Category: English

I transmigrated into the role of the vicious villainess, while my entire family gained the ability to hear the protagonist’s inner thoughts. According to the script, I was supposed to deliberately trip while walking upstairs with my sister, then accuse her of pushing me. Sure enough, as I followed Sarah up the stairs, my body moved against my will. I stumbled and tumbled down the steps. My parents and brother watched with bated breath, waiting to see if I would say exactly what my sister’s inner voice had predicted. Instead, I simply stood up, dusted myself off, and said calmly: “Sorry about that. I skipped breakfast, must be low blood sugar.” Chapter 1 I transmigrated into a novel as Chloe, the adopted daughter of the wealthy Blackwell family. Because I have rare Rh-null blood—”Golden Blood”—I was kept in the family primarily to serve as a mobile blood bank for my older brother, Ethan. Not long ago, the protagonist of this world, the true daughter of the Blackwells, Sarah, was found and brought home. Except for me, the designated villainess, everyone in the family can hear Sarah’s inner thoughts. According to the plot, I am supposed to repeatedly frame her and bully her in front of our parents, trying to make them hate her. However, relying on her “God’s eye view” provided by the plot, Sarah predicts my actions and words every time, causing the Blackwells to completely lose trust in me. On Sarah’s first day home, Mom asked me to show her the room prepared upstairs. I recalled the plot. Right now, the family should be hearing Sarah’s internal monologue and waiting to see if reality aligns with her thoughts. I wanted to break the script, but my body betrayed me. I was forced to hurl myself down the stairs. The moment I rolled onto the floor landing, I saw the disappointment in the eyes of my parents and Ethan. They were waiting for my accusation. No one moved to help me. I could only clutch my waist, stand up on my own, and say awkwardly: “Sorry, skipped breakfast. Just a bit of low blood sugar.” Sarah looked at me in shock. “Weren’t you going to say I pushed you? That you didn’t know why I did it, but begged Mom and Dad not to be angry at me?” My parents and Ethan looked at me with scrutiny. I leaned against the wall, feigning weakness, and retorted, “Do you have a persecution complex? I told you, I have low blood sugar.” Then, I looked at Ethan with puppy-dog eyes. “Sorry, Ethan. I’ll take better care of my health so I’m ready if you need me.” Hearing this, Ethan and my parents immediately softened and rushed over to support me. Chapter 2 Eighteen years ago, their daughter Sarah was kidnapped. The couple was devastated. To alleviate their grief, they adopted me from the orphanage because I shared the same rare blood type. For eighteen years, they raised me with care, like their own. But it was transactional. I was groomed to serve Blackwell Enterprises and to bleed for Ethan. Ethan is a professional race car driver. Every time he crashes—which is often—I am the one on the operating table next to him. Because of this, he treats me like a real sister. Mom took my hand gently. “Chloe, your health really isn’t great. From now on, take the large master suite on the first floor. No stairs.” In the original plot, Sarah had just returned, and the house wasn’t ready. The original Chloe, trying to act magnanimous, offered her room to Sarah and insisted on sleeping in the utility room to play the victim. Before I could speak, Sarah’s inner voice started ranting: She’s definitely going to refuse. She’ll say she’s an outsider and insist on living in the utility closet to make us feel guilty. Hearing this, the family looked at me awkwardly. I immediately hugged Mom, beaming. “Mom, you’re the best! I love you! I’ll take the downstairs room. It’s easier to get around, and I’ll be closer to Ethan in case he needs anything.” My parents and Ethan all lived on the first floor. Now, I was joining them, leaving Sarah alone upstairs. She looked at me like I was an alien. I wasn’t following the script. She grabbed my arm. “Weren’t you going to refuse? Weren’t you going to demand the utility room? Why did you change your mind?” She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t reciting my lines. I had realized a loophole. When a key plot point triggers, my actions are controlled, but my speech is entirely my own. “Which ear heard me say I wanted a utility room? Why would I sleep in a closet when there’s a perfectly good suite available?” Everyone looked at Sarah strangely. Unable to handle the pressure, she shoved me. Chapter 3 “No! You aren’t even a Blackwell! Why do you get to live my life for eighteen years and then take the biggest room when I return? You’re humiliating me! Why did you even bring me back?” She screamed at everyone, venting years of grievance. But her kidnapping had nothing to do with me. I was adopted later. Ethan helped me up, glaring at Sarah. “Don’t push your luck. You shove people whenever you lose your temper. Where are your manners? I bet you pushed Chloe down the stairs earlier, too!” Sarah, having grown up rough, cursed back at Ethan. My father, headache throbbing, slammed his hand on the table. “Enough!” “Chloe needs to recover, she stays downstairs. Sarah, the entire second floor is yours. Renovate it however you want. Is that fair?” Ethan scoffed. Mom wiped her tears. Sarah, realizing she got an entire floor—triple the size of my room—fell silent. Soon, renovations began. My room just needed furniture moved, but Sarah’s second floor was a massive project. Walk-in closet, gaming room, private study, ensuite bath. The noise was unbearable for half a month. With the room settled, Mom gave Sarah a black card for her allowance. “Sarah, Chloe and Ethan get an allowance of $250,000 a year. To make up for the eighteen years we missed, there is $5 million on this card. Spend it however you like.” Sarah rejected the card coldly. “Lost family time can’t be bought with money. I don’t want it.” Ethan, scrolling on his phone, sneered. “Stop acting high and mighty. If she doesn’t want it, give it to Chloe.” Triggered, Sarah’s inner voice flared up: Give it to her. Go ahead. You think Chloe is a good person? Soon, she’s going to sabotage Ethan’s car before the championship. When he crashes and is dying, she’ll use the ‘blood donation’ act to secure your trust forever. Once she gets the inheritance, she’ll kick you all to the curb to beg on the streets. Hearing this, Ethan hesitated. My parents looked at me with sudden suspicion. Chapter 4 I calmly took out my own debit card—the one Mom gave me previously—and handed it to Sarah. “You said I took your place for eighteen years. You won’t take Mom and Dad’s money, but will you take mine? It’s technically yours anyway.” Sarah glared at me and snatched the card. “It is mine. You should have returned it long ago.” Seeing this, the suspicion in my parents’ eyes faded. Ethan, realizing he almost fell for the inner voice’s paranoia, felt guilty. He pulled out his own black card. “Chloe, don’t worry about her. If you need money, use mine. We can share.” I smiled and accepted it. Why did the original Chloe want to harm a brother who was so biased toward her? Being a wealthy salted fish (slacker) is the dream. Why stir up trouble? Later, Mom took Sarah and me to the luxury mall. According to the plot, I was supposed to act helpful, picking out clothes for Sarah, only to plant a stolen item in her bag to frame her as we left. The plot triggered. My body moved on its own. I slipped an expensive watch into Sarah’s bag. I wanted to take it to the counter to pay, but my muscles were frozen. I couldn’t move toward the register. Sarah noticed my odd behavior and thought: Chloe looks down on me for growing up poor. She’s planting stolen goods to frame me as a thief. Mom noticed my weird expression and got suspicious. Sarah suddenly grabbed her bag. “Let’s go!” She dragged Mom and me toward the exit. The anti-theft sensors screamed. Mom looked at me in disbelief. The store clerks blocked us. “Please wait. Is there unpaid merchandise in your bags?” I was sweating bullets, heart pounding. Sarah looked at me triumphantly. “I don’t know. Why don’t you check our bags?” They checked hers first. Sure enough, they found the expensive watch in a hidden pocket. Mom looked shocked. Her hand trembled as she pointed at the watch. “That watch isn’t…” The clerk interrupted her coldly. Chapter 5 “Apologies, this watch isn’t from our store. Here.” The clerk handed it back. Sarah’s eyes bulged. Wasn’t this the stolen item? Then they checked my bag. They found a diamond brooch. It turned out I was the thief. The clerk looked stern. “Miss, this is theft. We can call the police.” I lowered my head in shame. Mom stepped in to save me. “I’m sorry, she hasn’t been feeling well lately. She must have forgotten. We can afford anything here; she has no reason to steal.” We were VIPs here. The staff knew the Blackwells wouldn’t steal a measly brooch. “Of course, Miss Chloe must have been distracted. I’ll ring it up now,” the clerk said, smoothing things over. Just as it was resolving, Sarah blocked the clerk. “She stole it on purpose! She wanted to plant it on me but got confused and left it in her own bag! Don’t let her fool you!” The clerk looked awkwardly at Mom. Mom pulled Sarah back. “Stop it, Sarah.” Sarah wouldn’t let go. She pulled the watch (with the tag still on) from her bag. “Look! She must have stolen this from another store and put it in my bag!” The onlookers began to whisper. Two wealthy daughters stealing? Scandalous. Mom snapped. “Enough!” I started crying. “I’m sorry, Mom. I stole the brooch. I didn’t have money, I just wanted to give Sarah a gift.” Sarah and Mom remembered I had given Sarah my card that morning. I was broke. Sarah scoffed. “Nice try, Chloe. If the brooch was a gift, what about the watch? Were you trying to frame me with that?” Mom finally lost it and slapped the screaming Sarah. “Shut up! That watch was the birthday gift we gave Chloe last year! She never wore it because it was too precious. She put it in your bag because she wanted to give it to you! How can you think so vilely of your sister?” Sarah looked at me, stunned. She threw the watch on the floor and ran away crying. Actually, I had brought the watch from home. I knew my body would force me to “steal,” so I prepared a backup plan. If I had to be a thief, I’d rather take the blame myself than let the plot ruin me completely. Back home, Mom and Ethan didn’t blame me. They felt guilty. They secretly gave me the $5 million card Sarah had rejected earlier. “Chloe, never steal again. Use this.” I accepted it happily. $5 million! I’m rich!

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Julian Reed and I were childhood sweethearts. I had a stepfather, and he had a stepmother. We depended on each other as we grew up. He said he liked to wander, so I wandered with him. I thought we would be together forever. Until, in that dilapidated rental apartment, I saw Julian shirtless with my own eyes, bending down to pick up another woman’s underwear. I asked him why. He didn’t answer, just told the woman to get dressed and leave. After a long time, he said he wanted freedom. And I was his biggest lack of freedom. The day he left, I gave him a kite. I said, “I wish you freedom.” 1 I had imagined the scene of my reunion with Julian countless times. But I never expected it to happen under these circumstances. The hospital called me using Julian’s phone, saying he had been in a car accident and asked if I could come. Only then did I learn that Julian had returned to the city at some point. In the bustling metropolis, the streets were still busy even in the early hours of the morning. I rushed to the hospital, asked for Julian’s bed number, and hurried over. In a not-so-spacious single room, a woman with a good figure stood by the bed with her back to me, her tone coquettish: “Julian, I was the first to rush over to visit you. Aren’t I good to you?” “Yeah, you’re the best to me.” The familiar voice rang out. I stood frozen on the spot, blinking, and withdrew the hand that was about to push the door open. Julian and I hadn’t been in touch for a few years. The breakup was heart-wrenching back then, but time has always been a healing medicine. Now when I think of him, my emotions rarely fluctuate. But hearing that familiar voice suddenly, I realized that maybe it wasn’t that I didn’t love him anymore, but that the feelings were too heavy, forcibly sealed away by me. I didn’t dare enter the ward. I asked the nurse for Julian’s hospitalization number and paid his fees. After leaving the hospital, I parked my car on the roadside and smoked for a long time. I had been a good student and a good girl since childhood. Smoking was the only bad habit I inherited from Julian, learned only after breaking up with him. Work pressure has increased over the years, and so has my addiction to smoking. After finishing half a pack, my mind wasn’t any clearer. Instead, I choked on the last puff and coughed violently. How pathetic. I leaned against the steering wheel and smiled bitterly. Logically, I should have appeared in front of Julian looking glamorous, saying “Long time no see” casually. But I didn’t even dare to look at him with my own eyes. Just hearing his voice made me flee in panic. Maybe I am a bit cheap, loving nothing more than offering my sincere heart to be trampled on. 2 I secretly visited Julian a few more times later and asked his attending physician about his condition. Julian’s ward was lively. No matter when I went, there was always someone by his bed, men or women, chattering away. This was expected. Julian had been popular since childhood. Wherever he went, people would soon gather around him in a circle. He had always been the center of attention. The last time I went to the attending physician, the doctor rubbed his temples with a headache: “Actually, the patient in Bed 2 isn’t seriously injured, just a minor fracture and a mild concussion. He’s recovering very well. “I know you care about him, but can you send a representative to ask about his condition? Otherwise, I have to repeat the same thing five, six, seven, eight times a day. Isn’t it affecting other patients’ families consulting about conditions?” I didn’t dare say I wasn’t actually a family member, so I could only apologize repeatedly and back out of the doctor’s office. Then I made eye contact with Julian, who was walking in the corridor. Three people were with him: one holding the IV drip, one supporting his arm, and another following leisurely. It looked quite like stars surrounding the moon. I also heard Julian say with disdain: “I’m injured, not crippled. Can you let go of me? I can walk by myself!” As soon as he finished speaking, he saw me. I only hated that the hospital corridor was too wide, leaving my panic and awkwardness nowhere to hide. Standing there for a while, I finally spoke first: “Long time no see.” “Julian, who’s this?” Julian looked at me, his expression indifferent: “Someone from my hometown.” “Looking so affectionate, I thought it was your ex-girlfriend.” Julian and I had depended on each other for over twenty years. I wore his only down jacket; he wore my only scarf. We shared a plate of egg fried rice and slept under the same quilt. Now, we were just people from the same hometown. I clutched my phone tightly and turned to leave. Julian stopped me: “Wait.” He asked if I had paid his hospitalization fees. “I saw the call log with you on my phone. The hospital called you, right?” Julian said. “Are you still using that bank card? I’ll transfer it directly to you.” “No need.” I refused. “If anything, I should transfer money to you.” Julian paused. “I spent so much of your money back then, I feel quite embarrassed. Give me a card number, I’ll pay you back.” Hearing this, Julian’s friend laughed: “Thinking of paying back after so many years? So insincere? How much interest do you plan to give?” Julian glared at that person, his expression cold. “Ignore him.” Julian said, “No need to pay back.” I scratched my head and said, “I have to pay it back.” I never had a psychological burden using Julian’s money before. I accepted everything he bought me as a matter of course. At that time, I felt we were family. His money was mine, and when I made money later, it would naturally be his. But since we’ve separated, financial dealings should be settled clearly. 3 Julian didn’t give me his card number, but I still went to the bank to print a statement. The next day, I gathered my courage and went to the hospital with the bank card. But Julian’s ward was empty. Actually, I knew Julian wouldn’t accept it. I just wanted an excuse to see him again. But he didn’t leave me a single chance. Once he discovered my presence, he vanished without a trace. Sometimes I couldn’t help wondering what I did wrong. I never threw tantrums or made scenes with him. Just how much did he hate me to avoid me like the plague? “Compared to manipulative scumbag women, men actually hate submissive love-brains more. Like a plaster you can’t shake off, clingy and disgusting.” In the bar, my friend downed her cocktail in one gulp and poked my forehead: “Talking about you, love-brain! “Sometimes I really want to dissect your brain to see its structure. How can you be so devoted and unrepentant to a man rotten to the core!” I held my glass and refuted her seriously: “First, I’m not a love-brain. Except for Julian, I’ve never loved another man in my life. Second, Julian isn’t a rotten person. He’s especially good.” My friend rolled her eyes in disgust: “Seriously, I thought after so many years you’d at least sober up a bit. Didn’t expect you haven’t changed at all. Hopeless. Suggest burying you alive.” I smiled and stopped refuting her. Every friend of mine has scolded me for not being clear-headed. I also explained to every friend that I’m not unclear-headed; I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not a love-brain. Julian was really, really good to me before. “Every love-brain says that. But look at what Julian did? Cheated, two-timed, hooked up with another woman in your rented apartment, blocked your number. You begged him to reconcile, waited at the bar entrance for a whole week, and he didn’t even show his face.” “You don’t understand. Without Julian, not only would I not have gone to college, I wouldn’t even be alive today.” I downed half a bottle of wine. My alcohol tolerance has grown over the years, but mixing red, white, and beer tonight made me a bit tipsy. I lay on the bar counter, pulling my friend’s arm and pointing at the male dancers dancing hotly in the center of the dance floor: “My tuition and living expenses for four years of college were earned by Julian dancing night after night like that. “He could earn six thousand a month back then. Five hundred for rent, five hundred for living expenses, and the rest was spent on me. “He actually got into college, but my parents didn’t want to pay for my education. Julian said, anyway, the college he got into wasn’t good, so he wouldn’t study. He went to work to support me. “After college graduation, my parents wanted me to marry someone for the dowry. Julian borrowed from all his friends to gather the dowry money. “So I am Julian’s wife. He paid the dowry; I’m going to marry him.” The music was still noisy, but my friend seemed drunk, lying beside me without a word. I was quiet for a long time, then said: “So, actually, it’s normal for Julian to want to leave. I, this burden, dragged him down for too long.” 4 My friend was drunk unconscious. I downed the last half bottle of wine and scanned the code to pay. When I stood up, my gaze accidentally swept across the bar entrance, and my pupils dilated instantly. It was Julian! He wore a low-key black hoodie and a mask, but I still recognized him at a glance. He didn’t see me and walked straight to a lively booth. Someone cleared the center seat for him to sit. I saw Julian take off his mask and casually accept a beer handed to him. A young woman leaned close to Julian with a smile, saying something to him. Julian nodded absently, responding casually. Before, I never got jealous. I was too certain. I felt nothing and no one could separate Julian and me. I knew Julian’s charm clearly, but was also incredibly confident in his loyalty to me. When did it start? The fact that Julian didn’t love me anymore. I still remember after Julian said he wanted to break up, he never returned to the rental apartment. I went to the bar where he worked to find him, called every friend of his, even ran to their homes asking if they knew where Julian went. I sent him many messages, wanting to ask what went wrong with our relationship, if we could talk properly, and I would change whatever needed changing. I said I didn’t mind him playing with other girls, asked him not to be angry. Later, I only worried about his safety. I said he didn’t need to reply to me, just reply once to let me know he was safe. Finally, I really had no choice. At 3 AM at the bar entrance, I sat on the steps cold all over, holding the phone with both hands, typing the message word by word with stiff fingers. [I agree to break up. Go home, let’s deal with the apartment.] Ten minutes later, Julian appeared beside me. So he had been there all along. Standing not too near nor too far, looking at me coldly. At that moment, I felt as if I had never known him. Julian rented that apartment. He said he would leave soon and had prepaid three months’ rent. I could continue to live there or discuss ending the lease with the landlord. He left very decisively. When leaving, he just carried a black backpack containing his wallet and ID. He took nothing else. I walked him downstairs, still wearing the couple pajamas we bought together at the wholesale market. I handed him a small kite charm and said with a smile, “I wish you freedom.” Julian, do you feel free enough now?

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On the night the skies above New York lit up with fireworks spelling my name, Orion called me. “Willa, happy birthday. It’s a shame I can’t be there to celebrate with you again this year.” “Just wait for me, my love. Three days from now, on our eighth anniversary, I promise I’ll be home with you.” The moment he hung up, the woman beneath him coiled around him like a serpent. “Are you really going back?” “What about me?” Seeing the tears welling up in Scarlett’s eyes, he kissed her, his voice thick with a tenderness he’d forgotten was reserved for someone else. “If I don’t go back soon, she’ll start to act up.” But what Orion didn’t know was that I would never throw a tantrum again. Because I had died two years ago. The voice that answered his call was nothing more than a vocal replica AI I had created for him before I passed. Orion shifted, pinning Scarlett beneath him. “We’ll have to be quick. My flight is at ten tonight.” Scarlett stiffened. “You’re leaving tonight? I thought you said three days.” Orion’s voice was casual, distracted. “Yeah, I decided to go back early. Give her a surprise.” He tilted her chin up and kissed her hard, one hand exploring her body with a rough urgency that seemed intent on breaking her. I had never seen Orion like this. The man I remembered was so gentle. I recalled my eighteenth birthday, eavesdropping on a conversation between him and his friends. “Orion, your little princess is finally eighteen. Big plans for tonight?” “Look how thoughtful I am. Brought you the ultra-thins. A whole box of ten.” Orion snatched the box and threw it on the floor. “Willa’s still young. No.” “Get lost with your stupid ideas.” After they’d all left, I watched Orion light a cigarette, his body tense with frustration. I opened the door, and he immediately stubbed it out. I picked up the discarded box and sat across from him. “If you want to,” I said, meeting his gaze, “I’m willing.” “For you, I’m willing to do anything.” I saw the desire flare in his eyes. But in the end, he just pressed the still-glowing ember of the cigarette into the back of his own hand. “I’m not,” he said, his voice strained. “I want to save the best of you for our wedding night.” “So, Willa, let’s get married soon, okay?” I floated beside the bed, a silent observer to their tangled, passionate embrace. It’s a good thing ghosts can’t feel heartbreak. Afterward, Scarlett rested her head in the crook of Orion’s arm. “Does your good little girl at home play like this with you?” Orion stroked her hair, a satisfied smile on his face. “Willa doesn’t know anything about this stuff. Of course not.” “When it comes to the bedroom, you’re the one who really gets me going.” Scarlett tilted her head up, a playful smile on her face. “Then why don’t you divorce her and marry me?” The warmth instantly vanished from Orion’s expression. “When we left for L.A., I made the terms clear, didn’t I? I give you a career, you provide me with… this. No delusions of grandeur.” A flash of jealousy crossed Scarlett’s eyes, but she lowered her head. “I’m sorry.” “I overstepped.” The tense silence was broken by the ringing of a phone. The driver’s voice came through the speaker. “Mr. Sterling, I’m here. Should we head to the airport now?” “Yes, I’m on my way down.” Orion pushed Scarlett off him and got dressed with brisk efficiency. Scarlett bit her lip. “When will you be back?” He pulled on his jacket. “I’m not coming back. You’ve done well these past two years. The resources I’ve provided you will continue, and I’ll wire you another twenty million.” “Take the money, stay here, and focus on your career. Don’t come back to New York. If Willa ever finds out about us, you know what the consequences will be.” He reached out and patted her head. As he turned to leave, she grabbed his arm. “Can’t you stay? Just for today?” Her voice was a desperate whisper. “The charity auction is tomorrow. You promised you’d go with me.” “I’ve been looking forward to it for so long. Think of it as… a proper goodbye.” Orion looked down into her pleading eyes. I remembered the day he left, three years ago. I had begged him in the same way. “What project is so urgent?” “Can’t you wait until after my birthday tomorrow?” My eyes were red as I looked at him, feeling abandoned. In the twelve years we’d been together, he had never missed my birthday. But this time, he just pulled a necklace from his pocket. “I know tomorrow is your birthday, Willa, but this project is critical. It won’t succeed without me there.” “I had this made for you by a designer in France. Let me put it on you. It’ll be like I’m celebrating with you.” He fastened the clasp around my neck, barely glancing at it before pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. “You be good, okay? I have to go. I’ll call you when I land.” But that day, I waited from morning until after midnight. No call ever came. At two in the morning, with a storm raging outside, I huddled under the covers and dialed his number. It rang and rang before being sent to voicemail. All I got was a single, cold text message. 【Willa, I’m busy. I’ll get back to you later.】 At the time, I truly believed he was busy. Too busy to even wish me a happy birthday. Now I knew he had simply been too busy with Scarlett. Orion looked at Scarlett, hesitating. Finally, he called his assistant. “Postpone the flight to tomorrow night. I have something to take care of here.” “And tomorrow, check in on Willa. Find out what she’s into lately. I want to pick up some gifts for her at the auction.” He still had me on his mind. A shame I was already dead. At the charity auction, Scarlett, as the event’s ambassador, was a vision. She commanded all the attention, all the cameras. Everything was proceeding smoothly until the final item came up for bid. A rival starlet, who had a well-known feud with Scarlett, spoke up. “All proceeds from tonight’s auction are for a good cause.” “As the ambassador, Miss Vance, we haven’t seen you bid on a single item. Don’t tell me you’re not feeling charitable tonight.” Every eye in the room turned to Scarlett. She smiled, unflustered. “Of course not. I was simply waiting for the final piece.” “The finale is always the most valuable, after all. I wanted to make a more significant contribution.” Right on cue, the final auction began. Scarlett immediately raised her paddle, offering a price three times the item’s worth. “Ten million.” The room fell silent. Only the rival actress slowly raised her paddle. “Twelve million.” Every time Scarlett placed a bid, her rival followed. The price of the necklace climbed until it reached fifty million. Scarlett’s face darkened. She knew her rival wouldn’t back down easily. But she had already made her grand declaration. Not bidding now would make her a laughingstock. As she hesitated, the auctioneer began his final call. “Fifty million going once, going twice…” “Name a price. Any price. It’s mine.” Orion slowly raised his hand. A collective gasp went through the room, mine included, even though I was just a ghost. He met the rival actress’s gaze, his own languid and dismissive. “Care to match it?” Everyone in New York’s high society knew who Orion Sterling was. He bought the necklace without any further challenge. In front of everyone, he fastened it around Scarlett’s neck. “This piece suits you, Miss Vance. A gift from me.” “And the entire sum will be donated in her name.” He had changed so much. I remember when he was just starting out, we couldn’t even afford a decent apartment. We huddled together for warmth in a damp, dark basement. Back then, he had slipped a soda can tab onto my finger and promised me the world. “Willa, I swear, I will claw my way to the top of this city. I’ll make it, and I’ll give you the life you deserve.” Now, he had done it. He could spend millions without batting an eye. All to defend Scarlett’s honor. Predictably, Scarlett became the center of attention. People swarmed her, eager to offer a toast. She didn’t want to drink but couldn’t afford to offend anyone. Just as she was caught in a bind, Orion pulled her from the crowd and into his arms. “She’s allergic to alcohol. She can’t drink.” “I’ll take this one for her.” A sharp pang went through me. There was a time when he would shield me just like that. It wasn’t that I couldn’t drink. Years ago, when his company was on the brink of collapse, I had secretly gone out to network, attending endless dinners and meetings to save him the trouble. I drank myself into the hospital with bleeding ulcers three times. The last time, a perforation nearly killed me. I woke up in a hospital bed to find Orion, who was supposed to be on a business trip, sitting beside me. “What are you doing back…” “Willa, who told you to go out drinking?” “Look at you! Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? If something had happened to you, what would I have done?” It was the first time in all our years together that he had ever yelled at me. My eyes filled with tears. “I just… I didn’t want to see you struggling so much…” “Did I mess up? I’m sorry, I was only trying to help. I’m so useless, I just made things worse…” Orion raised his hand and slapped himself, hard. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. I was just so scared. Scared of losing you.” “I’m the useless one. I couldn’t protect you. I swear, I will never let you touch another drop of alcohol again…” But he never knew. In the countless sleepless nights after he left, I had lost count of how many times I had drunk myself into a stupor. After downing the glass, Orion patted Scarlett’s shoulder. “I’m leaving. From now on, if you need anything, don’t call me. Contact my assistant, Peterson. He’ll handle it.” “I can’t risk Willa getting jealous.” With that, he turned and left. But as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard her voice behind him.

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I was the billionaire’s “one that got away,” the girl he supposedly never stopped loving. But as I lay dying in a foreign hospital, desperate to fly home for a life-saving surgery, my own brother did everything in his power to stop me. He was convinced that if I returned, the billionaire would dump his current fiancée—my brother’s precious step-sister. My brother was the ultimate simp for the “replacement.” “If you’re sick, suck it up. It’s not an emergency,” he told me cold-heartedly. “Just wait a few days for the surgery. You won’t die. They’re getting married this weekend, and I won’t let you ruin it.” To survive, I swallowed my pride and called the billionaire myself. “I heard I’m the love of your life. Can you bring me home?” I didn’t know he was standing at the altar when his phone rang. He left his bride and the guests stunned, boarded a private jet, and flew through the night just to get to me. 1 The hospital room was sterile and white. Other patients had families hovering over them with flowers and soup, but I lay alone, hooked up to machines that beeped in a lonely rhythm. My brother, Ethan’s voice was icy through the phone speaker. “Funny how you get ‘deathly ill’ right when Chloe and Julian are about to tie the knot.” “You really haven’t changed, Ava. You’re a pathological liar. Did you think I’d actually buy this?” “Let me be clear: stop the drama. Threatening suicide or faking an illness won’t work on me anymore. Even if you are dying, hold it in. Wait until the wedding is over.” I lay there, weak and trembling, tears streaming down my face. My heart felt like it was encased in ice. “Ethan, I’m not acting. Please… just let me come home.” “The doctors here said Dr. Foster at Hopkins is the only one with enough experience for this surgery. He’s the only chance I have.” “I can’t wait anymore. Ask my doctor. He’s right here.” I hit the speaker button, begging my attending physician to back me up. The doctor explained in urgent, professional English that I wasn’t lying. I was critical. I needed to be transferred immediately. Ethan didn’t flinch. “A few days won’t kill her. The wedding is in two days. She can wait.” My doctor lost his cool. He grabbed the phone. “What kind of brother are you? She is dying! If she waits any longer, she’ll miss the surgical window. Even Dr. Foster won’t be able to save her then. Don’t come crying when she’s dead!” Ethan laughed, a cold, cruel sound. “I won’t regret anything. You doctors should be ashamed, playing along with her little skits. If missing a flight by two days kills her, then so be it. If she’s going to cause this much trouble, maybe she shouldn’t come back at all.” I clutched the fabric over my chest, the pain unbearable. He really didn’t believe me. “Ethan, what will it take? Will you only believe me when you’re picking up my ashes at the airport?” My voice was raspy, broken. For a second, there was silence on the other end. Maybe he felt a pang of guilt. Then, my father’s voice cut in. “Is that Ava? What’s her problem now?” “She says she’s dying and needs surgery in the States.” My dad scoffed. “Since when is American healthcare better than what she can get in Switzerland? She just wants to wreck Chloe’s wedding. She couldn’t even come up with a better lie.” “Ethan, Chloe might be your step-sister, but she’s still family. You can’t play favorites. We can’t have any drama right now. You know how much chaos it would cause if Julian’s ‘first love’ showed up.” Ethan’s hesitation vanished. “I know, Dad. Forget it. Let her throw her tantrum.” Click. The line went dead. The busy signal felt like a slap in the face. It hurt. It hurt so much I couldn’t breathe. The brother who used to carry me on his shoulders, who promised to protect me from the world… he was gone. He was nothing more than Chloe’s lapdog now. He was still the protective big brother, just not for me. Did I really have to die for them to care? But what was the point? I didn’t want to be the tragic heroine in a sob story. I didn’t want their cheap tears at my funeral. I wanted to live. 2 Over the next few days, I contacted every specialist in Europe. I sent them my scans. They all shook their heads. “It’s too complex. Dr. Foster in Baltimore is the authority on this. He’s the only one who has successfully performed this procedure.” “He’s the best hands in the world for this.” I emailed Dr. Foster, begging him to fly to me. He replied quickly: [I’m sorry, due to a pending legal matter, I cannot leave the country. Your condition is critical. You need to come to Hopkins immediately. I can clear my schedule for you.] But I couldn’t leave. My passport was “held for safekeeping” by my security team—guards hired by my father, but loyal to Chloe. I heard Ethan call them to check on me. “Is she really sick?” The guard, standing outside my door, lied through his teeth. “No, sir. She’s fine.” My doctor was frantic. “Ava, you have to go. I’ve coordinated with Dr. Foster. An ambulance will be waiting on the tarmac.” I closed my eyes, tears leaking out. “Do you think I don’t want to go?” Desperate, the doctor suggested a Hail Mary. “Call Julian Blackwood. Everyone says you’re the one that got away, right? If the billionaire ex wants you back, he can get you back. You’re just crossing an ocean, not flying to Mars.” But Julian didn’t love me. I was the one who chased him for years. The whole “white moonlight” narrative—the idea that I was his pure, untouchable first love—was a rumor I couldn’t squash. “If he really wanted me,” I whispered, “he wouldn’t be marrying a copy of me.” The doctor snatched my phone. “We’re calling him. What’s the number?” I rattled it off, but my heart was hollow. I didn’t expect a miracle. 3 “Hello, is this Julian Blackwood? I’m calling about Ava. She’s your… well, she’s supposed to be important to you. Her family is blocking her from returning to the US because they think you’ll dump your fiancée for her.” Julian’s laugh was cold. “She thinks highly of herself. As far as I’m concerned, she died the day she left the country.” I choked back a sob. His words were a physical blow. I shook my head at the doctor. “Hang up. I don’t want to be humiliated anymore.” But the doctor was furious. He yelled into the phone. “What if she’s actually dying?” Julian paused. “What do you mean?” “Literally dying. She has a rare condition. No one here will touch it. She needs Dr. Foster in Baltimore or she’s dead. Her brother won’t let her fly. If you don’t care about her, fine, but tell her brother that so she can come home and not die alone in a foreign country!” Suddenly, Chloe’s voice drifted through the phone, sweet and cloying. “Julian, who are you talking to? The priest is waiting. He asked if you take me to be your wife.” “Everyone is watching, babe. Can the call wait until after the ceremony?” I froze. The Wedding March was playing in the background. Of course. That’s why Ethan said to wait a few days. They were at the altar right now. Me calling him now… it looked exactly like I was trying to crash the wedding. The priest spoke up again. “Julian Blackwood, do you take Chloe to be your lawfully wedded wife? For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health?” I snatched the phone back and hit end. I didn’t want to hear him say “I do.” 4 That night, my fever spiked. I drifted in and out of nightmares. In my dreams, my family was whole again. Dad loved me. Ethan protected me. But then Chloe and her mother arrived. After my mom died, Dad swore he’d never remarry. But then he met her. A woman who looked exactly like my mother did twenty years ago. And Chloe… she looked more like my mother than I did. Dad fell for the “replacement” hard. Even Ethan said, “Just pretend she’s Mom. Pretend Chloe is another sister.” No! How could I? That woman wore my mother’s face and slept in my mother’s bed. She wore the wedding ring my dad gave my mom. I screamed, I cried, I tried to kick them out. And for that, I became the villain. The brat. My phone ringing jerked me awake. It was Ethan. Maybe Julian said “I do” and now I was allowed to come home? I answered, weak but hopeful. Ethan was screaming. “Are you happy now, you toxic witch? Did you have to push Chloe this far?” “You have me and Dad! What does Chloe have?” “She’s insecure! She accepted being a replacement just to be loved! Why did you have to ruin her day?” “Do you know what you did? Julian walked out! He left her at the altar because of your phone call! He humiliated her in front of the entire city!” “Chloe is the laughingstock of New York. She tried to jump off the roof! Are you satisfied?” “If she dies, her blood is on your hands!” I coughed, blood splattering onto the sheets. The monitor by my bed started screaming an alarm. “Ethan,” I gasped, “ask yourself… do I really have you and Dad?” “Who gets loved so much that they’re left to die in a foreign country?” “You care that Chloe is sad. Do you care that I’m dying alone?” “I regret ever loving you as a brother. You don’t have a heart.” Nurses rushed in. “Code Blue! BP is crashing! Get the crash cart!” Ethan heard the chaos. His voice wavered. “Stop it. Is this another act?” “Ava, talk to me! Stop scaring me!” “Put the guard on! I want proof!” It was laughable. I was dying, and he wanted proof. But then… wait. Did he say Julian walked out? In the background of Ethan’s call, I heard his assistant. “Sir, Julian is on a jet. He broke through airport security. He beat up half a dozen guards to get to the tarmac. He’s coming for her.” “Also… Julian never planned to marry Chloe. He was going to expose something at the wedding. He was planning to destroy her.” Destroy her? My vision was fading. The darkness was creeping in from the edges. Was Julian really coming? It felt too late.

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I was once the undisputed princess of the family. But on my eighteenth birthday, my dad adopted an orphan girl from a shelter, and everything changed. My brother, who once protected me, now adored her and despised me. My childhood sweetheart, who promised to marry me, now ignored me for her. Even my father, my hero, said the orphan was ten thousand times better than his own flesh and blood. On my college graduation day, they missed my celebration for the 101st time because of her. I finally snapped. “Am I not your real family? Why does she always come first?” My dad, seeing the orphan girl tear up in fear, slapped me across the face. “You jealous, petty thing. I wish I never had you.” My brother screamed at me, “Having a sister like you makes me sick. Get out of this house!” I didn’t argue. I silently packed my bags and left. After I was gone, the house was finally peaceful. They took the orphan girl on a trip to Antarctica to see penguins, thinking the silent treatment would work like always. They thought I’d cool off and come crawling back. They didn’t know I was gone for good. I called my mother, accepted her offer to move abroad, and never looked back. This time, I really didn’t want them anymore. Chapter 1 “Mom, I accept your offer. I’m moving abroad to live with you.” The voice on the other end paused, then erupted in joy. “Emily! You finally agreed!” Then, her tone shifted to worry. “Wait, honey, you said you weren’t considering it last time. Did your father do something? Is he mistreating you?” “I knew that old fool was unreliable. When we divorced, I should have fought harder to take you.” “He swore he’d take care of you and your brother. Is this how he keeps his promise? Emily, tell me what happened. Mom will fix it.” It was true. When my parents divorced, Mom fought for me. But Dad wouldn’t let go, promising to give me the world. My brother, Liam, hugged me and cried, begging me not to leave. So I stayed. But now, they had forgotten those promises. I swallowed the lump in my throat, took a deep breath, and forced a cheerful tone. “No, Mom, it’s not that. I just miss you.” Mom paused again. “I miss my Emily too. Come here, and we’ll never be separated again.” “I’m booking your ticket right now. Just come home.” “Okay.” As soon as I hung up, my phone buzzed. It was a notification from the airline. The ticket was booked. Three days from now. Chapter 2 Mom texted again: [Emily, take these few days to say goodbye to your friends.] [Once you’re here, I’m never letting you go again.] Say goodbye? To Dad, Liam, and my fiancé, Brandon? Three days was more than enough. I turned off my phone and stood on the street corner for a long time. The autumn wind in New York was biting. The cold seeped into my bones, making me shiver. Eventually, I called Dad. Blood is thicker than water, right? Even if things were bad, I should say goodbye properly. The call was declined immediately. I called again. Straight to voicemail. I had no choice but to call Liam. It rang for a long time before he finally answered, his voice dripping with impatience. “Why do you keep calling? Don’t you know Sarah is performing right now?” “You almost ruined her show.” Even knowing his bias, his words stung. I pressed a hand to my chest to ease the ache and spoke softly. “Liam, we haven’t seen each other in a while. Can we have dinner tonight?” He scoffed. Afraid he’d hang up, I rushed to add, “The seafood restaurant Sarah likes just finished renovations. Let’s go there tonight, okay?” Sarah was the orphan Dad adopted. Since she arrived, I had never been this humble before her. Liam sneered at my desperation. “Emily, what game are you playing? You almost ruined Sarah’s performance last time. Are you trying to poison her now?” My heart felt like it was being sliced open. The brother who promised to always believe in me was gone. “No… Liam, I just want to see you guys.” “I don’t want to see you—” He was cut off by a soft, fragile voice in the background. “Liam, don’t talk to Emily like that. She’ll be sad.” “It’s been so long since we saw her. Let’s have dinner.” “But I’m tired today. I don’t want to go out. Let’s eat at home.” “I’m craving spicy crab, but the maid is off. Can Emily make it?” “Of course,” I said instantly. “I’ll go home and start cooking right now.” I hung up before they could change their minds. I forgot I was allergic to seafood. I couldn’t touch it. Chapter 3 The wind made my eyes water as I rushed to the market. Crabs were hard to clean. Within minutes, my fingers were red and swollen, and rashes began to appear on my palms. But thinking this was our last family dinner, I endured the itching and pain. When the spicy crab was ready, Dad, Liam, and Sarah arrived. I brought the dish out and glanced at the living room. It was a picture of warmth. Dad, usually so busy, sat opposite Sarah, listening to her talk about backstage drama. Liam peeled an orange for her, scolding playfully, “Let me do that. Our Sarah’s hands are for playing piano, not manual labor.” My ex-fiancé, Brandon, and his parents were there too. Compared to me, they clearly preferred Sarah as their future daughter-in-law. Brandon sat next to her, looking at her with adoration, handing her water whenever she paused. I stood there, invisible. Just like always. As long as Sarah was there, I ceased to exist. The dining room and living room were two different worlds. One lively, one lonely. I almost forgot that once, Sarah’s seat was mine. The person surrounded by love used to be me. “Emily, why are you standing there? Come sit with us,” Sarah called out sweetly. Liam scoffed. “Don’t. She’ll ruin the mood.” “I don’t get it. We’re all family, but some people’s hearts are just rotten.” I dug my nails into my palms to stop the tears. I forced a smile. “Right, I won’t come over. Dinner is ready.” By the time I brought the last dish out, the six seats at the table were full. Sarah sat in my usual spot. Dad, Liam, Brandon, and his parents filled the rest. Liam looked up at me. Before he could speak, I grabbed my bowl and went back to the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Liam pause. But only for a second. Soon, he was busy peeling shrimp for Sarah. I stood in the kitchen, eating plain rice with leftover vegetable sauce. I couldn’t help but look. Sarah loved seafood. The whole table pampered her. Brandon’s parents used to dote on me. Now, like Brandon, they poured all their affection onto the new girl. The atmosphere was so happy. I remembered when I was the one being peeled shrimp for. When I was the center of their world. I stared too long. Liam caught my eye. His warm gaze turned icy instantly. I fled back into the kitchen, tripping over a pot on the floor. The lid clattered loudly. Dad stopped peeling shrimp. “I knew her apology wasn’t sincere. Asked her to cook one meal and she’s throwing a tantrum in the kitchen. No manners.” I hugged myself in the dark. Dad, it’s not like that. I just tripped. This is our last meal together. I didn’t mean to ruin it. But I knew explaining was useless. He wouldn’t believe me. Brandon’s mom, Mrs. Hayes, looked toward the kitchen with pity. “She’s just a child, probably tired. It’s normal to be grumpy.” “We didn’t even notice there weren’t enough chairs. Get a stool for Emily.” Under their disgusted gazes, Mrs. Hayes pulled me to the table. “Emily, I haven’t seen you in two months. You’re so thin. Eat something.” Everyone stared at me. Dad frowned, about to speak. Suddenly, Sarah clutched her chest and screamed. “It hurts… cough… so hard to breathe…” Dad, Liam, and Brandon immediately surrounded her. Seeing the rash spreading on Sarah’s neck, Dad gasped. “Allergic reaction? How?” Realization dawned on him. He glared at me with cold fury. Then, he slapped me with all his strength. “Did you do this? How did I raise such a vicious daughter?” I fell to the floor, ears ringing. Everyone else looked at me like I was a monster. Pale and shaking, I stammered, “It wasn’t me, I didn’t…” But as always, they convicted me without a trial. Liam gritted his teeth. “I can’t believe you’re my sister. You make me sick.” “I knew you weren’t being nice today. You poisoned her!” Brandon looked down at me, sneering. “Mom, you see why I don’t like her now?” “She’s too manipulative. I can’t spend my life with someone like that.” Mrs. Hayes wanted to say something, but Dad picked Sarah up and roared, “Enough! We’ll deal with this later.” “Hospital! Now!” They rushed out with Sarah. I lay on the floor, clutching my swollen face. I watched them leave and finally let the tears fall. See? It’s always like this. If it involves Sarah, I am always the villain. Something inside me died completely. The pain was agonizing. But I knew this was the last time. I was leaving. I would never see them again. I would never cry for them again. Chapter 4 I went to my room and started packing. I didn’t need to wait three days. That slap made it crystal clear. No one here wanted me. I might as well leave now instead of waiting to be kicked out. I sorted through my things. Surprisingly, I had very little. Since Sarah arrived, Dad and Liam rarely bought me anything. They barely gave me an allowance. I rarely came back to this “home” anyway. It made packing easy. My eyes fell on a family photo on the desk. Memories flooded back. When Mom left for Europe after the divorce, Dad cried all night. He hugged Liam and me, saying he failed as a husband but would be the best father. Liam swore he’d be the best big brother. He said he’d never let me be sad, afraid I’d leave like Mom. And they were great. I was sickly as a kid. No matter how busy Dad was, if I had a fever, he’d rush home. When I was twelve and bullied at school, fifteen-year-old Liam fought five boys alone. He came home bruised and bloody, but the bullies were terrified of the “crazy brother.” No one messed with me after that. Brandon was good to me too. When Dad was away, he’d take us to his house for Mrs. Hayes’ cooking. When we felt guilty about eating there too often, he’d look at me with shining eyes and say, “What’s there to be embarrassed about? We can eat together for the rest of our lives.” I believed him. So when I turned eighteen and Dad suggested an engagement with the Hayes family, I agreed immediately. I fantasized about a happy future. I wouldn’t even have to move far; my love was right next door. But the next day, Dad brought Sarah home. And everything shattered. She inserted herself into every moment I had with Liam and Brandon. She broke my things and blamed me. She poured milk on herself and cried, “Emily, I know you didn’t mean it.” She cut up the clothes Dad bought her and sobbed, “Emily, I won’t take your things, please don’t be mad.” She covered herself in trash and cut herself, then threw herself into Brandon’s arms, wailing, “Brandon, tell Emily to stop. I’m going to die. I’ll leave, just please make the bullying stop.” Driven mad by her gaslighting, I finally exploded. But the family who always stood behind me… stood in front of her. “Emily, I’m so disappointed in you,” Dad said. Liam slapped me. “You forgot how it felt to be bullied? How could you do this to Sarah? Get out!” Brandon held Sarah gently, his eyes full of disgust for me. “Emily, I didn’t know you were this kind of person. I need to rethink our engagement.” They ignored my pleas. They took Sarah to the hospital. Just like today. And my place in this home vanished.

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A TikTok DM from a total stranger popped up deep in the middle of the night. “Am I the other woman, or are you?” A pause. Then a second message: “Killian North has you pinned as ‘Wife’ in his contacts. What’s the deal?” I glanced at Killian, who was toweling his wet hair, emerging from our master bath. The man I’d been married to for three years. I tossed my phone onto the duvet beside him. This girl wasn’t the first, and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. Killian barely blinked, treating the inquiry with the practiced indifference of someone who’d been through this script a hundred times. “Spit it out, Cass. What do you want this time?” His voice was a low, bored rumble. “Another million? Or a divorce? Pick your poison.” I didn’t dissolve into tears, didn’t scream, didn’t claw at his shirt begging him to stop, as I had in the past. Instead, I leaned back against the headboard and smiled up at him, my voice unnaturally light. “Good.” “It’ll be in your account tomorrow, then.” Killian answered dismissively, his thumb already scrolling past photos of different women on his phone. “I meant, the divorce. Good.” 01 The air seized. Killian’s fleeting surprise curdled instantly into a sneer. “Cassidy, I actually thought you’d grown up. Still pulling these pathetic stunts?” He backed away, the weight of his body lifting from the bed. “I’ll give you a whole extra month this time, after she’s gone. Deal?” He didn’t believe me. He never did. He thought I was throwing a fit. Our unspoken rule—the cruel covenant of our marriage—was that after he finished with a new girl, he’d grudgingly dedicate a week to me. An entire month was practically a grand gesture. I considered it for a moment. “Then sign this agreement.” I reached for the bedside drawer and slid the divorce papers—prepared weeks ago and folded precisely—to his side of the bed, open to the final page. Killian North was defined by his absolute confidence. He was so certain of his power that the possibility of my leaving him simply did not exist in his universe. Even if I’d held another man’s hand and sworn I was in love, he’d have just laughed, convinced it was a temporary glitch. He didn’t even read the agreement. He snatched the pen I offered and scrawled his signature across the line. “There. Happy? You think I’ll renege? God, Cassidy. You’d die without a man to coddle you.” The venom in his voice was familiar, yet tonight, it didn’t sting. I simply got out of bed and pulled a clean shirt from his closet. “Go on, then. I’m sure your little girlfriend is throwing a tantrum waiting for you.” My calm smile finally fractured the indifference on his face. The composure and frigid silence I’d maintained all night transformed into pure, searing rage. Killian grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight I felt the small bones grinding. “How are you still so pathetic, Cassidy?” “You used to lose your mind when I did this! You used to cry and beg! Why aren’t you angry? Why the hell are you playing the quiet, supportive wife? What are you staging?” His voice dropped to a hateful whisper. “You forced me into this, and now you look like the victim? God, you’re disgusting.” The front door slammed shut, rattling the windows. I smiled—a silent, empty gesture—and then the coughing started. It was a raw, wrenching spasm that knotted my chest and pulled at my insides until I finally spat a gob of viscous, crimson blood into my palm. He hated me. He used every cruel weapon he could think of to punish me. But we had been torturing each other for far too long. It was time to end it. Years ago, back in high school, Killian used to write me letters. Hundreds of them. Stacked together, they were almost as thick as a phone book. I’d read them so many times the paper was soft, tattered, and wrinkled. On nights like this—nights when he was gone—I always reached for them. Tonight, I didn’t cry into them. I lit a match. In the quick-spreading flames, the paper curled and the ink blackened. Through the heat haze, I saw the memory of the boy in my mind: Killian, his face streaked with tears and blood, begging me not to leave. 02 Killian and I were meant to be. Our mothers, best friends who practically raised us together, had joked about our marriage since we were toddlers. We grew up believing we were one of those couples destined to share a life—a relationship that was simply fait accompli. Until the bottom fell out of the world. My father’s business collapsed, he killed himself, and my mother and I were forced to move into the North family home. The day Killian finally confessed his love, the day we stood hand-in-hand while our parents laughed, musing over baby names, was the same day his mother found my mother’s sonogram. The father of the baby was Killian’s father, Mr. Alistair North. The family shattered. The screaming and shouting ended only when Killian’s mother suffered a massive stroke. At the funeral, I stood under the towering oak tree, watching Killian’s solitary, brittle silhouette. For the first time, I felt a toxic shame for our shared history. Killian, his eyes burning red, charged at my mother. I threw myself in front of her, taking the blow—a piece of broken glass that sliced a gouge in my shoulder. In that moment, I thought: If I disappeared, would Killian be less broken? But when I turned, I fell into his arms instead. His voice was a rusty rasp, scraped raw like metal on stone. “It’s not your fault, Cassidy.” “Let’s leave here. Let’s go.” We ran. We found a place so far away the family shame couldn’t reach us. To survive, Killian worked himself to the bone—hauling cement, busing tables. His hands were a mess of bloody blisters and frostbite. During the worst times, we shared a single cup of instant noodles in a cramped, freezing studio apartment, listening to the wind threaten to rip the glass out of the window frame. We never spoke. We never answered the family’s calls that lit up the cheap Nokia phone. “We don’t have a home anymore, Cass,” he’d whispered, pulling me close. “We are each other’s home.” I sat by the small, contained fire until the last ashes had cooled and the sky outside was streaked with the pale gray of dawn. Then, Killian called. “I’m sending you an address. Get over here. She wants to meet you.” She was the girl, Talia. I answered calmly. “Okay.” When I arrived at the location, the street was deserted. Just as I started to dial Killian’s number, a blur of motion and screaming tires erupted. The impact was chaos. My sedan was a pinball, slammed into and ricocheting off several vehicles. Finally, a thick, viscous warmth streamed down my forehead, blinding me. The pain in my abdomen was a firestorm, and blood was everywhere. Fading, my instinct took over. I dialed Killian’s number. “K…” Before I blacked out, I heard his ragged breathing and a panicked, almost unrecognizable desperation in his voice. “Cassidy, don’t you dare die! Please…” K… It had been years since I used that nickname. Since the family betrayal, we’d both avoided it. We both knew the splinter was there, deeply embedded between us—unremovable, indigestible, corrupting even our love into something impure. A flicker of consciousness returned, and I felt myself enclosed in a searing-hot embrace. He was weeping. The tears falling onto my face were scalding, burning through my skin. “Cassidy, why did you do that to me?” “I’m sorry. Just tell me you’re sorry, too, okay?” “Cass, love me again. I swear I won’t ever hurt you again.” It was Killian’s voice. If not for the crushing certainty of the last seven years, if not for the knowledge that he hated me, I would have believed it was real. I felt myself drowning in that embrace. But when I finally woke up, the familiar voices from the hallway snapped me back to the horrific reality. “I told you to mess with her head, not to get her killed. You know how I operate.” “Talia, if you ever try this again, we’re done.” 03 I stared blankly at the ceiling. My thoughts drifted back seven years. We were fresh out of the nightmare, and we were still so desperately in love. But the relentless grind of working multiple shifts finally broke Killian. He collapsed at his construction site. Diagnosis: Malignant cardiac arrhythmia. We’d just graduated and found decent entry-level jobs, but we still worked extra shifts—him, to let me cut back. He exhausted our savings and borrowed from every friend he had. But the ICU bills grew more enormous every day. I felt like I was drowning, no matter how hard I kicked, I couldn’t reach the surface, couldn’t see the light. I sold my blood. I sold a kidney. Still not enough. I only cared about Killian living. I swallowed my pride. I used Killian’s phone to call his father. Men like Mr. Alistair North are hypocrites. He could have an affair, but he couldn’t stand the thought of his son running away with the daughter of his mistress. He said he would save Killian’s life—but the cost was that I had to leave him. He said I had to make Killian hate me permanently, only then would he return home and reclaim the life that was meant for him. We made a deal. Killian was fully recovered a month later. On the day he was discharged, he took my hand. I could see the words forming on his lips—he was about to drop to one knee. “Cassidy, I want to marry you.” He never got the chance. He saw the ridiculously large, fake diamond ring on my finger and the man who stepped out from behind me. The ring was a cheap bauble I’d bought at a dollar store. The diamond was enormous, a convincing fake. The man was an actor I’d paid eighty dollars. He had a great, professional demeanor—enough to sell the lie. My voice was dead, stripped of all feeling. “It’s too hard, Killian. You ran yourself into the ground trying to buy me a decent ring, and you spent every last cent we had saving your life.” “You made me feel like our lives would never get better.” “My family wronged yours, so I stayed until you walked out of the hospital. We’re even now.” “But thank God you got sick. Because while you were in the ICU, I met my fiancé. I had no idea life could be this easy. You’re broke, and I’m done.” I turned away, terrified that another second would betray the tears already burning my eyes. The actor, Daniel, was professional, repeatedly intercepting the enraged, broken Killian. Killian fought him off, lunging at me, his eyes red, until he finally sagged from exhaustion. “You tell me how we’re even! You tell me you’re lying, Cass!” But his father was right. Killian wasn’t meant for that life. Pushing further would only kill him. He had to hate me to go back. That was the last time I saw the old Killian before the sham marriage. I thought he’d do exactly as his father and I had planned—go home, inherit the empire, and lead the life of luxury he deserved. Instead, Killian tore the North mansion apart. He cut his hand open, smeared the blood on the walls, and warned his father to stay away from me. He didn’t believe I would betray him. Not until he saw the staged photos of me and the actor naked in bed, and the purposefully “hidden” pregnancy test. Heartbroken, he left. It took him three years, without a single cent of family help, to build an empire large enough to rival his father’s. Then he found me, cornered me, and forced me to sign the marriage certificate. He was changed. The truth—the words of sacrifice, the bitter honesty—all the things I never got to tell him before he found the girls, just withered inside me. What difference would it make now? Would it make him regret? Would he feel guilt? Or would he simply sneer and tell me I was weaving desperate lies? We were already beyond repair. My debt to him. His debt to me. It was a tangled knot that could never be undone. I thought we would simply torture each other forever. But finally, I found the strength to cut the cord. Killian pushed the door open and walked to my bedside. Seeing my eyes open, he momentarily faltered. “You heard that?” “I was just messing with her. You know I wish you were dead.” Killian, I thought bitterly, you never dare to look me in the eye when you say those things. I managed a dry, painful smile. “Perfect.” “If not for her, we wouldn’t have known about the baby.” “Though I know you’d never let me keep your child.” 04 When we first got married, Killian made sure to use protection and forced me to take birth control pills every morning. He said a woman as “dirty” as me couldn’t carry his child—because my mother gave his father a child, and because I’d supposedly been pregnant by another man seven years ago. I never fought him on it. And even now, I hadn’t told Killian the truth. That the first baby, the one I lost—the one I planned to keep as my own—was his, too. No woman who has donated blood and sold a kidney, all while running on empty, can carry a baby to term. My body had been failing for years. Killian’s mouth opened and closed, the well of vicious words drying up before they could emerge. I knew the silence was because he did want a child with me. I remembered him feigning drunkenness just to avoid the condom, and how I’d secretly replaced the birth control with vitamins, holding onto the faint hope: If we have a baby, maybe we can really be a family again… Talia burst in, her small face streaked with tears, but her chin jutted out defiantly. She was the one Killian had found who looked the most like me—an uncanny, painful resemblance. She gave a reluctant, brittle apology. I laughed, a sound that felt brittle. “I thought you’d be fighting harder for him to divorce me and marry you.” She had been so tenacious the first time she’d contacted me. Yet, one car crash and the loss of my pregnancy—the death of our child—and she’d instantly compromised. She thought I was mocking her, and she glared at me. “You think Killian keeps you because of love? If he loved you, why didn’t he punish me? Why is he taking me to Iceland to see the Northern Lights?” Killian stood silent, watching me intently, as if waiting for me to break. He was testing me, waiting for the familiar, agonizing explosion. I just smiled. “Congratulations.” “If you can convince him to finally sign the final divorce papers, that’d be even better.” “Enough!” Killian finally roared. “Cassidy, I just spent an hour calming her down. Why are you provoking her? You think I won’t sign the damn divorce papers?” I remained indifferent. His eyes were fiery, boring into my face. He ignored the girl pulling on his arm. “I like this girl, Cass. You know the consequences if you keep harassing her.” Killian was always like this. He would preemptively accuse me of the behavior of the old Cassidy—the desperate, fighting one—before I even opened my mouth. But the current Cassidy was just trying to leave. 05 I had tried to make it work. The first few times he brought a woman home, I fought. I screamed. I threw every piece of evidence I had that he still loved me in his face and drove the girls out. I genuinely believed we could go back to the way we were. I became a lunatic, fighting one young woman after another. Killian seemed to relish watching me—my hair ripped out, my face bruised. He liked seeing me on my knees, begging him to stop, to let me go, not to find anyone else. He loved listening to me sob, my body shaking so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. That was the only way to get him to send the women away. He loved me, he hated me, and he loved seeing me destroy myself proving I still loved him. I asked him so many times, “If you don’t love me, why go to all this effort to find me? Is it just for the torture?” Most of the time, he’d smirk: “You love the drama, Cass. You love the money. I’m just giving you what you want.” But sometimes, he’d simply stare at the wreckage in the room, saying nothing, lost in thought. Eventually, the fighting consumed all my strength. I had nothing left to give the drama, only a numb acceptance. I thought: Staying beside him, even through his betrayal, is better than being away from him. Those years away caused severe withdrawal—a desperate, aching sickness that meant I couldn’t sleep without pills. Only when he forced me back into his life could I get rest, and even then, the nightmares were relentless. My body never truly recovered—I was constantly cold, susceptible to sickness. Maybe it was the missing organ. Maybe it was the missing emotional shelter. It took three years. Slowly, agonizingly, I weaned myself off the co-dependent chaos. And now, I was ready. The week I spent in the hospital, the papers were quietly filed. Killian, perhaps fueled by spite that I hadn’t begged, was overly solicitous of Talia. He took her to all our old spots, ate at our favorite restaurant, and saw the shows we loved. Finally, he put a ring on her finger at the place where we’d once promised forever. “If only she were more like you,” he’d apparently said. Talia, touched, believing she’d won, posted three love-drenched videos documenting the whole thing. The day I was discharged, I picked up the packed suitcases the cleaners had organized and headed straight for the airport. I received a private message from Talia. “What did you do? Killian screamed at me to leave last night and won’t see me today!” I checked the date. It was the seven-year anniversary of the day I broke his heart. I thought he was just moody, especially since the ring he gave her was a genuine, five-figure diamond. I messaged her back, consoling. “We’re getting divorced. Just give him a couple of days.” As I wrote that, I knew the lawyer was about to send Killian the final paperwork and the files from seven years ago. I didn’t want to hide the truth anymore. I’d arranged to go to a specialized clinic abroad—not just for the physical ailments, but for MECT (electroconvulsive therapy). Soon, I would forget all of this. I powered off my phone and stepped onto the plane. I didn’t see the last message Killian had left me.

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Five years ago, I ruined my life. It was a high-profile case—a sensational, ugly rape and murder—and I mounted a defense that got me disbarred, branded a felon, and sent to prison for faking evidence. Now, I’m a ghost, a “Rope Access Technician,” dangling like a spider outside the glass walls of the Ares Tower. Two hundred meters above the city, my single hand gripped the lifeline, and through the thick, mirrored curtain wall, I saw her. Camilla Shaw. She was the legal world’s darling, the one they called the “Goddess of Corporate Justice,” and she was the Chief Legal Officer of this entire real estate conglomerate. She was flanked by a group of nodding, deferential executives. My foreman’s voice screeched in my earpiece, harsh and tinny: “Cole! Ms. Shaw took pity on you, man. She specifically requested you clean the entire Ares Tower for the year. Get a move on! Go on, give her a courtesy bow through the glass, show some gratitude!” I tightened my grip on the squeegee, looking at her inside the conference room. Designer suit, surrounded by light, the center of their universe. It was utterly laughable. No one knew that the person who swapped out the key evidence, who threw me under the bus and into a cell for five years—all to clear her mentor—was the very “Goddess of Justice” behind that bulletproof glass. … “I said, give Ms. Shaw a damn bow!” Static buzzed in the receiver. As if sensing the commotion, Preston Maxwell, the CEO of the group and my former mentor, turned his head. He saw me, a filthy silhouette suspended against the azure sky. He raised a hand and pointed at the window. I watched his lips move. I could read the words through the glass: “That’s the counter-example.” A wave of laughter erupted in the conference room. Camilla followed his gaze, and our eyes locked. Five years. She was more beautiful, sharper. The girl who used to pout in our tiny apartment over five dollars of grocery money was now wearing a custom suit that cost more than my annual wages, idly twirling a Montblanc pen. A flicker of shock crossed her face, quickly replaced by something cold and unreadable. Preston walked up to the window. That well-maintained face of his—the one the magazines loved—pulled into the familiar, sickening mask of feigned benevolence. He waved, his mouth exaggerated, a theatrical mockery: “Jeeen-sen…” In my earpiece, the foreman was still barking: “Jensen Cole, are you deaf? Ms. Shaw is watching! You need this contract, man! Good behavior means a six-month paycheck! Bow, dammit! At least nod your head!” I plunged the squeegee into my bucket. The dirty water streamed down the glass, directly over Preston’s face on the other side. I lifted the squeegee and, with all the venom I could muster, scraped it hard across the glass, right over his image. Screeeech! The ear-splitting shriek of the rubber against the double-paned glass seemed to drill into the bones of everyone inside. They clapped their hands over their ears. Preston’s smile froze. I saw Camilla slam the Montblanc pen onto the table. She stood up, her ten-centimeter heels clicking against the polished stone, and walked toward the glass. She stopped inches from the wall, less than a foot from me. Only this unbreakable layer of glass separated us. She looked at me. There was no remorse in her eyes, nothing close to the guilt I’d imagined for five years. The earpiece went silent. Camilla had picked up the internal line on the table. Seconds later, a small section of the window silently retracted. The high-altitude wind rushed in, carrying her voice, cold and flat: “Jensen Cole. Get inside.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order. Ten minutes later, I stood in Camilla’s enormous corner office. The carpet was thick, and my dust-caked rubber boots left a series of damning, muddy prints with every step. Camilla sat in a massive, ergonomic leather chair. “Jensen, did you really have to be so disgusting?” She pulled a wad of fresh hundreds from her purse and tossed them onto the floor. The red currency scattered near my mud-spattered trousers. “That’s severance. Take it and get out.” “Don’t let me see you on this tower again. You’re an embarrassment.” I bent down, one by one, to pick up the bills. Not out of subservience, but because I needed to eat. Camilla watched my actions, her face a mask of disappointment, the sort of pain a parent feels for a wayward child. “Look at you, Jensen. Look at the mess you are.” “If you hadn’t faked that evidence, you wouldn’t be here today, picking up my scraps.” “Do you know how hard it is for me to sit in this chair because of your mistake? Everyone is watching me, waiting to laugh and say my ex-husband is a felon!” She adopted the pose of the victim, as if she were the one who had served five years in a state prison. I finished picking up the money. I took two twenties out of the stack, placing the rest neatly on the corner of her desk. “Twenty bucks a pane. That’s what I’m owed.” I turned to leave. A stack of papers slammed onto the desk behind me. I opened the door and walked directly into my parents. George and Carol Cole. They were dressed in their best clothes, being guided by a staff member to some corporate event. They froze when they saw me—filthy, holding a squeegee, carrying a bucket. The look on their faces was instantaneous. My mother instinctively recoiled. The staff member immediately apologized: “So sorry! This is an outsourced cleaner. He’ll be gone immediately.” My father gave me a look of pure, cold contempt, then turned to the staffer: “Get him out of here fast. We don’t want him bumping into Preston’s important guests.” They pretended not to know me. As they passed, I heard my mother whisper: “Such bad luck.” “Thank God no one recognized him. Imagine what that would do to Preston’s reputation.” The elevator doors closed. I touched the two crumpled twenties in my pocket. Two hundred meters of open air hadn’t made my legs weak. But in that moment, my heart plummeted. The next day, the foreman called me aside, his face uneasy. “Jensen, the top brass sent word. Today, you’re on the C-Wing.” The C-Wing. The tower’s auxiliary building. Because of a flawed architectural design, its exterior walls were studded with sharp, decorative metal strips. It was the unwritten “Black Zone” for every rope access worker. One wrong move, and the safety line would be sliced clean through. “Important inspectors are visiting today,” the foreman muttered, patting my shoulder awkwardly. “Do a good job. Don’t embarrass Ms. Shaw again.” I said nothing, silently hoisting my gear. On the roof, my phone rang. It was Camilla. Her voice was, surprisingly, soft. “Jensen. The C-Wing job was a special arrangement for you.” “Preston says if you perform well today, we might consider moving you to the logistics department. No more wind and sun.” “Don’t be ungrateful.” She hung up. I looked down into the seemingly bottomless abyss of the C-Wing. A chance to prove myself? More like a chance to die. I checked my equipment. The main safety lock had several fresh, deep gouges on the metal. They glinted faintly in the sun. Someone had tampered with it. I didn’t make a sound. I pulled a spare climbing rope from my bag, tied a tight, hidden figure-eight knot, and clipped it to an inner D-ring on my belt. It was my secret lifeline. I hit the fiftieth floor when the wind suddenly roared. I swung violently in the air. As expected, the main safety lock gave out with a sickening ping! It snapped. My body instantly went weightless, plummeting rapidly. The wind screamed in my ears; the glass facade flashed past. In that fraction of a second, I kicked hard against the wall, using the leverage to swing myself sideways. The backup line snapped taut, digging brutally into my hip. I used the momentum to grab the edge of a permanently ajar air-conditioning vent. An ordinary person would have been a smear on the pavement right now. But I was ready. My fingers clawed into the narrow gap. Skin tore, blood welling up. But I held fast. I rolled into the ventilation shaft, gasping, sucking air into my lungs. Two hundred meters up, I had cheated death. When I got back to the ground, the foreman stared at me as if I were a zombie. “You… How did you get down?” I threw the severed lock at his feet. “Is this your company’s safety standard?” The foreman’s face turned sickly pale, but he recovered quickly, shifting to angry denial. “You broke that equipment yourself! Don’t you dare blame the company!” “Jensen Cole, you’re fired! All your pay this month is forfeit, and you’ll be billed for the ruined equipment!” I knew this was Preston’s doing. A choice: either fall to my death or starve to it. Just then, a black Rolls-Royce Ghost pulled up. Camilla stepped out in her high heels. She looked at my filthy, disheveled state. “What happened to you?” She waved off the security guard who was about to grab me. She pulled a file from her briefcase and handed it to me. “For old times’ sake.” “Preston is being generous. He won’t press charges for your ‘safety violation.’” “The Group Security team needs a doorman. Five grand a month, room and board included.” “Sign this, and you start immediately.” I looked at the title of the document: Plea of Contrition and Statement of Guilt. The content was a complete confession: I admitted that I, Jensen Cole, had falsified evidence in the case five years ago purely for money and that no one else was involved. It concluded by thanking Preston Maxwell for his magnanimity in giving me a second chance. “I won’t sign.” Camilla’s expression hardened. “Jensen, how much longer are you going to be stubborn?” “Your parents’ retirement fund isn’t enough to cover their medical bills, and your uncle just lost another huge bet. He owes everyone. If you don’t have a job, they’ll be out in the cold.” Seeing I was unmoved, she pulled out her phone and started a video call. On the screen, my parents were sitting in an exclusive, high-end restaurant. Preston was pouring them wine. “Dad, Mom, please eat up,” Preston said, his smile radiating faux-warmth. My mother beamed at the camera: “Oh, thank you, Preston! You’re the only one who takes care of us now.” Preston took the phone, raising an eyebrow at me through the screen. “Buddy, your folks haven’t been well lately. They need stability.” He turned slightly and whispered, though the mic picked it up: “If you sign this, they eat here every night. If you don’t…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the camera caught a brief flash of several large bodyguards standing just behind him. I clenched my fists. Faced with this open blackmail. “I’ll sign.” Preston smiled, satisfied. “That’s the spirit.” “A compliant dog is always better than a dead man.” That night, my parents called. “Jensen! You finally learned your lesson!” “Being a doorman for Preston is a blessing! So many people would kill for that! You work hard, you thank Preston for the opportunity, and you stop embarrassing us!” I hung up, staring out at the city lights. My hands, still gripping the signed confession, slowly relaxed. The Group Legal Gala was held at the most luxurious hotel in the city. “Dress nicely. Don’t shame the company.” Camilla had tossed me a cheap suit. My job: a waiter in the ballroom. I moved through the crowd, tray in hand, serving my former colleagues and adversaries. “Hey, isn’t that Jensen Cole?” “The disgraced lawyer? Reduced to clearing plates?” “Shhh. I heard Preston kept him on purpose. Something about a chance for redemption.” The whispers buzzed around me. I kept my face expressionless, mechanically pouring champagne and taking empty glasses. On the main stage, the lights were dazzling. Preston, in a custom tuxedo, looked like the king of the world. He held the microphone, expounding on “The Ethics and Conscience of the Legal Profession.” The crowd erupted in applause. Camilla sat in the front row, watching him with an almost worshipful gaze. “And tonight, we have a very ‘special’ guest.” Preston’s tone shifted, his eyes scanning the crowd, landing precisely on me. “Jensen Cole. My former protégé. Once the ‘Wunderkind Lawyer.’” “Come up, Jensen. Tell everyone your ‘journey.’” A spotlight instantly pinned me to the floor. I was holding a tray, exposed and unprepared, like I’d been stripped naked in front of an audience. Someone pushed me hard from behind. “Go on! What are you waiting for!” I set the tray down and walked, one step after agonizing step, toward the stage. Every inch of my neck felt burned under the scrutiny. Preston handed me the microphone, his phony, gentle smile making me sick. “Don’t be nervous, buddy.” “Why don’t you read the statement you prepared for us?” On the massive screen behind us, the Plea of Contrition and Statement of Guilt was projected. My signature and fingerprint were stark, damning black on white. A gasp went through the room. “Did he really do it?” “Gave up his ethics for a payout. Disgusting.” “I actually thought he’d been framed.” My hand holding the microphone trembled. Not from fear. I saw my parents sitting in the back corner. They were wearing the new clothes Preston had bought them, wiping away manufactured tears for the cameras. “Thank God for Preston’s generosity, giving our boy a job,” my mother sobbed into a reporter’s microphone. “It was our family’s tragedy. We raised a social degenerate.” I took a deep breath, trying to steady the raging storm in my chest. “I, Jensen Cole…” I began to read. Every word was a lie, a betrayal, and an act of self-hatred. Preston stood beside me, nodding in appreciation, as if admiring a masterpiece. Camilla stepped forward and, in front of everyone, straightened the worn tie I was wearing. Her eyes, however, were ice. She leaned in, her voice low enough only for me to hear: “Jensen. Just keep obeying. I’ll keep you for life.” Then she turned back to the audience, her eyes glistening with crocodile tears. “Jensen made a mistake, but our corporation is offering him a chance for full rehabilitation.” “This is the compassion of the law, and it is the culture of our company.” The room exploded with applause. Camilla and Preston stood side-by-side, soaking up the adulation. Preston seized the moment, announcing the creation of the “Integrity and Ethics Fund.” “Jensen Cole will serve as its counter-ambassador, a warning to future generations.” I stood in the shadows, accepting the applause that was actually directed at my destruction. After the event, I was in the hotel alley, emptying a trash bin. A black sedan was parked nearby. The window was slightly lowered, and I saw Preston’s profile. He was on the phone, his stage persona completely gone. “Did you get the victim’s family agitated?” “Yes. Do it today.” “Let them raise hell. The bigger the mess, the better.” “Make sure he’s ruined. This time, he won’t ever stand up again.” The next morning, Camilla’s calls blew up my phone. Her voice was panicked, frantic. “Jensen, where are you? Get down to the South End demolition site immediately!” “The victim’s family from the old case—they’re on the roof of a condemned building, threatening to jump!” “They’re demanding you. Calling you the corrupt lawyer, saying you owe them a life!” My heart dropped. It was the setup. It had finally arrived. “I won’t go,” I said, cold and dead. “I’m a doorman now. This is a police matter.” “You have to go!” Camilla shrieked. “The media is there! If anyone dies, the company’s reputation is finished!” “That’s your problem.” “Jensen Cole! Do it for your own redemption, then! If you don’t go, your parents are already on the scene. The family is hysterical. If they hurt them…” I hung up immediately and hailed a cab toward the South End. My mother called moments later. Wailing hysterically. “Jensen! You have to fix the mess you made!” “Don’t drag Preston and Camilla into this! Get down here! They have knives!” I gripped the phone hard. I knew it was a trap. But I had to go. Not just for my parents, but for the victim’s family. For five years, I had tried to reach them. Preston, to escape, had not only falsified evidence but had also paid them a fortune to point the finger at me as the orchestrator of the frame-up. When I arrived, it wasn’t a demolition site. It was an abandoned psychiatric facility. There was no media, no crowd. As soon as I stepped into the main lobby, the heavy iron door slammed shut behind me. Several large men in white orderly uniforms emerged from the shadows. They held stun batons and restraints. The man leading them was familiar. Ronan Miller. The victim’s older brother. He was heavier than five years ago, his face scarred, his eyes full of malice. “Mr. Cole. Long time no see.” He grinned, tapping the stun baton against his palm. “Ronan, how much did Preston pay you this time?” I stared at him, keeping my voice steady. “Pay?” Ronan spat on the floor. “Preston says you’re trying to overturn the case, trying to dirty his name again.” “But… he says you’re probably insane. Mentally ill. And in need of ‘treatment.’” I took a step back, my spine against the damp wall. “You believe that? You know the truth, Ronan. You always did.” “Truth?” Ronan charged me, slamming the baton into my shoulder. A muffled cry of pain escaped me. I dropped to one knee. “The truth is my sister is dead! And you, the accomplice, are still breathing!” The other orderlies swarmed me, pinning me to the floor. Restraint cuffs were cinched tight around my wrists and ankles. “Let me go! This is unlawful detention!” I struggled. “Unlawful?” Ronan held up a document, shaking it in my face. Mandatory Commitment Consent Form. My mother’s signature was scrawled at the bottom. “Your own mother signed it. Says you’re a severe schizophrenic with violent tendencies. We have full authority to ‘treat’ you.” Ronan put his phone on speaker and dialed a number. My mother’s voice came through, loud and chillingly clear: “Yes. Just keep him locked up. Don’t let him cause any more trouble.” “Preston’s company is going public soon. We can’t have him around.” “I’ll pretend I never had this son. It’s the least I can do for the family.” In that moment, a despair settled over me. It was heavier than the guilty verdict five years ago. “Hear that, lunatic?” Ronan sneered, pulling out a syringe. The needle glinted under the weak light. “This is a custom sedative. One shot, and a god could be reduced to a vegetable.” The instant the ice-cold fluid plunged into my neck, my vision blurred. My consciousness began to splinter. I tried to bite my tongue, to stay awake, but it was useless. In the haze, I saw a hallucination: my father stroking my back. My mother wiping away a tear. “It’s okay, my little boy…” I nodded silently, a small, sad smile touching my lips. “Jensen Cole… Jensen Cole…” Someone was calling my name. The sound was distant, yet close. Just as I thought I would fall into the darkness forever. BANG! A shattering sound ripped through the desperate silence.

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While my boyfriend was cooking dinner, a female colleague texted him. “Miss you.” I thought for a moment, then replied for him. “Come over. She’s not home.” 1 It was a rare weekend where Liam wasn’t working overtime. I had begged him for ages before he finally agreed to make his signature sweet and sour ribs. While he was busy in the kitchen, his phone on the coffee table buzzed. I tapped the screen to wake it, but the display was dark from the angle. I looked closer. He had put on a privacy screen protector. A bad feeling immediately settled in my stomach. I suddenly remembered what a coworker had once told me: “When your partner starts using a privacy screen behind your back, it means they have secrets.” That sentence dug into my heart like a thorn. I tried to tell myself it was just a coincidence, but doubt grew like weeds in my mind. Luckily, he hadn’t changed his passcode yet. I unlocked the phone. A new WeChat message popped up from a name I didn’t recognize. The message was simple and direct. “Miss you.” My heart clenched, my eyes locked on those two words. I scrolled up, but the chat history was empty. Deleted. But those two simple words were enough to twist a knife in my gut. I tried to calm down, accidentally knocking over a glass of water on the table. Liam poked his head out of the kitchen, spatula in hand. “What happened?” I forced a smile, slipping his phone into my pocket. “Nothing. Just wanted to see how it’s going.” “Not fast enough,” he complained, frowning. “Getting the caramelization right is a pain. Next time, let’s just order takeout.” I froze for a second, then nodded. “Okay.” Liam seemed to have forgotten. I’m from the North; I don’t have a sweet tooth. The person who loves sweet and sour ribs is him. When we first bought this house, he pointed to the kitchen, his eyes shining with confidence and excitement. “This is my domain! No entry without my permission!” Every weekend, he would stay in, tinkering in the kitchen with recipes tailored just for me. Back then, he loved this home. He loved creating memories with me. The phone in my pocket felt like it weighed a ton, burning against my leg. Once my heart rate settled, I decided to reply for him. “Come over. She’s not home.” I was curious who she was. And I was curious how Liam would react. Not long after, the doorbell rang, sharp and piercing. I quickly changed my clothes and walked to the door. My hand hesitated on the cold metal handle for a moment before I pulled it open. The person outside clearly paused. The excitement on her face froze the moment she saw me. I looked her over. From her age to her face to her figure, I couldn’t help comparing every detail to myself. The conclusion was brutal—she beat me in every category. “You’re Chloe, right?” “You know me?” “Liam mentioned you.” The thought that my name might be a topic of their amusement made my disappointment in Liam deepen. She seemed to remember something, reaching into her bag to pull out a familiar Tupperware container. “I came to return this.” “Last time Liam brought ribs to the office, my blood sugar dropped suddenly, so he let me have them.” Looking at her clutching the container Liam and I had bought together at Target, I remembered his impatience this morning when I asked him to cook. My anger ignited instantly. I deliberately shouted toward the kitchen, “Honey, someone’s here for you!” Liam walked out, wiping his hands, looking confused. When he saw her, his face went blank. I watched them closely. There wasn’t the panic or guilt I expected. “What are you doing here?” Liam asked, puzzled. “I was in the neighborhood and remembered I still had your container, so I texted you.” “Texted me?” Liam suddenly realized something, glancing back at me before his face went cold. “Just leave the container.” But she didn’t leave immediately. She stood in the doorway, staring straight at me. “Miss Chloe, aren’t you going to invite me in?” I let out a cold laugh, stepping aside but keeping my eyes on Liam. “Well? Aren’t you going to invite her in? Perfect timing, we made sweet and sour ribs again today.” I emphasized “sweet and sour ribs.” Liam’s expression shifted. “Stop it.” Sensing Liam’s displeasure, she slowly replied. “Oh, I just remembered I have plans nearby. I got so excited I forgot. I’ll come hang out next time.” I didn’t say another word, just watched coldly as Liam walked her out. When he came back, his face was dark enough to drip ink. “What, couldn’t bear to let her go?” I leaned against the doorframe, mocking him. Liam glared at me angrily. “Don’t talk nonsense. She’s just a colleague.” I wasn’t letting him off that easy. “Colleague? Then what does ‘Miss you’ mean?” Liam looked exhausted. “We’ve been working on a project together. High pressure. We just joke around to relieve stress.” I didn’t believe a word of his bullshit. We had a huge fight. Since then, things between us have been incredibly tense. I started wondering if I was too impulsive, but then I’d remember how weak his excuse was. Living like this was suffocating. 2 I told my best friend, Jasmine, about my suspicions. She laughed for a solid minute. After my parents died in an accident, she and Liam became the most important people in my world. “You’re crazy,” she said. “Back in college, Liam bought boba for our entire dorm for a whole semester just to chase you. Remember when campus didn’t have a KFC? He took a bus for over an hour to bring it back for you, and he wouldn’t even eat a single fry because he wanted you to have them all.” I laughed bitterly. “Really? I forgot.” Jasmine talked excitedly about Liam’s courtship back in the day, but it felt so distant to me. Yeah, it’s been 10 years. I’m turning 28 in two months. Before she left, Jasmine gave me some serious advice. “Chloe, have a good talk with Liam. Set a date for the wedding soon.” “Don’t let things drag on and get messy.” Neither of us wanted to dig deeper. The sunk cost of a ten-year relationship was something I couldn’t afford to lose. That night, I texted Liam a photo of myself wearing black silk stockings. In the past, he would’ve replied instantly with something cheeky like, “Hubby is coming home right now, just wait a bit longer.” But today, he replied three hours later: “Working overtime.” I closed WeChat and opened Discord. I searched for his status. “Online – Mobile.” He wasn’t working. By the time I realized it, I had chewed my nails down to the quick. After my parents died, I developed a habit of biting my nails when anxious. Liam used to feel bad for me, saying he’d help me quit. He even painted bitter nail polish on with me. But now… A wave of irritation hit me. I almost didn’t reply, but I remembered Jasmine’s words. I typed again. “It’s okay. I’ll wait up for you.” This time, he didn’t reply at all. 3 I sat in the most visible spot in the living room. I had changed out of the tight stockings into loose pajamas, but I couldn’t hide my anxiety. The clock on the wall showed 1:00 AM. I held the photo album Liam made for me in college, lost in thought. When exactly did we go from inseparable lovers to roommates who barely saw each other? “Door unlocked. Welcome home.” The mechanical voice of the smart lock broke the silence and sparked a faint hope in my chest. I looked up sharply, trying to catch his figure in the dim light. Liam stood in the doorway for a long time before stepping inside. But the moment our eyes met, he looked away. That instant evasion hurt more than any words could. It made me feel a despair I’d never known. He stood in the entryway and suddenly snapped. “Can you stop leaving your shoes everywhere?” I froze, about to go tidy them, but he kicked my heels aside without mercy. There was a time when he would neatly arrange my shoes, charge my electric toothbrush, and pack away my seasonal clothes before I even thought of it. Now, those memories felt like a different life. I watched Liam walk out of the kitchen with a glass of water, identical to the one in front of me. Except his was brand new. He sat at the dining table and poured himself a drink. I stared at the glass, remembering our old habit of sharing one. I felt a sudden wave of grievance. “Why don’t you use the same cup as me anymore?” “No reason.” He was impatient, turning slightly to scroll on his phone with his back to me. I didn’t want the cold war to continue. I gathered my courage and hugged him from behind. “What are you doing!” He shook me off like I was a virus. I stared at the red mark on my wrist, my heart shattering. “Today is our 10th anniversary.” My voice trembled with despair and pleading. Liam froze. A flash of guilt crossed his eyes. But it only lasted a few seconds before cold indifference replaced it. “Send me a link for whatever gift you want. I’ll buy it tomorrow.” His tone was flat, like he was discussing a business transaction. “Tomorrow it won’t matter anymore.” I looked up at him, trying to use the cuteness he used to love. He once said he loved when I puffed my cheeks out when I was mad, like a pufferfish. But now, his eyes were colder than ice, looking at me like a stranger. “Chloe.” He said my full name. My heart dropped. Using my full name meant the invisible wall between us just got thicker. “Stop it.” Two words. Freezing cold. “We’re 28, not kids. Life isn’t built on anniversaries.” My heart contracted painfully. The man in front of me—suit-clad, mature, steady—was nothing like the boy in the white shirt smiling in the sun. I stared at him, searching for a trace of the past, but found only distance. Finally, I gave up arguing. I whispered, “Yeah, I’m 28.” He seemed to guess what I was going to say and cut me off. “You know my career is in a weird spot right now. I don’t want to get married yet…” Liam was about to say more, but his phone rang at the worst possible moment. He glanced at me and quickly silenced it. My heart sank, but I forced myself to stay calm, even adding a hint of pleading to my voice. “Then… when do you want to get married?” 4 He didn’t give me a straight answer. And he didn’t tell me to keep waiting. Instead— “If being with me makes you feel wronged, then…” “Then break up with you? So I’m the bad guy now?” The words tumbled out, and we both froze. Finally, Liam broke the silence. “I don’t deserve you.” I exploded. The emotions I’d been suppressing all night peaked. “Now you don’t deserve me? When you were chasing me with marching bands and banners, you didn’t think that?” Liam’s face turned livid. His lips moved like he wanted to speak, but he gave up. Just like our relationship—he didn’t even want to try to save it. I watched him walk toward the guest bedroom with a dark face, saying nothing. Until he twisted the handle and couldn’t open the door. He turned back and yelled at me. “Chloe! Can you stop causing drama! Open the door!” I kept my face cold, suppressing the disappointment churning inside me. “I told you to change that lock ages ago. The balcony window was open today, the wind slammed it shut. I can’t open it either.” He instinctively looked toward the balcony, as if to verify my story. The atmosphere grew heavier, the air suffocating. Until he broke the silence again. “Then I’ll go to a hotel.” My rationality snapped. I stood up abruptly, my voice sharp. “What, this huge house isn’t big enough for you? Or are you just done pretending?” Liam’s face looked ugly. Shock flashed in his eyes. He had never seen me lose control like this. He was speechless. “If anyone’s going to a hotel, it should be me. You bought this house. I can’t kick you out.” I kept shouting, as if making him uncomfortable would make me feel better. Or maybe, deep down, I hoped that making a scene would force him to care about my feelings again. “Chloe, you’re always like this. You never consider how others feel when you speak or act.” “What do you mean?” I widened my eyes like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “What do I mean? You invited my colleague over last week on purpose. Did you think about how awkward it would be for me at work?” “Awkward? How so? She sent you a text saying ‘Miss you,’ and I’m not allowed to bring it up?” “I don’t want to explain anymore. Think what you want.” He shut down completely, ignoring my anger and anxiety. He turned and walked toward the door without looking back. At the threshold, he stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Chloe, if you really think we can’t go on, let’s just let it go.” I stiffened my neck and didn’t answer. My chest felt like it was going to explode. At that moment, I knew for sure. Liam didn’t love me anymore.

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The billionaire scion of New York, Julian Blackwood, famously despised gold diggers. Unfortunately, I was one. When I found out about his little pet peeve, I asked him casually, “Julian, what would you do if someone got close to you just for your money?” He didn’t even look up from his phone. “Kill them.” Me: ? Excuse me? Since when were you a psycho? That was a dealbreaker. I was here for the bag, not a body bag. I packed my valuables and ran away overnight. I left a note: [Not gonna bother you anymore. I’m leaving. Hope you find someone who loves you for you, not your wallet.] Three days later, I was haggling at a pawn shop over my designer bags when a black Centurion card slammed onto the counter. The man standing there had red-rimmed eyes. “Babe,” he rasped, “take all my money. Just bother me for the rest of your life, okay?” 1 “Babe, what are you looking at?” Julian had a networking dinner tonight and didn’t get back until nearly eleven. The scent of expensive scotch clung to him, making me wrinkle my nose. I pushed him toward the bathroom. “Don’t kiss me until you scrub that smell off!” He laughed and scooped me up bridal style, carrying me into the bathroom with him. Steam filled the room, fogging up the mirrors. His hand reached for the strap of my silk nightgown. “Let’s shower together.” “No,” I refused. He insisted. Riiip— The ridiculously expensive, easily-torn nightgown Julian had picked out split in two. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Babe…” I kept my face deadpan. “I said no. I already showered before you got home. Washing twice is bad for my skin.” I pulled the tattered silk around me and shoved him back into the shower, closing the glass door. “Stop ripping my clothes! They’re expensive!” Seriously! Just take it off normally! That was the third one this week. Spendthrift! The water ran loudly; Julian was clearly speed-running his shower. I lay on the bed, scrolling through my phone. A WeChat notification popped up from my best friend, Sarah. Sarah: [Look at this link] It was an article titled: [Deep Dive into the Secret Lives of the Elite!] I sent back a question mark and clicked it. I skimmed through the usual gossip about famous socialites until my eyes snagged on a specific paragraph. [Julian Blackwood, heir to the Blackwood empire, reportedly has zero tolerance for gold diggers. Rumor has it he once…] Sarah sent a screenshot of that exact section. Sarah: [Babe, is this true?] Me: [Idk? Probably fake news?] Sarah: [A lot of the other stuff in here is verified. Maybe you should test him?] I hesitated, switching back to the article to read the rest, when a hot, damp chest pressed against my back. “Babe, is your phone more interesting than me?” Guilty as charged, I swiped the page away instantly. “What?” Julian turned my head, gripping my chin. “Wearing this just to tease me, huh?” His voice pitched up at the end, dangerously seductive. I put on my best doe-eyed look. “I would never.” My finger traced his jawline. “But… I’m desperate. My mother is in the hospital…” I closed my eyes, channeling my inner tragic heroine. “Mr. Blackwood, if you give me fifty thousand—no, ten thousand is fine—I’m yours tonight.” He bit my earlobe. “Tonight, you entertain me.” 2 Entertain him? I was the one who needed saving. I kicked him. “I’m tired.” He caught my ankle and hooked it over his shoulder. “You rest, babe. I’ll do the work.” Rest my ass! By the end, I couldn’t even lift my arms. Julian cuddled me, whispering sweet nothings until I was dozing off. He carried me to the sink to wash up. Through half-lidded eyes, I saw him kiss my forehead in the dim light, like I was something sacred. “I love you, babe.” Maybe it was the roleplay earlier, or the article, but I mumbled, “If a woman got close to you for money, what would you do?” He was rummaging for a fresh nightgown. Without missing a beat, he said, “Make them disappear.” I froze, sleep vanishing. “What?” He pulled the silk over my head. “Kill them.” He kissed my lips, satisfied. “Okay, sleep now.” He pressed my head to his chest and said goodnight. But I was wide awake. Crap. I was the woman who got close to him for money. Since when was he a murderer?! 3 I came from a broken home. Gambling addict dad, day-trading mom. I was an only child. They lived in their own worlds, barely noticing me. Luckily, when I was small, they were rich. A rich neglectful childhood isn’t the worst thing. But in middle school, the market crashed, and dad’s luck ran out. They sold everything. The house filled with screaming matches. I went from a princess to a pauper overnight. That poverty lasted until college. Not because they bounced back, but because one night, during a fight, a lit cigarette met a spilled bottle of vodka. The fire took them both. My terrible family turned to ash. They left me nothing but debt. Loan sharks, credit card debt—they had borrowed from everyone. After they missed payments, collectors blocked my dorm room door, threatening me. They doxxed me online. It was hell. I couldn’t work; I couldn’t make money. They pushed me to the edge. I was ready to end it. Then I looked in the mirror. Young. Beautiful. It was the only inheritance my parents left me. Aside from them, the world was beautiful. I wanted to live. At any cost. Truth be told, I got with Julian for the money. If he were broke, I wouldn’t have looked twice. And now Julian says he hates gold diggers. He hates me. I peeked at him. He was asleep. I traced his face, inch by inch. “Julian…” His eyes snapped open. He grabbed my wrist. “Babe, thought you were tired? Still got energy?” He flipped me over. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Tired! Tired! I’m sleeping!” 4 Morning. I said goodbye to Julian and burrowed back into the blankets. He tucked me in, chuckling. “Lazybones.” I threw a pillow at him. “You have the nerve? Who made me this tired?!” He was an energy vampire. It was 8 AM. I went to sleep at 3 AM! Why doesn’t he reflect on his actions?! Julian kissed me. “My bad. Next time we’ll start earlier.” Me: ? Can we just cancel the event entirely? He knew he was pushing it, so he ruffled my hair and fled. I slept until noon. When I woke up, my phone was blowing up. I replied to Julian’s “good morning” text first, then checked the rest. Sarah had sent a wall of text. [Did you test him?] [What did he say?] [Why aren’t you replying?] [???] [Hello?] [Did the test turn into sex?] [Okay, confirmed. That’s what happened.] [Whatever, reply when you wake up tomorrow.] [Actually, you might not wake up. Reply tomorrow afternoon.] Me: … Speechless. I replied: [1] (Acknowledged). Sarah was probably still asleep. I rubbed my chin, thinking. I didn’t really “test” him. I just asked. And Julian gave me an honest answer. He really hates gold diggers. I sighed. I’m screwed. If he finds out… I’m dead. For him, it’s not a question of can he do it, but does he want to. And honestly… I felt guilty. If he didn’t love me, it would be fine. A transaction. I provide emotional value, he provides cash. But Julian loved me. And I treated him like an ATM. What’s the saying? Mixing sincerity with lies is like mixing chocolate with sh*t. If I were him, I’d hate me too. He’d destroy me. The more I thought about it, the colder I felt. I have to run. Run fast. Before he figures it out. I packed immediately. I kept the sentimental stuff, the specific gifts. But Julian gave me a lot. Random gifts, PR packages sent to him. I sorted through it all. I could sell a lot of this. I spent the day packing. When I was done, I clapped the dust off my hands and waited for Julian. 5 Feeling guilty, I went to the supermarket and bought a feast. I cooked a full meal. Julian walked in just as I was plating the sweet and sour ribs. He hugged me from behind. “Babe, you cooked?” I slapped his hand. “Wash up. Dinner time.” He ignored me, turning my face for a kiss. I let him. I was compliant now. I wrapped my arms around his neck, panting. “Eat first.” He nibbled my lip. “Don’t want food. Want you.” I didn’t want to waste my effort. “I spent three hours on this. Eat!” He put me down obediently. We washed our hands together. He kissed my cheek. “Babe cooked for me. I’m the luckiest man alive.” He was so easy to please. My guilt spiked.

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1 I was scrolling through Instagram when I stumbled upon a post from an actress in my husband’s latest film. It was a photo dump from the wrap party. [Thanks for the amazing wrap gift, Nathaniel!] The last photo in the carousel was a close-up of a perfume bottle on her makeup vanity. A silver bottle, engraved with my initials. I deliberately liked the post, then immediately called my private doctor. “I need to change my prenatal appointment to a termination.” Next, I posted an Instagram story, visible only to my Close Friends list. The first slide was a picture of my signature on the procedure’s consent form. The second was the cover of a set of divorce papers. The caption read: [Ten years ends today.] … “Aurora!” The anesthesia was just wearing off when I saw Nathaniel standing in the doorway of my hospital room, his face a mask of cold fury. He was clutching his phone, the screen displaying a screenshot of my Instagram story. “We’ve been trying for a baby for two years. We’ve seen every specialist, tried every treatment, and we finally get pregnant! And you throw it all away because of a bottle of perfume?” He strode to my bedside, his finger practically jabbing me in the face. “And this garbage you posted! Are you not happy unless you’re making a public spectacle of our lives?” My body felt weak, and a dull ache throbbed in my lower abdomen, but I managed to push myself up to a sitting position. I looked at him calmly. “Did you sign them?” “What?” “The divorce papers.” I nodded toward the folder on the nightstand. “They were delivered to your studio three days ago.” “Nathaniel,” I said, my voice flat. “There’s a line of women from here to Paris who would kill to have your child. You can drop the act with me.” That remark shattered his composure. He swept the nutritional meal a nurse had just brought in off the table. The rich chicken broth splashed across the floor. “Aurora! What the hell is this really about? Is it just about some stupid bottle of perfume? Isabelle mentioned she liked the scent, so I gave it to her! It was nothing! Is that really a reason to kill our baby and demand a divorce?” “I gave it to her.” He said it so casually. I looked at him, and my mind flashed back ten years. I had just finished my first role with actual lines. The paycheck was a measly eight hundred dollars. To celebrate, I spent an entire afternoon at a high-end boutique, and finally, using half of my living expenses for the month, I bought a limited-edition bottle of ‘Silver Iris.’ That night, I carefully spritzed it onto a tester strip and posted a picture of it online. “My very first perfume, to commemorate my very first role.” Three minutes later, my phone rang. It was Nathaniel. “Aurora, you bought perfume?” The disapproval in his voice was so thick I could feel it through the phone. “That ‘Silver Iris’? It’s over three thousand dollars a bottle. Do you have any idea how much I’m spending right now trying to land that supporting role in the new Pierce film? I need every cent for networking.” His words stunned me. The hand holding the tester strip began to tremble. “I… I used my own savings. And I already set aside my living expenses for the month…” “You set them aside?” Nathaniel scoffed. “Aurora, can you stop being so vain? Are you going to eat that perfume? Or do you think that just because you’re with me now, you can start throwing money around?” The call lasted twenty minutes. I sat there, the phone hot against my ear, watching the scent on the paper slowly fade, and then I deleted the post. In the ten years since, Nathaniel’s pay went from five thousand an episode to thirty million a film. He bought me bags, watches, and jewelry, but never again did he buy me perfume. Once, at a brand event, the organizers gifted us a full set of their new fragrances. I picked one up and lingered on it for a moment too long. On the car ride home, Nathaniel spoke, his voice cool and distant. “Some people haven’t landed many roles, but they sure have developed expensive tastes. What is it now? Starting a collection?” I quietly put the bottle down. From that day on, I never mentioned anything related to fragrance in public again. I told myself he just didn’t care for perfume. That he was just blunt. That he just wasn’t… thoughtful. Until I saw that bottle of Silver Iris in Isabelle’s Instagram post. It was sitting carelessly in the corner of her vanity, next to lipsticks and compacts, like any other ordinary object. And in the background of the photo, Nathaniel was leaning in, speaking to her, a gentle, tender smile on his face that felt like a knife in my gut. In that single moment, a decade of self-deception crumbled into dust. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of it. It was just that his thoughtfulness, his indulgence… it was never meant for me. “Just because of a bottle of perfume?” Nathaniel looked at me as if I’d told the world’s most pathetic joke, his expression twisting. “Aurora, Isabelle is new to the industry. The director was tearing her apart on set every day. I just felt sorry for her and gave her a small gift as encouragement! And you’re going to get an abortion and divorce me over something so trivial?” “Are your pregnancy hormones messing with your head? Are you thinking clearly?” He paused, then a look of dawning comprehension spread across his face, his lips curling into a sneer. “Oh, I get it.” “You’re just using this as an excuse. This is your revenge for me calling you vain all those years ago, isn’t it?” “Wow, Aurora. Ten years, and you’re still holding a grudge.” He let out a short, sharp laugh. 2 “Fine. You want perfume? Is that it? How many do you want? I’ll have them clear out the entire boutique and deliver it to you right now.” “Yes,” I said, looking straight at him. The numb space in my chest suddenly erupted with a sharp, stabbing pain, but my voice was unnervingly calm. “It is because of a bottle of perfume. Exactly that.” “So what, Nathaniel? For one bottle of perfume, I will get rid of your child and I will divorce you.” “You’re being completely irrational!” Nathaniel slammed the door on his way out. Three hours later, my hospital room was filled with perfume gift boxes. A delivery man, sweating profusely, was trying to take inventory. “Ma’am, a Mr. Knight ordered every bottle of Silver Iris from every boutique in the city. It’s one hundred and twenty-seven bottles in total. Where would you like them?” I signed the delivery slip and stared at the mountain of exquisite boxes filling the room. My phone buzzed. A message from Nathaniel popped up: [Is that enough for you?] I could picture the look on his face as he sent it—brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, radiating an air of impatient charity. I didn’t reply. I just blocked his number. The validation and respect I had craved for a decade had finally arrived, piled up in this absurd, insulting fashion. It was nothing short of a mockery. I called my best friend, Zoe. Her voice on the other end was hushed. “Aurora? I’m in the middle of a shoot. What’s up?” “Zoe,” I said, looking out the window. “Last year, you said that if I ever left Nathaniel, you’d take me to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. Does that offer still stand?” There was a few seconds of silence on the other end. “Are you serious? You’re really leaving him?” “Aurora, Nathaniel is at the top of his game. He has all the connections, all the resources. If you leave now, you’re throwing away ten years of struggle. You’re just going to hand it all over to the next girl who comes along.” Zoe was the one who told me not to get involved with Nathaniel in the first place. And now, she was the one worried I’d get the short end of the stick. I smiled softly. “Since I’ve decided to leave, it means I’ve already let it all go.” “Alright then,” Zoe’s voice firmed up. “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go.” “Soon.” After hanging up, I went home and took my documents from the nightstand. Just as I opened the safe, I heard the front door open. A final text from Zoe came through: [Once he signs, we’re gone.] Liquidating stocks, dividing property. Even if I had to start from scratch, I wouldn’t starve. I picked up my suitcase and walked into the living room, only to find an unexpected visitor. Isabelle, dressed in a delicate white dress, stood timidly beside Nathaniel, her fingers clutching the cuff of his sleeve. She took a tentative step forward as if it took all her courage. “Aurora… I’m so sorry.” Her voice was thick with tears, her wide, innocent eyes glistening. “I didn’t mean to show off by posting that. I was just so happy… Nathaniel has been so kind to me, teaching me how to act, giving me gifts… I just got carried away and I made you upset. Please don’t be angry…” Isabelle suddenly bowed deeply, her shoulders trembling. “Please don’t divorce him. Nathaniel really, really loves you. It’s all my fault…” She wept beautifully, as if she were the victim of some terrible injustice. I took a step back, avoiding her bow, and lifted my eyes to Nathaniel. He was looking down at Isabelle, and the look in his eyes—a sort of pained, restrained tenderness—was something I had never seen in ten years. Suddenly, the whole thing just felt pathetic. “What exactly are you sorry for?” I asked calmly. I wasn’t going to be painted as the villain. I had no desire to see the headline #AuroraHayesBulliesNewcomer trending tomorrow. So I was direct. “This grand gesture of yours,” I said, gesturing to her bow, “is it a genuine attempt to save my marriage, or is it an act to pressure me into letting go for good?” “We’re both women. We both know how these games are played. There’s no need to put on a show for me.” “I’ve already decided to get a divorce.” I turned to Nathaniel, meeting his stunned gaze. “And my mind won’t be changed by someone’s tears or apologies. You, of all people, should know that about me, right?” Nathaniel’s face darkened. But Isabelle suddenly rushed forward and grabbed my wrist. “Aurora! Everyone on set is saying you got jealous because of my post, that you got an abortion and are filing for divorce just to put me in my place, to show Nathaniel who’s really in charge! I don’t believe them. I know you’re not that kind of person…” I had thought Isabelle was just a moderately ambitious newcomer. Clearly, I had underestimated her. Every word she spoke was a carefully crafted nail in the coffin of my reputation, sealing the image of me as a jealous, petty bully. As expected, Nathaniel stepped forward, his eyes flashing with anger. “That’s enough, Aurora!” “Isabelle is apologizing to you like this, and you’re still cornering her. Don’t you think you’re going too far?” I looked at Nathaniel, at the face I had loved for a decade. There was a time when I believed that wherever he stood, there was light. I had willingly softened every edge, lowered every standard for him. Looking at him now, he was just another selfish, hypocritical man. 3 I pulled my wrist from Isabelle’s grasp, took the divorce papers from my bag, and spread them on the coffee table. “If you really want to protect her, then act like a man. Sign the papers and let’s get divorced. Don’t stand here gaslighting me about bullying a newcomer.” I shot a cold glance at Isabelle, who was now hiding behind Nathaniel, sobbing. “Ambition is a good thing. Since your ambition has brought you this far, you might as well go all the way and win the man.” My tone was so calm that a flicker of panic crossed Nathaniel’s eyes, but his words remained defiant. “You’re being completely unreasonable!” “Am I? Don’t you know the truth?” My gaze fell to the hand he was using to shield Isabelle. “You know better than anyone that I can’t tolerate filth in my life.” “When something gets dirty, I throw it out.” I held out a pen to him. “If you want to retain any shred of my respect, sign it.” I had chased after Nathaniel for ten years. A decade ago, my parents died in a case of medical malpractice. It was Nathaniel who ran from hospital to hospital with me, who met with lawyer after lawyer, who grabbed the attending physician by the collar and demanded answers. But halfway through the lawsuit, the hospital produced evidence that my father had an undisclosed medical history and that my mother had been disoriented when she signed the consent forms. My lawyer advised me to accept a settlement. I refused. I stood outside the courthouse and cried until I nearly passed out. It was Nathaniel who picked me up and whispered in my ear: “Aurora, you are not alone.” “I’m here. If the sky falls, I’ll hold it up with you.” In the end, I signed the settlement. I took the compensation money, along with the money from selling my parents’ house, and gave it all to Nathaniel for acting classes, for networking, for landing roles. My friends all called me a fool. They said a woman who spends money on a man is cursed for three lifetimes. But I held Nathaniel’s hand and said, “To spend it on Nathaniel, I’d be cursed for ten.” Nathaniel cupped my face in his hands and made a solemn promise: “Aurora, I will never make you regret this.” Ten long years. We went from a basement apartment to a penthouse in the city center, from unknown extras to him holding a Best Actor award. Every step was a struggle. But Nathaniel’s tenderness, it seemed, had only existed in those few short months after my parents died. Nathaniel looked at my resolute face, and a powerful sense of unease washed over him. He instinctively reached for me, but was interrupted by Isabelle’s sobs. “Aurora,” Isabelle said, her eyes red, but her voice surprisingly clear. “You can call me a homewrecker. You can call me shameless. I’ll accept it all.” The fragile, helpless girl from moments ago was gone. She now looked me straight in the eye. “I have feelings for Nathaniel. Anyone would be drawn to a man as wonderful as he is. My feelings are honest and out in the open. But unlike you, I would never use his love for me as a weapon to act so recklessly.” “Everyone knows he’s spoiled you for ten years, and you repay him by getting rid of his child? That’s just cruel.” Her words extinguished the last flicker of hesitation and pity in Nathaniel’s eyes. “Aurora, are you sure you want this divorce?” The person who knows how to hurt you the most always knows exactly where to twist the knife. “Don’t forget,” Nathaniel said, pouring salt on my oldest wound, “you don’t have a family anymore.” “I am the only family you have left.” “If you leave me, you will be completely and utterly alone in this world.” I have a deep-seated fear of people talking about my parents, of the vicious whispers that I was a jinx, that I was cursed to bring ruin to my loved ones. It was Nathaniel who used to stand in front of me, throwing punches at anyone who dared to gossip. It was him who held me tight during countless nights when I broke down, whispering: “You are not a jinx. You are my destiny. I will love you enough for your parents too. I will never change.” Now, that same man looked at me with cold eyes. “There’s no smoke without fire. With a personality like yours, who could possibly stand you?” “No wonder your parents left so early.” That sentence shattered my last line of defense. I slapped him, hard, across the face. “You bastard!” My vision blurred. The pain in my chest was so intense it felt like my heart was splitting in two. I had scrimped and saved, passed up every opportunity and connection for him, stood by him through years of obscurity, only to be called a jinx in the end. How could I not break? How could I not be devastated? He stared at me for a few seconds, then a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. “Fine, Aurora. You’ve really outdone yourself.” “You want a divorce, right?” Nathaniel snatched the pen and scribbled his name on the agreement. “Then let’s get one!” “And don’t you dare come crawling back to me!” He threw the signed papers in my face, then turned, grabbed Isabelle’s arm, and stormed out. I bent down to pick up the scattered pages and let out a soft, broken laugh. “Nathaniel, this time, it’s really over.” As I boarded the plane, my screen lit up. A series of calls from Nathaniel’s different numbers. I looked at it for a moment, then switched my phone off. Goodbye. 4 Thinking I was just throwing a tantrum, Nathaniel booked out the city’s largest luxury perfume boutique. Isabelle posted another nine-photo carousel on Instagram. In the photos, she was smiling radiantly, a wall of perfume displays behind her. The caption read: [Some people are just born unworthy of the best. They only deserve secondhand things.] Nathaniel had always been the one in control. In our relationship, all he had to do was be himself. I would automatically fill in the gaps, make the excuses. Just like ten years ago. Even though he knew I just wanted to commemorate my first role, even though he knew I bought that perfume with my own money. He still had to crush my spirit. At my moment of greatest happiness, he had to put me in my place, to remind me: “You are not worthy.” He needed to call me vain, to watch me feel guilty, to wait for me to apologize. In the beginning, our friends warned him to back off, not to push me too far. But over time, he became known in our circle as a master at managing his wife. At dinners, men would ask him for his secret to keeping a woman so devoted. He would take a sip of his wine and smile coolly. “Give her a taste of sweetness at her moment of deepest despair, and she will see you as her savior. After that, no matter what you do wrong, she will find a way to forgive you on her own.” Nathaniel was no fool when it came to people. He had spent his life reading others, and he knew exactly how to exploit a person’s vulnerabilities. He had practiced on me for a decade. And it had worked. So he watched Isabelle’s post go live, watched the likes and comments roll in, knowing he didn’t have to lift a finger. Mutual friends would soon be calling me, acting as his messengers. All he had to do was wait for me to come to him, head bowed in apology. And so he waited. Nathaniel waited for two weeks. He didn’t get my apology. Instead, he got a letter from my lawyer. “Mr. Knight.” My attorney sat across from him, pushing a folder across the table. “This is the share transfer agreement Ms. Hayes has asked me to handle. She is requesting to purchase your 35% stake in the studio at market value. If we do not receive a response within one week, we will file a motion with the court to compel the sale.” Nathaniel stared at the documents, his fingers tightening into a fist. “Where is she?” “Ms. Hayes has gone abroad to clear her head.” The lawyer smiled politely. “As for her destination, I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.” “Clear her head?” Nathaniel shot to his feet. “She just had a termination two weeks ago, and she’s flying abroad to ‘clear her head’? Is she trying to kill herself?”

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