Category: English

When I was ten, my parents split up, scrambled to start their new, shiny families, and left me with my grandfather. We didn’t see each other again until the summer after my high school graduation. They had come to the restaurant where I worked to book private dining rooms, and it just so happened to be my shift. My father held his stepson’s shoulder, smiling proudly. “My boy scored a 1450 on his SATs,” he told me. “We need your largest private room.” My mother, holding her little daughter’s hand, was booking the adjacent room. “It’s my daughter’s seventh birthday. We’ll need a spacious room, too.” They glanced at each other, then quickly averted their eyes. “Throwing such a lavish birthday party for a seven-year-old? You certainly spoil her,” my father remarked with a tight smile. “And your stepson is the real star,” my mother replied politely. “He’s going to do great things.” And me? The state valedictorian. Their biological son. Neither of them recognized me. I wiped the grease from my hands onto my apron, quietly taking down their reservations. My father ordered a lavish seafood feast, noting it was his son’s favorite. My mother had brought a custom-made cake, asking for it to be kept in the freezer. Before leaving, my father casually asked, “What about… him? Haven’t heard anything. Did he fail his exams?” My mother paused. “I don’t know. He hasn’t called.” I didn’t look up. I was busy texting the real estate agent on my phone. Once my grandfather’s old house was sold, I could leave this city with absolutely no regrets. … At 6:00 PM, the manager called me to the back. A reservation room had a setup issue, and the guests demanded an apology from the staff responsible. I took off my dishwashing gloves and apron, rubbing at a grease stain on my chest. It only smeared wider. I bit my lip and followed the manager to the private room my father had booked. Through the heavy oak door, I could hear his voice comforting Logan. “Don’t be upset, Logan. The staff here are just uneducated. They can’t even blow up a balloon arch properly.” “Didn’t you want the new MacBook, iPad, and iPhone? We’ll go to the Apple Store right after dinner and get you the absolute best specs.” I looked down at my worn, faded canvas sneakers. My living expenses for next semester were still up in the air; if I lost this gig, it would be instant ramen for another month. Pushing the door open, I gave a deep, polite bow. “I’m so sorry. That was my mistake.” “A mistake?” Logan pouted. “The balloon arch is completely deflated at the top! It looks awful. The photos are going to look so cheap.” My father instantly soothed him. “I know, I know. We’ll make them redo it. All new balloons.” I climbed the step ladder, reaching up to untangle the sagging balloon. An uncle sitting next to my father used me as a cautionary tale for his own kid: “See that? You need to study hard like Logan. If you don’t get good grades, you’ll end up working service jobs like this waiter, stuck at the bottom forever.” My father beamed, wrapping an arm around Logan’s shoulders. “Our Logan is smart and hardworking. He really outdid himself this time, scoring way higher than his practice exams.” I pretended not to hear, channeling all the suffocating noise in my chest into inflating a fresh balloon. I couldn’t even remember the last time my father had called me smart or good. In my memories, he was always screaming at my mother, slamming doors, breaking dishes. When he was angry, his eyes would lock onto me, spitting venom—calling me an eyesore, a burden, a mistake that ruined his life. When I got accepted into the top boarding academy in the state, I secretly used my grandfather’s flip phone to text him. He replied: “I have a happy life now. Please don’t disrupt it.” I had wanted to tell him that my grades were actually much better than Logan’s. I wanted to tell him I was good, that I wouldn’t be a burden. I didn’t want to disrupt his life. I just… missed him. But he didn’t know. Or maybe, he just didn’t care to know. After fixing the balloon, I stepped out, only to be called into the adjacent room. “Hey, could you help us cut the cake?” Inside, my mother was posing for photos with her little daughter. Noticing me standing in the background of her shot, she frowned. “Can’t you see we’re taking a photo? Does this place hire people with zero common sense?” I quickly stepped back into the shadow of the corner. My mother picked up a plastic Barbie tiara. “Look, sweetie. It’s the Barbie crown you wanted. Mommy had it specially made. Do you love it?” The little girl ran around the room, giggling. My mother chased after her with a soft, bright smile, keeping a protective hand near the table corners so she wouldn’t bump her head, gently wiping the sweat from her forehead with a tissue. The sheer tenderness in her eyes made me dizzy. For a second, I wondered if I had mistaken her for someone else. When I was five, she forgot about my severe mango allergy. I spent a week in the ICU. When I was eight, she got the parent-teacher conference date wrong, and I was mocked by my classmates for having a mother who didn’t care enough to show up. Earlier this year, when Grandfather passed away, I didn’t find out until after the funeral because I was away at my boarding school. Our neighbor, Mr. Davis, later told me that my mother couldn’t remember which school I went to or how to contact my advisor, so she simply forgot to notify me. It turned out she didn’t have a bad memory. She wasn’t careless. She simply didn’t have any love left over to spare for me. I turned and quietly shut the door on their warmth. But when I looked up, I froze. I was looking straight into a pair of familiar eyes. “What are you doing here?” I asked. My eyes drifted down to the gift box in Chelsea’s hands. Chelsea tilted her head, instinctively tucking the gift behind her back. Logan poked his head out of his family’s room. “Chelsea! You’re five minutes late. You owe me an apology!” Chelsea took a step forward, passing him the box. “Traffic was bad. Here, I got you something.” She glanced back at me, her expression fraught with awkwardness. “Connor, I’ll explain later.” I stood frozen. An hour ago, she had texted me saying she was going out with her parents to visit some family friends and wouldn’t be able to reply tonight. She hadn’t mentioned that those “friends” included my biological father. And I never could have guessed that my childhood friend—the girl who grew up sharing popsicles with me on summer afternoons—shared this kind of easy intimacy with Logan. Logan’s smile faded. He looked from Chelsea to me. “Connor… Wait, are you Connor?” Before I could answer, he turned and shouted into the room, “Dad! Guess what? Connor is here spying on you!” All eyes in the hallway turned to me. I gripped the hem of my apron, my gaze finding my father. The proud grin on his face faltered, freezing into a stiff grimace. “Oh,” he muttered, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “It’s you. You’ve grown so tall, I didn’t even recognize you.” I let go of my apron and spoke quietly. “I’m not spying.” He blinked, stepping out into the hall. “Then what are you doing here?” “Working. To pay for college.” My father swept his eyes over my grease-stained uniform. “Why are you dressed like that? Are you trying to embarrass me?” He lowered his voice, his tone sharp. “Look, we’re celebrating Logan’s scores today. I don’t have time for this. Go find your mother. She’s right next door.” With that, he knocked loudly on the adjacent door. “Diana, your son is out here.” “What son? I only have a daughter…” My mother stepped out, her voice cutting off as her eyes landed on me. After a few agonizing seconds, she let out a strained, nervous laugh. “Connor? What are you doing here?” She stepped closer to the doorway, lowering her voice to a whisper. “We’re celebrating your sister’s birthday. The room is full of guests. This is really inconvenient.” “Whatever it is, can we talk tomorrow?” She looked up at my father. “I really can’t do this right now, Richard. You’re his father. He’s clearly here for you.” My father sneered. “I’m busy too. You’re his mother. He’s your responsibility.” The tension spiked, their old bitterness flaring up instantly. “You gave birth to him, Diana,” my father hissed. “Why are you trying to dump him on me?” My mother’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t make him by myself! Why is he solely my problem?” And just like that, I was a pinball again, bouncing between them. It had always been this way. They fought over who had to cook for me. They argued over who had to pay my school fees. In the divorce court, when the judge asked who I wanted to live with, my father yelled that his salary was too low to feed another mouth. My mother cried that as a single woman, she couldn’t possibly raise a boy alone. They screamed until they were red in the face, treating me like a defective product neither of them wanted to be stuck with. Years had passed, and I was still the same unwanted baggage. I took a deep breath, cutting through their bickering. “You don’t need to worry about me.” “I didn’t come here looking for either of you.” The hallway went cold. Suddenly, Logan smiled from the doorway. “Dad, let him in. We can easily squeeze in another chair. No need to cause a scene in the hallway for everyone to stare at.” The tight lines on my father’s face immediately softened. “See? Logan is always the mature one.” He cast a cold glance at me. “Come on in, then.” One of my father’s friends patted my shoulder, nudging me inside. I was steered to a seat in the far corner of the long table. Logan’s mother offered a polite, hollow smile. “Connor, is there anything you want to eat? We can order a few more dishes.” My father didn’t even look up from his menu. “He’s not picky. He’ll eat anything.” “But Logan loves the lobster. Let’s order another plate of that.” I swallowed a sip of ice water to wash down the burning lump in my throat. A man sitting next to me nudged my arm. “Hey, kid, aren’t you going to greet your dad’s friends?” I looked at my father, my tongue feeling like lead. The winter after my grandfather died, I had tentatively dialed my father’s number. When he picked up, the background was filled with the warm laughter of a holiday dinner party and the faint crackle of a fireplace. Shivering in the cold, empty house, I had whispered, “Dad.” But it was Logan who snatched the phone. “There’s no ‘Dad’ here for you. Don’t call this number.” “Did your mom not buy you a father? Why are you trying to steal mine?” In the background, I heard my father’s distant, annoyed voice: “Who is that? Calling during the holidays. How irritating.” I had hung up, humiliated. That was the moment I realized the word “Dad” no longer belonged to me. “Forget it,” my father grumbled, his expression darkening. “He’s always been like this. Just like his mother—cold and stubborn.” Logan leaned affectionately against my father’s shoulder. “Well, Dad, I must have gotten my charm from you. Otherwise, how could I be this handsome?” My father pinched his cheek playfully. “Of course. It’s fate. You were always meant to be my son.” The air felt thin, and I struggled to draw a full breath. Everyone raised their glasses in a toast. My father smiled at Chelsea. “Chelsea, Logan tells me you both committed to universities in Boston. I’m counting on you to look out for him.” Chelsea smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Adams. I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble.” I wanted to laugh. Only yesterday, when we were choosing our college tracks, she had promised we would go south to Georgia Tech together. In less than twenty-four hours, that promise had dissolved. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Chelsea. “My parents made the decision for me. They want me in Boston because we have family there who can look out for me.” “Logan’s dad is a close friend of my father’s. I couldn’t just ignore him. You understand, right?” I wasn’t even angry. I just wondered why she hadn’t told me sooner. If she had, I wouldn’t have spent years believing that she, my oldest friend, was the one person who would never leave me behind. Another text popped up. “Why don’t you change your commitment too? We can all be in Boston. Wouldn’t that be nice?” No. It wouldn’t. I looked up at the table. My father was huddled over the menu with Logan, discussing dessert. He knew exactly how Logan hated spicy food and loved sweets. Chelsea had gloves on, carefully peeling shrimp and placing them on Logan’s plate. In all the years I had known her, she had never done anything so sweet for me. There was no room for me here. No one cared what I ate, and no one would care if I left. I quietly stood up, stepping away from the table without making a sound. As the door clicked shut behind me, the laughter inside didn’t miss a beat. No one noticed I was gone. Back in the kitchen, I put my apron and gloves back on and submerged myself in the greasy dishwater. At 9:00 PM, I walked out of the restaurant, my shoulders aching. “Connor!” My mother’s voice cut through the damp night air. “Your grandfather left some things for you. Wait here.” I stood on the curb until her SUV pulled up. Her new husband and daughter were inside. The little girl was fast asleep in her car seat. I reached out to open the back door, but my mother winced. “Actually, just take an Uber.” “If you open the door, you’ll wake your sister, and she’ll be fussy all night.” Before I could say a word, she scribbled an address on a scrap of paper, tossed it to me, and hit the gas. The exhaust fumes stung my eyes, making me cough. I checked my bank account balance against the estimated Uber fare, sighed, and walked toward the bus stop. Two transfers and an hour later, I stood outside her suburban home. The last time I had been here was when Grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. He had begged her to let me stay with her because he was too sick to care for me. I hadn’t even made it past the threshold. I had stood on the porch, listening to her shout at him inside. “My daughter is starting kindergarten! How am I supposed to handle a teenager too? He’s old enough for boarding school. Send him there. Stop dumping your problems on me!” I pressed the doorbell. My mother opened it, her expression tight with annoyance. “You took forever. You’re just as slow as your father.” She threw two pairs of paper shoe covers at my feet. “Put these on.” Before I could even step into the foyer, she dragged a plastic stool over, placing a sheet of paper on top of it. “Sit there. Don’t get dirt on the hardwood.” I didn’t sit. “Just give me Grandfather’s things. I’ll leave.” The door to the living room cracked open. My little half-sister peeked out, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Mommy, does he not have a home? Why is he here so late?” Meeting her innocent gaze, a lump formed in my throat, choking back any words I had. My mother quickly shoved two heavy plastic bags into my hands. “Your grandfather wanted you to have these personal files and old junk. He left them at the hospital.” “Alright, you should go. Your sister needs to sleep.” I turned around and walked back out into the dark. The buses had stopped running. I stared at my phone, but my stubborn grip on my meager savings won out over my aching body. I started walking. It was a fifteen-mile trek from the suburbs back to my grandfather’s old apartment. I walked through the night, stopping to rest when the blisters on my feet burst and bled. By the time I reached the apartment building, the sky was turning a pale, dusty blue. The local bakery owner, who was setting out his morning racks, gasped when he saw me. “Connor, kid, what happened to you? You look like a ghost.” I forced a weak smile. “I’m okay, Mr. Henderson. I just had a very long walk.” But no walk could ever be as long as the life that lay ahead of me—a life where I was entirely, utterly on my own. A month later, I received my final paycheck from the restaurant. The real estate agent called with good news: the sale of Grandfather’s apartment had gone through seamlessly. I began mailing my belongings to my new dorm in the South, piece by piece. The day before I was scheduled to fly out, my parents showed up at the apartment together. It was the first time they had ever agreed on anything. “Connor,” my mother began, her voice dripping with maternal concern. “I realized you’re starting college soon. What are you planning to do with this apartment?” “Your mother is right,” my father added. “You’re too young to hold onto property. It’s easy for scammers to take advantage of you.” “It’s better to sell it now. We can put the money into a high-yield trust fund for you, so you’ll have a down payment when you’re ready to buy a house of your own later.” I looked at them, keeping my expression perfectly blank. Ten minutes ago, they had been arguing on the landing, unaware that the thin apartment door carried their voices perfectly. My mother had claimed the apartment belonged to her family line and should go to her. My father had laughed, arguing that the down payment had come from joint marital assets, meaning he was entitled to half. They had completely forgotten. When they threw me away like trash, Grandfather’s sole condition for taking me in was that they sign over the deed of this old apartment entirely to my name. “Sure,” I said quietly. “Call the agent. We can do it.” “But I’m really tired today. Let’s handle it tomorrow.” Relief washed over their faces, and they left, smiling and chatting like old friends. The next morning, they knocked on the door right on time. When I opened it, they tried to push past me, but froze. A middle-aged couple was already inside, holding a tape measure against the living room wall. “Who are you?” my father demanded, his voice rising. “What are you doing in here?” “We’re looking for our son…” my mother started. “What son?” the woman with the tape measure snapped, interrupting her. “We closed on this place yesterday. We’re measuring for renovations.” “This is the home of the state valedictorian. We paid a premium for the good luck. If you’re not supposed to be here, get out!”

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I had spent my entire life perfecting the craft of acting, eventually capturing three Academy Awards for Best Actor. But at the peak of my glory, standing on the podium with the golden statuette in hand, a deranged anti-fan lunged forward and smashed a heavy brick right into my temple. Just like that, my lights went out. When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer on a stage. I had woken up in the body of a long-lost biological son, newly returned to one of the most powerful old-money dynasties in the country—the Blackwoods. But the grand estate wasn’t empty. Waiting for me was the fragile, sickly imposter who had lived my life. His name was Oliver. He was a boy who gasped after three steps, coughed after five, and looked as though a stiff autumn breeze would send him straight into a coma. At our very first meeting, in the middle of the sprawling, marble-floored parlor, he clutched his chest and collapsed weakly at my feet. “Brother,” he whimpered, “it’s all my fault. I stole your life, your luxury, for sixteen years. If you hate me… I’ll gladly end it all right now.” My father’s eyes welled with tears instantly. My older sister, Caroline, stepped protectively in front of him, brandishing her fencing foil, her eyes brimming with cold disgust as she glared at me. “The moment you step foot in this house, you drive Oliver to despair. You really are a backwoods savage, aren’t you?” “If anything happens to him, I’ll make sure you pay for it.” Even Victoria, my childhood fiancée, spoke with icy detachment: “The arrangement was made with the heir of the Blackwood estate. But Oliver is the one who has been by my side all these years. I will never abandon him.” I watched this pathetic little melodrama unfold. My eyes welled with tears on cue, and with a sharp, ragged gasp, I spat a mouthful of dark, metallic blood right onto my father’s pristine cream-colored rug. “Oliver, what are you saying?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You only took my parents, my name, my sister, and my fiancée.” “How could I ever hate you?” The entire room froze. I let my knees buckle, collapsing weakly into my father’s arms, letting my head fall back as I murmured one last, devastating line: “I was just unlucky. I came back too late. I’m nothing but an eyesore to everyone here.” Oliver’s face drained of color. Oh, little brother. You want to play the victim? You’re trying to out-act a three-time Oscar winner. You are wildly out of your league. … The room went dead silent, paralyzed by the sight of my blood. My father’s hands shook as he held me. Oliver’s face went white, his voice trembling. “Elliott, don’t scare me like this.” “Did I say something wrong? Did I hurt you? If I did, I’ll beg for your forgiveness. Just tell me what to do.” He made a move to sink back down to his knees. What a beautiful, fragile little orchid. If he knelt now, everyone would assume I was the aggressor, that my sudden hemorrhage was just a theatrical play to bully him. In my past life, I had starred in thirty-seven films. I had won three Academy Awards. My absolute specialty was knowing exactly how to let a single tear spill over my lower lash line at the perfect millisecond to catch the camera’s light. So, I reached out and weakly gripped my father’s sleeve. I shook my head, letting a tear slip down my temple as my voice trailed off, faint as a dying breath. “Dad, please don’t blame Oliver. I’m the one who lived in the dirt for too long. My body is just… weak. I don’t deserve to hear such polite words.” My father’s posture went rigid. Oliver froze mid-kneel, caught awkwardly between standing and bowing. I lifted my eyes to Caroline. I flinched, looking terrified of the fencing foil in her hand, but forced a small, submissive smile. “Don’t be angry, Caroline. I know how much you love Oliver. After all, you’ve had sixteen years together.” “I’m new here. I don’t know the rules. I didn’t realize my very existence would be such an eyesore in this house.” Caroline’s expression shifted instantly. Slowly, the tip of her foil lowered to the floor. “I… I didn’t mean it like that,” she muttered. I lowered my head, coughing raggedly into my hand. A fresh smear of red stained my palm. The blood wasn’t entirely an act. The original owner of this body had been starved and beaten by his abusive foster parents in a rural trailer park for years. His health was a hollowed-out shell. My sudden reincarnation, paired with the emotional whiplash of this toxic family, made spitting blood a perfectly natural physiological reaction. But how to spit it, and who should see it—that was pure art. My father finally panicked. “Get the family doctor! Now!” A flash of pure resentment crossed Oliver’s eyes before he masked it with tearful concern, lunging forward. “Elliott, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t be here to ruin your life. I’ll pack my bags. I’ll move to the guest cottage over the garage. I won’t ever show my face to you again.” He reached out to support me, but his fingers dug sharply into a dark purple bruise on my wrist. The pain was sharp, but it almost made me laugh. Oh, little brother. Trying to pull a physical stunt off-camera? That’s how amateurs get exposed. I didn’t pull away. Instead, the moment his fingers made contact, I flinched violently as if struck, recoiling into my father’s chest. “Oliver, don’t touch me! Please… it hurts.” My father looked down, his eyes landing on my exposed wrist. It was covered in deep, mottled bruises. They weren’t from today. They were the physical records of years of abuse. A heavy silence fell over the room. Oliver’s hand hung suspended in the air, his face twitching as his mask of concern began to crack. “What is this?” my father asked, his voice shaking. I frantically pulled my sleeve down, my eyes darting around as if terrified of causing trouble. “It’s nothing. Just some accidents from working on the farm. I’m clumsy.” The more I tried to hide it, the worse it looked. The more I insisted it was nothing, the more it tore at my father’s conscience. The family doctor arrived quickly. After checking my pulse, his brow furrowed deeply. “The young master is severely malnourished, and his internal organs are weak from years of hard labor and exposure. If he is subjected to any more emotional shock or stress, it could cause irreversible damage.” My father’s eyes turned red with guilt. Caroline’s face drained of color. I knew they didn’t suddenly love me. But a long-lost heir dying of a broken heart on his very first day back? The Blackwood family’s reputation in high society would never recover from that scandal. Oliver suddenly let out a soft, delicate cough, his eyes rimming with pink. Usually, one cough from him would bring the entire household running to cater to his every whim. But this time, my father only spared him a brief, strained glance before turning to the house manager. “Move Elliott into the East Wing master suite. Hire two discreet, highly professional nurses to watch over him.” “And bring up the premium tonics from the private cellar.” Oliver’s face warped. As the attendants lifted my wheelchair to carry me out of the grand parlor, I caught his eye. In his gaze, I saw resentment, panic, and an unshielded, ugly hostility. I let the corner of my mouth curve into a tiny, imperceptible smirk. We’ve barely started, little brother. The stage is set. But that? That wasn’t even the dress rehearsal. The East Wing suite was originally meant for the true heir of the family. Oliver had lived there for sixteen years, only packing his things to move out the night before. The rooms still carried the faint, lingering scent of his expensive signature cologne. Felix, the young valet my father had assigned to me, whispered nervously as he smoothed the sheets: “Sir, I heard Master Oliver absolutely adored this wing. He must be heartbroken having to leave it.” I looked up at him. Felix immediately lowered his head. He was a servant handpicked by my father, but every word out of his mouth was clearly designed to test the waters on Oliver’s behalf. I smiled softly. “Do you feel sorry for him, Felix?” Felix fell to his knees in terror. “I wouldn’t dare, sir.” “Don’t worry, I’m just asking.” I pressed a silk handkerchief to my lips, keeping my voice quiet. “He lived like a prince here for sixteen years. Suddenly being moved to the guest house must feel like a punishment.” “But then, I slept on a wooden floor in a drafty trailer for sixteen years. Moving into this grand suite makes me feel incredibly anxious, too.” Felix’s face turned pale. I continued, “If you’d rather be with him, you should go back to his service. I’m a sickly patient, and I wouldn’t want my poor health to hold back your career.” At those words, panic took hold of him. My father had just been consumed by guilt. If word got out that the newly returned heir couldn’t even get a single servant to obey him, who would look bad? The family patriarch. Felix began to bow frantically. “Please forgive me, sir! From now on, my loyalty belongs only to you.” I closed my eyes, satisfied. The first rule of acting isn’t learning how to cry or laugh. It’s controlling the scene. The next morning, Oliver arrived. His face was pale, and he was followed by two maids carrying a bowl of bird’s nest soup. “Brother, I felt so terrible about yesterday. I couldn’t sleep all night. I made this soup myself to apologize.” Felix looked at me nervously. I glanced at the soup. Under the sweet, delicate aroma of the broth, there was a very faint, distinct scent of bitter almonds. The original owner of this body had a severe, congenital allergy to raw almonds—even a trace amount would trigger anaphylactic shock. The Blackwoods didn’t know this, but Oliver, with his extensive resources, must have dug up my medical history from the rural clinic before I was brought back. He didn’t want to kill me. He just wanted me to have an allergic reaction in front of everyone, so he could play the innocent victim who had been “falsely accused,” painting me as a paranoid, unstable drama queen who couldn’t tolerate his existence. I accepted the bowl, smiling warmly. “You’re so thoughtful, Oliver.” A flash of smug satisfaction lit up his eyes. I lifted the spoon, but just as it reached my lips, I stopped. My eyes slowly pooled with tears. “Back in the country, I used to stand outside the windows of the wealthy estates, smelling the rich food they cooked.” “I used to wonder if my real parents ate like that too.” Oliver’s smile froze. I set the spoon down. “Something this precious… I can’t bear to eat it alone.” “Felix, go bring my father and sister. Tell them Oliver made this soup with his own hands, and I want to share this beautiful family moment with them.” Oliver’s face drained of color. He tried to stop Felix, but it was too late. My father and Caroline arrived shortly. Oliver forced a weak laugh. “It’s just a bowl of soup, Elliott. There was no need to disturb Father and Caroline.” Acting oblivious, I pushed the bowl toward my father. “Oliver worked so hard on this. Father, you should have the first bite.” Oliver began to cough violently. His maid stepped in quickly. “Sir, Master Oliver made this specifically for Master Elliott. Surely a gentleman of your stature shouldn’t eat leftovers?” Caroline frowned. I lowered my eyes, murmuring softly: “Oh. So this is meant only for me.” The words were quiet, but they stung. My father immediately picked up the spoon. “Nonsense. Why shouldn’t I try it?” Oliver panicked. “Father, no!” In his moment of sheer panic, I suddenly clutched my chest, gasping for air as if startled by his shout. “Oliver… why are you so afraid of Father tasting it? Did I do something wrong again?” My father paused, his expression darkening. The family doctor was summoned to examine the soup. A few minutes later, he knelt before my father. “Sir, this broth contains traces of bitter almond extract.” “It is harmless to most, but for Master Elliott, whose respiratory system is already compromised, it would cause severe breathing difficulties—perhaps even lung failure.” The room went dead silent. Oliver burst into tears. “I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know! How could I possibly know about his allergies from before he came here?” I didn’t accuse him. I only stared at him, my eyes wide with hurt and a deep, terrified silence. I had shot this exact scene in an indie drama years ago. It was called The Silence of the Victim. Predictably, my father’s anger flared. He ordered the kitchen staff to be investigated. Oliver wept so hard he could barely stand. Caroline watched him, wanting to offer comfort, but her eyes kept drifting back to my pale, fragile face. In the end, she remained silent. I took a sip of plain water, hiding the faint smile on my lips. Scene One: Redirect the blow, and let the fire burn the instigator. The head of the kitchen staff ultimately took the blame, claiming he had mixed up the recipe for the medicinal broth. Oliver escaped unscathed, though he had to come to my room three times to apologize, eyes red and tearful. I knew this wouldn’t destroy him. Sixteen years of shared history couldn’t be severed by a single bowl of soup. My father felt guilty and suspicious, but he wasn’t ready to cast him out. Neither was Caroline. The lingering tenderness in her eyes when she looked at him was unmistakable. And then there was my fiancée, Victoria. She was even more interesting. On the third day, she arrived at the estate with a box of rare imported herbs. But she didn’t come to see me. She went straight to the guest house to see Oliver. Felix’s face was flushed with anger. “Sir, Miss Victoria is crossing the line. You are her fiancé!” I was looking in the mirror, practicing my smiles. The fragile one. The enduring one. The resigned one. The one that was completely heartbroken but still trying to maintain dignity. Hearing his words, I chose the last one. “How long has she been there?” “Almost an hour.” “That’s long enough.” I stood up and draped a cashmere coat over my shoulders. “Take me there.” The door to the guest house was slightly ajar. As I approached, I heard Oliver’s soft whimpering from inside. “Victoria, please don’t blame Elliott. He’s the rightful heir of this family. I took everything from him—it’s only natural that he resents me.” “My health is failing anyway. If I’m gone tomorrow, please… don’t be sad.” Victoria’s voice was firm. “Don’t talk like that. As long as I’m here, no one will push you around.” I stood at the threshold and let out a soft, delicate cough. Both of them spun around to look at me. Victoria’s brow furrowed immediately. “What are you doing here?” I looked at her, then at Oliver, letting all the color drain from my face as if a terrible truth had finally dawned on me. “So… this is what you look like when you’re together.” A flicker of discomfort flashed across Victoria’s face. Oliver quickly stood up. “Elliott, you’ve misunderstood. Victoria only came to check on my health.” I nodded softly, my expression gentle. “I understand. You grew up together. Your bond is deep. It’s only natural that she cares for you.” I was being too reasonable, too accommodating—the kind of grace that makes people feel deeply uncomfortable. Victoria’s expression softened slightly. “I’m glad you understand. I’ll speak to the families about the engagement. Oliver is fragile; he can’t handle this kind of stress.” I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “So, Miss Whitmore, you want me to call off the engagement myself to make way for the two of you?” She remained silent. Tears clung to Oliver’s eyelashes. “Elliott, I never wanted to take your fiancée.” I looked at him and took a step forward. He flinched back instinctively, as if expecting me to strike him. Instead, I simply pulled the antique jade betrothal ring from my pocket and set it gently on the table. “Since we’re being honest, let’s settle this today.” Victoria froze. I didn’t yell. I didn’t make a scene. I just looked at her calmly. “If you wish to break the engagement, please have your parents come to the estate. We will settle the contract, the family crests, and the gifts formally before both families and the attorneys.” “Don’t cling to him in secret while letting me carry the empty title of your fiancé just to keep up appearances.” Victoria’s face burned with embarrassment. Oliver panicked. He didn’t actually want Victoria to break the engagement immediately. He wanted me to become so thoroughly detested by high society that I would be forced to step down, leaving him with both the girl and his spotless reputation intact. But I wasn’t going to let him play that game. I pressed my hand to my chest, letting out a self-deprecating sigh. “I may have been raised in a trailer park, but I still know the value of honor. If your heart is not with me, I won’t force you. But I will not allow you to drag my dignity through the mud.” Victoria was left utterly speechless. Just then, a voice echoed from the hallway. “Elliott is absolutely right.” I turned to see my father and Caroline standing in the doorway. I kept my expression perfectly serene. I had purposely sent Felix to fetch them. If the stage is set, you must have an audience. My father glared at Victoria, his voice colder than I had ever heard it. “If you wish to call off this wedding, Miss Whitmore, have your mother call me herself.” “Elliott is the sole heir of the Blackwood family. He is not a piece of clearance merchandise to be picked over.” Victoria’s face went from pale to flushed. She curtseyed stiffly and took her leave. Oliver made a move to follow her, but stopped himself, turning back with tears streaming down his face. “Father, I swear I didn’t…” My father closed his eyes, looking incredibly weary. “Oliver, you are unwell. From now on, limit your visitors.” The words weren’t loud. But to Oliver, they were more devastating than a physical blow. I coughed twice, leaning heavily on Felix. Though my eyes shone with tears, a tiny, satisfying smirk played at the corner of my mouth. Scene Two: Retreat to advance. Let them destroy themselves. Three days later, an invitation arrived from the Harrington Estate. The Governor’s annual charity gala was approaching. Having heard that the Blackwood family had recovered their long-lost biological son, the Governor requested that my father bring both Oliver and me to the exclusive event. My father was thrilled. He immediately ordered the best tailors in the city to design custom suits for us overnight. Oliver sat quietly beside us, his demeanor meek and obedient. “This is Elliott’s first time attending such a high-profile gala. He must be nervous. The Governor is a renowned collector of fine art. If you’re preparing a gift, Elliott, perhaps you should paint a classical piece.” I glanced at him. Ah, here it comes. In my past life, I had starred in enough high-society political thrillers to know that these grand galas were the perfect breeding ground for sabotage. One wrong move, and you’d be humiliated—or worse, blacklisted from elite circles forever. I smiled faintly. “I was raised in the country, Oliver. My brushwork is crude. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be fit for the Governor’s eyes.” Oliver replied gently, “You shouldn’t undervalue yourself, brother. It’s the thought that counts.” The more he pushed, the more certain I was that he had planned something. I chose to paint a winter landscape. But instead of the usual scenery, I painted a single, bleeding winter rose blooming in the snow. The branches were sharp and twisted, the petals a striking, vivid red—a representation of a life stubbornly fighting its way out of the freezing cold. On the evening of the gala, Oliver brought a silk-wrapped box, which his valet carried with extreme care. When he saw my box, a subtle gleam flashed in his eyes. I pretended not to notice. The gala was held in the grand ballroom of the Harrington Estate. The room was filled with senators, old-money families, and prominent figures of high society. The Governor sat near the head of the room, exuding the quiet, formidable authority of a man who held the keys to the state’s power. My father led us forward to pay our respects. The Governor studied me for a long moment before speaking in a low, resonant voice. “So, this is the boy who was lost?” I kept my head bowed respectfully. “It is an honor to meet you, Governor Harrington.” The Governor sighed softly. “You’ve had a difficult path, son.” At those words, Oliver’s eyes turned red on cue. “The Governor is incredibly kind. Having Elliott back is a blessing for our family.” “Though I will miss being the only son, I am truly happy for him.” It was a beautiful performance. Even Mrs. Harrington spared him an appreciative glance. I didn’t try to interrupt. I just stood there quietly, my eyelashes fluttering slightly, looking both touched and deeply embarrassed. Sometimes, silence speaks louder than any defense. When it came time to present our gifts, the Governor smiled. “Since both of you represent the Blackwood family, let us see what you have brought.” Oliver shot me a quick look and stepped forward first, holding his box. I followed with mine. The event coordinators took our boxes. As they moved toward the display table, one of the coordinators—cleverly using the wide sleeve of her silk gown—swapped the two boxes with practiced, invisible ease. I saw it clearly. She was the one Oliver had bribed. The coordinator opened the left box first—the one now bearing my name. The moment she unveiled it, the Governor’s smile froze. It was a traditional calligraphy scroll wishing him long life. But the strokes were incredibly crude, and the central character for “Longevity” was painted completely upside down. A collective gasp rippled through the room. An upside-down longevity symbol. In old-money circles, it was considered a vulgar, deliberate curse—wishing an early grave upon the host. My father’s knees went weak; he looked ready to faint. Terrified by the sudden tension, the coordinator quickly opened the second box to salvage the atmosphere. The box, now bearing Oliver’s name, was opened to reveal my painting: the bleeding winter rose in the snow. The crimson flower bloomed starkly against the white snow, its thorny stem wrapping around a frozen stone. It was a masterpiece of resilient beauty. Oliver’s expression flickered with triumph before he threw himself to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he gestured to the offensive scroll. “Governor, please forgive my brother! I swear he didn’t do this on purpose! He only recently returned to high society and doesn’t understand our customs. He can barely write, let alone paint. Please, spare him!” Then, looking at the winter rose painting, he added softly, “That rose painting… that is the piece I spent three sleepless months working on to honor you, Governor. I wanted to show my deepest respect.” The room went deathly quiet. What a brilliant, calculated move. Every word he spoke sounded like a plea for my mercy, yet every word nailed me further into a coffin, all while claiming my masterpiece as his own. The Governor’s face was unreadable. “Elliott Blackwood. Is this offensive scroll your gift?” I slowly stood straight, my eyes red, but I didn’t rush to defend myself. A true actor never reveals his hand too early. I looked at Oliver, my voice trembling. “Oliver… you’re saying that winter rose painting is yours?” Oliver wept openly. “Elliott, does it matter right now? Just apologize to the Governor. He is merciful; he will forgive your ignorance.” I let out a soft, low chuckle. “But the crimson pigment on those petals… it wasn’t made with ordinary red paint.” The Governor paused, his sharp eyes narrowing. I slowly unwrapped the white linen bandage from my index finger. Three of my fingers bore fresh, neat needle pricks. They weren’t deep, but they were undeniably clear. “The red on those petals… is my own—”

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It had only been three days since the transfer student, Camille Porter, arrived at our school. Yet, here was Connor, my childhood friend, already demanding she take the seat next to me. Before I could even open my mouth to protest, a stream of glowing text floated right across my vision, scrolling like a live chat feed on an online web novel. [Connor is so deeply in love, it hurts. He knows her strength is STEM and she struggles with Humanities, so he’s literally matching her with a literature genius. Talk about a power couple!] [He’s so terrified she won’t make it into Stanford that he’s basically using the rich girl to carry her. The double standards are wild! He cannot hide his feelings!] [Connor does so much for her in secret, but he never says a word. She actually thinks he hates her! I swear, she needs to find out the truth!] Every single comment was deeply moved by Connor’s secret devotion. But inside, I felt absolutely nothing. Seeing my silence, Connor frowned. “Camille is already packing up her stuff to move over right now. Don’t look like you’re about to start a war.” I just looked at him, my voice completely flat. “I am starting a war. I’ve sat alone all year. I don’t want a partner.” 1 “Sat alone all year?” Connor looked at me like I had lost my mind. He slammed his AP calculus workbook onto my desk, his eyes flashing with sudden frustration. “Elaine, this isn’t the time to be stubborn.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Camille got a perfect score on her AP Lit diagnostic, but her STEM scores are a disaster. You’re the exact opposite. If you sit together and tutor each other, it’s the most efficient way to get your GPA up.” I looked up at him. He was wearing a crisp, white button-down, his hair perfectly styled, his jaw tight. Standing there in the morning sunlight streaming through the classroom window, he looked exactly like the flawless male lead from a high school romance novel. Meanwhile, the text kept scrolling across my eyes. [Oh my god, he’s actually speaking up! He cares so much about her grades!] [Can Elaine please stop throwing a tantrum? He is literally stressing himself out for her!] [Camille is a literal genius at literature. Elaine should be thanking her lucky stars that she’s willing to help.] [Camille is an heiress, and she has zero attitude. She’s actively trying to help, and Elaine is acting like this?] I stared at the words, feeling a cold, bitter amusement bubble up in my chest. Actively trying to help? Camille walked through the classroom door at that exact moment, catching the tail end of my rejection. She was beautiful. It was that soft, flawless beauty that only comes from a lifetime of wealth. Clean, delicate, with wide, innocent eyes. She lingered just behind Connor, her voice soft and hesitant. “Connor, it’s fine. Don’t push it. Elaine probably just doesn’t want to be disturbed.” She looked at me, offering a fragile, understanding smile. “It’s really okay. I can take one of the desks in the back.” The comments exploded. [Camille is literally an angel!] [She’s so graceful. No wonder Connor chose her to save Elaine’s GPA.] [Elaine doesn’t know how good she has it.] [I mean, Camille is a Porter. Her family literally owns Porter Enterprises. Even if she fails out, she can just study in Europe or inherit a company. She’s giving up her valuable time for Elaine, and Elaine is giving her attitude?] Connor’s expression hardened. “Elaine, did you hear that? Camille is being incredibly accommodating, and you’re still trying to humiliate her?” I slowly packed my workbook into my backpack, my voice calm and steady. “Humiliate her? The only one being humiliated here is you.” Connor blinked, caught off guard. “What is that supposed to mean?” I looked him dead in the eye. “It means I’m rejecting this because of your self-righteous meddling.” The classroom fell dead silent. Connor clearly hadn’t expected me to call him out so publicly. We had grown up together. His family was wealthy, his grades were always perfect, the teachers adored him, and our peers idolized him. I was always the quiet girl in his shadow—the STEM prodigy who couldn’t write an essay to save her life, always sitting just below him on the academic leaderboard. In the past, whatever Connor suggested, I did. I had truly believed he had my best interests at heart. But things were different now. Connor took a deep breath, visibly trying to control his temper. “Elaine, stop assuming everyone has malicious intent. You know your family’s situation.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You aren’t like Camille. Even if she struggles, she has a safety net. She can go abroad, or her father can hand her a division of his company. But you? If you don’t get into a top-tier college, your life is over before it even starts.” The comments lit up like fireworks. [Oh my god, he’s so incredibly realistic!] [That was a harsh truth bomb, but he’s so right. I feel so bad for him.] [Camille is already set for life. Connor isn’t doing this for Camille; he’s doing this to save Elaine.] [Elaine, stop being so difficult! You forced him to say it out loud. What more do you want?] Connor was right about one thing: I didn’t have room for error. I didn’t have a safety net. I looked at him, and a sudden, sharp smile touched my lips. “Exactly. And that is precisely why I can’t afford to sit next to Camille.” Connor froze. “What do you mean?” 2 Before I could say anything else, Mrs. Gavin walked in. Seeing the heavy tension in the room, she frowned. “Why hasn’t everyone found their seats yet?” Connor turned immediately. “Mrs. Gavin, Elaine is refusing to cooperate with the new seating chart.” Mrs. Gavin looked at me, her tone relatively gentle. “Elaine, this is senior year. Everyone needs to focus on their GPA. You and Camille helping each other is a win-win. Connor went out of his way to request this arrangement for you. Don’t waste your classmate’s good intentions.” I raised my chin. “Mrs. Gavin, I don’t need it.” Mrs. Gavin stared at me, bewildered. “Your Humanities grades are dragging you down. How can you say you don’t need it?” “I’ll study on my own,” I said. Connor let out a cold, cynical laugh. “If you could study on your own, your AP Lit scores wouldn’t have been in the gutter for the last two years.” The comments chimed in instantly. [He’s harsh, but he’s right.] [Elaine’s essay scores have been terrible forever, and she’s still acting tough.] [She’s just too proud to accept help.] I pulled my latest mid-term report card out of my desk and laid it flat on the surface. Calculus: 100%. AP Physics: 100%. Chemistry: 98%. Biology: 99%. AP Lit: 65%. AP US History: 70%. Mrs. Gavin sighed, looking at the numbers. “Elaine, this isn’t the time to let your pride get in the way. Look at this. You have no room left to grow in STEM. The only way to save your cumulative GPA is to pull up your Humanities. Camille just transferred, and she needs help with STEM. Isn’t mutual improvement the best path forward?” I offered a thin smile. “Mrs. Gavin, if it’s mutual help, it should be voluntary. Right now, I don’t volunteer. You can’t force me to sit with her, can you?” Mrs. Gavin’s face tightened. Camille stepped forward, her voice trembling slightly. “Mrs. Gavin, really, it’s fine. If Elaine doesn’t want to, we shouldn’t force her. Maybe I’m just… not good enough.” Her eyes welled with tears, turning red at the rims. In the back of the classroom, a boy muttered under his breath, “She’s trying so hard to be nice. Elaine is being such a brat.” “Seriously. Connor is just trying to help her, and she’s acting like she’s too good for it.” The comments were practically screaming. [Elaine is so toxic!] [Camille looks so hurt. A rich girl like her has probably never been treated like this.] [Connor, go protect Camille! Even if you love Elaine, Camille shouldn’t have to take this abuse!] Connor took a step toward me. “Elaine, apologize to Camille.” I almost laughed out loud. “Apologize for what?” “For humiliating her.” “She wanted to sit next to me. I said no. That’s humiliation?” I turned my gaze directly to Camille. “Camille, did I insult you?” Camille bit her lip, shaking her head. “Did I touch you?” She shook her head again. “Did I say you weren’t good enough?” Her face paled slightly. “No.” I looked back at Connor. “Then what am I apologizing for?” Connor choked on his words, unable to answer. The comments took a turn into pure resentment. [Elaine is so cold-blooded. So what if she’s technically right? She’s completely alienating everyone.] [Connor is definitely going to feel protective of Camille now. Elaine is sabotaging her own life. No one can save her.] [She can be as stubborn as she wants now. Let’s see how she feels when her college applications get rejected.] I couldn’t care less. Mrs. Gavin tapped her knuckles on the podium. “Alright, enough. Since Elaine doesn’t agree, we’ll leave the seating as it is for now.” Connor frowned. “Mrs. Gavin—” “Connor, you don’t dictate the seating chart,” Mrs. Gavin interrupted him, her tone sharp. “If Elaine wants to self-sabotage, that is her choice.” Connor’s face went rigid. A row of exclamation points flashed across my vision in the floating text. [Oh my god, Connor just got scolded by the teacher because of Elaine! My poor baby!] [Elaine just ruined the ultimate study duo. Connor’s sweet intentions completely wasted on a thankless brat…] I stared at the scrolling text, my heart turning icy cold. Everyone was sympathizing with Connor. But had a single one of them asked why I was refusing this “generosity”? Not one. All they wanted to see was the male and female leads falling into a neat, perfect romance. 3 I pushed the thoughts away. My primary goal was to raise my Humanities scores on my own. I opened my AP Lit textbook and began memorizing literary devices and essay structures. But a week later, the school announced they were implementing mandatory AP study groups for seniors. Unsurprisingly, Connor was appointed leader of Group One. When it came time to draft group members, the very first name he called was mine. Connor’s voice was entirely professional as he looked at me. “Elaine, don’t misunderstand. This study group is a school mandate, not my personal choice. You have no reason to refuse.” The comments flared up with excitement. [Connor is so smart! Since she refused private help, he went through official school channels!] [There’s no way she can say no to this, right?] [Connor is literally paving her entire path to success.] I hadn’t anticipated Connor using school policy to force Camille onto me. I froze for three seconds before raising my hand. “Mrs. Gavin, I’d like to request a group transfer.” Mrs. Gavin’s face immediately darkened. “Elaine, what is it this time?” Connor stared at me, a mixture of disappointment, confusion, and raw irritation in his eyes. “This isn’t a seating chart, Elaine. Are you seriously going to fight this, too?” “I’m not refusing the study group,” I said quietly. “I’m just refusing to be in a group with you and Camille.” The classroom erupted into whispers. Camille, standing beside Connor, looked like she had been slapped. “Elaine,” she whispered, her voice sounding like it was about to break. “What did I do to make you hate me this much? If it’s about the seating chart, I can apologize. But I genuinely just didn’t want to see you miss out on a good college because of your Humanities scores.” Several classmates couldn’t take it anymore. “Elaine is literally targeting her.” “Camille is just trying to help because Connor asked her to. Does Elaine have to be such a bitch?” “Connor is so unlucky. He tries to help her and gets treated like garbage.” The comments were flying across my eyes. [What is wrong with Elaine? This isn’t just stubbornness; it’s straight-up malice!] [Camille is so sweet. An heiress swallowing her pride like this, only to get targeted.] [Connor, please get angry! She deserves to be put in her place!] [When she realizes how much Connor did for her, she’s going to regret this for the rest of her life.] Connor spoke, his voice dangerously low. “Elaine, enough.” He stepped closer. “I understood when you didn’t want to sit next to her. I let it go when you refused her private tutoring. I assumed you were just proud. But this is a mandatory school group. How long are you going to keep throwing this tantrum?” I met his gaze. “I told you, I’m not refusing the study group.” “Then why are you trying so hard to avoid Camille?” Connor demanded. “Give me one good reason.” I kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t because I didn’t have a reason. It was because I couldn’t say it yet. If I spoke up now, they would just call me paranoid, jealous of Camille, or bitter because Connor was paying attention to someone else. Just like the comments said, everyone would think I had lost my mind. Camille let out a soft, tearful laugh. “It’s fine, Connor. Elaine doesn’t like me, and I won’t force myself on her. But… I really do want to help.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick stack of printed papers, placing them on Mrs. Gavin’s podium. “These are the AP Literature and US History study guides I put together last night,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “It has essay templates, thesis structures, and historical timelines. It doesn’t matter if Elaine isn’t in my group. She can have these. If they help her, that’s all I care about.” The room went quiet. Someone whispered, “That is incredibly nice…” “Seriously. After being treated like that, she still wants to help? Camille is an angel.” “If Elaine still doesn’t accept this, she’s actually psycho.” Connor’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “Elaine, Camille is giving you an out. Don’t make this uglier than it already is.” I looked at the stack of papers. A wave of intense nausea hit my stomach. And the comments were going wild. [The power couple strategy is finally working!] [Elaine is saved!] [Honestly, thank god Connor kept convincing Camille to help. Elaine is getting all the benefits! Connor’s planning is god-tier!] A cold shiver ran down my spine as I read those words. Seeing my silence, Connor walked over, grabbed the stack of papers from the podium, and slammed them onto my desk. “Use them. And stop being so ungrateful.” Instinct took over. I shoved the papers away. The stack slid off the desk, loose sheets scattering across the floor. The entire room fell into a stunned silence. Camille’s tears finally spilled over. “Elaine… why do you have to be like this?” Connor’s temper snapped completely. “Elaine!” he roared. “Why are you so determined to ruin your own grades rather than accept her help? Give me a reason!” Mrs. Gavin had reached her limit as well. “Elaine, you will explain yourself right now. If you don’t have a legitimate reason, you will apologize to Camille and join Connor’s group immediately.” Every eye in the room was on me. The contempt of my peers. The anger of my teacher. The profound disappointment in Connor’s eyes. The fleeting, smug triumph hidden in Camille’s tear-streaked face. And the overwhelming onslaught of comments floating in my vision. [Say something! What excuse could she possibly have?] [She’s just jealous of Camille. Plain and simple.] [Elaine is acting like absolute garbage, and Connor still cares. He is so in love.] I slowly bent down, picking up a few scattered pages from the floor. Then, I stood up and looked at Connor with a cold, mocking smile. “You want to know my reason?” “Yes,” Connor snarled. I turned to Camille. She was biting her lip, but there was a flicker of anxiety in her eyes. My lips curled. No more hiding. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll tell you.”

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The assignment was a failure. Just as I was about to be erased from existence, the System offered me a final act of mercy. “Host, I have secured ten wishes for you. If the female lead fulfills just one of them, you can return to your reality.” But she ruined the first nine. Every single time, without fail, her phone would ring. It would be him—the one she never got over—and she would walk away, leaving me mid-sentence, mid-moment, mid-breath. My final wish was simple: to finish watching a movie together. There were exactly ten minutes left on the runtime. Sally suddenly stood up from the leather sofa. “Elliott isn’t feeling well. I need to go check on him.” I caught the silk fabric of her dress, my fingers trembling as I held on. “There’s only ten minutes left. It’ll be over so soon!” She ripped her skirt from my grasp with a vicious snap of her wrist. “Noah! Do you have any empathy at all?” she snapped, glaring down at me. “We can watch a movie whenever we want. Elliott can’t wait!” “But we can’t watch it whenever, Sally.” “Because I am going to die.” 1 I furrowed my brow, holding up four trembling fingers like a boy taking a desperate oath. “Just ten minutes. I swear to you, give me these last ten minutes, and I promise I will never, ever bother you again.” Sally stared down at me, her silhouette cutting a sharp, unforgiving line against the ambient light of the television. She let out a dry, hollow laugh. “So you actually know how suffocating you are?” My head slowly dropped. The desperate energy that had fueled me a moment ago evaporated, leaving only a hollow ache. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I’m out of options. I just need ten minutes—” “Enough!” Her voice cracked like a whip, slicing through my plea. The look in her eyes was pure, unadulterated exhaustion. She was looking at me the way one looks at a stain that won’t wash out. “Last time it was the gallery opening. The time before that, it was the sunrise. Noah, you are becoming unbearable.” Sally turned on her heel and strode toward the foyer. She pulled her trench coat from the brass rack, pausing for a fraction of a second at the door. “Pause the movie. I’ll finish it with you when I get back.” 2 There wouldn’t be a “when I get back.” The mission could not be paused. Ignoring the heavy, crushing sensation building in my chest, I scrambled up and sprinted to block her path, pressing my back against the heavy mahogany door, my hands gripping the handle behind me. “Sally, listen to me. I know you resent me. I know you hate this marriage, this whole corporate alliance our families forced on you. Just give me ten minutes, and I swear I will disappear from this world entirely. Okay?” Her expression didn’t shift. Not a muscle in her face softened. She merely arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Then I suggest you disappear right now.” Her tone was absolute ice. She impatiently flicked her wrist to check her Cartier watch, not even sparing me a glance. “Move.” “Sally!” I looked up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “I’m dying. You are the only one who can save me. I’m begging you. Just ten minutes…” “Not this again.” She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve told you a thousand times, there is nothing going on between me and Elliott anymore. It’s a matter of life and death, Noah. Are you really this vicious?” “Life and death?” “Vicious?” So this was it. Ten years of giving her my entire heart, of reshaping myself to fit into her world, and this was my eulogy. A vicious, suffocating burden. Elliott had just twisted his ankle. He claimed it was a horrific car crash, and Sally bought it without a second thought. But I was actually dying, and my wife thought it was a cheap manipulation tactic. I should have known. Sally’s heart was a fortress, and its gates had never been open to me. It had been ten years. From sweet sixteen to twenty-six. It was time to accept my fate. I slowly closed my eyes, letting out a long, ragged exhale. My fingers slipped from the brass handle, and I stepped aside, leaving the door wide open for her. I forced a stiff, mechanical smile onto my face. “You’re right, Sally. After today, I truly won’t bother you ever again.” “I’ll just make sure he’s not in critical condition. Once I know he’s safe, I’ll be back. It won’t take long,” she said, her tone softening just a fraction, perhaps unsettled by my sudden surrender. I shook my head gently. “There’s no need.” It wouldn’t matter anymore. The world had already spit me out. I wondered, idly, where I would go after the System erased me. Sally frowned, finally noticing the hollow look in my eyes. Her red lips parted slightly. “Are you… are you hiding something from me?” I managed a weak, translucent smile. I reached past her, pulling the heavy door open a bit wider. Then, I turned my back to her. There were still ten minutes left. I wanted to see how the movie ended. My life wouldn’t get a proper ending, but at least movies usually wrapped things up nicely. I shuffled back toward the living room, my slippers dragging against the hardwood. Suddenly, her hand wrapped around my forearm. “You’re acting strange today.” She took the trench coat draped over her arm and hung it back on the rack. She tapped the face of her watch. “Ten minutes. You have ten minutes.” 3 My arm twitched instinctively under her grip. I turned back, staring at her in utter disbelief. “What?” she challenged, meeting my gaze. “Afraid I won’t keep my word?” Sally pulled me back to the leather sofa, forcing me to sit before picking up the remote and hitting play. She checked her watch one more time. “When these ten minutes are up, I want to see what other excuses you have left.” I shook my head rapidly, desperate to keep her in the room. “No excuses. I promise.” The indie film resumed on the screen. In my mind, the System let out a profound sigh of relief. “Keep it up, Host. This is your very last chance.” “Please,” I prayed to whatever god was listening. “Just let this go right. Just this once.” But the universe had never been on my side. With exactly two minutes left before the credits rolled, Sally’s phone vibrated against the glass coffee table. She glanced at me. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes spoke volumes. “I said I’d watch the movie. I didn’t say I wouldn’t take a call.” She answered it, putting it on speaker as she reached for her shoes. “Sally… are you almost here?” Elliott’s voice was breathy, laced with manufactured agony. “It hurts so much. I think… I think I might be dying… Please, Sally. Can I just see you one last time before I go?” Panic seized Sally’s features instantly. “What did the paramedics say? Don’t be scared, Elliott, I’m on my way right now. You’re not going to die. I’m coming. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She shot up from the sofa. She didn’t even grab her coat. She just bolted. The heavy front door slammed open, and a brutal gust of autumn wind swept through the foyer, chilling the sweat on my spine and raising a map of goosebumps across my skin. “Sally,” I whispered. But the wind swallowed my voice. Nobody heard it. On the screen, the movie played out its final moments. A sprawling estate in Scandinavia, blooming with vibrant summer flowers. It looked like the end of the film was just the prologue to a beautiful new life. Then the screen cut to black. The white text of the cast list began to scroll. I sank deeper into the cold leather of the sofa, my breathing growing shallow. “The assignment failed. Didn’t it.” I stated it simply. Like observing the weather. The System remained silent. I knew what that meant. “How is it going to happen?” I asked the voice in my head. “Please tell me it won’t be pathetic. You know my whole life has been pathetic enough.” “Cause of death: Heart failure,” the System replied softly. Then, its voice grew agitated, almost angry at my peaceful surrender. “Why didn’t you stop her, Host?! You begged her, and she stayed! There were only two minutes left! Why didn’t you just beg her one more time?!” I didn’t answer. The System sounded frantic now. “Do you actually believe Elliott’s bullshit excuse? I told you, he just sprained his ankle! It’s been ten years, Noah. Sally isn’t entirely devoid of feelings for you.” “But it’s never enough, is it?” I whispered back. It was never enough. The gallery opening. She had promised. She had smiled and said we would go. But the morning of, Elliott called. He needed help picking out furniture. I stood outside the gallery in the freezing rain for four hours. All I got was a text saying she couldn’t make it. The sunrise. After days of me practically begging on my knees, she reluctantly agreed to go camping. But the moment the sun went down, Elliott called. He said the power went out and he was scared of the dark. Sally had left me alone in a tent on top of a mountain. She promised she’d be right back. I waited all night. Until the sun came up. She didn’t know how dark it got in that tent. The surrounding blackness seemed to swallow the tiny beam of my flashlight. The wind howled like a wounded animal. I sat there, feeling entirely, utterly discarded by the universe. I packed up the campsite by myself the next morning. Sally finally showed up as I was loading the car. She had just brushed it off. “Elliott wouldn’t let me leave. He’s not strong and independent like you, Noah. I’ll make it up to you. We’ll watch the sunrise next time.” There was always a next time for me. There was never a next time for Elliott. “I am never her first choice,” I told the System, my voice barely a rasp now. “But this time is different!” the System shouted. “You are going to die! Die! If you just keep her here for two more minutes, you get to live! Just call her! If she turns the car around right now, I can still mark the mission as complete!” 4 “She won’t turn around.” She hadn’t the previous nine times. Miracles weren’t written into my script. Yet, pushed by the System’s desperate pleading, a pathetic, dying ember of hope flickered in my chest. My hands shook as I unlocked my phone and dialed her number. “Ring. Ring. Ring.” She picked up. “Noah, can you stop being so goddamn unreasonable for one night?” Her voice was laced with pure irritation, entirely drowned out by the sound of her blaring the horn at the traffic in front of her. “Sally… I really am dying. Can you please come back? Just to see me one last time?” I borrowed Elliott’s exact words. I mimicked his fragility. Because when Elliott said it, she dropped everything and ran. But I had forgotten the golden rule of my life: I wasn’t Elliott. “Do you have a shred of humanity left in you, Noah? Elliott is in the emergency room right now, and you? You’re using death as a threat over a boring, pretentious movie that you can pause with a remote?” “I’m not threatening you…” I gasped, my chest tightening like a vice. I really was dying. But she didn’t let me finish. “If you think crying wolf is going to work on me, go ahead. Give it a try. Tell me, Noah. How exactly are you dying right now?” She sounded like a bored spectator rating a terrible performance. “Heart failure,” I wheezed. “Ha!” Sally scoffed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Cursing yourself to a heart attack just to force me to watch a movie. You really are something else.” “Sally, please… just believe me this one time. I promise I’ll never be a burden to you again. I swear to god!” I could hear her grinding her teeth over the line. “You sound like a broken record, Noah. I told you I’d finish the movie when I got back. I already bought VIP tickets for the gallery’s next exhibition. I booked a suite in Hawaii so we can watch the sunrise without you having to sit in the cold. I told you to just give me a little time. Why do you have to push and push and push?” “Because I’m out of time. Can you please just choose me? Just this once?” It was my final plea. Ten years. Couldn’t I be the priority just once? “Elliott is in the hospital! Does he have time?!” Sally yelled, her voice cold and furious. “When did you become so heartless? A man’s life is on the line, and you’re whining about a movie? You are… you are such a disappointment, Noah.” “But…” “But he only sprained his ankle.” “Enough! I’m done with this tantrum. You have two choices: wait quietly at home, or I block your number. Pick one.” I heard the screech of her tires as she hit the brakes. She was likely pulling into the hospital parking structure. The line went dead. I let my phone slide from my numb fingers onto the leather sofa. I looked up at the ceiling, a bitter, exhausted smile touching my lips. “See?” I whispered to the empty room. “I told you it wouldn’t work.” The assignment was over. I was dying. And my wife didn’t believe me. 5 I welcomed the dark with open arms. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a ringtone. My tethered soul was now floating near the ceiling. I could only stare downward as my phone buzzed on the sofa, playing the same ringtone over and over. The noise must have bled through the walls. Martha, our housekeeper, emerged from the guest suite down the hall. She was rubbing her face, her cardigan pulled tight over her pajamas. “Mr. Noah?” she called out softly. My body didn’t move. Martha wouldn’t normally answer my phone, but it was ringing relentlessly, and the late hour suggested an emergency. She picked it up and swiped accept. Before she could speak, a smug, exasperated voice poured through the speaker. “Oh, playing dead now, Noah? If you’re so tough, why don’t you just ignore the call—” Martha cleared her throat, interrupting him. “Hello? Mr. Noah is asleep. Who is this?” “Wow. Noah really has no shame, sleeping like a baby right now…” Elliott chuckled softly, the sound dripping with malice. “Well, tell your boss that Sally won’t be coming home tonight. He knows who this is.” It was a ritual for him. Whenever he successfully dragged Sally away from me, he would call just to twist the knife. To remind me that in the hierarchy of her heart, he would always win without even trying. I looked down at my pale, unmoving shell. I felt nothing. No anger, no jealousy, no despair. Ghosts can’t cry. 6 Martha frowned, clearly confused. “But Mrs. Sally said she’d be right back. She said she was going to finish a movie with him.” “Ha!” Elliott sneered. “Sure. Tell him to hold his breath and wait. Let’s see how long he lasts.” The call disconnected. Martha placed the phone back on the sofa. She stepped closer to my body. “Mr. Noah? Wake up. It’s too cold out here, you’ll catch a chill. Mrs. Sally will be upset if you get sick.” “Upset? Sally?” If she cared about me catching a chill, she wouldn’t have left me on a freezing mountain peak overnight. But none of it mattered now. My consciousness was fraying at the edges. Soon, I would scatter into nothing. Martha couldn’t wake me. She reached out, gently shaking my shoulder. Her fingers brushed against my bare forearm. She flinched. “Mr. Noah, you’re freezing…” I didn’t stir. The remaining color was rapidly draining from my face, leaving behind a waxy, terrifying gray. Martha realized something was horribly wrong. Panic seized her features. She pressed two trembling fingers to my neck. Then she leaned down, putting her ear to my nose. She froze. She shook her head, muttering a frantic prayer as she pressed her ear to my chest. A second later, she was dialing 911, her fingers slipping on the screen. She screamed our address and my symptoms into the phone. The moment dispatch confirmed the ambulance, she dialed Sally. “Ma’am! Something’s wrong! You need to come home right now! Mr. Noah—he’s not breathing!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536344”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At two in the morning, the living room downstairs erupted again with my husband’s booming laughter as he played online games with his friends. I suffer from severe nervous exhaustion, and waking up abruptly like this always leaves me with a splitting headache. Clutching my temples, I threw a cardigan over my shoulders and walked downstairs to ask him to keep it down. Gary just waved me off impatiently, calling me dramatic before turning right back to his microphone to shout at his teammates. But the very next morning, Lindsay—his college junior who was temporarily crashing at our house—slept in late after pulling an all-nighter. Gary didn’t just shut off every gaming console; he practically tiptoed around the house. When Martha, our housekeeper, accidentally dropped a glass, his face immediately darkened. “Be quiet,” he hissed. “She’s a light sleeper. If you wake her up, are you going to deal with it?” He even turned to me as I was about to head out for work, warning me coldly: “Close the door gently. Don’t startle her.” In that moment, standing in the entryway, watching his tiptoeing silhouette, I suddenly let out a quiet, bitter laugh. We’d been married for three years, and not once had he ever remembered my sleepless nights. He wasn’t naturally careless or oblivious. His tenderness was real; it just never belonged to me. I set my keys down, deciding to leave this house—and this life—completely behind. 1 I turned around and went back upstairs to the bedroom. I dragged my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet, the harsh rasp of the zipper cutting through the quiet house. From the living room, Gary immediately hissed, “I told you to be quiet! Are you doing this on purpose?” I didn’t bother replying. The closet was filled with clothes I’d bought around our wedding three years ago. Most were worn and dated, but still functional. I folded them one by one. Reaching the very bottom drawer, my fingers brushed against a soft, crushed cardboard box. Inside was a dusty-blue cashmere scarf—Gary’s birthday gift to me last year. Lindsay had been there that day. After opening her own presents, she had tossed this scarf onto the sofa, complaining that the color looked too old-fashioned. Gary had casually slid it over to me, saying, “You have pale skin, Faith. It’ll look good on you.” And back then, I actually believed him. Looking back, I realized he hadn’t even erred on the side of making his lies convincing. I dropped the scarf onto the floor and kept digging through the drawers. My ID, bank cards, insurance documents, medical records, and the antique gold pocket watch my mother had left me. Its casing was worn smooth and bright from the decades she had carried it. Our wedding photo sat on the nightstand. I stared at it for two seconds, then left it where it was. Once my suitcase was packed, I dragged it down the stairs. The wheels rattled loudly against the hardwood steps in the silent house. Gary finally stood up from the sofa. He pulled off his headphones, his brow furrowed in deep irritation. “What are you doing clattering around this early?” he muttered, his voice hushed but sharp. “Lindsay is still asleep.” Last night, when my head throbbed so intensely I could barely stand without holding onto the wall, he had told me I was overreacting. Now, for Lindsay’s sake, he was practically holding his breath. “I’m leaving,” I said quietly. “That way, I won’t disturb her.” He blinked, startled, before his lips curled into a mocking smirk. “And where exactly do you think you’re going? Stop threatening to walk out every time you don’t get your way.” He sank back into the sofa, sighing heavily. “How many times are we going to play this game, Faith? Aren’t you tired of it?” “Gary?” The guest room door creaked open. Lindsay stepped out, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing the silk robe my late mother had bought for me. Her hair was slightly messy, her eyes red, the picture of an innocent, startled child. “Faith, did I do something wrong by staying here?” Her voice trembled, sounding as though she was on the verge of tears. “I can leave. I’ll pack my things and find a place today.” Yet, even as the words left her mouth, she swayed, clutching the banister before leaning heavily to the side. Gary bolted up the stairs to catch her. When he looked back down at me, his eyes were filled with the kind of disgust you’d reserve for an abusive partner. I stared at the robe Lindsay was wearing. It was a delicate ivory silk, bought by my mother a month before she passed. She had dragged herself to the boutique, insisting that a woman should always have one beautiful piece that made her feel valued—that I shouldn’t always settle. Pinned to the collar was a small silver butterfly brooch, the very one I had searched for in vain last night. “That robe belongs to me,” I said, my voice flat and empty. Lindsay’s face went pale. She immediately reached for the buttons, but before her fingers could undo the first one, Gary caught her hand. Pulling her behind him, he glared down at me. “It’s just a robe, Faith. Do you really have to humiliate her over a piece of fabric?” “Just a robe.” I met his gaze. “If someone else were wearing your late mother’s belongings, would you still say it’s just a piece of fabric?” Gary’s expression froze. He opened his mouth, but no apology came. Instead, he looked away, muttering, “Go back to your room, Lindsay. I’ll handle this.” “Handle what?” I asked him. “Are you going to handle me, or the robe?” “Faith!” he barked, his voice hushed but sharp. “That’s enough.” I didn’t argue. As I dragged my suitcase to the front door, Gary suddenly reached past me and pressed his hand against the brass handle, blocking my way. “My mother’s birthday dinner is tonight,” he said, staring at my luggage. His tone wasn’t a plea; it was a directive. “Don’t embarrass our family.” I laughed quietly. “Do you actually need a wife, Gary, or do you just want an accessory for your family photos?” He went quiet for a beat before letting go of the door. “Stop being dramatic,” he muttered coldly. “I’ll pick you up tonight.” Behind him, Lindsay’s timid voice floated down: “Gary… maybe I should go with you instead. It really seems like Faith doesn’t want to deal with this anymore.” I didn’t turn around. I pulled the door shut behind me. 2 I checked into a boutique hotel near my office. I had just stepped out of the shower, my hair still dripping wet, when my phone rang. It was Gary’s mother, Donna. “Faith, what on earth is wrong with you?” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the speaker. “Gary tells me you’re playing your moving-out games again. He’s under so much pressure at work, and he has to come home to this? Can’t you be a little more mature?” The towel froze in my hands. “So what if he’s helping out his college junior? Men work hard to build a career, and they deserve a peaceful home. Stop being so petty about every little thing.” Before I could answer, Donna shifted to her social voice. “Be early for the dinner tonight. Don’t make us wait. I had my personal shopper pick out a dress for you; come try it on.” After the line went dead, I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floor. On our wedding day three years ago, Donna had taken my hands and told me that Gary was emotionally distant, and that he needed someone gentle like me to warm him up. She said she would treat me like her own daughter. I guess this was what daughters were for. I still went to the birthday dinner. Not for Gary, but for his father, Charles. When my mother was in the oncology ward, Charles had pulled strings to get her into a specialized clinical trial. I owed him that debt of gratitude. When I walked into the private dining room at the restaurant, I saw Lindsay already seated beside Gary. She was adjusting his tie, her fingers hovering near his collar, laughing at something he said. The extended family watched them, exchanging knowing glances. I caught the low murmur of an aunt nearby: “Honestly, Lindsay looks like a much better fit for Gary. Faith has always been so cold, hasn’t she?” The glass of water in my hand trembled slightly. Donna spoke up, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of a command. “Faith, Lindsay is struggling to find her footing since returning from her study abroad. Your firm has an opening in marketing, right? Put her there. You’re family now; you should look out for her.” “Our hiring process is strict,” I replied. “I can’t just bypass HR.” Lindsay’s eyes immediately downcast, her voice dropping to a soft whisper. “Are you still angry with me, Faith? I don’t mind starting from the bottom. I’m not afraid of hard work.” Gary placed his fork down, the silver clinking sharply against the porcelain plate. “Faith, don’t bring your domestic grievances to a family dinner.” “Everyone is watching,” Donna added, offering a polished smile to the table. “Just give her a chance.” I was pinned under their collective gaze, cast once again as the petty, jealous wife. Suddenly, Charles set his glass down. He looked at Lindsay, his tone casual but discerning. “Lindsay, didn’t you mention last week that you had a recommendation from Oxford’s prestigious research group? If you’re that qualified, why are you looking to start at the bottom at Faith’s firm?” Lindsay’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She quickly recovered, though, offering a sweet, deferential nod. “Mr. Caldwell, I just want to learn the practical side of things. Working under Faith would teach me so much more than any academic program.” Gary jumped in to smooth things over. “She’s young. She’s still finding her footing.” Watching Gary defend her so smoothly, so instinctively, felt like a slow, dull blade carving into my chest. Before the dinner ended, Donna pulled me into the ladies’ lounge. She reached into her Chanel bag and slid a folded document across the vanity toward me. “This is your health assessment from the family clinic,” she said, her voice dry and matter-of-fact. “You and Gary have been married for three years. It’s time for a child. You can’t keep using your insomnia as an excuse to avoid it.” I stared at the medical report. My doctor had explicitly warned me that with my level of nervous exhaustion and the heavy dosage of sleep aids I was taking, my body was in no condition to carry a pregnancy. But Gary had never accompanied me to a single follow-up. He didn’t even know what prescriptions sat in our medicine cabinet. I crumpled the paper in my fist and remained silent. Donna let out a long, disappointed sigh. “Stop acting out, Faith. Go home and set up that position for Lindsay. A woman’s most important asset is her dignity. You surely don’t think you can survive without the Caldwell name, do you?” When I walked out of the lounge, I saw Lindsay trip near the end of the corridor, collapsing onto the carpet. She clutched her ankle, tears already pooling in her eyes. Gary bypassed me entirely to get to her. His elbow slammed hard into my lower back as he rushed past, throwing me against the sharp edge of a console table. Pain flared up my spine, blacking out my vision for a second, leaving me breathless. He scooped Lindsay up into his arms, heading straight for the exit without a single backward glance. I leaned against the wall, trying to steady myself through the blinding ache in my back. From down the hall, Lindsay’s muffled sob echoed: “Gary, does Faith hate me? I only wanted to apologize to her…” 3 I didn’t go back to the house for two days. Gary didn’t call. He only sent a single text: “When you’re done throwing your tantrum, come home and get Lindsay’s onboarding paperwork ready.” I stared at the screen for a long time before letting out a soft, hollow laugh. To him, my packing up, my injury, and the agonizing nights I spent staring at the ceiling were completely insignificant compared to Lindsay’s onboarding file. At our next quarterly project meeting, Lindsay showed up unannounced. She slid into the seat directly opposite me, offering a sweet, eager smile. “Gary suggested I shadow you today to learn the ropes. You don’t mind, do you, Faith?” I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, ignoring her. The presentation started smoothly enough. But as I flipped to the key financial projection slide to explain our risk model, Lindsay spoke up, cutting me off. “Faith,” she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence, “isn’t that model incredibly risky? Gary mentioned last night that your mental state hasn’t been stable lately. Are you sure these numbers are safe?” The entire conference room fell into a dead silence. Every eye pivoted to me. She wasn’t just being naive. She was deliberately linking my professional competence to my personal struggles, attempting to tear down my credibility in front of my peers. I took a slow, deep breath, forcing myself to finish the pitch. The project had been on the verge of approval, but by that afternoon, the board sent it back for “re-evaluation.” My assistant, Becca, closed my office door and lowered her voice. “Someone leaked anonymous files to the board. They claim your heavy medication makes you mentally unstable.” My fingers froze over my keyboard. “There’s also this,” she added, placing a manila folder on my desk. I opened it. Inside were clear, high-resolution photographs of my medical records. The prescriptions for my sleeping pills and the doctor’s recommendation to “reduce high-stress activities” stood out in sharp focus. The angle of the photos was unmistakable. They had been taken from directly above the drawer in our home study. Staring at those pages, a cold shiver ran down my spine. I packed my things and took an Uber back to the house. The lock on the study door showed clear signs of tampering—two fresh, jagged gouges in the wood from a screwdriver. I pushed the door open to find my desk drawers completely disarrayed. The velvet box holding my mother’s pocket watch was missing. Laughter drifted up from the living room. Downstairs, Lindsay was curled on the velvet sofa, looping the gold chain of my mother’s pocket watch around her neck. The watch face caught the light, clicking open and shut between her manicured fingers. “Faith! Look at this, it’s so vintage,” she smiled, looking up at me. “Gary said you never wear it anyway, so I thought I’d borrow it. You don’t mind, right?” I walked toward her, my pace quickening. She gasped and suddenly let go. The heavy gold watch slammed onto the marble floor. The casing popped open, the glass face shattering into a web of fine cracks. Underneath, the black-and-white portrait of my mother as a young woman fractured into pieces. Gary rushed down the stairs. His eyes went straight to Lindsay first. Seeing her welling eyes, his tone dropped into immediate accusation. “Faith, what the hell are you doing now?” I knelt down, trying to pick up the broken pieces. A shard of glass sliced into my index finger, and a drop of dark blood fell onto my mother’s picture, seeping into the cracks. Gary frowned. It wasn’t out of concern for me. “You’re getting blood on the rug,” he said. He reached down, grabbing my arm to pull me up. “It’s just an old watch. I’ll buy you a new one.” I looked up at him. “Gary,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet holding every ounce of weight I had left, “there are some things you can never afford to replace.” Something in my eyes seemed to pierce through him, but only for a second. He looked away, guiding Lindsay toward the kitchen to find an ice pack for her wrist. He left me kneeling on the floor alone. The blood dripped steadily from my finger, staining the dusty-blue cashmere scarf that still lay discarded on the floor. I pulled out my phone, desperately wanting to talk to someone. I scrolled through my contacts twice, found no one, and locked the screen again. Later that night, Gary’s name flashed on my screen. I picked up, only to hear his exhausted voice. “Lindsay is hysterical because of what happened. You need to come home and apologize to her.” There was a brief pause on his end. Then, I heard Lindsay’s soft, fragile voice in the background: “Gary… do you think Faith is never coming back because of me?” 4 The hospital waiting room smelled of antiseptic and ozone. My physician, Dr. Choi, a woman in her mid-forties, stared at my test results with a deepening frown. She set the folder down and remained quiet for a long moment before speaking. “Your nervous exhaustion has progressed to the point where it’s severely affecting your heart rate and sleep patterns,” she said, tapping her pen on my charts. “The palpitations, the migraines, the memory lapses—these are serious somatic responses to prolonged trauma. I strongly recommend checking yourself in for observation.” I held the papers tight. My first reaction wasn’t fear; it was a profound sense of absurdity. I had endured three years of this, pushing through until my physical body began to fail. And in that house, all they ever called me was dramatic. I didn’t check in. I couldn’t. The situation at my firm was spiraling. The proprietary project models that Lindsay had shadowed were leaked to our main competitor. Every trace of the upload pointed to my IP address, with timestamps linking directly to my user account. The competitor used our data to undercut us, stealing our two largest clients. When Gary arrived at the office, he bypassed security and barged into the boardroom without knocking. The entire executive team was present. Standing at the head of the table, he looked at me in front of all my colleagues and said, “Faith, given your current emotional instability, we are placing you on administrative leave immediately.” There was no “is there an explanation?” No “I trust you.” Only those clinical, damning words: “your emotional instability.” I stood in the center of the room, my colleagues’ eyes scanning me like searchlights, as if seeing me for the very first time. I didn’t say a single word. I unclipped my ID badge, set it on the mahogany table, and walked out. But the truth came out sooner than expected. Our IT department retrieved the external access logs and discovered that the IP address used to upload the proprietary data was located inside our home. I thought that maybe, just once, Gary would suspect her. Instead, his expression remained closed off. “There are multiple devices on that network. We can’t convict someone just based on an IP address.” Lindsay stood right behind him, her eyes red, looking like a wronged martyr. “I only borrowed Faith’s laptop that evening to look up some research articles. I don’t know anything about corporate databases.” Gary turned to me instantly. “You knew she was unfamiliar with the company systems, and yet you’re trying to shift the blame to her?” Without waiting for my reply, he took her arm and guided her away. On the day my suspension became official, Donna came to see me. She asked to meet at the cafe downstairs. She didn’t order anything; she simply slid a bank check across the table. “A public scandal isn’t good for anyone. Gary is at a critical juncture in his career. You need to be understanding.” She pushed the check closer to my hand. “A woman’s priority should be her reputation, Faith. Don’t make things so difficult that you end up losing your place in the Caldwell family.” I stared at the check. On my wedding day, she had held me close, promising I was her daughter now. It turned out that daughters had a very specific price tag. That evening, I returned to the house to pack my final suitcase. When I opened our bedroom door, I found the sheets had been replaced, the diffusers swapped out, and the vanity cleared. Lindsay’s belongings had been moved in from the guest room. Her bags were laid out, her designer coats hung in our master closet, pressing against the few things I had left. Gary stood by the doorframe, offering an indifferent explanation. “She’s been terrified since the incident. It’s easier to look after her if she’s close.” I stared at the bed I had slept in for three years. A sliver of lace from Lindsay’s nightgown peeked out from under the duvet. Her hand cream sat on the nightstand. When I remained silent, his annoyance flared up. “If you had just come home earlier instead of playing games, no one would have touched your things.” I turned around and headed down the stairs. Suddenly, my chest tightened. My heart skipped a beat, then began to race frantically. Darkness crept into the edges of my vision, and my ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton, drowning out all sound. My foot slipped, and I fell down the hardwood steps. My back collided heavily with the stairs, a dull numbness spreading through my limbs. Before I lost consciousness, I heard Gary shouting my name. His voice sounded frantic, terrified. But then, Lindsay’s fragile voice cut through like a needle: “Gary… my chest feels so tight, I can’t breathe—” The frantic footsteps turned and moved away from me. Lying on the cold marble of the foyer, the distant, wailing siren of an ambulance was the last thing I heard. The final trace of warmth inside my chest turned to ice.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536329”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I shattered the glass, Jack was already halfway out the door to pick up his first love from the airport. Shards of glass bit deep into my palm. Blood dripped onto the hardwood floor, a stark crimson against the dark wood. He walked right past me. His polished leather shoes stepped carefully around the pool of blood, his eyes never dropping to meet mine. “Pick a better time to play the victim, Charlotte.” He tightened his tie, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “Caroline is landing today. Even if you were dying in this house, I wouldn’t stay.” After the heavy front door clicked shut, I sat there in the middle of the broken glass. With my clean hand, I pulled out my phone and tapped open a highly upvoted post on a relationship forum: “How I Made My Cheating Husband Pay.” “The first night he didn’t come home, I canceled all his credit cards and humiliated him in front of his peers.” “When he pushed me down to protect his precious first love, breaking my arm, I leaked her corporate scandals to their entire company.” “When he caused the death of the dog I’d raised for ten years, I made him kneel in the pouring rain all night to beg for my forgiveness.” “Today, when he went to pick up his ex, I threw the divorce papers in his face and left him with nothing.” In the comments, one user’s reply cut straight to the bone: “Reading this just makes me feel suffocated. There are zero real, tangible details in this post. OP, you didn’t actually do any of this, did you? You’re just quietly enduring it all, writing these revenge fantasies online just to escape your own despair.” I stared at those words, my tears splashing onto the screen. Then, I hit the like button. For three years, I was the only one trapped in this place, spinning a web of lies to keep myself sane. But that was fine. This would be the very last time I lied to myself. … By the time I reached the ER, my right hand was entirely numb. The doctor used a pair of tweezers to pluck the final shard of glass from my palm. He looked up, his brow furrowed. “Do you have any family here with you?” I kept my eyes on the floor. “No. No one.” He hesitated, sensing the silence, and chose not to push. He simply instructed me to keep the wound dry for three days and change the dressings regularly. When I stepped out of the hospital, a biting autumn wind swept up my sleeves. My phone buzzed with notifications, but none of them were from Jack. He had probably already met Caroline. He was likely pushing her luggage cart, speaking to her in that low, gentle register, asking if her flight had been exhausting. I looked down at my hand, thick with white gauze, and a dry laugh escaped my throat. Three years of marriage, and whenever the pain became too much to bear, my only companion was that single word: “No.” When I unlocked the front door, a pair of women’s leather ankle boots sat in the entryway. Two large suitcases stood in the living room. Caroline was sitting on our sofa, her hair damp, wearing Jack’s wool coat over her shoulders. She looked up and offered a warm, easy smile. “Charlotte, you’re back.” Her tone was so familiar, so welcoming, as if she were the hostess and I was merely a guest. The kitchen door swung open, and Jack walked out carrying a mug of warm milk. His eyes swept over my bandaged hand. They lingered for a fraction of a second before darting away. “Keep your voice down,” he said quietly. “Caroline just got off a long flight. She needs to rest.” I stood frozen in the entryway, the plastic bag from the convenience store cutting into my fresh stitches, sending a sharp throb through my arm. “She’s staying here tonight?” Jack placed the mug on the coffee table in front of Caroline, his voice flat. “She just moved back to the country. Her apartment isn’t ready yet, so she’ll be staying with us for a few days.” Caroline rose immediately, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her shirt. “Charlotte, if this makes you uncomfortable, I can easily find a hotel.” Jack reached out, his hand wrapping around her wrist to pull her back down. “No need.” Two words. Simple, effortless, and enough to completely erase my standing in my own home. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask questions. I just gripped my bag of medication and walked toward our master bedroom. But when I pushed the door open, I froze. My pajamas had been folded and piled at the foot of the bed. Several unfamiliar skincare bottles sat on my vanity. Caroline’s light jacket hung over the back of my chair, and the air was thick with the sweet, floral scent of her perfume. I stared at the room for what felt like an eternity before I turned around. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” Jack stood in the doorway, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Isn’t the sofa in the study comfortable enough?” The study. In our three years of marriage, he had never liked me going in there. When I brought him coffee, he would tell me to leave it outside the door. When I offered to help organize his files, he told me not to touch his things. Once, while waiting for him to come home, I had fallen asleep on that very sofa. His first words upon returning were: “Don’t sleep in here again.” And now, the one room where I was deemed unworthy to spend even a few minutes had become the only corner of the house left for me. Caroline spoke up softly, “Jack, maybe I should take the study instead.” Jack’s voice softened even further as he looked at her. “You have jet lag. Don’t make things harder on yourself.” I nodded quietly, turned on my heel, and walked into the study. That night, I curled up on the narrow sofa, keeping my injured right hand suspended in the air, terrified of letting it brush against anything. Through the thin door, I could hear Jack’s voice drifting down the hallway. “Are you hungry? Your stomach has been acting up; you shouldn’t go to sleep empty-handed.” Caroline laughed softly. “I’m fine, really. Don’t fuss over me.” “You just got back,” he murmured. “I want to make sure you’re taken care of.” I stared up at the dark ceiling, my eyes burning. It turned out he wasn’t incapable of being attentive and caring. He had simply never cared to direct any of it toward me. Years ago, when my stomach pain became so severe that I was dry-heaving over the toilet, I had called him. He had only said, “There’s medicine in the cabinet. Go find it.” Eventually, I had to call an ambulance for myself. The paramedics, too, had asked where my husband was. Back then, I made excuses for him, telling everyone how busy his job was. Looking back, I was pathetic. I was so starved for affection that I mistook his scraps of obligation for love. The next morning, I sat at the desk in the study and opened my laptop. Sitting in my inbox was an email I had ignored for three months—an invitation to lead a major project at our European branch in London. I had been offered this opportunity three times before. The first time, Jack told me that long-distance right after our wedding wouldn’t be good for the marriage. The second time, he complained that the house would be empty and there would be no one to manage things. The third time, his mother was pressuring us to start a family, telling me that no matter how successful a woman’s career was, her true place was at home. So, I stayed. Every single time. I stayed to cook his breakfasts, iron his shirts, keep track of his business dinners, and wait up for him to come home. And my reward was watching him usher Caroline into our master bedroom. I stared at the “Accept Offer” button, my cursor hovering over it for a long, quiet moment. Then, I clicked. The system flashed: “Submission Successful.” In that instant, an overwhelming sense of calm washed over me. I began packing my things quietly, making sure not to make a sound. Over the past three years, I had convinced myself that I didn’t need much. Jack preferred minimalist design, so I stopped buying bright, colorful clothes. He hated clutter, so I confined my entire book collection to a single shelf in the corner. As I folded my belongings and placed them inside, my suitcase remained half-empty. Out of nowhere, my phone buzzed with a text from Jack: “We have a dinner party tonight. Be ready by six.” I texted back: “I’m not going.” Almost instantly, my phone rang. “It’s just our old friends,” Jack said when I answered. “Caroline is back, and everyone wants to welcome her. If you don’t show up, people are going to ask questions.” I looked down at the neatly folded clothes in my suitcase. “Ask what?” Silence hung on the line for a couple of seconds. “Ask about us. About our relationship.” A humorless laugh escaped my lips. So he actually remembered we had a relationship to speak of. I had no intention of going. But after we hung up, I sat on the edge of the sofa for a long time, suddenly struck by a morbid curiosity. I wanted to see just how much lower this marriage could drag me. The gathering was held at an upscale private lounge downtown. When I pushed the door open, the room was buzzing with laughter and teasing. “Now that Caroline is back, Jack can finally stop waiting.” “Honestly, if you two hadn’t broken up over that stupid misunderstanding years ago, none of this other stuff would have happened.” The laughter died instantly. Every eye in the room landed on me, and the atmosphere turned thick and uncomfortable. Caroline was seated right next to Jack, his coat draped over her shoulders. I stood by the door, frozen. Jack looked up, his expression unbothered. “You’re here. Have a seat.” Someone in the corner murmured under their breath, “Why did she show up?” Jack’s hand paused as he lifted his glass. “She’s family.” “Family.” It sounded polite, but it completely stripped away my title as his wife. During dinner, someone slid a glass of red wine toward me. “Come on, Charlotte, have a drink with us.” I tucked my bandaged right hand beneath the table. “I hurt my hand. The doctor said no alcohol with the medication.” The man laughed, dismissive. “It’s just a little scratch, isn’t it? Don’t be a party pooper.” He pushed the glass closer, and a splash of dark red wine spilled over the rim, soaking the front of my cream-colored dress. A few muffled snickers rippled through the table. Caroline stood up immediately, grabbing a handful of napkins. “Oh my god, Charlotte, are you okay?” She stood up so quickly that Jack’s coat slipped from her shoulders. Jack’s immediate, instinctive reaction was to reach out and catch her. “Are you alright? Did it startle you?” I looked down at the dark, wet stain spreading across my skirt. My fist clenched, the pressure sending a sharp jolt of pain through the stitches in my palm. But in that moment, I didn’t feel like crying. Perhaps I had been hurting for so long that I could no longer distinguish between the physical sting and the emotional ache. I excused myself and walked to the restroom. Locking the door behind me, I realized the blood had started to seep through the white gauze again. Mixed with the red wine, the stain looked messy and grotesque. In the mirror, my face was pale, hollow. I looked like a punchline. I suddenly remembered our wedding day. When the officiant asked Jack for his vows, he had stood in silence for a long time before finally saying, “I promise to fulfill my duties and responsibilities to you.” The guests had chuckled, whispering that he was just a man of few words, too shy for grand romantic gestures. I had laughed along with them. For three long years, I had made excuses for him. When he said he was busy, I believed him. When he said he was tired, I believed him. When he told me Caroline was ancient history, I believed him. But it had been three years. And not once had he ever given me a single reason to stay. I cleaned the blood off my skin and sent Jack a brief text: “I’m leaving.” He didn’t reply. I walked out of the venue alone. On the large display screen near the lounge entrance, a slideshow was playing—a “welcome home” compilation his friends had put together for Caroline. The photos cycled through their history: college campuses, streets in London, snowy winter landscapes. The final image was set inside our home. Caroline was sitting on the living room rug, clutching a plush toy, while Jack stood beside her, looking down at her with a soft expression. The date in the bottom right corner of the photo was from the second month of my marriage to Jack. I remembered that night vividly. He had told me he had to work late at the office. I had cooked an elaborate dinner, waiting at the dining table from seven in the evening until two in the morning, only to receive a text: “Don’t wait up.” On the screen, they were both smiling, radiant and carefree. I stood in the cold night breeze, watching the image loop. It turned out that house had never had room for me. I was merely a squatter in a home already entirely possessed by their memories. When I got back, I began systematically erasing myself from the apartment. I pulled down the sticky notes from the refrigerator. I packed up the ceramic dishes I had picked out. I unplugged the small reading lamp beside the bed—the one I had spent weeks searching for. It wasn’t expensive, and its light was dim, but I used to believe that as long as there was at least one thing of my own in that house, I wouldn’t feel so incredibly lonely. I didn’t need that illusion anymore. Later that week, my mother made a surprise visit. She was carrying a warm container of soup, but when she stepped inside and saw the cardboard boxes scattered across the floor, her expression shifted. “Charlotte, what is all this?” I started to tell her I was just organizing for the new season. But her eyes had already landed on my bandaged hand, and then on Caroline’s suitcases peeking out from the master bedroom. She stood there in silence for a long, heavy moment. Finally, she walked over and gently cupped my injured hand. “Does it hurt?” I had been holding myself together so tightly. But at those three words, the dam broke, and tears flooded my eyes. My mother wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close. “You’ve been holding onto so much pain these past three years, haven’t you?” I buried my face in her shoulder and nodded, unable to speak. She rubbed my back with soft, steady strokes. “Then stop holding it. Let it go.” “Mom,” I whispered, my voice cracked and raw. “I kept thinking that if I just endured a little more, if I was just a little more patient, he would eventually love me back.” My mother didn’t say a word; she just held me tighter. A choked sob escaped me. “But he never will.” From that day forward, I began preparing for my departure in earnest. I submitted the paperwork to close our joint bank accounts. I finalized the transition plan for my projects at work. I stopped texting Jack to ask when he would be home, and I stopped cooking dinner for him. At first, he didn’t even notice. Or rather, he had always preferred my silence, so my sudden lack of engagement felt like a relief to him. Before, when I asked questions, he found it suffocating. Now that I asked for nothing, his life was much easier. Over the weekend, Jack mentioned we were expected at his parents’ house in Westchester for dinner. I told him I wasn’t going, but my mother squeezed my hand when I told her. “Go, sweetheart,” she advised. “Sometimes you need to look them in the eye and say what needs to be said. It’s better than leaving things unsaid.” I knew she was worried about me facing his family alone, so I agreed to go. When we arrived at the estate, Caroline was already there. She was wearing a soft cream dress, helping Jack’s mother arrange fresh flowers in the foyer. Jack’s mother smiled warmly at her. “Oh, Caroline, you have such an eye for this. Not like Charlotte. She’s always so consumed by her job; I honestly don’t know how she manages to run a proper household.” I stood in the doorway, offering no defense. Jack glanced at me, his voice a low whisper, as if guarding against a scene. “Don’t start anything today.” I looked at him. “Have I ever?” He frowned, looking annoyed. “You know what I mean.” Of course I did. In the eyes of the family, Caroline was the cherished guest, the fragile one who needed protection. And I was the wife. Therefore, I was expected to be understanding, to accommodate, to swallow every bit of humiliation without making a sound. Throughout dinner, Jack’s mother showered Caroline with attention, asking how she was adjusting to being back, if she had found a nice neighborhood to live in, and what dishes she missed most from abroad. When she finally addressed me, it was with a blunt demand: “So, when are you two going to finally give me grandchildren?” I placed my fork down neatly. “We aren’t planning on having children.” Her face darkened instantly. “You’re approaching thirty, Charlotte. What are you waiting for? Jack is busy climbing the ladder; as his wife, you need to step up and think about the family’s future.” Caroline spoke up, her voice sweet and soothing. “Oh, Mrs. Lennon, I’m sure Charlotte just wants to focus on her career for a bit.” Jack’s mother smiled, patting Caroline’s hand affectionately. “You always were the thoughtful one, dear.” She then gestured for the housekeeper to bring over a small velvet box. When she opened it, a vintage gold ring lay inside. I recognized it immediately. It was her grandmother’s heirloom ring, the one she had always promised to pass down to Jack’s wife. But right there, in front of everyone, she slid the ring onto Caroline’s finger. “Try it on, sweetheart. I’ve always felt this design would look beautiful on you.” Caroline glanced toward me, feigning hesitation. “Oh, Mrs. Lennon… is this really appropriate?” Jack’s mother laughed off her concern. “Of course it is. I adore you.” A heavy silence fell over the table. Jack looked at me, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, but he ultimately remained silent. “Let’s just eat, Mom.” I stared at the ring on Caroline’s hand and realized I couldn’t even summon the energy to feel disappointed. There had been too many moments like this. For his mother’s birthday, I had booked the restaurant, purchased her gift, and coordinated with all the relatives. Yet, she had turned to the guests and sighed, “If only Caroline were here. She always knew exactly what made me happy.” When Jack was named partner, I spent days organizing his celebratory dinner. During his speech, he thanked his team, his mentors, and even acknowledged Caroline, who was still living abroad at the time. He never once mentioned my name. Every single time, I had whispered to myself that it was fine. Only now did I realize that the most pathetic lie I ever told was telling myself it didn’t matter. Halfway through the main course, Caroline suddenly pressed her hand to her stomach, a faint wince crossing her face. Jack stood up instantly. “What’s wrong?” “I think the jet lag is just catching up to me,” she murmured. “My stomach feels a bit upset.” He grabbed his coat. “Come on, let me take you outside for some fresh air.” They walked out together, side-by-side. His mother watched them leave, her eyes filled with nothing but fondness. My mother sat beside me, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her napkin. After dinner, Jack’s mother pulled me aside into the study. “Charlotte, men are bound to be preoccupied with their careers, and sometimes they fall short. You shouldn’t be so sensitive. You are his wife, and you need to carry yourself with a bit more grace and stability.” I looked her in the eyes. “If a marriage requires me to spend three years constantly shrinking myself, is there really any point in holding onto it?” She stared at me, completely caught off guard. Before she could form a reply, Jack walked back into the room. Seeing the two of us standing together, his expression soured instantly. “What are you complaining to my mother about now?” I let out a soft laugh. “What could I possibly say?” On the way home, my mother took a cab back to her place. Caroline sat in the passenger seat of Jack’s car. Actively ignoring the tension, Caroline chattered happily, reminiscing about old college professors, mutual classmates, and long-past events. Jack chimed in occasionally, his tone softer and more patient than it had ever been with me. I sat quietly in the back seat, watching the city streetlights blur against the dark glass of the window. My phone buzzed in my lap. It was an email from the international HR department: “Dear Ms. Charlotte, your transfer request has been officially approved. Please confirm your final start date within three business days.” I stared at the text, my fingertips cold. It wasn’t fear. It was the quiet, sobering realization that the curtain was finally falling. When we got back to the apartment, I tucked my passport and visa documents into a drawer. Then, I pulled it open to check them one last time. I knew I couldn’t hesitate. If I lingered, I would let myself get swallowed whole by this house all over again. The next morning, my mother came over. She didn’t beat around the bush; she stepped inside and asked directly, “You’ve decided to leave, haven’t you?” I nodded. She sat down on the sofa, remaining quiet for a long time. I braced myself, expecting her to tell me to think it through. In our social circles, divorce was never a small matter. The Lennon family had a reputation to maintain, and Jack was a prominent partner at his firm. If I just kept keeping my head down, on the outside, we would look like a perfect couple. But my mother simply looked up and said, “Your room at my place is always ready for you. No matter what, you will always have a home with me.” My throat tightened. “Mom… I’m so sorry.” She looked at me tenderly. “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. You tried so hard to make this work.” Those words finally allowed the heavy weight I’d carried for three years to melt away. I hugged her tight, tears stinging my eyes. Right then, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Jack standing on the threshold. He was holding a takeout bag from the artisanal bakery I used to love, and in his other hand was a fresh tube of burn ointment. Seeing my mother sitting in the living room, he froze for a split second before recovering his composure. “Hello, Mrs. Morton.” My mother didn’t acknowledge him. Jack set the bag on the counter and looked at me. “Your hand is still healing. You need to make sure you’re applying the ointment.” I stared at the bag of pastries, making no move to touch it. I used to love that bakery. Mostly because during our first year of marriage, it was the only time he had ever bought me breakfast. I had been sick with a stomach bug, and he happened to pass by the shop and brought something home. I had treasured that memory for years. He never did it again, yet I held onto that single gesture, convincing myself it was proof of his love. When you are starved for so long, a single crumb feels like a feast. Seeing my lack of reaction, Jack softened his tone. “I’ve sorted everything out over the last couple of days. Caroline is already looking at apartments. Please stop being angry with me over this.” I looked up at him. “Are you saying that for my benefit, or your own?” He blinked, caught off guard. I pressed on. “If I hadn’t pushed back, would it have ever crossed your mind that bringing another woman into our home, packing away my things, and throwing me into the study was wrong?” Jack’s expression hardened. “She just returned to the country and had nowhere else to go. Helping out an old friend is a perfectly normal thing to do.” “Then why wasn’t it normal for you to help me when I was burning with a fever?” I asked, watching the frown deepen on his face. “Why wasn’t it normal when I had to go to the hospital alone?” “And why wasn’t it normal when my hand was sliced open by broken glass?” He had no answer. My mother sat on the sofa, her eyes misty, but she remained silent, letting me fight my own battle. Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a frustrated sigh. “Charlotte, you are blowing this entirely out of proportion.” Suddenly, the urge to argue drained out of me. I turned around, walked into the study, and fetched the printed transfer notice. I placed it flat on the table between us. “I’m leaving for London next week.” Jack stared down at the paper. It took several seconds for him to look up, his face blank with confusion. “What is this supposed to mean?” “Exactly what it says,” I replied quietly. “This isn’t a threat, and I’m not playing games to get your attention. Jack, I am leaving.” The color began to drain from his face. “When did you apply for this?” “The day you went to the airport to pick up Caroline.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Are you really going to do this over nothing?” I looked at him, a bittersweet smile touching my lips. “Do what, exactly?” “Ruining our marriage over something so trivial?” “Something so trivial.” Three years of heartbreak, three years of waiting, three years of lying to myself to protect his ego. To him, it was just “nothing.” I didn’t bother responding. Jack reached out, attempting to grasp my wrist, but I stepped back, smoothly slipping out of his reach. His hand remained suspended in the empty air. It was a small movement, but it made his face turn incredibly pale. He looked at me, losing his trademark composure for the very first time. “Think about this carefully, Charlotte. If you walk out that door, there’s no coming back.” I picked up my purse from the counter. “I never planned on it.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536345”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For four years, Harry was the kind of cheapskate who made every single penny scream. Then, on the eve of graduation, he threw a black card with half a million dollars on it directly at my face. Harry held Cherry close, his smile sharp, mocking, and entirely unfamiliar. “Renata, let me tell you the truth: I’m not poor. Not even close. The empty bank accounts, the fake illnesses—it was all an experiment. I just wanted to see exactly how pathetic you would be for me.” “Now? I’m bored. And I have Cherry.” He flicked the card against my cheek, laughing. “Half a million. For four years of your life. That’s more than enough, right?” Laughter erupted around us in the crowded bar. “Oh my god, Harry played broke for four years and she actually fell for it?” “Well, look at her. When Harry said he didn’t have money for dinner, she lived on stale bread just to buy him medicine. When he said he was sick, she literally sold plasma to pay for his doctor bills.” “The funniest part? Just last week, she was working four separate shifts a day to buy him some ridiculous birthday present. She almost passed out in a convenience store.” “A charity case actually thought her cheap little ‘true love’ could bag a billionaire heir.” They all knew. They had all been in on it. They were waiting for me to shatter. Waiting for me to cry, to beg like a dog at his feet, pleading with him not to leave me. Instead, I simply bent down, picked up the card, and looked up at him with a small, calm smile. “Half a million dollars for four years. That’s a hundred and twenty-five thousand a year. Honestly? Worth it.” Because the truth was, during those four years… My actual feelings for Harry Kingsley weren’t even worth a dime. 1 “If we’re done here, I’ll be on my way,” I said, slipping the card into my bag and turning to leave. But before I could take a single step, Harry’s friends blocked my path. “Come on, Renata, cut the act,” Jared said, stepping in front of me with a smirk. “You snatched that card so fast it’s embarrassing. Who are you trying to fool with this stoic routine? We know your type. You play tough during the breakup, then cry yourself to sleep in some dingy apartment.” Jared leaned in, his eyes full of condescension. “If you’re really that desperate, just bow your head. Apologize to Harry in front of everyone. Who knows? If he’s in a good mood, he might still keep you around.” “Though, don’t go dreaming about a title,” another guy added, shooting a look at Cherry. His grin was greasy. “Cherry is the official girlfriend now. You? You’re just a toy he’s done playing with.” Cherry clung to Harry’s arm, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Stop it, guys. Don’t tease Renata like that. She’s sensitive. She can’t handle this kind of pressure.” The bar erupted into louder laughter. I looked at them, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Are you done?” “If you are, get out of my way.” The air in the room suddenly went cold. Harry finally looked up at me, his eyes dark with a heavy, patronizing intensity. “Renata, who are you putting this show on for?” “You think taking the money and pretending you don’t care is going to make me respect you?” “I know you better than anyone. You love me so much it’s pathetic. Without me, you won’t even last three days.” I met his gaze, my expression flat. “Really?” “Then maybe you don’t realize just how cheap you actually are.” Harry’s face immediately darkened. The room fell deathly silent for a fraction of a second before exploding. “Is she insane? She actually talked back to Harry?” “She’s broke, dumped, and still trying to act proud?” “Perfect,” Jared said, clapping his hands to stoke the flames. “Let’s place a bet. How long before Renata comes crawling back to beg Harry to take her back?” “I bet three days.” “Two days.” “I say tonight. Girls like her have no backbone. She won’t survive the night.” “Yeah, she’ll be crying into her phone by midnight, writing him a ten-page essay about how sorry she is.” “Or maybe she’ll crawl to Cherry, begging her to share him! Haha!” Uproarious laughter. Jared turned to Harry. “What about you, man? How long do you give her?” Harry stared at me, his eyes filled with absolute certainty. To him, I was a stray dog—no matter how much I struggled, I would eventually crawl back to my master. After a tense silence, he let out a sharp, mocking chuckle. “By tomorrow night.” “She’ll be begging me.” It was as if my four years of obedience, of quiet endurance, had merely been trophies he had collected to display. Jared let out a sharp whistle, jerking his chin toward me. “Hear that, Renata? The man has spoken.” “So, when are you planning on bowing down?” Every eye in the room was on me—mocking, cruel, waiting for the punchline of a joke. I remained quiet for a moment. My fingers brushed against the folded approval letter for my study abroad program inside my purse. A sudden, genuine smile touched my lips. “Actually, let’s make a real bet.” “On what?” Jared asked, caught off guard. I looked up, letting my gaze sweep over every single one of them before settling on Harry’s rigid face. “I bet that for the rest of my life, I will never look back at him again.” 2 Four years ago, when I got accepted into Easton University, I couldn’t even afford the deposit, let alone tuition. When every door had slammed in my face, Mrs. Kingsley—Harry’s mother—approached me. She had only one condition: get close to Harry, keep him in line, and ensure he finished his four years of college without causing a scandal. Now, the four years were up. The $600,000 Mrs. Kingsley had promised was sitting safely in my bank account. Combined with Harry’s parting “severance pay,” I finally had enough to leave the country and build the life I had actually wanted. When my words settled, the room fell quiet again. Then, Jared broke the silence with a loud snort. “Listen to her. ‘For the rest of my life.’ Renata, you sure talk a big game.” Harry glared at me, his eyes dangerously dark. He let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Fine.” “Renata, you said it. Not me.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “I hope you don’t come crawling back on your knees.” I met his gaze, smiling faintly. “Don’t worry. Even if you were the one on your knees, I wouldn’t look back.” Harry’s face contorted, his anger barely contained. “Get out.” Without another word, I turned and walked away. But I knew this wouldn’t be the end of it. A guy like Harry, raised on a silver platter, couldn’t handle being publicly humiliated—especially by someone he believed was entirely beneath him. Sure enough, the retaliation began the very next morning. The owner of the convenience store where I had just resigned called me, his voice dripping with venom as he accused me of stealing from the register, refusing to pay my last two weeks of wages. Then, rumors started spreading around campus. Whispers that I had been using Harry while secretly hunting for other wealthy targets—that I was nothing but a high-end escort with a price tag. Someone even dug up old photos of me—selling plasma at the clinic, working late night shifts at the store, handing out flyers in the freezing cold outside a bar—and spliced them together into a post on the university forum. The title was vicious: [The Campus “Broke Girl” Secret Guide to Hooking a Sugar Daddy: Faking Innocence, Playing Victim, and Sleeping Her Way to the Top] The post went viral overnight. The comments section was a wasteland of mockery and slurs. “No wonder Harry dumped her when he got bored. He saw right through her.” “Why is she acting so pure? She’s basically a call girl anyway.” “I heard she’s trying to go abroad? Lol, probably found a new target to bleed dry.” My phone buzzed. I looked down. It was a text from Harry. [Seen the forum yet?] I didn’t reply. A second later, another message popped up. [Turns out Cherry’s ideas are pretty effective.] [How does it feel? Having everyone call you a gold-digger and a whore? Hurts, doesn’t it?] My eyes lingered on the words “Cherry’s ideas.” A dull, cold ache flared in my chest. Before I could even think of a reply, more texts flooded in. [All you have to do is apologize. Kneel down in front of my friends, say you’re sorry, and tell them you’re willing to be my side-chick.] [Do that, and I might consider having the post taken down.] I stared at the screen, and then, slowly, a laugh escaped my throat. I took a screenshot of the messages. Harry wanted me to regret. He wanted to corner me until I had nowhere left to turn, forcing me to crawl back to him. But he had severely miscalculated. I closed the browser, opened my contacts, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in months. “Mrs. Kingsley, our deal was for me to manage Harry for four years. It didn’t include clean-up duty for your son’s tantrums.” “Now, he’s coming after me.” “How do you plan to handle this?” 3 On the other end of the line, Mrs. Kingsley’s voice was utterly detached. “I don’t.” I froze. “Renata, your money has been transferred. Our arrangement is officially over.” “The forum, the rumors—they are nothing but temporary noise.” “For the last four years, you were at Harry’s side. To put it nicely, it was a transaction. To put it bluntly, I paid for a well-behaved guard dog.” I kept quiet. She didn’t seem to care, adding one final, icy remark: “A stray is still a stray, even if you pave her road with gold.” “Renata, you of all people should know that.” Then, the line went dead. The dial tone buzzed sharply in my ear. I stood there for a long time before slowly lowering the phone. For the next two days, I barely left my apartment. I spent my time organizing documents, tracking my passport and visa applications, and transferring my funds into an overseas account in installments. I also finalized my personal statement with Megan, an older student who had been mentoring me. On the third night, I went to a quiet bar near campus as planned. Megan was stuck in traffic and texted me to head inside first. The moment I walked through the door, I ran straight into Harry and his crowd. Jared saw me first and immediately let out a loud laugh. “Well, well, look who’s here. Renata. Didn’t you say you’d never look back? Changed your mind already?” The entire booth turned to look at me. Harry was sitting in the center of the leather sofa, Cherry draped over his arm. When his eyes met mine, a flicker of smug satisfaction crossed his face. “Come here,” he said, jerking his chin. He pushed a row of shot glasses across the table toward me. “Drink them.” “Do that, and we can get back together. I’ll even have the forum posts taken down.” My voice was flat. “I’m not here for you.” Laughter erupted from the booth again. “Not here for Harry? What, did you just happen to wander in?” “Renata, who are you trying to kid?” Cherry snuggled closer to Harry, her tone faux-sympathetic. “Renata, if you want to apologize, just say it. Harry is all bark and no bite. If you just soften up a bit, he won’t keep holding a grudge.” Jared sneered from the side. “Harry is throwing you a lifeline, and you’re still acting proud? Do you really think you have options?” “Look at the forum,” someone else chimed in. “Your reputation is trash. Who else is going to touch you?” Cherry sighed softly. “Renata, Harry is being incredibly generous. With your name ruined like this, who else would ever want to help you?” Tired of the back-and-forth, I turned to leave. But before I could move, a hand gripped my wrist like a vice. Harry stood up, looming over me, his face twisted in a dark, terrifying scowl. “Renata, have you forgotten where you came from?” “Selling plasma, working double shifts, begging for scraps because you couldn’t even afford tuition.” He leaned down, his breath hot and smelling of alcohol. “Someone like you would sell her own soul for a dollar. Now suddenly you’re too good for a few drinks?” A roar of laughter went up around the table. “Those drinks probably cost more than her life is worth!” “Maybe just one shot is enough!” I stared at him, finding the entire spectacle pathetic. “Are you finished?” I whispered. “If so, let go.” That was the breaking point. The last shred of Harry’s control snapped. He grabbed a glass from the table and poured the amber liquid straight over my head. 4 The cold alcohol dripped down my hair and neck, instantly soaking into my collar. Then came a second glass, and a third. The sharp, burning liquid seeped into my eyes, stinging fiercely. Cherry put on a shocked expression, murmuring, “Harry, stop, she can’t take this…” Yet, even as she spoke, she handed him another glass, her smugness barely hidden. “Renata, why do you have to be so stubborn? Just apologize, and it’s over.” Jared was practically buzzing with excitement. “Pouring it is too boring! Since she won’t drink, just hold her down and force it!” The next thing I knew, someone grabbed my wrists, while heavy hands slammed down on my shoulders, forcing me to the ground. My knees hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack, and the pain made my vision go white. “Let go of me—!” Before I could finish, my hair was violently yanked back, forcing my head up. Harry pinched my jaw, his grip so tight I thought my bones would shatter. “You won’t drink?” He stared down at me, his voice trembling with a terrifying chill. “Let’s see how strong you really are.” I clenched my teeth, refusing to make a sound. In the struggle, my bag was ripped open, and its contents scattered across the floor. A damp piece of paper slid right next to Harry’s shoe. The alcohol had soaked through its edge, but the English header at the top was unmistakable: International Research Program Application Harry’s eyes caught the paper, and his brow furrowed as he stared at it. But before he could read further, Cherry quickly bent down, picking up the paper and sliding it under a nearby glass. “Oh, look at Renata. Even at a bar, she’s still carrying her homework around.” With one casual comment, she diverted everyone’s attention. Jared laughed. “Typical. She always loved putting on a show.” A strange, uneasy feeling flickered in Harry’s chest. But it was quickly swallowed by his anger. Jared handed him a freshly opened bottle of hard liquor, his eyes gleaming. “Harry, you’re not getting soft on us, are you?” Harry’s hand moved to my neck, squeezing just tight enough to cut off my air. “Soft? For a charity case? She’s not worth it.” His expression hardened. He forced my jaw open and began pouring the burning liquor down my throat. The harsh alcohol choked me, burning a path down to my stomach. Tears welled in my eyes. But he didn’t stop. His hand on my neck tightened, his voice shaking with a cold, manic energy. “Keep going.” “I want to see when she finally breaks.” As the liquor kept flowing, my vision began to fade to black, and my strength ebbed away. All around me, there was nothing but laughter, cheering, and Cherry’s soft, mocking sighs. To them, I was just a stray dog they could kick into the dirt whenever they pleased. Then, the door to the private room was slammed open. “Stop it!” Megan rushed in, her face pale with shock. She immediately threw herself over me, shielding me from them. “Are you all insane? This is a felony!” Harry’s hand froze. Taking advantage of the distraction, Megan pulled me up from the floor. I could barely stand. My wet hair clung to my face, and I was trembling, struggling to draw breath. “I’ve recorded everything tonight,” Megan spat, her voice fierce. “If anyone touches her again, I’m calling the police.” The room finally fell silent. Harry stood there, his face incredibly dark, but he didn’t try to stop us. Megan supported my weight as we walked out, step by agonizing step. As we passed him, I didn’t look at him once. The next afternoon, once the alcohol had worn off, Harry found himself haunted by the memory of my pale, empty face from the night before. Agitated, he ran a hand through his hair and finally dialed my number. When the call connected, his voice was still cold and arrogant, as if he were granting me a favor. “I can overlook what happened last night. Come back, and I’ll make sure those forum posts disappear.” But there was only silence on the other end for a few seconds. The voice that answered wasn’t mine. It was the dorm manager. “Renata? Oh, she checked out yesterday morning. Her room is completely empty.” Harry froze, his voice dropping. “What did you say?” “Didn’t she tell you?” the manager asked, confused. “She caught an early flight this morning. She moved abroad.” Harry gripped his phone, the absolute certainty on his face shattering for the very first time.

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On my first day at the firm, Elliott put my desk directly across from his office. It was the best spot on the floor, flooded with New England morning light. Everyone in the office whispered that it was his special treatment for me, his girlfriend of three years. Until Lorraine Albright returned from London. The email from HR arrived at nine in the morning, telling me to pack up my things and move to the small office adjacent to the basement archives before the end of the day. They said Elliott himself had requested the switch to accommodate Lorraine. I carried my heavy cardboard box past his open door. He was leaning over Lorraine’s desk, eyes fixed on her screen, pointing at something. He didn’t even look up when my shadow fell across the glass. “Fay, just bear with it for a bit,” he said, his voice casual and dismissive. “Lorraine’s fresh off the plane from London. Everything here is foreign to her.” I carried my box down to the basement, where the fluorescent light buzzed with a dull, sickening hum. Before I could even set it down, my phone screen lit up. It was an image from Lorraine. A sleek marble desk in the sun, with a line of text beneath: “Fay, this spot is absolutely gorgeous. Elliott said it’s mine from now on.” On her wrist in the photo, slipping slightly over her sleeve, was a string of dark sandalwood prayer beads. I knew those beads. I had climbed up to a quiet Zen temple in Kyoto three years ago to get them blessed for him, his initials carved carefully into the wooden master bead. … The notification from HR had come in at 9:00 AM. I stared at the text on my screen for a few seconds, closed the window, and walked up to Elliott’s office. He was flipping through blueprints. Hearing me enter, he didn’t raise his eyes. “I made the call,” he said. He closed the folder and finally looked at me. “Lorraine just got back from the UK. I need her close so I can supervise her. She’s green, Fay. She needs someone watching her work.” He paused, his voice softening with that familiar, patronizing patience. “You’re older, more mature. You understand how this works. Just bear with it.” I stood there, my fingers digging into my phone. My mother had texted me just minutes before. My father’s condition was deteriorating, and the waiting list for a specialized bed at Mass General was endless. She knew Elliott’s uncle was on the hospital board and wanted to know if Elliott had finally made the call to help us bypass the queue. “Is there something else?” Elliott asked. Before I could open my mouth, the door pushed open. Lorraine peeked in, holding an empty mug, complaining about the espresso machine in the breakroom. Elliott stood up immediately, brushing past me without a second glance to help her. Lorraine gave me a sweet, helpless smile and slipped her hand through his arm. As they walked down the hall, her voice drifted back: “Do you think Fay is angry?” He didn’t answer. I went back to my desk and packed up my things. My pen holder, my calendar, and the little pothos plant I’d kept alive for six months. Passing the breakroom, through the glass, I saw him standing close behind her, his hand over hers, guiding her fingers over the buttons of the machine. I stood in the hallway for what felt like an eternity. He never turned around. When my phone buzzed with Lorraine’s photo of the beads, a cold, sharp ache bloomed in my chest. Three years ago, Elliott had been in a minor car accident. I spent hours in a quiet temple, kneeling on a cold tatami mat, praying for nothing but his safety. I walked straight into his office. “Where are the beads I gave you?” He looked up from his paperwork, startled for a second, then quickly smoothed his face. “Lorraine’s living alone in a new city. She’s anxious. I figured she needed the protection more than I do right now.” He looked at me, as if testing my reaction. “Besides, you’re not the type to get worked up over something so small, right?” I forced a tight smile. He was right. God protects everyone. But I wasn’t God. I was just a girl who had given away her own prayers of protection to a man who handed them to someone else. The landmark waterfront project kickoff was that afternoon. I had lived and breathed this project for eight months. Every line, every revision, every late-night calculation was mine. I had stayed up until 3:00 AM the night before, refining the deck to ensure every detail was perfect. But when I pushed open the conference room door, Lorraine was sitting in the seat to Elliott’s left—my seat. In front of her was the proposal binder. On the cover, printed in bold, heavy serif, was her name listed as the lead designer. The long table was packed. There were no empty chairs. I went to the adjacent storage room, dragged in a metal folding chair, and sat at the very end of the table. When Lorraine presented, her voice was quiet and hesitant. She stumbled three times. By the third technical slide, she froze, looking at Elliott with wide, pleading eyes. He stood up seamlessly, took the laser pointer from her hand, and took over. When he reached the core structural concept, his red laser dot hovered over the screen. “This particular layout is a cutting-edge approach Lorraine brought back from her time in London.” My fingers tightened around my pen until my knuckles turned white. That approach was something Elliott and I had hammered out over cold pizza and endless espresso two years ago. I had explained the math to him for four hours. He had kissed my temple and told me I was brilliant. Now, it was Lorraine’s genius. When the meeting ended, the room clapped. Elliott gave Lorraine a proud thumbs-up. She blushed, curtsied slightly, and said, “I couldn’t have done it without Elliott’s guidance.” I sat in my folding chair, a numb mask on my face, and quietly carried it back to the storage closet. He didn’t even notice I had left. At 11:00 PM, my phone finally rang. “Fay, Lorraine’s drawings are due tomorrow, but she’s stuck on the structural details. She can’t pull an all-nighter. I need you to finish them up.” “I’m exhausted, Elliott. I need to sleep too.” “This is a massive account for the firm, Fay. Be a team player. We need to think about the bigger picture.” “Fine. Email me the files.” I stared at our text thread. My last message to him, sent three days ago, was still unanswered: “I’ve gathered all of Dad’s medical records for the transfer. Let me know if we need anything else.” He hadn’t even read it. At 3:17 AM, I finished the final redlines and sent them back to him. The next morning, the clients raved about “Lorraine’s” drawings. My name was nowhere on the sheets. The firm hosted a celebration dinner at a high-end steakhouse downtown. Attendance was mandatory. I arrived and found my place card. Elliott walked in, scanned the room, and pointed to a small table directly beneath the blasting air conditioning vent. “Fay, do you mind sitting over there?” Then he swapped my place card with Lorraine’s. I shivered under the freezing draft all night. My fingers were so numb I could barely hold my fork. Across the table, Lorraine’s plate was a work of art. Elliott cut her filet mignon, trimmed the fat, carefully scraped off the caramelized onions and parsley she hated, and placed the perfect bites onto her plate. He remembered every single thing she disliked. Yet, in our three years together, he had never once remembered that I was deathly allergic to mangoes. As we left, my phone buzzed: “Lorraine had a bit too much to drink. I’m driving her home. Take an Uber, okay?” When I didn’t reply, he added: “Everyone tonight was saying how lucky I am to have such an independent girlfriend.” “You’ve been working hard. Get some rest.” I replied with a simple, “Understood.” I stood on the curb, waiting for my ride. Another text came in, this one from my mother: “Have you heard back about the hospital bed?” For three months, my mother had been asking. And for three months, I had been begging Elliott. His responses were always the same: “I’m on it. Busy right now. Don’t worry.” I called my mother back, forcing a cheerful tone, promising her it would happen soon. But Elliott’s car was already gone, disappearing into the city lights. The next day, the presentation screen in the conference room showed the RFP for the city’s new cultural landmark center. Everyone sat up. This was the project of the decade. I gripped my pen. My team had been working on the preliminary feasibility study for months. My name was signed on the cover of the draft. Then Elliott spoke: “Lorraine will be leading this bid.” His voice was perfectly level, as if announcing an indisputable fact. A few colleagues glanced at me, then quickly looked away, eager to see how I’d react. “Elliott, my team has been running the preliminary phase for six months,” I said. He looked at me, completely unbothered. “Lorraine needs a major win to establish herself here. You’re already a senior PM, Fay. This opportunity is more critical for her career trajectory.” “But the design direction is mine. Changing leads now will—” He cut me off. “You can hand over your notes to her. Let’s move on.” Then he added, “Also, the Seattle office is short-staffed. Fay, I’m sending you there to assist for the next six months.” Everyone knew what that meant. Sending a senior PM to another branch to draw basic CAD files wasn’t an assignment. It was a demotion. My work was handed to Lorraine, and I was being shipped across the country. Without even a private explanation. After the meeting, I followed him into his office and shut the door. “Elliott, it took me three years of eighty-hour weeks to make senior PM,” I said, keeping my voice tightly controlled. “And now you’re sending me to Seattle?” He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms in a classic defensive posture. “I know what you’re capable of, Fay. But Lorraine needs this. Going to Seattle will give you more ground-level experience. When you come back, it’ll make your transition to junior partner look seamless. I’m doing this for your own good.” “Be reasonable,” he added. “You’ll have other chances.” I stared at him. “Then why can’t she wait for hers?” He went quiet. Whenever I pushed, he fell back on silence, or that soft, condescending tone telling me to be the bigger person. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I turned and walked out. Back in my basement office, a memo was sitting on my desk. It was the annual bonus distribution list, stamped by finance. I had won a regional design award earlier that year, which came with a substantial cash bonus. I had calculated that amount a dozen times. Combined with my mother’s savings, it was exactly what we needed for my father’s surgery. But on the sign-off sheet, my name had been crossed out. Lorraine’s name was written in its place. My hands began to shake. The door opened. It was Elliott. He saw the paper in my hand and paused. “I authorized the bonus transfer.” I looked up. “Why?” “Lorraine needs credentials. The board only looks at project metrics and formal awards. If she doesn’t have a major win on her record, she won’t survive the partner review.” “What does her survival have to do with my money?” My nails bit into my palms. “That is my award. I spent a year of my life on that project. I drew every line. I calculated every load.” “I know,” he said, without a shred of remorse. “But you’ll have opportunities next year. She’s new. She needs this now. The firm’s cash flow is tight this quarter, but once things clear up, I’ll reimburse you out of my personal account.” No discussion. No heads-up. Just a decision made for me. “Elliott, that money is for my father’s surgery.” He frowned, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice. “I said I’d pay you back, Fay. Lorraine can’t wait. She’s younger, she’s under immense pressure. Why can’t you just help her out?” I looked at him, really looked at him. “My father has been sick for months. Have you asked about him once? Do you even care?” He looked caught off guard, his expression hardening. “That’s different.” “How is it different?” He didn’t answer. He turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing down the concrete basement hallway. I started packing my desk. The landmark project proposal was still open, covered in my red ink. Hours of sleepless nights, all handed over. My phone lit up. A text from my mom: “Fay, your dad seems a bit brighter today. He was asking when you’re coming home.” I flipped the phone face down on the desk. Three years ago, when I first started, Elliott had introduced me to the firm as “one of his own.” I thought that meant security. Now I realized what “one of his own” meant to him. It meant my things could be taken without permission. My desk could be moved, my money could be reallocated, because he assumed I would never complain. I dialed his number. It rang several times before he answered. “Did you ever make that call to Mass General for my dad?” There was a pause on the other end. “I did. The beds are full. We have to wait.” I closed my eyes. “Elliott, be honest with me. Did you actually call?” “I told you, I’ll handle it when this deadline passes.” “What are you actually handling?” Silence. “You promised me three months ago,” I said, my voice cracking. “In three months, have you visited him once? Have you called? Do you even know his name?” He had no answer. “You gave my beads to Lorraine. You gave her my office, my project, my bonus… and now you’re sending me to Seattle.” I took a breath. “Am I supposed to give you to her too?” Before he could answer, a muffled cry came through the receiver. It was Lorraine’s voice, thick with tears. “Elliott, my mom just collapsed… what do I do?” Elliott’s voice instantly shifted, muffled as he pulled the phone away. “Don’t panic, Lorraine. I’m right here. I’ll take you.” Then he spoke back into the receiver, his words rushed. “Fay, Lorraine has an emergency. I have to go.” He hung up. I stood frozen, listening to the dial tone. I walked up the stairs to his office. The door was half-open. Lorraine was on the sofa, burying her face in her hands. Elliott was kneeling in front of her, holding both her hands tightly. “Don’t worry, I’ve already sent someone from the office to the hospital. We’re going right now. I’ll drive.” His voice was incredibly gentle—a tone he had never used with me. He stood up, catching sight of me at the door. He paused. “Fay, I don’t have time for this right now.” I clenched my fists. “My father is in a hospital bed.” His lips parted, but before he could speak, Lorraine sobbed louder. Without another word, he grabbed his keys from the desk, guided Lorraine out by her shoulder, and walked past me. Her tears left wet spots on his shirt. He gently wiped her cheek as they walked down the hall, his quiet reassurances echoing through the corridor. “I’m here. It’s going to be okay.” He never looked back. My phone buzzed. A text from my mother: “Fay, your father is gone.” “The doctor said we could have had another two months, but we waited too long for the transfer. We couldn’t wait any longer.” I stared at the words, my knees giving out as I slid to the floor. My hands and feet grew cold, then completely numb. “We couldn’t wait.” I wiped my tears, dialed a recruiter’s number, and said, “Find me a position in Seattle. Any level. Just get me out of here.” I walked out of the building. When I first moved to Boston, Elliott told me the springs here were beautiful, full of blooming magnolias, and promised to take me to see them. Now, the magnolias were in full bloom along the avenue, but I was standing alone. I sent him one last text: “My dad passed away. You don’t need to call the hospital anymore.” I turned off my phone, took a deep breath, and walked away. Elliott didn’t realize I was gone until three days later. He had been so consumed with Lorraine’s family emergency that he had only glanced at my text on his lock screen without opening it. He assumed I was just throwing a quiet tantrum and would cool off in a few days. He didn’t think anything of the silence. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Until his phone rang. A mutual friend called him. “Elliott, have you talked to Fay? Do you know about her dad?” Elliott’s heart skipped a beat.

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I spent three brutal years in the underground fight rings before I finally made my way back to the Hayden estate, a fragile child clinging to my chest. But the homecoming I had pictured didn’t exist. Instead, I walked straight into the engagement party of my fiancée, Amelia, and my adoptive brother, Eric. My eyes were bloodshot, my chest heaving as I limped forward. But before a single word could escape my cracked lips, Amelia stepped forward, shielding Eric behind her like he was the one who needed protection. “Jude, what is that look in your eyes?” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “Are you here to threaten Eric again?” “Three years ago, you hired a hitman on the black market. You caused the crash that forced me into premature labor and killed our baby.” “Sending you to the underground rings to reflect on your sins was a mercy. We let you keep your life. That was more than you deserved.” My mother stood nearby, her brow furrowed in deep, familiar disappointment. “We let you get away with so much because you grew up away from us, Jude. We felt guilty. We tolerated your wildness.” “But you crossed the line when you tried to destroy Eric. And we will never forgive what you did to Amelia and her child.” My father threw a printed confession at my feet. It fluttered against my worn boots. “Kneel,” he commanded. “And sign it.” Just then, a small, trembling voice whimpered from behind my coat. “Daddy… why are they being so mean to you?” Amelia’s face hardened, turning stone-cold as she stared down at the boy. “Jude, three years in those filthy gutters, and you actually have the nerve to drag your street trash into this house.” I instinctively pulled Toby tighter against my chest, the copper taste of old blood rising in my throat. “Amelia,” I whispered, my voice cracked and desperate. “Three years ago… the baby you delivered early. He didn’t die.” “He’s right here. He is—” “Shut up!” Amelia cut me off with a sharp, cruel shout. She glared down at Toby as if he were a diseased stray dog. I stared at her, and a strange, hollow sensation bloomed in my chest. All the bones I’d had broken in the rings over the last three years didn’t hurt half as bad as this single moment. In my head, a cold, mechanical voice chimed: [All emotional and biological ties with key characters have been severed.] [Do you wish to confirm extraction from this world?] I closed my eyes, letting the darkness wash over me. “Confirm,” I thought. … I looked at Amelia. Her face, which I had once memorized in every detail, now felt entirely foreign. “Amelia, please. Just look at him,” I begged, my voice breaking. “Look at Toby. He’s your boy. He’s the baby from the crash.” Her expression turned glacial. “If you dare use my dead child as a prop for your lies one more time, I will have them tear you apart.” Eric took a step forward, sliding a comforting, possessive hand around Amelia’s waist. “Jude, stop this,” Eric said, his tone dripping with gentle pity. “You need help. Three years ago, when I pulled Amelia from that wreckage, the baby was already gone. Your hitman made sure of that.” Amelia’s cold gaze remained fixed on me. “Eric nearly went over the cliff trying to pull me out of that burning car. And you? You paid for the hit. Who do you think I’m going to believe, Jude? A monster, or my savior?” The truth tore from my throat. “I was the one who pulled you out! Eric was the one who paid for the crash!” Before I could finish, my father stepped forward and delivered a stinging slap across my face. “You classless, ungrateful street rat!” he snarled. “Still spewing garbage.” “You’ve done nothing but try to ruin Eric since the day you got here, yet he has never held a grudge against you.” “Three years in the rings to reflect, and you’re still the same unrepentant degenerate.” I looked at the three of them—my biological parents, my fiancée. The people who were supposed to love me. A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. “Fine,” I whispered. “If that’s what you want, I’ll go.” I dragged myself up, putting weight on my ruined right leg. The knee joint groaned under the pressure. I gathered Toby into my arms and turned toward the door. I had explained the truth three years ago. No one believed me then. Why would they start now? As I hobbled down the first step of the grand staircase, Eric’s soft voice drifted from behind. “Dad, Mom, Amelia… I think Jude is still angry with us.” “Maybe it’s best if he leaves. It would be… awkward if our guests saw him like this at the engagement party tomorrow.” My boots froze on the marble. Right on cue, Amelia spoke. “Stop him.” Instantly, three heavy-set security guards closed in. I couldn’t fight back; my arms were locked around Toby, protecting him, and my bad leg gave out under the sudden pressure. Within seconds, I was pinned to the cold stone floor. My shattered knee slammed against the edge of the step. White-hot agony flared behind my eyelids, threatening to pull me into unconsciousness. Hands grabbed Toby, tearing him from my grip. “Don’t touch him!” I screamed, thrashing wildly. I clawed at the air, desperate to reach him, but a heavy boot pressed down on my spine, crushing me into the floor. My forehead struck the marble, and warm, sticky blood ran down into my eyes, blurring my vision with red. Amelia walked over, her designer heels clicking softly until they stopped inches from my face. “You murdered my baby, Jude. And now you drag some gutter rat here, thinking you can use him to replace the son I lost?” She delivered a sharp kick to my ribs. The force rolled me onto my side, and the copper taste of bile and blood filled my mouth. Eric stepped up beside her, gently taking her arm. “Amelia, sweetheart, don’t upset yourself.” “Jude’s been in the fight rings too long. I think his mind is just… broken. All he knows now is violence and lies.” My father stared down at me, his lip curled in absolute disgust. “Take that boy away,” he told the guards. “Find out who his real mother is.” My mother chimed in, adjusting her pearls. “And make sure he’s tested for diseases. We can’t have him contaminating the house right before the party.” I thrashed against the hands pinning me down, panic clawing at my chest. “No! Don’t take him!” I screamed. “Toby was born premature! He’s weak—his heart can’t take the stress! You can’t draw his blood like that!” But they weren’t listening. A guard hauled Toby up by his collar as if he were a bag of trash. His tiny, breathless wails echoed down the long hallway, growing fainter. “Daddy! Daddy, save me!” I clawed at the polished marble floor, my fingernails splitting and leaving bloody streaks on the stone. Amelia watched my desperate struggle, her eyes entirely devoid of pity. “I felt this exact pain three years ago, Jude,” she whispered. “How does karma taste?” I looked up at her through the blood dripping from my brow. And suddenly, the anger drained out of me. I just felt so incredibly, profoundly tired. “Amelia,” I said softly. “You are going to regret this.” Inside my mind, the quiet countdown began: [Extraction countdown: 72 hours. Please prepare for departure.] They threw me into the damp cellar. My ruined right leg was entirely numb, cold, throbbing with a dull, sickening ache. Before returning to the Hayden mansion, I had dragged this broken limb through dozens of underground matches. I couldn’t afford to lose. If I lost, Toby didn’t get his heart medication. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, I expected to see Amelia. Instead, Eric walked in. The frail, victimized mask he wore upstairs had completely vanished. “Hey, big bro,” he murmured, his voice light and taunting. “How did those three years in the blood pits treat you?” I looked up at him. He was wearing a pristine white suit. He looked clean, elegant, like a beloved prince raised in luxury, while I lay on the dirty floor, covered in dried blood and old scars, looking like something dragged out of a sewer. Eric strolled over and knelt down in front of me, careful not to get his trousers dirty. “Honestly, I thought you’d die down there,” he whispered. “You’ve got a stubborn soul, Jude. I’ll give you that.” My fingers curled into tight, trembling fists. “Where is Toby?” I hissed. Eric tilted his head, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “You mean that little bastard?” Before he could react, I lunged forward, grabbing him by his crisp collar. “Eric!” He didn’t even flinch. He just leaned in close, his whisper like a snake’s hiss. “Why so impatient? You were this desperate three years ago, too. And what did it get you?” “You still couldn’t protect the boy. Back then, when Amelia went into labor at the crash site… the baby hadn’t even taken his first breath before I had my guys smuggle him out the back door of the clinic. He never even got to cry. It was so easy.” I stared at him, my vision blurring with absolute, murderous rage. “Why?” I croaked. “Why would you do that?” Eric laughed, a soft, chilling sound. “Because if that kid lived, Amelia would never let you go. Because the second you showed up, Mom and Dad started drowning in guilt for giving you away. Because you’re the one with their blood in your veins, Jude. Not me.” The polished facade cracked, revealing the raw, ugly jealousy bubbling underneath. “You grew up in some backwater trailer park. You’re uneducated, dirty, and classless. Why should someone like you get to walk in and take everything I built?” I held his gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs. “So… you were the one who put Toby in that underground ring? You set us up?” “Of course,” he admitted freely. “If I didn’t hold him over your head, how else was I going to make you fight like a rabid dog?” “It’s a shame your trashy life is so resilient. Three years of torture, and all I got was you losing a knee. Pathetic.” Heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. Eric’s eyes darted to the door. In a split second, he grabbed my hand, forced it against his collar, and violently threw himself sideways into the sharp edge of the wooden desk. There was a sickening crack. His forehead struck the corner, and blood immediately pooled from the cut. The cellar door burst open. Amelia was the first through. “Eric!” she screamed. Eric lay curled on the floor, looking impossibly small, tears instantly welling in his wide eyes. “Amelia…” he sobbed, his voice trembling. “I… I just wanted to ask Jude to stop this madness. To sign the paper so we could be a family again…” “I told him I don’t care about the family fortune. I don’t care that he hates me… But why… why did he have to hurt me again?” Amelia snapped her head up, glaring at me. My knuckles were stained red with Eric’s fresh blood. “He did it to himself,” I muttered, knowing how futile it was. “He set me up.” My mother stood behind Amelia, her face pale with sorrow and disgust. “Jude… even now, you continue to lie?” My father’s expression was dark as thunder. “Three years in the fighting pits, and you’ve truly become nothing but a violent brute.” Amelia cradled Eric in her arms, gently wiping the blood from his brow. When she looked back up at me, there was nothing left in her eyes but absolute, freezing hatred. “You haven’t changed at all, Jude. You’re still a monster.” Tucked against her shoulder, Eric glanced over at me through the shadows. His lips moved silently, forming a chilling sentence: That brat won’t survive the night. My mind shattered. A loud, high-pitched ringing filled my ears. The next second, I lunged forward like a rabid animal, trying to rip him away from her. But I never reached him. The guards tackled me, and a heavy blow struck the back of my neck. Darkness claimed me instantly. When I woke up, my arms and torso were bound tightly to a wooden chair. The coarse ropes had cut off the circulation, leaving my wrists completely numb. Outside the small high window, the sky had bruised into a deep, midnight black. The cold whisper echoed in my ear once more: [Extraction countdown: 24 hours.] I closed my eyes. One day left. I had twenty-four hours to pull Toby out of this viper’s nest. The heavy door creaked open. My parents, Amelia, and Eric walked in. A single sheet of paper lay on the wooden table before me. My father tossed a heavy pen onto the table. “Sign it,” he commanded. I lowered my gaze to read the crisp, typed letters. It was all laid out in black and white: I admit to orchestrating the three-year-old car crash that forced Amelia into premature labor. I admit that Eric was entirely innocent, and that he spent the last three years carrying the blame to protect the Hayden family name. I admit that the boy, Toby, is my illegitimate child born from a surrogate in the underground slums, having no biological relation to Amelia. Every single word felt like a physical blow, crushing whatever pride I had left. I looked up at Eric. He was standing quietly by my mother’s side like a dutiful, victimized son. The picture of a sweet, saintly brother who had suffered so much but was still willing to forgive. A sudden, hollow laugh escaped my lips. “Eric,” I said, my voice raspy. “Did you forget? You don’t even carry the Hayden blood.” Tears instantly spilled over Eric’s cheeks. “Jude… why do you hate me so much?” he whispered. He fell to his knees in front of my mother, his shoulders shaking. “Mom… if my presence is what’s making him like this, I’ll leave. I’ll pack my things tonight. I was never supposed to be here anyway.” “If it makes Jude happy, I will give up everything. Just please, don’t let him keep hurting everyone.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Don’t say that!” she cried. “You are my son. You will always be my son.” She glared up at me, her gaze thick with disappointment and pure disgust. “Jude, sharing our blood does not give you the right to torture this sweet boy.” My father added, his voice cold and final. “Eric has been by our side for over twenty years. He is respectful, loyal, and kind. He knows his place.” “And you? You might carry our name, but you are filled with nothing but malice and street violence. You aren’t fit to lace his shoes.” I stared at them, completely detached. That tiny, lingering spark of hope in my chest finally went cold and died. Amelia stepped up, shielding Eric. “You’re still just jealous of him, Jude,” she said. “What do I have to be jealous of?” I muttered. “The fact that he stole the life that belonged to me? Or the fact that he destroyed our actual child?” Amelia’s expression darkened instantly. She stepped forward and delivered a hard, resounding slap across my face. “You have no right to speak of my baby!” she screamed. My head snapped to the side. The taste of fresh blood filled my mouth once more. I slowly turned my head back and looked into her eyes. “Amelia… what if you find out, one day, that the boy upstairs is actually yours?” Her pupils dilated for a fraction of a second, but then her anger returned, hotter than before. “You’ve lost your mind, Jude.” She leaned down, grabbing my jaw in a tight, painful grip. “Tomorrow, at our engagement party, you will stand in front of everyone and apologize to Eric. You will confess to everything you did three years ago.” “And then, I’ll make sure the Haydens write you a check large enough to take that stray child and disappear forever.” I looked at her, and she felt like a stranger from another life. Three years ago, she used to rest her head on my shoulder, gently rubbing her swollen belly. “Do you think he’ll have your eyes, Jude?” she’d ask. And I’d smile and say, “I hope he looks exactly like you.” She’d laugh, swatting my arm playfully. Now, she was standing here, forcing me to confess to murdering that very boy. A wet, bitter chuckle escaped my throat. “Amelia… you make me sick.” Eric sighed softly from the back. “Jude, don’t be stubborn. If you just apologize, we can all move past this.” I ignored him. He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “By the way… your adoptive parents just arrived. They’ve missed you so much.” Eric waved his hand, and the guards untied me from the chair, only to drag me down into an even deeper, darker sub-cellar. My bad knee hit the cold concrete with a sickening thud, and my vision blurred. But a second later, a voice I’d know anywhere pierced through the dark. “Jude! Oh god, Jude!” I forced my eyes open. Walter and Helen were tied to two wooden chairs in the center of the room. Both of them were covered in bruises. Walter’s temple was split open, blood running down the side of his weathered face. Helen’s lip was swollen and purple, her graying hair a tangled mess, but the moment she saw me, she began shaking her head frantically. “Jude, don’t look,” she gasped, her voice raw and breaking. “Mom is here. Don’t worry about us. We’re okay, sweetheart.” Hot, angry tears flooded my eyes. I was only six years old when I got lost. They had found me shivering behind a train station and took me in. Walter ran a tiny, dusty auto shop; his hands were always stained with grease he could never quite scrub off. Helen sold breakfast biscuits, waking up at three every morning to knead dough. They were never rich. But throughout my entire childhood, there was always a warm carton of milk in my backpack. On rainy days, one of them would always be waiting at the school gate with an umbrella. They didn’t share my DNA, but they were more of a family than any Hayden could ever hope to be. Eric walked down the steps, holding the confession paper like a trophy. “Just sign it, Jude,” he said smoothly. “Once you sign, I’ll let them go home.” I glared at him, my teeth grinding so hard they felt ready to shatter. “This is between us, Eric! Leave them out of this!” Eric excelled at looking pleasant while delivering poison. “But you’re not behaving, big brother. Amelia is tired of your lies, and Mom and Dad are exhausted. I’m just doing them a favor. Teaching you a little discipline.” Walter looked at Eric, then yelled at me. “Don’t you dare sign that, Jude! If you didn’t do it, don’t you dare write your name!” A guard stepped forward and slammed a fist into Walter’s stomach. Walter doubled over, gasping for air, unable to speak. I screamed and tried to lunge forward, but two guards caught my shoulders and threw me back down. Eric stepped close, forcing the pen into my trembling fingers. “Sign.” I looked at Walter and Helen. They were shaking their heads, tears streaming down Helen’s bruised cheeks. But Toby was still upstairs. I didn’t know what they were doing to him. I didn’t know if he was crying, or if he was cold. My hands shook so violently the pen slipped from my grip. Eric smiled, reading my thoughts. “Oh, by the way… the kid’s heart rate is dropping. The doctor said whether they keep him on life support depends entirely on Amelia’s mood.” My breath hitched. The air left my lungs entirely. “I’ll sign,” I gasped out. “Just please, let them go.” Walter suddenly began thrashing against his ropes. “No! Don’t do it! Jude, I never taught you any fancy words or how to be a gentleman. But I taught you one thing—a man keeps his spine straight! You don’t bow to lies!” With a sudden, desperate surge of strength, Walter threw his entire weight sideways, knocking the guard next to him off balance. “Dad!” I screamed. I tried to break free, but the world seemed to move in slow motion. Walter’s head struck the sharp metal corner of the heavy work table. Blood burst from his temple, and he collapsed instantly into a silent, unmoving heap on the floor. Helen let out a raw, blood-curdling shriek, trying to throw herself toward him. “Walter!” She struggled so violently that her chair tipped over, sending her crashing onto the concrete. She gasped, clutching her chest, her face draining of all color in a matter of seconds. I fell to my knees, my mind going entirely blank. “Dad…” “Mom…” I crawled forward like a madman, dragging my useless leg, but the guards grabbed my ankles, pinning me to the floor. “Let me go! Let me go to them!” Just then, frantic footsteps pounded down the cellar stairs. A young doctor in a white lab coat burst into the room, his face pale with panic. “Mr. Hayden… the child. He’s going into cardiac arrest.” The last thread holding my sanity together snapped. I don’t know where the strength came from, but I violently kicked off the guards and began dragging myself up the stairs, clawing at the wooden steps. Every movement sent shards of agony through my shattered knee, as if the bone were being ground into dust. But I couldn’t feel it anymore. The pain didn’t matter. In the medical wing, Toby lay on a cold steel table, his tiny face translucent and white. When his eyes found me, a faint, beautiful spark flickered in them. “Daddy…” he whispered. I collapsed over the table, scooping his fragile, freezing body into my arms. His tiny fingers clutched weak folds of my blood-stained shirt. “Daddy… I want to go home.” My tears fell hot and heavy onto his pale cheeks. “Okay, baby,” I sobbed, kissing his forehead. “Daddy is going to take you home.” In my mind, the mechanical voice counted down: [Extraction countdown: 10 seconds.] I held him tighter, tucking his head under my chin. “Don’t be scared, Toby. Daddy is right here. I’m going with you.” His little fingers slowly lost their grip on my shirt, sliding down. I watched his eyes close for the last time. My chest felt as if it had been hollowed out, leaving nothing but empty space. I didn’t have to fight anymore. [3… 2… 1…] [Extraction complete.] As my body went limp and tumbled to the floor, the pain vanished. Floating in the quiet air above, I looked down and saw my own body, still clutching Toby close, lying on the sterile linoleum. We looked so peaceful. Like we were finally just asleep. The next day, the Hayden engagement gala went ahead as planned. Amelia stood under the crystal chandeliers in a stunning ivory gown, looking like a beautiful, distant dream. Eric stood beside her, a gentle smile on his face as he adjusted her delicate lace veil. My biological parents sat in the front row, looking proud. When a guest leaned in and asked about my absence, my mother’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it over. “Oh, Jude isn’t feeling well. He decided to rest today.” Amelia heard her, and a flicker of annoyance crossed her features. “Good,” she murmured to Eric. “It’s better this way. Less drama.” As the officiant called for the rings, the heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open. “My apologies! I hope I didn’t miss the vows.” A man in a dark trench coat stood in the doorway, looking windblown and serious. He glanced at Amelia, then fixed a cold stare on Eric. “Amelia,” he called out, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “I think you’re marrying the wrong man.” The velvet ring box in Eric’s hand trembled. The man stepped forward, speaking with slow, deliberate precision. “The man who dragged you out of that burning car three years ago… wasn’t him.”

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When we divorced, David said the thing he regretted most in his life was marrying me. I had drained three million dollars from his business account right when his company was on the verge of collapsing, vanishing into thin air. It took him two agonizing years to crawl back out of that hole and rebuild. He didn’t know those three million dollars went straight into covering up the fraudulent books his older brother had cooked up to save them from prison. And he didn’t know my disappearance wasn’t a choice. It was his brother, terrified the truth would come out, who pushed me over the railing of the Monroe Bridge and into the dark, freezing waters below. Three years after my death, my mother wandered off. She has Alzheimer’s, her mind frozen in time three years ago. The police found David’s number under her emergency contacts and brought her straight to his office building. She tugged on his sleeve, her face lit up with a gentle, motherly smile. “David, sweetheart told me to bring you some chicken soup. She said you’ve been pulling so many late nights at the office, you’re looking thin.” He brushed her off. I stood right beside them, my hands reaching out, but I couldn’t catch her as she stumbled backward. Three years later, and I still forget that I’m nothing but a wisp of cold air. A ghost. … My mother stumbled backward, the thermos nearly slipping from her hands. She didn’t cry or get angry. She just stood there, looking blankly at the ground for a few seconds. Then, as if she had suddenly remembered something, she chased after him with that same gentle smile. “David… the soup is getting cold. Let me heat it up for you.” David didn’t even turn his head. His voice was as cold as a December wind. “Go back and tell Emily that these pathetic little tricks only make me despise her more.” My mother froze. It wasn’t because he had been cruel. It was because she had suddenly forgotten why she was standing there. She looked down at the thermos in her hands, then up at the unfamiliar skyscrapers towering over her, whispering to herself: “Wait… what was I doing here?” Five or six seconds passed before she slapped her forehead. “Oh! The soup for David! Emily told me to!” She spun around to chase him, but her sense of direction was completely off. She stumbled straight toward the busy intersection. A city bus honked its horn violently, tires screeching as it slammed its brakes just inches from her. “Mom!” I screamed, lunging forward. My hands went straight through her shoulders. It was David’s assistant who grabbed her by the collar of her winter coat from behind, dragging her back onto the curb. The thermos hit the concrete. The lid popped off, and the warm chicken soup spilled all over the pavement. My mother dropped to her knees, desperately trying to scoop the broth back up with her bare hands. “Oh no, it spilled… my little girl is going to be so angry with me…” She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s three years ago. Back when I was still alive. Every day, I used to brush her hair, feed her her pills, and write “You’ve eaten lunch” on the back of her hand so she wouldn’t keep eating over and over. Then I was pushed into the river. And there was no one left to write on her hand. David watched the scene unfold from behind the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows of his office. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He told his assistant to look up my address and send her back. Ten minutes later, the assistant returned, his expression incredibly strained. “Mr. Shepard… there is no record of Emily for the last three years. No address, no phone number, no credit card activity, no bank transactions. It’s like… she vanished off the face of the earth.” David was silent for a few seconds. Even though I didn’t have a heartbeat anymore, my chest tightened. He laughed—a bitter, mocking sound. “She’s hiding. She spent all three million, and now she’s too ashamed to show her face.” He glanced at my mother, who was still kneeling on the pavement, wiping her eyes. “Bring her to my house. I don’t believe Emily would let her mother rot with me.” He was using her as bait. But a small wave of relief washed over me. At least with him, my mother wouldn’t wander the streets and get lost. When they arrived at the villa, the housekeeper tried to guide my mother to the guest room. She refused to go. Instead, she dragged a small wooden stool over to the entryway, sat down by the front door, and clutched the empty thermos to her knees. Her eyes were fixed on the door. The housekeeper tried to coax her inside for dinner, but she only shook her head. “I have to wait for Emily. If she comes and can’t find me, she’ll worry.” David walked past and cast a cold glance at her. “Let her be. She can wait until the end of time, no one is coming.” My mother didn’t seem to hear him. She reached deep into her coat pocket, pulled out a gold-wrapped Werther’s Original caramel, and placed it neatly on the threshold, lining it up perfectly. “This is for my little girl. She always loved these when she was small.” I knelt on the steps beside her, tears streaming down my face, disappearing before they could hit the floor. Ever since I was five years old, my mother always kept a candy in her pocket for me. She could forget her way home, forget if she had eaten, forget her own age. But that candy. She never forgot. The next morning, there was a quiet rustling in the kitchen. I drifted over and froze. My mother was standing by the stove, her hands trembling as she adjusted a heavy skillet. The housekeeper stood off to the side, looking utterly helpless. “Ma’am, please, let me handle this…” “No, no,” my mother insisted softly. “David’s stomach is sensitive. I can’t use too much oil.” She had only been to David’s house once before—on our wedding day, three years ago. Yet, she walked from the front door to the kitchen without making a single wrong turn. A lump formed in my throat. The year she was diagnosed, I was terrified she would get lost. I had held her hand and walked her from our front door to the kitchen twenty times, repeating, “Left at the door, then straight to the end.” Our old house was long gone. But the layout of this villa’s kitchen happened to be on the left side too. When David came downstairs, the dining table was set with four dishes. Slow-cooked pot roast, mashed potatoes, warm tomato soup, and a fresh cucumber salad. He stared at the pot roast, his throat tightening. “Who made this?” My mother stepped out of the kitchen holding a small dish of pickles, wiping her hands on her sleeves. The wrinkles around her eyes crinkled as she smiled warmly. “Eat while it’s hot, David. Emily always told me you love pot roast, but I have to use brown sugar instead of white, and the potatoes have to be extra smooth…” She counted the details on her fingers, one by one. David had never shared those preferences with anyone. It was because every time I visited her, I had patiently taught her how to cook these exact meals. I had been terrified that if one day I wasn’t around, there would be no one left who remembered what he liked to eat. I just hadn’t expected that day to come so soon. He didn’t pick up his fork. “Did Emily send you here to play the martyr? Quite the performance.” My mother blinked, confused. She had no idea what he was talking about. Just then, the old, cracked phone in her pocket began to ring. A voice, slightly distorted through the damaged speaker, floated into the quiet room. It was my voice. “Mom, it’s time for your medicine. Don’t forget, take a sip of water first before you swallow.” My mother obediently pulled out her small pillbox, shook two tablets into her palm, and swallowed them with the warm water from her glass. David froze entirely. Slowly, he reached out and took the phone from her hand. He swiped open the screen, which was webbed with fractures, and tapped into the alarm application. The screen was packed with dozens of alarms. “7:00 AM: Mom, wake up and drink some warm water.” “8:00 AM: Mom, it’s time for breakfast.” “9:30 AM: Mom, take your medicine. Two white pills, one blue.” “12:00 PM: Mom, don’t forget to eat lunch.” … The list went on, all the way to “9:00 PM: Mom, go to sleep early. I’ll come see you tomorrow.” Twenty alarms every single day. He kept scrolling. The start date began three years ago, programmed to repeat daily until the year 2087. I had set them to repeat indefinitely. Because I hadn’t known when her mind would slip away entirely, or how much longer I would be allowed to stand by her side. So, I had programmed the alarms to watch over her in my place. To remind her to drink water, to eat, to take her pills. To ring and ring, until she no longer needed me. David put the phone down, his face entirely unreadable. “Where is she?” “My little girl said she’d come pick me up as soon as she’s finished with work.” “Work? You mean spending my three million dollars to live comfortably?” My mother shook her head violently, suddenly panicked. “No! My Emily would never do that! When she was a little girl, she wouldn’t even let me buy her an ice cream!” Her eyes welled with tears. “She promised me… she said she’d come as soon as she was done…” Mid-sentence, her mind seemed to glitch, like a skipped track on a record. Her brow furrowed as if a memory had flashed just out of reach, but then she smiled again, gentle and simple. “She must be working overtime. My daughter is always so busy.” David pushed his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. “Get her out of here. Find a decent assisted living facility. I’ll cover the expenses.” The security staff gently guided my mother toward the door. She clung tightly to the empty thermos, refusing to let go, constantly turning her head to look back at the house. “Please, let me wait just a little longer… What if she comes back and can’t find me?” No one listened. The car stopped at an unfamiliar intersection, and the guard opened the passenger door. The sky was turning a bruised violet. My mother stood beneath a streetlamp, spinning around in slow, bewildered circles. She reached into her coat and pulled out a worn, faded photograph of me when I was twenty, smiling like an idiot. The edges were soft and frayed from how many times she had touched it. She pressed the photograph close to her chest. “Sweetheart, I don’t know this street… where are you?” Then, she began to dial my number. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” She dialed again. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” She didn’t believe it. She dialed seven or eight times, carefully and deliberately pressing every single digit. On the last attempt, she held the phone tightly to her ear, keeping it there for a very long time, as if she could still catch the echo of my voice. The night grew pitch black. She dug a crumpled ten-dollar bill out of her pocket, walked across the street, and bought a warm cinnamon roll from a bakery window. She tore it in half, eating the smaller portion. The larger half she carefully wrapped in a plastic bag and tucked deep into the warmth of her coat. “I’ll save this half for Emily. She always loved sweet rolls.” I collapsed against her knees, sobbing with a voice that made no sound. A cold gust of wind swept through the street, and she shivered, pulling her collar tight. The sound of footsteps echoed on the pavement. Someone stopped directly in front of her. It was David. I didn’t know how long he had been standing there, watching her from beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamp as she huddled on the curb. His expression wasn’t pity—it was a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. “Emily, you really are incredible.” He clenched his jaw, his voice directed at the empty air. “Leaving your own mother on the street like this. Are you even human?” He took off his heavy winter coat, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then draped it over her shoulders. My mother looked up. When she saw him, her eyes lit up instantly. “David! Did Emily send you to fetch me?” He didn’t answer. He reached down and pulled her up by the arms, his brow furrowing when his fingers brushed her icy skin. “Get in the car.” My mother followed him obediently for a couple of steps, then suddenly pulled the wrapped cinnamon roll from her coat. “David, keep this safe for me. It’s for Emily.” He took it from her hand and slipped it into his suit pocket. He didn’t throw it away. I looked at his profile, my chest aching with a complex, unnameable grief. When they returned to the villa, my mother immediately reclaimed her spot on the small stool by the door. This time, he didn’t try to move her. The housekeeper brought over a thick throw blanket. David took it from her and tossed it onto my mother’s lap. “Sit there if you want, just don’t freeze to death in my house.” Late into the night, wrapped in the heavy blanket, my mother began to hum a soft tune. The melody was unsteady and out of key, but I recognized it instantly. It was the lullaby she had hummed to me since I was a baby. When I was little and the thunder roared, I would scramble into her bed. She would wrap her arms around me and hum that song until my fears vanished. When I grew up, I would wrap my arms around her and hum it back to her. And then, I was swallowed by the icy December river. And there was no one left to hum it. David, holding a glass of water, paused at the top of the stairs. He knew that song. The first year we were married, he had come down with a high fever, burning at nearly a hundred and four degrees. In his delirium, he had felt someone stroking his hair, humming that exact melody. He had asked me what the song was. I had told him it was the lullaby my mother sang to me. He stood on the stairs for a long, quiet interval. Finally, he turned and went into his study, closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a dull thud. I couldn’t be sure what he was remembering. I could only see his knuckles resting on his water glass, turning completely white. Over the next few days, my mother lived quietly in his home. Every morning before dawn, she would wake up to prepare meals—every single dish tailored to his favorite tastes. He wouldn’t touch them, but she refused to throw them away. I watched as she carefully wrapped the leftovers in plastic wrap and slid them beneath the cushions of the sofa. “I have to save this pot roast for Emily. She loves it.” “The tomato soup has to stay too. She always drinks it when she gets a cold…” I squatted in front of her, watching her busy hands, my mind drifting to memories of years past. Back when my mother worked at the local textile mill, the cafeteria occasionally served beef stew for lunch. She never ate a single bite of it. Instead, she would pack it away in a small metal container to bring home to me. For years, I believed she simply didn’t like beef. Until the day she collapsed on the assembly line, and her coworkers told me she had been living on plain toast and black tea for months. Once I started earning my own money, I made beef stew for her every week. She would never touch it, smiling and saying, “I’m getting old, sweetheart, my teeth can’t handle it,” before transferring every piece of meat onto my plate. Now, she was hiding food beneath another person’s sofa. Waiting for someone who would never come to eat it. By the fifth day, her supply of Werther’s caramels was nearly gone. She searched her pockets multiple times a day. If she felt a candy, she would smile; if her fingers found nothing, silent tears would roll down her cheeks. The housekeeper mentioned it to David. Without looking up from his laptop, he said, “Buy a bag of the exact same ones and put them in her coat.” “What brand was it?” His pen hovered over the paper. “Werther’s Originals.” I stared at his expressionless face. He remembered. On the seventh day, the doorbell rang. My mother was the first to spring up, her eyes wide and shining like stars. “Emily!” She hurried to the door with trembling steps. But when she opened it, she was met by a young woman in a beige trench coat, her long hair perfectly styled, her makeup flawless. It wasn’t me. It was Rebecca. On the day we divorced, she had been sitting in the passenger seat of David’s car. I had watched her through the glass. My mother’s smile faded slowly, her eyes looking past Rebecca into the dark courtyard. “…Not Emily.” Rebecca walked in, looping her arm through David’s, casting a brief, curious glance at my mother. “Who is the old woman?” “A nuisance.” He didn’t look at my mother when he said it. My mother lowered her head, quietly adjusting the seventh caramel on the threshold, lining it up with the others. Rebecca walked over to the sofa. Just as she was about to sit, she suddenly covered her nose. “What is that smell? Ever since I got pregnant, my nose has been so sensitive. Everything makes me sick.” My gaze drifted down to her stomach, which wasn’t yet showing. He was going to have a child. My place had been given away three years ago. David caught the scent too. He looked toward the sofa, stepped over, and lifted the heavy cushions. Beneath them lay a collection of wrapped plates—pot roast, tomato soup, potatoes, and even a few biscuits. Some of the food had gone sour; some was covered in a fuzzy layer of white mold. And sitting right next to the plates, lined up in a perfect, neat row, were seven gold-wrapped caramels. One for each day. Rebecca took a sharp step back in disgust. The vein in David’s temple throbbed. “What is all this?” My mother threw herself forward, using her body to shield the decaying food. “Don’t touch them! Those are for my little girl!” She knelt on the floor, her hands frantically trying to reseal the plastic wrap around the plates. “She loves the pot roast… and the soup has to stay, she needs it when she gets sick…” She looked up at David, her face slick with tears. “Didn’t you tell me she was coming to get me? She has to eat when she gets here… my Emily has been hungry for so long…” David’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something sharp and dismissive. But no sound came out. My mother kept going, her voice cracking. “My girl had such a hard life… she was always so good, so sensible… she gave me all the best food…” “She always told me she wasn’t hungry, but I knew she was just saving her money to buy my medicine…” She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, but the tears kept coming. “She was so thin… I was always afraid to hug her too tight, afraid I’d break her…” I knelt beside my mother, leaning my forehead against her shoulder. I slipped right through her. I had forgotten again. Rebecca stood nearby, clearly unnerved by the breakdown, taking another step back. Her heel struck something on the floor. She looked down. It was a dusty, worn cloth pouch that had slipped from my mother’s embrace. It was embroidered with a crooked, amateurish sunflower. “What’s this?” Rebecca reached down to pick it up. “Don’t touch it!” My mother lunged, snatching the pouch back and clutching it tightly against her chest. I had sewn that pouch while lying in my hospital bed. During my final days, I had barely any strength left. It had taken me three days just to finish that single, lopsided sunflower, the stitching messy and uneven. But my mother had held it and told me it was the most beautiful flower she had ever seen. David’s eyes locked onto the sunflower. His gaze froze. He recognized the fabric. It was cut from one of his old shirts. He had worn it for three years until the collar frayed, and I had kept it, cutting a small square to make the pouch. His entire expression shifted. “What’s inside that?” My mother stared at him blankly, her lips trembling. She had forgotten again. She tried desperately to think, tapping her temple in frustration. “Emily told me… she told me to give it to… I have to give it to…” I stood beside her, my heart heavy with a bittersweet ache. I had tucked that letter into her pouch myself. On the night before Christian pushed me into the river, I had prepared everything—the bank transfer receipts, the photographs, and a long letter I had spent days writing. I had instructed my mother to give it to David. Back then, I wanted him to know the truth about the three million dollars. I wanted him to know exactly what kind of monster his beloved brother really was. But now, looking at Rebecca’s stomach, looking at this beautiful villa I had never stepped foot in, looking at the new life he had built… I wasn’t sure anymore. What would change if he found out? I couldn’t come back to life. It would only saddle him with a guilt that would haunt him for the rest of his days. When I first handed the pouch to my mother, I hadn’t thought about that. I had only cared about clearing my name. But after three years of being dead, my innocence felt trivial. I only wanted to spare him the pain. But my mother’s eyes suddenly cleared, lighting up as she looked at him. “It’s you! David! Emily said I had to hand this to you myself!” With trembling hands, she lifted the cloth pouch and offered it to him. She had forgotten almost everything. But the phrase “give it to David” was etched into her mind, deeper than the disease could reach. Just like the caramels she kept in her pocket. Some things were simply too deep to be erased. David didn’t reach for it immediately. He looked at my mother, then at the lopsided sunflower stitched onto his old shirt fabric. Slowly, he reached out and took the pouch. He untied the worn cotton string at the neck. Several folded sheets of paper slid out into his palm. He picked them up. They were bank transfer receipts. Amount: $3,000,000. Receiver: Vanguard Trading LLC. It was Christian’s shell company. The account his brother had used to hide his embezzlement. David’s hands began to shake violently. Another slip of paper fell, and with it, a photograph. In the picture, I was wearing his oversized green winter coat, standing near the railing of the Monroe Bridge. The December water behind me was a dull, heavy grey. I looked incredibly thin, my hair whipped wild by the wind. But I was smiling. On the back of the photograph, six words were written in my neat handwriting: “David, don’t hate me.” Beneath the photo lay a worn, brown paper envelope, the corners soft and rounded. It bore his name, written in my handwriting. The handwriting he knew better than anyone’s. “For David. Read in private.” My mother leaned closer, gently tugging at his sleeve, her face bright with a hopeful smile. “David, what does Emily’s letter say? When is she coming home to get me?” He couldn’t find his voice to answer. It took his trembling fingers three attempts before he finally managed to tear the envelope open. The moment he pulled the letter out, his eyes burned a deep, painful red.

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