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At twenty-five, I saved Sean Vance’s life and became a vegetable. Sean worked himself to the bone, day and night, to cover the staggering medical bills that kept me alive in a private ICU. When I woke up seven years later, the world had been turned upside down. Terrified and disoriented, I waited for Sean to come and take me home. But when I saw him again, my young lover had fine lines etched around his eyes. He knelt before my wheelchair, holding another girl’s hand. And begged me to set him free. … When I first woke up, the hospital was full of strangers. The world had moved on for seven years, and I was terrified. I kept calling Sean’s name, my voice a slurred whisper. My caregiver tried to comfort me. “I’ve never seen a more devoted man than your boyfriend,” she said. “The nurses told me that on the night you were brought in, you were covered in blood. Your boyfriend held you and just sobbed his heart out.” “He swore he’d get you the best treatment, no matter the cost. And those astronomical bills? He’s never missed a single payment.” “In the beginning, he was here every day, washing you, talking to you.” “He must be incredibly busy now, that’s why he comes less often.” “But he still has me send him a picture of you every single day.” Hearing this, the panic I’d felt when I first saw my atrophied muscles and the scars that littered my body seemed to fade, just a little. Sean finally appeared two weeks after I woke up. He stood taller, his features sharper and more mature than the boy in my memory. His hands inexpertly wiped away my tears, his voice filled with a bittersweet nostalgia. “You’re awake.” I learned that for my sake, Sean had worked himself half to death, drinking so much at business dinners that he’d ended up with a perforated stomach. He’d heard about advanced medical technology overseas and flew back and forth constantly. He’d humbled himself, bowing and begging strangers, just to find better treatment options for me. For him, I gritted my teeth and forced myself to stand. The pain of physical therapy was excruciating, but I never made a sound. I hated that I couldn’t get better faster. It went on until my doctor, his face stern, finally put a stop to it. He turned on Sean, who had rushed to the hospital. “What kind of family member are you?! You can’t rush rehabilitation like this!” Sean stood to the side, his expression unreadable. When I tentatively reached for him, he flinched away. Then he exploded, a stranger in a familiar body. “Clara Hale, I’ve spent almost twenty million dollars on you! When you first had the accident, I couldn’t sleep for nights on end. Can you please, for once, stop making me worry?” “My life doesn’t revolve around you! Why is it that the moment you wake up, you’re causing me trouble?” “What’s the difference between you and an invalid right now? Do you think you’re healthy? That you can just push yourself like this?” His eyes were red as he screamed, his voice raw with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. I tried to take his hand, but he shook me off again. All I could do was offer him a placating smile. “I’m sorry, Sean. I didn’t mean to.” Sean started supervising my physical therapy sessions. He never looked happy, but he never looked unhappy either. He just grew quieter. The seven-year gap between us felt like a chasm, and I didn’t know how to cross it. Back when our love was new, whenever I was upset, Sean would make silly faces to cheer me up. Now, when I clumsily tried to imitate him, he just pinched the bridge of his nose. “Clara, you’re thirty-two now. Try to be a little more mature.” He turned his back on me. I slowly lowered my hands, my heart sinking. The days in the hospital were a monotonous blur. One afternoon, as Sean was helping me practice walking, he looked up and froze. Through the window, a young woman was staring at us, tears streaming down her face. She was young, beautiful. She looked just like I did, back when I was healthy. The moment he saw her, his hand supporting me was suddenly gone. His eyes trembled. He ran after her in such a hurry that he slammed into the wall, never even noticing that I, having lost my balance, had crashed heavily to the floor behind him. I dragged myself to the wall and slowly pulled myself up. And I finally understood. All of Sean’s recent distraction, his unspoken words, it all made sense now. A smile, uglier than any sob, stretched across my face. Waking up has been so bitter. 2 Sean came back late that night, carrying the faint, unfamiliar scent of another woman’s perfume. I turned away from him, my eyes shut tight. He sat down on the edge of my bed, his exhaustion a palpable weight in the room. “I broke up with her.” He paused for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with tears. “But God, Clara, I hate you. I hate you for saving me that day.” Business is a cutthroat world. Sean had climbed too high, too fast, making enemies along the way. Some were jealous enough to hire a hitman. That day, when the car came barreling toward him, my body had moved on pure instinct. I’d used every ounce of strength I had to push him out of the way. “For years, I sat by your side, day and night. You were just… a living corpse lying there, and no one could tell me what to do.” “I watched your body waste away. You couldn’t even control your own functions… I had to clean you.” “I waited for you, year after year, but you never woke up. In my darkest moments, I thought about us just dying together.” “I was so tired. I would have rather been the one lying in that bed.” “I had finally, finally crawled out of your shadow. I was ready to start a new life. I had someone new to love.” “She could cry, and laugh, and share things with me. She wasn’t just lying there, motionless.” “So why, Clara? Why did you have to wake up now?” I bit down on my lip so hard I could taste blood, fighting to keep my own sobs from escaping. So, my waking was no longer something my lover had hoped for. He resented me. I had become his burden. He bent over, his body wracked with sobs, a man at the end of his rope. “You just can’t stand to see me happy, can you?” “Whatever I owed you, haven’t I paid it back by now? After all these years? Why are you doing this to me?” My throat was raw, and my heart felt like a gaping wound, cold wind howling through it. The next day, however, Sean acted as if nothing had happened. He took my hand, a robot going through the motions. “Sorry I wasn’t with you yesterday.” I saw the dark circles under his eyes. I hadn’t slept either. I gently pulled my hand away, forcing a light, cheerful tone. “If you have things to do, you should go. Don’t worry about me.” “Those first two weeks, I was on my own anyway.” Sean’s face darkened instantly. He grabbed me from behind, his body trembling with a suppressed violence. “Clara, what’s that supposed to mean? Are you blaming me?” “What right do you have to blame me?” His voice rose to a desperate shout, a release of pent-up frustration. His grip was painful. I sniffled, my nose stinging with unshed tears, but I kept the smile on my face. “Sean, you misunderstood.” “I really can manage on my own.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly released me, his expression smoothing over into a calm mask. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, tinged with a weary resignation. He sounded like a man surrendering to his fate. “Alright, Clara. Stop it.” “You can barely walk. What could you possibly do by yourself?” “I don’t have anything else to do. I made all this money to pay for your treatment in the first place.” An impulse seized me. “Sean,” I asked, “do you still want to marry me?” His hand stiffened. After a long pause, he sighed. “When you’re better, we’ll get married.” He lowered his eyes, his expression wooden. It was the look of a man accepting a life sentence. Before the accident, when I was twenty-five, Sean and I had already started planning our wedding. We were excited, getting married for the purest reason: because we were in love. Now, it was just something he repeated, as if trying to convince himself as much as me. “We should have been married a long time ago.” “Marrying you… it’s the right thing to do.” 3 The second time I saw Chloe, she came to the hospital to find me. She told me she’d met Sean in my fourth year of the coma. He was in a terrible state back then, and she had burst into his world like a ray of sunshine. At first, he’d ignored her, but slowly, he’d softened. They traveled together. The number of photos grew—holding hands, kissing, embracing. The smile had gradually returned to Sean’s face. “He loves me,” she said, her voice sharp. “If it weren’t for me, the torture of you lying there like a zombie would have broken him long ago.” Those two weeks after I woke up, they had been on a trip for her twenty-fifth birthday. “When he got the call that you were awake, it was like he was dragged right back to the day I met him. A walking corpse.” “He’s only taking care of you now because you saved his life. He can’t abandon that responsibility. I’m begging you, can’t you just let him go?” Before I could form a response, Chloe cried out in pain and stumbled to the floor. I looked up and saw Sean standing a few feet away. He rushed over, shoved me aside—my wheelchair slammed into the wall with a dull thud—and knelt by Chloe, frantically checking if she was hurt. Then he turned to me, his eyes cold, a deep-seated resentment simmering beneath the surface. “Clara, I already promised I’d marry you. What more do you want?” He was so blinded by worry, he’d forgotten. I didn’t even have the strength to push a healthy adult to the ground. The day I was discharged, Sean carried me to the car. He barely spoke to me. In his free moments, he just stared at his phone, unconsciously scrolling through pictures of Chloe. I had snuck a look at his phone once. The moment it unlocked, my eyes had filled with tears. His passcode was still my birthday. I also saw that he had muted all notifications from my caregiver. There were nearly a thousand unread messages. He hadn’t opened a single one. I held his phone, laughing and crying at the same time. Pathetic. Tragic. My love was no longer my love, and I didn’t know who to blame. A specially designated ringtone shattered the silence in the car. I saw Sean’s eyes light up. He answered the call with an almost reverent tenderness. The voice on the other end was frantic. “Mr. Vance, you asked us to help Ms. Chen move out today.” “She got really emotional… she took a bunch of pills. We’re at the hospital now.” Sean lost all composure. The calm he had so carefully constructed shattered into a million pieces. The car screeched to a halt. His face was a blank mask as he practically threw me out onto the side of the road. He didn’t even bother to get my wheelchair out of the trunk. The car spun around and sped away. I stood there as the wind whipped past my exposed skin, a chilling breeze that brought tears to my eyes. The moon rose, but no one came back for me. So I started walking, one unsteady step at a time, leaning heavily on my cane. I had no phone, no money. A few passersby looked like they wanted to help, but their companions pulled them back. “Don’t. What if she tries to scam you?” The sky grew dark, and a heavy rain began to fall. Finally, following the faint path of my memory, I made it back to the home Sean and I once shared. My hair and clothes were soaked, plastered to my skin. I shivered. Through the black curtain of rain, Sean’s car pulled up. He was holding an umbrella, his other arm wrapped around Chloe. When he saw my pathetic, drenched figure, his eyes widened in shock, as if he’d only just remembered he’d left me behind. But his attention was quickly drawn back to the woman in his arms, and he walked past me into the house. I was exhausted. Just as my last ounce of strength gave out, Sean reappeared and helped me into my wheelchair. The house, which I hadn’t seen in seven years, was filled with the scent of another woman. Matching couples’ mugs, stuffed animals scattered about, his-and-hers pajamas draped over the sofa. Sean began to unpack the boxes Chloe had started to fill, putting each item back in its place. I watched him shield Chloe, fussing over her, giving her medicine, drying her hair. He tucked her into bed and pressed a gentle good-night kiss to her forehead. And I sat by the door, still dripping water onto the floor. The house was so big, but there seemed to be no place for me. Sean quietly closed the bedroom door and finally seemed to notice me. He walked over and slowly knelt before me. His voice was steady and clear. “Clara, I’m sorry. Let’s break up.” “When you were twenty-five, I lost you. Now she’s twenty-five. I can’t lose her too.” “I’ll take care of you until you’ve recovered. I’ll compensate you.” His eyes were red. “Please, just set me free.” I lifted my hand, but before I could touch him, the world went black. I never got to give Sean my answer. What a shame. Such a terrible shame. The last time he had knelt before me, he was proposing. His hand, holding the ring, had been trembling. He had said, “I will only ever love one person in my life: Clara Hale.” I woke up from a long sleep only to realize I was the only one still trapped seven years in the past. 4 I fell ill, a high fever that took three days to break. Sean wouldn’t let me leave my room. “Chloe’s not well either. I don’t want you getting her sick.” The room was too quiet, which only made the sounds from the other side of the wall seem louder. I heard Sean coaxing Chloe to take her supplements, telling her with a pained voice that she couldn’t play with her health like that. I heard them discussing when I would leave. I heard them watching a movie. Sean slipped socks onto Chloe’s feet, telling her she couldn’t walk around barefoot. Chloe snuggled into his arms. “Then you’ll just have to carry me everywhere.” Sean’s voice was gentle. “Okay. I’ll always carry you.” Always. What a beautiful word. He’d said it to me, too. I buried my head under the covers, weeping silently in the dark. When I was better, it was time for me to go. “Clara, I’ve picked out a new house for you.” “Chloe… she’s used to this place. She doesn’t want to move.” He had arranged everything, down to the last detail. I finally cut him off. “I get it. I’m not a fool. You should go back to her.” His hand opened and closed, over and over. He started to say my name, but I looked down, hiding my tear-filled eyes, and quickly pushed him out the door. “Go on, go. Go back to her.” I saw him glance back once before he walked away, disappearing from view. I lived alone, recovered alone. The next time I heard Sean’s voice, it felt like a lifetime had passed. He was flipping through my old sketchbook. “Clara, I’m getting married.” “Chloe found your old design portfolio. She saw the wedding dress you designed and fell in love with it. We were hoping to buy the design from you.” I had designed that dress for my wedding with Sean. It had taken months, with countless revisions. But we would never use it now. I smiled. “No need. Consider it a wedding gift.” “It’s not like I have anything else to give you.” Sean’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Clara, you don’t have to be like this, trying to make me feel guilty.” A sharp pain lanced through my chest. I wanted to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. When my body was almost fully recovered, I received an invitation to Sean’s wedding. It was a fairytale ceremony. Staring at the names of the bride and groom printed side-by-side, I felt a surprising sense of calm. I stood in the very back, watching Sean as if it were the last time I would ever see him in this life. They read their vows, exchanged rings, did all the things I had once dreamed of a thousand times over. “Goodbye, Sean.” I lowered my head and turned to leave, bumping into a mutual friend from our past. She stared at me, stunned. I was walking too fast for her to keep up. “Clara? Is that you, Clara Hale?” Sean’s kiss on his new bride faltered. He instinctively looked in the direction of the voice. But there was nothing there. Only a branch of flowers, swaying in the wind.

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On every wedding anniversary, my husband, Christopher Kane, brings home a woman he picked up from the streets, claiming it’s for me to “train.” On our tenth anniversary, Christopher brought home a cocktail waitress from a cheap club, dressed in a skimpy bunny suit. “She doesn’t have a gown. Give her your wedding dress. And that set of jewelry I gave you last time, give her that too. As for shoes… the ones on your feet look fine.” “Oh, right. She’s young and inexperienced. Teach her well, especially about… bedroom matters.” Everyone waited for me to become a joke again. Instead, I fulfilled their expectations by saying I wanted a divorce. Christopher snorted, looking at me with contempt and mockery. “Sarah, how many times have you said you want a divorce? I’m sick of hearing it. It’s even more annoying than your moans in bed!” “If you really divorce me, I’ll give you a hundred million dollars!” The crowd roared with laughter again, whispering that I was just playing hard to get, that I didn’t know my place. What they didn’t know was that this was the 100th time I said I wanted a divorce. And it was the only time I truly meant it. Chapter 1 All eyes were on me. Even the cocktail waitress covered her mouth, giggling along. “Come on, place your bets! I bet a million she regrets it before she even walks out that door.” “I’m in for three hundred thousand!” Betting on whether I would divorce Christopher had become a stale tradition at every anniversary party. Many people hated me for losing money on me, and those who won didn’t necessarily like me either. I shook my head with a light laugh, scolding myself internally for being so spineless. It took ten years to finally decide to leave Christopher. “I bet she leaves!” A deep voice came from the crowd. Others tried to dissuade him from throwing his money away. I looked toward the sound but couldn’t see who it was. “Christopher, I’ll send the divorce papers to your office. Remember to sign them.” I had threatened divorce hundreds of times, but this was the first time I mentioned papers. Christopher straightened up, ash falling from the cigarette in his hand. I ignored him, squatted down, unbuckled my high heels, and placed them at the girl’s feet. Her name was Lily. She was in her early twenties, very pretty. “These shoes pinch a bit. You’ll get used to them after a while.” “As for the dress and jewelry Christopher mentioned, I’ll have the housekeeper bring them to you.” “Before you, Christopher brought back nine other girls. If you have any questions, ask them. They live on the third floor. Your room is the last one on the right.” In ten years of marriage, the women Christopher brought home could fill a harem. Tall, short, curvy, thin, innocent, glamorous, aloof, lively—he had them all. Rumor had it he wanted to collect a full set of “Twelve Beauties.” But I wasn’t blessed enough to be one of them. I brushed invisible dust off my bare feet, stood up, and walked toward the main door. Before I could step out, a strong force yanked me back. “Sarah Vance, if you want to leave, leave clean. Is there a single thing on your body that wasn’t bought with my money?” My bare feet felt like they were stepping on blades of ice. Even my breath trembled. “You want me to strip?” Christopher raised an eyebrow, his gaze light as if seeing right through me. “When your family went bankrupt, didn’t your mother strip you naked and shove you into my bed? Leave the same way you came!” “Or do you regret it? That’s fine. Kneel down and put the shoes on for her, and I’ll forgive you.” The crowd behind Christopher laughed so hard they doubled over. Years ago, shortly after Christopher and I started dating, the Vance family went bankrupt. My father jumped off a building and ended up in a vegetative state. Afraid the Kane family wouldn’t help, my mother drugged both Christopher and me. Afterward, she did everything she could to blow the incident up, forcing the Kane family to take responsibility. That night was the beginning of all my humiliation. It also completely destroyed the love Christopher and I had shared since we were teenagers. Christopher was forced to marry me. On our wedding night, he brought a woman home to humiliate me. He did everything in front of me. I even had to open the condom wrapper and hand it to him. I spent the next day on my hands and knees, cleaning up the mess. I lived this servile life for ten years. Now, I couldn’t do it anymore. “I’ll strip.” Before anyone could react, I undid the clasp of my shawl. It was deep winter. The heating inside was strong, but I was standing by the door. Cold wind poured up my skirt, raising goosebumps on my exposed arms and shoulders. I reached back and unzipped the dress. The thin fabric slid down. Shoulders and skin were exposed to the air. “Oh my god!” Some timid people covered their eyes. The men watched with keen interest. Only Christopher’s eyes were dark as ink, his thin lips pressed tight. The only sign of his agitation was the slight tremor in the fingers holding his cigarette. As the dress fell, I stood almost naked before the crowd. The cigarette burned Christopher’s fingers. He threw it down, ripped off his jacket, and covered me with it. “Sarah, you must have a death wish!” “Everyone close your damn eyes! If anyone says a word about what happened today, you won’t see the sun tomorrow!” “Get out! All of you!” Christopher rarely lost his temper, especially in public. Those present were old acquaintances who knew when to leave. The nine other girls Christopher had brought home scurried upstairs. Only Lily remained standing there. “Christopher, are you satisfied? Can you let me go now?” I looked up at him stubbornly. Tears swirled in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I had cried for Christopher too many times. I didn’t want to cry for him anymore. “Sarah, quit these hard-to-get games. It disgusts me.” Christopher still didn’t believe me, warning me not to embarrass the Kane family. I took a deep breath. “Christopher, I really want a divorce this time.” Christopher looked at me like he’d heard the world’s biggest joke. He grabbed the back of my neck and forced me to bend over. “Do you dare to divorce me? Can you afford your father’s daily hospital bills? Can you pay for your mother’s shopping sprees?” “Sarah, your mother would be the first to kneel before me and beg me not to divorce you!” Christopher’s loathing for my mother and me had nowhere left to hide. He hated my mother for the drugs, and he hated me for my inaction. “Even if your mother hadn’t drugged us, I would have married you. I would have helped you. But you used the methods I despise the most!” “Sarah, you destroyed our feelings with your own hands!” No matter how many times I explained, Christopher would never believe me. Seeing my silence, Christopher frowned deeper. He dragged me over and forced me to kneel in front of Lily, pressing on my neck to make me put shoes on her. “Put them on her. You’ve done this for ten years. You should be an expert by now!” For ten years, I not only took care of Christopher but also served those nine girls. Things I should do, things I shouldn’t, things forced, things voluntary—I did too many things I despised myself for. But now, I just wanted it all to end quickly. So, I obediently put the shoes on the girl again. Perhaps my obedience bored Christopher. He angrily dragged me into his room and stripped Lily in front of me. I had seen this scene many times. Sometimes Christopher even demanded I join in to “teach” them. Like before, I tore open a condom wrapper and handed it over. But this time, Christopher pushed it away. “Not needed this time.” My hand trembled as I pulled it back. Christopher didn’t stop his movements, but he glanced at me—something he rarely did. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t be bothered. Christopher got angry again. He locked me in the bathroom. That night, the snowstorm outside was heavy, and the noise inside was loud. I sat there listening all night. In a daze, I was awakened by an urgent phone ring. “Is this Miss Vance? Your mother was in a car accident. She’s in critical condition. Please come to City Memorial Hospital immediately.” My heart suspended in mid-air. “Christopher!” I started pounding on the door, trying to interrupt the sounds outside. Christopher opened the door wrapped in a bathrobe, his loose collar revealing hickeys. The woman in his arms clung to him. “What?” “My mom was in a car accident. Can you take me to the hospital? Please?” I knelt and begged him, tears streaming down, terrified he wouldn’t take me because he was unhappy. “Sister, do you even draft your lies? It’s 3 AM and snowing heavily. Normal people are at home. Did a car crash into your mom’s house?” Lily sneered, pointing at the dark, snowy night outside. Christopher laughed along, not even lifting his eyelids. “Sarah, you’d lie about this?” “What? Can’t stand the noise anymore?” Christopher locked the door again. The louder I shouted, the louder the noise outside became. Desperate, I picked up a stool and smashed the window, climbing out. Sharp glass sliced my leg, blood flowing instantly. Because it was late and snowing, I couldn’t get a cab. I ran forward like a zombie, leaving shocking red trails in the snow. Beep beep. A black Cayenne stopped beside me. “Get in.” Inside the dim car, the man in the driver’s seat never looked back at me. I kept thanking him, but he didn’t say another word. As I got out, I heard him say: “Sarah, you have other choices besides Christopher Kane.” “If you figure it out, find me.” He handed me a gold-stamped business card. I took it with both hands, thanking him profusely. My mind was entirely on my mother; I put it in my pocket without looking. I stumbled into the ER. Before I could ask, I saw nurses pushing a gurney covered with a white sheet out of the operating room. “Where is the family of Susan Vance?” “The patient is dead, and the daughter still isn’t here. Unbelievable.” The nurses’ whispers pierced my heart effortlessly. I rushed over and lifted the white sheet. The face, usually so exquisitely maintained, was covered in cuts. Her body was broken. Regarding Christopher, I had resented my mother every minute for ten years. I had even viciously wished the whole family would die. But now that she was truly dead in front of me, I only felt heartache. With no family left, there was no funeral to plan. I sat by my father’s bedside for a while, talking about Mom, about myself. I spoke intermittently until dawn. Before leaving, I looked at my father, who hadn’t moved in ten years, and spoke with a sob: “Dad, I’m tired.” My mother was cremated early the next morning. I put her urn in a box and took it home. I also brought home the divorce agreement I had commissioned. Walking in, I bumped into Christopher and his Tenth Beauty chatting and laughing at the dining table. “Sign it.” I slammed the divorce papers on the table, my voice cold. “So you snuck out last night just to get these papers?” “Sarah, you really are rebelling!” I hugged the urn tightly, head down. “Christopher, let’s let each other go.” “I don’t love you anymore.” In the past, I would argue with Christopher. When tempers flared, we even got physical. I would point at his nose and ask if his declarations of love back then were just a joke. Most of the time, I held onto a sliver of hope, hoping he would forgive me, hoping we could salvage the marriage. So if he liked wild, I learned to please him in bed. If he liked pure, I wore his favorite clothes to make him happy. But as woman after woman moved in, my heart grew silent bit by bit. Those tricks to please him became my shame, and his outlet to humiliate me. “What fell out of your pocket, sister…?” “Adrian Sterling?” Lily picked up the card I dropped and read the name. It was Adrian Sterling. Christopher’s lifelong nemesis, the one who had been across the ocean, unseen for years. The next second, a dark-faced Christopher slapped me. “You say you don’t love me because you found someone else?!” “Do you know what kind of person Adrian Sterling is?!” My ears rang. I couldn’t stand steady. The urn in my hands fell and shattered. Watching the dust fly, I stood there, paralyzed. I instinctively knelt, trying to gather the ashes. But no matter how I scooped, it was useless. Lily poured a glass of milk on the floor. The others followed suit, pouring drinks. The powder turned into a sticky mess. “Ah!” In that moment, something snapped. I grabbed a stool like a madwoman and smashed it at Lily. Christopher couldn’t react in time. Lily was on the ground, clutching her head. “Christopher…” “It hurts.” Someone called an ambulance. Christopher grabbed my hand, forcing me to watch at the hospital. “If anything happens to her, you’re going down with her!” That day, I was forced to give blood to Lily. Again and again, until the doctor refused to take more. Only then did Christopher let me go, saying I deserved it. For those few days, I hid in my father’s ward, never leaving. “Sister is hiding here! Thanks to your hit, Christopher treats me so well now.” “Is this your dad? Why doesn’t he move?” Lily, now favored, walked and talked arrogantly. She flicked my father’s oxygen tube, asking curiously what it was. “Don’t touch it!” I pushed her away. She stumbled back, clutching her head. The next second, she yanked the tube out, playing with it in her hand, smiling. “Do you think Christopher will blame me for this?” Then Christopher walked in. He froze at the scene, looking back and forth between us. After a long pause, he said: “Lily is young, she doesn’t know better. Your dad was hopeless anyway. Ending it early is a mercy.” “I’ll just send your mom more money in the future.” The monitor flatlined. The sound announced my father’s death. I stood there, frozen. Beyond sadness, I felt a sense of relief. Christopher didn’t care about me anymore. He picked up Lily and left. Collapsed on the floor, I kept apologizing to my dad. But I didn’t know who in this world had ever done right by me. I took out the card and dialed the number. “Mr. Sterling, pick me up tonight.” Same cremation, one more time. This time, I left my father’s ashes in the columbarium at the funeral home. When I returned to the Kane house, Christopher wasn’t back yet. The Nine Beauties kept buzzing in my ear that Christopher was angry, that I was finished. I turned a deaf ear. They relentlessly asked if I was really divorcing. I didn’t answer. I just opened my bedroom door. “Choose. Everything in here is yours.” At my words, they swarmed in, emptying the room instantly. Only a few photos of Christopher and me from our youth lay scattered on the floor, ignored by everyone. I locked myself in the room until nightfall. Christopher sent the housekeeper to check on me. I only asked her to deliver the divorce papers. “Divorce again.” “A hundred times. Sarah, aren’t you done playing?” Christopher tore the papers to shreds. “Starve her! Bring her food when she stops acting up!” Christopher thought my divorce talk was fake. He thought my saying I didn’t love him was fake too. But love really can run out. Ten years. I really couldn’t love anymore. Now that I was utterly alone, what couldn’t I let go of? That night, I climbed out the window and got into Adrian Sterling’s car. Chapter 2 The next day, Christopher woke up and didn’t see my busy figure in the kitchen. There were no wontons he loved on the table, no hand-brewed coffee, no ironed and matched clothes on the rack. Christopher rushed upstairs in a panic and opened my door, only to find it empty. He picked up the photos from the floor, flustered. “Martha! Where is Sarah?!” The housekeeper ran over, spatula in hand, looked at the empty room, and shook her head. “I’ll call her mother.” Martha paused, asking instinctively: “Young Master, didn’t Miss Sarah’s mother die? She was cremated the next day.” Christopher flashed back to me holding the urn that day. His breath hitched. He bent down to pick up the photo, pupils dilating, looking like the life had been sucked out of him. In ten years, he never thought I would actually leave him. The photo in his hand was us in our early twenties, taken on a street in Paris. Back then, just starting out, he didn’t even dare put his arm around my shoulder in the photo. But seeing his nervousness, I had leaned my head on his shoulder. Christopher carefully wiped the dust off the photo. He tried hard to smooth the creases, but it was futile. “Martha is making wontons today, we gotta get downstairs fast.” “This dress is beautiful. Designer stuff really is different.” “This hairpin is nice too.” “Do these shoes look good?” Chattering voices came from outside. Christopher frowned and looked out. At a glance, he saw Lily wearing a pink maxi dress. He had bought that dress in Italy for me. It was our one-month anniversary gift. “Stop!” Christopher rushed out, shouting sternly. He saw things he had given me scattered on everyone—scarves, coats, skirts, bags, shoes. One of them was even wearing our wedding ring. “Who told you to wear her clothes! Take them off!” “Who told you to wear that ring!” “Take off everything that doesn’t belong to you!” Christopher’s gaze lingered briefly on each person, but he couldn’t remember their faces. He didn’t even remember their names. Normally, to provoke me, he indulged them in everything. This was the first time they saw him so angry. Terrified, they stripped off the items. Lily, inexperienced, muttered a refusal. Red-eyed, Christopher marched up and tore the dress off Lily. “I give you five minutes. Put everything you took from her back where it belongs!” Christopher had Martha watch them while he rushed downstairs to check the surveillance footage. Security showed him the footage from the past few days. Christopher saw me running in the snowy night, the shocking red blood trail behind me. He saw me get into Adrian’s car. Twice. Both times Adrian. “Damn it!” “I shouldn’t have let that bastard attend!” Christopher cursed and returned to the house. As soon as he entered, he saw the women chatting in the living room. In the past, seeing me surrounded by them, daring to be angry but not speak, he felt a secret pleasure. But now without me, he only found it noisy. “Without Sarah, life feels meaningless.” “Usually she’d be washing our socks by now, and making snacks later.” “You know, I kinda miss her!” Christopher stood at the door, eyes icy. Even though he had tacitly allowed all of this. Hearing it with his own ears, every word felt like a cut. Telling him that he forced Sarah away. “Martha!” “Tell them to pack their things and get the hell out!” Christopher’s sudden roar scared everyone in the living room. They apologized involuntarily, promising not to gossip anymore. But Christopher wouldn’t listen. He ordered Martha to supervise their packing. Lily, bold as ever, stood in front of Christopher, blocking him. “I’m pregnant.” Lily touched her flat stomach, a smug look on her face. But she was surprised to see the other sisters’ faces change. They rushed upstairs, packed in minutes, and fled the Kane house. Lily was confused. Shouldn’t pregnancy give her leverage over Christopher? Why were they so panicked? The next second, Christopher grabbed her and threw her into the corner. Pain shot through her back. Christopher stood there, composed and cold. When he spoke, the words were lethal. “Martha, call Dr. Chen to come over for an abortion.” A simple sentence proved this wasn’t the first time in the Kane household. What Lily didn’t know was that I used to handle this for him. Christopher never let any woman bear his child. Including me. In the second month of our marriage, I found out I was pregnant. Afraid Christopher would hurt me and the baby, I tried to run. But no matter how I ran, he caught me. During the struggle, I miscarried. That day, Christopher’s red-rimmed eyes were full of hatred for me. He called me cruel, heartless. To this day, I don’t understand. He caused the miscarriage, why was I the cruel one? Lily didn’t understand either, just like I hadn’t. So she knelt and begged: “No, I don’t want an abortion.” “Mr. Kane, didn’t you say you loved me? You said I was your favorite. Why can’t I have it?” Christopher looked down, contempt and disdain flashing in his eyes. “Love?” “You think you deserve it?” Lily looked into those deep eyes and trembled with fear. Christopher ordered Martha to clean Lily up, then drove away. He had more important things to do. Martha sighed, coaxing Lily to wait for the doctor.

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My best friend was becoming my sister-in-law. I was thrilled. I volunteered to edit the “Love Journey” video for their wedding reception myself. My brother, Mason, smiled and went to get the footage. But the moment he opened my best friend’s laptop, his expression darkened. He kicked her, over and over again, breaking her ribs before locking her in the basement. “You filth! I finally found you!” My parents took one look at the laptop screen, and their eyes turned cold and predatory. “Drain her blood. Hang her up. Only pain can purify her sins.” I didn’t understand. I tried to speak, to stop them, but a heavy blow to the back of my head silenced me. As I lay dying, a string of floating text drifted across my vision: [Run, Harper! Your best friend is bad news!] [Your whole family is psycho! Run, you innocent flower!] It was too late. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the wedding…

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My tab for the evening: two simple, honest dishes, barely scraping seventy dollars. The table next to me, however, was a different story. Four men in power suits, drowning in high-dollar Scotch and enough premium Napa Cabernet to flood a small cellar. Boston lobster shells piled up like tiny monuments to excess. When the waiter slid the check onto my table, I stared at the total: $1,260.50. I froze. “I only ordered two things,” I said. The waiter, with a practiced, neutral expression, nodded toward the now-empty round table. “Ma’am, your party left a moment ago. They instructed us to put the check on your table.” My friends? I had never seen them before in my life. I demanded the security footage. The manager, a thick-set man in a black suit, sneered when I pointed out the man in the video simply pointing at me, then swaggering out. “Don’t try to pull a fast one,” he growled. “You came in together.” That was the moment I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. The manager’s cold smirk instantly melted away. 01 The screen on my phone glowed, showing 7:00 PM. Noah’s text popped up: Traffic’s a nightmare, babe. Maybe thirty minutes late. Go ahead and grab a table. I quickly texted back a ‘thumbs up’ emoji and tucked the phone away. Tonight was our three-year wedding anniversary. A month ago, Noah had booked this place, Aura on the Ascent. He’d promised a refined atmosphere and exquisite food—a proper celebration. I sat at the window-side table for two, the clean, cream linen crisp beneath my elbows. A waiter poured me some chilled lemon water. I opened the menu. The prices were predictably steep. I bypassed the showy entrees and ordered a couple of our favorites—a delicate Pan-Seared Halibut and a plate of buttery, seasonal Asparagus with Hollandaise. Just the two dishes, well under a hundred dollars. I didn’t want to be extravagant, but I wanted the night to be perfect. I looked out the window. The city lights were beginning their nightly display, the traffic below looking like streaks of colored ribbon. “Waiter! Another bottle of the Macallan!” A loud, booming voice shattered the restaurant’s cultivated quiet. I flinched, glancing at the round table next to mine. Four men, all about forty, dressed in glossy, expensive suits. Their hair was slicked back, and their gold watches flashed under the ambient light. Their table was a disaster of high-end consumption. The man in charge, addressed as “Mitch” by the others, was scarlet-faced and waving his phone, bragging loudly. “I told the CEO, ‘Under five hundred million, we don’t even talk.’ The man poured me another drink right there!” His companions immediately fell all over themselves with sycophantic praise. “Legend, Mitch!” “We’re just happy to drink the runoff, boss.” I turned back to the window. I had no energy to waste on people who treated every public space like their own private stage. My two dishes arrived quickly. The halibut was perfectly browned; the asparagus was a tender, vibrant green. I left them untouched, waiting for Noah. The clamor next door was reaching a crescendo. Mitch seemed to notice me. He raised his wine glass and his eyes drifted over, a vague, knowing smirk on his lips. He spoke to the man beside him in a voice calibrated just loud enough for me to hear. “These young girls, coming to a place like this, ordering two sides just to take a picture for Instagram. All for show.” I didn’t even blink. Dealing with that kind of insecurity would only pull me down to their level. They drained another round, then finally seemed ready to disperse. Mitch staggered to his feet and wobbled toward the host stand. The remaining three men slapped each other on the back, and as they passed my table, one of them made a point of bumping my chair. I held my tongue. I saw Mitch interact with the server near the front. He said something, then explicitly pointed in my direction. The server nodded. Mitch and his buddies then swaggered straight out the main doors. 02 I watched them disappear, feeling a vague sense of irritation, but nothing more. Maybe he’d just asked the server to take his call at his table. Ten minutes later, Noah texted: In the lobby! Be right up! My mood lifted instantly. I reached for my phone, ready to tell the kitchen to warm up my order. A young server approached my table, a check presenter in hand. He placed it gently on the table. “Ma’am, your total comes to $1,260.50.” I was stunned. I picked up the check and opened it. A long, dense list of items—Scotch, the pricey Cabernet, the Boston Lobster—everything the table next to me had consumed. I looked up at the server. “Did you make a mistake? I only ordered two dishes.” He maintained a professional, if distant, smile. “No mistake, ma’am.” He gestured to the now-busser-cleared table beside mine. “The gentlemen who just left, your friends? They told us the bill was being settled by you.” Friends? I didn’t know them. A spike of pure heat rushed through me, but I forced my voice to remain even. “I don’t know those men. Please get your manager.” The smile dropped from his face, replaced by a look of stern professionalism. “Ma’am, please don’t joke. Mr. Hawthorne was very clear. He said you were a friend, and he was leaving the tab.” “I’m telling you one more time: I don’t know them.” My voice was now cold. “Get your manager.” The server looked flustered, clearly not equipped for a confrontation. He mumbled something into his earpiece. Moments later, a man in a black suit with a “Floor Manager” badge—Gary Benson—approached. He was stout and impeccably groomed, with a tight, judgmental expression. “Ma’am, I’m the manager. Gary Benson. What seems to be the trouble?” I pushed the bill toward him. “This isn’t mine. I ordered less than a hundred dollars in food. This three-course bill belongs to the table that just left. Your server has mistakenly charged it to me.” Gary Benson picked up the check, scanned it, then looked me up and down. A faint, contemptuous smile played on his lips. “Ma’am, I just confirmed with the host stand. Mr. Hawthorne explicitly stated you would be settling up. Look, we’re all adults here. It’s a bit over a thousand dollars. No need to make a scene, is there?” His tone was heavy with implication, suggesting I was a cheap opportunist trying to dine and dash. “A scene?” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Strangers ate and drank a thousand dollars of food and told a restaurant I would pay for it. And you think I’m the one making a scene? Is this how Aura on the Ascent does business?” His face hardened. “Ma’am, please watch your tone. We operate on good faith here. We have every reason to believe you were part of that party. Trying to skip out on the bill now won’t work.” His voice was low, but several nearby tables heard the exchange. Heads snapped toward me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled scorn. I felt the blood rush to my face. Not from shame, but from pure, incandescent rage. 03 “I am not skipping out. I will not pay a single cent for what I didn’t consume,” I said, locking eyes with Gary Benson. “Proof?” I countered. “Where is your proof that we were a party?” He was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked down at me with disdain. “Proof? Our server heard Mr. Hawthorne say it with his own ears. Besides, you came in around the same time and sat this close to them. You expect us to believe you didn’t know them?” The sheer audacity of the logic made me speechless for a moment. “So, because my table was adjacent, I’m financially liable for strangers? Is this restaurant’s seating chart based on ‘Friendship Affinity’?” My voice was dripping with sarcasm. Gary Benson’s mask of pseudo-professionalism finally shattered. “Ma’am, I will tell you one last time. You are settling this bill tonight. Otherwise, we will be forced to follow protocol.” “And what is your protocol?” “We have the right to escort you to the security office until you decide to be reasonable and pay up.” He glanced pointedly toward the main doors. Two large security guards in black uniforms immediately detached themselves from the entrance and took up menacing positions flanking my table. The surrounding diners began whispering. “Look how ordinary she’s dressed. Probably trying to scam them.” “Right? Who comes to a place like this and doesn’t know their party?” “Trying to fake it till you make it, I guess. Never works at Aura.” The comments felt like pinpricks. In my thirty years, I had never faced such blatant public humiliation. My hands, hidden beneath the table, were clenched into white-knuckled fists. I took a slow, deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. Arguing was useless. They had already decided I was a fraud. “I want to see the security footage,” I stated. Gary Benson scoffed as if I’d suggested something hilarious. “Fine. But I’ll warn you, if that footage confirms you were part of the group, settling the bill will be the least of your problems.” “And if the footage proves we were not together?” I pressed. “Then the meal is on me, and I will apologize to you in front of every guest here,” he said with absolute certainty, clearly believing he had me trapped. “Deal.” I stood up. “Let’s go.” Gary Benson led the way, me following under the gaze of the entire dining room, with the two security guards trailing behind like escorts for a criminal. A wave of dizziness washed over me, not from fear, but from the raw heat of my fury. This anniversary, meant to be warm and romantic, had been completely poisoned by this man’s corruption. 04 The manager’s office smelled of stale coffee and a faint, metallic scent of a bad temper. Gary Benson sat behind his desk, indicating a small, uncomfortable stool opposite him. “Sit.” I didn’t. I stood, facing him across the desk. “The footage?” He took his time, slowly picking up a mug, blowing on the surface, and taking a deliberate sip. “Relax, kid. This is Aura on the Ascent. Our security is state-of-the-art. No one’s running away from this.” He clicked a few times on his computer, pulled up a video window, and spun the monitor toward me. “See for yourself.” The screen showed the host stand’s camera angle. I watched the man, Mitch Hawthorne, walk up to the counter. He spoke to the server, and then, exactly as described, he raised his hand and pointed in the vague direction of my table. The footage stopped there. Gary Benson leaned back in his chair, a smug, triumphant look on his face. “Well? There it is. He points right at you and tells our server, ‘That’s my friend, put it on her tab.’ Now, what do you have to say?” I stared at the frozen image, my mind racing. The footage was deliberately misleading. First, there was no sound. What they actually said was entirely his word against mine. Second, the angle was too limited. It showed the pointing, but not the server’s facial expression or any prior exchange. Third, why only this clip? Where was the full, uncut footage from the moment they walked in until they left? “I want to see the complete, uncut video log,” I said. “From the moment they entered until they left, from all available angles. Especially any that might have ambient audio.” His victorious smile flickered, then settled back into place. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. Our dining room cameras are silent to protect guest privacy. As for the full log, that involves other patrons. We can’t just hand it over.” It was the perfect, airtight excuse. I understood then. They were in this together. Gary Benson was never interested in resolving a mistake; he intended to pin this bill on me from the start. Seeing my silence, he must have assumed I was defeated. He stood and placed a patronizing hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me, little girl. In business, reputation matters. A thousand bucks isn’t much. Chalk it up to a lesson learned. You take the loss, and you leave. But if you keep pushing this, it’s going to get very ugly, and trust me, you don’t want that.” His voice was laced with an undeniable threat. I jerked his hand away and took a step back. “I told you. It’s not my money. I won’t pay a cent.” His last thread of patience snapped. The false professionalism evaporated, replaced by something dark and ugly. “You’re asking for it, huh? Fine. We’ll see how long you can hold out!” He grabbed the desk intercom and barked a command: “Tony, Mike, get her back out to her table! And keep her there! If she tries to bolt, I don’t care what you have to do!” 05 I was physically escorted—practically held—by the two guards and placed back in my original seat. Gary Benson followed, standing over me, and raised his voice to ensure everyone in the restaurant could hear. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the disruption. This woman consumed over a thousand dollars in food and beverage and is now attempting to skip the bill. We are handling the situation and apologize for the inconvenience.” The moment he finished speaking, I became the center of the restaurant. All eyes were on me, filled with a sickening mix of contempt, amusement, and self-righteous judgment. I felt like an exhibit, a spectacle. The blood was pounding in my ears. Then I saw Noah. He had just stepped into the restaurant and was scanning the room. He saw me—trapped between two guards—and his smile vanished. He hurried toward my table. “Naomi, what is going on?” “Stay back!” I yelled at him. I didn’t want him involved. I didn’t want him to see me in this humiliating, vulnerable position on our anniversary. Noah stopped dead, his eyes wide with panic. Gary Benson saw Noah and his eyes lit up; he had found a fresh target. “Oh, your friend showed up? Perfect. Since she won’t settle the bill, you can take care of it. $1,260.50.” He shoved the check toward Noah. Noah looked from the bill to me, his face registering pure confusion and disbelief. “We didn’t order any of this!” “She said the same thing,” Benson snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t care if you’re a party or not. Someone is paying this bill tonight. Otherwise, neither of you is leaving.” He pointed a finger at me, addressing Noah. “I suggest you pay up now. Otherwise, I’m calling the police and pressing charges for disturbing the peace and dining-and-dashing. You’ll have a permanent record. This isn’t just about a thousand dollars anymore.” It was a blatant, ugly threat. Watching Noah’s helpless, anxious face, watching Gary Benson’s triumphant smirk, and feeling the cold judgment of the crowd, the last wire of my patience snapped. Fury and humiliation erupted in my chest like a violent geyser. But I knew I couldn’t lose control. If I laid a hand on him, I’d lose the battle. I had to be surgical. I slowly turned back to Gary Benson, speaking each word with careful deliberation. “Are you absolutely certain you want to call the police?” Benson crossed his arms, leaning in with a mocking laugh. “What, you scared now? Too late! Even if you pay, I’m going to make sure you know the price of causing trouble in my house!” He was reveling in his power. “Good,” I nodded. I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone.

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I have a body like a pin-up model, but a voice that sounds like a toddler who swallowed a helium balloon. It’s a fatal mismatch. Every time I open my mouth, I get roasted. [Shut up! Does it hurt to pinch your throat like that all day?] [Stop faking it! You have a femme fatale face, why force the baby voice? Unfollowing!] The entire internet had been dragging me for a year. But I was a coward, so I never dared to clap back. Then came the reality show. I was publicly humiliated, pointed at, and cursed out in the streets. I finally snapped. I grabbed the Film Emperor standing next to me and wailed, completely breaking down. “Waaaah! I told you I wasn’t faking it! I wasn’t!” Unexpectedly, the usually toxic-tongued Film Emperor broke character instantly. His ears turned bright red, and he patted my head, looking completely panicked. The netizens, ready for a show, were confused. [Wait, is she… is she crying or flirting? Is it physically possible to sound that cute while having a breakdown?] [Xavier, why are you mute? Tell her she’s fake! Why are you blushing like a schoolboy?!] [LOL, spread the word! Hollywood’s sharpest tongue has malfunctioned. I think his bones just melted from that voice!] 01 I’ve had this baby voice since I was a kid. I also hit puberty early. Because of this, my dad hated me, and my mom said I was born to be a trophy wife for some rich old man. Later, a talent scout scouted me for my looks. When I debuted, my manager, Sarah, swore on her life I’d be a star. “With that face! With that body! You just stand there and you’ll be trending in minutes!” She laughed at the sky, convinced I’d take over Hollywood. But everyone underestimated the destructive power of my squeaky voice. A whole year passed, and my public image was in the gutter. It got to the point where people rolled their eyes the moment I opened my mouth. [Chloe Song is such a pick-me! If she just acted like a cool girl, I’d stan. Why force this sweet girl persona?] [Honestly, it was cute at first, but now it’s just annoying.] [Can she just shut up? If she wants to seduce men, go to a club, don’t disgust us on the internet!] The insults were endless. But I was too timid. I could only bite my blanket and swallow my tears. Sarah tried to comfort me. “Bad publicity is still publicity! Listen to me, with this contrast, if we just focus on your career, you’ll be rich sooner or later!” I burst into tears. “Is this the netizens’ revenge?” Sarah, a fiery Texan woman, felt she had developed the patience of a kindergarten teacher after managing me for a year. My voice made women scream and men weak in the knees. But the contrast between the sound and my appearance was too great. No one believed it was natural! The damn netizens insisted Sarah had no taste, ruining a “cool girl” by forcing her to be a “cutesy baby.” Who would understand her pain? “I begged every contact I have and got you a spot on a huge reality show,” Sarah said, gritting her teeth. “This time, we’re taking back everything that belongs to us!” She believed that once people saw me up close, men and women alike would fall into my net. Sarah giggled, lost in her own fantasy. 02 But before I even got to the variety show, I was trending for all the wrong reasons. #XavierKnightCallsChloeSongDisgusting# #ChloeSongFakeVoice# The trending topic was a clip of Xavier Knight, the youngest Film Emperor, streaming a video game. It had over a million reposts in half an hour. In the video, a teammate was dragging the team down. After dying a few times, she apologized in a pinched, nasal voice. Xavier laughed in anger and started roasting her. “Wow, did you swallow glue? Why are you pinching your throat like that?” “If you can’t speak normally, shut up! Don’t bark here! Your mouth is spewing nonsense.” Xavier had incredible acting skills, but his reputation was mixed. His mouth was venomous. His sarcasm was unmatched, making fans love and hate him. This had nothing to do with me, until Bella, the current “It Girl,” commented under the video. [That girl’s voice is so sweet, just like our Chloe on set.] A vague comment that twisted the narrative instantly. Netizens turned their firepower on my Twitter. [I knew that pick-me voice sounded familiar. It’s Hollywood’s resident baby, Chloe Song!] [Who else is that fake? Daring to use a baby voice in front of Xavier? Everyone knows he hates that.] [Doesn’t sound like her to me… Chloe is annoying, but not that bad, right?] [Comment above is a paid bot. If not her, is it Bella? Bella is known for being naturally sweet, they aren’t even comparable!] The internet was full of curses. I was almost dug out of my grave by netizens analyzing every video of me speaking. I was sitting at home, minding my own business, when the pot fell from the sky. Sarah was furious. “That damn Bella is the real fake! She thinks just because she has a cute face I can’t tell? That teammate was probably her, and she dragged you down to hide it!” Even though I was used to being flamed for my voice, this was my first time being mass-attacked on a trending topic. I felt like dying. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The next second, my phone rang. “Chloe! Log in! Bro is gonna take you to the Rift to slap Xavier Knight in the face!” 03 Jordan is the most famous male voice actor in the industry. We met in a dubbing club in college. He was indignant. “WTF, my sister’s voice is so sweet. Is Xavier deaf or just looking for a fight?” I was moved to tears, swearing to hug this brother’s thigh forever! Before I could react, Jordan pulled me into a lobby and matched us against Xavier. I started playing in a panic. But I suck at games. Fierce as a tiger in spirit, 0-5 in stats. Xavier’s gnashing teeth came through the headset. “Uninstall the game. Go play Candy Crush! You’re so bad you’re carrying the other team.” The chat went wild. [Did Xavier step in dog poop today? His luck with teammates is terrible.] [It’s probably another girl. Is she gonna apologize in a baby voice again?] Jordan was anxious, urging me on the phone. “Scold him back! Why are you here? If you don’t roast him, you’re getting flamed for nothing!” provoked, I turned on my mic. But having always been the one scolded, I stuttered for a long time before weakly replying: “So… so what?” Jordan almost coughed up blood. “Listen to me! I’ll say a line, you repeat it!” I nodded like a chicken pecking rice, stammering as I roared after him. “Did I eat your rice? Why do you care so much?” “If you hate me that much, you can die first!” “Did I ask you to speak? Why are you barking!” Just as I was getting into the rhythm, Jordan went silent. I was dumbfounded. And then? I froze for a while. Then, Xavier’s stammering voice sounded. “Sorry.” On the screen, the tips of his ears seemed a bit red. “Another round? Duo queue?” AHHHH! I curled my toes in embarrassment, my hand shook, and I swiftly exited the game. 04 I ran away, but the internet exploded. [Holy crap, so sweet! Who can resist that little voice?!] [Wait, she scolded him and ran? Who taught her that? Did you see Xavier freeze up?] [LMAO, this guy changed faces so fast. Half an hour ago he was a demon! But that girl’s voice really is too sweet!] Even more ridiculous, Xavier posted a tweet apologizing for his behavior tonight. [I was too fierce tonight, don’t take it to heart…] Since Xavier didn’t know it was me, I casually replied. [It’s okay, it’s okay. Just another day of being blamed for things I didn’t do.] I scolded him back anyway. Maybe because I was too D-list, I never realized the impact of interacting with a Film Emperor. My casual reply caused my notifications to explode. [You? Chloe Song, where do you get the nerve to leech off this?] [Do you really not know how annoying your voice is? Don’t make us laugh!] [It’s easy to tell the difference between a fake pick-me and a natural sweet voice, okay?] The harsh comments kept coming. But among them, I noticed a default-avatar account constantly defending me. [Her voice is sweet! What’s it to you?] [So what? I like it!] [Still calling her fake? What are you? Deaf?] [Damn it, if my main account wasn’t banned, I’d expose you all!] He attacked every negative comment indiscriminately. The style was vaguely similar to… Xavier? I shook the thought from my head, moved to tears. I secretly liked a few of his comments. Brothers for life!

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Three years into our arranged marriage, my aloof, CEO husband started acting strange. He became even colder. He refused my advances. And his lawyer was frequenting his home office. I thought I understood: Carter had finally reconnected with his “White Moonlight”—his high school crush—and was preparing to divorce me. Being the sensible wife, I drafted the divorce papers myself. The next day, just as I was about to board a plane for my “Eat, Pray, Love” world tour, I received a video. It was Carter. He was standing on the edge of a rooftop, eyes red and swollen, hugging my beagle and sobbing uncontrollably. “She wasn’t supposed to leave us until next year! Why did the timeline change?!” “Buddy, you have to promise me… you have to bite that other man to death for Daddy, okay?!” 1 Carter got into a car accident. By the time I rushed to the hospital, he had already been awake for a while. He lay on the hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, looking exhausted. The nurse whispered to me, “Mrs. Sterling, since he woke up, he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything. He seems… troubled.” I sat by the bed and opened the thermos. “Carter.” As I brought the spoon to his lips, he frowned almost imperceptibly and pulled back. I could tell something was off. So, I put on my sweetest voice. “Honey, try it. It’s still warm. I made it myself.” This time, his eyes were cold and distant. “I don’t want it.” He rejected me again. There was zero warmth in his gaze. He was a completely different person from the man who had cuddled me to sleep the night before. I tried one more time, patiently. “Really? I simmered this chicken soup for hours. Just one sip?” Carter remained silent. He studied me, as if analyzing my next move. I mentally rolled my eyes. I turned the spoon around and swallowed the soup myself. Fine. Starve then. 2 Carter Sterling and I are in an arranged marriage. Our families—the Sterlings and the Yorks—merged assets, and we merged lives. We were high school classmates, but we ran in different circles. He was the stoic loner; I was the social butterfly. After the wedding, we were polite roommates. Things changed in the second year. One day, I came home and bumped into Carter walking out of his room wearing only a towel. I froze. Who knew my buttoned-up husband was hiding that kind of body under his suits? Carter slammed his door shut, clearly annoyed by my ogling. But that image stuck in my brain. After a week of… interesting dreams, I realized something. He is my legal husband. Sleeping with him is literally my right. 3 From then on, I made it my mission to seduce Carter. But he was tough. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, had no hobbies. His life was a scheduled loop: home, office, weekly dinners with parents. He was an NPC. I couldn’t find a crack in his armor. Until one day, I wandered into his bedroom and saw our high school graduation photo on his nightstand. In the photo, Carter stood tall, slightly smiling. Next to him, a girl with a cute bob was leaning toward him. Her name was Zoey. The “White Moonlight.” The one that got away. I remembered the rumors. Carter’s mom had paid Zoey off to leave the country so Carter would focus on the family business. Suddenly, I felt bad for him. He was the classic tragic hero—forced apart from his true love, emotionally shutdown. But that was fine. Before I unbuckled his belt, I would listen to his trauma. Eventually, I succeeded. We slept together. In the heat of the moment, I whispered magnanimously, “Carter, I saw the photo. It’s okay. I understand.” He froze. Then he kissed me with a sudden, fierce intensity. 4 After leaving the hospital, Carter was still icy. He was avoiding me. Tonight, it was almost midnight, and he was still in his study. I put on my new silk nightgown and decided to take the initiative. I knocked and walked in, circling his desk to sit on his lap. “Honey, I had a nightmare. I’m scared.” Usually, he would hug me and carry me to bed. I straddled his lap, ready for action. But Carter just looked at my neckline. Then, his long fingers reached out… and buttoned my top button. “Go to sleep, Harper.” What?! I stared at him. “But we agreed to try that new thing this week!” “I have work.” “You said that yesterday.” Carter looked up. “Harper… is sex that important to you?” He stumped me. But I thought about it. We had no emotional foundation. Physical intimacy was the only thing holding this marriage together. So, yes. I nodded. Carter closed his eyes, looking pained. “I understand. Leave me alone.” 5 Over the next few days, I barely saw him. His lawyer, Mr. Shen, was always there. One day, I was bringing fruit to the study when I heard them talking. “Miss Zoey’s funds and apartment are arranged.” “Good.” “And this agreement… are you sure? It’s very unfair.” “Not a penny left for her?” I froze. Carter replied coldly, “Do your job, Shen.” Mr. Shen sighed. “I know you said you ‘saw the future’ and that you’re dying, but… this seems extreme. Harper was just cutting fruit for you…” “So everyone knows we have a bad marriage,” Carter laughed bitterly. I backed away silently. I understood. Carter thinks he’s dying. He’s probably having premonitions about reuniting with Zoey in the afterlife or something. And now, he wants to divorce me. And leave me with nothing. 6 I was done. I moved into the guest room immediately. I called my lawyer to draft divorce papers and booked a full-body health checkup (just in case). Late that night, I was lying on the rug in the living room, venting to my best friend on the phone. “…If anyone says Carter is a good guy, I’ll scream. It’s a moral issue!” “I knew arranged marriages were a scam!” I started crying. “You don’t know how hard my life is! Carter is so mean! I miss you so much, babe!” Click. The living room light turned on. I froze and looked back. Carter was standing there like a ghost. He stared at my phone, his face pale. “Harper.” “Is it him?” 7 “Who I talk to is none of your business,” I snapped, hanging up. “And eavesdropping is rude.” Carter looked like he was in physical pain. “Is calling another man ‘babe’ privacy?” “I’m your husband. You’ve never called me that.” I laughed. He wants me to call him babe? Go ask Zoey! I smelled alcohol on him. “Babe,” I said, my voice flat and dead. “Happy now?” Carter lowered his head, hiding his red eyes. “Can I go to sleep now?” I asked, walking past him and slamming the guest room door. 8 I didn’t know that after I left, Carter stood in the dark living room for hours. He covered his face in despair. It was happening again. The cold look. The annoyance. The slam of the door. It matched the visions he saw while in his coma. In his visions, Harper falls in love with another man. She smiles at him, kisses him, and then ruthlessly divorces Carter. In the vision, Harper mocks him: “Carter, you are boring. Sex was the only interesting thing about you, and now even that’s boring.” “I hate you. My kindness was all an act.” “You loved me for ten years? Wow, you’re such a ninja. Want a medal?” “Your love makes me sick.” So, that was her truth. When Carter woke up from the coma, he wrote down a list of every potential male rival. It was ten pages long. He felt like he was going crazy. Has the man already appeared? No. Harper wouldn’t do this. She must have been manipulated by that “Other Man”! Who is he?! Carter took a deep breath. He had one year until the divorce timeline. He had to change fate. This time, the man Harper lives happily ever after with… must be him.

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I walked up to them with a heavy wooden club in my hand, right as Alexander Knight and the younger Eliza Thorne were about to share a private moment. “If you dare take her out again, I will break your leg.” “Excuse me, who the hell are you?” They both turned simultaneously, Alex’s arm instinctively shooting out to shield Eliza. The memory of that protective gesture—a gesture he would repeat countless times in our life together—flickered violently through my mind. The club was trembling slightly in my grip, but my voice was unnervingly calm. “Me? I’m Eliza Thorne, eight years from now.” Alex laughed. It was that familiar, condescending chuckle I knew so well. “You’re crazy.” He reached for his phone to call 911. But Eliza’s hand shot out, pressing his down. She peered around his shoulder, her eyes wide with a hesitant curiosity. “Eight years from now?” I looked at the girl standing before me, twenty years old, her eyes bright enough to hold starlight, every strand of her hair practically humming with life. Of course, without a closer look, she wouldn’t recognize the shell of a woman who stood before her—the 28-year-old version. A woman whose eyes were dull and lifeless, whose body was soft and out of shape from pregnancy and childbirth, and who reeked of exhaustion and resentment. “The scar on your knee? You got that falling off your bike trying to grab an ice cream cone when you were seven. Your journal is hidden beneath the mattress in your bedroom. And you always use your left hand to push the front door open when you come in.” I spoke slowly and clearly, each word a cold, hard fact. Alex glanced from her to me, then back to her, pulling her close to his side. “Liz, honey, is this some crazy relative of yours? Let’s just go. Don’t pay her any attention.” But Eliza’s feet were rooted to the pavement. She shook off Alex’s hand and took a step toward me, beginning a detailed examination of my face, searching my eyes. Eight years can change a lot, but some things time can’t erase: the curve of the brow bone, that tiny, almost invisible scar on the lower lip, the faint mole at the corner of the left eye. None of it had changed. Her breathing hitched. “Are you really me, eight years from now?” “No way, Liz, you actually believe her? She’s clearly a scammer.” Alex looked utterly exasperated, reaching out to pull her away again. “We are calling the police right now.” I looked at Alexander Knight, this still-green man who would instinctively protect me, and forced a smile. “Alex, you saved up three months’ worth of pocket money to buy the ring. It’s sitting right now in your left pant pocket, and you planned to give it to her tonight, didn’t you?” The hand he was using to pull the twenty-year-old version of me away froze, then unconsciously, and with utter disbelief, reached to cover his pocket. The next second, he looked at my hand and challenged me. “If you’re the Liz from eight years in the future, then why aren’t you wearing a ring?” “Maybe because, later on, we never actually stayed together?” I countered, staring him down. “We will.” Alex’s denial was immediate and resolute. He squeezed Eliza’s hand tightly. “I love Liz. I will only ever want her for the rest of my life, and she feels the same way. We will be together, we’ll get married, we’ll have a kid, and we’ll live happily ever after.” Twenty-two-year-old Alex Knight: his love was hot, bright, and utterly blind, convinced of a future paved in gold. And he was right. We did love each other. We did walk down the aisle. We did have a child. As for the happily ever after? I ran a thumb over my left ring finger. Now, there was only a pale scar. A scar I got in the second year of our marriage, when Alex scratched me with the very ring he had given me. Our daughter, Maya, liked the ring—an eight-year-old style that had long been discontinued. So, he came to demand it from me for her. He’d said then, “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Maya have it?” I refused. He tried to grab it, and in the struggle, he tore the sharp edge across my finger. “Who is Maya?” I asked, looking at the young Eliza, whose hand was still tightly held by Alex, their bond already palpable. “Maya is the woman who will eventually sleep in your marital bed, wear your wedding ring, and call me a crazy bitch.” The color drained from Alex’s face. “That’s impossible.” I thought so too. Alex was obsessed with me. I was the center of his universe. He was terrified of me ever feeling wronged. How could he possibly fall in love with someone else? So, when I first saw the cute little bunny charm dangling from the rearview mirror of his car, I didn’t question it. I assumed it was a new prototype from his design studio. Twenty-nine-year-old Alex had opened an independent design studio, specializing in lifestyle and artistic products. He was constantly busy with new product development, production, and networking events. My life, meanwhile, was consumed by our infant daughter—a relentless cycle of formula, diapers, and screaming fits. My sleep was fragmented, and the thought of finding time to look in the mirror felt like a luxury. But trust was the bedrock of our relationship. I trusted him as I trusted myself. Until later, when I reached into the narrow gap between the passenger seat and the center console and felt a long strand of auburn hair. I pinched the strand, holding it up in the gloom of the underground parking garage. “Whose is this?” He barely glanced at it, not a single muscle in his face twitching. “Oh, I gave Summer a ride home today. It must be hers.” “Who is Summer?” Alex slapped his forehead, feigning annoyance at his own forgetfulness. “I’ve been so busy lately, I forgot to tell you. I hired a new junior assistant. Her name is Summer.” I silently dropped the hair out the window. The next day, I made an effort to get myself ready, then took our daughter to his studio. In the office, a young, pretty girl was leaning over the computer screen, debating the curve of a certain design line with Alex. As she spoke, her auburn hair would occasionally brush against his cheek. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” The two of them sprang apart as if electrocuted. Alex awkwardly tugged at his tie. “What are you doing here?” I shifted our daughter in my arms. “You haven’t been home for a few days. We missed you, so we came to visit.” Alex came over and took Maya from me, a look of guilt washing over his face. “That’s my fault. I’ve been swamped. As soon as this new collection launches, I promise I’ll make it up to you both.” I glanced at the computer screen. It displayed two stylized human figures. “What’s the name of this collection?” “A Lifetime Too Late.” The girl answered brightly. I looked at the vibrant, spirited girl. “You must be Summer. Did you just graduate from college?” “I’m twenty.” Alex chimed in casually, “Summer looks exactly like you did when you were twenty.” In some quiet corner of my heart, something went ping. The sound of ice cracking—the first, impossibly fine line in a frozen expanse. The twenty-year-old Eliza in front of me asked, “What happened after that?” I rubbed the small of my back. Since the birth of our daughter, it was a constant, dull ache. I slowly walked over and sat on a nearby bench. The wind swept between the three of us, seemingly carrying the heavy burden of those eight years. After that? After that came countless nights of self-doubt. I blamed the grind of motherhood, believing that I had become too suspicious, too unlovable. I tried not to check his phone for text messages, I stopped questioning his late nights. I desperately tried to make myself attractive again. Until the day I brought our daughter home a day early from the hospital—she’d been running a high fever—and found them, naked, in our bed. Clutching my daughter, who was asleep from the medication, my arm went stiff and a cold chill ran up my spine. I pushed open the door to the nursery and gently settled Maya into her crib. Turning to walk toward the bedroom door, the floor felt like a swamp. Each step was too heavy to lift. Alex was habitually leaning back against the headboard, smoking a cigarette. Summer was nestled into his arms. “I just wish I’d met you sooner, before that old woman hogged all this time.” “Don’t be silly.” Alex smiled, full of sickening indulgence. “How old were you when I met her? It’s not too late. We’re starting now.” Alex turned his head, his gaze colliding with mine in the narrow crack of the door. The hand holding the cigarette paused, a minuscule, tell-tale twitch. Summer finally turned and saw me, letting out a sharp gasp, immediately grabbing the duvet to wrap around herself. I looked at the king-sized bed we had picked out together, at the scrap of lacy lingerie that wasn’t mine carelessly tossed on our wedding portrait. A thousand words condensed into one quiet question. “Why?” Thirty-year-old Alex draped his arm around Summer’s shoulder and said calmly, “Because I love her.” Before me, twenty-two-year-old Alex’s face instantly darkened. He unconsciously gripped the young Eliza’s hand tighter, his voice strained with disbelief. “That’s not right. I would never do that to you. I would never love anyone else.” See? Even his younger self couldn’t comprehend or accept the cruelty of the man he was destined to become. How could he possibly love someone else? I went insane, lunging forward to claw at Summer, only to be shoved violently back onto the floor by Alex. He looked down at me, utterly devoid of warmth. “Don’t blame Summer, Liz. I’m completely in love with her.” His eyes dropped to my left hand. “Give me the ring. Summer really likes this style.” I refused. It was the one thing I cherished, the symbol of the very beginning of our love story. He lunged for it, his fingers digging into the metal band, and yanked hard. The ring snapped and flew off, leaving behind this permanent scar on my finger. “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Summer have it?” It was true. A person’s heart really could change. It could become so cold, so ruthlessly final. In a single moment, everything we built was pulverized. The twenty-year-old Eliza broke free from Alex, rushing forward to hug me. “It must have hurt so much.” The tears I had been holding back finally broke free. My body shook uncontrollably. “It hurt, baby. It hurt so much that I became a crazy woman.” I compiled their filthy secret into short videos, added desperate captions, and posted them on every social media platform I could find. I printed out banners and hung them outside our condo complex and his studio. I clung to our marriage certificate, refusing to sign the divorce papers, hoping to forever nail Summer to a pillar of shame—a forever-unseen mistress. But in the dead of night, I would still break down and text him, demanding to know why he had betrayed me. None of it worked. Alex easily had my videos deleted and my accounts suspended. The building security guards politely, but firmly, escorted me away when I showed up with my banners. Finally, Alex looked at my hands, which were shaking from the medication I was on, his eyes filled with only deeper contempt. “Stop making a scene, Liz. All you’re doing is making me look down on you even more.” Then, he delivered the final, most devastating blow. One afternoon, while I was passed out from exhaustion and a mental breakdown, he and Summer returned and took my daughter. “Your current mental state makes you completely unfit to raise a child.” His voice was cold, flat, through the phone line. “I’m applying to the court. From now on, you can only see Maya once a month.” “Or, you can sign the divorce papers quickly, and I might consider relaxing the visitation terms. You choose.” In the end, I compromised. I signed the divorce agreement. “And after that? Why did you come here?” The day I signed the divorce papers, Alex’s studio officially launched its new collection with great fanfare: “A Lifetime Too Late.” A massive banner, bearing a romanticized quote about fated, timeless love, was plastered across the venue. At the product launch, they unveiled two giant, special edition sculptures: a fox tightly embracing a small, delicate pink bunny. Alex and Summer attended, each wearing matching fox and bunny lapel pins. Under the flashing cameras, Alex’s gaze rested softly on Summer. “I’m ten years her senior. When we met, she was in the absolute prime of her youth, and I thought my life was already set in stone,” he said to the crowd. “She always tells me, ‘A lifetime too late.’ It was that pure, passionate sentiment that struck me. She is my muse.” He put an arm around Summer. “Today is not just the launch of my new series, but the beginning of a new chapter in my life. This collection is the testament to our story. I hope everyone, after all the detours, finally finds their true love.” The room erupted in applause. And I? I was lying in a bathtub, watching the water slowly turn red. On my phone screen, I watched the thirty-year-old Alex’s face warp and rewind, settling back into the twenty-two-year-old version I now stood before. He said he would love me forever. Then, I heard a voice asking if I wanted a chance to go back. I said yes, without a second thought. I wiped a tear and looked at the speechless Alexander Knight. “That is why I’m here.” The twenty-year-old Eliza spoke softly, lifting a hand to stroke my hair with genuine sorrow. “You must be so angry.” “It’s not anger,” I heard myself say, my throat tight. “It’s just that the ache lasted too long.” The club slipped from my grasp, hitting the ground with a deafening CLANG. Tears streamed down my face simultaneously. “Changing others is too hard,” I said. “We can only try to stop the us who was rushing headlong into this.” “So, the choice is yours now. The future depends entirely on you. Do you want to try and choose a different future for yourself?” The twenty-year-old Eliza’s hand froze mid-air, beginning to tremble slightly. Twenty-two-year-old Alex suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the young Eliza by the shoulders, his knuckles white. “Something must have gone wrong!” His voice was frantic, carrying the conviction of his age. “I swear, I truly love you, Liz. Only you. I’ve never even heard of a ‘Summer.’ I would never want anyone but you.” He cupped the young Eliza’s face, forcing her to look at him, his eyes blazing with an intensity and sincerity that the thirty-year-old man had long lost—only complete devotion and pleading. “Don’t listen to her, honey.” “Don’t leave me. We will have a different future. I promise I’ll do better. I’ll protect you forever. We won’t turn out like she says, absolutely not!” His vows, carried on the evening breeze, sounded both profoundly earnest and tragically fragile. But then again, he’d sounded just as resolute before. Love and neglect, deep affection and brutal betrayal, could apparently coexist in the same man. I looked down at my watch. “Eliza, you have ten minutes to think. After that, I will disappear. You might remember today as a strange event, or maybe just a blurry dream.” “But your choice, it has to be made in these ten minutes.” From far away, the indistinct noise of traffic and the city’s low hum drifted toward us, as if a parallel universe was operating as normal. Twenty-two-year-old Alex was still desperately pleading, trying to control the present with his unrestrained love. And the twenty-year-old Eliza? Her gaze was fixed on my face. She looked at the ugly scar on my ring finger, at the sheer exhaustion and despair radiating from me. Then, just as I faded from existence, she finally spoke. I opened my eyes in a hospital room.

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I reclaimed the three properties and the half-million-dollar trust fund I had put in my daughter’s name. She knelt before me, crying and begging, “Mom, I can’t live without him!” I refused without a moment’s hesitation. She wiped her tears, stood up, and told me she would rather disown me as her mother than give up on marrying that gold digger. The next day, the gold digger himself showed up with a gift, asking to meet with me alone. 01 When I arrived, Ryan was already there. We were in the most exclusive café in the city center. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows lay the bustling financial district, its glittering towers reflected in the glass, and in the pained sincerity of Ryan’s face. His coffee was untouched. A beautifully wrapped gift box sat on the table. I ignored the gift, sat down opposite him, and placed my Birkin bag on the adjacent chair. “Mrs. Heaton, you’re here,” he said, half-standing before settling back down, his smile perfectly calibrated. “Olivia didn’t sleep well last night. I was so worried about her.” His opening line, as always, was that of a devoted, caring boyfriend. I stirred the ice in the glass of water in front of me, not even bothering to order a coffee. The cubes clinked against the glass, a sharp, cold sound. “Get to the point,” I said, my gaze as sharp and dissecting as a scalpel. The smile on his face froze for a second before stretching back into place, though it no longer reached his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “Mrs. Heaton, you’re a smart woman.” “Olivia loves me. She loves me enough to give up everything, including you.” A sharp pain lanced through my chest. The stirring stopped. He seemed pleased with my reaction, the curve of his lips deepening. He began to list all the “foolish” things my daughter had done for him. She ate the cheapest cafeteria food for two months just to buy him a designer watch. She lent him her car so he could show off to his friends, while she squeezed onto the subway for over an hour every day to get to work. To protect his pathetic ego, she never dared to mention our family’s true financial standing, telling him only that I was a mid-level corporate employee. Each story was a blunt needle, pushing slowly but surely into my heart. The spoon in my glass trembled slightly, but I betrayed nothing on my face. “And?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. Finally, he showed his true colors. “So, give Olivia back the properties and the money.” “After we’re married, you’ll still be her mother. We’ll take care of you, just like before.” He paused, the threat in his eyes now naked and unvarnished. “Otherwise, you might find it very difficult to even see her again.” The café’s heating seemed to fail. A chill crept up from the floor. I stared at him, at the undisguised greed and calculation in his eyes. This was no longer an attempt to persuade me. This was a declaration of war. As if that weren’t enough, he added one more piece of ammunition. “Mrs. Heaton, Olivia is still young, and sometimes she acts on impulse.” “What if, one day, we were to have an… accident? A baby? Surely you wouldn’t want your own grandchild to be born into a family without your blessing.” He was using my daughter’s womb to threaten me. I laughed. A cold, mirthless laugh that felt foreign on my face, making the muscles ache. “Your ambition isn’t worthy of my daughter.” He laughed too, a smug, sickening sound of absolute confidence. “No, Mrs. Heaton, you’re mistaken.” “It’s your daughter who can’t live without my ‘love’.” 02 When I got home, a half-packed suitcase was already in the entryway. My daughter, Olivia, was sitting on the rug, her eyes red and swollen. She looked like a little rabbit abandoned by the world. She shot to her feet the moment she saw me, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and hurt. I changed my shoes, walked to the living room sofa, and calmly recounted my entire conversation with Ryan. I didn’t add a single embellishment, didn’t inject any emotion. I was a recording, playing back his every word. I thought that would be enough to make her see him for who he truly was. I was wrong. Her reaction was even more explosive than I had anticipated. “You forced him to do it!” Her voice was shrill, laced with tears, every word an accusation. “He loves me so much! He was just trying to show you how much I love him! He was trying to reassure you! He was doing it for both of us!” For us? By threatening me? Seeing how deeply she had been manipulated, my heart sank, piece by piece, into an icy abyss. “Mom, is money the only thing you see?” “You’ve never believed I could find true love! You measure everything in dollars and cents. You don’t understand what pure love is!” My own marriage had failed years ago precisely because I had trusted a man who was only after my money, a mistake that nearly cost me everything I had built. I thought my past would be a cautionary tale for her. Instead, it became her weapon against me. She saw my caution as an insult to her love. Any explanation now would be pointless, twisted into further proof of my “controlling” nature. I couldn’t say a word. I just watched her. My silence seemed to enrage her further. She zipped the suitcase shut with a violent tug and dragged it to the door. She turned back, tears streaming down her young, stubborn face. “I’m moving in with Ryan.” “We’ll let you know after we get our marriage license.” “You’re going to regret this, Mom! You’ll see how wrong you were today!” The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the house. It felt like it had shattered the twenty-three years of love between us. I stared at the closed door, a profound sense of powerlessness washing over me for the first time in my life. I was alone in the vast, empty living room. Photos of her, from a babbling toddler to a proud college graduate, lined the walls, each smiling face a mockery of my failure. I had raised an accomplished, kind-hearted daughter. But I had failed to teach her how cruel the world could be. After a long time, I took out my phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Davis, I need you to find me the most reliable private investigator you know.” “I need a full background check on a man named Ryan. His family, his social circles, his past relationships, his finances. Everything. I want to know everything.” I hung up and didn’t turn on the lights. I sat there in the darkness, all night long. Grief washed over me like a tidal wave, but from the ruins of that sorrow, a harder, colder resolve began to grow. 03 The private investigator was efficient. Less than three days later, the first report arrived in my encrypted inbox. Ryan’s hometown was in a dirt-poor, rural county, in a village nestled deep in the mountains. His parents were farmers with antiquated, misogynistic views that were truly appalling. They had bled themselves and their several daughters dry to put their one son, Ryan, through college. He had a younger brother, five years his junior, a high school dropout who loafed around at home, the lazy, spoiled hope of the family. Most of Ryan’s salary since he started working had been funneled back home. He himself lived in a tiny, 300-square-foot studio apartment near his office. I looked at the photos—the crumbling house, the weathered lines on his parents’ faces, the sneer on his bleach-blond brother’s face. This was the “simple, kind-hearted” family he had told Olivia about. At almost the same moment, my “mole” sent me a message. The mole was my distant niece, Sarah, a couple of years older than Olivia. I had introduced them as friends. Sarah’s text read: Aunt Katherine, it’s bad. Ryan brought his whole family to the city! Attached was a photo. Four people were crammed into that tiny apartment. Ryan’s parents sat on the only worn-out sofa, their expressions a mixture of discomfort and scrutiny. His brother was slouched in a chair, legs crossed, engrossed in his phone. And my daughter, Olivia, was in the cramped kitchen, wearing an apron, her back to the camera. She looked so utterly out of place. Sarah’s play-by-play followed. The moment his mom met Olivia, she grabbed her hand and asked when the three properties would be transferred back to her name. She said she and the old man were getting old and needed one to retire in. His brother was getting married soon and needed one for his marital home. The last one, they could live in. Olivia awkwardly explained the properties weren’t in her name right now, and his mom’s face just fell. She started making snide remarks, like ‘City girls are so precious. Not even married yet and already talking back to her mother-in-law.’ I could practically see the scene, see the helpless, cornered look on my daughter’s face. And the brother is even worse! He just flat-out asked Olivia for money to buy the new iPhone, acting like she owed it to him! Ryan just stood there trying to smooth things over, saying things like ‘Don’t make it hard for Olivia,’ but he was giving her these looks, like he was telling her to just play along. In the end, Olivia had no choice. She transferred him a thousand dollars from the two thousand she had left in her account. That two thousand dollars was graduation money I had given her. Aunt Katherine, I was so furious I could have exploded! How can Olivia be so blind?! The last message contained a few audio recordings. I pressed play. It was the sharp, grating voice of Ryan’s mother. “What is this supposed to be? It’s so salty, it’s slop fit for pigs! Olivia, you should just quit your job. A young woman shouldn’t be out in the world like this. Quit, stay home, learn to cook properly, and get your body ready to give our family a healthy grandson!” In the background, I could hear his brother shouting at a video game and Ryan’s half-hearted, “Mom, that’s enough.” I turned off my phone, my fingertips ice-cold. Excellent. The fish were starting to take the bait. I looked out at the inky black sky, my own eyes darker than the night. The show was just beginning.

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The day Liam was diagnosed with a condition that left him unable to feel love, he asked the doctor if he would ever be capable of it. The doctor gave a noncommittal answer. I squeezed Liam’s hand. He pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. He proposed a platonic marriage, explaining that intimate contact made him uncomfortable. I agreed, assuming it was just part of his condition. We slept in separate rooms for seven years. Until yesterday, when I found a folded sonogram report tucked inside a book he often read. Gestational Age: 20 weeks. Name: Isla Vance. Date: Three months ago. On the back, in his handwriting: “Prenatal appointment: City General Maternity, Wednesday afternoon.” So it wasn’t that he didn’t want a child. He just didn’t want one with me. Liam, that’s ten lies. I told you. After the last one, I would walk out of your life and never look back. 1 I put the sonogram report back where I found it and acted as if nothing had happened. We were at the breakfast table. He sat down, drank his coffee, and read the financial news. His coffee was black today. That was careless. He was never careless. “Liam,” I said, cutting into my fried egg. “It’s Wednesday.” “Mm,” he answered, not looking up. “Do you have plans this afternoon?” “A meeting.” A nervous swallow. An unconscious touch of his nose. He was lying again. The eleventh time. I nodded and kept eating. The egg was hard. It had just come off the pan, but it felt cold. Today was our seventh wedding anniversary. He had promised me last night that he would spend it with me. But now, he had either completely forgotten, or he had never cared in the first place. “I bought a new potted ivy yesterday. It’s on the windowsill.” “Fine.” He turned a page in the magazine. Still so cold. He didn’t even glance my way. The ivy was already dead. I’d discovered it last week while watering it, the roots rotted through. But I didn’t throw it out. I just let it wither on the sill. He had probably never even noticed it. His phone screen lit up. I caught a glimpse of the notification: “City General Maternity reminder: Prenatal appointment today at 3:00 PM. Please be on time.” He quickly blanked the screen. “The soup’s getting cold,” I said, pushing the bowl closer to him. He took a spoonful, then paused. “Did you put ginger in this?” “To warm you up,” I said, looking at him. “You’ve been coming home so late recently. I was worried you’d catch a chill.” He didn’t say anything else, just finished the soup. His mind was elsewhere, his gaze shifting away from mine. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his jawline tight. For over two thousand days and nights, every time I needed him to see me, he was always looking somewhere else. I acted as if nothing was wrong. I threw away the ivy he had given me. It was completely rotten. There was no reason to keep it. People are the same. At two in the afternoon, I said I was going to the library. Instead, I turned right out the door and went into the coffee shop across from the maternity hospital. At ten past three, he appeared at the hospital entrance. He was wearing a dark gray overcoat and carrying a file folder. A young woman with long hair, dressed in a cream-colored knit dress, walked toward him. That was Isla. I’d seen her picture in our high school yearbook. The dimples that appeared when she smiled were identical to the ones on the girl in the graduation photo tucked away in Liam’s wallet. They came out just as I was finishing my third Americano. He helped her down the steps, his hand cupping her elbow, a light, protective gesture he never released. When Liam’s car pulled away, I hailed a taxi. “Follow that black Mercedes,” I told the driver. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror but didn’t ask any questions. He had driven back to the maternity hospital. He walked into the lobby carrying a paper bag, his steps quicker than usual. I didn’t get out of the cab. Through the window, I watched as Liam leaned down and kissed Isla’s forehead. Like a devoted husband. He and I had never been so intimate in public. Every time I tried to take his hand, he would gently pull away. Isla took the bag, looked inside, and her eyes curved into crescents as she smiled. He reached out and very lightly touched her stomach. A gesture so natural it looked like he’d practiced it a hundred times. It was the middle of winter, but the air in the car felt thick, suffocating. I rolled down the window, and the cold wind that rushed in finally cleared my head. There was a time when I wanted a child with him, too. But that was a long time ago. Disappointment after disappointment had worn me down. Liam, I don’t think I love you that much anymore. 2 My phone vibrated. A message from him: “Won’t be home for dinner tonight.” I typed back: “Okay. Happy anniversary.” Three minutes later, a question mark appeared. But he deleted it almost immediately. “You too.” Two words. He couldn’t even be bothered to ask what anniversary it was. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight with him. It was just that the disappointment had piled up so high that I was too tired to dig through the past. I told the driver to take me to the waterfront. The wind was strong, whipping my hair across my face. A couple was taking wedding photos by the shore. The bride’s white veil billowed in the wind, and the groom laughed as he held down the hem of her dress. We never had wedding photos. He said he didn’t like being in front of a camera. Looking back now, I realize he just didn’t like being in front of a camera with me. As dusk fell, I went to the restaurant we used to frequent. The table for two I had booked was half empty. Steak, red wine, candlelight. And a small cake with “Happy 7th Anniversary” written on it. I finished my portion, then cut up his steak and slowly ate that, too. I tried a bite of the cake. It was too sweet. So sweet it was bitter. When I paid the bill, the manager recognized me. “Mrs. White, Mr. White isn’t with you tonight?” “He’s busy,” I said with a smile. As I walked out of the restaurant, I got a text from my bank. A large sum of money had been transferred to my account. The memo read: “Gift.” He always used money to solve everything. Wedding anniversaries, birthdays, even last year when I was hospitalized with a fever. He transferred money with a note: “Hire a nurse.” That was just him. He would throw money at a problem rather than offer a single word of comfort. It wasn’t until today that I realized he did know how to take care of someone. That someone just wasn’t me. And he would never, ever see me. We met on a blind date. He said I was a good fit for him. We dated like a normal couple, except I never once saw a spark of light in his eyes. He would prepare for our anniversaries. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses, every grand gesture I could have wanted. But he was always so detached. I thought he just had trouble expressing himself. It turns out his heart already belonged to someone else. Later, when we got married, we didn’t have a wedding. Our friends all thought Liam was just painfully shy. The truth was, I was afraid to stand on that stage and see no recognition in his eyes as he placed the ring on my finger. I was afraid that when the officiant asked, “Do you take this man?” my “I do” would be louder than his. It was nearly midnight when I got home. He still wasn’t back. The door to his study was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and saw a gift box sitting on his desk, already opened. Inside was a tiny baby onesie, pale blue, with little airplanes embroidered on the cuffs. I picked it up, imagining how carefully he must have chosen it. I saw the open journal next to it. His parents wouldn’t let him be with Isla. And I was the most suitable marriage partner. He had met twenty other women that day. None of them were right. Until he saw me. He stopped searching. Because I looked so much like Isla. Our marriage certificate was a lie. He had never seen me as his wife, only as an obligation. This whole marriage was a mistake from the very beginning. So, Liam. Let’s just call it quits. 3 I heard footsteps on the stairs. I folded the onesie exactly as it had been and placed it back in the box. As I walked out of the study, I passed him in the hallway. “You’re home,” I said. “Mm.” He smelled faintly of lilies. I hate lilies. “I went to that steakhouse today,” I said, leaning against the wall. “It tasted the same.” He paused in the middle of loosening his tie. “Alone?” “Who else?” I smiled. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of scrutiny in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Get some rest,” he said, then went into the study. The door clicked softly shut. Then I heard the lock turn. That night, I lay in bed and heard the faint sound of music coming from the study. It was a piano piece he used to listen to often. I had once downloaded the same album, and he had frowned. “It’s noise,” he’d said. Now I understood. Isla liked to play the piano. It must be difficult for her now, with her belly so large. So he was playing for her. My phone screen glowed in the dark. I opened the airline app and confirmed my flight details. Departure: Tomorrow, 3:40 PM. My bags were already packed and stored in the closet. One small suitcase, just enough to hold everything I owned from this marriage. At four in the morning, I got up for a glass of water. As I passed the study, I saw through the crack in the door that he had fallen asleep at his desk. The lamp was still on, illuminating the open notebook beside his hand. At the top of the page, it said: Liam & Isla. Below was a list: 1. Crib 2. Child car seat 3. Inquire about school districts 4. … The handwriting was neat, the list organized. He had always been meticulous. I gently closed the door and went back to my room. Seven years. Even an iceberg should have melted by now. But Liam White had not. That night, I walked into his room. He was still awake, reading. I sat on the edge of his bed. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t move away. “It’s been seven years,” I said. “Have you ever tried to feel something for me? Anything at all.” He was silent. “Not even a little?” “You are my wife,” he said, avoiding the question. “So it’s just a responsibility?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. When he apologized, he sounded as if he were commenting on the weather. “Liam, I want to have a child with you.” “We can adopt.” I laughed, and tears started to fall. He pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to me, careful not to touch my hand. “Liam,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You’re lying again.” His brow furrowed slightly. “I have never lied to you. I told you I couldn’t love you.” He was right. He had told me. He told me the day he was diagnosed. I was the one who had been lying to myself for seven years. Thinking his condition was the only obstacle. Thinking there was no one else. Thinking time could change things. But I was wrong. I fell apart that night. I cried, I screamed, but he remained unmoved. His calmness made me feel like a hysterical, unreasonable child. He pushed me away, saying my emotions were unstable, that I wasn’t acting like an adult. But he used to say something else. He used to say that since he had no emotions of his own, he was happy to be my emotional dumping ground. It turns out you were just looking through me, at someone else. Dawn was breaking, light seeping through the curtains. I should buy myself some flowers, I thought. Any kind of flower. Just for me. 4 One last time, I lay in this bed. One last time, I listened to the silence of this house. One last time, I was Liam White’s wife. At nine in the morning, before he left, he said to me: “I have a work dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” I stood in the entryway, adjusting his tie. His body stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. “Liam,” I said, letting go. “Your tie is crooked.” He glanced down. “Thank you.” “Drive safe.” He nodded and turned to leave. Just before the elevator doors closed, I saw him raise his wrist to check his watch. His memo from yesterday had noted it. Today was Isla’s birthday. After the door shut, I called the housekeeper. “You don’t need to come in today.” Then I began the final cleanup. My toothbrush, my towel, my slippers. The few clothes in my closet. The half-read book on my nightstand. I erased every trace of myself, as if I had never been there at all. Finally, I placed the sonogram report in his room. At noon, as I was pulling my suitcase through the living room, I found him there. He was watering the ivy. He had bought a new one. He turned around, the small watering can still in his hand. “Where are you going?” he asked. My voice was cold. “A business trip.” He picked up his coat. “I’ll drive you.” He already had his car keys in his hand. I wanted to refuse, but in the end, I just nodded. Fine. One last time. And the first time in seven years he had ever offered to take me anywhere. He opened the trunk and put my suitcase inside. The car was clean, with a faint scent of lemon. The good luck charm hanging from the rearview mirror was one I had gotten from a temple three years ago. He started the car, and warm air blew from the vents. Then, he did a series of things that caught me completely off guard. He turned down the volume of the radio. He switched to the podcast I always listened to. He handed me a cup of coffee. An oat milk latte. My usual. “Picked it up on the way,” he said. I took it. The cup sleeve was my favorite shade of light blue. No sugar, extra milk, the temperature just right. He knew all my preferences. He had just pretended not to see them. I think he must have seen the sonogram report on the table. He didn’t even ask how I found it. Maybe he didn’t think it was important. We had a silent agreement not to mention it, but we both knew. As we drove out of the neighborhood, I stared at the logo on the coffee cup. This coffee shop was near my office. It wasn’t on his route. It was a twenty-minute detour. “Send me your flight number,” he said, his eyes on the road. “I’ll pick you up when you get back.” I didn’t say anything. “There’s a new movie out.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while waiting at a red light. “The one you said you wanted to see.” I looked down and sipped my coffee. “Liam,” I said, watching the city streak past the window. “Do you remember what my least favorite flower is?” He was silent for two seconds. “Lilies.” The air in the car turned to ice. The podcast host was laughing, saying, “In Iceland, saying goodbye is such a light, simple thing.” She was right. Goodbye is light. So very light. I didn’t bring up Isla. It was the last bit of dignity I was affording him. I was tired. I had no interest in dissecting his feelings. I just wanted to live my own life. I pushed the car door open, and a blast of cold air rushed in. “Liam.” “Do you know what day it is today?” His lips moved, but no sound came out. He touched his nose again. Nervous, blushing, unable to meet my eyes. The trunk popped open automatically. I got my suitcase and pulled up the handle. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving.” Before I left, I said one last thing, without turning back. “Liam. You said you could never learn to love anyone.” “But you learned how to lie.” Goodbye, Liam.

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My junior brother used my photos to catfish the school belle, but ended up hooking the fierce school bully instead. The bully was so furious he posted a warning thread online. [My roommate is a pervert, can I kill him?] [He still insists the goddess in the picture is his sister.] Netizens advised him to think twice: what if the pervert really has a fairy-like sister? The bully didn’t believe it, saying no one could be that beautiful. Until he saw me cheering for the opposing team on the basketball court. He hurriedly updated the thread. [My brother-in-law is doomed, but he sleeps like the dead, what do I do? Can I warm the bed instead?] 1 Since we were kids, I’ve known my twin brother was an idiot. When I was doing Math Olympiad, he was playing with poop. While I was winning awards left and right, his teachers hinted he should get his brain checked. I skipped three grades and got into college early; he was tormented by high school knowledge, not knowing which way was up. Finally, the year I was about to graduate, he barely scraped into the same university. Not long after school started, he fell in love. He shyly told me he was going to pursue the school belle. The school belle liked girls. But he said love could conquer all. He shared his simp diary with me every day. “Sis, I finally got her number!” “She actually said hi to me, so happy, so happy~” “The school belle’s emojis are cute, her words are cute, sweet girls really save the world!” “!!!” “Sis, help me, help me, she asked me out tomorrow, what do I do?” “…” “It’s over, I was so excited I smashed my phone, I have to use this laggy old one now, boohoo, so good sister, will you sponsor a new phone for your brother~” “Hehe, I finally succeeded, Sis, you must come tomorrow, you must!” “Sis, help your brother win this tough battle tomorrow, okay~” Followed by a few cheeky emojis. When I received Ben’s message, I was rushing a paper. Without thinking much, I agreed haphazardly. I revised until midnight before submitting the result I was most satisfied with to my advisor. After happily scrolling through my phone for a while. I remembered the school belle was known for being a cool, aloof queen. Where was the sweetness? Also, could an idiot like Ben really catch the school belle? Before I could figure it out, a friend forwarded me a campus forum post. Saying the content was quite explosive. I threw my brain aside and started reading. The OP was fierce. [My roommate is a pervert, can I kill him?] 2 The onlookers were excited. [How perverted? Please elaborate.] [Hahaha I get it, I get it, OP is a man, roommate is a man, men talking about men being perverted is just that, hehehe~] [Bestie, the BL you love to watch is real!] [Heh, OP is discriminating, reported.] The OP stated he didn’t discriminate against any group, but hated deception. [He photoshopped a stunning photo as his profile picture, I thought he was a woman!] Receiving the reply, the classmates who scolded the OP immediately apologized. [That really is perverted, using a woman’s photo to date a straight man, disgusting beyond measure, sorry for the friendly fire.] This comment got many likes. Occasionally there were replies advising him. [It’s late, don’t make a scene bro, just beat him up a couple of times to vent, being roommates it’s not worth it.] [How did you just find out your roommate is a pervert?] The OP replied to him. [I’m a freshman, mixed dorm, rarely stay in the dorm, don’t interact much with roommates, and usually he acts silly.] [Thinking about it now, maybe he was playing dumb.] [Can I really not kill him? I even bought a shovel.] [Oh, he confessed the profile picture isn’t photoshopped, it’s stolen from his sister, dying of laughter, how is that possible!] In just a few minutes, more people flooded under the post. Watching the drama with great pleasure. I also laughed out loud, twisting like a maggot on the bed. Until I scrolled to a blurry dorm photo at the bottom. Suddenly I couldn’t laugh anymore. In the bottom left corner of the photo was a gray backpack, hanging a familiar squirrel plushie. It looked exactly like the ugly one Ben won from a claw machine. Coincidentally, the post updated. [Can’t take a beating at all, started crying before I even got serious, he keeps saying the profile picture is his sister, his sister looks like that, something about catfishing the wrong person.] [He also said his sister is coming to help him tomorrow.] [Does that mean a fight? His sister is in the underworld.] [Fine, tomorrow I’ll just beat them both up and be done with it!] !!! F*ck, that dead pervert wouldn’t be my brother, right! 3 My brain crashed instantly. Numbly refreshing the post and flipping through replies for clues. Finally, I accepted my fate with tears. That idiot who used his sister’s photo to catfish the school belle but caught his roommate instead was my twin brother from the same parents. Ahhh, Ben, you’re dead! [Whoa, big talk, not afraid of the underworld, OP sounds tough, doesn’t seem like a freshman.] [Upstairs, don’t say not like a freshman, not even like a human! Could he be from the underworld too?] [So fierce, so crazy, so domineering, OP’s identity must be extraordinary.] [Hahaha that arrogant disdainful tone, I think I know who it is, let me reveal a bit, more badass than the underworld, the principal begged him to attend this school!] [Wow wow wow, that’s a true young master!] Reading the replies below, I got more and more alarmed. Years of life experience and novel reading told me, there are three types of “masters” you can’t mess with in this world. The old master crossing the street, the master you owe money to, and, the young master of a certain family! Which one isn’t trouble and hard to deal with? The urge to kill Ben reached its peak at this moment. Scrolling with my fingers, I subconsciously switched to the chat screen. When I calmed down, [Ben, you’re dead!] had already been sent successfully. After a long time, a voice message came from the other side. I hesitated and clicked it. The idiot’s scream pierced my eardrums “Sis, Sis, save me!” Luckily I was wearing headphones, my roommates couldn’t hear. Following that, was a clear, cold sneer. “Gutsy, which side are you from? How many people tomorrow?” 4 Realizing Ben’s phone had been commandeered. I typed and deleted. [Just me? Um, actually this is a misunderstanding…] He seemed angry. Without waiting for me to explain clearly, he unilaterally ended the conversation. “Look down on me? Fine, respect your decision, my principle is not hitting women, I’ll give you a two-hand handicap tomorrow.” Voice strong and powerful, sounds like he can really fight! I suddenly didn’t want to care about Ben anymore. Forget it, the battle of the century has always been like this, sleep! Before closing my eyes, the replies under the post suddenly became crooked. [OP have you ever thought, what if his sister really looks like the photo?] [So what? Does it affect beating people tomorrow?] [Upstairs forgot why OP was tricked, the photo must be stunning! Speaking of which how beautiful is she, show us.] [Hehe must be very beautiful, charmed OP so much he lost his north without sleeping with the pervert, photo probably saved.] […] The OP suddenly got anxious, replying one by one. [Impossible, absolutely impossible for anyone to be that beautiful!] [This is a premeditated scam, scammed people and still so arrogant, their chat history is evidence!] [Just a scammer’s trick, will I fall for it!] The alumni who got retorted posted a shrugging emoji. [See, anxious again.] [OP is mad confused, who exactly got into the OP’s thunder list, so hard to guess~] [So mad spinning in circles yet still won’t release the photo, don’t you have a clue in your heart?] The OP ignored everyone, making a bold statement. [First time I’ve been tricked since childhood, meet tomorrow, whoever begs for mercy first is the grandson!] [Those siblings just wait to get beaten!] I pulled a tired smile. Seemed like no way out, actually no way out indeed. 5 Woke up in the morning, phone popped up a message. [Something came up, I’ll tell you the time and place when I decide.] [Buy a helmet, I’ve never hit a woman.] Ha, he’s actually kinda nice. But I don’t want to send myself to death, Ben that idiot caused his own trouble, let him bear it himself! Rare weekend, I decided to vegetate in the dorm and binge dramas. My best friend Hannah came over grinning and hugged my arm. “JoJo, such nice sunshine, let’s go out and play~” Yes, the idiot brother and I took our parents’ surnames respectively. He took my dad’s surname, Ben Evans. I took my mom’s surname, JoJo Quinn. Plus I despised Ben for being too stupid and embarrassing, so people around thought I was an only child. And he didn’t dare say he had a twin sister. Afraid I’d get angry and cut his allowance. “JoJo, there’s a basketball game at the North Playground today, men, all men!” “Heard several freshmen are super handsome!” “Come with me, please~” Unable to withstand her coquetry, I had to go with her to watch the game. The playground was packed. Girls from several surrounding dorm buildings all came! Even from other schools. “Big scene right? Look, they’re all here for Liam.” “He’s the new campus heartthrob, rich second generation, the new teaching building of our school was donated by the King family.” “Also, he didn’t take shortcuts, got in by legitimate exam, handsome to a tragic degree, just a bit fierce.” Hannah pulled me to the front row, pointing at the center of the court. Liam King? I tried to open my eyes, blurringly, saw a big guy who could teleport. “JoJo, how is he?” “Mm, not bad, should be number one in fighting!” 6 Hannah asked if I was okay. Leaned in to look. “Where are your glasses? Take them out and put them on, Liam is so good looking!” “Speaking of which, JoJo you are a recognized beauty, just too low-key didn’t participate in the campus belle contest.” “Sometimes I really want to beg you not to study, isn’t it nice to find a handsome guy to date?” She stared at my face, suddenly changing the topic. I quickly interrupted: “So you support Liam?” She shook her head, looking shyly at the opposing team. Waved at the man in the very front: “No, I support my man.” !!! “What are you surprised about, you study all day, how would you know I found a new boyfriend.” She acted like a shy little wife. “Hehe, want to know the taste of a man?” I covered my face, indicating I didn’t want to. She had to pull me to cheer for her boyfriend. “Damn Liam is sick, why steal my man’s ball!” “Down with Liam, go go go!” “What a messy formation, JoJo, put on your glasses quickly and help me find my man.” Hannah’s voice was too loud, women around threw daggers with their eyes. Even the players on the court were startled. That big guy named Liam looked over. Front row position made it easy to see his face. Sword brows red lips, high nose bridge. Breathing slightly panting with the intense game, Adam’s apple rolling. Broad shoulders narrow waist, sweat wetting the translucent jersey, outlining tight waist and abs. He was very tall, visually over 1.8 meters. The ball landed in front of us, Liam glanced over casually. When sweeping over me. He widened his eyes, the ball he just picked up fell from his hand. Eyes filled with stars suddenly brightened, but then quietly dimmed. Like he discovered something terrible. The whole person was about to shatter.

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