After covering for the girl my two childhood best friends liked for the umpteenth time, they stopped me with smiles as I was leaving school.
“Cover for her just one more time today? We’re going on a date tonight. Please?”
I looked up and whispered:
“Not today. I have a date too.”
One friend’s smile instantly vanished, replaced by a cold smirk.
“If you don’t want to do her chores, at least come up with a better excuse. Who could you possibly have a date with?”
Seeing my silence, the other friend’s smile disappeared completely. He slammed his hand against the wall, pinning me there.
“You’re really going on a date?
“With who?!”
1
After class, I was taking out my umbrella to head home when Lucas grabbed my arm.
“Don’t go yet. Do the cleaning duty first.”
I looked back. Chloe’s name was written on the blackboard under “Cleaning Duty.”
“It’s not my turn todayâ”
“Chloe has cramps,” Lucas smirked, his handsome fox-like eyes curving up. He naturally patted my shoulder.
“So, I’m counting on you. I’m gonna take Chloe home first.”
Saying that, he slung his backpack over one shoulder and moved to give Chloe a piggyback ride.
A hint of amusement flashed in Chloe’s eyes as she playfully hit him.
“I don’t need you to carry me. I said it’s nothing serious. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
Lucas half-knelt in front of her, looking up.
“How is it nothing? Girls need to rest when they have cramps. Harper is a girl too, she’ll understand.
“Right, Harper?”
I pressed my lips together. “…Fine.”
As soon as I put down my backpack, the umbrella tucked on the side was pulled out by a long, pale hand.
Ethan took off his rimless glasses and frowned at Lucas.
“Are you planning to let Chloe walk in the rain? She can’t catch a cold.”
He glanced at me. “I’m taking the umbrella. The rain looks like it’ll stop soon. You can leave when it stops.”
With that, one carried Chloe while the other held the umbrella over her, and they walked out together.
Chloe turned back, a slightly apologetic look on her exquisite face.
“Harper, we’ll be going then.”
…
Their figures quickly disappeared into the rain.
I withdrew my gaze and started cleaning.
This was the third time this month I had covered for Chloe, and she was only scheduled three times a month.
The time before last, she had a piano lesson. before I could even agree, Lucas agreed for me.
“Piano lessons are important. You have your level test coming up. Harper doesn’t have anything to do anyway.”
Last time, a new movie Chloe liked was released. Both Lucas and Ethan wanted to watch it with her, so the cleaning duty was left to me.
I silently swept the entire classroom, mopped it once, and started erasing the blackboard.
The blackboard was too high. I couldn’t reach the top words even after jumping a few times.
Just as I was about to get a chair, a hand reached out from behind me.
A hand with defined knuckles, clean and beautiful. It took the eraser from me and wiped away the words in a few strokes.
Startled, I turned around abruptly and found Julian, the academic representative, standing behind me.
He was so close I could smell the scent of sea salt and lemon on himâlight, dry, and completely out of place with the humidity.
Before I could speak, he said:
“It doesn’t seem to be your turn today?”
The girls at school always argued about who was the hottest: Ethan, Lucas, or Julian.
But maybe because I was with Ethan and Lucas every day, seeing Julian up close felt more impactful. His light brown eyes were clear and clean, his eyelashes long and light like butterfly wings.
“Chloe isn’t feeling well, so I’m helping her.
“Why haven’t you left yet?”
Julian didn’t show much expression, just helped me erase the entire board.
“Went to the office to drop off papers. Came back and saw youâ” he seemed to chuckle, “jumping.”
I blushed. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Julian put the eraser on the podium. “Done? Shall we go?”
I waved my hand. “You go ahead. I don’t have an umbrella. I’ll wait for the rain to stop.”
He pulled out a black umbrella.
“Let’s go together. I have one.”
…
“You often cover for Chloe? I’ve seen it before.”
“Yeah, she… has things to do.”
“She has a lot of things to do,” Julian tilted the umbrella towards me. “You seem pretty close with Ethan and Lucas?”
“Yeah, we’re all friends. Including Chloe.”
“If you’re friends, why do you do all the work alone?”
I was speechless, kicking a small stone.
“You’re busy too, right? I heard you have cram school at night. Why don’t you refuse her?”
I paused. “If I refuse, they’ll be unhappy. We’re friends.”
“What happens if they’re unhappy?”
“We won’t be friends anymore?” I blurted out. “I only have these three friends.”
“Then be friends with me.”
We stopped at the entrance of my apartment building simultaneously.
The jacaranda blossoms in the complex were beaten down by the rain, petals blowing in the wind.
Julian held the black umbrella and smiled at me. “Are we friends now?”
No one could say no to that face. I nodded.
“Of course. Thanks for walking me home today.”
“Just a verbal thanks?”
I froze, looking up at Julian.
The right side of his uniform, away from me, was completely soaked, while I was barely wet.
But he didn’t seem to feel it at all, his smile gentle.
“Then accompany me to the library the day after tomorrow. You wouldn’t refuse a friend, right?”
3
After showering that night, I saw Chloe’s message tagging me in the group chat.
“Harper, are you home? Sorry for troubling you again. It’s all because those two insisted on sending me home. I said it was nothing, but they made it so tense.”
I dried my hair. “I’m home.”
“You didn’t have an umbrella. How did you get back?” Lucas suddenly asked.
“Someone walked me home.”
“Who was it?” Chloe sent a voice message with a laugh. “Is our Harper dating?”
Ethan rarely sent messages in the group, usually only replying after Chloe spoke.
“Impossible. Who would date Harper?”
Lucas chimed in: “Exactly. She’s a nerd. Who would be interested in her?”
Chloe laughed louder. “Why do you say that about Harper? She’s great, pretty and smart.”
“Pretty?” Lucas scoffed. “Far worse than you. If she’s pretty, what are you?”
Ethan: “Chloe, you’re just too kind. If you don’t tell the truth, she won’t see herself clearly. What if she gets tricked?”
Messages popped up one after another. My mood, which had improved because of Julian, hit rock bottom again. I put down my phone and lay down gloomily.
This wasn’t the first time. I knew that in our so-called clique, they actually looked down on me.
I could understand.
Ethan, Lucas, and Chloe were the dazzling types. Good-looking, wealthy families, excellent themselves.
Only I was the most inconspicuous one.
If we hadn’t grown up together, I might never have crossed paths with people like them in my life.
Ethan and Lucas both liked Chloe. When the four of us were together, I was always transparent.
It had been this way since childhood. I seemed to have gotten used to not refusing them.
I rolled over, remembering what Julian said before leaving.
“Treating you like this… do they really consider you a friend?”
4
On the day of Chloe’s cleaning duty, Lucas shoved the broom into my hands again.
“We’re taking Chloe to the movies tonight. Cover for her.”
Ethan had already picked up Chloe’s bag. Chloe waved at me with a smile.
“Thanks, Harper!”
I paused, then handed the broom back to Lucas.
“Sorry, but I have a date today too.”
The smiles on their three faces froze simultaneously.
“A date?” Chloe curled her lip, putting on a generous act. “Haha, Harper, you just don’t want to cover for me, right? True, I’ve troubled you a lot this month.”
Lucas frowned, his thick eyebrows knitting together. “A date? With who? Harper, if you’re making an excuse, find a better one. Who else do you know besides us?”
Ethan turned his inorganic-looking eyes behind the rimless glasses towards me. “Harper, stop messing around. Chloe really wants to see this movie. Just cover for her once, it’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
“It’s true,” I lowered my head. “We agreed to go to the library. I’m not messing around.”
Chloe raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you do the cleaning first? It won’t take long.”
“No,” I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost time. I’m leaving first.”
Chloe’s smile faded. She tugged lightly at Lucas.
“Can you and Ethan persuade Harper? Is she angry because I trouble her too much?
“Or is she… really dating? Is it the person who walked her home last time?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ethan and Lucas’s expressions darken.
Ethan blocked my path. “Who walked you home last time? Who are you meeting?”
Before I could speak, Lucas pinned me against the wall.
“In such a hurry to leave? Harper, speak clearly. Are you really dating?”
He lowered his brow, eyes dark.
“Who is it?!”
“Me.”
Julian walked in, pulling me away from Lucas.
He was about the same height as Lucas, looking at him levelly with a smile.
“Harper is going out with me today.
“Let’s go.”
Saying that, he helped me with my bag. As we left, his gaze swept over Ethan without a ripple.
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1
I was born with a weak heart. The doctors said I wouldnât live to see eighteen.
When I was ten, my parents brought home a blind girl they said was my twin sister.
Our family doted on me, lavishing me with affection, but they were always cold to my sister.
Everyone whispered that Hope existed for one reason: to give me her heart.
So I poured all my love into this girl who looked just like me, trying to soothe the guilt that clawed at my soul.
Then came my eighteenth birthday. I lay on the operating table, ready.
But it wasn’t my heart they took.
It was my corneas.
And then I died.
And my sister, Hope, received the gift of sight.
âŚ
The moment the heart monitor let out its long, final scream, I thought my life had ended right there.
A torrent of memories flooded my mind, finally settling on the instant I first opened the door and saw Hope.
The day she arrived, I was curled up on the huge cashmere sofa in the living room, sipping my expensive imported medication. The door swung open, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and a world I’d never known.
She stood in the doorway, a slip of a girl, dark and thin like a wild weed. Her clothes were worn, her small hands clutching a tattered canvas bag.
Her eyes were a cloudy gray. Just like mine, and yet, completely different.
âThis is your sister, Hope,â Mom said. Her voice was flat. She didn’t reach out to touch her.
Hope said nothing, her head bowed.
It didn’t take me long to realize that Mom didn’t seem to like this new sister.
Looking at this child, a mirror image of myself, a strange ache settled deep in my chest.
From that day on, I gave her everything I had.
New dresses, imported chocolates, my favorite porcelain doll.
She was given the small, north-facing room, while I kept the large, sunny one. At dinner, the family would circle me, laughing and piling my plate with the best cuts of meat. When it came to Hope, Mom would just say, âShe can get it herself.â Her tone was clipped, dismissive.
I knew they cherished me. All because of my heart.
The fact that I wouldn’t live past eighteen was my deepest secret.
When I was ten, my parents brought Hope home, my blind twin sister. They said she was a gift from God. Everyone told me, in hushed tones, that Hopeâs very existence was meant to keep me alive.
I believed them.
So I tried desperately to be good to her. I wanted to make up for it, to give her everything I had to give.
Jane, our housekeeper, used to mutter behind her hand, âMiss Ava is the treasure, Miss Hope is the weed.â
I heard her. It only made me give Hope more.
One afternoon, I took her by the hand and led her on a tour of the house.
âThe curtains,â I murmured, guiding her fingers. âVelvet.â
âA vase. Glass. Itâs cool to the touch.â
I helped her find the piano keys. A single, jarring note sprang out. She flinched, then, her curiosity piqued, she reached out again.
Later, we sat on the plush rug in my room, bathed in the warm afternoon sun. I donât know why, but I took her hand and gently pressed it against the left side of my chest.
âHope, feel this,â I said with a smile. âThatâs a heartbeat.â
Her small, cool hand rested there, perfectly still.
After a moment, she took my hand and placed it over her own chest.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
A steady, powerful rhythm. Nothing like the fragile fluttering in my own chest.
I froze.
We shared the same blood, the same face. Our hearts even seemed to beat in the same rhythm. But mine was dying. And hers, so strong and full of life, was trapped in a world of darkness.
I squeezed her hand, a sharp, sudden pain twisting in my gut.
Those words that had echoed in my mind for yearsâHopeâs existence is meant to keep you aliveâsuddenly felt like a shard of glass, digging into me.
In that moment, my resolve wavered.
Was all my kindness, all my “goodness,” an act of salvation, or was it a slow, deliberate act of… murder?
2
The memories blurred into a swirling darkness, and through the chaos, I thought I heard voices.
âItâs done,â a manâs calm voice said, laced with post-surgical fatigue.
âA complete success,â another replied.
The doctors.
So⌠the surgery worked! I was alive! Hopeâs heart was beating in my chest.
The realization almost brought me to tears. But a split second later, a tidal wave of guilt crashed over me.
Hope⌠it was Hope, the quiet girl who always followed me, the girl with the healthy heart, who had given it to me.
What about her? Was she okay?
I fought with every ounce of my consciousness to open my eyes, to get one last look at her on the operating table next to mine. But my eyelids felt like they were sealed shut, heavy and immovable.
There was only darkness, and the voices, growing clearer.
âFinally, we can breathe again.â
That was Momâs voice, from just outside the operating room door.
âYes,â Dad replied after a pause. âEight years. It wasnât for nothing.â
A faint tremor went through me. Eight years⌠were they waiting for me to be saved? They must have been in agony all this time. Now, they could finally relax.
I struggled to rise, focusing my will against the oppressive darkness. Light flooded in. I instinctively turned my head to the other operating table.
Hope was lying there peacefully, her eyes wrapped in gauze, but her chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of her breathing.
She⌠she was alive!
Thank God, we both made it. A wave of bewildered relief washed over me. The doctors must have found another donor heart at the last minute. Heaven had smiled on us after all.
âHopeâŚâ I whispered, stumbling out of bed and moving towards her, needing to tell her I was sorry.
I reached out, but my fingertips passed straight through the back of her hand, which was resting on the edge of the bed.
No warmth. No substance.
I looked down at my own hands, which had become faint and translucent, and finally understood.
Turning back, I saw the operating table I had just left. A white sheet had been pulled over it, outlining the still form of a human body.
I drifted closer and gently lifted the corner of the sheet.
The “me” underneath had her eyes covered with clean white gauze, as if she were merely asleep.
So⌠I didn’t make it through the surgery after all.
I looked at my transparent hands, then at the bandages over Hopeâs eyes.
No, it couldnât be. Mom and Dad loved me so much, they would neverâŚ
But that phrase, âEight years, it wasnât for nothing,â now echoed in my mind with a chilling new meaning.
The doors to the operating room swung open and a team of nurses came in, expertly maneuvering Hopeâs gurney out into the hallway. I followed them, a silent, invisible shadow.
My parents were waiting right outside. They rushed forward.
Mom gently brushed the hair from Hopeâs forehead. Dad leaned in, his voice low as he asked the doctor, âWill she⌠will she be able to see soon?â
âThe surgery was a complete success. Once she recovers, her vision will be perfectly restored.â
Their faces broke into smiles of pure, unadulterated relief, the likes of which I had never seen in all my years. It was as if losing one daughter was a cause for celebration.
My parents walked alongside the gurney, disappearing down the long, bright hospital corridor.
Not once did either of them look back.
I stood alone in the empty hallway, watching their silhouettes fade into the light. A pang of sadness hit me, but I was happy for them, too. Hope could finally see. It wouldn’t do to have my body around on such a joyous day. It would only bring bad luck.
They could finally start a new life. No more worrying about their sickly daughter, no more anxiously counting down the days.
A moment later, an orderly came in and turned the gurney holding my body in the other direction.
âSo young. Such a shame.â
âI heard she donated her corneas to her sister.â
The wheels of the gurney hummed softly as they rolled down the cold, sterile hallway, heading for the morgue.
I see now.
I wasn’t the one who received a heart.
I was the one who gave my eyes. My death, in exchange for Hopeâs light.
3
When I floated into the hospital room, Mom was gently dabbing Hopeâs lips with a moistened cotton swab. Dad stood by the bed, his gaze locked on the gauze over Hopeâs eyes. He had a look of intense focus I thought I recognized, but now realized I had never truly received.
He was rarely home when I was growing up, and when he was, he usually kept to his study. He gave me anything I asked for; whatever I wanted would appear at my bedside the next day. I used to think he was just a serious man, that men didn’t know how to express their love. Because whenever he looked at me, there was always a subtle, impenetrable distance in his eyes.
Now, watching him look at Hope, that distance was gone.
A few days later, the bandages came off. Hope blinked, her new eyes adjusting to the light, and whispered, âDad.â
Just that one word, and my fatherâs eyes welled up with tears. He pulled her into a fierce hug, his shoulders trembling slightly.
I had called him âDadâ countless times. All I ever got in return was a restrained, polite smile. It wasnât that he was incapable of emotion; he just wasn’t capable of feeling it for me.
Back home, there was no memorial, not even a photograph. The family portrait above the fireplace was gone. The clay mugs I’d made for them, the slippers Iâd boughtâvanished. Every trace of my existence had been scrubbed away with a chilling, heartbreaking efficiency.
Maybe it was for the best. This way, they wouldnât have to look at my things and feel sad. People have to move on.
âWelcome home.â
Dad took Hopeâs hand, his voice softer and warmer than I had ever heard it. He led her through every room, as if she were the true mistress of the house, finally returning.
They stopped at the door to my old bedroom. It was completely empty. The walls were a stark, clinical white, freshly painted.
âWeâll make this your art studio,â Mom said, her voice bright with anticipation. âYou mentioned you wanted to learn how to paint.â
Hope nodded softly.
I remembered when Hope had first expressed an interest in painting. Mom had shut her down instantly, claiming there were âno spare rooms.â It wasnât a lie, I realized. They were just waiting.
Waiting for me to be gone. Waiting for Hope to see.
But why would a blind girl be so obsessed with painting?
The question surfaced, and I quickly pushed it down. She could see now. It was only natural sheâd want to learn.
As Mom gently stroked Hopeâs hair, a hazy, fragmented memory flickered in my mind. It felt like a lifetime ago. Mom, stroking my hair just like that, humming a lullaby. But the name she was murmuring wasn’t Ava.
What was it? A softer sound⌠something like⌠Grace?
I shook my head, my spirit wavering. It had to be a hallucination. My name had always been Ava. Dad said they chose it hoping I would forget my illness and grow up healthy.
Dad brought over a large art book and sat down beside Hope.
âLook,â he said, his finger tracing over a page. âThese are Monetâs Water Lilies. See how beautiful the colors are?â His eyes were full of a gentle adoration.
I suddenly remembered the art book heâd given me for my last birthday. It was still sitting on the highest shelf of my bookcase, the wrapping untouched. âYou have a weak constitution, Ava,â heâd said at the time. âYou shouldnât strain your eyes with things like this.â
Looking back, he was right. A broken body like mine shouldnât have dared to dream of such things.
Hope looked up at him and asked quietly, âWould⌠would my sister have liked these paintings?â
The air in the room instantly froze. The smiles on my parentsâ faces hardened.
âDonât talk about her.â Momâs voice was a whisper, but it landed like a hammer blow on my heart.
âYour sisterâŚâ Dad began, then trailed off. He simply patted Hopeâs head. âThe most important thing right now is for your eyes to heal properly.â
My heart ached, but I quickly pushed the feeling away. They were just worried that talking about me would upset Hope. Her recovery was fragile; she didn’t need any emotional distress.
I watched the three of them sitting together in the sunlight, a perfect picture of family harmony.
This was good. Hope could see, and my parents were finally free from the burden of caring for me. My sacrifice had been worth it.
I just didnât understand why my chest still hurt.
My heart wasnât even beating anymore.
4
I lingered in the house I had known for eighteen years, a ghost watching my former family build a new life without me.
A noise from the living room drew my attention. I floated over to see Dad taping an eye chart to the wall.
âAlright, Hope, letâs see how far down you can read,â he said, his voice brimming with hopeful encouragement. Mom stood nearby, her hands clasped together in nervous anticipation.
Hope stepped forward and, without hesitation, read off the smallest line of symbols.
âOh, thank God!â Mom cried, pulling her into a tight embrace, her voice thick with emotion. âYou can see clearly, you can seeâŚâ
Dadâs face relaxed into a wide, relieved smile as he gently patted Hopeâs back.
I hovered in place, stunned.
I remembered last year after my school physical, Iâd proudly shown Dad my vision test resultsâperfect 20/20 vision. Heâd barely glanced at it. âProtect your eyes,â heâd said dismissively. âStop staring at your phone so much.â
At the time, I thought he just wasn’t the type to give praise. But now, looking at him with Hope, I saw a completely different man.
After dinner, Mom brought out a brand-new photo album.
âLetâs sort through the old photos, Hope,â she said, her voice light and cheerful, full of the promise of a fresh start. âWe need to make room for all the new memories weâre going to make.â
I drifted closer to look.
In the thick family album, every single photograph that had included me had been removed. The empty, plastic-covered slots were like gaping wounds, a silent mockery of my eighteen years of life.
Nearby, Dad was clearing out the bookshelf. He stacked all my textbooks, my novels, even my award-winning essays into a pile, ready to be sold as scrap paper. He didnât hesitate for a second.
My academic awards were still tacked to the study wall. He reached up, ripped them down in one swift motion, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed them into a cardboard box at his feet. He moved with the casual efficiency of someone cleaning out old junk.
Among them was my first-ever drawing from kindergarten. A crayon portrait of the three of us. I remember Dad had praised it, even had it framed. Now, it was just another piece of trash.
Every single piece of evidence that I had ever existed was being systematically and ruthlessly erased.
Except for one thing. A locked drawer in the study desk, a drawer that had remained shut for as long as I could remember, was left untouched.
I stood right beside my father, watching him. He felt nothing.
As he reached for the top shelf, a dusty, unfamiliar photo album Iâd never seen before slipped and fell to the floor. It flipped open to a page with pictures of two babies in identical christening gowns. Underneath each photo, a name was written in elegant cursive.
One read: “Grace, 100 Days.”
The other: “Lily, 100 Days.”
I stared at the names, frozen.
Grace? Lily?
The unfamiliar names sent a strange, sharp pang through me.
Dad walked over, picked up the album without a second glance, and tossed it into the box of discards. âJust some useless old photos,â he said, more to himself than to anyone else.
Later, Mom went to the kitchen to prepare Hopeâs bedtime milk. She opened the highest cabinet and took down the familiar white bottleâthe âimported heart medicationâ I had taken for eight years straight.
âDoes she still need to take this?â Dad asked, walking into the kitchen.
âThe doctor said to continue for a while longer to be safe.â Mom expertly crushed two pills into a fine powder and stirred them into the warm milk. âItâs good for her eyesâ recovery.â
I was paralyzed. Good for her eyes?
As Mom carried the glass of milk out of the kitchen, a curled corner of the label on the pill bottle snagged and peeled away, fluttering to the floor.
I instinctively floated closer, my non-existent heart freezing as I read the original name hidden beneath the fake one.
Corneal Preservation Solution.
And in smaller print: For maintaining corneal viability and preventing tissue necrosis.
The weight of the truth was so immense it felt like it could crush my very soul.
For eight years, the pills Iâd taken every single day werenât to keep me alive. They were to keep my eyes perfectly preserved for someone else.
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“The plot of your novel matches the Vance Family Massacre from ten years ago. perfectly. But due to the gruesome nature of the crime, the details were never released to the public.”
The implication was clear: aside from the killer, no one could possibly know the specifics.
Facing the interrogation, I let out a soft laugh. “You’re wrong, Detective. There is someone else.” “The victims.”
1
“The victims?” The man across the table scoffed. “So, what you’re saying is, you know the details because you’re one of the dead?” “Avery Stone, youâre a professional thriller author. Do I need to explain the concept of death to you?”
The man speaking was Detective Miller, the youngest captain in the precinctâs history. He slammed his hand on the metal table for emphasis.
I understood his anger. The Vance case was a cold case that haunted every cop in this city. Now, because of my book, it was back in the headlines. The internet was already buzzing with theories. Most people thought the author was the killer. Some trolls were even saying it was a manifestoâa preview of the next slaughter. The city was on edge.
I smiled, leaning back. “Detective Miller, I’m just telling you that the killer isn’t the only one with a memory. Why are you so worked up?” “Besides, you know who I am. My face doesn’t look anything like the four people who died in that house.”
Miller glared at me. “Avery, be serious. We ran a full background check.” “You have no relation to the Vance family.” “Ten years ago, you weren’t even in the state. Where did you get the details? What is your relationship with the suspect?”
Seeing that I was about to be booked as an accomplice, I quickly countered. “Careful with the accusations. I don’t know any killer.” Miller gave a long, drawn-out “Oh?” and looked at me with a face that said, Go ahead, lie to me.
I cleared my throat. “Everything I know, Lily Vance told me herself.” Lily was the teenage daughter of the victims.
“Detective, do you believe the dead can dream?”
At first, I didn’t believe it either. The first time I saw her was two weeks ago. I was blocked on my manuscript, totally burned out, so I went to meet an old friend for drinks. It was a Friday. Traffic was a nightmare. The cabbie asked if I minded taking a shortcut through the backwoods. I hate traffic horns, so I told him to go ahead, even if it cost extra.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “Doesn’t cost extra. It’s just… that road is cursed. Most folks won’t take it.” My writerâs instinct kicked in. I shoved my phone in my purse. “Cursed how?”
“Sigh.” The driver turned the wheel, his voice dropping an octave. “There was a headless massacre on that road. A whole family.”
2
“It was June 7th. Graduation night for the daughter, Lily Vance.”
That morning, after the ceremony, her homeroom teacher realized Lily was missing. Thinking she was upset about something, the staff searched the entire school. Kids get emotional around graduation; sometimes they do stupid things. But the campus was empty. Then, a classmate spoke up: “Mrs. Higgins, Lily never showed up to line up for the diploma.”
The teacher panicked. She drove straight to the Vance estate. The front gate was unlatched. She called out, but got no answer. According to the police report later, she knew something was wrong immediately. Lilyâs dad raised Dobermans. Usually, they barked at everything. That day, the estate was silent as a grave. She walked into the yard and saw three dogs lying dead in the grass. Her legs went weak, but she pushed the front door open.
The smell of iron hit her first. Then she saw them. Four bodies, seated neatly around the dining table. Heads nowhere to be found.
That afternoon, the police issued a statement asking for leads. But they withheld the brutal details. No one knew where the heads were, or the time of death. Three years later, a developer bought the land. But every time they tried to demo the house, the excavators malfunctioned. Workers reported hearing weeping from the walls. The developer eventually fenced off a two-mile radius and built a factory down the road instead. The factory went bust. Now, no one goes there.
“Look,” the driver said. A three-story Victorian stood alone against the setting sun. The gate was gone. Weeds choked the yard. Paint was peeling, but you could tell it used to be magnificent. “That’s the place.”
I sighed, about to say something. Then I saw her. Standing in the overgrown grass was a girl in a blood-soaked dress, staring dead at me. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was a trick of the light. She was still there. And she took a step toward the car.
3
I screamed. The driver jumped. “What? What is it?” I swallowed hard, stammering. “I… I think I saw a girl. No, not think. I really… I really saw… Ah!”
The driver slammed on the gas, throwing me back into the seat. He sped away, muttering prayers. “Sorry, sorry, I won’t talk about you anymore, please don’t follow me.”
When he dropped me off, he looked pale. “You better burn some sage, lady. Or they’ll latch onto you.”
I told my friend at the bar. He just laughed. “Come on, Avery. You have an overactive imagination.” “Remember when you wrote that historical romance and swore you saw a knight in your kitchen?” True. The bar was loud, the drinks were strong, and I forgot about it.
I went home drunk and passed out. In my dream, I saw the girl in the bloody dress again. She asked if I wanted to write a bestseller. I nodded desperately.
A few days later, my editor called. She was screaming with excitement. The new book was viral. “Where did you get this concept, Avery? It’s genius!” Confused, I opened the link. Someone had uploaded a new book under my account. It was #1 on the charts. I read the first chapter and my blood ran cold. It was the story of the Vance family.
“And that’s it,” I sighed, looking at Detective Miller. “Technically, I didn’t write it. Lily Vance did.”
4
The interrogation room fell into a dead silence. Miller kept his poker face, but the rookie cop next to him looked like he wanted to call an exorcist.
Finally, Miller spoke. “If that’s true, why isn’t the book finished?” I had asked Lily that in a dream. She looked sad. She told me she didn’t know who the killer was. She used my hands to write the details to get the police’s attention. She wanted you to catch him.
“So, the rest is up to you, Detective. If you have questions for Lily, let me know. I’ll ask her tonight.”
Miller tapped his knuckles on the table. “Avery, do you really think I buy that?” “You’re a great storyteller, I’ll give you that. I almost believed you. Almost.”
Almost? “We tracked your movements,” Miller said, his voice hard. “Two weeks ago, August 2nd. You took a cab, license plate 7723. You passed the Vance estate. The driver admits he told you the story.” “You got dropped off at the bar. You met a guy named Brad.” “But you never went home, Avery.” “We pulled the CCTV from your apartment complex. You never walked in that door.” “So, the whole ‘drunk dreaming’ story is a lie.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Impossible. How did he know I didn’t go home? Iâve been ordering takeout for two weeks. I have an arrangement with old Mr. Henderson upstairs to take my trash… Wait. The cameras. I forgot to smash the cameras in the hallway.
5
A knock on the door broke the tension. “Captain. Urgent.” The officer at the door stared at me with pure horror. Miller frowned and stepped out. He came back two minutes later, looking like heâd seen a ghost.
“Someone just turned themselves in. Do you know who?” I shook my head innocently. “I’m not psychic.” “It’s Brad,” Miller said.
I knew it. He was the only one who knew where I went that night. “Avery, do you know what he just told me?” Millerâs voice trembled slightly. “He says he killed a woman on the night of August 2nd. He says he killed you.”
He was right. He did kill me. Or rather, he killed “Avery Stone.” But he didn’t kill me.
6
My name is Lily Vance. Ten years ago, on June 6th, my parents, my little brother Leo, and I were butchered in our home. Maybe my rage was too strong, but my soul became tethered to the house. I tried to leave to find the killer, but I was trapped within the property lines.
For ten years, I watched people come and go. Police recreating the scene. Mourners leaving flowers. YouTubers breaking in for “ghost hunts.” I tried to scream, to move things, to make the air cold. I thought if I scared them, theyâd bring a medium. Someone who could hear me. But no one ever did. Eventually, the world forgot us.
Until Avery Stone showed up. I was sitting in the weeds, reading a book someone had left as an offering, when a cab slowed down. “That’s the place,” the driver said. I looked up and locked eyes with the woman in the backseat. She… she could see me? I stepped forward to test it. “I… I think I saw a girl…” she stammered. The car sped off. My hope shattered.
But hours later, she came back.
7
It was 10 PM. Avery walked into the house with a guyâBrad. She was saying, “I know that was Lily Vance. She wants to tell me something. If I write this story, itâll be a bestseller.” She started looking around for inspiration. Brad, however, was just staring at her legs.
“Brad, stop…” she turned, noticing his look. He didn’t pretend anymore. He shoved her onto the dusty sofa. “Come on, Avery. You wanted a thrill, right?” She struggled, but she was a writer who sat at a desk all day. He was a gym rat. I rushed forward, screaming, clawing at him. But my hands passed through his body like smoke. I tried to slam doors, break windowsânothing worked. My energy was gone.
“This place is haunted, Brad! Stop!” “Haunted? Good. No one will hear you scream.” I watched him assault her. I watched him strangle her. Just like I watched the killer slaughter my family. I knelt beside her, screaming her name, but her eyes went glassy. Brad cursed, realizing what heâd done. He ran.
I reached out to touch Avery’s body. A blinding white light swallowed me. When I woke up, I was Avery Stone.
8
“Avery?” Detective Miller snapped his fingers. “Brad says he strangled you. What do you have to say?” I held out my wrist. “Want to check my pulse?” Miller frowned. “He’s hysterical. Heâs on his knees begging us to lock him up.”
“We told him you’re alive. He doesn’t believe us. He demands to see you. Do you… want to see him?” I felt a surge of adrenaline. “Yes. Why not?”
Thirty minutes later, I walked into the viewing room. Brad looked like a wreck. Pale, shaking, eyes darting around the corners of the room. When he saw me, he froze. Then he dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m a monster!” “Please, let me go. Iâll die. Iâll kill myself right now!” He tried to slam his head into the table. Miller grabbed him. “Look! She’s alive!”
Brad shrank into Miller’s arms, trembling. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. The sound made him shriek. “She’s dead! That’s a demon! She’s come back for me!”
The medics rushed in. Only I noticed the truth. Brad wasn’t looking at me. He was looking behind me.
9
I turned around. Nothing. Was I imagining it? They dragged Brad out. I sat down, exhausted. “What are you looking for? I’m right here.” A voice laughed beside my ear. I turned. The real Avery Stoneâher ghostâwas floating on the desk.
I pointed at the door. “Brad… was that you?” She crossed her arms, looking smug. “Nobody hurts me and gets away with it. I’ve been haunting him for two weeks.”
Miller walked back in. He saw me talking to thin air and paused. “What are you doing?” I smiled awkwardly. “Plotting my next chapter. I dictate aloud.” Avery giggled in my ear. “Liar. I hate dictating.”
Miller sighed. “Writers are weird. Look, sign this statement.” He watched me sign. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the pen move.
I left the station and talked to Avery. She told me her soul had latched onto Brad that night. That’s why I couldn’t find her in the house. “I drove him insane. But he tried to hire a priest to exorcise me. The nerve!” “Anyway,” Avery floated alongside me. “Did the book work? Did we flush out the killer?”
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At 3 AM, I posted a cry for help on Rednote.
Title: [Found out my husband spent a million dollars on TikTok, what should I do?]
The post went viral quickly.
Someone asked: [How much allowance does he give you every month? If not much, then you need to talk about it.]
I replied: [Fifty thousand.]
Unexpectedly, this number completely changed the atmosphere in the comments section:
[Where can I find a job with a monthly salary of fifty thousand? You must keep this job!]
[Be sweeter, ask for more money. Just treat yourself as a bank teller, and he is a living ATM.]
[Suggest saying ‘Husband, you’re awesome’ ten times a day. I dream of this million-dollar annual salary job.]
1
The phone screen glowed coldly in the dark, new comments popping up with every refresh:
The teasing, envious, and advising comments from netizens pierced like knives.
[Spending fifty or sixty thousand can get a small streamer out for dinner. Spending up to a million means they definitely slept together!]
[Meeting up means at least a Chanel gift. My cousin’s husband bought a Bulgari necklace worth 88,000 for his mistress.]
[A million can buy a Porsche 718. Maybe the sports car is directly in her name.]
I lay in bed, nails digging into my palms, eyes stinging.
My mind was full of scenes of tearing the mistress apart and catching them in the act.
But the remaining reason held me back firmly: If we tore faces, wouldn’t the assets earned through hard work over these years be shared with that adulterous couple for nothing? At that time, netizens would not only watch the drama but might also scold me for being an old woman who deserved it!
Not divorce?
Only I would suffer grievance.
He used our hard-earned savings to support a young girl outside!
Turning to look at the person sleeping next to me, over forty, balding, and fat, a greasy middle-aged man.
If it weren’t for us starting a business together these years, where would he get the money to buy gifts for the streamer?
My husband’s name is George Zhou, my first love.
I wasn’t the very beautiful kind of girl. Before George, no one pursued me.
When George pursued me back then, I appeared reserved on the surface but felt lucky inside, pretending to hesitate for only one night before agreeing.
He wasn’t handsome. I thought being uglier was safer and wouldn’t attract attention outside.
In the second year of marriage, we welcomed a lovely daughter and opened our own logistics company, successful in both career and family.
I was very proud then. Who said marriage is the tomb of love?
But who could have thought the slap in the face would come so suddenly.
The happiness and fulfillment of these years now seem like a joke.
With red eyes, I turned the bank statements and payment records upside down, but couldn’t find out which vixen’s pocket this over a million dollars went into.
Strangely, his TikTok account was as clean as a newly registered oneâlet alone tipping records, even likes were flawless.
Until I saw that comment, I felt struck by lightning:
[Does your husband use a Huawei phone? Huawei has a dual system function. The two systems are completely independentâthe apps and data of the main system and the private space are separate and invisible to each other. For example, if he installs TikTok and WeChat in the private space, you can’t find them using the main system.]
George indeed used a Huawei phone.
Following the online tutorial, I tried to enter the private space of his phone.
But failed. Without the password, I couldn’t get in at all.
All night, I had complete insomnia, constantly calculating…
2
Tossing and turning until dawn, I fell asleep in a daze.
At noon, George called.
Looking at the word “Husband” on the screen, I felt nauseous.
Rubbed my face hard, took a deep breath before pressing the answer buttonâ
“Wifey, are you awake? Saw you sleeping soundly in the morning and didn’t have the heart to wake you. I bought you a bag, put it in the car. I’ll bring it back tonight.”
His voice was full of doting, acting very well.
“Mm, just woke up. Thanks, hubby.” I suppressed the nausea and responded.
“Go tidy up, go out for a stroll, don’t stay cooped up at home. Wait for me to come back for dinner tonight.”
“Okay, hubby.” I hung up the phone, pulling a sneer at the corner of my mouth.
Wait for you? Wait for you to finish fooling around with that female streamer?
…
After getting up, I went straight to the underground garage.
George has two cars, a luxury car and an ordinary one. He usually drives the ordinary car to work to keep up appearances, but definitely drives the luxury car for dates.
I took down the dashcam and went home to check the recordings.
He rarely goes on business trips, at most occasionally coming home late.
From this point of view, that streamer is eighty percent localâotherwise how could he be on call anytime?
If a man doesn’t want something, why would he buy gifts for a streamer? Is it pure love?
Not meeting but having spiritual intercourse?
I dug out all the times George said he had “social engagements” in the past three months, sitting in front of the computer checking one by one. Every time he came home late, he would message me. Now these records have all become clues for my investigation.
Sure enough, I found it.
Several times they couldn’t wait as soon as they met, hugging and being intimate right by the car.
The other party was like a rose with morning dew, skin so translucent water could be pinched out, waist so thin he could circle it with one hand.
George, that old man, leaned over with his beer belly, his oily mouth kissing her smooth face, really like a perfumed lily suddenly stuck in a pile of rotten vegetable leaves in the market.
The dashcam surveillance video is saved for three months. In this three-month period, I found six videos of them hugging and gnawing.
I copied those videos.
Everything needs evidence. Even if divorcing, even if going to court, whoever claims must provide evidence. I need to have evidence.
3
In the evening, George came back.
Carrying my favorite cake in one hand and a new bag in the other.
“Wifey, the cake shop has a new product, your favorite blueberry flavor. Taste if it’s good, I’ll buy it for you again tomorrow if it is. This bag was recommended by a colleague. Although not your favorite brand, I think it looks good.”
His tone was gentle, full of doting.
If I hadn’t seen him hugging another woman with my own eyes, I might have foolishly thought I really married a considerate good man.
“Thanks, hubby.” I was all smiles.
His acting skills are superb, and mine are not bad either.
“Come quickly, let’s eat. I made your favorite spicy snails today.” I served the food and called George to eat.
“Wow, smells so good, thanks wifey.”
Watching George sucking snails with satisfaction, I served him another bowl of soup, “This is what I specially bought from the market. The boss said it’s wild soft-shelled turtle, very fresh and high nutritional value.”
George nodded while eating, “Soft-shelled turtle is indeed very nourishing.”
I pulled the corner of my mouth lightly, thinking secretly: “Indeed very nourishing, even more nourishing eating with snails. Nourishing enough to cause spleen and stomach deficiency cold.”
…
Before going to bed, I handed the milk with sleeping pills to George.
When he was sound asleep, I unlocked the phone’s private space with his fingerprint.
Sure enough, the more than one million he recharged was all tipped to a female streamer named “Cici doesn’t eat coriander”âthe girl hugging him in front of the car.
WeChat chat records were even more spectacular:
“New lingerie arrived, hee hee hee, you have to be gentle tomorrow.”
“Can’t tear it like last time yo!”
Attached picture was the girl’s mirror selfie.
She wore white lace lingerie, blocking her face with the phone, arms squeezing her chest, faintly visible.
George replied with a drooling emoji: “Baby is so sexy. Buy ten of this style, let hubby tear slowly.”
Then transferred 18,888, remarking “Voluntary Gift”.
I sneered, photographing and saving all evidence.
“Voluntary Gift?” Ridiculous, this is our joint marital property.
George giving me 50,000 a month for household expenses made netizens on Rednote switch sides, but he gave Cici 18,888 at once.
Clicking on Cici’s Moments, the latest one was posted last night:
In the nine-grid photos, the first one was a candlelight dinner at a high-end restaurant, decanted red wine on the table, captioned “Thanks dear for the anniversary gift~”.
The middle ones were her selfies in the mirror, wearing a new dress from a luxury brand;
The last one was two hands with fingers interlocked. She wore a brand new Cartier bracelet on her slender wrist. I recognized the man’s hand at a glance, after all, he was still wearing our wedding ring on his ring finger.
In the comments section, George’s account left a message: “Glad baby likes it”, followed by three hearts.
I stared at the phone screen, fingers tightening unconsciously.
This pair of adulterers, happy and free with my money, daring to show affection so blatantly.
Cici also has a red 718, soft top convertible. In the photo, her pair of long legs leaned against the front of the car, pleasing to the eye.
Half of the money for this car is mine.
Every penny George tipped her, half is mine.
Those “Voluntary Gift” transfers, half are mine too.
At this point, can I still turn the tables?
I think… I can.
4
I asked a friend for help.
This guy always loves to show off at the drinking table, saying he is some “TikTok level 73 big shot”.
However, he opened a high-end business KTV locally, just able to get what I need.
I went directly to my friend’s business KTV club.
Pushing open the VIP room door, a row of male waiters stood inside.
“Just these?” I frowned looking at this group of people in front of me, either too greasy or too green.
My friend smiled with a cigarette in his mouth: “Sis, these are all the signatures of our shop.”
“Signature?” I sneered, tapping the wine glass lightly with my finger, “I want someone who can hook a gold-digging female streamer.”
My friend’s eyes lit up, took out his phone and swiped a few times: “Should have said so earlier! We really have a top card here, just back from Shanghai, specializing in female streamer circles.”
He handed over the phone. On the screen was a young man with silver-dyed hair, features exquisite like a mixed-race model, English tattooed on his collarbone, wild and desirable.
“Him.” I put the wine glass on the table, “Tell him, as long as he can make that woman take the bait, the commission doubles.”
My friend grinned: “Sis, you’re playing a big game?”
I stared at the intimate photos of George and Cici on the phone, nails unconsciously digging into my palm: “They show affection with my money, I’ll let them know what retribution means.”
My friend’s voice suddenly dropped, “Are you sure?”
Immediately after, he leaned into my ear and said seriously: “He has an STD.”
I curled my lips and chuckled, “That’s great.”
This trip wasn’t in vain.
When leaving, I asked my friend: “Besides Taobao, where can I buy a listening device immediately? The kind I can take right away.”
He told me the electronics city sells them and gave me a store name.
I thanked him and turned to leave. He suddenly stopped me: “Joy Qiao, reminding you, eavesdropping is illegal. Evidence obtained this way won’t be recognized by the court.”
“I know, the ‘Public Security Administration Punishments Law’ stipulates that eavesdropping on others’ privacy is punishable by detention for 5 to 10 days and a fine of 500.”
My friend laughed: “You know quite a lot.”
“Don’t worry,” I stopped, “I won’t spread it, nor will I be stupid enough to use it as evidence. I just want to see how disgusting George can be. Besidesâ” I hooked the corner of my mouth, “Know yourself and know your enemy, and you will never be defeated.”
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Reid despised me.
For years, the money that kept my mother aliveâthe chemotherapy, the private nursesâwas nothing but a cash-for-sex arrangement, a transaction fueled by his contempt. Ten thousand dollars a night. All because I, a surgical resident, delivered a diagnosis Phoebeâhis newest obsessionâdidn’t want to hear: infertility.
My license had been suspended, pending an investigation he instigated, forcing me to rely entirely on his brutal charity. The only thing of value I owned, my grandmotherâs wedding ring, was liquidated just to cover my motherâs final surgical consultation. After that, Iâd planned to take her away, out of his orbit, out of his sight.
But Reid wanted to prove his devotion to Phoebe. He allowed, even encouraged, herâa ruthless gossip columnistâto leak the sordid details of our marriage. I became the cityâs joke, the greedy wife trading her body for rent.
On New Yearâs Eve, my mother saw the headlines.
She jumped from the eighth floor of the hospital.
I knelt there on the cold tile, the scent of antiseptic and steel in my nostrils, holding her soft, lifeless body. Her final, whispered breath was the only thing I heard in the room: âKendall, your father and I didnât name you to compromise.â I rested my hand on her wrist, feeling the slow, terrible fade of her pulse.
Outside, the Manhattan skyline exploded in fireworksâa brutal, dazzling display of Reidâs lavish, romantic gesture for Phoebe. Everyone was looking up, their phones raised to capture his grand love story. I was looking down, losing the last person in the world who loved me.
The clock struck midnight.
My heart is over him.
1
The New York City skyline always hosted fireworks for New Yearâs, but Reidâs bespoke display started half an hour before the ball dropped. Everyone in the elite crowd murmured about the cost, the permits heâd pulled, the absolute certainty that Reid Blackwell was truly in love this time.
Just last night, desperate for the five thousand dollars still needed for Momâs pending surgery, Iâd gone to him. Heâd humiliated me in a downtown penthouse bar, pointing at the bottle of single malt and sneering, “A thousand dollars a sip, Kendall. Earn it.â Now, for Phoebe, he offered a spectacle with both hands.
Reidâs phone began vibrating repeatedlyâa desperate attempt, no doubt, to gloat over his televised romance with Phoebe, who was photographed watching the show from his yacht. My mother’s medical debt had always forced my compliance.
I ignored the screen, walking past the waiting room and into the clinic. I located the floor plan and booked a termination appointment in the Family Planning department.
The eighth floor.
I leaned half my body out the narrow window, the frigid December wind snapping around me. It was sobering.
A second later, a hand clamped onto my waist, dragging me back inside. The familiar, expensive aroma of his Cuban cigar flooded my senses.
It was Reid. His face was a mask of fury.
âAre you insane, Kendall? The eighth floor? You think that’s high enough?â He shook me. âYouâd just end up a quadriplegic mess Iâd have to pay to keep alive in some hellhole nursing home!â
He was wrong. The eighth floor was enough.
This was the first time heâd been to the hospital in the three years since Mom was confined to her bed. For a brief, insane moment, I thought maybe a flicker of conscience had brought him here.
Instead, I got an interrogation.
He looked at me with cold certainty. “You tipped off the network about Phoebe, didn’t you? Go apologize to her. Now.”
My mother’s death was less important than his mistressâs job.
I forced a smile, the muscles in my face protesting. âLost a job? Maybe she had it coming.â The bitter amusement vanished. âIf she had the guts to publish trash journalism about my life, she should be ready to face the consequences.â
âWhat part of the article was a lie, Kendall? Your body, my moneyâit was a transaction! Thatâs all it ever was!â
His wordsâa transactionâmade my head swim. The heat of tears pressed behind my eyes. I couldnât help myself; I needed an answer, the final shard of truth. âThen why… why did you marry me?â I whispered. Even after my familyâs company, Crestwood Group, went bankrupt and we were drowning in debt, he had sought me out and proposed marriage.
Reidâs smile was chilling. âTo make it legal, Kendall. Anything else would have been soliciting.â
His words were a scalpel, finding the last, desperate sliver of hope in my chest and excising it without anesthesia. He was right. I was the fool who had mistaken a contract for connection.
âHer issue has nothing to do with me,â I stated calmly, refusing to take the blame for the sabotage. Just as I refused to take the blame for his mother.
Mrs. Lin, my mother’s former nurse, rushed in, tears streaming down her face, apologizing for her lapse in attention. âYour mother specially made cream stew. She told me to go heat them up. She wanted you two to eat them together, a little New Yearâs âreunion.ââ
The word reunion seemed to snap something in Reid.
The temperature in his eyes dropped to absolute zero. He strode forward and grabbed my throat, his thumb pressing dangerously against my carotid artery.
âReunion? You get a reunion?â His voice was a low, dangerous growl. âYou brought down my mother, my family! And youâre hiding in this hospital for a nice, little goodbye? You should have been the one who died in that kidnapping!â
In the past, I would have dissolved into frantic explanations and tears. But my tears had been spent in the half-hour since I found Mom.
I simply leaned my neck into his grip.
The utter finality, the dead calm in my eyes, must have shocked him. Reid abruptly released me.
âYou want to die? I wonât make it that easy, Kendall.â He stepped back, a predatory look in his eyes. âYouâll stay right here, bound to me, and youâll be miserable.â
I slumped to the ground. He kicked the thermos of cream stew, sending them scattering across the floor.
âSince you wonât apologize,â he said, looking amused, âpick them up and eat them. Or maybe I should tell Mrs. Linâs daughter that her tuition funding is gone. Whatâs her major again? Columbia pre-med?â
2
He was threatening to ruin Mrs. Lin and her daughter. This was his favorite moveâto use the people I cared about to enforce his dominance. Just last month, because I hadnât moved fast enough out of Phoebeâs path, heâd rammed his SUV into my car. My driver escaped only because of the airbag.
He only ever smiled when I compromised.
I could walk away now, but Mrs. Lin needed her career in the city. I couldn’t be responsible for her ruin, too.
My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. I lowered myself, acknowledging the defeat. One by one, I picked up the lukewarm, doughy vegetables of cream stew scattered on the grimy hospital floorâa floor that had seen countless footsteps and carried God knows what strains of infection.
I ate them like an idiot, forcing them down. The salty taste of my tears mixed with the grime, but all I tasted was my motherâs final act of love. I couldnât waste it.
Mrs. Lin turned away, unable to watch.
Reidâs face was recognizable from countless society pages. A few passersby paused, their phones coming up, eager to capture the drama.
He barked a single, cold command: âGet out.â
Then he hauled me up by the arm. âLowering yourself for a housekeeper, Kendall? Youâve always loved to make a spectacle of me.â He caught sight of the tear tracks on my face and his hand instinctively moved to brush them away.
I flinched back. I asked him quietly, my voice utterly flat, âAre you satisfied now?â
Was it over? Could he let Mrs. Lin go now?
The calm of my voice made Reidâs breathing catch. He looked confused. I had begged him, many times, just to visit Mom. He opened his mouth, probably to accuse me of an elaborate act.
Then his phone rang. “Reid, Iâm scared.â Phoebeâs soft whimper was enough to snatch his attention away.
He stared at me, and for the first time, he offered something that sounded like an explanation. âShe isnât feeling well. Iâll come back laterâŚâ
I cut him off. âDonât. Donât ever come back.â Let the dead rest in peace. Let the lovers have their time.
Reid frowned. âPhoebe is suffering from PTSD because she was trying to save you.â When I showed no reaction, he laughed, a cold, brittle sound. âFine. But if you walk away now, don’t come crawling back to me like a stray dog begging for a place to sleep!â
The fireworks outside continued their roar, and his words burned the flesh of my heart until it was raw and useless.
I remembered my eighteenth birthday. Iâd wished for a firework display over the Manhattan skyline. Back then, Reid had just started at Blackwell Group and every move he made was scrutinized by the board. He promised heâd give me the fireworks the day we married.
But before the engagement, his mother and I went shopping for my wedding jewelry. We were both kidnapped. I was released physically unharmed; his mother was brutally assaulted, leading to a complete nervous breakdown. The news was suppressed, but a reporter got the exclusive and ran with it. Unable to cope, his mother swallowed a bottle of pills. His father packed up the remains and left the country, never to return.
From that day on, Reid was convinced that I had leaked the story. Iâd explained, Iâd pleaded, but he never believed me. âWho else could it be, Kendall?â
Then, my familyâs Crestwood Group went under. Secrets leaked, rivals stole contracts, and my parents were in a fatal car accident while fleeing debt collectors. Mom survived, but was critically injured. When I was truly desperate, Reid was the only one who showed up. He offered marriage and to cover Momâs medical expenses. No rings, no ceremonyâI accepted, foolishly believing there was a shred of true feeling left.
Now, he was giving the fireworks heâd promised me to someone else.
Phoebe, I realized, was always meant to be my shield.
The trauma of his motherâs kidnapping was too great. He often said that by treating Phoebe well, he could somehow atone for the guilt he felt over me.
Last year, Phoebe was kidnapped. She was subjected to psychological torture and diagnosed with severe PTSD. Reid found her, holding her tightly as they were evacuated.
What he didnât know was that I was also taken that day. I was kept in a locked storage closet, stashed away in a filthy petroleum drum. My wrists were tied so tightly my hand tendons were severely damaged. No one found me until the police did a second sweep of the site.
Since then, Reid had treated Phoebe with a soft, protective tenderness. But I wasn’t blind. I could see the genuine, protective love in his eyes.
No major New York media outlet dared run a story on Reid, yet Phoebe, a minor columnist, always got the exclusive. The man who could calmly close a billion-dollar deal was running down the stairsâignoring the elevatorâbecause his mistress said, “I’m scared.”
I slipped the electronic watch from my wrist. A rose tattoo hid the jagged, ugly scar from where the kidnappers had cut into my tendons. Reid never noticed I could no longer hold a surgical scalpel. I was just a doctor of theory now.
3
I returned to Momâs room to gather her belongings. I pulled open her drawer and saw rows of brightly colored pain medication, all neatly stacked. Too many. I checked the hospitalâs automatic payment system. The withdrawal amounts had been noticeably reduced for the last several months. She had been hoarding them, afraid of becoming a financial burden.
I remembered her last call to me before the jump: âKendall, happy New Year. Next year wonât be as painful as this one.â
I hadnât even had the chance to say, âHappy New Year, Mom.â The unsung blessing became a wave of tears that choked my throat.
The cremation and memorial were scheduled for three days later. Before that, I needed to see Reid. He despised me; he would welcome the chance to sign the papers.
I didnât even make it through the front door of our Upper East Side penthouse when I heard his voice, laughing. “See? I told you. Pay up. She always cracks.”
âSeriously, Reid? You can recognize your own wifeâs footsteps?â
I froze, gripping my handbag. They were running a pool, betting on how long it would take me to come back and beg. How much was the stake? What was the value of our entire relationship? I no longer cared.
I walked in. Phoebe was there, wearing my silk pajamas.
My possessiveness was a known quantity. I hated people touching my things, my possessions, my husband. Now, watching her lean half-heartedly against Reid, I didn’t feel the old, hysterical rage.
She straightened quickly, offering a faux-apologetic smile. âI accidentally spilled wine, Kendall. Reid made me borrow a clean set.â She looked at me innocently. âYou donât mind, do you, big sister?â
I gave her a flat look. âI donât mind.â I was done with both the pajamas and the man. She could have the leftovers.
Reid watched me, a faint frown creasing his brow.
Phoebe scanned me head to toe, then covered her mouth in mock surprise. âKendall, you didnât even bring Reid a present? Even when youâre pouting, you shouldnât embarrass him in front of guests.â
Confetti and balloons littered the floor, shouting “Happy Birthday.” Iâd forgotten. It was Reidâs birthday. For years, I had baked his cake myself, never missing a single one.
Everyone was waiting for my answer. Even Reidâs cigarette burned down to his fingers, unnoticed.
4
I managed a slight smile. âI did bring a gift. You could call it a birthday present.â
I was giving him his freedom. I was giving myself a new life.
He grinned, utterly convinced of his victory. âI figured you couldnât stay tough for more than twenty-four hours.â
I reached into my bag and pulled out a file folder. The word DISSOLUTION was typed clearly on the front.
âHappy birthday, Reid,â I said. âMy signature is already on it.â
Reidâs smile vanished, inch by agonizing inch. He sat back on the plush leather sofa, his gaze dark. His first instinct was the usual: How much money do you want?
He picked up the document, his eyes finally landing on the last clause: Zero Alimony / Waiving all Claims. I knew I couldnât fight the Blackwell Group empire. All I wanted was out.
His voice was a strained snarl. âI already had the article taken down! What is this performance? What ridiculous drama are you trying to stir up now, Kendall?â
He could retract the news, but could he resurrect my mother?
Our relationship was too far gone to save. Reid should have been thrilled to sign.
I looked at him, genuinely confused. âLetâs just end this amicably.â
Phoebe stepped forward to play the peacemaker. âBig sister, are you really trying to play the tragic heroine to squeeze more money out of him? Youâve used this move so many times. Just apologize. Reid has always forgiven you, no matter what you did.â
That phraseâwhat you didâmade Reidâs face shift. He pointed a rigid finger at the front door.
âFive hours on your knees,â he said, his voice cold. âI’ll sign then.â
The city had been suffering a bitter cold snap. He was certain I would crumble, just as I always did when the smallest hardship struck.
But in the last three years, Iâd watched my familyâs fortune dissolve. Iâd sold the family home to pay debts. I drank myself sick at business meetings just to gather enough cash to win it back at auction. I changed my motherâs catheters and dealt with her bedpans myself. Reidâs monthly payment barely covered her palliative care. I picked up every unwanted night shift at the clinic just to earn an extra dime.
My mother was my soft spot, the instrument of his control. Not anymore.
I placed the agreement on the mahogany table. âIâll hold you to your word, Reid.â
Then I walked out to the patio and knelt down.
The mansion sat on a hillside, overlooking a million-dollar coastal view. The wind was relentless. All I cared about was the clock. Five hours.
Inside, I heard the crash of breaking glass. Then, Reid rushed out, cradling Phoebe, whose lower leg was bleeding.
I glanced at my phone. Four minutes left.
I grabbed the hem of his expensive overcoat. âYou promised youâd sign the agreement.â My voice was barely a breath. âJust give me five minutes. I can stitch her up.â
Reid stopped, his expression hardening. He had anticipated rage, jealousy, and histrionics. Not a surgeonâs clinical calm, not a willingness to kneel and treat his mistress.
I swiftly took out my trauma kit. I expertly used the tweezers to remove the glass shardsâa superficial wound that looked deliberately exaggerated for effect. Disinfection. Bandage. Done. The rush of final release was close enough to taste.
Phoebeâs hand dropped to her side. She spoke softly, but loud enough for me to hear. âRecognize this, Kendall? Reid said it was his apology.â
I froze, the ointment tube slipping in my hand.
On her wrist was the Jade Bangleâmy motherâs heirloom, passed down to me. Even when we were penniless, Iâd never considered selling it.
I didn’t yell. I didnât cry. My knees ached with a dull, insistent throbbing. I stood up, slowly, the need to escape now an urgent imperative. This was just another one of their games.
I held the divorce papers out to him. âSign it.â
His eyes dropped to my stomach, then back to my face. âYou know I hate loose ends, Kendall. Especially a bastard child running around.â
He must have found the ultrasound report. That had been the real birthday giftâthe one Iâd hoped would repair the rift between us. He was waiting for me to break, for me to plead for the life of our child.
I managed a small, cruel smile. âYou donât have to worry.â
The trouble, the loose end, was already dealt with.
He had always expected a perfect wifeâdutiful, socially adept, a PR clean-up artist who would give him a quiet heir. Iâd done all that. He should have been grateful.
Instead, he looked like heâd been slapped. He took the pen and signed the document with a furious, scraping sound.
âGet the hell out.â He looked up, his eyes black with contempt. âWeâll meet at the registry in a month.â
5
I didn’t contact Reid after that.
He called only once, on the day of Momâs cremation.
He sounded drunk. âKendall, why wonât you just swallow your pride? Say youâre sorry about the abortion, and Iâll forgive you.â His voice thickened with artificial authority. âOtherwise, your motherâs payment this month isnât going through.â
I laughed, a ragged, hollow sound. He didn’t even know she was dead. His greatest leverage was gone, severed by his own apathy.
âSuit yourself, Reid.â
A staff member called out, âWindow three for the final sealing.â
I picked up the small silver marker and approached the smooth, white urn. My motherâs life, and her death, had purchased my freedom. It was effective now.
âNever again,â I whispered.
The birthday party ended with the sound of a woman screaming and a manâs angry shouts.
Reid returned to the penthouse hours later, alone. He went to the bedroom and found that Kendall had taken nothing. The large, vessel heâd received as a wedding gift was the only thing he could focus on.
He hated this silence. It felt lonelier than any alleyway.
His assistant reported back. Kendallâs surgery had taken place just two hours before she drove to the penthouse. The anesthetic must have barely worn off.
He smashed the embroidery into a hundred splinters.
âI donât want to hear another word about her!â he roared at the retreating assistant.
He retreated to a bar for three days, confident that when the hospital bill arrived on the 15th, sheâd come crawling back.
Carter, his childhood friend, tracked him down and dragged him from the velvet booth.
âCan you snap out of it?â Carter demanded, punching him in the jaw. âThree years ago, you promised youâd take care of Kendall!â
Reid rubbed his cheek, feeling a strange surge of elation. âShe called you, didnât she?â Carter had moved his focus to Europe years ago. He and Kendall had been especially close.
Then Reidâs gaze landed on the small, white rose lapel pin on Carterâs jacket. His chest tightened.
âWhatâs with the flower, Carter? Someone in your family?â
Carter looked at him, his face a study in chilling pity. âReid. It was Aunt Marianâs memorial today. You didnât show, but you could at least recognize the flower.â
The room went cold. Reid stared at his friend, his jaw slack.
âWhat⌠what are you talking about?â
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My daughter has reached that charmingly treacherous age where she doesnât lie, but sheâll say the most terrifying things with a straight face.
From the backseat of the car, she asked her father in all seriousness, “Daddy, when are we going back to that nice nurse’s house for milkshakes?”
I watched my husbandâs face tighten, then I gently probed for more information.
“Was the nurse pretty, sweetie?”
My daughter nodded enthusiastically. Then she leaned forward and whispered to her dad, “Is it a secret?”
Just as I was deciding on the perfect spot to bury my husband’s body, he rubbed his temples and let out a weary laugh.
“Lily, are you trying to tear this family apart?” he said. “I took you to The Nightingale Cafe. It’s a cafe, honey, not a nurse’s house.”
My heart, which had been lodged in my throat, settled back into my chest.
That night, my daughter snuck into my bed and whispered in my ear.
“Mommy, I remembered it wrong. It wasn’t a nurse, and it wasn’t a milkshake.”
“It was another lady. She made iced tea for me and Daddy at her house.”
“They were in the kitchen making it for two hours. I was so thirsty⌔
1
My daughter’s words were a shard of ice, plunging unexpectedly into my heart.
I lay rigid in bed, the blood in my veins turning to slush. Beside me, my daughter’s small body was warm, her breathing even. She was fast asleep.
But I felt like Iâd been plunged into a frozen lake, cold from head to toe.
Her words ricocheted around my mind like a stampede, threatening to trample my sanity.
My first thought was of Kevinâs high school sweetheart.
But I forced myself to calm down, telling myself over and over that my daughter was young, that her memory was unreliable. Sheâd just confused “The Nightingale Cafe” with a nurseâs house; it was entirely possible she was mixing up iced tea and milkshakes, too.
You can’t take a child’s words as gospel.
The next morning, I tried again, feigning casualness.
“Sweetie, that lady you told me about yesterday, what did she look like? Do you remember?”
My daughter, in the middle of stuffing a piece of toast into her mouth, tilted her head and thought very seriously.
“Umm⌠she had long, curly hair. It was a little lighter than your hair, Mommy.”
My heart eased slightly. I had seen Kevinâs ex just last week; she had a sharp, stylish bob.
But I pressed on. “And did you see Daddy and the lady⌠do anything?”
She shook her head, her voice muffled by the toast. “Nope. They were just in the kitchen. I waited for a long, long, long time before they came out.”
“What were they talking about when they came out?”
“I couldn’t hear very well. Daddy seemed kind of unhappy, and the lady’s eyes were all red, like she was crying.”
The pieces of the story formed a hazy, unsettling picture in my mind, like looking through fogged glass. I couldn’t see anything clearly, but I knew something was wrong.
My daughter hadn’t seen any concrete proof. She was just a child, describing what she saw through her own limited understanding. But it was that very uncertainty, the vague and suggestive nature of her account, that felt like a dull knife sawing back and forth across my heart.
I decided I had to find out for myself.
I started watching Kevin, subtly at first. His phone, his schedule, his credit card statements.
His phone was clean. Chat logs were sparse, call histories filled with work colleagues and family. He seemed so certain of my trust that he didn’t even bother to hide anything.
Then I checked his credit card statement.
A series of strange charges crawled across the page like a line of ants. They were small amountsâa few hundred dollars here and thereâtucked between his usual expenses. You wouldnât notice them unless you were looking closely. But they were frequent, almost weekly.
There was a charge from a trendy online womenâs boutique, a style I would never wear.
There were bills from a high-end sushi restaurant on nights he claimed he was working late at the office, eating takeout with his project team.
The most glaring charge was from a boutique hotel on a weekday afternoon.
I printed the statement and circled every suspicious transaction in red ink.
That evening, Kevin came home early, bringing me a carton of fresh strawberries. He saw me on the sofa, my face a grim mask, the heavily marked paper spread out on the coffee table. He froze.
I pushed the statement toward him, my voice dangerously calm.
“Kevin. Explain these.”
2
He picked up the paper and went through it, line by line. His brow furrowed slightly, but there was no trace of panic on his face.
“This dress was a birthday gift for a client’s wife. Her husband helped us out of a huge jam on the new project; I had to show my appreciation.”
“These restaurants were all business dinners.”
“See? The dates line up. I was with the clients from the Apex account that night. The receipts are in my car; I can show you tomorrow.”
“And the hotel,” he said, pointing to the charge that had twisted my stomach into knots, his tone perfectly reasonable, “our partners from out of town came in. We booked a room for a few hours to have a meeting. It was quieter and more private than a coffee shop.”
His explanations were flawless, his logic impeccable. He even offered to produce the receipts to prove it.
He looked at me, his eyes filled with a weary sort of patience, not the anger of a man wrongly accused. He didn’t even chastise me for my lack of trust.
“Honey, I know I haven’t been spending enough time with you and Lily lately, and it’s making your mind run wild. That’s my fault.”
He moved to hug me, but I flinched away.
His hands hovered in the air for an awkward moment before he let them drop.
“I’ll be more careful from now on,” he said, his voice soft, as if soothing a hysterical child. “I’ll make sure to tell you about these things beforehand so there are no more misunderstandings.”
I stared at him, speechless.
I felt like a fool who had wound up for a knockout punch, only to sink my fist into a feather pillow. All my anger, my suspicion, my hurtâit was all choked off by his perfect, placid response, leaving a suffocating lump in my chest.
I couldn’t find a single crack in his story. I even began to wonder if I was the one who was overthinking things, who was too sensitive.
Two days later, my mother-in-law called.
She dispensed with the usual pleasantries and got straight to the point.
“Maya, Kevin tells me you two have been having some trouble lately.”
I gripped the phone, leaning against the cold railing of the balcony, and watched the traffic flow below.
“We’re fine, Mom.”
“Good,” she said, her tone softening slightly. But her next words were like a soft, sharp blade, twisting in my heart.
“Maya, I know it’s hard raising a child, but you have to understand it’s not easy for Kevin, either. A man has it much harder, trying to build a career, all the networking and entertaining he has to do. Itâs all for the family. You need to be more understanding, be his support system. Don’t add to his stress, you hear me?”
“A happy home needs a woman who can be generous and look past the small things. You know what kind of man Kevin is. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.”
I listened in silence, not saying a word.
Yes, what kind of man was Kevin?
To the outside world, he was the perfect family man who adored his wife. To his mother, he was the responsible, dependable son.
After I hung up, I felt a profound sense of isolation.
My husband, with his patience and reason, had deflected all my accusations, leaving me with no outlet for my rage.
I felt like a madwoman, utterly alone.
I could see the elephant in the room, clear as day, but everyone around me was insisting there was nothing there, that my eyes were playing tricks on me.
That feeling was more suffocating than catching him red-handed.
Because my husband⌠he hadn’t even raised his voice.
He had used the gentlest method possible to push me into the deepest abyss.
3
I had to find proof.
I secretly planted a tiny, nearly invisible camera in Kevin’s car. For the next few days, I was a voyeur, glued to my phone screen.
On the camera, Kevinâs life was painfully normal. Driving to work, picking up our daughter, the occasional trip to the grocery store. It was so normal it was terrifying.
Until Friday. After work, he didn’t come straight home.
A woman opened the passenger door and got in. My heart stopped. I stared at the screen, my breath catching in my throat.
It was her. The woman my daughter had described, the one with the long, curly hair.
But their conversation was another punch into a pillow.
They talked about work, the stock market, gossip about a mutual friend. They even talked about me; Kevin mentioned casually that Iâd been tired from work lately. Their conversation was like that of two old friends catching upâfamiliar, but with a carefully maintained distance. There wasn’t a single inappropriate word.
She was out of the car in less than fifteen minutes.
I rewatched the video again and again, searching for a flaw. I found none.
But a woman, a woman who had no business being in his car, had appeared.
That, in itself, was the biggest flaw of all.
That night, after Lily was asleep, I took the phone and played the video for Kevin.
“Who is she?” I asked.
He watched it, his first reaction a flicker of surprise, then a look of weary resignation settled on his face. He was silent for so long I thought he was inventing a new lie.
“She’s an old classmate,” he finally said.
“Remember when you were out of town and Lily came down with a fever in the middle of the night? I rushed her to the ER, and it was an absolute zoo, packed like Grand Central Station. I ran into her there. She’s a nurse at that hospital. She called in a favor and got us bumped up the line so Lily could be seen right away. I took her out to dinner once to thank her.”
His explanation was so plausible it made me feel like a hysterical shrew.
He looked at me, his eyes filled with a disappointment I had never seen before.
“Because of one thing our daughter said, a thing you don’t even know is true, you start suspecting me? You put a camera in my car, you treat me like a criminal.”
He stood up and began pacing the living room, his voice tight with suppressed fury.
“Maya, for years, I have worked my ass off for this family, for our marriage. And how do you repay me? You violate my privacy, you interrogate me like a detective. How are we supposed to live like this?”
He stormed into his study and slammed the door.
He didn’t sleep in our bedroom that night.
The next day, he didn’t come home at all.
He said he needed some time to cool off.
I fell for it. Then I secretly followed him.
He didn’t go to a hotel or any other suspicious place. He went to an upscale apartment complex.
I hid behind a hedge like a private eye, feeling sordid and small.
A few minutes later, a man came down to meet him. They were carrying beer and cigarettes, and they walked upstairs with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. He looked exactly like any other good husband, blowing off steam with a buddy after a fight with his wife.
I sat on a cold stone bench, staring up at the lighted window, feeling more lost and powerless than ever.
Every lead was a dead end.
I began to wonder if, as his mother said, I was the one with the problem. Was I the one pushing our family to the brink?
4
Kevin must have known I was following him, but he never said a word.
Then, at a party with friends, the conversation turned to marriage.
Kevin, holding a glass of wine, sighed with a mixture of humor and sincerity. “You guys are lucky. I don’t know what’s gotten into my wife lately. She’s so on edge, suspicious of everything. It’s like she’s a different person. I guess it’s my fault for being so busy. I haven’t been giving her the security she needs.”
His words were thoughtful, taking all the blame on himself, but the way our friends looked at me changed.
I sat there, my face burning, my hands and feet cold. I felt like a clown, stripped naked for everyone to stare at.
I was being driven mad.
A consensus began to form around me. Everyone pitied poor Kevin, such a good man, saddled with a paranoid, unstable wife.
I locked myself at home, replaying every detail in my mind, but I couldn’t find a way forward. Was I really crazy? Had I invented an enemy that didn’t exist?
That night, after Lily was asleep, I sat on the living room sofa and scrolled through the photos I had secretly taken outside that apartment building. The picture of Kevin and the other man was a little blurry.
I stared at it, trying to will some clue into existence.
Lily padded over to me, rubbing her eyes, and rested her head on my arm. She glanced at my phone screen and pointed a tiny finger at the blurry figure of the other man.
“Mommy,” she said in her sweet, sleepy voice, “why do you have a picture of the Milkshake Man?”
“The Milkshake Man?” I was confused. “Who’s that?”
Her finger jabbed at the screen. “That man. The last time I was with Daddy, I was so, so thirsty, and he’s the one who came and got me and took me for a yummy milkshake.”
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My stepmother loathed me.
As a child, Iâd left our yard gate open while playing at a friendâs house. My younger brother wandered out, was hit by a car, and died.
My father, who adored him, shattered with grief and accused me of leaving the gate open on purpose. He locked me in the basement and raised me like an animal.
Years later, starving after days without food, I crept upstairs and overheard my stepmother with her lover. âIf you hadnât left the gate open,â she whispered, âI wouldnât fear my husband learning we killed Michael.â
It was them all along.
She saw me, panicked, and threw me down the stairs.
I woke up again on the day my brother died.
This time, I pointed upstairs and sweetly told my father, âDaddy, I did close the gate. The man in Mommyâs bedroom left it open.â
1
“Lily, did you really see a man leave the gate open?!”
My father stood just outside the yard, his bloodshot eyes boring into me.
A cold sneer formed in my mind.
Look at him. So broken up over his precious son.
In my last life, I explained over and over that Iâd closed the gate, but he only listened to the venom my stepmother whispered in his ear. He was utterly convinced that I had murdered his only son.
My own mother died bringing me into this world. Before her memorial was even over, he brought my stepmotherâalready pregnantâinto our home. That woman, Charlotte, secured her position as the lady of the house with a premature baby boy, a birth that ruined her body and left her unable to have any more children.
So Michael became the center of my father’s universe.
After Michael died, Dad treated me like a dog. I ate from a dog bowl, slept in a cage, and was forced to bark to appease his impotent rage and his guilt towards Charlotte.
This time, I wouldn’t be so stupid.
I would use his masculine pride, his all-consuming love for his son, to drag that wretched pair through the mud.
So the first thing I did after being reborn was to head straight home to catch my stepmother in the act. But I never made it. As I turned back, I saw himâMichael, standing right in the middle of the road.
In the distance, my fatherâs face was a mask of horror. I was closer. Wanting to make a good impression this time, I lunged forward and pulled Michael back just as the car screeched past. I saved him, but not entirely. He didn’t die instantly like before, but the tires crushed his legs, leaving him crippled.
“Honey!” Charlotte’s shriek tore through the air. She scrambled over, snot and tears streaming down her face, and clung to my father’s arm. “Don’t listen to this little bitch’s lies! Her mother died, and she’s always hated us! She opened the gate on purpose! She wanted to kill Michael!”
Before Dad could react, I scurried over on my little legs and threw my arms around his thighs. I tilted my grimy face up, looking at him with the purest, most innocent eyes I could muster.
“No, Daddy, I didn’t!” My voice was small and thick with tears, overflowing with injustice. “I want a mommy to love me too, but she doesn’t. I thought⌠I thought if I was nice to Michael, you would both love me⌔
I squeezed out a few fat tears as I spoke, my little hand pointing towards my brother, who was wailing in pain from his shattered legs.
“I give Michael my milk every day, and I let him play with my favorite teddy bear⌠Just now, if I hadn’t pulled him back, he would have flown up to heaven and couldn’t play with me anymore. My teacher says we have to be kind and look after the young. I did that, Lily is a good girl. You have to believe me, Daddy.”
Since I had always acted sweet to Michael to please my father, the words flowed from my lips without a hint of shame.
I hugged his leg tighter, clinging to him with all the desperate strength a child could possess. Then, I cast my line.
“If you don’t believe me, you can go upstairs right now and find that man! I bet he hasn’t even left yet!”
2
My fatherâs face darkened, twisting into a thunderous mask.
He reached down and pinched my cheek, his voice a low growl. “Daddy believes you.”
With that, he spun around and stormed towards the house, moving not like a man about to catch a cheater, but like a soldier heading into battle.
Charlotte’s face went white. She tried to grab him but missed, stamping her foot in desperation. “Honey! The most important thing right now is getting our son to the hospital!”
But my father could tolerate many things, but not betrayal. Not this.
His sonâs legs were nothing compared to his pride.
He didn’t even look back as he charged upstairs.
Of course, he found nothing. The man was long gone. But the cloying scent of a strange men’s cologne hung heavy in the air, a scent so thick it was suffocating.
Charlotte, ever the actress, burst into fresh tears. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out an exquisitely packaged bottle of men’s cologne, her voice choked with sobs. “Honey, this was a gift for you. I wanted it to be a surprise⌔
It was an excuse a ghost wouldn’t believe.
But my father had no proof.
An ambulance wailed in the distance, arriving to take Michael away. Before he got in, my father stared hard at Charlotte, hissing through his teeth, “If I find out some bastard was the reason my son’s legs were broken, I’ll make sure his entire family pays.”
I was frantic but powerless. I knew Charlotte was cunning, that she had prepared for this. I couldn’t beat her in one move; I’d have to find another chance.
At the hospital, Michael wouldn’t stop crying from the pain.
I immediately rushed to his bedside, grabbing his small hand. “Don’t cry, Michael,” I choked out. “Big sister is here.”
He must have been dazed from the fall, or maybe my false kindness over the years had actually worked. He instinctively burrowed into my side. “Lily saved me,” he mumbled.
My father, standing nearby, praised me for being so mature.
But then his gaze fell on Michaelâs cast-covered legs, and he sighed heavily. “Thank God,” he muttered, “it wasn’t worse.”
With no proof, the mystery of the open gate remained just that. My father could only eye Charlotte with suspicion, while she played the part of the devoted, gentle wife to perfection, insisting the old gate latch had simply given way.
And so, the matter was quietly dropped.
Back home, Charlotte’s kindness towards me became almost suffocating. She cooked my favorite meals, bought me beautiful new dresses, and even tucked me in at night. She was so tender, you’d think I was her real daughter.
My father saw all of this, and his suspicions began to fade. He probably figured that even if a woman had strayed, sheâd come back to her senses for the sake of her child and her family.
But I knew better. The nicer she was, the more it proved her guilt. She was desperately trying to wash the filth off herself so she could dump it all back onto me.
I was waiting. Waiting for the fox to show its tail.
But for all my planning, all my caution, I had underestimated her venom.
One Saturday morning, Charlotte sent me upstairs to my room to do my homework. She then wheeled a sleeping Michael out onto the second-floor balcony to get some sun.
I looked up from my workbook, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.
And then it happened.
Just as my father pushed open the front door, a loud crash, followed by Charlotteâs bloodcurdling scream, echoed from the stairwell.
“Aaaah! Lily! How could you push your brother!”
My father, just stepping inside, froze. He looked up and saw me, standing in the second-floor hallway. And below, at the bottom of the stairs, Michael lay tangled in his overturned wheelchair.
3
I clenched my fists. Stay calm, Lily. You have to stay calm.
“Daddy, I didn’t push him,” I said, my voice trembling just enough to sound like a terrified child. “I was in my room doing my homework. Mommy was on the balcony with Michael.”
My father was holding my unconscious brother, his bloodshot eyes fixed on me like a predator about to pounce.
Charlotte immediately jumped in. “I told Lily to watch Michael on the second floor while I went next door to borrow some scallions from Mrs. Gable! She can prove it!”
A cold smile touched my lips. A perfect alibi. She had timed my father’s return perfectly, deliberately finding a neighbor to be her witness.
Sure enough, Mrs. Gable, who had always been friendly with Charlotte, squeezed through the crowd of onlookers, her face a mask of righteousness. “It’s true, Daniel. Charlotte was just at my place getting scallions for that braised fish you love so much! I saw her walk back into her yard with my own two eyes!”
She wasn’t finished. She pointed a finger at me, her voice dripping with condemnation. “But your daughter here, when we came over, we saw her just standing on the second floor, staring down at the scene without a single reaction! Honestly, Lily, how can a child be so cruel? I bet it was you who left the gate open last time, wasn’t it?”
Her words were like a stone tossed into a pond, sending ripples of gossip through the neighbors.
“She’s right, that girl’s always had a mean look about her.”
“So jealous at such a young age. She’ll be real trouble when she’s older.”
Seeing her advantage, Charlotte covered her face and began to sob, her body slumping weakly against my father. “Honey, don’t blame Lily. The gate incident was probably just an accident, and maybe⌠maybe this wasn’t on purpose either⌔
Her feigned defense only sealed my guilt.
My fatherâs gaze turned to ice.
He had seen it. He had seen Charlotte rushing in from the yard in a panic, while I stood on the second floor like a cold, detached spectator.
Seeing is believing.
“Last time, I saw you pull your brother back with my own eyes, and I believed you,” my father’s voice was hoarse, terrifying. “Now, I see you push him down the stairs with my own eyes! What else do you have to say for yourself!”
The trust in his eyes shattered, replaced by a disgust so thick it was palpable. “You don’t even look scared. Lily, that rescue last time⌠was that all an act for me too?”
Tears instantly welled in my eyes. “It wasn’t me!” I screamed, crying. “It was the man Mommy brought home! The same man from before! That’s why Mommy had time to go see Mrs. Gable!”
“Daddy, don’t you believe me?”
Through my sobs, I yelled with all my might, “Call the police! We have to call the police! On TV, they say to call the police when you’re in trouble! Let the officers check the wheelchair for fingerprints. They’ll prove that Lily is innocent!”
I saw my fatherâs arm, wrapped around Charlotte, loosen slightly. I knew my words were working.
I choked back a sob, my eyes fixed on my unconscious brother. “Daddy, if there’s really a bad person in our house who wants to hurt Michael, what’s going to happen to him?”
That question was a needle, piercing straight into his most vulnerable spot.
Charlotteâs face went deathly pale. She bit her lip, then, as if making a decision, she lifted her head, her eyes swimming with tears as she looked at my father.
“That’s what I should be saying to you! The three of us were happy. If it wasn’t for this little monster, would our family ever know peace?”
Her voice was thick with emotion, every word torn from her soul.
“Honey, I gave up everything to be with you, to give you a son. How could I possibly harm our own flesh and blood? I cook for you every day, I keep this house perfect, have you forgotten all of that?”
“It doesn’t matter if you misunderstand me, but I’m scared for you! I’m scared you’ll be blinded by this ungrateful viper and live to regret it!”
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I saw a wedding photo pop up on my old college roommateâs Instagram feed and tapped the heart icon without thinking.
The next second, a frantic voice note came through.
âWho is this? Why are you using this account? If you donât answer, Iâm calling the police!â
I was confused, so I called her back on video.
The call connected. As soon as she saw my face, she shrieked and immediately disconnected.
When I tried again, a text message appeared on my screen.
âDidnât you⌠die last year?â
1
That question hit me like a splash of cold water. I called her yet again.
It took my roommate, Gigi, a long time to pick up.
She made me do a series of ridiculous facial contortions and dramatic eyebrow raisesâall high-difficulty stuntsâuntil my face muscles were practically spasming. Only then did she say, her voice shaking with disbelief, âAnya Reed, is that really you? Youâre alive?â
Gigi told me she had actually cried when she heard I was gone, posting a ton of dramatic, sentimental messages.
I scrolled through my old texts with her. Sure enough, about a year ago, she had sent a few messages.
But at that exact time, I had just given birth to my daughter, Lila, and was in no state to check social media.
For the next year, I was a stay-at-home mom, completely consumed by Lilaâs needsâfeeding, changing, rocking her to sleep, making baby food. I barely had time to shower, let alone socialize. The messages just got buried.
But to hear that people thought I had died? That was insane. This wasnât some casual prank.
I demanded an apology.
Gigi insisted she was the victim, claiming sheâd only heard the rumor from someone else.
She found and sent me the screenshot sheâd seen.
The image was chilling. It didn’t just casually state my time and cause of deathâit was a highly stylized, black-and-white headshot, complete with a professional-looking obituary detailing my supposed suicide via postpartum depression.
It explained everything. No wonder no friends had reached out, no party invitations had arrived. They all thought I was dead.
My blood boiled. I grabbed the screenshot and drafted a mass text to my friends, ready to announce my resurrection to the world.
But as soon as I hit send, I froze.
Except for Gigi, every single person was met with the same message: You are no longer friends with this user. I couldn’t chat with any of them.
Several old college group chats Iâd muted because they were annoying now showed the notification that I had been removed.
I immediately messaged Gigi, demanding to know who was behind the lie.
A moment later, a voice note came back:
âAnya, I heard it from Sienna Voss. Do you remember her?â
Sienna Voss?
She was also a college classmate, same department, different major.
I remembered her because she and my husband, Owen Miller, had been close in collegeâshe was his “girl buddy,” his platonic wingman.
After Owen and I started dating, she faded out. We lost touch after graduation and I hadnât heard anything about her since.
âWhy would she say I died?â I pressed.
Gigi sent a string of ellipses, then: âI donât know the details. Around this time last year, Sienna posted that screenshotâthe one you just sawâand said you had passed away from postpartum depression. Loads of people commented, offering her comfort, saying how loyal she was, and they even held an online memorial for you.â
My hand tightened on my phone. It started to shake.
âSend me that post. I need to see it.â
Gigi replied, âShe deleted it a long time ago. Said it was too painful to look at. Anya, you honestly didnât know about any of this?â
Know what?
My entire life for the past year had been Lila.
I was too exhausted from the endless cycle of feeding, changing, and soothing to even watch TV, much less check whose drama was trending on Instagram.
Besides, I hadnât even followed Sienna Voss.
I had Gigi send me Siennaâs contact information and immediately sent a follow request.
I waited half an hour. Nothing.
I tried again. This time, I was instantly blocked.
The fire inside me was turning into an inferno. I called Gigi.
âShe wonât add me. Send me Siennaâs phone number.â
Gigiâs voice was hesitant. âAnya, I think something is seriously off here. You need to calm down.â
âIâve been dead for a year. Tell me how to calm down.â
A moment of silence, and then the numbers arrived.
I typed the number in. My finger hovered over the dial button. Then, I stopped.
Something was fundamentally wrong.
Why would Sienna Voss spread a rumor that I was dead?
She and Owen had been close. Did Owen know about this? I stared at the numbers for a long time, but never pressed the button.
Exiting the dialer, I scrolled to another name in my contacts: Attorney Dana Cruz.
Dana was the legal counsel at my previous company. She was the only person I knew who could help and also understood the law.
I took a deep breath and called her.
âDana, hi. Itâs Anya Reed.â
A warm laugh came through the line. âAnya! Long time no talk! What a surprise.â
I forced my voice to remain steady, explained the situation simply, and asked her what I should do next.
Dana paused for a few seconds, her tone turning serious.
âFirst, you need to post a clear, unequivocal statement on all your socials. Announce you are very much alive. Thatâs step one: clearing the record.â
âSecond, you have to figure out who is spreading this and why.â
Dana paused. âBut Anya, I need to manage your expectations. The standard for defamation lawsuits is high, especially if there hasnât been significant material damage. If we just prove she lied, the best-case scenario is a public apology and some compensation for emotional distress.â
My heart sank. âSo what? I just let her tell everyone Iâm dead?â
âAbsolutely not. You gather evidence. Screenshots, chat logs, everything. Then, you confirm who the real puppet master is.â
After hanging up, my palms were sweating.
Iâd been running on pure adrenaline, but talking to Dana cleared my head.
The advice was sound. But Sienna was an old college friend, and she had been close to my husband.
If this was a misunderstanding, I didnât want to burn bridges unnecessarily.
After wrestling with it for a while, I decided to call Owen first.
As soon as he picked up, he asked, âWhat is it, Anya? Is Lila giving you trouble again?â
I told him the whole story, expecting him to be as outraged as I was.
Instead, Owen sounded completely dismissive. âYouâre taking some stupid prank seriously? Look, Iâm busy here, working late. I need to hang up.â
I immediately pushed back. âItâs not a prank. The screenshot is dated last Juneâright after I had Lila. The person who posted it is Sienna Voss. You remember her?â
Owen hesitated. âSienna? It has to be a mistake, or maybe someone hacked her account. Donât overthink this. Itâs nothing to worry about.â
I couldnât believe what I was hearing. âI was rumored to have died, and you think itâs ânothing to worry aboutâ?â
He sounded irritated. âThatâs not what I mean. I mean, why give these ridiculous rumors the time of day? People will figure out itâs false eventually.â
âIâm going to clarify right now. Iâm posting an update that Iâm alive.â
Owen told me not to bother. âThat kind of thing is bad luck, Anya. Just wait until tomorrow. If thereâs nothing else, Iâm hanging up.â
He hung up before I could reply.
Furious, I called him back, ready to argue, but he maintained his casual, bored tone, and then stopped answering my calls altogether.
Fine. If he wouldnât care, I wouldnât care about keeping the peace.
I quickly drafted a simple statement clarifying the rumor and hit post.
Almost instantly, a notification flashed:
[Your account has been logged in on another device. You have been forcibly disconnected.]
I stared at the screen, stunned.
My phone was in my hand. Who logged into my social media? My fingers trembled as I took a screenshot and sent it to my own text message thread.
But that wasn’t the end of it. I noticed a hidden app disguised as a calculator.
Itâs a common privacy app. I tried the few passwords I knew, but none worked.
The sound of the shower stopped.
I quickly replaced his phone and sat back down next to Lila, my heart hammering against my ribs, my palms drenched with sweat.
Owen walked out, towel-drying his hair, and glanced at me. âYour face is pale. Are you feeling sick?â
âNo. Just tired, maybe.â
He grunted, picked up his phone, scrolled through it casually, and then went out onto the balcony for a cigarette.
I watched his back, seeing a complete stranger for the first time.
I didnât sleep that night.
Once Owenâs breathing grew deep and steady beside me, I picked up his phone again.
I tried the hidden app password a few more times. On the very last try, a wild thought struck me: I typed in Siennaâs birthday.
Sheâd bought a round of drinks for her birthday back in college; I vaguely remembered the date.
The app opened. Inside was a private photo album.
I clicked on it and instantly felt the icy shock of betrayal.
The photos were all of them, together. Each one a punch to the gut.
One photo was dated last year, around the time I gave birth to Lila.
Sienna was sitting on a window seat, her stomach clearly rounded with pregnancy.
Owenâs caption read:
âOur little sweetheart, weâve been waiting so long. Grow up healthy.â
A year ago, I was at my most vulnerable, recovering from childbirth, needing him more than ever.
He was busy transferring money to another woman, planning for another childâs future.
I bit down hard on my lip to stop the cry that wanted to escape.
Anya, you cannot panic.
Danaâs words echoed in my ears: Gather the evidence.
Shaking, I picked up Owenâs phone again and meticulously photographed every one of the transfer records, the intimate photos, and sent them all to a hidden, encrypted folder on my own device.
It was then I stumbled upon a deeper secret.
In Owenâs cloud backup, I found a detailed medical report.
My eyes jumped immediately to the final conclusion:
[Mass occupying lesion of the liver, size approximately 3.5 x 4.2 cm. Primary Hepatocellular Carcinoma possible. Further core needle biopsy recommended.]
Owen had liver cancer.
And judging by the dates, he had known about it for at least three months.
For the past three months, he had gone to work, come home, and never said a single word.
A cold dread shot up from my feet to the top of my head.
He wasnât just cheating. He was systematically transferring our marital assets to provide for his child with Sienna.
And my staged “death” was simply to clear the way for their future.
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At thirty, I did something incredibly stupid.
I kidnapped the young mistress Caleb Vance was keeping, trying to win back his heart.
When he found out, he didn’t hesitate. In just a few days, he bankrupted my familyâs company.
My fatherâs lifeâs work was destroyed, his hair turning white overnight.
My mother nearly went blind from crying.
Now, Caleb was threatening to make my father kneel and beg for forgiveness, using his humiliation to force me to reveal the girlâs location.
“Zoey, I spoiled you too much before. You don’t know your place!”
“Since you made a mistake, I’m going to teach you a lesson!”
As soon as he finished speaking, his bodyguards grabbed my fatherâs head and slammed it hard against the floor.
In that moment, my heart felt like it was being stabbed by a thousand needles.
1
“Caleb Vance! Thatâs my father! Heâs your elder! You canât do this!!!”
The pain in my eyes was excruciating, my voice hoarse and desperate.
We dated for four years, married for eight.
We had been part of each otherâs lives for twelve years.
I never thought our hearts would drift so far apart, that our love would end like this.
Caleb grabbed my chin, forcing my head up, and said with a dark expression, “Where did you hide Lily?!”
I wanted to fight back, but I was surrounded by his men.
I choked back a sob and closed my eyes in pain.
My willfulness had already cost my parents the business they spent their lives building. I couldn’t let them lose their dignity too.
I bit my lower lip and met his gaze. “Let my parents go. Promise not to trouble them again, and Iâll tell you.”
Caleb waved his hand, signaling the bodyguards to release them.
Just as I secretly breathed a sigh of relief, he suddenly grabbed my throat, slowly lifting me until my feet left the ground.
Instantly, the feeling of suffocation spread through my body.
I struggled instinctively, only to hear his cruel voice.
“Zoey, did I give you too much respect?!”
“Did you really think Iâm that easy to talk to?”
“I could find Lily in minutes. What right does someone like you have to negotiate with me?”
“Crushing you is as simple as stepping on an ant, do you understand?”
Fear and despair shrouded my heart.
I stared at him intently, tears sliding unconsciously from the corners of my eyes.
Even though I was terrified, I still managed to speak with difficulty:
“Even so, you can’t hurt my parents!”
“They are my family!”
Hearing this, Caleb looked triggered, his face turning completely dark.
The strength in his hand increased, as if he were going to strangle me the next second.
But just as I was about to black out, Caleb let go.
I gasped for air, my body trembling violently from extreme fear.
In that fleeting moment, all my past with him flashed through my mind.
Those loving memories intertwined, finally turning into a blade that pierced my heart.
I couldn’t control it anymore and burst into tears.
For the sudden death of love, for the hopeless marriage.
And even more, for the loss of dignity in trying to save it all.
Caleb stared at me coldly, radiating a violent aura.
He stepped forward, roughly lifting my chin to make me look at him.
“Tell me, where did you hide Lily?!”
His tone was fierce, as if cruel punishment awaited me if I didn’t speak in the next second.
“The countryside. She’s in the countryside.”
In an instant, his anger turned to joy, and he swiftly left with his group.
I knew.
From this moment on, he was no longer my husband.
No matter how much I loved him, I had to root him out of my heart.
Even if it cost me half my life, I wouldn’t hesitate.
2
“Zoey, are you okay?”
Mom hugged me tightly, her voice trembling with tears.
I shook my head, sobbing and apologizing in self-reproach, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mom, Dad. If it weren’t for me, the family wouldn’t be like this, you wouldn’t have…”
Dad held Mom and me in his arms, his aged voice choking up. “Itâs not your fault. Our Zoey has suffered too.”
I wiped my tears, my tone filled with determination.
“Mom, Dad, I want to divorce Caleb.”
“Okay. Nothing is more important than your happiness.”
…
Caleb and I fell in love in college.
I fell for him at first sight.
It took a long time of persistent pursuit to win him over.
We got married right after graduation.
Only after impulsively getting the marriage license did I learn his true identity.
The eldest young master of the Vance family.
He never said anything, so I always thought he was just a handsome, ordinary guy.
After all, what rich young master would dress so plainly, even a bit shabbily?
Later, he explained to me, “I was afraid people would date me for my money, not for me.”
I foolishly rejoiced that I valued his looks.
But I forgot to ask him what he liked about me.
Nor did I expect that when I discovered he was keeping a mistress, he would point at me and say:
“Zoey, why are you making a scene?”
“You’re a thirty-year-old woman. How can you compare to a girl in her early twenties?”
“You’re not as young, not as pretty, and your body isn’t as good as theirs.”
“If I don’t play with them, should I play with you?”
I felt like I was in an ice cave.
He seemed to have forgotten.
He was the one who begged me with red eyes to love him a little more.
He was the one who said:
“Zoey, my parents never taught me how to love someone.”
“I don’t understand love. Please teach me how to love.”
“I want to love you properly.”
He also said:
“Zoey, my values were ruined by my parents long ago.”
“Only you made me understand what love is.”
Because of his parents, Caleb was extremely insecure.
I told him I loved him over and over again in his ear.
But he still sought confirmation of my love time and time again.
I was a broad-minded person, tolerating him every time.
I held him in my arms with heartache until he fell asleep quietly.
I thought we would grow old together without separating.
But his sudden keeping of a mistress caught me off guard.
Lily was 20, still a junior in college.
The first time I saw her was probably six months ago.
Caleb was taken to the police station for fighting.
I went to bail him out.
He was full of hostility, which dissipated the moment he saw me.
He followed me obediently, handling everything.
Before leaving, a girl in a bar uniform rushed up and thanked Caleb profusely:
“Sir, if I hadn’t met you today, I really don’t know what would have happened. Thank you.”
“If I have the chance, I will definitely repay you.”
I was stunned and looked at Caleb with confusion in my eyes.
He looked impatient. “Just get another job.”
The girl looked troubled. “I… I can’t, this job pays more…”
Caleb looked at her with a playful smile. “Is that so?”
That girl was Lily.
That day, I was puzzled why Caleb would suddenly help a stranger.
He explained, “Seeing her reminded me of you at 20, so I helped.”
I didn’t think much of it.
Until Caleb unscrupulously took her to various banquets, openly embracing and kissing her.
Only then did I suddenly understand the meaning of his playful smile at Lily that day.
He had his eye on Lily back then.
I cried, I fought.
Finally, all I got was his sentence: “Zoey, what are you fussing about? When you were twenty, didn’t I love you just as much?”
In that moment, I understood Caleb’s love.
He only loved girls in their twenties, and I was no longer in that stage.
I wanted a divorce immediately.
But coincidentally, Caleb and I had been trying to conceive for years without success, yet I found out I was pregnant right after discovering his affair.
I thought for the sake of the child, for our twelve years of feelings, I would give him one more chance.
As long as he was willing to come back to me, I would forgive him.
So, I found a few people to send Lily to the countryside to hide her.
The result was clear.
For her, Caleb destroyed my father’s life’s work.
Even humiliating my parents for her.
Twelve years of feelings, he showed no mercy.
I lost completely.
3
Based on Lily’s love for sharing, I saw her updates on Instagram.
[The person I love came to save me on a white horse~~~]
I added her just to try, but I didn’t expect her to accept.
I smiled bitterly.
Taking advantage of this gap, I looked for a lawyer to negotiate the divorce.
But when they heard the name Caleb Vance, no one was willing to take the case.
I knew they didn’t dare offend the Vance family, so naturally, they didn’t dare take my case.
I was once an outstanding graduate of a well-known university.
But after getting married, people around me said it was surprising the Vance family allowed Caleb to marry the daughter of a small company owner.
I knew Caleb put in a lot of effort for this.
His back still bore the scars of the family discipline whip from when he stubbornly insisted on marrying me.
The side branches of the Vance family watched hungrily. To snatch business, Caleb often worked all night until dawn back then.
He also constantly ran back and forth domestically and internationally, even vomiting blood and fainting from exhaustion once.
My heart ached terribly, but I was powerless.
I could only restrain my temper and try hard to be a good Mrs. Vance.
Spending all day socializing with wealthy wives to build relationships or listening for useful news from them.
Now wanting to find help, I didn’t know who to turn to.
However, given how much Caleb doted on Lily, divorce should be easy.
I went home and took inventory of my things.
I packed some frequently worn clothes, my ID, and passport. I didn’t take anything else.
Wait quietly for Caleb to return.
Maybe because of the pregnancy, I fell asleep while waiting.
Until I woke up hungry, opening my eyes abruptly.
The room was pitch black.
Dazed, I heard the maid calling me for dinner.
After eating and drinking my fill, I realized Caleb hadn’t returned yet.
I opened Lily’s Instagram, and what came into view wasâ
Caleb dragging a suitcase with one hand and holding her hand with the other.
She said happily: [Going on a trip!]
Knowing Caleb wouldn’t be back for a while.
I went to the hospital the next day to abort the child.
Since the feelings were broken, there was really no need for me to keep Caleb’s child.
Anyway, as long as he was willing, plenty of women would give birth for him.
Signing alone, undergoing the abortion surgery alone.
It was done quickly.
By the time I recovered, they were coming back.
I specifically put on makeup and drove to pick them up.
Thanks to Lily’s desire to share.
I got hold of her and Caleb’s entire itinerary.
They went bungee jumping, saw the aurora, and went skydiving.
Sure enough, being with young people is different.
People seem to become younger.
Things he dared not do before, he did now.
When Caleb came out, his expression was bland.
Lily held his arm, her mouth chattering non-stop.
Her steps were light, a bright smile on her face.
“Caleb, let’s go again next time, okay? On your birthday. This is the first time I’ve spent it with you since we got together…”
“Caleb Vance!”
I raised my right hand and waved at him, shouting loudly.
Lily seemed not to hear, continuing to chatter.
Caleb paused, his brows slowly furrowing.
He shielded Lily behind him.
In that instant, I felt like I was some kind of monster.
But I should be the one afraid of him.
After all, half a month ago, he almost strangled me for this woman.
My memory is still fresh.
Facing me, Lily was still panicked.
She stood timidly behind Caleb, shrinking like an ostrich.
“What are you doing here?”
Caleb’s tone was extremely nasty.
I smiled faintly and said, “Here to pick you up!”
He frowned tightly and stared at me.
“What tricks are you trying to play again?”
4
I spread my hands:
“What can I do?”
“You bankrupted my family for her; do I dare do anything else?”
Caleb didn’t speak, pulling Lily to leave.
He showed with his actions that he didn’t believe my words.
I laughed at myself.
Then my voice slowly sounded.
“No one will come to pick you up, and it’s hard to get a taxi.”
Caleb gave me a fierce look, then followed me to the underground parking lot.
Caleb subconsciously opened the passenger door, wanting to get in.
I stopped him.
“Sit in the back. Do you want to ignore your beloved mistress?”
He looked at me, expression indifferent, the surrounding chill gradually rising.
He sneered, slammed the car door shut, and got into the back seat.
The atmosphere in the car dropped to freezing point; only the sound of our breathing remained.
I broke the silence first.
“Ms. Lily, I have important matters to discuss with Caleb. Will you join us, or should I drop you off at school first?”
Suddenly named, Lily looked at Caleb helplessly.
She gripped the corner of his clothes, “I… I…”
Caleb suddenly spoke up: “What exactly do you want?”
Through the rearview mirror, I glanced at him.
His expression was already very impatient.
He was angry.
Maybe because Lily was there, he was trying hard to suppress his temper.
Back when he loved me, he didn’t dare lose his temper with me at all.
Six months, and things have changed completely.
The sadder I felt, the happier my smile became.
The smile on my face gradually widened.
“What is Ms. Lily’s major?”
“Art Appreciation!”
I was a little surprised:
“What a coincidence, that was my major too.”
“I remember a classmate of mine stayed at the school to teach. I wonder if you know her?”
I said a name.
Lily’s face instantly went pale, her voice weak: “She is… is… my counselor.”
I laughed out loud: “That really is a coincidence.”
Lily secretly nudged Caleb, biting her lower lip, looking at him hesitantly.
She looked pitiful, as if I had just bullied her.
Caleb said in a deep voice: “Zoey, believe it or not, I’ll make her get out of the school and never let her be a teacher again in this life?!”
I retracted the smile on my face:
“I believe it.”
“Just asking, why so scared?”
He narrowed his eyes, enunciating each word: “What exactly do you want to do?!”
“Disgust you guys!”
He glanced at me disdainfully and stopped talking.
My breath hitched, and I unconsciously gripped the steering wheel tighter.
After hesitating for a while, I said in a deep voice: “I want a divorce. Let’s divorce.”
Hearing this, Caleb raised his eyebrows.
He crossed his legs, his meaningful gaze meeting mine through the rearview mirror.
“Zoey, who said I want to divorce you?”
“As long as you behave, don’t hinder me, and don’t do anything outrageous, Caleb Vance’s wife will only be you.”
“Your status as the wealthy Mrs. Vance won’t be shaken by anyone!”
Hearing this, I was stunned.
I braked urgently and stopped by the roadside, looking at him in disbelief. “Caleb, what do you take me for?”
He shifted, changing to a comfortable position, and spat out indifferently:
“Don’t look at me like that. Didn’t you pester me back then because you knew my identity?”
“In the years you’ve been married to me, who hasn’t given face to your family? Don’t you know how much your father’s business has risen?”
My mind went blank.
So he always thought so?
Then for the past twelve years, his deep professions of love, dating me, marrying me, maintaining the marriageâwas it all acting?
Reason stopped me from questioning him.
Because there was no need anymore.
I just felt a little surprised, a little ridiculous.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly, eyes like frost, tone devoid of emotion, “Get out!”
Lily looked at the deserted place, saying timidly: “Ms… Ms. Zoey, Caleb is still here, you can’t…”
I didn’t have the heart to listen to her chatter, and shouted again sternly: “Get out!”
Caleb’s mouth pulled into a cold sneer, “If anyone’s getting out, it’s you!”
I don’t know why, but right now I wasn’t afraid of him at all. Meeting his gaze, I said, “If you don’t get out, then let’s die together!”
I stared him down, deadlocked.
Lily looked at Caleb in panic.
Seeing him looking at me, she clenched her hands.
Perhaps frightened by my serious expression, Caleb compromised.
Before getting out of the car, he smiled coldly:
“Zoey, good for you!”
“You really need to be taught a lesson!”
“You’re dead when you get back!”
Seeing them get out of the car with dark faces, I slammed on the gas and rushed out.
Go back?
Like hell I’m going back!
I immediately drove to pick up my parents and bought the soonest flight abroad.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to be ready to run at any time.
I left the packed luggage at my parents’ house in advance.
Luckily, my dad also planned ahead, knowing that after offending the Vance family, we couldn’t stay in the country and had to go abroad to survive.
We left immediately, without dragging our feet.
When Caleb called me, I snapped the SIM card, threw it in the trash, and boarded the plane.
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I was born unique, a medical marvel with two hearts beating inside my chest.
It was the only reason my parents ever smiled at me. Because my older brother, Julian, was born with a failing heart. My parents had me for one purpose: to be a spare parts factory for their favorite son.
Later, I met Sarah. We got married. She pulled me out of the abyss, away from a family that only saw me as an organ donor. I thought she was different. I thought she loved me for me.
But when Julianâs condition worsened, she became obsessed. She begged, then demanded, that I donate one of my hearts to save him.
What she didnât know was that I only had one heart left. The other one… was already beating inside her chest.
1
“It’s just one heart, Ethan. How can you be so selfish?” “Weren’t you born for this? To save your brother?”
Sarah gripped my hand, her nails digging into my skin. “But I want to live too, Sarah. Without a heart, I die.”
Sarahâs face went rigid for a second, then she scoffed. “You have two hearts. Give one to Julian, and you still have one left. You’ll live.” “But Julian is different. Without your heart, he dies today.”
She ignored my struggles, pushing me toward the prep room. I tried to explain, desperate and helpless. “I only have one heart left, Sarah!” “Didn’t you read my medical file?”
Sarah didn’t listen. She didn’t want to hear it. “Who knows what you did to dodge this? You probably bribed the lab techs to fake the report.”
She thought I paid someone off to change the X-rays. “No, Sarah! When I was a kid, I had surgery. I already donated one!”
“Enough, Ethan! Just save your brother! Why are you being so stubborn?” She cut me off, her voice shrill.
“I’m not lying! My other heart… it’s in you!”
Sarah dragged me toward Julianâs operating theater, deaf to my words.
2
The other doctors in the prep room froze. Someone whispered. “Trying to use pick-up lines now? That’s sick.” “Your brother is dying, and you’re hitting on your sister-in-law with creepy metaphors?”
Only our families knew Sarah and I were married. Her colleagues didn’t know me. Since Sarah handled everything for Julian’s hospitalization, everyone assumed Julian was her husband. And Sarah… she never corrected them.
“Exactly. Won’t save his own brother but has time to flirt with his sister-in-law.” “What a waste of space.”
Hearing their vile comments, I wanted to scream the truth. “Actually, I am herâ”
Sarah stormed out of the prep room and grabbed my arm. “You are donating that heart today.” “Julian is already under. You’re next.”
She slapped a stack of papers on the gurney. “I already signed the consent forms as your next of kin. Get on the table.”
Inside the OR, I saw Julian. He looked pale, fragile, eliciting sympathy from everyone in the room. “Don’t worry, Julian. Dr. Miller will make sure you live a long life.”
Julian didn’t correct them when they called Sarah “Dr. Miller” instead of his sister-in-law. He just smiled weakly. “It’s all my fault… making my little brother sacrifice so much for me.”
His voice was full of self-blame, but his eyes, locked on mine, were full of mockery. The medical staff melted. What a saint of a brother. And me? The villain.
Sarah comforted Julian, then ignored my violent thrashing and forced me onto the operating table. She ordered the anesthesiologist to knock me out immediately.
As the drugs took hold, my struggles ceased. Sarah stroked my cheek, her touch cold. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you survive.”
Her mentor had performed heart transplants before. She was confident she could keep me alive with one heart. “Once Julian recovers, the whole family will finally accept you. And I’ll be right by your side.”
3
Sarah and her team moved with practiced efficiency.
After what felt like an eternity, Sarah removed a heart from my chest. She didn’t even pause to look at the empty cavity. She took my heart and rushed into the adjacent OR where Julian lay waiting.
My chest was open. My body lay alone on the cold table.
The shrill alarm of the heart monitor startled the junior resident left to close up. “Wait… he flatlined? I thought he had two hearts?”
Sarahâs colleague frowned. “Dr. Miller said that as a joke, and you believed it?” “Honestly, good riddance. The guy was a creep. Refusing to save Dr. Miller’s husband and hitting on her? Disgusting.”
Another nurse chimed in. “So what do we do?” “He’s dead. Call the morgue. If no one claims him, let the city handle it.”
They covered my face and walked away.
In the next room, Sarah was focused. It was her first transplant as lead surgeon, but she was confident. Hours later, the surgery was declared a success.
Sarah followed Julian to the ICU. After settling him in, she finally remembered me. She started toward my OR but bumped into the colleague who had been in the room with me.
“Where is Ethan?” she asked.
The colleague shrugged. “Didn’t he go back to his room?” “Don’t worry, the nurses will keep an eye on him.”
Sarah didn’t catch the odd tone. She assumed I was recovering. She went back to her office to catch up on paperwork.
A day later, Julian woke up. Sarah was by his side instantly. “Julian! You’re awake.”
Julian saw Sarah and started crying tears of joy.
4
Sarah hugged him. “Don’t worry. The surgery was perfect.” “Your heart is strong now.”
Julian touched his chest. The disease that had haunted him for years was gone. He held Sarah, sobbing uncontrollably.
Sarah rubbed his back. “Careful, keep your heart rate down.”
A nurse walked by and smiled. “Dr. Miller is so good to her husband.”
Sarah froze. She remembered I was somewhere in the hospital. She opened her mouth to explain. “You misunderstand, he isn’t…”
Julian clutched his chest, wincing, effectively cutting her off. Sarah turned back to him. “I told you not to cry. You need to rest.”
Seeing Julian so weak made her think of me. She hadn’t seen me since the surgery. “Julian, rest now. I need to go check on Ethan.”
She stood up, but Julian grabbed her wrist. “I did this surgery without telling Mom and Dad. I’m scared. If you leave, I might not recover well.”
Sarah looked at his pale face and softened. She reasoned that her colleagues would look after me. I was fine. “Okay. I’ll stay a few more days.”
Julian watched her sit back down, then closed his eyes with a smirk.
In the hospital morgue, an orderly looked at my body tag. “Two days and no claim. What do we do?”
His partner was sweeping the floor. “Stop staring. Bag him and tag him. Let’s go home.”
They shoved my body into a black bag. “Look at that chest. Died ugly. Probably wasn’t a good guy.” “Good guy, bad guy… they all burn the same.” “True. Shame though, he was young.”
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