Category: English

1 Eric and I grew up together. We were inseparable for fifteen years. Yet, the very next day after we finally made our relationship official, he dumped me without a single warning. I could never understand why. To win him back, I threw away every ounce of my dignity. I begged. I pleaded. I spiraled into such a terrifying, destructive breakdown that it nearly cost me my life. He remained completely indifferent. It was not until five years later, at our university alumni gala, that he finally confessed the truth. “You announced our relationship on social media without my permission,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “That is why I wanted to break up.” “I thought I was just being overly sensitive at the time.” “But looking back, I was genuinely uncomfortable. I felt like you did not respect me.” I stared at him, my face completely blank. “Over something that trivial?” He lifted his chin, his tone entirely self-righteous. “Yes. Over something that trivial.” I gave a slow, detached nod. I understood now. I turned on my heel to leave. But Eric frowned and stepped in my path, blocking my way. “Are you not going to apologize to me?” “If you show a good attitude, I might consider getting back together with you.” My thumb brushed against the diamond ring on my left hand. I did not say a word. It had been five years. Who in their right mind would still be standing in the exact same place? When my silence stretched on, Eric’s limited patience quickly evaporated. He pointed a finger at me, his voice dropping to a freezing chill. “Margaret, is it really that hard for you to just say you are sorry?” “Do you want to get back together or not!” I glanced at Valerie, who was leaning intimately against his side. I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I thought. But Valerie suddenly released Eric’s arm and took a timid step backward. “Eric, I think Margaret is refusing to apologize because I am here.” Eric’s brow furrowed. He immediately reached out, pulling Valerie back into his embrace, his voice instantly softening into a gentle coax. “This has nothing to do with you. She has always been unstable.” He turned his glaring eyes back to me. “It has been five years. How much longer are you going to be paranoid about me and Valerie?” He did not lower his voice at all. In an instant, half the banquet hall turned to look in our direction. Seeing me standing opposite Eric, a wave of pity washed over the crowd’s faces. But the pity was not for me. It was for Eric. After all, my breakdown five years ago had been spectacularly ugly. The police had to pull me off a bridge. It made local news. Everyone thought it was a terrible tragedy that a calm, reserved, successful man like Eric had been targeted by a crazy, obsessive woman like me. Amidst the low murmurs, I could hear the echoes of the insults they used to hurl at me. “How is Margaret not locked up yet?” The crystal champagne flute in my hand turned freezing cold. A violent shiver racked my body. Terrified of having a panic attack in public, I shoved past Eric. I practically ran to the restrooms, stumbling blindly until I reached a sink. I threw up until my stomach was completely empty. Staring at my pale, sickly reflection in the mirror, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. Five years, and I was still this pathetic. A sharp knock echoed against the bathroom door. Eric’s voice filtered through the wood, sounding rigid and awkward. “Are you alright?” “Valerie went to find a doctor for you. If you are still sick in the head, why did you even show up tonight?” Why? I stared quietly at the woman in the mirror. Because I honestly thought I was cured. I had vastly underestimated the psychological hold Eric still had on me. Just hearing his voice triggered a suffocating, breathless panic in my chest. I curled in on myself against the cold marble sink. I forced my mind to focus on the warmth and peace I had found over the last few years, fighting down the venomous resentment burning in my throat. “Get lost,” I croaked out, my voice ragged. The hallway went dead silent for a second. Then, Eric slammed his fist against the door. “Are you out of your mind, Margaret?! Did you just tell me to get lost?” “Did five years teach you absolutely nothing!” I scoffed, aggressively wiping away the stinging tears in the corners of my eyes. I almost forgot. Eric was no longer that shy, highly sensitive college boy. Back then, whenever he spoke to anyone other than me, his face would flush red, and he would stutter nervously. Now, he was polished and polite. He charmed the room, the absolute picture of a successful gentleman. But the second he dealt with me, he reverted to his arrogant, reckless self. He operated under the delusion that I was still the old Margaret, the girl who would endlessly tolerate his temper tantrums and fragile ego. My phone vibrated wildly in my clutch. It was a text from my husband, asking when the event was ending so he could come pick me up. The suffocating shadows in my mind were instantly bathed in sunlight. The terrifying edge of a panic attack melted away. I took a deep, steadying breath. I prepared to record a voice note telling him everything was fine. But the bathroom door was suddenly kicked open. Eric stood in the doorway with Valerie hovering behind him. His pupils contracted when he saw me leaning over the sink, my face damp with cold water. Without thinking, he shrugged off his tailored suit jacket and draped it over my shivering shoulders. “If you feel sick, you go see a doctor!” he snapped. “What good does hiding in the bathroom do?” The heavy, intoxicating scent of Armani Thé Yulong washed over me. For a split second, I felt dizzy. I could not believe he had worn the exact same cologne for five straight years. On the very first day we officially started dating, I bought him a bottle of that Armani fragrance. I told him it was my favorite scent in the world. He smiled at me, his eyes full of devotion. “Then I will wear this exact scent for the rest of my life. Deal?” But the very next day, right after he casually ended our relationship, he smashed that heavy glass bottle against the floor right in front of my eyes. I snapped back to reality. I shoved Eric away, grabbing his jacket and tossing it right back into his chest. “Thanks for the concern.” “But my husband is coming to pick me up soon. I will just have him take me to the hospital.” I did not say it to show off. I was not trying to get revenge. I just needed him to understand. We were history. Eric’s entire body went rigid. He stared at me in absolute shock, his voice cracking. “You got married?!” I gave a simple nod, raising my left hand to flash the diamond ring on my finger. I turned to walk past him. But Eric grabbed my wrist, pulling my hand up. He stared at the diamond for a long, agonizing moment before letting out a cold, mocking sneer. He forcefully yanked the ring off my finger and tossed it onto the tiled floor. “What the hell are you doing!” My calm facade shattered. I dropped to my knees, desperately reaching for the ring. Before my fingers could brush the metal, a polished leather shoe stepped down hard, grinding the silver and diamond into the floor. Eric gripped my wrist, pulling me up. His tone was dripping with smug satisfaction. “Drop the act, Margaret. I know you are not married.” “You are a clinically unstable mess with a family history of mental breakdowns. Aside from me, what man on earth would ever love you?” I struggled to push him away, kneeling on the cold floor. Hearing his words, I just found it incredibly funny. “Are you implying that you actually love me, Eric?” He froze. An awkward, uncomfortable expression crossed his face before he rubbed the back of his neck, reluctantly admitting it. “We grew up together. Obviously, I care about you more than anyone else.” “But you know how sensitive I am. I just could not stop overthinking. I kept wondering if you actually loved me.” “When you rushed to announce our relationship, I felt disrespected. I felt like you did not love me enough. That is why I broke it off.” It took him five years to finally figure it out. And now he was back, offering me the grand prize of getting back together. I stared dead into his eyes, letting out a soft, mocking laugh. “No. You never loved me.” “If you did, you would not have dropped me cold turkey. And you definitely would not have been laying in the same bed with Valerie while I was outside begging for you back.” “The truth is, you love Valerie way more than you ever loved me. Right?” The memory was burned into my brain forever. I remembered running to his apartment, desperate to fix things, only to find the sickening sight of him and Valerie lounging together. On the first day of our relationship, I had asked to go to his place to cook a romantic dinner. He refused. He told me someone was crashing at his place and it was inconvenient. I assumed it was one of his frat brothers. I never imagined it was Valerie. I stood up and drove the heel of my red stiletto right into Eric’s shin. As he hissed in pain and lifted his leg, I quickly snatched my ring off the floor. I wiped it carefully against my dress, my voice dead calm. “So spare me the bullshit about how much you love me.” “It makes me sick.” I slid the ring back onto my finger. I completely ignored Eric, whose face looked like he was about to commit murder. I bypassed him and Valerie, walking straight back into the banquet hall. I planned to say a quick goodbye to the host and leave. But Valerie suddenly grabbed a random guest and blocked my path, projecting a sickly sweet aura of false concern. “Oh my gosh, Margaret was having a terrible episode in the bathroom just now! She looked like she was in so much pain.” “Our friend here is a psychiatrist. Why don’t we let him take a look at you!” She purposefully pitched her voice loud enough to grab the entire room’s attention again. Countless pairs of judging, maliciously curious eyes locked onto me. I frowned in deep discomfort. “I do not need help. I am fine.” Valerie took a step closer, pretending to be a caring friend. “Do not hide your illness, Margaret. You were so delusional just now you actually rejected Eric’s offer to get back together. How can you say you are fine?” She reached out to grab my arm. Pure reflex kicked in. I violently swatted her hand away. A second later, Valerie let out a dramatic shriek and stumbled backward, crashing directly into a massive champagne tower on the nearby table. Deafening glass shattered in every direction. Before I could process what happened, Eric shoved me hard in the chest. I lost my footing and crashed onto the floor, directly into the puddle of alcohol and broken glass. Black spots danced across my vision from the pain. Eric’s furious, biting voice echoed above me. “You really have lost your mind again, Margaret!” The entire hall fell dead silent, paralyzed by the sudden chaos. Eric’s accusation hung crystal clear in the air. Everyone stared at me in shock, their eyes looking at me like I was radioactive waste. The whispers started instantly. “Why would they let a psycho into the alumni gala?” “Someone call the hospital and have them drag this crazy bitch out of here.” “I feel so bad for Eric and Valerie. If I were them, I would have cut ties with a freak like Margaret years ago.” Every single mistake. Every single accident. Somehow, it was always my fault. The emotional stability I had fought so hard to build began to crack. I took a ragged, desperate breath, slowly pushing myself off the floor. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run. But Eric grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “You think you can just walk away after hurting Valerie?” “When did you become so completely irresponsible!” I curled my fingers into fists to hide how violently my hands were shaking. I forced myself to look at him. “Tell me how much you want. I will pay for the damages.” Eric’s jaw tightened. Before he could speak, Valerie started sobbing, complaining about the pain in her ankle. He immediately scooped her up into his arms, shooting me a look of pure disgust, ordering me to follow them to the hospital. He completely failed to notice the deep gash on my calf, blood steadily pouring down my leg from a jagged piece of glass. My face was devoid of emotion as I reached down and pulled the shard of glass out of my own skin. I limped my way out to the parking lot. Eric gently placed Valerie in the passenger seat of his car. She put up a pathetic, fake struggle. “This is Margaret’s seat. I should sit in the back.” Eric pushed her back down into the leather seat and buckled her in himself. “Do not worry about meaningless rules. She does not care about things like that anymore.” I kept pressure on my bleeding leg. I did not bother arguing. Five years ago, on the day we started dating, I had set a strict boundary with Eric. No other woman was ever allowed to sit in his passenger seat. He promised me instantly. But the very next day, when he initiated our breakup, he suffered total amnesia regarding that promise. He put Valerie in his passenger seat, exactly like he was doing right now. And he did it just to take her to the movies. Valerie looked at me through the open window, her face a mask of frightened innocence as she apologized. I ignored her completely. I pulled out my phone, pulled up my banking app, and shoved the screen toward Eric. “Give me your payment code. I will transfer the money to cover her medical bill right now.” Eric frowned, opening his mouth to reprimand me. Then, his eyes dropped. He finally noticed my leg, coated in fresh blood. His breath hitched. “You are bleeding that much and you did not say a word?!” “Are you an idiot, Margaret?!” Before I could answer, he grabbed me around the waist, practically throwing me into the backseat of the car and slamming the buckle into place. Right behind Valerie’s seat. In Eric’s world, I would always rank second to Valerie. The child safety locks clicked into place. I had zero chance of getting out. I demanded he let me out of the car. He let out a low, frustrated sigh. “Be good. Stop acting crazy. We are going to the hospital to get those cuts cleaned up.” The jealousy radiating from Valerie in the front seat was palpable. I stared blankly at the city lights blurring past the window. I did not speak another word. When we arrived at the emergency room, Eric reverted to form. He completely forgot about me. He sprinted out of the car, carrying Valerie in his arms as he rushed toward the sliding doors like she was dying of a terminal illness. I was left locked in the back. His parting words were simply, “I will come back to carry you in a minute.” Then he vanished. A full hour passed. Then two. The air in the sealed car grew dangerously thin. I gasped for breath, feeling the panic rising in my throat. I dialed 911 with shaking fingers. While I waited for the police, I frantically searched the backseat for something heavy to break the glass. I reached over the seat into the trunk area. I found a cardboard box packed full of my old things. My old makeup. Skincare I used to leave in his glovebox. And a gift I had given him. A violin. Eric was a music major. The violin was his absolute mastery. Years ago, he had played a solo in the courtyard that made every girl on campus swoon. I was one of them. I bought this violin for his birthday during the first year I realized I was in love with him. On the day of our breakup, right after he shattered my perfume bottle, he marched outside and threw this exact violin into the campus dumpster. I had no idea he had gone back and dug it out of the trash. The strings were pristine. The wood was polished. It had clearly been treated with the utmost care. My fingers traced the small engraving near the base. The initials S and T. Margaret and Eric. It survived all these years in perfect condition. It was absolutely sickening. Without a shred of hesitation, I grabbed the heavy neck of the violin and swung it with all my strength into the side window. The glass shattered outward in a spectacular explosion. The car alarm blared into the night. A few minutes later, the police escorted a completely frantic Eric out of the emergency room. Seeing me sitting in the back of the shattered car, my face pale as a ghost, all the blood drained from his face. His hands shook uncontrollably as he pulled the door open. He practically dragged me into his arms, burying his face in my neck, whispering apologies over and over again. I did not even have the energy to push him away. I let him carry me inside like a ragdoll. He demanded a nurse clean my wounds immediately. As the nurse poured antiseptic over the deep cut on my leg, she gave me a sympathetic look. “This is going to sting quite a bit. Try to hold still.” Before she even finished her sentence, Eric shoved his forearm directly against my lips. “Bite me if it hurts.” I glanced at his arm. He worked out often. His forearm was thick with muscle and faint blue veins. Right on the inside of his wrist was a faint, almost invisible smudge of lipstick. The exact shade Valerie was wearing tonight. I looked away. “No thanks.” The nurse smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “You guys are so cute! Hubby cannot stand seeing his wife in pain, and wife refuses to hurt her hubby.” Hearing her words, the panic in Eric’s eyes eased significantly. He did not correct her. He casually switched arms, offering me his clean wrist with a soft, coaxing smile. “Be a good girl. Bite down.” “You used to have the lowest pain tolerance in the world.” I did not reply. Eric conveniently forgot exactly what I had gone through. When I was shamelessly begging for him to come back to me, I had subjected myself to so much self-inflicted agony that physical pain simply stopped registering in my brain. From the second the nurse bandaged my leg until she walked out of the curtained room, I did not look at him a single time. Eric’s fragile ego finally snapped. He leaned over the hospital bed, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at him, his teeth ground together in fury. “Fine. You win, Margaret.” “I will drop the apology thing. Is that what you want to hear!” “Everything you did to me in the past, I am willing to pretend it never happened.” His grip on my jaw loosened. His voice dropped into that intoxicating, gentle register he used on the day he confessed his love to me. “Let’s get back together.” I stared at him with empty eyes. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to ask him what gave him the right to just “pretend it never happened.” What about my tears? What about my suffering? The words piled up in my throat, but the sheer exhaustion of dealing with him swallowed them whole. It just was not worth it. I let out a tired sigh. “I am married.” “I do not want to get back together with you. It is entirely impossible.” A suffocating, deathly silence filled the small hospital bay. Eric opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. His eyes were bloodshot as he glared at me. “Are you really going to keep this up? You are using this ridiculous, pathetic excuse just to reject me?” “Are you trying to force me to the edge? Do I need to threaten to end my own life before you are finally satisfied?” “You just want revenge, don’t you!” I looked at him calmly. I shook my head. “You are not worth the effort.” I used to want revenge. I wanted to destroy him. Eric and I spent fifteen years growing up together. We knew each other like we knew our own reflections. That was why I could never process how he could just execute a cold turkey breakup. He severed me from his life so completely that we could not even be acquaintances. But over the last five years, things changed. My shattered, battered heart had been carefully, meticulously stitched back together by someone else. “I stopped needing you a very long time ago, Eric.” The moment the words left my mouth, my phone lit up with a notification. It was a voice memo from my husband. His deep, soothing voice played through the speaker. “Hey baby, what floor are you on?” “I am in the lobby.” A rush of absolute warmth flooded my chest. I pressed the microphone button to reply. But Eric’s hand shot out like a viper, clamping down on my wrist. His grip was terrifyingly strong. He stared at me, his eyes wild with accusation. “Who is that, Margaret?! Who is the man on your phone!”

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Married for five years, and the one thing that pisses me off the most is my wife’s obsession with buying gold. Other guys’ wives buy designer bags or spend weekends at the spa. My wife? The second her paycheck hits, she runs straight to the bullion dealer. Ten grams, twenty grams, fifty grams. She carts them home piece by piece. I call her short-sighted. My mom calls her a spendthrift. Even my business partners joke about it. “Your girl building a runaway fund or what?” She never argues. She never throws a fit. She just quietly stacks those little gold bars in the deepest corner of her closet. Until the night my partner vanished with four and a half million dollars, leaving everyone else to scatter like rats from a sinking ship. That night, she opened her closet. I couldn’t speak. 1 “Again?” Joan’s voice on the phone was barely a whisper. “The price per ounce dropped a bit today. I picked up fifty grams.” I gripped my phone, my back teeth grinding together. The lighting in the VIP lounge was a warm, expensive amber. Garrett was pouring top-shelf bourbon for the table, and Marcus had a cigar clamped between his teeth, telling a dirty joke. The vibe was perfect. I walked over to a quiet corner and lowered my voice. “Joan, you make barely five grand a month. You’re buying gold three or four times a month. What exactly are you hoarding it for?” Silence on the other end of the line. Two seconds ticked by. “Nolan, I just… I want to save it.” “Save it?” I let out a harsh laugh. “Look at Garrett’s wife. She signed up for an executive business course. That’s called investing in yourself. You act like a medieval miser hoarding coins under a mattress.” “Okay. I understand.” Her tone was completely flat. Same as always. No arguing, no crying, no explanations. I hung up, shoved my phone into my pocket, and walked back to the table. Garrett slid a crystal glass of bourbon toward me. “What’s up? The missus buying more shiny bricks?” “Tell me about it.” I took the glass and downed it in one burn. “I don’t know what goes through her head. I’ve told her a thousand times, put that cash into our current project and we’d double it in our sleep.” Marcus snorted. “Women, man. They don’t see the big picture. Trying to explain leverage and compound interest to them is like talking to a brick wall.” I didn’t answer. Deep down, I knew Marcus was wrong. Joan wasn’t stupid. She majored in finance. Her college GPA was higher than mine. But she refused to touch stocks. She ignored index funds. She was dead set on physical gold. Try to reason with her, and you’d hit the same brick wall every time. I just want to save it. It drove me out of my mind. Garrett clapped me on the shoulder and topped off my glass. “Let it go, man. Don’t fight with your lady over hobbies. Let’s talk business. I’ve already greased the wheels with the client for next week’s final payout. It’ll hit our accounts before the middle of next month, guaranteed.” I nodded, pushing Joan out of my mind. Back then, I was riding high. Third year into our tech consulting startup, and we were hitting ten million in annual revenue. Garrett handled the wining, dining, and massive accounts. Marcus managed the tech and execution. I oversaw operations and the books. The three of us were a perfectly oiled machine. We had just landed two massive contracts this year. Total value right around four point five million dollars. Profit margins were sitting at a comfortable forty percent. After three rounds of drinks, Garrett stood up and raised his glass. “Gentlemen, when these projects land, we’re looking at a seven-figure bonus for each of us. Nolan, when that check clears, buy your lady a whole damn vault of gold bars. Let her swim in it!” The table erupted in laughter. I laughed too. My mind was already spending that bonus. Upgrade to a bigger house in the suburbs. Buy my mom that vintage Cartier watch she kept hinting at. Lease a Porsche. As for how much gold Joan wanted to buy? She could knock herself out. I got home a little before midnight. The living room was pitch black. The only light was a thin yellow slit bleeding from beneath the bedroom door at the end of the hall. I softened my footsteps, walked over, and pushed the door open. Joan was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. The drawer of her vanity was pulled halfway open. Inside sat a small, crimson velvet pouch. Seeing me step into the room, she casually pushed the drawer shut. “How much did you drink?” she asked. “Not much.” I peeled off my suit jacket, tossed it on the bed, and yanked my tie loose. The bourbon was swimming in my head, making the room tilt slightly. She stood up, walked into the master bathroom, and wrung out a hot towel. She brought it over and handed it to me. I wiped my face. The heat cleared my head a little. She was standing by the bed in a simple silk nightgown. Her hair hid half her face, but the skin around her collarbones caught the light, pale and flawless. Honestly, Joan was beautiful. Slender, naturally pretty, with a quiet, grounded energy. She never caked on makeup when we were together. She didn’t wear flashy clothes, and she rarely joined my social events. But there was one thing about this woman that constantly rubbed me the wrong way. She never initiated anything. She didn’t flirt. She wasn’t clingy. She never expressed any emotion that went beyond the strict boundaries of our “household division of labor.” Living with her was like sharing an apartment with a perfectly calibrated grandfather clock. The food was always cooked. The laundry was always done. The house was spotless. When my mom visited, Joan was the picture of polite hospitality. But if you asked me if she actually loved me? She had never said the words out loud. I tossed the towel back toward the bathroom sink. When I came back out, she was already lying in bed, facing the wall. “Joan.” “Yeah?” “Cut back on the gold. Seriously.” She didn’t turn around. “I’ll buy less next month.” I scoffed, deciding not to waste my breath. I got into bed, clicked off the lamp, and we went to sleep. A solid eight inches of dead space separated us. Just like every other night. 2 The alarm yanked me out of sleep the next morning. Joan was already gone. Her side of the comforter was folded with military precision. The low hum of the exhaust fan drifted in from the kitchen. I washed my face and walked out. She was at the stove, flipping eggs. Two bowls of oatmeal sat on the granite island, alongside a plate of sliced fruit and some toast. “Your mom called. She’s coming over today. I’ll leave the office early to prep a roast.” She didn’t look up from the pan. “Got it,” I muttered, sitting down to eat. My phone buzzed. A text from Garrett. [Garrett: Hey Nolan, meeting at 2 PM. Client wants a few tweaks to the contract clauses. Bring the financial projections.] I put the phone face down, finished my coffee, and stood up. Passing by her, I paused for a second. “I won’t be home for lunch.” “Okay. Good to know.” Before walking out the front door, I glanced back. She was at the sink, washing dishes over the sound of running water. Her back looked fragile, her shoulder blades pressing lightly against the fabric of her sleepwear. For a split second, a random thought flashed through my mind. What is actually going on inside this woman’s head? The thought evaporated as quickly as it came. I shut the door, went down to the garage, and drove to the office. On the way, I passed a high-end jewelry exchange. The yellow gleam from the display window caught the corner of my eye. I remembered the way Joan had slid that drawer shut the night before. I found myself staring at the storefront a second longer than I should have. Then I hit the gas and merged onto the highway. The afternoon meeting dragged on for three brutal hours. The client’s rep was a balding guy in his forties who picked apart the contract word by agonizing word. It took everything I had not to snap at him. Garrett played the perfect host, smiling the whole time, giving ground where he had to, holding firm where it mattered. When the guy finally left, Garrett slumped back in his leather chair and blew out a long breath. “We got it, man. It’s locked in.” I flipped through the revised annex. “They bumped up the penalty clauses. If we miss the delivery window…” “We won’t.” Garrett waved a hand dismissively. “I play golf with their CEO. We’re solid. He personally guaranteed the advance payment hits our accounts by next Wednesday.” I looked at him, saying nothing. He laughed. “You worry too much, Nolan. You gotta think bigger.” Marcus pushed the office door open, carrying three iced coffees. “What’s the verdict?” “Locked and loaded,” Garrett said, taking a cup. “Advance comes in next week. We clear the vendor invoices for the hardware, and run payroll.” Marcus nodded. “That new project manager we hired. His probation is up. We making him full-time?” “Yeah,” I said. “He does good work. Keeps the workflow tight.” The three of us sat there drinking our coffee. Beyond the office blinds, the autumn skyline of the city stretched out, the afternoon sun slicing through the glass and painting gold stripes across our paperwork. Everything felt untouchable right then. The company was scaling. The contracts were getting heavier. The payouts were getting ridiculous. My only real headache in life was Joan’s stash of shiny metals. The weekend hit. My mom showed up. Joan had come home two hours early. She bought groceries and had a massive pot roast simmering in the oven. The moment my mom walked through the door, the whole house smelled like rosemary and home-cooked perfection. “Oh, Joan, that smells wonderful.” My mom said it while slipping off her coat. Her tone had that specific brand of polite distance—warm enough for company, cold enough for family. Joan stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She offered a soft smile. “Sit down, Mom. The roast needs another ten minutes.” My mom settled onto the living room sofa, her eyes sweeping the room like a building inspector. Her gaze zeroed in on a small delivery box sitting on the coffee table. “What’s this?” I was just walking out of the bedroom and caught sight of the logo on the packaging. A precious metals dealer. Joan saw where I was looking. Her fingers twitched against her apron, but she kept quiet. My mom reached out and flipped the box over. “Joan, honey. Did you buy more gold?” Joan gave a small nod. “They were running a promotion. Zero premium over spot price. So I… I picked up ten grams.” My mom set the box down and shot me a look. I knew that look. It meant: Control your wife. I sighed. “Joan, my mom is here. Could you at least—” “No, no, it’s fine,” my mom interrupted, waving a hand at me. She turned her focus back to Joan. Her smile stayed perfectly pinned in place, but the temperature in her voice dropped. “Joan, I’m going to speak plainly, so don’t take this the wrong way. Nolan works himself to the bone running his business. Cash flow is always tight for entrepreneurs. You throwing thousands of dollars at a bullion store every month adds up. If you want to save, put it into Nolan’s company. The annual return would crush whatever you’re getting from chunks of metal.” Joan stood perfectly still in the kitchen doorway. She looked at me, then back at my mom. “Mom, this is from my own paycheck. I…” “Your own paycheck?” My mom’s voice went up an octave. “You’re a married woman. What is this ‘mine and yours’ nonsense? A family is supposed to pull in the same direction.” I sat in the armchair, keeping my mouth shut. Honestly, my mom wasn’t entirely wrong. Joan brought home five grand a month after taxes. Once she bought her gold, she had almost nothing left. I covered the mortgage, the HOA fees, the utilities, the car payments, even her health insurance. Groceries, dining out, holiday gifts for her parents—all of it came out of my account. It wasn’t that she refused to contribute. It was that every single spare dollar she had went into the lockbox. Call it selfish? She never bought anything for herself. No luxury goods, no expensive dinners. Call it being family-oriented? She locked all her liquidity in a dark drawer. Joan lowered her head, her fingers twisting the strings of her apron. A few agonizing seconds passed. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll buy less from now on.” The exact same script she fed me. My mom looked satisfied. She patted the leather sofa. “Alright then. Go check on that roast.” Joan turned and disappeared back into the kitchen. The moment she turned her back, I saw her shoulders slump, just a fraction of an inch. Dinner was civil. My mom complimented the food. Joan served her seconds. Then my mom started talking about the neighbor’s daughter-in-law, going on and on about how she played the stock market and made a killing for her family. Joan just smiled and listened. A smile so perfectly measured it looked pasted onto her face. After my mom left, Joan started clearing the table. I sat on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through my phone. “Joan.” She paused, holding a stack of ceramic plates, and looked at me. “Don’t let her get to you. You know how my mom is. All bark, no bite.” “I’m not mad.” She carried the plates into the kitchen. The faucet clicked on. The clinking of porcelain rang out over the rush of water. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t find anything else to say. That night, she went to bed early again, facing away from me. I stared at the curve of her spine beneath the blankets, and a single question kept echoing in my skull. What does this woman actually want out of this? Married for three years. She never threatened divorce. She never snapped at my mom. She never raised her voice at me. She handled the house. She held down her job. And she bought gold like her life depended on it. I couldn’t figure it out. But I didn’t waste too much time dwelling on it. My phone buzzed. Another text from Garrett. [Garrett: Advance payment just cleared! Drinks on me this Friday, boys. We’re celebrating!] A smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth. I rolled over and went to sleep. The next two months were an absolute blur of adrenaline and exhaustion. We were pushing both major projects simultaneously. Managing developers, hardware vendors, client expectations—it was a circus. I was out the door before the sun came up and dragging myself home long after dark. Three or four nights a week, I was stuck at client dinners. Joan stayed exactly the same. Dinner was on the table. Clothes were washed, folded, and stacked. When I got in at midnight, she was asleep. When I left at six in the morning, coffee and breakfast were already waiting on the counter. She was like a ghost haunting my apartment. Her presence was incredibly faint. The only proof I had that she was still out there, living her life, were the automated bank alerts on my phone. “Transaction: Platinum Exchange – $3,200.” “Transaction: Royal Bullion – $2,800.” “Transaction: Platinum Exchange – $4,100.” I would stare at the texts, take a deep breath, and let it go. We had millions sitting in the corporate accounts. Cash flow was a river. I didn’t have the energy to pick a fight over a few thousand bucks. The day it all collapsed, there were no warning signs. A random Tuesday afternoon. I was at my desk, running the quarterly numbers. Marcus pushed the door open. His face looked like wet ash. “Nolan. Have you tried calling Garrett?” I looked up. “No. Why?” “He didn’t show up today. His phone is dead. He’s not reading texts.” I frowned, grabbed my phone, and dialed Garrett’s number. Straight to voicemail. “He probably had an emergency. Didn’t he say his wife was feeling sick yesterday?” Marcus didn’t move from the doorway. “Nolan… have you checked the main operating account lately?” My finger froze over the screen. Marcus’s expression sent a cold spike of dread straight down my spine. “Why?” He stepped forward and shoved his phone onto my desk. The screen showed the banking app. Operating Account Balance: $0.00. The room spun. My vision tunneled. I didn’t believe it. My first reaction wasn’t rage. It was absolute denial. How was it even possible? Four and a half million dollars. The client’s advance, our operating capital, the vendor escrows—everything was in that account. I ripped my laptop open and hammered my password into the banking portal. The moment the transaction history loaded, my blood turned to ice. Over the past seven days. He had been wiring out amounts ranging from three hundred thousand to half a million. The receiving accounts were shell companies I had never heard of. “Apex Trading,” “Vanguard Logistics,” “Summit Tech Partners.” Every single transfer had a verified digital signature. Every single transfer was authorized by Garrett. Marcus was standing right behind my chair, his voice shaking. “I just went to his office. It’s completely sterile. Hard drives are wiped. Drawers are empty.” My hands were shaking violently. I dialed his number again. The number you have reached is currently out of service. I dialed it again. The number you have reached is currently out of service. I stood up so fast my office chair crashed backward into the glass partition. “We’re going to his house.” Garrett lived in a gated community out in the wealthy suburbs. I blew through three red lights getting there. When we pulled up to the driveway, a heavy padlock was wrapped around the wrought-iron gates. I laid on the intercom buzzer. Nothing. Marcus got out of the passenger side, hoisted himself up over the stone wall, and peered into the property. “Place is dead. Blinds are all drawn. Garage is empty.” I squatted on the pavement by the gate. My temples were throbbing, a vicious, rhythmic pounding. I pulled out my phone. There was one unread message. Sent by Garrett about thirty minutes before Marcus walked into my office. I hadn’t noticed it in the chaos. I opened it. [Garrett: I’m sorry, Nolan. I needed this money. Don’t bother looking for me, you won’t find me. I can’t fix the mess I made, so you’re on your own. We were brothers once, so I’ll give you one piece of advice—don’t call the cops. It won’t help you. Both our names are on that master account. If the feds start digging, you’re going down with me. Take care of yourself.] I stared at the glowing pixels for a full minute. Then I hurled the phone at the concrete. The screen spider-webbed into a thousand pieces. But the text was still legible through the cracks. I’m sorry. We were brothers once. I knelt on the driveway of that empty mansion and buried my face in my hands. What seeped through my fingers wasn’t tears. It was sweat. Cold, sickening sweat. The next forty-eight hours were the longest of my life. Back at the office, reality set in. Payroll was due next week. Eighty thousand dollars. Vendor invoices were due at the end of the month. Three hundred thousand. The client delivery milestones were rapidly approaching. If we breached contract—penalty clauses kicked in. A cool one million dollars in damages. Total exposure: Over a million and a half dollars. And the company account balance? Zero. My personal checking account? After the mortgage, car lease, and credit cards, I had exactly fourteen thousand dollars to my name. Marcus was panicking harder than I was. “Nolan, I’m tapped out. I dumped everything into a down payment on my house last year. I’m leveraged to the hilt.” I chain-smoked cigarette after cigarette out on the office balcony. The air inside my office was gray with smoke. Only one question looped relentlessly in my brain. Where do I get the money? A bank loan? The underwriting alone would take weeks. Family? What kind of relatives just have a spare million sitting around? Investors? The company was bleeding out. No VC firm would touch us with a ten-foot pole. I went through my contacts. From A to Z. Every single name. Mike, the VP who bought me drinks last month and told me “call me if you ever need a favor.” I called. It rang three times and went to voicemail. I called back. He declined it. My cousin David, owns a construction firm. He actually picked up. “A million bucks? Are you out of your mind, Nolan? My entire net worth is barely half that!” Steve, a guy I went to college with who worked in commercial banking. “Nolan, look… I can ask around, but your corporate accounts are zeroed out. You’d never pass a credit check. Do you have collateral?” Collateral. I had one house under my name. Market value: eight hundred thousand. Remaining mortgage: five hundred thousand. Net equity: three hundred grand. A drop in the bucket. I dialed every number I knew. And when I hit the bottom of the list. Not a single person was willing to throw me a lifeline. All those “tight” connections Garrett had bragged about. The clients, the drinking buddies, the VIPs. None of them picked up the phone. It felt like the entire city knew I was a dead man walking before I had even accepted it myself. Day three. I hadn’t left my office chair in twenty-four hours. The ashtray was overflowing, spilled across the desk, and filled up again. Marcus left around three in the morning. Before he walked out, he paused by the door. “Nolan… maybe we should go to the police.” I didn’t answer him. I had read Garrett’s text dozens of times before my screen fully died. Both our names are on that master account. If the feds start digging, you’re going down with me. He was right. To cut through red tape, we had set up joint signature authority. But for the sake of speed, I had granted him unilateral clearance for transfers under half a million dollars. That was how he bled us dry. Transfer by transfer, staying just under the alarm threshold. If I called the cops— They would audit everything. They would see my digital authorization granting him that power. They would dig into every vendor contract I had ever signed. I wouldn’t necessarily go to jail. But I would be tied up in litigation for years. And besides— Even if the FBI caught Garrett, would the money be there? He had planned this. The cash was already washed through offshore shell companies or crypto mixers. The odds of recovering a single dime were practically zero. And I still had a million-dollar hole to fill immediately. Day four. The demand letters from the hardware vendors arrived via certified mail. The client’s project manager called, asking for a progress update. Two of our senior developers, sensing the bad blood in the water, submitted their resignations. I sat behind my desk, staring at a stack of final notices and exit paperwork. My phone rang. It was my mom. “Nolan, why haven’t you answered my calls for three days? What is going on with you? Come over for dinner this weekend, your dad got a great cut of steak—” “Mom, I’m swamped. I’ll call you later.” I hung up. It rang again. Joan. I stared at her name on the screen for three solid seconds. I answered. “Are you coming home for dinner tonight?” Her voice was as calm and steady as it always was. I opened my mouth. I wanted to say, Everything is gone. I wanted to say, The company is dead. I wanted to say, I’m about to file for bankruptcy. But the words wouldn’t come out. “No.” “Okay. I’ll leave the porch light on for you.” She hung up. Why didn’t I tell her? Maybe it was pride. Maybe I thought it was pointless. She made five grand a month. What could she possibly do against a seven-figure deficit? Or maybe it was because— From the very beginning, I had never viewed her as a true partner in the trenches. I had boxed her into a very specific role in my mind. Cook the meals. Do the laundry. Be nice to my mom. Buy your little gold coins. That was it. Day seven. The client sent official notice. A cure period warning. If we didn’t hit our deliverables within thirty days, they would trigger the penalty clause. One million dollars. Add the vendor debts and payroll. A million and a half. Liquidate my entire life, and I couldn’t cover half of it. I seriously began to consider the unthinkable. Filing Chapter 11. The moment the phrase crossed my mind, I felt like someone had kicked my legs out from under me. Three years. Built from absolute scratch. Three years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights to hit a ten-million-dollar valuation. Wiped out. Back to square one. No, worse than square one. At square one, I didn’t owe a million and a half dollars to angry creditors. I collapsed forward, resting my forehead against the cold wood of my desk. I closed my eyes. Garrett’s smiling face flashed in the darkness. Seven-figure bonus for each of us! You gotta think bigger. I’m sorry. I dry-heaved. My stomach was totally empty. Nothing came up. Night ten. I finally walked through the front door of my apartment. Ten days. I had spent the last ten days either sleeping on my office couch or driving around the city begging for loans. The result? Not a single cent. My hand was violently shaking as I pushed the key into the deadbolt. Not from the cold. From sheer exhaustion. A total physiological and psychological collapse. The living room lights were on. Joan was sitting on the sofa, a hardcover book in her lap. When I walked in, she set the book down and stood up. I saw something shift in her expression. Her brow furrowed. “When was the last time you ate a real meal?” I looked down at myself. My suit was a wrinkled disaster. The collar of my dress shirt was stained gray with sweat and grime. My shoes were scuffed. I had lost at least ten pounds. “I’m fine,” I muttered, trying to walk past her toward the bedroom. She stepped into my path. “Nolan.” I stopped. “Are you in trouble?” I stood with my back to her, leaning my weight against the doorframe. A long, heavy silence stretched between us. “The company accounts were drained.” There was no sound behind me. I turned my head. Joan was standing in the hallway, the ambient light casting long shadows across her face, making her expression unreadable. “How much?” “Four and a half million.” Her face didn’t twist in horror. She didn’t scream. She didn’t break down sobbing. She didn’t demand to know how I could be so stupid. She just gave a slow, deliberate nod, like she was processing a data point in a spreadsheet. Then she said, “Go take a hot shower. I’m going to heat up some food.” That night, I ate my first real meal in ten days. Pot roast, roasted vegetables, buttered potatoes. Joan sat across from me at the kitchen island, watching me eat. I kept my head down, shoveling the food into my mouth, too ashamed to speak. When I finished, I put my fork down. “Joan.” “Yeah.” “We’re probably going to lose the house. If I can’t cover the client’s breach of contract penalties…” I trailed off. She picked up my empty plate and carried it to the sink. The sound of running water started again. I sat there, staring at the empty space where my plate had been. My mind was a complete void. Half an hour later. She walked out of the kitchen. She wasn’t carrying a dish towel. She was carrying a key. Not a house key. A very small, vintage-looking brass key. She walked past me, heading straight for the master bedroom. I followed her. She opened her closet. She reached into the deepest corner, removed a stack of winter sweaters, and popped loose a false back panel I never knew existed. I stared at the wall behind it.

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1 Seven years. That was how long Adrian and I had been together. My parents began hinting heavily about marriage. Adrian’s reply never changed: “Just wait, okay?” They assumed it was money. They set aside a wedding fund, put down deposits on a house and car. Still, he said the same thing. “Just wait, okay?” I didn’t know what clock he was watching, but I stayed by him. Until his college reunion. I brought a custom cake to the private room. “Today is Adrian’s thirtieth birthday,” I told his friends. Instead of cheers, the room stirred. A guy laughed. “Didn’t Adrian and Stella make that thirty-year pact?” “Yeah! If neither was married by thirty, they’d marry each other!” Stella blushed, tucking hair behind her ear. “Stop. His girlfriend’s right here.” Adrian didn’t reassure me. He gave me a cool look. “She’s not my wife yet. I promised to wait until I was thirty, Stella. I kept my word.” The cake box felt like lead. Cold gripped my chest. In that instant, the mystery unraveled. I knew exactly what he’d been waiting for. Amid cheers and pounding tables, Adrian leaned toward the cake, candlelight in his eyes. “First wish… I hope Stella isn’t married either.” Enough. I didn’t scream. Didn’t throw the cake. I placed it gently on the table, ignoring the awkward silence, and walked out with my head high. Outside, a yellow cab idled curbside. The driver lowered the window. “Need a ride, miss? Waiting for someone?” I opened the door and got in. “Just drive. I’m done waiting for anyone.” By the time I unlocked my apartment door, the place was pitch black. I had barely kicked off my heels when my phone lit up. It was Adrian’s mother. “Nina, sweetie! His dad and I were looking over the catering menu for the engagement party again. We really think upgrading to the premium surf-and-turf package would look so much more elegant. What do you two think?” I pressed my lips together, tasting the bitter salt of my own dried tears. “Mrs. Wright, you don’t need to worry about that. The engagement party is off.” A loud gasp echoed through the speaker. “Off? Did Adrian get cold feet again? I swear to God, I don’t know what is wrong with that boy!” I took a shaky breath, steadying my voice. “It isn’t him this time. I am the one canceling it.” She scoffed, utterly refusing to believe me. “After all these years? I know he’s the stubborn one. You just sit tight, sweetie. I’m going to call him right now and knock some sense into him!” The line went dead before I could say another word. Less than twenty minutes later, the front door burst open. Adrian strode in, bringing the chill of the night with him. He glared down at me, his jaw clenched in frustration. “Why did you cancel the engagement party?” He spoke like a man barely containing his temper. “What kind of tantrum is this? You dropped the cake and walked out of the reunion without a single word. Do you have any idea how crazy that made me look in front of my friends?” I stood up slowly, forcing him to meet my eyes on level ground. “Adrian, since you promised to wait for Stella until you were thirty, what the hell was I doing beside you for the last seven years?” The anger drained from his face, replaced by a fleeting shadow of genuine pain. “But she’s already married.” I froze. Adrian ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. “I promised to wait until she was thirty. I am a man of my word. Now that she’s married, I got the closure I needed.” A hollow, sickening ache bloomed in my chest. “So you dragged your feet for seven years just to see if another woman’s marriage would fail? What does that make me, Adrian? A backup plan? Your safety net?” His brow furrowed in annoyance. “Don’t say things like that. I care about you. It’s been seven years, you know I love you.” He stepped closer, his voice softening. “Besides, Stella got married three years ago. The guy she married… he’s a monster. He doesn’t treat her right. Her life is a living hell right now.” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. I was laughing at my own pathetic existence. Adrian reached out, his tone dripping with that familiar, confident reassurance he always used to pacify me. “Nina, I already called my mom. I told her you were just blowing off steam. The party is moving forward as planned. We’ve been together for seven years. I know what matters most to you. Let’s just drop this, okay?” I took a deep breath, fighting the visceral tearing sensation in my heart. The humiliation of being someone’s second choice was at war with seven years of very real, very raw memories. I remembered how he used to tuck my freezing hands inside his coat during winter walks. I remembered the late nights he would show up at my office with my favorite takeout when I was working overtime. Those moments were real. But his endless waiting for another woman was real, too. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I opened my mouth to finally end it, but Adrian’s phone rang. His annoyance vanished instantly. His face went pale, and his voice hitched with panic. “Stella? What’s wrong?” Muffled, ragged sobbing drifted from the speaker. Adrian’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone. “Did he hurt you again? Where? Is it bad?” He was already moving toward the door, grabbing his keys from the console. “Don’t panic. Find a safe place to hide and lock the door. I’m coming over right now. I’ll handle him.” He hung up, threw his coat over his shoulders, and walked out into the night without a single backward glance. He left so naturally. So effortlessly. He never even noticed that from the second he saw Stella’s name on his screen, he hadn’t looked at me once. Adrian didn’t come home that night. The following evening, he walked right through our front door with Stella in tow. He was carrying two heavy grocery bags, grinning like a teenager. “Nina! Stella insisted on coming over to thank us. She wants to cook dinner.” Stella stood awkwardly in the foyer. A fading purple bruise shadowed her cheekbone. “Nina, I really owe Adrian my life for helping me call the cops yesterday. I don’t have much to offer, so I wanted to make you guys a home-cooked meal.” Without waiting for an invitation, she slipped off her shoes and navigated my apartment like she owned the place, heading straight for the kitchen. Adrian followed her like a lovesick puppy. “I’ll be your sous-chef. Just like the old days.” Stella glanced over her shoulder, giving him a playful, exasperated pout. “You better just sit in the living room. You’re always in the way when you try to help.” But he leaned against the counter, refusing to leave. “Come on, I can wash the vegetables. Give me some credit, I’ve matured a lot in seven years.” Stella giggled, the sound light and breathy. “Alright, fine. But my hair is getting in the way. Can you tie it up for me?” Adrian complied instantly. He stepped behind her, gathering her long, dark hair into his hands with practiced gentleness. I stood in the hallway, forcing myself to look away from the agonizing intimacy of the scene. An hour later, Stella carried the plates out to the dining table. “Dinner is ready, Nina.” The food tasted like ash in my mouth, but Adrian’s eyes were practically shining. “Stella, your cooking is as amazing as ever. It’s been way too long since I tasted this.” She picked up a piece of honey-glazed pork with her fork and placed it directly onto his plate. “I know this is your absolute favorite. I made it just for you. Try this piece, it’s the most tender.” Finally, she seemed to remember I was sitting there. “Nina? Why aren’t you eating? Is it too sweet for you?” Adrian looked up, his tone shifting into a mild command. “Nina, eat a little. Stella worked hard on this all afternoon.” Before I could formulate a response, the doorbell chimed. I got up to answer it. Two delivery workers stood in the hall, holding a massive cardboard box. “Good evening. We have the canvas wedding portraits for delivery.” I froze in the doorway. We had taken those photos last month. When we placed the order, Adrian had confirmed the delivery date with the studio manager three separate times. He had been absolutely adamant that they arrive exactly one day after his thirtieth birthday, claiming it was for “good luck.” I had thought he was just being romantic. Now I knew the truth. He needed to make sure his thirty-year pact with Stella had expired before he allowed our wedding photos into his home. Hearing the delivery men, Stella’s face dropped. The glass of water slipped from her hand, shattering against the hardwood floor. Adrian leaped out of his chair, rushing over to grab her by the arms. “Don’t move! You’ll step on the glass.” The worker shifted the heavy box. “Where would you like us to hang this, ma’am?” Adrian didn’t even look our way. “Put it wherever. Nina, just sign for it.” Then, right in front of me, he scooped Stella up into his arms, carrying her bridal-style to the living room sofa. The two delivery men looked at me, their faces full of awkward pity. “Miss…” I stared at the cardboard box holding the frozen, smiling images of a future that no longer existed. My eyes burned. On the day we took those photos, we had held each other and laughed, and I had truly believed I was the happiest woman in the world. I turned my head. Adrian was kneeling on the rug, carefully dabbing a tiny scratch on Stella’s ankle with an alcohol wipe before gently applying a bandage. All his emotional unavailability over the years wasn’t a personality flaw. He was just saving his warmth for someone else. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked back at the workers. “Don’t bother hanging it. Just leave it in the box.” Once the mandatory holding period for Stella’s husband ended, Adrian’s paranoia kicked into overdrive. He was constantly distracted. His phone was glued to his hand, his eyes darting to the screen every few minutes. That night, his phone sat on his nightstand. The screen flared to life, buzzed aggressively against the wood, went dark, and then lit up again. I rolled over, turning my back to him. “Adrian, why isn’t your phone on silent?” For the past seven years, Adrian was religious about silencing his phone at bedtime. He claimed sudden noises gave him migraines. He used to complain if my morning alarm was too loud. Silence stretched across the dark bedroom. “I know it’s annoying,” he finally whispered. “But I can’t mute it. That psycho could track Stella down at any second. If she calls and I miss it…” I sat up and looked down at him. “So you’re just never going to put your phone on silent again for the rest of your life?” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Just until this whole mess is sorted out.” My patience finally snapped. “And when is it sorted out? When she files for divorce? When she marries someone else? Or are you waiting for her husband to drop dead?” Adrian bolted upright, staring at me like I was a stranger. “Nina, could you have a shred of empathy?!” “She is being hunted by a violent lunatic! She could be killed, and you want me to just ignore her? What if she needs me and I don’t answer?” I raised my voice, the frustration boiling over. “Does she not know how to dial 911?” “How did she survive all those years when you two lost touch? Did she just stop breathing without you? She has a family. She has other friends. Why does it have to be you?” Adrian threw the covers back and got out of bed, looking at me with pure disgust. “When did you become so cold-blooded?” “When I met you seven years ago, you were the kind of girl who would cry over a stray kitten in the rain. Look at what you’ve turned into.” I opened my mouth to fight back, but his phone buzzed again. He lunged across the mattress to grab it. “Stella? Are you okay?” Her terrified weeping filled the quiet room. “Adrian… I’m so scared to go back to my place. I didn’t grab my wallet, I have nowhere to go.” “I was just walking and crying, and somehow I ended up outside your apartment building. Could I… could I crash with you guys for a little while?” Adrian didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second. “Of course you can. I’m coming down to get you right now.” He dropped the phone and started pulling on his jeans. I grabbed his arm. “There is a hotel two blocks away. I will pay for the room myself. But I am not letting her move into our home.” He ripped his arm away, glaring at me. “A hotel isn’t safe. What if her husband bribes the front desk? Who takes the blame if he breaks into her room?” “She’s traumatized, Nina. She needs to be around people she trusts. Staying here is the only way I can actually sleep at night knowing she’s safe.” Listening to my fiancé passionately defend his need to provide safety and shelter to the love of his life finally broke me. “Well, if she moves in, I am not safe! Adrian, I am a woman too!” He completely bulldozed over my pain, his voice dropping to a freezing chill. “I’ve made my decision. Stop making this about you.” He grabbed his jacket and headed for the bedroom door. Tears spilled hotly down my cheeks. “Adrian.” He paused. “If you bring her through that front door, I am no longer your fiancée.” He froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He turned around slowly, his eyes searching my face. The silence between us stretched out, heavy and suffocating. Then, he let out a long, disappointed breath. “Nina, I know you. You have the biggest heart in the world. You would never actually leave someone out on the street to die.” He picked up his keys, opened the door, and walked out. He left me totally alone in the suffocating, silent dark. I sat there for a long time. Then, I wiped my face dry, picked up my phone, and dialed my real estate agent. The agent answered with annoying cheerfulness. “Hey Nina! Is there an issue with the new house? I know you bought it for the wedding. Are we hearing wedding bells soon?” I forced a bitter smile. “No issues with the property. But I need you to list it on the market. Tonight. Sell it as fast as humanly possible.” I absolutely refused to share my own home, paid for by my parents, with a man who was busy sharing his heart with another woman. Sitting on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down my face, I made the final, immovable choice of my life. I didn’t want the house anymore. And I didn’t want the man, either. By the time Stella walked through the front door, my suitcases were zipped and standing by the entryway. She stopped in her tracks, eyes wide. “Nina? Where are you going?” Adrian glanced at the luggage, his tone dismissive and arrogant. “Leave her alone. Where else is she going to go besides running back to her parents?” Stella bit her lip, twisting her fingers together. “Nina, I am so, so sorry. I know I’m ruining everything by being here.” “But I truly have nowhere else in the world to go.” Her eyes filled with fresh tears, playing the tragic heroine to perfection. “I’m not like you, Nina. You have a warm family home to go back to. You have parents who protect you. You have a safety net. I have absolutely nothing.” Adrian reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t say that. You aren’t completely alone.” She looked down at the floorboards. “Adrian, I really shouldn’t have imposed on you guys. But knowing that monster is out of jail… I’m terrified to close my eyes.” He frowned, his protective instincts flaring. “Why won’t you just file for divorce?” Stella looked up at him through her wet eyelashes. “Where would I go if I did? My parents only care about my brother. They won’t take me in.” “That house hasn’t been my home for years. My brother’s wife hates my guts and won’t even let me through the gate. If I get divorced, I won’t have a single person to rely on…” Adrian’s entire demeanor softened into pure devotion. “You can rely on me.” My hand, reaching for the handle of my suitcase, stopped dead in mid-air. I gripped the plastic so hard my knuckles popped. Seven years ago, when Adrian asked me to be his girlfriend under a sky full of stars, he had used that exact same tone. He had held my hands and sworn, “Nina, no matter what happens in this life, you can always rely on me.” I had bet my entire future on that promise. I thought those words belonged exclusively to me. I was wrong. Adrian’s promises were just a charity fund. He handed them out to whoever looked the most pathetic. I pulled up the handle of my luggage and walked toward the door. Adrian finally dropped Stella’s hand, stepping forward to pat me condescendingly on the head. “Don’t forget the engagement dinner tomorrow night.” I didn’t say a single word. I dragged my bags into the hallway. As the heavy door swung shut, I heard Stella’s soft, guilt-ridden whisper. “Adrian, is she really mad at me? Should I leave? I’m driving a wedge between you two.” Adrian’s soothing voice drifted through the crack in the door. “It has nothing to do with you. She’ll get over it once she cools down. Both our families are meeting tomorrow, the engagement is locked in. We’re solid.” The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off his voice for good. It was past one in the morning by the time I dragged my bags into my childhood home. The second I saw my parents’ faces, the dam broke. I sat on their couch and sobbed out every ounce of humiliation and heartbreak I had swallowed over the last month. My parents were livid, shaking with righteous fury, but my mother just held me and smoothed my hair, coaxing me to go upstairs and get some sleep first. That night, lying in the bed I grew up in, I slept like the dead. For the first time in weeks, there was no one tossing and turning next to me. No one jumping out of bed at 3 AM to play the hero for someone else. I woke up naturally with the morning sun. I rolled over and checked my phone. Ninety-nine missed calls. Some were from Mr. and Mrs. Wright. Most were from Adrian. A text message popped onto the screen, aggressively demanding my attention. [Where the hell are you, Nina?! Why are your parents at the restaurant demanding we cancel the wedding?!]

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On my wedding day, my twin sister knocked me unconscious and locked me in the basement. Then, she stole my identity and married my fiancé. “From this day on, your man belongs to me,” she whispered, her eyes burning with ruthless triumph. She was in such a hurry to steal my life. She never noticed that, down in the dark, I had already stopped breathing. 1 I died right when the wedding reached its peak. My fiancé, Christian, held the hand of my dear sister, Gwen, as he solemnly swore his vows. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, to love and to cherish, until death do them part. This was supposed to be my wedding. Instead, I was nothing but a wandering spirit, floating silently above the venue, watching my own sister steal my life and marry the man I loved. My gaze drifted down to Christian. He was strikingly handsome, tall and lean, with a naturally cold aura that kept most people at a distance. But to my surprise, this reserved man quietly flushed at the tips of his ears the moment he uttered the words, “I do.” And my sweet sister, draped in a gown as white as fresh snow, looked up at him with adoration, her eyes soft and filled with a deep, blushing warmth. As if she were the one who had spent years loving him. Not me, Nora. I stood at the edge of the altar, watching them bathed in a shower of flower petals and applause as they made the most sacred promise of their lives. Meanwhile, my physical body lay curled in the endless dark, a slow trail of blood seeping beneath me like a blooming flower withered before its time. I used to think my heart was made of stone, hardened enough to withstand any storm life threw at me. Yet, watching them kiss, a sharp, physical ache pierced my chest. The room was alive with joy, and they were the center of the world. Only I was entirely out of place. Unable to bear it any longer, I turned to leave. But after only a few steps, an invisible force violently yanked me back. Only then did I realize something was terribly wrong. Normally, when a soul leaves its body, it either fades into nothingness or moves on to the afterlife. So why was I still “alive” in this state? Refusing to accept it, I tried to drift toward the exit again. Dozens of attempts only left me exhausted and aching with an ethereal pain. Accepting my fate, I finally found a quiet corner to sit down. I waited, expecting some grim reaper to come and claim my soul. But instead of death, I was dragged into the dressing room by my dear sister. I watched her peel off the white bridal gown and slip into a vibrant crimson reception dress. Then, bound to her presence, I was pulled back to the banquet hall. I watched her cling to Christian’s arm, moving table to table, raising toast after toast. That was when I realized my soul was tethered to her. She had made a mess of my life while I was alive, and even in death, I could not escape her. I lowered my eyes, not knowing whether to cry or laugh. 2 Christian took most of the drinks for Gwen. Even so, she consumed quite a bit of wine. Gwen actually had a high tolerance; she used to drag me into drinking games. But in front of Christian, I had always claimed to have a severe alcohol allergy and never touched a drop. Gwen did not know about this little lie of mine. Flush with triumph, she drank far too much without realizing it. As the night wore on, Christian’s brow furrowed deeper. Gwen, however, noticed nothing. Once the reception ended, she dragged me into the bridal suite. She put on a grand performance of a doting, gentle wife, fussing over Christian. But it was painful to watch. A spoiled heiress trying to play the part of a nurturing homemaker was bound to look entirely unnatural. Christian, smelling of alcohol and exhausted, headed straight to the bathroom. Gwen tried to follow him under the guise of helping him wash up, hoping for a romantic bath together. But Christian quietly escorted her back out. Thinking he was merely being considerate, she hummed a cheerful tune and leisurely began washing fruit at the kitchen island. Tonight, all the villa staff had been given the night off. I sat on the sofa, watching Gwen sway her hips and put on a show, feeling a strange sense of amusement. Back when Christian and I were dating, Gwen would constantly pry into our relationship. At first, I answered honestly. But as her questions grew increasingly invasive, it made me uncomfortable, so I started feeding her half-truths. I told her that Christian was intensely passionate behind closed doors, insatiable in bed, and that we had crossed that line long ago. In truth, despite dating for years, Christian and I had never gone beyond kissing. We had a pact: whenever I felt ready, I would give myself to him. Until then, his affection remained deeply passionate yet strictly respectful. What had once been a boundary set due to my childhood trauma had unexpectedly sown the seeds for today’s drama. The more overtly seductive Gwen tried to be, the further she would push Christian away. Christian loathed deceit more than anything. If he ever found out Gwen was playing him for a fool… A faint smile curled my lips. When Christian emerged in his bathrobe, Gwen threw down the half-sliced fruit and rushed into the bathroom to shower and wash off her makeup. Eager to finally consume him, she bypassed her usual long bath. She used my favorite body wash, looking as comfortable as if she were in her own home. The bathroom steamed up, framing her slender silhouette. Over the years, Gwen had used her stunning looks to cycle through one boyfriend after another, while I had only ever had Christian. She had mocked me countless times for being old-fashioned and prudish, telling me I was wasting my beauty. Yet, after sampling so many men, she had come to pluck the pristine flower I had spent years guarding. Where did she get the courage? I stared blankly into space for a long time. It was not until I pictured the giant welcome poster at the wedding entrance that the truth finally hit me. Seven years ago, I had been forced to legally change my name to Gwendolyn. My entire relationship with Christian had been built under her name. Gwen was marrying Christian legally, officially, and in broad daylight. And I, the other Gwen, was nothing but a shadow living in the dark. Condensation dripped down my cheek like a tear. How pathetic that, even in death, I still did not know who I really was. 3 My mind drifted back to my brief, desolate life. The life where Nora was erased to become Gwen. When I was barely a year old, my father died in a workplace accident. My mother took my sister, Gwen, along with the entire insurance payout, and fled to another city, leaving me behind with my grandmother. My mother chose to take my sister because she believed my sister’s birth name carried a blessing for a bright future. I was the discardable one. Growing up, I never knew the warmth of a parent or the bond of a sibling. While other children were pampered, I could only clutch the single faded photograph of my parents, searching for them in my dreams. But what hurt more than being called an orphan was the unwanted, predatory attention I began receiving at fourteen. There were the creeping hands of different men who climbed over our low wall at night, trying to slip into my bed. How cruel of fate to give such a vulnerable girl a face that turned heads. If my grandmother had not grit her teeth to pay for me to board at school, my life would have been ruined long ago. But my tuition had already drained her dry. With the added boarding fees, her spine never fully straightened again. I studied like my life depended on it, desperate to give her a comfortable life before she passed. After graduation, I received an acceptance letter to a prestigious university. That was when the people who had been absent for seventeen years suddenly reappeared. Only then did I learn that my mother had remarried a wealthy businessman sixteen years ago, and my sister had been renamed Gwendolyn. They showered my grandmother and me with sudden affection, paying for her medical checkup and booking us a vacation package. They called it a celebration and compensation. I did not want to go, but I could not bear to disappoint the hopeful gleam in my grandmother’s eyes. She had been trapped in our impoverished, isolated village her entire life, never knowing how vast the world was. I was young; I had time. But my grandmother… After wrestling with my thoughts all night, I agreed. That trip showed me a world I had never imagined. It also brought a rare, radiant smile to my grandmother’s weary face. The resentment I harbored for my mother and sister began to soften. But when we returned and I saw the medical reports, my world shattered. My beloved grandmother had a malignant tumor the size of a child’s fist pressing against her heart. The surgery would cost one hundred thousand dollars. To us, it might as well have been a billion. My mother approached me in private, finally revealing the true reason for her return. She wanted me to legally change my name to Gwendolyn and share my sister’s life. In other words, we would attend the same university under one identity. My sister would enjoy the spotlight, the prestige, and the social life. I would do the grueling work: attend the classes, take the exams, maintain the GPA, and earn the certificates. Four years later, the degree with Gwendolyn printed on it would belong solely to my sister. In exchange, they would cover every penny of my grandmother’s medical expenses. She also demanded that I appear whenever my sister needed a substitute, and vanish the moment she did not. Most importantly, I was never to disrupt their perfect life. As she spoke, her posture was elegant, her smile serene. But her words shredded my heart. They had not arranged the medical checkup out of kindness; it was a calculated move to find my weak point. Sharing a life was a polite way of asking me to kneel and let my sister climb over my bleeding body to her golden future. Suspecting a trap, I took my grandmother to another hospital. But when the diagnosis came back identical, all hope died. For my grandmother, I surrendered my name and became a shadow. My mother kept her word, paying for the surgery. We both got what we wanted. 4 By the time Gwen finished her shower, she smelled exactly like me. The fruit she had left on the kitchen island was now neatly sliced and arranged on a platter. Even the sweet green grapes, my absolute favorite, had been peeled. Without a doubt, it was Christian’s doing. But I would never taste them again. Christian sat on the sofa with his eyes closed, his long lashes casting shadows over whatever thoughts he was hiding. Gwen picked up the platter and walked over to him. “Is your migraine acting up again?” she asked softly, placing a hand on his forehead. “I’m fine,” Christian murmured. Christian was guarded; he never complained about his pain to anyone. In the past, I would have gently massaged his temples until he caught my hand and kissed my knuckles. Gwen only knew he suffered from migraines, but she had no idea what I used to do for him. So, she simply withdrew her hand and offered him a slice of apple on a fork. “Here, honey, eat some fruit,” she said, flashing a sweet smile. Christian opened his eyes and stared at her in silence. “What is it?” she asked, blinking innocently. Christian shook his head. “I’ve already brushed my teeth. You have it.” “Oh.” Gwen sat down beside him and began eating. After a moment, a playful thought seemed to strike her. She popped a grape into her mouth and leaned over him on the sofa, pressing her lips to his. At the contact, Christian’s brow twitched imperceptibly. “Open up,” she mumbled against his lips. Christian did not budge. His dark, piercing eyes looked down at her. He seemed to be studying the physical shell in front of him, questioning if the soul inside was truly the woman he knew. In the end, he kept his mouth closed. Feeling rejected, Gwen tossed the fruit plate onto the table in irritation and stormed into the bedroom. Christian sat alone in the dim light for a long time before finally following her. The moment he lay down, Gwen clung to him like a vine. “Come on, honey, it’s our wedding night,” she purred, her voice dripping with suggestion. “I’m exhausted. Let’s just sleep,” Christian said. He pulled up the covers, closed his eyes, and turned away. Watching Gwen’s frustrated face, I burst into laughter. She had stolen my identity to get close to him, but she did not even know that Christian loved it when I called him “Chris.” Christian was not driven by lust, but he had absolutely no resistance to that nickname. If she had whispered “Chris” in his ear, he would have handed her the world. Too bad she did not know. She had always sneered that Christian was too high-born for a country girl like me to even dream of. Yet she thought she could use her usual cheap seduction tactics to force him into her bed. It looked like she had a long, frustrating road ahead of her. Once she realized she could not handle Christian, would she try her old tricks and demand that we share him too? Too bad I was already cold and stiff. How would she react when she finally saw my corpse? I rested my chin on my hands, imagining the scene. It was going to be highly entertaining. After all, she could only choose one: her innocence or her title as his wife. If she chose innocence, she would have to confess everything she had done and become a public laughingstock. If she chose to remain the wealthy wife, she would have to erase my existence entirely. But in a modern, heavily policed society, disposing of a body was no easy task for a pampered girl. The bed was wide. I lay down right in Christian’s arms, closing my eyes with a smile. From today on, I would never have to run to Gwen’s side at her beck and call. Because I was dead. 5 By the time Christian got out of bed, Gwen was still fast asleep. He sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at her for a very long time. His expression was as unreadable as ever. On my second day as a spirit, with no phone and no books, I was forced to hover near Gwen. Bored out of my mind, I floated around the room in endless circles. It was not until ten in the morning that Gwen finally yawned and woke up. She took her sweet time washing her face and brushing her teeth before ordering the maid to prepare her breakfast. Once full, she dug through my suitcase with a look of pure disgust, threw on one of my casual outfits, grabbed the key to the basement, and headed out. She was practically vibrating with rage, clearly eager to drag me over the coals for some perceived slight. I floated ahead of her, practically buzzing with anticipation to see her reaction when she saw me. And I was not disappointed. The moment she pushed open the basement door, the smug grin froze on her face. A sharp, piercing shriek tore from her throat, which she instantly muffled with both hands, terrified of being heard. I hovered above, watching her take slow, trembling steps toward my body. I watched her shaky fingers reach out to check for a breath that would never come. I watched her stagger backward, eyes wide with horror and raw panic. I watched her collapse to the floor, staring in absolute terror at the long, rusty metal nail driven straight into my chest. In the seven years since we reunited, she had always looked down on me with cold arrogance. This was the first time I had ever seen her so thoroughly undone. It was exquisite. Aside from the copper tang of blood, a faint, sweet rot was beginning to cling to the stagnant air. Having enjoyed her panic enough, I turned to look at my own body. My skin had lost all color, and the parts submerged in the pool of blood had turned a sickly purple-black. I looked like a discarded, broken ragdoll. Her blow had been clumsy and brutal; the back of my head where she had struck me was a gruesome mess. Unable to look any longer, I floated out of the basement. “Mom? It’s me… Can you… can you come to Nora’s hotel room?” “I think… I made… a mistake…” “Just come quickly, I can’t explain it over the phone.” “Please hurry, Mom, I’m so scared…” Gwen sobbed into my phone, tears smearing her carefully applied makeup. She looked utterly pathetic. I sat cross-legged in the air, leisurely enjoying her breakdown. Once she quieted down, Gwen locked the basement door and returned to the first floor. Perhaps the agonizing wait was too much to bear, so she turned on the television to drown out the silence. But with my sudden death weighing on her, she could not focus on the screen. She kept darting anxious glances at the front door, looking completely unhinged. I, however, found the show highly entertaining. An hour later, the doorbell rang. Gwen flew to the door faster than she had ever moved in her life, tears spilling over before she even turned the handle. “Mom, Nora is d—” The word died in her throat. I peered curiously over her shoulder to look outside. Standing at the door was none other than Christian.

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1 On the day I went to the military hospital for a late-term termination, the surgeon asked me why I didn’t want the child. “I’m getting a divorce,” I replied, my voice steady. “I have no intention of raising a baby alone.” The surgeon pulled down her surgical mask. It was Greta Blackwood, the younger sister of my Major General husband. She stared at me for what felt like an eternity before she managed to squeeze out a sentence. “Sera… does my brother know?” “No,” I said, my tone even flatter than I had anticipated. “And he doesn’t need to.” Greta set the medical chart on the stainless-steel desk, flipping to the ultrasound report. “You’re nearly seven months along. An induced late-term termination is not a minor procedure. Are you absolutely certain about this?” “I am.” “Sera…” “Dr. Blackwood,” I interrupted gently. “Right now, you are my attending physician, not my sister-in-law. I’ve signed every necessary waiver. My thumbprint is on the consent form.” Greta fell silent. She pulled her mask back up, scribbled a few lines on the chart, and handed me a pre-operative checklist. “Day after tomorrow, eight in the morning. Fasting. Bring someone to assist with your discharge.” I took the slip of paper, stood up, and walked toward the exit. Just as my hand touched the door handle, Greta called out to me. “Sera, you’ve been with my brother for three years. He has genuine feelings for you.” I did not look back. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days in the Blackwood family. The sentence he had spoken to me more than any other was: “Mission tonight. Won’t be back.” I had no idea what kind of feelings those were supposed to be. The moment I stepped out of the military hospital’s main gates, my phone began to vibrate. It was Gideon. “There is an award ceremony tonight. You will attend with me. Wear something formal.” He didn’t ask where I was. He didn’t ask how my day was going. Over the past three years, his calls always served only two purposes: a notification or a command. “Alright,” I said, uttering my very last ‘yes’ to him. By the time I returned to our quarters at the military estate, the orderly had already hung my dress outside the bedroom door. It was a navy blue two-piece suit, selected by Gideon’s chief of staff. His staff knew my clothing sizes far better than Gideon ever did. I changed into the suit and stood before the full-length mirror. My pregnancy was not yet highly visible; the clever tailoring of the suit perfectly concealed the slight curve of my abdomen. In forty-eight hours, this secret would cease to exist. Gideon’s military SUV arrived at the curb precisely on time. I climbed into the passenger seat. He was focused on a battle tactics briefing, offering me a brief nod by way of greeting. Throughout the forty-minute drive, he remained on the phone, discussing upcoming division exercises, new equipment deployments, and next month’s joint maneuvers. Not a single word had anything to do with me. The ceremony was held at the West Wing Auditorium. The Blackwoods were a legendary military dynasty. Gideon’s grandfather had fought in two foreign campaigns, and his father was a retired lieutenant general. At thirty-two, Gideon had been promoted to Major General, making him the youngest commanding officer in the entire service. We took our seats in the front row. Before we could even settle in, a woman approached. Victoria Prescott. She was the widow of Gideon’s late brother-in-arms, the star performer of the division’s theater troupe, and had recently transferred back to the capital. She wore a simple, elegant ivory dress, her hair pinned back flawlessly. She carried herself with a rigid grace, looking like a classic portrait. “Gideon, it’s been a long time.” Her gaze bypassed me entirely, locking onto my husband. Gideon stood up immediately. In three years, it was the first time I had ever seen him stand to greet a woman. “Victoria. You’ve transferred back?” “The orders were approved last month. I wanted to reach out sooner, but I was terrified of disrupting your schedule.” She finally cast a brief glance in my direction. “And this must be your wife. Gideon speaks of you often.” Often? I offered a small, polite smile. The only person Gideon ever mentioned at home was Victoria, and it certainly wasn’t to me. “Hello, Mrs. Prescott,” I said. “Please, call me Victoria. We don’t need to be so formal.” She took the seat directly beside me, naturally striking up a conversation with Gideon about base operations. Her tone was intimate, as if they were the only two people in the crowded auditorium. Throughout the entire evening, Gideon remained turned completely in her direction. She poured his tea, handed him his medal case, and gracefully intercepted a toast from a visiting officer on his behalf. These were things Gideon had never allowed me to do for him in three years. For the duration of the ceremony, I sat beside him like a piece of transparent glassware. At nine-thirty, I excused myself to use the restroom. As I rounded the corner of the quiet corridor, I overheard two officers’ wives whispering near the water cooler. “The Major General’s wife is incredibly pathetic. Her husband is flirting with another woman right in front of her.” “Pathetic? She married a Major General and lives in the officers’ quarters. That’s more than enough glory for someone like her.” “Still, now that Victoria is back, the lady of the Blackwood house will be replaced sooner or later.” “Well, that’s her own fault for being useless. She is a complete nobody.” A complete nobody. I liked those words. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, a sudden wave of relief washed over me. It was finally time to end this. The following morning, as Gideon was lacing his military boots, I was in the kitchen warming some milk. He glanced at me during a brief pause. “Why did you leave early last night? Unwell?” “Yes.” “Go to the medical bay if you’re sick.” He left immediately after. That was the closest thing to tenderness he had spoken to me in three years. Yet, I knew with absolute certainty that this warmth did not stem from any genuine care for me. It was only because Victoria had murmured to him the night before, “Gideon, you need to treat your wife better.” She was playing her part. But it didn’t matter. I no longer needed to participate in their drama. At ten in the morning, I arrived at Audrey’s law firm. Audrey was my only close friend from our university days. She had gone to law school and now specialized in high-profile military divorces, making her one of the most sought-after attorneys in the city. The moment I walked into her office, she set down her mug. “You’ve finally come to your senses?” “Help me draft a divorce agreement.” “How are we splitting the assets?” “I don’t want a single penny.” Audrey frowned. “You aren’t taking anything from the Blackwood estate?” “Nothing,” I said, taking a seat. “The house, the vehicles, the savings, the military pension shares. I waive all of it. I only want the signed certificate.” “Are you insane? You spent three years in that household. You deserve compensation.” “Audrey,” I said, looking her in the eye. “I want this to be clean and quick. If I demand nothing, he won’t have a single excuse to delay the signing.” Audrey stared at me for a long moment. “What happened?” “Nothing. I’m just done.” She didn’t press further, turning to her computer to begin drafting the documents. As her fingers flew across the keyboard, she spoke without looking up. “Aegis Precision, your design firm, recently secured several major contracts with the defense department. There’s a significant amount of capital in the corporate accounts. Do we need to initiate an asset isolation protocol?” “I’ve already handled it.” Audrey let out a soft laugh. “I see you’ve been planning this for a while.” “Not just a while. For three years. From the very first day I moved into that estate, I knew I didn’t belong. But I stayed because I foolishly hoped he would eventually see me. Now, I finally accept that he never will.” By three in the afternoon, I returned to the military estate. My mother-in-law, Genevieve, was sitting on the sofa, sharing a lively conversation with Victoria. The moment I stepped through the door, Genevieve’s smile vanished. “You’re back?” “Yes.” “Victoria is visiting. I’ve asked her to stay for dinner. Go tell the kitchen staff to prepare two extra dishes.” She was instructing me to order the staff to cater to another woman. Three years ago, such a request would have broken my heart. Now, it felt like nothing. “Alright,” I said, turning to head toward the kitchen. Victoria spoke up, her voice sweet and polite. “Sera, please don’t trouble yourself. A simple salad is fine, there’s no need to go to any trouble.” As she spoke, she offered me a flawless, gentle smile. It wasn’t an expression of defiance or mockery. It was the calm, settled assurance of a woman who already considered herself the true mistress of this house. I offered her a brief glance, said nothing, and walked upstairs. Once inside the bedroom, I opened the closet and pulled out my suitcases. I began folding my clothes, one by one. I didn’t have many personal belongings. I had arrived at the Blackwood estate with only two bags, and I would leave with no more than that. The designer clothes, fine jewelry, and luxury bags Gideon had purchased for me remained untouched, hanging neatly on the right side of the dressing room. Halfway through packing, the bedroom door was pushed open. Genevieve stood in the doorway, her gaze landing on the open suitcases. Her face darkened instantly. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you packing?” I placed my final jacket into the bag and zipped it shut. “I am divorcing Gideon.” “What did you say?” Genevieve’s hand gripped the doorframe tightly. “Divorce? Say that again!” “I am divorcing Gideon.” I lifted the suitcase and walked toward the door. Genevieve blocked my path. “Seraphina, you lived under our roof and off our name for three years, and now you think you can just walk away whenever you please?” “I already told you, I am not taking a single thing belonging to the Blackwoods.” “You think this is a place where you can come and go as you wish?” I stopped, looking at her calmly. “Are you suggesting I should be forced to stay?” Genevieve choked on her words. From the hallway below, Victoria’s voice drifted up. “Mom? Is everything alright?” She was already calling my mother-in-law ‘Mom,’ and Genevieve had not corrected her. I carried my bags down the stairs. Victoria was standing in the center of the living room, holding a porcelain cup of tea. Seeing me with my suitcases, she blinked in surprise. “Sera, what is…” “Mrs. Prescott,” I said, pausing before her. “This position is officially yours.” Without waiting for her reply, I opened the heavy front door and stepped out. Behind me, Genevieve’s furious voice echoed through the foyer. “Seraphina, stop right there! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare think about ever coming back!” I glanced back one last time. “I won’t be coming back.” As the door clicked shut behind me, the sound of my suitcase wheels rolling over the concrete walkway was loud and clear, sounding like a final period at the end of a long sentence. At eight that evening, Gideon returned to the estate. He was met with a half-empty closet and a single note resting on the coffee table: The divorce agreement has been delivered to my attorney, Audrey. Please sign it as soon as possible. My phone rang within ten seconds. “Seraphina, where are you?” “Away.” “Come back.” “Gideon, I told you. I want a divorce.” The line fell silent for three seconds. “What is this dramatic display about? Is this because of what happened last night?” “This isn’t drama. The agreement makes it clear; I am waiving all assets. You only need to sign.” Another long silence. “I won’t sign.” “Then we will proceed through the court system.” I hung up. The phone rang again, then a third time, then a fifth. I turned it off. That was the very first time in three years I had ever hung up on Gideon. Outside the window, the city lights flickered in the dark. I stood in my own private apartment. I had purchased this property with my own independent funds, and not a single member of the Blackwood family knew of its existence. Twelve hundred square feet, south-facing, with fresh mint and rosemary growing on the balcony. This was my true home. The next morning, Gideon tracked me down at my design firm. My assistant looked terrified as Gideon marched through the lobby, nearly knocking over her coffee cup. “Major General…” “Where is Seraphina?” “She’s in her office, sir.” He pushed open my door without knocking. I was reviewing a blueprint. I looked up, entirely unsurprised by his arrival. “Take a seat.” “Seraphina, pack your things and come home with me.” He remained standing, his uniform immaculate, his expression cold and demanding, as if he were delivering a military order that required immediate compliance. “I don’t have a home there anymore.” “You are a daughter-in-law of the Blackwood family.” “Not for long.” I pulled a document from my desk drawer and slid it toward him. “The divorce agreement. I don’t want the house, the vehicles, or any spousal support. Sign this, and we can go our separate ways.” Gideon stared at the papers for a moment before pushing them back. “I’m not signing.” “Why?” “We don’t have a history of divorce in my family.” “Your parents divorced twenty years ago.” His expression hardened for a split second. “Seraphina, what exactly is it that you want?” “I told you. A divorce.” “Is this because of Victoria?” I let out a soft laugh. “Gideon, you overestimate your own importance. This isn’t about anyone else. It’s about the fact that this marriage has absolutely no meaning.” He stared at me. “In three years, you have never spoken to me in this manner.” “Because for three years, you have never actually listened to a single word I said.” The office fell quiet. Suddenly, his military radio began to beep, signaling an urgent defense communication. He glanced at the channel, clicked it on, and then looked back at me. “We will discuss this later.” He turned and strode out. “Later.” Those five words were the perfect summary of our entire marriage. Every concern of mine was always pushed to ‘later.’ My birthdays, my illnesses, my desire to visit my family—all of it was delayed, until three years had passed without a single promise being kept. Once the door closed, my phone rang. It was Audrey. “How did he react?” “He refused to sign.” “As expected. If he refuses, we will have to establish a two-year separation before we can file for a unilateral divorce. Unless you have other grounds? Domestic abuse, infidelity, hiding assets?” “He never touched me.” That sentence carried two meanings: he had never laid a hand on me in anger, and he had barely touched me at all. In our three years of marriage, the number of times we had shared a bed could be counted on one hand. The last time had been seven months ago. And it was during that single night that I became pregnant. It was also after that night that I saw a message from Victoria on his phone: Gideon, I am transferring back next month. Do you still remember what you promised me? He had replied with a single word: Yes. I didn’t know what he had promised her, but I knew the weight of that single word was heavier than anything he had ever said to me. Audrey spoke through the receiver. “Then we begin the separation. From the day you moved out, I will document the evidence chain.” “Thank you.” “One more thing,” Audrey’s tone shifted, becoming more serious. “Your design firm has a major military bid coming up next week for a new camouflage system. Are you going to represent the company personally?” I thought it over. “No. Let Frank handle the presentation.” “Sera, how long do you plan on keeping your identity a secret?” “I’ll step into the light when the timing is right.” Three years ago, I had married Gideon under the simple name ‘Seraphina.’ None of them knew that Aegis Precision Systems, one of the defense department’s largest rising technology suppliers, was entirely my creation. And none of them knew that my mother’s maiden name was Vanguard—the family that controlled the multi-billion-dollar Vanguard Defense Group. A soft knock sounded at my office door. “Sera, there’s a client here. He’s asking for you by name.” “Who?”

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1 During the seventh month of my pregnancy, I discovered that Keanu had acquired a close female confidante. They shared everything. Their chemistry was effortless, an unspoken rhythm that seemed to bridge their every gap. Every single day, Keanu bought two bouquets of flowers, one for me, and one for her. Yet, he never crossed the line. That was until she sent him a message: If you had met me first, would you have married me? Keanu never replied. But he stood on our balcony and smoked through the entire night. … Today, Keanu was entirely somewhere else. Several times he opened his mouth as if to say something, only to swallow his words and look away. In the end, I was the one who broke the silence. “Is something wrong?” Keanu let out a heavy sigh. “I have to go on a business trip to Oakport. I should be back tomorrow. But you can’t be left alone right now. Forget it, I’ll have someone else cover it.” As he spoke, I kept my eyes on him, watching the earnest, deeply concerned expression on his face. He met my gaze openly, without a single hint of evasion. “What is it, Vivi?” he asked, looking genuinely puzzled. I shook my head slowly. “Nothing.” Then I said, “You should go.” “But what about you?” “I’ll have my mother come over and stay with me.” Ever since I became pregnant, Keanu had been incredibly attentive. Especially as my belly grew larger, he hated the idea of leaving me alone. He had canceled countless business dinners and social events just to stay home and care for me. “What if something happens and there’s no one around?” he used to say. “I’ll be worrying the entire time anyway. I might as well stay.” Even on the rare occasions he absolutely had to step out, he would wait until my mother arrived, repeating a thousand instructions to make sure I was looked after. My mother would always laugh. “She is my own daughter, Keanu. Do you really think I’d neglect her?” But today, he only hesitated for a mere two seconds before nodding. “Alright. Take care of yourself. I’ll be back as fast as I can. Call me if anything comes up.” He left in a hurry. He packed only a single change of clothes before rushing out the door. I sat on the sofa, remaining completely still. I even managed to wave and offer a gentle smile when he turned back to look at me one last time before closing the door. When the lock clicked, I still did not move. But my spine, which had been held perfectly straight and rigid, finally collapsed. Keanu was acting strange. Everything about him today was off. Yet I did not say a single extra word, nor did I ask a single question. Because I already knew exactly where he was going, and who he was going to see. 2 In the beginning, I did not know the woman’s name. I only knew her last name was Xu, and Keanu referred to her as Valerie. I met her for the first time a year ago, back when I was not yet pregnant. I was waiting for Keanu in a newly opened café right beneath his office building. I had not told him I was coming, planning to call him once lunchtime rolled around. But he suddenly walked in. The woman behind the counter, who had been leaning lazily against the register, immediately straightened up. Keanu offered her a brief nod. She smiled and flashed him a subtle OK gesture. It was a silent, effortless understanding. I have always believed that unspoken chemistry between a man and a woman is a terrifying thing. It easily tricks both parties into believing they are destined for one another. But at the time, that unsettling thought only flickered through my mind for a second, and I brushed it aside. When Keanu finally noticed me, he was genuinely startled. He hurried over, asking what I was doing there. “Waiting to have lunch with you,” I said. “Why didn’t you call me?” “I didn’t want to disrupt your work,” I replied, looking at him. “Why did you come down?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. “Work has been incredibly frustrating. I needed to get out for a walk and grab a coffee. They make excellent butter cookies here, you should try some.” He raised his hand slightly. “Valerie, another order of cookies, please.” Meeting the woman’s curious gaze, he offered a warm, proud smile. “This is my wife, Vivian.” That day, they were both entirely natural. Keanu introduced me without a trace of guilt. Valerie greeted me warmly and even took our order off the bill. Keanu mentioned that their coffee was exceptionally authentic, so his company had started ordering all their afternoon tea catering from her shop. That was how they became familiar. Back then, I truly believed they were just a simple shop owner and a regular customer. I did not know that the delicious cookies she served us were actually a private batch, never sold to the public. And I certainly did not know that Valerie would eventually send Keanu a message, asking him: If you had met me first, would you have married me? 3 Keanu sent me a text at ten o’clock that evening. He said he had just finished his meetings and had checked into his hotel. He claimed he was exhausted, so we would skip our usual evening video call. He reminded me to take care of myself and to call him if anything happened. I replied to each message patiently, telling him not to worry and that I was perfectly fine. Then, I dialed the number for the café downstairs. “Is Valerie around? I was hoping to speak with her,” I asked the girl who answered. The waitress was young and naive. Hearing my familiar tone, she assumed I was a close friend. “Oh, she’s out! She left earlier this afternoon. Today is actually her birthday, so she’s probably out on a romantic date with her boyfriend. She left holding a massive bouquet of red roses, it was so sweet!” I thanked her, ordered a take-out coffee to end the call, and hung up. This city is vast. Trying to find two people in the dark should have been impossible. But Keanu had bought me a smart tracking watch a few months ago. Before he left the house today, I had quietly slipped it into the side pocket of his laptop bag. He had bought it for me during my fourth month of pregnancy. My morning sickness had been exceptionally severe. By the fourth month, my weight was still dropping instead of increasing. I did not realize I had developed severe anemia, nor did I expect to faint in the middle of a crowded shopping mall due to the stuffy air. Keanu had been absolutely terrified. His hands were still trembling when I woke up in the hospital room. The watch was meant to monitor my heart rate and track my location in real-time in case of another emergency. It was a luxury model, which meant its GPS positioning was incredibly precise. Just like now, the signal showed it had been stationary on the twelfth floor of a luxury hotel for over three hours. I did not pack my bags and rush over in the middle of the night. I was only twenty-three days away from my due date. In the end, I still cared about my own safety and the life of my child. I threw away the coffee, drank a warm glass of milk, and lay down on our soft bed, listening to the soothing hum of white noise. Yet, sleep refused to come. My mind kept drifting back to that night a little over a month ago. That was the very first time I had ever pried into Keanu’s phone. He had been so incredibly restless lately. He sliced his finger while peeling an apple for me. He shattered a mug while pouring water. Finally, with a dark, suffocating expression, he had kicked a kitchen chair across the room. I had screamed in fright. He immediately apologized, claiming he was just stressed about a difficult project at work, swearing he had not meant to scare me. But when I woke up in the middle of the night, the bed beside me was cold and empty. Keanu was standing on the balcony, smoking one cigarette after another in the dark. With a heart that felt like it was already flatlining, I unlocked his phone. The screen was still open to his messages. The contact, saved simply as ‘V,’ had sent a message earlier that afternoon. If you had met me first, would you have married me? Keanu had not replied. He had not typed a single word in response. But that night, my heart died right there in the glow of his screen. 4 I arrived at the hotel lobby at six in the morning, carrying our marriage certificate and household registration documents. I laid them neatly on the front desk. “Keanu is my husband. I need to know which room he is registered in. If you cannot disclose this to me, I will call the police immediately.” I did not have the energy to argue or plead. I was tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion had settled into my soul. The receptionist froze, her expression shifting from confusion to hesitation, and finally to deep, silent pity. “Please wait a moment, ma’am. I will look it up for you right away.” She quickly gave me the room number and even asked if I needed someone to accompany me upstairs. I offered her a polite, faint smile and shook my head. Clutching my swollen belly, I stepped into the elevator. Keanu did not make me wait long. I had only been standing in the quiet hallway for about forty minutes when the door swung open. Keanu stood in the doorway, his hand still resting on the handle. Behind him, a pair of slender arms wrapped gently around his waist. “Keanu, thank you for last night. I will remember this for the rest of my…” She never finished her sentence. Keanu violently threw her arms off him, his entire body stiffening in panic. He had spotted me. He took a frantic step forward. But my gaze drifted past him, looking into the room. Valerie had stumbled back onto the carpet. Her bright red silk slip dress had ridden up, exposing her bare legs. She was staring at Keanu’s back, her eyes filled with a mixture of profound sorrow and hurt. “Vivi,” Keanu’s voice trembled violently as he called my name. So did mine. The hands I held behind my back were shaking uncontrollably. I had thought I was mentally prepared. I had thought I could face this with absolute coldness. But now that the moment was here, I realized I could barely keep myself upright. “Where is the car?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “In the underground parking lot.” “Let’s go.” I leaned heavily against the wallpapered wall, turning toward the elevators. Keanu reached out, trying to support me. “Don’t touch me!” I hissed, a low, fierce warning. His hand froze in mid-air, trembling, before he slowly drew it back. He followed me at a cautious distance, his eyes locked on my every step. That was when Valerie came rushing out into the hallway. “Mrs. [Vivian], you don’t need to act like this! There was nothing sordid between Keanu and me!” Her tone was remarkably calm, her face filled with stubborn pride. The moment the words left her mouth, I turned and delivered a sharp slap across Keanu’s face. The sound cracked through the quiet hallway. “Ah!” Valerie let out a horrified gasp. “How dare you hit him?!” She lunged forward, her hands reaching out in distress, trying to touch the dark red mark blooming on Keanu’s cheek. Keanu flinched away, avoiding her touch entirely. He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Vivi, please. Let’s just go home.” Valerie clenched her fists, glaring at me with raw hostility. “Mrs. [Vivian], if you have an issue, take it out on me! Why are you hitting Keanu?!” “Be quiet,” Keanu muttered. Valerie stared at him in utter disbelief. “I am trying to help you!” “I said, shut up!” Keanu snapped, his voice sharp with desperation. He did not offer Valerie a single glance. His eyes remained fixed entirely on me as he pleaded once more. “Vivi, please. Let’s go home.” 5 “Vivi, I can explain. “Yesterday was Valerie’s birthday. She doesn’t have any close friends in the city, and she just wanted some company. “I only stayed to help her celebrate. Absolutely nothing happened between us. “I was wrong to lie to you, and I am so sorry. “I was just terrified that you would get upset and overthink things. “I made a mistake. If it bothers you, I will never see her again. “She really is just a friend.” … “Vivi, please say something to me. “Don’t do this. You’re terrifying me.” … Ever since we returned to the apartment, Keanu had not stopped talking. He offered endless explanations, apologies, and self-reproach. I wanted to speak. But my throat felt as though it were packed with dry cotton, choking back every single syllable. I did not know where to begin. I did not know what there was left to say. In the end, I only managed to whisper a few quiet words. “Keanu, let’s get a divorce.” The words made Keanu flinch as if he had been struck. He clenched his fists tightly, closing his eyes to suppress a sudden wave of frantic anger. When he opened them, his voice was tight. “Nothing happened between us, Vivi. We drank some wine and we talked. That was it. Please, don’t do this. I know you’re angry, and I know I messed up. I’ll accept any punishment you want. But you have to believe me, I did not betray you.” What did betrayal even mean to him? “You held her, didn’t you? You probably kissed her too. You smell like her perfume. And right here…” I pointed to his bottom lip. “A bite mark.” Keanu froze, his lips pressing into a hard, defensive line. I looked at him, feeling a profound, echoing despair. “How much further did you need to go, Keanu? Did I need to catch you in the act? You stayed in a hotel room with her for an entire night. How do you expect me to believe you? How can I ever trust you again?” Keanu’s head fell forward. He dropped to his knees in front of me, his hands hovering near my lap, wanting to hold me but not daring to make contact. “Vivi, I was stupid. I lost my mind for a moment. But I swear, we didn’t go any further than that. I beg you, think of our years together. Think of the baby we are about to have. Just give me one more chance.” How utterly tragic. He knew exactly how many years we had spent building this life. He knew our child was about to be born. Yet he still chose to do what he did. And now, he expected me to use those very things as a reason to forgive him. The weight of every suffocating memory, every silent doubt, came crashing down on me all at once. I looked around our beautiful apartment, my eyes finally resting on my swollen stomach. Tears began to spill over, hot and uncontrollable. A low, wounded sob escaped my throat, sounding like a trapped animal. Keanu panicked, reaching out to shield me. “Vivi, Vivi, what’s wrong? What are you looking for? Tell me, I’ll get it for you!” His voice was the spark that finally lit the fuse. I broke down completely, sobbing hysterically. “I want a divorce! I just want to get away from you!” 6 This year marked our fourth year of marriage. When we first found out about the pregnancy, we were both ecstatic. But the journey had been anything but smooth. My morning sickness was so violent that I could barely keep any food down. But if I didn’t eat, my body would begin to shut down. I had to force myself to swallow every bite. I spent those early months crying nearly every single day. The physical torment was so agonizing that there were moments I wished I could simply close my eyes and never wake up. We had briefly discussed ending the pregnancy. But the moment we saw the first sign of spotting, panic seized both of us. I ended up bedridden in the hospital for an entire month, fighting to keep the baby. During those early stages, I felt as though I were recovering from a near-fatal illness. I suffered from severe malnutrition, chronic anemia, and then that sudden collapse in the mall. To call it a chaotic time would be an understatement. This tiny life inside me seemed so fragile, yet so incredibly stubborn. I was terrified that the stress of the divorce would trigger an early labor. I kept my phone fully charged, ready to dial emergency services at any second. I did not dare to scream, to smash things, or to let my rage consume me. Even my tears had to be quietly choked back. Until I couldn’t hold them back any longer. The physical strain of my sobbing triggered a violent wave of nausea, and I threw up. I knelt on the bathroom floor, clutching the toilet bowl, gasping through a pain that felt as though my very organs were being torn apart. Keanu pounded frantically on the bathroom door. He begged me to open it, to let him in. He yelled at me, telling me not to gamble with my life and the baby’s health. I huddled on the cold tiles, protectively wrapping my arms around my stomach. I had wanted to end this with some semblance of dignity. But the moment Keanu’s heart began to wander, my dignity had already been trampled into the dirt. My parents were eventually called to the apartment by Keanu. It was only when I heard my mother’s soft, worried voice through the wood that I finally unlocked the door. My father, usually a gentle and mild-tempered man, looked colder than I had ever seen him. “Is this how you care for my daughter?” he asked Keanu, his voice dripping with quiet fury. They packed my things and took me with them. Keanu did not dare to stop them. Once we arrived at my parents’ house, my father sat down beside me. “What do you want to do, Vivi?” “I want a divorce,” I whispered, my voice raw. He remained silent for a long moment, before nodding slowly. “Then we will get you a divorce.” That night, my mother slept beside me. She held me close, gently rubbing my back, never asking a single question about what had happened. The quiet, unquestioning support of my parents slowly brought me back to sanity. The next morning, Keanu arrived at their doorstep. He brought my favorite breakfast, offering my parents a tight, forced smile as he greeted them. They offered a curt nod and quietly left the house, giving us the space to speak. Keanu held the container of warm dumplings, looking at me with desperate, pleading eyes. “Vivi, please eat a little.” My face remained entirely blank. “Keanu, we need to talk.” He held the container for a long time, his shoulders slumping, before he finally nodded. “Okay.” 7 Where were we even supposed to begin? I looked at him. “I gave you opportunities, Keanu. I truly tried to pretend none of this was happening.” Keanu froze, looking at me with a bewildered expression. I let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “The day Valerie asked you if you would have married her had you met her first. You became restless, angry, and you couldn’t sleep all night because of that single question. While you were standing on the balcony smoking through the dark, I unlocked your phone.” I had always believed that snooping through a partner’s phone was a pathetic thing to do. The moment you feel the need to do it, the trust is already dead. If there is no trust left between two people, what is the point of staying together? Yet, despite holding those beliefs, I had still ended up doing exactly that. My words made Keanu stiffen. His body leaned back slightly, a subconscious instinct to flee from the truth. He clenched his fists, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “But I never replied to her.” I wiped away a tear that had slipped down my cheek. “Yes, you didn’t reply. But your silence was far more agonizing than any answer could have been.” A suffocating quiet filled the room once more. Keanu opened his mouth several times, but no sound came out. Finally, he spoke, his voice entirely devoid of confidence. “If you read those messages, then you must know that we never crossed any lines before last night. I only ever saw her as a friend. And the night before last… yes, we had too much to drink, and we lost our heads for a moment. But we stopped there. We didn’t go any further. Vivi, I swear, I never actually cheated on you.” I did not look at him. I only let out a long, weary sigh. “On April third, the day of my anatomy scan. It was the very first time we were going to see what our baby looked like. I was so incredibly excited. But you told me you couldn’t make it because of an urgent board meeting. In reality, you had planned a hiking trip with Valerie. “Every morning, you ordered two bouquets of baby’s breath from the florist downstairs. You took one with you in the morning to give to her, and you brought the other one home to me at night. The only exception was Valentine’s Day. That morning, you took a bouquet of nineteen red roses with you. “The executive elevator in your office building requires a security card. Valerie complained once about how long she had to wait for the public elevators, so you gave her your spare card. “You told me your shoulder was aching, and she went to the hospital to get special medicated patches for you. For weeks, you smelled of menthol. When I asked about it, you told me you bought them yourself at a pharmacy. “On your birthday, after I fell asleep, you slipped out of the apartment in the middle of the night. Valerie met you downstairs and gave you a pair of designer cufflinks. She asked if she was the first person to wish you a happy birthday, and you told her yes. “Your texting shorthand was effortless. She would text ‘Go?’ and you would reply ‘Go!’ She would text ‘Rooftop’ and you would reply ‘1.’ She would text ‘Tired’ and you would reply ‘Almost there.’ “The day you traded in your car, you took her along for the test drive. She told you the salesman mistook her for your wife, and you replied with a single awkward emoji, followed by a screen full of laughter. “Every single day on your drive home from work, you spent twenty-seven minutes on the phone with her. At a normal speaking pace, you two exchanged thousands of words daily. Aside from when we were first dating, when was the last time we ever spoke that much in a single day?” The Keanu who spoke to Valerie was someone I did not recognize. No, that was not entirely true. The Keanu from our university days had been exactly like that. Lively, talkative, even a little childish. It was just that the person on the receiving end was no longer me. That realization felt like a thousand ants biting at my skin, slowly consuming me from the inside out. Keanu’s head bowed lower and lower. “I only saw her as a friend,” he whispered, his voice completely hollow. “Sometimes I was just so exhausted, and talking to her made things easier. We were just talking, Vivi. What do I have to do to make you believe me?” A heavy, crushing weight pulled me down into the sofa. “Keanu, do you have any idea how much I wished you had actually slept with her? This unspoken chemistry, this effortless understanding you shared… it was like a guillotine suspended right over my head. I never knew when the blade was going to fall. I had to live every single second in terror, waiting for it. I tried to pretend I didn’t see it. I debated whether I should just close my eyes and let it go.” I really had hesitated. I was pregnant. Our child was about to be born. They had not actually slept together. Should I face the ugly truth, or should I just pretend everything was fine? But the moment I had closed his phone that night and turned away, pretending nothing was wrong, I had already made my choice. “I thought I could do it. But ever since I found those messages, I stopped trusting you. Every single time you left my sight, I assumed you were with her. I wondered what you were saying, what you were doing. Those doubts chewed away at my sanity every single minute of the day. I was being driven mad, Keanu! You were driving me absolutely insane!” I sobbed, the pain tearing through my chest. Those had been the most agonizing weeks of my life. I felt as though I were standing on the brink of complete madness. Until you finally agreed to spend that night with her. She had texted you: Maybe if you do this, I can finally let you go. Show me some mercy, Keanu. And you replied: Okay. In that exact second, the guillotine fell. And I chose to survive. “Keanu, let’s get a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “496745”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was the ultimate codependent fool. I had a bleach-blonde, deadbeat boyfriend who was undeniably hot, and I had already planned out our entire lives, down to the names of our future children. Then, after eighteen years of surviving in an orphanage, I discovered I was actually the long-lost heiress of a billionaire family. There was already a fake heiress living in my place. On the day they brought me home, I dragged a battered suitcase in my left hand and my bleach-blonde bad boy in my right. My fake sister, who had probably spent days preparing for an epic turf war with me, completely forgot to cry. She just stared at us in sheer, unadulterated shock. My biological parents hesitated, finally asking me in hushed, nervous voices, “Sweetheart… Jude, who is this gentleman?” I leaned affectionately against his shoulder. “He’s my boyfriend. We’ve already decided to have a massive wedding first, pop out a baby, and then officially sign the marriage papers the second we hit the legal age.” My new older brother stared at Zack. Bleached hair, a slouch that screamed unemployed, a stained tank top, baggy basketball shorts, and a pair of cheap knockoff sneakers. Honestly, aside from his face, which was admittedly handsome, absolutely nothing about him was acceptable. The entire room fell dead silent. I could practically hear them wondering if our ancestors were spinning in their graves. Zack and I locked eyes and shared a subtle, knowing smirk. The show was officially on. 1 My name is Jude Harrington. Before I got my fancy last name, I was just Jude, a parentless nobody at the local orphanage. My proudest achievement in life was snagging an insanely hot boyfriend. His bleached hair was wild, and the moment I saw him, I was utterly obsessed. It took a lot of chasing to get him to agree to date me. Nobody understood our love, but that didn’t matter. I was never letting him go. So, on the day I was found and brought back to the Harrington estate, I literally wept, begging him to come with me. “Zack, please! My family is rich, like, insanely rich! Come with me. I can’t breathe without you!” Zack gave me a look so dripping with disdain it made my heart flutter. “You said it yourself, babe. You are the one begging me.” I nodded frantically. Without him, I would literally wither away. When the Harrington family butler arrived to pick me up, he took one look at Zack, his eyes filling with immediate disgust. “Miss, your parents sent me to bring you home. This gentleman, however…” Zack scoffed. “You heard the man, Jude. It is not that I don’t want to go. I won’t stand in the way of your rich life. Let’s just break up.” I threw myself onto him, clinging like a koala. “Don’t you dare say that word! I will never let you break up with me!” The butler stepped forward, trying to pull me off, his professional composure shattering into pure shock. “Don’t touch me! If I can’t be with Zack, I am not going anywhere! What is the point of being rich if he leaves me?!” Zack made a show of trying to walk away, and I wailed, holding onto his waist for dear life. Zack’s ears flushed a bright red under his bleached hair as passersby stopped to whisper and watch the drama. The butler looked like he wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it. “Miss! Fine! He can come! Just please, get up off the pavement!” The moment I heard that, I beamed, looking up at Zack proudly. “See? You can come with me now! Please don’t dump me, okay?” He finally relented, giving a reluctant nod. My heart swelled with victory. The butler opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. I told Zack to sit back and relax while I single-handedly hauled our heavy bags into the trunk. The butler and the driver rushed to help, and I thanked them profusely. The butler shot an utterly bewildered look at Zack, who was casually picking his nails. How on earth did an heiress grow up to be such a brain-dead, codependent mess in that orphanage? But I did not care what they thought. I was in absolute paradise. 2 When the car pulled up to the Harrington estate, Zack stared at the massive, sprawling mansion. I stared too. I had never seen a house this big in my entire life. As we got out, I was greeted by the sight of my fake sister, Rose, weeping gracefully while my biological parents and brother desperately tried to comfort her. My presence felt like a sudden intrusion, and I stood there awkwardly. It was only when the butler cleared his throat that the family finally noticed me. My biological mother froze, her eyes locked on my face. The resemblance was uncanny; we had the exact same eyes. Tears welled in her eyes as she rushed forward to hug me. “Jude… oh, my sweet Jude!” I felt a sudden rush of warmth and my own eyes grew misty. Rose clearly had not expected me to look so much like our mother. Her face went through a rapid succession of shock, jealousy, and fear. But when she saw my worn-out clothes, her expression softened into a pitying, guilty look. Zack, seeing that the spotlight was entirely on us, cleared his throat loudly. Mrs. Harrington blinked, looking from me to Zack, and then shot a questioning glance at the butler. “I thought you went to bring our daughter home. Who is this?” The butler looked like he was swallowing glass. “This is Miss Jude’s boyfriend. She insisted on bringing him along.” The courtyard fell dead silent. “B-Boyfriend?” I blushed right on cue, looking down with perfect shyness. “Yes, Mom. This is Zack.” My new older brother, Nate, and my father stared at Zack. Their faces were a picture of pure disgust. They had expected to bring home a dignified daughter, not a girl trailing a street punk. Mrs. Harrington immediately assumed I was being coerced. She could not bear to think of how much I must have suffered, being taken advantage of by a lowlife like him. Her heart practically broke. She squeezed my hands tightly. “My poor Jude, you must have been through so much. Don’t worry, your parents and your brother are here now. You don’t have to be afraid of him. We will get rid of him right now.” Zack knew exactly how they felt about him. He nudged my foot with his cheap sneaker. “Well, looks like your family is too fancy for a guy like me. I’m leaving, Jude. Don’t come looking for me. We are done.” I secretly glared at his foot, then instantly switched back to my dramatic, tearful act. My eyes turned red in a second. “Zack, no! Don’t be like this! My family will accept you!” Before anyone could stop me, I dropped to my knees on the gravel. Seeing that Zack still was not placated, I realized the obstacle was my new family. I turned around to face them. “Mom, Dad, Nate, Rose! Quick, get down here and kneel with me! Help me beg Zack so he won’t leave me!” My family’s faces turned blacker than coal. The Harringtons, one of the most prominent families in Silverwood, kneeling to a bleach-blonde deadbeat? If word of this got out, they would be the laughingstock of high society. Rose looked like she had misheard me, tugging at Nate’s sleeve in disbelief. “Nate, am I dreaming? Is she… mentally unstable?” The Harringtons suddenly realized that their long-lost daughter might actually have a screw loose. Mrs. Harrington’s mouth twitched violently. “Jude, sweetheart, please get up first.” She had planned to shower me with affection and make up for lost time, but this sudden blow left her completely speechless. “No, Mom! I can’t live without Zack! We already planned our wedding and our first baby! He’ll never leave me once we have a child, and we’ll sign the papers the second we hit the legal age!” What kind of outdated, toxic nonsense was this coming from an eighteen-year-old girl? Mrs. Harrington swayed, nearly fainting on the spot. Rose rushed to support her. “Sister, even if you want me gone, you don’t have to hurt Mom like this. Do you know how much she looked forward to your return?” Rose scolded me, subtly implying that I was doing this on purpose to hurt the family. Mr. Harrington’s gaze turned cold and suspicious. I shot a quick glance at Zack, and he caught the cue instantly. “Fine, it’s clear I don’t belong here. I’ll just go.” As he turned, I lunged forward, grabbing his legs. My knees scraped against the gravel, drawing blood, but I did not care. “Rose, you are trying to tear us apart! I don’t even care about being a Harrington! If I can be with Zack, I’ll happily sleep on cardboard and eat instant ramen for the rest of my life!” With the neighbors from the adjacent villas starting to peek through their gates, the situation was spiraling out of control. Nate’s head was throbbing, and Mr. Harrington’s face was completely rigid. My legal documents had already been processed; they could not just let me run away. “Enough! Everyone inside!” Mr. Harrington barked, trying to save whatever dignity they had left. “Rose, help your mother. And you… sir, come inside as well.” Zack smirked, finally looking satisfied. “Fine, since you’re so sincere, Jude, I’ll let it go this once. I won’t dump you today.” I beamed and scrambled to my feet, leaving Mr. Harrington and Nate looking even more horrified. 3 Mr. Harrington was probably questioning whether there was a defect in the family gene pool. How else could their brilliant lineage produce such a codependent fool? In other areas, however, my intelligence was undeniable. I had inherited the family’s academic brains, consistently ranking first in my classes and scoring near perfect on my college entrance exams. Once Mrs. Harrington recovered her composure inside, she introduced my siblings properly. “This is your older brother, Nate, and your sister, Rose.” “Jude, we know you’ve suffered. But we raised Rose as our own, and the hospital mix-up was an accident. We investigated and found that her biological parents wanted to abandon her anyway, so…” At this, Rose started crying again. I wondered if she was made of water. “Sister, I know I took your place and let you suffer for eighteen years,” Rose sobbed. “I will pack my bags and leave the Harrington house. I’ll give everything back to you.” Seeing her try to play the victim, I immediately cut her off. “Rose, don’t say that! If it weren’t for that mistake, I would have never met Zack!” I leaned heavily on Zack’s shoulder. He wrapped an arm around me, shooting a smug, provocative look at Rose. Mrs. Harrington, trying to maintain her poise, walked over and gently pried Zack’s hand off my shoulder. She even took a tissue and brushed off my sleeve, as if his touch had contaminated me. Mr. Harrington quickly changed the subject. I did not mind. I knew they would never kick Rose out; she was a useful pawn, and she posed no threat to me anyway. “Since Jude doesn’t mind, we’ll leave things as they are for now,” Mr. Harrington said. “Jude, have you decided on a university?” He had investigated my academic records before bringing me home. “I’m leaning toward Everton University,” I replied. Hearing the name of the prestigious Ivy League-equivalent school, Mr. Harrington looked pleased. “Good. Everton is excellent. Your brother graduated from there as well.” Rose lowered her head. Her grades were mediocre, barely scraping the minimum requirements for a decent local college, which made her even more insecure in this house. I looked at Nate, and then delivered a line that shattered their fleeting joy. “But Zack’s grades aren’t very good. He didn’t get in. I don’t want to be apart from him, so I’m thinking of skipping college altogether.” Rose and Mrs. Harrington gasped. Nate stared at me like I had lost my mind. “Nonsense!” Mr. Harrington roared, slamming his hand on the table. “How can you gamble with your future? You are a Harrington! With your potential, you could easily surpass your brother. You—” Before he could finish, Zack let out a loud, dramatic yawn, cutting him off. “Hey, I’m tired. Get someone to show me to my room.” I immediately turned to my parents, completely ignoring my father’s rage. “Zack is tired. Can we get him a room?” Mr. Harrington’s face was practically purple. “There is a guest room on the first floor. Your room, Jude, is on the third floor, right next to Rose’s.” Mrs. Harrington quickly added, “Yes, sweetheart. I didn’t know what style you’d like, so I had it done in a simple, minimalist design. If you don’t like it, we can hire a designer to completely redo it.” Rose chimed in, “Yes, sister. If you prefer my room, I can give it to you.” Zack ignored them all. He strolled up to the second floor, looked around, and pointed at a large master suite. “I’ll take this one.” Nate’s face darkened. “Absolutely not. That is my room.” Zack looked at him, then shrugged at me. “Whatever. Since there is no place for me here, I’ll just leave. I don’t do guest rooms.” The moment Zack threatened to walk, I threw myself onto the floor and locked my arms around Nate’s legs. “Nate! It’s just a room! Give it to him! If you don’t, I’m never letting go!” “No! No way! That is my room!” Nate yelled, trying to shake me off. “Nate, it’s just a room! How can you be so incredibly stingy?!” “I’m stingy? He is trying to take over my space! He doesn’t belong here!” Nate was practically laughing from pure rage. But his words were a sharp sting to Rose, who sat quietly, feeling like the real intruder. Mr. Harrington glared at Zack. “That room belongs to the heir of the Harrington family. Who do you think you are to demand it?” Zack smirked. “So I’m not good enough, huh? Fine. I’ll go back to the orphanage.” Hearing the word ‘orphanage,’ I burst into loud, hysterical wails. “When I was at the orphanage, Zack was the only one who protected me! He is my hero! Nobody is going to kick him out! You have no idea what I went through there! You are trying to drive away my savior and my only love!” My screams were so piercing that even Zack looked stunned. This was not in our script. “Enough!” Mr. Harrington finally broke. He looked at me crying on the floor, at Nate who was trapped by my death grip, and at Zack, who was casually leaning against the second-floor railing. “Nate… let him have the room for now.” “Dad?!” Nate could not believe his ears. He was being kicked out of his own room for a lowlife punk? Zack offered a smug smile, walked into the room, and shut the door behind him. Only my brother was left trembling with rage, looking like he was on the verge of a stroke. Rose stood in the corner, thoroughly confused. This was not how the ‘fake vs. real heiress’ drama was supposed to go. Where was the rivalry? Why was she the only one stressing out in this house? The next morning, Rose tried to orchestrate a classic trap. She poured a glass of milk over her own designer dress right in front of me, preparing to blame me. When my parents rushed over to scold me, I looked at my empty glass and began to sob. “I just made that milk for Zack. He told me if he didn’t get his morning milk, he’d break up with me! Now it’s ruined!” Suddenly, the family’s glares shifted entirely to Rose. Mrs. Harrington sighed. “Rose, if you wanted milk, you could have asked the maid. There was no need to ruin your sister’s hard work.” Rose’s face turned bright red with frustration. I ignored her, turning back to pour another glass. “Rose, please don’t steal Zack’s milk again.” “I… I would steal milk from that deadbeat?!” Rose gasped, clutching her chest to keep from fainting. With Zack around, none of Rose’s schemes worked. Instead, she was the one constantly ending up frustrated. She initially thought I was putting on an act. But when she saw me hand-washing Zack’s smelly, sweat-stained socks without a single complaint, she was finally convinced. I was a hopeless, brain-dead romantic. If anyone dared to ask Rose to wash socks like those, she would have had her bodyguards beat them half to death before taking a silk-bleach bath. Too embarrassed to vent to her high-society friends, Rose completely gave up on competing with me. Instead, she opened her laptop and typed into the search bar: How to cure extreme codependency.

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After five years of marriage, I ghostwrote twelve bestselling novels for my husband and built his success with my own hands. At the launch party for his new book, he walked in with a rising celebrity on his arm and announced he’d found a new “muse.” When a reporter asked about my contribution, he smiled and cut them off. “Her? Without me, she’s nothing.” I just smiled back, calm as ever. Because from the very first book, he was never really my husband — He was an investment. One I’d spent five years carefully building up. And tonight, at the peak of his arrogance, his biggest rival would buy him out — contract and all — at the price I’d already set. The lights at the book launch were blazing, and they made Rowan Sterling look handsome and successful. Elara Vance stood beside him — a hot celebrity in an expensive gown, her arm looped through his. They were the stars of the night. I sat in the most invisible corner of the audience, holding a guest pass between my fingers. Rowan’s assistant had shoved it into my hand just to check a box. “Evelyn, tonight is really important for Rowan. Just watch from down here — don’t come up on stage. We can’t have you saying the wrong thing.” Her words were still ringing in my ears. Up on stage, the host introduced Rowan’s thirteenth book with barely contained excitement. “Rowan, congratulations on your upcoming release, Light in the Dust! Critics are already calling it the pinnacle of your career. Can you walk us through the creative journey behind this one?” Rowan picked up the mic and glanced at Elara. “This book wouldn’t exist without my muse — Elara Vance.” Every camera in the room swung toward her. She smiled for the lenses with the ease of someone who’d already won. “Every single day with Elara fills me with the drive to create. She’s like a beam of light cutting through the darkness inside me — a darkness I thought had run dry.” Applause and camera clicks filled the room. My heart was completely still. Like standing water that hadn’t moved in years. Light in the Dust — I came up with that title after three consecutive all-nighters in the attic, staring out the window at the faint glow of early morning. Rowan had been in another city at the time, attending some business event with Elara. He told me it was all for our future together. A reporter stood up. “Rowan, we all know you’re married. How has your wife supported your career? Was she involved in this new book at all?” It was a pointed question. Every eye in the room landed on Rowan. I watched his brow twitch — just barely, just for a second. Then it smoothed out, and he flashed that perfect smile. “My wife has always been my quiet support system at home. She takes care of everything so I never have to worry.” He paused, and his tone went flat. “As for the writing itself — that’s a specialized craft. It takes talent and inspiration. It’s not something you can compare to keeping house.” Five years of my life. Twelve books. Tens of millions of words. And he’d just filed it all under housework. Elara stepped in right on cue, her voice honeyed and smooth. “Rowan is such a dedicated writer. He locks himself in his study for hours — sometimes a whole day at a time. The best thing the people around him can do is stay out of his way and let him work.” She’d placed herself firmly in the category of the people around him. The reporter wasn’t done. “So, Rowan — does that mean your wife had nothing to do with the massive success of your previous twelve books either?” A flicker of irritation crossed Rowan’s face. He raised the mic, and his voice cooled. “My wife has given a lot to this family, and I’ve always been grateful for that. But the writing is mine. My work. My talent.” He said it without a moment’s hesitation. As if all those sleepless nights meant nothing. As if the pages covered in my handwriting had never existed. The young reporter sitting next to me — clearly new to the job — leaned over and whispered to her colleague. “Who even is his wife? I’ve never seen her before.” “Probably just a housewife,” the other one murmured back. “He keeps her so hidden — she must not be much to look at.” I looked down at my hands. At the knuckles that had bent slightly out of shape from years of holding a pen. Then another reporter stood up. “Evelyn — are you here tonight? As Rowan’s wife, do you plan to keep supporting his career? And what do you think about him finding a new muse?” Heads began turning all across the room, searching for me. Rowan’s gaze cut through the crowd like a blade, landing on me with a clear warning. He jumped in before I could say a word, his voice loud and carrying the easy condescension of someone doing a favor. “Of course she supports me. “ ”She’d be nothing without me.”

The room fell completely silent. Then came an even bigger uproar. Those words were captured by countless cameras and spread across the entire internet. I became what everyone was talking about — a worthless woman who could only survive by clinging to her husband. I slowly lifted my head and looked up at Rowan on the stage. He was basking in the spotlight, not sparing me a single glance. He thought I would swallow every humiliation and injustice, just like I had for the past five years. I took out my phone. The screen’s glow lit up my face. I found a number — one I had saved a long time ago but never once called. Elias Thorne. Rowan’s biggest rival in the literary world. I opened the email attachment. Inside was a complete document. The file was titled: Light in the Dust. Recipient: Elias Thorne. I hit send. Then I stood up and walked out of that place that made me sick to my stomach. My phone buzzed. A new email. From Elias. Just one word. “Yes.” I went back to the place that was supposed to be called “home.” It was quiet. Our wedding photo hung on the wall. The woman in that picture was smiling — genuinely happy. Back then, I believed I had married for love. I pulled out my suitcase and started packing my things. I didn’t have much. A few clothes, some books, and an old laptop. That laptop held every single word I had written over the past five years. Every word had been published under Rowan’s name, turned into the halo that crowned his head. I placed the laptop gently into the suitcase. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t angry. My heart was calm. When a person has been completely let down, there’s nothing left to feel. The door opened. Rowan walked in with Elara. He’d been drinking — the smell of alcohol clung to him. Elara had her arm around him. When she saw me packing, her eyes went wide with exaggerated surprise. “Evelyn, what are you doing?” Rowan shoved Elara aside and stormed over to me. He snatched the clothes out of my hands and threw them on the floor. “Evelyn, what the hell is wrong with you?” His voice was full of rage. “You already embarrassed me at the launch. Now you’re pulling some dramatic walk-out?” I ignored him. I bent down, picked up the clothes, and folded them again. “I’m not being dramatic, Rowan. I want a divorce.” My voice was steady. Rowan looked at me like I’d just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Divorce? Evelyn, do you even know what you’re saying?” He jabbed his finger at me. “You eat my food, wear clothes I pay for, live in my house. If you leave me, where are you going to go? What are you going to do?” “Don’t forget — without me, you’re nothing.” He said it again. The same words. Elara walked over and tugged at his arm, putting on a show of trying to calm him down. “Rowan, don’t say it like that. Evelyn’s probably just not thinking straight right now.” She turned to me, her eyes full of gloating dressed up as pity. “Evelyn, I know you’re hurting. But you can’t force feelings. Rowan loves me now. You should let us be happy.” “Besides, a woman needs stability. Throwing a fit is one thing, but don’t throw away your whole future over it.”

She said it all so matter-of-factly. Like I was some child who didn’t know any better and needed to be set straight. The alcohol was hitting Rowan harder now. He dropped onto the couch and pressed his fingers to his temples. “Evelyn, I’m exhausted. I’m not doing this with you tonight.” “Right now, you’re going to apologize to Elara.” He said it like an order. “She had a rough night at the launch, and it’s because of you. You made her look bad.” I stared at him. It almost made me laugh. I was the one who’d been humiliated. I was the one who’d been publicly shamed. I was the one who’d been stripped of everything. And now he was telling me to apologize to the woman who had taken it all. “And if I don’t?” I asked. Rowan’s eyes narrowed. Something dangerous flickered in them. “Don’t push me.” “I’m telling you right now — I run this house. You either apologize and go back to being the way you were, or you get out.” “I’ll give you three seconds.” “One.” “Two.” Elara leaned against Rowan, watching me like she had a front-row seat to a show. I didn’t wait for three. I zipped up my suitcase and stood up straight. “You’re right, Rowan.” “This is your house. You make the rules.” “So I’m done here.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked toward the door. Rowan froze. He probably never expected that I — always so obedient — would actually leave. “Evelyn, you dare!” He roared at my back. I didn’t turn around. As I opened the door, I heard Elara say behind me: “Rowan, don’t be mad. She’s just throwing a tantrum. Give it a few days — once she runs out of money, she’ll come crawling back on her own.” Rowan’s voice dripped with contempt. “She won’t last three days before she’s crying and begging me to take her back.” I closed the door. Shutting the two of them — and my past — inside. The air outside was cold. I dragged my suitcase through the streets in the dead of night. I had nowhere to go. My parents were long gone, and my friends had all drifted away because Rowan didn’t like them. For five years, my whole world had been him. I checked into a hotel. The room was small, but clean. I set my suitcase in the corner and sat on the edge of the bed. My phone rang. It was Elias. I answered. “Hello?” “It’s me, Elias.” His voice was low, carrying a trace of surprise. “The manuscript you sent me — you wrote this?” “Yes,” I said. A brief silence on the other end. “All twelve of Rowan’s books — you wrote them?” “Yes.” Another silence. I could picture the shock on his face. The entire literary world had been fooled by Rowan. “Where are you right now?” Elias asked. “A hotel.” “Would you be okay meeting in person? I’d like to talk face to face.” “Sure.” We arranged to meet at the café downstairs. Elias was younger than I’d imagined. He was dressed casually, and he looked less like a successful businessman and more like an academic. When he spotted me, he stood up. “Mrs. Sterling.” “Just Evelyn is fine.” We sat down, and he ordered me a warm glass of milk. “I read the manuscript. It’s exceptional.” Elias got straight to the point. “The story structure, the prose — it’s far beyond anything Rowan is capable of now.” “He hasn’t produced anything this good in a very long time.” I said nothing, just stirred the milk in my cup. “I want to know — what are your plans?” Elias looked at me, his gaze direct. “I want to take back everything that belongs to me,” I said. “My name, my work, and my life.” Elias smiled. “Good.” He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a document, and slid it across the table. “Sell it to me.” “We want to purchase the rights to your manuscript, Light from the Dust, and promote it with everything we’ve got.” “The author’s name on the cover — your name.” I looked at the contract. The terms they were offering were even better than what Rowan currently had. “Why?” I asked. “Rowan is your rival. Helping me means going up against him. What’s in it for you?” Elias leaned back in his chair. “First — I respect your talent. Work this good shouldn’t be buried, and it sure as hell shouldn’t be stolen by a fraud.” “Second — taking down the competition is just business. Rowan has dominated this market for too long. It’s time for a change.” “Third,” he paused, “I think you deserve it.” I looked into his eyes. There was no pity there — only admiration and respect. In five years, no one had ever looked at me that way. “I have one condition,” I said. 4 “Go ahead.” “I want Rowan completely destroyed.” The corner of Elias’s mouth curved into a smile. “That’s not a condition. That’s just what happens when we work together.” I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the contract. Evelyn. Not Rowan’s wife. Not anyone’s shadow. Just myself. After signing, I went back to my room. There was an unread message on my phone from Rowan. “When you’re done with this little act, come home. I’ll pretend none of this ever happened.” I deleted the message, and typed back with a thrill I’d never felt before: “Don’t rush. The show has only just begun.” I signed a deal with Elias’s publishing house. They gave me an apartment to use as a temporary workspace. It was quiet, with a large floor-to-ceiling window. I could write there in peace. Elias’s team moved fast — they wasted no time getting my new book ready. Meanwhile, Rowan didn’t seem to sense the storm coming. He probably still thought I was just sulking. I spotted him in a business news segment. He had taken Elara to a major film and TV adaptation conference. The photo showed him looking confident and full of life, his arm around Elara’s waist, smiling at the camera. The report said that “Stellar Pictures” the country’s largest film and television company, was interested in adapting his next work, Light in the Dust, into a major production. Stellar Pictures was one of Elias’s business partners. My lawyer told me everything was going according to plan. A few days later, I got a call from Elias. “There’s a meeting with Stellar Pictures. You should come.” “In what capacity?” I asked. “As the original author.” The meeting was scheduled at the conference center of a five-star hotel. When I arrived, Rowan and Elara hadn’t shown up yet. I was directed to wait in the lounge area. It wasn’t long before I heard those familiar, grating voices. “Rowan, if this deal goes through, I have to play the female lead.” That was Elara. “Don’t worry. I’m on good terms with the CEO of Stellar. This project is as good as ours.” That was Rowan. They walked in. Rowan spotted me the moment he stepped through the door. His face flashed with surprise, then quickly shifted to contempt. He probably thought I had followed him here, or was looking for a job. “What are you doing here?” He walked up to me, looking down at me like I was beneath him. Elara followed close behind, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who couldn’t wait to watch a scene unfold. “Evelyn, are you here to beg Rowan for forgiveness?” I didn’t bother responding to either of them. Rowan’s patience ran out fast. “I don’t care how you got in here. Leave. Right now. Don’t embarrass me.” His eyes landed on the coffee machine in front of me, and something seemed to click. He pushed an empty cup toward me and spoke like he was giving an order. “Pour me a cup of coffee.” I looked at him. Elara laughed out loud. “Evelyn, weren’t you always so good at taking care of people? Don’t tell me you can’t even pour a cup of coffee anymore.” Rowan let out a scornful snort. “Without me, this is all she’s good for anyway.” His eyes were full of contempt. He thought I was still the same Evelyn he could walk all over whenever he felt like it. He thought that without him, I was nothing. I slowly stood up. I didn’t touch the coffee machine. I just looked at him and said, calmly: “Rowan, you’re going to find out very soon — which one of us is nothing without the other.” He looked at me like I’d just told the world’s worst joke. “You? Really? You?” Just then, the door to the lounge swung open.

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After the car accident, my father lost his memory and had been living in a care facility. I visited him every week. He was in good spirits today, sitting quietly by the window, fiddling with a chess set. The caretaker smiled and told me he’d become obsessed with it lately, and was getting quite good. But I felt ice run through my veins. I couldn’t bring myself to take another step toward him. That chess set had belonged to my late mother. My father had sworn in front of every family member we had that he would never touch a chess set again for as long as he lived. The care facility was quiet. Afternoon sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, coating everything in the room with a soft gold. My “father” sat in that golden light with his back to me, a chess set laid out in front of him. He wore a clean striped patient’s gown, his hair combed neatly back, a faint shine of pomade catching the light. The caretaker walked in behind me, keeping her tone light. “Miss Thorne, look how well Mr. Thorne is doing today. He’s been obsessed with chess lately — plays for hours every day. He’s improving fast.” My feet felt nailed to the floor. The blood in my body turned cold all at once. I stared at that silhouette — the man I had called “Dad” for over a decade — and felt a chill cut straight to the bone. Chess. That single word was like a rusted blade jammed into my chest. My mother’s death was connected to chess. She had a serious heart condition. One day, She had a brief argument with her father over something trivial, and in the heat of the moment, she suffered an attack.” She collapsed in the living room, just a few feet from his study. My father had been sitting at his desk with his headphones on, lost in an online match, completely unaware of anything happening outside. By the time he finished the game and pulled off his headphones, it was too late. At my mother’s funeral, my father stood in front of every family member we had and smashed his most prized chess set — white jade, hand-carved — to pieces with a hammer. His eyes were red. His voice was steady, every word deliberate. “From this day forward, I, Richard Thorne, will never touch a chess set again for as long as I live. May heaven and earth strike me down if I break this oath.” Those words still rang in my ears. And yet that figure sat calmly before me, turning a cannon over in his hand. The caretaker noticed I hadn’t moved. “Miss Thorne? Is everything alright?” I took a slow breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m fine. Just a little surprised, that’s all.” I walked over and moved to his side. He seemed to sense something and looked up. When he saw me, a warm smile spread across his face. “Blair, you’re here.” His voice was the same as always — deep, with a richness to it. His face was the same face I’d known all my life, only a little pale and thin from the accident and the long recovery. Everyone said that after the crash he’d lost his memory — forgotten so many people, so many things — but that the one thing he hadn’t forgotten was me, his daughter. Every time I came to visit, he would smile and call me by name, just like that. But now, looking at that face, all I felt was a stranger staring back at me. “Dad,” I said softly, pointing to the board on the table. “When did you start playing the chess?” He glanced down and smiled. “Just a few days ago. The caretaker brought it in to keep me busy. Turns out I kind of like it.” “Is that right?” My voice wavered slightly. “Did you… used to like chess? Before?” He paused. A flicker of confusion crossed his eyes. “Before? I can’t remember. Probably not, I’d guess. Otherwise I’d have some memory of it.” He said it so naturally. So easily. And I felt my heart sink — down and down, into something bottomless. This man was not my father. My father, Richard Thorne, could forget the entire world, but he would never forget the guilt he carried for my mother. He would never forget the oath soaked in blood and tears. This man had taken my father’s identity, moved into my father’s care facility, spent my father’s money — and now he wanted to take me too. I pressed my nails into my palms until they dug into the skin. “Maybe so.” I looked down, hiding the cold fury in my eyes. “You should rest. I’ll come see you again soon.”

I couldn’t stand to be there a moment longer. I was afraid that if I looked at him one more time, I’d lose it — I’d lunge forward and tear that fake smile right off his face. I turned and walked out without looking back. The caretaker called after me warmly, “Miss Thorne, won’t you stay a little longer? Mr. Thorne is doing so well today…” I didn’t respond. I walked straight out of the care facility. The sunlight outside was harsh, but I couldn’t feel any warmth in it. What was I supposed to do? I drove straight to the nearest police station. “I need to report a crime!” I rushed into the station and said it to an officer I saw — a man who had just been sitting there with a cup of coffee. He startled and set down his mug. “Ma’am, slow down. Tell me what happened.” “My father — someone is impersonating him! The man in that care facility is not my father!” I was barely making sense, my voice shaking. The officer frowned and gestured for me to sit. “Are you talking about the chairman of Submer Group? Mr. Thorne?” “Yes!” “Miss Thorne, I think you may be exhausted. Mr. Thorne has been monitored by our department since the accident. He lost his memory, yes, but his identity has been verified.” “No! You have it wrong! He’s a fake — he plays chess! He plays chess!” I was clutching at the only proof I had, saying it louder like volume would make them hear me. The officer’s expression shifted to something closer to pity. “Miss Thorne, we understand how difficult this has been since your father’s accident. But the fact that he plays chess now doesn’t prove he’s an impostor. Memory loss can change a person’s personality and habits — which is medically documented.” “But he swore an oath! He swore he would never touch chess again for the rest of his life!” “An oath doesn’t carry legal weight,” the officer said patiently. “And Miss Thorne — when we confirmed his identity, we ran a DNA comparison. The paternity match between him and you came back at 99.99%.” DNA. I went still. How was that possible? If the DNA matched, then… A wild, terrifying thought surfaced in my mind. Was there really someone out there who looked exactly like my father — whose DNA was nearly identical to his? I walked out of the police station in a daze. The city was lighting up around me as evening fell, but I felt more alone and helpless than I ever had in my life. No one believed me. To everyone else, I was just a daughter who’d become obsessive and unhinged after her father’s accident. What was I supposed to do? I drove without thinking and found myself back home almost without realizing it. This was the house I’d lived in with my father for over twenty years. Now it was just me. I went into his study. Everything was exactly the way he’d left it. A financial magazine he hadn’t finished was still sitting on his desk. I sat down in his chair and tried to draw some strength from the familiar things around me. My gaze drifted to a wooden box in the corner of the bookshelf, coated in dust. It was the box my father used to keep his chess set in. After my mother died, that box had never been opened again. Something pulled me toward it. I lifted it down from the shelf. It was heavy, carved with delicate patterns across the lid. I blew off the dust and opened it. Empty. No chess pieces inside. Right. My father had smashed that white jade set with his own hands. I was about to close the lid when something caught my eye. The bottom of the box looked slightly off. I tapped it with my knuckles. A hollow sound came back. A false bottom. My heart started racing. I worked my fingernail into the gap along the edge for what felt like forever, until finally a thin wooden panel came loose. Underneath, resting quietly in the hidden compartment, was a small black USB drive. Attached to it was a tiny label, written in my father’s bold, distinctive handwriting: “The Final Match.”

I held that USB drive in my hand, my palm slick with sweat. “The Final Match.” Those three words felt like a riddle — one pulling me toward the truth hidden behind it. I went straight to my room and plugged the drive into my laptop. It was password protected. I frowned. What would my father use as a password? His birthday? My mother’s? Their wedding anniversary? I tried every number I could think of. Wrong every time. I slumped back in my chair. “The Final Match…” If it was connected to a match, maybe the password was connected to chess too. Something came back to me. The day my mother died, my father had been in the middle of a game. He printed out the game record afterward and kept it tucked inside his favorite chess book. He said he wanted to remember that day forever. To remember what his mistake had cost. I went back to the study and pulled 《Silman’s Complete Endgame Course》from the shelf. I opened it. A slightly yellowed piece of paper slid out. On it was a printed game record — a complex position, the final move showing the black king caught with no escape. At the bottom, in handwriting, a single line: “Rook to f 6. No way back.” My father’s handwriting. My heart lurched. What if… I went back to my laptop and typed the combination into the password field: rooktof6. Enter. The drive unlocked. My heart was hammering as I opened the single folder inside. There was no bombshell confession. No final message. Just a dense collection of Excel spreadsheets and financial reports. I went through them one by one, frowning at the screen. Most of it looked like standard Submer Group accounting. But several files had been flagged in red. I clicked one open. It was a record of a massive overseas investment — the recipient, an offshore company I had never heard of. And in the signature field, the name of the person who had authorized the transfer was one I recognized immediately: Victor Cross. Vice chairman of Submer Group. My father’s most trusted business partner. I’ve always had a deep respect for him. My head went blank. After my father’s accident, Victor had been the one who stepped in without missing a beat — steadying the company, reassuring the shareholders, keeping everything from falling apart. Everyone had praised him. Said he was loyal, capable, the backbone of Submer Group in a crisis. I had always been grateful to him. But now, these files — the ones my father had gone out of his way to encrypt and hide — felt like ice water poured straight over me. My father had been investigating him. Before the accident, my father had already been building a case against Victor. That was not a coincidence. I copied every flagged file onto my own computer and wiped the USB drive. When it was done, I felt completely hollowed out. A terrible suspicion had taken shape inside me: My father’s accident was no accident. And the man impersonating him was almost certainly working with Victor. I went back to the police. This time, I didn’t say a word about chess or oaths. I handed the police the suspicious financial records directly and laid out my theory plainly: there were serious financial irregularities inside Submer Group, Vice Chairman Victor Cross was a strong suspect for embezzlement, and my father’s car accident might be connected to all of it. The same officer from last time. When he saw what I’d brought, his expression changed. “Miss Thorne, we’ll open a formal investigation immediately. But until we have solid evidence, please don’t do anything that might tip them off.” I nodded. “I understand.” I didn’t go home when I left the station. I got in my car and drove somewhere else.

Back to the mountain road where my father’s accident happened. It was a remote stretch of highway. Barely any traffic at the best of times. The official conclusion had been that the road was slick from rain and my father lost control of the car. Looking at it now, that conclusion had more holes in it than I could count. My father had been driving for decades. No matter how bad the road conditions, he wouldn’t make a mistake like that. I parked on the road and looked down through the gap in the guardrail. A cliff dropped away below — dozens of meters down, thick with trees. That was where his car had gone over. He was found with severe head trauma, unconscious, and rushed to the hospital. I started picking my way down the slope. I wanted to see the scene of the accident up close. Maybe something had been missed. The ground was slippery. I fell several times, getting mud on my pants and hands. After about fifteen minutes, I reached the base of the cliff. His car — a black Bentley — had long since been towed away. All that remained was some broken debris and a long scar scraped into the earth. I searched the area carefully, not leaving a single corner unchecked. But aside from the wreckage and some crushed brush, I found nothing. The light was fading. Wind came down from the mountain, cold against my skin. I was about to give up when I noticed a small village not far off. A few lights glowed in the windows, still and quiet. A thought flashed through my mind. The accident happened in such an isolated spot. If anyone had witnessed something that night, it would have been someone from that village. I decided to try. I walked toward the lights. Near the entrance to the village, an elderly man sat on a stone step, smoking a pipe. I approached and greeted him politely. “Excuse me, sir. I was hoping you could help me with something.” He looked up, studying me with clouded eyes. “What is it?” “A while back — on the night it rained heavily — there was a car accident up on the mountain road. Do you remember that?” The elderly man took a long drag from his pipe and nodded slowly. “That black car that came off the mountain. Terrible fall. Didn’t know if whoever was inside lived or died.” My breath caught. “Were you… there at the time? Did you see anything?” The elderly man squinted, as if pulling something up from his memory. “Rain was too heavy for me to go out. But I heard something.” “What did you hear?” “Arguing.” He paused. “Two men. Going at it hard. One of them kept shouting something like ‘you can’t do this.’” Two men. The air went out of my lungs. “Could you see what they looked like?” The old man shook his head. “Too dark. pouring rain. Couldn’t make them out.” He paused. “Though there was something strange.” “What was strange?” “The two of them…” He tilted his head. “Their voices sounded exactly the same.”

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Everyone said the heir of the Sterling family had found himself a massive headache of an influencer girlfriend who was obsessed with “blind box” gimmicks. When it came to distributing performance bonuses to the staff, she insisted on making it a blind box draw. “I turned everyone’s bonuses into blind boxes! You draw your luck, and whatever amount you get is what you take home. Isn’t that so much more thrilling?” An assistant who had loyally worked under her for three years ended up drawing a measly fifteen dollars. He couldn’t pay his rent and was kicked out by his landlord the very next week. During a major corporate bidding war, she gave Julian Sterling a “brilliant” strategy: blind box bidding. “Let the bidding companies draw blind boxes to decide who wins the contract. It’s all about the thrill!” As a result, a shell company that had been registered for exactly three days, lacking even the basic operational licenses, walked away with the group’s largest annual contract. And on the eve of Sterling Group’s massive offshore acquisition negotiations, she did it again. “I’ve randomized all our minimum walk-away prices into blind boxes! Let’s make this negotiation exciting!” In my past life, as Julian’s wife and business partner, I had called out this utter madness. I fought tooth and nail to correct the proposal. I even personally flew to London, working seventy-two hours straight with no sleep, to secure exclusive authorization from the seller’s core executives. That was the only reason the Sterling Group didn’t go bankrupt right then and there. But instead of being grateful, she threw a massive tantrum, claiming I had humiliated her. She ran away in a fit of rage and got caught in a crossfire street shooting during her chaotic flight. Once the dust settled, Julian grabbed my wrist so hard it bruised and slammed a divorce agreement in my face. “Sienna was just trying to have some fun! If you hadn’t constantly opposed her and made her feel worthless, she would have never run out and faced that horror! Sign it and leave with nothing!” When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the exact moment she was tampering with our walk-away prices. Looking at the real pricing sheet that I had already memorized by heart, I chose to remain completely silent. I turned on my heel and walked back to my office. I wish you two a very happy, uninterrupted ride straight to hell.

“Chloe Vance, have you lost your mind?” “Sienna was just trying to lighten the mood. What’s with that cold, miserable face of yours?” Julian kicked my office door open, his voice roaring with impatience. I stared at the computer screen showing the randomized negotiation prices, a cold smirk playing on my lips. “I just don’t like spending my time around suicidal idiots.” “Who are you calling suicidal?!” Julian’s voice pitched higher, his face turning an angry shade of red. “Sienna set up this blind box negotiation because she felt bad that everyone has been working late. She wanted to bring some fun and energy to the team!” “But look at you. You didn’t say a word, just walked back to your office and slammed the door. Who are you trying to intimidate?” Julian’s tone was dripping with annoyance. “The entire project team is praising her for being creative. You’re the only wet blanket here.” “Get back out there right now and apologize to Sienna.” The memory of the words “leaving with absolutely nothing” on that divorce papers from my past life flashed through my mind. My voice turned ice-cold. “Julian, tampering with the walk-away price of an international acquisition is corporate suicide.” “If you two are tired of living, go jump off a cliff yourself.” “Leave me out of it.” Julian let out a harsh sneer. “Stop trying to scare me with your dramatic corporate speeches!” “Sienna already told me that her backer—a legendary hedge fund manager from Silicon Valley—is pulling the strings for her behind the scenes.” “Before the negotiation officially starts, he will send the real, optimized numbers directly to the heads of each department via email.” “It’s called psychological warfare. Do you even understand high-level strategy?” Psychological warfare? Using the entire group’s offshore expansion as a poker chip for some imaginary influencer game? It was beyond pathetic. “Then enjoy your game. Just don’t drag me down with you.” I pushed him out of my office and shut the door. Before Julian’s footsteps could even fade down the hallway, the assistant of the Sterling family matriarch rushed in. “Ms. Vance, Victoria Sterling has arrived!” Sienna was Victoria’s distant niece. I didn’t even need to guess—she had gone crying to the old lady the second I walked away. “Chloe Vance, Sienna said everything is under control!” “As Julian’s wife, not only do you fail to appreciate Sienna’s hard work, but you’re also actively rebelling against management and ruining team morale!” I cut off Victoria’s screeching voice without an ounce of respect. “There are less than twelve hours left before the negotiation begins.” “If we don’t recover the real pricing sheet right now, the moment the sellers realize our numbers are a chaotic mess, they will short our stock. Do you have any idea what will happen to the Sterling Group then?” “When the company goes under, is Sienna going to take the fall? Or are you?” “Insolent!” Victoria slammed her cane on the floor. “Don’t think just because your family empire, the Vance Group, holds a major stake in this merger, you can talk down to me!” “Sienna was so stressed by your toxic attitude that she just fainted in the lounge!” “I’m glad you remember the power of the Vance Group.” “I’ve been executing cross-border acquisitions with my father since I was eighteen. Do you honestly believe a TikTok influencer understands international trade better than I do?” “Harvey, escort Mrs. Sterling out!” “You—!” Seeing that she couldn’t bully me, Victoria stormed out, her face twisted in rage. I reached into my drawer, took out my family’s corporate digital authorization token, and called my core team. A message popped up on my phone. It was a private Slack message from Wyatt, the VP of Strategic Investment. The company-wide WhatsApp group was flooded with brainless praise for Sienna. “Sienna has a literal Silicon Valley god backing her! This blind box pricing is going to be a genius move!” “I just checked! Our team’s bid was set to the rock-bottom minimum! This is so exciting!” Wyatt’s message followed immediately after: “Chloe, these lunatics are actually going to submit those randomized numbers. Are we really just going to stand by and watch?” I typed out five words and hit send: “Let them burn. Save yourselves.” There were only ten hours left. In my past life, I flew across the Atlantic overnight, faced a hostile board of foreign regulators alone, and worked until my eyes literally bled. And my reward was being thrown out of my own home with nothing but a divorce suit. This time, I was going to grab some popcorn. Without me acting as the shield and the brains, I wanted to see how long these clowns could keep up their little circus. Just then, Julian burst back into my office. “Chloe! Sienna is in tears and hyperventilating!” “You are going to her right now, and you are getting down on your knees to apologize!” I looked into his raging eyes and calmly replied, “If she’s hyperventilating, call an ambulance.” “What do you need me for? Am I an oxygen tank?”

“Chloe Vance, are you really going to be this stubborn?” Julian took a violent step forward, slamming his hand down and scattering the files on my desk. “Sienna is just a young girl. What harm could she possibly mean?” “She put so much effort into this blind box pricing just to bring some fun to the boring prep work.” “And honestly, she did it to help you! You’re a miserable workaholic who does nothing but stare at spreadsheets. She wanted to make you less boring!” I looked at the documents scattered across the carpet and let out a soft laugh. “Risking a multi-billion dollar merger just to make me ‘less boring’? How incredibly charitable of her.” “Cut the sarcasm!” Julian pointed a finger right at my face, shouting, “Sienna said her backer is a retired Silicon Valley legend who can predict market trends perfectly! He already knows the seller’s absolute limit!” “The moment we submit our bid, it will be the most brilliant ambush in the history of the Sterling Group!” “We will swallow their market whole, and it will all be thanks to Sienna’s genius out-of-the-box thinking!” I honestly couldn’t believe what I was hearing. An ambush based on randomized, unchecked numbers? What kind of fairy-tale business textbook did he read that from? “Julian, do you have a single brain cell working?” “Those are minimum walk-away prices. One wrong digit means a loss of hundreds of millions. You are literally throwing this company into a volcano.” “Losses? If there are losses, it’s because the team your dad sent from Vance Group is incompetent!” Julian spat, glaring at me with pure disgust. “You’re just jealous of Sienna’s talent. You’re jealous that she has connections with elite players while you’re just a dry corporate suit.” “Let me tell you something, Chloe. If you don’t apologize to Sienna today,” “You can kiss your status as my wife goodbye, and we will terminate the strategic partnership between Vance Group and Sterling Group immediately!” I let out a low laugh, slowly pushing the remaining acquisition binders off my desk, letting them crash to the floor. “Julian, who was the one who practically knelt at my father’s feet, begging for Vance Group’s backing and a marriage alliance?” “If my father hadn’t respected your grandfather’s legacy, do you honestly think I would have agreed to marry a useless, incompetent boy like you to secure your CEO seat?” “Let me tell you this: this pathetic marriage? Anyone can have it. I’ve been sick of playing your savior anyway.” Julian clearly didn’t expect me to be so ruthless. He froze, his face turning pale as he stood there, completely speechless. “Chloe Vance… stop trying to play hard to get!” “Do you think anyone else in high society would ever tolerate a cold, heartless bitch like you?” He slammed my office door so hard the glass partition rattled, and stormed off. The cold air conditioning hummed in the empty room, making me feel utterly detached. Julian and I grew up together, but there was never any love between us. My father raised me as his sole successor. To protect our family assets and help Julian stabilize his grandfather’s company, I agreed to the marriage. Now, at the most critical juncture of the offshore acquisition, I was representing Vance Group in this joint venture, only to watch it turn into a complete joke. Sienna’s “blind box” show had already spread throughout the entire department. A few project managers were gathered in the breakroom, talking excitedly. “Hey, did you hear?” “Sienna randomized all the bidding brackets. We literally draw numbers out of a hat to fill in the final bid!” “That’s so fresh! I was so tired of doing the same old financial modeling. This actually makes work exciting!” “Exactly! Sienna’s Silicon Valley backer is a genius. Whatever number we pull is meant to be!” “Director Leo from finance tried to ask for the real spreadsheet earlier, and Julian literally kicked him out of the project. Said he was sabotaging Sienna’s strategy!” I watched these brainless sheep walk happily toward the slaughterhouse. Just then, my phone rang. It was Wyatt, the VP of Strategic Investment. I answered. His voice was frantic and trembling with fear. “Chloe!” Yes, although Julian was nominally leading the team, everyone in the industry knew I was the actual brain of this acquisition. “I can’t do this anymore! This blind box pricing is driving us straight off a cliff!” “I want to pull my entire team out of the project tonight. Please, give me the green light!” I remained silent for a moment, then calmly said, “Hold your ground. Do nothing.”

In my past life, Wyatt was the one who stood up and demanded the real pricing sheet. Julian publicly fired him on the spot and blacklisted him from the industry. This time, I wasn’t going to let him make himself a target. Right after I hung up, Harvey pushed my office door open. “Chloe, we have a massive crisis!” Harvey’s face was pale, sweat dripping down his forehead. “The teams just drew their numbers. The finance team pulled a bid that is ridiculously below our actual cost!” “It doesn’t even cover manufacturing. The moment we submit that, the seller’s legal team can sue us for predatory pricing and anti-competitive practices!” “The head of finance begged Sienna to let them redraw, but Sienna just said ‘it’s a trade secret’ and had security drag him out of the building!” I scrolled through the emails on my phone, my expression entirely blank. “So, why are you telling me?” “Chloe, you’re the actual director of this merger! Just say the word, and we will bypass Julian to upload the real pricing data!” Harvey slammed his hand on my desk in frustration. “Upload the real data?” I let out a cold laugh. “Julian made it very clear: anyone who touches Sienna’s pricing sheet will be treated as an insider threat and fired.” Harvey’s eyes were bloodshot. “So we just sit here and watch?” “The negotiation is tomorrow! If we submit these numbers, we won’t even get to see their board. We’ll be laughed out of Wall Street, and our stock price will tank before lunch!” I looked up at him, my voice dangerously calm. “Harvey, listen to me carefully.” “From this moment on, lock down Vance Group’s core proprietary data. Make sure our team’s independent legal channels are secure. No one is to touch our original models.” “As for the rest of them? Their survival has nothing to do with us.” Harvey opened his mouth to argue, but the sheer coldness in my eyes shut him up. He grit his teeth, turned around, and walked out. Outside the window, night had fallen. There were less than ten hours left. Over a hundred employees, running on the whims of an influencer’s blind box. What a beautiful disaster. In my past life, I bled for these ungrateful bastards, only to be thrown out like trash. This time, I was going to enjoy the show. Suddenly, a barrage of celebratory emojis and notifications popped up in the company Slack. I walked to the glass window and looked down at the open office floor. Sienna, dressed in a head-to-toe designer outfit, was standing on a desk in the middle of the room. She held a gold envelope high in the air, laughing hysterically. “Attention everyone! My Silicon Valley mentor has given the final green light! The blind box bids are officially locked!” “We are submitting our destiny-approved bids directly to the offshore board!” Hundreds of employees cheered, throwing paper into the air like they were at a college frat party. Julian stood right beside her, looking at her with eyes full of adoration. The first round of bidding emails was officially sent out. Ten minutes later, the Director of Offshore Operations came sprinting down the hall, slamming Julian’s office door open. “The sellers just rejected our first round of bids! They said our numbers are completely incoherent and insulting! They’re accusing us of wasting their time!” “Worse, two of our pricing brackets are so low that their legal counsel just sent a formal warning. They are preparing to sue us for commercial fraud!” It was the exact chain-reaction collapse I had predicted. Julian stood up, the smile fading from his face, but he immediately turned his fury onto the Director. “Incompetent! This must be because your operations team failed to execute Sienna’s strategy correctly!” He turned to Sienna, his voice carrying a hint of desperation. “Sienna, didn’t your mentor say this was a guaranteed win? Why are they threatening to sue us?” Sienna’s face turned slightly pale, but she quickly covered it up, twisting her fingers and looking incredibly victimized. “Julian, you have to trust the process. My mentor said we must break things down to rebuild them! This is a classic Silicon Valley tactic.” “Their aggressive response is just a test. If we stand our ground, they will back down!” “This is just a minor bump in the road. Once we push through, we win!” I almost burst out laughing at her absurd logic. Using a multi-billion dollar lawsuit as a “test of faith”? And Julian, the brilliant CEO, actually nodded. He waved his hand and roared, “Order the legal department to fight back! Crush their attitude!” “Anyone else who dares to question Sienna’s strategy is fired immediately!”

I gripped my phone tight. The memory of the freezing cold divorce papers made my fingers tremble. In my past life, this stunt wiped out half of Sterling Group’s market cap overnight. I took a deep breath, pushing down the anger, and walked back to my desk. Harvey rushed in, his voice shaking. “Chloe! Finance is in complete chaos!” “Leo, the finance director, realized how bad the numbers were and tried to recall the emails.” “But Julian had IT lock him out of the server, claiming he was committing corporate sabotage! He was escorted out by security and fired on the spot!” I slammed my fist on the desk. Firing the only people telling the truth? Julian had lost his mind. “Chloe, the entire finance department is being forced to execute the blind box contracts!” Harvey’s eyes were red. “Those numbers are a death sentence. The breach of contract fees alone will bankrupt us!” “Please, do something! Let’s release our Vance Group independent valuation sheet to the press!” I closed my eyes, my voice like iron. “Release it? With what authority?” “Julian has locked down all server permissions. If we upload anything now, we’ll be flagged for unauthorized data breaches.” “So we just watch the ship sink?” Harvey shouted, his voice cracking. “Vance Group will not be collateral damage.” I opened my eyes, cold and focused. “Harvey, protect our team. Lock our legal firewalls.” “If anyone from Julian’s side tries to touch our assets, sue them immediately.” Before Harvey could reply, loud arguing erupted outside. Wyatt, the VP of Strategic Investment, was practically thrown into my office. His suit was stained with spilled coffee, his tie torn, and a scratch ran down his cheek. “Chloe, please save us!” Wyatt gasped, gripping the edge of my desk. “Julian called me a traitor. He’s removing me from the board!” “I don’t care about my job, but there are dozens of people in operations who worked day and night on this! Now they’re all going to be ruined!” I stood up and handed him a bottle of water. Wyatt was a good, honest man. In my past life, he stayed up three nights straight helping me clean up Julian’s mess without a single complaint. And now, he was reduced to this. “Wyatt, listen to me,” I whispered. “If I step in now, even my corporate token can’t save anyone. Julian has bypassed the board.” “Vance Group is our final stronghold. Stay quiet, and I will protect you and your core team.” Wyatt stared at me, his lips trembling, before he finally let out a long, defeated sigh and bowed his head. “Harvey, take him out through the back elevator. Don’t let anyone see him.” In the hallway, the loud voice of Julian’s executive assistant echoed: “By order of the CEO, we are conducting an internal audit for corporate spies! All departments must comply!” I adjusted my blazer and stepped out of my office, coming face-to-face with the arrogant assistant. “Ms. Vance, have you seen Wyatt?” I stared at him with absolute disdain. “Do you think you have the security clearance to search my office?” The assistant hesitated, intimidated by my tone. “Mr. Sterling’s orders. Anyone harboring a traitor will be treated as an accomplice.” “If you are protecting Wyatt, you are defying the executive board!” I took a step forward, my presence forcing him to take a step back. “Go tell Julian that Vance Group only answers to our partnership agreement, not his childish tantrums.” “If you take one more step into my wing, my lawyers will have a harassment lawsuit on your desk before you can walk back to the elevator.” The assistant swallowed hard and scurried away. Julian was burning his own house down, and no one could stop him. Just as I sat back down, Harvey’s phone rang. He picked it up, and within seconds, all the color drained from his face. “Chloe… it’s over.” “The offshore regulators just stepped in. They are launching an international fraud investigation against Julian!” “Julian has just been detained for questioning!”

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