Category: English

I have always hated my sister. I never understood why, even though we are twins, she has everything—beauty, popularity, grades—while I am the complete opposite. She is the school’s golden girl, the valedictorian-to-be. And me? I’m fat, not particularly smart, and introverted. My only friend hangs out with me just because she hates Lily as much as I do. People at school don’t believe I’m Lily’s twin sister. They often mock me with exaggerated laughs: “Oh my god, Emma, is Lily really your sister? You two are like night and day.” “Emma, why is your sister so perfect and you’re so… tragic? Did you mutate in the womb?” Of course, they only dare to say these things to my face. Because if Lily heard them, she would stare at them blankly until they apologized to me. But if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have to endure this in the first place. So every day, I silently pray in my heart. If only Lily had never existed. 1 I didn’t always hate Lily. When we were little, for a long time, I was proud of her. She has been a star in school since she was young. I have never seen anyone better looking than her. Even in the uniform school clothes, she stood out in the crowd as if God favored her and gave her an extra filter. Not to mention her unparalleled grades. When I was painfully memorizing multiplication tables in elementary school, she could already use algebraic equations to solve word problems. Usually, the younger twin wouldn’t call the older one “sister,” but when I was little, I was most excited to point at Lily standing on various podiums and brag to my friends: “See that? That’s my sister.” They would often look at me with envy, jealous that I had such an amazing sister. When did this situation start to change? Probably once after I finished bragging, a kid asked me seriously and confusedly: “Emma, why is your sister so outstanding, but you are so mediocre?” Mediocre. That was the first time I heard that word. Before that, I never felt how bad I was. Maybe because Mom often told me: “Emma, you are the normal child. Your sister is a super mutation, so don’t compare yourself to her. In Mom’s heart, you and Lily are equally excellent, understand?” I would nod obediently every time, knowing I wasn’t bad, just that Lily was too outstanding. That was the first time someone asked me, why are you so mediocre? Yeah, why? Why did we grow in the same womb, and Lily was only born eleven minutes and eight seconds earlier than me, yet she is so excellent? Of course, this doubt was fleeting. When Lily used her prize money to buy me cake, I would forget all about it, rush over to hug her arm, and say Lily, you are the best. Lily would turn her head to look at me, her face, carved like white jade, looking cold. From a young age, she had a coldness that pushed people away. She turned a blind eye to my coquetry and only said indifferently: “You can eat after you finish the exercises I gave you.” I wailed loudly. Mentally, Lily and I seemed to differ not by eleven minutes and eight seconds, but by eleven years and eight months. Of course, Lily isn’t perfect either. I don’t know if this is a common problem for all geniuses, but her emotions are much scarcer than ordinary people. Later, when I watched the BBC show “Sherlock,” I often saw Lily’s shadow in the genius named Sherlock. Only she is a bit more taciturn. When Lily and I were babies, she already showed characteristics different from ordinary babies. Mom said she rarely cried, always staring quietly at the environment with a pair of dark eyes. Occasionally, when annoyed by my crying, she would frown and cover my mouth with her hand. Later, when she learned to speak and walk, at the age when children are annoying, she would always sit there quietly, playing with those educational toys and quickly finding the patterns. Her precociousness worried my mom. Although people around us praised my mom for her good fortune, saying this child looked extraordinary and would surely amaze the world in the future, Mom still often looked at Lily and frowned. This worry reached its peak when Lily and I were six. That year, I picked up a sparrow with a broken wing, holding it in my palm to bring back for Mom to save. The next day, Lily dissected the sparrow. The sparrow was carefully cut open from the middle of the abdomen. Its heart, lungs, and kidneys were neatly arranged on the side. Lily looked up amidst Mom’s suppressed scream of surprise, even wearing plastic gloves stained with blood. She really didn’t understand the horror on my and Mom’s faces, just explaining seriously: “I read in a book that ‘although the sparrow is small, it has all the vital organs.’ I just wanted to verify if it was true.” I was scared into crying loudly and had a high fever that night. I remember being afraid of Lily for a while because of this. Mom took Lily to see a doctor, but fortunately, Lily didn’t have an antisocial personality disorder; she just had mild Asperger’s Syndrome. After the third or fourth grade, no signs of this syndrome could be seen in Lily. She talked normally with other kids and participated in group activities. Mom thought Lily was cured. Only I felt it was because of Lily’s high IQ. She was good at observing and learning. She just gradually found the skills to get along with people from Mom’s attitude of facing a formidable enemy. She couldn’t feel the emotions of others at all, nor did she have any feelings for anything, except me. Only with me would Lily show emotions that didn’t belong to high-functioning autism. She seemed to like me very much. Even though I hated her so much later, my genius twin sister with emotional barriers seemed to give me her only normal human emotions. 2 Lily didn’t really have any hobbies. She didn’t like sweets, pretty new clothes, amusement parks, traveling, or the daily updated teen dramas. She didn’t even immerse herself in books because she liked them, but because she found the things in them more interesting than real people and events. The reason I say she seemed to like me is that she would use her prize money to buy me desserts, buy me skirts I liked, and bring me limited edition posters of stars whose names she never knew. She knew all my preferences like the back of her hand and satisfied me as much as possible. After I gradually distanced myself from her in middle school, she liked to look at me quietly with a frown from time to time. I knew she was observing me. When encountering something she didn’t understand, she observed quietly until the mystery was solved. She didn’t know why I distanced myself from her. I distanced myself from Lily, initially just because of the shame of puberty. The passage of time widened the gap between Lily and me. She became fairer and prettier, her exquisite features clear and refined, her body tall and slender like growing shoots, just like Snow White in comic books, plus her report card that always ranked first. I don’t know if it was the nutritional distribution in the womb for twins, but my body was weaker than Lily’s when I was young. I often took medicine when I was little. At that time, the difference between Lily and me wasn’t particularly big. At least in appearance, I was a cute little dumpling. But when peers started puberty in fifth or sixth grade, I seemed to be played at 0.5x speed. My body expanded horizontally, becoming fat. Even though I deliberately controlled my diet, I still gained weight uncontrollably even drinking water, plus my increasingly terrible grades. These made me gradually sensitive and inferior. Lily and I were not in the same class, but my teacher’s favorite sentence to me was: “Emma, can you learn from your sister?” I comforted myself that every teacher who said this to me might have started with the intention of hoping for my improvement, a good starting point. But their gaze looking down from the podium always contained a fleeting… regret and disgust. As if saying why the one assigned to this class wasn’t Lily. Whenever this happened, classmates would turn around to look at me in unison, their eyes filled with sympathy, understanding, and pity. I shrank myself again and again, wanting to shrink into the desk hole to shield all these gazes. But it was useless; these gazes followed like shadows. Although I went from bragging about Lily to never mentioning her, every time Lily shone brightly on the podium, I could always hear whispers pointing at me: “That’s Emma, Lily’s twin sister. Weird, right? They are twins, but not alike at all.” “Huh? That’s her.” “Are she and Lily fraternal twins? I heard fraternal twins would be completely different.” “God, the gap between her and Lily is as big as a fairy and an ugly duckling.” Of course, I understood this discussion was just curiosity, unrelated to malice—children’s malice is always hidden under a cloud of innocence. Also, Mom’s attitude towards me at home became more and more cautious. Lily and I didn’t have a father. He sacrificed himself to save a drowning person before Lily and I were born, so Mom raised us alone. She is a good mother. To avoid partiality caused by the huge gap between the two children, she tried her best to praise me from all angles, wanting to avoid my increasingly unbalanced and inferior mentality. Even between Lily and me, she paid more attention and care to me. I didn’t want her to be sad. Thinking of this, I would hide my inferiority and jealousy well, pretending nothing was wrong to talk and get along with Lily, ask her questions, be a coquettish and innocent sister, making my alienation from her look not so alienated. Maybe my emotions were often erratic, so Lily would often frown at my abnormality, as if not understanding what was wrong with me. As if I were the hardest problem she had ever done. She didn’t understand, which was right. Human emotions are ever-changing, complicated enough that even the person themselves can’t understand, let alone Lily who only knew a little about emotions. She wouldn’t hear the words I heard, and everyone around looked at her with admiration and praise. Although she didn’t care about these, she wouldn’t encounter everything I encountered. I tried hard to counsel myself psychologically. I told myself Charlie Munger once said: “In a person’s long life, there are two things that must never be done. The first is never to feel sorry for yourself, and the second is never to be jealous—jealousy is the only one of the seven deadly sins that has no fun at all.” Until she and I advanced to high school together. 3 Lily gave a speech on stage as the representative of new students. On the first day of enrollment, she became famous throughout the grade. Good grades, good looks, especially that cool aloofness. When I returned to class after the ceremony, she had become the recognized school beauty of the new grade. People in the class were discussing the name of the girl who just spoke on behalf of the freshmen and why she was so pretty. I sat by the wall without saying a word, attempting to make myself invisible from this topic. But it was useless. This town is just this big. There were many familiar faces in the same grade. From those whispers containing “Lily,” “twins,” and so on, I saw many gossiping eyes looking back towards me. Then, without exception, with obvious disappointment and shock, as if saying: “What, she is the school beauty genius Lily’s twin sister?? Genetic mutation?” I had learned to turn a blind eye to such gazes. Lily and I were not assigned to the same class. When I was packing my bag after school, I heard wow sounds in the class, boys’ voices especially prominent. I looked up out the window and unsurprisingly saw Lily standing at the classroom door waiting for me. Even though I had faced that face every day since birth, I still had to admit that every time I saw Lily suddenly, I would subconsciously marvel from the bottom of my heart, how could someone be so favored by the Creator. Lily stood expressionlessly at the door, habitually ignoring these amazed gazes, just waiting for me—we have gone to and from school together every day since we were young. But now, I suddenly wished she hadn’t appeared outside my classroom. On the way back, I remained silent. Lily turned her head, her clear and clean eyes like mercury reflecting my small shadow. She asked me: “Is someone bullying you?” Her expression was quiet, her tone flat, as if just asking casually. I knew she was serious. If I casually said a name, then within three days, the person I mentioned would definitely have bad luck. This is from my experience. Before elementary school, when Lily hadn’t become famous for her grades yet, nosy relatives often asked my mom if Lily was autistic. She was too cold and withdrawn, her emotions not like a child, overly stable to a scary degree. But she already knew how to protect me then. Kindergarten kids often snatched my things. Because I was weak and wouldn’t fight back like other kids or cry to the teacher, they called me “sickly,” pushing and pulling me to snatch my things. Every time this happened, Lily would open a pair of pitch-black eyes, quietly watching the person bullying me. Later, without exception, these people either found bugs in their schoolbags, or yellow sand mixed in their water cups and lunch boxes, or tripped over something unknown and fell flat on their backs, or fell off monkey bars or something else… I paused. The sentence “Lily, let’s go our separate ways from now on” spun around my mouth, but I held it back in the end. I forced a smile at Lily and whispered: “I don’t know anyone in the new class. Just started school, maybe still a bit unaccustomed.” Lily looked at me thoughtfully and didn’t speak. The next day, I heard my homeroom teacher quarreling with the homeroom teacher of Class 3. Because Lily submitted a class transfer application, the reason being she wanted to be in the same class as her sister. Class 3’s teacher naturally disagreed—Lily was the most promising student of the new batch. He was counting on Lily getting into or being recommended to the best university to bring him glory. My teacher was overjoyed upon hearing this. The two argued fiercely because of Lily. While they were arguing, the principal happened to pass by, asked in surprise what happened, and laughed after hearing the story. I think this might be the highlight moment of my entire high school life because the principal personally came forward and asked me if I wanted to transfer to Class 3 to be with Lily, or if I wanted my sister to transfer to my class. In my brief academic career so far, I have never been taken so seriously, of course, because of Lily’s halo. I wasn’t flattered but wanted to scream, to emit a majestic roar from the bottom of my heart. But I was too nervous. All eyes fell on me. I just felt suffocated, opened my mouth but couldn’t say a word. Finally, the principal made the decision and let me transfer to Class 3. Because they didn’t want the good student who brought glory to the school to move around. Unable to resist, I packed my things. When I stepped into Class 3, I experienced invisible bullying again. A slew of surprised, sympathetic, or amused looks and attention. Someone even exaggeratedly shouted, eyes scanning back and forth between Lily and me, then opened their mouth wide, whispering to the classmates around. This attention caused by Lily was like the flame of a pile of firewood, roasting me slowly bit by bit. It wouldn’t give you direct relief, but like boiling a frog in warm water, it eroded your endurance bit by bit. The unbearable numbness and hate penetrated from the skin to the bone, unable to break free, until it suddenly erupted. The teacher asked me to introduce myself. I ignored him directly, walked from the podium to the very back window seat under everyone’s surprised gaze, put down my bag and sat down as if in a fit of pique. So everyone’s gaze fell on Lily in surprise again. The teacher froze but didn’t say anything. Later after class, Lily came to find me to eat together. I looked at her expressionlessly and said coldly: “I don’t want to eat with you.” She froze but didn’t ask why, instead returning to her seat to read again. I sat alone in the back window seat, looking at her slender back, and simply turned my head away, out of sight, out of mind. The class gradually emptied. After a while, Lily came over again and asked me: “Eat?” Her tone was ordinary and calm, as if she didn’t see I was angry, as if the point of my sentence “I don’t want to eat with you” just now was not that I didn’t want to eat with her, but that I didn’t want to eat when she called me. So she waited for a while and came to ask me again. Not hungry just now, hungry now? Want to eat? If I still said I didn’t want to eat, then she would come ask me again in a while. Getting angry with Lily was like punching cotton hard. I really didn’t want to appear too unreasonable, but aren’t adolescent hormones unstable like this? I endured and endured, finally couldn’t help standing up, shouting loudly: “What exactly do you want? Can you not make decisions on your own? Did you ask me if I wanted to be in the same class as you? So many people circling around you, are you very proud? So many people using me to foil you, making you appear better and more excellent, are you very proud?” This sentence was actually completely me speaking without thinking, because Lily never had emotions similar to “pride and smugness” due to these external envies and comparisons. Even without my contrast, she was dazzlingly excellent. This is an objective fact. Only I, a sewer rat who is dark, damp, and jealous of my own twin sister, would judge others by myself and have such thoughts. If there is telepathy between twins, I wonder if Lily would sense the vicious thoughts I couldn’t control in countless late nights: If only Lily suddenly became ugly. If only Lily suddenly became stupid. If only Lily suddenly got fat. If only Lily never existed, if only I never had this sister… if only I were Lily… that would be great… How vicious. The closest family member harbors the most vicious curses against herself. If she knew what I thought, with her thin emotions, how would she view this sister of hers? Lily has never done anything to hurt me. I hate her simply because she is excellent. Her excellence makes me jealous, and jealousy gnaws at me day and night, accumulating into malice towards her that I can no longer hide. I glared at her, chest heaving rapidly due to anger and excitement, but a surge of pleasure floated from the depths of my brain. I even looked forward to what reaction Lily would make, surprised? Shocked? Sad? Angry? Disappointed? But Lily lowered her eyelashes, and I couldn’t see her expression clearly. She said nothing. 4 Lily and I fell into a cold war. Of course, it was my unilateral cold war. Lily treated me as usual. I ate alone, sat alone in the back, occasionally daydreaming, occasionally listening to the class. I still went home alone. Sometimes Lily would wait for me at the intersection near home, then enter the house one after another with me—she actually knew not to worry Mom. Besides that, I hoped everyone could treat me as invisible. But I actually received “friendship” invitations. Many girls in the class actually took the initiative to chat with me, pull me to eat, and come to talk to me after class. When did this start? Probably since the first monthly exam when Lily took first place in the whole school, with full marks in science and only losing over a hundred points in liberal arts combined. She was 195 points higher than the second place—because this was the first monthly exam, the school wanted to warn students to study hard later, so the difficulty of the test paper was at the highest intensity. Now she was truly famous throughout the school. All teachers looked at Lily with undisguised appreciation, their mantra becoming: “Same teacher, same classroom, how can Lily score so many points?” During breaks, boys from other classes often crowded the windows of our class along the corridor, coming to see this genius school beauty scholar. Even senior boys came. Her desk would be full of gifts and love letters every morning. Later, our teacher had to patrol the corridor frequently during breaks to drive away those boys. It wasn’t until the heat brought by Lily’s monthly exam slowly cooled down that it got better. I saw many girls in the class secretly looking at Lily, then whispering to each other. Those gazes looking over were emotions I was all too familiar with—jealousy, envy, disgust, disdain, pretended indifference… While saying they appreciated and admired Lily, they seemed to carry a magnifying glass in their eyes, attempting to find faults or flaws in Lily… Lily was also not good at or didn’t want to maintain interpersonal relationships. She was aloof and indifferent, wouldn’t echo girls’ topics, and looked at those boys confessing and hitting on her like looking at garbage, so there were many boys who turned angry from embarrassment. If you can’t get it, you want to destroy it—or pull you down from the altar, turning you into someone on the same level as him that he can get, this is the malice existing in the bones of most people. At first, a girl showed kindness to me, talked to me, asked me to eat, brought me some snacks, and then pulled me into her circle of friends, and I met her friends. I seemed to suddenly become very popular. Honestly, at first, I was a bit flattered by this sudden friendliness, especially seeing Lily seemed to be isolated by an invisible tacit understanding at the same time. That sense of superiority I had never experienced over Lily arose spontaneously. Every time PE class needed to form teams, Lily was the one left alone. The PE teacher stood in front, looked at Lily standing alone on the side, looked at the group of girls standing together, and asked in confusion: “Does this student have no partner? Which student is willing to team up with her?” The air was silent for a moment. Everyone was collectively silent, standing still. No one had discussed it beforehand; isolation became an invisible, naturally occurring collective behavior. Lily stood there indifferently, accepting everyone’s scrutiny, whether pitiful or mocking. Some people’s expressions gradually became excited, staring at Lily’s expression like watching a show. At this moment, the collective perpetrators were high above, as if they had leverage over Lily. They hoped this unreachable flower would bow down under collective power. I stood in the crowd, looking at Lily. Emotionally, I felt I should be very happy, but I couldn’t ignore that under the corners of my lips I tried to raise, there was a sudden uncontrollable sharp sting and empty dullness deep in my heart. I looked at Lily, wondering if she would look at me. If she looked at me, even a glance for help, what would I do? Would I immediately uncontrollably walk to her side? I wasn’t sure. Lily didn’t give me this chance either; she didn’t glance at me at all. She was not embarrassed, nor did she have the unease or begging for group acceptance that those people expected. She just looked at the PE teacher calmly and asked quietly: “Teacher, since no one wants to team up with me, can I go back to the classroom to read?” Later, Lily could skip all PE classes—this was a privilege given to her by the homeroom teacher. During the break on the playground, a girl opened the first topic seemingly unintentionally: “Emma, being sisters with someone like that must be hard, right?” Such an understated tone, as if just ordinary gossip between friends. The next second, everyone’s eyes fell on me coincidentally. I felt the hidden expectation in their eyes. I looked at the person asking me. Sophia. The second place crushed by Lily by 195 points in the first monthly exam. But unlike Lily, she was adept at interpersonal relationships. Less than two months after school started, she had faintly become the leader of the small group of girls. She was jealous of Lily or hated her, emotions I was all too familiar with. Without Lily, she might be the most brilliant and outstanding one. She was excellent, she just met Lily. Of course, if playing mind games could be scored, she would score more than 195 points higher than Lily. I understood the reason they befriended me. Probably all for this moment. For the moment I let down my guard, using this understated guiding question to guide me to express dissatisfaction with Lily, and then reveal some of Lily’s privacy or shortcomings. I thought no matter what I said, before school ended this afternoon, the bad words about Lily from my mouth would be embellished and become topics for everyone to discuss privately. “Huh? Is she such a person? Doesn’t look like it?” “Her own sister Emma said it, can it be fake?” “Tsk tsk, you really can’t judge a book by its cover, so pretentious.” “Tch, what’s the use of good grades? Character is so rotten.” … Thinking of this, I suddenly laughed out loud. Meeting those expectant eyes looking at me, I said: “It is indeed quite hard. My sister has been excellent and perfect since childhood, making me look like trash. I really envy her so much.” Sophia’s face stiffened, then she smiled, kind and gentle: “Is Lily like this at home too? Does she have no quirks?” She smiled again as she spoke, her face carrying just the right amount of curiosity and innocence, as if just gossip between friends: “Just pure curiosity, don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone.” I laughed. I thought my expression must be cooling down bit by bit, but the corners of my lips were still raised. I said: “Nothing like that. You deliberately forcing like this, what do you want me to say? Do you want me to make one up now so you can slander and spread rumors?” Everyone’s face didn’t look too good. Later, the class bell rang just in time. Everyone tacitly changed the subject, but when going back to the teaching building, they no longer held my arm and surrounded me in the middle like before, but intentionally or unintentionally left me at the end, separated by a short distance. Isolated so blatantly. Such familiar tactics. I sneered in my heart.

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My friends invited me to a New Year’s Eve party. I was dead broke, so I could only make some honey-glazed chicken wings to share. As I was about to leave, my mom’s face suddenly darkened. “Have I ever tasted your cooking? And you’re making it for those shady friends of yours?” “Instead of eating with them, you should have gone to meet the guy I set you up with a few days ago!” “Do you understand ‘networking up’? You never listen! I raised an ungrateful enemy!” I stopped in my tracks and, for the first time, refuted her complaints. “Fine. You take the wings. Give me back my paycheck!” 1 My mom froze for a moment, then her expression shifted rapidly. “What do you mean? Asking you to contribute to the household expenses makes you this unwilling?” “If I knew you were this shameless, I never should have given birth to you!” “Fine! You want money, right? I’ll give it back to you right now. From now on, pay for your own food, drink, and rent. Don’t expect me to spend my coffin money on you!” She ranted on and on, but made no move to actually pay me. I took a deep breath; even my mouth tasted bitter. Contributing to the household was fine. The problem was, who contributes everything? Ever since I started my internship, my mom demanded my debit card. If the direct deposit didn’t hit on time, she would interrogate me relentlessly. I thought about moving out and taking on side gigs in secret. But she stormed into my office, questioning me in front of everyone about why I wasn’t home by 10 PM, accusing me of sleeping with a colleague. In the end, she found out about my part-time job and took every cent I had earned. I often questioned myself: what was the point of working so hard day and night? I felt no joy on payday. The thought of facing my mother 24/7 made me dread even the weekends. But my mother, Mrs. Sarah Miller, acted stranger and stranger. She would look at me and sigh heavily. “Did you see Chloe next door? Her mom just mentioned her mouth felt bland, and Chloe bought her durian and bird’s nest.” “I don’t have that kind of luck. Raised a daughter into her twenties, and I haven’t even tasted a grain of rice she bought.” “My life is so bitter.” “When will you be like other people’s kids and care about me proactively? Don’t wait for me to ask!” I wanted to buy things for her! But did I have a single cent to my name? She said to ask her if I needed anything. But when I needed bus fare, she told me to walk to work. When I needed lunch money, she said to come home for three meals a day. My colleagues were envious. “Your mom loves you so much!” “If I went home for lunch every day, my mom would definitely get annoyed, haha.” In the end, I became the ungrateful one. A few days ago, around Christmas, my friends had already invited me out once. We hadn’t seen each other for a few years since college graduation. It was only because rich girl Penny returned from studying abroad that she organized the gathering. I wanted to go. I desperately wanted to go. I even swallowed my pride and contacted my father, whom I hadn’t seen in ages, asking for $200. He just sneered and scolded me. “Your mom wanted custody when we divorced.” “I never missed a child support payment all these years. You’ve graduated, and you still want money?” “Just like your mother, always eyeing the few bucks in my pocket!” “Besides, so what if your mom takes a little? Isn’t she saving it for you?” “You feel wronged over this little thing? Useless! Why should I give you money?” In the end, I had to decline the invitation. Penny DM’d me proactively, saying she hadn’t had home-cooked food in ages. I didn’t need to split the bill; just bringing some homemade food would be fine. The more I thought about it, the more agitated I felt. Then I realized the time. If I didn’t leave now, I’d be late. I sighed, deciding to argue later. I grabbed the wings and headed for the door. But she blocked me again. “Where are you going? Make yourself clear!” “Are those fox friends of yours more important than your mother?” “Speak!” 2 I was honestly too exhausted. I had no mood or time to argue with her. Thinking about the hour-long walk to the meeting place, I couldn’t delay any longer. I went into the kitchen and set aside a third of the wings. “I left some for you. The rest is for four people to share; I can’t take less.” “We see each other every day; they rarely get together.” “Just treat it as lending me $200, okay?” My mom scoffed, seeming satisfied with my lowered posture. But soon, she started nitpicking again. “These wings are cold. How am I supposed to eat them?” “Your mother loves spicy food and hates sweet things! You’ve been my daughter for twenty years, and you can’t even remember that?” “What is the use of raising a daughter?” The nameless fire in my heart flared up again. But thinking of my roommates whom I hadn’t seen in years, I sighed again, compromising with a hoarse voice. “Next time I’ll make a special batch just for you. Whatever you want.” “Mom, I just need $200. I promise to listen to you from now on.” Maybe I looked truly pathetic. She took out her phone and started the transfer. But when it came to entering the password, she hesitated. “You want money? Fine. But you must promise me you’ll be back before 8 PM.” It was already 6 PM! 8 PM? How was that even possible? I got anxious, unable to maintain my gentle facade. “Mom, New Year’s Eve goes past midnight. It’s about welcoming the first day of 2026 with friends.” “Just this once! I promise to come back as soon as I wake up tomorrow.” At first, hearing about staying out overnight, I hesitated. But now, I wanted to stay out more than anyone. My mental state was on the brink of collapse; I desperately needed some breathing room. But facing my plea, my mom simply turned off her phone screen. “What? Staying out all night?” “Absolutely not! If you’re not back before 8, you get nothing!” 3 I looked at her in disbelief. After a moment, I gritted my teeth and compromised again. “Okay, I’ll be back before 8.” “I haven’t seen them in years, I just want to catch up…” Since graduating and moving back home, I had zero friends. I went to work alone, left alone. Because I couldn’t afford to eat out or grab coffee with colleagues, I didn’t even have a work buddy. Everyone thought I was antisocial. I tried to negotiate for a small allowance several times, but only received more humiliation. “Why drink boba? It’s at least $6 a cup!” “Mom will boil some brown sugar water for you at home. Take it in a thermos.” “These were rare treats in the past! Don’t be ungrateful.” Now, I finally had an invitation. I wanted to go so badly. Seeing her about to renege, I panicked completely. I grabbed her phone and shoved it into her hand. “Stop stalling, Mom. Transfer it!” “I don’t have a penny. It’s so embarrassing to go out like this!” But seeing the anxiety on my face, Mrs. Miller suddenly laughed. “Why the rush? If you don’t bring money, will they kick you out?” “Friends who only care about benefits aren’t real friends. Someday you’ll understand my good intentions.” “Only ‘networking up’ is worth spending money on!” I couldn’t take it anymore. Seeing she was obstinate, I didn’t want to struggle anymore. I took a deep breath, turned, and headed for the door. But she followed me, nagging incessantly. “You child, you never listen!” “Why waste time with those people? Mom doesn’t want to withhold money; I just don’t want you wasting time.” “Didn’t the match I introduced last time invite you for New Year’s Eve too?” Hearing her bring him up again, I snapped. I questioned her angrily. “Enough, okay? I don’t want to talk nonsense with you. Do you really think you’re making sense?” “An old man who wants the girl to stay over after knowing her for a few days—in your mouth, he’s a treasure?” “Networking up? Why didn’t you network up? When you looked for a husband, for a boyfriend, why didn’t you use those standards?” “You know to pick the good-looking ones, but you find me one who breathes bad breath as soon as he speaks!” “I think you’ve been infected. Everything you say stinks!” “I’ll say it one more time. Those are my friends, not shady characters, and not fox friends!” With that, I carried the wings and walked out, afraid that if I stopped, I’d never leave today. But the next second, pain shot through my wrist. My mom rushed up, slapped my arm hard, and threw the wings out the window. “Just because you ate two wings, you think you can fly?” “Let me tell you, Lily Miller, in this house, you don’t call the shots!” “You dare raise your voice at your mother? You’re not going anywhere today!” 4 I stared blankly at the wings thrown outside. My mom acted like she didn’t see anything and started complaining to herself. “How did I mistreat you? How can you say that?” “He’s nine years older than you, but he earns $3,000 more. Together you can pay the mortgage and car loan, just enough!” “With a matchmaker’s guarantee, isn’t it better than finding one yourself?” “I think your heart is wild! Seduced by men outside!” We lived in an old apartment complex; the soundproofing was terrible. Her voice was sharp and piercing. My vision went black from the noise; I almost fainted. She didn’t stop, continuing to curse loudly. “I saw it when you were in college!” “Wearing those skirts that barely cover your butt, who knows who you wanted to seduce!” “I never did such things. Do you want to be like that vixen your dad kept, a whore who destroys families?” Mentioning that past event made me feel worse. Growing up, my mom’s education was: no dressing up, no clothes other than school uniforms. She said a student’s job is to study. But this habit persisted into college. Without uniforms, I suddenly didn’t know what to wear. My living expenses were limited, so I wore cheap jackets and pants from Temu every day. Until one day, my pants split when I squatted in the dorm. My face flushed red with shame. My roommate lent me a dress, saying I was at the age of blossoming and should allow myself to be beautiful. I remember it was a beautiful white floral dress, knee-length, safe but showing my calves. I loved it. I secretly skipped dinner for a month to ask for the link. But the day the dress arrived, my mom saw it and cut it to shreds. She also dragged me to the salon and cut my long hair into a bob. “This is a student cut! Do you understand?” “Just because you’re in college doesn’t mean you’re not a student!” “Stop thinking those crooked thoughts. They are unclean themselves and want you to be played by men too!” Those words were too ugly. I didn’t even dare look at my roommates’ faces. After that, we tacitly stopped being close. Until I fainted in class and was taken to the hospital by my roommates. Seeing my haggard state, the teenage girls couldn’t bear it, and we became friends again. I think my mom just couldn’t stand me having sincere friends. She wasn’t reconciled to me being with them, to me escaping her control. So she used her old tricks, wanting my friends to hate me again. Sure enough, she started screaming again. “Those friends of yours are up to no good! Telling you not to come home? Who knows if they found some old man to sell you to!” “If you dare leave, I’ll die right here!” She always used this to force me into submission. But this time, I just looked at her calmly and climbed onto the windowsill before she could. “Do you want to die, or do you want me to die?” “What did I do wrong to be treated like this?!” By the end, I was almost hysterical. Tears uncontrollable, body shaking, I questioned her sentence by sentence. “I just accepted parental support like most kids.” “Why, in your mouth, is it an unforgivable sin I have to repay for a lifetime?” “Why, when I just started working, couldn’t you wait to take money back?” “Since you see me as an investment, you should be prepared to lose money!” With that, my emotions peaked, my body swaying precariously. But the expected panic and repentance didn’t come. My mom sneered, rushed forward, grabbed my hair, dragged me off the sill, and slammed my head against the wall. “You think I’m easily scared?” “I used that trick before you were born!” “You want to die? Go ahead! Jumping is too quick and easy for you!” “If you die, it has to be a living hell!” I was dizzy from the impact, but the pain in my heart spread, drowning out even the throbbing in my forehead. In an instant, my desire to die vanished, replaced by questions. Why should I be the one to die? Why must I die when I did nothing wrong? Why die obediently when I haven’t enjoyed anything? I suddenly remembered a line from a hit show and blurted it out unconsciously. “Mom… thank you.” “Thank you for not changing. Thank you for still being like this.” “This way, I can finally make up my mind.” Hearing the first sentence, Mrs. Miller smiled triumphantly. She let go, responding lightly. “Why didn’t you act like this sooner?” “You young people, your lives were given by your elders, yet you all want to climb on our heads!” “If you had always been this good…” Towards the end, she stopped, looking at me warily. “Make up what mind?” “What do you mean?” Before the words fell. A knock sounded at the door! My mom froze, looking a bit panicked. A moment later, she glared at me, fixed her hair, and warned in a low voice. “Be careful. If you embarrass me, you’ll pay.” She snorted, walked to the door with a sway, and looked through the peephole. Her expression changed, voice squeezed through gritted teeth. “Why are you here? Who asked you to come?” “Get out, my house doesn’t welcome you!” But the doorbell rang again and again, relentless. The veins on Mrs. Miller’s forehead throbbed. Finally, unable to bear it, she pulled the door open. “Don’t understand human language? Get out!”

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The moment I was bound to the Charmer Cultivation System, I was gifted a unique cheat: the ability to manufacture dreams. The System, trapped in my mind, was buzzing with panic. 【The Male Leads and Supporting Male Characters currently have a favorability score of -99 toward the host. What good is a dream-making ability going to do?!】 I answered casually, “A wet dream is still a dream, isn’t it?” The System: ? I tapped enthusiastically on my mental keyboard. “The aloof, brilliant professor… he must be so repressed. I’ll give him a full set of candles and a little leather crop in his dreams!” System: 【Wait, wait…】 “The reckless, boy-next-door type… I wonder if he’s learned how to be reckless in bed yet. Perfect. I’ll give him a thorough education in his sleep!” System: 【Stop right there…】 A few nights passed. The men who had consistently treated me with total disgust started to soften their attitudes. Meanwhile, their white moonlight, the golden girl they idolized, watched the suspicious blush on their faces every time they saw me and practically ground her teeth. Before she could make her first move, I pulled out my keyboard again. “My seemingly hostile sister, the certified mean girl, is secretly harboring very different feelings toward me…” The System shrieked in horror, blocking me immediately. 【No! Absolutely not! We don’t need that kind of favorability!】 1 When other people transmigrate into novels, they are usually bound to a standard Charmer System. The cheat code is activated, and suddenly the male leads, supporting characters, family, and friends all lose their minds, falling all over themselves to shower the heroine with affection. The System I was stuck with was a Charmer Cultivation System. I got nothing upfront. I had to actively scheme and work to become the charmer myself before I could complete the mission. The System finished its timid explanation. Seeing my silence, it nervously pressed on. 【I also have some bad news…】 【In this world, you are just a cannon fodder character, unloved by your father and mother. Your fiancé and your childhood best friend both adore your sister, Serena Scott.】 【And just one hour ago, you had a huge fight at a dinner party.】 【In front of everyone, you pushed her into the swimming pool.】 【So, their favorability scores have already plummeted to -99…】 Me: “…” This wasn’t a little difficult; this was Hell Difficulty, plain and simple. I tentatively asked, “If I don’t complete the mission, what’s the penalty?” The System was succinct: 【Eradication.】 【But if the mission is successful, you can return to your original life.】 I offered a small, unimpressed smile. “Who do you take me for? You think that pathetic carrot is enough to turn me into a simpering lackey? A dog wouldn’t…” 【…Plus, you’ll receive a cash reward of ten billion dollars.】 2 Done! I’ll be the best damn lackey you’ve ever seen! Ten billion to be a lackey? That’s like money falling from the sky. But the System wasn’t wrong. This dream-making ability did seem relatively useless. Just as I was trying to figure out how to leverage this cheat, my cheap fiancé, Rhys Hawthorne, walked straight toward me. The novel described him as the youngest core figure in the East Coast’s most exclusive research circles—a genius almost preternaturally clever. The Hawthorne family was already old money, but Rhys’s status in the research community, securing major government contracts, had elevated them to an untouchable level among the city’s elite. Everyone knew that the normally cold and aloof Rhys Hawthorne reserved his rare smiles for only one person: my sister, Serena. Anyone who dared hurt her, Rhys would relentlessly torment, making it impossible for them to exist in this city. Case in point, right now. Serena had choked on water when she fell into the pool and still hadn’t fully recovered, so our parents had punished me by making me stand outside her door, facing the wall. Rhys approached and immediately grabbed my throat, squeezing hard. “You had better pray Serena is alright, or you will find out the consequences!” His suit was impeccably tailored, but even the severity of his frameless glasses couldn’t entirely mask the devastating tilt of his eyes. In that instant, I suddenly understood exactly how to use my new ability. Before I could react, however, a scoffing voice came from behind me. “Professor Hawthorne, aren’t you afraid of soiling your hands by touching her?” “She’s the kind of woman who sacrifices all shame just to net an engagement. The more attention you give her, the more excited she gets.” Oh, that would be my cheap childhood friend, Jaxon Bell. Rhys’s brow furrowed. He immediately let go of me, pulling out a crisp handkerchief to meticulously wipe the hand that had touched me. Only after he was satisfied that it was clean did he adjust his glasses, resuming his usual cold detachment. The moment he turned away, Jax grabbed my wrist, his grip like steel. He hissed, “Don’t think I’m doing you a favor, Zara Scott.” “I’ll settle the score with you once Serena is awake!” The disgust in his eyes was authentic. Rhys’s disgust was just as real. But I didn’t care. My eyes were fixed on Rhys’s retreating back. The forbidden type. The most alluring thing about the forbidden type isn’t the handsome face. It’s the pristine, buttoned-up shirt and the trousers that are perfectly ironed, yet somehow… bulging. I tapped the System. The inspiration was finally here. “A wet dream is still a dream, right?” 3 After Serena woke up, I was forced to endure another long, pointless lecture from my parents before I finally made it to my favorite time: sleep. The System informed me that my fiancé and my childhood friend had both gone to sleep. I immediately submitted the dream scenario I’d been editing all day. Without waiting for its approval, I eagerly plunged into Rhys Hawthorne’s dream. … In a dimly lit laboratory, Rhys had been drugged and then restrained to a chair using what I could only describe as an “artistic” technique. His shirt buttons remained meticulously fastened, right up to the hollow of his throat. Yet, no restraint could lock away the inferno of desire raging through him. He was forced to lean his head back, panting raggedly. Men, I thought, always sound better panting than singing. I smiled in satisfaction and walked straight up to him. He didn’t realize it was a dream. The moment he saw me, his brow knitted together in a furious knot. He swallowed the raw, nearly unmanageable panting and snapped, “Who gave you permission to enter my lab? Get out.” I glanced down at his trousers and offered a kind suggestion: “Are you sure you want me to leave, Professor Hawthorne?” Rhys’s reason was being scorched away by the chemical heat in his veins. The drug-induced rapid thump of his heart hammered against his eardrums, making it hard to hear. But he refused to lose control in front of someone he hated. He ground his teeth, trying to endure it. When he looked up, the woman he despised was still standing there. His aversion intensified. He finally looked down at the ropes and said, “Since you won’t leave, help me.” Hearing that, I quietly pulled a small leather crop from behind my back and smiled, a smile as wicked as the devil’s own. “Of course.” He’d only asked for help, not specified what kind. As his eyes glazed over, I snapped the whip across his chest, leaving a faint, pink-red line across his peck. He didn’t see it coming. A suppressed groan escaped him, and his body trembled with a mixture of pain and heightened arousal. When he realized what I’d done, rage twisted his face. “What are you doing!” he bellowed. The System screamed in my mind: 【Stop! Host! With that one lash, Rhys Hawthorne’s favorability just dropped to -99.99!】 【I thought you were going to seduce him with a wet dream, not whip him!】 I ignored the System, looking down at Rhys with a dismissive smirk. “What’s the shouting for? Didn’t you enjoy it?” “If you didn’t enjoy it, why did you groan?” Play a man’s game, leave him nowhere to go. He stammered out “You…” repeatedly, unable to form a coherent sentence. He finally closed his eyes, stewing in silent fury. I wasn’t about to give him a moment to recover. The next snap of the whip landed precisely on a more sensitive spot: his lower abdomen. Rhys gasped sharply, his entire body rigid for a long moment. When he finally calmed down, his ear tips were flushed crimson, but his eyes were clear again. He narrowed them, fixing me with a cold stare. “You’re the one who drugged me, aren’t you? What is it you want?” “A few years ago, you maneuvered your way into my bed, and I gave you the engagement you wanted. What more could you possibly be dissatisfied with?” I met his gaze, smirked, and lifted my foot, grinding my heel down on him until another guttural sound of discomfort escaped him. I traced the whip from his throat all the way to his abs. Then, I leaned in, breathing a light laugh against his ear. “I want you to fall in love with me.” “But I’ll let you off the hook for today. We’ll start tomorrow. Be sure to drive me to campus in the morning.” “If you don’t show, we’ll continue this tomorrow night.” I extracted myself from the dream, and the System immediately began a real-time broadcast of Rhys’s awakening. The moment I left, he shot upright in bed, drenched in sweat. He rubbed his temples, full of self-loathing. “Why would I dream of that woman? And that kind of dream?” Rhys took several deep breaths. Finally calm, he got out of bed to change his clothes. Hearing this, I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “He got that worked up from just that? Did he soil his trousers already?” “Is he that repressed? Maybe he has performance issues.” The System sounded utterly defeated. 【Is this really okay?】 【Do you realize Rhys Hawthorne’s favorability was 0.01 away from hitting -100! At -100, you are eradicated!】 I didn’t answer, only asking casually, “What’s Rhys doing now?” System: 【He changed his pants and went into the bathroom. Why?】 Me: “Keep reporting.” 【He’s been in the bathroom for 10 minutes. Still hasn’t come out.】 【20 minutes in the bathroom, still in there.】 【He’s out. Looks like he changed his pants again.】 “And what’s the favorability score now?” The System was silent for a moment before replying: 【-79.99.】 【Congratulations, Host. Rhys Hawthorne’s favorability has increased by 20 points.】 4 Since I had two dream opportunities per night, I certainly wasn’t going to let Jax Bell slip away. The Bell house was right next door to the Scott house, so the original me, Serena, and Jax grew up together. From the time we were children, no matter what happened between the Scott sisters, Jax always sided unconditionally with Serena. However, after reviewing the original Zara’s memories, I realized Jax’s feelings for her were more complicated. Although he always publicly took Serena’s side, if Zara was hurt, he would secretly feel bad and sneak over to give her medicine. Then, the next time he listened to Serena and her friends gossip, he would immediately turn around and coldly mock Zara again. Simply put, he was easily swayed and too quick to believe gossip. So, to deal with this kind of clumsy, volatile boy, I didn’t need complicated schemes. I just needed to mess with his head. The problem was that I’d spent too long with Rhys. Jax had already entered natural sleep, and it was too late to construct a new dream for him. I had to barge right into whatever he was already dreaming. His dream was set on a beach on a summer night. Under a shower of dazzling fireworks, a boy and a girl were sitting side by side on the sand. The girl, her face flushed, was shyly pulling something out, looking like she was confessing to Jax. I took a closer look. It was Serena. Of course. Even in his dreams, the guy is still wishing his crush would confess to him. The confession ended, and Jax naturally leaned in to kiss Serena. I smirked, snapped my fingers, and instantly replaced Serena with myself. Unfortunately, just as the kiss was about to land, Jax’s eyes snapped open. The moment he saw me, he shot up, shocked into silence. “You… why are you here?” “How did you get into my dream?” I pulled him back down, gently tracing the outline of his ear. I laughed softly. “Why wouldn’t it be me?” “Didn’t you just accept my confession? Weren’t you just about to kiss me?” He violently pushed me away, putting distance between us. His face was a mask of repulsion as he sneered at me. “You? Are you kidding? If it were you, I wouldn’t even let you finish the confession!” “I was going to kiss Serena. She was just here… Wait!” He suddenly figured it out, his eyes widening. “This is a dream! I must be dreaming!” “Why else would Serena’s face change to yours in the blink of an eye?” “It has to be a dream!” I rested my chin in my hand, watching him with interest. “If it’s a dream, doesn’t the fact that my face replaced Serena’s at the most crucial moment of the kiss prove that you like me?” “Unless you’re thinking about me constantly, why would I appear in your dream?” “I bet you even have a picture of me taped above your bed, don’t you?” I was only joking, but he reacted like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He instantly exploded, yelling at me, “Zara Scott, don’t be delusional!” “I would rather like a dog, or a pig, than you!” “I haven’t forgotten what you did to Serena, or what you did to Professor Hawthorne.” “I hate desperate, pathetic women who chase men like you!” The moment the words left his mouth, I grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him. The instant our lips met, I saw his pupils flicker. He was so pure. Was this his first kiss? He appeared to be completely frozen. Before he could react, I leaned my forehead against his. My fingers slid down the side of his face to his throat, and then traced slow circles on his chest, continuing the mental attack. “Am I really the delusional one?” “You know I love boys with a citrus-soda scent, the athletic type. So why do you wear that gray athletic hoodie every single day, spray that orange-zest cologne, and walk around me all the time?” “There are so many colors for sweatpants, yet you constantly show up in those thin gray ones. What’s the message you’re trying to send?” “Wearing clothes that provocative, isn’t that just trying to lure me in?” My finger trailed over his chest and lingered briefly on his abs. I smiled in satisfaction. “Look. You still haven’t pushed me away.” “Are you still going to tell me you don’t like me?” Following the path of my finger, his eyes dropped to his own pants, and his face instantly turned a deep crimson. Before he could pull away in furious embarrassment, I placed a feather-light kiss on his lips again. Then, I leaned close to his ear and whispered: “Jaxon Bell, you like me.” “If you don’t believe me, check if I’m still in your dreams for the next few nights.” … Mission accomplished. I dissolved into a wisp of smoke, leaving the dream. The System applauded in my head. 【The Master of Mind Games, truly. But you might have failed this time.】 【Jax looked easily fooled in the dream, but his favorability score hasn’t budged at all.】 I chuckled, leaning back calmly. “Check what he does when he wakes up.” The System, skeptical, opened the mental surveillance feed for me. It watched with me, narrating enthusiastically. 【Hahaha, he ripped up the photo of the three of you on his bedside table!】 【Wait, he really did have your photo at his bedside! How did you guess that?】 【He looks so angry, he’s rubbing his hair into a bird’s nest and jumping off the bed.】 【He just smashed that bottle of orange-zest cologne!】 【Oh? He’s calming down now.】 【He’s sitting on the edge of the bed… touching his lips?】 【…Congratulations, Host. Jaxon Bell’s favorability has increased by 50 points.】 【Current favorability: -49.】 5 Unlike Jax, highly intelligent individuals like Rhys Hawthorne weren’t so easily fooled. The 20 points of favorability that spiked after the dream due to a rush of hormones immediately dropped by 10 points once he was fully awake. Naturally, he didn’t take the dream seriously and didn’t show up to drive me to campus the next morning. Since he was going to be stubborn, I wouldn’t let him off the hook in the dream world. Over the next few days, I tried almost every stimulating fantasy item I could think of on him: candles, whips, dog chains, electrical stimulation devices—the works. Every morning, I would end the dream by reminding him to come to the Scott house. But he was too rooted in his scientific rationality. He refused to believe there could be any link between a dream and reality. It took a full week before he finally arrived at our door, looking like he was just testing a hypothesis. I don’t know if it was because I’d gone too far in the dreams, but he looked genuinely haggard after a week of my nocturnal torment. However, I still underestimated the depth of his hatred for me. Having come all this way, he bypassed me entirely. He quickly walked over to Serena, who had just stepped outside, and gently helped her stand. He offered her a tender smile. “Serena, how is your recovery progressing?” “My schedule isn’t heavy today, and the city’s premier Music Conservatory is on my way to the lab. I thought I’d give you a ride.” Serena was a piano major at the conservatory, which was indeed more convenient than my school. But did he have to be so openly antagonistic? Did he think the dreams meant the opposite of what I said? Serena’s eyes were filled with surprise. As she leaned into Rhys, she seemed to remember something and cautiously glanced at me. “Are you only taking me? What about my sister?” “After all… she is your fiancée.” Rhys instinctively looked at me too. However, the moment our eyes met, he flinched as if burned, a quick shudder running through him. The tips of his ears instantly flushed crimson. He blinked rapidly, deliberately breaking eye contact. Noticing his overly intense reaction, he lowered his gaze, a hint of self-loathing flickering across his face. He spoke coldly, “Ignore her. Let’s go.” I watched, amused, as he quickly ushered a confused Serena into the car and drove away. I turned to the System. “What was that about, Rhys?” The System checked the favorability history but couldn’t explain it either. 【I don’t know. His favorability has been all over the place. Up 20 in the dream, down 10 when he wakes up.】 【But his score is already up to -9.99. He shouldn’t be so cold to you anymore.】 【Could he be… embarrassed?】 Embarrassed, is it? Then let’s up the ante! “System, does he have a habit of taking a nap?” 【Yes. His research is very taxing, so he usually takes a short nap in his lab after lunch.】 I sneered. “Then at noon, increase the dosage!”

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While I was dating Spencer, his best friend, Rhys, made it his personal mission to badmouth me. “Beyond beautiful, she’s useless.” “She calls him to check in even when we’re just getting drinks. She’ll walk all over you, man.” “Be a man, Spencer. Don’t be a simp, okay?” Goaded by Rhys’s constant needling, Spencer coldly dumped me. Two months later, he regretted it and called late one night, begging to reconcile. But the person who answered the phone was Rhys. “Bro, the funny thing is, the moment I laid eyes on your girlfriend, I knew you and I were going to be inseparable.” “Oh, right. We’re getting married next month. Be sure to come.” 1 Spencer introduced me to Rhys at some upscale dinner party. “Babe, this is Rhys.” Spencer’s tone was noticeably reverent when he made the introduction. I looked over, a little self-conscious. Rhys sat at the center of the crowd, relaxed, with striking features and an exceptional aura. He was clearly high society, old money. Far wealthier than Spencer, who was just a local trust fund kid. I greeted him politely: “Hi, Rhys. I’m Sloan.” Rhys didn’t nod or reply. He just stared at me. He held my gaze for two or three seconds. After a beat, he finally asked Spencer: “Your girlfriend?” “Yeah, man.” “Oh.” Rhys’s expression suddenly turned impatient, and he looked away, not sparing me another glance. I scratched my head. Even though I’m slow to catch on, I sensed that this elite guy didn’t like me. 2 That hunch was quickly confirmed. Spencer threw a big party for his birthday, inviting several friends, Rhys included. I was running late because of extra hours at the office. Just as I reached out to push open the private lounge door, I heard Rhys’s voice drift out, lazy and condescending. “Spencer, aside from her looks, that girlfriend of yours is useless. What do you even see in her?” … Well, even the rich talk trash behind people’s backs. I felt a little awkward. I sheepishly pulled back my hand, silently racking my brain trying to figure out what I’d done to offend this sophisticated man. Inside, Spencer replied: “The face and the body, obviously. She’s got that innocent-but-sexy vibe. Who wouldn’t be into that?” “You agree, right, man?” “…” Rhys was eerily quiet for a few seconds before speaking again: “So you’re going to marry her?” Spencer hesitated: “Ah, I don’t know, actually.” “How can I put this? Sloan is genuinely beautiful, but she’s a little slow, and her parents are just regular people—farmers, honestly. I don’t want to lose the battle against my brother over my choice of wife.” I knew about Spencer’s half-brother, who was battling him for control of the family business. My parents were just simple, working-class people. I couldn’t offer him any business leverage. Rhys made a noise of acknowledgment. “It’s true. It’s a mismatch. You need to be cautious about mixing bloodlines. Don’t lose the war over a fling.” Spencer was touched. “Thanks for the concern, Rhys. I’ll toast you first.” “I’m really moved that you came to my party tonight. Anything you ever need from me, you got it.” A new round of toasts began inside the room, accompanied by everyone’s fawning praise for Rhys. I stood outside the door, a knot tightening in my chest. I felt hurt by Rhys’s harsh words about me. I felt sad about the massive gap between Spencer’s family and mine. And I felt disappointed that Spencer wasn’t firmly committed to marrying me. But it was okay. We’d only been dating for two months. We had plenty of time to work things out. Once the topic inside the room shifted, I composed myself, pushed the door open, and walked in. When Spencer saw me, he acted as if nothing had happened, constantly piling food onto my plate. The other guys greeted me out of respect for him. Only Rhys maintained a cold, irritated expression from the moment I entered, looking like he was in a terrible mood. Right. He still really seemed to hate me. I decided to just stay as far away from him as possible. I made a mental note. 3 After that night, Spencer seemed to have formally latched onto Rhys like a remora. He was constantly out drinking and hanging out with Rhys and his circle of friends. He’d come home every day reeking of alcohol and a faint, foreign female perfume. A cheap one. Sweet and cloying. The kind club girls wore. I don’t know what he was hearing out there, but lately, he was subtly finding fault with everything I did. He said I was a bad drinker, that I was too introverted, and that I constantly checked up on him. His dissatisfaction with me grew daily. One night, when Spencer was out drinking late again and hadn’t returned, I called him, worried. “Spencer, what time are you planning on coming home tonight?” Men have a strange psychology. They hate being called home by their girlfriends during a gathering with their friends; they feel it compromises their male pride. Spencer sounded annoyed, though his tone was barely polite. “Sloan, I haven’t finished drinking yet. I’ll come home after.” “Can’t you stop now? I miss you and I want you back soon.” “Just go to sleep, don’t wait up for me.” After Spencer hung up, the man of sophisticated aura next to him suddenly scoffed. It was Rhys. “Spencer, why does your girlfriend check up on you every time you come out for a drink?” “If you marry her, she’ll run your life.” A group of guys broke out into laughter. “Yeah, if my girl dared to try and manage me, I’d dump her and find a new one.” “Seriously, are you even a man, Spence?” Spencer was embarrassed that he’d lost face. He mumbled: “I’ll talk to her later. I’m not going to tolerate this habit of hers.” Rhys offered an ambiguous, knowing smile. 4 Spencer didn’t come home until the next day. He had a hangdog, hungover look, and his clothes were wrinkled. The club-girl perfume smell was heavier, cloyingly strong. I hesitated before speaking: “Spencer, can you stop going out with those friends of yours? Especially Rhys, I think there’s something strange about him.” Spencer tugged at his tie and frowned when he heard that. He remembered the embarrassing scene last night where his friends had collectively mocked him until he couldn’t lift his head. My request now sent his irritation soaring. “What are you talking about? He’s the only heir to the most powerful family in this city—my family’s wealth is a rounding error for him. If I latch onto him, I’ll be set for life.” “…But I don’t like him constantly dragging you out drinking.” “Sloan, be sensible. That phone call you made last night nearly made me lose face in front of everyone.” “I have been very sensible.” “Then be a little more sensible, okay? Stop calling to rush me home. It’s annoying.” So, my concern was annoying him. I stared at him, disappointed, then grabbed my purse and walked past him. “Spencer, if you don’t distance yourself from Rhys and those people, then let’s just cool off for a few days.” “Sloan! Now you dare to give me the cold shoulder?!” Spencer angrily called out a few times, but I didn’t look back. Starting that day, we were in a cold war. He didn’t try to placate me, and I didn’t go home, opting to stay at the office instead. However, an unfamiliar number started sending me frequent photos of Spencer over the next few days. In the pictures, my boyfriend was intimately embracing different women, his face blurry with intoxication, living the high life. It was clear he was enjoying himself immensely. I didn’t know who was sending them. But someone was secretly trying to drive a wedge between Spencer and me. I have to admit, it was a huge success. In a fit of anger, I sent Spencer a breakup text. 5 Unexpectedly, Spencer didn’t go out that evening. Instead, he cooked an entire table of food, hoping to reconcile. I was surprised. During the time we lived together, he wouldn’t even pick up a dropped ketchup bottle. He sincerely apologized. “Babe, I don’t want to lose you. Can we please stop fighting?” “What about your friends, like Rhys?” “I can’t completely cut him off. Rhys is genuinely helpful to my business goals. But I will reduce the number of times I go out with them. I won’t neglect you anymore.” I breathed a sigh of relief. This was good enough. I nodded. We both took a step back, and the cold war ended harmoniously. Spencer happily went to the kitchen to serve soup, and I just as happily went to the bathroom to wash my hands. Someone else’s mood, however, was far from pleasant. In a private lounge, Rhys lit a cigarette and called Spencer. “Rhys, what’s up?” “Spencer, why aren’t you here drinking?” Spencer sighed. “Rhys, I can’t make it tonight. My girlfriend and I had a fight, and I just cooked a meal to smooth things over.” Rhys’s tone instantly turned sharp. “Smooth what over?” “Be a man. Don’t be a simp, okay?” “You should spend that time drinking instead. I got you a solid investor for the new project, and he’s here tonight. Come talk business first. Don’t let a woman distract you from the important stuff.” Spencer hesitated: “But…” Rhys was cold and cutting. “If you don’t come, I’ll turn him down. I was going to use this project to help you gain ground on your half-brother, but forget it. Go back to being a whipped dog.” “No, no, no, man. I’ll be there.” “Hurry up.” Rhys hung up the phone, a calculated plume of smoke leaving his lips. A look of pure calculation flashed in his dark eyes before vanishing. 6 When I came out after washing my hands, I saw Spencer hurriedly putting on his jacket. “I thought we were eating. Where are you going?” “I have an emergency meeting. A really important one. I have to go out and drink.” I was dejected. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? We just made up today.” Spencer was impatient: “Sloan, I thought you’d be more sensible after the cold war. Why are you even more dramatic now?” He thought: The guys were right. You can’t spoil women. The more you give, the more they demand. I took one step back, and now she’s trying to manage my important business meetings. I didn’t want to argue, so I didn’t try to stop him again. “…Okay. Then please come home early.” “I’ll try.” Spencer scoffed and walked out. But by midnight, he still hadn’t returned and hadn’t texted me. I was going to go to bed, but then I realized Spencer hadn’t taken his keys. Reluctantly, I called him. 7 In the private lounge. The deal had mysteriously fallen apart. Spencer was furious. The investor, for some reason, kept giving him a hard time, eventually walking out without a deal. Rhys, sitting nearby, hadn’t offered a word of support. Just as Spencer was frustratedly running his hands through his hair and drinking heavily, my call came in. “Spencer, what time are you coming back?” The nagging question instantly triggered the entire night’s pent-up anger. “Sloan, are you serious? Why are you so annoying?” “I told you I was at a meeting, and you’re still bugging me.” “Why are you so completely unreasonable now? You’re so whiny and high-maintenance.” I was stunned by the brutal outburst, and instinctively tried to explain. “I just wanted to ask you if you brought the—” “Just what? It’s true you’re useless beyond your pretty face. You can’t offer me any help at all.” “Get lost. We’re done. Get out of my apartment tonight. I never want to see you again.” The fact that he could say something that cruel proved there was no reason for us to be together anymore. I said: “Okay.” … After his tirade, Spencer hung up first. The hangers-on nearby heard enough to know they’d broken up, and they immediately started laughing and praising him. “Wow, Spence, that’s the most masculine thing you’ve done.” “Well played. Never give a woman too much power. Checking up on you during a business deal? She should be at home warming the bed.” “Don’t worry, Spencer, I’ll introduce you to some hotter, high-profile influencers.” After a round of fawning, Spencer’s depressed mood improved significantly. He thought. Right. Sloan was only good-looking. A loss he could afford. As he was toasting his friends, Spencer suddenly noticed that someone was missing from the room. “Hey, where did Rhys go?” Someone replied: “He just left with his car keys. Said he was going to pick up his girlfriend.” “Whose daughter is his girlfriend? I’ve never heard him mention her.” Spencer was suspicious. “I don’t know.” The group of guys started gossiping, running through a list of eligible women, from the oil baron’s daughter to the shipping magnate’s granddaughter. None of them fit. “That’s weird. Who could it be?”

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Ten years into our marriage, Declan finally stopped calling me by the wrong name in his sleep. When his “first love” called, he didn’t immediately abandon me to run to her. Even our son started treating me like a mother, instead of begging for “Auntie Serena” to be his mom. Friends and family congratulated me. They said my patience had finally paid off, that the clouds had parted. Even my best friend, who had cut me off years ago because she couldn’t stand watching me degrade myself for him, sent a text: “After all these years, Declan actually started loving you. I guess you win.” Yes, he finally started loving me. He even canceled a major business trip to stay with me for New Year’s Eve—a first. But I couldn’t find it within myself to be happy. When he presented me with the vintage diamond necklace I had admired months ago as a New Year’s gift, all I could manage was a stiff, polite smile. Declan finally snapped. “Isn’t this everything you’ve ever wanted? Elara, what the hell is wrong with you?” Chapter 1 Declan furrowed his brow, looking at me like I was a business crisis he needed to mitigate. “Is it me? Did I do something wrong? Is Leo acting up again?” I shook my head. For the past six months, Declan had cut contact with Serena. He reported his schedule to me. He actually started paying attention to my likes and dislikes. Compared to the hell of the last decade, he was currently a model husband. Even our son, Leo, was behaving. No more screaming at me, and his teachers actually sent home a good report card. Declan’s confusion turned into irritation. He drummed his fingers on the mahogany table. Tap, tap, tap. “If everything is perfect, why are you acting like this?” “Elara, what game are you playing now?” “You have one hour to give me a valid explanation, or I’m not spending New Year’s Eve with you.” He knew that was the ultimate threat. Since I was seventeen, my biggest wish was to kiss him when the ball dropped in Times Square—or at least, in our living room watching it on TV. Now, at thirty-two, I finally had the chance. But the joy wasn’t there. I couldn’t figure it out myself. Was I depressed? Did I just not believe him? Declan didn’t get the answer he wanted. Instead, he got a phone call from Serena. He hesitated for two seconds. Then, perhaps to punish me for my silence, he broke his six-month streak and answered it. Serena’s voice, trembling and fragile, drifted from the speaker. “Declan… you finally answered.” “I fell in the shower… I can’t stand up. Please, you have to come save me.” Declan said “Okay.” Then he watched me, gauging my reaction. The old Elara would have been hysterical. I would have smashed vases. I would have knelt on the floor, hugging his legs, begging him not to go. But since six months ago, I had lost the energy to compete with Serena. I just said calmly, “Falling in the bathroom can be dangerous. You should go.” The darkness in Declan’s eyes deepened. He let out a cold laugh. “You’re so generous now. Fine. Since you’re so worried, come with me to help.” He drove like a maniac. We arrived at Serena’s apartment in record time. Declan waited in the living room while I went into the bathroom. Serena was lying on the tile floor, naked, posed in a way that accentuated every curve. Her voice was like honey. “Declan, I missed you so much… especially your touch…” But when she turned her head and saw me, the seduction died instantly. Her eyes shifted from lust to hatred. “What are you doing here? Did you come to mock me?” “Let me tell you, Elara. Declan only pities you. He’s only nice to you because you’ve been pathetic for so long. The one he really loves is me!” I didn’t care to argue. I stepped forward to check if she was actually injured. Suddenly, Serena lunged, snatched my phone from my pocket, snapped several photos of her own naked body, and then threw the phone across the room. She screamed, blood-curdling and shrill. “Don’t take photos of me! Help!” Declan burst in, panic written all over his face. “Serena! What happened?” Serena covered her chest with her hands, tears streaming down her face as she pointed at me. “She took nude photos of me! She threatened to leak them online and ruin my career if I didn’t stay away from you!” Declan picked up my phone. He saw the photos in the gallery. His expression instantly shifted from concern to terrifying malice. He grabbed my jaw, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “Elara, I thought you had changed. I guess it was all an act.” “You are still the same despicable, vicious, manipulative woman.” Those adjectives made me freeze. Declan had been so nice lately. I had almost forgotten that in his heart, this was who I really was. Chapter 2 They say first impressions are impossible to kill. When we were seventeen, the first time Declan “met” Serena, she was slipping money into his locker. He thought the person who had been anonymously helping him—the poor scholarship student—was her. Pure and kind Serena. But I was the one who put the money there. I had a crush on him. I didn’t want to watch him work three jobs and study until he passed out. I wanted to protect his pride, so I did it anonymously. The day he caught Serena, she wasn’t putting money in. She was stealing it. The first time Declan actually saw me, I was the rich, arrogant girl in the hallway, slapping Serena across the face. Serena was on her knees, begging. “Please, don’t have me expelled! I need this scholarship to change my life!” So, Declan decided I was a bully. A monster. He didn’t know Serena had stolen my late mother’s ring—a ring worth thousands—and sold it to a pawn shop for twenty bucks. I slapped her in a rage. Declan shoved me to the ground. “What do you think you’re doing?” My friend tried to defend me. “That thief stole Elara’s heirloom!” Declan looked at me with pure disgust. As a poor student, he’d been accused of stealing too many times. The scene triggered him. He threw the love letter I had placed in his locker that morning—along with the cash—at my feet. “Elara Vance, right? Let me tell you something. I will never, ever like someone like you.” He helped Serena up and walked away. Later, he put Serena on a pedestal. They went to the same college. He planned to propose. But the night before his graduation, at a party, both he and I were drugged. One night. That was all it took. I got pregnant with Leo. Declan was forced to break up with Serena and marry me. He was convinced I drugged him. At our wedding, he looked at me like I was his worst enemy. I had hope back then. I thought, eventually, he’ll see the real me. But ten years of marriage taught me otherwise. He abandoned me for Serena over and over. He sided with her every time she framed me. He whispered her name in our bed. I was done. Standing in that bathroom, listening to his accusations, I felt nothing but fatigue. “Apologize to Serena,” he commanded. I pushed his hand away. “Only people who do wrong need to apologize. I don’t.” I looked him in the eye. “If you feel so bad for her, go ahead and carry her to bed. She was just saying how much she missed your touch.” I had never spoken to him like that. “Get the hell out!” he roared. As I turned to leave, he yelled, “Elara! Don’t you dare regret this!” I regretted a lot of things. Leaving that room wasn’t one of them. I walked out into the cold night. The next morning, headlines exploded. Tech CEO Declan and Actress Serena: A Steamy New Year’s Eve Reunion. Declan didn’t come home. I was the laughingstock of our social circle again. Leo reverted to his old ways, crying that he wanted to sleep at Auntie Serena’s house. Worse, the internet “detectives” started digging. Since Declan never publicly acknowledged me, they assumed I was the mistress interfering with true love. Serena’s crazed fans cornered me in an alleyway behind the grocery store. Panic set in. I dialed home. Leo answered. “I’m making a birthday gift for Auntie Serena! Don’t bother me!” Click. I called Declan. Before I could scream for help, he cut me off. “Unless you are calling to apologize to Serena, don’t call me.” His voice was so cold it made me forget the baseball bat swinging toward me. I let out a bitter laugh. “What if I’m about to die? Can I call you then?” Declan paused, his breathing heavy. Then, fueled by anger: “Then go ahead and die.” The line went dead. The bat connected with my ribs. I closed my eyes. I collapsed in a pool of my own blood. Chapter 3 I woke up in a hospital bed. Declan was sitting there, looking uncharacteristically disheveled and anxious. I tried to move, but my body felt shattered. Especially my chest. “Don’t move,” Declan said, pressing my shoulder gently. “You have three broken ribs.” He licked his dry lips, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t know you were in danger that day.” “Did they catch the people who did this?” I asked, my voice raspy. Declan looked away. “Karma will get them.” I almost laughed. Even Serena’s violent fans were protected by him? Seeing my expression, he mumbled, “The ringleader is close to Serena. She… she’s in a delicate condition right now. I can’t upset her by having her friend arrested.” Delicate condition. I looked at his eyes and I knew. Serena was pregnant. He forgot about my “delicate condition” years ago. He brought Serena to our house and slept with her on top of the baby clothes I bought. He claimed he had no money for my prenatal vitamins, then funded Serena’s acting career. When Serena tripped me and sent me into early labor, nearly killing me, he blamed me for being clumsy and hurting Serena’s ankle. The rage should have burned me alive. But Declan, oblivious, took my hand. “I know you’re upset, but you wronged Serena first.” “That day… if you hadn’t provoked me, I wouldn’t have slept with her.” “Elara, if you promise to change, I’ll give her a settlement once the baby is born. I’ll cut ties. And then…” He looked down, his ears turning red. “Then I will love you properly. More than I have these past six months.” My eyes widened. He said he would love me. The words I had waited fifteen years to hear. But instead of joy, my heart sank like a stone. In that moment of clarity, I finally understood why I hadn’t been happy for the last six months. Because by the time he started loving me, I had stopped loving him. It was such a simple answer. Loving him had been my survival instinct. Even when he destroyed me, I couldn’t turn it off. But now? It was gone. I wouldn’t accept crumbs anymore. I wouldn’t accept pain in the name of love. The invisible chains around my neck shattered. “Declan,” I said clearly. “Let’s get a divorce.” He froze. Then, the anger exploded. “Elara, are you threatening me?” “Do you want me to force Serena to get an abortion? Is that it?” “Are you so cruel that you’d kill an unborn child?!” Just then, Serena walked in, holding her stomach. She dramatically fell to her knees. “Elara, please! Spare my baby!” Behind her, my son, Leo, rushed forward. He had a hard plastic toy in his hand. He slammed it down onto my broken ribs. “Bad woman! Don’t bully my Mommy Serena! Don’t hurt my baby brother!” Chapter 4 The pain in my chest was blinding. It rivaled childbirth. Declan pulled Leo back, scolding him, but Leo just glared at me with pure hatred. This was the boy I almost died birthing. The boy I nursed through postpartum depression. He used to cling to me. But at three years old, Declan started “educating” him. Don’t be like your mother. Be kind like Auntie Serena. He turned my son against me. Just minutes ago, I was debating fighting for custody. Now? I was free. When the pain subsided, I whispered, “Have the baby. I was joking.” Declan relaxed. “I knew you wouldn’t be that heartless.” “When you get discharged, you can help take care of Serena at the house. She can’t be seen in public with the bump right now.” I agreed to everything. Inside, I was planning my escape. I had lost my family, my friends, and my career for this marriage. I had hit rock bottom. But I wasn’t going to die there. A month later, I discharged myself while Declan took Serena to an ultrasound and Leo was at school. I went home, grabbed my passport and ID—which I had to hunt for—and packed one suitcase. I took one last look at the house I had been imprisoned in for ten years. On the desk, I saw Declan’s open journal. The last entry read: I forgive her for her despicable past. I have made peace with loving her. I scoffed. I picked up a pen and wrote one line beneath it. I placed the signed divorce papers next to the journal. And then I walked out the door. … After the ultrasound, Serena picked a fight with Declan. “You’re distracted. Are you rushing back to see Elara?” “Do you only feel guilty toward me? Do you love her?” Declan didn’t answer. He didn’t know the answer. He just felt a frantic need to see Elara. He sped to the hospital, but the bed was empty. He raced home, ready to scream at her for leaving without permission. But the house was silent. The closet was open. Her things were gone. He stumbled into the study and saw the papers. He saw the note in the journal. He read it once and collapsed to the floor.

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I was forged in conflict. I learned to fight and scratch for everything I wanted, even at five, when I threw a tantrum demanding my parents get a vasectomy so they could only have me. When I was eight, my father, George Ashworth, tried to sneak his illegitimate son into the house while my mother was in Europe opening our new division. He wanted to play the “family” card, hoping I’d accept the half-brother he’d kept secret. I didn’t. I tossed the recorded evidence right onto my mother’s desk. She flew back that same night and filed for divorce. As the defaulting, at-fault party, George was forced into a settlement that left him bankrupt and entirely outside the company. Growing up, I only sharpened that edge, living by the creed of profit above all. I never bent the knee for sentiment. On the day Ashworth Global was set to ring the NASDAQ bell, my entire inner circle—my executive partner, my fiancé, and my corporate image endorser—pulled a collective vanishing act. A B-list actress named Skylar Bloom had posted a tearful photo of a cut finger in the Maldives. In a synchronized display of heroic idiocy, the three of them—Rhys, Cameron, and Leo—commandeered my private jet and flew off to be her knights in shining armor. I was left alone, facing a sea of media flashbulbs, becoming the city’s joke. Afterward, my business partner, Rhys Kincaid, had the nerve to be righteous. “Skylar was bleeding alone in a foreign country. What if she got tetanus? Can’t you be less cold-blooded for once?” My fiancé, Cameron Wilde, frowned with practiced annoyance. “It’s just an IPO, Sloane. We’ll have a dozen more opportunities. I’ll be there next time.” And Leo Maxwell, my childhood friend and company endorser, offered his fake condolences. “I told my agent to cut your endorsement fee by twenty percent and I’ll throw in a free campaign. Girls should smile more; that’s how happiness finds you.” I looked at the three fools in front of me, calmly closing the folder that contained the company’s controlling documents. “I am notifying you as the sole proprietary holder of Ashworth Global,” I said, my voice dangerously even. “You’re finished.” “Since you love caring for the helpless so much, you can rot in the gutter with her, you pathetic rats!” 1 Across the vast mahogany table, the three men sat, their posture relaxed, almost dismissive. Rhys Kincaid was tossing the Montblanc pen I’d gifted him from hand to hand, his expression bored. Cameron Wilde was hunched over his phone, texting someone with a gentle smile that had never once been aimed at me. Leo Maxwell was busy checking his hair on the reflective screen. The A-list celebrity could never go a moment without worrying about his flawless face. They hadn’t grasped the severity of the situation. In their minds, I, Sloane Ashworth, was a hard ass, but one they could always tame. They assumed that if they acted as a united front, I would cave—because that’s how it had always been for the past twenty-something years. Rhys finally tired of his pen-twirling and tossed the expensive instrument onto the table. “Sloane, that’s enough.” “We simply borrowed your plane to pick up a friend. Did you really have to throw this massive fit and ban us from the celebration party?” Cameron put his phone down and looked up, his brow furrowed, clearly thinking I was being utterly unreasonable. “He’s right, Cleo. Skylar was alone and terrified. We are her friends; of course, we had to help. As the head of Ashworth, shouldn’t you have a little more—perspective?” Leo scoffed, leaning back in his chair. He looked at the other two. “I think Sloane is just jealous. Jealous that we care about Skylar so much.” “Seriously, we’ve been best friends since kindergarten, and you’re still getting petty? It’s a bad look, Ashworth.” The three of them, in perfect harmony, dismissed an egregious corporate betrayal as nothing more than a woman’s fit of jealousy and small-mindedness. Their arrogance was comical. One was my executive partner, holding a ten percent equity stake. One was my fiancé, linking our families in a massive financial merger. And the last was the face of the company, who was not only paid a fortune but enjoyed the best resources my empire could offer. They benefited from my success, yet at the most critical moment, they had stabbed me in the back for the sake of their untouchable muse, Skylar Bloom. I pressed the internal line button. “Send the heads of Legal, Finance, and Security in.” The men froze, clearly realizing I wasn’t going to accept their apologies this time. Rhys frowned. “Why call them? This is an internal matter, we can handle it—” I ignored him. I pulled three prepared documents from my drawer, laying them out on the table. I had drafted these myself, under the blazing lights of the world’s media on that infamous day, staring at the empty chairs reserved for my partner, my fiancé, and my endorser. I knew then that these three fools, blinded by lust and ego, were no longer fit to stand beside me. “It is an internal matter, indeed.” I flipped open the first document and slid it to Rhys. “Rhys Kincaid, this is a Notice of Partnership Termination.” “Given your unexcused absence at the critical moment of the company’s IPO launch, you have severely breached the partnership agreement, causing substantial reputational damage and stock fluctuation.” “Per the terms, Ashworth Global is exercising its right to compulsorily buy back all of your shares at a non-negotiable floor price, and you are liable for all resulting damages.” Rhys shot to his feet, his face ashen. “Sloane, are you insane? You’re kicking me out?” I didn’t look at him, turning to toss the second document at Cameron. “Cameron Wilde, this is a Rescission of Engagement and a Termination Letter for all current Ashworth-Wilde joint projects.” “Your actions severely damaged my personal reputation, which directly harmed Ashworth Global’s image. Our families’ merger is void, effective immediately.” “Furthermore, all of the Wilde family’s construction projects currently underway under Ashworth funding are to be suspended and liquidated immediately.” Cameron’s pupils contracted; his controlled composure shattered. “Sloane, that’s a billion-dollar project! You’re playing with our livelihoods over a petty squabble!” Finally, I looked at the stunned Leo Maxwell, and I slapped the legal notice onto his expensive, perfectly sculpted face. “Leo Maxwell, this is a Contract Termination and Damages Claim.” “As a brand endorser, you vanished without cause on the day of a major brand event, and your social media conduct has since created a negative public narrative. You are in breach.” “The penalty for this breach is three hundred million dollars, payable into the corporate account within three business days.” A deathly silence fell over the office. The three men stared at me in stunned disbelief. After a long moment, Leo spoke, his voice trembling. “Sloane, you… you have to be kidding. All this, for something so minor?” I leaned back in my chair, crossing my hands over my chest, my gaze flat. “Minor?” “You stole my private jet, causing me to miss the final roadshow, which is minor?” “You made me ring the bell alone in front of the world’s media, turning me into a joke, which is minor?” “You illegally charged the cost of private charters, luxury hotels, and a private medical team for Skylar to the company’s expense account, which is minor?” I stood, leaning my hands on the desk, my physical presence looming over them. “I apologize. I was not born with a sense of humor for your petty crimes.” “Since you deem this a ‘minor’ issue, I’m going to show you what a major problem looks like.” “Security. Escort them out.” 2 The three men were still shouting as security ushered them out. Rhys pointed his finger at me, calling me cold-blooded and promising I’d die alone. Cameron, face dark with fury, threatened to call my father to discipline me. Leo screamed that he would expose my villainy and let his millions of fans tear me apart online. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the chaotic scene as the paparazzi swarmed them downstairs. I had never felt such perfect, serene satisfaction. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Rhys. “Sloane, don’t be so cruel.” “Skylar really did cut her finger; it was an emergency, and we were worried about tetanus. Can’t you show a little human compassion?” Attached was a photo. In the picture, Skylar was lying on a first-class seat, her hand wrapped in thick, dramatic bandages. She looked fragile and pitiful, a tear tracked down her cheek. The three men hovered around her, their faces etched with genuine concern. I zoomed in on the photo. Hmm. That bandage was so thick, you’d think she’d lost a limb. Compassion? My compassion had expired years ago. I typed a reply, utterly nonchalant: “Oh, honey. If the situation was so ‘emergency’ and the fear of tetanus so high, it must be an infection with a severe, highly contagious, unknown foreign pathogen! I’d be happy to help you all!” After hitting send, I immediately dialed the city’s Centers for Disease Control (CDC) and Customs and Border Protection (CBP). “Hello, I’d like to file an anonymous tip.” “A private jet, recently arrived from the Maldives, is attempting to smuggle passengers without proper health declarations. There is one passenger with a suspected high-pathogenicity infectious disease and a severe open wound.” “Yes, and three others are close contacts.” “This plane not only failed to file its health manifesto, but it actively tried to bypass customs. For the safety of our city, I urge you to handle this with the utmost urgency.” I hung up and sent one final message to Rhys: “Since you all stressed how serious it was, I’ve done you a favor and called the most professional medical isolation team to ensure your life safety.” “No need to thank me. It’s my last act of mercy as your former partner.” Half an hour later, the internet exploded. #LeoMaxwellAndCoDetainedAtAirport #SuspectedUnknownForeignVirus #PrivateJetQuarantinedAndFumigated In the video, Skylar was being forcefully escorted onto a negative-pressure ambulance by agents in full hazmat gear. She was terrified, her face pale. In her struggle, the thick gauze fell loose, exposing the wound. It was a scratch less than a centimeter long, and it was—already scabbed over. The CBP agents on-site paused, their expressions turning from professional vigilance to utter fury. “This is the high-pathogenicity wound you claimed?” “This is the life-threatening tetanus?” Rhys, Cameron, and Leo were also forcibly loaded into a separate quarantine vehicle. They frantically tried to explain it was just a scratch, a minor cut, that they were rushing and didn’t file the paperwork. But in the face of strict federal regulations, every excuse sounded like a lie. “Failure to comply with health declarations and falsifying documentation. Suspected obstruction of federal health inspection laws. You will be held for mandatory observation and transferred to police custody immediately.” Watching their miserable faces on the live feed, I smiled. I said I was a serious person. Since they claimed the situation was grave, I handled it by the gravest standards. Enjoy the ride. 3 Between mandatory quarantine and administrative detention, they would be locked up for at least two weeks. Two weeks was plenty of time for me to clean house. First, I convened an emergency board meeting. Using my absolute majority controlling stake, I unanimously passed a resolution to remove Rhys Kincaid from his position as Executive Director. I didn’t stop there. I fired all the cronies Rhys had installed, citing incompetence and unmet performance metrics. For the few who tried to fight back, I had the accounting department drop their files of fake expense reports. “You can walk out with dignity, or you can let me call the police for corporate fraud. Choose.” Watching them scurry out, clutching their cardboard boxes, the toxic atmosphere at Ashworth Global immediately cleared. Next was Cameron. The projects between the Wildes and Ashworth were vast and complex. In the past, I would have deferred to family ties and tolerated his incompetence. But now, with the gloves off, I was going to cut deep. I ordered Legal to issue a demand letter, citing Cameron’s unilateral breach of the engagement and partnership agreement. I then froze the capital accounts for every joint construction project. The Wilde family had a massive, multi-billion-dollar development underway. The sudden, complete halt of capital bled their project dry. Robert Wilde, Cameron’s father and my former prospective father-in-law, called me, his voice shaking with rage. “Sloane, you’re shooting yourself in the foot! The project stops, and Ashworth loses money too!” My tone was calm. “Mr. Wilde, you’re mistaken.” “Ashworth only provided the financing; the Wilde family handled the operations. Now, thanks to your heir’s criminal misconduct, the Wilde family’s reputation is in ruins. I have the right to stop funding to protect Ashworth’s assets.” “As for the losses, the contract is clear: the defaulting party—that’s you—is fully liable. You’ll be filling a multi-billion-dollar hole.” I heard the sound of glass shattering on the other end, followed by Robert Wilde’s roar. “Fine! Fine, Sloane! You’re ruthless, but you’ll pay for this! Just you wait!” I hung up and instantly blocked his number. Wait? I never wait for my enemies. Finally, Leo Maxwell. As a top-tier celebrity, his commercial value relied entirely on his pristine image. Now, he was facing not just federal charges for obstructing health inspections, but a storm of public outrage. I had the PR department release a single, cold, and concise statement: [In light of the egregious violation of law and social conduct by the artist Leo Maxwell, Ashworth Global has terminated all affiliations, effective immediately, and reserves the right to pursue full damages for breach of contract.] This move was a scalpel to his jugular. Major brands followed my lead, cutting ties left and right. Leo’s agent called, sobbing and begging, claiming Leo was merely trying to be loyal, that it was a moment of poor judgment. “Loyalty?” I looked down at the flight manifest on my desk. They had forged my signature to authorize the private jet’s flight. “Falsifying documents and stealing a private jet. That isn’t ‘loyalty.’” “That’s grand larceny.” “Tell Leo I require the full three hundred million dollars in breach penalties. If a penny is missing, I will move for forced execution and seize every single asset he owns.” “Additionally, I’m forwarding the evidence of the forged flight authorization to the Economic Crimes Unit to pursue criminal charges for the forgery of corporate documents.” “He can beg his dear Skylar Bloom to save him now.” Having cleaned up the mess, I felt a lightness I hadn’t realized I was missing. Childhood friends, fiancés, partners—they could all go to hell. If you don’t want to share the cake, you get to rot in the gutter with the rats. 4 Two weeks later, the three men were released. The first thing they did wasn’t to apologize or mitigate the damage. It was to host a massive, nationally televised press conference. The event was titled: “Exposing the Bullying Tactics of the Cold-Blooded Capitalist, Sloane Ashworth.” The venue was the city’s most luxurious hotel—the same one Skylar was staying at. Hundreds of media outlets were present, flashbulbs blazing. Skylar, clad in a pristine white dress, looked devastatingly vulnerable, her face deliberately pale and bare of makeup. She sat at the center, flanked by Rhys on the left and Cameron on the right, with Leo standing stoically behind her. They were a united front of victims. Skylar cried for three full minutes before she managed to speak. “I apologize to the public, and most of all, to Ms. Ashworth.” “I know Ms. Ashworth has always disliked me, feeling I wasn’t worthy of being friends with Rhys and Cameron. I understand that.” “But I never, ever intended to take anything from her.” “That day, I was so scared. My finger was bleeding heavily, and I thought I might die…” She held up the hand with the tiny scratch—now barely a faded pink line—for the cameras. “It was only because Rhys and the others were so worried about me that they took Ms. Ashworth’s plane in the heat of the moment.” “We are willing to pay for the jet fuel, and we are willing to apologize.” “But Ms. Ashworth… why such cruelty?” “Why call the federal agents on us? Why let the CDC drag us away like we were diseased criminals?” She wept, her body shaking delicately. Rhys immediately put his arm around her, glaring at the cameras. “Sloane Ashworth is a psychopath. This is nothing but a vicious character assassination.” “She is using her power and wealth to systematically crush us out of spite and jealousy.” “She is even trying to throw me out of the company I helped build from the ground up just to force me to surrender.” Cameron took the microphone, his expression grim. “My engagement to Sloane was always a corporate tragedy arranged by our families.” “She fundamentally misunderstands love. All she sees is profit, control, and winning.” “A woman like that is terrifying. I am thankful I didn’t marry her.” Leo Maxwell, the actor, delivered a heartfelt monologue to the lens. “In this whole cynical industry, only Skylar is pure and innocent.” “Sloane, with her stench of money and cold ambition, isn’t worthy of cleaning Skylar’s shoes.” “She can blacklist me; I don’t care. If it means protecting Skylar, I will quit Hollywood forever!” The statements set off a firestorm online. #JusticeForSkylar #SloaneAshworthIsAVillain #ColdBloodedBillionaire The hashtags dominated social media. Misled netizens swarmed Ashworth Global’s official accounts with hateful comments. Someone even Photoshopped my obituary and sent it to the front desk. The company stock began to flutter nervously. The old-guard board members, the vultures who feared instability, called me one after another, demanding answers. “Ms. Ashworth, is this how you manage a crisis? You’ve turned the company into a circus!” “If you cannot quell this public outrage, we will be forced to activate the impeachment proceedings.” I watched the four of them on the live stream, noting the frantic stock ticker on my desktop. I wasn’t worried. Instead, I poured my assistant a cup of tea. “Patience.” “Let them play their part a little longer.” “The audience isn’t big enough yet. The backlash isn’t intense enough.” “The moment the entire internet is howling my name is the perfect moment to drop the net.” I was waiting for a file, one that would guarantee their complete, irreversible ruin. 5 The press conference reached its dramatic peak. Encouraged by the three men, Skylar pulled out her phone. “To prove how vindictive Ms. Ashworth is, I have an audio recording here.” “It’s what she said to me after I accidentally spilled some wine on her shoe at a gala a few months ago.” She hit play. My voice, cold and measured, cut through the silence. “You think you can just walk away? That shoe is a custom-made Chanel slingback worth eighty-eight thousand dollars. Pay for it, then disappear. Don’t try to play the damsel with me; I don’t fall for it.” The room erupted in gasps. The reporters murmured: “No way, that’s so arrogant!” “Over a pair of shoes?” “Is this the face of modern capitalism?” Skylar cried harder. “Ms. Ashworth has always looked down on me, seeing me as nothing more than a poor girl…” Rhys, Cameron, and Leo looked indignant, as if I were the villain in a Greek tragedy. Just then, the massive screen behind them, which was displaying Skylar’s tearful photo, suddenly flashed. It went black, and a line of stark white text appeared: [EVIDENCE DISCLOSURE: THE CASE OF ASHWORTH GLOBAL PRIVATE JET THEFT & CORPORATE FUND MISAPPROPRIATION] The audience was stunned. Then, a high-definition video began to play. The setting was Rhys Kincaid’s lavish office. The timestamp was two hours before the private jet’s takeoff. In the frame, Rhys, Cameron, and Leo were gathered, smoking and laughing. There was no urgency, no concern, only calculated glee. Rhys exhaled a plume of smoke, chuckling. “Skylar is so dramatic. Cuts her finger and posts it online.” Cameron carelessly played with a lighter. “She wants attention. And frankly, I’m sick of Sloane the Ice Queen. All she talks about is the IPO. No romance, no fun.” Leo had his feet propped up on the desk. “Hey, Sloane’s new jet is sweet. I haven’t flown on it yet. Why don’t we take that one to pick up Skylar?” “Might as well grab a quick week in the Maldives. Sloane is too busy to notice.” Rhys hesitated. “The plane is Sloane’s personal asset. We don’t have the authorization.” Cameron sneered. “What are you afraid of? The three of us can’t handle one Sloane Ashworth?” “We’ll just claim it was a rescue mission. Even if she finds out, is she going to burn us over something so trivial? She needs us.” Leo roared with laughter. “Exactly! Sloane is a pathetic, unloved creature. Just give her a little sweet talk, and she’ll open her wallet. This is a lesson for her, making her realize who she really needs to beg.” Rhys ultimately gave the final nod. “Fine. Let’s go. There’s twenty million in the corporate account for ‘miscellaneous overseas promotion.’ We’ll use that to charter Skylar a private island for a few days. We can always cook the books later.” The video footage was crystal clear, the audio sharp. Every word, every casual laugh, landed like a brutal slap on the faces of the four people on stage and the hundreds in the audience. The reporters who had just been denouncing me now stared, jaws slackened in total shock. Immediately, the screen shifted to Skylar Bloom’s private text messages. The timestamp was one hour before takeoff. She texted Rhys: “Babe, my finger hurts so bad. Hurry! Is Sloane’s new jet super comfy? I really want to try it…” Attached was a deliberately zoomed-in photo of the tiny cut, with the caption: “It would be so perfect to recover on the beach in the Maldives.” Rhys instantly replied: “Wait for us, darling. Picking you up now. Consider this a vacation.” Skylar sent a shy emoji: “Won’t that be too much trouble for Ms. Ashworth?” Rhys: “Forget that ice maiden. With us around, nobody can touch you.” This exchange confirmed Skylar was an active participant in the manipulation. The livestream chat went silent, then exploded with a flood of new comments. [WHAT IS THIS PLOT TWIST?!] [It was never a rescue; it was a vacation plot?!] [Misappropriation of funds? Falsifying books? These are federal crimes!] [These men are disgusting. Mooches who think they’re entitled!] [Where are the Skylar fans now? This is your innocent goddess?] On the stage, the four faces turned bone-white. Rhys tried to lunge for the power cable, but it was useless. Cameron’s water glass slipped from his numb fingers and shattered on the floor. Leo instinctively shielded his face, trying to escape the cameras. Skylar was too terrified to even cry, frozen in place. And it wasn’t over. The screen rotated again, showing pages of official, red-stamped financial audit reports. Every single transaction was flagged for criminal misconduct. Rhys’s fictitious overseas promotion funds were clearly traced to Skylar’s island resort bill. The money Cameron diverted from the Ashworth-Wilde joint projects was used to plug holes in his father’s books. Leo’s chat logs, detailing his insider trading and the sale of confidential company data, were displayed with dates and content. Finally, the screen cut to a live feed from the city’s FBI Economic Crimes Division. The Division Chief addressed the camera gravely. “We have formally launched an investigation into Rhys Kincaid, Cameron Wilde, and Leo Maxwell on charges of embezzlement and corporate fund misappropriation. Skylar Bloom, as a co-conspirator, is also under investigation.” “Preliminary findings confirm the total misappropriated funds exceed five hundred and thirty million dollars. Evidence has been secured. We will be taking all four individuals into custody immediately.” As the feed ended, the doors to the banquet hall burst open. A team of police officers marched in. The lead officer strode onto the stage and displayed the warrants. “Rhys Kincaid, Cameron Wilde, Leo Maxwell, and Skylar Bloom. You are under arrest for severe economic crimes. You are now being taken into criminal custody.” Rhys’s knees buckled; he collapsed onto the carpet. Cameron tried to argue. “I’m the heir to the Wilde fortune! You can’t arrest me! I need my lawyer!” Leo immediately tried to deflect. “This isn’t my fault! Rhys made me do it! I’m just an artist; I don’t understand any of this!” Skylar shrieked, clutching the table leg. “I’m innocent! They gave me the money! I didn’t know! I’m the victim here!” The four allies, moments ago a picture of devoted friendship, immediately tore each other apart under the weight of the law. No one believed their tears now. Reporters shoved their lenses right into their faces, documenting every miserable moment. Watching them being led out and loaded into the police vehicles, I finally felt the tension leave my body. However, just as the police motorcade began to pull away, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I answered. A voice, distorted by a scrambler, came through the line. “Sloane Ashworth, well done.” “You’ve neutralized these pawns, which saves me a lot of trouble.” “Those three fools were only ever useful for wasting company resources and stuffing Skylar’s pockets. They were useless to my real plan. You’ve cleared the deadwood for me, saving me the trouble of doing it myself.” He gave a cold, sinister chuckle. “But do you think you’ve won?” “Check the wire transfer log for the Ashworth Global overseas account. That five billion—is it still there?” I shot to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest. The overseas account? That was Ashworth’s core capital, the massive reserve for our European expansion—the final lifeline my mother had left me. I immediately logged into the bank system. The screen displayed an unbearable truth. BALANCE: 0. “What did you do? Who are you?” I demanded into the phone. The voice chuckled again. “Who I am is irrelevant. What matters, Sloane, is this: Welcome to the real Hell Mode.” The line went dead. I stared at the dark screen, my hands ice cold.

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The women in the assisted living facility were gathered in the common room, sharing stories of the loves that had defined their lives. The kind of stories you only tell when you know the ending. When it was my turn, I spoke without inflection. “When I was twenty-five, my husband gave me his heart.” The room went instantly silent. No one needed the details. The quiet that followed was profound, the kind that settles after a shared tragedy. Even after forty years, the thought of him still brought that familiar, sharp ache to my chest. I pushed myself up, ready to retreat to my room, when a new resident—a woman who had only arrived a few weeks ago—spoke up. “Funny thing is, the year I’ll never forget is the first year I was with my husband. I told him I wanted a real life, a real title.” She paused, taking a slow sip of her lukewarm tea. “He heard me, and the next day, his wife conveniently suffered a ‘sudden cardiac episode.’ He faked giving her his heart and staged his own death. His wife mourned him for forty years, believing he was her sacrifice. Meanwhile, we lived out our lives, gray and surrounded by children and grandchildren.” Her eyes were fixed on me as she spoke, and the malice in them was a dark, bottomless well. In that moment, I recognized her. Sienna Lowe. Rhys’s secretary from four decades ago. 1 The shock was a physical blow. I passed out. When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw was Rhys. He was dressed in a cheap Santa suit, holding out a small, festive gift. “Eliza, Merry Christmas! Go on, open it. Tell me you love it.” The scene was terrifyingly familiar. In my past life, the object inside that cheerfully wrapped box had induced a cardiac episode. When I woke up in the hospital, I received the news of his death. His sacrifice. Now, I looked at his face, vibrant and near—the face I had mourned for forty years. But beneath the relief of seeing him alive, Sienna’s words echoed: Induced cardiac episode… staged his own death… My hand hovered mid-air. Finally, under the expectant gaze of the man I loved, my fingers landed on the ribbon. I slowly unveiled the box. The contents—an object identical to the one in my memory—sat silently on the velvet lining. In the same instant, the familiar, crippling pain seized my heart. My vision tunneled, and Rhys’s panicked face began to swim before me… I woke up to the smell of disinfectant and the sound of quiet sobbing. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Fenton, held my hand, her voice thick with tears. “Eliza, you have to hold on… Rhys… he left his heart for you. He wants you to live a full life…” Everything was exactly as it had been in the last life. Except this time, I didn’t cry. My face was unnervingly blank. The circle of friends and family around my bed watched my dry-eyed silence. Their sympathy curdled into confusion, then into a silent, communal accusation. How could you not weep? How could you be so calm? He gave his life for you! Ignoring their protests, I ripped off the monitors and rushed home. I tore through the house in a frantic search. Drawers, closets, old journals, junk boxes… Finally, hidden deep in the files on his old desktop computer, I found a purchase history. Following the record was an unfamiliar delivery address. I drove there immediately. It was a quiet suburban neighborhood, the house warm and comfortable. I didn’t see anyone, but a neighbor emerged to take out the trash, giving me a friendly, assessing look. “You looking for the couple in 302? They’re the sweetest thing.” The neighbor chatted easily, tossing her bag into the bin. “I remember once, it was pouring rain, and he worried his wife would slip. He actually took two hours off work just to lay non-slip mats from the garage door to the front path.” “And he never comes home from the grocery store without a little bunch of daisies—her favorites…” I listened in silence, every word falling like a drop of ice. Non-slip mats in the rain. Her favorite flowers. Rhys had done those things for me, too. After my diagnosis, during that rainy season, he had silently lined our walkway. He had always remembered to bring home a bouquet of my favorite white lilies. The details I had cherished as symbols of a unique, irreplaceable love were nothing more than a well-used script. They were not for me, but for the role of Wife with a Weak Heart. I sat back in my car and closed the door. The world was suddenly and terribly quiet. The steering wheel was cold in my hands. Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to believe? On what foundation had forty years of mourning and heart-wrenching loss been built? How much was sincere love, and how much was a performance? My phone screen flickered to life. A notification. It was a new post from a profile I’d added years ago, someone I didn’t know but hadn’t bothered to delete. The picture was a casual street view, tagged in a distant coastal town. The caption was simple: New place is set up. She loves the ocean. A profound chill ran through me. That coastal town was the exact place Rhys and Sienna had moved to. In the previous life, this profile had also been on my friends list. He rarely posted, but when he did, it was always a glimpse into a peaceful, ordinary married life: grocery runs, watching old movies on a rainy day, tending to the flower pots on the balcony… The words were full of the quiet smoke and warmth of a simple, treasured life. I had no idea who he was, but I’d always thought, If my Rhys were still here, he would be like this. I’d never deleted the stranger’s account. Sometimes, I’d even give a silent ‘Like,’ hoping to borrow a sliver of that illusory warmth to soothe my own endless desolation. I hadn’t known. That was him. Rhys Fenton. He was living the life I had desperately wanted—and loving another woman with the authenticity I craved. 2 The next thing I knew, I was on a flight to that distant coastal town. Forty years of agony demanded an answer. Following the information I’d gathered, I found the coffee shop owned by one of Sienna’s friends. Hearing I was an old acquaintance, the friend greeted me warmly. Before I even had to ask, she began talking about how Rhys and Sienna met. “Rhys and Sienna were college sweethearts, practically! Well, he was two years ahead, but they met at orientation and they’ve been in touch ever since.” “It wasn’t until last year they decided to finally make it official. Sienna loves the coast, so Rhys bought this beautiful oceanfront house. Said he wanted to spend the rest of his life here with her.” “And they’d barely moved in when Sienna got pregnant. Rhys was ecstatic! He said this was true peace, and they had to hurry up and make it all legitimate for her and the baby.” I learned they had known each other for so long. They had planned to grow old here all along. Sienna was already pregnant. The friend kept talking about the details of their courtship, but my mind had slipped back to my past life. Rhys and I had almost had a child, too. But because of my heart condition, the doctor strongly advised against it. Rhys had been silent for a long time. Then he’d held me and said, “We won’t keep it. I only need you to be safe.” I was deeply moved, and profoundly guilty. So guilty I’d considered gambling with my life to carry the baby to term. But then, I overheard a phone call between him and his mother. “Yes, I messed with the timing, so what? She’s pregnant now. I just have to coax her, and she’ll be too soft-hearted to end it! What’s wrong with wanting a child?” In that moment, the world fell silent. I only heard the heavy, sickening thump of my own heart. The tender husband before my eyes warped into a stranger I didn’t know at all. I smashed everything within reach and screamed at him. I called him selfish, a liar, a man who didn’t care about me—only saw me as a means to an end. After his initial panic, his face twisted into the rage of a cheat exposed. He spat the words out. “A woman on borrowed time like you… if you can’t even give me an heir, what was the point of this marriage?” All my fury froze. I looked at him as if he were a monster. Then a sudden, violent spasm gripped my abdomen. A warm gush of liquid soaked my skirt and the chaotic, broken floor. I lost the baby. In the hospital room, his parents arrived. In front of them, Rhys dropped to his knees, slapping his own face, again and again. He sobbed that he had been momentarily insane, that he desperately wanted our child, that he was terrified of losing me, and it had made him lose his mind. He was wrong, he knew it, and he begged me to forgive him, promising he would only focus on my health from now on. He hit himself hard, and his cheek quickly swelled. His parents tried to restrain him, their eyes red, worried about upsetting me further. I kept my eyes closed, unwilling to witness the nauseating, absurd performance. My body was in pain, but my mind was numb and frozen. But the human heart is a wretched thing. Even though I knew it was poison wrapped in frosting, even after experiencing the deepest betrayal, seeing him kneeling there, face bruised and tear-streaked… That pathetic, treacherous emotion began to stir. A man wanting a child with the person he loves… is that really so wrong? In that moment, I found an excuse for him. I softened. I forgave him. After that, he never mentioned children again. He became meticulous, attentive, and outwardly full of remorse. I had believed it was guilt. I had believed it was repentance. Now, sitting in this coffee-scented shop, listening to his mistress’s friend casually mention, “Sienna’s pregnant,” I finally put the pieces together. He hadn’t given up the idea of a family. He had just traded me in for a newer, more functional model to build his perfectly complete home. “Are you… are you here to see them?” The friend finally paused, looking curiously at my silent, pale face. I parted my lips. The saltiness of the sea air seemed to clog my throat. Was I here to see them? Under what identity? Before I could invent a plausible lie, the friend offered her own conclusion. “Oh, I know! You must be coming for their wedding tomorrow night at The Grand Meridian! What a joyous occasion. You can join the fun!” The Grand Meridian. The very hotel Rhys and I had chosen for our wedding. 3 I was back at The Grand Meridian. The champagne-rose archway, the long, sweeping red carpet. Every single detail—the curve of the petals, the fold of the satin ribbon—was exactly as Rhys and I had meticulously planned on the blueprints years ago. In my previous life, I never set foot here again, terrified of invoking the ghost of what should have been. Now, this metaphorical graveyard of my suffering was hosting their happiness. I melted into the crowd of guests and saw many familiar faces. Rhys’s relatives, old colleagues, and even… His parents. The two seniors were dressed in crisp, celebratory clothes, surrounded by old friends, their faces beaming with unconcealed joy. I managed to smile looking at them, though it probably looked more like a grimace. In my last life, after Rhys “died,” his mother had clung to my hand, sobbing until she was exhausted. “Eliza, Rhys is gone, but you are our daughter now. His final wish was for you to live well. We… we will take care of you for him.” I took her words as truth, and as a debt. When they were sick, I was the one who stayed up to nurse them, signing papers and running errands. I fixed the leaky pipes, replaced the lightbulbs, and managed their seasonal wardrobe changes. I never missed a holiday gift, and my weekend visits were sacrosanct. I signed the high-risk consent forms for Mr. Fenton’s heart surgery. When Mrs. Fenton became frail, I paid for her in-home care and visited weekly. I saw them through to their final days, arranging everything properly as their ‘daughter.’ I believed this was penance, a memorial to my lost love. Now, I heard Mrs. Fenton boast to a relative: “Sienna is a dream. She’s taken such good care of Rhys these past few years, and she’s so attentive to us.” “We waited so long for them to finally settle down.” Mr. Fenton nodded, his voice full of relief. “It’s true. If not for her, Rhys would never have recovered. We’ve been anticipating this day for too long.” It turned out that all those years I spent living as their dedicated ‘widow,’ caring for them until the end… They knew the whole time. They knew their son was living an actual married life in another city with another woman. All my heartfelt devotion was probably seen as the pathetic, self-absorbed theatrics of a fool. A sharp, searing bitterness rushed up my throat. I lowered my head. A hot tear splashed onto the carpet, spreading into a dark, small stain. Then, a distant aunt leaned in, her voice low and tentative. “Speaking of which… what ever happened to Rhys’s first wife, Eliza Snow?” The cheerful chatter instantly died. Mrs. Fenton’s smile faded. She quickly pulled her lips into a thin line. “Oh, darling, today is a happy day. Let’s not spoil it by bringing up irrelevant people and things. That’s all in the past. We need to look forward.” Irrelevant people. Yesterday, she sent me a message telling me to move on. Today, I was “irrelevant.” The ceremony was about to begin. Guests took their seats. I stood at the back, watching the scene that mirrored my long-ago dreams. The music I chose, the flowers I selected, every step of the processional I had designed. On the stage, Rhys stood tall and straight in a crisp tuxedo. This was the first time since my rebirth that I truly looked at him. He looked young, vivid, and real—exactly as he was in my memory. That familiar, stubborn ache in my chest returned, dull but pervasive. The barrier between us was not just these few days since my rebirth; it was the four decades of solitude I had endured. The wedding march began. Sienna, in a white gown, started her walk toward Rhys. I watched. The answer I had relentlessly pursued, the very question of his love… it suddenly felt meaningless. He felt meaningless. Sienna, her smile radiant and certain, stopped before him. The officiant began the familiar inquiry: “Rhys Fenton, do you take Sienna Lowe to be your wife, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, holding only to her, until death do you part?” All eyes were on him. I turned away. I was done watching a perfect picture that was never meant for me. I took my first step toward the exit. But from the stage, Rhys’s voice cut through the air, clear and devastatingly loud. “I do not.”

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My sugar daddy took me to a gala, and I ended up in a fistfight with the love of his life. He pulled me out of the brawl, his grip like iron. With my hair a mess and mascara running, I glared at him coldly. “You taking sides now?” He remained silent, his jaw tight. I ripped the diamond ring off my finger and threw it in his face. “I’m dumping you.” 1 I was Chloe, Damian’s kept woman. We’d been together for three years. He was handsome, wealthy, incredible in bed, and generous. His only rule was no kissing scenes in my movies. Because of that, I lost some roles and got labeled “fake” and “stuck up” by the critics. I didn’t care. I had always been obedient. I never caused trouble. I never imagined that the first time I caused trouble, it would be nuclear. I punched his childhood sweetheart in the face. 2 It started when Damian asked me to be his plus-one at a high-society engagement party. I never fit in with his “Old Money” crowd. I wanted to say no, but I’d been filming on location for three months. I missed him. So, I went. Naturally, I ran into people I didn’t want to see. I tried to avoid them, but they cornered me in the garden. Vivian was Damian’s childhood friend. Her family had moved to Europe years ago and just moved back to the States. Jessica was my nemesis in Hollywood. She constantly bought bots to trash me on Twitter. I didn’t know they knew each other. I sat on a bench, trying to be invisible. Jessica was examining her manicure, speaking loudly enough for me to hear. “It’s the Sterling engagement party. How did the trash get in?” Vivian glanced at me, her voice indifferent. “You dragged me out here just to gossip?” Jessica gave her a sycophantic smile. “Viv, don’t be like that. It’s stuffy inside. Besides…” “Viv, are you and Damian finally merging families? Like, marriage?” “It’s… pretty much settled.” “That’s amazing! A power couple. It’s about time some people realized they’re just placeholders.” Vivian didn’t respond. Jessica kept going. I turned to leave, but her next words froze me. “Some people are so trashy. Her dad caused that construction collapse years ago. People lost their jobs, and he only lost a leg? That’s karma.” I stopped. I turned around, walked up to her, and slapped her twice across the face. Jessica clutched her cheek, screaming. “Chloe! Are you insane?” I smiled coldly. “I can handle you talking trash behind my back, but did you think I wouldn’t hit you to your face?” Vivian frowned. “Miss Hart, this is the Sterling estate. Have you thought about the consequences?” My eyes were sharp. “Miss Vance, if someone mocked your crippled father to your face, I’d hope you wouldn’t stop to think about consequences either.” Vivian stayed silent, but Jessica lunged, grabbing my hair. I don’t know how Vivian got involved, but by the time Damian arrived, the three of us were a tangled mess on the ground. Damian, face like thunder, hauled me out of the pile. I looked like a wreck. Vivian barely had a hair out of place. I glared at Damian. “You protecting her?” He frowned, saying nothing. That’s when I threw the ring. “I’m dumping you!” I ran out, dove into a waiting Uber, and sped off. But the moment the door closed, I broke down. I had just wrapped filming yesterday. I came back full of love and excitement to see him. And instead of a warm welcome, I got humiliated, and he took her side. My phone buzzed. Damian calling. I picked up and screamed, “The penthouse in Bel Air is in my name! You have one week to move out!” I hung up and blocked him on everything. Bastard. We were done. 3 I didn’t go back to the Bel Air penthouse. I checked into a hotel in West Hollywood. After a shower, the adrenaline faded, and reality set in. I was probably the first sugar baby in history to evict her billionaire patron. I had gotten bold over the years. In the beginning, I was terrified of him. I met Damian at a slimy networking dinner. My agent forced me to go “socialize” with investors. My family used to be middle class, but after my dad’s accident on the construction site, we lost everything paying off debts and medical bills. To help, I signed a predatory contract with a talent agency. They gave me zero roles and treated me like an escort. I tried to dodge the dinners, playing sick, playing dumb. But that night, I had no choice. I walked into the VIP room. It was full of greasy middle-aged men. Damian sat at the head of the table, looking like a king among trolls. He got up to leave almost immediately. I panicked and followed him into the hall. “Sir,” I stammered. “Can I… go with you?” He towered over me, looking down with cold eyes. “Why? Do I look like the nice one?” He looked like the scariest one, actually. But I couldn’t say that. I shook my head. “You’re the best looking.” Damian scoffed. “I know.” He looked impatient. I blurted out, “You look like a good person.” He smirked, a dangerous glint in his eye. “You need glasses.” He left. My agent dragged me back inside. They forced whiskey down my throat. A fat producer put his hand on my thigh. I struggled, knocking over a glass. He slapped me, calling me ungrateful, and tried to rip my dress. In panic, I grabbed a shard of the broken glass and stabbed him in the leg. I sat there, shaking, thinking I was going to prison. Then the door swung open. Damian stood there. He glanced around the room. The producer, who had been screaming like a pig, instantly went silent. “Didn’t you want to come with me? Well? Come here.” I dropped the glass and ran to him. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t stand. He scooped me up and carried me out. 4 He took me to the penthouse. I spent an hour in the bathroom, terrified to come out. I heard him on the phone, fixing the mess I made. When the voices stopped, I walked out wrapped in a towel. He was leaning back on the sofa, shirt unbuttoned, looking effortlessly expensive. I stood in front of him, gathered my courage, and dropped the towel. I squeezed my eyes shut. He stood up, picked up the towel, and wrapped it back around me. “You’re young,” he teased. “But bold.” My face burned. “I… I’ve never done this… I don’t know the protocol…” “Look at me.” I gripped the towel, forcing myself to meet his eyes. They were dark, amused, and dangerous. “You trust me that much? Aren’t you afraid I’m worse than them?” “No,” I lied quickly. “Handsome people are usually kind.” He laughed. He pulled me close and kissed me. It was my first kiss. My brain melted. He brushed his thumb over my lip. “Go to sleep. Can you sleep alone?” I nodded dizzily. “Hm? Is that how you treat your sponsor?” His voice went up a pitch. I panicked and hugged his waist. “No! I’m scared. I need you to hold me.” He seemed satisfied, tucked me into bed, and went to make more calls. Half an hour later, he came back and held me while I slept. I checked the news for a week. Nothing. My predatory contract was dissolved. Damian set me up with a top-tier agency. The producer I stabbed vanished from Hollywood. For three years, Damian gave me the best resources. I went from a nobody to a B-list star. My parents’ debts were paid. They opened a small shop back home. Life was good. But for me, it was getting worse. Because I was falling in love with him. He was my patron. I was the contract lover. But loving Damian was the easiest thing in the world to do.

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On the day Ethan proposed to me, I broke up with him. Our friends were baffled. He knelt on the ground, pleading that he had been planning this proposal for a month. Roses everywhere, the scent filling the garden—it was indeed thoughtful. But… what a coincidence. I had made up my mind to leave him exactly one month ago. 1 I said the words before Ethan could even pull the ring out of his pocket. The friends who were cheering us on suddenly went silent, as if someone had hit the pause button on the world. A gentle breeze carried the rich scent of roses to my nose. The proposal setup was truly beautiful. Back when we started dating, I told him that if he ever proposed, it had to be in Napa Valley, under an arch of white roses, and I wanted to be wearing a white vintage dress. He remembered everything. He even did more than I asked. “Why? Don’t you love me anymore?” It took Ethan a long moment to react. His face turned beet red. I looked quietly at this face, the man I had loved for ten years. He was still handsome, still capable of making my heart skip a beat. But… I helped him up and gently patted his shoulder. “Ethan, it’s you who doesn’t love me anymore.” 2 Ethan and I met in high school. He was the captain of the debate team; I was the editor of the school paper. Our main activity was competing over GPAs. During senior year, we often stayed late at the library. Sometimes, we’d quiz each other before AP exams. He would poke my shoulder with his pen. “Summer, how did you do? I only missed one question on the History mock exam.” I wouldn’t back down either. We competed like that all the way to graduation. On the night of our graduation party, things went late. Ethan drove me home. For some reason, we got stuck in traffic on the 405. Amidst the honking of cars, I heard his voice. “Summer, I really like you. Will you go out with me?” I heard him clearly, but I pretended I didn’t, turning back to ask, “What did you say?” The night was dark, but I saw his ears turn bright red instantly. He stammered, “Nothing.” He walked me to my front door. Just as I was about to go inside, he suddenly closed his eyes and shouted. “Summer, I like you!” “I heard you. Summer likes you too.” I stood in front of him, grinning. He stepped back, startled. “I thought you went inside?” “Because I heard someone say he likes me, and since I like him too, I came back out.” His face turned completely red. That night was the beginning. The summer wind was hot, his white dress shirt was thin, and his bright laughter echoed in my mind for the next ten years. Back then, even holding hands made us blush for hours. We held hands, and we didn’t let go for ten years. In those ten years, we traveled everywhere. We went to New York, walking through Central Park, getting soaked by a sudden thunderstorm and failing to hail a cab; we went to San Francisco, haggling with a vendor at Fisherman’s Wharf for fresh crab; we went to New Orleans, leaving a note in a crack of a jazz bar wall that read: Hope everyone finds happiness; we went to the Grand Canyon, taking silly photos of each other on the rim… The internet says if a relationship lasts more than five years without marriage, it likely never will. I scoffed at that. Marriage felt like a natural progression to me. When the time was right, it would happen. I believed that. Until this year, when we went to Chicago. While watching the lights on the riverwalk, I accidentally saw his phone. 3 The Chicago skyline was breathtaking. I took a picture and turned to show him. But I saw him smiling, his fingers flying across the screen. Even though he locked it quickly, I saw the contact name and the profile picture. The name was “Zoe,” and the picture was Lotso the Bear from Toy Story. I couldn’t convince myself that a guy would use Lotso as a profile pic. Nor could I convince myself they were just friends. I had never checked his phone before. But that night, after he fell asleep, a gut feeling urged me to look. My hands trembled as I unlocked his screen. Zoe was a pretty girl. Her Instagram was vibrant. Selfies with Lotso. Funny memes. She posted daily updates about her life, full of emojis. Much livelier than my feed, which was mostly reposts of financial news. I didn’t want to scroll up their chat history, but I couldn’t stop myself. I scrolled to the very top and found they had added each other back in college. Her first message was: “Hi Senior, I’m Zoe.” Zoe. Ethan. Their names sounded good together. I read their chat logs like a masochist. When did it cross the line? It seemed to be this year. Zoe shared a playlist; he said it was great. Zoe said it was her birthday; he Venmoed her $100 and sent a plush toy. Zoe said, “I’m so tired today, Ethan.” He said, “Get some rest, don’t stay up late.” Zoe said, “I miss seeing you.” He replied with “…” and then, “Don’t think about it.” Zoe said, “Ethan, I’m lost.” He said, “Stay there, I’ll call a friend to pick you up, or I’ll come myself.” … These countless messages screamed that boundaries had been crossed. If I hadn’t been holding Ethan’s phone, I would have thought I was reading a romance novel. It turned out that while he was baking me cakes, replying to my texts, and buying me gifts, he was also messaging someone else. Did I make Ethan too comfortable? So comfortable that he never deleted a single message. I couldn’t even lie to myself if I wanted to. That night, I sat on the hotel sofa, looking out at the Chicago River. The water was beautiful under the moonlight, but in the reflection of the glass, I saw a pathetic, tear-streaked Summer. 4 I didn’t know how to face Ethan. So I booked the earliest flight back to D.C. My thesis advisor sent me a pile of research papers, and I buried myself in work. I rejected Ethan’s texts, calls, and requests to meet, using my thesis as an excuse. When he came to my campus, I lied and said I was on a research trip with my professor. I didn’t know why I was being so difficult. It felt like there were two little people in my head. One said: Summer, it’s ten years. Not ten days, not ten months. Ten years. The other said: Summer, he emotionally cheated. They tortured me day and night. Combined with the pressure of my PhD, I barely slept. During that time, I didn’t contact Ethan, and he thought I was genuinely busy, so he didn’t disturb me. One day, after a dinner with my cohort, we discussed research methods. Someone mentioned you could find data on Twitter by searching keywords. I don’t know why, but I searched for Zoe’s handle. One account popped up with the exact same profile picture. She had 1,323 tweets. I read every single one. She was full of energy. She donated to charity monthly, volunteered at animal shelters. She complained about her workload but finished it anyway, then tweeted a “Good job, me!” If she hadn’t intruded into my life, I would have liked her. But she chose to intrude. She even started a thread: My journey chasing the dream guy. Did she not know Ethan had a girlfriend? Ethan’s Facebook cover photo was of us. Or did she just think I wasn’t a threat? I found the answer quickly. That day, while walking to the cafeteria after reading papers, I checked Twitter. She had a new update: Confessed to him after the movies and got rejected. But it’s okay, he likes me. I just need to try harder. There was a screenshot attached. I clicked it. The person with Ethan’s profile pic said: “I’m sorry, I have a girlfriend. She’s been with me for ten years. I need to be responsible for her.” I dropped my tray. Silverware clattered loudly on the floor. A student asked if I was okay. I waved them off calmly. I didn’t cry this time. There was nothing to cry about. I was free. His reason for rejecting her wasn’t that he didn’t like her. It was because he had to be “responsible” for me. Not because he loved me, but because he felt guilty for wasting my years. In other words, Ethan gave her the confidence to compete with me. He made me—someone who was agonizing over whether to give him a chance to explain—look like a joke. I was the obstacle in the way of his true love. The villain in a soap opera. Funny. That girl had only been in the picture for a few months, yet she outweighed our ten years.

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The night before I was set to sign the marriage license, the sales associate at Veridia told me my fiancée had purchased a limited-edition ‘Midnight Reindeer’ holiday lingerie set. I froze for a few seconds, then my heart hammered against my ribs. I thought, foolishly, that she was finally touched by my ten-year pursuit—that this was a special wedding surprise just for me. But on the day of the wedding, I waited until the last guest had left and she still hadn’t appeared. The only thing I saw was a celebratory post on her intern’s social media: “My CEO Queen said she refuses to let an old, linked-up dude take her first kill, lol, so I got to put my stamp on it first.” “Who cares if someone used their family name to force a ten-year engagement? One tear from me, and she ditched the entire wedding.” “And she promised me that for every time she has to sleep with the old man in the future, she’ll compensate me twice with me~” The accompanying photo showed him, Spencer Reed, with a light, mocking finger hooked through the lacy strap of the lingerie set she had bought with my money. The hickey-covered skin visible on Genevieve’s chest in his arms felt like a physical chill spreading through me. Everyone was betting on what I’d do: Would I retaliate against the intern, or would I swallow the humiliation for the sake of Genevieve Sinclair? No one expected that I, Ashton Pierce, who had chased her for a decade and never considered giving up, would go straight to the official media to announce: Engagement voided. Genevieve’s call immediately came through, her tone icy: “Ashton, why are you starting a fight with a kid like Spencer? He doesn’t have any experience with… you know, relationship stuff. I was just worried he’d be at a disadvantage later, so I put it on as a demonstration. It wasn’t like we actually did anything! The social media post was just a penalty for losing a round of Truth or Dare!” “Besides, that outfit didn’t show a single scandalous thing. Do you really need to make such a big spectacle? No wonder Spencer calls you an archaic Puritan!” “Delete that post immediately before my parents see it! Do you have any idea how much capital is involved in our families’ joint ventures? We’re talking hundreds of millions; you can’t just joke about that!” “After you apologize to Spencer and get his forgiveness, we can reschedule the wedding and go to the courthouse.” I held the phone, my voice flat. “It makes no difference.” “You’re not the only alliance available to Pierce Holdings.” 1 Genevieve clearly paused, the sheer annoyance in her voice practically spilling out of the receiver. “Ashton Pierce, are you seriously making a federal case out of this?” “Spencer and I drank too much at the bachelorette party last night and slept in; it’s not like I deliberately stood you up. We can just have the wedding another day, can’t we?” “The alliance was settled by our parents years ago. Trying to leverage a non-existent slight like this, just to play the victim… how childish are you?” Listening to her, I felt a burning rush of blood to my head, and I nearly shouted into the phone: “A ‘non-existent slight?’ You call ditching the wedding a ‘non-existent slight?’ Our parents, the entire upper echelon of Westfield’s business partners, and all our friends were waiting there, dressed up, for hours! You call that a ‘non-existent slight?’ Or how about the fact that you, a woman set to be married tomorrow, took pictures like that with Spencer Reed and posted them online? You call that a ‘non-existent slight?’” I inhaled deeply, forcing down the lump in my throat, the words catching as I demanded: “Genevieve, what exactly counts as a big deal to you?” Maybe Spencer Reed’s slightest frown was the biggest deal in the world to her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have abandoned a few hundred people at the wedding venue just because of one of his crocodile tears. I didn’t give her a chance to argue, immediately hanging up. My mother stood beside me, her eyes red, waiting for an answer. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, my voice was as calm as frozen water: “Mom, please contact the other potential alliances.” “But you waited for Gen for ten years, maybe if you just wait for the next…” “I’m done waiting,” I cut her off, wiping away the last hint of dampness from my eye. “She is not worth it.” I sat down, alone, on the day of my thirtieth Christmas Eve, and for the first time, I took a serious look back at my life. The most golden decade of my life, from twenty to thirty, was spent waiting for Genevieve to turn around. For her sake, I managed Pierce Holdings while constantly bailing out the Sinclair Group’s crises. I once drank so much blocking drinks for her that I landed in the emergency room with a bleeding ulcer; I stayed up all night rewriting proposals, treating liver supplements like meals; and when her father fell critically ill, I stepped in to manage their operations. I even personally led the team that took the Sinclair Group’s overseas division public over three grueling years. I worked so hard that some people suspected I was trying to stage a corporate takeover. Only I knew the truth: I just wanted her to finally see me. That I was worthy of her, and strong enough to support her entire world. A month ago, after the overseas division’s successful IPO, she finally accepted my proposal, scheduling the high-profile Christmas wedding everyone in the city was talking about. I was ecstatic. I thought she had finally recognized my efforts. I oversaw every detail of the wedding myself and even rented all the city’s outdoor billboards to broadcast the ceremony live. I wanted the entire city to witness that I had finally won. But in the end, the guests left, and my parents were humiliated. Calls to Genevieve’s parents went unanswered until the phones were practically melting. I got nothing but a social media post from Spencer Reed, who displayed their intimate photos and scornfully mocked my ten years of waiting. The moment I saw that photo, I expected to collapse, to go mad, or, as in the past, to make excuses for her, to live in denial. But there was nothing. Only an empty, desolate void in my heart. The truth was, not all waiting yields a result. Some people will simply never turn back. My phone vibrated again. I assumed it was Genevieve, still relentless, and was about to turn it off. But the text I saw made my eyes snap wide open. 2 Genevieve didn’t stoop to a petty, private spat like blocking me. She sent a formal letter directly to Pierce Holdings, unilaterally announcing the termination of all joint ventures. This was immediately followed by an Equity Redemption Notice. The basis was an agreement I had signed years ago to give her peace of mind: I agreed that the Sinclair Group could, at any time, buy back the shares I held as collateral—shares I had acquired when the company faced a cash-flow crisis—at 30% below market price. I had liquidated all my personal assets to keep the Sinclair Group afloat during her father’s illness; the value of those shares had now multiplied several times over. I never intended to profit from them. That agreement was meant as a promise to her: Look, I will never use your vulnerability against you. Now, it had become the knife she used to stab me. “Ashton Pierce, you asked what a big deal was? Now you know,” the text read. “This is the price of your impulse. Enjoy it.” I stood blankly, my eyes blurring with tears. Suddenly, I was transported back to that late night many years ago. Her father had collapsed, and she, new to the corporate world, was terrified and called me, crying, completely out of her depth. I postponed three vital meetings during my business trip and took a redeye flight to pick her up. She was curled up in the passenger seat, eyes swollen, quietly asking: “Ashton, will you always be this good to me?” I said, “Yes.” She buried her face in her knees, her voice muffled: “Then you can’t ever leave me.” But the one who always left first had been her. That promise… I refused to keep it any longer. 3 I left the empty ballroom, needing to rush back to the office to deal with the inevitable fallout from her legal actions. I looked up and froze. The city’s massive outdoor screens, the ones that were supposed to be broadcasting our wedding, were now showing Spencer Reed’s face, a look of profound “regret” plastered on it. Genevieve had handed the live broadcast rights of our wedding over to him. I dug my fingertips into my palm, the cold metal edges of my car key pressing painfully into my skin. I could almost hear the sound of my blood running cold. On screen, Spencer’s face was appropriately contrite. He managed a smile that suggested he was bearing the weight of the world’s misunderstanding. “Mr. Pierce, I couldn’t get a hold of you, and I was genuinely worried that the misunderstanding was deepening… I had no choice but to use this public platform to explain.” “Last night’s bachelorette party was certainly my oversight. I shouldn’t have pressured Gen to drink so much, but it was just harmless fun between young people, nothing scandalous. I had no ill intention, I truly didn’t think you would be so upset that you would cancel the engagement… isn’t that a bit rash?” “You’ve pursued Gen for so many years, but hasn’t she also remained unmarried for ten years? She finally decided to trust you, and you make such a massive scene.” He sighed, his gaze sincere and worried: “In a relationship, there’s more than just right and wrong; there should be understanding and compassion, don’t you think? I know I’m saying too much, but I’m just concerned for Gen. She carries the weight of a massive company on her shoulders, and now even her marriage can’t give her peace…” Just then, Genevieve’s figure strode into the frame, pulling Spencer behind her. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were sharp and cold, as if they could pierce the screen and pin me in place. “Why are you apologizing to him?” Her voice was clear, laced with unconcealed disdain. “Ashton Pierce is just a prude; he really thought he could control me, didn’t he?” “Let me make this perfectly clear. The fact that you caused a spectacle over a single piece of sexy lingerie only proves how twisted your mind is! I don’t need you begging me to marry you!” “Listen up: I’m sending my assistant to buy two thousand of Veridia’s holiday limited-edition sets right now and pile them up outside the Sinclair Group headquarters! They’ll be free to take until the last one is gone! The moment the final piece is taken, Spencer and I are getting married! And every person who takes a piece of lingerie is invited to my wedding!” The live feed abruptly cut out. Almost simultaneously, my phone buzzed, pushing the breaking news story that the live broadcast had ignited. “Spencer is so classy, doing a city-wide broadcast to explain, but Ashton Pierce shutting off his phone is just dramatic…” “Ashton is definitely being a sore loser. It was just a game between young people, why is he so triggered by a single piece of lingerie?” “Gen is such a boss! She looks incredible in Veridia! The old man really doesn’t deserve her! So, where exactly are they handing out the free lingerie at Sinclair HQ? Asking for a friend!” “He put up with ten years of everything, but one piece of lingerie breaks him? Why wait so long? Is he planning something sneaky?” “LOL, who else would marry a relic like Ashton Pierce if it weren’t for the Sinclair alliance? Get a grip, old timer!” … I sat in my car, my expression numb. I remembered when Spencer Reed first interned at the Sinclair Group; Genevieve had been dismissive of him, finding his smile too ingratiating. I, recalling that they were from the same business school, covered for Spencer several times and even genuinely taught him a few things, hoping he would become an asset to Genevieve. When did things change? Perhaps it was when he “casually” mentioned the fragility of growing up in a single-parent home. Or the lonely, deep-fried wisdom he “just happened” to post on social media after a late night at work. Or maybe when Genevieve was drowning in a project, and he “just happened” to show up with her favorite coffee at the perfect temperature, accompanied by a few words of carefully targeted “admiration.” Later, when I felt uncomfortable with his little schemes and gently suggested Genevieve keep her distance, she shot back: “Spencer is just young and eager to prove himself. Can’t you stop being so petty?” “Besides, what kind of relationship do we even have that gives you the right to be jealous? Stop being so nitpicky, you’re a grown man.” Yes, nitpicky. As if their total disregard for my feelings could be excused by their “openness,” and any discomfort I felt could be simply dismissed as “petty.” Just like today, they had conspired to destroy my ten years of hope, our families’ reputation, and a city-wide celebrated wedding. And my response—canceling the engagement—was small-minded, a display of archaic puritanism. The familiar ache started in my chest, but it was light, almost a phantom pain. I took a deep breath, merging the car into the flow of traffic. Worrying about whether a woman who never loved me felt any remorse was futile. Getting to the office to manage the fallout from this absurd spectacle was clearly more important. 4 The lights in the Pierce Holdings penthouse office were blazing. The team was supposed to be finalizing plans for a lucrative post-alliance partnership. Instead, they were tackling the public relations disaster caused by Spencer Reed’s “City-Wide Apology.” My secretary, Martha, looked at me with open sympathy. “Ms. Sinclair might just be acting out of anger, Mr. Pierce. Perhaps if you speak to her first…” “No need.” My voice was so calm it surprised even me. “I appreciate your concern, Martha, but the partnership is beyond saving.” “Her secretary informed me that she is already processing the paperwork to transfer the Sinclair shares she bought back from me… directly to Spencer Reed.” Martha’s face fell, and she clearly wanted to say more. I shifted the conversation back to the crisis at hand. I looked up later, and the night outside was thick and black. My phone rang in the silence, the flashing number so familiar it was a searing pain. I watched it ring for a long time, picking up at the very last second. The voice that came through was not the cold mockery I expected. It was Genevieve, slurring, with a thick, drunken sob. “Ashton Pierce, you’ve got… you’ve got nerve. I waited for your call all night…” She cried intermittently, her voice laced with a drunken vulnerability I had never heard before. My heart softened automatically, but then she continued: “You… you need to come and get me… we’re going home… to that penthouse you bought for us… Spencer said… he loves the rooftop infinity pool and the view… Will you just sign the deed over to him? As… as your apology gift… and then we can call it even…” Every word was a bullet, precisely hitting the last nerve in my body. That penthouse was a custom design I had sketched out myself, taking a full year to build. It was exactly what she had once said she wanted: a home with a view of the entire city’s lights and the stars above. And now, she was casually demanding I sign it over to Spencer Reed as my “apology?” My fingers were ice-cold as I gripped the phone; I could taste rust in my throat. “Genevieve, that apartment was prepared for my future wife. It has absolutely nothing to do with you or Spencer Reed. You have no right to ask, and certainly no right to demand its disposal.” Without waiting for another word from her, I hung up and immediately blocked the number. A text from my mother arrived promptly: “Ashton, Alexandra Albright, the daughter of the Albright Industries family in North City, just returned from overseas. She mentioned wanting to meet you, said you two knew each other from before? What do you think… about that?” I didn’t hesitate: “Yes, Mom. Please arrange it.” “Wonderful, I’ll have Lexi text you directly.” Alexandra Albright. We had met at a project competition during graduate school. Her presentation was flawlessly logical, and her business acumen was astonishing. The Albright family had subtly expressed an interest in an alliance afterward. But at the time, Genevieve was all I could see. I was entirely focused on helping her stabilize the Sinclair Group. Though Albright Industries offered much more assistance, I had politely declined the offer then. Now, a decade of deep affection felt like a long, painful dream. It was time for me to start living for myself again. 5 Meanwhile, Genevieve and Spencer Reed’s relationship began to dominate media coverage. She went with him to ride the city’s highest rollercoaster, something she had refused to do with me countless times, citing a fear of heights. She wore revealing dresses and shorts, styles completely opposite to her usual elegant attire, and partied with Spencer in nightclub dance halls. She even hosted a lavish ceremony for the transfer of the Sinclair Group’s overseas shares, introducing Spencer to the entire upper circle. The things she had once told me were “too immature” or “unbefitting of her status.” Now, she did them for another person, clearly finding pleasure in every moment. I knew these updates were deliberately pushed into my feed. Including the massive Christmas tree outside the Sinclair Group building, which was tracking the lingerie giveaway. A giant LED screen displayed the remaining quantity: 1998. 1523. 876. 332. I knew Genevieve wanted me to watch, to force me to regret, to make me grovel. But this time, I only felt a calm, mocking amusement. I occasionally scrolled through the comments on the news articles, a sea of schadenfreude: “Countdown to 100 sets! Is Ashton Pierce crawling to Gen to beg for forgiveness yet, LMAO?” “Waiting for Gen and Spencer’s wedding of the century! Live slap in the face for the old man!” “Ashton must be crying under his duvet right now, right? Ten years as a loyal lapdog and now he has nothing, serve him right!” I pressed the screen of my phone, which had lit up again with an alert showing a new intimate photo of them, and turned it off. I picked up my teacup and nodded to Lexi Albright across the table. “Please thank your mother for me. The tea is excellent.” Her smile was serene, yet there was a sparkling light in her eyes as she looked at me. “You’re welcome. If you like it, come by my place next time. I have something even better.” Her direct gaze made my cheeks heat up. My ears were still hot when she drove me back to my villa. However, the moment of relief was abruptly extinguished when I unlocked my front door. A bucket of ice water was dumped over my head. “Are you awake now, Ashton Pierce?” Genevieve’s voice was frigid. “I left you alone for all this time to reflect, and you got a little too big for your britches, didn’t you, coming back so late!” I wiped the foul-smelling water from my face. “Who let you in?” My attitude seemed to infuriate her; she slammed the bucket onto the hardwood floor with a deafening clatter. “Didn’t you say this house was bought for your wife? That would be me! I’ll come in whenever I want!” She lifted her chin. “The password is still the date of our first meeting. Ashton Pierce, is that all you’ve got?” I clenched my fist, annoyed at myself for forgetting to change the code. She pulled a tablet from her designer bag and violently threw it at me. The screen lit up, showing a live stream. The background was the lingerie Christmas tree outside the Sinclair Group, the camera focused on the remaining few items. “Do I need to remind you? They’ve taken 1,990 of those sets downstairs already!” “Only ten sets are left.” Her voice was sharp with excitement. “Ashton, don’t you get it? You’re the one looking at things through a filthy lens! It’s the 21st century; absolutely no one thinks this kind of clothing is scandalous anymore!” I looked down at the face I had loved for ten years, now twisted by rage and triumph, a stranger to me. “I’ll give you one last chance. Give up the deed to this house today, and get down on your knees and apologize to Spencer! I want you to stream the apology so the whole city can watch!” Every word was a poisoned needle. “Otherwise, when the last piece of lingerie is gone, I will marry him!” The live stream on the tablet continued. The excited voice of the host blared through the speaker: “Down to the last five sets! Folks! We are moments away from history!” The comments section was a frenzy: “Where’s Ashton Pierce?! Why hasn’t he shown up?!” “He’s probably on his way to beg! His wife is about to be gone!” “Waiting to see Mr. Pierce on his knees!” “CEO Gen is amazing! This is how you handle an old prude!” Genevieve shoved the tablet closer to my face, her finger practically touching the screen: “Do you see? Everyone is waiting for you to admit your mistake! If you go apologize to Spencer now, and give me ten percent of Pierce Holdings’ shares, we can still have our wedding…” I looked calmly at her face, which was contorted into a smug mask of victory. Then, softly, almost absurdly, I chuckled. That small sound completely enraged her. On the tablet, the host was excitedly counting down. “Three sets remaining!” “Two sets!” “Only one left!!!” With every number, Genevieve’s smile widened. When the last set remained, no one stepped forward. At that moment, I pushed her hand away with a neutral expression and slowly walked toward the door. Genevieve’s triumphant smile spread across her face. “What’s the matter, finally admitting defeat?” “Spencer is at the bar we were at that night. You better hurry! If that last set is taken by someone else, not even kneeling will change my mind!” She watched smugly as I sped out of the parking garage like a shot arrow. She was just about to text Spencer that he should have the journalists on standby to capture my groveling from every angle. But the next second, the host’s excited and then terrified shout came through her phone’s speaker. “The Christmas tree is empty!!” “The two-thousandth piece of lingerie has been claimed!” “Let’s congratulate the lucky… Ashton Pierce! Wait, it’s you!”

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