Category: English

For Valentine’s Day, the company booked out a small private theater. The official story? A reward for us single employees: an all-night slasher movie marathon. As a fan of thrillers and, conveniently, unattached, I signed up immediately. But when the twelve of us settled into our seats, the projector flickered to life with a black-and-white film none of us had ever seen. Onscreen, a man in a top hat and a smiling mask was methodically laying out an array of knives and a chainsaw. “What is this garbage? Who watches this old-timey crap anymore?” someone muttered. Bored, I retreated to the back row, slipped on my noise-canceling headphones, and drifted off to the sound of my own playlist. The next morning, the smell is what dragged me from my sleep—a thick, metallic stench that seemed to coat the inside of my throat. When I finally forced my eyes open, I saw police officers stringing up yellow tape, piecing together the eleven bodies scattered across the scene. A pale-faced theater employee told me, his voice trembling, that they hadn’t played any movie in this theater last night. The man with the smiling mask… He wasn’t on the screen. He was right here, in front of us. 1 I didn’t wake up naturally. I was ripped from my sleep by the smell. It was a foul mix, like rust and the cloying sweetness of an old butcher shop, so thick it felt solid, choking the air from my lungs. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. Clamping a hand over my mouth and nose, I blinked, my vision taking a moment to focus. The theater was dark, save for the ghostly green glow of the emergency exit signs. But it was enough. It was enough to see the hellscape before me. Dark red splashes coated the backs of the seats in front of me. The floor was smeared with dark, sticky trails, already blackening as they dried. Figures in police uniforms moved with quiet precision, carefully assembling the dismembered remains scattered across the aisles and chairs. Black body bags lay open nearby, disturbingly lumpy and misshapen. My stomach seized, and I nearly threw up. I bit down hard, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. A young officer canvassing the area noticed me. In the eerie green light, his face was unnaturally pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and suspicion. He quickly motioned to his partner. Soon, two officers were standing over me. Their expressions were professionally stoic, but I could see the disbelief churning behind their eyes. One of them gestured for me to remove my headphones. “Ma’am, are you alright? Can you speak?” the older officer asked, his voice low, as if afraid of disturbing the dead. I managed a weak nod, my throat as raw as sandpaper. “What’s your name? What company are you with? We were told you were here for a corporate event?” Again, I nodded, forcing out the words. “Lily… Nova Media…” “What happened last night? Do you remember anything?” I nodded, the memory replaying in slow, horrifying motion. “I remember… it was Valentine’s Day. The company arranged this ‘perk’ for us singles. The twelve of us were supposed to have an all-nighter, but the theater started with this weird black-and-white movie…” My voice was a ragged whisper. “It looked really old… vintage. There was a man on screen in a top hat and a smiling mask. He was sharpening knives, getting a saw ready…” The two officers exchanged a loaded glance. The younger one instinctively looked toward the massive, dark screen. The older cop pressed on. “And then?” “And then… I got bored, so I put on my headphones to listen to music… and I must have fallen asleep.” I hugged myself, a deep, penetrating cold seeping into my bones, a chill that had nothing to do with the theater’s air conditioning. Just then, a man in a theater manager’s uniform was escorted over. He stayed at a distance, clearly terrified of getting any closer to the scene. “Officers, we—we checked!” he stammered, his voice shaking. “There was no film scheduled for this theater last night! No playback record in the server! And… and our old film projector has been broken for years. It’s impossible for it to have run!” His words were like daggers of ice piercing my heart. No movie? A broken projector? Then what did I see? The manager’s next words sent me spiraling into an abyss. “And… that man with the smiling mask… we checked our old promotional materials. That was a scrapped mascot from a horror-themed event we ran ten years ago. Nobody’s thought about him in years! How could he possibly be in a movie?!” A wave of goosebumps erupted across my skin. What did he mean, not in a movie? Could it be… Last night, he wasn’t on the screen. He was standing right in front of it, putting on a live performance for all of us. 2 I was taken downtown. The interrogation room at the precinct felt even more suffocating than the theater. The cold, sterile light of the fluorescent bulbs illuminated every corner of the room, and every flicker of expression on my face. The officers questioning me now were from the Homicide Division. One was a middle-aged man, Detective Miller, with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s and an unshakeable calm. Next to him, a young female officer, Davis, took notes. “Ms. Brooks,” Miller began, his voice even but carrying an undeniable weight. “Walk me through what happened last night again. Don’t leave out a single detail, no matter how insignificant you think it is.” I took a deep breath, fighting to control the tremors running through me, and started from the moment we entered the theater, recounting everything up to the bizarre black-and-white film. I described every detail I could remember: the grainy, low-resolution quality of the picture, the lack of a soundtrack—only ambient noise—and the soft shhhk, shhhk of the masked man sharpening his blade. I even remembered how he’d looked up at one point, straight into the camera, his smiling mask seeming to pierce through the screen and stare right into the audience… “You said he looked at the camera?” Miller seized on the detail. I nodded, my throat tight. “Yes… it felt like he was looking right at us…” “When did you fall asleep?” “Maybe twenty minutes after the movie started? I’m not sure…” “And after you fell asleep? You were completely out? You didn’t hear any unusual sounds? Feel any vibrations? Smell anything strange?” I searched my memory. “I think… I think I had a short dream. I heard this heavy, rhythmic thudding? Like something banging against a wall… but I fell back into a deep sleep.” “As for smells… right before I drifted off, I think I smelled something faintly sweet, kind of like almond brittle…” At that, Miller’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. He nodded at Officer Davis. She held up a clear evidence bag containing my noise-canceling headphones. “Ms. Brooks, your headphones are the XN-5 model. They feature active noise cancellation and a 30-hour battery life. We checked—they still have over 60% charge.” Miller’s gaze returned to me. “Our tech department ran a test,” he said slowly. “At that power level, the noise-cancellation is more than capable of blocking out the operational hum of a vintage film projector.” My heart clenched. “However,” he continued, his tone shifting, “it can’t completely block out strong, low-frequency physical vibrations. For instance, a heavy object striking a wall.” I stared at him, confused. What was he saying? That the thudding in my dream was real? His gaze pinned me in place. “According to the preliminary M.E. report, most of the victims suffered multiple blunt-force trauma wounds to the head. The weapon is believed to be a vintage fire axe that was mounted as a decoration in the back of the theater.” He paused. “The old fingerprints on the handle had been wiped clean, but the blade itself showed clear, fresh marks of recent use.” A cold sweat drenched my back. A fire axe? In the back of the theater? That was right near where I was sitting. “As for the almond brittle smell…” Miller leaned forward slightly. “That’s a common scent for a high-concentration inhalant anesthetic mixed with a cyanide derivative.” “It induces rapid unconsciousness and, eventually, asphyxiation.” “Interestingly, we found the remains of a dispersal device inside the air conditioning vent. It could have been triggered by a simple timer. Or… a remote control.” A remote? “Ms. Brooks, besides your phone, did you have any other electronic devices with you last night?” “No… nothing!” I said quickly. “Oh?” Miller slid a crime scene photo across the table. It showed a small, black, matchbox-sized device, like a tiny power bank or Bluetooth receiver. “We found this wedged deep in the cushions of your seat. It’s a modified, high-powered micro-transmitter. One of its frequency channels is a perfect match for the receiver on the dispersal device in the vent.” My mind went completely blank. “That’s not mine! I’ve never seen that before in my life!” “But it was under your seat, Ms. Brooks,” Miller’s voice turned to ice. “And it had only one person’s fingerprints on it. Yours.” 3 Suddenly, the door to the interrogation room opened again. Two more detectives walked in. The one in the lead was younger, maybe in his thirties, tall and imposing with a sharp, steady gaze that radiated authority. I recognized him from local news reports—Detective Chen, head of the Homicide Division, famous for cracking a string of bizarre, high-profile cases. He was followed by a junior officer carrying a file. Chen’s eyes landed on me. Without a word of greeting, he gestured to the officer, who pulled out a tablet and swiped through several photos, pushing it in front of me. They were crime scene photos, enhanced to show details on the floor and chairs. “Ms. Brooks, we found a significant amount of blood and physical evidence at the scene,” Chen began, his voice calm but crushing. “But what’s strange is that nearly all of the directional evidence—the drag marks, the drip patterns, the arterial spray—all of it either originates from, or terminates at, the exact seat where you were found.” The accusation was so monstrous I almost leaped out of my chair. “It wasn’t me!” my voice was a shrill shriek. “It really wasn’t me!” “I don’t know anything! I woke up and saw… I saw that! They were my colleagues! Why would I kill them?!” Chen remained unmoved by my outburst. He simply watched me, his expression unreadable, until my energy was spent and I collapsed back into my chair, gasping for breath. “We’ve reviewed the security footage from the theater’s exterior and lobby,” he said, changing tactics. “It shows the twelve of you entering last night. Between that moment and when the staff found you this morning, no one else entered or exited that theater.” A locked-room massacre. The thought sent a fresh wave of terror through me. “However,” Chen continued, “we did lift a single, clear fingerprint from the interior handle of an emergency exit. It doesn’t belong to you or any of the victims. And from the outside, there were no signs of forced entry.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “That proves it! Someone else was in there! Right? The man in the mask! He must have been hiding inside, or someone let him in!” Chen didn’t answer directly. He just nodded to the junior officer, who laid out several printed documents. “Lily Brooks,” Chen said, his voice devoid of emotion, “we ran a background check. It seems you have a rather… unusual interest in the ‘smiling mask’ motif.” A printout was pushed in front of me. It was a piece of artwork I’d re-posted to my Twitter six months ago: a man in a top hat and a smiling mask. My caption read: “Mysterious and so cool. The perfect aesthetic for a crime.” Below it was a thread of replies, discussions with other users about perfect crimes, locked-room mysteries… The blood rushed to my head. “That—that was just a random post! It doesn’t mean anything!” “Oh?” Chen arched an eyebrow. “And this?” He pushed another document forward. It was a log from an anonymous psychology forum. The department’s tech unit had apparently traced the IP address back to my home network. The post, dated three months ago, was titled: How to stage the perfect mass disappearance? I stared at the paper, a paralyzing cold seeping through me. That wasn’t me. I never wrote anything like that. “I… I don’t know anything about this… I didn’t post that!” My defense sounded pathetic and weak even to my own ears. “But the account was registered with your personal email, which you still use,” Chen stated coolly. “The password, while complex, contains the name of your pet and your birthday. That wouldn’t be too hard for you to remember, would it?” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning, frozen in place. The email was mine. The pet’s name and my birthday were correct. But how was that possible? “Ms. Brooks,” Chen’s gaze became intensely focused, a look that seemed to see right through me. “A locked room. Eleven victims, incapacitated by a chemical agent. A crime scene that perfectly matches your ‘aesthetic’ interests. And a single survivor who conveniently slept through the whole thing after seeing a ‘movie’ that never existed. And now, all the evidence seems to be pointing in one direction…” He paused, each word a hammer blow against my sanity. “So tell me,” his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl. “That smiling mask…” “…was it you who was wearing it?”

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The moment my roommate found out I was a billionaire’s daughter, everything changed. When my dad’s monthly transfer of twenty thousand dollars hit my account, the snide comments from my roommate, Zoe, would begin. “What’s a girl like you need all that money for?” “The company’s going to your brother eventually, you know. You keep blowing money like this, and you’ll be kicked to the curb!” Everyone knew my father only had one child: me. The last time she demanded I hand over my allowance, I finally snapped. “Are you insane? It’s my money, and I’ll spend it how I want. Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?” Zoe just smirked, a cruel little twist of her lips. “Oh, I have every right. After all, I’m carrying your father’s child. Technically, that means you’ll have to start calling me ‘Mom’.” But my father had an orchiectomy two years ago. How could she possibly be pregnant with his child? 1 The twenty grand had just landed in my account, and I celebrated by treating myself to a limited-edition handbag from a designer boutique. I was floating on air until I walked back into my dorm room and was met with Zoe Reed’s signature passive-aggressive tone. “Well, well, if it isn’t Her Highness returning from a royal shopping trip. What treasures did you acquire today?” Ever since she’d discovered I was Ava Freed, heiress to the Freed fortune, Zoe had made it her mission to make my life a living hell. She was the ringleader of my social isolation. If I went to the dining hall, she’d make a scene. “Hey everyone, make way! A billionaire heiress can’t be expected to sit with us commoners. Someone give up their seat for Miss Freed, now!” If I returned to the dorm to rest, she’d try to turn our other roommates into my personal servants. “What are you guys, blind? Her Highness is back! Don’t you know how to wait on her hand and foot?” In the beginning, I tried to explain, to tell everyone I wasn’t like that. But Zoe was always there, twisting my words, poisoning the well. Soon, everyone avoided me like the plague. And through it all, Zoe, the architect of my misery, would stand there with a smug, savior-like expression. “See? I’m the only one who can put up with your spoiled, rich-girl attitude.” Her petty games were nauseating. I ignored her and walked past. Suddenly, she snatched the bag from my hand, her eyes scanning it with a predatory gleam. “So this is a designer bag. Wow, it really does feel different.” Her face was a mask of pure greed. “Give it back,” I said, my voice cold. “You have so many bags already, you won’t miss this one. Why don’t you just give it to me?” I used to think Zoe just had no sense of boundaries. Now, I realized she had no shame, either. “If you want one, buy it yourself. Why on earth would I give you mine?” I snatched it back from her grasp. Zoe’s face darkened into a terrifying scowl. “You think you’re so great because you have money? You think your daddy’s cash gives you the right to humiliate people?” Then, her eyes welled up with tears. She threw herself onto her desk, sobbing dramatically. I was completely baffled. Just then, our other roommates, Leah and Maya, walked in. They must have caught the tail end of her performance. “Ava, we know you’re rich,” Leah said, her voice laced with disapproval, “but that doesn’t give you the right to trample on other people’s dignity.” I almost laughed out loud. “She tried to steal my bag without paying a dime, and I’m supposed to get on my knees and thank her for it?” Without another word, I pulled out my phone and played the recording I’d made of the entire exchange, exposing Zoe’s true colors. Leah and Maya shot her disgusted looks and immediately distanced themselves. After all the times she’d subtly manipulated them against me, it felt good to finally win one. Seeing her act was blown, Zoe dropped the pretense. “So what if I was wrong? You have so many bags, you can’t possibly use them all. I was just helping you lighten your load!” “I don’t need your help. If I have too many, I can sell them and donate the money to charity. One thing’s for sure, I’m not giving them to you.” Zoe’s face went pale with rage, but she was speechless. After weeks of swallowing her bitter little pills, seeing her choke on her own medicine was sweeter than I could have imagined. After this, I thought, she wouldn’t dare mess with me again. 2 It seemed the recording incident had actually scared her. Zoe stopped her snide remarks and started keeping her distance. Without her constant stirring of the pot, the air in the room felt cleaner, lighter. I let my guard down, assuming she’d finally learned to respect boundaries. The next month passed in relative peace. Then came the first day of break. I’d just dragged my suitcase out of the dorm when I saw Arthur, my driver, waiting by the curb with the black Bentley. He stood tall and straight in a freshly pressed dark suit, looking more like a bodyguard than a driver. “Miss Freed, let me get that for you,” Arthur said with a warm smile, taking the suitcase and placing it smoothly in the trunk. Just as I reached for the car door, a voice called out from behind me. “Ava, wait up!” I turned to see Zoe, pulling a battered suitcase, jogging toward me. Her eyes flickered between Arthur and the car as she caught her breath. “My parents are working a construction job and can’t pick me up,” she panted. “And I spent most of my money this month on prep books for the finals, so I don’t even have enough for a cab.” She looked at me with wide, pleading eyes. “Ava, could you… could you possibly give me a ride?” I frowned. Honestly, the last thing I wanted was to get tangled up with her again. But then my eyes fell on her canvas sneakers, washed so many times they’d faded to a sickly yellow. And she had been leaving me alone for the past month. My resolve softened. “Fine, get in.” “Oh, thank you so much! You’re the best, Ava!” Before I could even process it, she had walked around to the front, opened the passenger door, and slid inside as if it were her designated seat. I froze for a second, a new frown creasing my brow. Arthur always kept the passenger seat free for my bags or files. He never let anyone else sit there. But I shook my head. It was just a seat. It wasn’t worth making a fuss over. I opened the back door and got in. The car had barely pulled away from the curb when Zoe started chatting with Arthur. “This car is so comfortable, sir. It must have cost a fortune, right?” Her voice was cloyingly sweet, a stark contrast to the sharp, bitter person she was in the dorm. Arthur offered a polite, professional smile. “It gets the job done.” “You look so young, sir! You take amazing care of yourself.” Zoe propped her chin on her hand, her gaze fixed on Arthur. “You must be really into health and wellness, right? My mom always says a man has to take care of himself as he gets older, or he’ll age so fast…” She rambled on, every topic somehow circling back to Arthur, each word dripping with a sycophantic praise. One moment she was complimenting the fabric of his suit, the next she was gushing about the magnetic quality of his voice. She even managed a pointed jab at her own family. “My dad works construction, his hands are all rough and calloused. Not like yours, sir. You can tell you’re a man who does important things. Your fingers are so long and elegant.” A shiver ran down my spine. I shot her a look, but she was completely oblivious, still chattering away animatedly. Arthur was clearly uncomfortable, his responses growing shorter and more noncommittal. Mostly, he just grunted “Mm-hmm” or “It’s fine.” But Zoe didn’t take the hint. She doubled down. As we passed a high-end bakery, she let out a theatrical gasp. “Oh, that place has the most famous mousse cake! I’ve always wanted to try it, but it’s just so expensive…” She trailed off, her eyes flicking toward Arthur, her tone turning wheedling. “Have you ever had it, sir? I bet you wealthy families have your own private pastry chefs, don’t you?” “I’m not a wealthy man…” “Oh, you’re too modest! If you’re not wealthy, then what are we? Beggars?” Zoe’s incessant chirping was grating on my last nerve. I tried to cut her off, telling her to be quiet, but the silence would last less than a minute before she found a new way to engage Arthur. Finally, I gave up. I put in my AirPods and drowned her out. It was just one car ride. I’d drop her at the subway station, and we’d go our separate ways. It wasn’t worth another fight. But as we neared the station, Zoe suddenly spoke up. “Sir, my house isn’t actually near the subway. It’s out in the suburbs. Could you possibly drive me a little further?” She twisted around to face me, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “You don’t mind, do you, Ava?” 3 Before I could answer, she’d already turned back to Arthur. “My parents are working overtime tonight. I’m a little scared to be walking home alone with my luggage after dark…” This time, Arthur didn’t respond. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, waiting for my decision. I stared at Zoe’s entitled expression, and that sliver of discomfort I’d been feeling finally sharpened into clear, cold disgust. Give her an inch, and she’ll take a mile. It was her nature. My patience was gone. As she began to repeat her request, I cut her off, my voice sharp. “No. We agreed to the subway station, and that’s where you’re getting out.” The smile on Zoe’s face froze. She clearly hadn’t expected such a firm refusal. After a moment of stunned silence, her eyes reddened, and her voice caught in a sob. “Ava, I know I shouldn’t be asking for so much, but my home is really far. Even after I get off the subway, it’s more than a two-hour walk. It’ll be pitch black by the time I get there.” “My parents work so hard just to save money,” she continued, tears streaming down her face. “They work construction during the day and as night watchmen at a warehouse after. They won’t even buy themselves decent clothes. I just don’t want to bother them to come get me.” She wiped her eyes dramatically. “I’m not scared of much, but walking alone at night… I’m just so afraid of what could happen… If something happened to me, what would my parents do?” The air in the car grew heavy. Arthur glanced at me in the mirror, his expression softening with pity. “The suburbs aren’t that far of a drive. Maybe we should…” “This isn’t about the distance,” I interrupted. Zoe seized the opening like a lifeline. “You’re such a good person, sir! Ava, I know you’re still mad at me for what I did before. I’m sorry, okay? I’ll apologize.” “I promise, this is the last time I’ll ever ask you for anything. I’ll stay completely out of your way from now on!” “She’s just a young girl, and it sounds like she’s in a tough spot,” Arthur pleaded quietly. “Let me just take her home.” I looked at the earnest plea in Arthur’s eyes, then at Zoe’s tear-streaked face. Finally, I closed my eyes and sighed. “Fine. Take me home first. Then you can take her.” Zoe’s tears vanished as if on command, replaced by a triumphant grin. “Thank you, Ava! Thank you, sir! You’re both such wonderful people!” She was much quieter for the rest of the drive to my house, though I did catch her glancing at Arthur from time to time, a secretive little smile playing on her lips. When we pulled up to the gates of my family’s estate, Arthur was about to get out to help with my luggage, but Zoe beat him to it. She jumped out of the car and practically skipped to the back, pulling open the trunk with a flourish. “I’ll get it! Wow, Ava, is this where you live? This house is incredible!” Her eyes were wide with undisguised envy, her tone now syrupy sweet. I ignored her, taking my bag from Arthur. “Drive safe.” “Don’t worry, Miss Freed.” As the car pulled away, I glanced back one last time. Zoe was in the passenger seat, saying something to Arthur that made her blush a deep shade of crimson. A strange feeling settled in my gut, but I quickly dismissed it. I was just overthinking things. Arthur was old enough to be her father. A girl as ambitious as Zoe would never be interested in someone like him. 4 When we returned to school after the break, the change in Zoe was dramatic. The faded white t-shirts were gone, replaced by designer labels. A few days later, she was sporting the latest iPhone. This was the same girl who used to think twice about buying a cheap coffee, and now she was treating our roommates to high-end sushi dinners that cost hundreds of dollars per person. Leah couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Zoe, did you win the lottery or something? You’ve been spending like crazy.” Zoe just smiled demurely. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just some gifts from my boyfriend. He was worried I wouldn’t be eating well at school, so he gave me a little spending money.” “Your boyfriend must be loaded. Is he some kind of trust fund kid?” When asked about his identity, Zoe would become evasive. “I’ll introduce you all when the time is right.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that when she said this, her eyes would dart toward me. I wasn’t interested in other people’s private lives, especially not Zoe’s. Where her money came from and who she was dating was none of my business. My phone buzzed. It was a notification that my dad’s twenty-thousand-dollar allowance had arrived. I had just unlocked it to check when Zoe was suddenly leaning over my shoulder. “Is that your allowance from your dad? He’s so generous.” I flipped my phone face-down on the desk and gave a noncommittal “Mm.” “You know, Ava, it’s not safe for a girl to carry that much cash around.” I frowned. “What are you getting at?” Zoe’s smile was sickeningly sincere. “Look, you get this twenty thousand, and it’s gone before you know it. Why don’t you let me hold onto it for you? I can help you save it.” “If you want to buy something, just run it by me first. I’ll make sure you’re not wasting your money on frivolous things.” The audacity of her statement was staggering. “Zoe, who the hell do you think you are?” I snapped. “You want to control my money?” Her smile faltered, and a flash of resentment crossed her face before she suppressed it. “Ava, why would you say that? I’m just trying to help you.” “I don’t need your help,” I cut her off. “My dad is happy to give me money to spend, and I’ll spend it however I please. It’s none of your damn business!” Zoe’s face cycled through shades of red and white. Just when I thought she was about to explode, a strange, twisted smile spread across her lips. “You’re only acting so high and mighty now because you’re the sole heiress to the Freed fortune. But have you ever stopped to think what would happen if your father had a son?” I furrowed my brow, completely lost. “What are you talking about? My dad only has one daughter. Where would a son come from?” “Why not?” Zoe raised an eyebrow. “Men are all the same deep down. They can have a business empire, but they still want a son to inherit it. Your dad is nice to you now because he has no other choice.” She paused for effect. “Once he has a son, do you really think you’ll still be getting twenty grand a month?” Her words ignited a fire in my chest. Leaving aside the fact that my father couldn’t have any more children, why shouldn’t I be the one to inherit my family’s business? “Zoe, have you been watching too many soap operas? My father’s company will be mine one day. Stop worrying about things that are none of your business!” 5 I thought I had made myself crystal clear, and that Zoe would finally back off. But that night, as I was studying in our room, she marched right up to my desk. “Ava, where’s your allowance?” I looked up at her. “What does my allowance have to do with you?” Zoe’s voice rose. “It has everything to do with me. I told you before. From now on, you’ll hand it over to me for safekeeping. When you need money, you’ll submit a request form. Once I approve it, I’ll transfer you the funds.” “And,” she added with a magnanimous air, “if you’re well-behaved, I’ll even give you an extra five hundred dollars a month as a reward.” As she spoke, her excitement growing, I started to wonder if I was hearing things. My fingers tightened around my phone. I lifted my head, and the look in my eyes was glacial. “Zoe, what did you just say? I don’t think I heard you correctly.” “I said, hand over the twenty thousand dollars your father gave you. I’ll manage it. And if you behave, I’ll reward you with five hundred dollars a month.” I let out a cold laugh. “Zoe, who in the hell do you think you are, demanding money from me over and over again?” Her voice suddenly shot up an octave. “I have every right.” She placed a hand protectively over her flat stomach. “Because I’m pregnant with your father’s child. And by the time I marry into the Freed family, you’ll have to start calling me ‘Mom’.” The room fell into a deafening silence. Our roommates’ heads swiveled back and forth between me and Zoe, their faces etched with shock. Zoe stared at me, a look of pure triumph on her face, certain that this revelation would shatter me. But I just looked back at her, my expression calm. Zoe was pregnant with my father’s child? It was the most ridiculous joke I had ever heard. Two years ago, my father was diagnosed with testicular cancer. To ensure it wouldn’t return, he’d had an orchiectomy. The doctors were unequivocal: after the surgery, he would be completely sterile. We had kept the matter private; besides my father and me, almost no one knew. If Zoe had done even the slightest bit of real research on my family, she would never have concocted such an easily disproven lie. I could see her plan clearly. The moment she found out I was an heiress, she started plotting. She was going to use a fake pregnancy to claw her way into a wealthy family and, in the process, gain leverage over me. So foolish. So greedy. “Be smart about this, Ava, and hand over the money,” Zoe hissed under her breath. “Otherwise, once I’m married, I’ll make your life a living hell. You can kiss your twenty-thousand-dollar allowance goodbye. You’ll be lucky if you’re even allowed to stay in the Freed family at all!” Watching her gloat, a new idea began to form in my mind. If she wanted to put on a show, then I would be happy to play along. 6 Seeing my lack of reaction, Zoe suddenly clutched her stomach. “Oh… ouch… my stomach hurts…” She sagged against Leah, pointing a trembling finger at me. “It must have been you… you stressed me out… Ava, I know you don’t want to accept me, but the baby is innocent…” “If anything happens to this baby, you’ll be a murderer!” I scoffed. “We don’t even know if there is a baby. You can’t just say there is and make it true. Are you willing to go to a hospital and get a test?” At this, Zoe didn’t panic. In fact, she looked like she’d been waiting for this. “Fine! Let’s go! Let’s see if you can handle the truth.” “Don’t worry,” I said smoothly. “If you are really pregnant with my father’s child, I will take full responsibility.” But first, she had to actually be pregnant. “As it happens, my family owns a private hospital. The equipment and the doctors are the best in the country. Are you brave enough to get checked there?” “Let’s go! Who’s afraid of who?” Zoe puffed out her chest over her flat stomach. “This will be the perfect chance to show your father he’s about to have a son!” I didn’t reply, just pulled out my phone and called my family’s estate manager, telling him to arrange for a car and to have the hospital prepare for a full prenatal workup. After hanging up, I glanced at Zoe, who was still moaning in fake pain. “The car will be here in thirty minutes. You better be sure about this.” If she backed down now, I might have let it go, for the sake of us being classmates. Zoe just snorted. “You think I’m scared? By the end of this, you’ll be calling me ‘Mom’ with respect.” On the way to the hospital, Zoe was lost in a fantasy world where her child made her queen. One minute she was debating baby names, the next she was musing about how large of a dowry the Freed family should offer. She was so wrapped up in her delusions that she didn’t notice the icy look on my face. She had no idea that the head of OB/GYN at our hospital was a former distinguished professor at a royal college of medicine. No trick, no fake document, would ever get past him. I was about to find out just what she was hiding. At the hospital, the VIP clinic was already waiting. As a nurse led Zoe in, I sat in the waiting area, calmly anticipating the results. Half an hour later, the doctor emerged, holding a report, a strange expression on his face. He walked over to me and spoke in a low voice. “Miss Freed… Miss Reed is… she is indeed pregnant. Approximately six weeks along.” I raised an eyebrow. She was actually pregnant? But if my father couldn’t have children, then whose baby was it? Just then, Zoe strutted out of the room, snatched the report from the doctor’s hand, and glanced at the word “POSITIVE.” A smug, triumphant look spread across her face. She stormed over to me and slapped the report against my chest. “Open your eyes and look! I’m pregnant with your father’s child—the future heir to the Freed fortune!”

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1 The day I found out my mother was having an affair with my piano teacher, my father was eerily calm. All he said was that he wanted to hear me play one last piece. But as the final note faded into silence, he leaped from the roof of our three-story home. I watched him fall. I saw his body shatter against the flagstones, his blood staining the white roses in the garden a sickening crimson. From that moment on, the piano became my deepest, darkest nightmare. That’s why, on my wedding day, I told my wife, Aurora, “If you ever want to divorce me, just play a song on the piano.” Back then, she was just an unknown cover artist. She wrapped her arms around me, her embrace tight and fierce. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “There will never be a piano in our house.” Five years later, Aurora was a sensation—a chart-topping singer-songwriter. When a top-tier luxury brand offered her a massive endorsement deal that required her to play piano in their commercial, she refused without a moment’s hesitation. Watching the press conference, seeing the unwavering resolve in her eyes, I thought to myself, this is what true love looks like. A year after that, I came home early, clutching the sheet music for a new song I’d just finished for her. But as I walked up the driveway, I heard it. A melody, flowing from the open windows of our mansion. The sound of a piano. I found Aurora seated at a grand piano I had never seen before. A young man in a crisp white suit stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her as their fingers danced and intertwined across the black and white keys. When she saw me, Aurora’s expression didn’t change. She just gestured casually. “Ethan, this is Leo. He’s your half-brother. He came to connect with family.” I stared at her, and a slow, cold smile spread across my face. “My father only had one son.” In that instant, I knew. Our marriage was over. 2 I sat before my father’s grave for three hours, the silence broken only by the wind whispering through the cypress trees. The sky was a heavy, oppressive grey, a cruel echo of the day he left me. In my head, a phantom concerto played on a loop. The piano. It used to be my world. Ten years ago today, my mother ran off with my piano teacher. And my father, my quiet, gentle father, ended his life to the soundtrack of my playing. After that, the piano became a ghost that haunted my every waking moment. A nightmare I could never escape. I’ve always believed I was the one who killed him. If I had never learned to play, if I hadn’t touched the keys that day… maybe he would still be here. And now, ten years later, my own wife had invited the son of that monster into my home, sat him down at a piano, and let him tear open my oldest, deepest wound. The most bitter irony? The piece they were playing was a melody I recognized—a variation of the breakout hit I wrote for Aurora, the song that launched her into stardom. The ladder I had painstakingly built for her, plank by painful plank, had just become the blade she plunged into my back. Finally, I stood up to leave, my joints stiff and cold. As I walked away from my father’s final resting place, my phone rang. It was Aurora. “It’s late. Why aren’t you home?” she asked, her tone flat. I said nothing. The old me, the Ethan of yesterday, would have been bursting with excitement. I would have told her the new song was my best work yet, that it would solidify her legacy, take her to heights she’d only dreamed of. But now, the words felt like ash in my mouth. Silence stretched between us. When I didn’t answer, her voice sharpened, climbing a few degrees. “Did you hear me? I’m talking to you.” “I’m at the cemetery,” I said, my voice hollow. A pause on her end. Then, with a sigh of impatience, she said, “You’re not seriously upset about me playing the piano with Leo, are you? It’s been ten years, Ethan. Don’t you think it’s time to let it go?” I wanted to scream, to rage, but a vicious cramp suddenly twisted my gut, so intense that the phone slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the pavement. Aurora must have heard the thud, because her tone shifted instantly. “Is it your stomach? Are you having an attack?” she asked, a flicker of concern in her voice. “Stay right where you are. I’m coming to take you to the hospital.” All those years, locked away in my studio, pouring my soul into her music… I’d forgotten to eat, to sleep, to take care of myself. The relentless pace had shredded my health, leaving me with a severe stomach condition. My hands trembling, I fumbled in my bag for my medication. I dry-swallowed the pills, and after a few moments, the razor-sharp pain began to dull. I pushed myself to my feet and started walking again. Just then, a sleek black car—Aurora’s car—screamed past me. It didn’t even slow down. A moment later, my phone buzzed with a text. [Leo twisted his ankle. It looks bad. Rushing him to the ER.] [Take your meds. I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.] I stared at the screen, my face a blank mask. I wasn’t surprised. Of course. Leo would never miss a chance to monopolize her attention. And Aurora… she knew his little games. She understood his manipulations perfectly. But she enjoyed them. She thrived on being needed, on being the center of his world. Because she didn’t give a damn about mine. Fine. It didn’t matter anymore. Because from this moment on, I didn’t give a damn about hers either. I scrolled through my contacts until I found my lawyer’s number. “I’m getting a divorce,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “And I want you to immediately terminate all free-use licenses of my songs for Aurora Vance. Effective immediately.” She was the star of the label, the queen of the charts. I was the chief songwriter, the ghost in the machine. She glittered in the spotlight; I toiled in the shadows. For ten years, I had taken a nobody from a dimly lit club and molded her into a superstar. But somewhere along the way, the love we shared had faded into nothing. 3 Aurora didn’t come home that night. She didn’t call, either. Naturally, I didn’t ask. The next morning, I heard a key turn in the lock. She walked in, looking exhausted, dark circles smudged under her eyes. “Leo’s ankle was sprained pretty badly. He couldn’t manage on his own, so I stayed with him at the hospital,” she explained, her voice weary. “It got too late, so I just crashed on a cot in his room.” “Oh,” I said, my eyes not leaving the divorce agreement my lawyer had emailed over. It didn’t matter. Soon, we wouldn’t be husband and wife. She could have all the freedom she wanted. Her life would no longer have anything to do with me. My indifference seemed to throw her off. She paused, a flicker of surprise on her face, as if she wanted to say something more. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled a single ticket from her pocket. “You always said you wanted to see one of my concerts live,” she said, holding it out. “It’s the day after tomorrow. Eight p.m.” In the ten years we’d been together, I had written hundreds of her hits. She performed hundreds of shows a year. But not once had she ever invited me. She used to apologize, her eyes filled with a carefully practiced regret. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. I just can’t. My career is at such a critical point. Half my fanbase thinks of me as their girlfriend. If news got out that I was married… it would destroy everything.” And I understood. I accepted the life of a shadow. I learned to date in a mask and a baseball cap. I learned to walk in the opposite direction when the movie credits rolled, leaving her to face the world alone so I could slip away unnoticed. But then Leo came along. And suddenly, there he was, sitting in the front-row VIP section, basking in the spotlight. I watched from a pirated stream as Aurora sang the songs I wrote, her smile directed only at him. I saw her take his hand and pull him onto the stage. The camera flashes I had hidden from for a decade exploded, capturing them together. Aurora Vance, the star who famously had zero scandals, was finally in the gossip columns. Not with her husband, but with Leo. That’s when I finally understood. The rules were never for the one she loved. They were only for me. The one she didn’t. My gaze flickered over the ticket. It was for her one-thousandth concert, a landmark event. All her oldest fans would be there. It was meant to be the most important night of her career. When I made no move to take it, she froze. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Let’s have dinner tonight,” she said finally, her voice softer. “After all, it’s our tenth anniversary.” I nodded. No reason to refuse. It seemed fitting. A perfect day to put a final, decisive end to a decade of my life. 4 I arrived at the restaurant on time, the freshly printed divorce papers tucked safely in my briefcase. When I pushed open the door to our private room, I saw him. Leo. Sitting right next to Aurora. I turned to leave, but she grabbed my wrist. “Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Leo is a good person. He genuinely wants to make things right with you. He just wants you to let go of the past.” A tremor ran through me. My nails dug into my palms, the pain a welcome distraction. Let it go? She wanted me to forgive them? The father and son duo who had destroyed my world? Forgive the man who drove my own father to his death? Never. Not in this life. If he truly meant no harm, then why did he help shatter a marriage? Why did he back my father into a corner with no way out? And why, why did he and my mother move so quickly to build their new life while my father’s body was barely cold in the ground? Suppressing a wave of violent rage, I pulled the divorce agreement from my briefcase and threw it in her face. The papers fluttered down onto the table between us. “Sign it,” I bit out. The words “DIVORCE AGREEMENT” stared up at her. Her face paled, then hardened. “Ethan, what is the meaning of this?” What could it possibly mean? It means we’re done. Beside her, Leo shot her a nervous glance, his voice trembling pitifully. “Sister Aurora… it seems brother still won’t forgive me. Maybe… maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to be the cause of any trouble between you two.” He sniffled, his eyes growing red-rimmed. “I know. In his heart, I’ll always be a sinner. He won’t even give me a chance to atone.” That was all it took. Aurora immediately sprang to his defense. “The sins of the past have nothing to do with him! He’s just a kid, Ethan. Why do you have to cling to it so obsessively?” He’s just a kid? And what was I? When my father died right before my eyes, wasn’t I just a kid, too? “Think whatever you want,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “Just sign the papers.” Seeing my resolve, her expression turned to ice. She glared at me, then snatched a pen and scrawled her name across the signature line. “Fine,” she snapped, shoving the document back at me. “If you want to play hard to get, I’ll play along.” As I walked out of the room, I could hear her voice, soft and soothing, comforting Leo as he began to sob. Once, that sound would have ripped my heart out. Now, all I felt was a profound, liberating sense of relief. My lawyer called a moment later. “The copyright reclamation agreement is drafted. We’ll serve it to her representatives the day after tomorrow.” The thought of Aurora receiving that notice on the day of her one-thousandth concert, her crowning achievement… I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh.

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The first thing I did after being reborn was switch my newborn daughter with another baby. I know how it sounds, but in my last life, that decision would’ve saved me. Days after my daughter was born, a blood test showed she was type AB. The problem? I’m type B, and my husband Joel is type O. Genetically, we couldn’t have an AB child. Joel exploded. He demanded a paternity test. The results were a nightmare: the baby was mine, but not his. He slapped me, his voice trembling with a pain worse than the hit. “I gave you everything, Eve. I loved only you. Is this how you repay me?” His mother’s wails filled the hall, accusing me of cheating, tricking her son, planting a bastard to steal their fortune. My world collapsed. I was completely lost. I knew Joel had to be the father. It couldn’t be anyone else. Instantly, I was branded a cheater, a whore. Joel divorced me and took his story online, playing the heartbroken victim. Strangers attacked me with poisonous words. With a baby and nowhere to go, I fell into depression and jumped. Until the end, I never understood what went wrong. Then I opened my eyes. I was back. Back in the hospital, the day my daughter was born. … 1 “Eve, you did so well. You must be exhausted,” Joel’s voice, soft and gentle, washed over me. He was cradling our daughter, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated love. “Why don’t I take her for her check-up?” A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through me. I was back. It was real. There was no time to think, only to act. “No,” I said, my voice firmer than I expected. “I’ll take her. You said you had that big project at work, didn’t you? You don’t need to stay here.” Joel paused, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “Are you sure? You just gave birth…” The more he hesitated, the more a frantic urgency clawed at my throat. I held out my arms. “I’ve rested all day. I’m fine. I want to take her myself.” Last time, it was after this very check-up that the AB blood type was discovered. It was Joel who had brought me the news, his face a storm of fury, his accusations already formed. He’d demanded the paternity test, seasoning his demand with cruel insinuations that poisoned everyone against me before the results even came back. He’d driven me from our home, penniless, and smeared my name until I had nothing left. The memory of his lies still sent a chill down my spine. Before Joel could hand the baby over, his mother, who was standing beside him, let out a sharp, derisive snort. “Some people pop out a girl and think they’re the queen of the world,” she said, her voice dripping with acid. “Making my son run around like a servant when he should be at work. All you do is eat and sleep. You couldn’t even give the family a boy. You’re nothing but bad luck.” Ever since Joel and I had married, his mother had treated me with relentless contempt. I had always tolerated it for Joel’s sake—he was a devoted son—but my patience only seemed to fuel her arrogance. She spoke as if the hospital room were her private living room, her venomous words echoing in the shared space. The other new mothers in the room exchanged uncomfortable glances. “What kind of thing is that to say? Of course a father should help with his own child,” one of them finally piped up. “You’re a mother, you know how hard it is,” another added, frowning at her. “How can you talk to your own daughter-in-law like that?” “Seriously, it’s the 21st century. That whole ‘must have a boy’ thing is just toxic.” Used to being the unchallenged matriarch at home, Joel’s mother’s face flushed a blotchy, angry red. Joel quickly stepped in, playing the peacemaker. “Mom, please. Eve is my wife. It’s my job to take care of her and our daughter,” he said smoothly. Then he turned to me, his expression a perfect blend of loving concern and apologetic frustration. “Honey, Mom and I will go home and make you some chicken soup to help you get your strength back. We’ll be right back.” He was so good at it—playing the poor guy caught in the middle, trying to please everyone. The sympathetic looks from the other patients returned. I just watched him, my face a cold, unreadable mask, as I finally took my daughter into my arms. I saw the tiny mole on her finger and my heart clenched with certainty. This was her. This was my child. So far, nothing had changed. Joel hadn’t swapped the baby. He wasn’t insisting on taking her for the check-up himself. So where did the AB blood type come from? And that damning paternity test? My mind raced. Filled with a cold dread and a flicker of a plan, I called my parents and asked them to come. When they arrived, I handed my daughter to them. A short while later, after making a quiet inquiry, I learned of a baby girl abandoned at the hospital earlier that day. A baby with type O blood. I arranged a temporary foster placement, and just before the check-up, I carefully slipped my daughter’s hospital bracelet onto the other infant’s tiny wrist. This time, I thought, a bitter smile touching my lips, let’s see how you frame me now, Joel. 2 When I returned to the room with the baby, it wasn’t long before Joel and his mother reappeared, carrying a thermal container. “Eve, I made your favorite chicken soup myself,” Joel announced, his voice booming with affection as he opened the container, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam. He handed me a bowl of rice. “If you like it, I’ll bring it every day. Don’t ever worry about a thing. My paycheck goes straight to you, remember? Buy whatever you want.” He gazed at me with such adoration, such tender concern. The other women in the room sighed with envy. “You’re so lucky. It’s rare to find a man who dotes on his wife like that.” “A man who’s a good provider and a family man? You hit the jackpot.” I glanced at Joel, his eyes shining with sincerity. He was playing the part of the perfect, doting husband flawlessly. This was how he’d done it last time, crafting this image of a blameless, devoted man so that when the time came, everyone would believe him without question. I slammed my chopsticks down on the bedside table. “Cut the crap, Joel,” I said, my voice cold and sharp. The room fell silent. “You talk a good game, but you ordered this soup from a restaurant using my hospital meal card. You act so generous, giving me your credit card, but you interrogate me like a criminal over every single charge. You wanted a line-item report for a two-dollar coffee last week. And every time your mother starts in on me, you just tell me to ‘be patient’ and ‘let it go.’ You’ve never once actually cared about me, have you?” Every eye in the room swiveled to Joel, their expressions shifting from envy to suspicion. He looked completely blindsided, his jaw slack. “Eve… honey, what are you talking about?” he stammered, his performance crumbling. Just then, a nurse bustled into the room, holding a clipboard with several test reports. Joel looked as though he’d been thrown a lifeline. “Oh, the results! Here, I’ll take those,” he said, practically leaping to intercept her. His mother crowded in right behind him, their bodies forming a subtle barrier, shutting me out. Watching their eagerness, a pit of ice formed in my stomach. A terrible premonition washed over me. A second later, Joel’s eyes went wide. “What is this? Why is the baby’s blood type AB? That’s impossible!” His mother let out a piercing shriek. “My son is type O! How could he have a type AB daughter?” She whirled on me, her finger pointing like a dagger. “Eve! What have you done? This child isn’t a part of the Collins family!” A doctor, drawn by the commotion, entered the room with a stern frown. “Ma’am, please, this is a hospital. Keep your voice down.” This only fueled her fire. She grabbed his white coat, her face contorting into a mask of theatrical grief. “Doctor, you have to help us! The mother is type B, the father is type O, but the baby is type AB! How is that possible?” The doctor’s frown deepened. “Well, typically a B and O pairing cannot produce an AB child, but there are extremely rare exceptions—” “I knew it!” his mother screeched, slapping her thigh for emphasis and cutting him off. “It’s all her fault! That cheating bitch!” Joel, ever the actor, let his face fall into an expression of devastated disbelief. “No, Mom, it can’t be. I trust Eve. There must have been a mix-up. They must have given us the wrong baby!” The nurse who had brought the results chimed in immediately. “That’s impossible. Our hospital has very strict protocols. Every baby is tagged with a bracelet at birth. There are no mix-ups.” It was a perfectly rehearsed play. The three of them, in a few short lines, had already declared my guilt. Joel’s mother glared at me, her eyes filled with venom, and began to wail. “What a cruel joke! To let a woman like this into our family! Sleeping around with some stranger and passing off his bastard child as ours! The shame of it all!” The room buzzed with shocked whispers. Joel turned to me, his face a thunderous mask of righteous anger. “Eve,” he demanded, his voice shaking. “What did I ever do to you to deserve this? Why would you betray me?” 3 I just stared at him, speechless for a moment. We had been married for years, and I had waited for this child with so much hope, so much love. Now, I was watching him shatter that beautiful dream with his own hands, forcing me to see that the dream had only ever been mine. Seeing my silence, a flicker of triumph flashed in Joel’s eyes. His mother, emboldened, continued her tirade, her words already cementing the narrative. “I knew you were trouble from the start! Always prancing around the house, trying to catch someone’s eye. And all those male doctors in the delivery room! Shameless! No wonder you weren’t embarrassed—you’re used to being passed around!” she shrieked. “We are not letting some outsider steal our family’s money!” Her voice was a shrill drill boring into my skull. I ignored her, my eyes locked on Joel. “Is that what you believe, too?” His expression was cold, unforgiving. “Even though you’re my wife, this is something I cannot accept,” he declared, his voice ringing with false piety. “I have given you everything. I have catered to your every whim during this pregnancy. You took my love and threw it in the dirt. I will not be made a fool of!” He spoke with such passion, as if he were the one suffering an unbearable injustice. I finally let my own performance begin. I covered my face, my voice trembling with manufactured hurt. “You’re condemning me based on a blood test? After all these years… I was so wrong about you, Joel. Why? Why are you doing this to me?” The other patients and their families, having witnessed his mother’s vulgar display and now seeing Joel’s cold condemnation, began to rally to my side. Their belief in his ‘perfect husband’ act was shattered. “A blood type isn’t proof of anything. Accusing her of cheating like this is just cruel.” “You should double-check before you say something that could destroy your marriage.” “I thought you were so in love with your wife. Turns out you’re just a mama’s boy with zero trust in her.” Joel didn’t flinch at their criticism. In fact, a glint of satisfaction appeared in his eyes. He seized the opportunity they’d given him. “Fine,” he announced, his voice booming. “Then we’ll get a paternity test. If the blood type isn’t enough, a DNA test will prove once and for all whether or not this is my daughter!” He turned his fiery gaze on me. “And when the results come back, I want you out of my house with nothing. Do you dare?” A cold smile touched my lips. “Who’s the one who should be scared? Let’s do it right now. And if it turns out you’re wrong, you’re the one who leaves with nothing.” Joel’s face was a canvas of smug triumph, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of a plan perfectly executed. We went to the testing center that very same day to give our samples. Along the way, Joel was already on his phone, broadcasting the story. He posted multiple videos, tearfully recounting his tale of love and betrayal, and his posts quickly went viral. Calls from relatives started pouring in. Reporters, catching wind of the drama, followed us from the hospital to the clinic. Joel welcomed the attention, playing the part of the tragic hero to a captivated audience. I watched it all unfold, my mind racing. I knew for a fact that the baby I had taken for the check-up was type O. For the test to come back as AB, something had to have happened during the testing process itself. And yet, Joel was completely unafraid of a paternity test. What gave him that confidence? Suddenly, a theory, wild and terrifying, sparked in my mind. I quickly pulled out my phone and sent a discreet text to my parents. As we walked out of the testing center, Joel looked like a conquering king. “You’re going to pay for this, Eve,” he sneered. “You brought this all on yourself.” I met his gaze, my expression serene. He was so certain of his victory. He had no idea. This time, no matter what the results said, he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. 4 While we waited for the results, I moved out of our house and hired a lawyer to prepare for the divorce. When Joel found out, he laughed. “You should save the money you’re spending on a lawyer for living expenses. You’re going to need it when you’re out on the street.” He was glowing, energized by the outpouring of online sympathy. In just a few days, he had cultivated a loyal army of followers. He hosted live streams, weeping about his betrayal, and his audience ate it up. A few people questioned why he was so certain of the outcome before the results were even in, suggesting it was all for show. But they were quickly drowned out by his defenders. 【What do you know? A man can feel when his wife has cheated. He’s probably known for a long time but couldn’t take raising another man’s child anymore.】 【He wouldn’t be airing his dirty laundry in public unless he was pushed to the absolute limit!】 【The blood type is all the proof you need! Cheaters deserve to be thrown out with nothing!】 My own social media accounts became a cesspool of curses and threats from these self-proclaimed warriors of justice. I didn’t respond. Instead, I had my lawyer quietly gather evidence. I was preparing to settle the score. Last time, these were the people who had hounded me, who had found my address, sent threatening packages, and vandalized my door until I broke. This time, I wouldn’t let a single one of them get away with it. The day the paternity results arrived, Joel set up a live stream to open the envelope. The viewership was massive; everyone was waiting for the final verdict. When I appeared on camera, the comment section exploded with hate. 【Go to hell, you cheating bitch! How could you do that to a man who loved you so much!】 【Just sign the papers and go be with your secret lover! Our boy Joel deserves so much better!】 【You wanted to use a bastard child to steal his family’s money! You’re disgusting!】 Joel’s eyes shone with manic excitement. “It’s too late for apologies now, Eve,” he said, his voice dripping with condescending pity. “Just you wait.” His mother stood behind him, preening for the camera. “That’s right! My son is a famous influencer now. He’s way too good for the likes of you. Today, everyone will see you for what you are, and you’ll leave with nothing. And we want all the jewelry back, too! Every penny you spent over the years!” Even the nurse from the hospital was there, adding her own sanctimonious commentary. “We all saw how devoted Mr. Collins was to his wife. It’s such a tragedy he gave his heart to the wrong person. I can personally vouch for the accuracy of the blood test, and I’m sure the paternity test will be just as conclusive!” Beaming with triumph, Joel ripped open the first envelope. The report inside was stark, printed in black and white. It stated that he and the child shared no biological relationship. He held the paper up to the camera, his face a mask of fury. “Here it is! The proof that Eve cheated! This child is not mine!” The chat erupted. A tidal wave of vitriol washed over me, a digital mob calling for my head. Joel struggled to contain his glee, masking it with a performance of heartbroken rage as he tore open the second envelope—the one with my results. “And now, family, you’ll see… when you put these two results together, it’s just…” His words choked in his throat. He stared at the newly opened report, his bravado instantly evaporating. He froze, his face draining of all color, becoming a ghastly, pale white.

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“Something came up at work. I can’t make it for Annie’s birthday tonight.” I calmly closed the chat window with my husband. Then I opened my social media feed and saw the photo he’d just been tagged in: Ethan, my husband, holding another woman’s son, both of them beaming with joy. My five-year-old daughter leaned against me, her voice a small whisper. “Mommy, my birthday wish this year is… to never see Daddy again.” So, even a child could see it. The man who was always “too busy” for her school events was the same man who would move heaven and earth for someone else’s kid. 1. It was two in the morning when Ethan finally came home. The sudden glare of the headlights slicing through the window made me instinctively cover my daughter’s eyes. He leaned against the bedroom doorframe. “Honey, I’m home. Why don’t you wake Annie up? We can still celebrate her birthday.” I used to be obsessed with these family rituals. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, even the smallest school function—I’d insist Ethan be there. I didn’t want Annie to grow up like I did, knowing her father only through a phone screen. But now— I smoothed the blanket over my daughter, my voice flat. “Don’t bother.” A flash of annoyance crossed Ethan’s face. “Chloe, I was just putting Leo to bed. That’s it. Don’t read into it. This is exactly why I can’t be honest with you, because you’re always so suspicious.” I wasn’t reading into it. And from now on, I wouldn’t be suspicious either. “If you’re done, please go to your own room. Don’t wake Annie. She has school in the morning.” He let out a cold laugh. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me later, saying I’m an absent father.” I turned away and switched off the lamp, gently patting the back of my daughter, who had stirred from the noise. Absent? It didn’t matter anymore. After all, Annie’s birthday wish was to never see him again. The next morning, Ethan didn’t leave immediately after breakfast as he usually did. He sat at the table, watching the morning news. Just as we were about to leave, he stood up, grabbed his keys, and walked over to us, ruffling Annie’s hair. “Daddy’s taking you to school today.” He was speaking to our daughter, but his eyes were fixed on me. Two years ago, when Annie first started preschool, Ethan drove her every single day. But after Stella arrived, he started leaving earlier and earlier, claiming his morning meetings had been moved up. I believed him, right up until three months ago, when I was at Annie’s new school and saw him. The man who was supposed to be in a board meeting was leaning over to lift a little boy out of the backseat of his car. It wasn’t that he didn’t have time to take his daughter to school. It was just that he had something more important to do. We had a terrible fight that night. The next day, Annie stopped asking for him to take her. Even though I had already decided on a divorce, he was still her father. I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. A small, triumphant smile touched his lips as he scooped Annie into his arms. When he opened the car door, I froze. The backseat was a mess of someone else’s life. A Spider-Man water bottle, a toy bow and arrow set, a woman’s shawl tossed carelessly on the leather. Tucked into the seatback pocket was a framed “family photo.” He followed my gaze, and his expression soured. “Stella put that there. She said it makes Leo happy.” He shot me a warning look. “Don’t start. It’s not a big deal.” The old me would have shattered the frame, would have screamed and cried and demanded to know where Annie and I stood in his heart. But the new me just nodded. “It’s a nice picture.” He stared at me, confused. “You’re not angry?” Angry? Maybe I should have been. But all I felt was a vast, hollow emptiness. It was almost funny. How could a man as sharp as Ethan not see through such a clumsy, transparently manipulative tactic? The answer was simple. He saw it. He just didn’t care. “We should go,” I said. “Annie’s going to be late.” His lips tightened, but he said nothing, just opened the driver’s side door. As I was about to lift Annie into her car seat, his phone rang. The ringtone was a cheesy children’s song. “My dad is the best dad, the best dad in the world…” A little boy’s frantic sobs filled the air. “Daddy! Daddy! Where did you go? Don’t you want me and Mommy anymore?” Ethan hung up and, without a single glance in our direction, slid into the driver’s seat. “Leo’s asking for me. I’ll have the driver take you today.” The black Maybach sped away, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust. I knelt down, worried about Annie. “Daddy had an emergency, sweetheart. Next time he’s free, we’ll all go together, okay?” Annie looked at me, her expression startlingly mature for a five-year-old. “Daddy’s never free, Mommy. All his time is for Leo and his mommy.” 2. That evening, Ethan called. “Chloe, I’m going to be late tonight. Leo’s sick…” “Okay.” My response was so quick that his excuses died in his throat. He must have thought I was being difficult, because his tone sharpened with annoyance. “Chloe, don’t be like this.” Then he hung up. Ten minutes later, a series of texts came through. [I’m so sorry, Chloe. Leo has been so clingy with his dad lately.] [But honestly, he shouldn’t have just abandoned you and Annie the moment I called.] [I’ll have a word with him. Don’t be mad.] It was Stella. The texts weren’t an apology; they were a declaration of war. I had no interest in fighting her for a man. I deleted the messages and blocked her number. A moment later, my phone rang again. It was Ethan. “Chloe, what the hell is your problem? Stella apologizes to you, and that’s how you treat her?” In the background, I could hear the faint sound of a woman and child crying. I said nothing. After a long silence, his voice came again, low and cold. “I don’t know who you’ve become, Chloe. I’m so disappointed in you.” Stella had started it, but the moment she cried, Ethan always made me the villain. Back home, I started packing. While Ethan had been on the phone, I’d been consulting with my lawyer. Upon divorce, I was entitled to at least 30% of his company’s shares. And in a custody battle, with our circumstances being similar, the mother is typically favored. There was nothing left to hold me back. I packed my clothes, my bags, my jewelry, and all of Annie’s favorite toys. As I sealed the last box, my hands trembled. My eyes fell on a dusty, wax-sealed trunk I hadn’t touched in years. It was full of love letters. From the Ethan who was seventeen, eighteen, all the way to twenty-two. I broke the seal and opened the one on top. It began: To the 27-year-old Chloe, from the 17-year-old Ethan. This is the first love letter I’ve ever written you. As we agreed, we’ll open this together in ten years. By then, we’ll definitely be married. Maybe we’ll even have a beautiful child. My phone rang again. It was the 27-year-old Ethan. “Chloe! Stella took Leo and ran away! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? If anything happens to them, I will never forgive you.” My eyes fell to the bottom of the letter I was holding. It was signed: Forever yours, Ethan, who will always love his Chloe. A sharp, piercing pain shot through my chest, as if something delicate and precious inside me had just shattered. I hung up the phone and tossed the entire trunk of letters into the fireplace. 3. Ethan didn’t come home that night. I didn’t frantically call him, didn’t cry and promise to be nicer to Stella. Annie didn’t ask about her father either. She just silently took the framed photo of her and Ethan from her bedside table while I was packing. We fell into a cold war. A week later, Annie’s school sent home a permission slip for a field trip that required a parent’s facial recognition signature. I tried to call Ethan, only to find he had blocked my number. Left with no choice, I drove to his office. I didn’t have to wait long before I saw a familiar figure slip into his office. The assistant, pouring a glass of water, looked at me guiltily. “Mrs. Hayes, Mr. Hayes gave instructions that Stella can enter his office whenever she likes.” That “privilege” was my fault, in a way. I used to bring Ethan lunch every day. We’d eat and talk for an hour. One day, Stella came to see him and was stopped by the assistant. By the time Ethan walked me out, Stella and Leo were shivering in the hallway, their lips blue with cold. That was the first time Ethan had ever truly lost his temper with me. He yelled that my daily visits were a waste of his time. He fired the assistant who had stopped Stella. From that day on, everyone at the company knew who was the most important woman in Ethan Hayes’s life. I never came back to the office again. I gave the new assistant a small smile and walked straight toward his office. Ethan was in a meeting. He looked surprised to see me. “What are you doing here?” Stella was perched on the arm of his chair, their bodies so close they were almost touching. He saw me looking and started to stammer. “Chloe, don’t get the wrong idea. Stella just happens to know a little about this project, so…” I nodded and handed him the tablet. “Annie’s field trip. It needs your signature.” “You came all this way just for that?” “Why else would I be here?” The atmosphere in the room grew heavy. I knew Ethan well enough to know that he was in a very bad mood. Stella scoffed. “Honestly, what’s so important about a signature? Ethan, she’s just looking for an excuse to make up with you. You’ve been staying at my place for days. It’s probably time you went home to see Annie.” Ethan’s brow smoothed, and a smug, playful smile appeared on his face. He tossed the tablet onto the coffee table. “Chloe, now you’re using our daughter as an excuse. Apologize to Stella. Otherwise, I’m not signing anything.” Hearing those words used to infuriate me. I’d be furious that he cared so little for his own daughter, and even more furious that he was doing it for Stella. But now, I felt nothing. My only thought was that without his signature, Annie couldn’t go on the trip, and she would be disappointed. I looked at him, then at Stella, still perched on his chair like a queen on her throne. Without another word, I turned and walked out. I’d just tell the school Annie didn’t have a father. I’d only taken a few steps when a clear, cool voice stopped me. “If you don’t mind, Miss, perhaps I could be of assistance.” It was the other man from the meeting. “After all, I’ve been an unwilling audience to your family drama for a while now.” I finally got a good look at him. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, his features cool and aristocratic. He radiated an aura of wealth and power. I simply handed him the tablet. The authorization went through instantly. On the screen, a bold, elegant signature appeared: Julian Prescott.

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“I took his fortune and fled, carrying the one secret he could never discover: his heir. Now, he’s stormed back into my life. A predator with no memory of me, no recognition in his cold eyes. He looks at my pregnant belly with disgust, calling my child a “misshapen hope.” He demands I become his private chef, a prisoner in my own sanctuary. Little does he know, with every meal I serve him, I’m feeding the monster who destroyed my life… and the father of my baby. 1 The moment he appeared, I was polishing a silver candlestick with a soft piece of flannel. Behind me, the fire in the great stone hearth danced, stretching my shadow long and thin across the old-growth wooden floors. This place, The Briarwood Inn, was the peace I’d bought with the fortune that severed me from him. It was the only sanctuary for me and the secret I carried in my belly. The heavy oak door swung open, and a figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the gray dusk. An icy hand seemed to clamp around my heart, squeezing the air from my lungs. It was him. Adrian. Even with the predatory aura of a king of the night banked like embers, the sheer pressure of his bloodline thinned the air in the room. I watched him approach, his face, as handsome and unforgiving as a marble sculpture, wearing an expression both familiar and alien. He had forgotten me. He’d forgotten the contract we’d burned to ash, forgotten everything. “Are you the proprietor?” His voice was a low thrum, like the plucked string of a cello, vibrating straight through me. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the flannel cloth. I forced a smile onto my face. “Yes, sir. Are you looking for a room?” His gaze didn’t linger on my face. It dropped, instead, to the swell of my stomach, and a flicker of distaste—so quick I might have imagined it—crossed his unreadable eyes. I knew what it was. He was drawn to the scent of life radiating from me, yet repulsed by the vessel that carried it. “The food you make is adequate,” he said. It wasn’t a compliment; it was a king assessing a tribute. “I require a personal chef. Name your price. I’ll satisfy your greed, and I’ll see to it you’re rid of that… excess flesh.” My hand tightened on the candlestick. For a wild second, I imagined swinging it, shattering that perfect, handsome face. I took a deep, steadying breath, willing my voice to remain even. “I’m sorry, sir, but this inn is my entire life. I’m the owner and the cook. I’m not available for hire.” “Besides,” I added, my smile turning intentionally, deliberately warm, “this isn’t excess flesh. This is my hope.” “Hope?” A corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer, the sharp tip of a canine glinting in the firelight. “The hopes of mortals are always so fragile. And so… misshapen.” He took a step forward, and his shadow fell over me. He leaned in, his breath a cold whisper against my ear, his voice low and laced with menace. “I will say this one last time.” “You will be my chef.” “Or, I will buy this entire valley, including this quaint little inn, and leave you with no choice at all.” “Choose.” 2 My head snapped up, and I met his gaze. There was no negotiation in those deep, bottomless eyes, only a resolve so cold it threatened to freeze the marrow in my bones. He was serious. The man was insane. Buy the valley? This was my refuge, the home I had built for myself and my unborn child with the fortune he had given me and every ounce of my own strength. Who was he to just… buy it? “Sir,” I bit out, the formal address feeling like ash on my tongue, “coercion doesn’t exactly scream ‘classy’.” “I’m not a nobleman. I’m a predator,” he said, straightening to his full height and looking down at me as if I were a new, interesting acquisition. “And right now, your ‘craft’ has my attention.” I knew fighting him head-on was like throwing an egg against a castle wall. I forced myself to think, to calm the frantic beating of my heart. My eyes fell on the pot of stew simmering on the hearth. I ladled a small bowl and offered it to him. “Please, try this again. It’s made with wild rabbit from the ridge and chanterelles I picked at dawn. It’s been simmering all afternoon.” He glanced down. The rich, earthy aroma drifted up, and I saw something in him—an irritation, a deep-seated restlessness—settle for a moment. He took the spoon and brought it to his lips. In that instant, I saw his crimson-flecked pupils contract sharply. There it was again. That feeling. A familiarity so deeply ingrained in his soul it confused him, yet drew him in with an undeniable gravity. The battle within him was over. He set the spoon down and placed a heavy signet ring, carved with his family crest, on the table between us. “It seems you haven’t made up your mind.” He turned his head slightly. “Isabelle,” he called softly to the shadows by the door. “Bring the men. Clear out the Briarwood Inn. As of tonight, these are my temporary quarters.” “I’ll do it!” The words tore from my throat. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. He gave a subtle signal to his second-in-command, and she melted back into the dusk. “That’s better.” “I’ll cook for you,” I said, my fists clenched at my sides, fighting for the last shred of my dignity. “But I have conditions.” “Speak.” “First, I work for you only until the full moon. When your hunting season ends, so does our arrangement.” “Second, I cook only in this inn. If you wish to eat, you come here.” “And third,” I glanced down at my stomach, “I am responsible for my own affairs. That includes my personal health.” He watched me with an air of detached amusement, like a man admiring a small, feral creature still baring its claws from inside a cage. “Done,” he agreed, so easily it stunned me. Just as a breath of relief escaped my lips, he added, “However, I have a condition of my own. For the duration of your service, all of your time… belongs to me.” 3 “All of my time belongs to you?” My brow furrowed. “I’m a chef, not your slave.” A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have no interest in your mortal body.” His eyes swept over me, pausing for a fraction of a second on my belly with an expression that clearly read encumbrance. “I simply need to ensure that when I require sustenance, my cook is readily available.” His logic was sound, yet it sent a chill deep into my bones. But I had no other move to make. And just like that, my Briarwood Inn became the temporary court of the von Carstein heir. And I became Adrian’s exclusive “chef.” The first day, I was introduced to the exacting demands of the immortal. Dawn, noon, midnight—his aide, Isabelle, would appear with some new, outlandish request. I spent the entire day spinning like a top in my own kitchen. After I’d finally served his late-night meal, I watched Isabelle carry a crystal glass of crimson liquid into Adrian’s chambers, her hips swaying with practiced allure. My back ached so badly I had to brace myself against the wall as I made my way to my room. A single thought consumed me: the moment the full moon rises, I’m taking my child and running. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to get away from that monster. The next day, Isabelle’s passive aggression became active sabotage. I was preparing Adrian’s dinner when she clicked into the kitchen on sharp heels, feigning a stumble as she brushed past me. An entire pouch of finely ground salt tumbled into the simmering soup. “Oh, my goodness, Ella. So clumsy of me,” she said, her voice dripping with false regret, her eyes shining with malicious glee. I gave her a flat, unimpressed look, then silently carried the pot to the hearth and poured its contents directly into the fire. Then, from a second hook over the flames, I lifted another pot, identical to the first. Isabelle’s face froze. “You…” “I always make two,” I said blandly. “Just in case.” I walked past her with the fresh pot of soup, adding quietly, “Next time you want to pull a stunt, try paying attention first.” In the dining hall, Adrian watched me set the soup before him. He lifted the silver spoon, and as he tasted it, that familiar frown creased his brow. He set the spoon down, his obsidian eyes locking onto mine. “Have we met before?” My heart skipped a beat. I forced down the wave of panic, plastering on a perfect, placid smile. “Sir, you have a charming way with compliments. It’s an old line, but on a man as handsome as you, I suppose it still works. But really, how would a man of your stature know a simple country woman like me? You must be mistaken.” He studied my face, searching for a crack in the facade. After a long moment, he looked away, picking up his spoon again. “Perhaps.” 4 Adrian decided to “purify” his source of nourishment. A list, written on expensive parchment, was delivered to my kitchen. It dictated that I was to drink only spring water and consume a specific, limited diet of berries and tubers. He had concluded that the “taint” in my life-scent stemmed from my “bloated” form and my varied, common diet. I looked at the list and laughed without humor. He wanted to starve my child in the womb. I tossed the parchment into the fire. My baby needed nourishment. To hell with his purification. I continued to cook rich stews and savory braises, eating well myself until my cheeks were rosy with health. Adrian’s mood grew darker with each passing day. Finally, on the evening of the fifth day, he cornered me by the woodshed. “Why do you defy my orders?” he demanded, his voice dangerously low. “What orders?” I asked, playing dumb. “Ella!” He snapped my name, his anger finally breaking through his cold composure. “Look at the state of you. It’s… grotesque.” His words were a shard of ice, plunging straight into my heart. A hot surge of humiliation and fury rushed to my head, and my eyes instantly burned with tears. Just as I felt my control shatter, a booming voice erupted from the pathway. “Adrian! You blind, arrogant fool! Who are you calling grotesque?” My friend Helena, the village’s revered herbalist and midwife, stood there, a basket of freshly gathered herbs on her back. She stormed forward, shoving me behind her like a mother bear protecting her cub, and glared up at Adrian. “Which one of your damned eyes sees anything ugly here? This is abundance! This is life! What the hell would you know about it? She’s pregnant! She’s pregnant, you idiot!” Helena’s voice echoed across the courtyard. The world seemed to stop. The anger on Adrian’s face froze, replaced by an expression of pure, uncomprehending shock. His gaze moved slowly, inch by inch, from Helena’s furious face to mine, and then, finally, it settled on the high, round curve of my belly. The “encumbrance” he had mocked. The “excess flesh” he found repulsive. It was… a child? His mind went completely blank. Seeing the utterly lost look on his face, the days of pent-up fear and hurt inside me suddenly vanished. I straightened my spine, stepped out from behind Helena, and met his stunned gaze head-on. My voice was clear and steady when I spoke. “That’s right, I’m pregnant. But you can relax, my lord. The baby isn’t yours. You have no reason to feel burdened.””

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For five years, I lived a perfect life with my gentle, poetic husband. One bloody night shattered the illusion. A hidden file on his computer revealed the truth: Our love story was a lie. I wasn’t his wife. I was his mission—a promise he made to my dead sister. 1 I always joked that my husband, Sévérine, was the reincarnation of some gloomy poet from another century. For a software engineer, he was almost comically frail, his skin so pale it seemed to have never seen the sun. He’d get winded carrying in a case of sparkling water, and he had to physically look away from even the mildest gore in movies. Then came the night of the pile-up, a chain reaction of screeching tires and shattering glass in a downpour that left us stranded on the icy street. My blood had frozen in my veins, but it was like a switch had been flipped in Sévérine. He moved through the cacophony of car horns and human screams like a blur of motion. Beside an overturned sedan, he tore the warped metal of a door off its hinges with his bare hands, clearing the airway of a trapped victim whose blood was blooming across the rain-slicked asphalt. His movements were precise, clinical, and possessed an eerie, inhuman grace. Stunned, I raised my phone and snapped a picture of him—splattered in blood, his eyes as sharp and fierce as a hawk’s. I posted it with the caption: “My hopelessly delicate husband, playing the hero tonight. I think he might be a god.” The comment section immediately exploded. One anonymous comment was quickly voted to the top: “That’s not a normal rescue. The strength to rip off a car door, those ice-cold eyes in the middle of all that chaos… That’s not human. Your husband is one of the Blood Kindred. Run. Get away from him. You’re a mortal, you don’t belong in the company of the night.” “Girl, they’re messing with you. Why would something like that marry you? You two don’t even have the same vibe.” “I’d bet my last dollar he’s with you for a reason. You should look into your family. Any dark secrets?” Secrets? The only thing remotely unique about me was my sister, Liana. And she was gone, killed in a “hiking accident” years ago. Sévérine walked back to me, shrugging off his blood-soaked coat. Just like that, he was my pale, weak husband again, leaning on my shoulder, his body radiating an unnatural chill. “Sophie,” he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. “My legs are giving out. Can we go home?” I wrapped my arm around his trembling frame, but inside my own chest, a tidal wave of terror was cresting. I supported Sévérine’s weight, the heavy, sweet scent of blood clinging to him like a shroud. It wasn’t the coppery smell of a normal wound; it was something else… cloying and dangerous, a scent that churned my stomach. It completely overpowered the clean, cool scent of cedarwood he always wore. Back home, I helped him onto the sofa and fled to the bathroom. In the mirror, my face was a ghostly white mask. I turned on the tap, scrubbing my hands under scalding water, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of sticky, warm blood that felt like it had seeped into my pores. Sévérine appeared behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin in the curve of my neck. His breath was cool against my skin, like a winter fog, lacking the warmth of a living person. “That must have scared you,” he said, his voice laced with its usual fatigue. A wave of revulsion washed over me. I pried his fingers from my waist, one by one. “I’m going to make dinner.” In the kitchen, I pulled out tomatoes and steak. The thud of the knife against the cutting board echoed my frayed nerves. I heard his soft footsteps behind me. “Let me, darling.” “You need to rest,” I said, my voice flat. He didn’t argue, just sat quietly at the dining table. His eyes never left me. I used to think his unwavering gaze was a sign of devotion. Now, it made the hairs on my arms stand up. I felt like prey being watched by a snake coiled in the shadows. After dinner, our daughter, Luna, begged for a bedtime story. Sévérine picked up a book of fairy tales, his voice its usual gentle murmur as he told her the story of Sleeping Beauty. Luna drifted off, and he tucked her in before coming back out. I was sitting on the sofa, the light from my tablet illuminating my face. I had a forum open, one dedicated to European folklore. A bolded headline read: “Identifying the Kindred: Strength, Speed, and an Unnatural Reaction to Blood.” His footsteps faltered. “What are you reading?” I looked up at him, gesturing to the screen. “Just… after what happened tonight, it made me think of all those urban legends.” He managed a weak smile and sat beside me. “It’s all just stories, you know. Creative writing to scare people.” He picked up the remote and switched the TV to a classical music station. “It’s easy to talk a big game online,” he said, tucking a throw pillow into my lap. “But when you’re really in it, not many people can keep their cool.” I hugged the pillow to my chest. “You did.” “I was… I was terrified. Running on pure, dumb adrenaline.” He rubbed his temples, putting on a show of exhaustion. “My heart is still pounding just thinking about it.” I switched off the tablet. The screen went dark, reflecting our two silent faces. “Luna,” I began, my voice barely a whisper. “You said you chose her name because she was born on a night with a beautiful moon.” He nodded, a soft smile in his eyes. “That’s right. A moon as bright and clear as she is.” “My sister’s name was Liana,” I said, watching his eyes, searching for the slightest flicker in his pupils. The smile on his face froze for a fraction of a second before melting into something even more tender. “Yes, it’s a beautiful coincidence.” He reached out, stroking my hair. “Maybe Liana is watching over us from heaven, and wanted Luna to carry a piece of her with her.” He had an explanation for everything. Flawless. Seamless. Later that night, I lay beside him, wide awake. His breathing was so even and quiet it was almost silent, as if he were in a deep, death-like slumber. I slipped out of bed and went to the study, booting up his laptop. The password was my birthday. I checked his browser history. It was nothing but coding websites and tech forums. It was too clean, too sterile for a normal man’s computer. Taking a deep breath, I found a hidden, encrypted drive. It required a second password. I tried my birthday. Access denied. I tried Luna’s. Access denied. My fingers, cold and trembling, hovered over the keyboard. Then, slowly, I typed in a new set of numbers. The date my sister, Liana, had died. The folder opened. 2 There was only one file inside the folder. A document titled, Log. My hand trembled over the mouse, the clicker feeling as cold as a tombstone. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. The file’s creation date was the day Sévérine and I had first met. It had last been modified yesterday. I opened it. There were no words. Just scanned photographs and sketches. The first photo was of me, on a street in Paris, taken decades ago. I was wearing a vintage sundress, beaming at something off-camera. In the corner of the shot, almost lost in the crowd, was a man in a black trench coat that seemed out of place among the tourists. It was Sévérine. But we had met five years ago, at a friend’s party. I kept scrolling. A photo of me asleep in a chair at my floral studio on its opening day, a man’s jacket draped over my shoulders. A photo of me on stage, babbling incoherently after winning my first design award. A photo of me in a hospital bed, a man’s hand in the foreground, meticulously peeling an apple. On and on they went, a secret history of my life’s most important moments. And in every single one, there he was. Sometimes in the light, sometimes a shadow in the darkness. He wasn’t my husband; he was my chronicler. At the very end of the log was a single, faded photograph. A young Liana, fierce and beautiful, leaned against a vintage motorcycle. Standing beside her was a young man, tall and sharp-featured. His energy was harder, colder than the man I knew, but there was no mistaking him. It was Sévérine. And in the photo, there was no trace of the frail man I knew. His eyes held the hard gleam of polished steel. I zoomed in. There was writing on the back. I used a photo editor to invert the colors, and a line of elegant, forceful script appeared. “Sévérine, if I can no longer see the sun, promise me you’ll keep Sophie safe. Let her live her whole life in the daylight.” It was dated the day before her “hiking accident.” My fairy-tale romance. My carefully built family. It was all a mission. The fulfillment of a dying wish, made by one woman to another. A promise being carried out by an ancient vampire, a five-year-long assignment. The next morning, I dressed Luna. “How about we go stay with Grandma for a few days?” Sévérine came out of the bedroom and froze, seeing us dressed and ready to go. “Sophie? It’s not the weekend, what’s…” “My mom misses Luna,” I cut him off. “Can you give us a ride?” He drove us to my mother’s apartment building. I got out, holding Luna in my arms. “I’ll come get you both tonight,” Sévérine said. “Don’t worry about it.” I shut the car door. “We’ll stay a couple of days. You should focus on work.” He studied my face, his own gaze searching. I forced a smile, then turned and walked away without looking back. In my old childhood room, I pulled a dusty box from under the bed. Liana’s things. I sifted through them until I found her last photo album. Tucked between the pages was the original photograph. The paper felt old, authentic. It was the same one from his computer. It was all real. That evening, Sévérine called. “Darling, when are you and Luna coming back? The house feels so cold without you.” He sounded exhausted. “Let’s just stay one more night. Luna doesn’t want to leave,” I said, my own voice sounding strangely calm and distant. After I hung up, my mother came in. “Sophie, did your sister… did she ever mention a friend named Sévérine?” I stiffened. “Why do you ask?” “I just remember… right before her accident, Liana called home one day. She sounded so sad. She said she’d met someone very special, someone like a knight from the darkness, but also like… an endless abyss. She told me that if anything ever happened to her, she hoped that ‘knight’ would protect us for her.” In that moment, my heart didn’t just break. It sank into a true abyss of its own. I took Luna home the next day. Sévérine had cooked a feast. The moment we walked in, he rushed over, scooping Luna into his arms. “My little moonbeam, Daddy missed you so much.” During dinner, I spoke as if the thought had just occurred to me. “Sévérine, I was going through Liana’s old things, and I found a photo of her with a friend.” The fork in his hand paused mid-air. “Oh?” “There was even writing on the back. Something about… asking him to do something for her.” I stared at him, watching for any crack in his perfect facade. His expression didn’t change. He just smiled. “Soldiers make promises like that to each other all the time. It’s normal to entrust your life to a brother-in-arms.” He was impenetrable. For the next few days, I acted as if nothing had changed. But I lay awake all night, every night, listening to the near-silent breathing of the man beside me, feeling like I was slowly drowning in an ocean of lies. Every detail I had once overlooked now felt like a needle in my heart. Friday was the anniversary of Liana’s death. Sévérine was dressed for the office early that morning. “Darling, we have an emergency project at work. I might have to work late tonight.” His eyes darted away, unable to meet mine. I nodded. “Okay,” I said softly. After he left, I dressed Luna in a small black dress. “Sweetheart, today we’re going to go visit Aunt Liana.” I drove straight to the old cemetery on the outskirts of the city. 3 Among the silent stone angels, I hid with Luna behind a massive cypress tree that overlooked Liana’s grave. Before long, a familiar figure appeared. Sévérine. He wasn’t wearing his usual soft, comfortable clothes. He was in a perfectly tailored black suit, as if attending a solemn ceremony. He had shed the skin of my gentle, fragile husband, and in its place was a man who looked like an ancient, sheathed sword—sharp, silent, and deadly. He stopped before my sister’s headstone. The wind carried his voice to me, no longer the warm tone I knew, but a voice filled with ancient power and sorrow. “Liana. I’ve come to see you.” My heart plummeted with his first word. “It has been five years since I made the blood vow,” Sévérine said, his voice low but perfectly clear. “I’ve kept Sophie well. She’s naive, kind, a little foolish. Just as you wanted.” A little foolish. The words were a poisoned dagger in my ear. In his eyes, all my trust and devotion was just… foolishness. I wasn’t his lover; I was a project. A ward to be managed and protected. “Luna is healthy, too… but I can’t keep this up much longer.” His voice was raw with a pain he could no longer hide. “I think about it every day. What if I had been the one turned that night? What if, that morning, I had been the one to greet the sunrise for you? Would you be the one standing by her side now?” A roar filled my ears. The last string in my mind snapped. My marriage, my love—it was all a task, a performance by a vampire to honor a promise. All his kindness, all his tenderness, was born from his love and guilt for my sister. I wasn’t even a person to him. I was a substitute.

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Audrey and I had been together since college. Eight years. We were weeks away from the wedding when she told me. She wanted to bring the great love of her life, Leo, into our marriage. Both of us, serving her. I felt a vein begin to throb in my temple, a low, hot drumbeat of rage. I kept my voice level. “Are you saying you want your old flame to be your affair on the side?” Audrey just shook her head, a lock of perfect blonde hair falling across her face. “He wouldn’t be the one on the side, Cole. You would.” I stared at her, the sound in the room seeming to warp and bend. Had she lost her mind? Did she really just ask me, Cole Hayes, the sole heir to the Hayes fortune, to be her number two? … 1 Seeing the silence stretch, Audrey must have mistaken my shock for consideration. Her voice softened, dropping into that placating tone she used when she wanted something. “Leo’s just… he’s gentle. He doesn’t have a family with money, no real safety net. If he were the ‘other man,’ he’d get hurt. People would talk.” “So your solution is for me to take that role?” The fire was licking up my throat, but my voice came out cold as ice. A frown flickered across her perfect features, a brief crack in the facade. She was annoyed that I wasn’t making this easy. “Cole, I don’t want it to be like this. But Leo… he has nothing. I have to think about his future. And don’t worry,” she added, as if it were a grand concession, “you’ll both be my husbands. I can love you both equally. Leo is a kind soul. He won’t give you any trouble.” When she first chased after me on campus, she swore it was me or no one, that her world began and ended with me. Now, on the doorstep of our wedding, she was pitching a threesome where I was the consolation prize. It was laughable. Utterly, tragically laughable. I took a step back, a physical distance to match the chasm that had just opened between us. The disgust must have been plain on my face. “Miss Monroe, I think you should leave. Since you clearly have another great love, our engagement is off. There’s nothing more to discuss.” She sighed, a long-suffering sound, and looked at me as if I were a child throwing a tantrum. “Cole, be serious. The invitations have been sent. The venue is booked. If you call it off now, what will that do to your reputation? Don’t say things you don’t mean.” My entire body was trembling with a rage so pure it felt electric. Leo. He’d been orbiting her for years, this sad, handsome ghost. And now, he makes his move right before the wedding. It was calculated. They knew I was in a corner. They were counting on me being too proud to back out. “So, according to you, I should be thanking you?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “Thanking you for not just showing up with him at the altar as a wedding day surprise?” Her face hardened, the soft pleading gone. “It’s just a title, Cole! You’re a Hayes. Do you really think anyone would dare look down on you? Why are you being so petty?” She took a step closer, her voice rising. “What century are we in? Who says a beautiful woman can only have one man? Cole, I know you. I know you’re generous, and I know you love me. I need you to be the thoughtful, gentle man I know you are, not some toxic, possessive asshole.” I closed my eyes. I fought it. I really did. But I couldn’t hold it back. My hand moved before I’d even fully decided to let it. The crack of my palm against her cheek echoed in the cavernous living room. Her head snapped to the side. A furious red blotch began to bloom on her skin. She cradled her face, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Cole! You’re insane!” “The invitations went out to everyone in Port Sterling!” she shrieked, her voice turning shrill. “They all know you’re marrying me! You call this off now, and we’ll see what woman ever agrees to marry you again!” “I’m telling you, this wedding is happening, with or without your little temper tantrum! If you want to have any kind of future in this city, you’ll go to your parents and you’ll tell them this was your idea!” My face was a frozen mask. I stared at her for a long, silent moment. Of course. She’d come today for a reason. My parents were in Europe for the month, touring our international sites. She thought she had me isolated, cornered. She could force my hand, then wash hers clean of the whole mess, enjoying the best of both worlds. A strange question popped into my head. “What’s my name?” I asked suddenly. Audrey blinked. “Cole? Have you completely lost it?” I raised a hand, a subtle gesture. My security detail, always waiting just out of sight, materialized and moved towards us. “When we were dating, I didn’t mind you calling me Cole.” The absurdity of it all made a bitter laugh escape my lips. “But now… I think you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to. From now on, you’ll address me as Mr. Hayes.” My voice dropped, hard and final. “Get her out of my house.” Two large men flanked her, taking her by the arms. Her shock turned to panic. “You can’t! I’m going to be your wife! I’m the future Mrs. Hayes!” I scoffed. “You think? If I wanted to, I could have a line of women from here to Paris ready to take your place. Who the hell do you think you are, Audrey?” “Today, you’re getting a little reminder of why I can do whatever the hell I want in this town.” I met the head of my security’s eyes and sharpened my tone. “Throw her out.”

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I posted a picture from our family picnic in the parent-teacher chat group. Almost immediately, another mom went on the attack. “Have you no shame? Photoshopping another woman’s husband into your picture? If you’re that delusional, get help. Stop fantasizing about my husband all day!” Before I could even respond, she flooded the chat with a dozen intimate photos of herself and my husband, capping it off with a final, vicious taunt. “Trash like you will never be treasure. A pathetic wannabe who gets off on daydreams can’t even compare to my little finger, and you dare to impersonate me?” I rolled over and kicked my sleeping husband clean out of the bed. “You’ve gotten bold, haven’t you? Keeping a whole other family on the side?” 1 The kindergarten teacher tagged everyone in the parent-teacher WhatsApp group, asking us to share photos of our kids’ weekend activities. I casually sent the photo of the three of us on a picnic and went back to my work. When I checked my phone again, the group chat had exploded. Trevor’s Dad: [I’ve seen it all now. Stealing someone else’s husband for a photo? This is a parents’ group. Don’t you care that your daughter will be a social pariah at school?] Liam’s Mom: [Anna’s Mom, I think you owe everyone an explanation.] My name was being tagged relentlessly. Even the teacher, Ms. Evans, had tagged me directly, demanding I clarify the situation. There were hundreds of messages, too many to scroll through. Completely bewildered, I typed out the question burning in my mind. Me: [What on earth is going on? What do you need me to explain?] The moment my message sent, an account named “Caden’s Mom” fired back. Caden’s Mom: [Oh, playing innocent now, are we? You seemed pretty proud of yourself when you posted that picture.] Caden’s Mom: [What, did you think no one in this group would recognize the financial magnate Ethan Cole?] Caden’s Mom: [Got a little liquid courage and now you think you’re a queen? Messing with me is a death wish. Do you have any idea how easy it would be for me to ruin you in this city?] It was so sudden. I’d just posted a family photo. How was I being called a fake? If she knew who Ethan Cole was, and still had the audacity to attack me, I couldn’t tell if she was playing dumb or was genuinely an idiot. I couldn’t resist. Me: [@Caden’s Mom, has it ever occurred to you that Ethan Cole might actually be my husband?] My reply sent her into a rage. She spammed the chat with dozens of intimate photos of herself with my husband. There were even pictures of them in bed. Before I could process it, Caden’s Mom launched into a full-blown tirade. Caden’s Mom: [My husband and I are solid as a rock. Not just any stray can come sniffing around. Your vanity is pathetic, Photoshopping my husband into your sad little life. Do you realize you’ve violated his image rights? I could sue you for this!] The rest of the group, whipped into a frenzy, joined her in condemning me. Parent A: [Anna’s Mom, I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but is your child’s real father so embarrassing that you have to resort to such cheap tricks?] Parent B: [I’ve never once seen her husband at drop-off. She probably doesn’t even know who the father is. Tried to flex and got called out by the real deal. If I were her, I’d have to move to another planet from the shame.] Parent C: [How disgraceful! With a mother like that, the daughter is probably just the same. I don’t want my child in the same class as hers.] Parent D: [@Ms. Evans, I don’t want my son to be classmates with a child from a family like this.] Other parents echoed the sentiment, demanding my daughter’s expulsion. Parent E: [We expect a satisfactory answer from the principal and the teacher by Monday.] I let out a bitter laugh. I couldn’t believe a simple photo could cause such a firestorm. I tagged Caden’s Mom directly. Me: [You claim to be Ethan Cole’s wife. Do you have any proof? Because I do.] I sent a picture of our marriage certificate. Unfazed, she immediately posted a photo of Ethan’s sleeping face, a profile shot taken in bed. Caden’s Mom: [Wow, you came prepared. Even forged a marriage certificate. But a fake is a fake. It’ll never be the real thing!] I zoomed in on the photo. It was, without a doubt, Ethan. Could he be living a double life? With another child? If that was true, I had no problem cutting him loose and raising my daughter on my own. Caden’s Mom: [Cat got your tongue? You claim to be his wife, but all you have is one photo and a fake certificate?] Parent A: [Mr. Cole should be home by now. Why not take a picture? Let’s see who the real fake is.] The entire group was mocking me. Frustrated but trying to stay calm, I explained. Me: [He’s on a business trip right now. He’s not home.] It was the truth. Ethan had flown to London to open a new market. Before he left, he’d asked what gifts Anna and I wanted. Caden’s Mom: [LOL! I just posted a picture of him sleeping, and you’re claiming he’s on a business trip? You’re killing me!] Parent B: [She doesn’t want to take a picture because she can’t.] Parent C: [@Anna’s Mom, you’re so good at Photoshop, you should have made a few extra pictures. Getting called out by the real Mrs. Cole is just too embarrassing. If I were you, I’d have already left this group out of shame.] Parent D: [Someone who would do this in the first place has no shame. Let’s be real. @Ms. Evans, my only demand is that Anna be expelled immediately. With a mother like that, the child’s character is questionable. My child will not associate with people like that.] 2 I was seething. This Caden’s Mom was a master of twisting the truth. Just as I was about to retaliate with irrefutable proof, our housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, burst into the room in a panic. “Ma’am, it’s terrible! Miss Anna has a high fever, and I can’t wake her up!” In that instant, the group chat war meant nothing. I dropped my phone and sprinted to my daughter’s room. Her forehead was burning hot. “Get Arthur to bring the car around! We’re going to the hospital, now!” I yelled, scooping her into my arms. After a series of tests at the hospital, the doctor informed me that we’d arrived just in time. Any later, and the fever would have developed into pneumonia. I thanked him profusely, but he lingered, a hesitant look on his face. “Dr. Miles,” I said, looking up at him, “is there something else?” He hesitated before speaking. “Initially, I was concerned about potential abuse at home, but seeing how worried you are… that doesn’t seem likely.” “What do you mean, Doctor?” “Her fever wasn’t accidental. It was likely caused by prolonged exposure to cold water. And upon closer examination… I found evidence of mistreatment. There are numerous needle marks on her body, all in very hidden places…” “What?!” The world tilted on its axis. I could no longer remain calm. I had assumed it was just a bad fever, but this… this was a nightmare. Someone was hurting my daughter. Behind my back. But Anna was such a sweet, gentle child. Who could do something so monstrous? And she was almost always with me. Who would have the opportunity? Anna was still unconscious. I sat by her bed, watching her flushed face, and a wave of guilt washed over me. I was a terrible mother. How could I not have noticed my daughter was being tormented? If I find out who did this, I will make them pay. The next morning, Anna finally woke up. I stroked her pale cheek, my heart aching. “Anna, sweetie, are you still feeling sick?” She shook her head, ever the good girl. Remembering the doctor’s words, I chose my next words carefully. “Anna, can you tell Mommy… is someone bullying you?” A flicker of panic crossed her face, but she quickly denied it. Seeing her fear, I knew something was terribly wrong. I told her I was going to buy breakfast and returned ten minutes later. She ate quickly, clearly famished. As she ate, I tried a different approach. “Anna, are the teachers at kindergarten nice to you?” At home, I was her primary caregiver. I only left her with Mrs. Gable when work was unavoidable. Besides, Ethan, ever the protective father, had installed security cameras throughout the house years ago. If Mrs. Gable had done anything, I would have known. The only other place was kindergarten. At the mention of her teacher, Anna nodded immediately. “Ms. Evans is very nice. She even braids my hair in pretty styles.” So, it wasn’t the teacher. “What about your friends at school?” I asked gently. “Do you have any good friends? Maybe you could invite one over to play next time.” At this, her face fell. She looked down at her lap, her small body tense with fear. My heart clenched, but I kept my voice soft. “Does my Anna have a secret she doesn’t want to tell Mommy?” She shook her head frantically. “No, it’s not that.” I took her small hand in mine. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. I just want you to know that you are my most precious, most loved little baby, always.” Her expression was a battle of emotions. After a long moment, she whispered, “But he said if I told you, you wouldn’t want me anymore.” A cold fury gripped me. Who had been poisoning my daughter’s mind? I forced myself to remain calm. “Anna, Mommy will never abandon you. You can tell me now. Who hurt you?” Seeing the conviction in my eyes, she finally let the secret tumble out. “It was Caden,” she sobbed, the tears she’d been holding back for days finally streaming down her face. “He… he bullied me. He stuck me with needles, on my back and my bottom. It hurt so much, Mommy…” This fever, too, was his fault. He had pretended to play a water game, but had held her head under the water for a long time, nearly causing her to develop pneumonia. My blood ran cold. I couldn’t imagine how helpless my daughter must have felt. Caden. It was Caden again. First, his mother’s vicious lies in the group chat. Now, this revelation of his cruel bullying. I would make them pay for every single tear my daughter had shed. 3 Anna was sick and traumatized. We stayed in the hospital for several days. But she hated being away from home, so with the doctor’s permission, I arranged for an early discharge. When we arrived home, however, I found our driveway packed with cars. For a moment, I thought I was at the wrong house, but the address on the gate was ours. As I was about to go in, a mocking voice cut through the air. “Well, well, if it isn’t the knock-off Mrs. Cole. What’s the plan today? Snap a few more pictures to Photoshop yourself into the high-society life?” The speaker was another parent from the kindergarten. I’d seen her at drop-off, but she was the arrogant type who never deigned to look at anyone else. I ignored her and tried to enter my own home to see what was going on. She grabbed my arm. “Silent, are we? Cat got your tongue? Let me tell you something, the Cole mansion isn’t a place for any stray dog to wander into. You’re not on the guest list, so get lost before you embarrass yourself further!” She deliberately raised her voice, and just as she intended, the other parents in the yard all turned to look. “Isn’t that Anna’s mom? I don’t think Mrs. Cole invited her.” “Everyone, look! Some people’s skin is thicker than a castle wall. She got called out for being a fake, and now she has the nerve to show up at the real Mrs. Cole’s house! Someone get Mrs. Cole out here to deal with this shameless woman!” A few moments later, Caden’s Mom was summoned. After the other parents breathlessly recounted the situation, she turned to me with a sneer. “Well, look who it is. The imposter who’s been trying to steal my identity.” Her eyes flicked to my daughter. “Your child has been expelled from the class. What are you even doing here?” I frowned. “Who told you my daughter was expelled?” Anna’s sudden illness meant I’d already called the school to inform them of her absence. “Ms. Evans, would you care to explain why you told everyone my daughter was expelled?” I turned to the teacher, who immediately dropped her gaze, her face pale. Caden’s Mom stepped in front of her protectively. “Anna’s Mom, I understand you’re upset, but you can’t threaten the teacher. After your shameless display in the group chat, just having her removed from the class was me being generous. Don’t push your luck.” I almost laughed. I’d seen shameless people, but she was in a league of her own. The other parents rallied around the teacher. “Anna’s Mom, your daughter was expelled because of you. You should be reflecting on your own actions, not digging a deeper hole.” “Exactly! Mrs. Cole is being magnanimous. If it were me, I’d be suing you for defamation!” Buoyed by the support, Caden’s Mom put on a show of generosity. “Oh, let it go. Perhaps she was just confused. Since you’re here, you might as well come in. It’s not like you’ll ever have the chance again.” The other parents showered her with praise for her “kindness.” I couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sure this is your house?” She smirked. “If it’s not my house, is it yours?” My daughter, seeing me being bullied, finally had enough. “This is my house!” she cried out. “You’re all mean people! Stop bullying my mommy!” A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd. “Like mother, like daughter. Lying at such a young age.” “Thank goodness the school expelled her. I’d hate for her to be a bad influence on my child.” “The apple doesn’t fall far from the rotten tree. That child is ruined.” “Mrs. Cole, why are you even wasting your breath? Just have security throw them out!” They were all determined to crucify me. While I was distracted, the boy, Caden, lunged forward and shoved my daughter hard. “Liar! Get out of my house!” I had been holding back my anger, but my daughter was my breaking point. No one was allowed to hurt her. I grabbed Caden by the collar. “So you’re the one who’s been bullying my daughter at school.” Smack! Smack! I delivered two sharp slaps before anyone could react. Caden, used to being the one in charge, was stunned. The pain hit, and he burst into a loud, wailing cry. His mother, seeing me strike her precious son, lost her mind. She shoved me back, cradling her son protectively. Her eyes were red with fury. “How could you be so vicious?! You’re taking your anger out on my son just because I exposed you?!” The crowd chimed in, accusing me of bullying a child. I laughed coldly. “Today, I’ve learned the true meaning of the guilty accusing the innocent. Your son has repeatedly bullied my daughter at kindergarten. He stuck her with needles. He’s the reason she had a fever so high she almost died from pneumonia. A demon like that doesn’t deserve a slap?” My words stunned the other parents into silence. They probably hadn’t imagined a child Caden’s age could be so cruel. But it was Ms. Evans who rushed forward to defend him. “Anna’s Mom, you’re still lying? At this point, no other kindergarten will ever accept your child.” Her voice was sharp and self-righteous. “Caden is an exemplary student. It’s Anna who has a history of fabrication. I never understood why she wouldn’t change, but seeing you today, I finally understand the meaning of ‘like mother, like daughter.’” She looked at me with disdain. “Anna’s habit of lying is your fault. If you really care about her, you’ll apologize to Mrs. Cole right now. Otherwise, no one can save you.” The crowd murmured in agreement. “I knew it. A woman with Mrs. Cole’s status would raise a perfect child. He would never bully anyone.” “I think she’s just trying to cause a scene because she’s angry she got caught.” “The poor Coles, having to deal with this trash!” My daughter gripped my hand, her voice trembling. “Mommy, I’m not lying… why do they say we’re liars?” Seeing her like this broke my heart. I stroked her hair. “Sweetie, a lie can never become the truth.” When I looked up, my eyes were ice. “Are you aware that trespassing is illegal?”

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My mother set my sister up with a blind date who was rich, handsome, and highly educated. But my sister found fault with everything. She complained that he didn’t peel her shrimp at the dinner table. She complained that he didn’t understand internet slang and couldn’t keep up with her jokes. She even complained that he was showing off when he drove her home in his Lincoln. So, after she came back from yet another date with him, whining about his supposed flaws, I asked her calmly, “Do you really not like Liam Smith?” My sister tossed her long hair back with an air of superiority. “Of course not. What’s there to like? He’s just a guy with some money.” “If you don’t like him, then can you let me have him?” A flicker of something crossed her face, but she stuck her chin out defiantly. “He’s just a man. Take him if you want him.” The next day, when Liam Smith came to pick up my sister, I was the one who ran downstairs to meet him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith,” I said, my heart pounding. “My sister doesn’t like you. But I do.” 1 A shadow passed over Liam Smith’s face. He glanced up at the small balcony of our apartment. Just then, the curtains in the room behind the balcony were drawn shut. A look of profound disappointment washed over him. Desperate to hold his attention, I quickly pulled a folded piece of paper from my cheap handbag. “Mr. Smith, this is my resume.” “I graduated from a top-tier university, I’m 5’6″, and you can see what I look like. I look about half like my sister. The only difference is she’s better at dressing up, so she looks prettier. But don’t worry, once I have money, I’ll learn how to dress up, too. I’ll be just as beautiful as she is.” “As for work, I’ve been sending out my resume like crazy. Two major tech companies have already called me for an interview. I’m preparing for them now. I’m confident I can get a respectable job.” My voice trembled as I spoke, my hands shaking so much the paper rattled. Liam looked up at the balcony again, a long, searching look, before finally taking the paper from my hand. “Does your sister know you’re here?” I nodded emphatically. “She does. She said your personalities aren’t a good match.” “When she found out I had a crush on you, she was very encouraging. She told me to go for it.” 2 Liam’s fingers tightened on my resume. He glanced up at the balcony one last time. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he told me to get in the car. I was thrilled with how my plan was working. But not wanting to overstep, I chose the passenger seat. The car ride was silent. I was too nervous to speak. And Liam… I snuck a couple of glances at him in the rearview mirror. He was clearly still reeling from the news that my sister didn’t like him. His brow was furrowed, a veil of sadness clouding his features. I didn’t mind. I just watched the city lights streak past the window. Halfway to our destination, my mother called. The cheap, tinny ringtone of my old phone blared through the quiet car. I frantically hung up after the first ring. The noise must have startled him, because Liam finally spoke. “It’s alright. You can take it if it’s important.” I turned to look at him. “It’s not important. Right now, being on a date with you is the most important thing to me.” He didn’t say anything. But in the rearview mirror, I saw the tips of his ears turn a faint shade of pink. Liam took me to a trendy, Instagram-famous restaurant. The moment the car stopped, a valet rushed to open my door before circling around to get Liam’s. As Liam got out, I smiled. “Mr. Smith, I’ve always wanted to eat here.” “A friend from college recommended it once.” “But I never had the money to come.” With that, I pulled a small notebook from my bag. I flipped to a page in the middle, and among the densely packed handwriting, I found the line “Eat at the trendy restaurant” and checked it off with a flourish. Liam was a head taller than me and could easily see what I was doing. “‘One Hundred Things to Do with Liam Smith’?” he read aloud. “What’s this?” I grinned. “I made it last night, after I asked my sister if she liked you and she said no.” I ducked my head, feigning shyness. “I’m sorry, is this too forward? I just thought… even if we don’t end up together, at least I’ll have these memories. That way, I won’t have any regrets.” He didn’t speak, but his ears turned red again. He was listening. He was paying attention. The small victory made me giddy. As we walked upstairs, I practically bounced with excitement. When I’m happy, I can’t stop talking. I chattered about the ads in the elevator, the floor numbers, anything and everything. When we were finally seated, Liam was the perfect gentleman. He asked about my preferences before ordering for us. I just smiled at him, my admiration obvious. After the waiter left, I sighed contentedly. “Liam Smith, you’re exactly as wonderful as I imagined.” His ears turned red yet again. It was like discovering a new continent. After that, I peppered every sentence with praise. I complimented him boldly, expressed my affection without reservation. And though he was a man of few words, he always responded. I felt like I could leap out of my seat with joy. Just as our food arrived, he asked me his first real question of the night. “Why do you like me? Have we met before?” 3 His question sent a shiver through me. I didn’t want to dredge up the disgusting memories of my past. But I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity for sympathy. If it would make Liam Smith fall in love with me, I would gladly rip open my own chest and show him my bleeding heart. I smiled calmly, about to answer. Just then, his phone rang. He frowned slightly and looked at me. “Excuse me, I need to take this.” I nodded, still smiling. He stepped away from the table. The moment he was gone, I deflated like a punctured balloon, slumping onto the table. He had been quick, but not quick enough. I had seen the caller ID. “Rina.” My sister’s name. The wait felt endless. He was on the phone for a full ten minutes. When he returned, the apology in his eyes made my heart sink. As I expected, he said, “I’m so sorry, Miss Yates, but something’s come up at the office. I have to go.” A sharp, stabbing pain pricked at my heart. But I just smiled and nodded. “Of course. Drive safe.” He grabbed his suit jacket and walked out without a second glance. I watched him go. A wave of panic washed over me. After a moment of hesitation, I chased after him. “Liam Smith,” I called out. “Can I see you again tomorrow?” He stiffened, but after a moment, he nodded. I quickly held out my phone for him to add me on social media. He hesitated for a second. But he added me. Then he walked away, his pace quickening. I went back to our table and sat there until two in the morning, when the restaurant finally closed. 4 My first encounter with Liam Smith was a cliché story of salvation. When I was eighteen, I got into a top-tier university. While my classmates and teachers were celebrating with me, my father called me out of my room as I was preparing to register. He lit a cigarette and spoke calmly. “Sierra, there’s something I need to discuss with you. I’ve talked it over with Aunt Jane, and we’re getting married in a few days.” Aunt Jane was his girlfriend after he and my mom divorced. I neither liked nor disliked her. “If you’re happy, that’s all that matters,” I said. But his next words plunged me into an abyss. “Aunt Jane is pregnant. And you know, I don’t make much money. So, she said… she’ll have the baby, but I have to stop supporting you financially. Your mother has money. You can ask her for your university fees.” My fists clenched. Tears welled in my eyes, but I forced them back, my voice a desperate plea. “My tuition isn’t that high… maybe five thousand a semester. The first year is only three thousand. Can you just help me with that? I… I can get a student loan…” But he just stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Sierra, the law only requires me to support you until you’re eighteen.” Then he went back to his room and slammed the door. The sound echoed in the empty house for a long, long time. I stood there, tears streaming down my face, for I don’t know how long. The next day, I did as he said. I messaged my mother. I drafted the message like a report to a CEO, agonizing over every word before finally summoning the courage to hit send. Her reply was swift and brutal. “Sierra, I hope you understand that laws are meant to be followed, not broken. When your father and I divorced, we agreed that he would support you, and I would support your sister. Your father is incompetent, and you are eighteen now. You’re an adult. Don’t be a useless parasite like him, coming to me for money. My money is for your sister. It has nothing to do with you.” I hid in my room and cried for hours. It was just like when they divorced. They had fought over who got my sister, Rina. They had even come to blows at the courthouse. Neither of them wanted me. In the end, my mother had to give up her rights to the house we lived in just to get custody of Rina. I never understood why I was so unwanted. Why, when we both came from the same womb, did my sister get all their love, while I was an inconvenience no one was willing to take? My tears soaked my pillow. The next day, just as they wanted, I packed my bags and went to the city where my university was, looking for work. To save money, I took the slowest train. The journey took two days and two nights. I cried the entire time, mourning the cruelty of my parents, my uncertain future. As I sobbed, a man struck up a conversation with me. He was kind. He gave me a piece of his bread, some of his cured meat. He told me he had a daughter my age, who had also gotten into a good university. He was on his way to a factory job to earn her tuition. His face was so full of paternal love that I, so starved for it myself, believed him. When he told me he could get me a job at the factory, earning five thousand a month, I trusted him completely. But that night, he led me down a dark, deserted alley. He slapped me dozens of time, ran his hands all over my body, molesting me in the most degrading ways. Then he took my luggage, all my money, and left. The moon was bright that night, so bright it seared my eyes. I went to the police. I had lost not only my money but also all my documents, including my university acceptance letter. That night, I wanted to die. A policewoman looked at my desolate eyes. “You should be thankful, kid. It’s a safe city now, isn’t it?” My cheek throbbed where he had slapped me. I borrowed the station’s phone and called my father. He listened to my story and said calmly, “Isn’t your mother in that city? Go find her.” Then he hung up. My hand trembled as I held the receiver. But the tears threatening to spill over stayed put. I turned to the policewoman. “Can I borrow a hundred dollars? I need to go find my mother.” She looked at my unfocused eyes. Her colleague tried to signal her to say no, but she pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her pocket and handed it to me. I took a bus to my mother’s villa. I didn’t cry. My head was buzzing. I walked the rest of the way from the bus stop. As I approached the house, I heard the sound of music. A banner hung over the gate: “Congratulations to our little princess, Rina, on getting into university.” Through the iron bars, I saw my sister standing in front of a giant cake. She wore a beautiful crown and a princess dress. The living room was filled with beautifully dressed young men and women. They were probably her classmates, or my mother’s business partners. The tears I had been holding back all night finally broke free. The bitter taste mixed with the pain in my mouth. It was a raw, agonizing ache that made me tremble. I clung to the iron gate, the peeling paint digging into my flesh. I was a pathetic, peeping Tom, a miserable clown watching a life that could have been mine. As my tears threatened to run dry, a luxury car pulled up beside me. A handsome, impeccably dressed gentleman got out. Fueled by a desperate, vengeful impulse, I walked up to him, tears streaming down my face. “Hello, I’m so sorry to bother you, but… can I borrow five thousand dollars? No, ten thousand. I’ll use my face as collateral.” “You can take a picture of me and show it to the owner of this house. Tell her to pay you back. She will.” The man studied my face. He was silent. I knew it was a lost cause. My shoulders shook with choked sobs. “I’m sorry, I… I shouldn’t have bothered you,” I stammered, turning to leave. But just as I turned, he called out to me. “Give me your phone. I’ll transfer it to you.” I froze, then collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, the raw, guttural cries of a broken heart. Through my tears, I looked up at him. “I… I don’t have a phone. It was stolen.” He thought for a moment, then pulled out his own phone and made a call. “Wait here. I’ll have someone bring you the cash.” I stared at him. Then he walked into the villa, disappearing into the crowd that was my mother’s and my sister’s world. Ten minutes later, a man brought me ten thousand dollars. Clutching the money, I felt a new emotion bloom in the desolate landscape of my heart. It wasn’t just sadness anymore. It was jealousy. Jealousy of my sister. And for the first time, it was hatred. Hatred for my mother. But it was also the first time I felt a flicker of desire for my own barren, disgusting life. I wanted that man.

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