Category: English

Six years. Six years after the ink dried on the divorce papers, I ran into Miles Kingston at The Sweet Spot Bakery. The cashier greeted him with a familiar, easy smile. “Professor Kingston, back for the strawberry shortcake for the wife? The usual, right? I’ll have it boxed up for you.” Miles gave a curt nod. He glanced at the two Mango Dream cakes I was having packaged, then turned back to the cashier. “Add hers to my tab.” I politely refused, already pulling out my phone to pay. But he was faster. His card was swiped before I could object. “Those cakes are ninety-eight dollars apiece, Anya,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar, condescending tone. “You used to have to save up for ages just to treat yourself to one slice. I’m a university professor, I’m doing a little better financially than you are. Don’t be stubborn.” I still wouldn’t accept it. He surveyed my attire—a faded, borrowed trench coat—and sighed. “Anya, it’s been this long. Are you still holding a grudge?” I offered a thin, level smile. “You’re overthinking it.” My fingers traced the large, cool stone of the wedding band resting on my left hand. I had a new husband and a daughter I loved. I didn’t have the time or the energy to hold a grudge against him, or any other man, anymore. Miles’s movements were too fast; he’d already paid. I insisted on paying myself. The cashier gave a flustered, apologetic laugh. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The Professor already took care of it. Maybe you can just transfer to him?” I turned to Miles, my voice clipped but polite. “Open your Venmo, please. I’m paying you back.” Miles sighed, a show of long-suffering patience, and gently pushed the packaged cake box into my hands. “Anya, just take it.” “Your birthday is in three days. Consider these two cakes my gift to you.” His tone was unexpectedly sincere. I ignored his words, my payment app still open. “Just scan my code.” “I don’t want to owe anyone.” Especially not him, and especially not over two cakes meant for my daughter’s afternoon snack. Seeing my stubborn refusal, Miles stood silently for a long moment before finally pulling out his phone. “You haven’t changed at all.” I kept my eyes down, initiating the transfer. He gently stopped my hand. “Anya, you don’t need to be so aggressive about this.” His gaze flicked over my worn jacket again, and he hesitated, a look of pity darkening his features. “I don’t miss a couple hundred dollars. You’d be better off using that money to buy yourself some new clothes.” I paused, then laughed a little. I’d been volunteering at the shelter today and had lent my own thick wool coat to a young woman who was bleeding through her clothes. It was autumn, and the air was getting chilly, so I’d borrowed the first spare jacket I found—a tired, heavy thing that belonged to a facility staff member. Miles clearly thought I was destitute, struggling to make ends meet. I didn’t bother to explain. “Thank you,” I said flatly, and turned to walk away. But his hand shot out and grabbed my arm. “Let me drive you.” My body went rigid. I immediately yanked my arm free. “No need.” “Your wife might misunderstand.” Miles’s hand froze mid-air. He knew. Dahlia—his small, spoiled wife who was eight years his junior—was the master of petty drama and theatrical jealousy. “Anya…” He pressed on, gripping my wrist again. “How about we exchange numbers?” I looked down, silent. Six years ago, the divorce had been a disaster. We hadn’t just deleted and blocked all contact; we had sworn an oath of mutual destruction. I shook my head. “Let’s not.” “You don’t have to hold a grudge anymore, Anya. So much time has passed. I just want to know that you’re doing okay…” He insisted he wanted to add my number so he could Venmo me some money. “Consider it… compensation for the past.” I felt a sudden, sharp urge to laugh. Years ago, I’d fought tooth and nail, sacrificing every shred of my dignity, and hadn’t gotten a single cent of compensation. Now that I no longer needed him, he was running after me, offering a payout. “Honey, I called you! Why didn’t you answer? Who are you talking to?” Just as I was reeling, a young woman in a flashy pink coat skipped over and looped her arm through Miles’s. Seeing me, her smile faltered for only a second before snapping back into place. “Anya! It is you. What a coincidence! It’s been ages. We’ve been trying to find you for years, but no one knew where you went. Even your old colleagues thought you moved out of the country. Where have you been?” I looked at Dahlia Reed, quietly taking in the changes. I could barely recognize her. The needy, timid scholarship student with the frazzled hair and guarded eyes, who once wore plain, ill-fitting clothes. Six years of Miles’s careful cultivation had transformed her into a blinding, fiery red rose. My smile was cordial but distant. “I was abroad, yes.” Dahlia’s eyes widened in theatrical surprise. “Really?” “But Anya, I stopped by a few times after you left. They told me you were going to move back to the boonies, to your hometown…” She was a motor-mouth, but Miles cut her off before she could finish the jab. “Sweetheart, let’s leave the past where it is,” Miles said, giving her hair a familiar, indulgent ruffle. “Your cake is here. It’ll melt if you don’t eat it soon.” Dahlia nibbled on her small cake, talking through a mouthful. “Anya, we finally ran into you! Let us treat you to dinner.” “I know you hate us for what happened back then, but you helped me so much. You sponsored my four years of college. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you…” Dahlia sounded genuinely earnest, as if refusing her would be the height of poor manners. I glanced at my watch. The afternoon was still young. “Fine. I have an hour and a half.” They chose the restaurant. On the way, Dahlia chattered incessantly, occasionally even feeding Miles bits of cake from her mouth. Miles, aware of my presence, looked slightly stiff. He caught her hand when it reached his lips. “Behave, sweetheart. Anya is watching.” Dahlia gave a playful pout and stuck out her tongue. “Sorry, Anya! We’ve been married for a few years, and we’re just used to being like this. Sometimes we can’t even help kissing right in the middle of the street. Please excuse us.” I watched the flicker of smug triumph in her eyes and simply smiled. “Don’t worry about it,” I said calmly. “I got used to more intimate displays of affection back when you were in college—remember the study sessions in our home office? I learned to tune things out a long time ago.” The atmosphere instantly froze. Miles and Dahlia’s faces both paled. I continued walking ahead, my expression utterly serene. Before reaching the restaurant, we passed a fireworks shop. Dahlia immediately lit up. She dragged Miles inside. “Honey, you said you were going to set off fireworks across the whole city for my birthday in three days, didn’t you?” “I want to pick out the design first… You don’t mind, do you, Anya?” I smiled. “I don’t mind.” Miles, though, gave me a strange, complicated look before starting to browse the displays. “I’ll take this one,” he finally said. “The Sapphire Weeps.” I froze. Long-buried memories, things I thought I’d successfully forgotten, rushed back into my mind. Miles had truly loved me once. We had dated for four years and been married for six. Everyone in our circle said he was a legendary doting husband. He was a university professor, yet he always refused to socialize outside of work, and he would coldly turn down female students who asked for his number. Among the stacks of dense academic texts he had published, there was one slim volume titled A Declaration of Love. It was written just for me. The entire campus of Crestwood University celebrated our perfect, storybook romance. Even on my birthdays, he would orchestrate a huge, public fireworks display over the city skyline. But then, one day, while tidying his bookshelf, I accidentally found a hidden, intimate photo tucked inside his book. The girl was young, wearing a micro-mini skirt, sitting astride his lap, smiling at the camera. I recognized her instantly. It wasn’t just anyone. It was Dahlia Reed, the sweet student who always called me “Sister Anya,” the impoverished girl I had personally sponsored for three years. She was also his student. I had saved her once, on a rainy day, when she was cornered and harassed by a group of thugs in a dark alley. I brought her home, let her shower, and gave her dry clothes. She was initially terrified of Miles. I laughed and reassured her. “Don’t worry. Professor Kingston won’t bite.” She slowly grew bolder. She even began to cautiously seek Miles out in his study to ask for help with her coursework. Seeing them interact so easily made me feel a warm, maternal pride. Until I found the photos on Miles’s computer. After that discovery, I charged into the study, shrieking, hysterical. Sure enough, the student and the professor—the two who were supposed to be discussing academics—were intertwined, lost in each other on his desk. They scrambled, horrified, trying to cover themselves as I burst through the door. My dignity, my manners, everything was gone. I was screaming like a lunatic, demanding to know how he could cheat on me right under my own roof. Miles’s only concern was shielding the woman beside him. He covered her completely, then looked up at me, his eyes cold and furious. “Get out!” “Anya Lane, have some decency! We do!” I realized then that men are inherently cruel and heartless creatures. When they love you, they would give you their life. But when the love is gone, they’ll strip the skin from your bones. I smashed everything in the room I could get my hands on. I refused to believe it. The man I had loved for nearly ten years, and the girl I had sponsored and treated like a younger sister—they had been blatantly carrying on in my study, while I was downstairs cooking dinner. They were using the pretense of academic discussion to commit their sordid acts. I was trembling violently, my eyes bloodshot. I couldn’t accept any of it. Miles looked at me with open disgust, always shielding Dahlia behind him. “Anya Lane, you’re acting like a psychopath!” “You need to calm down. If you dare hurt Dahlia in any way, I will make you regret it.” Dahlia peeked out from behind him, sobbing uncontrollably, the red marks on her neck still visible. “Sister Anya, I’m so sorry. I know this is wrong…” “I know it’s immoral, but Miles and I truly fell in love…” “Please, I don’t need a title. I don’t want anything. Just let me be with Miles, please?” I was stunned into silence. “Don’t you know you’re the home-wrecker? The mistress?” “I don’t care!” Dahlia yelled back, as if she were fighting for her own life. “We have a physiological connection, Anya. Even if you hadn’t saved me, I already had feelings for the Professor at school, and he felt the same…” Watching her desperate, brave display, I recalled the rainy night I’d found her. Because I saved her, the thugs had targeted me for weeks after, until the police finally got involved. I had never regretted saving Dahlia. But that night, I hated myself for being so naive. Why had I ever given another woman the chance to get close to my husband? Ten years. I’d given him ten years. I couldn’t accept reality. I became disheveled, a frantic mess, endlessly demanding to know when it had started. Looking back, I was so foolish. What was the point of knowing the details? But then, I was only consumed by the white-hot rage of betrayal. “Anya, stop making a scene.” “Dahlia needs to focus on her studies. She won’t try to take your place. She doesn’t want your title. You will remain Mrs. Kingston.” Miles, now dressed, said this to me with a stunning lack of accountability. “You won’t have to sponsor Dahlia anymore. I’ll take care of her tuition now.” Dahlia never came to the house again. But their rendezvous spots grew bolder: coffee shops, restaurants, the library, and then hotels… I started tracking them like a stalker. Miles never worked on Saturdays, but after Dahlia came into his life, he was at the university every weekend. I followed him in a taxi. I found them in the parking lot, kissing passionately. Unable to control themselves, they crawled into the back seat of the car—the car I had bought him for his birthday. A few minutes later, the car began to shake with a slow, rhythmic motion. That time, I stormed up and smashed the windshield. It caused a huge scene, humiliating them both. But Miles was determined to protect her. He treated me like a mental patient and had campus security drag me away. For a long time after, I caused endless, undignified scenes. I put up banners at the university where Miles taught and even found Dahlia’s classroom. I wanted the whole world to know she was a homewrecker. She was the student I had sponsored; the person I had loved like a sister—I hated her with the same intensity now. I couldn’t understand why she had to fixate on my husband. I wanted everyone to know she was an ungrateful viper and Miles was the lowest kind of liar. Our love had become utterly unrecognizable. Afraid I would jeopardize Dahlia’s reputation and studies, Miles hired security guards to keep me under soft confinement. I self-harmed many times. The feeling of being discarded by the world was unbearable; I needed an outlet for the misery that was choking me. Miles used to worry if I got the smallest cut. But now, he grew increasingly impatient. Seeing the gashes on my arms, he would only shout at me with disgust. “Enough! If you’re going to kill yourself, do it somewhere else. What is this, some kind of pathetic plea?” “Anya Lane, I never intended to divorce you. If you had just looked the other way, like before, you could have been Mrs. Kingston for life.” “But now, I’m afraid you are no longer fit for the role.” Finally, I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. I was rushed to the hospital but survived. When I woke up, I was suddenly lucid. I signed the divorce papers. Six years, just like that. My thoughts snapped back. Dahlia had finished choosing the fireworks. “I want these, the Sapphire Weeps!” “Honey, I want the same kind you used to set off for Anya, the one that writes out the name when it explodes in the sky. I want you to write ‘Dahlia I Love You’…” Miles smiled indulgently, agreeing to every detail. They quickly selected a restaurant near Crestwood University. “Anya, this place is amazing. Miles and I come here all the time. I bet it’s been a while since you’ve had food this good, hasn’t it?” Dahlia held the menu up, excitedly pointing out dishes. I kept my polite, thin smile. “I’ve had enough Western food while I was abroad. Just order whatever you like.” I heard that Dahlia struggled to find work after graduation. Miles used his connections to secure her a low-level administrative position at the university. Everyone praised them as a model couple. I heard the gossip and just smiled privately. People’s words were cheap. Dahlia’s eyes swept over my jacket with a complex mixture of pity and contempt. “Anya, what kind of work are you doing now?” I paused, then answered truthfully. “I’m not currently working.” Dahlia gave a look that said, I knew it. She sighed. “We really are sorry about the past, Anya. If you don’t have a job, Miles and I could help. I heard Crestwood University is hiring janitorial staff. I think you’d be a perfect fit…” Miles frowned slightly. “Dahlia!” “What, Honey? Did I say something wrong?” Dahlia’s face was innocent. “I’m just trying to be nice. Anya hasn’t been doing well, clearly. I want to help her.” Since I didn’t deny anything, Miles didn’t press. He just turned to me. “Dahlia can be thoughtless sometimes. Try not to take it personally.” I gave a half-smile. “Thank you. But you really don’t need to worry about my life.” Just then, my husband, Lincoln Caldwell, called. “Lan-Lan, I just picked up Autumn from school. Where are you?” “Didn’t you say you were craving hot pot? Autumn and I will come meet you.” My voice softened. “Okay. I’m at the bistro across from Crestwood University.” I hung up, and they both stared at me, suspicious. “Anya, you don’t have any family in the city anymore, do you? Who was that on the phone?” I smiled. “My husband.” The two of them froze. Dahlia gasped, standing up in shock. “Anya! You got married?” Miles’s face suddenly went ghostly pale. “Anya Lane, you don’t have to be this dramatic. You are not married. Don’t lie to me.”

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At my mother’s birthday dinner, my wife, Isabelle, uncorked the bottle of Macallan she’d brought. As she raised her glass for a toast, her voice cut through the quiet chatter. “You know, Mom,” she began, a small, curious smile on her lips, “I’ve always wondered.” “What’s your secret? How on earth did you manage to raise a son like Alex? So spineless, so selfish, and so utterly oblivious to it all.” My mother’s hand, holding her glass, trembled slightly. I calmly placed my napkin on the table. “I agree to the divorce.” Isabelle’s hand paused for a fraction of a second, but her smile never wavered. “Good. I’m glad you’ve finally seen reason.” That night, she handed me the divorce papers. “Don’t worry,” she said, her tone magnanimous. “If you ever need anything, you can always come to me.” I said nothing, just picked up the pen and signed my name. Isabelle had started her affair a year ago. She’d been hounding me for a divorce for the last six months. In that time, she’d become relentless, resorting to one vile tactic after another. She threatened my best friend’s job to get him to convince me to leave her. She’d brazenly video chat with her lover, a high school classmate of hers, right in our living room. And now, she had stooped to publicly humiliating my mother just to break me. If she wanted a divorce this badly, I would give it to her. I just hoped she wouldn’t regret it when she had nothing left. The moment my signature was on the paper, Isabelle was on the phone with her lawyer, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. “Yes, he signed it.” “Great. Meet me at Portside Tower in a bit. We’ll go over the details.” I listened, my face a mask of indifference, and reached up to take down the wedding photo hanging on the wall. We’d taken it when we were broke. It cost a hundred and ninety-eight dollars, a cheap package deal. Even then, I thought it was terrible. Our faces were photoshopped into pale, uncanny versions of ourselves. But I had kept it on the wall all these years. It was the only proof left of what we once had. A heavy pressure settled in my chest. Isabelle, finished with her call, saw me holding the frame. She wasn’t surprised. Instead, with a breezy confidence, she said: “Don’t rush to pack. We still have a month before the divorce is final. You can stay here in the penthouse for now.” “And don’t worry about the assets. I won’t make things difficult for you.” “I’m just glad you agreed without making a scene. I really didn’t want to drag this through the courts.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, since that’s settled, I should go. Ryan’s waiting for me. He gets pouty if I’m back too late.” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried to the entryway, slipped on her shoes, grabbed her car keys, and was gone. The moment the door slammed shut, my body went limp. I collapsed onto the sofa. The wedding photo fell from my hands, its cheap wooden frame shattering on the floor. I didn’t want to be weak, but the pain in my chest was unbearable. This past year, ever since I found out about the affair, had been a living hell. First came the shock. How could Isabelle betray ten years of our lives together? Then came the heartbreak. I had been willing to look the other way, to let her have her fun, but she still wanted to leave me. She did everything she could to force my hand, to humiliate and wound me. But what could I do? It’s like the relationship experts say: it only takes one person to end a marriage. Especially when that person is a woman who has made up her mind. You can’t imagine the lengths a woman will go to, the cruel and vicious things she’ll do, when she’s determined to leave you. Like tonight, telling my mother to her face that she’d failed as a parent. She knew my mother had a heart condition. She knew she’d just had major surgery three months ago. I had spent the last six months hiding our problems from my mother, desperate not to worry her. But Isabelle, in her quest for freedom, had shattered that peace without a second thought. The pain in my chest intensified. I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to go lie down. I’d barely taken two steps when my phone rang. It was my mother’s caregiver. My heart seized. I knew. The moment I answered, her panicked voice came through the line. “Mr. Miller, you need to get to Hillside General right now! Your mother… she wasn’t feeling well after the party. She’s in critical condition! They’re trying to save her!” Tears welled in my eyes, and my hand holding the phone began to shake. Panic, cold and sharp, washed over me. I remembered the doctor’s warning when she was discharged: Her heart is extremely weak. Any stress, any shock could be fatal. It was a miracle we saved her last time. I forced myself to breathe, to stay calm. I told the caregiver to stay with my mother and that I was on my way. I rushed to the bedroom, threw on a jacket, and started calling Isabelle. The last time my mother had a heart attack, Isabelle had been the one to find the top specialist who saved her life. I needed her to call him again. But from my apartment, to the elevator, to the parking garage, I called Isabelle twenty times. She didn’t pick up once. In desperation, as I started the car, I called her assistant, Jenna. She answered on the first ring. “Mr. Miller.” “Jenna, where’s Isabelle?” I asked, my voice tight. “Can you get me the number for that specialist she knows? My mother’s had a heart attack. She’s in the ER.” There was a two-second pause. When Jenna spoke again, her voice was full of regret. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller. Ryan called me a little while ago. He said you signed the divorce papers and that I’m not to help you with anything anymore. I can’t contact Ms. Isabelle on your behalf.” “I’m really sorry, sir. It’s my job on the line. You know how… devoted Ms. Isabelle is to Ryan. I can’t go against his wishes. Maybe you could try calling her again?” She hung up. I slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt inches from a concrete barrier. A cold rage spread through my body. I thought back to the past year, since Isabelle had met Ryan. At first, I didn’t see him as a threat. He was a nobody. A high school dropout working as a barista in some trendy cafe. I truly believed Isabelle was just having a momentary lapse, a mid-life crisis. That changed when Ryan started texting me, taunting me, insulting me. When I showed the messages to Isabelle, she was unnervingly calm. “He’s just a kid,” she’d said. “Cut him some slack.” That’s when I realized Ryan was more calculating than I’d thought. Still, I didn’t take him seriously. Not until he provoked me into a fight that landed me in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer. Isabelle’s reaction was a cold splash of water to the face. “You’ve always had stomach problems,” she said, her eyes blank. “What does that have to do with Ryan?” “The affair was my mistake. It has nothing to do with him.” In that moment, a genuine fear took root in my heart. I started digging into Ryan’s background. And I discovered why Isabelle was so captivated by him. It wasn’t about his charm or his looks. He had been her deskmate in high school. During a time when she was desperately poor, he had brought her breakfast every single day for three years. Sometimes, he’d bring her fried rice his mother made at her street food stall. It was that connection, that shared history of starting from nothing, that had blinded her. It was why she was willing to throw everything away to be with him. The moment I found out, the pain was a physical blow. Ryan and Isabelle’s story began when they had nothing. But hadn’t ours? Isabelle and I met in college. I’d missed my first-choice program and ended up shuffled into Computer Science, a major I hated and didn’t understand. The lectures were like a foreign language to me. But Isabelle… she was a prodigy. As a freshman, she was already writing her own code, building her own games. Desperate not to fail, I asked her if she would tutor me. She agreed, with one condition. “You buy me three meals a day,” she’d said with a grin. That’s when I learned how difficult her life was. Her father had passed away when she was young, and her mother supported her by selling trinkets at a street market. Maybe it was because we were both from single-parent homes, both having lost a father, but we just clicked. After six months of tutoring sessions, we started dating. She was poor, it was true, but only for that first year. In our sophomore year, she started doing freelance coding work online. Soon, she had money. More money than any other student we knew. And she was so good to me. No matter how busy she was, if I called, she would drop everything to go out with me. She sent half of her earnings to her mother. The other half, she gave to me to put into a savings account. I thought our life would just go on like that. But then, one rainy night during our senior year, she showed up at my dorm, soaking wet, and told me we were over. I couldn’t believe it. I grabbed her, demanding to know why. She collapsed in the rain, sobbing, and told me her startup had failed. She was a million dollars in debt. I had no idea she’d even started a business. She’d maxed out credit cards and taken out predatory online loans. Her partner had vanished with the last of the money. My heart ached for her. I held her tight and told her I had a solution. I went home and knelt before my mother, the woman who had always cherished me, and begged her to help Isabelle. My mother, a retired teacher, sighed deeply. “Alex, I do have a million dollars saved for you. But that’s for your future, for you to start a family. Are you absolutely sure you want to give it all to her? If you do this, I won’t have anything left to give you when you get married.” The words were like a weight on my chest, but I looked her in the eye. “I don’t want the money. I just want Isabelle to be okay.” I took that million dollars and paid off all of Isabelle’s debts. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Isabelle knelt before my mother and bowed her head to the floor three times. She swore, with tears in her eyes, that she would spend the rest of her life making me happy. But in the end, my million dollars, our shared story of struggle, couldn’t compete with three years of high school breakfast. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t breathe. I tried calling Isabelle one more time. This time, someone answered. But it wasn’t Isabelle. It was Ryan. His voice was dripping with the same old taunting arrogance. “What do you want?” “I need to speak to Isabelle. It’s important.” He scoffed. “She’s in the shower. Can’t talk. And for the record, stop calling her. She’s going to be my wife soon.” I felt the air leave my lungs, but I clenched my fist, forcing the words out. My voice was a low plea. “Ryan, my mother is in the hospital. I need Isabelle to contact a doctor for me.” “Please. I’m begging you. Just let me talk to her.” The words “I’m begging you” felt like acid in my mouth. My eyes burned with humiliation. Ryan just laughed. “Then just let your mom die.” He hung up. Listening to the dial tone, I lost control. With a choked, guttural roar, I smashed my phone against the car window. The pain in my chest was a physical tear. But I had no time to break down. I forced myself to start the car and speed towards the hospital. My mother was waiting for me. But when I arrived, what I saw was not a hospital room. It was a body covered by a white sheet. My legs gave out. I nearly collapsed. The caregiver rushed over, her words a frantic blur. “Mr. Miller, I swear, it wasn’t my fault… I was with her the whole time. The second I saw something was wrong, I called 911. The dispatcher told me what medicine to give her…” A thousand needles pricked at my heart. Tears streamed down my face. It wasn’t her fault. It was mine. I knew Isabelle had been unhinged lately, but I still dragged her to my mother’s birthday party. How stupid was I? Did I really think that if we just spent more time together, she would change her mind? That I could somehow “win” her back from Ryan? And what was the result? Not only did she force me into a divorce in front of my entire family, she killed my mother. My heart felt like it was going to explode. But after a moment of pure, blinding grief, I pushed myself up from the floor. There was a funeral to arrange. Affairs to put in order. I could not fall apart. So, even as my chest heaved with silent sobs, I forced my trembling fingers to text our family and friends, to call the funeral home. And in the midst of that nightmare, Isabelle, the woman I had called a hundred times, finally sent me a text. [City Hall, 9 AM tomorrow. Don’t forget.] Reading that message, the pain in my heart went numb. This past year, I had been hurt, I had been miserable, I had been in despair. But through it all, a part of me had never let go of Isabelle. In that moment, that part of me died. Perhaps it was because the pain was so absolute, but a strange clarity washed over me. [I can’t tomorrow. Next Monday.] I turned off my phone and got back to work. The next few days were a blur. A constant stream of visitors offering condolences, of relatives to comfort. So many people came. My mother’s former students, our relatives, even some of Isabelle’s family. But not Isabelle. Instead, I got a text from Ryan. [Heard your mom died. lol. That’s rough. Guess you’re an orphan now? Serves you right.] [If you’d just divorced her sooner, maybe your mom would still be alive. You killed her, you loser.] He followed it with a video. On a sun-drenched beach, Isabelle was lounging in a bikini, sipping from a coconut. Ryan panned the camera from her to himself. He ran towards her, and they kissed, long and deep. Then, Ryan asked with faux innocence, “Isabelle, who do you love more? Me or your husband?” Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I’m divorcing him for you. Don’t ask such stupid questions. You must be bored.” She pulled him down for another kiss. The video ended. Tears streamed down my face. But I wiped them away after a single, shuddering breath. I forwarded the video to my lawyer. [Another one for the collection.] He replied instantly. [Received, Mr. Miller.] [How is the research on Isabelle’s company coming along?] [Almost complete. The entire team is working overtime. Rest assured, we will get you what you deserve.] I gripped my phone. [You know I don’t want compensation. I want Isabelle bankrupt and in prison.] The reply was swift. [Understood, Mr. Miller. We will do everything in our power.] I put the phone down and walked back to my mother’s memorial. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “This is my fault. But I promise you, the people who did this to you… they will pay.” In the days that followed, I learned the full truth. My mother had known about Isabelle’s affair for six months. Ryan had told her himself. My mother was a retired teacher. After my father died in a car crash when I was ten, she never remarried. She raised me on her own, being both a mother and a father to me. Her greatest wish was to see me happy. But Ryan… he had sent my mother videos of Isabelle and me fighting. He sent her screenshots of texts where Isabelle criticized me, complained about me. He had even “advised” her to convince me to get a divorce. That was what caused her first heart attack three months ago. The shock of it all. And it was what killed her. After Isabelle and I left her birthday party, Ryan had gone to see her. He told her I was holding back their true love. He told her that even if I clung to the marriage, I would be thrown out with nothing. That night, consumed with worry for me, my mother collapsed. She never woke up. I found the recordings of their conversations on her phone when I was going through her things. Listening to Ryan’s cruel, relentless voice, I couldn’t imagine the agony my mother must have been in. And yet, for six months, she never let on. Every time she called, it was just to remind me to eat well, to take care of myself. The pain was a blade twisting in my gut. Ryan wanted to take my place? Fine. He could have it. He could have the life of a man married to a bankrupt, soon-to-be-convicted felon.

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For the sake of his new freshman flame, my childhood sweetheart kicked me in front of a crowd. That night, I blocked him on everything. Everyone waited for me to go crawling back to him. I had followed him like a shadow for ten years, ever since I was twelve. Until the day I went to the airport. He cornered me, his eyes bloodshot, his voice trembling uncontrollably. “Zoe, are you insane? All because I kicked you once?” I looked up at him, my expression perfectly calm. “Once was enough.” That’s all it took for you to lose me. … The moment he kicked me, my world went silent. Caleb’s leg swung with a vicious force, slamming into my shoulder. Thud. The dull impact sent me stumbling backward. My lower back crashed hard against the sharp corner of a desk. A blinding explosion of pain shot through me, as if a thousand needles had pierced my spine all at once. I gasped, my vision going dark. I could barely stand. My knuckles turned white as I gripped a nearby chair for support. The initial numbness in my back gave way to a searing, tearing agony. When I looked up, I saw Caleb just pulling his leg back, his fingertips trembling. My childhood friend, my boyfriend, was defending a girl from his university club by kicking me in front of a room full of people. Realization of what he’d done flickered across Caleb’s face, stiffening his expression. But it was quickly replaced by a wave of irritation and impatience. “Zoe! Can you stop being so damn dramatic?” In the tiered lecture hall, a few people stifled laughs. Most just watched the spectacle in silence. Bella’s auburn hair glowed softly in the sunlight streaming through the window. She stood beside Caleb, a smug little curve to her lips. “Caleb, don’t be so harsh,” she purred. “Look, Zoe’s face has gone all pale.” At her words, Caleb’s jaw tightened, the anger in his eyes flaring hotter. “Zoe, this is the university, not your house. No one’s here to coddle you!” His voice was as cold as winter snow. Whispers rippled through the classroom. A dull ache throbbed through my body. I couldn’t tell if it was from the impact or from my heart breaking. Ten years. I had seen every side of his temper, but I never knew he could be this violent. Shame, hurt, and rage washed over me in a suffocating tide. My nails dug into my palms. Caleb started to say something else, but I didn’t want to hear it. I grabbed my bag and bolted from the room. As I fled, I heard someone whisper behind me: “Oh my god, getting kicked by your own boyfriend in public? I’d die of embarrassment if I were her.” I didn’t know where I was going, but I wasn’t going to class. I couldn’t face their pitying, mocking stares. Caleb had always been impatient with me, but he’d never, ever laid a hand on me. Not like this. This was the first time in my entire life anyone had treated me with such brutality. When I was twelve, we moved into a new neighborhood. I saw Caleb for the first time by the basketball court, sipping a soda. The setting sun slanted between the apartment buildings, stretching his shadow so long it covered my little leather shoes. We lived in the same building—him on the fifth floor, me on the third. My mom always said Caleb and I were like two vines, destined to grow intertwined, supporting each other. Except his vine had always grown wilder, more freely than mine. For all these years, it was always me looking up at him. But we had our golden days. The autumn of my first year of middle school was unusually hot. A boy named Kevin dropped a caterpillar into my pencil case. I shrieked and burst into tears while the whole class roared with laughter. The teacher just smoothed things over. “Boys will be boys. He didn’t mean any harm. He probably just teases you because he likes you. Don’t cry.” Her words made me feel sicker than the slimy green bug. I cried all the way home from school that day. When Caleb’s dad heard about it, he called his son away from his video games. “Caleb, go check in on the kids in seventh-grade, room three, tomorrow.” The next day, during break, he cornered Kevin by the bathrooms. The image is seared into my memory. He was like a furious young lion, pinning Kevin against the wall, his fists landing with heavy thuds. “Listen up,” he snarled, grabbing Kevin’s collar, his voice still raspy with puberty. “Zoe is with me. You ever mess with her again, and I’ll make sure you don’t last another day in this school.” When he walked away, he ruffled my hair with a grin. From that day on, I became Caleb’s little shadow. In middle school, after his basketball games, I’d wait for him by the court, clutching his jacket while he and his teammates went to the campus store, staying until the streetlights flickered on one by one. He’d stomp over, grumbling, “Zoe, are you my freaking shadow?” But he’d still twist open an orange soda and hand it to me. He hated it when people called me his “little wifey.” Once, at a gaming cafe, one of his friends yelled, “Look, Caleb brought his child bride for an inspection!” He went stone-faced and ignored me for the rest of the day. But the next day, when I was home sick with a stomach bug, he skipped class to come to my house. He passed medicine and his class notes through my window, with all the key points meticulously highlighted. In high school, I caught him looking at me countless times. When I was chewing on my pen, memorizing vocabulary. When I tucked my bangs back with a clip. Even when I was napping at my desk. His gaze was like an autumn leaf, brushing past me before quickly fluttering away. “Caleb,” I said one day, turning suddenly and catching his eye before he could look away. “Do you know how to solve this one?” The pen in his hand clattered to the floor. Sunlight streamed through the classroom window, turning his ears bright red. “I…” He fumbled to pick up the pen, his fingertips brushing the back of my hand. “You just… use that formula…” His voice trailed off into an incoherent mumble. I propped my chin on my hand and just watched him. The boy who would fearlessly defend me could be reduced to a flustered mess just by my presence. The night our parents joked about arranging our marriage, he pulled me out to a corner of the athletic field. The streetlights cast a dim, yellow glow. His palm was sweaty, but his grip on my wrist was painfully tight. “Think this through,” he said, his voice strained. “We’re too close. So close you might not be able to tell if it’s just habit or…” I stood on my toes and gently touched his lips with my fingertips. “Caleb, I can tell.” His breath hitched. Suddenly, he pulled me into his arms, his kiss landing softly in my hair. A cool autumn breeze swept past us. I could feel the scar on his shoulder—the one he got in ninth grade, shielding me from a bicycle crash. The moonlight was so beautiful that night, wrapping around us like a gentle blanket. It made me believe this was forever. After graduation, we both got into the same university. I chose literature; he chose business. Then, at the start of our senior year, Bella appeared. She was a freshman in the business school and a new recruit for Caleb’s basketball club. On her first day, she handed out chocolates to everyone with a bubbly smile. “Please take care of me, seniors!” When she got to me, she paused. “Wow…” she giggled, covering her mouth. “People still use Lotso Bear pencil cases? That’s so cute! But, senior, how old are you? I thought all the senior girls were so sophisticated and had, you know, taste!” Every eye in the room turned to me. My cartoon-covered notebook, my phone case, even the Lotso keychain on my keys—things Caleb used to lovingly call my “treasures”—suddenly felt ridiculous under their collective gaze. My head buzzed as if I’d been stripped naked in public. It was the first time I’d ever been mocked for something I liked. The shame made me want to disappear. “Haha, sorry, I’m just a really direct person!” she said, tilting her head, her freshly manicured nails tapping on the bunny-shaped eraser on my desk. “You’re not going to get offended by a little joke, are you, senior?” My knuckles were white where I gripped my shirt. “That’s enough,” Caleb’s voice came from behind me. I turned to see him frowning. For a fleeting moment, he was that protective boy again. Bella pouted. “I was just chatting with her! Is the club president going to police that too?” “Club time isn’t for gossiping, Bella. If you want to chat, you can do it outside.” Bella reluctantly shuffled back to her spot. I didn’t know when she and Caleb had gotten so close. But one day, our regular two-person lunch in the dining hall became a three-person affair. “Everything on the menu today is vegetarian,” my voice trembled. Caleb didn’t even look up from his phone. “We’re eating light today. Bella said it’s healthier.” Bella sat down next to me with her tray. “Sorry, senior!” she chirped. I just looked at her. She raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on her lips. “I forgot you don’t like eating grass. But less oil is better for you. You should probably go on a diet anyway, that shirt looks like it’s about to burst. Unlike me…” She let the sentence hang, her mocking gaze saying the rest. “You enjoy commenting on other people’s bodies?” my voice was quiet. “My weight is perfectly healthy. And if I’m not mistaken, you weigh a few pounds more than I do.” The cafeteria went silent for a beat. Bella’s face froze, as if she’d swallowed a fly. Caleb finally put down his phone, but it was to frown at me. “Zoe, that was out of line.” The boy who used to get into fights if someone called me chubby was now scolding me for another girl. “Out of line? Or am I just interrupting you two?” I sneered, picking up my tray to leave. Caleb instinctively grabbed my arm, just like he always did when I was about to storm off. But this time, his hand smelled like someone else’s lotion, and his voice was laced with annoyance. “Alright, alright, we’ll eat at your favorite place tomorrow. Stop being angry, okay?” Bella’s face immediately darkened. After that, her attacks became relentless.

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Reborn to the day I was dragged into the alley and shattered, the first thing I did was drag my bleeding body to the high school gym for the SATs. In my past life, a masked man pulled me into the shadows on my way to the exam. I didn’t just miss the test; I was left broken, forced to live with a colostomy bag for the rest of my life. When the whole town treated me like damaged goods, it was Brad—my childhood sweetheart, the boy next door—who stepped up. He married me against all odds. He even adopted a child, claiming he wanted to spare my broken body the trauma of birth. I was so grateful. I raised that boy like my own, tutoring him until he got into an Ivy League school. It wasn’t until Brad’s “high school crush,” Tiffany, returned from Europe for a welcome party that I heard the truth. “You dressed up as a mugger and violated her just so I could take her scholarship spot? Do you regret it?” Brad laughed, cold and sharp. “No. Your dad was under investigation by the Feds back then. You wouldn’t have passed the background check for the scholarship. I had to ruin her to save our future.” “Besides, I told her I was adopting a kid from foster care. Sarah still doesn’t know she spent her life raising our biological son.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I ran out the door, blinded by tears, and was struck dead by a speeding semi-truck. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back in the alley. Back in the dirt. 1. “Quit playing dead, bitch. You were loud enough a minute ago.” “I’ve seen girls like you, strutting down Main Street asking for it. You better keep your mouth shut, or your life is over.” The man in the ski mask was still on top of me. My mind, previously shattering into panic, suddenly snapped into razor-sharp focus. “Brad…” The man froze. A split second later, a heavy hand cracked across my face. Seeing I wouldn’t scream again, he pulled his pants up and spat on the ground next to me. “Dammit. Bad luck.” His reaction confirmed it. The source of all my misery was the man I thought was my savior. In my last life, I missed the exam. I became the town cripple. My parents were ashamed. The church gossip circles ate me alive. When I was ready to end it all, Brad saved me. He defied his parents to marry me. I couldn’t work, so he paid the bills. I couldn’t be intimate, so he slept in the guest room without complaint. I couldn’t have kids, so he said he was happy just being with me. When he brought home that baby boy, I poured my soul into him. I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. Until I heard him and Tiffany talking. It was Brad who assaulted me. Brad who crippled me. All so I would miss the SATs, leaving the town’s only guaranteed scholarship slot open for Tiffany. Even the son I loved was theirs. The shock killed me. But hate brought me back. I opened my eyes to the dark alley. Brad was gone. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. The sharp pain cleared the fog. I dragged myself up, using the brick wall for support. I would not let those monsters steal my life again. I stumbled toward the high school. When I reached the steps of the gym, covered in blood and dirt, the crowd went silent. A few freshman girls screamed when they saw the trail of red I left on the concrete. Mr. Henderson, the proctor, dropped his clipboard. “Sarah? Good lord, what happened…” I slapped my admission ticket onto his chest, cutting him off. He looked at the name, then at the gym doors, confused. “Sarah Miller? But… didn’t you just check in?” I took a deep breath, forcing my legs to stop shaking. “I am the real Sarah Miller. Get Sheriff Higgins. He’s working security today. He knows me.” The crowd murmured. Mr. Henderson realized something was wrong. He sent a student runner. Minutes later, Sheriff Higgins burst out. “Sarah? My god, kid, look at you.” I didn’t waste time on tears. “Sheriff, someone is in there taking my test. They have an accomplice.” I pointed to my torn clothes. “And I was assaulted to keep me away from here.” The Sheriff’s face went hard. He turned to his deputies. “Lock down the exits. Find the impostor.” He motioned for the paramedics, but I grabbed his arm. “Sheriff. I have to take this test.” “Sarah, you’re bleeding…” “I can do it. If I die in there, that’s on me.” Sheriff Higgins looked into my eyes and saw something that scared him. He sighed. “Get her a private room. Get a medic to stand by the door.” As they helped me inside, two deputies were dragging Tiffany out of the main hall. She was screaming like a banshee. “I am Sarah Miller! You can’t do this! My father is on the City Council! I’ll sue you all!” She thrashed, but then she saw me. She froze. Pure terror filled her eyes. “How are you here? You’re supposed to be…” She stopped herself. I didn’t say a word. I just limped past her. Because of my condition, they didn’t question me further. I sat down. My hands shook as I touched the test booklet—the paper I had missed in my last life. In my past life, to tutor my “son,” I had solved these exact problems a thousand times. I had studied every question from this year’s exam until I knew it better than the people who wrote it. I filled in the bubbles. My body was screaming in agony. I was bleeding into my shoes. But I didn’t stop. This wasn’t just a test. It was my exit ticket. The final bell rang. The moment the proctor took my sheet, the darkness finally took me. I passed out cold. I woke up to the smell of cheap tobacco. My dad was sitting in the corner, smoking up a storm. The room was hazy with it. My mom saw my eyes open. “Sarah! You’re awake. I made you some soup.” She reached for the bowl, but Dad slapped it out of her hand. It shattered on the floor. “She doesn’t eat! What right does she have to eat? She disgraced this family!” “I should have drowned you at birth! dragging your dirty, used-up body to the school… now the whole town knows! How can I show my face at the hardware store?” “You’re damaged goods! I already talked to the Walker family. You’re marrying Brad next week!” The words hit me harder than the assault. “I’m not marrying him.” Dad was on me in a second, his fist connecting with my shoulder. “You don’t get to choose! Who else wants a broken toy? Brad is a saint for taking you! You should be kissing his feet!” “If Brad hadn’t offered, I would have kicked you out to starve!” Mom tried to step in, but one look from Dad sent her cowering to the corner. The punches hurt, but the betrayal hurt more. “Mr. Miller! I got the marriage license!” Brad’s voice came from the porch. Dad stopped hitting me instantly. He put on a fake, sickening smile. “Hey, Brad! Come on in.” He took the paper, grinning through his yellow teeth. “Good, good. She’s all yours, son.” “Don’t worry, sir. I’ve loved Sarah since kindergarten. I’ll take care of her.”

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When I was one year old, during a family “pick-a-prize” game, I grabbed my brother’s hand. He’s been protecting me ever since. The year I graduated, my brother went bankrupt. He liquidated every asset he had, left the money to me, and then took his own life. Two months later, I was scammed out of every cent. I ended up on the streets and froze to death on a snowy curb. After I died, I realized the truth: my brother and I were the villains in a cheesy YA novel. He was the antagonist trying to steal the heroine from the hero; I was the “mean girl” trying to steal the hero from the heroine. We were destined for a tragic end. But when I opened my eyes again, I was sixteen. My brother was sitting right in front of me, legs crossed, a faint smirk on his lips. My eyes welled up with tears. I was about to throw my arms around him when I heard him drawl: “My sister wants to see your abs.” “Take it off. A thousand dollars per layer.” “Or don’t. It’s your choice. But doesn’t your mother have cancer? You wouldn’t want to watch her die because you couldn’t pay the medical bills, would you?” The hair on my neck stood up. I slowly turned around. Standing there, fists clenched and eyes bloodshot, was the hero of the story—Silas Vance. 01 In an instant, the blood rushed to my head. In my previous life, right before I died, Silas’s voice had been like ice. He stood over me, his designer shoe grinding into my frozen, purple hand. “Jade Sterling, I never loved you. You bullied people for five years because of your brother’s power. Now that he’s dead, welcome to hell.” He had walked away without looking back. Thinking of that, I shivered. I tried to rush toward my brother, but my foot slipped on the plush carpet. THUD. I landed hard on my knees. My brother, Leo, jumped. “Jade? You okay? Is seeing him that exciting for you?” He looked at Silas, his lips thinning. “It’s an honor to be liked by my sister. Get over here. Let her see what she’s paying for.” Silas snapped his head up. His voice sounded like it was being squeezed out of his throat. “You people…” “We what?” Leo stood up, looming over Silas with cold indifference. “You don’t want to save your mom?” I was speechless. My brother looked like a total cinematic villain. If I were Silas, I’d want to punch him too! Silas lowered his head, his chest heaving. Finally, with a look of pure resignation, he began to unbutton his shirt. “No! No, no, no!” I grabbed my brother’s arm, stammering. “Make him… make him put it back on!” “What? Is our little Jade shy now?” Leo teased, his eyes softening as he patted my hand. “Don’t be scared. I’m right here. Don’t you always say Silas is the hottest guy in school?” He smoothed a stray hair behind my ear, his tone incredibly gentle. “Whatever Jade wants, Jade gets.” Maybe he thought Silas was moving too slow, because Leo clicked his tongue and signaled to the two bodyguards. “Help him out. Tear it off.” Leo grabbed my hand, trying to guide it toward Silas’s bare chest! Seeing Silas’s dead, hollow eyes, the memory of my own death started playing on loop in my brain. I shrieked, yanking my hand back. “No! Stop! I don’t like him anymore! I swear!” A small smile played on Leo’s lips. He was about to say something when Silas suddenly stepped forward, pressing his bare chest against my palm with a suicidal intensity. His skin was like warm marble. I could feel his heart thumping erratically against my hand. Realizing what I was touching, the world went gray. “Jade Sterling, stop acting,” Silas hissed, his voice like frost. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Stop the ‘hard to get’ act. I did what you asked. Now, the money for my mother…” He was so busy glaring at me that he didn’t notice Leo’s expression darkening. This was exactly like my first life. In that life, I had touched him eagerly. But that’s not what Leo wanted. He had brought Silas here as a form of “aversion therapy,” hoping Silas’s hatred would make me give up on my crush. When I had touched Silas happily in the first life, Leo got angry. He blamed Silas for “seducing” me. He threw Silas out without the money. Silas’s mother died two weeks later. That was where the blood feud started. I saw Leo about to signal the guards to throw Silas out. I grabbed his hand, my mind racing for an excuse. “Silas!” A clear, feminine voice rang out from the doorway, cutting me off. Leo looked up. My heart skipped a beat. 02 Standing at the door of the VIP lounge was Elena Vance. She was biting her lip, her long dark hair falling over her simple white dress. She looked pure, like a lily in a swamp. Leo’s breath hitched. In my last life, this was the moment. Love at first sight. He became obsessed with her. He showered her with jewelry, cars, and even company shares. But Elena loved Silas. Because I had forced Silas into a “relationship,” she hated me, and by extension, she hated Leo. Leo, being a Sterling, didn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer. He found her weakness: her poverty. He threatened her family and Silas’s safety to force her to date him. He didn’t realize that in this world, “forced love” only leads to the villain’s grave. Thinking of my brother’s suicide, my heart ached. “Let him go,” Elena said, stepping into the room. Her body was shaking with fear, but her eyes were defiant. “If you want to bully someone, pick on me!” Leo narrowed his eyes, intrigued. He patted my head. “Jade, go wait in the car.” I shook my head. I looked at Leo, then at Elena. I had to stop the plot. “Leo,” I whispered. “I think I’m in love.” “Wait, already?” Leo sat up straight. To him, my happiness was more important than any girl. “Jade, you’re young. You don’t realize that most guys are trash—” “Who said it’s a guy?” I blinked, pointing directly at Elena. “The moment I saw her, I couldn’t breathe. My heart is pounding. She’s the one, Leo. My soulmate.” “…Her?!” Leo grabbed my shoulders and shook me. His face was a mask of confusion and collapse. “Jade! Do you hear yourself? She’s a girl! You’ve been telling me for a year that Silas is your dream guy!” “Sexuality is a spectrum, Leo,” I said, brushing his hands off. “I thought I was straight until five seconds ago. Love doesn’t follow rules. Sorry, but she’s the one.” Leo looked like he had been struck by lightning. He stammered, unable to form a sentence. My logic was simple: Leo couldn’t compete with me for her. If I claimed her first, he wouldn’t trap her, and he wouldn’t die. I walked up to Elena, pitching my voice into a “cute” register. “Hi! What’s your name?” “Jade Sterling!” Silas roared. He was still held by the guards, shirtless and fuming. “Don’t you dare touch her! Leave her alone!” Elena bit her lip, looking confused, but she answered. “Elena. Elena Vance.” “I’ve never heard a more beautiful name,” I declared. I waved a hand at the guards. “Let Silas go. He’s all yours, Elena! Here’s the hundred grand for his mom’s surgery. Take him and the cash and go have a nice dinner!” 03 On the drive home, Leo was silent. His face was a blank mask. Was he mad that I “stole” his girl? I peeked at him, only to find him staring at me with deep, soul-searching eyes. “Jade,” he sighed, reaching over to pinch my cheek. “Don’t do that again.” My heart jumped. “Do… what?” “Giving that much money to a stranger,” Leo frowned. “What if she’s a scammer? She’s pretty, sure, but you can’t trust people these days.” He ruffled my hair. “You’re too innocent for this world.” “But… you used to drop thousands on your exes,” I mumbled. “That’s different.” When we got home, Leo dragged me to the small library where our parents’ portraits hung. He knelt down, bowed his head, and whispered to the photos, “Mom, Dad… Jade is in love again. With a girl.” I face-palmed. “Leo, stop!” The incense smoke curled in the air. Leo ignored my protests and continued, “I know you’d probably be against it. You’d say it’s not proper. But I just want Jade to be happy. She lost you both so young. While other kids had parents at their soccer games, she just had me, crying and asking when you were coming back.” “If this girl is kind to her, it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl.” He lowered his head further. “Don’t haunt her dreams for this. She’s sensitive. She can’t handle you being mad at her.” I looked at Leo’s back. I wanted to tell him that I was just making it up to save him. But the words died in my throat. I saw the ghost of the twenty-seven-year-old Leo. The Leo who had lost everything. The Leo who sat in a bare apartment, handing me the last of his food. “Eat up, Jade. I’m not hungry.” The Leo who committed suicide the next day so his debts wouldn’t follow me. The memory blurred. My brother was here. He was young, rich, and full of life. He turned to me and said the same thing he always did when I looked sad. “Don’t cry, Jade.” 04 Walking back into my high school classroom felt surreal. A group of girls—my so-called “friends”—immediately cornered me. “So, Jade? Did you get him? How was the school hottie?” “I bet he was amazing. If you’re bored with him, pass him over…” They didn’t lower their voices. They didn’t care that Silas was sitting right there, staring at his desk, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. I glanced at him and cleared my throat. In my last life, I was too dumb to realize Silas hated me. I thought his silence was just him being a “brooding bad boy.” I looked at the students whispering nearby. “Being hot pays off. He’s basically her pet now.” “Man, Silas Vance is making more money as a ‘companion’ than he ever would with a job.” I couldn’t take it. I slammed my book on the desk of the guy talking the loudest. “Say that again. Who’s a pet?” The guy paled. “I… I was just joking. Everyone says it.” “Who is everyone?” “…” “You love talking about people behind their backs? No wonder no one wants to date you,” I snapped. One of my “friends” tried to put an arm around me. “Whoa, Jade! Defensive much? We know he’s your favorite toy.” I pushed her away. “We’re classmates. That’s it. Don’t let me catch you spreading rumors again.” The girl looked shocked. She leaned in and whispered, “Wait, you don’t like Silas anymore? Then who are you into?” “Can’t I just be into studying?” I said flatly. “We’re in high school! Education is our priority!” “Right,” she said, looking at my desk. “But your book is upside down.” “…” 05 After two hours of AP Calculus, I began to seriously question if I actually needed a diploma. During the break, I saw a girl hunched over her desk. Elena. She looked pale, her hand clutching her stomach. I remembered then—Elena’s health wasn’t great. Her family was struggling, and she often skipped meals to save money for Silas’s mom. I dug through my bag, found some gourmet sandwiches my chef had packed, and dropped them on her desk. She looked up, startled. “Here,” I grunted. “Eat.” Before she could speak, Silas was there, shielding her. He threw the bag back at me. “We don’t need your charity, Jade.” “You don’t like turkey?” I reached into my bag and pulled out granola bars, fruit cups, chips, and even a thermos of hot soup. I piled them on their desk. “Pick something else then.” “…” He looked stunned. I pulled out my cafeteria gold card and slid it over to Elena. I remembered she was proud in the last life, so I lied. “I have too much credit on this card and the school won’t refund it. Help me use it up.” Elena looked at the card, then at me. Her stomach let out a loud growl. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “I told you. I like you,” I said, using the same excuse. “But—” “Just eat! You’ll get an ulcer if you skip meals!” I shoved a warm carton of milk into her hand. “I hate milk anyway. And I want you to take a picture of your lunch and send it to me every day to prove you’re eating!” I didn’t wait for her to reply. I bolted back to my seat and pretended to fall asleep. I actually did fall asleep. When I woke up, there was a note on my desk. 【Sorry, I don’t have a phone, so I can’t send a picture. I had a bagel today. It was good. The milk was warm. Thank you.】 There was a tiny smiley face drawn at the bottom. I tucked the note away. Suddenly, someone tapped my shoulder. Silas was standing there, his face slightly flushed. I put my hands up. “I didn’t do anything to her!” “I know,” he said, looking at the floor. He hesitated for a long time. “Do you… still want to touch my abs?” Me: ?

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The implosion of my seven-year marriage to Jake Ryder wasn’t a slow drift; it was a head-on collision. I was twenty-nine. We were already on the way to the lawyer’s office. I was weeping, the kind of ragged, hysterical crying that shreds your throat. “I gave you my whole damn life since I was seventeen, and you cheat? Are you completely sick, Jake?” He didn’t flinch. He just offered a cold, humorless laugh. “You’re not sick? Sleeping with a man at seventeen.” My body started to shake, a seizure of pure adrenaline and shock. In that terrifying next moment, a massive semi-truck roared through the intersection and bore down on us. The next time I woke up, I was back in the cramped apartment building. The one where I’d dropped out of high school to live with Jake. 1 Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight cutting through the window. The air was close, smelling faintly of mold and cheap cleaning supplies. On the twin bed—a mattress crammed against one wall—was a faded, threadbare duvet cover patterned with generic cartoon bears, probably salvaged from a thrift store. I lay still for a long moment, then slowly reached up and touched my face in the scratched mirror across the room. Seventeen. I was actually seventeen again. It was strange. Back then, I honestly didn’t think this life was hard. Seeing it now, though—the sheer, bare-bones squalor—I wondered how I’d ever managed to convince myself that this was better than a life of stability. Jake had a rough childhood. His parents died young, and he grew up with his grandmother. When she passed, he raised himself, wild and fast, like an untamed thing. He was tough, fearless, and quickly earned a reputation as the biggest troublemaker in our part of the city. My life was the opposite. My parents were both college professors. We weren’t rich, but we were secure, comfortable, and privileged. They’d planned a meticulously stable life for me: Northwood High, an Ivy League acceptance, maybe a sensible job in finance. By all rights, Jake and I should never have crossed paths. Until the day I was walking home and saw him fighting a group of guys. I can still picture him: lying on the slushy, half-frozen pavement, breathing hard, his face pinched in pain. He was only wearing a thin, black hoodie, and a dark stain was already spreading underneath him. My instinct screamed at me to leave, to pretend I hadn’t seen anything. But then I noticed the logo on his torn jacket—our school colors. We were classmates. My heart softened. I called 911, hesitated for a beat, and then knelt beside him, pulling off the expensive white down jacket my father had bought me and draping it over him. “Hey… are you okay?” The pale, handsome boy opened his eyes and looked up at me. His eyes were the shape of a hawk’s—sharp, beautiful, and assessing. “You’re not running?” he asked, his voice low and ragged. I whispered, “I’m from Northwood, too. We’re classmates.” I took a breath, trying to be brave. “Fighting is wrong. You should stop.” He offered a cynical, half-smile. He shifted his fingers, and I braced myself, expecting him to throw my jacket away. Instead, he just closed his eyes, silent and still. I stayed there, shielding him from the light snow, until the EMTs arrived. I even paid the ambulance fee out of my emergency twenty-dollar bill. I forgot about it quickly. It felt like a bizarre moment that didn’t belong to my world. But just as I’d almost wiped the memory clean, Jake Ryder walked into my honors English class. The whole room fell silent. Ignoring the flustered teacher and the gasps of the students, he strode right up to my desk, slammed a crumpled thirty dollars down on my textbook, and raised an eyebrow. “For the ambulance,” he said. He paused, scanning my face, then added, “And… thanks.” He left as abruptly as he came. Immediately, my friends swarmed me. “Ellie, how do you know Jake Ryder?” one asked, looking horrified. “He runs with the motorcycle gangs! My brother says he’s been in real trouble—you need to be careful.” Another girl, breathless with excitement, nudged me. “He is so hot. Can you introduce us? He’s seriously a total rebel.” I was still reeling when I started walking home. My stomach flipped as a loud, black motorcycle suddenly cut me off. The black helmet came off, revealing Jake’s sharp, handsome features. He flashed a devastating, careless grin. “Hey, good girl,” he said. “Get on. I’m taking you out.” A few of his friends were behind him, laughing, throwing out suggestive comments. “Ryder, this one’s too sweet, man. No fun.” “Yeah, the vocational school chicks are way better! They know how to move.” I was terrified. I just shook my head, avoiding eye contact, and scurried around the bike, almost running down the sidewalk. I heard the chorus of laughter fade behind me. … I hated him back then. I thought he was trash—a path to ruin, completely incompatible with my life. But he was relentless. He started showing up every day after school, demanding to walk or drive me home. Then came the night I stayed late for detention. Walking down a dark alley that cut between two blocks, I was cornered by a sloppy, drunk guy who started getting handsy. Suddenly, Jake appeared out of nowhere. A single, sickening crack as his fist met the man’s jaw. “Get lost,” Jake commanded, his voice ice. He took off his hoodie and wrapped it around me, pulling me tight against his side. “Don’t be scared, Ellie. I’m here.” He walked me all the way to my front door. As I climbed the stairs to my second-floor window, I looked back. He was still there, standing motionless under the flickering streetlamp, just watching. 2 The romance of youth is faster and hotter than a summer thunderstorm. Jake and I fell into each other. We were discovered. My parents were furious—especially my father. They made me kneel, begged me to break up with him, and locked me in the house. But I loved Jake. For the first seventeen years of my life, my parents’ control had been absolute. I remembered the one time I brought home a 98 on an algebra test. I was beaming. But instead of praise, I got a stern interrogation: Where did the two points go? Followed by a silent hour kneeling on the floor. I was the perfect daughter, walking the path they laid out for me, year after year. Jake was the explosion in my meticulously ordered world. He smashed the shell around my life, dragged me out, and showed me a kaleidoscope of chaos and excitement I’d never known. He took me skipping class. He taught me how to mix drinks at a late-night dive bar, laughed when I choked on the liquor, and then brought me hot chocolate. I don’t know if I loved him, or if I loved the world he showed me. All I know is that to stay with him, I climbed out of my second-floor window and ran. We met at the bus station. I remember his fierce, crushing hug. His heart hammered like a drum against my chest. “Ellie, you scared?” he asked. I yelled back, full of reckless, blinding love, “No! I’m not!” “Good,” he promised. “Then let’s go. I promise I will take care of you. I will always be good to you.” … And he was. For a long time, he was. We had nothing. We were in the cheapest rental we could find. In the dead of a freezing winter, even the field mice were shivering. Jake would always give me the single egg from his instant ramen, and he would stick my icy feet under his shirt to warm them on his stomach. We were young, fueled by desperation and delusion. Love was the only meal we needed. A few years passed. Jake was smart and driven. He partnered with someone, made his first big payout, and we started our own small company. He was a machine, working eighteen-hour days. I wanted to help him. I pushed myself, learning everything about the business, moving from a terrified novice to a smooth, confident negotiator. Our efforts paid off. Within a few years, the company was a monster. We moved from the shack to an apartment, then from a luxury condo to a sprawling villa in the hills. When he proposed, the spectacle was enormous. He set off so many fireworks the entire city saw them. In the years of our success, his friends rotated through a parade of girlfriends and affairs. But Jake stayed grounded. He let me check his phone, video-called me from every trip, and insisted on coming home every night. I honestly thought we would be the one couple that made it to the end. Until I turned twenty-eight and found out he was sleeping with Sierra Davis, a fresh college intern at his company. The fighting started. The screaming. We’d smash things, replace them, and smash them again. My tears turned to fury, then to a hollow kind of numbness. The lovers who once would have died for each other were now trading the cruelest barbs, wishing each other into the ground. I closed my dry, exhausted eyes, then opened them again. On the nightstand, a faded photo: eighteen-year-old Jake, his arm around seventeen-year-old Ellie, both of us beaming. 3 While I sat there, lost in shock, the door opened. Eighteen-year-old Jake looked at me. His eyes were wide, but I saw something there that only years of sleeping next to someone could reveal: the soul of a thirty-year-old man, raw and recognizing. We both knew. We were both back. In the tiny room that used to be crammed with reckless love, we sat, two bitter strangers, thick with resentment. “Look,” Jake broke the silence. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that stuff in the car… I was just pissed.” I looked at him and felt a sudden, profound urge to laugh. I remembered sitting in this very room at seventeen, freezing, wrapped in his arms. His eyes were red with dedication when he gently warmed my feet on his stomach. “I’m the failure here, baby,” he’d whispered. “I’m putting you through this hell. But I promise, I will never let you down. I’ll love you forever.” I believed him then. I just never imagined ‘forever’ would be so short. Thirteen years. That was the lifespan of his promise before he looked me in the eye and spat, “You’re not sick? Sleeping with a man at seventeen.” We sat in silence, inhabiting our separate corners of the small room. “You—” Jake started, but a rapid, frantic knocking on the door cut him off. I opened it and gasped. My mother stood on the threshold, distraught. Her meticulously styled, expensive haircut was frazzled and flat. The daily makeup ritual was gone, leaving her skin looking sallow and her eyes red-rimmed. She grabbed my arm. “Come on. You’re coming home with me. Now.” My memory surged back like a tidal wave. This was it. The exact moment. In the previous life, she’d somehow tracked us down and driven across the state to bring me back. I’d stood my ground. I loved Jake. I was staying. She’d slapped me—the first and last time she ever hit me—and cried, “I raised you for seventeen years, and you’re throwing it all away for a boy? You’d rather lose your parents than leave him?” What did I say? I couldn’t recall the words. I only remembered her final look of utter, crushing disappointment. She choked out the words: “Then I’ll pretend you’re dead. You don’t have a mother, and I don’t have a daughter.” After that, we never spoke again. Years later, when Jake made his fortune, we tried to reconcile. My parents threw our expensive gifts into the street. The relationship I had personally severed became the source of an eternal, aching regret. My mother’s voice was hoarse. “You come back now, and we’ll pretend this never happened. We’ll be a family. Otherwise, I swear, you have no mother, and I have no daughter—” She was still speaking, but I couldn’t hear the rest. I just looked at her face, familiar yet agonizingly alien, and my eyes blurred. How long had it been since I’d seen my mother look like this—vulnerable, heartbroken, stripped bare? She was waiting for my defiant refusal. I reached out and gently took her hand. “Okay, Mom,” I said, quietly. “I’m coming home.” “You don’t come back and I’ll pretend you’re dead—what?” My mother froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. “I said I’m coming home.” My original departure was so dramatic and definitive that my immediate compliance stunned her. Jake, still seated, whipped his head around. My mother saw him, and her face hardened, though she maintained a sliver of polite decorum. “Jake,” she said, her voice tight. “Don’t think I’m trying to split you two up just to be cruel. But look around. Look at this building. What can you give my daughter?” She drew herself up. “Ellie wasn’t spoiled, but her father and I always provided. She should never have to suffer like this. She’ll break eventually, and you’ll break up. Better to end it now and not waste any more time.” She sounded relieved, pulling me toward the door, not even waiting for me to grab my coat. I forced a faint smile. My mother wasn’t wrong. If it weren’t for Jake, I would never have had to suffer this way. But she was also wrong. In the last life, I didn’t break. The one who broke, the one who walked away, was Jake. In my periphery, I saw Jake’s face drain of color, turning stark white. I didn’t know if it was my mother’s words or the reality of me leaving. All those years, no matter how cold or broke we were, I never considered leaving him. Even the divorce was his demand. He never thought I had the power to walk away first. I wanted to say something, a final word. But I stopped. What was the point? We had said everything, the good, the bad, and the hateful, in the life we just lived. I closed the door and left. 4 My father was just as shocked to see me walk back through the door so compliant. He intended to yell, maybe even hit me. He raised his hand, but his eyes went red, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh, lowering his arm. “Just come home, Ellie. Just come home safe.” “Your mother and I… we won’t pressure you anymore.” That evening, my mother cooked a feast. She wanted to talk, to lecture, to question. But in the end, she just kept piling food onto my plate. “You’ve been through a rough time, haven’t you? Eat up. You need to gain your strength back.” … That night, in the deep hours, I slipped into a half-dream state. I was back in the office. I opened the door to see Sierra sitting on Jake’s lap. The room spun. I was frozen, beyond anger. The worst part was that when the girl looked up in surprise, she had the same wide, innocent eyes I once had—the complete picture of youthful naivete. That innocence had been the first thing to burn off me during my years of fighting to build a company with Jake. Jake tried to apologize, guilt-ridden, promising to make it up to me. But betrayal isn’t a single event you forgive; it’s a wound you must forgive every time you remember it. And my patience ran dry. His guilt evaporated, replaced by frustration and anger, leading to endless arguments. I fired Sierra; he hired her back as his personal assistant. He bought her a luxury apartment and started spending entire nights away from home. Thirteen years of love, devotion, and shared struggle were devoured by the long nights staring at the ceiling and the vicious, hurtful words we hurled at each other. The star-crossed young lovers ended up wishing each other dead. I woke up while it was still dark. The alarm clock on the nightstand glowed a faint blue: 2:53 AM. I got out of bed and walked to the window—the same one I’d jumped out of to run away with Jake. Moonlight poured in, illuminating the room. The whole thing surfaced again. Was I really in love with Jake back then? Or did I love the freedom he represented, using his affections as a weapon to escape my parents’ control? It didn’t matter now. In the previous life, my rebellion had cost me everything. But the universe, mercifully, had given me a second chance. The whole relationship with Jake had been a terrible, glorious detour. This time, I wouldn’t let my life derail. 5 I went back to school. My academic record was strong, and though I was behind after dropping out, the damage wasn’t irreversible. I slipped back into my old classes. My parents told everyone I’d been home recovering from an illness. The gossip faded quickly, and I returned to my quiet, structured life. Jake also disappeared. I vaguely recalled that around this time in the first life, he’d gotten seriously sick. He looked strong, all muscle and confidence, but his health was poor. Growing up orphaned and feeding himself on scraps, he was constantly malnourished. He had a bad case of the flu that turned into a nasty infection. It was serious; he was coughing up blood. I stayed at his side, nursing him until he recovered. After that, I took over his diet, forcing him to eat properly and taking care of his health until he was fully recovered years later. Without me now, would he pull through? I felt a sudden, familiar twist of pain, but I quickly suppressed it. The memory of his cruel insult—sleeping with a man at seventeen—hardened me. I had given him my best, only to be branded “sick.” Why would I chase after that? I owed him nothing. We were done. I fully expected our paths to diverge forever. But a month later, Jake reappeared. Walking home after school, my friend gasped. “Look at that guy—he’s gorgeous! Wait, isn’t that Jake Ryder? I heard he dropped out. Why is he back?” She nudged me playfully. “I heard you two were a thing. Is he here for you?” I kept my face perfectly neutral. “We were never a thing. Stop the rumors.” She scoffed. “Seriously? I thought you snagged a total knockout. Girls from the rival school are lining up to date him!” “I don’t care,” I said, walking ahead, refusing to look. I couldn’t imagine Jake was looking for me. Just as my feelings for him had been annihilated, his feelings for me must be just as toxic. I had cursed him, hated him, and finally agreed to the divorce only after I’d drained him of all affection. We were, quite possibly, the last two people on earth who ever wanted to see each other again. But then, Jake started walking straight toward me. As he got closer, I could see he was much thinner. His face had the waxy, pale look of someone who had recently been very ill. He addressed my friend. “Excuse us. I need to speak to Ellie.” My friend winked at me and scurried off. “Got it! I’ll see you tomorrow!” I frowned. “What do you want?” Was he here to try and lay claim to the company projects from our previous life? If so, I wouldn’t yield. I was already planning to launch my own venture after graduation. With a decade of experience, I was ready. To my surprise, he didn’t mention business. He looked down at me, pausing. “…I’m sorry.” I kept my voice flat and distant. “I don’t accept your apology. Is there anything else? If not, I’m leaving.” A simple apology couldn’t erase years of pain. I didn’t have the capacity to forgive the man who had hurt the old Ellie. “Ellie, let’s talk,” he insisted, running a hand through his hair, looking agitated. “I swear, Sierra was nothing. It wasn’t what you think—” “Not what I think?” I laughed, a bitter, sharp sound. “Were you just covering up with the comforter and having deep discussions about market strategy?” “Don’t be like this. It was a stupid mistake, a moment of weakness. It was just a fling. I never wanted to lose you. I knew our marriage was the most important thing, and the divorce was only because I was angry and you kept pushing me—” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I cut him off. “Jake, we are separate people now. Our paths split. Don’t look for me again.” His face darkened. After a moment, a reckless, familiar smirk spread across his lips. “Fine, Ellie. It’s just a breakup. Don’t act like I’m going to chase you.” He reverted to his old, careless persona. “We’ll be civilized. I wish you the best.” “I’ll have it,” I retorted. “Because this time, I won’t be with you.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389359”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was born with a ‘let it be’ lifestyle. When my younger brother and sister would fight over the last bottle of milk, I’d just sit calmly on the side. Living was fine, starving was also fine. Later, my sister jumped ahead of me to pick a fiancé, leaving me with the newly bankrupt Clark Blackwood. I nodded and agreed. “Fine.” Marrying anyone was fine, as long as it was a person. Years passed, and Clark clawed his way back, becoming the envy of the city—a tech mogul worth billions. My sister came to me, hoping to trade husbands. She wanted to be the new mogul’s wife. I was about to nod and agree when Clark stepped forward and clamped a hand over my mouth. “Absolutely not.” I muffled, “But it’s fine.” Clark insisted, “No, Alice. It’s really not.” 1 As far back as I can remember, I’ve never fought for anything. When we were kids, my brother and sister would throw down for a single slice of pizza, and I’d just watch. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it, I just felt that getting it was fine, but not getting it was also fine. It was just a slice of pizza, after all. My mother always called me an even-tempered child, and my father said my easygoing nature was almost heartbreaking. But they quickly realized my personality was actually quite convenient. Since I never argued, they could just give everything better to my siblings. Gradually, “heartbreaking” morphed into “of course.” The biggest, sunniest room went to my sister, Stacey; girls needed to be pampered. The most expensive tutoring went to my brother; boys needed to be groomed for success. As for me, I lived in the smallest, north-facing room and attended a decent but unremarkable state college. “Alice is the most sensible,” Mom would say every time. “She won’t mind.” And I truly didn’t. I rarely let any of it sink in. By the time I was twenty-three, I had graduated and landed a quiet job as an administrator in a generic company, drawing a modest salary. My life was steady, utterly unremarkable. Stacey, two years younger, had just returned from a European finishing school and was waiting at home for her grand debut. That evening, my parents called Stacey and me into the living room. Two thick dossiers were waiting on the coffee table. Dad cleared his throat. “You’re both at the marrying age. These two men are the most suitable candidates.” I picked up one file: Clark Blackwood, twenty-eight, heir to the Blackwood Group. The photo showed a man with sharp features and an undeniable, if somber, elegance. The note at the bottom was stark: Blackwood Group recently filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy reorganization. The other file was Preston Wells, only son of the old-money Wells family. Assets: Multibillion-dollar fortune. Stable, secure. “Stacey gets to choose first,” Mom said, her tone a forgone conclusion. Stacey didn’t even glance at Clark Blackwood’s file. She snatched up Preston Wells’s. “I’ll marry into Wells Holdings.” Then she turned to me, her eyes holding a mix of triumph and casual entitlement. “Alice can take Clark Blackwood. It’s not like you’re picky, right, Sis?” I looked at Clark’s photo—a strikingly handsome face, even if his future was suddenly uncertain—and nodded. “Fine.” Mom visibly relaxed. “Alice, you are such a good girl. Clark may be down on his luck, but he’s still a Blackwood. He’s more than suitable for you.” Dad agreed. “It’s settled then.” I closed the file and didn’t comment. Marrying anyone was fine. It was just life. Besides, the man in the picture was quite nice to look at. 2 The wedding planning started immediately. Stacey’s wedding was set for three months later: fifty tables, the city’s most exclusive five-star hotel, a society event. Mom was swamped every day, picking out the custom Vera Wang gown, the sapphire family heirloom jewelry, and coordinating the décor. My wedding was scheduled for one week after Stacey’s: ten tables, in a mid-range Italian restaurant. “The Blackwoods have been gutted by the bankruptcy,” Mom explained. “A simple reception will suffice.” I nodded. “Fine.” When it came to the dowry, Stacey’s things were loaded in trucks: designer bags, bespoke jewelry, curated antique pieces, a brand-new Escalade, and $80,000 in cash and securities. “We can’t have the Wells family looking down on us,” Mom instructed the movers. “The Reed family reputation must be upheld.” For me, Mom prepared two small suitcases. One for clothes, one for toiletries, and a simple, unadorned silver jewelry set. I looked at the meager luggage but said nothing. Mom, perhaps sensing the awkwardness, quickly rationalized. “Alice, you’re marrying a man who is broke. Clark has nothing right now. The fact that you’re marrying him at all is a blessing to him. He wouldn’t dare complain about a small dowry. He should be grateful.” Dad chimed in. “Your sister is different. The Wells are old money. We can’t let them think less of us. You understand, don’t you?” “I do.” Since childhood, everything Stacey got had to be the best because she was meant for the best. What I got was irrelevant because, ultimately, I didn’t care. Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. This logic had run our family for two decades, humming along like a perfectly calibrated, if cruel, machine. The night before my wedding, Stacey came to my tiny room and leaned against the doorframe, watching me fold clothes. “Don’t you feel cheated, Sis?” she asked. “Cheated out of what?” I folded a sweater, not looking up. “Marrying a broke man,” she laughed, a brittle sound. “I couldn’t handle it.” “You don’t have to handle it. You’re marrying Preston Wells.” “True,” she said, satisfied. “Don’t be too sad, though. I hear Clark Blackwood is decent enough. He won’t mistreat you. Anyway, with your personality, you’d be happy with anyone.” I finally looked up. “You’re right.” She seemed surprised by my easy agreement, found the conversation boring, shrugged, and walked away. I went back to packing, thinking about getting married tomorrow. Marrying a man I’d never spoken to, starting a completely unfamiliar life. It sounded… interesting. 3 It drizzled on my wedding day. Stacey’s ceremony a week earlier had been a blaze of flashbulbs and society chatter. I’d helped out, watching her in her custom gown, draped in the family sapphire, clinging to Preston Wells’s arm, a portrait of joy. For my wedding, the turnout was sparse. Clark’s side only had a few distant relatives. The Reed family claimed convenient illnesses and stayed home. Only a few sympathetic colleagues showed up. I wore the dress Mom had bought: an off-the-rack white sheath, no veil. The makeup artist, recommended by the restaurant owner, gave me a simple, minimal look. I looked in the mirror and decided I looked fine. The ceremony was brief. No officiant, no flower arrangements, no complicated ritual. Clark and I exchanged rings—simple silver bands, maybe a hundred dollars—in front of our handful of guests. This was the first time I’d seen Clark in person. He was taller than in the photo, and thinner. He wore a slightly faded, but meticulously clean, dark suit. His tie was perfectly knotted, his hair neatly combed. He looked constrained, yet was trying hard to maintain a dignified appearance. His eyes held a complex mix of apology and scrutiny as he looked at me. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he put the ring on my finger. “I’m sorry you have to marry someone like me.” I looked at him. His eyes were kind, and even stripped of his fortune, he radiated an inherent class. “It’s fine,” I told him. “I don’t really care.” He blinked, then let out a low, slightly bitter laugh. The short ritual ended. We cut the small cake, toasted the guests, and collected the few envelopes of cash. Then Clark said, “Let’s go home.” Home. The word sounded alien. 4 Our new home was a cramped, walk-up apartment on the sixth floor of a building on the city’s industrial outskirts. Clark carried my two light suitcases, his footsteps heavy as he climbed the stairs. I followed, listening to his labored breathing. He looked back, his eyes full of apology. “I apologize for the state of things. I know this isn’t what you’re used to.” I looked around. “It’s good. It’s quiet.” He managed a small smile and opened the door. The apartment was small, maybe six hundred square feet, a one-bedroom. But it was spotless. Simple, clean furniture, neat curtains, and a freshly washed duvet drying on the balcony railing. “I spent all day yesterday cleaning,” he confessed, looking slightly vulnerable. “I hope you can manage here.” Gazing at the small space, I felt a flicker of warmth. “I’ll be fine.” He set the suitcases in the bedroom and then pulled out a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket and placed them in my hand. “This is everything I have left.” “Four hundred dollars. I start doing delivery tomorrow. I’ll earn money, and I promise, I’ll take care of you.” I took the bills. They were wrinkled but organized, and they held the residual warmth of his palm. “Keep these,” I pushed the money back. “You’ll need them for gas and expenses when you’re out there hustling. What will you do without any cash?” I met his eyes openly, without a hint of judgment or disgust. “You don’t resent me?” he asked, his gaze holding a small, almost desperate hope. “No. Surviving is the only thing that matters.” A complex emotion flashed in his eyes, dissolving into a quiet sigh. “Alice, you are truly…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what he meant. He probably thought I was easily fooled. That night, we had a simple dinner. He boiled ramen and added two eggs. “My cooking is terrible,” he warned. “You’ll have to make do.” “It’s good,” I insisted. I meant it. The simple, humble meal had a genuine, homemade flavor. Afterward, he went straight to the sink to do the dishes. I sat on the sofa, watching his broad back in the tiny kitchen, and a thought occurred to me: Maybe this life wouldn’t be so bad. When it was time for bed, he very politely offered to sleep on the sofa. “Don’t worry,” I said. “The bed is big enough. We can share.” I meant sleep. Just that. He froze for a long moment, then retreated to the sofa. “Let’s wait until you’ve settled in.” I lay in bed, and through the partially open door, I could see his tall frame curled up uncomfortably on the short sofa. An unfamiliar feeling stirred inside me. This man, Clark, might be better than I expected. 5 Married life was quiet. Clark did indeed start working as a delivery driver. He left at six every morning and didn’t return until ten at night. He fought the wind and the rain, always coming home exhausted. But every single day, he brought me a small gift. The first day was a small, palm-sized slice of cheesecake. The cream was slightly melted. “I passed a bakery,” he explained. “Remembered you said you liked sweets.” I loved them. The slice probably cost five dollars, but I ate it happily. The second day was a gourmet coffee, still warm. “Thought you might be thirsty.” The third day was a bag of artisanal cookies. The fourth day was a fresh fruit salad. None of it was expensive, but it was all exactly what I liked. I finally asked, “How did you know I like all this?” “A guess,” he smiled wearily. “You just look like someone who enjoys something sweet.” He was uncannily accurate. Seeing him struggle through the day, yet still remember to bring me these small things, warmed me. Still, the heir to the Blackwood Group, reduced to delivering food to support us. It was a dizzying twist of fate. I felt I should contribute. I couldn’t just be a burden. So, before my honeymoon was over, I went back to the office. On my first day, I was handed a termination letter. I was confused; I’d been a diligent employee. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” The HR manager looked at me with complex pity. “Alice, think hard. Have you offended anyone recently?” I thought and thought, but I couldn’t pinpoint who I might have crossed. When I got home, Clark didn’t criticize me. He just brought out a pastry he’d bought and set it in front of me. “Eat,” he said gently. “Nothing is more important than eating.” What a truly good person. But I couldn’t be a leech on him; I had to prove my worth! I decided to cook him a meal. I had never stepped foot in the kitchen growing up. Although I wasn’t the favorite, my parents still had a housekeeper. I didn’t even know the basics of stirring a pot. But I figured, how hard could it be? I almost burned the building down. I was trying to sauté some spinach, but I used too much oil and misjudged the heat. A sudden burst of flames erupted from the pan. Panicked, I grabbed a glass of water and splashed it on the fire, which only made it bigger. Amidst the rolling smoke, I heard the door open. “Alice Reed!” Clark rushed in, turned off the burner, and smothered the fire with a wet towel. “What are you doing?!” “I… I wanted to make you dinner.” Tears streamed down my face from the smoke. He looked at the wreckage, then at me, and finally let out a helpless, almost hysterical sigh. “Are you hurt?” He checked my hands anxiously. “Did you burn yourself?” “No. But I promise, I’ll get it right next time.” He quickly stopped me. “No, please. Stay away from the kitchen. I’ll make sure there’s always food.” “But you’re so tired every day…” He cut me off. “I’m not tired. Just stay safe.” He cleaned the kitchen for me and then made me a bowl of ramen. It was the same simple broth, but with extra greens and two eggs. “Never do anything that dangerous again,” he instructed. I nodded. “Okay.” I was obedient. I truly never touched a pot or pan again. Perhaps because he knew I was useless, the food he started bringing home became more lavish. The convenience store sandwiches became refined takeout from actual restaurants, and the simple cakes turned into high-end patisserie specialties. Sometimes, he brought fruits, imported chocolate, or expensive deli items. My anxiety grew as I ate. Could a gig-economy driver really be making this much money? I couldn’t help but ask, “Are you pushing yourself too hard? Maybe you should take a day off.” He just smiled. “It’s no trouble. As long as you like it.” But I could see the fatigue. He was exhausted every night, sometimes with scrapes on his hands—presumably from rough handling or a bike crash. I felt terrible. He was working so hard for me, and I couldn’t help him at all. Then I remembered the jewelry. I had some things at my parents’ house—vintage pieces my grandmother had left me. If I could get them and sell them, maybe it would make his life easier.

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After my adoptive parents died, I found their biological son rummaging through trash on a street corner. I snatched a moldy bun from his hand. “Idiot, you can’t eat that. It’s dirty.” Later, the idiot buried his face in my chest, and I grabbed a handful of his hair. “Stupid dog, you can’t eat that either.” 01 I found Silas in a small town down south. He was dressed in rags, curled up on a street corner, wolfing down a dirty, smelly bun. I walked over slowly and squatted beside him. Silas looked up warily, hiding the moldy bun behind his back, baring his teeth at me like a feral animal. I gave him a friendly smile, staring at his sharp, white canines. “Why are you acting like a stray dog?” Silas paused, stunned by my smile. I took the opportunity to snatch the sour bun from his hand and tossed it aside. “Idiot, you can’t eat that. It’s dirty.” Silas froze for a second. He looked at his empty hand, then at me, then at the bun on the ground in the distance. Just as he was about to bare his teeth again, I pulled out a fluffy, white steamed bun and stuffed it into his mouth. I had been watching Silas all afternoon. He dug through six trash cans and fought two stray dogs just for a single bite. I had sent someone to buy a whole bag of fresh buns. Prepared. Silas instantly behaved, holding the bun with both hands and gnawing on it intently. I took the chance to lead him away. It was a twenty-minute drive from the dump to the hotel. Silas ate seven buns. Every time he finished one, he’d stare at me with those puppy-dog eyes, looking like he was about to bark. I wasn’t trying to humiliate him. Silas really did act like a stray dog. Feeling mischievous, I took out another bun and waved it in front of his face. “Want it?” Silas stared at the bun, swallowing hard. His eyes lit up. If he had a tail, it would be wagging. I smiled, teasing him. “Call me brother. Call me brother, and I’ll give it to you.” Silas looked at me, then at the bun. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He was practically drooling. His mouth moved a few times, but no words came out. I guided him patiently. “Be good. Say brother.” Silas got anxious. From his throat came a loud, clear— “Woof!” ? What the f*ck! Is he actually a dog? Before I could recover from the shock, Silas lunged forward, snatched the bun from my hand, and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. Then he quickly scrambled to the other side of the car, keeping maximum distance, chewing laboriously while eyeing me warily. Looking at his 6’3″ frame trying to curl into a ball, I felt a mix of speechlessness and heartache. What kind of life had this guy been living? I finally mustered some pity. Seeing Silas choking on the dry bread, I reached out to pat his back. “Nobody’s taking it. Eat slowly.” Silas instantly turned vicious, staring at my hand, a threatening growl vibrating in his throat. As if he’d bite my fingers off if I got any closer. Fine. Eight buns wasted. So protective of his food. That’s not good. I withdrew my hand, tapping my fingers on my knee, looking down with a light smile. A little wild. Once I wash him clean, I’ll need to train him properly. 02 Washing him clean was a challenge in itself. Silas smelled… indescribable. And he refused to bathe. Once we got to the hotel suite, he huddled at the foot of the sofa, staring at me warily, maintaining a safe distance. I spent an hour trying to talk him into the bathroom. No luck. I couldn’t catch him, and I couldn’t beat him in a fight. After two hours of battling wits with Silas, I saw the mints on the nightstand. I grabbed one, unwrapped it, and quickly stuffed it into Silas’s mouth. The puppy didn’t even have time to bare his teeth. He froze for a full thirty seconds. He spit the candy into his palm, licked it tentatively, his eyes lit up, and he popped it back in. Even though I’m not a germaphobe, his lack of hygiene was testing me. I closed my eyes, chanting internally: He’s simple, he doesn’t know better, don’t be disgusted. Once I convinced myself, I opened my eyes and used the candy to lure Silas into the bathroom. Turns out, even though Silas is simple, he remembers some basics. He could brush his teeth and wash his face. He even lined up the toothbrush and folded the towel neatly when he was done. Someone must have taught him that. So bathing shouldn’t be an issue. I stripped him naked and threw him into the bathtub. I wanted to ruffle his hair, but it was too dirty, so I pulled my hand back. Save it for later. I unwrapped another candy and fed it to him. “Good boy, wash yourself. If you smell nice, brother will give you more candy.” Less than ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened. Silas walked out, soaking wet and stark naked. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs. His proportions were insanely good. My eye twitched. I took a deep breath, chanting “lust is emptiness” three times before walking over to inspect the results. He was whiter, sure, but definitely not clean. He hadn’t even used shampoo. Overestimated him. I guess he only retained the very basics like face washing. I marched him back into the bathroom, pushed him into the tub, and resigned myself to washing him. Silas watched curiously as I scrubbed him down, surprisingly obedient. The more I scrubbed, the more jealous I got. How does a homeless guy have this much muscle definition? I ran my hands over his abs. He had two more packs than I did. No wonder he can eat so much. My gym membership is a scam. As I was washing him, a certain part of Silas that should have stayed down suddenly perked up, trembling. I stared at the offender in shock. “You…” How does a bath lead to this… Silas blinked his puppy eyes at me innocently and swallowed. Fine, don’t argue with a fool. I slapped the thing lightly. “Alright, I know you’re happy to see your brother, now stand down.” I looked up, teasing Silas. “Tell it to calm down.” Silas grunted at my slap, his eyes lighting up. He stared at my hand. After a moment, he grabbed my hand and pressed it against his lower abdomen, his voice hoarse. “Hit.” “More.” “Hit.” I was paralyzed. What the hell? Did he enjoy getting hit? Silas whined impatiently, his breath hot. “Hurt. Hot.” “Hit it.” It’s over. My hands are tainted. I pulled my hand back, expressionless, and turned on the cold water, drenching Silas until he shivered. “Cool the f*ck down!” Silas wilted under the spray. “Woo…” 03 That night, Silas refused to sleep on the bed. He curled up on the rug beside my bed. He slept soundly. I couldn’t sleep, so I went to the balcony to smoke. Before I met Silas, I never imagined he’d be like this. Silas wasn’t born simple. He went missing at five. My adoptive parents spent their lives looking for him. Even after they adopted me, they never stopped searching. After Mom died of depression and Dad followed soon after, I searched for Silas alone for four years. Mom said Silas was smart as a whip. He talked early, loved picture books, learned everything instantly. But the Silas now… apart from barking and biting, he knew nothing. His behavior was like a wild animal. I didn’t know what Silas had been through, but I had just traced every scar on his body. Old wounds, new scars. He must have suffered a lot. I exhaled a puff of smoke, my chest tight. Being that simple, surviving alone for so long… it must have been hard. I turned around and ran right into a pair of bright, wide eyes. “Holy sh*t!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. Silas had woken up at some point and was standing silently behind me. I clutched my chest, still shaken. “Are you a ghost? You walk without sound!” Silas ignored me completely. He stared at the cigarette between my fingers, his gaze terrifyingly clear. Then, with lightning speed, he leaned in and snatched the lit cigarette from my hand with his mouth. I stood there, jaw dropped. When I reacted, I frantically tried to pry his mouth open. “That’s a cigarette butt! You can’t eat that! Spit it out!” Silas frowned from the burn but refused to let go. I forced his jaw open, threw the butt away, and probed his mouth with my fingers. “Where did it burn? Does it hurt?” Silas obediently opened his mouth, then curled his tongue around my finger and licked. He tasted it, then licked again. Apparently deciding it tasted good, he grabbed my hand and licked my palm vigorously. Saliva coated my hand. I shuddered, an itch running from my palm to my bones. I pulled my wet hand back and slapped the back of Silas’s head. “Are you a dog? Licking everything! Isn’t it dirty?!” Still angry, I slapped him again. “If you eat random crap again, I’ll beat you.” Silas tilted his head. “Woof!” “…” Great. After all that, he only understood the word “dog.” 04 The next afternoon, a well-fed and bored Silas started scratching at the door. First pounding, then kicking. Like a damn husky. I lost my patience, dragged him back, and put a random cartoon on the tablet for him. Silas settled down. Leaning against the bed, holding the tablet, watching intently. I sat in the chair, dealing with the backlog of work online. I was exhausted, so I fell asleep waiting for an email. I didn’t sleep well. I vaguely felt my chest itching and hurting. Groggily opening my eyes, I saw the reflection in the mirror across the room. A handsome man in an office chair, bathrobe wide open, a furry head buried in his chest. The handsome man was me. The head belonged to Silas, kneeling between my legs. Before I could process this shocking scene, a sharp pain hit my chest. I hissed. I grabbed Silas’s hair and yanked him back. “Sucking is one thing, but biting?!” I looked down. It was swollen! How long had he been at it?! Silas’s lips were glistening. He looked at me and said, “Candy.” He stared at my chest aggrievedly, reaching out to poke it. “Not candy.” I froze. I realized what he meant. He wasn’t trying to say “not candy.” He meant “not sweet.” Because before yesterday, he had never eaten anything sweet, so he didn’t know the word for that taste. I told him the gummies were “candy.” So to him, “candy” meant sweet. “Not candy” meant not sweet. I looked at my poor chest, tortured by Silas. Pink. Soft. It did look a lot like the strawberry gummy I gave him yesterday. Now that it was swollen and shiny from his attention… it looked even more like one. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. “That’s not f*cking candy! Can that thing be sweet?!”

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I was so deep in character that I absentmindedly shoved the prop “Termination Consent Form” into my trench coat pocket. When I got home, my boyfriend—an A-list movie star whose relationship with me was still a secret—was digging through my coat and found the paper. His voice sounded like he had swallowed broken glass. “When did this happen?” I thought he was asking when the scene wrapped. “Just this afternoon. It was super quick. I didn’t feel a thing, and then it was over.” The light in his eyes died instantly. He collapsed onto the sofa. The next day, I left for a closed-set location shoot. When I finally emerged weeks later, I heard he had canceled all his press tours. He had spent forty-nine days at a silent spiritual retreat, lighting candles daily to pray for the soul of an unborn child. 1. I barely got through the front door before Liam’s lips were on mine. He tasted like peppermint and desperation. His arms locked around my waist like a vice, his breath hot against my neck. Normally, facing Liam’s enthusiasm, I’d be ready to go a few rounds. But not today. I had just wrapped a grueling shoot, and my body felt like it had been run over by a truck. All I wanted was a hot shower. “Babe, stop…” I turned my head, dodging his kiss. “My back is breaking. Mercy, please.” Liam froze. The lust in his eyes instantly melted into concern. “That tired?” “Mhm.” I peeled off my trench coat and blindly shoved it into his chest. “Hang this up for me? I need to scrub this makeup off.” I walked straight to the bathroom. Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric. Liam was a neat freak; he always handled the laundry and coats. I turned on the faucet, letting the water run loud as I pumped cleansing oil into my hand to attack my waterproof mascara. Suddenly, Liam’s voice came from the hallway. It was quiet, laced with a tremor so faint I almost missed it. “Harper… when did this happen?” I kept my eyes closed, massaging the oil into my skin. I assumed he was asking when we finished filming. “Just this afternoon. It was super quick. I didn’t feel a thing, and then it was over.” I had been worried about that final scene, but it had gone surprisingly smoothly, which was why I was home early. “…Did it hurt?” Hearing the softness in his voice warmed my chest. I had spent two hours in a harness doing wirework today. Of course it hurt. But on set, you don’t complain. You suck it up. So, I answered breezily: “It was okay. Stung a little in the moment, but I don’t feel anything now.” Outside, rain started to lash against the windowpane, blurring the city lights. The air in the hallway seemed to freeze solid. Liam’s voice shook. “…Why didn’t you tell me?” Men. Always getting moody over nothing. Was he upset I didn’t text him the minute I wrapped? “Why would I bother you with a little thing like that?” I called back. “Plus, there were like fifty people watching. You want our relationship leaked?” I shut the bathroom door, cutting off the conversation. I stripped and slid into the bathtub, finally relaxing. Just as I closed my eyes, a knock came at the door. “Harper?” I splashed some water. “What now?” Silence for a second. “Don’t make the water too hot. It’s… it’s bad for your body right now. And don’t stay in there too long. You might faint.” “I know, I know. You’re turning into my mother, I swear.” He didn’t reply. But I heard him on the phone a moment later. “…What if she catches a chill?… What kind of vitamins do we need?… Yeah, I know she looks fine, but we have to be careful…” I assumed he was just being his usual overprotective self, probably calling his nutritionist. I didn’t see that outside the door, Liam hung up the phone and silently cranked the thermostat up to seventy-eight degrees. 2. When I came out, wrapped in a towel, Liam was sitting on the couch like a statue. The reading lamp cast a long, lonely shadow across the floor. He looked like a puppy that had been kicked to the curb. Liam was a method actor. Sometimes he got too deep into a headspace, so I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t have time to coddle him. I had to leave for a remote location shoot in the mountains tomorrow. Period drama. No cell service. I opened my suitcase and started throwing clothes in. Liam watched me pack, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words out. Finally, as I was about to zip the bag, he grabbed my hand. “Harper.” “Do you have to go tomorrow?” “You… you haven’t recovered yet.” I looked at him, confused. “Recovered from what? I’m fine. I’m strong as an ox.” “Besides, the whole crew is waiting on me. If I don’t show up, that’s a breach of contract. Do you know how much the penalty fee is?” “I’ll pay it,” he blurted out. “Just stay home and rest. Please?” I frowned, looking at him in disbelief. “Liam, are you okay?” “Who was the one who told me actors need integrity? That once you sign a contract, you show up? Since when am I so delicate that I need bed rest?” Liam’s face went ghost white, as if I’d slapped him. I didn’t understand his reaction. He was being incredibly clingy tonight. I stood up and latched the suitcase. “You were the one who told me to focus on my career. Now that I’m finally getting some good roles, you want to lock me up in the house like a trophy wife?” That seemed to be the final blow. Liam stumbled back half a step and fell onto the sofa. He looked at me, his eyes shattered glass. “Yes… I told you to focus on your career.” He let out a hollow, broken laugh. “My mistake.” I turned around to wheel my suitcase to the door, ignoring his drama. I didn’t hear him whisper, “I killed it.” 3. I was exhausted. I hit the pillow and was out like a light. But in the middle of the night, I woke up smelling peppermint. I was leaving for two months tomorrow. The thought of being apart made me clingy. Half-asleep, I rolled over and snuggled into his chest, my hand sliding under his t-shirt. “Liam…” My voice was thick with sleep, soft and needy. I tilted my head up to find his lips. The next second, I froze. Liam pushed me away. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm. A clear rejection. He caught my wandering hand. “Don’t. Go to sleep.” I grumbled, annoyed. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t see you for weeks. This is the send-off I get?” Usually, this man couldn’t keep his hands off me. Tonight, he was acting like a monk. He scooted back, pulling the duvet up to my chin, tucking me in like a burrito. “Be good.” In the dark, his gaze was heavy. “Your body… it’s too soon. Don’t push yourself.” I frowned, fully awake now. “I’m tired, yeah, but you’re seriously turning me down?” “Next time you want me, don’t expect me to be this easy!” “Just sleep,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. I glared at him. Something was wrong with him tonight. Fine. If he was bored of me, whatever. “Fine! Who cares!” I rolled over, turning my back to him, and pulled the covers over my head. “Goodnight. Don’t touch me.” Behind me, I heard a long, trembling exhale. 4. Liam didn’t sleep that night. He watched Harper’s back as she slept. His heart felt like it was being squeezed in a hydraulic press. He couldn’t close his eyes. Every time he did, he saw that crumpled paper: Termination Consent Form. He thought back to an afternoon two months ago. The sunlight had been perfect, highlighting the peach fuzz on her cheeks. She was scrolling through TikTok in his arms. She shoved the screen in his face. It was a video of a toddler in a pink dress. Harper’s eyes were sparkling. “Liam, look! She’s so cute! What do you think our kids would look like?” She looked up at him, full of hope. “I hope they have your jawline and my eyes.” Liam had sighed. He loved her. And because he loved her, he knew how brutal Hollywood was. “Harper, you’re young.” “This industry eats women alive. You have a golden window. If you have a baby now, the gap in your resume… the market forgets people fast.” He had tried to be logical. “You have talent. You have momentum. You shouldn’t be tied down so early.” “As for kids… let’s talk about it later. Okay?” The light in Harper’s eyes had dimmed. Right. He was a movie star. He wasn’t ready to be a dad. She had smiled quickly to cover it up. “Why so serious? I was just talking.” Now, remembering that moment, Liam buried his face in his hands. He was garbage. What if she was already pregnant then? What if she was testing the waters? And his “logical” answer made her think he didn’t want the baby. He couldn’t imagine what she felt walking into that clinic alone. And then coming home and saying “It was quick” and “I didn’t feel a thing.” He knew her. The more casual she acted, the more she was hurting. Guilt consumed him like a wildfire. He reached out to touch her stomach, then stopped, afraid to wake her. He just sat there in the dark, his hand hovering over the empty space where a life used to be. Eventually, he sat up and opened a group chat with his closest friends—guys he’d known since college. Liam: My child is gone. It was a bomb. Scott: Dude, what? Are you joking? Harper was pregnant? Liam: She had the procedure. Yesterday afternoon. Scott: Holy… I was smoking near her last week at the BBQ. I’m going to hell. That was my nephew! Ben: Wait. A decision that big… she didn’t discuss it with you? Liam: It’s my fault. I didn’t make her feel safe. Ben: If you’re hurting, man, go to the retreat in Big Sur. Light a candle. Find some peace. Liam stared at the words. He couldn’t sleep. He got up, packed a small bag, kissed Harper’s forehead, and left. He drove through the night, heading toward the coast.

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New Year’s Day was dawning, and I’d been behind the wheel all night, driving my wife, Sophie, and her best friend, Jessica, back to our hometown for the holiday. We were almost there when Jessica suddenly hit play on a video. “They say the only way to see a man’s true colors is to push him to his breaking point,” a chipper voice from her phone announced. “If he can stay calm while you create chaos, congratulations, you’ve married a one-in-a-million man.” The words sounded absurd to me. I glanced over as she and Sophie started chatting about it, not paying it much mind. But then, Jessica’s next words sent a chill down my spine. “Hey, Sophie,” she whispered, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Alex is always so patient… you ever wonder if it’s all an act?” “You should grab the wheel,” she giggled. “You know, just to see what he does.” 1. The moment the words left Jessica’s mouth, my relaxed posture vanished. I sat bolt upright, the exhaustion from the all-night drive evaporating in a flash of adrenaline. Seeing my reaction, Jessica clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Look at him, he’s terrified! Haha, I was just kidding with Sophie, Alex. Don’t worry.” “Just focus on the road,” she added. “Don’t get distracted.” I shot a look in the rearview mirror. They seemed to be laughing it off, so I let out a slow breath, my heart rate gradually returning to normal. We’d just gotten off the highway, trading smooth asphalt for a narrow, winding mountain pass that was the last stretch home. The road was old, neglected, and pockmarked with potholes. To our right, a sheer cliff dropped hundreds of feet into a foggy abyss. If Sophie actually grabbed the wheel here, the three of us would be taking a one-way trip to the bottom. “Maybe don’t make jokes like that again,” I said, my voice colder than I intended. The fatigue and the intense focus required for the road had worn my patience thin. Jessica looked embarrassed and mumbled, “I was just trying to liven things up a bit.” Sophie, however, seemed to think I was out of line. She slapped my shoulder, not playfully. “What’s your problem, Alex? Jess was just trying to break the silence.” “And you,” she continued, her voice rising, “you’ve been quiet as a tomb this whole ride. Anyone would think you’d lost a fortune.” I was too tired to argue. I figured if I just stayed quiet, she’d run out of steam. “Are you listening to me?” But she wasn’t done. She leaned forward and jabbed a finger into the side of my head. “Alex, did you even hear a word I said?” That push frayed my last nerve. “I’m driving, Sophie.” My curt reply was like a lit match to a fuse. She exploded. “What kind of tone is that! It’s bad enough you ignore me, but now you’re snapping at me? You think you’re so special just because you’re driving?” Her shrill voice felt like a spike being driven into my foggy brain. The exhaustion was now mixed with a deep, suffocating frustration. I didn’t even want to open my mouth. Thinking about Jessica in the back seat, I tried to de-escalate. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Can we please just not fight? We’re almost home.” Seeing the tension flare, Jessica tried to play peacemaker. “It’s okay, Sophie. It was my fault, I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s just calm down. It’s a holiday, we should be happy.” But Sophie wasn’t having it. She brushed Jessica’s hand away, her voice climbing several octaves. “No! He needs to explain himself, right now.” “Alex, what do you mean, I’m fighting? I’ve been with you for six years! I had your children, I took care of your parents, and for what? For this?” “When you were broke and couldn’t afford a down payment, I was the one who swallowed my pride and begged my dad for the money! You didn’t seem to mind my ‘fighting’ then, did you?” She was dredging up the past again. I just wanted to shut down. When my business was taking off, I’d suggested we wait to have kids. She insisted, saying her family was getting impatient and that she’d handle everything while I worked. I agreed. Then she complained that raising kids was too exhausting. Her parents always had an excuse not to help. So, my parents dropped everything, left their life in our hometown, and moved to the city to help her. Last year, she kicked them out and sent them back home because my mom said one wrong thing. And the money from her dad? I told her I could get a loan. But she insisted on asking him, and over the years, I’d funneled so much money back to her family I’d lost count. Renovating their house, buying her parents a new car, paying for her brother’s wedding. I never threw any of that in her face. But every little thing she did for me was a debt I was never allowed to forget. My silence only fueled her rage. She took it as an admission of guilt. “Don’t you dare play dead with me! We’re not finished until you answer me.” “Say something!” she shrieked. We were approaching a sharp curve in the road. Before I could even start the turn, Sophie lunged forward, her hands closing over the steering wheel. She yanked it hard to the right. My foot slammed on the brake instinctively. The world erupted in a gut-wrenching screech of tires against gravel. With a sickening crunch of metal, the car jolted to a halt, half-suspended over the abyss. 2. My hands were clamped on the wheel, my entire body rigid. My heart was in my throat. Through the windshield, the mist rising from the bottom of the cliff felt close enough to touch. If I hadn’t wrestled the wheel back in that split second, the car and all three of us would be tumbling into that endless void. I threw the car into reverse and floored it, tires spinning until we were safely back on the narrow road. Only then did my mind catch up to what had just happened. I turned to look at Sophie’s face, and the dam of my control finally broke. “Are you insane?” I roared. “Do you have any idea how close we just were? Did you want to kill us all?” The near-death experience hadn’t shocked her into sanity. If anything, it made her angrier. “Don’t you blame me for your terrible driving,” she sneered. “Typical. Men are all the same. The second something goes wrong, you look for someone else to blame.” I stared at her, a mixture of fury and despair churning in my gut. Just then, the driver of the other car was wrenching my door open and dragging me out onto the road. “What the hell is wrong with you? You almost killed my entire family!” He was coming from the opposite direction. Sophie’s stunt had sent us veering directly into his path. In a strange twist of fate, hitting his car might have been the only thing that stopped us from going over the edge. “Man, I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my head still spinning. “I’ve been driving all night, I’m exhausted.” “Just tell me what the damage is. I’ll pay for everything.” It was my fault, plain and simple. “Pay for it?” he spat. “My wife is pregnant! If anything happens to her, I’ll hold you responsible for the rest of your life.” A cold dread washed over me. I glanced at his car and saw a woman cradling a large belly in the passenger seat. “Honey, stop shouting,” she moaned. “My… my stomach really hurts.” I rushed over to her side, my panic rising. Then I saw it, a dark stain spreading on the fabric of her seat. Blood. “Okay, don’t worry,” I said, fumbling for my phone. “I’m calling an ambulance right now. I’ll cover all her medical bills, all the aftercare, whatever you need. Name a price, I’ll pay it. Just please, let’s get her help.” Seeing my genuine panic and willingness to take responsibility seemed to cool his temper slightly. But of course, that was Sophie’s cue to storm out of the car. She shoved me aside, glanced dismissively at the pregnant woman, and then turned on the husband. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a baby,” she said with a shrug. “A little bump isn’t going to kill her. Don’t you dare try to shake us down for money.” “I saw the whole thing,” she declared, pointing a finger at him. “You deliberately swerved into us.” Her friend Jessica chimed in from beside her. “That’s right. You can’t pin this on us.” The man’s barely contained rage exploded. “I swerved into you? Are you out of your mind? You lying…” He drew back a fist, but his wife cried out again. “Mark, please! It hurts so much.” He shot me a look of pure hatred, then settled for landing a solid punch on my jaw before rushing back to his wife’s side. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. I’m taking you to the hospital right now.” Knowing I deserved it, I quickly pressed my business card into his hand. “Dude, just get her to the hospital. Call me for anything you need. Anything at all.” He smacked my hand away, his eyes burning into mine. “I don’t need your damn card. I know who you are, Alex. You and your family just wait. If anything happens to my wife, I swear to God, I’ll make your whole family pay.” With that, he peeled out, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Watching him disappear, a heavy sense of dread settled in my stomach. His final words echoed in my ears. But Sophie was completely oblivious, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Look at you, throwing money around like it’s nothing. I ask for a new purse and you act like I’m bankrupting you, but you’ll hand over cash to some random tramp without blinking an eye.” Her words pushed me over the edge. “What is wrong with you? That’s a person’s life we’re talking about!” “What’s it got to do with you?” she yelled back, unflinching. “Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. You should be grateful I’m not making them pay for our car.” This wasn’t the first time she’d been this unreasonable, but the other times had been about small things, things I could let go of. This was different. I was broken. She knew this was her fault. She knew what she had done, yet she stood there without a shred of remorse. In that moment, the woman I married felt like a complete stranger. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I just pulled out my phone to call the police. 3. The second she saw me dialing 911, she lunged. “What are you doing, Alex? Are you calling the cops on me? On your own wife? How could you be so cruel?” She snatched the phone from my hand and ended the call. “I gave you the best years of my life, and now you’re going to turn me in for some stranger? Are you even human?” Jessica joined in, trying to reason with me. “She’s right, Alex. Sophie was just looking out for you. What if they are trying to scam you? You shouldn’t be so quick to throw away money.” I almost laughed at their ignorance. It wasn’t funny. “I’m reporting the accident to the traffic police so we can file an insurance claim,” I explained, trying to keep my voice even. “And it creates a record. If he decides to sue us later, we’ll have an official report. Otherwise, it’s just his word against ours, and things could get much worse.” I thought I’d made it perfectly clear. But Sophie just glared at me. “You seem awfully concerned about helping him. I think you’ve got something else on your mind.” I gave up. Another word with her and I’d lose my mind completely. When the traffic police arrived, they took our statements and issued an accident report. After they left, I called my parents back home and asked about the guy, Mark. He said he knew me, but his face drew a complete blank. I’d memorized his license plate, and when I read it to my dad, it clicked. “That’s Mark Jensen,” my dad said. “You guys were best friends in elementary school. His family lives right across the street from us. How could you forget?” It had been too long since I’d been back. I’d lost touch with everyone. If we had that connection, maybe this could be resolved more easily. I asked my mom to contact Mark’s parents and give them five thousand dollars for now, just to cover immediate expenses. My parents did as I asked, no questions asked. But in Sophie’s eyes, this act of goodwill was a confession of guilt. “Who are you sending money to?” she demanded, peering at my phone. I ignored her. That only confirmed her suspicions. “You’re cheating on me, aren’t you? Is that your mistress? You’re sending her money?” “Give me your phone. Give it to me!” Her eyes were red and wild, her face a mask of profound betrayal. To any outsider, she looked like the victim. “You’re insane,” I muttered, getting back into the driver’s seat. My insult was all the provocation she needed. She grabbed onto me, refusing to let go, her voice a torrent of accusations. “Get out of the car! Tell me who she is! I have done nothing but be a good wife to you, and this is how you repay me? You’re a monster, Alex!” “Everyone thinks you’re such a wonderful husband, so good to me. But I know the truth. You checked out of this marriage a long time ago, didn’t you?” She was crying and screaming in my ear, and I had reached my limit. Still, I forced myself to explain that I was paying Mark to avoid a bigger conflict. Her response shut me down completely. “That’s my money. How dare you give our money to a stranger without my permission?” I laughed. A hollow, empty sound. Then I fell silent. She really had no idea I was doing this to save her. 4. I didn’t bother explaining further. I just told them to get in the car. Jessica was already in the back seat, but Sophie stood her ground, staring at me with a look of deadly seriousness. “You didn’t answer my question. Why did you take my money and give it to someone else?” My brow furrowed. Her relentless, irrational behavior had pushed me to the absolute edge. “What do you mean, your money? Do I not have the right to spend the salary I earn?” “None of this would have even happened if you hadn’t grabbed the steering wheel!” “So you are blaming me!” she cut in, her voice sharp as glass. “It was your hands on the wheel when you hit him! Don’t you dare try to pin this on me!” I was stunned into silence. A minute ago, she was claiming Mark hit us. Now, she was saying I hit him. “What do you want, Sophie?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “I want you to apologize. And I want you to get that five thousand dollars back.” “If you don’t,” she added, her eyes glinting, “I’ll call the police and tell them you tried to murder me.” Any desire I had to communicate with her was gone. I held out my phone. “Call them.” Seeing that she was serious, Jessica finally spoke up. “Sophie, come on. Let’s just go home, okay?” “Home? There is no home until he apologizes. If I’m going down, I’m taking everyone with me.” Without another word, she dialed 911. She told the dispatcher I was driving recklessly and had deliberately caused an accident, a clear case of attempted murder. When the police arrived, they found only our car at the scene. “You’re the one who called?” an officer asked Sophie. “Where’s the injured party?” “He’s already been taken to the hospital,” she said, pointing at me. “It was him, officer. He crashed into them.” The officer glanced at me, then back to Sophie. “And not only that,” she added, “he secretly transferred five thousand dollars from my bank account.” The officer’s brow furrowed. “What’s your relationship? And how did he get money from your account?” “He’s my husband,” Sophie said earnestly. The officer sensed something wasn’t right. “Do you have any proof that he caused the crash?” “I do. The dashcam footage is the proof. And he has the transfer record on his phone.” The officer looked at me. I said nothing. He retrieved the dashcam from the car and then snapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists. “If there’s evidence, you’ll have to come with us.” “You too, ma’am,” he said, turning to Sophie. “We’ll need your statement.” Hearing she had to go to the station, Sophie balked. “Officer, you’ve got him. Why do I need to go? To be honest, I don’t really want you to arrest him. I just wanted him to apologize to me. Then we could have just let this go.” She tilted her chin up, as if she were the one in control. The officer almost laughed. “Ma’am, do you think calling 911 is a game? If he’s responsible for injuring someone, he has to face the consequences.” “Let’s go.” And just like that, they took me away. At the station, they reviewed the dashcam footage. It clearly showed me swerving into Mark’s lane and hitting his car, an action that resulted in his wife showing signs of a potential miscarriage. They put me in a holding cell. During the interrogation, the officer asked if I had anything to add. I shook my head and gave a bitter smile. “She’s right. I’ll admit to everything. Just get it over with.”

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