Category: English

In the fifth year of my overseas venture, I made a last-minute decision to fly home. The plane had barely touched down when a friend dragged me to a high-end auction, before I even had the chance to call my family. In the center of the glittering hall, a massive screen was playing a short video of my younger sister on a loop. Her fiancé, Leo Vance, had his arm wrapped around a simpering woman, his gaze dripping with condescension as he looked down at my sister. His voice was a blade of mockery. “Jasmine just broke a little hairpin of yours, and you have the audacity to demand a king’s ransom for it?” “Since you’re so ‘rich’,” he sneered, “why don’t you make a scorched earth bid on all thirty-six of these videos… unless you want them to go viral.” My sister Chloe’s face was ashen. Her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles were white, but she stubbornly kept her lips sealed. I sat in the VIP suite, my face a mask of stone, saying nothing. Hah. I’ve been gone for five years, and someone already has the nerve to target a member of the Smith family? … My assistant didn’t dare breathe. “I’ll get the owner of the auction house in here right now. He’ll apologize to you personally.” “No need,” I said, my expression unchanging. “Let them play their little game for a while longer.” To challenge me on my own turf? The auction house, along with every single person who participated tonight—none of them would be getting away clean. Outside the suite, a pack of men were pointing and snickering at the screen. “I always thought the Shen family’s daughter was such an innocent little thing. Who knew she was such a freak in bed? Just look at that expression… even the thumbnail is getting me going.” “Leo, you lucky bastard. You’ve had your way with that incredible body.” Chloe’s whole body trembled as she stared at Leo, her face deathly pale. Leo arched a brow. “Whoever wins the bid gets a free set of high-res photos.” “That’s our Leo! Always generous!” A cheer went up from the crowd, the men’s eyes burning with a feral heat. Tears streamed down Chloe’s face. “Leo, how could you do this to me?” “Oh? Is this too much for you?” he taunted. “Aren’t you loaded? Demanding two million for a hairpin? You must have more money than you know what to do with.” He gestured to the screen. “Look, thirty-six of them. You can bid to your heart’s content.” The woman beside him, Jasmine, giggled behind her hand. “Oh dear. A scorched earth bid costs ten million dollars, you know. Sister, I hear you’ve been picking through leftovers in the cafeteria. Do you have that kind of money?” She leaned into him. “And don’t even think about using Dad’s money. He only spends it on me. There’s nothing left for you or that bitch of a mother of yours.” “I wonder if my dear sister has any hidden savings to make a bid?” My brow furrowed. Since when did my sister, Chloe Shen, have to resort to eating scraps? I looked closer. The custom-designed gown I’d gifted Chloe was now on Jasmine’s body. Even her jewelry adorned Jasmine’s head. Meanwhile, my sister was wearing a pair of washed-out jeans, the cuffs frayed, clearly a cheap piece of fast fashion. She was gripping the hem of her shirt so tightly her nails were digging into her palms, her pale face etched with humiliation. Clearly, the woman’s words were true. What in the world had happened? Forget the fact that the Shen family had its own wealth; my maternal grandfather was the head of the Smith family, a name that commanded respect throughout the capital. How could Chloe have fallen so low? I motioned to my assistant, who immediately left to investigate. For the past five years, I had poured everything into my business, with little contact back home. I’d get calls from Mom and Chloe now and then, but over the last six months, they had become less and less frequent. Recently, they had stopped altogether. Worried, I had flown back unannounced. Tears finally broke free, and Chloe confronted Leo, her voice choked with anguish. “Why? I’m your fiancée! These moments… they were private, between lovers. How could you put them up for auction?” Leo didn’t even look at her. He picked up the microphone. “Bid or don’t. Stop wasting my time with your whining.” “If you’re not going to bid, then get out. My friends here are getting impatient.” Chloe looked around the room. Every person here was a multi-millionaire. How could she possibly compete with them in her current state? Her face was a canvas of despair. The sheer weight of the shame made her lower her head, desperate to flee, but a group of men blocked her path. “Well, well. You’re already putting yourself on the market, but you still know how to blush?” “Don’t go, Miss Shen. If Leo won’t bid for you, I will. Just one night with me, and I’ll buy one for you.” “Shut up!” Leo barked, silencing them. Then, he turned to Chloe, his voice casual. “If you get on your knees and apologize to Jasmine right now, I might consider taking one of the videos down.” “You…” Chloe was so furious she couldn’t speak. “My, look at the expression on her face. She doesn’t seem very willing, does she?” Jasmine purred, pressing herself against Leo. “Clearly, she thinks one man… isn’t enough for her.” Leo’s face turned to iron. Chloe bit her lip so hard I thought it would bleed. Under the weight of a hundred mocking stares, she slowly returned to her seat. “Fine,” she said, her voice trembling but unnervingly clear. “I’ll bid.” Leo stared at my sister’s ramrod-straight back, a flicker of surprise on his face. I was a little surprised, too. In the suite, I was flipping through the information my assistant had just sent over. It was true. Chloe was penniless, working eight part-time jobs just to survive. Looking at her, thin as a wraith, I had no idea how she planned to compete. On the grand screen, a high-definition video of my sister played. It showed her from every angle, cutting away at the most intimate moments, leaving every man in the room hot and bothered. “The first set,” the auctioneer announced, his eyes sweeping the room. “Starting bid, five hundred thousand.” A murmur went through the crowd. “Leo, you’re too good to us! Afraid we couldn’t afford it?” “So cheap? I’ll take ten.” The auctioneer raised a hand to quiet the room. “As this is the first set, it comes with a special audio commentary.” With that, a synthesized, sultry version of Chloe’s own voice filled the hall, narrating the actions in the video, describing her feelings, punctuated by moans of manufactured pleasure that weren’t in the original footage. “Incredible! Only a high-society girl could sound so refined even when she’s begging for it!” “That sound alone is enough to get me hard!” “One million!” … The room erupted. Bids flew back and forth. Chloe shot to her feet, her eyes blazing red as she glared at Leo. But he remained as still as a statue, the cold smirk on his lips a stark contrast to the frenzied hall. Yet the moment Jasmine moved closer, he was a different person, his touch gentle as he tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Five million!” “Seven million!” “Scorched earth!” Chloe’s trembling voice cut through the noise. Everyone turned to stare at her. “Sister, a scorched earth bid is fifty million. Do you have the money? Have you been verified?” Jasmine’s light, airy question prompted the auction house staff to approach Chloe. “Miss, we have no record of you being financially verified. If you cannot cover your bid, you will be forcibly removed and will face legal consequences.” My heart tightened. I was about to intervene. But Chloe reached up, removed a locket from her neck, and placed it on the staff member’s tray. “Use this for verification.” Jasmine scoffed. “A cheap trinket from a street stall, and you want to use it to cover a fifty-million-dollar bid? You’re going to make me die of laughter!” But before she could finish, the verification result came back. “Congratulations, Miss Shen. Your scorched earth bid is successful!” “What? That piece of junk is worth fifty million?!” Jasmine shrieked. Even Leo, who had been lounging lazily, sat bolt upright. I understood instantly. That locket was a Smith family heirloom. My sister and I each had one. They were worth over a hundred million. She wouldn’t have brought it out unless she had no other choice. And now, a locket worth a fortune had only been valued at fifty million… I shot a cold glance at the auction house owner, who was standing before me, bowing respectfully and wiping sweat from his forehead. The auction continued outside, the atmosphere even more feverish than before. “She actually did it.” “What a shame. I wonder if the next ones have audio commentary. I love the sound of her voice.” As if on cue, the narration for the second video began to play, full of feigned emotion. “Set number two! Starting bid, still five hundred thousand!” The room exploded again. “Yes! If every set comes with that soundtrack, I’ll buy them all. Listen to them every night before I sleep.” “You’d be going at it seven times a night! Hahaha!” One shameless man reached out to touch Chloe’s face. “Come on, make a sound for me right now, and I’ll bid on one for you. We can watch it together tonight, just the two of us. I promise I’ll satisfy you in ways you’ve never dreamed of.” “Shameless!” Chloe slapped his hand away. Enraged, the man moved to shove her, but Leo stopped him. “Don’t cause trouble here. This is Smith territory, are you trying to get yourself killed? Once you’re outside, you can do whatever you want.” “Hmph! Acting all pure. Just another whore for sale. Twenty million!” “Thirty million!” “Thirty-three million!” The color drained from my sister’s face. Her eyes, usually so full of laughter, were now pools of despair. But she gritted her teeth and cried out, “Scorched… earth!” The auctioneer looked troubled. “Miss Shen, the collateral you provided was only valued at fifty million. If you wish to make another scorched earth bid, you will need to be re-verified.” Chloe looked lost. She turned to Leo. He was her fiancé, yet he was letting her most private moments be exposed to the world. But Leo just smirked, his face a mask of contempt. “Don’t look at me. I’m not getting involved. Do as you please.” The last glimmer of hope died in Chloe’s eyes. She lowered her head, and a sob escaped her lips. Just then, Jasmine spoke up. “Sister is crying. I suppose I’ll make the bid for her this time.” “After all, she is my father’s daughter. Even if she won’t acknowledge me as her sister, I can’t be as heartless as she is!” I frowned. Since when did my father have another daughter? My assistant leaned in. “Mr. Shen brought her home two years ago, a student from a poor family, supposedly as a companion for Miss Chloe. Six months ago, Mr. Shen held a banquet and announced that Jasmine was his biological daughter, lost at birth.” I almost laughed. Good for you, Edward Shen. Getting up to these tricks at your age. You must have a death wish. But first, I had to get my sister out of this mess. Leo’s eyes on Jasmine were full of admiration, a complete reversal of the cold indifference he’d shown Chloe. “You’re pathetic!” Chloe shot back. “What do you think you are? The master of the house throws you a few scraps, and you start thinking you’re a lady?” “Chloe Shen!” Leo’s voice was ice. “Shut your mouth! I’ve been too lenient with you! Apologize to Jasmine now!” Chloe threw him a look as cold as frost and turned to the auctioneer. “I’ll be verified!” She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a small, folded charm, placing it on the tray. Jasmine shot it a disdainful look and blocked the staff member with her foot. She pinched the yellowed paper between two elegant fingers as if it were something filthy and tossed it aside. “Hah. Some piece of trash you picked out of a dumpster, and you want to use it for verification?” The paper fluttered to the ground. She nonchalantly ground it under her leather high heel. “No, please!” Chloe cried out, throwing herself forward and grabbing the hem of Jasmine’s dress. “That’s… that’s the last thing I have…” Jasmine looked down at her, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “Oh? Is that so? Then this will be a good lesson for you. This is what happens when you cross me.” She gracefully lifted her foot, ready to stomp down. “Stop!” A manager rushed over, blocking Jasmine’s foot before it could land. “Collateral placed on the tray cannot be damaged before verification. Otherwise, you will be ejected from the premises and held liable for compensation!” “It’s just a piece of paper. I can afford to pay for it!” The manager was experienced. He deftly snatched the charm from the floor and placed it back on the tray. “Miss, please follow the rules.” Leo patted Jasmine’s arm to soothe her, and she reluctantly backed down. Before the crowd’s laughter had died down, the auctioneer’s voice rang out. “Verification successful!” “Congratulations, Miss Shen. Your scorched earth bid is successful!” The room was in an uproar. “It’s just a piece of paper, how could it pass verification?” “What is this, a game? Someone from the auction house better explain this!” The manager strode onto the stage. An image of the charm appeared on the big screen. “After authentication, this charm was personally scribed and blessed by the Abbott of the secluded monastery of St. Giles. It is priceless. Conservatively, its value is estimated at eighty million.” “As per auction house rules, this item can cover the cost of one scorched earth bid!” He was right. That charm… I had personally journeyed to that monastery when Chloe was eight and burning with a fever, praying at every step, to acquire it for her. Seeing this, my knuckles turned white around my teacup. Leo Vance, you’ve gone too far. “Don’t be angry, Jasmine. Watch me put her back in her place,” one of Leo’s cronies said, trying to comfort the fuming Jasmine. “Yeah, Jasmine, that was only the second set. There are thirty-four more. Let’s see what else she can pull out!” “Hey, little beauty, got any more money? Or are you going to have to strip to raise the funds?” The gazes of the crowd fell on Chloe, heavy and tangible. Some shook their heads in pity, others hid smirks behind their hands. “A desperate struggle.” “The next one is mine!” Chloe’s face was as white as paper. She truly had nothing left. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she finally lowered her proud head. “Leo… please, stop the auction…” Her voice was a whisper, lost in the roar of the crowd, but Leo heard it. He looked up at her, a flicker of emotion on his face. Jasmine saw it and immediately pouted. “Sister, you’re so good at playing the victim!” “Weren’t you just working eight jobs a day? Eating leftovers?” “And yet, you’ve already spent over a hundred million. No wonder you wanted two million from me for a simple hairpin!” The trace of pity on Leo’s face vanished. He shot Chloe a disgusted look and went back to watching the show as if he’d heard nothing. Seeing his complete indifference, Chloe finally broke. Unable to bear the jeers any longer, she turned and fled. I gave a single look, and my assistant followed her out. Just when everyone thought she was gone for good, Chloe returned. Leo’s friends, not satisfied, shouted at her. “You have money? What are you doing back here?” “If you’re broke, get out! We played along for Leo’s sake, but now you’re just shameless, refusing to leave!” Even the auctioneer frowned. “Security! Clear the floor!” This time, Chloe slapped a black card onto the tray. “Verify this. I’m buying out all the remaining videos.” The entire hall went into a frenzy. Jasmine shrieked, “Are you insane? You could sell yourself and you wouldn’t be worth that much!” The auctioneer’s voice was cold. “Miss Shen, you must be certain this card is valid. Otherwise, you know the rules of this auction house. Not only will you be liable for financial damages, you could also face criminal charges.” “I’m aware. Please proceed.” All eyes were glued to the screen. Even Leo, previously so nonchalant, now had a grave expression on his face. The card was swiped. A collective gasp swept through the hall. “That’s… impossible!” Leo shot to his feet, his knuckles white. The entire venue felt as if it had been struck by lightning. “What the hell!”

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I was reborn into a world of mud and misery, a serf with a terrifyingly high chance of being sold into a brothel. My modern education hadn’t included soap-making or gunpowder formulation, and the invisible hand of the market wasn’t about to reach down and pull me out of the muck. Maybe if I’d been reborn as a member of the ruling class, I might have wanted to stay. But as it was, I knew one thing with absolute clarity: I just wanted to go home. 1 The moment I gained consciousness in this life, I saw the leaking thatch roof and the low, mud-caked walls of our hovel. I knew instantly that I’d been dealt the worst possible hand. As a tiny, scrawny child, there was nothing to do but endure. I’d just managed to reach the age of seven when the river flooded. When the waters receded, only my father and I were left from our family of six. My father wrapped the bodies of my mother and my little siblings in straw mats. Then, he took my hand, and we began our life as beggars on the road. The river of refugees grew with every passing day, a desperate tide of humanity where people fought to the death for a single mouthful of food. After three days of gnawing hunger, my father sold me for four hard, tasteless buns. His sunken eyes were too dry for tears. “Don’t hate me, girl,” he rasped. “Stay with me, and you’ll starve. You be good, listen to your new master, and maybe you’ll have a chance to live.” As I was led to the fleshmonger’s cart, I couldn’t bring myself to look back at him. He had no choice. The eyes of the other refugees were already glowing with a feral, green light. If we’d stayed any longer, I would have been the next meal on their fire. So much for a fresh start. My bowl was shattered, and my life was now bound by a contract of indenture. From now on, my life belonged to my master. That was the first lesson the fleshmonger taught me. 2 The wheels of the cart groaned, day after day. The collection of little girls in the cart grew steadily larger. Two months later, with a full cargo of cleaned-up, terrified children, he sold us to the estate of the Marquis Valerius. I admit, I complained about my nine-to-five job in my past life, but surely I hadn’t sinned enough to deserve this—a life as a literal serf with no rights to speak of. The matron who came to purchase us inspected us like livestock, checking our hands, feet, and teeth with a practiced, callous eye. She selected eight of us. The girls who were rejected wept uncontrollably. The Marquis’s estate was a good placement. The remaining destinations were places of unspeakable horror, where you weren’t even a beast of burden. You were just flesh. This accursed feudal society! But what could I do? I had no magic, no special skills. To survive, I had to accept the rules. I was one of the chosen eight. I clung to every word the fleshmonger had said, burning them into my memory. Learn the rules. Serve the master well. That was the only path to survival. 3 On my eighth birthday, I officially became a scullery maid at the Valerius Estate. That day, I was given a bowl of thin, almost translucent gruel, and it was the most blissful meal of my life. It was prepared by Matron Celia, the stern woman in charge of our training. Day by day, the gruel grew thicker. It wasn’t until the seventh day that we were each given half a loaf of bread. Though her face was like stone, Matron Celia was a good person. I knew she was being careful, easing our starved bodies back into eating, afraid that rich food would shock our systems and kill us. The House of Valerius was built on military glory, and it was run with iron discipline. The slightest mistake from a servant was punished with twenty lashes. On our third day, we were forced to watch as two indentured servants were beaten to death for a minor infraction. All eight of us were plagued by nightmares. Two of the more timid girls wet their beds in terror and were punished by being forced to wash laundry for two days straight. 4 I had no idea how to get home. All I could do was be a good, quiet maid. Just as I had been a diligent drone in my past life, I now poured all my energy into my new tasks. I swept the courtyards, stoked the fires, drew water, and fed the birds in the aviary, performing each duty with meticulous, repetitive precision. I tried to console myself. It wasn’t so different from drafting proposals, wrestling with spreadsheets, and creating PowerPoint presentations. A cubicle serf and a manor maid—just different kinds of labor. But I knew the truth. In my old life, labor laws might not have protected my overtime, but the civil code protected my life. A citizen’s rights were sacred. Here, my master could kill me as easily as swatting a fly, and no one would bat an eye. 5 Survival of the fittest. I was too afraid to die, so I had to endure. I had to claw and scrape for every breath. Four years passed. I was promoted from an unpaid apprentice to a scullery maid earning 100 coppers a month. Then, because the Dowager Marchioness praised how well I fed her birds, I was elevated to a second-rank maid in her personal service, with a monthly stipend of 400 coppers. 400 coppers wasn’t a small sum. One copper could buy a piece of flatbread; by modern standards, it was like making 800 a month. With money came motivation. I worked even harder. My degree was in management, a liberal art. The invisible hand of the market was useless to me here. I didn’t know the first thing about making soap or gunpowder, and I was clumsy with a needle and thread, the standard skills for women in this era. The only thing I truly excelled at was making pastries. So I poured my heart into it. If the old lady expressed even a flicker of interest in trying a new confection, I would spend a dozen hours perfecting it. In this household, the masters were the heavens. My performance review was whatever they said it was. Only by pleasing them could I hope for a better life. 6 In my fifteenth year, my superiors once again gave me a stellar review. The Dowager Marchioness herself praised me: “No one is more diligent or well-behaved. Her eyes see what needs to be done, and her heart is loyal to her masters. Promote her to a first-rank maid and send her to serve the Young Lord.” 7 The Young Lord, Lord Adrian, had been raised under the doting eye of the Dowager Marchioness. The century-old House of Valerius had but one heir, the Marquis’s only son. Compared to us, whose lives were worth less than dust, the Young Lord was a treasure beyond price. His new residence, the Jade Vine Pavilion, had been under construction for three years. It was a sprawling complex of layered courtyards, with carved balustrades, painted pillars, winding covered walkways, rock gardens, and ponds, beautiful in every season. The Dowager and the Marchioness spent two months carefully selecting a full staff to serve him. The inner court had two matrons, two first-rank maids, four second-rank maids, eight third-rank maids, and twelve scullery hands. Of the two matrons, Matron Celia was the Dowager’s old, trusted servant, sharp and capable. The other, Matron Willow, had been the Young Lord’s wet nurse, and she was gentle and attentive. The first-rank maids were Lyra, sent by the Marchioness—she was beautiful as a flower, with nimble fingers skilled at embroidery—and me. To complement Lyra’s name, the Young Lord named me Elara. My specialty was cooking and the art of tea. Lyra, with her beauty and quick, charming wit, soon grew familiar with the Young Lord, attending to his most personal needs. It was she who assisted him with his bathing and washing, she who was the “fragrant sleeve” by his side as he read. I, on the other hand, took over the tedious management of his three daily meals, his refreshments, social arrangements, and the inventory of his possessions. It was a thousand threads of trivial work, but I never complained. Every task is difficult at the start; only the dedicated succeed. A beast of burden must do every job to the best of its ability. Before long, I had a precise grasp of the Young Lord’s tastes and habits. He favored blue tunics, practiced calligraphy, enjoyed the sight of snow on green bamboo, preferred Lion’s Peak tea, and had a weakness for four-colored shortbread pastries. A slight shift of his eyes, a subtle lift of his brow, and I knew what he was thinking. He found me increasingly indispensable. 8 I had reached the pinnacle of my career path as a maid. It was time to find a new way forward. I was sixteen, the age when maids were typically matched for marriage. This meant that not only did I have no human rights, but I also had no say in who I would spend the rest of my life with. From here, there were only two paths. The first was to be married off to a footman or a guard. If my husband did well, I might become a housekeeper. I would spend my life as a serf, and then give birth to a new generation of serfs to continue serving the masters. The other path was to become a “bed-servant” for the master. If the future lady of the house was tolerant, I might be elevated to a mistress, becoming a semi-master myself. But if she was not, I wouldn’t even be able to keep my life. Lately, Matron Celia had been telling me in secret that the Dowager Marchioness had instructed her to choose a suitable girl for the Young Lord’s bed. “It is the custom of the house,” she whispered. “Before the heir weds, two maids are chosen for his chambers. It’s to… settle his heart, to prevent him from being corrupted by the women in the taverns and brothels. “These are hard times. Your indenture contract is unbreakable, but even if the master were merciful and freed you, what then? Another famine, and you’d see husbands selling their wives and children. It’s better to stay in the manor. And if you’re simply married off to some random footman, you’ll be a slave for the rest of your days. “The Dowager values your loyalty. She sent you here with the intention of making you one of the chosen. You’ve served her with all your heart. Now, turn that devotion to the Young Lord, and you might make something of yourself.” She was right. What would happen if I left? My parents were common folk, toiling their whole lives only to be torn apart by a single flood. Matron Celia had always looked out for me. This was the path she was laying out for me with all her heart. I had to consider it carefully. What was so bad about being a mistress? As long as I could live in peace. That night, I tossed and turned, tracing the Young Lord’s name on my palm. Adrian Valerius. A name as lofty and unreachable as a mountain peak. But it was better to take a gamble on a motorcycle than be shackled to a broken-down cart I didn’t choose. 9 Once my mind was made up, I slept soundly. When I awoke, I smoothed rouge onto my cheeks, applied color to my lips, and went out to conquer a new battlefield. Lyra must have heard the news as well. She had been dressing in brighter, more alluring clothes these past few days. The moment we saw each other, our intentions were laid bare in each other’s eyes. What little friendship we had evaporated in an instant. Her gaze was now sharp with suspicion. In the competition to win a place in the lord’s bed, we were now rivals. It was every woman for herself. The moment Lord Adrian returned, Lyra rushed to his side, pouring his tea, helping him change his clothes, fluttering around him like a moth to a flame, leaving me no room to get close. In response, I poured even more care into preparing his tea and pastries, inventing new variations on his favorite flavors that earned his constant praise. 10 The turning point came on a night when the Young Lord was out for a social engagement. Lyra and I were supposed to alternate night duty; it was my turn. When he returned, staggering from drink, she rushed forward, asking if he wanted some soup. Her dress was far more sheer than usual, her hair and makeup done with a provocative flair. I knew something was amiss, but Lord Adrian, his stomach churning from the wine, requested a light lotus-leaf porridge. I had no choice but to go and prepare it. After I left, he went to bathe. Lyra followed him in. They were in the bathing chamber for two hours. The wet nurse and Matron Celia slipped in to check, then hurried away to report to the Marchioness. When I brought the porridge, I snuck a peek. Lyra stood behind the Young Lord, her face flushed, her hair in disarray, her clothes askew. It was clear she had been taken by him. The very next day, the Young Lord began paying Lyra a monthly allowance of two silver pieces from his own purse—the stipend of a mistress. Although she couldn’t be formally recognized before he married, she already had the status of a woman of his chambers. A wave of disappointment washed over me. This was his first time; it would surely leave a deep impression, perhaps securing her for life. I had missed my chance. I scoffed at myself. If you’re going to be a mistress, what does it matter how you get there? The method that works is the one that matters. Years of full meals had made me forget. This place was far more brutal than any corporate office. The opportunities to change your fate were fleeting, gone in the blink of an eye. 11 Matron Celia saw my dejection. She pulled me aside and whispered in my ear. “A conquest won by such obvious means might not sit well with the Dowager and the Marchioness. You just do your job. It’s not over until it’s over. Don’t you dare lose hope.” Her words were a splash of cold water. It wasn’t hard to become the Young Lord’s bed-servant. The hard part was being accepted by the lady of the house. A clumsy, blatant maneuver would only make you a target. You could end up dead without ever knowing why. Like still water runs deep, I pushed all my bitterness and disappointment down and focused on serving the Young Lord with even greater care and attention. 12 The next year, the Dowager and the Marchioness began the search for a proper wife for the Young Lord. I heard that ever since the Midwinter Gala, the Marchioness’s desk was piled high with invitations to garden parties and social gatherings at other noble houses, the “flowers” on display being their eligible daughters. The Dowager was just as active, inviting old friends and relatives to bring their daughters for visits. Chewing on ginseng slices to keep her energy up, she would chat for hours, so busy that the maids in her wing had no time for idle gossip. The House of Valerius was at the height of its power, and the Young Lord was intelligent and well-mannered. There was no shortage of prospects. 13 In the Jade Vine Pavilion, Lyra’s night with the lord was like a stone tossed into a still pond, sending ripples through the entire staff. Lord Adrian was a reserved, serious man who rarely smiled. But since that night in the bath, a new warmth had appeared in his eyes. He started teasing Lyra, setting aside special treats and trinkets for her. His favor seemed to make Lyra forget she was still a servant. She began to subtly challenge the authority of the matrons, criticizing the other first- and second-rank maids. She was even more imperious with the junior maids, scolding and striking them at will. Matron Willow was not only the lord’s wet nurse but also a distant relative of the Marchioness, a woman of some standing. After being publicly contradicted by Lyra several times, she cursed in frustration, “She’s not even a proper mistress yet and she’s already this arrogant!” Seeing Lyra’s success, the other maids grew restless. Each tried to outdo the others, their minds consumed with fashioning themselves into beautiful flowers, plotting “accidental” encounters with the Young Lord. The courtyards went unswept, the birds unfed, the hearths cold. The maids’ dresses became more revealing and thinner by the day, and several of them caught colds. Matron Celia and Matron Willow scolded them repeatedly, but the feverish, ambitious undercurrent could not be stopped. 14 One day, I noticed a strange taste in the lunch a junior maid brought me. Without a word, I took the food into my room, scraped it into the chamber pot, and ate some of my own pastries to quell my hunger. That afternoon, Lyra began making repeated, frantic trips to the latrine. After several bouts, her face was pale as a sheet. I pretended to have a stomachache as well and retired to my room. That night, when Lord Adrian returned from an outing, two second-rank maids, Faye and Briar, dressed in flimsy gowns, approached him with a cup of tea. Before the cup reached his lips, Matron Celia and Matron Willow stormed in with guards and seized them. The tea had been drugged with an aphrodisiac. The incident that afternoon had seemed suspicious to more than just me. The two old matrons had seen the signs immediately. As Matron Celia put it, “It was only a matter of time before these restless fools caused a disaster!” The Dowager Marchioness was furious. Faye and Briar were given twenty lashes and sold off. All the servants of the Jade Vine Pavilion were made to watch the punishment. At first, the two girls screamed. After ten lashes, their cries faded to weak gasps. Lyra, still weak from her illness, was dragged out by two burly servants on the Dowager’s orders and forced to watch from the front row. The display—killing the chickens to scare the monkeys—was terrifyingly effective. The entire staff was cowed into submission, trembling with fear. 15 The Jade Vine Pavilion returned to a state of tense tranquility. The servants now attended to the Young Lord with renewed, fearful diligence. Not long after, the Young Lord’s uncle, who had married his aunt, completed his tenure as governor of a southern duchy and was promoted to a high position at court. The entire family returned to the capital. The Dowager Marchioness was overjoyed to be reunited with her long-absent daughter. But what delighted her even more was the celestial beauty her daughter brought with her: her granddaughter, Lady Seraphina. She was like an angel, a fairy from the painted screen in the Dowager’s own chambers. I was on duty at the family banquet that day. The moment Lord Adrian saw his cousin, he froze. Lady Seraphina, blushing, shyly lowered her gaze. The maids in the Dowager’s service whispered that the old woman and her daughter had already settled the matter. Preparations for the betrothal gifts were already underway. 16 With the Young Lord’s marriage settled, I became even more cautious, terrified of making a mistake. According to the house rules, the heir must have two bed-servants before his wedding. Lyra had already been taken, and the Young Lord pleaded with his mother to grant her an official, albeit lowly, title. With his support, the recently subdued Lyra became arrogant once more. On the day the betrothal was formally announced, Lord Adrian left early. I was in my room reviewing accounts when I heard Lyra ordering another maid, Briar, to water the flowers, then scolding her for dressing provocatively and having “no work in her eyes.” Briar endured it for a moment, then snapped back, “You’re one to talk! You seduced the master right into his bed!” Lyra flew into a rage. The two of them started pulling hair and tearing at each other’s clothes, fighting in the middle of the courtyard. The Dowager was furious. On such an auspicious day, to have such a shameful incident occur—it was a disgrace. She immediately ordered both girls to be given ten lashes and sold off. When Lord Adrian returned, he rushed to the Dowager’s chambers and knelt for a long time, pleading and begging until he had exhausted every flattering word to save Lyra. But poor Briar was not so lucky. As she was dragged away, beaten and limp as a dead dog, her desperate eyes found mine. But I couldn’t save her. Just as I couldn’t save myself. 17 After this, the Dowager strictly forbade Lyra from attending to the Young Lord. She then instructed Matron Celia, “We need another, more stable girl to serve by his side.” After the storm, a new path opened. Matron Celia came to me, her face alight with excitement. The Dowager wanted to see me. This was it. This was my chance to be formally presented to the Young Lord. In the preceding weeks, while the other maids had been a riot of color and flirtation, I had remained in my plain servant’s uniform, toiling in the small kitchen, managing the lord’s meals and expenses. Matron Celia had told me in private that on the day of the floggings, the Dowager had remarked before leaving, “In this entire courtyard, only Elara is still diligent and useful.” I checked my appearance. My clothes were clean but well-worn, not bright, but tidy. My hair was in a simple twin-bun style, adorned with a few small, inconspicuous pearl pins. I had been preparing for this moment since the day Lyra was punished. I entered the main hall and knelt properly to one side. The Dowager seemed not to see me, sipping her tea in silence. After what felt like an eternity, she finally nodded for the matron to let me rise. She said I was dutiful and honest, that I served well. Now, as was tradition, the Young Lord needed two women in his chambers before his marriage. Lyra had proven unsuitable. It was my turn now. I must not fail her. I kowtowed. The old lady bestowed upon me a set of hairpins and a new gown, a mark of her favor. I had passed the test. I had gotten what I wanted. But, if I could be so sentimental, I felt no relief. To place your fate in the hands of others, to constantly scheme and read their every mood—it was an exhausting, bitter existence. And besides, the path of a master’s companion was only just beginning. 18 That night, when Lord Adrian returned, I had already bathed and changed into the gown the Dowager had given me. In the mirror, the seventeen-year-old girl staring back was in the prime of her youth, with a natural, peach-like bloom. Dressed in a dazzling, eye-catching garment instead of my usual drab uniform, I looked… almost captivating. When Lord Adrian saw me, he paused, a look of genuine surprise and admiration in his eyes. “Elara, you so rarely wear such bright colors. This lavender is gentle, it sets off your skin like snow.” I lowered my gaze demurely and offered him a cup of tea. “It was a gift from the Dowager.” Lord Adrian was intelligent. With that one sentence, he understood. I was the new companion his grandmother had chosen for him. He took my hand and led me into the warm inner chamber. He sat on the couch and then pulled me onto his lap, looking at me with a gentle expression. I had served him for three years, but this was the first time we had ever been this close, so close I could see the individual lashes framing his eyes. “Elara,” he said softly, “all these years, you’ve served me with such care and propriety. I thought you had no interest in me. I would never force you. If you were unwilling, I was planning to arrange for your release from the estate in a few years.” A small tremor went through my heart, but my face remained a mask of calm. I had assumed I would never leave this place. Suddenly, he had offered me another path. But if I left, what would I do? No. The cart had reached the edge of the cliff. It was too late to turn back. I tilted my head up slightly, bit my lip, and looked at him with all the adoration I could muster. I had practiced this look in the mirror countless times. This was my most fetching expression. “My Lord, you are the finest man I have ever known. This house is my home. I never dared to overstep. As long as I could serve you, I would have been content to be a scullery maid my entire life. Now that the Dowager has given me this chance, how could I be unwilling? My only fear is that I am not worthy of you.” He looked at me, his eyes filled with pleasure. He pulled me closer, and his kiss said more than a thousand words ever could.

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Just before the holidays, my husband and I were supposed to be driving home together. I wanted the passenger seat, but he gave it to his female colleague and banished me to the back. “Isla gets carsick,” he said, his tone final. “You’re the wife, Rose. You should be more understanding.” He had completely forgotten that I was pregnant, right in the throes of debilitating morning sickness. Halfway through the drive, they started smoking, a deliberate act that forced the nausea to win. I threw up. Disgusted by the smell, my husband, Jason, decided to teach me a lesson. He abandoned me at a desolate rest stop. What he didn’t know was that my family was already waiting for me there. This time, I was going home to get an abortion and file for divorce. Later, when Jason found out our child was gone, the regret drove him insane. … This year’s holiday trip home was supposed to be just the two of us, a road trip in our own car. Jason left early that morning, and I assumed he was out buying some last-minute gifts for our families. I never imagined that when I opened the passenger-side door, I’d find another woman already sitting there. I recognized her from Jason’s social media. A colleague from his department, Isla, I think her name was. Young, beautiful, and currently occupying my seat. Seeing me frozen in the doorway, Isla offered a sweet, saccharine smile. “Hi, Rose.” Then, two male voices piped up from the back. “Morning, Rose!” Stunned, I looked at Jason, my eyes demanding an explanation. “Their hometowns are on the way,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “It’s just a ride-share, no big deal.” “And you didn’t think to tell me?” “I’m so sorry, Rose,” Isla chimed in, her voice a soft, placating melody. “Jason was afraid you wouldn’t agree, so he wanted to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. Please don’t be mad at him.” Not wanting to make a scene in front of his friends, I swallowed my anger. “Fine,” I said, my voice tight. “But Isla, you’ll have to move to the back. I want to sit up front.” “Rose,” Jason cut in, his voice sharp with annoyance. “Isla gets carsick. As the wife, you can be considerate for once. Don’t be so possessive.” “Jason, I’m pregnant! The morning sickness has been hell, you know that!” My raised voice made Isla’s eyes instantly well up with tears. “I’m so sorry, Rose,” she whimpered. “I’ll move to the back right now.” Jason immediately put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Rosalind,” he snapped, using my full name like a weapon. “You’re just pregnant, stop being so delicate. Don’t you know how to be a gracious host? Get in the back. Now.” My fists clenched. The weight of their stares pressed down on me. I thought of the baby in my womb and my parents waiting for me at home, and I bit back the torrent of angry words. I said nothing, silently folding myself into the backseat. I didn’t realize my silence was just the prelude to a symphony of humiliation. I was squeezed between two large men, but Jason didn’t spare me a single glance. He was too busy laughing and chatting with Isla, their voices filling the car. Isla caught my eye in the rearview mirror, my discomfort obvious. She put on a show of concern. “Rose, are you too crowded back there? Maybe we can switch at the next rest stop.” Before I could answer, Jason jumped in, a note of embarrassment in his voice. “She’s gained a lot of weight with the pregnancy. Mike, Kevin, is she squishing you guys?” The two men, who had been manspreading and pinning me into the corner, shifted slightly. “Nope, we’re good,” they chuckled. “Great,” Jason said, his voice cheerful. “Isla, don’t worry about her. She’s your senior, the wife. It’s her job to look after you guys.” His words were like knives, each one twisting in my heart. From our first date to our wedding day, Jason and I had been so good together. Everything changed the day Isla joined his company. At first, she was just “the new intern.” Then, she became “a bright girl, a fast learner.” Soon after, he stopped saying her name altogether. Instead, Isla just started appearing in his photos, always standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him, their smiles impossibly bright. I had confronted him about it so many times, only to be met with explosive impatience. “Rosalind! I work my ass off every single day, and I have to come home to your drama? Are you ever not exhausting?” “You’re so damn suspicious, why don’t you just chain me to the bed!” We had a massive fight that day. He stormed out and didn’t come back for a week, leaving me, pregnant and hormonal, to cry myself to sleep every night. Now I saw it clearly. It wasn’t my paranoia. It was his guilt. The emotional turmoil churned my stomach. I was terrified I would actually be sick, so I closed my eyes and tried to force myself to sleep. But they, bored with the long drive, decided to start a game of “Name That Tune.” The music blasted through the speakers, the noise making it impossible to drift off. I was caught in a hazy limbo until Mike’s triumphant shout jolted me awake. “‘Wrong Love’! That’s ‘Wrong Love’! I’ve got five points!” he roared with laughter. He turned his head and met my irritated glare. His face fell. “Uh… Rose… you wanna play with us?” Jason cut him off. “Don’t bother. She’s incredibly boring. A total stick in the mud. She’d just kill the vibe.” He forgot. He forgot that we met at a university club event, where he fell for me at first sight precisely because I was the most energetic and outgoing person in the room. He used to say he loved my cheerful spirit, that it gave him energy. Now, to save face for his colleague, he threw me under the bus without a second thought. “So what was it about Rose that made you marry her, Jason?” Isla asked, her voice a gentle prod. “A guy as amazing as you… she must have some special quality, right?” A faint, mocking smile touched Jason’s lips. “She’s… domestic, I guess. A good caretaker.” “Oh, so like a maid? But probably a really good one, right?” “Yeah, that’s the word I was looking for. A maid.” My nails dug into my palms. Staring at the back of their heads, at the easy intimacy of their banter, I gritted my teeth. “Someone as fun as you, Isla, would probably be a much better match for Jason, don’t you think?” Isla whipped her head around, her eyes already brimming with tears. “Rose! How could you say that? You’ve completely misunderstood. I just look up to Jason as a mentor, that’s all!” The tears began to fall in earnest. “I know, you must be jealous. It’s normal, pregnant women are so emotional. For your sake, and for the baby’s… Jason, you should just drop me off at the next rest stop. I can get a ride from there.” Jason’s face immediately softened with concern. He reached over to comfort her. “Isla, don’t listen to her. My wife has some… issues. She says crazy things. Don’t take it to heart.” “You just stay right where you are,” he assured her. “I would never abandon you.” Then, he turned his head slightly, raising his voice to a snarl. “Rosalind! Why is your mouth so damn vicious? Can’t you just sit in the back and be quiet? Do you have to guilt-trip Isla to feel good about yourself?” “You keep this up, and I’ll kick you out at the next rest stop. Stop embarrassing me. No class at all. And to think they call you ‘the wife’.” Mike and Kevin chimed in, rushing to Isla’s defense. “Rose, that was a really nasty thing to say. There’s nothing going on between Isla and Jason, you can’t just spread rumors like that.” “Yeah, jealousy is one thing, but this is crazy. Does pregnancy really make women lose their minds?” Their words came at me from all sides, a barrage that left me no room to speak. Rage and nausea surged within me. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that car, but the highway blurred past the window, a high-speed prison. My voice trembled. “Jason, I am your wife!” “So what? Because you’re my wife, I have to spoil you and cater to your every whim?” “Apologize to Isla!” A sharp pain lanced through my chest. I turned my head, ignoring him, and pulled out my phone. I found the name of the nearest rest stop on the map and sent it to my parents. I was done with this car. I was done with this ride. Jason saw me on my phone in the rearview mirror. He cranked the music up even louder. “Rosalind, you have time to play on your phone? Apologize to Isla, now!” “It’s okay, Jason. I’m sure Rose didn’t mean it,” Isla sobbed. “Jason, I am not going to apologize,” I said, my voice ice. “Rosalind, do you want me to throw you out on the damn highway?” he threatened. I stared him down in the mirror, my silence a wall of defiance. Finally, Mike broke the tension. “Hey, Jason, man, let’s not do anything crazy on the highway. Don’t want to get points on your license.” That seemed to cool Jason off. “We’ll deal with this when we get home,” he muttered. I turned my head to the window, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall. Whatever love I had left for him was evaporating with every mile. After my silence, the mood in the car grew heavy and awkward. Jason, having calmed down, tried a different tactic, his voice suddenly soft. “Rose, come on. We’re all friends here, and we have a long way to go. Let’s not make things weird over a few angry words, okay? You’re the wife, the older one. Be the bigger person. Show everyone that my wife isn’t some unreasonable shrew, alright?” I didn’t answer. He tried again, his tone wheedling. “Be a good girl. When we get to the rest stop, I’ll buy you those sour plums you love.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. I still said nothing. Humiliated again, Jason’s face hardened. He didn’t speak to me again. The car fell silent. I drifted into a half-sleep, only to be jolted awake by the acrid smell of smoke. My eyes flew open. “Who’s smoking? Don’t you know I’m pregnant?” A plume of smoke wafted from the front seat. “Rose, I asked Jason for permission,” Isla said. “He said it was okay.” “Sorry,” she added, not sounding sorry at all. “I just get stressed and need a cigarette. You’ll just have to bear with it.” “Rosalind,” Jason’s voice was cold. “You upset Isla. You made her stressed. You will bear with it.” Hearing this, Mike and Kevin in the back started shifting. “Well, in that case, mind if we light up too? We’re dying for a smoke.” I stared at them, horrified, my voice shaking. “You want my baby to breathe secondhand smoke?” “It’s just one cigarette, it’s not a big deal,” Mike said, blowing a cloud of smoke in my direction. He offered one to Jason. “Come on, man. You’ve been good for so long. Indulge a little.” Jason took it without hesitation. “Just this once, then.” “JASON! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND? THAT’S YOUR CHILD IN MY BELLY!” I screamed. Jason’s hand froze. He passed the cigarette back. “Fine, I won’t. You guys should put yours out, too.” “Jason, please? Let me just finish this one?” Isla whined, her voice a seductive purr. “Alright,” he sighed. “Isla, you can finish yours. After all, this is your wife’s fault.” “Hey! Well, we’ll finish ours too then, there’s not much left,” Kevin added. Jason glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Rose, just open the window a crack and let them finish. A little smoke isn’t going to kill the baby.” A sharp pain shot through my stomach. I stared at him in disbelief. “Jason, what kind of father are you?” “Rose, your husband is right,” Isla chimed in, exhaling another puff of smoke. “Don’t they say you should raise kids to be tough? If you start now, you’ll probably have a super healthy baby.” The smoke filled the car, a choking, disgusting miasma in the enclosed space. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I fumbled in my bag, pulled out a plastic bag, and vomited violently into it. The sound and the sudden, foul stench made everyone in the car recoil. “Ah! Don’t get that on me!” Mike shrieked from beside me. “Oh my god, that smell is disgusting. I think I’m going to be sick,” Isla complained. Jason’s voice was panicked, but his words were a warning. “Rosalind! Don’t you dare get that on my car!” In my haste, some of it did splash out. Tears from the violent retching streamed down my face, but I felt a strange sense of satisfaction. I had made them as miserable as they had made me, and I no longer had to suppress the urge to be sick.

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In the year we were at our absolute poorest, my mom was welcomed back into a billionaire family. I’ve always been obsessed with novels, especially the “switched at birth” kind. I used to lose myself in fantasies about the stories I read. If only I were the real heiress, swapped at birth, I’d think. Then I’d have so much money. I wanted to buy my mom a huge mansion and hire five or six male models to wait on her hand and foot. I never dreamed it would actually happen. Except, the long-lost heiress wasn’t me. It was my mom. And I? I was just your average, run-of-the-mill, third-generation trust fund kid. 1 My life just got a major upgrade, all thanks to Mom! Before I could even process this insane new reality, we were being whisked away to the Vance family estate. The villa was enormous, complete with sprawling gardens and a fountain that looked like it belonged in front of a palace. Holy crap, I thought, my mind reeling. Even after devouring thousands of “switched at birth” stories, I could never have imagined this level of opulence. It turns out poverty really does limit your imagination. I stuck close to my mom, my eyes darting around, taking it all in. As the real heiress, lost for thirty-four years, she was a wreck. The sudden revelation of her true identity had sent her on an emotional rollercoaster, and she was understandably nervous. I squeezed her hand, a silent promise that I was right here with her. “Janie, what do you think?” Mom whispered, tugging at her worn cotton coat. “Is this okay?” The coat was old, and if you got close enough, you could smell the faint, musty scent of being stored in a wooden chest for too long. But it was the best, and only, decent piece of clothing she owned. She only ever wore it for New Year’s. Still, standing in front of this three-story mansion, we looked completely out of place. “You look beautiful, Mom,” I said, and I meant it. In my eyes, she was the most beautiful person in the world. 2 I kept a bright smile plastered on my face, but inside, I was already composing a funeral dirge. Life in a wealthy family was never easy. The novels had taught me that much, with their brutal, predictable plots. The real heiress returns home only to face a family that favors the fake one, and a conniving, manipulative imposter who makes her life hell. But not on my watch. I wouldn’t let my mom suffer that fate. As we stepped inside, a group of people came to greet us. I was about to yell, “Where’s my sword?” when I got a good look at them. There was Mr. and Mrs. Vance, both in their fifties. A beautiful, stylishly dressed young woman. And her ten-year-old daughter… I was stumped. Surely that little brat, younger than me, couldn’t be the cuckoo in the nest? While I was lost in thought, Mrs. Vance and my mom were already crying and hugging. After a round of tearful, heartfelt introductions, I quickly got the lay of the land. The real heiress had returned too late. The story was already over. The fake heiress had taken the money, gotten married, and had a kid. Everything was settled. What the hell? I looked around, brandishing my imaginary sword, completely at a loss. My mom was sobbing her heart out in Mrs. Vance’s arms, crying “Momma” over and over again. I lowered my weapon. None of it mattered anymore. My mom had lived such a hard life. Her adoptive parents favored their son, forcing her to drop out of school to work and support the family. Even then, they beat her. When she was old enough, they tricked her into marrying a man just to get the bride price to pay for their son’s wedding. She had no power to fight her fate. Lying on her tiny bed in a makeshift room next to the toilet, she could only try to convince herself: Maybe life will be better after I get married. But life is cruel. The universe never did my mom any favors. She just went from one hell to another. After the wedding, my father quickly showed his true colors. He was an alcoholic and a gambling addict. Whenever he lost money and had too much to drink, he’d come home and take it out on my mom, his fists flying. For my sake, to give me a “complete” family, she endured it all, wiping away her tears in secret. Until the day his fists started flying at me. That was the day she finally found the strength to grab me and run, leaving that house and him behind forever. She didn’t want me to become the second version of her. After leaving my dad, things were even harder. A single woman with no education and no real skills, she struggled to raise me on her own. She worked three jobs a day, from dawn till dusk, doing the dirtiest, most grueling work imaginable. Eventually, she saved up enough to open a small food stall selling steamed buns near my school. But our lives didn’t get much better. Despite the poverty, she never let me feel deprived. She did everything in her power to give me a happy childhood. “Janie,” she’d always say, “as long as Mom’s here, you don’t have to worry about a thing.” But now, things were different. She had found her mother, her family. She finally had a place where she could cry without shame, a shield against the world’s cruelty. More than anyone, I knew how deeply she craved the warmth of a real family. 3 To celebrate our reunion, the Vances had prepared a lavish feast. There were so many dishes I’d never even seen before. Mr. and Mrs. Vance sat my mom down, and I squeezed in beside her. Mrs. Vance kept piling food onto my mom’s plate, asking her about her life with deep concern. Just as they were about to start crying again, Mr. Vance changed the subject. “You must be Janie,” he said, his voice warm. “From now on, this is your home too. We’re your grandparents. Don’t you think it’s time you started calling us that? Are you shy, Janie? Why don’t you say hello to your grandpa and grandma?” Suddenly being the center of attention, my mind went blank. I had come here ready to play the role of my mom’s vicious sidekick, and I hadn’t switched back to “sweet granddaughter” mode yet. The others chimed in, teasing me gently, and for a moment, the atmosphere at the table was warm and cheerful. Clatter! Across the table, the ten-year-old girl threw her chopsticks down. She was the fake heiress’s daughter, Chloe Grant. “They’re my grandparents, not yours!” she wailed. “You’re just a country bumpkin! A hillbilly! You don’t belong in our house!” The table fell silent. My mom instinctively pulled me behind her, her own face flushing with shame. I glanced over at the fake heiress, a woman named Dahlia Vance, who was sitting right there, saying nothing. Her silence was a tacit approval of her daughter’s outburst. Mrs. Vance frowned. “Chloe, you can’t talk to your cousin like that. Janie is our family now. She’ll be living here with us.” At that, the little girl cried even harder. “She’s not my family! Now that she’s here, Grandma and Grandpa won’t love me and Mommy anymore! You never used to scold me, Grandma! She’s a bad person! Her mom is a bad person too!” She turned to her mother, her voice thick with tears. “Mommy, are Grandpa and Grandma going to abandon us? But I don’t want to leave them! They love me the most!” Dahlia pulled the girl into a tight hug, then shot a cold, hard glare in our direction. “Mom, don’t forget what you promised me before she came back! You said nothing in this house would change because of her. It’s only her first day, and you’re already letting Chloe be bullied! I bet in a few days, you and Dad will be thinking about redividing the family assets!” A spoiled little brat and an arrogant mother. The fake heiress wasn’t even trying to hide her true colors. With the family fortune already in her hands and the powerful Grant family backing her, she had no need to play the victim to win affection. Mr. Vance slammed his hand on the table. “Dahlia, what nonsense are you spouting!” But Mrs. Vance’s heart softened. She opened her mouth to scold Dahlia several times but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she turned to my mom. “Evelyn,” she said, using my mom’s real name, “don’t take Dahlia’s words to heart. It’s my fault. But I promise, I will make up for all the years you’ve lost.” The subtext was clear: compensation, yes. Redividing the inheritance? Don’t even think about it. She coaxed softly, “I’ll have Mrs. Gable get a guest room ready. You and Janie can stay here tonight.” And just like that, I understood. The warmth from before was a mirage. In this house, everything belonged to the fake heiress, Dahlia. Even her parents’ hearts were tilted in her favor. Ugh. It’s 2025, and these clichés are still alive and well. 4 So we moved into the Vance estate. The “temporary guest room” was still bigger than our entire tiny apartment. I lay on the soft, plush mattress, fuming until three in the morning. In the moonlight streaming through the window, my mom’s sleeping face was peaceful and beautiful, which only made the Vances seem more sinister in comparison. Furious, I decided to do what I always do to calm down: read. I opened my massive digital library of “switched at birth” novels. I devoured them, one after another, with a vengeance. After Rebirth, I Destroyed the Fake Heiress’s Family. The Real Heiress’s Revenge: Reading Minds and Exposing the Fake. After Becoming the Real Heiress, My Whole Family Burned. And on and on, for what felt like a hundred books. Finally, I mentally screamed into the void: The real heiress has returned, but the story is already over! The manipulative bitch is married with a kid and has all the money! What do I do? HELP! URGENT! The books had no answers. This problem was too advanced. I was out of my depth. Suddenly, my throat was parched. I crept out of the room to get some water. And there she was. Chloe, dressed in a white nightgown, looking like a ghost. She was holding a glass of water, as if she’d been waiting for me. “Cousin,” she began, her voice dripping with false sweetness, “why did you have to come back? Why are you trying to steal my grandparents from me?” Her face twisted into an ugly mask. “They’re my grandparents! It would have been better if you and your mother had just died out there! Why did you have to come back? Go die! Both of you, just go die!” Before I could even react, she splashed the water in her own face, threw herself backwards onto the floor, and the glass shattered into a million pieces. Her small, pale hand landed right on the shards, and a deep gash opened up. Bright red blood dripped onto the white fragments, staining them crimson. In an instant, the entire villa lit up, and the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drum against my ribs. The world went silent, until Chloe, lying on the floor, started screaming at me. “Janie, Mommy and I didn’t mean to take your things! Please don’t hit me! I’ll give you whatever you want! You can have everything, just please don’t make us leave! Mommy loves Grandpa and Grandma so much, and I do too…” She lay there in Dahlia’s arms, her face pale, her bleeding hand still clutching Mrs. Vance’s sleeve. No one would ever believe a ten-year-old could lie like that. Wow. Just… wow. This family’s talent for manipulation wasn’t just genetic; it was getting stronger with each generation. This kid was a prodigy. “Janie…” I turned. My mom was standing there, her face ashen, her body swaying as if she were about to collapse. 5 Chloe was carried off to have her wound treated. The family sat in the living room, a heavy silence hanging in the air. Dahlia was the first to speak, her voice shaking with rage. “I never thought a child could be so vicious at such a young age!” “Mom, Chloe is only ten! Her hands are for playing the piano! I’ve protected her so carefully her whole life, never letting her get so much as a scratch! It’s their first day back, and Chloe is already hurt! You have to give me an explanation!” Mrs. Vance remained silent. Mr. Vance spoke, his voice cold. “It’s a good thing her hand isn’t seriously injured. If it were, we’d have a hard time explaining this to the Grants. If our families have a falling out over this, we can’t just let it slide!” Dahlia snorted. “Like mother, like daughter.” I was about to explode, but my mom beat me to it. “Janie didn’t do it. I know my child. Janie is the kindest girl in the world. She would never do something like this.” I stared at her, my vision blurring. “Mom…” She squeezed my hand, her voice firm and unwavering. “My Janie would never do something like this.” Mrs. Vance frowned. “Evelyn, I understand you’re a mother.” “But coddling her like this is only hurting her. Chloe is seriously injured. The doctor said she was lucky, she could have been scarred for life.” “You just got here, so you don’t know, but that child loves the piano. What if she could never play again? You’d be destroying her entire life. The evidence is right in front of you. Why are you still defending your child?” “Evelyn, listen to me. Have Janie apologize to Chloe and Dahlia. We can still be a family after this.” My mom pulled her hand away. “Mom! You said it yourself, I’m Janie’s mother! I carried her for ten months. I love her, I trust her, and I will protect her!” The unshed tears in my mom’s eyes seemed to sting Mrs. Vance. She looked away, her gaze flickering with guilt. My mom stood up straight, her shoulders back, and faced them all. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I want an investigation. Check the security cameras. That will clear Janie’s name.” I buried my face in her side, sobbing. I was so much luckier than my mom. I had her. I couldn’t understand how any mother could not love her child. Mrs. Vance was my mom’s mother, too. But I didn’t think she loved my mom at all. Mr. Vance scoffed. “Check the cameras? Isn’t this embarrassing enough? Have Janie apologize to Chloe! We’ve watched Chloe grow up. We know her. She wouldn’t lie.” “The child is already hurt! Can’t you even offer a simple apology?” The disappointment in his eyes was a physical blow to my mom, and her whole body started to tremble. The warmth she’d felt upon returning to her family had been fleeting. Reality had just slapped her hard across the face, giving her a glimpse of hope only to snatch it away. Footsteps sounded from the doorway. My mom’s older brother, Ethan Vance, had just rushed back from the office. He didn’t even bother with greetings. “You just got here and you’re already causing this much trouble!” he snapped. “Mom, Dad, if something serious happens to Chloe’s hand, can the two of them even take responsibility for it? How are we supposed to explain this to the Grants?” “I heard everything from outside. Apologize! Or I’ll have no choice but to call the police!” Ethan was completely cold towards this long-lost sister of his. My mom tensed up, her body rigid. I stared at them, dumbfounded. They were all completely insane. I couldn’t beat them. So I decided to join them. “No need to bother! I’ve already called the police!” The entire Vance family stared at me in shock. I slammed a small recording pen onto the coffee table and hit play. Chloe’s triumphant, taunting words filled the room, replaying the scene for everyone to hear. Having read so many “switched at birth” novels, did they really think I wouldn’t know the importance of a recording pen and hidden cameras? I didn’t have money to buy one, so I’d begged and pleaded with a classmate to let me borrow one. I never thought I’d actually need it. “The police will be here soon. I suggest you figure out what your little manipulator is going to say to them.” My original plan was to let the police handle the little liar. But now, they’d pushed me too far. I looked around at the Vances. Their eyes darted around the room, none of them daring to meet my gaze. My mom leaned in and whispered, “What’s a ‘manipulator’?” Just then, the family doctor came over. “Miss Chloe is awake now.” Dahlia turned to Mrs. Vance, her eyes red-rimmed. “Mom…” Mrs. Vance’s heart ached for her. She completely ignored the recording. “This was all just a misunderstanding. Since Chloe is awake, let’s just drop it. It was just kids being kids.” Even my mom, the one at the center of it all, could see that the Vances’ favoritism was as deep as the Pacific Ocean. Trying to find justice here was a fool’s errand. “When Chloe was the one who was ‘wronged,’ Janie had to apologize. Now that Janie is the one who was wronged, we’re supposed to just ‘let it go’?” My mom’s weakness was me. She had defended me even without proof. Now that we had it, there was no way she would let me swallow this injustice. Mrs. Vance’s voice softened. “Evelyn, a harmonious family is a prosperous one…”

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My wife, Ava, needed a guinea pig for her lover’s new wonder drug. So she had me committed. I’d just had surgery for stomach cancer, still weak and stitched up, when she sent me to a private psychiatric facility. They zapped me with electricity until I drooled, my body convulsing on the cold table. Through it all, Ava just covered her lover Ethan’s eyes, her voice laced with disgust. “It’s filthy. Don’t look.” Ethan’s “research” on me earned him a prestigious nomination. To celebrate, Ava set off a firework display that lit up the entire city. And I, under that same brilliant, festive sky, had my right leg amputated. The constant electroshock had caused the tissue to die. To hide his crime, Ethan arranged for a cheap prosthesis and threatened me never to tell Ava the truth. He told her my leg was just “injured” during an experiment. Numbly, I packed my own severed leg into a portable cooler. In seven days, at Ethan’s award ceremony, it would be my gift to her. … My eyes were red-rimmed as I begged Nate, one of the orderlies, for help. He was the only person in this hellhole who’d shown me an ounce of kindness, saying I reminded him of his brother. He didn’t have the power to save me from Ethan, but seeing me clutch my prosthetic leg, sobbing my heart out, he hesitated, then agreed. He’d just taken the cooler and turned to leave when he ran right into Ava. The faint, coppery smell from the box made her wrinkle her nose. She watched the orderly walk away before lowering her hand, her brow furrowed. But nothing could dampen her mood today; she was radiant, like a general returning from a victorious battle. “Ethan’s experiment was a massive success,” she said, her voice bright, almost speaking to herself. “He’s finally going to achieve his dream.” She’d been in my room for minutes, but her gaze was fixed on the fireworks blooming outside my window. She hadn’t spared me a single glance. Only when the silence stretched did her cool eyes finally sweep over me, her brow knotting in irritation. “Leo, this is the only thing Ethan has ever asked of you. You were just sitting at home recovering anyway, with nothing to do. Here, you can make some friends, help him out. You don’t have to look so miserable about it.” Friends. Let’s see. There was the old woman who’d snuck into my room to harass me. The old man who’d tried to strangle me, accusing me of stealing his money. The man who’d kicked me to the ground, screaming that I’d stolen his wife. These were the “friends” Ava was talking about. I was pumped full of Ethan’s drugs and subjected to repeated shocks until my leg rotted from the inside out. The doctor who treated me later said if I’d gotten to a proper hospital sooner, they could have saved it. But what good is a hospital when you don’t even have your freedom? Seeing me with my head down, my eyes burning with unshed tears, Ava finally moved closer, ready to question me. “Leo—” Her word was cut in half as her phone lit up. The moonlight fell across her face, illuminating an expression of pure, unadulterated happiness. She was so absorbed that in the twenty minutes she spent in my room, she never once noticed that my right leg wasn’t real. I was exhausted, about to drift off, when one of Ethan’s assistants came in with my daily dose of pills. The thought of my empty trouser leg filled me with a sudden rage, and I swatted the pills to the floor. Ava, who had been texting by the window, startled. She strode over, scooped the dusty pills from the ground without a second thought, and held them to my lips. Her voice was merciless. “This is part of Ethan’s research. If you don’t take them, how is he supposed to write his report?” Tears blurring my vision, I turned my head away, but she gripped my chin, forcing my mouth open and shoving the bitter pills down my throat. She was about to say more when her phone buzzed again. With a final glance, she turned and left, forgetting her coat in her haste. I knew why she was leaving. I opened my social media feed. The first thing I saw was a cute, goofy picture of Ethan with tissue paper stuffed up his nose. The caption read: Watched fireworks all night and caught a cold. Btw, taking an extra cold pill won’t kill you, right? Ava’s reply was the first in the comments. You have a cold? Why didn’t you tell me? You silly goose. We won’t know if it’s serious until you get checked out. Wait for me. She didn’t come back that night. After midnight, I silently wished myself a happy birthday. I remembered, before all this, Ava taking me for a check-up. The doctor had said my cancer surgery recovery was going well, and her face had lit up. “The day you’re fully recovered is your birthday! We have to celebrate properly.” But times had changed. Now, she was setting off a city’s worth of fireworks for Ethan’s meaningless nomination. The next morning, Nate brought me a small, palm-sized cake. “I remember you said today was your birthday,” he said, his voice soft. “But your leg…” He trailed off, but still lit the candle for me. His care was the only thing keeping me sane. I closed my eyes, made a wish, and was about to blow out the candle when a figure appeared in the doorway. Ava saw the scene, her brow twitching as if she’d just remembered something. “Oh. It’s your birthday.” Flustered, she fumbled in her coat pockets, searching for something, anything, to serve as a gift. What she pulled out was a half-empty box of condoms. Mortified, she shoved it back into her pocket. “That’s… someone must have put it there as a joke. I’ll get you a proper gift later.” I blew out the candle with a sharp puff. “Don’t bother.” Her face instantly darkened. She shoved her hands in her pockets, radiating impatience. “Are you really going to be like this over a gift? I paid for your father’s medical bills when he was sick. And now you’re giving me attitude over some stupid birthday? Don’t you think you’re being unreasonable?” I just bit my lip and listened. She was right. She was my family’s savior. The debt I owed her was one I felt I could never repay. Nate, sitting beside me, couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up and brushed past Ava on his way out, bumping her shoulder. She stumbled, her expression turning even uglier. She shot me a glare and turned to leave, only to run into Ethan, who was just arriving in his lab coat. Beneath the collar of his white coat, a faint red mark was visible. Ava’s anger vanished like smoke. She rushed to his side, her voice tender. “I told you to rest at home. Why are you here?” Ethan let out a theatrical sneeze. “You gave me your coat to keep me warm yesterday. I’m much better now.” He suddenly remembered I was there and pulled his adoring gaze away from her, offering me a strained smile. “I came today because there’s an important experiment we need to run. I’ll need your cooperation, Leo.” A jolt of terror shot through me. I looked at Ava, pleading with my eyes, shaking my head, silently begging her to say no. But she just smiled generously at Ethan. “It’s fine,” she said breezily. “He’s not doing anything else.” The knife I felt hanging over my head finally fell. Ethan’s lips curved into a smile. He looked back at me and added, “This one might hurt a little more, but you just have to bear it. You’ve been so cooperative before, Leo. I’m sure you’ll do great.” A deep, dark premonition coiled in my gut. Ava had poured a fortune into setting up this lab for Ethan. She let him test his concoctions on living people, even using barbaric electroshock therapy. And every time something went wrong, she was there to clean up the mess. She seemed to enjoy it. But I never thought she would let him torture me. I didn’t fight back. I owed her too much. But after this, I thought, the debt would surely be paid. At a clap of Ethan’s hands, a group of technicians entered with various instruments. Once everything was set up, Ethan draped his arm around Ava’s shoulders. “Ava,” he whispered, “I’m a little worried. What if this one fails?” Her heart clearly melted. She squeezed his hand, her voice overflowing with tenderness. “It won’t. Let’s go outside. They can just bring us the data when they’re done.” Inside the room, I lay on the cold bed, staring at the ceiling as they strapped down my arms and legs. The light blurred. My consciousness began to fray. As they increased the voltage, my body went numb, but my mind drifted in and out of a strange clarity. In the haze, I heard them scrambling, the clatter of metal. “Shit, what are you doing? You can’t even control the voltage!” Then, an all-consuming convulsion. A distant voice shouting. “Get him to the ER! Now! We might still have time!” I didn’t struggle. It was like being knocked out with a club. When I opened my eyes again, I was in a new, unfamiliar room. Before I could speak, a man’s voice cut through the silence. “You really worked hard for us, Leo. Here’s a little something for your trouble.” Ethan flashed me a mocking grin and pulled a single bill from his wallet, placing it on my pillow. He turned and came face-to-face with Ava, who had just entered. His sneer vanished, replaced by a frown of remorse. “It’s all my fault,” he said, looking down. “I was careless and caused Leo to pass out. I’ve already apologized to him.” Ava barely glanced at me. She stroked Ethan’s face with a doting expression. “It wasn’t your fault. You don’t need to apologize.” Then she paused, as if remembering something. She walked to my bedside. “The doctor said there was a problem with your leg. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” I said nothing. At the time, she was too busy watching fireworks with Ethan. I’d sent her countless messages. She hadn’t replied to a single one. Nate, who was standing beside me, started to speak, but Ethan shot him a threatening look, cutting him off. He turned to Ava. “It’s my fault. There was an unexpected complication with the experiment, and I was so busy handling it I forgot to tell you about Leo’s injury.” “Why would it be your fault?” Ava said lightly. “He’s fine now, it’s no big deal.” She forgave him on my behalf before I could even open my mouth. To keep Nate from talking, Ethan steered him out of the room. Ava turned back to me, a sliver of guilt in her eyes. “You’ve been cooped up for a while. I’ll take you out to a nice restaurant tonight. We’ll celebrate.” She didn’t wait for my answer, simply dragging me to a high-end clothing store and buying me a suit. As I was changing, she saw the mass of bruises, black and blue, covering my back. Her hand, holding out the shirt, faltered. But in the end, she said nothing. She made an excuse and waited outside. Guilt? The thought was so absurd it was almost funny. She saw the state I was in, and she felt guilty? Everything she saw was her own damn handiwork. At the restaurant, Ava’s eyes never left her phone. At one point, she disappeared to the restroom for over twenty minutes. When she returned, she finally remembered to ask the waiter for a menu. But she was completely distracted, randomly pointing at a line on the page. The waiter was baffled. She was pointing at the restaurant’s address. With a sigh, I took the menu and ordered for both of us. The food had just arrived when Ava suddenly stood up, grabbing her coat. “Ethan’s getting bullied at a party. I have to go, now.” She started to leave, then paused, her voice cold. “You should come too. It’ll be hard to get a cab this late.” In the car, she was silent, her eyes glued to her phone, terrified of missing a message. We rushed to the location Ethan had sent. The private room was anything but a scene of bullying; it was loud and celebratory. The moment Ethan saw me, his smile vanished. He quickly composed himself, looking down with an expression of self-reproach. “I didn’t know you were with Ava, Leo. I only sent her the address because I lost a dare.” Ava, still catching her breath from rushing in, showed no sign of annoyance. “It’s not a big deal. We were just having dinner.” Every eye in the room fixed on me. I dug my nails into my palm, wanting to end the farce. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going.” I turned to leave, but Ethan called out. “Leo, my research isn’t finished yet. You can’t go home. You should stay in the hospital a while longer.” A mocking voice piped up from the crowd. “So that’s Ethan’s little test subject. No wonder he’s covered in scars.” Another person chimed in. “Scars are one thing, but look at him. A cripple in a suit that expensive. What a waste. It’s hideous.” I kept my back to them, biting the inside of my cheek to swallow the lump in my throat. Ava acted as if she hadn’t heard a thing. “Ethan’s right,” she said, her voice firm. “You’ve come this far. You can’t give up now. Go back to the hospital.” I gritted my teeth, enduring it. But before I could even leave the room, my phone rang. It was the hospital. “Mr. Evans? It’s about your father. His condition is critical. If you can, you should come back… to say goodbye.” My world exploded. I tried to run, but two burly men, clearly bodyguards, blocked my path. I struggled, turning to Ava with desperate, pleading eyes. Her face was a mask of displeasure. “Ethan has worked so hard to get here. Do you have to cause trouble at the last minute?” Seeing my silence, her voice hardened, leaving no room for negotiation. “You are going back to the facility. Tonight.” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “My father is dying! I have to see him!” For a fleeting second, she seemed moved. But then Ethan tugged on her sleeve, his face a mask of wounded innocence. Her tone shifted instantly, becoming harsh. “There’s plenty of money in your father’s hospital account. What good would you do there? Ethan has been nominated. The awards are in a few days. Can’t you stand to see him succeed?” My throat closed up. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Her face was a storm of impatience. She gave a slight nod. The bodyguards seized me, dragged me out, and unceremoniously threw me into the back of a van from the psychiatric facility. The journey was long. I was locked back in that cold, dark room. It wasn’t until I saw the official notification of my father’s death that the world shattered completely. Images, sounds, memories—they all crashed down on me. It was like being plunged into a frozen lake. In the days that followed, I was a walking corpse. Ethan could do what he wanted to me. I no longer fought back. On the final day, Ava accompanied Ethan to the award ceremony, a constellation of flashing camera lights. And I was finally free. With a plane ticket Nate had bought for me, a heavy box of ashes, and a body full of scars, I went home. The moment I landed, my phone screen was flooded with missed calls. All from Ava. I thought for a moment, then typed out a single message. Ava, I want a divorce. Then I blocked her number and disappeared into the crowd. Back in my old, run-down neighborhood, I let out a breath I’d been holding for months. I was halfway through packing up my father’s apartment when Nate called. “It’s all over the city news…” Before he could finish, I opened the video link he’d sent. It showed Ava, calm and composed, getting ready backstage. Her evening gown was a perfect match for Ethan’s tie. Nate, just as I’d asked, brought the cooler to her. Ava recognized him, pausing as she adjusted Ethan’s tie. A mocking smile played on her lips. “Did he send you?” she asked. “Knowing him, he’s probably petty enough to put a bomb in there, isn’t he?” The stylists and makeup artists around them burst into laughter. Nate just placed the cooler on the table, his voice unnervingly calm. “Mr. Evans asked me to give this to you. He said it was a gift.” Ethan frowned, looking at the cooler with disdain. “Ava, what good could possibly be in there? Get someone to throw it out. The ceremony is about to start.” Ava scoffed and gestured for her assistant to take it.

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1 I wanted to buy my husband a Tang dynasty Sancai horse for our anniversary—his favorite. But out of nowhere, a mysterious bidder emerged, invoked the “Jade Gavel,” and snatched the porcelain horse right out from under me. As I was leaving, a notification popped up on my phone: a charge to my husband’s supplementary credit card, from this very auction house, for the exact price of the Sancai horse. In a panic, I called the bank and had the card frozen. At the collection counter, a stunningly beautiful woman was forced to flee in a storm of ridicule. Two weeks later, my husband, Ethan, and I were on vacation abroad. The moment we stepped off the plane, I was drugged. I woke up in an iron cage. The host, in broken English, announced to the crowd, “Today, we auction this woman. Highest bidder takes all!” And there, in the audience, sat Ethan, his eyes dark and vicious. “Wren, you love stealing the show, don’t you? You love snatching someone else’s moment. Well, tonight, you can have all the spotlight you want.” A wave of terror washed over me as I stared at the sea of faces below. My scalp prickled with fear. They were all holding copies of my full-body medical scan, appraising me like livestock. “Look at this one. Well-maintained. Every organ is in perfect health. She’d be a prime catch, whether you take her home whole or part her out for a sick relative.” “I have to say, I’m surprised. Ethan Vance, of all people. Willing to put a woman like this on the block. We can’t let an opportunity like this pass us by.” “I heard she’s his wife. He’s got a new piece, you know. Who wants old goods when you have something fresh?” I followed their knowing glances and saw him. Ethan. Sitting in the middle of the crowd. A chill, deeper than any I had ever known, seeped into my bones. My body, bound to the iron bars of the cage, thrashed against the metal, the clanging sound echoing my frantic heartbeat. My nails dug into my palms, drawing blood. Just yesterday, we were planning this trip, wrapped in each other’s arms, whispering sweet nothings. And now, the “friend” he said was bidding on the Sancai horse for him, a woman named Isla, was curled up in his lap, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. “Ethan, why are you doing this to me?” My voice was a raw, broken thing, lost in a storm of sobs. He leaned back in his chair, a lazy, cruel smile on his face. “My wife is far too elegant, too magnificent, to be kept hidden away for my eyes only. Good things should be shared, don’t you think?” The crowd roared with approval, urging the host to begin. Powerful men from all over the world, a veritable rogue’s gallery, were here. They waved their black bidding paddles in the air, shouting out which parts of me they wanted—my heart, my kidneys. Ethan leaned over and kissed Isla, then rose and walked to the stage. He kicked the cage, the force of the blow splitting my lip. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. “Wren, as the organizer of this little event, I’m going to do you a special favor. I’m giving you the right to bid on yourself. You can have your moment in the spotlight. You can feel for yourself the humiliation you put my Isla through.” His handsome face was a mask of pure, mocking malice. The murderous glint in his eyes told me he had no intention of letting me leave this auction house alive. “Go on,” he taunted. “Invoke the Jade Gavel.” The room erupted in laughter. “The Jade Gavel? How? Didn’t Mr. Vance register all your joint assets under his name when he came in? Unless he’s willing to foot the bill, Mrs. Vance doesn’t have a penny to her name.” Ethan feigned surprise. “Oh, dear. I completely forgot. The same account can only be registered to one person. What a shame, darling. And I have to buy Isla a new necklace tonight. My hands are tied.” My eyes widened in disbelief. I couldn’t fathom that these words were coming from the man I had loved for eight years. “You tricked me into coming here, you drugged and kidnapped me, you organized this entire black market auction… just to sell me off?” “Why, Ethan? Because I froze the card when Isla invoked the Jade Gavel?” He stared at me, his eyes cold, savoring my pain. “Of course. Do you have any idea how helpless she felt that day? Humiliated in front of all those people. She endured it. And so can you.” He gave me no chance to reply. He turned and walked off the stage, tossing one last, chilling sentence over his shoulder. “Put her in shackles and seat her in the front row. The best way to break someone is to make them watch their own descent into hell, powerless to stop it.” From the audience, Isla blew me a mocking kiss. “Don’t worry, Wren. I won’t be bidding against you tonight.” 2 The auction hall was a cacophony of cruel cheers. Someone whistled. “Is Mr. Vance really going to let his beautiful wife get fucked to death by strangers? Hahaha…” Ethan simply raised an eyebrow, his expression indifferent. “If my wife doesn’t like it, she can always invoke the Jade Gavel. If she can’t, well, that’s her choice. I’m a very democratic man.” The crowd murmured in agreement. “That’s right. I heard she invoked it herself when she was bidding on that Sancai horse, but Mrs. Vance shut her down. She must have the resources. We’ll get to see her in action tonight.” Amid the noise, the auction bell rang. I was led from the cage like a dog on a chain and shackled to a chair in the front row, directly in front of a massive screen. My medical report and a series of intimate photos scrolled across the screen, and a wave of humiliation, so powerful it threatened to drown me, washed over me. My hands, bound together, trembled. My mind raced. Ethan had registered all our assets under his name. By the rules of this black market, an account couldn’t be used by two people. I didn’t have a hundred dollars to my name, let alone enough to invoke the Jade Gavel. He had planned this perfectly. He knew my financial situation down to the last cent. If even one part of my body was sold, my life would be over. I was a lamb led to the slaughter, bound and helpless. We had been married for eight years. I had been with him when he was a nobody, and I had stood by him as he clawed his way to the top of the corporate world. I had never complained about the hardships. When he finally made it, I had happily stepped back, content to be the supportive wife behind the successful man. And now, to appease his mistress, he was going to send me to hell. The chatter around me was a relentless assault of lewd, disgusting comments. “A woman trained in bed by a man like Vance… she must be incredible. I’m going to buy her whole and find out for myself.” “No way. I’ve had my eye on her feet. I’m going to have them cut off and preserved as a work of art. The thought of it… it’s enough to make me come right now. You can’t have them.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, using every ounce of my willpower to remain upright. Finally, the auctioneer took the stage and announced the start of the bidding. I shot to my feet, the chains rattling. “Wait. I need to wash my face.” Ethan turned to me slowly, his eyes filled with a dark, unreadable mockery. “Wren, don’t even think about escaping. The security here is airtight. Not even a fly can get out. Save your energy.” I ignored the searing pain in my body and stared into his cold, black eyes. “If not even a fly can get out, then what’s the harm in letting me wash my face? Or are you too stingy to even grant me that small mercy?” The room fell silent, all eyes on us. It was a silent, bitter war. A few of the men he knew well grew impatient. “Don’t waste our time, Vance. We’re all waiting. Let’s just get on with it.” “Yeah, what’s the hold-up? I’ve got a hot tub waiting for me and the missus back home.” Finally, under the expectant gaze of the crowd, Ethan’s face hardened, his eyes turning a deep, stormy black. “All of you, shut your mouths.” 3 The host had spoken. The room fell silent. An attendant unlocked my shackles and replaced them with handcuffs. I walked, head held high, to a washbasin outside the main hall. The moment the cold water touched my wounded hands, the tension that had held me together snapped. I collapsed beside the basin, the tears I had held back for so long finally falling. My phone was still in my pocket, but my account had been completely emptied. Balance: $0.00. If I was sold tonight, I couldn’t even imagine the horrors that awaited me. I could be passed from man to man, used and abused, and then, when they were done with me, dismembered and sold for parts, never finding peace even in death. And my mother, who was in a coma in a hospital back in the States after a car accident, would be left to die a slow, hopeless death as her medical bills went unpaid. I had no way out. Finally, I made my decision. Gritting my teeth, I opened the encrypted email on my phone and found the contact I had buried so long ago. The sound of rushing water was the only thing that broke the terrifying silence. The dilapidated building felt like a lair, hiding some great beast ready to pounce and tear me to shreds. I sent the coded message. My hand fell, limp, to my side. Five minutes later, I dragged myself back into the auction hall. As I pushed open the doors, all eyes turned to me. There was shock, mockery, and a cruel, eager anticipation. Ethan was holding a cigarette, the smoke curling around his inscrutable face. He wrapped his arm around Isla and, with a glance in my direction, said, his voice dripping with false sincerity, “Darling, I love you. And anyone who dares to hurt you will pay the price.” I walked back to my seat without a word, leaving a trail of bloody footprints on the floor. “You can start now,” I said, my voice a raw, shredded whisper. A murmur went through the crowd. The auctioneer looked at Ethan for confirmation. He just sneered and nodded. “Since Wren is so eager, let’s officially begin.” The lights in the hall dimmed. The first item for auction appeared on the screen. My hands. Every inch, from my wrists to my fingertips, was displayed in high-definition, my pores visible. On my right hand, my ten-carat wedding ring was a cruel, mocking joke. It was a Shakespearean tragedy, and I was the star, my pathetic fate on display for all to see. I felt like I was already dead. Just then, Ethan, with Isla still in his arms, moved to the seat beside me. He leaned in close, his voice a low whisper in my ear. “I’m your husband, after all. And Isla is a generous woman. If you apologize to her and agree to a divorce where you get nothing, I’ll help you out. This one time.” A cold smile touched my lips. So, he didn’t just want my life. He wanted to swallow our shared assets whole, then play the victim of a cheating wife as he paraded his mistress down the aisle. I said nothing. My silence was my answer. The bidding began. “For the hands of Ms. Wren Davis, we’ll start at five hundred thousand dollars. Bidding increments of one hundred thousand.” The paddles shot up instantly. In seconds, the price had soared to two million. Ethan’s voice was a persistent poison in my ear. “Think about it, darling. Soon it will be too late.” The bidders were now crowding around me, their eyes greedy, fixed on my clenched fists, waiting for the final gavel. And then, I, who had been silent for so long, slowly raised my hand. My eyes were filled with a desperate, all-or-nothing resolve. “I invoke the Jade Gavel,” I said, my voice ringing with a newfound strength.

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Three days before my wedding, a car swerved and turned my spine into a shattered ruin. My fiancée, Victoria, made a great show of ensuring the driver was sent to prison. I lay in a hospital bed, a ghost trapped in a broken body, refusing to wake up to the nightmare of my new reality. In that hazy twilight of consciousness, I heard Victoria speaking with my doctor. “Ms. Hayes, if we operate now, we can still save him. A few more days, and Mr. Crawford will be paralyzed for life! You just want Avery as your groom—is it really worth condemning a man to this?” the doctor pleaded, his voice low and urgent. Victoria’s reply was ice. “Paralyzed is paralyzed. I’ll take care of him for the rest of his life. If he recovers, he’ll destroy the wedding.” Her voice dropped even lower, a conspiratorial whisper. “I promised Avery I would welcome our child into the Hayes family with all the dignity he deserves. Only when Ethan is completely broken will he love my child as his own. A cripple is manageable. At least he won’t be able to hurt my son.” In a corner no one was watching, a single tear traced a path from the corner of my eye, disappearing into the pillow. So, this was the truth. The wedding I had anticipated for so long was nothing but an elaborate lie. The love I believed was my salvation was actually my death warrant. Fine. If this is what she wanted, I would play my part. 1 “No more questions. Stick to the plan,” Victoria commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The vasectomy needs to be clean. I don’t want him finding out.” “Once he’s awake, I’ll take him to the children’s home to pick up our son. When he knows he can never have children of his own, he will cherish Rosie with all his heart.” The doctor wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his face etched with pity. “Ms. Hayes, please, reconsider. The man is already a paraplegic. This surgery… it’s not just his body you’re mutilating, it’s his spirit. How will he ever hold his head up in front of your family? For God’s sake, he’s a man…” “Besides,” the doctor added, his voice dropping, “your son with Mr. Quinn is three years old now. The boy is the spitting image of you. If Ethan ever finds out, everything will be ruined!” Victoria ignored his plea. She reached over, her movements practiced and steady, and gently wiped my chapped lips with a damp cloth. Her voice was filled with a strange, sorrowful affection. “He won’t find out. Once he’s a cripple, he’ll be confined to the Hayes estate for the rest of his life. He’ll never take a step outside those walls.” Her voice hardened again. “I promised Avery I would give him a magnificent wedding. I promised I would watch our child grow up. Even if he’s married to someone else now, I will never let him face any hardship alone.” The doctor let out a long, defeated sigh, his gaze falling on my pale, still face. “Ethan is a good man. You two grew up together… and yet you’re still chasing that… never mind. It’s your choice. Do as you wish.” “Prepare for surgery,” she ordered. “And remember: be discreet. I don’t want any scars. Do it before Ethan wakes up. I don’t want him to feel too much pain.” The doctor hurried out of the room. Victoria pulled out her phone and sent a voice message to her assistant. “The driver didn’t talk, did he? Pay his family the two million, as we agreed. Help them move out of the state. Make sure Ethan never finds them.” Tears streamed uncontrollably from my eyes, soaking the pillow beneath my head. All the while, Victoria continued to gently sponge my body with warm water, yet a profound, bone-deep chill spread through me. So, the wedding I had dreamed of for five years was just a stepping stone for Avery. The car crash was no accident. It was just her, clearing an obstacle for her true love. The happiness I thought was mine was a mirage, a beautiful, fragile bubble. The truth of our relationship was built on a foundation of lies and brutal betrayal. I fought to open my eyes, to scream, to rage. But a sharp prick in my arm was followed by a spreading numbness. Anesthesia. Just before they wheeled me into the operating room, Victoria leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to my lips. “Shh, my love. It will be over soon,” she whispered. “I’ll be waiting for you, Ethan.” The cold, metallic instruments twisted inside me, and my shattered heart turned to ice. When I next opened my eyes, I was back in the private room. Below my waist, there was nothing. No feeling, no sensation. Just a dead weight that used to be my body. Victoria was at my bedside, her face a perfect mask of worry. The moment I stirred, she took my hand, pressing it to her cheek. “Ethan? You’re awake! Are you in pain? Does anything hurt?” she asked, her voice filled with concern. “Tell me, and I’ll have them change your medication.” The same adoring expression she had always worn, but now, her eyes were cold, empty voids. It was astonishing, the lengths one person would go to for another. I shook my head weakly, my hand reaching up to touch her face. “You haven’t slept, have you? I’m okay. You should rest.” She didn’t question it. Seemingly relieved, she relaxed her guard and soon drifted off to sleep in the chair beside me. I reached for her phone on the nightstand. It unlocked with a familiar swipe. The wallpaper was one of our pre-wedding photos, a picture of two people madly in love. Her messaging app was still open. The pinned contact was simply named “Avery.” I tapped on it. The chat log was filled with cute cat emojis and dozens of photos of Avery holding a small child. “Rosie was calling for Mommy again today. She’s so little but already knows her mom is beautiful. She’s going to be a heartbreaker.” “Rosie had a great appetite today. She ate the whole cake you sent, all by herself.” “Rosie wants to go to the amusement park with her mom. She won’t listen to me. Can you find some time to come over?” Victoria hadn’t replied in text. But beneath each photo was a log of a two-hour video call. I remembered her telling me once that she didn’t like children. I finally understood. It wasn’t that she didn’t like children. She just didn’t want a child with me. She had a private photo album dedicated to Avery. The password was the child’s birthday. Five thousand photos chronicled three years of a little boy’s life. For every major holiday, every milestone, Victoria was there, by their side. The second chat was with the wedding planning company. From the very beginning, a month ago, the groom’s name on all the documents was Avery Quinn. The tuxedo was tailored to his measurements. The invitations were penned in their joint handwriting. From the start, she never intended for me to be at my own wedding. A bitter, self-mocking smile twisted my lips. I didn’t need to see any more. I used her phone to contact my best friend, Mark, and told him to find me a hospital abroad, one that could perform a restorative surgery. I also had him begin the process of erasing my identity in this country. Mark didn’t ask too many questions. He just assumed I had finally seen Victoria for the monster she was, his messages filled with relief and support for me. I put the phone down and let sleep claim me. I was awakened by the sound of Victoria’s heartbroken sobs. She was clutching a hospital report, her shoulders shaking. “Ethan… the doctors… they found something during the tests,” she choked out. “It’s a congenital condition. You… you can’t have children.” “But don’t worry,” she rushed to add, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t care. I’ll never leave you. No matter what, you will always be my husband.” “When you’re out of the hospital, we can adopt a child, okay? Having a child around will help you heal. You’ll get better, I promise.” I was the one who had supposedly lost the ability to have children, but she looked more devastated than I did. Her performance was flawless. I was too tired to call her on it. After a long silence, I looked at the falsified report in her hand and gave a slow, deliberate nod. Tears of gratitude streamed down her face as she pulled me into a tight embrace. “I will take care of you, Ethan. Don’t be afraid. No matter what anyone says, I will always be on your side. After we’re married, I’ll transfer all my assets to your name. As a guarantee.” Our chests were pressed together, but our hearts beat to entirely different rhythms. After a moment, she pulled back, her expression hesitant. “It’s just… the wedding is all set. With your body still recovering, perhaps we should…” “Find someone to stand in for me,” I finished for her. “We can’t lose face for the Hayes family.” I knew what she wanted. Better to offer it myself than to be maneuvered into it. At least this way, I could retain a shred of dignity. Victoria was stunned by my easy compliance, but with her goal achieved, she didn’t press the matter. Her phone buzzed with a notification. She glanced at it, and her brow furrowed. “Ethan, what’s this about canceling your official documents?” I quickly swiped the notification away. “It’s nothing,” I said smoothly. “Just an old ID that expired. It’s all done online.” She accepted the explanation without another thought, pulling me into an even tighter hug, her voice thick with pity. “You’re not well. Anything you need, just tell me. I’ll handle it for you.” “Victoria,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “I want to go home.” A flash of panic crossed her face. “No. You’re not recovered. I can’t allow it.” I gently caressed her cheek, a faint smile playing on my lips. “Didn’t you say you wanted to take me to adopt a child? We have nurses at home. Nothing will happen. I just… I want to see the children’s home. Please?” In five years together, it was the first time I had ever shown her such vulnerability. She couldn’t resist. She softened and agreed. On the way, she pulled out a selection of cakes she had waiting in the car, laying them out for me. She said she’d bought them especially for me. But the label, clearly marked ‘Safe for Toddlers,’ was another small, sharp sting. I closed the bag and tossed it into the back seat, feigning fatigue and closing my eyes. This five-year charade was about to end. We had just entered the children’s home, me in my wheelchair, when a little girl ran up and hugged Victoria’s leg, chanting “Mommy, Mommy!” over and over. Victoria’s face paled. Fearing my suspicion, she explained hurriedly, “Don’t misunderstand. I’m a patron of this home. I’ve visited a few times, and this little girl is an orphan. She calls me that.” I nodded, smiling as I reached out to pat the child’s head. “She looks a lot like you. If you hadn’t told me, I would have thought she was yours.” “What’s her name?” “Rosie. She’s the one I was planning to adopt.” Before she could say more, Rosie started crying, wailing for her “Daddy.” Victoria’s face went white. She shot a nervous glance at me. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice calm. “Go comfort her. She’s a beautiful child. I like her too.” My words were a balm to her panic. She relaxed, scooped the child into her arms, and disappeared into an office. I made an excuse about needing the restroom and wheeled myself away. But as I neared the hallway, I could hear the staff gossiping. “Why is Ms. Hayes making her own kid pretend to be an orphan? That outfit is designer, worth more than my life. Who’d believe she’s an orphan?” “You don’t get it. This is her plan to get the kid into the family legitimately. Just play along and don’t slip up in front of Mr. Crawford.” “Figures. Her heart always belonged to Mr. Quinn. They used to volunteer here together back in college. I knew it then. A man and a woman, alone in that office… wonder what they’re up to right now…” Their suggestive laughter was a physical weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I moved my wheelchair to the office door. I could hear familiar voices from within. “Is she good to you?” It was Avery. “She’s fine,” another voice replied, a woman’s. “She’s in another country most of the time, so she can’t take care of everything. Which is good. She won’t find out about Rosie. She’s even talking about having a baby with me.” Victoria’s voice, laced with a bitter amusement. “Once Rosie is officially a Hayes, you won’t have to worry. Just message me if you need anything. Oh, and here. I bought you this watch. A wedding gift.” Avery accepted it with a flirtatious wink. “Another gift? We’ve only been married a year, how many wedding presents is that? My closet is overflowing. Ethan would be upset if he knew.” He said it, but his hands moved quickly to secure the gift. Rosie giggled, throwing her arms around him, calling him “Daddy.” Just then, the director of the home, eager to process the paperwork, rushed toward me and threw open the office door. A flash of pure panic crossed Victoria’s eyes. “Ethan! What are you doing here?” “Don’t get the wrong idea,” she stammered. “Avery is a volunteer here. He just happened to be visiting today, to talk about me adopting Rosie…” Avery stood up, holding Rosie, and gave me a casual wave. “Ethan. Long time no see.” I sat in my wheelchair, forced a smile, and choked back the wave of nausea. “It’s fine. I was just looking around. Since you’re busy, I won’t bother you. I’ll wait in the car.” I turned and left. Victoria, thinking I was angry, chased after me, offering a flurry of explanations. “Don’t misunderstand. He volunteers here all the time. All the kids call him ‘daddy.’ I’ll explain it to Rosie once the adoption is final.” Seeing her so flustered on my account was almost funny. She had orchestrated a car crash to paralyze me, all to bring this child into her home. Now that her wish was granted, who was this pathetic, guilt-ridden act for? “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not that unreasonable. You finish the paperwork. I’ll be good and wait in the car.” She breathed a sigh of relief and watched me go. Every staff member I passed looked at me with an expression of pity and contempt. I ignored them, took out my phone, and finalized the cancellation of my identity. To celebrate bringing Rosie home, the Hayes family held a dinner party. I used my recovery as an excuse to stay upstairs. But the mocking laughter of Victoria’s parents drifted up from below. I wheeled myself to the landing. I could see the three of them—a perfect family—at the dining table. Victoria was lovingly placing Rosie’s favorite foods on her special plate. Avery was teasing her, saying she would spoil the child rotten. Victoria just smiled, stroking the little tiara in Rosie’s hair. “She’s my daughter. She could burn the world down, and it would still be her greatest achievement.” The dam of suppressed grief inside me finally broke. I went back to my room and began tearing apart every gift Victoria had given me over the past five years, throwing the pieces into the trash. As the bin toppled over, Avery suddenly appeared in the doorway. He kicked my wheelchair, sending me sprawling to the floor. Pain shot through me, and I broke out in a cold sweat. He just grinned down at me. “Hurts, doesn’t it, Ethan? Being a broken man.” “All these years, and you’re still as useless as ever.” “Watching your own wedding happen with my name in your place. Watching your wife bring home my son. And you have to just swallow it all. I almost feel sorry for you.” I struggled to pull myself up.

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Four years ago, my mother and father went to the Atacama Desert. My mother, Helen, returned from the expedition not long after, but my father, David, refused to give up. He vanished into the desert, and for four years, we heard nothing. Then, just last week, the official word came from the authorities. My father, missing for four years, was confirmed dead. All that was left of him was a tattered backpack and a diary. The canvas of the pack was stained with blood and matted with hair. A DNA test confirmed our worst fears. It was his. My mother and I held a funeral with an empty casket, burying only the backpack and the diary in a memorial grave in our backyard. But on the third night after the funeral… my dead father came home. He stood there smiling a chilling smile, caked in dirt and dust, without a trace of human warmth, as if he’d just clawed his way out of the earth. “Lily,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “Did you miss your daddy?” … A shiver traced its way down my spine. I squeezed a single word from my throat. “Yes…” His smile widened. He reached out with a rough, calloused hand and pinched my cheek. The coldness of his touch was alarming, sinking deep into my bones. It wasn’t the temperature of a living person. I was terrified. My father was dead. His last known possessions were buried in the empty grave behind the house. So who—or what—was this thing standing in front of me? In a panic, I called for my mother. She was showering upstairs and yelled down, asking what was wrong. I hesitated, then told her everything in a rush. “Mom, Dad’s home!” “What?!” A minute later, she ran down the stairs, still damp, her robe hastily tied. She looked ready to scold me for talking nonsense, but then she saw him. Standing in our living room. My father smiled his weary, weathered smile and pulled a few rocks from his pocket. “Helen, I’m back. I know it’s been hard on you, running the house and taking care of Lily all these years.” “I brought you these stones from the Atacama. A souvenir.” He tried to press the stones into my mother’s hand, but she flinched away. They fell to the floor with a heavy, dull thud. Mom stared at the rocks on the floor, her expression a mask of horror. Her lips pressed into a thin, white line. I couldn’t tell if she was more afraid of my father, or of the stones themselves. But Dad just kept smiling. It seemed to be the only expression he had left. His idea of romance—bringing home rocks from his adventures—was just as tone-deaf as ever. Nothing had changed. My father was an adventurer at heart. Before they were married, both he and Mom were part of an amateur exploration club. After they married, Dad quit the official club but was still constantly away, forming small expedition teams with other enthusiasts. When I was born, he stayed home a little more, but you couldn’t chain down his free spirit. He went on his trips all the same. In my memory, the only one who was ever trapped was my mother. When I was little and I cried, she would cry with me. I remember her cycles of breakdown and recovery, a long, slow grind until I was old enough for her to go back to her job as a nurse. My father never understood her sacrifices. He just complained that she had become boring. Every place he conquered, he brought back a rock for her. Her vanity wasn’t filled with jewelry or makeup, but with a collection of stones from all over the country. And now, there was one more. Forget my mother; even I thought it was cruel. I wanted to throw it as far as I could. But Dad just smiled that chilling smile and asked, “What’s wrong, Helen? Don’t you like it?” “I love it,” Mom replied, her voice cold as ice. She told him to go upstairs, take a shower, and get some sleep. He agreed without argument, still smiling as he went upstairs. The moment we heard the shower start, Mom grabbed my arm and dragged me into a corner, her grip like a vice! “Lily! Listen to me very carefully! Remember every word!” her voice was a panicked whisper. “That man is not your father! Your father is dead in the Atacama!” “No matter what he says, no matter what he does, do not believe him! He is not your father!” A father returned from the dead should have been a miracle. For us, it was a curse. I was used to it being just Mom and me. Having this… father… in the house made my skin crawl. The next morning, Mom left early. She sent me a text saying she had to take care of something important and might be gone for a few days. She transferred a sum of money into my account and told me to take care of myself. Her last message was a stark reminder. “Don’t trust him, Lily. He is NOT your father!” My heart leaped into my throat. I had barely finished reading the text when I sensed a shadow behind me. I spun around to see my father’s face, his lips stretched into that unnatural smile. “Good morning, Lily. Texting your mom? Where is she? I didn’t see her this morning.” “She went to work,” I said quickly. “She has a business trip. She’ll be back in a few days.” Dad’s smile didn’t falter. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his eyes glinting as he easily dismantled my lie. “Your mother is just a nurse. She has business trips?” “Of course,” I improvised, my mind racing. “She’s up for the Head Nurse position. There’s a provincial competition. She’s been working so hard these past four years, Dad. Juggling her job and taking care of me.” I turned the question back on him. “What about you, Dad? Where have you been for four years? Why didn’t you call, not even once?” He paused. For a second, the look behind his glasses turned sharp and cold. But the smile remained plastered on his face. He began to tell me about his time in the desert, the dangers he faced, the vast, empty beauty he witnessed. He spoke in great detail, as if he really had been there for four years, and he had all of Dad’s memories of Mom and me. As he spoke, my eyes kept darting to the empty grave in the yard. I thought of the diary. It had to contain the real story of what happened to him in the Atacama. Mom had forbidden me from reading it when the police returned it, saying it would be too traumatic, that I’d never recover from the loss. She buried it to protect me. But what if I dug it up now? Could it give me a clue? If I compared its contents to what this man was telling me, maybe the truth would come out. I tucked the idea away and continued to make noncommittal conversation with him. At noon, he offered to cook lunch. The day wasn’t particularly warm, but he cranked the air conditioning, setting it to a very low temperature, letting the cold air blast directly onto him. Amidst the recycled air, I caught a faint, strange, foul odor. But I didn’t dare say anything. I just pretended not to notice and ate the meal he prepared. It tasted just as bad as I remembered his cooking. Nothing unusual there. After lunch, he said he was tired and went to his room to rest. He took another shower first, then went into his room and turned on the air conditioning, again setting it very low. As I walked past his door, a chilly draft seeped out from under it. The room inside was pitch black; he had drawn all the curtains. He had developed a sudden love for the dark. I noted all of this but kept silent, retreating to my own room. Once I was sure he was asleep, I grabbed a shovel and crept out to the backyard. I started digging. The memorial grave wasn’t deep. It only took me about fifteen minutes. I pulled out the backpack, retrieved the diary, and stuffed it inside my shirt. I quickly filled the hole back in and ran back to my room before he could wake up. I locked my door and windows, my heart pounding with anticipation as I opened the diary. It was definitely my father’s handwriting. The first twenty or so entries chronicled his journey into the Atacama. He wrote that he had entered the desert without issue and had met another expedition team, joining them on their journey. They decided to change their route to visit the ruins of Humberstone, a 19th-century ghost town in an undeveloped sector of the desert. Then, for a long time, the diary was blank. Pages and pages of empty paper. When the writing resumed, it was a single, terrifying sentence, written in what looked like blood. “Lily! If you’re reading this, run! Your mother is not your mother anymore…” “Run, do you understand?!” The chilling, blood-red words burned themselves into my mind. I gasped, and the diary fell from my trembling hands. As it hit the floor, a photograph slipped out. The photo was taken against a backdrop of a dusty, twilight-orange desert landscape. In the distance were the crumbling ruins of the Humberstone ghost town. And half-buried in the sand was the body of a woman. Her face had been gnawed away by scavengers, making her unrecognizable, but I knew the clothes she was wearing. And the bracelet on her wrist… I recognized it instantly. It was a bracelet I had made for my mother four years ago on a trip with my friends, with a small, laser-engraved message of love hidden on the clasp. But how did that bracelet end up in the Atacama? And who was this dead woman? My mind was a tangled mess of questions, my nerves stretched to their absolute limit. A knock on my door jolted me back to reality. “Lily? Are you sleeping? Why is the door locked?” It was my father. He jiggled the handle, his tone urgent, a stark contrast to his earlier gentleness. “Lily, open the door!” “Lily, what are you doing in there? Why are you locking the door in your own home? Hiding from your own father?” His voice grew more agitated, more accusatory. “What are you really doing? Do you have a boy in there? Is that it? You think you can sneak him in while I’m asleep? You have no respect for me at all!” He was shouting now, twisting the handle frantically, kicking at the door. I was frozen with fear. I tried calling my mother, but her phone went straight to a “not reachable” message. The next second, the door burst open, splintering from the frame! I had managed to hide the diary just in time. I watched, terrified, as my father stormed in, his face a mask of rage. He scanned my room, his eyes wild. “Where is he? Where is he!” “Lily, where did you hide that little bastard?!” I couldn’t even breathe. I could only cry silently. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad. There’s no one here. I was just taking a nap.” “You need to lock the door for a nap?” he sneered. His eyes were cold as stone. “Don’t you ever lock this door again. Do you hear me?!” I curled into a ball on my bed and nodded. Instantly, his expression changed. He smiled and reached out to pat my head. “Good girl. That’s my good Lily.” As he touched my head, I smelled it again. That foul, rotting odor. My father was not my father. And whether my mother was still my mother… I no longer knew. Everything had become a terrifying mystery.

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I slipped the powder into my husband’s dinner. When his mother caught me, she just scoffed, “That little bit ain’t gonna do squat.” Later that night, she took a knife and cut off her own son’s manhood herself. 1. I was five months pregnant, and this felt like judgment day. Mama Mae said if I couldn’t give her a grandson this time, she’d pass me around to every man in this hollow. Said maybe once I’d earned back the money they paid for me, they’d sell me off to someone else. The creaky examination table in the clinic felt like the judge’s bench. “Well, Billy? Is it a boy?” Mama Mae craned her neck, squinting at the ultrasound screen Dr. Evans was holding. But the way Dr. Evans’ brow furrowed and his face fell made my heart sink. Sure enough, the next second, Mama Mae’s fist slammed into my chest. “You good-for-nothing tramp! Cost my boy ten thousand dollars, and you can’t even pop out a boy!” As she pulled her hand back, she slapped me hard across the face, making my head spin. God, that hurt, you old hag. I lowered my head, clutching it, and rolled my eyes so hard they nearly stuck. If I’m a tramp, what does that make you, practically crawling into bed with your own son every night, you dried-up old prune? “It is a boy!” Dr. Evans stepped in quickly, seeing the raw patch where she’d yanked my hair earlier. He even took a shove from Mama Mae meant for me. “It’s a boy, see? This little bump right here, that’s the little fella,” Dr. Evans explained, pointing carefully on the screen, even circling the spot with a pen so she’d understand. “It’s a buck! A buck!” Mama Mae, nearly seventy, flushed red and practically jumped for joy. But just as quickly, she calmed down, shot me a look full of hate, like she’d just remembered something unpleasant. I ignored her glare, scrambling off the table to see for myself. Relief washed over me. Only then did I dare sneak a glance at the old woman standing by the table, one hand on her hip, the other patting her own flat stomach. Sixty-something years old, hasn’t had a period in God knows how long, and still dreaming of having her own son! I scoffed silently. “Abby, your scalp is bleeding pretty bad. Let me give you something for it,” Dr. Evans said. He sat on a worn wooden stool in his white coat, his long fingers and the pen gleaming in the sunlight. After writing something down, he pulled a small paper packet from a cabinet and pressed it into my hand. Two packets, I thought, feeling the rough paper. I tried to subtly slide one up my sleeve. But Mama Mae snatched the packet right out of my hand and tried to shove it back at Dr. Evans. While doing it, she poked me hard, her fingernails caked with dirt digging right into my injured scalp. It felt like she wouldn’t stop until she drew blood again. “Don’t need it, don’t need it! She’s tough as nails, a little scratch like this? Ain’t worth using medicine on! It’ll heal on its own!” I’ll kill you someday, you miserable old witch! I kept my head down, wincing but not daring to make a sound, pretending to be meek and agreeing. My mind, though, was racing with ways to get rid of her. Luckily, Mama Mae was too busy arguing with Dr. Evans to notice my expression. They went back and forth all the way to the clinic door. Until Dr. Evans finally said, “It’s on the house.” “Well, thank you kindly then, Billy,” Mama Mae instantly stopped arguing, a folksy smile spreading across her face as she let Dr. Evans put the packet back in her hand. It was mortifying. As we left, we thanked Dr. Evans again and again, bowing and scraping like he just handed her the winning lottery ticket. By the time we walked from the clinic back to our cabin, word had spread like wildfire through Hollow Creek. Everyone knew Cletus, the man whose wife couldn’t seem to produce an heir, was finally getting a son. Big news! Cause for celebration, maybe crack open some moonshine. 2 Walking home, I stuck out my belly, which wasn’t even showing much yet, and put on a big, happy smile. After that day, my life in Cletus’s house got a little easier. They didn’t keep me locked up inside as much, the beatings lessened, and sometimes I could even wander around the hollow a bit. People started getting used to seeing me out and about. “That’s just how it is for women! Marry a man, he puts food on the table and clothes on your back. Gotta make the best of it,” one neighbor told me. “A man hitting his wife ain’t the worst thing. Long as he provides, just gotta learn to humor him,” another chimed in. “Men are just like big kids, really. Spoil ’em a little, and they’ll eat right out of your hand.” When the woman next door, Jenny, tried to run off again and got dragged back, I stood in the crowd watching. “That’s your neighbor, ain’t it?” A woman nudged me with her elbow, nodding towards the scene. “Ma’am, careful! I’m carrying a boy, you know,” I muttered, rolling my eyes inwardly and stepping away from her clumsy nudge. “Sure is,” I finally answered. “Honestly, marryin’ one man’s same as marryin’ another, right? Jed’s family, they’re better off than most around here. What’s she got to complain about? Just doesn’t appreciate what she has.” Standing there, watching Jenny tied up and beaten nearly senseless, a sick kind of superiority washed over me. But the trail of blood dripping on the dirt path unnerved me. I clutched my belly and carefully backed out of the crowd. No, I gotta protect my son. Can’t let anything happen to him. The thought sent a chill down my spine, like someone was watching me. I looked around, left and right, but saw no one staring. Still, I felt like the other women were jealous. I hurried away from the crowd and ran back towards the cabin. “Soon as that bitch pops out the boy, we sell her off quick to those idiot brothers down the holler. Then Ma’ll buy you a new wife, son.” I hadn’t even stepped inside when Mama Mae’s venomous words froze me in my tracks. I thought having a son would make things better. Clutching the bag of groceries, I ducked behind the corner of the house to listen. “Aw, Ma! Where we gonna get the money for that? Let her pop out a couple more boys first, then we’ll talk,” Cletus mumbled back. His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Freezing cold. He was agreeing with her – sell me again, squeeze more money out of me. In that instant, I saw my future clearer than ever, and it was worse than Jenny’s. At least Jenny was still alive. If they sold me off again, especially to those two… I wouldn’t last long. “Mark my words, son. Once she has that baby, you will sell her.” Mama Mae’s cryptic comment jolted me. I remembered something she’d vaguely asked me to help her with earlier, and my teeth clenched with hatred. Those brothers she mentioned were born slow, dirt poor, strong as oxen, and meaner than snakes when they got riled. If I got sold to them, forced to take care of both… would I even survive? “Ma! There’s some commotion goin’ on outside!” I called out, deliberately standing further away before walking into the yard with the groceries, head down. No way I’m letting that old hag sell me to those two. I can’t die here. I have to find a way out. I made a silent promise to myself. 3 That day, some church folks came by dropping off donation boxes, and Cletus brought home a bag of rice. Mama Mae pulled out a piece of pork, deciding to splurge, and sent Cletus out to fetch some liquor. While tending the stove, I found the packet of powder Dr. Evans had given me. Looking at the amount, I clicked my tongue. “Still seems like not enough.” My hands were shaking as I emptied the powder into a bowl. Just as I was about to reach for a spoon, I looked up and saw Mama Mae standing right there, frowning at me. A cold sweat broke out all over my body. Did she see? Before I could even finish the thought, a stinging pain exploded on my cheek. “Useless thing!” Mama Mae snatched the packet from me, dumped the rest of its contents into the bowl, and stirred vigorously with a spoon until the white powder disappeared. Still not satisfied, she added two huge spoonfuls of sugar before finally stopping. “That little bit ain’t gonna do squat! Don’t you even care about your man?” Muttering curses, she carried the bowl out. Before leaving, she deliberately kicked the empty packet into the firebox under the stove, watching it burn. Only after she left did I finally let out a breath. I unclenched my fist. The bit of powder I’d managed to palm was damp with sweat, but still usable. I mixed it into the thick gravy simmering on the stove. The gravy was dark and strongly flavored; the powder wouldn’t be noticeable. That evening, Mama Mae and Cletus ate and drank with gusto. The combination of the drug and the alcohol knocked them both out cold. Quietly, I opened the cabin door, planning to use this rare chance to escape. Everything went smoothly at first. In the distance, the rickety wooden bridge connected Hollow Creek to the outside world. It felt like a lifeline. Cross that bridge, and I’d be free! Head down, I hurried towards it, almost breaking into a run. Almost there, almost there, almost free! But then, maybe a hundred yards from freedom, I stopped. I gave up. I turned around and went back.

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My dad believed in a tough-love, trial-by-fire kind of upbringing. Even though he was a billionaire, he threw me into the slums from the time I was little, left to suffer all sorts of humiliation. The person he sent to “take care” of me pocketed most of the money, feeding me nothing but plain bread and pickles every day. Constant malnutrition and oppression made me timid and insecure. Unable to take the bullying anymore, I jumped from the roof of a building. And after I died, my dad just gave my corpse a cold glance, completely unfazed. “This character build is a wash. Time to start a new one.” But what he didn’t know was, the new character was still me. I opened my eyes in a chaotic void, a warm sensation surrounding me. Memories flooded in like a tidal wave. The excruciating pain of my skull being crushed, bones shattered in my previous life, jolted me awake. I shot up in surprise. Had I been reborn? “Oh, honey, the baby’s kicking! So strong! Definitely going to be someone important someday.” “Of course. How could Rex Thorne’s kid be anything less?” Familiar voices drifted through a muffled barrier. I looked at my newly formed hands and feet and finally confirmed the truth. I had become Rex Thorne’s second experiment. Rex Thorne had clawed his way up from being the kingpin of his old, rough neighborhood. Dirt poor, he’d fought his way to notoriety. In his early years, he’d amassed wealth through sheer brutality, and with a stroke of luck on a few investments, he quickly became a billionaire. After his success, he rebranded himself as a renowned philanthropic entrepreneur, an inspirational legend for countless people struggling at the bottom, a symbol of someone who’d transcended their class. This also cemented his belief that only hardship could forge true talent. So, he’d tossed me, barely weaned, into the slums, assigning only a lazy, gluttonous caretaker named Brenda Lee to look after me. My biological mother had been forced by him to have me in the first place; she had no say in anything. Later, unable to bear Rex Thorne’s abuse, she chose a sunny day to overdose on pills and died. And all of this, Rex Thorne had viciously told me on the day I died, just before I breathed my last. “Useless thing. Your mother was useless, and you’re even more useless.” “Can’t even handle a little hardship. Good riddance. You would’ve just been a waste of space anyway.” With that, he’d turned and left without a shred of sentiment, rushing off with his mistress to start his “new character.” He left my body to rot, exposed and forgotten. But fate has a way of turning, and karma’s a bitch. What he never expected was that the “new character” he had such high hopes for was still me. And this time, I was going to make him pay a hundredfold. 2 The woman carrying me now was named Crystal Summers. Though her name sounded sweet, she was anything but. She’d climbed into Rex Thorne’s bed even before my first mom had taken those pills. She was a master of flattery, but Rex, despite being a total scumbag, was obsessed with his public image. Even with a string of women on the side, he only recognized my first mother as his legitimate wife. He wouldn’t give anyone else that official status until she was dead. Because of this, Crystal Summers resented my first mom, constantly scheming against her, both openly and secretly, causing her mental state to deteriorate until she finally killed herself. She even sent many of the people who bullied me, wanting me dead and out of the way. Thinking of this, rage boiled up inside me. Push-ups, backflips – I thrashed around in Crystal Summers’s womb, using the umbilical cord as a jump rope, putting on a full acrobatic display. I kicked out, and my tiny foot made a sharp bulge on her belly. She writhed on the bed in pain, wailing and crying out while simultaneously praising how “robust” I was. “Ouch, it hurts so much! Woo-hoo, ha-ha-ha, my baby’s little foot is so strong! It’s amazing, it’s going to kick right through Mommy’s tummy! Aaaah, ouch, you little rascal, it hurts so much!” Thanks to my relentless torment, Crystal Summers was practically half-dead throughout her pregnancy. On the day of delivery, I clawed and kicked my way out, ensuring maximum tearing for her. Blood pooled on the floor before I finally emerged. Her nether regions were a mangled mess. After that, Rex Thorne never entered her room again. When I opened my eyes, I saw the face that made me clench my teeth in hatred. Rex Thorne, seeing the sturdy physique I’d developed from torturing Crystal, beamed, his face wrinkling up like a Shar-Pei’s. “Wow, look at these strong little arms! And these thigh muscles! Just like his old man back in the day!” I gave a wicked little smile, wrapped my tiny hands tightly around his neck, and with all my might, started slapping his face, left and right. “Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!” Rex Thorne had specifically invited the media to film this “tender” moment, wanting to project the image of a great, loving father. And this “loving” scene was, of course, clearly recorded by dozens of cameras with their long lenses and flashes. The reporters all had awkward, forced smiles. Rex Thorne, his face swelling up, tried to play it cool, his grin looking more pained than a sob. “Ha-ha-ha-ha, oof, see? This kid… loves me so much, ouch, ha-ha-ha, so strong.” 3 Later, I displayed astonishing linguistic and athletic talents. I was speaking fluently at eight months, even becoming a linguistic prodigy seemingly overnight, and by ten months, I was walking steadily, even able to jog a little. Because of this, Rex Thorne doted on me. In my previous life, I was thrown into the slums before I was even five. But this time, I was almost six, and he still hadn’t made a move, constantly clinging to me, which I found incredibly annoying. So, I escalated my kicks and punches, yet he’d just stare at me with stars in his eyes. I never knew Rex Thorne had a bit of a masochistic streak. “This is my boy!” “That good-for-nothing first one deserved to die! Should’ve died sooner! If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have such a smart and adorable kid now!” Crystal Summers beamed, rushing over to hug Rex Thorne intimately. “That’s right, darling. The baby takes after you, a real chip off the old block.” Thanks to me, Crystal Summers hadn’t rested well at all during her postpartum recovery. Her face was sallow and waxy. Rex Thorne pinched his nose and disgustedly pulled away, muttering as he walked towards the bathroom. “Jesus, you stink! How long has it been since you showered?” His words hit Crystal Summers like a ton of bricks. A wave of shame and anger washed over her face. Because I constantly demanded her attention, she hadn’t even had time to shower. If she tried to hand me over to the maternity nurse, I’d scream bloody murder. She was barely hanging on by a thread after childbirth. Just then, I “accidentally” pulled out the phone I’d swiped from Rex Thorne’s pocket while he was holding me. The screen was vibrating non-stop. Flirtatious messages and risqué photos from various side pieces brazenly appeared right before Crystal Summers’s eyes. She puffed up like an angry mother hen. “You bastard, Rex Thorne! I just had your baby, and you’re already out wining and dining other women! I’ll kill you!” Clutching the phone, she stormed towards Rex Thorne. But before she could even utter her accusations, he sent her flying with a vicious backhand. 4 “Who the hell gave you the nerve to go through my phone?! Trying to control me? Who do you think you are?” “Take a look at yourself! I can’t even eat looking at that face of yours! I’ve only been putting up with you for our baby boy’s sake. Don’t push your luck!” Crystal Summers was stunned by the slap, covering her face, looking at him helplessly, her large eyes welling with tears. Rex Thorne couldn’t be bothered with her. He hastily scrolled through his phone and bolted out the door as if his butt was on fire. I watched this woman – tears streaming down her face, milk leaking from her breasts, blood from below – with cold indifference. I felt no sympathy. She who lives by screwing others over, gets screwed over. Serves her right. But as Crystal Summers sat on the floor crying, she suddenly burst into loud laughter. I thought she’d had a mental breakdown that quickly and was starting to feel bored, but then Crystal slowly stood up, a smile on her face. “You old bastard, you’re a real piece of work, but I’m no pushover either.” “You really think Rocky is your kid? Ha-ha-ha-ha, you old fossil, you’ve been shooting blanks for years! Dream on!” My eyes widened. So, Thorne Junior Number Two wasn’t even his biological child. The irony was, Rex Thorne, who valued blood lineage above all else, had personally killed the only true bloodline he had in this world. Pathetic and laughable. Since that was the case, I decided to give him another little push. While Crystal Summers was lost in her own main-character revenge fantasy, I grabbed her phone, unlocked it in a jiffy, and typed in some relevant information. Then I started wailing to get Crystal’s attention. Sure enough, she quickly looked over, annoyed. With Rex Thorne gone, Crystal didn’t bother pretending to be a virtuous wife and mother. She was about to wave for the maternity nurse to come soothe me when she inadvertently glanced at the phone screen. Her eyes instantly lit up.

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