Category: English

I tried to conquer the male lead ten times, but each time I failed because of his best friend, Caleb Pierce. The eleventh time, I was already married to the male lead. I just needed to get pregnant and give birth to succeed. Caleb appeared again. He told the male lead that everything was my meticulous calculation. The male lead quickly separated from me and hired a lawyer to draft a divorce agreement. That night, I hired someone to kidnap the culprit, Caleb. He knelt before me, his hands tied behind his back. Although bruised all over, his gaze was still haughty. I sneered, lifted his chin with the toe of my shoe, and stepped on his face. I feared you ten times. This time, it’s your turn to fear me. 1 Even while kneeling, Caleb’s back was straight. His clothes hung in tatters from the whipping, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. The moment I lifted his chin with my toe, his chest heaved violently, beads of sweat seeping from his forehead. “What’s with that look?” I sneered, stepping on his shoulder to push him down. The old wooden floor made a loud creak, and he fell heavily, defenseless. The next second, I stood up and stepped on his lower abdomen: “Who allowed you to look at me?” He looked straight at me, expressionless, but the mockery in his eyes was unmistakable. I moved my foot down two inches, stopping abruptly, looking at him playfully. “Stop!” The face that had been expressionless for eternity finally showed a crack. His voice was tense, carrying a hint of imperceptible endurance. “Stop—” I dragged out the ending note innocently and stepped down hard, “But I didn’t tell my foot to stop.” Caleb’s face was solemn, his voice trembling, and his breathing began to get heavy: “Let me go. I won’t pursue this.” “Let you go?” I moved my foot away, watching Caleb curl up, “Can you walk out like this?” “How about I help you wash up before sending you out?” His eyes were bloodshot, his bound hands struggling desperately, legs unable to move in time as I sat on him. “You have to take off your clothes to shower.” I tapped his belt with my finger, “Should we take off the pants first,” then touched the buttons on his chest, “or the shirt first?” The intervals between his breaths became longer, his eyes glazed over as if he lost the ability to think. I relaxed my vigilance, unexpectedly he kicked his legs up violently. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. Caleb took this opportunity to move towards the door, trying to stand up against the wall. I was faster than him, pouring all the prepared saltwater on him. He didn’t even utter a cry of “pain,” a tough bone indeed. So what? Looking at Caleb crawling on the ground like a drowned dog, I grabbed his head, and with a chop of my hand, he quickly lost consciousness. Such a tall man was troublesome to handle. Tying him to the bed cost me half my life. Only after locking all the doors and windows did I drive away with peace of mind. Now, I’m going to win back the male lead. 2 Caleb and I were originally two lines that never intersected. But ten times, ten times trying to conquer the male lead, every time success was imminent, because of Caleb, the momentum of victory plummeted. The first time, Caleb invited the male lead to dinner, and the male lead met the destined heroine and dumped me. The second time, I drove the male lead to Caleb’s place, encountered a car accident on the way back, and died on the spot. The third time, before confirming the relationship with the male lead, I offended Caleb first and was sent abroad by him to do hard labor. Several times after that were also because of him, my conquests all failed, and no matter what I tried, I couldn’t avoid him. Caleb is the type of person I fear most: good background, good looks, strong personal ability. The most terrifying thing is that he has no weaknesses and cannot be threatened. The male lead becomes a loyal follower as soon as he meets him. If Caleb says go straight, he won’t turn around. During the fifth conquest attempt, the male lead took me to meet Caleb. Caleb looked at me like trash, warning the male lead not to bring any cats or dogs over casually. I knew he looked down on me, so I walked around him and never got close to him. Unexpectedly, this time Jason Reed and I were married, but he actually wanted Jason to divorce me. Jason, stupid as a pig, actually believed the so-called evidence he gave, accusing me of having ulterior motives and finding a lawyer to negotiate with me. I admit that conquering him was my mission, but my love for him was real. In every conquest, I only had eyes for him. For him, I racked my brains to plan the perfect first meeting, tried hard to meet his ideal standards, never wore the same outfit twice on dates, and even did group assignments for him in college. After all the hardships, asking me to divorce? Impossible. My informant told me Jason was packing at home now. I dared not delay for a moment and drove home. “Jason, what exactly do I have to do for you not to doubt my sincerity?” Opening the door and seeing Jason walking out with a suitcase, I hugged his waist regardless of everything. “Sasha, don’t be willful.” He didn’t stroke my hair like before, and there was a hint of warning in his words. “Just a few pieces of paper from Caleb, and you sentence me to death?” I buried my head in his chest, “I love you. Even if I schemed, I just wanted to be with you.” “Sasha, when feelings involve too much calculation, they change.” He mercilessly pried my fingers apart, “Also, I don’t like you talking about Caleb.” Then he strode away. When he loved me, he kept the video call on even when sleeping for fear of my loneliness. When he didn’t love me, he left me alone in an empty house. It’s all Caleb! If not for Caleb, I would have succeeded long ago. Calculating the time, three hours, Caleb should be awake. 3 Fortunately, I arrived in time. One of Caleb’s feet had already broken free. I sneered twice and slapped him: “You broke my bed.” Caleb really had delicate skin; half of his face swelled up high. I pulled his foot over and retied him, slapping the other half of his face hard: “Now it’s balanced left and right.” He was silent as a clam, not making a sound. “Speak.” I squatted by the bed, “Doesn’t it hurt?” I poked the corner of his bleeding mouth. He still didn’t make a sound. “It doesn’t matter.” I didn’t care, leaning closer, letting my black hair brush against his ear, cheek, and neck, “Caleb, you will beg me.” He kept his eyes tightly closed and ignored me. I shrugged, moved a chair to sit beside him and play on my phone, also placing a water clock by the bed. Watched movies for two hours, back ache, stood up to move around. Glancing at the person on the bed resting with eyes closed, I smiled, seeing how long you can last. Another movie, another two hours, the person on the bed couldn’t hold back. Without the movie sound playing externally, the sound of the water clock became clearer. Caleb’s brow furrowed slightly, breathing becoming irregular. I glanced at him again, corners of my lips slightly hooked. Another half hour passed, and the expected voice sounded: “Sasha Lin, let me go.” “What did you say?” I stood by the bed, “I didn’t hear.” “Let me go.” His body was already twisting, but he couldn’t see it himself. “Let you go to do what?” I asked again. “You know.” Veins popped on his forehead, the sound of struggling hands became intense. “I don’t know.” I was still playing dumb. “Sasha Lin!” His voice became more and more serious, “Let me go, let’s pretend this never happened.” “Beg me.” I felt myself getting excited. “Sasha Lin!” His calmness no longer existed, like a beast losing its mind. I watched his frantic look coldly, looking exactly like how he viewed me as an ant during the third conquest. “Beg you.” He finally admitted defeat. “What did you say?” I asked. “Beg you.” He closed his eyes resignedly. I knew not to push too hard, smiling like a flower: “Okay, I promise you.” After speaking, I turned to leave. “Sasha Lin!” He was anxious, “Why haven’t you untied me?” “Untie what?” I looked innocent. “You promised me.” “Yes, I promised you.” I said indifferently, “What did I promise you?” He was stunned, not knowing how to speak. I laughed: “Since I promised. “I won’t look. “Help yourself.” 4 Originally I just wanted to scare Caleb, didn’t expect his psychological defense line to be broken so easily, lying on the bed like a dead person, breathing faint. When I changed his clothes just now, he didn’t even struggle. “Caleb?” I called his name. His eyes were dull, seeming not to hear. “Shall I untie you?” I said again. He still had blank eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. Oh my god, did he become stupid? I untied one of his hands, he didn’t react, so I untied another. His feet were still tied, I wasn’t afraid of what he would do to me. But he still lay on the bed motionless. I started to panic, first reaction was to flee quickly. As long as the green hills remain, there’s no fear of running out of firewood (where there is life, there is hope). At worst, start another conquest, there’s still a chance anyway. Too late to lock doors and windows, I hurriedly drove away. Once home, packed luggage, bought the earliest flight out of City A, and settled in a border town. For a whole month, except for Jason calling me to go back for divorce, nothing else happened. I contacted my informant, asking if there was any big news in City A recently. The informant sent me a question mark. Before I hinted again, the informant sent a message saying the only big event was the Pierce family increasing overseas investment, with the head of the family personally overseeing it. Isn’t the head of the Pierce family Caleb? Seems he didn’t become stupid. I breathed a sigh of relief, then raised my heart to my throat the next second—he will definitely settle accounts with me. The system urged me to speed up the conquest. The progress bar had been stagnant for a month. At the same time, it told me bad news: if this conquest fails again, the request to “return to the real world, resurrect Grandma” will no longer be fulfilled. I asked the informant if he could find out how long Caleb would be abroad. The informant replied, at least a year, at most three to five years. Without Caleb’s obstruction, I could complete the mission in half a year at most. Then discuss with the system again. Maybe by the time Caleb returns, I would have already returned to the real world. Wealth is sought in danger. I immediately booked a flight back to City A to continue my mission. Unexpectedly, as soon as I got off the plane, I was taken away by a group of people. The man who was said to be abroad was now sitting in front of me. Only this time, the person kneeling became me. 5 Subordinates all left, leaving only Caleb and me in the huge room. He played with the lighter in his hand. The flame went out and burned, burned and went out, just like my electrocardiogram. Thinking again, just a paper person (fictional character), what’s there to be afraid of? Fear vanished instantly. I raised my head to look down at him, a faint smile on my lips. “What are you laughing at?” He stopped turning the lighter, eyes filled with doubt and a bit of madness. “Who allowed you to sit?” I questioned him. Instantly, his chest rose and fell, throat making a clear swallowing sound. “Kneel.” I ordered. The next second, Caleb knelt on the ground like a robot, face flushed, shaking like a sieve. Even if haven’t eaten pork, I’ve seen pigs run (seen it done before). I seemed to be doing something extraordinary. “Untie me.” I continued. His eyes became cold, with a hint of pain and unwillingness. “Be good.” I said hoarsely. In a few sentences, the positions of Caleb and I changed again. 6 I was ecstatic inside. Jason is Caleb’s loyal follower. Caleb now obeys me. Success in the conquest is just around the corner. Touching Caleb’s soft black hair, I slapped him twice without hesitation: “Who allowed you to tie me up?” He suddenly acted like an aggrieved Golden Retriever, pulling my hand to blow on it for me. I shook it off immediately: “Don’t touch me.” He knelt there at a loss, lips opening and closing for a long time: “I didn’t let them tie you up.” “Caleb.” I leaned close to him. He was visibly happy, cheeks tinged with light red, “I don’t like you being stubborn.” His face turned pale, head lowered, not speaking. “I don’t like your silence either.” I said again. As soon as these words came out, Caleb looked up abruptly, eyes actually filled with tears: “Don’t dislike me.” “Then you have to be good.” I gently touched his swollen cheek, “Does it hurt, Cal?” He took the opportunity to grab my hand, releasing it under my stern gaze: “Doesn’t hurt.” I knew well the tactic of a slap followed by a sweet date: “But my heart aches.” “Don’t heartache.” He struggled with how to call me. I touched his cheek: “Call me Sasha.” He lowered his head shyly then raised it quickly, like a child stealing honey, eyes unable to hide joy: “Sasha.” “Good boy.” I pulled up his hand, “What reward do you want?” “Can Sasha kiss me?” He closed his eyes nervously, eyelashes trembling. I kissed his forehead hastily, not missing the trace of disappointment flashing in his eyes. “Sasha, don’t go.” I stood up intending to leave. Today’s main task was to find Jason. Wasted too much time here already. Caleb was anxious, but I didn’t let him get up, so he could only kneel. “Count to one hundred and eighty seconds before getting up.” Looking at his eager eyes, I smiled and said, “I like obedient Cal.”

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The fifth time Rhett Hayden asked me to set her up with a date, I didn’t bother dragging in a misfit or a newly divorced father of two. I just opened the tablet, pulled up a photo, and slid it across the marble table, strictly business. “How about Lewis Maxwell? Handsome, steady, exactly your type.” I leaned back, my voice flat. “Most importantly, he likes you.” But Rhett wasn’t looking at the screen. Her eyes were locked on mine. Her voice was tight, low. “Piper Stone, where’s the jealousy?” I paused for a millisecond, then let out a laugh that felt brittle even to me. “Ms. Hayden, please. We’ve been divorced for years.” I let the next words hang in the air, a cool promise. “Once the debt is repaid, I will resign as your Executive Assistant. I will disappear from your world, just as you wished.” … Rhett’s gaze lingered on my smile, searching for a crack, a lie, some sign of the old Piper. Her pinky finger tapped the table twice—her habitual, subtle gesture to suppress deep irritation. “The family is pushing these dates. Just find someone manageable to get them off my back.” She glanced at the photo on the screen. “Toby Maxwell? Cancel it. You know I won’t marry him.” “Piper, I’ve explained this countless times. He’s just a partner’s son. Being kind to him doesn’t mean anything. He’s sensitive. Why would you deliberately put him in front of me? That’s not how you play the game, is it?” It had been a long time since Rhett had spoken so much to me. She was always so guarded with her words. “Ms. Hayden, you misunderstand.” I cut her off, my tone utterly even. “The man you’re meeting is not Toby Maxwell. It’s his older brother, Lewis.” “He flew back to the States the day before yesterday. He contacted me personally.” “This arrangement? It was his idea. Do you still want to cancel?” The finger resting on the table twitched violently. Rhett immediately lowered her eyes to the screen. The man in the picture was smiling at the camera, a wisp of dark hair falling lazily across his forehead—the kind of lock that made you want to reach out and smooth it away. Rhett’s hand lifted halfway, then dropped back to her lap, casually. “If Lewis is back, then yes, it’s probably necessary to see him.” She opened a file, as if to justify herself. “Just an old family friend I haven’t seen in years.” “Understood. Your schedule is clear this Saturday. I’ll arrange dinner for you and Mr. Maxwell.” I was purely professional. I turned to leave. Just as my hand touched the doorknob, Rhett’s voice stopped me. “Piper, you don’t have to call me ‘Ms. Hayden.’” Her brow furrowed in a look of near-helpless exasperation. “We’re divorced, but we’re not strangers.” “Ms. Hayden, we are now superior and subordinate. It’s appropriate.” It was like punching through cotton. Rhett stood up, her control finally slipping. “Piper, what is this act today? Just because the date is Lewis, you’ve been acting like a passive-aggressive martyr all morning?” She spat the final words, raw and accusatory. “Don’t forget, he was forced to leave the country because of you!” I hadn’t thought about those years in a long time. The sudden mention made me realize the heavy, humid rain of that past had never quite cleared from my soul. Back then, I was Piper Stone, the spoiled trust-fund kid, the King of the prep school. The most outrageous thing I ever did was ‘buy’ the quiet girl with the scholarship, Rhett Hayden. People teased me, asking if I was finally falling for someone. I dismissed them with a cavalier glance at her cool, impassive face. “Just a calculated investment. Doesn’t she look like a perfect blue-chip stock?” I never expected that investment to bankrupt me. I fell for her long, dark lashes, the way they would tremble when she looked at me. I fell for her silent offering of meticulously organized notebooks as a return on my ‘investment.’ Being near her, catching the faint, clean scent of gardenia she always carried, was the only thing that ever calmed the storm in me. I proposed. I gave her everything. And Rhett accepted it all. I had so much then that I never worried about reciprocity. If she was reserved, I’d push her boundaries until I saw a blush. If she wanted to climb the ladder, I’d hand her the ladder. Until the day she became the new power player in the city. She took the project she’d poured her soul into and offered it to the Maxwell family—for free. All that hard work, all those resources I’d funneled to her, just to get one meeting. To say one thing. I learned later that years ago, during a corporate charity drive, Lewis Maxwell had donated boxes of books and clothes to her remote village. Tucked inside was a generic, corporate-approved note urging the kids to study hard and leave the mountains. A message a teenage girl had taken to heart. A message she’d carried for two decades. She walked thousands of miles, metaphorical and real, just to stand before Lewis and say thank you. I lost it. The scandal was huge. Everyone knew she’d used me as a stepping stone to reach her childhood hero, her Ghost, her unattainable ideal. But Rhett just arranged another private meeting with Lewis. She apologized to him for my disruption. The bigger the scene I made, the more considerate she became toward Lewis. She even sided with the Maxwells during a massive commercial dispute, using my trust to deliver the kill shot that sent my father to prison. My world ended. My tears, my begging—they earned me only Rhett’s chilling explanation: “The Stones’ finances were unstable anyway. I just expedited the inevitable.” When I demanded a divorce, she stayed silent for a long time, then murmured, “Not yet. The rumors about Lewis are bad enough. Us divorcing now would ruin his reputation.” For Lewis, every consideration. For me, absolute cruelty. I must have been truly insane then. I went to Lewis. I knelt in his lavish office, pleading for him to ask Rhett to spare my father, my only family. Lewis sipped his espresso, his easy elegance a stark contrast to my desperation. He smiled. “Piper, don’t be naive. Someone loves me enough to destroy their life for me. Why would I object?” A photographer captured the moment. The headline screamed: “The Homewrecker Forces the Ex-Husband to Kneel.” Rhett grabbed my arm that night—it still hurts thinking about how hard she squeezed. She threw the bought-out photos in my face, calling me a manipulator. She dismissed every word of my explanation. It wasn’t until Lewis left the country to “ride out the storm” that Rhett’s anger finally evaporated. She lit a cigarette, smoked one after another, and finally, through the hazy smoke, whispered, “Let’s get divorced.” I closed the door without responding. When the listener doesn’t believe, the speaker is only wasting his breath. Saturday arrived quickly. Rhett left the office early and slid into the back seat without a word. In the heavy silence, she finally spoke. “Your father’s next phase of medical treatment has been transferred.” “Thank you, Ms. Hayden. I was aware.” One sentence, and the distance between us was re-established. I sat in the passenger seat, watching her in the rearview mirror. Same impeccable power suit, but the silk scarf was tied in a fresh, intricate knot. Her hair was professionally styled. She hadn’t dressed like this for me, not even on our wedding day. Young Rhett, even in simple clothes, was a breath of fresh air. I had easily forgiven her everything then. Now, I saw the first misstep that led to ruin. As she stepped out of the car, Rhett glanced back at me, her look a clear warning. “Stay put.” I wanted to be compliant, but work obligations wait for no one. When I walked into the restaurant holding my phone, I saw Rhett delicately brushing a stray strand of hair from Lewis’s cheek. She pulled her hand back, but her fingers lingered, tracing an invisible thread of silk. Right after the divorce, I used to despise her for this hypocrisy—the way she loved him so fiercely but would only admit to gratitude. She was so convinced she was fooling everyone, even herself. Yet for me, the one who paid for her education, she’d never offered a single thank you. “Ms. Hayden…” I began. Rhett was instantly on her feet, shielding Lewis. She looked at me with hostility. “Piper Stone, Lewis is not someone you can harass.” I paused, realizing her mistake. Honestly, I hadn’t made a scene since the divorce. I was afraid to, and I didn’t want to. Rhett thought I intentionally set her up with terrible dates because I was jealous. That was false. The jealousy was long dead. The small, calculated revenge—creating minor inconveniences for her—that was real. But Lewis was back. He had sought me out. “Piper, she’s lost that green edge.” Lewis had watched the massive screen outside the window, where Rhett was cutting the ribbon on a new corporate acquisition. “I once loved a woman. Now, I want someone who loves me.” I knew this was my last chance. After Lewis, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to arrange any more dates for Rhett Hayden. “Ms. Hayden, it’s a work call. The project we discussed…” “Hang up.” “Excuse me?” My throat felt squeezed shut. “I said, hang up.” Rhett was furious. The last time she’d been this angry was when she was new to the corporate world, working until she passed out on her desk. A critical call came in. I let her sleep, thinking an hour more rest was worth it. When she woke up, her eyes were red with rage. “That was a partner I spent months courting! How could you…?” I always thought she was devoted to her work. Now, I understood. I just wasn’t important enough to outweigh it. “Of course.” I ended the call. Lewis suddenly spoke up, his tone gentle. “Rhett, how can you treat your husband like that? You’re not this kind of person.” Because you do nothing, and Rhett manages everything for you. Even after you left, she doted on your brother, Toby. And I? Everything I do is wrong. “Mr. Maxwell, you are mistaken. We have been divorced for a long time. Ms. Hayden is single, and I am her employee. Our relationship is purely professional.” I was desperate to clarify, more concerned about the misperception than she was. And yet, Rhett was the one whose face darkened when I stressed our strictly professional status. The date ended sooner than I expected. I waited in the car, fighting the hunger pangs, watching Rhett graciously walk Lewis to his luxury sedan and stare as the taillights disappeared. Then, she opened the driver’s side door and sent our chauffeur home. It was the first time we’d sat side-by-side since the divorce, confined in that small space with only two sounds of breathing: one heavy and agitated, the other almost imperceptible. “Piper Stone, do you find this entertaining? I told you it was just old friends, but you insisted on coming here to check up on me.” “Ms. Hayden, I have to remind you again: we’re divorced. I don’t have the authority to ‘check up’ on you.” I stared out the window. The streets were vibrant, but I had nowhere to belong. “And yes, you said ‘old friends.’ I believe you. I believe everything you say.” Rhett pounded the steering wheel. The sudden, shrill sound of the horn was like the unhealable fissure between us. “Fine. If you insist on severing all ties, then I will stop paying your father’s medical bills.” She waited, expectant, for my reaction. She probably thought I’d collapse, helpless, a Stockholm patient crawling back into the cage she’d built. But I simply kept looking out the window, refusing to let my gaze fall on her. “As you wish.” I was put out of the car, left to walk along the sidewalk. The night was cold, very much like the day my father was released from prison on medical parole. His legs trembled that night, too. He was old, his heart diseased. He would have left earlier, they said, if not for me. He was afraid to leave me alone. I grew up loved by him, believing every love story was as pure as theirs. I was wrong. The treatment was expensive, and my family was ruined. Three days after the divorce, Rhett sought me out. She paid the bills. The price was becoming her Executive Assistant to repay the debt. The debt between us was never about money. It was about a life. Last week, the doctor warned me. My father was too old. The best medicine was barely postponing the inevitable. The terrible irony was that I found myself counting the days until his death, waiting for my own liberation. I went to the office on Monday as usual. I sensed the shift immediately. The receptionists were buzzing, their eyes darting excitedly toward the guest sofa. It was Lewis Maxwell. He was in a sharp gray suit, his hair neatly combed. He walked straight toward me. “Mr. Stone, you know which floor Rhett’s office is on, right? I texted, but she hasn’t replied. I’m hoping you can take me up.” The receptionist sidled up to me, whispering anxiously, “Mr. Stone, everyone has to log in and out. What should I do about him?” “Follow company procedure.” I gestured to the desk. “Mr. Maxwell, please register with the front desk. I’ll take you up afterward.” Lewis didn’t move. He just offered me a half-smile. The private executive elevator dinged open behind him. The crisp click of heels echoed on the tile. “Lewis, I came down as soon as I got your text. The elevator signal must be terrible; sorry it didn’t go through. You didn’t wait long, did you?” Rhett explained as she hurried toward him, her breathing still uneven. “Not long at all. You certainly didn’t need to come down just for me.” “But I ran into Mr. Stone. I was just about to sign in and head up with him.” Lewis reached for the pen, but Rhett stopped him. “You don’t need to sign in.” She took his arm and led him toward the elevator, never sparing me a glance. As the doors closed, the receptionist finally spoke. “Mr. Stone, who is that? Even you have to register, why doesn’t he?” I forced a tight smile and deflected. “Follow Ms. Hayden’s lead.” I took the employee elevator up. I headed to the pantry to brew Rhett’s customary pour-over coffee. The room was already crowded with gossipers. “Oh my god, did you see the man the CEO personally brought up? The Ice Queen was actually smiling! Is he her husband?” “I heard from HR that we’re getting a new Director from overseas. Maybe it’s him.” Someone nudged my arm, lowering their voice. “Mr. Stone, you’ve been with Ms. Hayden the longest. What’s the scoop? Is he the boyfriend?” I didn’t want to talk about them, but silence would only draw more attention. I kept my answer vague. “You could say that. They certainly look good together.” “A new Director is a good thing for the company. No more running back and forth for me.” My coffee was ready. I turned to leave, only to see Rhett standing in the doorway, her face thunderous. The entire pantry fell silent. No one had warned me. I couldn’t fathom the source of her anger. That coffee cup ended up in the sink. I was suspended. The new arrival was flexing his muscle, and I was the first casualty. Lewis had discovered I had no formal employment contract. “Mr. Stone, are you two still playing these workplace fantasies, even after the divorce?” “The former prince becoming the mistress’s errand boy?” Lewis’s words were cruel, and I felt no need to explain myself to him. Over the years, I had traded my signature long hair for a simple buzz cut. Piper Stone died when the Stone family fell, leaving only the nameless Mr. Stone. We were in this awkward position because one of us wanted to leave and the other couldn’t. Rhett didn’t bother to explain either. She needed to save face for Lewis. But as I was leaving the building, my phone buzzed. A text from her: “Come home tonight. We need to renegotiate the terms of our agreement.” I found it laughable. Lewis was back. What was the point of keeping me shackled like this? A wave of suffocating bitterness washed over me. I shut off my phone and wandered to the hospital. Before going in, I stopped at a florist and bought a bouquet of Forget-Me-Nots. My father never cared for flowers when my mother was alive. After she passed, he took up gardening, and the Forget-Me-Nots became his favorite. Rhett hadn’t skimped on the care. The hospital room was bright, with a window overlooking a distant lake. But as I walked in with the flowers, I felt a deep dread. The sunlight was too harsh, blinding me, bringing tears to my eyes. In that instant, the hunched figure vanished from the window.

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In my last life, the Hamiltons came to the orphanage to choose an adopted daughter. I saw a girl caked in filth and grime and, feeling sorry for her, gave her my only buttery biscuit. She devoured it like a starved animal, smearing crumbs and grease all over her face. The Hamiltons, a couple obsessed with cleanliness, wrinkled their noses in disgust and chose me instead, the clean one. Years later, when the true heiress was discovered, it was her. She tearfully accused me of intentionally setting her up to steal her place. “But we were all just victims of circumstance,” she’d sobbed to our parents, “I don’t blame you.” “Wanting a better life isn’t a crime…” Her words were gasoline on a fire. My adoptive father, Mr. Hamilton, immediately cut off my supply of targeted cancer medication, leaving me to die in agony. Now, I’ve been reborn, right back in that orphanage. This time, I ate the biscuit myself. Let the true heiress starve. Let the Hamiltons think I’m disgusting. 1. The rich, warm scent of a buttery, golden-brown biscuit drifted into my nostrils, the heat of it turning my palms red. The clamor of the yard snapped me back to reality. The headmistress’s shrill voice echoed across the courtyard. “Line up, all of you! Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton will be here any minute. If any of you dare to embarrass me, you can forget about dinner!” Sarah’s eyes were glued to the biscuit in my hand, a raw, naked greed hidden behind her timid facade. She whispered, her voice frail, “Annie… I’m so hungry…” Hungry? Good. This time, I’ll let you have your hunger. And I’ll have my freedom. I didn’t hand her the biscuit like I did before. Instead, I looked right at her, opened my mouth, and took a huge, savage bite. The flaky layers shattered, sending a shower of crumbs down my front. I chewed with exaggerated gusto, my cheeks puffed out, deliberately letting a mix of saliva and food dribble from the corner of my mouth. Then, I raised a dusty hand, smeared the mess across my lips, and wiped my greasy fingers all over the front of my relatively clean tunic. Sarah was stunned. She had probably never seen me act so crudely. Just then, a black luxury sedan, a vehicle utterly out of place in this decade of decay, rolled through the orphanage gates. 2. The car door opened and the Hamiltons stepped out. Mrs. Hamilton wore a custom-tailored cashmere coat, a string of pearls at her neck glowing with a soft luster in the pale sun. Mr. Hamilton was in an impeccably tailored suit, his brow furrowed as if the very air here offended him. The headmistress scurried over, her face a mask of forced smiles. “Mr. Hamilton, Mrs. Hamilton, the children are all ready for you.” I stood in the front row. A position impossible to miss. Mrs. Hamilton’s gaze swept over the line of children and landed squarely on me first. There I was, mouth still full of biscuit, the other half clutched in my left hand. My right hand, in full view of everyone, was shoved deep inside my shoe, scratching my toes with wild abandon. I closed my eyes and let out a grotesque sigh of satisfaction, then brought my fingers to my nose and took a long, deep sniff. 3. Mrs. Hamilton’s elegant smile froze on her face, then melted into a look of undisguised revulsion. She took a step back, pressing a perfumed handkerchief to her nose and mouth, her brow tightly knitted. “Headmistress,” Mr. Hamilton’s voice was as cold and hard as steel, “is this what you call ‘well-behaved’?” The headmistress turned pale with fright. She rushed at me, trying to snatch the biscuit from my hand, hissing under her breath, “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” I dodged her with a goofy grin and shoved the rest of the biscuit into my mouth. I gagged and choked, my eyes rolling back in my head as I forced it down my throat with a coarse, gulping sound, like a feral dog protecting its scraps. “Is there… something wrong with this child’s head?” Mrs. Hamilton turned away, disgusted, her eyes falling on Sarah, who was standing next to me. Sarah, deprived of the biscuit, was pale with hunger, her small frame swaying slightly. She was naturally a pretty child, and next to my deliberate filth, she looked exceptionally clean and fragile, like a small white flower struggling to survive in the mud. “That child,” Mrs. Hamilton pointed at Sarah. “She looks so sweet.” Sarah immediately straightened her back. Though she was trembling from hunger, she managed to produce a shy, polite smile. “Hello, sir. Hello, ma’am.” “What a well-mannered little girl.” A wave of maternal affection washed over Mrs. Hamilton. She walked over and knelt, ignoring the worn patches on Sarah’s clothes, and gently took her hand. “Would you like to come home with us?” A brilliant light of pure joy erupted in Sarah’s eyes. She nodded her head vigorously. 4. And just like that, it was settled. While the Hamiltons handled the paperwork, Sarah was taken away to be changed into a new set of clothes. Before she left, she made a point to walk over to me. The courtyard was empty now, except for the two of us. She was wearing a brand-new pink dress and clutching an expensive porcelain doll. The timid, fearful girl was gone. She looked at me, my face still smeared with grease as I picked my teeth, and a malicious smirk twisted her lips. She didn’t make a sound, but her lips formed the word perfectly: “Idiot.” Then she turned, climbed into the luxury car like a proud princess, and left this place of poverty without a backward glance. The car’s exhaust coughed a cloud of fumes in my face. I watched it disappear down the road before slowly pulling a crumpled tissue from my pocket. Methodically, I wiped away the grease and drool. Idiot? I let out a low chuckle. The Hamiltons were rich, true, but their home was a gilded cage, a nest of vipers that devoured souls. Mr. Hamilton had countless illegitimate children, and Mrs. Hamilton was a neurotic control freak. In my last life, Sarah, despite her lavish lifestyle, was treated as nothing more than a pawn for a strategic marriage and an emotional punching bag. She eventually became so twisted that she embezzled a fortune and fled the country. All that good fortune? You can have it. I turned and walked toward the woods behind the orphanage. The other children, seeing that I had fumbled my chance to be adopted by a wealthy family, were already mocking me. “That idiot only knows how to eat!” “Serves her right. She’ll be stuck here forever.” Their taunts buzzed around me like flies, but I paid them no mind. My destination was the woods. 5. An eccentric old man lived back there, whom everyone just called Old Man Blackwood. He was notoriously grumpy, his clothes were always covered in patches, and he spent his days clearing land to grow carrots. The headmistress considered him a nuisance, but he paid a hefty sum for “room and board” each month, so she left him alone. No one knew that this seemingly destitute old farmer was actually the recently retired head of a top-tier financial empire, the patriarch of the Blackwood family. He was here to rest and, more importantly, to find an heir. An heir who wasn’t greedy, who had a resilient spirit, and who wasn’t afraid of hard work. When I reached his plot of land, Old Man Blackwood was struggling to hoist a bag of fertilizer, his back bent like a bow. Without a word, I walked up and took the bag from him. It was heavy. Incredibly heavy. The fifty-pound weight pressed down on my skinny shoulders, my bones groaning in protest. But I didn’t make a sound. I gritted my teeth, walked steadily to the edge of the tilled earth, and gently set it down. Old Man Blackwood straightened up, his cloudy eyes fixed on me. “Girl, why aren’t you out there kissing up to the rich folks? You come here to do manual labor instead?” I dusted off my hands, picked up a nearby hoe, and began to turn the soil with practiced ease. “I don’t like those people,” I said without looking up, my voice flat. “There’s something shifty in their eyes.” Old Man Blackwood stared for a moment, then burst into a booming laugh, so loud it shook the leaves on the trees. “Well said! ‘Shifty in their eyes,’ indeed!” 6. In the days that followed, I became the orphanage outcast. While the other kids played, I helped Old Man Blackwood till his fields. While they fought over scraps of candy, I helped him patch his leaky roof. While they called me an idiot, I sat on the edge of the field, listening to him explain cryptic business principles that were far beyond my years. Three months later. A sleek black sedan pulled up to the orphanage gates. The headmistress nearly fainted, thinking it was a government audit. But instead, several men in dark suits stepped out of the car. They approached the old man who was busy pulling carrots from the ground and bowed respectfully. “Sir, it’s time to go home.” Old Man Blackwood wiped the dirt from his hands and pointed at me. “Get the paperwork done. She’s coming with me.” The headmistress’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Before we got in the car, he asked me, “Girl, coming with me might be even harder than farming. Are you scared?” I looked him straight in the eye, my gaze clear. “As long as I don’t have to suck up to anyone, I’m not scared of anything.” He patted my head, a look of satisfaction on his face. From that day on, the dirty, foolish girl from the orphanage vanished. In her place was Iris Blackwood, the meticulously groomed heir to the Blackwood fortune. 7. Years later. St. Augustine’s Preparatory Academy, the first day of school. This was an institution accessible only to the children of the absolute elite. I was admitted as a full scholarship student, a bona fide prodigy. In the eyes of the trust-fund kids who arrived in sports cars dripping with designer labels, I was a complete anomaly. Dressed in a simple white t-shirt, jeans, and carrying a canvas tote bag, I sat quietly in a corner of the classroom, reading an introduction to microeconomics. “Hey, did you hear? There’s a charity case in our class. Got in by being a total bookworm.” “For real? Do people still wear clothes that cost like, twenty bucks?” “Ugh, the smell of poverty. Stay away from her.” The whispers buzzed around me. Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the classroom door. “It’s Sarah! Sarah Hamilton!” “Wow, is that dress couture?” I looked up. Sarah walked in, surrounded by a gaggle of fawning girls. Her makeup was flawless, her every gesture exuded an air of superiority as she basked in their adoration. Her eyes swept carelessly across the room, finally landing on me in the corner. For a split second, her pupils contracted violently. She recognized me. My skin was clearer now, my demeanor calm and composed, but the basic structure of my face was still there, a shadow of the girl from the orphanage. Her first reaction was shock, quickly replaced by a flicker of contempt and malice in her eyes. She probably still saw me as the pathetic idiot who’d made a spectacle of herself for a single biscuit. Even if I’d managed to test into this school, in her mind, I was nothing but a bottom-feeder who could never truly climb out of the gutter. 8. During the break, the class group chat exploded. My phone buzzed incessantly. I opened it to see a message from an anonymous account: [BIG GOSSIP! That scholarship prodigy, Iris Blackwood, is actually trash from an orphanage!] The message was followed by a series of photos. They were blurry, but the background was unmistakably the dilapidated orphanage. The girl in the pictures, covered in dirt and working in the fields, was me. [She was so disgusting and filthy back then that even the rich couple who came to adopt refused to take her. She ended up having to beg for food by working for some crazy old man in the woods.] [How did someone like that get into our school? It’s sickening.] [I heard she might have contagious diseases. Everyone be careful.] The atmosphere in the classroom shifted. The previous indifference sharpened into open disgust and ostracism. The students around me physically dragged their desks away from mine as if I were carrying the plague. “Oh my god, so she was an unwanted reject.” “No wonder her clothes are so cheap. She grew up begging.” “Gross. I think I smelled something weird when I walked past her.” Sarah sat in the center of the room, elegantly sipping a latte. She watched me being isolated, the same triumphant smile from years ago playing on her lips. She stood up, pretending to be surprised by the messages on her phone, and then said in a loud, sympathetic voice, “Oh, everyone, you shouldn’t say that about Iris. I mean… yes, my parents did pass on her because of her… hygiene issues back then, but she got in here on her own merit. As long as she showers regularly, I’m sure… it’ll be fine?” Her words, feigning a defense, were the final nail in the coffin, confirming every rumor. The class erupted in laughter. “Sarah, you’re just too kind!” “Does gutter trash like that even deserve to be in the same room as us?” The vicious comments washed over me in a tide. I sat in the eye of the storm and calmly closed my book. Looking at Sarah’s sanctimonious face, I felt no anger, no need to defend myself. I just found it amusing. Sarah, after all these years, have your methods really not improved at all? 9. In the following days, the rumors didn’t die down, and Sarah didn’t let up. In fact, she escalated things. To solidify her persona as the “Hamilton Heiress” among the socialite circles, she announced she would be hosting a lavish 18th birthday gala at the city’s top five-star hotel, inviting the entire school. She made a special trip to my desk, tossing a gold-embossed invitation onto it. Her eyes glinted with a calculating light. “Iris, I know you come from nothing, but we are classmates. You should come and see how the other half lives. It might be your only chance before you end up washing dishes in a back kitchen for the rest of your life.” I picked up the invitation, running my thumb over its sharp edge, and offered a faint smile. “Of course.” If you’re going to stick your neck out like that, it would be rude of me not to chop it off. It’s what Mr. Blackwood would have wanted. 10. On the night of the party, Sarah was a vision in a priceless couture gown. Around her neck was the “Azure Star,” a blue diamond necklace rumored to be a limited edition, one of only three in the world. She moved through the crowd like a proud peacock. I, in a simple black cocktail dress, kept to a quiet corner. Just as the party reached its zenith and the lights dimmed for the cake-cutting ceremony, a shrill scream pierced the air. “My necklace! My Azure Star is gone!” Sarah clutched at her bare neck, her face a mask of panic. The room fell silent. All eyes were on her. Her own eyes, welling with tears, darted through the crowd before locking onto me. She pointed a trembling finger. “It was you! You were the only one who came near me! Iris, I know you’re jealous of me, and I know you need money, but how could you steal something?” A wave of murmurs rippled through the guests. Their gazes turned on me, filled with contempt. “What do you expect from an orphan? No breeding.” “They never should have let someone like her in.” Facing a sea of accusing faces, I felt no panic. I calmly set down my glass of juice and walked forward, meeting their stares head-on. “You say I stole it,” my voice was cool and clear, not loud, but carrying enough to be heard by everyone nearby. “Where’s your proof?” “I went to the powder room to touch up my makeup, and you were the only one who followed me in!” Sarah insisted, tears streaming down her face on command. “That was a birthday gift from my father! Please, just give it back. I won’t call the police, I promise, just give it back.” A masterful performance, playing the victim. Mrs. Hamilton stormed over, her finger jabbing at my face. “Check her bag! Search her! A gutter rat is always a gutter rat! You can’t teach them not to steal!” 11. A few security guards started to close in. I let out a cold laugh and simply upended my small clutch purse. Its contents clattered onto a nearby table. A phone, a lipstick, a pack of tissues. Nothing more. Then, I smoothly slipped off my blazer, shook it out for all to see, and gestured to my form-fitting dress, which clearly couldn’t conceal a pebble, let alone a necklace. “See anything?” I stared directly at Sarah, my gaze sharp. “It’s not on me.” Sarah’s face paled for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered. “You must have hidden it somewhere or passed it off to someone!” “Really?” I took a step closer, a mocking smile playing on my lips. “You know, Sarah, a thief is usually nervous. They tend to subconsciously hide their loot in the place they feel is safest. A place like… the hidden inner pocket of your clutch, perhaps?” Sarah instinctively clutched her purse tighter. “What are you talking about!”

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Good news: I’m pregnant. Bad news: I’m in the middle of a cold war with my husband. How do I tell Caleb Vance the news without losing my dignity? I turned to Reddit for advice, deciding to trust a user who claimed to have read romance novels for a decade. Step 1: The classic “Runaway Wife” trope. Step 2: Fake morning sickness at dinner. Step 3: Book an abortion appointment using his phone number… It was all going perfectly until Caleb lost his mind. That’s when I realized: Wait… I think I took the joke too far. 1 So, here’s the situation. I’m pregnant, and Caleb and I aren’t speaking. I posted a picture of the positive test on r/relationship_advice with the title: How do I tell my husband I’m pregnant while we’re fighting? Wrong answers only. The internet did not disappoint. Within an hour, I had thousands of comments. u/SavageQueen: Send him a pic of the test and say, “Baby’s gone. Froze to death because of your cold shoulder.” u/AnimeLover99: Look him in the eye and whisper: “I am not fighting alone.” u/RomanceAddict: Five years later, return with quintuplets and dominate the social scene. I scrolled through the chaos, feeling grateful for the internet’s unhinged energy. But one comment stood out. u/NovelExpert: Run away. Trust me, I’ve read romance novels for ten years. This is the only way. u/DramaLlama: Book an abortion at his family’s hospital but put his number as the contact. Then sneak off to Seattle and work as a barista for half a day. u/SubtleChaos: At dinner, dry heave dramatically and then sprint to the bathroom. Works every time. These “experts” seemed trustworthy. I looked at my phone. Still no text from Caleb. Thinking of his cold, handsome face made me angry all over again. I blocked his number. Enjoy the silence, you giant idiot. I have a surprise for you. 2 Step one of the Runaway Wife plan: Pick a getaway car. I went down to the garage and chose Caleb’s favorite matte black Bugatti. Sorry, Caleb. It’s for the plot. To make it authentic, I waited until his busiest workday to peel out of the driveway. Driving a supercar with the top down, wind in my hair… this was the life. Caleb could go kick rocks. I drove straight to my best friend Faye’s apartment. Lying on her sofa, I laid out my brilliant plan. Faye laughed so hard she nearly choked on her popcorn. “Chloe, are you serious?” she asked, wiping tears from her eyes. “What did our CEO do this time?” Okay, I admit our previous fights were petty. Like the time he forgot to buy me the new Hermès bag (I forgot to ask), or the time he ate spicy food next to me while I was on my period. But this time! This time it was 100% Caleb’s fault. “Spill,” Faye said, settling in. She’s been watching the Caleb-and-Chloe show since college. She knows we’re inseparable, so she treats our fights like prime-time entertainment. “Put down the chips, Sergeant Faye. This is serious.” “Yes, General Chloe.” The reason for this cold war was tragic. Truly heartbreaking. 3 Yesterday, after organizing my handbag collection, I decided to be a benevolent wife and visit Caleb in his study. I walked in quietly and stood behind his chair. He was on the phone, holding a photo in his hand. “Caleb!” I shouted, popping up over his shoulder. Usually, he’d pull me onto his lap and let me look at whatever boring contract he was reading. But this time, he jumped. He shoved the photo into a drawer and slammed it shut. “Caleb, what are you hiding?” His eyes darted around, avoiding mine. For a man who negotiates billion-dollar deals, he looked incredibly guilty. “Nothing. Just… trash.” “Liar,” I said. He was tapping his finger on the desk—his tell. I reached for the drawer. “It’s nothing, I said!” He grabbed my wrist, stopping me. He locked the drawer and pocketed the key. “What can’t you tell me?” I asked, feeling a sting of betrayal. Even when his company was in crisis, he let me play with confidential files like they were coloring books. He wouldn’t answer. I got agitated and tried to grab the key. In the struggle, I tripped. Caleb caught me before I hit the floor, but instead of asking if I was okay, he snapped. “Chloe, when are you going to stop acting like a child?” His voice was cold, sharp with anger. I froze. I glared at him. “If you can’t stand me, Caleb, then divorce me.” I stormed out. He didn’t follow. Men. I wasn’t going to cry over him. I packed a bag and moved into the guest room. But lying on the silk sheets, the tears came anyway. Because I saw the photo. It was an old, frayed picture of a woman. And that woman looked exactly like me. 4 Faye slammed her hand on the sofa. “So he’s cheating? With a doppelganger?!” She looked ready to murder him. “Relax,” I said calmly. “Stop acting.” She deflated. “Fine. But if he hurts you, I’m team Chloe all the way.” “So, I’m doing the ‘Runaway Wife with a Secret Baby’ plot.” Faye raised both hands. “I support this chaos.” Just then, my phone started blowing up. It was Liam, Caleb’s assistant. Caleb was definitely making him call. Why didn’t Caleb call himself? Because I blocked him. Hang up. Block. Liam got the same treatment. Meanwhile, in a black Bentley across town, Caleb Vance stared at his assistant with a face like thunder. “Sir… she hung up.” “Call again.” “She… blocked me.” Caleb let out a dark laugh. He had gone home to find the house looked like it had been raided. Chloe’s closet was empty. His clothes were thrown on the floor. And his favorite car was missing. He knew exactly who the culprit was. I touched my face and smiled. Don’t praise me, I’ll get an ego. Outside, the rain started pouring. A classic romance novel trope. Caleb stood outside Faye’s apartment building. He knocked on the door. “Chloe. Open up.” I ignored him, sitting on the shoe bench in the entryway, arms crossed. But then… beep, beep, beep, click. The door opened. Caleb had the code. 5 The door swung open, revealing Caleb’s sharp, angry face. His dark eyes locked onto mine. I whipped my head around to glare at Faye. “Traitor!” Faye grinned sheepishly and retreated to her room. Caleb marched in, scooped me up from the bench, and turned to leave. “Caleb, put me down! I’m not going back!” I grabbed the doorframe. “Chloe, stop making a scene.” “Let me explain.” “I don’t want to hear it!” I yelled, struggling. “Go away!” Caleb stopped. He didn’t put me down, but he didn’t move. So, no explanation? Just silence? I looked at the face I had loved for years. Was he just tolerating me all this time? Did he think my feelings were just “scenes”? Caleb looked down at my sad face. Suddenly, he shoved his phone in front of me. On the screen was a photo of the “Princess,” a luxury yacht docked in the harbor. The one I had been drooling over for months. “Princess Chloe. I bought the boat.” I froze. My eyes glued to the screen. 180 million dollars. My boat. Okay, Caleb had his moments. I took the phone, grinning like an idiot. “Chloe,” he said, taking the phone back. “Can you listen now?” I nodded, eyes still tracking the phone. “The photo I hid… it was a candidate for a new marketing campaign. She looked like you. I didn’t know her, but I panicked because I thought you’d misunderstand.” A flimsy excuse. But… But there was a yacht. And honestly, I never really believed Caleb would cheat. I just wanted to be dramatic. (And I wanted the boat.) “Fine,” I said. “Let’s go.” But I wasn’t done with him yet. 6 We went home. Faye leaned against her doorframe, watching Caleb carry my bags. “Why did you do all that just to leave two hours later?” “I’m going home,” I said loud enough for Caleb to hear. “I haven’t forgiven him.” I was starving. I had the chef make dinner and prepared for Step 2. We sat in silence. I ignored Caleb completely. “Ugh…” I put down my fork, covered my mouth, and ran to the bathroom. I thought my performance was Oscar-worthy. But Caleb didn’t take the bait! He followed me, looking concerned but clueless. “Chloe, what did you eat? Did you sneak spicy food again?” What? This didn’t follow the script! Has this man never seen a soap opera? Useless. I rolled my eyes at him. Whatever. I had more tricks. I “dry heaved” a few more times that night. Caleb just kept asking if I had food poisoning. Does he think I’m a glutton? I haven’t had junk food since I found out I was pregnant! He is so stupid. The next day, while Caleb was at work, I decided to escalate. To save face, I had to go nuclear. I booked an appointment at the Vance Family Private Hospital. For an abortion. And I put Caleb’s phone number as the emergency contact. I sat outside the operating room and hit “Confirm Appointment.” The confirmation text should be hitting his phone right about… now. I laughed to myself. Genius. Then I posted a Moment on WeChat, visible only to him: [Baby, it’s not that Mommy doesn’t love you… but I can’t bring you into a loveless home.] Attached was a photo of my ultrasound. Sure enough, Caleb went insane.

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On my birthday, Caleb Thorne proposed to me. But before he could put the ring on my finger, Chloe Vance snatched it and put it on her own hand. Caleb smiled indulgently. “Chloe’s just being playful again.” Silence fell over the room. Everyone waited for my reaction, the official girlfriend. They expected a catfight. A scene. Instead, I popped a confetti cannon, raining colorful streamers over them. “A match made in heaven,” I said with a smile. “Wishing you a lifetime of happiness.” 1 Caleb looked at me through the falling confetti. Chloe hugged his neck happily, acting like a spoiled child. “I love this ring! I want it!” Caleb seemed to wake from a dream, finally realizing this was my birthday party. He pulled Chloe’s hand down, explaining anxiously. “Chloe is just joking around.” The guests were our mutual friends. They started joking to ease the tension. “Tory, you’re the star tonight. Don’t get mad at irrelevant people.” Irrelevant? I looked at Chloe standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Caleb. They were childhood sweethearts, a perfect pair. She raised her hand, showing off the ring on her middle finger. It fit perfectly. Silently declaring that I was the irrelevant one. I raised an eyebrow and met Caleb’s gaze. “The ring is on. Is it time for the honeymoon?” Caleb’s face changed. He strode over to me. “Tory, Chloe was just curious and wanted to try it on. Be more generous.” “I grew up with Chloe. She has a child’s heart. Why do you have to make things difficult for a kid?” Everyone’s expressions turned awkward. Chloe wasn’t six, nor sixteen. She was twenty-six! Calling her a child? Did he think we were all blind? Chloe took off the ring. “Caleb, how can you say that about Tory? She wasn’t making things difficult for me. Tory, here’s your ring back. Happy Birthday.” She tossed the ring toward me. The round band rolled to my feet. The atmosphere turned weird. Everyone was confused. I was the victim, yet Caleb defended Chloe, even getting angry at me in public. Caleb looked at me, his eyes cold, seeing right through me. It felt like a bucket of ice water was poured over my head. I calmed down instantly. In the past, I would have never stayed calm. I would have fought Chloe tooth and nail. Then I would have had a huge fight with Caleb, maybe even a cold war. Then he would have a valid reason to disappear for days, no news, until I bowed my head and apologized. He tamed me, step by step. I bowed my head so many times that he no longer cared about my feelings. After all, in a relationship, the one who falls in love first… Loses. 2 Caleb and Chloe grew up in the same gated community. Chloe was naturally mischievous and loved causing trouble, but Caleb thought she was innocent as a child, always cleaning up her messes without complaint. In college, even though they never officially announced it, everyone assumed they were a couple. So, when Caleb suddenly gave me a bouquet of roses and asked me to be his girlfriend… I was stunned. I thought it might be a Truth or Dare punishment, or a dream. But I liked Caleb so much that even if it was a dream, I was willing to sink into it. Reality treated me well. Caleb really became my boyfriend. I could secretly hold his hand in the library, date him in coffee shops, and spend every important holiday with him. But all of these required my initiative. I thought he had never dated before and didn’t know how to take care of people. Until I saw how he took care of Chloe. Turns out he wasn’t incapable. It’s just that the person being meticulously cared for… wasn’t me. 3 The birthday candles were lit. Friends urged me to make a wish. I came back to my senses and blew out all the candles directly. Seeing this, Caleb frowned impatiently: “Tory, what tantrum are you throwing now? Don’t think just because it’s your birthday I’ll let you have your way!” I stood up, holding the table. “Then I’ll let you have yours.” I walked around the table, ignoring Caleb’s dark face, and walked straight out of the private room. As the door closed, I heard Chloe’s affected voice: “Oh no, it’s Tory’s birthday after all. Is it bad to make the birthday girl angry? Should I go apologize?” Caleb suppressed his impatience, his tone gentle. “Let her go if she wants. Who’s going to indulge her temper? Come on, let’s play!” A door separated us. Inside was a crowd’s revelry. Outside was one person’s loneliness. Caleb had never been so gentle with me. In front of outsiders, he never showed any bias towards me. They always did everything couples do in front of me, under the guise of friendship. Chloe had no sense of direction, so he tirelessly detoured to pick her up from work. Chloe made a mistake and got fired, so he hired her to be by his side. His passenger seat belonged to Chloe. His spare time, whenever Chloe needed it, was given without hesitation. Whenever I felt my territory was invaded and got angry, he said we were partners for life, Chloe was still a child, and told me not to be so petty. But seeing Chloe’s things appear in our home always made me panic. Until tonight, when Caleb let Chloe put on the engagement ring meant for me. It completely turned me into a clown. Caleb turned my love for him into a blade and stabbed me with it. I took out my phone to call a car, but a message popped up. It was from a friend, a photo of a tipsy Chloe being held in Caleb’s arms. “Tory, Caleb is going too far. Does he even know he’s your boyfriend?” Does he know? He should know. Otherwise, when Chloe got drunk, he wouldn’t just hold her. He should have carried her away, to be intimate in private… The night wind blew, bringing dust. My eyes suddenly hurt and stung. I rubbed them, but realized I wasn’t crying. My heart didn’t ache to the point of suffocation like before. It was as if the world had gone quiet. So, this is what it feels like to stop loving someone. 4 Back home, it was already past midnight after washing up. Caleb didn’t send me any messages. I didn’t urge him to come home like usual. Instead, I opened a message from my supervisor, Sarah. “Tory, really consider the overseas assignment. It’s a company opportunity, very rare. Just three years. Can’t your relationship survive three years?” Sarah was my senior from college and my boss. Recently, the company had an opportunity for overseas assignment and further study. She recommended me. I declined, saying my English wasn’t good. But she saw right through me. I was love-struck. I couldn’t bear to leave Caleb alone in the country. At graduation, our mentor asked about our wishes. Classmates talked about making millions, owning houses and cars, starting companies… I held Caleb’s hand and said seriously: “I want to have a home with Caleb!” Later, we bought a house. But I couldn’t even get him to come home. In the chat box, I typed and deleted. Before I could send anything, Sarah called me. “Tory, I really believe in you. Once you return, you’ll enter management. And it’s a team, you won’t be fighting alone.” “Sarah, let me think about it.” Hearing the hesitation in my voice, Sarah got excited. “Okay, think about it. I suggest you start preparing, review your English. Departure is next month, plenty of time.” I had no talent for English. I struggled just to pass in the past. As for speaking, Caleb helped me back then. Now, I have to rely on myself. The English books at home were all bought by me for Caleb. I knew this place too well. I grabbed the book I wanted easily. I naively thought I knew Caleb just as well. I laughed at myself. He’s indulging in tenderness; he doesn’t need my concern. I read for a while, eyelids heavy. Sleeping groggily, I heard the lock turn, then footsteps. Caleb was back. “Tory.” He called me a few times in the living room, then pushed open the bedroom door. Seeing me asleep, he sounded unhappy. “Tory!” I frowned, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. “You’re back?” He froze. Usually, if he came back this late, I would be waiting in the living room, questioning every detail, suspecting his relationship with Chloe, arguing, making a scene. This was the first time things didn’t go as he expected. But his face was dripping with gloom. I straightened the quilt. “Go shower and sleep. It’s late.” “After you left, Chloe got drunk, so I took her home, and then…” “Oh.” I didn’t wait for him to finish, lying down and covering myself. He stepped forward. The smell of alcohol mixed with women’s perfume invaded my nose. “She went too far with the ring. Another day I’ll…” “She’s just childish and playful.” I stuck my hand out from the quilt and waved it. “Go shower quickly, I’m sleepy.” “Tory, what exactly do you want?” He suppressed anger in his tone. I opened my eyes, puzzled. “What do I want?” “You…” He fell silent, which was rare. Usually, facing my questions, he would tell me to shut up in annoyance. I wrapped the quilt tighter. “Don’t overthink it. Work tomorrow.” With that, I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. He stood silently for a few minutes, then turned and left. He slammed the door recklessly, venting his anger. I knew he was mad, and I knew why. He rarely softened towards me, and I ignored it. So he decided to make a scene. Thinking I would go coax him like before.

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I was binge-watching a show with Landon when the news about Anya Wells’s return hit. Our college alumni group chat wouldn’t stop buzzing. I glanced over at Landon, nudging his arm with a smile. “No reaction from you?” He pinched my nose playfully, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “What do you want me to do, break out the bubbly? Go easy on the drama, Sweetheart.” I supposed he was right. They had broken up six years ago, and besides, Anya was married with a child. It was ancient history. I walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. When I came back, Landon was staring blankly at his phone. My gaze instinctively dropped to my own screen. A new message had just appeared in the group: [Heard the news? Anya got divorced.] A cold, heavy stone dropped in my stomach. 1 “Landon, Landon!” The last call was laced with a tiny, involuntary whine. He snapped out of his trance and spread his arms, assuming I wanted a hug. I set the water glass down sharply on the coffee table. I didn’t move, just stood there, staring directly at him. The intensity in my eyes made him visibly uneasy. “What is it, Sweetheart?” he asked, his voice tight. “What were you thinking about just now?” Landon blinked, feigning innocence. “I was just thinking about what we should grab for brunch tomorrow.” Liar. I thought. You were thinking about Anya. I had been in love with Landon Pierce for twelve years. Every expression, every subtle shift in his gaze, was a language I was fluent in. That vacant stare—he used to have it all the time in high school when he was hopelessly pursuing Anya. A decade had passed, and he still couldn’t hide a thing. He still came undone the second her name entered the atmosphere. A dull, painful ache settled in my chest. I sulked all evening, and Landon spent the entire time trying to placate me. The phrase he repeated most often was: “She and I are a closed chapter.” But their love had been a raging inferno. Even six years later, I still had occasional nightmares about Anya walking back into his life and Landon telling me he was done. The next day, I slept until noon. He patted my backside gently and chuckled. “Time to get up, Sweetheart. The sun is practically begging you.” I rolled over, ignoring him. He leaned down and kissed my cheek. “I made your favorite—homemade French toast with all the fixings.” I had smelled the cinnamon and vanilla already. There was no sense in punishing my stomach for his sins. Landon carried me to the dining table and loaded my plate. Just as I was deciding to forgive the previous night’s lapse, his phone rang. He took the call, speaking briefly, then looked at me. “Nova, the class president is organizing a high school reunion on Saturday. Want to go?” A high school reunion. That meant Anya would be there. Before I could even hesitate, Landon had politely declined. I looked at him in surprise. He stroked my head, his eyes sparkling with a familiar, genuine tenderness. “I just remembered that Saturday is our five-year anniversary. We can’t let strangers crash our day.” My eyes pricked with tears. I almost cried, ashamed of my own vulnerability. I decided right then to reluctantly forgive his late-night staring. Over the next few days, I threw myself into planning the perfect five-year anniversary. I wrote a long, detailed list of activities. Landon looked surprised. “Sweetheart, can we possibly get all this done in one day?” But he quickly softened, giving me that indulgent smile. “Anything my Nova wants, I’m in.” But early that morning, Landon was called away by the hospital. He was one of the most gifted pediatric cardiologists at St. Jude’s Medical Center. A particularly complex case required his immediate attention. He told me to go ahead to the restaurant for lunch, promising to be there exactly on time. I waited until 1:30 PM, but he never showed. The server apologized, explaining that the lunch service was over. I left the restaurant and saw that a heavy rain had started to fall. The drops quickly soaked the bottom of my jeans. I pressed a hand to my lower abdomen, feeling a dull, persistent ache. It was probably just my period coming, but the chill instantly made the pain worse. My hand was trembling as I called Landon’s number. A woman answered. “Hello?” “I’m sorry, Dr. Pierce is busy right now. Can I take a message?” The sound of that voice sent a chilling current through me. It was Anya. “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked when I didn’t respond. A few seconds of silence passed, then she sounded surprised. “Nova? Is that Nova?” “It is.” Anya laughed lightly. “I saw the contact name was ‘Sweetheart’ and guessed it might be you.” She quickly realized her blunder and rushed to explain. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. Landon is my daughter’s doctor. I brought her in for a consultation.” I managed a soft “Mhm.” A second later, the voice changed. “Sweetheart?” Landon’s voice was anxious and tight. “I’m so sorry, work got crazy. I totally missed the time. I’ll be tied up here for a while longer. How about you just come to the hospital?” I arrived at St. Jude’s. Through the glass panel of the patient room, I saw Landon sitting by the bed, playfully engaging the child. Landon was handsome and warm, and every child in the pediatric wing adored him, often calling him “Big Brother Landon.” I moved closer and realized Anya was there, too, sitting opposite him. They were each holding one of the child’s hands. The scene was perfectly idyllic, a portrait of a happy family. If Anya hadn’t so abruptly broken up with Landon six years ago, this is exactly what their life might have looked like. My chest felt inflated, making it hard to breathe. When I pushed the door open, Landon’s expression froze. He subtly, instinctively, released the child’s hand. The little girl on the bed suddenly grabbed his hand again and asked in a sweet, soft voice, “Uncle Landon, can you be my daddy?” Landon’s face went rigid. Anya quickly stuffed a small piece of bread into her daughter’s mouth and looked at me. “She’s just a child talking nonsense. Please don’t take it to heart.” I managed a strained smile. Impossible not to take it to heart. But I wasn’t going to have a petty argument with a four-year-old. The “special case” Landon had mentioned was Anya’s daughter, Phoebe. The child had a congenital heart defect, and her ex-husband had divorced her because of it. Anya had returned to the States, traveling from clinic to clinic. She only chose St. Jude’s because she heard Landon’s team was leading in this field. It was all a pure, cruel coincidence, yet utterly impossible to ignore. Landon then spent the afternoon running around with Anya, taking Phoebe through a battery of tests. Time flashed by, and it was six o’clock. None of the romantic plans on my anniversary checklist had been fulfilled. I walked up to Landon and gently tugged the sleeve of his white coat. “Landon, we’re out of time…” He was buried in a stack of files, not looking up. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, but Phoebe has a few more tests…” I pursed my lips, annoyed. “You promised to spend the day with me. You took the day off. Your colleagues can handle this…” “Nova, can you just be reasonable for once!” Landon’s voice suddenly rose. I froze. My hands and feet instantly turned to ice. In our five years together, he had never raised his voice to me. He realized his overreaction, and an apology flashed in his eyes, but he still pressed on. “Phoebe’s case is highly unusual. There have only been a few successful procedures in the country. How can I just hand it off to anyone?” “This is a life, Nova. Stop being so melodramatic.” A massive wave of wounded pride washed over me. My throat tightened as if it were stuffed with cotton. My voice came out scratchy and weak. “I’m not asking you to hand it off! I just think a nurse could supervise these routine tests. You don’t need to be here for every second…” “Nova’s right, Landon. You’ve done too much.” Anya walked into the office just then, looking at both of us. “Hospital beds are tight as it is, and I’m already so grateful you cleared one for us. I can handle the rest on my own.” “I heard today is your five-year anniversary? Congratulations. I hope I get to toast you at the wedding soon.” Landon’s brow furrowed slightly when Anya mentioned the wedding. Anya closed the door as she left. Silence descended on the office. After a long moment, Landon sighed, took off his white coat, and walked toward the door. When I didn’t move, he looked exasperated. “Fine. I’ll go with you. Let’s go.” “Forget it.” I spun to leave, wounded emotion swelling in my chest. Landon grabbed my arm, pulling me back. He tried to sound endearing. “I messed up, Sweetheart. I really did.” He was the man I’d loved for twelve years. He knew exactly how to disarm me. Landon took me to a movie. While we waited for the showing, he was constantly on his phone, texting. I glanced at the screen and saw him instructing a nurse to keep an extra close eye on Phoebe. My heart wrenched. I told myself to stop overthinking it—he was a dedicated doctor, this was just his professional courtesy. Halfway through the film, his phone rang, its chime piercing the dark theater. I looked at him, astonished. Landon always silenced his phone in theaters. What was wrong with him tonight? He covered the phone with his hand and bent over, walking to the back of the aisle. I hesitated, then followed. As soon as he answered, Landon’s voice softened into a gentle coo. “Phoebe, what’s wrong? Tummy ache? Did you eat something bad? Can you ask your mommy to bring a doctor to you?” “I’ll be back at the hospital tomorrow. Be a good girl and listen to your mommy. I’ll bring you a little present, okay?” Landon had always loved children; it’s why he was a pediatrician. We’d spent many nights curled up on the couch, daydreaming about the future. “I want a daughter, Sweetheart. Give me a daughter. One as cute as you.” Landon had proposed to me a month ago. Our families had agreed to set the engagement date right after the New Year. If things went smoothly, we might have our own child by next year. Landon, please, I pleaded silently. Don’t do this to me. Don’t shatter our beautiful future. In the following weeks, Landon started keeping crazy hours. He’d leave in the morning before I woke up and come home after I was already asleep. We were living in the same apartment but saw each other only once every few days. He explained that Phoebe’s surgery was highly complex and needed to be done as soon as possible. I felt genuine sympathy for the little girl—only four, facing such a high-risk operation. Knowing she loved dolls, I grabbed a new prototype from my toy design company—a doll capable of simple conversation—to give to her. I reached the door of Phoebe’s room. It was slightly ajar. Anya was sitting by the bed, stroking her daughter’s head. “Phoebe, do you like Uncle Landon?” “Yes!” the little girl chirped. Anya smiled, a thoughtful, calculating look in her eyes. She hesitated, then asked, “Do you want him to be your daddy?” “Yes!” Phoebe’s head bobbed like a cork. “Then you need to be very good and make sure Uncle Landon likes you a lot. Maybe then he could be your daddy…” “What are you telling that child!” I was inside the room before I realized I’d moved. My chest was heaving with fury. Phoebe looked up at me, startled, and burst into tears. Anya immediately pulled the child into a hug, rocking her. Landon walked in from the hallway, looking confused. “What’s going on?” Anya clung to Phoebe, her eyes red, and rushed to apologize to me. “Nova, I’m so sorry. I know you’re upset that Landon has been spending all his time here, but you can’t just yell like that, you’ll scare Phoebe. You know her heart is fragile…” Landon turned to me, instinctively stepping in front of Anya. His eyes were dark, his tone low. “Nova, why did you yell at Phoebe?” I rushed to explain. “I didn’t! Anya was saying things to her. She’s putting bad ideas in her head…” Anya’s tears finally spilled over. “It’s all my fault!” she choked out. “I only wanted to make Phoebe happy!” Landon looked at me, disappointment etched onto his face. “Nova, I told you I’m only helping Anya and Phoebe out of simple friendship and professional courtesy. Why do you have to keep making a scene?” “Do you know what you look like right now?” “You look like a walking stereotype of the jealous girlfriend!” His eyes were turning cold. In all our years, Landon had never spoken a harsh word to me. He had always looked at me with tenderness and a smile. It had only been a few days, and he was already a different person. I bit down hard on my lip. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. The bag containing the doll slipped from my fingers and hit the floor. I turned and fled. I ran a few steps down the hallway when a sudden, excruciating cramp made me collapse onto the ground. My face was ashen. A passing nurse was startled and rushed me to a quiet room. After asking a few questions, her expression turned peculiar. “You should go see the OB/GYN.” I was completely numb when the doctor told me I was seven weeks pregnant. No wonder I had been having cramps and my period was late. A month ago, my first reaction would have been pure joy. Landon loved children; he would have been thrilled. But remembering the way he had just spoken to me, my heart felt like a frozen block. That evening, Landon, for once, came home relatively early. He looked exhausted, but he knelt in front of me and apologized for his outburst earlier. “Sweetheart, you can’t think that way. I have absolutely zero feelings for her anymore. I just want to heal Phoebe.” My heart softened a little. I placed my hand on my stomach, ready to tell him the news. Then, his phone rang again. “Phoebe suddenly has a bad stomach bug. I have to go back to the hospital!” I almost laughed. Landon was responsible for all his patients, but he’d never been this frantic for any child. Only a fool would believe there was no underlying emotional connection. After Landon left, I did something I hadn’t done in six years. I opened the social media app where I used to, stalker-like, check his and Anya’s old joint account. It used to chronicle their relationship, reaching eighty thousand followers at its peak. Six years of silence had dropped the follower count to twenty thousand. And yet, just one minute ago, a brand-new post had appeared on the long-dormant page. [Thank you for running towards me a thousand times.] The accompanying picture showed three hands laid together—two adult hands, one small child’s hand. I recognized the man’s hand immediately as Landon’s. That hand—the one that carefully trimmed my nails. The one that patiently blow-dried my hair. The one that meticulously picked the bones out of my fish. It was now on Anya’s public page. The sudden post stunned their old followers. Comments slowly started trickling in. [OMG. My ancient OTP is resurrected?!] [Resurrected? They have a child already!] [Whaaaaat! So she didn’t break up, she just went off-grid! Thanks for the good news, sis, I believe in love again!] Tears blurred my vision. I took a screenshot and sent it to Landon. I wanted to hear how he planned to explain this. His reply finally came back after midnight. [Sweetheart, you’re overthinking it. Anya said Phoebe wanted me to be her dad, and it helps her mood to pretend. A positive mood helps with her treatment, so I cooperated. Don’t worry about it.] I scoffed. If it was just a pretend moment, why take a picture and post it on a public social account? We were supposed to go home this week to discuss the engagement with our parents. Landon hadn’t mentioned it once, acting as if the plans never existed. I should have seen it coming. The moment he stared blankly at his phone after hearing Anya was divorced, everything had already spun off the rails. The next day. Landon was playing a quiet game with Anya and Phoebe. The little girl took both their hands and placed them on top of each other, giggling. “Mommy, I’m going to have a daddy now!” Anya blushed, looking at Landon. A sudden impulse made her speak. “Landon, maybe we should…” Landon interrupted her. “I just remembered I need to check on another patient. I have to go.” Anya bit her lip, disappointed. Just as Landon walked out of the room, he ran into a nurse who looked surprised. “Dr. Pierce, what are you doing here?” Landon was perplexed. “Where else would I be?” “I just saw your wife in the OB/GYN ward. She was preparing for a D&C. Aren’t you going to stay with her?” Landon’s body went instantly rigid, his face turning spectral white.

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My husband’s protégée boasted that she could “defuse a bomb by instinct, with her eyes closed.” Her instincts were wrong. She triggered the bomb’s secondary detonation sequence. I had to intervene, using the highly dangerous liquid nitrogen cryogenic suspension method to save the entire building. Eva was removed from active duty and suspended pending investigation. My husband, Marcus, tried to defend her, but I stopped him. “If you speak up for her now, you won’t just fail to save her; you’ll be suspended right along with her.” Unable to handle the pressure, Eva staged an “accident” and blew herself up. In her suicide note, she accused Marcus of choosing to save his own skin when she needed him most. Marcus said nothing. He just kept that letter, treasured, in his study. Years later, he was a nationally renowned bomb disposal expert. During a terrorist attack, I was strapped with a time bomb. He arrived on the scene to defuse it, but instead, he replicated his protégée’s fatal mistake right in front of me. He watched the countdown timer and smiled faintly. “See? She was just nervous that day. If I had just encouraged her back then, she would be a hero now.” The bomb detonated. I was obliterated. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that moment, just as he was about to defend his protégée. He didn’t know that inside that building was the core server holding the nation’s most sensitive intelligence. 1 The instant I realized I had been reborn, I turned on my heel. Instead of rushing to the scene, I went straight back to my dorm and switched off my encrypted communicator. In my past life, after Eva’s screw-up, she had spammed me with frantic messages, begging me to save her. I had just come off a special operation—seventy-two hours without sleep—and had to go clean up her mess. I risked my life, enduring the searing cold of liquid nitrogen, just to save that core server. It was only because of my success that the military brass didn’t court-martial Eva, merely suspending her for investigation. If she had just kept her head down, she could have been reinstated. But she was fragile. A few snide remarks from colleagues were all it took. She staged an accident and killed herself. And in the end, my husband, in his twisted attempt to vindicate her, got me blown to pieces. I pulled the covers over my head and slept until morning. The next day, I switched my communicator back on. The screen exploded with hundreds of missed calls and blood-red emergency alerts. I took my time washing up, changing into my uniform, and made my way to the site at a leisurely pace. Outside the police cordon, the air was thick with a tension so heavy it felt like it could liquefy. Desperation was etched on every face. Eva was on the ground, hair disheveled, shaking uncontrollably. The colleagues surrounding her looked like they wanted to tear her apart. “It’s all your fault, Eva! You and your stupid ‘instinctive defusal’!” “Now look what you’ve done! The secondary detonation is active! We’re all going to die!” “Just wait! General Harding will have us all court-martialed for this!” Eva’s eyes darted wildly through the crowd. When she saw me, a flicker of hope ignited, as if she were grasping at a lifeline. But it was instantly replaced by a deep, seething resentment. She pointed a trembling finger straight at me and shrieked with all her might, “It was her! It was Sienna! I called her all night! She could have saved us! She deliberately turned off her communicator! She wants us all to die!” In an instant, every gaze in the crowd turned on me, a thousand sharp knives. Seizing the moment, Eva stumbled to her feet and shoved her communicator in my face. The screen was a damning list of missed calls. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice a raw, broken cry. “Sienna! You know what’s in that building better than anyone! This is a matter of national security! How could you go dark at a time like this? What were you thinking?” The crowd fell silent, waiting for my explanation. I looked at her disgusting, contorted face, and the hatred of a past life surged through me. Then, I raised my hand. CRACK! The sharp, clean sound of my palm connecting with her cheek echoed in the tense silence. Eva stared at me, stunned, her hand flying to her stinging face. I shook out my tingling hand, my voice like ice. “Are you insane?” 2 I held up the mission dispatch tablet, turning the screen for everyone to see. The duty roster and signatures were clear as day. “Last night’s primary operator was you, Eva. I, Sienna, was on mandatory leave after a seventy-two-hour special operation. My name is not on this roster.” The moment the words left my mouth, the dam of pent-up fury broke. “She’s right! Sienna just got back from Operation Red Scorpion yesterday! She disarmed three linked IEDs! She could barely stand when she got back!” “Exactly! Eva, you always use Captain Thorne as a shield to get out of the dangerous missions and push them onto Sienna! Now you’ve caused a catastrophe and you want to drag her down with you?” “You screw up and immediately look for someone to blame? You’re just as vile as ever!” The accusations rained down on Eva like stones. The color drained from her face, leaving it a ghostly white. She crumpled to the ground, her eyes vacant. Just then, a military SUV screeched to a halt. General Harding and my husband, Marcus Thorne, stormed out, their faces thunderous. I looked at Marcus. We had once been the golden couple of the service, a perfect match in everyone’s eyes. But now, his gaze swept right past me, not even pausing for a second, as he rushed to Eva’s side. He took off his own jacket and wrapped it carefully around her, pulling her into a protective embrace. “Eva, don’t be afraid. I’m here.” His voice held a tenderness I had never heard before. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” In that moment, my heart turned to ice. In my past life, he had shielded her just like this, telling me, “Sienna, Eva was just nervous. She has a real gift. You should encourage her more.” Now, in front of everyone, he was putting his favoritism on full display. The contempt and anger in the eyes of our colleagues deepened. General Harding’s gaze cut between Marcus and me like a knife before he barked my name, ordering me into the command vehicle. The second the door closed, the general’s rock-solid composure shattered. For the first time, I saw panic in the veteran commander’s eyes. “Sienna, I don’t give a damn about regulations!” he roared, slamming his fist on the tactical map, making the equipment hum. “You have to save that server! If we lose it, every single one of us in this department, starting with me, is facing a firing squad!” I met his bloodshot eyes, my voice calm. “General, I can try.” My quiet words silenced the vehicle. “But I have a condition.” I pulled a document from my pocket and handed it to him. It was the approval form for “Practical Application of Eva’s Special Talents,” personally signed by Marcus, overriding all objections. The words “special talents” were a bitter irony now. “He approved the risk,” I said. “I’m not cleaning up this mess alone. I want him to pay the price for this so-called ‘innovation.’” General Harding’s eyes narrowed. He snatched the document from my hand. After reading it, he slammed it back down on the table with a deafening bang. “That bastard!” he bellowed, his voice nearly ripping the roof off. “Don’t you worry! That expert consultant position he applied for? It’s denied! As of today, all his promotion channels are frozen!” A cold, sharp smile touched my lips. I picked up a pen and signed my name on the military order, accepting full responsibility and waiving all support. Marcus, your fast track to the top? In this life, I’m tearing it down with my own two hands. 3 I suited up and raced into the building. No blueprints, no mission plan. But I had the memories of my past life. I bypassed the faulty wiring Eva had set, ignored the flashing red lights of the deadly traps she’d activated, and went straight for the core server. The liquid nitrogen hissed, white fog filling the room. The piercing alarm cut out. The secondary detonation sequence was successfully frozen. I pulled off my helmet, my vision blurred by a mix of cold sweat and vapor. I sagged against the wall, completely spent, on the verge of collapse. When I walked out of the building, I was met with a chorus of relieved cheers. My colleagues rushed forward, supporting me, their words a jumble of gratitude and fear. “Sienna, you’re a god!” “I knew it! If anyone could fix this, it was you!” Invitations for a celebratory dinner started pouring in. I declined them all. I just wanted to go home. The moment I pulled my car door open, a sharp pain shot through the back of my neck. A large hand clamped over my mouth, dragging me backward. My struggles were useless. I was hauled into a dark, dusty utility closet. BANG. The door was locked. I was tied to a cold metal chair, unable to move. An old, flickering lightbulb hung from the ceiling. In the shifting light, a familiar silhouette emerged. Marcus. My husband.

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My best friend was dead set on setting me up with her brother, raving about how he was handsome, loaded, and even knew how to cook. Unable to withstand her constant nagging and pleading, I finally agreed to go to her family’s house. But before I could meet him, I ran straight into her other brother. My friend, Gemma, quickly pulled me aside. “My older brother is gorgeous too, but it’s a shame—he was seriously messed up by a horrible woman.” “I heard that woman had his kid and then just took off, leaving him to raise the baby alone. Poor guy.” I didn’t pay it much mind until halfway through my blind date, when a tiny child suddenly came barreling toward me. The little girl grabbed my dress and yelled, “Mama!” I looked up, and standing right in front of me was the deep-feeling, single-dad brother Gemma had just been talking about. It was my ex, the one I had dumped three years ago. Which meant I was, in fact, the “horrible, deadbeat mom” my best friend had been so passionately badmouthing. 1 Gemma Harrington and I were the ultimate hustle buddies. We were both broke. We ate pre-made meal kits, shared a cramped apartment, and our wardrobes were entirely sourced from Amazon Prime deals and Target clearance racks. To meet our performance metrics, we practically lived at the office, routinely working until midnight. Life was manageable, if unremarkable, until the day Gemma suddenly announced she wouldn’t be coming to work anymore. I assumed she’d been fired and was already gearing up to march down to the boss’s office to fight for her. Instead, she leaned in, her eyes wide with a secret, and said, “I struck oil.” It turned out Gemma was the long-lost daughter of a ridiculously wealthy, old-money family—the Harringtons—and her biological parents had finally tracked her down. Overnight, Gemma’s bank account had ballooned from four figures to seven. She was fiercely loyal. Her new-found wealth didn’t change our friendship; she spent every day dragging me to expensive lunches and ordering fancy cocktails. “Anya, this feeling of getting something for nothing is absolutely divine,” she gushed. “It really is true that you don’t feel bad spending money you didn’t actually earn.” “Seriously, quit your job. I’ll just find you a rich husband.” Gemma was impulsive, and I didn’t take her seriously. But three days later, she looked at me with an unnerving seriousness. “I’ve vetted the candidates, and I’ve decided my younger brother, Toby, is perfect for you.” Fearing rejection, she launched into a serious analysis. “First, he’s handsome, tall, and has a great temperament—meeting all the basic requirements.” “Second, he’s loaded, works out regularly, and he cooks. Major bonus points.” “Most importantly, he’s my brother. If he ever treats you badly, I’ll personally break his kneecaps.” “So,” she slapped the table, delivering her final verdict, “You are having a blind date with my brother this weekend.” I stared at her, utterly aghast. “Oh, absolutely not.” “What is ‘absolutely not’ about it? You are my best friend. You are far too good for any man on this planet.” When she reached for her phone to call him, I frantically grabbed her hand. After a brief struggle, I decided I had to tell her the secret I’d kept locked away. “Wait, you need to hear this first.” “I had a child a few years ago. With my ex-boyfriend.” 2 The story of Grant Harrington and me was an absolute cliché. While I was studying abroad in London, I saw him across a crowded room at a university mixer and was instantly, hopelessly smitten. I began a relentless, months-long pursuit. Grant was naturally aloof and reserved; it took me six agonizing months just to get close to him. The day I finally confessed my feelings, he reached up to his ear, took out a cochlear implant, and held it out to me. “I have a congenital hearing impairment. Are you sure you want to be with me?” Seeing my stunned silence, he gave a sad, self-deprecating smile, the look of someone who had faced this rejection before, and turned to leave. I quickly grabbed his sleeve. “I’m sure.” I didn’t care about his hearing; I was genuinely, powerfully in love with him. I looked up, meeting his eyes, and firmly repeated my question: “Can we date, Grant?” He stopped, turned back, and his previously shadowed eyes suddenly brightened. “Yes. We can.” Grant was incredibly awkward when it came to romance, but he was a fast learner. He quickly went from not understanding women at all to mastering their internal logic. He went from timid kisses to making me breathless, my thighs going weak beneath me. I would lie curled up against him, feeling the hard knots of muscle beneath his thin shirt, and subtly swallow my spit. My attraction to Grant was intensely physical. Every time I was near him, I felt an almost urgent need to explore. But for some reason, Grant was always incredibly restrained. Sometimes, he’d be visibly aroused, body temperature blazing, but he would always pull back before we crossed the final line. The turning point happened on Christmas Eve. 3 I had dressed up specifically for our Christmas date, but just before I left the apartment, an old mentor from my grad program, who was passing through London, called and asked to meet. He was flying out the next day, so I had to push back my date time and meet him quickly for a simple dinner. I hadn’t told Grant. I assumed he was waiting for me at our apartment, but when I looked up, he was standing at the entrance of the restaurant. He stood leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, thin lips pressed into a tight line, silently watching us as we spoke. After I said goodbye to the mentor, Grant quietly took my hand and led me back to our apartment. I tried several times to talk to him on the way, but he never responded. I assumed he’d forgotten his implant. The apartment door opened. Inside, a huge Christmas tree dominated the living room. Neon lights twinkled, and underneath, the rug was covered in presents and wrapped gifts. Before I could take it all in, he had pinned me against the wall. Grant trapped my waist with one hand and toyed with the delicate strap of my dress with the other, looking down at me. “You look beautiful tonight. Was this outfit for your mentor?” “You were laughing and talking throughout dinner. Are you two close?” That’s when I realized: he wasn’t deaf, he was furious. I tried to explain, but before I could get a word out, his kiss descended. It was commanding, aggressive, and so forceful that it stole my breath. We stumbled onto the sofa beneath the twinkling Christmas tree. The atmosphere in the room was suddenly thick with heat and desire. I fully expected Grant to do what he always did: stop just before the crucial moment and retreat to the bathroom for a cold shower. But this time, he pulled me closer and retrieved a small, carefully wrapped box he had prepared. Inside was a simple, yet stunning diamond ring. He slipped it onto my finger with a nearly reverent air. Then, he pressed his forehead against mine, his hand resting on the zipper of my dress. “Anya, I’ll be responsible for you. I’ll marry you.” “So, can we?” His eyes were flushed with a feverish intensity, his thick eyelashes hiding an ocean of surging emotion. I couldn’t say no. I leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Yes.” I remember that night didn’t stop until dawn. Eventually, I was sobbing and begging for him to stop, just calling his name. He deliberately removed his cochlear implant, looked at me, and said innocently, “Anya, I can’t hear you.” The cold metal of the ring on my finger pressed against his spine. At the time, I thought it was just a ring, and I didn’t realize the massive scale of the decision he had just made to promise me marriage. Not until I posted a picture of us holding hands on social media. A single, jarring comment caught my attention. “That’s a Harry Winston diamond! Girl, are you dating a billionaire?” 4 I had never imagined Grant Harrington came from a dynastic, old-money family. And I certainly hadn’t expected the ring on my hand to be a six-figure diamond. It was too much. I couldn’t bear the weight of it. I tried to give the ring back, but he just smiled at me. “There’s no taking back a gift, is there?” The sunlight caught his plain white T-shirt. That deceptively simple shirt was from an obscure European high-fashion brand and was worth three months of my rent. The gap between our families was insurmountable. It made me want to retreat. I asked him, “Will your family force you into an arranged marriage?” Grant took my hand and looked me in the eye. “I’ll refuse. I told you I want to marry you, and I wasn’t joking.” Our time together in London was pure. After crossing that final line on Christmas, Grant dropped his lifelong restraint. He loved removing his implant, pulling me into every corner of the apartment, and allowing us both to fully drown in the moment. We always used protection. But the night before we flew back to the States was particularly intense, and in the heat of the moment, the condom broke. Neither of us noticed until it was too late. Three months later, I found out I was pregnant. At the same time, the Harrington family pressure hit Grant. His father, Mr. Harrington, demanded he agree to an engagement or be completely disowned. I had already prepared myself for the breakup, but then Grant showed up on my doorstep, dragging his luggage. Outside, the rain was pouring down. He was soaked through, but he was smiling. “I came for you, Anya. I’m here, and I’m never leaving.” Youth is often defined by a dizzying, reckless kind of love. Grant chose to be disowned just to be with me, and I chose to have his baby. Throughout my pregnancy, he was utterly devoted, attentive to my every need. But the money well had run dry, and the privileged son was plunged into the mud of the real world. He never complained, but I knew he hated wearing cheap Target clothes and couldn’t stand the crowded subway. While his peers were learning to run the family empire, he was stuck with me in a tiny, cramped rental apartment. When I was seven months pregnant, he lost his expensive cochlear implant. Because the original model was too costly, he had to buy a cheap replacement, but the quality was so poor he struggled to hear anything clearly. Once, while out buying groceries, a few teenagers surrounded him and mocked him for being “the deaf guy.” In that moment, Grant stood there, utterly humiliated. He’d been raised in luxury; when had he ever faced such cruelty? Watching him, my heart twisted in my chest. I realized for the first time that our stubborn choice to be together might have been a mistake. Three months later, I gave birth to a daughter. While Grant was still lost in the pure joy of new fatherhood, I asked him for a divorce. I had already planned my reason. I told him I couldn’t live with his hearing disability, and I wanted a normal man. I didn’t want to be tied to a deaf man for the rest of my life. The words struck him like a physical blow. His body swayed; he looked utterly shattered. Even so, he struggled to regain his composure and whispered, his voice trembling, “Then I’ll work harder. I’ll earn enough to buy the best implant, I’ll be normal. Just don’t leave me, please?” He begged and pleaded, clinging to me for a long, painful time, but I remained unmoved. Finally, he held the baby up to my face and asked, “What about her? You don’t want your daughter, either?” “No. I don’t.” “She’s too much trouble for me to raise. You take her.” Mrs. Harrington had promised me that if I broke up with Grant, he would be welcomed back into the family, and the baby would be properly cared for by them. Grant stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he laughed, tears welling up in his eyes. “Anya. When we started, you said you didn’t care about my disability. If you couldn’t accept it, why did you lie to me?” “Was it fun to make a fool out of me?” Our breakup was messy and cruel, but I got what I wanted: we separated. Grant took our daughter and returned to the Harrington estate, and I moved to a new city to start over. Before I left, Mrs. Harrington offered me a large check as “compensation.” I refused it. I was young then, and in my twisted logic, accepting the money felt like profaning the purity of our failed relationship. I never contacted Grant again, and I never saw my daughter. When I told Gemma this story, I deliberately blurred the names and simplified the events. After the initial shock, she threw her arms around me. “It’s okay, Anya. It’s all in the past.” “Having a child doesn’t matter. You’re single now, and you can absolutely find love again.” “Not all rich families are so old-fashioned. My parents are pretty open-minded; you don’t need to worry.” I quietly confessed, “The main thing is, I haven’t moved on from my ex…” “Then all the more reason to meet my brother! You’re not getting back together with your ex, so you should use my brother as a stepping stone to move on.” Once Gemma fixed on an idea, she became relentless. From that day on, every time she saw me, she badgered me about the blind date. “Please, just meet Toby once.” “He’s definitely your type. If you don’t like him, we’ll leave. Deal?” Worn down by her constant soft-and-hard lobbying, I finally gave in. “Fine. But we are only meeting. That’s it.” 5 The Harrington estate was in Greenwich, a truly elite suburb outside the city. The idea of going there initially made me nervous. Grant’s family lived in that area. But then I reasoned, the metro area is huge. Without an intentional link, how could I possibly run into him? Gemma’s biological parents were indeed wealthy; the mansion had acres of manicured gardens. On the walk up to the house, Gemma prattled on about her younger brother, Toby. Distracted, I glanced over and stopped, looking at a man sitting on a veranda in the distance. His back was to me, showing only a sliver of his profile. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but something about him felt deeply familiar. Gemma followed my gaze. “Oh, that’s my older brother, Grant.” “Honestly, he’s super handsome too. I thought about setting you up with him, but his love life is way too complicated.” Naturally curious, I pressed her. “Complicated how?” “Apparently, he dated a total deadbeat, and they had a kid. But the woman took off right after the baby was born, ditching him and their daughter.” “My poor brother was heartbroken, so he threw himself into his career, swore off love, and has been raising the kid solo.” The story sounded eerily familiar. If Gemma didn’t have the Harrington surname, I would have sworn she was talking about Grant. After we passed the veranda, the man disappeared from my view. I looked back, wishing I could see more, and wondered silently if Grant’s career had taken off like this Grant’s had. In the mansion’s back garden, a table was set with pastries and refreshments. Gemma’s brother, Toby, was already waiting. “I’m telling you, Toby might not be as brooding as Grant, but you are going to love him,” Gemma promised, right before we sat down. I was skeptical. But when I clearly saw the man sitting across from me, I froze. He was handsome, yes. Clear-eyed, high cheekbones, thin lips—definitely my aesthetic. But he was also three-parts Grant, especially the gentle, soulful look of his eyes. This was bizarre. Was I thinking about Grant so much that I was now projecting him onto every attractive man? I fought down the ridiculous notion and was about to introduce myself, but Toby’s eyes widened, and he spoke first. “You’re… Anya?” I nodded, assuming Gemma had given him my name beforehand. But when I confirmed it, he just stared, saying nothing. Gemma slapped the table, giving her brother a furious, disappointed look. “What are you doing? A guy has to take the lead!” “Look at Anya. Isn’t she gorgeous?” Toby pursed his lips and slowly nodded. Gemma pressed on. “Is she your type?” Toby didn’t want to answer, but under Gemma’s silent, intimidating pressure, he hesitantly mumbled, “Mmm.” “Then introduce yourself and get on with the date!” Gemma complained. After an awkward silence, Toby managed a smile that was more painful than a frown. “Gemma, Sis, she cannot date me. Absolutely not. Never in a million years.” “What’s ‘absolutely not’ about it? She’s only three years older than you, and she has a kid—I already told you that! You said you didn’t mind!” Gemma was starting to get angry. “Don’t go back on your word in front of my best friend!” “I don’t mind her past,” Toby stammered, his face bright red as he looked at me. “But… but Big Brother will mind.” I was completely confused. Just as I was about to ask why, a small child came running toward us. She had pigtails, wore a flowered dress, and looked about three years old, perfectly round and plump. I generally didn’t like kids, but she was so adorable that I felt a strange sense of closeness to her. I thought: My child with Grant would be about this age now. “This is my brother Grant’s daughter, Wren,” Gemma said, trying to scoop Wren up in a hug. But Wren ignored her, ran straight past, and threw herself into my arms. She wrapped her small arms around me and squeaked in a sweet, clear voice: “Mama.” My body instantly froze. Gemma quickly tapped the girl’s head. “Sweetie, you can’t just call everyone ‘Mama.’ This is my friend; you should call her ‘Auntie.’” Wren tilted her small face up, tugging at my shirt, and excitedly retorted, “She is Mama! She’s my Mama!” “I saw Mama’s picture! I know it’s her!” Looking up at her now, I finally noticed: she looked exactly like my baby pictures. All the blood in my body turned to ice. I looked at Gemma. “What… what is your brother’s name?” Before she could answer, a man’s voice came from behind me. “Wren, come to Papa.” The voice was familiar, yet I hadn’t heard it for four long years. I turned back slowly. In the warm autumn sun, a man in a crisp white button-down shirt was walking toward us. In the intervening years, he had lost some weight, and he had definitely gained a harder, more mature edge. It was Grant Harrington.

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Three years into my marriage, I’d had explosive diarrhea over a hundred times. Every single time, it was after a meal at my in-laws’ house. At first, I chalked it up to a sensitive stomach. Then I noticed the pattern: whenever I ate at my parents’ house or cooked for myself, nothing happened. I was fine. I brought this up with my husband, Connor. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snapped. “Are you implying my mother is trying to hurt you?” “No,” I said quickly. But deep down, I knew something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t until I installed a discreet camera in their kitchen that I found the truth. 1. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was, once again, dealing with a disaster. Thirty-plus people from my department were packed into the conference room for the quarterly review. Mr. Alistair, my boss, was droning on about Q2 earnings when the first spasm hit. It was that familiar, visceral pain, like someone was taking a rope and tightly twisting my intestines. I tried to breathe through it, my palms slick with sweat. I lasted five minutes, maybe. Then the urgency became a desperate alarm. I stood up, hunched over, and began the walk of shame out of the room. The CEO paused mid-sentence to watch me go. The entire department watched me go. I didn’t care. I bolted from the room and sprinted for the restroom. I was locked in a stall for twenty miserable minutes. When I finally emerged, my face was chalk-white and my legs were shaking. Back in the conference room, Mr. Alistair’s expression was icy. After the meeting, he called me into his office. “Evelyn,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How many sick days have you taken this quarter?” I looked down. “Seven.” “All gastrointestinal issues?” “Yes.” He sighed, his gaze heavy. “Go see a specialist, Evie. You need to get this sorted. Your job is suffering, and frankly, so is your health.” I nodded, unable to speak. I had seen specialists. Not once, but over ten times. Endoscopy, colonoscopy, ultrasound, bloodwork, stool samples. The doctors had declared my digestive system perfectly healthy. “Very healthy,” they’d said. Yet, I was still falling apart. Three years. Over a hundred times. I had considered every possibility. Food allergies? Negative. Lactose intolerance? Negative. Stress? Only when I ate at my in-laws’ house. The moment I was home, I was fine. I presented this pattern to Connor. He was deep into a video game on the couch, not even glancing up. “What are you getting at?” “I just think it’s possible that…” “That what?” I hesitated. “That maybe there’s something wrong with your mother’s cooking.” He paused the game. The sudden silence was louder than the screen noise. He turned his head to look at me, and his eyes were cold. “Evelyn, did you just say that out loud?” “I didn’t mean anything, I just noticed the pattern…” “What pattern? That my mother, who cooks three-course meals for us, who makes separate, bland dishes just for your ‘sensitive’ stomach, is trying to sabotage you? Do you know how much effort she puts in?” “I do, but—” “But what? You eat her food, accept her generosity, and then come to me with this ridiculous, paranoid theory?” “It’s not paranoid, it’s just a possibility—” “A possibility of what?” He stared me down. “The possibility that my mother is putting poison in your food?” I went silent. He unpaused his game, his attention back on the screen, effectively dismissing me. That night, we lay in the same bed, pressed against the edges, backs to each other. I listened to his steady breathing, the low whir of the AC, and thought about the last three years. The first time was the third day after our engagement. Patty had cooked a feast, a welcome dinner. I’d eaten happily. I spent the rest of the night doubled over in the bathroom. Connor had blamed it on “adjustment.” The second time was a week later. Another meal by Patty. Another agonizing night. Connor said my stomach was “just weak.” The third, fourth, fifth time… Every single time, it was Patty’s food. Every time I’d voiced a concern, Connor had accused me of overthinking. “What does my mother have to gain by hurting you? She only wants you to be well.” Did she? I remembered the way Patty would look at me. Often, she was smiling, her eyes crinkling kindly. But sometimes, in the split second before she turned away, I caught a different expression. I couldn’t name it. It was chilling. Like looking at an adversary. I told myself it was my imagination. Patty was kind. She cooked elaborate meals, sent me home with leftovers, and gave me lavish gift certificates for every holiday. How could she possibly be hurting me? But the episodes didn’t lie. Three years. Over a hundred times. Always after eating at her house. I made a decision. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I would buy a camera, a tiny one, and install it in Patty’s kitchen. I needed an answer. Even if the answer was that I was, as Connor suggested, a paranoid mess. I needed to know. 2. That weekend, we went to my in-laws’ house as usual. Patty was beaming. She’d spent the morning grocery shopping and the afternoon busy in the kitchen. When I arrived, the house smelled wonderful—a mix of roasting meat and herbs. “Evie, sweetheart, you’re here!” Patty poked her head out of the kitchen door, a smear of sauce on her apron. “Come sit, dinner will be ready in a minute!” I smiled and sat on the sectional. Connor went to the study to talk to his father, Rich. I was alone in the living room. I glanced toward the kitchen. The door was slightly ajar. I could hear Patty’s energetic movements. She was efficient—chopping, stirring, plating—a woman in her element. Soon, the table was set: Balsamic-glazed ribs, pan-seared halibut, roasted asparagus, lemon risotto, and a shrimp cocktail set right in front of my chair. “Evie loves shrimp,” Patty announced with a soft laugh. “And I know your stomach is delicate, so I kept it all light and clean, just for you.” “Thank you, Patty,” I said, picking up a shrimp. She watched me eat. Her eyes were warm, her mouth curved in a soft, indulgent smile. “Is it good?” “Delicious.” “Eat up, then.” I took another. The rest of the family settled in. Rich and Connor talked business while Patty continually hovered, topping my plate with food. “Evie, try this halibut. So flaky, not greasy at all.” “Evie, have some asparagus. It’s a great digestive aid.” “Evie, just a few ribs. They’ll put some meat on your bones.” I ate, I responded, but in my head, I was counting down. In exactly two hours, I would feel the first tell-tale cramps. Sure enough. Halfway through the drive home, the twisting started. Connor was driving. I pressed my hands to my abdomen, my face pale. “What’s wrong now?” he asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Stomach’s cramping.” He didn’t reply. The moment we pulled into our garage, I burst from the car and ran straight to the bathroom. I was in there for thirty agonizing minutes. When I came out, weak and shaky, Connor was flipping channels on the sofa. He looked over. “You need to get checked out, again.” “I told you, I have. Everything is fine.” “Then it’s psychosomatic.” I didn’t engage. Psychosomatic. He always used that word. As if I were a hysterical woman inventing my own illness just to be difficult or to spite his mother. I wasn’t. I just wanted to know why. Why did this happen only when I ate at their house? Why was I perfectly healthy otherwise? Why couldn’t the doctors find anything? The next day was Monday. I called in sick. I took a day of PTO and drove to a Best Buy. I bought a micro spy camera. It was tiny, easily concealed, and synced to an app on my phone. I hid it in my purse. The next time we went to Patty’s house, I would install it in the kitchen. Connor could never know. He would call me insane. He would say I was insulting his mother. But I was beyond caring. Three years was long enough. I needed my answer. The following weekend, we were invited over again. I waited until Rich and Connor were in the backyard looking at the new deck and Patty was in the powder room. I slipped into the kitchen. I scanned the room. Above the stove, where the ventilation fan met the cabinetry, there was a dim, shadowed corner. Perfect. I stepped onto a stool and quickly affixed the camera, pointing the lens down toward the stove and the cutting board. It would capture everything that happened during the cooking process. I jumped down, straightened my sweater, and walked out, as casual as possible. “Evie, were you in the bathroom?” Patty asked, walking into the living room. “Just touching up my makeup, Patty.” “Good. Stay out of the kitchen, dear, it’s a mess right now.” I smiled. “Will do.” After dinner, we left. On the drive home, I covertly checked my phone. The app showed the camera was running. The picture was clear. I could see the range, the prep area, and a corner of the refrigerator. I turned off the screen, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm. Now, all I had to do was wait for the next time. The next time Patty cooked, I would finally know the truth. 3. For the next week, I checked the app several times a day. Mostly, the kitchen was empty. Occasionally, Patty would walk in to grab a bottle of water or put away a dish. Nothing notable. Then, the inevitable call came on Friday. “Evie, sweetheart, come over tomorrow for dinner! I’m making your favorite—that balsamic-glazed short rib I know you love.” “That sounds lovely, Patty.” I hung up, my pulse accelerating. Tomorrow. I would have my answer tomorrow. I barely slept that night. My mind cycled through possibilities. Maybe Patty truly did nothing. Maybe my stomach wasbad, and the timing was a horrific coincidence. Maybe I was, in fact, a paranoid mess. But then the memory of the sheer agony returned. The humiliation of sprinting from the conference room. The embarrassment of having to cut short a dinner out with friends. It was always after her food. It could not be a coincidence. It couldn’t. Saturday morning, I was awake by eight. I opened the app. The kitchen was empty. Nine o’clock: Patty entered the frame. I watched, breath held. She began washing and chopping vegetables. Her movements were normal. Ten o’clock: She started the main course. I zoomed in on the footage. I scrutinized every single action. Trimming the ribs, searing them, mixing the sauce, adding them to the pot… There was nothing amiss. I began to feel a deep, disheartening certainty: I was paranoid. Connor was right. Eleven o’clock: Connor called for me. “Let’s go, we’re running late.” I pocketed the phone and headed out. When we arrived, Patty had finished half the meal. She was working on the final sides. I sat in the living room, my stomach tight with anxiety, convinced I’d wasted my time. “Evie, have an apple,” Rich said, handing me a perfectly peeled wedge. “Thanks, Rich.” I took a bite, but my mind was still on the camera. No red flags. Maybe I should just uninstall it. Maybe it was me. “Dinner’s ready!” Patty emerged, carrying the final platter. The short ribs were placed squarely in front of me. “Your favorite, Evie. Taste your mother-in-law’s cooking!” I took a rib. It was savory and tender. Delicious. Patty watched, her face glowing. “Good?” “Very good.” “Eat plenty.” After dinner, we lingered for an hour. Around 2:00 PM, Connor decided we should leave. “We’re taking off, Mom.” “Already? Stay a little longer.” “No, Evie has a long day tomorrow.” Patty walked us to the door. “Drive safe, Evie. Be well.” “You too, Patty.” In the car, my stomach started to rumble. A dull ache, just beginning. I knew this feeling. Within the hour, it would escalate into full, paralyzing cramps. Connor was focused on the road. I pulled out my phone and opened the camera app. I needed to review the recording of the short ribs. I scrubbed the timeline back to 10:15 AM. Patty had just turned off the burner. Then— She turned toward the refrigerator. She opened the door and reached into a small, isolated compartment on the door panel. She pulled out a tiny, unmarked white pill bottle. She shook out several tiny, off-white tablets into her palm. Then, she walked back to the stove. She dumped the pills into the pot of ribs. She gave the contents one final, quick stir with the tongs. And then she plated the food. The entire sequence was less than thirty seconds. Her movements were smooth. Practiced. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the phone. For a moment, my mind went blank. Then, a tidal wave of ice-cold fury rushed over me. Three years. Three miserable, humiliating years. Every episode of agony. Every time Connor had called me a “paranoid mess.” Every shameful sprint from a public place. Every expensive, fruitless doctor’s visit. It was her. My smiling, sweet mother-in-law. The one who always said, “Evie has a sensitive stomach, so I make her light, clean food.” The one who told her friends, “I treat my daughter-in-law better than my own daughter.” She was putting laxatives in my food. For three years. 4. I don’t remember the drive home. Connor’s voice was a low buzz; I heard nothing he said. All I could see was the replay: Patty opening the fridge, pulling out the small white bottle, and sprinkling the contents into my ribs. Practiced. Calm. Three years. Over a hundred times. This was the truth. The moment we walked through the door, I ran to the bathroom. Forty minutes later, I emerged, weak, sweating, and pale. Connor was watching TV on the sectional. “Still going?” I didn’t answer. “You know, you really need to go see that herbalist I told you about, Evie. Your digestive system is a mess.”

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Julian Meng had an extraordinary temperament. I thought, finding him as my first love, even if we broke up, there would be no regrets. So I chased Julian wildly. Moved by my pursuit, he made a three-point agreement with me: Just dating, no marriage, break up upon graduation. I agreed happily. We were together for three years, interpreting love to the fullest. On graduation day, I initiated the breakup. But he regretted it. I was shocked: “Didn’t we agree? Break up upon graduation!” I clearly remember, at the end of that day, our talk collapsed. Julian lowered his always proud head, smiling self-deprecatingly: “Jane Chang, you’d better pray we never meet again.” From then on, I avoided him. However, with a gentle flick of God’s finger, the world became very small, and two people always have a time to meet again. Chapter 1 Julian and I tacitly abided by an unspoken rule. We were only a campus couple. Once out of school, like during holidays, we went back to our own homes and ceased contact. In those days without contact, he was the famous Julian Meng of New York, and I was the obscure Jane Chang of Chicago. We didn’t text, didn’t voice chat, didn’t ask about each other’s whereabouts, as if we were still single. I thought this niche mode of getting along would last until we graduated and broke up. However, the summer vacation of sophomore year was exceptionally long, lasting eighty days. Before leaving school, Julian asked me: “Will you miss me?” I hugged him and acted coquettishly: “Mm, I will miss you very much.” He pulled me into his arms, kissed my head, and didn’t say silly things like “contact me if you miss me.” I have always liked this rationality in Julian. His family background is high, and his future partner will definitely be found within the same circle. We both knew very well that there was no future between us. The reason for dating was probably just to experience a pure campus romance, and I happened to fit Julian’s taste for a girlfriend. In school, Julian was my boyfriend. Outside of school, when he became the Third Young Master of the Meng family, he didn’t want me to disturb his life. I followed his wishes, cooperated silently, and never crossed the line. At that time, I never expected that this rule would eventually be broken by Julian himself. The summer vacation was too long. He sent a message saying he wanted to return to school early, a full month earlier than our agreed return time. When I received the message, I was surprised and teased him: “Why return early? Did you miss me?” He didn’t reply to this message. However, since then, whenever there was a long holiday, Julian would ask me: “Do you want to travel together?” Most of the time, I agreed happily. We went to many cities together, watched stars in the desert, and watched the sunset on the island. When I appreciated the scenery, I was often very serious, so I was always startled by Julian’s sudden kiss. He loved to cup my face and kiss me from above. A very domineering posture. In intimate behavior, Julian liked to take the initiative, and liked me to be forced to accept. However, at every critical moment, I would ruin the atmosphere and call stop. Julian’s eyes were stained with desire, his Adam’s apple rolled unbearably, but he didn’t speak, just raised his eyebrows and asked in confusion: “What’s wrong?” My answer was always: “Don’t want to.” Clearly, desire was baring its fangs and claws, and he sweated a thin layer. But as long as I called stop, he could always restrain himself, go into the bathroom to take a cold shower, and come out to hug me for pure sleep. After I refused many times, Julian seemed to guess a bit of my mind. If there was a sign of misfire again, without me refusing, he would consciously get up and take a cold shower. The only exception. That day, he saw a message sent to me by a friend and asked me: “Who is this?” I didn’t hide it from him: “It’s my friend from Chicago.” He didn’t say anything more at the time. At night, his attitude became tough. I pushed back. He pinched my wrist, pressed it on the headboard, and continued. I avoided his kiss and emphasized: “Julian, I don’t want to!” “Why not?” He asked, “For that friend in Chicago?” Clearly a very proud person, when jealous, he was as hard to coax as a mad dog. I never said it thoroughly, but Julian should understand in his heart that I didn’t want to go to the last step with him because I knew he wouldn’t be the one to stay with me in the end. I didn’t want the bond between us to be too deep. Julian was a gentleman, understood my thoughts, and didn’t force me. It’s just that every time we were intimate after that, he seemed to be competing with someone, very grinding. Chapter 2 In the second semester of junior year, the day we agreed to break up was getting closer. Thinking of ending this relationship, I felt reluctant. To avoid future pain, I began to prepare psychologically for detachment in advance. That year’s trip, Julian arranged to go to the UK. On the second day of arrival in Kent, I was still sleeping off jet lag when a group of people broke into the hotel. I was forcibly changed into a wedding dress, put on perfect bridal makeup, and taken to a carriage outside the hotel. I don’t know when Julian arranged all this. I held a wedding with him in Canterbury Cathedral, officiated by a priest personally. No one observed the ceremony. Only the two of us. An unacknowledged wedding. It wasn’t until the moment we exchanged rings that I finally understood why he uncharacteristically asked me for a ring as this year’s birthday gift. Turns out, it was just so that at this moment of exchanging rings, I could take out a ring. This was an invalid wedding. We both knew it well. But that night, when Julian was panting heavily and intending to take a cold shower, I stopped him. I pressed him on the bed and kissed him hard. He trembled all over and lost his voice calling me: “Jane.” I scolded: “Wedding night, Julian, don’t be unromantic.” It didn’t matter. I thought, who cares where he goes in the future. Only today, I, Jane Chang, am his bride. I indulged myself. Just this once. I thought it was just once, but later it was actually many times. Some principles, once broken, seem to have no stand to abide by anymore, can only be broken again and again, retreating step by step. Julian and I were both out of control, unable to brake. I told myself, just treat it as a countdown indulgence, leaving a bit of madness, not in vain of occupying Julian once. I wasn’t sure when Julian would bring up the breakup. After all, our original agreement was: Just dating, no marriage, break up upon graduation. Not specific to which day. I waited anxiously for a while, but he delayed speaking. The ticket back to Chicago was already bought. No time to drag on, Julian and I needed a formal farewell. I actively asked him out, in a relatively quiet restaurant near the school, and brought up the breakup with him. I thought about Julian’s reaction. I thought he would uphold his consistent style, accept it calmly, and then say goodbye gentlemanly and decently. I didn’t expect him to look at me quietly and say: “No.” I didn’t react, asking him blankly: “What no?” He stared deeply into my eyes: “Jane, I don’t want to break up.” Chapter 3 My brain suddenly became messy. Julian is definitely not a person who goes back on his word. He has always kept his promises and practiced what he preached. So, I have always firmly believed that breaking up was a certainty. Never expected that he would regret it. When did he change his mind? I didn’t notice at all. I panicked a bit inside. Because I never thought about continuing with Julian. Breaking up upon graduation, this agreement, in my opinion, was happy for everyone. Julian’s temporary change of mind caught me off guard. I couldn’t speak, only staring at him in disbelief. My reaction was probably far from what he expected. His tone rarely mixed with a bit of urgency: “I know what you are worried about.” “Jane, give me five years.” “In five years, I guarantee that no one in the Meng family will interfere with my marriage anymore.” “By then, we will hold a wedding again, invite friends and family to witness, with a red book stamped by City Hall, justifiably announcing to the whole world that we belong only to each other.” “Jane,” he asked me, “What do you say?” Facing his eager inquiry, I dodged his gaze guiltily, bit the bullet, and stammered out a sentence: “Didn’t we agree? Break up upon graduation.” Julian was obviously stunned, asking unconsciously: “What?” Now that things have come to this. If I don’t make it clear, I’m afraid misunderstandings will arise. I took a deep breath and said bluntly: “I want to break up.” Julian’s gaze shot over instantly, like a substance, stinging people. He put his arms casually on the table, looked straight at me, and emitted a terrifying aura. “Why?” This sentence revealed a faint dead silence, as if compared to doubt, he actually wanted to hear the answer from my own mouth. I had never felt such oppression from Julian. With the mentality of cutting the Gordian knot, I shook out all my heartfelt words. “Because we are not a match.” “I have no great ambition, just want to eat and drink enough every day and live a smooth life.” “Don’t want to be made difficult because of the disparity in family status.” “Also unwilling to labor mentally and physically to deal with complex interpersonal relationships.” “Once married to you, these are inevitable.” “So, actually I never thought about continuing with you.” Towards the end, my voice lowered. I suddenly found that compared to Julian, I seemed very cruel. He planned our future with heart, while I calculated gains and losses inch by inch. It was as if… on our common battlefield, he was determined to fight for me once. And I had long prepared to escape the battlefield. And, did not intend to look back. “I’ve said what needs to be said clearly,” I stood up in panic, dropping a sentence hurriedly like an escape, “I’m leaving, take care.” I turned around. Arm was pulled. Like iron pincers, stubbornly not letting go. I looked back flustered. Julian sat by the table, looking up at me. Such a proud person, at this moment, looked like he was caught in the rain, emitting a cold chill all over. He asked: “If you never thought about having a future with me, why did you give yourself to me?” My breathing stagnated. I threw off his hand, pretending to be relaxed: “Didn’t expect you to care about this? I care less instead.” He seemed to be stung, pupils shaking brokenly. Then, he twitched the corner of his mouth, revealing a self-deprecating smile, let go of me, and stood up from the chair. His tall figure instantly enveloped me in a shadow. His posture was straight, unwilling to bend over, so he just lowered his eyelids, lowered his gaze, and stared at me. “Jane Chang, you’d better pray we never meet again, otherwise, I don’t know what I will do.” I didn’t show it on my face, but my palms were actually full of sweat. I regretted a bit. Shouldn’t have provoked him. That day, I fled the restaurant awkwardly and fled back to Chicago without looking back. From then on, even when traveling, I would specifically avoid New York. I thought I would never meet Julian again in this life. However, man proposes, God disposes… Chapter 4 My cousin Mia married into a wealthy family and invited me to the wedding. The wedding was held in New York. Learning the location, I simply refused the invitation. However, the groom’s side filtered the guest list of the bride’s family and only circled me, thinking I was qualified to show my face. In other words, Mia’s parents were not allowed to attend her wedding. Among relatives and friends, besides me, only a few bridesmaids were granted permission to observe the ceremony. Mia’s mother, my aunt, visited me personally and asked me to “support the scene” for Mia as the only family member. I was forced to take on this ridiculous heavy responsibility. We were arranged to stay in a luxury hotel. Mia would marry from the hotel the next day. The night before the wedding, a young girl added Mia on WeChat, sending her more than ten photos of intimate interaction with the groom-to-be, and a video. A bachelor ENDING party was being held in a villa thirty kilometers away from the hotel. Men and women, cool and eye-catching, partying to the fullest. In the video, the coquettish girl kissed the groom-to-be mouth to mouth sweetly. Mia calmly turned off the phone, greeted me, and six other bridesmaids, saying: “Let’s go, we also go to the party.” I never thought I would see Julian again. After all, New York is so big. I thought, how could it be so coincidental? Four years later, coming to New York for the first time, I would meet him squarely. But God really loves to joke. Mia went to give a display of authority. She slapped the girl without ambiguity. The girl was unconvinced and wanted to find the groom-to-be for support, only to find that he just watched smilingly and had no intention of standing up for her. The groom-to-be’s surname is Wu, named William Wu. The girl didn’t know that Mia had a three-point agreement with William before getting married. No matter how William messed around outside, Mia could turn a blind eye. The only point was, if the wild flowers outside danced in front of her to provoke, when she took action to teach a lesson, William couldn’t help. The girl wrongly weighed her weight in William’s heart. Mia grabbed her hair and blasted her out the door. William acted like nothing happened, closed the door smoothly, then happily put his arm around Mia’s waist, telling her: “Don’t be insensible. Since you are here, go say hello to The Third Young Master.” Mia just finished a fight, collar pulled open, hair messy as a chicken coop. She tidied herself up calmly and said: “Okay, I’ll go over as soon as I clean up.” William left Mia and went over first. There was a table of people over there, handsome men and beautiful women, glamorous, not sure if playing board games or chatting. Anyway, compared to the noise by the pool, it seemed quiet over there. Mia glanced in that direction, then sneakily greeted the bridesmaid group to approach, lowering her voice to whisper to them: “See that table? Except the one in the middle, others are good targets.” The one in the middle she mentioned, I looked over curiously, froze at a glance, and didn’t withdraw my gaze for a long time. I saw him. He didn’t see me. It was Julian. Julian, four years older, was different from my memory. Shedding the immaturity of youth, his eyebrows and eyes are now deeper and more steady, precipitating an outstanding temperament all over. In the bridesmaid group, the most beautiful girl, Bella, asked Mia unwillingly as soon as her eyes fell on him: “Why not him?” Mia pulled the girl’s arm, tone rarely serious: “Him, we can’t reach. Don’t engage in wishful thinking, to avoid getting into trouble.” Bella has a lofty nature. Hearing this, she said a faint “Oh,” as if she listened to the advice.

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