Category: English

I woke up one morning and saw numbers hovering above everyone’s heads. Above my mom, it was 9450. Above my dad, it was 8639. The numbers above our housekeeper and butler were far lower than my parents’: in the hundreds, even the tens. Dazed, I drove out into Crescent Bay to test the theory. Most strangers had single-digit numbers floating above them; seeing anything above 10 was rare. I drove home with my mind spinning, only to find my parents’ numbers had changed. Both were down by 1 since the morning. A jolt ran through me. Could these be the remaining times I would see them? The thought sent a chill down my spine. Today, I also saw my sworn enemy, Rhys Montgomery. But the number above his head— It was only 3. 1 To test my suspicion, I paid an unannounced visit to the Montgomery estate the next morning. The sight of me, a rare visitor, made Rhys’s parents beam. They warmly ushered me to the sitting room. I stared at the numbers above them, both close to 2000, and grew more confused. I had over two thousand chances to see his parents, but only three left with Rhys himself? Just then, Rhys sauntered down the main staircase, still tying his bespoke tie. Sure enough, the number above his head had dropped to 2. My heart skipped a beat. I held the teacup, momentarily speechless. “Savannah Finch, what brings you here?” He caught sight of me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as he walked over with a smirk that never quite reached his eyes. I put down the cup, abruptly stood up, and, completely out of character, looped my arm through his. “Rhys Montgomery, are you planning a long trip or, say, emigrating soon?” He lowered his lashes, focusing on my hand on his arm, a puzzled look on his face. “Recently? No.” I blinked, and amidst the knowing glances of the staff around us, I leaned in and whispered a suggestion: “Are you free today? Let me take you for a full medical checkup.” Rhys was my rival, my tormentor since childhood, but the genuine possibility of him having a sudden, terminal illness sent a wave of panic through me. His expression shifted slightly, then he laughed dismissively and lightly tapped my nose. “I just had a physical a few weeks ago, perfectly healthy. Want me to forward you the results?” On the sofa, his parents exchanged a look, as if they wanted to say something but couldn’t. I knew they were wondering why I was acting so intimate with Rhys today, only six months after I flat-out refused the proposed Montgomery-Finch merger/marriage. I couldn’t explain. I clung to him, my gaze darting up to the stark ‘2’ above his head. If it wasn’t an acute illness, could it be an accident? “Rhys Montgomery, I’m sticking with you today. Where you go, I go!” After making that bold declaration, I marched out, clutching his arm tightly, under the amazed eyes of everyone present. I was inseparable from him all morning. When he led the morning board meeting, I stood outside the clear glass wall of the conference room, my eyes fixed like a laser beam on the number above his head. At one point, his secretary brought me a chair and a coffee, clearly worried I’d tire myself out. When Rhys stepped out to use the restroom, I followed him down the hall, not letting him out of my sight. He finally looked at me, a helpless expression on his face. “We’ve reached the door. You can stop now.” I shamelessly tightened my grip on his suit sleeve, justifying myself. “This is your private washroom. I’ve known you since we were in matching toddler overalls; following you in is hardly out of line.” He managed a strained smile. “You’re taking a dare this seriously? Who did you lose to, Tatum Bell? Only she could come up with something so vindictive.” I instantly realized he thought I was just fulfilling a humiliating social debt. But this clinginess couldn’t last forever. If he needed to… do more than wash his hands, was I supposed to stare at him from inside the stall? … That image was too much. I’d just let him go and see if the number changed when he came out. I still had one visit to spare, anyway. In those few seconds, my mind raced. Until I heard Rhys’s resigned voice. “You want to come in? Fine. Come in. If you’re not embarrassed, why should I be?” He started to pull me inside. I stopped abruptly, pulled my hand away, and looked away. “On second thought, no.” Rhys let out a dry, short laugh. “Tapping out already.” But the moment his back disappeared behind the door, a fresh wave of panic hit. Ignoring everything, I pulled out my phone and dialed a video call. A few seconds later, the call connected. The screen showed the bathroom ceiling, and I could hear running water. “Rhys Montgomery, point the camera at your face!” 2 At my non-negotiable command, Rhys turned off the faucet, dried his hands with a tissue, and slowly raised the phone. “Savannah, my great aunt, you’re only going to torture me for one day, right?” In the camera, his brows were slightly furrowed, but there wasn’t a hint of real annoyance. When he finally emerged, the number above his head was still 2. I silently let out a breath of relief. It seemed the number didn’t decrease simply because we were in separate rooms. It only counted as a new meeting after a certain amount of time apart? I didn’t dare relax and continued to shadow Rhys, glancing at his head every thirty seconds. By the end of the day, my eyes felt like they were twitching. At quitting time, Rhys and I walked out of the Montgomery Industries building. A Bentley slid to a stop in front of us, and the window rolled down to reveal Tatum Bell’s grinning face. “Ha! Busted!” Today was my weekly gathering with Tatum, but I had bailed on her to keep an eye on Rhys. I couldn’t believe she tracked me down here. Rhys turned his head to me, a hint of dissatisfaction in his tone. “Didn’t you say you were having dinner with me tonight? Why is she here?” I froze, stunned by the number above Tatum’s head. Tatum was my fiercest friend, my shadow since we were toddlers, so why was her number only 15?! I immediately yanked open the car door, pulling Rhys in after me. “I’m in a good mood today. I’m treating you both to a hot spring spa and a huge dinner.” I sat in the middle of the back seat, flanked by them both, and gave the driver the address of a resort lodge outside the city. The driver, seeing Tatum look confused but not object, drove on. This was crazy. Even Tatum’s driver had over 500 more visits left with me! Was this girl hiding something crucial from me? In the car, Tatum nudged me with her elbow. “Hey, when did your relationship with the Montgomery Devil get so cozy? You used to avoid him like the plague.” Before I could answer, Rhys chimed in. “Thanks to you, Savannah is now incapable of leaving my side.” Tatum looked completely bewildered, pointing a finger at her own face. “Me?” I pulled her hand down and gave her a meaningful look. “Remember? We played Truth or Dare last time, and I lost to you? You dared me to stick to Rhys like glue.” My trusted accomplice quickly caught on and played along. “Oh, right, right! I totally forgot. My bad, I’ve been so busy lately.” Hearing that, I narrowed my eyes and pressed her. “Busy with what?” Tatum sighed, half-pensive, half-dreamy. “Ugh, my dad and my stepmom have decided to send me overseas for grad school. They say my ‘pretty little head’ needs to learn some real knowledge and independence.” 3 The moment I heard “overseas,” the alarm bells in my head went off. “Overseas? You’re telling me this now? When are you leaving? Which school? Are you coming back?” Tatum hadn’t expected my dramatic reaction and stammered her reply. “I—I only found out recently. My stepmom even contacted the school. I have to leave right after the New Year. But it’s only a one-year Master’s, and the school has a summer break. I’ll definitely be back; I don’t want to live on a revolving door of gray-tasting foreign food forever.” I quickly did the math. At our current meeting frequency, 15 was about the number of times we’d see each other before she left. From then on, I’d never see Tatum again? I felt my blood run cold. I was about to say something, but Rhys, who had been resting with his eyes closed, suddenly spoke in a low voice. “Your stepmother sounds quite eager about this.” Tatum nodded. “She does, but Dad also said studying abroad is good for me.” Rhys opened his eyes slightly and smiled, seemingly casually bringing up a topic. “Didn’t your stepmom just have another little boy this year?” Everyone in our circle knew about the Bell family’s new addition. Tatum’s biological mother died young, and her father married a beautiful second wife who gave birth to a son within a year. This year, their fifth year of marriage, the Bells welcomed a second son, Leo. The puzzle pieces clicked into a terrifying picture. The Bell family was one of the wealthiest in Crescent Bay. My suspicion was clear. If the stepmother had any ill intentions… I shivered. Once we reached the resort, changed into our swimsuits, and were soaking in the hot spring, I spoke to Tatum in a serious tone. “Tatum, listen to me. Don’t go abroad this time. Find an excuse to refuse. If you want to study overseas, choose the country and school yourself after the New Year. Do not let your stepmother interfere.” Tatum blinked her wet eyes at me. “Why, Sav?” Seeing her clueless expression, I decided to go all-in. I told her everything—about seeing numbers above people’s heads and what they meant. Tatum’s face went white. She lunged forward, clutching me in a hug. “Savannah, promise me you’re not telling me a horror story!” “Where would I get that kind of imagination?” I patted her back helplessly. Tatum, ever the dramatic one, immediately grabbed her phone from the edge of the pool. She called her dad, alternating between pleading, feigning illness, and threatening him. Finally, her dad conceded, agreeing to discuss the study abroad plan after the New Year. The instant Tatum hung up, I clearly saw the number above her head shoot up from 15 to 2000+. My eyes widened. I stood up in the pool, overjoyed. The number could change! Rhys was saved! 4 I quickly wrapped myself in a robe and sprinted toward the men’s spa. Rhys had just finished and was toweling his wet, short hair as he walked. I stopped in front of him, bent over, catching my breath. I was about to look up to check his number, but my gaze somehow lingered on his bare chest for too long. He finally broke the silence, scoffing. “Running that fast? Did a ghost chase you?” Normally, I’d have a sharp retort ready. But when I saw the unmoving 2 above his head, I didn’t know whether to feel relief or disappointment, and I couldn’t speak. What exactly did I need to do to make the number shoot up? The thought stopped me cold. Was the idea of seeing Rhys only twice more that upsetting to me? Was I really trying this desperately to change it? The thought of him facing an accident made my heart sink. I quickly stepped closer to him. “Rhys Montgomery, we’re sleeping here tonight. Don’t go back. Tomorrow is Saturday; you don’t have to clock in at Montgomery Industries. What do you say?” Just as I was racking my brain for a way to convince him to share a room, he reached out and touched my head. “Sure. And not just tomorrow, Savannah. I won’t need to be the CEO of Montgomery Industries anymore.” I froze, sure I heard him wrong. I looked up and saw Rhys watching me with a complex expression. He was tall, handsome, with eyes that could charm the devil. He was brilliant and capable. Every time he smiled, I felt like he was a cunning fox about to cause trouble. He was also a master of telling terrifying ghost stories. That’s why, since high school, I’d done my best to avoid him. Yet, the Finches and the Montgomerys were business partners for decades. Rhys and I were constantly in each other’s orbits. When he said he was quitting, I instinctively grabbed his wrist, a thread of panic in my voice. “What do you mean? Bored of being CEO? Want to try the common life?” Rhys looked down, his gaze fixed on my hand gripping his wrist. He didn’t speak for a long moment. It was then that the 2 above his head suddenly jumped to 10! I blinked, confirming I hadn’t imagined it. Holding hands made the meeting count go up? What was the logic here? Instinctively, I reached for his other hand and grasped it tightly. Rhys’s eyes moved slightly, and the number above him jumped again—to 15. I threw caution to the wind. I let go and pulled him into a full-body hug. The rhythmic pounding in my chest vibrated against his. I closed my eyes, counted to five, and released him. I looked up. —30! Exponential growth! Before my smile fully formed, and before I could proceed to the next step, Rhys’s fingers gently pinched my chin. “Savannah Finch.” His voice held a hint of warning, and his eyes had grown darker. I held my breath, my smile freezing on my lips. “What exactly is on the top of my head that you keep staring at all day?”

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My son, Leo, stood in the doorway, holding a phone. I was washing dishes and asked, without looking, “Where did you get that?” “From Dad.” “Put it back.” “But Dad has two phones, Mom.” I dried my hands and walked over. It was an older Samsung, not the sleek new iPhone Daniel usually carried. “This one…” I took the phone. The screen lit up. The WeChat interface. The pinned chat was labeled, “Wifey.” I stared at the two words, my fingers going rigid. “Mom, the other phone Dad has, there’s an auntie who calls him ‘Honey,’ too.” Leo tilted his head, blinking up at me, his face utterly innocent. The clock in the living room ticked, a slow, relentless sound. I slowly crouched down and stroked my son’s hair. “Leo, Mommy is going to keep this phone for a while.” My voice was unnervingly calm. But the hand holding the phone was shaking. 1 Daniel didn’t come home that night. He sent a text saying he had client obligations and told me not to wait up. I didn’t reply. I sat on the sofa with two phones laid out before me. One was his usual iPhone; the other was the Samsung Leo had dug out of his gym bag. He’d left in a hurry and forgotten it. Or, more accurately, for six years, he had hidden this phone flawlessly, never bringing it home. Until tonight. I took a deep breath and opened the Samsung. There were only two contacts in the chat list. One was “Wifey,” and the other was “Mom.” I tapped on “Wifey’s” chat log. The date of the very first message was March 7, 2018. That was the second year of our marriage. “Honey, I miss you.” “Me too, babe.” I scrolled down. “Honey, can you come out tonight?” “Can’t. She’s watching me closely lately. Just wait.” She. That was me. I kept scrolling. “Honey, you said you’d marry me, right?” “Of course, when the time is right.” “Honey, this month’s rent is due.” “Okay, I’ll transfer it now.” The transfer records. $1,500. Every single month, without fail. $1,500. My hand trembled. Further down. “Wifey, I found the car I promised. The Mini Cooper you like.” “Really? You’re the best, Honey!” “It’s forty thousand down. I’ll cover it.” Another transfer. I continued. “Wifey, I’m looking at condos for us. As soon as I save up the down payment, I’ll buy it.” “Oh, Honey, I want one with a huge balcony!” “Done. Whatever you want.” I scrolled mechanically. One year. Two years. Three years. Four years. Five years. Six years. Six years of chat logs. Six years of wire transfers. Six years of sweet words. Six years of “Honey” and “Wifey.” And me, his legal wife, in those six years, I was criticized for spending $50 on a new top. I opened the transfer records and began calculating, transaction by transaction. $1,500 x 12 months x 6 years = $108,000. Add the $40,000 car down payment. Add the down payment for the condo—I found the record—$100,000. Plus scattered gifts, red envelopes, bags, clothes, vacations… It took me two hours to total all the transfers. $300,000. Six years, $300,000. I sat on the sofa, staring at the number, my eyes aching with dryness. Last year, my mother was hospitalized and needed surgery. $8,000. I went to him for help. What did he say? “Your mother’s issues are yours to handle. Where am I going to find eight thousand dollars? The company’s cash flow is tight.” I begged him, on my knees. He sighed, “Fine, stop crying. I’ll see what I can do.” He finally gave me $5,000. And I was tearfully grateful, believing he was a good husband. $300,000. How many surgeries would that cover for my mother? The living room light was harsh. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. Then, I started taking screenshots. One by one. Chat logs. Transfer records. Voice messages. Photos. His selfies sent to her. Her selfies sent to him. Photos of them together. Pictures from a trip he told me was a “corporate retreat.” I spent another two hours compiling everything. When I was finished, I placed the phone back in his gym bag, precisely where he had hidden it. Then, I washed my face, checked Leo’s homework, and tucked him into bed. Lying in our bed, I stared at the ceiling. Daniel. We’ve been married for seven years. You’ve lied to me for six. I didn’t know what I was feeling in that moment. Anger? Heartbreak? Despair? All of the above. But more than anything, there was a strange, cold calm. It was as if someone had stabbed me, and while the blood poured out, I became perfectly lucid. The phone vibrated. It was Daniel’s text: “Wife, too much to drink at the dinner tonight. Staying out. Go to sleep early.” I stared at the message, the corner of my mouth twitching. Then, I opened his chat with the mistress and found today’s date. At the exact same time, he sent her: “Wifey, I’m home. Spending the night with you.” Home. His home was not here. It was with her. I put the phone down, closed my eyes, and waited for the morning. Daniel, you think I’m going to cry? I won’t. I’ve made my decision. 2. Daniel came back the next morning. He looked a little tired but was in a good mood and was carrying a bouquet. “Wife, these are for you.” I took the flowers and smiled. “Thank you.” “Where’s Leo?” “At daycare.” He nodded and walked toward the bedroom to change. I watched his retreating back, my voice flat. “Did you find your Samsung phone?” His step hitched. Just for a second. Then he turned around, his expression normal. “What Samsung phone?” “Leo said there was a phone in your gym bag.” “Oh, that. That’s a work phone the company gave me. Just for business.” He smiled easily. “Kids always rummaging through things. I’ve told him a thousand times.” “A company phone?” “Yeah, business needs. Two phones make things easier.” He said it so casually. I nodded. “I see.” He visibly relaxed and went into the bedroom. I stood in the doorway, looking at the bouquet in my hands. Lilies. My favorite. He actually remembered. But what good were a few flowers? What he gave her was a car, a condo, and six years of devotion. What he gave me was a $20 bouquet of lilies. I put the flowers in a vase and walked into the kitchen to start dinner. As I was chopping vegetables, I spoke, my voice loud in the quiet house. “Honey.” “Hmm?” He was watching sports in the living room. “Last year, when my mother was hospitalized, you said the company’s cash flow was tight and could only give me five thousand.” “…Yeah, what about it?” “Nothing.” I paused. “Just thinking about it.” The knife came down sharply on the cutting board, a clear, decisive thwack. “I did the math. The person on your… ‘business phone’—you’ve transferred them about three hundred thousand over the years.” Silence blanketed the living room. The sound of the TV was still there, but Daniel didn’t speak. “Three hundred thousand.” I repeated the number, still perfectly calm. “How many surgeries would that cover for my mother?” “What are you talking about?” His voice came from the living room, laced with sudden tension. I didn’t answer. I heard him get up, his footsteps approaching the kitchen. “Maya.” He stood in the kitchen doorway, his voice low and dangerous. “Did you go through my phone?” I looked up at him. His eyes held panic, annoyance, and a sliver of… guilt. “I did.” I said. “You—” “Seven years married, six years cheating.” I cut him off. “Daniel, do you have anything to say for yourself?” His face flushed a deep red. “You goddamn—” “Three hundred thousand.” I said the number again. “How many surgeries for your mother? You always claimed we were tight on money.” He froze. “You—” “You bought her a condo, a car, and transfer her fifteen hundred in allowance every month.” I listed each item calmly. “But you complained when I bought a fifty-dollar top.” “Maya!” he roared. “Why are you shouting?” I put the knife down and looked at him. “A guilty conscience?” His chest was heaving. “You, you let me explain—” “No need.” “That woman was harassing me! It wasn’t serious—” “Daniel.” I interrupted him again. “You called her ‘Wifey.’” His words caught in his throat. “You called her Wifey, and you called me Wife.” I smiled faintly. “How many wives do you have?” He opened his mouth, speechless. “You say it was nothing. What was the three hundred thousand for? Throwing money away?” “That was—that was—” “What was it? Say it.” He fell silent. I waited a few seconds, then turned back to chopping vegetables. “Nothing more to say, then. I know everything I need to know.” “Maya, what do you want?” “What do I want?” I didn’t look up. “I haven’t decided yet. But you can start thinking about what you want.” “What does that mean?” “Divorce.” I said the word with careless ease. He stared for a moment, then sneered. “Divorce? Dream on.” “Oh? You disagree?” “Maya, I’m telling you, you can have a divorce, but you aren’t getting anything from this marriage.” My chopping stopped again. “The condo is in my parents’ name. The car is in mine. Savings…” He smirked. “What are you going to take?” I turned and looked at him. His face was a mask of smug entitlement. “You can leave,” he articulated slowly, “but you aren’t taking anything with you. Except your son.” I looked at him, and then I smiled. “Daniel.” “What?” “You forgot one thing.” “What?” “Before we got married, when you were chasing me, you signed an agreement.” His color changed. “What agreement?” “You forgot?” I tilted my head. “It stipulated that if you committed adultery, you would voluntarily relinquish all claims to marital assets.” “That—that was—” “That was your signature, and your thumbprint.” His face went completely white. “I…” “Well?” I watched him. “Did you remember?” He opened his mouth, unable to speak a word. I turned back around, continuing to chop the vegetables. “Like I said, I haven’t decided yet. But you should start thinking about how you plan to handle that agreement.” The kitchen fell quiet. Only the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board. Clear. Forceful. 3. That night, Daniel didn’t sleep in the master bedroom. He took the guest room. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind a whirl. The agreement was a deliberate move. It was real. Before we married, he’d pursued me for two years, and I kept turning him down. Finally, I gave him a condition: sign a written fidelity agreement, guaranteeing loyalty after marriage, or forfeit all assets. He signed it. At the time, he’d been full of passionate promises that he’d only ever love me. I believed him. I filed the agreement away, hidden where he would never look. I thought I’d never need it. Now, I did. But the agreement alone wasn’t enough. I needed more evidence. The next morning, I took a personal day and went to Sophia’s law office. Sophia was my college roommate and became an attorney after graduation. She listened to my story, her expression hardening. “Jesus, this Daniel.” She swore. “Maya, what’s your plan?” “Divorce.” “Good. I’m with you.” “But I need solid evidence.” “You have the chat logs and transfer records, don’t you?” “Those are from his burner phone, just screenshots,” I explained. “I need the bank statements to prove that the three hundred thousand came out of our joint marital accounts.” “I can pull those for you.” Sophia nodded. “What else?” “Information on the mistress. I only know her WeChat name; I don’t know who she is or where she lives.” “That’s searchable.” “And…” I paused. “I need to know if the condo he bought her can be recovered.” Sophia pondered this. “If we can prove it was purchased with marital funds—joint savings—then we can certainly file a claim for recovery.” “Good.” “Maya.” Sophia looked at me closely. “You’re incredibly calm right now.” “If I wasn’t calm, what good would that do?” I gave a wry smile. “Cry?” “You’re allowed to cry.” “Would it change anything?” Sophia sighed and reached out, gripping my hand. “I’ll help you.” “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me. I’ve never liked Daniel anyway. A jerk needs to be taken down.” I nodded. Walking out of the law office, the sunshine was blinding. I stood on the street corner and took a deep breath. My phone rang. It was Daniel. “Where are you?” “Out.” “When are you coming home?” “Later.” “Maya, don’t make a scene. Come home and we can talk.” I didn’t reply. I hung up. He thought I was making a “scene.” He assumed I was just having a tantrum and would get over it in a couple of days. He had no idea I had started a campaign. Three days later, Sophia sent me the investigation results. The mistress’s name was Madison, Maddy, for short. Twenty-eight years old, a server at a high-end cocktail lounge. She met Daniel at a client dinner. Daniel had just been promoted to Sales Director, which meant more outings and more drinking. Maddy was a server at the high-end spot. Daniel noticed her immediately. That year, I was six months pregnant. I was home, nauseous and caring for my unborn child, while he was out flirting and sleeping with other women. I looked at the documents Sophia sent me, a heavy stone settling in my chest. But I didn’t shed a tear. I kept reading. In 2020, Daniel bought Maddy a Mini Cooper. $40,000 down, which he paid. In 2021, Daniel started looking for a condo for Maddy. In 2022, Daniel bought Maddy a small two-bedroom condo. The down payment was $100,000; it was a cash purchase. The deed was in Maddy’s name. But the purchase funds came directly from Daniel’s salary account. And that salary account was a joint marital asset. I organized all the information and saved it in an encrypted folder. Then, I started going through the bank statements Sophia got for me. Six years. 267 transfers. Aside from the fixed $1,500 monthly allowance, there were countless gifts, shopping sprees, vacations, and bonuses… I went through them, transaction by transaction, and the irony was suffocating. May 2019, Transfer $3,000, Note: Happy Birthday, Babe. The same day was my birthday. He treated me to dinner, $150 a person. February 2020, Transfer $8,000, Note: For a New Designer Bag. The same month, I asked about enrolling Leo in an early education class. Daniel said it was too expensive and unnecessary. July 2021, Transfer $15,000, Note: Maldives Trip for Us, Babe.

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I was having dinner when suddenly, my husband and my best friend both disappeared. After searching for a while, glowing text—like a livestream chat—floated before my eyes: [Omg, thank god the Male Lead grabbed the Female Lead and hid in the walk-in freezer! If the Supporting Female Lead saw them, it would be over!] [But they’re naked! They can’t hide in there forever, they’ll freeze to death!] I froze. So my husband was hugging my best friend in a freezer, and I was the “Supporting Female Lead”? I walked toward the freezer door, but the owner blocked me. “That’s our ingredients freezer, customers only!” The chat panicked too! [Wow, thank god the FL’s bestie blocked the SFL, or they’d be caught.] [It’s fine, it’s fine. As long as the SFL leaves, they can come out!] The words “freeze to death” flashed in my mind. I changed my strategy. “I want to change tables. I’m sitting right here.” The owner and the chat were dumbfounded. “What? Sit here?” [WTF, what is the SFL doing? If she sits in the main hall, how can our leads get out!] 1 I tore my eyes away from the floating text, suppressing a cold sneer. Everyone’s surprised? Then I better eat well, and eat slowly. Otherwise, I’d be letting down the two people hugging in the freezer. The owner was named Bella. I’d been here a few times, so we were acquaintances. But I didn’t know she was even closer with my “best friend,” Chloe. Close enough to be co-conspirators. Now, to cover for Chloe and my husband, David, she was blocking the freezer door. I looked at her coldly. “Is there a problem, Bella?” “The private room is stuffy. I want to sit in the hall. And I want to order more food. A grilled fish, and other dishes.” “I was holding back inside. Now I can eat freely.” “Besides the fish, I want two cases of beer, spicy chicken wings, 100 lamb skewers, 20 chicken legs, 50 oysters…” Bella looked confused for a second. Hearing the huge order, she instinctively picked up her pad to write it down. While she was writing, I called my friends in the private room. “Guys, come out! We’re switching tables. I ordered a feast and booze!” “Bring my bag and coat.” My friends on the phone started cheering. “Damn, Sarah! Ordering more? Are we drinking till dawn?” “Seriously, I thought we were wrapping up. Didn’t expect Sarah to go hard just because she stepped out. If we don’t eat, we’re disrespecting her!” “Let’s go, let’s go!” When they came out and sat down, I laughed loudly. “Eat! Nobody goes home until we’re stuffed!” 2 Bella was stunned. Holding the menu, she didn’t know whether to kick us out or tell the kitchen to start cooking. She looked worriedly at the freezer door, hesitated for a few seconds, then tried to make us leave. “I just remembered, we’re out of ingredients for these dishes. Can’t make them. You guys should go.” The chat reacted and praised Bella desperately: [The FL’s bestie is the real MVP! Giving up money to save her friend!] [That order was at least a grand. Bella is loyal!] [This SFL is so vicious. She wants to freeze our leads to death! Hmph, dream on!] [If the SFL and her friends don’t leave, it’s actually dangerous. That freezer is -5 degrees. They’re naked. They won’t last an hour.] [Sob, what to do? I want to rush in and kick them out!] Bella wished she could too. She wanted us gone now. But we had already moved the unfinished dishes from the private room to the new table. My friend Mike, mouth full of food, snapped at Bella: “Bella, that’s not cool. We haven’t even finished our food, and you’re kicking us out?” “Plus, we’re ordering more. You’re running a business, you have no reason to drive us away, right?” Panic flashed across Bella’s face. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not kicking you out. We really are out of ingredients.” I stood up and looked at the display fridges behind her. Rows of ingredients were neatly stacked. Fully stocked. “Bella, the food we ordered is right there in the glass case. How can you be out?” “Hurry up and serve us. I have more people coming. We’ll probably order even more.” Bella froze. “What? More people?” I waved my phone and smiled. “Yeah. I called my mother-in-law and her bridge club friends.” “They love your food. They’re big gossips. Treat them well, and they’ll give your restaurant free publicity.” 3 Bella turned to stone. So did the chat. [WTF! What is the SFL doing! Why call the ML’s mom? This is a death sentence!] [Even though the ML’s mom likes the FL, if she sees her son cheating and gets embarrassed in front of her friends, she’ll never agree to them being together!] [Exactly! She told the ML that the FL is way better than the SFL, but if they get caught now, that image is ruined!] [You guys are thinking about that? If the SFL doesn’t leave, our leads will freeze to death! Look, they’re shivering, there’s frost on their faces!] [Yeah, so pitiful. What do we do? I’m dying of anxiety.] [Don’t worry. The FL’s bestie will solve it.] I laughed internally. Really? Bella can solve this? Then I’ll watch and see how she solves it. Bella finally snapped out of it. Since the “out of stock” excuse failed, she tried another. “The kitchen just told me the gas is out. Can’t cook. If you want to eat, go somewhere else.” Anger rose in my chest. I rushed to the kitchen door. The chefs were cooking furiously, flames high. Just then, the restaurant’s speaker announced: “New DoorDash order received.” I sneered. “Bella, you’re acting really weird today. Why are you desperate to kick us out?” “Do you have some dirty secret?” “Your kitchen is busy, and there are spare gas tanks right there. This isn’t a roadside stall; you don’t just ‘run out’ of gas.” “If you don’t explain clearly today, we’re not leaving. I recorded a video. I’ll post it online and let the internet judge!” 4 Bella nearly fainted from anger. The chat was full of angry emojis. [Damn it, I want to slap this SFL!] [Why is she arguing with the FL’s bestie? Our FL is so cold she can’t speak. If the ML wasn’t hugging her tight, she’d have passed out!] [It’s okay. If they survive this, this life-and-death experience will make their love invincible.] Really? Invincible love? Sorry, I won’t let that happen. My friends started shouting about reporting Bella to the Better Business Bureau. Bella had no choice but to take the order to the kitchen. Watching her reluctant back, I felt a thrill of revenge. But it came with pain and rage. I treated Chloe well. I got her a job at David’s company when she was unemployed. She had nowhere to live, so I made David rent her a studio apartment. I included her in everything fun. And this? This is how she repays me! But it takes two to tango. David is scum too. Rabbits don’t eat the grass around their burrow, but he not only ate it, he dared to do something this thrilling right under my nose, with all our friends present. Since they want a thrill, I’ll give them enough thrill. Today, I’ll block them in there and see if they have the luck to walk out alive! “Sarah, you’re amazing. Spending my son’s money on food and drinks behind my back again? And bringing so many people!” A voice full of anger interrupted my thoughts. I turned around. My mother-in-law, Karen, arrived with her two sisters. Three women with permed hair and heavy makeup, thinking they were high society. But in reality, the Sterling family was barely middle-class in this city. Not worth a second look. Yet, Karen despised me, thinking I wasn’t good enough for David. After all, my family was just… normal. She always said I was spending David’s money. If another woman were his wife, she wouldn’t say that. Earlier, she didn’t want to come. When I mentioned a feast, she ran over. Said she wanted to eat back her son’s money. Ignoring her anger, I welcomed her with a smile. “Mom, Auntie Linda, Auntie Sue! Come sit!” “It’s not just my friends. David is here too. He just stepped out for a bit.”

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The news of my ex-wife and daughter, after my second chance at life, came via a call from an unfamiliar number. “Hello, who is this?” My voice must have triggered something, because the person on the other end immediately burst into an excited response. “Daddy, Maisie misses you so much! When are you going to come see Mommy and me?” “We have a big field day next month, and you haven’t been to one of my school sports in ages.” I kept my expression blank, my rejection swift and cold. “Don’t you have a better dad now?” “Go ask your new father for help.” I hung up without another word, then turned the phone off. 1 I will never forget the day my wife was reclaimed by her old-money family. I was in our cramped studio apartment, packing a small, worn suitcase. She saw me and frowned, her eyes sharp. “Put that down. I’m only taking Graham and Maisie. You’ll stay here for now, in the old side of the city.” “I’ll send you a five hundred dollar a month allowance, and I’ll make time for you to see Maisie.” I nodded calmly. No scene, no argument. I’d known for a long time that she would only take The Golden Boy and my daughter. In my previous life, I’d followed them, clawing and begging my way into the Ashford estate. I thought I could finally enjoy some security. Instead, The Golden Boy—Graham—framed me for theft. And my own daughter coaxed me out to the eighteenth-floor balcony and pushed me off. I remember her eyes, red-rimmed and spitting fire, as I fell. “I don’t want a thief for a father! If you hadn’t insisted on coming home with us, I would have had a better dad sooner!” In that moment, I’d plunged into an icy hell. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Lying on my phone screen was a text message from a top-secret government research division. “Mr. Kinsley, we are pleased to inform you of your immediate recruitment. Please note: Upon induction, you are forbidden from contact with any outside parties for a period of five years.” I had two days left before I was due to surrender myself—my life, my future—to the state. But the night I moved into a discreet rental box, seeking anonymity, the door was kicked in. Vivienne Ashford stood in the entryway, her white designer suit soaked with rain, her face as dark as the storm clouds. Behind her, holding an umbrella, was Graham Alistair. And clinging to his hand was my daughter, Maisie. Graham stepped forward, his expression a mixture of feigned sympathy and righteous anger. “Rhys, I know you’re upset, but you can’t steal my mother’s locket. It was the only thing I had left of her…” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I realized this was the exact same script, the same toxic, manipulative scene from the life I was supposed to have escaped. I fought the tremor in my hands, trying to speak, to stop them— But the bodyguards were already tearing through my meager belongings. They reached into a hidden pocket in the bottom of my travel bag and pulled out a delicate silver chain with a pendant. Vivienne held the necklace up, and the look of pure disgust in her eyes threatened to flay me alive. A chilling clarity washed over me. It couldn’t be… It was Graham. In both lives, he had planned this. He had made sure I was ready to be loathed by everyone I loved. Vivienne’s voice was lethal. “Caught red-handed, Rhys Kinsley. For the sake of our history, I’m giving you a chance to confess.” Confess? I raised my head, forcing back the tears. I was only two days away from a completely new life. “I’m not guilty. What is there to confess?” The finality in my tone only stoked Vivienne’s fury. She barked a command toward the door. “Make him confess!” Two hulking men immediately rushed in and seized me, one on each side. One of them pressed down hard on the back of my neck, the crushing force driving me into a humiliating bow before Graham. “Kneel and apologize!” Vivienne’s icy voice commanded from above. I clenched my jaw, fighting with every ounce of strength I had. “It wasn’t me! Vivienne, I won’t apologize!” But the bodyguard’s hand was an iron clamp. He slammed my head down hard onto the rough concrete floor. Thud! The sharp, searing pain exploded across my forehead. “Apologize,” Vivienne ordered. “I… didn’t…” I managed to choke out. Thud! Another blow, harder this time. I felt the warm, sticky flow of blood beginning to run down my face. Maisie’s small, tearful voice piped up. “Daddy, just confess. Maisie is scared…” My daughter’s plea tore at my heart. She didn’t know. Every time she called me “Daddy,” it was another piece of shrapnel in my shattered soul. In the past life, as I was shoved from the rooftop, I couldn’t understand why the daughter I’d cherished for ten years trusted a man who was no blood relation over me. Vivienne’s voice was thick with derision. “See? Even your own daughter is ashamed of you.” Thud! The third time. My vision blurred. Blood and sweat mixed, dripping onto the cold floor. Graham made a show of stepping forward. “Vivienne, enough… Perhaps Rhys was just confused for a moment…” “Confused? I think he’s incorrigible!” The bodyguard grabbed my head again, but I fought to raise it, locking eyes with Graham. “I did nothing wrong!” Vivienne completely snapped. “Still fighting me?! Keep going! Don’t stop until he admits it!” It was then that Maisie suddenly ran forward and kicked my shoulder with all her small might. “You’re a thief! I’m never going to call you Dad again! Maisie hates you!” The kick wasn’t physically severe, but it froze me completely. I forgot how to struggle. My own daughter. While I was being framed and brutally forced to my knees, she didn’t just fail to believe me; she delivered the final blow. This is what a dead heart feels like. Vivienne seemed momentarily shocked by Maisie’s action and waved her hand. The bodyguards released their grip. I collapsed onto the ground, blood still streaming from my forehead. She stepped up to me, rain dripping from her hair. “Rhys Kinsley. For Maisie’s sake, if you just admit your mistake and apologize to Graham, I’ll let this go.” I raised my head, staring at her through my blood-smeared vision. Then at the innocent-faced Graham behind her, and finally at my daughter, who was looking at me like a stranger. I smiled, a thin line of red spilling from the corner of my mouth. “I… did nothing wrong.” “And I will never apologize to Graham Alistair!” I fixed my stare on Graham as I spoke the last three words, each one ringing with final, defiant certainty. Vivienne flew into a rage. “Stubborn fool! Drag him outside and make him kneel in the mud! He doesn’t get up until he confesses!” I was roughly hauled out into the yard and thrown down into the freezing mud. The storm raged, the torrential rain washing over the wound on my forehead, the pain searing cold. Behind me, I heard Graham’s soft, concerned voice. “Vivienne, it’s pouring. Maybe let Rhys come inside…” And Maisie’s childish question. “Mommy, when will the bad thief finally confess?” Followed by Vivienne’s cold response. “It’s his own fault.” The thief? His own fault? The physical pain was a dull ache compared to the agony in my chest. The sounds faded, and I finally sank into unconsciousness. The smell of antiseptic stung my nose. I woke with a shuddering jolt of agony. Above me, the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. Standing around my bed, like grim iron statues, were several emotionless men in black suits. Bodyguards. “He’s awake.” A frigid voice reached me. I managed to turn my head with difficulty. Vivienne stood by the bed, her face stormy. She held the necklace in her hand, her eyes devoid of warmth—only scrutiny and disgust. She held it up. “Rhys Kinsley, I’m asking you one last time. Where is the real heirloom from Graham’s mother? This one is a fake.” A fake? My pupils contracted. The realization hit me like a physical blow. Graham. His heart was pure venom. He had used a counterfeit to solidify my guilt, ensuring that whether I confessed or not, he had a trump card. The real necklace was probably long gone, hidden or disposed of. He didn’t just want to ruin my reputation; he wanted to destroy me completely, to make my comeback impossible. I tried to speak, my throat dry and raspy. “I don’t have it!” My chest tightened, squeezed by an invisible hand. Why? Why, even in this second chance, could I not escape this malicious trap? Why must I bear this baseless accusation? Vivienne stared at me, trying to gauge the truth in my eyes. A moment later, the last sliver of patience vanished, replaced by a heavy curtain of disappointment and ruthlessness. “It seems you won’t talk without persuasion.” She took a step back and gave a cold command to the bodyguards. “A thief doesn’t deserve his hands. Since he won’t give us the truth, break his fingers, one by one. We’re in a hospital; he won’t die.” I snapped my eyes open, staring at her in horror. She wants to break my fingers?! No! I can’t! I thrashed against the restraints, but the bodyguards held me fast. I need my hands! The National Research Institute! My future! My only hope of escaping this nightmare was vested in the hands I would use to manipulate delicate instruments and conduct experiments. Without them, everything would be ruined! “Vivienne Ashford! You can’t!” I shrieked, desperation overriding all reason. “I didn’t steal! I didn’t…” But she watched with cold indifference, as if observing a silent play that held no personal meaning for her. One of the bodyguards stepped forward, grabbed my left hand, and fixed his grip on my index finger. “No!” My agonizing scream tore through the sterile silence of the room. Snap! The sharp crack of bone breaking. The agonizing, piercing pain made my vision go black, almost dragging me into unconsciousness. The pain. Indescribable. But it was only a fraction of the agony in my soul. I looked at the beautiful profile of the woman I had loved with my whole being for ten years. Hatred, like a poisonous vine, coiled and began to grow. I hated her! But I hated myself more! How could I have been so blind as to fall for this heartless, cold, morally bankrupt woman? To protect her fragile ego, I had hidden my advanced degrees and my true capability, willingly becoming a stay-at-home husband, letting her believe I was ordinary. Ten years of devotion, ten years of my life, bought me this fate. I regretted it. I truly regretted ever loving her. Snap! The second finger was broken. “Agh!” My body convulsed in agony, cold sweat instantly soaking my hospital gown. Vivienne stood there, her face expressionless, But I caught a fleeting glimpse of her hand at her side, her knuckles white with tension. Does it hurt, Vivienne? It is nothing compared to what you have inflicted on me. Snap! Snap! The third. The fourth… The excruciating pain came in waves, threatening to drown my consciousness. I bit down hard on my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to yield, refusing to confess to a crime I didn’t commit. One, two, three… When all four fingers of my left hand, excluding the thumb, were bent at unnatural angles, the bodyguard moved to my right hand. Despair, like icy lake water, began to consume me. My future, my dreams, shattered before my eyes. Snap! When the ninth finger was brutally snapped, I no longer had the strength to scream. I was a dying fish, paralyzed on the bed, only the shallow rise and fall of my chest proving I was still alive. Nine fingers broken, my body a ruin. My life, too, was broken in that instant. Yet, I had never confessed to stealing. Vivienne looked at my pathetic form, soaked in blood and tears, at my ten monstrously swollen and misshapen fingers. Her face went pale for a split second. She spun around, her voice betraying a hint of unnoticed hoarseness. “Call the doctor. Set them.” With that, She fled, practically running from the room, without a single backward glance. Doctors and nurses came in, timid and shaky, to clean the wounds and splint my broken, mangled fingers. The fierce pain caused me to black out and wake up repeatedly until I was forced onto an oxygen mask to maintain my weak breathing. I lay there, a broken doll on a cold slab, my mind swirling with hate, regret, and despair. Why did I ever meet her? Why did I let my life be destroyed by this woman? Late that night, the door to the room creaked open softly. Two figures, one large, one small, silently approached my bedside. It was Graham Alistair, and my daughter, Maisie. My consciousness was foggy, but I could sense their presence. Graham’s voice was a soft, venomous whisper. “Maisie, look how sad Daddy is. Don’t you want Mr. Alistair to be your real daddy? I’ll buy you lots of beautiful dresses, take you to the best parks, and make you the happiest little princess.” My heart violently seized in my chest. Then, I heard the most chilling answer of this life, and the last one. Maisie’s small, clear voice was immediate and full of delight. “Yes! Maisie loves Mr. Alistair! Mr. Alistair should be my daddy!” In that moment, my heart ceased to beat. Graham seemed pleased. He let out a low, satisfied chuckle. “But, Maisie, as long as your current daddy is still here, Mr. Alistair can’t officially be your daddy, can he?” He paused, his voice like a snake uncoiling. “Look, Daddy seems to be struggling with that mask. Be a good girl, Maisie. Help Daddy take that tube off, and he won’t be in pain anymore. And Mr. Alistair can be your daddy forever, okay?” I snapped my eyes wide open! Through my blurred vision, I saw Maisie’s small, innocent face. She looked at Graham, then at me. And then, she reached out her hand, straight toward my oxygen mask! “Bad Daddy! You steal things! I don’t want you anymore!” she mumbled, her tone echoing the hatred she’d been brainwashed to feel. Watching that small hand reach for my lifeline, seeing the pure, unadulterated disgust in my daughter’s eyes, I lost the final flicker of strength to fight. My heart was cold ash. I had been reborn only to die by their hands again, but this time in a far more humiliating and agonizing manner. I felt the mask shift, and breathing became an immediate, desperate struggle. I was dying. And this time, there would be no coming back…

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My husband cheated on me one month after I found out I was pregnant. He insisted he’d cut it off clean immediately, and the entire family instantly rallied to his defense. “He’s learned his lesson, Anya. Everyone makes mistakes. He’s already fixed things. You’re pregnant, for heaven’s sake—how are you supposed to manage alone? Think of the baby.” I was trapped in a suffocating web of family pressure, everyone demanding I play the role of the forgiving, high-minded wife. But the sickening filth of his betrayal—it pressed down on me, driving me into a depression I couldn’t treat because of the pregnancy. The anxiety and insomnia were a constant, grueling battle I fought alone, venting my emotional chaos only through an obsessive, consuming need for cleanliness. Grant was always gentle, his voice low and soothing. “It’s alright, honey. Once the baby is here, things will be fine. I’m committed to making this right.” From then on, everything he did required a ritual of sanitation. He’d sterilize every dish he touched, wear gloves if he needed to hold my hand, and wrap himself up like a mummy to cook dinner, sweating profusely but never complaining. “It’s fine. I’m the one who messed up…” Until finally, after I quietly pointed out a single stray hair on the polished hardwood floor, he completely snapped. He ripped off his protective apron and gloves. “That’s enough! Yes, I cheated, and yes, I ended it instantly! Are you seriously going to punish me like this forever? Look at yourself, Anya! You don’t look like a normal person anymore! Am I that utterly disgusting to you?” He started deliberately trashing the house, smashing a ceramic bowl, kicking over the trash can—a calculated retaliation against the mysophobia that had become my defense mechanism. He knew he had the entire family in his corner, and he’d seen me compromise for the baby before. Now he was demanding I finally cave and let his betrayal fade into the past. My nerves instantly tightened. A sharp, unbearable cramp twisted my stomach, and blood, a horrifying amount of it, began pouring out between my legs. And yet, in that moment, I felt an inexplicable, chilling wave of relief. “Grant,” I said, my voice unnaturally steady. “We’re getting a divorce.” 1 The truth was, I couldn’t let it go. The barb was too deep. The thought that just one month into carrying his child, he couldn’t stand the sight of me and ran straight into his secretary’s arms. The disgust was a poison I couldn’t flush out. I had tried. I tried to forget, to convince myself to listen to our parents and become the magnanimous wife. But I couldn’t. Grant shoved the front door open, pulling on his jacket. “I can’t take this anymore! I’m a person, too! Fine, have your divorce!” He left without a second look, without even registering the darkening pool of blood on the floor. The five-month-old contractions finally overwhelmed me. I crumpled to the floor, dialing the hospital with shaking hands. Tears streamed down my face. I never imagined us reaching this point, where the sight of each other became a source of pure revulsion. A flash of memory: him in his youth, laughing, full of triumphant energy. He’d carried me into the wedding car while everyone cheered, promising me forever. We’d even left our vows at the most sacred spot in the valley, a promise that was now nothing but dust. The paramedic was astonished by the amount of blood as they lifted me onto the stretcher. She checked me, her expression grim and regretful. “I’m sorry, but we might not be able to save this baby. The blood loss is too severe. You need to prepare yourself.” My body was racked with pain, but my heart felt hollowed out. I remembered the hope that had come with this child, the stack of books, the countless articles, my desperate efforts to be a good mother. But… Forgive me. I had to be myself first. I still went through the agony of labor. Afterwards, drenched in sweat, I lay in the hospital bed, feeling like a corpse, next to the small bundle that had never had a chance to breathe. I endured the cremation alone. The ashes were so tiny, almost nothing left to gather. It was as if this little one was an understanding spirit, choosing the hardest exit to force my hand. I buried the remains in a beautiful, quiet park overlooking the ocean. During all of this, Grant never called. The hospital had followed procedure and contacted him, but he chose to vanish. He must have been too consumed by his own righteous anger. But what about me? I had nothing but my paralyzing fixation on cleanliness as an outlet. Otherwise, I felt like I was dissolving. So dirty… Why did he do this to me? After burying the baby, I walked straight to a law firm and requested a divorce agreement. Later, while I was back in the hospital for follow-up, my parents called. Their first thought wasn’t for my recovery, but to defend Grant. “Honey, why are you fighting again? You can’t be so stubborn. Marriage is compromise. Don’t keep bringing up divorce, it looks terrible.” I was too tired to argue. What was the point of clinging to a marriage that was already dead? They had used the baby to try and trap me for months; now they had no leverage left. So, I spoke calmly. “I miscarried. The baby is gone.” A long, thick silence followed before they finally hung up. That afternoon, Grant’s parents—my in-laws—rushed over. They looked at my now-flat stomach, their eyes filled with pity for the lost child, promising they would straighten Grant out. “That rotten boy, he’s nowhere to be seen! How could he not look after you?” “Anya, you rest easy. I’ll give that idiot a proper dressing down. You won’t see him until you’ve cooled off.” It was the same hollow routine. They pretended to be on my side, but every time they were just covering for their son, as if he were an innocent child and everything he did was forgivable. A massive wave of apathy washed over me. I wasn’t angry anymore. I was just done. I didn’t love him, and I refused to share a life with him. My voice was cold and steady. “I want a divorce.” Their expressions immediately changed. “Anya, don’t keep thinking that way. People need to compromise. Our son hasn’t been perfect, but I’ll make him change.” My mother-in-law muttered under her breath, “Sometimes women just need to stop making such a fuss.” A fuss? I gripped the edge of the hospital gown. My tone was frigid. “I am divorcing him, no matter what. Grant already agreed. You have an issue? Take it up with him.” Unbelieving, they called Grant. Still steaming from our fight, he simply agreed with my statement. “She’s right, Mom. Divorce. I can’t handle it. Do you know how much I’ve been degraded? I cheated, but I fixed it! I fired the secretary! What else do you want? Should I die and go back in time? I told her I was drunk, it was a mistake! It happened, we have to move on!” He hung up before they could even tell him about the miscarriage, completely dismissing the entirety of my suffering. How dare he play the victim? Cheaters are despicable. They don’t get to call themselves the ‘degraded’ ones. For the past five months—since the day I found out I was pregnant—my hormones had amplified everything. I suffered from depression and insomnia with no medication. While he slept soundly, I was struggling through morning sickness, crying, dealing with swollen feet, and losing my hair in clumps. I was a balloon filled with dark energy, constantly consumed by thoughts of ending it all. Everyone had hidden my medication for the sake of the baby. But what about me? I was a person, too. Who cared about me? And he has the audacity to complain, to call himself the suffering one. My parents arrived, too, demanding I maintain the marriage, just as they had demanded I get married in the first place. “Listen to me! You are not divorcing! Your father and I wouldn’t harm you!” They cared only for their image: a son-in-law who was successful, highly paid, and gave them “face” among their friends. I didn’t care. Looking at their self-serving faces, I smashed the glass of water on the bedside table. “Enough! From this moment on, I am responsible for my own life.” When they saw they couldn’t control me, they gave me the silent treatment, threatening to cut me off if I went through with the divorce. I ignored them. As soon as I was steady enough, I took the papers and went to his office.

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1 After my sister, the golden child of our family, died in an accident, my parents’ grief was a raw, open wound. But I had stumbled upon her anonymous online journal, and I knew the truth: she had faked her own death. I was about to show my parents, to end their suffering, when I overheard my mother’s choked whisper to my father. “The one who should be dead is still here, while the one with a future is gone.” Her voice cracked. “We poured everything into getting her a master’s degree, just waiting for her to help pay for her sister’s goddamn medical bills. What did I do to deserve a vampire for a daughter?” I froze outside their door. The vampire, the one who should be dead—that was me. I was born with cerebral palsy. The doctors told them to let me go. But they refused, my mom and dad, and they clawed their way through hell to raise me. My clumsy, uncoordinated limbs made me a target for bullies at school, and the taunts eventually festered into a crippling anxiety disorder. My medical bills were a black hole that swallowed every dollar they ever earned. We never had a single nice day. I was the anchor dragging this family to the bottom. Staring at their weary backs through the crack in the door, I made a silent promise. You’re right, Mom. The one who should be dead is me. I’ll be good. I’ll go. … Before the end, I looked at my sister’s journal one last time. She had posted an update. Faking my death feels like being reborn. No more digging through the trash for toilet paper just to save a few pennies for my sister’s treatments. So, it was because of me. Of course, it was. A single tear splattered onto the screen, blurring the words into an indistinct smear. I felt a wave of guilt so profound it almost drowned me, but beneath it, there was a strange, sharp sense of relief. She was free. For me, she had lived a life of quiet misery. She never wore new clothes, her sleeves always inches above her wrists, her pants too short. She was a walking collection of hand-me-downs—men’s shirts, women’s blouses, clothes meant for children and the elderly, none of them truly hers. Yet, she would always smile and plead with Mom. “It’s Christmas, can we please get Lily a new coat?” She never asked for a thing for herself. She was an angel of self-sacrifice. On the rare occasions we had meat, she would mimic our parents, carefully picking every lean piece from her plate and placing it in my bowl. She was so thin, a wisp of a girl, yet she carried me on her back all the way to school. Not for a day, not for a week. But for twelve years, through every scorching summer and bitter winter. When other kids called me a cripple, my gentle, quiet sister would transform into a lioness, fighting them with a ferocity that was terrifying to watch. From the day I was diagnosed, the scales of our parents’ love tipped completely in my favor. But Chloe never fought for their attention. She loved me just as much as they did, and she poured everything else she had into her studies. “I’ll get into a great university, Lily,” she’d promise, her eyes shining with determination. “I’m going to make life good for all of us.” To everyone, Chloe was our parents’ pride. She was the single, flickering flame of hope in our broken home. My hand trembled as I typed out a private message to her. “Chloe, thank you for loving me all these years.” “I’m so sorry you were stuck with a sister like me.” “I’m tired. I’m going to a place where I can finally rest.” “Come home, Chloe. Please.” My vision swam with tears, making the touchscreen unresponsive. I wiped it with my sleeve, my fingers clumsy, and closed the app. In my drawer was a bottle of sleeping pills, collected one by one over six long months. Finally, a lethal dose. Just before I swallowed them, I decided to leave two sentences for my parents. A final apology. “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry my life dragged you all into the mud.” “I can’t hold on anymore. I have to let go. Please, don’t cry.” I fought to keep my tears from staining the paper. There were a million things I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. This was enough. I placed the note on my nightstand, where they couldn’t miss it. Then, without a second’s hesitation, I swallowed the entire bottle of pills. I pulled the covers over myself, found a comfortable position, and closed my eyes. Goodbye, Mom. Dad. Chloe. Goodbye forever. That night, my soul drifted through our silent apartment. The quiet was finally broken by the sound of the front door opening. “Lily? Are you hungry?” Mom’s voice was heavy with exhaustion. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she forced a cheerful tone. “I bought some chicken wings. I’ll make them just how you like.” 2 Just like always, she called out towards the room Chloe and I shared before heading straight for the kitchen. Dad was curled up on the sofa, shivering, a nasty flu rattling his chest with every cough. My heart ached looking at him—his hair now more white than black, his face a roadmap of worry, his body thin and frail beneath his tattered clothes. I could still remember when he was the most handsome man in the neighborhood. Mom poked her head out of the kitchen, her expression softening with concern. “You need to get some medicine. This family depends on you. You can’t afford to fall apart.” Dad didn’t open his eyes, just hugged himself tighter. “I’m fine.” He tried to stand, but his legs were weak. He shuffled towards their bedroom. “I’ll just bury myself in blankets. Sweat it out.” He lay down on their lumpy, worn-out mattress and pulled every heavy piece of clothing in the house on top of himself, a makeshift mountain of fabric. He mumbled something so quietly I almost missed it. “That money… is better spent on Lily’s medicine.” He let out a long, shuddering sigh. I floated beside his bed, tears I could no longer physically shed streaming down my face. As he drifted off to sleep, a muffled sob escaped his lips, a sound he tried to bury in his pillow so Mom and I wouldn’t hear. “Chloe… my brilliant, beautiful girl… how could this happen?” His voice was a broken whisper. “God, if you had to take one of my daughters… why did it have to be her?” I reached out to pat his back, but my hand passed right through him. “Dad, it’s okay,” I whispered, my voice lost to the air. “I’m gone now. You and Mom don’t have to suffer anymore. Maybe… maybe Chloe will come home.” He couldn’t hear me. He just lay there, his shoulders shaking with silent, repressed grief. He didn’t stop until Mom came in to tell him dinner was ready. He was a master at hiding his pain; she never suspected he’d been crying. “Not hungry. Just call Lily.” Mom sighed and walked toward my room. Pushing the door open, she saw me tucked under the covers. “Lily, time to eat. I made your favorite chicken wings.” Silence. I didn’t move. She tried again, her patience wearing thin. “Lily?” Still nothing. Suddenly, her frustration boiled over. “Are you listening to me? Or are you dead in there? I slave away for you day in and day out, and this is the thanks I get? Can’t you give me one moment of peace? Must you always be lying in bed like a useless lump?” Her voice rose with every word. “I’m talking to you! Do you hear me? The whole family is falling apart, and all you can do is sleep? It should have been you! Then I could die too, and we’d all finally be free!” The more she yelled, the more she broke. Tears streamed down her face, and she swiped at them angrily with the back of her hand. I rushed forward instinctively to hug her, but my arms closed on empty air. I could only watch, helpless, repeating the words she couldn’t hear. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry.” I knew she didn’t hate me. Not really. It was my illness they hated, the relentless burden that had tormented them for twenty-six years. She turned and stalked out of the room, slumping into a chair at our rickety, three-legged dining table to weep. On the table sat three bowls of rice, a small plate with two glistening chicken wings, and a side of homemade pickles. The wings were for me. Mom only ever bought two. At first, the butcher would sneer at her. “Who buys just two chicken wings?” Mom would just offer a tight, embarrassed smile. After a while, he learned about our family’s situation. He never made a comment again. Sometimes, he’d even throw in some scallions and ginger for free. 3 When Chloe was still here, her eyes would practically bulge out of her head with longing for those wings, but she’d always force a smile and say, “You have them, Lily. I don’t really like them.” I asked her once, “Doesn’t it make you sad? That Mom and Dad love me more?” She had laughed. “Of course not. What’s there to be sad about? They give you more when it comes to food and things, sure. But they paid for my education, didn’t they? Getting me through school cost just as much, if not more. So no, I never felt it was unfair.” The memory of her sweet smile was a sharp pain in my chest. If it weren’t for my “vampire disease,” our family could have had a good life. Mom and Dad both worked two jobs—construction during the day, washing dishes at a restaurant at night. Together, they brought in almost five thousand dollars a month. But my physical therapy alone cost two thousand. And that was the cheap option. There were free state-funded programs, but Mom insisted the private clinic had better results. For twenty-six years, rain or shine, she took me there and picked me up. Then there was the anxiety and depression. My therapy sessions were a hundred dollars an hour, three or four times a week. Mom never batted an eye. And the medication on top of that… It all meant that when Chloe went to college, there was no money left for her living expenses. She had to work multiple jobs while studying full-time. Because of me, every single person in my family was trapped in their own private hell. I had tried to end it before. Several times. But each time, they had found me, saved me. This time, thank God, they were too late. I remember when I was little, my grandmother would take a bus for hours from her village to bring us fresh eggs from her farm. She saw how my illness was breaking her daughter, how it was grinding Mom down to nothing. One day, she couldn’t take it anymore. “You have two choices,” she told my mother, her voice trembling with a mixture of love and desperation. “Either you leave that child somewhere, or you leave your husband and remarry. You’re still young! Your life shouldn’t be over just because it’s begun! If you won’t feel sorry for yourself, then I’ll feel sorry for you! You are my flesh and blood!” Mom refused to listen. They had a terrible fight, and after that, my grandmother never visited again. Just like that, my mother lost her own mother, too. My thoughts drifted back to the present. Mom covered the plate of chicken wings, her own appetite gone. Before heading to bed, she stopped at my door. “The food is on the table. If you get hungry, get up and eat it yourself.” No response. This time, she didn’t get angry. She just turned and went to her room. The next morning, Dad’s flu was worse, but he still had to be at the construction site by six. He had no strength left, but he pushed himself anyway. I wanted to scream. I jumped in front of them, a frantic, invisible ghost. “Dad! Mom! Just pull back my blanket! Please! I’m already dead! You don’t have to work yourselves to death anymore! I’m begging you, just look!” Mom glanced at the untouched rice and chicken on the table and yelled towards my room. “Lily, what is this new tantrum? Why didn’t you eat last night? Your father and I are leaving for work. You get up and eat right now. I’ll be back at noon to take you to physical therapy, you hear me?” 4 I waved my arms wildly in front of her face. “Mom, just lift the blanket! I’m gone! You’re free!” Her old flip phone rang, and she paused to answer it. A woman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Hey, it’s Sarah. I’ve got some good news for you.” My mother’s first instinct was always work. “Is there a job opening?” “No, not that. It’s… well, my friend’s son, he’s thirty-five and not married yet. He’s from a decent family, you know, just an ordinary guy. And I was thinking, with Lily’s condition, it’s not easy for her to find someone. Maybe we could set them up? That way, you and your husband would finally be free of the burden. You could start saving for your retirement. Let’s be honest, as long as Lily is with you, you’ll never have a day of peace. This is a good thing, someone willing to take her off your hands.” The color drained from my mother’s face. For a woman who was always so composed, her voice was pure venom. “You must have a lot of free time to be sticking your nose in my family’s business! Your daughter is the one nobody wants, you bitch! Who do you think you are? Stay the hell out of my life!” She slammed the phone shut, her hands shaking with rage. This wasn’t the first time. People had tried to set me up before. The suitors were always men with mental disabilities, developmental issues, or physical handicaps like my own. As long as a woman has a uterus, she has value, they’d say. She can always be married off. But my parents could never bear the thought of me being mistreated in someone else’s home, so they held on, bearing the unbearable. My heart ached for my mother. I wrapped my arms around her, a useless, spectral hug. Why couldn’t a woman this good have been blessed with two healthy daughters? She turned her anger towards my room. “Lily, for God’s sake, can’t you be more considerate? Stop with these moods! I know I’ve been distracted, but it’s because of your sister! I’ve been out of my mind with grief! Don’t be angry anymore, okay? Or you’ll make me angry, too! I’m leaving for work! And if that food is still on the table when I get back, you’ll have me to answer to!” I stood before her, my ghostly tears flowing freely. She saw nothing. At noon, as precise as an alarm clock, Mom returned. She hurried into the kitchen, shouting as she cooked. “Lily, time for the rehab center! Get ready!” She stir-fried some vegetables with practiced ease, the entire process taking less than five minutes. The rice was already in a thermos from the morning, ready to take with us for me to eat at the center. When she came out and saw last night’s meal still sitting untouched on the table, her temper flared. She stormed into my room, her face a mask of impatience. A flicker of joy went through me. Finally. She was going to find me. “What is wrong with you? Your moods are unbearable! I treat you like a queen, and for what? You ignore me when I talk, you refuse to eat! Are you trying to kill me?” She grabbed my shoulder and started to shake me, her frustration mounting with each movement. “What is it? Lily! Answer me! What are you so angry about this time? Who upset you now? Can’t you have a little mercy on me? I’m exhausted!” She was at her breaking point. Overwhelmed with anger and despair, she slapped my backside twice over the blankets. “Talk to me! I said, talk to me, do you hear?!” Her face was flushed, her breathing ragged. “Mom! Mom! Lily’s trying to kill herself! Stop her!” A familiar, frantic voice cut through the air. Thank God. Chloe was back. Mom froze, thunderstruck, her eyes wide with disbelief as she stared at my sister. Chloe didn’t have time to explain. She rushed to pull back my blankets, and in that instant, the world stopped for them both.

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I went to the Board of Education to report our Grade Head. She used excessive corporal punishment, and I almost died. School became a living hell. I became a target for everyone, because I made them lose an “experienced” and “good” teacher. When he came back, I thought my dawn had arrived. I didn’t expect him to be even crueler. He pinched my jaw, gritting his teeth. “You disgusted me for so long. Can’t handle a little revenge?” Later, he held my waist tight, pulling me forcefully into his arms. Begging bitterly in my ear. “Stop playing with me, okay?” 1 The hallway between classes was full of laughter, sunlight splashing on every youthful face. I was the only one out of place, head lowered, walking with heavy steps towards the principal’s office. Knock, knock, knock. No answer. I pushed the door open out of habit. The scene before me was as tense as a public shaming. The Dean of Students was surrounded by teachers from every subject in our grade. His square face, usually stern, looked exceptionally irritable today. His glasses slid down his bulbous nose a bit. Seeing me, his eyebrows shot up, eyes glaring, voice piercing the entire office. “You’re Chloe Vance? Impressive. Do you know your Grade Head can’t work here anymore because of you?” The teachers around him knew how to read the room, following suit, wishing they could kill me with their eyes. I kept my head down, picking at my fingers, letting him scream hysterically. “Mrs. Hayes was hired by our school for a huge sum! Experienced, with a college acceptance rate of 70% in her classes! And you, you ruined it all. All our efforts wasted.” The Dean took a deep breath and exhaled, turning his back on me, too lazy to look. Seeing this, other teachers chimed in immediately, leaving no gaps, cursing me as if I were an unforgivable sinner. “Exactly. What teacher doesn’t punish students? Making a mountain out of a molehill.” “So capable, don’t come to school then. Who would dare to manage you in the future?” I don’t know how long it lasted. The Dean ended it with, “You’re hopeless.” He waved his hand at me, spitting out, “Get out.” That tone— Like shooing away a dog. Maybe they saw I was unresponsive, or maybe they were tired of scolding. I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know. Just like they only cared that Mrs. Hayes was fired under pressure from above, and couldn’t even be bothered to mention that I lay in the ICU for a whole week. 2 The atmosphere inside was oppressive and chaotic. As soon as I stepped out, I greedily inhaled the fresh air drifting freely outside. Suddenly, a deafening boy’s voice rang out from the office next door, echoing into the hallway. “Liam, catch!” Almost instantly, my nerves were pulled. I turned my head subconsciously. A boy caught a book flying towards him. He smirked at the office next door, looking triumphant. With that reckless and arrogant energy, I immediately pieced him together with the person deep in my memory who always grinned at me. 3 Five years ago, his family of three moved into the apartment above mine. Liam found me standing alone at my door late at night without a key. Without a word, he dragged me to his house for dinner. My mom left, my dad was busy working. I became a regular at his family’s dinner table. Although I was a year older, I was sensitive and introverted. He was a social butterfly who could chat up a dog. Thanks to his tireless thick skin, for the first time ever, I had a real friend. He was exceptionally good to me. Sometimes he would give up playing basketball with a group of friends just to walk home with me, the loner. So rumors started spreading in school that he liked me. The short-haired girls who liked to form cliques couldn’t sit still. They cornered me after school, mocking and sarcastic. “Look in the mirror. Do you think you deserve him?” “Who gave you the confidence?” I dared not conflict, because there was no one behind me. To put it bluntly, no backer. I lowered my head and tried to leave. It was Liam who grabbed me, followed by a group of boys who just finished playing ball. His shirt front was slightly damp, holding a basketball, a lazy smile on his lips. “I think you look like a potato, but aren’t you quite confident too?” “You!” The short-haired girl turned red with anger at being insulted by a boy younger than her, unable to utter a sentence for a long time. “You you you, you what?” “Go home and eat your brains, you can’t even speak properly.” In those days, I experienced the security of being carefully guarded, although brief. 4 Finally having the chance to see him again, I wanted to tell him all the unspeakable grievances. I frantically contacted students from the middle school section, but they told me. In the entire ninth grade… There wasn’t even anyone with the last name Sterling.

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Everyone in the Manhattan elite knew that Rhett Kingston would lie about anything to protect his ‘sister,’ Sloane Avery. He’d even torn my ultrasound report to shreds right in front of the family at a holiday gala. “I have a congenital motility disorder, Wrenley. If you want to trap me, at least come up with a believable lie.” As the room drowned me in sneering, pitying glances, he gently wiped a tear from Sloane’s eye. It was in that moment I finally understood: for the unloved, even pregnancy is a capital offense. I touched my slightly swollen belly, turned, and jumped off the deck of that super-yacht. “Rhett, since you claim you can’t make a baby, then this one must be a ghost’s gift to me.” Five years later, his miniature clone outbid him for the prime development lot he’d been set on acquiring. Rhett’s eyes were bloodshot as he demanded a DNA test. My son just smiled. “Mister, you’re the one with the broken parts. You couldn’t make a smart kid like me if you tried.” 1 The auction hall went utterly silent. That high-pitched, childish voice was a slap across every face in the room. Rhett, down in the front row, had a face twisted with rage. The bidding paddle in his hand crumpled into a wad of useless plastic with a brittle, snapping sound. He was staring at the small boy in the first row, who was swinging his short legs. A face identical to his, yet it was the ultimate, public mockery. Rhett moved. He lunged over the plush chairs, a killing intent radiating from him. The security guards froze; the guests held their breath. He reached out, his fingers curled into a claw, aiming for the child’s collar. The boy didn’t flinch. He just looked up, his eyes—eyes exactly like mine—filled with chilling indifference. Just as Rhett’s hand was about to make contact, a dark blur erupted from the side. A hand encased in a black tactical glove clamped down on Rhett’s wrist. I put every ounce of my strength into the grip. Veins bulged on the back of Rhett’s hand, and the bones groaned. He tried to shake me off, wincing, but I didn’t budge. He followed my arm up, his gaze slamming into my icy pupils. Rhett’s eyes constricted violently. He stared at my face as if he’d seen a ghost, spitting two words through clenched teeth: “Wrenley Shaw?” Instantly, the room erupted. “Wren Shaw? Rhett Kingston’s ex-wife, the one who jumped off the yacht five years ago?” “I heard her body was never recovered. She’s alive?” “I heard she was pregnant with a bastard child and jumped because she was too ashamed…” The whispers buzzed like a swarm of flies. I expressionlessly ripped my hand away. The force made him stumble back a half step. I leaned down, straightened my son’s bowtie, and stood back up. I pulled off the glove, revealing a palm rough and calloused from years spent in salt water. A deep, jagged scar—the signature of acute decompression sickness—ran across my wrist. I looked Rhett dead in the eye. “Mr. Kingston, you have the wrong person. I’m this child’s father. Not your ex-wife.” Behind Rhett, Sloane Avery gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. “A ghost! Rhett, she’s a ghost!” She scrambled back, trembling, and shrank against Rhett. Rhett instinctively pulled her into his arms, a reflex ingrained in his muscle memory. After he had soothed Sloane, he turned back to me. The initial shock in his eyes had been replaced by extreme loathing. Even after five years, his gaze was a physical stab. Rhett surveyed me, his eyes sweeping over my utility pants and heavy-duty leather boots, finally settling on my son. He sneered. “You didn’t die, but you ran for five years. Did you run out of money? Did you bring the bastard back to shake me down?” His look was the same as one you’d give a stray dog begging for scraps. “Wrenley, is that outfit of yours worth five hundred dollars combined? Did your lover finally get tired of paying your bills?” A few people chuckled nearby. Ignoring him, I took the Rubik’s Cube from my son and placed it on the table. Then, I raised my bidding paddle. My cool, clear voice carried across the hall: “Fifty million dollars.” The room gasped. It was the very piece of land Rhett had to have, and the opening bid was only twenty million. The scorn froze on Rhett’s face. The auctioneer frantically brought down the hammer. A staff member rushed over with the POS machine. I rolled up my sleeve, revealing the vicious scar on my wrist. It was the proof of five years spent fighting for my life. I swiped the card and signed the papers with smooth, fluid movements. “And one more thing,” I said, tucking the black card back into my pocket and looking directly at Rhett. “Mr. Kingston, if you’re not going to use those eyes, you should donate them. Get out of my way.” With that, I took my son’s hand and started to leave. Rhett’s face was dark. He gave a sharp hand signal to his bodyguards. The massive doors slammed shut. A dozen men in black suits sealed the exits. Rhett pushed Sloane aside and advanced on me, step by step, his teeth gritted. “You think you can just walk away? You will tell me who the hell this bastard is.” He pointed at my son, his eyes full of violent intent. “Trying to scam me? I don’t mind verifying paternity right here and now, and making you disappear again.” 2 The waiting room behind the auction stage. A dozen hulking bodyguards had me and my son surrounded. Rhett sat on a leather sofa, his long legs crossed in a display of arrogance. He was turning his signet ring, his eyes narrow and dark. “Talk, Wrenley.” A file was slapped onto the coffee table: the private investigator’s report from five years ago. “Which man sponsored you these five years? Did you use your body to earn fifty million?” Every word was a deep, deliberate wound. Sloane held a steaming mug of herbal tea, her eyes red, the picture of delicate sorrow. “Sister, don’t provoke Rhett. Just tell him who the father is, and the Kingston family will give you a settlement.” Her gaze drifted pointedly toward Rhett’s lower half, her voice dropping, yet perfectly audible to everyone. “After all, everyone knows about Rhett’s diagnosis five years ago.” “To insist the child is his? Isn’t that just twisting the knife in his old wound?” It was a perfectly aimed, brutal blow. My son, Atlas, suddenly laughed. The sound was bright but chillingly devoid of childish warmth. He unwrapped a stick of gum, chewed twice, and looked at Sloane. “Auntie, your perfume is a little heavy. Smells like the industrial-grade cleaner they use in the subway bathrooms.” Sloane’s face stiffened, her tears hanging precariously. Rhett suddenly shot to his feet, raising his hand to slap Atlas across the face. “You ill-mannered bastard! How dare you speak to her that way?” The force in his swing was brutal and unchecked. I snatched my phone off the table and slammed it hard onto the back of his hand. Bang! The phone screen shattered. Rhett’s hand instantly swelled and turned red. He cried out, clutching his hand, glaring at me. “Wrenley Shaw! You hit me for that bastard?” I pulled my son behind me, my eyes cold. “Rhett Kingston, clean up your mouth. Whether he’s a bastard or not—don’t you know the answer yourself?” Rhett’s anger twisted into a laugh, his eyes wild. “Fine! Great!” He roared at the bodyguards. “Drag the little brat out for a DNA test! “I want the results now! I want every person in this city to see whose mongrel child you were carrying! He pointed a shaking finger at my nose, his voice raw. “I will prove my innocence! Prove that I never touched a tramp like you!” To humiliate me, he was willing to publicly declare his own inadequacy. The logic was completely deranged. The bodyguards moved in to grab my son. Atlas didn’t resist. He simply plucked a single strand of hair from his head and offered it. I waved off the bodyguards, took the hair from Atlas, and walked to Rhett. I placed the strand on the coffee table, my eyes regarding him like a piece of trash. “Test it.” My tone was frighteningly calm. “But Rhett, you won’t like the consequences.” Just as Rhett was about to explode again, Sloane gasped and clutched her chest. “Rhett, I don’t feel well. My heart hurts.” Her face went instantly pale, and she slid boneless to the floor. Rhett’s rage evaporated, replaced by pure panic. He shoved me aside, rushing to scoop Sloane into his arms. “Sloane! Where’s your medication? Get the car! Hurry!” He charged toward the door with Sloane. As he passed me, he didn’t spare me a glance. He only tossed back a cold, final order: “Watch this crazy woman and that bastard! They aren’t to leave until the results come back!” Half the room cleared out. I stood there, watching his panicked retreat. It was the same five years ago. If Sloane so much as frowned, the world stopped. Even when I was hemorrhaging in the delivery room. I reached into my bag and pulled out a wrinkled piece of old newspaper—the clipping showing Rhett tearing my ultrasound report in the hospital. I crumpled it into a ball and dropped it into the waste bin. Then, I dialed an encrypted number. “Hello.” “The salvage operation can commence. Bring that item up.” 3 Three days later, the滨海码头. The sea wind was biting. Rhett’s black SUV was parked by the dock. He stood in the wind, clutching the sealed paternity report. Sloane was wrapped in his cashmere overcoat, pressed against him. Her face was flushed, showing no sign of illness. I walked up with Atlas. A bodyguard moved to block me. Rhett waved the manila envelope. His gaze was icy. “You want this?” He pointed to the dark, bottomless water below. “Sloane accidentally dropped the Kingston family heirloom ring. It can’t be lost.” He stared at me, a cruel smile on his lips. “Wrenley, I heard you’re in deep-sea salvage now.” “Since you’re so skilled, why don’t you retrieve it for Sloane?” It was naked humiliation. The late autumn sea water was freezing, and the currents were treacherous. Sloane grabbed Rhett’s arm with fake concern. “Rhett, forget it. “The ring is just a ring. The water is too cold, and Sister is too delicate. Don’t make her go.” She said don’t go, but her eyes were full of provocation and anticipation. Rhett’s face was cold. “It’s your engagement ring. It has to be recovered.” “She’s a professional, isn’t she? If she can’t handle a simple dive, how can she justify that fifty million?” I ignored their performance. I bent down and handed Atlas to my assistant. I stripped off my jacket, revealing the black dive suit underneath. “My terms.” I checked my oxygen tank, my voice sharp and cold. “If I retrieve it, you destroy the paternity report immediately. The Kingstons and I are done. This child will have absolutely no claim on you.” Rhett looked surprised, then sneered. “So eager to destroy it? Looks like you already know the results are shameful. Fine. You have my word.” In his mind, I was desperate and guilty. I put on my mask, bit down on the regulator, and took a running leap. Plunge! I disappeared entirely into the gray-black water. The large monitoring screen on the dock instantly lit up, showing a live feed from the camera on my helmet. My heart rate data was a flat, steady line. Rhett stared at the screen, his brows furrowed. Eight-degree water, and my composure was infuriating him. The visibility underwater was poor. Suddenly, a strong current slammed into me. Someone had tampered with the setup. My supply line jerked violently, and the airflow in my regulator stopped. Suffocation hit me instantly. I looked up. I could vaguely see the operator on the boat deck violently shaking the lines. Sloane had paid someone off. She wanted me dead. On the monitor, my heart rate remained stubbornly stable. I didn’t panic or struggle. Calmly, I reached behind me, cut the main air hose, and opened the small, auxiliary reserve tank. A trick this clumsy wouldn’t be enough. Using the current, I executed a roll, broke free, and plunged straight into the seabed silt. Amidst the tangled scrap metal, a faint glint. I reached out, my fingers clawing through the muck, and seized the ring. My movements were brutal. Three minutes later, the surface broke. I climbed onto the dock, soaked through, my face pale, but my eyes blazing like knives. Rhett looked at me and subconsciously took a step back. I strode directly to Sloane. In front of Rhett, I raised the so-called ‘heirloom’ ring. I squeezed my fingers. A dull, grinding crunch! The jewel-encrusted ring was crushed into an oval shape between my fingers. I tossed it aside. It rolled to a stop near Sloane’s expensive leather boot. “Fake,” I said, pulling off the regulator and smiling coldly. “Just like your person. Copper core under cheap gold plating.” A flake of the ring’s veneer had chipped off, revealing the cheap brass underneath. Sloane’s face went instantly white. She frantically looked at Rhett. Rhett stared at the deformed ring on the ground, then at my water-streaked face. He was speechless. Rhett bent down and picked up the twisted ring. The tarnished brass stung his eyes. His face was ashen. He suddenly whipped his head toward Sloane. The question died in his throat. The colossal LED billboard overlooking the dock suddenly flashed to life. 4 Someone in the crowd gasped: “Is that…?” The screen wasn’t showing an advertisement. It was a live feed from the paternity testing center. On a high perch, my son, Atlas, held a tablet and tapped furiously. He had hacked the dock’s system. On the screen was the director of the testing center, an accomplice I had arranged five years ago. He looked sternly at the camera and broke the seal on the evidence bag. “DNA comparison result: Sample A, Rhett Kingston, and Sample B, Paternity Index 99.9999%.” The director’s voice boomed through the dock’s loudspeakers. “Conclusion: The biological father-son relationship is supported.” The entire dock was dead silent. Then, the conversations erupted, louder than the waves. Rhett stared blankly at the screen, the bronze ring cutting his palm until it bled. “Impossible!” He roared, his eyes bloodshot. “I have a motility disorder! I’m sterile! Wrenley, you forged this!” He was still clinging to that ridiculous lie. I stripped off my soaked dive suit and walked toward him, step by step. I pulled a small voice recorder from my waterproof pouch and pressed play. After a burst of static, Sloane’s tearful voice played: “Rhett, please, my mother will disown me if she finds out I lost the baby and had a hysterectomy. You have to help me.” “If you just admit the problem is yours, Mom won’t blame me.” “You don’t love Wrenley anyway. What’s the big deal if she takes the fall?” Every word in the recording was a fresh slap across Rhett’s face. His face crumbled, inch by inch, until he looked completely devastated. He swayed on his feet. The looks around him shifted from awe to outright contempt. Even his own bodyguards were looking down. Sloane shrieked and lunged at me. “Fake! It’s all spliced together!” She tried to grab the recorder. Atlas spoke coolly from his high perch. “The audio spectral analysis has already been sent to the media. We’ll know if it’s been spliced soon enough.” He paused, then pressed another key. The screen switched to an international birth certificate. “Auntie Sloane, you gave birth to a child named David in California five years ago. You said you couldn’t have children. Whose child is that?” Sloane shook violently and collapsed onto the ground. Rhett looked at her, his eyes filled with the hatred of a man utterly fooled. “You lied to me?” His voice trembled. “You were lying the whole time? “I ruined Wrenley, I ruined my life, for you! And all the while, you already had a child?!” I walked right up to him and reached out to smooth the collar of his shirt, which the wind had messed up. My ice-cold fingertips brushed his skin. He flinched. “Mr. Kingston,” I leaned in close to his ear, my voice dangerously soft. “Your illness was a fake.” “And that ‘unreachable ideal’ you protected for five years? She was screwing around in Europe the whole time. “How do you like that color, Rhett?” Rhett froze, incapable of uttering a single word. Sloane on the ground suddenly let out a frantic scream. She scrambled up and charged madly at Atlas on the high platform. “It’s all your fault! You little bastard!” She grabbed Atlas and hurled him toward the edge of the platform. “Watch out!” I screamed, my voice ripped out of my throat. The boy lost his balance and plummeted toward the black water. Rhett moved. He was closest. As he reached out, Sloane’s foot slipped, and she fell with him. It was the boy or Sloane. In that split second, Rhett made his instinctive choice. He grabbed Sloane’s hand.

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My mother ran The Serenity Creek Clinic her entire life. A simple dose of cold medicine and a consultation? Ten dollars. Maybe less if you were short on cash. When I took over, I honored her teachings, dedicating myself to the health of the community. But the moment I charged a returning local influencer sixty dollars for some specialized GI medication, the entire internet—and the whole village—called me a greedy monster running a predatory practice. Men, women, and children lined up, blocking my door, demanding I refund the money they were sure I’d swindled from them. I granted their wish. I handed back every cent I’d ever collected. Then, I personally locked the doors. “As you all wished, the clinic is closed,” I announced, the finality stinging my throat. “From now on, for your aches and fevers, please drive yourselves to the county hospital thirty miles away. I truly wish you all the best of health.” The very next day, they were back, blocking the door again. Only this time, they were begging me to open up. 1 “Sixty dollars? Are you robbing people?” The speaker was Kinsley “Kinny” Rhodes, a young woman who’d recently returned to Serenity Creek to launch her career as a lifestyle vlogger. She was suffering from minor traveler’s diarrhea—a slight bout of food poisoning. I’d prescribed the most advanced, fast-acting, and gentle medication I could get. “Kinny, the wholesale cost of this medication alone is fifty-five. I’ve only charged you a five-dollar consult fee. That’s more than fair.” “Don’t lie to me!” She waved her phone in my face, the screen glaring. “I just checked Amazon Pharmacy. The exact same script is fifty dollars! Shipped! They’re even running a special. And you’re only charging a five-dollar fee? What about the federal rural healthcare grants for clinics like this? Are you just pocketing the difference?” Grants? I blinked, a bitter laugh dying in my throat. Dealing with that bureaucratic nightmare wasn’t worth the paltry sum they offered. My mother and I had always preferred to run to our trusted supplier—a small, regional pharmaceutical lab—to guarantee the highest quality meds with the fewest side effects. I’d graduated top of my class, turning down offers from major university hospitals. Five years ago, the mayor himself came to me, reminding me how remote we were, how hard it was for the elderly to travel to Oakwood City. I owed them for the kindness shown to my mother and me after my father died young. I’d promised to stay. Five years of service. I pointed to the price sheet taped to the wall. “The cost of every medication is public record. I don’t make a profit on the medicine itself. I’m charging you a five-dollar professional fee.” “Oh, very official.” Kinny folded her arms, a smug smirk twisting her lip. “But that kind of scam only works on people who don’t know better—like these country folks.” She rolled her eyes at me, then shouted to the small group waiting outside. “Hey, everyone! Look what this doctor is doing! He’s price gouging! He’s stealing from the good people of this town!” Heads turned. Eyes focused on me, filled with instant suspicion. Little Jenny, the girl from next door, squeezed through the crowd, puffing out her cheeks and glaring at Kinny. “That’s not true! Dr. Maxwell is nice! Last time I had a fever, he gave me medicine and a lollipop! He’s the best!” A flicker of warmth went through me. I smiled at Jenny. Kinny’s expression darkened. She scanned the barcode on the prescription bottle with her phone, then thrust the screen at Jenny. “Look closely, kid! It’s fifty dollars online, and he charged me sixty! He overcharged by ten whole dollars!” “Little fool! You’re bought for a single piece of candy. When you grow up, you’ll be stupid enough to be taken by a traveling salesman!” “You!” Jenny’s eyes welled up with tears. “Watch your language,” I said, my voice ice cold. “If you look closely, those are two different manufacturers,” I pointed out the flaw in her phone image. “Mine has a superior purification process. It works better, faster, and has fewer side effects. That’s why the wholesale cost is higher.” She looked like I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. “See? Excuses! Experts online have already debunked that! The active ingredients are the same, so the effect can’t be that different. You just want to make more money!” She pulled up a short video where a self-proclaimed “medical expert” was passionately ranting about how “high-priced medicine is a scam for the uninformed.” The collective gaze of the townsfolk solidified into judgment. That feeling of being fundamentally mistrusted was sickening. I knew arguing was pointless. I had other patients to see. “If you think they’re the same, then go buy the generic online.” I tried to reach for the box of medication. “I’m not treating you. My clinic doesn’t welcome you. Don’t come back.” She snatched the box to her chest, her face a mask of righteous indignation. “What? Guilty? Trying to destroy the evidence?” “I’m keeping this! This is my proof!” Utterly shameless. My fists clenched in rage. A patient from the back of the line tentatively poked his head forward. “Dr. Maxwell, my head is throbbing. Can you help me?” I stopped arguing with Kinny and simply pushed her toward the door. “Get out.” She left without paying a cent, medication in hand. I thought that was the end of it. The next morning, the moment I pulled up the metal security gate, I stopped dead in my tracks. A wall of people stood before my clinic. The entire town—every man, woman, and child—had shown up. The looks they gave me weren’t the usual warmth and respect. They were filled with anger and contempt. “Give us back our money!” Someone yelled, and the crowd erupted. “Leo Maxwell, give us back the money you overcharged us!” “We trusted you! And all along, you’ve been running a crooked scheme!” I stared at the sea of familiar faces, my mind blank. “What are you talking about? What money?” Mayor Thompson squeezed out of the crowd, his face etched with performative sadness. “Leo, how could you do this to your neighbors?” He held a phone up. The headline was a blazing dagger in my gut: Exposed: The Heartless Rural Clinic—A Vampire in a White Coat, Stealing Even the Change. The author: Kinsey Rhodes. The video was maliciously edited, showing only the moment I took the sixty dollars and the moment I pushed her out. The text was pure, inflammatory fiction, painting me as a greedy, unethical profiteer. The comments section was a savage, digital frenzy. [This doctor should have his license revoked and be jailed!] [Disgusting, preying on honest, hardworking farmers.] [Support the vlogger! The truth must shine!] I was shaking with fury. “This is a lie! She maliciously edited that video!” “In all my years, when have I ever overcharged anyone? I source this medicine at almost cost price, only charging a nominal fee! For people who couldn’t pay, I always covered it myself!” Just then, Kinny Rhodes emerged from the back of the crowd. She held a selfie stick, filming. “See, everyone? This is the face of a guilty, heartless doctor! Still lying!” “If it was such a losing business, why did his family run this clinic for forty years? He’s not an idiot. He’s been quietly profiting and basking in your naive gratitude!” “You let the whole town spin in circles… you’re a hypocrite!” The last word was the match, igniting their stored anger. Mrs. Davies, who I’d given free deep-tissue massage to for her back pain, shuffled forward, pointing a trembling finger at me. “The last time my back hurt, you took half a month to fix me! Were you intentionally using slow medicine just to make me pay more visits?” I froze. I’d used the most gentle, non-invasive method precisely to avoid causing her deeper long-term damage. At the time, she’d held my hand and thanked me profusely. Mr. Henderson shoved his son forward, his face red and distorted. “My boy broke his leg! You set the bone! You must have overcharged me, too! Give me back the money! Or I’ll tear this clinic down!” I remembered everything. His son was hurt late on a Sunday night. I’d jumped out of bed, worked until dawn, and charged him only three hundred dollars for the emergency materials. Then there was Billy, a young man whose life I’d saved. He was now grinning into Kinny’s camera, pointing at me like I was a freak show. “Folks, this is the quack who did the illegal surgery on me!” “My arm still hurts, so it must be his fault! It’s a permanent side effect from his terrible skills!” To save his hand from being mangled in a machine, I had performed emergency, life-saving debridement and stitching—in my unapproved clinic—at a moment’s notice. Now, my act of mercy was his “proof.” “You… you can’t be so heartless!” My mother, Eliza, stumbled forward. Her small, fragile body stood between me and the crowd, shaking with rage. “I know my son! To serve you, he gave up a top job at a major hospital and came back to this poor place. How… how can you do this to him?” No one listened. Their eyes were glazed over with manipulated rage and raw greed. Just then, a car marked “Health and Human Services” pulled up. Several people in uniform stepped out, their expressions severe. “We’ve received multiple public complaints alleging illegal practice and pharmaceutical price gouging.” “You are ordered to close the clinic immediately and cooperate with our investigation.” The comments section on Kinny’s live stream exploded. [The government is here! It’s confirmed!] [Justice served! Lock him up!] Watching the nightmare unfold, I felt dizzy. I took several deep breaths, then walked to the safe and pulled out every ledger and receipt I had from the past five years. “You want proof? Here is your proof!” “These are my inventory receipts and billing records! Look for yourselves!” “Not only have I not made a cent of profit, but I’ve also put over thirty thousand dollars of my mother’s retirement money into keeping this clinic running!” The mountain of receipts and ledgers momentarily stunned the crowd. But Kinny, ever the performer, immediately cut in, her voice shrill. “Who knows if these are real? Receipts can be forged! The only person who knows the real prices is you!” “Go outside! Call Oakwood City Hospital! Find out where their prices are lower than mine!” I shouted, my eyes burning. “These records are stamped and signed by the pharmaceutical supplier! How can they be forged? Go ahead and check!” I thought the tangible evidence would silence them. Instead, Kinny sneered, ready to throw her final, most devastating bomb. “Even if your prices were lower, what gives you the right to use that as an excuse to sexually harass your female patients?” Kinny’s words were a lightning strike. The silence was absolute. She grabbed a woman named Maria from the crowd and pulled her forward. Maria wouldn’t meet my eyes, mumbling in a whisper barely audible: “He… he treated my back last time. He used the massage as an excuse to touch me inappropriately…” The crowd erupted in a furious roar. Mayor Thompson seized the moment, pointing a finger at me. “And who says the amounts on those receipts are real? I heard you’ve been colluding with your supplier, exaggerating the wholesale prices and taking massive kickbacks!” A stranger—a man I’d never seen before—squeezed forward, claiming to be an employee of my supplier. “I can confirm it! The prices on his receipts are all fake! He and our boss have been working together to defraud the community!” The lead investigator from Health and Human Services looked at me, his face grim. “If any of this is true, you’re facing commercial fraud charges. That means jail time.” It was absurd. I pointed to the security camera in the corner. “The cameras will prove my innocence regarding the harassment.” “As for this so-called employee, I don’t know him! My supplier is not the one he claims! You can check my call logs and bank transfers right now!” The investigators immediately split up to verify my claims. Seeing one lie fail, Kinny spun another. “Don’t get distracted, everyone! His most serious crime is practicing medicine illegally!” She pointed triumphantly at Billy. “He permanently damaged Billy’s arm with his shoddy surgery!” Hearing his cue, Billy clutched his wrapped forearm and let out a theatrical yelp. “That’s right! He did an ‘illegal surgery’ in this unapproved office! My wound still hurts every day. It’s a permanent injury he caused!” The investigator’s face was now a mask of deep displeasure. “If the charges of illegal practice and causing bodily harm are verified, your medical license will be immediately revoked!” I tried to speak, but Kinny rushed toward my mother, her eyes full of venom. “Like mother, like son! The old one was no good, so how could the young one be any better?” My mother, already reeling from shock, gasped, her eyes rolling back. She fell backward, straight and stiff.

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On Christmas Eve, I made a wish. In my haste, I accidentally wrote “Satan” instead of “Santa.” The next day, a gorgeous man with crimson eyes knocked on my apartment door. He leaned lazily against the doorframe, his long, slender fingers holding my wish list. “What kind of garbage wish is this?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth. “What does this mean: ‘Your faithful believer wishes for a life of luxury, endless money, and a devoted, domestic malewife to take care of me. Also, please bring one million dollars in cash. Thanks.’” Chapter 1 I opened the door wearing my bear-print pajamas, eyes still crusty with sleep. A man who was at least 6’3″, with a chest that looked like it could crack walnuts, was standing right there on my welcome mat. I rubbed my eyes. I wasn’t dreaming. The handsome stranger looked down at me, his gaze cold and sharp. He clicked his tongue impatiently. “What kind of garbage wish is this?” That’s when I noticed the piece of paper between his fingers. “‘Your faithful believer wishes for a life of luxury… a devoted, domestic malewife… one million dollars…’” Gasp! That was the note I wrote to Santa Claus before bed last night! I was instantly wide awake. Did Santa actually come to grant my wish? “It means exactly what it says,” I said, rubbing my hands together in excitement. “I didn’t realize Santa was such a hottie.” The handsome man didn’t seem to hear my compliment. He looked at me with disdain and said, “So, are you willing to sell your soul to me?” I was too immersed in the joy of winning the lottery to process that properly. “Wait, you can really make it happen?” “Can I add a little more?” I clasped my hands together and bowed piously to the hot guy. “Oh great Santa, I wish for world peace, national security, and a healthy life in my next incarnation…” “Hey, wait, Santa is foreign, right? Do you handle affairs over here in the States?” The man interrupted my rambling. “Why are you talking about that fat old man?” “The most he does is stuff a doll in your dirty sock. That’s for children.” I looked at him, confused. “If you don’t wish to Santa on Christmas, who do you wish to? And why are you insulting yourself?” The man looked at the paper in his hand, then back at me, his eyes filled with a mix of pity and amusement. “So, you’re illiterate.” “Hey! I can read!” “You don’t know who Satan is?” “Yeah, I do. It’s how you spell Santa!” “…That is S-A-N-T-A. You wrote S-A-T-A-N.” I blinked a few times. Finally, the gears turned. “Oh. I made a typo. Sorry to bother you.” Slam. I shut the door in his face, locking the deadbolt for good measure. Chapter 2 Satan? That name sounded familiar. I quickly Googled it. My heart sank. It wasn’t Santa Claus coming to grant my wish. I had summoned the Lord of Hell. And I just slammed the door in his face… My phone started vibrating. A string of anonymous texts popped up: [Now do you know who you made a wish to?] [Scared? Cat got your tongue?] [Tsk, no need to be terrified. Satan doesn’t eat people.] [Are you mute?] I stared at the screen for three seconds, then blocked the number. Chapter 3 Leaning against the streetlamp outside, Satan looked at the red exclamation mark on his phone screen indicating he’d been blocked. He quietly whispered, “What the f…” Chapter 4 This wasn’t just any Satan. This was a highly localized, modern Satan. I paced around my room anxiously. His English was perfect, he texted like a zoomer—he was adapting too fast. I didn’t know if blocking him would work. Would he haunt me? I frantically opened a delivery app and ordered a pile of exorcism supplies. Sage, garlic, holy water, a crucifix, salt, a Bible… I waited anxiously for forty minutes. The delivery driver knocked. I checked the peephole to make sure Satan wasn’t there before opening the door. But the delivery guy looked up, his eyes glazed over, his mouth opening and closing robotically: “Unblock me… Unblock me… Unblock me…” Terrified, I called the building security. The security guard came up, grumbling, but as soon as he reached my door, he got possessed too: “Unblock me… Unblock me…” I screamed. My neighbor opened his door to yell at the noise. He locked eyes with me and immediately joined the chorus. I gave up. Trembling, I pulled Satan out of the block list. Chapter 5 A new message popped up instantly: [You got guts. You dare delete me?] At the same time, the chanting outside my door stopped. I let out a breath. I immediately surrendered via text: [Big bro, please. I was wrong. I’m sorry, okay?] He replied: [You have no manners. If you block me again, I’ll make everyone you touch repeat that phrase forever.] That was too much psychological horror for me. I sent a row of “I’m sorry” kneeling emojis. His mood seemed to improve slightly. [You know who I am now?] [Yes, yes. Lord Satan, sir. Can you go back now? It’s cold out, sorry for making you come all this way.] […You think you can summon me and dismiss me at will?] What did he mean? Was he trying to extort me? I didn’t have anything to give. I gritted my teeth and typed: [If you want money, I have none. If you keep this up, I’m calling the cops.] A cool breeze suddenly brushed past my ear. A deep voice whispered right against my skin: “Since I’m here, I must take something with me.” I covered my ears, squeezed my eyes shut, and screamed, “Murder is illegal!” Satan didn’t appear, but his voice echoed in my head. “What use is killing you? I can grant your wish, you know.” His voice was seductive. “Now, stand up. Go to the door.” Involuntarily, I followed the voice to the door. “Open it.” “The money is outside.”

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