Category: English

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

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

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Four years into our marriage, Elliot set a plate of mango-shrimp salad on the dinner table. I stared at the dish for a long beat before reminding him, my voice barely a whisper, that I was allergic to shellfish. The fork in his hand froze mid-air. He looked at me, genuinely puzzled, and asked if I wasn’t the one with the mango allergy. In that moment, a cold clarity settled over me. I had never been allergic to mangoes. In the upper-right corner of our refrigerator door, there was a sticky note he’d written four years ago. The ink was fading, and the edges were curled with age, but the words were clear: Jo’s Allergies: Shrimp, Penicillin, Pollen. That note had lived there for over fourteen hundred days. He opened that fridge at least five times a day. All he had to do was look down. The person with the mango allergy wasn’t me. I didn’t argue. I didn’t demand an explanation. I simply sat there and meticulously picked the shrimp off the salad, eating the mango chunks instead. They were cloyingly sweet, like a lie you tell yourself to keep the peace. He looked relieved, exhaling a sharp breath as if he’d just dodged a bullet, convinced the moment had passed. That night, while I was cleaning the kitchen, I finally reached out and peeled that sticky note off the fridge. It left behind a small, clean square on the stainless steel, a ghost of a memory. I folded the paper neatly and tucked it under his car keys on the entryway console. Tomorrow morning, when he reached for his keys to go to work, he might see it. If he saw it and asked why I’d taken it down, it would mean he still remembered what it stood for. If he just picked up his keys and walked out… then I would walk out, too. 1 “Hey babe, I’m heading out!” 7:28 AM. Just like every other morning, he emerged from the bedroom, his hair still damp from the shower. He crouched by the shoe rack, humming a song I didn’t recognize. On the console table, his keys sat directly on top of that folded note. I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching him. His hand reached out. His fingertips brushed the corner of the paper. He paused for maybe a fraction of a second—a heartbeat of hesitation. Then, his fingers closed around the keys. The note was swept aside, fluttering off the table and drifting onto the hardwood floor like a dying leaf. He didn’t look down. When he stepped forward with his left foot, his sole caught the paper, leaving a faint, dusty smudge across it. The door clicked shut. I heard the muffled chime of the elevator down the hall, and then, silence. I walked to the entryway and knelt. I picked up the paper. The grey footprint was stamped directly over the words Jo’s Allergies, obscuring my name entirely. I stared at it for ten seconds. The creases were fraying. I walked to the kitchen and dropped it into the trash. It was time to go. Packing didn’t take long. After four years of marriage, it was haunting how little of the house actually belonged to me. A few suitcases of clothes, a half-used palette of charcoal eyeshadow, my passport, my ID. There was one more thing in the office safe: my “Observation Journals.” I had started them the year Elliot fell into a deep clinical depression. I’d documented everything—every mood, every breakthrough, every setback—in sketches and prose. My original character designs and drafts were tucked between the pages. The code was my birthday. I opened it, pulled the journals out, and slid them into the hidden compartment of my suitcase. As the zipper hissed shut, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t Elliot. It was his office manager, Mrs. Gable. She sent me a screenshot of an Instagram story—hidden from me, but she’d seen it. The image was a vibrant Mango Dragonfruit Refresher sitting on a mahogany desk. In the background, you could see the sleeve of a charcoal grey suit—Elliot’s suit. The caption read: Nothing beats the feeling of someone remembering your little quirks. The poster: Kaylee, the new intern. The location tag was the floor of Elliot’s firm. Mrs. Gable added a text: Jo, honey, this new girl has been overstepping lately. I thought you should know. I saved the screenshot. I closed the app, booked a room at a boutique hotel downtown, called an Uber, and rolled my suitcase out the door. In the elevator mirror, I checked my reflection. I wasn’t crying. My eyes weren’t even red. My lips, however, were parched and peeling. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a glass of water. “How many nights, ma’am?” the hotel clerk asked with a practiced smile. “I’m not sure yet.” I swiped the key card, the curtains hummed open, and the twenty-third-floor view of the city felt vast and empty. My phone rang at 2:17 PM. Elliot. I let it ring. 2:19 PM. Again. 2:21 PM. On the fourth call, I picked up. “What is wrong with you today?” His voice was layered over the rapid-fire clicking of a keyboard; he was clearly multitasking. “The house is a mess, nothing’s put away, and you’re nowhere to be found. Where are you?” “I took the note down,” I said. My voice was eerily steady. “You didn’t even notice.” “What note?” Two seconds of dead air. He really didn’t remember. “The one on the fridge,” I said. “The one that’s been there for four years. I put it under your keys. You stepped on it.” The keyboard clicking stopped. After a moment, he let out a short, jagged laugh of frustration. “Are we seriously doing this over a plate of shrimp? Jo, you’ve become so incredibly high-maintenance lately. Are you bored?” “It’s not about the shrimp, Elliot.” “Then what? What is it?” “Figure it out yourself.” “I don’t have time for riddles,” he hissed, his voice dropping as if someone was passing his office. “Just come home. Stop being dramatic.” I said, “Elliot, you can’t even remember what kills me and what doesn’t. We need some space.” I heard the sharp, cold sound of his scoff through the receiver. “Space? Fine. How long is this little tantrum going to last? I have a quarterly review tomorrow and a client gala the night after. You’re really choosing now to do this?” “Have a productive meeting,” I said. I hung up. Outside, the city lights began to flicker on. I lay on the sterile hotel bed, staring at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Its little red eye blinked at me, a silent observer. My phone lit up again at 11:03 PM. A text from Elliot: Jo, where the hell are you? Get back here so we can talk like adults. I didn’t reply. The second text: You really want to play it this way? The third, forty minutes later: Fine. Stay wherever you are. Have your little moment. I flipped the phone face down. The image of that mango drink was still burned into my retina. Nothing beats the feeling of someone remembering. Good for her. Truly. 2 “Jo? I have something for you.” The next afternoon, there was a knock at my hotel door. It was Mrs. Gable. She stood in the hallway holding a dark brown paper bag, her expression a mix of pity and discomfort. “Elliot sent me,” she said. “He said he wanted to smooth things over.” Inside the bag was a cake box from a high-end French patisserie across town. It was the place I’d mentioned wanting to try months ago—the one with the two-hour line. He’d barely looked up from his phone then, muttering maybe another time. “Where is he?” “At the office,” she hesitated. “He said he’d come by to pick you up himself after his meetings.” I took the box. “Thanks, Mrs. Gable.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she just sighed. “Take care of yourself, Jo.” I set the box on the desk and opened it. It was a three-layer mousse cake, the top covered in intricately carved slices of fresh mango. Mango. I took a small fork and poked at the center. Even the filling was mango coulis. I started to laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound. He knew I didn’t eat the shrimp, but in his head, he’d swapped my allergy with Kaylee’s. Now, in a pathetic attempt at an apology, he’d bought a cake that catered to the other woman’s tastes. How many things in the “Jodie’s Favorites” folder in his brain were actually about me? At 3:30 PM, he arrived. He pushed the door open, his suit jacket draped over his arm, sleeves rolled up as if he’d been rushing. But I noticed his watch face was turned toward the inside of his wrist—a nervous habit. He was checking the time. He was on a schedule. “Did you eat the cake?” He went straight for the desk. The box was open, the fork resting inside, the cake almost untouched. “I had a bite.” “And? I had to pull some strings to get that.” “You did?” He paused. “Well, I had the intern go pick it up, but I placed the order.” The intern. Of course. “Elliot,” I said, staying seated by the window. “This cake. It’s mango.” “Yeah. Your favorite, right?” “I don’t like mangoes.” His face shifted for a split second before he smoothed it over. “But… you said you weren’t allergic to them?” “Not being allergic to something isn’t the same as liking it. We’ve been married for four years, and there has never been a mango in our refrigerator. Whose taste were you thinking of when you bought this?” The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. He dropped his jacket on the bed and leaned against the desk, refusing to look at me. “Can you please stop reading into everything?” “Reading into what?” “You know exactly what,” he said, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot. “Kaylee is just a kid, Jo. She’s an intern. I’m just trying to be a good mentor—” “She posted a story for ‘Close Friends’ only. She forgot to exclude Mrs. Gable.” He went quiet. “‘Nothing beats the feeling of someone remembering your little quirks,’” I quoted. “Did you order her a separate drink? Did you specifically tell the barista ‘no mango’ for her?” “That’s because on her first day, someone ordered her a mango smoothie and her throat almost closed up! I had to remember it. It’s my job as a boss to—” “And what about your job as a husband?” My voice wasn’t loud, but he winced as if I’d slapped him. Then, the guilt turned into anger. It always did with him. “Enough, Jodie,” he said, pulling out the desk chair and sitting down hard. “So a girl in my office has an allergy. I’m a boss who looks out for his staff, and suddenly I’m an adulterer? Is this what happens when you spend too much time as a housewife? You lose touch with reality and start inventing ghosts to fight?” Housewife. Out of touch. Inventing ghosts. The words were old, tired weapons. Four years ago, when his first startup collapsed, he had been a shell of a man. He didn’t eat, didn’t bathe, didn’t leave the house. I had quit my job as a lead concept artist at a major studio to take care of him full-time. At 3:00 AM, when he’d wake up screaming from nightmares, I was the one who moved every sharp object out of the house. I was the one who started those journals—recording his progress, sketching him on the days he finally smiled. Those journals were the only reason he survived that year. And now, he was telling me I’d lost touch with reality. “Elliot, you didn’t just lose your memory,” I said. “You lost your soul.” He opened his mouth to retort, but I stood up and grabbed my suitcase. “Keep the cake,” I said. “I’m staying with Piper.” “Jo—” “Don’t follow me.” I walked through the lobby. It wasn’t cold outside, but the wind felt abrasive against my skin. At the crosswalk, my phone vibrated. A text from Elliot: Fine. Go stay with your bridesmaid for a few days. Cool off. But don’t make this a long thing. As if he were granting me a hall pass. I didn’t answer. I put the phone in my pocket and crossed the street. 3 “Jo, Elliot says it’s vital that you attend.” A week later. Mrs. Gable was on the phone while I was hanging laundry on Piper’s balcony. It was the firm’s four-year anniversary gala. “What were his exact words?” Mrs. Gable cleared her throat. “He said, ‘Everyone knows how hard Jodie worked for this company in the beginning. She needs to be there. Put her at the head table.’” Piper, sitting on the sofa, rolled her eyes and mouthed: Bullshit. I stayed silent for a few seconds. “What time?” “Saturday, 7:00 PM. The Westin Ballroom. Should I have a dress sent over or—” “No need. I have my own.” I hung up, and Piper immediately pounced. “You aren’t seriously going, are you?” “I am.” “Jo, wake up. This is a PR stunt to make him look like a devoted husband—” “I’m not going for him,” I said, snapping a damp towel straight in the sunlight. “But that’s my seat at that table. I want to see exactly who he thinks he’s given it to.” Saturday night, 6:55 PM. I arrived at the ballroom. Two young girls at the check-in desk blinked when they saw me, shuffling through the guest list for a long time before finding my name. “Mrs. Jodie Vance… you’re at the head table, Seat 3.” Seat 3. Elliot was Seat 1. I pushed open the heavy double doors. The table was draped in deep burgundy silk. Elliot was in the center, leaning over to whisper something to the person beside him. She was wearing a cream-colored satin slip dress, sharp and elegant. A small pearl brooch pinned to her collar. I looked down at my own dress. Same brand. Same collection. Different color. She was wearing the new spring limited edition. Kaylee. She was twenty-three, with soft features and bangs that grazed her eyebrows. She looked like a porcelain doll. She was in Seat 2—to my right, directly next to Elliot. And she was currently leaning over his plate, meticulously picking out the raw onions and piling them on the edge of her own bread plate. I had done that for four years. Elliot hated raw onions; he said the sharp taste ruined his palate for wine. She was doing it with more practiced grace than I ever had. “Jo! You’re here!” Kaylee saw me first and jumped up, her chair screeching against the floor. “Please, sit! I was just helping Elliot with his keynote notes and totally lost track of time. I didn’t mean to take your spot, so sorry!” Her tone was airy, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. Elliot stood up briefly, tugging at his waistcoat. “You made it. Sit over there; the view of the stage is better from across the table.” Across. I used to be his right hand. Now he was shunting me to the periphery. Kaylee stayed standing, waiting for my reaction. I walked over and sat in Seat 3. I said nothing. “Alright, a toast!” someone shouted. The rounds of drinks began. Elliot was drinking heavily, his face flushing a deep pink. By the third round, the tech director came over with a tray of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Before Elliot could reach for a glass, Kaylee stood up. “I’ll take this one for him,” she said, flashing a sweet smile at the director. “Jo probably doesn’t realize since she’s not in the office much, but Elliot’s stomach has been acting up. He has to avoid cold drinks.” The director looked at me, confused. A few colleagues laughed. “Kaylee, you’re so attentive.” Stomach issues. Elliot’s stomach was perfectly fine. But he had started a course of Amoxicillin last week for a wisdom tooth infection. You can’t mix antibiotics with alcohol—it can cause a severe reaction. She didn’t know that. She just knew he hadn’t been drinking much lately and had invented a “sensitive stomach” narrative to play the doting assistant. I stood up. I walked around the table. I took the wine glass out of Kaylee’s hand. Her eyes went wide. “Jo—” I tipped the glass. The pale wine splashed across the white tablecloth, soaking into the fabric like a growing bruise. “His stomach isn’t the problem; his medication is,” I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. “He’s on a Z-Pak. Alcohol and antibiotics can be a lethal combination. If you’re going to play the ‘devoted wife’ character, at least learn the script before you get someone killed.” The table went silent. Kaylee’s lip trembled, and her eyes instantly brimmed with tears. “I was just trying to help… I didn’t know he was sick…” “You seem to know a lot,” I didn’t let her finish. “You know how to pick his onions, you know how to ‘edit’ his speeches, you know his favorite drinks. Are you twenty-three or twenty-three months old? Because you’re acting like a child playing house.” Elliot slammed his hand on the table. His chair toppled backward. “Jodie, that is enough!” He rounded the table, stepping between me and Kaylee—shielding her. “She was trying to be kind. What the hell is wrong with you?” “Kind?” “You need to—” I reached down and twisted the platinum band off my left ring finger. It was a simple, light ring, with our wedding date engraved on the inside. I dropped it into the pile of discarded onions on his plate. “Enjoy your gala,” I said. “And Elliot? Happy early Independence Day.” I turned and walked out. As the doors swung shut, I heard Kaylee sob his name. He didn’t come after me. 4 “Hi. I’m Kaylee. I don’t think we were properly introduced.” I heard her voice three days later. I had gone back to the apartment to get the last of my things from the office safe—my journals. The door was unlocked. I walked in and froze. The safe was open. Empty. The code was my birthday. Anyone could have figured it out—especially if Elliot gave it to them. I called him immediately. “You took my journals?” “Oh,” his voice was casual, as if he were talking about a stapler. “Kaylee’s working on a freelance illustration project about mental health and she was stuck. I told her she could use your sketches for reference. Your old drafts are in there, right? She’ll give them back in a few days.” I nearly dropped the phone. “Those are my private property, Elliot.” “What’s mine is yours, right? We’re still married. I’m lending them, not selling them. Don’t be so dramatic.” I could hear a soft, girlish giggle in the background. “Where is she?” “Jo, don’t go over there—” “Give me her address.” He sighed, annoyed. “East Side, The Heights Apartments, 2103. Don’t make a scene.” I hung up and hailed a cab. Her door wasn’t fully closed. I pushed it open. The air inside smelled like cheap lavender incense. Kaylee was sitting at a small desk, her back to the door. My journals were splayed open in front of her. No—they weren’t just open. She was cutting them. She was using an X-Acto knife to slice the illustrations out of the pages, separating my art from the text. The cut-out sketches were lined up next to a flatbed scanner. She’d already digitized half a dozen. The floor was littered with the remains. The pages of text—the words I’d written to Elliot when he was at his lowest. Today you ate half a bowl of soup. You smiled for the first time. I’m waiting for you to come back to me. Those words were now just jagged scraps of paper. Something crunched under my shoe. A small corner of a sketch—the one of our old cat—that she’d trimmed off and trampled. “What are you doing?” She spun around. There was no fear in her eyes. Instead, she gave me a polite, condescending smile. “Oh, hi, Jo! I’m just organizing the material. Elliot said I could use these for ‘inspiration’… Your style is so vintage, it’s really cute.” “These are my personal archives,” I said, walking toward her. “Give them to me. Now.” “But Elliot said—” I reached for the remaining half of the journal on the desk. Her hand slammed down on top of it. “Jo, don’t be like this. I’ll give them back once I’m done scanning.” “Let go.” “You can’t just barge in here—” I pulled. Hard. She didn’t let go. She stood up, one hand pinning the book down, the other— Something flashed. It wasn’t the X-Acto knife. It was a pair of heavy-duty fabric shears. Maybe she’d grabbed them in reflex. Maybe not. I didn’t let go. She didn’t let go. During the struggle, her grip slipped. The blade of the shears sliced across the back of my right hand. It wasn’t a graze. It was a deep, sickening split. The sensation was slow. First, a shocking cold. Then, the sight of the skin parting. The blood surfaced faster than the pain. I looked down. From my thumb to the base of my pinky, a dark, jagged canyon had opened up. Blood began to drip, heavy and hot, landing right on the sketch of Elliot cooking in our first kitchen. “Oh my god!” Kaylee shrieked, backing away and dropping the shears. “You… you’re bleeding! Don’t blame me, you’re the one who started grabbing things!” My right hand went numb. My fingers wouldn’t curl. I used my left hand to scoop up the blood-stained journal and the loose sketches. As I reached the door, I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. Elliot. He took in the scene: the shredded paper, the overturned chair, Kaylee sobbing in the corner. He didn’t look at me first. He went to her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, looking at me with eyes full of fury. “Jodie, are you insane? Breaking into someone’s home?” “Someone’s home?” “You terrified her—” “Elliot,” I said, lifting my right hand. The blood was running down my wrist and soaking into my sleeve, but my fingertips were stained crimson, dripping onto the floor. “Look at me.” He froze for a second. His gaze flicked to my hand. Then he looked back at Kaylee’s tear-streaked face. “…You scared her half to death, Jo. What do you want me to say? You got a cut. Go get a bandage and stop making a theatrical production out of everything.” It wasn’t just a cut. The blade had gone so deep I felt the sickening buzz of a nerve being severed. I am an artist. This was my right hand. My mentor used to tell me: Your right hand is your life. Protect it like your eyes. “I’ve already called the police,” I said. “They’re on their way.” His face paled. “What?” “Assault. Attempted grand larceny. My intellectual property is on her hard drive.” Kaylee let out a hysterical sob. “Elliot, I didn’t steal anything! You told me to take it! You said I could!” Elliot’s jaw tightened. From the hallway, the sound of heavy boots approached. “Police! Open up!” I walked past him, clutching the bloodied journal to my chest with my left hand. As I brushed by, a drop of my blood landed on the toe of his polished leather shoe. The same shoes he’d used to step on my name.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “439670”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I opened my eyes, the air felt different—thicker, colder, and smelling faintly of cheap floral perfume and hairspray. I realized with a jolt that I was back. I was back on the day that had dismantled my life. It was the afternoon of my cousin Tiffany’s wedding. Earlier that day, during the reception, I had managed to snag several party favors—little gold envelopes tucked into the centerpieces. In this small, judgmental town, these were the “lucky” favors Tiffany’s new husband had boasted about: scratch-off lottery tickets. No one could have guessed that one of those tickets was a ten-million-dollar winner. In my first life, I had run home, breathless and sobbing with joy, wanting to tell my mother the news. My father’s stomach cancer had just been diagnosed; we were drowning in debt. This money meant he could finally get the surgery he needed in the city. It was a miracle. But my mother’s reaction had been a bucket of ice water to the face. She didn’t celebrate. She didn’t cry in relief. Instead, her face hardened into that familiar mask of stony “decency.” She snatched the ticket from my hand, insisting it belonged to Tiffany. “We are honest, hardworking people, Julie,” she had lectured, her voice vibrating with a terrifying kind of pride. “The poor must have dignity. We don’t take advantage of family. We don’t steal luck that isn’t ours.” I remembered the aftermath with excruciating clarity. My father died six months later in a cramped, humid bedroom. My mother, while trying to walk the neighborhood’s “village idiot” back to his house to prove what a good neighbor she was, was struck by a car. She survived, but she was permanently disabled. The relatives who had praised her “noble heart” brought over a few cartons of eggs and some “thoughts and prayers,” but they never mentioned the mountain of medical debt we owed. Left with nothing, my mother turned her desperation into a weapon against me. She tore up my university acceptance letter. Then, she drugged my dinner with sedatives, hoping to marry me off to the neighbor’s son—a man with the mind of a child and a family with enough “bride price” money to solve her problems. “Don’t blame me, Julie,” she’d whispered, her eyes brimming with calculated tears as I drifted into unconsciousness. “Blame the world. People are cruel, and money is the root of all evil. A mother has to do what she has to do…” In the end, unable to endure the suffocating shame, I had stepped off the roof of a six-story building. … “Seriously? You’re sure the winning ticket was from the favors at the reception?” “Positive. The clerk at the gas station said Derek bought two hundred tickets there right before the rehearsal dinner.”f The voice on the other end of the phone sighed heavily. It was my Aunt Linda. “Ugh, if I’d known, I would have told them to just put two-dollar bills in those envelopes. Ten million dollars… God, I just hope whoever got it has enough of a conscience to bring it back to Tiffany!” My mother was at the stove, the phone on speaker. She hummed in sympathy as she stirred a pot of thin soup, her brow furrowed as she cursed the “ungrateful” guest who was probably hiding the ticket right now. The ticket. My pupils contracted. The phantom sensation of being dragged across a carpet by a man twice my size flared in my nerves. The sound of my own skull cracking against the pavement—a wet, sickening thud—echoed in my ears. I gasped for air, my right hand clenching instinctively. I looked down. My knuckles were white, gripping the cold brass handle of my bedroom door. This wasn’t a dream. This was the morning after the wedding. In my previous life, I thought I was having a run of bad luck. I’d tripped on the porch coming home from the reception and spent the afternoon nursing a bruised hip. But it was that very day that I’d realized I held the golden ticket. And it was that day my mother had marched me to Tiffany’s house to hand over our future. “We’re poor, but we have our souls,” she had said. A sharp, rhythmic banging started at my door. “Julie? You grabbed some of those envelopes, didn’t you? Open them up! Let’s see if you’re the one holding onto Tiffany’s luck.” My mother’s voice was sharp with a sudden, opportunistic “integrity.” I heard her heels clicking toward the door. A wave of cold fury washed over me. I had one goal: She could never, ever know that I had the ticket. I turned the lock. I fumbled with the pockets of my jacket, pulling out seven small envelopes. I found it—the one with the specific serial number etched into my brain. I pulled up the lottery results on my phone. The numbers matched perfectly. I checked them once, twice, three times. Then, I slid the winning ticket into the pages of an old, dusty textbook at the bottom of my shelf. I took a deep breath, messed up my hair to look like I’d been sleeping, and opened the door. My mother looked ready to break the door down. Her face was a map of righteous anxiety. “What are you doing in here? Sleeping the day away while your cousin is in a crisis?” she snapped, looking me over with disdain. “Locking the door in the middle of the day… you’re becoming so secretive. I can’t rely on you for anything.” Her eyes darted to my desk, landing on the pile of candy and envelopes. “Did you win anything?” she asked, her voice dropping into a probe. I picked up a hairbrush and shrugged. “I haven’t even looked.” “Well, look now! Your aunt said there’s a massive winner out there. Tiffany and Derek are practically camped out at the lottery office waiting to see who shows up. If you have it, we need to get it back to her immediately. She’s family, Julie. Don’t let her suffer.” In my old life, I would have argued. I would have said that a gift is a gift, and if Tiffany wanted the money, she shouldn’t have given the tickets away. But I knew better now. You can’t argue with a martyr. I grabbed the remaining six losing envelopes and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” she yelled. “To the gas station to check them!” I called back. My mother didn’t know how to use the lottery app. She didn’t understand that a jackpot this big couldn’t be claimed at a local convenience store anyway. “If you won, you give it back!” she shouted after me. “Don’t be a thief! Honesty is the only thing we own!” When I got to the station, Tiffany and Derek were there, looking disheveled. Tiffany was still wearing her white silk rehearsal wrap with a fur stole, looking wildly out of place. She was accosting anyone who looked like they’d been at the wedding. When she saw me, her eyes lit up with a predatory hunger. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Julie! Why are you here? Did you win? Tell me you won!” I gently pried her hand off. I looked her dead in the eye and gave her a bright, vacant smile. “I did! I’m here to claim it!” Tiffany’s face went pale, then red. She snatched the stack of envelopes out of my hand before I could stop her. She tore through them until she found the one I’d left on top—the one that had won exactly one hundred dollars. Her face fell. “This? This is all?” “Yeah!” I chirped, acting thrilled. “A hundred bucks! Can you believe it? That’s like a week of groceries!” I took the ticket back, scanned it, and pocketed the cash. I made a show of tossing the other losing tickets into the trash can. “What are you guys doing here, anyway?” I asked innocently. Tiffany didn’t even answer. She turned away, scanning the parking lot for her next victim. I walked away, my heart hammering against my ribs. Stage one was complete. They wouldn’t suspect me for a while. Now, I just had to get to the city. On my way home, a hand dropped onto my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Hey, kiddo. Look what I got you.” I turned to see my father. His face was sallow, a yellowish tint to his skin that made my throat ache. He was smiling, though his lips were pale. He had been sick for a month, and we hadn’t even raised half the money for his initial consultations. He pointed to a suitcase on the sidewalk. It was a soft rose-pink, hardshell, with spinning wheels. It looked expensive—too expensive for a man who was skipping meals to pay for “stomach medicine” that was really just antacids. My eyes blurred with tears. In my previous life, my mother had forced me to hand over the ten million. Tiffany had done a fake little dance of “Oh, but your father is so sick, are you sure?” And my mother had waved her off. “Everyone has their cross to bear. We aren’t going to use your good fortune to fix our problems.” Tiffany had pocketed the ticket and never looked back. When we finally went to her to beg for a loan a month later, she’d looked at us with “pity” and said, “I’d love to, Aunt Bethany, but with Julie starting school and your husband’s condition… I’d never see that money again. It would be like throwing it down a drain.” That was the day my father—the strongest man I knew—wiped away a tear and told us, “Stop. No more doctors. I’m done.” Now, looking at the pink suitcase, I realized he had spent his secret savings to make sure I went to college in style. “Dad…” I choked out. “It’s not much,” he said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “But the guy at the store said all the girls at the university use these now. It’ll last you years.” I didn’t scold him for the money. I just grabbed the handle and hugged him. “It’s perfect, Dad. Let’s go home.” Back at the house, my mother eyed the suitcase with a scowl. “Wasteful,” she muttered. “Your Aunt Linda gave me that old black duffel bag Tiffany used. It’s a bit dusty, but I could have fixed the zipper. Why spend money on vanity?” My father smiled sheepishly. “It wasn’t that much, Beth. Only about sixty dollars. It’s an investment.” My mother groaned at the “extravagance,” but since the money was already spent, she just went back to the kitchen. During dinner, I pushed a piece of broccoli around my plate and said as casually as possible, “Dad, I want you to drive me to campus tomorrow. It’s my first year, and I don’t want to take the bus with all this luggage. Plus, the city is dangerous. I’d feel better if you were there.” My father nodded immediately. “Of course. A-State is far. You shouldn’t be wandering around alone.” My mother slammed her fork down. “She’s nineteen! She needs to be independent. And why tomorrow? Move-in isn’t for another two weeks.” My heart sped up. In my last life, I had stayed behind to help her, and that delay had cost my father his life. “They sent an email,” I lied, holding up my phone screen too far away for her to read. “Orientation and early seminars start this week. I just saw it today. I have to go.” My mother looked at me suspiciously. “Your father isn’t well. I should go. I’ve never even seen the city.” She shot my father a look of pure resentment. “I married a man who can’t even take me on a vacation. My life is just one long struggle.” My father looked down at his plate, the light leaving his eyes. “Mom, I’d love for you to come,” I said, my voice sweet as honey, “but I saw Billy wandering around near the guitar factory today. He looked totally lost. You know his mom relies on you to watch out for him. If you leave for two days, who knows where that poor boy will end up?” Billy was the “neighborhood project” my mother used to bolster her reputation as a saint. Just last week, she’d stayed up all night finding him after he’d wandered off. She loved the way the neighbors whispered about her “golden heart.” My mother hesitated. She looked at the plate of cookies a neighbor had brought over as a “thank you” for her kindness. She sighed, a martyr’s smile touching her lips. “True. If that poor soul wanders off and gets hurt, I’d never forgive myself. Everyone knows I’m the only one he trusts.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Let your father go. I’m just a pack mule anyway.” The next morning, my father and I stood by the road with the pink suitcase. The November air was biting, but my palms were sweaty with anticipation. Just get to the city. Claim the ticket. Get the surgery. But before the bus arrived, two figures appeared, walking quickly toward us. It was Tiffany and Aunt Linda. They weren’t just walking; they were nearly running. My stomach dropped. I gripped the handle of my suitcase. “Julie! You’re leaving already?” Aunt Linda called out. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, which were fixed on my luggage. “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound normal. “It’s a long trip. I want to get there before dark.” Tiffany looked like a ghost. Her eyes were sunken, dark circles weighing them down. She wasn’t even looking at me; she was staring at my suitcase like she could see through the plastic. “Tiffany, shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon?” I asked. She didn’t answer. She stepped forward and grabbed the handle of my suitcase, trying to pull it toward her. “Wait,” she said, her voice raspy. “My mom and Aunt Bethany were talking. They said it’s weird you’re leaving so early. Almost like… like you’re running away.” “I’m going to school, Tiffany,” I said, holding on tight. “If you have nothing to hide,” Tiffany snapped, her facade finally cracking, “then you won’t mind if we check your things. My ten-million-dollar ticket is missing, Julie. And suddenly you’re rushing off to the city?” “This is insane,” I said, looking to my father for help. But then, my mother appeared from around the corner of the house. She walked up and put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I called them,” my mother said, her voice cold. “Tiffany has been crying all night. It’s only fair, Julie. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear. We are honest people. We don’t leave town with shadows over our names.” She nodded to Tiffany. “Go ahead. Check it.”

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Piper always lived under the delusion that I was a trophy she’d managed to snatch from someone else’s hands through sheer, calculated manipulation. What was truly exhausting, though, was her attempt to goad her best friend—the “one who got away” in her own twisted narrative, Isabel—into trying to steal me, too. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” she had told Isabel back then. I remember the smugness in her voice. “Back when he was single, girls were practically tripping over themselves to get near him. Now? It’s just him and his girlfriend. There’s no competition.” She paused, taking a slow sip of her wine. “Love is a game of skill, Isabel. If you’ve got the moves, you take the throne. If you don’t, you bow out gracefully.” The very next day, I received a DM from Isabel. Attached was a photo. “I heard you don’t give the time of day to girls without a toned core,” the message read. In the photo, she was pulling up her workout top to reveal a razor-sharp six-pack. “I’ve got the abs. Can I get a reply now?” I was hovering my thumb over the screen, ready to type out a polite but firm rejection, when my vision suddenly flickered. Strange, translucent lines of text—like a live-stream chat—began scrolling across the air in front of me. [Ugh, this side character… just cheat already!] one comment read. [If it weren’t for you blocking the way, the Male Lead could have been rescued by the Heroine ages ago. He wouldn’t have to suffer in the slums.] Another followed immediately: [The Heroine is only staying with this loser because she’s afraid if they break up, he’ll go back to bullying the Male Lead. She’s literally praying he’ll hook up with the side-chick so she can be free.] Then came one that chilled me to the bone: [Stop hating on him. If this guy doesn’t break up with her soon, he’s slated for the ‘tragic ending.’ Once the Heroine and Male Lead finally get together, he’s going to get kidnapped, assaulted, and eventually die of a terminal illness in a gutter.] I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. Without a second thought, I called Piper, ended things right then and there, and accepted Isabel’s invitation. But I’d barely finished moving my boxes into Isabel’s penthouse before Piper showed up at her sister-friend’s door, brandishing a kitchen knife. “You used every dirty trick I taught you against me!” Piper screamed, her voice cracking with a manic edge. “I taught you how to steal from others, you bitch! I didn’t tell you to steal from me!” 1 I had just finished unpacking the last of my suitcases when I heard the commotion outside. Piper was standing in the driveway, shrieking insults at her “best friend,” her face contorted with rage. Fearing things were about to turn bloody, I stepped between them, my hands raised in a gesture of forced calm. “Piper, stop it,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Can you please just stop making a scene?” Piper looked like she was vibrating with lethal intent. But as soon as I spoke, the fire in her eyes died down, replaced by a haunting, glassy red. “Stop making a scene?” she whispered. “Is that what you think this is?” She took a step closer, her breath hitching. “I was a fool. I sat there like a total idiot, coaching that snake on how to seduce a man, never imagining she was practicing her lines for you.” Her voice broke into a sob. “Parker, she took everything. She took my pride, she took my life, and she took you. Can’t you see how much I’m hurting? Please, just… come home with me.” She became increasingly hysterical, the knife in her hand trembling so violently I thought she might drop it on her own foot. She reached out with her free hand, tracing the line of my arm until her fingers locked with mine. For a split second, my heart softened. I opened my mouth to offer some kind of explanation, some comfort—but then the glitches returned. [Wait, is this side character actually falling for this? Does he really think she wants him back out of love?] [Don’t be so full of yourself. The Heroine is just testing to see if you’re actually gone for good. She needs to make sure you won’t come crawling back to haunt her once she’s finally with her ‘True Soulmate.’] [Gotta hand it to her, the crying is top-tier. The ‘devastated ex’ act almost fooled me, too. Perfect performance.] [Alright, wrap up the melodrama. Why is he still holding her hand? Can’t he see the Heroine is literally cringing inside? Look at her eyebrows—she’s disgusted.] I looked at Piper. She was practically on her knees, her face a mask of Shakespearean tragedy. Was it all just a script? My hand jerked back as if I’d touched a live wire. I tore my fingers away from hers. She looked up, startled. A fresh layer of mist coated her eyes. Here we go again, I thought. The waterworks. I looked away, my voice turning cold and flat. “We’re done, Piper. Please. Stop haunting my life.” I didn’t wait for her to respond. I grabbed Isabel’s hand and pulled her toward the house. Behind us, the clouds broke. A sudden, torrential downpour began to lash the pavement. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the second-floor living room, I looked down. Piper was still there, standing exactly where I’d left her, soaked to the bone and motionless. “Feeling guilty?” Isabel asked. Her tone was a cocktail of mockery and comfort, with a twist of something I couldn’t quite place. “I can have the housekeeper call her a car if you want.” I shook my head. Ever since I realized I was just a “disposable male lead”—a plot device destined for a gruesome end—I had started suffocating the feelings I had for Piper. I couldn’t let them grow. I was terrified of the point of no return. Maybe our entire relationship had been a glitch from the start. When I was going through a messy breakup with my previous ex, Piper had played the part of the “supportive friend” for months. She handled the drama, dealt with the toxic fallout, and was the shoulder I cried on. When she finally asked to be with me, I hesitated. It felt too soon. She accepted my rejection with such grace, such quiet patience, that I found myself drawn to her. I fell for that image of the calm, restrained woman who knew how to hold space for someone. Then, the moment we went official, the mask shattered. She became a “velvet handcuffs” kind of girlfriend. Obsessive. Clingy. She monitored my every move. If I came home late, she cried. If I missed a text, she cried. If I didn’t hold her in my sleep, she cried. As a low-energy person, the constant emotional labor of “fixing” her moods had drained me to the husk. Now that the burden was gone, I should have been ecstatic. A warm hand slid over the back of mine. Isabel. She smiled. Unlike Piper’s performative warmth, Isabel’s composure felt like something forged in the fires of experience. It was solid. Unshakable. “I honestly don’t mind,” she said softly, “if you just want to use me as a rebound. Or a distraction.” I looked at her. Her face bore no resemblance to Piper’s. I thought to myself: Maybe this is what I need. Someone older, someone who can lead, someone who doesn’t need me to be her entire world. 2 [This guy is such a sucker for any woman who gives him the time of day. Does he really think a high-flying CEO like Isabel would actually fall for a loser side-character like him?] [I don’t know where he gets the confidence. This is a Male-Oriented trope world; every woman is eventually going to gravitate toward the ‘Male Lead.’ Parker, just accept you’re a placeholder!] The heart that had just begun to beat again felt like it was flatlining. Was everyone in my life just playing a game? I didn’t notice Isabel’s eyes locked on my face. Within a second, my expression had curdled. She squeezed my hand, her voice suddenly laced with an odd, sharp anxiety. “What is it? Is it the house? Do you hate the decor?” I didn’t understand what act she was playing now. I quietly pulled my hand away. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going to go lie down.” The next morning, I walked downstairs to find Isabel fumbling around the kitchen. She was trying to wash vegetables, but she’d somehow managed to spray water everywhere. Her silk blouse was damp, clinging to her skin. Her hair was matted in wet strands against her forehead. I watched a single bead of water trace a path down her neck, past the subtle rhythm of her throat, disappearing into the shadows of her collar. Beneath the translucent wet fabric, the sharp lines of her physique were unmistakable. Before I could look away, she spoke. “I… I might not be as good a cook as Piper,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically small. “But I’m a fast learner.” [Classic female competition!] the text scrolled by. [The Alpha Female can’t stand losing to the younger girl in any category. She’s using the side-character as a lab rat for her cooking.] [Parker is only getting this treatment because the ‘Male Lead’ isn’t available yet. Otherwise, why would a woman like Isabel ever step into a kitchen for a nobody like him?] I looked away, my voice colder than I intended. “You don’t need to cook for me.” Isabel looked stricken. She opened her mouth to argue, but my phone rang. It was my assistant, sounding frantic. “Boss, the corporate seal is missing. We just landed that massive tech contract and we need it for the filing immediately!” Panic flared, overriding my personal drama. I tore through my luggage, but it wasn’t there. It had to be at the house. At Piper’s. I checked the time. She should have been at work by now. I figured I’d let myself in, grab it, and be out in five minutes. I walked into the home office with practiced ease and yanked open the drawer. Empty. I frowned, wondering if I’d misremembered, when a low, raspy voice came from behind me. “Don’t bother. I hid it.” I spun around. Piper was standing in the doorway, her eyes bloodshot, looking like she hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. The harsh words I had prepared died in my throat. I forced myself to look at her palm instead of her face. “Give it back, Piper.” She lunged forward, grabbing my wrists and pinning them behind my back before I could react. She hauled me into her chest, her grip like iron. “Move back in,” she whispered into the crook of my neck. “Move back in, and I’ll give it to you right now.” Her skin was unnaturally hot. She pressed her face against mine, her nose brushing mine in a desperate, fleeting mimicry of affection. She leaned in to kiss me, but I jerked my head away. I felt a sharp sting on my neck—she’d bitten me. She began to sob, the hot tears soaking into my collarbone. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I should have listened. I shouldn’t have tried to play games with Isabel. I didn’t think she’d actually take you.” “Can’t we just go back? I’ll be whatever you want. I’ll be the quiet little girlfriend. Just don’t leave me.” [Is he actually moved by this? Can’t he hear the subtext? She’s basically calling him a ‘cheater’ who likes playing both sides.] [Seriously, a guy this messy deserves the ‘tragic ending.’ It’s not an accident; it’s karma.] [Wait until he finds out the ‘Male Lead’ just got hired as Piper’s new personal assistant. The office romance is about to start!] I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Almost fell for it again. These two “sisters” were both Oscar-caliber actresses. I gritted my teeth and brought my heel down hard on her foot. She gasped, her grip loosening for a split second, and I bolted for the door. She stumbled, then scrambled after me, literally sliding across the hardwood to block my path. “Parker, you can’t go!” she cried, clutching my knees as she knelt on the floor. I rubbed my temples, my patience finally snapping. “We are broken up, Piper. Give me one good reason why I should stay.” She looked frantic, sweat beading on her forehead. Then, a strange glint appeared in her eyes. She looked up at me, her expression suddenly, terrifyingly firm. “I’m pregnant,” she said. “You can’t abandon the mother of your child.” Me: What? The screen: [???] 3 I stared at her flat stomach, my mind racing through the timeline, trying to calculate the odds. She saw the doubt in my eyes. Standing up and using the hallway table for support, she reached back and pulled her silk nightshirt over her head in one fluid motion. I didn’t have time to look away. My eyes landed on the soft curves of her torso, her chest rising and falling rapidly in the dim hallway light. A small, triumphant smile touched her lips. She took my hand and pressed my fingertips against her lower abdomen. Her skin was smooth, tensing and then relaxing under my touch. “Feel that, baby?” she whispered. Before I could pull away, her other hand hooked around the back of my neck. She pulled me down and kissed me with a desperate, unyielding hunger. [False alarm. She’s not pregnant, she’s just thirsty.] [Well, she is the Heroine. That body is basically the gold standard for this genre.] [Obviously. Why do you think she’s kissing the side-character now? She knows things are going to get ‘intense’ once the Male Lead takes over, and she wants to get it out of her system.] [Heartbreaking. She’s using Parker as an outlet while saving her ‘pure soul’ for the Male Lead.] I felt a surge of humiliated rage. I bit her lip hard—hard enough that the metallic taste of blood filled our mouths. She let out a low, breathless laugh and pinned me against the wall, her arms boxing me in. She opened her mouth to say something—something meant to be seductive, no doubt—but I glared at her with everything I had. Then, I dropped low, ducked under her arm, and sprinted out the door. Piper: …What? The screen: [Rare. The side-character actually rejected her?] [Just a ‘hard to get’ tactic. He’ll be back.] [Now that she’s confirmed he’s ‘playing hard to get,’ she can finally focus on her new assistant. Get ready for the sparks!] I ignored the voices. I spent the next hour on the phone with my lawyer and my secretary, figuring out how to bypass the missing seal. When I got to the office, I saw Isabel standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The morning sun framed her in gold. She was listening to a consultant, looking every bit the power player. She caught my eye and gave a small, subtle nod. I put on my “professional” mask and joined the meeting. Between her influence and my negotiation, the contract was saved. I thought she’d leave once the business was done. Instead, she stayed. She sat in my office, watching me work. I started to wonder what her angle was. Then the text appeared: [The ‘Alpha Female’ is so calculated. She knows the Male Lead wants to be a CEO. She’s scouting Parker’s company so she can short the stock and buy it out as a gift for her future man.] My heart did a painful somersault. You can mess with my feelings, but messing with my life’s work? That’s where I draw the line. Trying to stay polite given her stature, I cleared my throat. “Isabel, don’t you have a multi-billion dollar empire to run?” She bit her lip, standing up to button her blazer. She looked… hurt? “Right. I’ll get out of your hair. Call me if you need anything.” I nodded. I’d sooner call a debt collector, I thought. By the time I finished work, I was exhausted. I drove into my parking garage, but I found myself paralyzed by the thought of going upstairs. I didn’t want to see Isabel. I didn’t want to see anyone. I sat in the dark car, browsing Zillow. I needed a new place. Something temporary, something mine. I found a listing for a vacant condo nearby and messaged my assistant to buy it immediately. Relieved at the prospect of an escape, I finally went upstairs to pack my things. Of course, I ran into Isabel at the door. She didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t in the mood to pretend. But when I opened the door, I froze. There was Piper. She was wearing a Hello Kitty apron, standing in the foyer like a 1950s housewife. “Welcome home,” she said. “Dinner’s ready, sis. You too, Parker. Wash up.” Piper had this eerie, Stepford-wife smile plastered on her face. It was deeply unsettling. 4 Isabel’s brow furrowed, her voice dropping to a glacial temperature. “Last time you had a knife. What is it this time? Poison in the risotto?” Piper’s smile twitched, a tiny crack appearing in her mask. “Hardly. I wouldn’t risk harming Parker just to get rid of you.” Isabel’s patience evaporated. “What are you doing here, Piper?” “Don’t worry,” Piper chirped, regaining her composure. “I’m not here to break you two up. I’m here to… join the party.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She sat down at the dining table and started eating, as if to prove the food was safe. She was right; she had no reason to poison us. She was just playing the long game, testing my resolve. Back at her house, I’d been clear, and she knew the “Male Lead” was already in her orbit. This was just a spat between “sisters.” I was drained. I sat at the far end of the table, as far from Piper as possible. Isabel took the seat next to me. Immediately, Piper grabbed her bowl and slid into the chair on my other side. Isabel put a piece of sea bass on my plate. Piper’s chopsticks followed instantly, dropping a glazed rib into my bowl. “Eat up, Parker,” she cooed, her voice so syrupy it made my skin crawl. I hadn’t even picked up my fork when Isabel grabbed the arm of my chair and pulled it half an inch toward her. Piper didn’t miss a beat. She grabbed the other armrest and pulled me back, her smile frozen in place. “Let’s keep things fair, shall we?” They stared at each other over my head. I could practically hear the tectonic plates of their egos grinding together. I gave up on the food. I just sat there, sipping orange juice, watching the silent war. Isabel took a sip of her water. Piper took a gulp of her soup. Then, silence. Ten minutes later, my fingertips started to itch. My breathing became shallow, heavy. I turned to look at Isabel—her face was flushed a deep crimson. She was tugging at her necktie, her throat working in tight, rhythmic swallows. She locked eyes with Piper. They both seemed stunned for a second. Then, Isabel’s eyes widened. She gritted her teeth so hard I thought they’d shatter. “I… I underestimated how low you’d go.” The “supplement” Piper had put in the water was taking effect. Shaking, Isabel reached for her phone, but Piper snatched it and smashed it against the floor. Piper leaned in, grabbing Isabel’s collar and whispering into her ear: “I’m going to make sure someone ‘finds’ you tonight. Let’s see if Parker still wants you after you’ve been ruined.” As she spoke, a group of security guards—men I didn’t recognize—burst into the room. They grabbed Isabel and began dragging her toward the door. I gripped the edge of the table, my voice thick. “What… what did you put in the water?” Piper reached out, her long arm hooking around my wrist, and yanked me down. I lost my balance and tumbled into her lap. She straddled me, her pupils blown wide, looking down at my flushed face. “Just something to make you stop running,” she whispered. [OMG, the ‘Yandere’ trait just unlocked! She’s even betraying her best friend!] [Parker, get off her! This ‘forced love’ plot isn’t for you!] [Whatever, let it play out. At least the side-character is taking the hit so the Male Lead doesn’t have to suffer.] I struggled to get up, but her arms were like coiled pythons. Just as she started to lift me to carry me toward the bedroom, a figure appeared in the doorway, framed by the hall light. A young man, tall and lean, shouting: “Let him go!” [Holy crap! The Male Lead has entered the building!]

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Walking home after school with Everett, the world was exactly as it had always been—the smell of damp pavement, the rhythmic thrum of rain against umbrellas, the comfortable silence between two people who had known each other since they were in diapers. Then, a voice that was unmistakably Everett’s, yet completely silent, echoed inside my skull. God, Cora is such a drag. Why does she have to shadow me every single day? I froze. Everett hadn’t moved his lips. He was staring straight ahead, his profile as sharp and cold as an ice sculpture. If it weren’t for the Sinclair-Aria merger, I wouldn’t even look at her. My father would kill me if I blew the deal. It’s pouring. I bet Luna didn’t bring an umbrella. She’s probably shivering. My heart did a slow, painful somersault in my chest. I felt a cold sweat break out, unrelated to the rain. 1 Luna. She was the new girl—the girl with the thrift-store sweaters and the kind of ethereal beauty that didn’t belong in a place as cutthroat as our private academy. Rumor had it she lived in a cramped studio on the edge of the city, working two jobs just to keep up with the tuition. Everett’s jaw was tight, his usual mask of indifference firmly in place. But the voice in my head—the one that sounded like his soul stripped bare—wouldn’t stop. The walk to that neighborhood is brutal. The streets are a mess. I’m so worried about her. I just want to be the one to take her home. Ugh, if I could just find a way to shake Cora off for five minutes… I stood there, paralyzed. I looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, I saw it: the flicker of resentment in his eyes when he glanced at me. He didn’t just find me annoying. He loathed me. Suddenly, the heavy back door of the prep hall creaked open. A soft, hesitant voice drifted toward us. “Everett? My umbrella… it’s broken.” 2 I turned. Luna was standing there, clutching a flimsy, floral-patterned umbrella with a snapped rib that hung like a broken wing. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to bother you both. I just… I was worried about my textbooks getting ruined.” She looked up, her eyes catching Everett’s for a split second before she looked away. They were rimmed with red, shimmering with a vulnerability that felt like a calculated strike to the heart. Luna had only been here a week. She barely spoke to anyone, let alone the “inner circle.” For her to ask Everett for help was a move I hadn’t expected. Everett was famous for his lack of patience; he usually cut people down before they could even finish a sentence. But today, he didn’t even hesitate. “Cora, I can’t walk you home today,” he said, his voice dropping an octave into something low and forced. “Luna lives on the other side of town. It’s too far for her to walk in this.” His face remained a mask of ice. If I hadn’t heard the internal screaming of his heart, I might have actually believed this was a moment of chivalry. “And what about me?” I asked, my voice laced with a bitter edge I couldn’t quite suppress. Everett frowned, his irritation bubbling to the surface. “Your driver is literally sitting at the gate, Cora. Just take her broken umbrella and run to the car. It’s twenty feet. You’ll survive.” Without waiting for an answer, he shoved Luna’s mangled umbrella into my hand. 3 Luna looked at me, her face a portrait of guilt and anxiety. She twisted the hem of her cardigan, her fingers shaking. “No, I can’t let you do that, Cora… I’m so sorry. I’m such a mess. Forget I said anything, I’ll just run for the bus.” She turned to go, but Everett caught her arm. His grip was firm, protective. He looked at me again, his lips thinned into a hard line. But his thoughts? They were a riot. Here comes the tantrum. I am so done with her drama. She’s spent her whole life thinking the world revolves around the Aria family fortune. She thinks she owns me. But I’m not playing along anymore. I love Luna. I want to scream it just to see the look on Cora’s face. Luna can’t get sick. I won’t let her. I felt like the air had been sucked out of the street. Something inside me—some old, dusty hope—finally cracked and turned to ash. Before he could say another word, I took a step back. “Just go,” I said. Everett’s shoulders slumped in visible relief. He turned to her, his voice softening into a register I’d never heard him use with me. “Luna, give me your bag. I’ve got you.” Luna gave me one last, lingering look of pity before she tucked herself under Everett’s umbrella. Within seconds, they were two silhouettes blending into the grey curtain of the rain. I looked down at the broken umbrella in my hand. Then, I tossed it into the gutter and walked into the downpour. At the gate, our driver, Arthur, scrambled out with a large canopy, looking panicked. “Miss Aria! Where is Mr. Sinclair? Why are you all alone?” “Just drive, Arthur,” I said, leaning back into the leather seat, feeling the cold water seep into my skin. My eyes burned, but I refused to let a single tear fall. 4 When I got home, my mother was a whirlwind of silk and concern. She began rubbing my hair with a towel, her voice a frantic hum. “Cora! Are you trying to catch pneumonia? Where is Everett? He’s supposed to be with you! Look at you, you’re pale as a ghost. If your father heard about this, he’d fly back from the London merger tonight…” “Mom,” I interrupted, my voice sounding hollow and strange. “I just want to sleep.” She paused, searching my face for a moment. “Agatha, get the ginger tea started! I’ll bring it up myself.” She didn’t push. She knew me well enough to know when the silence was a warning. I changed into dry clothes and went upstairs. The moment the door clicked shut, the world went silent. But the images from the afternoon kept playing on a loop in the back of my mind. I saw the way Everett’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he looked at Luna. I saw the way he looked at me—like I was an obstacle to be cleared, a debt to be paid. The voices hadn’t been a hallucination. Everett Sinclair didn’t just tolerate me. He used me. He hated the very shadow I cast. For years, I told myself he was just “stoic,” that he didn’t know how to show affection because of the pressure his father put on him. I was wrong. He knew how to show it; he just didn’t want to show it to me. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. The caller ID flashed: EVERETT. 5 The second I picked up, his voice came through like a jagged blade. “Cora, did you say something to your mother? Because my father just called me, losing his mind. It was a rainstorm, for God’s sake. I was being a decent human being and giving a classmate a ride. Do you really have to run to the parents every time you don’t get your way?” I could hear his breathing—jagged, frantic. It was the most emotion I’d ever heard from him. “Everett,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Are you calling to check if I’m okay? Or are you just scared that if my family pulls out of the merger, your father will finally realize you’re useless?” There was a beat of silence. Over the phone, the “mind-reading” didn’t work. But I didn’t need it. I could see the sneer on his face. “Don’t be dramatic,” he snapped. “You’re just throwing a fit because I didn’t hold your hand for two blocks. Just tell your dad it was a misunderstanding. Fix this, Cora.” I took a long, shaky breath. “Everett, why would I ever cover for you again?” The line went dead silent. 6 I let out a short, cold laugh. “You think your dad found out because of me? Everett, use your head. Do you have any idea how many people your father has watching us? He knows exactly how much money the Aria family has pumped into your father’s failing ventures. He’s not watching me—he’s watching his investment.” I heard a muffled thud on the other end, like he’d punched a wall. “Are you finished?” he hissed. “No,” I said. “I’m just getting started. I’ve spent years keeping quiet about your ‘moods’ because I thought we were a team. But the truth is, the Sinclair family would be in bankruptcy court if it weren’t for my father’s pity.” The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating. He was calculating, weighing his pride against his bank account. Finally, his voice came back, cold as a winter morning. “I won’t be calling you for a while, Cora. Maybe take that time to think about how you treat people. You think money buys loyalty? Good luck with that.” He hung up before I could reply. 7 The cold war lasted three days. I knew he was waiting for me to crawl back, to apologize for “misunderstanding” him, just like I always did. He thought he was the prize. On the third day, I was walking to the library when Luna collided with me. It happened in slow motion. Before I could even react, she was on the floor, clutching her ankle and whimpering. Students stopped in the hallway, their eyes darting between us. Then, that familiar, low voice cut through the air. “Cora! What the hell are you doing?” I looked up to find Everett’s eyes burning with pure, unadulterated disgust. Luna bit her lip, her voice a tiny, fragile thing. “It wasn’t her fault, Everett. I was just… I was walking too fast.” God, even now she’s trying to protect her. Luna is too good for this world. I’ve only ignored Cora for three days and she’s already targeting Luna. She’s so incredibly spoiled. I can’t breathe in the same room as her. Once I take over the company, I am going to bury the Aria family. I’ll make sure Cora never looks down on anyone again. The thoughts hit me like a physical blow. 8 I looked at the crowd, then back at Everett. “She ran into me.” Everett stepped forward, his lip curling. “Save it. Do you honestly expect us to believe she tripped herself just to spite you? You’re pathetic.” I looked at Luna, who was looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew that if she fell, a dog like you would come running to bark at me.” The hallway went dead silent. Luna gasped, fresh tears spilling over. “Cora, I know you hate me, but how can you talk to Everett like that? He’s only being kind…” Everett’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. “Is this who you are now, Cora? Just a bully hiding behind a trust fund? You clearly haven’t learned a thing—” “If you hate the trust fund so much,” I interrupted, “stop using it. I’m telling my father tonight to pull the funding for the East Side project. You should probably tell your dad to start looking for new investors. Or a bankruptcy lawyer.” There she goes again. Always the power play, always the threats. She’s bluffing. She’ll cool off in two days and come crying to me. And when she does, I’m making her get on her knees to apologize to Luna. “Do whatever you want,” Everett spat. “I don’t care.” He knelt down, sweeping Luna into his arms in a classic bridal carry. “Hang on,” he whispered to her, his voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you to the nurse.” Luna tucked her head into his shoulder, her face hidden from the crowd. But as they turned, I caught it—the tiny, sharp curve of a smirk aimed directly at me. I didn’t say a word. I just turned and walked the other way. 9 My father came home that night, still smelling like jet fuel and expensive espresso. We sat in his study, the heavy oak doors shut tight. He tossed a stack of documents onto the desk. “The Sinclairs are pushing hard for the East Side development, Cora. Your Uncle George has been hounding me for a decision. I’ve been holding off. What do you think?” My father knew exactly what was going on. He’d seen the Sinclairs lean on our family for decades, using our reputation to prop up their shaky empire. He’d only allowed it because he thought Everett would eventually be family. I looked him in the eye. “Dad, I’ve been a fool. But I’m awake now. It’s time to cut them loose. All of it.” He let out a short, dry chuckle and pushed the papers aside. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.” He stood up and walked over, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Remember this, Cora. You are an Aria. You are the heir to everything we’ve built. You don’t bow to anyone. Especially not a Sinclair.” I nodded, feeling a strange, cold peace settle over me.

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I stood outside my own front door, my fingers trembling as I gripped the “No Trespassing” sign someone had crudely taped over the lock. It had started a week ago. Rosa, my live-in housekeeper, had come to me with tear-rimmed eyes. She told me her mother was coming up from their small rural town for medical treatments and asked if she could stay for a few days. Rosa was a godsend—meticulous, a wizard in the kitchen, the kind of person who anticipated my needs before I even knew I had them. My heart softened, and I agreed. I never imagined that coming home from work today would mean finding my own home turned into a fortress against me. The moment I pushed the door open, I saw a woman I didn’t recognize sprawled on my Italian leather sofa. She was older, with sharp, bird-like eyes that narrowed the second she saw me. Her boots were still on, resting right on the white upholstery. “Who the hell are you?” she barked, her voice like sandpaper. “My daughter doesn’t need some stray hanging around, eating her food for free. If you don’t have a place to live, go find a bridge to sleep under. Get out!” I stood there, stunned into silence by the sheer audacity. Rosa scrambled out of the kitchen then, her face pale. she grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hallway, whispering frantically. “Janet, I am so, so sorry,” she hissed, her voice shaking. “I couldn’t tell her the truth. She thinks… she thinks I bought this place. She thinks I’m the success story of the family. Could you just… could you go to a hotel for tonight? Please?” Before I could even process the request, a heavy thud echoed through the hallway. The old woman had marched over and physically shoved me back across the threshold. Then, the heavy oak door slammed shut, and I heard the deadbolt click. Locked out of my own penthouse. I took a deep breath, the cold air of the hallway stinging my lungs, and pulled out my phone. “911? I’d like to report a break-in. There are strangers illegally occupying my residence, and I’ve been locked out.” 1 I never thought I’d be the woman standing in a luxury hallway, being called a “leech” by a squatter. Ten minutes later, the elevator dinked, and two police officers stepped out. Just as they reached me, the door opened. Rosa burst out, her face a mask of frantic desperation. She lunged for my arm. “Janet! Why would you call the police? My mother has a heart condition—you’re going to give her a stroke!” One of the officers frowned. “Ma’am, did you place the call? You reported an illegal occupation?” Before I could get a word in, Rosa turned to the officers, her eyes welling up with practiced ease. “Officers, I am so sorry. This is all a huge misunderstanding. This is my boss, Ms. Janet. I’m her housekeeper. My mother is in town from the country for her health, and I… I was ashamed. I told her I bought this condo because I wanted her to be proud of me.” She wiped a stray tear, looking like a martyr. “My mother didn’t realize… she thought Janet was a roommate who wasn’t paying her share. She’s protective. She said some things she shouldn’t have, and I apologize on her behalf. Please, Janet, have a heart. She’s old. She can’t handle this kind of stress.” At that moment, Rosa’s mother—Mrs. Hendrix—poked her head out, looking at us like we were gum on the bottom of her shoe. “Rosa! Why are you talking to this stray? Tell her to hit the bricks!” The officer’s expression hardened. “Ma’am, watch your tone.” Mrs. Hendrix bristled. “I’ll talk how I want in my daughter’s house!” Rosa looked like she was about to faint. “Mom! Shut up!” She turned back to me, and for a second, I thought she was going to drop to her knees right there on the carpet. I stepped back, avoiding the touch. “Janet, please,” she sobbed. “Just for tonight. I’ve taken such good care of you. I’ve been here for every late night, every time you were sick. Please, let her have this one night of dignity. She leaves tomorrow. I’ll pay for your hotel!” The officers looked at me, then at the crying woman, then at the stubborn old lady in the doorway. It was a mess. I felt a slow burn behind my eyes. Rosa had been good to me. When my appendix nearly burst six months ago, she was the one who stayed at the hospital. She took care of my cat like it was her own child. I owed her that much, didn’t I? “Fine,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “One night. That’s it.” I turned to the officers. “I’m sorry for wasting your time. It’s a domestic dispute. I’ll be staying elsewhere tonight.” The officers looked relieved to be off the hook. They gave Rosa a stern warning about her mother’s behavior and left. Rosa showered me with “thank yous,” her head bowed low. “Janet, you’re an angel. Truly. Where will you go?” “A hotel,” I said curtly. “And I expect the place to be empty by noon tomorrow.” As I walked toward the elevator, I heard Mrs. Hendrix’s voice drifting from the open door, smug and loud: “That’s right, run along! Trying to act tough in my daughter’s house… some people just don’t know their place.” I clenched my fists until my nails drew blood, but I didn’t look back. 2 The next morning, I arrived at exactly 10:00 AM. The moment the door opened, a wave of heavy grease and a sour, pungent smell hit me. I winced. Mrs. Hendrix was sitting cross-legged on my sofa—my white silk sofa—wearing my $500 La Perla silk robe. She was picking her teeth with a splintered toothpick, the hem of the robe stained with what looked like red wine and grease. The coffee table was buried under sunflower seed shells and orange peels. On my custom-made wool rug, there were several dark, muddy footprints. She didn’t even look up when I walked in. “Oh, you’re back. Good. We haven’t had breakfast. Go into the kitchen, wash the dishes from last night, and whip us up something hot.” She spoke with the casual authority of a queen addressing a scullery maid. I swallowed the scream building in my throat and looked at Rosa, who was emerging from the kitchen with a bowl of cold oatmeal. “Janet… you’re early. My mom, she…” “She was supposed to leave this morning, Rosa,” I said, my voice dangerously level. “The… the bus was full,” Rosa whispered, not meeting my eyes. “She needs one more day.” “One more day?” I let out a sharp, cold laugh. Yesterday it was a night. Today it’s a day. Tomorrow it’ll be forever. Mrs. Hendrix tossed her toothpick onto the table and stood up, her eyes flashing. “Is there a problem? This is my daughter’s house. I’ll stay as long as I damn well please. You’re the guest here, and a rude one at that.” She walked up to me, scanning my designer suit with pure disdain. “You dress like you’re somebody, but you’re just a parasite. If my Rosa wasn’t so soft-hearted, you’d be out on the street where you belong.” My blood was boiling. Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. Rosa jumped like she’d been shot and ran to the door. A man walked in, carrying several bulging plastic bags and a battered suitcase. He was thick-set, with a loud, boisterous energy. “Auntie! I’m here!” he yelled. Mrs. Hendrix’s face lit up. “Cody! Look at you! Come in, come in!” She ushered him in, then threw a nasty look over her shoulder at me. “Don’t just stand there like a statue. Get the man a drink!” Rosa looked at me, her face a frantic shade of crimson. “Janet, this is my cousin, Cody…” I didn’t move. I watched Cody kick off his boots and walk across my hardwood floors in dirty socks, his eyes darting around the room like a radar. “Damn, Auntie,” Cody whistled. “Rosa really hit the jackpot. This place is huge. Must have cost a fortune.” Mrs. Hendrix puffed out her chest. “Well, my Rosa is a success. Not like some people.” Cody turned to me, his gaze lingering uncomfortably on my chest before moving to my face. “And who’s this? The help?” Rosa hesitated, her voice trembling. “She… she’s a distant relative. Staying here for a bit while she finds her feet.” “Ah,” Cody grunted, his lip curling in a sneer. “A charity case. Well, you better thank my cousin, honey. Most people would have left you in the gutter.” 3 I felt something click in my brain. The sheer, unadulterated gall of these people was almost impressive. Mrs. Hendrix settled Cody on the sofa and shouted at me, “What are you waiting for? We have a guest! Make sure lunch is special. My nephew likes steak and lobster. Get moving!” I looked at Rosa. She was looking at the floor, her voice a tiny squeak. “Janet, please. He’s only here for a visit. Just this once…” “You want me to be your chef?” I asked, my voice flat. Rosa’s face burned. She couldn’t answer. Mrs. Hendrix lost her patience. She stepped forward and shoved my shoulder. “Are you deaf? Do something useful for once or I’ll have my daughter throw you out in the snow!” Cody chimed in, laughing. “Yeah, Rosa, why do you keep this lazy ‘relative’ around? If it were me, I’d have kicked her to the curb days ago.” Rosa looked like she was about to cry, signaling me with desperate eyes. I took a long, slow breath. I looked at Rosa and smiled—a thin, sharp smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “What does your cousin want to eat? Make a list. I’ll take care of it.” Rosa looked stunned, then flooded with relief. “Thank you, Janet! Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Hendrix huffed. “About time you showed some gratitude.” A few minutes later, Rosa handed me a list. It was ridiculous—premium ribeye, live lobsters, expensive bourbon, exotic fruits. At the bottom, she’d written: Only the best. Make sure it’s fresh. I glanced at the list. “This is going to be expensive, Rosa. You sure about this?” Rosa nodded frantically. “Don’t worry about the cost, Janet. I’ll cover it!” “You’ll cover it?” I looked her in the eye. “Fine. By my math, with the alcohol and the high-end cuts, we’re looking at about three thousand dollars. Venmo it to me now.” Rosa’s smile froze. “Three… thousand?” “What, is that too much for your favorite cousin?” I arched an eyebrow. “I thought you were the big success story. Surely three grand is pocket change for the owner of a Seattle penthouse.” Cody looked up, his brow furrowed. “Rosa? Is there a problem? You’re not getting cheap on me, are you? You live in this palace and you’re worried about a few grand?” Mrs. Hendrix glared at her daughter. “He’s right! Don’t be a miser, Rosa. Give her the money. Don’t let us look poor in front of your own blood!” Rosa was trapped. Her monthly salary was only eight thousand. Three thousand was a massive hit. She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw real venom in her eyes. But with her family watching, she had no choice. Ding. The notification popped up on my phone. Transaction complete. “Wait right here,” I said. I grabbed the list and walked out the door without looking back. I didn’t go to the grocery store. I went to a high-end cafe three blocks away, ordered a $12 oat milk latte, and sat by the window. I spent an hour scrolling through my phone, planning my next move. Throwing them out physically would be messy. Mrs. Hendrix would scream, pretend to have a heart attack, and the neighbors would talk. No, I didn’t just want them out. I wanted Rosa to pay for the lie. I wanted her mother to see exactly what her “successful” daughter really was. An hour later, I walked back into the apartment carrying two large shopping bags. Mrs. Hendrix met me at the door, peering greedily into the bags. “About time! Where’s the lobster?” I dropped the bags on the floor. Inside were three heads of wilted cabbage, two bags of cheap potatoes, and a bunch of soggy spinach. Mrs. Hendrix’s face turned purple. “What is this? Where is the steak? The bourbon?” I calmly kicked off my shoes. “Oh, the market was so crowded. I couldn’t get to the meat counter. I figured we’d just make do with this. It’s healthier, anyway.” “Make do?” Her voice hit a glass-shattering register. “I gave you three thousand dollars for cabbage?” She pointed a shaking finger at my face. “You thief! You low-life! You stole my daughter’s money!”

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My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification from my banking app. I was in the middle of packing, surrounded by half-taped cardboard boxes and the lingering scent of dust. I was finally moving out, heading to a small studio I’d rented on the edge of the city. I swiped the notification open. My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it seemed to stop entirely. A transfer of exactly $100,000 had been debited from my savings account ending in 3692. My current balance: $0.38. That money was my life. It was four years of grueling academic scholarships, competition prize money, and every cent I’d scraped together from three different part-time jobs. Now, it was gone. I stared at the screen for three long seconds. I closed the app, refreshed it, and logged back in. The number remained the same. “Naomi? Where’s your card? I need to borrow it for a sec.” Kaylee’s voice drifted in from the living room, breezy and entitled, as if she were asking for a stick of gum. When I didn’t answer, she raised her voice. “Naomi? You there? Where’d you put the card?” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I didn’t say a word. My heart was racing, a frantic drumming in my chest, but then, slowly, a cold, sharp clarity washed over me. 1. I didn’t confront Kaylee that night. When she asked for the card again, I simply told her I had an errand to run and left. She didn’t even look up from her phone; she just waved a hand, dismissing me like a servant. We had been roommates for four years, and this had always been the dynamic. I was the “boring” one, the one who lived in the library, while she was the social butterfly who treated my things as her own. I had let it happen. I had called it friendship. My new place was a cramped studio in a run-down part of town. After paying the security deposit and the first three months’ rent, I should have had over ninety thousand dollars left—enough to cover my first year of law school and my living expenses. Now, I had thirty-eight cents. The next evening, my new landlord knocked on the door. I was sitting on a packing crate, eating a bowl of instant noodles. It was my third meal of the same thing. “Naomi, about the rent for next month…” “Mrs. Gable, could you give me forty-eight hours?” I set my chopsticks down, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m waiting for a wire transfer to clear.” She looked at my meager meal, then at the empty apartment, and sighed. “Fine. Two days. But after that, I have to charge a late fee.” The door clicked shut. I went back to my noodles. They were tasteless, but they filled the hole in my stomach. Later that night, lying on a thin mattress on the floor, I began scrolling through my text history with Kaylee. It spanned four years, a digital trail of small erosions. “Naomi, can I borrow fifty? I’ll Venmo you next month.” “Hey, grab me a salad on your way back? I’ll pay you later!” “Naomi, things are a little tight this month. Can that two thousand wait?” I scrolled and scrolled, the fog in my brain lifting. Freshman year: $3,000 borrowed, one year later she paid back $2,000, saying, “Let’s just call the rest even since I bought you all those drinks at that one party.” Sophomore year: $5,000 for a “professional development” course she never took. She paid back $3,000. “I’ll get the rest to you once we’re working.” Junior and senior year: a thousand here, five hundred there. I opened a note on my phone and started a spreadsheet. The final number: $18,300. She had never once initiated a repayment. Every cent I’d gotten back had been like pulling teeth, and every time, there was a new excuse, a new drama that made her the victim. “I thought we were sisters,” I whispered to the dark ceiling. I felt like the punchline to a very long, very cruel joke. On the third day, I went to the university’s financial aid office to check my scholarship disbursement records. “Naomi Vance, right?” The clerk tapped at her keyboard. “Your merit scholarship was disbursed last month. You requested an early release of funds. Don’t you remember?” “Early release?” “Yes. Right here.” She turned the monitor toward me. “You signed for it in person.” I looked at the digital signature. It was a clever imitation, but I knew it wasn’t mine. The strokes were too soft, the tail of the ‘V’ too flared. I’d practiced calligraphy for a decade; my signature was precise, sharp. This was a doodle. I didn’t argue. “Could I get a copy of that request form?” I asked. The clerk gave me a strange look. “A copy? What for?” “For my tax records,” I lied smoothly. She shrugged and printed it out. I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my bag. As I walked out into the bright afternoon sun, a memory surfaced. Last winter, we were sitting in our old dorm, sharing a bottle of wine. Kaylee was complaining about forgetting her banking PINs. She’d asked me how I remembered mine. “I just use my birthday,” I’d said. “Simple. Hard to forget.” She’d laughed, a soft, musical sound. “That’s way too easy, Naomi. Someone could rob you blind.” I hadn’t thought anything of it then. Now, I realized the look in her eyes hadn’t been concern. It had been an observation. 2. At 7:00 PM, I sent Kaylee a text. “Kaylee, something’s wrong with my scholarship fund. Do you know anything about it?” Five minutes later, she replied: “Huh? What do you mean? How would I know?” “The school said someone requested an early payout. The signature on the form isn’t mine.” My phone immediately rang. “Naomi, what the hell are you implying?” Kaylee’s voice was an octave higher than usual, sharp with indignation. “Are you actually accusing me of something?” I stayed silent. “We’ve been best friends for four years! And now you’re treating me like a criminal over some bank error?” “I never said it was you, Kaylee.” “Then why are you asking me? Your tone is disgusting. I’m honestly heartbroken, Naomi. Does four years of friendship really mean so little to you compared to a hundred grand?” She hung up. I looked at the “Call Ended” screen and let out a dry, hollow laugh. I hadn’t mentioned the amount. I hadn’t told anyone exactly how much was in that account. How did she know it was a hundred grand? The next morning, I opened Instagram. Kaylee had posted a story. It was a black background with white text, the classic “vague-post” of a victim. “It’s crazy how some people let paranoia ruin everything. Four years of being there for someone, and they turn on you the second things get weird. I guess you never really know people. Just glad I see the truth now.” The comments were already piling up from our mutual friends. “What happened, babe? Who’s bothering you?” “Some people are just small-minded, Kaylee. Don’t let them get to you.” “Ignore the haters. You’re too good for that drama.” I saw familiar names in the likes. Even Phoebe, who I’d helped pass her Bar Prep, had commented a heart emoji. I put the phone down. I didn’t respond. Two days later, in our old college group chat, Tyler—my boyfriend of two years—posted a photo. It was a picture of him and Kaylee. They were standing close, her head on his shoulder, and on her finger was a diamond that caught the light like a miniature sun. Tyler’s caption read: “She said yes. To forever with my soulmate.” I stared at the photo until the image burned into my retinas. Tyler and I had started dating sophomore year. We’d been long-distance for the last year while he moved to New York for an internship and I stayed back to finish my degree and prep for law school. In that year, we’d FaceTime’d maybe ten times. He was always “exhausted” or “swamped with work.” I’d been the one to call, the one to send care packages, the one to fly out to see him. I thought he was just building a career for us. Now I realized he’d been busy, alright. He’d been building a life with my best friend. The group chat exploded. “Tyler! Engaged?! Congrats!” “Wait, Kaylee? When did this happen?!” “OMG so happy for you guys! Power couple!” I quietly left the group. That night, Tyler called me. 3. “Hey, Naomi.” Tyler’s voice was tentative, lacking its usual bravado. “So… I’m guessing you saw the news.” “I did.” “Look, with Kaylee… it’s just one of those things. You can’t help who you fall for. Don’t be bitter, okay?” I said nothing. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but there was never a good time. And honestly, Naomi, you’re so focused on your books all the time. There’s no spark. With Kaylee, it’s just… easy. It was inevitable.” “Inevitable,” I repeated. The word felt like lead in my mouth. “Exactly. So don’t blame me. It’s about chemistry. Besides being a straight-A student, what else is there? Kaylee is warm, she’s fun. She actually knows how to live.” I listened to him talk, and I felt a strange, chilling peace. “I understand.” “That’s it?” He sounded disappointed, like he’d been bracing for a screaming match. “You’re not going to yell?” “What would be the point, Tyler?” “Right. Well… no hard feelings. Let’s be adults about this. We can still be friends down the road.” I hung up. Friends? My boyfriend of two years was engaged to my roommate of four. And they called it “inevitable.” I lay back on my mattress and began to piece the last year together. The times Tyler was “too busy” to talk, he’d been on the phone with Kaylee. The times he “forgot” my birthday but sent Kaylee a massive floral arrangement for her “half-birthday” because she was feeling down. The weekly FaceTimes they had while I was in the library, sometimes talking for hours. I had been so blind, lost in the “quiet moments” of my own loyalty, while they were laughing at me in the dark. The next day, Kaylee posted a new photo. A close-up of the ring. It was a three-carat oval cut, Platinum band. The caption: “Thank you to my incredible fiancé for the $100,000 engagement gift. The best decision of my life was saying yes to you.” One hundred thousand. I looked at the date of the post: April 15th. My scholarship funds had been drained on March 20th. I knew Tyler’s job. He was a junior developer at a mid-sized firm. He made $80,000 a year and lived in an expensive apartment in Brooklyn. There was no way he had $100,000 in cash for a ring. And I knew Kaylee’s family. Her parents were working-class people who had struggled just to pay her tuition. Where did the money come from? The answer was screaming at me. I took a screenshot. The date, the amount, the caption. Everything aligned. That money was my sweat and blood. Four years of sleep deprivation, of missing parties to study, of working through holidays. And now, it was a sparkling trophy on the finger of the woman who had spent four years pretending to love me. It was her “gift” from the man who had spent two years pretending to be mine. 4. I couldn’t sleep that night. Not because I was angry, but because I was calculating. I had known Kaylee for four years. I’d held her hair back when she was sick. I’d lent her money when she was short on rent. I thought we were a team. In reality, I was just her ATM with a heartbeat. At 2:00 AM, I got up and opened my laptop. I was a top-tier law student. Rank #1 in my class, winner of the National Mock Trial, and I’d passed the MPRE with a near-perfect score. I already had an offer from Stonebridge & Associates, one of the most prestigious firms in the country. I’d never bragged to Kaylee about these things. I didn’t think I needed to. To her, I was just “the girl who studies law.” She didn’t realize my specialty was white-collar crime and forensic accounting. I opened a new document and began organizing my “Case.” First: The forged signature on the scholarship form. I could hire a handwriting expert to verify the discrepancy. Second: The bank statements. The timestamp of the $100k transfer from my account matched the timeline of Tyler’s “sudden” ability to buy a ring. Third: The social media evidence. Her own words—the “hundred thousand dollar gift.” Fourth: The four-year ledger of unpaid loans. I had every Venmo request she’d ignored, every text where she promised to pay me back. $18,300 in small-scale theft. By sunrise, I had a comprehensive evidence binder. My phone rang. It was my mom. “Naomi, honey, I saw Kaylee’s post…” Her voice was cautious. “Isn’t that the boy you were seeing?” “Yeah, Mom. Was.” “Are you… are you okay?” “I’m fine.” Mom hesitated. “Kaylee actually called me. She said you’ve been acting erratic, accusing her of stealing? Naomi, honey, are you sure? Kaylee always seemed like such a sweet girl. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding?” I felt a wave of exhaustion hit me. “Mom, do you trust her or me?” “I trust you, of course! But these are serious accusations. Without proof, it could really hurt her reputation. You don’t want to be that person.” I smiled to myself, a cold, hard expression. “I know, Mom. I’ll handle it.” I hung up and looked out the window. The sun was fully up now, casting long shadows across the city. That afternoon, I received a digital invitation in my inbox. A flurry of red and gold. “Dearest Naomi: We would be honored to have you join us for the engagement party of Kaylee Miller and Tyler Bennett. You’ve been such a huge part of our journey—we need you there to witness our happiness! Date: May 1st. Location: The Grand Carlyle Hotel.” Kaylee even tagged me in the group chat she’d made for the party: “Naomi, you HAVE to come. You’re my bestie, I couldn’t do this without you!~” I stared at the message for a long time. Then, I typed three words: “I’ll be there.” And added: “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 5. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I put the phone down and took a deep breath. May 1st. Twelve days away. Twelve days was more than enough time to burn a bridge properly. That afternoon, I went to Stonebridge & Associates. Even though my start date was months away, my mentor, Isabel, had always told me her door was open. Isabel was thirty-five, a partner in the criminal defense department, and a shark in a Chanel suit. She was exactly who I wanted to be. “Naomi? I thought you were taking the month off to move,” Isabel said, looking up from a stack of depositions. “Isabel, I need your professional opinion.” I laid it all out. The scholarship, the forgery, the roommate, the boyfriend. Isabel listened in silence for several minutes. When I finished, she looked at the folder I’d brought. “You have the evidence?” I handed it over. The forged form, the bank logs, the screenshots. Isabel flipped through the pages, her brow furrowing. “The handwriting is a dead giveaway. Any expert could tear that apart in ten minutes.” She looked up at me. “What’s the play, Naomi?” “I want to file a police report.” “You can. But you know as well as I do that once you trigger the legal system, there’s no going back. This is felony-level grand larceny and fraud.” I nodded. “I know.” Isabel looked at the papers again, then leaned back in her chair. “Your uncle works at the local news station, doesn’t he? Lead producer for the investigative unit?” “He does.” “Good.” Isabel handed the folder back. “File the report. Once it’s logged, if they don’t cooperate, we look into media pressure. Economic fraud plus identity theft—this isn’t just a spat between roommates. It’s a criminal case.” I took the folder. “Thanks, Isabel.” She smiled at me, a sharp, appreciative glint in her eyes. “Naomi, you’re the calmest intern I’ve ever seen. Most girls your age would be in tears right now.” “Do tears pay the rent?” “No,” Isabel said, patting my shoulder. “They don’t. Go get them. Call me if you need a reference for the D.A.” As I left the office, the city lights were flickering on. My phone buzzed. It was Kaylee. “Naomi? Are you really coming to the party?” Her voice was smaller now, missing the aggressive edge from before. “I said I would.” “Listen… about the money stuff. You’re not going to make a scene, are you? It would really ruin the night.” “What money stuff, Kaylee?” “You know… you saying I took your money. Just don’t bring it up. It’s my big night.” I gripped my phone, a small, cold smile playing on my lips. “Kaylee, when did I ever say you stole my money?” “Well, you said—” “I just asked if you knew what happened. You were the one who said our friendship was worth more than a hundred grand.” The line went quiet. “I never told anyone the amount was a hundred grand,” I said softly. “So, how did you know?”

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After Gavin changed the keypad code to our apartment, he sent me the new one via text. It took two tries for the lock to click, the heavy door finally swinging open. The moment I stepped inside, the air felt wrong. The crisp, woody scent of the home I’d built had been smothered by a cloying, synthetic gardenia—a fabric softener I never used. In the laundry room, the dryer had finished its cycle. I pulled the clothes out. There was one of his work shirts, and then there was a floral sunshirt, size small. I wear a large. I folded the clothes neatly and set them on the arm of the sofa, my eyes drifting to the trash can in the kitchen. Inside were two takeout containers from a high-end bistro and two empty boba cups. One was marked Regular Sugar; the other, 30% Sweet. Gavin knew I only drank mine unsweetened. Neither of those drinks belonged to me. I didn’t fly into a rage. I simply sat on the sofa and waited. Thirty minutes later, the door hummed. Gavin walked in, freezing for a split second when he saw me. He kicked off his shoes, his voice casual, almost rehearsed. “You’re home early.” I pointed to the dress on the sofa. “Who did you do laundry for?” “A colleague,” he said, not looking at me. “Someone spilled wine on her at the mixer.” “A colleague who wears a small, likes her drinks a quarter-sweet, and uses gardenia-scented Downy?” I pressed. He didn’t answer. I grabbed my bag and walked to the door. “I’m only using this new code once,” I said, my voice steady despite the roar in my ears. “Change it again. And don’t bother sending me the next one.” 1 “It’s too late. I’ll come get you in the morning.” The text flashed on my phone at 1:47 AM. I was at my studio, the only light coming from the spotlight over my compounding table. The base notes of sandalwood and cedarwood clung to me—cold, clean, sharp. Nothing like gardenias. A second message followed immediately: “Macy just had too much to drink and ruined her dress. She just came over to shower and change. Don’t let your mind go to the darkest place possible, Diana.” Macy. He’d given her a name. At the apartment, she was a “colleague.” Now, she was Macy. I didn’t reply. Instead, I twisted open a bottle of bitter orange essential oil and inhaled. The scent was a grounding wire for my racing heart. A scent profile like that gardenia softener doesn’t just “happen” after one shower. Those molecules bond to fibers; you have to use it for two or three weeks straight for it to linger like that. I’d spent eight years training as a perfumer. My nose was far more honest than his mouth. I typed back: “She’s a size small, she uses gardenia softener, and she drinks 30% sweet boba. All three of these things appeared in your life during the two weeks you changed the locks. Gavin, I don’t own gardenia softener.” The “typing…” bubble flickered six times. Finally, a voice note. I tapped play. Two seconds of silence, then a long, weary sigh. “Work has been hell with the new product launch. She’s been helping me with the distributors, staying late to handle the logistics. She’s just been… looking after things for a bit. It’s temporary. It won’t happen again.” Looking after things. Changing his detergent. Ordering his tea. Washing her floral dresses in his machine. He called it a convenience. I recorded a reply, my voice sounding flatter than I expected. “So, you’re admitting it?” “Admitting what?” He was faster at typing than speaking. “Diana, can you stop obsessing over the details? Maybe I handled the boundaries poorly, but you can’t throw away three years of ‘us’ over a bottle of laundry soap.” Three years. He had the nerve to bring up the time. Three years ago, when he wanted to start his fragrance house, he had exactly six thousand dollars in his bank account. I sold three of my private formulas—the ones my mother left me in her estate—to raise the hundred thousand he needed for seed money. Those formulas were my inheritance, my soul. On a folding table in our old studio, he’d signed a napkin with a shaky hand: You own half this company, and the door code will always be your birthday. Always. Back then, it was always. Now, it was “it won’t happen again.” I typed: “Three years. You mean the three years where I provided the capital and the intellectual property?” “There you go, keeping score again,” he shot back instantly. “I’m trying to talk about feelings, and you’re talking about money. This is exactly your problem.” My problem. I stared at those words until they blurred. I turned off my phone and flipped it face down on the stainless steel table. As dawn broke, I went back to the apartment to get the rest of my things. I opened the fridge and stopped, my hand hovering in the cold air. The shelf was lined with boba cups. All of them “30% Sweet.” Small, round sticky notes were attached to the sides with bubbly handwriting and little smiley faces. Special sweetness for Mr. CEO! Keep up the hard work! —M. Macy. She had nicknamed herself in my fridge. I took them out, one by one. Eight cups. I moved to the closet. My coats and sweaters were still there, but in the bottom drawer, there was a new pink organizer. A keychain with a little bear hung from the zipper. Inside were two pairs of leggings, folded neatly. Size small. In the bathroom, a pink ceramic mug sat on the counter. It said: SMALL BUT MIGHTY. I took my toothbrush. I left her mug where it was. Finally, I opened my jewelry box. The engagement ring sat in the top velvet slot. A one-carat diamond Gavin said he bought with his first “real profit.” But the formula for that order had been mine. In the end, I had bought that ring for myself. I walked back to the kitchen. In the trash, the eight boba cups were beginning to sweat, the brown liquid leaking out. I dropped the ring into the bin. It sank to the bottom, wedged between a plastic lid and a sticky note that said M. My phone buzzed. Gavin: “Are you coming home today? Let’s talk in person. Don’t just sit there overthinking.” I grabbed my suitcase and took one last look at the place. Twelve hundred square feet, south-facing, a lease I’d negotiated, a space I’d curated. Now, it smelled like someone else’s life. I sent one final text: “The fridge is cleared out. The trash is full. Don’t forget to take it out.” 2 “We need to talk about your equity. In person.” A week later, Gavin sent the message along with a pin for a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. My friend Rebecca was fuming on the other end of the line. “Don’t go. He’s definitely up to something.” “I have to sign the buyout papers eventually,” I said. “Dragging it out doesn’t help me.” “Then I’m coming with you.” “No. If there are people there, he’ll use it as an excuse to dodge the real conversation.” When I pulled up to the restaurant, I saw his suit first. A dark charcoal bespoke piece with subtle pinstripes. I’d given it to him for his birthday two years ago. He’d told me then that the cut was too traditional and had never worn it once. He was wearing it today. Buttons done up to the top, a perfect Windsor knot in his tie. He stood up to pull out my chair. “Sit. I ordered the steamed clams you like.” “I’m here for the papers, Gavin.” “Eat first,” he said, pushing the menu toward me. “You’ve been staying at the studio, haven’t you? The water heater there is broken. How are you even showering?” “Does that have anything to do with my shares?” He stiffened, then pulled a folder from his briefcase. “I’m willing to settle the buyout, but the company valuation is currently in a transition phase. We have to wait until after the Series C funding—” “Gavin.” I cut him off because I saw her. She was walking through the front door in a floral sunshirt, size small, her waist so thin it looked fragile. The scent hit me before she even reached the table—gardenia. Not the real, heady flower, but the cheap, synthetic gardenia aldehyde used in industrial soaps. Cloying, flat, and sickly sweet. Macy. The moment she “noticed” us, her expression shifted with practiced ease—first surprise, then embarrassment, then a smile that was 80% sweet and 20% innocent. “Oh, Gavin! You’re here? What a coincidence.” And then, she sat down. She pulled out the chair next to Gavin as if it were her assigned seat. “Hi, Diana,” she said, nodding at me. Her smile was calibrated to the millimeter. I put my fork down and said nothing. She turned to Gavin immediately. “Gavin, your stomach has been acting up lately, you shouldn’t have anything spicy. Let me order you something lighter.” She reached for the menu, her arm brushing his sleeve. It was a natural movement, one performed a hundred times before. Gavin didn’t flinch. “You don’t mind me being a busybody, do you, Diana?” she asked, her eyes wide and performatively thoughtful. “After the last company party, Gavin was in so much pain. I just can’t stand to see him suffer.” The last company party. The last time his stomach hurt. She knew the schedule of his physical ailments better than I did now. “I don’t mind,” I said, signaling the waiter. “In fact, get him the spicy arrabbiata. Extra chili flakes.” Macy blinked. “Diana, really, he can’t—” “He used to get sick after every gala,” I said, my voice level. “I was the one who stayed up making ginger tea to settle his stomach. You know his stomach is sensitive, but do you know why it’s ruined? Do you know about the three years of stress and whiskey it took to build the company you’re currently sitting on?” She had no answer for that. Gavin frowned, his voice dropping an octave. “Diana, is this necessary? She’s just a kid. Don’t take it out on her.” A kid. The size small dresses, the boba, the gardenia softener, the “Special Sweetness” notes, the pink mug in my bathroom. To him, it was just three words: She’s a kid. “The papers, Gavin,” I said, bringing the focus back. “Like I said, after the Series C funding—” “How long?” “Three to six months.” “I need a date.” He pulled the folder back toward his side of the table. “What’s the rush? It’s not like we’re getting a divorce. Just… take some time to cool off. Go away for a bit, get some perspective, and when you’re ready, we can move past this.” Cool off. He thought I was negotiating my heart. I was negotiating my exit. Macy spoke up then, her voice soft and airy. “Diana, Gavin has been under so much pressure. I’ve been overseeing the entire R&D line for the new launch. We’re in the lab until midnight every night. If it makes you feel better, I can keep my distance from him from now on.” It was a brilliant move. A public concession, a show of weakness, and a subtle reminder that she was the one with him “until midnight” every night. I stood up. Gavin clamped his hand over the folder. “Are you going to sign?” “You wore that suit today because you thought wearing something I gave you would make me soft,” I said, picking up my bag. “You took something you ignored for two years, polished it up, and used it as a tool for an emergency. It’s exactly what you did to me.” His fingers tightened on the table. Beside him, Macy looked down, stirring her coffee, her shoulders hunched as if she were the victim of a great cruelty. As I walked out of the restaurant, I heard her voice behind me, clear through the closing glass door. “Gavin, does she hate me? Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” “It’s not you,” Gavin replied. “She’s always been like this. High-strung.” She’s always been like this. 3 “Diana? Are you here for your things?” The receptionist, Sarah, sounded nervous. Her eyes kept darting toward the main office area. “Yes. Just picking up my personal files.” Gavin’s company was located in a sleek glass building in the tech corridor. I was the one who had picked the space. I was the one who negotiated the lease down. I bought the plants in the lobby. I designed the scent diffusion system in the hallways. But today, when the elevator doors opened, I smelled gardenias. The scent stones in the corridor had been replaced. I didn’t stop. I walked straight into Gavin’s office. The door was ajar. His desk looked the same, but the bottom drawer where I kept my most precious items—a leather-bound A5 notebook, cognac-colored, with worn edges—was open. My mother’s recipe book. The complete compositions for thirty-seven perfumes. Every note, every trial, every raw material ratio. It was the only thing she’d left me. The drawer was empty. The book was gone. I turned around and looked at the workstation directly facing Gavin’s office. The desk was covered in pink organizers and a laptop with a glittery shell. My mother’s notebook was sitting there. It was being used as a coaster for a greasy takeout box and a half-finished boba tea. There was a massive brown ring on the leather cover. I flipped it open. Oil and milk tea had soaked through the parchment, blurring my mother’s elegant script. On page seventeen—the formula for an Osmanthus Absolute that existed nowhere else in the world—the pages were stuck together. She was using my mother’s legacy as a placemat. “Oh, hey, Diana.” Macy appeared, holding two more boba teas. She saw me standing at her desk and slowed her pace. “Gavin asked me to organize that,” she said, her tone suggesting this was the most natural thing in the world. “Some of those formulas need to be digitized for the company’s core assets.” “This is my private property.” “But Gavin said these formulas belong to the firm—” I reached for the book. She jerked back, her chair wheels skidding. In the scramble, her elbow hit the boba cup. Freshly brewed hot tea. The scalding liquid splashed directly onto my outstretched right hand. The pain was immediate—a searing, white-hot iron pressed against my skin. My hand swelled instantly, turning a violent red before the blisters began to rise, clear and bubbling over my knuckles. My right hand. My dominant hand. The hand I used to grind resins, to dip test strips, to feel the weight of a pipette. My livelihood. Macy let out a shrill scream, but she wasn’t looking at my hand. She was looking at her leggings. Gavin came charging out of his office. He ran right past me. He went straight to Macy, kneeling down to check her legs. “Are you okay? Did it burn you? Let me see.” Then he looked up at me, his brow furrowed in annoyance as if I were the one causing trouble. “You know she’s clumsy, Diana. Why are you fighting her over a damn notebook?” A damn notebook. I clutched the tea-soaked leather book with my right hand. The blisters broke under the pressure, the clear fluid mixing with the brown tea stains. “Gavin,” I said, my voice shaking. “The hundred thousand dollars you used to start this company? That ‘damn notebook’ paid for it.” The look on his face finally fractured. “Don’t bother with the door code,” I whispered. “Everything about you feels filthy to me now.” I walked out, clutching the book to my chest. In the elevator, my hand started to shake uncontrollably. The pain had moved past searing into a rhythmic, nauseating throb. Sarah, the receptionist, ran out and handed me a bottle of cold water. She looked at my hand and winced. “Diana… do you want me to call an Uber? You need a hospital.” “Call me one for St. Jude’s.” “Okay.” She hesitated, then whispered, “Diana… Macy took that book herself. Gavin didn’t ask her to. She’s been taking photos of the pages and sending them to outside suppliers all week.” My grip on the notebook tightened. The pain didn’t matter anymore. “Thank you, Sarah.” She nodded, her eyes welling with tears. As the car pulled up, I looked back at the third-floor window. The lights were still on. “Let’s go,” I told the driver. 4 “Second-degree burns. Some deep partial-thickness areas.” The doctor snapped off his gloves and looked at me. “What do you do for a living?” “I’m a perfumer.” He paused, the motion of throwing the gloves away slowing down. “The deep burns on the knuckles might leave scarring. We need to monitor for infection. We can’t rule out a skin graft later if the mobility is compromised.” “Will I be able to use my fingers?” “It’s hard to say. If the scar tissue contracts, your range of motion will be limited.” Rebecca burst into the exam room just as they were wrapping my hand in gauze. “Diana! Are you insane? Why didn’t you call me? Your hand—” “I need you to do a few things for me.” She stopped mid-rant, her eyes red. “First, block Gavin everywhere. Phone, email, socials. Everything.” “Done.” “Second, find me a flight to Oregon. Tomorrow morning.” “You’re leaving?” “There’s a botanical estate in the Willamette Valley. I’ve been talking to the owner about a private R&D residency. I need to go.” “Wait, your hand is like this and you’re—” “Rebecca.” She went quiet. I looked down at the thick white cocoon of gauze. Beneath it was a ruin of broken skin and shattered dreams. A perfumer’s hand. “Buy the ticket,” I said. “The earliest one.” She didn’t argue. She pulled out her phone and started tapping. Blocking, deleting, clearing the history. Then, she stopped. “Diana… you need to see this.”

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I still can’t believe I’m losing my mind over a mediocre, thirty-something man in my office. Derek is married. He has a stay-at-home wife who has made raising their children and managing his existence her sole, holy crusade. Every day at 5:00 PM, he clocks out and walks into a life he doesn’t have to orchestrate. Dinner is hot. The bath is drawn. His version of fatherhood consists of tossing a toddler in the air for fifteen minutes before claiming exhaustion. He hasn’t touched a sponge or scheduled a pediatrician appointment in his life. He lives with the blissful, unburdened ignorance of a college freshman. Then there’s me. I finish a grueling fourteen-hour day and unlock the door to my three-thousand-square-foot luxury penthouse. It’s breathtaking. It’s architectural perfection. And it is completely, suffocatingly empty. I actually love children. Biologically, logistically, having a child wouldn’t be impossible—I’d just need to carve out a year. But I am at the absolute precipice of my career. I’m terrified that stepping back to give birth will derail my trajectory, so I stay frozen. Derek and I are gunning for the same promotion. If this were a fair, one-on-one fight? I’d obliterate him. But it’s not fair. I’m not competing against Derek; I’m competing against Derek and the invisible infrastructure of his wife. We both work a grueling day, but he goes home to recharge in a sanctuary built entirely for his comfort, while I go home to an echo chamber. Thinking about it makes my blood boil. I realized something fundamental: I don’t need a husband. I need a wife. Just imagine it. If I had someone managing my life the way Derek’s wife manages his… God, I would be unstoppable. 1 Fueled by caffeine and spite, I immediately registered with Elite Connections, the most exclusive matchmaking agency in the city. My consultant, Diane, was thrilled with my profile. Within days, she had a lineup of weekend dates. I showed up to the boutique coffee shop looking flawless—a silk slip dress, a sharp blazer, and my favorite stilettos. Whether I found a match or not, I was going to exude absolute, weaponized confidence. Diane had vetted them “according to my standards.” Candidate One sat down, looked me up and down like a used car, and sneered. “When we’re together, I don’t want my woman dressing so… flashy. You’ll need to tone that down.” I practically felt my eyes roll into the back of my skull. Bold of you to assume we’re getting together, considering I don’t date men who dress like substitute math teachers. Candidate Two had clearly put effort into his appearance. His eyes lit up when he saw me. “When we get married, you won’t even have to work. I’ll take care of you.” I plastered on a painfully polite smile. “And what is your annual salary?” He puffed out his chest. “I make sixty thousand a year. Full benefits, 401k match. It’s a great setup. You can quit, stay home with the kids, and I’ll give you five hundred dollars a month as a personal allowance.” My smile splintered. I looked down at my two-thousand-dollar Jimmy Choos and seriously considered taking one off and embedding the heel in his forehead. 2 Candidate Three looked the part of a finance bro. We actually had a decent rapport, speaking the same corporate language. Finally, we pivoted to the future. A calculated glint flashed behind his designer frames. “I assume, Jocelyn, that as a modern woman, you’re open to modern financial arrangements?” “I’m listening.” “Would you be open to going fifty-fifty on all household expenses?” Split the bills? Wait, I get a domestic partner without taking on his financial burden? I nodded enthusiastically. He smiled, leaning in. “And cohabitation before marriage?” A trial run without the legal mess? I kept nodding. “Great,” he said. “My mother always says that women these days have so many fertility issues. Would you be open to having a child before we officially sign the marriage certificate, just to be sure?” My jaw twitched. The polite facade evaporated. “Tell you what,” I said, voice dropping to a deadly calm. “Would you be open to adopting? Would you be open to quitting your job, staying home full-time, and managing my household? Don’t worry, I can match whatever salary you’re making right now.” His face flushed a violent, blotchy red. “I make a hundred and fifty grand a year! You want me to be a house-husband? Scrub floors? And you won’t even give me a biological kid?” He scoffed, eyeing me with sudden disgust. “You might be gorgeous, but if you’re not going to breed, what use are you to me?” It took every ounce of my Wall Street restraint not to laugh in his face. A hundred and fifty grand? I thought. Honey, I make five times that on a bad year. He stormed off. I sat there, lazily stirring my iced latte, waiting for Candidate Four. He arrived. Visually, he passed. I decided to skip the dance and cut straight to the chase. “I will give you a five-thousand-dollar monthly allowance—pure disposable income—with all living expenses covered by me. In exchange, you stay home full-time and manage the household. Can you handle that?” His eyes went wide like saucers. “Yes! Absolutely. I hate working anyway; I’m a total homebody. I don’t really know how to clean, though. Oh, and when we get together, my parents are going to move in with us.” My smile shattered into a million pieces. He was still talking. “We don’t own a place, so we’ll have to live at yours. Do you rent or own?” I was looking for a partner, not a parasite. A stay-at-home husband who doesn’t do chores? What is the point of that? 3 After Number Four left, I slumped back against the velvet booth, staring blankly at the ceiling. Why was it so impossibly hard to find a wife? Diane slid into the seat across from me, looking apologetic. “Jocelyn, you’re asking a man to stay home, do the housework, and you’re not offering him a biological child. What kind of man is going to accept that? Maybe you need to lower your expectations. Compromise on something.” I stared at her. I was the one with the money. Why should I compromise? “Upgrade my membership,” I said flatly. “Put me in the Diamond tier.” A bigger pool meant better fish. Diane’s face instantly lit up with the promise of a commission, and she stood up to leave. Suddenly, from the booth just behind the half-wall next to me, a woman’s sharp, condescending voice cut through the café chatter. “You deliver food for a living. How exactly do you plan to support me? This manicure alone cost me two hundred bucks—how many deliveries do you have to make just to pay for my nails? And I heard you have a kid. Is it yours? Because I am not playing stepmom.” A man’s voice answered. It was a beautiful voice—low, quiet, and incredibly melodic. “I can give you my entire paycheck. I just need someone to play the role of a mother for Theo. Just until he’s a little older and doesn’t need that maternal figure as desperately. We can sign a prenuptial agreement. We can divorce after.” The woman scoffed loudly. “You want me to waste my best years for whatever pennies you scrape together? That wouldn’t even cover my shopping habit.” The sharp clack of her heels echoed as she stormed toward the exit. My curiosity was piqued. I stood up, walked around the partition, and looked at the source of that beautiful voice. When I saw him, I swear, my cold, corporate heart skipped a beat. An angel? 4 He was sitting in the booth, looking down at his hands. His hair fell effortlessly across his forehead, casting shadows over ridiculously long eyelashes. A straight nose, soft lips, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He was wearing a simple, inexpensive linen shirt, but it was immaculately pressed. Not a single wrinkle. Sensing my unapologetic stare, the young man looked up. His eyes were a stunning, translucent amber. They looked like they were catching the light from within. I didn’t hesitate. I slid directly into the seat across from him. “Jocelyn Pierce. Twenty-seven. High-level finance. What do you think of me?” He blinked, stunned, before the implication landed. A faint, gorgeous flush crept up his neck. “I’m Rowan,” he said, his voice dropping so low I had to lean in. “Rowan Gallagher. Twenty-two. And right now… I’m a delivery driver.” “Twenty-two?” I arched an eyebrow. “Fresh out of college?” He nodded. I tapped my manicured nails against the table, the gears in my head turning. A younger man. My friends always joked about the sheer, unbridled stamina of a man in his early twenties. I had spent my twenties ruthlessly climbing the corporate ladder; I had zero romantic history. But honestly? As long as he could run a house, I didn’t care if he was younger. “Can you clean?” I asked. “Can you do laundry? Cook?” Rowan looked utterly confused, but he slowly nodded. My heart soared. Was the universe actually handing me exactly what I wanted? But I remembered the horrible woman mentioning a child. I needed to clear that up. I don’t do messy entanglements or baby-mama drama. 5 “You have a child?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. Rowan bit his lower lip. He nodded, then shook his head. “Is that a yes or a no?” “He’s not biologically mine,” Rowan said softly, his amber eyes dropping to the table. “He’s my sister’s. She and her husband… they passed away.” The profound grief in his voice hit me like a physical blow. God, I had just stomped right onto a landmine. “I’m so sorry.” “How old is the baby? You’re raising him on your own?” I asked, my curiosity softening into something closer to empathy. He nodded again. “He’s two.” Two years old. Past the newborn nightmare phase, able to communicate, peak cute-stage. Child acquired. Check. I leaned back, flashing him my most practiced, devastating smile, and ran a hand through my hair. “Would you be opposed to an older woman?” Rowan’s face went violently, beautifully red. I leaned forward, dropping into negotiation mode. “I’ll give you a five-thousand-dollar monthly cash allowance, with all household and living expenses on a separate card. All you have to do is manage the house and take care of the boy.” Rowan swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “I… I couldn’t do that.” “Why not? Are you making five grand a month on a bike in the heat? You could make that from the comfort of a luxury apartment, without having to brave the weather.” He dropped his head, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’m… I’m not an escort. I don’t want a sugar mommy—” I burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the quiet café. “Who said anything about buying an escort? I’m legitimately looking for a hus—” I caught myself. The word wife had almost slipped out. “A husband,” I corrected smoothly. God, I really just wanted a wife. 6 At the word “husband,” the tips of Rowan’s ears turned crimson. I couldn’t help but tease him. “You were just pitching a marriage of convenience to that awful woman. Why so shy now?” He peeked up at me through his lashes, then quickly looked away. “It… it’s different. I was just trying to find Theo a mother figure. A contract marriage. But you…” He glanced at me again, the blush spreading to his pale cheeks. My god. Were all recent college grads this devastatingly sweet? Diane, having noticed my extended absence, trotted over to our booth, a customer-service smile plastered on her face. “Jocelyn! About that Diamond tier upgrade—” I waved a hand dismissively. “Cancel it. And don’t worry about refunding my initial fee.” The candidates she brought me were trash, but if she hadn’t set up the appointments, I wouldn’t have been in this café to find my angel. Consider the fee a finder’s tip. Diane’s smile froze when I canceled the upgrade, but the promise of keeping the non-refundable deposit thawed it quickly. She looked between me and Rowan. “Well… I wish you both a lifetime of happiness!” She practically sprinted away, probably terrified I’d ask for my money back. I turned my attention back to the boy across from me. “Let’s be absolutely clear,” I said, my tone shifting to purely professional. “You move into my place. You stay home full-time and raise the boy. Are you absolutely sure you can handle that?” Rowan looked into my eyes, held my gaze for a fraction of a second, then lowered his lashes and nodded. Gorgeous, domestic husband acquired. Check. 7 Looking at his flushed face, I decided the first order of business was a full medical workup. I needed a healthy partner. Since it was getting late, I took Rowan to a high-end restaurant nearby. After ordering, I noticed the seafood spread and added a plate of chilled jumbo shrimp. While we waited for the food, we laid out our histories. I learned that his parents had died when he was young, and his older sister had practically raised him. Shortly after he graduated college, his sister and brother-in-law were killed in a car accident, leaving him alone with a toddler. He was juggling food delivery gigs just to keep food in the baby’s mouth. Listening to him, my chest tightened. It felt like the universe had a sick sense of humor when it came to good people. I gave him the abbreviated version of my life: former Wall Street shark, currently a senior executive at a major financial firm. When the food arrived, it was plated like modern art. I did what any millennial woman would do—took aesthetic photos of every dish and posted them to my Instagram story. Almost immediately, my phone started buzzing with notifications from colleagues and friends. I absentmindedly fired off a few replies. Rowan sat perfectly still, waiting for me to finish. The longer I looked at him, the more pleased I felt. I picked up my fork and placed a piece of fish on his plate. “Don’t be polite. Eat.” “Thank you, Jocelyn,” he murmured, his face pinking again. I rested my chin on my hand, watching him. He ate the food I gave him, then cast a quick, hesitant glance at my long, manicured nails. Slowly, he put on a pair of plastic gloves from the table caddy and reached for the shrimp. He peeled them methodically. When he was done, a neat row of pristine, pink shrimp sat perfectly arranged on a small plate. He pushed the plate across the table toward me. The subtext was loud and clear. I couldn’t hide my smile. “For me?” He nodded, gesturing slightly toward my hands. “Your nails. I didn’t want you to ruin them.” Oh, wow. We weren’t even married yet, and I was already reaping the benefits of a wife. I didn’t hesitate. I speared a shrimp with my fork, dragged it through the cocktail sauce, and ate it. It tasted like absolute victory. 8 After lunch, I drove Rowan straight to a premier private clinic. He looked utterly bewildered. I kept my face blank, entirely composed. “Corporate life is stressful. I’m getting a routine physical to make sure I’m holding up. Figured you should get one too.” I quietly slipped a comprehensive reproductive and sexual health screening into his package and marked it as a priority. When he emerged from the examination rooms hours later, his face, ears, and neck were burning bright red. I pulled out my phone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you when the results come in.” He fumbled with his phone, clearly flustered, and we exchanged contacts. “Is there anywhere you want to go right now?” I asked. He shook his head, looking hesitant. Did I intimidate him that much? I sighed, softening my voice. “Rowan, just say what’s on your mind. We’re going to be family soon.” He looked at me, his amber eyes earnest. “Theo is the only family I have left. He has to live with me. But I promise, I won’t play favorites. I’ll take care of your children exactly the way I take care of Theo.” Wait. What? My kids? Looking at the absolute sincerity in his eyes, I was momentarily speechless. A laugh bubbled up in my throat. “My… children?” He bit his lip. “This morning… you said my job would be staying home and taking care of the kids…” The realization hit me. He thought I was a single mother hiring him to raise my secret offspring. “Oh my god.” I threw my head back and laughed until my ribs ached. When I finally caught my breath, I stepped into his space, went up on my tiptoes, and gently pinched his cheek. “I don’t have any kids, Rowan. When I said ‘take care of the child,’ I meant yours.” God, he was tall. Over six-two, easily. And his skin was incredibly soft. He stared down at me, looking even more profoundly confused. It was too cute. I pinched his cheek again. “I don’t plan on having biological children,” I explained softly. “You bringing Theo into the mix is perfect. It saves me the trouble of adopting. Your only job is to raise him well.” I grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward my Porsche. “Send me your address. Let’s go meet the kid.” 9 As we navigated toward his neighborhood, Rowan shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “The streets get really narrow up ahead. You won’t be able to park this.” I had to pull the Porsche to the curb a few blocks away. Stepping out into the neighborhood, I immediately understood his hesitation. It was… gritty. I felt an absurd flash of a savior complex—like I was Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, but with a much worse zip code. But looking at the beautiful, gentle man walking beside me, I firmly shut that thought down. A husband without a ring was just a boyfriend, and I wasn’t here to do charity; I was here to secure my future. We dodged overflowing dumpsters and stopped in front of a crumbling apartment building. My heels echoed sharply in the concrete stairwell, the sound grating on my nerves by the third flight. By the time we hit the sixth floor, I was genuinely out of breath. Rowan unlocked the door. The apartment was tiny—the entire place was probably smaller than my living room. But the moment I stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. It was a classic two-bedroom, but it was incredibly warm. Spotless. Everything had its place. I glanced at the shoe rack, looking for guest slippers. Rowan noticed. “You don’t need to take off your shoes,” he said quickly. I stepped into the living room. The walls were decorated with inexpensive but beautifully composed prints. Toys were neatly corralled in a woven basket. I mentally checked another box. He really did know how to keep a house. “Where’s the baby?” I asked. “I left him with the neighbor across the hall when I went to the café. Let me go grab him.” He slipped out the door. I barely had time to take a sip of the water he’d poured me before he was back, carrying a toddler on his hip. I stood up and leaned in. Theo was soft and pale, with massive, dark eyes like polished obsidian. I let out an internal sigh of relief. He was a beautiful baby. Those big eyes stared at me with pure, unadulterated curiosity. He was so cute I had the sudden, violent urge to squish his cheeks. Breathe, Jocelyn, I told myself. Wait for the medical results. Once the ink on the marriage license is dry, this kid is officially yours. I had seen the baby. It was time to go. Rowan carried Theo downstairs to walk me to my car. Standing by the Porsche, I reached into my console, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills I kept for emergencies, and tucked it into Theo’s little hands. “I didn’t have time to stop for a gift. Buy him some toys.” Rowan’s eyes widened in panic. “Jocelyn, no, I can’t take this.” He tried to hand it back, but I smoothly ducked into the driver’s seat. I liked spending money on my things. I rolled the window down halfway. “Wait for my text.” I pulled away without giving him a chance to argue. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I watched Rowan standing on the curb, holding the baby. The thought that soon, someone would be standing at the door seeing me off every morning… God, it felt amazing. 10 I walked into my three-thousand-square-foot penthouse. The silence was deafening. It was cold, vast, and utterly devoid of life. No one asking about my day. No hot shower running. No dinner on the stove. I sighed, dropping my keys on the counter. I thought of Rowan, and a spark of hope flared in my chest. Stay healthy, kid, I thought to the universe. I need a healthy wife. I looked around. My blazer was slung carelessly over the back of the sofa. A stained coffee mug sat on the glass coffee table. My shoes were kicked off in two entirely different time zones. I collapsed onto the sofa, wincing when the hardware of a forgotten handbag dug into my spine. I wanted to cry. I absolutely loathed housework. I used to employ a housekeeper, Martha. At first, she was great. But as she got comfortable, the matriarchal entitlement crept in. She started making passive-aggressive comments. Girls shouldn’t spend money so recklessly. It doesn’t matter how much a woman makes, she just needs a good husband. It’s such a waste for a single girl to live in a place this big. I tolerated it because she kept the house spotless and left me hot meals. Then, one evening, I came home to find a strange man sitting on my custom Italian leather sofa. Martha smiled proudly. “This is my nephew. He’s single. A woman your age, Jocelyn, if you don’t settle down soon, you’ll be stuck with divorced men. My nephew doesn’t mind that you’re a bit older. Older women know how to take care of a man.” I didn’t even yell. I just walked into my bedroom, called the agency, and had her removed from my property within the hour. After that, the parade of housekeepers all followed the same arc: they started fine, then eventually tried to mother me or critique my lifestyle. I was paying them a premium; why did I feel like I was hiring a mother-in-law? I stopped using full-time help, relying on a weekly cleaning service just to keep the place sanitary. Thinking about it exhausted me. I sat up and pulled up a delivery app to see what sad, lukewarm meal I was going to eat for dinner. 11 Monday morning. Business as usual. The moment I walked into the bullpen, Derek Larsen intercepted me, holding out a pink bakery box. “Jocelyn, try one of my wife’s homemade cupcakes. The VP already had two. Said they were fantastic.” Derek. My sworn nemesis. The firm was currently debating who would lead our newest, highest-stakes acquisition project—me or Derek. The mention of his wife’s domestic perfection was a calculated strike. I felt that familiar, ugly spike of jealousy. I took the box with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Thanks, Derek. When I get the lead on the new project, I’ll be sure to treat you to dinner.” Derek’s smile stiffened. “Don’t count your chickens, Jocelyn.” The air between us practically crackled with hostility. I gave a dismissive little hum and walked past him. I didn’t have time to participate in a staring contest with a man who peaked in high school; I had pitch decks to review. Back in my office, my assistant, Chloe—wait, no, let’s call her Sarah. No, Sarah’s banned too. My assistant, Emily, walked in with a stack of folders. “Ms. Pierce, these need your signature.” I pointed to the edge of my desk. “Leave them.” I pushed the pink bakery box toward her. “Take this to the breakroom. Let the interns have it.” I wasn’t about to eat anything Derek Larsen handed me. I blazed through the documents, signing where needed, kicking back the ones with sloppy formatting. When I finally looked up at the clock, it was 10:55 AM. Two emails pinged in my inbox. The clinic results. I opened mine first. Perfect health. All those 5:00 AM Pilates classes were paying off. I opened Rowan’s. I scoured the PDF, checking every single metric, right down to the STI panel. He was in perfect, pristine health. A thrill shot through me. He was healthy. It was time to bring him home. My era of coming home to a hot meal and a warm house was officially beginning. 12 I FaceTimed Rowan. It rang for a long time before he finally answered. “Jocelyn?” I stared at the screen. He was wearing a bright neon delivery helmet, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. My chest tightened. “Are you out on a delivery right now?” He nodded, a bead of sweat rolling down his jawline. Oh my god. My internal monologue was screaming. It’s been one day and my beautiful angel is out here suffering in the trenches. “Where’s Theo?” Rowan angled the camera down. Theo was strapped into a makeshift child seat on the front of the electric bike. His little cheeks were flushed dark red from the heat, though his dark eyes were still bright. Silence hung between us. Two beautiful, miserable souls baking in the sun. “Drop your location,” I ordered. “I’m coming to get you. Find some shade.” God, I was getting soft in my old age. My maternal instinct was apparently highly susceptible to pretty faces. When I pulled the Porsche up to the GPS pin, the two of them were huddled under a meager tree, looking like a tragic Dickens illustration. I rolled down the window. “Get in.” Rowan hesitated, looking at his electric bike. “I can just ride behind you—” “Get in the car, Rowan. I’ll pay someone to come pick up the bike later.” He didn’t argue. He clutched Theo to his chest and slid into the leather passenger seat. We weren’t going to the courthouse looking like this. I threw the car into drive and headed straight for the nearest Ritz-Carlton. 13 I glanced over at him as we pulled into the valet line. “Do you have your ID on you?” Rowan looked up at the towering luxury hotel, his throat bobbing. “Is this… is this really okay?” I caught the deep, frantic blush rising up his neck and instantly realized what he was thinking. I barked a laugh. “What exactly is going through your head? I booked a room so you two can take a shower. We’re going to City Hall this afternoon to get married.” Rowan realized his mistake, and the blush violently overtook his entire face. He buried his chin into Theo’s hair, mortified. I couldn’t stop smiling. He was so incredibly pure. Up in the suite, Rowan disappeared into the marble bathroom to shower, leaving me alone with the toddler. We stared at each other. Theo was sitting on the plush carpet. I glanced toward the bathroom door, then reached out a finger and gently poked his soft, chubby cheek. Theo tilted his head, looking at me with profound confusion. God, he is so cute. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned in and planted a loud kiss right on his cheek. Theo’s eyes went wide as saucers, and he slapped his little hands over the spot I’d kissed. Even cuter. I scooped him up into my lap and peppered his face with kisses. I tried to soften my voice so I didn’t sound like a corporate shark about to eat a seal. “What’s your name, baby?” Theo went completely rigid in my arms, terrified to move. I sighed internally. Was my aura that intimidating? I was just about to put him down when a tiny, bird-like voice chirped against my collarbone. “Theo.” I looked down. He was peering up at me through his lashes. The moment we made eye contact, he shoved his face back into my chest. A shy kid? My heart completely melted. I hoisted him up so we were face to face. I looked into those massive, dark eyes, then buried my face in his neck and took a deep breath. He smelled like baby lotion and sunshine. 14 Right in the middle of my aggressive baby-snuggling, the bathroom door clicked open. Rowan stepped out. He was wearing the hotel’s plush, deep-V bathrobe, aggressively towel-drying his hair. Every step he took offered a distracting glimpse of a pale, heavily muscled chest. Damn it, I thought. Why is it only noon? I set Theo down on the sofa, stood up, and crossed the room. I reached out, grabbed the lapels of his robe, and yanked them firmly together—allowing my hands to linger just a second longer than necessary. He was definitely in shape. “Careful. Don’t catch a cold. We have important paperwork to sign this afternoon,” I said, trying desperately to sound authoritative. The sliver of exposed skin at his throat flushed pink. My eyes were having a field day. I looked up at his face. His cheeks were flushed from the steam, and his amber eyes looked wet and luminous. Who could possibly resist this? I couldn’t. I reached up, framed his face with my hands, and kissed him. Right on the lips. Forgive my lack of willpower. He was going to be my husband in three hours anyway; I was just taking an advance. Remembering there was a toddler in the room, I pulled back before I did something completely unhinged, like drag him into the king-sized bed. The doorbell rang. Room service had arrived, along with the bellhop carrying the clothes I’d had a concierge go out and buy. Rowan, his face practically glowing red, practically sprinted back into the bathroom to change. I set up Theo’s food on the coffee table. When Rowan emerged, the seductive bathrobe was gone, replaced by crisp dark denim and a perfectly fitted white button-down. He looked like the poster boy for ivy-league youth. I thought of Derek Larsen again. Derek liked to act like he was still a hotshot frat boy, but at thirty-five, it was just sad. A guy in his thirties pretending to be a kid is tragic; an actual twenty-two-year-old is a masterpiece. Thinking about Derek annoyed me, but looking back at my beautiful, young fiancé instantly fixed my mood. After lunch, we took an Uber straight to the courthouse. When the three of us walked out an hour later, it was official. We were a legally binding family unit. I had a wife. And a kid. Check and mate. 15 That afternoon, we moved their meager belongings from the rundown apartment into my penthouse. Rowan stood in the massive, echoing foyer, holding Theo, looking completely overwhelmed. I grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “This is your home now. Don’t act like a guest.” Remembering our agreement, I pulled a sleek black debit card from my wallet and handed it to him. “Your five grand allowance will hit this on the first of every month.” Then I pulled out my Amex Platinum. “This is for the household. Groceries, clothes, whatever you need. Don’t check the price tags.” Rowan stared at the plastic like it was radioactive. I wanted to stay and ease him into it, but my phone started buzzing violently. The office. They were calling an emergency meeting. I had to go. A true mogul doesn’t let domestic bliss delay a hostile takeover. I patted Rowan’s shoulder. “Take the afternoon to get acquainted with the layout. I have to go secure the bag.” I arrived at the office just in time. The boardroom was packed. The agenda: deciding who would lead the $400 million merger project. The board openly analyzed Derek and me. “Derek’s home life is stable,” one VP noted. “He has no domestic distractions. He can dedicate one hundred percent of his mental bandwidth to the merger.” “But Jocelyn’s pedigree is flawless,” another countered. “Ivy League, Wall Street background. Her track record here is brutal but effective.” It came down to a vote. A dead tie. The CEO held the tiebreaker, and I could see his eyes drifting toward Derek. I cleared my throat, the sound cutting through the tension. “Richard. Give me the project. If I miss the Q3 targets, I will submit my resignation. You won’t even have to fire me. Does Derek want to match that wager?” The entire room pivoted to look at Derek. Derek’s face went rigid. Of course he couldn’t take that bet. His entire family survived on his paycheck; he couldn’t risk his mortgage on a game of corporate chicken. The CEO saw Derek’s hesitation. The energy shifted immediately. I got the project. Was I terrified of betting my job? A little. But a headhunter had offered me a VP role at a rival firm three days ago. I knew my worth. When you have a parachute, you can afford to jump. I took my core team out to a high-end steakhouse to celebrate the win. 16 Dinner transitioned into drinks at an upscale lounge. Fortunately, I inherited my father’s iron liver. I wouldn’t say I never got drunk, but I could put away neat scotch while my colleagues were slurring their words. I called a luxury town car to take me home. When I unlocked my front door, I genuinely thought the alcohol had hit me, because the glare coming off the hardwood floors nearly blinded me. I backed up and checked the unit number. Yes. My apartment. I stepped inside. The floors looked like glass. In the entryway closet, my scattered stilettos were meticulously aligned. My handbags were displayed on the upper shelves, organized by size and color gradient. I stood frozen in the foyer for a solid ten seconds, convinced I had broken into a model home. Before today, coming home meant stepping into a cold, chaotic void. Tonight, it was brilliantly lit, immaculate, and smelled faintly of expensive citrus and cedar. I swapped my heels for slippers and walked further in. The living room was transformed. The cashmere throw on the sofa was folded with military precision. The decorative pillows were arranged symmetrically. The towering stack of industry magazines th

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