Category: English

The lights were blinding. On stage, my six-year-old son, Asher, clutched his Best Child Actor statuette, thanking everyone. “First, I have to thank my dad. Without all his hard work and the great life he gives me, I definitely wouldn’t be here today.” “And next, I have to thank my dearest, dearest Sera-Mom. She doesn’t just teach me how to act, she takes care of me like a real mother.” “When I get sick, she goes with me to get shots, she gives me my medicine. On-screen and off, she’s the best mom I could ever have!” A reporter’s voice cut through the applause, sharp and playfully mocking. “So, you don’t have any thanks for your biological mom, then?” Asher Easton, the child I carried for ten agonizing months and nearly died giving birth to, just scoffed. He stared into the camera with utter disdain. “She’s just a housewife. What does she do besides waste Dad’s money?” “What right does she have to be compared to Sera-Mom, who is already an Oscar-winning actress?” “Plus, she always smells like gross cooking grease. Not like Sera-Mom, who smells fresh and expensive. Really, really good.” I was scrolling through the social media clip when I immediately called Rhys Easton. He was at a post-ceremony gala with Asher and Seraphina Lowe. He didn’t try to soften the blow—he just laughed, cold and dismissive, when he heard my complaint. “Did Asher say anything that wasn’t true, Eliza?” “An aimless housewife, perpetually smelling of the kitchen.” “Do you think Asher is the only one who doesn’t want to come home anymore?” I hung up, stunned, and stared at the impeccably clean house, the prepared dinner cooling on the counter. I realized, in that stark, quiet moment, that for years I had only existed as Mrs. Easton or Asher’s Mother. I had completely forgotten that I was, simply, Eliza Stone. My own person. 1 The front door rattled just after midnight. It was the familiar, heavy pounding I was used to, but this time, I didn’t rush to open it. I sat quietly on the sofa, slowly closing the photo album I’d just unearthed. Thirty seconds later, a key scraped in the lock, and a cloud of heavy liquor rushed into the room. I started to rise, intending to help Rhys, but stopped short. Standing in the doorway, supporting him, was Seraphina Lowe, still in her backless, strapless designer gown. Guarding her side like a tiny sentinel was Asher. Seraphina gently eased Rhys onto the sofa, pulling a lace handkerchief from her clutch to dab the sweat from his brow. She didn’t spare me a glance, issuing a casual order into the room. “Eliza, can you get Rhys some warm water? Add just a little honey. Don’t use too much—he doesn’t like it overly sweet these days.” I stayed rooted to the spot, my gaze locked on her hand, which Rhys was holding—so tightly, yet so tenderly. He held her as if he wanted to dissolve her into his very bone marrow, yet was terrified of causing her any discomfort. The next second, Asher’s small body slammed into mine, shoving me aside. His voice, still bearing the high pitch of a child, was laced with entitlement and open fury. “Are you deaf? Go get Dad his honey water, now!” “Sera-Mom works so hard taking care of Dad outside the house, and all you do is hide in here being lazy! You didn’t even open the door, and now you won’t get the water. What good are you, honestly?” His strength was negligible, but the surprise of the push threw me off balance. My abdomen slammed into the sharp corner of the coffee table. The pain took my breath away. It was a cruel twist of fate that the spot where I hit was the angry, jagged scar left by the emergency C-section, the result of a near-fatal hemorrhage when I gave birth to him. Biting back a gasp, I straightened up. Seraphina, already impatient with my delay, had poured the honey water herself and was delicately feeding it to Rhys, who sipped obediently. Asher stood guard beside them. My eyes finally landed on the television screen, still on from the day’s coverage. It was looping a scene from their award-winning film. In the clip, they were staged just like this: the devoted, gentle wife and the understanding child caring for the exhausted father, a perfect, heartwarming family of three. I glanced down at the old family portrait peeking from the photo album—a stiff, formal picture taken when Asher was six months old. A single, desolate tear traced a path down my cheek. The coffee table was more than a piece of furniture; it was a chasm. On the other side, a picture of domestic bliss. On my side, only a solitary, isolated woman. My phone buzzed with texts from my friend, Jenna. “Liz, this French director has been following your early work for years. She’s seriously interested.” “This screen test is a huge opportunity, and she specifically asked me to reach out. You can’t miss it.” “I know you worry about the family, but Asher is old enough, and Rhys is right here. Seriously, are you even considering it?” I scrolled back through years of texts, realizing how many similar opportunities I had rejected—all for Rhys, and for this house. But this time, I couldn’t find a single reason left to say no. 2 I quietly retrieved the album and returned to my room, choosing not to “interrupt” them further. Passing the walk-in closet, I stopped. My reflection was a study in neglect: tired eyes, hair that needed attention, the dull uniform of a woman who had given up on herself. Then I glanced at the wall, where a stunning woman in a custom silk bridal gown smiled radiantly in a photograph. I hadn’t realized how much I had changed. The date stamped on the wedding photo read: June 2015. In the image, Rhys wasn’t looking at the camera; he was gazing at me—at the goofy face I was deliberately making—his mouth curved in a smile of pure, undisguised adoration. Ten years ago, I was at the peak of my career, the undisputed queen of the new generation of Hollywood darlings. And he was utterly infatuated with me. For me, he’d fought his family, his friends, even risked being cut off from the Easton fortune. But whenever we were together, he’d smile like that—tender, wild, and utterly consumed. My career was on fire, but growing up, I’d been an orphan, and my early life in the industry was mostly exploitation. I had never experienced such a deep, visceral love. Falling for him was inevitable. The story was textbook: the starlet and the wealthy heir overcame all obstacles. Things only seemed to improve after Asher was born; even Rhys’s cold, judgmental parents softened toward me. Everything was moving toward a perfect future. Except for my marriage to Rhys. 3 I sat up until the early hours. Rhys never came into our room. When I finally crept out, the living room was empty. But the light was still on in the guest suite. And Seraphina’s small, jeweled heels were neatly placed outside the door. I drew a long, shaky breath, a familiar, pinprick pain spreading across my chest. The bottle of anti-ulcer medication, which Rhys needed nightly for his stress-related stomach issues, crinkled in my hand. I was about to turn back, pretend nothing happened, and seek the refuge of the master bedroom, when the guest suite door suddenly opened. Seraphina, wearing my silk slip nightgown and with her hair still damp, walked out to get a glass of water. Seeing me standing awkwardly in the living room, a thin, knowing smile touched her lips. “Oh, still awake, Liz? You know, women who don’t get enough sleep age faster. Kind of… like you look now.” “You don’t have to worry. I’ve settled Rhys down. I mean, I was the one who traveled with him and took care of him on location for years, right? I’m much more experienced at handling him than you are.” “But then again, I’m not like you. I didn’t give up my career to marry into money. And now… well, now you’re paying the price.” She dismissed me with a cool sweep of her eyes, her gaze filled with undisguised contempt. I simply watched her. My voice was steady and flat. “Even so, I at least have the title.” “What do you have, Sera?” Seraphina’s smile instantly froze. I didn’t want the useless sparring. I just wanted to go to bed. But as I turned, I saw them: Rhys and Asher, one large, one small, wearing the matching designer loungewear I had bought them, standing stone-faced in the guest suite doorway. Asher immediately ran to Seraphina’s side, wrapping his small arms around her protectively. He glared at me, his voice a low, furious snarl. “Stop bullying Sera-Mom, you mean woman!” My heart, already numb from pain, fractured completely under the weight of Rhys’s look of raw distaste. “Eliza Stone, don’t think for a second that being Mrs. Easton gives you any leverage.” “Seraphina is ten years younger than you, and she’s already an international award winner. You? What have you done in the ten years since you married into this family? Besides becoming a slovenly, unkempt woman who smells like the kitchen, what have you accomplished?” “Besides flaunting your title, what can you actually boast about?” He seemed to be barely controlling his rage, pulling a visibly tearful Seraphina into his arms and shielding her. But when he looked at me, his gaze was pure, naked disgust. “I’m letting this go only because you are Asher’s biological mother.” “But if you ever bully Sera again, I swear, you’ll regret it.” His words pierced my eardrums. Asher, meanwhile, was clutching Seraphina’s hand, staring at me with repulsion. “If I could choose, I’d pick Sera-Mom to be my mother!” “Who would want you, you bad woman? You’re an embarrassment! You never should have walked through the front door of this house!” The pain of a thousand cuts left me dizzy. I looked at the father and son I had devoted a decade to, who now despised me. And I laughed. My palm opened. Rhys’s stomach medication and Asher’s emergency asthma inhaler both clattered onto the polished marble floor, the sound echoing harshly through the hall. I looked at the two of them. Just as they turned, preparing to escort Seraphina back into the guest suite, I spoke, my voice deceptively calm. “Rhys. Let’s get a divorce.” 4 The guest suite door closed. Rhys and Asher had completely ignored me, treating my calm, agonizing declaration as nothing more than air. I didn’t care. I went back to my room, pulled out my laptop, and emailed my lawyer about the divorce proceedings. The lawyer was apologetic and straightforward: even if I divorced, my share of the assets would be limited. Fighting for primary custody of Asher was a fantasy. I paused, my finger slipping as I scrolled down to Seraphina’s newly updated social media post. The photo showed her and Rhys tucked into a bed, gently watching a sleeping Asher. The caption read: “A warm family… is there anything better? When will I get a family of my own?” The comments section was flooded with fans. “Rhys and Sera together again! Are they co-starring, or are we seeing a real family? I’m obsessed!” “Sera is so gentle and sweet. I want a soft, wonderful mom like her.” “Little Asher is definitely having fun. Can I be Sera-Mom’s kid for a day?” “Obsessed with this scandalous-but-real-life pairing. Sera and Rhys are so much better together than Eliza Stone.” “The ultimate power couple!” I scrolled down. When the page refreshed, Rhys’s comment was pinned at the top. He wrote: “Am I chopped liver?” He even added a playful, dog-face emoji. Ten years of marriage, and this was the first time I had ever seen him use a cute emoji in a casual conversation. This was the man who once hated playfulness, who would coldly tell me to stop being “so childish” if I used an ellipsis or an exclamation mark in a text. Now, for another woman, he was breaking his own self-imposed rules again and again. I smiled faintly, wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, and typed a single thought into my laptop: “I don’t want it anymore.” Him. The child. The money. I only wanted freedom. 5 The next morning, I woke up to an empty house. Only the messy, abandoned breakfast setting on the dining table proved that anyone had been home at all. I clenched my fists, noticing my silk nightgown—the one Seraphina had worn—tossed casually into the trash can. The pain was sharp, but I swallowed it down. With the draft of the divorce papers from the lawyer in my bag, I hailed a cab to the Easton family estate. Since marrying Rhys, I rarely visited the mansion. I knew his parents didn’t like me; they tolerated me only because of him. I arrived at a terrible time. Pushing open the heavy mahogany doors, I saw the main hall filled with high-profile guests, clinking glasses and mingling. Rhys, dressed in an immaculate suit, had his arm securely around a radiant Seraphina in a sweeping red gown. He was laughing, socializing with a director, and constantly shooting tender glances her way. My arrival brought the buzzing hall to a dead, sudden silence. Rhys’s face instantly darkened. Seraphina glanced disdainfully at my plain, orange cotton t-shirt and smiled a mocking, knowing smile. Asher started to open his mouth to demand I be removed, but Rhys’s gesture to the head butler was faster. The butler approached me with a patronizing tone. “Delivery person, right? You have the wrong address.” “We’re hosting a very important event. You need to leave, now, and not disturb our guests.” When I stood my ground, he lowered his voice and frowned in sharp reprimand. “Ma’am, please. Can’t you see the Master is busy? There’s a limit to how much you can disrupt things. Do you really think this is the place for someone like you?” A bitter, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. I kept my eyes fixed on Rhys, whose expression was pure thunder. After a long moment, I spoke softly. “I have a company document here. Mr. Easton needs to sign it.” The guests collectively breathed a sigh of relief and resumed their careless mingling. Rhys patted Seraphina’s shoulder, offering her an assuring smile. He then stalked over to me, ignoring the document I held, pulling out his own pen, and scribbling his signature with practiced ease. He glared at me, issuing a low-voiced threat. “Eliza Stone, take your drama home. This is not the place for your hysterics.” “There are major investors here interested in Sera. If you screw this up, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.” Asher sidled up, his eyes wide and spiteful. “Go home, you filthy woman! You smell like cooking oil! This isn’t a place for a gross housekeeper who just cooks all day! Everyone else is beautiful and classy, and you’re old and ugly. Are you trying to embarrass Dad and me?” A single tear slipped from my eye. I looked at the son I had endured a twenty-four-hour labor to bring into the world. “But Asher,” I whispered, “I used to be like them.” “Before I married your father, I was a top actress. I wore dresses even more beautiful than hers.” “What exactly made me the ‘slob’ and the ‘housekeeper’ you despise? Do you two truly not know?” Rhys and Asher exchanged a quick look, a flicker of guilt passing between them. But Rhys was too seasoned for shame. He sneered, his sharp gaze falling on my wrinkled shirt like a scalpel. The disgust was palpable. “You made your choice, Eliza. You wanted the easy life, the money, the title. You can’t regret it now.” “Besides, did I ever deny you anything? You didn’t want to work—that’s on you. Now get out!” He took Asher’s hand and turned away. The grand hall doors slowly closed, a heavy finality, separating his world from mine. In my last glance, I saw him hold Seraphina’s hand like a prince. Through the small gap before the doors fully shut, I saw Seraphina give me a victorious, chilling smile. It didn’t matter anymore. I stared at the paper in my hand—the divorce agreement, signed in his own, careless handwriting. I thought: It’s time to go. 6 Back at the house, I found servants moving furniture and belongings. Seeing me, they looked away guiltily. Only the old butler, who had always treated me with a measure of respect, sighed apologetically. “Ma’am, the Master said he needs to prepare for his new role. He’s having Miss Lowe stay here for a while.” “He said… to make the feeling more authentic, they’ll be pretending to be a married couple. So he needs Miss Lowe in the master suite, and you’ll be in the guest room for a few days.” I nodded calmly and walked to the master bedroom to pack my things. When I was finished, I realized that all my possessions didn’t even fill a single suitcase. The wall where my wedding photo had been proudly displayed now held a massive, framed photo of Rhys and Seraphina from a movie—a staged wedding scene. His smile was still bright and joyous, but it was no longer for me. I laughed, a dry, bitter sound. I dragged the suitcase out of the cage that had held me for ten years. Before I left, I placed a second copy of the signed divorce agreement on the master bed pillow. On the way to the airport, my phone rang. Rhys. His tone was just as cold as ever. “Have the butler take you shopping later. You need an outfit for an important gala tomorrow.” “Because of your stunt today, there are already rumors flying about Sera. You need to publicly clarify that you two have a great relationship and that our living situation is just for the film.” “Sera’s career is at a critical juncture. She can’t have any scandal. Of course, I’ll transfer money to you as compensation after you’ve done your job.” I started to laugh, a loud, tearing sound that made the cab driver jump. “Rhys, have you forgotten why my career stopped in the first place?” “Why I was so quick to retire?” Rhys fell silent, and I answered for him. “Because right after we got married, you were in a terrible car accident, and your leg was shattered.” “I retired to take care of you.” “Five years of my life went into your recovery. In return, I was completely cut off from the world.” “You and Asher look down on me as a ‘slob’ and a ‘housewife,’ but who created this situation? Don’t you know?” “Eliza Stone!” Rhys spat my name. “What exactly do you want?” I didn’t speak. At that moment, the airport announcement echoed through the cab’s speakers. “Passengers for flight CA989 to Paris, your flight is now boarding…” Suddenly, the coldness in Rhys’s voice was replaced by a flicker of panic. “Eliza Stone, where are you going?” “Even if you don’t want me, are you abandoning your son too?” A gasp of raw, desolate laughter escaped me. “Haven’t you realized yet, Rhys, what it was you just signed?” “What are you talking about?!” he roared. I ended the call.

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Since we were kids, I knew my sister was destined to be the tragic heroine of a melodrama. To protect her, I switched our fates. She went to the top public magnet school, while I entered the prestigious private academy as a scholarship student. She grew up to be a brilliant biopharmaceutical scientist. I, on the other hand, endured years of humiliation, suffered through seven abortions, and held the empty title of a billionaire heir’s wife. When my sister found out, instead of being grateful, she returned to the male lead’s side as his “white moonlight”—his first love. She manipulated him into drowning me in the lake. Reborn into a new life, I somehow became the male lead’s “white moonlight” this time around. Just as I thought I had mistakenly picked up the heroine’s script, I realized something terrifying. My sister was reborn too. So, how did she, the original “white moonlight” heroine of the last life, actually die? Chapter 1 Reborn back to when we were twelve, Mom and Dad looked at me with troubled faces. “Luna, you’re the older sister. Why don’t you give the scholarship spot at Elite Academy to Lily?” In my past life, I had cried and screamed, demanding to go to the private school. Helpless, my parents sent my sister, Lily, to the public magnet school. This time, I nodded without hesitation, my heart full of joy. “Okay! Let her go! I want to go to the public magnet school!” Actually, it wasn’t just this once. At every juncture where my sister was supposed to meet the male lead, I had intervened. Without meeting him, my sister’s academic and professional career soared. But no one understood my intentions. Everyone said I was jealous of my sister, that her success was purely due to her own efforts. My parents sighed in relief. After I left the room, I heard them whispering. “We really need to invest heavily in Lily this time. She’s the real heroine! We can’t make the same mistake as last time, thinking Luna was the main character. We got nothing out of it, just trouble!” Invest heavily? Where would a working-class family get that kind of money? That reminded me. In my last life, shortly after I entered the private academy, my parents won fifty thousand dollars in the lottery. It was through insider info from the male lead, Archer Vance, that I told them to invest in real estate instead of spending it. That was how our family climbed out of poverty and into the middle class. Just then, my sister looked at me with crossed arms and a mocking smirk. “Go ahead to public school then. Go compete with those nerds until you drop. Enjoy the cold showers in the dorms during winter!” “What’s mine will eventually be mine. No one can take it away!” Suddenly, I understood. It wasn’t just me. My whole family had been reborn. Interesting. Then keep dreaming your billionaire dreams. Go enjoy the backstabbing, the physical and mental torment of high society life. I’ll gladly bear the “hardship” of studying in peace. Our house was far from the schools. I wanted to spend more time studying. Knowing my parents had already won the lottery, I asked to live on campus. But they roared in anger. “Dorm fees are five hundred a semester! That’s expensive! You have no idea how hard your father and I work for money!” Just then, my sister came home from Elite Academy, carrying several large bags of snacks and toys. My parents beamed, patting her head and praising her potential, while simultaneously scolding me. “Look at Lily, so capable! Not only does her scholarship cover everything, but she’s already bringing things home to help the family at such a young age. You, going to that public school, we have to pay for books and now you want dorm money? Useless spendthrift!” Sure enough, even in a new life, my parents’ bias hadn’t changed a bit. Before, when my sister ranked tenth in the school, they bragged to everyone that their daughter was a genius. They never cared that I was now second in the entire school, only five points away from first place. My sister bragged to me about her experiences at Elite Academy and how well Archer treated her. “Even though I’m a scholarship student, he never looks down on me. He always gives me gifts and says I’m the most special girl he’s ever met.” “He said he’s interested in how normal people live and wants to come to our house for dinner tomorrow. Mom, Dad, you need to prepare well!” My parents praised her, promising to cook their best dishes for him. In my last life, this was the turning point. I had sent my sister away so they wouldn’t meet. He secretly took photos of my cramped, cluttered home, which led to me being mocked and bullied at school for three whole years. When I was at my most helpless, he stepped in like a hero. He trapped me in a whirlpool of tenderness that hid a sharp knife. It was only a long, long time later that I learned the truth. Since my whole family was reborn, I wasn’t sure if Archer was too. So I feigned illness, wearing a mask and glasses to prevent him from recognizing me. As soon as he arrived, he instinctively pinched his nose. “Is something rotting? It smells like mold.” My parents’ faces turned black instantly, but they still served the feast they had spent all day preparing. The braised pork meatballs, a dish we only ate during holidays, sat untouched. Archer didn’t take a single bite, yet he offered fake praise. “Mr. and Mrs. Solis, your cooking is amazing. No wonder you raised such a beautiful and talented daughter like Lily!” My parents were ecstatic, bragging everywhere that the Solis family was about to produce a billionaire’s wife, that their good days were coming. They became even more determined to invest in my sister. They actually used the fifty thousand dollars from the lottery to sign Lily up for etiquette classes that cost two thousand a session, five times a week. While my parents ignored me, I had already taken first place in the city-wide joint exams, becoming a priority student for the teachers. One day, a childhood friend who was also a scholarship student at Elite Academy texted me: [Did you know your sister is getting bullied badly by those rich kids? I don’t dare help her. Archer Vance, that billionaire heir, said anyone who helps her is the next target. He told us to keep it quiet…] [Then don’t help. Protect yourself.] My friend was confused: [Don’t you protect your sister the most? Since we were kids, if anyone bullied her, you were always the first to fight back.] That was because my biased parents taught me from a young age that the older sister must protect the younger sister, must yield to her. But if I protect her, who protects me? We are fraternal twins, born only five minutes apart. A month later, my parents looked distressed and proposed selling the house. “Luna, the family is really struggling. We can live in the employee dorms anyway, and your sister lives at school. This house is useless. Plus, your sister’s etiquette classes need money…” I couldn’t believe they had burned through fifty thousand in a month and still wanted to continue. I laughed out of sheer anger. “Ha, what about me? If you sell the house, do I live on the street?” Just then, my sister came home, soaked and covered in bruises. Seeing our parents, she burst into tears and threw herself at them. “Why am I still bullied by rich classmates even when I try so hard? Is it because I’m not elegant enough, not beautiful enough, so Archer won’t help me?” My parents hugged her, comforting her softly. “Lily, don’t be scared. Mommy and Daddy will sell the house right now to sign you up for better classes.” They immediately contacted an agency that trained “debutantes,” boldly claiming they would add dance and vocal lessons costing five thousand a session. These three were insane beyond reason! I couldn’t hold back and shouted, “Enough! Am I not your daughter?! I just want a place to live, is that so hard?!” Mom, seeing my sister weeping in her arms, was heartbroken. She rushed over and slapped me across the face. “Your sister has been bullied like this! And you’re still making a scene!” Suddenly, text comments floated in the air: [Boohoo, poor little Lily, just endure a bit longer. When you’re of age, CEO Archer will come to marry you!] [This older sister is so short-sighted. She doesn’t know our Lily will be the most famous wife in the city’s elite circle!] My sister stopped crying. The three of them stared wide-eyed at the floating text. I silently lowered my head, pretending I saw nothing. Dad waved his hand, making the final decision: “Luna, go live with your uncle! You’re the older sister, stop being so selfish. We are selling this house!” I tried hard to think. To think about how Lily would suffer later, how my parents would be destitute after selling the house. Don’t be angry. Don’t be sad. Don’t cry. But the grievances of being treated unfairly all these years turned into bitterness that filled my heart. I buried my face in my pillow and cried secretly all night before I could breathe again. I couldn’t fight them. I was sent to live with my uncle. My parents stopped caring about me. To earn tuition, I signed up for the city’s biology competition. First prize was five thousand dollars. I never expected to run into Archer at the finals. The moment he saw me, he froze. I knew that expression well. It was the same look he gave Lily the first time he saw her in my past life. Archer grabbed my arm, frowning. “I’ll give you fifty thousand. Give up the first place to me.” I shook him off and turned to run. He blocked my path. “I’ll hire the best biology professors for you. It’s just a title, it’s not that important to you, right?” Seeing him made me sick. “I don’t want your filthy money! If you want first place, beat me with your own skills!” Unsurprisingly, I took first place and the prize money. Thinking back, I actually regretted not taking his fifty thousand. I must have been crazy. But because of that first place, I received an offer from the Junior Class of the nation’s top university. I just needed to finish the high school curriculum in one year and pass the exams to enter the best program. Not long after, Lily’s situation changed drastically. Lily held her head high like an arrogant swan. “Did you know? Now no one in school dares to mess with me. Archer Vance announced to everyone that I am his future fiancée.” My parents couldn’t hide the pride in their eyes, speaking to me as if granting charity. “When your sister marries into a wealthy family, our good days will come. We’ll buy several big houses then, maybe even give you one.” Good days? Days of hell were coming. Five years later, I had completed my undergraduate degree in biology at the top university and was fast-tracked to a Ph.D. program. I was only twenty years old. Five or six years ahead of where Lily was in my past life. I hadn’t contacted my family in a long time. Chatting with my childhood friend, Chloe, I heard rumors about Lily. News that the heir Archer Vance insisted on getting engaged to Lily shocked the elite circle. And it was all because Lily looked seventy percent like Archer’s “white moonlight”—his lost love. “I heard Archer’s white moonlight was a brilliant beauty, totally different from an idiot like Lily who dropped out of high school.” The more I listened, the stranger it sounded. I pressed on: “How did Archer meet this white moonlight?” “Uh, I heard it was at a biology competition…” My heart skipped a beat. In my past life, wasn’t Lily able to return to him because she was the white moonlight? Could it be… in this life, I accidentally took the heroine’s script? No, that’s not right! I suddenly realized. Logically, after I died in the past life, Lily’s “heroine luck” should have returned to her. But she and my parents were reborn around the same time as me. That means, after I died, they died too! If she was the true heroine, how could Archer let her die?! Unless, in this script, both my sister and I must die. I had read a type of tragic novel. The male lead only regrets after the heroine dies. In his remorse over losing his beloved wife, he grows to hate the “white moonlight,” eventually killing her to avenge his wife. If that’s the case, I wasn’t sure if I could fight fate, if I could escape Archer. Or what methods he might use to bind me back to them. How on earth could I escape this destined death… My phone pinged. Lily sent an invitation to her engagement party: [Sister, I genuinely hope you can come.] At the engagement party. My parents, in cheap, wrinkled suits, were stopped by security, looking anxious. “Is there a misunderstanding? We are the in-laws of the Vance family! Why can’t we go in?!” The guard sneered. “Hmph, if I say you can’t enter, you can’t. Those are the master’s specific orders.” Seeing this, I figured they wouldn’t let me in either if I said I was the bride’s family. So I sneaked into the backstage dressing room and found Lily. She was exquisite as a porcelain doll, but the high spirits of the past were gone. Her eyes were empty and lifeless. Lily clutched her stomach, cold sweat pouring down her face. The makeup artist complained while applying powder: “Oh my god, Miss Solis, can’t you sit still? If the powder looks cakey and ugly, and Mr. Vance gets angry, you’re just making trouble for me!” She meekly apologized and swallowed a handful of painkillers. In my past life, at this time, she should have just aborted her third child for Archer. He had needs every night but disliked using protection, yet he refused to let me carry his child. He said a replacement from the slums like me didn’t deserve to bear the Vance heir. Suddenly, I felt a strange sympathy for Lily. I grabbed the makeup artist’s hand, snatching the powder puff. “She’s clearly in pain and you have this attitude? If you’re this unprofessional, get out. I’ll do it!” Lily looked at me like I was a savior, her eyes instantly red. “Sister, thank you for being so good to me…” She told me about her suffering by that dog’s side these past few years. Archer monopolized her, forbidding her from socializing or contacting the outside world, forcing her to be a compliant doll. She couldn’t save herself because she couldn’t study like I did to build a future. She was bound, tied down. A canary with broken wings, kept only for amusement. Exactly like the old me.

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I was dining at a high-end bistro. I ordered two courses. The bill should have been eighty bucks. At the table next to me, four guys in tailored suits were feasting like kings—lobster, wagyu, bottles of vintage wine. When I asked for the check, the server handed me a leather folder. Inside was a bill for $1,850. I stared at him. “I just had the steak and a salad.” The server pointed to the empty table beside me. “Sir, your friends already left. They said you were picking up the tab.” I didn’t know them. I had never seen them before in my life. Later, the security footage showed the ringleader pointing at me on his way out. The server nodded, and the guy walked out with a smirk, free as a bird. The restaurant manager sneered at me, “Don’t try to weasel out of this. You came in together.” I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. That was the moment the manager’s face went pale. Chapter 1 My phone screen lit up. 7:00 PM sharp. A text from Sarah popped up: “Babe, traffic is a nightmare. I’m gonna be thirty minutes late. Go ahead and grab a table.” I typed back a quick “No worries,” and slid the phone into my pocket. Today was our third wedding anniversary. Sarah had made reservations at The Summit, a rooftop restaurant with a view of the skyline. She said the ambiance was perfect and the food was exquisite—we needed to celebrate properly. I was seated at a two-top by the window, the table set with crisp, white linen. A server poured me a glass of sparkling water. I opened the menu. The prices were definitely steep. I decided to keep it simple while I waited: a Sea Bass and an appetizer of grilled asparagus—Sarah’s favorites. The total would be just under a hundred dollars. After ordering, I gazed out the window. The city lights were flickering on, the traffic below flowing like a river of red and white diamonds. “Server! Another bottle of the Cabernet! The expensive stuff!” A booming voice shattered the restaurant’s quiet elegance. I frowned and looked over. At the large round table next to me sat four men in expensive suits. They looked to be in their forties, hair slicked back, gold watches glinting under the chandeliers. Their table was groaning under the weight of the food—seafood towers, Tomahawk steaks, and several empty wine bottles. The leader, a guy the others kept calling “Mr. Sterling,” had a face flushed red from alcohol. He was waving his phone around, bragging loudly. “I told the Board, if the valuation is under fifty million, don’t even waste my time! They started pouring my drink right then and there.” The other three immediately chimed in. “You’re a legend, Sterling!” “We’re just lucky to be on the ride with you, boss.” I turned away, losing interest. Just another group of guys who thought they were the center of the universe. My food arrived quickly. The fish was seared perfectly. I didn’t touch it, deciding to wait for Sarah. The noise from the next table was getting louder. Sterling seemed to notice me. He raised his wine glass, his eyes drifting over to my table, a smirk playing on his lips. He leaned in and whispered to his buddies, loudly enough for me to hear. “Look at the kid. Comes to a place like this, orders a salad and water. Probably just wants to take a picture for Instagram to act like he’s somebody.” The words were meant to sting. I didn’t even blink. I kept my eyes on the city view. Engaging with people like that only drags you down to their level. They finished another round of drinks and finally looked ready to leave. Sterling stood up, swaying slightly, and walked toward the host stand. The other three followed, stumbling a bit, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. As they passed my table, one of them “accidentally” bumped the back of my chair. I didn’t say a word. The host stand wasn’t far. I watched Sterling say something to the server, then he casually pointed a finger in my direction. The server nodded. Then, just like that, Sterling and his entourage strutted out the front door. Chapter 2 I watched them disappear out the door, feeling a vague sense of unease, but I shrugged it off. Maybe he was just giving instructions about his own bill. Ten minutes later, Sarah texted: “Parking now! Be up in five.” My mood lifted instantly. I signaled the server to bring the warm bread. A young waiter walked over, holding a black leather bill folder. He placed it gently on my table. “Sir, here is the check. The total comes to $1,852.” I froze. I opened the folder. The receipt was a mile long: Vintage Cabernet, Filet Mignon, Lobster Tails, endless sides… It was exactly what the table next to me had consumed. I looked up at the waiter. “You made a mistake. I only ordered the Sea Bass and asparagus.” The waiter maintained his professional smile, but his eyes were cold. “Sir, there is no mistake.” He gestured to the empty table beside me. “Those gentlemen who just left were your friends, correct? They informed us on the way out that you would be covering their tab.” Friends? I had never seen them before in my life. I felt a surge of anger, but I kept my voice low. “I don’t know them. Get your manager.” The waiter’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of bureaucratic boredom. “Sir, please don’t joke. Mr. Sterling was very clear. He said you were all together, he had an emergency, and you’d handle it.” “I’ll say it one more time. I don’t know them.” My voice dropped an octave. “Get. The. Manager.” The waiter, clearly not used to pushback, muttered into his headset. Moments later, a middle-aged man in a sharp black suit approached. His name tag read “Manager Reynolds.” He had slicked-back hair and a look of practiced arrogance. “Sir, I’m the General Manager. Is there an issue?” I slid the bill toward him. “This isn’t mine. My bill is eighty bucks. This two-thousand-dollar tab belongs to the table next door. They left, and your staff is trying to pin it on me.” Reynolds glanced at the bill, then at me, a sneer curling his lip. “Sir, I verified with the front desk. Mr. Sterling explicitly stated you were paying. Look, we’re all civilized people here. There’s no need to make a scene over a little money.” His tone was heavy with insinuation, as if I were some broke grifter trying to dine and dash. “Civilized?” I scoffed. “Strangers eat on my dime and that’s civilized? Is this how you run a business?” Reynolds’ face darkened. “Sir, watch your tone. We operate on trust. We have every reason to believe you are together. Trying to skip out on the bill now? That’s not going to fly.” He spoke loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. Heads turned. Eyes filled with curiosity and judgment drilled into me. I felt my face heat up. Not from shame, but from pure rage. Chapter 3 “I’m not skipping out on my bill. But I’m not paying a cent for theirs,” I said, staring Reynolds dead in the eye. “Where is the proof?” I demanded. “Show me proof we were together.” Reynolds crossed his arms, looking down at me. “Proof? My staff heard Mr. Sterling say it. You came in around the same time, sat next to each other. Now you claim you don’t know him?” “So because we sat near each other, I’m liable for his debt? Does this restaurant assign seating based on financial liability?” My voice dripped with sarcasm. Reynolds dropped the polite act. “Sir, I’m telling you for the last time. You settle this bill right now. Or we do this the hard way.” “What’s the hard way?” “We have the right to detain you for theft of services until you come to your senses.” He signaled toward the entrance. Two bouncers, built like linebackers in tight black shirts, stepped out of the shadows and flanked my table. Whispers erupted from the nearby diners. “Look at him, probably maxed out his credit cards.” “Yeah, who pretends not to know their friends?” “Embarrassing. If you can’t afford The Summit, don’t come.” The comments felt like needles. I’ve lived thirty years and never been humiliated like this in public. Under the table, my hands clenched into fists until my knuckles turned white. I took a deep breath. Getting physical would only help them. They wanted me to lose it. “I want to see the security footage,” I said. Reynolds laughed, a short, sharp bark. “Footage? Sure. But I’m warning you, when the camera shows you’re lying, it won’t just be about the bill anymore.” “And if it shows we aren’t together?” “Then the meal is on me, and I’ll apologize to you in front of everyone,” Reynolds said confidently. He was bluffing, or he was sure he had me. “Fine,” I stood up. “Let’s go.” Reynolds led me through the dining room, the two bouncers marching behind me like I was a convict on death row. I felt dizzy with anger. This was supposed to be a romantic anniversary. Now it was a crime scene. Chapter 4 The manager’s office smelled of stale coffee and expensive cologne. Reynolds sat behind his mahogany desk, gesturing to a small wooden chair. “Sit.” I remained standing. “The footage.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, making me wait. “Don’t be in such a rush, kid.” He tapped a few keys on his computer, swiveled the monitor around, and pressed play. “See for yourself.” It was a clip from the host stand camera. I saw “Mr. Sterling” walk up, talk to the server, and then, clearly raise his hand and point directly at my table. The video froze there. Reynolds leaned back, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Well? He points at you. He tells my staff, ‘My friend over there has it.’ What more do you want?” I stared at the frozen image. My mind was racing. This was a setup. First, no audio. It was his word against mine. Second, the angle was too narrow. It only showed him pointing. It didn’t show the server’s reaction or the wider context. Third, why only this clip? Where was the footage of the entire meal? “I want the full tape,” I said. “From the moment they sat down to the moment they left. All angles. And I want audio.” Reynolds’ smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Sorry. To protect the privacy of our other high-profile guests, we don’t record audio. And I can’t show you the full tape without a warrant. Privacy laws, you understand.” Bullshit. I realized then that Reynolds wasn’t just incompetent; he was in on it. He wasn’t trying to solve a dispute; he was enforcing a scam. Seeing my silence, Reynolds stood up and patted my shoulder condescendingly. “Look, son. Take some advice. Reputation is everything. It’s just two grand. Call it a stupid tax. Pay it, learn from it, and walk away. If you keep being stubborn, this is going to get ugly.” His tone was like a mobster offering “protection.” I brushed his hand off and stepped back. “I told you. Not my debt. Not my money.” Reynolds’ patience snapped. His face contorted into a scowl. “You want to play tough? Fine. Boys, take him back to the table. Watch him. If he tries to leave, break his legs.”

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I was traveling for work. I fronted thirty-seven thousand. Two months later, I submitted the expense reports. Finance said the receipts were non-compliant and kicked them back. I resubmitted three times, then Finance said the VP’s signature was missing. The VP signed, then she said I had to wait for the next month’s cycle. At three in the morning, my boss called, demanding I book the six a.m. flight. I said: “There’s no money left in my account.” My boss exploded: “You can’t pull together five grand? Where the hell has your money gone?” I pulled up the reimbursement record and read it to him, transaction by transaction. On the other end of the line, there was a silence that lasted exactly five minutes. 1 The phone vibrating shook me awake. Outside, the window was ink-black. I jolted up from the couch, grabbed the screen, and the name “David Davies” flashed, sending a twitch to the corner of my eye. Three a.m. I swiped to answer, my voice thick with sleep. “Hello, Mr. Davies.” “Leo, you awake? Listen, I need you to book the earliest flight to Charlotte. The six a.m. one. You have to make it.” Mr. Davies’ voice was a rapid-fire command, too urgent to allow for a moment’s thought. My brain went thrum, and the fog instantly cleared. Another emergency trip. Another fronted expense. I gripped the phone, a second of silence hanging between us. “Mr. Davies, I…” “No buts, Leo! This is a Code Red. The Charlotte project hit a snag, and you’re the only one who can handle their technical questions. The client is waiting at nine. If you’re late, the sky falls.” His voice, amplified by the speaker, was practically a roar. I could picture him pacing his bedroom, frantic. I took a deep breath, shifting my stiff body on the cheap sofa. The studio apartment was dark, lit only by a faint, sickly glow from the street outside. “Mr. Davies,” I said. “I can’t book the flight.” The line went dead quiet. After a few seconds, his voice returned, cold, laced with disbelief and accusation. “What does that mean? What do you mean you can’t book the flight?” “I have no money in my bank account.” I spoke the five words, and the energy drained out of me. It was a profound humiliation. A man in his early thirties, at three in the morning, telling his company CEO he couldn’t afford an emergency, five-hundred-dollar plane ticket. Mr. Davies was completely ignited, his voice ratcheting up eight octaves like a string of firecrackers. “Leo! Are you messing with me? A round-trip flight to Charlotte is five hundred, maybe a thousand, tops! You can’t front that? Where did all your bonuses and salary go? What, are you funding a secret family?” His venomous assumptions hit me like needles. I didn’t answer. A knot of cotton, thick and hard, was lodged in my chest. I lowered the phone, hit the speaker button, and tossed it onto the sofa. Then I fumbled for my other, work phone on the coffee table. I unlocked it and opened the Notes app. It was a digital ledger of the past two months of my professional disgrace. “Mr. Davies, listen.” My voice was eerily calm. “September third. Trip to Phoenix for project kickoff. Flight and hotel. Fronted one thousand, eight hundred, sixty dollars.” “September tenth. Client dinner with the Phoenix team. Fronted two thousand, two hundred dollars.” “September seventeenth. Emergency procurement of samples. Fronted three thousand, five hundred dollars.” “September twenty-fifth. Return flight from Phoenix. Eight hundred, ninety dollars.” “October eighth. First day after the holiday. Trip to Atlanta. Flight. One thousand, two hundred dollars.” “October ninth. Client entertainment in Atlanta. Fronted four thousand dollars.” I read out the list, item by item, with zero emotion. Each line was like a small cut to my own heart. The numbers, the city names, the memory of each transaction played out like a film in my mind. I read at a steady, measured pace. The Note contained twenty-seven entries in total, each one followed by a clear, undeniable dollar amount. On the other end of the line, Mr. Davies’ breathing grew ragged. He seemed to try to interrupt, making only a quick, single syllable sound each time before I blocked him with the next expense entry. In the dark apartment, only my cold voice and the numbers echoed. “…October twenty-eighth. Just last week. Final trip to Charlotte. Round-trip flight and accommodation. Fronted three thousand, nine hundred, eighty dollars.” “Total amount outstanding: thirty-seven thousand, two hundred, forty dollars.” “Mr. Davies, this is all company project spending. The September reports? I submitted them three times. Veronica said the formatting was wrong. The October reports? She said I had to wait for the next cycle.” “My salary is eight thousand a month. After the mortgage and car payment, what’s left of my money is tied up in these outstanding reimbursements.” “Right now, across three bank apps on my phone, the total balance is under fifty dollars.” “So, Mr. Davies, I genuinely cannot afford the five-hundred-dollar flight.” “It’s not that I don’t want to go. It’s that I have no money to go.” I finished the last sentence and fell silent. The entire world was quiet. On the phone, a deathly stillness. No roaring, no questioning, not even the sound of his breath. I stared at the ceiling, my eyes dry and aching. Time crept by, second by second. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. He remained silent, like a statue. I knew he hadn’t hung up; the line was still open. This silence was heavier than any shout. After precisely five minutes, a faint, almost inaudible sigh came through the speaker. Then, a sharp click. He hung up. 2 The phone screen went dark, and the room returned to the deep black. I stayed in the same position, lying on the couch, unmoving. My body was exhausted, but my mind was perfectly clear. That five-minute silence felt like a long, drawn-out battle. I didn’t know what Mr. Davies was thinking—shock, perhaps, shame, or fury. But in that moment, I knew I had won. Not won against my boss, but won back a sliver of my own dignity. I sat up, poured myself a glass of cold water, and chugged it down. The icy liquid slid down my throat, dissipating some of the fire that had been burning in my chest. What now? Fired? Or would he send the money, only to keep me on the hook like a slave? I didn’t know, and I couldn’t bring myself to care. The two-month-long tightrope I’d been walking had finally snapped tonight. And with the break came a strange release. I picked up my personal phone, opened the chat with my girlfriend, Sienna, and typed a line: Babe, I might be losing my job. I stared at it for a moment, then deleted it, word by word. No need to worry her yet. The phone vibrated again. It was Mr. Davies. I looked at the screen, hesitated, and then answered. “Leo.” This time, his voice was much calmer, tinged with a weariness I’d never heard before. “I’m here.” “You don’t need to go to Charlotte,” he said. “I’ve tasked Marcus, the VP, to figure it out.” “Understood.” I acknowledged it, feeling no particular emotion. “You…” He seemed to want to say something, then stopped. “You need to get to the office. Now. Immediately.” “Now?” I checked the time. Three-thirty a.m. “Yes, now. Bring all your expense reports, all the original receipts, everything.” His tone left no room for argument. “And take a cab. I’ll reimburse the fare when you get here.” “I’m on my way.” I hung up, stood up, and flipped on the lights. In the harsh light, I saw my own drawn face—deep-set eyes, unshaven stubble. I walked into the bedroom, pulled open a drawer, and took out a thick manila envelope. I dumped the contents onto the bed. Invoices, statements, meal receipts, taxi slips—piled up like a small mountain. Each one was paper-clipped to a small note detailing the date and purpose. I had tried to submit them three times. Each time, Veronica, the finance manager, had found a new, petty reason to reject them. “The vendor name on this invoice isn’t the full company name. Needs to be a corporate title.” “These taxi receipts are sequential. That’s non-compliant.” “This dinner receipt lacks an itemized statement. Can’t accept it.” “Mr. Davies’ signature here is illegible. Auditors will flag it. Get a clearer one.” Each time, I had to carry the stack of papers around like a supplicant, chasing down executives and department heads for re-signatures, re-attachments, and re-submissions. And each time, she found a new flaw. I restacked all the documents, put them back into the envelope, and held it to my chest like a ticking bomb. Downstairs, I called a cab. The night air was cold, making me shiver. The driver asked, “Where to, boss?” “The Apex Building.” Thirty minutes later, the cab stopped outside the office tower. I paid the fare and walked into the deserted lobby. Only the security desk was lit. I swiped my keycard and went up. Sixteenth floor. The entire floor was pitch black, save for a sliver of light spilling from Mr. Davies’ corner office. I pushed the door open. Mr. Davies was sitting behind his desk, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. The ashtray was overflowing with butts. He looked up, gave a slight lift of his chin, and gestured for me to sit. “Did you bring the documents?” I placed the manila envelope on the desk in front of him. He didn’t touch it. He just stared at me, his eyes clouded with a complex mix of emotions. “Leo, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I tried to smile, but it felt forced, brittle. “Mr. Davies, I did. I mentioned it last month—the pressure from fronting funds, the slow reimbursement cycle. You said you knew, and you’d push Finance.” He froze, trying to recall the moment. “Do you remember? In the break room, after I finished briefing you on the project, I added it at the end. You were on a call and just waved your hand at me.” Mr. Davies’ face changed. He remembered. He crushed out his cigarette, lit another one, and took a long, hard drag. “Was it Veronica who was holding up the process?” “I don’t know if she was deliberately holding me up. I just know that the reports I submitted two months ago still haven’t been processed for a single penny.” Mr. Davies was silent for a beat. He picked up my work phone from the desk and dialed a number. “Veronica! Get your ass down to the office! Now! I’m giving you thirty minutes. If you’re not here, don’t bother coming in tomorrow!” He roared into the phone, the veins in his neck bulging. He slammed the phone onto the desk, his chest heaving. I watched him. I felt no satisfaction, only a profound sense of sorrow. Why wait until now? 3 The wait for Veronica was filled with a deathly quiet. Mr. Davies chain-smoked, and the office was shrouded in a gray haze. I remained silent, watching the sky outside gradually change from inky black to slate-blue. The events of the past two months played out in my mind like a fast-forwarded film. The first time I handed the September reports to Veronica. She was in her mid-thirties, well-groomed, with a perpetually polite, professional smile. She took the stack, briefly flipped through, and smiled. “Leo, your filing isn’t compliant. Look, receipts need to be ordered chronologically, from top to bottom, smallest amount to largest.” I hadn’t thought much of it then, assuming I was inexperienced. I immediately apologized, took them back, and reorganized. The second time, she smiled again. “Oh, dear. You’ve written the amount wrong. See here? This is three hundred sixty-five dollars and fifty cents. It must be written out fully—Three Hundred Sixty-Five Dollars and Fifty Cents. One misplaced word and our strict compliance rules reject it.” I took them back to correct the handwriting. The third time, she finally conceded the formatting was okay, but then pointed to a dinner receipt. “This won’t work. Company policy: any single meal expense over fifty dollars requires an itemized statement.” I explained, “Veronica, this was a quick meal with the client, no detailed receipt was provided by the restaurant.” Her smile grew sweeter. “Then I’m afraid it’s unacceptable. Without the detail, the external auditors will flag it. You’ll have to find a way to get one.” I went back to the restaurant; they said their system couldn’t generate one. I returned to Veronica, and she spread her hands. “My hands are tied. Policy is policy.” That day, I stood in her office doorway for ten minutes. She just watched me with that serene smile, her eyes entirely devoid of warmth. In that moment, I suspected she was doing this on purpose. Later, I had to get a special waiver from Mr. Davies just to clear that single receipt. But in October, she found new games to play. “Mr. Davies’ signature is too messy. What if the auditors accuse us of forging a signature? You need to go get a clean, clear one.” I waited outside Mr. Davies’ office for two hours until his meeting was over, then carefully asked him to sign the form again. Once submitted, she returned it again. “Wait. Your approval flow is incorrect. The department head signs first, then Mr. Davies. You reversed the order. Do it over.” I wanted to smash the stack of papers in my hand against her face. But I held back. I needed this job. I needed the paycheck. I even wondered if I had offended her somehow. I’d brought her a gift from an out-of-town trip; she smiled and accepted it, only to tell me during my next reimbursement attempt that my long-distance train ticket was handwritten and non-compliant—it had to be machine-printed. Meanwhile, another colleague, Mitch—a distant cousin of Mr. Davies’ wife—walked in. I personally witnessed him handing Veronica a crumpled, handwritten slip of paper that read: “Office supplies: Five hundred.” Veronica didn’t even look at it. She simply pulled five hundred dollars in cash from her drawer and handed it to him, saying with a wink, “Mitch, try to write legibly next time, okay?” Mitch pocketed the cash and gave me a smug look. In that split second, all the humiliation and fury boiled to the surface. Why? Just because I lacked connections, lacked a safety net, just because I was an ordinary guy trying to make it in the city—did that mean I deserved to be abused like this? I started secretly collecting evidence. The time of every submission, the reason for every rejection, every instance of her differential treatment—I used my phone to record audio or take screenshots. I wasn’t sure what I’d use them for. I just knew, instinctively, that they might be necessary someday. I even considered reporting her to Mr. Davies, but like in the break room, he was too busy. Too preoccupied to listen to the grievances of a low-level employee. In his world, there were multi-million-dollar contracts and projects a hundred times more important than my little problem. He wasn’t evil. He was just indifferent. Just like his questioning on the phone, “Where the hell has your money gone?” He never considered that his employee might be financially ruined because he was fronting the company’s operating costs. Creak— The office door opened, and Veronica appeared in the frame. She had obviously rushed here; her hair was a mess, and her face showed remnants of sleep and annoyance. When she saw me, her eyes flashed with surprise, but she quickly masked it with that familiar, professional, fake smile. “Mr. Davies, calling me in so late? What’s the emergency?” she asked in a saccharine tone, acting as if she were completely unaware of what was happening. I looked at her and felt that the woman was terrifying. She was like a snake—beautifully colored, but utterly poisonous. 4 Mr. Davies didn’t look at her. He pointed at the manila envelope on the desk, his voice like ice. “Veronica. Explain this to me. What is going on?” Veronica’s gaze fell on the envelope, and the smile on her face stiffened. She walked over, picked up the folder, and slowly began flipping through the documents. She turned the pages one by one, very slowly. The office was so quiet I could hear the shush-shush of her fingernails against the paper. “Oh, these are Leo’s expense reports.” She finally spoke, her tone light, as if discussing the weather. “I was just about to process them. It hasn’t hit the end-of-month closing date yet.” I let out a low, cold laugh. Mr. Davies snapped his head up and glared at her. “Not hit the closing date? The September reports, and it’s now the end of October? And you’re telling me it hasn’t hit the closing date?” Veronica seemed startled by the intensity of his rage, but she quickly regained her composure, adopting an injured expression. “Mr. Davies, you know our compliance is very strict. Leo’s… his submissions had too many issues. Non-compliant here, missing documentation there. I was protecting the company! If an external audit finds an issue, I’m the one on the hook.” As she spoke, she glanced at me, her eyes holding a touch of reproach, as if I were the clueless troublemaker. “Too many issues?” Mr. Davies picked up my work phone, which I had left on the desk, opened the Notes app, and threw it in front of her. “Look for yourself. Does this list accurately reflect the ‘issues’ you raised?” Veronica picked up the phone, and her face instantly drained of color. The list was written in plain, clear detail: “Sept 20. Submitted. Veronica said receipt gluing was non-compliant. Rejected.” “Sept 25. Second submission. Veronica said capital letters for the amount were incorrect. Rejected.” “Oct 9. Third submission. Veronica said meal receipt lacked itemized statement. Rejected.” “Oct 15. Submitted October reports. Veronica said executive signature order was incorrect. Rejected.” “Oct 22. Resubmitted. Veronica claimed one cab receipt showed evidence of alteration. Entire batch rejected.” Line after line, item after item, they stood as carved indictments. Veronica’s face ran the gamut of emotions, from red to white to a sickly green. Her hands began to shake, her lips trembled, and she couldn’t utter a single word. “Veronica.” Mr. Davies’ voice was squeezed through clenched teeth. “I’m asking you one more time. Did you do this?” “I… I…” Cold sweat beaded on Veronica’s forehead. She looked at me desperately, her eyes pleading. I ignored her and simply kept my gaze fixed on Mr. Davies. I wasn’t here to argue with her today. I was here to resolve a problem. “Mr. Davies, I have a little more you might want to see.” I pulled out my personal phone and opened a folder. Inside were several audio clips and one video. I played an audio clip first. It was my conversation with Veronica. “Veronica, I genuinely can’t get an itemized receipt for this fast-food place. They said their system doesn’t generate one.” “Then my hands are tied. Policy is policy. Leo, I’m not singling you out. Anyone else would face the same standards.” Her gentle, warm voice played back from the phone. I immediately followed it with the video. The footage was slightly shaky; I had covertly recorded it near the finance office doorway. In the frame, Mitch, the boss’s nephew, was handing Veronica that handwritten IOU—the “white bar receipt”—grinning. “Veronica, need a cash advance.” “You little spender.” Veronica smiled, counted five hundred dollars in cash from her drawer, and handed it to him without even glancing at the note. The video finished playing. You could hear a pin drop in the office. Veronica’s face was utterly colorless, like a blank sheet of paper. She slumped in the chair, her gaze vacant. Mr. Davies stared at her, his eyes blazing. He picked up the ashtray on his desk, seemingly intending to throw it, but stopped halfway and slammed it down. “Veronica,” he said, his voice flat and deliberate. “You are truly something else.” He stood up and began pacing the office, like a caged animal. The life and death of his entire company rested on his shoulders, and his trusted Finance Manager had been using this petty, underhanded method to force out his most capable employee. He stopped, turning to face me, his eyes showing a seriousness I had never seen before. “Leo, I apologize.” He said it. “This was my failure.” Then, he turned to Veronica, his voice devoid of all emotion. “Right now. Calculate every single one of Leo’s outstanding reimbursements. To the penny. Then, transfer the full amount to his account. From your personal funds.” Veronica snapped her head up, unable to believe her ears. “Mr. Davies! I… I don’t have that kind of money!” “I don’t care what you have!” Mr. Davies slammed his hand on the desk. “Embezzlement, misappropriation of company funds—that’s your problem! Leo’s account must reflect that money by six a.m. this morning! Otherwise, you’ll face the full consequences!” He pointed a shaking finger at her. “And that Charlotte project? You go. Now.”

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Three years into the marriage, Aria Beaumont had fallen for another vulnerable art-school type. On our anniversary, Aria pulled a divorce agreement from her purse. “Let’s get a divorce.” “Kai Miller can’t be saddled with the reputation of a homewrecker.” I tipped back the glass of Cabernet, swallowing the heat behind my eyes. “Fine.” 1 The terms of the divorce settlement were far from restrictive; in fact, they were exceedingly generous. If I were to view our three-year marriage as an investment, there was no asset on earth with a greater return. I scanned the pages line by line. Beyond the substantial cash, trust funds, jewelry, and real estate, the most crucial part was the intellectual property: she was gifting me all the patents under the Beaumont family name that my animation studio could possibly use, and those she couldn’t gift, she signed over generous long-term licensing agreements for their use. A woman who divorces her husband only to continue lifting him up and providing him a foundation is rare, a unicorn. I took my time, and Aria didn’t rush me. In the reflection of the glass-walled restaurant, I could see her constantly checking her phone, replying to messages. But even the thickest contract has an end. I signed my name, deliberate stroke after deliberate stroke. This was likely the last time the names Leo Sullivan and Aria Beaumont would appear together on the same document. Aria finally pocketed her phone. She accepted the contract, and a look of profound relief settled on her face, softening her mouth. “We did know each other well. If anything ever comes up and you need assistance, you can reach out to Mr. Preston, my assistant.” I managed a slight, slightly cynical jest. “I’ll be sure to hold tight to the Beaumont family’s coattails.” Aria raised an elegant eyebrow, stood up with a decisive movement, and walked away, leaving me with her disappearing silhouette. I sighed. She hadn’t touched her food. Taking the signed divorce papers and leaving so quickly, she must have been in a hurry to let someone know the path was cleared. She didn’t look like the cunning, formidable CEO the business pages talked about; she looked like a woman madly, recklessly in love. She had been the same three years ago when we first married. She hadn’t wanted to be separated from me for a moment, in public or in private. During those first months, we were practically inseparable. Her devotion was so obvious that even the older members of the Beaumont clan didn’t dare give me any trouble. An orphan who relied on student subsidies throughout college, yet I married into a top-tier family and somehow managed to avoid even a sliver of condescension. In the marriage with Aria, she’d walked ninety-nine steps, and then she’d held my hand and pulled me through the last one. From my paralyzing fear of intimacy to my acceptance of her proposal, she had cleared every obstacle and silenced every critic. Aria’s love was always a generous, obvious offering. I just never expected such an intense, profound feeling to have an expiry date as short as three years. Yesterday, her warmth was scorching me, and today, she could turn and shine just as fiercely on someone else. I called the waiter to order a fresh table setting. We were at the exact same exclusive restaurant where she had proposed. Every bite I would now take would be a bite of memory. Let it be this way. Three years of friendship, three years of marriage, and now this sudden, clean break. Yet, I couldn’t find the capacity to truly hate her. We’ll part ways. We’ll both find happiness. Aria, I wish you well. I will always wish you well. 2 I had barely stepped outside the restaurant when my phone buzzed with a notification. I pulled it out. It was a new post from Kai Miller’s profile. [The real talent is in the trenches. The most incredible street food is at the Night Market. Tonight, I brought a very special guest. Welcome to my world, Her Royal Highness!] [Can you believe some people have never been to a street fair? Glad to initiate her into the life of the common folk tonight.] The accompanying nine-grid photo collage was artfully composed. In every picture, Aria wore a look of indulgent resignation, letting Kai guide her hand as she sampled different skewers and snacks. This was the first time she had been explicitly pictured on his profile. Before, it was only a fleeting shadow or a close-up of a wrist. This was Aria Beaumont’s efficiency. Moments after signing the divorce agreement, here she was, in all her dazzling glory, all over another man’s social media. I almost wanted to laugh. Maybe in Aria’s mind, Kai wasn’t a home-wrecker. Maybe he was the innocent party, a young man who accidentally fell for a woman who happened to be married. But to pursue a married woman without any attempt to cover it up—that was its own contradiction. The first time I heard Kai’s name was in a casual chat with one of my old professors. “We have a new transfer student this year, Kai Miller. Reminds me a lot of you, Leo. That same hunger, that competitive spirit.” I hadn’t thought much of it then. The second time, however, it came from Aria herself. “I was at a board meeting at the Museum today, and I ran into a student working a volunteer gig. Turns out he’s your schoolmate, a few years behind you. What a coincidence.” She’d wrapped her arms around me and swayed. “Honey, he reminded me of the first time I saw you. Middle of a summer heatwave, you were wearing this heavy, ridiculous costume, handing out flyers at the amusement park. You have no idea how much my heart ached for you then.” I smiled and didn’t say anything. I knew. Of course, I knew. A few months into my freshman year, my luck had turned freakishly good. I kept running into “benefactors.” An older student council member got me a highly paid tutoring job. My department head constantly pulled me into paid research projects. The school suddenly created a generous meal subsidy program specifically for low-income students… I wasn’t an idiot. The moment Aria showed up at my dorm with a top-of-the-line Wacom tablet and a new iPad Pro, I knew she had been pulling the strings. In my first year of college, plenty of wealthy girls had tried to throw money at me. The poorer I was, the more desperately I held onto my small amount of dignity and self-respect. Aria’s help and her pursuit were like a slow, steady tide, incredibly respectful. She never put any psychological pressure on me. And, to be honest, I needed a girlfriend to fend off the more obnoxious, entitled rich guys who viewed me as a challenge. So, I didn’t outright reject her. I was mostly conflicted about what to do with the expensive gifts. I had no idea about the etiquette of dating, let alone accepting gifts from a wealthy woman who was actively pursuing me. No one had ever taught me these social rules. My father was an alcoholic. He died in a car crash when I was in middle school, drunk behind the wheel. He drank because he missed my pretty mother, who had run off with a rich man. He used to hit me, especially my face. He’d shout that I was destined to be just like her, a bitch’s destiny, serving the rich… His death gave me a $20,000 settlement. Other than that, it only gave me peace. Aria had seen my confusion. She said, “I don’t just use pretty words to court someone. My friends would laugh me out of the city if I did.” “Leo Sullivan, I like you. If you’re willing to give me a chance to pursue you, please accept these gifts, alright?” How could anyone not fall for Aria, when she was like that? 3 Because Kai Miller reminded her of me, because he was my schoolmate, Aria had immediately arranged for Mr. Preston to set him up with a good-paying flexible job. When she told me about it, she was curled up in my arms, expressing regret that we hadn’t met earlier. “I wish I had been your next-door neighbor,” she mused. “That way, I could have brought you home to my family right after your father died.” She’d giggled, lost in her fantasy. “How could that not be a childhood sweetheart story, right?” I thought that would be the last I heard of the name Kai Miller. But over the next six months, Aria mentioned him constantly, casually. “I can’t believe there are still people as genuine as Kai Miller in 2025. He came to the office today with a huge sack of potatoes, said they were from his family farm, a gift to thank me for the job.” “Kai is just tragic. Can you believe he has three older sisters and a younger one? And despite that struggling family, he still got into Georgetown.” “His parents are trying to force him to go home and marry some local landowner’s daughter. They’re monsters, how could parents be so shortsighted?” “Kai brought me another one of those homemade chicken pies today… I have to admit, the chicken was actually pretty good.” “Kai’s little sister is doing well in school, too. Even if the parents are clueless, at least his sisters love and support him.” Kai Miller, Kai Miller, Kai Miller… For half a year, I watched, clear-eyed, as her heart slowly drifted toward him. I couldn’t stop it. Because Kai was everything I once was, but amplified: more pitiful, more fiercely resilient, more genuine, more broken. He was the perfect new project. As someone who climbed out of the mud, I didn’t have the right, nor the perspective, to look down on someone still struggling through it. So, I began running a mental simulation: What if Aria asks me for a divorce? I spent countless sleepless nights creating fictional scenarios, and I settled on my final strategy. I would not be hysterical. I would not beg for affection. At my core, I was still that poor kid, and I would fiercely protect my dignity. Aria, if that simulation ever comes true, let us separate with grace. We walk our own paths now. From now on, our roads do not cross. 4 The news of our amicable divorce set the entire social circuit on fire. Back when we married, all the local heirs and heiresses couldn’t get enough of us. We were the ultimate ship: the gender-flipped fanfiction of the Brooding Artist and the Heiress Dynamo. My contact list still had a few die-hard Aria-and-Leo shippers, including the biggest one, my old college roommate and best man, Dustin Shaw. Dustin was sending me a frantic series of texts. [Wait? You guys actually did it?] [Did Aria get a terminal illness? Is the Beaumont empire going bankrupt?] [I was going to be the godfather to your children, man!] [Is the rumor true that Aria traded up for the newer, angstier college boy model?] I replied to that last one: [Yeah. It’s true.] The screen showed “Dustin is typing…” for a full ten minutes before he finally sent: [I NO LONGER BELIEVE IN LOVE.] I managed a slight pull at the corner of my mouth. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Maybe there never was any love. Maybe it was only Aria’s Savior Complex. Dustin was still spiraling. He had witnessed every step of my journey with Aria. [My OTP is officially sunk!] [Holy cow! She’s moving fast! She cheated?] Dustin then sent me a screenshot and a link. It was a still image of Kai and Aria running through the rain, their intense eye contact radiating a palpable, cinematic romance. It was gorgeous, moving, and instantly ready for a movie poster. It had been posted by a popular street-style blogger. [The world is a giant rom-com, and this NPC got to witness the leads’ rainy rendezvous.] The comment section was filled with enthusiasm. [I ship it! Take my money!] [Is this a new movie? Where did Hollywood find these two? They’re gorgeous!] [Some people are falling in love in the rain, some are just sitting on the toilet trying to stand up.] … I refreshed the feed, and the video was already gone. The Beaumont machine was fast. Aria was the sole heir, and her information couldn’t be public fodder. This meant the entire family knew the divorce was final. And given Aria’s personality, she would never have been this openly affectionate with another man while married. Right as I thought that, my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Vivienne Choi, Aria’s mother. The phone instantly felt hot in my hand. She was a global figure, the sole daughter of the Choi family, the overseas shipping magnates. Aria’s father was practically the one who married up. I felt a primordial fear rooted in my own low birth. I slid to answer. “Mrs. Choi…” The voice on the other end was clipped and furious. “Leo Sullivan, did you get plastic surgery recently?”

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Five years into our marriage, my husband died of a sudden asthma attack, leaving me and our son alone. Friends said it was a tragedy I was widowed so young. My parents urged me to remarry, to find a father for my son. I refused. I was determined to honor my husband’s memory. But on the third anniversary of his death, I overheard my father-in-law angrily questioning my brother-in-law: “It was your brother who had asthma. It was your brother who died. You faked your death to take care of his wife and child. Was it worth it?” “For three years, Lily has been a widow, raising Leo alone. You gave your niece a home, but did you ever think that from the day you ‘died,’ Leo lost his father, too?” In that moment, my blood ran cold. I realized that the man who died three years ago wasn’t my husband, Mark. It was his twin brother, Matt. My three years of mourning were a joke. That night, I called my parents: “Mom, Dad, I agree to remarry!” Chapter 1 After my husband died of a sudden asthma attack, my in-laws were too guilt-ridden to look me in the eye. They were overly solicitous, terrified I wouldn’t be able to handle widowhood and would remarry, taking their grandson with me and ending their family line. My parents, on the other hand, constantly urged me to remarry. They said I couldn’t be a widow forever and offered to set me up. I was stubborn as a mule. I refused, determined to honor my husband’s memory. I even comforted my in-laws, telling them not to worry. I wouldn’t let my son call another man “Dad.” For three years, no matter how hard or exhausting life was without my husband, I gritted my teeth and persevered. But on the third anniversary of his death, everything changed. I accidentally overheard my father-in-law berating my brother-in-law in the study. “Mark,” he hissed, “your brother was the one with asthma since birth. He’s the one who’s gone. Why did you have to stage your own death and take his identity?” Mark? That was my husband’s name. What did he mean, “stage his own death”? I froze, unable to process what I was hearing. The next second, a man’s voice rang out. “Dad, Lily was pregnant. How could she have handled the shock? As for my wife, Sarah, I gave her a son. She won’t be childless in her old age. That’s enough.” “From that day on, I decided to take my brother’s place and care for his wife. As for the identity of Mark? Let it stay buried.” I couldn’t listen to any more. My limbs went cold, and my head buzzed like it had been pierced by needles. So, the man who died wasn’t my husband. It was his twin brother. And my husband, the man who should have been closest to me, faked his death and abandoned me and our son to raise another woman’s child. Tears finally, uselessly, flooded my eyes. Mark had saved me from a dark place. Even after I was kidnapped and my reputation was ruined, he didn’t reject me. Instead, he knelt on the spot and proposed, swearing to be good to me forever. After we married, he was devoted. He never let me suffer a single grievance. Everyone said the Peterson family had produced a great lover, and I became the envy of every woman in town. That’s why, when he died, I decided to honor him, even remain a widow. But now, thinking back, I felt pitifully stupid. Mark had always been healthy. He’d never even had a cold. How could he have died of asthma? It was all an act. He’d been pretending for three years, all to take care of the “one who got away.” What about me and our son? What were we to him? I desperately covered my mouth to keep from making a sound and fled in disgrace. Chapter 2 Back in my room, my son woke up, rubbing his eyes at the noise. Looking at his small face, so like Mark’s it was as if it had been carved from the same mold, my heart twisted. How could Mark, as a father, bear to let his young son grow up without a dad? Seeing my unconcealed sadness, my son’s face filled with concern. “Mommy, is Daddy pretending not to know you again?” My heart shook. I suddenly remembered that after Mark appeared as his brother, Matt, my son had continued to call him “Daddy.” At the time, I had always stopped him, telling him it wasn’t Daddy, it was Uncle Matt. I thought my son missed his father too much and couldn’t tell his identical twin uncle apart. I never imagined I was so wrong. A child’s eyes are always clear. He had always recognized his own father, but he didn’t understand why, overnight, his father wouldn’t acknowledge him. No wonder. No wonder “Matt” was so good to me and my son. He always bought a gift for my son whenever he bought something. He asked after his well-being, periodically brought meat and vegetables, and secretly gave us money. Yet, he was strict only when my son called him “Daddy,” always quickly interrupting and correcting him. Others said that as an uncle, he was impeccable. Even a biological father could rarely do so much. Before I knew the truth, I had been grateful to this brother-in-law, keeping his kindness in my heart, always thinking I would repay him someday. But now that I knew the truth, it was all so ironic. He was my son’s biological father. Wasn’t it his duty to be good to him? Didn’t he feel guilty doing these things? I couldn’t hide the bitterness rising inside me. I had never felt so clearly that the Mark I knew was dead. He had buried himself with his own hands. I had mourned him for three years. This relationship was over. After calming down, I looked at my son seriously and asked if he would be willing if Mommy remarried and found him a new daddy. “Mommy, I don’t know why Daddy won’t acknowledge me, but since you don’t want him anymore, I don’t want him either. Wherever you go, Leo will go. If Daddy won’t protect you, Leo will!” Sensing my grief, Leo hugged me, his small hand patting my back comfortingly. In that instant, tears burst from my reddened eyes. “Okay!” I hugged my son tightly, then called my parents. The call connected, but before I could say anything, my parents’ usual well-meaning advice washed over me: “Sarah, since Mark died, John has proposed to us dozens of times. You’ve known each other since you were kids, you know everything about him. And he’s a Captain now. Why are you so stubborn? Why won’t you agree to remarry…” I cut them off. “Mom, Dad, I’ve thought it through. I agree to remarry.” There was five seconds of silence on the other end, followed by a wave of wild joy and disbelief. “Really? That’s wonderful! It’s good you’ve thought it through. We’ll contact him immediately and start preparing the wedding! Don’t worry, John has promised us many times. After you marry him, he’ll treat Leo like his own son. As for you, just go and enjoy your life.” Through the phone, I could feel my parents’ excitement. They had worried about me so much these past three years, but because of Mark, I had disappointed them every time. Not anymore. Chapter 3 The next morning, I took my son downstairs for breakfast. At the table, Mark was attentive, serving his sister-in-law and niece, busy as a bee. To anyone watching, they looked like a happy family of three. Before I knew the truth, I had envied the cherished sister-in-law countless times, fantasizing that if Mark hadn’t died, he would have treated me this well, too. But now, watching this scene, I only felt a profound sense of irony. My eyes burned, but I forced myself not to cry. There was no one left to wipe my tears. Mark noticed my pale face from the corner of his eye and actively put a piece of meat in both my bowl and my son’s. “Sister-in-law, eat up. Mark is gone. Even if not for yourself, you have to think of your nephew.” His tone was natural, a normal concern from a brother-in-law, as if the Mark who died wasn’t him. “Uncle Matt, I’ll serve Mommy!” But in the next moment, my son raised his chopsticks, put a piece of meat in my bowl, and responded sensibly to Mark. Hearing this, Mark’s face changed abruptly. He even accidentally knocked over his bowl and chopsticks. Because this was the first time my son had called him “Uncle Matt.” Before, no matter how he corrected him, my son had never called him uncle. He had always called him Daddy. But today, the words “Uncle Matt” were like a thunderclap exploding in his brain. “Leo, you… you used to always mistake Uncle Matt for your daddy. Why did you change today?” He looked at my son, steadying himself before speaking. My son smiled at him. “Uncle Matt, I was little before, so I always mistook you for Daddy. Now I’m older. I know my daddy died three years ago. Don’t worry, I’ll never call you wrong again!” Hearing this, Mark was dumbfounded. He couldn’t say a word in rebuttal. Finally, he could only force a calm laugh. “Is that so? That’s good.” But his eyes kept darting between my son and me, as if trying to capture a clue from our faces. He held his chopsticks for a long time without eating a bite. My son and I didn’t give him a single glance. We just buried our heads and ate our food. This made Mark even more restless. He kept glancing at us, and finally, he tentatively spoke. “Although I’m not Leo’s dad, Leo is no different from my own son. Don’t be so distant in the future. We’re all family.” “If you have any difficulties in the future, just ask me for help. Don’t always carry it alone.” I forced a bitter smile. Was he regretting it because his son no longer called him Daddy? But he was the one who chose to fake his death and abandon his son. I put down my chopsticks and, taking my son who had finished eating, stood up directly. Before leaving, I didn’t thank him for taking care of my son as I used to. Instead, I stared straight into Mark’s astonished eyes and left one sentence. “Big Brother is right. No matter how close we are, you’re not Leo’s biological father after all. We, mother and son, can live our lives well on our own.” Chapter 4 Early the next morning, I went to the department store. I bought the milk candy and pastries my son had wanted to eat for a long time. Finally, I walked to the wedding section and pointed at a beautiful red dress, asking the clerk to take it down for me to try on. Coming out of the fitting room, looking at my reflection that seemed several years younger, I was stunned. The clerk looked at me and praised enthusiastically, “Getting ready for your wedding, right? Red is the most festive! So many people come to me to buy clothes, but you’re the first one to wear this dress so beautifully.” But I silently took off the dress and pointed to another one that was more elegantly colored, asking the clerk to wrap it up for me. Because people who are widowed cannot wear red when they remarry. When I walked out of the department store carrying bags full of things, I ran right into Mark, who was shopping with his sister-in-law. He was stunned when he saw me, then greeted me unnaturally. “Sister-in-law, why are you suddenly out shopping?” Since his fake death, I had stayed indoors, never having the leisure to go shopping. Seeing me buy so many things suddenly surprised him. I didn’t want to get entangled with him, so I made up an excuse to put him off. But when we passed each other, he saw the wedding dress peeking out of my bag. His face suddenly became solemn. When we got married, we also bought our wedding supplies here. Only the dress back then was red. Now, the dress in my bag was a plain color. But why would a widow like me buy a wedding dress? He stood frozen on the spot for so long that his sister-in-law next to him noticed something was wrong.

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My wife and I were the world’s greatest liars. She lied and told me we were going for a routine check-up. In reality, she was harvesting my heart to save the love of her life. I lied and told her I was going to a private sanitarium to clear my head. In reality, I left signed divorce papers on the counter and vanished to die alone. It wasn’t until three years later, at her lover’s birthday gala, that my wife of four years finally remembered we shared the same birthday. Feeling a rare moment of mercy, she ordered the leftover cake to be sent to the facility where she thought I’d been rotting for three years. The nurse on the other end of the line was shocked: “Ms. Thorne, didn’t you know? Mr. Vance’s body rejected the trauma. He died three years ago.” Serena Thorne sneered, convinced I was playing another game. She dialed my number: “Ethan, you better get your ass back here right now. Liam wants to see you.” Beside me, my mother heard my name. Blood tears streamed from her blind eyes: “Are you a friend of Ethan’s? My son has been dead for three years.” 1 “Where is Ethan Vance? Tell him to get out here! Now!” “If he hadn’t agreed to the surgery back then, do you think I’d ever set foot in this godforsaken trailer park?” Serena Thorne, fresh from a board meeting in the city, kicked open the rusted door of my childhood home. My mother, who was carefully wiping dust off a framed photo, turned around. Because we couldn’t afford treatment back then, her eyes had healed into two terrifying, hollow pits. She reached out, her hands trembling as she felt for her white cane. “Is that… is that Serena? Are you back from work?” Serena scanned the room, her gaze colder than the winter wind blowing through the cracks. “Where is he? I don’t have time for hide-and-seek.” Mom froze, her hand hovering over the cane. “You’re not Serena. Who are you? Are you Ethan’s friend? Ethan… he passed away.” Mom’s voice cracked, wet with grief. Serena let out a cruel, sharp laugh. “Did Ethan tell you to say that? Three years of silence, and now he’s playing dead?” “If he doesn’t come out, tell him not to bother showing his face to me ever again!” As you wish, Serena. I really won’t appear again… Mom gripped her cane until her knuckles turned white. “Ethan is gone. He died three years ago…” Serena looked around the room. She spotted the photo Mom had been cleaning. It was a funeral portrait—me at twenty-five, smiling, full of life. “He even photoshopped a funeral portrait to make me feel guilty? I don’t find it sad; I find it disgusting!” “Don’t touch Ethan’s picture! Give it back!” Mom stumbled forward to grab it. Because she couldn’t see, she tripped and fell hard onto the floorboards. I instinctively reached out to break her fall. But my hands passed right through her trembling body. It hit me again. I was dead. I had been dead for three years. Serena kicked Mom’s cane away. She smashed the picture frame onto the floor. My twenty-five-year-old smile shattered into a thousand pieces. “Tell him to come out. Stop wasting my time!” Mom crawled through the glass shards, frantically feeling for my photo. Her hands were cut and bleeding. My heart—or the phantom of it—was being crushed in a vice. I tried to grab her hands, to stop her, but I was nothing but air. After her bodyguards tore the small house apart and found nothing, Serena turned her rage back to my mother. 2 Her designer stiletto ground down on Mom’s hand, pressing it into the broken glass. “Where is he? Did he run off with some other woman? I knew it. He’s unfaithful trash. I never should have married him!” I didn’t cheat! I was already dead! I died three years ago because of your bias and Liam’s cruelty! When I was alive, I couldn’t stop my fate. Now that I’m dead, I could only kneel on the floor, screaming, begging Serena to lift her foot. Just as Mom cried out in pain, the door burst open. My sister, Harper, rushed in, still wearing her security guard uniform. She only had one arm left. She shoved Serena away with a force born of pure fury. “You psycho! You killed my brother, and now you want to kill our mother too?” Serena scoffed, dusting off her coat. “So that’s the script? Ethan told you to lie so he could live happily ever after with his mistress? Newsflash: The doctors said the surgery was safe.” “I sent him to the best sanitarium. I hired the best private nurses. How could he be dead?” Safe? The only one safe was Liam! Less than a month after they took my heart, my body began to fail. The facility rushed me to the ER. While I was lying on a gurney, waiting for the treatment deposit and a family signature, Serena was walking on the beach with Liam. When the doctor called time of death, Serena was draping her jacket over Liam’s shoulders, terrified he might catch a chill. Harper shielded Mom with her single arm. “Ms. Thorne, my brother is dead. If you don’t believe me, go ask the hospital that tried to save him!” Serena looked down at them like they were insects. “You think I’m stupid? The sanitarium director told me everything. Ethan checked himself out with a woman!” No! 3 It was Liam Cross. He bribed the director to frame me. It was such a clumsy lie, yet Serena swallowed it whole. Harper, who used to be so proud, fell to her knees. “Ms. Thorne, Ethan died of post-op infection three years ago. We didn’t have the money for the treatments. We watched him die. Please.” “No money? I gave your family a settlement of ten million dollars. How could you be broke?” “Ethan really will say anything to make me the villain.” “I don’t know what settlement you’re talking about! He’s dead!” Harper screamed. Serena’s eyes went cold. “Beat them. Don’t stop until Ethan comes out.” The bodyguards moved in. Harper curled into a ball, taking the kicks meant for Mom. The sound of boots hitting flesh filled the tiny trailer. Mom waved her hands helplessly, blood tears streaming down her face. “Please stop! He’s my only son! He’s gone!” Serena kicked Mom aside. I screamed, throwing myself at Serena, trying to rip out her black heart. But I was a ghost. I couldn’t touch her. I could only listen to my own desperate wails. “Stop it! Stop it! I’m already dead! Why won’t you let my family go?!” Harper coughed up blood. “Serena! If you want to hurt someone, hurt me! Leave Mom alone!” Serena looked at them with disgust. “If Ethan has the guts to run away with a mistress, he should have the guts to face the consequences. This is on him.” “Did you forget how you lost your arm? Did you forget how your mother went blind? If you don’t want a repeat performance, tell Ethan to get out here and kneel.” Three years ago, to force me into the surgery, Serena used her connections to get Harper fired from the police force. 4 Harper had just received a commendation for bravery. Her future was bright. But Serena framed her for taking bribes and protecting a felon. I knelt in the rain outside Serena’s estate for twenty-four hours before she agreed to let Harper go with just a firing. Mom, who ran a small art studio, was smeared online until she was a social pariah. Our family was buried in debt from the lawsuits. But Harper and Mom didn’t give up on me. They tried to help me run away. To escape Serena. But Liam found out. He tipped off Serena. Serena’s “fixers” chopped off Harper’s arm. Mom was blinded by a shattered mirror while trying to protect Harper. Three years ago, I signed the consent form to save them. Three years later, I still couldn’t protect them. A bodyguard ran in. “Ms. Thorne, Mr. Cross is here.” Serena stopped instantly. The cruelty vanished from her face. “Who told him to come? His immune system is weak. This place is filthy. What if he catches something?” Seeing the tenderness on her face, my soul ached. To her, Liam was porcelain. I was just the packaging. She stole my heart to fix him. She turned a living man into a corpse for him. Serena looked at my dying sister and mother. “Make them talk. Just don’t let Liam see the blood. He gets faint.” I drifted after her as she walked to the waiting limo.

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I was notorious among the Manhattan elite for being a certified nightmare. When it came to my fiancé, Declan Thatcher, I was accustomed to screaming demands and snapping orders. If I was even slightly put out, I could turn the Thatcher penthouse into a five-alarm disaster zone. Until last night. I had a dream. In the dream, I was the villainess in a novel, and because I was so high-maintenance, I finally exhausted Declan’s patience. He tossed me out. The ending was grim: my family, the Ashworths, lost everything, and I was left homeless, fighting stray dogs for a moldy piece of sourdough on the street. The fear woke me up in a cold sweat. My silk pajamas were soaking wet. Clutching my wildly beating heart and staring at the sprawling, several-thousand-square-foot master suite, I made a solemn vow. I had to change. For the sake of my couture wardrobe, my platinum Amex, and, most importantly, for avoiding sour bread. I would become the ideal partner: thoughtful, gentle, and utterly compliant. Even if it was all an act, I’d commit to the role for life. 1 Today was the perfect testing ground. Declan was flying to Europe to finalize a major corporate merger. This was usually peak hour for my dramatics. I cornered him in the walk-in closet as he was fastening his cufflinks. He was wearing a dark gray bespoke suit, his posture impeccable, his expression cool and distant. He didn’t even lift his head when I walked in, just offered a noncommittal grunt. Normally, I would have ripped his tie off and—as I’d once threatened—strangled him with it. But today, I practiced restraint. I took a deep breath and shoved my phone under his nose. The screen displayed a stunning pink diamond necklace, something only seen at a private, high-end auction. “Declan Thatcher, you are to buy this for me during your trip. No excuses.” My tone was still demanding, but my heart was hammering. This was the test. The book said a man who was still willing to spend lavishly had not yet abandoned you. Declan paused his movement. He finally looked up, his eyes devoid of any discernible emotion. “Understood.” That was it? That flimsy? I pouted in dissatisfaction, the urge to lash out a physical ache. I stepped onto my toes, leaned in close to his ear, and let out a petulant huff. “Declan, do you even love me anymore?” The cufflink snapped shut. The next second, he leaned down, his warm lips falling precisely onto the corner of my mouth for a quick peck. “Yes.” “I’ll buy it.” “Be good while I’m gone.” His voice was even, but I was entirely mollified. I released my grip on his tie, bestowed upon him a charitable kiss on the cheek, and released him to his private jet. During Declan’s week-long absence, I stayed true to my Queen of Drama professional code. I sent him dozens of voice notes daily, all about mundane nonsense. “I’m craving the limited-edition black truffle macaroons from La Belle Pâtisserie in the Village. Bring me a dozen when you land.” “My new dress looks awful, and it’s your fault for not being here to give me fashion advice.” “What time is your flight getting in, exactly?” One night, at three in the morning, I couldn’t sleep and suddenly felt an overwhelming need to see the European night sky. I video-called him immediately. It was evening for him, and he answered on the first ring. The background was an ornate conference room filled with a group of sharply dressed foreign executives. Declan raised a hand, signaled a ‘pause’ to the room, and walked with his phone over to a massive floor-to-ceiling window. “What do you want to see?” The European cityscape was muted and brilliant in the lens. The executives in the meeting room exchanged priceless, bewildered glances. I felt zero guilt, only critique. “It’s nothing special. Not nearly as good as the view from our penthouse.” Declan let out a low chuckle. “Agreed. I’ll show you the one at home.” When I hung up, my best friend Sutton’s text immediately popped up. “Stella, you are reaching peak diva status. Declan is an Ice King, the epitome of the untouchable enigma. You’re going to push him away eventually.” I looked at my dazzling reflection in the mirror, tossing my hair with supreme confidence. “Men line up for me from Manhattan to Monaco. Declan Thatcher is lucky I chose him.” Sutton sent a string of ellipses. I ignored her, but a faint flicker of unease crossed my mind. Declan’s love had always felt so restrained, so controlled. He was utterly compliant, but I always felt like something was missing. Lately, a new social climber named Wren had popped up. She constantly tried to mimic my style, bought my exact designer bags, and was constantly maneuvering to get near Declan. I didn’t pay her any mind. I’d seen a thousand of her before. Until someone sent me a photo. At a corporate gala, Wren, wearing a little white dress, had ‘accidentally’ spilled red wine on Declan’s bespoke suit. She was holding a handkerchief, practically plastered to his chest, looking utterly fragile. And Declan didn’t push her away. A hot, sharp fire shot straight to my brain. I immediately drove to Declan’s corporate tower, my heels clicking like machine-gun fire on the marble floor. Bang! I slammed my phone down on his massive executive desk. “Declan Thatcher, I demand an explanation.” He was signing a document and looked up, glancing at the photo. He didn’t even flinch. He picked up his desk phone and immediately dialed his Chief of Staff. “Pull all quarterly collaborations with the Ashworth Group. Effective immediately.” “Also, send a memo: I never want to see that woman at a corporate event again.” The action was swift, cold, and brutal. He hung up and looked at me, his gaze entirely calm. “Are you satisfied?” His ruthlessly efficient response was exactly what I needed. The fury instantly vanished, replaced by smug satisfaction. I blew him a kiss, happily spun around, and grabbed his corporate Black Card to go shopping. I thought the incident was over. But that night, I had another intensely vivid nightmare. In the dream, I was the same high-maintenance wife in a novel called The CEO’s Substitute Sweetheart, and my continuous, unreasonable demands had finally depleted all of Declan’s love and patience. Wren became his “North Star,” the ideal woman, while I faced family ruin and homelessness. During a torrential downpour, soaked and pathetic, I knelt on the pavement, begging him. Dream-Declan stood over me, shielded by a black umbrella, his eyes arctic and unforgiving. He said one thing: “Stella, I’m done with you.” That line pierced my heart, and I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, my pajamas plastered to my skin. The fear of being abandoned was so real it made me physically tremble. Clutching my racing heart, I came to a decision. I absolutely could not let the dream come true. I had to secure my fortune and, more importantly, secure my Declan. I had to change! Stella Ashworth, the certified nightmare, was dead. Long live Stella 2.0: The Stepford Wife. I was going to be a gentle, thoughtful, and kind sweetheart! To implement my new, perfect-partner persona, I began a difficult withdrawal. For three agonizing days, I refrained from sending Declan a single harassing text. My fingers were crawling with the itch, and several times, I opened the chat box, typed out a furious string of “Declan, are you dead? Why aren’t you answering?”—only to delete it, tearfully, character by character. Finally, I replaced it with something new. “Work hard, darling. Don’t forget to take care of yourself. xoxo” I added a sickeningly cute emoji. I gave myself goosebumps just looking at it. On Declan’s end, the chat bubble showed, ‘Declan Thatcher is typing…’ I stared anxiously at the screen. Ten minutes later, he finally replied. A period. “.” My inner response: “…” Hold it together, Stella! This is normal for a high-powered CEO! You cannot lose your cool! I threw the phone to the side and burrowed under the duvet, rolling and thrashing until the urge to smash the device subsided. Finally, the day Declan was due to return arrived. I specifically dug out a soft, white cotton dress from the back of my closet. I even, for the first time in our relationship, decided not to send his driver to the airport, choosing instead to wait patiently at home. At 8 PM, I heard the faint click of the lock. Declan walked in, winded and slightly disheveled, bringing a trace of the chill air with him. I immediately rushed over, beaming what I thought was a sweet, welcoming smile. “Welcome home, darling.” I crouched down, pulled out his house slippers, and carefully positioned them by his feet. Up until now, he had always been the one to fetch my slippers. Declan’s body stiffened visibly. He stared at me with the strangest expression. I stood up, eyes filled with expectation, and glanced meaningfully at the suitcase his assistant was wheeling in, mentally flashing the image of my pink diamond necklace. Declan froze. He avoided my gaze and offered an awkward explanation. “There was a hiccup at the auction. A Middle Eastern oil magnate suddenly jumped in and drove the price up too high. It was snatched.” “I’ve already instructed my team to contact the buyer. We’ll try to acquire it at a premium…” My heart sank instantly. In the past, the nearest decorative throw pillow would already be airborne and aimed at his face. But the terrifying dream flashed in my mind, that chilling phrase: “I’m done with you.” I inhaled deeply. Then again. I forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “N-no big deal.” “It’s just a necklace, truly. If you couldn’t get it, forget it.” “I… I have plenty anyway. I didn’t really want that one anymore.” The air instantly went dead silent. I could hear every intake of breath. Declan was stunned, staring straight at me. Then, his already pale complexion turned instantly chalk-white. The next second, he violently grabbed my wrist, his grip terrifyingly strong, as if he meant to crush the bones. “Why don’t you want it anymore?” His voice was tight, carrying a tremor I had never heard before. “You always said you had to have it.” “Stella, are you looking for an excuse to leave me?” His eyes were filled with panic and a touch of deep paranoia, fixed on me. “Are you trying to draw a line between us?” “Or have you already found someone else?”

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The wrap party was in full swing. Director Harris cornered me. “How about a turn as a romantic lead in the new series—opposite Gemma?” I glanced across the room at Gemma Lennox. The woman famous for her million-dollar smile had gone utterly blank. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I understood the signal instantly. I gave the director a level look. “No, sir. I’m done with the scene. I’m retiring, heading back home to finally get married. I don’t have the energy for another shoot.” Gemma’s expression, which had just started to ease, suddenly curdled. 1 “Oh, please, Rhys the Riff-Raff,” she scoffed, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Who the hell would marry you? You’re the industry’s doormat. Who’d want that?” The moment she said it, all eyes finally landed on me. For the first time, I was the undisputed focus of the entire cast and crew. The associate director rushed to smooth things over, urging Gemma to drink her wine, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard him. Her expression was all mocking amusement as she stared me down. I didn’t take the bait. I kept my voice easy and addressed the director again. “The date’s the seventeenth of next month. If you happen to be free, Mr. Harris, you’re welcome to the wedding.” Seeing I wasn’t joking, the director laughed nervously. “Well, well, I’ll certainly send you a generous check, Rhys. Congratulations.” When he finished, everyone else looked at me, suspicion clearly outweighing any mockery. I was long accustomed to their disbelief, so I didn’t bother to offer an explanation. Until Drew Ashton piped up from beside Gemma. “No invitation, but already shaking the tin for cash, Rhys? Doesn’t sound like a wedding; sounds like a desperate shakedown. Don’t use such a low-rent scheme on your colleagues. How much is the poverty plea this time? A thousand bucks? Two?” Back when I was scraping for rent, before Gemma made it, I had taken any job I could find. I was doing ridiculous little promo hustles online just for the tiny payouts to pay the rent. One of the rare times I felt rich was when a successful actress, feeling generous, tipped me a grand. I told Gemma about it, completely thrilled, and she teased me for being so provincial. She promised that when she hit it big, she’d cut me a check for a hundred thousand dollars so I’d never worry again. Now she’s A-list, dating A-list. And she used that secret—that one thousand dollar number—to let Drew mock me in front of everyone. The disappointment was a cold, solid thing in my stomach. I was done being the “good guy” she liked, the one who protected her and Drew’s perfect façade. “I am short on cash, actually, but two thousand won’t cut it,” I said, looking right at Drew. “Settle the Gemma-Transfer-Fee for a million. Now.” I pulled up my payment QR code, placed my phone on the lazy Susan in the center of the table, and spun it toward Gemma and Drew. Someone who hadn’t been paying attention asked, mystified, “Why is Rhys asking Drew for a transfer fee?” 2 I had blown up the secret of my “underground” five years with Gemma. Her face immediately went dark. She lunged forward in shock, knocking over a crystal wine glass. Red wine instantly bloomed across the white tablecloth, staining the hem of her haute couture gown. The director panicked, waving the servers out and shutting the door. He watched us anxiously—me, Gemma, and Drew. Since Gemma hit it big, she and Drew had been inseparable, publicly and privately, putting on a sickeningly affectionate show for the world. Everyone assumed they were deeply in love, a years-long fairytale romance. No one had ever suspected that I, Rhys Everett—a washed-up character actor with a notoriously bad reputation—was the man who’d been with her through her long years of struggle. The awkward silence lasted ten minutes, until the associate director cleared his throat. That’s what finally made Gemma move. The woman known as the industry’s sweetheart looked at me now with pure, unadulterated revulsion. Her voice was sharp. “I’m worth eighty thousand an hour,” she spat, her tone acidic. “I never billed you for the years I spent slumming it down there. And now you want my man to pay a transfer fee? You are so greedy, Rhys.” Drew, who minutes ago was mocking me, now played the benevolent one. “Look, Rhys, she was under a ton of pressure. It’s normal for her to… experiment a little to blow off steam. She didn’t mean anything by it. Why take it seriously? Fine, fine. You want a million? I’ll wire it to you now.” He went to take out his phone, but Gemma blocked him. Her face frozen in an icy mask, she pulled out her own private phone and wired the million to my account. Her gesture was dramatic and sweeping, nothing like the college girl who couldn’t spare a dollar-fifty for a caramel apple we were walking past. Suddenly, a million didn’t feel like enough. I collected the money and looked at her. “The transfer fee is settled. But what about the five years I spent living in that cramped walk-up with you? I think you need to settle that account, too.” Gemma stared at me for three full seconds, then switched phones and coldly said she would transfer the money. Less than a minute later, the bank notification hit my account. Five million dollars. Seven digits and a five, a blinding number. But her words cut deeper: “Consider this five million your advance for the coffin. Now go die somewhere I don’t have to look at you.” Gemma cursed me. Drew laughed, but then put on a show of chastising her to sound like the better man. She ignored him and addressed everyone else. “The seventeenth of next month,” she announced, a cold smile settling on her face. “Drew and I are celebrating our anniversary. Everyone should come help us celebrate!” The crew members, afraid to cross her, nervously agreed. I just took a deep breath, finished with the performance, and stood up to leave. But just as my hand found the doorknob, Gemma grabbed my arm. Her eyes were malicious. “Since you’re retiring, you can post your official statement before you walk out that door.” 3 Gemma’s team drafted my retirement statement. It was humiliating, painting me as unstable and difficult. As soon as it went live, she hit the like button. When they moved to another venue, Sarah, Gemma’s assistant, secretly rushed out to see me off. “Rhys, I know this looks bad,” Sarah whispered, her eyes full of pity. “But she really loves you. She and Drew are just a fling. You shouldn’t have embarrassed her like that in public.” I didn’t explain. I just looked at the six million dollars in my account and told Sarah to help me terminate the lease on my apartment. Sarah paused, then sighed. “Maybe that’s for the best. You can move into her place tomorrow. Cook her favorite meals; that might be enough to win her back.” Sarah gave me a dozen bits of advice, none of which I registered. I took a cab back to the apartment. Gemma had chosen this place for me. It was sparse, twenty miles from her villa. Aside from my ID and university diploma, everything in it was promotional junk she’d gotten from sponsors. I hated it. I didn’t want to take a single thing with me. As I closed the door for the last time, my phone buzzed. It was Gemma’s social media update. The photo showed her and Drew, fingers laced, cheeks pressed together in a sickening display of affection. When fans asked if they were officially a couple, she answered them definitively: “Like, obvi! I’m Drew Ashton’s woman!” That one line, that was the one that made my eyes burn. I couldn’t stop the memory of our days in the walk-up. The year I started getting a little traction, the company suggested Gemma and I pretend to be a couple for a reality show to boost her profile. I brought it up with her. She’d wrapped her arms around my neck, whispering, “Rhys, you know I hate the high-profile stuff. Let’s just keep our little life a secret, work hard, and make it together, okay?” I believed her. I agreed to keep things quiet. But I realized now that she didn’t hate “high-profile.” She just hated “high-profile with me.” 4 After spending one night in a cheap motel, I booked a flight. My hometown, Blackwood Creek, is buried deep in the Cascade mountains. Even after the plane landed, it was a ten-hour drive, winding through switchbacks and deep valleys just to reach the boundary of our community. When I left at sixteen, those ten hours felt fleeting. Now, returning alone, it felt like I was driving through an entire lifetime. 5 There were no relatives left in Blackwood Creek for me. The old house my grandmother left me was practically a ruin; it took two full days of cleaning just to make it habitable. When word got around that I was back to get married, the villagers were mystified. The older men, the elders who knew me, cornered me when they’d had too much to drink, scolding me. They said I had flown out to be a phoenix, a success, so why was I back to suffer? I smiled, a little bitterly, and didn’t tell them the little phoenix they sent out had been deeply unhappy out there, and that I was back because I was running out of time. They lectured me for three days. When they realized I wasn’t going to return to the city, the village council finally gave up. “Well, alright. Willow’s a good woman. She’ll take care of you.” 6 The “Willow” they spoke of was the woman I’d chosen to marry. Her name is Willow Finch. She came to Blackwood Creek three years ago as a volunteer teacher and has practically run the one-room schoolhouse ever since. The villagers adored her and everyone wanted their sons to marry her. But she didn’t choose any of the local men. Instead, she was the one who messaged me first on a local classified ad I’d posted as a half-serious, half-joke marriage proposition. To be fair, I had asked Gemma about marriage first. She’d snapped, “My body is yours, Rhys, what more of a commitment do you need? Don’t be so damn greedy!” After that, I never mentioned marriage to her again. I quietly added Willow Finch on my private chat app. When she agreed to the terms—to take responsibility for my remains—we set the date. 7 On the seventh day after my return, Willow and I went into the county seat. We hired the best construction crew and signed the contracts to build a proper schoolhouse. I paid the thirty percent deposit using the money Gemma had sent. As we were leaving the contractor’s office, we passed a cafe. I saw a sign: Seven-Layer Carmel Latte, Buy One Get One Half Off. The memory hit me, freezing me in my tracks. Right after paying the rent for the walk-up, we were often left with only enough cash for one cheap coffee. Gemma, being “generous,” would tell me to go buy it, and we’d sit on the curb outside the studio, laughing and sharing the single cup. In the sunset, she’d ask if it was sweet, and I’d nod, asking her if she liked it. “Of course, I do!” she’d said. “When I make it big, I’m going to drink one every single day! You better remember to buy it for me!” I took her casual comment as a promise. Even after she became a star, I kept up the habit, ordering a specific, cheap coffee and having it delivered to her set. At first, she’d accept it and smile. I thought she hadn’t forgotten our past. Then, one day, I returned to her dressing room to retrieve my forgotten phone. I saw her at the trash can. She wasn’t just dumping my latte; she was complaining to Drew: “Even a gourmet coffee gets old if you drink it every day. Besides, Rhys brings me that cheap, eight-dollar-a-cup junk. Doesn’t he know we’re in different leagues now?” From that day on, I stopped buying her things beneath her “league,” and I quit drinking my favorite cheap coffee, too. I must have been lost in that thought, because I didn’t notice Willow had moved. “Rhys, look…” Willow carefully carried two cups. “Your favorite, the half-sweet Seven-Layer Carmel. Buy-one-get-one, so I got you one. Try it.” A woman I had known for only two months could casually state my preference. The woman I loved for five years didn’t even know it. I was so touched I didn’t refuse. Halfway through the drink, I suddenly remembered something. “Wait, Willow. You can’t have high-sugar drinks like this, can you?” Willow shrugged, a soft, easy smile on her face. “But I wanted to share it with you, Rhys. That way you wouldn’t be alone.” She must have caught the surprise on my face because she quickly explained. She even blushed, saying it was part of the “contract spirit”—she’d promised to be there for me. Looking at her nervousness, I was reminded of Gemma, who had promised me a home while we were in that cramped walk-up, swearing she’d never let me be alone again. I believed her every time. And what was the result? The moment she got famous, she forgot the promises, brazenly flirting with more famous men, leaving me alone in my eighty-square-foot apartment, watching the sun rise and set by myself. 8 After we finished half the coffee, Willow said she needed to go to the wholesale warehouse to buy powdered cocoa mix. I asked her why. She explained sheepishly that she had wanted to buy a latte for all the children at the school, but they couldn’t afford a full order. So, she was buying the mix to make a weaker version for everyone to share, so each student could have a little taste. “I want the kids in the mountains to have more experiences,” she said. “That way, when they leave, they won’t be easily moved by cheap gestures or easily hurt by people.” She wasn’t talking about me. But I thought about my own childhood. I never had a teacher who bought me a treat. So, when I left the mountains, I thought a cheap cup of coffee was the pinnacle of luxury. It was enough for me to be moved by Gemma, and enough to give her my entire heart. “Don’t buy the cocoa mix,” I said. “We’ll just buy out the cafe. We’ll treat everyone.” I took out the rest of Gemma’s money and paid the cafe to drive their truck up the mountain and serve fresh lattes to the entire village. 9 Willow told the village broadcaster about the treat, and she had her students gather wildflowers. While the children waited for their drinks, she taught them how to weave massive floral crowns and had them line up to place one on my head. “Rhys, look,” she said. “The little suns of the future, they all love you.” For Gemma’s sake, I had always played the bad guy in the industry. The result was that the crew hated me, and the internet loathed me. When I complained to Gemma about the hate, she would just shrug it off. “Someone has to be the bad guy, Rhys. Besides, why do you need anyone else to like you? Isn’t my love enough?” She said that, but she never understood that I desperately needed the world to like me, too. I needed a lot of warmth and sunlight. Willow must have seen the emotion in my eyes. She broke my silence by gently pushing me toward the children. “Come on, everyone! Put the crown on your new teacher’s husband!” The children laughed. I let go of my dark memories, half-crouching to let them adorn me. It was strange. The flowers were the same ones I’d seen my entire life, but I never noticed their fragrance. Today, my crown smelled better than any designer cologne. I looked at Willow. The sun framed her slightly pale face in a golden halo. I knew, with absolute certainty, that marrying her was the best decision I had ever made. 10 In the following days, Willow and I supervised the construction crew building the new schoolhouse and finalized our wedding arrangements. In the mountains, you don’t need the complexity of a city wedding, but a proper feast is non-negotiable. I planned to use the rest of Gemma’s money to cater the meal, but Willow stopped me. She took out three years of her savings and gave them to the village elder, instructing him to prepare long tables for a feast that would invite everyone in the community. The elder praised her commitment, and the neighborhood women constantly told me how perfect she was for me. But whenever anyone complimented her, she always corrected them. “Rhys is the truly good one,” she’d insist. “Better than I could ever be.” She was always praising me instinctively. Gemma never did that. The contrast made me realize how little I had valued myself before. The wedding was on the seventeenth. It was loud and joyful. The feast lasted from noon to evening. While Willow was busy hosting the elders, I sat beneath a large pine and pulled out my phone. I hadn’t logged into my social media since returning to Blackwood Creek. I thought no one would remember me. But my messages were over ninety-nine. Almost all were from Sarah, the assistant, still urging me to apologize to Gemma. I didn’t want to reply, and was about to turn the phone off when Gemma called. It was loud on her end, a cacophony of music and voices, but her voice cut through the noise. “Rhys, are you still not done with your stunt?”

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My diver husband sent a distress signal from deep underwater, but as the equipment manager, I just pulled the blanket over my head and went back to sleep. In my past life, he broke protocol and took his “first love” diving late at night, just to see the “starry sky” of the ocean floor. The moment their equipment malfunctioned, I dove in to save them without hesitation. Who knew he would let her lock me in a shark cage at the bottom of the ocean? When I finally managed to surface, gasping for air, he was waiting with a squad of police officers, accusing me of sabotage. “I knew you were up to no good sneaking out here in the middle of the night, intentionally damaging the gear! Thank god we caught it in time!” Facing the media cameras, his “first love,” Bella, cried until her eyes were red. “Is my sister really willing to tamper with the oxygen tanks just because she’s jealous of my relationship with Mark?” I saved him and his beloved Bella, yet they framed me, unleashed an internet mob against me, and I ended up taking my own life in prison. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day they planned their secret dive. Mark’s familiar voice rang in my ear. “Babe, you worked so hard staying up late. Once this busy period is over, I’m taking you to Bali.” The memories of my past life flashed before my eyes, and my body involuntarily shuddered. Seeing that I didn’t respond, Mark asked with concern over the phone: “What’s wrong? If you’re sleepy, just take a nap. No one comes into the base at this hour anyway.” I sneered, watching two sneaky figures in the distance. In my last life, I thought he truly cared about me. Instead, he pinned a charge of negligence on me. But it was midnight right now. In my past life, the media arrived the moment the incident happened. How could they have predicted an accident? Unless… Mark had planned it all along? Thinking of what was about to happen, I tried to calm myself and said: “Alright, honey. You get some rest early too.” Hanging up, I put in earplugs, pulled on an eye mask, and buried myself under the covers in the break room. In my past life, my husband took advantage of the empty base tonight to sneak Bella underwater to see the bioluminescent plankton—the “starry sky.” Night diving is extremely risky, and with no lifeguards on duty, it’s strictly forbidden. But just because Bella said she “wanted to see the stars under the sea,” Mark was willing to risk his life to make her wish come true. Not long after they went under, their gear malfunctioned. I dove in to save them without a second thought. Yet, after they were safe, they locked me in the shark observation cage at the bottom. No matter how I begged, they swam toward the surface without looking back. The oxygen in my tank wasn’t enough to last until dawn. In my panic, I found the spare key to the cage hidden in my wetsuit pocket—a stroke of pure luck that let me escape death. Once I surfaced, I rushed to the changing room, planning to confront Mark. But as soon as I changed, he surrounded me with police officers. He glared at me with hatred, as if I weren’t his wife but his mortal enemy. “Luna, how could you be so cruel? I’m your husband! You tampered with the diving equipment trying to kill me and Bella!” “How did I end up marrying a venomous woman like you?” Shocked and angry at his baseless accusations, I desperately denied everything to the police. But then, he produced a security video showing me cutting the oxygen tube on a diving suit. Experts verified the video wasn’t edited; it was real. Bella appeared with a swarm of reporters right on cue. She held up medical reports of injuries and a video of me slapping her, crying her heart out on a live stream, accusing me. She claimed that because I was jealous of her growing up with Mark, I used my position to bully her. She said I often beat her when no one was around. Blinded by rage, I charged at Bella, screaming: “Bella, what nonsense are you spouting? You framed me repeatedly, provoked me on purpose! I only slapped you because I couldn’t take it anymore!” “You need to tell the truth right now, or I won’t let you off!” Bella screamed in feigned terror, acting like a traumatized victim. That sealed it. Everyone believed she was the innocent victim. And I became the petty, malicious abuser. Just like that, I became a pariah. Convicted of attempted murder and assault, I was sentenced to fifteen years. Later, the story somehow reached the prison, and I became the target of beatings and abuse from other inmates. The inhumane life slowly drained my will to appeal. I gradually realized that everything I suffered was a trap set by Mark and Bella long ago. In the end, consumed by despair, I took my own life. Just like in my past life, Mark and Bella ran into trouble less than ten minutes after diving. Chapter 1 The piercing alarm woke up the others at the base. I chose not to dive in to save them, but Mark and Bella were rescued anyway. Compared to my past life, however, they suffered much more this time. When I followed the crowd to the shore, they were collapsed on the sand, gasping for air. Bella’s face was pale as a sheet, her eyes red from nearly drowning. Mark, seeing me standing in the crowd watching the show, immediately stormed over from the beach, pointing a finger in my face and roaring: “Luna, weren’t you on duty tonight? Why didn’t you come to save us immediately?” I glanced at him indifferently and gave a half-hearted explanation: “Sorry, I put in earplugs before sleeping, so I didn’t hear the alarm.” He ignored my explanation, grabbing my wrist and throwing me heavily to the ground. “I think you did it on purpose! Don’t think I don’t know, you planned all of this tonight!” Then, he turned to the others at the base, pointing at me viciously: “As the equipment manager, she intentionally damaged our diving gear, which is why we had an accident ten minutes after going under!” “And she deliberately refused to help, wanting Bella and me to drown!” Everyone looked shocked. Some colleagues who were usually on good terms with me spoke up: “Mark, Luna isn’t that kind of person. There must be a misunderstanding.” “Yeah, Mark, you and Luna have always had a good relationship. She has no reason to do this!” Of course, there were doubts too: “Mark is our base’s most experienced diver. If it wasn’t an equipment issue, how could he suddenly have an accident?” “Exactly, Mark has ten years of diving experience and zero errors on his record.” Whispers spread through the crowd. My gaze remained fixed on Mark’s face. I didn’t miss the calculation and triumph hidden beneath his anger. “Setting aside the fact that deliberately damaging diving equipment is a serious crime that would land me in prison,” I said calmly. “You are my husband. I would only want you safe. What benefit do I get if you die? I didn’t buy any life insurance for you!” As I finished speaking, more people started to side with me. Mark’s face darkened, his eyes full of malice. At this moment, Bella, having recovered from her near-death fear, was helped into the center of the crowd. She looked at me hesitantly before speaking: “Luna, we’ve known each other for so many years, and I considered us friends. I shouldn’t be saying this in front of everyone.” “But I never expected you’d try to kill us? Mark is your husband!” “He treats you so well. How could you be so cruel just because you’re jealous of our friendship?” “I will definitely press charges against you!” Mark immediately stood by her side to show his loyalty: “Luna was on duty tonight but neglected her post, almost causing a fatality. I don’t see how she can stay in this industry!” With that, he took out his phone to call the police. “911? I want to report an attempted murder!” Chapter 2 Seeing Mark call the police, the crowd stirred again. “This isn’t the first time Luna has done something like this. This toxic woman should be locked up!” Bella glanced at me, feigning distress but not holding back her words: “Mark and I have been neighbors forever, so we grew up close. His parents are like my godparents.” “You all know Luna has a strong personality, so my godparents don’t like her; they prefer me.” “Because of this, Luna often picks on me. I’ve explained many times that I only see Mark as a brother, but she won’t believe me. Sometimes she even hits me.” “I endured it because I didn’t want to make things hard for Mark, but I didn’t expect Luna to go this far.” Hearing this, the colleagues who had stood by me stepped back. Their eyes filled with the same disdain and anger as in my past life. It felt like history repeating itself. “Luna looks so nice usually. I didn’t know she was like this behind closed doors.” “I never liked her. She’s just arrogant because her family has money! Let’s see how she gets out of this.” “Sigh! You really can’t judge a book by its cover.” Seeing everyone believe them so quickly, Mark and Bella exchanged a secret glance of triumph. I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. The pain kept me lucid, preventing me from drowning in the trauma of the past. Calming myself, I stared straight at the smug pair. “Every dive at the base requires registration and approval. There’s a clear rule: no night diving without special circumstances, and even then, at least two divers must accompany you.” “Mark, why isn’t your name in the logbook?” The crowd, previously busy blaming me, suddenly realized the truth. Mark had violated regulations by diving at night, which nearly caused a major accident. Even if the police came, he wouldn’t look good for breaking the rules. The smug look on Mark’s face twisted for a second. But soon, he smiled faintly. “Bella is the daughter of a shareholder. If she wants to dive, she naturally got approval directly from the owner.” “Stop changing the subject. If I hadn’t reacted quickly today, two people would be dead!” Suddenly, someone shouted: “The police are here!” Following them was a swarm of media and the base owner. Chapter 3 Several uniformed officers and a large group of reporters with microphones and cameras appeared at the base entrance simultaneously. Even though I was mentally prepared, the trauma of the past life’s cyberbullying was deep. Seeing the cameras, my body instinctively trembled. Bella saw this, and her smugness grew. While no one was looking, she whispered in my ear: “Luna, if I were you, I’d confess. Maybe they’ll go easy on you.” I sneered. Did they really think a few videos were enough to convict me? Seeing my silence, Mark pushed me toward the police, acting righteous: “Officers, this woman attempted murder! Arrest her immediately!” Dozens of cameras pointed at my face, but I was calm. “What proof do you have that I damaged the suits? Did you see me do it?” As if expecting this, Mark confidently pulled out his phone and played a surveillance video. In the video, I was holding a small knife, vigorously cutting the oxygen tube of a diving suit. When the video played, the crowd’s shock turned to disgust and anger. Mark, seeing their reaction, couldn’t hide his glee: “Luna, we’re married. I didn’t want it to come to this, but you’ve gone too far!” “If I don’t teach you a lesson now, next time you might actually kill me!” Mark marched up to the owner, pointing at me accusingly. “This woman abused her power for a personal vendetta, publicly damaging equipment and nearly causing a disaster. As an employee, I am ashamed of her!” Mark spoke with confidence in front of the police, completely missing the owner’s darkening face. Especially the young woman behind the owner, who was glaring at him. I smiled, not rushing to stop Mark’s tirade. He didn’t know that this morning, the owner had asked me to mentor his daughter, Chloe, who was interning at the base. The first task I gave her was to organize and inspect the diving gear. So, the only person in the equipment room during the day was the owner’s daughter, Chloe. Mark thought the owner looked mad because of me. He looked at me triumphantly. “Luna, the evidence is here. What else do you have to say?” I chuckled, clapping slowly as I stepped forward. “Officer, I want to report Mark for fabricating evidence and framing me. I have a witness!” Chapter 4 My words were loud and clear, shocking everyone again. Reporters, sensing a scoop, turned their cameras to me. Mark looked surprised, his face alternating between green and white, chest heaving. “Luna, I’ve shown irrefutable evidence, and you still dare claim you’re framed?” “What? Are you saying the person in the video isn’t you, but an imposter?” “Or are you questioning the authenticity of my video! And a witness? Who? Yourself?” “Officer, since she refuses to confess, I’m willing to hand over this video for forensic analysis. I just want justice!” Mark sounded so sure. As the officer took the phone, he patted Mark’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We won’t wrong a good person, nor let a bad one go.” But the next second, the base owner rushed out and punched Mark in the face. “I am the witness!” “Luna didn’t damage the suits. You ungrateful brat, how dare you spread lies here!” In my past life, the suddenness of the event and the betrayal by my beloved husband left me unable to defend myself calmly. That’s why I was passive. Since my rebirth, I’ve been analyzing every detail, looking for flaws in Mark and Bella’s story. Mark was stunned, holding his face, unable to speak. He had no idea what was happening. But I wasn’t kind enough to explain. Seeing the owner’s face darken further, Mark finally squeezed out: “Boss, don’t be fooled by this woman. She’s a murderer!” I sneered. “Who’s the vicious one here?” “For your own selfish gain, you came up with such a sinister plan to frame me!” “Enough! Stop arguing!” The police shouted. “The truth isn’t determined by your shouting.” “We will investigate thoroughly. If you have more evidence, submit it. Otherwise, shut up!” Mark shut his mouth unwillingly, his face still ugly. Everyone involved was taken to the station, with reporters following the police cars. On the way, I looked at Mark’s angry face, recalling our five years of marriage. Before Bella returned from abroad, we were happy. We commuted together, cooked together. We dreamed of the future, planning to travel the world after retirement. But once Bella appeared, his heart left our home. He started staying out late. Whenever Bella and I had a conflict, he blindly sided with her. I thought if I treated him well, he would wake up and return to me. Instead, they sent me to hell. Mark glared at me viciously, then walked over to Bella. Bella must have told him what I whispered to her. Mark looked even gloomier. He glanced at me several times, each look sending chills down my spine. I don’t know how he comforted Bella. Minutes later, Bella stepped forward, shouting to the police and reporters: “Officer, I want to sue Luna for assault.”

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