Category: English

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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To teach me independence, my parents made me pay for everything with hard labor. If I wanted a glass of water, I had to clean the toilet. If I wanted a decent meal, I had to wash the entire family’s laundry. Usually, I managed to scrape by. But on my sixth birthday, I ran a burning fever and physically couldn’t drag myself out of bed. Dizzy with hunger and shivering under the sheets, I cried and begged them. “Mom, Dad, please… I feel so sick. Can I just have a glass of water?” My mother, Helen, shook her head with a cold, firm expression. “No way. Rules are rules, Chloe. Don’t think you can use a little cold as an excuse to be lazy!” My father, Arthur, went even further. He dragged me out of bed by my collar and threw me out into the backyard, right into the freezing snow. He said it was to “build my character.” Before I lost consciousness, I could hear their muffled voices drifting from the warm living room. “Tomorrow is Lily Rose’s sixth birthday. Let’s get her that latest giant Barbie Dreamhouse set and the remote-control power wheel, okay?” “Let’s also load a ten-thousand-dollar cash card for her. That sweet little girl always smiles when she sees us. She’s so much more well-behaved than our Chloe!” Hearing this, a single tear froze on my cheek. So, it was only me. Only their biological daughter had to pay a price for every basic human need. But Mom, Dad… I won’t have another birthday.

In the snow, the warmth was rapidly draining from my body. Just when I thought I would freeze to death, a pair of rough hands dragged me back into the mansion. “What a nuisance!” I opened my eyes to see the disgusted face of Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper. She wasn’t saving me out of pity. She was just terrified that a dead body at the front door would bring bad luck and ruin her job. When I woke up again, I was in my tiny, drafty room. “Since you’re awake, stop playing dead.” My father’s cold, detached voice came from the doorway. He sat in a chair nearby, tore a page from his thick black leather ledger, and tossed it onto my face. “Mrs. Gable dragged you in and stained the entryway rug. Your punishment is to hand-wash every carpet in this house.” “Also, the down jacket you were wearing got soaked in the snow. That’s another three days of washing everyone’s laundry by hand.” Arthur pushed up his glasses, his eyes chillingly sharp. “And since you did zero work yesterday, your mother and I weren’t going to let you eat today.” “But considering you need strength to work off your debt, you are permitted to have two slices of plain, dry bread today. However, you will owe me for those slices later!” His calculating gaze held not a single ounce of warmth or pity for his daughter. I struggled to sit up, wanting to say something. But the moment I opened my mouth to breathe, a warm, metallic taste rushed up my throat. I coughed violently, splattering bright red blood all over the floor. It was a horrific sight. Just then, my mother came downstairs. She was holding a stunning, custom-made pink princess dress—obviously the birthday gift for Lily Rose from next door. Seeing the blood on the floor, she frowned in disgust and immediately took two steps back. “Ugh! How repulsive! Coughing up blood first thing in the morning? If you’re going to die, can you do it outside? Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean marble floors?” She turned to Arthur. “Arthur, I don’t think she’s learning her lesson at all. Add another month of living room deep-cleaning to her ledger!” Arthur nodded coldly and scribbled another line in his thick black book. “Go eat after you clean this up,” he said flatly. My heart squeezed in agonizing pain. I didn’t understand. Why did “character building” have to be this extreme, this cruel? I wanted to be like Lily. I wanted to receive beautiful gifts and feel loved. But I had to swallow those words. Every time I had tried to express my feelings in the past, it only resulted in harsher punishments. I silently wiped the blood from my lips with the back of my hand. “I understand… I’ll clean it.” “You talk a big game! With what strength?” Helen sneered. “With that fragile, pathetic body of yours? If you ask me, you’re just physically weak because you don’t work enough. From now on, you’ll have to do double the labor to earn your meals!” I remained silent for a long time. Finally, I whispered in a raspy, broken voice. “I understand.” “I will scrub the floors. I will finish all the chores.” I leaned against the wall, trembling as I stood up. I had to clear my debt to them before I died. That way, I could leave this world clean.

Over the next few days, I worked like a wound-up toy. The moment I opened my eyes, I was cleaning. Meanwhile, my fever kept roaring back. My body was breaking down. Every violent coughing fit ended with blood in my spit. But I never dared let them see. I was terrified they would call me “dramatic” and double my chores again. So I worked through the pain. Even when my hands cracked and bled from the freezing water, I didn’t dare stop. Finally, on a quiet afternoon. I used the excuse of taking out the trash to slip away. Clutching the $120 I had secretly saved over the years by collecting and recycling plastic bottles, I walked to the nearest hospital. That money was supposed to buy me a tiny birthday cupcake one day. I didn’t need a cupcake anymore. The doctor stared at my test results, his brows knitted tightly. He looked at me, hesitating. “Sweetheart, where are your parents?” “They are… very busy.” I tried to calm my racing heart and forced a small smile. “Doctor, you can just tell me. How much time do I have left?” The doctor froze. But I wasn’t surprised. I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness a month ago during a school screening. But no one at home ever listened to me. They didn’t care if I was sick or healthy. “Child, if we admit you for treatment right now, there might still be a sliver of hope…” the doctor said, his voice trembling slightly. I shook my head and cut him off. “Just tell me the final timeline, please.” The doctor choked up. After a long pause, he sighed deeply. “One month. At most.” “Your bone marrow has stopped producing healthy blood cells. On top of that, you are severely malnourished. Some of your organs are failing before they’ve even fully developed.” I sat there, dazed. “One month…” I let out a bitter, silent laugh, looking down at my scarred, calloused hands. One month. That was enough. It was enough time to pay back everything I owed them. “I won’t be doing the treatment.” I placed the stack of crumpled dollar bills on his desk. “Sir, is this enough to buy pain medication? I just want it to hurt less when I go.” The doctor fell silent again. I saw his eyes turn red. Eventually, he turned his back to me, his shoulders shaking slightly. He only took $5 for the consultation fee but handed me a large bottle of strong pain relievers. I felt a sudden swell of happiness. So, I didn’t have to work myself to death to receive a little bit of kindness. When I got home, the mansion was incredibly lively. Today was Lily Rose’s birthday party. My parents had transformed the house into a pink wonderland. Balloons and fresh roses were everywhere. The price of a single rose bouquet could have fed me for a month. Lily sat in the center of the sofa like a real princess, wearing that designer dress worth tens of thousands of dollars. Helen was gently guiding her hand to cut the cake, her face glowing with maternal love. “Our Lily is so beautiful. Come on, make a wish, sweetie!” Arthur stood nearby, recording the whole thing with a high-end camera. The adoration in their eyes was something I had never seen in my entire life. Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain flared in my stomach. It was so intense that I doubled over. Struggling to stay upright, I slowly dragged my feet into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. “What are you doing? Sneaking around like a thief!” Helen’s sharp voice suddenly pierced the air.

Helen set her plate down and glared at me, her brow furrowed in irritation. “I… wanted some water.” My lips were pale from the pain, and my voice shook. But Arthur walked over, pointing his camera directly at my face. “Chloe, we have rules. Everything you consume in this house must be earned through labor.” “Who gave you permission to just take water?” His camera was his favorite tool of humiliation. He loved recording my most pathetic, shameful moments so he could play them back later to “remind me to obey.” Helen leaned back on the sofa, her voice dripping with cold indifference. “We strictly discipline you because we want you to be independent. We want you to understand that only hard work gets you fed.” “But since you love taking shortcuts so much, fine. Warm water is ten dollars a cup. Cold water is five.” She held out her hand, staring into my eyes. “Pay up, and you can drink as much as you want!” There was absolutely no warmth in her voice. Lily sat nearby, eating her cake, her face covered in frosting. “Chloe, don’t you have any money? You’re so pathetic. Imagine having to pay for water in your own house…” she giggled innocently. My parents laughed along, completely unbothered. At this point, I couldn’t even feel the pain in my heart anymore. It was numb. With trembling hands, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my remaining cash. “Fine. I’ll buy it.” I counted the bills and placed them in Helen’s palm. “I want a cup of warm water.” Helen froze, clearly not expecting me to actually have cash. But she quickly pocketed the money. “Hmph, let’s see how much money you have left to waste!” She turned back to resume Lily’s birthday celebration. I huddled in the dark corner of the kitchen, swallowing the pain pills with my expensive cup of warm water. The medicine took a long time to kick in. It wasn’t until midnight that the pain subsided slightly. Under the moonlight, I pulled out a small notebook. It was a diary of all my labor and punishments. I wrote down the very last entry. Then, I slipped my crumpled terminal diagnosis sheet into the very first page of the notebook. I spent the rest of the night scrubbing every single floorboard in the mansion. I cleaned every corner until it was spotless. I washed all the dirty laundry and hung it up on the balcony. By the time I finished everything, it was 4:00 AM. I was breathing heavily, but I didn’t dare rest. I threw my worn-out backpack over my shoulders. Inside, there was only the bottle of pain medication. I turned around. I took one last look at this house where I had lived for six years—a place that had not given me a single happy memory. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Dad. I have paid back every debt I owed you in this lifetime. If there is a next life, I would rather be a blade of grass by the road than your daughter. I pushed open the heavy front door and walked out into the endless, freezing night.

The next morning. Helen stretched as she walked downstairs. Out of habit, she yelled, “Chloe! Where’s breakfast? Are you slacking off again?” No one answered. Only her own echo bounced off the walls of the empty mansion. Helen’s face darkened. Impatiently, she marched to my tiny room and kicked the door open. “Chloe, stop faking sick! Get up right—” Her voice cut off. The room was completely empty. The bed was made perfectly, the sheets folded neatly. But the backpack that usually sat by the bed was gone. “Arthur! Arthur, come down here!” “Chloe is gone!” An icy pit opened in Helen’s stomach. She began to panic. Arthur walked out of the upstairs bathroom, frowning. “Don’t scream. Go check the backyard. She’s probably sweeping the garden.” “No! All of her things are gone!” Helen’s voice pitched higher, trembling. Arthur’s expression shifted. He sprinted down the stairs. He burst into my room, his eyes instantly locking onto the black notebook sitting on the desk. “Is this… a ledger?” He frowned, flipping through the pages. Suddenly, a thin piece of paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Helen instinctively reached out and caught it. The moment she read the words printed at the top, the color drained from her face. “A terminal diagnosis?” Arthur snatched the paper, his eyes scanning the page. “Late-stage Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia… with multiple organ failure…” “Patient: Chloe Miller?!” Arthur’s mind went completely blank. He clutched the diagnosis paper, reading the name over and over to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “This diagnosis was from a month ago? Why didn’t she ever tell us?” Arthur was shaking violently. Suddenly, all of his daughter’s “weird” behaviors over the past month rushed back into his mind. He remembered how he had thrown her out into the snow just two days ago, letting her freeze for an hour. He remembered how he had doubled her chores… Helen collapsed onto the floor, desperately flipping through the notebook. “No wonder she kept saying she was in pain… I thought… I thought she was just being dramatic!” Her heart squeezed in suffocating guilt. Then, she saw the note written on the cover page: “Mom, Dad,” “I have finished every single chore I owed you.” “I left all my remaining money on the desk. Consider it the final interest on my existence.” “The doctor said I’m going to die soon.” “You always complained about how expensive it was to raise me. But don’t worry. Once I’m dead, you’ll save so much money.” “You can use that money to buy Lily more beautiful dresses.” “Yesterday, I wanted water. Mom said it cost ten dollars, so I paid for it.” “That was my very last purchase in this house.” “I don’t owe you anything anymore.” “In our next life, please… let’s never meet again.” Every single word felt like a bloody knife stabbing directly into Arthur and Helen’s chests. “Yesterday… when she asked for water… was she in pain?” Helen’s face was ghostly white. Her brain felt completely paralyzed. Her own daughter had a terminal illness. She had been diagnosed a month ago. And during this entire month… Neither of them had noticed a single thing? “What… what did we do?” Helen wailed, clutching the ledger to her chest as her tears finally spilled over. Arthur bit his lip so hard it bled. Looking at his daughter’s final, heartbreaking words, a wave of regret and pure terror completely swallowed him. She was really gone. “No… No!” “We have to find her! Now!” Arthur let out a guttural, agonizing scream. He ran out of the front door like a madman, losing one of his shoes in the process, not caring at all.

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The day I got my college acceptance letter, I didn’t get a hug from Eleanor. Instead, a heavy, dusty wooden box slammed shut right by my feet. The box was old and locked. It was “Nesta’s Box,” the one thing she had never allowed me to touch. “Open it,” Eleanor said, her voice dripping with ice. My hands shook as I unlocked it. Inside, there were no childhood photos, no nostalgic letters. There were only two thick stacks of hand-cut paper slips. One stack was a dingy yellow with rough edges. Written on them in blue ballpoint pen were things like: [Shivering in the freezing rain], [Eating rancid leftovers], [Sick with no medicine]. The other stack was pale pink, beautifully printed. They read: [A warm classroom], [A fresh hot meal], [A clean, cozy bed]. Eleanor told me that from now on, my life would be dictated by whatever I drew from this box. Before I could even process what was happening, Eleanor snatched the box away. She dumped both stacks of slips onto the table, shuffling them together like a deck of cards. Her eyes were bloodshot. She stared at me with a wild, crazed hatred I had never seen before. “Clara, you’ve always wondered where your sister is, haven’t you?” She grabbed one of the yellow slips and slapped it in front of my face. “Let me tell you. She is probably living through every single nightmare on these papers right now! And you? You get to enjoy all of this!” She scooped up a handful of the pink slips and threw them directly at my face. “It was you! You stole her life! Now you have to pay it back!” Eleanor’s voice shrieked, piercing my eardrums. “From this day on, for every bit of comfort you enjoy, you will suffer a nightmare for Nesta! That is the only way to make it fair!” She violently shoved the mixed slips back into the wooden box, leaving only a tiny gap big enough for two fingers. “Draw! Three slips every single day! Whatever you draw, you do! You owe her this! You deserve it!” I stood there, completely frozen. My blood ran cold. Was this raving lunatic really my mother? The same woman who used to tuck my cold hands into her jacket? The woman who used to tear up whenever I said, “I love you, Mom”? “Draw!” Eleanor screamed, her glare sharp as a knife. I closed my eyes, slid my hand into the freezing box, and felt the rough edges of the paper. I pulled out three slips. The first was pink: [A warm bed]. Eleanor let out a cold laugh. “That’s the comfort you enjoyed last night.” The second was yellow: [Frostbitten fingers]. The third was yellow: [Ice water poured over your head]. Eleanor snatched the two yellow slips from my hand. A cruel, satisfied smile spread across her face. “It’s 37 degrees outside today. Perfect weather. You enjoyed the warmth. Now, pay the debt.” She grabbed my wrist and dragged me out to the fire escape. Then, she went into the kitchen, filled a massive bucket with ice-cold water, and dumped it over my head without a second thought. The freezing water instantly soaked through my sweater. My body convulsed, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. Before I could even gasp for air, Eleanor grabbed my dripping wet hands and forced them onto the freezing iron railing of the fire escape. “You drew frostbitten fingers, didn’t you? Feel it! This is nothing compared to what Nesta went through!” She pinned my hands down, ignoring my frantic struggles, until the sharp sting in my fingertips turned entirely numb. After that day, my life became a twisted, cruel ritual of penance. Every morning, the first thing I did was reach into that cursed wooden box with trembling hands. If I drew [A fresh hot meal], I had to go to the dirty dumpster behind the school dining hall and stand there for ten minutes, breathing in the stench of rotting garbage, before I was “allowed” to eat. If I drew [A bright classroom], I had to take a freezing cold shower in the dark communal bathroom at night. If I drew [A friend’s greeting], I had to be hostile to everyone I met that day, pushing away anyone who tried to show me kindness. To everyone else at college, my life looked perfectly normal. But inside, I was rotting away. I became a ghost wandering around campus. I didn’t dare make friends. I didn’t dare accept any kindness. Because I never knew what kind of torture slip I would draw the next day to pay for it. A month later, the first major winter storm hit the city. I caught a terrible flu. My fever was so high that my forehead felt like it was on fire. My roommates were terrified and tried to pull me out of bed to go to the clinic. “Don’t… don’t touch me…”

I shrank back, too weak to fight. My fear was far greater than my sickness. I hadn’t drawn today’s slips yet. If I went to the clinic and then drew a punishment that required me to go outside, I wouldn’t have the strength to do it. I dragged myself out of bed and fell to my knees in front of the box. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold the paper slips. I took a deep breath and drew three. The first was pink: [Medicine when sick]. That was the cold medicine my roommate had given me this morning. The second was yellow: [No doctors when sick]. The third was yellow: [Kneel in the snow]. Outside the window, light snow was already beginning to fall. My heart sank to my stomach. Eleanor’s rule was absolute: the daily “debt” had to be paid before midnight. I pulled on my thickest puffer jacket and stumbled out of the warm dorm building. The icy wind cut through my face like tiny blades. The snowflakes melted on my burning skin, sending violent shudders down my spine. I walked to the deserted woods behind the dorms, found a snowy corner, and painfully sank to my knees. The biting cold instantly traveled from my knees through my entire body. The fever made my head spin, and I nearly blacked out right then and there. I bit my lip hard, using every ounce of willpower to stay upright. Time crawled. Every second felt like an eternity. I don’t know how long passed, but just as my vision started to blur, a warm coat was suddenly draped over my shoulders. I snapped my head up. Through my blurry eyes, I saw Chloe, my roommate. Her face was pale with worry and anger. “Clara! Are you insane?! You have a massive fever and you’re kneeling in the snow! You’re going to kill yourself!” She tried to pull me up. “Leave me alone… please…” I struggled weakly, my tears mixing with the melting snow. “I owe this… I have to pay it back…” “Who do you owe? What the hell are you doing?!” Chloe was furious and crying at the same time. “What kind of mother does this to her daughter? I’m taking you back, and then I am calling your mother!” Calling Eleanor? My entire body went rigid. A chill colder than the snow shot straight down my spine. According to the rules, accepting Chloe’s help counted as [Being cared for while sick]—a new comfort. But the punishment slip [Kneel in the snow] had been interrupted. I hadn’t finished it. According to Eleanor’s twisted logic, enjoying a comfort without paying the debt was a mortal sin. I could already see Eleanor’s cold, mocking face, hearing her announce an even worse punishment. What if there was something far worse than kneeling in the snow waiting for me in that box? Chloe forced me to my feet. I couldn’t feel my legs at all. The moment she dialed the phone, I closed my eyes in utter despair. Eleanor’s ringtone seemed to echo right in my ears, pounding against my frayed nerves. In the end, Eleanor didn’t pick up. She declined the call. But I knew this was just the suffocating quiet before the storm. Sure enough, less than ten minutes later, my phone vibrated like a death warrant. The word “Mom” flashing on the screen looked absolutely terrifying. I instinctively pushed Chloe away, stumbled into the empty stairwell, and pressed answer. “Wow, Clara. Look at you, getting so brave. You’re hiring outside help now?” Eleanor’s voice was terrifyingly calm, like a frozen lake hiding a deadly current underneath. “You didn’t finish [Kneel in the snow], and you got a freebie with [Being cared for while sick]? You really think you can cheat the system?” I leaned against the cold concrete wall, shivering so hard my teeth clicked. “Mom… I…” “Don’t call me Mom!” She screamed, her voice piercing and sharp. “You think you can enjoy life without paying? Rules are rules! Since you didn’t pay yesterday’s debt and still took the comfort, the interest has doubled!”

Over the line, I heard the sound of papers rustling. Then came her cold, final judgment. “Tomorrow is Saturday. You don’t have classes. I’ve prepared a special ‘Combo Pack’ for you. Be home by 6:00 AM sharp. You’re going to pay back everything you owe, with interest, all at once!” “A Combo Slip?” My heart stopped. A terror far hotter than my fever gripped my chest. “That’s right! One slip, triple the pain! It’s the only way to teach a cheat like you a lesson!” She slammed the phone down before I could say a word. The dial tone echoed in my ear. My legs gave out, and I slid down the wall onto the cold floor. The draft in the stairwell blew through my damp clothes, feeling like a thousand needles stabbing my skin. “Clara! There you are!” Chloe found me. When she saw the state I was in, she panicked and wrapped her coat tighter around me. “What did she say? Did she scream at you? Don’t be scared, I’ll—” “Chloe,” I looked up, tears streaming down my face. I looked pathetic. “Tomorrow… I have to go home. Just… don’t get involved. Please.” I knew that if Chloe got dragged into this, Eleanor would count it as another “debt” I’d have to pay back in an even more horrific way. That night, I tossed and turned in my dorm bed, tortured by the fever and sheer terror. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Eleanor’s crazed face and that cursed wooden box. The next morning at 5:30 AM, before the sun was even up, I dragged my burning, exhausted body out of the dorm. I felt dizzy as I boarded the early morning bus, feeling like a prisoner walking to the electric chair. I arrived home at exactly 6:00 AM. Eleanor was already sitting on the living room couch, fully dressed, her face expressionless. The evil wooden box sat on the coffee table. Next to it was a new stack of slips—noticeably thicker and made of dark brown Kraft paper. “Punctual. Good.” She looked up and pointed at the dark slips. “Draw. Let’s see what kind of hell you’ve brought upon yourself.” I walked to the table. My fingers were stiff and cold. The opening of the box looked like the mouth of a monster waiting to swallow me whole. I closed my eyes, slid my hand inside, and pulled one out. On the dark brown paper, written in blood-red marker, were three chilling lines: [The abandoned hospital corridor] [Blindfolded walk] [Listening to ‘Nesta’s’ cries] I gasped, the blood draining from my face. Eleanor took the slip. As she read the words, a twisted, ecstatic smile spread across her face, as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. “You know the abandoned asylum on the west side of town, right?” She said slowly, “I’ve already picked the spot for you. As for the ‘listening’ part…” She turned around, pulled an old cassette player and a pair of headphones from the TV cabinet, and threw them at me. “This has recordings of the sounds your sister probably made. Go. Stay there for two hours. And remember, you must be blindfolded to truly hear her.” She threw a strip of black cloth at me. Her eyes held no maternal warmth—only the fanatical obsession of a cult leader. Looking at her—the woman I had called Mom for eighteen years—I finally realized something. This wasn’t a punishment. This wasn’t a debt. This was a human sacrifice.

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At my welcome-back dinner, I pushed open the door to the VIP lounge, only to see Ethan Carter with a young girl sitting on his lap. Her sparkling eyes met my cold glare. She immediately looked down, but one of her hands remained wrapped tightly around Ethan’s neck. “Ethan, is this the legendary goddess you always talk about?” “Wow, even her wrinkles look so… distinguished! She looks great for her age.” The moment the words left her mouth, the room went dead silent. I was the first to break the silence. “So, Ethan. You’re getting up there in age, and now you’re starting to keep a sugar baby?” I walked straight over and sat down. The girl immediately snapped back, “That’s not the same! Ethan is mature!” “And—and I’m not some sugar baby. Ethan and I are in a real relationship!” I let out a cold laugh and sat directly across from Ethan. Our friends at the table quickly tried to diffuse the tension. “Hey, Vivian is finally back! Let’s get the drinks rolling!” “I heard Vivian absolutely crushed it overseas this time. You bagged the contract with the Preston Group! That’s insane, Vivian!” The atmosphere was finally warming up, but of course, the girl had to open her mouth again. “Wow, Vivian, you’re so amazing. Unlike me… I’m so clueless. I’ve never even been out of the country.” “I’ve heard that powerful career women who dominate boardroom negotiations always have their… special methods.” “Your methods must be so advanced.” As she spoke, she leaned closer into Ethan’s chest, her eyes turning red. “Unlike me. I’m so stupid. I even lost that major client for you last time, Ethan.” Hearing this, everyone at the table exchanged awkward glances, their eyes darting between Ethan and me. I frowned. “What client?” While I was abroad, my assistant mentioned that one of Ethan’s long-term clients had abruptly ended their contract. At the time, I was too busy with my own negotiations to ask. Now, the red flags were waving. Ethan held her hand and looked at me. “Just an old client. It’s fine.” “Vivian, Chloe is just a newbie. Don’t take it personally.” With that, he stroked Chloe’s hair, stood up, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “You want to see the world? That’s easy. I’ll take you abroad. We’ll leave right now!” Ignoring my reaction completely, Ethan pulled Chloe toward the door. Chloe’s face flushed with excitement. But when she looked back at me, her face held a smug, mocking smirk. “But… forget it. Vivian will be angry.” “I won’t be angry,” I interrupted, staring directly at Ethan. “We’re getting a divorce. You can play with her for as long as you want, wherever you want!” Ethan scoffed. “Vivian, this dramatic act doesn’t suit you.” “Divorce me? You signed a prenup. You’ll walk away with absolutely nothing. Are you really willing to lose all this?” He let out a cold grunt, pulled Chloe, and walked out. Seeing them leave, the rest of the guests made quick excuses to slip away one by one. The celebration dinner meant for me was suddenly completely empty. I looked at the food on the table and forced myself to take bite after bite. Until finally, my stomach turned. I rushed to the restroom and threw up everything. Wiping my mouth, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I pulled out my phone and texted my lawyer, telling him to draft the divorce papers immediately. When Ethan and I got married, his mother looked down on my middle-class background and forced me to sign a strict prenuptial agreement. If we divorced, I would get nothing. How hilarious. Did Ethan really think I married him for his money? He was the one who proposed to me. I never cared about his family wealth. Ethan’s threat of cutting me off financially was useless from the very beginning. I walked out of the restaurant. The cold night air made my head spin, but I forced myself to drive back to the villa. I hadn’t been back for three months, and the house was suddenly filled with things that didn’t belong to me. Tacky cartoon dishware in the kitchen, baby-pink curtains in the living room… every single item screamed cheap taste. The maid saw me and gasped in terror. “Mrs. Carter! You’re back!” “Yes.” I walked straight upstairs. The maid hesitated, looking like she wanted to say something. “Mrs. Carter…” I turned to look at her. After a few seconds of silence, she finally spoke. “Mr. Carter… he brought that girl here. They stayed in the master bedroom.” My head spun instantly. Once I regained my balance, I stormed into the master bedroom. The sight made my blood run cold. My minimalist decor was completely gone. Chloe’s cheap cartoon pillows lay right on the center of the bed. Her clothes were hanging inside my closet. And everything that belonged to me had vanished. No wonder she was so bold tonight. She had already moved herself in. I slid my wedding ring off my finger and packed my remaining things. There wasn’t much to take anyway. I sent the draft of the divorce agreement to Ethan’s Snapchat, dragged my suitcase, and left without looking back.

For five days straight, Ethan didn’t reply to my messages. Finally, I couldn’t wait any longer and went to look for him. With the Preston Group contract officially signed, my own company’s operations had stabilized. It was time to settle things with him. But before that, I made a quick stop at the hospital. Ethan and I had been married for five years without kids. We did annual checkups. The results had always been disappointing. Ethan was the one with fertility issues, so no matter how hard I tried, it was useless. But to protect his fragile ego, I never exposed him. He never brought it up either, always claiming his tests were perfect. Because of our lack of children, my mother-in-law had given me endless grief and dirty looks over the years. But today’s test results shocked me. Ethan had actually recovered. Half an hour later, I sat on a bench outside the hospital, the doctor’s words echoing in my ears. “Mr. Carter fully recovered six months ago. A month ago, he brought a young girl here for a full prenatal screening.” “You’re his assistant, right? You should expect some good news from them very soon.” I felt a sudden wave of disgust wash over me. Ethan had gone behind my back to have a baby, making it seem like I was the barren one! For five years, he stood by and watched his mother humiliate me, and when he finally got cured, he didn’t tell me. Instead, he found someone else to knock up! My decision to leave him was the best choice I had ever made. I crumpled the test results into a ball, threw them into the trash can, and headed to his company dressed in my best power suit. When I arrived at the office, I could hear loud laughter coming from the open workspace from down the hall. Someone even mentioned my name. I slowed my pace and listened. “Mr. Carter is so generous! He took you all the way to Hokkaido, and he even got you that massive diamond ring! Vivian never got a rock that big!” “Really? I don’t know much about those things,” Chloe giggled, her voice dripping with fake innocence. “I just know Ethan said I deserve the absolute best, and he’ll give me whatever I want!” Chloe was admiring the diamond ring on her finger, a smug grin plastered across her face. The staff members were crowded around her, kissing her ass. In the months I was away, she had clearly made herself the queen of the office. Everyone was so busy flattering her that no one noticed me walking in. It wasn’t until I stood right in front of her that Chloe’s smile froze. But she quickly recovered, flashing me a triumphant smirk. “Vivian! You’re here. Look what Ethan got me. Isn’t it gorgeous?” She held her hand up, flaunting the massive diamond right in my face. I raised an eyebrow. “It’s nice. I saw this design when I was in Paris. It’s worth about $400,000. But you owe me $200,000.” “What do you mean?” “You’re a side chick spending marital assets. Legally, half of that belongs to me. Pay up.” “Vivian, you must have forgotten,” Chloe mocked, looking at me condescendingly. “You signed a prenup. None of Ethan’s money is considered marital assets!” She laughed in my face. I remained calm. “Ah, thank you for reminding me. It really isn’t marital property. However…” “However what?” She sneered. “Stop bluffing, Vivian. Ethan told me he’s sick of an old woman like you. You couldn’t even give him a child in five years. He’s been done with you!” “He said looking at your crow’s feet every day makes him want to throw up. But I’m different. I can give him—” “Slap!” I delivered a hard slap right across her face, leaving her cheek instantly swollen and red. “You can give him a lot of things, but you will never take my place. Tell Ethan I’m waiting in the conference room. If he isn’t here in ten minutes, I’ll leak all of his company’s client databases to his competitors!” If he wanted a war, I’d give him one.

Hearing my threat, Ethan’s assistant immediately rushed to find him. I gave Chloe a contemptuous look and walked straight into the conference room. Behind me, I could hear her sobbing and screaming, but none of the employees dared to help her now. A moment later, Ethan slammed the door open. His face was dark with rage. “What the hell is wrong with you, Vivian? Chloe is just a kid! It’s just a ring, why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “I don’t care about the ring, Ethan. But until our divorce is finalized, you better keep your little dog on a leash. If she barks at me again, don’t blame me for what happens next!” With a sharp “clack”, I tossed the divorce papers onto the table. “Sign it, or I’ll make the leaks public. I don’t think Carter Enterprises can survive the scandal of its CEO getting exposed like this.” Ethan let out a dry laugh and sat across from me. “Vivian, trying to get my attention like this is just pathetic.” I tapped my fingers on the table. “I don’t have patience for this. Sign.” Just then, Chloe came whimpering through the door, taking slow, dramatic steps. “Ethan… it’s all my fault. I’m the reason you guys are divorcing.” “Vivian, I’m so sorry. I’ll leave. I’ll never show my face in front of you two again.” She sobbed, turning to run out. Ethan’s face fell, and he stood up to chase after her. I grabbed his arm firmly. “Ethan, sign the paper!” “Or I will post the proof of her being your side chick all over Instagram right now!” “Remember, I might not have the Carter family wealth, but you have plenty of enemies who would love to watch you fall!” Ethan gritted his teeth. Suddenly, a gasp echoed from the hallway outside. “Oh my god, Chloe!” Then came a loud scream. “Chloe just fell down the stairs!” Ethan violently shook off my hand and ran out. His precious side chick had tumbled down the stairs and was now clutching her leg, crying tears of agony. Ethan swept her up into his arms. The sheer panic and devotion on his face were clear for everyone to see. “Ethan, just let me go… everyone is calling me a homewrecker, I…” “Who dares! You are not a homewrecker. You are the love of my life!” I leaned against the conference room doorframe, holding up my phone to record their little melodrama. I smiled mockingly. “You two really are soulmates. I wonder how much the Carter Enterprises stock will drop once I post this touching video.” Ethan glared at me, his veins popping. “Vivian!” “No need to yell, I can hear you perfectly.” “Sign the papers, or prepare to lose everything.” “You might think you’re untouchable, but the life of a publicly exposed side chick won’t be very fun.” “I heard she goes to Trident University. Coincidentally, so did I. I have plenty of alumni contacts.” I stared at Ethan. He knew me. He knew that once I decided to go all in, I wouldn’t stop until I tore a piece of flesh right out of him. Chloe’s face turned deathly pale. “Vivian…” “Don’t call my name. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t raise a homewrecker.” Chloe burst into fresh tears. “Ethan, put me down. I’ll go. I’ll just leave!” What a grade-A actress. Did Ethan really not see through her? Of course he did. He just chose to ignore it. I threw the papers onto his chest and pulled out my phone. “If you don’t sign right now, I’m hitting send.” Gritting his teeth, Ethan snatched the pen and violently scribbled his signature. He threw the pen at me in rage, the black ink splashing onto the hem of my white designer dress. “Vivian, you’re going to regret this!” Ethan roared. Without saying a word, I picked up the signed divorce papers and walked away without looking back. Goodbye, Ethan. We are done.

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