Category: English

The morning I checked out, I was just waiting for the routine release of my incidental deposit when the receptionist slammed my room key onto the marble counter. She told me the sheets were stained. My hundred-dollar hold was being confiscated. I immediately tried to explain that I had knocked over a glass of water late last night while working, but she let out a sharp, breathless laugh. Her eyes dragged over me, heavy with absolute disgust. “Water? You think I was born yesterday?” Her lips twisted into a sneer. “I was on the graveyard shift. I saw the revolving door of men going in and out of your room. It didn’t stop all night.” She leaned over the counter, lowering her voice to a venomous hiss. “You look like a decent girl, but behind closed doors, you’re a complete wreck. And you’re going to stand there and lie to my face about water? I know what kind of bodily fluids get left behind when you’re playing house with half the city.” A cold shock of adrenaline hit my bloodstream. My hands started to shake. “Watch your mouth,” I snapped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Hit a nerve, did I?” “Either you march upstairs and scrub those sheets yourself, or that deposit covers the biohazard fee. Pick one.” I didn’t yell. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, memorized the name etched on her gold nametag—Krystal—and turned on my heel to wait for the general manager. I took a seat in the lobby lounge, pulling out my phone to distract myself. I opened a local neighborhood app, scrolling mindlessly, until a trending post made the breath vanish from my lungs. The headline was screaming in bold letters: WARNING: Local Hotel Hooker! Brought 5 or 6 guys to her room, ruined the bed, and tried to blame it on spilled water. Acts innocent, actually a total trash bag! Attached to the post was a grainy, secretly snapped photo. I clicked on it, my heart seizing in my chest. The girl in the photo was me. With trembling fingers, I swiped to the next slide—surveillance screenshots of her so-called “johns.” A second later, a bitter, incredulous laugh escaped my lips. They weren’t “men.” They were Doordash drivers, a late-night pharmacy courier, and a guy in a bright neon jacket dropping off an expedited lens rental. 1 The comments beneath the post were a toxic sludge of internet misogyny. “Damn, she’s busy. Five guys couldn’t finish the job? Absolute garbage.” “Always the ones who look like sweet girl-next-door types. Textbook serial hookup.” “Six dudes in one night? Drop the @, I want to see what the hype is about.” A violent tremor wracked my body. My fingernails dug so hard into the leather case of my phone that I thought it might crack. This was blatant, malicious defamation. I whipped my head around to look at the front desk. Krystal was leaning against the back counter, clutching her phone, a smirk plastered across her face. Her thumbs flew across the screen, a soft, self-satisfied giggle slipping out of her every few seconds. I stared at her, completely bewildered. I had never met this woman before today. I had done nothing to her. Why was she trying to destroy me? The anger hit me like a physical blow, a rush of heat straight to my brain. I wanted to storm over, grab her by her cheap polyester lapels, and smash her phone into pieces. But as I began to stand, the sharp sting of my nails biting into my palms anchored me. Breathe, I told myself. Think. If I confronted her right now, she would deny it. Worse, she would flip the script, filming my outrage and spinning it as the hysterical meltdown of a guilty woman. I would be backed into a corner, completely defenseless against the court of public opinion. I took a long, ragged breath, forcing the violent urge down into a cold, hard place in my chest. Moving methodically, I began taking screenshots. I captured the original post, the security footage stills, and dozens of the most vile comments. Then, I typed out a reply under my real name. “I am the person in the photo. The men in the surveillance shots are food delivery drivers and couriers. The stain on the bed is spilled water. The hotel has the full, unedited hallway security footage to prove this. Delete this post immediately, or my next call is to the police.” I hit send. The notification came almost instantly. Krystal hadn’t just replied to me—she had pinned my comment to the top of the thread. “Ooh, the star of the show has arrived! At least put some effort into your lies, honey. Five delivery guys in one night? Do we look stupid? Let me guess, they were delivering emergency condoms because you blew through your stash?” The thread exploded. The digital mob, armed with anonymity, descended in droves. “LMAO ’emergency condoms’, OP is a savage!” “Still trying to lie her way out of it. Embarrassing.” “Stop playing the victim and get out of our city, you filthy skank.” Before I could even process the vitriol, the page refreshed. Krystal had posted a new update. She had linked my personal Instagram handle. “Everyone go take a look! This is her account. Plenty of skimpy little photos on there too!” Within minutes, the floodgates opened. Thousands of strangers swarmed my profile. My notification chime went off like a fire alarm, freezing my phone screen entirely. When it finally caught up, I opened the comments on my most recent post—a completely standard, stylized editorial shoot I’d done for a boutique clothing brand. The comment section had turned into a cesspool. “Dressed like that, no wonder you need six guys a night.” “What’s the hourly rate? If a Doordash guy can hit it, so can I.” “Check your Venmo, baby. Accept my request and let’s talk business.” Something inside me snapped. The quiet restraint I had been holding onto evaporated. I marched across the marble floor and slammed my palm flat onto the front desk. “Delete it. Now.” Krystal barely flinched. “You are committing cyber harassment and defamation,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “I have screenshots of everything. If you don’t take it down this second, I am calling the cops.” She looked at me, gave a theatrical sigh, and rolled her eyes. “Why are you barking at me? Who’s defaming who? I’m posting on my own time. What does that have to do with you?” Without breaking eye contact, she leisurely tapped her screen. “Call them. Go ahead. Let’s see if the police care about a cheap escort’s hurt feelings.” I let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. I was just pulling up the dialpad when a push notification dropped down from the top of my screen. It was an alert from the neighborhood app: Live Stream Started. It was Krystal’s account. She held her phone up, angling the camera to capture both her face and me standing in the background. She smiled, a greasy, conspiratorial grin meant for her viewers. “Hey guys, welcome to the live. There she is, the lot lizard herself, throwing a tantrum in my lobby.” She leaned in close to the mic. “The manager isn’t here yet, so I’m gonna take the master key, go up to her room, and do a little unboxing video for you guys!” She winked at the camera. “Let’s go investigate the crime scene. Let’s see if she left any tools of the trade behind. Tap that heart button and stay tuned!” The viewer count skyrocketed past a thousand in seconds. The chat was a blur of rapid-fire text. “DO IT! Let’s see the nasty room!” “Careful girl, don’t catch anything in there lol!” “Zoom in if you find the wrappers!” My head snapped up. Krystal had already pulled a silver master keycard from the drawer. Holding her phone out like a shield, she practically sprinted toward the elevators, her face flush with the thrill of the chase. 2 She practically ran down the carpeted hallway, stopping in front of my room. The lock clicked green, and she barged in before I could even get my arm across the doorframe to stop her. The room was exactly as I’d left it: a few empty takeout bags on the desk and my heavy, expensive camera equipment neatly packed in the corner. But a second later, Krystal let out a wildly exaggerated gasp. “Oh my God! Guys! Look what I just found!” She let out a shrill, mocking laugh, thrusting her camera directly into the small mesh trash can by the nightstand. I followed the lens, and my entire body went rigid. Lying right on top of the trash was a used, torn condom wrapper and the discarded latex itself. Impossible. I had been up until 3:00 AM editing photos. I hadn’t left the room except to grab my deliveries from the door. There was absolutely zero chance that was in my trash can. A hot, blinding fury spiked in my chest, but just as I opened my mouth to scream at her, I caught a micro-expression on Krystal’s face. I saw her hand, the one not holding the phone, subtly wiping something against the seam of her uniform slacks. A sickening realization washed over me. For the sake of internet clout, this girl had brought her own prop. The anger vanished, replaced by an icy, crystal-clear calm. I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “Are you absolutely certain,” I asked, my voice chillingly steady, “that you found that in my room?” She didn’t miss a beat. “What, you’re still playing dumb? The evidence is right here! Unless you think it’s mine?” She pointed the camera closer. “Look at this, guys. Extra-large, ribbed. Our girl likes to play rough! Gotta wonder how much damage she’s taking with a revolving door of guys!” The live chat was moving so fast it was unreadable, a waterfall of crude jokes and visceral hate. “Boom. Caught red-handed.” “Her face right now lmao, she knows it’s over.” “What kind of Doordash comes with that kind of tip??” “Thinking about six dudes using that bed makes me wanna puke.” Krystal looked at the viewer count—it was surging past five thousand. She was practically vibrating with triumph. She shoved the phone screen toward my face. “Lost your voice? You were acting so tough down in the lobby.” She sneered. “The proof is right here. Let’s hear the excuse now. You’re treating everyone on the internet like they’re idiots.” I looked at her smug, victorious face, and the corners of my mouth slowly curled into a smile. It reached my eyes. “Well, since you’re so adamant that this was found in my room…” I tilted my head. “And since I know, for a fact, that I was completely alone in here last night…” I paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough. “I wonder how that got there.” The chat was still roasting me, calling me a pathological liar. “Give her an Oscar!” “The gaslighting is insane. Just admit you’re a pro.” Krystal let out a barking laugh, looking at me like I was pathetic. “You don’t remember? Honey, after five or six guys run through you, I’m sure you just blacked out and forgot!” “Okay.” I nodded slowly. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed 911. “Hi, 911? I need to report a crime.” I locked eyes with Krystal. Her smile faltered. I pitched my voice up, letting a raw, panicked edge bleed into my tone. “I stayed at a hotel in your jurisdiction last night. I was traveling alone. But this morning, the front desk attendant found a used condom in my room.” “I have no memory of this happening. I was entirely alone!” I let my voice crack. “I believe I was drugged. I believe multiple men assaulted me while I was unconscious!” I hung up the phone and smiled brilliantly at Krystal, whose face had just drained of all color. “The police are on their way. Don’t go anywhere.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “After all, you’re the one who found the evidence. You are my star witness.” 3 Panic hit Krystal like a freight train. She lunged forward, her manicured hands clawing for my phone. “No! That’s not what happened! It’s not!” I sidestepped her smoothly, grabbing her by the collar of her uniform and yanking her back into the frame of her own live stream. “Not what?” I demanded, my voice ringing out clearly. “Didn’t you just swear, on camera, that you watched five or six men enter my room last night?” “Didn’t you just discover the physical evidence?” “Are you going to look at the thousands of people watching right now and tell them you made it all up?” Krystal was paralyzed. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry land, her face flushing violently purple. She couldn’t form a single word. The live chat abruptly shifted tone. The mob realized something was horribly wrong. Within ten minutes, heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and two uniformed police officers stepped into the room. “Who called it in?” the taller one asked, his hand resting near his radio. I let the tears come. It wasn’t hard—the adrenaline and the sheer exhaustion of the morning pushed them right to the surface. I practically threw myself forward, gripping the officer’s sleeve. “Officers, thank God you’re here!” I cried, my voice trembling perfectly. “I ordered dinner last night, ate it, and passed out. I was dead to the world. But this morning, this receptionist came in and said she found that in my room!” I pointed a shaking finger at the trash can, letting massive tears spill down my cheeks. “I’m a young woman traveling alone! I don’t know where that came from! I don’t remember anything! Someone must have slipped something into my food!” I gripped his sleeve tighter, letting out a jagged sob. “And she—” I pointed at Krystal, “—she said she watched multiple men go into my room! She gave explicit details online! She saw them! She’s the key witness to my assault!” The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The officers’ expressions hardened into dead-serious professionalism. The lead officer turned slowly, fixing Krystal with a severe, intimidating glare. “You witnessed this?” he barked. “Can you identify the men? Give me physical descriptions. We need to pull the hallway security footage right now.” Krystal shrank back, her knees literally knocking together. “I… I…” She stammered, swallowing hard before screeching in panic. “The cameras are broken! They didn’t catch anything!” I let out a ragged breath, swiping at my eyes, and pointed at the trash can. “If the cameras are broken, we have the physical evidence. The DNA of the men who did this to me is right there. Please, you have to bag it and send it to the lab. Run it through the system. You have to find out who did this!” The word DNA seemed to short-circuit Krystal’s brain. She had brought that wrapper from home. If the police ran forensics on it, her fingerprints—or worse, her husband’s DNA—would be the only things on it. It would prove she fabricated a crime scene. She would be going to jail. “NO!” She shrieked, diving toward the trash can. She snatched the latex and the wrapper in her bare hands and hurled them frantically out the open window. “What the hell are you doing?!” the officer roared. Tampering with a crime scene in front of the police was the dumbest thing she could have done. Both officers lunged. They grabbed her by the arms, twisting her around and pressing her face-first into the wall. “You are destroying evidence in an active felony investigation!” Krystal was pinned, sobbing hysterically, completely unravelling. Just then, a heavy-set man in an ill-fitting suit squeezed through the door, sweating profusely. It was Todd, the hotel manager. “Wait! Wait! Officers, please, this is a massive misunderstanding!” He wiped his forehead, immediately turning his wrath onto Krystal, putting on a show for the cops. “What is wrong with you?! Is this how I trained you? You can’t even handle a simple checkout without bothering the police?!” Having established his dominance, Todd turned back to the officers with a greasy, placating smile. “Officers, look. That… item… it was left behind by the previous guest. Our housekeeping staff just missed it during turnover. It’s a sanitary issue, nothing more.” While he spoke, he shot Krystal a sharp, threatening look. She caught the cue instantly. “Yes! Yes, I was confused! I made a mistake!” Todd rubbed his hands together, bowing slightly toward the officers. “See? Just a simple mix-up. This is an internal management failure, and it has caused this poor woman unnecessary distress.” He turned to me, his smile not quite reaching his cold eyes. “We will absolutely discipline her, and of course, your stay with us is completely comped. Free of charge.” He gestured toward the door. “So, if we’re all settled here, we shouldn’t keep these fine officers from their important work, right?” He was already ushering the cops toward the exit. I looked at his broad, sweating back, my expression hardening into stone. “Hold on.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “440956”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

We were only days away from the engagement party when Declan suddenly announced he wanted to host a high school reunion. He claimed he had some “unfinished business” to attend to before settling down. He tasked Kevin, our old senior class president, with organizing a party centered around a deck of cheap, alcohol-fueled dare cards. Only the single people from our graduating class were invited. The rule was simple: draw a card, do the dare, and pull in whoever the card specified. Declan and I had been quietly dating for six years. We’d never told a single soul from high school. When it was Declan’s turn, his face went completely blank as he pulled a card from the glass bowl. The card commanded him to sing a romantic duet with the person in the room he most regretted not dating. The moment he read it out loud, the rented private room practically exploded. A dozen hands shoved the girl in the white slip dress directly into his chest. They locked eyes for a split second before both of them blushed and stared at the floor. Kevin smacked his own thigh, practically vibrating with excitement. “Man, you two not working out back then broke all our hearts! But look at this! Fate always finds a way, right?” Listening to the roar of agreement from the room, a dry, hot sting crept into my eyes. Six years of building a life together, and I still couldn’t compete with the ghost of his first love. When the song mercifully ended, it was my turn to draw. My card instructed me to pick a guy in the room at random and ask him for one massive favor. I let my gaze sweep slowly across the dim room. When my eyes brushed past Declan, I didn’t pause. But he flinched, his eyes darting away in a sudden panic, terrified I was going to choose him and blow our cover. My voice was perfectly even when I called out Elliot’s name. In the corner of the room, the quiet, impeccably dressed guy lifted his head, his dark eyes widening in surprise. I looked right at him. “Do you want to marry me?” Without missing a beat, Elliot held my gaze. “I do.” 1 The air in the room caught fire. “Holy shit! Margot, you absolute legend! You don’t say a word all night, and then you drop a nuke!” Declan’s head snapped up. His face was a mask of pure displeasure. He grabbed his phone and his thumbs started flying across the screen. My phone vibrated furiously against the sticky tabletop. I didn’t even look at it. Kevin was already making the rounds with a pitcher of beer, shaking his head in awe. “God, Margot, you’ve gotten so much funnier since high school! Going straight for the quietest, sweetest guy in the room!” He bodily shoved Elliot into the empty seat next to me, his eyes bouncing between us like he was appraising a painting. “I honestly can’t believe you two are still single. Look at you. The aesthetics alone… you’re actually a terrifyingly good match. Right, guys?” Two dozen pairs of slightly drunk eyes pivoted to us, and the teasing erupted all over again. “Wait, he’s right! How did we never see this?” “You guys should actually go out. Imagine the power couple energy!” Declan pointedly ignored the crowd. He tapped the back of his phone against the table, glaring at me, silently ordering me to check my screen. Stop messing around. Please. After tonight, I’m done playing. I swear I’m going to commit to you completely. Just let this be the period at the end of the sentence for me and Michelle, okay? Let me have closure. The lukewarm beer had been sitting in my mouth so long it only tasted like bitter ash. Beside me, Elliot quietly took the half-empty beer glass out of my hand. He replaced it with a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, sliding it precisely into my line of sight. “Have something sweet,” he said. His voice was a low murmur, his eyes as impossibly clear as river water. “Damn, man. You look like a saint, but you move fast,” Kevin whispered loudly, leaning heavily over Elliot’s shoulder. “You have no idea how hard Margot is to get. Back in the day, half the football team…” “Kevin,” Declan cut in. His voice was flat, carrying a cold edge that sliced through the laughter. “A joke is only funny for so long. People might actually start taking you seriously.” Kevin’s grin froze. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, muttered something about needing more ice, and vanished into the crowd. “Michelle.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed a strange gravity that sucked the noise right out of the room. “Let me toast to you and Declan.” A shy, delicate smile bloomed on Michelle’s lips. She reached for her cocktail glass. “Everyone used to say you two were made for each other. Soulmates,” I said, letting a soft, self-deprecating laugh slip out. “I didn’t believe it back then. But I do now. I hope you guys finally figure it out and make it last.” I delivered the words with absolute, terrifying sincerity. Michelle’s eyes actually welled up with tears. She lifted her glass to clink mine, but before the crystal could touch, a large, familiar hand intercepted. Declan’s fingers clamped over the rim of her glass. The entire table went dead silent, staring at him. Declan was staring only at me. I blinked back at him, modeling an expression of polite, mild confusion. Right as the silence became unbearable, Declan spoke. His voice was tight, layered with exhaustion and irritation. “Michelle… has an alcohol allergy. I’ll drink it for her.” The room collectively exhaled into a chorus of teasing groans. “Here we go again! Mr. Chivalry strikes again!” It was the same script every year. Every reunion, he drank whatever was handed to her. Then he’d call an Uber Black, load a completely sober Michelle into the back seat, and ride with her all the way to her apartment building. “Michelle is just too naive,” he had told me once. “I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t see her walk through her front door.” There would be no exception this year. And clearly, there would be none next year, either. I smiled—a bright, devastating flash of teeth—buried the hollowness in my chest, and drained the glass of orange juice Elliot had poured for me. The game moved on. Declan read the next card aloud. His voice wavered. “Show everyone the most recent note in your phone’s Notes app.” 2 Declan hesitated. His eyes flicked to me, guilty and frantic. He pulled out his phone with agonizing slowness, exited our chat, opened the Notes app, and tried to scroll past the top. Kevin swooped in, snatching the phone right out of his hand, and bellowed the text to the room: “The Little One’s restricted list: Mangoes, alcohol, peanuts.” The Little One. His pet name for Michelle. “Ooooooh!” The room erupted into wolf whistles and table pounding. “The Little One!” Michelle’s face flushed a deep, pretty crimson. She shot Declan a look of pure, manufactured outrage. Declan shifted his weight, clearing his throat awkwardly. The second he got his phone back, my screen lit up again. Don’t overthink this. I made that note back in high school when I got my first iPhone. The minute we sign the venue contract, I’m deleting it. I didn’t text back. I just leaned back in my chair and watched the room fawn over them. It wasn’t just that note. I knew what else lived in his phone. Declan’s digital life was a meticulously curated shrine to Michelle. He tracked her menstrual cycle. He had her grad school schedule saved. He kept photos of her ID, her passport, her social security number. If Michelle forgot her own bank routing number, she texted Declan for it. Every time we went out for a Sunday brunch, an alarm would go off on his phone. The label always read: Remind The Little One to take her meds. “She’s a space cadet,” he’d laugh, his eyes softening into absolute adoration. “If I don’t remind her, she’ll go a week without her prescriptions.” He held every mundane detail of Michelle’s existence in his brain, protecting it like state secrets. But when it came to my birthday, he had to search my name in his text history just to remember the date. When you finally step back from the canvas, it’s brutally obvious what love looks like, and what it doesn’t. Was I only seeing it tonight, or was tonight simply the first time I was brave enough to admit it? The final card of the night went to Michelle. Her voice was sweet, soft as spun sugar. “Read the fifth Instagram post on the feed of the person you have feelings for.” She unlocked her phone with an elegant swipe, tapping into the profile photo I knew better than my own reflection. She scrolled down to the fifth photo and read the caption in a gentle hush: “Walking past the arch in Washington Square Park. Heard some guy butchering a song, and it made me think of a certain someone.” Michelle smiled shyly, holding the phone up and panning it around the table so everyone could see. The screen flashed past my eyes. It was a photo of the park at night, the streetlamps casting long shadows, illuminating a guy in a red beanie strumming a guitar like his life depended on it. My breath caught in my throat. I had never seen that post. But I remembered that night with agonizing clarity. It was the night both our families had dinner together in the city to finalize the engagement details. After dinner, our parents had practically shoved us out the door to take a romantic walk. We had wandered into Washington Square Park, my hand freezing in his. Under the iconic arch, a guy in a red beanie was battling the winter wind, singing his heart out. He was decent on the guitar, but his voice was an absolute atrocity. It was the kind of tone-deaf wailing that made you want to hand him twenty bucks just to beg him to stop. I had tugged on Declan’s sleeve, shivering, wanting to get to the subway. But he wouldn’t budge. I turned around to find him staring at the singer with a massive, nostalgic smile on his face. He was completely captivated, pulling out his phone to take a picture, quietly humming along to the awful, off-key melody. “Let’s go, it’s freezing,” I had snapped, my teeth chattering. He had looked down at me, his eyes swimming in a soft, distant affection that wasn’t meant for me. “Margot, don’t you think it has a certain charm to it?” And so, like an absolute idiot, I stood freezing in the New York winter, waiting for a terrible love song to end. It made perfect sense now. On the day I finally committed to spending the rest of my life with him, his head was entirely consumed by Michelle. “Whoa, wait a second! Dec, how come I never saw that post?” Kevin was practically yelling, sensing the drama. “Spill! Was that an ‘Only Share With One Person’ kind of post?” Declan threw a panicked look my way. All the color drained from his face. He forced a stiff laugh, trying to play it off. “It was probably a privacy setting I forgot to change. You guys know how much corporate garbage I post, I didn’t want you all to mute me.” Michelle rushed to his defense, her tone protective. “That’s just how Dec is! He posts five times a day like a brand account. If you saw all of it, you’d unfollow him immediately.” I opened Instagram, went to his profile. All I could see were four or five links to finance articles. A text banner dropped down from the top of my screen. That’s in the past. Once we’re engaged, my feed will only be you. I placed my phone face down on the table. A girl sitting near the end of the table squinted at me. “Hey, wait. That photo Dec took was in New York, right? But Margot, didn’t your family’s manufacturing company keep you down in North Carolina? Why are you suffering up here in the city?” I offered her a smooth, practiced smile. “I actually just put in my notice at my firm here. I’m moving back to Charlotte permanently.” Declan bolted upright in his chair. The muscles in his jaw locked as he stared at me, unblinking. 3 “I knew it!” Kevin cheered, banging the table. “Who in their right mind ignores a multi-million dollar family business just to grind it out in a New York cubicle?” He raised his glass high. “Let’s get a toast going for our girl Margot, heading down south to claim her throne!” I stood up, holding my glass of juice, keeping my smile perfectly polished. “The millions might be an exaggeration, but the move isn’t. If any of you ever find yourself in North Carolina, drinks are on me.” The whole table stood up to clink glasses. The whole table, except Declan. He sat frozen in his seat, staring a hole through me. Michelle had to lean over, her long hair brushing his shoulder, whispering something soft in his ear before he finally snapped out of his trance and slowly raised his drink. An hour later, the room was a blur of noise and spilled drinks. My phone rang. I slipped out into the quiet of the hallway to take it. “Margot, honey, I told you from day one this boy wasn’t it,” my father’s voice boomed through the receiver. “I don’t care that his family doesn’t have our kind of money. Your mother and I never cared about that. But the boy doesn’t even pay attention to you.” He sighed, the heavy, protective sigh of a father. “Look at that dinner we had. We order a massive seafood tower, and after six years together, he somehow doesn’t remember you’re allergic to shellfish?” “I’m glad you woke up,” he continued. “But the invitations are already out. The country club is booked. Do you maybe want to get a coffee with Elliot? You know, the son of the family friend we introduced you to?” “If it works, we just swap the groom. If it doesn’t, we call off the wedding later. His family has been asking about you for years, Margot.” I finally found a gap in his monologue. “Wait, Dad. What did you say his name was?” My dad perked up. “Elliot! You met him briefly at that gala. Oh, he’s a fantastic kid. Polite, smart.” “I took one look at him and loved him. Your mother adores him. If you ask me, you need a guy like that—someone who handles the home front while you take over the company…” “Dad,” I interrupted smoothly. “You don’t need to set up a coffee date. Just keep the reservations.” After all, I had just proposed to the man twenty minutes ago. I hung up the phone and turned around. Declan was blocking the hallway, his face a storm of anxiety and anger. “Why didn’t you talk to me before you quit your job?” he demanded. I met his gaze dead-on. “Why would I need to consult you about my career?” He rubbed his temples aggressively, like I was the one giving him a migraine. “Stop acting like this. Please. You know I can’t leave New York. I promised Michelle’s grandmother I’d look out for her, and she doesn’t have anyone else in the city…” “That sounds like your problem, Declan,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “You don’t need to explain it to me.” I walked past him, pushing open the heavy door to the private room. The volume hit me like a physical wave. The moment I stepped inside, a girl I vaguely remembered from AP Chem grabbed my arm. “Margot! Are you getting married?! We wouldn’t even know if Kevin hadn’t seen an invitation at his dad’s house! Were you just not going to invite us?” There was no point in dodging it. I hadn’t planned to, anyway. “We’re sending the invitations out in waves,” I lied effortlessly. “The high school batch is going out next week. The party is on the eighth of next month. I’d love it if you all came.” When Declan and I were doing the guest list, he had fought me tooth and nail to keep his name off the exterior envelopes, terrified Michelle might see one on a mutual friend’s fridge and get her feelings hurt. It worked out perfectly. I didn’t even have to order new stationery. Declan, who had followed me back into the room, let out a massive, shuddering breath of relief when he heard me say the date. He immediately went back to his seat next to Michelle. He tapped a few things into his phone, then devoted his entire existence to serving her dinner. Whenever a dish had chili flakes, he meticulously rinsed the meat in a glass of water before placing it gently on her plate. Michelle ate without looking up, entirely accustomed to being worshipped. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Thank God you’re not actually mad. I thought… Actually, quitting your job to focus on the wedding is a great idea. You’ve been so excited about the planning. Now you can handle the details yourself. Give me a couple of days to get Michelle settled with some things, and I’ll take you ring shopping. I didn’t care about the texts anymore. I swiped the notifications away without opening them. I was sitting next to Elliot, my entire focus zeroes in on the subtle shift in his posture. He was looking down at his phone. His dark eyes widened. He closed the app, opened it again, and stared at the screen, double-checking whatever message he’d just received. On the outside, I looked like a woman coolly sipping her water. Inside, I was vibrating with anxiety. Elliot had had a massive crush on me years ago. But back then, I was so blinded by Declan that I had rejected him outright. By the time I realized I should have been gentler about it, his eyes were already red, and he had walked away. And now here I was, years later, publicly cornering him into an engagement. What if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if he’s seeing someone? What if he’s still angry about how I treated him? A warm, dry hand slid across the table and covered my right hand. The frantic beating of my heart instantly leveled out. I stole a glance at him. Elliot was looking at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners with quiet amusement. It felt like every star in the night sky had been pulled down and poured into his gaze. So this was what it looked like when a man actually saw you. 4 “Alright, alright, the bride-to-be!” Kevin yelled, banging his beer glass on the table. “You hide a whole wedding from us? That’s a three-drink penalty, Margot!” I laughed, poured three small glasses of beer, and downed them back-to-back. “So who’s the mystery man?” the girl next to me asked, practically vibrating with gossip. “Do we know him?” I nodded calmly. “You do.” The entire room leaned in. “Is he here tonight?!” My phone was having a seizure on the table. Declan’s panic was radiating from across the room. Don’t say anything yet. Michelle isn’t emotionally prepared. Let me break it to her gently. I need time. Please don’t build your happiness on her trauma, okay? I looked down and saw Elliot watching me, a faint, supportive smile on his lips as I navigated the chaos. “He’s here,” I said softly. “Who?! Oh my god, wait, is it actually Elliot?” Elliot gave his head a microscopic shake. He didn’t want the spectacle. Before anyone could press further, Declan practically launched himself out of his chair. He waved his hands, forcing a strained, booming laugh. “Alright, let the girl eat! Stop interrogating her. You’ll embarrass the guy. Everyone will find out on the eighth anyway.” Kevin smirked. “Look at Dec, getting all defensive! Man, you and Michelle have been dancing around each other for years. It’s about time you gave her a ring, too!” A girl across the table sighed loudly. “Dec treats her like absolute royalty. I bet he already bought the ring and is just waiting for her to say yes.” Michelle lowered her head, a blush creeping up her neck as she took a delicate sip of her drink. For the first time all night, Declan didn’t have a witty comeback. He stayed dead silent, and the air in the room grew thick and uncomfortable. The news of the engagement meant people kept coming up to toast me. By the time the party finally broke up, the edges of my vision were delightfully blurred. Elliot had quietly sourced a glass of warm water and a hangover pill from somewhere. He stood over me, watching to make sure I swallowed it before heading out to pull his car around. On the other side of the room, a small commotion broke out around Michelle. “Michelle spilled a drink on her dress,” Declan’s deep voice carried over the chatter. “I need to get her home.” He stripped off his heavy wool trench coat and draped it over Michelle’s shoulders, cocooning her completely against the winter chill. The black car he’d ordered was already idling by the curb. He ushered Michelle into the backseat. As he turned back around to wave at the remaining crowd, I was already walking toward Elliot’s sleek SUV. We were driving through the night, straight down to North Carolina. Our families were waiting for us in the morning to finalize the shift in the wedding plans. I heard Kevin punch Declan in the shoulder. “Dude, Margot is literally getting married, and you didn’t even raise a glass to her tonight. You’re so obsessed with Michelle you don’t even see anyone else.” I didn’t turn around to see it, but I knew what Declan’s face looked like as he watched my retreating back. He shoved down the uneasy, twisting feeling in his gut and muttered his usual mantra. “It’s fine. We have the rest of our lives. I’ll make it up to her later.” I climbed into the passenger seat of Elliot’s car. The cabin was exactly the right temperature. The speakers were playing a low, acoustic playlist I loved. The air smelled faintly of cedar and clean laundry—a scent that instantly put my nervous system at ease. Everything felt as though it had been perfectly calibrated for me over a thousand lifetimes. I leaned my head against the leather seat and closed my eyes, letting the safety wash over me. There was no “later” for us, Declan.

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My wife, Madeline, told me I looked like I was drowning. She claimed the stress of the firm was eroding me, so she staged an intervention of sorts: a two-week paid sabbatical. She wanted me to take our daughter and fly across the Atlantic, to find some version of myself that wasn’t tethered to a desk. I was ecstatic. I spent the afternoon packing, humming to myself as I folded sundresses and tech gear, until I reached into the back of our shared closet to find a stray shoebox. Inside, tucked beneath old tax returns, was an envelope that looked too fresh to be a relic. The handwriting on the front was a jagged, familiar scrawl. “Madeline, it’s been seven years. I’m finally divorced. Would you still marry me? If you’re willing to give us another chance, I’ll be waiting at the bridal boutique on 5th and Main. The 19th. Please.” Today was the 19th. It explained why Madeline had skipped breakfast and practically bolted out the door this morning, mumbling something about a last-minute project and an all-day quarterly review. She wasn’t at the office. She was with Damian, the “one who got away”—the ghost of a man she’d spent the last seven years pretending to forget. I gripped the letter so hard the paper bit into my skin. I waited for the pain, for the sharp sting of betrayal to register physically, but there was only a hollow, ringing silence. Fine. If she believed her past was a better destination than her present, I wasn’t going to argue. But I was making a choice too. This trip wouldn’t be a vacation. Zoe and I weren’t coming back. … Dinner was cold by the time Madeline walked through the door. She looked exhausted, collapsing onto the sofa with a theatrical sigh. I played the part. I sat beside her, pulled her head onto my lap, and began kneading the tension out of her shoulders. She closed her eyes, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. “Luke,” she murmured, her voice like honey. “I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve you. I’m the luckiest woman alive.” I felt a sharp prick of irony. “You’ve said that a thousand times, Madeline.” “Because it’s true.” I stood up. “Stay there. I’ll go get Zoe for dinner.” As I moved to leave, she caught my hand. I looked down at her. She didn’t speak for a moment, just searched my face with an intensity that felt almost mourning. Then, she pulled me into a fierce, desperate hug. “Luke… two weeks is a long time. I’m going to miss you both so much it’ll ache.” “Then come with us,” I said, testing the water. She pulled back, her gaze flickering. “I can’t. The merger… it’s too much. I have to stay.” “Work is important, Madeline,” I said softly, “but don’t forget to breathe while we’re gone.” “I know. I will.” We sat down, but she barely touched her food. Within ten minutes, she was standing up again, grabbing her coat. “The team is waiting for me. I have to go back in. Finish eating, okay?” I followed her to the door, a plate in my hand, playing the doting husband one last time as I coaxed her to take a few bites of steak before she left. I watched her car pull out of the driveway, the red taillights disappearing into the dusk like fading embers. Later, while Zoe was finishing her homework, I went back to the closet. I found the letter again, reading it until the words blurred. My heart was a lead weight in my chest. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. “Hey,” she picked up on the third ring. Her voice was breathless. “Where are you?” I asked. “The office. Where else? It’s a madhouse here.” In the background, I heard a wet, soft sound—a muffled laugh, the unmistakable friction of skin on skin. “Shh, not now,” I heard her whisper, though she thought the phone was muffled. “Luke? Look, I’m right in the middle of a deck review. I have to go. It’s going to be a late one, so don’t wait up for me. Kiss Zoe for me. Bye.” The line went dead. I stared at the screen until my knuckles turned white. My intuition wasn’t just whispering anymore; it was screaming. At 1:00 AM, the ghost of a key turned in the lock. Madeline stumbled in, smelling of expensive bourbon and something sharper—a heavy, musky men’s cologne. Her hair was damp at the temples, plastered to her forehead by sweat, and as she reached up to adjust her collar, I saw it. A dark, plum-colored bruise on the side of her neck. She saw me sitting in the dark and flinched, the intoxication momentarily clearing from her eyes. “Luke? Why are you still up?” Usually, she’d fall into my arms the moment she got home. Tonight, she kept a careful three-foot perimeter between us, as if the air around her was contaminated. “Is it hot out?” I asked, my voice devoid of inflection. “You’re soaked.” “I… I had a few drinks with the partners after we finished,” she stammered. “I’m going to jump in the shower.” She started toward the bathroom, but I stepped into her path. A flash of pure panic crossed her face. “Madeline…” “Luke, please, I’m just tired—” “Give me your clothes. I’ll throw them in the wash for you so they’re ready for tomorrow.” “No!” she snapped, then softened her tone. “No, it’s fine. I’ll do it. Just go to sleep. I’ll be out in a minute.” She pushed past me, retreating into the bathroom like a soldier into a bunker. I heard the lock click. Then the deadbolt. The next morning, the atmosphere in the house felt brittle. I found Zoe standing in the hallway, her bottom lip trembling, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Hey, Peanut,” I knelt beside her. “What’s wrong?” She shook her head, refusing to look at me. It took five minutes of gentle coaxing before she finally cracked. “Dad… remember that bag Mom bought? The one with the designer’s signature on the leather?” I nodded. “The limited edition one. She told me it was your tenth birthday present.” “She took it when she left this morning.” “Where?” “She didn’t say. She just… she just took it.” My stomach turned. I pulled out my phone and called Madeline. “Where is Zoe’s bag?” I didn’t bother with a greeting. “What bag?” her voice sounded distracted, muffled by street noise. “The limited edition one. The birthday gift.” “Oh. That. You both misunderstood. That wasn’t for Zoe.” “You told her it was for her tenth birthday, Madeline. She’s been counting down the days.” “Look, I changed my mind. It was for a client. It’s too expensive for a ten-year-old anyway; I don’t want her growing up with that kind of entitlement. It’ll just make her difficult to manage later. If she wants a bag, take her to the mall and buy her something from the department store.” Her voice was cold, transactional. I hung up without saying another word. I walked Zoe into her room to find the “replacement” gift Madeline had mentioned. There, on her nightstand, sat a small velvet box. Inside was a delicate gold necklace with a tiny heart charm. I stared at it, a cold chill settling in my bones. Zoe had received this necklace two years ago. I had bought it for her eighth birthday. Madeline hadn’t even bothered to buy something new. She had scoured Zoe’s own jewelry box, found something she’d forgotten about, and re-gifted it to her own daughter as a distraction. Zoe started to cry in earnest then. I pulled her into my arms, holding her tight. “Forget the bag, okay? This afternoon, we’re going to the flagship store. You can pick out any bag you want. Anything in the store.” She sniffled, looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. I smiled for her, but inside, I was finished. Madeline was a stranger now. Ever since Damian had resurfaced, she hadn’t just checked out of our marriage; she had checked out of her motherhood. She had made her choice. A moment later, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to a contact I’d been ghosting for weeks. “I’m in. I accept the offer.” It wasn’t long before the reply came through. “Mr. Anderson, we are thrilled to have you. The terms remain the same: Head of Global Operations, London office. We’ll have the contracts ready for signing immediately.” I typed back: “I’ll be there in a few days. I’ll need help with a permanent residence. I’m bringing my daughter. We’re settling there for good.” “Consider it done. The firm will purchase the property under a corporate holding and deed it to you as a signing bonus. A fresh start for you and the little one. See you soon.” I spent the afternoon packing the last of our essentials. To keep my promise, I took Zoe to the luxury shopping district. We were walking toward the leather goods boutique when I saw a familiar silhouette through the glass. It was Damian. And he wasn’t alone. “Dad, look!” Zoe whispered, pointing. “That’s my bag!” Beside Damian stood a young girl, roughly Zoe’s age. Slung over her shoulder was the distinct, limited-edition bag Madeline had promised our daughter. “Luke. It’s been a long time.” Damian had noticed us. He turned, a smug, relaxed grin on his face, and began walking toward us, his daughter in tow. “Seven years, isn’t it?” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Close enough. I was abroad for the duration. Just got back a few days ago.” He reached out as if to ruffle Zoe’s hair. “And this must be little Zoe.” Zoe flinched away, letting out a sharp cry. “Ow! You pinched me!” I pulled her behind me, noticing a red mark blooming on her cheek. He hadn’t been trying to be friendly; he was marking territory. He hated me because I had lived the life he wanted for seven years. “Careful, Damian,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “Oh, she’s just sensitive,” he laughed off. He gestured to his own daughter. “This is my girl, Bella Madeline.” Bella Madeline. The name hit me like a physical blow. He wasn’t even being subtle. He wanted me to know that Madeline’s name—and her heart—belonged to his family tree now. “Funny,” I said, my jaw tight. “My wife’s name is Madeline.” “Is it? Small world.” He smirked. “We should catch up properly sometime. I’m just out with Bella today. A very dear ‘Auntie’ gave her this bag as a homecoming gift, and she insisted on coming out to buy a matching charm for it. She hasn’t taken it off since she got it.” I looked at the bag. “Must have been expensive.” “A few thousand, I hear. I don’t follow the trends, but hey… it’s the thought that counts, right? And she’s got a lot of ‘thought’ for my little girl.” “That’s my bag!” Zoe yelled, her voice cracking with the indignity of it all. “Don’t be a brat,” the girl, Bella, snapped back. She looked Zoe up and down with a sneer that was far too adult for her face. “My Auntie Madeline gave this to me. It’s worth more than your whole life. You couldn’t even afford the strap.” She was a mirror image of Damian’s arrogance. Zoe’s eyes filled with tears. She looked at me, her voice trembling. “Dad, Mom said that was for me. She promised.” “Honey, stop dreaming,” Bella mocked. “You’re not the type for labels. You’re more… Walmart.” Damian didn’t stop her. He stood there, looking at my daughter’s heartbreak with a sense of triumph. He let Bella flaunt the bag, pivoting it in the light so the gold signature caught the sun. “See this?” Bella continued. “One of these costs more than your dad makes in a month. If he sold you, he still couldn’t buy it back.” Damian finally offered a half-hearted cough. “Bella, play nice. She’s younger than you.” Bella rolled her eyes. “I’m not being mean, Dad. I’m being honest. She’s pathetic.” “Dad…” Zoe sobbed, clutching my hand. “Come on,” I said, my voice cold and hard. “We’re going inside.” I led Zoe into the boutique. Damian followed us in, seemingly intent on rubbing salt in the wound. Every time Zoe looked at a bag, Damian would signal a clerk. “We’ll take that one too. Wrap it up.” I watched him, my expression unreadable. He gave me a mock-apologetic shrug. “Sorry, Luke. I spoil her. Once she sets her sights on something, I can’t say no. You know how it is.” “Does a child really need twenty designer bags, Damian?” “Probably not. But she’s got a very generous benefactor paying the tab.” He pulled out his phone and hit a speed-dial. “Hey, babe. Bella and I are at the boutique on 3rd. We’ve picked out a few things. Why don’t you swing by and settle the bill?” Ten minutes later, Madeline came rushing through the door, breathless and glowing. “Just put it on my card,” she told the clerk before she even looked at the group. “Auntie Madeline!” Bella squealed, throwing herself into Madeline’s arms. Madeline picked her up, laughing, kissing her cheek with a warmth she hadn’t shown Zoe in months. “I gave you a bag this morning, you little rascal. Are you already shopping for more?” Bella pointed over Madeline’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to, but she was looking at the ones I wanted. I had to have them.” Madeline turned around, the smile still on her face. Then she saw us. She froze, the color draining from her skin until she looked like a marble statue.

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I was walking home from school, shoulder-to-shoulder with the girl I had grown up with, the girl I had loved for as long as I could remember. Then, a voice that wasn’t mine scraped against the inside of my skull. It was her voice, but she hadn’t opened her mouth. It was her inner thoughts. Did Noah bring an umbrella today? It’s pouring. Her mind was entirely occupied by the new transfer student—Noah, the incredibly handsome guy from the wrong side of the tracks. Before I could even process the shock, a sharper, far more vicious thought pierced my brain: If my family’s company didn’t desperately need the Crawford money, I wouldn’t spend another second pretending to tolerate Tim. Following me around every single day after school… it’s suffocating. So, that was what I amounted to in her eyes. A suffocating nuisance. I am Tim Crawford. 1 Hearing those words echo in my head, my entire body went rigid. I stopped dead in my tracks. Beside me, Camilla Scott kept her eyes cast downward, her jaw set in that familiar, aloof line. Her lips were firmly pressed together. She definitely hadn’t spoken aloud. Yet, her voice continued to detonate inside my mind. I heard Noah lives all the way out in the Heights. The roads flood so badly over there. God, I’m so worried about him. I just want to drive him home. Ugh, this is so annoying. If I could just find an excuse to ditch Tim… My feet felt like they were cast in concrete. A wave of profound bewilderment washed over me. Camilla lazily lifted her eyelids, shooting me a glance so devoid of warmth it felt like a physical blow. Having known her for over a decade, I was well aware of her icy, detached demeanor. She was never one for words, and I had long ago conditioned myself to accept the emotional scraps she threw my way. But right now, looking into her eyes, I saw something I had never allowed myself to see before: clear, unadulterated disgust. Suddenly, a timid, male voice echoed from the back door of the classroom building. “Camilla… my umbrella broke.” 2 I turned around on instinct. Noah was standing right behind us. His knuckles were white as he gripped a cheap, plaid umbrella. One of the metal ribs had snapped, dangling pathetically in the wind. “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t want to bother you guys, but I can’t afford to ruin my textbooks in the rain…” He trailed off, his gaze darting up to catch Camilla’s eye. The rims of his eyes were flushed red, brimming with a perfectly calibrated mix of anxiety and helplessness. He had only transferred to our prep school last week and barely spoke to anyone. For him to suddenly approach the coldest girl in school for help was… unexpected. Camilla was infamous for despising inconvenience. She was ruthless when she wanted to be. But this time, she paused. When she finally spoke, her cool, crisp voice cut through the sound of the rain. “Tim, I can’t walk home with you today.” “Since Noah lives so far out, I’m going to drop him off.” Her face was an impenetrable mask. If I hadn’t been listening to the live broadcast of her internal monologue, I would have honestly believed this was just a pragmatic, charitable decision. “And what about me?” I asked, a bitter, mocking edge bleeding into my tone. Camilla frowned. “Your driver is literally idling at the front gates, isn’t he?” “Just use Noah’s umbrella for the walk over. It’s a short distance. You’ll survive a few raindrops.” Without waiting for an answer, she snatched the broken umbrella from Noah’s hands and shoved it against my chest. 3 Seeing my silence, Noah’s face twisted into a mask of overwhelming guilt. He twisted the hem of his uniform sweater, his voice trembling. “No, I couldn’t possibly ask Tim to use a broken umbrella… I’ve imposed on you both too much.” “Let’s just forget it. I’ll just make a run for it.” He took a step back, pretending to brace himself for the storm, but Camilla immediately reached out, her fingers wrapping tightly around his forearm. She turned to me, her brow furrowed in silent warning, her lips drawn into a tight, displeased line. Then, her mind screamed into mine. Here we go again. Tim’s throwing another one of his little tantrums. I am so sick of this. He’s spent his whole life coasting on the Crawford name, thinking the universe revolves around him. Well, I’m done catering to his fragile ego. I like Noah. Does he really need me to spell it out for him? I can’t let Noah walk home in the rain… My lungs suddenly felt too small. Something fundamental and fragile was quietly shattering against my ribs. Before she could open her mouth to scold me, I took a deliberate step backward. “Go ahead,” I said. “Both of you.” I watched Camilla exhale a quiet breath of relief. She turned her body toward Noah, her voice softening to a murmur. “Give me your backpack, Noah.” Noah shot me a look—hesitant, almost apologetic—before nodding obediently and ducking under Camilla’s wide, designer umbrella. In a matter of seconds, their silhouettes melted into the heavy gray curtain of the rain. I looked down at my hands. Then, I tossed Noah’s broken umbrella onto the wet concrete and walked out into the storm. At the school gates, the headlights of the sleek black SUV cut through the gloom. Thomas, our longtime driver, froze for a second before hastily popping open a massive umbrella and jogging toward me. “Tim? Where’s Camilla? Why are you alone?” “Just drive, Thomas,” I said, sliding into the leather backseat. I leaned my head against the cool glass, my throat burning with a sudden, agonizing tightness. 4 When I walked through the front door, my mother’s face instantly fell into a mask of panic. She rushed over with a towel, aggressively drying my hair while she scolded me. “Tim Crawford, what on earth were you thinking? You’re drenched!” “Where is Camilla? Doesn’t she ride back with you every afternoon?” “Look at you, your lips are turning blue! If your father finds out about this while he’s closing that deal in London, he’ll charter a flight back tonight…” “Mom.” I lowered my eyes, cutting off her frantic rambling. My voice sounded raw. “I just want to go up to my room and sleep.” She stopped rubbing the towel, her gaze lingering on my pale face for a long, quiet moment. “Maria,” she called out to the housekeeper, turning toward the kitchen. “Boil some ginger tea, immediately. I’ll bring it up to him myself.” She didn’t press me for answers. I changed out of my ruined uniform and walked upstairs. When my bedroom door clicked shut, the silence of the house finally swallowed me whole. But my mind refused to quiet down. The scenes from the afternoon looped endlessly behind my eyes. I thought about the faint, genuine smile that had tugged at Camilla’s lips when she looked at Noah. I thought about the sheer exhaustion and irritation in her eyes when she looked at me. Sitting there in the fading light, the truth finally sank its claws into me. I wasn’t losing my mind. The voices I heard weren’t hallucinations. Camilla didn’t just tolerate me for the perks; she actively despised me. I had spent my entire life rationalizing her behavior, telling myself she was just built differently—that her coldness was a shield she used against everyone. It took a supernatural intervention for me to finally see the pathetic reality. She wasn’t incapable of warmth. She just didn’t want to waste it on me. The heavy silence of my room was shattered by my phone vibrating on the nightstand. The caller ID flashed in the dark: Camilla. 5 The moment I answered, her voice lashed out through the speaker. “Tim, what exactly did you tell your parents?” “It was pouring rain. I simply offered Noah a ride home. Did you really have to run crying to my father about it?” I could hear her breathing over the line—shallow, erratic, panicked. It was rare to see her lose her composure like this. “Camilla,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “Did you call just to interrogate me?” “Or did you genuinely believe that just because my parents didn’t make a fuss, your father wouldn’t find out what you did?” Dead silence on her end. Through the phone, my newfound ability to read her mind seemed to be offline. But I didn’t need a superpower to picture the venomous scowl twisting her perfect features. After a long agonizing minute, she spoke, her tone dripping with ice. “Could you not just cover for me this once?” “At the end of the day, you’re just throwing a tantrum. You purposely let—” I took a deep breath, letting the final thread of my childhood affection snap. “Camilla. Why the hell is it my responsibility to cover for your messes?” Whatever she was about to say died in her throat. 6 A dark, bitter laugh escaped me. “You think your dad heard it from me?” “Are you that naive? How many sets of eyes do you think your father has watching us every single day?” “He, better than anyone, knows exactly how many multi-million dollar contracts the Crawfords have handed to the Scotts to keep you afloat.” There was a muffled thud on the other end of the line, like she had slammed her fist against a desk. “Are you done?!” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Why?” I countered smoothly. “If I stop saying it out loud, does it stop being the truth?” For years, there were unspoken rules between us. Things I knew but never voiced to protect her pride. But silence is not ignorance. The Scotts were a sprawling, chaotic family with too many heirs and too little liquid cash. Camilla had once been the quietest, most overlooked daughter in the bunch. But the Crawfords were old money, deeply rooted in the city’s power structures for three generations, and I was the sole heir to the entire empire. My parents adored me, and by extension, they extended their gilded umbrella over my favorite childhood companion. Because of me, the Scott Corporation—which had flirted with bankruptcy more than once—was thrown lifelines. Debt forgiveness. Premium real estate developments. Exclusive supply chain contracts. Because I stood next to her, Camilla was suddenly viewed as the golden goose by her ruthless father. She went silent again, calculating her next move. When she finally spoke, the panic was gone, replaced by a suffocating, arrogant entitlement. “I’m not going to contact you for a while, Tim.” “Take some time to reflect on how you’re acting.” Before I could even formulate a response, the line went dead. 7 The cold war began. I knew she was waiting for me to crack. She was waiting for me to show up with an apology and a peace offering, just like I had after every minor argument we’d ever had since we were kids. Day three of the silent treatment. I was walking down the main hallway toward my AP Economics class when Noah suddenly collided with me. Before my brain could even register the impact, he was already sprawled out on the polished marble floor, clutching his ankle, his face contorted in exaggerated agony. The hallway traffic came to a halt. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto the spectacle. From the crowd, a sharp, furious voice rang out. “Tim, what the hell is wrong with you?!” I turned. Camilla was glaring at me, her eyes practically radiating disgust. On the floor, Noah bit his lower lip, forcing his voice into a trembling whisper. “It’s not Tim’s fault… I was just walking too fast.” He’s so sweet. Look at him, still trying to protect Tim even after what he did. I ignore him for three days, and his response is to physically bully Noah? He really is a spoiled, vindictive brat. Once I take over my father’s company, I am going to make Tim pay for this. The thoughts fired into my brain like a machine gun, loud and violently clear. 8 I casually scanned the circle of students watching us. My pulse was completely steady. “He walked into me,” I stated flatly. Camilla’s brow pinched in deep irritation. “Just stop. Why are you even lying?” “What, you think he threw himself on the floor and sprained his own ankle just to frame you?” She sneered the last word, dripping with condescension. I looked down at Noah, who was still wearing his mask of perfect victimhood. “Actually, yeah,” I said smoothly. “Because he knows there’s someone pathetic enough to come running like a dog off its leash to defend him, regardless of the facts.” A collective gasp sucked the air out of the hallway. Noah’s head snapped up, a single, perfectly timed tear tracking down his cheek. “Tim, I know you hate me, but how could you say something so degrading to Camilla? She was just trying to help…” Camilla’s fists clenched so hard her knuckles turned stark white. “Are you really going to push it this far, Tim?” “It’s obvious you haven’t learned a damn thing from this space I’ve given you—” “If you think I’m out of line,” I interrupted, my voice dropping an octave, “then you should probably sever ties with the Crawford family.” “I’ll make sure to let my parents know your stance when I get home. You might want to start prepping your PR team.” There it is again. Every time he throws a fit, he uses his family’s money to threaten me. Whatever. He’s bluffing. I’ll ice him out for a few more days, and he’ll come crawling back. When he finally calms down, I’m making him apologize to Noah on his knees. Her internal monologue laid out her delusional strategy bare. “Whatever. I don’t care,” she shot back, her voice dripping with ice. She leaned down, slipping an arm around Noah’s shoulders, hauling him to his feet. “Just hold onto me,” she murmured softly. “I’ll take you to the nurse.” Noah leaned heavily against her, the tear still wet on his cheek. But as they turned away, the corner of his mouth quirked up, and he shot me a look of triumphant, undisguised mockery. I didn’t even flinch. I just turned and walked into my classroom. 9 My father flew back from London that evening. Behind the heavy oak doors of his study, he loosened his silk tie and tossed a thick manila folder onto his mahogany desk. “Take a look. That’s the proposal from the Scotts.” “It’s the Eastside Development project. Robert Scott has been blowing up my phone for weeks, but I’ve been stalling.” “What do you think, Tim?” I knew exactly how my father felt about the Scott Corporation. Over the years, the Scotts had built their empire using the Crawfords’ blueprints, our capital, and our political connections. My father was a man of straightforward integrity; he had always loathed Robert Scott’s slimy, opportunistic business practices. The only reason he had tolerated them—the only reason he had poured millions into their sinking ships—was because he loved me. He saw how devoted I was to Camilla, and he had operated under the assumption that he was funding his future daughter-in-law’s inheritance. But judging by the cool detachment in his voice, he had already caught wind of the shifting tides at school. His patience with the Scotts had evaporated. I looked him dead in the eye. “Dad, I was stupid for a long time. But I’m awake now.” “Cut them off. We’re done doing business with the Scotts.” A slow, proud smile spread across his face. He pushed the heavy folder toward the edge of the desk. “Done. I’ll make the call.” “But I want you to remember something, Tim. You are a Crawford. You are the future of this empire.” “You don’t ever bow your head to anyone.” Looking at the fierce, unwavering loyalty in my father’s eyes, I gave a firm nod. 10 My dad didn’t reject their proposal outright. Instead, he employed a much crueler tactic: radio silence. He ignored every call, letting the Scotts drown in their own mounting panic. Back at school, I went to the administration and requested a seat transfer. As I was packing up my books, Camilla glanced up from her iPad. Finally moving. I can actually breathe. After what he did to Noah, I need to ice him out longer to teach him a lesson. But… what if he goes after Noah while I’m not around? Her concern was entirely misplaced. For the next few weeks, I completely erased Camilla from my orbit. I didn’t text her. I didn’t wait by her locker. I took the chauffeured car home alone. I gave her all the suffocating “space” she could ever want. She lived in blissful ignorance, genuinely convinced I was just throwing a prolonged tantrum. Meanwhile, her romance with Noah blossomed into a public spectacle. She tutored him in the library. She took detention with him when he was late. For Noah’s birthday, she gifted him a custom-engraved silver ring with their initials. At first, the whispers in the cafeteria were filled with pity and amusement directed at me. Everyone knew Camilla and I had been practically attached at the hip since childhood. The rumor of our inevitable arranged marriage was prep school lore. But when it became blatantly obvious that I was entirely unfazed—that I wasn’t plotting a comeback or brooding in the corner—the gossip died out. I was boring. I had moved on. This fragile ecosystem lasted for about half a month. Until Robert Scott finally hit a wall with his stalling investors, and turned the pressure on his daughter. 11 With the Eastside project in limbo and their invitations to Crawford galas politely declined, the Scott family’s cash flow was drying up. To make matters worse, a massive piece of commercial real estate they had mortgaged was bleeding them dry, waiting for an injection of Crawford capital that was never coming. Unable to hold out any longer, Robert Scott dragged Camilla to the Crawford estate. In our sprawling living room, Camilla sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her head bowed, her jaw locked. Her thoughts, however, were screaming. Three investors pulling out on the same day? Bullshit. The Crawfords absolutely orchestrated this behind the scenes. There is no way Tim has the guts to pull this off. It has to be his old man pulling the strings. They’re just bitter that I’m choosing Noah, and they’re using dirty financial warfare to force me to crawl back to Tim. I don’t get it. We’re the Scotts. We’re a massive corporation. Why does my father act like we’ll die without the Crawfords? I shouldn’t have to sell myself to Tim. Seeing Camilla’s stubborn silence, Mr. Scott leaned forward, offering a pristine folder to my father with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Richard, this is the revised proposal for the Eastside deal. We’ve restructured the profit-sharing entirely in your favor. Just let me know if there’s anything else you’d like adjusted—” My dad took the folder, didn’t even open it, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table with a heavy thwack. “Robert, since you came all the way out here, I’ll spare you the corporate dance.” “We are not funding this project. Furthermore, the Crawford Group will be systematically divesting from all current joint ventures with Scott Corp.” The blood drained from Robert Scott’s face, leaving him a sickly, translucent white. He scrambled to speak. “Richard, please. We’ve known each other for decades. We’re practically family! Why take it this far?” “I know you’re upset about the friction between the kids. That’s why I dragged this ungrateful daughter of mine here today.” He whirled around, his voice vibrating with sudden, explosive rage. “Apologize to Tim! Now!”

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I was just settling into bed, sliding my noise-canceling headphones on to drown out the world with some lo-fi beats, when the music cut out. Instead of the soothing piano, a high, saccharine giggle bled through the speakers. “I told you she was faking that strawberry allergy,” a girl’s voice whispered, thick with a performative shyness. “Did you hear her earlier? She wasn’t exactly holding back.” “I timed you guys, by the way,” a second voice chimed in—a different girl, playful and sharp. “Two hours and twenty-three minutes. Honestly, Mr. Shaw, I’m impressed. You’ve got stamina.” The words hit me like a physical blow. My eyes snapped open, the darkness of the bedroom suddenly feeling claustrophobic. My mind flashed to the kitchen trash can. Earlier this evening, I’d seen a discarded carton of organic strawberries—a premium brand we never buy. When I’d asked Beckett about it, he’d hesitated for a fraction of a second before pulling me into his arms. “One of the guys from the firm dropped it off after drinks,” he’d murmured against my neck. “You know how the junior associates are—always trying to kiss up with ‘thoughtful’ gifts they don’t realize will kill my girlfriend. I told them to take it back, but they insisted. I’ll toss it, babe. Don’t worry about it.” Then he’d kissed me. He’d kissed me until I stopped asking questions, until I felt guilty for even noticing. I’d told myself that the corporate world was just like that—boozy, boundary-crossing, and full of tasteless jokes. I didn’t want to be the “difficult” girlfriend. Now, the lie tasted like ash. The bathroom door creaked open. Beckett stepped out, steam clinging to his skin, a towel low on his hips. I watched him, my heart hammering against my ribs, and forced a jagged, cold smile. “Since you’re keeping a timer to spice things up,” I said, my voice eerily steady, “why don’t you just invite them over to ‘enjoy’ the show in person?” … The call disconnected with a sharp click. Beckett froze, seeing me staring him down. He let the towel slip slightly, a smug, practiced look in his eyes. “You want another round, Gwen?” “Doesn’t your little fan club get jealous?” I gestured toward my headphones, my smile widening into something bitter. “The Bluetooth auto-synced to your phone again. I caught the tail end of the commentary.” The blood drained from his face. He scrambled for his phone on the nightstand, his thumb swiping frantically. The silence in the room became deafening. I answered the question he was too afraid to ask. “I heard everything. I heard how she left the strawberries out on purpose to see if I’d react. And I heard her complimenting your… performance.” Beckett’s jaw tightened. The charming facade was cracking. “Making an intern buy your condoms is cheap, Beckett,” I spat. “At least have the decency to use your own credit card next time.” I turned to leave, but his hand clamped around my wrist. “She’s just an assistant, Gwen. She’s a kid. She has a big mouth and a dark sense of humor.” He was scrambling now, his voice dropping into that soothing tone he used for clients. “It’s not what you think. We had a department dinner, played a round of Truth or Dare, and I lost. I couldn’t exactly back out without looking like a stiff…” The chill in my chest deepened. He wasn’t even trying to give me a good lie. “Whatever. There are a few boxes left in the nightstand. Don’t let them go to waste.” “Gwen!” His grip tightened. “Are you really doing this? You can check my phone. I tell you everything. I give you a play-by-play of my entire day. You really have that little trust in me?” I looked at him—really looked at him. I saw the fine lines creeping around his eyes. We’d been together for seven years. Seven years since I’d quit my stable job back home to follow him to Seattle, to live on instant noodles in a cramped studio just so he could chase this version of himself. I remembered the way he looked when he promised he’d build us a life. We’d spent five years in the trenches together, and we’d finally made it. My friends told me to be careful—that men change when they finally get a taste of power. I thought he was the exception. Looking at this bedroom now, I realized I was just the rule. “I’m tired,” I said, pulling my arm away. “I’m going to sleep.” I went to the closet to grab a spare blanket, but when I pulled the door open, I stopped. All our crisp white linens were gone. In their place was a stack of blankets in a garish, neon lime green. I hate green. I’ve always insisted on white. Beckett has mild red-green color blindness; he never buys anything in those shades. “Spring is coming,” he said from behind me, his voice thin. “I thought the place needed some color. Something… lively.” I didn’t bother responding. I walked into the living room. The minimalist sanctuary I’d spent years curating was gone. There were plush stuffed animals on the sofa. Pink adhesive stars on the walls. Even my hand-woven rug had been replaced by a cheap, trendy cartoon-character mat. No wonder he’d covered my eyes when I walked in from my business trip earlier. He’d claimed it was a “surprise.” He hated clutter. He hated “cute.” My phone buzzed. An unknown number. “Hey, sorry! It’s Lexi, Mr. Shaw’s assistant. That call was just a stupid dare, totally didn’t mean anything. If I offended you, I’m so, so sorry!” A second message followed immediately. “Mr. Shaw and I spent three whole days redecorating the place while you were gone. He said the apartment felt cold and depressing, like a museum. Doesn’t it look so much brighter now? Please take the makeover as my apology gift! I just know you’re going to love it.” Beckett stood in the doorway, watching me read. “Lexi was just trying to help, Gwen. She’s a sweet girl. She apologized. Don’t be petty.” I dug my nails into my palms. My home—the one I’d built with my own hands while he worked eighty-hour weeks—had been gutted. And now, I was being told to be “the bigger person” in the face of a blatant territorial marking. I started grabbing things. The stuffed animals, the stars, the rug. I threw them all into a pile by the door. Beckett watched me, his expression shifting from guilt to a simmering, defensive rage. Finally, he grabbed his keys and slammed the door behind him. I packed my bags. I didn’t know how far they’d gone, but I knew I was done breathing this air. It tasted like rot. At 5:00 AM, Beckett returned. He was carrying a bag of fresh donuts and expensive coffee. “It’s pouring outside, Gwen. Where do you think you’re going?” He tried to take my suitcase, his voice casual, as if the last eight hours hadn’t happened. He set the donuts on the table. Back in the early days, this would have been a luxury. We used to share one cruller, laughing about how we’d eat steak every night once he made partner. Seeing him now, fumbling with the coffee cups, I felt a ghost of that old affection. But it was overshadowed by the realization that I didn’t recognize the man in front of me. “How long?” I asked, leaning against the back of a chair. He nearly choked on his coffee. “I told you, it was a dare! Lexi and I are strictly professional. How much more drama are you going to milk out of this?” “A month ago,” I said, my voice flat. “I found a pair of boxers in the laundry that aren’t yours. Then there were the DoorDash receipts for a pharmacy—ibuprofen and Midol delivered to your office, things you never take. And that air freshener in your car? Since when does a thirty-two-year-old man like the smell of ‘Sugar Sparkle’?” The room went silent. Beckett set his cup down with a deliberate thud. He stood up and stared at me for a long time. “You’re leaving because of… errands?” His voice was thick with disappointment. “The firm is full of Gen Z kids, Gwen. I felt old. I wanted to fit in. Is it a crime to want to feel relevant at my own company?” It was a pathetic excuse. “You need to stop hanging out with your sister,” he continued, his voice gaining strength as he shifted the blame. “She’s miserable in her own marriage, so she wants everyone else to be as paranoid as she is.” That did it. The heat flared up in my throat. “Leave my sister out of this! And have some goddamn dignity, Beckett!” “I am doing this for us!” he roared, finally snapping. “I work myself to the bone so I can provide for you! Do you have any idea how many women throw themselves at me? And I turn them down! Every single one! What more do you want? Do you want to drive me into their arms? Is that the goal?” A year ago, Beckett couldn’t even win an argument with me without blushing. Ever since Lexi joined the firm, he’d learned how to weaponize guilt. “Did Lexi teach you that line, too?” His flinch told me everything. “I am done talking about her! Everyone at the office loves her. She’s bright, she’s capable, and she has a hell of a lot more heart than you do right now!” He didn’t even notice the small, subconscious smirk playing on his lips. It was the same look he used to have when he introduced me to his friends. The front door opened. A shivering, soaking wet Lexi stood in the entryway. “Mr. Shaw… you forgot your jacket in my car.” So, there was a third person with the code to our apartment. My stomach turned. I started to laugh. It was a jagged, hysterical sound. Beckett looked at me, ashamed for a second, but his body moved before his brain could catch up. He rushed to her, draping a towel over her head. “Why did you come out in this? I could have picked it up later.” “I was just scared…” Lexi peeked at me from under the towel, her eyes wide and watery. “I was scared Gwen would misunderstand. I wanted to apologize again.” Beckett gave me a look. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I didn’t move. Lexi twisted her fingers together. “Gwen, honestly, Beckett and I are just friends…” I looked at the faint, purple mark on her neck she was trying—and failing—to hide with the towel. “Stop. I really don’t care about the logistics of your hookups. Since you brought breakfast, consider it my housewarming gift to the new couple.” I walked out to the sound of her sobbing and his hushed comforts. But the weather was brutal, and it was too early for an Uber to accept the fare. An hour later, Beckett came down to the lobby, supporting a trembling Lexi, who was now wearing one of my sweaters. When he saw me still standing there, he actually chuckled. “I thought you were so ‘done,’ Gwen. Turns out you’re just standing in the rain.” Lexi lunged toward me, grabbing my arm. “Gwen, please! It’s all my fault. Don’t leave because of me, I’ll go, I’ll quit…” I tried to shake her off. She went down like a sack of bricks, collapsing onto the marble floor. “Gwen!” Beckett screamed, rushing to her side. Lexi moaned, shaking her head. “I can’t get up… go to her, Beckett. I’m fine, really…” “I’m taking you to the ER,” Beckett said, lifting her into his arms without a backward glance. Three hours later, my phone rang. I thought maybe he’d realized she’d faked the fall. Maybe he was calling to see if I’d finally caught a ride. “You are unbelievable,” he barked the moment I picked up. “Lexi was trying to be kind, and you pushed her? Do you have any idea how hard she’s crying right now? You’re going to come down here and apologize to her.” “Or what, Beckett?” “Or you can see how far that ‘freelance’ income gets you on your own. You’ve had it too good for too long, Gwen. You’ve forgotten who actually pays for your life.” I hung up. He was the one who had forgotten. He’d forgotten the girl who worked two jobs to pay his bar exam fees. He’d forgotten the girl who believed in him when he was nothing. A week of silence followed. Then, a text from Beckett. “My parents are in town. We’re doing dinner at the Grill. You’re not going to blow them off, are you?” He sent the location. “Everyone knows we’re supposed to get married this year. Please, Gwen. Just stop the theatrics and show up.” I thought about my own parents, how proud they were of my “successful” fiancé. I thought about the messy divorces my friends were going through. I felt trapped. I dressed up. I did my makeup in a way that made me look younger—a desperate, subconscious attempt to compete. When I arrived at the restaurant, I could hear the laughter from the private room. I pushed the door open. Lexi was sitting right between Beckett and his mother, her mouth moving a mile a minute. I froze in the doorway. Lexi scrambled to her feet. “Gwen! I was shadowing Beckett for a client meeting today, and his parents were so sweet, they insisted I join. You don’t mind, do you?” Beckett’s mother smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Gwen is always so sensible. She knows you’re Beckett’s right hand. She wouldn’t dream of being petty.” If I caused a scene now, I was the villain. “Sit,” Beckett said, pulling out a chair. “We were just waiting for you.” The waiter brought a dessert platter. Lexi expertly picked up a chocolate truffle and fed it to Beckett. He’s always hated sweets, but he ate it without a word. Seeing my expression, Lexi chirped, “Oh, don’t mind us! Beckett’s been so stressed with the merger, he keeps skipping meals. I make sure he gets some sugar for energy during the day.” Beckett’s mother nodded approvingly. “A good assistant thinks of everything. Honestly, Beckett, she’s a treasure.” She glanced at me. “Some people are about to join this family and still haven’t learned how to take care of a household. Being an ‘illustrator’ is all well and good, but you can’t eat a drawing. You should take notes from Lexi on how to actually support my son.” She conveniently forgot the five years I spent bankrolling his life with my “drawings.” I looked at Beckett. He stayed silent. Maybe he agreed. Maybe he just wanted to punish me. “It’s fine, Mrs. Shaw,” Lexi said, her voice dripping with fake humility. “I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. You don’t have to worry about a thing.” She leaned in, her eyes sparkling. “You don’t mind, right, Gwen?” “Of course not,” I said, my voice hollow. Lexi beamed. She grabbed a water glass to toast me. “To the happy couple!” Predictably, her hand “slipped.” Half a glass of ice water splashed directly into my face. She jumped up, dabbing at me frantically with a napkin, smearing my mascara across my cheeks. “Oh my god, Gwen! Your skin is so clear without the makeup! We should take a selfie!” Before I could react, her phone was up. The flash blinded me. I knew what the photo looked like: me, disheveled and aging, next to her, glowing and youthful. I swiped the phone out of her hand. Beckett immediately pulled her toward him, scowling at me. He noticed the water had made my blouse transparent. He started to take off his blazer, but Lexi let out a tiny, theatrical sneeze. “I’m so cold,” she whispered. The blazer that was meant for me redirected to her shoulders. “Don’t start,” Beckett warned me. “Lexi has to travel with me for a conference tomorrow. She can’t get sick.” I stared at him. “Beckett, was the point of this dinner to show me how much your parents prefer your mistress?” Beckett’s face turned purple. “Gwen, enough! My parents are right here! Why are you always attacking her? She’s done nothing but try to be your friend!” Lexi started to sob. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll go…” I stood up. “No. You stay. I’m done.” I looked at Beckett’s parents. “The wedding is off.”

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In the seventh year of my marriage to Timothy Carmichael, the mahogany-paneled waiting room of my divorce attorney became my most frequented sanctuary. Thirty times in thirty days. The final time was the day Lexi—Timothy’s adopted sister—turned up pregnant by some nameless fling, and Timothy, without missing a beat, publicly claimed the child was his. When I demanded to know why he would do something so insanely destructive, he just rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a breath heavy with manufactured exhaustion. He told me Lexi’s biotech start-up was finally getting off the ground, and a scandal of an out-of-wedlock baby with a deadbeat would ruin her image with investors. “You’re a woman, Norma,” he had said, his eyes pleading for a grace he hadn’t earned. “Can’t you find it in you to just understand?” In that precise moment, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t threaten to call the lawyers like I had the twenty-nine times before. I simply reached into my bag, pulled out the pre-nuptial divorce agreement he had signed years ago as a grand romantic gesture of trust, and calmly, fluidly, signed my name at the bottom. Then, I walked out, dialed my former PI and current research partner, Simon, and told him my bags were packed. I was ready to join his research expedition in Iceland. Looking back, the first time I almost filed for divorce was when Lexi stole my lab data and patented my experimental results under her own name. Instead of defending me, Timothy hired a shark of a corporate lawyer to defend her. He had held me that night, kissing my hair, whispering that if Lexi got a criminal record, her life would be over, that he was just “protecting the family.” The second time was after my miscarriage. He left me bleeding and hollow in a sterile hospital bed to fly to Paris with Lexi because she was having a “severe depressive episode.” His excuse was always the same perfectly rehearsed script: she had relied on him since childhood. She was fragile. She was just a sister to him. Cancel the filing, Norma. Please. ………… 1 Simon’s voice crackled through the phone, thick with relief. “Norma, finally. A whole month of this madness, and you’ve finally woken up.” He paused, the protective edge returning to his tone. “Does Timothy know? Do you want me to handle him? This Iceland fellowship is a once-in-a-lifetime spot, it’s going to put your career back on the map—” “You don’t have to do that, Simon. I’ll handle him. Don’t worry.” I cut him off softly, my voice shockingly steady. Simon let out a heavy breath, muttered an affirmative, and hung up. A minute later, a first-class itinerary pinged into my inbox. Departure: three days from now. I stared at the boarding pass on my screen, then down at the fully executed divorce papers in my hand. A bitter, jagged laugh clawed its way up my throat. Would Timothy object? He wouldn’t even notice I was gone. People always talk about the seven-year itch, and for the longest time, I thought it was a suburban myth. Timothy and I had been the golden couple. We practically never fought. We existed in a bubble of effortless, breathless devotion. Until Lexi moved back from London a month ago. Then, the bubble violently burst. In thirty short days, I had threatened divorce thirty times. And Timothy’s reaction had morphed from desperate, patient coaxing into irritated, callous fatigue. “Lexi made a mistake. You want her to get rid of the baby and ruin her body?” “Where is your empathy, Norma? You’ve become so cold lately.” “If you’re going to keep threatening me with the lawyers, then just do it. I’m so damn tired.” Remembering the raw disdain etched into his features, a strange, weightless peace suddenly settled over my chest. The man standing before me today, bending over backward for Lexi, shared absolutely no resemblance with the man who had, without a second thought, donated his kidney to save my life. I had given him thirty chances. Thirty get-out-of-jail-free cards out of loyalty to the scar on my abdomen. He had burned through every single one. If the debt was paid, what was left to mourn? The soft click of the front door opening pulled me from my thoughts. Timothy walked into the kitchen, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and tobacco. He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face in my neck. His voice was gravelly. “I know Lexi was awful to you in the past. I know she bullied you. But she was just a dumb kid back then. It’s been years, Norma. You have to let it go.” He tightened his grip. “I sent her halfway across the world for you, against my parents’ dying wishes. Wasn’t that enough?” He turned me around to face him. “We didn’t fight for seven years. She’s been back for a month and you’ve dragged me to the brink of divorce thirty times. Aren’t you exhausted?” Exhausted. God, yes. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew those thirty threats were thirty desperate pleas for him to choose me. He could be ruthless to anyone in the world, except Lexi. But this time, the fight had bled entirely out of me. I gently placed my hands on his chest and pushed him away. My eyes dropped to his left hand. The pale indentation of his wedding band was visible, but the ring was gone. I smiled. Timothy froze, instinctively hiding his hand behind his back, panic flashing in his eyes. “Lexi’s depression is spiraling. She… she can’t process the reality that I’m married. I can’t trigger her right now.” He stammered, the words tumbling out too fast. “I usually wear it, Norma, I swear I do—” Before he could finish the lie, his phone erupted. A custom ringtone. Lexi’s. Timothy didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second. He answered it, and her shrill, theatrical sobbing immediately pierced the quiet of our kitchen. “Timothy! Everyone in my circle knows I’m pregnant! My reputation in the valley is completely destroyed, what am I going to do, please—” He stepped away from me, his voice dropping into a register of sickeningly sweet patience. “Hey, hey, breathe. I’m right here. Nobody is going to say a single bad word about you.” He paced toward the window. “I promised you, didn’t I? We’ll stage a wedding. I’ll publicly claim the baby. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?” The crying stopped instantly, replaced by a giddy, breathless squeal of victory. I picked up my purse to leave the kitchen, but Timothy reached out and caught my wrist. He hung up the phone, looking at me with an agonizing mix of guilt and defiance. “No one knows we’re legally married, Norma. Lexi is in a really dark place. I have to announce us as a couple to the press. My hands are tied.” Seven years of marriage. And the world thought I was just his long-term girlfriend. Why? Because his precious, fragile little sister living in London “wouldn’t be able to handle the shock.” “I exiled her for you,” he used to tell me, stroking my hair. “What if she hurts herself over there? Just give her time. I’ll announce you to the world eventually. I promise.” And I, utterly drunk on the illusion of our love, had stupidly agreed to remain a ghost in my own life. We hadn’t even had a wedding. I looked at the hand gripping my wrist, then up into his desperate eyes. I let my expression go completely slack. I nodded. “I understand. Go marry her. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.” Timothy went rigid. His hand dropped from my arm as he stared at me, thoroughly utterly bewildered. “You’re… you’re not going to fight me on this?” 2 I offered him a small, empty smile. I didn’t say a word. Timothy scowled, studying my face for a long, heavy minute. Frustration began to leak through his confusion. “Are you being sarcastic? Is this some passive-aggressive game?” he snapped. “I told you, I owe Lexi. I have to look out for her. Haven’t I treated you like a queen for the last seven years? What the hell are you still throwing a tantrum for—” His phone chimed again. A text. He glanced at the screen and immediately moved toward the door. He didn’t forget to toss a parting shot over his shoulder. “Throw whatever fit you want. Go file the damn papers if you’re so brave.” Watching his retreating back, the anger rolling off him in waves, I let out a dry chuckle. I wouldn’t be filing the papers. Because my lawyer had already finalized the paperwork and submitted it to the courts. It was done. A second later, my own phone buzzed. It was the manager of Le Bernardin. “Ms. Sullivan? You rented out the private dining room for your seventh anniversary tonight. I just wanted to confirm what time we should expect you?” I blinked. It hit me like a physical blow. Today was our anniversary. “I’m heading there now.” I drove through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan alone. For seven years, we had celebrated at this exact table. I figured I owed the ghost of our marriage a proper burial. Let it end where it began. Half an hour into my wait, a text from Timothy lit up my screen. “Just checking on Lexi’s vitals. I’ll be at the restaurant soon.” I replied with a single, simple “Okay.” I sat there, staring at the extravagant spread of food, letting my mind drift. In my memories, Timothy was a god who worshipped at my altar. He was the man who, when my kidneys failed and I tried to break up with him to spare him the burden, dragged me to the hospital and forced the doctors to test his blood. He was a match. He gave me a piece of his own body. I remember waking up from the surgery, high on painkillers, and seeing him weeping by my bedside—weeping harder than I was. “I will never let you go,” he had sworn, burying his wet face in my palm. “Even if it kills me, you are not leaving me. I gave you my kidney. We share a body now. I will love you until the day I die.” Because of that kidney, I had planned to tell him the truth tonight. To tell him I was leaving the country. To give him a proper goodbye. But the hours bled into the deep, dark quiet of midnight. My phone screen remained completely dark. After reheating the food for what felt like the thirtieth time, the waiter finally offered me a sympathetic, pitying look. “Ma’am, if I heat this again, it’s going to be completely ruined.” I snapped out of my trance. I picked up my silver fork and began putting the food into my mouth, bite by agonizing bite. It was delicious. It tasted exactly the way it did seven years ago. It was just a little salty. I wiped the tears that had leaked down to the corners of my mouth, swallowed the final bite of risotto, and set down the fork. My phone rang. Simon. His voice was tightly coiled with disbelief and rage. “What the hell is Timothy doing?!” I frowned. A news alert dropped down from the top of my screen. TECH BILLIONAIRE TIMOTHY CARMICHAEL BUYS OUT TIMES SQUARE TO PROPOSE TO PREGNANT FIANCÉE! I tapped the video. Every massive digital billboard in Times Square was glowing neon pink, spelling out Lexi’s name. Hundreds of drones swarmed the night sky, rearranging themselves into the words: SAY YES. It was a spectacle of biblical proportions. New York City was brought to a standstill. The internet was losing its collective mind, celebrating the fairytale ending of the brilliant CEO and his beloved. In the entire world, only Simon knew that the man proposing on those screens was legally my husband. I murmured a few calming words to Simon and hung up. Before I could even put the phone down, a waitress stormed into the private room and violently hurled a glass of ice water directly into my face. “You’re the bitch who framed his fiancée for stealing your research, aren’t you?!” she spat, trembling with righteous internet fury. “How dare you show your face here?!” I sat perfectly still, water dripping from my eyelashes, soaking into the silk of my dress. I looked down at my phone. The number one trending topic on Twitter was my name next to Lexi’s. The headline was painted in blinding, violent red: CARMICHAEL PUBLICLY CLEARS FIANCÉE’S NAME: REVEALS NORMA SULLIVAN WAS THE REAL THIEF BEHIND BIOTECH SCANDAL! 3 The internet had crowned Lexi the “Tragic Genius of the Biotech World.” A small crowd of waitstaff had gathered by the door, pointing at me, their faces twisted in disgust. I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend myself. I calmly took a napkin, dried my face, paid the exorbitant bill, and walked out into the biting night air. Timothy didn’t come home until the sky outside the penthouse windows was turning a bruised, pre-dawn purple. When he walked into the living room and saw me sitting rigidly on the velvet sofa, he flinched. “You… you’re still awake?” A second later, he hastily pulled a slightly crushed bouquet of red roses from behind his back. “Lexi threatened to hurt herself tonight. I couldn’t leave her. I had to break our plans, but see? I didn’t forget our anniversary.” I stared at the crumpled petals. A hollow, breathy laugh slipped out of me. “Are you giving me the leftover props from your Times Square proposal?” His expression instantly darkened. The guilt vanished, replaced by a defensive, volatile rage. He threw the flowers onto the glass coffee table, exasperated. “I brought you flowers, Norma. Can you stop being so damn cynical for one second?” He ran a hand through his messy hair. “You didn’t file the divorce papers today, which means you accepted the situation. So why are you still sulking?” He sneered. “I missed one dinner. Do you really need to give me this attitude?” Looking at this man, still desperately trying to gaslight me, I felt a bone-deep weariness. I couldn’t even summon the energy to play his games. “I saw the news.” I kept my voice flat, devoid of any emotional currency. “When you hired those corporate sharks to sue me on her behalf, you promised you would keep my name out of the press. You promised you would just win the patent for her and leave it at that.” I looked into his eyes. “I was stupid back then. I swallowed my pride. I took the hit to my career to protect your precious sister. But tonight? You doxed me to the entire world just to make her smile? You destroyed my life to crown her the rising star of the industry?” Timothy’s jaw ticked. He exhaled sharply, the fight draining out of him, and he sank into the armchair opposite me, rubbing his temples. “The press was hounding us, Norma. They were asking too many questions about the discrepancy in the patent timelines. I had to give them a name. Otherwise, they would have ripped Lexi apart. I had to protect her.” “And what about me?” The words broke past my lips, a fragile, trembling whisper. Timothy let out a heavy, suffering sigh. “Lexi’s last round of intensive therapy ends next month. Once she’s medically cleared, I’ll announce that we called off the engagement. I’ll tell the world about you. Is that what you want to hear?” The absolute condescension in his voice—the way he spoke as if he were tossing scraps to a starving dog—made me feel utterly, violently hollow. When I didn’t reply, Timothy took my silence as submission. He visibly relaxed, leaning forward to gently cover my cold hands with his warm ones. He hesitated, then spoke in a low, coaxing murmur. “The damage is already done, Norma.” He stroked my knuckles. “Listen to me. Lexi… she needs you to publicly confess to stealing her research.” I stopped breathing. “Don’t panic,” he rushed on. “I’ve already paid off the right people. You won’t see the inside of a courtroom. Lexi will sign a formal letter of forgiveness. You just need to stand in front of the cameras and admit it was you. I’ll handle the fallout.” “Just this once, Norma. Please.” The dam inside me finally shattered. I yanked my hands away from him, staring at him as if he were a monster wearing my husband’s skin. “You want me to plead guilty?!” My voice tore through the quiet room. “Timothy, you know exactly what I sacrificed for my research! You watched me bleed for those experiments for seven years! If I confess to academic theft, even if I don’t go to prison, I will be blacklisted globally! My entire life’s work… my dream… it’ll be dead! How could you even form those words in your mouth?!” The moment I raised my voice, Timothy’s face hardened into a mask of cruel, absolute authority. “Are you done?” he snapped, his eyes turning to ice. “I told you I’d keep you out of jail!” He stood up, towering over me, his chin tilted in an arrogant, mocking angle. “Don’t forget, Norma. You only have a life right now because I gave it to you.” The room fell deathly silent. Seven years. For seven years, whenever the guilt of the transplant gnawed at me, he would shush me. “I did it because I love you,” he used to whisper. “I don’t want anything in return except your heart.” And now, here he was. Cashing in his kidney. Trading an organ for a false confession to destroy my life. We stared at each other for a long, agonizing minute. The ghost of the boy who had loved me evaporated entirely. And then, I smiled. “Okay.” Timothy blinked, stunned. “After the press conference,” I said softly, “my debt to you is paid in full.” 4 The press conference was scheduled for the exact same day my flight left for Iceland. Timothy had rented out the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. Every major news outlet, biotech investor, and tech blogger in New York was practically vibrating with excitement, cameras poised like loaded weapons. “I’m getting the front page on this one,” a reporter muttered near me. “Defending the Carmichael empire’s new queen. We’ll get exclusive access for a year.” They were vampires, thrilled by the smell of blood. And I was the corpse. I sat alone in the shadows at the edge of the room, completely ignored. My phone buzzed in my lap. Simon. “Everything is in place. Trust me.” The suffocating weight on my chest suddenly vanished. I took a deep, steadying breath. The ballroom lights dimmed. Timothy walked out onto the stage, his arm wrapped protectively around a glowing, impossibly smug Lexi. He looked the picture of the triumphant, devoted hero. “Thank you all for being here today to witness justice for my beautiful fiancée,” Timothy spoke smoothly into the microphone. “I ask that the media show some restraint. Ms. Sullivan made a terrible, desperate mistake, driven by jealousy. But my fiancée is a woman of immense grace, and she has already drafted a formal letter of forgiveness.” Timothy’s gaze swept the room until it found me in the dark. A flicker of anxiety crossed his features. Was he worried I would go off script? Or was he, deep down in some buried, rotting part of his soul, actually worried about me? It didn’t matter. I truly didn’t care anymore. I stood up and walked down the center aisle. The blinding flash of a hundred cameras exploded in my face, threatening to induce a seizure. I climbed the steps to the podium. Lexi shot me a vicious, triumphant smirk, stepping aside to give me the mic. I looked out at the sea of flashing lights. I smiled. “It’s true. I did it.” The room erupted into furious typing and gasps. “I stole Ms. Carmichael’s research. I was desperate to become the rising star of the biotech world. I stand before you today to confess my crimes.” Timothy visibly exhaled, his shoulders dropping. He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “I’m sorry to put you through this, Norma. But don’t worry, you’re safe now—” The heavy oak doors of the ballroom slammed open with the force of a gunshot. A squad of uniformed NYPD officers and federal agents flooded the room. The chaotic chatter of the press died instantly. The silence was deafening. Timothy stepped forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture, his PR smile firmly in place. “Officers, there’s been a misunderstanding. My fiancée has signed a letter of forgiveness. We aren’t pressing charges against Ms. Sullivan—” The lead detective walked right past him. He stepped onto the stage, grabbed Lexi by the arm, and slapped a pair of steel handcuffs onto her wrists. The ballroom erupted. “What is going on?!” “Why are they arresting Lexi?!” “Isn’t Norma Sullivan the thief?!” I calmly reached into my pocket, pulled out a small remote, and pressed the button. The massive projector screen behind us flickered to life. An audio file began to play. The crystal-clear recording of Timothy’s voice from our living room echoed off the crystal chandeliers. “Lexi needs you to publicly confess to stealing her research… You only have a life right now because I gave it to you.” Timothy’s face drained of all color. Lexi looked like she was going to vomit. They stared at me, absolute horror violently contorting their features. “Norma, you lied to me—” Timothy choked out, stepping toward me. “I didn’t lie,” I replied, my voice carrying clearly through the mic. “You told me to confess, and I did. It’s just that the police are actually quite good at discerning the truth.” I turned on my heel and began to walk off the stage. Timothy lunged forward, grabbing my arm in a vice grip. His eyes were bloodshot, wild with panic. “How could you do this?! What’s going to happen to Lexi?!” he hissed, his voice breaking. “Sign a recantation! Tell them you forged the tape! I’ll pretend this never happened, I’ll forgive you—” I looked at his hand on my arm, then up at his frantic eyes. “Why don’t you ask the detective if Lexi ever actually signed that letter of forgiveness?” Timothy froze. He whipped his head around to look at Lexi, who was currently hyperventilating as an officer read her her Miranda rights. The lead detective stepped between me and Timothy, his face a mask of disgust. “Mr. Carmichael,” the detective said coldly. “Lexi Carmichael never drafted a letter of forgiveness. In fact, she called our precinct an hour ago, demanding we come here to arrest Ms. Sullivan live on television.” He paused, letting the weight of the betrayal sink in. “If Ms. Sullivan hadn’t preemptively handed over irrefutable proof of the framing, she would be the one in the back of my cruiser right now.” The detective signaled to another officer. “And as for you, Mr. Carmichael. You’re coming with us for conspiracy and witness tampering.” Timothy looked like he had been shot. “That’s impossible… Lexi, you didn’t sign it?!” He stumbled back, staring at the crying woman as if he had never seen her before. “You lied to me?! You were going to send Norma to federal prison?! How could you do that?!” I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the Greek tragedy unfold. I nodded politely to the detective, slipped out the side door, and walked out into the crisp New York morning. When I reached JFK and found Simon waiting by the VIP lounge, the tension finally snapped. I let out a long, shuddering breath. “Thank you, Simon.” He smiled, a warm, grounding expression, and gently ruffled my hair. “I told you I had you, Norma. I would never let them touch you.” The moment our plane lifted off the tarmac, the news alerts hit my phone. Denied bail. Federal indictment. Simon’s influence in the global scientific community was staggering; he had made sure the evidence was airtight and fast-tracked. This time, Timothy and I were truly, completely finished. The debt of my life, the weight of that kidney, had been brutally extracted and paid in full. From this second on, we owed each other nothing.

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At the family dinner, my stepsister Lexi couldn’t stop glowing. She had just announced her biggest “get” yet: she’d managed to hire Dante, the internet’s most coveted livestreamer, for her personal brand launch. I sat across from them, nursing a glass of Pinot Noir, watching the man I had spent nearly a million dollars supporting over the last three years. To his millions of fans, he was a god. To me, he was supposed to be a partner. But tonight, I was invisible. Dante was busy peeling shrimp for Lexi, his movements practiced and tender. He laughed as he shared “insider” tips on product selection, and even made a show of pouring a special artisanal herbal blend for my father, playing the part of the perfect, dutiful guest. He even went as far as adding our housekeeper on Snapchat, charming everyone in the room. Everyone except me. When I finally raised my glass, intending to offer a professional greeting, the warmth vanished from his face. He leaned in, turning his head so only I could hear his venom. “No amount of money can buy back your youth, Jade,” he whispered. “Stop trying.” Lexi smirked, pulling out her phone to show off her chat logs with him. There were photos of Dante—shirtless, wearing nothing but an apron—cooking dinner for her. She bragged that he had driven across the entire tri-state area just to deliver a home-cooked meal to her doorstep. “Jade, did you know?” Lexi asked, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Dante told me his top donor is some pathetic, middle-aged woman going through a mid-life crisis. He says she uses every order as an excuse to harass him. Just because she has a little cash, she thinks she owns him.” I felt a coldness settle in my chest. For three years, I had been his silent engine. I bought every product he endorsed, cleared his inventory, and pushed his metrics to the moon. Yet, he never once accepted my friend requests. His only communication was through the platform’s cold, automated system: “New drop live. Go buy.” Even at industry events, he looked through me like I was made of glass. I realized then that he wasn’t a cold person. He was just cold to me. I offered a thin, effortless smile and looked down at my phone. With a few taps, I pulled up the dashboard for the man who had been stuck in second place behind Dante for three years—a creator named Kit. I pushed him to the top of the featured homepage. Then, I sent a single message to a private group chat. Within seconds, three hundred major brand reps responded. The pivot was instantaneous. If Dante found me so embarrassing, I saw no reason to keep his throne warm. … After Lexi finished her little taunt, I didn’t bother replying. I kept my head down, typing into the group chat: Cancel Dante’s ten-million-dollar contract. Reallocate the budget. The chat went silent for three seconds. Then: Who’s the replacement? I scrolled through the platform until I found a familiar face. Kit. He’d been in the industry for a decade. For the first seven years, he and Dante had been neck-and-neck. Then, three years ago, Dante met me. Kit had spent the last three years being suffocated by Dante’s shadow—a shadow I had cast. I had met Kit once. It was at a gala where someone had accidentally spilled red wine down my dress. I had instinctively looked to Dante for help, but he had jerked his head away, pretending to be deep in conversation with a CEO. It was Kit who had stepped in. He politely asked if I needed assistance, led me to a private suite to change, and then stood guard outside the door for twenty minutes to ensure my privacy. That night, I rewarded him by fast-tracking a contract for him. When Dante found out, he blocked my number for two weeks. Thinking of that now, I typed: Give it to Kit. The chat exploded. Notifications blurred past, but I put the phone away. The dinner continued. Dante, who was always stoic and unreadable with me, was currently making my father roar with laughter. Lexi playfully tugged at his sleeve, and he caught her hand, giving her a look so full of adoration it turned my stomach. Lexi shot me a triumphant look. “I heard you and Dante were acquainted, Jade. Why are you so quiet?” Dante’s expression turned to stone. He didn’t even glance my way. “I don’t know her,” he said flatly. Three years. A million dollars. And I didn’t even warrant a “hello.” I said nothing, stood up, and walked to the restroom. When I came out, Dante was waiting in the hallway. His brow was furrowed in disgust. “If you continue to stalk me like this, I’m calling the police,” he snapped. I almost laughed. “This is my house, Dante.” “It’s Lexi’s house,” he countered, cutting me off. “She told me everything. How your mother stole another woman’s husband and occupied the position of ‘Mrs. Summer’ for twenty years. If she hadn’t died early, Lexi wouldn’t have even been allowed to reclaim her rightful name.” He stepped closer, his eyes threatening. “I’ll let it slide this time. But if there’s a next time…” He brushed past me, his pace quick, as if he were afraid my “desperation” might be contagious. I watched him go, offering no explanation. That evening, Dante posted a status: Saw someone I love today. Feeling great. Going live at 7 PM. I checked the time. It was 6:30. Usually, I’d be in the digital waiting room by now, ready to drop ninety-nine “Grand Finale” gifts to prime the algorithm for him. Dante would always act like he didn’t see the screen-filling effects, never saying a word of thanks. If I commented, he would intentionally reply to the person right above or below me, never me. My assistant sent a text: The deal with Kit is inked. He wants to add you to say thank you personally. I replied ‘Sure’ and went to sleep. A while later, someone started pounding on my bedroom door. Lexi’s voice was shrill. “Jade! What are you doing? Dante is live! Why aren’t you in there supporting him? If he gets angry, don’t come crying to me!” I pulled the door open. “Why should I support him? I don’t even know the man.” She choked on her next word, then sneered. “Fine. Be petty. But don’t regret it later. Dante has a high pride. If you offend him now, it’ll be more than a two-week block.” My heart sank—not for Dante, but at the realization. My history with Dante… she knew everything. When did they start conspiring together? Lexi isn’t blood-related to me or my father. Five years ago, after my mother passed, my father remarried. Lydia brought Lexi into our lives, changed her last name to Summer, and Lexi started playing the part of the “perfect, helpful daughter.” They had tried to wiggle into the family company multiple times, but my father never relented. They thought it was my father holding them back. They didn’t realize the company was founded by my mother, and her shares passed entirely to me. My father didn’t refuse them; he simply didn’t have the authority to say yes. Lexi must have been feeding Dante lies, making him believe the Summer empire belonged to her. I closed the door and checked my phone. I tried to enter Dante’s stream just to see the wreckage, only to find I was blocked again. This time, I didn’t send an apology. I blocked him back. Dante’s fan forums were already tagging me. “Where is the Queen Patron today? Is something wrong?” A familiar avatar popped up in the comments. It was Lexi. “We don’t need her. Let’s show him we can carry the room ourselves!” The fans tried to rally, but the energy was limp. When Dante finally ended his stream, the hashtag #DantesBust started trending. Without my massive opening donations, the major brands hadn’t bothered to show up. He was used to being the king, but he had neglected his community management. Now that I was gone, the house of cards was folding. His peak viewership wasn’t even hitting the numbers of a C-list influencer. While Dante’s fans were begging for my return, I was looking at a message from Kit. He had sent over an exhaustive list of brand partners. His 8 PM “Mega-Drop” was going live with discounts even lower than Dante’s best days. The internet caught fire. Everyone was speculating on who Kit’s new “Angel Investor” was. Meanwhile, Dante’s camp was silent. His team hadn’t even announced a lineup for the night. At 8:00 sharp, I entered Kit’s room and dropped gifts for ten minutes straight. Dante’s team officially canceled his broadcast for the night. I didn’t look back. I watched Kit’s numbers climb to an eye-watering 500,000 concurrent viewers. Kit was different from Dante. Dante used to sit there, bored, letting his assistants do the talking. If he got annoyed, he’d just walk off-camera, and his fans would call it “authentic.” Kit, however, was in the trenches. Before the stream, he had sent me a twenty-seven-thousand-word strategy brief, timed to the minute. The sales ticker started rolling. Thirty million. Fifty million. Eighty million. The moment it crossed a hundred million, the chat went feral. Kit’s eyes turned red. His voice trembled. “Thank you, Jade. Thank you so much…” Three hours later, the stream ended. He was the number one trending topic in the country. I exited the app only to find my DMs exploding. Dante’s fans had invaded. “You shameless bitch. You leave Dante to go hook up with another guy? Where’s your loyalty?” “You were Dante’s top fan. You owe him a handwritten apology on video, or we’re coming for you.” “Disgusting. How many times did you have to sleep with Kit for this?” Someone asked Dante for his take. He posted a brief, chilly response: “Some fans spend a little money and think they own the creator. Honestly, it’s terrifying.” That was the spark. The fans went rabid. “So that woman, Jade Summer, tried to force Dante into a relationship just because she bought some stuff?!” “Gross. She’s giving all women a bad name.” Within an hour, my photos were leaked. They were edited to look like funeral portraits, captioned with slurs like “Old Whore” and “Sugar Mommy.” My phone started ringing incessantly. “I heard your mom is dead. Good. She deserved to die for raising a snake like you!” I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. Despite the harassment, Dante said nothing. He watched the world burn my reputation and didn’t lift a finger. The last flicker of warmth I felt for him died right then. I wasn’t going to play nice anymore. Suddenly, Kit posted to his Twitter and Instagram. “Jade is my most important partner. Anyone who insults her insults me. My success belongs to her, and I won’t tolerate this harassment. If you want to talk shit, come for me.” His fanbase immediately clashed with Dante’s. My legal team already had the cease-and-desist orders ready. I retweeted them and shut off my phone. The moment I walked into the house, Lexi’s voice cut through the air. “Jade! Are you insane? You’re trying to make Dante jealous by doing this? You’ve lost it!” She practically shoved her phone into my face. “Who gave you permission to send Dante a legal threat? Do you have any idea what this does to his reputation?” “Withdraw it now. Publicly apologize to him. Say you were out of your mind and promise to triple your donations next time he goes live!” I didn’t hesitate. I slapped her hand away from my face. “Are you done telling me how to run my business?” A flash of pure hatred crossed Lexi’s face, but she shrank back. I went upstairs and checked the metrics. It had been a good night. Kit had gained 400,000 followers, and the engagement was off the charts. A Tier-1 luxury brand had already reached out—they wanted to host their new product launch exclusively in Kit’s studio. As the owner of the media firm, I scheduled a meeting for both parties to sign the contracts at my office the next morning. The next day, I arrived to find two uninvited guests in my lobby. Lexi smirked at me. “Jade, I brought Dante here. Just apologize to him. For my sake, he’ll forgive you, and we can put this ugly mess behind us.” Dante didn’t look at me. He was sipping a coffee, chin tilted up, waiting for me to come crawling over. I was exhausted by the delusion. Before I could speak, Lexi’s eyes snagged the folder in my hand. She snatched it. Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I see! You were playing the long game. Using Kit to create a buzz, just so you could hand this luxury contract to Dante as a ‘peace offering.’ Clever.” Dante’s expression softened. He took the contract and signed his name in a sweeping, arrogant scrawl before I could even process the theft. Then, he tossed the folder at my chest. He chuckled darkly. “I’m taking this contract because I’m the best, not because you gave it to me,” he said. “Don’t get it twisted. And don’t try this pathetic ‘jealousy’ stunt again. It’s beneath you.” I frowned. “That contract wasn’t for you.” Dante looked at me with pure condescension. “Jade, you got my attention. You won. But don’t push your luck.” Lexi chimed in, “Seriously, Jade, stop the act. You’re obsessed with him. You can’t breathe without Dante. If he actually walked away, you’d crumble. Just be grateful he’s giving you another chance.” I had once liked Dante. I had built him up because I admired his talent, and yes, his market value was high. But “couldn’t breathe”? Please. Dante stood up to leave. “I don’t need an apology from someone who doesn’t matter,” he said over his shoulder. Lexi shot me a smug look. “I’ll talk him down for you, Jade. He listens to me.” After they left, I called my legal team to void the signature and draft a fresh copy. As the broadcast time approached, Kit messaged me, sounding panicked. “Jade, I… am I supposed to be co-hosting the launch with Dante?” I went to Dante’s page. He had posted a promotional poster: Exclusive Luxury Launch. Tonight at 8 PM. I sighed and sent him a private message: That contract wasn’t for you. It’s a legal violation. Take the post down now. He didn’t reply privately. He screenshotted my message and posted it to his millions of followers, tagging me. “Just because I chose your sister over you, you’re trying to sabotage my career? You’re the daughter of a mistress, Jade. You owe Lexi everything. Have some dignity.” The internet exploded. “A mistress’s daughter? That explains everything.” “Spending the family’s money on a man who hates her. Pathetic.” Lexi followed up with a post of her own: “The past is the past. My mother and I just want peace. Please don’t dig into the family drama. Thank you for the love.” She attached a “family” photo: her, my father, and her mother. I was nowhere to be seen. The comments hailed her as a saint. Lexi called me, gloating. “Jade, you should probably go into hiding for a few days. People are looking for you. Dante is going to address everything tonight on his stream. Don’t watch—it’ll only hurt your feelings.” I hung up without a word. Shortly after, Kit’s official account announced the luxury pre-sale. The public was confused. “Who’s doing the drop? Kit or Dante?” “Are they co-streaming? No way, they’re rivals.” “Who actually signed the deal?” The brand’s official account settled it. They tagged Kit: “Thrilled to announce our exclusive partner for the new collection, @Kit. See you at 8 PM.” Then, a second post, tagging Dante: “Regarding the unauthorized use of our brand name for promotion: this is a formal notice of trademark infringement. Remove all related materials immediately or face legal action.” My phone began to vibrate violently. It was Dante. When I picked up, his voice was a low, vibrating growl of suppressed rage. “Jade Summer. Have you had enough yet?”

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When I opened my eyes again, the world was swimming in the harsh, fluorescent light of my high school hallway. My sister was laughing, her hand wrapped tightly around a boy’s wrist as she dragged him toward me to make the introduction. “This is the guy I picked out for you,” she said, her eyes glittering with a manic, almost eerie enthusiasm. Gia and I had always viewed love from opposite sides of a fault line. She believed romance was supposed to be a wildfire. To her, a relationship wasn’t real unless it was loud and destructive. In our previous life, for the sake of that blazing, chaotic love, she had endured abortions, threatened to throw herself off balconies, and watched her lovers take literal punches and hospital stints for her. Yet, when the smoke finally cleared, she was always left standing entirely alone. I, on the other hand, had always craved the quiet, steady hum of a slow-burning companionship. I had chosen a man who looked like solid ground. We built a life together, had children, and lived what the rest of the world saw as a picture-perfect, suburban dream. That is, until my deathbed. It was there, in the quiet sterile hum of the hospice room, that my husband shattered the illusion of my entire existence with a voice as cold as winter rain. He told me our life together had been suffocating. He told me he only married me to fulfill a promise he’d made to Gia. Every milestone, every quiet evening, every vow—it had all been orchestrated by my sister. He begged me to let him go in the next life. He begged for the chance to finally live for himself, to chase the intoxicating, reckless love he had actually wanted all along. The decades of mutual support, the quiet devotion I thought we shared—it was nothing but a calculated compromise. It was a lie, spun from Gia’s fingertips. 1. Gia and I were only a year apart in age. Because it was easier for my parents, they started me in kindergarten a year early so we could be in the same grade. Though we shared the same blood, Gia got all the light. She was a striking mosaic of our parents’ best features. I was just plain. My only redeeming quality was the quiet, sharp machinery of my brain. Gia pulled boys into her orbit like gravity. In elementary school, boys shoved each other into the dirt just to sit next to her at lunch. In middle school, I was practically a courier service for the love notes and pastries left at her locker. By high school, boys were literally doing her homework just for the chance to breathe the same air. I was just the unremarkable bookworm standing in her shadow, flanked by a small circle of equally invisible friends. Perhaps that was why our views on love fractured so violently. She needed the drama. She thrived on it. In the life before this one, Gia’s pursuit of that epic romance destroyed her. She ran through toxic boyfriends, terminated pregnancies, and let the stress and heartbreak physically hollow her out. By the time she was diagnosed with cancer in her early forties, she was a ghost of her former self. I remember visiting her in the oncology ward. The room smelled of bleach and wilting flowers. I asked her if she regretted it. Her face was gaunt, but she managed a weak, beautiful smile. “No regrets. I’d do it all exactly the same. My only heartbreak is that I didn’t leave him a child to remember me by. He sacrificed so much for me.” At the time, I had just shaken my head, unable to comprehend that level of romantic delusion. In that same past life, I had chosen the safe harbor. I chose Simon, a friend Gia had introduced me to when we were young. Simon was respectful. He was family-oriented. We raised two children and lived a life wrapped in beige, comfortable predictability. Until the very end. As I lay dying, my husband held my frail hand, and I leaned in to catch his final words to me. “Jo, my life has been so incredibly dull,” he whispered, his grip entirely devoid of warmth. “I did it all to keep my promise to your sister. I followed every script she wrote for me. Including you.” “In the next life, I want to chase real love. Even if it ruins me, at least I’ll know I’m alive. Jo… please, just let me go.” My dying body went rigid. I stared at the man sitting by my bed, the man I had shared a home, a bed, and a lifetime with, realizing I had never known him at all. What I thought was a quiet, happy life had been his prison sentence. It suddenly made agonizing sense. The lack of physical touch. The way conception felt like a clinical appointment rather than making love. The way he eventually moved into the guest room, citing my “light sleeping habits” as an excuse. We had no inside jokes, no sweeping romantic anniversaries, no late-night whispered confessions. We just had the grocery list and the mortgage. I had convinced myself that true marital happiness was found in that calm. I didn’t realize it was just the silence of a man who had never loved me. With a few whispered words, Simon erased my entire existence. And now, I was blinking against the harsh school lights, staring at Gia’s glowing face as she pulled a teenage Simon toward me. “Jo, this is Simon,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement. “He’s one of my best guys. Totally loyal.” She leaned in, her breath hot against my ear, and whispered, “He literally wrote all my AP English essays last semester. If it weren’t for him, that psycho teacher would have flunked me.” 2. The air trapped itself in my throat. I slowly lifted my gaze to meet Simon’s. Gia had literally told me from day one. She had handed me the truth on a silver platter: Simon was the obsessed boy who did her homework. In my past life, I had been naive enough to believe they were just “best guys.” Gia had always kept a strict, invisible boundary between her platonic male friends and her romantic targets, so I never questioned it. But watching him now, the truth was blinding. The way Simon looked at Gia—it was a burning, suffocating heat. It had always been there. I had been so terribly blind. I had wasted his life, and I had condemned myself to decades of a loveless marriage. When I didn’t say anything, Gia nudged me and looked at Simon. “Simon, this is Jo. My little sister. She’s a bit of an introvert, but she’s a total genius, just like you. Keep an eye out for her, yeah?” Simon gave me a polite, incredibly stiff nod. “Nice to meet you.” He was wearing thick, dark-rimmed glasses, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyebrows. He rarely smiled. Gia used to joke that he was just the male version of me. Now, I understood the brutal reality of the world. Like repels like; opposites attract. A man as quiet and brooding as Simon would only ever be drawn to a girl as blinding and chaotic as my sister. This time, I didn’t extend my hand. I just gave him a cool, detached look. “Hey.” He flinched slightly and immediately averted his eyes. In that microsecond, I knew. He remembered too. He had been reborn. Over the next few days, Gia constantly tried to push us together. At lunch, she dragged me into the cafeteria with her arm slung over my shoulder. Simon was already sitting at a table, three bowls of soup waiting. As I sat down, he and I simultaneously looked away from each other. Right there, over the plastic cafeteria table, I drew the line. “Gia,” I said, my voice steady. “I need to focus entirely on college apps. I don’t have time for dating or any of this setup nonsense.” Gia rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “Oh, come on. You’re really turning down Simon? If you keep your standards this high, you’re gonna end up a crazy cat lady.” “If romance is off the table, you guys can still be friends,” she pushed. I didn’t answer. I reached for my spoon, intent on just eating and getting out of there. But as I glanced down, I froze. Simon was meticulously using his chopsticks to pick every single piece of cilantro out of Gia’s bowl. He remembered that Gia hated the taste of cilantro. But he had completely forgotten that I was deathly allergic to it. My own bowl was full of it. Suddenly, the whole situation just felt deeply, profoundly pathetic. I set my spoon down. “Sorry. I have a quiz to study for. I’m going to the library.” As I stood up to leave, I caught sight of Gia throwing her arm around Simon’s neck, pulling him laughing against her shoulder. “Don’t mind Jo! She’s always like that. More food for us!” A week later, the school handed out the schedule request forms for our junior year. We had to declare our primary tracks—whether we were pushing toward STEM or Humanities. In my past life, Simon and Gia both chose the AP Humanities track. Gia chose it because she was terrible at math; Simon chose it just to stay close to Gia. Back then, I had desperately wanted to stay with them. I abandoned my top-tier rankings in physics and calculus and forced myself into AP Literature and History. At first, Simon would tutor both of us. But then Gia got caught up in a massive, school-wide scandal over a reckless romance, got suspended, and dropped out of the study group entirely. Immediately after, Simon told me he was “too busy” to tutor me anymore. Looking back, he was just mourning the loss of the girl he actually wanted. He had no reason to spend time with me without her there. I had spent my high school years destroying my sleep schedule, studying until 2 AM every night, just trying to keep up with him in classes I hated. Gia’s grades had tanked, and our parents eventually panicked and enrolled her in a private performing arts conservatory just to make sure she got into some kind of college. When the college acceptance letters arrived in that past life, Simon had finally asked me out. I was thrilled. When he found out Gia and I were moving to the same city for college, he immediately committed to my university, taking a different major just to be near us. This time, history was trying to repeat itself. Gia dragged Simon to my locker during passing period. “Jo! What track are you picking?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the white-out on Simon’s form. He had originally checked the STEM boxes, but he had erased them to check Humanities. This time, I didn’t even blink. “STEM,” I said. “All AP Sciences.” 3. A memory surfaced from my past life. I was sitting in my mother-in-law’s kitchen. She was laughing, telling me how shocked they were when Simon chose the Humanities track in high school. He had always been brilliant at math, and they wanted him to go into engineering or finance. He wasn’t naturally gifted at writing or history. He had to bleed over his textbooks to get the grades needed for a good university. His parents only gave in when he promised he would go to law school and pass the bar. His mother had smiled at me over her teacup, her tone teasing. “You know, looking back, I bet the only reason that stubborn boy forced himself through those writing classes was because of you, Jo.” Gia had been sitting at the table with us, immediately chiming in. “Right? Simon was playing the long game! He’s been in love with our Jo since we were kids. What a romantic.” Simon had turned crimson and snapped at his mother to drop it. I had blushed furiously, staring down at my lap, assuming he was just shy. Now, the memory made me sick to my stomach. He wasn’t blushing out of shyness. He was terrified Gia would realize the truth. He snapped at his mother to protect his secret obsession. The signs had been there, painted on the walls of my entire life, and I had simply chosen to paint over them. “Aw, that sucks!” Gia whined, pulling me out of the memory. “Simon and I are doing the Humanities track. We won’t have any classes together.” I glanced at Simon, keeping my tone entirely conversational. “It’s fine. We weren’t in the same classes before anyway. I’m not going to sabotage my college prospects just to hang out with you guys.” Gia opened her mouth to argue, but a voice called out from down the hall. It was a senior boy. Damon. The man who, in my past life, would become Gia’s deeply toxic, on-again-off-again obsession for the next twenty years. As Gia ran off toward Damon, I watched Simon’s eyes darken. The mask slipped for a second, revealing a raw, ugly jealousy before he turned and walked away. That afternoon, I went to fill my water bottle at the fountains near the gym. Simon was waiting for me. He stepped into my path, effectively cornering me. “Jo, we need to talk. Come here.” I raised an eyebrow. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.” He grabbed my arm, pulling me into an empty classroom, and shut the door. He didn’t waste time. “I know you remember too,” he said, his voice low. “But you don’t need to push me away like this.” I stared at him, genuinely baffled by his audacity. “What do you expect me to do? If you’re in love with my sister, then grow a spine and pursue her. Stay away from me.” I turned for the door, but he lunged, slamming his hand against the wood by my head, trapping me. “Yes, the woman I love is Gia,” he said, his breathing shallow. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. We lived together for decades. We had children together, Jo. We’re family.” “Just take the Humanities track. We can all be in the same classes. I can look out for both of you. If you go into the upper-level math and physics classes, you’re going to be surrounded by guys, and I won’t be able to keep an eye on you.”

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The moment I stood on the edge of the rooftop, ready to let the wind take me, a ledger crystallized in my mind. Cold. Precise. Irrefutable. It whispered a truth I hadn’t been able to see: I was nothing more than a “disposable muse”—the tragic, short-lived “pure heart” in some twisted redemption arc. And my boyfriend, Grayson? He wasn’t the struggling student he pretended to be. He was the crown prince of a Manhattan real estate empire, a man who could buy and sell the very building I was standing on. For four years, he had played the role of the starving artist, watching me get bullied and overworked with a detached, chilling silence. As it turned out, my suffering was merely his “test.” The most sickening part? According to the script of his life, after my death, he would reclaim his throne and unleash a wave of “vengeful” grief. He’d probably light a hundred-dollar bill at my grave, sighing about how I was the only girl who ever loved him for his soul and not his billions. But the reality? For those four years, I was his benefactor. He ate, slept, and breathed on my dime. Even that five-figure designer watch on his wrist was something I’d bought by maxing out three different credit cards. I didn’t jump. I stepped back from the ledge. I walked down those stairs, found him in the middle of the crowded quad, and slammed a stack of itemized bills—years of accumulated debt—right into his face. “Hey, Grayson. It’s time to settle up. Fifty thousand dollars. I want every cent.” 01 The spreadsheets, crisp and cold, fluttered against his face before hitting the pavement. Grayson’s expression darkened instantly. “Nina, haven’t you had enough of this tantrum?” He reached out to grab my wrist, but I wrenched it away with a force that surprised even me. My skin burned where he’d touched it. “Nina, honey, don’t be like this. If it’s about money, we can talk,” Isabelle stepped forward, her hand sliding possessively into the crook of Grayson’s arm. She looked at me with that pitying, “bless your heart” smile she always used for the help. “Grayson didn’t mean to hurt you.” I laughed. My eyes landed on the limited-edition jacket she was wearing. Grayson had told me it was a birthday gift for her. A “high-end knockoff,” he’d called it. Coincidentally, he’d taken five thousand dollars from me last month. Claimed it was a “family emergency.” “That jacket he bought you last month? I’m pretty sure I paid for that too,” I said, my voice cutting through the humid afternoon air. “Tell him to pay me back for that, as well.” The smile on Isabelle’s face cracked, piece by piece. “What are you talking about?” “Nina, you’ve lost it!” one of Grayson’s hangers-on shouted, stepping into my personal space. “You think a guy like Grayson needs your money?” “Exactly! You got dumped, so now you’re throwing dirt? It’s pathetic,” another chimed in. They circled me like vultures, their faces full of righteous indignation. To them, I was the gold-digger. The jealous ex. The girl who couldn’t handle being told no. I turned to the first one. “Caleb.” “Last week, you bought that new gaming rig. You asked Grayson for five hundred. He told you he was broke and took my card to pay for it.” I pivoted to the next one. “Brooks. Two nights ago at The Onyx. You put a two-thousand-dollar tab on a card Grayson said was his. Want me to pull up the bank statement for the group?” The quad went silent. Only the rustle of the wind and the hushed whispers of the gathering crowd remained. Grayson stared at me, his eyes twin pits of ice. “Nina, four years of everything we shared… and all you see is money?” What a performance. If it weren’t for that ledger burning in my brain, I might have actually believed him. “Yes,” I replied. “Our ‘love’ has a price tag now.” I pulled out my phone, opened the calculator app, and shoved the staggering total in his face. “Fifty thousand. Not a penny less. Venmo? Zelle? Or do you need to ask your daddy for an advance?” The murmurs grew louder. Dozens of phones were out, lenses trained on us. “Holy shit, check the school’s Sidechat!” “It’s going viral! The architecture prodigy has been ‘charity-funding’ the secret billionaire heir for four years?” “Billionaire? Which one?” Just then, a black Maybach glided silently to the curb. The door opened, and a middle-aged man in a sharp charcoal suit and white gloves stepped out. He ignored everyone, walked straight to Grayson, and opened a black silk umbrella over his head. He bowed slightly. “Mr. Grayson, your father expects you home.” Grayson straightened his collar, smoothing out the wrinkles where I’d grabbed him. He looked at me, and for a second, the mask of the “struggling artist” was gone. “Nina,” he said, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. “The game is over.” 02 Back in the dorm, I couldn’t stop shaking. “Nina!” Paige jumped down from her loft bed and threw her arms around me. “That was legendary! I’m staying up all night to help you draft the legal notice.” We started organizing the folder. It was a museum of his lies. October 2020: Designer sneakers, $1,200. March 2021: Isabelle’s birthday party at ‘The Onyx,’ $4,500. September 2021: Art gallery rental fees, $8,000. My phone lit up. Grayson. [You have twenty-four hours to take down those posts on the forum, or there will be consequences. Don’t test me.] I screenshotted it and sent it to Paige. “Perfect. Direct evidence of a threat. He’s just adding time to his own sentence.” Paige told me to block his entire circle. I was about to, but Isabelle’s name flashed on the screen. I hit speakerphone. “Nina, please…” her voice was weak, trembling with fake tears. “Just delete the post, okay? Grayson loves you. This was just… a test. He was going to propose after graduation. He already had the ring picked out…” I almost choked on a laugh. Paige was typing furiously, but she didn’t miss a beat. “Isabelle, are you paying the fifty grand? No? Then shut up and hang up.” “I’m trying to help Nina!” Isabelle’s voice spiked. “You have no idea what his family is capable of. Nina is going to get hurt! You can’t win against them. Is the money really worth ruining your life?” Before I could answer, a notification popped up from an anonymous group chat on the university forum. It was a leak of the group chat Grayson’s friends used. Brooks: [Holy shit, Nina is actually going nuclear? Crazy bitch.] Caleb: [She really thinks she’s special? Grayson was just slumming it. She’s just a broke architecture student with no connections.] Brooks: [For real. Grayson letting her hang around for four years was charity. Now she wants a payout? Hilarious.] And then, a reply from Isabelle. A “shy” emoji followed by: [Aww, don’t be mean guys. Nina is actually kind of pitiful.] I remembered the night of Grayson’s gallery opening. Isabelle was wearing a gown I’d paid for, smiling at him while they toasted his “genius.” I was in the corner, sallow-faced from pulling double shifts at the cafe, getting mocked by his friends for my “cheap” clothes. Grayson hadn’t defended me. He’d told me to go back to the dorm early so I wouldn’t “embarrass” him. “Nina?” Paige broke my trance. I hung up on Isabelle. I found Grayson’s contact. Block. Delete. One by one, I scrubbed his friends from my life. Ding. A message from an unknown number. [Ms. Nina, I am Grayson’s mother. Regarding the… misunderstandings between you and my son, I believe we should talk. Name your price. Fifty thousand? I’ll give you seventy-five to end this. Delete the posts and disappear.] I stared at the screen for a long time. I handed it to Paige. She read it and let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Nina, the accounting has just begun. Don’t worry. With me on your side, we’re going to discuss the interest on this debt.” 03 The next morning, my advisor called me into her office. She pushed a cup of lukewarm tea toward me. “Nina, your recent behavior has been… erratic. People are concerned about your mental state. Perhaps you should take a leave of absence? Just to get your head straight?” I started to speak, but a knock at the door cut me off. Isabelle walked in, carrying an expensive-looking fruit basket. “Professor, I just wanted to check on Nina. She’s been so volatile lately. I’m worried she might do something desperate.” She turned to me, eyes brimming with tears. “Nina, I know you’re hurting, but you can’t keep lashing out at Grayson like this. Just delete the post. We’ll find a way to handle the money, I promise.” The advisor nodded in agreement. They were playing “good cop, bad cop” with practiced ease. When I refused to budge, the advisor’s tone shifted from “concerned” to “impatient.” Every time I tried to argue, they talked over me. So this was what Grayson’s mother meant by “ending this.” Seventy-five thousand dollars to buy my silence, my exit, and a “mentally unstable” label to follow me for life. Suddenly, the office door was shoved open with a loud bang. Paige stood there, followed by a very grim-looking Dean of Students. She slammed her phone onto the desk. Grayson’s text was on the screen: [You have twenty-four hours… or there will be consequences.] Paige tapped the screen again. An audio file began to play. It was Isabelle’s voice from the group chat: “Aww, don’t be mean guys. Nina is actually kind of pitiful.” Then, a different recording. A private voice note: “It’s disgusting how broke she looks. Did she really think Grayson liked her? She’s just a walking ATM. My mom already talked to the advisor—she’s getting kicked out today. Who does she think she is, trying to take down a family like ours?” The fruit basket slipped from Isabelle’s hand, apples and oranges rolling across the floor. The advisor froze, her lips trembling, unable to find a single word. Paige tucked her phone away. “The evidence we’ve gathered is enough to prove that my client, Nina, is being subjected to premeditated, organized harassment and psychological coercion. And considering your role in this, Professor, we’ll be reserving the right to pursue legal action against you personally.” For the first time, I felt the true power of using the rules as a weapon. As we left the office, the Dean called out to me. He looked at Paige, then at me, his expression complicated. “The Grayson family… they have deep roots in this city, Nina. This isn’t going to end easily.” 04 Within ten minutes of leaving the office, the university forum had a new pinned post in bright red. EXPOSED: Architecture Student Nina Accused of Extorting Ex-Boyfriend for $50k After Being Dumped! The post was a work of fiction. It painted me as a calculating social climber who had drained Grayson’s “modest” savings and was now lashing out because he couldn’t satisfy my greed. It framed Grayson as the victim—a guy blinded by love, who gave me everything only to be betrayed. The comments were a cesspool. [I knew it. Grayson is way too hot for her. He was definitely doing her a favor.] [Fifty thousand? Who does she think she is? A Kardashian?] [This girl is toxic. Cancel her.] Paige grabbed my phone, her face a mask of cold fury as she scrolled. Isabelle’s “mean girls” squad had joined the fray. They posted photos of me from freshman and sophomore year—wearing faded T-shirts, eating ramen in the library, pulling all-nighters in the studio with messy hair. I looked plain. Tired. Average. The caption: [Some people have been planning the ‘victim’ act since day one. Look at the ‘innocent’ act. The real Nina is the one screaming for cash now.] Paige handed the phone back. “It’s time.” She logged into my account and hit ‘post.’ Subject: Four Years, Fifty Thousand Dollars. The Ledger of a ‘Charity Case.’ The post contained a single, massive image: an Excel spreadsheet. It was an endless, meticulously detailed scroll. Date. Item. Amount. Payment Method. Notes. From fifty-dollar skins for his video games to five-hundred-dollar “boys’ dinners” to thousand-dollar tech upgrades. And behind every single entry was a screenshot of a text message. Grayson begging, wheedling, or simply demanding. The evidence of my “sweet burden” was now the evidence of his parasitic nature. At the very bottom was the watch. $12,000. Next to it was the credit card statement, and the subsequent “overdue” notices from the bank. The forum went dead silent for three seconds. Then, it exploded. The narrative didn’t just shift; it was obliterated. [Holy… my eyes… This isn’t charity. This is a scam.] [Four years? He sucked her dry.] [I take it back. Nina isn’t an ex; she’s a saint. Most tragic partner of the year.] [I’m gonna puke. Isabelle is wearing gifts bought with another girl’s credit card debt?] I watched the comments roll in, and for the first time in years, I felt a strange, hollow peace. 05 Apologies and messages of support flooded my DMs. I felt like I could finally see the light. Until a high-pitched roar of an Aston Martin engine tore through the quiet of the dorm parking lot. The light died. Grayson stepped out of the car. He was wearing a bespoke suit, looking every bit the billionaire heir—a world away from the guy in the “thrifted” tees I’d loved. The crowd of students parted for him like the Red Sea. He walked up to me, pulled a black card from his wallet, and tossed it at my feet. “A hundred thousand. Is that enough?” He looked down at me as if I were an ant he’d accidentally stepped on. “Nina, stop embarrassing yourself.” I smiled. My phone was already recording, the red light blinking silently. “So, the last four years… it was all an act?” His handsome face finally showed something other than boredom: annoyance. “It was a test, Nina. One you failed.” “I was too good to you. I let you forget your place. I gave you a thousand chances. If you’d just stayed quiet, stayed humble, we could have actually made it.” “I even thought that if you passed the final test, I’d tell you everything. I’d bring you to the estate. I’d let you marry into the family.” He spoke as if he were granting me a divine blessing. The crowd began to whisper. The eyes that had just pitied me were now filled with a sickening envy. “A test?” I repeated, stepping forward until my shoe touched the black card. “When I stayed up all night drawing blueprints so I could split my scholarship money with you, was that a test?” “When I worked three jobs to buy you that phone and my hands were literally peeling from the industrial soap in the kitchen, was that a test?” “When I was eating plain bread for a week because my card was maxed out, and you were taking Isabelle to a two-hundred-dollar-a-seat musical using my money—was that a test too?” With every question, his face grew more twisted. He had no answer. His patience snapped. He waved a hand dismissively. “Enough! Nina, stop obsessing over these petty details! It was a game. You lost.” I tucked my phone away and turned my back on him. I didn’t look back. I sent the video to Paige. Five minutes later, the hashtag #TrustFundPrinceTestsGirlfriend hit the top of the trending charts.

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The engagement party had finally begun to wind down, the heavy scent of lilies and expensive perfume hanging in the stagnant air of the ballroom. We had just taken our seats at the head table—my family, the man I was supposed to spend my life with, and his parents. Then, he did it. Without a word, he reached for a plate in the center of the table and grabbed one of the signature honey-glazed wings—the Whitaker family’s pride, a recipe that had built our restaurant empire. He started eating it. Not just eating it, but devouring it with a feral, mindless speed that made my stomach turn. I froze, a chill crawling up my spine. “Oliver,” I whispered, my voice tight. “Why are you eating the wings?” He didn’t even look up, wiping a smear of glaze from his chin with the back of his hand. He sounded bored, dismissive. “They’re just wings, Norah. My family eats what we want. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. The noise of the ballroom—the clinking of crystal, the polite laughter of three hundred guests—faded into a dull hum. I felt a sudden, terrifying clarity. “The engagement is off,” I said, my voice ringing out across the table. “Right now.” … The man I knew as Oliver Donovan froze. The half-eaten wing hovered in mid-air, a gruesome little trophy. He blinked, finally sensing the shift in the atmosphere. He dropped the wing back onto the fine china and shifted into that persona he’d used since we were kids—the one that always worked. “Norah, honey, come on. I’ve been up since five this morning. I’m starving. Is this some weird Whitaker family tradition I missed? You never told me I had to ask permission to eat an appetizer.” I didn’t answer immediately. I looked down at the mangled piece of poultry on his plate, then back up at him. I was looking for a ghost. “Why,” I asked, my voice eerily calm, “did you choose to eat that?” He laughed, a nervous, jagged sound, and reached for my arm. I flinched away. “I told you! I’m hungry. It’s just a wing! Is there a law against it?” I pulled my hand back and rested it in my lap, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Oliver, I’m going to ask you one more time. Are you sure you’re allowed to eat that?” The smile on his face curdled. He looked toward my mother, sitting to my left, and reached for her hand with a performative whine. “Diane! Please, tell Norah she’s being ridiculous. It’s a wing. She’s acting like I just insulted the family crest. Do I really not ‘deserve’ to eat at my own engagement party?” My parents had treated Oliver like a son since the day he was born. Our families were old money, old friends; they doted on him, blinded by decades of shared history. My mother reached over and patted his head, her eyes softening. “It’s just a wing, sweetheart. Of course you deserve it. The Whitaker Grill is practically yours now, anyway. If you love them that much, I’ll have the chef send a crate of them to your house tomorrow.” He shot me a triumphant, smug look. I felt a pang of nausea. “You really don’t know, do you?” His patience snapped. He stood up, walked toward the buffet line, grabbed another wing, and literally tossed it into my lap. “You want one, Norah? Is that what this is? You’re throwing a tantrum because you wanted the last one? I knew the Whitaker wings were exclusive, but this is insane. I told the kitchen to make extra just for us!” His mother, Mrs. Donovan, rushed to his side, rubbing his shoulder as if he were the one being bullied. Before I could speak, she turned her venom on me. “Is this a power play, Norah? Are you trying to humiliate my son on his big day? Is the Whitaker family so bankrupt that you’re rationing food now? I won’t have Oliver treated this way!” My mother’s face hardened. She looked at me with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. “Norah Whitaker, stop this! You are making a scene over a piece of chicken. You’re being a spoiled brat. Apologize to Oliver right now!” Oliver stood there, his face flushed red, looking like the victim of a grand injustice. I looked at him, then at the sea of faces in the ballroom. With a slow, deliberate motion, I stood up and shoved the table. It didn’t flip, but the screech of wood on marble was like a gunshot. “Fine,” I said, the words tasting like copper. “It’s about the wing. And because of it, I’m done. There is no wedding.” The room exploded. The hushed whispers of the elite turned into a roar. “Did she just dump him over an appetizer?” “I bet she has someone else. She’s just looking for an excuse.” The whispers were like thorns. Oliver rushed toward me, trying to grab my hands, his eyes welling with tears. “Norah, please! Don’t do this! I won’t eat them again, I swear! We were going to grow old together. Don’t you remember our promises?” I pushed him back with a force that surprised even me. “Grow old with you? I’d rather die. You don’t deserve to stand where he stood.” The room went silent. Just for a second. Then the chaos doubled. My father, who had been silent until now, surged to his feet. His face was a dangerous shade of purple. “Norah! What is wrong with you? We aren’t the kind of family that fights over food! Get a grip on yourself!” Oliver started to sob—real, heavy tears. He reached for me again, and I stepped back as if he were a leper. “Keep your hands off me, Oliver. Or whoever you are. This engagement is over because you aren’t fit to be my husband. You aren’t fit to be in this room.” Mr. Donovan slammed his fist onto the table. “My son has given you years of his life! You’re going to throw it away over a snack? Are you even human?” Oliver turned to my mother, clutching her sleeve like a child. “Diane, you know how hard I worked on this party. I was just hungry. What did I do wrong?” My mother’s heart shattered for him. She shielded him behind her, glaring at me. “Norah, enough. You’ve wanted this since you were a little girl. You finally got your dream, and now you’re destroying it over nothing. Stop acting out!” I pulled out a chair and sat down, crossing my legs, looking at him with pure, unadulterated coldness. “The fact that you don’t even know what you did wrong is the funniest part of this whole pathetic charade,” I said. Then, to my mother: “I did want to marry Oliver. But I don’t want to marry this.” Oliver dropped to his knees in front of my mother. “I don’t understand! Why can’t I eat a wing? Why is she doing this to me today?” Mrs. Donovan was dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “We have never let our son be treated like this. If this is how the Whitakers behave, Norah, then maybe there shouldn’t be a wedding!” Oliver panicked. He scrambled up and tried to lean his head on my shoulder, his voice a desperate whisper. “Norah, stop playing. I love you. I want to marry you.” I stood up so fast he stumbled, falling onto the floor. I looked down at him. “In your dreams. Get out of my sight.” I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me—cold, sharp, and stripped of the whining. “You walk out that door, Norah, and those photos go public.” He stood up, brushing the dust off his tuxedo, his eyes narrowing. “I have the private shots from your bedroom, Norah. You really want the world to see those?” My mother froze. She rushed over to him, her face pale. “Oliver, sweetheart, don’t say that. We’ll fix this. Norah, apologize!” The crowd gasped. “Private photos? Oh, she’s finished.” “Poor Oliver, pushed to the brink by that ice queen.” I felt a surge of rage, but I suppressed it. I looked at his face. If he had photos, they had to be old. Very old. “What photos?” I asked, my voice light. “When did you take them?” He saw me “soften” and let out a breath of relief. He patted his pocket. “That night you were wasted… I wanted to save them as a surprise for tonight, but you forced my hand.” I took a deep breath. “There won’t be a surprise. Delete them now, or I’ll make sure you never walk again.” Oliver’s face went white. He started shaking, pointing a finger at me. “How can you be so heartless? I kept those because I loved you! They were my most precious memories, and you treat them like trash!” My mother snapped. She marched over to me and delivered a slap that echoed through the entire ballroom. My head snapped to the side. “Norah Whitaker, that is enough! You started a fight over a wing, and now you’re attacking him for wanting to keep memories of you? Apologize!” I held my cheek. It didn’t hurt. Not compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I just laughed. “You want me to apologize to this blackmailer? Never. I will never marry you. Do your worst.” Mr. Donovan stepped forward. “Norah, you have dragged our name through the mud today. You will get on your knees and apologize to my son, or those photos will be on every news site by midnight.” Oliver looked shaken, as if he hadn’t expected his father to go that far, but he didn’t stop him. Then my father moved. He grabbed my collar and shoved me, his voice a low growl. “If you want to stay a Whitaker, you kneel. If those photos get out, you’re dead to this family. Don’t think for a second we’ll protect you.” I wiped a streak of blood from my lip. “I’m not afraid of him.” Oliver screamed at me then, his voice cracking. “Norah! You’re forcing me to do this! I know why you’re doing this! It’s him, isn’t it?” He paused, then switched back to that pathetic, hurt expression. “Norah, don’t be stupid. Cut ties with that… that spa boy. That towel boy you’ve been seeing behind my back.” I froze. My mind went blank for a second. My mother went nuclear. She surged forward, shielding Oliver again. “You’re seeing a masseur? A towel boy? So this isn’t about food at all! You’re just trying to cheat your way out of a marriage to a good man!” Suddenly, the doors burst open. A swarm of paparazzi, tipped off by someone, flooded in, flashes strobing like lightning. The Whitaker Heiress and the Spa Boy. It was the scandal of the decade. I frowned, realizing the trap was closing. They thought they had me. They thought they could break me. “So what if I like the towel boy?” I yelled over the cameras. “He’s ten times the man you are! If he were here, I’d marry him right now just to get away from you!” Oliver pulled out his phone, a cold smirk finally breaking through his mask. “You asked for this, Norah.” He tapped the screen, and a video began to play on the large monitors meant for our ‘Love Story’ slideshow. It was a grainy video of me in a dark lounge, sitting close to a man, my hands wandering over his shoulders. Then, an audio recording played—my voice, clear and sharp. “Oliver, if you tell anyone about this, you’re dead. I’ll ruin the Donovans. I’m in love with Finn, and I’m calling off the wedding.” Mrs. Donovan shrieked. “All this drama! All this lying! Just so she could run off with a servant! She’s been planning to sabotage this since day one!” The reporters swarmed me, microphones thrust into my face. “Norah, is it true?” “Are you leaving a Donovan for a masseur?” “What about the photos?” I stood there, nodding slowly. “Yes. The engagement is off. He can post whatever photos he wants.” My father’s face was unrecognizable with rage. He grabbed a crystal vase from a nearby table and smashed it on the floor. “Norah Whitaker, you are no longer my daughter. Don’t ever come back to this house. You’re a disgrace!” I ignored the cameras. I walked straight up to the man who looked like Oliver and spoke in a voice only he could hear. “That was a good move. But it won’t work. It just makes me want to see you burn. The Donovans are finished. Remember I said that.” He looked startled, then went back to his ‘wounded puppy’ act. “Norah, you’re destroying your own reputation just to hurt me. I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t threatened me first. If you leave, we’re done for good!” I didn’t care. I turned to walk away, but my father signaled the security guards. Three of them blocked my path, then grabbed my arms, forcing me to the floor. “Norah!” my father barked. “You aren’t going anywhere until you explain yourself!” I struggled against the marble floor, looking up at the man I was supposed to marry. “You really want to know why I’m doing this?” I spat. “Fine. I’ll tell everyone.”

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