Category: English

My billionaire husband never touches me. But I’m pregnant. To avoid him discovering the green hat I presumably forced on his head, I filed for divorce and ran to another state to book an abortion. Later, he tore my dress apart. His kisses fell like rain, his tone dark and dangerous. “Don’t cry. I haven’t even started yet.” “Be good. Once I become your first love, you won’t want to leave.” 1 I stared at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test. My vision went black. I’d taken a dozen tests, and the result was always the same. But I hadn’t slept with my husband. How was I pregnant? I replayed the last few months in my head. I hadn’t even touched a male dog, let alone a man! Wait. Was it my birthday? The night I got blackout drunk? That night, Declan promised he’d be there. But I waited until midnight, and he never showed. Declan Sterling was forced to marry me. He disdained touching me. He was always cold, maintaining a polite, icy distance. I had hoped my birthday would bridge the gap. But he ghosted me. He didn’t answer my calls. My best friend, seeing me heartbroken, joked she’d hire a guy to keep me company. I drank too much. The next morning was a blur. I thought the soreness in my body was from falling down the stairs. I didn’t think I’d actually slept with someone! Suddenly. The sound of an engine cut through the silence. Declan was home. Oh god. How was I going to explain this accidental infidelity? 2 I frantically swept all the pregnancy tests into the trash can. I rushed downstairs. Declan looked exhausted, carrying the chill of the night air. I noticed a smear of blood on his white dress shirt and gasped, stepping forward. “You’re hurt?” I tried to check him. Declan dodged my hand, his voice cold. “Don’t touch me.” I almost forgot. He hated my touch. I retracted my hand, feeling the sting of rejection. I was about to get the first aid kit when he spoke. “It’s not my blood. It’s from a subordinate.” “He sold me out. I handled it. He’s on a one-way trip to nowhere.” “Traitors deserve to die, don’t you agree?” “…” I hid my trembling fingers behind my back, my throat tight. They said Declan Sterling was ruthless in the business world, a man who burned bridges to build empires. If he knew about the green light flashing over his head… My fate would probably be worse than that subordinate’s. Declan studied me, frowning. “You look pale. Did the blood scare you? I’m going to shower.” He started up the stairs. I looked at his tall, imposing back. I couldn’t help but ask: “Declan, why didn’t you come to my birthday?” “…” Declan stopped, his back to me. He didn’t answer for several seconds. It seemed like a difficult question. Actually, I knew. That day, his childhood sweetheart returned from Europe. He went to her welcome party. Sloane had posted on Instagram, saying nothing had changed. In the photo, they stood together, a bond so tight no one could squeeze in. “I had work. Didn’t I send a gift? You didn’t like it?” “No, it was fine.” My chest felt heavy. I knew I was just a wife in name only, less important than his Sloane. But his clumsy lie made me feel even more pathetic. The “gift” was a designer bag his assistant picked out. Expensive, but not my color. I couldn’t help but think… If he had come that night, maybe I wouldn’t be pregnant right now. 3 Declan and I slept in separate rooms. Most of the time, he was away on business. Maybe he just didn’t want to see the wife who occupied a space that wasn’t hers. My phone pinged with an anonymous message. It was a photo of Declan and Sloane shopping together. In the picture, his eyes were glued to the beautiful woman beside him. Declan never shopped with me. He said it was a waste of time. Even our wedding rings, I picked out alone. I was the “good girl.” My father was new money—a lottery winner turned investor. Without the old-money pedigree, I was always ostracized by the socialites. In high school, during a track meet, someone soaked my shirt with water. It was thin. My bra showed. The crowd laughed. One person handed me a jacket and pointed to the locker room. I looked up, but the tall figure was already walking away. The name tag on the jacket read: Senior Class A, Declan Sterling. I started watching him. I never thought I’d become his wife. I secretly hoped he might eventually fall for me. But reality was harsh. He wouldn’t. There was only one person in his heart. If Sloane hadn’t needed to flee the country due to a family scandal, he never would have married me. 4 I deleted the photo and went down to dinner. Seven o’clock. Declan wasn’t back. When he wasn’t traveling, he usually came home for dinner. I waited a long time, only to get a call. “I’m not coming home tonight. I was in a meeting, forgot to text.” In the background, a woman’s voice. Soft, sweet, telling him to get in the car. It was Sloane. I swallowed the lump in my throat, playing the role of the understanding wife. “Okay. Remember to eat.” I was about to hang up. He suddenly asked: “You aren’t going to ask why?” “I know you’re busy.” Busy dating your childhood sweetheart. I knew Sloane sent the photo. She was hinting that it was time for me to leave. Declan seemed bothered by my calm tone. “What’s wrong with you lately? Is this about your birthday?” “…” So what if it is? His devotion to Sloane was common knowledge in New York. My silence made him panic, which was rare. “Harper, don’t overthink that night. I’ll explain when I get back.” “Okay.” I hung up. I picked up my fork, but nausea hit me instantly. I ran to the powder room to avoid the maids and vomited. Looking at my pale reflection, seeing the faint spots from pregnancy… I wasn’t as pretty as Sloane. Now, I wasn’t as “clean” either. If Declan found out… What would he think? He’d probably be disgusted.

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Five years. Five years since Rhys Harrington and I lost our son, Leo, in a car accident. He was across the country, escorting his mistress for the birth of their child, and didn’t even attend Leo’s funeral. Now, after years of silence and survival, I found him again. In the cemetery. I was holding a mini-cake, ready to spend a quiet afternoon talking to my son. Instead, I saw Rhys setting a limited-edition sports car—the one Leo always wanted—at the headstone. Beside him, a small boy burrowed into his side. “Daddy, do you think big brother will like the gift I picked out?” 1 The autumn air carried a sharp, desolate chill through the cemetery. Rhys bent down, patiently zipping the boy’s jacket all the way up. That was the careful, solicitous kind of fatherly love my Leo never knew. The boy noticed the mini-cake I held, which had a tiny race car drawn on the frosting. He peered up at me, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Auntie, it’s my brother’s birthday today. Are you here to celebrate him, too?” I turned my head, pretending not to hear. I used a moist wipe to clean the dust from the photo on the headstone, then placed a small candle on the cake. My Leo. His life frozen at five years old. The boy looked at the cake, then up at Rhys, and finally back to me. Silently, he picked up the sports car he’d brought and placed it next to the tombstone. A haze of disorientation washed over me. The boy—tall for his age, with deep, perceptive eyes—shared a strong resemblance to Leo. They both carried the dominant Harrington genes. If I didn’t know exactly who his mother was, I might have been tempted to pull him into my arms, a desperate, flawed solace for the wave of grief that constantly crashed back over me. The cold wind sliced in from all directions. I tried several times to light the candle, but my hand was shaking too badly. Rhys reached out naturally, taking the lighter from my grasp. For a fleeting second, our skin touched. The proximity of his scent, his body heat, the things I once clung to, now made my stomach churn with pure revulsion. I snatched the lighter back, my movement violent enough to make him stumble a few steps. The boy cried out defensively, shielding his father. “You shouldn’t push people! You need to apologize to my Daddy.” 2 “Finn Harrington, that is enough.” Rhys’s voice was low and heavy, utterly lacking the gentle patience he’d shown moments before. The boy’s face crumpled with offense, a look that painfully mirrored his mother’s pride and stubbornness. It was impossible not to recall Seraphina Maxwell, flaunting her pregnancy in front of me years ago. “Genevieve Hartley,” she’d sneered, “if fate hadn’t gotten in the way, Rhys would have met me first. He would never have needed to marry a spoiled, clueless debutante like you.” Rhys crouched down, touching the boy’s pouting cheek. “Don’t you love your big brother most? This is his mother. If you’re too loud, it will make your brother sad.” I gritted my teeth. How dare Rhys? How dare he let Seraphina’s son call my Leo “brother,” and use a name—Finn—that felt so deliberately resonant, designed to replace the Huai character that was part of my son’s Chinese name? I had no intention of lingering. I was back in New York to finalize the process of having Leo’s remains moved. I needed to speak to the cemetery director. Rhys followed, still holding Finn. When he heard my request, his voice was thick and hoarse. “Genevieve, you haven’t visited Leo in five years. And the moment you return, you want to take him away?” “He is my son. I won’t allow it.” I let my eyes trail over Rhys with a cold, dismissive look. He was still the impeccably tailored man I remembered, tall and commanding in his expensive suit. The tie he wore—that signature burgundy red, almost certainly chosen by Seraphina—spoke of power, warmth, and quiet strength. Five years after losing Leo, Rhys Harrington was still thriving, still on top. I, on the other hand, had a few strands of gray at my temples. Leo would have worried about me. But he was gone. I tilted my head back, a bitter, icy smile touching my lips. “I’m not asking for your permission. You didn’t even attend his funeral. You forfeited the right to discuss this with me.” 3 Rhys seemed to be fighting back a response, but his phone lit up. Finn, who was pale and slender, spoke in a thin, childish voice. “It’s Mommy calling! Is the new baby in her tummy being naughty again?” Rhys turned his back to take the call. Finn, undeterred by my obvious detachment, leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m going to be a big brother soon, just like my other big brother! Daddy is really excited about the baby, and I’m going to share all my toys.” The papers I was skimming paused in my hands. Rhys and Seraphina—a picture of a successful marriage, professionally and personally. Two children in five years. Their son looked perfectly cared for and shielded. My face felt tight and cold, but Finn wasn’t afraid. My Leo was different. Before he was three, his father was too busy building his empire to spend time with him. After he turned three, Rhys fell in love with Seraphina. He grew to resent me, and by extension, the child I’d given him. Rhys stopped coming home for Leo’s birthdays and holidays. That last, rainy night, Leo insisted on waiting for his father. He said Daddy had promised to bring him a sports car from out of town. In that one blink of an eye, my Leo ran into the street and was hit by a car. 4 Rhys hung up. I was about to sign the transfer papers with the cemetery director. He grabbed my wrist, his composure barely holding. “I told you, you are not taking Leo away.” I stood perfectly still, my expression blank. “Then you can tell my son that yourself, in the grave.” Rhys’s grip tightened, digging into my flesh. It hurt. There was a time when this man would have been near tears if I scraped my knee. When I was giving birth to Leo, he was beside himself with fear and guilt, promising through sobs that he would never put me through that again, that he couldn’t bear to lose me. He broke that promise, of course. Not a thousand days into our marriage, he was already rolling around in his penthouse office with Seraphina. I fought. I screamed. I made a spectacle. All that got me was Seraphina’s ever-increasing encroachment on my life. With Rhys’s tacit permission, she eventually pushed me out of the company altogether. 5 The contract was ripped into pieces, scattering across the wet grass. Rhys’s jaw was a tight knot. He signaled to Walter, his long-time driver, to take Finn to the car. Walter caught sight of my face, and a flicker of panic crossed his features. “M-Miss Genevieve!” Walter had worked for the Hartley family when Rhys was a struggling young man. He’d seen me argue with my stepbrother, Connor, to invest in Rhys. And he’d also helped Seraphina cover up the lipstick she dropped in Rhys’s car. It was the rich man’s world: the patrons change, but the driver stays the same. Rhys’s eyes were black, bottomless pools. The aura of a man in charge surged around him. He turned to the cemetery director, his voice menacing. “If my son’s rest is disturbed, I will ensure you understand the true meaning of consequences.” The director gave me a helpless look and quickly retreated. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I raised my hand to slap him. But I didn’t land it. My hand was captured in his vise-like grip. Rhys spoke with a low, desperate ferocity. “Gen. You want to sever every connection we have, even Leo.” “You hate me, don’t you?” He closed the distance, pinning me against the cold, gray stone wall, fine dust particles settling on my coat. I took a deep breath. “Why waste the energy to hate you? Does someone keep a score of every dog that has ever bitten their family, just so they can remember to look after it forever?” Given Rhys’s current wealth and standing, the Hartley family at its peak couldn’t compete. I’d made too many futile attempts to fight him. I’d lost too much. He had no qualms attacking my family for Seraphina. I learned to accept the harsh, unpredictable reality of life. I just wanted to take my Leo home. 6 A layer of autumn rain, a layer of cold. It was clear I wouldn’t finish the paperwork today. I started to leave. Rhys glanced at my light trench coat, and the ingrained habit surfaced: he took off his six-figure Kiton coat, ready to place it over my shoulders. “Where are you going? I’ll take you.” I slapped the coat to the ground. The top-tier Neapolitan brand, famous for its flawless tailoring, instantly soaked up the wet mud. I used to love dressing Rhys. Dressing the man I loved in the way I loved. Rhys let out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “When I first met you, you were still the fierce, defiant socialite.” “I wanted so badly for you to hold on to that high-and-mighty position forever.” “But you destroyed me, didn’t you?” “I…” His usually calm voice held a subtle, nearly imperceptible hint of panic. Dark clouds approached, and the sky grew heavy. My ride-share car arrived. Ignoring Rhys’s outstretched arm, I got into the back seat. Less than two minutes later, the driver looked in the rearview mirror and whistled. “Ayo. Is that guy trying to pull a move from an action movie? He looks like he’s trying to box us in.” I looked back. Rhys’s large, black SUV was aggressively tailing us. It quickly pulled up right next to my side window. Rhys rolled down his window, his lips moving as if shouting something. Finn was strapped into his booster seat, a look of small, frightened confusion on his face. I stared straight ahead. The driver, however, was clearly invested. “That’s your husband and kid, right? Is he trying to mess with you even at a time like this? The spirits won’t rest easy if he keeps pushing you around!” “Don’t worry, Sis. I used to race cars. I’ll make sure we lose this tail.” He gripped the wheel, floored the gas, and sped past the SUV. Almost simultaneously, I received two text messages. Give me another chance. Let’s talk this through properly. Gen, Dr. Andy is a leading neurosurgeon. He’s arriving in the city this weekend. Perhaps there’s hope for Connor. 7 The first message was, without a doubt, from Rhys. I had blocked his number, changed mine, and disappeared five years ago. He was resourceful enough to find it in mere hours. The second was from my brother’s friend, Dr. Daniel “Dan” Cross. He’s a physician, a neuro specialist who studied abroad. Connor sustained severe brain trauma in the accident, resulting in significant memory loss. I’d spent the last few years in Europe with him, focusing on rehabilitation, with frustratingly little success. Dan’s text was likely meant to reassure me, to give me something to hold onto. I reached the hospital, paid the driver a generous tip, and he drove off happily, wishing me a good life. A life like that—simple, predictable, with minor worries—always seemed so appealing. I was born a Hartley, and I had seen the heights of power. I once had a pair of red party heels that cost more than some people’s annual salary. But the bloom on the rose is fleeting. After my father died, Connor inherited the family business. He faced down a pack of greedy relatives with ruthless efficiency. But he couldn’t refuse my tearful pleas to invest in Rhys. Rhys Harrington was at his lowest point, facing complete financial ruin. I found him in a dive bar, being force-fed liquor by his old rivals. I couldn’t stand to see my moon dragged through the mud. I pestered Connor until he agreed to pay off Rhys’s staggering debt. He resisted, so I used the one thing I knew he couldn’t deny—the fact that my father had found him in an orphanage and brought him home. Finally, he conceded. “Gen, the Hartley name and everything that comes with it is yours. You make the call.” The tragedy of my life began when I poured everything I had into that love. Rhys accepted my help, and promised on my parents’ graves that he would never betray me. Yet, history proved that once a man becomes a power unto himself, he subtly rewrites his origin story, re-casting the help that sustained him as a flaw that needed to be overcome. 8 In the VIP room, I was helping Connor practice making tea, breaking down the steps into simple actions. His mental capacity was regressed to that of a five or six-year-old. He’d suffered from selective mutism and was prone to emotional outbursts. Dr. Cross entered, looking frustrated. “Dr. Andy was just taken by Mrs. Harrington. She claims her mother has a severe migraine and needs the most authoritative specialist immediately.” Seraphina had a pattern of this. Years ago, on a snow-laced night, Leo was running a high fever. I called Rhys, but Seraphina answered, informing me that my husband was in her shower. I screamed at her, calling her a gold-digging predator. Seraphina simply arranged for Rhys to turn off his phone and stay out all night. I drove slowly through the snow, Leo sleeping fitfully in the back seat. I nearly spun out multiple times, but he still murmured a warning. “Mommy, the road is slick. Please be careful. It would make me sad if you got hurt.” Now, empowered by her title as Mrs. Harrington, Seraphina would only escalate her cruelty. My anger flared, and I marched to the room next door. 9 Seraphina was draped in a mink coat and heavy jewelry, projecting an image of effortless wealth. A faint, arrogant smile played on her lips, the same haughty demeanor of the brilliant young woman I’d met years ago. She was exceedingly thin, however, which made her very pregnant belly seem grotesquely out of proportion. I had heard Seraphina’s name long before I saw her. Rhys mentioned her several times after the Harrington company stabilized and he decided on a pivot. He’d found a brilliant programmer—an overseas graduate whose vision aligned perfectly with his. A primal sense of alarm made me jealous. Rhys rubbed my hugely pregnant stomach, gently flicking my nose. “Talent isn’t gendered. If you’re worried, I’ll report my whereabouts from the office every day.” The next day, he installed real-time monitoring in his conference room, allowing me to check in at any time. Later, when a piece of core technology was leaked, costing the company millions, Seraphina implied the monitoring system had been compromised, suggesting that my hands had reached too far. Rhys publicly dressed her down, asserting I was the owner’s wife and would never betray the company. I didn’t care to get involved. Once Leo was born, all my focus went to him, and I lost the will for such trivial fights. Seraphina took advantage of the gap, using the excuse of “expanding their empire” to travel constantly with Rhys. Their shared mission, their close proximity, and their similar ambition—the perfect conditions for the heat to ignite quickly. Postpartum hormones made me demanding and irritable. I constantly asked Rhys to check in. He stopped wanting to come home, barely finding time for our adorable, soft Leo. I suggested divorce several times. Rhys vehemently refused, insisting he couldn’t live without me, and I didn’t want Leo to grow up in a broken home. I agreed to hold off, on the condition that he limit his contact with Seraphina. In the end, I lost everything. 10 I walked up to Dr. Andy, who was patiently explaining something to Seraphina’s mother in English. The older woman was clearly fine. Seraphina was simply trying to spite me. Five years ago, she did the exact same thing, spiriting away Leo’s pediatrician overseas to protect her own delivery. I explained the situation to Dr. Andy. He smiled warmly, thanking me for funding his student’s lab a year ago. As he prepared to leave with me, Seraphina gave her mother a sharp look. The older woman, Mrs. Maxwell, blocked the doorway like a street fighter. “He was brought here by my son-in-law! You cheap little hussy, you have no right to take him!” I didn’t spare her a glance. I forcibly pulled my arm free from her chicken-claw grip. Seeing her mother pushed aside, Seraphina seemed to find her justification. She raised her hand to strike me. But the years of physical therapy I’d done with Connor had given me significant strength. I caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted, and pinned both her arms against the wall. The esteemed Mrs. Harrington’s face was pressed against the cold wall in a ridiculous, absurd “wall kiss.” “Genevieve Hartley, how dare you touch me? Rhys won’t let you get away with this!” I leaned in close to her ear and spoke clearly, every word a deliberate weapon. “I haven’t even come for you yet, and you seek me out. Aren’t you afraid that the details of the car accident you arranged five years ago will be revealed? That you and your mother will go to jail?” Seraphina’s face instantly drained of color. 11 After Leo’s funeral, I was a shell of a person. I planned to drive to the cemetery myself, but Connor, seeing my fragile state, insisted on taking the offerings and Leo’s new toy car instead. On the way, he was hit by a truck. The initial investigation concluded the driver was drunk and he was jailed. The back-to-back tragedies destroyed me. I filed for divorce immediately. At the time, Finn Harrington had just been born. Rhys, unwilling to let his beloved mistress’s child be labeled illegitimate, immediately agreed to the terms. I took Connor abroad for treatment, desperate to catch the six-month golden window for recovery. When I finally recovered enough to look into the truck driver’s background, I found an unusual wire transfer to his account. All the evidence, however, had been expertly erased. The cover-up was meticulous. I only found the trail leading to Mrs. Maxwell—Seraphina’s mother—a year ago. Mrs. Maxwell, seeing that Leo’s death hadn’t made Rhys divorce me, had contacted a distant relative in a remote town, who then hired the truck driver. It was a convoluted plot designed to remove me so her daughter could take my place. Rhys might not have known about the plot initially, but he protected his wife and covered up the scandal, burying the truth deep in the ground. … A moment later, Seraphina’s composure returned. “You don’t have proof, or you would have used it already.” “Poor Connor Hartley. He loved you all those years, only to end up with no dignity left.” She let out a cruel, pitying laugh. “I hear he can’t even use the restroom without wetting himself. Everything has to be taught from scratch. It’s pathetic.” It brought me back to years ago, when she would whisper in my ear. “Poor Miss Hartley, you can’t even hold onto your husband’s heart.” She’d follow up by texting me photos of herself in lingerie, lying next to Rhys. I raised my arm, ready to finally land a blow on her despicable face. But I failed again. Rhys arrived. He seized my wrist with punishing force, his eyes threaded with blood. Finn’s small voice piped up. “Mommy, is this the bad lady who was bullying you?”

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Forty-five years after I walked away, a missing person’s plea ripped the quiet fabric of my life. On the video screen, world-renowned scientist Dr. Graham Harrington lay on a hospital bed, his white hair disheveled, his frame gaunt and frail. Yet his voice was instantly, sickeningly familiar: “Ellie, I’m sorry… In this life, you were the only one I ever held in my heart.” “Where are you? Can we… meet again?” I quietly pressed the screen dark. My son, Owen, walked into the kitchen, scooping rice. “Mom, you know him?” “No,” I said, turning to lift the lid off the pot. A plume of white steam rose, momentarily blurring my vision. “The braised short ribs are almost ready. I’m taking them to your dad. The doctor says he can come home tomorrow.” What’s past is past. Some words arrive so late that they lose all their intended weight. Besides, I never needed his affection in the first place. 1 The antiseptic smell in the City General hallway was thick and cloying. I set down the thermos and went to find the water fountain, covering my nose. I didn’t slow down enough at the corner and collided solidly with someone coming the other way. “Excuse me,” I murmured, moving to walk around them. But the person grabbed my arm, his voice catching. “Ellie? Is that really you!” That one sound was all I needed to know who it was. I yanked my arm away, my expression deliberately neutral. Graham Harrington awkwardly withdrew his hand. His gaze dropped to the faded, pale blue loaner jacket the nurse had given me, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I never imagined… you were working here?” He instinctively reached for his pocket, then stopped. “My wallet is in the suite… Ellie, come up to the private ward with me. I need to talk to you.” I froze for a moment, then let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. I’d dressed too lightly this morning and was freezing. The aide from the next room had forced her spare scrub top on me, worried I’d catch a chill. It was clear Graham assumed I was destitute. I didn’t offer an explanation. I just turned to leave. But he followed, grabbing my arm again. “Ellie, it’s me, Graham! Don’t you remember me?” My spine stiffened. I pulled free once more. “I remember,” I said, my voice flat. “You are Vivian Wells’s husband. My sister’s husband.” Graham Harrington’s hand, left suspended in the air, slowly dropped. Forty-five years ago, my half-sister, Vivian Wells, filed a report accusing me of immoral behavior. My fiancé, Graham, stood me up on the night we were supposed to run away together. A month later, the embossed, gold-stamped wedding invitations for Graham Harrington and Vivian Wells were distributed across the entire Mid-State Engineering campus. How could I possibly forget any of that. Back in the room, Art was gone. I opened the thermos, and the rich, complex aroma of braised short ribs instantly filled the air. I was smiling, explaining the recipe to the older woman in the next bed. “Three tablespoons of brown sugar, a chunk of cinnamon stick, and a slow simmer in the Dutch oven for two full hours.” “Don’t rush the heat, and don’t rush the process. You have to sear the meat first to draw out the flavor, then simmer slowly…” I glanced up, and Graham had followed me all the way to the doorway. His nose twitched, and his eyes were rimmed with red. “Ellie, that’s the exact smell! The taste from all those years ago!” “If I hadn’t let go back then, I wouldn’t be so full of regret today…” I didn’t say anything. I simply closed the door and pressed the call button for the nurse. It wasn’t long before a stern nurse escorted him back to his private suite. Just then, Art returned, triumphantly waving his discharge summary. “Doctor says the lung nodule is stable, so I’m out early! I snuck the paperwork through myself!” He was always like that—protective, never letting me worry about a thing. The next few days, my phone screen was a constant stream of alerts for the trending hashtag: #NobelScientistGrahamHarringtonSeeksFirstLove. #TerminalLiverCancerFinalWish #LoveAcrossHalfACentury #LovedYouAllThisTime Even The City Ledger ran a full-page spread of the search plea. I tried hard to ignore it, but the push notifications were relentless. The comment sections were a sea of tears: “She needs to find him! That’s true love!” “To achieve so much and still remember his first love—how moving!” I couldn’t even avoid it during my neighborhood walks: “You don’t see men this devoted anymore!” “I wonder which lucky old woman he’s looking for…” But they didn’t understand. A love that’s expired is worse than a lifetime of silence. The worst came when Owen sent me a link with a headline that stung: #GrahamHarrington’sFirstLoveIsHer. The accompanying picture was a faded photo of us taken in front of the factory gates in 1982. In the photo, I wore my hair in two braids, my eyes crinkled in a genuine smile. Graham stood beside me, his hands behind his back, looking like he wanted to reach for mine but couldn’t. I stared at the yellowed photo, my fingers icy cold. In the end, there was no escaping it. 2 On the set of the national program The Echo, Graham Harrington, dressed in a replica of his old work shirt, did his best to sit up straight. “In 1980, I was accepted into Mid-State Engineering. A year later, my childhood friend followed me there.” He pointed to the photograph, recounting the story slowly: “Her name is Ellie Reynolds. She’s three years younger than I am.” “I was in Technical Design; she worked in the canteen. Her braised short ribs were incredible—even now, I can close my eyes and taste them.” “I was twenty-three then, and I didn’t understand real love. I hurt the person who loved me, and I’ve regretted it ever since.” “Now, I don’t have long left. My only wish in coming back to the States is to see her one last time, just to tell her I’m truly sorry.” … He produced several objects: a bookmark I’d given him, the bus ticket from the night we planned to run away, and his rejected money orders… He’d handled the yellowed paper so often the edges were frayed, as if they were the only proof of his remaining conscience. “I wrote her letters, but they were never answered. I sent her money, but it was returned.” He coughed violently. “Ellie, I want you to know, the night we agreed to run away, I actually went to the station…” I didn’t know any of this, but it no longer mattered. Graham was still talking on the television, but I couldn’t bear to listen anymore. I turned off the set and automatically wiped a layer of dust off the credenza. The fine dust motes swirled in the air, stirring up a flurry of old memories. I underestimated the power of the internet. The day after the program aired, my phone was besieged. I was bombarded with non-stop calls from unknown numbers. They demanded to know if I was Ellie Reynolds and why I refused to meet Dr. Harrington. To shield my husband and son, I initially denied it: “You have the wrong number. It’s a common name.” But the calls intensified, forcing me to shut off my phone entirely. Art’s phone was also filled with messages of public censure. My small restaurant, Ellie’s Corner, was staked out by influencers desperate to film the ‘first love’ in person. Comments flooded my business pages: “No matter what happened, Professor Harrington dedicated his life to this country. You owe him your forgiveness.” “He only has a year left. Why are you being so heartless?” “Did you turn your back on him first, and that’s why you found a new husband!” Young people pointed their anger at me, as if my refusal to meet Graham made me a wicked monster. Art squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. If it gets too bad, we can go stay at the lake house for a few days until the heat dies down.” Owen quietly began gathering evidence to sue the online trolls for doxing. He adjusted his hearing aid and said, “Mom, I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise!” Watching them rally to protect me, I made a firm decision. I looked at Owen. “Call the producers of The Echo,” I instructed. “Tell them I agree to meet Graham Harrington.” I would tell the full story, in front of the entire country. Not for the sake of forgiveness, but so that everyone would finally know the truth. Some harm cannot be wiped away by a simple ‘I’m sorry.’

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I secretly kept a cat in my dorm room. Since he was the only male living in a suite full of girls, my roommates jokingly started calling him “Hubby.” Over time, the little guy actually started responding to it. It was funny and cute within our four walls. Until the day he sneaked out, and I found myself running across campus screaming “Hubby!” at the top of my lungs. Chapter 1 I came back from my afternoon lecture to find my three-month-old orange tabby missing. “Girls, Hubby is gone!” I shrieked. The whole suite mobilized, searching every corner of the dorm, but he was nowhere to be found. It was the dead of winter in Boston. All I could think about was my little kitten freezing out there, starving, or worse—getting flattened into a pancake by a shuttle bus. Shame was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I ran around campus, checking every bush and corner, yelling “Hubby!” Students passing by gave me weird looks. I didn’t have time to explain. Then, I looked up and saw a guy holding an orange cat. Tears streaming down my face, I sprinted toward him. “Hubby! I finally found you!” Chapter 2 The guy looked terrified. My roommate, who was trailing behind me, looked like she was watching a reality TV show. “Ethan, is this your… wife?” his friend asked, confused. The guy holding the cat dodged my lunge defensively. “Excuse me? Please calm down.” I frantically waved my hands. “No, no! The cat! The cat is mine. His name is Hubby.” Who names a cat Hubby? Me, apparently. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me.” To prove it, I looked at the cat and called out, “Hubby!” The orange tabby immediately meowed and leaped into my arms, purring. The misunderstanding was cleared up, but Ethan—that was his name—still gave me a stern lecture. “Pets aren’t allowed in the dorms. You’re violating policy, and honestly, it’s irresponsible to the cat.” I knew that. But I had rescued him from a storm and couldn’t find a foster. My roommates fell in love with him, so we kept him. A gust of wind blew cat hair into my eye. My eyes watered instantly, turning red. Seeing my tears, Ethan’s attitude softened. “Don’t cry… just take your… Hubby back.” Chapter 3 Back in the dorm, I recounted the rescue mission. “Do you think he’ll report you to the RA?” asked Lily, my roommate who always assumed the worst. I thought about Ethan’s handsome face. He looked like a stand-up guy. But then I remembered his cold lecture. Maybe he was a stickler for rules. My roommates suggested I buy him dinner—part thank-you, part bribe. That’s when I realized I forgot to ask for his number. “But I remember his face. I can draw him.” Thank you, Mom, for forcing me into art classes. I sketched a quick portrait and handed it to Jess, our suite’s “networker.” She knew everyone in Student Gov and the Greek system. “Ethan Wright. Computer Science grad student. Known as the ‘Ice Prince’ of the Engineering building.” Jess told me half the posts on the campus confession page were about him. Apparently, getting his contact info was harder than getting into Harvard. Well, I didn’t want his number for romance. I just wanted to keep my cat. Unfortunately, trouble came in pairs. I had to see Ethan again very soon. Chapter 4 In the Resident Director’s office, the bald RD looked at me with disappointment. “Ivy, we just had a meeting about campus conduct. Public displays of drama are discouraged!” “You were running around screaming ‘Hubby’? Do you think this is a soap opera?” I didn’t dare admit Hubby was a cat, or I’d get evicted. So I took the blame for being a dramatic girlfriend. “Bring your boyfriend here. We need to have a talk.” “What? No, no, no. That’s not necessary. I’ll tell him myself!” If I brought Ethan, the jig would be up. If the jig was up, my cat would be homeless. Homeless cat equals cat pancake. Seeing my hesitation, the RD got angrier. “Go get him! Now!” I stood outside Ethan’s lab, pacing. Excuse me, Ethan, can you help me take the blame? Ethan, want to lie to administration with me? He’d have to be crazy to agree. But my mouth had a mind of its own. When he walked out, instead of my rehearsed speech, I blurted out: “Ethan, can you be my Hubby?” His eyes widened. “Are you serious?” I quickly explained the RD situation. “So, you want me to pretend to be your boyfriend and get yelled at by administration?” “Do I look stupid?” “No, no! I’m the stupid one! Please, help a stupid girl out?” I clasped my hands together in prayer. Ethan shook his head and walked away. I couldn’t blame him. Who would do that for a stranger? Chapter 5 I had to keep lying to the RD. I said my boyfriend broke up with me over the incident and that I would be a model student from now on. To sell it, I cried my eyes out in the office before leaving. I thought it was over. I slept like a baby. Until Jess shook me awake the next morning. “Ivy! Your Hubby is here!” I shot up from bed. “What? The cat got out again?” “No, the human Hubby.” Ethan was standing downstairs outside our dorm, looking like a solitary pine tree in the snow. Why was he here? Revenge? To turn me in? I went down trembling, telling my roommates to be ready to rescue me. Ethan looked cold, a hint of suppressed anger in his brow. “Ivy, did I offend you in a past life?”

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1 The second before I swiped my Amex at the Hermès boutique, I heard a scream from my son in my belly. Mom! Stop buying these useless bags! The zombies are coming in a month! You can’t eat this thing, and you can’t even crack a nut with it. What’s the point?! Go buy rice! Buy oil! Sell that limited-edition sports car and get a bulletproof armored truck! My hand trembled, and the order form for a few million dollars’ worth of goods scattered across the floor. The sales associate shot me a look dripping with disdain. “Miss Wallace, if you have insufficient funds, you’re welcome to come back another day.” I ignored her, turning away to dial Murphy, my old contact at the wholesale market. “I need ten thousand pounds of rice and five thousand pounds of pork. The fatty, skin-on kind! And I need it now!” From that moment on, Michelle Wallace, the elite circle’s pretty, mindless spender, was dead. In her place stood Michelle Wallace, the doomsday prepper. … Before I even made it out of the mall, the little voice in my womb exploded again. Mom, rice isn’t enough! We need generators! And antibiotics! It would be even better if we could get our hands on a couple of shotguns! My knees went weak, and I nearly collapsed onto the polished marble floor. Was this kid a future felon? Sitting in my car, I took a deep breath and patted my stomach. “Son, don’t scare Mommy. We live in a society with laws.” Who’s scaring you?! Last time around, I was barely formed in your belly when—crunch!—the zombies turned us into an all-you-can-eat buffet! My head still aches just thinking about their teeth! The description was a little too vivid. Goosebumps prickled all over my skin. To make sure this kid wasn’t just a product of my own fracturing sanity, I asked tentatively, “Then what’s the combination to your father’s safe?” That safe was Liam’s baby. No one but him knew the code. Tch, that’s easy. It’s 0925 plus your birthday. That lovesick dad of mine has zero imagination when it comes to passwords. I immediately called Liam’s assistant, pretending I needed to retrieve a document, and tried the combination. With a soft click, it opened. Something inside my head snapped. It was real. In just over a month, the world was going to end. Without a second thought, I scrolled through my phone’s contacts. I still had connections from my old job at a logistics company. I called up my former warehouse supervisor. “That five-thousand-square-foot cold storage unit—I want to rent it. Starting with three months.” “That’s right. I’m storing meat. A lot of meat.” After hanging up, I floored the gas pedal and sped toward the city’s largest wholesale farmers market. The place was a chaotic symphony of shouting and smells, the ground a mess of rotten vegetable leaves and black, murky water. Dressed in a Chanel couture suit and eight-centimeter Louboutins, I stood before a pork stall, a complete fish out of water. The old folks shopping around me stared as if I were insane. “Sir, I’ll take this entire half-pig.” “And those ribs over there. Wrap them all up.” The butcher froze, cleaver in hand. “Lady, are you catering a wedding?” “No wedding. It’s all for me.” I didn’t have time to argue. I scanned the code and paid the deposit. “I’ll buy every last piece of freshly butchered pork in this market. Have it all delivered to my cold storage unit. If you’re short by even an ounce, you’ll hear from me.” As I was directing workers to load the carcasses, a camera flashed nearby. I turned to see Jessica holding her phone, a smug, gloating look on her face. She was Liam’s distant cousin and had always believed she was the true high-society princess, convinced I was just some country bumpkin who’d gotten lucky. “Well, well, Michelle. What happened? Did Liam’s family go bankrupt? Are you reduced to buying this unsanitary meat from such a low-class place?” She pinched her nose, her expression one of pure disgust. I ignored her, turned around, heaved a sack of pork belly that no one else was carrying, and tossed it into the trunk of my Porsche. “If you don’t want to die, get the hell away from me.” My ferocity startled her for a second, but then she smirked. “Keep pretending. I’m posting this right now so everyone can see what the high and mighty Mrs. Hayes has been reduced to!” My son snorted in my belly. That idiot. When the zombies come, that layer of marbled fat on her will be their absolute favorite. I bet she’s nice and chewy. I almost burst out laughing. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Liam. A bank alert. A few million dollars had just been spent. His call came right after. “Michelle, did you just buy a warehouse full of pork?” He didn’t sound angry, just deeply confused. “I did. I was craving braised pork belly. Is that a problem?” I said, my tone defiant. There was a three-second pause on the other end. “Not at all. As long as you’re happy. I can transfer you more money if you need it.” Hanging up, a warmth spread through my chest. Apocalypse or not, I had married the right man. 2 Back home, looking at the multi-million dollar imported lawn and the collection of rare, exotic flowers, my heart bled. None of this could be eaten or used to fend off zombies. “Get the groundskeeper. I want all of this dug up,” I ordered. The butler, who was trimming a hedge, nearly snipped his own finger off. “Ma’am, but Mr. Hayes had these tulips specially flown in from the Netherlands…” “Dig it up!” I tossed my Hermès bag onto the grass. “Who’s the lady of the house, you or me? I’ve decided I don’t like flowers. I have a pollen allergy. Is that a good enough reason?” The butler looked at me like I’d lost my mind, but he still called the gardeners to start working. Watching those vibrant, perfect blossoms being ripped out by the roots, I had only one thought: potatoes. I had to plant potatoes. High yield, and they fill you up. The commander in my belly was back online. Mom! These floor-to-ceiling windows are a disaster! They’re way too fragile! A single zombie could crash right through them! We might as well just open the front door and invite them in for a buffet! I looked up at the massive panoramic windows. I used to think they were so open and elegant. Now, I saw them for what they were: death traps. “Replace them! All of them! With bulletproof glass! And add reinforced steel shutters!” I immediately contacted the best security firm in the city. When they heard my request, they must have thought I was turning my home into a private Fort Knox. “Mrs. Hayes, this level of security is typically for…” “I have anxiety. I’m afraid of burglars. Is that a problem? Money is no object, but I have one condition: I need it done in three days.” The moment they heard “money is no object,” they shut up and had a construction crew on-site that same night. Jessica showed up with a few of her little socialite friends to laugh at me. They stood outside the gate, looking at the muddy pits in my yard and the half-constructed greenhouse, howling with laughter. “Oh my god, Michelle, have you gone completely insane? You’re farming in the garden of a hundred-million-dollar mansion?” “Did Liam finally decide to divorce you? Are you planning for your future as a farmer?” “This isn’t a mansion anymore, it’s a pigsty!” I was turning over soil with a shovel. Hearing that, I plunged the shovel into the ground. I scooped up a clump of fertilizer-rich mud and flung it straight at them. “Ah! My dress!” Jessica shrieked, jumping back, but she was still splattered with muddy specks. “Private property. Get lost!” I brandished the shovel like a she-wolf protecting her den. Jessica’s face turned green with rage. “Just you wait, Michelle! When my cousin gets home and sees what you’ve done to his house, he’ll throw you out for sure!” When Liam came home that evening, he was, in fact, stunned. I’d had the original biometric lock on the front gate smashed and replaced with an old-fashioned, hundred-pound mechanical deadbolt. The yard was a mess of trenches, and the living room was piled high with freeze-dried meals and cases of instant hot pots I’d bought online. There was barely any room to walk. He stood in front of the Persian rug, which was now buried under boxes of compressed biscuits, his expression darkening. “Michelle, what is all this?” I rushed over, pulled him into the bedroom, and shut the door with a conspiratorial air. “Honey, I have something huge to tell you. The world is ending.” Liam looked at me, his expression unreadable. He reached out and felt my forehead. It wasn’t hot. “Who told you this?” “Our son,” I said, pointing to my stomach. Liam sighed, taking my hand in his. “Michelle, have you been under too much stress lately? How about I take you to see a therapist tomorrow?” He didn’t believe me. To be fair, the old me wouldn’t have believed it either. Sigh. I knew Dad, the hardcore materialist, wouldn’t buy it. Never mind, Mom. As long as he doesn’t get in our way, we can do this ourselves! I nodded, looking at Liam. “Honey, just… just pretend I have prenatal anxiety. Doing all this makes me feel safe. Can you just let me be?” Liam looked at me, then at the chaos that had consumed our home, and finally gave a weary nod. “Fine. As long as you don’t tear the roof off, do what you want.” With that, he turned and walked to the balcony to call a renowned psychologist. “Hello, Dr. Evans? My wife has been extremely anxious lately. She’s saying the world is about to end… Yes, that’s right. I was wondering how I can best support her treatment… Go along with her? Okay, I understand.” 3 With Liam’s tacit approval, I grew bolder. But even though he didn’t interfere, there was a limit to the money. My initial shopping spree had maxed out the supplementary credit card he’d given me. I still had a huge hole to fill for the remaining construction costs and supplies. Liam had been swamped at work, and I felt bad asking him for more money, especially since, in his eyes, I was just having a breakdown. My gaze fell upon my walk-in closet. An entire wall was dedicated to jewelry, and there were hundreds of designer bags. Mom! That ridiculously green jade bracelet! The one from Grandma? In the apocalypse, that thing could be traded for two whole crates of antibiotics! Sell it! Sell it all! My heart steeled, I swept everything of value into a large suitcase. I used to treat these things like they were my life. Now, they were just dead weight. I dragged the suitcase to the biggest pawn shop in the city. In my haste to liquidate, I didn’t even bother haggling. I took whatever the owner offered. Just as I was walking out with several debit cards, I ran into the ever-present ghost of Jessica. She was across the street at a café, having afternoon tea with a few other socialites. When she saw me emerge from the pawn shop, her eyes lit up brighter than a laser pointer. “I told you! Something big is happening with Liam’s family! Michelle is selling her jewelry to run away!” Her voice was so loud you could hear it down the block. I couldn’t be bothered with her. Every minute was precious now. With the new funds, I used my old colleague’s connections to get my hands on two industrial-grade, high-power generators on the black market. And several hundred barrels of diesel fuel. The stuff reeked. The moment it was moved into the villa’s garage, the neighbors lost their minds. The property manager came to my door with a few security guards, demanding I remove the barrels, citing them as a safety hazard. “No way! Don’t you dare touch my fuel!” I stood defensively in front of the barrels, ready to throw a full-blown tantrum if necessary. How could we survive without electricity? How would the cold storage stay running? How would the electric fence work? “Mrs. Hayes, if you continue, we’ll have to call the police,” the manager said, looking stressed. Just then, a black Maybach pulled up to the gate. Liam was home. He glanced at me, looking like a cornered, feral cat, then at the sweating property manager. “What’s going on?” The manager looked like he’d just seen his savior. “Mr. Hayes, your wife is hoarding a large quantity of diesel fuel in the garage. It’s against regulations…” Liam rubbed his temples and walked over, pulling me behind him. “I have a use for this fuel. I will arrange for professional blast-proofing. If anything happens, I will take full responsibility.” The manager was taken aback. With Mr. Hayes giving his word, he couldn’t press the issue. He and his guards retreated. I looked at Liam’s broad back, and my eyes started to sting. He turned around, looked at my disheveled state, and sighed. Then he clapped his hands. A driver pulled up in a monstrous, all-black SUV. The vehicle looked more extreme than an armored car, covered in steel plates with windows as thick as bricks. “Here’s the… bulletproof truck you wanted,” Liam said, a deep sense of helplessness in his voice. “I don’t know who you’re planning to defend against, but if you’re going to do this, you might as well go all the way.” I threw my arms around him, smearing tears and snot all over his designer suit. “Honey! You’re the best! When the zombies come, I’ll protect you! If any of them try to bite you, I’ll blow their heads off!” Liam’s body stiffened for a moment, then he patted my back. “Alright. Well, thank you in advance.” 4 Ten days left until the date my son had prophesied. Jessica hadn’t been idle. She was spreading rumors all over their social circle, saying that Liam’s company was on the verge of collapse, that he was not only bankrupt but also drowning in debt, and that the stress had driven his wife insane. A few of his business partners even called him, trying to subtly fish for information. “Liam, my friend, I hear you’re doing some… renovations at your place? Sounds like quite the project.” Liam was completely unruffled on the phone. “Oh, it’s nothing. My wife has gotten into a post-apocalyptic survival game, so I’m building her a life-sized immersive experience.” The person on the other end burst out laughing, praising Liam for being such an indulgent husband. Things weren’t going as smoothly for me, though. My anxiety was at an all-time high. I kept feeling like we didn’t have enough water, so I bought dozens of those giant plastic water tanks and filled up the villa’s rooftop and basement. I also bought several boxes of baseball bats and those riot control forks used by security guards. Mom, we need medicine! Antibiotics! Painkillers! And vitamins! My son, being a reincarnator, was nothing if not thorough. Using Liam’s connections, I managed to acquire a large supply of prescription drugs and first-aid kits from a hospital supplier. The final three-day countdown began. I dragged Liam to the largest warehouse club in the city. This time, I wasn’t buying staples. I went straight for the snack aisle. Chocolate, potato chips, candy, soda… In an apocalypse, these things would be currency. They were luxuries that could bring a moment of happiness. Liam pushed five shopping carts, all overflowing with junk food, trailing behind me. People were pointing and whispering. Some even took out their phones to secretly film us. “Look, that’s Liam Hayes. I heard his wife drove him crazy.” “Wow, look at all those snacks. Is he opening a convenience store in his house?” For the first time, Liam’s face flushed with embarrassment, but he squared his shoulders and pretended not to hear. Back home, I began the final lockdown procedures. I double-checked every door and window, leaving only a single, concealed ventilation shaft open. All the curtains were drawn, blocking out the outside world. Jessica started a live stream on social media, filming right outside our villa. “Hey everyone, check it out! This is the infamous ‘doomsday fortress.’ It’s hilarious. You’d think they were keeping a monster locked up in there.” The comments were all laughing at me. I looked at my phone and scoffed. “Laugh all you want. Let’s see if you’re still laughing in a few days.” The prophesied day finally arrived. The atmosphere that night was electric with tension. I made the whole family wear Kevlar stab-proof vests, even putting a muzzle on our Golden Retriever so his barking wouldn’t attract zombies. Liam, dressed in his vest and holding a baseball bat, sat resignedly on the sofa, staying up with me. “Michelle, even if there were zombies, our doors are solid enough. Do we really need to stand guard like this?” “We have to! The first wave is the most dangerous!” The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly. 11:50 PM. 11:55 PM. Midnight. The world seemed to hold its breath. And I held mine, my palms slick with sweat. No one knew what the next second would bring. The world as we knew it was balanced on a knife’s edge.

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I grabbed Ivy by the collar and threw her, luggage and all, out of my hotel room. From the hallway came the furious roar of my childhood best friend. “Clara! What the hell is wrong with you now?!” He was cradling a tear-streaked Ivy in his arms, looking at me like I was a lunatic. He seemed to have forgotten that just a few days ago, he had personally canceled my flight to Aspen, all to fulfill the dream of the girl in his arms, who had “never been on a plane before.” He’d also forgotten that this trip was supposed to be our confession tour, a promise we’d made three years ago. He thought I would do what I had always done: endure, compromise, and swallow my feelings for his sake. He was wrong. The moment he chose to leave me behind, our future ceased to exist. 1 This graduation trip to the Rocky Mountains was a promise Liam and I had made three years ago. Back then, his grades were terrible. I had been accepted into the city’s top magnet school, but Liam practically begged me to stay, to go to the same public high school as him. In a moment of weakness, I agreed. In return, he made a solemn vow: when we graduated, we’d go to Aspen, and there, on a snow-capped mountain, he would officially ask me out. We would go to the same college, and we would get married after graduation. I took that promise to heart. For three years, I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into tutoring him, dragging his grades from the bottom of the barrel until he was my academic equal. I thought our future was as clear and certain as that promise. But ever since Ivy transferred to our school, it was as if Liam’s eyes only followed her. He helped Ivy with her homework. He took her to do all the things she’d never experienced before. Our lunches for two became dinners for three. The steak and fish I ordered would always end up on Ivy’s plate. “Clara, you should watch your weight,” Liam would say. “Have some salad.” I weighed 110 pounds. The weekend movie we’d planned for weeks? He’d cancel at the last minute. “Ivy says twenty dollars for a ticket is what she makes in three hours at her part-time job. She doesn’t think it’s worth it. You should just go by yourself, Clara. My parents work hard for their money, too.” He seemed to forget his parents had just bought him a two-thousand-dollar laptop. The list of slights was endless. Then, he missed my birthday. I waited at home, stubbornly refusing to blow out my candles until he arrived. The clock ticked past eleven, past midnight, then into the early hours of the morning. Not a single text from him. I told myself he must have gotten held up by an emergency. Then I saw his Instagram story. A video of him and Ivy, drag racing on some deserted road. She was clinging to his waist, her face pressed against his back. He didn’t show up until the next day, looking sheepish. He’d forgotten it was my birthday, he said. Just like that, the inseparable childhood friends became a trio, with Ivy always there, a constant shadow. And when it came to college applications, despite scoring higher than he ever had on his SATs, he still didn’t have the numbers for a top-tier university. He just assumed that I, like always, would choose to stay local with him to honor our pact. What he didn’t know was that my application was already sent, my sights set on a university in New York, a thousand miles away. To be honest, I regretted giving up the magnet school for him. After two years of being consistently abandoned and sidelined, I was no longer the girl whose world revolved around Liam. I had planned to use this trip to finally tell him. But as I was heading to the airport, I got a notification. My flight had been canceled. Confused and stranded, a few lines of bizarre, glowing text suddenly appeared in my vision. [Here we go! Classic plot point. The Male Lead feels sorry for the Female Lead because she’s never flown before, so he cancels the Second Female Lead’s ticket and gives it to her. Cue the big fight.] [Even if the SFL buys a train ticket and follows them, the ML and FL will have already had a super romantic day together. They’ll be inseparable. The ML won’t even see the SFL when she shows up!] [This is the trip that makes the ML realize how dramatic and needy the SFL is. Every fight they have just makes him appreciate the FL more. They drift apart, he ends up with the FL. I ship it!] I was still holding my phone, debating whether to text Liam, when a message from him popped up. [Clara, Ivy’s never been on a plane. I canceled your ticket and gave it to her.] [Just buy a train ticket and meet us there. We’ll wait for you in Aspen!] When I didn’t reply, a second message followed. [Are you mad? I know you’re not used to roughing it. You’re delicate.] [But Ivy can handle anything. Why is it always such a big deal with you?] I stared at the screen, my blood running cold. The text in my vision… it was all true. I pressed my lips into a thin line, opened a travel app, and bought a train ticket. But I changed the destination. Liam was the one who broke our promise first. Summer flights to Aspen were nearly impossible to get on short notice. After Liam canceled mine, there was no way I could find another. The train was sold out, too. Luckily, using a reseller app, I managed to snag a ticket to Denver in a private roomette, though I had to pay extra. I had just settled in when Liam’s text came through. [You’re taking the train, right? Ivy says even though it’s a 40-hour ride, the scenery is amazing. It’s something you’d never see from a plane. You’re lucky!] I let out a cold laugh and put my phone away without replying. After the initial shock of the canceled ticket, I’d considered just going home. But I decided to go ahead with the trip anyway. Going to the Rockies wasn’t just about Liam; it was part of my own plan for my life, and I wasn’t going to give it up for him. And starting in Denver wasn’t so bad. I’d always wanted to explore it. Still, he knew it was a grueling forty-hour train ride. And he’d canceled my flight without even asking, using my money, my time, and my peace of mind to give Ivy her “first time.” Even though I had decided to let him go, a dull ache settled in my chest, heavy and persistent. The glowing text reappeared. [Wow, this SFL is really obsessed with the ML. Dumped so many times and she’s still chasing after him. No direct train, so she goes to Denver first. Pathetic!] [Good! I was worried the plot would slow down without the SFL there as a catalyst, but she’s still following the script. A slight detour, but she’s on her way. Perfect!] [Seriously, does this girl have any self-respect? Thrown away like trash over and over, and she still sticks to him like glue. Such a desperate pick-me.] I glanced at the words and looked away, focusing on the view outside my window. The privacy of the roomette was a comfort. The price was steep, but watching the landscape shift and change, my knotted feelings slowly began to unwind. The next day, I arrived in Denver. I bought a map, circled a few spots I wanted to see, and looked up some guides online. It was getting late, so I booked a hotel near the downtown area. As I was settling in, I saw Ivy’s new Instagram post. [We gave the last room to a cute couple, so now I have to share with a certain someone! So embarrassing…] The accompanying photo was of their hotel room. She didn’t show the bed directly, but in the reflection of the window, you could clearly see Liam, leaning against the headboard, scrolling on his phone. My hand froze. My phone vibrated. A message from Liam: [Where are you? Ivy says the scenery on the way is beautiful. Send me some pics.] When I didn’t answer, a single [?] followed. I scoffed, set an alarm, and turned my phone off. [Ooh, look at her, playing hard to get. Does she really think the ML will get worried if she doesn’t text back?] [Looks like she’s planning to spend a few days in Denver. What’s her deal? Doesn’t she know the ML and FL are waiting for her in Aspen? So selfish!] [Yeah, didn’t you see? The ML was barely paying attention to the FL because he wasn’t getting texts back. Can this SFL stop being so dramatic? Will she die if she doesn’t ruin their romance?] [Whatever, let her play her games. By the time she gets to Aspen, the ML and FL will have already had their big romantic moment. I can’t wait to see her face when she finds out!] [Exactly. It’s so annoying seeing her all relaxed like this. The more fun she has now, the more heartbroken she’ll be later.] I ignored the commentary and closed my eyes. I spent the next day exploring Denver to my heart’s content. Only then did I turn my phone on to book the next leg of my journey. From here, there were plenty of tickets to Aspen. I didn’t buy one. Instead, I booked a bus ticket to Moab. Liam, having received no reply from me, called. I fumbled with my phone and accidentally answered. “Clara? Where are you?” Liam’s voice came through the speaker. “What’s up?” I asked, my tone flat. He must have sensed my coldness. He paused, then tried to sound cheerful. “Hey, where are you? I’ll come pick you up from the station.” “Don’t bother,” I said. “You two have fun.” As expected, he blew up. “Clara, what is that supposed to mean? What do you mean, ‘we’ have fun?” “Wasn’t coming to Aspen your dream? I ditched a trip to Florida with my friends to come to this godforsaken place with you, and now you’re giving me an attitude?” My continued silence seemed to cool his temper slightly. “Clara, are you actually mad?” he asked, uncertain. “Just because I gave your ticket to Ivy?” Before I could answer, he laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “Clara, that’s enough! How long are you going to drag this out? I already explained, I just wanted Ivy to experience flying for the first time. Are you really going to hold a grudge over that?” “Keep it up! Who else would put up with your terrible attitude but me?!” I heard the dial tone and sighed. My terrible attitude? They were the ones who abandoned me, and I hadn’t said a single harsh word. How was I the one with the bad attitude? Ignoring the floating text, I spent three days in Moab and then took a detour to see the Grand Canyon. The vast, breathtaking landscapes were something I’d never seen back home on the coast. The sheer scale of it all was humbling. It was worth the trip. I stayed for another three days before finally booking a bus to Aspen. Strangely, in those ten days, I had barely thought about Liam. It was as if the moment I decided to let go, he had truly faded from my world. He hadn’t tried to contact me since our angry phone call. But his Instagram was constantly updated. He and Ivy were inseparable, sharing a room, making heart signs in front of the Maroon Bells, visiting the sights, and even taking cheesy couple’s photos on the main street. He posted eight times a day, and nearly every picture was a selfie of the two of them. Looking at them, I felt a surprising sense of calm. They actually looked good together. The moment I arrived in Aspen, I got a text from my mom. [Clara, your acceptance letter came.] She added, [By the way, Liam’s mom just called, asking if you two wanted to have a joint graduation party. Does Liam not know you’re going to New York?] I was wondering how to reply when someone slapped me hard on the shoulder. “Clara! It really is you!” I looked up. It was Liam and Ivy. Liam’s eyes lit up when he saw me, and he started to walk toward me. I just gave them a brief glance and walked straight to the hotel’s front desk to check in. Ivy, seemingly oblivious to my cold shoulder, followed me. “Clara, what took you so long? You have no idea how fun Aspen is! Liam and I have seen almost everything. Where do you want to go next? I can have Liam take you.” I finished checking in, ignored her, and started rolling my suitcase toward the elevators. As I passed Liam, he grabbed my arm. His brow was furrowed, his expression dark. “Clara, are you done with this tantrum?” he demanded. “I’ve been ignoring you for days. Haven’t you figured out what you did wrong? What is this attitude? Didn’t you hear Ivy talking to you? Who do you think you’re too good for?” Ivy looked startled and quickly stepped in. “Liam, don’t be so loud! You’re being so mean to her!” Then she looked at me apologetically. “Clara, don’t get the wrong idea. He’s just like that. He’s only patient with me. I know you two are childhood friends, and I know I’ll never be as important to him as you are. I’m not trying to get in between you, I promise!” As she spoke, she reached for my arm. I instinctively pulled away. She used the momentum to stumble backward, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. “Ivy!” Liam roared, shoving me hard. I lost my balance and went down, my suitcase crashing to the floor with me. “Clara! What the hell? You’re going to bully her right in front of me? After she’s been worried sick about you this whole time? If I had known you were this vicious, we would have left Aspen days ago! Who cares if you ever showed up!” A sharp, stinging pain shot through my knee. I took a deep breath and pushed myself back up. I looked up to see Liam shielding Ivy in his arms, his eyes filled with profound disappointment. “Clara, apologize to Ivy,” he commanded. “Otherwise, you can forget about having our graduation party together!” I froze.

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Just because I peeled some shrimp for my husband, I was secretly filmed by Harper Sloane, a massive “feminist” influencer, and framed as a “brainless trad-wife” with no self-respect. Before I knew it, thousands of filthy comments flooded my social media. My husband, Liam, was heartbroken. He wanted to mobilize his legal team to get justice for me, but I stopped him just in time. In my past life, we did exactly that. We used the weapon of law to defend ourselves. But just as we were about to win, Harper livestreamed her suicide attempt. Instantly, public opinion flipped, and we were branded as murderers. In the end, the pressure of online mobs destroyed Liam’s law firm. His parents died of heart attacks induced by the stress. And I was pushed into oncoming traffic by one of her fanatical followers. After I died, Harper miraculously “survived,” gained six million followers, and became the queen of the livestreaming platform. Only then did I realize it was all a calculated stunt to gain clout. And she only picked me because earlier that day, the guy she liked rejected her, using me—a stranger passing by—as his excuse. When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I did was put on my best “battle armor”—a soft, hyper-feminine dress—and apply the perfect “no-makeup” makeup look. I was going to be the ultimate “fragile wife.” This time, I’m going to use her as my stepping stone to the top. …… 1 When I got home, my social media notifications were blowing up, just like in my previous life. The same filthy comments, filled with insults involving my mother. Liam was furious. He wanted his lawyers to demand justice immediately, but I stopped him. He looked confused. “Babe, this influencer, Harper Sloane, is clearly using us for clout at the expense of our reputation. Are we really going to do nothing?” I smiled and shook my head. “Of course not. But we can’t get defensive. We need to do the exact opposite.” Seeing his confusion, I threw together a compilation of clips where I looked my absolute best. In every video, my skin looked like a peeled hard-boiled egg—smooth and glowing. I looked soft, delicate, the kind of woman who triggers an immediate protective instinct. “Explaining makes us look guilty. Instead, we lean into the aesthetic. Beauty is justice. I am the ultimate Trad Wife.” Liam didn’t get it, but he trusted me. I didn’t waste time. After he left for work, I set up the best lighting, made sure I looked ethereal, and started a livestream. Because of the controversy, people flooded in. Some I didn’t know at all immediately started typing, calling me a “gold digger” and a “disgrace to women.” I didn’t get angry. I just apologized softly, constantly emphasizing that I was sorry for “embarrassing other women.” I adjusted my angle to show my best side, sniffled, and said through tears that I shouldn’t have served food to the man I loved. The aggressive comments instantly slowed down. Half the viewers lost their steam. Many started commenting, telling me not to cry, saying that peeling shrimp wasn’t a crime. Of course, there were still haters. I saw a familiar burner account spamming hate and immediately recognized it as Harper. I leaned closer to the camera, maximizing the impact of my teary eyes. Seeing the comments shift to praising my looks, I choked back a sob and read a hate comment aloud. “This… princess… I don’t know you… You can insult me… but please… don’t talk about my family…” My face, stained with tears like a flower in the rain, sparked pity. The netizens turned their fire on Harper, throwing the insults she had incited back at her. I waved my hands frantically, crying out: “Guys, please don’t be mad for me. She thinks she’s doing the right thing. If you get angry because of me, then it’s my fault.” Being this understanding made people love me even more. Countless comments flooded in, saying I wasn’t a “brainless wife,” but a soft, sweet angel. I widened my eyes, red as a rabbit’s, and pouted. 2 “Ah, thank you everyone… thank you for believing in me… To thank you, I…” I paused deliberately, looked around, then pattered away to fetch a plate of shrimp. “I like peeling shrimp for people I like… Can I peel them for you guys?” The internet was charmed. They started teasing me just to see me smile. The “Shrimp Peeling Wife” scandal had unknowingly become the stepping stone for my own traffic. One livestream, and I gained 100,000 followers. Looking at the numbers, the smile never left my face. I was so stupid in my last life. Why fight force with force? Water can float a boat, but it can also capsize it. If I used the traffic Harper sent me correctly, it would become the weapon that destroyed her. The next morning, I went viral again. Marketing accounts clipped my livestream, and I looked simply too beautiful in them. Anyone who saw me couldn’t help but follow. My DMs were filled with a few haters, but mostly girls asking how my skin was so perfect. To engage with them, I posted my first video, introducing my skincare routine. I studied medical cosmetology, and combined with my naturally good skin, the video quickly surpassed 300,000 likes. The niche skincare products I recommended sold out instantly. Seeing my purchasing power, brands started reaching out for sponsorships. I didn’t rush. I declined them for now. But to piss off Harper, I took screenshots of all the offers and posted them. Caption: [All the products I use are ones I bought myself! If I ever do a sponsored post, I promise to tell you guys. ❤️] Seeing this, Harper went insane. Her burner account went on a rampage in my comments. [You slut, it’s not enough to seduce men, now you want to steal everything else? You really look like a fox.] [Don’t get cocky. The higher you climb, the harder you fall!] [Just you wait. I will ruin you. I’ll send you and your family to hell.] … In my past life, I would have argued back. Now, I just screenshotted everything as evidence. When Harper starts to crumble, this will be the lethal blow. She was furious. She posted two videos emphasizing that my act of peeling shrimp was “self-degradation,” putting myself in a lower position for a man’s love. She also claimed my love for makeup and skincare was “serving the male gaze,” a severe form of objectification, turning myself into a tool to please men. 3 Listening to her jealousy dripping through the screen, I just found it laughable. In my past life, on International Women’s Day, she was exposed for getting a nose job at a clinic, accompanied by a sugar daddy ten years her senior. Back then, the trending topics were suddenly removed. She cried and claimed she was framed, eventually winning her fans back. It was March 5th now. Only three days left. I was going to watch her destroy herself, and then pour gasoline on the fire. But before that, I had to get close to the man she was obsessed with—her crush, Tyler. The other murderer who sent my family to our deaths. The first time I heard of this man was the day my family was ruined by Harper. I asked her why she wouldn’t let me go. She said I stole the person she loved. I explained I didn’t even know him. She paranoidly asked why, if I didn’t know Tyler, he would say I was beautiful and that if he got a girlfriend, she had to look like me. I couldn’t answer. It wasn’t until my soul was fading after death that I heard Tyler’s friend ask him why he used me as an excuse to reject Harper. “She’s insanely jealous. She hates when I say other people are prettier than her. If I reject her like that, she won’t blame me, she’ll blame the girl. And she won’t ask me to pay back the money I owe her.” His friend called him smart. I shook with rage. Just because of this random disaster, my family ended up dead or insane. The intense unwillingness to accept this fate made me want to tear that trash apart. But I could only watch as my soul dissipated. Thank God the universe gave me a second chance. This time, I wouldn’t just punish Harper; I’d drag Tyler down to hell with her. Harper fell in love with Tyler at her lowest point when he “saved” her. She spent money on him endlessly, granting his every wish. Tyler was a master manipulator. He used her money to play the rich heir outside, mixing with the wealthy crowd and sleeping with different women. Harper was too afraid he’d get mad to monitor him, obeying his every word. But now, to guard against me, she had people watching me. I was going to use that. I would deliberately appear in front of Tyler, forcing her to see who he really was. Let them destroy each other. The location was The Midnight Lounge. Tyler was known as “Young Master Tyler” here, often picking up the tab for everyone. Every night, he booked VIP Room 302. Harper knew this, but she didn’t know what Tyler actually did inside. So when I appeared at the bar, she automatically assumed I was there to seduce Tyler. Half an hour later, hearing the roar of a Porsche, I handed a red receipt to the bartender. “If anyone asks where I went, make sure to tell them Room 302.” The bartender took the tip and nodded. When Harper asked, she stormed over and kicked open the door to Room 302. 4 When the door flew open, Tyler was making out with the women next to him. Not one. Five of them. Harper had a mental breakdown. She grabbed a glass and smashed it against the sofa. Alcohol splashed everywhere. Tyler’s degenerate friends looked furious. “Tyler, where did you find this psycho? She has no manners!” “Yeah, how can we let a woman ride on our heads? If you’re this whipped, we can’t hang with you anymore!” Harper exploded at the word “psycho.” She grabbed a bottle and threw it at the man who said it. Luckily, Tyler pulled him away just in time. From a distance, recording everything, I sighed. A pity no one got seriously hurt. “Have you caused enough trouble, Harper?!” Tyler raised his hand and slapped her hard across the face, his voice cold. “If you keep acting like this, you never need to see me again.” That slap brought her back to reality. She lowered her head and apologized meekly. Tyler’s friends whistled, praising him for being a “real man” who knew how to control his woman. To regain his dignity, Tyler pushed Harper to sit next to Damon, the man she had almost hit. “Toast him. You can leave when Damon forgives you.” The woman who preached independence and female empowerment in her videos didn’t say a word. She tilted her head back and drank. After downing three full bottles, she ended up hugging the toilet, vomiting and having diarrhea. But this didn’t earn her a shred of Tyler’s sympathy. While she was passed out, he shoved her into Damon’s car. Watching the car drive away, I felt nothing. This is what she owed me. What she owed my family. I smiled coldly and anonymously sent the photos I took to Damon’s fiancée. The next day, Damon’s fiancée, Miss Cao, stormed a villa to catch the mistress. The video hit #1 on the trending list. The mistress’s face was captured clearly—it was a terrified Harper. A feminist blogger who taught women self-love and independence was exposed as a homewrecker. The irony was suffocating. The internet exploded. Her fans felt humiliated and demanded the truth like a pack of mad dogs. But Harper vanished. She didn’t dare respond. It’s a common internet tactic: assume silence will make people forget. She thought she could make a comeback after the storm passed. But she underestimated how many enemies she had made this year, and how terrible her character really was. Soon, other bloggers came out to expose her, one after another. Stories of her getting plastic surgery, stealing other people’s boyfriends, and maliciously body-shaming other influencers piled up. She stank to high heaven. I also released the screenshots of her burner account abusing me, adding “cyberbullying a civilian” to her list of sins. But she had plenty of paid bots. They flooded the comments claiming she was framed. They even listed the charity work she had done over the years. Many netizens commented: [I don’t believe someone who loves charity can be that bad.] [Exactly. We need to trust her. We refuse to tear down another woman.] [Always remember: Girls help Girls.] I scrolled through the comments, feeling a pang of sadness. The rise of feminism is already hard enough. But there are always people like her who exploit the movement for traffic.

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My boyfriend, Nate, stepped in to stop a fight between his best friend and his girlfriend. But he didn’t just break it up. He shielded the girl behind him and grabbed his best friend by the collar, shaking him. “I only let you have her because you promised to treat her right! If you can’t take care of her, then give her back to me!” Standing in the doorway, I froze. 1 On the night of our three-year anniversary, Nate brought a girl home. I was setting up the candles and wine when I saw her. She had a messy bun, a tear-streaked face, and was wrapped in Nate’s oversized suit jacket. She looked frail, like a wounded bird. She glanced at me, wiped her tears quickly, and looked down as if she was scared. “Chloe, I’m so sorry to bother you again.” I frowned instinctively and looked at Nate. He turned his face away, avoiding my gaze. This was the third time this month Sarah had ended up in our apartment. Nate and I had been together since high school. Our families were similar in status, and we were practically engaged, just waiting to graduate. Nate hated dorm life, so his parents bought this luxury apartment for us. Sarah was Nate’s childhood friend and also dating his best friend, Jason. Recently, Sarah and Jason had been fighting constantly. Jason’s interest in Sarah had faded after the chase. His playboy habits returned, and he started treating her like an accessory he was bored with—calling her plain, boring, and clingy. When he was in a bad mood, he’d scream at her or throw her stuff out on the street. At first, Nate and I felt bad for her. We’d go over, calm things down, and let her stay with us. But it was becoming a habit. I had already told Nate: Next time, give her money for a hotel. Do not bring her here. He had agreed. Yet here she was. Seeing my silence, Sarah’s eyes turned red. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I saw lipstick on Jason’s shirt and asked about it. He flipped out, said I was controlling, pinched me, and told me to get lost…” Fear lingered in her eyes, but my sympathy was running dry. I had told her to break up with Jason a dozen times. She always made excuses. She chose to stay. There was nothing more I could do. “Chloe, can I stay here tonight? Nate said I could take the guest room…” I looked at Nate. His jaw was set. “Fine,” I said coolly. “You can stay.” 2 Our anniversary dinner was ruined. Sarah sat on the couch crying the entire time. Nate, who usually had zero patience for drama, sat beside her, listening intently and handing her tissues. By the time Sarah finally went to the guest room, the food was cold and congealed. Inedible. Nate and I fought. “We agreed. Money for a hotel. Why is she here?” I didn’t get it. Nate was proud, even a bit arrogant. He hated getting involved in other people’s messy lives. Why was he so invested in Sarah? Nate frowned. “You’re a girl, Chloe. Can’t you have some empathy? Sarah has no family here. Who else can she turn to?” He realized his tone was harsh and sighed, hugging me from behind. “I’m sorry, babe. I wasn’t thinking. Jason is a scumbag. Sarah was bruised all over when I got there. He threw her out with nothing. I couldn’t just leave her. “A hotel isn’t safe for a girl alone in that state. Just this once. I promise, never again. Okay?” I stared out the window, silent. Nate’s hand slid under my silk robe, his fingers warm against my skin. I felt his breath hitch as he pressed closer. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he whispered in my ear. “Dinner at Le Bernardin. I’ll give you a proper anniversary.” My breath caught. I turned, ready to kiss him. Knock, knock, knock. Sarah’s timid voice came through the door. “Nate? Chloe? I made some sweet soup. Do you want some?” I froze. I was about to say no. Nate let go of me instantly. He opened the door. “Yeah. Thanks.” Five minutes later, Nate was sitting at the dining table, drinking soup. Sarah sat next to him, chin in her hands, smiling. “Is it good, Nate?” “Yeah,” Nate nodded, a gentle smile on his face that I rarely saw. “It’s really good.” “Chloe, why aren’t you having any? Dieting?” Sarah smiled sweetly. “You already have a great body. My cooking is really good, you should try it.” I looked at them blankly. “No thanks.” 3 The next morning, the smell of food woke me up. I walked into the living room. Sarah was wearing an apron, laughing with Nate at the table. “Chloe, you’re up! We didn’t want to wake you. Come eat.” I had to admit, Sarah could cook. The table was full of dishes that looked and smelled amazing. Nate looked at me. “Sarah’s a great cook. Try this.” Sarah immediately put some beef on Nate’s plate. “Try the stir-fry, Nate. It’s my specialty.” “It’s delicious.” “Eat more then.” Sarah glanced at me while serving him. “Chloe doesn’t cook much, does she?” “She can’t cook to save her life,” Nate said. “She grew up spoiled. Never touched a stove.” Sarah pursed her lips. “Yeah, you can tell Chloe was pampered. Unlike me. I started cooking when I was five.” A flash of pity crossed Nate’s eyes. In the morning light, they looked like the happy couple. I was the intruder. Sarah looked at me. “Chloe, I feel so bad imposing on you guys. If you didn’t take me in, I’d have nowhere to go. I don’t have much, but let me do the chores and cooking while I’m here. You guys work hard, you should come home to a hot meal.” I cut her off. “No need. When are you leaving?” Sarah’s smile froze. She twisted the apron in her hands. “I… Chloe, can I stay a few more days? I don’t have anywhere else.” Nate frowned. “Chloe, what are you saying? Where is she supposed to go?” I kept my voice even. “It’s inconvenient having a third person here. I’ll lend you money. Go to a hotel.” Nate looked annoyed but didn’t argue. Sarah’s eyes reddened. She forced a pained smile. “Okay, Chloe. I know I’m a burden. Just one more night. Please. I’ll leave tomorrow.” I got a call from Nate’s mom just as my meeting ended. “Chloe, I just talked to Nate. He sounds sick. He has a fever. You know he can’t take care of himself. Can you go check on him?” I agreed. I was worried. Nate was a man-child when it came to self-care. He probably didn’t know Tylenol from Tic Tacs. I bought porridge and medicine on my way home. When I opened the door, I smelled rice porridge. The living room was empty. I heard voices from the bedroom. I put my things down and walked quietly to the door, peering through the crack. Nate was in bed. Sarah was sitting on the edge, placing a wet towel on his forehead. Nate looked flushed. He murmured, “I can do it myself. Don’t trouble yourself.” Sarah laughed softly. “Why are you so polite all of a sudden? I used to take care of you like this all the time when we were kids. “By the way, why didn’t you tell Chloe you were sick? Doesn’t she take care of you?” Nate frowned slightly. “She’s not like you. She doesn’t do this kind of stuff.” Sarah lowered her head. “I can’t compare to Chloe. She’s so pretty, so successful. I’m only good at… domestic things. “But my mom says women don’t need to be so ambitious. Men are naturally stronger. If I were lucky enough to have a boyfriend as amazing as you, like Chloe does, I’d take care of him perfectly. He wouldn’t have to lift a finger.” She sighed. “Nate, working and worrying about the house… you must be tired.” Nate’s eyes flickered. He said nothing. “I really feel for you. You carry so much.” Sarah picked up the bowl and offered him a spoonful. “You’re sick and Chloe still went to work. If I were her, I wouldn’t leave you. “Do you remember when you were sick before? You were so picky. You wouldn’t eat anything with flavor. I learned to make this plain porridge just for you.” Nate looked at the porridge, lost in thought. “I remember. You burned your hand making it. You wouldn’t even tell me until I saw the blisters.” His usually sharp features softened. “It’s been a long time. Taste it. Is it still the same?” Nate paused. “You never made this for Jason?” Sarah’s smile faded. “No. I never did this for him.” “Why?” “Because…” Sarah looked up at Nate, blushing. “Because I don’t love him.” Nate frowned. “Then why are you with him?” Silence filled the room. Finally, Sarah spoke. “To make you mad. We were fine, and then you got with Chloe and stopped hanging out with me. I dated him out of spite.” Nate looked conflicted. His voice was raspy. “Why bother?” “Yeah. I regret it.” Sarah laughed bitterly. “Too late now.” I stood outside the door, feeling a cold irony wash over me. So that was it. Sarah had always followed Nate around in high school. I thought they were just friends. Turns out, I was the clueless one. I took her in, and she’s confessing her love to my boyfriend in my bed. I pushed the door open. “Why are you still here?” 4 “Sorry! Sorry!” Sarah jumped up in panic. The bowl tipped over, spilling scalding hot porridge all over her wrist. She hissed in pain, eyes watering. “I just saw Nate was sick and wanted to help. I’m leaving right now!” Nate grabbed her uninjured hand, glaring at me. “Chloe, are you done? It’s late at night! Where is she supposed to go? If something happens to her, can you live with that?” I scoffed. “If she doesn’t leave, is she going to sleep here with you? Fine. I’ll leave. Am I interrupting something?” Nate’s face changed. He fell silent. Sarah sniffled. “Chloe, Nate, don’t fight because of me. It’s my fault. I’ll go.” Nate’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t stop her. … I drove Sarah to the nearest luxury hotel and watched her check in. “I know you and Nate are old friends,” I said. “But you’re both in relationships. Boundaries exist for a reason.” Sarah didn’t respond. As I turned to leave, she called out. “Chloe. Do you really think you and Nate are compatible?” I looked back. She had dropped the timid act. She looked at me with a strange defiance. “He’s sick and you can’t even make him porridge. Can you really take care of him?” I laughed. “You’re confused. I didn’t get lucky by dating him. I gave him the chance to be my boyfriend. “He should be the one worrying about taking care of me.”

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In my previous life, just before the wedding, I found my fiancée, Phoebe, naked in our marital bed with my best friend. In a blind rage, I hurled the heavy steel thermos I was holding at the two of them. Phoebe, bleeding from the head, called the cops immediately. I was facing assault charges. It was either jail time or a fifty-thousand-dollar settlement. To keep me out of trouble, my mom paid it without a second thought. Things had gone too far. The wedding was off. But when it came time to return the engagement gifts, Phoebe claimed the one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of solid gold jewelry I’d given her was all fake. With the price of gold having skyrocketed, she sued me for two hundred and twenty thousand dollars in cash. It wiped out my mother’s life savings and every penny I had. The stress caused my mom to have a stroke, landing her in the ICU. Crushed by the weight of it all, I was a ghost walking. I stumbled, tumbled down a flight of stairs, and the impact to my head killed me. When I opened my eyes, I was back. Back on that same, cursed day. 1 My friends and I stood frozen, staring at my fiancée, Phoebe, and my best friend, Lewis, tangled together naked in what was supposed to be our marital bed. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and the air was thick with a sour, repulsive smell. For a moment, the world went silent. My friends were stunned into disbelief by the shameless scene before them. As for me, I was just reeling from being reborn. In my last life, just before I died, I received the court notice. A lien on my future, ordering me to pay Phoebe that two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Even as I closed my eyes for the last time, I knew that debt would follow me into the grave, a final victory for that venomous woman. “You shameless bastards! What the hell are you doing?!” “Phoebe, you’re getting married! How could you do something like this?” “Wait, isn’t that guy Kevin’s best friend? You’re sleeping with your best friend’s fiancée? Haven’t you ever heard of bro code?” My friends finally found their voices, their shock turning to outrage. But Phoebe and Lewis didn’t react like people caught in the act. There was no scrambling for clothes, no panic. Instead, they both turned to look at me, their eyes filled with a chilling mix of defiance and contempt. Phoebe leisurely pulled the duvet over her chest. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice impossibly calm. “I thought you were arranging the wedding cars.” There was no begging, no tears, just a breathtaking display of shamelessness. Then it hit me. Before coming to see the new apartment, I had texted Phoebe, telling her I was bringing a few friends over to check it out. She knew we were coming. She had set this up. Last time, I was too consumed by rage to think clearly. The sight of their brazenness made me snap. I grabbed the thermos and threw it. I remembered how Phoebe, a supposedly delicate woman, had calmly wiped the blood from her forehead and dialed 911. She wanted me to lose control. I understood now. I couldn’t let her provoke me again. But my friends were already at their breaking point. “It’s a damn good thing we came to see Kevin’s new place,” one of them seethed. “Otherwise, how would we have caught you screwing around with another man?” “Quick, get it on video! Let’s show everyone what kind of disgusting people these two are.” Phones were already out, cameras pointed at the half-dressed pair. “Don’t!” I shouted, stepping in front of my friends, blocking their view. They stared at me, confused. “Are you crazy, Kevin?” Ryan, my closest friend, demanded. “If we don’t record this, they’ll just deny everything!” I gave a bitter smile. What difference would it make? In court last time, I submitted a video of their affair. But the law stated that since we weren’t married yet, she hadn’t committed a crime, only a moral transgression. Phoebe had even threatened to countersue me for invasion of privacy. “Spreading this stuff online is illegal,” I explained, my voice tight. “She’ll sue us.” My words made them lower their phones. “So we just let them get away with it?” Ryan fumed. “What if they twist the story and blame you?” “Oh, we’re definitely getting proof,” I said, pulling out my own phone. “But I’ll be the one to do it.” 2 I aimed my camera and took a series of clear, damning photos of the two of them, huddled together in their state of undress. There wasn’t a trace of fear in their eyes. Lewis even had the gall to smirk at me. “You can’t really blame me, Kevin,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You just couldn’t satisfy her.” He draped an arm around Phoebe. “A woman’s heart follows her body. It’s just nature.” Words from a scumbag like him could make a man choke on his own blood. And this was my best friend. The one who had set me up with Phoebe in the first place. I had been so grateful to him, thinking I’d found a beautiful, gentle woman. I never imagined they’d end up like this, in my bed. But this time, his words couldn’t touch me. In my past life, I had been a wreck. I fell apart, wondering what I’d done wrong to deserve a betrayal so deep from the two people I trusted most. Now? I wouldn’t waste a second on self-doubt. Because I knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t normal. It wasn’t logical. Phoebe and Lewis weren’t the people I thought they were. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing. “You son of a bitch!” Ryan couldn’t take it anymore. “Kevin treated you like a brother, and you sleep with his fiancée?” He lunged for Lewis, and I grabbed him, holding him back with all my strength. Ryan’s face was purple with rage. “Let me go, Kevin! I’ll teach them a lesson for you. You don’t need to get your hands dirty.” I knew how much this hurt him. He was genuinely happy for me, hoping I’d finally found someone to build a life with. But I also knew the price of a moment’s satisfaction. It had cost me everything—my family, my life. I couldn’t imagine what became of my mom in the ICU after I died. “It’s not worth it,” I said, my grip firm, my voice steady. “Wrecking our own lives over these two? It’s not worth it.” My calm, rational gaze seemed to cut through his anger, and Ryan slowly relaxed his fists. “Just break it off with her, man,” he said. “You’ll find someone else. You can’t marry this… this trash.” The others murmured in agreement. They took my lead, shelving the idea of violence. But words weren’t illegal, and they unleashed a torrent of insults that left the pair on the bed speechless. Yet, Phoebe and Lewis showed no remorse. They dressed slowly, their eyes filled with mockery as they watched me and my furious friends. “Break it off?” Phoebe finally said, a smirk playing on her lips. “Fine by me, Kevin. Let’s see who chickens out!” Hearing those words, my heart sank with a grim certainty. This was it. Breaking the engagement was the trigger. She was goading me into it so she could claim the gold I gave her was fake. I wouldn’t be her puppet this time. I took a deep breath and, with a few taps, sent the photos I’d just taken to a massive group chat. “By the way,” I said, meeting her gaze. “I’ve gone ahead and announced your little affair to everyone.” “You two can enjoy the pictures.” With that, I turned to my friends. “Let’s go.” “Kevin, don’t let it get to you,” they said, trying to comfort me on the way out. “Finding out before the wedding is actually a blessing in disguise…” I assured them I was fine. Then I dialed my mom. “Mom, I’m coming home now,” I said, my voice urgent. “If Phoebe or her mother calls you, don’t answer. Don’t reply to any texts. Just ignore them completely.” 3 When I got home, my mom’s eyes were already red. The photos I’d posted had exploded across our social circles. Phoebe’s mother had, of course, immediately called my mom. Following my instructions, she hadn’t picked up, but she couldn’t avoid the flood of dozens of abusive text messages. I gently took the phone from her hands. I sat down with her and explained everything, carefully, patiently. My number one priority was to manage her emotions. I had to ensure she wouldn’t suffer another stroke. As I spoke, Phoebe’s mom called again and again. I finally answered and put it on speaker. “You son of a bitch!” her voice shrieked through the phone. “You plaster my daughter’s photos everywhere for the world to see! How is she supposed to face anyone? I swear to God, I won’t let you get away with this!” So much for the woman who always gushed about how she saw me as her own son. The mask was off. “You’re yelling at the wrong person,” I replied, my voice cold as ice. “Your daughter’s the tramp. And if you’re wondering where she got it from, I suggest you look in a mirror.” Her rage escalated into a stream of incoherent sputtering. “Don’t you get cocky! We’re suing you for invasion of privacy!” I couldn’t help but laugh. “And what privacy did I invade, exactly?” The photos I sent showed scattered clothes and a messy bed. Not a single image was explicit. There was a moment of stunned silence on the other end. “You bastard,” she finally hissed. “You just wait.” She hung up. Despite my reassurances, hearing that venomous tirade made my mom tremble, tears welling in her eyes. “Call it off,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “Call off the wedding right now. We want nothing to do with people like that. And we want the gifts back. That was one hundred thousand dollars in gold jewelry. We want every last piece back.” I took her hand. “We won’t get it back just yet, Mom.” “She’s not going to return it. Because they’ve already swapped it all for fakes.” My mother’s jaw dropped. “Fakes? But we bought all of that from a reputable jeweler! We have the receipts, the certificates of authenticity. It was all real!” Yes, it was. But none of that mattered. In my past life, I showed the court the purchase records, the receipts, the certificates. It was useless. Phoebe insisted I had given her fakes from the very beginning. She accused me of fraud and demanded I compensate her for the appreciated value of the gold, which came to two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. I paused, carefully sorting through my thoughts. This was, without a doubt, a trap set by Phoebe and Lewis. It was probably a setup from the moment Lewis introduced us. I knew he had been struggling financially for the past couple of years. At the time, I hadn’t thought anything of it. Phoebe was beautiful, smart, and seemed perfect in every way. When we got engaged, she insisted on the hundred thousand dollars in gold jewelry. She said cash gifts felt impersonal, while gold was a true gift to her. She even mentioned how it was a great investment that was sure to appreciate. It all made sense now. When I broke off the engagement, she would accuse me of giving her fakes, of committing fraud, and of costing her a massive profit from the gold’s rising value. “But she’s the one who cheated!” my mom cried, her voice filled with disbelief. “By tradition, she has to return the engagement gifts! That’s one hundred thousand dollars she owes us!” The reality of the situation was sinking in, and she looked utterly lost. The value had more than doubled since we bought it. I sighed and shook my head. This was the hard part. I had no way to prove the gold I gave her was real. I had no idea where the real jewelry had gone. And Phoebe would sue me, demanding the full market value of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. But I had been reborn. No matter how impossible it seemed, I had to find a way to break this unbreakable trap. 4 As expected, when I met with Phoebe to officially end the engagement, she met me with a cold, mocking smile. “You think you can just call it off whenever you want?” she sneered. “First, you can explain to me why you gave me fake gold for our engagement. Why did you lie to me?” It was happening. Exactly like before. I just watched her, silent. Even though I’d already died once, seeing her face still made a volcano of rage threaten to erupt inside me. I had once planned to spend my life with this woman. I never knew a human heart could be so venomous, so twisted. She dramatically opened a jewelry box. Inside lay the bracelets, the gold beads, the necklaces—one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of glittering metal. “Here it is,” she announced to the family members gathered. “Looks real enough, right? Each piece has a serial number, a receipt. But if I hadn’t looked closely, I never would have discovered they were all fakes.” She produced a pair of bolt cutters and, without hesitation, clamped down on a thick bracelet. With a sickening snap, the bracelet broke, revealing a dull, gray core. She continued, snapping piece after piece, each one revealing the same worthless metal inside. The room gasped. “Fake! It’s all fake!” Phoebe shrieked, pointing at me. “Kevin gave me fake gold! Everyone, look! I gave him my heart, and he deceived me with a box of junk!” Her mother chimed in, launching into a tirade about how rotten and depraved I was. I glanced at my mom. Thank God for the warning. She stood silently, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line. I squeezed her hand. It’s okay. I’m here. This time, she wouldn’t collapse from the shock. This time, Phoebe wouldn’t have a crowd of her people surrounding my mother, preventing her from getting to a hospital. “This is just disgusting!” Phoebe’s mother yelled. “Who gives fake engagement gifts? One hundred thousand dollars of junk! Nobody is leaving here today!” “Not until you give us the real gold, or the money! Nobody leaves!” Phoebe was still screaming, but I tuned her out, letting her perform. I had no intention of leaving. Her little show wasn’t over yet. I just muttered, my voice devoid of emotion, “I gave them to you right after I bought them. I have no idea what happened.” Just like last time, Phoebe dialed 911. Her mother didn’t stop her verbal assault, but her words couldn’t hurt me this time. Because I had come prepared. I brought a few of my most sharp-tongued relatives with me. And as instructed, they didn’t take the bait. When Phoebe’s mom screamed about my black heart and fake gifts, my relatives fired back about her daughter’s filthy habits and questionable upbringing. It was a standoff. You scream your insults, we’ll scream ours. When the police arrived, they mediated, explaining that this was a civil dispute. We could either negotiate or take it to court. “Alright, we’re leaving,” I said calmly. Phoebe shot me a dark look and tried to block my path, but the officer intervened. “Kevin, don’t think you can just walk away from this,” she hissed. “I will sue you. But, for old time’s sake, if you get on your knees and beg for my forgiveness right now, and post a public apology clearing my name, maybe I’ll let you off for a few thousand.” Her smug expression was nauseating. But wasting another breath on her was pointless. “Fine,” I said. “Sue me. If you don’t, you’re a coward.” 5 Phoebe was no coward. The court summons arrived shortly after. My mom was still worried sick. “I’ve talked to several lawyers,” she said, her voice heavy with anxiety. “They all say the same thing. We have no way to prove the gold we gave her was real. If she demands compensation for being deceived, the court will most likely rule in her favor.” I, on the other hand, was surprisingly calm. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m not even going to hire a lawyer for this one. Save the money.” “Don’t worry,” I added, seeing the fear in her eyes. “I can handle this.” The court date arrived quickly. I sat alone at the defendant’s table. Across from me, Phoebe sat with a high-profile lawyer, a smirk playing on her lips. Her mother and Lewis were in the gallery, watching with smug satisfaction. Phoebe’s demand was simple: either I produce the real gold jewelry, or I pay her its current market value—two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Her lawyer presented the evidence: the receipts and certificates with their unique serial numbers, a video from our engagement party of me giving her the box of gold, and another video of her “discovering” the fakes in front of everyone. It was a perfectly constructed, logical loop of evidence. The judge turned to me. “And your evidence, Mr. Defendant? You claim you gave her real gold. Where is your proof?” I was silent for a long moment. “I have no proof,” I finally said. “I just find it… strange. Isn’t it a bit too convenient that the plaintiff was so prepared for all of this? I bought real gold from a certified dealer. How did it become fake in her possession?” But my words changed nothing. The verdict was delivered. I was ordered to either produce the original items or pay their current market value of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Phoebe was not required to return a single thing. Phoebe’s mother let out a whoop of joy and high-fived Lewis. In the gallery, I could hear people whispering. “Doesn’t this seem a little too perfect for the woman? Demanding that much gold, and then conveniently discovering it’s fake… something feels off.” “It feels off, sure, but the guy has no evidence.” I rose from my seat, my face a mask of calm. Phoebe stepped in front of me, blocking my way. She leaned in, her smile dripping with venom. “How does it feel to lose?” she whispered. “Don’t worry. You have one month to wire the two hundred and twenty thousand to my account. Otherwise, I’ll file for a court-ordered seizure. You’ll pay me, even if you have to sell everything you own.” Looking at her vicious, triumphant face, I finally understood the meaning of a beautiful monster. But she had no idea. My counterattack was just beginning.

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I found the secret diary of the gloomy straight-A student. 【Today was the physics final. The Rice Ball girl sat right in front of me. Her neck is so long and white, I really want to strangle it and kiss it.】 【Dreamt she was dancing last night. Can I capture her and make her dance for me alone?】 【The Rice Ball girl came to ask me a question today. Her hair kept brushing against my arm, it tickled so much I almost lost control.】 【That guy next door always comes to find her, and she even smiles at him. I really want to dump his body somewhere and then lock her up.】 【Accidentally brought the Rice Ball girl home. I’m enduring it to the point of madness.】 【Saw the Rice Ball girl licking an ice cream. Spiritually possessing the ice cream with my mind.】 Reading this diary made my face burn and my heart race. I quickly put the diary back where I found it. The straight-A student usually looks cold and ascetic, didn’t expect him to be such a pervert behind the scenes. This Rice Ball girl is too pitiful. Until I returned to my seat, I still had lingering fears. At this time, the straight-A student, Julian Thorne, walked over: “Student Summer, I bought an extra rice ball, here you go.” Huh? Seeing my face full of confusion, Julian flicked my forehead casually: “Don’t you always eat rice balls? Rice Ball girl.” Rice Ball girl? Me: ?? 1 My family wasn’t well off, and my mom didn’t allow me to turn on the AC during the day. Summer in City A was scorching, with temperatures soaring to 38 degrees Celsius (over 100°F). Helpless, I ran to the park every day to cool off. After encountering the high-cold straight-A student Julian Thorne riding past in the park for the fifth time, and our eyes meeting… He spoke first: “Hey, student, are you from our school?” Dude, that’s a bit presumptuous. We’ve been in the same class for a year. “Monitor, we’re in the same class. I’m Summer Meng.” As an introvert, I answered softly. “I’m face-blind, can’t remember people. What are you doing here?” “Cooling off.” Julian was silent for a few seconds after hearing my answer, then slowly said: “If you keep cooling off like this, you’ll get heatstroke. It’s almost forty degrees today.” “My family… doesn’t allow me to turn on the AC.” My face felt slightly hot. Inferiority and sensitivity almost made me lose my voice. When I said this, I saw Julian’s eyes light up. He seemed very… happy? A sense of superiority because I’m poor? I was a little unhappy. “Then come to my house. My AC is on 24 hours a day.” 2 Julian rarely spoke at school. Relying on his outstandingly handsome looks and heaven-defying grades, he became the secret crush of many girls. In the girls’ dorm night chats, his name always came up. Even the beautiful and tall dorm leader would be extremely excited just because Julian patted her shoulder during roll call. I had almost no contact with him. The only interaction was because of a physics problem. Only he in the whole class knew how to solve that finale question. I mustered up the courage to ask him. I saw his hands were slender and fair, knuckles distinct, holding a pen and writing quickly on the paper. I was momentarily flustered, and my just-washed, not-yet-dry hair accidentally touched him. He shook it off with a hint of disgust. This directly poked my inferiority complex. Since then, I never proactively asked him questions again. His helpfulness this time was indeed unexpected. When I stepped into his house for the first time carrying my schoolbag, it felt like entering a castle. His villa was magnificent, with cold air everywhere. “Monitor, where are your parents?” Julian threw his bag aside, opened the fridge, and tossed me an ice cream. He unwrapped a popsicle for himself: “They went abroad.” “So you live alone?” “There’s a helper.” He went upstairs as he spoke. I wasn’t familiar with the environment, so I could only follow his footsteps. After entering the room, he pulled out a desk chair: “You study here.” “What about you?” “I’ll lie on the bed and play games.” With that, he took out a game console and half-lay on the bed. I felt a bit embarrassed, feeling like I was occupying the magpie’s nest: “Monitor, I’ll go write outside. There’s AC outside too.” He held the popsicle in his mouth, controlling the game, and said to me nonchalantly: “The AC outside needs to be turned off to save electricity.” Makes sense, money doesn’t grow on trees for anyone. I spread out my homework, ready to study, when Julian’s muffled voice came from behind: “Eat the ice cream first, or it’ll melt.” So polite. I was flattered for a moment, opened the ice cream, and licked it bit by bit with the tip of my tongue like treating a treasure, afraid of missing any sweetness. 3 “Mmph…” Halfway through the ice cream, I heard a muffled groan. “What’s wrong?” Turning around, I realized Julian’s face was a bit red, and his ears were red enough to drip blood. I hurriedly put down the ice cream and homework, didn’t even have time to wipe my mouth, and went to his side to check on him. “Do you have a fever?” Just as I reached out to check the temperature of his forehead. He subconsciously dodged. My hand froze in mid-air. A bit awkward. Indeed, this move was a bit ambiguous. What am I doing. How could someone as noble and distant as Julian let me touch him. Why am I being sentimental? He sat up with a long face, his voice cold: “The temperature is too high.” As soon as he finished speaking, I heard the sound of the AC being lowered. So it was too hot, but… it was already 21 degrees (70°F). I was even a little cold. Julian hunched over slightly and went back to bed. He was abnormally hot and now hunched over. Must be uncomfortable. He took me in and gave me ice cream. Now he’s feeling unwell. I should repay him. At this moment, I didn’t care about the difference between men and women. Whether he wanted it or not, I put my hand directly on his forehead. It was indeed very hot. Not just the forehead. The face was hot. The neck was hot too. “Monitor, you definitely have a fever.” When I had a fever, my mom checked me like this. She checked my forehead, cheeks, and neck, a triple check to confirm if I had a fever. I repeatedly used the back of my hand to confirm the temperature of his neck. Julian’s breathing became heavier and heavier, and his eyes looking at me started to become a bit blurry. I was worried he would pass out from the fever, nervous as hell: “Monitor, let’s take you to the hospital.” Just as I wanted to retract my hand, he pressed it down in place. “Oh oh, my hand is cold, does this feel better?” When I had a fever, mom always put cooling patches on my forehead and behind my ears. Cool and refreshing, very comfortable. Just that our posture was a bit ambiguous. However, he is the coldest and most serious straight-A student, he wouldn’t have any strange thoughts. I just let him use my hand to cool down. Gradually, his gaze shifted to the corner of my mouth. His handsome face suddenly magnified in front of my eyes, and my brain crashed for a few seconds. I saw his Adam’s apple roll quickly, warm breath lingering on my face, my heart beating violently. “Monitor, you…” My call seemed to recall his soul. His eyelids trembled, his gaze glanced over my chest, closed his eyes for a few seconds and opened them again. “You have cream on the corner of your mouth, let me wipe it for you.” Huh? His hand quickly swiped across the corner of my mouth. Current flowed from head to toe, electrifying me until I was numb all over. 4 Julian rejected my suggestion to accompany him to the doctor. He asked me to take a box of medicine from the desk. Said it could reduce fever. I obediently followed his instructions, poured water, and fed him the medicine. I waited until he fell asleep before leaving silently. Before leaving, I took the empty medicine box with me. The words on the medicine box were all in English. I didn’t recognize most of them. Vitamin. This word… hiss, means vitamin, right. As expected of imported medicine, not only reduces fever but also supplements vitamins. Impressive.

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