Category: English

My fiancé chased his kept canary all the way to New York. Coincidentally, I was in New York, too. The young girl dropped to her knees in front of me, crying a river of tears. She told me that true love is the only truth. Truth? What a coincidence. I happened to have a few pieces of “truth” right in my hands. 01 My fiancé back in the States made a fool of himself again. To chase down his runaway canary, he locked down an entire private airport. It was a small airfield, and it was late at night. The Vance family’s PR team quickly squashed any media leaks before they could spread. Unfortunately for him, he was still too late. The canary flew to New York one step ahead of him. I originally couldn’t have cared less. Cleaning up his mistresses was Preston Vance’s own problem. But when a stunningly beautiful Asian girl dropped to her knees in front of me, crying a river of picture-perfect tears, it naturally drew the stares of passersby. I stood at the top of the steps, frowning as I looked her up and down: “What was your name again? ‘Miss Innocent’ or something?” The girl froze, her tears hesitating on her lashes. She offered a stiff rebuttal: “It’s Aria.” I had a vague impression of this mistress who had been with Preston the longest. But that didn’t mean she was worth remembering. Over the years, I knew Preston constantly surrounded himself with women because he resented our arranged engagement. But causing a scene right to my face. She was the first. My expression gradually shifted to impatience: “What do you want from me?” She really was a professional actress. The paused tears immediately started flowing again, dropping like broken strings of pearls. “Ms. Sterling, Preston loves me. Please, I’m begging you, let him go. Stop clinging to him.” I raised an eyebrow. Clinging? I let out a cold laugh, looking down at her: “Ms. Montgomery, is that something a homewrecker should really be saying out loud?” “Preston and I knew each other long before you came along! You’re the real third wheel here!” Her face twisted in sudden anger, and she lunged up the steps, trying to grab me. My bodyguards, naturally quick on their feet, intercepted her immediately. In the chaos, she twisted her ankle and tumbled down the concrete steps. Gasps erupted from the crowd. In the surging sea of people, I could see the flashes of paparazzi cameras hiding in the shadows. The company I held a controlling stake in was about to go public on the US stock market, and I couldn’t afford any scandals right now. I scanned the area, and right on cue, I saw Preston wearing a black trench coat, shoving his way through the crowd. He had lost all of his usual aristocratic composure. His dark eyes were filled with panic and heartache. He took off his coat and draped it over Aria’s exposed long legs. Then he pinched her chin, and kissed her fiercely. His eyes were burning with an intense, undeniable possessiveness. The man’s voice was hoarse and restrained: “Run again, and I’ll break your legs.” Aria tilted her chin up stubbornly: “If I can’t have all of you, I’d rather die.” After their intense public display, they turned to look at me in perfect unison. Preston’s dark eyes were furious: “Serena Sterling, didn’t I warn you not to mess with Aria? “You actually dared to push her. Who gave you the nerve?” My eyebrow twitched violently. Who was messing with who here? With her backer present, Aria looked triumphant: “Sister, you’re a bit older, so maybe you don’t understand. In today’s society, the woman who isn’t loved is the real mistress. “True love is the only truth.” Her tone was incredibly provocative. What a perfect, dramatic scene straight out of a billionaire romance novel. The glass windows nearby reflected my face. With my long, straight black hair and cold, indifferent expression, I really did look like the evil second female lead trying to tear the star-crossed lovers apart. Beautiful, rich, and completely wicked. But I wasn’t an idiot. And real life wasn’t a movie. I smiled at her: “Truth? “What a coincidence. I happen to hold a few pieces of ‘truth’ right in my hands.” The sharp, metallic clicks of guns cocking echoed from behind me. I ground my teeth. How dare they threaten me on American soil? Did these two morons forget that it’s perfectly legal to carry firearms here? Aria shrank into Preston’s arms like a terrified rabbit, looking pathetic. But no matter how tough Preston liked to talk, he wasn’t going to argue with a bullet. “Preston, when you said you wanted to play around, I let it slide. But if you try to put your dirty laundry on the table, don’t blame me for flipping the table over.” I narrowed my eyes at him, my tone utterly merciless. He had been preparing to scoop Aria up and leave. Hearing my words, he let out a cold scoff: “Serena, do you honestly still think you’re the untouchable sole heiress of the Sterling family? “Stop hiding out overseas and daydreaming. Next time we meet, you might have already been kicked off the board.” The fact that the Sterling family had an illegitimate son was no longer a secret. It was currently the biggest gossip back in Chicago high society, and had even made the front page of the local financial journals. Preston left under the escort of his own bodyguards. My assistant stood by my side, her expression grim: “Ms. Sterling, the domestic headquarters just suspended all joint projects with us.” I squinted into the distance: “Prepare to fly back to the States.” Preston, did you really think that bastard could beat me? You backed the wrong side. 02 The Sterling and Vance families practically built their empires on the same boat decades ago. The Sterlings spent decades in heavy manufacturing. The Vances rode the wave of the economic boom. One manufactured, one exported. Together, they carved out an empire. But later, the Sterling family transitioned from factories to a massive corporate conglomerate, developing its own global brands. Our reliance on the Vance family grew smaller and smaller. But my engagement to Preston was settled by my grandmother’s generation. The old lady was born in the post-war era. She was iron-willed, decisive, and had a thunderous personality. In her youth, she was a legendary female entrepreneur and the absolute authority of the Sterling family. Beatrice Sterling’s word was the absolute law in the Sterling family. Even after her death, no one dared to disobey her. Beatrice was steadfast her entire life, changing her own decision only once when I was eight years old. She changed the name of the company from Sterling Global to Serena Global. That day, she was as strict as ever, staring at me with her eagle-like eyes. She said seriously, word by word: “Serena, remember this. From now on, the ‘Serena’ in Serena Global is your name. “You must ensure that this empire always belongs to the Sterlings.” Upon returning to the States, I went straight home. The mansion felt a bit emptier than it had when I left the country two years ago. My mother sat elegantly on the sofa, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, reading the newspaper. I poured myself a cup of tea and asked casually: “Did you clean everything out?” “Yes. The trash man and his trash belongings have all been thrown out.” I frowned: “You didn’t let him take half the assets, did you?” My mother looked up at me. “Do you think your mother signed a prenup for nothing?” Then she let out a long sigh: “Ah, back then I was so resentful. But now it proves your grandmother was an excellent judge of character. You are much more steady than I am.” I smiled helplessly: “Did you hit them?” My mother’s expression was somewhat proud: “Robert Cole, that little homewrecker, and their bastard son. I slapped all three of them.” I gave her a thumbs-up. “Next Wednesday is the Sinclair family’s golden anniversary gala. Go in my place.” She suddenly turned dead serious: “We absolutely cannot lose that partnership with the Sinclairs.” I swirled the tea in my cup, speaking lazily: “Of course.” 03 The Sinclairs were an incredibly deep-rooted family in Chicago. The elder Sinclairs were generous, low-key, and had vast connections. So it wasn’t surprising to see Preston at the golden anniversary gala. And standing right beside him was Aria. The radiant woman looked over at me, raising her red wine glass from afar and shooting me a provocative smile. I could barely make out her mouthed words: “I’m the winner, loser.” I was slightly displeased. After all, the Vance family and I hadn’t formally broken off the engagement yet. Preston blatantly bringing his mistress to a major high-society gala was a direct slap to my face. People around us were already waiting to see me become a laughingstock. Harper Sinclair appeared beside me, flashing a triumphant grin: “How is it, babe? I personally invited Aria here.” I pinched her cheek: “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” “How could I bear to kill you? I’m obviously giving you a chance to vent.” She blinked her cunning eyes: “Do you know why Aria is acting so arrogant right now?” I replied calmly: “It’s nothing more than her thinking she’s secured her spot on the Vance family ship, and the Vances are backing my dad’s illegitimate son.” Robert Cole had put on a brilliant act all these years. My mother’s health had always been poor. For years, he was the one managing the corporate affairs. Not only did he hide an illegitimate son older than me from everyone, but he also made the outside world believe he held the real power in Serena Global, even quietly placing his bastard son in the Vice President seat of a subsidiary. Preston was currently chatting happily with that illegitimate son, Jackson Cole. The people around them were subtly trying to suck up and join their circle. In contrast, my side was empty. No one dared to approach me. I had only been out of the country for two years, and these people had already forgotten who owned the Sterling name. Harper’s face suddenly turned cold: “Today, I’m going to show these people who really deserves to sit at the table.” She set down her wine glass and walked toward the center of the banquet with a bright smile: “Tonight, I specially invited Ms. Aria Montgomery to celebrate my grandparents’ golden anniversary. I heard that before Ms. Montgomery got into acting, she graduated from Juilliard. Why don’t you grace us with a dance?” Aria’s face instantly froze. Asking a guest to perform for the room was tantamount to public humiliation. Harper asked coldly: “What’s wrong? Is Ms. Montgomery unwilling? Or do you think our Sinclair family isn’t worthy?” The elder Sinclairs looked over as well. This caused Preston, who was about to step in, to halt his movements. Gritting her teeth, Aria performed a short routine. Because she hadn’t practiced in so long, she nearly tripped and fell several times in the middle of it. Harper walked up and patted her shoulder: “Asking you to dance was doing you a favor. Too bad your skills are so awful it ruined the mood.” Aria’s eyes turned red with anger, and she ran out crying. As she passed me, she didn’t forget to drop a harsh threat: “Serena Sterling, I’m not going to let you get away with this. Your days of being happy are numbered.” And from beginning to end, I didn’t even grant her a single direct glance. Harper returned to my side, fishing for credit: “How was that? Satisfying?” I nodded honestly. “So… about that European market expansion project?” Her eyes sparkled. I smiled fondly: “It was always yours. But are you sure you can keep your brother in check?” “Relax. You’ve been abroad for two years, do you think I was just sitting around? When Grandpa called Mason home to handle this project, that idiot was probably still panting in some random woman’s bed. He made Grandpa so mad he almost ended up in the hospital, which let me swoop in and steal the deal. “If Mason is useless, the Sinclairs will naturally have someone else step up for him.” The woman’s face was painted with inevitable ambition. I looked across the room at Preston, who was clinking glasses with Mason while absentmindedly glancing toward the exit, and I let out a mocking laugh. My fiancé… your taste is consistently terrible. 04 Shortly after the banquet ended, a video of a drunk Preston kissing Aria was sent to my phone. The exclusive private VIP lounge was mostly empty. They were surrounded by just a handful of Preston’s rich, trust-fund frat brothers. The lighting was dim and hazy. Aria’s eyes were still slightly red, making the seductive look in her eyes even more pitiful. “Preston, who do you really like? Serena or me?” Preston lay back on the black leather sofa, his collar undone, his arm wrapped around the woman’s slender waist as he narrowed his eyes: “Who the hell is Serena Sterling? Does she even deserve to be compared to you?” With that, they started making out as if no one else was in the room. Was this a direct warning right to my face? Who gave these trust-fund idiots the nerve? My gaze landed on the table in front of Preston. Printed on it was a logo I was intimately familiar with. I made a phone call: “Kill the main breaker for the entire lounge. And lock the doors.” The manager on the other end answered nervously: “Ms. Sterling, there are still VIPs inside. Mr. Vance is still here.” “If he wasn’t there, why would I tell you to cut the power?” The manager shut his mouth. “If he dares to come smash up the place tomorrow, call the police immediately, and contact the corporate legal department.” I heard that Preston and his little mistress spent the entire night playing a real-life “escape room.” When he finally saw the lounge’s logo and realized what had happened, he was so furious he kicked the doors several times. Preston hated me even more after that. He called me the very next day to drop a threat: “Serena Sterling, you just wait. The entire Sterling family is going to pay the price for your stupidity.” 05 Speaking of which, Preston and I did try legitimately dating for two months. On the day of our engagement, he was so happy he almost forgot himself. Even every time he saw me, there was a bit more tenderness in his eyes. Of course, it wasn’t because he loved me so much. But because he felt like he had finally won once. Preston and I were born in the same year. When we were born, the Sterling and Vance families were still in their honeymoon phase. But as the sole son and daughter of both families, we inevitably got compared. From who walked first, to who talked first, to our grades, and extracurriculars, both families were secretly competing. And I completely crushed him every time. I was even better at throwing a punch than he was. But Preston’s parents had a surprisingly great attitude about it. Every time they saw me, they still liked me very much. Until one time in the courtyard, when no one else was around. Mrs. Vance held my hand, smiling warmly: “My future daughter-in-law is so capable. You’ll definitely be able to help Preston run the company well in the future.” After she said that, she let out a faux-sympathetic sigh: “It’s just a pity your mother’s health was poor since childhood. She had a girl and couldn’t have any more.” It was only then that I realized that the Vance family’s ultimate trump card was simply the fact that their family heir had male anatomy. This was a concept my brain, born into the Sterling family, couldn’t comprehend. After all, my mother had aborted two male fetuses just for my sake. When Preston grew up, he naturally inherited his parents’ ideology. He wanted a bird in a cage, a submissive housewife. He believed that in a marriage, a wife was naturally supposed to submit. So he was happy to marry me. He could only win in marriage, and he only needed to win in marriage. Unfortunately, by the second month after our engagement, he couldn’t control himself. At a yacht party, he was kissing a girl on each arm. I only used one slap to make him see reality clearly. Then I had someone throw him into the ocean. I remember that day was Christmas. The seawater was freezing, the winter night bitterly cold. He was in the hospital for a full week. Preston’s parents came to our door to cause a scene. My mother refused to even see them. She only asked me one sentence: “As long as you want, the engagement can be canceled at any time.” I laughed lightly and comforted her: “As long as I want, I have ten thousand ways to make them actively cancel the engagement. “But not right now.” The Vance family was no longer suitable as an ally, but their foundation was still there. “But don’t worry, Mom. This kind of man is not entering the Sterling family’s door.” And since then, Preston completely hated me. Now that the conflict had intensified again, I figured it was time for the Vance family to make their move. 06 The public opinion attacks against Serena Global came faster than I imagined. Firing the first shot was the video of me pushing Aria down the steps in New York. Aria was a rising star; she had plenty of fans willing to charge the front lines for her. In less than a day, it pushed me to the top trending spots on all major social media platforms. Under every related video, there were long essays detailing the epic romance between the billionaire heir and the beautiful starlet, from childhood sweethearts to star-crossed lovers. The so-called “childhood sweethearts” was nothing more than Aria’s childhood dance troupe performing at the Vance estate. A blurry video where you couldn’t even clearly see eyes, noses, or mouths was dug up as “proof,” paired with emotional background music, making it look almost real. As for the descriptions of me, they claimed I was morally bankrupt. Soon, the news of my US-controlled company preparing to go public was also pushed into the spotlight. Financial media and bloggers intentionally or unintentionally hinted that the Sterling family was suspected of transferring assets offshore. The Sterling family was branded as unpatriotic. The stock plummeted for three days. I scrolled through the vicious comments on a stock trading app, calmly sipping my tea. At the other end of the table, the wealthy wives sat close together, occasionally covering their mouths to laugh at something Aria said to amuse them. This was a gathering hosted by Mrs. Davis. I never liked these types of gatherings that revolved around cheating husbands, kids studying abroad, comparing whose husband came home for dinner more often, and who had hidden more secret funds. But my mother wasn’t feeling well, so I could only take her place. One wife, egged on by the others, came over with malicious intent: “Oh, Serena, I heard the Sterling family stock dropped quite a bit. If you’re short on funds, don’t hide it in your heart. Tell us, maybe everyone can help you think of a solution.” I set down my teacup and smiled faintly: “It’s true that the Sterling family stock market evaporated tens of billions these past few days. I just wonder if Mrs. Davis’s secret slush fund is enough to cover it?” Mrs. Davis’s face was completely embarrassed. The other wives, who didn’t know much about the stock market, were all startled. Another woman spoke up: “Is your Sterling family going to go bankrupt? What about my husband’s contract with you guys?” “Mrs. King, please relax. Your husband was just doing a three-way battle at a hotel recently. He’s not worried, so you shouldn’t be either.” Mrs. King’s face turned black as well: “Young girls nowadays are just so sharp-tongued and impulsive. Not like my son studying in the US. He’s mature and steady, just waiting to graduate from Harvard and come back to take over the family business.” I spun the teacup, speaking with a faint smile: “Your son is indeed a handsome young man. And his boyfriend is quite dashing as well. The last time I saw them in New York, I was kind enough to remind them that HIV is still quite serious in the States.” Mrs. Wright clutched her heart and frantically started dialing her phone. Aria let out a cold laugh: “What’s the use of only being good with your mouth? You’re offending so many powerful wives. Are you complaining that the Sterling family isn’t dying fast enough? “Serena Sterling, Preston is mine now, and the Sterling family is finished. I really want to see what you’ll use to prop up your stupidity and arrogance when you lose everything you used to rely on.” Preston walked into the courtyard wearing a black coat. He lovingly took Aria’s outstretched hand and put it into his pocket. He completely ignored my existence as his fiancée. Was it just because of catching him cheating a few years ago and slapping him a few times? He was holding a grudge for this long? I thought to myself, completely unbothered. While keeping my eyes on the notification sent to my phone. In fifteen days, Serena Global would hold an emergency board of directors meeting.

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After my car accident, the brother who always hated me came to visit. His eyes were cold as he asked, “Do you remember who I am?” I didn’t have amnesia, but I lied to him anyway. “I remember. You’re my husband, aren’t you?” His dark eyes shifted away. After a few seconds, he replied almost inaudibly, “Yeah.” 01 Today was my birthday. But the first thing my brother said when he saw me was, “What are you pretending for?” When I didn’t answer, he kicked my hospital bed. “Speak. What kind of trick is this now?” He had blocked me. If the hospital hadn’t called him, he wouldn’t be here. Outside, a nurse called out to him. “Family member, please sign here.” He was broad-shouldered with a sharp jawline, looking striking as he stood by the door. The police arrived. “Are you Ryan Carter?” He paused, pen in hand, and nodded. The police explained the cause of the accident. Some thugs Ryan had crossed paths with heard he had a girlfriend he treasured. They wanted to kidnap her for revenge. “Your sister and your girlfriend look too much alike.” The police said they got the wrong person. While fleeing with a sprained ankle, I was hit by a car. That’s how I ended up in the hospital. Ryan’s pen hovered in the air. He didn’t move for a long time. “Is it really that serious?” he asked. “They had knives. “Any slower, and you’d be signing for a body in the morgue. “She had a severe head injury when she was brought in,” the nurse asked him. “Why wasn’t your phone connecting?” He was with his girlfriend, Chloe. Today was their one-year anniversary. Chloe had purposely chosen my birthday to get together with him. Just so that, year after year on my birthday, Ryan would only be with her, not me. Back then, Chloe stood at my bedroom door wearing his shirt and asked me: “Did you know, Mia? “Everything he wouldn’t do with you, he did with me.” Ryan signed the papers. He sat by my bed, silent. I reached out for a drink of water. He grabbed my arm and pushed my sleeve up. Shocking, dark bruises and scabs, varying in depth, were exposed. He stared at them intently. Almost instinctively, he started unbuttoning my hospital gown. The red marks spreading from my collarbone. I clutched the fabric at my chest to stop him from going further. His gaze paused on my bra strap. Only then did he calm down. He let go, sat back in his chair, and stared darkly at my rumpled collar. “Where else?” I shook my head. His phone rang. It was Chloe. He glanced at it, then silenced it. He got up and went outside to call her back. He couldn’t bear to ignore her call; he couldn’t let her suffer even the slightest grievance. Through the glass, I watched the annoyance on his face gradually smooth out. He said, “I’ll be back soon.” He was still going back to her, even though I was lying in a hospital bed. With no one to care for me. Ryan returned to the room. His eyes were cold as he asked, “Do you remember who I am?” I didn’t have amnesia, but I lied to him anyway. “I remember. You’re my husband, aren’t you?” A dead silence filled the room. His dark eyes shifted away. After a few seconds, he replied almost inaudibly, “Yeah.” It wasn’t that I loved him to death. I was disgusted by him. In two weeks, I would completely leave this place. Right when he was most invested. I would vanish from the face of the earth. And he had no idea. 02 Ryan and I were from a blended family. He and his mom moved into the house I shared with my dad. A massive fire. It blackened the afternoon of July 24th. The teacher sent us both home. My dad died on the spot. His mom held on in the hospital until winter, draining all the money we had. Before she passed, she held Ryan’s hand and made him swear. “You must protect your sister and be good to her.” “I swear,” he said. When we returned to school, we only had each other. He had perfect scores in math. He topped the class for three years in middle school, but then he changed. He started skipping class. He’d vanish into internet cafes, impossible to find. When the principal came for a home visit, he only found me gnawing on stale bread, unable to even offer a cup of hot water. “I’m sorry, Mr. Davis. I couldn’t pay the gas bill.” Mr. Davis opened his wallet and left several crisp bills on the coffee table. He never visited again. The next year, I got into a top high school but couldn’t afford the tuition. Relatives urged me to drop out and work in a factory. “What’s the point of a girl studying so much?” Ryan kicked the door open and coldly chased them away. He had been constantly playing games for others online, working all night to make money. He was so thin and pale. He gave all the money to me. He said he would make money to support me. “You keep studying. Go as far as you can.” I lived in the dorms during high school and rarely saw him. But rumors about him were everywhere. He grew more attractive as he got older. Tall, smoking, fighting, with a cold, rebellious vibe. I heard many girls chased after him, but he never cared. Our only interaction was my meal card. Topped up right on time every month. One Friday night during sophomore year, a senior who was pursuing me followed me all the way to my front door. He bumped into Ryan, who was taking out his keys to unlock the door. Ryan had a cut on his brow, smoke rings curling around his lazy eyes, shrouded in mist. The senior froze. Ryan reached out, hooked his arm around my neck, opened the door, and closed it. Without a single word, he left the guy outside. “Ryan.” I turned around, wanting to explain. He pointed at the table. A cake. Stars hanging from the curtains. He had fixed the camcorder my dad left me, which had a video of my dad singing me happy birthday. “Ryan,” I asked him, “will you always celebrate my birthday with me?” He rested his forehead against mine. “Duh.” He chuckled softly, “If not me, who else do you want to celebrate it with?” After that, he waited for me at the school gate every Friday. In the sea of people, he could always spot me instantly. This continued until right before summer vacation, when I borrowed his computer for research. I saw a chat window he hadn’t closed. His friend asked him: [You’re not even going to LA for the tournament? [Do you really want to be dragged down by her your whole life? [You’re not even blood-related, you’ll separate eventually.] He only replied with one sentence. [Yeah, waiting until she graduates.] I only had him. Driven by some inexplicable impulse, I clicked on the search bar and typed: [Is it illegal to marry a stepbrother with no blood relation?] Hundreds of pages of results. I was so engrossed I didn’t realize Ryan had entered the room and was standing behind me. I looked at the webpage. He looked at me. Neither of us said a word. When I realized it, I slammed the laptop shut, so tense and ashamed I couldn’t speak. He grabbed his jacket that night and left. He didn’t come back all night. He didn’t come back for the entire summer I was home. Until I needed to pay for my prep classes. He paid for them. Hands in his pockets, wearing a black hoodie, he waited for me at the end of the alley after class. Drawing the attention of many girls. As soon as I arrived, he saw me. This was where we met Chloe. Wearing a white dress, a face as small as a palm, delicate features. Tears in her eyes, she bypassed me and gently tugged at Ryan’s shirt. “Ryan.” She asked him. “Can I walk with you guys for a bit?” Someone was following her. At that moment, Ryan just looked at her. Just a brief glance. So brief, yet my premonition beat as strongly as my heart. He couldn’t refuse Chloe. 03 Chloe had dropped out of school a long time ago. She lived with her grandmother, who had passed away a few months prior. Ryan was also raised by his grandmother when he was little. We walked her all the way to her door. Only to find out the landlord had changed the locks because she was behind on rent. She looked at Ryan, helpless and frantic. Ryan didn’t say anything. But he brought her home. Our apartment only had two bedrooms: mine and Ryan’s. Chloe looked at me, then peeked into my room. She wanted to share a room with me. “You take the couch,” Ryan threw a blanket at her. “Don’t bother my sister, she has exams. You’re leaving tomorrow.” She obediently curled up on the couch. Wrapped in the blanket, a small ball, coughing all night. In the morning, she made a whole table of food for Ryan. She didn’t say a word, didn’t fight for anything. And left on her own. Ryan didn’t ask her to stay. He stood outside the door watching her go. The early winter wind scattered the smoke from his cigarette. The next day, I went back to school. When the following Friday rolled around, I was glad class didn’t run late. Full of anticipation, I squeezed through the crowd, looking for Ryan at the school gate. He was still there. I waved at him, then saw Chloe standing next to him. They came together. Chloe was afraid of the cold and was even wearing Ryan’s jacket. In less than a week. My room was adorned with Chloe’s pink bead curtains, and her makeup crowded my things off the desk. Her clothes were piled on my messy bed. “You’re rarely home,” she explained. “I’m just crashing here for a bit. You don’t mind, right?” I walked in. And yanked her curtain down. Along with all her stuff, I threw it all out the door. “Who said you could touch my things?” She crouched down, her eyes red as she looked at the curtain. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mia, I made this for you myself. It’s all my fault.” Ryan leaned against the wall, his eyes cold. “It is her room,” he told Chloe. “You sleep on the couch.” Chloe was very obedient. Before going to sleep, she apologized to me again and again in front of Ryan. She curled up on the couch. Whenever the wind rattled Ryan’s door, she would cough. It made your heart clench. In the middle of the night. I was woken up by her faint breathing. She was standing outside my door, saying to Ryan, “The living room window is drafty. Can I sleep on your floor?” The wind kept blowing the door open and shut. I knew he let her in. The next morning, as dawn was just breaking. Neither of them was awake yet. I braved the biting wind and went back to school. 04 A lot of guys chased Chloe; she was very likable. Ryan knew that too. Because of this, he got into quite a few fights for her. Starting my senior year, I barely went home. When it was time to pay tuition, I used the money I had earned from working. “Here, paying you back.” I went to the internet cafe and found Ryan. I returned the tuition money he had paid for me. At the time, he was running a fever from a recent fight, but was still playing games for clients. “What, my money isn’t good enough for you?” The corners of his eyes and brows looked increasingly decadent and feral. His words were ice cold. “I saved up enough myself. Take care of your injuries and stop fighting—” “None of your business.” He impatiently snatched the money and threw it on the desk. “I can’t even get you to live at home, and you want to tell me what to do?” He knew exactly why I didn’t want to go home. He said if I didn’t want his money, plenty of others did. He used the tuition money to buy Chloe a dress that cost over a thousand dollars. Winter break during senior year was very short. I only stayed home for a week. But Chloe couldn’t even tolerate me for that one week. Her tactics weren’t very sophisticated. She claimed I took her dress. I scoffed and immediately tore my room apart. “Open your damn eyes and look. Where is your dress?” Ryan walked in just as I said that. He looked at me flatly. Like I was a stranger. “Give it back to her.” “I didn’t take it.” I was desperate, my mind racing for any way to prove my innocence. But I met the eyes of Chloe standing behind him. Why did I have to prove myself, but she didn’t? A sour ache welled up in my throat. The dress was eventually found in the dumpster downstairs, cut to shreds. Ryan demanded I apologize. I refused. I confronted him: “You believe her, but not me?” Chloe pulled his arm: “Forget it, it’s fine.” Ryan picked up the seashell keychain on my desk to threaten me. We made it together the first time our whole family went to the beach. “Mia, if you don’t apologize, I’ll smash this.” He knew what I cared about most. I only felt a creeping chill rise from my feet. I reached out, smacked the seashell keychain from his hand, and watched it shatter on the floor. He stared blankly at the broken pieces. Then looked at me in disbelief. “I don’t want it anymore,” I said, enunciating every word. He gathered his expression, gave a cold scoff, and asked: “Do you know why I don’t believe you? “You don’t care about the dress. You just can’t stand me buying things for her. “You know exactly what kind of filthy thoughts are in your head.” He laid my feelings bare over the shattered pieces on the floor. Without leaving a shred of dignity. I turned around and left the apartment. It was New Year’s Eve, and it was snowing outside. No one came looking for me. It was too cold. I stayed at the public bathhouse until it closed, nowhere else to go. I still ended up back at the apartment. Only Chloe was inside. She said she was hungry, so Ryan went out to buy New Year’s dinner. At that time, Chloe stood at my bedroom door, wearing his shirt, and asked me: “Did you know, Mia? “In the few hours you were gone. “Everything he wouldn’t do with you, he did with me.” I never went home again until after the college entrance exams. I ranked first in the entire school. I could go to the best university in the state capital. Ryan went to LA for a gaming tournament. It wasn’t until July 24th, when I went to the mountains to visit my dad’s grave. He called me from the hospital. Anxious and terrified, I pedaled my bike as fast as I could. All the way there, holding back tears, praying to God. He was my only family left. But when I arrived, he was sitting in the emergency room waiting area. He wasn’t the one hurt. Some thugs he had trouble with targeted Chloe while he was away. He grabbed my wrist, bombarding me with questions. “Chloe said she called you for help. Why did you ignore her? “You better pray she’s okay.” He gripped me so hard it hurt. “I didn’t know. There’s no signal in the mountains.” He suddenly remembered what day it was. He let go. Silence. He watched the people coming and going in the ER. And only said one thing to me: “Leave. “Go to college and don’t come back.” I walked out of the hospital doors and couldn’t find my beat-up bike for a long time. I was in such a rush earlier, I didn’t know where I parked it. I turned around and saw Chloe coming out. Superficial injuries. A band-aid on her hand. Crying uncontrollably in Ryan’s arms. Ryan thought I only applied to universities in the state capital. Not too far away. He could see me with a two-hour drive. He just never expected I would apply to an Ivy League school on the East Coast. Thousands of miles away from him. I never went back once. Never made a single phone call. During the summer of my sophomore year, I was tutoring. While I was in the bathroom, my high school student answered my phone as a prank. “He said he’s your brother.” The student handed the phone to me with a mischievous grin. “I told him I’m your boyfriend.” I took the phone: “Hello?” Ryan was silent on the other end for a long time. Finally, through gritted teeth, he forced out a laugh and said two words. “Very capable.” He hung up and blocked me. We never contacted each other again.

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I stirred up trouble in the incoming freshmen group chat: [I’m so pretty, won’t you guys feel insecure when you see me?] [Does the school have a helipad? Can I park my helicopter there?] [No way, no way, you guys applied for this major and don’t even know how to manufacture chips?] Soon, I was being flamed by the entire group chat. Some angry students even made me trend on social media, getting me dragged by the entire internet. But I just smirked because I was bound to the “Get Flamed to Get Stronger” system. If they keep flaming me, this beautiful girl is going to be flying a helicopter into school with 5-nanometer chip manufacturing technology! 01 College was about to start, and various show-offs started appearing in the incoming freshmen group chat for Stanford. Nate: [Could some kind upperclassman send the location of the parking lot? I’m planning to drive my Porsche to school. Ugh, I really can’t get used to driving left-hand drive cars in the US; I always drove right-hand drive abroad.] Chloe: [Ah, you’re driving yourself? My international driver’s license doesn’t work here, so I had to have my family’s chauffeur drive me.] I got excited seeing these two familiar names. Nate was a classmate from my AP Physics class, and Chloe was the popular girl from my high school. Stanford was right in our state, yet they were making such a big scene. Weren’t they just trolling? Since it was people I knew trolling, as a chronic troll myself, how could I not join in the fun? So, I also jumped out and asked: [Does the school have a helipad? Just got my pilot’s license, planning to fly my family’s helicopter to school.] Who knew that right after I spoke, Nate sent a picture of himself driving a Porsche with one hand. Damn, my former classmate is actually a rich kid? Immediately, people in the chat started kissing up: [Young master! Can this humble servant ride shotgun in the Porsche!] Nate replied quickly: [Don’t call me young master. My dad’s business partners used to like calling me that. I believe in an egalitarian world; I’m just an ordinary rich person.] [Yes, young master.] Not to be outdone, Chloe also sent a picture of the luxurious interior of a stretch limo. Wait, isn’t she the popular girl who did art in the other class? How does she actually have a luxury car? At this moment, I was struck silent. But Nate singled me out and asked: [Audrey Miller, what does your helicopter look like? Send a picture.] Me: […] What’s going on, are you guys flexing for real? Am I the only one actually just BSing? 02 Because I couldn’t produce a picture of a helicopter, the group chat started mocking me: [Hahaha, there really is a fake mixed in.] [A helicopter? You really want to fly to the heavens, huh?] Nate and Chloe also aimed their guns at me. Nate mocked: [I hate you broke people the most. No money in your pockets, no brains in your heads, and full of hot air.] I clutched my burning red face, increasingly embarrassed. We had been classmates for a few years, how could he talk to me so ruthlessly? Chloe also chimed in: [Unbelievable! Cheap people do cheap things, so cheap~] I had never heard of Chloe going abroad, but I didn’t expect her to be throwing around English like that now. But the worst part was me, because I had truly become a joke. Even hiding behind the screen, I felt so embarrassed I was about to combust. But while the people in the chat were flaming me, I suddenly heard a robotic voice: [Congratulations, you have successfully bound the “Get Flamed to Get Stronger” system!] [The harsher the flames, the stronger you become!] [Detected that ten people are currently flaming you. Wealth +10.] At the same time, I heard a pleasant voice— “CashApp transfer received: $10,000.” I jumped up like a carp, totally energized again! Other people go wait in line at temples to pray for wealth; I get flamed a couple of times and it just falls into my lap. What’s there to be embarrassed or ashamed of! Flame me! Flame me as hard as you can! 03 I was just about to show off my skills in the freshman group chat. But my mom called me to go out and buy groceries at that moment. I ran an extra block to buy fresh meat and vegetables. Just as I was walking back, a flashy-colored Porsche pulled up next to me. The window rolled down, revealing Nate’s mocking face. He looked at me dismissively: “It’s Audrey Miller. I thought I saw wrong. Even my family’s nanny drives a Mercedes to buy groceries, why are you walking to buy groceries? It’s fine if you don’t have a helicopter, but does your family not even have a Mercedes?” I gripped my grocery basket tightly. To be honest, we really didn’t. This was the first time someone had mocked me to my face. Even with the system, I was still a bit terrified and helpless. Nate, seeing my expression, mocked me again: “Next time you don’t have money, don’t pretend to be rich. You really drag down the class of us truly rich people.” And he didn’t forget to throw in one last insult at me—”Broke ass.” I was so angry that I suddenly burst out laughing. Because I heard the system voice: [Detected that you are being flamed. Wealth +5.] And the sound of money rustling: “CashApp transfer received: $5,000.” Nate was taken aback by my laughter, then he looked me up and down and gave a wicked smile: “Heh, you really are a glutton for punishment. Are you smiling at me to seduce me? After all, only by being my woman can you truly sit in luxury cars and fly in helicopters. I hadn’t looked closely before, but actually, with this face of yours—I wouldn’t totally rule it out.” As soon as he finished speaking, the system chimed in: [Wealth +10.] Ptooi! This sentence was even dirtier than the last one! I finally summoned the courage, and the anger I had accumulated burst forth at this moment: “I wanted to say this earlier, the color of this Porsche is absolutely hideous!!!” After saying that, I turned around and ran amidst his astonishment. In my ears was the continuous robotic voice: [Wealth +1.] [Wealth +1.] [Wealth +1.]… I ran, hearing “CashApp transfer received: $50,000,” feeling exceptionally exhilarated! 04 I got home and opened my phone. The freshman group chat was still buzzing. First, Nate spammed the group with pictures of his flashy Porsche. He also asked in the group: [Does this color really not look good? Is this color really ugly? Surely no one actually thinks this color Porsche looks bad, right?] He actually has moments of self-doubt? Of course, the people in the chat praised him; this was the real rich kid driving a Porsche, after all. Nate quickly regained his confidence: [I knew some people just don’t have taste, but the audience has a discerning eye!] Next, someone posted in the group: [Anyone want to post selfies for fun! Opportunity to get priority mating rights~] Chloe was the first to jump out. She posted a heavily photoshopped selfie. Legs ten feet long, heavily edited with filters, even the floor tiles next to her were warped. This was followed by a voice message, speaking in a cutesy anime voice completely different from her usual way of speaking: “Oops~ My hand slipped and I sent the wrong one~~~ By the time I noticed, I couldn’t unsend it~~~” Yeah, right. It hadn’t even been two minutes since the photo was sent. Even after two minutes, no one had said anything. I don’t know if Chloe was embarrassed, but I definitely laughed out loud. Just past the two-minute mark, Nate appeared. He posted a selfie of himself sitting in the Porsche. The photo was taken from a tricky angle that captured his bulging biceps and the Porsche logo reflected in his eyes. He really nailed the details, I’m dying. Nate also sent a voice message, using a deep, raspy voice he probably practiced for God knows how long: “Does the school have a gym? I have to bench press 200 pounds; if I don’t bench for a day, my whole body aches.” 05 Right after Nate finished showing off, someone in the chat recognized the Porsche reflection in his eyes. And so, the flattery began again. But Nate messaged me privately at this moment: [Audrey Miller, I know you only said my car was ugly because you didn’t get to ride in it. It’s okay, I won’t hold what happened earlier against you. Look at me, handsome and rich; if you get with me, won’t you have whatever you want!] While talking, he also sent transfers: [Transfer $520.] [Transfer $1314.] Nate added: [Transfers with special meaning numbers like these, even if we break up, I won’t ask for them back. Since you like pretending to be rich so much, why not get with me and become truly rich.] I was so silent I wanted to beat his dog head in. Where does he get this confidence, help!!! Of course I couldn’t accept this kind of money, so I decisively chose to return it! This money was dirtier than his insults! 06 That wasn’t the end of it. Nate publicly called me out in the main chat again: [Audrey Miller, how could we miss out on our Audrey for something as fun as posting selfies? I like Audrey’s looks, she’s totally my type.] These ambiguous words instantly excited the people in the chat. [Really? Really? Is Audrey Miller a huge beauty too? How beautiful, more beautiful than Chloe?] [Chloe is the school’s popular girl, but I haven’t heard that Audrey Miller is.] Of course I’m not as pretty as Chloe! I have self-awareness! Chloe has naturally cool-toned pale skin. I studied pretty hard in high school, so I was constantly sleep-deprived, and my skin was a bit rough and sallow. Chloe wasn’t happy hearing this either: [Audrey Miller, post a picture and let us see. I heard you’re also from our high school, but I’ve never heard that you were pretty.] Everyone was curious about what the girl Nate liked looked like. Nate even messaged me privately: [Audrey, quickly post a pretty selfie of yourself! Let them know that my, Nate’s, taste is the absolute best!] Could I give him what he wanted? I thought about it and whipped out a video from two years ago. It was taken when I participated in the Global Youth Fishing Tournament. In the video, I was tanned as dark as a shadow, holding the championship trophy and yelling in broken English: “China~” Thinking about the system rewards, I added on a whim: [I’m so pretty, won’t you guys feel insecure when you see me?] Sure enough, this blew up all the lurkers in the chat. 07 [Hahahahaha so this is the aesthetic of rich people, so unique!] [I tolerated the muscles, I drank the fake tea, but seeing this dark-skinned girl confidently participating in a beauty pageant, I can’t hold it in anymore!] [Your mating rights for the next four years of college are gone, but if you enter the popular girl contest, I will definitely vote for you!] [The main vibe is real, reliable, no filters, and honest. What a precious quality on the internet.] [She really is something, I’m dying. Even through the screen, she wants to show her truest beauty!] They don’t say you’re at the peak of your IQ right after high school graduation for nothing. The group members were all flaming me like mean girls, serving high-class shade. The system spoke up again: [Detected that you are being flamed. Beauty +10.] Flexing wealth and getting flamed makes me rich; flexing looks and getting flamed makes me truly beautiful. Amidst their chorus of “praise,” my face flushed red behind the screen. You wouldn’t guess it, but as a troll, I’m actually quite shy. But soon the blush faded from my face because I realized I really had gotten prettier. I saw myself in the mirror: my sallow little face from late-night studying in senior year had become fair and radiant, and my large pores had shrunk until they were invisible. At this rate, I won’t ever need cosmetic procedures in my life. I instantly got excited, and even felt that everyone was still being too restrained. The people in the freshman chat are all civilized; their insults aren’t harsh enough. Only Nate messaged me fiercely in private: [Audrey Miller, you did that on purpose! If you want to embarrass yourself, why drag me down with you! Let me tell you, I will never like you now!] Oh my god, thank you so much for that. 08 Nate’s love came fast and left fast. Soon he turned around and hooked up with Chloe. Rumor had it that within half a day, they made it official in the group chat. Someone asked him in the chat: [Nate, why didn’t you get with Audrey Miller? Is it just because of her dark skin? Can’t you see her simple and honest, excellent qualities?] The chat had not only show-offs but also kiss-asses. And mostly people who just loved watching the drama unfold. Nate got anxious and dropped an image. It was a screenshot of him transferring money to me: [Don’t slander me! I’m not that kind of person! Look at Audrey Miller, she was just after my money!] I frowned as I read it. What a sinister motive. That screenshot was taken the very second after the transfer was made. If he had waited even half a minute longer to take the screenshot, it would have shown the “Transfer Returned” screen. I immediately typed a reply: [Nate, don’t play the victim. I didn’t accept a single cent of the transfers you sent, nor did I ever ask for your money.] Nate replied: [Do you have proof? This screenshot of my transfer is solid evidence!] My fingers froze on the keyboard. I really didn’t have proof. Because I had deleted him a long time ago, and all the chat history had been cleared. I felt incredibly angry. I actually let him exploit a loophole! Now wasn’t it just whatever he said went! Sure enough, everyone started flaming me again: [Audrey Miller, I thought you were an honest girl, I didn’t expect you to be a gold digger!] [Look at you. If you looked like Chloe and were a gold digger, whatever. But with your pitch-black face where you can’t even see your features clearly, you sure have the nerve to be a gold digger!] I pursed my lips and listened to the system voice in my ear: [Wealth +1.] [Wealth +1.] [Wealth +1.]… For the first time, I felt this money was a bit hard to swallow.

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Dorian Thorne belonged to me for two years. In those two years, he went from an untouchable, elite golden boy to a man who knew exactly how to please me. Our breakup was incredibly messy; the news of him kneeling to win me back caused a massive uproar in our social circle. When we met again, he was my prospective fiancé’s uncle. The corporate marriage between the Kensington and Thorne families was just waiting for his nod. From beginning to end, he only said two words: “Not worthy.” Later, he pinned me against the door, shutting out the desperate calls of my prospective fiancé from the hallway. “Vera, he’s not nearly as fun to play with as I am.” 01 The youngest son of the Thorne family had somehow taken a liking to me. Everyone knew he was pursuing me. My best friend, Blair, advised: “Just give in. He’s totally obedient to you anyway.” Before I could even nod, someone else made the decision for me. The marriage between the Kensingtons and the Thornes was a massive social climb for the Kensingtons. My dad couldn’t have asked for anything better. The two families sat together, chatting enthusiastically. Preston Thorne whispered his confession beside me. “Vera, after we’re married, I’ll listen to you in everything.” My inner annoyance steadily climbed. I suddenly craved a cigarette. Preston was great—gentle, polite, rich, and handsome. But unfortunately, he really wasn’t my type. “Then in the future, I get to be on top every time. Is that okay?” 02 Preston’s face turned incredibly ugly. Right after I said that, someone sat down in the empty seat at the head of the table. The first thing that caught my eye was that pair of pale, long, elegant hands. The mole on his index finger was so familiar it sent a jolt of terror through me. In that split second, panic boiled up from the bottom of my heart. I subconsciously grabbed my phone. But I must have accidentally tapped something. A low, hoarse voice played from the phone’s speaker. “Vera, let me kiss you… breathe first… don’t touch me there.” I stiffly raised my eyes and met the gaze of the man at the head of the table. Honestly, I wanted to die. 03 During that dinner, I couldn’t taste a thing. I had imagined ten thousand ways of reuniting with Dorian. But never like this. That audio came from a video sent in a group chat by a friend—a secretly recorded video from an after-party five years ago. In the video, Dorian was pinned down and kissed by me. His ears were impossibly red. Among my group of rich, idle friends, Dorian was a well-known existence. I loved seeing men cry. In the two years Dorian was with me, he shed quite a few tears. Once, after making him cry, I took a picture, posted it on Instagram, and captioned it: [Such a good boy. I love him so much.] The comments section exploded. Then everyone knew I was keeping a “boy toy.” 6-foot-2, six-pack abs, incredibly obedient, and he only called me “Mistress.” A friend left a harsh comment: [Are you even treating him like a human being? Huh? You absolute psycho!] 04 I am a psycho. I have to admit it. Dorian was with me for two years. In those two years, he went from the highly praised, untouchable elite to someone who was very good at pleasing me. With me, most of the time he didn’t have to suffer financially. But when I went crazy, my methods of tormenting him came one after another. He often had red marks on his wrists from being restrained. His lips often had cuts. Some people did try to stand up for him. A suitor of Dorian’s. His face was so handsome it looked like a top-tier 3D modeler’s most perfect creation. There were quite a few people who liked him. “If you really like Dorian, you shouldn’t treat him this way. “His reputation is going to be completely ruined by someone like you. “I hope you break up with him sooner rather than later.” I sat on the balcony railing, swinging my legs. After hearing her out, I smiled kindly. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” Dorian was sitting at the other end of the corridor. His long legs spread apart, his arm resting on the back of the chair, propping up his chin as he looked at me. He radiated an aura of laziness and exhaustion. I swayed my body. In my peripheral vision, he abruptly stood up. That laid-back demeanor vanished completely. If I fell from here, I wouldn’t die, but injuries were unavoidable. He was terrified. “But there’s one thing I need to clarify. “I don’t like Dorian.” The shadows on the ground stretched long. The footsteps rushing toward me suddenly stopped. The setting sun behind Dorian was as red as blood. 05 At this dinner, Dorian only said two words from start to finish: “Not worthy.” My dad’s face looked terrible. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud: “Huh? How are we not worthy?” “Uncle~” I followed Preston’s seniority and called him that: “Preston and I are deeply in love.” The man at the head of the table looked up at me. His face was just too top-tier. My gaze shifted downward, resting on his lips. A very beautiful lip shape, one I had bitten open many times. “Veronica.” Not Vera, but Veronica. Or at the very least, it should have been Ms. Kensington. In the past, no matter how terribly I behaved, he never called me by my full name. I understood him. Dorian was angry. Because of what I just said. Which word in that sentence? Uncle? Preston? Or deeply in love? My hand was grasped by someone; it was Preston. “Uncle.” His voice was gentle: “Vera is straightforward, please don’t be hard on her. She means no harm.” I tried to pull away, but couldn’t. “Preston, let go.” This was said by Dorian. There was no specific tone, but it inexplicably made one’s heart tremble. Preston immediately withdrew his hand. “Grandpa said I’ll be the one to decide if this marriage happens or not. “Ms. Kensington, being deeply in love is useless. You’d be better off figuring out how to convince me.” “Convince you how?” Silence. No answer. The dinner ended abruptly. 06 A long road. The car took a sharp turn into a dark alley. Dorian and I were not heading the same way. When we parted, my dad pushed me into his car. My dad whispered a warning behind me: “No matter what method you use, make him agree.” Preston wanted to tag along. Dorian commanded: “Sit in the passenger seat.” So Preston closed the back door. Just as he walked to the passenger side, the car sped off. A closed-off road, the car stopped at the end of the alley. Dorian’s voice was very low: “Get out.” I reached for the door; it was locked. I frowned: “It’s locked, how am I supposed to get out?” The driver in the front seat unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. Me: “…” Only the two of us were left in the car. The person beside me clearly sighed. The next second, a strong force grabbed my waist, forcefully hauling me onto his lap. Dorian’s hand wrapped around my wrist. He pressed my hand against the knot of his tie. In the dim car, his crimson lips parted. “Untie it.” I did as told. “Buttons.” I undid the top two buttons of his dress shirt. “Keep going.” So I rested both hands on his neck. Slowly, inch by inch, moving up to his jawline. Cupping his face, I tilted my head back to look at him. His voice was husky: “Vera, not enough.” I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around his neck. Dorian trembled slightly and smiled. “Deeply in love? “Heh, Vera, what are you doing to your prospective fiancé’s uncle right now? Hmm?” I rested my chin on his shoulder and smiled too. “Uncle. “Is this convincing enough? “My dad told me to use every possible method to make you agree.” Between Dorian and me, from the past to the present, I always believed I held the initiative. Even now that he was the future head of the Thorne family. Even though I had gone from being the true heiress to the fake one. However, as time passed, many things were indeed unpredictable. The moment Dorian opened his mouth, I became the passive one. “Want to be Mrs. Thorne? “Vera, be mine.” 07 At night, I sat in the study. On the desk lay an old relationship contract. The phone next to it kept vibrating. Calls were pouring in. From my dad, my mom, Blair, and Preston. I opened the first page of the contract. In the Party B column, the name “Dorian Thorne” was eye-catching. After a long while, I called Blair back. The topic cut straight to the point. She spoke first: “Did it work?” “No, Blair. Dorian is back.” She didn’t care: “Oh, and then? You still miss him and want to get back with your ex? “Wake up, sis. Men are never as important as your career.” I chuckled softly: “They both have the last name Thorne, what do you think?” Finally, the other end of the line went silent. “Why have I never heard of him in the news about the Thorne Corporation?” “I don’t know. I only found out today that he’s the Thorne heir.” I asked: “In the past, was I…” “Vera, run. I have a little money, I can support you.” “Was I… really that terrible back then?” Blair cursed: “What do you think? You absolute psycho! And he’s a psycho too! Being tortured like that and still not leaving.” “He was just…” I rubbed my nose guiltily. “You put a dog collar with a bell on him. You only allowed him to wear bespoke suits from that one specific brand because you thought he looked best kneeling in them. You should burn incense thanking God he’s not retaliating against you right now.” Me: “…” Put that way. The days back then were quite wild. 08 When I was 20, Dorian and I signed a relationship contract. No other reason. We both got what we needed. That year, the long-lost biological daughter of the Kensington family was found. Many things that belonged to me were subtly being transferred to her name. The sense of loss made me irritable. As for Dorian. He had a very rare condition—touch starvation. Not only that, his skin was allergic to others’ touch. When I met him, it was so severe he relied on medication every day to control it. I was his exception. How much of a psycho was I, exactly? Dorian was a year older than me, but he had to call me “Mistress.” When kissing him, I liked to bite his lip until it bled. Usually, when it was over, he would remain expressionless, raising a hand to wipe the blood off his lips. “It doesn’t hurt. I like it a lot.” This was my demand; I needed him to provide me with good emotional value. No matter how much it hurt, he had to endure it. When his symptoms flared up, he knelt on the expensive suit I bought him. With his hands tied behind his back, eyes red, begging me. “Please, help me.” I sat leisurely, my posture noble, the tip of my stiletto lifting his chin. “Hmm? How should I help?” “Hold my hand, or… anything… just physical contact…” Just as he was about to break down, I leaned over and cupped his face. Dorian’s body trembled, his jawline taut. The symptoms eased, but clearly not enough. “Vera…” I shook my head: “Wrong.” “Mistress…” I pushed further: “Dorian, you know what I like.” So he looked at me. After a long time, his eyes reddened, and finally, a tear fell. Finally, I hugged him just as he wished. “So impressive. What are you thinking about to be able to cry so quickly?” I always asked this every time Dorian cried. “Thinking about… the day you won’t want me anymore.” I rested on his shoulder and laughed. “What a great actor.” 09 The reason for the breakup was also simple. The contract expired. It ended very unpleasantly. He tried to win me back; I refused. That night, I found myself literally handcuffed in a basement. Dorian sat to the side. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent. He didn’t say a word. His face was just too stunning. So much so that my first reaction wasn’t even disgust. “Baby, this is illegal.” Dorian ignored that statement and brought a piece of watermelon to my lips. “Open.” I chewed twice: “It’s a bit bitter.” He chuckled: “So delicate. How can watermelon be bitter.” He put the half-eaten watermelon from my mouth into his own. “Why don’t you untie me? What if you feel sick? If I’m locked up, I can’t help you.” “I can take medicine.” Me: “…” Understood. No room for negotiation. Dorian pinched my chin. Forcing me to look him in the eye. His eyes were bottomless, truly validating that saying. He was too good at acting normally. “Vera, I should have just kept you locked up like this. “From morning till night, handcuffed here. “Pleasing me. Kissing, hugging, doing delightful things, and then I’ll grant you brief moments of freedom.” I shook my head: “I don’t like begging.” “It’s not up to you.” On the third day of being locked up, I hadn’t had a drop of water. Dorian couldn’t pry my mouth open no matter what. “Open your mouth. Otherwise, I’m giving you a nutrient IV.” He sounded fierce. I leaned against his shoulder. My entire body was weak. “Dorian, my stomach hurts.” The “pain” tactic usually only works on those who care about you. Those few words sent Dorian into a panic. He scooped me up and carried me out. His footsteps were frantic. The one thing Dorian hid the worst—was his love for me. Later, Blair came to pick me up, and I didn’t say a word about the details. “What happened to you two?” “Nothing.” “Dorian asked me to pass on a message to you.” “Hmm?” “He said, ‘Ms. Kensington, I hope you have smooth sailing from now on. Don’t ever let yourself fall into my hands one day.’” A prophecy fulfilled. What goes around comes around. 10 Preston was waiting downstairs early the next morning. Overnight, the situation became clear. Dorian gave the nod. The Kensington-Thorne marriage was set in stone. “Vera, you’re amazing. You even managed to persuade my uncle.” I kept my head down. Wondering how to phrase my words to minimize the damage and loss. “I was angry yesterday and told your uncle we were deeply in love. Sorry, actually I…” Preston interrupted me: “My uncle said you’re quite suitable to be a part of the Thorne family.” I paused. “Don’t be in a rush to reject me. Vera, haven’t you been fighting for the Boston Harbor project?” I started looking at Preston seriously. Objectively speaking, as a son-in-law for the Kensingtons, he was the most suitable. Why not Dorian? Because if it came to a capital game, Dorian was completely capable of turning the Kensington Corporation into a mere shell. And Preston wouldn’t. No, he couldn’t. Naturally, my dad preferred him. “How are you going to help me?” “I’ll take you to meet a few people.” I said: “Your condition?” “None. Just casting a brick to attract a jade, trying to win your favor.” I had learned a truth very early on. Resources don’t just flow into your hands because you try your hardest. On the way to the Thorne family’s summer resort. Blair sent me a message. Her intelligence network was always formidable. [Dorian’s exact words: Veronica Kensington is quite suitable to be a part of the Thorne family.] [Does this mean you and Preston are a done deal?] I rubbed my temples: [Dorian’s exact words: Want to be Mrs. Thorne? Be his.] [HOLY SHIT!!!] Three exclamation marks to show her shock: [What are you thinking now?] [Right now, I’m in Preston’s car.] User is typing… A long pause: [That’s so fucking wild. Are you two-timing? [If Dorian finds out you’re secretly meeting Preston…] I replied: [Watch your phrasing. It’s not a secret meeting. Besides, Dorian isn’t that idle.] 11 Dorian was very idle. He was sitting with several executives of the Boston Harbor project. Someone saw me before he did. He sneered. Then instructed the people around him: “Hey, put out your cigarettes.” I knew this guy. Last name Cole, Griffin Cole. I had met him a few times in college with Dorian. His punchable voice rang out: “Put ’em out, put ’em out, or someone’s going to get anxious in a minute.” Only then did Dorian look up. His eyes collided with mine. His index finger tapped the table slowly. He smirked: “You should put them out.” No one listened to Griffin. But as soon as Dorian spoke, the others swiftly extinguished their cigarettes. Preston greeted him. He nodded: “Have you eaten breakfast?” Preston quickly answered: “Yes.” “And Ms. Kensington?” I had stomach issues; I couldn’t go hungry. Preston had picked me up early, so I hadn’t had time for breakfast. “Not yet.” Preston looked apologetic: “I’m so sorry, I forgot. What do you want to eat? I’ll have someone…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Dorian cut him off. “Have someone prepare a bowl of clear broth noodles for Ms. Kensington. No cilantro, a soft-boiled egg, and extra greens.” Griffin scoffed: “How many years has it been? You still remember?” A simple, brief exchange. No matter how dense Preston was, he should have understood by now. In today’s gathering, the one casting a brick to attract jade was someone else. All sorts of clumsy tricks. Luring me into the trap. “It truly is hard to forget. Unlike some people… completely heartless.” Me: “…” The Boston Harbor project was worth billions. Dorian offered a springboard. There was no reason for me not to jump. I chatted with Griffin and the others from morning till night. When the contract was signed, I breathed a sigh of relief. Griffin looked at me with admiration: “Ms. Kensington, you’ve got skills.” “You flatter me, Director Cole.” Another person changed the subject. “I heard the Kensingtons and Thornes are arranging a marriage. With Preston Thorne?” Griffin laughed heartily: “Ms. Kensington is highly ambitious; Preston probably isn’t a match for her.” “Then who else in the Thorne family is around Ms. Kensington’s age and is a good match?” Griffin raised an eyebrow, deciding not to answer for me this time. “Dorian.” You could hear a pin drop in the room. I repeated: “Dorian Thorne.” 12 I heard a similar conversation again that night. I swear. I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping. I was dozing on the balcony. The heavy curtains hid me. The door opened outside. Dorian and Preston’s voices drifted in. “Uncle, you used me.” Dorian’s voice was cold: “Hardly.” I peeked through the gap in the curtains. I decided not to make a sound for now. “You clearly knew I liked her, and the Kensington family preferred me.” “Does it matter?” Dorian narrowed his eyes: “You even need my approval to marry her.” That was brutal. In my line of sight, Preston swayed on his feet. “Besides…” Dorian paused. He turned his head and glanced toward the balcony. Fine. He knew I was here. “Besides, I like her quite a bit too.” Dorian finished his sentence: “Preston, what do you have to compete with? “Vera securing the Boston Harbor project was seventy percent skill and thirty percent favor. Do you think Griffin Cole gave that favor because of you?” Every word pierced the heart. Preston was left speechless. Dorian’s move was ruthless. Killing two birds with one stone. Taking down Preston and striking at me. “Veronica is ambitious, and I have power and influence. We’re a match made in heaven.” Me: “…” I was just about to speak up. An audio recording echoed in the empty room. It was a past interview of mine. A deleted segment. The host asked: “Ms. Kensington, you’re successful in business, what about your love life?” “I have no expectations for romance.” “Not even when you were younger?” How did I answer back then? I said: “No.” “But I heard Ms. Kensington dated in college.” After a long pause, I opened my mouth: “Just playing around.”

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My boyfriend sent my roommate a selfie. He didn’t know that her laptop was hooked up to the big screen in the college auditorium. The entire audience got a front-row seat to the photo. My classmates told me they’d stick by my side and help me put on the ultimate revenge show. 01 For tonight’s campus talent show, I was on music duty, but my laptop suddenly died. In a panic, I sprinted back to the dorm, grabbed my roommate’s MacBook, and made a mad dash back to the auditorium. Because I had helped this roommate submit assignments before, I knew her password. Once I logged in, I saw her Mac Messages app was still open. The host was supposed to go on stage in one minute. She was giving me desperate looks, so in my frantic rush, I quickly connected the projector and loaded up the slides. Just as everything was ready and I was about to close out my roommate’s messages, a new text popped up. The sender was Carter Hayes, my boyfriend. My hand trembled, and muscle memory made me click the chat window. “When are you getting here? I’m itching to see you.” Our college wasn’t massive; everyone pretty much knew everyone. At that exact moment, the chat box was projected clearly onto the giant screen. The previously noisy, buzzing auditorium instantly went dead silent. The host stood frozen on the sidelines, completely forgetting to walk on stage. My roommate’s reply synced to the big screen in real-time. “I’ll be there soon, what’s the rush?” “I’m dying to see you, babe.” “Chloe won’t find out, right?” “Nah, she’s got her drama club performance tonight.” The entire audience turned to look at me with overwhelming pity. Pretty much everyone knew me. They knew I was Chloe, the unlucky girlfriend in question. Immediately, the laptop chimed again. Carter sent a photo. In the picture, he looked like he had just stepped out of the shower. His hair was still dripping wet, and he was flexing in the mirror with a smarmy “I know you can’t resist this” smirk on his face. On the massive projector screen, every single detail was blown up for the world to see. How should I put it… the audience’s gaze somehow grew even more pitiful. I stood completely still, a tidal wave of shock and rage rising higher and higher in my chest. Carter and I had been dating for a long time. Just last week, I went to his house for dinner and met his parents. His parents owned a small local business. To my face, they kept praising me for being smart and capable. But when his mom pulled Carter into the kitchen to whisper, I overheard her. “This Chloe girl is too ambitious. She’s got a stubborn streak. Might be hard to keep her in line later on.” It wasn’t until Carter mentioned that my family was going to buy us a house in cash that his mom’s tone finally softened: “Well, that’s good then. Just make sure your name gets put on the deed. And remember, the man is the head of the household. You have to make sure you keep her on a tight leash.” That conversation had been a thorn in my side ever since it happened. I had planned to sit down and have a serious talk with Carter about it, but I never expected he’d already be actively looking for his next target. The host standing off to the side was Zoey Miller, my absolute best friend. After a moment of silence, Zoey walked out onto the stage. She tossed her cue cards aside and brought the microphone to her lips: “First of all, thank you all for coming. “Tonight’s event was supposed to be a play carefully put together by our drama club. But given the… technical difficulties we just witnessed, I’m afraid the show can’t go on as planned.” A collective sigh of disappointment rippled through the crowd, though everyone clearly understood why. “However,” Zoey announced loudly, “we’ve just discovered that real life is way more dramatic than any script. Since you’re all here for a show, why don’t we play one out in reality?” The room was quiet for a split second before erupting into wild applause and whistles. This auditorium full of theater kids was absolutely thrilled by Zoey’s proposal. “Don’t worry, Chloe!” “We’ll help you get payback!” “Let’s play this cheating trash and his side piece!” I looked out at the crowd, the warmth in my chest evaporating the chill of betrayal. With so many people standing by my side, I realized I had nothing to be afraid of. 02 My roommate had a thing for Carter. I had sensed it for a long time. Whenever Carter and I went for a walk, we’d magically bump into her. She was always twisting her ankle or feeling faint, begging Carter to walk her to the campus clinic. Back then, Carter barely gave her the time of day. It was obvious he genuinely wasn’t interested. So why the sudden switch to acting like her absolute lapdog? My gut told me there was more to this story. I shared my suspicions with Zoey. By now, Zoey had fully embraced her role as the executive director of this revenge plot, and she immediately started giving out orders. The vanguard consisted of Carter’s three roommates. They were dispatched to gather intel. The three frat guys coordinated perfectly and quickly got results. They noticed that Fall Campus Recruiting was right around the corner, and Carter hadn’t sent out a single resume. So, two of the guys played bad cop. They relentlessly mocked Carter, saying he only ever passed his classes because his girlfriend did his homework, and since he didn’t actually know anything, he probably gave up on job hunting altogether. The third guy played good cop. When Carter was fuming mad, he dragged him out to a college bar for some beers. A few drinks in, Carter took the bait. Tipsy and visibly smug, he leaned in and bragged to his roommate: “Do you know who Mia Evans is? She’s the daughter of the CEO of Apex Innovations!” Mia Evans is my roommate. We happen to share the same last name. The roommate immediately reported this intel back to base. When Zoey and I heard the news, we looked at each other in dead silence. After a long pause, Zoey patted me heavily on the shoulder: “Chloe, Chloe, Chloe… How many times have I told you? Being low-key is fine, but being too low-key is a problem.” “Look at this! Mia isn’t just trying to steal your boyfriend, she’s trying to steal your dad!” Zoey grabbed her phone, ready to figure out a plan to publicly clarify that I was the actual daughter of the Apex Innovations CEO. I thought about it for a second, then reached out and pressed my hand over hers. “Don’t,” I said quietly. “If Mia wants to play the rich heiress so badly, let’s play along. Let’s let her really enjoy the fantasy.” Zoey froze, then caught my drift, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Damn, Chloe. You’re evil. I love it.” 03 Mia had been practically invisible for her first three years of college, but lately, she had become the hottest commodity on campus. Guys were showing up early to lecture halls just to save her a seat, hoping to chat her up between classes. Guys were sliding into her DMs, asking if she wanted to catch a movie, offering to buy the tickets in advance. She started receiving a steady stream of little gifts: anonymous flowers, surprise coffees, expensive snacks. Mia’s ego went straight to her head. She walked into the dorm carrying a massive pile of imported snacks, dropping loud hints: “Ugh, I don’t even know who keeps sending me all this. It’s so annoying, I’m going to get so fat if I eat all this.” One of our other roommates chimed in: “You can share with us! We can all get fat together.” “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that,” Mia flatly refused. “These are heartfelt gifts from those sweet boys. If I gave them to someone else, it would break their hearts.” I rolled my eyes so hard internally I practically saw my own brain. Back when Carter was pursuing me, he’d buy me fruit and pastries. Every single time, Mia would insist on “sharing the wealth” and snatch away a huge portion. Funny how she lacked all that empathy back then. Maybe sensing my coldness, Mia deliberately provoked me: “Sigh, Valentine’s Day is coming up. I have no idea how many gifts I’m going to get. I finally understand what a ‘sweet burden’ really is.” “Unlike some people. Even with a boyfriend, they probably won’t get a single thing.” She was clearly banking on the fact that Carter wouldn’t buy me anything, so she was preemptively rubbing it in my face. Normally, I would have clapped back immediately. But for the sake of the upcoming show, I instantly contorted my face into a look of deep, wounded insecurity. “Y-you don’t know what you’re talking about,” I defended Carter with a pale, shaky voice. “Carter was just really stressed with midterms before, so he forgot. He’ll definitely get me something this year.” Mia laughed out loud. “Oh, really?” She was fully expecting to watch me humiliate myself. But to her shock, on Valentine’s Day, Carter actually did give me a gift. And it was way more expensive than anything he’d ever bought me. When I walked back into the dorm wearing the necklace Carter gave me, Mia’s face cycled through shades of red, white, and green. I let out a soft, internal scoff. Mia still didn’t understand men. Or at least, she didn’t understand Carter. She thought that just because they had hooked up, Carter had already chosen her over me. But Carter was far more calculating than Mia realized. Yes, Mia was supposedly the daughter of the Apex Tech CEO, but she hadn’t actually done anything concrete for his career yet. Meanwhile, I was his long-term girlfriend, practically a fiancée, and the actual local girl whose family promised to buy him a house in cash. It made no sense for him to drop me just yet. And because he felt guilty for cheating, even though he skipped gifts in the past, he made damn sure to buy me one this year. I never liked showing off my relationship, but for the sake of dramatic effect, I immediately touched the pendant, putting on my best “I’m the luckiest girl in the world” face, and gushed to the room: “I only mentioned this necklace in passing once, and Carter actually remembered!” “He went to three different mall boutiques just to find it.” My other roommates were absolute Oscar-worthy actors. Every single one of them plastered a look of pure envy on their faces. “Wow, I saw that on TikTok! It’s this year’s exclusive Valentine’s edition, right?” “That’s so expensive! But our Chloe deserves the best.” The roommate assigned to play the “mean girl” stepped up on cue. She shot a sideways glance in Mia’s direction and said snarkily: “Unlike some people, who just get bought off with cheap grocery store candy and a bag of chips.” Mia completely lost her mind. Honestly, a gift is about the thought, regardless of the price tag. But that was a concept Mia’s vanity could never grasp. Deeply stung, she practically tore the dorm door off its hinges as she stormed out. My roommates and I exchanged a look. I casually tossed Carter’s expensive necklace onto my desk, pulled out my phone, and texted Zoey: “Mia just bailed. Knowing her, she’s headed straight to Carter.” Zoey replied instantly: “Copy that!” In the ‘Revenge Alliance’ group chat, Director Zoey pinned an announcement: “Who shares a lecture with Carter right now?” Soon, the boots on the ground reported back with live intel— Carter was sitting in a lecture hall. Mia was spamming his phone with back-to-back calls. Visibly annoyed, Carter slipped out the back door and met Mia in the woods behind the science building. The very first words out of Mia’s mouth were: “Break up with Chloe.” Carter looked frustrated. “Babe, didn’t I tell you? We have to take this slow…” He had probably used that excuse a dozen times by now. Mia cut him off impatiently: “No more taking it slow. Do it tomorrow!” Carter wasn’t happy. He considered himself a big man on campus—handsome, smooth-talking, always popular with the ladies. No girl had ever ordered him around so aggressively. “Mia, you’re crossing a line,” Carter frowned. Of course, Mia wasn’t listening. She had been jealous of me for way too long. The second she thought she had the upper hand, it was ruined by Carter’s Valentine’s gift to me. This was the absolute peak of her humiliation. She had already taken the first step of lying about her identity. Now, we were guiding her right into taking the second step. And exactly as predicted, she took it. “Carter, if you don’t break up with Chloe immediately, I won’t lift a finger to help you during campus recruiting.” Carter’s eyes lit up instantly. He grabbed Mia’s hands: “You agreed to help me? You’ll talk to Mr. Evans and get me straight into the core engineering team?” Mia nodded haughtily. “Obviously. He’s my dad. It’s literally just one sentence from me.” Carter was so thrilled he picked Mia up and spun her around in circles: “Thank you, Mia. Thank you so much.” Listening to the live-streamed audio, a mocking smile crept onto my face. Thank her while you can, Carter. Because soon enough, you’ll be thanking her whole damn family. 04 The next day, Carter came over to dump me. His roommates texted our group chat, letting us know he had left the building. Zoey immediately whipped out a sliced onion and shoved it near my eyes. I was furious. “You don’t trust my crying skills?!” Zoey patted my back. “I trust you, I trust you! You’re the star of the drama club! The problem is Carter is such an idiot, I’m terrified you’ll start laughing in his face…” That made me even madder. “That still means you don’t trust my acting!!” Mid-argument, a knock sounded at the door. I opened it. Carter stood there. “Chloe.” He wore a perfectly calculated look of regret. “I’m here to break up with you.” I snapped into character in less than a second, my face falling into a mask of pure, devastated disbelief. “What? What are you saying?” Behind Carter, Zoey and my roommates were silently giving my performance a standing ovation. “I thought about it a lot, and I just don’t think we’re a good match.” I played the desperate, clinging girlfriend: “Why? We literally just met each other’s parents…” “My family doesn’t think we’re a good fit either.” Carter let out a heavy, solemn sigh. What a textbook manipulator—even while dumping me, he left a breadcrumb. “I still love you, Chloe. But I’m afraid we just don’t have a future. If we don’t end it now, it’ll only hurt more later. So I’d rather be the bad guy and do it today.” You are the bad guy, you pretentious prick. I sobbed and pleaded a bit more. Carter’s heart remained made of stone, so I finally, agonizingly, agreed. I thought he was going to leave, but then he said: “Since that’s settled, I’m going to take back the things I left with you.” He picked up the expensive necklace from my desk and asked: “Where’s the rest of it?” Oh my god. I practically barked out a laugh. This was the first time in my life I’d seen someone refer to gifts they gave as “things I left with you.” Zoey, predicting I might break character, lunged forward and grabbed my face. Her hands still had onion juice on them. The tears started flowing instantly. “Are you really not going to leave me with a single memory of us?” I wept. Seeing me cry so tragically must have softened his ego a little bit. “You can keep this one.” He picked through the pile of gifts and placed something in my hand. I looked down and almost broke character again. It was a cheap, scribbled Christmas card he gave me freshman year. Taking back the expensive jewelry and leaving me his worthless autograph? How generous. Zoey, seeing my mouth twitching into a smile, viciously wiped my face with the onion again. When Carter looked back at me, I was clutching his freshman year Christmas card, tears streaming down my face, sobbing uncontrollably. He definitely walked away thinking: Wow, this girl is so deeply in love with me. Meanwhile, I was thinking: Wow, this onion is incredibly spicy. 05 The second Carter’s footsteps faded, my roommates started tearing him apart. The group chat was blowing up with people raging on my behalf. One roommate argued that I shouldn’t have let him take the gifts back so easily. I couldn’t care less. All the gifts he ever gave me added up to barely a thousand bucks. What I saved was the million-dollar cash payment my family would have blown on his future house. Besides, I had a feeling the upcoming acts of this play would be more than enough to cover the price of admission. After dumping me, Carter’s relationship with Mia didn’t go as smoothly as he planned. Riding the high of having a roster of campus orbiters, Mia started playing hard to get. She dropped hints that she had plenty of options now and didn’t necessarily need Carter. Furious, Carter stormed back to his dorm, grabbed his roommate Liam by the collar, and screamed: “Did you leak Mia’s real identity?! Where else would all these guys be coming from?!” Liam obviously knew the exact truth, but his acting chops were top-tier. He stared back at Carter with wide, innocent eyes. “I didn’t say a damn thing! Think about it man, the source of the rumor is Mia herself. She probably told all those guys to flex on everyone!” Carter had no way to verify it, and he was terrified that pushing Liam too hard would cause him to blab to the whole campus. He just gritted his teeth: “Just keep your mouth shut.” At this point, Carter was already harboring some resentment toward Mia, feeling like she was stringing him along. But since he’d already burned the bridge with me, he swallowed his pride and resorted to aggressively sucking up to her. Carter clearly studied the rom-com male lead playbook. He brought her coffee in the morning, carried her bags in the evening, and even pulled the classic move of giving her a piggyback ride over a puddle on a rainy day. Watching this unfold with the Revenge Alliance chat, we all marveled at how deeply Carter had deluded himself into thinking he was the star of a movie. I have to admit, his handsome face was a pretty good smokescreen. After weeks of relentless rom-com stunts, Mia finally agreed to make it official. They posted a massive photo dump on Instagram to soft-launch the relationship. In every picture, Carter was smiling like he’d won the lottery. He absolutely believed his life as a wealthy, pampered son-in-law was just beginning, and every step from here on out would be bathed in gold. You’re overthinking it, Carter. Right here? This is your peak. Next up, you’re going to find out exactly how deep of a hole you’ve dug for yourself. 06 Carter submitted his resume to Apex Innovations. His interview was scheduled for a week later. That week was the absolute highlight of Mia’s life. Not only was Carter at her beck and call, but our dorm roommates—having “heard” she was the Apex heiress—seemingly betrayed me and flocked to her side. In the past, Mia’s hygiene was terrible. She’d constantly make excuses to skip chore duty, and our Neat-Freak roommate would always tear into her. But now? Neat-Freak completely ignored the mountain of Amazon boxes and takeout bags piling up on Mia’s desk. She even cooed softly: “Mia is a high-class girl. How could she possibly concern herself with trivial things like taking out the trash? Just leave it there.” In the past, Mia slept through lectures, skipped homework, and tried to get our Valedictorian roommate to help her cheat on finals. The Valedictorian used to roll her eyes and look at Mia with blatant disgust. But now? Valedictorian pulled a full 180. She practically bowed to Mia, saying: “Us try-hard scholarship kids only know how to read books. One day, we’ll all just be working for you anyway.” (In the group chat, Neat-Freak told Valedictorian she was overacting and sounded entirely too sarcastic). In the past, Mia loved playing the fragile damsel in distress. Our D1 Athlete roommate couldn’t stand it, constantly telling her to hit the gym instead of trying to fit into that toxic, stick-thin influencer vibe. But now? Athlete praised Mia’s looks daily, insisting that an heiress like Mia was supposed to be pale and fragile, and that’s exactly why boys loved her. Mia was still the exact same Mia. Not a single one of her flaws had changed. Yet, entirely because of her supposed “Dad,” everyone around her completely changed their attitude, treating her like absolute royalty. Shortcuts like that can make anyone lose their mind. Mia completely lost herself. Drowning in endless flattery, she fully sank into the role. Subconsciously, she genuinely started believing she was the daughter of the Apex Tech CEO. This delusion bled into her relationship with Carter. When he nervously asked her if he was guaranteed to pass the interview, Mia boldly declared: “My dad owns the company. You just go in there and say you’re my boyfriend. Who would dare reject you?” Carter was so ecstatic he picked her up and spun her around three times. The day of the Apex Innovations interview finally arrived. Zoey and I got there early and slipped into the building’s security room. Zoey aimed her phone at the CCTV monitors, live-streaming the feed to the group chat. Wearing a crisp, tailored suit and clutching his resume, Carter strutted up to the front desk like he owned the place. While he was signing in, a group of executives walked out from the hallway. Leading the pack was CEO Evans. He was heading out to a meeting. For context, I hadn’t formally introduced Carter to my parents yet. My dad didn’t know him from Adam. But Carter had definitely stalked the company’s website and recognized CEO Evans’s photo. Believing he was finally meeting his future father-in-law, Carter puffed out his chest, desperate to flex his “insider status.” He practically leaped forward and loudly announced: “Good morning, Uncle!” He was so loud that everyone in the lobby turned to look. Seeing the audience, Carter puffed up even more. By pure coincidence, the HR Recruiter scheduled to interview him walked out at that exact moment. Eager to show the HR rep that he had serious connections, Carter smoothly asked CEO Evans: “I hope you’ve been doing well, Uncle. We were thinking about getting together for dinner next week.” CEO Evans: “?” Carter, assuming my dad’s stunned silence was just him rushing to his meeting, quickly played the understanding son-in-law: “I see you’re busy, Uncle. We’ll chat later.” Carter gave a suave smile and turned to head toward the interview rooms. The HR Recruiter, sensing something bizarre, hurried over to my dad: “That’s the intern candidate I’m about to interview. Do you know him, sir?” CEO Evans looked baffled. “Never seen him in my life.” The Recruiter tried to jog his memory: “Based on the way he called you ‘Uncle,’ could he be Chloe’s boyfriend?” “Impossible,” CEO Evans stated flatly. “Chloe just went through a breakup.” Relieved, the HR Recruiter decided to do things strictly by the book. She would evaluate Carter based entirely on his actual merits. Walking into the conference room, the HR rep began the interview. After a few standard behavioral questions, she pivoted to the technical portion. “What is the difference between a mutex and a semaphore?” “Can you explain multi-threading programming?” “Suppose you have a single-threaded standard C application that keeps crashing, but it never crashes in the exact same place. What do you think could be causing this?” Guys, if Carter knew the answers to any of these, would he be spending all his energy trying to marry into a trust fund? So, after ten agonizingly awkward minutes of dead silence, Carter raised his hand, stopping the HR rep from asking the next question. He gestured confidently: “I think you need to take another look at my resume.” The HR rep was entirely confused. “I already reviewed your resume when you applied online.” Giving her a highly suggestive wink, Carter pushed his freshly printed physical resume across the table. “I highly suggest you look at it again.” The HR rep must have been questioning her reality, wondering what massive secret was hiding in this kid’s painfully mediocre resume. But given his immense confidence, she opened the folder. Page one: normal. “Look at page two,” Carter smiled knowingly. The HR rep flipped to the second page. In the security room, Zoey and I let out a scream of laughter. For his second page, Carter had printed out a massive, full-color selfie of him and Mia cuddling. The HR rep stared at the giant, glossy faces of these two college kids, then slowly looked up at Carter. Carter flashed her a blinding, “Now you get it” smile. I am absolutely certain that in her entire professional career, this HR rep had never encountered something so profoundly unhinged. She sat in absolute silence for two full minutes. Finally, maintaining peak professionalism, she told Carter: “I think we can conclude the interview here.” The HR rep just wanted to get this insane person out of her building. But Carter, convinced that the HR rep had finally understood his VIP status and was “fast-tracking” him, stood up and excitedly shook her hand. “Excellent. I look forward to receiving my offer letter. Oh, by the way, the standard entry-level package is around $100k, right? Since it’s me, is there any way we can make a special exception and bump that up?” This time, the HR rep was silent for five full minutes. Zoey and I were laughing so hard in the security room we couldn’t breathe. When we finally left the security room, we bumped right into Carter in the lobby. Carter looked us up and down, a smug smirk twisting his lips. “Here for an interview?” Zoey had been laughing so hard that she hadn’t managed to reset her facial expressions yet. The look on her face screamed ‘I am looking at a clinically insane person’. Carter noticed. His smile dropped into a cold sneer. “You’d better watch your tone with me. Because whether you get hired here or not is entirely up to me.” Zoey scoffed, “Aren’t you just here for an interview too?” Carter sneered, “Do I look like I’m in the same league as you?” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and strutted out the glass doors. Zoey and I watched him leave, sharing a knowing look. Well, the setup was done. It was about time for the climax.

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My eighth attempt at reasoning with the smart lock manufacturer ended in another dead end. Frustrated, I pulled up their official website and fired off a scathing review. “This lock is absolute garbage. The passcode fails in the middle of the night for no reason, and I’m left stranded outside my own home. Save your money!” I hammered the keys, my pulse thrumming with irritation. The company replied almost instantly, hiding behind three sterile-looking inspection reports they attached to the thread. “We’re sorry to hear about your experience, but our products are military-grade and pass a triple-layer quality check before shipping,” they wrote, the digital equivalent of a shrug. I was ready to tear into them again when a notification popped up. A new comment from a user with a blank black avatar. “Are you sure it’s the lock? Maybe your husband is changing the code on purpose. He could be hiding someone in there while you’re at work.” I actually snorted at the screen. Hiding someone? My husband, Patrick, was the Chief of Neurosurgery. He spent twenty hours a day at the hospital, barely finding time to come home himself, let alone host a guest. “My husband works enough overtime to qualify for a cot in the ER. He barely has time to see me, let alone anyone else,” I shot back. A few minutes passed. Then, the black avatar replied again. “Honey, you don’t have to hide someone in your own apartment. Have you checked the floors above or below you?” The words hit me like a physical chill. My fingers felt heavy as I instinctively opened the tracking app on my phone to check Patrick’s location. On the screen, the little red dot representing his phone pulsed. It showed him exactly six meters away from me. 1 I’d set up the location sharing years ago during a hiking trip in the Tetons, and Patrick had likely forgotten it even existed. I stared at that red dot until my eyes burned. My mind was a complete blank. Patrick and I were the “it” couple—college sweethearts who actually made it. Six years of dating, three years of marriage. For nine years, he’d carried me on a pedestal. He’d come home from a double shift and still insist on doing the laundry or vacuuming just so I could rest. On his rare days off, he’d spend the afternoon at the farmer’s market, picking out the best ingredients to make me honey-glazed ribs or garlic butter shrimp. I would have believed in ghosts before I believed Patrick was capable of infidelity. He was obsessed with me. Why would he go through the elaborate trouble of resetting our door codes just to sneak around? But the red dot kept blinking. According to the map, he was in our building. If he wasn’t in our unit, he had to be above or below. Mrs. Gable lived upstairs; Mrs. Higgins lived below. Mrs. Higgins was sixty-two. My legs moved before I could tell them to stop. I climbed the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I reached Mrs. Gable’s door and took a ragged breath, trying to stop the shaking. It was impossible. Mrs. Gable was at least six years older than Patrick and worked in liquor sales. If Patrick were going to throw our life away, surely he’d do it with one of those gorgeous, young surgical nurses who looked at him like he was a god? He had better taste than this. He wasn’t that desperate. I remembered a few years back, a young intern with a powerful family background had made a very public play for him. She’d send massive bouquets of roses to his office and home-cooked bento boxes. She even cornered me at the hospital entrance once. “June, let’s be real,” she’d said, tossing her perfectly highlighted hair. “You’re an orphan with no connections. You can’t help Patrick’s career. Give him up, and I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars and a promotion at your firm.” Patrick had walked up right then to pick me up. He didn’t even look at her. He just shoved her aside, his face uncharacteristically dark. “I love June,” he’d said, his voice like cold steel. “And I’ll never have any interest in a woman who thinks she can buy people. Get out of our way.” He’d pulled me away, his grip firm. I remember being shocked; Patrick was usually the most polite, soft-spoken man I knew. That display of venom was entirely for me. He lost a shot at a Deputy Chief position because of that girl’s father, but he didn’t care. That night, he held me so tight I could barely breathe. “June, a hundred thousand can’t buy my life. I’ll make more for us. Don’t you ever think about leaving me.” A man like that doesn’t cheat. I stood at Mrs. Gable’s door, looking at my phone. The red dot was three meters away. My stomach lurched. I turned to go back down. Three steps down, the distance changed to four meters. I stood on the landing for ten minutes, paralyzed. Then, I turned back around and knocked. I heard a frantic scuffling from inside. It took a full two minutes before the door creaked open. Mrs. Gable stood there, and the sight of her made my blood turn to ice. Her face was flushed, her hair was a mess, and she was fumbling with the buttons on her blouse, trying to hide her chest. Pinned to her collar was a silver brooch—a black butterfly with onyx wings. It was crooked, hanging precariously from the fabric. A bomb went off in my brain. He was here. He was actually here. It turns out when a man is hungry enough, he doesn’t care about the menu. The rage was a physical thing, hot and blinding. I kicked the door open and screamed at the top of my lungs. “Patrick! You son of a bitch! Get out here!” The bathroom door snapped open. Patrick stepped out, his hands covered in dark grime, looking at me with pure confusion. “June? What are you doing here?” 2 I stared at him. He was a mess—his white dress shirt was streaked with grease and gray smudges. His face was smeared with dirt. I stood in the center of the living room, my chest heaving, the words dying in my throat. Patrick quickly wiped his hands on a rag, mumbling, “You’re home early. Mrs. Gable had a burst pipe, and she was worried it would leak down into our place. She asked if I could take a look before the emergency plumber got here.” He walked over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his voice returning to that familiar, soothing tone. “I’ve got dinner warming in the oven for you. I was just about to head down.” Mrs. Gable stepped forward, looking embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, June. I know Dr. Halloway has so little free time, but I didn’t know who else to call.” Patrick naturally wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Neighbors help neighbors, Mrs. Gable. No worries.” “I’ve patched it for now,” he continued, leading me toward the door. “But you’ll definitely need a pro to look at it tomorrow. Come on, June. Let’s go home.” The tension drained out of me so fast I felt lightheaded. My heart settled back into its rhythm. Everything made sense now—they were just in the bathroom working on the plumbing. I managed a weak, apologetic smile for Mrs. Gable as we left. But as the door started to swing shut, I looked back. I saw Patrick glance over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met for a split second, and they shared a look. It wasn’t a neighborly nod. it was a secret, knowing smile. A silent communication that didn’t need words. My heart didn’t just drop; it shattered. Back in our apartment, Patrick bent over our smart lock, tinkering with the keypad. A moment later, it beeped. “Probably just a sticky key,” he said. “I’ve cleared the cache and reset it through my phone. Should be fine now.” He shed his dirty shirt and headed into the kitchen, his voice cheerful. “Sweetheart, you’ve got to try this. I made a new wasabi-infused lobster tail. Tell me if it’s better than the place downtown.” He held a piece of succulent meat to my lips. I opened my mouth mechanically. I chewed, I swallowed, but it tasted like ash. “It’s good,” I whispered. “Perfect.” Patrick chattered away as he shelled the rest of the lobster for me. He talked about the hospital, about a patient whose prognosis was improving, about his successful surgery that morning. He mentioned how his phone hadn’t stopped ringing even on his day off, with interns asking for advice. Normally, I’d be laughing, engaging with his stories. But all I could see was that look he gave Mrs. Gable. It wasn’t the look of a man who’d just fixed a pipe. It was the look of a conspirator. He noticed my silence and pressed a hand to my forehead. “You okay? You look pale. Work was that bad?” I pushed down the bile in my throat. “Just tired.” “Go lie down on the sofa. I’ll handle the dishes.” He moved through the kitchen with the practiced ease of a man who had done this a thousand times. He looked so honest. So grounded. I started to gaslight myself. I’m just sensitive. The lock is stressing me out. That internet troll got inside my head. Patrick is perfect. Patrick is busy. How could he possibly be cheating? But a voice in the back of my head wouldn’t shut up. Every time he has a day off, the lock ‘breaks.’ That’s not a coincidence. That’s a barricade. The sound of running water filled the kitchen. My gaze drifted to the smart lock at the entrance. Its screen was dark, like a silent, judging eye. Driven by a sudden, sickening impulse, I grabbed my phone and opened the tracking app again. The red dot was right here, overlapping with mine. My fingers trembled as I swiped up to view his location history. As the list of addresses loaded, a cold sweat broke out across my skin. March 8th: 1422 Magnolia Court. March 14th: The Highrise on 5th. March 18th: Velvet Lounge & Bar. He’d stay for an hour, sometimes four. And during those exact windows, I had texts from him. “At the grocery store, babe. Need anything?” “Dropping off some files at the clinic, be back soon.” And my replies: “Honey, the lock is acting up again. I can’t get in. Please hurry.” And ten minutes later, like clockwork, Patrick would always appear to “fix” the lock and let me in. My head spun. My vision blurred. Nine years of devotion. Nine years of a “perfect” marriage. It was all a curated performance. He was cheating. And it wasn’t just one woman. He was resetting my access to my own home from his phone, locking me out so he’d have time to finish his business and drive back to play the hero. 3 Patrick finished the dishes and dried his hands. “I’m going to jump in the shower. I smell like a sewer. If I don’t scrub down, you’ll be complaining about the smell all night.” I exited the app and sat perfectly still, watching him walk into the bathroom. The moment the shower started, I grabbed my keys and ran. “June? Can you grab me my robe?” his voice echoed through the door, warm and muffled. “June? You there?” The door clicked shut behind me. I practically threw myself into a taxi and gave the driver the first address on the list: Magnolia Court. I shoved a wad of cash at the driver and sprinted toward the unit. When the door opened, a woman I didn’t recognize stood there. “Can I help you?” I stared at her. She was short, with a bob cut and a slightly round face. She wasn’t a sexy nurse. She wasn’t a “trophy” mistress. She was just… ordinary. Plain clothes, plain face. A woman you wouldn’t look at twice in a crowd. Then I looked at her collar. My pupils dilated. The silver brooch. The black butterfly with onyx wings. It was identical to the one Mrs. Gable had been wearing. My brain felt like it was fracturing. Shards of memories and suspicions collided. I couldn’t breathe. I turned and ran down the stairs, the pain in my head so sharp I thought I might lose consciousness. I collapsed onto a stone bench in the courtyard and called my best friend, Bella. I was incoherent, sobbing. “June, stay put!” Bella’s voice was sharp with worry. “I’m coming to get you. Do not move. We’ll figure this out.” Bella arrived within minutes. She pulled me into a hug, rubbing my back, her expression grim. “June, it’s okay. It’s okay. We’re going to get through this.” I shoved my phone in her face, pointing at the tracking history with a shaking finger. “Bella, you have to come with me. I need proof. I need to catch him in the act.” Bella looked at the screen, her expression strange. “June… you’re just stressed. Let’s go home and sleep. We can deal with this in the morning.” I pushed her away, my voice rising to a scream. “Are you even on my side? Patrick is a liar! He’s been cheating on me for God knows how long! He’s been locking me out of the house like a dog so he can screw around!” The tears were a deluge now. My heart felt like it was being pricked by a thousand needles—not a sharp pain, but a dull, pervasive ache that wouldn’t stop. I wiped my face and stood up. “Fine. Stay here. I’ll do it myself. I’m going to tear that fake mask right off his face.” Bella scrambled to follow me. “June, wait! I’ll go with you. If he’s really doing this, I’ll help you bury him. Just… slow down.” I didn’t slow down. We drove to the next address. My heart felt like it had stopped beating as we reached the door. The door opened. A young girl, maybe twenty, with a ponytail and bright, clear eyes, looked at us. “Hi? Are you looking for someone?” A fresh wave of agony hit me. He was truly a monster. He was rotating through them—the older woman, the plain woman, the college girl. He was just sampling lives. The kitchen door behind her swung open. A familiar figure stepped out. “Tilly, who is it?” The girl turned back with a bright smile. “I don’t know, maybe they have the wrong house.” The silver butterfly brooch on her chest glinted under the hallway light. She turned to him, naturally taking a plate from his hands. A plate of honey-glazed ribs. The way he looked at her—the tenderness, the practiced domesticity—it was a mirror image of how he looked at me. He was taking care of her. He was giving her the exact same “unique” love he gave me. The last thread of my sanity snapped. “Patrick!” I lunged forward, fueled by a year’s worth of repressed subconsciousness, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of my strength. The sound echoed through the small apartment. Patrick’s face slowly turned toward me, a red handprint blooming on his cheek. “June? How… how did you find me?” The girl, Tilly, screamed and tried to push me away. “You crazy bitch! Why did you hit him? Get out!” A sharp, stabbing pain erupted in my chest. My head slammed against the doorframe as she shoved me. Suddenly, the world was a strobe light of disjointed images. Blood. So much blood. The sound of sirens—the rhythmic wail of an ambulance, the harsh pulse of a police cruiser. Faces blurred in and out of view. Someone was screaming my name. “Patient’s BP is bottoming out! Heart rate is crashing!” “Get a hundred milligrams of epinephrine, IV, now!” The black butterfly on the girl’s chest hovered over me, flickering, stinging my eyes. The world went black. 4 It was dark and freezing. Suddenly, a pair of headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the world—and Patrick’s terrified face. The car swerved violently to the left. Patrick steered directly into the path of the oncoming semi-truck. The airbag deployed with a thunderous bang. I saw the massive grill of the truck crush the driver’s side. Patrick was pinned, the metal folding around him like paper. I stared, paralyzed, as he reached out a trembling hand toward me. Blood was pouring down his face, masking his features, but he was smiling. “June… stay strong… take care of yourself.” “Don’t cry, baby. I’m… I’m always with you.” Patrick coughed, a spray of crimson hitting the silver butterfly brooch pinned to my coat. His fingers twitched, his voice fading to a whisper, a broken doll trying to stroke my cheek one last time. I screamed. “Patrick, wake up! Don’t you dare close your eyes!” “Patrick, the baby! You haven’t seen the baby yet! Stay with me!” The sirens were deafening now. People were pulling at the wreckage, trying to get to him. “Stop! You’re hurting him!” I shrieked. Yellow police tape was being unrolled. The crowd was whispering. “He’s gone. Crushed instantly.” “Look at the car. He swerved left. He took the full hit to save his wife on the passenger side. What a man.” The rain started to pour. A crane began to lift the heavy freight from the mangled remains of our car. When they pried the door open, I saw him—what was left of him. A sharp, electric pain shot through me, and I fainted. I felt something warm and wet running down my legs. I was shivering, curled into a ball on the floor, tears streaming down my face. “June, wake up. June, it’s Mom. I’m here.” A warm hand touched my face. Wet droplets—tears that weren’t mine—fell on my cheek. The shivering began to subside. “June, please open your eyes. You’re scaring us.” I blinked. White ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A familiar face appeared above me. “June, my sweet girl. You’ve been through so much.” My mother held me tight. My head was a mess of static and stabbing pain. I buried my face in her shoulder and sobbed. “Mom, I had the most horrible dream. Patrick died. There was so much blood.” Her body stiffened. Her voice was cautious, trembling. “June… it’s okay. It’s over now.” What do you mean, it’s over? The memory of Patrick in the apron, serving ribs to that girl, flashed back. “Mom, Patrick is cheating on me. I saw it. I saw them.” “He’s so cruel. You treated him like a son, and he betrayed me.” My mother looked at me with a heart-wrenching expression. She stroked my hair, her voice breaking. “June, don’t think about that right now. Just rest.” I became frantic. I grabbed Bella, who was standing at the foot of the bed. “Bella, you saw it too! Tell her! That girl, Tilly, she was there!” The tears wouldn’t stop. Patrick, how could you? I’ve been with you since we were eighteen. I lived in basement apartments with you, I supported you through med school… Bella stepped forward, her eyes filled with a terrible, heavy sadness. She looked at my mother, then back at me. “Mrs. Halloway, tell her the truth,” Bella whispered. “Don’t let her live in the fantasy anymore. Even if it breaks her, she deserves to know.” I stared at Bella. What was she talking about? I was the one who was cheated on. Bella leaned in, her voice steady and devastating. “June. Patrick is dead. He died saving you.” “You aren’t dreaming. This is the reality.”

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I was out back in the woods, mid-swing with a splitting maul, when a guy in a suit showed up claiming he was my “protection detail.” The poor guy looked like he’d seen a ghost—or maybe it was just the way I handled the axe. He dropped a slip of paper with an address on it and bolted before I could even ask who was paying him. The night before I left for the city to join the Montgomerys—my biological family, apparently—my foster mom gripped my hands tight. She wouldn’t stop fretting. “The city’s got lights and money, Aggie, but those high-society types? they’ve got rules that’ll suffocate a girl like you. Don’t let them look down on you.” “If they give you even a second of grief,” she added, “you come right back to the Ozarks. I can still outwork any three of those city boys to keep us fed.” I just laughed and puffed out my chest. “Don’t you worry, Mom. Nobody’s gonna push Aggie ‘The Hammer’ around. Not a chance.” To prepare for the lions’ den, I stayed up all night devouring about two hundred “Secret Heiress” stories on my Kindle. I was ready for everything: the jealous sister, the cold-hearted father, the scheming stepmother. I had my counter-moves mapped out. The next morning, sporting two dark circles under my eyes, I rumbled up to the Montgomery estate driving my beat-up 1974 International Harvester tractor. I stared at the massive, gilded iron gates. Locked. Classic, I thought. The ‘Power Play’ cold shoulder. Just like the books said. I hopped down, took a deep breath, and delivered a kick that would’ve leveled a barn door. The gates creaked open. “Aggie’s home, losers!” I bellowed. But the scene inside stopped me cold. My biological parents and the “fake” heiress weren’t sneering at me from a balcony. All three of them were on their knees in the foyer, faces ash-white, trembling like they were awaiting a firing squad. “W-welcome home… Miss Montgomery!” they stammered in unison. I stood there, completely floored. This wasn’t the script. Where was the condescension? Where was the drama? 1 I scratched my head, looking at the three of them huddled on the floor. “Uh… what exactly is the vibe here?” My biological mother, Diane, and the girl who’d been living my life, Maisie, traded a terrified glance. Diane forced a jagged, awkward smile. “Aggie, darling… this is the welcome ceremony we spent all night rehearsing. Do you… do you like it?” I stared at them, my skepticism dial turned to ten. Man, city people are freaking weird. I sighed and waved a hand. “Alright, get up. The floor’s probably freezing.” They looked like they’d just been granted a stay of execution, helping each other up with shaky limbs. That’s when I noticed their clothes. For “Old Money” billionaires, they looked… plain. Almost aggressively so. Is this a trap? I wondered. Are they trying to make me feel guilty? Maisie stood tucked behind the parents, her eyes downcast, looking like a kicked puppy. She looked like she wanted to say something but was too scared to breathe. Robert and Diane stepped forward, hugging me with the kind of ginger care you’d use for a live grenade. “Aggie, we’re just so glad you’re back.” They led me upstairs to pick a room. When we passed a suite that looked like it belonged in a Disney castle—all silk and mahogany—the three of them stiffened. I saw the shame flash across their faces. Here it is, I thought. The classic trope. The fake daughter gets the palace, and the real daughter gets the broom closet. I know how this ends. But then Robert pointed to a modest, beige bedroom tucked near the servant’s stairs. “That’s… that’s where Maisie stays now.” I blinked, looking from the “Princess Suite” back to the beige room. “Fine. I’ll take the big one,” I said, testing them. Their expressions went from nervous to downright bizarre. “Is that a problem?” I barked. “No! No, no!” Diane squeaked. “Aggie can stay wherever she wants!” At dinner, Maisie came to find me. She stood in the doorway, looking all soft and innocent. I went on high alert. This is it. She’s mad about the room. She’s going to fake a fall or start a fight to make me look like the villain. Instead, she reached out and gently took my elbow. “Sister… I noticed the floors were just waxed. They’re slippery. Let me help you down.” When we got to the dining room, there wasn’t a five-course meal served by a butler. It was just home-cooked food. No staff in sight. I was convinced: They’re playing ‘poor’ to test my character. How original. Suddenly, the front door slammed open. A woman in a designer suit walked in like she owned the place. I expected her to be a mean aunt or a socialite rival, but Robert and Diane jumped like they’d been shocked. “Mrs. Hannigan,” they whispered. Maisie leaned in, tugging my sleeve. “That’s the housekeeper,” she whispered. I ignored them and went back upstairs to unpack. Later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, Maisie knocked. She was carrying a warm glass of milk. My internal alarm bells went off. According to every trope I’d read, there was an 80% chance that glass was hitting the floor, and a 100% chance I’d be blamed for it. “Sister, have some milk,” she murmured, her head low. “It helps with sleep.” I watched her, stone-faced, waiting for the performance to begin. Suddenly, her foot slipped. She lurched forward, losing her balance completely. The glass flew from her hand, shattering into a million pieces at my feet. And now come the waterworks, I thought. She’ll cry, say I pushed her, claim she was just being sweet, and the whole family will burst in to condemn my ‘brutality.’ I folded my arms and waited. I even had my comeback lines ready. 2 But the screaming never came. Maisie hit the floor hard. I heard her knee crack against the hardwood—a dull, painful thud. She didn’t even look at her leg. She scrambled up, frantic, her first instinct being to check me for glass shards. Her face was a mask of pure panic and apology. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, Aggie! The floor was too slick—did it hit you? Are you hurt?” She looked at the mess, her eyes welling with actual tears of terror. I stared down at her, feeling… confused. I hadn’t even touched her. Maybe she’s just a really good actress, I reasoned. Establishing a baseline of innocence before the big move. I decided to play along. “I’m fine. Go to bed.” The next morning, I was yawning my way to the stairs when a shadow blocked my path. Maisie was standing at the top of the flight, looking like she’d been crying for hours. Bingo, my brain whispered. The Staircase Scene. She’s going to ‘fall’ and blame me. This is the big one. I braced myself. I’d seen this movie. When she tipped, I’d grab her and pull her into a hug, ruining her little drama. Suddenly, Maisie lunged. She grabbed my arm with a grip so tight it actually surprised me. Wow, she really doesn’t want me to escape the frame, I thought. I was about to flip her over my shoulder and end the charade, but she didn’t push. She started guiding me down the stairs, one agonizingly slow step at a time. Her voice was trembling. “Aggie… I had a nightmare. I dreamed you fell down these stairs.” “And then I got up for water and realized how slippery the wood is. I was so scared. Please, let me hold onto you. You have to be careful.” Me: “…” I tried to pull my arm away. I was a girl who could carry a butchered hog over a mountain trail without breaking a sweat. I didn’t need a waif-like girl to help me walk. But the more I pulled, the tighter she clung, tears streaming down her face. “Please don’t push me away. I can’t let you get hurt.” I looked at her, then at the ceiling. What is happening in this house? When we finally reached the foyer, Robert and Diane were waiting. They saw Maisie clutching my arm, and their first reaction wasn’t to ask what she was doing. They rushed me like a NASCAR pit crew, checking me for bruises. “Aggie! Are you okay? Did something happen?” Diane’s voice was pure anxiety. Robert turned to Maisie, his voice stern but shaky. “Honey, don’t grab her so hard. You’re going to bruise her arm.” The whole family was a mess of frantic energy. Diane ran to the kitchen to order my favorite breakfast (or what she thought was my favorite), and Robert started digging through a first-aid kit, insisting on putting ointment on a “red mark” that wasn’t even there. That’s when Mrs. Hannigan, the housekeeper, sidled up to me with a plastic smile. “Good morning, Miss Montgomery. I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself yesterday. You can call me Elizabeth.” I arched an eyebrow. “Is that right, Beth?” Her smile faltered for a micro-second. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, oily whisper. “Listen, honey. You’re new here. You don’t know how deep the water is with your parents. You and I? We’re the outsiders. You’d better watch your back with them.” I nodded slowly, playing the part. It almost made sense. Their behavior was too weird to be normal. 3 A few days passed in a strange, quiet truce. Before I could really start investigating the family dynamics, I was told I’d been enrolled in the same elite private school as Maisie. Finally, I thought. The School Arc. Maisie probably realized she couldn’t break me at home, so she was going to use her “Queen Bee” status to make my life a living hell on campus. Monday morning, as I headed for the door, Maisie came running up, out of breath. She shoved a breakfast burrito into my hand and wheeled out a bubblegum-pink electric scooter. “Aggie! Let me give you a ride to school!” I stared at the scooter, then at the sprawling mansion behind us. “Does this family not own a car?” “The… the car is in the shop,” she stammered, looking pained. I patted her shoulder. “Maisie, your lies are getting pathetic.” Her face turned bright red. “I… I…” I didn’t wait for her to finish. I grabbed a Lime scooter from the sidewalk and zoomed off. At the school gates, I didn’t even get five feet before a guy with bleached-blonde hair and a sneer blocked my way. “The boss wants to see you.” I looked up. A few yards away, a guy was leaning against a black Range Rover, sucking on a lollipop and holding a photo. “So, you’re the hillbilly the Montgomerys dragged home?” I rubbed my hands together. Yes. Finally. The Plot is moving. He looked me up and down with pure disgust. “I’m Hunter. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll crawl back to whatever hole you came out of.” I flipped a piece of invisible lint off my shoulder and gave him my best ‘main character’ smirk. “I’m your worst nightmare, kid.” Hunter’s face turned purple. “You… you little…” The surrounding students gasped. “Who is she? Nobody talks to Hunter like that!” “She’s a dead girl walking.” Hunter waved his hand at his goons. “Teach her some manners!” “Stop! Don’t touch my sister!” Maisie came sprinting toward us, nearly tripping over her own feet. Hunter didn’t even look at her. He just stuck out a foot, tripping her. She went face-first into the dirt right in front of me. I looked down at her. “Okay, that was a bit much. You don’t need to bow that low.” Maisie started sobbing, but she still tried to scramble up and stand between me and Hunter. Hunter just pushed her back down. “Shut up, you little brat. Get lost before I make you.” Maisie’s eyes were wide with terror. She stopped crying. She looked paralyzed. I looked at Hunter, then back at Maisie. I looked at Hunter again. He had the same arrogant, shifty eyes as Mrs. Hannigan, the housekeeper. Oh. I get it now. The “fake daughter” wasn’t a villain. She was a punching bag. And the housekeeper’s son was the one holding the whip. I stepped forward, grabbed Hunter by the collar, and executed a perfect judo hip throw. He hit the pavement with a sound like a wet sack of flour. “The name,” I said, leaning over him, “is Aggie.” Hunter was wheezing, clutching his back. I looked at Maisie on the ground. “Get up. Kick him.” She blinked through her tears. “I… I can’t…” I glared at her. “Kick him, or I’ll kick you. Pick one.” Maisie shivered, found a spark of courage somewhere in her gut, and delivered a shaky kick to Hunter’s ribs. Then another. Hunter howled. “You’re dead! Aggie, I’m gonna kill you!” As the crowd dispersed, Maisie followed me like a lost puppy, her eyes full of something I hadn’t seen before. “Aggie, that was… incredible.” “Aggie, you’re so cool.” “Aggie…”

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Chad and I were seven years into our “merger-disguised-as-a-marriage” when the ghost of the girl he never got over suddenly decided she was bored of London and moved back to the city. To clear a path for her—to make our divorce look like a tragedy instead of a betrayal—he decided to play the ultimate martyr. He conspired with a doctor to script a grand finale: a terminal illness. On our seventh anniversary, he didn’t bring jewelry. Instead, he dropped to his knees, clutching a forged medical report for stage four stomach cancer, sobbing as he begged me to let him go so he could spend his “last months” in peace. I looked at his tear-streaked face, the performance so polished it was almost beautiful, and I leaned in. “Chad,” I asked, my voice a low hum. “Are you absolutely certain? Is it really terminal?” His eyes were steady, his voice devoid of even a flicker of doubt. “Yes. Stage four. There’s no hope.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed. He will never know that it was I who invoked the ancient legacy of my family—a rare, ancestral gift that allows a spouse one chance to make a spoken word manifest into reality. But of all the things he could have asked for, of all the wishes in the world, he chose to manifest a death sentence. 1 For our anniversary, I had booked the entire rooftop at The Observatory, the only restaurant in the city where the glass ceiling makes you feel like you’re dining inside a nebula. I had planned a surprise that would have changed our lives. Instead, I got Chad on his knees, trembling over a fake diagnosis. “Isla, the results came back today,” he choked out. “It’s cancer. Stomach. It’s… it’s stage four.” Panic flared in my chest for a split second, followed immediately by a chilling sense of irony. I was born into a family that guards a secret older than the city itself. We possess a “Vow’s Echo”—a one-time metaphysical blank check that makes a partner’s words come true. But it only works once in a lifetime. And the recipient can never know the power has been used. Looking at Chad’s handsome, refined face, I hadn’t hesitated. In my heart, I had whispered the incantation, intending to grant him whatever his heart truly desired tonight. But then he kept talking, and his words dragged me straight into hell. “Isla, the doctor said I have six months, maybe less,” he stammered. “I’ve spent my whole life sacrificing for the firm, for this family. For these last few months, I just… I want to be with the person I love.” “Lydia’s been back for a month. We lost seven years, and now I’m dying. We don’t have time left… Please, Isla. Set me free. Let us have this.” I gripped that piece of paper until my knuckles turned white. I looked at him, my eyes pleading for a way out. “Chad,” I said, my voice shaking. “Are you sure this report is yours? Are you absolutely, 100% certain you have terminal cancer?” I was screaming in my head: Deny it! Just say you’re lying! The Vow’s Echo is a singular strike. Chad, if you take it back now, the sickness will vanish. You can live. But Chad’s expression shifted. There was a flicker of relief, a hidden spark of triumph in his eyes. He thought he’d won. “Isla, the diagnosis came from the best private clinic under the Blackwood Group’s wing,” he said with finality. “Our doctors don’t make mistakes. It’s real. I’m dying.” A sharp crack echoed through the restaurant. I had knocked over a crystal flute. It shattered against the marble, shards scattering like the ruins of our seven-year life together. I closed my eyes, the weight of the magic settling like lead in the air. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll give you exactly what you asked for.” 2 Our marriage had been a tactical alliance between the Sinclair and Blackwood dynasties. I knew from the start that Chad had a “White Moonlight”—the girl who occupied the space in his heart I was never allowed to touch. Lydia Thorne. They were the classic high school sweethearts. In their social circles, they were “Endgame.” When they were eighteen, Lydia had famously declared at a gala: “Chad Blackwood, you’re my destiny. Everything else is just noise.” But Lydia was a girl who lived for the chase. In college, she fell for a brooding architecture professor, dropped out, and chased him across Europe, leaving Chad in the dust. His family couldn’t accept a woman so volatile as the future matriarch of the Blackwood empire. So, they chose me. For seven years, Chad played the part of the perfect husband. He was gentle, attentive, and stayed far away from scandal. People whispered that we were the rare “golden couple” of the elite world. I actually believed it. I was looking forward to our tenth anniversary. Then, Lydia came back. She hasn’t changed. She’s still the girl who burns everything down to get what she wants. She took to social media immediately, posting cryptic quotes about “reclaiming what was stolen” and “first loves never dying.” She was bold. She’d buy two greasy burgers from the late-night joint they used to haunt in high school and park her vintage convertible outside our gates at 2 AM, waiting for Chad to come down and eat with her. And he did. I watched from the darkened window as my husband—a man who usually obsessed over the temperature of his Earl Grey—sat on a curb with her, eating cold fries and laughing like a teenager. They trespassed into their old private school just to sit on the bleachers. They ran through the rain to get dollar-slice pizza, holding hands under the streetlights. They retreated into the shadows of the park, reliving every reckless, heated moment they had missed during their years apart. Chad started coming home later and later. Until one night, he didn’t come home at all. I sat in the living room, watching the sun rise. The company was in a tailspin; Chad wasn’t answering his phone or attending meetings. I spent the day cleaning up his messes at the office, my own stomach twisting with a dull, persistent ache. At 3 PM, a notification popped up on my phone. A follow request from a private account with a profile picture of a woman laughing. I clicked ‘accept.’ A tidal wave of photos flooded my screen, each one a fresh blow to my chest. 3 For seven years, I thought Chad was just a naturally stoic man. Looking at those photos, I realized he wasn’t stoic at all. He just saved all his passion for Lydia. He told me he was allergic to lilies, so I never kept them in the house. There he was in a photo, holding a massive bouquet of them at the airport for her arrival. He told me PDA was “unprofessional” for a CEO. There he was in a candid shot, kissing her deeply in the middle of a crowded terminal. He threw her a “Welcome Home” dinner at a private club, inviting all their old friends. In the videos, people toasted to “true love finding its way back,” as if the last seven years of our marriage were just a long commercial break. Every guest in that room had been at our wedding. They had toasted to our forever. I felt like the punchline of a very long, very cruel joke. When I finally confronted him with the photos, he looked panicked for a second. But then his face hardened into a mask of cold resolve. “Since you’ve seen them, let’s stop pretending,” he said. “Isla, this was always a merger. There was never real ‘feeling’ between us. I’ve been a good husband to you, but I’ve waited seven years for Lydia. She’s finally home.” “I want a divorce. I need to give her my name.” 4 “No,” I said, cutting him off. I swallowed the bile in my throat and tried to appeal to his logic. The Blackwood board would never accept Lydia—a woman who spent her days dragging the CEO to dive bars and playgrounds. After that, Chad seemed to retreat. The “anonymous” social media account went dark. I thought he was coming to his senses. Until the anniversary. Chad loved the stars. He kept a hidden leather-bound album in his study filled with astrophotography he’d taken in secret. His parents considered it a “waste of time,” so I had fostered the hobby in silence. I had spent a year commissioning a custom, master-crafted timepiece with a watch face that mirrored the night sky on the date we met. I had even quietly sponsored a celestial-themed gallery opening in his name for that night. And I was going to give him the greatest gift of all: the Vow’s Echo. As I sat in the restaurant, I prayed he would wish for something beautiful. A long life. For us to finally find real love. For the empire to prosper. He didn’t. He wished for a terminal illness. I slapped him—hard—my eyes stinging with hot, bitter tears. I laughed, a sharp, broken sound, and walked away. I was done. Chad, if you want to die just to be with her, then I hope you enjoy the afterlife together. 5 By the next morning, the news had shattered the high-society bubble. Chad Blackwood had terminal stomach cancer. His parents were devastated. His father looked at me, then at the “medical report,” his lips trembling. His mother took my hand, her eyes red. “Isla, dear, the family owes you so much,” she whispered. “The doctors say he has six months. We were too hard on him, always demanding more. Now his time is running out. We just want him to be happy in the end. You understand, don’t you?” Chad stood there, looking at me with a performative guilt that made my skin crawl. “Isla, I’m so sorry. For my final days, I just want to walk the rest of the path with Lydia…”

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I had been the leading lady in this “perfect wife” script for five years. The illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon in a penthouse suite at the St. Regis. I walked in to find Everett and his personal assistant together. The girl—Megan—looked like a wreck. She was trembling, clutching a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses, her face a mask of panic as she stammered out an apology. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw my Birkin. I just looked at Everett and calmly asked for a divorce. Everett didn’t even look at Megan. He gave her a dismissive glance before turning to me with a smirk, as if I’d just told a particularly charming joke. He told me that Megan’s monthly salary wouldn’t even cover the cost of one of my hair appointments. He pointed out that any one of my handbags could fund a normal person’s life for six months. He asked me, with a patronizing tilt of his head, how I expected to maintain this curated, effortless life without him. Then came the jab. He laughed, noting that all of Manhattan knew me as nothing more than a pampered hothouse orchid—a decorative vine that would wither the second it lost its trellis. He honestly believed that no one else would ever be “dog enough” to worship me and cater to my every whim the way he did. I fell into a contemplative silence. That’s when the System, which had been dormant for months, finally piped up in the back of my mind. Does he seriously not realize how long the waiting list is to be your ‘dog’? the System snarked. A cold, sharp laugh bubbled up in my throat. Perhaps these five years of gilded comfort had been too quiet. Perhaps I’d played the role of the fragile ornament so well that he’d forgotten a fundamental truth about decorative vines. The thing about orchids isn’t just that they’re beautiful; it’s that once they’re off the market, everyone else realizes exactly what they’re missing. 1 I stared at Everett. Only this morning, he had kissed my forehead, warmed my milk, and even put the toothpaste on my brush for me. In the span of a few hours, he had become a stranger. For the last five years, from the Hamptons to the Upper East Side, everyone knew that Francesca Stanford was his North Star, his literal crown jewel. He was the man who never touched a drop of scandal, who never spent a moment alone with another woman—until now. I looked down at Megan. Those thick glasses hid half her face. The System shrieked in my head: [I hate to judge based on looks, but host, is he actually blind? Put Megan next to you, and anyone with a pulse could see he’s trading a vintage Ferrari for a used tricycle.] I ignored the Voice. My upbringing—the years of elite boarding schools and social conditioning—wouldn’t allow me to descend into hysterics. I simply clenched my fists and took a steadying breath. “Why?” Megan was shaking like a leaf. Everett reached down, his hand lingering on her shoulder in a protective gesture that made my stomach turn. “Wait for me outside,” he told her softly. That casual intimacy stung worse than the betrayal itself. Everett was known in the boardroom as a predator—cold, decisive, and ruthless. The entire city feared him. He saved all his tenderness for me. Or so I thought. Today, I realized I wasn’t his only exception. Everett pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “When I buy her a coffee, she’s genuinely grateful,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “When I buy you a ten-million-dollar necklace, I have to worry if you already have the same cut in your collection. I’m just… tired, Chessy. You’re the only woman I love, but sometimes I just want to be the one being taken care of.” He stubbed out the cigarette, waited for the smell to dissipate so it wouldn’t cling to my clothes, and stepped toward me. He reached out to brush a stray hair from my eye. “Don’t cry. Just give me some time to figure this out, okay?” I looked at that familiar, handsome face and stepped back, shaking my head with a bitter smile. “What a tragic story you’ve spun. But it doesn’t change the fact that you cheated on your wife. I told you when we married, Everett: I have zero tolerance for betrayal. We’re done.” Everett’s face hardened. “How long has it been since you actually worked? Do you have any idea what the real world looks like now? I’ve curated every second of your life for five years. If you leave me, you won’t last a month.” The System’s mechanical chime echoed: [Warning: Male Lead’s character arc has collapsed. You may now choose to revoke his ‘Success Aura.’ Due to your deep entanglement, the reclamation process will take exactly one month.] I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “A month? That’s plenty of time.” He might be powerful now, but he forgot whose story this actually was. In my world, I am the only protagonist. Everett’s fake smile vanished. He looked down at me with cold pity. “I suppose you need to feel the rain to remember why you liked the shelter.” I grabbed my bag and turned toward the door. “Everett, I didn’t have this life because I married you. Quite the opposite. You have your empire because I chose you.” Megan was still hovering in the hallway. She looked at me, gathering some twisted form of courage. “Mrs. Blackwood… I know I’m nothing compared to you. But Mr. Blackwood works until his stomach cramps from stress, and I’m the only one there to bring him a glass of warm water… I just didn’t think it was fair to him.” Everett stood in the doorway, his eyes softening at her words. I felt a wave of pure, unadulterated disgust. “There are three world-class nutritionists on 24-hour standby at our house. If a glass of tap water moves you that much, Everett, then all those expensive supplements I’ve been making you take were a waste of money.” I looked Megan up and down. “You’re right. You are nothing compared to me. Not because of your clothes, but because you lack a basic sense of shame. And don’t call me Mrs. Blackwood. It’s Ms. Stanford.” I walked away without looking back. The System sighed in my mind. [Don’t be sad, host. In this story, you’re the star. If he’s lost the plot, he doesn’t deserve the role. The next one will be better.] I watched the skyscrapers of Manhattan blur past the car window. “The divorce cooling-off period is exactly thirty days,” I whispered. “And I promise you, I won’t be the one regretting it when the month is up.” 2 Everett’s efficiency had always been his greatest weapon. By that afternoon, my secondary credit cards were declined. My phone lit up with a notification: Primary account reported lost. Linked cards frozen. The System went quiet for a moment. [Good grief. Does he actually think he’s been ‘supporting’ you all this time?] I shrugged, leaning back against the leather seat of my private car. “Probably. Confidence is a hell of a drug for men like him.” For twenty-five years, my life had been a dream. Wealth, pedigree, and a permanent seat at the center of the city’s social elite. It wasn’t until five years ago that I realized I was the “Beloved Wife” in a commercial romance novel. My life was supposed to be a series of effortless wins, culminating in a life with a billionaire who worshipped the ground I walked on. Out of all the men who chased me, I picked Everett. Because of that choice, the System rewarded him. His business ventures turned to gold. He became the titan he is today. And while I used his cards out of convenience, he seemed to have forgotten that the Stanford name was old money when his family was still struggling to pay rent. When I got home, my housekeeper, Maria, hurried over. “Ma’am, I’ve prepared the braised sea bass you like for dinner.” I looked at the table. Two place settings. Perfectly aligned. No matter how busy Everett was, he always made it home for dinner. One year, during a massive blizzard that shut down the city, he had walked ten blocks in the freezing cold just because he promised we’d eat together. He had walked in shivering, soaked to the bone, but grinning as he pulled a perfectly intact box of macarons from his coat. “You mentioned you wanted these yesterday,” he’d said, his eyes bright with a boyish adoration. How could that man be the same person who looked at me today and said he was “tired”? My phone buzzed. Megan had posted on a private social media account. A photo of her and Everett at a greasy, late-night diner, eating cheap noodles. I felt a pang of sardonic amusement. Everett’s stomach was delicate; I spent thousands on specialized chefs and herbal tonics to keep his ulcers at bay. I had those meals hand-delivered to his office every day. I closed the app. “From now on, Maria, just one place setting.” Maria blinked, confused, but nodded. If he wanted to trade a Michelin-starred life for a bowl of greasy noodles, he was welcome to it. New York high society is a small pond. Word of our split traveled like wildfire. Rumor had it he took Megan to a high-level corporate gala. My phone was blowing up with texts from friends who were there. [Is he insane? He actually brought THAT girl? People are laughing behind their champagne glasses.] [Chessy, darling, you should have dumped that social climber years ago. I know three Ivy League models who would kill to take you out for a drink tonight.] I leaned back on a plush velvet sofa at a private lounge, nursing a martini and scrolling through the messages. I was feeling the hum of the alcohol when I nudged the man sitting next to me with the heel of my Louboutin. “I don’t want to walk to the car,” I murmured, my eyes half-closed. “Carry me.” He turned to look at me, his voice a deep, resonant hum. “Francesca, you’re drunk. And I’m not Everett.” I looked up into the dark, piercing eyes of Jasper Ternence. I looked into the eyes of Jasper Huxley. He had been one of the “candidates” for my husband five years ago. Now, he was the most powerful venture capitalist on the East Coast. I leaned in, my breath ghosting over his ear. “Are you going to carry me, or aren’t you?” His posture went rigid. Then, slowly, he stood up and offered me his back. I looked at the moonlight reflecting off the glass of the lounge and smiled. Why did Everett ever think I’d struggle without him? The System giggled in my head. [Host, let me know if you want to swap leads. The reclamation of Everett’s aura is already at 10%. Tomorrow, I have a little surprise for him.] 3 I flew to Paris for Fashion Week. I didn’t give Everett another thought. The System gave me daily updates, though. As the “Success Aura” began to drain, Everett’s empire started to leak. Several of his major projects were snatched up by competitors. He had climbed too fast and stepped on too many toes; without the System’s protection, the “Old Money” sharks were finally smelling blood. I signed a five-figure shopping bill without blinking. “He’s in love, isn’t he? He has his little assistant to pour him tap water. Surely a few lost millions shouldn’t bother him.” I posted a photo of my new wardrobe to Instagram. Five minutes later, a concierge at my hotel knocked. He was holding a leather-bound catalog. “Mr. Huxley’s office called, Ms. Stanford. He’s already pre-ordered the entire spring collection for you. It’s being shipped to your Manhattan address as we speak.” I smiled and sent Jasper a text: [Thanks.] The reply came instantly: [My jet is in Paris. I can fly you back whenever you’re ready. Will you do me the honor of dinner when we land?] I paused. My relationship with Everett had started with a dinner just like that. He’d promised then that he’d never miss a meal with me as long as he was in the city. I closed my phone and didn’t reply. When I got back to the States, my friend Beatrice invited me to an exclusive equestrian club in Westchester. It was members-only, and each member could only bring one guest. I used to go as my brother’s guest, but since the wedding, I had been under Everett’s membership. When the girl at the front desk told me, with an embarrassed look, that I wasn’t on the list, I was genuinely confused for a split second. Then I saw her. Megan was standing there, trying to look poised in a designer riding outfit that clearly didn’t fit her right. “Mrs.—I mean, Ms. Stanford. I’m so sorry. I told Everett I’d never seen a real stable before, and he insisted on bringing me. I didn’t realize I was taking your spot…” She’d ditched the glasses and was wearing twenty thousand dollars worth of couture, but the provincial, small-minded insecurity still radiated off her. Beatrice was about to tear her a new one when Everett walked in. “Chessy.” He said my name as if nothing had changed, as if we were still the golden couple of the year. “I heard you were in Paris. I used to pre-order all those collections for you. You’ve always been a loyal client of the French houses; it would be a shame for your collection to be incomplete this season.” But then he opened his mouth again and ruined it. “Stop being difficult. I’ll have someone buy you the couture. I’m here to meet a partner who happens to be Megan’s former classmate. I need her here. So, don’t play today, okay? Just go home and wait for me. We’ll talk later.” I stepped back, looking him in the eye. “Everett, do you really think I’m only worth the price of a few dresses?” Beatrice reached for her phone. “Don’t worry, Chessy. I think my brother is a member here…” She glared at Everett, disgusted. “If Ms. Stanford doesn’t mind, she can come as my guest.” The group turned. Everett’s face went pale. Standing there was Hugo Blackwood He was Everett’s biggest rival for the new downtown redevelopment project. I gave Hugo a small, elegant nod. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood I’d appreciate that.” Hugo smiled, his eyes warm. “The pleasure is entirely mine.” I walked past Everett without a word. Behind me, I heard Beatrice’s voice, dripping with honeyed malice. “Oh, Everett, didn’t you know? Years ago, Hugo rented out the entire Brooklyn Bridge just to ask our Chessy for a date. It was on the front page of every tabloid. You were always just the runner-up.” 4 Megan spent the afternoon screaming and wobbling on the back of a horse, making a fool of herself in front of the club’s elite members. Her “classmate connection” did absolutely nothing to help Everett with his business meeting. By the time Everett left, his face was like thunder. Hugo held the reins of my horse, smiling up at me. “Years haven’t changed you, Francesca. You’re still the most captivating woman in any room.” I looked down at him. Years ago, he had chased me relentlessly. I’d found his arrogance a bit much back then. I’d heard he’d left the city to build his own empire without his family’s help. Now, he seemed… grounded. Stronger. “You’ve done well for yourself, Hugo.” He laughed. “You rejected me because I was just a rich kid with no substance. Now that I’ve built something real, and I hear you’re single… maybe you’ll reconsider. You know I’ve always been at your beck and call.” I winked at him. “Actually, there is one thing I need your help with.”

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It took me three long years of calculated restraint to save up for the SUV I’d been dreaming of. I walked into the dealership with a heart full of anticipation, ready to drive off the lot in a car I owned outright. Instead, the salesman slid a loan agreement across the desk and asked for my signature. He told me my cousin had already driven the car away. He told me I’d agreed to cover the twelve-thousand-dollar balance on the financing. The problem was, I don’t have a cousin. I forced the rage down, keeping my voice steady. I asked if the security cameras were operational and confirmed the exact minute the vehicle left the lot. Then, I didn’t waste another second. I dialed 911. I told the operator that someone had committed identity fraud to steal a vehicle in my name. … Three years of saving. Three years of saying “no” to everything else so I could say “yes” to this one thing: a mid-sized, midnight-black SUV. What does three years actually look like? It’s over a thousand days of discipline. I went from twenty-seven to thirty while staying in the same cramped one-bedroom apartment, climbing the ladder from a junior staffer to a manager with a title that finally felt like it meant something. Every month, the moment my paycheck hit, I didn’t reach for my credit card or order takeout to celebrate. Instead, I moved a fixed, non-negotiable amount into a separate high-yield savings account. That account wasn’t linked to Apple Pay. I didn’t have the app on my phone. The physical debit card was tucked away in a drawer at my mother’s house across the state. I had rehearsed the day the balance would hit my target over and over in my head. I wanted that SUV. It wasn’t a luxury brand—I didn’t need a status symbol. I just wanted a reliable, sturdy Ford Explorer. The total out-the-door price was thirty-two thousand dollars. It wasn’t a fortune by some people’s standards, but to me, it was the greatest achievement of my independent life. I’d first seen it at an auto show three years ago. It was tucked into a quiet corner, the black paint catching the overhead lights with a deep, liquid sheen. I’d walked around it twice, then sat in the driver’s seat. The way the leather-wrapped steering wheel felt in my hands, the way the seat seemed to contour perfectly to my back—even the slightly analog look of the dashboard felt right. It felt like mine. A salesman had approached me back then, asking if I wanted a test drive. I told him no, I couldn’t afford it yet, but I’d be back. He gave me a polite, skeptical smile, the kind you give someone who’s just window-shopping their life away. I wasn’t window-shopping. This Saturday, three years later, I finally walked into the Northside Auto Mall. The “Motor Mile” was a blur of neon signs and giant American flags flapping in the wind, a chaotic landscape of red, white, and blue that made your eyes ache in the morning sun. I arrived at 10:00 AM. The showroom was relatively quiet. A few porters were buffing the display cars, and a receptionist was scrolling through her phone. I went straight to the consultant I’d been talking to for the last six months—a guy named Shane. He was young, lean, and had a fast-talking energy that usually irritated me, but today, I was too excited to care. Over the months, we’d gone back and forth on pricing, inventory, and trims. He’d tried to push the “zero-down” financing on me at every turn, promising better perks and free maintenance packages. I told him no every single time. Cash. Outright. I don’t like owing people anything. Shane was on his best behavior today. He brought me water, offered me a coffee, and even set a small plate of biscotti on the table in front of me. He walked me out to the lot to see the black Explorer I’d reserved. I opened the door, inhaled that sharp, intoxicating new-car scent, and felt the weight of those three years finally lift. It was worth it. Back at his desk, the paperwork began. Shane pulled up the contract—midnight black, top-tier trim, thirty-two thousand dollars, paid in full. He pushed the document toward me. “Give it a look, Claire. If everything looks good, just sign at the bottom. We’ll head over to the finance office to process the payment, and you’ll be on the road by lunch.” I picked up the pen, but paused. “I can take it today, right? No waiting for detailing?” “She’s ready to go. We’ll do one final PDI check while you’re paying, and the keys are yours.” “And the insurance?” “All set. Our agency on-site already cleared the binder. You’re fully covered the second you drive over that curb.” I nodded and signed. Shane took the contract to the copier while I sat back on the leather sofa, a quiet, steady warmth spreading through my chest. It wasn’t a wild, shouting kind of joy; it was the deep satisfaction of a promise kept to myself. Shane returned a few minutes later with a thick manila folder. He set it on the coffee table and flipped it open to a loan agreement. “Claire, I just need your signature on this one as well.” I looked down. It was a financing contract for twelve thousand five hundred dollars. “I’m not financing,” I said, pushing the folder back. “I told you, I’m paying the full balance today.” Shane’s expression shifted. It wasn’t surprise; it was a flicker of profound awkwardness, the look of a man trying to figure out how to deliver an impossible piece of news. He looked at the paper, then at me, his mouth twitching. “Claire… this isn’t for your car,” he stammered. “It’s the remaining balance on your cousin’s vehicle.” I stared at him, my heart slowing down to a heavy, ominous thud. “My cousin?” “Yeah. He was in here two days ago. Picked up the exact same model, same color. He said you guys had worked it out—that when you came in for yours, you’d cover the tail end of his. He put twenty thousand down, financed the rest, and listed you as the guarantor. He said you’d be in today to finalize everything.” By the time Shane finished, a fine bead of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He seemed to realize how insane he sounded. His voice trailed off into a mumble. “My cousin,” I repeated, my voice dangerously flat. “Right. Mr. Miller… Paul Miller?” “I don’t have a cousin named Paul,” I said. “In fact, I don’t have a cousin at all. I’m an only child. My mother’s sisters have two daughters, both living in London. My father’s side hasn’t been in touch with us since I was in middle school. I don’t know who this man is, and I certainly didn’t agree to pay for his car.” Shane stood there, his jaw hanging slightly open, speechless. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw my water. Not because I wasn’t furious, but because rage is a luxury you can’t afford when you’re being robbed. Someone had used my name to walk off with a thirty-thousand-dollar asset, leaving me with a twelve-thousand-dollar bill. I looked Shane in the eye. “Is your security footage still on the server?” He blinked, startled. “Yes… yeah. We keep it for thirty days.” “When exactly was the car taken?” “Two days ago… Thursday afternoon.” “What time?” “Around 3:30. Let me… let me double-check the log.” He practically bolted to the reception desk. He spent a minute frantically flipping through a digital log before scurrying back. “The paperwork was finalized at 3:20 PM. He drove off the lot at 3:45.” “And you processed it? You signed off on it?” Shane looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards. “I did.” “You processed a third-party guarantor without verifying my identity? Without a phone call? Without a notarized signature?” Shane’s lip quivered. “He knew your full name. He knew exactly what car you had on hold. He knew you were coming in today. He was so casual about it, Claire. He called you ‘little sis.’ I just assumed…” “You assumed.” I pulled my phone out and dialed 911. “I’d like to report a grand larceny and identity fraud,” I said when the operator picked up. “Someone has illegally obtained a vehicle using my personal information at a dealership. There is an outstanding debt of twelve thousand dollars being falsely attributed to me. I am currently at Northside Auto Mall.” After I hung up, I told Shane the police would be here in fifteen minutes. Shane’s face went from pale to a sickly shade of grey. He turned and ran toward the stairs, likely to find someone with enough authority to hide behind. I sat back down and took a sip of my water. It was lukewarm now, condensation dripping down the glass like tears. Within five minutes, a man in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks descended the stairs. He was in his mid-thirties, groomed to perfection, wearing the kind of practiced, “I can fix this” smile that always made me want to check my pockets for my wallet. He walked over and extended a hand. “Hi there. I’m Patrick, the sales manager. I am so sorry for the wait. I was tied up in a meeting upstairs, but Shane gave me the gist of the situation. I came down as fast as I could.” I didn’t take his hand. He didn’t flinch. He just tucked it into his pocket and sat in the chair across from me. “And you are Claire, right?” “I am.” “Claire, look. I’ve been briefed, and I want to start by saying this is clearly a massive breakdown in our communication protocol. I am incredibly sorry for the stress this has caused.” His tone was perfect—soothing, reasonable, every word polished until it shone. “Here’s what I’m thinking: why don’t we sit down and figure out the specifics? We’ll get to the bottom of this, and I promise we’ll make it right.” “The ‘bottom of it’ is pretty shallow, Patrick,” I said. “Someone walked in here, pretended to be my family, and stole a car using my credit profile. Your salesman let it happen without a single verification check. Now you’re asking me to pay for your mistake.” “Claire, we are absolutely going to investigate. We’re already pulling the files to verify the individual’s ID…” “You didn’t verify it then. That’s why the car is gone.” Patrick’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes hardened for a fraction of a second. “You’re right, and that’s on us. But this person had very specific information. Your name, your order details, your pickup time. That’s not information a stranger just happens upon. We have to consider the possibility that this might be an internal matter… or perhaps someone you know…” “I don’t know him.” “Is it possible your information was compromised? A stolen ID? A leaked social security number?” “Are you suggesting this is my fault?” Patrick held up his hands defensively. “Not at all, Claire. Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m just trying to help you analyze how this happened. He knew too much. My staff truly believed he was your brother or cousin.” “Then your staff is incompetent,” I said. “Your data management is flawed, which led to my leak, and your sales process is negligent, which led to the theft. Both of those are your problems, not mine.” The crack in Patrick’s “managerial” facade finally appeared. “Claire, I hear you. I’d be upset too. But the reality is that the event has already occurred. Right now, we need to focus on solutions, not pointing fingers…” “Pointing fingers is the solution,” I countered. “It determines who pays.” Patrick looked at me, likely re-evaluating the woman sitting in front of him. He realized I wasn’t going to be charmed into submission. He went quiet for a few seconds, then shifted gears. “Okay, let me be straight with you. We’re looking into the guy. We have the footage and the signed documents. But the legal process takes time. You came here for a car today, and you’re going to get it. Your Explorer is ready. You pay the thirty-two thousand, and it’s yours. That twelve-thousand-dollar balance? That’s technically a separate loan. It doesn’t have to stop you from taking your car home.” I waited for the “but.” “However,” he continued, “we’re in a bit of a spot with the bank. The loan has already been funded. The money was wired. The car is off the lot. If we try to claw that back now, it triggers a fraud alert that freezes our entire month’s commercial credit line. It would be a nightmare for us to untangle legally while the investigation is pending. And since your name is on that contract as the guarantor… even though it’s invalid, the system sees it as a default if it isn’t paid.” “And?” “So, here’s what I’m proposing. If you could just… cover that twelve-five as a temporary deposit, we’ll handle the rest. The moment we track this guy down or the insurance payout clears for the fraud, we’ll refund you every penny. We’ve got the contract, we’ve got the footage—he’s not going to get away with it.” Patrick spoke softly, like a teacher explaining a simple math problem to a slow child. I stared at him for five long seconds. “You want me to ‘front’ you twelve thousand dollars?” “Not front, more like a…” “You want me to pay for the car that was stolen from you, and then hope you find the guy so you can pay me back.” “I know it sounds like a lot, but this dealership has a reputation—” “A reputation for what? Giving cars away to strangers and then asking the victims to foot the bill?” Patrick choked on his next word. His face flushed a deep red, but he quickly smoothed his features back into that professional mask. “Claire, let’s be reasonable. We’ve been in business for eight years. We’ve never had an incident like this. It’s a total anomaly.” “Eight years and this is the first time?” I repeated. “So for eight years, you’ve never checked an ID? Or is it that for eight years, you just haven’t run into a con artist until today?” Patrick opened his mouth, then closed it. “Don’t you see the contradiction? If you’ve never had this happen in eight years, it just means your lack of oversight was a ticking time bomb. It wasn’t an anomaly, Patrick. It was an inevitability.” Patrick’s face turned stony. He looked down at the coffee table, tracing a pattern on the wood with his finger, calculating his next move. Just then, the heavy glass front doors swung open. Two uniformed officers walked in—one tall, burly man in his forties, and a younger woman with glasses. The man scanned the room, spotted our tense little circle, and walked over. “Who called it in?”

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