Category: English

Mom and Dad emptied their savings,every dollar from the last twenty years,to buy me a condo in Los Angeles. They did it over my brother Jason’s objections. I moved in with my heart full. One month later, the SCE app pinged with a new bill notification. The amount due: $15,000. I’m cooked. I drove straight to the SCE customer service center in Rosemead and asked them to pull a Usage Report. The woman behind the counter looked at the printout and shook her head. “Ma’am, your bill is system-generated. All usage data comes directly from the Smart Meter assigned to your unit. There’s no error.” To figure out what was going on, I unplugged every single appliance in the place. Fridge. Microwave. Washer-dryer combo. AC unit. Everything disconnected. I even started charging my phone at the office in Culver City. The second month’s bill came in. $15,000. I graduated from UCLA a few months ago. I’m a junior product manager at a tech startup, barely clearing six figures a year. Fifteen thousand dollars a month in electricity is more than most people’s mortgage. There’s no way I can pay this. SCE sent an Overdue Notice first. Then a Collections Warning. Then they reported it straight to the credit bureaus. My score cratered overnight,780 down to 520. With a lawsuit breathing down my neck, Mom and Dad borrowed money to bail me out. They went to a small storefront lender on Vermont Avenue. I found out later it was a predatory lender charging over 400% APR. I tried to sell the condo. But the electric bill situation had already spread through the building. Listed on Zillow for two months,not a single showing. What realtor would touch a unit with a $15,000 monthly electric bill and no explanation? Especially in a market as cold as LA’s. The bills kept stacking. I pulled every breaker in my panel. Refused to use a single watt. Sat in the dark eating cold food. Went downstairs to the 24 Hour Fitness to shower. Third month’s bill arrived. $15,000. Jason didn’t buy it. He drove over an hour from Rancho Cucamonga and stood at my door, ripping into me. “Emily, you’re nothing but an ungrateful leech. Using your electric bill as a scam to bleed Mom and Dad dry.” “They spent their entire lives getting up before dawn to run that laundromat. And this is how you repay them?” Mom and Dad gave up on me after that. Changed the locks at the house in Boyle Heights. Left me to fend for myself. Within months, the predatory loan’s compounding interest plus the SCE debt snowballed past $150,000. The collectors stopped calling. They showed up in person. In the parking structure of my own building, they beat me to death. — I open my eyes. I’m standing in the lobby of the condo building. Sunlight pours through the glass doors. The security guard at the front desk scrolls through his phone. This is moving day. After graduating from UCLA, I spent three months searching Zillow. Studio apartments at $2,200 a month. One-bedrooms at $2,800. Buying was out of the question,a fixer-upper in Boyle Heights starts at $600K. So when Mom and Dad said they wanted to buy me a condo outright, I thought it was the only shot I’d ever have at owning a home. How could I possibly say no? And now, here I am again. Dad dangles a set of keys in front of my face, that familiar warmth crinkling around his eyes. “Emily, what are you spacing out for? Don’t tell me you’re so touched you short-circuited.” “Our Emily finally has her own place! Get up there and check it out!” The memories of my death slam into me all at once. The concrete floor of the parking structure. The taste of blood in my mouth. The sound of ribs caving in under someone’s boot. A violent shudder rips through my body. I force the words out fast. “Dad! Jason just got married last month. You guys already helped him buy a house in Rancho Cucamonga.” “And now a condo for me the very next month? That’s way too much money!” “Maybe we should… return it?” Dad blinks. Then bursts out laughing. “Sweetheart, you think this is Costco? You can’t return a condo.” Mom laughs too, takes the keys from Dad’s hand, and presses them into my palm. Her hand is warm. Her grip leaves no room for argument. “Emily, whatever your brother gets, you get too.” “We don’t play favorites. That’s our bottom line. Non-negotiable.” “Your dad and I need to get back to the shop to close out the books. Go on up and see your new home.” We don’t play favorites. I push open the door with a weight sitting heavy on my chest. The condo is brand new. Dark hardwood floors. White quartz countertops. Stainless steel appliances. Even the bathroom tile is this year’s trend. The air smells like fresh paint and new furniture. Mom and Dad clearly spent serious money. They said if they were going to do it, they’d do it right. Turnkey. Move in and enjoy. I scan every inch of the unit. One bedroom, one bath, living room, kitchen. I check each room carefully. No high-draw appliances. No space heater. No server rack. No mining rig. Even if you added everything together, there’s no way it hits $15,000 a month. I open my phone. Pull up the SCE app. My brain goes white. The screen shows that since the account activated, this unit has consumed 237 kilowatt-hours. 237 kWh is what a normal American household uses in an entire month. I’ve had the keys for one hour. “That’s impossible… What the hell is going on?” I tear through everything I can find. SCE’s FAQ. Reddit’s electrical forums. Every Google result about abnormal electric bills. Anything. Any explanation at all. Then something catches my eye. A news article: “Man’s Electric Bill Triples Overnight , Turns Out His Neighbor Was Stealing Power Through the Walls” It hits me like a freight train. Of course. Last time around, I searched my own unit inch by inch. Every outlet, every wire,nothing wrong. I even pulled every single breaker in my panel, and the Smart Meter kept spinning. But if someone tapped into my electrical system from outside my unit… everything would make perfect sense. I get on Yelp and find the highest-rated licensed electrical inspection company in all of Los Angeles. A guy named Mike, runs his own firm out of Pasadena. Been in the business for decades. Mike shows up, takes one look at the building, and his expression darkens. “Ms. Rivera, auditing the electrical system of an entire building is no small job.” “I’ll need access to every single unit, which means you need written authorization from the HOA board first. And the cost,a full-building audit runs eight to ten thousand dollars, minimum. You sure you want to do this?” I check my banking app. Balance: $487.32. I clench my jaw, open Capital One, and max out my credit card. Then I download Affirm and finance the rest through Buy Now Pay Later. If I can’t spend this money now, what I’ll pay later is my life. After putting down the deposit, I spend two solid days going door to door. Knocking. Explaining. Pleading. Practically begging every neighbor to let Mike’s team in. Then I track down the HOA president,Mrs. Patterson, a woman in her sixties with hair dyed an aggressive blonde,and sweet-talk her into signing the authorization letter. Mike’s team begins the full-building audit. My heart is in my throat. Unit by unit. Floor by floor. Panel by panel. When Mike finishes the last unit on the top floor, I’m waiting for him in the hallway, eyes wide, desperate for an answer. Any answer. A mislaid wire. An illegal splice. A neighbor secretly running a grow house. Anything. As long as it explains this. But Mike just stands there. His face is grim. He lets out a long breath. “Ms. Rivera… nobody’s stealing your power. Every unit in this building is clean.” He pauses. Something close to pity flickers in his eyes. “All the usage is coming from your unit. I’m sorry… I honestly can’t explain it.” —

My eyes go wide. That’s impossible. Last time, I stripped the place bare. Not a single appliance left. Not even a USB charger. There was nothing left to draw power. This time around I haven’t gone that far, but all I’ve got running is a fridge, a washer-dryer combo, and a few LED lights. That’s 30 to 40 kWh a month, tops. There’s no universe where it hits 237 in a single hour. Mike packs up his Fluke meter and shakes his head. “Ms. Rivera, I’ve been doing this for twenty years. Never seen anything like it. I’d recommend you contact SCE and have them send a field engineer to check your Smart Meter.” He signs the invoice on his iPad and walks out without looking back. I sink to the floor. Last time, I called everyone I could think of. SCE customer service,at least twenty calls. The LA Department of Building and Safety came out twice. I filed reports with LAFD and LAPD. When I had nowhere left to turn, I called the State Attorney General’s consumer complaint hotline. Every single person told me the same thing: “We don’t see any irregularity in your account, ma’am.” Nothing. Nobody found anything. Ding-dong. The Ring doorbell chimes. A push notification lights up my screen. Jason stands in the hallway. His tie is loose, his face like a storm cloud. He must have driven over an hour from Rancho Cucamonga to get here. The second I open the door, his eyes sweep the freshly renovated interior. Every detail registers as resentment and rage. “Emily, congrats. You finally won one.” “I’ve still got twenty-eight years left on my mortgage. Four grand a month just in principal and interest. But Mom and Dad? They drop cash on a condo for you. No loan. No payments. Just here you go.” “Must feel pretty damn good, huh?” I crack a bitter smile. I don’t feel good. I feel like crying. Growing up, Mom and Dad always said “We don’t play favorites.” But Jason got Sylvan Learning Center. I taught myself at the public library. The college fund only had his name on it. Even the laundromat’s succession plan was quietly decided at the dinner table,all his. Me? I walked into the Financial Aid Office alone to figure out my student loans. The one time they actually give me something better than my brother, and it turns out to be this. SLAM. I shove the door shut. The deadbolt clicks twice. Jason kicks the door from the outside, curses his way down the hall. The elevator dings somewhere at the end of the corridor. I stare at my phone. The numbers on the SCE app are still climbing. Fast. Anger. Injustice. Hurt. Confusion. Every emotion hits at once. I dig through the coat closet by the door and pull out the sledgehammer I borrowed on moving day. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. I swing like I’ve lost my mind. The quartz countertop. The hardwood floor. The IKEA PAX wardrobe. The Casper mattress and its frame. Mike says it’s my power? Fine. I’ll smash everything to pieces. I’ll find whatever’s pulling electricity if it kills me. Shrapnel bites into my skin. Sharp, searing pain. I don’t feel it. I just keep swinging. When there’s nothing left to break, I pull out my phone with trembling hands. The SCE app reads: 2,500 kWh. “How is this possible?” The place is destroyed. Everything reduced to rubble. But the number keeps climbing. I refuse to accept this. I post an emergency ad on Craigslist,$500 cash for someone to tear out the walls. Two hours later, three day laborers show up. Two Mexican guys and a young Guatemalan, picked up straight from the Home Depot parking lot. They brought their own tools. Nothing left in the apartment. Electricity still surging. Maybe the answer is inside the walls. They work the entire day. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom. Every partition wall demolished. The unit is gutted. Nothing remains but bare wooden stud frames and four load-bearing walls. Shredded drywall hangs in strips. Wires dangle from gaps in the ceiling like a nest of dead snakes. I stand in the wreckage, hands shaking, and open my phone. This time. It has to stop. The SCE app number is still climbing. Ice floods my veins from the base of my spine to the top of my skull. —

This time, it isn’t just me. All three day laborers are staring at the screen, passing my phone between them. One of the Mexican guys mutters in Spanish,”Esto es imposible”,then switches to English. “Lady, there’s literally nothing left in here. How the hell is it still pulling juice?” The Guatemalan kid crosses himself, barely above a whisper. “Señorita… tal vez este lugar está maldito.” Maybe this place is cursed. He doesn’t finish the sentence. The other two are already packing up their tools. No invoice. They don’t even collect the full $500. All three file out single-file. The last one through the door makes the sign of the cross on the doorframe. I stare at the hollow shell of the condo. Bare studs. Dangling wires. Debris everywhere. Nothing but despair. I grew up in America. I studied engineering at UCLA. I have never believed in the supernatural. But right now, I can’t think of another explanation. What am I supposed to do? Am I going to drown in six figures of debt all over again? Ding-dong. The Ring doorbell. This time it’s Mom and Dad. They’re standing at the door holding two Whole Foods bags, all smiles. Inside: my favorite avocados and a box of Porto’s guava cheese pastries. “Emily, it’s been crazy at the shop. A new employee ruined a customer’s Armani suit in the wash,cost us two grand. We just now got a chance to come see you.” “So? How’s the new place? Feeling settled in?” I let out a hollow laugh. Don’t answer. They peer past me into the unit. The smiles freeze on their faces. Dad pushes through the door. He takes in the rubble, the exposed stud frames, and goes rigid. “We paid for turnkey! How did it end up like this? It looks worse than a fixer-upper!” I pull out my phone, open the SCE app, and hand it to them. The color drains from both their faces. Dad kicks a half-broken IKEA chair across the floor. “That goddamn realtor! I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him! Emily, don’t worry,Dad’s going to handle this. I’ll report him to the BBB myself!” Mom doesn’t say a word. She quietly pulls a roll of Bounty and some Hefty trash bags out of the grocery bag, kneels down, and starts picking up debris. Watching her small frame bent over that wreckage, I can’t hold it together anymore. Last time, I dragged them down with me. Pushed them straight into the arms of a predatory lender to cover my debts. I will not let that happen again. I pick through the bedroom rubble until I find a pen and a blank sheet of printer paper. I start writing my Last Will and Testament. If I can’t figure out the cause, the condo goes to the LA County Public Administrator after I die. Donated to Habitat for Humanity. That way, no matter how high the bills climb, none of it touches Mom and Dad. I’m halfway through when something catches my eye under the remains of the desk. A length of Romex wire. Yellow sheathing. 12-gauge. This wire has no business being here. The condo’s circuits all run from the breaker panel through the ceiling and down into the walls. There is no legitimate wiring path under a desk. My heart slams against my ribs. Could this be it? The source of everything? I grab the wire and pull, trying to trace where it leads. No matter how hard I tug, I can’t reach the end. “Emily, what are you doing?” Mom’s voice. Right behind me. I spin around. Her eyes are locked on the yellow wire in my hand. That warm, Whole-Foods-bag-carrying mother expression is gone. Replaced by something cold. Something I’ve never seen on her face before. A knot tightens in my gut. A terrible thought, still shapeless, begins to form. I force a smile. Keep my voice light. “Just tidying up the bedroom, Mom. Didn’t want you doing all the cleanup by yourself.” Mom studies me for a long beat. Then she snatches the wire from my hand, shoves it back into the rubble, and grabs my arm to pull me out of the bedroom. “You need rest, Emily. You’ve been running yourself ragged.” I try to circle around her, back toward the wire. She’s faster. She plants herself between me and the rubble, both hands clamping around my wrists like a pair of vice grips. Her strength is terrifying,way more than a woman her size should have. The look on her face. The way she’s blocking me. The panic inside me swells. Why does she keep stopping me from checking that wire? What is she hiding? The memories of my death crash through me again. Concrete floor. Blood in my mouth. The wet crack of bone under someone’s heel. Something in me snaps. I wrench free of her grip, grab the yellow Romex wire, and yank with everything I have. The next second, my pupils shrink to pinpoints. —

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Five years after my firefighter husband died saving me, I walk into his baby’s 100-day party , and he’s not dead. I am. Eason freezes mid-laugh, his hand still on the baby’s cheek. He sees me. And behind him, all our old friends — the ones who cried with me, who told me to move on — they step in front of him like a wall. “Jenna, don’t. He had a reason for faking his death.” I look at these people. These perfect actors. And my voice comes out calm. “The three times I swallowed sleeping pills out of guilt and had my stomach pumped… you were all laughing at me, weren’t you？” No one says a word. No one looks at me. Then Charlotte , his childhood best friend, the one holding the baby — starts crying. Her body’s still soft from birth. “I’m sorry, Jenna. The baby needs his dad. Please don’t take him away. I just love him too much.” I should scream. Throw things. Lose my mind. But I feel nothing. Five years of guilt, of grief, of thinking I killed the man I loved , it all just died. Right here. Right now. Behind Charlotte, a big screen plays their photos. Pregnancy. Birth. First cry. This party. And one photo on top.Charlotte in a loose maternity dress. Ethan on his knees, ear to her belly. The caption: Finally. I stare at the timestamp.July 23, 2019. Seven days after the fire. Seven days after they told me he was gone. After the official report said I caused his death. After the headlines called me the wife who killed a hero. After his parents screamed at me ,  Why aren’t you dead? After my own mom whispered, Maybe don’t come home for a while. The neighbors talk. So I took the pills.The first time, the landlord found me. Nurses whispered while they pumped my stomach — That’s her. The one who got her husband killed.No one ever asked why I ran into that fire. I got a call that night. Unknown number. A man’s voice said Ethan was trapped in an old warehouse. I heard Ethan groan in the background. So I ran in.I saw him. I pulled at him. Then a beam collapsed. He pushed me away. Shoved me. And then the fire took him. No body. Nothing. For five years, I believed it was my fault. But while I was crying over a grave that didn’t exist, Ethan was right here. Watching Charlotte’s belly grow. I grab a glass of champagne from a waiter and walk straight toward the main table. Charlotte hugs the baby tighter. Ethan jumps up, blocking her. “Jenna. Let me explain.” All those friends stand up too. Forming a wall. “He had to disappear. Someone was after him.” “It was to protect you.” I laugh.Do they really think I’m going to throw champagne at a baby? I sit down at an empty table nearby. Raise my glass to them. “Your baby’s beautiful. I mean it.”Weirdly, I do. Because Charlotte wasn’t just his childhood friend. She was my only friend in this city.

I’ve always been a loner. So after college, I moved to this city by myself and started from nothing. The first time I rented an apartment, I got scammed out of all my savings. I was squatting on the sidewalk with my suitcase, crying, when Charlotte handed me a tissue. “I have an extra bedroom. I’ll rent it to you cheap. Want it?” She smiled with her eyes all crinkled, like an angel. Later I found out she didn’t need a roommate. She just felt bad for me. We cooked together, binge-watched shows together, complained about work and our bosses together. She always said: “Jenna, you’re way too quiet. You need to smile more.” She’s the one who introduced me to Ethan. “He’s my childhood friend. Firefighter. Super reliable. You’re alone here, so if you ever need anything, call him.” She winked. “But don’t get any ideas. He’s mine.” I didn’t have any ideas back then. But Ethan chased me hard. Breakfast every day. Waiting for me after work. If I worked late, he’d sit in his car downstairs until midnight. He said, “Charlotte’s like a sister to me. You’re the one I want. It’s different.” I believed him. The day I said yes to being with him, Charlotte stayed quiet for a long time. Then she hugged me and cried. “You have to be happy. Otherwise I’ll never forgive myself.” I thought that was a blessing. Now I know. It was a warning. I down the rest of my champagne. The cheap alcohol burns my throat, makes me cough so hard my eyes water. “Enough, Jenna! If you have a problem, take it out on me. Don’t do this here.” Ethan’s voice. Angry. Familiar. He pushes past the people blocking him and walks over, his eyebrows twisted tight. “Five years and you’re still like this. You have to embarrass me in front of everyone?” He thinks I came to ruin his party. The disgust in his eyes is almost too much. I don’t know how to explain that I literally walked into the wrong room. I point at my work suit. “I’m here for my company’s year-end dinner. Wrong room.” But Ethan doesn’t believe me. He grabs my wrist. Hard. It hurts. “Stop pretending. I’m sorry about what happened. After the party, I’ll drive you home.” Charlotte’s face goes pale. She stands up with the baby. “Ethan…” He turns to her, softer. “Charlotte, I just don’t want her causing a scene in front of the baby. Don’t worry.” But his grip on my hand doesn’t loosen. I pull free. Step back. Force a smile. “Not appropriate. Your wife and kid are watching.” He acts like he didn’t hear. Reaches for me again. It’s insane. Five years apart, and he’s changed so much. He used to be so careful about boundaries. When we were dating, a female coworker kept finding excuses to be around him. One time it was raining. She asked for a ride. He called her an Uber instead and drove me home the long way. Next day, he announced at work: “I have a girlfriend. Don’t hit me up for personal stuff. Work only.” He pissed off his boss. Didn’t care. He shut down every possibility of anything shady. Except Charlotte. Eight out of ten of our dates got interrupted by her calls. Lost keys. Broken pipe. Feeling lonely and wanting to drink. Even on our anniversary. Candles lit at the restaurant. Charlotte called. “Charlotte’s stomach hurts really bad. I’m going to check on her. Jenna, eat without me. I already paid.” When I complained, he’d ruffle my hair and smile. “Why are you jealous? She’s like my little sister. She’s alone here. Just be cool.” But I’m not a cool person. I’m so uncool that seeing Charlotte walk around in his shirt — my shirt — would keep me up all night. “Ethan! That’s my pajama shirt!” “Don’t overthink it. She took a shower and didn’t have clothes. She’s been my friend since we were kids.” To make me feel secure, he bought a ring. Got down on one knee. “Jenna, marry me. I’m only going to love you my whole life.” I believed him. So when Charlotte sent me a photo late at night — her in my pajamas, leaning on Ethan’s shoulder, both of them watching a movie on the couch — I told myself it was just the angle. They’re like siblings. Then I’d lie awake all night. Get up and scroll through their chat history. Charlotte always started the conversations. Ethan replied short, but he never said no. Once I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed his phone to send her a message about boundaries. He snatched it out of my hand so fast. That was the first time he really yelled at me. “Jenna! You’re checking my phone? What do you think I am? Charlotte’s my family. Don’t be so disgusting!” He slammed the door. The phone screen was still on. Open to his chat with Charlotte. Her last message: “Ethan, I miss you.” He didn’t reply. But thirty minutes later, Charlotte posted a photo on Instagram. Two hands, fingers laced together. A river view at night. The caption: Some things don’t need words. I stared at that photo. Recognized the watch on Ethan’s wrist. I gave him that for his birthday.

Everything comes rushing back, and my chest starts to ache. This champagne is cheap, but damn, it hits hard.My head is spinning. Ethan’s face blurs into two.I just want out of here. I turn to leave — and trip.Next thing I know, my feet are off the ground. He picks me up, holding me sideways. “You can barely stand and you’re acting like you’re fine?” He’s actually walking out the door with me in his arms. In front of every single person here.The whole place explodes. Charlotte’s parents jump up from their seats, their faces dark. Her dad yells, “Ethan! Put her down! What the hell is wrong with you? You know what day this is?” Her mom starts crying. “My daughter just had your baby and you pull this? Are you serious?” Charlotte’s just standing there holding the baby, tears streaming down her face. She’s biting her lip, not saying a word. Just looking at Ethan with this broken look. Anyone watching would call us trash. Ethan stops. He looks down at Charlotte. Something flickers in his eyes. I struggle. “Put me down!” He holds me tighter. Then looks up at Charlotte’s parents. “Mom, Dad. Jenna’s drunk. I’m taking her home. I’ll be right back.” Charlotte finally breaks. “Ethan… are you picking her? Fine. I’m leaving. I’m taking the baby and going.” She heads for the door with the baby. Total chaos. Ethan’s face goes white. He shouts, “Charlotte! Don’t. I’m just dropping her off. You’re my wife. Forever.” That sounds familiar. He used to say, “Charlotte’s like a sister. You’re the one I love the most.” I close my eyes. I’m so tired. Home? I don’t even have a home. He shoves me into the car. My stomach turns upside down. I start dry heaving. It’s not from the champagne. It’s a reflex. Five years of nightmares built into my body. The fire that killed Ethan , it happened on our third anniversary. I made a reservation. Waited for him to get off work. Nine o’clock. Nothing. His phone went straight to voicemail. Ten o’clock. A call from a number I didn’t know. A guy’s voice, breathing hard. “Hey… Ethan’s trapped in that old warehouse on the west side. Fire’s bad. He told me to tell you… he loves you.” In the background, I heard fire crackling. And Ethan’s voice, far away, screaming. “Jenna, don’t come in.” I lost my mind. I ran. Fire trucks outside. Police tape everywhere. Someone yelled, “Ethan’s still in there!” I didn’t think. I ran inside. Through all the smoke, I saw him lying by some shelves. I lunged to pull him up. Then a beam broke and fell. He shoved me as hard as he could. The blast knocked me flying. When I turned around, there was nothing but fire. Later, the report said I ran in without permission and messed up the rescue. That Ethan died because of me. His parents tore up our marriage license and threw me out. My mom called me, crying. “Sweetheart, I know you’re hurting. But your brother’s got a girlfriend now. Her family heard about you… they think it’s bad luck. Just… stay away for a while, okay?” Even my own people didn’t want me.

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I waited eight years for him to say “I do” — until he handed my bouquet to his assistant. The bouquet landed in Ella Morgan’s arms almost by accident. Lana Shaw’s carefully aimed throw sailing perfectly into the crowd — but it bounced off the other fingertips, then tumbled once in the air, and fell into Ella Morgan’s lap like fate correcting a mistake. Every eye in the room turned knowingly toward Nate Sinclair. It was involuntary, collective, the way a room full of people who’d watched a couple orbit each other for eight years would naturally look to the man and think: *now.* The chanting started almost instantly. “Put a ring on it! Put a ring on it!” “Eight years, Quinn! No more excuses!” “Kiss her! Propose! Do *something!*” Someone pushed Nate forward. He stumbled a step, then steadied himself. Ella felt her cheeks flush. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She waited for the words she had been waiting eight years to hear. This was it. The moment they had engineered with surgical precision — every detail coordinated with Lana months in advance. And he was supposed to say *I will marry you.* Nate reached her. The noise swelled around them — whistles, applause, someone banging a fork against a champagne flute. But Nate only reached down and calmly took the bouquet from her hands. He turned with casually and easily, as though the gesture meant nothing, and handed it to the bridesmaid beside him —his assistant, Rain Chambers. “She caught it first,” Nate said. He smiled, easy and familiar, and ruffled Ella’s hair. “Be good, baby. Next time.” The spotlight followed the flowers away. It found Rain Chambers — Nate’s assistant, who had no business being a bridesmaid at this wedding — clutching the flowers with an expression of perfect, rehearsed surprise. Ella stood alone in the center of the floor. The applause had shifted, scattered, refocused on the pretty girl with the bouquet and her shy, delighted smile. Ella’s hands hung empty at her sides. She smiled. It was a quite small Nate didn’t know. There would be no next time. Her wedding was next week.

Lana’s face darkened. She was already striding across the floor, her bridal train gathered in one fist, the other hand rising like she intended to slap someone. Ella caught her wrist before she could raise her hand. “Lana,” Ella said quietly, “the wedding isn’t over.” “That woman did it on purpose!” Lana turned. Her eyes were redder than Ella’s. “I told every bridesmaid that bouquet was for you—” “Lana.” Ella squeezed her hand, her voice was quiet, steady. “Your wedding isn’t over yet.” The crowd had already moved on. The spotlight followed Rain, who clutched the bouquet and glanced at Nate with shining eyes. Nate had already stepped back to the edge of the crowd, at ease. The officiant, a seasoned old family priest, cracked a joke and the warmth returned to the room. Lana bit her lip, turned away, and finished her vows. Through the reception, Ella sat at the bridal table. She felt the stares—the pity, the curiosity. On the other side of the room, Nate laughed with his friends. Rain sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The distance between them had long since crossed the line of what was appropriate for an assistant. She hadn’t been a bridesmaid originally. But the groom’s side had been short a groomsman at the last minute, and someone suggested Rain. Nate brought her everywhere now. “Experience,” he called it. Even to her girlfriend’s best friend’s wedding. When Lana and her new husband reached their table for toasts, Lana hugged Ella hard. Her voice dropped to a whisper only Ella could hear. “That woman has been circling him for six months. I had someone look into her — she’s calculating, Ella. Every move is deliberate. And Nate, he—” “Lana.” Ella patted her back and cut her off. “You’re the most beautiful bride today. Don’t waste it on this.” Lana huffed but said nothing more. — The night wore on. Guests filtered out in twos and threes. The music softened. The staff began clearing tables. Finally, Nate walked over, calm and unhurried. “Ready to go?” He took her bag from her hands, then reached to put his arm around her shoulder. Ella shifted sideways, just out of reach. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll call a car.” He didn’t seem to notice her evasion. He nodded. “Fine.” The car slipped into the dark city streets. Neon signs blurred past the window. Ella’s own reflection stared back at her—carefully made up, but the exhaustion under her eyes was unmistakable. “Earlier,” Nate said, “Rain got the bouquet first. She’s young. Probably just wanted some wedding luck.” He shrugged. “You can’t blame her. Don’t take it to heart.” Ella said nothing. She watched the city lights bleed into one another. After a moment, he glanced at his phone, then at her. “Are you mad?” He leaned closer. “I said next time, didn’t I? Our wedding will be better than Lana’s. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?” His fingers threaded through her hair and rubbed the back of her neck—gentle, soothing, like calming a restless pet. The ache spread through her chest like something dissolving. Every time. It was always the same. Soft words, empty promises of “next time.” And then he assumed the storm had passed. “Nate,” she said, watching his reflection in the glass. “Yeah?” “Lana and I made a vow when we were children.” Her voice was flat. “Whoever got married first — the other one’s wedding had to happen within a week.” “We were going to be each other’s maid of honor. We were going to be the first to witness each other’s happiness.” The car went quiet. His hand stopped moving on her neck. “That was kid stuff,” he said, and laughed. “You can’t be serious. Plans change. Venues, schedules, catering—these things take months, sometimes a year. We’ll plan properly. I’ll give you the perfect wedding. What’s the hurry?” He didn’t explain why he hadn’t been able to make a single public commitment tonight. He just skipped straight to “how to plan a perfect wedding.” Ella thought of a fitting room, one month before tonight. Lana spinning her around in front of a three-way mirror, eyes bright and brimming. “Ella, you look incredible in this. I designed it just for you.” The dress had been champagne-colored silk, with tiny pearls stitched along the waistline. Lana had spent weeks on it. “When it’s your turn,” Lana had said, her voice cracking, “I’m making you the most beautiful wedding gown anyone’s ever seen.” Nate had been there that day. He’d been answering emails on his phone, head down, thumbs flying. At Lana’s declaration, he’d glanced up briefly, smiled. “Looks nice.” Then his eyes had dropped back to the screen. In that moment, surrounded by champagne silk and her best friend’s joy, Ella had felt it clearly for the first time — the quiet, creeping grief of eight years without an answer. The car pulled into the parking garage. The engine cut. Nate unbuckled his seatbelt. He seemed to consider the evening resolved — the small unpleasantness of the bouquet addressed, the apology delivered, normalcy restored. He leaned across the console toward her, angling for a kiss. Ella lifted her hand and pressed it gently against his shoulder. He froze. “I’m tired, Nate,” she said.

He looked at her. Held the silence for a few seconds. Then he patted her shoulder, casual as ever. “Being maid of honor is exhausting. Get some rest.” He paused. “Rain said she can’t find a car. It’s late — not safe for a girl to be out alone. I’ll swing by and drop her off.” “Okay,” Ella said. Her voice was flat. He didn’t move right away. He seemed to be waiting—for her to tell him to be careful, like she always did. Or to complain, with a little hurt in her voice, that it was too late to go out. But Ella just opened the car door and stepped out. The car pulled away behind her. She closed the door and collapsed onto the sofa. She lay there for a long time. Then she got up and walked toward the bedroom. She passed the room they had called “the nursery.” Her steps slowed. They had planned it when they bought this house four years ago. A nursery. But there was no child now. The room had filled, instead, with boxes and clutter. She walked inside. On the dusty crib, she found a stack of old things. Love letters in his handwriting. Movie tickets. Amusement park passes. Instant photos from their trips together. At the bottom was a photo from their college graduation. He was carrying her on his back under a cherry blossom tree. She had her arms around his neck. Her hair and the pink petals flew in the wind. On the back, he had written in bold, careless strokes: *I’ll carry you forever. That’s a promise.* The weak light from the living room fell on those words. Cold. Like a silent mockery. Like a joke that had stopped being funny a long time ago. From downstairs, she heard the faint sound of a car pulling into the garage. She stayed where she was, just listening. The key turned in the lock. Footsteps, deliberately light. After a moment, the door pushed open. He stood in the doorway. “Not asleep yet?” She didn’t turn around. She stayed crouched by the crib. “No.” “What made you dig these out?” His voice was light. “Feeling nostalgic?” She didn’t answer his question. She asked quietly, “Did you get her home?” He paused. Then he explained, “Yeah. She lives far. It really is hard to get a taxi there.” “Oh.” She looked down again and carefully stacked the photos back in place. “It’s late,” he said again. This time he reached out to pull her up. She didn’t take his hand. She pushed herself up on her knees, wincing a little. Her legs had gone numb from crouching so long, and she swayed. “Nate.” “Yeah?” He stopped walking. “Let’s break up.” He stopped moving. He looked at her for two seconds. Then he laughed. He reached up and loosened his tie. “Still thinking about the bouquet? Don’t be so sensitive.” His voice was patient, the way you soothe a child throwing a tantrum. “Fine. I’ll order you a bigger one tomorrow, okay? Now go wash up and get some sleep. I have an early meeting.” He turned and walked toward the bathroom. “One week,” Ella said to his back. Her voice was quiet. “I’m getting married.”

His hand, resting on the bathroom door handle, froze. A few seconds passed. Then he turned around. The indulgent warmth on his face had been stripped away entirely. “Ella. Enough.” He lifted his hand and pressed his fingers against his temple. “Marriage is a major decision. You don’t just throw it together because you’re upset.” “October twenty-eighth,” she added calmly. “The venue is booked. The dress is ready.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “This is Lana, isn’t it? She’s been in your ear again. She rushed into her own wedding, and now she thinks everyone else should do the same?” “Ella, think clearly. Don’t let her drag you into something stupid. We’ve been together for eight years—” “Nate.” She cut him off. “The invitations go to print tomorrow.” A muscle twitched beneath his eye. “You think this is going to work? This will only make me think you’re childish. Irrational.” His voice climbed, each word landing harder than the last. “I’m at a critical point right now — the family is in the middle of a power shift, and this is supposed to be the moment I prove myself. A wedding right now would split my focus and throw off everything I’ve been working toward.” “Are you really that desperate to get married?” The words hit her like stones flung across the room. Once, this tone would have made her flinch. Would have sent her scrambling to explain, to apologize, to retreat. Not anymore. But now she felt nothing in her chest but calm. His attention had always been expensive. There was only so much of it to go around — between the deals that needed closing, the family politics that needed navigating, and the pretty assistant who required late-night check-ins, birthday surprises, and the occasional business trip that conveniently included a spa resort. What was left for the girlfriend was never much. craps. Crumbs swept to the edge of the table. Ella met his gaze and nodded. “Yes. All our friends are married now. I want to be married too.” She turned and walked into the bedroom. On the nightstand, there was still a fashion magazine from six months ago. The cover headline read: *“Every Bride-to-Be Must Read! The Perfect Three-Month Wedding Countdown Guide.”* She had bought it in a rush of excitement, flipped through a few pages, and then set it down when Nate said — as he always said — *no rush.* It had not been opened since. In the darkness, she stared at the blurred outline of the ceiling. Her phone buzzed softly. The screen lit up. A message from Lana. 【Still awake? I can’t stop thinking about that woman’s face. It makes me so angry. What is Nate even thinking?】 What was he thinking? Nothing special. Nothing new. He was exactly who he had always been. The world doesn’t always bloom just because you wait. Another long text came in. 【Remember our vow? No more than a week apart. I meant it.】 【But that idiot of yours stood there with the bouquet in your hands and still didn’t get it. Eight years, not eight months. Forget it. This time, I’m giving you permission to break the promise.】 Ella’s fingers paused for a second. Then she typed back. 【Babe, have I ever broken a promise to you?】

Nate moved out the next day. He packed a bag and moved into the small apartment near the office. The one he used when work ran late. He said her sudden talk about marriage made him feel suffocated. He needed space. Fine. She needed space too. She quietly spent the following days putting things in order. The apartment — the one they had picked out together five years ago, furnished together, built a life in together — she listed it with a real estate agent. The day she handed the keys to the agent, she went home and sorted through the last of her things. In an old magazine, she found a project file. One of Nate’s current deals. She hesitated, then decided to bring it to him. His studio was not far. She could drop it off. When she arrived at his apartment, the door was shut. Muffled laughter came from inside. More than one person. She raised her hand to knock. A familiar voice drifted out, pitched in that particular register of feminine distress — just helpless enough to be charming: “Mr. Sinclair, it’s all my fault. I’ve never caught a bouquet before — I had no idea it would cause such a fuss. Now everyone in the office group chat is talking. Several coworkers asked me privately if you and I are…” She paused. “You really need to clear things up for me in the group. Otherwise, I’ll be too embarrassed to show my face.” Ella’s hand froze in midair. Before Nate could answer, one of his friends cut in, laughing. “Come on, Rain. Do you actually want him to clear it up? Or are you just trying to get him to say something else?” A ripple of knowing laughter. Rain’s voice came back, mock-offended and sweet: “You’re terrible!” Not a trace of genuine annoyance. “Enough,” Nate said. His voice was easy. Indulgent. “Don’t tease her. It’s not important. People will forget about it in a few days.” *People will forget about it in a few days.* The words opened a door in her memory. Early in their relationship, Ella had stopped by the office to help Nate with some paperwork. He had forgotten himself — draped an arm over her shoulder in the hallway. A colleague spotted them. That same afternoon, he had posted a calm message in the company group chat. *Just clearing up a misunderstanding, everyone please stay focused.* She had understood back then. She had stopped going to his office. Now she understood something else. It wasn’t office romance he minded. It was being seen with *her*. A woman who couldn’t help his career. Nothing to his ambition. Nothing but love — and love, apparently, was not a currency that spent well in public. Another friend spoke up, confused. “Wait, Nate. How did you smooth things over with Ella? I actually got a wedding invitation this morning. This is too sudden.” A brief silence. Then Nate laughed — short, cool, hollow. “The small stuff, I can indulge. But this time, she needs to learn on her own that throwing a tantrum doesn’t get results.” “So you’re really not going?” someone asked. Nate didn’t answer. Silence was its own answer. Then another friend spoke, more carefully. “Nate, are you sure you want to let it go this far? We’ve been waiting to drink your wedding toast for years.” He paused. Then he said, half joking, half probing, “Unless… you have other plans? Like, with a certain secretary?” “Mr. Vic~” Rain drew out his name in a teasing voice. “Don’t joke like that. Mr. Sinclair knows what he’s doing.” Those last words — soft, intimate, loaded. Nate did not correct her. A murmur of shared, masculine amusement filled the room. Someone else chimed in, “To be fair, Nate’s already more loyal than most. After all these years, anyone else would have run out of patience.” “What does Ella even do for you? She just gives you trouble. Not like our Rain here. Smart, capable, shows up when it counts…” Rain interrupted, playing coy. “Don’t say that.” The motion-sensor light in the hallway had gone dark again. Ella stood in the blackness, the project file pressed against her chest. After a long moment, she bent down. Slid the envelope beneath the door with the toe of her shoe. Quietly. Precisely. Then she turned and walked away.

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My stepfather was drugged. I became his only cure. When he woke up, Grandfather told him we weren’t blood‑related and ordered him to marry me. But Lucian believed an arranged marriage would ruin his one chance at real love. He got drunk and lay down on the train tracks. I saved him off, but I lost both my legs for him. He finally agreed to the wedding, his eyes red. But on our wedding night, he locked me in The Cage—his underground club where men paid to use women like broken dolls. They strapped me to a bed. They gave me injections and whipped me. He just sat in the shadows, smoking, watching like it was entertainment. After endless rounds of that, I found my chance. I set the curtains on fire. The whole place went up—him and me together. Then I opened my eyes. I was back on the night he was drugged. *This time, My father, I’m letting you have your real love story.* — A man’s hand on my waist yanked me awake. I opened my eyes flew open to meet Lucian Ashford’s bloodshot gaze. His eyes were thick with hunger—bottomless, primal. The kind of look I remembered from The Cage. Instinctively, I looked around. No rusted shackles bolted to the walls. No stained mattress reeking of sweat and iron. No muffled screams bleeding through concrete. No unnameable smell of sweat and blood and cheap perfume hanging in the air. Just his save private apartment, the bodyguard’ heavy boots shifting behind the door. This wasn’t The Cage. Lucian’s fingers dug into my hip bone hard enough to bruise. “Can’t you understand me? Take off your clothes!” He was too close. So close that my vision blurred and I was dragged back to my past life—to The Cage. To the men he’d sent in. The weight of bodies pressing me into that filthy mattress. Foul breath against my neck. Greasy hands tearing fabric from skin while the sound of his lighter flicked somewhere in the dark—click, click—the ember of his cigarette glowing like a single red eye watching from the corner of the room. I forced the memories down and sank my teeth into Lucian’s arm with everything I had. “Get off me!” The sharp pain snapped him back. His gaze dropped to my crooked collar, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before disgust swallowed it whole. “Elara Ashford, you’re revolting.” His voice dripped with contempt—the voice of a man who ordered executions without blinking. “Don’t think that sleeping with me will make me want you.” A stab of pain lanced through my chest. I thought of how I had died in my previous life. The flames eating through The Cage. The smoke filling my ruined lungs while Lucian burned beside me. I wanted nothing more than to grab the gun I knew he kept in the nightstand drawer and put a bullet between his eyes. But I couldn’t. Grandfather liked him. In this life, I wasn’t going to destroy myself for him again. I swallowed the nausea clawing up my throat. “Where’s your mistress? I’ll go get her.” Lucian froze. Even drugged out of his mind, the calculating instinct of a man who ran an empire never fully shut off. “How do you know I have a girlfriend?” “Is now really the time for that?” He stared at me for two long seconds, his eyes sharp with suspicion even through the haze of whatever was coursing through his blood. Then he gave me an address. “Thirty minutes. I want to see her.” I said nothing more. I took the armored sedan from the garage—the one with bulletproof glass and the Ashford crest discreetly etched into the door panel—and drove like a madwoman the entire way. In the rearview mirror, a black SUV tailed me for three blocks before peeling off. One of Lucian’s men, making sure the Don’s stepdaughter wasn’t running. I made it back with her in twenty. Serena Cross’s legs were trembling when she stepped out of the car. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her voice pitched to a delicate quiver. “Lucian, I don’t know what I did to offend her—she drove so fast the whole way, I was terrified.” Gone was the cutting edge she’d used on me in the car—the sneer, the hissed warning to *stay away from what’s mine*. And the surprise on her face when she saw Lucian’s flushed skin was perfectly measured. Not a fraction too much, not too little. “Lucian, are you alright? Are you feeling unwell? Let me take you to the hospital—” Before she could finish, he pulled her inside. The door slammed shut in my face. The deadbolt turned. Through the thick wood, I heard the sound of fabric tearing. My heart finally settled. My hands were still gripping the steering wheel, white‑knuckled. This time, the twisted fate between Lucian Ashford and me would go no further. —

Serena Cross was my classmate. She was on a hardship scholarship—couldn’t even afford a couple of dollars for a hot meal most days. I always lied and said I’d ordered too much food so she’d eat with me. When she said she spent the holidays alone, I brought her home to Ashford Estate. Past the iron gates. Past the guards with holstered weapons who nodded at me without expression. Even though we had Mrs. Clark (Ashford Estate housekeeper) to cook for us, Serena would wake up early every morning to help in the kitchen. In the evenings, she’d ask each person’s preferences and prepare dinner herself. I thought I’d found a lifelong friend. Until the necklace Lucian had given me vanished. I tore through the entire estate before finding it shattered on the kitchen floor. That necklace was his gift to me—one of the few things that proved the man who now commanded killers had once been capable of tenderness. I’d treasured it like nothing else. Only Serena had known where I kept it. And she was the only person I had ever told about my shameful feelings about my stepfather. When I confronted her, she knelt outside the front door in thin clothes, insisting it was an accident, saying she had nowhere else to go. I had her things thrown out anyway. She rose from the ground and limped toward the gate. And ran into Lucian at the entrance. He was coming back from whatever business of mafia handled at two in the morning—his knuckles raw, his shirt cuffs rolled to the elbow. He saw her shaking, barely able to stand, and his pity got the better of him. I was furious—but more terrified that he’d learn about my feelings and pull away from me forever. So I let her scheme succeed. I just never imagined they would become lovers. Serena started sending me photos of them together. Intimate ones. His lips on her neck. Her hand on his chest. The kind of photos that made my stomach turn. Each image a knife twisted slowly between my ribs. I tried to tell Lucian what she had done. His eyes went cold. He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “People like you, who only understand arranged marriages and family alliances—you don’t know what real love is. Stay out of my business.” Things turned ugly. Lucian moved out of the Estate entirely—took a safehouse on the east side of the city. Grandfather said nothing, but I saw the disappointment in his eyes. Tonight, Grandfather had asked me to deliver documents to him. That was the only reason I’d stumbled upon his drugged state. But remembering the provocative look Serena shot me before walking through his door—that slow, victorious smile—I understood. This had all been her trap. A girl from nothing, with ties to bottom-feeder gangs, scheming her way into the most powerful crime family in Northgate City. Drugging the Don was the most direct route. In my past life, I had ruined her plan. This time, I would watch Lucian walk right into it. —

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My husband walks his third pregnant mistress into my law firm and tells me to draft her asset transfer agreement. His boys are taking bets behind him—how many seconds before I lose it and flip my desk. The printer churns out a fat stack of papers. I don’t say a single word. “Yo Ethan, that’s number three. Think your wife’s about to snap?” Ethan pinches the bridge of his nose. His voice is low, almost bored. “She’s fragile. Can’t handle childbirth.” “Once the baby comes, it goes under her name. She keeps the title. She’ll always be Mrs. Ashford.” I slide the sealed agreement across the desk. Force of habit: “This is legally binding upon signature.” Ethan takes it. There’s a tiny crease between his brows—gone in a second. Then he pushes a set of divorce papers toward me. His voice goes soft, almost gentle. “Just sign. It doesn’t mean anything.” “She’s strong enough to carry the baby. Once it’s born, it’s yours on paper. My family backs off. Nobody brings up the infertility thing again.” “You’re still Mrs. Ashford. I’m doing this for you.” He’s pulled this exact stunt twice before. Twice, I played along. This time? I sign my name without blinking. Then I slide a diamond ring onto my left hand—a gift from the most powerful man in Manhattan. … Vanessa rubs her swollen belly, batting her lashes. That sugary little voice of hers fills the room. “Ethan, babe… is Stella upset?” “I mean, she already went and got herself a ring.” Ethan’s eyes drop to my ring finger. His jaw tightens. Something dark flickers behind his gaze. “Stella. Enough.” “You think sticking some random rock on your finger is gonna make me change my mind?” I slide the divorce papers right back at him. “Signed. Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. Courthouse.” Dead silence. Then his whole crew cracks up. “Girl, you’ve been playing hard to get for three years. You’re not tired?” “For real. The man just wants a kid that’s actually his.” “You can’t pop one out yourself and you won’t let anybody else do it either? What kind of woman—” Ethan rubs his temples. He’s done with me. “Stella. Stop.” “Vanessa’s carrying twins. High-risk pregnancy. Doctor says she needs bed rest.” Vanessa leans into Ethan, eyes going red. “Ethan… I don’t want our babies born in some back-alley hideaway. Like they’re something to be ashamed of.” She peeks up at me. Doe eyes. Trembling lip. “Stella, your penthouse on the Upper East Side… could I maybe stay there? Just while I’m on bed rest?” “The security’s really good. And it’s right near the hospital.” That penthouse is the only thing my parents left me before they died in the crash. “That’s my pre-marital property.” Vanessa flinches like I slapped her. The tears come right on cue—big, fat, rolling drops. “Stella, please don’t be mean. I’m just thinking about the babies.” “If you don’t want me there, it’s fine. I’ll just… take the kids and go back to where I came from.” Ethan pulls her in tight. Then he turns to me. Full command mode. “Stella. What is your problem?” “The place is sitting empty. Move out tonight. Vanessa moves in.” I stare at his face. That face I used to love. All I can think is—God, what a fool I was. “Ethan. Do I need to spell it out for you?” “It’s. My. Apartment.” His expression hardens. “Stella, it’s one apartment. You’ll get it back after the baby comes.” “She’s pregnant. Try seeing the bigger picture for once.” One of his boys jumps in. “Come on, Stella. Vanessa’s giving the Ashford family an heir. You can’t spare one lousy apartment?” I hold Ethan’s gaze. “And if I refuse?” He smirks. Pulls out his phone. “Your firm’s biggest client is Ashford Group. Right?” “Stella, you’re a smart woman. Don’t make me do this the hard way.” He’s threatening my career. The one I built from nothing. For a side piece. I look into those cocky, certain eyes of his. And I laugh. “Fine. I’ll move.” He blinks. Clearly didn’t expect that. A flicker of triumph. His tone goes easy. “There we go. Play nice, and I’ll take care of you. I always do.” “Head back to the estate tonight. I’ll send my assistant with Vanessa tomorrow.” I stand. My gaze sweeps across every face in the room. “I’ll have it cleared out by tonight.” “Ethan—I really hope you don’t regret this.” He snorts. “Relax. Vanessa just needs a place to rest. The apartment’s still yours. Don’t be so dramatic.” Vanessa tips her chin up and hits me with a smug little smile. I don’t look at any of them again. I walk out and shut the door behind me. Through it, I can still hear his boys howling. “Nobody handles wifey like our boy Ethan!” “Once those twins drop, that’s three kids for the big man!” Three kids? I laugh out loud. I hope he’s still laughing like that when the truth comes out.

It’s pouring outside. I go back to the penthouse to pack. There’s not much to take, really. I don’t touch a single thing that belongs to Ethan. I grab my parents’ photo and my Ragdoll cat, Snowball—the one I’ve had for five years. Snowball seems to sense my mood. She licks my fingers, soft and gentle. The lock beeps. Ethan walks in, dripping wet. He sees the suitcase by the door. His brow creases. “You’re really leaving?” “Stella, I told you to move back to the estate. What’s all this?” I stuff the last coat into the suitcase and zip it shut. “The papers are signed. Why would I go back to your family’s house?” “Save your energy, Mr. Ashford. Go take care of your twins.” Ethan strides over and slams his hand down on my suitcase. “Are you done with this?” “I told you—the divorce is just a formality. You really want to make this a thing?” “You’re a woman alone. Without me, without the Ashfords—where exactly are you gonna go?” His eyes are full of certainty. He truly believes I can’t survive on my own. I shove his hand off. “Where I go is none of your business anymore.” Ethan’s face darkens. He’s about to blow up when Vanessa’s call comes in. Soft sobbing bleeds through the speaker. “Ethan, I’m scared without you…” “There’s thunder outside. I’m cramping so bad—is something wrong with the baby?” Ethan’s expression shifts to panic. “Don’t be scared, Vanessa. I’m on my way.” He hangs up and shoots me one cold look. “Stella, you’d better pray nothing happens to Vanessa’s babies.” “Because if it does—I will never let you go.” Then he turns and rushes out into the storm. I watch his frantic back disappear. All I feel is disgust. When I was bleeding out on the operating table, losing our baby—where was he? He was helping his first mistress pick a venue for her baby’s one-month celebration. I close my eyes. I press that memory back down where it belongs. I grab my suitcase, scoop up Snowball, and walk out of this apartment for good. The next morning, I’m at the courthouse right on time. By the end of the day, Ethan still hasn’t shown. His phone goes straight to voicemail. It’s not until I leave that one of his boys calls. “Stella, do you have any conscience at all?” “Vanessa had contractions last night. Ethan was at the hospital with her all night—and you’re sitting at the courthouse trying to force a divorce?” “What, you won’t be happy until you’ve killed his baby?” My voice doesn’t waver. Not even a little. “If he’s busy, we’ll reschedule.” “Tell him to have the breach penalty ready.” I hang up and head straight to the firm. The second I walk through the door, something feels off. Lily rushes over, nearly in tears. “Stella, it’s bad!” “Ashford Group’s legal department just emailed. They’ve unilaterally terminated every single contract with us.” “And they’re telling everyone—anyone who gives us a case is making an enemy of the Ashfords.” I stop dead. My eyes go cold. Ethan is trying to bring me to my knees. He thinks if he cuts off my income, I’ll come crawling back. I open my laptop. My inbox is packed with termination emails—every client I worked so hard to sign. My phone buzzes. A text from Ethan. [Apologize to Vanessa. Promise to behave and stay in your lane as Mrs. Ashford, and I’ll restore the contracts.] [Stella, don’t test my patience.] I stare at the screen and laugh out loud. Always the same. Acting like he’s doing me some grand favor. I don’t reply. I block his number and dial someone else.

The call connects almost instantly. A deep voice comes through. “Well, well. Ethan finally kicked you out?” I stare out the window. “Nathan. You win.” “I’m done with every Ashford case. But I need you to do something for me.” The man on the other end lets out a low laugh. “Just say the word. Forget one favor—I’d hand you all of Manhattan on a silver platter.” “Tell me. What do you need?” My eyes go ice-cold. I say it slowly, word by word. “I want Ashford Group’s cash flow to collapse. Within one month.” Over the next few days, Ethan doesn’t show his face. He probably thinks I’m somewhere panicking over my firm, ready to crawl back to him any second. What he doesn’t know— I’ve already cashed out my shares in the firm at a premium and quietly taken over Foster Corp’s core legal work on the East Coast. That afternoon, I’m walking out of the Foster Corp building after a meeting. My phone rings. It’s the vet. “Ms. Morgan, something’s happened to your cat!” My chest seizes. I race to the clinic. I push through the door and find Snowball on the operating table, soaked in blood, barely breathing. The vet’s hands are covered in red. His face says everything. “Ms. Morgan, the cat suffered severe blunt force trauma. Ruptured organs. We did everything we could…” My mind goes blank. Snowball was a birthday gift from my parents. She got me through countless sleepless, lonely nights. My hands tremble as I stroke her blood-matted fur. Snowball forces her eyes open one last time. She looks at me. Then she stops breathing. “Who did this?” I barely recognize my own voice. The vet sighs and pulls up the security footage from the entrance camera. On screen—Vanessa, wearing sunglasses, holding a golf club. Her bodyguard drags Snowball out of the carrier. Vanessa swings without hesitation. The club comes down hard on Snowball’s body. Again. And again. And again. She doesn’t stop until Snowball goes limp. Then she kicks the body away in disgust. “Stupid animal scratched me. Who does it think it is?” She turns to the bodyguard. “Dump it on the curb. Don’t let Ethan see this mess.” I stare at the screen. My nails are digging into my palms so deep I can’t even feel it. I pull out my phone and call the police. Half an hour later, the officers walk me into what used to be my home. The door opens. Vanessa is curled up in Ethan’s arms. She sees the cops and shrieks, ducking behind him. “Ethan, I’m scared…” Ethan puts himself between us, glaring at me. “Stella, what the hell is wrong with you now?” “You brought cops to my house? Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough?” I look at him. No warmth. No emotion. “Vanessa is being reported for intentional destruction of property and animal cruelty.” Ethan blinks. Then he sneers. “Over that stupid cat?” “Stella, are you out of your mind? It’s a cat. It’s dead. So what? I’ll buy you ten more.” “Vanessa is pregnant. She can’t handle this kind of stress. Take your people and get out.” I look at the man in front of me. He’s a stranger. “That was my cat. The last thing my parents ever gave me.” “She was just a cat. What did she ever do to deserve being beaten to death?” Vanessa peeks out from behind Ethan, crying on cue. “Stella, stop making things up.” “That cat went crazy and tried to claw my belly. I was protecting the Ashford heir. It was self-defense.” “Or does a cat matter more to you than I do?” Ethan’s eyes sharpen to blades. He charges forward and raises his hand. Crack. The slap lands hard across my face. Blood seeps from the corner of my lip. My ears ring. Ethan jabs his finger at me and screams. “Stella, how evil can you possibly be?” “You can’t have kids yourself, so you use a damn animal to hurt mine?” “If anything—anything—happens to Vanessa’s baby, you will pay for it with your life!” The officer steps between us and pulls Ethan back. “Mr. Ashford, calm down. Striking someone in front of police is an arrestable offense.” Ethan doesn’t even flinch. He smirks and adjusts his cuffs. “Arrest me? Your captain wouldn’t dare look me in the eye. I’m disciplining my wife. Try it.” He turns back to me. Pure threat. “Stella. Last chance.” “Drop the charges. Get on your knees and apologize to Vanessa.” “Or I will make damn sure you never work in this city again.” I wipe the blood from my lip and stare at the two of them. The rage burns so hot it flips all the way back to calm. “Ethan, that slap just killed the last shred of anything between us.” “You want kids so badly?” “Then I wish you all the best—a whole houseful of them.” I turn to the officer. “Officer, the surveillance footage has been submitted. Please proceed by the book.” I walk out without looking back. Behind me, Ethan’s voice cracks with fury. “Stella! Don’t you dare walk away!” “I told you to stay home and think about what you’ve done. So why are you here?”

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On our wedding night, my husband plotted to have me gang-raped by five men. At that wedding night, Felix Cruz was suddenly passionate. He was rough, wild, insatiable. I woke up sore and smiling, convinced that our new life together had begun. For ten years, I had loved him from a distance. Ten years of waiting, of hoping, of telling myself that one day he would see me. When he finally agreed to marry me, I thought it was because he had finally realized how much I loved him. I was wrong. Fifteen days later, I found out I was pregnant- its confirmed twins. I drove to the private club where he spent most of his evenings, my heart bursting with the news to share the joy. But at the door of the private room where he was laughing with his friends, I stopped. I heard Mina’s voice first — that syrupy, girlish lilt that made every man in his circle melt. “You guys are too much,” Mina Moore giggled. “I made a joke—whoever gets Zara pregnant on her wedding night gets a million dollars from Felix. And you actually went through with it? Five men, all night?” Laughter exploded around him. Male laughter. Five distinct voices. I couldn’t move. My blood turned to ice. Felix’s cold voice cut through: “Five of them took turns. If she still doesn’t get pregnant after that, I should ask for a refund.” “I heard virgins get pregnant easily,” one of them snickered. “That million is mine.” “The taste was amazing. We were so thorough that night. The baby is definitely mine.” “Please — I lasted the longest. If she’s carrying anyone’s, it’s mine.” Mina took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes flicking toward the door. Toward me. She knew I was there. “Stop fighting, boys. It’s not like any of you are short on cash.” One of Felix’s friends laughed. “Who needs the money? We just want to know who’s the best among us.” Mina turned her smile to Felix. “Would you be angry if she really got pregnant?” Felix shrugged. “Why would I be angry at a whore who spreads her legs for five men and moaned like she was enjoying it. She was disgusting that night. And she begged me for more.” They laughed again. “Besides —” he paused, “— you boys kept the HD footage, didn’t you? Something to revisit on a slow night.” The room erupted. “The princess of Kingsley, writhing underneath me— I’ll replay that till I’m old.” “She wouldn’t dare say anything. We were just following Felix’s orders.” Every word reached me through that gap in the door. My body was shaking. My lungs had forgotten how to expand. My vision tunneled to a single bright point — Mina’s face, watching me through the crack with the faintest curl of a smile. “Zara!” She waved me in, voice dripping with warmth. “When did you get here? You should have said something!” Felix glanced at me. No shame. No guilt. Just irritation. “We were just joking. Don’t take it seriously.” I looked around the room at the faces of the five men who had taken turns raping me on the night I thought I was becoming Felix’s wife. I gathered what was left of my voice. “What kind of joke involves *that*?” One of them walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. His eyes crawled over my body. His eyes traveled down my body with a familiarity that made my stomach lurch. “Don’t be mad, Zara. It was just a kidding.” Felix’s voice hardened. “That’s enough. Everyone’s watching.” Felix’s voice not at him. At me. I turned and walked out. The tears came before I reached the elevator. We were an arranged marriage — a business alliance between the Kingsley and Cruz families. But I had loved Felix Cruz since I was fifteen. Ten years of quiet, stubborn devotion before he finally agreed to the wedding. He hadn’t been moved by my love. He’d been moved by leverage. That night — our wedding night — the champagne had tasted slightly off. I’d drunk it without suspicion, because why would I suspect my own husband? I had been unconscious while they took turns. I had woken up with bruises and thought it was passion. I had tried so hard to please him. I had watched those stupid videos, learned those degrading positions, forced myself to be the woman I thought he wanted. And all of it—every humiliating second—was because Mina had made a bet with them. Back at the house, I found the camera first. High-definition. Hidden in the corner of the bedroom. I ripped it off the wall and smashed it. My tears wouldn’t stop. *I don’t deserve to be alive. I’m filthy. I’m disgusting.* Felix appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing? I told you, it was just a joke.” My voice cracked. “Then why did you put a hidden camera in our bedroom?” He sat on the edge of the bed, looked at the shattered remains on the floor, and said without blinking: “That’s for your safety.” *My safety. Or your collection?* He took my cold hand. “You went to the hospital today. Where’s the test result? You’ve always wanted a baby. You should be happy.” My throat was scraped hollow. “You really want me to have your child? Felix — you haven’t touched me once since the wedding night.” He softened his voice. “I was worried you were too tired, Zara. You’re my wife. Do you think I would hurt you? And that night, I was so ‘hard’ that you couldn’t have been left unattended—how could you not be pregnant?” I pulled my hand back. But the ultrasound printout slipped from my bag and fluttered to the floor between us.

Felix picked up the ultrasound from the floor and glanced at it. A crease formed between his brows—then dissolved into something cold laugh. “Tomorrow I’m taking you to the hospital for a proper check. Twins in one go—impressive.” He locked me in the bedroom that night. I spent the night curled on the bed, my hand pressed to my still‑flat stomach, not sleeping. Just waiting. The next morning, before I’d even finished dressing, his driver was at the door. I was taken to the hospital like cargo. — There were five men were already waiting outside the entrance hospital. The moment I stepped out of the car, their eyes crawled over me—shameless, familiar, proprietary. Like men inspecting something they’d already used and were deciding whether to use again. Mina appeared at my side, looping her arm through mine with practiced sweetness. “Zara, you’re amazing. Twins! You’re amazing.” Felix pulled me behind him—not protectively. Possessively. “Enough. Let’s get this done.” We didn’t go to obstetrics. We went straight to the paternity testing center. Felix’s voice was clipped, commanding. “How soon can you run a paternity test?” A doctor in a white coat looked at the crowd of men trailing behind me and frowned, then back at Felix. His brow furrowed deeply. “She’s less than four weeks along. I strongly advise against any invasive procedure at this stage.” “And if I insist?” “Ten weeks minimum.” doctor’s tone was firm. “I won’t compromise patient safety.” Mina let out a theatrical sigh. “Three months? That’s so long. We came all this way for nothing.” I stood at the front of the group, surrounded by men who had violated me, and smiled with pale. “Do it,” Felix cut him off. His voice was flat, final. “I’m not leaving until I have results. And I want all five of my friends tested too.” The doctor stared at him. “Sir, this is a medical facility, not a drama place. I have ethical obligations I will not violate.” “I know what this is.” Felix pulled out his phone. “I’ll pay whatever it costs. Just run the tests.” Mina tilted her head, voice dripping with false concern. “But doctor, we need to find the real father. And with twins—isn’t there a chance they could have *different* fathers?” Behind me, the five men snickered. One of them spoke up, loud enough for the entire waiting room to hear. “Bro, the stakes just doubled. One thousand per kid—that’s two million now.” “Wedding night, five men and one bride. The groom was tired. We did all the work.” The waiting room had gone silent. Every pair of eyes turned toward me. I stood in front of them all, staring at the floor. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t let anyone see. A woman in the waiting area stared at me, then at the men, then at my stomach. Her face twisted with disgust. Then the crazy man appeared. He’d been sitting in the corner—unwashed, muttering to himself. Something about the commotion drew him up from his seat. He shuffled toward me, a Styrofoam container of soup clutched in one hand. Before I could react without warning, he threw a cup of hot chicken soup into my face. Hot broth soaked into my face and my collar and burned. “Dirty whore,” he spat. The words came out garbled, half-crazed. “You like being passed around? Disgusting bitch.” Pain seared across my skin. I gasped—and the tears came before I could stop them. Tears mixed with the soup. Felix flinched. For a moment, his hand reached toward me. Then Mina let out a cry and bolted for the exit, one hand pressed to her mouth as though *she* were the one who’d been hurt. He pulled his hand back. “I’ll explain later. Mina’s not stable right now.” He turned to the five men. “All of you, let’s go.” They left. All of them. Scrambling after Mina like loyal dogs, cooing reassurances at the woman who had orchestrated everything. I stood alone in the middle of the waiting room. Soup dripping from my hair. The skin beneath the broth was already blistering. No one helped. No one apologized. No one moved to help me. — I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and found the burn unit myself. The nurse on duty looked me up and down. Her lip curled. “Husband that handsome and you couldn’t keep your legs closed?” She dabbed antiseptic on my raw skin with unnecessary force. “Five men on your wedding night—honestly, they should’ve thrown holy water on you, not soup.” She pressied harder than necessary. I flinched. I asked for another nurse. “Can I have a different nurse?” “Different nurse?” She snorted. “Sweetheart, no one here wants to touch you.” I sat still. Let her finish. I didn’t cry again—because there was no point. Tears wouldn’t change anything. They never had. — By the time I walked out of the hospital, the sky was black. “Hey—how much for a night? I’ll pay. Come with me now.” I turned and saw the crazy man from earlier. He was following me—three steps behind, grinning with broken teeth. “Don’t run. You’re pregnant—I don’t mind. I’m not picky.” Ice flooded my veins. I turned and ran. I ran for my life, as if something savage were chasing me. My lungs burned. Behind me, his shuffling footsteps grew louder, then faded as I rounded a corner and threw myself into the back of a taxi. “Drive. Now.” The cab pulled away. I pressed myself against the door, shaking so violently my teeth clicked together. Even the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror felt wrong. I wrapped my arms around myself and stared at the floor until the car stopped. Back home, I leaned against the door and slid down to the floor, feeling like I had just escaped death. I was alive. I was home. For a moment, that felt like enough. Before I could catch my breath, I saw clothes scattered on the floor by the entryway—a jacket, underwear, torn stockings. And from behind the door, wave after wave of moaning, almost tearing me apart. The sounds of my husband fucking another woman in our bed.

I really broke down. Why was this happening to me? Through the crack in the door, I saw Mina give me a provocative look. They did it on purpose, just to disgust me. But I had no strength left to run. I don’t know how long it went on. The sounds. The moaning. Then Mina stood over me. She was covered in marks of intimacy, wearing my newest nightgown. “Zara, you want to compete with me? Take a look at yourself.” “You shamelessly threw yourself at Felix, and got gang-raped by five men on your own wedding night. Now you’re carrying their bastards. Are you happy? Next time, I’ll arrange ten for you.” Her face was a mask of jealousy, twisted and ugly. She bent down, seized my chin between her fingers. “Felix has never touched you. He married you only for the company. His body? His heart? They belong only to me.” Despair spread through my whole body. I looked at her and said sarcastically, “I stayed by him for ten years. You’re just a secretary who slept her way up.” Her expression snapped. That saccharine facade cracked wide open, replaced by something raw and venomous. “What are you so proud of? Tomorrow I’ll have Felix send you to a nightclub.” I slowly stood up and said calmly, “Mina, what do you really want? If you want my position, I’ll give it to you.” Mina was jealous to the point of madness. She grabbed my wrist. “Give? I will pull you down from that position myself.” She picked up a vase from nearby and smashed it on the floor, her eyes fierce. Then she picked up a piece of broken porcelain, cut her own cheek, and quickly shoved it into my hand. “Help! She’s trying to cut my face!” Mina shrieked, stumbling backward. “I just came to check on you, and you attacked me!” Then, louder: “We found a priest. He said your children will bring bad luck to Felix and kill him.” Felix appeared in the doorway within seconds. He took one look at Mina’s bleeding face, one look at the shard in my hand, and crossed the room in three strides. Mina sobbed against his chest. “I was only trying to help her. Why would she do this to me?” Felix stood in front of me, took the shard from my fingers, and dragged it across my cheek. One clean line. Just deep enough. “Now we’re even,” he said. It was always like this. Any scratch on Mina’s skin, and he’d carve the same wound into mine. “I didn’t do it—” Mina pressed closer to him, her voice trembling with calculated fragility. “Don’t be angry at her, Felix. I don’t mind being scarred. After all, she’s the Kingsley heiress…” He looked at me with eyes that could freeze marrow. Then he picked Mina up—bridal style—and turned to leave. As he passed me, he shoved me with his shoulder. Hard. I was already unsteady. My stomach hit the sharp corner of the coffee table. The teapot and cups crashed to the floor. I doubled over, arms wrapped around my abdomen, a scream trapped in my throat because the pain was too enormous for sound. “Zara, all these years—how did I never see what a hypocrite you are?” His voice came from above me, cold and final. “Mina is an innocent blank slate. Don’t hurt her.” I clutched my stomach. Sweat had soaked through my clothes. I forced words out through clenched teeth. “Felix—I didn’t do it. I would never—” “Enough! The priest told us your first pregnancy would kill me. Mina was looking out for me—for us. ” He carried Mina out of the room. As he passed, his heel came down on my foot—deliberately, grinding—before lifting away. “You’re quite the actress, Zara. Too bad there’s no audience tonight. Enjoy the solo performance.” Over Felix’s shoulder, Mina turned her head. And gave me a triumphant smile. — I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. *Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. If you lose consciousness now, no one is coming.* Blood was pooling beneath me. My legs had no strength left. I couldn’t stand. So hands and knees across the cold marble floor, dragging my body toward the couch where I’d left my bag. Every inch sent white-hot agony ripping through my abdomen. My fingers found the zipper. Found my phone. I dialed the only number that mattered. I gasped the address between ragged breaths. “This is my location… please hurry…”

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My mother’s labor had nearly torn her apart, but before she could even hold me, a servant smuggled me from her side. When I opened my eyes, night had already fallen. The grand stone halls of House Theron were gone, replaced by the dense forest at the foot of Mount Olympus. Wind howled through broken crags, and the cries of beasts drew closer. A man with a pockmarked wreck of a face hurled me into a swamp. The impact nearly shattered my fragile bones. “Don’t blame me, child. Blame Lady Seraphine. She’s the one who wants you dead.” Seraphine. I would remember the name. The man scrambled away into the darkness. I was an infant, alone, crying until my throat was raw. The only answer was the howling of wolves, circling ever nearer. Just as I thought my life was over, a pair of worn leather sandals stopped before me. A weathered old man bent down, a tarnished bronze amulet hanging from his neck. He grinned at me. “The gods whispered that I would find her in the mire.” He lifted me, and held me close against the night. He raised me for fifteen years. Now, perched high in the branches of a laurel tree at the cliff’s edge, I looked down at the ruined sanctuary that had been my home.

The carriage slammed into a boulder and burst apart. A nobleman, soaked in blood, tumbled from the wreck. I went to him and checked. No heartbeat. A pity. His belongings were excellent. At his waist hung an engraved seal bearing a noble crest. It would fetch a price. The signet ring on his thumb was even better. I worked it free, then searched his robes and found two coin pouches, a smaller pouch of gold staters, and a thick sheaf of merchant notes. “I’ll take these as payment for your funeral.” “My lady, I am not dead yet.” I nearly dropped the pouch. I steadied myself and checked his pulse and body heat again. Somehow, both had returned. I pressed down on the wounds at his shoulder and below his ribs to slow the bleeding, then took out one of Thales’s healing pellets. “It is expensive. Consider yourself fortunate.” He swallowed it, though wariness flickered in his eyes. Below us, I heard voices—men already combing the forest. No time. I kicked the shattered frame of the carriage over the cliff to make it look like he had gone down with it, and hauled him over my shoulder. “You—” “Shut it,” I said without looking back. “Say anything else and I’ll leave you for the wolves.” At the ruined sanctuary, I kicked the door open and shouted for Thales. He stumbled out from a back room stacked to the ceiling with wine jars, hair wild, and demanded to know why I wasn’t treating the man myself. “He’s a man. The wound’s in an awkward place.” That did it. Thales grabbed a pair of shears and took over, grumbling the whole time that a girl of virtue had no place handling a man’s injuries. That night, the stranger woke to find everything below the waist exposed to the open air. His face burned scarlet. I came in with a bowl of barley porridge, straightened the blanket without a glance. “Don’t flatter yourself. There was nothing worth seeing.” He was so outraged he passed out again. But I had noticed something. Even while unconscious, his hand never loosened from the inside of his belt, pressed tight against one small hidden place. Whatever he had concealed there mattered to him more than his own survival.

“Lyra,” he said, spooning idly at his stew beside the fire, “you carried him back here, and you touched his oath mark. That mark is not meant for just anyone’s hands.” I nearly spat out my soup. “I was looking for gold.” “How did I raise a girl with nothing in her head but money? Don’t you want a husband? Or if not that, a slave?” His name was Cassian. He was badly hurt, so badly that the last trace of divine blood in him had nearly burned away. He could barely manage the simplest tasks on his own. The worst of it was that he was noble to the core. One night, I found him flushed scarlet, both hands twisting in the linen sheets. “What now?” He clenched his jaw. Even the tips of his ears had gone red. “Fetch Thales.” “He’s off drinking. Is it urgent, or just embarrassing?” “…The latter.” I said nothing. Just set the chamber pot beside the bed. I heard the faint sound of water behind me. I turned and walked out. Leaning against the doorframe, I let a slow, wicked smile take hold. A few days later, Thales finally made his move. Cassian was sitting in the low wheeled chair we used to move the wounded into the sun. Thales wandered over with a cup of wine and a look I knew far too well. “How do you find Lyra’s cooking?” Cassian answered with perfect sincerity. “Her skill would honor a temple feast.” “Then would you like to marry her?” Cassian nearly choked on his wine. “Seer, I could repay her with my entire fortune…” “Your entire fortune?” Thales’s eyes lit up at once. “Excellent. It can serve as Lyra’s dowry.” “Thales.” I hurled a head of garlic from the kitchen. It struck him square in the forehead. “Peel that. And if you say one more foolish thing, I’ll sew your mouth shut.” He fumbled to catch it, rubbing his brow and muttering that I grew sharper every day. Once he scurried off, Cassian reached out to stop me. “If you do not wish it, I will not force you.” I was already past him, bow slung across my back. I didn’t break stride. “You owe me three thousand gold staters. If you can’t pay in coin, you’ll pay in kind. With yourself.” He went utterly still.

That morning, Cassian was still sitting in his low chair, lost in thought, when Thales appeared from nowhere and slapped two scrolls of parchment down. They were sealed with the emblem of Hera. At the top of each, names had been inscribed: Lyra Theron and Cassian Kallistrate. “Is this a bridal oath, witnessed at Hera’s altar?” Cassian’s face lost all color. “When did you take my oath-token?” Thales just smiled, said it was nothing, and told him the name had better be real. Otherwise, Cassian would never see the sun again. Cassian took a sharp breath, and in a low voice, admitted it was his. When I returned from gathering herbs and saw those two scrolls, I nearly tore the ruined sanctuary apart. I screamed for Thales to come out, my voice rattling the wooden shutters and sending every bird in the forest scattering into the sky. No one answered. I stormed into his room. The place, usually a sty, had been swept clean and emptied. On his pillow lay a single letter and a stack of merchant notes. The letter contained one word. Leave. I searched the hillside behind the sanctuary. The damp earth held a few bootprints, the soles stamped with the strange impression of a laurel wreath. Thales, what in the name of the gods are you? I seized one of the oath scrolls, ready to rip it to shreds, but Cassian was faster. He snatched it from my grasp. He told me that once an oath has been witnessed by Hera, tearing the parchment changes nothing. Should we ever need to dissolve the bond, we would need these scrolls to do it. I stared at him. “If this bond is ever to be broken, it will be my hand that breaks it.” Cassian was quiet for a moment. Something I could not name flickered in his eyes. But I had understood certain things long before this moment. Being abandoned once in a lifetime is enough. If there was ever to be a next time, I would be the one to decide it. That night, I stood before him with a bag of herbs. I told him to gather his things. We were leaving at dawn. Cassian asked where we were going.

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My husband asked me to abort our baby so his mistress could keep hers. The package showed up at my door that morning. I thought it was from Ethan — something thoughtful, something for our baby. It was thoughtful, all right. Just not for me. Inside was a VIP contract for the most exclusive postpartum care center in the city. Top-tier. Six-figure deposit. The kind of place where you booked a year out and prayed. I stared at it for a second. Then I called him. “Ethan, why the rush?” I said, smiling into the receiver. “The baby’s only three months along. You didn’t have to book this early.” A pause on the other end. Then his voice came through, warm and soft. “Baby, cut me some slack — it’s my first time doing the dad thing. I just wanted to get ahead of it. Put it aside. I’ll handle it when I get home.” Something warm bloomed in my chest. “God, you’re already nailing this dad thing.” Everyone praised Ethan Lockwood as the perfect husband. He doted on me. Anticipated my needs. Took care of every detail of the pregnancy. I ended the call and stood there smiling for a second, like an idiot. Then I flipped to the second page. Estimated due date: next month. The 15th. My baby was only three months along. I knew the date by heart, because Ethan had cried when I’d shown him the first ultrasound — the kind of broken crying I’d never seen from him before. Next month. Next month? I read the line again. And again. And that was the moment — standing in my own foyer, in the house my husband had picked out for us, holding a contract with my name on it — that I understood something. The first-time father in his voice hadn’t been for me. The gentleness. The of course I don’t know what I’m doing, let me take care of it — none of it had been for me. He knew exactly what he was doing. He just wasn’t doing it for me. Maybe it was a printing error. That’s what I told myself. But my hand wasn’t listening. I pulled up the maternity center’s website. Tapped the contact number. Something cold and slow began to spread behind my ribs. “Seraphine Maternity Suites, how may I help you?” “Hi. I’d like to check on an order. Number 8867. Patient name Nina Lockwood.” “One moment, please.” The hold music clicked on. Then off. “Mrs. Lockwood?” The receptionist came back, her voice warm as melted butter. “Yes, ma’am, your reservation is fully confirmed. Estimated due date is the fifteenth of next month. You’ve booked the Platinum Suite — that’s our top-tier accommodation. Mr. Lockwood paid in full. The physical contract was couriered to your address. You should have it in hand any day now.” My hand trembled. “Are you — are you absolutely certain it’s Nina Lockwood?” I pressed. “Confirmed, Ms. Moore,” she interrupted. “Mr. Lockwood left a special note — you’re expecting twins and need extra care. Don’t worry. Our facility’s fully equipped. Medical team’s on standby twenty-four seven. You and your babies will be safe.” The phone almost slipped out of my hand. Twins? I hung up. Sat down on the couch. My hands and feet had gone ice cold. The name was right. The ID number was right. But I was carrying one baby. Only three months pregnant. And Seraphine? Seraphine was the kind of place that even a week’s notice was enough. There was no reason on earth to book this far ahead. Unless you needed the name on the paperwork to match a face that wasn’t going to be there. I sat very still. My hand drifted, almost without permission, to the small flat curve of my stomach. Whose baby was she carrying — and why was it due next month?

Ethan didn’t come home until well after midnight. I didn’t turn on the lights. I’m not sure why. Maybe I wanted to see his face in the moment before he could arrange it. Maybe I just didn’t trust my own expression under a lamp. The contract was spread open on the coffee table in front of me. I’d reread that one line so many times I could’ve recited it backwards. He had three years to learn my face. He should know what’s coming. “Nina?” The hall light clicked on. His footsteps came toward me, slow and tired. “Sweetheart, why are you sitting in the dark? You know that’s bad for —” I didn’t answer. I just looked at him. After a beat, he came closer, every line of his face arranged into something gentle and concerned, the role he’d been playing for three years and was very, very good at. He bent down to kiss my forehead the way he did every night. I turned my face away before his lips could land. “Nina?” There was a small, careful confusion in his voice now. “What’s wrong?” “Ethan.” I kept my voice level. “The contract from the maternity center arrived today.” “The due date is next month. And it says I’m carrying twins.” For half a second — just half — his face did absolutely nothing. Then he laughed, soft and rueful, and crouched down in front of me. He took my hand in both of his, the way he always did when he was about to talk me out of something. “God, sweetheart, I was going to tell you about that today.” His thumb traced over my knuckles. “Their system glitched last week — merged two patient files together. I already called and chewed them out. They swore to me they’d fix it.” He looked up at me with the same warm, apologetic eyes I’d been looking into across a kitchen table for three years. He squeezed my hand. “Come on, baby. You’re pregnant. You can’t let yourself spiral over something like this. It’s not good for her.” A week ago, I would’ve believed him. A day ago, I would’ve believed him. But this time, I was really looking. And I didn’t miss the flicker of panic at the bottom of his eyes.

Wait. The panic in his eyes told me he was about to. “A glitch in the system,” I repeated softly. I slid my hand, slowly and deliberately, out from under his. “Then how did the pregnancy timeline — the one someone wrote in by hand — also come out wrong?” His thumb, which had been tracing my knuckles, stilled. Three months ago, the day the second little pink line had shown up on the test stick, this man had wept into my hair and sworn — he’d never forget the date as long as he lived. But on that contract, neither date had anything to do with me. I waited. I gave him the chance. I watched him, hoping he’d give me a reason I could believe. He didn’t speak. A small, hot tremor crept into my voice before I could stop it. “It’s because the top suite at that place is impossible to get into, isn’t it.” I wasn’t asking anymore. “That’s why you booked so far in advance. That’s why you put it under my name.” “You couldn’t risk her name showing up anywhere.” “Nina —” Ethan rose to his feet. He turned away from me, ran a hand through his hair, and stood with his back to the room. For a long time, he didn’t say anything at all. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet I almost missed it. “Her name is Lena. She — she’s an intern at the company.” My mind went blank. Lena. Lena Moore. Nina Lockwood. Two syllables apart. Almost a joke, if you said them too fast. “At last year’s Christmas party—” His voice was strained now, threaded with something he wanted me to read as shame. “I’d had too much to drink. She — she’s just a girl, Nina. She’s under a lot of pressure right now —” Too much to drink. I almost laughed. In three years of marriage, had no one ever bothered to tell my husband that when he drank too much, he physically couldn’t get it up? “After that night,” he went on, eyes on the floor, “she got pregnant. The doctor told her it was twins. She wanted to terminate. I was the one who told her not to. They’re — they’re two lives, Nina. I couldn’t —” “So she’s giving birth at the maternity center,” I finished for him. “Under my name.” He didn’t answer. “That way you can keep playing the devoted husband.” “After all — your wife, Nina Lockwood, really is pregnant.” “Everyone will think I’m the one who gave birth. Your illegitimate children will become legitimate heirs right under their noses.” He flinched, but he didn’t deny it. “You even prepared the cover-up for yourself ahead of time,” I said. “How thoughtful of you.” I could feel tears tracking down my cheeks now, hot. “Nina, I love you. From beginning to end, I’ve only ever loved you.” He knelt again and took my hands. “She was an accident. I feel nothing for her. I just—” “I couldn’t let a young girl terminate her pregnancy. It would damage her health. Once the babies are born, she’ll leave. I promise.” I looked at him. This man I’d married three years ago. This man I’d thought, with absolute conviction, I was going to grow old beside. “You can’t stand her having an abortion… so I should have one?” Something flickered across his face — too fast to name. And then, slowly, he fell silent. No more explanations. No more denials. No more talk of how much he loved me. He just knelt there at my feet, head bowed, and said absolutely nothing. And that silence — God — gutted me. Because that was the answer. The answer he’d walked into this room hoping I’d give him myself, so he wouldn’t have to be the one to say it out loud. He didn’t want my baby.

It hit me all at once, then went ice-cold. Slow, creeping ice that filled every space inside my ribs. “Nina.” When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were still wet with that same careful pain. But the words coming out of his mouth were colder than anything he’d said yet. “She’s been falling apart these last few weeks. Worried sick the babies won’t have a name. That they’ll grow up as nothing.” He paused. The sympathy in his eyes was so undisguised that for a second I couldn’t breathe. “Two nights ago, she slit her wrists with a kitchen knife. Luckily, the maid found her in time.” He dropped his eyes to the floor. “You’re healthy, Nina. You bounce back fast. And —” his voice dropped lower, almost gentle, “you’ve done this before. One more time — it’s not gonna matter.” I went lightheaded. The kind of lightheaded where your ears start ringing. “What,” I whispered, “did you just say.” He wouldn’t look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on a single point on the floor, like a man who’d already rehearsed this conversation in his head and knew meeting my eyes would ruin the whole performance. “She’s different,” he said. “She’s only twenty-three. It’s her first pregnancy. She’s alone in this city. No family, no one to lean on —” I opened my mouth, and no sound came out. “I know you feel hurt.” His grip on my hand tightened. “We — ” “We can have another one later, Nina. You bounce back so easily. You got pregnant just fine after the first miscarriage. You’ll get pregnant again after this. Everything will be fine.” He looked up at me then, and — God help me — there were actual tears glittering in his eyes. “Just — just do it for me,” he whispered. “Please. Just this once. For me.” I stared at him. Looked into those wet, beautiful, lying eyes. And I laughed. “Ethan.” My voice came out very soft. “Do you remember why I miscarried the first time?” He froze. “Because your mother decided I wasn’t good enough for you,” I said. “Because she cornered me at the top of the staircase to tell me so. Because she argued with me, and I fell down the stairs.” His face paled. “I was twenty-three then too,” I went on, in the same quiet, conversational voice. “It was my first pregnancy too. I was alone in this city too. I’d left my own town, my own parents, my own life — for you.” He started to say something. I didn’t let him. I kept going, my voice flat. “You don’t remember, do you?” “Nina, my mother didn’t mean to—” “I know.” I cut him off softly. “That’s why I forgave her. I believed her. She looked terrified afterward. Genuinely terrified.” I tilted my head. “She just didn’t expect that you’d be standing two feet behind me on those stairs, and you didn’t catch me.”

Ethan’s face went white. “Nina —” His voice rose, sharp with something like panic. “How can you say that? That was my first child too. Why would I ever have let you fall on purpose?” I looked down at his hand. The hand still gripping mine. The hand that, three years ago, hadn’t caught me. The same hand that was now holding mine — and asking me, very tenderly, to lose another one. “So.” I drew my hand, slowly, out of his. My voice was very quiet now. “Your mother shoving me. You not catching me. Our baby dying.” “That was all just an accident.” “Yes,” he said, almost desperate. “Yes. It was an accident. Nobody wanted it to happen.” “Then tell me.” I held his eyes. “Is this one an accident, too?” He didn’t answer. This is for the baby he wants me to kill. “Her getting pregnant is an accident. You asking me to abort our baby is an accident.” “Tell me something, Ethan. Why is it that every Lockwood accident always happens to me?” The color came rushing back into his face in a furious red wave. The room was silent for a long time. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn’t speak again at all. Then, in a voice cracking at the edges, he said: “Nina. What the hell am I supposed to do?” He looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, raw, like he hadn’t slept in days. “There’s you on one side. Her on the other. And two babies.” “What the hell am I supposed to do?” I looked at him. “What are you supposed to do?” My voice was deadly quiet. “I’m the one asking what I am supposed to do.” And then, because I couldn’t hold it in for one more second, I broke. “She’s young. First pregnancy. Bad for her body. So she gets to walk away unscathed — and I deserve to suffer?” I was shaking. “She gets a Presidential Suite and twins and a future. And I get the operating table. Is that the math, Ethan?” “That’s not what I meant —” “Then what did you mean?” He didn’t answer. I looked at this face I had looked at across a pillow for three years, and suddenly it felt foreign. “Ethan.” My voice came out so quiet, it didn’t even sound like me. “Do you know what that’s called?” His lips moved, but nothing came out. “It’s called murder,” I said, slow and even. “You’re asking me to kill my own baby with my own hands.” “So I can raise your bastards.” “Nina —” I didn’t think about it. I didn’t decide. I raised my hand and slapped him across the face as hard as I could. The crack of it rang through the apartment. His head snapped sideways. He didn’t move. He just stayed frozen there, half-kneeling on the carpet at my feet, one hand drifting up to cover his cheek. My palm was numb. My chest was worse. “That slap,” I said, “was for the baby in my stomach.” I stood up. I didn’t shake. I didn’t cry. “Ethan. You are the one who didn’t want him.” I looked down at him and took a breath. “I want a divorce.”

He covered his cheek with one hand. And — somehow, impossibly — there was hurt in his eyes. “Hit me again if you want. I deserve it.” “But don’t you ever say the word divorce to me. Not ever.” “I told you. I never planned to be unfaithful. There is nothing wrong with our marriage —” His phone rang in the middle of the sentence. He froze. His eyes flickered down to the screen, and I watched him weigh it for a few seconds. He stood up and walked off to take the call. When he came back, his face had rearranged itself into something carefully apologetic. “Something urgent has come up at the office. I have to go in.” I looked at him. I didn’t say a word. “Just — calm down for tonight, all right, sweetheart? We’ll talk properly when I’m back.” He took a step toward the door. Then, of course, he turned around. “In her condition,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes, “out of basic responsibility, I have to keep an eye on her too.” “She’s close to her due date. These next few weeks I won’t be able to get away. And you — you, alone in this big house, hugely pregnant, no one to look after you — how miserable would that be?” “Better to do it now, while it’s still early. You’d suffer less, too.” “Once her babies are born, we’ll bring them home. We’ll put them under your name. You’d still be Mrs. Lockwood. They’d have a place in the family.” “Nothing between us would have to change.” He looked at me, walked out without looking back. The apartment went still. I sat there for a long time, looking at the door. Then I laughed. He made it sound so reasonable. *She was about to give birth, so he had no time to take care of me. I would be alone, carrying my belly, with no one by my side.* So why not just end it first? The night outside the window was deep and black. I just sat there, one hand on my stomach, and let the hours bleed into each other. I didn’t cry. I was past that. I had nothing left to give this man — not even my tears. By the time the doorbell rang, the sky outside was already pale. I crossed the apartment on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else, and opened the door. My mother-in-law stood there, with Bridget — Calder’s new wife — at her side. “Oh, Nina, honey. You look terrible. Have you eaten anything at all?” Bridget stepped inside first and grabbed both my hands. I tried to pull back. She held on. “Mom got the call last night and didn’t sleep a wink, sweetheart. She had me drag her out here before sunrise to come see how you were holding up.” Mrs. Lockwood walked past her. She settled onto my couch like she owned it. That slow, unhurried grace — I used to think it was elegance. Now I knew more. I sat. “Mom knows you’re hurting, dear.” She took my hand. Her rings were cold against my fingers. “I’ll have a serious talk with Ethan, I promise you. But Nina — you have to be reasonable too.” “That girl is carrying twins. That’s two lives.” I looked at her kind, lined face. I listened to every word coming out of her mouth — reasonable, decent, two lives. “Mother.” My voice came out raw, hoarser than I’d expected. “Are you saying the same thing as Ethan, then?” “Are you telling me to abort my baby?” Her expression didn’t change. Not by a flicker. Not by a millimeter. “They’re all my grandchildren. Of course it breaks my heart to lose any of them. But that girl is threatening to take her own life, Nina.” “One wrong move and we’d lose her and the twins — three lives, all at once.” She patted my hand, the way you’d humor a child. “That’s not how Lockwoods handle things, dear. It’s beneath us.” Beneath us. So forcing me to abort my own baby — that wasn’t beneath them, was it? I pulled my hand back. I stood up. “I can’t do it,” I said. My voice was very quiet, and very steady. “This is my child. I’m three months along. He has a heartbeat.” “I am not aborting him.”

Mrs. Lockwood’s face darkened. Beside me, Bridget let out a long, theatrical sigh, walked over, and slipped her arm through mine. “Nina, sweetheart, why are you being so stubborn?” She pressed me gently back down onto the couch. “Sit. Take relax. Let me say something to you, woman to woman.” I let myself be pushed back into the cushions. She kept hold of my hand, leaning in close, lowering her voice the way she did at parties. “Nina, sweetheart, you know what I do for a living. I deal with all kinds of people, every single day. And let me tell you — sometimes in life, you can’t just live for your pride.” “You have to play the long game.” Her voice dropped. “This whole mess? Yes. It’s Ethan’s fault. Nobody’s saying it isn’t. But think about it, honey. If you blow this up — what happens to his name? His reputation? The family’s reputation?” “And in the end, who pays the price?” “You do, Nina.” She squeezed my hand. “A woman has to learn to think about the bigger picture.” The bigger picture. I almost laughed in her face. Once upon a time, to get herself into this family, Bridget had deliberately befriended me. Used me to slip something into Ethan’s older brother Calder’s drink at a party. Used me and walked out of that night with her wanted marriage in her pocket. And now here she was. “Bridget.” I kept my voice perfectly level. “So what do you think I should do.” She paused for a second. Then she smiled. “I think you should listen to Mom, sweetheart. She’s been around the block a few more times than you have. She wouldn’t lead you wrong.” Mrs. Lockwood nodded. The kindly mask slid back over her face as easily as a glove. “As long as you behave, dear, I’ll make sure the Lockwoods continue to treat you. Every bit of respect that’s owed to you — you’ll keep. Down to the last cent.” I looked at her. “And what about my baby?” “Why can’t you listen, child?” Her voice dropped, and the warmth went out of it like someone had flipped a switch. “You’re not having a child.” She let the words sit for a second. “Your accounts have all been frozen. If you see reason, you’ll still have good life of this family. If not —” She paused, and her eyes — those soft, grandmotherly eyes — went cold. “The Lockwoods are not a family someone like you can afford to offend.” I bit my lip and said nothing. They didn’t bother trying to persuade me further. They stood up, smoothed out their coats, and let themselves out. The house went silent again. I picked up my phone and checked my banking app. I had trusted him completely. Now, besides the supplementary card he gave me, even my own private accounts were useless. My hands trembled. Every card I owned was dead in my hands. I was sitting there staring at the screen when footsteps sounded outside the door.

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The day Lily was supposed to move into her dorm, my phone lit up with two notifications. The first was Ethan’s Instagram post. In the photo, he stood between Vanessa and Mia in the lobby of The Peninsula, champagne flutes raised, captioned: “Three days of celebration for our girl. Proud of you, sweetheart.” The second was an email from Morrison & Sons Funeral Home, asking me to select an urn. On Orientation Day, six men dragged my daughter into a restroom on the east side of campus. They found her face-down in a flooded urinal. Not a single inch of her left unmarked. Three days. I identified the body, hunted down every last one of those animals, and watched them get hauled away in handcuffs. I arranged the cremation. I signed the paperwork. I did it all alone. Ethan was nowhere. I called him over a thousand times. Not one picked up. Just a single automated text he’d set for when he was busy: “In a meeting. Don’t disturb.” The morning they slid Lily into the cremation chamber, I tried one final time. The phone rang three times before someone declined the call. I stood there in that sterile white room, clutching my dead daughter’s belongings in a plastic bag, and I remembered something she’d said last year. It was her birthday—another one he missed. She’d blown out the candles alone, then turned to me with those old, tired eyes no seventeen-year-old should have. “Mom, if I die someday and Dad still isn’t in home—don’t tell him. Don’t let him come to my funeral, okay?” Okay, baby. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, booked a one-way flight, and printed the divorce papers. We don’t need his absence anymore. …… The funeral home was cold. The woman behind the counter kept glancing at the door behind me as she handed over the urn. “Just you? Where’s her father? It’s the girl’s last journey—it’s cruel if he doesn’t show.” I looked at my phone. The lock screen showed my messages. Clean. Empty. No reply in three days. Only subscription alerts from apps I never opened. I tucked the phone away. “I don’t know where he is.” “Maybe busy.” “Too busy for his own child’s—” She caught herself, softened. “I’m sorry, honey. You shouldn’t be doing this alone.” I’d seen that look dozens of times in the past seventy-two hours. Pity. From the detective. From the hospital staff. From the school counselor who called me ma’am in that careful, gentle voice people use around the freshly destroyed. I had no tears left. I took the urn—warm from the kiln, impossibly light for everything it held—and walked out. Behind me, their voices carried across the parking lot. “God, that poor woman. Her daughter was supposed to start college that day—” “Full scholarship too. Top of the whole state on her practice exams.” “And the mother tracked those boys down herself. Didn’t sleep for three days.” “The husband never showed. Not once. Maybe she’s widowed?” …… The house was dark when I got home. Past midnight. No lights on, no dinner left out, no sign anyone lived here who might have worried. Twenty years of marriage, and I was used to this. If Ethan wasn’t at the firm, he was with Vanessa. With Mia. Driving them somewhere, fixing something, buying something. Present for them in all the ways he’d never been for us. Our share of his time? There was none. For eighteen years, Lily and I split one portion of undercooked affection between us, and pretended it was enough. Now Lily was gone. And a marriage built on perpetual absence meant nothing to me anymore. I set the urn on her desk and began packing her things. Every object I touched—her hairbrush, her SAT prep books, the stuffed rabbit she’d had since she was four—cut into me like dull glass, slow and ragged. Her phone buzzed. I froze. Then picked it up. A message from Mia. A photo: an amusement park. The one Lily had begged Ethan to take her to ninety-nine times. He’d promised ninety-nine times. Showed up zero. The hundredth time, Lily held my hand beneath the Ferris wheel and waited until dark. Across the river, fireworks went up—Ethan throwing Mia a birthday party. He’d forgotten it was Lily’s birthday too. After that night, Lily never asked again. The photo was slightly blurred, a candid shot, but clear enough to gut me. Ethan—my husband, who recoiled if a stranger brushed his sleeve—carrying Vanessa on his back in the rain. One hand holding her heels, the other gripping Mia’s hand. The three of them laughing, soaked, a portrait of something warm and whole. Something Lily and I never had. Beneath it, two voice messages. Mia’s voice, sweet and breathy: “Uncle Ethan, you said if I got into a good school, you’d grant me one wish. So here’s my wish—will you be my dad?” A long pause. Then Ethan’s voice, low and fond: “Alright.” “Then I’m calling you Dad from now on! Dad, you’re the best!” Giggles. Silver-bell laughter. And Ethan, amused, indulgent: “Settle down, I’m still carrying your mother here.” I stared at the screen until it went black. Then I opened my own phone. Typed nothing. Deleted nothing. Just stared at his empty chat for a long, long time. The booking confirmation chimed. Day three. Departure at dawn.

I didn’t know when Ethan came home. When I opened my eyes, daylight was already filling the bedroom. He sat at the kitchen table eating toast, scrolling through his phone like any other morning. “When did you get back?” My voice came out wrecked—sandpaper over gravel. My forehead burned. Carrying Lily’s urn through the rain without an umbrella had done its work. “An hour ago. Vanessa got caught in the rain yesterday, her cycle’s about to start—I stayed to make sure she was alright.” Stayed. All night. Same rain. Same city. Same hours I spent shaking with fever, alone with an urn still warm from the fire. I said nothing. My eyes drifted to his wrist. A braided band, red and gold. “Is that a blessing bracelet from St. Clement’s?” “Mm. Vanessa’s daughter had her move-in this week, so I stopped by the cathedral to pick one up. Seems to have worked—Mia’s feeling good about her placement.” Stopped by. St. Clement’s was forty minutes uphill on a single-lane road. No parking within a mile. “Then why’d you bring it back?” “Lily’s not starting until next year, right? Vanessa thought we could save the luck for her.” Next year. Lily was starting this year. She would never start at all. He didn’t remember. But he remembered Vanessa’s cycle down to the day. I managed a small smile. Said nothing. Waited for him to finish. Then: “Are you free this afternoon? I need you to take a case for me.” He looked up, surprised. “What kind of case? Important?” My throat locked. It took everything I had to push the words out, flat and steady. “Important. A friend’s daughter was dragged into a bathroom during move-in week and—I need those men to get the maximum sentence.” Ethan nodded. Didn’t refuse. “Sure. What time? Vanessa mentioned Mia left a pen at the registration office—it was her father’s, sentimental value. Let me grab that first, then I’ll head straight to you.” “Two o’clock. The hearing’s today. If you go now, there’s barely enough time.” “Can’t the case wait one—” “It can’t. Please. This means everything to me. I’ll buy Mia a new pen.” Ethan sighed. Patient. Gentle. Immovable. “It’s not about the pen, Claire. That’s the only thing Mia has left from her father. They’ve been through so much, those two. It’s a small thing—let me do this for them.” “It won’t take long.” I watched him leave. Thirty-five miles round trip, for a pen. Three hours passed. Then four. Then the final boarding call for the courtroom came and went. Ethan didn’t come. I wasn’t surprised. But I called anyway. Third attempt, he picked up. “Where are you?” My voice was so calm it frightened me. “I’m sorry—Mia’s classmates, some boys, they’ve been falsely accused of assault. It’s urgent, Claire, these kids could lose everything. Your friend’s daughter can appeal—let me handle this first.” I begged him to fight for his own daughter. He told me Mia’s friends mattered more. “Forget it,” I said. “There won’t be a next time.” I hung up. Called another attorney. Paid triple the retainer for an emergency appearance. He arrived with minutes to spare. But when I stepped into the courtroom, I froze. Ethan was already there. Sitting on the other side of the aisle. Suit pressed, files open, perfectly composed. My husband—representing the men who killed our daughter.

“Claire? You’re the plaintiff? Your friend’s daughter is the one making accusations?” Ethan’s brow creased the instant he saw me across the courtroom. So that’s what it was. The men who murdered my daughter—those were the innocent boys he was defending. And Lily, my dead child, was the liar. The accuser. I laughed. It came out sharp and ugly. “Do you believe her, or do you believe me?” Ethan hesitated. Just a beat. “Maybe your friend misled you. These things aren’t always what they seem.” He said everything by saying nothing. The case went exactly as I expected. Ethan Whitmore—the Ethan Whitmore, the defense attorney every prosecutor in the state feared. I knew better than anyone what he could do in a courtroom. There wasn’t a case he couldn’t win. The lawyer I’d hired at triple rate didn’t survive a single round of cross-examination. Every piece of evidence I’d spent three sleepless days collecting, Ethan dismantled with surgical precision, calling it circumstantial, insufficient, unreliable. He hadn’t read the victim’s file. Hadn’t looked at the name on the report. He’d taken Mia’s word—just Mia’s word—and built his entire defense around it. And he won. Not guilty. All six released. The men who held my daughter’s head underwater walked out of that courtroom free. I drove home in silence. Went straight to Lily’s room—half-packed boxes everywhere—and lay on her bed. The smell of her shampoo still clung to the pillow. Lavender and vanilla. The dam broke. I don’t know how long I cried before the overhead light snapped on. Ethan. Home already. Holding a pink box. “Why are you sleeping in Lily’s room?” He barely glanced around. Didn’t notice the half-empty shelves. “After court, Vanessa wanted to thank me for helping Mia—took me to dinner. She thought you might be upset about losing, so she sent this.” He held up the box. “Strawberry cake. Her and Mia’s favorite. They insisted.” He pushed it toward me. I didn’t take it. When Lily was five, she ate strawberries laced with residual pesticide. Went into anaphylactic shock. Nearly died on the way to the hospital. After that, strawberry was banned from this house. I’d told him a hundred times. He remembered every one of Vanessa’s preferences. Never once remembered ours. When I didn’t move, Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Still upset about the trial? Look—Mia explained everything. Those boys were innocent. The girl was—she had a reputation. Slept around. Probably negotiated a price and things went sideways—” The slap cracked through the room before I knew my hand had moved. He stumbled. Touched his cheek. Stared at me. “Do you have any idea,” my voice shook so badly the words barely held together, “that the girl you just called a slut is—” “Enough.” His tone was still level. Still reasonable. Still that calm, authoritative voice he used to shut down arguments. “Fine. I cost you the case. I’ll take responsibility for that. But don’t—” I looked at him and felt every drop of fury drain out of me at once, replaced by something vast and empty. “You’re right. You think what you want. I need to go out—move aside.” Lily’s school still had her belongings. I needed them back. Ethan shifted, then paused. Scanned the room for the first time. Something flickered across his face. “Where’s Lily? Haven’t seen her in a few days.” Three days. It took him three days to notice his daughter was missing. Three days during which he’d argued in court that she deserved what happened to her. “She’s out.” “Hm.” He didn’t ask where. I didn’t offer. I was reaching for my shoes when he spoke again. “Oh—Claire, Vanessa and Mia are coming over tonight. Pick up some lobster on your way back, would you? She loves it.” She loves it. I’m allergic to shellfish. “Sure.” Twenty-seven hours until my flight. I was done fighting.

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On my mating day to Prince Ronan, his true mate slips Barrenbane into my wine. That day, I become barren. When they catch her, she just sobs, “Just a joke! I didn’t think she’d really drink it.” “I’m sorry, my Prince. Let me give you pups. She can raise them.” Ronan turns to me and says, “Aurora, you’re my Luna. In name, and that’s enough. Show some grace. You don’t have to carry pups now. Seraphina will do that for you. What more could you possibly want?” My father’s pack never bowed to any Lycan. We made kings. And we broke them—with our own claws.That’s why the crown wanted this bond. Seraphina and Ronan rule the pack together. She gives him four pups. Everyone knows Seraphina—his true mate. Nobody remembers me. The political Luna. The placeholder. I wither away in the back rooms. Seraphina smiles down at me. “You’ve kept the Luna’s seat warm for me long enough, you barren bitch. If we hadn’t needed your father’s warriors to put my Prince on top, you’d never have touched that title. Not for one night.” “Aurora, tomorrow I become Lycan King. My true mate will be Queen. You’re still breathing—why?” Seraphina grabs my jaw and wrenches my mouth open. Ronan tips the bowl. The poison pours down my throat. My wolf thrashes inside me，then goes still. Darkness takes everything. No sound. No scent. No pack bond. Just… nothing. Then,my heart slams back into my chest. I gasp. Air floods my lungs. My eyes snap open. I’m back on my Mating Day. “Please—Prince, Luna—drink the Rite Wine,” the elder announces from the center of the mating chamber. I stare at the cup in front of me. Seraphina was sloppy. There’s still powder dusting the rim. A cold smile curls across my lips. Without anyone noticing, I pick up Ronan’s cup and slide mine toward him. “I’d like to swap cups with you, my Prince. They say it binds two wolves into one. Your scent in my nose. Mine in yours.” The elder nods. “Your scents will mix. Your wolves will recognize one mate forever.” Ronan lifts the cup. We drink together. The guests erupt in cheers. Before the cups even touch the table, the doors swing open. “Oh my—you’ve already drunk it?” Seraphina glides in with a breathless little laugh. She’s dressed like she’s here to seduce, not celebrate. Her eyes land on my empty cup. She claps a hand over her mouth—the picture of shocked innocence, and tears spring to her eyes on command. Then she turns to Ronan, wearing terror like a costume. “I’m so sorry, my Prince. I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to play a little trick on your Luna, that’s all. I… I put something in her cup.” I gasp, letting the color drain from my face. “Who are you? Why would you put that in my wine?” The guests break into murmurs. Someone speaks up: “Seraphina, I know you grew up with the Prince, but this is his Mating Day. How dare you joke about poison?” Ronan rises and steps in front of Seraphina like a shield. He frowns at me. “Luna, this is Seraphina. She grew up in the palace. We’ve known each other since we were pups. She’s a little spoiled, that’s all. Just let it go.” Then he turns to her, voice sharp. “What are you doing here? I told you—no trouble today. How dare you pull something like this?” I ignore how close their bodies are. I fix my stare on her, cold and unblinking. “Seraphina. Tell me. What did you put in my wine?” My handmaiden finally snaps out of it. “Someone fetch the Royal Healer! Now!” Seraphina clutches Ronan’s sleeve, weeping prettily. “My Prince, I’m not a bad person. I was on my way here and I passed a shop selling Barrenbane. It looked… interesting, so I bought some. I thought I’d give your Luna a little scare on her mating night—teach her to mind her Prince.” “I was going to stop you before you drank. But I tripped outside—I was late. I had no idea she’d already finished it.” “Barrenbane?” I press a hand to my chest and sink into the chair. “That potion will leave a wolf barren—no pups, ever. And this wine was blessed by the King himself.” My voice cracks through the room. “Guards—take her away.” Seraphina shrieks and throws herself into Ronan’s arms, crying beautifully, artfully. “My Prince, I didn’t mean it! I really, truly didn’t! And who even knows if this Barrenbane is real? What if it’s fake?” “Is your Luna really going to have me killed over a counterfeit potion?” Ronan holds her gently—tenderly—and looks at me. “Aurora, Seraphina is young. It was just a joke. She never wanted this to happen.” “Don’t worry. You’re my Luna. Even if you drank Barrenbane, I won’t reject you. The title is yours.” Seraphina drops to her knees, eyes red-rimmed, tears streaming in perfect rivulets down her cheeks. “It’s all my fault. It’s too late for words now. Let me make it right.” “Your Luna can’t bear pups anymore. Then let me be the one to carry your bloodline. I’ll give you pups—and she can raise them. That’s how I’ll atone.” The exact same words as last time. But this time, I won’t be that fool. My eyes narrow to slits and my voice cuts through the chamber like a blade. “You tried to end my bloodline. That’s a crime against the royal family. You deserve death.”

Ronan pulls her to her feet and turns on me with a scowl. “That’s enough. She said she was sorry. She didn’t mean it. Today is our mating day—are you really going to have her killed over some stupid potion?” “A Luna should have some grace, Aurora. You’re being petty. What kind of Luna are you?” He says it like I’m the unreasonable one. I laugh, quietly, to myself. Last time around, he said the exact same things. No grace. Too petty. I swallowed my pride back then. I told myself I was being the bigger person. Being smart. All I did was walk right into their trap. That’s how I ended up where I did. I remember dying. It claws at my chest. My hands curl into fists. “She tried to poison your Luna. And you just let her go? Is that fair??” “Where’s my pack’s honor when a low-rank omega’s daughter can pull something like this and just walk away?” Ronan’s jaw tightens. “It’s done. What—you want me to rip her throat out? She didn’t mean any harm.” The whole room is buzzing now. Word has already reached the guests outside. One of the Royal Council elders steps forward to mediate. “Her Grace, Luna Aurora, the Council agrees this is a serious matter. Seraphina will be punished. But today is your mating day. Don’t let this spiral. Think of the kingdom’s unity.” Right. All they care about is keeping the peace. I look at Ronan. “You truly think what she did is nothing?” He’s too busy stroking Seraphina’s hair, murmuring comfort to his precious true mate. He waves me off without even looking at me. “She apologized. She’ll scrub the palace floors for a month. That’s the end of it.” She tries to poison the Luna—and the punishment is mopping floors. I nearly laugh out loud. Good thing I’m not the one who drank that poison this time. A few of the female guests lean close and whisper, “Luna, call the Royal Healer anyway. Perhaps he can still reverse it.” Seraphina cuts in immediately. “No! Call the Healer on mating night? That’s bad luck for everyone.” Ronan nods. “Seraphina’s right. Tomorrow is soon enough.” My handmaiden shakes with fury. “Luna, you’ve been poisoned. And he wants to wait until tomorrow?” “Luna, let me send word to your father. Let Alpha Lord Vance handle this.” I look at Ronan one last time. “You’re really not going to punish her?” He flicks his wrist like he’s swatting a fly. “I already told you—it was a joke that went too far. She even offered to give you her pups. What more do you want?” “You’re making a scene over a cup of wine. If you don’t want to be my Luna, fine. Someone else will. Someone who isn’t so petty and selfish.” I smile. Slowly, I run my finger along the rim of the cup. Then I look him dead in the eye. “Petty? I did this for you, my Prince.” Word by word, I say: “That cup you just drank from? That was mine.” The room goes dead silent. Ronan’s face turns purple. “What… did you just say?” I point at the cup sitting in front of him. You can still see the powder clinging to the rim. “We exchanged cups,” I say calmly. “Remember? For good luck. You drank from my cup. I drank from yours.” “The one Seraphina poisoned?” I pause, letting it sink in. “You drank it.” Seraphina stares at me. Then at the cup. She snatches it off the table with trembling hands. She breathes. “You drank this?” Ronan can’t even form words. Seraphina screams—raw, ugly—and jabs a finger at me. “Bitch! You evil, scheming bitch! That poison was for her! She made you drink it—on purpose!”

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