Category: English

It was my son Bobby’s third birthday, and my mother-in-law, a few glasses of wine in, wouldn’t stop fussing over him. She pinched Bobby’s chubby cheeks, her words slurring as she spoke to my husband, Mark. “This boy… it’s uncanny.” “He has your eyebrows, your eyes… but his nose, his mouth…” She paused, squinting at my sister, Chloe, who was sitting beside me, quietly peeling an apple. “His nose and mouth,” she declared loudly, “they’re the spitting image of Chloe!” The air in the room instantly froze. The only sound was the cheerful din of cartoons playing on the TV. Chloe’s hand jerked, the paring knife slicing into her finger. Mark’s face went rigid, the color draining from it in an instant. He shot up from his seat, his voice sharp. “Mom! You’re drunk, stop talking nonsense!” I sat on the sofa, watching the scene unfold, and smiled. “She’s not wrong, though.” I tilted my head, my gaze shifting between my ashen-faced sister and my panicked husband. “I’ve always wondered why Bobby looks so much like his aunt.” 1 Mark’s reaction was more violent than I’d anticipated. He practically dove across the room to snatch Bobby from his mother’s arms, as if terrified I might look at our son for a second longer. “Don’t listen to her, Grace. She’s getting old, her eyes are playing tricks on her.” He kept his back to me, his voice strained. He didn’t dare meet my gaze. Chloe scrambled to her feet, forcing a smile that was more painful than a grimace. “Grace, she was just kidding. Kids change every day, you can’t really tell who they look like.” Can’t you? The seed of a doubt I had buried three years ago, a terrible thought I never dared to examine, burst into venomous bloom. I had carried Bobby for ten months. I had nearly died giving birth to him. He was my son. But from the day he was born, he never looked like me. Everyone said he just took after his father. And I had lied to myself, believing them. But as he grew, as his features sharpened, the shadow of Chloe on his small face became impossible to ignore. The same almond-shaped eyes. The same dimple in the same spot when he smiled. Even the way his lips pouted slightly in his sleep was a perfect mirror of my sister. I had told myself it was just the magic of shared blood. We were sisters, after all. But today, my mother-in-law’s drunken words had ripped away the comforting lie I’d wrapped myself in. “Alright, everyone, calm down.” I stood up calmly, pulled a tissue from the coffee table, and walked over to Chloe. I took her hand, which was still bleeding, and gently pressed the tissue against the cut. “You have to be more careful.” My voice was soft, but my eyes were fixed on her pale, stricken face. She couldn’t look at me. “I… I’m fine, Grace,” she stammered. Mark stood frozen, clutching our son. I smiled and turned to him. “Dinner’s ready. Why don’t you take Bobby to wash his hands?” My voice was so normal, so utterly untroubled, it was as if the last five minutes had been a hallucination. Mark looked like a man granted a pardon. He fled to the bathroom with the child. The atmosphere at the dinner table was suffocating. My mother-in-law, apparently realizing her mistake, ate with her head down, silent. I was the only one who acted as if nothing had happened. I served Bobby his favorite vegetables, ladled soup for Mark, and even made cheerful conversation with Chloe about her job. The calmer I was, the more haunted they looked. The meal was an exercise in torture. Afterward, Mark insisted on doing the dishes, and Chloe announced she had an urgent work matter, hastily getting ready to leave. “Wait a second.” I called out to her. She froze in the entryway, her body stiff. I went to the fridge, took out a container of fresh cherries I’d bought that afternoon, and poured them into a large bag for her. “Here, for the road. I know they’re your favorite.” Her hand trembled as she took the bag. She wouldn’t look up. “Thanks, Grace.” “Don’t be silly.” I reached out and smoothed a stray strand of her hair, blown messy by the wind. I leaned in close, my lips next to her ear, and whispered in a voice only she could hear: “Chloe, next time you come over, don’t wear that perfume.” “Bobby’s allergic to it. Did you forget?” A violent tremor shot through her body. Her pupils dilated in sheer terror. I stepped back, patting her shoulder with a serene smile. “Drive safe.” The moment the door clicked shut, the smile vanished from my face. The sound of running water came from the kitchen. Mark was at the sink, his broad back turned to me. A back that had once been my greatest source of comfort. I watched him for a moment, then spoke. “Mark.” He stopped moving. “Do you remember when I was in labor with Bobby? I was hemorrhaging. The doctors told you I might not make it.” He didn’t turn around. His voice was muffled. “I remember.” “I was lying in that hospital bed, thinking I was going to die. I held your hand. Do you remember what I said to you?” His shoulders began to tremble. I continued, my voice flat and empty. “I said, if I die, you have to raise Bobby well. He’s our son. I’m giving my life for him…” “Stop it!” He spun around, his face a mask of anguish, his eyes bloodshot. “You weren’t going to die! We were going to be fine, our family!” I looked at him and, suddenly, I laughed. “Mark,” I asked, each word deliberate and sharp, “is there something you’ve been hiding from me?” 2 Mark’s eyes darted away. He slammed the faucet off, and the sudden, total silence in the kitchen was deafening. “What are you talking about now?” He moved toward me, reaching for my hand. I pulled away. His hand hung awkwardly in the air. He forced a weary smile. “Look, I know what Mom said upset you, but it was just drunk talk. You and Chloe are sisters. Is it really so strange that Bobby looks a little like his aunt?” He was trying to soothe me with logic, to reason away the horror. Before today, I might have believed him. But now, his words were just noise. “Is it?” I stared directly into his eyes. “Then let me ask you this. Why did you transfer twenty thousand dollars to Chloe last month?” The blood drained from his face. “How did you know about that?” he blurted out. I gave a cold, humorless laugh. We were married. His bank account was linked to my phone. I got a notification for every large transaction. I’d never paid them any mind before because I trusted him. But in the instant my mother-in-law had spoken those words, every overlooked detail, every strange inconsistency from the past three years had replayed in my mind like a horror film. The notification was one of them. His excuse at the time had been that Chloe had gotten scammed by a boyfriend and was caught up in some bad online loans. As her brother-in-law, he had to help. I believed him. I’d even called Chloe, full of sympathy. She had cried and told me it was all sorted out, that the money was paid back. Looking back, it was a truly masterful performance. “It’s not what you think!” Mark said, stepping forward, desperate to explain. “That money was really—” “To pay off her debts, right?” I finished for him. He nodded vigorously, clinging to the explanation like a lifeline. “Yes! That’s exactly it! It’s not easy for a young woman out there on her own. I didn’t go into detail because I didn’t want you to worry.” Such a good brother-in-law. Such a thoughtful husband. I watched his frantic attempts to lie, a sheet of ice forming around my heart. “Mark, we’ve been married for five years.” My voice was eerily calm. “When did you start lying to me?” He froze. “I didn’t…” “You did,” I cut him off. “When you lie, you can’t even look me in the eye.” He fell silent, his head hanging in defeat. I took a deep breath, swallowing the bitter taste in my throat. “I won’t ask about the money again.” His head snapped up, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “I only have one condition,” I said. “From now on, I want Chloe to visit us less.” The relief on his face curdled into a subtle panic. “Why? She’s your sister…” “Precisely because she is my sister,” I said, my voice clear and cold, “I don’t want any unnecessary misunderstandings to come between us.” I held his gaze. “Can you promise me that?” He opened his mouth to argue, but under my glacial stare, he finally, painfully, nodded. “…Okay.” That night, we slept in separate rooms for the first time in our marriage. I lay in Bobby’s room, holding my son’s warm little body, and stared into the darkness all night. My mind raced, replaying memory after memory. I remembered when Chloe first graduated from college and lived with us for six months. During that time, Mark was kinder to her than he was to me. He’d make her a separate sandwich in the morning; he’d watch her favorite cheesy dramas with her at night. I thought he was just treating my sister as his own. I remembered the last trimester of my pregnancy, when I was huge, miserable, and short-tempered. It was Chloe who was by my side every day, massaging my swollen feet, taking walks with me, showing more patience than Bobby’s own father. The day I gave birth, she waited outside the delivery room, crying harder than anyone. After Bobby was born, she was at our house constantly, burying him in mountains of toys and clothes. Everyone told me how lucky I was to have such a wonderful sister. I had believed them. I had felt so blessed. Now, those warm memories were a thousand tiny knives, twisting in my heart. When did it start? During those six months she lived with us? Or even earlier? The little sister I had cherished and protected her whole life. The husband I had sworn to love for eternity. How could they? How dared they? The next morning, I got up and made breakfast as if nothing was wrong. Mark emerged from the study with dark circles under his eyes. He sat at the table, cautiously watching me. “Grace… are you still angry?” I pushed a glass of milk toward him and smiled. “No. I thought about it. Mom was right. We’re all family, it’s normal to look alike.” He visibly relaxed. “I’m so glad you feel that way.” I nodded, sipping my oatmeal and mentioning casually, “By the way, Bobby’s hair is getting a little long. I was thinking of taking him for a haircut. He has that little birthmark on the back of his head, and the barber always seems to nick it. I want to find someone more careful.” As I spoke, I reached over and gently plucked a few strands of hair from Bobby’s head. “Look at this,” I said, holding them up. “So dark and thick. Just like yours.” I rolled the small cluster of hairs between my fingertips. Then, as he watched, I carefully placed them into a small, transparent Ziploc bag. 3 The instant I looked up, the color drained from Mark’s face, leaving it the color of ash. He stared at the tiny bag in my hand, his eyes wide with a terror he couldn’t hide. “What… what are you doing with his hair?” he stammered, his voice trembling. “Just a keepsake.” I slipped the bag into my purse, my tone as light and breezy as if I were discussing the weather. “Bobby’s turning three soon. I want to save things from each stage of his life. His first tooth, a lock of hair, his first pair of shoes. It will be a precious memory for him when he’s older, don’t you think?” The excuse was flawless. I almost believed it myself. The bloodshot veins in Mark’s eyes seemed to pulse. I didn’t look at him again. I took Bobby’s hand. “Say bye to Daddy, sweetie. Mommy’s taking you for a haircut.” “Bye-bye, Daddy!” Bobby chirped, waving his little hand. Mark remained frozen in place. As the front door clicked shut behind me, I thought I heard the sound of a choked, ragged gasp. I didn’t go to a barbershop. I took Bobby straight to the largest genetic testing center in the city. In the taxi, I held my son, my palms slick with cold sweat. Bobby was quiet, content to sit in my lap and play with his fingers, occasionally looking up to give me a sweet, trusting smile. I looked at his face—Chloe’s face—and my heart felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand. The pain was suffocating. The center was quiet. I calmly filled out the forms, paid the fee, and submitted the samples. In addition to Bobby’s hair, I submitted another sample: a few long strands of hair I had found on the sofa last week after Chloe had visited. On a strange impulse, I had saved them. Looking back, it seems fate was already sending me signs. The lab technician took the two samples and asked, in a routine, professional voice, “And what type of relationship analysis will this be?” I looked at her and took a deep, steadying breath. “Maternity.” The technician paused, her eyes flicking up to meet mine with a flash of curiosity. But she said nothing, simply ticking the corresponding box on the form. “Very well. The results will be ready in seven business days. We can mail them to you, or you can pick them up in person.” “I’ll pick them up.” 4 As I stepped out of the testing center, the world tilted violently. I had to brace myself against the wall to keep from falling. What was I doing? I was entertaining the possibility that my husband and my own sister had betrayed me in the most grotesque way imaginable. I was questioning whether the son I had nearly died for was even mine. If… if the results confirmed my fears, what would I do? I couldn’t let myself think about it. The next week was a blur of hollow motions. Mark and I maintained a fragile peace. He became unnervingly attentive, taking over all the housework, cooking elaborate meals, coming home from work on time every single day. He even left his phone unlocked for me to check at will. The more he tried, the colder I felt. This wasn’t atonement. This was the frantic scrambling of a guilty conscience. Chloe didn’t visit, and she barely called. My mother called once to ask if we had fought. I laughed and said no, we were just busy with work. My mom sighed. “Chloe has always been so close to you. You need to take good care of her.” Take care of her? Yes. For over twenty years, I had cared for her like she was the most precious thing in the world. And how had she repaid me? On the seventh day, I got the call from the center. I locked myself in my room, steeling myself for what felt like an eternity before I finally found the courage to leave the house. When I arrived at the center, Mark was standing at the entrance. He looked like a ghost—gaunt, ashen, with dark, hollowed-out eyes. The moment he saw me, he stumbled forward and grabbed my arm. “Grace, let’s just go home, please?” His voice was a raw, pleading rasp. “We don’t have to look. We can tear it up, pretend this never happened… We can go back to how things were…” I looked at him and felt a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. “Mark,” I asked quietly, “what are you so afraid of?” He flinched as if I’d struck him. His grip on my arm went slack. I ignored him and walked inside. The report was in a manila envelope. It was thin, but it felt as heavy as a gravestone. I didn’t open it there. I walked past Mark, who didn’t even dare to try and stop me, and went home. I locked myself in the bedroom. Mark pounded on the door, his voice shifting from pleading, to shouting, to finally, a broken whimper. I heard none of it. I slid down with my back against the door, my fingers trembling as I tore open the seal. I stared at the single line at the bottom of the page for a long, long time, until the words burned themselves onto the back of my eyes. [Regarding Sample A (Chloe) and Sample B (Bobby)]: [Support for a biological mother-child relationship is found.] [Probability of maternity: 99.9999%]

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I was on a scenic sky-tram with my in-laws when the mountain below erupted into a million-dollar firework display. Against the twilight sky, it spelled out: STELLA, MY HEART IS YOURS FOREVER. I knew instantly. This was for my husband’s childhood flame—a grand gesture to win her back. The blast shook our cable car violently. The support cable groaned, ready to snap. Gripping my phone, I screamed: “Ross, you’re insane! Stop! Your parents are in here with me!” A cold chuckle came through, layered with Stella’s coaxing voice. “Why stop? Three years ago, Stella’s parents died under your care—a surgeon who ‘never’ failed. Today, Peyton, you’ll taste that same pain.” I heard a security guard in the background before Ross commanded sharply: “Fire three hundred more rounds. Aim for the cable car. Obliterate it.” Stella giggled sweetly, “Make those old fools disappear.” The car plunged. My in-laws cried out, pale with terror. Seeing red, I roared into the phone: “Ross, these are your own parents!” 1 “Peyton, do you even hear yourself? How pathetic.” Ross’s voice was a sliver of ice. In the background, Stella tittered. “Oh, Ross, don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s trying to use your parents to control you,” she cooed. “Just like she did to force you into marriage.” That was the trigger. I heard Ross’s breath catch, his anger flaring. He barked an order, and a new volley of fireworks, fifty shells this time, screamed toward us. “You have ten minutes,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Agree to a divorce, sign away everything you have, and tell my parents it was your choice. Do that, and maybe I’ll let you live.” He paused, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air. “Otherwise…” The car’s glass door, already fractured, swung wildly on its hinges, shrieking with the tortured sound of metal. Before I could respond, my father-in-law, his face a mask of fury, snatched the phone from my hand. “You little bastard! Is this how you treat Peyton when we’re not around?” His voice, usually so steady, was sharp with fear and altitude sickness. There was a stunned silence from Ross’s end, followed by an explosion of rage. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?” “I’m your father!” “I never acknowledged that marriage. You think you can claim a connection to me? You must have a death wish.” The barrage intensified. A shell hit the car directly, and the remaining glass shattered. I was thrown halfway out the window, my hands desperately clinging to the frame. Shards of glass dug into my palm, a hot, searing pain that made me break out in a cold sweat. My mother-in-law screamed, her eyes wide with horror. “Peyton, your hand!” For a surgeon, your hands are everything. I managed a grim smile. “I’m fine.” She fumbled for her own phone. “I’m calling Mr. Cole. He’ll get us out of this.” But when she dialed, the call was rerouted. It was Ross who answered. My mother-in-law was hysterical. “You monster! You’re trying to kill us! Stop this right now!” Ross just clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Mom, has Peyton been feeding you stories again? Don’t listen to her nonsense. We’re perfectly fine.” He hung up. A second later, my phone rang. It was him, bellowing with rage. “You bitch! You really think you can use my parents as a shield?” he snarled. “Let me spell it out for you. I fired Cole this morning. No one is coming to save you. It’s divorce, or it’s death. Choose.” My mother-in-law gasped, a strangled sound, and collapsed, clutching her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart. It was a heart attack. I frantically dug through my bag, my fingers finally closing around her pill bottle. Just as I was about to give her one, a helicopter thundered into view, hovering a hundred yards away. Ross stood in the open doorway, Stella wrapped around him. In his hands, he held a hunting rifle. He calmly loaded a round. Bang. The bullet whizzed past my cheek and struck the pill bottle, shattering it into dust. The impact sent a numbing shock up my arm. There was another metallic click. He was aiming at me. “Ten minutes are up, Peyton. Are you signing, or not?” 2 My mother-in-law gripped my hand, her eyes pleading as she weakly shook her head. My father-in-law, his face ashen, tried to lean out to reason with his son. A warning shot from Ross tore through his shoulder. “I’m counting down from ten!” Ross yelled. “Ten… nine…” I looked at the two elderly people, both on the verge of death because of me. My voice was cold as stone. “I’ll sign. On one condition.” “You will send up a new bottle of heart medication immediately, and you will get my father-in-law to a hospital. This is between us. Leave them out of it.” “Deal.” A slow, cruel smile spread across Ross’s face. He snapped his fingers. A drone buzzed toward the cable car, the divorce papers clipped to its landing gear. I signed my name without a moment’s hesitation. As I reached for the bottle of pills attached to the drone, another shot rang out. The bullet tore straight through the center of my palm. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. It was Stella. She was holding a pistol, her eyes glinting with venom. “Ross, baby, her incompetence killed my parents. Why should hers get to live? I don’t think so.” She pouted, turning her face away. Ross kissed her cheek, his laughter loud and unrestrained. “Patience, my love. Did you really think I’d let her off that easy? That bottle is filled with rat poison.” My head snapped up. I stared at him, my mind reeling in disbelief. If Stella hadn’t shot my hand, I would have given that poison to his mother. Not even a miracle could have saved her. Seeing the look on my face, Ross’s smile widened. “I never planned on letting any of you live. What difference does it make if you die now or later?” He raised his rifle again, this time aiming at the hook connecting our car to the cable. Bang. The car lurched violently, now hanging by a single, fraying steel wire. The jolt sent my father-in-law flying out the broken window. His hand shot out, his fingers closing around the cable, but he was losing his grip. Dangling from his neck was a jade pendant, a family crest carved into its surface. Ross’s assistant saw it and gasped. “Sir, that pendant… isn’t that the Master’s?” he stammered. “The one he had made for the two of you from that emerald he found? Sir… is that really him?” For a second, Ross’s face tightened with uncertainty. But Stella was right there, whispering poison in his ear. “These people are all thieves, aren’t they? Peyton stole my place as your wife, and her father stole your father’s necklace. They’re a family of criminals!” she hissed. “Ross, you just called your parents last night. They’re in the Maldives. How could they possibly be here?” Her words were all it took. The flicker of doubt in his eyes vanished. I was desperately holding onto my father-in-law’s arm with one hand, my feet braced against the doorframe. A profound, crushing sense of powerlessness washed over me. It was true, they had been in the Maldives. But they had flown back overnight, a surprise trip to help me fix my marriage with Ross. They had made me promise not to tell him. We were all supposed to ride this sky-tram together. We had waited and waited, but instead of Ross, we got his million-dollar declaration of war. My father-in-law had lost consciousness. He was a dead weight, slipping from my grasp. My arm was dislocated, the pain so intense I could hardly breathe. But I couldn’t let him go. I couldn’t let him fall hundreds of feet to his death. I squeezed my eyes shut, my voice raw with desperation. “Ross, please, save your father! If you don’t, you will regret this for the rest of your life!” I never imagined he could be so monstrous. He raised the rifle one last time, aimed it at my wrist, and pulled the trigger. “Don’t you dare call that man my father,” he said, his voice flat and empty. “My father is in the Maldives. And I told you, Peyton. Today, you learn what it feels like to lose someone you love.” The impact of the bullet shattered my wrist. My hand went numb, my fingers releasing their hold. My father-in-law fell, a straight, silent line into the abyss. A primal, heart-shattering scream was torn from my throat. “DAD!” 3 The cable car was moments from breaking completely. My mother-in-law was hovering between life and death. I was losing so much blood that my vision was starting to blur. From the helicopter, Ross watched us, sipping from a wine glass, utterly at ease. Stella snuggled against him. “Ross, baby,” she purred, “let’s play a game.” He adored her. He would do anything she asked. He tweaked her nose. “Anything for you, my love.” A wicked smile spread across her face. She clapped her hands, and a guard appeared, holding a massive, buzzing hornet’s nest in a net. She admired her freshly painted nails, then casually gestured toward our car. “Toss it in.” The nest sailed through the air and landed with a thud inside the car. A living, buzzing cloud of fury erupted, swarming toward me and my unconscious mother-in-law. I couldn’t move fast enough. A hornet stung my arm, and the spot instantly swelled into an angry, painful lump. “I heard a rumor that hornet venom is a folk remedy for heart problems,” Stella called out, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I’m just trying to help your mother-in-law, Peyton. You should be more grateful.” She was enjoying this. She gave a signal, and a bucket of honey was splashed into the car. The cloying sweetness filled the air, driving the hornets into a frenzy. Gritting my teeth, I pulled a jacket from my bag and threw it over both of us, a pathetic shield against the onslaught. Ross and Stella’s shrill laughter echoed through the valley. We were their entertainment. The movement made the car swing wildly again. We were thrown against the bent metal frame. And then I saw it—a single, overlooked pill lying in a corner of the car. Ignoring the stinging insects, I lunged for it, my movements fast and desperate. I forced it into my mother-in-law’s mouth. Then, with a surge of adrenaline, I kicked the hornet’s nest out of the car. It plummeted into the canyon below, its furious inhabitants following it down. I collapsed, every muscle in my body screaming. My mother-in-law began to stir, her breathing still shallow. When her eyes focused and she saw that we were alone, she grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Where’s your father?” My eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t speak. I just turned my head away. She understood instantly. From the helicopter, Ross’s taunts continued. “Looks like the old hag is still breathing. Need some help finishing the job?” Another shot. This one hit the last remaining cable. My mother-in-law’s nails dug into my skin. Her face was a mask of pure hatred. She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a small, metal object. A flare gun. “Peyton,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Signal the Thunder Team. Tell them to come for us.” Her body was failing. The effort of speaking was too much, and she slumped back into unconsciousness. I didn’t waste a second. I aimed the gun at the sky and fired. A brilliant crimson flare shot into the clouds, exploding in a dazzling burst of light high above the mountain—far brighter and more meaningful than the million-dollar fireworks Ross had set off for Stella. The sight of it made Ross jump to his feet. “She gave you that?” he roared. A flare from the head of the family was a summons of the highest urgency. It meant the matriarch was in mortal danger. As a Sterling, he knew exactly what it meant. Once the Thunder Team—the family’s elite private army—arrived, there would be no hiding what he had done. “No,” he muttered to himself, his eyes wild with a new, murderous intent. “I can’t let my parents find out about this.” He reloaded his rifle and aimed it squarely at my head. Stella’s eyes gleamed. “That’s right, Ross! Kill her!” she urged. “Once she’s dead, all your problems will be gone.” Her words mirrored his own desperate thoughts. He didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger. Bang. 4 The bullet sped toward me. But another bullet, fired from the southwest, was faster. The two rounds collided in mid-air, exploding in a shower of sparks. A squadron of black helicopters, the insignia of the Sterling family’s security detail emblazoned on their sides, descended from the clouds, surrounding Ross’s chopper. The powerful downdraft nearly blew him off his feet. A man rappelled down from the lead helicopter. It was Ross’s uncle, Marcus. “Ross,” he boomed, his voice radiating authority, “what in God’s name have you done?” Ross’s face was a thunderous scowl. “Uncle Marcus, you’ve been tricked by this lying bitch! She stole the flare gun! My mother isn’t here!” Marcus ignored his protests. He landed on the helicopter’s skid, reached across, and slapped Ross hard across the face. “Insolence!” he roared. “Have you forgotten all the rules you were taught? How dare you speak back to me!” His voice was like a whip crack. Ross, though seething, could only bow his head. “I understand.” The Thunder Team moved with practiced efficiency, quickly airlifting me and my mother-in-law from the dangling wreck. As I was carried past him, Ross glared at me, his voice a low, venomous hiss. “You’d better keep your mouth shut, Peyton. If you breathe a word of this to my parents, I will hunt you down and kill you.” Before he could finish, his own assistant interrupted, his face chalk-white. He was pointing at the hand of the unconscious woman being carried onto the rescue helicopter. “Sir,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “the scar on her hand… it’s identical to Mrs. Sterling’s.”

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I was transported to a world of beast-men and adopted by the Serpent King. But then he found a new human female, one who could stomach raw meat. She called me delicate and spoiled. The King started forgetting to feed me, showering all his affection on the newcomer. My vision was blackening from hunger when I caught the scent of cumin-roasted meat on the wind. My mouth watered so much the drool was practically dripping from my chin. Following the aroma, I found a stash of wild barbecue and began to devour it through my tears. Suddenly, a net dropped from the sky. A beast-man shouted, “Chief! We caught something!” A fluffy little black puppy stared at me, its tail wagging furiously. Wait a second… isn’t that my dog, Buddy? 1 It was the third day Kael had cut off my food supply, and the hunger was unbearable. The table in my room was piled high with raw, bloody meat. I clutched my stomach, retching at the sight, when my nose twitched. I smelled it—the rich, smoky aroma of cumin-dusted barbecue. … Three days ago, we were celebrating our formal engagement. A human girl stumbled into the ceremony. The moment she saw Kael’s half-human, half-serpent form, she threw herself at him, clinging to his massive tail. She stroked his scales, shouting, “Oh my god, a real naga! And two tails! So smooth, so delicious… I could just eat you up!” Kael, cold and obsessive about his personal space, was disgusted. He was about to drag her away to be food for the others. I couldn’t bear it. I persuaded him that we couldn’t just eat people. So instead, he gave the girl to one of the other serpent-men. But then, things started to change. I’d be sharing a story with Kael, only to find his gaze fixed on the other woman. Her name was Zara, and she was… unrestrained. She embraced the local customs with a wild enthusiasm, eating raw meat and drinking blood from the kill. Like the other serpent-folk, she refused to wear clothes. She would plop herself down on the laps of males who already had mates, laughing it off. “We’re all friends here! Don’t be so stingy, ‘sis’.” The serpent females said nothing, but they quietly found new husbands. In private, they came to me to vent. “Anne, it seems only the King can resist that female. I guess our exes just didn’t love us enough.” “The King is so loyal. Only a truly powerful male can resist temptation and devote himself to his mate. You’re so lucky.” I went to Kael, suggesting that for the sake of harmony within the tribe, we had to send Zara away. He didn’t speak, just sat silently in the hot spring. “I’ll go,” he finally said. I nodded, my tone relieved. “Good. I’ll go make it clear to her right now.” Kael turned his head, his eyes flashing with impatience. “I meant you should go. Go back to our room and cool your head. Picking fights with other females… it doesn’t align with that ‘respect for women’ you’re always talking about, Anne.” My steps faltered. I tripped, falling into the tall grass, and stayed there for a long moment, my mind reeling. Kael, who had only ever spoken to me with tenderness, what had happened to him? When I finally pulled myself to my feet, I heard splashing from the hot spring. I looked back just in time to see Zara surface, a bright, triumphant smile on her face. “Hey! Thanks for covering for me! If she’d found out, I’d have been in big trouble.” A faint blush crept up Kael’s neck as he pushed her away. “That’s enough. Don’t come here again. This spring is for my mate and me.” Zara pouted, wrapping her arms around his serpentine tail and whining coquettishly. “But I don’t want to bathe with anyone else. I like you. And you like me too, don’t you? You’re already… reacting. Besides, you’ve got two to spare. One for me, and one exclusively for her.” She went on, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Your fiancée is just too demanding. Why can’t she adapt? This isn’t the modern world, you know. She should respect your culture. Powerful males like you are meant to have many lovers. Liking just one is so boring! I can accept that. She’s just too delicate.” A sharp pain lanced through my chest. I leaned against a tree for support, staring at them. Kael had chosen his name just for me, to complement mine. He had carved this very spring from the rock with his own hands. He couldn’t possibly agree. But Kael was silent, a thoughtful look on his face. The girl smiled and slipped back beneath the water. He didn’t refuse her. My legs felt weak as I stumbled toward the spring, my eyes locked on Kael’s. 2 “Get her out of there.” Kael’s jaw tightened. His body was tense as he told me, in a strained whisper, to leave. I didn’t budge. I grabbed a rock from the edge of the spring and hurled it at the dark shape moving beneath the water. Kael instantly snatched the woman from the depths, shielding her with his body. The rock slammed into his back. He grunted in pain, but his first words were for her. “Are you okay?” Zara, perched on his tail, wiped her mouth and smirked at me. “I’m fine. But look at your fiancée, about to throw a tantrum. You’ve really spoiled her. Real human females aren’t like this, you know.” Only a chosen mate was allowed to touch his tail, yet he had let Zara explore it freely. I reached for another rock, but he whipped his tail around, striking my arm with a sharp crack. The searing pain brought tears to my eyes, and I instinctively looked to him for comfort. Before, if I so much as got a paper cut, he would rush to lick the wound clean. This time, Kael just stared at me, his eyes filled with condemnation. The next second, his back went rigid, and his ears flushed crimson. Zara let out a throaty laugh. “What? All I did was give you a little squeeze. You’re so sensitive, it’s cute. Your fiancée never did that for you? She’s such a prude.” He was completely lost to his own body, his eyes clouded with lust. “I’m going to call your name three times,” I said, my voice low and shaking. “If you don’t stop, I’m leaving.” The first time. Kael frowned and turned, as if to say something, but Zara silenced him with a kiss. The second time, he tried to rise from the water. She hooked her arm through his. “She’s just jealous. Are you really going to let a woman boss you around? Are you even a man?” The third time, he didn’t even look at me. He just pulled her into his arms. I turned my back on them, tore the engagement circlet he had made for me from my head, and threw the pieces to the ground. 3 Back in our room, I started packing. Knitted dresses, soft cotton skirts, and even the clumsily stitched undergarments he had made for me. I spread them out on the bed. Staring at the clothes Kael had sewn with his own hands, a bitter, delayed sorrow washed over me. Tears streamed down my face. He had found me when I first arrived in this world. The powerful Serpent King, who used his lethal tail—a hunter’s weapon—to playfully weave flower crowns for my hair. In this world of casual nudity, he had listened to my descriptions and painstakingly found fabric to make me clothes. Here, eating raw meat was the norm. When he saw me retching at the sight of bloody flesh, he had wracked his brain, listening to my descriptions of cooking, trying to create fire with sticks, even capturing lightning in a jar. He learned to roast meat for me. A cold-blooded serpent, going against his very nature, enduring the searing heat of the flames. His arm was covered in burns, all for me. He respected my customs. He took care of me. So when he knelt on one knee, in the human way, and offered me the mate’s circlet, I had said yes. “Anne,” he had promised, “I will be loyal. You will be my only female. You fear the pain of childbirth and don’t want children, so I will forsake my own desire to reproduce. For you, I will accept the rules of your human world.” Now, those promises were like wounds that had just started to bleed, tearing me apart. I wanted to scream. I bit down on my own hand, trying to steady my breathing, but my sobs were uncontrollable, my whole body shaking. How could he stop loving me, just like that? Because of her? The new arrival? Was that all it took? I packed quickly, needing a clean break. But as I slung the bag over my shoulder, Kael appeared in the doorway, still dripping from the spring. The lust had faded from his dark eyes. They were fixed on my bag, a vein throbbing in his arm. “Where are you going? Are you this jealous? We didn’t go all the way.” I raised my hand and slapped him, a light, sharp sound in the quiet room. “In my world, emotional cheating is still betrayal. I don’t accept it. The engagement is off. I’m leaving.” 4 Kael calmly rubbed his cheek. Then he took my hand, the one I’d slapped him with, and gently squeezed it. “Don’t you remember, Anne? You can’t go back. We searched everywhere when you first arrived. We tried every method. You can only stay here. What home do you have to go back to?” He laid the cruel truth bare. My face was a cold mask. “I can go to another tribe,” I said, refusing to admit defeat. “A place where I’ll be respected.” A playful voice interrupted us. Zara came running up, throwing her arms around Kael. “See? I was right! She’s threatening to leave. In human society, that’s just a tactic to make you want her more. Let her go. She’ll be back.” Kael cut her off. He pushed me back into the room and called for the guards. “No. It’s too dangerous outside. Even if she’s just throwing a tantrum, I won’t risk a female’s safety.” Such noble words. After that day, I was under house arrest. Kael brought me food every day. Raw meat, raw greens. Still dripping with warm blood. The sight made me physically sick. It was Zara’s idea. A test of submission, she’d called it. Every day, after I finished throwing up, I would give the meat to the guards. At first, they pitied me. Then, their pity turned to disgust. “When she was the only human, I thought they were all this delicate. But since Zara arrived, I see now this one is just spoiled.” “Everyone else can eat raw meat, go without clothes, drink from the river. But Anne has to be special. Always going on about hygiene and parasites. What parasites? I’ve never seen any. She’s just fussy.” “Shh, don’t let the King hear you. He gets angry. She’s been on a hunger strike for days, and it’s making him miserable. Who knew a female could be so self-destructive?” It was the third day Kael had cut off my food supply, and the hunger was unbearable. My stomach was a knot of agony. I huddled in the corner, staring at the pile of rotting food, the flesh still clinging to the bone. It was disgusting. But I was so hungry. If I didn’t eat, I would die. I didn’t even have the strength to run. I reached out a trembling hand, fighting back the nausea, ready to grab a piece of meat. But then, a scent hit me. Rich, fragrant, and unmistakable—the smell of cumin-roasted barbecue! A sudden surge of energy shot through me. I stood up and followed the smell. It was coming from the bushes just outside the tribal grounds. 5 But there were two guards at the door. They were yawning, waiting for their shift to end. I gathered up the day’s portion of raw meat and approached them, my voice soft. “Here, you can have this. Not just today, but every day. Just… let me step outside for a minute.” They were hungry, but they shook their heads, urging me to go back inside. They didn’t trust me. “My Lady, if you don’t eat a single bite, the King will have our heads,” one sighed. “If you’d just be reasonable, even a small mouthful would be enough. We’re stuck here guarding you, and we’re going to miss the matchmaking festival tonight.” That was my chance. The two guards were staring wistfully at the distant celebration. I steeled myself, picked up a slice of meat, and took a small bite, swallowing it down before I could vomit. Their faces lit up. “My Lady, you’re finally eating! We have to report this to the King!” They were so excited they took off without a second thought, the half-eaten piece of meat in hand as proof. The moment they were gone, I bolted out the door, following the rich aroma of barbecue to a small clearing behind a thicket of bushes. There, on a large leaf, was a pile of freshly grilled meat skewers. They were still steaming. I threw myself at them, stuffing my face like a wild animal. Each bite was heaven, so delicious it was explosive. Tears streamed down my face as I ate, my sobs muffled by the food. Then, I heard a rustling sound behind me. I looked up, suddenly alert, just as a net dropped from the sky.

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I was dying, and the maggots were feeding on me when she came. The only person who came to see me was the one who’d sworn to hate me for the rest of her life: my daughter. I lay on the hospital bed, a festering ruin, and her voice cut through the fog. “You gave me this life, and then you took my daughter’s. I’m here to see you out. To repay you for giving birth to me.” Her voice was cold, devoid of the warmth I remembered from a lifetime ago. “In the next life,” she whispered, “I pray I’m not your daughter.” A raw, guttural sound clawed its way up my throat. I wanted to see her face one last time, just once, but my eyes were sealed shut with filth. The few people who came to my funeral were righteous in their fury. I was the mother who favored sons she never had over the daughter she did. I didn’t deserve a peaceful death. I’d refused to pay for my daughter’s education, tried to marry her off to some rich old man, and then, the final sin, I had watched my own granddaughter die in agony. My daughter, Chrissy, had cut me out of her life. No calls, no letters, nothing. The sepsis that was devouring me started after I donated a kidney. Now, it had invited the worms to finish the job. Only in these final, lucid moments of horror did the truth become clear. It had all been a lie. A meticulously crafted story designed by my husband. I had worked myself to the bone to send money home for Chrissy. He had pocketed every last cent, all while poisoning her mind, telling her I was disgusted by her, that I wished she’d been a boy. Chrissy had disowned me. The world had pointed its finger and called me a monster. I died with a heart full of unresolved rage, a scream trapped in my rotting lungs. Then, I opened my eyes. And I was back on the day I agreed to donate my kidney to my granddaughter. 1 My husband, Mark, sat beside me, his face a mask of performative anger. “Chrissy has some nerve,” he seethed. “She hasn’t called you in what, seven, eight years? Didn’t even invite her own mother to her wedding. Now, out of the blue, she needs you to give up a kidney for her kid.” He continued his tirade, a perfect portrait of a wronged father. “You worked ten-hour days for her, eating meat once a month so you could send every penny of your paycheck back home. And what did you get for it? She cut you out of her life.” Mark took my hand. His touch was warm, but all I could see were these same hands, years from now, pinching his nose in disgust as he stood over my decaying body. “But Lily is your granddaughter,” he sighed, softening his tone. “She’s our only blood.” He saw the faraway look in my eyes and his patience wore thin. He stood up, pacing the small room. “It’s just one kidney, Rachel. You’ve got a spare. Can you please put your personal feelings aside for a minute? Your granddaughter is running out of time.” He stopped and looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Chrissy must be desperate, or she never would have called. Do you really want to push her to the edge?” A bitter hatred, cold and sharp, rose in my chest. In this moment, Mark was the loving father, the concerned husband. But I knew the truth. I knew that the moment I agreed, he would turn around and sell my kidney to the highest bidder. In my last life, my daughter waited, clinging to a final thread of hope. The news she received was that her mother was demanding three hundred thousand dollars for the organ. A sum she could never afford. My granddaughter, Lily, missed her window for a transplant. She died in pain. This was his pattern. He was the wedge, the poison. I remembered when Chrissy went into early labor. The moment I heard, I dropped everything and booked the first flight home. But Mark was there, waiting at the hospital entrance, and he physically blocked my path. “Are you trying to kill her?” he’d hissed, his grip like iron on my arm. “The stress of seeing you right now could cause a complication. You could kill them both.” He let go of me, his voice turning cold. “She made me promise. She said if she died on that table, it had nothing to do with you. Unless, of course, you were willing to pay up.” The word die shattered me. I collapsed into sobs, pulling out my checkbook, my hands shaking so badly I could barely write. I gave him every penny I had in savings. Just save her, I begged. Please, just save my daughter. Mark took the check and disappeared inside. It was the kind of bitter January cold that seeps into your bones, but I knelt on the frozen pavement by the entrance, praying to every god I could name. Take me. Take my life, but spare my daughter. I don’t know how long I knelt there. Hours, maybe. Eventually, through the haze of my grief, I heard the faint cry of a newborn. A moment later, my phone rang. It was Mark. “She did it,” he said, his voice flat. “A girl. Mother and daughter are fine. You’re a grandmother.” I hadn’t even finished my sigh of relief when he spoke again. “Chrissy knows you’re downstairs. She’s getting agitated, says she wants you to go. She can’t get worked up right now, Rachel. You need to leave.” I pulled myself up, my legs so swollen and numb they felt like stumps. I gave the hospital one last look over my shoulder, then turned for home. I had been so angry, so hurt. I’d asked myself a thousand times what more I could possibly do to earn her love. But then I would trace the faint, silvery line of the C-section scar on my stomach, and the anger would dissolve like smoke, leaving only a prayer for her happiness. Now I knew. The architect of all my pain was my own husband. He resented our daughter for not being a son, and he coveted the money I earned. He told Chrissy I hated her gender, that I’d tried to abort her. The money I sent home, he squandered. And while our daughter was working her way through community college, he told her I was trying to marry her off to some rich old man for a payout. Mark must have seen the look in my eyes, because he stopped pacing and his voice softened again, feigning sincerity. “Look, just… do this for me,” he said, his eyes welling up with fake tears. “Maybe if you agree to the donation, this can be a new start for you and Chrissy. Maybe you can finally fix things.” He was the image of a devoted father, desperate to heal his broken family. I blinked hard, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill. This time, they were not tears of sorrow, but of rage. “Alright,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ll do it.” 2 Mark practically jumped for joy. He gave me a quick, hard hug before turning to leave. “I’m going to call Chrissy right now and give her the good news. Lily is saved!” He wasn’t going to call Chrissy. He was going to call the buyer. Three hundred thousand dollars for one kidney. Just enough to pay for the gender-selection IVF treatments he and his mistress had been planning, enough to guarantee the son he’d always craved. Even the thirteen thousand dollars I’d given him when Chrissy was in labor—that money had gone straight into his mistress’s pocket. All I had to my name had been turned into a cheap, almost insulting gift. He had shown up to Chrissy’s hospital room with a sad little gift basket from the hospital gift shop. And as he handed it to her, he’d continued to poison me in her eyes. “I told your mother you were in labor,” he had said, his voice heavy with false regret. “The first thing she asked was if it was a boy or a girl. When I told her it was a girl… Rachel just kept saying how embarrassing it was.” He’d paused, shaking his head as if ashamed. “I know I shouldn’t be bad-mouthing your mother to you, Chrissy, but what she said was horrible. That a ‘wasted effort’ had produced another ‘wasted effort.’ That she couldn’t show her face in public.” He’d placed the tacky basket on her bedside table. “She said saving a baby girl was a waste of social resources. That it would be better to just let her go. She swore she would never acknowledge this grandchild.” He’d sighed. “She wouldn’t even come inside. She just handed me this and left.” His words had ignited a firestorm. My daughter’s new in-laws were ready to come find me and tear me limb from limb. But Chrissy had just stared blankly ahead, rocking her crying newborn, her voice a hollow shell. “As far as I’m concerned,” she’d said, “my mother died the day she tried to sell me to that old man.” At the time, I’d gone home and fallen into a fever that lasted a week. After that, I was too scared to call her. I became a ghost, watching her life through the blurry lens of social media, trying to soothe the constant ache in my heart. I worked even harder, sending more money, but the chasm between us only grew wider. Then came the call about Lily’s kidney failure. As the only family member who was a match, I hadn’t hesitated. I’d agreed instantly. And after the surgery, when the infection took hold and I was left to die, the only person who came to say goodbye was the daughter who hated me most. Only then did I finally understand. Mark had been lying to me, to her, for over twenty years. His lies had destroyed our family. His lies had killed my only grandchild. My thoughts snapped back to the present. Mark was halfway out the door. I lunged forward and grabbed his arm, my grip like a vise. I looked him dead in the eye. “I’ll donate,” I said, my voice low and clear. “But I want Chrissy to come here and ask me herself.” 3 Mark’s body went rigid. He turned around slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Rachel, how can you be so cruel?” he spat, his mask of the loving father finally cracking. “You want to use your granddaughter’s life as leverage? You want to force Chrissy to get on her knees and beg you for forgiveness? You want the whole world to see her as the ungrateful daughter?” There it was. The ugly truth of him, raw and exposed. I let out a cold laugh. Before I could respond, the door swung open and a pretty, younger woman rushed in. I recognized her instantly. She was one of Chrissy’s high school classmates. And Mark’s mistress, Jessica. In my past life, as I rotted in that hospital bed, the bills went unpaid. The nurses called Mark over and over. He only answered once. I could hear Jessica’s theatrical moans in the background as Mark, breathing heavily, screamed at the nurse on the other end of the line. “If she dies, throw her in the trash.” “I’ve already divorced her. Stop harassing me.” I had tried to scream, to cry out against the injustice, but the maggots had already claimed my tear ducts and my vocal cords. I couldn’t even curse the heavens. Now, Jessica rushed to Mark’s side, steadying him as if he were about to faint. She turned to me, her face a mask of righteous indignation. “I have never in my life met a mother as selfish as you,” she declared, her voice dripping with condescension. “It’s bad enough you never cared about Chrissy, but to humiliate her like this? Now?” She glared at me, her voice rising. “Why don’t you just die, Rachel? You don’t deserve to be a mother.” She stood there judging me, this woman who had made Chrissy’s life a living hell in high school. She was the one who led the charge, isolating and bullying my daughter for receiving financial aid—aid she only needed because her father was stealing her tuition money. I stared at her, fighting the primal urge to tear her apart with my bare hands. “This is a family matter,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Who the hell are you to get involved?” I turned my gaze back to Mark. It felt like aiming a weapon. “All I said was that I wanted to see my daughter. Why does that sound like a threat to you?” My eyes narrowed. “You know how much I’ve done for Chrissy, don’t you, Mark? Or has something been going on that I don’t know about?” His eyes darted away, unable to meet my stare. Jessica’s venomous glare was fixed on me, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Mark shot her a look, silencing her. His momentary lapse in composure vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his familiar, blustering anger. “You know what, Rachel?” he snarled, pointing a finger at me. “If you don’t agree to this donation, right now, no conditions, we’re getting a divorce.” A laugh, raw and liberating, escaped my lips. “Fine,” I said, my voice ringing with a newfound strength. “Let’s get a divorce.” 4 The word hung in the air between us. The confidence on Mark’s face, the smug certainty that I would crumble, shattered into a million pieces. He lunged at me, his face contorted with rage. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, his eyes bloodshot. “I knew it,” he screamed. “You’ve been screwing around out there, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve been sending less and less money home.” His accusations grew wilder, more unhinged. “Have you no shame? You’ve disgraced my family, you’ve abandoned your daughter, and now you’re going to let your granddaughter die while you run off to start a new life?!” He was losing control, his grip tightening around my throat. I gagged, clawing at his hands. The room spun, a loud ringing in my ears. “Divorce is fine by me,” he choked out, his face inches from mine. “But the house, the car—they’re mine. You leave with nothing.” With a savage grin, he shoved me away. I stumbled backward, my spine crashing against the sharp edge of a table. A hot, searing pain shot through me, and I collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball. He and Jessica stormed into my bedroom. I could hear them tearing the place apart, drawers being ripped open, closets being emptied. They were looking for anything of value. My bank cards, the deed to the house, my savings bonds—Mark greedily stuffed them all into his briefcase. “If you don’t want to donate the kidney, fine,” he called out from the other room. “Find three hundred thousand dollars to buy one for Lily. In the meantime, I’ll be selling the house to cover Chrissy’s ‘emergency’ expenses.” By the time I managed to pull myself to my feet, they were gone. I hobbled downstairs, my body aching. The car was gone, too. But I didn’t care about any of it. All I could see was my daughter’s face as a little girl, her smile so soft and full of light. I walked to the hospital. When I reached Lily’s room, I pushed the door open gently. My granddaughter was so small and frail, hooked up to a ventilator. My daughter was slumped in a chair beside the bed, her head resting on the mattress. I could see strands of silver in her dark hair. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. I reached out, my hand trembling, and gently touched her head. Chrissy jolted awake. Her eyes flew open, and when she saw me, she flinched back, slapping my hand away. Her face was a mask of suspicion. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Are you satisfied now? The ‘wasted effort’ is dying.” Tears streamed down my face as I shook my head, unable to speak. Just then, a phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up with two words: My Dad. I grabbed her arm. “Don’t tell him I was here,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. She hesitated for a second, then answered the call. Mark’s voice, full of anguish and fury, filled the quiet room. “That woman is not a mother, she’s a monster!” he yelled, so loud I could hear him from across the room. “The second I told her Lily needed a kidney, she panicked. She sold the house and the car and skipped town, Chrissy! She took everything and ran so you couldn’t find her!” His voice became urgent. “Listen to me. I found another donor, a perfect match for Lily. You need to wire me whatever money you have right now. I’ll cover the rest. We have to move fast to save her.” Chrissy’s eyes widened in shock. She stared at me, then back at the phone, a wave of confusion washing over her face. In that instant, something clicked. A flicker of understanding, followed by a horrifying realization that turned her face a deathly shade of white. I couldn’t stand it another second. I snatched the phone from her hand. Two lifetimes of rage erupted from me in a single, guttural roar. “Mark,” I screamed into the phone, “how long are you going to keep this up?!”

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“With only $250.41 left in my bank account, I took a screenshot and posted it to my socials as a joke. “Giving up on adulting. Slightly used, great personality. Best offer.” A minute later, a message from Carter Hayes popped up in my chat window: “”Please accept payment of $20,000.00.”” Me??? “”Marriage.”” “”$20,000 a month.”” Hah, am I the kind of person who can be bought with money? My immediate reaction was to… Confirm payment. 1 My checking account balance was $250.41. I took a screenshot and posted it to my Instagram story with a caption born of desperation and dark humor. “Giving up on adulting. Slightly used, great personality. Best offer.” A minute later, a Venmo notification popped up on my screen: Carter Hayes sent you $20,000.00. I blinked. Then blinked again. A text message from him followed immediately. “For our wedding.” “And $20,000 a month.” “This is to satisfy our parents. We will live separate lives after.” What the hell? A laugh bubbled up from my chest, sharp and incredulous. Had my life suddenly turned into one of the ridiculous romance novels I secretly devoured? Was I the kind of woman who could be bought with a Venmo transfer? My thumb hovered over the “”Accept”” button for a fraction of a second. Turns out, yes. Yes, I am. With a trembling heart and shaking hands, I typed back the first thing that came to mind. “Okay, hubby.” There was no refusing this. Absolutely no way. Let someone else climb the corporate ladder. I was done. This dead-end job, this soul-crushing routine—I was so profoundly over it. They say a person without dreams is no different from a salted fish. But what if your dream is to be carefree? No one was going to stand in the way of my new career as a professional layabout. 2 Carter Hayes. A rising star in the business world, a man who had it all: wealth, looks, and a Midas touch. His net worth was in the nine figures. And me? Chloe Pierce. A corporate drone whose entire net worth was, as we’ve established, embarrassing. While I was personable, he was personally worth a fortune. The only reason I even knew a man like him existed was because my former boss had been desperate to land a deal with his company. To be more accurate, my ex-boss engaged in a level of sycophantic groveling that was painful to watch, but which, to my surprise, actually worked. For Carter to propose marriage to me, there were only two possibilities: either he was having a psychotic break, or this was his bizarre, one-man charity initiative. Whatever his reason for plucking me from the sea of anonymous faces, I couldn’t help but feel moved to tears by his generosity. I, Chloe Pierce, was about to become a kept woman. Twenty thousand a month. That was one hundred and twenty thousand in six months. Two hundred and forty thousand a year. In just one year, I could bank enough for a down payment on a life of blissful early retirement. I’d be skipping forty years of the rat race. I could already picture it: his mother, or perhaps a long-lost love—the one that got away—showing up at my door with a check, telling me I wasn’t good enough for him and demanding I leave. I could make a whole second bonus on the exit package. This was a win-win. Marry him? I’d do it yesterday. Forget just dealing with his parents; for that kind of money, I’d scrub his ancestral tombstones with a toothbrush until they gleamed. 3 That very afternoon, Carter and I went to City Hall and got the marriage license. I was the one rushing. An opportunity this good had a shelf life, and I didn’t want to waste a second. What if he came to his senses and changed his mind? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing out on millions. There was no emotion between us. We signed the papers, collected the certificate, and walked straight out, bypassing the cheesy photo-op station completely. Clutching the official document, a wave of relief washed over me. I felt revitalized, buzzing with a newfound sense of purpose. It’s amazing what a six-figure annual salary can do for your motivation. “Mr. Hayes,” I said, my voice bright. “Your wish is my command. I am at your service.” A frown creased his handsome face. “What did you call me?” “…Hubby?” I tried. The frown softened, replaced by a flicker of satisfaction. He nodded. “Good. We’ll stick with that.” “You got it. Whatever makes you happy.” I knew I was laying it on thick, but this man was my patron, my golden goose. I’d call him Grandpa if he paid me enough. “So,” I asked, “what’s our next move?” “We move you in.” Of course. The plot demanded we cohabitate. It was a shame I’d just paid three months’ rent on my apartment that morning. Non-refundable. I felt a painful twinge in my wallet. I packed a single suitcase, traveling light, and moved directly into Carter’s sleek, modern townhouse. Most of my belongings stayed behind in my rental. My reasoning was twofold: first, I’d already paid for the place, so I might as well use it; second, if Carter ever decided to bring home his real girlfriend for a romantic evening, I’d have a place to discreetly disappear to. See? I was already a thoughtful, considerate wife. Mostly, I was just terrified he’d wake up one day, realize what he’d done, and kick me out. I needed an escape hatch. 4 Carter left on a business trip the night we got our license. For a solid week, the sprawling townhouse was mine alone, save for the housekeeper who came for a few hours each day. And every single night, I woke up. From laughing in my sleep. This was the life. It was glorious. Husband away, direct deposit hits on time, no in-laws, no kids, no drama. I couldn’t stop grinning. This was the best damn job I’d ever had. My days were a blissful cycle of binge-watching shows, scrolling through TikTok, and playing online poker with my best friend. During that week, a viral TikTok trend was making the rounds, based on some old folk tale about a woman who waited eighteen years for her husband while living in poverty. I shook my head, screenshotted it, and sent it to my group chat. “A cautionary tale, ladies. Don’t end up waiting eighteen years for a man who’s out chasing his dreams.” Carter liked the post. It was the only contact we had since we’d gotten married. It seemed we were both on the same page, two pragmatic people in a business arrangement. That settled my nerves. Though I looked like a slacker, I maintained a strict daily regimen of self-reflection. My three essential questions were: When will Carter’s mom show up to pay me off? How much will she offer? How much should I counter with? I even bookmarked articles on negotiation tactics for just such an occasion. I waited and waited. Finally, a few days later, my phone rang. It was Carter. He told me his mother was coming to visit that evening. I shot up from the couch, my heart pounding. It was happening! The mother-in-law was making her move! Before I could say anything, his voice came through the phone again. “I’ll be home tonight to meet her with you.” I immediately shut that down. “No, no, that’s not necessary! I can handle it. You’re busy with work, don’t trouble yourself.” What was he thinking? If he was there, how was I supposed to gracefully accept his mother’s buyout offer? This was my golden opportunity, and he was about to ruin it. “It’s the first time you’re meeting,” he insisted. “It’s better if I’m there.” I refused. He insisted again. I refused again. After a few rounds of this, his tone shifted, laced with a new, sharp sarcasm. “What’s the matter? Is my being there going to get in the way of you taking her money and running?” Damn it. Was he a mind reader? How did he know exactly what I was planning? “My mother isn’t going to pay you to leave me,” he said, his voice flat. “Chloe, give it up.” I wanted to scream and punch a pillow. Instead, I forced a sweet, accommodating tone. “Of course not! I was just worried about your work schedule. But if you insist, then I’ll wait for you to come home.” 5 He’d said she was coming in the evening, but Carter’s mother arrived at three in the afternoon. She caught me completely off guard. I was deep in a nap when the housekeeper woke me. I barely had time to splash water on my face and run a comb through my hair before heading downstairs. I didn’t even get a chance to text Carter. She was seated on the sofa, the picture of elegance in a chic cream-colored pantsuit. Her smile was warm. “I’ve heard so much about you from Carter. You must be the daughter-in-law I’ve yet to meet.” I perched on the edge of the cushion opposite her, my hands folded neatly in my lap. “Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.” “Oh, none of that ‘ma’am’ business. You’re married to my son now. You should call me Mom.” I… so that’s where Carter got his thing about titles. When she learned that Carter hadn’t been home once since the wedding, her warm expression clouded with concern. “You poor thing,” she said, her voice laced with sympathy. “You must feel so neglected.” I managed an awkward laugh and told her the honest truth. “Not at all. I’m fine, really.” Honestly, I was better than fine. I was getting paid for this. How could I possibly feel neglected? But she seemed to think I was just being brave, that I was suffering in silence. She became instantly indignant on my behalf. “I’ll have him home tonight to spend more time with you!” My eyes widened in panic. “Mom, really, there’s no need.” She wasn’t listening. She was on a roll. “What’s the point of working so hard if he leaves his new bride all alone at home? It’s disgraceful!” She stood up abruptly. “Come on! Let’s go.” I was bewildered. “Go? Go where?” “To do some damage.” 6 I thought she meant we were marching down to Carter’s office to give him a piece of her mind. Instead, she took me to Saks Fifth Avenue. “Buy whatever you want,” she declared, sweeping her arm out in a grand gesture. “My son and his father are exactly the same—married to their work. So, we’ll just have to make them pay for it. Don’t hold back.” With that, she had a sales associate pulling the latest designer collections. So this was the joy of the truly wealthy. But I hesitated at the entrance. A single t-shirt in this store cost more than my entire bank account pre-Carter. My fun money wasn’t built for this. Eleanor—I mean, Mom—saw me lingering. “Come on, Chloe! Don’t you dare try to save Carter any money!” Ma’am… Mom… the thing is, it’s not that I’m trying to save your son money. It’s that I don’t have any of your son’s money. Or his credit card. I made an excuse about needing the restroom and ducked into an alcove to frantically call Carter. “Carter, code red! SOS!” “What’s wrong?” His voice was low and calm. “Your mom dragged me to Saks.” I was practically vibrating with anxiety, but he just gave a quiet, “Mm.” Mm? Mm?! That’s all I get? An “mm”?! Just as I was about to lose it, he finally spoke again, his voice smooth and unbothered. “Buy whatever you want. Call me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you both up for dinner.” “Right, but, uh… is this a reimbursable business expense?” I asked cautiously, terrified he’d say no. “I mean, it’s not for me, it’s for… corporate morale. You know?” A low chuckle came from his end of the line. “Yes, Chloe. It’s all reimbursable.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief. As long as it wasn’t my money, I was good. A moment after we hung up, a notification popped onto my screen. Carter Hayes sent you $50,000.00. My hand shook so badly I almost dropped my phone. A text followed. “If that’s not enough, let me know. Have to get back to my meeting.” “More than enough, thank you!” For rich people, sending fifty grand was apparently like sending fifty bucks. My God. The resentment was real. 7 Eleanor had the time of her life. The world of the wealthy is, it turns out, beautifully simple. Still, holding that much of Carter’s money made me feel a little guilty. So while I was picking out a few things for myself, I made sure to buy him a couple of nice dress shirts. Just when I thought our shopping spree was over, Eleanor made a sharp turn and strode into a high-end men’s lingerie store. I froze at the entrance. She beckoned to me. “Come on in. You can pick out a few pairs for Carter.” I… what? “Oh, I don’t think so,” I stammered, my face heating up. “We’re… not that close.” “You’re husband and wife, dear. No need to be shy.” She came over and gave me a gentle, motherly nudge. “We’ll each pick our own things. I won’t look, I promise.” With that, she propelled me into the store. Save me. This was a nightmare. Forget for a second that our relationship was purely transactional and we were nowhere near the “picking out underwear” stage. The real problem was… I had no idea what size he wore. I couldn’t possibly text him and ask, could I? ‘Hey hubby, what size underwear do you wear? Asking for a friend.’ Mortifying. But Eleanor was watching me, a determined look on her face that said I wasn’t leaving until I’d made a purchase. Left with no choice, I gritted my teeth and pretended to browse. Whatever, I thought. It doesn’t matter what size I get. I’ll just hide them when I get home so he never sees them. The second her attention was elsewhere, I snatched two boxes off a rack, threw them on the counter, and hissed at the cashier, “Just ring these up, please. Quickly.” 8 It was six o’clock by the time we left the mall. Eleanor had her driver drop me off in front of Carter’s office building. “I won’t intrude on your evening together,” she said with a wink, and then she was gone. I stood in the massive, marble-floored lobby, laden with shopping bags, unsure whether to stay or go. She had, very thoughtfully, arranged for someone to come down and escort me up to Carter. Before my escort could arrive, however, an unwelcome guest appeared. “Chloe.” That familiar voice. I turned. Oh, great. It was my ex-boyfriend, Mark. What a turd. We’d had an office romance. My pervy ex-boss had tried to use his position to get handsy with me. When I told Mark about it, his first reaction was to tell me to just let it go and pretend it never happened. “I’m up for a promotion this month,” he’d said, his face a mask of anxiety for his own career. “If you make a scene, it could look bad for both of us.” There wasn’t a shred of anger on my behalf. Only concern for his future. I just smiled, said nothing, and ate the piece of steak I’d been about to offer him. Go to hell, I thought. I broke up with him on the drive home and quit my job the next day. He was probably here trying to land a deal with Carter’s company. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “None of your business.” I had no interest in talking to him. I turned to leave. He stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “I got the promotion.” “So? And you are…?” I started, then switched back to English. “What does that have to do with me?” “I know you were hurt by what happened,” he said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “But I’m a manager now. I can support you even if you don’t work. We should get back together.” The earnest look on his face just made me feel sick. “Mark, I’m expensive. That thousand-dollar raise you got isn’t going to cut it.” “Chloe, you never used to be so materialistic,” he snapped, grabbing my wrist. His eyes fell to the designer shopping bags. “Where did you get the money for all this?” This was absurdity on a whole new level. He was lecturing me about materialism over a thousand-dollar raise. “Let go of me,” I said, trying to pull away. Just as I was wondering how to get out of this, my savior arrived. 9 “Chloe. Over here.” Carter was standing a few feet away. I didn’t know how long he’d been there. His gaze was fixed on Mark’s hand, and his expression was thunderous. I yanked my arm free and practically ran to Carter’s side, a brilliant smile plastered on my face. “Carter! There you are!” “Mm,” was all he said, his face an unreadable mask. “Well, shall we go?” Carter reached for the bags, but I swatted his hand away. “No, no, I’ve got them!” I knew my place. The moneybags doesn’t carry the bags. But my refusal only seemed to make him angrier. His face darkened, and he started walking toward the exit at a brisk pace. I had to half-jog to keep up with him. It wasn’t until we were in the car that he finally spoke. “Who was that?” “My ex,” I said, clicking my seatbelt into place. “It’s completely over. We just ran into each other by chance.” At that, the tension in his jaw seemed to ease slightly. If I didn’t know our marriage was a contract, I would have thought he was jealous. But I have a mischievous streak. His reaction was too good not to poke at. “Mr. Hayes, are you jealous?” I teased. “I thought we agreed on ‘separate lives.’” “Don’t be ridiculous. I was just asking.” I knew it. He started the car, changing the subject. “What do you want to eat?” “Whatever’s fine.” Half an hour later, Carter pulled up in front of a tiny, unassuming restaurant. “So, what are we having?” Without even looking at me, he said, “Dumplings.” I… okay. 10 The car rolled to a stop in the driveway of the townhouse. I wrestled the mountain of shopping bags out of the back seat, ready to say my goodbyes. “Thanks for the ride home.” As the words left my mouth, Carter opened his door and got out. “Chloe,” he said, his tone flat. “This is my home, too.” I was a little surprised. “You’re staying here tonight?” He shoved a hand in his pocket and stared at me. “You seem disappointed.” He saw right through me. I forced a laugh. “What? No! Of course I want you to come home more often.” “Good. Because starting today, I’ll be staying here every night.” In other words: your freewheeling, solo vacation is over. I could have kicked myself. Why did I have to open my big mouth? But Carter was the owner of this house and, technically, my husband. I had no grounds to object. Defeated, I handed him the bag with the shirts I’d bought for him. “You bought these for me?” “Yeah. See if they fit.” He sat down on the sofa and started looking through the bag. He pulled out one of the small boxes and examined it. “Ahem,” I coughed. “Too small.” I was still sulking about my lost freedom and wasn’t really paying attention. I retorted automatically, “How would you know? you haven’t even tried it on!” I glanced over. In his hands was one of the boxes of underwear I’d grabbed in a panic. Oh, crap. Because I never intended for him to wear them, I hadn’t even looked at the size. In my haste at the store, I’d just tossed the boxes into the same bag as the shirts, thinking I’d hide them later. His sudden announcement about moving in had completely thrown me off my game. My face burned. I snatched the box from his hand and hid it behind my back, trying to salvage the situation. “That’s not for you.” “Not for me? Then who is it for?” His voice was dangerously quiet. “Your ex-boyfriend?” He glanced at the box behind my back, a single eyebrow raised in mocking amusement. “He’s… that small?” “You—you—!” I was so flustered I could barely speak. “You’re shameless!” A slow smile spread across his face. “Size XXL,” he said, his voice a low drawl. “Remember that for next time.” He was provoking me! And I was not about to lose. If he wanted to play games, fine. “Why?” I shot back. “You need a two-bedroom apartment for that thing?” Carter leaned in close, his lips curving into a smirk, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Not convinced? You could always check for yourself.””

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My mother had her awakening after she divorced my father. Her new life, she declared, would be dedicated to loving herself. So she went to music festivals, flew to Cabo for girls’ weekends, and backpacked through Europe. She’d be gone for weeks, sometimes a month. What she seemed to forget was that the year of her great awakening, I was only five. Just a little girl who knew only how to stand in a dark house and cry for her mom. 1 I was in the middle of planning a graduation trip to Greece with my best friend, Chloe, when my mother’s name flashed on my screen. She told me she’d been in a car accident. She said she needed me. Her voice was thin and reedy, laced with a guilt that felt entirely foreign. But I didn’t hesitate. “Oh, wow. That’s tough,” I said, my tone breezy. “But my flight is in two days.” I paused, for effect. “Look, just… hang in there. I’ll be back in six months, we can talk then.” After I hung up, Chloe looked at me, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you don’t want to postpone?” I shook my head, turning back to the half-packed suitcase on my bed. “Nope. No need.” “But, Mia… that’s your mom.” I offered her a tight smile and said nothing. For years, every messenger she sent started with that exact line. She’s your mother. She gave birth to you. They’d tell me we were the closest two people on earth could be, that there was no wound too deep to forgive. The closest two people on earth. I used to believe that ridiculous idea, back when I was a child. It’s why, when my parents fought over custody, I chose her without a second’s thought. I thought she’d be the one to hold my hand while I grew up. That belief shattered on my fifth birthday, during a trip to Disneyland she’d begrudgingly agreed to. We were in a restaurant when we saw him—my father, remarried. The moment she spotted him, my mother was in the middle of snapping at me, shoving her backpack onto the stroller with a huff. “Mia, do you have any idea how much stuff I have to lug around just for you? This is the last time you beg me to come to this place, you hear me—” Her words choked off. My dad was sitting with a tall woman, both of them smiling so wide their eyes crinkled. Between them sat a little boy. For a second, I froze. Then, a joyful, instinctive cry of “Daddy!” started to form on my lips. Before it could escape, my mother’s fingers dug into my hand. Her nails felt like tiny daggers pressing into my skin. I looked up at her, my eyes welling with tears. “Mommy, that hurts,” I whimpered. She didn’t hear me. She was lost in her own world, her gaze locked on my father. I watched as her eyes turned red. The moment a tear escaped her eye and traced a path down her cheek, my own tears started to fall. I buried my face in her leg, tugging on her hand. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’m here. Don’t cry.” Her gaze dropped to me, a single tear landing on my face. It was ice cold. She reached out and touched my face, her fingers tracing a slow path from my forehead to my chin. Every inch, measured and deliberate. Then, her voice changed. “I never noticed before,” she whispered, her tone hollow. “You look just like him.” She stared at me, but I knew she wasn’t seeing me anymore. “He was a monster. I wonder if you’ll grow up to be just as disgusting.” I stared up at her, at the raw grief in her eyes, and didn’t understand. I just knew that the way she was looking at me sent a spike of terror through my small body. A sob broke from my chest. But my mother just wiped her own tears away, pried my fingers from her dress, and walked away. She left my cries behind her, as decisively as if she were leaving me behind. After that day, everything changed. The morning pancakes disappeared. I learned to wait, my stomach aching, until she finally decided to get out of bed. Sometimes, when the hunger was too much, I’d fill my belly with cup after cup of cold tap water. I never dared to ask why there was no breakfast. I never dared to ask why she always looked at me with that strange, cold expression. I just tried to be quiet. I tried to be invisible. Until one afternoon, I was playing with a puzzle in my room, my stomach growling, when a sharp, pungent smell drifted through the door. I covered my nose and ran out. My mother was just coming out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming plate. When she saw me, her face split into a brilliant, unnerving smile. “You’re awake! Come, try Mommy’s new recipe.” 2 The plate was a sea of crimson red, dotted with a few pathetic-looking pieces of chicken. I instinctively recoiled. Chili peppers. I knew them. One of her friends, a woman named Sharon, had once dared me to eat one as a joke. The prank ended with me coughing and crying in the emergency room, my mother holding me and sobbing harder than I was. But now, her voice was bright, almost manic. “Before I had you, I lived on spicy food. It was my favorite,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a strange light. “You’re my daughter. I bet you’ll love it too.” She picked up a slice of pepper with her chopsticks and held it to my lips. “Go on, try a bite. It’s been so long since I’ve had anything this good.” I looked from the pepper to her smiling face, my own mouth trembling. After a long moment, I summoned my courage and took it. A searing heat exploded in my mouth, rocketing down my throat. Tears and snot streamed down my face as I choked. My mother burst out laughing. The sound was loud and clear, a sharp counterpoint to my desperate, gasping cries of “Mommy.” From that day on, the simple, mild dishes of my childhood were replaced by a parade of glossy, crimson meals. Each one felt less like dinner and more like a test. She would present the fiery plates with a flourish, then sit back and watch, a look of intense fascination on her face, as I cried my way through every bite. I forced it down. I shoveled the peppers into my mouth like a form of self-punishment, a single tear rolling down my cheek for every swallow. And through it all, I would force a smile and say, “It’s so yummy, Mommy.” Because only then would she transform back into the mother I remembered. Only then would she gently stroke my hair and murmur, “Good girl.” Until one night, a pain like a hot knife twisting in my gut woke me up. I stumbled out of bed, doubled over, and knocked on her door. It opened, and her footsteps stopped in front of me. I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but her voice was thick with annoyance. “What is it? Did you eat something bad?” The pain was so intense I could only curl into a ball on the floor, unable to speak. After a few seconds, a hand landed on my back, patting gently. A wave of relief washed over me, and I started to lean into her, ready to be held and comforted. But then I heard her mutter under her breath. “Such a pain. Another all-nighter.” A pause. “I can handle spice just fine. Why didn’t you get any of my genes?” In that instant, I looked up. And in the dim light from her room, I saw it clearly: the deep, profound annoyance in her eyes. The doctor called it acute gastritis and said I’d need an IV drip for a few days. My mother sat beside my hospital bed, silent, distractedly scrolling through her phone. After a long time, she turned to me. The strange delight she took in watching me eat the peppers was gone. So was the irritation from earlier. All that was left was an emotion I’d never seen before, something that terrified me. She took a deep breath, her voice clear and steady. “Mia, you being in the hospital has created a huge problem for me.” I stared at her, confused. Her voice was flat. “Did you know I have an important lunch meeting tomorrow? It’s something I’ve been looking forward to for a very long time.” She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. “And now, because of you, everything has to be canceled.” My mouth opened, and a small voice came out. “I’m sorry, Mommy. It’s my fault.” Her expression remained cold. She said my name in the same tone she used to tell me to eat my dinner or go to bed. “Mia.” “I’ve had a lot of time to think these past few days.” Her gaze, which had been drifting around the room, finally settled on me, sharp and determined. “After I married your father, I had no life of my own. There were endless chores. After you were born, it only got worse. I was so busy, so tired… I hated the person I saw in the mirror.” “My life just… stopped. It was all about the two of you.” As she spoke, her voice softened into something strangely gentle, almost wistful. “From now on, I’m going to live my own life.” I stared at her, the twisting pain in my stomach miraculously gone, replaced by a vast, hollow numbness that spread through my limbs like a fast-acting poison. She didn’t seem to notice the terror crystallizing in my eyes. She just looked at me. “Mia, you’re a big girl now. You’ll grow up, and you’ll understand. Right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Maybe she didn’t need one. She reached out and tucked the blanket around me, a gesture that was almost tender in its detachment. Then she picked up her purse from the bedside table and stood up. “Press the call button for the nurse when the IV bag is almost empty. I’ll be back in the morning.” The sharp click of her heels echoed in the hallway, growing fainter and fainter until they disappeared completely. In the sterile silence of the hospital room, only one sound remained: my own voice, hoarse and broken, repeating the word “Mommy” over and over again. I didn’t understand what she’d said. I didn’t know what “living her own life” meant. But I felt it in my bones. My mommy was leaving me. 3 When my mother picked me up from the hospital, I clung to the hem of her skirt, my knuckles white. I hadn’t slept the entire night, convinced she would never come back. Seeing her walk through the door had been a dizzying relief. The moment we got home, a secret joy bloomed in my chest. See? She still wants me. But the second we were inside, I watched her pull a large suitcase from the hall closet. With a manic, joyful haste, she began throwing clothes and makeup inside. There was a lightness in her movements I’d never seen before, a smile playing on her lips. “Mommy?” I whispered, reaching for her hand. She didn’t look up. “Oh, I made plans with Sharon. We’re going to that music festival in the desert. I have to leave now if I’m going to make it on time.” I stood frozen. “Mommy, what about me?” She finally paused, her eyes skimming over my pale, sweat-slicked face without a flicker of concern. “The medicine is in the bag on the counter. You’re a big girl. You can take care of yourself for a few days.” A few days? The residual weakness from the hospital was instantly consumed by a tidal wave of panic. I grabbed her sleeve, tears streaming down my face. “Don’t go! I’m scared to be alone… my stomach still hurts… Mommy, please!” My cries were shrill in the quiet apartment. Her brow furrowed, the cheerful smile vanishing, replaced by a familiar, sharp-edged irritation. She yanked her arm away, the force of it sending me stumbling backward onto the cold tile floor. “What are you crying for? Stop it!” she snapped. “I said I’ll only be gone for a few days! Can’t you be a little more independent? Stop clinging to me all the time! I’m exhausted enough as it is.” Her voice rose, cracking with a frantic self-pity. “No one has ever helped me! I just want a moment to breathe! Why is that so much to ask?” The zipper on the suitcase shrieked as she pulled it closed. The doorbell rang. My mother’s face instantly transformed, the anger replaced by a bright smile as she hurried to the door. Outside stood Sharon, dressed in a trendy festival outfit, and her daughter, Jessica. Jessica was wearing a brand-new pink dress, clutching a beautiful doll, her face alight with excitement. Sharon’s eyes fell on me, and she flinched. A flicker of awkwardness crossed her face. “Oh, Mia. Look how big you’ve gotten.” I didn’t speak. I was afraid of this woman, the one who had made me eat the pepper. After that incident, my parents had a huge fight, and I hadn’t seen her since. Sharon must have remembered too. She gave a strained laugh and turned back to my mother. “Ready? The Uber’s waiting downstairs.” My mother grabbed the suitcase. “Let’s go, let’s go. We’ll be late.” They turned, laughing and chatting, as they walked away. My mother glanced back at me one last time, not with concern, but with a warning. “Be good and stay inside.” The heavy security door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. It cut off their laughter and locked my sobs inside. Through the thick metal, I faintly heard Sharon’s voice. “…Hey, are you sure about this? Leaving her alone? What if she tries to go outside?” My mother’s footsteps stopped. A few seconds of dead silence. Then, the distinct sound of a key sliding into the lock. Click. A clean, cold, metallic sound. From the outside, my mother had thrown the deadbolt.

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The divorce papers hit the marble table with finality. Conrad slid them toward me like a bill as I devoured a $2 donut at his gleaming dining table—its surface so polished I could see my own wretched reflection. Mrs. Gable served Conrad his Ethiopian coffee, the aroma clashing with the fir incense permeating the house. Nauseating. “Sign it.” He stirred his coffee, spoon clinking against china. A grating, delicate sound. I wiped greasy fingers on Lillian’s silk pajama pants (left here “accidentally”) before picking up the thick, gilded document: DIVORCE AGREEMENT Article 1: Rina waives all marital assets. Article 2: Vacate Siega properties within 24hrs. Article 3: No contact with Conrad or Lillian Vance. Article 4: One-time payment: $50,000. My name—”Rina,” a gift from my pretentious father who hoped it’d grant me clarity—stared back, mocking. … And the last one: This agreement is effective upon signing. Rina Williamson agrees to these terms irrevocably and for all time. I finished reading. The only sounds in the cavernous room were the soft sips of Conrad’s coffee and the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, where Mrs. Gable was pretending to be busy. She was listening, of course. Everyone in this sterile modernist mansion knew that “Mrs. Siega” was nothing more than a placeholder. A cheap imitation occupying Lillian’s rightful throne. And now, the queen was returning. The forgery had to be disposed of. “Finished?” Conrad finally lifted his gaze. God, he was handsome. A face carved from stone by a master sculptor, with eyes so deep they could make a dog feel cherished. The look he gave me, however, was colder than the one he reserved for the doormat. “Three hundred thousand?” I pointed to the number. My voice was hoarse. The donut, probably. “Not enough?” A corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk. A razor-thin, cruel line. “Don’t be greedy, Rina. You’ve done nothing but spend my money for three years. Three hundred grand is more than enough for you to crawl back to whatever dreary little town you came from and live out your days.” He paused, adding the next part as if tossing a bone to a stray. “Assuming, of course, you don’t blow it all like the idiot you’ve always been.” I looked down at the string of zeros. Three hundred thousand dollars. To Conrad, it was probably less than a rounding error on the watch currently strapped to his wrist. No, wait. That watch was worth over a quarter of a million. This wasn’t even a rounding error. It was an insult. But to me? To the girl whose family had gone bankrupt, whose father had skipped town, and whose mother was wasting away in a hospital bed—to a parasite who had no skills beyond being “Mrs. Siega”—three hundred thousand was a fortune. It was a lifeline. It was the money that could keep my mother breathing for another few months. My fingers tightened on the papers, the sharp edges digging into my skin. A dull ache bloomed in my chest, a phantom pain from a blunt knife twisting slowly. It wasn’t for Conrad. It was for me. For the past three years, I had been a canary in a gilded cage, fed on luxury until my brain had rusted shut. I’d willingly played the background character in his and Lillian’s epic romance. The cheapest kind of extra. Everyone knew he’d only married me to spite his family, a petty act of rebellion to show Lillian, who’d stormed off to Europe after a spat. Now she was back. And my role as a prop was over. What a fucking joke. I took a deep breath. The cloying mix of fir, coffee, and the faint, greasy ghost of my donut filled my lungs. “Fine,” I heard myself say, my voice surprisingly steady. “Pen.” Conrad seemed taken aback. He’d probably expected tears, a tantrum, the usual brainless smashing of expensive trinkets. He frowned but pulled a sleek, heavy-looking fountain pen from the inner pocket of his tailored suit. Sterling silver. He passed it to me. I reached for it. The moment my fingertips brushed against the cool, heavy metal of the pen— ZAP. A bolt of raw, high-voltage electricity shot through my skull. My vision went black. A flood of shattered images and sharp, screaming voices crashed over me, a tidal wave of someone else’s agony, drowning my already fragile consciousness. “Rina is such an idiot! She deserved to be used!” “Damn, Conrad is ruthless. Three hundred grand to dump her after three years.” “I heard Lillian is officially moving in next month. He’s having the entire master suite redecorated for her!” “Did you hear about Rina’s mom? She’s not gonna make it. When it rains, it pours…” “Sign it! Just sign the damn thing and you’ll be free! You can save your mother!” “DON’T SIGN IT! RINA, IF YOU SIGN IT, YOU’LL HAVE NOTHING! Conrad and Lillian will bleed you dry! They’ll cut off your mother’s medical payments! THEY WILL DESTROY YOU!” That last voice. A shriek. Raw and desperate, laced with the taste of blood and regret. It was my voice. But not my voice. It was the voice of a Rina from another time, another life, screaming herself hoarse to warn me. The darkness receded. My vision snapped back into focus. I was still in Conrad’s opulent dining room. The heavy silver pen was still in my hand. Conrad was watching me, his expression a cocktail of impatience and contempt. “What are you staring at? Just sign it.” It felt like an eternity, but it could only have been a second. Yet every pore on my body had erupted. A cold sweat drenched my back. The hand holding the pen trembled violently. Those voices… those images… If I sign, they’ll cut off Mom’s medical payments? Conrad and Lillian will destroy me? An arctic chill shot up from the soles of my feet and exploded at the base of my skull. That wasn’t a hallucination. It was a warning. A primal, instinctual klaxon blaring in my soul. Something inside my head… had just woken up. “I…” My throat was tight, my voice like sandpaper. “I need a minute to read this properly.” Conrad’s brows slammed together. “Rina. Don’t play games. It won’t end well for you.” “I’m not playing games.” I forced myself to be calm, placing the pen gently on the gilded agreement with a soft click. “Three hundred thousand dollars. To buy out three years of my life, to ensure I walk away with nothing, and to buy a promise of my eternal silence.” I lifted my head and looked him directly in the eye. For the first time, truly, without a trace of fear or fawning. A flicker of surprise, almost imperceptible, crossed his face. “This is a big decision. I think I’m entitled to read the fine print, don’t you? A man of your stature wouldn’t begrudge his… ex-wife… a little time, would he?” I let the word ‘ex-wife’ hang in the air, laced with self-mockery. He stared at me, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass, searching my face for any sign of a bluff, any hint of a stalling tactic. But my mind was a chaotic storm, and my face was likely a mask of numb shock. After a few seconds, he looked away, picking up his coffee cup and retreating behind his usual wall of cold superiority. “One day. Tomorrow. At this time. I want the signed agreement on this table. Otherwise…” He didn’t finish the sentence. The threat hung in the air, thick and suffocating. “Mrs. Gable,” he called out, his voice sharp. “Clear this table. This mess is an eyesore.” The housekeeper scurried out, efficiently whisking away my half-eaten donut and its greasy paper bag, her eyes darting towards me with a mixture of pity and… was that a flicker of satisfaction? The cold, hard truth of my position here. I pushed myself to my feet. My legs felt like jelly, but I willed them to hold. “Understood.” I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back at Conrad. I didn’t look back at the divorce agreement lying on the cold marble, a death sentence waiting to be signed. Step by step, I climbed the sweeping staircase, back to the enormous, empty bedroom that belonged to “Mrs. Siega.” My mind was still buzzing, those fragmented voices echoing like a swarm of angry hornets. “Conrad and Lillian have a suite at The Zenith Hotel! Room 1608! They’re going there tonight!” “Lillian’s pregnant! Conrad’s planning to use the baby to solidify his position at Siega Industries! Your divorce has to be finalized before he makes the announcement, or it’ll tarnish his ‘perfect’ family man image!” “Find a private investigator! Mickey. He’s cheap, but he’s good. Address is behind the old post office on Miller Street, third door in the alley, second floor. Tell him ‘The Magpie’ sent you!” “Your mom’s medical bills! All of them! They’re in the locked drawer at the bottom of your nightstand! The key is… in the lining of your old purse! Don’t let the Siegas find it!” “Rina! Don’t trust him! Don’t sign! You have to live! For your mother! For yourself!” That last voice, a desperate, blood-soaked plea, slammed into my heart. I shoved the heavy bedroom door shut, leaning back against the cool wood and sliding down to the plush carpet. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild, frantic drum solo threatening to burst through. I gasped for air, my hands and feet ice-cold, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. What was that? A premonition? Or had I finally had a complete psychotic break? No. It was too real. Every detail had the cold, sharp texture of truth. Conrad and Lillian at The Zenith, room 1608? Lillian pregnant? A PI named Mickey? My mother’s medical bills… I scrambled on all fours towards the ridiculously ornate, king-sized bed. The nightstand. The bottom drawer. There it was. A small, discreet drawer with a lock I’d never even noticed before. The key… the voice said it was in my old purse. My old purse? Like a madwoman, I flung open the door to the walk-in closet, a space larger than my old apartment, filled to bursting with designer clothes and handbags Conrad had bought to maintain the “Mrs. Siega” facade. My own things? They’d been purged long ago. In the farthest, darkest corner, covered in a fine layer of dust, was a large, worn-out tote bag. The one I’d brought with me when I first moved in. I dragged it out, its contents spilling onto the floor—a few outdated dresses and a scuffed Coach wallet. So old the edges were frayed. With trembling hands, I opened it. Tucked into a hidden pocket in the lining… there it was. A tiny, brass-colored key. Clutching the key, I rushed back to the nightstand, jamming it into the tiny lock. Click. It opened. Inside, there were no jewels, no hidden cash. Just a thick, terrifying stack of hospital bills. Payment demands. Overdue notices. Final warnings. My mother’s name, Iris Williamson, was at the top of every one. And next to it, a number that made my blood run cold. Total Amount Due: $47,860.00. The most recent notice was dated yesterday. “Failure to settle the outstanding balance exceeding $50,000 will result in the immediate suspension of all treatments and medication.” Stamped below was the hospital’s official seal. Red as blood. My blood. It rushed to my head in a furious, roaring wave. Conrad. He knew. He fucking knew my mother was in that hospital, her life hanging by a thread, waiting for money he controlled completely. He bought me million-dollar necklaces I never wore, haute couture gowns I hated, but he let my mother rack up tens of thousands in life-or-death medical debt. And now, he wanted to buy my silence for three hundred grand. Then, just as the voice had warned, he would cut off the payments. He would let my mother die to clear the way for Lillian and their precious baby. A guttural, animalistic sound ripped from my throat. Rage. Hot as lava, it vaporized every last scrap of my fear and weakness. It burned my eyes red. It made my body tremble not with fear, but with a terrifying, newfound power. It wasn’t a hallucination. The voice screaming in my head was an awakening. It was me, the disposable side character, refusing to be crushed by the plot. It was my own soul’s final, desperate roar against annihilation. Conrad. Lillian. You think you can get rid of me for three hundred thousand dollars? You think you can just let my mother and me disappear into the night? You have no fucking idea what you’ve just unleashed.

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At Serenity Dolls—a hyper-realistic adult doll showroom—seven men mistook me for an exhibit and assaulted me during my night shift. I bit one attacker severely, leaving him permanently maimed. The court deemed it “excessive self-defense,” sentencing me to three years. The day I was jailed, my fiancé Warren left me. The day I was freed, my parents received a video of my assault and prison abuse. One bashed their head into a wall; the other jumped off our roof. After burying them, the man I’d maimed returned, threatening to desecrate their graves unless I filmed something worse. As I lunged at their headstone, my college friend Kian stopped me, promising me a home. Seven months pregnant, I overheard Kian confess: “You hired those men to corner Stella, destroyed the footage, and fed cops false evidence. When she got out, you orchestrated her parents’ deaths and let that animal violate her again.” His friend asked if he regretted it. “I had to break her. Warren’s family would never have let him marry Peggy otherwise. This is the only way I can give Peggy the life she deserves.” Their words shattered everything. Kian paved a golden road for Peggy. Fine. I’ll pave one for them all—straight to hell. 01 “Those seven guys called again yesterday. They’re demanding three hundred thousand this time.” Kian lit a cigarette. “Pay them. I have another job for them.” Jack, his friend, was aghast. “Kian, are you out of your goddamn mind?” “Peggy is Peggy, but she’s married to Warren now, carrying his child! Stella, whatever her past, is carrying your child.” “You already caused her infertility by spiking her herbal tonics with birth control. She went through hell with IVF—countless pills and injections—just to get pregnant. She’s seven months along now. If something goes wrong, you could lose them both!” Kian finally shot Jack a sideways glance. “You’re awfully worked up about Stella. You falling for her?” A faint blush crept up Jack’s neck. “What the hell are you talking about?” But Kian, his mind consumed by Peggy, didn’t notice Jack’s discomfort. “Once Peggy secures her place by giving the Locke family their first grandson, I’ll make it up to Stella. I’ll take care of her.” As he was leaving, Kian paused. “By the way, is Stella’s baby a boy or a girl?” “A boy.” Kian nodded, a thoughtful, chilling look in his eyes. “A boy is good. If anything… unexpected happens with the Locke family, or with Peggy’s pregnancy, Stella’s baby could be… useful.” Jack was confused. “What do you mean? What does Stella’s baby have to do with Peggy and the Lockes?” A shadow passed over Kian’s face. “Nothing.” After they left, I clamped a hand over my mouth, my legs giving way as I slid to the floor. My heart felt like a block of ice. So, he was the architect of all my suffering. Kian. It was always Kian. And what did he mean, that my baby was connected to Peggy and the Locke family? A dark, formless dread began to take root in my soul. Terrified of being followed, I took the crowded subway instead of a cab. On the way, I called my best friend, Chloe, in another city, asking her to find me a place to stay. I told her I was coming soon. I was just steps from my apartment building when three men grabbed me, shoving me into a windowless van. When I opened my eyes, every nerve in my body screamed. The man I’d maimed stood over me. He yanked my hair, pulling my head back, and slapped me hard across the face, once, twice, three times. “Bitch!” he spat, his face a mask of rage. “Because of you, I’m a goddamn eunuch.” He leaned in close, his breath foul. “Little slut. Just wait and see what I do to you.” Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth. I didn’t dare cry out. I shielded my head with one arm and my pregnant belly with the other as he kicked my leg, a sharp, brutal impact. Another one of them, a guy with bleached-blond hair, snapped several pictures of me before dialing a number. “Mr. Locke? We’ve got your girl, Stella. If you want her back alive, bring five million. In person. Now.” A cool, detached voice answered from the speakerphone. “You have the wrong person. My woman is Peggy. And she’s in my bed right now.” The blond thug just smirked, tossed the phone aside, and ripped my dress open. He grabbed a beer bottle, smashed it against the wall, and held the jagged neck menacingly close, moving it toward the space between my legs. Just then, the warehouse door flew open with a deafening crash. Kian burst in. He moved like a phantom, a whirlwind of controlled violence. One against seven. It was over in minutes, all of them left groaning or unconscious on the filthy floor. “Stella, honey, are you hurt? I was so worried!” He apologized profusely the entire ride home. I just stared out the window, a cold, hollow feeling in my chest. It was all so laughable. Those thugs were terrible actors, their “unconsciousness” a pathetic charade. And Kian. His flashy moves were impressive, I’ll give him that. His performance of a deeply concerned husband was Oscar-worthy. Later that night, I drifted in a half-sleep, only to be pulled awake by the sound of Kian’s voice from the balcony. He was on the phone. “Peggy,” he murmured, his voice thick with longing. “I miss you. My whole body aches for you.” “It’s Stella’s birthday tomorrow. Will you come over? Please?” Half an hour later, he slipped into bed, wrapping his arms around me. He whispered into my hair, his voice laced with guilt, “Once Peggy and the baby have secured their inheritance from the Locke family, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.” After his breathing evened out into a deep sleep, my eyes snapped open, clear and cold in the darkness. A demon. I don’t want your apologies, Kian. I just want you in hell. 02 At breakfast, Kian brought up my birthday again. “I don’t feel like celebrating. You guys can go out if you want,” I said, my voice flat. But he insisted. “You haven’t socialized at all since… everything that happened. You can’t keep bottling yourself up like this.” “It’s not good for your mood, which means it’s not good for the baby, and…” I was too tired to argue. “Fine. Do whatever you want.” My plan was simple: when they arrived, I’d leave. But I underestimated Kian’s determination to keep me there. He locked me in the house. That evening, he returned with Peggy, who was five months pregnant, and a group of his friends. The way his friends looked at me made my skin crawl. Their leering eyes stripped me bare, and I felt a familiar, chilling dread creep up my spine. It was the same look those seven men had given me, their predatory gazes filled with sickening hunger right before they tore my clothes, right before the pain and the blood. I started to tremble uncontrollably, instinctively curling into myself. “Hey, Stella,” one of them sneered. “No need to be shy with us. We’ve all seen that video of you a hundred times. Gotta say, you sound pretty good when you scream.” “Yeah,” another chimed in, “and at the end, the way you were shaking… looked like you were really getting into it, huh?” “We’re all curious, Stella. How’d you get your rocks off in prison? Did the guards hook you up? Did they pay?” I couldn’t take it anymore. “Say one more word,” I roared, my voice raw, “and I’ll rip your fucking tongues out!” Peggy shot the men a warning glance. “That’s enough. You have to show some respect. After all,” she said, her eyes glinting with malice, “she belongs to Kian.” I stared at Peggy, her undisguised hostility a splash of cold water that shocked me back to my senses. She then turned back to them, her voice dripping with mock curiosity. “Where in the video did you see her shaking like that? I’ve watched it so many times, and I must have missed it. What’s the timestamp?” “Fifty-two minutes, thirty-seven seconds,” one of them answered immediately. “Clear as day.” Suddenly, the living room was filled with the sounds from that video—my desperate screams, my pleas for mercy, punctuated by the grunts and vile laughter of men. I clapped my hands over my ears, trying to block out the memories. Peggy pried my hands away with a sickly sweet smile. “Why cover your ears?” She gestured towards Kian’s smirking friends, at the noticeable bulges in their pants. “You scream even better than those dolls in the showroom, you know. Look, you’ve got them all worked up.” I slapped her hand away, snatched the phone playing the video, and smashed it against the floor. “Monsters! You’re all monsters!” Kian emerged from the kitchen just in time to see me shove Peggy away. He rushed to her side, steadying her as he turned on me, his voice a furious whip. “Stella, what the hell is wrong with you?!” “Peggy is pregnant! What if you’d hurt her?” I touched my own seven-month belly and looked at Kian, a cold, bitter laugh escaping my lips. “And where were you when your friends were torturing your wife? Are you blind?” My words hit their mark. He flinched, glancing at his friends. “Hey, show some class,” he muttered at them. “Don’t take it too far.” I let out another self-mocking laugh and turned to leave. So that’s all I was. A dog to be scolded, but still his property. “Wait!” Kian called out. For a fleeting, foolish moment, my heart lifted. I thought he was going to apologize. Instead, he grabbed my arm, his grip like iron, and dragged me in front of Peggy. “Apologize to her.” I looked up in disbelief, my eyes meeting Peggy’s, which were now filled with a soft, wounded expression. I turned back to Kian. “For what?” Peggy put on a show of defending me. “Kian, please, let’s just drop it. I’m sure Stella didn’t mean to push me.” Seeing the tears welling up in Peggy’s eyes only fueled Kian’s anger. He stroked her hair soothingly. “You’re carrying a baby, and she’s not blind. I think she knew exactly what she was doing.” He glared at me, his voice a low command. “Apologize.” I knew then there was no hope. He was blind to everything but her. Just as I was about to force the word out, someone kicked the back of my knees. My legs buckled, and I crashed to the floor, kneeling before Peggy. I twisted around. It was the man whose phone I had smashed. “That was a brand new, ten-thousand-dollar phone,” he snarled. “I’ll let it slide today, out of respect for Kian. But you’re going to get on your knees and bow your head to Peggy and beg for her forgiveness.” Peggy covered her mouth, hiding a triumphant smirk as she pretended to help me up. “Oh, Stella, please don’t. I couldn’t bear to have you kneel to me.” Kian pushed her hand away and repeated his command, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Apologize.” I looked at their hands, intertwined and secure. “Fine. You want an apology? I’ll give you one.” I scanned the room, my gaze passing over each of their smug faces. Still on my knees, I shifted back slightly. “In fact, since everyone is here, I’ll apologize to all of you at once.” 03 As they jeered, pulling out their phones to film me, I began. I bowed my head to the floor once, for Peggy. “I’m sorry.” My voice was dead calm. “It was my mistake to have ever crossed paths with you.” I bowed a second time, for the man whose phone I’d broken. “My apologies.” “I am nothing but a dog, and I’m grateful you would even bother to scold me on Kian’s behalf.” Then, I turned my gaze to Kian. A third bow. “I’m sorry.” Sorry that my pain could never compete with your masterful performance. Sorry that I deserved every bit of your venomous scheming. Kian’s face tightened. He opened his mouth to say something, but Peggy squeezed his hand, and his expression softened as he turned his attention back to her. Finally, I looked at the group as a whole and bowed a fourth time. “My deepest apologies to all of you.” May you never be reincarnated as human. May you all burn in the deepest circle of hell. Four bows. It’s a ritual reserved for the dead. One of them finally caught on. “What the fuck? You only bow four times for the dead! Are you cursing us?!” Peggy gasped, clutching her belly. “Kian! Is she putting a curse on my baby?” Kian’s face contorted into a mask of pure fury. He lunged at me, his hand clamping around my throat, lifting me slightly off the floor. “Stella,” he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. “Are you looking for death?” I stared right back into his murderous eyes, a defiant smile playing on my lips as I closed my own. “Go on, Kian. Don’t be a coward. If you have the guts, then kill me.” You already have my parents’ blood on your hands. What’s one more life? The hatred in his eyes burned hotter. His grip tightened, the force making the veins on his arm bulge. “Beg me, Stella.” I couldn’t breathe, my face flushing a deep red, but I refused to make a sound. In front of everyone, he was either trying to save face or break my will. He squeezed harder, determined to do one or the other. “Beg me, or I swear to God, I will kill you right here.” The others just watched, a silent, morbid audience. Peggy smoothed her dress, her gaze drifting to the gold locket around my neck. Only Jack seemed concerned. “Kian, stop! She’s carrying your child!” A flicker of something—hesitation? recognition?—crossed Kian’s eyes. With a final, brutal surge of strength, he threw me aside. “Stella,” he snarled, breathing heavily. “I had no idea you were so unafraid to die.” The searing pain in my neck was a stark reminder of how close I had just come to seeing my parents again. I met Kian’s hateful glare and laughed, a ragged, broken sound. “You really are a coward, Kian.” His face turned ashen with rage. He started towards me again, ready to finish the job, but Jack threw himself in the way, holding him back. Jack reached a hand out to help me up, but I flinched away. A pack of demons in human skin. The reaper is coming for all of you. Peggy pressed herself into Kian’s arms, her voice a pathetic whimper. “Kian, I’m so scared of ghosts and curses and… all that death talk. I know I’m going to have nightmares.” “I’ve heard,” she added, her eyes fixing on my neck, “that a protective charm can ward off evil things.” Without a word, without even a glance in my direction, Kian strode over and ripped the gold locket from my neck. The delicate chain snapped, cutting into my skin. “A venomous woman like you doesn’t deserve protection,” he spat, turning to Peggy. “Here. You wear it for now.” I touched the back of my neck, my fingers coming away sticky with blood. “The great Mrs. Locke,” I scoffed, “so desperate she’s coveting something that belonged to a dead woman. What a pathetic joke.” “Ugh! How disgusting!” Peggy shrieked, realizing the locket was a family heirloom from my deceased mother. She threw it to the ground with such force that the pendant shattered into three pieces. My eyes locked on the broken fragments. A violent tremor ran through my body. Kian’s face went rigid. He took a half-step toward me. “I’ll have someone…” But Peggy cut him off, clutching her stomach. “Kian, my stomach hurts.” Instantly, all his attention was on her. “I’ll help you lie down for a bit.” As they passed by me, while I was kneeling to pick up the pieces of my mother’s locket, Peggy deliberately stomped her heel down hard on the back of my hand. “Ah!” I cried out in pain. At my cry, Peggy stumbled dramatically, her eyes filling with tears as she looked accusingly at me. “Stella, I’m pregnant! How could you be so wicked as to stick your foot out and trip me?” She turned her tear-streaked face to Kian. “Kian, I think I should just go home.” Kian spun around and kicked me squarely in the back. “It was just a piece of jewelry! Do you have to be so goddamn malicious?” He ignored my pale face, my bleeding hand. He dragged me like a sack of garbage into a guest room and threw me inside. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through my abdomen. “It was Peggy,” I gasped, my face ashen. “She stepped on my hand on purpose.” Kian glanced at my bleeding hand and sneered. “You’d even hurt yourself just to frame her. You’re pathetic.” “Think about what you’ve done,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “Don’t even think about coming out until you have. And you can forget about dinner.” Peggy’s eyes fell on the phone in my hand. “It won’t be so bad. She can just scroll on her phone while she reflects.” Kian’s face darkened. He snatched my phone from my hand and slammed the door, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing in the small room. My stomach growled, and a series of sharp contractions began, each one more intense than the last. I screamed until my throat was raw, but no one came. The sounds of a football game, of boisterous laughter and shuffling mahjong tiles, drifted in from the living room, mocking my isolation. Sometime late in the night, I was drifting in a feverish, half-conscious state when the door to my room began to shake with a rhythmic, sickening thud. A man’s voice, Kian’s voice, pleaded, “Peggy, please, let’s go to the master bedroom. Your belly is so big… this is too dangerous. I’m afraid I’ll lose control and hurt our son.”

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Three months after my wife, Rachel, vanished during a ski trip, I saw her in a bar. She was laughing, her head resting on her best friend Ross’s shoulder. “I owe you one for this idea,” she chirped. “I’d almost forgotten what freedom felt like.” Her circle of friends kept pouring her drinks, asking when she planned to make her grand reappearance. She considered it, her eyes half-lidded. “Maybe in a week. Once he’s truly lost his mind looking for me. Then I’ll show up.” I stood in the shadows, watching her bask in her newfound freedom. Then I pulled out my phone and called a friend who works at the vital records office. 1 “I’m going to have Rachel legally declared dead.” “You’re giving up the search?” my friend asked, his voice hesitant. I lifted my gaze to where Rachel was nestled against Ross, a bitter taste rising in my throat. My voice was thick, choked. “There’s nothing left to find.” What’s the point in finding someone who’s determined to stay hidden? After hanging up, I returned to my own private booth. My childhood friend, Alex, saw the thunderous look on my face and pressed a glass into my hand. “Preston, it’s been three months. The chances of survival are practically zero. You have to start moving on.” I stared down at the amber liquid, a high-proof whiskey, and threw it back in one go. The burn was immediate, stinging my eyes, forcing back tears. “Alex,” I asked, my voice strained, “would anyone ever fake their own disappearance just to mess with their husband?” He looked at me with a mix of pity and frustration. “What kind of sick question is that? Only a monster would do something like that. They’d be better off actually being dead.” I wiped my eyes and grabbed my coat from the sofa. “You’re right,” I said, my voice hollow. “I need to let Rachel go.” I drove home. The house was, as always, silent. For the past three months, I’d dreaded this silence. I’d get home and turn on every light, make a cup of her favorite coffee, set out her favorite fruit on the counter—anything to pretend she was still here. I didn’t understand. If she didn’t want to be with me anymore, she could have just asked for a divorce. Why stage a skiing accident? Why the elaborate lie? I sank onto the sofa and picked up the two custom-made bobbleheads of us from the coffee table. I remembered the day she gave them to me, leaning against me, a playful smile on her face. “So when I’m not around,” she’d said, “these two can keep you company.” Her words from that day merged with the ones I’d overheard tonight. “Preston used to be fine, but after we got married, it was like a switch flipped. No drinking, no cold foods… he was always nagging me about something. So annoying. This ‘death’ of mine will be a good lesson for him. Maybe he’ll learn to back off.” Ross had poured her another drink. “See? I’m better, right? We’ve been best friends for years, and I’ve never been like that.” “Totally. You’re the best guy friend a girl could ask for.” They called each other ‘best friends,’ but under the table, their legs were tangled together. The memory made my stomach churn. I tossed the bobbleheads into the trash can, picked up my phone, and sent out a group text. Rachel passed away in an accident three months ago. A memorial service will be held in one week. Almost immediately, my phone lit up with a barrage of texts from her friends. “They haven’t found her body! How can you hold a funeral?” “Preston, have you lost your mind? What if she’s not dead?” “If Rachel comes back and sees her own funeral, she’ll kill you! Are you trying to make her angry, Preston? You know what happens when she gets angry!” I ignored the first few messages, replying only to the last one. “She’s dead. How can a dead person get angry?” With that, I tossed my phone aside and started clearing out her things. For the past three months, I’d spent most of my time in the mountain town where she’d gone missing, searching. I’d rarely been home. The bedroom was mostly untouched. I pulled open her closet and froze. More than half of her clothes were gone. The only things left were out of season. A bitter, self-mocking laugh escaped my lips as tears streamed down my face. For three months, while I was living in a hell of hope and despair, sleeping in my car at the base of a frozen mountain, she had been coming back to our home, taking her things, bit by bit. 2 I pulled up the security camera footage on my tablet and fast-forwarded through the last month. Early in the month: Rachel, arm-in-arm with Ross, walking into our house. They left two hours later, her arms full of clothes. Mid-month: Ross carrying her over the threshold, bridal style. He didn’t leave until the next morning. Two nights ago: The two of them sneaking in under the cover of darkness, leaving just after sunrise yesterday. All of these were days when I was miles away, combing through treacherous terrain, calling her name until my voice was raw. Tears fell as I watched. Not for her, but for myself. For the fool I’d been, giving my all to someone so vile. While I was sleepless with worry, she was here, with her “best friend,” sleeping in our home, probably in our bed. My fists clenched, my knuckles white. I fought to control the rage boiling inside me. A moment later, my phone, still lying on the coffee table, began to ring. I was in no mood to answer, but the caller was persistent, dialing again and again. Taking a deep breath, I walked over and glanced at the screen. My eyes widened. It was her aunt. I quickly answered. “Aunt Evelyn? Is everything alright?” “Rachel’s not dead.” A second later, a video popped up on my screen. I opened it. It was Rachel and Ross, their arms linked, drinking from each other’s glasses, their eyes locked in a gaze so intense it was practically obscene. My breath hitched. My fingers trembled as I spoke. “I know.” There was a surprised pause on the other end, then a low chuckle. “And you’re still planning a funeral?” “Everyone told me she was dead. I believed them. A funeral seems appropriate.” Evelyn was quiet for a moment. “So, you’re a widower now?” “Yes,” I said. Evelyn was Rachel’s aunt by marriage, and younger than Rachel by a year. We’d barely ever interacted. But she was the first person to tell me the truth. I owed her for that. “Aunt Evelyn, if you have the time, you’re welcome to come and pay your respects in seven days.” “Of course. I’ll be there.” Another video arrived. This time, someone in the bar was showing Rachel my group text on their phone. She slammed her glass down, shattering it on the table. Ross flinched, then wrapped an arm around her, whispering something in her ear. The bar was too loud for me to hear, but I saw Rachel’s anger visibly melt away. She buried her face in his chest. She must have been furious about the funeral announcement. But it was stunning to see how quickly Ross could calm her down. Whenever she was angry with me, it took a full night of me “reflecting on my mistakes” and a groveling apology before she would even consider forgiving me. I closed my stinging eyes and saved both videos. Just as I was about to put my phone away, a call came in. It was Ross. I answered, and the blaring music of the bar assaulted my ears. “Preston, you’re holding a funeral for Rachel?” he yelled over the noise. “Are you insane? I’m telling you, cancel it! Or you’ll be sorry when she gets back!” I hung up before he could finish and, grabbing a blanket, curled up on the sofa. It was the most peaceful night’s sleep I’d had in three months. The next morning, I took my documents to the records office and had Rachel’s legal status updated. After that, I drove to Ross’s apartment. His door was closed. I rang the bell again and again until it finally swung open. He stood there in a bathrobe, leaning against the doorframe. A trail of fresh, angry-red marks snaked up his neck, disappearing under the collar. “Preston? What are you doing here?” My gaze shifted from his neck to his face, meeting his contemptuous stare. “I came to invite you to Rachel’s funeral. As her best friend, I thought you should be there.” Ross scoffed. “Preston, you’re her husband! She’s missing, no body, no trace, and instead of looking for her, you’re burying her?” “What if she’s not dead? You’re basically wishing death on her! What kind of husband does that?” I pulled the newly issued death certificate from my jacket. “She’s been buried in snow for three months. I couldn’t find her, so I had her declared dead.” A humorless smile touched my lips. “Besides, weren’t you all telling me to move on?” When the news first broke, I had fainted. I woke up the next morning surrounded by Rachel’s friends, all of them wearing solemn masks. “Preston, the area where she went missing is treacherous. It’s almost impossible to find anyone. Maybe you should just let it go.” “Yeah, it’s too dangerous. You can’t go up there.” I’d ignored them, booked a flight, hired a search and rescue team, and disappeared into the mountains for two weeks, searching relentlessly. I hadn’t noticed it then, but now I remembered. There had been no real concern in their eyes. Only a glint of amusement. As I stood there, a loud crash came from inside Ross’s apartment. His face paled. “Preston, don’t you dare pull any stunts!” he threatened. “Rachel won’t let you get away with it when she comes back!” Just like the night before, I acted as if I hadn’t heard a thing. Ross shot me a furious glare and slammed the door in my face. 3 The sound of a heated argument drifted through the closed door. So, hearing that her legal identity had been erased was enough to finally rattle Rachel. But she wasn’t going to find me. She’d been missing for three months. It was only fair I disappear for a few days myself. I grabbed the suitcase I’d already packed and had Alex book me a hotel room for a week under his name. For the next few days, my only activities were arranging the funeral and hiding out in my room. When Alex came to visit, he was grinning from ear to ear. “Heard someone’s been looking for you. Tearing the whole city apart, apparently.” I glanced at the missing person’s report flashing on the hotel TV screen, a small smile playing on my lips. “Let her. If I don’t want to be found, she won’t find me. She was the one who said she’d only reappear when I’d gone mad looking for her. Why the sudden impatience?” “Serves her right!” Alex spat. “I don’t know how such a venomous woman can even exist!” He was getting worked up. I cut him off. “Enough. It’s my wife’s funeral today. I should be sad.” I went into the bathroom and studied my reflection. I hadn’t shaved or combed my hair. I looked haggard, grief-stricken. Perfect. After confirming with Alex that I looked sufficiently devastated, we headed to the funeral home. On the way, I handed him a USB drive containing the videos of Rachel. “Play these when I give you the signal,” I instructed. Only then did I send out a group text with the address. Evelyn was the first to arrive. She stepped out of her car in a chic black dress, took a white memorial flower from me, and pinned it to her sleeve. “My condolences,” she said, her expression perfectly solemn. Next came a stream of relatives and friends who knew nothing. Their grief was genuine, and seeing it twisted a knife in my gut. Rachel, look how many hearts you’ve broken with your little game. Today, you’re going to start paying for it. Then, her so-called best friends arrived. Their faces were pale, their hands trembling as they took the white flowers from me. Finally, one of them pulled me aside. “Preston! Stop this! Rachel’s not dead! She’s been going crazy looking for you! Haven’t you seen the missing person alerts on TV?” I blinked, forcing out a couple of tears. “Don’t try to comfort me. I know Ross was the one who posted those.” “She’s gone. I can’t live with the hope that she’s still alive.” She started to say something else, but I gave Alex a look, and he quickly led her to a seat. When it seemed like most of the guests had arrived, I stepped up to the podium and tapped the microphone. “Thank you all for coming today to mourn the passing of my beloved wife…” My words were cut off by a furious shout from the back of the room. “Preston! Have you lost your mind? I told you, Rachel’s not dead!” Ross stood in the doorway, his eyes burning with rage. “What kind of husband are you? She’s been missing for three months, and you’re holding a funeral without even finding a body? I won’t allow it!” I scanned the entrance behind him. No sign of Rachel. Even now, she wouldn’t show herself. I looked down at Ross from the podium, my voice cold. “You won’t allow it? Who are you to not allow it? Like you said, I’m her husband.” Ross’s eyes widened, filling with tears. “How can you be so heartless? Rachel loved you with all her heart, and you’re just casually declaring her dead?” “What if she’s not dead?” My gaze dropped to the love bites still visible on his neck. A small smile touched my lips. “Even if she’s not dead, a cheating wife isn’t worth my time.” As the words hung in the air, I signaled for security to escort Ross to a seat and continued with the service. I had just opened my mouth to speak again when a disheveled, gaunt figure appeared in the doorway. She stood there, her voice choked with emotion. “Honey, I’m not dead. I’m back.” 4 Rachel ran towards me, throwing her arms around me, her body trembling as she whispered my name. “Preston, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” “That day on the slopes… I fell. I had multiple fractures. A kind stranger found me and took me to a hospital. It took me three months to recover enough to come back to you.” “I’m not dead, see? I’m fine!” She grabbed my hand and ran it over her body, as if to prove her story of a near-death experience. I just watched her performance, my expression cold. When she finally started to look uncomfortable, a laugh escaped my lips. “Are you done with your act?” “Was the kind stranger who took you to the hospital named Ross, by any chance?” Rachel’s expression froze, cracking like thin ice. She forced a helpless smile. “Preston, what are you talking about? I don’t understand.” I looked at her feigned innocence, and three months of pent-up anger and grief finally erupted. I slapped her across the face. “You managed to hide for three months. Why not keep hiding?” “Weren’t you going to wait until I’d gone mad looking for you? I’m not mad yet, so why are you here?” She stared at me, stunned. “How did you know?” I smiled. “I know a lot of things.” I turned and gestured to the large screen behind the podium. It was meant to display photos of the deceased. Instead, I used it to play my videos. The video of her and Ross drinking arm-in-arm at the bar. The footage of them entering my house, time and time again. And a clip I’d taken myself after leaving Ross’s apartment, of the two of them walking out together, her arm linked through his. Rachel watched her own face on the screen, the color draining from hers. “How did you find out?” she hissed. “Who told you!” Her gaze swept across the room, landing on everyone who knew the truth. “Was it you? Are you trying to destroy my marriage?” The accused all shook their heads, and she turned back to me, her expression shifting back to desperate pleading. “Honey, I don’t know who sent you those, but they have to be fakes! AI-generated! I love you so much, how could I ever betray you?” She pulled a small, woven good-luck charm from her pocket. “See? I even remembered to bring you back a gift!” I stared at the charm without a word. My friend Alex, however, found the bar video, zoomed in on Ross’s neck, and projected the image onto the screen. He was wearing an identical charm. Rachel’s face darkened. I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “We’re at this point, and you’re still trying to lie your way out of it?” “Those videos… I saw some of it with my own eyes. I even filmed some of it myself.” “Rachel, are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?” She stared at me, falling back on her old excuse. “Ross and I are just best friends.” I nodded, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. The kind of best friend you can sleep with. Low-maintenance, no strings attached.” The other guests were speechless. A funeral where the deceased shows up alive amidst a cheating scandal was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Rachel’s composure finally shattered, replaced by the raw fury of being exposed. “Preston, you knew I wasn’t dead, and you still had me legally declared dead. You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” “Yes,” I said, not bothering to deny it. I wanted her to pay. “If you want to have your identity reinstated, you’ll need my cooperation. So, Rachel, I’m giving you two choices.” I held out a set of divorce papers. “Sign these, and you can come back to life. Don’t sign, and you can live the rest of your life as a ghost.” Rachel’s chest heaved with rage. She snatched the papers from my hand, flipped to the asset division section, and then threw them on the floor. “Why should I walk away with nothing?”

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You won’t believe this. Me, a small-time influencer who plays the innocent damsel online, was summoned by Crestwood’s wealthiest couple. They slid a $50M black card across the table, begging me to marry their son. Why? Their heir, Aiden Graham, threw away his future simping for some broke campus queen. Mrs. Graham seethed: “That witch says no but leeches off him, funding her joke of a family like a vampire! If he likes her type, fine—we’ll find someone better at the game.” Insulting? Sure. But when that $50M card landed before me, I accepted my mission: Save the Simp Heir. Then I opened the target file—and laughed. The “broke queen” was my little sister Clara, the amateur whose tricks I used to dismantle for fun. My long-forgotten rival. … 1 The love story of Aiden Graham, the prince of Crestwood, and the so-called campus queen, Clara Bernthal, was the stuff of legend at Crestwood University. One was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a man who had everything, yet he humbled himself, worshipping the ground she walked on. The other was dirt poor but carried herself with an air of untouchable purity, staging a grand drama of rejecting the city’s most eligible bachelor nine hundred and ninety-nine times. This bizarre, third-rate novel plot had somehow earned the freak couple a legion of die-hard fans who had even started a fan club for them. The entire campus was obsessed with their “epic romance,” waiting with bated breath for the day the high-and-mighty queen would finally grant him her “yes.” Because of this, any woman who dared to get close to Aiden instantly became public enemy number one, torn to shreds by the verbal onslaught of his rabid fanbase. But I’m not just any woman. On my first day as a transfer student, I had someone leak a little message across the entire campus network: “Aiden Graham’s official fiancée has arrived.” And so, the second I stepped into the classroom, the welcoming party I’d expected was there to greet me—a bucket of ice-cold water, tipped from above the door, drenching me from head to toe. Soaked hair and a soggy mask plastered to my face, the sticky, disgusting feeling making me want to gag. The classroom erupted in piercing laughter. Just then, Clara glided in from the hallway, her signature wide, innocent eyes fixed on me. “Oh my god, are you okay?” she asked, feigning concern. “It’s all my fault. My classmates just adore me so much… they can’t accept you yet. That’s why they did this. Please, please don’t take it to heart.” One of her minions immediately jumped in, her voice dripping with disdain. “Clara, you’re too kind. Why are you even talking to this homewrecker? She’s here to steal your man!” A few guys stepped forward, forming a protective wall in front of me. “We’re the ones who threw the water! It has nothing to do with Clara!” the leader announced righteously. “You’re a parasite trying to ruin a good thing, so don’t expect us to be nice!” If it were any other girl, she would have already run out of the room crying. I, however, just sighed internally. All these years, and Clara’s little frame-up schemes were still so painfully amateurish. Fine. I guess big sister will have to step in and teach you what a real master of the game looks like. In the next second, with trembling, pale fingers, I slowly peeled off the wet mask. I gently swept the dark strands of hair from my cheek to reveal a face so delicate, so exquisitely pitiful, it silenced the room. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as they saw me clearly. Clara’s face went white as a sheet, as if she’d seen a ghost. My eyes welled up, a perfect shimmer of tears forming as I bit my lip. My voice, thick with emotion, cracked as I spoke. “I… I truly never meant to get in the way of your relationship. This engagement… it was arranged by our elders. I’m just a girl, I have no power… How could I possibly refuse?” “You don’t have to worry, Clara. I won’t fight you for him. I… I couldn’t win anyway.” I lifted my gaze, my misty eyes scanning the faces of the boys in front of me, my voice laced with a profound loneliness. “I just wanted to come to the city, get a good education, maybe make a few friends… But it seems like… like everyone here hates me… What am I supposed to do?” The classroom fell into a dead, heavy silence. The boy who had been so hostile just moments ago—Jake, I think his name was—turned the color of a boiled shrimp, stumbling over his words. “I—I’m sorry! My name’s Jake… I mean, I—I’d be happy to be your friend!” Even Clara’s minion seemed to soften. “Hey… don’t cry. We didn’t really mean it like that…” Clara was completely stunned. She couldn’t fathom how I, with just a few simple words, had not only defused her attack but turned her own followers against her, making them pity me. She glared at me, the string of her composure finally snapping as she let out a twisted, venomous hiss. “Aurora! You bitch! Why are you here? Why won’t you just disappear from my life!” I immediately flinched like a startled rabbit, shrinking behind Jake for protection. “What’s wrong with her? Does she… does she really hate me that much?” Jake looked at the unhinged Clara, his brow furrowed in disapproval as he instinctively shielded me more tightly. “Clara, what the hell is your problem? This isn’t her fault! Stop taking it out on her!” That protective gesture was the final trigger. Clara lunged forward like a wild animal. The sharp crack of her hand across my face echoed through the silent room. As my body tilted backward, a figure shot toward me out of the corner of my eye. Heh. And just like that, the fish is on the hook. 2 As expected, I landed safely in a strong, warm embrace. An aura of cool detachment radiated from him. He steadied me, then immediately let go. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice crisp and cold. I tilted my head back, my neck looking fragile and pale, my cheek stinging from the slap. But I forced a brave face. “I’m fine… I just lost my balance.” His expression faltered for a split second when his eyes met my tear-filled gaze. To Clara, however, that brief moment looked like something else entirely. “Aiden!” she shrieked. “Why did you catch her? Is that bitch using her cheap tricks to seduce you again?” She screamed, lunging at me once more, wild and unrestrained. But before her hand could even touch my clothes, Aiden caught her wrist, holding her firmly in place. “Clara, what has gotten into you today?” “Aurora is just a fiancée in name only, arranged by my parents. You’re the one I love.” “But if she gets seriously hurt because of you, my parents will only despise you more. How do you expect me to ever marry you then?” A flash of annoyance crossed Aiden’s face, but he patiently, gently tried to reason with her. Jake chimed in from the side, defending me. “Yeah, Aurora has been nothing but nice this whole time. What gives you the right to hit her, Clara?” Clara gasped for breath, finally realizing the situation was turning against her. She forced a smile that was uglier than a grimace. “I’m so sorry, Aurora. I… I mistook you for someone else.” I stole a glance at Aiden before lowering my head in disappointment. “It’s okay. In the end, it’s my fault for disturbing you two.” Aiden’s eyes flickered toward me, a hint of discomfort in his expression. He pulled a small box from his pocket and handed it to me, his tone curt. “A welcome gift. My mother told me to give it to you.” Then, he opened a beautifully wrapped gift bag he was carrying, retrieving a palm-sized velvet box. He presented it to Clara. “This, I bought with my own money. Whatever other people have, my girl has to have it too.” Clara’s tense expression finally melted. When she opened the box to reveal a stunning set of ruby jewelry, her face lit up with pure joy. “Thank you, Aiden! I love you so much!” Following her lead, I opened my box. Inside lay a simple hair clip from a mid-range designer brand. The difference in value was astronomical. Clara shot me a look, her eyes overflowing with smug satisfaction. “Wow, your hair clip is pretty too. Why don’t you put it on for us?” With the entire class watching, a few perfect, crystalline tears rolled down my cheeks. Jake saw them and immediately looked at me with concern. Even the smile on Aiden’s face faded. “Thank you for the kind thought,” I choked out, “but I can’t accept this.” Aiden’s brows furrowed slightly. “Why not?” I looked up, letting the self-pity and sorrow in my eyes pierce him like a needle. “Clara is the future Mrs. Graham. She deserves the best of everything in this world—designer clothes, fine jewelry, limited-edition bags… But me? I’m just a poor girl from the countryside. Being able to study at the same university as all of you is already a blessing. How could I dare to wish for things that don’t belong to me?” Wiping away my tears with a fierce determination, I turned and pressed the box into the hands of the girl behind Clara, the one named Becca. My smile was genuine and strong. “You’re so beautiful. I think this clip would look much better on you. Miss Bernthal has so much lovely jewelry, but she never thought to share any with you. As your friend, I want you to have this.” Knowing Clara’s notoriously stingy personality, I was certain she wasn’t the generous type. Just as I predicted, a flicker of surprise and delight crossed Becca’s face. “R-really? Thank you! No one’s ever given me such a nice gift before!” “My name is Becca. Aurora, from now on, we’re best friends! If anyone messes with you, you just tell me!” Thanks to my self-deprecating performance, not a single person doubted the sincerity of my gift. I even saw a glimmer of unexpected admiration in Aiden’s eyes. Clara, on the other hand, was trapped in a vortex of awkwardness. The hand holding the jewelry box was frozen mid-air, unsure whether to offer it to her friends or put it away. With that one move, I had not only won everyone’s sympathy but had also maxed out my emotional capital. Clara was now stuck with the image of a petty, selfish shrew. As I was leaving, Aiden actually stopped me. He pushed a credit card into my hand without another word. “In the end, our family owes you for this mess. Don’t put yourself down like that. Go buy yourself something you like.” I pretended to blush, the tips of my ears turning red as I gave a shy nod. Clara stood a short distance away, her eyes shooting daggers at me, but she was utterly speechless. It wasn’t until I walked off campus that I realized why she had been holding her tongue. Two middle-aged figures were storming toward me with furious expressions—my dear, biological parents. 3 “You worthless piece of trash! Couldn’t you just stay locked up where you belong? Did you have to break out just to ruin your sister’s life?” Before the words even finished, a hand whipped through the air and cracked across my cheek. The shrewish-looking woman, my mother, raised her hand for another strike, but Aiden stepped in, grabbing her wrist with a frown. “Ma’am, what’s going on here?” he asked, his tone wary. “Do you know her?” I clutched my stinging cheek, my body shrinking back, my expression a mask of fragile helplessness. “Sir… Ma’am…” I began timidly, “do I know you?” Clara saw her chance and rushed forward, her voice filled with desperate urgency. “Aiden, she’s lying to you! This ‘Aurora’ is my older sister—the one with the mental illness! Five years ago, she had an episode and tore our family apart. My parents had no choice but to kick her out! She’s obviously holding a grudge, so she changed her identity to get close to you. She’s here to get revenge on me and steal you away!” “I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I just told you, so I called my parents to expose her on the spot. We’ve caught her red-handed!” A triumphant gleam shone in Clara’s eyes. She looked at me with the pity of a victor. “My dear sister, it seems your condition has gotten worse. This time, I’m afraid we’ll have to send you to a facility for some… intensive therapy.” My father, Mr. Bernthal, immediately plastered on a fawning smile, bowing and scraping before Aiden. “That’s right, that’s right, my dear son-in-law! This wretched daughter of mine is sick in the head. She could hurt Clara! You can’t be soft on her!” With that, my parents grabbed me from both sides, trying to drag me toward their car. But I didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing any fear on my face. Instead, my eyes widened with an expression of pure, unadulterated envy. “If only… if only I really had parents. How wonderful would that be?” I slowly shook my head, tears pooling in my eyes, but I stubbornly refused to let them fall. “Clara, I know you hate me. But you’re like a princess. You have parents who adore you and Aiden to protect you. You have everything good in this world.” “And me? I’m just an orphan from the countryside. My parents are gone. Just being here, studying, is a gift from heaven. How could I ever dream of taking the title of Mrs. Graham from you?” “So why… why would you make up such a cruel lie to slander me? To grind me into the dirt?” Aiden listened, then stepped forward to speak on my behalf. “Mr. and Mrs. Bernthal, you’ve made a mistake. Aurora is the orphaned daughter of my father’s old army buddy. She grew up in the country.” He probably didn’t even realize it himself, but his tone and the way he referred to me had already shifted from dismissive to protective. My mother stomped her foot in fury. “You little liar! You lived in our house for over a decade! Don’t think I can’t find a single picture of you to prove it!” But the more frantically she scrolled through her phone’s photo album, the paler her face became. “How… how can there not be a single one?” Clara noticed something was wrong and leaned in, but no matter how hard they searched, they couldn’t find a single photo of me. What a joke. If I was bold enough to show up with this face, you can be sure I came prepared. The Bernthals had always treated me like a thorn in their side; they would never have willingly saved photos of me. Besides, with the Graham family backing me, any digital breadcrumbs that might have existed had long been wiped clean. “Enough! How long are you going to keep this charade up?” Aiden’s face was a mask of impatience. He already disliked Clara’s parents, and now, even his gaze toward Clara was turning cold. “Aiden, don’t you believe me? Aurora really is my psychotic sister!” Clara pleaded, panic rising in her voice. Aiden pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “I always thought you were different from your social-climbing parents. But look at what you’re doing now. Dragging your entire family here to slander an innocent girl, to pour salt on her wounds! Clara, you’ve disappointed me more than I can say.” Clara opened her mouth to argue, but I beat her to it, gently taking her hand. “Clara, I never had parents, so I understand that pain more than anyone. You must miss your sister terribly. That’s why you mistook me for her. When you have time, you should go visit her. I’m sure… she misses all of you very much.” With that single sentence, I cemented my persona as the kind, innocent victim. And as a bonus, I subtly highlighted to Aiden just how cruelly the Bernthal family treated their other daughter. I could feel it. The look in Aiden’s eyes had transformed from pity to something deeper. Heartache. And heartache is always the first step toward falling.

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