Category: English

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

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

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

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “537553”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

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

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When I saw my ex-husband again after six long years, it was in a courtroom. He sat on the judicial bench, wearing the heavy black robes of a judge. I stood in the defendant’s box. As an accused murderer. The moment he recognized my face, the color drained from Thomas’s face, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “Bea? Is that… is that you?” I wasn’t surprised by his reaction. After all, nobody would ever connect Beatrice Campbell—a girl who once sobbed at the sight of a harmless spider—with Mercy, the ruthless killer who had systematically snuffed out five lives. Thomas’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of his bench, his jaw tight, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and grief. “Six years. Five lives. Five families utterly shattered…” He leaned forward, his voice cracking. “How could you do it, Bea? How could you become this monster?” I looked at his anguished face, and a soft, low chuckle escaped my throat. “It’s not just five, Thomas.” I leaned against the railing of the box, offering him a cold, mocking smile. “Your fiancée—my dear childhood best friend, Cassie Knowles—she’s been missing for a week now, hasn’t she?” I leaned in closer, whispering into the quiet of the courtroom. “Care to guess where she is?” … The courtroom erupted into instant chaos. Thomas went entirely pale. His knees buckled, and he nearly slid right off his leather chair. The chief judge banged his gavel with frantic, echoing strikes. “Recess! This court is adjourned. Case remanded to the police department for further investigation!” Bailiffs rushed forward, pinning my arms behind my back. As they dragged me out of the courtroom, a barrage of camera flashes blinded me. Outside the doors, the families of my victims screamed and wept. Rotten eggs and sharp gravel flew over the security barriers, striking my head and shoulders. A sharp stone sliced my temple. Blood ran down my cheek, warm and sticky, but I didn’t care. My eyes remained locked on Thomas, who was being ushered out by court security. Seeing the utter despair in his eyes, as if his very soul had been hollowed out, I finally let out a long, cathartic laugh. I was taken back to the high-security detention center. In the interrogation room, Detective Sean Callahan sat across from me. He was a massive man, radiating a quiet, dangerous authority. “Where is Cassie Knowles?” he demanded. I leaned back against the cold metal chair, letting my handcuffs clink against the table. “Bring Thomas here. I’ll only tell him.” “Not going to happen,” Callahan said, shutting me down instantly. “He is the victim’s fiancé. He has been officially recused from this case.” He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. “From what I’ve gathered, Judge Barrett is your ex-husband, and the victim was your closest friend for over a decade. Did jealousy drive you to this, Beatrice? Did you kill her because they were getting married?” I didn’t answer. I just stared at him, my expression blank. Thinking he had found a crack in my armor, Callahan tossed a stack of printouts onto the table. They were old photographs of Cassie and me during our teenage years. On the very top was a picture of us in middle school. I was smiling brightly at the camera, while Cassie stood slightly behind me, looking shy and small. “You met her in elementary school, didn’t you?” Callahan’s voice softened, adopting a gentler, coaxing tone. “You were like sisters. You went to the same boarding school. But you were pampered, spoiled, unable to do anything for yourself, while Cassie was independent. She washed your clothes, bought your meals. She even gave up her spot at a top-tier Ivy League university just to go to the same mid-tier state school with you, because your grades weren’t good enough and she wanted to keep taking care of you.” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh but said nothing. Callahan continued, his finger tapping the photos. “During college, Cassie studied law, which is how she met Thomas, her upperclassman. You married him three years after graduation. But after the wedding, you grew insanely jealous of her. You picked fights with them constantly.” He leaned in closer. “And then, six years ago, Cassie tried to make peace with you. You drugged her during a private conversation and set the house on fire. If Thomas hadn’t arrived in time to pull her out, she would have died. You fled the scene and spent six years on the run. During that time, you showed no remorse, brutally taking five more lives using different, horrific methods.” Callahan slammed his palm onto the table, his eyes bloodshot with anger. The photos scattered, some slipping off the edge and landing by my shoes. “Beatrice Campbell, you changed your name to Mercy. You claimed you were trapped in a living hell, but was murder really the only way you could find your ‘mercy’?” “Do you have any idea how much she protected you? Cassie never even pressed charges for that fire. For six years, Thomas and Cassie did nothing but search for you. Thomas only filed for divorce to force you out of hiding. It was only after years of fruitless searching that they finally decided to be together. He wanted to spend the rest of his life making amends for the sins you committed!” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I threw my head back and laughed until my chest ached. “Making amends? For my sins?” I reached up with my sleeve to wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes. “I knew they were masters of rewriting history, but this… this is a work of art.” Callahan looked deeply frustrated by my reaction. He gripped the edge of the table. “If they were lying, why would they wait six years to get married? Cassie kept every single one of these photos. The very proof of her devotion to you is what we used to track you down. Beatrice, doesn’t your conscience hurt even a little?” I looked down at the two smiling faces in the photo near my foot. My eyes stung, turning red. Seeing this shift, Callahan took a breath, lowering his voice. “Beatrice. Tell me where Cassie is. Let her rest in peace.” “Rest in peace?” I raised my eyes, looking past Callahan, staring directly at the large one-way mirror on the wall behind him. I knew who was standing on the other side. “Thomas,” I whispered, my voice dripping with venom. “Do you honestly think a person built entirely on a mountain of stolen lives deserves to rest in peace?” I stood up, my handcuffs rattling loudly, and grabbed the hem of my gray prison shirt. Callahan sprang from his seat, lunging across the table to grab my arms. “Beatrice! What do you think you’re doing? Sit down!” My wrists were pinned, but I twisted my body hard in the opposite direction, forcing the fabric to tear with a sharp, loud rip. The detective froze. The look of alarm on his face instantly melted into horror. There was no modesty to protect. What lay beneath the torn cloth was a landscape of ruined, waxy flesh. My body looked like a candle that had melted and cooled into grotesque, unnatural folds. “Thomas!” I yelled at the mirror, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Look at me! Does an arsonist end up with ninety percent of her body burned while the victim walks away with a few light scratches?!” My reflection in the glass looked monstrous, but I couldn’t stop smiling. The fire six years ago had consumed me from my ankles to my throat. I had spent months in a sterile burn ward, hovering between life and death, screaming until my vocal cords tore. And now, they wanted to tell the world that I was the one who lit the match. Realizing I knew Thomas was watching, Callahan quickly signaled the guards and had me moved to a different room. As we crossed the hallway, Thomas burst out of the observation room, his face twisted in a mixture of panic and denial. “You did that to yourself, Beatrice! You burned yourself to frame her! You were always sick, always jealous of what Cassie had!” Callahan moved fast. He shoved me into a secure interrogation room and slammed the heavy metal door shut, locking Thomas’s shouting voice on the other side. The hallway fell quiet again. Callahan sat down heavily, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. “I apologize. I didn’t realize they had allowed Judge Barrett into the observation room.” He took a deep breath, looking at me with a sudden, quiet intensity. “Tell me about the fire. Tell me what actually happened.” I looked at him, studying his face to see if there was any real curiosity left in his eyes. “Not just the fire,” I said softly. “If you want to understand, we have to start from the very beginning. My version.” It was true that Cassie took care of me when we were young. But she didn’t do it out of sisterly love. She did it out of obligation. We came from two entirely different worlds. We would have never met if my private elementary school hadn’t organized a charity drive for impoverished schools in the countryside. I had donated a box of gently used books and stationery. Inside one of the storybooks, I had scribbled my home address. A week later, I received a letter. It was a thank-you note from Cassie, written in neat, careful print. I was thrilled. We became pen pals. She wrote to me about the green fields and the farm animals; I wrote to her about the museums, the skyscrapers, and the books I read. She invited me to visit her village during the summer. My parents drove me out there. But when we arrived at the entrance of the village, we didn’t find a welcoming committee. We found Cassie’s mother screaming, her hand tangled in Cassie’s hair as she swung a heavy wooden broom down onto her back. “Inviting guests?!” her mother shrieked, her voice carrying over the dirt road. “We barely have enough to feed you, you worthless parasite, and you have the nerve to invite city folk to look down on us?!” The broom snapped. Cassie collapsed into the dirt, blood trickling from her lip. I sobbed the entire drive home, begging my parents to save her. In the end, my parents paid her family thirty thousand dollars—a fortune to them—to formally take over her care and bring her to the city. My parents didn’t formally adopt her because they wanted to protect her dignity. They wanted her to feel like an equal, a dear friend who was staying with us. I was too young to understand the dark complexity of human pride. When my parents brought her into our home, Cassie knelt on the hardwood floor, her eyes wide and desperate. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell. I will be Bea’s servant for the rest of my life to pay you back.” My parents immediately pulled her to her feet. “No, sweetheart. We don’t want a servant. We just want you to be happy here, with Bea.” I felt like a savior. I shared my clothes, my room, my toys, and my life with her. To protect her from gossip, we never told anyone at our new private school where she came from. But teenagers are perceptive. When classmates asked why Cassie was always fussing over me, ironing my clothes, and fetching my lunch, I would simply smile and say, “Because she loves me.” I didn’t realize that to the rest of the world, I looked like a spoiled, tyrannical princess, and Cassie looked like my long-suffering maid. And I certainly didn’t realize that my future husband, Thomas, saw us the exact same way. Shortly after Thomas and I married, his behavior shifted. He started smiling at his phone, setting it face-down on the table whenever I walked into the room. He worked late, and when he came home, there was often a faint, delicate scent of women’s perfume lingering on his coat. When I confronted him, he sighed with irritation. “I was laughing at a legal group chat, Bea. Putting my phone face-down is just a habit from work. And the perfume? I work with female clients. Am I supposed to tell them to step away because my wife is paranoid?” Still uneasy, I confided in Cassie. She hugged me tightly, whispering in my ear: “Next time you suspect something, don’t ask him. Just investigate. Find the proof first so he can’t lie his way out of it.” The proof arrived sooner than I expected. Thomas went on a short weekend business trip. He sent me a photo of the city skyline from his hotel room window, but in the reflection of the glass, I saw the distinct silhouette of a woman standing by the bed. I called Cassie immediately, but her phone went straight to voicemail. Panicked and desperate, I called two of our mutual friends and drove straight to his hotel. We used a spare keycard from the front desk to open the door. Inside, Thomas was half-kneeling on the carpet, gently cradling a woman’s bare leg in his hands. It was Cassie. When Thomas saw our friends standing in the doorway holding up their phones, his face turned livid. “Beatrice, have you lost your mind?!” My entire body was shaking. “What… what is she doing here?” Thomas stood up, shielding Cassie behind him, and slapped the phone out of my friend’s hand. “Cassie is in the pre-law program. I brought her along so she could audit a real case. She tripped on the stairs and sprained her ankle, and I was checking her injury. What is wrong with you?!” But the scent in the room was unmistakable. It was the exact same perfume I had smelled on his coat. I pushed past him, grabbed his phone off the nightstand, and unlocked it. Cassie’s contact was pinned to the top. The chat history from that single day was longer than all the messages Thomas had sent me over the last six months. My blood ran cold. “Is this your ‘legal group chat,’ Thomas? If you two had nothing to hide, why didn’t you just tell me she was coming with you?” “Enough!” Thomas roared. He reached into his pocket and threw two plastic keycards onto the bed. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d lose your mind and accuse her of something terrible! Everyone knows how much Cassie has sacrificed for you over the years, and this is how you repay her? By trying to brand her as a mistress?” Seeing the two separate room keys, the friends I had brought with me began to whisper among themselves, looking at me with disapproval. “Bea… maybe you really did misunderstand,” one of them murmured. Cassie slowly slipped off the bed and fell to her knees in front of me, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry, Bea. This is my fault. Please don’t fight with Thomas because of me.” But as she bowed her head, I saw it—a tiny, triumphant smirk curling the corner of her lips. Before I even realized what I was doing, my hand flew out and struck her across the face. “Cassie, I treated you like a sister! How could you do this to me?!” In the next second, a blinding pain exploded in my cheek. Thomas had slapped me so hard I stumbled back, falling hard against the desk. “You treated her like a sister?” Thomas sneered, his voice cold and disgusted. “You treated her like a servant. You made her wash your clothes, fetch your meals, and forced her to go to a second-rate state school just so she could keep nursing you. How do you sleep at night, Beatrice?” The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I looked up at them, my vision blurring. “A servant? Without my family, her own mother would have sold her off to clear a debt! My parents paid thirty thousand dollars to get her out of that hell. And when my family went bankrupt and college tuition skyrocketed, I gave up my study-abroad fund and split it with her so she could afford school. That is why we went to the state college together! Is that the story she told you?” The room fell dead silent. Cassie’s soft, theatrical sobbing was the only sound. Thomas’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. He pulled Cassie to her feet, shielding her from my sight. “If you actually did those things out of charity, you wouldn’t throw them in her face to humiliate her.” Without another word, he guided her out of the room. Our friends followed them, leaving me alone on the cold hotel floor. The sheer weight of the betrayal crushed me, and the world went dark as I fainted. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed. Thomas was sitting beside me, holding my hand tightly. When he saw me move, he immediately looked up, his eyes bloodshot and weary. “Bea… thank God you’re awake.” He kissed the back of my hand, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so, so sorry about what happened at the hotel. I lost my temper.” He reached out, gently smoothing the hair from my forehead. “The doctor told me you’re pregnant, Bea. You have to stay calm, for the baby. There is nothing going on between Cassie and me, I swear. We both crossed some lines, but it was just a misunderstanding.” He pulled a small, worn photograph from his pocket. It was the picture of Cassie and me from middle school. “Your friendship is too precious to throw away over jealousy,” Thomas whispered. “She wants to apologize to you. She’s coming to our house tomorrow. I’ll leave the two of you alone so you can talk it out. Will you do that for me? For our family?” I stared at Cassie’s innocent teenage smile in the photograph. I thought of what my mother used to tell me when we were young: “Never expect perfect grace from those who have known nothing but survival.” I slowly closed my eyes and nodded. The next afternoon, Cassie arrived at our suburban home, carrying a container of my favorite homemade soup. She watched quietly as I ate a few spoonfuls, and only then did Thomas feel comfortable enough to leave. “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he said, offering me a reassuring smile before driving away. The moment his car cleared the driveway, Cassie’s face changed. The submissive, guilty expression vanished, replaced by a cold, mocking sneer. “Beatrice,” she said, leaning over the kitchen island. “Do you have any idea how nauseating you are? Sitting there pretending to be the benevolent queen, when I know you absolutely despise me.” I set my spoon down, my hand starting to tremble. “What are you talking about?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I won’t let you play your mind games with me again, Cassie.” She laughed, a sharp, ugly sound, and pulled out her phone. She pressed play on an audio recording. Thomas’s voice filled the quiet kitchen: “…My entire career is built on family law, Cassie. A messy divorce would ruin my reputation. We have to be smart. But as a promise to you… when Bea went under for the IVF procedure, I had the clinic swap her donor eggs with yours. The child she’s carrying is yours and mine.” My heart stopped. To protect Thomas’s pride, we had told no one about our struggles with fertility or the IVF treatments. I tried to stand up, to scream, but my legs felt like lead. My arms wouldn’t obey my brain. The soup. It was drugged. Seeing the raw terror in my eyes, Cassie’s grin widened. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a box of matches, and struck one. The small flame danced between us. “Beatrice,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming with a sick light. “If this house catches fire right now… who do you think Thomas will choose to save?” I tried to force the words out of my throat, my voice barely a whisper. “If you want him… take him. I won’t stand in your way.” “Slap.” She struck me across the face, sending me sliding off the chair onto the floor. “Take him?” she spat, glaring down at me. “Even now, you speak to me like you’re handing down scraps from your table. ‘I’ll let you have him.’ Who do you think you are, Beatrice? You were just lucky enough to be born to rich parents. What makes you better than me? Why did you get to have everything while I had to beg for your discarded toys?” The tiny flame of the match caught the edge of the kitchen curtains. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Bea. And weak, naive girls like you get left behind.” She pulled out her phone, dialing Thomas’s number on speaker. “Thomas! Help me!” she screamed into the receiver, her voice instantly shifting into a pitch of pure, frantic terror. “Bea has lost her mind! She set the house on fire! She’s trying to burn us both alive!” That was the last thing I heard before the smoke filled my lungs. Through the haze of the spreading flames, I saw the front door crash open. Thomas ran straight past where I lay paralyzed on the kitchen floor, throwing his arms around Cassie and carrying her out into the fresh air. Then, the burning ceiling collapsed, burying me in ash and fire. I looked across the metal table at Detective Callahan, whose face had gone completely pale. “So,” I said, my voice steady and quiet. “What I did to Cassie Knowles wasn’t murder. I simply returned the favor.” Callahan stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. “Secure the old Barrett residence immediately! Get a forensics team out there—Cassie’s remains are likely buried on the property!” They moved fast. Within hours, the forensic team unearthed a small, sealed urn containing human ashes from the backyard of my former home. In the visitor’s room, Thomas slammed his fists against the glass partition, tears streaming down his face. “Yes, Cassie did terrible things! But you had the evidence! You could have used the law to destroy us, Beatrice! Why did you have to kill her like this?!” I stared at him through the glass, my expression entirely tranquil. “If I had died in that kitchen fire like she planned, Thomas… how would I have used the law?” I leaned closer to the glass. “And tell me—are you crying because you’re afraid of what the law will do to me, or are you crying because your precious Cassie is gone?” Thomas froze, his mouth hanging slightly open, unable to find an answer. Suddenly, the door behind him burst open. Detective Callahan entered, his face tight with anger and confusion. “The lab results just came back. Those ashes in the urn… they don’t belong to Cassie Knowles. Beatrice, you lied to us!” I smiled, resting my chin on my hands. “I never said those ashes belonged to Cassie.” “They belong to my mother.” I looked at Thomas, watching the confusion turn into cold dread on his face. “If my history with Cassie was just about that house fire, Thomas… why on earth would I have gone out of my way to kill five other completely innocent people?”

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The company was planning a team-building retreat when Cody Francis, our newly hired administrative intern, approached me privately during lunch. “Simon, I heard your family owns that boutique eco-estate upstate. The company has a retreat next weekend—why don’t we host the picking event there?” He smiled, that slick, overly familiar smile of a young man who thought he could charm his way into anything. “We’re all colleagues, after all. The company will throw you a five-hundred-dollar stipend. Consider it a way to support your small business.” I stared at him, momentarily speechless. My estate, Linden Hills, is the premier private sanctuary in the valley. It’s an exclusive haven featuring luxury glamping, stone-fired grills, organic pick-your-own orchards, and private tasting pavilions. A single day pass costs $150 per person, let alone a private buyout. With over fifty people in our office, a weekend booking should have cost the company over fifteen thousand dollars. Yet here was Cody, trying to secure a full-scale corporate buyout for a measly five hundred bucks, expecting to walk away looking like a hero. I kept my voice polite but firm. “I’m sorry, Cody. The estate is fully booked and paid for by another client next weekend. The schedule is locked in; we can’t change it.” I thought that would be the end of it. But that very afternoon, Cody went completely rogue. He posted a high-profile announcement on the company’s main Slack channel and his personal social media. “Huge news, everyone! For this quarter’s retreat, we are heading to a private, luxury boutique estate upstate!” “Drop a reaction below to RSVP. Everything—food, drinks, activities, and fruit picking—is completely covered! Plus ones and family members are welcome!” The Slack channel exploded. Colleagues flooded the thread with praise, calling Cody a miracle worker for securing such an exclusive spot. Even our boss, Mr. Henderson, chimed in, praising his initiative and resourcefulness. Watching the screen light up with endless praise emojis, a cold weight settled in my stomach. He wanted to hijack my private property, use my life’s work to build his own reputation, and play the generous benefactor at my expense? He was about to learn that some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. … During the afternoon lull, Cody sent me a text. “Come on, Simon. Five hundred dollars for a small farm is a sweet deal. You aren’t losing anything here.” My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I let out a slow breath before typing back: “It’s not about the money, Cody. We have a legally binding contract. The other client paid a full deposit. If I breach it, the penalty is three times the booking fee. I can’t afford that loss.” A minute later, my phone vibrated. Cody was calling. The moment I answered, his tone had shed all its previous warmth, replaced by a patronizing, heavy-handed pressure. “Simon, the company has invested so much in you over the years. Where is your loyalty? Where is your gratitude?” I squeezed my eyes shut, keeping my voice level. “The estate was booked months in advance. We physically cannot host another group—” “Then tell the other client to reschedule,” Cody cut me off, his voice dripping with condescension. “Giving you this booking is a favor. We’re putting money in your pocket. Just get it done.” Before I could reply, the line went dead. Half an hour later, when Mr. Henderson asked for an update on the retreat logistics, Cody shared a series of high-res promotional photos of Linden Hills—photos he had lifted directly from our official website. One of the senior analysts, noticing the luxury branding, took a screenshot and posted it in the thread: “Wait, Cody. I looked up this place. Individual day passes are $150. For a group our size, a two-day retreat is going to blow our budget wide open.” Cody replied instantly, adding a smug little winking emoji. “Don’t worry, everyone! I worked my magic and negotiated a special rate. A flat five hundred dollars for the entire buyout. Everything is covered. Eat, drink, and be merry on the company’s dime!” The Slack channel erupted again. “Cody, you are incredible! How did you even pull this off? This place is practically impossible to book!” “Exactly! I’ve been trying to get a reservation there for my anniversary for six months! Five hundred dollars is insane!” Even Mr. Henderson posted: “Excellent work, Cody. Saving the company money while elevating our standards. This is exactly the kind of efficiency I love to see.” I stared at the screen, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. Using my sanctuary to paint himself as a corporate savior. It was sickening. I typed directly into the main channel: “The estate has been booked by another client for months. We need to find another venue for the retreat.” Instantly, the backlash started. “Simon, Cody already said it’s handled,” one of the account executives wrote. “What’s your issue? Are you just jealous because an intern is outshining you?” “Honestly,” another added. “If a luxury estate can offer a deal that cheap, what were those thousands of dollars we spent on Simon’s previous events actually going toward?” “Now that you mention it… did Simon take a kickback on those vendor fees?” Before I could type a defense, my phone rang. It was Cody again. “Simon, what the hell are you doing? I already told everyone it’s a go!” his voice hissed through the speaker. “Are you really going to hold out because of five hundred dollars? We’re colleagues. Why do you have to be so petty?” “I’ve made myself perfectly clear,” I said, my voice cold. “The estate is booked. There is no availability. Furthermore, the client who booked it is Kingsley—” “Then call them and ask them to move their dates!” Cody interrupted. “The company’s plans are locked in. Can’t you just cooperate for once and show some team spirit?” I was past the point of anger; now, it was just pure absurdity. During last year’s annual gala, I spent two months meticulously planning every detail. When Cody joined as an intern, he begged to help. Trusting him, I handed over the master execution schedule and vendor contacts. The event was a massive success. But when Mr. Henderson asked who designed the layout and secured the VIP catering, Cody swapped my name for his on the final presentation slides, claiming my two months of sweat and sleepless nights as his own. Back then, he had cornered me in the breakroom, saying: “Simon, if this gala goes well, I get a full-time offer. You understand, right? We’re team players.” I had let it go. I told myself he was young, struggling, and desperate to survive in the city. I chose peace over conflict. But now, the client who booked the estate for next weekend was Kingsley Holdings—our company’s largest and most critical account. And this intern wanted me to bump them so he could throw a cheap office party. I let out a soft, dry chuckle. “Fine. If you want them to reschedule, you pay the cancellation fee.” “How much?” Cody scoffed. “Not much. Just twenty-five thousand dollars. Wire me the funds, and I’ll clear the weekend for you.” There was a sharp gasp on the other end. “Simon! Are you trying to extort me? I’m doing this for the company! Why would I pay you twenty-five grand?” He slammed the phone down. Seconds later, a notification popped up on my screen. Cody had tagged the entire company on Slack. “@channel I’m so sorry, everyone. It seems Simon is refusing to let us host the retreat at the orchard. Since he’s the event coordinator, my hands are tied. We’ll have to follow his lead.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. He knew I kept my personal life private and had never told anyone at the office that I owned Linden Hills. With a few carefully chosen words, he had painted himself as the helpless victim and cast me as the bitter gatekeeper ruining everyone’s fun. The channel went wild. Diane from Finance was the first to fire: “Simon, this is deeply unprofessional. Cody went above and beyond for this team. Why are you dragging your feet and sabotaging his hard work?” Brad from Marketing immediately joined the dogpile: “Seriously. It doesn’t cost you a dime, and we get a beautiful retreat. Why are you blocking this?” Another colleague chimed in: “Let’s call it what it is. Some people have been sitting in their comfortable chairs too long without delivering results. He’s probably terrified Cody is going to take his manager title.” I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. I drafted a response, then deleted it. A moment later, a direct message from Mr. Henderson arrived, summoning Cody and Diane to his office. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed with the same summons. When I walked in, Mr. Henderson cleared his throat, leaning back in his leather chair. “Simon, you’ve been with us a long time. But I have to ask—why are you making things so difficult for our new talent?” Diane crossed her arms, nodding in agreement. “Cody managed to secure the county’s finest estate for five hundred dollars. In contrast, Simon, the budgets you’ve submitted for past retreats have been astronomical. It makes one wonder…” The implication hung heavy and foul in the air. I let out a harsh laugh. “So, you’re accusing me of embezzling company funds through vendor kickbacks?” Silence stretched across the room, but the suspicion in their eyes was unmistakable. The urge to burn it all down flared hot in my chest. I wanted to scream the truth in their faces. “You can’t go to that estate because I—” “Look, Simon,” Cody cut in smoothly, wearing a mask of mock sympathy. “We’re all on the same team here. Some things are better left unsaid. There’s no need to make a scene.” Mr. Henderson shot me a stern look. “Cody has organized this beautifully. Simon, you are to hand over all event responsibilities to him immediately. And given the discrepancies Diane has raised, we will be conducting a full audit of your past event accounts. Consider yourself suspended indefinitely, effective today.” I froze. Six years. Six years of working late nights, of leveraging my personal network to secure discounted rates for this company, of quiet loyalty. And it took an intern’s cheap lie to strip me of everything I had built. Before, when planning retreats, I had called in personal favors to get us premium venues at cost. Now, they suspected me of stealing, all while trying to bully me into giving up my own multi-million-dollar property for five hundred dollars. I clenched my fists, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Fine,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “If you don’t believe me, run the audit. Review every receipt, every invoice, every transaction. If you find a single cent unaccounted for, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” Mr. Henderson sneered. “Don’t tempt me, Simon. Keep your pride; you’ll need it when the truth comes out.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the office. In the hallway, the hushed whispers of my colleagues followed me like a physical weight. I returned to my desk, opened my laptop, and began systematically organizing six years of vendor contracts, price comparisons, and bank statements. I remembered my first day here, fresh out of college, eager and naive. I had stayed because Henderson had promised that this company was a family, that loyalty would be rewarded. Over the years, I had quietly used Linden Hills as an unspoken perk, hosting our VIP clients there under the guise of “exclusive promotional partnerships” to help Henderson close deals. I never asked for credit. I just wanted to do my job. And this was my reward. “Simon, Mr. Henderson asked me to collect your transition files.” Cody was standing over my desk, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. Without a word, I sent the compiled archive to his inbox. He clicked through the files, then leaned down, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “You know, Simon, the boss is dead set on this audit. You and I both know you’ve been skimmin’ off the top of those big budget events.” He tapped his fingers on my desk. “But I’m a reasonable guy. If you make sure the estate is ready for us next weekend, I might just tell Henderson that I looked over the books myself and found nothing. We can make this whole audit business disappear.” I looked up at him, genuinely astonished by his sheer audacity. He actually believed his own lie. He thought I was a thief, and he was trying to blackmail me with it. Cody swaggered back to his desk. Within minutes, he posted a signup sheet on Slack, adding a bold note: “All staff are welcome to bring family and guests. Unlimited premium food, wood-fired barbecue, and fresh cherry picking—all fully covered by the company!” Within thirty minutes, the registration list exploded. With spouses, partners, and children, the headcount quickly climbed past a hundred. As the sun began to set, Cody walked back to my desk with a printed roster and a massive list of logistics. “Here’s the final count: one hundred and eight people. We’ll need premium beef, seafood, craft beers, and all the recreational gear ready by Friday morning. Consider this your chance to redeem yourself, Simon. Make sure it’s perfect.” I glanced at the paper, then looked him dead in the eye. “I told you. The estate is not available.” Cody’s smile curdled into a cold sneer. “Stop bluffing, Simon. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll make sure Henderson hands those audit files straight to the police. Let’s see how much your stubbornness is worth when you’re wearing handcuffs.” Seeing that I wasn’t reacting, he assumed I was cowed into submission. He turned back to the Slack channel, painting an elaborate picture of the upcoming weekend. “Get ready for the ultimate feast, everyone! Organic Rainier cherries and plums straight from the branch—all you can eat! We’ll have wagyu beef skewers, fresh oysters, and premium craft bars. Everything is prepped and ready!” The channel was a flurry of praise. “Cody is a legend! This is a massive step up from what Simon used to organize!” “Wagyu and oysters? This is incredible!” Even Mr. Henderson posted three thumbs-up emojis. I quietly packed my personal belongings into a cardboard box, shut down my computer, and walked out. The next morning, my first day of suspension, I stayed in bed. But at 8:00 AM, my phone began to buzz with texts from Cody. “Simon, I hope you’re upstate setting up. Make sure the premium meats are iced. The boss expects a flawless experience!” I stared at the screen, my patience entirely depleted. “I told you twice. The estate is closed to you.” I blocked his number immediately. I thought that would buy me some peace, but less than an hour later, my phone rang again. This time, it was Pete, the head caretaker of Linden Hills. “Mr. Simon! We have a major situation here!” Pete’s voice was strained, drowning out a loud, chaotic din in the background. “A massive caravan of cars—over a hundred people—just showed up! They claim they’re from your company and they’ve completely bypassed the security gate!” A chill ran down my spine. “What?” “And that’s not the worst of it,” Pete gasped, his voice trembling. “Mr. Kingsley from Kingsley Holdings is staying in the North Pavilion. He came out of his villa to find a crowd of strangers setting up portable grills right on his private lawn. He is furious, Simon.” I closed my eyes, taking a long, measured breath to steady my racing pulse. “Pete, listen to me. Apologize to Mr. Kingsley immediately. Tell him I am on my way. Then, call the staff and tell those trespassers to leave.” I hung up and threw on some clothes, but before I could grab my keys, Pete called back. This time, he sounded devastated. “Simon… they won’t leave. They’re ignoring us. Some of them ran into the young cherry orchard—they’re tearing off unripe green cherries by the handful and throwing them on the ground! They’ve already trampled and snapped dozens of the new Italian grafted saplings we planted last autumn!” My grip tightened around the steering wheel as I sat in my car. Those saplings. I had hand-selected them from a heritage nursery in Tuscany, waiting nearly a year for import clearance. “And Simon…” Pete’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A guy named Cody just knocked over the table in the pavilion. He shattered Mr. Kingsley’s bottle of Romanée-Conti.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “Get the security cameras running, Pete,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Record every single one of them. Do not engage. I’m calling the police.” I dialed 911. By the time I neared the local sheriff’s department, my phone was vibrating continuously. An unknown number was flashing on the dashboard. I pressed answer. Cody’s voice screamed through the speakers, frantic and breathless. “Simon! Where the hell are you?! The police just showed up and they’re arresting everyone!”

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And after three years of running, our paths crossed again during a raid. He was the brilliant young detective leading the task force; I was the fugitive wanted for murder across eight states. Our eyes locked, and for a fleeting second, Jacob’s composure shattered. “Maren… how is this you?” I tried to bolt during his moment of hesitation, but one of his officers shot me in the calf. Now, in the interrogation room, Jacob’s eyes are bloodshot as he slams his hands on the table and roars: “Four lives, Maren! Four people are dead! How could you do this?” “Tell me it’s a mistake! Say something! Please, just tell me it wasn’t you!” Looking at the agonizing betrayal in his eyes, I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You’re right. It is a mistake.” “It wasn’t four.” “It was five.” “You care so much about your wife—my former best friend, Lola—don’t you? Tell me, Jacob, how haven’t you noticed she’s gone?” … Jacob’s face drains of all color. His hand trembles as he pulls out his phone. The lock screen, which used to be a picture of me, now features his wedding portrait with Lola. He hits speed dial. A second later, a melodic ringtone begins to drift from my jacket pocket. With a cruel, mocking smile, I slide the screen open and answer Lola’s blood-stained phone. “Hey, honey.” “Why aren’t you coming to save me? I’m so scared…” Jacob lunges across the table, grabbing me by the collar. “What did you do to Lola!” Just as the air begins to leave my lungs, the deputy chief rushes in and tears him off me. “Calm down, Detective! The press feed is live!” Jacob’s teeth grind together as he glares at me. “Where is she, Maren?” I shrug, the handcuffs rattling against the metal table. “I don’t know.” “If you’re smart enough to catch me, I’m sure you’re smart enough to find her.” “Maren Kelly!” His eyes are so red they look ready to bleed. “Lola loved you like a sister! When we were kids and those bullies cornered you, she was the one who stood in front of you.” “When your mother got sick and needed that specialist, Lola pulled strings to get her a bed. She took care of her every single day, doing more than you ever did.” “And when you couldn’t pay the medical bills, she emptied her own savings to keep your mother alive.” “Is this how you repay her?” On the side wall, the live-stream monitor is flooded with comments from the public watching the feed. “Oh my god, is that Dr. Ward from Mercy Hospital?” “I remember her! She was an absolute angel. When my dad was terminally ill and we couldn’t afford his meds, she bought them out of her own pocket.” “The good die young. This monster needs to rot in hell!” Faced with their outrage, I only sneer and turn my face away, refusing to look at the screen. My silence only fuels Jacob’s rage. He snatches a silver protection charm hanging from Lola’s phone case and hurls it onto the table in front of me. “Three years ago, just because your mother’s doctor asked me to consult on the case, you let your paranoia drive you mad. You accused Lola of trying to seduce me, and then you stabbed her!” “I had to arrest you myself. But Lola couldn’t bear to see you behind bars. She signed the waiver, begged the DA to drop the charges, and got you released. And what did you do? You ran. You vanished without a trace, leaving her sick with worry.” “This charm? Lola walked up the five hundred stone steps of the mountain chapel on her knees, praying for your safety. She prayed for you every single day while you were out there slaughtering four people—and then you came back for her!” Jacob’s voice cracks, his eyes wild with a desire to tear me apart. “Did you even care that your mother passed away while you were in custody?” “Lola ignored her own stab wound to assist in your mother’s emergency surgery. She stood in that operating room for twelve hours straight without a drop of water. When your mother didn’t make it, Lola broke down. She was the one who arranged the funeral because you weren’t there.” “She blamed herself! She took time off every year on the anniversary of your mother’s death just to put flowers on her grave. She did all of this for you, and this is how you repay her!” At the mention of my mother, my eyes sting with uncontrollable tears. Seeing my resolve crack, Jacob’s fists loosen slightly. The same hand that had once slipped an engagement ring onto my finger now rests heavily on my shoulder. “Maren, please. Where is she?” “If you show remorse now, I can talk to the prosecutor. I can get you a plea deal.” I look up, my tears turning into a bitter, mocking laugh. “A plea deal?” “Jacob, you’re the piece of trash who betrayed me. What makes you think you have the right to offer me mercy?” Jacob’s face burns a dark, furious crimson. The deputy chief, who had been taking notes, finally snaps. He slams his clipboard down and snaps: “That is enough!” “When Dr. Ward was stabbed, Detective Mercer only looked after her out of sheer guilt for what you did! He wanted to make sure she wouldn’t press charges so you wouldn’t spend a decade in state prison!” “After you fled, Jacob used every day of his paid leave to hunt for you. Even when Dr. Ward visited the precinct, it was always to ask if we had any leads on your whereabouts.” “You were gone for three years. Jacob’s father was dying of terminal cancer, and his only wish was to see his son settled. Out of pity, Dr. Ward suggested a mock wedding ceremony just to give a dying old man some peace of mind before he passed.” Jacob lets out a heavy, weary sigh and turns his back to me. The deputy chief glares at me, his finger practically poking my nose. “We couldn’t find you, and Dr. Ward had no one else. We were the ones who pressured Jacob to make it official and marry her, to give her the security she deserved after everything she lost.” “And this is how you paint him? You’re sick, Maren. You’ve lost your mind.” Jacob turns back, his face a portrait of profound sorrow. “Maren, do you want to know the real reason Lola and I had that mock wedding?” He steps closer, placing a silver wedding band heavily onto the table. “Lola knew you hated her. She didn’t want a misunderstanding to keep us apart forever, so she thought a high-profile wedding announcement would draw you out of hiding.” “Every single detail of that ceremony was designed around what you wanted. The dress you picked out years ago, the ring we chose—they were waiting backstage. She wanted to hand them over to you the moment you walked through the door.” “As for Lola? She wore a cheap, rented dress and a fake ring from a costume shop just to get through the ceremony. When you didn’t show, she posted the video online, hoping against hope that you’d see it and come home.” The live chat on the screen explodes again. “I remember that video! I thought it was so weird the bride was wearing such a cheap gown, and the ring was practically falling off her finger.” “People were ruthless in the comments, mocking her for marrying a guy who clearly didn’t love her.” “I was one of those commenters. God, I feel sick. We didn’t know anything.” Looking at the wedding ring on the table, my mind drifts back to three years ago. Jacob had just proposed to me. I had just finished my master’s degree and accepted a prestigious job offer. My mother’s health was finally stabilizing, and her discharge date was just around the corner. Drunk on happiness and the bright, shimmering future ahead, I had called Lola. “Lola! Jacob proposed!” “You’re my best friend in the world. You have to be my maid of honor! I want you right there next to me.” Lola had laughed and agreed instantly. After hanging up, the very first thing I shopped for wasn’t my bridal gown, but her bridesmaid dress. If only I hadn’t seen what I saw. If only I had remained blind. Instead, the ring that was meant for my ring finger had been replaced by cold, heavy steel handcuffs. The man who used to hold me tight and whisper that I was his entire world was now standing on the opposite side of a bulletproof glass. Demanding I tell him where to find the woman who ruined everything. “Maren, if you have even a shred of humanity left in you, tell me where Lola is.” I close my eyes tight, a tear finally escaping and cutting a path through the grime on my cheek. “The cemetery columbarium. Section A, Row 3, Niche 2. What you’re looking for is in there.” The police move with terrifying speed, cordoning off the cemetery within minutes. But when they force open the niche, there are no ashes inside. Only a thin, lightweight manila folder. Jacob slams the folder onto the interrogation table. “Maren, are you playing games with us? Are you just trying to buy time?” The deputy chief touches his shoulder. “Jacob, let me take over. If Dr. Ward is still alive, every second counts. Go with the team and search the area. Sitting here in circles is wasting precious time.” As Jacob hesitates, I tilt my chin up toward him. “Aren’t you going to look inside?” Jacob pulls on a pair of latex gloves and opens the folder. Inside is a voluntary organ donor authorization form. The edges of the paper are stained with a faint, rust-colored smudge of dried blood, but nothing is as jarring as my mother’s shaky, uneven signature at the bottom. Jacob’s brow furrows. “Maren, what is this supposed to prove?” “Do you honestly think your mother was coerced into signing this? I was there, Maren! It wasn’t like that at all!” “Lola didn’t even bring the paperwork. A floor nurse happened to mention the donor program, and your mother requested the forms herself!” The dam inside me finally breaks. “My mother requested it? Jacob, you’ve been a detective for five years, and you’re still this blind?” For the first time, the live-stream comments begin to turn. “Wait… did the doctor trick her mother into signing her organs away, and then let her die on the table?” “That is terrifying. If that’s true, I don’t blame her for snapping. Who could stay sane after that?” “And what about the other four victims? Weren’t they all connected to the organ transplant network? This goes deep.” “Put yourself in Maren’s shoes. Your best friend kills your mother for profit, your fiancé marries the killer, and then he’s the one interrogating you after you get your revenge. This is a tragedy.” Jacob glances at the monitor, his expression tightening. He opens his mouth to argue. Suddenly, the heavy door of the interrogation room is thrown open. “Chief! We have a major break!” An officer stands panting in the doorway. “Maren spent the last three years operating across the border. According to intelligence reports, she was heavily involved in an international black-market organ trafficking syndicate!” The words hit the room like a physical blow. Jacob snaps his gaze back to me, his jaw clenching so hard I can hear his teeth grind. “You are a magnificent actress, Maren. I almost believed you.” “You were the one who brainwashed your mother into signing that form, weren’t you?” “You’re running a black-market ring. You killed your own mother to frame Lola, and then you slaughtered those doctors to cover your tracks. Are you even human?” On the screen, the public chat erupts into a feeding frenzy. “Oh my god, Maren is the ringleader?!” “So she forced her mom to sign, let Dr. Ward handle the surgery, and then murdered the medical staff so no one could talk!” “This is insane. She’s a monster.” Looking at the screen, a breathless, hysterical laugh escapes my throat, tasting of copper and despair. Jacob staggers back, barely able to keep his balance. “Maren… do you have anything to say for yourself?” I raise a hand and wipe the corner of my eye. “What’s the point? You’ve already written the ending.” The deputy chief stands up, his voice cold. “Take her back to holding. All units, assemble. We search for Dr. Ward now.” Jacob doesn’t move. As the guards grab my arms and pull me past him, his hand twitches, reaching out toward me for a fraction of a second. But in the end, he says nothing. It takes forty-eight hours of grueling, round-the-clock searching. But they find her. What was left of Lola was buried in the plot right next to my mother’s grave. She had been folded into a tight, terrible ball, her limbs and spine systematically shattered. If you looked closely, you could see she had been forced into a kneeling position, her forehead pressed against the dirt—a forced posture of eternal, desperate begging. The deputy chief turns away, his face pale. “She’s an absolute animal…” Jacob collapses onto the grass, completely blacking out. The medical examiner’s report is brief: “The victim’s major organs were surgically removed.” I hadn’t lied when I said I didn’t know where she was. Because every piece of her was in a different place. When the trial begins, Jacob is dressed in a dark suit. He sits in the gallery alongside the families of the other victims. I keep my eyes lowered as the prosecutor reads the indictment. “…The defendant, Maren Kelly, did willfully and with malice aforethought commit five counts of first-degree murder, resulting in the immediate deaths of the victims.” “Furthermore, over a three-year period, the defendant participated in over four hundred black-market organ transactions across borders, causing severe societal harm.” “Defendant, you may now present your statement.” I remain silent. The gallery erupts into a chorus of angry shouts. “What is there to say? She’s a plague on society!” “My son studied for a decade to become a surgeon! She didn’t just murder him, she dragged his name through the mud!” “Five doctors! She slaughtered five doctors! She’s a monster! Give her the needle!” They hold up framed photographs of the deceased, their faces flushed with grief and fury. The gallery is a sea of flashing camera lights, burning my retinas. I open my mouth, but my throat feels as though it has been filled with concrete. It is an old affliction of mine—whenever my emotions spike, my voice simply deserts me. Lola knew this. Jacob knew this. It was why Lola used to fight my battles for me when we were children. I look toward Jacob. But he is swallowed by the crowd, his face unreadable. A couple of rotten eggs and small stones fly over the partition, striking me in the forehead. Warm blood trickles down, staining my vision a dark, sticky red. I turn back to the judge and slowly shake my head. When the verdict is read, and the judge sentences me to death, a cheer ripples through the courtroom. Grieving families cling to one another, weeping with relief. The judge looks down at me. “Defendant, you have the right to appeal this sentence. Do you understand?” The words won’t come. I only nod, then shake my head. The gavel falls. A final, heavy thud. I close my eyes. “Lola, you won.” As the guards began to lead me out of the courtroom, Jacob instinctively lunged forward. But the surging crowd of jubilant families swept him toward the exit. Reporters, waiting like vultures, thrust their microphones into his face. “Detective Mercer! You personally brought down the woman who murdered your wife. How does it feel to hear the death sentence?” “We understand the killer was your former fiancée. How do you reconcile that?” Jacob felt a tight band constrict his throat. He couldn’t squeeze out a single syllable. In that sudden, suffocating silence, a memory flashed through his mind. Three years ago, when Maren had reportedly stabbed Lola, she hadn’t said a single word in her defense either. The more desperate Maren was to explain, the more her voice failed her. Jacob’s face went white. “Get back to the station,” he barked at the deputy chief, his voice strained. “Pull the evidence from three years ago. The knife, the forensic files, Lola’s original medical reports. All of it!” “Now!” Briggs didn’t understand the sudden urgency, but the raw panic in Jacob’s eyes left no room for argument. When the files were delivered to his desk, Jacob pored over every line, refusing to skip a single letter. By the time he finished, his eyes were bloodshot, and he slammed his fist onto the desk. “File an emergency stay! Maren’s conviction is wrong!”

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For seven years, Brian and I were a couple, and for those same seven years, my best friend Cassie acted as my unofficial relationship strategist. Whenever Brian pulled all-nighters in the lab and I sat up crying, clutching my phone, Cassie would gently stroke my hair. “Iris, don’t crowd him,” she’d say softly. “Every late night Brian pulls is just him building a secure future for the two of you.” Whenever we drifted into cold silences after a fight, Cassie would sit beside me, holding my hand, helping me pick out the perfect text or meme to break the ice. I was always clumsy with words. When I misspoke and upset him, Cassie would worry more than I did, staying up half the night drafting long, eloquent paragraphs for me to send. I genuinely believed I was the luckiest girl in the world, surrounded by the two people who loved me most. Until the night before our wedding, when I stumbled upon an anonymous social media account. “I’ve been my best friend’s relationship coach for seven years. But every single word I taught her to say to him was actually what I wanted to tell him myself.” “A secret kept for seven years. In the end, I only ever dared to speak to him through her voice.” The profile picture was a little plush rabbit with one floppy ear—the exact one I had hand-sewn and given to Cassie for her birthday last year. The top comment felt like a blade slicing through me, making my blood run ice-cold. The user’s avatar was a microscope keychain—one I had spent an entire afternoon helping Brian pick out. The username was his childhood nickname. Brian’s reply read: “Silly girl. I’ve always known.” … My limbs went entirely numb, as if the warmth had been vacuumed right out of my bones. The bedroom door clicked open, and Cassie walked right in. She was holding a delicate bridal hairpiece, leaning in to test it against my hair. “Iris, becoming a bride and a mother all at once… other women would kill for this kind of luck.” She tilted her head, admiring her work, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You have to wear this for your first prenatal checkup tomorrow, and then for the wedding the day after. I stayed up for two nights straight sewing this by hand!” I stared into Cassie’s bright, shining eyes, feeling a sharp, physical pinch in my chest. After a long, heavy silence, I finally forced the words out. “Cassie… have you ever thought about getting married? Finding someone who truly loves you?” Her fingers froze in my hair. She stood still for what felt like an eternity before slowly letting her hand fall to her side. When she looked down, her voice dropped to a whisper. “No. Not for me.” “I’m just going to stay right here and look after you, Iris. When the baby is born, I’ll be her godmother. If it’s a girl, I’ll make her little dresses, braid her hair, and take her out for ice cream.” She forced a carefree laugh, but the rims of her eyes had already flushed a painful red. In that split second, the words from that anonymous post flashed violently in my mind: “I loved him in secret too, all through our three years of high school. But on the day of our college entrance exams, a truck came barreling out of nowhere. My best friend pushed both of us out of the way, nearly dying under the wheels herself. The moment she woke up in the hospital, she confessed her love to him. How could I ever steal him from her after that?” Those sentences wrapped around my throat like a wire, tightening with every breath. The door swung open again. Brian walked in, still wearing his white lab coat. Cassie sprang up instantly, spreading her arms to block him. “Hey! That coat is filthy from the lab. Don’t you dare bring those chemicals near our pregnant Iris!” Brian didn’t even register her mock defense. His eyes were wide, burning with a frantic, euphoric energy, locked entirely on Cassie from the moment he crossed the threshold. “Trial eighteen, Cassie! I finally replicated the results!” “I’ve been chasing this since last summer. Eighteen trials. Seventeen failures in a row, and today we finally did it!” He didn’t use her name, but I knew. Every word, every ounce of excitement, was directed solely at her. Since we started college seven years ago, everyone had called Brian and Cassie the twin stars of the chemistry department. I was just an English major. Whenever Brian tried to explain his research to me, it sounded like a foreign language. Every time he saw my blank, confused expression, he would just smile with a gentle, patronizing sigh and pat my head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, sweetie. You must be starving. Let’s go get some cake.” Cassie, however, was far more composed. She turned to grab the logbook off the desk. “Did you double-check the reagent concentration? What about the temperature curve? Did you record the raw data?” “I’ll run a quality check tonight. If everything looks solid, I’ll have the first draft of the paper ready for you by the day after tomorrow.” She kept moving, naturally pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to him. Brian slipped out of his lab coat and handed it backward without even looking. Cassie caught it seamlessly, draped it over the chair, and smoothed out the wrinkles in the sleeves. Their coordination was flawless. They didn’t look like colleagues; they looked like a married couple. It was only then that Cassie seemed to remember, tapping her temple with an apologetic gasp. “Oh, goodness, my memory is shot. The day after tomorrow is your wedding.” “Go focus on that. I’ll write the paper and compile the data tonight.” Brian frowned. “The wedding can wait. Iris isn’t going anywhere.” “Let’s get the paper written first while the data is fresh. If we wait a few days, we might lose our train of thought.” Only after saying this did he finally turn his gaze to me. His eyes lingered on me for a fraction of a second, his face softening into a practiced, apologetic smile. “Iris, we’ve been working on this experiment for a year.” “This is a critical window. Could you possibly…” A dull, suffocating ache bloomed in my chest. This was the seventh time Brian had asked to postpone our wedding. The first time, he said his thesis proposal was too demanding. The second time, he needed to replicate a dataset. The third, he was drafting a paper. The most recent time, the guests were already seated. Brian had called, panicking, claiming there was a minor chemical explosion in the lab and he had to rush Cassie to the emergency room. I waited in my wedding dress for seven and a half hours. Brian never showed up. When I finally rushed to the hospital, I found out Cassie had only sustained a tiny scratch from a shattered test tube. “Iris?” Cassie called out, her voice laced with concern at my silence. She turned back to Brian. “Forget it. The wedding comes first. Don’t be so stubborn.” They both stared at me—one pair of eyes filled with guilt, the other with pity. I felt a wire snap inside my chest. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice shockingly level. “Finish the paper.” I barely slept. I lay awake, counting my breaths until the sun rose. The next morning, Brian walked in, carrying a warm glass of milk out of habit. “I was supposed to take you to your prenatal checkup today,” he said softly, “but Cassie is going in to double-check the results. She’s the only one who can spot any anomalies in the data, and I just can’t risk it.” He reached out, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I’m sorry you have to go alone, Iris.” “Just this once. Once this paper is published, I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be by your side every day.” His eyes were full of tender regret. But all I could see was his reply on that anonymous thread: Silly girl, I’ve always known. But she’s pregnant, and I have to take responsibility. A lump of dry cotton seemed to lodge in my throat. “Brian, actually, we…” We don’t have to get married, I wanted to say. But Brian stood up abruptly, as if sensing the words before they could form. “I know what you’re going to say, Iris. Don’t worry. This is the last delay. I promise the next date will stick.” He knelt down to slide my shoes onto my feet. “Be careful out there. Call me if you need anything.” He ushered me into a cab and gave my stomach a gentle, absentminded pat. My mind was in a haze. By the time I snapped out of it, I had walked straight to Brian’s research facility instead of the clinic. On his desk sat a framed photo of him and Cassie holding a trophy from an international chemistry competition. Scattered nearby were two custom insulated mugs—one navy blue, one pastel pink—both engraved with the same molecular structure. From down the hallway, the sound of female grad students laughing and chatting drifted closer. “Today marks day 1,753 of Professor Brian and Dr. Cassie showing up to the lab together!” “I know, right? Five years, arriving and leaving together every single day. They’re more codependent than me and my boyfriend.” The other girl lowered her voice, dripping with excitement. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. The night before last, I walked past his office. They were kissing like their lives depended on it.” “I saw it through the crack in the door. He was holding her by the waist, and she was up on her tiptoes. It made me blush just watching them!” My heart felt as though it had been seized by a frozen hand and dragged into an abyss. The night before last, I had suffered severe cramps from the pregnancy. I had curled into a ball on our bed, calling Brian three times in a panic. He had answered briefly, telling me he was in the middle of a crucial run and that I should just take some over-the-counter medicine and bear with it. The students noticed me. A girl in a lab coat frowned. “Who are you? Which department are you with? Why are you lingering outside Professor Brian’s office?” I opened my mouth, but my throat felt like sandpaper. No sound came out. “Ah, I get it. You’re the volunteer for the clinical study, right?” Before I could correct her, she grabbed my arm and shoved me into the adjacent testing room. “Wait, listen to me,” I rasped. “I’m not a volunteer. I’m Brian’s—” “We’re on a tight schedule,” a lab tech interrupted without looking up from a clipboard. “Go behind the curtain and change into the gown. Strip down completely.” Before I could protest, she aggressively unzipped my jacket and handed me a thin hospital gown, urging me to hurry. The cold drafts of the lab hit my bare skin, making me shiver violently. Just then, chaos erupted in the corridor. “Gas leak! Toxic chemical exposure! Evacuate immediately!” I scrambled to grab my clothes, but before my fingers could touch them, the lab door was thrown open. A pair of hands grabbed my bare arm and hauled me out. The force sent me sprawling onto the cold, hard tiles of the hallway, my knees barking against the floor. It was the same student who had been gossiping about Brian and Cassie. Now wearing a gas mask, she glared down at me. “You’re the only unfamiliar face here. Did you cause this leak? Are you trying to ruin our research?” I was practically naked, shivering in nothing but my underwear. People were sprinting past in a panic. I curled in on myself, desperately crossing my arms over my chest to hide my body, huddling against the wall. “It wasn’t me! I’m Brian’s—” “Shut up!” she snapped, her foot catching me sharply in the thigh. I gasped at the sudden pain. “Who do you think you are, calling Professor Brian by his first name?” I stared at her, my throat tight as if clogged with wet cotton. For seven years, Brian had insisted we keep our relationship quiet, claiming office politics and academic rumors would destroy his career. He had even made me sign a pre-marital confidentiality agreement, promising we would go public once his tenure was secured. Just then, heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. Brian sprinted around the corner, carrying Cassie in his arms. Her face was deathly pale, her limp body cradled securely against his chest. “Call an ambulance!” Brian screamed, his voice raw. “Take her to St. Jude’s Private Wing!” I froze. St. Jude’s was the most exclusive private medical wing in the city, reserved strictly for elite research staff and high-ranking officials. The day my pregnancy was confirmed, I had timidly asked Brian if I could deliver our baby there. He hadn’t even looked up from his monitor. “I can’t pull strings for that, Iris. It’s a restricted medical facility, not a public clinic for just anyone.” Yet here he was, carrying Cassie, shouting the name of St. Jude’s without a second thought. The sheer terror on his face was something I had never witnessed in our seven years together. Not even when I was throwing up blood from morning sickness, and he had merely patted my head and sighed, “It’s completely normal, Iris. Don’t be dramatic. Just drink some ginger tea.” Now, with Cassie merely looking slightly faint, he looked like his world was ending. Suddenly, Cassie’s eyes closed, her head lulling back. Brian halted in his tracks and gently laid her down on the hallway floor. He looked up, his voice cutting through the panic with absolute authority: “Turn around. All of you.” The surrounding staff instantly spun around, facing the walls. He knelt, unbuttoned Cassie’s collar, and pressed his long, elegant fingers against her chest. Then, he leaned down, pressed his lips to hers, and began performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I suddenly remembered the first time I had leaned in to kiss him. He had laughed, tilting his head back. “Go brush your teeth first, babe. You know I’m a germaphobe.” Once Cassie’s breathing steadied, Brian finally sat back, chest heaving. It was only then that his eyes swept across the floor and landed on me. “Professor!” the student yelled, pointing directly at me. “This woman was sneaking around. I think we should call security and have her arrested!” A flicker of shock crossed Brian’s eyes. He took a tentative step toward me. But right then, Cassie groaned in pain, her fingers feebly clutching at his sleeve. Brian froze. He looked down at Cassie, then looked back at me, mouthing three silent words: Go on home. He turned to the student. “I know her. Don’t worry about it. Just call her an Uber and send her home.” With that, he scooped Cassie back into his arms, holding her close to his chest, and hurried down the corridor. I remained curled on the freezing tiles, a sharp, rhythmic cramping starting to bloom deep in my lower abdomen. The student stood over me, her expression thick with disgust. “Don’t think you’re special just because the professor knows you. Who are you putting on this show for? Get up!” I gritted my teeth, pushing my trembling hands against the floor to lift myself. My arms buckled, and I collapsed back down with a dull thud. She watched me struggle and fall half a dozen times before finally scowling and taking a step closer. “Seriously, stop playing victim. Everyone’s gone. Who are you acting for?” She squatted down, studying my contorted face with a cold sneer. “To be honest, I’ve seen plenty of girls try this sick-act routine just to get Professor Brian’s attention.” She stood back up, brushing the dust from her hands. “Save your breath. Seven years ago, the professor swore an oath to his mentor that Cassie was the only woman he would ever love. He doesn’t have eyes for anyone else.” Brian’s parents had passed away when he was young, and he had always viewed his mentor as a father. During our years together, I had asked countless times to meet him. Every time, Brian would frown, his voice laced with a cool distance: “You’re not part of our academic circle, Iris. Let’s not make things awkward. You wouldn’t have anything to talk about anyway.” I had foolishly assumed he wanted to keep his personal life separate from work. Now I knew the truth. His heart had been occupied from the very start. The physical pain began to blur with the emotional agony until my vision started to spot with black. The last thing I felt was a sudden, terrifying rush of warmth spreading beneath me. Through the static in my ears, I heard the student’s panicked shriek. “Hey! Don’t play dead! Hey! Wait… blood? She’s bleeding! Oh my God, somebody help!” On the other side of the hospital, Brian stayed by Cassie’s bedside until she woke up. For four full days, I didn’t send him a single text. In seven years, such a silence had been unimaginable. Initially, Brian felt a sense of relief. But the quiet didn’t bring peace; within hours, a slow, gnawing dread began to pool in his chest. The anxiety had actually taken root the moment he stumbled upon Cassie’s post and couldn’t stop himself from replying. Ever since, he had noticed me slipping away, lost in my own thoughts. He just hadn’t known how to face me—or how to handle Cassie. Now, Cassie was awake. Since his reply on the thread, they had tacitly avoided being alone together—until this moment. The room was deathly quiet, save for the rhythmic beep of the monitor. Cassie broke the silence first, her voice raspy, her eyes fixed on the hospital blanket. “Is the… is the wedding still on?” Brian hesitated. After a long pause, he gave a stiff nod, his voice dry. “We should go through with it. After all… it’s been seven years.” But as the words left his mouth, a sudden tremor shook his chest. He had spent years believing his heart belonged to Cassie. He knew the thoughtful gestures, the perfectly timed words of comfort—none of them could have originated from a girl as clumsy and simple as me. Yet, somewhere along the line, he had fallen in love with more than just those borrowed phrases. He suddenly, desperately wanted to see me. “Get some rest. I need to check on Iris,” he said, standing up. He didn’t notice the way Cassie’s face drained of color as he turned and walked out. His pace quickened, driven by an urgency he had never felt before. When he arrived back at the chemistry building, a small group of grad students was huddled at the end of the hall, whispering. “God, it was terrifying. There was so much blood. She started convulsing right there on the floor. Does anyone know if she’s okay?” Another student shook her head. “No idea. Someone said her heart stopped by the time the paramedics loaded her in. She was completely cold. Who even was she? How did the professor know her?” Brian stood frozen around the corner, as if struck by lightning, his body turning to ice.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “537542”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On our tenth wedding anniversary, Clyde got a sudden, urgent call from a client. As he slipped on his Oxfords in the foyer, I leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “If you pass by that new place on the way back, could you grab me one of those honeydew melon pudding teas? The ones everyone’s posting about online?” His brow furrowed instantly, a shadow of irritation crossing his face. “The boba shop is completely out of the way, Naomi. Why do you want that sugary, artificial junk anyway? You’re not a little girl anymore.” Before the words had even fully settled in the quiet air of our hallway, he was out the door. I stood there in the silence of the empty house, the memory of the search history I’d accidentally seen open on his laptop screen an hour ago flashing in my mind: “How to make the perfect honeydew melon pudding tea at home.” “Best designer heels in a women’s size 6.” “Which app is fastest for buying Olivia Rodrigo tickets?” And just like that, the puzzle pieces clicked into place. His mistress was a girl who drank honeydew custard tea, wore a delicate size 6, and screamed along to Olivia Rodrigo. Meanwhile, my own search bar contained only a single, devastating query: “Late-stage stomach cancer: How to plan end-of-life care and make the most of my remaining time with my spouse?” I went back to the computer, hovered the mouse over the screen, and quietly cleared the history. Then, in the silent, empty spaces of my heart, I began the slow, agonizing process of erasing my ten years with Clyde. … Clyde had forgotten about the tracking app. Six months ago, as part of a family plan promotion with our insurance company, we had both installed a locator app that allowed real-time tracking and ambient audio sharing. At the time, he’d been too busy typing away on his phone to pay any attention to the installation. I opened the app. His icon was glowing red, docked near the arts district. I grabbed my keys, got into my car, and drove toward the blinking dot. The queue outside the trendy new boba joint stretched down the block. Right in the middle of the crowd stood Clyde, standing next to a young girl. She had soft features and bright eyes—she looked so much like a younger version of me that it made my chest ache. She was gesturing animatedly, laughing, sharing some joke with him. Clyde was looking down at her, a gentle, patient smile playing on his lips. It was a look of pure, undivided attention. A look I hadn’t received from him in years. I parked across the street, gripping the steering wheel as a cold numbness washed over me. I pulled out my phone and texted him. “Did you meet up with the client?” “Yeah, just about to head into the conference room. Turning my phone off now,” he replied almost instantly. As soon as the message sent, he slipped his phone into his pocket. Then, he stepped closer to the girl, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. On my dashboard, the tracking app’s listening indicator glowed red. The ambient audio streamed through my car speakers with agonizing clarity. “Hey, old man,” her voice was light and teasing. “Is the aging wife checking up on you again? God, older women are so clingy. Maybe we should buy her a tea to quiet her down.” “No need,” Clyde’s voice was cool, dismissive. “She doesn’t care for this kind of stuff anyway. It’s not her style.” “Not her style.” The words cut like a jagged blade. Back in college, he used to drive across three county lines just to buy me the maple fudge I loved, even if it was half-melted by the time he brought it to my dorm. Everyone said he spoiled me to death, but he’d just laugh, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I have to spoil you, Naomi. That way, you’ll never let anyone else steal you away. You’ll always be my girl.” But now, when I asked for a simple drink, he lied and said it was out of his way, only to queue up with another woman and tell her I was too old for it. A sudden, violent cramp seized my stomach. I slumped over the steering wheel, dry-heaving as a wave of excruciating pain ripped through my abdomen, threatening to tear my insides apart. The phone buzzed in my hand. It was my oncologist. I tried to swipe to answer, but my fingers were stiff and weak. The phone slipped, tumbling into the dark gap beneath the driver’s seat. By the time I managed to retrieve it, the line had gone dead. When I looked back up across the street, they had gotten their drinks. They were sharing a single straw, taking turns, laughing as they tasted each other’s cup. In our ten years of marriage, if I so much as used his fork to taste his food, Clyde would meticulously wipe it down with a napkin twice before using it again. I watched them walk hand-in-hand toward the boutique hotel down the block. I raised my phone, snapped a clear photo of their retreating backs, and sent it to a private investigator friend. “Find out who she is.” That evening, Clyde walked through the front door, rubbing his temples, his voice thick with rehearsed exhaustion. “God, that negotiation took everything out of me. My throat is completely dry.” I sat quietly at the dining table. The elaborate dinner I’d spent all afternoon preparing—full of his favorite dishes—had gone cold hours ago. He glanced at the table, then at me. “Why haven’t you eaten anything?” “I wasn’t hungry without you.” He stiffened slightly. Then, softening, he walked over and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “I’m sorry, babe. Work has just been crazy. I’ll make up our anniversary to you, I promise. Whatever you want, name it.” I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, my phone buzzed in my lap. It was the report from my investigator. “May Collins. 22. Senior at State University.” Ten years younger than Clyde and me. No wonder she called him “old man” and me “the aging wife.” My investigator had also unlocked her private blog. The most recent post showed her lying on a plush hotel bed, her wrists pinned above her head by a man’s hand—a hand with prominent veins and a silver wedding band I knew intimately. The caption read: “Nothing tastes sweeter than the honeydew tea Clyde makes for me. Can’t wait for him to feed me again next time.” I scrolled down. There were dozens of entries. “I told him my stomach hurt, and Clyde literally abandoned his wife at her doctor’s appointment to drive across town and hold me.” “Clyde loves kissing me. He says I smell sweet and fresh, like nothing his wife could ever offer.” “I asked him when he’s going to leave her. He just laughed and said I’ll always be his sweet little girl. Honestly, who cares about a marriage certificate anyway? I don’t need a piece of paper to know he’s mine.” I stared at the screen for a long time. The ringing of my phone broke the silence. It was my oncologist again. “Naomi, the pathology results are back. The cancer cells have already metastasized. We need to start aggressive treatment immediately. I have a targeted chemotherapy protocol…” I stared at the bathroom door, where the sound of the shower was running, casting Clyde’s silhouette against the frosted glass. “Dr. Foster,” I whispered, my voice incredibly flat. “I don’t want the treatment.” “What?” Dr. Foster sounded panicked. “But you’re so young. Naomi, we still have options—” I looked at the shadow of the man I had loved for a decade and let out a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not that young, Doctor. I’m just an old lady.” That night, Clyde was exhausted. The moment his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. The next morning, as he was buttoning his shirt, he casually asked, “By the way, your checkup from last week… I had to rush off in the middle of it, but did the lab results ever come back?” I paused, folding his laundry. “Yes. Everything is fine.” He nodded, grabbing his briefcase. “Clyde,” I called out, stopping him at the door. “Would you take me to get that honeydew melon tea today? Just once. I really want to try it with you.” His forehead creased, his patience wearing thin. “Are you still on about that? I told you, it’s artificial syrup. If you want it that badly, go buy it yourself. I have a company to run.” “But I want you to go with me.” His phone buzzed in his hand. He looked down at the screen, and I watched his expression instantly soften, a faint smile touching his lips. When he looked back up at me, his tone had sweetened. “Well, it’s your lucky day. The office ordered that exact boba place for afternoon catering today. If you want some, stop by the office later and grab a cup.” My heart gave a faint, hollow flutter. “Okay.” I arrived at his office downtown around noon. In the breakroom, employees were happily picking up their catering cups, but Clyde was nowhere to be found. I walked down the quiet hallway to his private office and pushed the heavy door open. It was empty. On his desk sat a single cup of honeydew melon pudding tea, the plastic straw visibly chewed at the tip. Then, from behind the built-in mahogany bookshelves, I heard a faint, unmistakable sound—a soft, breathless giggle, followed by a low moan. “Oh, Clyde… I can’t believe you actually built a secret room back here. And this waterbed is amazing. You spoil me so much.” “Well, you’re a demanding little thing,” his voice was thick with desire. “I don’t have a choice.” “What if your boring old wife finds out about our secret nest?” “Don’t talk about her,” Clyde groaned softly. “Focus on me.” The sound of heavy breathing and wet, frantic kissing filled the quiet office. A sharp, cold pain pierced my chest. Three years ago, when I was still working as his operations director, I’d mentioned that my back was aching from the stiff office chairs and asked if we could put a small loveseat in his office. He hadn’t even looked up from his spreadsheet. “Don’t be so dramatic, Naomi. This is a place of business, not a hotel.” Yet here he was, expanding his entire office layout, hiding a secret bedroom behind the shelves just to please May. I realized then that my displacement hadn’t been sudden. He had been quietly pushing me out of his life, piece by piece, for years. “M-Mrs. Hale!” Clyde’s assistant stood at the door, holding a stack of files, looking as though he’d just seen a ghost. I fought down the sudden, violent surge of nausea rising from my stomach. I gave him a faint shake of my head. “Don’t tell him I was here.” But the moment I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, the pain in my stomach peaked. The world went black, and I collapsed onto the polished marble floor. “Naomi! Naomi, wake up!” Clyde’s frantic voice dragged me back to consciousness. I was lying in our bed at home. He was sitting beside me, his eyes wide with a mixture of panic and irritation. “I’ve told you a thousand times to stop these ridiculous starvation diets,” he scolded, his voice rising. “You passed out right in front of the lobby. Do you know how that looks? What if a client had walked in and seen you like that?” Even as he complained, he blew gently on a spoonful of warm oatmeal he had brought up. “Here. Eat some of this.” “I’m nauseous,” I whispered, turning my head away. “I can’t.” “You have to,” he insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I made it myself. I even put in those sweet dates you like.” I looked at him, then quietly turned back and opened my mouth. The oatmeal felt like swallowed glass, scraping against my raw throat and burning my stomach with every agonizing inch it traveled down. But it was Clyde’s cooking. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never taste anything he made for me again. “Cough—” A violent spasm shook my stomach. I gagged, dry-heaving as the oatmeal came right back up, splattering across the pristine duvet. Clyde, always a neat freak, flinched back. His brow furrowed in disgust as he quickly handed me a box of tissues. “For God’s sake, Naomi, you’re an adult. Try to keep yourself together.” I remembered the photo from May’s blog—the one where she had spilled tea on her fingers, and he had playfully licked it off, laughing, calling her his “sweet little mess.” His phone chimed in his pocket. His eyes darted to the screen, his posture stiffening immediately. He stood up, tossing the soiled napkins into the trash. “I have to go. Clean yourself up and eat the rest when you can.” “Don’t go,” I whispered, reaching out to grasp his wrist, my fingers trembling. “Please. Just stay with me for a little while. I really don’t feel well…” “Enough, Naomi,” he said sharply, pulling his hand from my grip with clinical coldness. “I have actual work to do. I don’t have time for these childish tantrums. You’re too old to be acting like this. It doesn’t suit you.” “But my stomach hurts so badly… Clyde, please…” “Slam.” The heavy bedroom door shut, the sound echoing in my ears. I curled into a tight ball on the bed, my face pale from the agony in my gut, my chest so tight I could barely draw breath. The oncologist had told me that without chemotherapy, the pain would eventually become unbearable. But I wanted to hold on just a little longer. I wanted to hold on until Clyde and I could do those three simple things together, to close the book of my life with some semblance of peace. Now, I saw even that was a foolish wish. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a coat, and took a cab to the hospital, hoping to get some stronger painkillers. The outpatient clinic was packed. While waiting in the long queue, I took out my phone and pulled up May’s public profile again. Her latest update was from twenty minutes ago. A picture of a revealing black lace outfit laid out on a bed. “My new little devil lingerie just arrived. My sweet older man is so wild today, he even took his little blue pills. Looks like I won’t be getting any sleep tonight!” My fingers turned translucent as I gripped the phone, biting my lip until I tasted copper. Over the last few years, Clyde had barely touched me. I had tried everything to reignite the spark, buying silk slips, planning romantic weekend getaways, but he always reacted with cold indifference. Once, when I tried wearing something delicate and daring, he had looked at me with flat, judgmental eyes. “We’ve been married for a decade, Naomi. Act your age. It’s embarrassing.” “Make way! Emergency coming through!” The frantic shouting of EMTs shattered my thoughts. A gurney was being wheeled rapidly through the corridor. Whispers rippled through the waiting room. “Did you see that girl on the stretcher?” “Yeah, apparently she ruptured a cyst during… well, you know. The guy carrying her in didn’t even have his pants zipped up properly…” I stepped back to let them pass, but in the chaos, someone collided with me, knocking me hard against the wall. “I’m sorry, I’m in a rush—” Our eyes locked. Clyde froze, his face draining of all color. His hand, still reaching out to steady me, began to tremble. “Naomi? What… what are you doing here?” “Sir!” a nurse yelled down the hall. “Your wife is in excruciating pain! We need you to sign these forms immediately!” Clyde hesitated for a fraction of a second. He didn’t correct her. He didn’t look at me again. He just turned and sprinted after the gurney. I leaned against the wall, sliding down slowly as a fresh wave of cold sweat broke out across my forehead. An hour later, a text popped up on my phone. “Go home. I’ll explain everything.” I let out a soft, dry chuckle. “Explain what, Clyde?” I had tried so hard to help him keep his secrets. But he had dragged his own mess right in front of my face. I was walking toward the exit when Clyde caught up to me, grabbing my elbow. “Why are you at the hospital, Naomi?” I stared at his disheveled clothes, his collar slightly turned inward. “My stomach was cramping. I came to get some painkillers.” “This is exactly why you need to eat,” he said, his worry instantly morphing into familiar irritation. “Young girls can get away with skipping meals. You can’t.” He glanced back toward the emergency bay, his eyes shifting nervously. “Look… the girl they just brought in, she’s a student I’ve been sponsoring. She got sick suddenly, and she didn’t have anyone else to call. I was just helping her. Don’t overthink this.” I stared at him, and for the first time in ten years, a genuine, mocking laugh escaped my lips. “Clyde,” I whispered. “You keep telling me that I’m old. That I’m not some gullible little girl anymore.” “Naomi…” “Then stop using the kind of cheap, insulting lies you’d tell a little girl on me.” His expression hardened, the lies dissolving into a defensive, weary resignation. “So you know.” “Yes.” “Fine,” he said, his tone shifting to a careless, almost dismissive shrug. “I slept with her. But she knows her place. She’s quiet, and she’s not going to threaten your position as my wife. Don’t make a scene out of this. Give it some time, and I’ll break things off with her. We’ll go back to normal.” The cold in my chest spread through my limbs, leaving me completely numb. “And what if I want you to break it off right now?” He frowned, his eyes snapping with impatience. “I can’t do that. She’s young, she’s fragile. She needs time to process this. Don’t be so selfish, Naomi.” “Selfish.” The word echoed in my mind, so absurd that tears began to leak from the corners of my eyes. “I’m selfish?” I laughed through the tears. “I sold the only house my mother left me to fund your startup. Is that selfish?” “Naomi, that was years ago—” “I gave up my dream job in London to build this company alongside you for ten years. I drank myself into stomach ulcers trying to close deals for you. I was so incredibly selfish, Clyde, that I didn’t divorce you the second I realized you were cheating on me.” A flicker of shame crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a bitter, defensive sneer. “We’ve been married a decade, Naomi. We’re adults. We deal in reality, not fairy tales. May is innocent. She’s simple. She doesn’t talk about business or money. A simple coffee date makes her happy enough to spend the weekend pleasing me.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “And let’s be honest. You can’t have children. I’ve never thrown that in your face. I even got a vasectomy for you. Do you know how much pressure my mother put on me? How much my family laughed at me behind my back? I carried all of that alone.” “So now you want her to carry your child?” “May wants to give me a baby,” he said, as if explaining a logical business transaction. “I’m planning to get the vasectomy reversed. We’ll have a child, and we can raise it together. You should actually thank her. She’s willing to do this with no strings attached, just to lift that burden off your shoulders.” Before I could absorb the sheer horror of his words, his phone rang. He answered it, his voice instantly turning honey-sweet. “Hey, sweetie. Yes, I’m buying it for you right now. Don’t move.” He hung up, gave me a brief, warning look, and walked away. I stood alone in the sterile, white hallway of the hospital. The physical pain in my stomach had faded into a dull, distant hum. In its place was the absolute, peaceful stillness of a dying heart. Clyde and I entered a silent war. He didn’t come home for a week. May’s private blog, however, was updated daily. Clyde took her to the coast. He took her glamping in the mountains. They stayed in every luxury resort she’d ever bookmarked. At a high-end boutique, he knelt down to slip a pair of designer heels onto her size 6 feet, kissing her ankle. During an Olivia Rodrigo concert, the stadium’s kiss-cam caught them on the giant screen. Clyde wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her deeply as the crowd roared. Meanwhile, I lay alone in our dark house, swallowing painkillers until the bottle was empty. I packed my things quietly. I collected every digital receipt, every screenshot, and every photo of their affair, and filed them neatly into a folder. Then, I printed out a set of divorce papers. On the eighth night, Clyde finally came home. “I’m back,” he said, walking into the kitchen and sliding a small box onto the counter. “I got you a little something.” I opened it. It was a delicate diamond tennis bracelet I had admired in a catalog months ago. “I picked it up on my trip to Chicago,” he said, watching me. “I know you wanted it.” I ran my finger over the cold, sparkling stones and closed the box. “I don’t want this anymore, Clyde.” He sighed, his shoulders tensing. “Don’t start, Naomi. What do you want then?” “I want you to wait in line with me to buy a boba tea. I want you to go to the mall and help me pick out a pair of shoes. And I want you to take me to a concert. Just those three things.” Every single thing he had done with May, and never with me. Clyde’s face darkened, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. “Are you stalking me, Naomi? Do you have any idea how pathetic and unhinged that is? What is wrong with you?” “Just promise me you’ll do these three things,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I forced myself to stay calm. “As my husband of ten years, I am asking you for these last three things. Do this, and I won’t interfere with her.” He opened his mouth to snap at me, but when he saw the tears silently tracking down my face, he stopped. He reached out, his hand hesitating before brushing a tear from my cheek with a rough sigh. “Fine. Fine. We’ll go get your damn tea right now. The other two things we’ll do later, okay?” He drove me to a local boba shop near our house. They didn’t have the honeydew melon pudding tea. He stood in line, his hands in his pockets, looking utterly bored. “Just get whatever,” he muttered when it was our turn. “Get something hot. Sugar-free.” “Why?” “At your age, drinking cold, sugary drinks is bad for your joints and your system.” The young barista behind the counter offered a sweet, polite smile. “You two are so cute. It’s nice to see a husband care so much about his wife’s health.” I took the plain, lukewarm black tea, staring at the plastic cup. “I guess some things,” I murmured, “even when forced, are never what we actually wanted.” “What?” Clyde didn’t hear me. His phone was already ringing. May’s sweet, petulant voice drifted through the receiver. “Clyde, I want that pasta you make. And I want you.” He let out a low, indulgent chuckle. “I’ll be right there, sweetheart.” He hung up and headed back to the car, leaving me on the sidewalk. “I have a meeting across town. Take an Uber back. And make sure you eat something real.” I looked at him and nodded slowly. “I will.” That afternoon, I left the signed divorce papers on the kitchen island, took my suitcase, and bought a one-way ticket to Maine. As the plane taxied down the runway, I turned my phone off. I closed my eyes and let the silence wash over me. The moment the flight landed and I turned my phone back on, it began to vibrate violently. Hundreds of missed calls and text messages flooded the screen.

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Austin only managed to win me over because of his female relationship guru. Because of that, Mallory felt perfectly entitled to pull the strings of our entire relationship. She was the one who told him that keeping things private was the only way to protect them. So, for five years, Austin never posted a single picture of me on Instagram. Not even a passing mention in a story. She was the one who said distance makes the heart grow fonder, and that being together twenty-four/seven would only breed resentment. So, Austin wouldn’t even take me out on a date without her green light. I cried. I threw tantrums. Yet, Austin always managed to look like the real victim. “I only asked her to help because I wanted us to last, Sherry,” he would plead, looking utterly exhausted by my tears. “Why can’t you just try to understand that?” Until last night. Austin left me while I was burning up with a fever and went completely off the grid. When I finally couldn’t bear the silence anymore, I sent him a text. “Where are you?” The reply came almost instantly. “A woman needs her own agency. Constantly clinging to a man just devalues you. If you make yourself cheap, he won’t cherish you.” I knew it was Mallory using his phone to reply. This time, I didn’t care why Mallory had his phone so late. I didn’t scream, and I didn’t demand to know who mattered more to him. Something inside me just clicked, and then… it went quiet. He had an advisor. Well, so did I. 1. Austin didn’t come home until almost dawn. He brought with him a heavy scent of whiskey, and every corner of his jacket was smeared with sweet, sticky frosting. Remembering the text from earlier, I reached out and quietly took his phone from his hand. “Let me clean that off for you.” Before the words could even leave my mouth, Austin flinched away as if my touch were a disease. “I told you, Sherry, I don’t like people touching my phone,” he snapped. “Even couples need boundaries.” Boundaries. I had believed that lie for five years. Yet, for those same five years, Mallory had comfortably slipped past those boundaries, answering his texts whenever she pleased. A dull ache flared in my chest. I couldn’t help but press him. “Who replied to my text earlier then? If you care so much about boundaries, why is Mallory always the exception?” Having his hypocrisy laid bare made Austin’s face darken with annoyance. “How many times do I have to tell you? She’s just my relationship guru. Why do you always have to be so paranoid?” To prove his innocence, he unlocked the phone in front of me. The screen was slick with frosting, and it took him three attempts to swipe the passcode correctly. `0709`. July ninth. It was Mallory’s birthday. He had spent the night with her, came home covered in frosting, and his phone’s passcode was her birthday—not mine. The weight of that realization crushed whatever fight I had left in me. Even demanding an explanation felt pointless. Over the years, I had begged him for some small semblance of romance. I had asked him to change his wallpaper or lock screen to something that represented us. Back then, Austin had dismissed me with a single, cold word: “Childish.” He thought I was childish. But when it came to Mallory, it was different. With tears hot on my cheeks, I asked him why. He only gave me an irritated shrug. “She said it was annoying to keep asking for my password when she was helping me reply to your messages. I changed it to her birthday out of convenience.” What I had begged five years for, he gave to her on a whim. I stared at him, unable to recognize the man standing in front of me. Before we started dating, he used to spend hours drafting a single text to me. When I teasingly called him a clueless guy, he panicked and hired Mallory to write high-EQ responses to win me over. But I never imagined that this so-called relationship guru would slowly, methodically, weave herself into the very fabric of our lives. At that moment, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion washed over me. Austin’s phone buzzed. It was a notification from Mallory. She had sent him screenshots of their photos together across various social media platforms. The caption read: “My absolute favorite person in the world.” For five years, because Mallory said a relationship should be private, Austin kept me hidden. Yet, he gave Mallory a public, exclusive place in his life. They were each other’s absolute favorites. I was just the third wheel. I forced a bitter smile and held the phone up to his face. “Since she’s so important to you, why don’t we just break up so you two can be together? That way, she won’t have to work so hard to make my life miserable.” Austin scoffed, slapping the phone out of my hand. “Mallory just wanted to give you a reality check so you’d appreciate me more! She works herself to the bone trying to keep us together, and all you do is accuse her. She’s right—you really are a manipulative, insecure snake.” “Mallory says, Mallory says.” He always hung on her every word. I realized then that arguing was useless. A relationship guru? Who didn’t have one? I closed my mouth, opened my messaging app, and pulled up a chat with my childhood best friend. “Hey, my advisor… I think he loves his relationship guru more than me. What do I do?” Bruno replied almost instantly. “Your advisor is better. I’m flying back to the States in three days.” “Will you give me a chance?” Three days from now was our fifth anniversary. Since Austin obeyed his advisor, I decided it was time to start listening to mine. 2. Perhaps because I had actually brought up breaking up, Austin did something unprecedented the next day. He offered to take me to a gathering with his close circle of friends. “Mallory just wanted to give you a reality check. Stop being mad,” he said, adjusting his collar. “I know you’ve been wanting to go public. I’m taking you to meet the guys today. Happy now?” He was finally willing to bring me into his world, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. All I could think about was how much of this decision had been orchestrated by Mallory. Yet, I didn’t refuse. Since I had already resolved to leave, I wanted to see exactly how rotten this relationship had become. When we arrived at the private dining room, everyone was crowded around Mallory, laughing and talking. Not a single person looked up to acknowledge my existence. There was only one empty seat at the main table, and a flimsy plastic stool placed next to Mallory’s chair. Austin looked momentarily embarrassed. He started to pull the plastic stool over so we could squeeze in together at the main table. But Mallory called out to him, her voice dripping with mock disbelief. “Are you choosing a girl over your brothers, Austin? Don’t be such a pathetic simp.” She smirked, gesturing to the stool. “Let Sherry sit with me.” Her words put him on the spot in front of his friends. I stood there quietly, waiting to see what he would choose. I got my answer when he let go of the stool and walked over to sit with his friends, leaving me to sit alone next to Mallory. Sitting on that cheap plastic stool, looking at Austin across the table, my mind drifted back to five years ago. When we first started dating, he would wait outside my dorm building every single night until the lights-out curfew. Someone had taken a picture of him and posted it on the campus confession board, teasing him for being a simp. But Austin had proudly commented under the post: “If treating my girl right makes me a simp, then I’m the biggest simp in the world.” But now, everything was different. “Sherry,” Mallory’s voice broke my train of thought. She nudged my arm, a conspiratorial look on her face. “You know, guys, Sherry looks so innocent in public, but she is so clingy in private.” She cleared her throat, pitch-shifting her voice into a whiny, mocking caricature to read my texts to Austin. “‘Austin, can you please give me just a little bit of your time?’ ‘Austin, I want to make this work, why are you being so cold?’” The table erupted into loud, cruel laughter. The heat rushed to my face. “Could you respect my privacy?” I asked, my voice cold. Mallory rolled her eyes, scoffing. “We wrote half of those replies to you anyway, so what privacy are you talking about? I shared your chat history in the group chat ages ago. The guys are honestly sick of reading your whining.” The vulnerability I had only ever shown to Austin had been passed around like a cheap joke in their group chat. The humiliation suffocated me. I looked at Austin, hoping he would put an end to this circus. Instead, Mallory took my silence as permission to push further. “Are you going to run and cry to Austin now?” she giggled. “You know, when he first started kissing, he didn’t even know how to breathe. I had to teach him. Technically, you should be thanking me.” She really was a dedicated advisor, teaching him how to kiss, step-by-step. The thought of every intimate moment I had shared with Austin made my stomach churn. I felt physically sick. I stood up and walked out. Austin instinctively moved to follow, but Mallory’s sharp voice cut through the room. “Stop right there, Austin. Are you a man or not?” she mocked. “She’s just playing hard to get, and you’re running after her like a puppy. You’re going to let her control you for the rest of your life?” I quickened my pace, pushing through the doors. I knew he wouldn’t follow. In five years, whenever Mallory was involved, he had never once stood by my side. And I didn’t need him to anymore. 3. I walked back to our apartment in a daze, immediately pulling out my suitcase to pack. My phone buzzed with a text from Austin. “Hey baby, my phone glitched and accidentally ordered that cake you like. Are you ready to forgive me yet?” It was always like this. When Mallory was in a good mood, she would draft some high-EQ apology for him to send me. When she wasn’t, she would tell him to ignore me to “give me a reality check.” I used to play along, pretending not to notice because I wanted to keep the peace. But now, picturing her smug face on the other side of the screen, controlling my emotions like a puppet master, I felt nothing but disgust. I typed back: “Mallory, do you really think you’re that clever?” I didn’t wait for a reply. I threw my things into the suitcase, only to realize I had barely anything to pack. Over the years, Mallory had constantly whispered in Austin’s ear: “The better you treat a woman, the less she values you. Money is to show them, not to spend on them.” So, in five years, Austin had rarely bought me anything—not even a single bouquet of flowers. My entire life in this apartment fit into a single suitcase. It made leaving beautifully simple. As I zipped it shut, a knock sounded at the door. I opened it to find Mallory standing on the threshold. She tilted her chin, intentionally exposing a neck covered in dark red hickeys. “You just had to throw a tantrum, didn’t you?” she smirked, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “As his advisor, I had to step in and help him blow off some steam.” Even though I had already checked out of this relationship, the sight of those marks still sent a sharp, physical pain through my chest. I swallowed the ache and forced a cold laugh. “What’s the point of throwing yourself at him like a desperate side-piece? He still didn’t choose you to be his girlfriend, did he?” That hit a nerve. Mallory’s smug expression shattered, and she shoved me hard against the doorframe. “We were practically together before you barged in! You’re the real home-wrecker here. Your mother was a mistress, and a mistress’s daughter is always a mistress.” Hearing her insult my mother, the dam broke. Years of repressed rage boiled over, and I raised my hand and swung. “Slap!” The sharp, stinging sound echoed in the hallway. But my palm didn’t hit Mallory’s face. It struck Austin’s cheek. Realizing Austin had stepped in to take the blow for her, Mallory immediately burst into tears, her voice trembling. “I just saw how upset she was and wanted to apologize… Sherry, what did I ever do to make you hate me this much?” Austin stood like a shield in front of her, the disgust in his eyes burning into me. “She called my mother a mistress. She deserved it,” I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. Austin, thoroughly manipulated by Mallory’s tears, snapped. “You’ll say anything to lie about Mallory. Your mother did things that couldn’t face the light of day. Are people not even allowed to talk about it?” An icy chill washed over me, numbing me from head to toe. Only Austin knew about my mother’s past. He knew she only found out my biological father had another family after I was born. He knew she had tried to end her life multiple times from the shame of that label. And yet, he had handed our deepest pain to Mallory like cheap gossip, letting her weaponize it against me. I stood there, completely drained of life, as tears fell silently. Realizing he had crossed a line, Austin’s expression softened slightly, and he reached out to touch my shoulder. I stepped back, avoiding him. I looked at the man standing before me. He felt like a stranger. My mind flashed back to the night he had knelt in the pouring rain outside my mother’s house for hours, begging for her blessing. That night, he had held our hands and made a solemn vow. “If I ever hurt Sherry, let me rot. I promise to give her the home she deserves.” It was all a lie. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Austin, we’re done.” Austin’s eyes widened, and he reached for my hand again, but Mallory stepped between us. “Remember what I told you, Austin?” she warned. “Whoever apologizes first loses. I hate these manipulative, dramatic girls.” Austin froze, seemingly swayed by her words. He pulled his hand back, his face hardening. “Fine. Don’t regret this.” He turned and walked away, Mallory close at his heels, her loud voice echoing down the hallway as they went. “Isn’t tomorrow your fifth anniversary?” she said loudly. “The guys and I will celebrate at that restaurant you booked. Let’s see who regrets what.” I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Bruno. “The day you arrive, I think I’d like a formal confession.” And the location would be the exact restaurant where I was supposed to spend my anniversary. The regret wouldn’t be mine. 4. The next afternoon, Austin returned to the apartment. He didn’t apologize, nor did he ask why my suitcase was sitting by the door. Instead, he immediately started advocating for Mallory. “Tonight, I’m helping Mallory make her crush jealous by pretending to propose to her,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “So, our anniversary dinner is canceled.” Seeing that I wasn’t responding, he scrambled for justifications. “She was my wingwoman for five years, Sherry. I owe her this favor. Don’t be so petty. How am I supposed to face my friends if you make me back out now?” I didn’t let him finish. “Sure. That’s fine.” He blinked, clearly taken aback by how easily I had agreed. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Don’t be mad.” I shook my head. “No need.” Never again. That evening, I put on the custom gown Bruno had sent to my apartment and walked into the high-end, window-side restaurant he had reserved. But before I could even find my table, Mallory appeared out of nowhere, blocking my path. “Austin reserved this table for me,” she said, looking me up and down. “As a modern woman, I hope you have some dignity left and stop clinging to a man who doesn’t want you.” I let out a cold laugh. “As a modern woman, I hope you have some shame. This table doesn’t have your name on it.” Mallory’s face flushed with anger, and she looked back toward the entrance. Austin walked in, his expression instantly darkening when he saw me. “You shouldn’t be here, Sherry,” he said quietly. “It’s only going to make you miserable.” Was he worried about my misery, or was he worried I would ruin their little show? The answer didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t feel like wasting another breath on them, so I signaled a passing waiter. “I think these guests have mistaken their table. Could you please check their reservation and guide them to the correct area?” The waiter politely checked his tablet and gestured for Austin and Mallory to follow him to a different section. Austin’s face burned with embarrassment. He looked at me, exasperated. “Do you really have to waste so much money just to spite me?” He was still so painfully arrogant. I ignored him, looking past his shoulder to wait for Bruno. The staff began arranging large vases of yellow daffodils around my table, per Bruno’s instructions. Mallory, watching from a distance, marched back over and barked at the florists, “Ugh, I hate daffodils! They’re so tacky. Take them away and bring roses! This is Austin’s proposal to me, what are you doing?” The florists looked bewildered. I offered them a gentle smile. “Please keep setting them up exactly as requested. I’m the one who paid for them. Listen to me.” Seeing me embarrass Mallory again, Austin stepped in front of her. “Sherry, you’re being ridiculous.” His friends, who had just walked in, immediately joined the attack. “Are you seriously still trying to get his attention?” one of them sneered. “Austin is proposing to Mallory today. No one cares about you.” “I do,” a deep, clear voice cut through the noise. Bruno, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, walked through the crowd. He bypassed everyone and knelt on one knee directly in front of me. “I’m late,” he said, his eyes filled with warmth. “Will you be my girlfriend, Sherry?”

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