Category: English

I’ve been in an arranged marriage with my Alpha husband for a year, and he hasn’t touched me once. The night before I planned to serve him divorce papers, I drugged his drink. Suddenly, a series of glowing comments started scrolling across my vision: 【Wait, why aren’t you running?!】 【He isn’t asexual, he’s terrified of hurting you!】 【He spends every rut using high-strength suppressants just to keep from losing control and breaking you!】 【The Male Lead is obsessed and has a literal addiction. He stares at your photo every night until… well, that dose you gave him is going to cause a total meltdown!】 【R.I.P. to that wall. It’s coming down tonight.】 The next second, Caleb Sterling slammed me against the wall. His palms were so hot they made my skin crawl. His breath was scorching, his voice a terrifying rasp: “What… did you give me?” 01 Caleb gripped my wrists, the pressure bordering on painful. His body heat was staggering, his breath fanning against the side of my neck and sending shivers down my spine. I tried to pull away, but he pinned me with one hand. “Caleb, let go!” The moment the words left my mouth, he leaned in, his nose brushing against the scent gland at the nape of my neck. I froze. In that instant, the comments exploded in front of me again: 【Did the MC really drug him?! Does he want to die?】 【He thinks Caleb is cold, but the guy is actually just deeply insecure. He’s too afraid to even speak to him!】 【Caleb is basically a ticking bomb of repressed desire. He’s dying to get close but he’s terrified of being rejected!】 【He has no idea that Caleb sneaks into his room every night after he falls asleep…】 【His self-control was already at 1%, and now it’s gone.】 My pupils contracted. My head was spinning. Drugged? Addiction? Staring at my photo…? Before I could process this data dump, Caleb’s breathing hitched. He snapped his head up, the muscles in his neck taut. His eyes were dark and predatory. “The new SI-3 Induction Serum,” he rasped, his voice vibrating against my ear. “It lasts for six hours.” He was backing me into a corner. The contrast between the cold wall and his burning chest made my spine tingle. Wait. The drug I got from my friend was supposed to be a sedative. How did it turn into an Induction Serum? Before I could think, Caleb’s hand covered the back of my neck. The scent of intense, chilled bourbon—his pheromones—hit me like a tidal wave. I was stunned. My legs turned to jelly, and I collapsed into his chest. Something was wrong. A ridiculous thought entered my mind. As a Beta, I wasn’t supposed to be able to smell an Alpha’s pheromones. So why could I smell him? 02 A strange, embarrassing heat surged from deep within me. My body was screaming to get closer to him. It felt as if I was the one who had been drugged, not him. I tried to fight the instinct, but my breathing was becoming erratic. Caleb’s thumb, slightly calloused, rubbed against the sensitive skin on the back of my neck. “Don’t… don’t touch me…” I whispered, biting my lip. A wave of inexplicable pleasure shot through me. My scalp felt numb, and my fingertips were trembling. He leaned in until his lips were grazing my ear. “I heard that if the pheromone injection is strong enough, even a Beta can be marked. Is that true?” His voice was a low hook, dragging across my heart. My head was swimming. I wanted him to hold me, to kiss me… But for the past year, Caleb had refused to even look at me. He acted as if my very touch was repulsive. Once, I accidentally brushed his hand, and he looked horrified. He’d spent thirty minutes scrubbing himself in the shower afterward. The comments couldn’t be true. I struggled to push him away, trying to escape the suffocation of his scent. But Caleb suddenly lowered his head. He nipped at the gland on my neck, his teeth grazing the skin before he bit down. The scent of heavy liquor flooded my system. The last string of my logic snapped. I reached up, hooked my arms around his neck, and kissed him. 03 When I woke up the next day, I felt like I’d been hit by a semi-truck. My wrists ached. My waist ached. My legs ached. Caleb was a madman. He said six hours, and he meant exactly six hours. A knock came at the door, followed by a low, distant voice. “You awake?” “Breakfast is ready. Come eat.” I rubbed my lower back, too exhausted to be dramatic. I dragged myself to the bathroom, cleaned up, and walked out. There was only one bowl on the table. I looked at Caleb in confusion. He was sitting by the window with his laptop, looking perfectly composed and professional. The morning sun highlighted his sharp jawline. “Aren’t you eating?” I asked, my voice a hoarse wreck. Speaking made the hidden bite mark on my neck sting. He didn’t look up. “I have files to process for the office. You eat.” His tone was cold, a universe away from the man who had lost his mind the night before. Bitterness rose in my throat. Right. Typical. The comments were a lie. In a year of marriage, he had never once sat at the same table with me. He always waited for me to finish before he’d even enter the room. Suddenly, the screen flashed in front of me again: 【Pffft, look at him acting! He’s trying so hard to look cool!】 【I’m dying. His ‘processing files’ is just him refreshing his desktop every three seconds.】 【Honey, he isn’t avoiding breakfast with you. He’s waiting to eat your leftovers because he’s that obsessed!】 I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. I looked away from the chat and checked Caleb’s reflection in the glass of the window. His ears were bright red. His eyes were darting everywhere. And on his screen? He wasn’t working. He was playing Minesweeper with a look of intense, life-or-death concentration. The chat continued: 【Six hours straight! After the MC passed out, Caleb just sat there holding his hand… honestly, the devotion.】 【He acts like a prince, but he’s just an insecure stalker on the inside.】 【He fell for you at first sight years before the wedding.】 【He was so afraid his ‘addiction’ would scare you away that he only dared to sneak into your room at night to smell your clothes.】 04 My heart skipped a beat. I quickly looked away. Caleb shut his laptop and walked over. “Your father called. He wants us over for lunch.” “Oh.” I wasn’t thrilled. I hated going back to that house. He paused, his eyes lingering on the red marks near my collarbone. He frowned slightly. “That… stuff from last night. Where did you get it?” I looked up at him. Before I could answer, he looked away, his voice returning to its flat, robotic tone. “Never mind. Don’t use that kind of thing on me again.” He hesitated for a half-second, his voice dropping an octave. “In the future… I will fulfill my marital obligations.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Obligations? I gripped my fork, feeling like a weight was pressing on my chest. Just then, my phone rang. It was my friend from the lab, Theo. As soon as I picked up, he started yelling: “Dude! Do NOT use that stuff I gave you! I grabbed the wrong bottle!” “…” “I checked the lab logs this morning. The labels were only one letter apart! That wasn’t a sedative. It was a concentrated Alpha Induction Serum—basically, high-grade Alpha viagra… and it’s potent as hell.” He lowered his voice, sounding guilty. “You… you didn’t use it yet, right?” I took a slow breath, my jaw tightening. “Theo.” “Yeah?” “Get your eyes checked. Now.” I hung up before I could scream at him. So, Caleb thought I was so desperate for him that I had to drug him?

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The short I posted of my son went viral on the TikTok. But the attention wasn’t on me. It was all on him. The internet instantly recognized the little boy as the miniature version of Isabelle Maxwell, the CEO of the Veridian Group and a notorious heiress in old-money circles. The netizens dug deeper, and soon, they found the old footage of our breakup, concluding that I was a single dad, abandoned after a messy split. I sighed. They had it all wrong. Izzy and I were married before. 1. I never expected the short to blow up. I’d only wanted to record some mundane moments during what I knew would be our last stretch of time together. But it went viral. In the clip, my son, bundled in three layers of pants he kept trying to pull off, gave me the same ice-cold stare he reserves for his pediatrician. He carried a stillness that was far too adult for his age. The comments were relentless: “This kid is me when my alarm goes off.” “That little face is giving ‘I’m too rich to be here.’” Then, a particularly sharp comment cut through the noise. “Wait, why does the little guy look exactly like my boss, Isabelle Maxwell?” “Like the CEO of the Veridian Group, Izzy Maxwell?” “No way. I saw this guy at the rundown clinic near my place last week. If he knows your CEO, why is he there?” “The person above me is right. I see him alone at the local urgent care all the time. He doesn’t look like he has money.” “I’m not lying—check the side-by-side!” A comparison photo followed, showing my son’s cold side-profile, identical to Izzy’s. Panicked, I tried to take the short down, but it was too late. That single comment had launched me onto every trending list. People dug harder and confirmed I was her ex. They reposted our breakup short. I watched it. It was real. It was the first time I saw, from a third-person perspective, that Izzy had turned and looked back at me. She lingered, a fragile silhouette in the falling snow, long enough for a thin layer of white to dust her dark coat. But I, intent on cutting the cord and escaping what I saw as a life sentence, had walked away without a second glance. I’d thrown every toxic, painful word I could think of, swearing I’d never be tied to her again. Five years passed. Yet here I was, irrevocably linked to her. Everyone demanded a statement. I didn’t give one. I simply deleted the account. I was terrified Izzy would show up and try to take Eli. 2. Izzy still ended up on the trend list, all because of my son. The Veridian Group, usually quick with its PR, issued no statement. They seemed to be under a strict instruction to stay silent. Eventually, the silence was broken by the Ellington Group. Grant Ellington, a polished society figure, posted a photo with Izzy, claiming her as his fiancée. He stated, with sickening magnanimity: “We’re all adults here; I don’t care about exes. But the child is pure fabrication. Mr. Harrison, I have to ask, is that child really Ms. Maxwell’s?” Izzy and I split five years ago. My son is three. The math didn’t add up. The narrative flipped. Suddenly, I was the “deadbeat,” abandoning my ex only to have a child with someone else. Some commenters went so far as to call Eli a bastard. I muttered a curse under my breath. If I could choose, I’d wish he wasn’t hers. I never wanted to be tied to her again. I turned to see Eli standing in the doorway, a mug of warm milk clutched in his small hands. His fair face was expressionless, but his eyes—dark and sharp—clearly disapproved of my language. “Dad—” He spoke with that serious, little-man tone of his. I knew a lecture was coming, so I quickly grabbed the milk and chased a handful of my pills down with it. “Good boy. Thank you.” “Goodnight, Dad’s tired.” I dove under the covers and faked sleep. Eli watched me for two seconds, his lips pressed into a thin line. He’s small, and he can’t hide his thoughts for long. After a moment, he spoke again. “Dad.” “Hmm?” “Was that lady online my mom?” He’d seen the comparison photo. They have the same exact profile, the same cold-eyed intensity. I sat up and ruffled his soft hair, putting on my most reassuring, paternal voice. “Eli Harrison.” “You’re a brave little man, right?” “Then you have to be tough because Dad has to tell you some sad news, okay?” He nodded, his eyes wide and serious. “That’s not your mom,” I whispered. “Your mom… she turned into a cat and went traveling.” I watched his eyes widen further with visible astonishment. “Now, good boy, go digest that for a bit.” “It’s late, and Dad has to work tomorrow.” He climbed onto the bed, wrapping his small, warm arms tightly around my neck. “Don’t be sad, Dad.” “I’ll stay with you. I won’t run away.” “Goodnight, Dad.” He kissed my cheek. That warm, little boy. I often marveled at my own courage for raising him alone, despite everyone’s opposition. Watching him stumble and grow, I’d never once regretted it. 3. The next morning, I dropped Eli off at preschool on my rickety old moped, then headed to the hospital. I came out hours later, pressing a wad of sterile cotton to my inner elbow. It was one advantage of winter: thick layers hid the needle marks and bruises. It kept Eli from chasing me around asking, “Dad, what happened to you?” I put on my helmet. Looking down, I saw a new blue thermos and a pair of black knit gloves tucked into the little basket. They were brand new. The thermos held warm water. I finally understood why Eli had been coming home with empty cans and cardboard boxes all week. My poor, silly boy. I pulled on the gloves. They were the simplest style, but they made my hands warm. I couldn’t stop looking at them. The cold wind hit, and my eyes felt raw. What happens to him when I’m gone? I thought constantly. Does he have to grow up alone? I couldn’t bear it. I could go to Izzy, beg her for money. Maybe it would be enough to treat this. But she probably still hated me. She’s too guarded, too controlling; she wouldn’t give me a dime. Lost in thought, I wasn’t paying attention. At a red light, I clipped the side of a sleek black Porsche. The moment the window rolled down, I froze, the fresh scrape on my hand forgotten. The woman stepped out. She gave the scratch on the car a detached glance, then looked up at me. Her familiar eyes—I knew every curve and shadow of them. My fingers curled unconsciously in my pockets. My throat felt stuffed with cotton, sore and swollen. I almost cried right there. “Mr. Harrison. Long time.” Her voice was cool. Her eyes swept over the scrape on my hand, then back to the car. She said nothing about it. After a few moments of quiet assessment, she looked up. “Mr. Harrison, how do you intend to compensate me for the damage?” Her tone was utterly impersonal, like she was addressing a stranger. Just like she promised five years ago: if I left, she would never forgive me, and we would be strangers. I was silent. I genuinely didn’t have the money. Her phone rang. She answered without moving away from me. “I’m out. You eat first.” “I’ll be back tonight to see you.” “The new gallery opening? Yes, Grant. I’ll meet you there.” She finished the conversation with patient care, then looked back at me, the mask of cold assessment instantly back in place. “Mr. Harrison, the compensation?” she repeated. She pulled out her phone and opened her payment app. I looked at it, but didn’t scan the code. Instead, I reached for the simple gold signet ring on my finger, the only thing of any real value I owned. I placed it in my palm. My voice was barely a whisper. “Take this as collateral. I can’t produce anything more.” 4. Isabelle Maxwell frowned, making no move to take the ring. Her tone hardened. “Noah Harrison. Are you seriously this broke? You took a significant settlement when we divorced. Did you blow it all in five years?” She had no idea. The money was never enough. Far from it. I nodded. “My ex-wife developed a severe gambling problem. I spent a fortune paying off her debts.” Izzy looked at me, a deep frown carving a line between her brows. I paused, lowering my voice further. “And Eli was a preemie. His heart… he’s always had complications. It’s drained everything.” “I’ve had a rough time, Izzy.” The first part was a lie. The second was the crushing truth. I never remarried. But Eli was a preemie, and he spent over six weeks in the NICU. I remember the long tube running through his nose, reaching down toward his tiny, fragile heart. I stood there alone, my body still weak from my own private battle, watching him in the incubator. He was so small, so skeletal. His tiny body struggled to breathe even with the oxygen mask. During that time, the doctors gave me countless terrifying updates. Each time, I signed the consent forms. The month I spent gambling with death felt like a lifetime of torment. Because of the early birth, Eli spent his entire first year in and out of the hospital. Fevers and feeding issues were routine. But the worst was his heart condition. When he was five months old, he had his first surgery. When they wheeled him out, his tiny body was a knot of tubes—down his nose, from his mouth, wrapped around his chest, taped to his limbs. I wanted to hold him, but I was afraid I’d hurt him. I could only carefully grip his icy-cold little hand, whispering over and over that he needed to be strong. Thinking back to those early years, my eyes stung. Izzy watched me, her fingers clenched at her side. I saw a ripple of pain in her eyes, but it vanished the moment I looked up. “You probably wouldn’t know how expensive raising a child is, not having one of your own.” I squeezed my fingers, fighting back tears. Izzy’s eyes—dark and pooling with unreadable emotion—met mine. Her voice was suddenly hoarse. “How do you know I don’t?” Oh. She had a child. I’d seen a photo once on her old phone. She was holding a newborn, gently kissing its wrinkled little face, her expression utterly soft. Their child must have had a perfect start. The best hospital. The softest crib. The warmest clothes. My son had none of that. I bit my lip. I couldn’t stand this game anymore. I turned to walk away. “Noah Harrison. I’ll make you a deal.” “Five thousand dollars. Apologize to me. And I’ll give you your ring back.” Her voice was the same as it was five years ago: calm, and cruelly detached. She couldn’t grasp how desperately poor someone could be. So poor they’d trade their pride for cash. I felt like a wounded animal. My entire body flared with rage. “Keep it! I wouldn’t take it back for any price.” Blood rushed to my head. I snatched up the thermos from the moped basket and spun away. Izzy grabbed my arm, her fingers clamping down tight. “Noah, stop. Think clearly. You put that short up to get my attention, didn’t you? You want money.” Me? Who the hell wants to be tied to her? I struggled to contain the boiling anger, but it overflowed. “Better that than you having a bastard with someone else while we were married!” The moment the words left my mouth, the air solidified. 5. Izzy lifted her chin, her eyes dark and deep. She gritted her teeth, holding my gaze with a look of pure threat. “Noah Harrison, I am telling you for the last time. He. Is. Not.” She loved their child so much she couldn’t even bring herself to use that disgusting, venomous word. I wrenched my arm free, my eyes blazing with hatred. “What else do you call a child born to another man while you’re still married?” Izzy’s jaw was tight. She didn’t speak for a long time, visibly fighting for control. “Noah Harrison,” she finally whispered, her voice waterlogged and heavy, suffocating me. “Our issues have nothing to do with the child. You can hate me, but you cannot hate him.” Why not? Why couldn’t I hate their child? What gave them the right? The questions choked in my throat. I clenched my fists, but the tears still sprang forth. I forced myself to turn away, desperate not to let her see me break down. The tension was a physical force. I sucked in the cold air to quell the aching in my chest. As I looked up, I saw him. Eli. He was standing across the street, holding a huge, ketchup-stained hot dog bigger than his face. He was perfectly still. His small cheeks were red from the cold. He must have been waiting for ages. Izzy saw him, too. She called out, just as I was escaping, her voice hoarse. “Noah Harrison. What do you have to say about the boy?” What was there to say? Did she offer me an explanation when she had another man’s child? I glared at her, my eyes streaming, and spat out every word distinctly. “Isabelle Maxwell. He is my child. He has nothing to do with you.” “Don’t disrupt our life.” “You deserve to be alone.” 6. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and fled the moment the light turned green. I didn’t want Izzy to see me crying, and I was terrified she’d follow me to try and take Eli. I took his small hand and pulled him forward, never looking back until we turned the corner into a quiet alley. There, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My chest felt hollow, and all the strength left my body. I collapsed, pulling him into a tight embrace. All the grief, all the hatred, all the love I’d buried burst forth, suffocating me. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t describe the depth of the sorrow. “Don’t cry, Dad.” “I’m right here. I won’t go anywhere.” He used his small hands to gently wipe the tears from my cheeks. I finally managed to stop sobbing. I stroked his hair. “Let Dad have a bite of that, okay?” Eli obediently held out the hot dog, which was covered in a heavy dusting of chili powder. He’d wrapped the plastic bag carefully in layers of paper towels. He unwrapped it and put it near my mouth. My lips trembled as I took a bite, fighting down the burning heat that scorched my stomach. The tears came again, scalding hot. I couldn’t let my son see me cry. I stood up, taking his hand to walk home. “Are you hungry?” “What do you want for dinner? Dad will make it.” Eli looked up at me, his small hand squeezing my finger. The warmth was comforting. “Dad, today is your birthday.” I made it another year. It’s a miracle. I sniffed, wiping my nose. Then I laughed—a ragged, choked sound. To hell with the diagnosis. To hell with not having long to live. I made it another year. “Come on! Dad’s going to make you the best birthday dinner ever!” 7. That night, Eli and I bought a tiny cake. I asked him to make a wish with me. In the glow of the warm candlelight, I looked at him closely for a long time. He’s three and a half. It’ll be forever until he’s grown. I won’t get to see it. So, I made a long, long wish to stay with him. I wished that every year, he would be safe, healthy, and happy. We blew out the candles. The ceiling light came on. He produced a single flower from behind his back. It was slightly wilted. Its color was dull. I knew he must have spent every cent of his small allowance to buy the cheapest, least perfect flower he could find. For every holiday, he always bought me a single stem from the flower shop near his school. He’d wrap it in cartoon paper and carefully present it to me. It took him weeks to save enough money. Sometimes, when he couldn’t save the full amount, he would bring me one like this—one that wasn’t quite right. Some children are just born knowing how to love. My eyes burned. His face was flushed as he handed it to me, his eyes bright. His voice was soft. “Happy birthday, Dad.” “Next year I’ll get you the prettiest one, okay, Dad?” He was making a promise. An appointment for the future. I took the flower, unable to speak, only nodding repeatedly. Fine. I’ll just take more painkillers. I’ll hold on for another year. It won’t be that hard. 8. The next day, I drove Eli to preschool. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky. Eli loves winter. He loves playing in the snow. But mostly, he plays alone. Because of his early birth, he’s smaller and frailer than the other kids, and they often pick on him. Whenever I offered to confront their parents, he would grab my hand and say he preferred to play at home so he could keep Dad company. So, he never cried or complained. He just built snowballs in our small yard, quiet and content. My heart ached. I constantly felt I had failed him. Before he got out of the car, I promised him we’d build a snowman after school. Eli was thrilled. He ran into the building with his small backpack bouncing. I stood watching his retreating back for a long time. Another winter. He’s a little bigger, but still frail compared to his peers. I often thought: if he went back to the Maxwell family, he could grow up healthy and safe, free from bullying. He wouldn’t worry about money or have to be so fiercely good, saving up cans to buy me a cheap birthday gift. I looked at the black knit gloves on my hands, suddenly furious with my own selfishness. I’d trapped him here with me, year after year. He’s suffered too much, following me. I stood there until the street was empty. The cold air in my nose made my head explode with pain. A sharp, stinging ache erupted in my bones. A warm, wet sensation dripped from my nose. I wiped it quickly. Another nosebleed. They’ve been happening for a week, off and on. The doctor said it was inflammation. Medicine, IV drips, chemotherapy… A week of treatment and nothing was working. Finally, he recommended a newly developed foreign drug. Thirty thousand dollars a shot. I didn’t have it. I just took painkillers. Sometimes, when I looked up and saw Eli’s tear-filled eyes, I would cup my hand over my bleeding nose, trying desperately to hide the blood from him. My brain was throbbing. My vision was blurring. I crouched down, trying to steady myself. But the dizziness got worse. I forced myself to get up, trying to walk further away. I couldn’t let my son see me like this. As I turned, I saw Izzy’s Porsche. She was parked on the side of the road, on the phone. Her voice was low and calm. “Dad, I have to skip tonight. I’m busy… The engagement? If you want to marry off a Maxwell to a society man, you do it.” My ears were roaring. I couldn’t hear the rest. My vision was swimming. I tried to walk around her, but my body failed. I was swaying, unable to hold myself up. Blood was now oozing between my fingers, splattering onto the pristine snow. The next second, she dropped her phone. She was rushing toward me, grabbing my shoulders with a look of pure panic. She started yelling my name.

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The climax of the holiday dinner arrived not with the dessert, but with a piece of plastic. My stepdaughter, Setlla Maxwell, took the gift card I’d handed her—a discreetly wrapped fifty-dollar bill I’d included with a sincere card—and dropped it with an audible clatter into the trash can beside the dining table. “Five hundred?” she scoffed, the number ringing with deliberate contempt. “Are you serious? You tossing a handout to a pauper? Mom said she was sending me five thousand this year, directly wired.” She stared me down, her usually bright blue eyes narrowed into slits of accusation. “Honestly, only Dad would fall for a cheap date like you. My mother is actually generous.” I gripped my fork, saying nothing. The silence in the dining room was thick enough to choke on. But then Liam—my husband, Setlla’s father—suddenly wiped his hands on his napkin, picked up his phone, and slid it across the tabletop. “Fine,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “If your mother is so generous, then you can go live with her.” He publicly dialed his ex-wife’s number. “Vicky,” he stated into the phone, his gaze never leaving Setlla. “Your daughter finds our home ‘cheap.’ I’m returning her custody to you. Come pick her up now.” On the other end, after a long, stunned silence, Victoria’s voice finally came back, cold and sharp. “That girl? I cut that anchor loose ages ago, Liam.” 1 The line went dead with a resolute beep-beep-beep. The sneer of triumph on Setlla’s face froze instantly, replaced by a mask of horrified denial. “No! That’s impossible! My mom would never abandon me.” She shrieked, jumping to her feet. “This is a lie! You two—you two set this up to trick me!” Her bloodshot eyes locked onto Liam, then swung venomously toward me. “My mother loves me most! She told me I was her little princess! She would never! It’s you! You’re the one who poisoned her against me! You did this!” On the final word, her finger jutted out, nearly poking my cheek. Liam’s face darkened instantly. He pulled me back, his tall, broad frame shielding me completely. He looked at his spoiled, entitled daughter, and I could see the bottomless pit of disappointment in his eyes. “We set this up?” He let out a harsh, chilling laugh. “Setlla, you’re sixteen, not six. Your mother loves you? How exactly has she shown it? Has she ever bought you a single cashmere sweater, or paid for one of your AP courses? Was she the one who stood up for you when you got into that mess with the soccer team, or the one who rushed you to the ER when your fever spiked at 3 AM?” A rapid-fire series of brutal questions. Setlla couldn’t answer any of them. Since the divorce, Victoria’s love for her daughter had existed solely in text messages and the carefully curated fantasy of phone calls. “So what? She promised me a better life! Her love is unique!” Setlla stammered, though her voice was already trembling with tears. “Unique manipulation, you mean.” Liam brutally tore through the flimsy illusion she clung to. “She has groomed you to believe she’s your savior, all so you would constantly fight me and Harper. Do you know why?” He leaned in, forcing her to meet his stare, his words slow and deliberately cruel. “Because she wants you to be her retirement fund. Her new boyfriend’s family? They have money, but they won’t fund Victoria forever. Her only solid investment was you—her perfectly brainwashed, dutiful daughter.” “You’re lying! You’re just lying!” Setlla screamed, clamping her hands over her ears, shaking her head violently. Liam didn’t stop. He was committed to this, the most painful form of tough love. “But now, she doesn’t need that investment anymore. Because she’s pregnant.” Setlla’s head shot up, her disbelief staggering. “She’s pregnant, three months along. It’s a boy,” Liam continued, his tone clinical, bordering on monstrous. “She has a new child, the real bond to her new family. Which means, you—her ex-husband’s daughter—have just transitioned from a future financial asset to an obsolete burden. Do you understand now?” “I don’t believe you! You’re tricking me!” Setlla’s control snapped entirely. “You want to shatter her image so your new wife can take her place! It’s you, you home-wrecker!” She lunged, directing all her displaced fury and confusion onto me. 2 She grabbed my arm and began to shake me wildly. Liam’s face was stone. He clamped down on her wrist and physically yanked her away from me, throwing her several feet back. Setlla stumbled, catching herself on the wall. “That is enough, Setlla! You ever lay a hand on Harper again, I swear to God—” Liam’s voice was a low, terrifying growl of warning. “I will! I’ll make her leave!” Setlla spotted my coat and scarf hanging in the hallway—an expensive cashmere piece I’d bought myself as a treat. She flew at it, grabbing the fabric. With a wild, guttural cry, she flung the beautiful, oatmeal-colored cashmere coat I’d saved three months of salary for, straight out the second-story window. “Get out! Get all your trash out of this house!” Unsatisfied, she rushed into my office, which also served as my art space. A moment later, the sound of breaking glass and tumbling objects echoed through the house. When we got there, my small sanctuary was a disaster. Lipstick tubes snapped in half, powder compacts pulverized, and my favorite perfume pooled on the floor, the sickly-sweet, destructive scent mixing with the rage. But the worst was the small, framed charcoal sketch sitting on my bedside table. It was a portrait of Liam and me—the first thing I’d ever truly drawn well, a birthday gift that had taken me weeks. The glass frame was now shattered, and a thick, dark scarlet line of lipstick had been savagely smeared across the paper, slashing through my face. “See this?” Setlla was holding the broken lipstick tube aloft like a weapon. “I’m going to destroy everything you care about! This house doesn’t want you!” She even pulled out her phone, snapped a photo of the wreckage, and sent it to Victoria. Mom! Look, I smashed all of that woman’s cheap stuff! I stood up for you! Come back, let’s kick her out, this house is ours again! She looked up at us, a final, defiant look of expected approval on her face. Liam looked at her, and the last flicker of warmth I’d ever seen him hold for her died in his eyes. He didn’t say a word. He walked out of the room, returning minutes later dragging an empty, wheeled suitcase—Setlla’s suitcase. He opened her closet and began pulling her clothes out, dropping them into the bag one by one. His movements were swift, efficient, and devoid of emotion. Setlla just stared, completely frozen. “Dad? What are you doing?” A tremor of real panic entered her voice. 3 Liam ignored her, stuffing her books, her plush toys, her makeup, everything she owned, into the case. “You wanted to find your mother, didn’t you?” He zipped the bag shut, pushing the suitcase toward her. His eyes were cold, like a Siberian frost. “Now, you will. You think she loves you most? Go find her. This house no longer has room for you.” Setlla was utterly terrified now. She realized this wasn’t a threat; it was final. “I’m not going! This is my house! You can’t make me leave!” She lunged for the bag. “It’s my house, and Harper and I are in charge now!” Liam grabbed her arm, his grip hard enough to make her gasp in pain. “Get out. Go find the mother who loves you. I want to see if her new setup has a room for her ‘obsolete burden.’” He was practically dragging her out. “Let go of me, Liam! You’re choosing a stranger over your own daughter! You’ll regret this!” Her screams echoed through the hallway. I stood in the wreckage of my office, watching the horrifying, self-inflicted chaos. Liam opened the front door, shoved Setlla and her suitcase onto the porch, and slammed the door shut. The sudden finality of the latch cutting off her desperate screams was deafening. Setlla was outside, pounding on the door, her crying hysterical. “Open up! Liam, open the door! You’ll both pay for this!” “I’ll go to my mom! You’ll never have a daughter again!” Inside, Liam leaned against the door, his eyes red-rimmed, his body shaking with a residual, volcanic rage. The pounding continued for a long time, softening eventually into helpless, muffled sobs, and then, finally, nothing. Silence. I walked over to Liam and gently wrapped my hand around his freezing cold one. He turned his head to me, the anger replaced by a crushing weariness and guilt. “I am so sorry, Harper.” His voice was raw. “I let this happen. I let her hurt you.” I shook my head, unable to speak. Just then, my phone chimed with a new social media update. It was Setlla. The photo was a selfie taken right outside our front door. She was pulling her suitcase, tears still visible on her cheeks, but forcing a tight, mocking smile. The caption read: Finally free of that disgusting house. Off to the only person who truly loves me! Some people are just going to end up a lonely, old couple with no one to care for them! I showed the phone to Liam. He glanced at it, his face unreadable, then quietly took the device and immediately blocked and deleted both Setlla’s and Victoria’s contact details and accounts. “From now on,” he looked at me, his gaze firm and resolute, “we are done with them.”

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I am a Beta, but I have a childhood sweetheart who is a top-tier Omega. He is a federal politician; I am a house husband. Everyone says our marriage is a joke, but I never thought so. Until the federal election. My husband’s rival is a Federal General, a top-tier Alpha, young and highly decorated. This Alpha somehow took an interest in me. And my Omega husband, using our past as leverage, personally delivered me to that Alpha’s bed. Later, I signed the divorce papers and left with nothing. The arrogant Omega then begged me like a madman to remarry him. 1 “Elian, just this once! Help me one last time.” The Omega hugged me tightly. His beautiful face was written with pleading and pitifulness. I didn’t speak. The moment I heard Adrian’s request, a massive roar echoed in my ears. Minutes ago, Adrian came home, grabbed my hand, and begged me with red-rimmed eyes. He begged me to sleep with his election rival, General Silas Vance. “Sleeping” between adults never means just sleeping. I found it absurd. I thought he was joking. Until he stood on his tiptoes, wrapped his arms around my neck, and planted fragmented kisses on the corner of my mouth. I knew he wasn’t joking. He really wanted to send me to another man’s bed. And that man was an Alpha I had never met. The Omega standing before me felt so strange. “Impossible,” I refused softly. Adrian’s face was covered in tears, still begging bitterly. “Elian, you know my family has always objected to me marrying a Beta like you. If I win this election and become Mayor, there will be no more gossip.” “Elian, I promise this is the last time. Besides, Silas is a top Alpha, he might not even be interested in you… Please, Elian.” Those deliberately gentle tones were what I longed for in my dreams. But now, they pierced into my body like fiberglass shards. Invisible, but hurting everywhere. I remained silent. Adrian understood my attitude. The gentleness in his eyes dissipated, restoring the high and mighty posture he usually held before me. “Elian, the Lin family adopted you at sixteen. We funded your education and supported your grandmother who was in a vegetative state.” “At twenty, ignoring everyone’s opposition, I insisted on marrying you, a Beta with nothing.” When saying these words, Adrian’s face was frighteningly cold. He slowly took off the diamond ring on his hand and tossed it onto the table. The diamond clashed with the marble, making a crisp sound. My heart was slowly squeezed by an invisible hand. Adrian said, “Elian, what do you have to repay this debt?” At this moment, I truly saw the man I had loved for five years. I always knew my marriage with Adrian wasn’t equal. A top Omega of the Lin family and a penniless Beta. No one favored this marriage. But I refused to believe it. I persisted in pursuing love. Even if Adrian was busy with affairs and didn’t come home for a month, I didn’t care. Even if the assistant by his side was an Alpha with a 90% match, I didn’t care. No matter what others said, I didn’t believe it. Because Adrian initiated this marriage. So I didn’t believe he didn’t love me. But now I believe it. And I am tired. I looked at Adrian’s familiar yet strange face and nodded: “I agree.” Adrian was stunned, a flash of confusion in his eyes, but it quickly turned into determination. He always thought everything in the world should follow his will. Naive and cruel. I rubbed the ring on my finger and said, “There is one condition.” Adrian was in a good mood, lifting his chin to signal me to speak. I said, “We divorce. I can’t do these things while married.” 2 Adrian agreed to the divorce swiftly. On the scale of interests, I am always the losing end. Adrian took out the documents prepared by his assistant for me to sign. My mind was a mess. I signed without looking closely. As the last stroke fell, my heart suddenly emptied. Watching me finish signing, Adrian suddenly grabbed my hand, placed his face obediently in my palm, and whined coquettishly: “Elian, we’ll remarry after the election.” “Didn’t you always want a honeymoon to make up for the wedding? We’ll go. I’ll give you another baby, okay?” I looked down at Adrian, who was planning on his own, my heart a barren wasteland. Turns out everything I longed for before was so easily obtained. I just needed to get into someone else’s bed. I pushed him away and stood up: “Signed. Let me know when the divorce certificate is ready.” This was the first time I rejected Adrian’s coquetry. He was uncomfortable, looking at me helplessly, murmuring: “Elian.” But this time I didn’t soften. I turned and left. Adrian is a supremacist of interest. The divorce certificate arrived at noon. The hotel room number was sent to me in the evening. “Elian, today is Silas’s rut period. His hotel room is Penthouse 01.” “I’ll give you the key card.” Just like that, he couldn’t wait to send his lover to another’s bed. The phone screen was glaring. I turned it off, collapsed on the sofa without any image, and lit a cigarette. Adrian didn’t like the smell of smoke, so I rarely smoked these years. Adrian cared about face. As his partner, my every move was observed by the outside world. So I restrained the weariness in my bones, disguising myself as gentle and humble. This pretense lasted two years. But now I don’t need to pretend anymore. The smoke rose, blurring my thoughts and the night. A car honked. I saw Adrian sitting in the driver’s seat. Adrian wore a white suit tonight, looking very gentle, with no trace of the ruthlessness inside. His eyes brightened as he called me, “Elian, get in.” I sat in the car with the smell of smoke, lazily propping my forehead. The Omega smelled the smoke and complained coquettishly: “Why are you smoking again? It stinks… it’s bad for your health.” I glanced at him faintly: “Drive.” Adrian was so angry his eyes turned red, but in the end, he said nothing. In the past, he would have pointed at my nose and cursed. Then turned to seek comfort from his Alpha assistant. Tsk, I’m being pathetic again. Head against the window, dense past events rushed at me like the fog of late night. 3 My parents were a Beta-Omega couple. Even though they weren’t a match, they were still loving. When I was five, my mom suffered from pheromone disorder. The doctor said she needed Alpha pheromones to soothe her, or her body would age rapidly. But my father was a Beta; he had no pheromones. He could only buy them on the black market. But the price was exorbitant. One bottle cost my father’s annual salary. Expensive, but necessary. But unexpectedly, that bottle of pheromones contained addictive ingredients. Without pheromone soothing, my mother would lose her mind, living like a madwoman. To stop my mother’s suffering, my father helplessly went to sell blood and organs to raise money. In the end, he died on the way home due to excessive blood loss. And in his arms, he still tightly held a bottle of pheromones. Initially, Grandma hid the truth from my mom, saying Dad went out to work. But a neighbor accidentally let it slip. I still remember that day was beautiful. Mom wore a white dress with a side braid, hugged me and kissed me hard, saying she was going out to buy me ice cream. She told me to wait at home. I sat obediently at the door, didn’t wait for Mom, but waited for a tearful Grandma. Grandma said Mom died. Died in front of Dad’s grave. No one knew how Mom found the cemetery. No one knew what Mom said to Dad before she died. No one knew how much despair it took to cut an artery with a stone. That year I was eight, lost my parents, and depended on Grandma. At fifteen, Grandma was hit by a car while picking up trash and became a vegetable. The perpetrator escaped and accidentally fell off a cliff. Sky-high medical bills pressed on my shoulders like a mountain. I thought life was dark until my teacher told me the Lin family was looking for a companion to study with young master Lin. Not only could I study, but food and lodging were included. I went. Young master Lin’s eyes lit up, he held my hand and said: “I want him.” Since then, my life has been marked with the name Adrian Lin. Eighteen, to help the Lin family get mining rights, I was forced to drink by clients until my stomach bled. Nineteen, to save the nearly bankrupt Lin family, I gave up my studies and went down into a collapsed mine to rescue trapped workers. That time my leg broke, and I stayed in the hospital for three months. Twenty, Adrian read my diary, learned of my secret crush, and insisted on marrying me. I was messily happy. Even after being beaten with 120 strokes by Adrian’s father, I only said “I listen to the young master.” Twenty-one, Adrian entered politics. He left early and returned late daily. To take care of him, I quit my job to be a house husband. Now twenty-two, to become Mayor, Adrian chose to send me to an Alpha’s bed, even threatening me with past kindness. Obviously only a few years passed, why did hearts change so fast? I can’t figure it out. But the only thing clear is that I haven’t owed Adrian anything for a long time. Recollection ended, arrived at the hotel. I pushed the door open and got out. Adrian stopped me. “Drink some water. Don’t go in smelling like smoke.” I looked at Adrian’s consistently drooping puppy eyes and took the bottle. Drank it in one go, turned to leave. Adrian called me again, voice careful: “Elian, have you thought about where we’ll go for our honeymoon?” The night wind hit my face. It hurt. But far less than one ten-thousandth of what Adrian brought me. I turned back, looked at the person I loved for five years, voice hoarse: “Adrian, will you regret this?” The atmosphere solidified. The plaza clock struck nine times. As the last sound fell, I heard Adrian say: “Elian, I won’t regret it.” 4 I curled my lips in self-mockery and turned away. Adrian called urgently: “Elian, I’ll take you up.” I waved my hand: “No need. Relax, I do what I say.” The elevator doors closed, blocking outside prying eyes. Holding the key card Adrian gave me, I smoothly reached the top floor. Standing in front of the door, I took a deep breath and pressed the card to the door. Click, the door opened, heart in my throat. I lowered my voice, said: “Mr. Vance, hello, Mr. Lin sent me…” Before I finished, the door was yanked open. Immediately my wrist tightened, a powerful force pulled me into the room. The top Alpha’s body pressed down like a scorching volcano. “Mr. Vance!” Silas Vance’s arms imprisoned my waist like iron blocks. I frowned, impatiently trying to push him away. The Alpha didn’t budge. At this moment, the genetic advantage of differentiation was vividly displayed. “Don’t move.” The Alpha’s hoarse, deep voice rang in my ear. I clearly felt that the person hugging me tightly now was an Alpha. A male Alpha capable of doing something to me. The places touched filled with discomfort. I frowned trying to dodge, but the Alpha’s movements became more excessive. Cool fingertips stroked my back. Inch by inch, butterfly bones, spine, ribs, finally landing on the waist dimples. The weird sensation made me unable to endure anymore, lifting my foot to kick him away. Suddenly, a heat rush surged from my lower abdomen to my brain. When I realized something was wrong, it was too late. My body went limp, the flat nape of my neck began to heat up. I entered a pseudo-estrus. It was Adrian. That bottle of water had a problem. Instantly, my heart fell into an ice cave, even breathing carried sharp pain. Again. Adrian kicked me into the abyss again. Hot liquid flowed from the corners of my eyes. The Alpha paused, reached out and gently wiped it away: “Haven’t even done it yet, why cry.” In the dark room, I saw a moment of clarity in the top Alpha’s eyes. I immediately reminded him: “I entered a pseudo-estrus.” Silas pressed his fingertips on the back of my neck. The originally flat nape was now slightly bulging. I sensed the trembling of the Alpha’s fingertips. A meaningful whimper spilled from my throat. Even my body trembled slightly along with it. “Don’t… don’t touch.” I raised my hand to slap away the wandering hand, but had no strength at all. The inner desire amplified continuously. The desire to be filled grew stronger and stronger. I bit my lower lip hard, making a futile struggle. Useless. I gave up. Through the moonlight outside the window, I saw the Alpha’s face clearly. Thick brows, phoenix eyes, deep gaze, beautifully heart-moving. My breath hitched. No one told me this highly decorated young Alpha looked like this. Silas noticed my gaze, the corners of his mouth curving slightly. At this moment, only the sound of my heartbeat was in my ears. Anyway, the situation has reached this point. Instead of complaining and hating, might as well look on the bright side. At least this Alpha is very handsome. I comforted myself with full mockery. Suppressing the urge to pin him down, I put my hand on Silas’s shoulder. Pressed his body down, planting a light kiss on the corner of his mouth. After the kiss, I said hoarsely: “Silas Vance.” The Alpha responded: “I’m here.” I said: “Bite me gently.” This sentence was a hint, hot breath stirring the air. The Alpha chuckled lightly, picked me up, and walked steadily towards the bed. Simultaneously not forgetting to respond: “Okay.” A light kiss fell on the back of the neck, that piece of flesh was caught by Silas. Sharp teeth eager for action, then pierced fiercely. Pain caused mist to unconsciously float in my eyes. Brain reminded me to run. Before I could move, I heard the Alpha say softly in my ear like a sigh: “Already very gentle.” At the same time, the tiger’s mouth gripped my ankle, easily pulling me back under him. Pheromones entered my body, domineeringly marking everywhere. I tried to resist, but faced a top Alpha. And a top Alpha entering his rut. I had no strength to fight back. Pheromone injection ended. Like a fish out of water, pupils dilated, body shaking, enduring the aftershocks brought by pheromones. Silas hugged from behind, kisses landing on my shoulder blades. I heard him say: “Elian, open your mouth to breathe.” I obediently opened my mouth, but didn’t expect a trap. … A top Alpha’s rut lasts seven days. These seven days I was flipped over and over. A Beta can’t retain pheromones. But couldn’t withstand the marking from inside out. When Silas’s rut ended, I returned to the human world, sleeping exhaustedly for a day and a half.

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After my parents divorced, they dumped my younger sister, Chloe, on me. I had just turned eighteen. I didn’t want her to suffer the broken home trauma I did, so I shielded her. I gave her everything. When she bombed her SATs, I liquidated my savings to send her abroad. I worked three jobs to fund her doctorate. When she returned as a high-earning Ivy League grad, I was dying. The stress and overwork had given me terminal cancer. She was making six figures a month, but she wouldn’t give me a dime for treatment. “Harper, didn’t you teach me that self-care comes first? Paying for your chemo would really impact my quality of life.” A month later, as I lay rotting in a hospice bed, I saw her Instagram post. A photo of her and our parents in front of a new mansion. Caption: Reunited at last. Bought this villa for Mom, Dad, and the inner child in me. Before I took my last breath, I received a 30,000-word email from her. It was a manifesto of how much she hated me. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the day I took her in. This time, I’m not going to be the savior. Let’s see how you survive without my wallet, Chloe. 1. “Harper, she’s your flesh and blood. You’re the older sister; you have to step up. Who else is going to take her?” I looked at the girl standing in front of me, head down, looking meek and terrified. I listened to my mother’s gaslighting, and I realized I was back. In my past life, my relationship with my parents was toxic. They cut me off the moment I turned eighteen. My tuition, my rent—I earned every cent by scrubbing floors and waiting tables. They never cared if I starved. But the moment I landed a stable corporate job, they reappeared, demanding I raise their “mistake.” In my last life, I looked at Chloe and saw myself. I softened. I promised to break the cycle. I raised her with “Gentle Parenting.” I gave her money, freedom, and unconditional love. I raised her to be confident and bright, while I worked myself into an early grave. And she repaid me by letting me die, terrified that my medical bills would cut into her shopping budget. She claimed her failures were my fault. That I was too lenient. That she could have gone to Harvard if I had pushed her harder. Fine. “I didn’t give birth to her,” I said, my voice cold. “You wanted a second kid to fix your marriage. You fix this.” I shoved Chloe out the door and slammed it shut. Muffled screaming and crying echoed from the hallway. I remembered her manifesto. She said we should be selfish. Okay, Chloe. Message received. This time, I’m keeping all my love for myself. 2. I opened the door the next morning to leave for work. Chloe was curled up on my welcome mat, shivering. She jumped up, face red, stuttering. “Harper… Mom and Dad don’t want me. I only have you.” She sounded like a wounded animal. It was hard to connect this trembling child to the arrogant woman who watched me die. But I knew the truth. I locked the deadbolt. “Not my problem, Chloe. I’m not your legal guardian. I have zero obligation to help you.” I walked past her to the elevator. I didn’t expect her to follow me to the edge of the complex. When we reached the busy sidewalk, she dropped to her knees. “Harper, please! If you don’t take me in, I’ll just die right here!” Passersby stopped. Phones came out. The whispering started. “Oh, go ahead and die then,” I said. I tried to walk away, but she lunged and wrapped her arms around my leg. “Harper, you used to care! You’re not like this!” It was true. I used to be a doormat. I used to tell her to study hard so she could escape our parents. I didn’t know she was screenshotting those texts and sending them to Mom and Dad, painting me as the villain who was “corrupting” her. The crowd was growing. People were recording. I sighed. I knew how this game worked. “Get up. We’ll talk inside.” 3. Once the door closed, the act dropped. She looked at me with wide, expectant eyes. “Harper, I’ll move out as soon as I finish high school.” “You can stay,” I said, cutting her off. “But you pay rent. I’m not paying for your food, your clothes, or your school supplies. Ask Mom and Dad, or get a job.” Chloe panicked. “But I’m a Junior! I have AP classes from 8 AM to 4 PM. I can’t work!” I laughed. “When I was your age, I opened the bakery at 5 AM and closed the diner at midnight. I made it work.” In the last life, I bought her the trendy sneakers so she wouldn’t feel left out. She later wrote that the shoes were “the wrong color” and caused her lifelong trauma. “If you don’t have rent by the first of the month,” I said, grabbing my purse, “I’m calling the cops to have you removed for trespassing.” I left for work. Halfway there, my phone buzzed. A Venmo notification from Mom. Here’s some cash. Don’t be hard on your sister. She’s just a kid. Six years. She remembered my account info, but never used it to ask how I was. I wiped a tear. Not for them, but for the little girl inside me who still wanted a mother. I accepted the money. Then I texted back: This doesn’t even cover rent. Send another three grand. She did. I didn’t spend a dime on Chloe. I went to the mall. I bought a new wardrobe. I bought high-quality skincare. I put the rest into gold bars and a high-yield savings account. Everyone betrays you. Money doesn’t. I’m going to stack cash until Chloe graduates, and then I’m moving to Hawaii. 4. I came home carrying shopping bags and a bucket of Shake Shack. Chloe was pacing the living room. She froze when she saw the burger. “Harper… that smells so good. Can I have a bite? I haven’t eaten all day.” She was playing the poverty card. In the last life, I took her to Michelin-star restaurants to broaden her horizons. “No,” I said, sitting on the couch and taking a bite. “I’m starving. If you’re hungry, boil some pasta.” Silence. Then, she eyed my shopping bags. “Must be nice to buy pretty clothes. The kids at school call me a hillbilly because I dress like this.” I chewed my fry slowly. I knew the script. She wanted me to feel guilty and take her shopping. In the past, I spent three months’ salary to make her look like a princess. She later claimed that dressing her up made her lose focus on her studies. “Well,” I said, “the kids at school are right. You do look tacky.” “If you want to be popular, maybe stop focusing on your looks and focus on your grades.” Chloe’s eyes went red. She stormed into the guest room. Before I went to bed, I slid $500 under her door—money Mom had sent. “This is from Mom. Buy your own food. I’m not cooking for you.” In the past, I was her personal chef. I woke up at dawn to make her balanced meals. She complained I made her “socially awkward” by not letting her eat cafeteria food. Never again.

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I’m the adopted daughter. And I just slept with my brother. It might have been okay if he were single, but just the other day he asked me, “What kind of things do you girls like?” I teased him, “Are you telling me I’m getting a sister-in-law?” “I’m planning on it,” he’d said, a casual glint in his eye. My heart sank into an icy abyss. Wrecking a relationship is just asking for bad karma. So, I packed my bags in the middle of the night and left a ridiculous note: “I’ve found my purpose in life. I’m going to be a wildlife photographer. Off to chase my dreams abroad. Goodbye Mom, Dad, and big brother!” Two weeks later, I was in the middle of the African savanna, being chased by a pack of hyenas. A passing jeep screeched to a halt and rescued me. I was about to pour out my thanks when a pair of warm fingers closed around my wrist, resting on my pulse. A man’s smile, both tender and cruel, met my eyes. “Get out, little sister,” he said. “Or kiss me. Your choice.” 1 I was an orphan. My earliest memories are of the orphanage. But I was pretty. And as everyone knows, a pretty face can change your luck. When I was five, I was adopted. My new family was wealthy. Like, seriously wealthy. I went from pauper to princess overnight. More than that, my adoptive parents weren’t just rich; they were full of love. My dad adored my mom and didn’t want her to go through the strain of a second pregnancy, but my mom had always wanted a daughter. So, they decided to adopt. I was the lucky one chosen to be their little girl. I also gained an older brother, who was three years my senior. My parents were wonderful to me, and so was my brother. I finally had a happy family. I always believed that happiness would last forever, that I’d still be a happy old woman at eighty. If only it hadn’t been for the incident. 2 I woke up to the feeling of a warm, sculpted abdomen beneath my hand. It felt… nice. Acting on pure instinct, my fingers traced the lines twice more. The skin under my touch quivered, and the steady breathing above my head grew heavy. I felt a stirring deep inside my body. Wait a minute… Inside my body? My eyes flew open in horror. This was… this was depraved! I buried my face in my hands, unable to face reality. But ignoring reality doesn’t make it disappear. The man holding me began to stir. He stroked my back, his voice a low, raspy murmur. “Can’t keep your hands to yourself this early in the morning?” A bolt of lightning shot through me. That voice… It was flu season, and my brother, Caleb, had caught a bad cold. Tone aside, his voice when he was sick was just as raspy as this. Could this man be… The chaotic memories of last night flooded back. A party, alcohol, a dizzying heat. Then, a series of images that shouldn’t be described. And his commands. “Open for me.” “Relax.” … What the hell was all this?! My mind frantically searched for more clues. Amidst the chaos, I remembered Caleb calling me his “wife.” I am not his wife. I’m his sister. Oh, God. He must have mistaken me for someone else. And worse, he really did have someone he was interested in. Just a month ago, after finishing my thesis defense, I was lazing around at home, getting underfoot. My dad, tired of seeing me, handed me a black card and told me to go bother my brother. One roof was as good as another, so I happily moved into Caleb’s place. I spent my nights gaming and my days sleeping. He couldn’t stand it and dragged me to work with him at his company. After a soul-crushing week of that, he was at it again, trying to pull me out of bed. “Caleb, seriously,” I moaned in despair. “Just get a girlfriend, will you? Please, just leave me alone.” He stood over me, looking down from his great height. Hearing my plea, he slowly leaned in, his face getting closer and closer to mine. He raised an eyebrow. “A girlfriend?” I nodded eagerly. “Yes! You get a girlfriend, I’ll ask Mom and Dad if I can move back home, and I’ll be completely out of your hair!” He let out a soft chuckle. “There are so many girls who like you,” I pressed on. “Isn’t there a single one you’re interested in?” Caleb, with his family, his looks, and his own formidable talents, was the ultimate catch. The line of women interested in him was a mile long. “There is one, actually,” he said, his voice laced with meaning. “Then go for it!” “We’ll see.” And with that, he hauled me out of bed and off to work, as usual. My persuasion attempt had failed. But that day at lunch, he asked me, “What kind of things do you like?” I chewed on a piece of braised pork. “I like to eat. Why are you asking?” “You’re the one who told me to go for it. So, what do you girls like?” My eyes lit up. “Am I getting a sister-in-law?” “Just answer the question,” he said with a small smile. How was I supposed to know? People’s tastes are different. I could only go by my own preferences. “Get her something good to eat. If that doesn’t work, just give her money. Who doesn’t like money?” A month passed. Just two days ago, I asked him how things were going with his mystery girl. He shot me a look. “She’s a little dense.” Dense. So… was that why he was so forward last night? But he was forward with the wrong person! I was starting to panic. The hand on my back was now shamelessly roaming, tracing a path from my shoulder blades to the small of my back, and then lower. Caleb nibbled on my earlobe. “Such a good girl. You did so well. You deserve a reward.” Thanks, but no thanks. A reward was the last thing I wanted. I racked my brain, trying to figure out how to escape without him realizing who I was. He was already turning me over to face him. Wait… what kind of reward? Was this a reward for me or for him? Soon, I couldn’t speak at all, only manage a series of muffled whimpers. Caleb held me tight from behind, my mind a complete blank. He kissed my neck. “Why aren’t you calling me ‘brother’ today? Cat got your tongue, little sister?” He and his girlfriend had such… common pet names. Considering his commands last night and this talk of rewards, my brain took a vacation and blurted out, “Shouldn’t I be calling you ‘Master’?” “Oh?” The voice behind me was thick with amusement. “We can certainly do that, if you’d like.” “No, I…” He cut me off. “On your knees.” 3 I was starting to worry about my future sister-in-law. I hoped she was a fitness enthusiast. Otherwise, she was going to die in Caleb’s bed. At this intensity, he could probably handle eight girlfriends at once. I lay half-dead in his arms, not daring to look up, and we slept in that intimate tangle for what felt like an eternity. He, on the other hand, was still bursting with energy. When I finally stirred again, rubbing my eyes, he whispered in my ear, “Rested up?” Those words gave me PTSD. No, I was not rested up. I cleared my throat, altering my voice. “I really can’t… I need more sleep.” He stroked my hair. “It’s already afternoon.” If I didn’t sleep, he would… I pressed my forehead against his chest and pleaded softly, “Please.” Then, I added, “Brother.” Compared to the name that had escaped my runaway brain, it seemed he preferred his girlfriend to call him ‘brother.’ I was desperate. His tone softened even more. “Alright, sleep. When you wake up, we’ll have dinner.” I closed my eyes, my mind racing. How could I get him out of here? Before I could come up with a plan, Caleb’s phone rang. He silenced it after a single ring and answered in a low voice, careful not to wake me. “Mom? Why are you calling at this hour?” Mom? I peeked through my lashes and saw him gently move me out of his arms, grab a robe from a nearby chair, and walk toward the balcony. I could just make out snippets of his conversation. “She’s with me… sleeping… she was really tired…” What was he telling her? He slid the balcony door shut behind him, leaning casually against the railing as he talked. I silently slipped out of bed and tiptoed over. I pulled the heavy curtains closed. And then. Click. I locked the balcony door. Caleb was trapped. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and frantically looked for my clothes. I had to get out of here before he called for backup. It was a hotel room, so the closets were empty. My clothes were scattered on the floor. My bra was torn. I salvaged what was wearable, thankfully it was winter so I had layers. I pulled on my clothes and then snatched Caleb’s trench coat, throwing it over everything. Finally, I gathered the ruined items, stuffed them in a bag, and took them with me. It was the fastest I’d ever gotten dressed in my life. Just as I was about to slip out, I heard Caleb knocking on the glass. His voice was muffled. My guilty conscience must have been playing tricks on me, because I could have sworn I heard him say, “Irie, why did you lock the door?” My heart leaped into my throat. I had to be hearing things. Iris, you definitely misheard him! He couldn’t have said Irie! Stop scaring yourself. My heart hammered against my ribs. I pulled my hat down, covered my face, and ran. 4 I wanted to go home, but I’d been living at Caleb’s for a month. Showing up suddenly would be weird. If Mom and Dad asked if we’d had a fight, what would I say? If Caleb was sensitive enough, my disappearance might make him connect the dots. But if both of us disappeared, he’d be looking for his girlfriend, not me. I was his dearest little sister. Who would ever suspect their own sister? Decision made, I went back to Caleb’s apartment, locked the door, and headed for the shower. Finally, a chance to assess the damage. The reflection in the mirror was a disaster. My neck, my collarbones, my breasts, my waist, my thighs—everywhere, there were marks from Caleb. The worst spots were red and swollen. As I cleaned myself up, I cursed him. Didn’t he know about protection? What if I got pregnant? No, wait. I remembered now. He had taken something. A pill. He’d taken it out of his coat pocket. The hotel only provided condoms. I felt the pocket of the trench coat I’d stolen. Sure enough, there was a small bottle inside. Holy crap. Why was he carrying this around? Did he have a date planned with his girlfriend last night? It was over. I was truly screwed. The other woman everyone hated… was me. I collapsed onto the bed. It couldn’t have been entirely my fault. Caleb mistook me for someone else; that had to be at least half the blame. I just felt sorry for his girlfriend. She was the real victim. Speaking of which, who even was she? I’d never met her. 5 It didn’t matter. She was the rightful queen. I was so miserable that I eventually cried myself to sleep. I had a nightmare. A woman whose face I couldn’t see was chasing me with a bloody dagger. I ran and ran, but she caught me and stabbed me in the neck, cackling, “You cheating dogs can die together!” And just like that, I was dead, my body tossed in a pile with Caleb’s dismembered corpse. At least I only got stabbed once. The woman then produced a long sword and skewered us both together like a kebab. I woke with a jolt. What a terrifying dream. What was even more terrifying was the first thought that popped into my head when I woke up. —I could really go for some kebabs right now. I must be losing my mind.

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After the diagnosis—the severe clotting disorder, the fragile veins—I became the family’s little ticking clock. They called me their ‘Fragile Prince,’ but it sounded more like an epitaph. The doctors said I wouldn’t make it past five. My parents poured everything into me. Every dollar, every minute, every prayer was for my survival. On my fifth birthday, the house was, for once, loud with forced cheer. Only my younger brother, Noah, too young to grasp the weight of the moment, asked, “Liam, will you die tomorrow?” That was the first time I ever saw Dad hit him. And Mom? She knelt on the floor, weeping, bowing her head again and again, begging God to give me a few more years. But on Noah’s first day of pre-K, I did the unforgivable. I whispered that my chest hurt and asked for a pain pill. Mom snapped. Her control shattered, and she started screaming. She slapped me so hard my head whipped back. “How could you be so sickeningly selfish? Are you trying to kill your brother by stealing his one good day?” “We revolve around you, Liam! Can’t we have just one moment to take him to school?” “If you want to die, just die! Stop torturing us!” She threw the pill bottle at me—a cascade of plastic and white tablets—grabbed Noah’s hand, and slammed the door behind them. I didn’t say a word. I just watched the small cut on my forearm—where a shard of the bottle had nicked me—slowly begin to seep blood. My body was already going cold. 1 The pill bottle fragment had caught my forearm when I threw my hand up. I stared at the cut for two seconds, the doctor’s warning echoing in my head: “Kid, you absolutely cannot get a cut. The bleeding won’t stop.” I scrambled for the Band-Aids. They were soaked through in under a minute. I turned to find a proper gauze bandage, but the blood was already dripping onto the clean tile floor. Mom—Cari—she hated messes. I couldn’t add this to her burden. I panicked, tearing at my sleeve to wipe the floor. But the blood seemed to explode the moment it hit the tile, smearing and spreading with every frantic wipe. I grabbed the nearest hand towel and wrapped it tightly around the wound. The cold started then. Not just the chill of the bathroom, but a deep, systemic cold that traveled from my fingertips to my bones. I stumbled into the bathroom and ran the tub full of the hottest water I could stand. Sliding in, the heat brought a momentary reprieve. The blood was still flowing, staining the clear water a dark rose color. I suddenly needed them. I fumbled with my old cell phone and called Dad’s number. It rang and rang. No answer. I called Mom. The background noise was deafening—music, the high-pitched shriek of children, cheering. It was a party, a world away from my slowly reddening bathwater. “What is it, Liam? Make it fast. Noah’s about to go on stage for the talent show.” “Mom, I don’t feel well. I cut my—” Her impatient voice cut through the noise, sharp and impatient. “Not well again? “Do you only feel unwell when the attention isn’t on you?” “Liam, you’re eight years old. You are a big boy. Can’t you, for once, be considerate?” The dial tone buzzed, loud and empty, in the vast quiet of the bathroom. I watched the water deepen to crimson. She was right. I was nothing but a complication. My illness was a complication, my unhappiness was a complication, and now, my bleeding was a complication. Mom’s favorite knit cardigan lay draped over the edge of the tub. I carefully pulled it over my face. It smelled faintly of her, that comforting, familiar scent of gardenia and laundry soap. It brought me back to when I was little and feverish, and she would watch over me just like this. The water was growing cold. The flow of blood seemed to be slowing, too—maybe it was almost done. As my head started to spin, I wondered if once all the bad blood was gone, I would be better. Then Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to worry about their sickly son. Noah wouldn’t have to concede to his older brother all the time. And I wouldn’t have to be so painfully careful, so constantly good, biting down on the pain every midnight just to avoid making a sound. I curled up in the tub, feeling as safe and calm as if I were back in my mother’s womb. 2 The next time I opened my eyes, I only saw a tiny, pale version of myself floating in the bathtub. So I was already dead. The front door opened. I heard Noah’s voice, bright and full of energy. “Liam, I’m home!” I rushed out. Mom and Dad, Cari and Dan, walked in holding Noah’s hands. Dad carried a store-bought strawberry cake. Dan paused, looking at the mess I’d left in the living room. “What is all this?” Cari frowned. “He was having a tantrum at lunchtime.” “He was mad I was taking Noah to school, so he lied and said he was sick.” Dad’s expression darkened. “He’s getting impossible.” I tried to explain, waving my spectral hands frantically in front of them. “No, it wasn’t intentional! Liam wasn’t trying to make you mad!” My hand passed right through Dan’s shoulder. They felt nothing. Noah broke free and ran to my bedroom door. He tapped lightly. “Liam, come out and have some cake.” Silence. Noah looked up. “Is he asleep?” I wrapped my arms around him in a hug he couldn’t feel. “Thank you, Noah.” Mom’s voice was hard. “He’s not asleep. He’s pouting. “Don’t worry about him. We’re eating first.” Dad put the cake on the dining table. Noah watched with wide, expectant eyes. He whispered, “But I wanted to wait for Liam.” Dad tore open the box and exchanged a look with Mom. “If Liam had even half your common sense, Noah, we’d have a much easier life.” The candles were placed and lit. Noah was lifted onto a chair. Under the warm gaze of his parents, he blew out five flickering flames. It was his fifth birthday, too. Mom asked gently, “Did you make a wish, sweetie?” Noah’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! I wished that Liam—” Dad smiled and ruffled his hair. “Wishes don’t come true if you say them out loud, buddy.” I watched from the side. Every year, my birthday had been steeped in the smell of medicine. The candles felt like a countdown. But Noah’s birthday finally felt like a birthday should. When it was time to cut the cake, Noah insisted on the biggest slice. “This one is for Liam!” He carried the plate to my door and knocked again. “Liam, come share my strawberry cake!” No response. The smile slid slowly from Noah’s face. He walked back to the table. “Liam won’t talk to me.” Dad suddenly reached out, snatching the plate from Noah’s hands. He threw the perfect slice of strawberry cake—Noah’s gift—into the trash can. He slammed his hand on the table, his temper blazing. “Fine! If he won’t eat it, no one calls him again! “He can starve until he learns how to behave.” Noah flinched, his eyes instantly turning red. Mom pulled him into her embrace and shot a sharp look at Dad. “Don’t yell at the kids.” She cooed to Noah. “It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll eat first. When Liam knows he’s done something wrong, he’ll come out.” I knelt by the trash can, gazing at the discarded slice. The strawberries on the cream were so fresh. Now it lay there, mingled with crumpled napkins and coffee grounds. What a waste. Strawberry was my favorite. Noah ate his small slice slowly, glancing toward my closed door every few seconds. Mom and Dad ate in silence. There should have been four places at the table. Now one seat was empty. I floated over and sat in my spot, whispering a soundless Happy Birthday to my little brother. 3 That evening, Mom was bathing Noah. I hovered by the shower curtain, my heart clenching, terrified she would pull it back and see me in the tub. In the cloud of steam, Mom rubbed bubbles onto Noah’s skin. He looked up, his wet hair stuck to his forehead. “Mom, why hasn’t Liam come out yet?” Mom’s hands paused. “He’s probably just tired, sweetie.” Noah murmured, “But I miss him. I haven’t seen him all day.” Mom turned off the water and wrapped him completely in a large towel, pulling him into a hug. “Noah, do you ever get mad at Mom and Dad?” “Mad about what?” Mom held him tighter. “Mad because we’re always focused on Liam? Because we always give him the best things? Because sometimes we forget to give you enough time?” Noah wrapped his small, wet arms around her neck. “No. Why would I? Liam is sick.” “My teacher said that people who are sick need the most help. “I want to help you and Dad take care of him.” Mom’s shoulders began to tremble slightly. She buried her face in his towel, silent for a long moment. “You’re such a good boy, Noah.” She sniffled. “Liam… Liam is very sad, too.” I plastered myself against the cool tile floor, listening as Mom continued. “Your brother was born with a bad heart. The doctors said he might not grow up.” Her voice was thick with tears. “So your dad and I were always terrified he was in pain, terrified he wouldn’t make it. We wanted to give him every good thing we could.” Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “But sometimes… sometimes I get so tired.” “Sometimes I wish he was healthy. Sometimes I wish I could spend more time with you.” Noah listened, not fully understanding, but patting her back with his tiny hand. I was curled up in the corner, tears—transparent and meaningless—falling to the ground. “I’m sorry, Mom. It was my fault,” I sobbed. “If I had never been born, if you only had Noah, everything would be so much better.” They heard nothing. After the bath, Mom tucked Noah into bed. Then she walked to my bedroom door and stood there for a long time. Finally, she raised her hand and knocked gently. “Liam, are you sleeping?” I floated in front of her, trying to reach out, but my fingertips passed through the air. “Mom shouldn’t have yelled at you today. I was wrong.” “It was Noah’s first day of school, and I was so nervous. I wasn’t trying to be mean.” She waited, listening for a response. I couldn’t give her one. Never again. Mom sighed. “I left a slice of cake on the dining room table. It’s your favorite, strawberry. Please eat it.” She stood there for a few more seconds before walking back to the master bedroom. The door closed. I went to the living room and saw the cake on the dining table. It was small, on a simple plate, the strawberry tilted slightly. Late at night, I looked at the little me in the bathtub. The water was completely cold. My face was white as paper. Mom never opened the curtain. She didn’t know that the cake she left was a gift I could never eat. The apology she offered was one I could never hear. 4 I followed Mom into the master bedroom. Dad looked up when she entered. “Did Liam come out?” Mom sat on the bed, folding clothes. She shook her head. “No movement. He’s older now, he has his pride.” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Liam is miserable, Cari. “He’s never been to school, he barely has any friends. Seeing his brother go off to pre-K—it’s natural he’d be jealous.” “Maybe we should hire him a private tutor?” Mom’s hands froze on a shirt. “A tutor? With what money, Dan? We still owe the hospital from last month’s medicine.” Dad sighed and rolled onto his side. “I’ll start driving for DoorDash after work. A few extra hours a night, we can save up.” Mom turned to look at him. The bedside lamp illuminated his face, the dark circles under his eyes starkly visible. “You’re already exhausted from your day job. That’s too dangerous.” Dad waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine, I’m strong.” “Just… my shoulder is a little tight lately. Can you put a patch on it?” Dad turned his back. Mom lifted his pajama collar. The skin on his shoulder was red and swollen. I stood by the bed, watching the inflamed skin, and my ghost-tears fell onto the duvet. I used to complain that he came home too late, that he didn’t play with me enough. I never realized that every late night, every hour he spent away, was a direct act of love for me. I flew into his arms, my own invisible, desperate hug. “I’m so sorry, Dad. Please forgive my selfishness.” Mom smoothed on the pain patch. They lay down and turned off the light. I lay down between them, just as I had when I was a toddler. To my left, Mom’s warm, shallow breaths. To my right, Dad’s steady, rhythmic heartbeat. I reached out, wrapping my empty arms around them. In that moment, I felt profoundly happy. The next morning, Mom called us for breakfast. When she passed the dining table, she saw the strawberry cake still on the plate, untouched. The cream had started to sag, the strawberry was wilted. The softness in Mom’s face vanished. She put the plate down and walked to my door. She knocked twice. “Liam Hayes, come out now.” No response. Her eyes began to well up. “I apologized yesterday! What more do you want?” “The cake is still sitting there! Are you on a hunger strike? “Who are you putting on a show for? Are you trying to kill me with stress?” Still silence. Mom’s hand gripped the doorknob. She twisted and pushed the door open. The room was empty. Her face went white. She spun around, a rising panic in her voice. “Dan! Liam is gone!” Dad rushed over, terrified. “What? Don’t panic. He must be somewhere in the house.” Then, Noah’s voice piped up. “Mom, Liam is playing in the water in your bathroom.” I panicked, too. I screamed at Noah. “Noah, stop! Don’t let Mom see me!” But Noah couldn’t hear me. He ran into the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain all the way back. Mom let out a huge sigh of relief. “Liam, that is too much! You have really made me angry this time!” The next second, she saw me, floating in the dark red water.

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The system tasked me with matchmaking the male and female leads. But I’m a bit of a klutz and often misunderstand instructions. The system told me to “lick” the male lead to highlight his charm. I obeyed literally. The system exploded: “Stop! Who told you to use your tongue?” The male lead blushed and didn’t dare look me in the eye after that. The system told me to bully the female lead to trigger the male lead’s protective instincts. I stuffed bread I didn’t like into the female lead’s hands and forced her to eat it all. The impoverished female lead clutched her starving stomach, looking at me with red, teary eyes. I asked the system for praise, saying I bullied her to tears. The system exploded again: “She’s crying tears of gratitude, you idiot! “Look at the male lead, the way he looks at you is practically dripping with honey! “You useless trash! You let the female lead win you over!!!” Chapter 1 “L-Lick him? That’s not very appropriate, is it?” I shrank in my seat, afraid to move. The system urged me frantically: “Don’t dawdle. Do you want the money for your grandma’s surgery or not?” I did. I steeled my heart, rushed over to Caleb Vance’s face, extended my tongue, and gave a gentle lick. The boy’s face turned completely red instantly. His usually aloof expression cracked inch by inch. The system let out a shriek: “Who the hell told you to use your mouth?!” “Didn’t you tell me to lick him?” I felt extremely wronged. System: “‘Lick’ means to suck up to him! To pursue him like a desperate dog! I didn’t mean literally lick him! You idiot!!” Huh? I really didn’t catch that meaning. What do I do now? I was incredibly embarrassed. I pulled out a tissue to wipe Caleb’s face, stammering an apology: “S-Sorry, I actually wanted to pursue you…” Caleb’s handsome face turned even redder. He gave me a deep look, then stood up silently, turned stiffly, and left. The system was furious. “How did I choose such a big idiot!” Why is it talking like that? I didn’t ask it to choose me. It appeared out of nowhere, congratulating me on being selected as a tool to catalyze the relationship between the male and female leads. The male lead is the school hunk, Caleb Vance. The female lead is the newly transferred scholarship student, Sarah Young. And I am an irrelevant extra. I didn’t like its tone and didn’t want to cooperate with the mission. But the system said the reward was ten million dollars, enough to pay for my grandma’s medical bills and let her retire happily. So I accepted the mission. The first task the system issued was to “lick” the male lead to highlight his charm. But I misunderstood the instruction and messed it up. The system had no choice but to issue a new task. It said I should go with the flow and upgrade to a “perverted stalker,” pestering the male lead relentlessly. With the male lead’s reserved nature, he would absolutely not stand such enthusiasm and would instead grow fond of the reserved female lead. I hesitated a little: “But I don’t know how to act like a pervert…” System: “No need to act. Just perform normally like you did just now.” I understood that. So, whenever I saw Caleb, I rushed up to lick him. It was quite psychologically difficult at first. But once I broke through the mental barrier… After the second, third, and fourth time, it became much easier. By the fifth time, I could hug Caleb and gnaw on him without batting an eye. However, Caleb also gained experience. He raised his hand in time and pinched my mouth shut. The system clapped happily: “Great! The male lead is finally sick of you!” Looking at the boy’s cold face, my legs went soft: “He won’t beat me up, will he?” “Don’t be afraid, I’ll block your pain receptors.” I closed my eyes, ready for the impact. But the expected punch didn’t fall. Caleb just sighed lightly and said in a negotiating tone: “Wait a moment, I’m going to wash my face.” I opened my eyes, asking confusedly with my gaze. Caleb explained: “My face is a bit dirty right now. After I wash it, you can…” He didn’t finish, the tips of his ears red as hot iron. “Wait a moment?” The system screamed: “What the hell is washing his face?” “And what is the male lead shy about? Shouldn’t he hate you and punch you?!” I don’t know either. “I’m sorry… did I mess up again?” I lowered my head, terrified the system would scold me. Just then, Caleb’s voice sounded above my head: “I’m done washing.” He stared at me with burning eyes: “Coming?” He suddenly leaned in, his handsome face magnifying in front of me. His bangs were still wet, looking inexplicably appetizing. My heart inexplicably skipped a few beats. I subconsciously stepped back two steps, turned, and ran. Chapter 2 “Why are you running?!” The system resented my failure to meet expectations: “You should have just pounced on him, gnawed on him, pantsed him, grabbed his crotch!” “Make him disgusted with you to the core, then develop feelings for the reserved female lead!” “I did it for your own good.” I replied sullenly. I am a decent girl; how could I do such things? The system couldn’t persuade me, so it had to let it go. “Fine. Start with the female lead first. Bully her to trigger the male lead’s protective instincts.” I looked at the female lead the system mentioned, Sarah Young. She was a newly transferred scholarship student, diligent in studies, introverted, looking like an honest kid at first glance. Right now, she was sitting in the seat in front of me, buried in her work. Her back was bony, making her school uniform look empty. Bully her… I hesitated. System: “Do you still want the reward? Do you still want to treat your grandma?” I gritted my teeth and stood up. Straight to the commissary. System: “What are you doing?” Me: “Preparatory work.” When I returned, Sarah was gnawing on a dry bun. Seeing me stop at her desk, she paused her chewing, looked up with cheeks puffed out, and asked vaguely: “Is… is something wrong?” I dumped a full bag of raisin bread on her desk and commanded condescendingly: “Eat it all for me!” The system let out a shriek: “What are you doing, Maya He! I told you to bully her, not feed her!” I shushed it: “This is the worst flavor. If she doesn’t cry after eating, I’ll change my last name to hers.” That’s right, this was my insidious tactic. For Grandma… I’m sorry, Sarah! I closed my eyes, unable to bear watching her painful expression. When I opened my eyes again, I met a pair of red eyes— She was crying, as expected. Sarah was stuffing bread into her mouth painfully while wiping tears silently. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to be soft-hearted, urging coldly: “Eat it all! No leftovers allowed!” Sarah nodded while crying: “Boohoo, mm-hmm.” I was confident: “Mr. System, can I get the reward this time? I bullied her to tears.” The system didn’t answer. I only heard heavy breathing. After a long while, I heard the system reply through gritted teeth: “Maya He, you big idiot! “The female lead is crying tears of gratitude!” I froze: “Huh?” Gratitude? Why? “Thank you…” At this time, Sarah spoke up. She thanked me between sobs: “I ran out of living expenses and haven’t eaten a full meal for days… Thank you, Classmate Maya, you are such a good person…” … It’s over. I think I messed up again. The system had a bad temper and kept calling me an idiot. I felt extremely guilty. “I’m sorry.” I apologized in a small voice: “You’re right to scold me. I really am stupid. I had a high fever as a child with no one around, burned my brain… I’m really sorry.” The system froze, then flew into a rage: “How could your parents be so irresponsible? How do they raise a child?” Me: “Parents didn’t want me anymore. I only have Grandma.” The system was silent for a moment: “…Sorry.” It didn’t scold me anymore and gave me a chance to remedy the situation: “This time, you must humiliate the female lead fiercely in front of the male lead!” “Mmh!” I thought hard and finally grasped Sarah’s weakness, holding back a “big move.” Isn’t Sarah a scholarship student? Then I will use what she lacks most to trample on her dignity! Chapter 3 The system gave me an advance on the reward, and I withdrew a part of it from the bank. Then, waiting until Sarah blushed and told the class monitor that she would have to pay her tuition later, I seized the opportunity, walked over, and slammed the money hard in front of Sarah. “From today on, you are my lackey. Take the money. In the future, do whatever I tell you to do.” I raised my chin high, fully displaying arrogance and rudeness. Sure enough, Sarah’s big eyes turned red instantly. She accepted the money in humiliation and handed it to the class monitor. Then she choked up and said to me: “Maya, thank you.” Although she thanked me verbally, her eyes were red like a rabbit, full of humiliation. I knew that giving her money at this time must have made her feel very embarrassed. She must hate me to death in her heart. Also, Caleb. He must hate me to death. I swept my gaze, accurately finding Caleb, meeting that handsome face with no expression. He met my gaze. The next second, the corner of his mouth curved up. Me: “?” I called the system in panic: “Caleb smiled at me. Is he going to beat me to death?” I remember it’s always like this on TV. When a person is extremely angry, they will laugh, and then the other person will die miserably… Boohoo… What to do?? “Mr. System? Mr. System??” After a long while, the system spoke: “Maya He.” It sighed, with a tone of powerlessness: “I really f*cking want to pry open your skull and see what weird structure is inside! “I actually believed you, waiting to see your big move! “And you call this inhuman character humiliation?? “The person is worried about money, and you send money over. That’s called help in a time of need! “The female lead wishes she could kowtow to you twice! “Also, are you blind?! “The male lead is looking at you with honey dripping from his eyes, and you suspect he wants to beat you to death?? “Your IQ is not high, and your EQ is negative too, right? “Maya He, I really want to punch you twice!” Huh? Is that so? Why is it completely different from what I thought… I shrank my neck. Bit the bullet and apologized: “S-Sorry…” The system was even angrier: “You only know to apologize! Change then! Do you know where you went wrong?!” “I know, I know.” The system lost trust in me and forbade me from improvising anymore. It demanded I strictly follow its instructions. “Since the money is given, just force the female lead to do what she hates most, what pains her most!” The system laughed sinisterly. Regarding this instruction, I was full of confidence. No one knows better than me what can make a student feel most painful! I slapped several mock exam papers heavily on Sarah’s desk and ordered her arrogantly: “Sarah Young! I order you to finish all five sets of these test papers tonight!” Sarah’s eyes turned red again. “Maya, thank you.” Her eyes were full of gratitude: “Not only did you buy me food and pay my tuition, but you also urged me to study… You are truly a good person!” Me: “…” No, I’m not. System: “…I fcking… You fcking… Forget it.” I asked humbly: “How else should I bully her?” “Just stop it.” The system was very impatient: “You’re not cut out for this.” Chapter 4 The system thought about it and decided to have me abandon the female lead route and concentrate firepower on the male lead. Pursue the male lead, fake intimacy, cause the female lead to misunderstand. Force her to recognize her own feelings. “Immediately, right now, write a love letter to the male lead!” Writing a love letter for the first time, I had no idea where to start. Asked the system, the system didn’t know either. It was righteous: “I’ve never chased anyone, how would I know how to write this kind of thing?” “I haven’t either.” “Don’t you have to now?” “…” The system pondered and provided an inspiration: “Just disgust him.” Be superficial, be exaggerated, use it to express you like him. With the male lead’s low-key personality, he will absolutely be disgusted to the extreme! Then turn around and see the refreshingly reserved female lead, bound to be refreshed and moved… The system got more and more excited as it spoke, so I had to bite the bullet and write: “Dear Classmate Caleb Vance: Ah, if you were a flower, I would be a butterfly! If you were a star, I would be the telescope chasing you! From the moment I saw you for the first time, your handsome face deeply, deeply attracted me! My gaze, my heartbeat, every minute and every second of my future—are destined to burn for you!” While I wrote, the system commented passionately: “Good, that’s the flavor! Maya He, you finally did something reliable!” “Written well, continue… Holy sh*t, this is too disgusting, barf!” … While I buried my head writing the love letter to Caleb, Sarah walked over. She handed me a small box of snacks, eyes shining: “I made them myself. Thank you for helping me last time.” She leaned closer, voice soft: “Maya, what are you writing?” The system immediately directed: “Quick! Say you’re writing a love letter, say you love Caleb like crazy, make her jealous!” I did as told, but Sarah didn’t show the expected sour expression. She just blinked blankly, then looked at me with bright eyes, saying seriously: “Although I don’t know Caleb very well… but the person Maya likes must be very good!” I froze. Why is this so different from what I imagined? Subconsciously turned back, and met Caleb’s gaze directly. Don’t know when he stopped behind us, don’t know how long he listened to us talking. Only that pair of peach blossom eyes were shining just like Sarah’s. Seeing me turn, Caleb’s ears turned red, and he turned and walked away. The system exploded with excitement: “See! My method is awesome! “Plan hasn’t officially started yet, and the male lead is already shy facing the female lead!” Me: “Mmh mmh.”

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The layoff wave hit Big Tech, and the company gave us two options. Option one: take the N+1 severance package and leave. Option two: take a pay cut and transfer to the new, godforsaken “Pioneer” department to build it from the ground up. In my last life, I chose the new department. It turned out to be a secret R&D hub for the company’s push into AI. Three years later, everyone’s stock options exploded, and I became financially independent. My best friend, Jessica, took the severance, gambled it all on the stock market, lost everything, and ended up driving her car into mine, sending us both off an overpass to our deaths. Reborn, I found myself back in that meeting room. The moment the HR manager finished speaking, Jessica slammed her hands on the table. “I’m taking the new department! Don’t even think about fighting me for it!” She shot me a venomous glare. “Take your pathetic severance and get lost. The future is mine.” I signed the severance agreement without a second thought. 1 The gazes of my colleagues pricked my skin like needles. Someone whispered, “Is Ava crazy? I heard the new department is the CEO’s pet project. It’ll be tough for a couple of years, but after that, it’s all founder’s stock.” “Short-sighted. What do you expect from a woman?” Jessica’s chin lifted higher at their words, preening like a victorious rooster. In my past life, that same rooster was the one who, just as I was about to cash in my stock options, drove me off that bridge because she was drowning in debt to loan sharks. The feeling of my bones shattering still lingered, a ghost pain in my limbs. I smiled. “Fine, Jessica. This golden ticket to unimaginable wealth? It’s all yours.” I slapped the signed agreement on the table. “N+1. I want every last cent, and I want it in my account by the end of today. Also, I’m taking the money tree from my desk.” Jessica sneered. “So pathetic. You even want a stupid plant.” She didn’t know that buried in the soil of that plant was a hardware dongle I’d tinkered with in my past life—the physical key required to boot the core code. Without it, the new department’s so-called “core assets” were nothing but a pile of gibberish. I started packing my things. My box was only half-full when Jessica strode over and kicked it, sending everything scattering across the floor. My keyboard, mouse, and notebooks clattered loudly. “Oops, sorry. My foot slipped,” she said, her voice dripping with mock apology, her eyes burning with challenge. Then, she shrieked, “Mark! I think Ava has a confidential company hard drive in her box! I just saw it! She’s trying to steal company property!” The HR manager and security guards swarmed over instantly. The manager frowned. “Ava, open your bag. We need to check it.” Everyone was watching, waiting for the show. Getting laid off was one thing, but being publicly searched on your way out was the ultimate workplace humiliation. I looked at Jessica’s triumphant face, feeling no anger, only a detached pity, like watching a clown perform its tired act. “You can check,” I said calmly. “But if you find nothing, then what?” Jessica crossed her arms. “If there’s nothing, I’ll get on my knees and apologize. But if there is, you can get ready for prison.” In the chaos, she had slipped a file labeled “Top Secret” into the inner pocket of my bag. It was a slick move, but amateurish. I pulled out my phone and connected to the office’s smart surveillance system—a little plugin I’d installed myself to test a visual algorithm. No one knew it existed. I mirrored my phone’s screen to the large TV in the conference room. And there it was, in glorious high definition: Jessica, furtively stuffing the file into my bag. The image was so clear you could see the poorly blended pimple on her cheek. The room fell dead silent. Jessica’s face turned the color of raw liver. The HR manager’s face was as black as the bottom of a pot. “Jessica,” he growled. “Care to explain?” She trembled. “I… I was just joking with her…” “On your knees,” I said, my voice cold. Jessica bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes, but she didn’t move. I raised my phone. “Fine. Don’t kneel. I’ll just send this video to every HR group in the industry. And file a police report for false accusation while I’m at it.” Thud. Jessica’s knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor. “I’m sorry…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. I picked up my box and stepped over her. “Save your knees. You’ll be doing a lot more begging in the future.” Outside, the sunlight was blinding. My phone vibrated. A text from my bank. The severance had arrived. Thirty-five thousand dollars. My startup capital. As I passed the smoking area, I saw a couple of security guards shoving a man. He was a mess—unshaven, his hair greasy and matted, wearing a yellowed white t-shirt. His eyes were utterly dead. Noah. In my last life, he was the company’s Director of Technology. After offending the CEO, he was sidelined and eventually fired for “gross misconduct,” forced to pay the company a fifty-thousand-dollar breach of contract fine. No one knew that this man, who now looked like a homeless person, was the true architect of the company’s AI strategy. The core logic of the new department’s project was all his work. In my past life, he vanished after leaving, sinking into obscurity. The company, meanwhile, rode the coattails of his unfinished code for three years. “Get lost! Sell a kidney if you can’t pay!” a guard sneered. Noah stared at the ground, his fists clenched white, silent. I walked over and stood between them. “I’ll pay his fine.” The guards stared. “Ava, are you crazy? This guy’s a total washout.” Noah’s head snapped up, a flicker of disbelief in his dead eyes. I took out my bank card, the money still warm in my account, and paid the fifty thousand dollars. It was everything I had, plus my savings. I didn’t even blink. After the paperwork was done, Noah stood on the sidewalk, clutching the termination agreement, his voice hoarse. “Why? What do you want from me?” I looked at him and pressed the bank card, now with only a few hundred dollars left, into his hand. “I don’t want you, and I don’t want your money.” “Noah, I want your brain.” “Work with me.” Upstairs, behind a floor-to-ceiling window, Jessica was watching us through a pair of binoculars. She snapped a photo and posted it online with a caption: Trash belongs with trash. It’s hilarious how some people find a piece of garbage and treat it like treasure. I put my phone away and smiled at Noah. “Come on. Let’s go set the world on fire.” 2 I rented a shabby two-bedroom apartment that served as both our living quarters and our office. The living room was crammed with secondhand server racks, the buzz of their cooling fans a constant, tireless hum. Noah sat on a sofa missing a leg, staring at me. “You’re broke,” he stated, not as a question. After paying his fine and renting all this equipment, I didn’t even have next month’s rent sorted. I pulled a cup of instant noodles from my bag and tore off the lid. “As long as the servers have power, I won’t starve. What, is the great Noah too good for this?” He didn’t answer, just stared at the noodle cup. In my past life, I only knew he was a tech genius. I didn’t know he was also the runaway scion of a powerful East Coast family. He’d cut ties with them because he refused to inherit the family business, choosing to pursue technology instead. This time, I was going to make this hidden dragon soar ahead of schedule. “The new department’s project is a trap,” Noah said suddenly, his tone flat. “I wrote the architecture, but I left a back door. Once the concurrent user volume exceeds ten million, the entire system will crash.” I smiled and pushed the now-ready noodles toward him. “I know. And I also know that your back door is actually an infinite loop. Once triggered, it’ll fry the hardware.” Noah’s pupils contracted. He looked at me like I was some kind of monster. “How did you know? I haven’t even finished writing that algorithm…” I didn’t explain. I just sat down at the computer. My fingers flew across the keyboard, lines of code pouring out like a waterfall. It was the same algorithm that had taken him three years to complete in our last life, the core technology that would later have industry giants scrambling. Ten minutes later, I hit Enter. A green “SUCCESS” flashed on the screen. The fork dropped from Noah’s hand, clattering on the floor. He rushed over, his eyes glued to the screen, his breathing heavy and ragged. “That… that’s the logical loop I’ve been trying to solve for six months…” I pointed to the screen. “I want to turn this project into a SaaS platform. I need it online within a month. Any problem with that?” Noah licked his dry lips, a fire igniting in his eyes. “As long as we can pay the electricity bill, I can get it done in two weeks.” The days that followed were a blur of manic energy. We were like two mad scientists, doing nothing but eating, sleeping, and coding. To save money, I sold all my old designer bags. Noah saw it all but said nothing. He just typed faster. In our old work group chat, Jessica was broadcasting her “highlight reel” daily. “Another late night at the office. The coffee in the new department is amazing.” “The boss said I’m the future of the company. So much pressure, lol.” “Heard someone’s been dumpster diving since they left? So sad.” The posts were accompanied by pictures of her posing at her desk in a bright, spacious office. I knew that the screen of her computer actually showed an order page for a freelancing website. She was hiring a ghostwriter. Because before I left, I’d completely wiped my old computer. She couldn’t find a single useful document. One day, one of our graphics cards burned out. We had no choice but to replace it. Noah and I went to an electronics market. And of course, we ran into them. We had just walked into a shop when we heard Jessica’s shrill voice. “I’ll take this A100 graphics card. The company’s paying, money is no object!” She was clinging to the arm of a balding man—her sycophantic boss, Mark, the one backing her in the new department. I glanced at the card. It was the best secondhand one in the store, exactly what we needed. “I saw that card first,” I said, walking over. Jessica turned, and a mocking smile spread across her face when she saw me. “Well, if it isn’t Ava. What, are you scavenging for parts now?” She scanned my cheap t-shirt, then glanced at the scruffy Noah beside me. “Tsk, tsk. Still hanging out with your homeless boyfriend? This card is eight thousand dollars. Can you afford it? You probably couldn’t even get that much if you sold yourself.” She deliberately lifted her high-heeled foot and pressed it down on the graphics card, grinding it against the floor. “Oh, sorry, I got it dirty. But since I saw it first, even if I smash it, I wouldn’t give it to a beggar.” The balding man chuckled. “Jessica, don’t waste your time on these lowlifes. Let’s just have security throw them out.” The other shop owners and customers were watching the spectacle. I clenched my fists, about to snap. But the ever-silent Noah, standing behind me, suddenly moved. 3 When Noah moved, it was like a black flash of lightning. He shoved aside the security guard who was stepping forward, the force of it sending the two-hundred-pound man stumbling backward. Then, he bent down, ignoring Jessica’s shriek as she jumped away, and snatched the graphics card from under her foot. The movement was rough, almost brutal. He used his own yellowed t-shirt to wipe the dust off the card, his eyes dark and menacing. “This technology under your shoe,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “is an insult.” He looked up, his cold gaze sweeping over Jessica and her boss. “Touch her again. I dare you.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was filled with a chilling intensity. Jessica, terrified, shrank back into Mark’s arms. Humiliated, Mark pointed a trembling finger at Noah. “You goddamn beggar, do you know who I am? I can make sure you never work in this industry again!” “Oh? And who are you?” Noah shot back with a cold smirk. “Mark Johnson, former deputy manager of the operations department? The one who got promoted by washing the CEO’s car?” Mark’s face went pale. “How did you know…” Noah ignored him and turned to the shop owner. “Chen, I’m taking this card. And give me those two servers you’ve got in the back.” The shop owner, a middle-aged man with glasses, had been enjoying the show. At the sound of Noah’s voice, he jolted. He squinted at Noah, his glasses nearly falling off his nose. “Noah? The… the Legend?” In their circle, the name Noah was just that—a legend. Even though he’d been fired, in the eyes of true geeks, he was a god. The owner’s hands were shaking with excitement. “Noah, sir! What are you… Oh my god! The card is a gift! A gift! And the servers, you can have them for half price! Just… if you have any big projects in the future, please remember me!” Jessica was dumbfounded. “Are you crazy? I’ll pay double!” The owner shot her a disdainful look. “You think money is everything? Get out, get out! Don’t dirty my shop. Do you have any idea who you were just bullying?” Trembling with rage, Jessica pointed at me. “Ava, you win this time! Just you wait! At the product launch in a few days, I’m going to show you the meaning of despair!” She stormed off, dragging Mark with her. On the way back, Noah cradled the graphics card like a precious treasure. I looked at his profile and suddenly found him much more appealing. “Thanks, back there.” Noah grunted. “I was saving the card, not you.” Back at our workshop, the atmosphere grew tense. The “product launch” Jessica mentioned was the new department’s public debut. According to the timeline from my previous life, there was no way they could have a viable product ready. The only reason Jessica was so confident was that she must have found a “shortcut.” Sure enough, at three o’clock that morning, our firewall lit up with frantic red alerts. Someone was attacking our private network. Noah’s fingers danced across the keyboard, code flowing down the screen like a waterfall. “It’s an IP from the old company. They’re scanning our ports.” He sneered. “Trying to steal our code? Not a chance.” Just as he was about to hit Enter to launch a counter-attack, I placed my hand on his. “Don’t stop them.” Noah frowned at me. “Are you insane? This is everything we’ve built.” I stared at the blinking red dot on the screen, a glint of steel in my eyes. “Let them steal it.” I opened a hidden folder. Inside was a code package that looked flawless but was actually riddled with logical bombs. “Put this in the honeypot. And open a small crack in the firewall.” Noah stared at me for a second, then a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “You, woman, have a very dark heart.” “Takes one to know one.”

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He used my ID to open fifty credit cards. I made him pay for ten years. “This is an automated call from Capitol One. Your credit card account is past due. Please remit payment immediately.” The voice on the other end was mechanical and cold. I froze. “A credit card? I don’t have a credit card.” “Ma’am, the card under your name has been delinquent for three months. The outstanding balance, including principal and interest, totals forty-seven thousand eight hundred and ninety-two dollars.” I assumed it was a scam and hung up. The next day, another call came in. A different bank. A different number. The same chilling message: Your credit card is past due. A cold, sick dread began to pool in my stomach. 1. I took a half-day off work and went straight to my bank. The teller checked my Social Security number and looked up, her expression strained. “Ma’am, are you sure you want me to pull all credit card records?” “Yes. All of them.” She tapped the keyboard, and the printer whirred out a long sheet of paper. I took it, and my breath hitched. It wasn’t one card. It was nine. Nine credit cards, every single one delinquent, the oldest overdue by eight months. My hand started to tremble. “This is impossible. I’ve never applied for a credit card…” The teller hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Ma’am, the application address for all of these accounts is the same.” She pointed to a line on the printout. I looked where she indicated. It was my home address. I found myself crouched outside the bank lobby, my mind a blank static screen. I hadn’t opened the cards. But the address was mine. The only person who had access to my ID and knew my address intimately… I couldn’t finish the thought. When I got home, Garrett Wells wasn’t back from the office yet. I tore through our bedroom, and in the very bottom of his dresser drawer, beneath a pile of unused ties, I found a manila envelope. Inside were more credit card statements. Not nine. Twenty-three. Every single one used. Every single one carrying a crushing balance. The smallest owed eight hundred dollars, the largest, twelve thousand. I tallied them, my hand shaking so hard I had to stop. What was the total? I couldn’t bear to calculate it. The sound of the key turning in the front door lock made me jump. Garrett walked in and saw me sitting on the floor, the colorful bank statements scattered around me like fallen leaves. His face went white. “You… you went through my things?” I looked up, meeting his eye. “What are these?” He didn’t answer, his gaze shifting wildly around the room. “I’m asking you, Garrett. Were these credit cards opened using my Social Security number and my ID?” “…” “Garrett Wells!” He finally spoke, his voice weak and reedy: “I meant to pay them off, Astrid… I’ve just been short lately…” I gave a short, bitter laugh. Three years of marriage. Every month, I deposited my paycheck, kept five hundred dollars for groceries and incidentals, and transferred the rest to him to “help with the mortgage.” I hadn’t bought a new dress over sixty-five dollars since our wedding. I packed my lunch every day, never splurging on takeout. I thought we were saving, paying down debt together, building a future. I was wrong. He had been using my identity, opening cards, charging them to the limit, maxing out my credit history. And I knew nothing. “How many cards, Garrett?” He said nothing. “What is the total balance?” Still silence. I stared at him. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll go find out myself.” “…Don’t go, I’ll handle it.” “Handle it? How will you handle it?” “I’ll figure something out…” “With whose money? Mine?” He lifted his head, a complex flicker in his eyes. “We’re married. We’re a unit. What’s the difference?” I was stunned into silence. I’d heard that phrase a thousand times. When we married, he said “we’re a unit,” so his name alone was on the house deed. When we bought the car, he said “we’re a unit,” so I paid the entire down payment. When it came to my monthly paycheck, he said “we’re a unit,” so I handed it all over for him to manage. I’d always thought it meant trust. I realized then that, in his mind, “we’re a unit” meant: Your money is my money, and my debt is yours. I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed, listening to his heavy, oblivious breathing. He slept like a baby. And I spent the entire night grappling with a single, horrifying question: Who exactly did I marry? The next morning, I called in sick. I drove to a different bank. I found five more cards. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth bank… With every discovery, a new layer of frost settled over my heart. The final number was a punch to the gut— Fifty. Fifty credit cards, all opened in my name, using my identity. Some had been opened in person, others applied for online. The application forms—for employment, income verification, contact details—were all fraudulent. But the handwriting in the signature boxes was unmistakable. It was his. I stood in the bank’s printing area for a long time, clutching the thick stack of paper. A staff member asked, “Ma’am, are you okay?” I nodded. “Do you need me to call anyone for you?” “No.” I walked out of the bank with the debt statements in my hand. The sunlight was bright. People rushed past, preoccupied with their own lives. No one knew that my world had just collapsed. 2. I didn’t go straight home. I found a coffee shop, sat down, and started poring over the statements, one by one. Fifty cards. A total outstanding balance of $485,000. $485,000. My salary was $4,200 a month. How many years would it take me to pay that off, even if I didn’t eat or pay rent? Decades. I was twenty-eight. I’d be in my sixties by the time this was done. The sheer absurdity of it made me feel hysterically cold. I’d been frugal for three years, thinking I was saving for our future. It turned out my husband was using my identity to rack up a half-million dollars in debt. And I hadn’t spent a single penny of it on myself. The transaction records were clear. Hotel: $480. Club/Lounge: $320. Luxury Boutique: $1,200. Jewelry Store: $860. Transfer: $500. Transfer: $1,000. Transfer: $2,000… The recipient of the transfers was the same name, over and over again. Candace Price. I didn’t know the name. But looking at the spending, my husband knew her well. Hotel bookings forty-seven times. No fewer than twenty pieces of high-end luxury goods. Total transfers exceeding $70,000. I stared at the name, feeling a weird, unnatural calm. So it wasn’t just about stealing my money. It was about another woman. I sent Garrett a text: “Meet me. Now.” He replied instantly: “What’s wrong?” “Just come.” He arrived at the coffee shop half an hour later. He sat down, glanced at the stack of bills on the table, and his face changed color. “You… you checked?” “Fifty cards. $485,000. Candace Price.” I spoke the words one by one, watching his face turn utterly pale. “I can explain…” “Don’t bother.” I cut him off. “I only have one question for you.” “How are you going to pay it back?” He blinked, thrown off balance. “What do you mean?” “The $485,000. How do you plan to pay it back?” “I… I’ll figure something out…” “What? Are you going to keep using my ID to open more cards?” He fell silent. “Or are you expecting me to help you pay it?” He looked up, a sliver of desperate hope in his eyes. “Well, under the law… marital debt is supposed to be shared…” I smiled, a tight, horrible expression. “Garrett, I make $4,200 a month. You want me to pay $485,000?” “We can pay it slowly…” “Slowly?” I rose to my feet. “You used my ID to open these cards, maxed out my credit, and used my money to finance your mistress. Now you want me to pay it ‘slowly’?” He flinched at my tone, his voice trembling. “I… I’m so sorry, Astrid.” “Sorry? You’ve been ‘sorry’ for three years. Fifty cards. That took you three years to accomplish.” I picked up my bag and looked him straight in the eye. “You have three days. In three days, you either have a concrete plan to pay this off, or—” “Or what?” “Or I’m calling the police.” I turned and walked away. Behind me, I heard him call out: “You can’t call the police! You’ll ruin me! How can you be so heartless?” I didn’t look back. Heartless? Were you heartless when you opened fifty cards in my name? Were you heartless when you transferred money to another woman using my stolen credit? Were you heartless when you let me pack a $15 lunch every day while you spent my future on her? Three years. Every penny I saved went into his pocket. The “working together” I believed in was a joke. The “shared future” was my one-sided delusion. $485,000. It was a number I would never forget. 3. Three days later, Garrett hadn’t “figured something out.” His solution was to send his mother. My mother-in-law’s call came in, her tone much harder than usual. “Astrid, Garrett told me. You two have had a little misunderstanding.” “A misunderstanding?” “Yes, a misunderstanding. Garrett was just foolish, borrowed a little money. Don’t be so dramatic.” “Ma’am, $485,000. Do you call that ‘a little’?” A second of silence on the line. “…It was for the family.” “For the family? He used my ID to open cards and transferred $70,000 to another woman. Is that ‘for the family’?” Her voice rose sharply. “How can you, a woman, be so mean-spirited? A man has business to attend to, what’s the big deal about spending money? If you’d been a better wife and focused on starting a family, Garrett wouldn’t have had to look elsewhere!” I froze. Not because her words were hurtful. But because, in that instant, I finally saw this family for who they were. A half-million dollars in debt was a “little misunderstanding.” $70,000 for a mistress was “normal business.” And me? I was the wife who hadn’t bought a new outfit in three years, packed my lunch, and gave up my entire salary. In her eyes, I was merely the daughter-in-law who hadn’t produced a child yet. And I deserved to be swindled. “Ma’am,” I took a deep breath. “I will not help him pay this debt. Not one cent.” “What do you mean? You are his wife! His debt is your debt!” “It is not.” “Astrid! Are you trying to destroy my son?” “He used my ID to open cards and stole my money to pay his mistress. This is not marital debt; this is identity theft and fraud.” A gasp was audible through the phone. “You… you’re going to call the police?” “If he doesn’t pay, yes.” “You are wicked! Your heart is black! My son was blind to marry you!” “I was the one who was blind.” I hung up. Garrett came home that night. His attitude was much softer than before. “Babe, I really am sorry. Can you just give me more time? I’ll find a way to pay it back slowly…” “Slowly? What means do you have to pay it back at all?” “I… I can take out a loan…” “A loan? In whose name? Using my ID again?” He went quiet. “Garrett, I’m asking you one last time. The $485,000. How will you pay it back?” He looked at me, his eyes darting away. “I can pay you $500 a month…” “$500? $485,000. How many years will that take?” “…Forty-plus years.” “You’re thirty-two. Forty years from now, you’ll be in your seventies.” “Then… then what do you want me to do?” I looked at him. Three years of marriage. Three years of deprivation. Three years of willful blindness. I felt utterly exhausted. “I want a divorce.” He was stunned. “What?” “I said, divorce. The debt is yours to manage. It has nothing to do with me.” “You… you can’t do this!” “Why can’t I?” “We’re married! You can’t just abandon me!” I smiled humorlessly. “When I was scrimping and saving, did you care about me?” “I…” “When you were transferring money to another woman, did you think of me?”

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