Category: English

This was my fourth year as Spencer Sterling’s trophy girlfriend. He got bored and asked to break up. I planned to do my usual routine: cry, scream, threaten to end it all. Just like countless times before—perform deep devotion, satisfy his ego. But then, floating text appeared in the air before my eyes. The Comments. They said Spencer was serious this time. He had fallen for someone else. This was truly the last time we would meet. Instantly, I went silent. I shed a few silent tears while using my pinky finger to hook the stack of cash on the floor, rolling it into my palm and tucking it deep into my sleeve. Chapter 1 [The Male Lead is for real this time. The Supporting Female still thinks he’s flirting.] [Yeah, he just wants to dump her to chase our Princess. If she keeps clinging, it’s just pathetic.] I saw these floating comments three minutes ago, right when Spencer mentioned breaking up. Usually, when Spencer threatened a breakup, he was just throwing a tantrum, wanting to see me beg and say I couldn’t live without him. I had just brewed up some tears, ready to wail, when the text blocked the sound in my throat. I looked up. The man in front of me was as immaculate as ever in a black dress shirt, cuffs folded perfectly. But the watch on his wrist wasn’t the Patek Philippe I bought him for his birthday last year. It was a modest, mid-range brand. A brand the old Spencer never would have touched. The comments continued: [She has zero self-awareness. Can’t she see his dark face? Take the money and get lost, girl.] I looked into Spencer’s eyes. Eyes I had memorized over the last three years. This time, I didn’t need to squint to see the disgust. The eyes that used to fake affection no longer held my reflection. In that moment, I knew the comments were real. So, I choked back the scene I had prepared. My voice came out raspier than intended. “So, how much is the severance package?” Spencer froze, clearly not expecting that question. He pulled out a stack of bills and threw them into the air. Red hundred-dollar bills rained down on the floor. He looked at me coldly, waiting for my reaction. I pursed my lips and stood there. The text scrolled rapidly before my eyes: [Pick it up! This is your last chance to cash out!] [The Male Lead sees her true colors now. He’s humiliating her on purpose. He finally realizes that everyone else just wants his money, only our Princess is pure and uncorrupted.] [But didn’t she date him for three years? Breaking up this ugly… is the Male Lead really the good guy?] [What do you know? She’s just a gold digger. She took the money; she has no right to talk about dignity.] [As long as you’re alive, you have a right to dignity.] … While the comments argued, I had already squatted down, gathered the scattered bills, organized them neatly, and placed them in my purse. The comments were harsh, but they were right about one thing: this was my last payday from Spencer. I had to make it count. Maybe my scoop-and-go technique was too professional. When I turned to leave, I glanced back and saw Spencer’s face was dripping with darkness. Three years of intense training almost made me instinctively tear up and profess my love. But then more mocking comments floated by. I snapped out of it, bit my lip, and said dully, “Or… should you leave first?” Spencer didn’t speak. He stormed out, face cold as ice. I watched his back, thinking about the designer bags and jewelry he gave me over the years. My heart actually ached. Only now did I dare let the tears blur my vision. This might really be the last time. Goodbye, Spencer Sterling. Chapter 2 [Whoa, why does the Supporting Female look actually heartbroken?] [Doesn’t she only care about money? Why is she crying like that?] I saw the comments and quickly wiped my face. When I looked up, Spencer had turned around in the distance. He was looking at me, his expression complicated. Terrified he might ask for a refund, I turned sideways and power-walked away. My white sneaker stepped into a loose paving stone, splashing dirty mud all over the toe. I admit, my exit was a bit messy. But at least I got away safely. That night, in my rental apartment, I counted cash while sending out resumes. I deposited the $7,000 severance Spencer gave me immediately after leaving his gated community. If he had given me just $3,000 more, I would have hit my savings goal of $500,000. The economy is bad. I didn’t dare invest in stocks. I put it all in CDs. Low interest, but zero risk. After balancing the ledger, I lay on the bed and finally had time to be sad. I missed the money, sure. But I missed Spencer, too. When I graduated, I got scammed out of my savings by a fake landlord, then worked an unpaid internship where they fired me on the last day. I was starving when I met Spencer. Maybe when your luck hits rock bottom, it bounces. I was plain, but I was exactly Spencer’s type. He was generous. Ten grand a month allowance, plus expensive gifts. I couldn’t repay him with money, so I repaid him with ego boosts. He liked me clingy. He liked me helpless. I even took acting classes to provide better emotional value. I could turn 30% affection into 100% devotion. But luck comes fast and leaves faster. I stared at the ceiling, wondering where I’d find work tomorrow. Then, the strange text started scrolling again. [What is the Male Lead doing? He let Princess find out about the Supporting Female. Now Princess is mad. Poor baby.] [If I recall, the Supporting Female dated him first. Why is the Heroine mad?] [Stop being a troll. She was just a canary. A sugar baby doesn’t count as a girlfriend.] The comments started fighting. My eyes were getting blurry. Then, a bright red comment stopped the war. [The Male Lead is crazy. He wants to bring the Supporting Female in to make Princess jealous? Let’s see if she has the shame to show up.] The second the text vanished, my phone rang. “Come to Club Vane. Room 305,” Spencer said. Short and concise. I remembered the last comment and felt guilty. “We broke up, maybe it’s not…” “Five thousand.” “But…” “Fifteen.” “However…” “Thirty thousand.” “I’m on my way.” I hopped on my bicycle and rode against the night wind toward the location. The comments floating above the road were roasting me alive. Let them roast. Thirty grand for a cameo? They’d run faster than me if they had the chance. Spencer wanted me to act like a simp in front of the Heroine. At this point, I knew my place. But the moment I walked into the VIP room, the “Honey” on my lips froze. Because the person standing there, the “Princess” the comments worshipped… Was Jenna. The fake heiress who kicked me out of my own biological family. Chapter 3 Facing Jenna’s disdainful glare, the thirty grand suddenly didn’t seem worth it. I went silent. Spencer called me over. I responded absentmindedly. Sensing my lack of enthusiasm, Spencer’s face darkened. He ignored Jenna, who he was supposedly obsessed with, and frowned at me. Until the comments mentioned the Heroine again. He reacted like a puppet. He grabbed me and pulled me into his arms, right in front of Jenna. Then, as expected, Jenna’s eyes turned red with anger. In that instant, I felt so tired. I put my hand on his chest and pushed us an arm’s length apart. I dug around in my pocket for a while, finally pulling out a set of keys and tossing them on the table. “I only came to return the keys you left at my place.” I tried to sound relieved, but my voice shook. I didn’t actually know what keys these were—Spencer’s front door was biometric—but I bet Spencer didn’t know either. Someone snickered. Spencer’s friends. They always looked down on me. Like the scrolling text, they probably thought I was playing hard to get. A nameless fire rose in my chest. I pointed a trembling finger at Spencer. “A good ex should be like a corpse—dead and silent! Don’t contact me again, do you understand?!” I didn’t have the courage to look at him again. I turned and ran. I ran all the way out of the club before I dared to lean against a wall and sob. Spencer dumping me was fine. But choosing Jenna? That hurt. When Jenna stole my parents and kicked me out of the house, I was seventeen. Half of the hunger and humiliation I suffered these past years was her doing. I was waiting to save enough capital to pull a “revenge of the fallen heiress” plot. How did Spencer become her backer? I bit my lip, afraid to make a sound, shaking with silent sobs. The floating comments went quiet. [Damn, why does she look actually pitiful…] [Yeah, I’m kinda feeling bad for her.] What do you mean kinda pitiful? I am objectively miserable, okay? Finally, I couldn’t hold it. I squatted down and wailed. A tissue appeared in front of my face. The person holding it had one hand over his ear, looking at me with a complicated expression. “You love him that much? Enough to torture yourself?” It was Sawyer Sterling. Spencer’s younger brother. I didn’t speak. He squatted down and wiped my messy face. “I used to think you were just a glutton who loved money. I didn’t know you could love so genuinely. You cursed him out in public just to help him move on.” His tone was awkward, a blush creeping up his neck. He thought for a long time before speaking again. “Chloe, be with me. I’ll treat you better than my brother did.” I looked up, staring at him. He scratched his head nervously. “I mean it. Be my girlfriend. I won’t let anyone bully you. Whatever my brother gave you, I’ll give you too.” “Ten grand a month?” “Deal.” “Okay. We’re dating.” Chapter 4 Sawyer was visibly stunned by my speed. Then, a huge grin spread across his face. Before he could speak, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows. [Haha, the Male Lead thinks she loves him so much. He bet his friends she’d reject Sawyer instantly.] I realized Spencer had been watching me cry the whole time. He watched coldly until I accepted Sawyer. Then he stepped out. He looked at me, then at my hand tightly gripping Sawyer’s. He took a step forward. Sawyer stepped in front of me, grinning at his brother. “Bro, here to congratulate me? You always told Mom and Dad I needed a girlfriend. Now I found one. You should be happy.” Spencer’s face was grim. Sawyer ignored it. “No need for speeches. I want alone time with my girlfriend.” “Your girlfriend?” Spencer sounded like he was grinding his teeth. Sawyer acted oblivious, lifting our joined hands. “Of course she’s my girlfriend.” When Spencer saw the ring-free fingers interlocked with his brother’s, his pupils shrank. The rage in his eyes was almost tangible. It scared me. I instinctively hid behind Sawyer. The comments overhead went wild: [Male Lead thought she was loyal. They broke up this morning and she’s already sold the couple rings.] [Told you she’s a gold digger. Only our Princess truly loves him for him.] Spencer looked even worse after that comment appeared. Sawyer, enjoying the chaos, pulled me from behind his back and wrapped an arm around me. “She’s mine now,” he taunted. “What, you gonna stay and watch us make out?” He grabbed the back of my head and leaned in like he was going to kiss me. I went stiff. I saw Spencer’s fist clench. Just then, Jenna appeared and grabbed Spencer’s arm. “You’ve been gone so long. It’s boring without you.” She ignored us completely, focusing her whining on Spencer. Spencer’s irritation visibly smoothed out. He put on a gentle mask, rubbed Jenna’s hair, and said softly, “Just getting some air. Sorry to keep you waiting.” As a canary who spent three years pleasing him, I had never seen him this gentle. Sawyer tickled my palm. I looked up. He rolled his eyes at them and mouthed: They hooked up ages ago. Homewreckers deserve each other. But my brother treats her like a treasure. I laughed at his expression, then remembered who was standing there and frowned again.

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I’ve always been a man who prefers a clean shot. So, when I scrolled through my Special Tactics Unit fiancée’s private photo album and saw a strange man’s sleeping face, I walked straight up to Scarlett Pierce and demanded an explanation. She sat on the balcony all night, finally confessing, “He was the hostage I extracted from my last mission—the son of the Director. I won’t lie, Damon. I developed feelings for him. But we’ve been together for seven years. We’re getting married the day after tomorrow. I promise you, I will cut all ties with him.” Looking at the desperate sincerity in her eyes, I swallowed the searing pain and chose to forgive her. The wedding would proceed as planned. But on the wedding day, a young man burst into the chapel, pressing a pistol to his own temple. “Scarlett! If you marry him, I swear I will end myself right here in front of you.” Scarlett’s fingers instinctively curled inward. I grabbed her wrist, my voice a low, dangerous warning. “Scarlett, you walk out that door today, and we are permanently finished.” Her hand trembled as she picked up the wedding band. Then, a chillingly clear sound of a firearm being loaded echoed from the doorway. Like a flash of lightning, Scarlett bolted, rushing toward the door. She wrapped her arms around the boy and left the wedding ceremony without a single glance back at me. The wedding reception dissolved into a chaotic mess. The guests’ murmurs were like a thousand fine needles piercing my eardrums. Both sets of parents swarmed me, frantic and confused. I looked over at Cindy, who had been Scarlett’s partner for eight years. She nervously avoided my gaze. “D-Damon… Blake Kincaid is the Director’s son. Six months ago, he was kidnapped in Los Angeles. Scarlett was the one who pulled him out. The situation was complicated; they had to pose as a married couple for three months… Since they came back, he’ll only let Scarlett be his personal security detail…” Cindy’s voice faded to a whisper, her face flushed crimson. I didn’t have the energy to dwell on how many secrets she’d kept for Scarlett, or what her own connection to this Blake Kincaid might be. A dense, suffocating pain spread through my chest. I felt the betrayal deep in my bones. My parents held my hands, their worry palpable. “Who is that man to Scarlett? Where did they go? Does she not want to marry you anymore?” Mr. and Mrs. Pierce guiltily called Scarlett, muttering promises to me. “Damon, don’t worry. I’ll call her back right now. If she doesn’t come back, I’ll… I’ll disown her!” The diamond ring lay forgotten on the red carpet, kicked away by the rushing feet, a perfect metaphor for my shattered heart. I stood frozen. The immaculate hem of my suit was dragging on the ground, stained with mud. The wedding I had pictured countless times had become a spectacle of wreckage. The groom, abandoned in the center of a packed hall, sacrificed for another man. It was an unbelievable, shameful melodrama, and it was happening to me. Five solid hours. One hundred and eight calls. Scarlett answered none of them. I watched the screen of my phone dim, then brighten, then finally go dark. Sunlight filtered through the cathedral’s stained glass, casting fractured patterns on the floor. A cold, piercing light landed squarely on my empty ring finger. The guests gradually left, leaving behind the confetti and half-eaten catering. A wave of dizziness washed over me. Everything spun. The last sound I heard was my mother’s panicked cry. When I woke again, the sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose. A nurse was adjusting my IV drip. She spoke softly. “You’re extremely run down. You can’t afford any more stress. You need to take care of yourself.” I stared at the ceiling. Tears slipped silently into my hairline. The seven years flashed through my mind like a sped-up film reel: the farewell kiss before she joined the Special Tactics Group at eighteen; the thick stack of letters from deployment; the emergency contact listed on every single one of her mission wills—always my name. I forced a bitter smile for my parents and the Pierces. How could I explain that this seven-year marathon had to end now? At seven in the evening, Scarlett, missing for six hours, finally appeared. Her face was pale. The look she gave me held a distinct layer of guilt. “Damon, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice rough. “Blake… he’s my mission asset. No matter what, his safety has to come first…” I swallowed the bitterness. I couldn’t help but ask. “Did you take him away only because of your duty?” I fought back a sob. “You know exactly how he feels about you, yet you chose to protect him over me, over our wedding. Scarlett, I’m not an idiot.” She was silent for a long time. Then, she grasped my cold hand. Her voice was strained. “Damon Robert, in seven years, I’ve never asked you for anything. Just this once, I’m begging you. Don’t sensationalize this. Don’t let this ruin him. He’s young; he can’t be branded as the other man. Please?” I stared at the desperate plea in her eyes. My heart clenched tight, making it impossible to breathe. She shouldn’t be begging me; she should be apologizing. A person’s first reaction never lies. She hadn’t thought about my humiliation at the altar. She hadn’t worried about why I was in the hospital. Her first, her only, concern was Blake. It took all my strength to push one word past my throat: “Fine.” She visibly relaxed. “Blake is very unstable knowing I was about to get married. Our wedding… let’s postpone it for now.” “I need to be his dedicated security detail right now… just for a few months. When the mission is fully closed, maybe three months, we can finally have our wedding. Please?” Her voice was laced with cautious hope. I had waited seven years. Three more months truly wasn’t a lifetime. But looking at the genuine concern in her eyes—concern reserved entirely for someone else—I realized I couldn’t wait another day. My voice was flat, like stagnant water. “Scarlett.” “I’m not known for my great memory. But I remember your blush when you stole a kiss the day I dropped you off at the base.” “I remember the first letter you wrote, saying you wanted to grow old with me and see the world.” “I remember you surviving a near-fatal deployment, but still managing to bring back my favorite salted caramel tart.” “These years, you never wronged me. You always put my needs first, you remembered every tiny habit… I always believed you would love me forever.” I looked up at her, and the dam broke. Tears streamed down my face. “But today, I just can’t feel your love anymore…” Seven years of memories surged. Scarlett’s own eyes turned red, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. “But Damon,” she whispered, “Blake can’t be without me right now.” That single phrase, “can’t be without me,” obliterated the last of my hope. I looked at her, and a strange laugh bubbled up, mixed with my tears. “Then go.” She froze, clearly not expecting me to give in so easily. But she didn’t say another word, turning and leaving the room. The next morning, I was packing my few things, ready to check out, when I rounded the corner of the corridor and ran right into Scarlett. Her eyes weren’t even on me. Her entire attention was focused on the man beside her. Blake was handsome, charming, and looking at her with a raw, bright admiration. So this was the man for whom she’d abandoned me at the altar. My stare must have been intense because Blake noticed me first. He didn’t flinch, instead raising his chin with a casual, almost smug air—the relaxed confidence of a spoiled man of power. Only then did Scarlett turn. Her brow furrowed instantly, her tone edged with impatience. “Damon. Blake’s emotions are fragile right now. We need to go home. Say whatever you need to say there, but don’t cause a scene here. You’ll affect him.” Blake smiled and extended his hand grandly. “You must be Damon Robert. Scarlett talks about you all the time.” He added, without a trace of sincerity, “I apologize for interrupting your wedding the other day.” I gripped my discharge papers until my knuckles were white, then managed a faint smile. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just here to check out.” I walked past them to the cashier. Scarlett looked at me strangely, surprised by my sudden composure. A flicker of something—disappointment? loss?—crossed her face. She reached out to stop me, but I turned my head, catching sight of a faint smudge on the sleeve of her trench coat. Her eyes followed mine. She saw me take the coat off, and she reached out to take it. “Give it to me, I know how much you like this coat. I’ll have it professionally cleaned.” I shook my head and tossed the coat directly into a nearby garbage bin. My tone was distant. “Throw it out. I don’t like things that are stained. You know I’m a clean freak.” The smile froze on Scarlett’s face. She knew I wasn’t talking about the coat. I was talking about the seven years of our life. Before she could speak again, I had settled the bill and walked away. Not far from the hospital, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Scarlett: Don’t be mad. I got you a salted caramel tart from that place you love. Remember to pick it up. When the delivery arrived, I stared at the familiar pink box and laughed without humor. This was her standard apology ritual. I mechanically took a bite. It used to be the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. Now, it was just bitter and indigestible. Scarlett didn’t come home that night. Stripping away a seven-year relationship hurt more than I could have imagined. I stayed awake until dawn, then finally climbed out of bed to pack. The matching hoodies in the closet, the framed photos on the shelf, the sticky notes on the refrigerator—every object held a sharp, thorny memory. I thought of the day she got her deployment papers for the elite unit. She was heartbroken. “This is great news, why are you so upset?” She just hugged me, sighing. “I’ll see you even less. Husband, I’m going to miss you too much.” “Then buy me a huge house,” I teased, “so I can wait for you there, safe and sound.” She took my joke seriously. She took the most dangerous, highest-paying missions, including a terrifying extraction mission in South Asia. I was so scared I spent the night at a temple, praying for every deity to bring her back. She came back, scarred and exhausted, but smiling foolishly as she pressed the deed to a new condo into my hand. “Damon, you have your big house now. You can’t run away.” Now, the house was here, but the person I was waiting for refused to return. I closed the last storage box just as the sky turned a pale pink. When the moving truck arrived, both sets of parents showed up. I hadn’t told them the full truth, so they couldn’t understand why the couple who were supposed to be getting married two days ago were suddenly splitting up. My parents sighed, not arguing, just telling me, “Come home whenever you want.” Mrs. Pierce grabbed my hand, pleading. “Damon, please give Scarlett another chance! The wedding… she was just confused. It was a mistake…” I stayed silent, instructing the movers to keep going. Just as Mrs. Pierce was about to lose her voice, the front door opened. Scarlett was back. And she brought Blake with her. He looked around the room, curious and excited, as if he were the new master of the house. A terrifying silence fell over the room. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on them. Mrs. Pierce’s voice trembled. “Scarlett, did… did you do something unforgivable to Damon?” Mr. Pierce was shaking with fury. “Who is that man?!” Scarlett didn’t answer. She only scanned the empty living room, her eyes settling on me. “You’re moving out?” “Yes,” I answered calmly. “Back to my parents’ place.” She seemed to relax slightly. “Good. I’ll come pick you up before the next wedding.” She said it dismissively, then pulled Blake forward. “This is Blake Kincaid. He was the hostage from my last mission, and he’s the Director’s son. For the next while, I need to be his close-protection officer.” Her open, indifferent manner made all our previous suspicions seem petty. Blake smiled sweetly and reached out to link arms with Mrs. Pierce. “Auntie, hello. Scarlett takes such good care of me. She even brought me home for dinner today. Since everyone’s here, why don’t I cook? You can all try my famous pasta.” Mrs. Pierce looked awkwardly at me. “Damon, maybe… maybe we can just sit down and talk this out?” I was about to refuse when Blake jumped in, his eyes sparking with provocation. “Damon, you should stay too! The more the merrier, right?” SLAP— A sharp crack echoed through the house. I stared, stunned, as my mother stood there, having just slapped Blake across the face. “Mom!” She glared at me, her eyes red, her voice shaking violently. “I gave birth to you. You think I don’t know you?” “You’ve been with her since you were eighteen—seven years! For her, you, a young man, lived like a monk, praying to every saint to keep her safe. She was gone? You couldn’t sleep. You care about her that much. You wouldn’t walk away unless your heart was utterly broken!” “I don’t care who you marry, but today, she brings another man here to humiliate you—I will not stand for it as your mother!” “If you won’t stand up for yourself, I will!” My mother’s words struck me like lightning, and my eyes burned with unshed tears. Blake covered his stinging cheek, tears welling up. Scarlett immediately shielded him, her face darkening with fury. “Damon Robert! How old are you? Are you still running to your parents to fight your battles—” I didn’t let her finish. I rushed forward and slapped her. “Scarlett Pierce, you are the one who deserves it!” I thought of the times I was abandoned, the sleepless nights, the precious sincerity that was crushed. How could I pretend none of it happened? My eyes were wild. “We are over! Break up!” Before Scarlett could respond, Mrs. Pierce frantically interjected, “No! You’ve been together for seven years. You can’t just throw it away!” The usually stoic Scarlett’s face changed drastically. “Damon, listen to me. Don’t be dramatic.” “I’m not being dramatic.” I looked straight at her. “The moment you left me at that altar, we were finished.” Scarlett moved to explain, but Blake suddenly burst into loud sobs. “Damon, it’s all my fault! Please don’t blame Scarlett! I was confused, I fell for someone I shouldn’t have… I should die!” As soon as the words left his mouth, Blake ran out of the house, still weeping. Scarlett’s attention immediately snapped to the door. She looked at me gravely. “Damon, Blake is in a terrible state. I’m afraid he’ll do something reckless. Wait here, we’ll talk about us later.” She started to rush after him, but Mrs. Pierce grabbed her arm. “Scarlett, are you trying to kill your father and me? Who is your partner? Who matters more? Can’t you tell the difference?” But there’s no waking someone who is pretending to sleep. Scarlett wrenched her arm free. Frowning, she said, “Mom, if he leaves my sight, he’s at risk of reprisal. He’s a life, Mom! A life is at stake!” Silence settled over the room. Scarlett glanced at me, a flicker of guilt, and then turned to chase Blake. A sudden, torrential downpour began outside the window. Mrs. Pierce held my hand, closing her eyes. “Damon, with this rain… why don’t you wait until tomorrow to leave?” I looked at the sheet of water outside and shook my head. “No.” Let this winter storm be my final farewell to Scarlett Pierce. I went home with my parents that evening. Scarlett, meanwhile, spent the night kneeling in the same pouring rain outside my parents’ front door. The next morning, when I opened the door, her eyes immediately lit up. Struggling to stand, she looked at me. “Damon Robert. You’re awake.” She was soaking wet, shivering, and looked wretched. The all-night vigil had left dark circles under her usually bright eyes. I was utterly sick of her post-betrayal performance. If she cared so much, why did she abandon me every single time? Scarlett’s eyes were desperate. She held up her hand and swore. “Damon, I’ve explained everything to Blake. Someone else will be assigned to his protection now. From this moment, I will have no contact with him. It’s an official unit notice—look.” She held out her phone, her eyes full of stubborn pleading. I took the phone and slammed it onto the concrete. “Scarlett. There is no going back.” She stared at me, tormented. “Why? Damon, I told you I will give you a future. Can’t you wait just a little longer? Why won’t you believe me?” Even now, she didn’t get it. This was never about belief or commitment. This was about a third party staining the purity of our love. I said nothing, moving to call security. She let out a strangled cry. “Damon Robert!” Scarlett dropped to her knees in front of me, her palm open, holding the ring she had tossed aside at the wedding. “Forgive me. Let’s go to the courthouse right now. Please?” The truth was, Scarlett was exceptional. She was beautiful, capable, well-bred, and both our families loved us together. We had genuine love. Perhaps I could pretend the man in the middle never happened, and go on with her. But I couldn’t. The love I needed had to be flawless. The moment I reached for the diamond ring, her phone rang on the ground. I vaguely heard Cindy’s frantic voice yelling: “It’s Blake! He tried to overdose again!” The same performance, replayed countless times. Scarlett’s eyes flickered, but she clenched her jaw. “From now on, I don’t want reports on his situation.” She hung up, looking at me with frantic hope. “Damon, forgive me. I promise I’ll be a better man to you. I promise.” I couldn’t help but laugh. As I laughed, tears began to fall. I tossed the ring onto the ground. She picked it up. I tossed it again. Her face grew paler and paler. I spoke softly. “Some things don’t get a second chance.” “You corrupted seven years of our life. Scarlett Pierce, I wish you nothing but loneliness.” “I’m the one who is walking away.”

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Watching an ad play out before my show, I scrolled through a viral TikTok reel—a nostalgic video about a guy and his ex-girlfriend. “Five years since we broke up, and she’s never let my premium streaming subscription lapse.” The top comment, from a burner account, was brutal in its sweetness: “I’m the creator’s ex. The subscription is linked directly to his phone number, and he has never asked me for a penny.” “He was a great friend and lover. It was my genuine pleasure to pay for him.” “This is all my personal choice and has nothing to do with him. Please go easy on the comments—it hurts me to see people criticize him.” The replies were a deluge of heartbreak: “Ugh! She saw people saying bad things about him and exposed her own secret account just to protect him! I’m crying!” I instinctively tapped on the small account’s profile. A wave of profound, icy absurdity washed over me. The deeply devoted, heartbroken woman was Victoria “Tori” Bellweather, my fiancée—the woman I was set to marry in two days. I stared at the screen, and the five-year-old anchor of my love—the one I’d clung to like a shipwrecked man—snapped. The feeling was gone. If she wasn’t mine to have, I wouldn’t try to take her anymore. It was over. The video’s like count kept climbing. Someone in the comments soon doxxed the ex: “OMG! I know these two! Tori was obsessed with Brock!” “They were high school sweethearts all the way through sophomore year of college—never fought! He only had to wish for the stars and she’d give them to him! We were all so jealous!” “They broke up because Tori’s parents didn’t approve of Brock’s career path, I think.” “But now Tori has a fiancé she’s been with for five years. Rumor has it they were set up. No love, just ‘suitable.’” As I read that last comment, the ad finally transitioned to the payment page. Renew Premium. I suddenly realized. Tori had forgotten to renew my subscription. She could remember to pay for her ex-boyfriend, Brock Tanner, for five years straight, but she couldn’t remember the one for the man whose name was on her wedding invitations. My knuckles tightened around my phone. My chest ached, a heavy, suffocating weight. The comment was right, in Tori’s mind, anyway. We were introduced through a family friend. She didn’t know I had been silently in love with her for years—ever since she offered me a seat in the back of her senior-year Calculus class. When we met that day, I was so determined to finally be near her that I pushed for a quick engagement, believing that maybe, just maybe, I could earn her love over time. But all I’d done was self-deceive. A sound at the door—Tori. She glanced at me, noting I was still awake, and a faint, familiar weariness crossed her features. “I didn’t check my phone, which is why I didn’t text you back.” Any other night, I would have understood her demanding job in corporate law and shaken my head, telling her it was fine. But her comment on Brock’s video was only minutes old. She was probably still messaging the trolls on the ride home. Our chat log, meanwhile, was an eternal stretch of my own green bubbles. I lifted my gaze to meet her face—as impassive as always—and spoke softly: “You forgot the streaming service again. I just sat through a thirty-second commercial.” She paused, then a flicker of annoyance, barely concealed, tinged her voice. “Couldn’t you just pay for it yourself, Evan? I’m working eighteen-hour days. Am I supposed to keep a mental note of your entertainment subscriptions?” A fresh wave of sorrow rose, but I managed a bitter smile. Always the same excuse. Forgetting our anniversary, rescheduling the meeting with my parents, and zero involvement in any of the wedding planning—it was all attributed to “work.” I had been naive enough to believe her. Now I saw the truth: she wasn’t busy. She just wasn’t in love. This time, I didn’t argue. I just nodded, calm and detached. “You’re right.” “The membership’s covered. And, actually, you don’t need to worry about the wedding, either.” Tori froze, her expression shifting from impatience to confusion. “What do you mean?” Our eyes met. There was no fear in her gaze, only a deep-seated irritation. The last, faint trace of hope in my heart evaporated. Before I could answer, she scoffed. “You’re going to throw a fit and break up with me—all because I forgot your subscription?” “Evan Black, you’re becoming absolutely unreasonable.” “Do whatever you need to do.” She spun on her heel and slammed the bedroom door so hard the framed art rattled on the wall. I stood there for a long time, numb, before wiping the cold dampness from my cheek. From the balcony, I heard her on the phone, her tone airy and unconcerned: “Yeah, we fought again.” “Don’t worry, Mom. The wedding is still on. He’ll get over it in a couple of days. That’s how the last five years have gone, hasn’t it?” I clenched my fists and then slowly opened them, taking a self-mocking breath. I picked up my phone. I canceled the wedding. Then, I bought a one-way ticket to California. We slept in separate rooms that night. It was the first time I hadn’t groveled first. Tori seemed genuinely thrown off. In the morning, she stared at me with unconcealed astonishment. “You didn’t make my breakfast?” I nodded, my voice flat. “I have to go to the office too, Tori. I didn’t have time to cook for two.” She watched me for a moment, then gave a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Fine. Keep sulking, Evan. It’s boring, but fine.” As she stormed out, a cloud of perfume wafted behind her—a sophisticated, musky scent. We’d been together for five years, and she had never worn perfume. It must be an important date, I thought, fighting the urge to ask. I forced down my food and went to the office to finalize my transfer papers. I was scheduled to leave in three days for a new role on the West Coast. My colleagues decided to host an impromptu dinner party that night to celebrate my promotion. Midway through the meal, Tori texted me: “Working late. Not coming home.” I didn’t reply. I excused myself to the restroom. As I dried my hands, I heard a chorus of excited cheers erupt from the VIP room next door. “I can’t believe we get to see Tori and Brock together again after five years! They belong together!” My heart stopped. I edged toward the door crack and peered through. All the blood in my body turned to sludge. Tori and Brock Tanner were sitting side-by-side, both wearing smiles I had never been granted—a look of genuine, easy joy. Brock’s loud, confident voice came through the door. “Keep it down, guys. The fiancé will be pissed if he finds out.” He turned to Tori, eyes wide with false innocence. “Does your fiancé know you’re out with us tonight? Why isn’t he here?” Tori’s friends immediately erupted in derisive laughter. “Oh, please. ‘Fiancé’? If it weren’t for Mrs. Bellweather finding him ‘suitable,’ he wouldn’t have a chance! He’s just a placeholder, Tori’s safety school!” “Brock, she’s been waiting for you all these years.” “Why do you think Tori’s been working so hard? To break free from her mother’s control and marry you, dummy! Ha!” I blinked, fighting the sudden, sharp sting behind my eyes. Tori was smiling, a silent, damning confirmation. I thought of the night I had almost given up on us, the night she had wrapped her arms around me, eyes glistening from wine. “I’m working to make money so we can have a better life, Evan.” Just as I lost myself in the memory, the door to their room flew open. Brock stood there, looking at me with feigned surprise. He flashed a knowing, smug grin. “Oh? Is this the waiter? Sorry, buddy, we’re all set for service in here!” The room went silent for one agonizing second before erupting into boisterous laughter. “Haha! Brock, you’re killing me! That’s Tori’s fiancé!” “Wait, he’s not wrong, though! Isn’t Evan basically the Bellweather’s personal assistant?” They didn’t even bother to lower their voices now. Their mockery was open, cruel, and unanimous: I was nothing more than a social climber, a fixture Tori’s mother approved of. My nails bit into my palms, the pain the only thing keeping me from running. Brock feigned an embarrassed shrug. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry, Evan! My mistake. Did you come here because you saw my video last night?” I frowned, confused. He pulled out his phone, clicking on his profile. His latest post was a selfie of him and Tori. I shook my head. “I haven’t seen—” Brock cut me off, laughing, and clicked on the viral reel from last night. He winked innocently. “That video, Evan? I set the privacy to ‘Only Viewable by You.’ It’s only been one night, and the views went from 100k to 110k! Were you up all night watching it? Hope I didn’t mess up your sleep schedule, pal!” My mind went instantly blank. My throat closed up. The shame was a burning oil poured over my skin, and the laughter from the room swelled around me. I couldn’t move. My feet were cemented to the floor. Tori finally stepped forward, giving Brock a look of fond exasperation before gently flicking his ear. “Still playing these silly games, Brock?” Brock laughed, an open, unrepentant sound. “It’s fun!” he chirped. “I’ve posted tons of ‘Only You’ videos over the last five years. You watched every single one hundreds of times.” He turned to me, his smile dropping slightly. “Hey, no hard feelings, Evan. I only posted that one for nostalgia. Tori and I are just friends now—” Tori cut him off, finally looking at me, her expression flat. “Don’t bother explaining. People with dirty minds see dirt everywhere. A simple video, and he has to throw a tantrum.” I stood rigid, watching the two of them play the perfect couple. “Evan? What are you doing here?” a familiar voice shouted. It was my colleague. “Hey, isn’t that your fiancée? She knows you’re going to California—” “Let’s go back,” I interrupted, turning sharply and walking away. Brock followed me out. “We’re done, too! Let’s walk out together!” He rushed past and paid for our table—the one with my colleagues. When I went to protest, he looked back at me and chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, man. I put it on the credit card Tori gave me. Her ‘Family Card,’ you know? Ha ha!” I remembered the time I’d innocently asked her for a joint account card. Tori had shaken her head, expressionless. “What’s a ‘Family Card’? I don’t know how to set that up. Just tell me how much you want, and I’ll transfer it.” I had thought she was merely clueless about finance. She wasn’t. I nodded, said nothing, and walked away. It was impossible to hail a cab in the winter chill of Manhattan. After my colleagues had left, the wait time on the ride-share app was over an hour. A long, black Bentley pulled up to the curb. Brock, still grinning, opened the passenger door, then paused with exaggerated politeness. “Oops! Almost forgot. After you, Evan!” I bit down on my lip, looking at Tori, who wouldn’t meet my gaze. My voice was dangerously quiet. “You told me your mother died in a car crash. You said you were terrified of driving.” Brock threw his hands up in mock exasperation. “Tori! Did you actually tell him that?” He shook his head, looking at me with pity. “Five years ago, when we were dating, I taught her to lie about that so she wouldn’t have to drive other guys around. Made sure everyone thought she didn’t have a car. Can’t believe she never told you in five years. Her mother died of a stroke, man, not a crash.” Tori finally looked away, fiddling with her purse. “I just… forgot to mention I had a car. I don’t drive it often.” She sighed. “Brock lives downtown, Evan. It’s not on your way. Just take a cab.” Brock offered me a final, false apology, then hopped into the car. The Bentley sped off, leaving me choking on exhaust fumes. The sky, which had been clear, suddenly opened up. A heavy, ice-cold rain began to fall. The restaurant had closed, and there was nowhere to take shelter. My body and soul froze in the downpour. I stood there, letting the rain soak me completely, before finally getting a cab two hours later. Tori still wasn’t home. Her mother, however, was texting me frantic questions about the wedding arrangements. I took a deep breath and told her the truth. Minutes later, Tori called. Her voice was sharp with fury. “Evan, are you completely insane?!” “Why would you take a private fight to my mother? Now she knows about Brock and is demanding I cut him off! She’s even calling him to yell at him!” “You have gone too far!” I hung up, unwilling to argue. I quickly packed a suitcase, intending to spend a couple of nights at a hotel before my flight. Tori walked in just as I was heading for the door. She grabbed my arm, her face dark with anger. “Are you done with this childish tantrum yet?” Just then, a stooped, hateful figure darted out from behind her. A stinging slap landed across my face, the sharp sound splitting the air. “Evan Black! You think you’re a big man now?!” I froze, looking up at the man who was legally my father—the man who had nearly sold me off a decade ago. He was as tyrannical as ever, his face twisted in a sneer. “You finally found a good woman to marry, and you’re throwing a fit? I should’ve sold you to that crew out West back then! It would have been worth as much as the dowry!” “Don’t think you can hide from me! If Tori hadn’t told me you were getting too big for your britches, I wouldn’t even know what you were up to!” The familiar curses and the physical violence instantly dragged me back into that unbearable past. Only Tori’s cold, detached eyes brought me back to the present. Years ago, when she learned about my past, her eyes had been red-rimmed. “We won’t acknowledge him as your father anymore,” she’d promised. “I’ll be your family.” Now, she stood behind him, chin lifted. “Evan, you should have known there would be consequences for trying to hurt Brock.” “I think you’ve lost your bearings, Evan. Let your father teach you a lesson.” I stood there, rigid, letting my father’s open palm land on my face and body. The physical pain was nothing compared to the sickening, agonizing wrench in my heart. Finally, my father stopped, smirking, and pulled out an old, velvet-lined box. His face held the vile pleasure I remembered from my childhood. “You’re just like your useless mother!” “If she hadn’t stopped me from selling you off, you wouldn’t have the balls to pull this stunt!” He raised his hand, ready to smash the urn containing my mother’s ashes. The frozen blood in my veins suddenly erupted. I lunged to grab the box, but Tori was faster. She snatched the urn, turning it over in her hands with a knowing smile. Her voice was almost gentle. “Do you understand your mistake now, Evan?” I looked up at her, disbelief chilling me to the core. My voice was a choked tremor. “I understand.” “I was wrong. I apologize. I shouldn’t have picked a fight with Brock.” “I—” Before I could finish, Brock rushed back into the room. He snatched the box, turning it over with a look of distaste. “What is this thing?” Tori frowned slightly. “It’s a nasty thing, Brock. Don’t touch it.” Nasty thing. The words were a direct hit to my heart. I saw a quick flash of the two of us kneeling together at my mother’s grave, Tori gently wiping the dust from the photo. She turned her sharp gaze back to me. I bit down on my teeth, forcing the words out. “I’m sorry, Brock—” Clatter. The urn dropped to the polished hardwood floor. Brock recoiled, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Ugh! What the hell? It’s an ashes box? That’s disgusting!” He stepped back, covering his mouth and nose, then looked at me, a wide, innocent smile on his face. “What did you just say, Evan? I didn’t hear you.” I stared blankly at the dust motes of my mother rising into the air. My father, cackling, began to scrape the remains with his foot. “Good riddance! Filth!” Tori watched me, her face changing slightly. Her voice was suddenly raw. “Brock didn’t mean it. It was an accident. Don’t blame him.” I bent over, painstakingly pinching the ashes from the floor and dropping them into my pocket. My tears and the fine gray powder mixed together. I could almost smell the familiar, comforting scent of the old woman who had loved me. Tori waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Dad, you should leave now.” “The wedding is still on. I’ll invite you.” She slipped a large red envelope into my father’s hand, then turned and put her arm around Brock. She looked down at me, still kneeling. “All right, enough of the drama. I told you Brock didn’t mean it.” “I don’t need you to apologize to him again. That should be enough, right?” “You handle the wedding details for the next two days. Brock wants to go to Disney, and I need to take him.” “I’ll be there for the ceremony. Don’t cause any trouble before then.” With one last look of utter disdain, she turned and walked away. Brock’s delighted voice echoed down the hall. “Tori! You remembered you promised me Disney!” Their happy, carefree voices faded. I don’t know how long I stayed there, picking up every last speck of dust, which I finally placed in my pocket before leaving. I canceled every final wedding detail. Then, I blocked and deleted Tori’s number. On the way to the airport, my boss called. “We have a sudden issue with the supply chain over here in the States. You’re the only one who truly understands the New York market. I need you here immediately.” “I know your wedding is in two days, Evan, but this is an emergency. Can you—” “The wedding is canceled, Mr. Rogers.” “I’m already en route to the airport. I’ll make the flight. Don’t worry. I’ll solve it.” My boss let out a sigh of relief and hung up. I watched the clouds drift past the window, then closed my eyes and pulled the SIM card from my phone. As of this moment, I was completely untethered from Victoria Bellweather. Two days later, Tori arrived at the venue to find a different couple’s wedding announcement on the display board. She frowned, her face pale. She called Evan. The automated voice response sent a spike of ice through her. “The number you have dialed is not in service.”

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The world is just a giant, chaotic simulation run by unpaid interns. And I am the glitch. My dad is a Wall Street shark. I, however, still struggle with splitting the bill at dinner. My mom is an Oscar-winning actress. I look like an NPC in the background of her life. My brother curated his own art exhibition at four years old. At five, I was still eating paste and drooling. Even our housekeeper, Martha, and the butler, Alfred, are retired special ops or hidden geniuses. Luckily, they all spoil me rotten. I had made peace with my mediocrity… Until one day, a viral “Genius Girl” knocked on our door, demanding I vacate her spot as the real heiress. Great. The other shoe I’ve been waiting for my whole life has finally dropped. Chapter 1 I’ve always felt like a glitch in this family’s matrix. Dad is a financial tycoon. Mom is Hollywood royalty. Me? Average brain, average face. They say nature seeks balance. My brother, Julian, is the result of hoarding all the talent. Art prodigy at four, MIT at fifteen, and a permanent fixture on the “Most Handsome Faces” global list. I wanted to be jealous. I wanted to be a villain. I wanted to crawl around in the dark like a goblin. But I chose to make peace with myself. After all, you can’t win the genetic lottery twice in a row. I was living my best life, rotting in bed… Until the internet-famous Genius Girl showed up. “The nurse in the delivery room confessed! We were switched at birth! I am the real Sterling daughter!” “You’re so basic! How could you possibly be their daughter?” “Today, I’m taking back everything that belongs to me!” Tiffany stormed in alone, but she carried the energy of a SWAT team. Her confidence was so overwhelming that my family—sorry, me and the other family of three—fell into deep contemplation. Dad, looking up from his tablet: “Switched?” Mom, checking her manicure: “How would I know? I was too busy counting my stretch marks. Wasn’t the baby handed to Julian?” Julian, my stoic brother, paused for three seconds before delivering a cold fact: “I was three years old.” Mom paused, then tried to deflect the blame again. “But you loved holding the baby! You kept asking if you could share your new toy with your little girlfriend, Avery.” “Avery wasn’t my girlfriend.” “But she called me ‘Mommy’ every time she saw me…” I sat there, sweating bullets. Tiffany didn’t look too happy either. Seeing Mom and Julian drift off-topic, I stood up to interrupt. “Dad, Mom, Julian, look at my face. Then look at hers. Don’t we look more like a family?” She pointed at me, slumped on the sofa. I touched my plain face and nodded in agreement. Growing up, the compliments Julian received included, but were not limited to: “Dashing,” “Stunning,” “A carbon copy of his father.” For me? It was always: “She looks… healthy.” Depressing. “Also, I’ve been a straight-A student my whole life! But her? She’s been dead last since kindergarten. She even bought her college degree!” Tiffany continued to present her evidence. I lowered my head in shame. Since school started, Julian was always the Valedictorian. I was always the cautionary tale. My tutor didn’t believe in failure. She gave me private lessons until she suffered a stress-induced stroke and ended up in the ICU. In her delirium, she held my hand, whispering: “What… do the numbers mean… Avery… what do they mean?” I felt guilty. So, the night before the next exam, I pulled an all-nighter and memorized the entire math textbook. The next day, I became a campus legend for filling the entire exam sheet with formulas and getting a score of zero. Thinking back on this, I looked at my parents and brother with a heavy heart. “Is it possible… that you guys really are related?” Mom and Dad fell into deep thought. Julian looked solemn. Tiffany was still screaming: “Mom! Dad! Don’t you believe me? I’ve been suffering alone for eighteen years! How can you not believe me?” Just as the atmosphere reached a boiling point, Martha, who had been standing in the shadows, spoke up: “Sir, Madam… there is this technology called a DNA test.” Chapter 2 The DNA test went smoothly. The results would take a month. Tiffany wasn’t having it. She started arguing with the clinic staff. “Why do I have to wait a month?” “Because there’s a line.” “Do you know who I am?” “A citizen.” “Who gave you the audacity to speak to me like that?” ” The Constitution.” The receptionist was stone-faced. Tiffany was stomping her feet. I was curling my toes in second-hand embarrassment. A crowd was gathering. I couldn’t watch anymore, so I walked over and tugged her arm. “Maybe just wait? It’s only a month…” She shook me off. “Shut up! You just want to squat in my nest for another month! I won’t give you the chance!” She grabbed the receptionist’s lab coat and screamed: “I order you to get the results today, or face the consequences!” Chapter 3 The consequence was a three-day detention for disturbing the peace. Three days later, Tiffany returned. She demanded to move in, claiming she wanted to feel the “warmth of family” she had missed for years. Dad, cold as ice: “Martha, prep a room.” Tiffany cried tears of joy. “I knew you accepted me in your hearts! This is great. I’ll spend every day by your side from now on.” She shot me a glare and announced loudly: “I’m going to make up for all the lost time!” I turned my head, trying to keep a straight face. Lost time? Since I could remember, I woke up every day in a 10,000-square-foot mansion and ate breakfast at a dining table long enough to land a plane on. The permanent residents were Martha, Alfred, Julian (on weekends), and the two Dobermans in the yard. “Lonely, Rich, and Cold” was the tagline of my childhood. As a teen, my favorite hobby was looking up at the sky at a 45-degree angle, embodying the “Main Character Syndrome” of a sad indie movie. My social media posts were all: Money can’t buy love or If you know, you know. This behavior stopped the year Julian took screenshots of my posts, blew them up into a PowerPoint presentation, and played them on loop during Christmas dinner. I didn’t want to relive that social death, so I shed a tear of sympathy for Tiffany. Her dream was doomed. However, my glamorous Mom was beaming, clapping her hands in excitement. “That’s wonderful! I also want to make up for lost time! You’re so pretty, I’m going to dress you up like the most stunning princess!” Stunning princess? Hearing this, Julian and I synchronized a step backward. We wanted to speak. We stopped. But seeing Mom dragging Tiffany away with the excitement of a teenage girl… Julian and I looked at each other. We kept our mouths shut. … “I have so many couture gowns and no one to wear them! Finally, a model!” “Mom, if you want, I’ll be your model forever.” “Really? Oh, you’re so sweet. I’m going to cry.” Tiffany was eating it up. She glanced at me sideways. “Mom, didn’t you ever dress her up?” “I guess not. Since she’s not biological, you guys weren’t close…” “It’s like those dogs in the yard. Only a real mother and child have that bond. Fakes can never be real!” Tiffany was monologuing now. “Look at how those dogs lean on each other. It’s a metaphor for our family…” I couldn’t help it. “Goldie and Shadow are both male.” Tiffany’s smile froze. Me: “And they were neutered ten years ago.” Tiffany’s face went through the entire color spectrum. But soon, she regained her smug expression. Mom dragged her upstairs excitedly. Before she left, Tiffany shot me a victorious look. She didn’t notice the pity in my eyes. Good luck, soldier. Chapter 4 Lunchtime. Four people at the table. Me, Julian, Mom, and… a Dopamine Doll. A luxury gown, heavy jewelry, and a towering top hat. Not high fashion. High altitude. I looked at Tiffany, who was balancing an eight-layer cake decoration on her head and wearing makeup that made her look like a Victorian ghost. My sympathy reached new heights. Growing up, Mom tried to turn me into a doll. Unfortunately, my average looks and slacker attitude made her give up. Julian, despite his looks, inherited Dad’s death glare. He shut Mom down before she could even start. I know Mom never gave up. She bought dolls. She even ordered life-sized silicone figures using Dad’s credit card. That incident made the tabloids. I snapped back to reality and looked at Tiffany. Her corset was so tight she couldn’t sit, so she was standing to eat. She tried to pick up food, and the tower on her head wobbled. She looked down, and lead-based powder fell into her soup. Julian: “It’s not Christmas. Why is there a tree at the table?” Pfft. I usually don’t laugh. Unless I can’t help it. Mom was offended. “Isn’t it cute? Like a doll…” She batted her eyelashes. Julian: “Dolls don’t need oxygen. She looks like she’s about to pass out.” Mom looked guilty. She glanced at Tiffany with concern. I don’t know what possessed Tiffany, but facing Mom’s rare moment of emotion, she forced a smile uglier than a grimace. “No, I’m fine.” “Don’t force it,” I warned kindly. She didn’t appreciate it. “You wouldn’t understand. A parent’s love for their daughter is heavy like a mountain. This isn’t a burden; it’s the weight of love!” As soon as she finished saying “weight of love,” a crisp SNAP echoed in the air. Tiffany’s expression twisted. Her body trembled. Finally, the physics of the eight-layer hat took over. She tipped backward and hit the floor with a deafening crash. Chaos ensued. Indeed. Parental love is heavy. Like a mountain. Or a concussion.

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My sister, Bella, was terrified our mother would find out she pierced her nipples. She had a secret date planned with some guy she met online—someone with “specific tastes”—and she was desperate to make it happen. But she had an MRI scheduled. At the last second, I stopped her from entering the machine, accidentally exposing her secret in the process. Mom went ballistic. She called Bella a “slut,” grounded her for a month, and confiscated her phone. Bella missed her date. In a rage, Bella broke into my room that night. She took one of her long, industrial-grade piercings and drove it straight into my temple. “This is your fault!” she screamed as the blood poured down my face. “You ruined everything! Snitches get stitches!” I died in agony. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back in the hospital waiting room. Bella was standing in front of the MRI tech, smiling sweetly. “No,” she said confidently. “I’m not wearing any metal.” 1 It started when I found the clothes. They were hidden in the back of our shared closet—scandalous, barely-there scraps of fabric designed for one thing only. I thought about confronting her, but when I walked toward the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar. Bella was standing in front of the mirror, shirt pulled up, carefully dabbing iodine around her chest. Glinting under the bathroom lights were two silver bars. She saw me in the reflection and yanked her shirt down, her face twisting in annoyance. “My body, my choice, Ava,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare tell Mom. If she finds out, you’re dead meat too.” Bella was eighteen, a senior in high school who had been held back a year. Legally an adult, but still living under Mom’s iron fist. I had no intention of ratting her out. But I had to warn her. “Mom scheduled your MRI for tomorrow morning,” I whispered. “You need to take those out now. If you try to do it there, she’ll see.” Bella rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot. The piercings are fresh. If I take them out now, the holes will close up and it’ll hurt like hell to put them back in.” “Relax, Ava. I’ve got a plan.” 2 I didn’t realize Bella’s “plan” was simply to lie to the technician’s face. I watched in horror as she lay down on the table. The machine began to hum, the magnetic field ramping up. I prayed the jewelry was high-grade titanium or surgical steel—something non-magnetic. But as she moved closer to the bore of the magnet, I saw it. Under her thin T-shirt, the metal began to vibrate. Bella gasped, a small sound of pain escaping her lips as the magnets began to pull at the jewelry embedded in her flesh. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch my sister get ripped apart by physics. And we definitely couldn’t afford to break a multi-million dollar machine. Just as her feet crossed the threshold, I yelled out. “Stop! Wait! She’s wearing metal!” The technician hit the emergency stop. Mom’s face went dark as a thunderhead. She marched over and yanked Bella’s shirt up. The secret was out. Our mother was a control freak of the highest order. She didn’t just get mad; she exploded. She dragged Bella off the table and slapped her—hard—right there in the medical suite. “You little tramp!” she screamed, not caring about the staring staff. “Who taught you to be this trashy? Piercing yourself like a hooker!” I tried to step in, to calm her down, but Mom turned and kicked me in the stomach. “Bella is a good girl! This is your fault, Ava! You corrupted her! You think you’re so smart with your grad school acceptance? I’m cutting you off! Go sell your body if you want tuition money!” In my past life, this was the beginning of the end. Bella murdered me that night, and Mom covered it up, telling the police I was “suicidal” and had done it to myself. “If it wasn’t for Ava, Bella wouldn’t have gone astray,” Mom had told the cops over my cooling body. “It’s better this way.” 3 “Any metal on you? Jewelry, zippers, underwire bras?” The tech’s bored voice snapped me back to the present. Bella giggled, playing the part of the innocent schoolgirl perfectly. “Nope! No way. My mom would kill me if I wore that stuff. Only bad girls wear piercings.” She shot a nasty glare at the small silver necklace I had bought with my own money. The tech nodded. “Alright. Hop on. Don’t move.” Bella lay down. The table began to slide. As the machine’s thrumming grew louder—a rhythmic, mechanical pounding—Bella’s confidence faltered. She bit her lip. Her eyes widened. I stood in the corner, watching. A small, cold smile touched my lips. Oh, now you’re scared? Too late. 4 Mom jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. “Why are you just standing there? Look at your sister, she’s nervous! Go hold her hand! Why are you so cold-hearted?” Bella and I were half-sisters. My dad died when I was young. Mom remarried quickly, but Bella’s dad died of a heart attack shortly after she was born. Two dead husbands. The town gossips called Mom a “Black Widow.” To prove them wrong, Mom became obsessed with raising “perfect” daughters. But her methods were twisted. If Bella messed up, she got a timeout. If I messed up, I was forced to kneel on uncooked rice for hours. “You’re the older sister,” Mom would say. “Her failures are your failures.” But when I tested that theory—when I acted out on purpose—I was the only one punished. “You’re responsible for yourself, Ava! Don’t drag your sister down!” It was never about fairness. It was about favoritism. Bella’s grandparents hated Mom, but my dad’s family—my grandma and my Aunt Sarah—loved me. They slipped me cash, bought me clothes, took me to dinner. Mom hated it. “It’s not fair to Bella!” she’d scream. So she cut them off. She burned the gifts they sent me. All to make things “equal.” 5 A low moan from the machine broke my train of thought. Just like before, the magnets were waking up. The metal in Bella’s chest was reacting. But this time, I didn’t say a word. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, and watched. “You’re doing great, Bella!” I shouted over the noise, my voice dripping with false cheer. “It’s just the machine noise! Don’t be a baby!” Mom relaxed. She thought Bella was just being dramatic about the noise. The table slid further in. Bella’s torso entered the bore. The magnetic pull was exponential. Under her shirt, two points tented the fabric, stretching impossibly high as the jewelry tried to rip itself free to join the magnets lining the cylinder. The moan turned into a shriek. “MOM! HELP!” It wasn’t a cry of discomfort. It was the sound of raw, bloody trauma. I feigned panic. “Mom! Something’s wrong! The machine is hurting her!” The tech looked up, realized something was catastrophic, and sprinted toward the room to pull Bella out. But Mom blocked the door. She shoved the tech back toward the control panel. “My daughter is stuck! Turn it off! Turn it off right now!” 6 Mom didn’t understand physics. You can’t just “turn off” an MRI. To kill the magnetic field instantly, you have to initiate a “quench”—venting the liquid helium. It destroys the machine and costs a fortune to repair. Mom didn’t care. While I pretended to struggle with Bella’s legs, the inevitable happened. Rrrrip. The sound of skin giving way was audible even over the machine. One of the piercings tore free, shredding through Bella’s nipple and shirt, flying upward like a bullet to clang against the inner wall of the scanner. Bella screamed—a high, thin sound—and passed out from the shock. “Mom! She passed out! There’s blood everywhere!” I screamed. The tech shoved past me to get to Bella. Mom, seeing the blood, went feral. She ran into the control room and started smashing buttons. “Stop it! Stop hurting my baby!” When the buttons didn’t work, she grabbed a heavy metal stool and smashed it against the control window, then ran inside and started battering the plastic casing of the MRI machine itself. “Work, you piece of junk! Stop!” The machine let out a dying groan, the helium venting with a loud hiss. The room filled with white fog. Silence fell.

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The day I got the confirmation of my second pregnancy, a notification popped up in the family group chat. The sender, a username I knew belonged to my husband’s mistress, had tagged me: “Griffin says you’re the most generous woman, Evelyn, so I’m thrilled to share our husband’s $300,000 ‘Perfect Attendance Bonus’ with the family.” “A small token of appreciation for the three hundred nights I kept him company this year.” “Hope you’re not too deflated about your own little $30 ‘Participation Trophy,’ honey.” “Don’t worry, I know the difference between the Queen and the joker. I’ll stick to my job: making sure Griffin is satisfiedin the bedroom.” “And thank you to the entire Maxwell family for accepting me. I’ll keep up the good work and aim for an eight-figure Christmas bonus next year.” The thread went silent. Even my usually chatty mother-in-law was quiet. Just then, Griffin Maxwell walked in. Seeing the blood drain from my face, he gave me a look of practiced calm. “The girl was insistent about joining the family thread,” he confessed smoothly. “She’s pregnant, Evie, and emotional. I had to manage her feelings. This is my fault, so I have a responsibility to her.” My heart turned to ice. It finally clicked why he had sent me a $30 Venmo an hour earlier, with the note: “Perfect Attendance.” Staring at the husband who had completely forgotten the path we’d walked together, a crushing weight settled in my chest. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was done with him. 1 Griffin saw my silence and reached for my face, holding it with a sickening, devotional promise. “Evie. You will always be my Primary. My wife in every sense of the word. The woman I respect most.” “No one can touch your position as Mrs. Maxwell. Don’t let this little thing upset you, okay?” I stared at him, hollowed out. In that instant, he was a stranger. The man I’d loved with my whole heart, the man I’d built an empire with, was gone. And the title of ‘Mrs. Maxwell’? I didn’t want it anymore. Meeting his gaze—a patronizing blend of expectation and reassurance—I crushed the tempest inside me and managed a faint smile. “Okay,” I whispered. Griffin let out a breath of relief, attempting to pull me into a hug. “That’s my girl. The most understanding wife in the world. I’m the luckiest man alive.” I stiffened, taking an involuntary step back. His phone rang, stopping him mid-movement. Right in front of me, he answered it, his voice dropping into a soft, concerned murmur. “You threw up again? I’m on my way.” “You want cake? Sure. I’ll have my wife bake one for you. Just try to keep it together, I’m leaving now.” He hung up, eyes full of frantic worry, and addressed me in the tone one might use for a hired hand. “Honey, be a sweetheart and bake Blair one of your strawberry layer cakes. It’s her favorite.” He didn’t give me a second glance, rushing toward the door. I stood there, a punchline to a terrible joke. My mind struggled to catch up. I hadn’t realized my home had been utterly ransacked. The woman who slept with my husband had also eaten the cake—my cake. I had spent months perfecting that recipe because Griffin said he loved it. Now, I understood. She loved it. I pulled out my phone. First, I booked a consultation for the abortion. Then, I texted Harrison Bell, my former law school mentor and now a top divorce attorney: “I want a full divorce, half the assets, and sole custody of our daughter.” The phone was still in my hand when my ten-year-old daughter, Paige, rushed down the stairs. “Mom, seriously? Stop spacing out! Go make Blair’s cake.” “Don’t you know pregnant women can’t be kept waiting? Hurry up!” I froze, as if struck by lightning, and turned to face her, disbelief written all over my face. “You knew? You knew your father was having an affair?” Her lack of concern, her casual dismissal, stabbed me deep in the heart. “Well, yeah. Blair just posted it in the family thread, remember?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Since you know, I’ll be honest.” “Blair is my best friend. She’s completely genuine with Dad and me. I’ve loved her since I was six, Mom, she’s a really great person.” “And she’s giving me a little brother. I really hope you can just try to be nice to her.” 2 Every word Paige spoke was a twist of the knife. I couldn’t comprehend that this was the child I had raised with every fiber of my being for ten years. My hand trembled. My throat burned. I fought back the stinging tears. “You like her?” “Of course! She’s sweet and pretty and fun. Everyone loves her. And don’t blame Dad.” “Just try to understand one thing, Mom: Blair is joining our family. She’s not here to break it up.” She didn’t care about the devastation on my face. With a final piece of self-righteous advice, she turned and headed back to her room. I looked at her retreating back and gave a cold, faint laugh. I deleted the last text and sent a new one to Harrison: “Forget the custody. Just start the proceedings.” The crushing weight in my chest slowly began to lift. I wiped away the tears that fell, giving up on this rotten marriage with a newfound clarity. Griffin called and texted, badgering me about the cake’s progress. I ignored him. Thirty minutes later, I saw the mistress in the flesh. It was her. The girl I had helped four years ago, the one I had pulled from a disastrous situation with her stepfather and given an entry-level job at Maxwell Global. My kindness now felt like a cruel joke. I should have left her to the wolves. I shouldn’t have had pity. “Evie.” She stood before me, hand linked with Griffin’s, smiling sweetly, an image of pure, guileless innocence. Nausea rose in my throat. My hands, hidden in my sleeves, clenched into fists. Initially, I had only planned to target Griffin, believing his betrayal was the greater sin—his inability to control himself. But now, driven by a fury I didn’t recognize, I stepped forward and slapped her across the face. “Blair Hartley! You have a hell of a conscience!” Tears instantly welled in her eyes. She clutched her cheek, a picture of apologetic distress. “I’m so sorry, Evie. You’re right to hit me. I thought… I thought you’d accepted me. I wouldn’t have come if I knew you hadn’t.” She played the victim so well it was sickening. Griffin roared, pushing me back hard. “Evelyn Reid, what the hell! She’s pregnant! How could you hit her!” In fifteen years of marriage, this was the first time he had ever laid a hand on me in anger. The force was tremendous; I fell hard, a sharp, searing pain shooting through my body. More than the pain, I was stunned. This was the man who once cried with sympathy when I accidentally got a minor burn while cooking. Now, he’d shoved me to the ground for his mistress. Blair, ever the peacemaker, bent over us. “Griffin, no, stop. This is our fault. Please, I’m just thirsty for some lemonade. Go get me a glass, will you?” Griffin hesitated, his eyes still blazing with anger at me. She gave him a reassuring look. “Evie’s a kind person. She won’t do anything. Go on, please.” Griffin, who now obeyed Blair like he once obeyed me, glared at me one last time. “Don’t touch her again.” He left, glancing back over his shoulder repeatedly, his anxiety visible. Blair knelt next to me, offering a hand to help me up, her voice a low, vicious sneer that only I could hear. “Hate me all you want. Even if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. He’s done with you.” Her triumphant eyes raked over my face. “I was actually going to let you stay as the little housekeeper, out of gratitude for the past. But you’re not playing nice, so you can’t blame me.” She smiled in pure self-satisfaction. “But I wasn’t that bad to you, was I?” “Why do you think you got that $30 ‘Participation Trophy’?” “You didn’t know, did you? I convinced him to give you that much. He told me he wouldn’t give you a cent—that a housewife like you was just the Maxwell family’s free nanny.” She stifled a giddy laugh. “Oh, and your daughter said you were just the nanny, too.” “See? He didn’t want to give you anything. I’m the one who begged him to give you the thirty dollars. How good am I to you?” 3 Her smug, wicked face was like something pulled from a sewer. I was trembling with fury, but I gave her a cold, dismissive snort. “You don’t need to provoke me. Even if I give you the title of Mrs. Maxwell, you don’t have the strength to hold it.” A person who only knows how to harvest fruit but never how to plant a tree will eventually reap what they sow. She gave a contemptuous pout. Just as the sound of Griffin’s returning footsteps grew near, she suddenly pulled a small paring knife from her pocket and plunged it into her own abdomen! I gasped, frozen in horror. Before I could move, she pressed my hand onto the handle, screaming in anguish: “Evie, I promised I’d leave Griffin and get rid of the baby! Why are you killing me!” I tried to yank my hand away, but it was too late. Griffin’s foot slammed into my side, sending me sprawling again. “Evelyn! Are you insane?!” My daughter, Paige Maxwell, rushed downstairs. She glared at me, righteous fury in her eyes. “Mom, murder is illegal! Do you want to go to jail?!” Both father and daughter were convinced I was trying to kill Blair. I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “I didn’t touch her! She did that to herself!” They refused to believe me. Griffin was apoplectic. “Don’t you dare lie now!” Blair, struggling to speak through sobs and pain, was lifted into Griffin’s arms. She clung to him, apologizing repeatedly. “I… I’m so sorry, Griffin. Our baby… it’s gone.” Griffin panicked. He yelled at the staff to call the private family doctor immediately. Then, he tried to comfort Blair. “This is my fault, Blair. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He carried her into a guest room, barking orders to a bodyguard. “Watch her! Don’t let her near Blair!” Less than ten minutes later, my mother-in-law, Dorothy Maxwell, arrived, rushing in with a look of pure dread. She marched up to me and slapped me hard across the face. The woman who had been nothing but kind for decades looked like a cornered beast, ready to rip me apart. She jabbed a finger at my nose, her voice low and furious. “If anything happens to my grandson, I swear I will end you!” She didn’t know that she was also cursing the grandchild in my own belly. A lifetime of devotion to her had yielded nothing. “She stabbed herself. I didn’t—” “Mom! Why are you still lying?! I saw you try to kill Blair!” Paige ran out of the guest room, interrupting me, her eyes burning with indignation. Dorothy Maxwell poked my nose again, hard. “You wicked woman! You couldn’t give Griffin a son, so you’re jealous of Blair!” “If you had only given this family a male heir, none of this would have happened!” Paige put an arm around her grandmother. “Mom, you committed a felony. You killed an innocent life. Blair’s baby is gone.” “I can’t just stand by and watch you destroy yourself. I’m calling the police. Don’t blame me for doing the right thing.” 4 I laughed, the sound cold and devoid of humor. “My sweet daughter. My own flesh and blood.” The laughter turned to tears, which tracked paths down my cheeks. Griffin, his eyes bloodshot with rage, yanked me into Blair’s room. The doctor had just finished bandaging her. Blair was a fountain of tears, playing the martyr to perfection. “It was just an impulse, Griffin. I won’t press charges. But… it’s Paige. I don’t want people to think she has a murderer for a mother.” Dorothy, having confirmed the baby was gone, rushed in again, hitting and screaming at me. Then she turned to Griffin, laying down the law. “If you don’t divorce this monster, Evelyn, you’re no son of mine!” She was so agitated the doctor had to sedate her and escort her out. Griffin, his eyes wild, grabbed my throat. “Look how forgiving Blair is being! How can you be so utterly evil?!” I couldn’t speak. My vision began to narrow. The feeling of suffocation intensified. Blair, ever the concerned voice, said: “Evie’s state is a little frightening, Griffin. She looks like my relative who had a full-on breakdown. Maybe before the divorce, you should send her for treatment?” A flicker of cold, calculated cruelty crossed Blair’s eyes, missed entirely by Griffin. At that moment, Blair’s word was his law. He really did send me to a psychiatric hospital. My days were a cycle of electric shock therapy. The piercing, sharp pain made me scream every time. It was during one of these sessions that I lost the baby I was carrying. My son. Griffin came to visit once. He stood outside the iron bars, his face cold. “Don’t think you can do whatever you want just because I loved you. You killed my own flesh and blood and almost killed Blair. You need to stay here and repent.” “This is your last chance. If you ever harm Blair again, I’ll be the one to send you to a real prison.” The mention of the baby made his eyes well up with pain. I stood in my patient’s gown, watching him, my heart utterly calm. Seeing my silence, he grew impatient. “Why aren’t you speaking? What are you thinking, Evelyn Reid?” A new, profound depth entered my eyes. I spoke softly. “I was just thinking about what happens when a person loses absolutely everything.” “Then you’ll stay right here and behave. As long as you’re compliant, the title of Mrs. Maxwell is still yours.” I smiled, an empty, private gesture. He didn’t realize that the “person” I was talking about losing everything was him. A wild, insane plan was blooming in my mind. He simply saw it as me finally submitting. That night, Blair called me on a blocked number. Her voice was thin and soft, deliberately trembling. “Husband, I’m so afraid Evie will get out and try to stab me again.” I heard Griffin kiss her over the phone. “Don’t worry, baby. She comes out when you say she comes out.” Blair pressed him. “Can she just stay in there forever? I’m afraid our happiness will end if she leaves.” “Yes. Whatever you say.” Griffin agreed without a second of hesitation. My expression didn’t change. I just gave a low, quiet chuckle. They didn’t know that Harrison had already filed the necessary paperwork. I could leave anytime. At 1:00 AM, I stood beneath the $10 billion headquarters of Maxwell Global and lit the match. I watched the skyscraper—the edifice Griffin and I had built brick by brick—erupt in a blazing inferno. Griffin woke up at 7:00 AM to a barrage of frantic calls. “Mr. Maxwell! Your wife… she burned the headquarters down. All the proprietary data, all the financial archives… they’re gone.” Griffin froze, his blood turning to ice. After a two-second lapse of shock, he sped to the scene. Staring at the charred, smoky ruin of his commercial empire, he could barely breathe. His eyes were bloodshot, but his voice was eerily calm as he asked his associate: “My wife. Where is she?” The associate, who expected him to vow to kill me, looked like he’d seen a ghost. “She ran, sir. She—” “Is she hurt?” Griffin interrupted, his voice tight. Stunned that Griffin was worried about my safety, the associate handed him a small video camera. “She left this, sir. She said it was a ‘gift’ for you.” The word “gift” was delivered with extreme caution. Griffin, pale and heavy with dread, took the camera. He watched the screen, and his world collapsed.

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1 My mother called me a liar from birth, all because of her belief in “scientific parenting.” From the day my twin sister Mina and I were born, she fastened “Honesty Bracelets” to our wrists. Lie, and it flashed red—triggering an electric shock from Mom’s remote. Mina’s bracelet always stayed green. Even when she tore Mom’s dress and blamed the cat, it glowed gently. But me? If I whispered, “Mom, I’m hungry,” it turned furious red, and pain shot through my arm. At first, I argued. Mom said, “The machine doesn’t lie. The pain will help you remember.” After thousands of shocks, I believed it: I was born a liar. On New Year’s Eve, as Mom prepared to take Mina to see fireworks, searing pain tore through my stomach. I collapsed, gasping, “Mom, my stomach… it hurts so much. Help me.” But my bracelet flashed frantic red. Mom looked down at me, my hair wet with cold sweat, and turned the remote to its highest setting. “You’d fake being sick just to see the fireworks?” she said, disappointed. “You never learn.” She walked out with Mina, the door slamming behind them. I thought, Mom must be right. The bracelet is red, so I can’t really be in pain. I must be lying for attention. I’m sorry, Mom. Next time, I’ll try to be honest. … “It hurts…” My body convulsed with pain, my fingernails scratching white lines into the hardwood floor. The doorknob turned. A spark of hope ignited in my chest. Mom was back. She’s a doctor. She must have realized something was wrong. She came back to save me. “Are you done with your tantrum? The fireworks are about to start, and Mina’s getting impatient.” “Mom,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, stretching a trembling hand toward the door. “It really, really hurts. It feels like my insides are tearing apart.” She glanced at the frantic red light on my wrist. She knelt, her fingers digging into my chin, forcing my head up. Her voice was laced with fury. “Audrey, when are you going to stop this act?” “You’re pathologically incapable of telling the truth. You can stay in here and think about what you’ve done!” Dad called from the entryway. “Honey, let’s go, the show’s starting. If Audrey doesn’t want to come, she doesn’t have to. Should we leave her some dinner?” Mom stood up, brushing her hands together as if she’d touched something filthy. “Leave her dinner? For what?” “There’s a whole stash of junk food in her closet. She bought it with the money she stole last week. She won’t starve.” “Lock the door. She can come out when that bracelet turns green.” “But…” Dad hesitated. “But what? Spare the rod, spoil the child! Look at Mina—so honest her bracelet is always green.” “Audrey is rotten to the core. She needs to be corrected!” But my closet was empty. Mina was the one who took the money. Mina was the one who ate the snacks. She had just stood there, her bracelet glowing a soft, innocent green, and said, “It wasn’t me.” And Mom believed her. When I tried to say I didn’t take it either, the red light flared, and the electricity came. I watched Mom turn to leave. Mina peeked through the crack in the door and made a face at me. “Bye-bye, Audrey! We’re off to see the pretty fireworks!” Her bracelet, a steady, verdant green. It was beautiful. Thump. The door slammed shut. I heard the deadbolt slide into place. The house fell silent. It was just me and the saw blade working its way through my gut. It hurts so much. But Mom was right. The machine doesn’t lie. The bracelet is red, so I must be lying. I’m not in pain. I’m really, truly not in pain. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to hypnotize myself. I don’t know how long passed, but the pain actually seemed to fade. With the last ounce of my strength, I crawled toward my desk. I had to write an apology. That was the rule. Whenever the red light came on, I had to write “I am a liar” five hundred times. If I finished, maybe Mom would forgive me? Maybe she’d take me to the hospital? My hand shook as I opened the crumpled, worn-out notebook. It was already filled, page after page, with my previous apologies. Usually, I wrote, “I’m sorry, I was wrong, I won’t lie anymore.” But this time, I wanted to write the truth. My vision blurred. Crying, I used the last of my energy to scrawl: “Mom, I really do love you.” “It hurts so much. Why won’t you just believe me?” “Please, Mom. Just believe me this one time.” As I finished the last word, the agony in my stomach suddenly vanished. In its place was a lightness I’d never felt before. My body felt weightless. I was floating. I looked down and saw myself slumped over the desk, one arm hanging limply in the air, motionless. The bracelet on my wrist was still flashing a frantic, desperate red. So, I was dead. But I still hadn’t learned how to be an honest girl. I’m sorry, Mom. 2 I was awakened by the sound of laughter. It was Mom, Dad, and Mina. “The fireworks were beautiful tonight! Especially that one shaped like a smiley face. Just as cute as my Mina!” Mom’s voice held a tenderness I had never heard directed at me. I floated in mid-air, watching as the front door opened. Even as a spirit, my first instinct was to drift toward them, to help them with their slippers as I always did. It was a survival instinct, a deeply ingrained need to please. “Mom.” I opened my arms, wanting to hug the woman who brought the winter chill in with her. “I’m not in pain anymore. I’ll be good from now on. Please don’t be mad.” But my hands passed right through her body, like smoke. Mom shivered, frowning. “Why is it so chilly in here? Is the heat off?” I froze, staring at my translucent hands. Right. I was dead. The dead can’t hug the living. “We should probably check on Audrey,” Dad mentioned casually. “She didn’t come out for dinner. I hope she’s not too hungry.” My Dad. He still cared. I looked at Mom expectantly. If she found out I was dead, would she be sad? Would she feel any regret? Mom just scoffed, slipping on her house shoes and striding toward my room. “Let her starve. It’s what she deserves. That nasty habit of faking sickness for attention? It’s because we’ve been too soft on her.” She shoved my door open. She didn’t turn on the light. In the dim glow from the living room, she could see “me” slumped over the desk. Motionless, as if I were asleep. “Well, look at you,” Mom said, crossing her arms, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You think if you pretend to be pitiful, I’ll carry you to bed?” “You’re ten years old, Audrey, not five!” I floated beside my own body, screaming silently. “Mom! I’m not pretending! I’m dead! Just look at me!” “Touch me! My body is cold!” But she couldn’t hear me. She only believed what she could see. Mina squeezed past her, holding up her wrist triumphantly. “Audrey is a lazybones! See, my bracelet is green, and hers is still red!” “She’s even lying in her dreams!” Mom stroked Mina’s hair. “That’s because you’re my good girl. Don’t pay any attention to the liar. Let her sleep it off. She can stay there all night for all I care.” Dad peeked in from behind her. “Maybe we should put her to bed? It’s cold tonight.” “Put her to bed?” Mom snapped. “Absolutely not.” “Kids today are spoiled rotten.” “The parenting experts say you have to use the cold shoulder method in these situations. She has to realize her own mistake.” “Look at that red light. It means her psychological state is still ‘extremely defiant.’ She hasn’t reflected on her actions at all!” “That’s enough. Let’s go to bed. We have to go to your Grandma’s tomorrow for New Year’s Day.” Mom turned on her heel, pulling the door closed behind her. Click. The lock engaged. I floated beside my corpse, watching that single point of crimson light in the darkness. The despair in my soul was colder than death itself. Mom, if you had just taken one more step, if you had just touched my hand, you would have known I was already cold. But you didn’t. You only trust that cold machine, not the daughter you carried for nine months. Late that night, a mouse scurried out from my empty closet. I used to be terrified of mice. I would scream every time I saw one. But now, I could only float at the ceiling, watching as it scurried brazenly across my corpse. “Go away,” I tried to say, but no sound came out. The mouse gnawed at my toe, drawing a single bead of purplish-black blood. I couldn’t feel it anymore. That was nice. Finally, no more pain. I whispered to the pathetic shell below me. “Don’t be scared. You can’t feel a thing anymore.” “It’ll all be over soon.” 3 The next morning, the winter sun streamed through my window, but it brought no warmth to my corpse. The clatter of pots and pans echoed from the kitchen. Mom was making breakfast. The smell of frying eggs wafted under my door. Normally, it was the most tantalizing smell in the world. But I was only allowed to eat boiled vegetables, because Mom said liars didn’t deserve to eat meat. Today, she was deliberately banging the spatula against the pan. I knew she was trying to tempt me. She wanted the smell to drive me crazy, to make me crawl out of my room and beg for forgiveness. The old me might have done it. For a single fried egg, I would have confessed to crimes I never committed. But now, I didn’t need to eat anymore. “Audrey still hasn’t come out?” Dad asked, reading the newspaper at the dining table. “Nope. Stubborn as a mule,” Mom said, slamming a plate down on the table. “She’s spoiled rotten. If she wants to eat, she’ll eat. If not, she can starve.” Mina, sipping her milk, let her eyes dart around. She deliberately ran to my bedroom door and took a loud, exaggerated sniff. Then she shrieked, “Mommy! Audrey’s room stinks!” “Did she… go to the bathroom in there?” I floated by the door, watching my sister with a bitter ache. The heat was on so high. In just one night, I had started to smell. Mom was going to hate me even more now. Mom marched over, her brow furrowed in disgust. “Audrey!” she yelled, pounding on the door. “Are you a pig? The bathroom is right next door, are your legs broken? You actually soiled your own room?” “You are hopeless! You’d rather live in your own filth than admit you were wrong?” I remembered when I was little. I had a bad stomach flu once and didn’t make it to the toilet in time. Not only did Mom not help me clean up, she made me stand in the yard as a punishment for everyone to see. She pointed at me and told the neighbors, “Look at this one. Dirty as a little pig.” And now, she thought I was dirty again. “Forget her!” Mom waved her hand dismissively, as if shooing a fly. “Let her stew in her own stink! See how she likes it!” Dad put down his paper, his frown deepening. “The smell is getting pretty bad. I’ll go check. Maybe a mouse died in there or something.” He stood up and started walking toward my room. My spirit heart leaped. Dad! Open the door! Please, look at me! I’m right behind the door! Just turn the handle, and you’ll see that I’m not moving! You’ll see my face has already started to turn black! I floated right in front of him, waving my arms frantically, trying to get his attention. His hand closed around the doorknob. Ring-ring-ring! The shrill ring of his phone cut through the tension. It was his boss. Dad answered, and his face paled. “What? The main server crashed? Okay, okay, I’m on my way!” He hung up and grabbed his coat in a panic. “Honey, it’s an emergency at work. I have to go now, I might not be back for a few days!” “Wait, what about Audr—” Mom started to say, but he was already out the door. I was stunned. So close. Just one second. If that call had come one second later, I would have been found. Maybe then, my body wouldn’t have to keep rotting here. That afternoon, Mom took Mina shopping. My corpse was left alone in the house. They returned that evening, their arms full of shopping bags filled with expensive seafood and gifts. The moment they walked in, the smell hit them like a physical blow. Mom gagged, covering her nose. “Audrey! Are you trying to turn this house into a garbage dump?” She wouldn’t even open the door to yell at me, as if a single glance into my room would contaminate her. She found a roll of heavy-duty duct tape, knelt down, and viciously sealed the crack at the bottom of my door. “If you love the stench so much, you can suffocate in it! Just don’t let it bother the rest of us!” After applying the last strip, Mom stood and dusted off her hands, satisfied. “There. Peace and quiet.” She went to the kitchen to steam the lobster. I looked at the sealed door, and the last flicker of hope in my soul was extinguished along with the flow of air. I finally understood. In my mother’s heart, my life or death was less important than a seafood dinner. She would rather seal me away than open the door to see if I was dead inside. You win, Mom. I’ll never bother you again. 4 On the morning of the third day, the warm winter sun filled the living room, but it couldn’t chase away the gloom that had settled over our home. The central heating was cranked up to a sweltering twenty-six degrees. The duct tape was no longer enough. A cloying, greasy stench of decay now permeated the entire house. Mom was arranging a bouquet of fresh flowers, but no matter how strong their perfume, the smell of my rotting body overpowered it. Snip! She violently decapitated a rose, a thorn pricking her finger. She had reached her limit. In her mind, I wasn’t bathing, I was using my room as a toilet, maybe even hiding dead rats in there—all to disgust her, to defy her authority. “Audrey, you’ve really crossed the line this time!” Mom stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a rolling pin, and marched toward my room, her face a mask of fury. “I’m going to beat the filth out of you today!” “It’s clear the shocks aren’t working anymore. You need to learn a lesson you can feel on your skin!” I floated in front of her, looking at her contorted face, waving my hands frantically to stop her. “Don’t go in! Mom, please, don’t! I’m hideous! I’ve started to rot! You’ll be scared!” Even though she didn’t love me, I didn’t want her to see me in such a horrific state. But she passed right through my soul and ripped the tape from the doorframe. Screech! The sound of the tearing tape was deafening. She jammed the spare key into the lock and twisted. Bang! The door flew open with violent force. A thick, almost tangible wave of putrefaction rolled out, as if from Pandora’s box. Mom staggered back, bending over and dry-heaving. “Ugh—Audrey! What in God’s name have you done!” She looked up and saw me, still in the same position I’d been in three days ago, slumped over my desk, my back to her, perfectly still. To her, this was an act of silent defiance. The ultimate arrogance. “Are you deaf? I’m talking to you! Are you still playing dead?” Blinded by rage, she charged forward, raising the rolling pin high above her head. But she didn’t strike immediately. She wanted to haul me up first, to see the look on my “stubborn” face. “Get up!” Her hand shot out and grabbed the collar of my pajamas, her fingers closing around the back of my neck. And then, she froze. The moment her skin made contact with mine. Time seemed to stop. Through the thin fabric of my pajamas, her fingers didn’t feel the warmth of living skin. Or the softness of flesh. What she felt was a piece of meat as cold and hard as a block of ice. It was a deathly cold, a cold that seeped into her bones. A cold utterly devoid of life. “Huh?” Mom faltered for a second. But her momentum carried her forward. She yanked with all her might, and my body was pulled backward. The chair tipped over with me. CRASH! The chair slammed onto the floor with a deafening bang. My body, stiff as a statue, fell with it. And my face, at last, was revealed.

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Three years into my husband’s affair, the System finally returned online. It told me I could go home. For the final ten days, I stopped fighting. I stopped screaming. I let him stay out all night with his sugar baby. I let him regift the things I cherished to her. On the day of my departure—my birthday—he stormed in with his mistress. He smashed my cake, pinned me against the window, and demanded to know why I tried to hurt their unborn child. “When did you become so vicious, Elara?” I laughed, too tired to explain. “You’re right. I am vicious.” “So, you two deserve each other.” Then, right before his eyes, I leaned back and fell nineteen stories down. Ending everything I had in this world. 1 When the System finally broke its silence to tell me I could leave, I had just finished another screaming match with Damian. He had just come back from “comforting” his mistress, Bella. The scent of her perfume was still clinging to his jacket. Seeing me lying on the bed, he climbed in and hugged me from behind. His lips were warm, trailing kisses down my neck. I sat up abruptly and slapped him across the face. “Damian, if you don’t feel dirty, I do.” He froze, touching his cheek with a self-deprecating smirk. Then, he grabbed me. He dragged me to the vanity mirror, gripping my jaw, his eyes cold. “You think I’m dirty? Look at yourself, Elara. Do you see even a shadow of the woman you used to be?” I looked at myself in the glass. My hair was a mess, my silk strap slipping off a bony shoulder. I looked like a madwoman. The eyes that used to sparkle were dull. Fine lines had crept onto my face, stealing my youth. In that moment, Bella’s face flashed in my mind—young, collagen-filled, burning with ambition and desire, looking at me with pure provocation. “So, that’s your excuse for cheating?” I whispered, leaning against the wall, tears welling up. He stepped closer, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m just having fun. When I get bored, I’ll come back. Elara, I’ve always loved you.” Disgusting. I screamed, grabbing a heavy perfume bottle and smashing it into the mirror. “Get out! Get the hell out!” After he left, I stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, looking out the window at the giant LED billboard across the street. It was playing Bella’s modeling commercial—paid for by Damian. I laughed. Scenes like this had played out a hundred times this year. From heartbreak to numbness. I didn’t belong to this world. Eight years ago, I entered this world on a mission: Save the tragic, broken antagonist, Damian Sterling. Back then, his father had embezzled funds and run off with a mistress, leaving Damian with a bankrupt company, a mother who had taken her own life, and millions in debt. His eyes were dead. I was the one who walked toward him on a sunny morning. I lived in a damp basement apartment in Queens with him. We ate instant noodles and worked three jobs until every cent was paid back. He once asked me, “Why are you so good to me?” I smiled and held his hand. “Maybe it’s a sign from God.” He lowered his head. “Then you are the best gift God has ever given me.” The day the mission was completed, he seemed to sense I might leave. He held me all night, eyes red. I softened. “Damian, I’m not going home.” The System vanished. For five years, it was silent. And in those five years, Damian built an empire. And three years into our marriage, he strayed. He found a twenty-something model named Bella. 2 I still remember the day I found out. He came home drunk, leaned his head on my shoulder, and mumbled, “Ella, how did you get shorter?” I thought it was a joke. I’ve always been 5’5″. People don’t shrink in their twenties. Later, I checked his phone. Bella was 5’9″. Tall, leggy, sexy. And when he called out “Ella,” I realized he wasn’t saying my name, Elara. He was saying Bella. I don’t remember much of that day. Just a ringing in my ears and the world spinning. Damian knelt before me, crying, swearing it was just a moment of weakness. Three years of dating, three years of marriage, giving up my real life… all for this. I wasn’t willing to let go. So, we stayed in this rotting marriage. Like a rose infested with aphids—too beautiful to throw away, too disgusting to keep. We fought until we were exhausted. So when the System woke up and spoke to me, I answered immediately. “System, I regret it. I want to go home.” 3 “Host, I warned you back then. The storyline after the mission ends is unpredictable… including Damian’s heart.” “However, given your perfect mission rating, I will grant you a special privilege. I can open the channel home one last time.” “But the window opens in ten days.” Tears streamed down my face. I nodded. “Understood. The countdown begins.” The System went silent. The penthouse was quiet as a tomb. I wiped my face and started packing. Or rather, clearing out. I didn’t want to leave a trace. I threw my clothes into trash bags. I took down the wedding photos. I took off the ring. When we got married, Damian spent his last savings on a 0.7-carat diamond. He knelt, sobbing. “Elara, you are the only light in my dark life. I will be loyal to you until death.” I wore that small diamond proudly. Until I saw the 5-carat pink diamond on Bella’s finger. I took a hammer and smashed the wedding photo frames. Looking at the empty apartment, I felt a strange sense of relief. I had struggled in this toxic marriage for too long. Leaving was a mercy. 4 The next morning, I went downstairs. The lights were dim. Damian was sitting on the sofa, smoking. “Where are the photos?” he asked, not looking up. His phone kept pinging. It was Bella. She sent a photo holding a bouquet of gold-foil roses. [Last night was exhausting, but the gift makes it all better. <3] He didn't even hide the screen. "I put them away," I said calmly, walking past him to get water. He put out his cigarette, smirked, and stood up. He pulled a Van Cleef & Arpels necklace from his pocket and clasped it around my neck. "Still mad? Here. An apology gift. It suits you." He leaned in, whispering in my ear like a snake. "Elara, you will always be Mrs. Sterling. No one can take your place. Not even Bella." "When I'm bored of her, let's try for a baby again, okay?" I pushed him away coldly, brushing off the lipstick stain on his collar. "Get out." 5 We did have a child once. I didn't even know I was pregnant. It was the fourth time I caught him. I had waited outside a hotel all night, crying in my car. In the morning, I saw him walk her out, his hand squeezing her lower back before helping her into his passenger seat. They started kissing before he even started the car. I lost my mind. I slammed on the gas and drove my car into a median. I lost the baby in the crash. Damian looked at me now, surprised by my indifference, but he didn't probe. He nodded and left. He didn't come home for two days. I watched the gossip news about him and Bella while I systematically sold off my assets. The System told me I could convert my wealth here into currency for my original world. In the early years of our marriage, Damian felt guilty for making me live in poverty. He put almost every property in my name. He didn't give me enough love, but he gave me enough money to live like a queen in my next life. With five days left, I drove to the outskirts of the city. There was one property left—a villa he gifted me for our anniversary. It was where we conceived our lost child. I arrived to find the garden replanted with roses. I used my key, but the door opened from the inside. "Back for more so soon, Daddy?" It was Bella. 6 She was wearing a sheer red silk robe, leaning against the doorframe. Her surprise quickly turned to a sneer. I realized immediately: Damian was keeping her here. "This is my house. You have five minutes to get dressed and get out," I said, stepping forward. Bella blocked the way, crossing her arms. "But Mr. Sterling gave this house to me." "Gave? Did he transfer the deed? Because the owner is standing right here." "You're just squatting. Get out." Bella’s face turned red. I called Damian. "Elara, it's just a house. Let the girl stay for a few days. Don't be difficult, if you make her cry, she's annoying to comfort." Bella grabbed my wrist, emboldened by his voice on the speaker. "Mrs. Sterling, you dated for three years. I've been with him for three years. Do you think I'll take your title this year?" She touched her flat stomach. "I'm raising the stakes. I'm pregnant." On the phone, I heard the click of mahjong tiles. Damian's voice was lazy. "I bought a jade necklace at auction. I'll give it to you for your birthday. Bella is just a pet to pass the time. If you're unhappy, I'll move her." I laughed, my voice trembling. "Damian, did you hear that? Your canary is having a chick. Congratulations. You're finally going to be a father." The line went dead silent.

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Texting my advisor, practically in tears, to subtly guilt him into processing my stipend. To make my plea extra pathetic, I tossed in a casual exaggeration: “My boyfriend is dead from starvation.” His reply was instantaneous: “Boyfriend is dead?” “Understood. I’ll send him this afternoon.” I thought he meant the money. Instead, that afternoon, Professor Harrison Stanford led his prodigal, recently returned-from-overseas son straight to my office. His son, who was also my… ex-boyfriend, who I’d told everyone had been dead for two years. … 1 The ridiculously tiny grad student stipend was, yet again, weeks past due. I’m a coward. Give me ten times the guts I have, and I still wouldn’t dare ask Professor Stanford directly. My only option was to use the classic “send a desperate text to my mom, but send it to the professor instead” strategy. I typed it out: Mom, I’m skipping the holidays. Tuition money is gone, my Venmo is overdrawn, my boyfriend is dead from starvation, and Professor Stanford is too senile to remember the payroll deadline. Guess I’ll be staying here, living off instant ramen and sheer willpower. Professor Stanford replied with a single, damning question mark: ? My phone nearly flew out of my hand. Panicking, I immediately tried to backtrack: I am so sorry, Professor! Wrong person! Please ignore that! Professor Stanford: Your boyfriend is dead? Professor Stanford: Understood. I’ll send the boyfriend this afternoon. My brain short-circuited. What? We were supposed to get paid at the start of the month. It was almost Christmas break, and I hadn’t heard a single clink of a coin. Professor Stanford is a brilliant man, but he’s pushing sixty and his memory is shot. I knew exactly what happened: he forgot to submit the payroll form to the Bursar’s Office. Again. Normally, a month’s delay is inconvenient. But now? The entire administration was about to shut down for two weeks. This meant a two-month delay, minimum. How was I supposed to live? I needed that money just to buy a plane ticket home and look halfway respectable. I needed to remind him, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Just yesterday, I had sent him the initial draft of my thesis—a piece of writing that I knew, deep down, was utter garbage. I sent it, then stuffed my phone into my roommate’s laundry hamper and spent half an hour in the common room doing interpretive dance to relieve the anxiety. I knew the paper was trash, and sending it was basically giving him an aneurysm. His reaction was immediate and brutal: “Piper, try shaking your head and listen. Do you hear the faint sound of the ocean?” I obediently shook my head, then realized a moment too late that he was calling me brain-dead. “Next time, write more. I was only halfway through this comedic masterpiece.” Me: “…” “Well, at least my academic rivals are probably toasting my failure right now, knowing I have a student like you.” I managed a weak smile. At least my thesis had achieved a level of lethal impact. Then the phone calls started, a solid thirty minutes of me being verbally destroyed. He ended the call with a simple: “Piper Maxwell! Be ready for the seminar next week!” See? After being flayed alive yesterday, how was I supposed to demand money today? But pride is a small price to pay for survival. The Professor might hate me, but my bank account shouldn’t have to suffer. If the hard way failed, I’d try the soft way. If the direct route was closed, I’d take a detour. As I was stewing, my mom messaged me: “Sweetheart, when are you heading home?” A flash of inspiration. My fingers flew across the screen, typing out the perfect, melodramatic plea. Copy. Click on the Professor’s contact. Paste. Send. One smooth, flawless motion. I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. One minute later, the Professor sent that fatal question mark. I quickly tried to delete the message and play dumb: Oops! Sorry Professor! Hand slipped! Please pretend you didn’t see that! “I saw it.” Yes! My inner self was throwing a ticker-tape parade. The money was secured! Then he replied: Your boyfriend is dead? Understood. I’ll send the boyfriend this afternoon. 2 I was completely bewildered. Was that the point?! Of that entire rambling block of text, the only true parts were that I hadn’t been paid and the Professor had forgotten! The rest was pure fiction! He was sharp as a tack when it came to critiquing my work, but now he was taking this one bizarre detail literally? I wanted cash. Why was he sending me a boyfriend? Could I eat a boyfriend? I collapsed onto my bed, convinced that life was one gray, endless spiral. I texted back resignedly: Okay, thanks, Professor. A boyfriend was unnecessary baggage. I was too broke to feed myself, let alone another person. A massive plate of greasy Chinese takeout for lunch—a complete carb overload—had put me into a deep, food-induced coma. I slept through the early afternoon, only waking up as the sky darkened, jolted awake by my phone vibrating. It was the Professor. I assumed he’d invented some new, truly horrifying epithet for me, so I took a deep, steadying breath before answering. “Hello, Piper? What are you doing? Why aren’t you answering?” “Um… Professor, I was revising the thesis…” “Stop revising and get down to that trendy Sichuan Hot Pot place downtown.” I assumed he needed me to pick up a package or run an errand, yawning as I said, “Professor, Natalie has the external hard drive.” He sounded impatient. “I know! Just get down here. Someone’s offering a free meal, and you’re going to pass that up?” I froze. A free meal? I absolutely had to go! Professor Stanford always paid well when he hosted. I needed to eat back all the stipend he owed me. I rocketed off the bed, threw on a random puffy coat over my pajamas, didn’t bother fixing my rat’s nest of hair, grabbed my fuzzy Crocs, and pedaled a shared bike straight to the restaurant. I looked a little rough, but who cares when it’s hot pot? If my thesis was good, he’d be happy even if I wore a burlap sack. As soon as I walked in, I heard the Professor’s signature booming laugh. The steam from the bubbling chili oil immediately fogged up my glasses. I squinted, navigating my way toward the sound. I could vaguely make out that he wasn’t alone. The Professor spotted me and waved me over, telling me to sit across from him. As the fog cleared from my lenses, I saw Mrs. Stanford sitting next to him. I’d been to their house several times, so we were friendly. I squeezed out a sweet smile. “Mrs. Stanford! So good to see you.” She smiled back warmly. “June! Come on, sweetheart, sit down, sit down.” Looking at the couple, I couldn’t help but ask the question burning in my mind. “Professor, I thought this was a group dinner. Why did you just call me?” He huffed, took a sip of tea, and gave me a look that was needlessly cryptic, clearly too important to bother with an answer. He always had to be the mysterious one—just like my ex. I turned to Mrs. Stanford instead. Before she could speak, someone sat down next to me. A clean, expensive note of cedar and leather hit my nose—one of those high-end, bespoke scents. This guy was seriously dressed up. Wasn’t he worried about ruining his clothes in a hot pot joint? I hadn’t even turned my head yet. Mrs. Stanford pointed a chopstick at the person next to me, chuckling. “Well, here he is! The replacement boyfriend, delivered as promised. Go on, check the merchandise.” 3 I turned my head, curiosity instantly turning into whiplash. I looked, and then I snapped my head back, slamming my hands over my face and vigorously rubbing my eyes. No. No, no, no. I must have been groggy from my afternoon nap, or maybe I’d hit my head on the way over. It had to be a hallucination. How could my ex-boyfriend possibly be here?! “Dad. Mom.” That deep, low, magnetic voice—it was exactly the same as the one etched in my memory. Damn it. Not a hallucination. “Linc, quickly, introduce yourself to June. You two need to get acquainted.” Lincoln didn’t speak immediately. I just felt two intense gazes, like high beams, fixed on my face. Stiffening my neck, I slowly turned my head back. He was in a perfectly tailored black wool coat over a charcoal turtleneck—looking impossibly sharp, almost clinically clean. Two years had stripped away the last traces of boyishness, leaving a man who was undeniably sexier, but still utterly reserved. His hair looked carefully styled, every single strand immaculate. He had clearly dressed for a serious meeting. And me? Pajamas under a puffy coat, a rat’s nest for hair, and fuzzy Crocs. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Lincoln West stared at me, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth and spoke, his tone flat. “Lincoln West. Twenty-six. Six-foot-one. Just back from London.” I nodded rigidly, a pathetic sound escaping my throat: “Uh-huh.” Could you tell me something I don’t already know? Seeing me turn into a mute, Mrs. Stanford prompted me again: “Well, June? What do you think? Satisfied?” How could I possibly answer? If I had known this was a blind date, that the date was the ex-boyfriend I’d dumped, and that the ex-boyfriend was Professor Stanford’s own son… I would have starved to death in my dorm room before stepping foot outside the gates. This dinner was clearly a strategic ambush to couple us up. Lincoln was dressed so meticulously that he must have taken the introduction seriously. And now he looked up, saw me, and his emotional damage was probably large enough to eclipse the entire restaurant. I strained to keep my face muscles from spasming, trying to hold a polite, slightly awkward smile. The older couple, completely oblivious to the radioactive tension between us, were just happily watching the pot boil. I lowered my head, frantically picking at my fingernails, while Lincoln sat beside me, slowly sipping his tea. Though we were inches apart, the emotional distance between us was wide enough to fit another person. Mrs. Stanford suddenly piped up, “I was right there when you texted Harry this morning. You said your boyfriend starved to death, and oh, that sounded so sad… But the old must make way for the new, right? So we sent you a new, very much alive one!” I wished for immediate death. Professor Stanford sighed, joining in on the public shaming. “I remember you mentioning once that you had a first love back in sophomore year. But you haven’t dated anyone since, so I figured you broke up—I never imagined he’d passed away. You should have told me! I wouldn’t have been so hard on you.” Aaaah! Stop! Please! Lincoln was my first love! I had casually invented the “he died” story years ago to stop people from asking nosy questions about the breakup! Professor Stanford seemed to realize I hadn’t actually given an introduction and tapped the table. “Linc, stop being so aloof. Don’t you have anything to ask Piper? You young people should talk.” Lincoln set his teacup down. He turned his body toward me, those impossibly gorgeous eyes fixed on mine. Then, his thin lips parted, and he slowly, deliberately delivered the sentence that shattered my soul: “So… after we broke up, you’ve just been telling people I died?”

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After my divorce from Gideon Ford, my belly grew bigger by the day. My parents and the daughter they’d raised as their own were frantic, hounding me daily to get an abortion. In my last life, I did it. Furious at Gideon’s wandering eye, I went through with the procedure out of spite. He hated me for it, and any thought of reconciliation vanished. It wasn’t long before he married Serena, the girl who had taken my place. Then my family’s empire collapsed. Tainted by divorce and the abortion, I was an outcast. I drifted from place to place, my body wrecked by complications from the surgery, plagued by chronic illness. I died on a cold winter street, alone. Meanwhile, Gideon’s business flourished, expanding across the country. Serena jetted around the world, living a life of pampered ease. Everyone said I got what I deserved, that I was born to suffer. When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I did was call Gideon. This life, I’m keeping the baby. And I’m keeping the money. … “You’re divorced. Walking around with a baby bump is a disgrace. Listen to your mother and get rid of it.” “She’s right, Annalise,” Serena added, her voice syrupy sweet. “You already have a reputation for being rough around the edges, growing up in the countryside. Now, with this… people are saying you have no shame at all.” My mother and Serena took turns, their words like little barbs, desperate to push me into the clinic. Last time, their goading worked. I threw away my last bargaining chip. And Serena had seized her chance, becoming the next Mrs. Ford. After I died, she even forbade my parents from burying me in the family plot. A bitter, metallic taste filled my throat. Looking at Serena’s impatient eyes, I actually smiled. The next second, the front door burst open and Gideon stormed in. His breath came in ragged gasps. The man who was always the picture of calm control was pale with panic. “The baby… you didn’t… did you?” Before I could answer, Serena jumped in. “Gideon, don’t be mad at Annalise. It was a moment of weakness.” She spoke as if it were already a done deal, shooting me a warning glance while trying to comfort a suddenly rigid Gideon. “The baby is fine,” I said, cutting her off. The murderous look on Gideon’s face softened instantly. He rushed to my side, helping me to my feet and guiding me to his car. “Come home with me. We can talk this through properly.” In the rearview mirror, Serena’s face was a mask of livid, twisted rage. I let out a soft scoff. When I turned my head, my eyes fell on a tube of lipstick left on the passenger seat. It wasn’t mine. Gideon’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to say something. I calmly looked away. An awkward silence stretched between us before Gideon’s assessing gaze landed on my face. “You seem… different,” he said, his tone loaded with meaning. I just hummed in agreement. “Is that a bad thing?” Before, I was a live wire. I couldn’t tolerate a single speck of dust in my eye. If Serena so much as held his hand, I would raise hell. I’d scream at him, slap him, refuse his touch. I’d force him to write letters of apology, promising it would never happen again. In the beginning, he’d indulge me, coaxing and calming me down. But gradually, he grew tired of it. One day, in front of a house full of guests, he’d mocked me. “You were a stray they picked up out of guilt. Unloved by your mother or your father. Who do you think you are to act so high and mighty in front of me?” I had shattered like a clown in the spotlight, my heart splintering into a thousand pieces. He knew me too well; he knew exactly where to stick the knife to make it hurt the most. Humiliation and rage blinded me. Back then, I refused to believe I couldn’t live without him. So, at my furious insistence, we divorced. But after eighteen years in the countryside, my parents, though they’d brought me home, had never taught me how to stand on my own two feet. My life after the divorce was just as miserable as he’d predicted. Gideon watched me now, his expression unreadable. Suddenly, his phone rang. When he answered, my mother’s anxious voice crackled through the speaker. “Gideon, something’s wrong with Serena! She drove off in tears. I don’t know where she went. Can you please help me find her?” When it came to Serena, my mother always turned to Gideon, without a single thought for my feelings. It made sense, in a way. The two of them had practically grown up together, childhood sweethearts. Until I was found at eighteen and brought back into the family. Gideon had fallen for me at first sight. I remember standing in the grand foyer of the Ross mansion, wearing a threadbare coat and pants that were too short. A circle of impeccably dressed young men and women had surrounded me, laughing. My face burned with shame, but I held my back ramrod straight. It was Gideon who had silenced them, who had led me away to another room. After that, he started creating “accidental” encounters. He taught me the rules of high society, bought me elegant dresses and heels that fit. I was so insecure back then, convinced he was looking down on me. I acted like a hedgehog, bristling with spikes, lashing out at him with sarcasm. But Gideon never got angry. Instead, when others called me a “country bumpkin” or a “wild child,” he was the one who threw the punches to drive them away. So when we announced our engagement, it wasn’t just Serena who hated me. My own mother resented me for stealing the perfect husband she had picked for her darling daughter. “It’s okay,” I said now, my voice even. “If you need to go, go. I can take care of myself.” The reflection in the car window showed a face devoid of emotion. Gideon’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his expression darkening. As if to spite me, he dropped me at the house and sped away with a roar of the engine. I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get inside. The staff, unsurprised by my sudden return, took my coat. “Ma’am, your bath is drawn. Would you like to wash up?” one of them asked gently. I shook my head. “Not yet.” I wandered slowly through the villa, admiring the elegant decor and the antique furniture I’d personally chosen. I ended up at my vanity, gazing at the collection of priceless jewelry. In my last life, after the divorce, all of this had gone to Serena. When the scandal of a man marrying his former sister-in-law broke, my mother had blamed me. “What’s the use in blaming others when you didn’t cherish what you had? It’s better to keep it in the family, right?” My father acted as if it had nothing to do with him, staying out all hours of the night. Even though I was their only biological child, I wasn’t worth a fraction of Serena. The family affection I craved had always been nothing more than a joke to the outside world. Shaking off the memories, I soaked in a hot bath and then fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. I was jolted awake by a sharp click. The chandelier overhead suddenly blazed to life. Blinking away the sleep, I saw Gideon’s dark, stormy face looming over me. “Is it morning already?” I asked, my voice hoarse. A humorless laugh escaped him. “Didn’t I say we needed to talk? You went to sleep without waiting for me?” Before I could respond, he started explaining, as if seeking praise. “I found Serena outside a bar. I took her home and came straight back here.” The air hung silent for a moment. I realized he was waiting for my reaction. I nodded slowly, forcing a dry laugh. “That’s good.” “‘That’s good’?” he repeated, his voice cracking. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. “Why did you come back? For the baby, or…” His eyes turned red. “Or for me?” A sharp sting shot up my arm. I winced. Neither, I thought. I came back for myself. Seeing his insistent gaze, I lied. “For both. I’m going to be a mother. It’s time I grew up, don’t you think?” As for him, it didn’t matter. As long as the money was good, he could do whatever he wanted. Just like before, when sleeping with me never stopped him from running off to comfort Serena. Gideon’s expression tightened, a flicker of loss in his eyes. “Annalise,” he murmured, “why do I feel like something’s off with you?” He glanced at my bored face, then down at his empty phone screen. A sudden surge of anger flooded him. “Do you have to be like this? So passive-aggressive, so lifeless! Isn’t it enough that I give you whatever you want? What more do you want from me?” I looked at him, feeling a wave of exhaustion. “I don’t want anything. You’re overthinking it.” But his expression didn’t soften. He stared at me for two long seconds, then stormed out, slamming the door behind him. In the days that followed, I focused on my pregnancy. Gideon was buried in work. We didn’t speak for nearly three months. I stopped being frugal. I spent money as I pleased. I even went with friends to a high-end male revue. Caught up in the fun, I impulsively stuffed a wad of cash into a dancer’s waistband. The dancer grinned, took my hand, and pressed a brief, stinging kiss to my knuckles. For a fleeting moment, I felt a flicker of understanding for why people were so drawn to infidelity. The next second, my phone rang. It was Gideon’s number. When I answered, I heard shuffling noises, and then Serena’s unsteady voice. “Annalise, Gideon’s drunk. Can you come and get him?” The dancer was now guiding my hand over his chiseled abs. I answered distractedly, “Just send a driver.” “It’s settled then! You have to come!” she insisted, and hung up. I sighed in annoyance but ended up going to the Ross house anyway. When I pushed the door open, the sight that greeted me was Serena, lying underneath Gideon. Her face was flushed with satisfaction. They were tangled together like two snakes in a death grip. Now I understood why she’d insisted I come myself. “Ah! Annalise!” Serena gasped, clutching a sheet to her chest as tears streamed down her face. “I’m so sorry! Gideon and I… we were both so drunk.” Gideon seemed to snap out of a daze. He stared at me for a second, then shoved Serena away roughly. He lit a cigarette, his expression devoid of explanation, his eyes calm to the point of provocation. The scene threw me back in time. Ever since we’d married, Serena had been a ghost haunting our lives, seeping into every crack. My birthday, Valentine’s Day, our anniversary—she always found a way to interfere. And whenever I broke down, Gideon would lecture me. “Just be more understanding. I owe her this. It’ll stop once she comes to terms with it.” But Serena never came to terms with it. She spread rumors in our social circle, calling me a “homewrecker” and a “parasite.” She circulated old photos of me working as a waitress and handing out flyers. At my own birthday party, she played a recording of my abusive adoptive parents beating me. That day, I became the laughingstock of the city. But I had survived all of that. What was this, compared to everything else? So, to their utter astonishment, I walked over, picked up a jacket, and draped it over Serena’s bare shoulders. “I don’t blame you,” I said, my voice as gentle as an older sister’s. Then I turned to face Gideon, whose face was a thundercloud. “I saw a sapphire necklace I really like, darling,” I said earnestly. “Could you transfer ten million to my account?” “You’re not going to ask why?” Gideon’s eyes were a frightening shade of red. I kept the same understanding smile on my face. “You have your reasons. I get it.” Gideon’s tall frame seemed to rust over. His eyelashes trembled, and a bitter smile twisted his lips.

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