wanted a strawberry cake. She was hungry, her appetite was back, and she sounded perfectly healthy. Nathan sounded like a man possessed by joy. “You little glutton,” he teased. “You just get your life back and all you want is cake?” Valerie giggled. “There are other things I want, but since you aren’t here, I’m trying not to think about them…” Nathan smiled, the kind of smile he used to give me. “I’m coming over now. Why don’t you start thinking about exactly what you want? Hmm?” Listening to them, my heart—or the space where my heart used to be—turned to ice. My body began to regenerate faster. Something was punching through my raw chest, cell by cell, knitting together a new heart. I felt a ghost of a smile pull at my lips. I could feel the rhythmic thrum of a pulse. The heart that had loved Nathan had been cut out and thrown into another woman. It took the love and the heartbreak with it. This new heart? It didn’t feel anything for him. No pain. No love. Only a cold, calculating desire to see the results of his “miracle.” I waited in that vat for hours, watching my body fill out. Thirty minutes before the doctor was scheduled to come and take me to the crematorium, I shattered the glass and stepped out. When the doctor found the empty vat, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. He scrambled for his phone, his voice shaking as he called Nathan.

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In this house, excellence was my scarlet letter. It was a simple, twisted rule of physics: because my younger sister, Bella, was perpetually stuck in second place, the universe had to bend to accommodate her fragility. My mother, terrified of bruising Bella’s ego, funneled everything—designer clothes, the best snacks, the leaked exam prep sheets—directly to her. When the semester finals were posted, I was Valedictorian material. Again. Bella locked herself in her room and wept for three days. My mother, too busy coaxing her out with hot cocoa and promises, forgot my eighteenth birthday entirely. The day after, my mother walked into the principal’s office and reported me. She claimed I had hacked into her laptop—she was a teacher at our school—and stolen the test answers. She told them my ranking was built on fraud. I tried to explain. I begged her to look at my study notes. But she just waved a dismissive hand, her voice airy and detached. “A mother reporting her own child? That is the ultimate proof, Norah. Who would doubt me when I’m sacrificing my own flesh and blood for the sake of integrity? Don’t waste your breath.” She leaned in, her eyes hard. “Just admit it. Make your sister feel better. Let the whole family have a peaceful New Year.” Fine. If my words held no weight. Then perhaps my life would be heavy enough to tip the scales, Mom. 1 School let out late for the winter break. My little farce of a scandal didn’t last long before the holidays swallowed it whole. I chose a good day to die. On New Year’s Day, the city hosts a massive fireworks display over the river. Leaving this world amidst the noise and the light seemed poetic. The headlines would be spectacular. That morning, my parents were bustling around, preparing the annual “Merit Bonus”—our family’s twisted version of a holiday allowance. Every year, Bella got more. I got less. I wasn’t looking forward to the ritual. But today, Mom announced a change. The envelopes would be distributed strictly based on academic performance. I looked at her with skepticism. She doubled down, emphasizing that this was about “absolute fairness” and that the “unfortunate cheating incident” wouldn’t be counted against me here, since the school hadn’t officially expelled me yet. I was surprised. A little elated, even. On my very last day in this house, I was finally going to earn the reward that belonged to me by right. It felt like a small mercy before the end. With a trembling hand, I opened my velvet box. Inside, sitting in the center of the plush lining, was a single, rusted penny. I froze. I turned my head to look at Bella’s box. In front of her sat a thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. Ten thousand dollars. My throat felt like I’d swallowed glass. “Mom… you mixed up the boxes.” Mom was holding her phone up, recording Bella’s reaction for Instagram. She didn’t even look at me. “No mix-up.” “You get first place every time because of talent, Norah. And that talent? Your father and I gave you that. It’s genetic.” She zoomed in on Bella’s teary, happy face. “But Bella’s second place? She stayed up all night crying and studying for that. She fought for it.” “Effort is the only thing worth rewarding.” I watched them—the picture-perfect mother and daughter posing with the cash. The blood drained from my face. I couldn’t process her logic. Did I not try? The only difference was that Bella liked to nap during class and then performatively burn the midnight oil at home, making her struggle visible. “Oh, stop with the funeral face. It’s a holiday,” Mom snapped, suddenly looming over me, arms crossed. The impatience in her eyes stung worse than the slap. “Haven’t you had enough glory at school?” ” The Honor Roll certificates, the scholarships, the trophies—when have you ever gone without? And now you come home and want to fight your sister for a little pocket money?” I closed my eyes, taking a steadying breath. “Mom, it’s not about the money…” “I think it is,” she cut me off, her voice ice-cold. “You are so selfish. You want to monopolize everything. You want the honor, you want the praise, and now you want to snatch this joy from Bella too?” “Did you see how late Bella stayed up? Four in the morning!” “And you? You come home, listen to your French tapes, and you’re asleep by eleven.” “What makes you think you deserve the same as her?” My explanation came out in a rush, desperate and jagged. “That’s not true, Mom. I don’t waste a single minute during the day. I study through lunch, I use every break between classes, I—” “Enough!” “Don’t stand there and brag about your natural gifts. If you hadn’t selfishly absorbed all the nutrients in the womb, maybe Bella would be the one in first place.” “Let me tell you something, Norah. The cheapest thing in this world is effortless intelligence.” I clenched the rusty penny until the copper edge cut into my palm. Mom turned her back on me, her voice instantly softening into honey as she addressed Bella. “Bella, honey, go try on that new red dress. Your Aunt Sarah is coming over later. Let’s make sure you look stunning.” “Okay!” Bella chirped, gathering her stack of cash. As she skipped past me, she shot me a quick, victorious smirk. 2 We had a tradition of a big family dinner on New Year’s Day. By early afternoon, the house was full. Bella, radiant in her new designer dress, flitted through the crowd, collecting compliments like flowers. Only Aunt Sarah noticed me sitting in the shadows. “Why is Norah so quiet? It’s a party, honey. Why the long face?” The room went silent. All eyes pivoted to me. Mom laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, she’s just having a tantrum.” She recounted the story of the Merit Bonus in a few sentences, shaking her head at the end. “That child, her heart is so small. The school just gave her a brand new laptop for her mid-terms—even with the cheating allegations, they let her keep it.” “And she comes home and fights Bella for cash. She says we’re unfair.” I couldn’t help it. “I didn’t cheat.” Aunt Sarah laughed, trying to smooth things over. “Norah, listen to me. Your mom is doing this for your own good. Getting caught cheating now is a blessing. Better to learn the lesson now than during SATs.” My aunt chimed in, “You used to get first place without cheating, Norah. Why go down this crooked path?” “Your sister is always second, but she never looks for shortcuts. You should learn from Bella.” My uncle sipped his tea, looking sage. “Let’s say you didn’t cheat. Fine. Even if you got first place on your own, you should still let your sister have the money.” “You earn rewards and praise at school. Bella earns them at home. That’s fair. Stop being difficult.” My father and the other relatives nodded in agreement. “Norah is just too calculating.” “You know how these academic types are… arrogant.” The chorus of voices was indifferent and piercing. Fair? The weights Mom had placed on my side of the scale all these years were lighter than that rusty penny. When I was ten, I won Gold in the State Writing Contest. The committee gave me a heavy, gold-plated medal. Bella, who had placed Honorable Mention, was upset. She demanded my medal. I gave it to her. Five minutes later, she tried to throw it in the trash compactor. I tackled her to get it back. Bella fell. She screamed like she was being murdered. Mom came running, scooped her up, and screamed at me. “Why can’t you just let her play with it? It’s just a piece of metal!” “I worked hard for that! She tried to throw it away…” “Win, win, win. That’s all you care about!” She cut me off. “Can’t you just let your sister be happy for once?” The next day, sitting on the most prominent shelf in the living room, was a crystal trophy. The engraving read, in swirling script: To Bella, The World’s Best Girl. At twelve, I placed in the Math Olympiad. The school gave me a hardbound set of classic literature. Bella wanted to read them. I lent them to her. She dog-eared the pages and used markers to draw on the text. Heartbroken, I hid the books on top of my wardrobe. When Mom found them, she mocked me for being stingy. The next day, three different sets of Encyclopedia Britannica, leather-bound with gold leaf, appeared in Bella’s room. Fourteen. Sixteen… Every time, my hard-won honors became the justification for Bella receiving a grander gift. It was as if my excellence was an active assault on my sister. An injury that required financial compensation. I wondered, quietly, what kind of fairness I would receive after I died. 3 Dinner was lavish. The round table groaned under the weight of the dishes. “Hey,” Mom spun the lazy Susan until the poached shrimp were in front of me. “Pass this to your Aunt Sarah.” I reached out. “Hey, the sauce,” Dad pointed to the condiment caddy near my elbow. I slid it over silently. “Hey, get another pair of serving forks. These fell on the floor,” Mom commanded. I got up, went to the kitchen, and retrieved a clean pair. I sat back down, placed the forks on the turntable, and spun it gently to the center. Across the table, my five-year-old cousin, Sophie, stared at me for a long time. Then, she tilted her head, her voice ringing out with the pure, brutal curiosity of a child. “Cousin… do you not have a name?” The dining room went dead silent for a second. The glass in my hand trembled. Shame, hot and liquid, flooded my chest. “Sophie! Don’t be rude!” Aunt Sarah quickly covered her daughter’s mouth, smiling awkwardly at me. “Kids say the darndest things. We live out of state, she hasn’t seen you in forever.” My other aunt ruffled Sophie’s hair. “Of course your cousin has a name. It’s Norah. Like… like ‘ignore-a’ without the ‘ig’. Just kidding! It’s a lovely name.” I lowered my head, a bitter smile touching my lips. Mom didn’t seem bothered at all. She waved her hand. “She’s just a baby. It’s cute.” The conversation moved on. Laughter resumed. Everyone thought it was just a funny little interlude. An innocent misunderstanding. Only I sat there, my hand shaking so hard I couldn’t lift my forks. Because I knew Sophie wasn’t wrong. In this house, I truly didn’t have a name. It started the year Bella took the high school entrance exams and came in second. Again. She locked herself in her room and cried all afternoon. After hours of coaxing, she told my parents why. She had heard classmates talking. “People only remember the name of the person who came in first. Nobody cares about second place.” My parents, heartbroken by her tears, made a decision. From that day on, the name “Norah” was erased from our household. They called me “Hey.” They called me “Big Sister.” They called me “You there.” At first, I fought it. “Mom, my name is Norah.” Mom would frown, annoyed. “Why are you so difficult? It’s all the same. You know I’m talking to you, don’t you?” “The school PA system announces your name every day. Isn’t that enough for your ego?” Her sarcasm made it impossible to argue. So, I got used to turning my head at “Hey.” I got used to being a transparent entity, a pronoun instead of a person. Because remembering the winner hurts the loser. So my existence had to be blurred out. Laughter surrounded me. Glasses clinked. But I was freezing. The pity in little Sophie’s eyes… I don’t think I would have forgotten it, even if I lived to be a hundred. “Hey, why aren’t you eating?” Mom’s voice. I looked up. She was frowning at me, impatient. This time, I didn’t answer. It didn’t matter. Soon, my name would be in every newspaper in the city. People would remember it then. 4 As the time for the fireworks approached, the living room became a chaotic flurry of coats and boots. “Norah, are you really not coming?” Aunt Sarah asked one last time. I shook my head. “She wouldn’t dare,” Bella whispered as she laced up her boots. “Half the school will be at the plaza. She’s afraid of the shame.” Mom’s hands paused as she wrapped her scarf, but she said nothing. The door clicked shut. The voices faded down the hallway. I sat in the silence. I opened my laptop and scheduled the post explaining everything. I set the timer. Then, I walked out into the night. The closer I got to the river, the louder the explosions became. The sky was stained with violently changing colors—neon greens, burning oranges. Beautiful and fake. Cheers drifted from the distant plaza. The dark water of the river churned beneath my feet, reflecting the carnage in the sky. There were fireworks in the water, too—broken, shimmering, like a parallel world celebrating something I couldn’t see. Running from one noise to another. It seemed fitting. I gripped the railing. I didn’t hesitate. I vaulted over. The sound of my body hitting the water was swallowed by a thunderous boom overhead. The cold was instantaneous. It wrapped around me like a shroud. As I sank, the air in my lungs burned away. In those final moments, a memory flashed—vivid and bright. I was three years old. I had brought home my first “Good Job” sticker from preschool. Mom, young and beautiful, put down her papers. She scooped me up, burying her face in my neck, kissing me. “Our Norah is so smart! My wonderful girl!” She did love me, once. But we had both forgotten that a long time ago. Darkness took the rest. When consciousness returned, I was floating. It turns out, the soul survives. The realization made me want to laugh, but I had no voice. I drifted. Not long after, my body washed up on a shallow bank, wedged between jagged rocks. A night jogger found me. He screamed. He called 911. He flagged down others. “It’s a student. Wearing a uniform.” “Oh god, on New Year’s Day…” “Pull her up! Is she breathing?” “She’s gone. Look at her face…” The news spread through the crowd like a virus. More people gathered. Hovering in the air, I saw them. Mom and Bella. “What’s happening over there?” Mom asked a bystander. “Think a student jumped in the river. They pulled her out, but she’s dead.” “They said she’s wearing a Prep High uniform. Terrible. The pressure at that school is insane.” Mom frowned. Genuine worry and teacherly concern washed over her face. “Prep High? Did she have a fight with her parents? Who kills themselves on a holiday?” She muttered to herself, anxious. “I hope it’s not one of my students…” Bella tugged at her hand. “Mom, let’s go. It’s freezing.” “Wait.” Mom pulled her hand away, pushing toward the crowd. “I need to check. If it’s one of mine…” She pushed past one person, then another. “Excuse me. Let me through.” “I’m a teacher at the high school. It might be my student…” The crowd parted for her. She walked closer. Until she could see the body on the muddy bank, half-covered by a silver thermal blanket. Mom stopped dead.

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My husband thought seventy-dollar tins of premium baby formula were a luxury we couldn’t afford. For months, he’d insisted on feeding our daughter nothing but watered-down rice cereal and thin vegetable mash. The result was heartbreaking. At fourteen months old, Sophie was a ghost of a child—sallow-skinned, lethargic, weighing barely twelve pounds. I had spent two months secretly scrimping and saving, taking on extra data-entry shifts late at night just to buy four cans of high-end imported formula to get some nutrients into her fragile body. But when the delivery box arrived and I opened it, the premium tins were gone. In their place were four plastic bottles of cheap, sugary fruit juice. Fuming, I pulled out my phone to demand an explanation from the seller. That’s when I saw the notification. My widowed sister-in-law, Brooke, had just posted on Instagram. There they were. My four tins of premium formula, lined up neatly on her marble kitchen island. The caption read: “So grateful for my amazing brother-in-law. Ryan knows Hunter is at that critical growth stage at four years old and went out of his way to send over this imported gold. He’s more of a father to my son than most biological dads could ever be. Blessed. #FamilyFirst #BestUncle” Seconds later, a private DM popped up from her. It was a photo of a receipt for a prestigious private piano academy. “Hey babe, tell Ryan thanks again for me. He pulled some serious strings—and spent a fortune—to get Hunter into Mr. Sterling’s masterclass.” I stared at the total on the receipt: $38,000. The blood in my veins turned to ice. My daughter was starving, and my husband was financing a four-year-old’s concert pianist dreams. The front door groaned open. Ryan walked in, tossing a box of generic government-subsidized nutrient supplements onto the table. His face was set in that familiar mask of weary irritation. “I picked these up for the kid,” he said, his voice clipped. “Maybe if she eats these, she’ll actually put on some weight and you’ll stop complaining.” I looked at the box. In bold letters, it said: FREE GOVERNMENT ASSISTANCE – NOT FOR RESALE. … It was a slap in the face. We already had boxes of these in the pantry—donated by a local clinic—but he never bothered to notice. He just wanted the credit for ‘providing.’ “We don’t need those, Ryan,” I said, my voice trembling. “Fine. Suit yourself.” He snatched the box back, his tone turning frigid. “You’re the one who said no. Don’t go blaming me later when you’re crying about her being thin.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the guest room, slamming the door. I didn’t even get a chance to ask him why our daughter’s survival was currently sitting in Brooke’s pantry. The next morning, I walked into the living room to find Ryan and Brooke already perched on the sofa like a pair of high-court judges. Ryan didn’t even look up from his coffee. “Natalie, sit down. We need to talk. Your spending is out of control. Since Brooke has a background in corporate accounting, she’s going to handle our household finances from now on. She’s here to walk you through the new monthly budget.” Brooke produced a leather-bound planner with a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. She cleared her throat, sounding every bit the professional auditor. “Natalie, honey, you’re just too impulsive with money. Starting this month, your total household allowance is capped at $250. You’ll submit every single receipt to me for reimbursement. If the expense isn’t ‘essential,’ I won’t approve it.” She began reading from a list of draconian rules. “Daily groceries cannot exceed $10. Generic brands only—no organic, no name-brands. Toiletries and feminine products must be under $5 per pack. You get one clothing purchase a month, not to exceed $30. Absolutely no snacks, no Starbucks, no ‘treats.’” She paused, tilting her head. “Also, Sophie is over a year old now. She can eat what we eat. So, no more specialized formula and no more brand-name diapers. If she gets sick, you bring the medical bill to me for ‘review’ before I release the funds…” “Enough!” I hadn’t even brushed my teeth yet, and I was being told how many tampons I was allowed to buy. My fists were clenched so tight my nails drew blood. “I don’t accept this. This is insane.” Brooke’s eyes immediately welled up. She dropped the planner onto the coffee table, her lower lip trembling. “Ryan, I told you I shouldn’t have stepped in. Look at her… she’s so ungrateful. I’m just trying to help your family stay afloat, and I get treated like a villain.” Ryan’s face darkened instantly. “Natalie, drop the attitude,” he barked. “Brooke is a CPA. Don’t question her expertise. A family needs a solid fiscal foundation to survive the long haul.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. “A fiscal foundation? Ryan, you’re worried about a $250 allowance for your own wife and child, yet you just dropped thirty-eight thousand dollars on Brooke’s son’s piano lessons? How is that ‘solid fiscal planning’?” “Are you seriously jealous of Brooke again?” Ryan groaned, his expression full of disgust. “I’ve told you a thousand times. My brother is gone. Brooke is a single mother struggling to survive. I am simply doing my duty as a man to look after them.” “She’s struggling?” I pointed toward the bedroom where Sophie lay sleeping. “Our daughter is fourteen months old and weighs less than a healthy infant. She’s sallow and weak. Does she not count as family?” “That’s enough!” Ryan stood up, his voice booming. “Stop being so hysterical. If Sophie is thin, it’s because of you. If you hadn’t insisted on working those stupid freelance gigs while you were pregnant, maybe she wouldn’t have been born two months premature. You’ve been a subpar mother from day one. If you put half the effort Brooke puts into Hunter into our daughter, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” I stared at him, the man I had loved for seven years, and felt a coldness settle into my bones. We had met in college. I had given him every cent of my inheritance to start his tech firm. When he told me the startup failed and we were a million dollars in debt, I didn’t hesitate. I spent my entire pregnancy eating plain toast and canned beans to save money. I worked until my back felt like it was breaking, right up until the night I went into labor early. I had sacrificed my body, my career, and my sanity for him. And this was the return on my investment. The “negotiation” ended there. Ryan left with Brooke, presumably to go house-hunting for her “noble” new life. I sat on the sofa for a long time, the silence of the apartment ringing in my ears. The tears came slowly at first, then in a flood. I wasn’t just crying for the money; I was mourning the seven-year lie I had been living. A sharp, thin wail from the bedroom broke my trance. I ran in to find Sophie. When I picked her up, my heart nearly stopped. She was burning—radiating a heat that felt like a furnace. I rushed her to the ER. The diagnosis was severe pneumonia. The hospital stay and the immediate treatments would cost over five thousand dollars. I didn’t have fifty. I called Ryan, my hand shaking as I held the phone to my ear. “Ryan… Sophie has pneumonia. She needs to be admitted. I need the money for the deposit.” His voice came through the line, bored and dismissive. “It’s just a cold, Natalie. Don’t be so dramatic. Give her some Tylenol. Besides, Brooke handles the accounts now. You have to clear it with her.” I heard Brooke’s voice in the background. She took the phone. “Pneumonia? Send me the digital copies of the lab results and the doctor’s credentials. I’ll need to verify the necessity of the admission. Give me three days to audit the request.” “Three days?!” I screamed into the phone. “She’s burning up! She can’t wait three days!” “Mommy! Uncle Ryan! Look! The pirate ship is going so fast!” It was Hunter’s voice, joyful and loud. They were at a theme park. “Look,” Brooke said, her voice dropping to a chilly whisper. “If you’re going to be difficult and refuse to follow the protocol, then the expense is denied. Don’t call back.” Click. I stood in the sterile hospital hallway, shaking with a rage so violent it felt like a physical seizure. The billing department was hovering. Desperate, I scrolled through my contacts until I hit a name I hadn’t called in years. I swallowed the pride that had kept me silent for so long. “Hi… it’s Natalie. I… I need five thousand dollars. Please.” Five minutes after I hung up, a notification flashed: Transfer Received: $50,000. I stared at the zeros, sobbing so hard a nurse had to lead me to a chair. Ryan didn’t call for three days. Not once. He only showed up after Sophie was discharged. Brooke was trailing behind him, carrying two pathetic bags of bruised grocery-store fruit. “Hey, honey,” Brooke said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Ryan’s been so swamped helping Hunter get settled into his new private preschool. He felt terrible about missing the hospital stuff, but you know how it is—family duties.” I looked at Ryan. I felt nothing but a deep, churning nausea. Ever since his brother died, our home had become a secondary thought. He fixed Brooke’s lights, he mowed Brooke’s lawn, he attended Brooke’s parent-teacher conferences. We were just the roommates he subsidized. “Watch the baby,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m going downstairs to get some things.” When I returned thirty minutes later, I walked into a nightmare. Sophie was on the floor, vomiting violently, her little face turning a terrifying shade of gray. “What did you give her?!” I screamed, dropping my bags and rushing to her. Brooke pointed toward the kitchen, her expression a mix of smugness and feigned innocence. “Oh, I saw those potatoes in the pantry were starting to sprout. Such a waste! I mashed them up with some milk for the little one. She actually ate quite a bit. See? She’s not picky if you just feed her.” My brain felt like it exploded. “Those were in the ‘to be tossed’ bin! They were sprouting! They’re toxic!” “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Brooke rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “A little sprout never killed anyone. You’re just looking for reasons to be wasteful. No wonder Ryan says you’re a spendthrift. Honestly, with the way you throw money away, it’s a miracle Ryan has anything left.” Looking at her smirking face, something in me snapped. The years of repression, the hunger, the gaslighting—it all condensed into a single point of white-hot fury. I lunged at her, my fingers clawing for her face. But Ryan caught me. He shoved me back with enough force to send me reeling. “Natalie! Stop it!” he bellowed. “Brooke was just trying to help! She was trying to save us money because she knows how hard I work! If Sophie is sick, it’s because she has a weak constitution. You’re the one who made her this way!” “It was just a few potatoes,” he continued, his eyes cold and full of contempt. “She’ll throw up and be fine by morning. Stop making a scene. Brooke and I have to take Hunter to his Taekwondo grading. Grow up and take care of your daughter.” He didn’t even glance at the child heaving on the floor. He walked out, following Brooke. I didn’t waste another second. I gathered Sophie and raced back to the hospital. It wasn’t “just a stomach ache.” It was severe solanine poisoning. Because she was already so malnourished and weakened from the pneumonia, her body couldn’t fight it. She slipped into a coma and was rushed to the ICU. The next day, I went back to the apartment to grab a change of clothes. Ryan and Brooke were there, sitting at the dining table, going over spreadsheets. “Oh, look who decided to show up,” Brooke said, her voice sharp. “Ryan was looking at the insurance portal. It says the claim for the pneumonia was filed for five thousand, but the reimbursement check for two thousand was sent to your personal account. Where is that money? You need to hand it over.” I stared at her, stunned. “Hand it over? To you?” “It doesn’t matter where it came from,” Ryan said, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “Any money in this house is marital property. And since Brooke is managing our wealth, it goes to her. It’s for the ‘family fund.’” “Wealth?” I spat the word like it was poison. “There is no wealth, Ryan! You told me we were in debt! And that money is for Sophie’s medical bills! She’s in a coma! The ICU costs thousands a day!” “Natalie, stop with the horror stories,” Ryan snapped, standing up. “It was a potato. She’s probably just sleeping it off and you’re milking it for sympathy because you hate that I’m helping Brooke. You know I’m struggling to dig us out of the hole my business left, and yet you still have this obsession with spending.” He walked over, grabbed my phone out of my hand, and used my thumb to biometrically unlock it. “Ryan, don’t!” He ignored me, navigating to my banking app. His eyes widened. “Thirty thousand dollars? You’ve been hiding thirty thousand dollars in a private account while I’ve been killing myself to pay our bills?” “That’s the loan I took out to save our daughter’s life!” I screamed, lunging for the phone. He shoved me away. I tripped, my forehead slamming against the sharp corner of the sideboard. I felt the warm prickle of blood immediately. “See?” Brooke chimed in, her voice hushed and toxic. “I told you she was siphoning money. She’s been lying to you this whole time, Ryan. She’s probably been skimming off the grocery money for years.” Ryan didn’t even look at the blood dripping down my face. He initiated a transfer of every cent in that account to Brooke’s ‘management’ firm. “This is for your own good,” he said, tossing the phone onto the sofa. “You clearly can’t be trusted.” They left together, the door clicking shut with a finality that felt like a coffin lid. That night, Brooke posted again. A photo of a dazzling blue diamond pendant against her skin. “A $35,000 ‘thank you’ gift from my favorite person. He saw me stressed and insisted I have something pretty. So lucky to have a man who knows my worth. #BlueDiamonds #Protected” I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. That was Sophie’s life-support money. That was my daughter’s breath, hanging around Brooke’s neck. But then, I saw a comment that made the world stop spinning. It was from one of Ryan’s old college buddies: “Damn, Brooke! Ryan’s getting cheap, isn’t he? His last tech exit netted him forty million. A thirty-five-thousand-dollar necklace is pocket change for a mogul like him!” Brooke’s reply was almost instantaneous: “Shh! Delete that! Don’t let the ‘wifey’ know. She still thinks he’s broke and in debt. If she knew he was worth nine figures, she’d spend him into the grave in a week!” The room tilted. Forty million. Nine figures. Every skipped meal, every freezing night because we ‘couldn’t afford’ to turn up the heat, every moment I spent agonizing over the price of a gallon of milk… it was all a game. A sick, sadistic psychological experiment to keep me small, hungry, and compliant. I started to laugh. A jagged, broken sound that turned into a retch. When the shaking finally stopped, I picked up my phone and dialed that number again. My voice was a rasp of cold iron. “I’ll do it. I want the divorce.” “But I don’t just want him gone,” I whispered into the dark. “He hid everything. He let our daughter starve while he sat on millions. I want him stripped bare. I want him in the dirt. I want him to watch while everything he built turns to ash.” Sophie’s ICU bills were covered by an anonymous donor—my uncle—and she was moved to a private wing with the best specialists in the city. But she was still far from safe. I went back to the apartment one last time to get my legal documents. I was barely inside when Ryan stormed in, his face contorted with rage. “Natalie! You bitch! Brooke’s car was keyed in her driveway tonight. Was that you? Did you hire someone to do that?” Before I could even answer, Brooke followed him in, her arm wrapped in a dramatic, unnecessary bandage. “Natalie, how could you? It’s just a necklace! Are you really that petty? I’ve lost my husband, I’m all alone, and you’re trying to destroy the only joy I have left? Can’t you just be the bigger person?” I looked at the tiny scratch on her arm, then at Ryan’s furious face. My daughter was fighting for her life in a sterile room, and they were here playing ‘Suburban Victim.’ “It’s a shame the car didn’t hit you instead,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Maybe next time I’ll have better luck.” “Natalie!” Ryan stepped toward me, his hand raised. “I don’t even recognize you. You’ve become so incredibly cruel.” “Ryan, she’s out of control,” Brooke whispered, clutching his arm. “She’s dangerous. Hunter is terrified of her. You know, Hunter’s new Doberman, Zeus, is being trained as a guard dog. Maybe Natalie needs a night in the kennel with Zeus to learn some humility. To remember who actually provides for her.” Ryan looked at her, then back at me. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. “That’s a great idea, Brooke. A little ‘time-out’ to adjust your perspective.” “Ryan, that dog is a monster,” I said, my heart starting to race. “It’s been trained for aggression.” “He’s just a puppy, Natalie. Barely six months old,” Ryan said, his voice devoid of any warmth. “He won’t kill you. But he’ll certainly make sure you stay in your place. Consider it a lesson: Brooke is the head of this family now. You don’t cross her.” He grabbed me by the arm, his grip like a shackle. He dragged me out of our apartment and into the backyard of the house next door—the house he had bought for Brooke with my inheritance money. He shoved me into the gated kennel area and locked the heavy iron bolt. As he turned to leave, Brooke leaned against the gate. She pulled her collar down slightly to reveal a fresh, dark hickey on her neck. “You really are a loser, Natalie,” she hissed so only I could hear. “When you’re gone, your husband is mine. Your house is mine. Your money is mine.” She smiled, a sharp, predatory look. “And don’t worry about that pathetic daughter of yours. I’ll make sure to ‘take care’ of her just like I did with the potatoes…” I lunged at the bars, screaming, but she just laughed and walked away. I turned around. In the shadows of the kennel, three full-grown, red-eyed Dobermans—not one puppy—slowly stood up, their low growls vibrating in the air.

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I was lying in bed, the heavy swell of my pregnancy weighing me down, doom-scrolling through local news on my phone, when a push notification slid across the top of the screen. [Local Breaking News: Green-wood Heights Wife-Killer Apprehended. Suspect brutally stabbed his pregnant wife to death after she refused intimacy.] My thumb hovered over the screen. A cold drop of unease landed in my stomach. I tapped the notification. The timestamp on the article was dated tomorrow. And the name of the murderer was my husband. I stared at the screen, convincing myself it was a glitch, a sick prank, some algorithm gone wrong. Then I saw the photo. It was our wedding picture. My face was heavily pixelated to protect the victim’s identity, but the man standing next to me, smiling that charming, practiced smile, was unmistakable. My heart hammered against my ribs, skipping a beat. At that exact moment, the bedroom door creaked open. My husband stood in the doorway. He licked his lips, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. “Hey, babe. I need you tonight.” 1 “Bennett… I—I’m not feeling great. The baby is kicking up a storm.” My voice trembled, fracturing under the weight of the headline burned into my retinas. Bennett’s smile didn’t drop, but it hardened. The warmth evaporated from his eyes, replaced by a sharp, jagged impatience. “Not feeling well? Again? What is it this time, Claire? What kind of drama are we playing at now?” I froze. Bennett never spoke to me like that. He was the picture of patience, the man who brought me ice water at 2:00 AM. Before I could stammer out a defense, he crossed the room in two long strides and seized my wrist. His grip was iron. “Is there someone else? Is that it? Is that why you have a new excuse every single night to keep me away?” I gasped, the pain in my wrist sharp and immediate. A dark, suffocating dread washed over me. The news article… it wasn’t a glitch. I scrambled backward, trying to kick myself off the mattress, desperate to put distance between us. But he was impossibly strong. He yanked me back, throwing me down against the sheets with a violence that knocked the wind out of me. My stomach hit the mattress. A blinding bolt of pain shot through my abdomen. Bennett didn’t even blink. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the nightstand. He grabbed the paring knife I’d used earlier to slice an apple. The metal was cool against the frantic pulse in my neck. “If you’re so unwilling,” he whispered, his voice devoid of humanity, “then I’ll just send you and that bastard child on your way.” The pain was white-hot. Warmth flooded my chest. I stared up at his face—twisted, unrecognizable—as the room began to dissolve into shadows. … My eyes snapped open. I bolted upright in bed, my lungs heaving, gasping for air like a drowning woman breaking the surface. I looked down. My chest was smooth. My skin was unbroken. My phone screen was still glowing in the dark room. The time had jumped back ten minutes. And then, the notification slid down from the top of the screen again. The bloody headline. Click. The bedroom door handle turned. The same face appeared. The same predatory smile. The same bone-chilling words. “Hey, babe. I need you tonight.” 2 This time, I didn’t fight. I forced my breathing to slow. I plastered a weak, apologetic smile onto my face and softened my voice to a whisper. “Honey, the baby is really restless tonight. I’m completely drained. Can we… can we take a rain check?” I thought gentleness might buy me time. A negotiation. But the contempt on his face arrived even faster than before. “That same old line. Claire, do you think I’m an idiot? Do you get off on playing me?” He stalked toward the bed, the obsession in his eyes dialing up to a fever pitch. “Claire, do you even love me anymore?” I didn’t get a chance to answer. He lunged at me like a feral animal. But I was ready. I rolled off the other side of the bed, landing heavy on my feet. He crashed into the mattress, grabbing at empty air. Humiliated and enraged, he snatched the paring knife from the nightstand. It’s over, I thought. I’m going to die again. He raised the knife, the blade catching the moonlight. In that split second, my eyes locked onto his hand—specifically, the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. There was a faint, jagged brown birthmark. My pupils dilated. Bennett didn’t have a birthmark there. The only person who had that mark was his twin brother. Cole. Bennett and Cole were identical physically, but that was where the similarities ended. Bennett was polished, successful, the golden boy. Cole was dark, erratic, a volatile recluse. I had always been terrified of him. Because their parents were deeply superstitious—believing twins brought bad fortune—Cole had been sent away to live with a grandmother in rural Pennsylvania. He didn’t come back until college. He wasn’t close to us. He wasn’t even close to Bennett. Why was Cole pretending to be his brother to kill me? And where was the real Bennett? A million terrifying questions misfired in my brain, but survival instinct took over. I tried to run. I wasn’t fast enough. The knife found its mark again. Precise. Fatal. 3 Third awakening. I didn’t wait. I launched myself out of bed, slammed the bedroom door, and twisted the lock. An instant later, the handle jiggled violently from the outside. My phone lit up. The nightmare notification arrived on schedule. “Babe, open the door.” I leaned my back against the wood, my heart hammering against my spine. My shaking fingers dialed Bennett’s number. It rang twice before he picked up. “Claire?” Bennett’s voice came through the speaker, warm but laced with exhaustion. Tears instantly flooded my eyes. “Bennett…” “I am so sorry, honey. We hit a crisis with the merger. I’m going to be stuck at the office late. Don’t wait up, okay? Get some sleep.” My heart plummeted into the icy pit of my stomach. The person outside the door was definitely Cole. A heavy thud shook the doorframe. Cole’s voice was losing the facade, becoming jagged and frantic. “Claire! Open this door! What the hell are you doing?” I spoke rapidly into the phone, barely whispering. “Bennett, listen to me. Whatever you hear, do not come home. Call the police! Send help now!” I hung up. I took a deep breath, faced the vibrating door, and screamed with everything I had left: “COLE!” The pounding stopped instantly. One second. Two seconds. Then, a sound like thunder. “How did you know?” The wood splintered. A massive crack appeared in the center of the door. He had a fire axe from the hallway. He swung it again and again, wood chips exploding into the room. Through the jagged hole, Cole’s eye stared at me, manic and cold. “Well, sister-in-law,” he laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “Since the cat’s out of the bag, I guess I can stop pretending. You die tonight.” 4 Fourth loop. I lay in bed, my body cold as marble. I had less than five minutes before Cole walked through that door. I forced the panic down. I needed a plan. I needed a weapon. But I was heavily pregnant; in a physical struggle for a knife, I would lose. He was stronger, faster, and unburdened by a nine-pound baby. My eyes darted around the room, landing on the vanity. In the bottom drawer, tucked behind my skincare, was a canister of pepper gel. I’d bought it months ago after reading about a robbery nearby. I moved fast. I grabbed the canister and slid it under the duvet, gripping it tight in my right hand. I didn’t lock the door. Instead, I walked over and cracked it open just an inch. I got back into bed, heart thundering. When Cole walked in, I didn’t wait for his line. I pulled the duvet down to reveal my shoulder, tilting my head, giving him a sleepy, inviting smile. “Honey, you’re finally home. I’ve been waiting for you.” Cole froze. He stood in the doorway, the script in his head malfunctioning. I sat up, letting the strap of my silk nightgown slip down my arm. I curled my finger at him. “What are you standing there for? Come here.” The suspicion in his eyes warred with something else. Lust. He walked to the bed, his guard dropping. He thought this was going to be easy. He thought he’d won. He leaned over me, his face inches from mine. I pulled the canister from under the sheets, aimed for his eyes, and depressed the trigger. “AHH! GOD! MY EYES!” The scream tore through the house. Cole collapsed onto the bed, thrashing, clawing at his face as the chemical burn set his skin on fire. Now. I rolled off the bed and ran. Adrenaline numbed the heaviness of my body. Hallway. Living room. Foyer. The front door. I grabbed the handle and twisted. Locked. I looked down. A heavy-duty padlock had been installed on the inside of the door. Behind me, the screaming had stopped. Heavy, stumbling footsteps were coming down the hall. “Heh… well played, Claire. You really… you really surprised me.” I froze. 5 I turned around slowly. Cole was leaning against the hallway wall, one hand covering his streaming eyes, the other steadying his swaying body. His face was a mask of red, inflamed skin. “Run,” he rasped, stepping into the living room light. “Why aren’t you running?” He laughed, a wet, ugly sound. “You thought a little pepper spray would stop me?” I looked at the padlock, hope draining out of me like water. “Cole, why?” I asked, backing away toward the kitchen. “Bennett is your brother. I’m your family.” I needed him talking. I needed a way out. “Brother?” Cole spat the word out. “When has he ever treated me like a brother? Since we were kids, he got everything. Mom and Dad’s love, the Ivy League degree, the career. And now? He gets you. The trophy wife.” His face twisted, ugly with decades of rot. “Why him? What does he have that I don’t?” “So you kill me? You think killing me gets you his life?” “Killing you doesn’t get me the life,” Cole smirked, wiping mucus from his nose. “But it destroys his. He’ll be the husband who snapped. The murderer. He loses his reputation, his freedom, everything. And me? I’ll finally watch him suffer while I spend his money.” I understood. This wasn’t just murder. It was usurpation. He wanted to wear Bennett’s skin. “You’re insane.” “Insane? You’re about to join the club.” He lunged. I screamed, dodging behind the kitchen island. We circled the granite countertop. But I was slow. Too slow. He cornered me against the floor-to-ceiling windows. There was nowhere left to go. The paring knife appeared in his hand again. “Stop struggling, Claire. Just accept it.” I stared at him. The proximity of death clarified everything. My mind sharpened into a diamond point. “Wait!” I shouted. “You think destroying him gets you his money? You idiot. Bennett’s company is underwater! The merger failed. The funding dried up. He’s on the brink of bankruptcy!” I was gambling. “If you take his identity now, all you’re inheriting is twenty million dollars in debt and a potential prison sentence for fraud.” I watched his face. He hesitated. “You’re lying.” “Am I? Why do you think he’s been up till 4:00 AM every night? Why do you think he’s so stressed? Check the financial news, Cole. It’s all there.” I was planting a seed. Doubt. It was working. The knife lowered an inch. Then, his pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone. He answered it, putting it on speaker without taking his eyes off me. A voice filled the room. A voice I knew better than my own. “Cole, is it done? Is she dead yet?” My world stopped. 6 The silence in the room was deafening. I stared at the caller ID on Cole’s screen: Bennett. Bennett’s voice was high-pitched, frantic. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Did you do it? Don’t forget the deal, Cole. Once she’s gone, the ten-million-dollar life insurance payout hits the account. We split it fifty-fifty. That covers the company’s debt and sets you up for life.” Cole hung up the phone. A slow, cruel grin spread across his burned face. “Hear that, Claire? Your perfect husband. He sold you out for a check.” “He planned the whole thing. He knows exactly what I’m doing. Hell, he gave me the key.” Something inside me shattered. It wasn’t the fear of death anymore. It was the total annihilation of my reality. Bennett. The man who rubbed my feet. The man who cried when we saw the ultrasound. He wanted me dead. He wanted our child dead. For money. That’s why the notification was real. Bennett was the murderer. He just outsourced the labor. The betrayal was so absolute it felt physical, like he had reached inside my chest and crushed my lungs. “Why…” I whispered. “Why?” Cole mocked, stepping closer. “Because he loves you, Claire. He loves you so much he couldn’t bear to do it himself. So he sent big bad brother Cole to do the dirty work.” He raised the knife. “You can die happy now. Your death saves the company. You’re a hero.” I looked at him. The tears dried up. The heartbreak calcified into something cold and hard. Screw love. If I had to crawl out of hell to drag them both down with me, I would do it. 7 Fifth loop. I didn’t cry. I lay in bed and waited for the knife. My enemy wasn’t just Cole. It was the two of them. A united front. I couldn’t fight them physically. I had to make them turn on each other. Cole arrived. I didn’t act. “Do it,” I said. He paused, confused by my resignation, but stabbed me anyway. Sixth loop. Seventh loop. Eighth loop. I used each death to study them. To perfect the timing. To analyze the cracks in their relationship. Bennett’s greed and paranoia. Cole’s inferiority complex and rage. Those were my weapons. Ninth loop. I was ready. Before Cole entered, I grabbed my phone. I sent an anonymous email to Bennett’s work address. Subject: Warning. Body: Watch your brother. He plans to keep the money for himself. I deleted the sent mail. I opened the voice recorder app and set it to record. The door handle turned. Cole walked in. Before he could speak, I cut him off. “You’re not Bennett. I know you’re Cole.” He blinked, stunned, then sneered. “So you know. Does it matter?” “I know you and Bennett planned this together. For the ten million dollars.” Cole flinched. He stepped forward, reaching for my throat. I held up the phone, screen facing him. “I’m recording.” He lunged, snatched the phone, smashed it onto the hardwood floor, and stomped on it until the glass was dust. “You think breaking the phone helps?” I said, my voice steady. “I set that recording to auto-upload to a cloud server. If I don’t enter a passcode in three hours, it gets emailed to my best friend, Harper. She goes to the cops.” “Guess who goes down for conspiracy to commit murder? I know you want to replace Bennett, let him take the fall. But think about it… before you walked in, did I record an intro? Did I send Bennett a message telling him I know about your side deal? If he thinks you’re a liability… do you really think he’ll let you live?” I laughed. It was a dark, jagged sound. “Your ending won’t be much better than mine.” Cole stopped breathing. He stared at me, and for the first time, I saw it. Fear. Not of the police. Of Bennett. “You…” He shook with rage, raising the knife. “Kill me,” I said, closing my eyes. “Kill me, and the email goes out. The recording drops. You both rot in prison. Or worse.” The knife hovered in the air.

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The Smith family was a den of vipers. To break Dominic and me apart, they drugged him, orchestrated a night of “accidental” passion with his socialite ex, and ensured she ended up pregnant with twins. When I found out, I packed my bags, but Dominic—shattered and desperate—begged me to stay. He swore he’d never see them. He told me the pregnancy had been “handled.” He even held a blade to his own wrist to prove he couldn’t live without me. I was young, I was in love, and I believed the lie. Three years later, the lie imploded at a kindergarten orientation. In a fit of blind rage and betrayal, I kept the twins behind after the event to confront the teacher about why Dominic’s name was on their emergency contact list. On their way home, they were snatched. Dominic didn’t ask questions. He didn’t look for evidence. He blamed me instantly. To force a confession I didn’t have, he took my mother—who had a failing heart—to the top of a pier-side drop tower. I screamed until my throat bled, telling him I didn’t know where they were. Dominic only roared back, his face a mask of predatory fury: “I’ve given you everything, Leah! Why would you touch those children? If you don’t tell me where they are, I’m letting her go!” He shoved her toward the edge of the platform. Her safety harness was unbuckled, flapping uselessly in the wind. I had no answers to give. In his cold, calculated hatred, Dominic finally pushed the button. My mother plummeted. Moments later, his phone rang. The kidnappers had been found. It had nothing to do with me. Without a glance at my mother’s broken, lifeless body, Dominic turned on his heel and ran toward his “real” family. While he was holding those twins, I was in a sterile hospital room, pulling a white sheet over my mother’s face. In that moment, the love I held for him didn’t just die. It rotted. … I stared at the white shroud covering my mother, my eyes so dry they burned. I had no tears left. The doctor stood beside me, his voice heavy with a pity I couldn’t stomach. “I’m so sorry. If she had been brought in just twenty minutes earlier… she might have had a chance. Her heart simply gave out from the sheer terror.” I dug my nails into my palms until I drew blood. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing my lungs. I should have left him three years ago. I could have saved her. My mother had treated Dominic like her own son since the day we married. I had only asked the teacher to keep the kids for ten extra minutes to talk. I didn’t kidnap them. But Dominic wouldn’t listen. He chose his “legacy” over my mother’s life. After making the arrangements for her body, I dragged myself back to the empty house we once called a home. Seven days. I told myself I only had to survive seven more days. Then, I’d take her ashes back to the coast, and Dominic Smith would become a ghost in my past. Dominic didn’t come home until the following evening. He didn’t notice my ghost-white skin or my hollow eyes. He just walked into the kitchen, radiating a cold, sharp bitterness. “Leah, I honestly can’t believe you,” he said, his voice a low hiss. “You were willing to watch your own mother go over the edge rather than tell me where those boys were. Do you have any idea what they went through? They’re still in the hospital because of you!” They’re in the hospital, I thought, the irony tasting like copper in my mouth. My mother didn’t even get the chance to be a patient. She went straight to the morgue. My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t breathe. I looked him dead in the eye, but only a raspy, broken sound escaped my throat. Seeing my distress, a flicker of something—regret? pity?—crossed his face. “Fine,” he sighed, reaching out. “As long as the boys are okay, Tiffany and I will find a way to move past this. I know you’ve been stressed taking care of your mom. In a few days, once things settle, I’ll take you away for the weekend. We need to reset.” He tried to pull me into the familiar curve of his chest, but I shoved him away with every ounce of strength I had left. “No… no more… taking care of her,” I croaked. My voice was a ruined thing; he couldn’t even understand the words. He frowned, his patience evaporating. “Stop acting out, Leah. You were in the wrong here. I’m staying at the hospital tonight to be with the kids. Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency.” He turned to leave, but his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, and his face went pale. Before I could move, he lunged forward, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip. “Get in the car. Now.” He didn’t care that I could barely stand. He dragged me through the hospital corridors like a piece of luggage. The moment we reached the private wing, Tiffany—the woman who had been a shadow over my marriage for three years—lunged at me. She slapped me so hard my head hit the linoleum wall. She wasn’t finished. She threw herself on me, screaming, clawing at my skin like a wild animal. Thinking of my mother, a spark of cold fire lit up in my gut. I tried to fight back, tried to push her off. Suddenly, Dominic’s hands were on me, pinning my arms to my sides. He held me still, letting Tiffany land blow after blow across my face. When he finally let go, I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air. Dominic looked down at me, his expression a complicated mess of guilt and resolve. “The twins are losing too much blood. Their levels are critical. Just let Tiffany vent, Leah. You owe her this.” I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. Tears finally began to fall. A doctor stepped out of the ICU. “We need the units now.” Dominic didn’t wait. He hauled me up and shoved me toward the technician. “She’s a match. Take whatever you need.” I struggled, my weak hands fluttering against his chest, but he pinned me down on the cot. I watched, detached from my own body, as the thick needle pierced my vein. Dominic stroked my hair, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly tender tone he used when he wanted to manipulate me. “It’ll be over soon, honey. Think of this as your penance. Once this is done, we can start over.” I closed my eyes tight, systematically erasing every memory of love I had ever felt for this man. After two bags, the world began to tilt. My head rolled to the side, but Dominic grabbed my arm, his voice tight with anxiety. “Doctor, they’re twins. Shouldn’t you take more? Just to be safe?” The doctor shook his head, looking uneasy. “Sir, if we take any more, she’ll go into shock. She could die.” Dominic didn’t hesitate. He shifted my arm, offering it up like a piece of meat. “She’s stronger than she looks. Do it.” I broke into a cold sweat, my voice a mere whisper. “Dominic… please… I had nothing to do with the kidnapping…” He just looked at me with profound disappointment. “Still lying, Leah? Even now?” They took two more bags. By the end, I was a shell. Dominic’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and he reached out to help me up. But then, Tiffany called his name from the ICU window, her voice trembling with manufactured terror. Dominic turned and ran to her without a second thought. I was left on a gurney in the hallway, discarded like a used bandage. Later, I was moved—not to a room, but to a small chair in the twins’ suite, effectively tethered there by my own exhaustion. Dominic’s parents arrived an hour later. His mother, a woman who wore pearls like armor, walked straight up to me and backhanded me across the face. “You animal,” she spat. “We knew you were low-class, but to target three-year-old children? You’re lucky we don’t have you arrested.” I was too weak to even flinch. I looked toward Dominic, expecting the man who used to defend me against his mother’s barbs to step in. He stood by the window, his hands trembling as he stirred a cup of broth for Tiffany. He wouldn’t look at me. His eyes, once full of a heat that could melt me, were now as cold as a winter morning in the city. “Just endure it, Leah,” he said quietly. “You brought this on yourself.” His mother let out a sharp, jagged laugh and kicked me square in the stomach. I felt a sharp, hot burst of pain, followed by the sickening sensation of warmth spreading between my thighs. As the world faded to black, the last thing I saw was Dominic’s face, finally breaking into an expression of pure, unadulterated panic as he ran toward me. When I woke up, I didn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t. I just listened to the voices in the room. “Maybe it’s for the best that the pregnancy didn’t hold,” Dominic was saying, his voice sounding hollow. “If she could hurt the twins like that before she even had her own child, imagine what she would have been like later.” “Let’s just pretend it never happened,” his mother’s voice replied. “Don’t even tell her. The Smith heir should come from Tiffany anyway. We were never going to accept a child from her bloodline.” A single tear escaped my closed eyelids. Did he ever love me? I wondered. Or was I just a three-year distraction? When the room finally fell silent and the footsteps faded, I opened my eyes. I reached down and touched my abdomen. It felt empty. Cold. I should have left years ago. One wrong decision had cost two lives—my mother’s and my child’s. I was staring at the acoustic ceiling tiles, lost in a trance of grief, when the door creaked open. Tiffany walked in, her “grieving mother” facade replaced by a sharp, triumphant smirk. “Leah Smith. Still breathing? You really are like a cockroach.” She walked to the side of my bed and pressed her thumb hard into the bruising on my arm where the IV had been. “Oops. My bad. But hey, a little bruise is nothing compared to a miscarriage, right? You weren’t fit to be a mother anyway. Think of it as a favor.” She started to giggle—a high, tinkling sound that grated on my raw nerves. With the last of my strength, I grabbed the heavy thermal carafe from the bedside table and swung it at her. It clipped her shoulder, spilling lukewarm water everywhere. Tiffany didn’t get angry. Instead, a look of predatory glee crossed her face. She deliberately threw herself onto the floor, knocking over a chair as she went. A second later, the door burst open. Dominic was there, his face contorted in rage. “Leah! What the hell are you doing?” He lunged at me, his hand connecting with my cheek so hard I tasted blood. He froze when he saw how pale I was, his hand trembling as he pulled it back. But Tiffany began to sob from the floor. “Don’t hurt her, Dominic! It was my fault,” she wailed, her voice thick with fake tears. “I just wanted to apologize. I thought… maybe she lost the baby because of the stress I caused. I wanted to make peace, but she…” She let out a broken whimper. “It’s fine. I deserve it for trying to be kind.” Dominic looked at me with a disgust so deep it felt like a physical blow. He reached down and gathered Tiffany into his arms. “I never knew how truly venomous you were, Leah. You aren’t half the woman she is. My parents were right about you from the start.” He turned and walked out, carrying her like a prize. I watched them go, laughing until the sound turned into a sob. You’re right, Dominic, I thought. We both made a mistake. You chose her, and I chose you. I was discharged a week later. When I opened the front door of our penthouse, I found Tiffany and the twins sitting in our living room. Dominic stood in front of them, blocking my view like a bodyguard. “The boys have severe trauma from the kidnapping,” he said, his brow furrowed. “They need stability. I’ve moved them in so I can look after them personally.” There was a challenge in his eyes, a silent dare for me to object. I simply nodded, my face a mask of indifference. Dominic blinked, caught off guard by my lack of fire. He reached out to grab my hand, a look of confusion flickering in his dark eyes. Before he could touch me, Tiffany stepped in, slipping her arm through his. “Dominic, if Leah isn’t comfortable, the boys and I can leave. We can stay at a hotel. It’s just… they’re so scared, and you’re the only person they trust right now.” She shot me a look of pure malice over his shoulder. I remained silent. Annoyed by my lack of reaction, Dominic snapped, “This is a Smith property. I decide who stays. If Leah has a problem with it, she can be the one to leave.” He watched me, waiting for the explosion. In the past, I would have burned the house down. I would have screamed until he chose me. Now, I just felt tired. “I’m just here for my documents, Dominic,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from miles away. “Sign the divorce papers and leave them on the desk. When you have a gap in your schedule between playing house, let me know. We can go to the courthouse and end this.” Panic flared in his eyes, masked instantly by bravado. “Fine! Go! See if any other man with my bank account wants a woman as cold as you.” Then, his voice dropped, turning manipulative again. “Look, once the boys are better, I’ll send them to the estate in the Hamptons. This will be our home again. Just give it time, okay?” He tried to pull me into an embrace. I pulled back, smelling nothing but rot on him. The man I loved was dead. This was just a walking, breathing corpse of a marriage. I went upstairs to my office. On the way, I saw the boys in the hallway. They had found the porcelain urn I had brought home from the funeral parlor. They had poured water into it and were using my mother’s ashes as “gray paint,” smearing it across the wallpaper. My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. I lunged forward. “You little monsters! Put that down!” The boys saw my desperation and grinned. Then, with a casual cruelty that could only be inherited, they smashed the urn onto the hardwood floor. I fell to my knees, frantically trying to scoop up the gray dust with my bare hands. The boys started jumping on it, their sneakers grinding my mother into the floorboards. I lost it. I shoved them back—hard. They fell, catching themselves on the sharp porcelain shards. They let out a synchronized howl of pain. Tiffany appeared instantly, her eyes wild with fury. “Leah! What is wrong with you? It’s just a jar! You pushed my children over a jar?” Dominic appeared behind her, his face darkening to a bruised purple as he saw the blood on the twins’ hands. I was still on the floor, weeping, trying to gather what was left of my mother. Dominic lunged forward and backhanded me. The world spun. I fell onto the broken porcelain, the shards slicing into my palms and knees. Dominic didn’t even look at my wounds. “You haven’t learned a thing,” he spat, his voice trembling with cold rage. “You need a lesson you’ll never forget.” He grabbed me by the collar and dragged me down the hall, throwing me into the windowless walk-in pantry. He slammed the heavy door and turned the deadbolt. I wasn’t let out until the following morning. The butler opened the door, his eyes full of disdain. “Get out. Mr. Smith says you’ve had enough time to think.” I stumbled out, clutching a small plastic bag containing the few ounces of ash I had managed to salvage. I had a flight booked for that afternoon. All I needed was my employment release from the preschool where I worked. When I walked into the Director’s office, she sighed heavily. “Leah, why did you have to cross Mrs. Smith? Dominic is a powerful man, and his family is everything to him. My hands are tied.” My heart gave a dull, familiar throb of pain. Because the Smiths never officially recognized me, I was still “Miss Susan” to the world. Our marriage was a secret they kept in a drawer. I just nodded, waiting for her to stamp the papers. Suddenly, there was a commotion in the courtyard. I walked to the window and saw Tiffany. She was standing in the middle of the playground, throwing handfuls of photos into the air. Behind her, two men were unfurling a massive red banner over the school entrance: [THANK YOU, MISS LEAH, FOR TAKING CARE OF MY HUSBAND’S NEEDS. I’M WILLING TO PAY THREE DOLLARS FOR YOUR NEXT SHIFT.] The parents waiting at the gates turned to look at me, their expressions curdling into disgust. The world began to tilt. I felt the bile rise in my throat. Tiffany saw me through the glass and raised her voice, her face twisted in a mocking grin. “This is the woman who tried to break up my family! Be careful, ladies. Don’t let your husbands come to pick up the kids. Miss Leah is always looking for a promotion.”

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Wyatt Montgomery was a titan of industry, a shark in the boardroom, and—to put it bluntly—an absolute disaster when it came to his choice in women. His track record was legendary for all the wrong reasons. Every woman he dated eventually turned into a high-maintenance hurricane, demanding his undivided attention and treating every other woman in his orbit like a threat to be neutralized. As his Chief of Staff, I’d spent years perfecting the art of being invisible. I kept our interactions strictly professional, never texted him after hours unless the world was ending, and navigated his personal life with the caution of someone walking through a minefield. It worked for five years. Until Callie Rivers entered the picture. We were in the middle of a twelve-billion-dollar merger. It was the kind of deal that defined a career. At 3:00 AM, I was staring at the final version of the contract, bleary-eyed and fueled by cold espresso. Wyatt’s final instruction before he left the office had been crystal clear: “I don’t care what time it is, Natalie. Call me the second the final draft is ready. I need to sign off before the 9:00 AM closing.” I dialed. He declined. I dialed again. Declined. Panic started to set in. If we missed the window, the whole deal would collapse. Desperate, I tried calling from my personal cell. This time, someone picked up. It wasn’t Wyatt. “Do you have any concept of boundaries?” a woman’s voice hissed. It was high, breathless, and sharp as a razor. “It’s the middle of the night. Why are you calling my man? Are you trying to seduce him, or are you just that pathetic?” Before I could get a single syllable out—before I could say ‘contract’ or ‘billions’—she hung up. Ten seconds later, I realized she hadn’t just hung up; she’d blocked my number. I sat in the silence of the empty office, fuming. I called the landline. No answer. I checked the company Slack. Wyatt was offline. I finally went home and crashed, figureing that if the world ended at 9:00 AM, at least I’d be well-rested when it fell on Wyatt’s head, not mine. Somehow, by some miracle or perhaps a massive concession on Wyatt’s part, the partners still showed up to sign. But just as we were about to put pen to paper in the boardroom, the door creaked open. 1 She slipped in like a wounded bird, her eyes rimmed with red, her bottom lip trembling. “Wyatt? Am I… am I interrupting something?” The room went dead silent. The investors looked at each other, confused. I felt the blood drain from my face. Wyatt looked mortified. “Callie, honey, go wait in my office. I’ll be there as soon as we’re done.” But Callie didn’t leave. She stepped further into the room, clutching a designer handbag like it was a shield. “I just wanted to apologize to everyone personally.” Before Wyatt could stop her, she turned to the table of executives and performed three deep, dramatic bows. “I’m so sorry for interrupting your meeting. But this is very important.” The lead investor’s face turned a shade of purple I hadn’t seen before. My colleagues stared at their laps, trying to phase out of existence. Callie, seemingly oblivious to the atmospheric pressure of the room, turned her tearful gaze on me. “Natalie, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said you were trying to seduce Wyatt when you called at 3:00 AM. I wasn’t being fair. I just… I love him so much, you know?” I stood there, frozen. “I’ve always been so insecure,” she continued, her voice rising in a shaky crescendo. “I’m just so scared he’ll realize he’s too good for me. I only acted out because I care. Please, tell me you forgive me!” I opened my mouth, but she didn’t wait. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just had to do what was right. Apologizing in front of everyone… it’s the least I could do.” The silence that followed was agonizing. I cleared my throat and leaned toward Wyatt, whispering, “Mr. Montgomery, perhaps your… guest… should step out so we can finalize the signature?” Wyatt caught my drift. “Callie, that’s enough. Go. We’ll talk later.” The tears, which had been simmering, finally boiled over. “Wyatt! Why do you listen to her more than me? I apologized like you asked! I believed you when you said it was ‘business,’ but I don’t understand. What kind of business requires a woman to call a man at 3:00 AM? It’s just the two of you… is that really appropriate?” She looked at me, then back at the room. “Are you sure you’re just ‘colleagues’?” The investors’ eyes shifted to me, heavy with silent judgment and sordid assumptions. I felt the heat crawling up my neck. I tried to pivot. “Mr. Montgomery, why don’t I take the partners through the product demo one last time while you… take a moment?” Wyatt looked at Callie, then at me. He sighed, a soft, defeated sound. He reached out and took Callie’s hand. “Fine. Natalie, take over. Callie, let’s go outside.” I thought the nightmare was ending. I was wrong. Callie ripped her hand away from his. “No! I thought I was overthinking it, but you’re just doing whatever she says now! If you love her, just say it! You don’t have to humiliate me in front of all these people!” I rubbed my temples. Humiliate her? She’d crashed a high-level closing, accused the Chief of Staff of being a homewrecker, and turned a billion-dollar deal into a soap opera. If anyone was being humiliated, it was the rest of us. I looked at Wyatt. He was a brilliant man, a shark who could sniff out a bad deal from a mile away. How was he falling for this? Maybe my face betrayed my thoughts, because Callie’s voice hit a pitch that could shatter glass. “Look at her! You’re both sitting there, exchanging looks! Don’t tell me there’s nothing going on!” 2 As his Chief of Staff, I was well aware that Wyatt had a ‘type.’ I didn’t judge; I didn’t want his job, and I certainly didn’t want his bed. My motto had always been ‘Observe and ignore.’ But after being screamed at at 3:00 AM and having my professional reputation set on fire in front of the board, my capacity for ‘respectful observation’ had reached its limit. The deal didn’t happen that day. The investors walked out, their expressions ranging from disgusted to pitying. As I saw them to the elevator, one of them leaned in and whispered, “Is Montgomery really the one running this company, or is he just a figurehead for the circus?” I couldn’t even defend him. I was too exhausted. When I got back to the lobby, Wyatt was still trying to soothe his crying girlfriend in front of the entire staff. “Callie, I swear, it’s just work,” he pleaded. “Natalie is my assistant. That’s why we talk. It’s strictly professional.” Callie clung to his arm, sobbing into his blazer. “I don’t care! If she has to be ‘near’ you all the time, then she has to go! Let me be your assistant. I’m the only woman who should be allowed near you! All these other vultures… they just want what’s mine!” I felt a wave of nausea. A vulture? I’d worked eighty-hour weeks to keep his empire afloat, and now I was a vulture? I tried to slip past them toward the freight elevator. I just wanted to go upstairs, pack my bag, and maybe scream into a pillow. I didn’t make it two steps. “Natalie Miller!” Callie barked, her tear-streaked face suddenly cold. “Wyatt said starting tomorrow, I’m his only assistant. You can pack your things. You’re done.” I looked at Wyatt. Honestly? I was halfway hoping he’d say yes. The severance package for five years of high-level service would be enough for me to disappear to a beach in Mexico for at least eighteen months. I waited for the ‘God of Layoffs’ to bless me. Wyatt frowned. He didn’t look at me; he looked at Callie. “Callie, don’t be impulsive. Natalie is highly skilled. She beat out fifty other applicants for this role. I can’t just fire her.” Callie’s eyes began to well up again. Wyatt immediately buckled. “But… okay. Tell you what. You can be my assistant. I’ll move Natalie to a different department. How does that sound?” Her face cleared instantly. “Fine. As long as she’s nowhere near you.” 3 Wyatt told me I could pick my own department. On paper, my title changed. In reality, nothing did. Because his ‘new assistant’ was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. I was still doing the heavy lifting, just from a different floor. To preserve my sanity, I chose a desk in the farthest corner of the Operations department, three floors down from the executive suite. But the peace didn’t last twenty-four hours. Most of my high-level files were encrypted, requiring Wyatt’s personal authorization. My new terminal was locked out. I pulled up my phone to message him, then hesitated. I didn’t want to trigger another 3:00 AM meltdown. I called HR instead. “Hey, Sarah? Could you ask Wyatt to grant admin permissions to my new workstation? I’m dead in the water without them.” Sarah, who knew exactly why I’d been moved, sighed sympathetically. “I’m on it, Natalie.” I waited. I scrolled through some industry news. I grabbed a coffee. I knew Wyatt and Callie were probably playing house in his office, and I was fine with waiting as long as I was getting paid by the hour. But by 5:30 PM, the permissions still hadn’t come through. I couldn’t leave my work unfinished; the whole supply chain was waiting on my clearance. I walked up to the executive floor and knocked on the door. Of course, Callie opened it. “You again? How many times do I have to tell you to stop throwing yourself at him?” I didn’t blink. I raised my voice so Wyatt could hear me inside. “Mr. Montgomery, did you get the message from HR about my server access?” Before Wyatt could answer, Callie shoved me. Not hard, but enough to be an insult. “Messages? You’re just making up excuses to talk to him. He told me you were professional, but you’re just a stalker in a blazer.” That was it. My patience snapped. I shoved back. I wasn’t trying to hurt her—I actually held back because she looked so fragile—but I wanted her out of my personal space. Predictably, she played it for all it was worth. Callie stumbled back, her hip clipping the edge of Wyatt’s mahogany desk. She let out a gasp that sounded like she’d been shot. “You… you’re so violent! Wyatt! Help! She hurt me!” Wyatt rushed over to catch her as she ‘collapsed.’ He shot me a look of pure irritation. “Natalie, just get out! Leave!” I felt my heart turn to ice. “Fine. I’m going. But before I ‘roll’ out of here, listen carefully. I asked HR to tell you four hours ago that I need server permissions to do my job. It’s now the end of the day, and I’ve done nothing. If those permissions aren’t granted, do I stay home tomorrow, or do I come in and collect my salary for scrolling through TikTok?” Wyatt looked confused. “I never got a message from HR.” Callie, clutching her hip, piped up. “Oh, Wyatt, I saw you were so stressed earlier. When you went to lunch, I took your phone and logged your Slack and email onto my laptop so I could ‘help’ you filter out the junk. I saw some message from Sarah in HR, but it didn’t look important, so I deleted it.” Wyatt’s face went pale. It was the first time I’d seen him look at her with anything other than adoration. “Callie… Natalie’s work is the bottleneck for five different departments. If she stops, the company stops. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Seeing him upset, she started to tear up. “I just… I thought she was trying to get to you again. I was trying to protect us!” 4 I didn’t even have the energy to scream. I just pulled out my phone and sent Wyatt a direct message. “There. The request is in your inbox. Again.” I took a deep breath. “Because of this delay, I’m going to have to stay late to finish the audit. I’ll be submitting the overtime request via the portal. Please make sure it’s approved. Along with the holiday pay, since tomorrow is a weekend.” I turned and walked out before she could start another scene. I went back to my desk, fuming, but I started working. I couldn’t let the whole company’s progress stall because of a jealous girlfriend. About an hour into my focus, Callie appeared at my cubicle. She was holding a bowl of grapes. “Natalie, just go home. Stop working.” I didn’t even look up from my screen. “If you don’t leave, Wyatt won’t leave,” she said, her voice dropping that fake sweet tone. “He’s tired because of you. Stop being so selfish and dragging him into your overtime.” I ignored her. She pulled up a chair and sat down. For twenty minutes, she regaled me with the ‘epic’ story of how she and Wyatt met at a gallery opening. It was mind-numbing. “Callie,” I finally snapped, “don’t you have work to do?” She blinked, looking hurt. “What?” “If you actually care about Wyatt being tired, go help him with the filing or get him some dinner. You sitting here distracting me only makes this take longer. The longer I’m here, the longer he’s here. Basic math.” Her face twisted. “You… you think I’m useless, don’t you? You think I’m not good enough for him.” I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. “Natalie Miller, you are so mean! I’ve tried to be nice! I brought you grapes! And you just humiliate me!” She stood up, her face red with rage. I reached for my phone to call security, but she was faster. In a fit of pique, she swept her arm across my desk. My laptop, my monitor, my coffee mug, and my heavy glass paperweight went flying. The coffee—a full, large latte—splashed directly into the floor-mounted power outlet. There was a loud POP, a shower of blue sparks, and then total darkness. The entire floor went black. My computer screen flickered once and died. I stared at the spot where my desk used to be, then at Callie, who was silhouetted by the emergency lights. “You really hate this company, don’t you?” I whispered. “That was the only copy of the audit.” Wyatt came running out of his office a moment later. “What happened? Why is the power out?” Before I could answer, Callie let out a blood-curdling wail. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to!” “Shut up and think for once,” I snapped. Suddenly, a thick, acrid smell filled the air. Below the desk, the power outlet wasn’t just shorted—it was glowing. A small flame licked up the side of the cubicle wall. “Fire!” I shouted. Before I could grab the extinguisher from the hallway, Callie grabbed the large jug of water from the cooler. “I’ll fix it! See? I can help!” “Callie, NO! It’s an electrical fire!” She didn’t listen. She dumped five gallons of water directly onto the flaming power strip. The explosion was deafening. A massive arc of electricity threw her backward. The sparks hit the acoustic ceiling tiles, and within seconds, the flammable material was roaring. The fire alarms began to scream, and the overhead sprinklers failed to trigger. The hallway was already filling with black smoke.

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“Professor Davis, is this some kind of power trip?” On the very first day of the new semester, Madison tagged me in the massive class GroupMe for the entire junior cohort: “Connor skipped class all semester, and you gave him a final grade of a C-minus. I sat in the front row every single day, and you gave me a D-minus? Just because I’m a woman?” I pulled up the university grading portal. Madison’s raw score on the final exam was a 42. Terrified she would fail the course entirely, I had maxed out her participation and attendance points to 100, dragging her final grade up by the skin of its teeth to a 60—a D-minus. Connor, the slacker she mentioned, had scored a 98 on the brutally hard final. Because I gave him a near-zero for his nonexistent participation, his final grade averaged out to exactly a 70. A C-minus. I typed my reply in the group: [Those are indeed your accurate final grades.] Madison fired back immediately.[Professor, this isn’t just favoritism anymore. This is textbook, internalized misogyny. You’re an academic pick-me!][I’m going straight to the Dean’s office to file a formal complaint. I am getting the real grades back for every girl in this class!] 1 Academic pick-me. The words sat on the screen, feeling like a physical slap across the face. I taught Advanced Calculus. Right after the finals finished last semester, I had flown straight to Germany to lead a panel at an international teaching symposium. I didn’t get back to the States until right before the new term started. It was only when I sat down to grade the finals that I realized the disaster. The exam had been drafted by a new, notoriously rigorous adjunct professor from the East Coast. It was sadistically difficult. I couldn’t alter the raw exam scores. All I could do was desperately pad their participation grades to keep their GPAs afloat. And yet, my quiet grace had somehow been twisted in Madison’s mouth into a weapon of the patriarchy. I took a deep, steadying breath, pushing down the rising heat in my chest. [Madison,] I typed.[Per university policy, if you dispute your grade, you have one week to submit a formal review request to the Registrar.][However, be aware that once a formal audit is initiated, the final exam will be regraded, and your participation score will be strictly recalculated based on actual attendance logs and homework submissions.][If the audited grade is lower than your current grade, you will bear the consequences.] The group chat went dead silent for three seconds. Then, an audio message popped up from Madison, her voice dripping with condescension: [Oh, are you threatening me now?][Everyone in this chat knows the syllabus. The final grade is 70% exam, 30% participation.][I checked my answers against the key right after I walked out. I got at least a 95 on that test!][But my final grade is a 60!][Which only means one thing—Professor Davis gave me a zero for participation!][@ClassPresident @StudyGroupLead: Was I not in the front row every single lecture? Did I not turn in every single assignment?][A model student with perfect attendance gets a zero for participation! And the guy who skips all semester gets a passing grade!][Professor Davis, are your grading rubrics based entirely on what’s between our legs?] 2 I stared at the cascade of notifications. The blood was throbbing at my temples. Part of me wanted to screenshot her actual, miserable exam sheet and drop it right into the group chat to end this once and for all. But professionalism pulled me back from the ledge. Student grades are protected by privacy laws. With a heavy sigh, I opened a private direct message with Madison and sent her a screenshot of her portal breakdown. [Madison, stop posting in the main chat.][Your raw exam score was a 42. I gave you 100% on participation just to drag you across the passing line to a 60.][Connor scored a 98 on the final. I gave him a 5% for participation.][If you trigger a formal audit, the Registrar will see that you missed two lectures. They will not let you keep the 100% for participation. Your final grade will automatically drop to an F.][If you fail, your academic scholarships and your grad school recommendations are gone.] I hesitated, watching the cursor blink, before adding one last warning.[I also happen to know that the internship offer you secured at the consulting firm requires a spotless transcript for onboarding. No failed classes.][If you fail, that offer is automatically rescinded.] [Think carefully before you do this.] 3 I set my phone face down on the desk. I thought that would be the end of the tantrum. Less than ten seconds later, my phone violently vibrated against the wood. Madison had screenshot our private messages and dumped them straight into the 300-person cohort chat. “Look at this, guys! Professor Davis is trying to use my internship offer to blackmail me into shutting up!” “She even photoshopped a fake transcript! She’s trying to say I only got a 42!” “If I hadn’t checked my answers with the rest of you, I might have actually believed her. Even if I didn’t get a 95, I easily scored a 90!” “And the funniest part? She claims Connor got a 98! Too bad for her, I sat right behind Connor during the final! He wrote for thirty minutes, put his head down, and slept the rest of the time! He’d be lucky to get a 30!” The second Madison’s message landed, a “witness” eagerly jumped in.[I can vouch for that! I was in the same testing hall as Connor. Madison is telling the truth!] 4 With a witness backing her up, the chat exploded.[Holy shit, there’s a witness?] [Then what the hell did Connor actually score…][Wait, did Professor Davis actually photoshop a transcript?] Madison tagged me again.[Do you see this, Professor?] [A guy who slept through more than half the exam magically gets a 98?] [Do you really think everyone in this cohort is stupid?] The tide turned instantly. The digital mob had found its rhythm. [Yeah… that literally makes no sense.][@ProfessorDavis, can you explain your grading metrics? I’m a girl, I came to every class, and my final grade was super low too!][Beware the academic pick-mes! Tearing down other women’s futures just because she hates herself!] Fueled by the validation, Madison went in for the kill.[Thank you guys so much for standing with me! This has been so incredibly unfair!][Today she’s using grades to hold me down. Tomorrow she’ll be holding our diplomas hostage! We work our asses off for our degrees, why should we let some misogynistic academic fraud step all over us?!][Ladies, light up the Dean’s phone lines! We need to get her fired!] 5 I stared at the screen, reading the venomous, entirely fabricated reality Madison had just constructed. My heart felt like it had been plunged into ice water, then pulled out and smashed against the concrete. Seven years. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine the little girl I had been secretly sponsoring for seven years would turn out like this. I started anonymously funding Madison when she was in the eighth grade. Her father had been paralyzed in a factory accident, and her mother had eventually left to remarry. A local non-profit had sent me her file. In the attached photograph, she was a tiny, painfully timid girl, carrying a defensive, cornered-animal look in her eyes that no kid that age should have. It broke my heart. I set up a recurring monthly transfer of five hundred dollars. She didn’t text the proxy number often, but whenever she did, the messages were so heartbreakingly earnest. Big Sister, the money is enough. Please don’t send more. Big Sister, I made the top fifty in my grade. Big Sister, when I get to college, I want to meet you and say thank you in person. Eventually, she was accepted into the exact university where I taught. To keep the pressure off her, I never revealed my identity. I just kept communicating through my burner phone. She had no idea that “Professor Davis” was her “Big Sister.” Our paths shouldn’t have crossed. Until last year. The original Calculus professor for her cohort went on emergency maternity leave. I was pulled in as a temporary substitute. 6 I recognized Madison in the very first lecture. She sat in the front row, playing a game on her phone. Her nails were meticulously manicured—the kind of intricate acrylics that cost at least a hundred and fifty dollars at a high-end salon. At first, I chalked it up to wanting to fit in. But week after week, she sat in the front row, phone in hand. Between classes, I’d overhear her chatting with the girls behind her. “I literally waited three months on a waitlist for these shoes.” “We went to that new omakase place downtown. It was like two hundred a person, but honestly, just okay.” Her Instagram was a highlight reel of expensive brunches and aesthetic travel spots, always accompanied by the same caption: A girl’s gotta treat herself. Meanwhile, on my burner phone, the texts came in rapid succession. Big Sister, textbooks are three hundred this semester. Big Sister, I need a hundred for the mandatory lab equipment. Big Sister, the deposit for the grad school prep course is eight hundred. I transferred the money every single time. I knew she was vain. I knew she was putting on a show. But I told myself that she was a young woman with a traumatic childhood, desperate to blend in with her affluent peers. Then I heard the whispers among the other students. They all thought Madison was old money, a wealthy heiress keeping a low profile. I had considered cutting off the sponsorship. But seven years is a long time. I figured I would just see her through to graduation. Let the story have a proper ending. This year, as a junior, she couldn’t land a decent internship. She cried to “Big Sister” over text. My heart softened, one last time. I pulled a massive favor with a friend and got her an internal referral for an internship at a top-tier firm. My friend had been blunt. “I’ll take her, but the company has strict rules. If an intern fails a class—even if they pass the makeup exam—the offer is void.” 7 The memory fractured and dissolved. The group chat notifications were pinned at 99+. Drunk on the power of the crowd, Madison issued her final ultimatum. [Professor Davis, playing dead won’t work!][Are you scared now? Too late!] [You want me to let this go? Fine.][First, you add an immediate 20-point curve to my final grade, and to every other girl’s grade in this class!][Second, you send one hundred voice memos to this chat, apologizing one by one. You admit you are a misogynist, an academic pick-me, and unfit to teach!][Miss even one, and I send a zip file of these screenshots to the board of education, the ethics committee, and every local news station!] [I will make sure you never work in academia again! Make your choice!] I read the lines of text. The sheer, blinding audacity burned away the last lingering traces of my patience and my pity. Instead of panic, a cold, quiet laugh slipped from my throat. I tapped the screen, my fingers steady and deliberate. [No need.][I have just submitted a formal request to the Dean and the Registrar. Tomorrow morning, we will initiate an official, fully transparent audit of your Calculus grade.] 8 The chat flatlined. A few agonizing seconds passed. Madison’s reply popped up. The tone was still aggressive, but the cracks of panic were visible in the syntax. [Oh, so you finally stopped hiding?][Audit me! You think I’m scared of you?!][My raw score is over a 95, you can’t photoshop your way out of this!] I didn’t send another word. I powered off the phone. Madison, you chose this road. Tomorrow, I hope you have the spine to carry the fairness you just begged for. 9 The next morning, before I even pulled into the faculty parking lot, the university’s PR director called me, her voice shrill with panic. “Harper, have you checked Twitter?” I froze, pulling up the app. Trending at number nine: #UniversityProfessorForgesGradesToThreatenFemaleStudent I clicked the hashtag. It was a sprawling, multi-paragraph post from Madison, painting herself as a martyr for women’s rights in STEM. She spun a narrative of a brave student standing up to a corrupt, male-pandering professor who artificially suppressed women to elevate men. The post wouldn’t have gained much traction on its own. Except, several students from my class had quote-tweeted it, using their real names to corroborate her story.[I’m in Professor Davis’s class. Her relationship with Connor isn’t just academic. I went to her office hours once, and through the door, I could hear him literally whining like a kept boy.][The funniest part is how cold she is when she calls on anyone else, but the second she looks at Connor, she’s practically undressing him with her eyes!][If you know, you know. They’re definitely sleeping together.] 10 The internet had caught fire. The comments were a mob of absolute rage, demanding the university fire me immediately and mandate a massive grade curve for the entire class. But as I sat in my car, I was paralyzed by a profound, agonizing confusion. I had mentored this cohort for a year. I stayed late for office hours, I practically rewrote their resumes, I fought to get them resources. Just last month, I had cashed in every ounce of goodwill I had in the corporate world to secure every single student in that class an internal referral code for Cole Enterprises. It was the most coveted, impossible-to-get internship in the country. I was planning to announce it to them as a surprise this week. Why would they do this? Why would they follow Madison into such a blatant, easily disprovable lie? My chest felt tight, the air thinning in the car. My phone buzzed. It was a private text from the class representative.[Professor Davis, I’m so sorry. Last night, Madison posted on her private story saying her fiancé is Harrison Cole, the CEO of Cole Enterprises. People believed her.][She called everyone in the class individually. She told them if they helped her get you fired, she would guarantee them all internships at Cole Enterprises.][I swear I didn’t join in on the rumors, but I was too scared to stop them…] 11 The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I clicked over to Madison’s Instagram. A carousel of nine photos. The sprawling gardens of the Cole estate in the Hamptons. Two Rolls Royces in the driveway. A candid side-profile of Harrison Cole driving. And a heavily blurred shot of his passport. The caption read: My Mr. Cole. Unless you lived in that house, there was absolutely no way you could get those photos. The comment section was flooded with my students.[Holy shit Madison, your fiancé is the CEO of Cole Enterprises???] [Harrison Cole?? Are you serious??] [Girl, you kept that so quiet!] Madison’s replies were sickeningly coy: [Keeping it lowkey. He prefers his privacy.] I stared at the candid photo of the sharp jawline—a jawline I knew intimately. A laugh bubbled up in my throat, sharp and hysterical. Still laughing, I dialed Harrison’s number. “I need you to come to the university’s Registrar office right now.” “I have something to ask you.”

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The day Sebastian Cross finally let me go, he promised to grant me one wish. I didn’t ask for the diamonds or the portfolio of stocks he expected. I asked for a slice of buttercream cake. The love my own family was too bankrupt to give me, my benefactor had provided in spades. After I finish this birthday cake, I’ll have no regrets left. He wants to build a home with the one that got away. And me? It’s time I walked my own path. 01 This was the first time Sebastian had ever spent New Year’s Eve with me. On the stove, a pot of lobster bisque bubbled, filling the kitchen with a rich, savory steam. The man placed the final dish—sautéed kale with garlic—on the marble island, untied his apron, and called me over to eat. His voice was like aged whiskey, smooth and low. Sebastian comes from old money—Boston Brahmins on his father’s side. Strictly speaking, he’s only a quarter Chinese, a heritage he rarely acknowledges. He prefers medium-rare steaks and vintage Pinot Noir. Today, perhaps as a parting kindness, the table was filled with the comfort foods I loved, including dumplings he’d folded himself, clumsy but earnest. When I was a child, my parents would take me to McDonald’s to keep me happy right before they tried to abandon me at a rest stop. So when Sebastian finally said the words—You should go—I wasn’t surprised. Happiness, after all, always comes with a price tag. “What do you want, Hazel?” Sebastian stirred his bisque, looking bored, as if discussing the chance of rain. “Gold? A property deed? Diamonds?” Elegant, aristocratic men like him always discard their canaries in the most dignified way possible. The bisque had a kick of ginger in it; it burned pleasantly going down. I lowered my eyes for a moment, then told him. “I want a cake.” He paused. “That’s it?” Yes. That’s it. A sponge cake with layers of fresh fruit and buttercream, topped with chocolate shavings. The kind my little brother got every single year, and I never tasted once. “Hazel, think this through before you answer. I don’t want us to have any messy entanglements later.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “Madeleine is… insecure. I need a clean break.” How could there be entanglements? Sebastian had been good to me. He gave me money. He gave me a semblance of love. He filled the hollow spaces my parents had carved out of me. Once I eat this cake, we’re square. If he wants to give his lost love a home, I won’t stand in the doorway. 02 The day I met Sebastian, I was standing on the ledge of a rooftop parking garage. Passersby below were screaming, chirping like birds, telling me to “look on the bright side.” A firefighter had dialed my parents. I could hear them screaming through the receiver, loud enough for the wind to carry the words. If you want to die, hurry up and die! We can use the insurance money to build your brother a house! The wind was biting. The drop was high. Jumping meant freedom. But just as I leaned forward, a handsome man in gold-rimmed glasses sprinted toward me, grabbing my arm with a grip like iron. The emerald face of his Patek Philippe watch caught the sunlight, blinding me for a second. He didn’t offer platitudes. He offered me a giant, fluffy stick of cotton candy he’d seemingly conjured from nowhere. His voice was trembling. “The carnival closes at five,” he said. “We can still make it. Will you come with me?” I sat on a carousel horse, eating that cotton candy bite by bite, sugar melting on my tongue. I stayed with Sebastian for five years after that. In a way, he raised the child I never got to be. … Sebastian was an easy patron to please. Emotionally stable, incredibly wealthy, low maintenance. I didn’t have to worry about student loans or a 9-to-5. All I had to do was focus on him, and the Cartier bracelets and investment accounts piled up. His upbringing had instilled in him a deep, reflexive gentlemanliness. Even though I was just a plaything, he respected every word I said, every request I made. Except in bed. Sebastian’s friends whispered that he’d get bored of me in six months. But year after year, I remained by his side, a fixture in his sprawling estate. See? Fate hasn’t been entirely cruel to me. After twenty years of bitterness, it finally gave me a piece of candy. The staff at the Palisades Estate loved to gossip. She looks just like Miss Madeleine, they’d whisper. Madeleine Vance. The one who rejected Sebastian’s proposal to pursue her art career in Paris. The ghost of his past. I didn’t mind looking like Madeleine. I looked like my brother, too, and my parents didn’t give me a scrap of the love they gave him. But because I looked like Madeleine, Sebastian gave me so much. I’m easy to satisfy. I’ve seen the flowers bloom; I don’t need to own the garden. 03 Sebastian told me to pack slowly. A driver would take me from the estate the next morning. That night, I meticulously packed five years’ worth of jewelry, gold bars, and luxury watches into a small suitcase. The rest—clothes, shoes, memories—were worthless. I left them behind. Seattle’s weather is schizophrenic. Last night it was snowing; this morning, it was freezing rain. The sleet hit the windows like handfuls of gravel. The driver called, sounding apologetic. “Miss Hazel, Miss Madeleine is landing today. She’s frail and hates the cold, so we’ve taken all the cars to the airport to greet her. You’ll have to get down the mountain on your own.” I hung up and looked out the window. When I first started seeing Sebastian, I didn’t understand him. Once, after a gala, it was pouring rain. I thought he had left already, so I covered my head with my clutch and ran to the curb to hail a cab. But Sebastian came back. He stepped out of the shadows and pulled me under a massive black umbrella. His handmade Italian suit got soaked instantly, but not a drop touched my silk dress. He told me he hadn’t left; he’d just gone to get the umbrella. A gentleman never lets a lady get wet. Since then, no matter how busy he was, or what country he was in, there was always an umbrella waiting for me. He never missed a beat. The memory faded. I smiled a thin, dry smile and pulled my suitcase into the downpour. The rain was heavy. But it was time to go. I couldn’t spend my whole life waiting for someone else to hold the umbrella. 04 I used to be resilient. As a kid, I could shake off a fracture or a 102-degree fever without a flinch. But this time, the freezing rain turned into pneumonia. I ended up in the ER, hooked up to an IV. On the last day of my treatment, a woman rushing down the corridor snagged her purse on my IV line. The needle and tape were ripped violently from the back of my hand. The metal tore a long gash through my skin before flying out. Blood sprayed onto the tiles, and my vision went black from the pain. “Oh my god! What do I do?” “I just got back to the States, I don’t know how this works here! I’m calling my fiancé!” When Sebastian appeared, I froze. I looked up at the frantic, helpless woman clinging to him. Seeing her eyes—so similar to mine, yet so much softer—I knew instantly. The blood dripping onto the hospital floor made Sebastian frown. He stared at it, silent. Maybe the silence stretched too long. Madeleine wrapped her arm around his, asking in a voice that dripped with affected sweetness, “Sebastian, honey, what’s wrong? Do you know her?” For a split second, I saw a storm of emotions in Sebastian’s dark eyes. But he blinked, snapping back to reality, and draped his coat over Madeleine’s shoulders. “No. A stranger.” “The doctors will handle it. Let’s get you back to the car.” Madeleine nodded obediently. As she turned, she shot me a look. It was a mix of provocation and victory. 05 That night, a call from an unknown number came through to my new phone. It was a man’s voice, low and husky, with that post-coital rasp I knew too well. “Hazel. I’m sending a driver to take you to a private clinic tomorrow for the rest of your treatment. I didn’t want Madeleine to overthink things today.” “Make sure the doctor stitches that hand properly.” “And eat something. You’re too thin.” I agreed to everything, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the wall. Why, after I changed my number, could Sebastian still find me? Are we strangers or not? There was a long silence on the line. Just as I thought he was going to hang up, he spoke again, his voice tight. “I didn’t know New Year’s was your birthday. No wonder you asked for the cake… You could have stayed one more day, you know. I’m sorry.” “Happy Birthday.” Don’t be sorry. You’ve given me enough. “Thank you,” I said. “And congratulations on your engagement.” … I only needed five days of IVs. I had already booked a flight out of Seattle. So when Sebastian’s driver showed up at the hotel the next day, I turned him away. The driver, looking panicked, pulled a beautifully wrapped box from the trunk and practically begged me to take it. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t drive you the other day, Miss Hazel. I know I messed up. Please, take the birthday gift. If you don’t, Mr. Cross might fire me.” Inside the box was an evening gown encrusted with pink diamonds. It was breathtaking. The receipt was tucked inside. If Sebastian insisted on giving it, who was I to say no to money? My flight wasn’t for a few hours. I figured I could hit the luxury mall near the airport and return the dress for store credit or cash. There were several boutiques in Seattle. I picked the one closest to the terminal. Fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. Madeleine was there. 06 “I’m terribly sorry, Miss, but this Spring Couture piece has already been sold. Each design is one-of-a-kind.” “We know you’ve been on the waitlist, but a gentleman purchased it this morning.” “Since the size wouldn’t fit you anyway, perhaps you’d like to see the new collection…” The sales associates were swarming around Madeleine, trying to do damage control. Madeleine wasn’t having it. She flipped her long, wavy hair, complaining loudly in a mix of English and French about incompetence. Suddenly, she raised an eyebrow and tapped a manicured red fingernail on the manager’s name tag. “I want that dress as my wedding morning robe. If I don’t get it, I will email your headquarters every single day until you are fired.” The manager was sweating. She whispered to a colleague, asking if they could contact the buyer, a Mr. S. Cross. Madeleine’s eyes lit up. “You mean my fiancé bought it? Oh! It’s a misunderstanding then…” Behind her, clutching the box with the dress inside, I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. I turned to leave. Too late. She saw me. She looked at me, realizing slowly what was happening. Then, a sneer curled her lip. She stepped forward and slapped me across the face. “Call the police! My husband bought that dress for me, and this… nobody has stolen it! Catch the thief!”

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Sometimes I wonder if people spend too much time binge-watching trashy soap operas and completely forget that in the real world, we have something called the police. It all started during gym class. My period decided to make a surprise, heavy-handed appearance, so I ran back to the empty classroom to grab a pad from my bag. That was it. That was my “crime.” Now, Kaylee Miller—our resident “clean-cut” sweetheart—was stood there, eyes welled with performative tears, claiming I’d stolen the ten thousand dollars in graduation trip funds. She called me a shameless thief, her voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. Madison Paige, the class vice-president and Kaylee’s loyal shadow, jumped up immediately. “You’re the only one who came back to the room, Riley! If it’s not you, then who? Just give it back now, and we can pretend this never happened.” Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Henderson, shot me a look so sharp it could have drawn blood. His voice was cold, authoritative. “Riley, those funds belong to the entire class. Bring the money tomorrow, and I’ll make sure this goes no further. Consider it a mercy.” A cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. I didn’t sit down. I stood up, my chair screeching against the linoleum. “Actually, Mr. Henderson? Let’s call the police. Ten thousand dollars is grand larceny. That’s a felony.” 1 I watched the piece of chalk in Mr. Henderson’s hand snap as he froze mid-sentence at the blackboard. Before he could find his voice, Kaylee spoke up, her tone dripping with faux-concern. “Mr. Henderson, please, let’s not blow this out of proportion. It would be so bad for the school’s reputation. Maybe we can just… talk to Riley? Give her a chance?” She turned to me, her eyes wide and pleading. “Riley, just admit it. If the cops come, you’ll have a record. You’ll go to jail. We’re classmates; it doesn’t have to end like that.” Madison rolled her eyes, scoffing at Kaylee. “Kaylee, you’re too soft. You think of her as a friend, but she clearly doesn’t feel the same. She’s just banking on the fact that you’re too nice to call her out.” Mr. Henderson finally turned around, adjusting his glasses. “Riley, sit down. Let’s finish the lesson. We’ll settle the fund issue after class. Let’s not waste everyone else’s time.” My father raised me with one golden rule: Handle things now. Delay gives the devil time to move. I didn’t know what their next move was, but I wasn’t going to wait to find out. I didn’t care if the sky fell down today; those cops were being called. And more importantly, I was calling my dad. This felt staged. This felt like a trap. The school was Henderson’s turf, and I needed an adult in the room who wasn’t afraid to set the place on fire to keep me warm. “No,” I said, my voice steady. “We call the police. Now. That money belongs to every student in this room, and my reputation belongs to me. I’m not letting either of them stay ‘missing.’” A few guys in the back started thumping their desks, the rhythm catching on. “Cops! Cops! Cops!” They weren’t being supportive; they were bored teenagers smelling a scandal, their faces lit up with the primal excitement of watching someone else’s life go up in flames. Mr. Henderson’s face turned a mottled shade of purple. “This involves the school’s standing. I have to consult with the Principal first.” Excuses. Always excuses. I knew he’d never call them for me. Unfortunately, the school had a strict ‘no phones in class’ policy, and mine was locked in my locker. I softened my tone just a fraction, playing into his desire for an easy out. “Fine. Then let me call my dad. Since the money is gone, I’ll have him bring ten thousand dollars to cover the gap while we investigate. Just let me use your phone.” Mr. Henderson’s expression relaxed slightly. He reached into his pocket and handed me his iPhone. As I took it, I heard Madison whisper loudly, “See? I told you she took it. Why act so tough if you were just going to pay it back?” I ignored her and dialed my father’s number. It rang twice before a gravelly, deep voice answered. “Yeah?” The moment I heard him, the knot of tension in my stomach unraveled. “Dad. It’s me.” 2 I could hear the frantic clicking of a mechanical keyboard in the background. My dad was clearly mid-chapter. “Using someone else’s phone to call me? What’s wrong, kid?” For a man who looked like he spent his time fixing engines or breaking bones, my dad had the most intuitive mind I’d ever known. He was a suspense novelist—a man who got paid to think ten steps ahead of the villain. I told him the “prom funds” had been stolen. I made sure to emphasize the part about him bringing ten thousand dollars in cash. With my dad, you didn’t need to spell things out. He knew I was asking for backup. The typing stopped instantly. I heard the rustle of him grabbing his leather jacket. “Don’t say another word to anyone,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he used for his protagonists. “Wait for me. I’m coming.” With that, the weight of the world lifted. “Got it.” I handed the phone back to Mr. Henderson, who was watching me with a suspicious, squinted gaze. “My dad’s on his way,” I said, stepping back to my desk with a newfound sense of calm. When my father’s massive frame finally appeared in the classroom doorway, I didn’t wait for permission. I grabbed my bag and bolted. “Dad!” He caught me by the shoulders, his eyes scanning me like a searchlight, checking for any signs of distress. Once he was satisfied I wasn’t hurt, he took my hand. “Let’s go find this teacher of yours.” My dad was a mountain of a man, built broad and looking like he’d stepped out of a gritty noir film. He used that to his advantage. He didn’t just walk into a room; he invaded it. Mr. Henderson was already sweating through his button-down. Dad leaned against the doorframe, looking perfectly menacing. “You want to talk here in front of the kids, or do we go to your office?” Mr. Henderson wiped his brow. “Mr. Carter, I assume? Let’s… let’s go to the office.” Dad tilted his chin toward the hallway, a silent command for the teacher to lead the way. “Self-study for the rest of the period!” Henderson barked at the class before scurrying out. The second the office door closed, before Henderson could even open his mouth, my dad slammed his hand onto the desk. The sound was like a gunshot. “You the one accusing my daughter of being a thief?” His voice boomed, vibrating in the small space. Henderson practically shriveled. “Now, hold on, Mr. Carter. There’s no need for that kind of language—” “I’ll use whatever language I want when you’re cornering my kid!” Dad bellowed, making sure every person in the administration wing could hear him. “If I hadn’t shown up, God knows what kind of hell you would’ve put her through!” Right on cue, the Dean of Students poked his head in, drawn by the noise. Seeing his audience had grown, my dad dialed up the performance. “Their class funds go missing, and he points the finger at my daughter? No evidence, no witnesses, just vibes? She asked to call the cops to clear her name, and he refused! Why? You hiding something, Henderson?” My dad reached down and gave my hand a little squeeze. I took the hint and let a few tears spill over, looking as small and broken as I could. “I told him it wasn’t me,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “But he told me I had to come up with the ten thousand dollars or else.” Dad’s eyes went wide, a perfect picture of righteous fury. “You hear that? Is this a school or a shakedown? I don’t care what your ‘policy’ is. We are calling the police. Right now.” 3 High school administrations are all the same: they aren’t afraid of the “civilized” parents who write stern emails; they are terrified of the ones who look like they might flip a car in the parking lot. The Dean’s face went pale at the mention of the police. He stepped forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Mr. Carter, please. I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. Mr. Henderson was out of line. I’ll make sure he apologizes.” He turned to the Dean, then back to Henderson, his voice hardening. “I promise you, the school will handle this with absolute fairness.” Then, to Henderson: “Apologize. Now.” My dad raised an eyebrow. “An apology to me? I’m not the one who was bullied.” The Dean glared at Henderson. “To the student, Joe. Apologize to Riley.” Henderson’s face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. In the history of this school, a teacher had probably never been forced to apologize to a student in front of the Dean. “I… I was just trying to handle it internally,” Henderson stammered, his voice weak. “For the sake of the school’s reputation. A police report would be… damaging for everyone.” The Dean didn’t care about excuses anymore. He just wanted my dad to stop shouting. “Apologize!” Henderson bowed his head slightly, a stiff, forced smile on his face. “Riley, I am sorry.” I wiped my eyes, looking up at the Dean. “Sir, I didn’t take that money. I just want to know the truth.” The Dean glanced at my dad, whose expression had finally moved from ‘murderous’ to ‘deeply annoyed.’ “Rest assured, Riley,” the Dean said. “We won’t let a single guilty person go free, and we won’t punish an innocent one. We’re going to the security office to check the tapes right now.” Dad nodded. “Good. Because if your cameras don’t show the truth, the forensic team the police send definitely will.” The threat of the police hung over the Dean like a guillotine. No school wants that kind of PR. We walked to the server room. The IT tech, a guy named Mike, looked up in surprise as the small parade entered. “Mike, pull up the footage for Room 302, during the gym period,” the Dean ordered. “You got it.” We huddled around the monitor. Mike sped through the footage. At 2:30 PM, the bell rang, and students swarmed out. By 2:40 PM, the room was a ghost town. Then, at 2:50 PM, there I was. I ran into the room, went straight to my desk, grabbed something from my bag, and ran back out. I was in there for less than sixty seconds. From then until 3:20 PM, the room remained empty until the rest of the class returned. Henderson pointed a triumphant finger at the screen. “There! You see? She was the only one there. Riley, what do you have to say for yourself now?” 4 Everyone turned to me. My dad let out a roar of a laugh. “Say for herself? Are you blind or just stupid? My daughter touched her own bag, and she didn’t even go near that Miller girl’s desk. What is there to explain?” Henderson muttered, “Who knows what kind of tricks she has? The fact remains, she’s the only one who entered that room.” The Dean frowned. “It does look suspicious, Mr. Carter. She is the only person on tape.” My dad grinned. It wasn’t a nice grin. “I’m laughing,” Dad said, “because I’ve realized the teachers at this school are morons. You should all quit and go work at a car wash.” The Dean’s face tightened. “First of all,” Dad continued, “there is zero evidence that the money was stolen during gym class. Second, even if it was, the video shows she didn’t touch the desk where the money was supposedly kept. Unless you’re suggesting my daughter has telekinetic powers, in which case, I’d like to see the school’s policy on X-Men.” I tugged on my dad’s sleeve. “Dad, I told them this already. They wouldn’t listen.” Dad tapped his temple. “That’s okay, kid. Let’s give them something they can’t ignore. I know exactly where that money is.” Henderson scoffed. “Of course you do. Your daughter took it.” Dad rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Joe.” He turned to me. “Riley, when was the money collected?” “The deadline was today, right before gym,” I said. Dad nodded. “So the money is still on campus.” He reached into his bag, pulled out the stack of ten thousand dollars he’d brought, and slammed it onto the IT desk. “Dean, do me a favor. Go to the intercom. Announce to the class that the stolen funds have been ‘found’ and are sitting in the office. Tell them the investigation is over.” “And then what?” the Dean asked, skeptical. “And then,” Dad said, pointing to the monitor, “we watch who suddenly needs to ‘go to the bathroom’ the second they hear the news.” Henderson looked shifty. He tried to follow the Dean out, but my dad stepped in front of the door. “Not you, Henderson. You stay here.” The Dean went to the office. On the monitor, we saw him enter our classroom. He held up a bag of cash, said something to the class, and walked out. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Kaylee Miller stood up. She grabbed a small pack of tissues, whispered something to Madison, and hurried out of the room. “Bingo,” my dad whispered. He didn’t wait. He grabbed my hand and we bolted out of the security room. The hallway was short; we reached the girl’s restroom just as the door was swinging shut. Dad handed me his phone. “Riley, this part is yours. Go.” I shoved the door open and kicked the stall door Kaylee had just entered. She jumped, nearly falling into the toilet, her face pale as a ghost. She was clutching a black plastic trash bag she’d just fished out of the sanitary bin. “Whatcha got there, Kaylee?” I asked, my eyes narrowed. She saw the phone in my hand, recording. Her voice went shrill. “You’re filming me in the bathroom? I’m telling! That’s illegal!” “Go ahead,” I said, stepping closer. “But before you do, maybe you should explain why you’re digging through the trash for a bag full of hundreds.” She clutched the bag to her chest, trying to hide it behind her back. “It’s… it’s nothing. Leave me alone.” “Is it?” I yelled toward the door. “Dad! Dean! I found the money!”

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When Cole went bankrupt, society eagerly stomped him into the dirt. His golden girl—the one who got away—married someone else, but not before making him beg on his hands and knees for a thousand-dollar dare. The frat brothers he once called family told him they’d toss a few bucks toward his parents’ hospital bills, provided he crawled between their legs. When everyone else decided he was nothing but dust beneath their shoes, I was the one who dragged him out of hell. I drained my entire life savings to pay off his debts. I lived with him in a damp, roach-infested basement apartment, holding his hand as he slowly clawed his way back to the top. I spent my days working and my nights sleeping in uncomfortable vinyl hospital chairs to nurse his ailing parents. I pushed myself so hard that my body gave out, resulting in a silent, agonizing miscarriage from pure exhaustion. Yet, three years into his triumphant comeback, Cole paraded his first love right through the front doors of our estate for everyone to see. He stood there, casually adjusting his cuffs, and said: “Blair is pregnant, but her husband is abusive. She’s going to be staying here from now on.” “You’re good at taking care of people. I want you to be the one to look after her. I don’t trust anyone else with her.” Tears spilled over my lashes before I could stop them. Looking at me, his handsome face twisted into a mask of pure irritation. “It’s just waiting on her for a little while. You’re acting like you have the title of a princess, but really, you just have a princess complex.” “It’s not like I’m cheating on you. Stop being so petty.” I didn’t tell him that just a few days ago, passing by the guest room, I had overheard his mother enthusiastically instructing Blair to rest up and take good care of her “precious eldest grandson.” His entire family looked at me like I was an absolute fool. But I was done playing the fool. And the child currently growing inside my womb? I didn’t want it anymore, either. … When I started packing my suitcase, Cole exploded. He grabbed my arm and hurled me across the room. I hit the hardwood floor hard, a sharp, piercing pain shooting up through my knees. In that split second, my only thought was of the baby. Cole didn’t know I was pregnant. I lay there for a moment, feeling the steady, even rhythm of my own breath. When no cramping or pain radiated from my abdomen, a slow, shaky wave of relief washed over me. “Tessa, are you done being hysterical?” Cole snapped, looming over me. “If you managed to wait on my parents hand and foot, you can wait on Blair.” A maid lingered outside the open bedroom door, clearly enjoying the free entertainment. In her hands, she held a crystal bowl of organic blueberries—specifically requested by Cole and meticulously washed just for Blair. It wasn’t just the staff treating me like a joke. Looking at myself in the mirrored closet doors, I felt like one. “What exactly do you see me as, Cole?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Am I just the pathetic charity case who let you sleep with her for free and paid off your debts when you hit rock bottom? Am I just the unpaid hospice nurse who looked after your parents better than you ever did? Am I just the desperate, cheap woman who worked herself into a miscarriage to fund your startup? Cole frowned, genuinely failing to grasp the weight of my questions. He just looked burdened. “It’s only for three months, alright? The first trimester is always rocky, and she needs stability. It’s just three months.” I stared at the man I had loved so deeply, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping my lips. Just three months. Was it ever just anything with him? Last month at the corporate office, in front of the entire executive team, he made me get on my knees and wipe Blair’s designer shoes because I accidentally spilled a drop of coffee near her. He told me it was just an apology. But then there was a second apology. And a third. Countless compromises, chipping away at my dignity until there was nothing left. “The taste of compromise is vile, Cole,” I said softly. “This house is crawling with staff. When I’m gone, you can hire a hundred maids to wait on your golden girl.” I sat sprawled on the floor, utterly defeated, the fight draining out of my bones. All I wanted was to slip away quietly, keeping my baby safe. Right then, Blair appeared in the doorway, a delicate hand resting exaggeratedly on her flat stomach. The staff parted for her with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the lady of the house. “Cole, how could you let Tessa sit on the cold floor? What if she catches a chill?” Blair’s voice was dripping with fake, breathy concern. Cole immediately softened. He stepped over me, wrapping an arm around Blair’s waist, carefully guiding her to sit on the edge of the plush bed. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear with practiced tenderness. He didn’t look at me once. It was as if, during those three agonizing years in the dark, it had been Blair holding his hand, not me. His voice floated over to me, cool and indifferent. “Don’t worry about her. She’s resilient. She can handle the cold. You, on the other hand, just got pregnant. The window is open; we can’t have you catching a draft.” The words carved into my chest like a rusted blade. The tears I had been fighting finally broke free. Cole had forgotten. He had forgotten that to pay his debts, I used to load freight trucks at a freezing warehouse until 3 AM. He had forgotten that after the miscarriage, my body never fully recovered, leaving me perpetually shivering, terrified of the cold. Even in the dead of a humid summer, I wore long sleeves to keep the chill at bay. The maids in the hall murmured to each other. I didn’t need to hear the words; their mocking expressions said enough. Propping myself up on my elbows, I rose to my feet and wordlessly returned to my suitcase. Cole stepped forward, snatching my wrist. His voice carried a strange, underlying exhaustion. “Tessa, wake up. If you walk out that door right now, you leave with nothing.” I looked him dead in the eye and gave a calm, singular nod. “Okay.” That single word seemed to ignite something volatile inside him. He grew instantly enraged. “Would it kill you to just take care of her for a few weeks?! You were perfectly capable of fawning over my parents when we were broke! Why are you suddenly being so completely unreasonable?” “Three years ago, you promised you would help me with anything!” My fingernails bit so hard into my palms they almost drew blood. I suppressed the suffocating pressure in my chest for three agonizing seconds, then blindly grabbed the heavy glass tumbler from the nightstand and hurled it at the floor. “I take it back!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “I take it back, Cole! Do you understand me?!” Cole had a vicious temper. After his bankruptcy, the golden boy fell straight into the gutter, drowning himself in cheap bourbon every single day. To keep him going, I would rush home after my shifts, hold his trembling body, and whisper stories to him so he wouldn’t have nightmares. When the loan sharks came, I stood in front of him. Even when they vandalized our apartment, splashing me head-to-toe in red spray paint meant to symbolize blood, I stood my ground. I told them that as long as he was Cole Montgomery, I would back him for the rest of my life. Even when Cole looked at me, dripping in red paint, with utter disgust—I only smiled and told him I was just glad it hadn’t gotten on him. The tumbler shattered, glass exploding across the hardwood. A sharp, stinging burn flared across my calf as a shard grazed my skin. Simultaneously, Blair gasped, clutching her stomach, whimpering in sudden, delicate pain. Cole went pale. The anger vanished, replaced by sheer panic. “Get a doctor! Now!” he yelled into the hall. After a frantic, superficial check confirmed Blair was merely “startled,” the relief on Cole’s face hardened back into a glare directed solely at me. “I don’t care what kind of tantrum you throw, Tessa. But Blair is carrying a child. What if something happened to the baby because of your theatrics?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “You know exactly what you need to do, don’t you?” I let out a hollow laugh. “Of course I do.” It was just like last month. When my major project at the firm was inexplicably given to Blair, I went to confront her. She immediately started sobbing, claiming I terrified her. The result? Cole forced me to strip off my company blazer in front of the lobby, apologize to her, and get the hell out of the building. Get out of his sight. Just get out. That was all he ever wanted. I bent down, zipped my suitcase shut, and looked at him with an eerie, deadened calm. “I’ll get as far away from you as possible. You won’t ever have to look at me again.” Seeing my utter apathy, a dark, stormy shadow crossed Cole’s eyes. “You think it’s that easy?” he sneered. “Take Tessa down to the walk-in freezer. Let her cool off and think about her attitude.” I tried to run, but three maids immediately seized me, grabbing my arms and hair, wrestling me to my knees in front of Cole. The metallic taste of blood blossomed on my tongue. The sheer injustice of it all burned behind my eyes. “Cole, I’m not going in there! You have no right to do this to me!” Seeing me finally break, Cole hesitated. He reached out, his fingers instinctively brushing a tangled strand of hair from my forehead. Beside him, Blair’s face tightened. She quickly put on a sweet, forgiving smile. “Cole, please don’t be mad at Tessa. She just wants to leave. My stomach barely even hurts anymore. It’s nothing.” The moment she spoke, Cole’s hesitation vanished, replaced by an icy resolve. “Stop being so dramatic, Tessa.” At his silent nod, the maids began dragging me backward toward the door. Panic surged through me. My hands flew to my stomach to protect the tiny life inside. “I’m pregnant!” I shrieked, my heels scraping against the floorboards. “Cole, I’m pregnant!” But the man just stood there, looking at me with an exhausted, exasperated expression, as if to say, What kind of pathetic lie are you going to spin next? As I was dragged down the hallway, I watched in absolute despair as Cole gently rubbed Blair’s back. “Don’t worry, Blair,” his voice echoed down the hall. “She’s been with me for three years. I know her limits. Honestly, she needs this. It’ll teach her not to target you.” I squeezed my eyes shut. A single, freezing tear slipped down my cheek. Rotten. He was rotten to his very core. I was locked in that industrial walk-in freezer for three entire days and nights. When they finally unlocked the heavy metal door, there was literal frost clinging to my eyelashes. My fingers and toes were an angry, mottled purple, and my entire body had long since gone numb. Cole’s anger had subsided. Looking at me, a brief flicker of remorse passed over his features. When a maid threw a heavy wool blanket over my shoulders, she carelessly snagged my matted hair. I let out a weak, raspy hiss of pain. Instantly, Cole barked at the woman. “Watch your hands! Can’t you be gentle?” He looked around, agitated. “Where is the doctor? Why isn’t he here yet?” The maid stammered, avoiding his gaze. “The doctor is… he’s in Ms. Kensington’s room, sir. She caught a slight chill three days ago and has been coughing. Should I go get him?” The moment Blair’s name was spoken, silence fell over Cole. A long, agonizing minute passed before he finally spoke. “No. Leave it.” He looked at me. “Tessa, Blair is pregnant. Let her have the doctor. Don’t fight her over this.” My face remained entirely devoid of emotion. I simply nodded. “Okay. I won’t fight her for it.” I won’t fight her for you, either. Perhaps my unnatural calm unsettled him. He shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Good to see you’re finally being obedient. Looks like a few days in the cold was exactly what you needed to learn your place.” He puffed out his chest just a fraction. “Blair can’t eat raw seafood for her first trimester, and she can’t take any strong medications. Keep a close eye on the kitchen staff. The same way you took care of my parents these past three years… that’s exactly how I expect you to take care of Blair. Got it?” The casual, bragging tone in his voice made my stomach heave with violent nausea. Cole wasn’t blind. He was just a heartless, ungrateful parasite. Was he referring to how I spent three years emptying bedpans for his half-paralyzed parents? How I sponge-bathed them every single day? Did he know that the moment he turned his back, his “sweet” parents would contort their faces into cruel sneers, calling me a cheap whore who was paying for the privilege of serving them? Did he know they made me kneel on the bathroom tiles just for their own amusement? Did he know they would purposely soil themselves just to watch me scrub their clothes? It didn’t matter anymore. Cole, I don’t love you anymore. I closed my eyes, the exhaustion dragging me under. The prolonged exposure to the freezing temperatures had left my brain foggy and disconnected. My hands unconsciously curled around my stomach. I just needed to rest. Once I rested… Cole, I am leaving you forever. Sometime later, drifting in and out of a feverish consciousness, I heard Blair’s voice. It was bright, coquettish, practically bursting with the joy of new motherhood. “Cole, I think the baby moved! Here, quick, put your hand right here!” “Cole, are you happy I’m pregnant?” A long silence stretched out before his slow, tender reply drifted through the walls. “If you’re happy, Blair… then I’m happy.” After that, the darkness took me completely. In my fever dreams, I saw my unborn child crying out to me. It’s so cold, Mom… so cold. Why doesn’t Dad like me? I stood in the dream, silent for a long time before answering. He doesn’t dislike you, sweetheart. He just hates me. He hates me so much that anything I give him—whether it’s money, my body, or my life—is nothing but cheap trash to him. Mom changed her mind. I’m not bringing you into this world. The freezer incident left me bedridden with a severe fever for half a month. Because Blair casually mentioned she was “terrified” of catching my illness, Cole had me moved out of the main house and into an abandoned, drafty storage room above the old carriage house. The staff, always eager to please the reigning favorite, took their cues from Blair. While I was burning with a 104-degree fever, they came in and stripped my bed of its heavy duvets, leaving me with a thin sheet. The storage room was dark and damp. The winter wind howled through the poorly sealed window frames, the cold sinking like knives into my aching joints. When Blair finally came to visit, she was draped in a massive, luxurious fur coat, her makeup done to perfection. I was curled in a fetal position, shivering violently. Without Cole around, she didn’t bother hiding her fangs. “Tessa, you’re about to be a mother. Why are you lying around looking like a corpse?” I forced my heavy eyelids open, staring at her in genuine confusion. “What do you mean?” “You used your three years of ‘loyalty’ to guilt-trip Cole into marrying you, didn’t you? Well, congratulations. You got what you wanted. Cole said that no matter what, he’ll let you keep the title of Mrs. Montgomery.” A flash of genuine jealousy twisted her beautiful features before her smug superiority returned. “But it’s such a pity. You can trap a man’s body, but you can’t trap his heart.” She trailed her manicured fingers along the dusty windowsill. “Cole already promised me. Once my baby is born, he’s legally adopting it into the Montgomery family. Considering how much he despises you, he’s never going to let you have a child with him. When the time comes, I’ll be the mother of the only Montgomery heir.” A dreamy, triumphant look glazed over her eyes. The heavy fur shifting around her shoulders looked impervious to the freezing drafts that were currently making my teeth chatter uncontrollably. I let out a soundless, breathless laugh. The realization was colder than the air in the room, yet somehow, entirely fitting. She was right. To Cole, and to everyone else in his circle, I was just a calculating opportunist who used his darkest hour to buy my way into a marriage. At the same time, I felt a profound wave of gratitude that Cole hadn’t believed I was pregnant. I swallowed hard, trying to moisten my cracked, bleeding throat. I hadn’t had water in two days. “Blair,” I rasped. “Come here for a second.” She rolled her eyes and stepped closer to the cot. “What kind of trick are you trying to pull now, Tessa?” When she was close enough, I summoned every last ounce of strength left in my shattered body, leaning in to whisper the venom I had been biting down on. “Take the bastard in your stomach and get the hell away from me.” You want me to raise your kid? In your dreams. Before I could even enjoy the shock splintering across Blair’s face, a voice practically vibrating with rage spoke from the open doorway. “Tessa, you really are… a dog that just can’t stop eating shit.” “I can’t show you a single ounce of mercy. The second I do, you go right back to attacking Blair.” Cole’s voice was terribly familiar. Perhaps it was the fever, or the total collapse of my immune system, but hearing those words broke something inside me. Hot tears spilled out, tracking rapidly down my freezing cheeks. Mercy? Where was the mercy? Was it the mercy of taking the project I worked on for six months and handing it to Blair? Was it the mercy of forcing me to give Blair the vintage watch my late father had left me? Or was it the mercy of locking me in a freezer for three days, then tossing me into a freezing garage to rot? I had lost count. By the end of it, all I felt was profound self-disgust. During his three years in the dirt, the woman who kicked him while he was down was elevated to a goddess. But the woman who shattered herself into pieces to build him back up was ground into the dirt beneath his heel. “I told you, son. I told you to throw her out. Look what happens when you don’t!” Mrs. Montgomery rolled into the room in her wheelchair, emerging from behind Cole. Her narrow, beady eyes locked onto my sickly, pale face, radiating pure revulsion. “She has the audacity to act this vicious toward Blair while you’re standing right here. Imagine what she does behind your back! She’s probably plotting against my precious grandson!” Blair immediately shrank back, clutching her fur coat like a frightened doe. “Mrs. Montgomery, please don’t upset yourself. I can handle a few insults. It’s really nothing.” Instantly, the haughty, arrogant matriarch who had spent years torturing me melted into a puddle of fawning adoration. She reached out, patting Blair’s hand, throwing a venomous glare in my direction. “Oh, you sweet girl. I won’t let anyone mistreat you! You aren’t just one person anymore; you’re two.” She turned her sneer back to me. “Unlike this useless woman who hasn’t managed to get knocked up in three years. Son, throw her out! Get her out of my house!” A triumphant gleam flashed in Blair’s eyes. She didn’t even bother hiding her victorious smirk from me. Useless woman. I had heard that phrase so many times my ears had grown calluses. “Mom, stop making this worse,” Cole sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I already told you.” It was a tic. He only pinched his nose when he was deeply exhausted and conflicted. In the past, whenever I saw him do that, my only instinct was to reach up and smooth out the worry lines on his forehead. Now, looking at him just made me feel utterly sick. Rebuked by her son, Mrs. Montgomery unleashed all her pent-up fury onto me. “What are you still breathing our air for, Tessa?!” She glared at me, not with the eyes of a woman looking at her caretaker of three years, but like she was looking at a sworn enemy. “Did you honestly think paying off a few debts made you our savior? Let me tell you something, sweetheart! Ten of you aren’t worth a single hair on my grandson’s head!” “Let me clue you in on a little secret, Tessa. When our company filed for bankruptcy, we still had millions tucked away in offshore accounts. We never needed your pathetic little savings!” “We were just testing the waters to see which rats would flee the sinking ship, and who would try to take advantage of our ‘fall’!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394512”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel