Category: English

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

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

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

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

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

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1 The third day my son was missing was the day my rival’s daughter got her new heart. Bianca flaunted it, beaming at me, so sure her daughter was destined for a long and happy life. But all I could see was the memory of her eyes, a venomous glint as she once stared at my son’s chest. I had to know. I had to know who the donor was. I became a woman possessed. My husband, a man who valued his public image above all else, was furious. He thought my frantic questions in the hospital hallway were a public disgrace, hissing that I was a lunatic. But I saw it. Through a crack in the operating room door, I saw the body of the child on the table. And on that small body, I saw the birthmark that belonged only to my son. “I need to see the body! That child is my son!” My hair was a wild mess, my voice a desperate, crazed shout in the sterile hospital corridor. A nurse blocked my path, her tone sharp with impatience. “I’ve already told you, the deceased is a boy named Aiden King. He is not your son.” Her hand was firm on my arm. “And without the family’s consent, you have no right to view the remains. Claire, please, stop making a scene and wasting our time.” Other nurses glared at me, their faces a mixture of anger and pity. “I don’t believe you. That has to be my Leo.” My eyes were locked on the operating room door, every muscle in my body coiled to burst through it. But a large hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back so hard I slammed against the wall. Dr. Hugo Grant, my husband, stared down at me with pure disgust. “Claire,” he seethed, “what’s the difference between you and a lunatic right now? Leo has only been missing for three days. Stop trying to curse him to death!” “And in those three days, have you, his father, even once asked for an update on his case?” I shot back, my eyes burning. A flicker of annoyance crossed his perfect face. “I’m not a detective. What good would asking do? Are my questions going to bring him back?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a contemptuous whisper. “This is just another one of your pathetic attempts to get my attention, isn’t it? Fine. You’ve succeeded. I’ll take tomorrow off to be with you.” One of his colleagues chimed in with a sycophantic murmur, “But Dr. Grant, you have a major surgery scheduled for tomorrow! What terrible luck, being married to a woman with no sense of propriety.” The small crowd of doctors and nurses nodded in agreement, their whispers like tiny daggers. My lips twisted into a sorrowful smile. My heart felt like a dead weight in my chest. We were in love once, Hugo and I. He pursued me our senior year of college. We married right after graduation. He told me his work was demanding, that he needed me to manage our home. So I gave up my career and dedicated myself to him. For six years, he climbed the ladder, becoming the youngest Chief of Surgery in the hospital’s history. And then, after a business trip, he came back with them. His childhood sweetheart, Bianca, and her daughter. Bianca’s daughter had a congenital heart defect. I’ll never forget the day she’d “joked” that since my Leo was so frail anyway, why not just donate his heart to her little girl? The look in her eyes that day wasn’t a joke. It was a promise. “Hugo, I’m begging you,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please, just let me see the body. He’s my son.” I knew Hugo’s greatest weakness was his reputation. So I did the one thing I knew would horrify him. I fell to my knees and wept. His face paled. “Fine,” he snapped. “One look.” “Absolutely not!” a frail voice cried out. Bianca was there, supporting a weeping old man. “My dear girl,” the man sobbed, looking at me. “My grandson… his face was the thing he was most proud of. The accident… it ruined him. We don’t want anyone to see him looking so… so broken in death.” Hugo’s expression turned to ice. “This is the donor’s grandfather, Claire. That should be proof enough that the boy inside is not our son. This is all in your head.” I bit my lip until I tasted blood. In my head? No. I refused to believe it. I trusted the invisible thread that connected me to my son. I knew he was in that room. Bianca’s face was a mask of tragic tears. “Claire, I know you’re upset. Hugo is my oldest friend, and I know it’s uncomfortable for you that he’s the one performing my daughter’s surgery. I can handle you taking it out on me, I always have.” Her voice rose, filled with manufactured desperation. “But this is a life! A real, living child! The window for a heart transplant is four hours, the sooner the better! You’ve already delayed this for so long! Please, don’t hold this up any longer. Let Hugo do the surgery. I’ll get on my knees and beg you.” And with that, she dropped to the floor before me. The whispers from the staff grew louder, their scorn for me thickening the air. A shrew. A harpy. No wonder Dr. Grant preferred the gentle, understanding Bianca. A year ago, those words would have shattered me. Now, they were meaningless. I’d stopped loving Hugo the day he brought Bianca into our lives. I only stayed for our son. “Let me see the body,” I repeated, my voice flat. “Have you lost your mind? I never knew you could be so petty, so cold-blooded!” Hugo’s patience finally snapped. “When I met you, you were the kindest person I knew. When did you become this… this monster? I’ve told you a thousand times, there is nothing between Bianca and me! She saved my life when we were kids, and I am repaying a debt. She is ten times the woman you are! If I truly loved her, do you think you would have had any place in my life these past few years?” His anger escalated into a full-blown rage. With a guttural roar, he swung, his open palm cracking against my cheek with all his strength. I crumpled to the floor, my face exploding with pain. He didn’t even glance at me. He rushed to Bianca, pulling her tenderly to her feet. “She’s been a housewife for too long,” he murmured to her. “It’s made her paranoid.” Then he looked up and saw my swollen face, the trickle of blood at the corner of my mouth. He froze. A flicker of regret crossed his eyes—not for hitting me, but for being caught. For doing it in public. His pristine image was tarnished. Almost automatically, his expression shifted to one of guilt. He reached for me. “I’m sorry, Claire. I didn’t mean to… I was just so angry. Let’s get you some ice for that.” I stared at him with dead eyes. As he drew near, I lunged, grabbing his right hand and pressing the tip of a fruit knife I’d grabbed from a nearby gift basket against his wrist. “You’re going to sign the divorce papers,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “But first, you’re going to take me to see that body. If you don’t, I’ll ruin that right hand of yours, and you’ll never be a surgeon again.” My face was a mask of desperate ferocity. Today, no one was going to stop me. “Divorce? You want a divorce? Over this?” He looked genuinely stunned. Then he saw the absolute emptiness in my eyes and finally seemed to realize that any love I once had for him was long, long gone. I saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes and almost laughed. He asked when I had become a monster? Perhaps it was during the years of silent, single-handed parenting. Or maybe it was the slow erosion of my soul from his daily neglect and the endless, thankless chores. I hadn’t become a monster. I’d become a ghost. A madwoman. I remembered when we were first married. He was busy, but he insisted on making me oatmeal every morning, saying my stomach was weak and needed care. He did it for six months, until I was better. The first year of our marriage, I was in a car accident. He cried at my bedside, wishing it was his leg that was broken, not mine. “I swore in our vows to be with you until we were old and gray,” he’d said. “I will never abandon you.” I thought I had married for love. When did it all change? It wasn’t until I found his journal that I understood. I was never his first choice. He loved someone else. When I was about to give birth, I saw him carefully picking out baby supplies online. My heart swelled with hope, thinking he was finally embracing fatherhood. Then I saw the shipping address. He sent everything to Bianca. From the very beginning, he was never on our side. Letting him go was the most natural thing in the world. “Dr. Grant, it’s been nearly three hours,” a nurse interrupted, her voice urgent. “If we don’t start the procedure now, the heart’s viability will drop significantly. Even if the surgery is a success, the patient’s recovery will be compromised.” Bianca fell to her knees again, slamming her forehead against the linoleum floor until it was bruised and bloody. “Claire, I’m begging you! Please, let Hugo do the surgery first! My daughter is my life, I can’t lose her! You’re a mother, too. How can you not understand how I feel?” Her pathetic display won the sympathy of the onlookers. The head nurse’s face hardened. “Claire, if you continue this, we will call security!” Even Hugo, still under the threat of my knife, frowned. “Claire, can we please discuss this after the surgery? I know I’ve neglected you. I’ll do better. I promise I’ll spend more time with you.” “No need to call security,” I said, my voice ringing with cold clarity. I looked straight at Bianca, my gaze boring into her as if to expose the darkness in her soul. “I’ve already called the police.” “It only takes a moment to look at a body,” I announced to the room. “So who, exactly, is the one wasting time here? You’re doing everything in your power to stop me from seeing those remains. What unspeakable secret are you trying to hide?” My words seemed to finally penetrate the fog of prejudice. The nurses and doctors exchanged uncertain glances. It was true. Why would Bianca and the old man protest so violently against something that would take only a minute, especially if a child’s life was on the line? Panic flickered in Bianca’s eyes. Just then, two police officers arrived. “Who called in a suspected homicide?” At the word “homicide,” the atmosphere in the hallway shifted. “I did,” I said, turning to the officers. “I believe the child in that operating room is my son, who has been missing for three days. I request a DNA test.” “Officers, that’s my grandson in there!” the old man cried pitifully. A quick check of their system confirmed that the man did, in fact, have a grandson. “Officers, please, you have to help me,” Bianca wept. “Because of her, my daughter’s life-saving surgery can’t begin.” “Ma’am,” one of the officers said sternly to me, “that’s enough. Let the doctor go so he can do his job.” Seizing the opportunity, Hugo wrenched his arm free. He looked at me with an expression of profound disappointment. “Claire, I never imagined you were this far gone. Bianca has done nothing to you, yet you’re willing to let her daughter die. I must have been blind to ever fall for you.” A lunatic? Yes. I smiled a thin, sharp smile. I had been a lunatic since the moment I knew my son was gone. I turned the fruit knife around and pressed it against my own throat. “I am going to see that body,” I told the officers. “Or I will die right here, right now.” I pushed the blade harder. A thin line of blood welled up, tracing a path down my pale skin. Seeing that I was serious, the police finally relented and escorted me into the operating room. 2 I finally stepped inside. There, on the surgical table, was a small, cold body. My heart seized with a pain so sharp it stole my breath. It was him. It was my son. With a trembling hand, I lifted the white sheet. A small, unfamiliar face, half of it destroyed, stared up at me. It wasn’t Leo’s face. Hugo let out a sigh of relief. He turned on me, his voice glacial. “There. You’ve seen him. Are you satisfied? It’s not our son. Now get out so I can do my job!” I shoved his hand away and carefully pulled back the surgical gown. There, on the pale skin of his abdomen, was the distinct, puckered mark of a burn. And next to it, a small, heart-shaped birthmark. A guttural sob ripped from my throat. I looked at Hugo, my voice a broken rasp. “Look at this scar. Look at this birthmark. Now tell me again that this is not our son.” Hugo’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. The color drained from his face as his trembling fingers traced the outline of the burn. He knew that scar. He had been the one to accidentally cause it while taking care of Leo. The body on the table was his son. And moments ago, he had personally harvested his heart.

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In my last life, my best friend Jenna bought me a stack of scratch-off lottery tickets for my birthday. When I scratched the first one, my childhood sweetheart, the man I was about to marry, died. When I scratched the second, my adoring younger brother became Jenna’s loyal puppy, utterly devoted to her. When I scratched the third, my relationship with my parents shattered, and Jenna became the precious daughter they couldn’t bear to be without. By the time I was beaten to death by muggers on the streets of a foreign city, she had completely taken over my life, my family, my fortune—everything. She was living my happily ever after. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back at the exact moment Jenna handed me those cursed scratch-offs. … “Claire, are you ready yet? I’m right outside your building. When are we heading out for your birthday party?” Jenna’s voice crackled through the phone, and the cold reality hit me: I had been reborn. In my previous life, she’d insisted on throwing me a massive birthday bash. The stack of scratch-offs was her “gift.” But the moment I scraped the silver foil off the first ticket, my world collapsed. I got the call that my fiancé, Jim, was dead. I’d rushed to the hospital in a daze, but I was too late. I never even got to see him. His parents, in a strange and grief-stricken hurry, had already had him cremated. I was drowning in sorrow, but Jenna was there, pushing another ticket into my hand. “Scratch another one,” she’d urged, “it’ll cheer you up.” Like a fool, I listened. I scratched the second ticket. And just like that, my little brother, Leon—ten years my junior and always my shadow—announced he was in love with Jenna and wanted to marry her. Before I could even process his betrayal, Jenna made me scratch the third ticket. That was the final blow. My parents decided to formally adopt Jenna, making her their legal daughter, while they shipped me off to Europe with just the clothes on my back, leaving me to fend for myself. It all happened so fast I couldn’t even scream. One moment I was the heiress to my family’s fortune, the next I was destitute on a foreign street. A group of vagrants targeted me, stole what little I had, and beat me until my heart stopped. Meanwhile, Jenna slipped seamlessly into my life. She became the apple of my parents’ eye, she and Leon lived in blissful romance, and she ascended to the pinnacle of a life that was supposed to have been mine. Even as I died, I couldn’t understand how my perfect world had been so thoroughly dismantled, while Jenna, who came from nothing, had everything fall into her lap so perfectly. Now, hearing her voice on the phone was like listening to a death knell. She spoke again, her voice syrupy sweet. “Claire? You’re not saying anything. I’m already at your front door. Why don’t you just buzz me in?” Her words snapped me out of my trance. Whatever dark magic she’d used to steal my life, I knew one thing for certain: I had to get away from her. Now. I forced a lie through my lips, my voice trembling slightly. “Oh, sorry, Jenna. I’m not home.” “Not home?” Through the video doorbell, I saw her eyes narrow with suspicion as they flickered to my signature pink Porsche Panamera parked in the driveway. “That’s weird. Your car is right here.” Her tone shifted, becoming playful and cajoling. “Oh, I get it. You’re still in bed and don’t want to see anyone, right? Come on, it’s me! Just let me in, I’ll wait in the living room. It’s boiling out here, I’m practically melting…” She was insistent. At the same time, I heard my mom, drawn by the doorbell, heading for the door. I lunged forward and grabbed her arm, stopping her just in time. “Jenna, seriously, we’re not home,” I said into my phone, my voice firm. “My parents aren’t here either. The whole family went on a little road trip to the next state over.” I improvised, desperate. “Look, I’ll wire you some cash. Go hang out at the mall nearby for a bit.” Without waiting for a reply, I sent a thousand dollars to her account. Jenna was about to argue, but the notification of the transfer popped up on her screen. Her face instantly changed. “Oh, wow, thanks, Claire! Okay, I’ll just go to the mall closest to your place and wait for you. By the way, what time will you be back?” She was prying, trying to pin me down, but I wasn’t giving her anything else. “Gotta go, I get carsick,” I mumbled, hanging up before she could ask more. The second the call ended, the mask on the video feed dropped. Jenna’s sweet smile curdled into a look of pure, venomous disgust, laced with a familiar, burning jealousy. A chill snaked down my spine. The thought that I had once called this monster my best friend made me physically ill. But I was back. And this time, I still had a chance to fix everything. I sprinted back to my bedroom and started throwing things into a suitcase. My mom, utterly bewildered, followed me in. “Claire, honey, what are you doing? I thought you were going out with your friends for your birthday.” “I’m canceling the party, Mom. I have to go away for a while. And you and Dad need to leave, too.” “And Leon,” I added, my mind racing. “Book him a flight to Europe. He’s always wanted to see the World Cup, right? I’ll pay for his tickets.” I was a whirlwind of activity, booking flights and arranging transport before my mom could even form a question. She opened her mouth to protest, but I had already packed her a bag and was ushering her to the front door. “I’ve already called a car for you, Mom. It’ll pick you up and then get Dad from the office.” I sent a quick text to Leon. “I’ve let Leon know. Have a wonderful time in Europe, and call me when you land, okay?” I watched until the car carrying my mother disappeared down the street, but the knot of tension in my chest didn’t loosen. Mom, Dad, and Leon were safe, for now. If I was lucky, Jenna wouldn’t be able to get her claws into them. That left one person. My fiancé. Jim. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I dialed his number. “Claire! I was just about to call you,” his warm, familiar voice filled my ear. “So, what’s the plan for tonight? I’ve chartered a yacht. We can invite all your friends and have a real celebration.” Hearing him, so alive and happy, a sob caught in my throat, and I almost broke down right there. In my last life, this was how it happened. He’d gone to the yacht alone to set up a surprise fireworks display for me. That’s when the “accident” occurred. I never even saw him one last time before his greedy, degenerate brother rushed his body to the crematorium to get his hands on the inheritance. The next time I saw the love of my life, he was a jar of ash. Hearing his voice again, I could barely control the storm of emotions inside me, but I forced myself to stay calm. “Jim,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears, “can we put the party on hold? Can I… can I just see you? Right now?” He immediately picked up on the distress in my voice. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “Meet me at our usual spot? The coffee shop. I’ll be waiting.” I rushed out of the house, too paranoid to take my own car, terrified that Jenna might be watching. I hailed a cab instead. When I arrived, Jim was already there, a concerned look on his face. The moment I saw him, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free, streaming down my cheeks. He was startled, fumbling to wipe them away with his thumb. “Claire, what is it? What’s wrong? Did I do something to upset you?” “No, Jim, no,” I choked out, grabbing his hand. “I’m just… I’m so happy to see you. Let’s go inside.” I wiped my face and pulled him toward the most secluded corner booth in the cafe. The warmth of his hand in mine was the only thing that felt real, the only proof I needed that he was still alive, still here. Looking at his face, so full of love and concern for me, I swore an oath to myself. This time, I would protect him, no matter what it took. Clutching his hand, I pleaded, “Jim, please, can we just cancel the party tonight?” “Cancel it? Why?” he asked, confused. “You were the one who said you wanted to do something big, since it’s your last birthday before we get married. I pulled a lot of strings to get the best yacht in the harbor…” “I just… I don’t want to anymore,” I said, knowing how weak it sounded. My flimsy excuse wasn’t enough to convince him. Left with no other choice, I had to tell him the unbelievable truth. “Jim, whether you believe me or not, I know that you’ll die because of this party tonight. You are too important to me. I can’t lose you.” My voice was nearly a sob, choked with fear, but he just saw it as pre-wedding jitters. He squeezed my hand reassuringly, his smile gentle. “Claire, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress with the wedding planning. That’s why I wanted to do something special for you. It’s going to be fine, I promise. Just relax and let me take care of everything.” Seeing that he wouldn’t believe me, that he was walking straight into the same trap, I took a ragged breath, my heart pounding with desperation. I had to make him understand. “You’ve arranged a fireworks show on the yacht, haven’t you?” He looked surprised. “Ninety-nine shells in total,” I continued, my voice gaining momentum. “One of them is a custom design, one you made yourself. You call it the ‘Lover’s Gift.’ It’s all in shades of blue, and at the end, it’s supposed to explode into the shape of a giant, shimmering rose-cut diamond ring.” Jim’s jaw dropped. “Did my assistant tell you?” he stammered. “No, that’s impossible. I haven’t shown the design schematics to anyone. How… how could you possibly know that?” Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I gripped his hand tighter. “Jim, nobody told me! Please, just trust me. Let’s not do the party. Let’s just go somewhere else, you and me. We can just be together, quietly, until the night is over. Please?” The raw terror on my face must have gotten through to him, because for a moment, I saw his resolve waver. He was about to nod, about to agree, when a sickly sweet voice cut through the air. “Claire! So you were already here! Why didn’t you tell me?” Jenna. She was standing over our table, a triumphant glint in her eyes as she took in the scene. “Here,” she said, pushing a familiar object into my hands. “This is your birthday present. May you have a lifetime of luck.” It was a stack of scratch-off tickets. My body went rigid. The horrifying memories of my past life flooded my mind, vivid and suffocating. In a single, convulsive movement, I swept my arm across the table, knocking the tickets to the floor. Everyone in the near vicinity froze, startled by my sudden outburst. Jim bent down to pick them up, but a strangled scream tore from my throat. “DON’T TOUCH THEM!” He stopped, his hand hovering in mid-air. With a feigned gasp of clumsiness, I “accidentally” knocked my full cup of coffee over, sending the dark liquid cascading off the table and all over the scattered tickets on the floor. They were ruined. Soaked through. A wave of profound relief washed over me. “Oh, Jenna, I’m so sorry,” I said, forcing a tone of sincere apology. “I’m such a klutz today. I’ll get someone to clean this up right away.” A moment later, the soggy, useless paper was swept into a garbage can. I saw the flash of bitter disappointment in Jenna’s eyes. I thought it was over. I grabbed Jim’s hand, ready to flee, but Jenna’s fingers clamped around my arm. “Claire, I can’t believe my special gift for you ended up in the trash like that.” Her voice was tight. “Anyway, I bet Jim has a big surprise planned for you tonight, right? Why don’t we all head over to the yacht he rented?” She gestured to a large shopping bag at her feet. “I even brought you an evening gown. It’s gorgeous!” She held the bag out to me. Inside, there was indeed a beautiful dress. Even though this detail was new, not part of my memories from the last life, my entire being recoiled from anything she offered. “That’s okay,” I said, pushing the bag away. “The party’s canceled. I won’t need it.” I tried to pull away, to leave this nightmare, but she held on tight, refusing to let me go. Every excuse I made, she batted away with a saccharine-sweet counter-argument. Finally, her voice took on a sharp, accusatory edge. “Claire, you’ve been avoiding me ever since I called you this morning. I took three days off work just to come celebrate with you. Or is it that you… you don’t want to be my friend anymore?” Of course I don’t, I wanted to scream. The memory of what she did to me made me want to tear her limb from limb. But I couldn’t say that. Not here. Not now. Thankfully, Jim saw the corner I was in and stepped in smoothly. “You’ve misunderstood,” he said, his tone calm and firm. “I’m not feeling well. Claire was just about to take me to the hospital, so we had to cancel the party.” He glanced at his watch. “Our appointment is in a few minutes. If you’ll excuse us.” He guided me out of the coffee shop with a steady hand on my back. I saw a flash of pure hatred in Jenna’s eyes, but I didn’t care. I had escaped her, and I had escaped those cursed scratch-offs. We were standing on the street corner. I turned to thank him, to explain, but the words never came. Out of nowhere, a massive truck came barreling towards us, its horn blaring. I didn’t even have time to scream before Jim shoved me hard, pushing me out of its path. Then, the sickening crunch of metal against flesh. His body was thrown through the air like a rag doll. He landed in a crumpled heap on the asphalt. He lay in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood. The truck, realizing what it had done, screeched to a halt before speeding away. In the fading evening light, I saw the words stenciled on its side: FLAMMABLE – KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE. It was a fireworks truck.

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At our ring exchange, the ballroom screen flickered to life—showing me bound and violated, not our smiling faces. Julian dropped my hand like poison, sliding the ring onto my best friend’s finger instead. As I stumbled from the red carpet, Dante—her brother, the syndicate boss—caught me. A gunshot silenced the hall. Then, ten chests of gold arrived as his bride price, and he proposed on the spot. Three years later, IVF succeeded. But overhearing Dante’s conversation shattered me: “Leaking Anya’s video let Peaches marry into the Sterling family. Her womb was just a vessel for Peaches’ heir.” I dialed his rival, voice steel-cold: “A billion-dollar deal. Interested?” 1 The vile banter inside the room continued. “You’re a clever one, Boss. Swapping her prenatal vitamins with abortion pills so she couldn’t conceive naturally… forcing her into IVF. She’d probably die of rage if she knew you’d already switched the embryo with one from Peaches and Julian.” “Whether she lives or dies is none of my concern,” Dante’s voice was casual. “After the birth, I’ll just make up some excuse, say the baby didn’t make it. She’ll just blame herself for not being able to carry it to term. It’s her honor to pave the way for Peaches’ happiness.” He tossed the lighter onto the table and stood up, his voice a low warning to everyone in the room. “Not a single word of what was said today leaves this room. I need her to deliver this baby without any complications.” I heard his man, a brute named Marco, slap his chest and laugh. “Don’t worry, Boss. That woman is dumb as a rock. We call her ‘Mrs. Dante’ and she actually thinks she’s the queen of this castle. She brings us food and drinks every day, completely clueless that I was the one who hand-picked the guys for that video.” Someone else roared with laughter. “Marco, you’re too much! Why didn’t you pick me back then? I would’ve loved a taste…” A fruit knife flew through the air, embedding itself in the floorboards right between the man’s legs. He went pale with terror. “Have I not made myself clear?” Dante’s voice was a low growl. “Anya is my wife now. Anyone who dares to bring that up again, I will personally end him.” A younger subordinate mumbled, “Boss, it seems like you’re not entirely indifferent to her. She’s head over heels in love with you. Aren’t you afraid she’ll leave you when she finds out the truth?” Dante scoffed. “So what? I’ll just knock her up again. Support her for the rest of her life. She’s a tainted, love-sick fool. A few sweet words and she’ll be licking my hand like a dog.” The room erupted in laughter again. I stood frozen in the hallway, feeling as if I’d been struck by lightning. I clamped my hand over my mouth, choking back sobs that threatened to escape. Footsteps approached the door. I spun around and fled downstairs, pouring myself a glass of the strongest whiskey and downing it in one go. The burn was searing, a fire racing to my head, and the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free. I clutched my chest, the poison of their words echoing in my mind. A week before my original wedding, I was kidnapped and endured a living hell for a day and a night. My then-fiancé, Julian, had held my hand, swearing he still loved me and wanted to marry me. But at the altar, he’d watched that video play and abandoned me, leaving me to be branded a whore by the world. It was Dante who had stormed in, shooting the screen to pieces, pulling me into his arms, and fiercely shielding me from the jeers and insults. He’d presented me with ten chests of gold, telling me he had loved me for years and would die without regret if he could not have me as his wife. His unwavering gaze had conquered me. And now, he was telling me it was all for Peaches. No wonder Peaches had looked at me with that strange, knowing smile on my wedding day to Dante. I was kidnapped because she had called me, claiming her car broke down and asking me to pick her up. She knew all along. It was all a setup. She was mocking my stupidity, reveling in the fact that she had a man who would do anything for her. And the three years of care and affection from Dante? A charade. A performance to squeeze every last bit of usefulness out of me. I had mistaken my executioner for my savior. How utterly laughable. My nails dug into my palms. I bit down, hard, the pain and hatred churning in my chest, the tears unstoppable. A familiar scent enveloped me. Dante was kissing the corner of my eye, his brow furrowed in what looked like concern. He roared at the room, “Which one of you sons of bitches made my wife cry? I’ll fucking kill him.” The hall fell silent, everyone holding their breath. He pulled a gun from his waistband and pressed it into my hand, wrapping his arms around me and guiding my hand to aim at the crowd. “Baby, you see anyone you don’t like, you just pull the trigger. I’ve got your back.” The men he aimed at trembled like leaves, but none dared to move. In this country, Dante was the king of one of the two largest syndicates. No one crossed him. I stopped when the barrel was pointed at Marco. Marco’s eyes widened, his face white with fear. The words ‘I was the one who hand-picked the guys for that video’ screamed in my ears like a curse. My chest heaved. My eyes were red with fury. I was about to squeeze the trigger when Dante pushed the gun down. 2 “Sweetheart, the doctor said the IVF was a success. Let’s not see any blood. We don’t want to scare the baby.” His voice was a gentle coax, his eyes filled with a concern so convincing I almost applauded his performance. Sensing my mood, Dante noticed the empty glass in front of me. He took my hand. “Honey, how long have you been here? Why didn’t you come upstairs to find me?” His words were laced with a careful, probing caution. I looked down. “You men were talking business upstairs. It was all smoke and noise. I didn’t feel like it.” He let out a breath of relief and stroked my head, ordering a maid to bring me a sobering tea. The moment she handed it over, he raised his gun and shot her in the head. I didn’t even have time to react. Thick, warm blood splattered across my face. The maid’s hand was still outstretched, her eyes wide in disbelief as she collapsed. My lips trembled. My stomach seized violently. Dante acted as if nothing had happened. He holstered his gun, carefully wiped my face with his sleeve, and then held the cup of tea to my lips, feeding me sip by sip. I swallowed mechanically, my entire body shaking. In my peripheral vision, I saw Marco’s men drag the maid’s body away, leaving a long, winding trail of blood on the polished floor. “Couldn’t even watch my wife to make sure she didn’t drink,” Dante muttered, his voice cold. “That’s a threat to my son. She didn’t deserve to live.” I stared at his ruthless face, my stomach churning. He touched my cheek, his voice softening again. “It’s all my fault, baby. I’ve made you suffer so much. Now that we finally have our baby, you can’t touch alcohol again, understand?” He added, “No matter what, this child has to be born healthy. You know that, right?” I took several deep breaths before managing a dry, brittle, “Okay.” My heart was frozen solid. In three years of marriage, I had been pregnant six times. Each time, I miscarried for no apparent reason, eventually leading to recurrent pregnancy loss. Six months ago, the doctors told me I could never conceive again. Dante had held me, heartbroken, telling me he didn’t care about children, that all he wanted was my happiness and health. The guilt of not being able to give him a child had eaten away at me. After extensive research, I chose the arduous path of IVF. My stomach became a pincushion, and I swallowed handfuls of hormone pills. All that suffering, only to be a surrogate for Peaches. Because she was afraid of pain, I was to be stripped of my right to be a mother, reduced to a breeding machine. “What’s wrong? You look so pale. Are you not feeling well? I’ll get the doctor right now.” “I’m fine. Just some morning sickness.” Dante’s eyes reddened with feigned sympathy. He stroked my face. “My poor wife, you’re going through so much. I wish I could bear this for you. We rushed our wedding… I’ve ordered you a custom-made wedding gown, your favorite designer. Let’s go try it on tomorrow before your belly gets too big.” I stared at him, at his deeply affectionate eyes, playing me for a fool, time and time again. If he knew I had no intention of carrying this child to term, my fate would be the same as that maid’s. I forced a smile. “I’m going to go rest. You guys carry on.” The moment I was back in our room, I ran to the bathroom and retched until my stomach was a knot of pure agony. Tears streamed down my face, the physical pain a fraction of the agony in my heart. After a long while, I pulled myself together. That’s when I saw it—Dante’s phone, left forgotten on the coffee table. On impulse, I picked it up. I only had to try once. Peaches’ birthday. It unlocked. The screen lit up with a photo of Peaches, leaning against his shoulder, her smile radiant. I scrolled through his photo gallery. Over five thousand photos, and Peaches was in every single one. He had them organized into four folders, chronicling different periods of her life. Each folder was labeled with a single word. Together, they spelled out: My Only Love. In their chat history, I saw that Dante had once risked his life to steal a royal crown for her. I suddenly remembered that night. He’d come back with two bullet wounds, barely clinging to life. It was I who had traded my mother’s only heirloom, a priceless antique amulet, to the royal family to get him back. And why? Because Peaches had casually mentioned she wanted to feel like a queen for her 25th birthday party. A tear fell onto the screen. My heart felt like it was being shredded. It wasn’t the pain of years of deception. It was that for this monster who had destroyed me, I had given away the only thing my mother had left me. Through blurry eyes, my gaze fell on the crescent-moon-shaped birthmark on Peaches’ right shoulder. My own eyes widened in shock. I have the exact same birthmark, in the exact same spot. I remembered when I first met Peaches, she didn’t have it. It was only after I told her about the time I’d saved a man covered in blood while working as a doctor without borders in a war-torn country that she started to distance herself from me. Soon after, she became Dante’s “adopted sister,” and he began telling everyone that Peaches had saved his life. But Peaches was a coward, terrified of hardship. She had never set foot in that country; in fact, she openly despised it. My cold fingers curled into fists. A wild, horrifying suspicion began to form in my mind. So that’s how it was. I collapsed to the floor, caught between hysterical sobs and bitter laughter. 3 A long time later, I wiped my tears, composed myself, and found the number I was looking for. “I have a business proposition for you,” I said. “Worth a billion dollars. Interested?” “What kind of business?” “In three days, I need you to kidnap me.” I gently stroked my stomach. “It’s a ransom Dante will be more than willing to pay.” Just as I hung up, Dante walked in. He was drunk, stumbling slightly, but his senses were still sharp enough to grab my hand. “What am I willing to pay for?” Without batting an eye, I replied, “I saw a necklace I liked. They said I need to put down a deposit.” He laughed, his head slumping onto my shoulder. “Fine, I’ll pay. I’ll pay for everything, Peaches. Whatever you want, big brother will get it for you. I’m yours too.” My face remained a mask. I helped him to bed, covered him up, and lay beside him, wide awake, for the rest of the night. The next day, on our way to the bridal salon, Dante took a call. His expression turned frantic. “Honey, a shipment got held up. I have to go deal with it.” He squeezed my hand, his voice full of apology. “I’m so sorry. I promise, I’ll take you to try on the dress tomorrow. I also ordered us a set of matching rings, ‘One Life, One Love.’ We can try them on together tomorrow, okay?” I pulled my hand away. “I understand. Go on. I’ll be a good girl and wait for you at home.” He squeezed my hand again, and the moment I stepped out of the car, he sped off. Less than ten minutes later, Marco’s car pulled up. As soon as I got in, a photo popped up on my phone. It was Peaches, wearing a stunning diamond ring and the very custom-made gown I had picked out, kneeling on a man’s lap. The man’s hand was on her thigh, visible through the sheer fabric. His lips were kissing the crescent birthmark on her right shoulder, his eyes smoldering with lust. A voice message followed. “I can only get it up at night if I close my eyes and pretend she’s you, Peaches. My sweet Peaches. Big brother misses you so much. Take care of your big brother, won’t you?” The husky voice was followed by a ragged, suppressed gasp. In the silent car, Marco’s sneer broke the quiet. I was startled, only then realizing the scenery outside wasn’t the way home. “Marco, I’m Dante’s wife! What do you think you’re doing?” The car screeched to a halt. I immediately tried to open the door on the other side, but he was faster. He lunged across the seat, grabbed my ankle, and dragged me out of the car. Pain exploded behind my eyes. I gritted my teeth and glared at him. “I’m carrying Dante’s child. If anything happens to me, you won’t live to see another day.” “You idiot,” a shrill laugh came from behind me. I realized we were in a deserted alley not far from the bridal shop. Peaches was standing there, her heel grinding into my face, her eyes filled with triumphant glee. “Did you really think my brother would let a filthy woman like you carry his child?” Marco came over, wrapped his arm around her waist, and squeezed. To my utter shock, they kissed passionately. After a long moment, Marco slowly spoke, “You overheard us at the club the other day, didn’t you? Too bad for you, the embryo in your belly isn’t Peaches’ either. I just grabbed a random one from some homeless beggar in the slums and had it swapped.” I snapped my head up, my pupils trembling. Peaches laughed until she was breathless. “Oh, look at you now. Filthy inside and out. A bastard’s baby and a whore for a mother. Anya, what’s the difference between you and a prostitute? At least they get paid. You’re actually paying to carry a bastard.” She cackled. “Is one enough? Or should we stuff a whole litter in you? Like a pig, hahaha.” My mind roared. A thick, metallic taste filled my throat. I screamed, grabbing a rock from the ground, wanting nothing more than to smash their faces in. Marco kicked me in the stomach. I fell forward, vomiting a mouthful of blood, my face pale with agony. But just then, Peaches suddenly stumbled backward in mock terror, theatrically falling to the ground. She didn’t even have a scratch on her, but Dante, who came running at that exact moment, stepped right over my hand to rush to her side. He pulled her into his arms, his eyes filled with raw panic. “Peaches, what happened? Are you hurt?”

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On the eve of my coronation, my mother erased me from the royal bloodline, declaring Rose—my lowly scullery maid—the true heir of Beaumont. My once-doting father met me with contempt: “How could I share blood with a slave’s spawn?” At the palace gates, my childhood love, the king, turned me away—only to welcome Rose moments later, his voice dripping with affection: “Nothing stops you from being my queen now.” To ensure Rose’s unblemished debut, Mother ordered the guards to break my legs and discard me like trash. As I lay dying in the storm, fever ravaging my broken body, the face in the rain puddle stared back—undeniable proof of my mother’s features. Then I awoke—reborn on the day of my disownment. I woke to the day it all went wrong. Caskets of jewels and silks, gifts from the palace, were being carried into the Beaumont estate like a river of treasure. Yet, as I stood there, a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air settled deep in my bones. I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning, unable to muster even a flicker of joy. The maids in the courtyard buzzed around the lavish gifts, their chatter a meaningless drone. My eyes, however, found her instantly. Rose. Huddled in a corner with a broom, she didn’t join the others. She just swept silently, her gaze darting towards the treasure, a poison of envy and resentment clouding her eyes. A girl like Rose, a mere drudge, was someone even my personal handmaidens wouldn’t deign to speak to. And yet, this insignificant, overlooked girl… My legs trembled, a ghost of that agony, sharp as shattered bone, shooting through me. Because I knew. This very evening, the mother who had cherished me would storm into my chambers with the elders of our house. Her face, usually a mask of serene grace, would be twisted with a venom I’d never seen. She would point a trembling finger at my face and scream: “Behold! The slave’s whelp who has stolen my daughter’s place for more than a decade!” “Honored elders! Today, I cleanse the name of House Beaumont!” In my memory, my mother wielded a thin, cruel cane, bringing it down on me again and again. The places it struck blossomed into ugly, purple bruises, a testament to her newfound cruelty. I had been raised like a delicate flower, sheltered from the slightest harm. Seeing this stranger who wore my mother’s face, I choked back the pain. “Mother! What are you saying? I am to be crowned tomorrow! How can I not be your daughter?” She paused at my words, and for a fleeting second, relief washed over me. I thought I could reason with her, understand this madness. But her eyes were chips of ice. She turned to the elders, her voice ringing with cold conviction. “You all see it! This pretender still dreams of a crown. If she were to succeed, she would bring shame not only upon our house, but upon the entire kingdom!” “Today, as the Duchess of Beaumont, I declare that Catherine is no longer a daughter of this house! Her name will be struck from our family records!” I was trapped in a vortex of gazes—pity, shock, scorn, and a sickening flicker of triumph from the servants. But what broke me was my mother’s eyes. The love that had once warmed me was gone, replaced by a raw, undisguised hatred. She spat the word “slave” at me, her noble bearing, her years of practiced grace, all forgotten. It was as if I was her most reviled enemy. How? How could the woman who had treasured me for sixteen years, who had held me as the jewel of her life, suddenly despise me? A sob tore from my throat, and I fell at her feet, trying to clutch at her gown as I had done so many times as a child seeking comfort. “Mother, I am your daughter… I am…” She recoiled, kicking me squarely in the chest. “Silence! You are the daughter of a slave!” Her gaze, now filled with a tearful, tender light, found Rose cowering in the corner. “The true lady of this house… forced to serve this impostor for sixteen years!” “Rose,” I whispered the name, the memory sharp as glass. The girl who was still just a cleaner, her face hidden behind a thick fringe of hair, stepped forward, trembling. “Yes, my lady? What do you require?” Though my courtyard was full of servants, I remembered her. She’d started in the kitchens, a small, clumsy girl, always bullied by the others. One day, she’d let a pot burn, nearly starting a fire, and the head cook had beaten her mercilessly. I’d taken pity on her—a girl my own age—and had her moved to the courtyard to do simple sweeping. I never imagined my act of kindness would be seen as an insult. That night, cradled in my mother’s arms, Rose had spoken in a pitiful whisper. “Me? Your daughter? A lady of the house? How can that be…? I’m just a cleaner here. Anyone can spit on me.” My mother’s heart had broken for her. “You are not a cleaner! You are the jewel of this house! From this day on, we’ll see who dares to harm you!” Watching the tender scene replay in my mind, I couldn’t help but speak my past words aloud in a bitter murmur. “If you were unhappy with your duties, you could have said something…” In the memory, my mother’s hand had cracked across my face. “Silence! How dare you, a slave’s child, speak to Rose like that? Do you still think you are a lady?” My cheek had swelled instantly. One of the elders, a man who had watched me grow, spoke with hesitation. “My lady Duchess, how can you be so certain? That Catherine is not your child?” “Because I have proof!” my mother had declared, her voice ringing with triumph. “My true daughter was born with a small, crescent-shaped birthmark on her temple.” She had swept aside Rose’s hair, and there it was, for all to see. A small, faint blue mark. The room was empty now, save for me and Rose. “My lady, I’m not assigned to your personal chambers…” she began, her voice meek. I cut her off. Closing the distance between us, I ripped the heavy fringe of hair from her forehead. There it was. The birthmark I didn’t have. Seeing her flinch and cower, I didn’t mince words. “You already know what’s going to happen today, don’t you?” A flicker of confusion—or perhaps, practiced innocence—crossed her face. “My lady? I… I don’t understand what you mean.” I didn’t miss the glint of something else beneath the fear. I leaned in, my voice a low, deliberate whisper. “Rose. Beaumont.” Her eyes darted away, but not before I saw it: a flash of triumph mixed with her feigned confusion. A cold smile touched my lips. “A rat from the gutter,” I murmured, my voice dripping with scorn. “You’ve certainly schemed hard to reach the palace floors, haven’t you?” Her mask shattered. Her face darkened, the meekness vanishing like smoke. “Catherine,” she sneered, “are you introducing yourself?” Just as I suspected. She knew everything. With her victory so close, she saw no more reason to pretend. She strode to the center of the room, to the magnificent gown displayed on a mannequin. The Queen’s Gown. It had taken a hundred weavers half a year to create, a breathtaking masterpiece of silk and gold thread. Rose caressed the exquisite fabric, her eyes burning with an ambition she no longer bothered to hide. “The title of Lady Beaumont is mine. And the throne of the Queen will be mine, too.” She turned to me, her face alight with petty victory. “This gown should be under royal guard until the coronation. Do you know why it’s here, in your room?” She leaned closer, her voice a triumphant hiss. “It’s because Arthur wanted me to see it first. A private viewing, for his true queen.” She had admitted it. She and King Arthur were already lovers. He knew what was coming today. He was in on it all. And the me of my past life had been blissfully, stupidly, waiting to marry him. I had walked straight into their trap, a lamb to the slaughter, and never suspected a thing. In the years of his ascension, every prince had vied for the support of House Beaumont. But only Arthur, being closest to my age, had gotten near me. He was the one who would ride for hours just to pick the first spring blossoms for me. The one who would recklessly scale the walls of our estate, all for a single glimpse. “To others, you are Lady Catherine Beaumont,” he would whisper, his breath warm against my ear. “But to me, you are just Catherine. It has nothing to do with titles or status. Even if you were a commoner, you would be the queen of my heart.” A young man’s promises. So earnest. So easy to believe. So easy to break. The moment I lost my title and my name, the very gates of the palace were barred to me. The boy who was my last hope for salvation simply turned his back. Then, he emerged from the gates to welcome Rose. “Rose, my love,” he’d said, his voice carrying on the wind. “Nothing can stop you from being my queen now.” From her sedan chair, Rose had shot me a look of pure, mocking triumph. “Did you really think he scaled those walls for you? He was climbing for the quiet maid who tended your gardens. He brought you all those flowers because he knew you’d share them with the staff, and that I would get one, too.” Her smile was a slash of red. “What good were your sixteen years as a duchess’s daughter? The truth is, Catherine, you never even stood a chance.” Listening to her taunts, seeing the guilt flicker in Arthur’s averted eyes, I finally understood the words his chamberlain had spoken to me just moments before, a gentle but firm refusal. “The late king decreed that the eldest daughter of House Beaumont would be the future queen. Even if His Majesty holds some affection for you, my lady, he cannot defy his father’s final command.” Arthur. His charming eyes, so full of practiced devotion, could make anyone feel like they were the center of his world. My gaze fell upon the wedding gown before me. With a swift, deliberate motion, I pulled a long, sharp pin from my hair. Rose gasped and scrambled back. “Are you mad?! If you dare to harm me…” The pin sliced through the priceless silk, a clean, vicious tear. I tossed it aside. “You’re new to this world, Rose,” I said, my voice dangerously calm as she stared in horror at the ruined gown. “You’ll learn that the more beautiful something is, the more easily it can be destroyed.” She rushed forward, cradling the torn fabric as if it were a dying bird. “Do you have any idea how precious this is? What am I supposed to wear tomorrow?!” I shoved her aside, snatching the gown back. “This is my gown. You needn’t worry about it.” Her eyes were daggers of pure hatred. “He doesn’t love you!” she shrieked. “And after today, you’ll be nothing but a slave’s daughter! You dare to still dream of being queen?” I raised an eyebrow and pushed open the doors to the antechamber, where my handmaidens were already gathered, drawn by the commotion. “What are you waiting for?” I commanded, my voice ringing with authority. “This woman has lost her mind. Drag her out.” My maids, loyal and unhesitating, seized a stunned Rose, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Fifty slaps to the face,” I added coolly. “Then lock her in the stables. Let her cool her head.” Rose, with a sudden burst of strength, bit down hard on a maid’s hand and screamed, “We’ll see how long your arrogance lasts!” Another maid immediately struck her across the face, and a rough cloth was stuffed into her mouth. I heard one of them mutter, “What was she thinking? A mere cleaner, insulting her lady.” I looked down at the struggling, muffled form of Rose on the floor. “I’d be quiet if I were you. Don’t tempt me to change my mind and have you dealt with right here, right now.” My voice dropped to a glacial whisper. “You wonder how long I can be arrogant? For now, I am the mistress, and you are the servant. Have sixteen years as a slave taught you nothing?” Fear warred with rage in her eyes, but before she could react, she was dragged away. Watching the sun begin its descent, I clutched the ruined gown. “Prepare the carriage,” I ordered. The Gilded Needle was the most renowned tailor in the capital. Its proprietor was a master artisan, sought after only by the highest echelons of nobility. But when I presented the gown and my request, he shook his head, his face etched with worry. “Lady Catherine, this gown is a masterpiece. You know the work that went into it. It is impossible to repair it in a single night.” “If you can’t, someone else can. I wish to see your master.” “You jest, my lady. My master knows nothing of needlework. How could he possibly fix this?” “Oh, he can fix it,” I said, my voice serene. “And if he can’t, he can replace it.” That night, in the pouring rain of my past life, someone had offered me a hand. But with my legs broken on my own mother’s orders, my spirit had already died. This time, I would not allow myself to be trampled into the dust. The sky was bleeding into shades of twilight when the door finally opened. The man who entered surveyed the room, his eyes finally landing on me. “Do you have any idea what you are doing?” he asked, his voice a low baritone. My gaze fell to the intricate chessboard he kept in the room. “Even the most flawless strategy has a weakness,” I replied, meeting his eyes. “And even if I must become a pawn in my own game, I will still win this wager against fate.” Returning from The Gilded Needle, I was met not by a storm, but a hurricane. My parents stood there, their faces contorted with rage, protectively cradling a weeping Rose, her cheeks swollen and red. The accusations were harsher this time, the curses more vile. One of the elders, the same man from my memory, spoke up. “My lady Duchess, how can you be so certain? That Catherine is not your child?” My mother’s voice was laced with venom. “When Rose was born, the labor was difficult. I never saw her face. That was when some treacherous soul saw their chance to switch the infants.” I seized on the flaw in her story. “If you never saw the newborn’s face, Mother, how can you be so sure your true daughter has a birthmark on her temple?” I expected hesitation, a moment of doubt. Instead, she strode forward and slapped me, hard, all remnants of our shared history incinerated in her fury. “It seems you won’t accept the truth until it’s shoved down your throat! Guards! Bring in the slave!” Her voice was a shriek. “Let’s reunite you with your wretched mother. Consider it my final act of charity after sixteen years of raising you.” Even though I had lived this before, the pain was a fresh wound. Tears welled in my eyes. Sixteen years. From a stumbling toddler to the most celebrated lady in the capital. Even if we shared no blood, had she not raised me? Did she not know the core of my being? My mother was frail, prone to terrible headaches every winter. It was I who sat by her bed through every snowfall, tending to her personally, never entrusting the task to a servant. How could she cast aside sixteen years of love and devotion so easily? A woman in rough-spun clothes, her body covered in bruises, was dragged before us. She screamed, her voice cracking with terror. “Stop hitting me! I confess! I did it! I switched my daughter for the Duchess’s baby! Rose is the true lady of the house! Please, stop… I’ll pay with my life! Is that not enough?!” Before anyone could react, the woman launched herself headfirst at a nearby stone pillar. A sickening crack. And then, silence. The key witness was dead. Case closed.

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His first love, the woman my husband called his “moonlight,” suffered from severe depression. The mere sight of me would send her into a self-harming spiral. So, to keep his precious moonlight safe, he sent me away. He didn’t care that I was nine months pregnant. He dumped me in his family’s dilapidated ancestral home in the countryside and forgot I existed. Five years after I was defiled and left for dead, his moonlight was diagnosed with kidney failure. The doctors said a blood relative would be the best match. Only then did he remember me—her older sister. He called, his voice a cold command, ordering me to come back at once. My five-year-old daughter answered the phone. Her small voice trembled. “Uncle…? My… my mommy… she’s been dead for a very long time.” 1 “Who is this?” Wayne Heins’s voice was sharp with impatience. “Where’s Beth? Put Beth on the phone!” My daughter, Jenifer, stammered, “You… you wait a minute.” She put down the receiver and ran to find the village elder. “Grandpa, someone’s on the phone for Mommy.” The old man, his back bent with age, shuffled to the phone. “Mr. Heins?” he asked. “You finally…” Hearing an old man’s voice, Wayne’s face darkened. He pressed his temples, taking a deep, calming breath, but his eyes, when they opened, were filled with a barely contained rage. “Where is Beth?” he snapped. “What, is she too scared to take my call? First she has some kid tell me she’s dead, now an old man? Is she going to try that line again?” His voice dripped with condescending fury. “She just wants me to come get her myself, doesn’t she? Fine. For Claire’s sake, I’ll drag her back myself.” He slammed the phone down without waiting for a reply. The next day, a sleek, black car wound its way through the forgotten country roads and pulled up in the village. Wayne stepped out, his expensive suit a stark contrast to the poverty surrounding him. He stared at the half-collapsed old house, his brow furrowed in disgust. The door hung open on one hinge. The inside was gutted, stripped of all furniture. Broken floorboards lay scattered amidst a thick carpet of dust and cobwebs. The windows were shattered. He shot an irritated glance at the young man who had guided him here. “Where is Beth? Tell her to get out here. If she agrees to donate a kidney to Claire, I’ll take her back.” The young man looked pained. “Mr. Heins, I… well, you see… maybe you should wait for the village elder?” Wayne’s eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Just then, the elder arrived, leaning heavily on a cane. “Mr. Heins.” Wayne gave him a dismissive glance. “Beth. Where is she?” The elder tucked one hand behind his back. “Beth… she can’t come out to meet you.” A cold, mirthless laugh escaped Wayne’s lips. “What, are you going to tell me she’s dead? Tell her to stop with the petty games. I’m not in the mood. I came all this way to get her. What more does she want?” What more did I want? Nothing. I just wanted to live. I wanted to watch my daughter grow up. But I couldn’t even have that. My soul hovered nearby, watching him, a hollow ache where my heart used to be. Five years ago, on the very night I was sent here, I gave birth to Jenifer. A few weeks later, Claire found me. She was consumed with jealousy—that I had married Wayne, that I was carrying his child. First, she sent thugs to destroy the old house. Then, she sent them to harass me, day after day. Finally, she sent them to rape me and kill me. They left my broken body in the mountains for the wild dogs to devour. It was the village elder who noticed I was gone. He organized a search party. They found what was left of me and gave me a proper burial. 2 The elder stroked his thin beard, his eyes clouded with a deep sadness. “Beth,” he said with a heavy sigh, “has been dead for five years.” A mocking smile twisted Wayne’s lips. His expression grew colder, harder. “Do you take me for a child, old man? A woman like her? She’d never have the guts to die.” His hawk-like gaze swept over the villagers who had gathered. He barked an order at his bodyguards. “Find her. I don’t care if you have to tear this entire village apart.” I floated in the air, a silent phantom, as his men went from door to door, pounding on them violently. They shoved aside anyone who answered, storming into their homes, searching for me. The terrified villagers spilled out into the dirt road. The entire village was there, but I was nowhere to be seen. Wayne’s face grew uglier with every passing minute. He stalked over to the elder, his patience gone. He grabbed the old man by the collar. “Tell me. Where have you hidden her? You tell me now, and I might be merciful. Otherwise…” The elder just repeated what he’d said. Wayne’s temper snapped. With a sharp twist, he broke the old man’s wrist. The elder cried out in pain. A small figure darted from the crowd. A little girl in a clean, simple dress, her hair in two neat braids. Her eyes were wide with fear, but she ran to the elder’s side. “Grandpa, are you okay?” she cried. Wayne froze. He looked the little girl up and down, a strange sense of familiarity prickling at him. Jenifer, my brave little Jenifer, launched herself at Wayne, biting his leg with all her might. He kicked her away on instinct. She tumbled to the ground but scrambled back up, her eyes blazing with fury. “You’re a bad man! Grandpa told you, my mommy is dead! Why are you hurting him?” Wayne’s face changed. A dark, terrifying look entered his eyes as he stared at Jenifer. I panicked, instinctively drifting in front of my daughter to shield her, but I was just a ghost. He walked right through me. He snatched Jenifer up by her shirt, his eyes scrutinizing her face. Jenifer kicked and struggled, suspended in the air. Wayne stared at her face, so much like my own, and his voice was a low snarl. “You’re that bastard child.” His hand moved from her shirt to her throat. “Get Beth out here now,” he roared, “or I’ll snap this little bastard’s neck!” I screamed as I watched my daughter struggle for breath. “Wayne, I’m here! I’m right here! Let her go! Let Jenifer go!” But no one could hear me. Jenifer’s face was turning a deep red. I forgot I was dead. I lunged at Wayne, trying to bite the hand that was choking my daughter, but my teeth closed on empty air. The elder, seeing Jenifer begin to go limp, cried out through his pain, “Mr. Heins, wait! Jenifer is your…” Before he could finish, a bodyguard kicked him to the ground. He lay there, groaning in agony. Suddenly, Wayne let Jenifer go. She dropped to the ground, gasping. He swept his cold gaze over the crowd. “Beth,” he announced, his voice a venomous threat, “if you don’t show yourself in three days, I will kill that bastard child.” I looked at the elder, crumpled and broken, and at my daughter’s neck, bruised and purple. A tremor of pure, undiluted hatred ran through me. In that moment, I regretted ever loving him more than I had ever regretted anything in my life. 3 Three days passed in the blink of an eye. This time, Wayne brought Claire with him. The woman who had been so arrogant and triumphant five years ago was now a fragile, withered husk. Wayne lifted her from the car with infinite tenderness, placing her gently in a wheelchair. He tucked a blanket around her, his eyes filled with a pained adoration. All his gentleness was for her. For me, there was only ever impatience and contempt. The elder and I were waiting for them at the edge of the village. Of course, no one could see me. Wayne saw the elder standing alone, and his fury began to simmer. “Seeing Claire so weak… is Beth really so heartless? Refusing to help her own sister?” “Old man, if you hand Beth over, if she agrees to be tested as a donor, I’ll have this road paved. I’ll improve the living conditions for everyone in this village. I’ll even take Beth back as Mrs. Heins. And that bastard child… I will treat her as if she were my own.” He thought he was being generous. A magnanimous king making an offer to a peasant. But the elder gave him the same answer. “Mr. Heins, when Beth came back five years ago, she was constantly harassed by local thugs. I don’t know the exact circumstances of her death. I only know that when I realized she was missing, the whole village searched for her. We found her body in the mountains. It was… badly mauled. I gave her a burial, up on the back hill. You can see for yourself if you don’t believe me.” Wayne laughed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. “Are you kidding me? If she was dead, how was that little bastard born? How did she survive all these years?” The elder sighed. “Jenifer was born the night Beth arrived. After Beth died so suddenly… we couldn’t just abandon the child, could we?” At this, a flicker of something dark and surprised crossed Claire’s face. She knew exactly how I died. The memory was seared into my soul. I had just finished the traditional month of postpartum confinement. Claire showed up with three men. Before I could react, they seized me. She slapped me, again and again. Not satisfied, she ground her heel into my hand, crushing the bones in my fingers. I screamed. “You bitch, Beth!” she’d shrieked. “Why? Why were you born first? Why did you get to marry Wayne? He was supposed to love me!” I tried to speak, but she unleashed a torrent of kicks and punches, a storm of pure hatred. Her men held me down. Finally, I lay broken and dying on the floor. She leaned down, whispering in my ear. “The thought of you sleeping with him, having his child… it makes me sick, my dear sister. You dared to steal my man. For that, even if you are my sister, you have to die.” Then she gestured to the men. They tore at my clothes. They violated me. I don’t know how many times. At some point, I just… stopped breathing. And my soul watched as she ordered them to dump my body in the mountains. The universe has a way of balancing its books. Five years later, Claire’s karma had arrived. The one person who could save her, she had killed with her own hands. She knew, better than anyone, that Wayne’s efforts were futile. I was never coming back.

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